Tag: Barack Obama

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper recognized the humpty-dumpty nigga who came into Lipsweet late on Thursday night. It was only a half-hour till close. The sky done gone dark like it might rain, but it never did. The stars hid like shy cockroaches.
“Yo, Thumper? That you?! Aw, hell!” said that nod-happy nigga who approached the door. His name was Rashid Jenkins. He was cold-shouldering the couple niggas he lined up with, and he gave Thumper a pip and a dap when they gazes met.
“Oh, shit nigga!” Thumper’s eyes opened wide, as him and Rashid hugged it out. Thumper stacked lips at them other niggas waiting in line. Back inside, couple years ago, him and Rashid was in the same cell for awhile. Rashid was a top-heavy nigga, squishy and dense like overstuffed pillows. Thumper ain’t see him in years, and he recollected hard with his arms around Rashid. His fingers gripped that nigga’s thickness. “Goddamn, I ain’t know you was still kickin’ around Bangor. What’choo bin up to, Rashid?”
Rashid scoffed and sucked on his teeth. “J’st keepin’ it real, holdin’ it down, Thumper. You know how a nigga do.” He sucked on his teeth again. “That’s all. You ain’t go back to Baltimore?”
Thumper shook his head. “Parole officer won’t lemme leave the state.”
A harsh air spilled between Rashid and his niggas, plus the dozen or so lippy whiteboys and one Asian impatient-waiting in line behind Rashid. They all finna see some dancers in the club, and they dim-eyed Rashid and Thumper chopping it up. They mumbled on the underhush that Rashid shouldn’t be slowing the line down and that Thumper was a doddery old nigga who dresses like a fossil. Thumper woulda told them to spit and sit, and he’da flurried up a couplea fisty cuffs if they ain’t show the proper respect with a quickness. If Thumper was in prison still and some young cats fussed at him to hurry, he’d correct them kittens sans mercy. Sans mercy as hell.
But the owner Mr. Gregarian was in the club tonight. He was at the bar drinking something tasteful and tasteless. He want Thumper to behave, and Thumper gotta do what he say. So Thumper gave Rashid a hug and a shrug and said he’d talk to him later. Rashid got entranced by a tangerine-cream bitch with tits like sharks. He floated after her like a tasty surfer, and Thumper proceeded to check the idees of them dour niggas, whiteboys and that one sunnyskin in line.
When the tide of hungry horndogs dwindled well into the early morn, Thumper took a break and let Davon watch the door, while he rushed off to piss. He went up to the floor his apartment was on though, rather than use the club’s bathroom. He was self-conscious of how long it took to get a flow going. The prison doctor said he got that old-nigga bladder. His “bladder neck” be bugging. He don’t want Davon to know it took him awhile.
But he ain’t dawdle in the bathroom. He wanna get back down there so Davon don’t fuss. Thumper ain’t trust hisself to react like a outside nigga if that young-body pretty-face jive-white smile-hard nigga Davon tried to correct him.
Davon wore a lor band-aid on his cheekbones. Nigga musta got a rainbow of band-aids cuz he steady wore one to match the drawers he displayed under his sagging jeans — Mr. Gregarian was mad on the “trousers” trip and curled his lip at sagging, but Davon could smile through any of Mr. Gregarian’s tut-tuts. So Davon rumped pink drawers tonight and a pink band-aid to match. Thumper ain’t even got the words to call that out.
When his old-nigga bladder done empty, Thumper hustled to the stairwell.
A glossy piece of paper was on the floor on the stairs. It caught Thumper’s eye cuz it couldn’t-a been there when he went up the stairs. He woulda noticed it for sure. He prolly woulda done slip on it.
He picked it up. It was a playbill for a show called “The Invocation”, and the picture on it featured a familiar woman wearing a barn owl mask.
It was that woman, Delsinerr. That woman he dreamed of, with the dress of screams and beaming tresses of horrid hair. He was gonna recognize her forever.

But before Thumper made it back to the front door, a storm of shouting kicked up. Couple clumps of niggas was standing off at each other, and Rashid was involved. Rashid done step to some slimfire kitkat, and both him and he got posses at they back. Both niggas and both they posses was fronting and saying all the shit niggas and they posses do say.
“Fuck this shit, nigguh!”
“You wanna step?”
“Come at me then-“
“Shit, nigga, I will end you-“
“Fuck that, fuck — fuck — fuck this shit, nigga-“
“I’ll go backta prison, I don’t care-“
“Who the bitch now?!”
Classic nigga shit. Ain’t even much point in saying it out loud. Might as well skip straight to holding a gun sideways and firing into a crowd. Thumper was glad he was a nigga with class. If everybody knows your lines, you might as well leave ’em unsaid.
“C’mon at me, nigguh!”
“Step to me then!”
“You best come correct-!”
Thumper put the fight down before it began. He slipped between them chin-to-chin niggas, finna slap the belligerence off they faces. “Simmuh down, you two-“
Before Thumper could finish, Rashid threw a fist at the slimfire kitkat, knocking him down like a disrespectful domino. Gravity hit him hard too, and the kitkat staggered around on the floor doing his best impression of a spreading piss-stain.
