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Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love
Thumper climbed into the rented pickup, and only on the way did Mr. Gregarian tell him about the mission.
They was extracting money outta some broke-ass deadteat who owed Mr. Gregarian oodles of doodles. Thumper ain’t mind that mission, but it was gangsterism for sure, and if Mr. Perry found out, he’d fury up on the quickabout. So Thumper gotta be discrete. Discretion ain’t easy driving a speckle-paint roaring-engine truck past Mr. Perry’s office on the way to the ritzy-ditzy neighborhood Oaken Grove in Baltimore County. Luckily they passed a recycling truck when going by the parole office, and it blocked Mr. Perry’s window from them.
On the way, Thumper ain’t play no music in the truck, and Mr. Gregarian was okay with that, or at least he ain’t complain. Thumper liked the sound of the engine and the wind cracking past like gusts of freedom. Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music — every music-listening method required multiple steps he’d have to look up how to do. How did every part of music get worse while he was locked up?
Thumper considered asking Mr. Gregarian where to buy clothes. But he got the feeling Mr. Gregarian stopped buying new clothes around the time Thumper got arrested, so they just sat in silence as the white-lady robot directed them into Oaken Grove.
A few desperate-limb oaks remaindered from the trees that done got teared down to build Oaken Grove. Thereabout around, the houses was big and spread wide like grassy yawns. The nicest homes was built at odd angles to the road. Most them yards sported trim lawns and spartan scatters of elegant blossoms. Lotta sculpted hedges and little decorative evergreen jawns too. They was pretty yards, as perfectly plotted as a Jewish murder, but you could tell ain’t nobody ever play or cook out or jaw a spell there.
When they pulled into the driveway of a house with rundown grass and overgrowed flowerbeds, Mr. Gregarian told Thumper the plan: while Mr. Gregarian flapped his trap at the man, Frank Johnson, Thumper should empty the house of valuables. Anything that could be sold was fair game. Frank owed eleven grand, and Mr. Gregarian said he prolly done sold off anything truly valuable. But Thumper was eager to find something better than chumpy cheddar, so Mr. Gregarian’d call this a success.
First he carted out the teevee and the fridge with a hand-truck, while Mr. Gregarian spoke stern as stairs to the deadbeat. “Did you think you had gotten away with it? I don’t forget a debt, Mr. Johnson.”
Frank Johnson dropped to his knees. “Please, sir, Mr. Gregarian, just give me another month. Don’t break my knees. I still have a job, and once my divorce is final, I won’t have lawyer bills anymore. Please, sir-” He was a rosy-nosy honky-donkey pudgebutt in sweatpants and a trash tee shirt that advertised a boy scout popcorn fundraiser. He bin divorcifying the missus, that was what done consummate all his money. Thumper saw family photos with wifey’s face cut out. Looked like she got a okay body though, bony in the hips some, and tits small as Salvadoran fists — wouldn’a slowed Thumper down none. That limpwad Frank oughta never gived her up. He ain’t gonna get no shebody better now.
“We’re not breaking your knees, you moron,” Mr. Gregarian said with a hot sneer. He shoved Frank away. “I know perfectly well you’d never pay if you were crippled.”
Frank nodded and stood up from his knees like still got some pride. “That’s right, that’s right. Thank you! I’ll pay as soon as I can!”
Thumper hurried upstairs, but the upstairs done got strippt clean as a virgin dildo — Frank’s wife and kids absconded months ago, and they took all they jawns from the bedrooms. Frank still got his own bedroom, but it was fulla little more than a ratshit mattress, old McDonald’s crinkle-paper and unwashed duds. There weren’t even no teevee in there. Only valuemento was a stack of sticky porno, which Thumper took knowing Mr. Gregarian would call it a pervy waste. It was, he be right, but Thumper could sell it to his homies in state and make a pretty penny for his pocket.
Then Thumper looked behind all the framed photos for a safe, and he tapped his foot on the floorboards to listen for a hollow thud. Nothing. Basement got lotta rotting newspapers and a rusty, dusty furnace. He checked the crawlspace under the house too but found nothing ‘cept a dirty shovel and a nest of mice.
