Tag: featuring boxers

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 held a towel around his waist when he walked from the shower to his apartment. It was right down the hall, no turns, no curves, no stairs. But somehow he got lost.
His sandals flip-flopped on the mildewy rug. Soon as he stepped onto the soggy carpet of the corridor, Thumper sensed unease. Something felt wrong. He stopped short.
His apartment was there, or it should be. Ain’t nobody use none the rooms on this level, ‘cept for him. So why done his belly gone wibbly?
Something was wrong. Something done change, maybe. The peeling wallpaper was the same, the smell of the decrepit wood and crumblesome brick of the building remained. But Thumper still felt wrong.

He padded to the left. That was correct, wasn’t it? Thumper couldn’t remember. It ain’t feel right. None these rooms looked right. There was numbers on a placard on the door. His apartment ain’t have a number placard, it had separate numbers, like on a mailbox.

And none these doors looked right — the frames had changed, maybe, the color, the peepholes, something he couldn’t quite place. Awful sounds boomed outta the shut doors he passed. Screams, whimpering, the whir of some motor, a moist splash like blood splattering on the wall.
That Woman in White popped up in his mind, but Thumper dismissed that. She made it hard to think — he ain’t struggle to think right now, he thought fine. What he saw looked wrong. He stopped outside the door closest to where his apartment should be.
But growling emanated through the door, some kinda simmery growl more human than animal. It was fierce, and it sounded like viscous goo dripped from the teeth of whatever was there, so Thumper left the door shut.
Then to his left, Thumper saw a big-ass powerhouse nigga, as high yellow as sunshine.
It was him — Thumper recognized that young cat, it was Thumper hisself, Thumper from thirty-four years ago. He got a handsome mug and just a couplea tats. His skin was taut, and his bladder neck ain’t gone batty yet — couldn’t see that, but Thumper could tell. This nigga, this cheekbone-laden young-nigga Wendell, he got the swagger of a man who do piss a reasonable number of times a day.
Thumper could tell from the tattoos that that young-nigga Wendell was from right before his prison sentence. He got them dice on double sixes on his shoulder. Thumper got that tat couplea days before the unlicensed boxing match that led to his arrest. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t got none the prison tats that present-day old-nigga Thumper got.
“Hey, nigga, hey!” he called out, but that young-nigga Wendell ain’t pay him no mind. He walked down the stairs, the stairs that shoulda led to Lipsweet. “Hey, Wendell! Wendell, hey! Hey, nigga!”
His voice ain’t seem to carry though, and Thumper weren’t sure if he was making noise at all. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t respond. He went down the stairs, and Thumper followed.
Ain’t none of it made sense, but Thumper weren’t cogitating upon reason right now. Young-nigga Wendell was from Before. Back when the world ran proper, before Thumper jumped outta the progression of time and sat in a box getting old, watching his bladder neck go buggy. Young-nigga Wendell was basking in glorious ignorance, and he don’t even know it.
At the bottom of the stairs shoulda been the backrooms behind Lipsweet. When Thumper got down there though, the back corridor was wrong — a hard marble floor, not the grimy linoleum that he recollected. There was paintings hung on the wall, ain’t no paintings in Lipsweet. They was awful abstractions of things but you could tell what they was, like one was a car, kinda, a tortured twisted car that looked haunted in every meaning of the word, like if a car could have a thousand-yard stare, this was it, even without eyes. Looking at it depressed Thumper, who forced hisself to look away.
Young-nigga Wendell done gone through the double doors into Lipsweet proper, or the place that shoulda been Lipsweet. But before old-nigga Thumper could follow, some thing walked past like it ain’t see him.
It was a horrid stack of flesh — arms and legs like flayed limbs, flaps of skin flopping as it moved, and its center was a wheel-shape, like a man mated with a rack — the torture device — as it moved, the wheel turned. The turning of the wheel caused a horrid grinding, squishing the flesh of the wheel itself and the limbs and the headless neck into a bloody paste. The wheel seemed to be what powered it too, rolling atop its legs to force them up and down.
