He expected Buck to calculate how many quarters-of-a-half-gallon could be combined with some number of five-eighths-of-a-liter to result in a fourteen-liter total volume.
“So you gotta add three of the bifenthrin to one,” Mr. Taggart said. He patted Buck on the back, one hand lingering there over his shoulder muscle. “That gives you nine.” Buck had no idea what that meant, but it was how Mr. Taggart talked. It was confusing because he mixed up units of measure that he assumed Buck remembered — some pesticides were measured in liters, while others were measured in gallons, or fluid ounces, and some came already diluted or not at all, and further, some additives (like surfactants) were measured in milliliters or fractions of a pint or quart.
Regardless of the official formulas provided by the pesticide manufacturer, the tanks in the truck were built to measure their output in fractions of liters or gallons, depending on the tank. So when Mr. Taggart said, “fill that tank to the two over three, that’ll take ten of the other, then just one more is four, plus three of the surfactant”, what he actually meant was “use that tank that has lines measuring its fill in gallons, and fill it with ten liters of pesticide, which will equal two and two-thirds gallons, then dilute it with one and a third gallons of water to get near four gallons total, which requires three fluid ounces of surfactant”.
It was very confusing. Every time Buck thought he had a handle on it, Mr. Taggart would say something like, “okay, for mosquitoes we need nine five-eighths of the crimpoline mixed with three and a quarter half-gallons of the geraniolic acid”. Yes, that’s right, he measured a formula using “nine five-eighths” (meaning nine units each equal to five eighths of a liter) to mix it with a volume measured in quarters of a half-gallon. He expected Buck to calculate how many quarters-of-a-half-gallon could be combined with some number of five-eighths-of-a-liter to result in a fourteen-liter total volume.
To make matters even more confusing, the formula to calculate how much to spray for mosquitoes gave a result in fluid ounces of the undiluted pesticide. To be more precise, it gave a result in fluid ounces per square meter, so Buck had to calculate the acreage of each property in square meters then combine pesticides in gallons and liters to convert, using the diluted density, into an amount of pesticide per fluid ounce, modified with surfactants by the droplet surface area in cubic millimeters, in order to calculate how much to fill the tank with.
Buck had never really been a math guy in school. He hadn’t even graduated.
Michael Gregarian is an exterminator, a business owner and a father.
Descriptions
Mr. Taggart had been a Marine for eight years, and he was still built that way. He had a powerhouse body, not quite as barrel-shaped — and nowhere’s near as tall — as Buck. He had well-worked hands too, callused and rough like he had known his way around the blue-collar world.
Mr. Taggart was an old honky who smell like sun-baked milk, a leathery white man, a ex-Marine with a well-tanned face lined with sun-wizened wrinkles. He had a powerful but slightly paunchy torso ringed with muscle and a layer of meaty flesh, dog tags brilliantly gleaming against his work-weary pecs… His chest hair was tinged with gray and flecks of green from grass at the freshly mown lawns they sprayed this afternoon. His skin was well tanned to a chesnut brown on his forearms and neck, but his chest and back were as pale as pearl, aside from all the old-honky skin marks — pink splatches, ugly black and gray hairs, moles, dry spots of scratchy skin, red marks and brown scars. And he got that old-honky smell too, like cat food. His back looks like a abstract painting
Mistah Taggart wore the uniform khakhi trouser-pants that all his exterminators wore, but he got on only a wifebeater o’er his strapping chest, with graying hairs poking out the sides of the shirt. He wore a ancient dog tag dangling afront his body — he was a retired Marine.
Mr. Taggart, a thickly built middle-aged man with deep, dark eyes and a bristly mustache. He was very tanned, with remnants of perpetual sunburn on his nape and shoulders, and his craggy face was weathered like a soldier, which Robby suspected he was. He had the vibe of an ex-military man.
Mr. Taggart the Burly White Daddy:Carl Taggart can’t satisfy his wife… but he’s ready and eager to get nasty with some awesome alpha males! He owns a pest-control company, which gives him plenty of access to blue-collar men, hard workin’ studs and masculine meat.Can he handle the manhood he’s been craving?!
Bouncering was dull work. Buck ain’t mind it — the pay was good, and the waitresses was purdy as petunias. But damn do it bore him to his soul. He stood there at the door checking idees. Ain’t even gotta look at ’em. Buck held a scanner that said if’n t’was valid, and it do pop up with a high-res photo-pitcher of the feller so’s Buck could check if’n t’was him. Now and then he gots to punch a man’s lights out. T’was a perk worth remembering, cuz he enjoyed fisticuffs. But Buck got another job too. His parole officer made him get “gainful employment”. Whatever “gainful” meant, bouncering wasn’t it. Buck axed what “gainful” was, and his parole officer just called him a stone-cold retard. Ain’t ne’er answer.
His gainful job was working as a exterminator. Buck been doing that off and on since the late 80s, working fer Mistah Taggart at Central Pest Control when he weren’t in prison or working on a oil rig. Mistah Taggart learned Buck about all them beetles, cockroaches, ants, earwigs, all them. And rats.
“Slow ya roll, Sampson, nuh-uh,” Crabgut said. “Rat traps is a weapon, can’t give you that. You think I’m a retard like you?”So’s when Buck was in prison and they gots a rat problem, Buck done come up to that guard Officer Crabgut and said he could lay out traps to get ridda them. Crabgut was a jowly, moist-shirt sumbitch, and he looked at Buck like a beetle-meat nugget. Buck scowled. “But you hirin’ a ext’minatuh to lay out them same traps, he j’st ain’t doin’ it right.” He pointed to a trap. “If’n I wanna use one as a weapon, they’s the’uh. I could grab it. They ain’t sharp though. Ain’t no rat gonna get — he put it right out in the open, suh. T’ain’t-“ “Shut the fuck up, Sampson,” Officer Crabgut said. “Officer Hargrave is the facilities manager, he’s in charge of hirin’ an exterminatuh. A professional put them traps out.” “I’s a professional too! He put ’em out bad! And he usin’ too much peanut buttuh. And he should use smooth, not crunchy-“ “Rats don’t care, Sampson, you’re crazy. Rats don’t got a peanut butter preference. You just playin’, you tryin’ a-get time outta ya cell,” Crabgut said. “You getting coop-up syndrome. Seen it before.” “Nah, nah, nah, listen, listen — is he puttin’ traps in the ceiling? Tell him to put traps in the ceiling-“ “Rats don’t live in the ceiling, they don’t live up!” Officer Crabgut pointed to the ceiling, then down to the floor. “They live down. In like sewers and shit.” Buck narrowed his eyes. “T’ain’t corre’t, suh-“ “Sampson! Quit backtalkin’,” Crabgut said. He brusquely shoved Buck back. “Git! You frustrated, Sampson?” “Yeah! I got rats in mah cell. Gonna get that… uh… lepto… sis…” Buck was positive he was gonna remember that word right up until his tongue tripped o’er itself. “Leprosis. Or, uh… lepposposis, or…”
“Sampson… You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crabgut said. He again shoved Buck back towards the cells. Buck was tall enough that Crabgut pushed on his side, below his ribcage, steada his shoulder, cuz Buck towered o’er him. “Miguel is ya cellmate, right?”