“Settle yaselfs, niggas, why you gotta act like that?!” Davon said, smiling handsomely into the club, laughing all along like he was a joke-a-day nigga and ain’t nothing in the world really matter. He ain’t risk his precious mug by getting between Rashid and the kitkat though.
“You can’t be like that,” Thumper said, pulling Rashid away with his shankin’ hands on Rashid’s jelly. Rashid do be like that though, always was. Thumper hugged Rashid close and talked straight into his ear. Rashid stiffed up like he ain’t notice Thumper, but he ain’t fight against him neither. He kept eye contact with that slimfire nigga and his posse until Thumper had him out the backdoor and into the corridor behind the club proper. “Nigga, slow yo’ roll!”
He pulled down Rashid’s pants and drawers in one quick motion. Rashid got a big pair of juicy brown orbs. Thumper recollected slamming into them on the regular while inside — Rashid got self-control troubles, and he put hisself in big-time debt throwing dice, drinking hooch and smoking cigarettes he couldn’t afford. Thumper ain’t mind forgiving that debt in exchange for breaking a nut off.
“Ah, shit, Thump, you into that booty bandit trip, we ain’t inside no mo’. E’rrybody alway knew you was gonna stay a ramrod, old head. That ain’t how a modern nigga act-“
“Shut up, nigga,” Thumper said. His hands ran up Rashid’s back and front, underneath his shirt. Rashid was one them niggas who get chunky in prison — he ain’t got the will to work out on the regular or to stop scarfing down commissary honey buns. He do buy what the candy folk sell him on. Now that he was out though, he be dropping his dollars on calorie-free blunts and nibble-size sluts. Tale as old as time. Even slimmed down, he was still thick as alfredo though, and you know Thumper love a high-carb booty.
Now that they stood in the cool and the still of the corridor, Rashid stayed calm. He was mad on a reluctant front, all lifting hisself up and sucking on his teeth like he was too good to let a old head knock on his backdoor. He weren’t too good for nothing though, and under his gotta-fight shell, Rashid was cool as hot oatmeal. “Shit, Thump, shit…”
“Why you gotta go after that slimfire nigga in there?” Thumper asked with a cluck of his tongue. “Mistuh Gregarian curl lip at niggas who start fights. City council expect him to keep peace.”
He scoffed. “Mistuh Gregarian — that that cracker who own this place? He a damn fool, Thump, he was steppin’ to me couple weeks back. I was ’bout to lay him out like Thanksgiving dinner, somebody gotta do it, shit…”
“You bettuh not, nigga. He keep it real,” Thumper said. “He will dig you a very shallow hole to lay down in, and he won’t think twice about it. Might make me dig it, and I dunno if my back can take that, nigga.” Thumper weren’t sure how much he was exaggerating that honky’s proclivities, but he ain’t want Rashid testing his ire. Mr. Gregarian got a gangster in his mind to live up to, and he seen some violent gangster movies. “Don’t go ruckusin’ in his club.”
“Aw, shit, Thump, shit…” Rashid bristled, as Thumper’s hands spread his buttcheeks. Thumper kissed his meaty shoulders too, over the shirt and then under it when he took Rashid’s shirt off. Rashid stood there with a glumness, pants around his ankles, his jelly browns jiggling beneath Thumper’s firm fingers.
“You ain’t in prison no mo’, you can’t be actin’ like a cast-iron nigga,” Thumper said. “How long you been out?”
“Like six months,” Rashid said. His head hung weary on them shoulders. Rashid stay submitory when he got to. He know how to say ‘yes, nigga’ when the proper kind of nigga was behind him.
“You havin’ trouble cividatin’?”
Rashid shrugged. “Don’t go up my backdoor, Thumper. Be cool,” he said. “C’mon, nigga. You can just stick it ‘tween my thighs. Do that, feels damn good. That’s what-“
Thumper chuckled. “Nah, nah, nigga. I’ll use buncha spit. You know I got good spit. Know that!” He spat on the palm of his hand, then resumed stroking hisself off. One finger on his other hand jammed into Rashid’s asshole. “You done tighten, nigga. I like that.”
“Ain’t nobody do that booty bandit shit on the outside, Thumper,” Rashid said. “You on the ramrod trip, that’s whack, that’s crackerjack-“, then he sucked his breath in as he felt Thumper’s knob touch his asshole. Rashid bent forward and leaned against the wall.
Thumper rammed his cock into that paira roundnesses behind Rashid. His buttcheeks dimpled bright despite the dim light of the back hall. Rashid threw his head back and looked this way and that, his hands fluttering fast behind hisself. Rashid winced and grimaced, but he ain’t struggle. Even when Thumper’s cock slipped outta Rashid’s hole, he ain’t try to get away. He let Thumper jam it right back in.
“Sssh, take yo’ dickload, nigga,” Thumper said. “Don’t play wit’ me.” He pushed it in deeper, and Rashid’s butthole spread open like a wedding invitation. It sucked Thumper’s shaft right back in, like his booty and Thumper’s manhood was best friends.