Thumper was glad it ignored him, and he waited for it to pass. When he followed far behind through the doors into Lipsweet, the bloody-wheel fiend went to the bar and furtively swiped a bottle of liquor.
On the other side of the room stood young-nigga Wendell, addressing a crowd of reporters with microphones and cameras and notepads. They was notating every damn thing he said. Thumper recollected doing press conferences from back in his boxing days, but this weren’t one of them. This was later. He never did a press conference after getting the dice tat. It was just two days afterwards that he went to the underground boxing match, and it was only two days after that that he got arrested.
This was a press conference that ain’t happen cuz Thumper was in prison.
“Uh, yeah, yeah,” young-nigga Wendell was saying to one them reporters, who just asked some dumbass reporter question. “I been the Chesapeake champion for three years in a row, and nobody go’n take that crown away from me.”
“Do you have a strategy for tonight’s match?” asked a paltry honky with a tape recorder and a snooty nose.
In the real world, tape recorders and cameras and cameramen and microphones and boom mics and sound guys and producers and tittyfucking and factcheckers and journalists all done got replaced by a phone. But this was Before, when all them things existed.
“Uh-huh, sure do, strategy is to punch hard and punch far, baby!” Wendell pointed at the crowd of reporters who all went laughy-taffy. Youngish-nigga Wendell was like that. Thumper missed it. Everybody made fun of him now for saying that kinda shit. When you’re young and handsome, you can be silly and everyone assumes you making a joke and they sposedta laugh. When you’re old and got rickets in your knees, they assume you gone daft and they sposedta issue a corrective statement about your comments — seriously, that Davon nigga done “say a corrective about Thumper’s comments” during a all-bouncer meeting the other day, cuz Thumper said something about planking knuckly niggas out.
“Do you have a comment about the underground boxing ring broken up in Baltimore this week?” asked one the reporters. “Did you know about it?”
“Uh, I heard rumors, that’s all,” young-nigga Wendell said. He flexed a bicep, which stretched the sleeve of his button-down shirt. “They ain’t invite me cuz they knew there’d be no contest.” A tittering of polite laughter underhushed the crowd of reporters. He flexed the other bicep, and he laughed out loud like a charismatic donkey.
A long plonderous sigh came from Thumper. He wanna be this young nigga so bad he could taste it. Shit, if only young-nigga Wendell knew how good he had it. Thumper got lost in his notions until he saw young-nigga Wendell getting hot under his collar at some numptious honky.
“He don’t wanna say that to my face though, do he, you lor bitch?!” Young-nigga Wendell said. “Come up at me and say it, don’t pretend you concerned ’bout some Russian boxer, bullshit, bullshit, nigga, bullshit! I will rock that Bent-Dick Ovaltine honky any day of the week and twice on Sunday-“
“I’m just reporting on the comments, Benedikt Olvyntilvich said you will fold like an accordion-” the journalist was quaking like shake-n-bake, and maybe that was what set young-nigga Wendell off. He punched the fear offa that journalist’s mug.
The whole crowd of them burst into gasps and clicking cameras, as some couple of ’em ran off to find a phone — this was before cell phones, mind you. Blood poured from the journalist’s fist-snack of a nose.
Thumper stood in the back of the crowd, still holding a towel around his waist, shower water evaporating off them double-size shoulders he shared with young-nigga Wendell. His heart sank like this was happening to him, and it was, even if it was a different him, and he could feel that young-nigga Wendell’s world darkening as the cops arrived and put him in handcuffs. They dragged him outta the room, and again Thumper followed. The journalist with an eternal smear where his face usedta be lay on a stretcher, paramedics buzzing around him like officious bees.
In his bones lingered the same feelings as young-nigga Wendell — not just the dark ones about getting arrested but the victorious ones too, the feelings that told him he gots to punch out a journalist, that ain’t nobody gonna talk shit without getting that shit knocked outta him. Ain’t none the journalists or the cops or the paramedics act surprised. None them knew Thumper, but they expected it of him. Hell, Thumper expected it of himself. Young-nigga Wendell was default as hell.
That was the same part of him that signed up for that underground boxing ring. He couldn’t stand the fact that somebody else might win — would win obviously, if he ain’t fight in it — and then Thumper wouldn’t be the undisputed champion no more. There’d be somebody disputing. Thumper gotta be the toughest nigga around.