Getting a nigga who bin locked up for decades prolly weren’t a good idea on Mr. Gregarian’s part. Thumper dunno where a fellah might hide money nowadays, and he got no idea how valuable shit like a ironing board was — he put that in the truck, but Mr. Gregarian later made fun of him for it. Thumper ain’t even get the iron to go with it. Thumper picked up bunches of weird little electronic boxes with no clear purpose. One kept beeping like a cyborg with a stutter, and another got a light flashing inside.
Thumper put a serious flatness on when he came back to Mr. Gregarian. “Ain’t find much, suh,” he said. “There’s the fridge and the teevee out in the truck. I got some jawns that beep and boop too. Should we take his phone?”
“Please, don’t, Mr. Gregarian-“
“Shut up,” Mr. Gregarian snapped at Frank and slapped him across the face, making a loud ring like a whore’s diamond. He looked back at Thumper. “No, let him keep his phone. It’s too old to sell anyway. Mr. Johnson does need a punishment though, to be sure he finds a payment before next month.”
“Yes, suh,” Thumper said. He brandished a fist, then took off his shirt. This was the part that was easy for him. It felt right as rulers. His broad chest gleamed in the dim light. His prison-built muscles was firm, crudely tatted, the naked Statue of Liberty with the fat-girl vulva on his back dripping with sweat (Thumper done look up what a vulva was). He glowered down Frank, who turned pale as a drained-out klansman.
Thumper advanced to hit the cowering Frank, who crounched down by the front door like he might could skedaddle. But he was quaking and shaking like fry bacon, and he kept crawling his noggin into the bottom of the wall behind him. “Please, wait, no!”
“Just a tap for now, Wendell,” Mr. Gregarian said.
Thumper nodded and grinned, his fist colliding with Frank’s face with a satisfying thud and a cry of pain. Frank curled up into a mewling ball, which put Thumper down — he got a slim lip for beating a man who ain’t fight back or even beg. He just curled up like a deflated fetus. Blood sploded outta Frank’s nose and dripped down Thumper’s fingers.
His eyes on focus on Frank, Thumper let Mr. Gregarian reach from behind him and undo Thumper’s belt.
Thumper’s jeans thudded to the floor. He wished he done put on something classier than prison drawers, but that’s what he was wearing, cuz Mr. Gregarian ain’t tell him this part of the plan. His prison drawers was so fray-thin you could see Thumper’s dinkum and his fat old-nigga berries through the fabric. He ain’t wanna be a cast-iron nigga afront Frank and Mr. Gregarian, but he was wearing trashy drawers, and they was looking at him like a trashy-drawer nigga.
“Cornhole him hard,” Mr. Gregarian said with a sneer. “Make him contrite for his intransigence.”
Thumper nodded confidently. He both grimaced and grinned — seeing that pretty wifey with her face missing made his dick throb-a-lob-dob like a second heart.
But Thumper ain’t like the idea of being ordered to pluck a honky punk. All the niggas around knowed damn well that Thumper was a booty-puckering rump ranger. Most niggas denied it. Not Thumper. He bin got witnessed too much in the cell, and he long past abandoned his need for discretion. Every non-fool nigga with ears in Baltimore musta heard he got up in guts plenty in lockup.
This was the first time whitey indicated he knewed it too — Mr. Gregarian weren’t clued in to the Bloods, so he musta either heard a rumor at Lipsweet or simply deducted it like a savvy honky. Maybe Thumper looked so much like a booty bandit that a pinkie-ring whodat like Mr. Gregarian assumpted he was one.
What did Mistuh Gregarian tell Miriam by way of warning? Does every honky I see think that? What bin Miriam thinking about me?
That was a trashy way to be. Men was gonna be warning they sons when he passed. If you get locked up, don’t drop the soap afront a ramrod nigga like that.
But Thumper weren’t gonna let his compections get in the way of doing Mr. Gregarian’s bidding. He gonna hafta flap at Mr. Gregarian about it. He came forward to Frank and lowered his head down next to his. “Sup, Frank. Name’s Thumper. How you doin’?” Thumper sat next to Frank and bared his feetses. He kept his big-grin jive-and-dime nigga face on as he put one foot on Frank’s mouth.