Buck nodded as he walked back to his cell, Crabgut close behind. Buck’s feet was bare, flapping upon the cold steel floor of the state prison, which ain’t provide shoes big enough fer Buck’s feet. Usually he wore socks, but they was all dirty now, so’s his feetses was bare. “He a punk, right? Cornhole ‘im. That’ll calm you down,” Crabgut said. He handed o’er two packets of ramen. “Here, I’ll pay fer it. Just don’t get ornery, Sampson. I don’t want trouble. I’s startin’ a three-day weekend tonight, and I don’t wanna deal wit’ ya’ dumb ass.” “I won’t — I ain’t ornery!” Buck said with a sigh. Officer Crabgut reached Buck’s cell, then firmly but not violently shoved him into it. “Relax, Sampson. Hargrave will take care of the rats.” He closed the cell door and walked away. Right now was open-cell time, so’s the door wasn’t locked, but Crabgut’d prolly curl his lip at Buck opening it, so’s Buck stood by the door dopeishly. Laying there on the lower bunk was his cellmate, Miguel, who got a magazine in his hand and a curious look upon his mug. Buck held them ramen packets in one hand. Buck lit a cigarette from the battered pack by his upper bunk and fumed. “I tol’ him that ext’minatuh don’t know what he’s doin’,” Buck said. “He looked young. He prolly foolish. Mosta ’em don’t wanna come to a prison, so’n they sent the newest rookie, reckon.” Buck took a long drag off his smoke.
Miguel shrugged. “Prison got rats, gringazo,” he said. Then he added a inscrutable hand gesture and sound effect that presumably signified the inevitableness of entropy, the creeping spread of chaos in a post-capitalist society and his stoic acceptance of dhukha, the imperfection and dissatisfaction inherent to existence in Buddhist theology. “Hszhurhppaa.”
Cigarette smoke fuming outta his ugly mug, Buck wrinkled his nose. “I cain smell the rats, Miguel, I smells ’em. Tha’ss rat piss. It’s di’rent than mouse piss.” “Ay, don’t talk about rat piss, gringazo,” Miguel said, lifting his soccer magazine to cover his face. He was a Latin King, which you could tell by his tats. He done earnt his place among ’em by renting hisself out. Mexicans do that to each other, they do. So far as Buck was concerned, the most important reason to join up with a gang was to avoid giving up booty. Mexican don’t see it that way. They got l’il peckers, that was why. They was short and fat and got li’l pinkies poking out they oversized bushes. T’weren’t barely a thang to get cornholed by one them. Miguel was skinny, not fat, but he was short as a donkey was stubborn, and he got a wormy thang. He ain’t like taking it from Buck’s big-boy meat. Casual as he could muster, Buck tacked up the sheet that covered they cell door and the window in the door. That gave a li’l privacy. When Buck was confident ain’t nobody gonna interrupt, he tossed the two packs of ramen to Miguel. His bristly mustache jostled as Miguel shrugged, then put the ramen with t’others. Ramen was, ‘long with cigarettes, canned sardines and phone cards, the main currency in this prison. Guards usually toted ramen with ’em cuz they was cheap as hell outside and could be brung in no problem — no restrictions on guards carrying ramen. Then Miguel got up. He was plum near two feet shorter’an Buck, so’s he dwarfed under him as he smeared a big fistful of prison-kitchen hogfat upon his asscrack. Meanwhile, Buck stroked hisself hard. He fished out a September 1992 issue of a “pickemup truck magazine”, which was fulla purdy ladies near trucks. T’was as risqué as could be easily gotten in prison. “Go quick, esé. And silencioso,” Miguel said, wiry muscles stretching to get his hand into his buttcrack. He winced as one finger slipped into his hole, then a second. He bit his lower lip. “Shushy, gringazo.” Buck nodded. “Make guhl sounds, Miguel, I’s picturin’ ya mamacita on mah dick,” he said with a laugh. Miguel sucked upon his teeth. Buck showed him the Latina in the magazine, who was purdy indeed. “She Mexican, and she hot-” He kept one giant hand on his cock, which firmed up in his grip. “It say right there she Puerto Rican, gringazo,” Miguel said. He winced again as he got a third finger in his own ass, which he forced hisself to endure, as t’would feel better’an letting Buck ramrod him unprepared. His limbs strained and twitched, his tattoos rippling. “Oh,” Buck’s chuckles turned sheepish. He ain’t see that bit, and Miguel done made his feelings on Puerto Ricans clear as sprite — Miguel soured on Puerto Ricans like tamarind soda. But Buck weren’t interested in the mamacita’s origins, and he got no notions on the nationalities of Hispanics. He liked her ass. He was eye-deep in that magazine when Miguel bent o’er. T’weren’t a invitation fer Buck to get started. Miguel wanna put his makeshift dildo in his ass, that would loosen him up. Miguel bent o’er to get that dildo from his poke at the foot of his bunk. But Buck was eyefucking the Puerto Rican lady — who drove a Hyundai! — and he took Miguel bending o’er to mean he was ready. One hand upon the magazine, t’other upon his dick, Buck bent his knees and jabbed his dick like a battery ram. He missed the butthole entirely. “Ay ay, wait,” Miguel said. He squirmed, his lubey hands pushing behind hisself upon Buck’s stallion-like body. “Wait!” Buck’s cock stabbed his asscheek hard, like Buck was trying-a poke a new butthole in it. “Sawry, sawry, I’mma wait, whatchoo wanna do?” Buck said. He was so much taller’an Miguel that t’was hard to get his wang and Miguel’s caboose to line up. He kept thrusting though, having no idear he was ramming Miguel’s back and side hard enough to hurt. “Ay, ay, wait, lemme get it open, gringazo,” Miguel said. “Ay ay ay.” He found the dildo and smeared hog fat on it. “Don’t press down this time, Buck. You are too big, too grande.” He whistled. Then one hand gingerly inserted the “dildo” — actually a piece of ceramic that broke off a toilet — and t’other flicked Buck’s thirteen-inch rod. T’was thicker’an Miguel’s forearm. He pointed to Buck’s chest. “Don’t press down on my back. You are heavy, and you are hairy, and you smell like a saddle.” Buck looked at Miguel ’round the magazine. “Maxi said punks gotta-“ “I ain’t a punk!” Miguel said. He done explain this b’fore — Miguel was a Latin King. He hadta pay fer his membership by giving up the booty, but that was a valid membership. A “punk” was not a member of the gang; a punk was owned by the gang. Punks also gave up the booty, so’s the difference seemed negligent to Buck. T’was vital to Miguel. T’was Buck’s turn to snort like a jaded pony and make a masturbatory hand gesture, which combined to signify his belief in the mutability of socially constructed roles qua the fulfillment of incumbent sociocultural systems and functions, strength and dominance as determiners per se of masculine hierarchies and the civilizational sine qua non of a peremptory conception of so-called manhood to staunch the onslaught of Leviathan. But