In prison, it’s easy to be the toughest nigga around. Easy for a tough nigga anyway. There’s a limited pool in the first place, and guards mostly keep him and his from them and theirs.
The door outside led to a parking lot spilling forth with the sound and smell of rain — actual rain! Thumper eager as a beaver followed the journalist on a stretcher and the squad of paramedics accompanying him outside.
But when he passed the doorway, he weren’t in no rainy parking lot. He was in Lipsweet, or a hellish copy of it. The layout was right, the bar, doors, tables, chairs, all that looked right. But it was filled with more of them horrid creatures, like that wheel-of-flesh thing he done saw. In fact that wheel of flesh was right over there, drinking from the bottle of bourbon it stole, the liquor dripping visibly down its open tract and lubricating the wheel grinding its flesh into loosemeat.
The fiends looked at him, or at least they shifted bits of theyselves so as to aim in his direction, since most of ’em ain’t have apparent eyes. Aside from the wheel of flesh, there was a pair of skeletons — not hollywood skeletons neither, these had rotting bits of organs attached, shattered teeth and discolored bones — some kinda reddish dragony thing and a cartoonish vampire straight offa cereal box. All them stared at Thumper like he was the weird one.
There was a young nigga Wendell again, sitting free — no cops to be seen — at one of the tables, like he ain’t notice the demons all around.
This youngish-nigga Wendell was older than the one at the press conference. He got lines on his face and one streak of gray on his temple. He was still younger than Thumper though. He swigged outta a bottle of beer, then murmured something at one hideous creature walking by. She gurgled, blood splattering out her mouth like she was chewing on glass, and then she mounted youngish-nigga Wendell’s lap so that her bare tits dangled afronta his face. Them tits was long and saggy and steada nipples at the end they both got jaws with double rows of sharp teeth, and they snapped at youngish-nigga Wendell who kept playing like he gonna suck on ’em.
Old-nigga Thumper watched for awhile. His young self laughed and flirted like he ain’t see the tit-jaws or the blood spilling outta that female’s throat. Thumper came up closer to him then, but youngish-nigga Wendell paid him no mind at first.
You know those posters that look like nothing but if you unfocus on ’em, you see a picture? Thumper saw that on youngish-nigga Wendell — he looked like the young handsome nigga he was when Thumper looked at him, but when he looked beyond him, at the demonic lady behind him, then outta the corner of his eye, Youngish-nigga Wendell looked different.
He looked like Rico.
He was wearing Rico’s soul like a suit, that was why. Youngish-nigga Wendell done will have murdered Rico thirty-four years from now. Rico weren’t even born yet.
Youngish-nigga Wendell noticed Thumper eventually and scoffed like he don’t talk to old niggas. “Whatchoo want, old man? I’m mackin’ on this female, don’chu see?”
“Yeah, yeah, I see.” Old-nigga Thumper wanna say so much more, but the demon woman made him wrinkle his nose, and her tits aimed they sharks in his direction. He wanna tell his young self to stay away, that his demon woman was trouble.
But youngish-nigga Wendell wouldn’t never listen. Never could tell that nigga nothing. Not like Thumper now, who takes in feedback and adapts to change readily. That’s on the parole checklist.
A tear-streaked young woman came in then, a real human — stall-blonde, pretty as pink but sob-a-lobbing out loud. She was followed by couple cops in plainclothes — detectives — and she pointed at youngish-nigga Wendell. “There he is! That one!”
Youngish-nigga Wendell jumped to his feet. “That bitch — you can’t trust that bitch!” Youngish-nigga Wendell squared up at the cops, and the demon-tits lady slinked off. “That bitch threw herself at me, she was into it the whole time, swear to God!” He ain’t fight back, but he ain’t cooperate neither, as the cops put him in handcuffs.
Again, old-nigga Thumper felt his heart sinking. Youngish-nigga Wendell was going to prison for sure. The plainclothes detectives said they was arresting him, and he struggled hard like a nigga should, but they got him, sure as sugar is sweet. They dragged him out the door, to what shoulda been the parking lot.