“Uh… Whath co’nholin’?” Frank asked around the big toe on his tongue. He held back a raspy gag and made a face at the sour-band-aid taste of Thumper’s feet. His eyes opened wide as a cartoon whale.
“That’s a good question. I’s glad you axed, Frank. I ain’t gonna answer, cuz I wanna see the look on yo’ face when you find out-“
“No, Thumper,” Mr. Gregarian said, dreary-eyed and cheerless. He faced away, standing near the doorway. “We have to tell him what it is so he has a chance to pay to avoid it.”
A grimacey grunt of greement came outta Thumper. He patted Frank chummy-like on his pudgy-wudgy shoulder. “Well, Frank, cornholin’ is when I stick my dick in yo’ booty. I use yo’ butt to jack off wit’, then bust a nut in yo’ guts. Lemme warn you it hurt real bad, and-“
“Whaaat?! You can’t do that!”
“I ain’t surprise it sound impossible to you. The challengin’ part is that yo’ butthole is like this big-” Thumper made a small circle one two finger. Then he belabored his prison drawers down and flopped around his giant slab of limpness. He showed how much bigger it was than the circle like he was tryin’-a force it through the tiny hole. “My dick is that big. It’s a conundrummer, buddy.” Thumper rattatat-tapped Frank’s dummy-dumb dome like a drummer. “But we gonna figure it out togethuh. Put’cha head down.” He ain’t give Frank a chance to do it. He gripped the back of his neck and slammed his face to the floor hard enough to make Frank cry out in pain. “I said put’cha head down. If this is gonna work, you gotsta do e’rything I say, Frank. You could get real injuryed if you don’t do it right. You might never hold a dookie in again, if I wreck yo’ sphinctuh-ring. You rememberin’ where you got some dollahs saved for a rainy day? Cuz it’s ’bout to start pourin’ down puddles. It’s ark-buildin’ weather fo’ you, honky,” Thumper asked, stroking his pecker with one hand until it started firming up. He slipped his dicktip into Frank’s butthole, and a squeezy sensation ran through his spine. A smile slipped onto Thumper’s face — he stayed enjoying wrecking a roundbody. Frank gritted his teeth, his eyes bugging out.
Frank shook his head. “Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! C’mon, man, man– I don’t have any — ow, shit, ow, shit, ow, ow!”
Thumper kept on forcing his dick in deeper and deeper, inch by inch, sending waves of pleasure through him. He exaggerated his reactions, even though Frank got his face down and Mr. Gregarian faced outta the room, so nobody saw Thumper making old-nigga faces with every thrust of his pecker into Frank’s reddening buttcheeks. Thumper smacked one asscheek, then the other, Frank squirmed beneath his grasp. Thumper dug his fingers in deeply, digging at Frank’s back. He felt resistance in Frank’s butthole, so he punched him hard in the side. “Quit fightin’ me-!”
“Ow, shit, c’mon, stop! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!”
He punched Frank in the side once more, and Frank panted. His hands clawed at the ground as though he could dig hisself away. Thumper wrapped one powerful arm around Frank’s neck, not quite choking him but making sure Frank knew he could.
“You fightin’ me, honky, stop it,” Thumper said, his voice grim as gravel. “Frankie-panky, c’mon, I don’t like it when a punk fights me-“
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you is, you clenchin’ yo’ butthole, like you still control it. You ain’t in charge of yo’ butthole no more, so make it go loose. Like you takin’ a shit-“
“No, ow, shit! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!”
