Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Six

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Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

“This is awful, my life is over!” Miriam screamed. She threw a sharp-heeled shoe at Thumper, who stood in the doorway to her room. “This is because you follow me around everywhere. Caden thinks you’re a creep, that’s what it is!”
“Miriam, I’s sorry, guhl, I ain’t — you bein’ dramatic as a soap star, yo’ life ain’t ovuh-“
“What the hell is a soap star?! Why do you talk like that? Why can’t you talk like a cool black guy from this century? What’s wrong with you?” she said. She stamped her feet. She bin tearful, so her makeup was smudge. “Now I have to fix my makeup, and it’s all your fault!”
She plopped down on the chair facing her mirror, and she grabbed her makeup kit. Her hands shook.
A tense silence lengthened the room. She kept getting out arcane cosmetic tools, but she ain’t concentrate enough to use none and her haircurls be flopping afronta her eyes, so she put her makeup down to fix ’em, only for her hair to go flopagain, flopagain.
“How long was you wit’ him?” Thumper asked. It was the only question he could think of. His gruff baritone deepened the bedroom, chock-ablock with cast-off clothes and empty suitcases.
“Almost two months!” she said. She wiped tear-smudge eyeliner off her cheek. Then she took a long breath and managed to slather a couple layers of makeup on.
“So it weren’t too serious-” Thumper frowned at her through the mirror she still faced.
“It was serious! He loved me! He was the most popular guy in high school!”
“You livin’ in the past, guhl. Need to chillax. Ain’t you done graduate?”
“I said was!” she said. “It was serious. You don’t know anything about girls.” She scowled and turned to look at Thumper direct in his gaze. “I’m not missing putt-putt today. If I don’t show up, everyone will think Caden won.” She gritted her teeth. “So you have to be my partner. All the other girls will have a boyfriend. But I’ve got my babysitter — the discount Mike Tyson. I was the biggest loser in school, Wendell, you know that? Everybody hates me.”
He frowned at her. “Them girls seem to like you-“
“You don’t get them,” she said. She batted her eyes to fix her smudge mascara. “They’re like catastrophic bitches.”
“Why they yo’ friends?”
She turned her head to look at him direct. Her lips remained pursed, lipstick in hand. “You really don’t understand girls, do you?” She finally applied the lipstick, the color of fancy wine.
“I ain’t barely see no female for thirty-four years,” he said. “Not since I was your age.”
She got up and muttered to herself as she checked out her face from a couple different angles. She tweaked her hair, which still blocked her face, then leaned forward to pose as a golfer. She examined in the mirror what she’d look like from that angle. She said, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go before we’re…” She glanced at him, and her ears perked up like a excited fox. “Wait, what did you say?”
“I barely done seed not a single female until recent-like. I was in prison,” he said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and he looked down at his feet. He felt her eyes drilling into him.
“For thirty-four years?”
He nodded.
She was took far aback, but she fussed with a floppy-woppy hat with fake flowers in it as she said, “Ew, that is so gross. Don’t tell anybody, okay?” She left the room, and Thumper followed. “That is… I don’t even know how to take that. My dad is so weird. He’s a freak. So are you. If Caroline knew you were a ex-con, she’d totally spazz out, she got trauma from a black guy on the transit who was, like, yelling crazy loud this one time, it was so insane. Oh look at me, I got trauma, I got so much trauma. That is so her, could she be more of a pick-me try-hard?”

“Uh… Uh-huh.” Thumper ain’t get how those words added up to a question. Miriam was on the move regardless, so he followed her.


“Are you good at putt-putt?”
“You keep saying that, but I dunno what it is. It sound like butt-butt. So yes,” he said.
“Ew,” Miriam said with a petite smile. “It’s mini-golf.”
So that was how Thumper wound up playing putt-putt, which was just small golf with nonsense in the way. The putt-putt place crawled with fresh-face drunkos, even though it was still morning. One group of late teens from “HoCo” joined Miriam and her girlfriends’ game. Thumper was suspicious because they was lidded from the get-go, on something more than alcohol — Thumper couldn’t tell what, but they was walking like dream-scented swaypots with plump pupils, and they ain’t seem to know what was going on.
The putt-putting ain’t get very far. Folks was drunken fucking afronta the mini-windmill, so they gotsta skip that hole. Thumper woulda stayed to watch, but the girlie-gals declared it gross. The gorilla hole got a pool of puke, and they all agreed that was gross, so they skipped that hole too. Then Miriam’s friends got to making kissy lips with they boyfriends, and the game more or less stopped entirely.
“You can’t hang around me all day,” Miriam eventually said. She stood on her lonesome except for Thumper, both of them frumping frowns at the necking teenyboppers. “Go on, get outta here, we’re not really playing the game anyway. The boys all think I’m with you, which is just so disgusting. You could be my grandfather, if you smelled like flatbread instead of newspaper.” She snorted down a laugh.
“I ain’t leavin’ you.”
Miriam sighed. “I’m not gonna put out. You don’t have to watch me to make sure I don’t. Did my dad tell you to check I don’t fuck Caden?”
Thumper furrowed his brow at her. He licked his teeth. “Yo’ daddy said I should keep Caden from takin’ advantage of you. That’s what Caden wanted, you know that, right? He was putting malt liquor down yo’ throat so you’d pass out and he could plow yo’ lady-garden. Or maybe he go knocking on your back door.” He knocked on a imaginary door in the air.
She looked upside at him. “Eww…! What? He wouldn’t…”
Thumper scoffed. “He would. Guarantee that. That’s why he put his disappoint face on when he seen me.”
“He’s not that bad, Wendell. My dad just hates his father, that’s the only reason he doesn’t like Caden,” Miriam said. She shook her head and feisty-growled. “Whatever, grr, you suck, and Caden sucks. Nobody will ask me out as long as you’re around.”
“Why don’t you ask one? I seen you eyeballing deep into that tall drink of watuh over there,” he said. There bin this long-leg stretchy-arm pinkthumb following the group around — his gawky butt ain’t got a female or even any male friends. He be loitering like a forgettable spider.
“Rick? Okay, first of all, he’s a total freak, and I can’t believe you’d suggest him. He’s like the only one in the whole school who’s as much of a loser as me, to have to go to Baltimore College like some ghetto trash piece of shit. No offense. Second of all, I can’t just walk up to a boy and ask him out. That’s not how this works-“
“Why not?”
“I’m not a man!” she said. “Maybe you don’t get it cuz you were in prison for so long. I have to let boys ask me out. I’m not a skank like Lisa Ann Slattery. She’ll go right up to any guy, even like… Puerto Rican guys.” You could tell she woulda said ‘black guys’ if she was with her friends. “You don’t know her, but she’s a total gutter-skank. With so many guys here, if she came on this trip she’d be like slipping on her own snail trail. Everybody knows, she’s so trashy. She’s, like, my best friend who couldn’t be here.”
They putt-putt was interrupted then by a torrent of female laughs, as a gaggle of gigglous golf-club-carrying girls ganged the course. Thumper stood afront Miriam at first, presumptittive that they was gunning for her.
But they phone screens was friends with her friends’ phone screens, so all them white girls mingled like saucy noodles, sharing infinite commentary and considerations on unspecific plans to go clubbing tonight. Thumper heard more words than he heard in thirty-four years in prison.
Thumper growled but assented to the nightclubbery. He couldn’t think of a reason to say no besides “clubs is crowded”, which was true, but Ocean City was crowded. So Thumper and themwhoms went back to the beachhouse, where he rested his weary ears, while Miriam and them other girls tried on every single article of clothing any them brung. They took photos of theyselfs with they phones and then used some kinda phone magic to make the photos hotter, then assured each other that they was really that pretty.
Finally they made it to the boardwalk nightclub, which was battered by oceanfront winds, while waves battered the beach underneath. The moon beamed bright as babies against the shore, and the boardwalk was lit like a stage due to the rows of nightclubs and souvenir shops that stayed open late spilling light and drunken collegiate kittens.
He struggled keeping track of Miriam in the elbowy nightclub. He kept an eye on her the best he could though, specially once she got to dancing with this darkskin roundbody with polished eyes and a chocolate nugget for a face. He was older than her, and he rubbed Thumper sideways from the first moment.
So Thumper waited for Miriam and her girlfriends to herd off to the ladies’ to phone around in a different room, then he got up real close to him. “Yo, nigga,” he said, direct into his ear so his voice would drown out the clanging clatter (which was maybe a band called “Dubstep” and sounded like computers being tortured). The nigga threw his slick eyebrows back — there weren’t barely a handful of niggas in this room, and Thumper gotta be the eldest. That chocolate-nugget nigga stumbled a step aside like a folding napkin. Thumper stayed near enough that he could talk clear over the loud thrum of shitty music. “Yo, nigga, you hear me? You best treat that girl right. If you plow her, I will rip yo’ nuggety head off and send it to her daddy wit’ a bow on top and a card fo’ him to sign fo’ yo’ grief-sicken mama.” That nigga’s eyes bugged his mug out, as Thumper fingered a line of tears down one cheek. He said, “You may lick Miriam’s pussy, but only if you good at it. Stick yo’ tongue out.” His tongue trembled outta his mouth. In the dark of the club and swaddled in that terrible tune, ain’t nobody see his terrified tongue and Thumper’s face atop it. “Nah. You got babytongue, nigga. Hand stuff only. But don’t break her maidenhead if she still got one. Or I will wreck you.”
The chocolate nugget nodded, just in time for Miriam to return from the ladies’ room. She looked at Thumper like he shouldn’t be talking to her man, then she sidled up close to his butterface and they got to dancing again. Thumper stayed back but made sure that clumpy chump saw how close he was observating.
When Miriam and her girlfriends headed outta the club, Thumper kept close behind. They was all kissing they boys hard and hot. That chocolate nugget held Miriam’s hand and shot her flirtsome smiles, but he ain’t do more than give her a peck on the cheek.
“He doesn’t like me,” she said when his babytongue fucked off without even no handiwork, leaving her surrounded by her girlfriends and they wooing boys. They was all playing with they phones between making moist lips upon the moonlit beach, but Miriam trudged back to the beachhouse with a sniffle and a droopy neck, Thumper close behind. “I thought he did. He asked me to dance. He prolly thought I was beautiful in the dark, in the club, but once we got out in the street with all the lights, he saw what I really look like.”
“Nah, Miriam, he ain’t drop you like that,” Thumper said. “He tryin’-a treat you proper, I ‘xpect. He shouldn’t be trying nothin’ on you on your first date. You don’t wanna screw around the night you met him, don’t be loose like that, like a greasy gravyboat-“
She hit him with hurtful eyes. “Ewww! Don’t say it like that, that’s so disgusting! I wasn’t gonna put out. But he’s supposed to try! Anyway, that wasn’t a date. It’s spring break. That’s not how it works on spring break. Or anytime this century,” she said. “I mean… Whatever, that wasn’t a prison reference.” She looked down at her feet before opening the sliding-glass door into the rental house. “I just wanted to…” She blew her curl outta her vision, but it dropped back in place. “I just wanted my friends to see me with him. I didn’t even really like him, not really… He’s tubby, and he has a weird forehead, it’s gross.”
“Yo’ friends is bitches, the boy you dance with is gross… Guhl, why don’chu spend time wit’ someone you like?”
She flared her pretty little nostrils. “You have a lot to learn about women.” She went into the bathroom then to take a shower. Thumper investigated the kitchen in hopes of food, but there weren’t none.
As the other couples came in to the beachhouse hoppy and sloppy, Thumper stood by the door so the boys would see him and know he was monitoring the situation. He crossed his arms over his chest.
Though Thumper weren’t hereing and nowing to defend the honor of these other females, he ain’t gonna let no scoundrel take advantage of ’em. Most the boys got the message from him standing over them, and a couple more slippt into slumber like sacks of sleepy peaches.
But one pair kept a-canoodling, until Thumper saw that the girl — Alexa or Alyssa or some white-girl shit like that — was barely awake. The long and tall honky atop her either ain’t notice or ain’t care.
So Thumper stood next to ’em and cleared his throat some.
The whiteboy, a dimple-pimple kindle-limb ruddynut cracker with a pointless tribal tattoo, looked up at Thumper with a tremor in his eyes and flustering fingers. He stood up, his pants tented. “I think, uh, she’s getting tired. Will you help me put her to bed?” he asked.
Thumper nodded. He ain’t trusting none those words tumbling outta that boy’s mouth, but he ain’t wanna leave the girl on the floor neither. So they carried her to her bed. Thumper ain’t need no help and coulda carried her hisself. That ruddynut boy, Adrian, got arms like twiggy pencils.
When they got back out to the living room, Adrian looked around the piles of shoes for his own. Thumper stood behind him, checking out Adrian’s pooper, cradled by tight jeans.
“Yo, why you wear tight pants?” Thumper asked.
Adrian yelped. He done found a pair shoes but got trouble coordating his drunk limbs enough to get them on. He looked at Thumper like he forgot he was there. “Whaaat?”
“Them pants. You spraypainted ’em on,” Thumper said.
“Oh. That’s the style,” Adrian said with a shrug and a burp. He fell over, toppling onto his ass with two shoes in hand — they was two sneakers that looked similar but wasn’t a matching pair — for one thing, they was both left-foot shoes.
“Uh-huh. You was gonna stick yo’ dingdong in that girl, wasn’t ya?” Thumper said.
Adrian nodded. “She wanted it real bad. She said it earlier.”
“But then she passed out,” Thumper said. He got one hand in his pants now, getting hisself good and hard. He kneeled beside Adrian, who done struggled one shoe on and held the laces like he was thinking about tying them. “You was still gonna stick her? That girl a virgin?”
Adrian shrugged. “Prolly not. But she nineteen, and gawddamn, man, her pussy wus tight. Got my finger in there, almost got to fuck her, but, uh…” He furrowed his face like he was trying-a remember why he ain’t get in her pussy.
“Lemme help wit’ them shoes,” Thumper said. He grabbed both Adrian’s feet and lifted them up, so Adrian fell onto his back on the carpeted floor. Thumper pulled Adrian’s pants and drawers off to bare his booty. “I’ll let you see how it feels when a bigger man takes advantage of you bein’ drunk.”
“Whaaat?” Adrian asked. He tried to sit up on his elbows, but Thumper was already drilling his dick into Adrian’s asshole. Adrian’s socked feet kicked the air behind Thumper.
That tight hole resisted. Thumper ain’t have no lube. He coulda snooped around the kitchen for something that’d work, but he kinda liked the idea of doing it the old-fashion way. He was a old-fashion nigga after all. Adrian sucked in his breath. Thumper spat on his palm and wiped it on his cocktip. He plowed in, just the tip, but stopped when more resistance stopped him from going deeper, and Adrian’s groan of pain turned first into wordless wince of silence. Thumper pushed past his tightness, and a couple inches more slid in.
“Oooh, boy, here we go now,” Thumper said with a chuckle, as Adrian panted and wriggled. His ass squeezed Thumper’s shaft. That made him shimmy with the sensations sparking up his spine. Adrian squirmed like a dying fish. He almost squirmed away, but Thumper got a grip on his neck, squeezing just enough to let Adrian know who was in charge here and to keep him from shouting out loud. He ain’t cut off his air entirely, so Thumper could hear his panting and begging.
“Oooooowww!” Adrian tried to howl, but Thumper plugged his mouth up with his own tongue. He kissed Adrian and swallowed up them cries of pain like oatmeal. He moaned into Adrian’s mouth too, as Adrian’s ass got goopy like a sloppy ho. Adrian’s eyes opened wide as Thumper pulled his lips off him, and then stuffed Adrian’s mouth with his own drawers. Adrian’s feet kicked up a storm, but he ain’t couldn’t make much noise.
And still Thumper pressed in deeper, deeper still with every thrust of his hips. Each movement sent a wave of pleasure through Thumper’s body. It reminded him of the coziness of prison — a small part of cell-bound life, but a part he missed. Getting a nut off in the dark, surrounded by sleeping whombodies… As he ramrodded like a stallion, Adrian’s hands clawed at Thumper’s chest, and that too felt like home.
He forced it in until his balls slapped at Adrian’s taint. Thwackity-thwack-thwack, thwackity-thwack-thwack. Thumper smirked down at Adrian, who still seemed unsure what was going on. He spat on Adrian’s face, then covered it with a pillow.
Adrian threw his head back, unaware of the spit on drip down his cheeks. He felt that asshole cracking open to accommodate Thumper’s throbbing manhood. He yelped the best he could despite the pain and the pillow blocking his face.
“Intact booties do be drawing out a nut quick, ruddynut. Goddamn, you gonna be walkin’ crooked fo’ a week. Hope you don’t got no sit-down engagements comin’ up,” Thumper boomed out a laugh along with his orgasm, and he gyrated his hips. “You gonna feel some warm inside ya. That’s just me-” Thumper’s voice broke, as he pressed his cock all the way in and held in Adrian’s asshole. That made it hard for Adrian to take a breath, and Thumper ground his dick in a long circle within Adrian’s guts. “That’s me nuttin’.”
A long hot jet of cum sploded in Adrian’s asshole, and he screamed into the pillow that muffled his mouth. Thumper held it there with one hand, as he moaned into Adrian’s ear. Wad after wad of sticky goo seeped into Adrian and dripped outta his loose ass.
“This’ll teach you to take advantage of females,” Thumper said with a sigh, while his balls emptied another spurt of jissom into Adrian’s tight booty. “Yo’ farts is gonna smell like me fo’ a long time. E’ery time you smell that, you remembuh to treat girls proper, ruddynut.”
Thumper pulled out and let his cumwad flow onto the carpet. He watched it plop out in a couple great big creamy wads, followed by a trickle of smaller droplets.
Just when he thinked it was done, and Adrian lifted his head to let out a crinkly grunt of pain, a loud farting sound came and a fist-sized globule of cum spurted out into Adrian’s plump asscheeks. Thumper done smashed ’em so hard they was already bruising.
“Shit, you one messy whiteboy,” Thumper said, at the sight of cum soaking onto the floor. He punched Adrian in the face hard enough to knock him out.
He carried Adrian over his shoulder out to the beach. He draped Adrian’s unconscious face on a bench, his knees on the ground so his bare ass was plainly accessible. Some them beach bums, Thumper thunk, was likely gonna get a nut off in him before he woke up.
That would be fun to watch, but Thumper ain’t wanna leave Miriam alone for so long. He hurried back to the beachhouse to make sure Miriam and the other girlies were safe. He was gonna go straight to bed, but he got worry about they morals, so he picked up all the sleepy-weepy boys and bringed them into his room. He put ’em on the floor. That way he could be sure they wasn’t gonna hurt none the females.
Plus, he thunk, he could get a nut off again in the night, if he felt like it. Which he almost certainly would.