Thumper had enough of this. He ain’t need to watch hisself get arrested bunchesa times. Maybe that was his fate. Delsinerr said she could make him young again, let him live a life without being arrested that time thirty-four years ago, but what if that only lasted a couple months? What if Thumper got arrested again?
He went into the backroom and upstairs to where his apartment shoulda been. He ain’t need none this. Just got him upsetted.
You could keep your nose clean. Just follow the law. Stop wilding out. You don’t needta act that way.
But Wendell of all ages ain’t never see it like that. All-ages Wendell don’t like folks telling him what to do. He don’t like journalists and they bitch-nigga questions. He don’t like teasing young bitches who get him hard and then fuck off, leaving him with a angry dick and hyperactive fists.
Old-nigga Thumper do plow a nigga up the booty when he get a hardon that won’t go soft. Young niggas ain’t learn how to do that yet.
Since Thumper’s release, he bin focusing on how flawed the world was. Ain’t nothing work right, niggas was all tapping and dapping on they phones steada doing real nigga shit, and females was basically phones with tits attached, damn, they can’t stop facebooking long enough to suck a nigga dick.
But maybe it was Thumper that was flawed. He was flawed when he was young but was too strong and too handsome for anyone to tell him. He gotta learn that by stepping outta the world for a couple decades.
When he went upstairs, Thumper walked into a unmarked room, not the hallway he was expecting. This ain’t right at all.
In the unmarked room sat not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell — he was maybe late thirties now. Across from the table was a white man in a cheap suit. Another cop. Actually the same cop who arrested him downstairs, same hunk of honey shithead. Older now though, couple wrinkles on his jaws. Looked like he bin couching down, on the feud with the missus.
“You’re badly in debt, aren’t you? Is that why you needed money? The boxing money dried up, so you decided to rob a couple drug dealers, right? The Seventh Street Playas have gone to war with the Bloods anyway, so you might as well go in guns blasting, right?”
Not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell scoffed. “Boxing money ain’t dry up, jackass! I — I — I got surgery on my knees — my knees is rickety, but in a couple months I’ll be back in the ring-“
“So you just needed some cash to tide you over?” the detective said.
“Nah, bitch, nah, nah, I ain’t shoot no nigga,” not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell said. It ain’t sound believable though. Sounded like he was putting on a show for the detective and the camera and the inevitable judge and jury, and old-nigga Thumper could already tell where this was going.
Boxing don’t last forever. Not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell was kidding hisself if he thought he was still a contender at fortyish-years-old. What else was he gonna do? Coach some younger, handsomer boxer? Do a color commentary for some cutrate teevee channel? (or internet channel, whatever, old-nigga Thumper got no time for “streaming teevee”) After so many years boxing, not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell prolly got concussions on the brain and would make a fool of hisself getting on teevee.
So it made sense to rob some drug dealers. Coulda made enough to retire on. Instead, not-so-young-nigga Wendell was gonna go to prison and turn into old-nigga Thumper, who want nothing to do with this.
When he turned around to leave, there was the door to his apartment, right afronta him, like he done walk past it before. He opened it and scurried in before he could lose it again.
Inside at last, he sat by the window and watched the sun come up without a trace of tired in his bones. He craved the comfortable confines of a prison cell, where at least he could sleep. A prison cell was cozy, crowded in a good way. The apartment was cold and helpless. He felt like the last orphan in a abandoned orphanage.
It felt good to watch the sun rise. It all felt less real in the daytime. He went about his business as though ain’t nothing happen last night.
And maybe nothing did happen. He weren’t tired. He recollected being awake all night, but he weren’t tired his morning. His old-nigga body couldn’t stay up all night and not be sleepy the next day, so he musta slept. Maybe that was all a dream.
Or maybe his dreams was real, and the daylight was a fantasy.
Regardless, night came along at night-time, and Thumper found hisself back at Lipsweet manning the door. The joint was jumping from a early hour tonight cuz some husky lumberjacks from central Maine was drinking, having done finish they six-month contract. They was on the rugged for sure, and they smelled like a pine tree’s armpit. They got boku dollars to spend though. They was young and vigorous, and they looked at Thumper like he was old and uncool and he oughta be embarrassed to be so damn old and so damn uncool.