Thumper flexed his arm, which choked Frank until he stopped making noises, aside from a hoarse wheeze. “Frankie-panky, you gotta listen to me. Remembuh what I said, you can get injuryed if you don’t do this right. You doin’ two things wrong. First of all, don’t make that noise, like you fartin’ out yo’ mouth. Tha’ss nasty as prison loaf, nigga, I know you don’t know what that is, but it ain’t nice.” He let Frank have a breath, and Frank gasped. Thumper’s voice broke, as Frank’s sudden focus on breathing meant his asshole relaxed, and Frank could slide his rod in another inch or two. “More than half in now, buddy,” he said, his voice breaking again in Frank’s ear. “You feel good as shit. Okay, now, the second thing you doin’ wrong is you clenchin’. You feel that, you clenchin’-“
“Ow, c’mon…” Frank was outta breath, unable to recover from being choked. Plus he was trying not to make that sound. Thumper appreciated the effort.
“Quit clenchin’,” Thumper said with a growl. “Pretend like you takin’ a shit, Frankie-panky.” His voice was hot and hard in Frank’s ear. He liked that Mr. Gregarian could hear him right now. This was just him and Frank, like best buds, sharing they own little secret. Ain’t nobody but the two them ever gonna experience this, Thumper thought. He was already feeling twinges of his upcoming orgasm, but Frank’s discooperativity was slowing Thumper down.
And Thumper liked that — it meant he could plow fast and still last.
“Ow!” Frank roared in pain, but when he twitched, his resistance disappeared for a second. Thumper forced his dick in to the root, until his balls slapped against Frank’s taint. Frank shouted, “Ow, stop! Wait! You gotta stop! Just gimme a sec!”
“Don’chu tell me what to do, Frank,” Thumper said. He smacked Frank hard on one buttcheek, and a thrill went up Thumper’s spine, while a chill of pain went up Frank’s. Thumper bin ramrodded plentya honkies in lockup. Nicer ones than Frank too, or at least perkier ones.
But there was something different about it now, plowing into a professional man — a accountant or some shit. Thumper liked that he got to disobey a white man in a nice house. Ain’t lotta opportunities for that in lockup. Mosta the honkies there was meth-goblins, crackheads, Nazis or dirty-hairy rednecks — white trash, basically.
But Frank was a real man, right up until Thumper turnt his behind into a pussy-hole. That made Thumper grin, plowing in and out until he heard his balls slap against Frank’s taint. A nigga’s knapsack made a good’n’grimy thwackuh-thwackuh-smack sound hitting a honky below the booty.
“Love that sound, Frankie-panky. Sounds sexy, don’t it? That’s the sound of you not bein’ a real man no more,” Thumper said. His muscles rippled when he moaned again, aiming the sound right into Frankie-panky’s ear. Thumper’s heavy body pressed down on him, as he smacked in and out. He even pulled all the way out for a second — Thumper liked hearing that sound of relief and then the stuff-a-plug grunt that came when he rammed it right back in that gapey hole.
Thumper ain’t quite feel this right since he left prison.
On the other hand, he was only doing this cuz a white man told him to. That made it less a satisfy. He was a free nigga now. He ain’t gotsta do what a white man say — ‘cept for Mr. Perry, and him only for another year, til his parole was up.
So Thumper ain’t gotta suppordate hisself to Mr. Gregarian. His pole weren’t a tool to get brung out at Mr. Gregarian’s discretion.
He oughta at least tell Mr. Gregarian he wanted a bigger cut. Any big-ass fool could punch Frank. Booty-banditing was a skill, and Thumper wanna get paid for it.
His stick still throbbing and leaking precum up Frank’s guts, Thumper lifted hisself off Frank’s back and grabbed Frank’s phone — the movement made him grunt with pleasure, leaning on Frank for support. He was surprised Mr. Gregarian let him keep it, but it was old, prolly obsolete, Thumper thunk. He saw an app called TuneBleed, which reminded him of Miriam, so Thumper poked it.
On came music, but it was some plastic-twang twinkie-fried country music that never seen a trailer park, so Thumper turned it right off. He typed in fatback, cuz that was what he was looking at, what his ears was craving, what his mouth was hungry for and and what his pecker was currently deep within.
Luckily, Frank Johnson’s honky phone got Fatback in it, and that was Thumper’s kinda funk, so he pumped up the volume. He daggered his dickmeat in time with the rhythm.
Finally, some proper music.