he ain’t argue. Once he got his pecker up Miguel’s guts, Buck’d be dictating the position fer sho’re. “C’mon, I’s hard,” Buck said. He put the magazine down upon Miguel’s bed, hugged his hairy shoulders from behind and pulled him close. Miguel straightened his back. “Wait, esé, I-” Miguel yelped. Buck’s meaty stomach pressed ‘gainst his head. Miguel squirmed. “It’s still-“ Buck dropped to his knees, which lined his cock up with Miguel’s ass, and he rammed his knob right at Miguel’s butthole, which was stretched wide. T’was stretched cuz that piece of ceramic dildo was still in there. Buck forgot about that, and his knob jammed into it. Him and Miguel said ow and ay respectively. “I’ll get it out,” Buck said, slapping Miguel’s hand away. “I’mma lose mah stiffy if’n I don’t stick it in ya soon. Ya asshole is narsty, Miguel.” His crack was lined with black hairs — the cheeks was mostly smooth, but his crack was so hairy Buck ain’t wanna look at it. Buck gingerly used two fingertips to pull the ceramic dildo out, his other hand spreading them asscheeks. “Put lard on it!” Miguel said. He gave Buck the tub of hog fat, but Buck ain’t take it, as Buck got one hand upon his own cock and t’other spreading Miguel’s buttcheeks the best Buck could without touching any the butthair. “Lard!” “I will, I will,” Buck said. With a quick thrust, he aimed it fer Miguel’s lubed-up hole, but the tip bounced off. He picked up the tub of hog fat. He tried again, and this time the tip went in. “Got in, keep it open, keep it-“ “Ay! Lard! Put on the lard, esé!” Miguel snapped. His asshole snapped too, and it pushed Buck’s cock right out. Buck still ain’t even open the tub of hog fat. “I am, I am!” Buck said. His voice was so deep it echoed in the tiny cell, and Miguel hissed fer him to shush. Buck smeared hog fat upon his cock, which was losing its erection. “Sheeit, Miguel, put’cha mouth on it. Get it hard again.” Miguel smacked his lips shut. “Nuh-uh.” He mumbled. “T’was in my culo, gringazo.” “Just the tip was, fer like a second!” Buck said. “I swan-!” “Shush! Keep it down!” “Why? E’erybody knows you give it up behind,” Buck said. “They don’t gotta know when!” Miguel said. “Get ya own self hard, Buck.” Buck grumbled, but he picked up the magazine and stroked his dick again. T’was easier this time since he was lubed up, and his greasy hand slid up and down the shaft. Meanwhile Miguel be working at his own butthole with his fingers. He got four fingers in there. In a flurry, Buck pulled Miguel’s fingers outta his own ass, then rammed his dick in as far as t’would go — he wanna go fast both so’s Miguel don’t come up with more delays and so’s his asshole don’t snap shut. Miguel wheezed and squirmed, and maybe four, five inches of dickmeat disappeared up there. “Aaaah, sheeit, here we go-“ “Damn, gringazo, gimme a warnin’,” Miguel said. “Sawry, sawry,” Buck said. Miguel stood, while Buck kneeled behind him, so’s Buck’s strong arms held him upright when Miguel’s knees got weak. He spread his legs the best he could. Miguel clenched his teeth and his ropy limbs all tensed up. “You’s tensin’ up, Miguel, relax, relax, relax-“ “Ay, ay-“ “You clenchin’, wait, wait-” Buck hugged him close, despite the bristly body hair all o’er Miguel’s chest. It turned Buck off. He couldn’t imagine tits if’n his hands was where’n tits should be and there weren’t no tits, and he used both hands to hold squirmy Miguel, so’s he couldn’t hold the magazine open. Miguel’s asshole was clenching and pushing Buck’s cock out, which Buck accepted was not deliberate — they done go thru this argument — but he got a right to force Miguel to slacken his booty. “You clenchin’, Miguel-“ “Sshhhiiiizzhzhhh!” Miguel roared. He lurched forward, banging his head ‘gainst the wall. Buck tried to support him, but Miguel couldn’t help but wriggle. His tattooed hands clawed behind hisself at Buck’s chest. “Goddamn that feels good…” Buck murmured. Miguel done took mosta Buck’s shaft, and he was heaving on a rhythm like a woman in labor. Buck tried to keep Miguel in place as pleasure wracked his body, but Buck admired to use one hand to get that magazine back where’n he could see it. Soon as he leggo Miguel though, Miguel squirmed hard again — that made his ass squeeze and massage Buck’s cock, which was leaking gobs of precum now. That helped further grease up Miguel’s broke-in booty. Buck worked his dick back and forth, as Miguel’s panting slowed down. Each time he thrust, he tried to force it a l’il deeper, but he ain’t try to ram him too hard, cuz Miguel was a amigo fer real. Finally Miguel seethed and said weakly, “Ay, wait, gimme a sec, Buck…” “Nah, I’mma nut real quick, promise,” Buck said. He admired to look at the magazine, but e’ery time he got it in position, Miguel wriggled, and Buck gotta use both hands to steady him. He found hisself looking at Miguel’s back, which got a tattoo of a sexy grim reaper-lady, who filled Buck with contrary feelings. He preferred the magazine. A rat moved, and Buck jerked away from Miguel. His lard-goop dick popped outta Miguel’s ass. The rat paused like t’ain’t mean to show itself. Buck stepped to it and stomped with one bare foot, only fer the rat to dart away. It went to the cell door, and Buck followed, his hardon dripping precum onto the cement floor. Buck hesitated cuz he ain’t wanna stomp a rat with his bare feet. He picked up one Miguel’s prison sandals. “Ay, shit, la rata!” Miguel jumped up onto his bunk, then winced and cradled his sore asscheeks. The rat squealed and wriggled ’round the shut cell door, which weren’t latched shut. When it creaked open enough, the rat squirmed out the cell and into the prison proper. Buck chased after it, his erect dick still dribbling onto the cold steel floor. He stopped when he realized he was naked with a hardon afronta the whole cell block. “Eww, Buck’s bootysmashin’!” Buncha fellers started laughing. They pointed, and ain’t nobody even notice the rat, which disappeared into the walls somewhere. “Bootysmasher!” “Hillbillies do that, they do…” “Ewww, his cellmate’s Miguel, right?” Buck blushed and covered his crotch with both hands, his fat cock spilling out the sides of his grip. He hurried back to the cell “Nah, nah, I’s gettin’ ready — I’s changin’ my clothes!” Buck called out, but ain’t nobody believe him. They done seed his dick in the shower, and don’t nobody believe a big-dick man like Buck was going thru his prison sentence without smashing booties. And e’erybody knewed Miguel do give up the booty if’n he get paid. “You cabronazo!” Miguel hissed. “Everybody saw that-“ “I was goin’ aftuh the rat!” Miguel still stood upon the edge of his bunk, gripping the upper bunk (Buck’s) to keep his bare feet off the cell floor. He sucked on his teeth. “Is that how you exterminate rats, Buck? You chase ’em each one?” But Buck just grumbled, as some homeboys knocked upon the cell door and shared hushed laughs. They wasn’t allowed to open