One them in particular catched Thumper’s ire. His name was Alain, and he pronounced it in the French fashion like he was too good to end with a consonant, but he spoke with a whole rack of trashy yuppers in his voice. He was a well-tanned straightlane with a face like a kick to the balls, and he was loud and pinchy upon the dancers.
“You best slow yo’ roll, Alain,” Thumper said when he bodied hisself to the lumberjacks’ table. A mountain of empty beer bottles peaked high above they table, and they was now mad onto the whiskey train. The dancer Alain pinched done curtsy away, and the lumberjacks was hooting for another one to come near.
“Yes, sah. Yesssah, yessah,” Alain said with mock obedience. He was sloshed as hell, and moving his head made him dizzy. He shrugged it off though, and he shrugged off Thumper too — a fateful mistake for Alain. Then he guffawed and slapped his knee and grabbed the ass of a woman walking by.
Another fateful mistake. Alain be piling up blunders like firewood.
“Hey, you honky shit!” Thumper punched him right across the face, knocking him to the ground amid sparks of blood from his nose. The other lumberjacks jumped back, but one leapt at Thumper. He was too drunk to do more than bump into him though, and Thumper shoved him to the ground alongside his buddy. Thumper mounted Alain and punched his dazed and bloody face again. “Don’chu grab a woman here!” He was really more pissed that Alain did it right afronta him, afronta Thumper, who was in charge here, like Alain got no idea he was just some fucking woodcutter like from a fairytale, he ain’t jack shit in Lipsweet. Thumper ran this jawn on point, and honkies got a role to fill like everywhom else. That role don’t include disrespecting Thumper.
Or pinching dancers without paying first.
Taking a step back, Thumper’s blood boiled. Every nobody in this bar stared at him, none them listening to the disappointing rock music that dribbled out the speakers like a pansy’s nut. Music was awful nowadays. Thumper’s hands balled into fists at his side, flurrying to fly.
But Thumper couldn’t get the police called on him, or his parole officer’d find out. If Alain went to the hospital, Thumper’d be charged, he’d get his parole revoked. He’d be like that young-nigga Wendell, fated for jail, destined to become old-ass Thumper with the wonky bladder neck.
So Thumper let his blood run cold, and he stone-faced the mean-mugging lumberjacks.
That ain’t mean he was gonna let Alain get away with it. A man shouldn’t go groping no female, that was wrong, and that was a lesson Thumper wanna teach. So he grabbed Alain by the nape and dragged him outta the bar. Ain’t nobody like him much or lumberjacks in general, so that was fine, and they all assumpted Thumper was gonna deposit Alain in the alley like a unwanted infant.
“Oh, you are gonna treat me like that, eh?” Alain said as he swaggered free. Thumper let him go in the corridor behind Lipsweet. Alain both stood aggressively at Thumper and inched back, finna go out the backdoor to the alley. He was too drunk to realize that weren’t the backdoor. Instead, he inched hisself to the door to the stairs that led up to Thumper’s apartment.
Thumper gave him a shove, and Alain toppled to his ass against the door, which opened, and he toppled his ass further, onto the floor by the stairs. He rollicked around, trying to get up, but he was drunk as a punk. Thumper pulled his pants down to his ankles.
“You intact, you honky shit?” Thumper asked, as his plan finally formed — all he was thinking up till now was to get Alain away from witnesses without committing a felony, then do something that ain’t murder.
Alain guffawed. “You never met a lumberjack before, huh?”
Was that a yes or a no? Prolly a no, Thumper thunk, but Alain was right, Thumper don’t know any lumberjacks.
Thumper separated Alain’s meaty sscheeks — he was definitely not intact, Thumper saw that clear as mud. He slipped his dicktip right in, couple inches making it before Alain twitched into a flexed stack of hairy muscle. Thumper leaned on him for support and to keep him in position.
His clenching turned his butthole into a stop sign, but Thumper weren’t taking no for a answer right now. He slapped Alain hard across the face, the sound ringing out like a angry church bell. Alain whimpered and sneered his nose, and the tension in the resta his body made his booty open up.