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Five

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper was surprise Mr. Gregarian picked him. When he was a young man, before he got locked up, no honky daddy would send him out with his pretty daughter to keep her safe — a nigga like Thumper, in his come-up, was exactly the kinda man her daddy need her kept safe from. Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t never have done let young-Thumper near his daughter.
Nowadays though, Thumper got long teeth and gray corn in his rows, and Mr. Gregarian knew that Thumper would go back in if he fucked up his parole — that was a mighty good incentive not to get fired. Plus Mr. Gregarian managed the club and all the hos who hoed there, and he promised Thumper a thousand bucks and a free ride on any them once he got back from the assignment.
As long as his daughter was still a virgin.
So Thumper got a car and a company credit card. This should be easy as slack pussy, Thumper thunk.
He was going on spring break.
Miriam was Mr. Gregarian’s daughter, and she was pushing past nineteen. She was a spray-on tangerine-cream white girl, pretty as a pumpkin despite the disaffected curls of hair blocking her face. She was going to spring break now, she said, because Ocean City was strictly 18+ this weekend.
The math suggested Miriam was the same age Thumper was when he got arrested, but Thumper couldn’t wrap his wrinkles around that, so he tried not to ponder it.
As Miriam settled into the backseat of the Jaguar while tapping and dapping at her phone, Thumper wondered if she was really still a virgin. Maybe. She ain’t look it, but you could tell she was trying-a look sluttier than she was. She was all dolled up with ruby lipstick, blooming blush and scarlet mascara, and she got a bare midriff and a bikini under that halter-top. She got a bitch-happy way of talking too.
“You better drive quick,” Miriam said, rolling her eyes already, as soon as the car rocked into motion. “We’re off to a late start. My friend Katie is like almost there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ugh, ‘ma’am’. Don’t call me that,” she said with a scoff. She blew one them hair-curls outta her face, but it drooped right back to dangle above her frown as though pointing to it. “You make me sound like a old maid.”
“Uh, yeah, okay, Miss Gregarian-“
“Just call me Miriam, okay? It’s humiliating enough having you as a babysitter.”
“Bodyguard,” Thumper said.
“Same thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And don’t try to talk to my friends.” She rolled her eyes. “How old are you anyway?”
“Fifty-three.”
“That’s gross, that’s so ancient. I can’t believe Dad won’t let me go alone. Ocean City is not a ghetto, no offense — I can drive, you know, I have a driver’s license. I drove to Florida last year. I’m almost twenty years old.”
Thumper nodded. “I don’t think it’s the driving he do worry ’bout, miss… Miriam.” He cleared his throat. “He mention you gots a boyfriend gonna meet you there. He wanna make sure the young fellah treat you right. And other fellahs — there gonna be lotta fellahs at the beach. Lotta them fellahs only want one thing, and they got Roman hands-“
“I know! Do you go to church in the 50s?! You don’t have to explain sex to me. I know all the parts of the penis! God, my dad is the worst,” she said. “I know boys are assholes, and I hate them.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “My boyfriend is Caden. He’s very cool, you have to know that. He DJs at a club and has like a hundred thousand followers on Instagram. My dad doesn’t like him. He said he’s a smoothpecker. I don’t know what that means. I think it’s a translation of something Armenian.” She again blew that tendril of hair away from her face with a judgmental puff, but it went right back to the way it was. “I hate being Armenian.”
Thumper got distracted then by a slowdown on the highway, as traffic choked the road. He ain’t wanna admit that his driving skills was weak — Thumper only drove a few times on a highway in his life. He barely drove before, and Carson only helped him get his license back last week. Mr. Gregarian never asked. White folk do be assumptive that everywhom drive everyway everyday. Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles honkied up, as cars careened past like sleek elephants. Cars went faster nowadays, or maybe time itself was faster. The Jaguar was smooth as a lubed thumb, but lotta the other cars on the road rattled and roared like wraiths on a rampage, like they was finna collapse into a car-shaped pile of car parts. The sound of some squawky whiteboy on the radio pissed Thumper off like squawky whiteboys do, but he gotsta grope around on the dashboard to figure out how to turn it off.
“You drive so weird, old man! I’m putting TuneBleed on. You’re my driver, not my boss,” Miriam said. She stayed messing about on her phone as if she weren’t allowed to put it down.
He grunted. He was calmer now that he was steady in the slow lane, confident he was heading the right way. “TuneBleed, huh? Never heard of ’em. They a rock band?”
Miriam sneered. “A rock band? That’s not a thing anymore. It’s an app,” she said like it shoulda been obvious. Some awful music blared from the speakers. It got a beat like hip hop, a slow-kidney tinkle-piss beat, like if rain could cry, but no words, cuz every nigga in the world musta got too sleepy to rap over it.
Thumper glinted at Miriam in the rear-view mirror, still white-knuckling the steering wheel. “How do I get the lady back? The directions lady?”
“The what?” She stayed in her phone, tippy-tapping at it like she was finna finish her tippy-tapping but kept finding more tippy-tapping to do.
“The lady who know where to go.”
“You mean GPS? It’s on.”
“The directions thing? Yeah. the woman, like a white-lady robot,” Thumper said.
“The GPS lady is Siri. You know she’s not a real person, right?”
Thumper narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. “I ain’t a retard. I know there ain’t a woman in the dashboard reading directions off,” he said.
She scoffed and blew strands of hair outta her bratty-brown eyes, only for them to flop right back once again like a bossy octopus. “Can’t you drive faster? You go so slow. I can’t be the last one there, I will absolutely die.”
“Yo’ pa said I gots to bring you back in one piece. It ain’t a race.”
“It is! If I’m the last one there, Caden will be hanging out with Donna Wiltshire, and she will suck off anything that moves, I swear, she is such a skank, and everybody knows it.”
Thumper roared into the rear-view mirror. “Get that white-lady robot back on. What’d you say her name was? Seeree?”
“Siri! You can’t talk to me like that! I’m your boss!” Miriam snapped.