the door — T’was unlocked, but opening a cell door without permission was a stabbable offense. They kept banging on it and saying sump’in incomprehensive, maybe pretending they was guards ordering Buck to open the door. They peeked ’round the sheet curtain too. That all only took less than a minute, and Buck’s hardon was still throbbing. He admired to defend his name, but even as he did, he lined his crotch up with Miguel’s ass — easy to do while Miguel stood upon his bunk. That lifted his hairy asscrack up enough fer Buck to get behind him and ram it right in. “Shuddup out the’uh!” Buck called out. “I was changin’ mah clothes!” A twitch came o’er Miguel as Buck’s cock entered his ass once more, and Miguel tensed up again. He clenched his teeth. “Shit, go slow, cabronazo.” Buck nodded. He lowered his holler-heavy voice. “Spread ya legs, Miguel, c’mon…” Miguel did so, wincing when Buck’s dick pushed in inch after inch. He shook like a hound-dog shitting a peach pit. His legs spread wide, and he gripped Buck’s bunk, the upper one, fer support. “Ay ay ay…” Miguel muttered, as pain enveloped him again. Buck’s powerful arms wrapped ’round him so’s he couldn’t squirm too bad. Miguel panted, while Buck’s chest muscles writhed with the intense spasms of pleasure running thru his body. The sound of the homeboys banging upon the cell door faded. Buck pounded now, relentless, and soon Miguel wasn’t really supporting hisself ‘t all — Buck hugged him and lifted him off the bunk, so’n Miguel was swallowed up by Buck’s barrel chest. Then Miguel could squirm all he wanted, he got no leverage, and Buck could use his ass more like a fleshlight than a pussy. That hurt, but it sent Buck right o’er the edge. A thick wave of nut filled Miguel’s ass. Buck let out a long, chamberous moan, and he felt his tensions draining away like melted butter. Crabgut was right, he did needta blow a nut. “Ay…” Grimacing his teeth, Miguel scrunched his eyes shut. The pressure in his ass was so intense it felt like he was being split in two, like Buck done broke sump’in in his backside. But Miguel knewed it always felt like this — Buck got big meat. Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Miguel, a bigger load than he thought possible. Mexicans ain’t shoot that much he thought, or maybe they was just more apt to pull out and shoot on his back, while Buck preferred to get e’ery drop all the way up in Miguel’s guts. Buck at last pulled out and sighed, and he put Miguel down. He blanched at sight of buncha black fellers outside the cell, peering in ’round the edge of the sheet curtain blocking the window on the door. They was laughing at Buck wiping his dingdong clean. Buck moved the sheet they got set up so’s it blocked the window again — he ne’er done fix it correct-like after coming back in here. Buck felt like an idiot. Them homeboys was gonna be calling him a booty bandit fer months. As though they ain’t done it too. Homeboys was all booty bandits, in Buck’s experience. They all either be ramrodding or getting it up the dookie by a bigger one. But they think it’s funny when a whiteboy do it. “Goddamn that hurt, esé,” Miguel said, caressing his sore ass. A wave of cum poured down his inner thighs as he got off his bunk and stretched his legs. “And you’s estúpido fer goin’ out there. Everybody saw it! Fuckin’ dumbass cabron.”
Buck left Lucy’s house just after dawn, that way nary the neighbors would see. Lucy was his long-time girlfriend. Unfortunately, she been shacked up with another man fer awhile. She was still seeing Buck on the side, so’s he gotta sneak out pre-dawn. He ain’t have enough time fer a morning quickie, which meant he gotta run the whole way with a hardon. Another reason to leave early was that Buck gotta go in to work — not bouncering at Lipsweet, he also got that part-time job as a exterminator with Central Pest Control. Buck discottoned to the early-morning work, but he gotta have that “gainful” job to keep his parole officer calm.
He undressed in the locker room, last one there, so’s he gotta race to get his uniform on. He hoped Mistah Taggart seed that he weren’t late to arrive, cuz he was late by the time he got his job clipboard from the box by the office. Mistah Taggart was in there scowling.
“I was he’uh on time, suh,” Buck said. Technically, he walked in the door one minute late, and he was leaving the workshop late. He picked up the clipboard fer his pickemup. The clipboard got a long list of addresses, but more importantly it came with a printed-out map of the county. The addresses was labeled upon it. Buck knewed this county like a hound-dog knows its dish-bowl, so’s he could find the locations easy as ice cream. “Fine, go,” Mistah Taggart said like he ain’t entirely believe Buck. But he shrugged him off anyways. Buck stopped and showed Mistah Taggart the clipboard. “This one got two addresses, suh. Which one do I go to?” Mistah Taggart raised his eyebrows. “Go to the first address to get the key. Second address is where you gonna spray.” He paused. “That’s a broke-down building, Sampson. Be careful. Kick the hobos out before you spray. That’s why I gave you that one, you’s a big feller, you can handle a rough situation. That building was abandoned two years ago, and some squatters moved in. If’n they give you too much trouble, call the police.” “Yes, suh,” Buck said. Buck nodded as he walked out. The clipboard listed the pesticide to use. Buck don’t know them sciencey words, but he could match ’em up with the labels, and he got a good memory fer the details of how to use each one. Still waking off his nods, Buck headed to the nearby gas station fer a breakfast sandwich, a cuppa coffee and a full tank. Then he went out to his first couple stops, which all went swift as a breeze. He set down some rat traps and bait stations, put a one-way flap in a lady’s bat-filled attic and picked up a raccoon in a cage. After letting the raccoon go free in a state park, he went to get the key to the abandoned building, and he drove to it. The building looked fine from a distance, but when he got close, he seed all the shattered windows and the untended grass. He went in the old apartment building — ain’t need the key, it turned out, as the front door was ripped off its hinges. He smacked a stick upon a rustbucket icebox near the door, which made a loud ringing sound. “Hey! All y’all! Anybody in this buildin’ best get out!” Buck shouted. His deep-chested baritone echoed. “I’mma fill it wit’ poison! Central Pest Control he’uh, ’bout to kill lit’ally e’erythang he’uh’! You gotto skedaddle!” A shambly black man glanced at him, then hobble-footed out the door. He was followed by two more fellers, and then a woman with blue hair and safety-pin piercings lurched out. She was smacking two fingers upon her elbow like she was fitting to shoot up. Buck ain’t say nuttin’ to nary the squatters, as they was leaving peaceable-like, and he ain’t wanna interrupt that.