“Love this band, Frankie-panky,” Thumper said, rolling his muscles up and down, grinding his dick in a little circle in Frank’s tight butthole. Frank were past clenching now — he ain’t gonna clench for a month at least — so Thumper got free reign over his booty.
“Thumper, hit him more,” Mr. Gregarian said, like that shoulda been obvious, like he done this a million times and Thumper was the fool for not doing it right. “You gotta hit him-“
“You don’t gotta tell me how to do it, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a throaty roar. “I know how to jack off in a man’s booty.”
Mr. Gregarian was took way back by that. He frowned at Thumper. “What?” Mr. Gregarian narrowed his eyebrows.
Thumper motioned for Mr. Gregarian to come closer. He hesitated but did so, still facing away from Frank’s ruint behind. He ain’t like looking at Thumper neither, and he specially avoided seeing Thumper’s thirteen-inch cock. Thumper leaned close enough to whisper into Mr. Gregarian’s ear. “We gonna hafta come to a ‘rrangement, Mistuh Gregarian. You ain’t tell me this was part of it, and I wanna get paid.”
“I’m not paying you extra to cornhole someone. That’s — you’re an ex-con, that was probably what you were gonna do anyway.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
With a grunt, Thumper stopped moving. He looked down his nose at Mr. Gregarian. “Well… I ain’t gonna blueball mahself this time, you called my bluff,” Thumper said. “But, uh… next time…” He leaned on Frank, who screamed through gritted teeth into his own arm, which he bit when Thumper’s dick rasped in and outta his butthole. Thumper let out a creaky-throat moan. His chest was getting steamy with sweat. He smacked Frank in the side. “Quit it, Frank, you silly wiggleworm. Keep still. Head down, ass up.”
“Look, I’m givin’ you fifteen percent of what we get-“
“But he ain’t got nothin’. Fifteen percent of fuck-all ain’t worth my time,” Thumper said. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dick deep in Frank, who writhed in pain impaled on Thumper’s rod. Thumper ain’t move, he just let Frank’s squirmy-wormy body rub his butthole on Thumper’s shaft. He looked at Mr. Gregarian. “I want the first eight hundred, then fifteen percent after that. And a free ride on any the Lipsweet bitches when we get back.”
“Bull-fucking-shit! Do I look like I eat pussy?” Mr. Gregarian said. He weren’t whispering anymore, but he still faced away, like he was too good to see a man receive a ramrod, as if it weren’t his idea in the first place. “Cuz you’re treating me like the kinda pervert who licks a woman’s pisshole.”
Thumper bugged at that. That did explain why Mrs. Gregarian was on the stepout on her man. She do be in need of a nigga tongue. Thumper made a mental note to lick her butthole next time. But Mr. Gregarian still ain’t knowledgeate hisself about his wife on the stepout, and Thumper ain’t wanna let on. So he said, “Yo, why ain’chu just bring that whiteboy Bud along on this trip?” Bud was the deejay at Lipsweet, and he was a short-sneering rumplesilkskin with fake gang tats on his neck. Thumper laughed at Mr. Gregarian a-fume.
“Him? He can’t — he’s never been to prison, for one thing-“
“You right, he can’t. He ain’t a booty bandit, he a white-trash nowhom,” Thumper said. He kept his weight on Frank, who whimpered and squirmed beneath Thumper’s body. Thumper wiggled his cock in Frank’s booty, which made him slither like a sexy snake. “Cuz Bud ain’t got the skill. I do. So I gotsta get more than-“
“Five hundred. I’ll give you the first five hundred, then fifteen percent,” Mr. Gregarian said. “You can fuck any the women, but now new girls, I don’t need you stretchin’ them out.” He paused. “And clean up real good before you fuck her tonight.” He paused again. “Like, real good. I can’t have a escort out with a infected pussy.”
Thumper pondered that for a moment, then he nodded. He gripped Frank by the hair, making Frank squeal like a piglet. “Hear that, Frankie-panky? We gots a ‘greement. I’mma be comin’ back here and doin’ you up ya dirt till you pay yo’ dutiful debt.”