“Yo’ daddy is my boss, and he said to tell you to quit being a ungrateful brat and you ain’t allowed to whine at Wendell like a mouthy hussy all weekend,” he said.


She screwed up her nose. “Okay, first of all, my dad did not say that. Second of all, did you just call me a ‘mouthy hussy’? Third of all, I can’t believe your name is Wendell. It’s like disgustingly uncool, I swear, every time anyone calls you Wendell a celebrity somewhere in the world gets fat-“
“Bring back Siri!” he said. “I dunno where to go! I-“
“You stay on this road, you crazy old moron! Siri is still there!” Miriam screeched like a whole flock of shattering bats. She slammed her hands on the seat and gritted her teeth. She snapped at him, “GPS will cut in over the music when it’s got something to say! You’re ridiculous, how can you be so lame?! Don’t you just, like, want to die? You know nobody likes you.”
“What? You dunno nothin’.”
“I know all the bouncers! All of them! Buck, Rocky, Poahi even, and he’s so dumb he’s nice. They all said you’re a humiliating old fool and they can’t believe you get out of bed in the morning,” she said. She sat back in her seat with a flounce and crossed her arms over her chest, phone still in her hand.
He chuckled. “Not a single one them evuh met me. Only bouncer I know is Tyrell,” Thumper said.
She looked out the window and wrinkled her cutey-tooty nose. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“You need a slap upside the face and a job where you work up a sweat,” Thumper said.
She looked at him with wide-eye shock in the rear-view mirror. “You can’t talk to me like that-“
They was both startled then by Siri cutting in over the music. Prepare to approach the Chess-a-peak Bay Bridge in one mile. Thumper’s fingers fumbled like fretful butterflies around the dashboard in search of a button to press to go back to TuneBleed, but then it did that automatterly.
“Be quiet when I go over the bridge,” Thumper said. He eyed the bridge, which extended over the horizon. It was wide but narrowed by lurching traffic squeezing in away from the sheer, unprotected sides. The sound of the bay’s waves, honking cars and cawing seagulls reverberated through the fog below.
“Why? Are you sneaking up on it?”
“I never drove on it before,” Thumper said softly. He ain’t like how the traffic was slowing down, and one of the that-way lanes was fulla cars going this-way, and the bridge rumbled like jagged rags under a trillion tons of too many cars, but he ain’t wanna let on to Miriam that he ain’t never drove outta Baltimore before and ain’t never even drove on no big-time bridge. The lanes narrowed as the cars seemed to grow wider, and a utility truck ahead looked too broad to fit.
Thumper sucked in his breath as if that’d make the car smaller or the lanes bigger.
The Bay Bridge stretched far into the distance. The water loomed low below, and there weren’t no shoulders or even a real guardrail, and the edge nipped at Thumper’s side. There weren’t barely nothing to stop the car from a icy plummet. Thumper could only go with the flow of trapped cars. He got a tight grip on the wheel like it was trying-a escape, or he was.
His heart raced. He ain’t realize how long this bridge was. Weren’t there islands in the Chesapeake?
It felt like a cage even though it was the exact opposite of one — it was wide open, no barriers to speak of ‘cept the bridge itself underneath. The Earth stretched to surround it, but the cars hemmed Thumper and Miriam in like shrunk tighty-whiteys. If Thumper got out, he couldn’t even fit between the trafficky cars. He was as trapped as a rat in a eagle’s talons seeing the openness and freedom it never knew it had on the ground.
Miriam stared out the window. Her legs were crossed, her lower-down foot tapping the upholstery like a drumless drummer, as she shot bosomy, judgemental sighs up to Thumper.
“It’s no big deal,” she said. “It’s just a bridge. I could drive it in my sleep.”
But Thumper’s honky-up knuckles was taking all his attention. His concentration went towards fitting the Jag through these tiny lanes and praying for the sight of land on the far side of the bridge.
“Can’t you go faster?”
“No!” he snapped at her. He looked at her in the mirror. “Ain’t nowhere to go!”
“It’s just a bridge. Grr,” she said with a roar like a bored tiger. “Honk your horn or something! Go faster-“
“That won’t make nobody go faster.”
“I can’t be there last! You have to go like a hundred miles an hour the rest of the way!”
“You ain’t in charge of speed,” Thumper said, eyeing her in the rear-view mirror.
Miriam fumed like a flirty volcano and called her girlfriends one by one to tell ’em the traffic on the bridge was “mega-bad”. She said it like ain’t none her friends ever heard of traffic, so she gotta explain it to ’em.
Finally, the Eastern Shore did appear ahead, rising over the horizon and beckoning the line of cars. Thumper held his breath until the cars’ wheels switched from echoic thrumming on steel to dull solidity atop the ground.
He prayed his thanks to the Lord in Heaven. Miriam gabbed on her phone with a friend about another friend, Kylie Jenner. Miriam gossipped with her friend that this Kylie Jenner was a “butt-slut” who was into black guys. Thumper wondered if Kylie Jenner was gonna be at the beach this weekend. Miriam whispered that part about Kylie Jenner liking black guys. Thumper ain’t let on that he heard.
If she thunked Thumper couldn’t hear, she was more likely to talk to her friend out loud. That was good, cuz Thumper wanted to know her plans.
“Yeah, I’ll get so drunk tonight. Me and Caden. Ew, no, I’m not gonna — that is so gross, you don’t even know,” she said. “What’d he buy? Uh-huh. I don’t know what that is. Is it cool? It sounds manly, like something a coal miner would drink.” Then she grunted like a macho man. “Steel Reserve.” She giggled. “Prolly has a lotta calories. I don’t care, I’m not eating this weekend. I’m so fat. Oh don’t say that, I wish I had your thighs. I am! I’m so fat, I’m like groundhog-shaped.”
Thumper locked his eyes askew at her in the mirror, but she ain’t clock his mug. Steel Reserve was a malt liquor. Hobos drank that.
At least, long time ago, before, hobos drank it. God only knows what people did with it nowadays. Enemas, prolly, Thumper thunk with a chuckle, until Miriam saw him laughing his foolish ass at nothing.
Was she allowed to get drunk? Mr. Gregarian ain’t said Thumper should stop it. But Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t want her puking streetside like a trash-high ho.
By the time they made it to Ocean City, Miriam done made it very clear she intended to get drunk as a cup tonight. Her boyfriend Caden wanted to drink — he was who bought the malt liquor.
Him and her was the last of her friend-group to arrive, but ain’t nobody but Miriam seemed to notice that.
Caden was already drinking a forty of malt liquor from a brown paper bag, sitting on a brick wall by a bank of rented beach-houses and staring at the sea beyond like a poet, a image that was undercut every time he halted his handsomeness to hop on his phone with fingers like bony breadsticks. Thumper disliked him right away. He was a necky sumbitch, a shoulderless chowder-white honky with shiny teeth. He got this foppish mess of blond hair like a limp mop, and he be bitsy-sipping at his brown-bag forty.
“Yo, babe, wuddup?” Caden said with no chalance when Miriam came close-up. He glanced at Thumper, then looked away, then glanced back at him with flurries of worry on his mug. Nearby, waves in batches bashed the beach and crashed against the craggy shore, where rowdy crowds shouted out loud and brohed down like broken clowns. Thumper hung around Miriam with a bare, uncaring stare at Caden until he looked away again. Miriam was gobbling on about some girlish shit and ain’t clock the men mean-mugging.
The bounce in Miriam’s step vanished when she turned from her gal-pals to Caden, and her excited eagerness gave way to the same slow tone as his cracker ass. “Hey,” she said with a shrug. She arranged her hair tendrils outta her eyes only for them to slip back afronta her gaze, and she ain’t fix ’em again.
He leaned in to kiss her, but his eyes fluttered once more upon Thumper looming down on Caden like a slimy bug he was finna smash. Thumper ain’t blink once since Caden thought he was man enough to make eye contact with him, which was likely not the first time Caden misestimated his manhood. Caden whispered to Miriam, who whispered back as they kissy-kissed, and they both laughed like giddy guppies. His hands roamed over Miriam’s back.
“Oh, that’s Wendell. He’s my driver. Ignore him,” Miriam said, both to Caden and to her other assembled friends, as Miriam, Caden and them other multiracial whobodies gathered up and headed on to the beachhouse they was doing a “airbee inbee” weekend in.
The crowded streets was bustling out loud and packed as canned sardines. Thumper ain’t realize it was gonna be asses to elbows here. Ain’t no way even a dozen bodyguards could keep track of the dimwits ambling down the ave, so Thumper kept his eye eagling on Miriam.
He also kept a surly eye on Caden, who be running his fingers through his hair and walking with a uptight butt like a prison therapist. He showed off his flatty-flat chest cuz of a tattoo he just got — the word liberation writted in a “hardcore punk font”. Thumper disliked him more with every passing moment. Mr. Gregarian was right: Caden was a smoothpecker. Thumper ain’t even know what that meant, and he was sure it applied.
Somebody oughta slap that boy’s daddy in the balls.
The beachhouse was as sad, small and plain as a half a packetless ramen. You could tell nobody actually lived there — it was like a overgrowed hotel room. Everything was too clean and too polished, and it smelled like a lemon got the hershey squirts in there. The floppy-cheap furniture inside was uncomfortable and awkward. Nobody would choose this furniture if they hadta use it every day. That was what Thumper decided when he plopped down into a awkward rattan chair, while Miriam and the other girls changed into and outta each other’s bikinis in the bedroom. They stayed reassuring each other that they all looked better than they did in they own bikinis.
The beachhouse living room was silent as a dead man’s shoes until Caden spoke — except for the next-room-over giggling-atop-each-other girls changing they clothes and hair and makeup. Thumper scowled at Caden, who said, “Yo, dawg, I think it’s great you’re protecting Miriam this weekend,” Caden gave Thumper a chinless nod. “Men can be such pigs. Somebody could easily take advantage of her this weekend, y’know, if I’m not around or whatever.”
“Uh-huh.” Thumper grunted.
Caden still got his forty of Steel Reserve. “Yo, homeboy, you want some malt liquor? I got more forties in the fridge. This is a sweet pad, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm… Why you drink malt liquor, boy?” Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits.
“It’s badass, my homie.” Then he did a little singsong imitation of some cheesy nigga. “Sittin’ on the stoop, drinkin’ forties wit’ my homies…” He grinned like he thought Thumper was gonna sing along with him. “Steel Reserve is good drink.”
“No, it ain’t,” Thumper said, a-beating his feet on the floor. He got a curl lip for that Caden.
Eventually, the girls emerged in they final bikinis, which was the same as they first bikinis but a hour later. Caden went right up to Miriam — Thumper couldn’t hear what he said, on account of those girlfolk being loud as lightbulbs. They came herding into the living room giggling like drunken donkeys and braying like bitches and exuding hormones like a pack of wild glands.