When he was satisfied there weren’t no hobos left on the first floor, he went up the creaky step-staircase on the lookout fer more. He kept repeating hisself and making buncha noise. He imitated a siren’s squeal too, hoping that might rouse some lazy hobos. “Gonna fill this place wit’ poison gas, y’all! Best skedaddle!” Nobody on the second floor. Buck went up to the top floor, the third, and looked round there. Seemed quiet, but he kept calling out regardless-like.
Gonna cost a purdy penny to fix this place up, he thought. It musta been got abandoned to the squatters a long time ago. The grime was caked in. Plumbing and wiring gonna hafta be redone entirely. Roof too, likeishly. “Hey!” Buck snapped when he seed some mohawky whiteboy, who be lingering like a rash. “You gotsta get out.” The whiteboy got a blanket and some clothes spread out in the least rubble-filled room upon the third floor. A boombox and a heroin kit was the only furniture. Sunlight streamed in from the shattered windows upon one wall, illuminating the cloud of dust and drug smoke that filled the room. The mohawky whiteboy looked at Buck like one them two was a idiot, but he weren’t sho’re which. “I’m stayin’ here, I claimed this place in the name of freedom. You can’t institute your system of oppression here, you fascist!” “Ain’t no fashist, you fashist,” Buck said. He got no inkling what a fascist was. “I’mma fill this place wit’ poison, mothahfuckah. Fashist! You fash e’erybody-“ “No! You can’t!” “It’s fulla cockroaches, hoss. Rats too, fer sho’re. It’s bad, they’s fixin’ it up-“ “No!” The mohawky thang tottered left and right. He was on sump’in fer sho’re, or maybe he was off it at the moment and jonesing fer more. Buck seed his heroin kit but ain’t see no heroin. The mohawk on a needle frowned and eyebrowed hard upon Buck. “Nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong with cockroaches, you’re a — they’re my friend. You’re a fascist! You’re a fascist, man. You’re imposing your… whatever, and… All life is sacred anyway.” “A’ight, dawg, you gots to go,” Buck said. He took him by the arm, which was muscled but shrunk, with track marks abundant. “Nah, nah, no, you gonna get outta here, gotta go, gotta go, I’ll kick ya hillbilly fascist ass redneck motherfucker-“ “Hey! Don’t test me! You is vexin’ mah ire now,” Buck said and wagged his finger at the mohawky whiteboy, who jerked away from him. He feinted hard at Buck, but Buck do stoneface. The two squared up, Buck big and burly, the squatter dim-eyed, ripple-muscled and padding-less. Anarchy symbols and a portrait of Che Guevara covered his muscle-limbed body. His name was Jenner, and he snarled at Buck like he wanna fight, like he ain’t notice Buck was so much bigger’an him. “Come at me then, fascist!” Jenner patted his own chest like a skinny Hulk Hogan — like Hulk Hogan had a baby with a rake. Then he punched Buck right in the belly, and Buck shrugged it off like a meow. He was too addled to punch effectively, and he got wiry arms, strong but withered. Buck shoved him away. “Quit it, I ain’t playin’, hoss, you best step off,” Buck said. “Shuddup, I’ll fuck you up, you think you’re hot shit!” the mohawked punk said. “C’mon! You work fer the police, huh? You a piggie?” “No! I’s a ext’minatuh, son, slow ya toe! C’mon, I’s j’st killin’ the cockroaches. You cain take ya shit wit’cha,” he said. “You cain even come back in four hours, I don’t care. If’n you come back early, you gonna die.” But the mohawky Jenner punched him again, his fist colliding with the meat of Buck’s belly. Flinchless, Buck gritted his teeth. He shoved the mohawked stack of string down like a disrespectful tombstone. “Lay off!”
“Fascist!” Jenner bounced back onto his feet, and Buck shoved him to the wall. His pants dropped to his ankles, baring a ratty pair of boxers. Buck ain’t mean to do that, but it got the mohawk stumbling. He ain’t seem to grasp that his pants was ’round his ankles, and he steady tripped on ’em.
Buck grabbed Jenner by the mohawk and pulled his boxers down. “See what you makin’ me do?” Buck wrapped one arm ’round him to squeeze his neck. Buck’s free hand undid the fly of his workpants and fished out his cock, which he rubbed limply upon the mohawked man’s buttcheeks. Still unaware, Jenner stumbled in place and shouted. He stopped only when Buck rammed his cock in the man’s ass, the knob slipping in, followed by just an inch or so of shaft b’fore’n he hit resistance. But Buck weren’t in the mood to honor resistance. He squeezed the man’s neck till his body tensed, then he leggo and the mohawked man took a deep breath. The relaxation opened his butthole too, and Buck’s cock rammed in deep as a ditch. “Oh god!” “Sssshush, I done gave you a chance, motherfucker,” Buck said. He shuddered as pleasure coursed thru him. “Now this is happenin’.” He spat upon his hand and smeared that on his shaft to give a li’l lube. But not much, cuz Buck ain’t intend this to go easy. His cock cornholed in and out till the mohawked man’s knees went weak, l’il deeper each time, and Buck followed him to the ground. His asshole was well-worked and not intact in the least. Buck weren’t surprised. He prolly give it up fer heroin and whatever, you ne’er can tell with the ones with mohawks and anarchy shit. His ropy asscheeks squeezed ’round Buck’s manhood and sent more shivers of sensations thru Buck’s nerves. “Ow, fu-uuuuuck…!” Jenner panted and wriggled. Buck slammed down on him with all his might, and Jenner’s bony ass got no resistance left. Buck moaned into his ear. “You gonna get the fuck out?” Buck murmured. Jenner opened his mouth to say sump’in, but Buck bit his earlobe, and Jenner wriggled again. Buck grunted as his orgasm came nigh. Jenner shuddered. Buck said again, “You gonna leave, fashist?” “Yeah!” Jenner said thru gritted teeth. Buck’s heavy chest pinned Jenner to the ground, so’s he could scream into the ratty floor as much as he want, he ain’t make much noise. The hairy meat of Buck’s chest pressed ‘gainst Jenner’s bony back. Buck pistoned his hips, forcing the final couple inches into his guts as a climax wracked him. He spat upon the side of the man’s face. A vast wave of cum seeped into Jenner, who closed his eyes and cringed. Buck moaned again and again, as he jerked his hips, pumping a fat flow of goo into Jenner’s guts. Buck was right: Jenner done went thru this b’fore. Don’t make it no easier though. He heaved fer breath as his ass struggled to accommodate Buck’s cockshaft and his river of jizz. Jenner felt it flowing thru his body and puddling up under him. His grunts condensed hotly upon Jenner’s cheek. One final cumwad spurted into him. Buck growled, and his muscles twitched ‘gainst Jenner’s back. Jenner twitched too. When he done drain his dong, Buck slowly lifted his still-clothed body off the mohawked man’s bareness. Buck raised up till his cock plopped out. Jenner lay like he wanna crawl away, but when Buck got off him, Jenner plopped and sprawled out his lanky limbs in the puddle of Buck’s jizz. He lay there like a sleepy earwig. “You best run, hoss,” Buck said. “Or I’mma redd up mah dick wit’cha tongue.” “I’m outta here, you better not spray anything before I leave! You’re a fuckin’ fascist asshole piece of shit moron!” Jenner spat into the ground as he struggled to his feet. “You talk like a retard!”