“Ow, shit, Thump, c’mon, go gentle…” Rashid gulped.
“Relax, I’mma nut real quick, relax, nigga.” Thumper clucked his tongue and plowed hard. His orgasm was coming on swift — something about the smell of Rashid’s backsweat gave him fond memories of prison, and it got his motor going good, like Thumper made a turn and was now driving on a road he recognized. Rashid was a well-trodded road, with little resistance left in his butthole, so Thumper could drive in and out with powerful thrusts. “Aaah, shit, see, already done…”
A fat load of cum sprayed into Rashid’s booty. He hung his head low but took every bit, wincing only when Thumper rammed his meat in deep. A long hot flow of jizz filled Rashid up, while Thumper’s moans echoed in his ear.
“C’mon, Thump…” Rashid muttered. He leaned his face against the wall. He shuddered and shimmied like a shameful snake.
When Thumper was done, he ain’t pull out right away. He let his wang marinate in the warmth of Rashid’s guts. His breath condensed on the backa Rashid’s neck.
Finally, his dick plopped out like a greasy sausage. Thumper swang it between his legs and rubbed the goo off in Rashid’s buttcrack. The last couple drops of cum dripped there between his cheeks. “Hmm, lemme see ya gape, nigga,” Thumper murmured. Rashid’s asshole did gape, whether that was cuz Thumper told him to or if it just happened, Thumper ain’t know. It was a satisfying sight regardless.
When Rashid pulled his jeans up, Thumper was still playing with them buttcheeks. Then he wiped his dick off with paper towels from the janitor’s closet, and they both went back out to the club. Davon was shooing niggas out the door, so Rashid went out to the parking lot too. Thumper helped Teddy shut down the bar and watched Davon get in one the dancer’s cars, then Thumper went up to his apartment on the second floor.
He got a shower and a snack. Thumper microwaved a brick of frozen broccoli and cheese, cuz he was pretending to like broccoli, cuz the world was like that these days, cuz Obama ain’t do nothing! Then he laid his weary head down on his bed. Moonlight shined through the window, and Thumper was glad to bask in the nighttime’s rays without trying to slumber.

But no more sound was to be found, and Thumper done dumbfound, dumb as a mute tongue or a brainless hound in a pound of sin.
With thin skin, his breath sucked in and ceaselessly spinned, cuz the air did unfold, as dead and cold as a mortician’s walk-in. That Bitch in White Delsinerr, it must be, cuz of the grim air and his mind behampering, she do be doing that to a nigga. His pot of cheese got the unfriendly gollygees.
“I wholeheartedly offer the sincerest of apologies, Mister White,” she said at her best, looking unlined in a new right-fright dress. She took Thumper’s find, the glossy flier, from his pants pocket. Her dashing socket then faced his dismay like a twist of fate. “This got mislaid, I’m afraid.” Her words clotted and clogged her wave, hobbling wakes and gobbling up meaning.
Thumper nodded, agoggling at that fiend steaming, his noggin beboggling by notions dropped in, misbegotten, stuck in a war he forgot to have foughten in. Layers of bog, his thoughts was tucked in, like befuddled puddles fog goggles — shit! — he was too rotten-hot fried to toggle his hide-or-fight side or even to think and blink when she pried and whitened his wrinkles, too lightened to abide.
She did ride astride his brain a-sprinkling pain, and she tightened her ugly head. “You ain’t frightened of me,” she said.
Thumper again slightened a nod. “I… I… can’t think when you’s around.”
“My words finely decline, making humankind ruint like by fumes, by the tombs of time, by the climb of crime, by a broken rhyme, by plumes of foul weather. Y’all’s cries is all mine.” The gray owl feathers that lined her scowl splayed out like a rainspout, as she peered fears and doubt into him deep as a well. “I hope to see you in hell when you die. Or before, for I like a bride will wait forevermore in store.”
“Why do you talk like that?” he asked like a unironed sheet.
“I don’t speak,” she spoke like a freak. Her mask’s beetley bug scuttled sleek as a sulfury lugnut in the sea of time. “I hammer seeds into yo’ mind. The grammar is your’n that you cling to like a daft raft in a slammer of slime.” The leathery feathers of her mask then did retract, unfit, and drift together into a rift. “I wish to give you a gift, He Who Thumps, a token of hope unsunk.”
Thumper was stumped as oaks. What kinda gift would a goat like this rhyme a nigga like him?
“The gift I chime is time. You had thirty-four years to deplore, but now, with the price of gore, you can go back to before. Be a young nigga again,” she said, her words singing bigger than laws or figures.
A long pause came up like the claws of riffing wiggers rilling open flaws upon prison lawns. Thumper narrowed his paws and stiffened ’em into fists like kisses by his side. “What?”
Looking snide, she unsheathed mist for miles beneath that mask of denial. “Just a fact to flout and file, Mister White. I do offer to undo yo’ last bout in style. You can tout thirty-four vile years of bother and clout. Fear not a rout.” She slipped out like a fatherless shout, leaving Thumper aloner than ever to ramble and pout and fail at draining the heeby-jeebies all the way out.

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last