And Thumper couldn’t deny that his dick twitched in his pants at seeing them in they bikinis. They was pretty young things fresh outta high school — all legal age, but Thumper was old enough they felt too young to look at. Did girls get younger while he was locked up? He was them girls’ age when he got arrested, but they looked younger than he ever felt. Girls before ain’t look like girls now, he thunk. Most ’em was spilling bits of tits outta those stringy things. Mr. Gregarian musta ain’t never seen Miriam’s bikini or he’d-a blowed up.
Thumper got no bathing trunks. But he did strip down to basketball shorts and his clean sneakers. His bare chest scared off Caden and displayed his tats. He was glad to wear the basketball shorts cuz they was the only article of clothing he took with him to prison thirty-four years ago and still had, plus basketball shorts looked the same now as they did before. It was the only thing he got that ain’t look old-fashion.
“You look ridiculous,” Miriam said to Thumper as they all left the beachhouse and headed to the boardwalk and beach. “You’re like a thousand times older than anyone else here. What even are those shorts? What century did they make them in?”
“What?” Thumper’s heart sagged like a stuck balloon. “Basketball shorts ain’t change-“
“The stitching on the elastic is all wrong, they’re like a half-inch too short, the material is thin like a whore’s lingerie, oh my god, and they’re like fraying, look at those loose threads. Do you live in a mouse nest? And your tattoos look like crap, those aren’t even cool tattoos! You have a naked woman tattooed on your back, that’s disgusting and probably misogynist!”
“It’s the Statue of Liberty,” Thumper said, looking down at his shorts. Now that she pointed out all the differences, he could tell that his was old-style and the ones Caden and them wore was new.
“Gross. She has a vulva like a fat girl.”
Thumper got no response to that. He couldn’t see his back, and he weren’t sure what a vulva was.
The town of Ocean City swarmed with late teens and twenty-whatevers on spring break — thousands them flocked here, outnumbering the beleagured locals like lambs in a slaughterhouse. Miriam, Caden, Thumper and the rest struggled to remain in a tight group, as they filtered through the thronging streets. The smell of beery vomit and sea-spray filled the air, and Thumper felt sand in his shoes, though he ain’t goed on the beach yet.
“Didn’t you bring swim trunks?”
Thumper shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ in the ocean, Miriam.”
“You’re going to make us look like freaks on the beach!” Miriam said in a quiet hiss. They group of young’uns done combine up with another group of identical young’uns, and Caden was hububbing with some boistery boys, all them porting forties in brown bags.
One whiteboy whooped, “Drinkin’ forties like a shorty, dawg! Fuck yeah!” They all whooped and chugged they forties, clutching phones in they other hands.
Thumper wrinkled his nose. It felt good to be shirtless. His tats gleamed in the sun. The rambuncting whiteboys sang through that song about drinking forties, and Thumper was ready to strangle them and then whichever shit-snack wrote that song.
“Yo, you some kinda gangsta?” Caden asked, his words starting to slur, when he saw the prison tats adornmenting Thumper. “Bet you pop a cap in countless niggas, huh, broh?” He whooped and yelped like he made a joke, and the other paleface pusses scattered around all whooped like they was in on it. Caden finger-gunned at his brohs.
But before Thumper could say nothing, Caden and the other boys was moving on, roughhousing and playing down afront the girls. Some commandy light-hawk whiteboy was organizing up a volleyball game, but the beach was crowded like a Brazilian prison and nobody got a volleyball or a net and everywhom was tipsy as drippy drains. So the volleyball plan seemed unrealistic. They just drank.
By the time the sun setted and the moon rised and the star and open sky spreaded over the horizon, Thumper guided them on they way back to the rented home, and Thumper held Miriam’s hair back as she puked into the toilet. Her bony body undulated like a slender manatee with every vomit.
And them tits bounced in her bikini, not that Thumper watched ’em go.
“Malt liquor is strong, guhl,” Thumper said. “It tastes like beer, but it get you drunk like liquor.”
“Oh god, ssshut up… I hate you,” she gasped. She wiped a few tears off her cheek. “Where’s Caaaayden?”
Thumper shrugged. “He and his boys rumored off to buy shrooms,” he said.
She nodded. “Oh god, I can’t do mushrooms.”
Thumper frowned. “No, you can’t. Yo’ daddy wouldn’t approve that, reckon,” he said. “Betcha big beans they get ripped off anyhow.”
Half-standing on her wobbly legs, Miriam almost fell. Thumper supported her and gave her another glass of water. She gulped from it. “He’sss gonna fuck that biiiiiiiitch Caroline, I just know it.”
Shaking his head, Thumper said, “Nah, nah, no way,” he said. Thumper ain’t know which of the identical girls Caroline was. “Caroline’s fatter than you, and she got that messed-up hairdo. Caden ain’t goin’ aftuh her.”
“Thank you!” she said. “She can’t pull off bangs, I knew it!” She touched her ears. “She doeshn’t have the right ears for bangs.”
Thumper nodded like the kinda nigga who got opinions on bangs. “C’mon, guhl, you best sleep it off.” He put another glass of water beside the bed, then helped her to it. “You sleep late, guhl.”
“Ssssshut up, Wendell,” she said, but she plopped onto the bed and closed her eyes. “You sssshuck.”
Thumper stood over her until he was sure she was asleep. Once she was thoroughly conk-a-zonk, Thumper was glad to have some time to hisself. He could wander out to find a slut to bang. There was plentya women hot to trot in this town. Maybe that Kylie Jenner was hopping about.
But could he leave the house with Miriam slumbering? How many other men were on the wander looking for a ho to poke?
He went to his own room and took a shower. He rinsed Miriam’s vomit off. He went lookie-loo around the beachhouse, dressed only in his boxers, to make sure the doors and windows was all locked — even at close to two o’clock in the morning, the phone-lit streets of Ocean City was choked with drunken revellers.
One of those drunken revellers was outside Thumper’s bedroom when he returned to it. The shadowy figure fumbled with Thumper’s window, making a loud racket as he worked it unstuck from outside. The light was off in the room, so Thumper stood there by the window with his arms crisscrossing his chest.
Finally, the window was forced open, and the familiar blond tousle upon Caden’s dome appeared. He was so drunk he ain’t notice Thumper standing there. Caden crawled in and toppled onto the floor.
“Baaaby…” Caden said when he got up and checked that his phone weren’t smasht. He saw Thumper and the empty bed. “Oh. Sssshit. Thissssh ain’t Mere-yum’sssh room. Ssshorry, homie.”
“I ain’t yo’ homie, Caden,” Thumper said. “‘d you buy shrooms?”
Caden shook his head with a slowness, like his whole body was made of honky-flavor jello. “Was a ripoff. Where’s Mirre… Mirre… Where’s she at, dawg?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Thumper said. “If you think I’mma let you go in there and plunder that female like she a bag of doritos, you are even dumber ‘an you look, and you look dumb as dogshit, Caden.” He said his name with a sneer.
“I-“
But Thumper grabbed Caden by the cheek and turned him around. He shoved him face-first into the wall, and he spread Caden’s legs before lowering his pants. Caden wiggled to get away, but he was so drunk and so slow that Thumper ignored his efforts.
Then he pulled down his boxers — plain white but thick and weirdly nice — Thumper ain’t never in his life seen high-fashion-brand men’s underwear before — and revealed a plump white ass. Thumper loved smashing a pair of porcelains.
He rubbed his dick on Caden’s buttcrack until it was good and hard. Caden’s whole body undulated as he tried not to vomit. “What’rrrre you doin’?” Caden asked. He was sobered up a little by the surprise and the pain from Thumper holding his hands behind his back.
“This is called ramroddin’ in prison,” Thumper said. His dick was hot and hard now. Caden felt it in his buttcheeks but couldn’t figure out what it was. Every time he tried to move his head, his world swam and his belly swayed inside, so he stopped, and Thumper wouldn’t let him look all the way behind hisself anyway. Thumper said, “Whiteboys call it cornholin’. Black fellahs call it ramroddin’.”
“Hmm… I heard of that,” Caden said softly. He tried to remember the rapper who says he was “ramroddin’ bigger niggas with a quicker trigger finger”. He always thought the line was “ham-waddin’ bigger niggas”, but he looked it up a couple weeks ago cuz he ain’t know what “ham-waddin'” was. He also ain’t know what “ramrodding” was.
Then a fiery ball of pain erupted in his backside. He bit back a howl, while Thumper placed his dirty drawers in Caden’s mouth as a gag. Caden ain’t know he shoulda bin clenching, but once Thumper’s manhood pushed into his hole, Caden couldn’t expel it no more.
His cock forced its way deeper into Caden’s backside, as a firestorm of pleasure ran up Thumper’s spine. Thumper howled along with Caden, licking his lips. Caden cringed and grunted, and he bit his tongue so hard it bled. Thumper kneaded his buttcheeks like rising dough. Every motion Caden made sent another frisson up Thumper’s spine. He ain’t plowed down a whiteboy since prison, and it felt good to plunder his hip little guts.
“Hmm, whiteboy, yo’ booty feels damn good…” Thumper moaned and his voice broke in Caden’s ear. Caden shivered and bit back a cry of agony. Thumper nibbled on his earlobe.
With a whine and a whimper, Caden felt a throb in his ass. Thumper grunted. A spurt of hot liquid washed into Caden’s flesh, and the heat of Thumper’s load suffused throughout his body. Cum flowed into him, great creamy wads of it that filled him up.
“Don’chu mess wit’ Miriam this weekend,” Thumper said with a growl, still nutting inside Caden. He thrust into Caden’s ass and shot jiss deep into his guts. His moist voice echoed in Caden’s ear. “Or I’ll get a dozen niggas to split you in two, and I’ll make you call yo’ mama so she can hear her son stop bein’ a real man.”
“Yes! Okay! Yes, sir!” Caden said, shouting the best he could without taking a deep breath. More jissom flowed into him, more than he thought possible. It dripped down his thighs. Thumper’s heavy body pressed against his back still, and Thumper’s hot breath condensed on Caden’s ear. Finally, there was one last spurt, then only a few drops leaking into him.
Thumper’s dick limpened slow in Caden’s ass, while Caden whimpered and stamped his feet. Thumper smacked his buttcheek one more time.
That made Caden tense and grit his teeth. His whole body wiggled like an agonized snake. “Hhnnnnnnn!”
“That was some nice booty, Caden,” Thumper said with a grin that grew as he watched his big black pecker ooze out, along with rivulets of pearly nut. “Hope you don’t gotsta walk straight anytime soon.”
His cocktip emerged with a moist plop, and Caden sighed. Jiss flowed down his thighs. “Ow, shit!” Caden groaned out loud. He tried to stand up too quick, and dizziness struck him.
“Don’t forget, whiteboy: leave Miriam’s virtue alone,” Thumper said before he tucked his dirty dinky away. He shoved Caden back out the window he done crawl in through, and Caden collapsed with his pants down outside. Thumper threw his phone after him.
Then he locked the window. That, he thunk, was one problem solved.