Carl Taggart can’t satisfy his wife… but he’s ready and eager to get nasty with some awesome alpha males! He owns a pest-control company, which gives him plenty of access to blue-collar men, hard workin’ studs and masculine meat.
Buck is a hillbilly from Smashwood Trailer Park. He works as an exterminator for Central Pest Control or as a bouncer/enforcer for the bar Lipsweet. His father is Martin “Goose” Sampson. His mother, Ellen, died when he was a child. He was raised by various older women in Smashwood. His best friend is Cody Lankford.
Want more of Buck? Keep scrolling for the official pics or see Buck’s Imaglr!
Moses Harley Sampson, a.k.a. Buck
He coulda knocked Limey out cold, hard and flat with one blow if’n he admiredta. Buck Sampson was damn near seven foot tall and built broad as a buick, biceps like fenders, chest purring like a jag. Shit, he liketa have done knocked skinny-ass Limey outta his sandals and his drawers, send him into next week like a defective calendar. Buck don’t even gotta muss up his mullet, which was wavy and black and greasy in the pen cuz he don’t got no shampoo to warsh it proper-like.
Soon as Buck seed the dead-end after work, he took off his shirt — t’was a plain white tee shirt that done got all ripped up and turnt gray as dishwarter from the soaked-in sweat spreading from his armpits. His broad barrel chest gleamed, his hair matted to his skin. The hair upon his brow was slick with sweat too, a greasy black mullet thick as a jungle. “You don’t use no soap or shampoo, you dirty-ass hillbilly, you smell like a cornbread’s fart.”
Buck was lumberingly huge — nearly seven feet tall — and Cody was short and lean. They both had mullets, Buck’s dense and jet black, Cody’s a curly blond the color of old hay. Buck’s barrel chest crowded the cell, and his giant frame exuded so much heat he felt like a fireplace. But on the other hand, Buck was a local-champion boxer with biceps the size of a fat baby, and he knocked back any motherfucker who got in Cody’s face. He had only survived prison because everyone knew he was protected by his giant cellmate and long-time buddy.
Buck was so big and manly it was hard not to be intimidated by him. It was like standing next to a bull. Simon touched Buck’s chest through his shirt, and he smoothed out the wrinkles and fixed the buttons, which Buck had done up wrong with his sausagey fingers. Buck smelled so spicy and musky, his barrel-shaped chest exuding heat and scents that Simon didn’t understand yet still craved. It didn’t smell like cologne or deodorant, nor like sweat; it was Buck’s own musk.
It was Buck Sampson, a burly man with a blistering Appalachian drawl. He sometimes kept peace at Lipsweet on rowdy nights, but he was usually employed to collect debt for Simon’s pa, and that was what he been doing ce soir. He carried a pocketful of cash and a face full of cuts, with blood streaming sur his side and soaking his shirt. Buck snorted like a horse with a shattered sinus and wagged his finger at M. Prêteur.
He was nearly seven feet tall, so his voice had that dull-edged boom that big men had, like his words were tired from the long journey to his mouth so they just sort of baritonely flopped past his lips. His jeans were threadbare in parts, and stained with oil and grease and dirt and grass and beer. When you were as big as Buck, clothes were hard to come by and you had to keep rewearing what you had for as long as possible.
Buck had a swampy dull-edged drawl. They were both from the same place — right here in Smashwood Trailer Park — but Buck had a heavy, lonesome accent full of nooks and valleys while Cody had a pitchy, yodelly twang, like his accent bounced off mountaintops on its way out his mouth. He tried to breathe through his nose — Lucy hated it when he huffed and puffed, but Buck had been in so many fights his nose cartilage was busted, and his nose was squat, wide, crooked and sinus-clogged.
The smell made Buck wrinkle his crooked-cartilage fist-shape nose. He breathed loud cuz he was a amateur boxer and his nose done got broke buncha times a couple years back, in the early 90s. He tried to breathe normal, cuz Mistah Gregarian scumbled on another one his looks. Buck straightened his tie, which looked too short. Buck was so big most clothes ain’t fit. How far down was a tie sposedta go anyways? Buck ain’t know, and Mistah Gregarian’d scold him silly if’n Buck axed, so’n he ain’t ax.
Buck sprouted up beside like a sudden stop sign. Buck was a darn near seven-foot-tall slab of hillbilly meat, with a big tangle of mullet, shoulders as broad as a ox and a oxy heave to his breathing too, cuzza his oft-broke nose. His nostrils was going thumbawumba as he slapped that man’s hand down like a unrespeckful fly.
Buck was six foot eleven. He had to sit in a chair for Teddy to reach his head, and even then he had to slump down a bit. The body heat emanating from his broad shoulders made Teddy shudder a bit with desire. He inhaled deeply of Buck’s masculine musk, sweaty, intensely acrid and biting, a bit musty and warm and inviting. He had taken off the real shirt he wore during his shift and now wore just the undershirt. It was tight on his shoulders — he bought the biggest he could find, but it wasn’t big enough. The strapped sleeves were frayed and digging into his shoulders, and the fabric ended an inch above his pants. The hair of his belly where it melded with his pubic hair was visible, and the shirt was matted to his chest with sweat.
He had scruffy black hair, uncut in the back, untamed, a little greasy, not quite a mullet but almost, all layers and tangles of unwashed hair. He was heavily tattooed and mustachioed, with a scruffierbeard underneath that. He wore a sleeveless black shirt that showed off those tattoos: biker symbols, Rob guessed, and some words in flowing script. The shirt wasn’t made sleeveless, the ragged edges suggested he had cut the sleeves off. From The Alpha White Trash
Buck was more of a oxeny plod-along peter, a pert near seven-foot-tall beast of a man, with a shaggy black mullet and a dense beard.
Buck was a mulleted hillbilly, but even he treated Wayne like sub-caste dirt. His oft-broke nose wrinkled in Wayne’s direction, and Wayne aimed a polite nod back at him. Buck was a white trash mullet-heavy ex-con, big as a barge, broad-muscled, swollen ears, jutting chin, tall, heaps of hollers and hoots in his Appalachian accent.
Buck dudded up in black slacks and a bright yellow shirt with a white tie. He ain’t know if’n that “went together”, but t’wasn’t easy to find clothes that fit. T’was the nicest outfit he could put together prompt-like. The tie was tied right, he was sh’ore of that, but remained self-conscious ’bout it. It hugged his neck snug as a turtle shell. The shirt was too small round the wrists and neck. The American flag tattooed on Buck’s neck poked out atoppa the collar.
