All them rules applied on rig, and Mistah Chow did enforce ’em. He said he got to. He said it with a staccato accent so shrill it made bats explode and without distinguishing ‘tween his Rs and his Ls, but he enfolced it stlict-rike.
Buck sighed under Lem’s old-homeboy feet, which be kneading his belly-flesh. He was horny too. T’was why he worked out, it helped him get his stiffies down without women ’round. Now he smelled the stank of his own armpits and Lem’s feet, and that got his meat softening up. T’was hard to think of gals with that smell lingering in his nose.
Lem walked up and down Buck’s body, almost slipping off a couple times cuz Buck was soaked in sweat. But Buck was hairy nuff upon his chest and shoulders that Lem got some traction.
“They’ll be here, Lem, relax,” Buck said. He ain’t mind Lem’s knuckle-stacked old feet upon his belly and his chest. But it did stop him from doing more sit-ups.
“Indonesians is always late.” Lem exhaled a long plume of smoke. Then he flexed his bicep like he was intimidating invisible Indonesians. “Fuck ’em! Fuck that shit! They said eight o’clock.”
“A black feller got no business goin’ aftuh anybody fer bein’ late, Lem-“
“That don’t count! Nuh-uh!” Lem looked down at him. “Fuck you, Buckums!”