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Four

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Doing decades inside for a gang gave Thumper lotta respect. He ain’t know none the niggas in the Baltimore Bloods these days. But Carson set Thumper up and kept him happy. Every single nigga in the organization was watching close. They all knew there was a good chance they’d be locked up at some point. Nobody wanna rely on they parole officer when they graduate outta the iron college.
So Carson set Thumper up with employ as a bouncer at that strip club, Lipsweet. But Thumper ain’t allowed to work there cuz the club got a liquor license — the terms of his parole forbidded him to work anywhere they serve booze — so Carson arranged for Thumper to hire on at a private security agency. It was owned by Mr. Gregarian, the same man who own Lipsweet, so he was working at Lipsweet but for a different company, a company that ain’t got no liquor license.
Thumper was glad to work a proper job. That road-crew nonsense trifled more than a overflown tub of nobody’s farts, and Thumper bin looking forward to something more his style.
“You gotsta wear a clean shirt and pants e’ry day,” said Tyrell Brickley. He was another thick-through Blood who worked for Mr. Gregarian, and he showed Thumper the ropes around the club. “Mistuh Gregarian get a mad curl if you show up lookin’ trashy. He want you wearing clean shoes too. No boots, no sneakers. Jeans is okay. But don’t sag ’em too deep, if he see drawers he get steamy, and he do monologue about it.”
Thumper nodded. He could do that. He done rub noses with Mr. Gregarian decades ago, when Thumper was a regular at Lipsweet. Thumper got respect for him. Mr. Gregarian was a long-finger pinkie-ring honky, not some slop-pie hickpile like most the white whombodies Thumper met in lockup.
The bar was smoky and lush tonight. Bundles of blunted niggas mumbled luscious words on the underhush as womens juggled they abundant stuff on the stage. Thumper wanna watch too, but he gotsta man the front door, collecting cover charges and checking IDs. He couldn’t catch more than a glimpse of girlbits now and then. He was hoping to peep that Sherry girl again, but she weren’t dancing tonight.
Midway through the evening, he got to crack slaps at a couple skulls, after some suited honkies stayed groping upon one of the females. That felt damn good. Thumper ain’t never get to punch a white man in a suit. He could get used to that.
“You done good, you knocked them fellahs out cold,” Tyrell said when Thumper got back to the door. “Mistuh Gregarian know lotta cops. If a fellah need a punch, don’t worry, Mistuh Gregarian won’t let’chu get in no kinda trouble for it. He can make shit like that go away, so long as you keep the peace in his club right.” He paused. “And wear clean shoes. He real particular about shoes.”
Thumper nodded. “Is my clothes okay, nigga? I know it’s old-fashion. I don’t own lotta options.” Thumper kept it to hisself that he ain’t know how to buy clothes no more. He ain’t find nothing in Baltimore that he considered a normal men’s clothes store. If he asked, Carson would tell him to google it. He did google it, and the only stores he could hoof it to was a place just for tee shirts with dirty jokes on ’em, a “antifascist surf and skater joint” and a store that sold nurses’ scrubs to plus-size ladies. He ended up in a thrift shop buying the kinda clothes he wore before, which was then retro but now was fossils. He might as well wear a dinosaur.
Where did a normal nigga buy new rags nowadays?
Tyrell waved him off. “Mistuh Gregarian is old-fashioned. I bet he likes yo’ clothes,” he said. “He prolly say you dress classy.” Once Thumper washed the blood off his knuckles in the sink behind the bar, Tyrell bade him back to the door.
A line done develop as the nocturne progressed. Couple crackers scattered in alongside some Lay-Oceans and ashamey Arabs, but most the Lipsweet-goers was niggas, who sneaked looks through the doorway even before they paid they cover charge. But mostly all them leery lusters in line stayed nose-deep in they phones.
One those sneaky-peekers caught Thumper’s eye.
Rashid Somebutt. He couldn’t remember his last name, but he was Rashid. He was in prison, in 19C with Thumper, weren’t he? He was a roundbody darkskin bullethead nigga with dappy eyes, gappy teeth and a fatty neck, steady slapping his belly and laughing with machine gun lungs.
But Rashid Somebutt ain’t notice Thumper, or if he did, he hid it good. He was drunk in line, wobbling his thicknesses like jello, talking with volume, deep on the slur. So maybe he really ain’t recognize Thumper.
On the other hand, Thumper only bin out a couple months. He ain’t look no different. Rashid Somebutt looked the same too. He was always thick as a dick, lifting mad weights with the big boys, but he ain’t never work out in a organized way. He ain’t never do no cardio, so he got that stout-nigga booty, and his belly ain’t never go away.
Rashid sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey and a phone, after his niggas was gone. Lipsweet emptied into quietude, and the only sound in Thumper’s ear was the smell of hungry pussy. Rashid be staring at them remnant females on his lonesome but ain’t none them give Rashid no mind. He only got a lapdance earlier when his niggas paid for it — he was a ghetto-nigga’s nigga, and them strippers and whores could smell his dollar-poor dick. They stayed away.
That was prison life sticking to him, Thumper reckoned. A free man can splurge on urges. A prison nigga hoards like a stingy dragon.
“Yo, how was yo’ first night?” Tyrell Brickley asked when the bar was damn near dead, just a few minutes before close. They weren’t to let no one else in this late, so Thumper was done doormanning. They was giving the drunks and solos time to down they dregs — Teddy the bartender done last-call a minute ago.
Thumper nodded. “Fine,” he said. He motioned to Rashid. “You recollect that nigga?”
“Rashid Jenkins? Yeah, he was in 19C wit’ us,” Tyrell said.
Thumper licked his teeth. “Hell yeah. I knew it was him. Rashid Jenkins! Couldn’t remembuh his name,” he said. He kept his salty eye on Rashid. “He come here a lot?”
Tyrell shrugged. “Yeah, think so. He got prison-brain. He stuck in that cell, nigga, he be getting violent at the drop of a hat, talk too rough for the girls, even the ghetto bitches. That dancer Ebonette say he lick pussy like it was a lollipop that slapped his mama.” Tyrell laughed as he went to assist some drunken lugnuts in wobbling out the door.
But Thumper’s brain wrinkled on Rashid, parked at the bar, a-poking at his phone like a lazy baby. Frowning his brown, Rashid phoned down and stood up to peace out, only to see he got no niggas about.
“Yo, Rashid?” Thumper said, coming up close as clothes to that jiggity nigga’s crunk mug.
He squinted at Thumper like he was far away. “Thumper?” His hips swayed, but he kept his head still.
“Hell yeah, nigga!” Thumper said. He patted hisself on the chest and beamed brightly. “Rashid, you son of a bitch, c’m’ere, homeskillet!” He hugged Rashid tight. That nigga was thick and soft like a mushy pillow, and he smelled like a crowded barbershop.
That reminded Thumper why Rashid stuck to his mind as fresh as yesterday’s tossed salad.
For most his prison sentence, Rashid owed the Bloods big blocks of cheddar. Rashid ain’t never was good at resisting drink, smokes, and dice, and he stay mad underwriting checks his cabbage couldn’t cash — he owed dollars with a profusion.
And in prison, there’s rules about that shit. If a nigga owe money, any other nigga is allowed to repay a part of that debt, and that nigga who owe gotsta do what that other nigga say. There was a mountain of rules about what was permissible.
Ain’t none those rules suggest they stop applying when that nigga get outta prison.
“C’mon, lemme show you this female in the back. She a real eager skeezer, no diggity,” Thumper said. He motioned for Rashid to follow him into the back, and then he headed back there without waiting to see if Rashid would follow. Thumper was glad to get away from the music, which was a threesome of sedated white girl rapping like dreary puppies.
“Hell yeah,” Rashid said. “My friends all went home with that bitch Caitlin Smiles. She be chargin’ per head though, and I can’t afford even a handjob from her. Bitches be trippin’.” He followed Thumper into the back hallway and then into a tiny office.
Rashid faced the desk, but Thumper stayed behind him to shut the door. Then Thumper grabbed Rashid’s pants and boxers and pulled them down before Rashid could respond. Then all that came out was a discomfitted grunt. He ain’t try to pull away from Thumper.
His thick brown asscheeks was bare and soft, and Thumper groaned with desire. His thick fingers gripped Rashid’s buttcrack beneath his pants and drawers. He got one thick booty, enough to make Thumper whistle and smile.
“Nah, no nigga, nah, nah, I ain’t locked up no more,” Rashid said. He moved away, towards the desk in the office, but Thumper followed and pushed him over the desktop. That swole booty aimed up, and Thumper bared it thoroughly. He kneaded the flesh of both buttcheeks.
“Hmm-hmm, hush up. I’s allowed in you still. Ain’t I pay for booty buncha times on the upfront and you still owe me one?”
“No! I done all that! I gave it up e’ry time you paid for, nigga!” Rashid said, squealing like a sweetened seal. “You on that booty bandit trip! We ain’t inside no mo’.” He turned around, but Thumper forcefully shoved him to face the back of the office. Rashid weren’t a weak man, but he ain’t work out on the reg like Thumper neither. Thumper was a semi-pro boxer before his arrest, and though his body got older, it ain’t get a lick weaker. And Rashid got his pants around his ankles, his flop-a-doodah flipping this way and that, so he ain’t got leverage to pull away.

In seconds, Thumper pulled his pud out too, and he be jabbing it into Rashid’s thigh and buttcheek. His skin was hot and soft, and it got Thumper’s limpen meat throbbing. Thumper kept on the stroke to get it hard, but he ain’t stop ramming it.



“Nah, Thump, you can’t-” Rashid tried to shove him off, but all he could do was shuffle forward with his pants around his ankles. There was a wall afront him. He bent his knees to lean over and pull his pants up.
“Sssssh…” Thumper grunted and pistoned his hips. His dick rammed into Rashid’s asshole. In most men, Rashid’s clenching woulda kept Thumper from penetrating him. But Rashid done took it up the butt enough that Thumper could push the tip in. He was just barely firm enough to do that.
Rashid gritted his teeth. “Ow, shit, nigga-“
“I’ll lube it up,” Thumper said. “If you co’op’rate, nigga.” He ain’t stop drilling it in, pushing Rashid head-first onto the desk. Rashid almost fell. He got a good inch and a half in before the pressure from Rashid’s sphincter, as he tried to repel Thumper’s cocktip, was enough to give him a full-on erection.
“Ow, nigga, Thumper!” Rashid gritted his teeth. Thumper’s rod was stiff as sticks now, and it rubbed in harshly. “Fine, shit!”
“You co’op’ratin’?” Thumper asked. He stopped thundering his shaft in, but he kept swaying it left and right, just teasing Rashid. He ain’t take none of it out neither. Just an inch or two was in his guts, but that was enough for Rashid to grimace and nod.
“Yeah, nigga, I’ll — shit!” Rashid grunted. “Shit, Thump, c’mon, nigga!”
The office was Haykh Gregarian’s — Mr. Gregarian’s son — who pimped the bitches out here, so Thumper was sure he had some lube in the desk. Sure enough, there was a big tub of some fancy-looking lube with French on the label. He smeared a fistful on his cock without taking it outta Rashid’s booty, then worked it into the hole by oozing his dick back and forth. He almost lost his hardon as he went, but then the lube got warm and made his ramrod easy to slip in deeper.
Finally Rashid just gripped the desk, bent his knees a little and let Thumper at it. He’d learned it was best not to fight it.
“C’mon, nigga, make some them noises, you was good at that,” Thumper said.
“Nuh-uh-“
“Yeah, like moanin’ like a female. Don’t grunt like that, it’s nasty-“
“Wasn’t me! Shit, nigga!” Rashid gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. His hands snaked to his buttcheeks to spread ’em. He kept grunting and seething with each thrust of Thumper’s cock into him. “You thinkin’ of Banter.”
“What? Who?” Thumper stopped moving and cocked his head to the side.
“Banter. Remembuh that nigga Banter? Short skinny slimfire, he moaned like-“
“Aaaaaah, shit yeah, got you and him mixed up,” Thumper said. He laughed and rubbed Rashid’s back. “Still, don’t grunt like you takin’ a nasty dump. Make some sounds like a girl.” Thumper moaned like a female then, still laughing, as he resumed humping his cock in and out of Rashid’s ass.
Ain’t no feminine sound come outta Rashid, who did try — he got a much deeper voice than Banter. Rashid’s attempt at a feminine moan sounded more like a dying loudspeaker than anything else, but it was better than his dirty-dump grunting. It was enough to get Thumper good and hard, sending shivers of pleasure through Thumper’s body.
The muscles of Rashid’s backside clenched hard. Thumper groaned and leaned on Rashid’s shoulders, pinning him onto the desk. “Shit, nigga, you feel better ‘an I remembuh…”
Thumper rammed at his asshole until it was fulla his dick, and he plowed him hard, making Rashid’s whole thickness jiggle and press against the desk. Haykh Gregarian’s papers was scattered all over, prolly soaked in Rashid’s painsweats now. Hopefully Haykh would think a dancer brung a john in here.
“Here I go, nigga, just like old times,” Thumper said, lowering his head to whisper into Rashid’s ear. “Love you…”
Cum spurted into him, a tight little load at first, then a big thick creamy one. Then more jissom flowed into Rashid’s guts.
He hated this part. Rashid closed his eyes and tried not to think about the cum filling him up. It was hot and gooey, and some leaked out and ran down his thighs. He wished he done sprung for a handjob from Caitlin.
But it was too late now. Just when he thought it was over, another multi-second long flow of jiss seeped into him, then another, and Thumper moaned like he was truly in love. Rashid cringed. He kept his teeth and his legs clenched the best he could, until at last Thumper’s cock softened inside him. Thumper pulled it out with a moist splattering sound.
“Goddamn, fuck, nigga, c’mon…!” Rashid sputtered. “Shit!”
“Hell yeah, nigga,” Thumper said. He smacked the sweat off his chest, then pinched Rashid’s plump asscheek. “I bet Caitlin Smiles don’t give it up that good.”