Buck was a darn near seven-foot-tall slab of hillbilly meat, with a big tangle of mullet, shoulders as broad as a ox and a oxy heave to his breathing too, cuzza his oft-broke nose.
That was a very big problem for Buck, who was a very big man. He had a cumbrous seven-foot frame, powerfully built, a former state-champion wrestler though that was more than a decade ago, and he’d filled out his muscles with heft and hair and a greasy black mullet of coarse curls.
Mistah Gregarian often done got after him ’bout showering. He did shower, he did. He was a naturally greasy man, t’was all. Even back in prison, they gets after him cuzza his hair capturing his sweat, making him greasy and stinkhoggen. They only let’cha shower e’ery other day in that prison, sometimes e’ery third day… Buck was asissy slap south of seven feetses tall and got a bounteous ass to boot.
Buck was a yawn short of seven feet tall. Cody was skinny as a shriveled rifle, while Buck was a thundercloud man with thickness abundant. Both got a mullet, Buck’s a greasy gom of raven tangles.
Buck had scruffy black hair, uncut in the back, untamed, a little greasy, not quite a mullet but almost, all layers and tangles of unwashed hair. He was heavily tattooed and mustachioed, with a scruffier beard underneath that. He wore a sleeveless black shirt that showed off those tattoos: biker symbols, Rob guessed, and some words in flowing script. The shirt wasn’t made sleeveless, the ragged edges suggested he had cut the sleeves off.
Buck was pretty obviously a barrelhouse man — built like a ram, his nose and ears squashy and cauliflowered up like a boxer, his black mullet dusty, his unkempt beardas black as coal dust… He was too big, too hairy, too sweaty, too rough and too thick-headed for most women, and the dancers here were not shy about telling him so.
Buck was a white trash mullet-heavy ex-con, big as a barge, broad-muscled, swollen ears, jutting chin, tall, heaps of hollers and hoots in his Appalachian accent.
“He stink like a shameful pony,” Tyrell said with a mournful tone. Buck was nearly seven feet tall and built as broad as a buick, his nose bearing his brunt in the flattened crook of its angle… His glowery, razor’s-edge voice was smoky and thick, too deep to hear, all trenchant and teterrimous, and hearing his lips form his name made Simon’s knees quake. Buck had a big black mullet, greasy and thick like his chest… Buck was so big and manly it was hard not to be intimidated by him. It was like standing next to a bull. Simon touched Buck’s chest through his shirt, and he smoothed out the wrinkles and fixed the buttons, which Buck had done up wrong with his sausagey fingers. Buck smelled so spicy and musky, his barrel-shaped chest exuding heat and scents that Simon didn’t understand yet still craved. It didn’t smell like cologne or deodorant, nor like sweat; it was Buck’s own musk…
Buck was so big — a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than any other man here — and that mullet! His clothes were a wreck, his tee shirt too small, wrinkled, faded, frayed at the edges, even ripped and haphazardly sewn over the shoulder.
He was a hillbilly, with long hair and a powerfully muscled body. He was burly and thick with an almost-six-pack that you could tell came from a high level of activity and low appetite, not because he was on a crash-diet. He was tall and heavily tattooed with Confederate flags and other mysterious symbols dotting his belly and an ornate, colorful constellation of designs on his right bicep.
Buck was a chambery hulk of a man, damn near seven feet tall and as broadly muscled as a ox. He got a thick, unkempt mullet the color of a new moon at midnight. Buck’s scruff covered up his ruddy cheeks… (a) chemical smell made Buck wrinkle his crooked-cartilage fist-shape nose. He breathed loud cuz he was a amateur boxer and his nose done got broke buncha times a couple years back, in the early 90s. He tried to breathe normal, cuz Mistah Gregarian scumbled on another one his looks. Buck straightened his tie, which looked too short. Buck was so big most clothes ain’t fit. How far down was a tie sposedta go anyways? Buck ain’t know, and Mistah Gregarian’d scold him silly if’n Buck axed, so’n he ain’t ax.
that shouldersome stranger, so tall and thick-bodied that his muscles oozed off the sides of his stool. His hammer-wide fingers smeared up egg and gravy with a wad of biscuit, and he stuffed it in his mouth. His fat splat of a nose wriggled.
That’s because Buck was lumberingly huge — nearly seven feet tall — and Cody was short and lean. They both had mullets, Buck’s dense and jet black, Cody’s a curly blond the color of old hay. Buck’s barrel chest crowded the cell, and his giant frame exuded so much heat he felt like a fireplace. But on the other hand, Buck was a local-champion boxer with biceps the size of a fat baby, and he knocked back any motherfucker who got in Cody’s face. He had only survived prison because everyone knew he was protected by his giant cellmate and long-time buddy.
You could always tell when that hillbilly got hongry. He got a I-might-could-eat’cha-nigga look in his eyes. Damn could that honky eat… stinking like a armpit factory, a hillbilly sister-fucker who look like a cartoon basset hound. Lem tried not to watch his big hillbilly buddy, who was all hair, like a mullet came to life, and his giant chest be rippling as he plowed into her fat pussy. Annie seemed to enjoy the sensation, but she too avoided touching Buck who got a hairy back like a gorilla and he best not axe again fer Lem to shave his back, he can get some bitch-ass nigga to do it and Lem is not a bitch-ass nigga. It ain’t just a li’l hair neither, he got hair upon the shoulder, he got hair in the small of his back, you know how a honky do, and Buck is the honkiest. Buck done ate pulled pork t’was left out fer nigga-don’t-even-know-how-long. He got no kinda palate. His hillbilly ass done ate snapping turtle, rattlesnake, possum, squirrel and weasel meat b’fore’n. He got a favorite squirrel recipe. So’n if’n he won’t eat a bitch’s pussy, Lem weren’t gonna go near it.
He got hands as big as a baseball catcher’s mitt, and just as leathery too, on account of Buck been working oil rigs and chain gangs since he was a boy.
“You are one straight-up retarded white-trash bigfoot!”Buck was a massive horse of a man with a well-barrelled chest, with a tangled curl of beard and a dense mullet the color of liquorice and shiny-slick with sweat and grease. He was as broad as a brown bullock..
Buck Sampson had a thirteen-inch cock, pushing fourteen, and he was nearly seven feet tall, putting his crotch at most people’s head-height. That meant when he got a hardon, everybody around saw it. Lem was a little taller than average, so he didn’t have to dodge Buck’s stiffies lest he lose an eye, but he still noticed it when Buck got an erection. Buck spent most of his time outside of work and the mess hall wearing a pair of faded briefs or less. He’d pop a boner most nights while speaking sweet about his girl Lucy back home or just plain doing push-ups. In those tighty-whiteys — or tighty-grays, mostly — his dong would pop out and shamelessly protrude. Lem disapproved.