That was enough for Thumper to plump his dick up Alain’s guts. Alain twitched in pain, and he clawed at the ground under his back.
A burst of pleasure shivered up Thumper’s spine, as his cock got deep enough to stick. Alain’s booty gripped it tight, despite his grimaces and his clenching. Thumper kept a good hold on him. The angle was awkward, Thumper sorta draped over his muscley back at the bottom of the stairs, but at least Alain weren’t gonna escape. Thumper held his place until Alain’s breathing slowed and he relaxed.
“Who done wreck yo’ booty, honky?” Thumper asked. He ain’t really want a answer, but he wanna wait for Alain to relax enough to answer. Then Thumper was gonna plow him good.
“My boss, Mr. Chambreux, he-” Alain winced and clawed at the wall. “Owww! Shit! Get off me!” He fell limp again, as Thumper smacked him in the head. He began pumping his dick in and out, Alain’s tightly-muscled booty squeezing his shaft the whole time. It sent pangs of pleasure up Thumper’s body.
“Mistuh Chambreux?” Thumper frowned. “I rec’nize that name.” He stopped moving. Damn did Alain’s booty feel good. Thumper do enjoy a honky who ain’t intact but ain’t loose yet neither, a nice muscley honky who got tightness for days. But the name Chambreux got his wrinkles wrinkling. “You know Mistuh Chambreux?”
“He owns the lumber company I work for, eh! He owns a lot around here,” Alain said through his panting, seething jaws. He sucked on his teeth and again stiffened up, trying to crawl up the stairs. That made his butthole squeeze tight around Thumper’s dick, which he inched bit by bit deeper into Alain’s booty.
“Hey, is he a actor? He do plays?” Thumper’s voice broke cuz he was nearing his orgasm despite hisself — he wanna keep talking, to find out more about Mr. Chambreux — but if he pulled out, Alain would skedaddle for sure. Thumper’s lower half kept humping on its own accord, and Alain’s guts kept sending a wave of pre-orgasmic bliss through Thumper’s frame.
“What?” Alain wrinkled his nose.
“Does he do plays? Like a actor? Theater, not movie.”
Alan shook his head, then shrugged and nodded. “Kinda. Owww, shit!” He threw his head back, then down, making it bang on the stairs. “Goddamn-“
“I’ll finish quick if you answer my question. Is he a actor?”
“What, no — he — well,” Alain said, squinting and squirming. “He told me once he had an audition to get to.” He craned his head up and whispered to Thumper. “He said it like it was a secret.” He laughed but he sounded serious too, and he groaned as he felt Thumper orgasm inside him.
“Huh…” Thumper’s voice wavered — he both considered what Alain said and orgasmed at the same time, unable to resist hisself any longer. His muscles spasmed and rippled, as he grunted up a sound that echoed in the cozy stairwell.
Thumper rammed his dick in and out, moaning into the muscled meat of Alain’s back. He got that hairy-honky back that Thumper found both disgusting and hilarious, but it took more than some furry shoulderblades to hold him back. He grunted and shot a thick jizzwad deep into him, then another, then another, and he filled Alain’s guts with creamy cum.
A long sigh came outta his lungs as a spurting flow of jizz came outta his cock. Thumper felt a potent release, all the tension of the day draining away. Ramrodding a man, he thunk, was less pleasurable but more relaxing than fucking a woman. He ain’t even gotta hold Alain down as his last couple cumdrops drained up his guts.
As he finished, Alain ain’t resist no more. He knew better than to blueball a nigga, or at least this nigga. He let Thumper spew nut up into him, and Alain fell limp until Thumper’s cock finally plopped out.
Wiping his dingdong clean with Alain’s flannel shirt, Thumper screwed up his eyes. “Shit…”
Alain stayed soft, both too drunk and in too much pain to move. He groaned. “I dunno if he got the part from the audition though, he never said that. He said earning an audition was hard enough. He had to sell his soul just to get an audition.” Alain laughed like he believed it but wanted Thumper to think he didn’t. “I’m sure he was pullin’ my leg. He musta been.”

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