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Three

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper sat with an ice-pack on his face and puffed a fug. A short-mouth nigga named Cheeky done talk tall, and Thumper planked Cheeky out.
He sat in the parole office, looking across the clutter-top desk at Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry done give him the ice-pack for his swole upper lip. Thumper ain’t need the ice-pack, but he took it anyway. Cheeky was a softnutting nigga who threw fists with weak wrists, and he barely whiffed Thumper. Thumper weren’t shook up, but the beatdown got Mr. Perry eyeing him like a broke-down repair-kit.
“You can’t behave this way, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. “You ain’t in the big house no more. Now, I don’t gotta tell the police, since you ain’t hurt that boy too bad. But you gonna have to find a new job. You got-“
Thumper scoffed. “That pissant Jerry fired me fo’ that? He buggin’.”
Mr. Perry frowned. “You’re not in prison anymore, Wendell. Out here, fighting is taken very seriously. Jerry is required to fire you for an act of workplace violence.”
Thumper crossed his arms over his chest. Did every nigga who throw fists get fired nowadays? Did they back then too and Thumper ain’t know it? He ain’t know if he was being a cast-iron nigga or if Mr. Perry was a pansyfied pussy.
Or maybe both was viable hypothotamuses.
Silence hung between them both. Thumper ain’t wanna sorry out. Mr. Perry was hankering for a teary apology, but Thumper ain’t got a lick of regret, and he weren’t gonna promise it won’t happen again. If some other short-mouth nigga notate improper observations, Thumper would gonna hafta deliver a fist-based correction. A nigga need a line that’s easy to cross, so every eyeball can see him enforce it.
The world outside was different than prison. Thumper knewed that, and he ain’t need Mr. Perry to point it out. A nut-tapping nobody like Cheeky out here ain’t the same as a no-good nowhom in prison. Inside, a thousand niggas like Cheeky be merking niggas like Thumper to carve out a name for theyself. But plentya them thousand was on that road crew too, witnessing Thumper either showing that prison ain’t weak him down or showing that it did.
So Thumper just crossed his arms over his chest and nodded for Mr. Perry to go on.
“Lotta guys want road-crew work, so I had to pull in favors to get you that job. You got something to say for yaself?”
Thumper licked his teeth. He shrugged. “A white lady on my phone screen said that roads was racist.”
“Fine, don’t take this seriously if you don’t want to. You got a week to find a new job,” Mr. Perry said with a snap-down. His plump nose wiggled. “Or you go back inside. That’s a condition of your parole, you have to be gainfully employed.”
Thumper stood and snorted. “Fine.” His giant dick bulged against the fabric of his workpants. He angled it to be less obvious. It was because he bin spying on a photograph of Mr. Perry’s wife on the shelf behind the desk. She was so-so beautiful, but she was moreso than Mr. Perry, and when Thumper’s eyes took her in, his pecker responded as peckers do.
“Stop. I didn’t say you could go,” Mr. Perry said. He sighed and rubbed his temples. He was a lipless roundbody workface chowder-white lump on a log with a bald head and weary eyes, and you could just tell his wife don’t put out no more. “You got a hardon, Wendell?”
“No.”
Mr. Perry shot him a disbelievous look and said, “You gotta get that took care of.” He sighed and stood. “Guess you don’t know where to go, huh? C’mon.”
Thumper followed him outta the office and into the parking lot. “I know how to jack my nut off, suh.”
Mr. Perry winced. “Don’t be crass. You thinkin’ wit’ ya dick, that’s the problem. Ya dick wanna punch a sucker for lookin’ at you. That ain’t ya brain thinkin’, it’s ya dick. You ain’t in prison, Wendell. Ya old patterns was a key that unlock a door you ain’t stuck behind any more. Now them same patterns lock the door instead.”
Thumper wanted to explain again, to make Mr. Perry understand. He ain’t just whale out on Cheeky for “lookin’ at him”. That’s how Jerry summed it up to Mr. Perry. But Cheeky bin sneaking disrespect and talking squirrelous shit about Thumper all morning. Then he started mean-mugging on the flagrant. He was escalating, and Thumper do be nipping escalations in the butt.
“Folks out here expect civilized behavior,” Mr. Perry said. He got behind the steering wheel of his splatter-paint truck and motioned for Thumper to get in. “I expect a big-time homeboy like you prolly need to get ya nut off e’ery morning. There’s ways. Ain’t expensive neither.”
“I can find a hoochie mama to ram, suh,” Thumper said.
“Don’t lemme hear that. That’s disrespectful to women,” Mr. Perry said. “Jesus don’t like hearin’ that kinda talk. You a Christian man, right?”
“Yessuh.”
“Then you best act like it. You got twenty bucks?”
“Yessuh,” Thumper said.
Mr. Perry said, “Give it to the man by the door. I’ll tell you when.”
He continued lecturing Thumper about proper Christian behavior and peppered him with questions about the church he went to — to verify that he was really going to the black church, Ebenezer Baptist. Mr. Perry knew Pastor Cherrymore there and said he was gonna check that Thumper bin attendatory.
They parked at a mechanic shop near a sprawling mess of a industrial area. A bus-repair yard lay in the back, and a hodgepodge of small factories and workshops sprawled around like free weights, separated by gravel parking lots and chain-link fences. They parked at the mechanic shop, but that wasn’t where they went.
Mr. Perry’s lumpy legs led Thumper to the back of the mechanic shop, where there was a high fence. On the other side was the parking area for the bus-repair workshop — it was chock-fulla buses, about half school buses, the others city buses and greyhounds.
But there was a strange little back area, behind the mechanic shop and afronta the fence. A small garage interrupted the fence, so it was accessible both on this side and in the bus-repair yard.

Thumper was confused. It was too tiny to be any kinda business, but there was a humpy-dumpty nigga with a ugly mug at the garage door like a bouncer. He ignored Mr. Perry and Thumper until they was right afront him.


“Twenty bucks,” said that broad-body nigga like he was already bored of this conversation. He glanced at Thumper but spoke to Mr. Perry.
Mr. Perry motioned for Thumper to hand the money over, and Mr. Perry did likewise. That ovaltine nigga took the money, unlocked the garage door and opened it to let them in.
It was a tiny garage lit up with one bare bulb. The whole space was barely big enough for a car. But there weren’t no mechanic’s tools or nothing in there. The far wall was covered in a sheet.
And there was a hole in it, couple feet high off the floor.
“This is called the gloryhole,” Mr. Perry said. “When you get a hardon, you come here. Real cheap way to get ya nut off. There’s a female purty as pink on the other side of the sheet.” He murmured into the cloth sheet. “How you doin’, baby?”
“She” ain’t say nothing, but Mr. Perry unzipped his fly and plugged his knob in the hole anyway. Then he sighed, and his knees went weak. You could tell from the look on his face when “she” put his honky whodinky in “her” mouth.
Thumper stayed disbelieving there was any female involved here, not for a second. They got gloryholes in prison. He knowed how it worked.
There was a man on the other side of that wall. Well, not a real man, but a punk anyway.
What Thumper ain’t get was how this more Christian than finding a slut to ram, but he ain’t wanna up Mr. Perry’s ire, so he just nodded along like a know-nothing nigga.
“Ah, shit, she got mouth like silk, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. He be thrusting his hips now, making sweet love to that hole like it was the wife who got no affection for him no more.
Thumper ain’t wanna stick his dick in a hole in a sheet. The nigga on the outfront would know the real score, so Thumper swaggered towards the garage threshold. The dumptster-shape nigga at the door was tap-a-lapping at his phone screen like it was bothering him.
“Yo, nigga, can I go in the back and pop open that punk’s booty? I just got outta prison, and-“
“Extra thirty bucks. Don’t tell yo’ honky what you see back there. White folk isn’t allowed. Can’t handle it.”
Thumper whistled. “It cost fifty? Damn…” But he shrugged and passed it over. He ain’t got much to spend money on these days anyhow.
That was prolly a good price on the outside for plowing down a punk’s butthole. Thumper hoped it wasn’t some nasty-ass -crack-a-doodle.
When he got the money, the girthy nigga led Thumper in and to the sheet, next to which was a door. He unlocked it, and Thumper slipped in. He heard the plumpy nigga say to Mr. Perry, “Only black folk allowed in the back. She love black dick.”
Whatever Mr. Perry said, Thumper couldn’t hear it. He was viewing a slimfire nigga with a wild wiggle of hair sticking up. He got slick jittery legs, skittering eyes and drippy spittle. Sitting on the floor beside him was a crack pipe.
He got Mr. Perry’s fat honky dingaling resting on his tongue, spewing out slime. Thumper groaned at the sight of the trashy hole he just paid to ramrod. He came up close to that cracky-dappy nigga and spoke into the hole. “Mistuh Perry, suh, I’s in here to make love to this female. She a dime, she fine as a candy fox, ooh-wee, Mistuh Perry! She got me illin’ like a villain! And she got booty like you wouldn’t believe, suh.”
“Is she white?” Mr. Perry whispered like he got shame to ask.
“Hell yeah, she chowder-white, Mistuh Perry. Chunky clam,” Thumper said with a low whistle. He was gonna describe the ideal white man’s white woman, but all he recalled was the way white women was before — big hair and long skirts and headbands. What was white women even like nowadays, aside from phony-face phone freaks?
The punk looked up at Thumper and frowned. He shook his head, but then he shifted his ass towards Thumper. He dropped his basketball shorts, revealing boxers with the assflap torn out.
Thumper growled. That was one helluva signal. In prison, a tore-out assflap meant that booty was open for business. He was already hard in anticipation, rapidly forgetting his reluctance to plow up a hobo.
The gap-tooth crackhead winced when he saw Thumper’s big-league meat, but he ain’t resist. Thumper rammed his dick in that crackhead’s booty without no lube, no warning and no mercy.
“Ah, shit, nigga,” Thumper murmured softly. The one nice thing about a crackhead booty was that it was basically a toy. It ain’t like that boy Rico’s booty from a couple weeks ago — clean and tight, waiting for a nigga to open it up and howl wild as walnuts up his guts. A crackhead booty was loose and dry. You could add yo’ own spit — course you gotsta look at it to spit on it, and that ain’t never a pleasant sight — but you ain’t gotsta worry about ripping him open. This crackhead was well broke-in. He winced a little when Thumper slid in him, but then he ain’t move a muscle. Thumper ain’t gotsta think about him as a human at all, he just a toy, little better than them fleshlights the Latin Kings made on Cell Block G.
His butthole rubbed on Thumper’s shaft, and Thumper got in him so deep his balls slapped loudly on the crackhead’s taint. He got coarse knappy hairs running down his buttcrack and between his legs, and the hairs rubbed frictiony against Thumper’s manhood.
Thumper was watching real close as the crackhead slurped off Mr. Perry’s withery white knob. It was veiny and pale, throbbing. Thumper gripped it with one hand, stroking it past the crackhead’s lips.
Holding back a laugh so Mr. Perry wouldn’t hear, Thumper stroked it hard and strong. He got a pretty big dick for a cracker, but it was skinny like a stick of pepperoni. That nasty-knappy crackhead was trying-a avoid tasting it — he was just slobbering on the sides when Thumper got involved. Thumper ain’t let punks get away with that.
“Go deep on it, baby, swallow that-” Thumper said, interrupted by the crackhead gagging on Mr. Perry’s honky-donky-doodah ramming into his throat. His asshole was squeezing painfully on Thumper’s rod too, and the crackhead kept wriggling like a scribble, wincing like he wanna get up but that tub-of-ass nigga outside would mollywhomp him if he tried. Mr. Perry’s prejiss leaked onto Thumper’s hand, while Mr. Perry’s fat-honky huffling orgasm came through the sheet.
Mr. Perry blew a nut then, shooting jissom that flowed into the crackhead’s mouth. The crackhead winced like he ain’t expecting that — he normally pulled off so he ain’t gotsta take a mouthful of nut. Most it sprayed over his face mosta the time, which was why he got dry and wet cum dripping up and down his grizzled face and unshaved cheeks. But Thumper wanna watch his mouth fill with that spermy soup.
A whimpery gag escaped from his guts, as the crackhead tried to take his mouth off Mr. Perry’s rod. Thumper held him in place until the last second, while Mr. Perry moaned on the other side of the sheet. He shot one final wad that spurted onto both Thumper’s cheek and the crackhead’s face, and Thumper held back a baritone guffaw.
As the crackhead bucked, Thumper gripped him tight and threw his head back. He moaned and laughed at the crackhead’s shake, like a jittery version of that Sherry girl’s shimmying dance. His cock spewed that crackhead’s booty fulla creamy seed.
When it went into him, wave after wave of old-head nut, the crackhead simmered down and laid his head on the ground, his ass still up high and cringing. He closed his eyes. Jizz spurted into him, more and more seeping into his flesh. Lotta it dripped out his butt and pooled in the flatness of his battered buttcrack. He whimpered and eyed his crackpipe.
But Thumper ain’t let him grab it until he was done, until he done drain every drop of jism into that crackhead’s grimy guts. His rod popped outta the crackhead’s ropy ass, and cum dribbled into the dried-white crust in his crack. His knappy black hairs were both soaked with fresh stuff and coated in flakes of old nut.
Then he walked outta there, leaving the crackhead heaving for air and cradling his sore buttcheeks. Already the next customer was slipping his winky wiggleworm into the hole.
“You gonna love her lips, whiteboy,” Thumper said to the portly dirty-pearl college lug lining up at the sheet. He winked at him and patted him on the back. He nabbed the whiteboy’s wallet as his pants fell to his ankles, pulled a couple dollars outta it and then dropped the wallet back on the pants. Whiteboy focused on digging his nub into the gloryhole, so he ain’t notice his wallet in Thumper’s mitts. “She wanna drink yo’ pee too.” Thumper laughed and wished he could stay and watch that.
But Mr. Perry was already waiting at his crackerjack truck and poking at his phone like he was doing surgery on his only baby. Before Thumper got to the truck, he made sure his satisfied pecker was packed tight in his pants. He got in the truck, and Mr. Perry ain’t look up. Both them was silent, the only sound the universal rhythm of finger on phone.
“You feel better, Wendell?” Mr. Perry asked when he finally found a way outta his phone. He started the truck engine.
“Sho’ do, suh!” Thumper said like a shucksy nigga. “That lady fixed my boner just right. You got this nigga’s numbuh fo’ real!”