Buck wore his tattered tighty-whiteys. He had big low-hanging balls and that giant thirteen-inch pecker tucked into those tighty-whiteys, so his pubic hair poked around the mouse-nibbled edges. The pouch overflowing with his balls and dickmeat jiggled when he jogged in place. He shadowboxed the wall above Lem’s head
He was an ex-wrestler and ex-boxer, so his nose was crooked and rugged, and it wiggled when his head moved. His voice was deep and broad, burdensomelydense, like it hurt to laugh… He inhaled deeply of Buck’s masculine musk, sweaty, intensely acrid and biting, a bit musty and warm and inviting. He had taken off the real shirt he wore during his shift and now wore just the undershirt. It was tight on his shoulders — he bought the biggest he could find, but it wasn’t big enough. The strapped sleeves were frayed and digging into his shoulders, and the fabric ended an inch above his pants. The hair of his belly where it melded with his pubic hair was visible, and the shirt was matted to his chest with sweat.
Buck had a black mullet, curly and dense, tangled, slick because he hadn’t washed it in a long time. His face was craggy, his prison-flattened splotch of a nose wide, and he had a fresh new prison tat running down the side of his neck to his broad shoulders…. Emotions flooded Lucy — horniness at the sight of his broad chest and jaw, relief that he was out of prison alive, surprise that he was here, lust at the sight of his prison-tightened body, disgust at his greasy and unkempt mullet, arousal growing deep within her at the scent of his unwashed manhood, even as she groaned to herself about the smell of cold cardboard that clung to him like a hobo. Buck was so big — a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than any other man here — and that mullet! His clothes were a wreck, his tee shirt too small, wrinkled, faded, frayed at the edges, even ripped and haphazardly sewn over the shoulder.
His mullet was greasy and dusty and it smelled like him and it made her pussy tingle. Something about the way he had to stuff himself through the door to her trailer, his hefty frame not quite fitting, turned Lucy on until she couldn’t take it anymore… Buck was huge, and he stank of big-boy sweat. His crotch was an unkempt mess of pubic hair, his beard and mullet greasy and dusty, his windswept face harsh and a little pitying… Buck’s body hair was like copper wool, which was ironic because the hair on his head — his jet-black mullet — was always greasy and slick.
Lucy got distracted from her taters by the broad-brow man barreling down a big breakfast at the counter. He wore a faded and frayed suit that disfitted his frame, so’s his power-packed parts bulged ‘gainst the fabric. His mighty mane of crow-color curls made Lucy wanna run her fingers thru ’em. Bits of biscuit and clods of yolk got trapped in his lumberman’s beard. Her attention was aimed upon that shouldersome stranger, so tall and thick-bodied that his muscles oozed off the sides of his stool. His hammer-wide fingers smeared up egg and gravy with a wad of biscuit, and he stuffed it in his mouth. His fat splat of a nose wriggled. That was when she left the ladies’ to stroll behind the large man with the hamper of hair and the flinty face, reeking of cold cement and spiced cream. His eyes sparked, lively as a oil derrick, though his muscles thrummed like stormclouds ‘neath his suit.
“Hey, Mason, Mason, hoss, hey,” came a thick-and-raspy, holler-heavy voice in the darkness, so deep you could tell the speaker was tall and big-chested. He sounded like a church bell come to life. The roughneck gotta stoop to come into the first-aid clinic. He was indeed a mighty stack of shoulders. He was Buck Sampson, the biggest worker on Rig E19 in the North Pacific. He was as broad as an ox and as tall as a gorilla, well past six and a half feet, tall enough to duck when he walked through the rig’s doorways. He had a big mane of greasy black curls. His shirtless chest rippled, his body hair clinging to his skin because of a sheen of sweat gleaming in the light that spilled in from the corridor. He exuded heat that Mason could feel, amid the cold barreling in from the harshly lit and unheated corridor. Buck was nearly naked, wearing only a pair of scrawny tight-whites that ain’t fit on him. The pouch was overstuffed, the outline of his giant cock clearly visible, pubic hairs protruding around the sides.
He got big features — a big nose that was cattywompus and bulging, like a swollen fist — he was an ex-boxer, that was why, his nose busted up like his cauliflowery ears — big lips, big chin, big ears, big square cheeks — and his damn near seven-foot frame took up lotta room in the clinic. He radiated heat from his hairy chest. But Buck was often shirtless and sometimes stripped down to heavy socks and underwear. Mason enjoyed the sight of muscular men, and Buck was a perfect specimen of that. His meaty, non-sixpacked body tasted savory like pizza dough.
“You ain’t gonna spend all ya time in here working out, is ya?” Cody asked Buck when he saw Buck getting friendly with the Jagged Right’s enforcers. They wasn’t gotta ask Buck if he wanna be an enforcer like them — ain’t no other option open for a feller like Buck. Sure as shit weren’t gonna be an accountant or something. Buck was dumb as a whole truck fulla dead ducks, and he got muscles for miles.
“You kept clean in there? Take off ya boots, sugah. Lemme make sh’ore you ain’t bringin’ the athlete’s foot,” Mistah Yancey said. But then b’for’n Buck could do so, Mistah Yancey bent o’er and undid Buck’s boot laces. T’woulda been easier fer Buck to do it, but Mistah Yancey gently pulled the boots off, then his socks. He hefted Buck’s foot, one after t’other, but Buck did the work of lifting his legs. Buck got big clodhopping feet with a strip of black hairs running up the top and a tuft of hair upon each toe. The toe tufts growed smaller but no sparser from the big toes to the li’l ones. Mistah Yancey wrinkled his nose, but he inhaled with gusto and don’t move away none.
Buck had a huge cock, as thick as a forearm, and his entire body was hairy. He was well more than a foot taller than his buddy and at least a hundred pounds heavier. He had a thick, crude face, like a caveman, like every part of his head was too big for all the other parts. He was tall enough that he was squashed into the truck cab, and he had a furiously untamed mullet that framed his oversized head.
Buck Sampson shook his head. His mighty thirteen inch cock flip-flopped between his callused mitts. He was a roughneck like some of the others, home from the oil rig to spend his money on his woman, which in fact was where she was today, shopping like a mother hen, leaving him free to wreck this sissy in whichever hole was free when Buck got into the trailer. Buck was damn near seven foot tall, built like a stevedore, which was not a word with which Buck ever done made acquaintance with, and he had a deep huffy-puffy voice
Buck’s pickup was held together with duct tape, and though the engine was cherry, the windshield was cracked, the wipers and turn signals did not work, the floor was rusted through and the gas gauge read as perpetually empty. FromPoahi the Lackey
Buck’s steelbare truck, which looked like it shouldn’t run at all. Ancient pinprick holes let in rays of late afternoon light all over, and the door on Johnny’s side was red while the rest of the truck was greenish-gray. The door didn’t shut perfectly either, like the body had been dented and never fixed right. The engine purred like an angry bobcat. FromJohnny Redcob the Bouncer