“Yes, I will, I will, oh god…”
With a throb and another light slap on Frank’s cheek, Thumper stopped moving at the apex of his penetration. Frank squealed in agony. Thumper’s dick throbbed painfully inside him, followed by a burst of fresh hot jism. Thumper grunted like a rampaging boar.
Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Frank, who choked back a sob. He ain’t never experienced a sensation like this. He hid his face in his arms, as Thumper resumed pounding away at his sensitive asshole. With each thrust, Thumper shot another huge fist-sized wad deep in Frank. The heat seeped into his very bones, and he smelled his own assfunk in the air.
Frank couldn’t breathe. Thumper pressed his massive chest down on Frank’s back and whispered in Frank’s ear. “You my bitch now, you my punk. You hop to e’rything I say fo’ the rest of yo’ life, or you gonna get another mile of meat up yo’ backside. Now lemme finnish nuttin’ yo’ manhood away.” Thumper gyrated his hips, forcing his dick in to the root as he drained the last couple drups of nutjuice into Frank’s innards.
Frank crawled away when Thumper allowed him to wriggle his way free. Thumper ain’t pull off him, he just stopped holding Frank down, and Frank’s worming got him out from under Thumper. A final moan of pleasure came from Thumper’s throat, as his dick slid like a greasy turd outta Frank’s bootyhole. Frank sighed in relief.
Mr. Gregarian was still standing there in the doorway, facing away. He did clock the size of Thumper’s pecker though, Thumper saw that in the corner of Mr. Gregarian’s eye. Thumper let it drip there aimed in Mr. Gregarian’s direction, while he told Frank to get him some toilet paper. Frank thought to dawdle and clean his own butthole first, but Thumper corrected that with a fist and another order to get him toilet paper lickety-split.
“Here you go, sir,” Frank said when he returned with toilet paper. Thumper ain’t tell him to call him sir, but he liked it. He could get used to that. Thumper ain’t take the toilet paper, and soon enough Frank got the message. He gingerly dabbed at Thumper’s dick to get it clean of spit and cum and assfunk, while Frank’s own butthole emptied its mess onto the carpet. Mr. Gregarian still faced away so he ain’t gotta see Thumper’s mammoth.
When Thumper had enough that, he grabbed Frank’s shirt and wiped the resta his pecker off on it. He tossed the shirt on Frank’s head. “You find a way to make a payment, buddy. Or I be back.” He winked at Frank. “I hope I be back.”
“Which girl you want?” Mr. Gregarian asked, when Thumper got his clothes back on and joined him to walk outta the house. “Sherry?”
Thumper scoffed. “I’m off her. Gimme whoevuh use Facebook the least.”
Mr. Gregarian shrugged. “I saw Lacey reading a book once. An actual book. So maybe her. I’ll give you cash to give her. I don’t like them even thinking about freebies,” he said, like he forgot they already went through this — when Thumper came back from Ocean City with a boyfriendless Miriam, Mr. Gregarian paid for him to have a threesome with two girls. He gave Thumper cash to avoid setting a freebie precedent.
That was fine with Thumper. It was good, he thought, to do things the proper way. He was glad he negotiated a deal with Mr. Gregarian too. He got power that he ain’t never have in prison — he could always take his talents elsewhere. He felt like he was on the same level as Mr. Gregarian, as they both climbed into the truck and headed off to pawn the jawns they got from Thumper’s new buddy Frankie-pankie.
Mr. Gregarian sighed after a long silence, and he said, “Miriam has a new boyfriend. Rick something-or-other. I haven’t met him, but she said he was at spring break. Did you see him?”
Thumper nodded. “Yeah. He ain’t do nothin’, he made of blank pages, Mistuh Gregarian. Most of him is leg.”
“Good. I’ll hire you to escort them on dates,” he said. “So this Rick kid doesn’t get any bright ideas.”
“Yessuh, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a smile. He ain’t turn the white-lady robot on, cuz he remembered the way home, but Mr. Gregarian put it on anyway. Thumper reckoned folk stopped learning new routes once they used they phones to do it. He ain’t want that to happen to him. So he turned it off. “Don’t need it, suh. I know the way.”
Read it now for free from Smashwords!
Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