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Two

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

When Thumper woke up, that meth freak he messed with last night was gone. Thumper long snored on the solo while the booty boy smoked meth, haphazardly cleaned the apartment like a overclocked robot and then scuppered sideways in the pre-dawn light.
That was good. Thumper ain’t want no meth freak sticking around, after all.
He got up just after dawn. It ain’t feel early to him. In prison, he be getting up at the north side of dawn. Nowadays, in the free outside present-day here-and-now of the real world, early rising got niggas tripping, looking at Thumper like sad question marks when he said he got up at six. Lazy-ass punks all over.
His sneakers was old-fashion now. He done forgot how to dress. In prison, all the niggas was sporting sameness — orange jumpsuits and tee shirts, scruffy beard, Bloods tats, crucifix cuz no other jewelry was allowable. Out here, niggas was dudding up in polo shirts and tight-leg jeans, with pink drawers showing. Thumper ain’t know how to wear that, cuz ain’t none that flied before. He’d look ridiculous in that.
What was up with them homeboys with bleached hair? Thumper pontificated to hisself on on that topic when a recycling truck rattled down the road — there ain’t never was recycling trucks before neither — the driver was a reflective-vest redbone with bleached hair, a shiny grill, steel rods in his eyebrows and a center-of-his-nose ring. That nigga was presenting like a tinfoil supervillain.
Ain’t not a single nigga bleach they curls platinum before.
What made young cats come up with crazy shit like that? How did Thumper and his homeboys avoid it back in the before? They acted proper. Young pups was freak-show niggas now. He stood mean-mugging the recycling truck. The nigga inside paid him no mind, and neither did the truck as well.
The world bin moving on since before, and it weren’t gonna stop now for some creaky-knee nigga heaping harsh at the history of here.
He was still scowling short when this nigga Carson arrived at the barbershop on the ground floor. Thumper bin standing out smoking fugs and marinating his grays in dawnlight, cogitating upon the years that done gone and the recycling trucks that passed.
The sun was baking the boulevards of Baltimore early this morn. It was gonna be a scorcher today, and the humidity already hung about in the air like a sauna of spiderwebs. But it felt good to be exposed to the weather and the heat and the Chesapeake wind blowing the day’s haze astride the sky. Moisture done condense on Thumper’s skin, and that felt right as rum.
“Wendell, hey, nigga,” Carson said. He was a lieutenant in the Bloods, but he got a respectable look about him. He was one them roundbody niggas, in a button-down shirt and nice pants, got a graveled-down voice with a throaty murmur. He run the barbershop on the outfront for the Bloods, and since Thumper done his time standing up for them, Carson was supervising his freedom.
Carson gave Thumper a dapper nod. “You out early this morn.”
“Yep. Gettin’ a head-start on the day.” Thumper licked his teeth. He ain’t wanna admit that he got up outta prison-toned habit and that he ain’t got nothing on the agenda today.
He did have one chore he done got tasked with: his parole officer bin fussing at him to snag some employ. He was sposedta hump it to a job center to apply for work online. The job center was at a library, and it got this dickless sniveling smudgy-specs sunnyskin college-high nothing-muffin with a bone up his butt and quakes in his loafers to teach him how to use the internet. That Chinese boy’s name was Fancypunches, but Thumper ain’t tell him so yet.
Thumper weren’t shook up over the job search. Carson said he would arrange it.
So Thumper just be milling like a footless fighter on the street, where a stoop mighta been thirty-four years ago. Did they stop making stoops? He ain’t seen no new ones, and plentya old ones he remembered was gone.
Everything new looked the same, he thunk. Every building younger than him in Baltimore was identikit boxes in gray and black, like the world’s only architect musta got locked up at the same time he did.
He dithered in the barbershop when it opened, checking out the lookbook and considering hisself without no cornrows. He hoped sitting among niggas would feel like coming home again.
But they was ticking and tocking on they phones and conversating over soccer, and one them niggas said he got new pajamas, and another one’s girlfriend only ate raw vegans, and Thumper gathered that every single one them males be shaving they pubes, and they was drinking coffees made with butter, mochachiatto and “dragon’s fruit”, and the teevee got a scrawny honky plastic-surgeoning hisself into a starfish to protest the weather and ain’t nobody act like they was confuse about that, and then that grown-ass nigga who wore pajamas said the best teevee shows was not on the teevee, they was streaming outta cloud that his sister changed the password to, and ain’t nobody act like they got confuse about that neither. Something called “Poke He-Man Go” came up, but Thumper ain’t wanna ask what it was and look like some out-of-touch old head, because that was exactly what he was.
All morning they listened to some nutty-butter rap, Thumper could hardly believe it. Niggas rapping like a deflating balloon, beats dry as a frigid bitch, and every head in that barbershop a nod-along nelly. They was all sneaking eyes at Thumper like there was something wrong with him that only they could see.
When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he got a chill of not knowing what to do, and all them niggas saw it. Thumper wanna punch one’s lightbulb out, just to give ’em something else to remember, but he restrainted the urge.
Before, only bankers and coke dealers got cell phones, and they was as big as dictionaries. This one was a plasticy pop-tart as heavy as a nun’s fart. Every single nigga got one too, and mostly they was lost inside they’uns.

He looked at the phone with a flatness. Buncha them in the barbershop was facing him down like a trash-high, offroading, institutionized, broke-apart jailbird numb-nut nigga. The phone was like alien technology in his too-big hand, and all he could think about was them cool cats cackling up his kicks last night.


Carson done hookt him up with the phone and showed him how to use it, but Thumper blanked on what he said now. He touched the phone. That musta worked, cuz he heard Carson’s voice. “Yo, Thump? You in the barbershop?”
“Uh… Yeah.” Thumper said. He held the phone up to his face like a handheld radio.
“Come into the backroom, I’ll be there in a sec.”
Some in the shop simmered with subdued snickers like slippery niggas. Sidefacing that whack pack of rats, Thumper stepped out, still holding the phone up though he ain’t think Carson was there no more. Did folks leave the room if they took a cell call? Seemed like niggas be broadcasting private tidbits on the flagrant.
But he ain’t want them to know he be fucking this up, so he strutted fly and blithe into the back the barbershop, and he ain’t return the phone to his pocket till nobody could see him unsure if it was hung up or not.
“Yo, you wanna check out some females tonight?” Carson asked when Thumper got to the office. “I’ll take you to Lipsweet. You remember Lipsweet, right?”
“Hell yeah…” Thumper said with a soft whistle, realizing he ain’t heard no niggas whistle since his release — did niggas stop whistling?
Lipsweet was a strip club around long before Thumper’s lockup. Entirely different ladies dancing there now, of course. He’d like to find the ladies who was dancing a couple decades ago and see what they was up to. Bet they’d still purr fine as foxfur in they own way.
Thumper could dig a old lady with nice flappy pussylips too. He ain’t mind that one bit. Some sag’d sit nice on his pecker, and Thumper could dig a droopy tit or two. A old bitch wouldn’t snigga when he ask how to use his phone neither.
Carson said he’d “text him the details”. Couple minutes later, his phone vibrated again. Some words popped up on the screen and got a time on it.
So Thumper went up to his apartment and was ready to dip at that time. Sure enough, Carson swung by in a SUV then and drove him to Lipsweet.
The neighborhood was different than Thumper recollected it. All the neighborhoods they drove through was different — Ramspoint was ritzy and white, Bay North ain’t even a thing no more, Castle Street was desolate, East Middle was fulla young white folk with unpleasant hairstyles, and Factory Ridge got some kinda burnt-bamboo Chinese that Carson said was Lay-Oceans. But Lipsweet was still a grime-down shithole. The grime made it feel like home, and he liked that it was the same as ever.
Actually, a few things did change — the bar area was bigger, so there was less tables, and there weren’t no tiki jawns no more, plus it looked like the backrooms done got expanded.
Place was slow and low now though.
To a lazy beat with a hazy melody, a couple dozen niggas watched the dancers as if none them mattered, sneaking peeks at they phones like beepy crack-pipes. Droopy-eyed black girls be dancing like they was tired of it. Prolly wishing they was back on they phones. One them females looked at Thumper with a fraction of a smile and a beckonsome finger.
“Yo, you wanna get a private lapdance?” Carson asked. He carried a chocolatey grin when he reckoned the graceless hardon rocking Thumper’s pants.
“Fuck yeah, baby,” Thumper said. He ain’t realize how blatant his boner was until he stood up and Carson bugged at it. His stiffy was stabbing like a dagger, making Thumper bent over, too awkward to stand up straight.
“Arrange yo’ dick, old man,” Carson said with a dryness.
Thumper pointed his pecker up so the hardon weren’t so obvious. “Shit, nigga, lookit all them females…” He whistled. “Ain’t see females like that in prison.”
“Which one you want?”
“That one ovuh there, wigglin’ like a riddle,” Thumper said without a second think. He let out a low-boil growl at the sight of her. She was a fancy-fine lightskin gal with a ripe badonkadonk and tits spilling outta her skimpy top. She made Thumper’s dick hurt, and her thighs made the hurt worth it.
A silver grin on his foolish-ass face, Thumper widewalked around his hardon to the champagne room, while Carson retrieved the black girl with the bounciful booty. She came to Thumper with a shimmy in her hips and her eyes wide like a cartoon skunk.
“Aw, fuck yeah, guhl,” Thumper murmured. He plopped his erection into the chair in the center of the champagne room.
Wither-dicking R&B boomed out the speakers as she backed her ass up to him, but Thumper’s manhood drooled regardless. “I’m Sherry,” she said with a shrug and a snort, like she preferred no nigga remember her name. Thumper grabbed at her booty, moaning at its plumpness and tensing tall when she dragged his hands up her side to her tits.
She mighta said something else, Thumper ain’t know cuz the music was loud and nauseating and her sultry bosoms was soft as Santa’s belly. His dick throbbed like a hypertensive nigga and leaked precum all over his balls. She rubbed her booty, grinding it hard atop his crotch, like she was trying-a make him nut down under.
That was exactly what he did too, like a drippy teenager. Just as the song ended, Thumper closed his eyes and filled his drawers with a massive wad of cream. The jissom kept on flooding his thighs and his asscheeks and soaking into his socks.
But then the song was over, and Sherry murmured some words of low import before she slid out into the bar proper, on the prowl for another nigga with a prick aimed at her. Thumper grimaced when he stood, his swampy crotch marinating in his own juices now. He found some napkins to get up what he could, then he headed outta the champagne room hoping nobody could see.
A cigarette puffed in Carson’s lips, while uninterestedly he watched a girl dance onstage. Smoke fumed above Carson’s head, his stubbled mien lit by his cherry and the glow of the phone he ain’t never put down. Thumper came back to the table and sat in the cummy puddle of his pants.
“You the man, Carson,” Thumper said. “I know you ain’t gotsta do this much fo’ me.”
Carson scoffed. He got a cool-capping tone to his voice, like he want listeners to know he could honky down if he wanted to. “Nonsense, nigga. This organization has to respect its elders. You done yo’ time for us.”
“Wish I had my old homies around. But they scattered like peanuts, nigga.”
Carson shook his head and exhaled a thick plume of cigarette smoke. They both watched a new girl, a swarthy Asian lady, begin her dance — Lay-Ocean — real pretty but short and bony like a ant-farm scarecrow, with a tiny ass — Thumper seen bigger ballsacs on niggas in prison — but she look pretty enough if you sat real close. Then Carson said, “You can look ’em up on Facebook.” He saw Thumper’s face frumping aloud, and Carson picked up his phone. “Gimme a name.”
“Jerome Barkley.”
It took a few minutes. Finally Carson said, “Oh. He died three years ago.”
“Tyrone Franks.”
Carson sighed. “He died in prison in Oregon.” They went through all Thumper’s old niggas, but his face soured and sagged lower with each one. Reg O’Leary overdosed on his own supply. Tangiers Garraty shot hisself. Carl Munters got run over by a bus. Shankem Jones and Willie Donald both got shot by some nigga or another. Casey Carlisle’s fat heart gave out. Elsa Spit — the only dancer at Lipsweet whose real name Thumper recalled — got breast cancer and died just eight months ago.
There wasn’t a head from before who was still alive, ‘cept for Thumper.
He sat there nursing his drink, his dick limper than ever and shrinking like it done run outta shit to do in this life, while Carson be mad beeping and booping at his phone on the hunt for Thumper’s final nigga — Robert Smith, which ain’t a easy name to look up — there was about a million of ’em, including a rock singer.
But then Carson’s phone rang, startling both them. Carson was peering at the screen and dropped it with a little yelp when it vibrated. He picked it up to answer it. “Yo, what?” Carson’s calm smile turned into a tense frown. “Yo, what?! He… Aw, shit, Rico, that fuckin’ nigga… I’ll get him.” He hung up and like swiped or something at his phone, then he looked at Thumper. “You wanna take a ride?”
They dipped. Outside, the streets was a swampy night, and the sidewalks was choked with shiesty scrubs. They all knew Carson though and stayed outta his way. Thumper sat in the passenger seat of Carson’s SUV. It turned out that one of Carson’s dealers got arrested, not for nothing too serious — some itty-bitty possession beef, plus resisting arrest and disorderly conduct. Carson drove to the police station and went inside to bail him out.
“Oooooh, shit…” Thumper licked his teeth when Carson emerged from the jailhouse with the young cat. That nigga was darkskin and glamor-muscle but not big, with a nice smooth face like any shebody would fall in love with.
Thumper loved him too. He got feelings in his heart from the moment he spied that nigga. Thumper ain’t feel much love in prison, and he got used to finding it where he could.
And if he saw that nigga behind bars, he’d brew up a pot of love in that nigga’s phat booty, and he’d season that stew with all the right herbs and spices. You just know he got a drumskin-tight intact booty too. Could load lotta love into that dumptruck.
“Rico, this is Thumper. He a ex-con, just got released,” Carson said. “You two make nice, cuz you gonna be rooming together for awhile-“
“Aw, man, Carson, what?” Rico said with bickerish bitterness, like he ain’t never got disappoint before. Thumper was already imagineering how Rico would look without no clothes on. He’d be smooth and dark and undulating when the lights was off. He’d shimmy and shake just like that Sherry creature, and remembrancing her movements got Thumper so hard his nuts was finna splode in his soupy pants again. But for now, Rico was whipping out whine and sucking on his teeth. “I gotta share a place with him? Old head smells like a band-aid, nigga! Gimme my own place. I can’t live with old nigga, he prolly drink tea and shit. Put his hair in the drain-“
“Coffee gimme lumpy throat, nigga!” Thumper wagged a finger at Rico.
“Bullshit, Rico, fuck you!” Carson said. He got behind the wheel and drove off, Thumper and Rico in the back. “I gotta come bail you out. You got a ounce of coke confiscated. You was arrested just cuz you can’t shut your fool mouth. Now I am givin’ you a home to lay your dome down in, and you bitchin’ cuz you gotta share it? You best recalibrate your expectations, cuz I am not a endless nigga. You done reach my limit, I gone beyond it, and if I gotta go any farther, you gonna feel some consequences from the great beyond.”
Rico rolled his eyes but murmured, “Yeah, fine, whatevuh. Makin’ me move in wit’ old nigga past his prime, he a would-be has-been…”
Carson muttered out his mean-muggery. “Shit, nigguh can’t even act right when I am in the middle of doing him a favor…”
That car was fulla hostile mumbles, but Thumper was lost in his need for booty and maybe some decaf tea. Nigga got him thirsty.
Soon enough they was back in the hood, and the shivering silence in the car ain’t diminish when they all got out. Thumper showed Rico to the apartment above the barbershop — the Bloods gave him that apartment on the free-up, so Thumper ain’t mind sharing it, specially with a prettyface nigga like Rico.
Rico wore that handsome frown as his crown the whole time. He be sneaking dirty-dog eyes in Thumper’s direction as though any Rico’s predickyment was Thumper’s fault.
“You only got one bed,” Rico said when he saw the bedroom and its lonesome mattress.
“You count good. We gotsta double up,” Thumper said. “We gonna be snug as a hug, mah nigga.” He grinned. He patted Rico on the back. His hands lingered there, then moved under Rico’s shirt to rub his smooth back.
“Lemme uh…” Rico shrugged his shoulders to make Thumper leggo his back. “Lemme call my lawyer. And my girlfriend.”
“Oh, you got a guhl? Bring her ovuh!” Thumper said. He returned his hands to Rico’s back, and he whispered right into Rico’s ear. “Lemme mack on her. I’ll suck her clit while you fuck her.”
“Whaaat?!” Rico held his phone in hand.
“If yo’ dick slip out and I lick it some, won’t bothuh me none. C’mon, nigga… Get me some trim,” Thumper said. He rammed his hand down the back of Rico’s saggy jeans. He gripped his asscheek hard, like he was trying-a rip it off. It was damn smooth, pert near hairless, and you could just tell it was gonna shine — Thumper loved a shiny nigga. He growled into Rico’s ear. “Lemme fuck yo’ guhl. Tell her to give up her booty if she bleedin’ outta her period. She do booty, right? Does she lick yo’ butthole? Cuz I will lick her’n. I will eat her asshole like a chicky pot pie.” He mimed eating a very big pot pie with a itty-bitty spoon.
“What, no?!” Rico backed away. “Step off, nigga!” He shortfooted from Thumper, then left the apartment without dropping his hound-dog frown. Thumper heard him out in the hallway on that relentless phone, talking to his lawyer, then his girl, then some niggas, then his mama — Rico be mad after a place to park his poker.
Not wanting to make his roommate discomfitted, Thumper showered and cleaned his cummy balls. Then he went out in stale-scent duds straight from the thrift shop. It was getting to early evening, past suppertime in prison, and his clock-happy stomach let him know it. So he hightailed it to a pizza jawn and bringed back food. When he returned to the apartment, Rico done dip.
Thumper weren’t shook up. Rico prolly staying with his girlie, Thumper thunk. Or he sleeping on some nigga’s couch. That won’t last.
He ate his pizza alone. All he thinking about was choking down mushy food at crowded tables that smelled like too many niggas. In prison, everywhere was cramped and full-up. Out here, everyspot was empty ‘cept for phone screens. Baltimore was a quiet blip upon the world’s surface. The longer Thumper spent past the prison gates, the worse he got with the broad open tangles of the free world. Confinatory walls circumscribed chaos into legibility, but the night-sky teemed fulla forever, and Thumper got lost in the sterile black screen of the buttonless teevee. He ain’t even try working that remote control. Them sky-bound stars in the window ain’t sparkle the same as those precious stars he peeped seldom as angels behind bars.
When his belly was fulla greasy pizza, Thumper worked his jimmies out. Carson bought him a gym membership, but Thumper ain’t know where the gym was or what the plastic jawn Carson gave him meant — presumitably, he gotsta display it to get through the door, but it ain’t look like no identification. Thumper just did burpees like he was used to, and he lifted a gallon of milk before gulping from it.
So he bedded down lonefully. About thirty seconds after he laid his melon, there came a knockity-knock at the door.
“Rico?” Thumper opened it on Rico a-frowning that face, so forlorn like a frayed wire. He pushed past Thumper to enter the apartment.
“Alright, old head, I’ll stay here,” Rico said with a scowl. He be mad on that frowning trip. “My girl dumped me!”
“Aw, shit, nigga, that’s some horsehockey, yes it is,” Thumper said. He touched Rico on the cheek. “You forget about that bitch. She ain’t worth yo’ time.”
Rico wrinkled his nose at notice of Thumper wearing nothing but prison drawers, his biggity dickmeat bulging against the fabric, his unkempt pubes poking out the fly. “Nigga, put some shorts on or some shit.”
“Nah.” Thumper led Rico to the bedroom. “C’mon, it’s bedtime.”
“It’s ten o’clock,” Rico said.
It took Thumper a second to realize Rico said the time because that was early to him. “Ten o’clock bin lights-out for damn near e’ry night I spent on God’s green Earth,” Thumper said. “So c’mon.” He went into the bedroom. “Leave yo’ phone out here.”
“I ain’t tired,” Rico said.
Thumper ain’t used to niggas being free men making they own choices. In the cell, if he telled a nigga it was time for bed, that nigga best get sleepy. Thumper ran that cell on point. “Go take a shower, nigga. Shower is in the hall.”
Rico sucked on his teeth and nodded. “I ain’t got… y’know, no towel or nothin’.”
“Hmm-hmm,” Thumper murmured. He liked the idea of Rico hiking up the hall buffly brown, his tight tushy dripping like a nigga popsicle melting in the night.
But that old bat Vera might see his dingading-doo. So Thumper gave him a towel, a washcloth and a bar soap, and Rico frowned out that not a single nigga in the universe used bar soap no more — a modern nigga be using “body wash” — but he scampered off to the shower to scrub up irregardless. Thumper wanted Rico clean as a squeaky puppy.
Somebody must buy bar soap, they got ’em in the store, Thumper thunk.
He lay down waiting for Rico. Sleep hit him good and hard up the skull — Thumper got that regulatory sleep schedule. Ten o’clock came, and his body was presumitave that the time for slumber was now.
So he was only dimly awake when Rico returned from the shower, his skin a-tingling and burnished. Rico hesitated in the dark apartment, but he sensed that Thumper wouldn’t tolerate him turning on the teevee or no lights or nothing, so he plugged his phone in and slipped into bed when it seemed Thumper was deep in nod.
He lay there in the darkness and silence. Thumper’s body radiated warmth and that old-band-aid smell, and his weight hefted heavy on the mattress, which made Rico slide bit by bit closer to him. He ain’t feel hisself moving, but he gotsta keep scooting back to the edge or he’d be nuzzling Thumper’s shoulder.
Rico sighed and closed his eyes. He wished he ain’t backtalk that cop.
Soon, Rico found Thumper’s heavy body curling up around him. He smelled musty and salty as a few beads of nightsweat popped up on Thumper’s shoulders, and his arm was thicker than Rico’s head. His nose nuzzled Rico’s neck.
That rendered Rico wide awake.
“Yo, nigga! Nigga!” Rico hissed, quiet though there weren’t nobody around to overhear. Thumper’s nuzzles turned to moist kissery on Rico’s handsome cheekbones. “Thumper, wake up! Get off me!”
“Ssshhh…” Thumper’s lips planted on Rico’s. Thumper moaned into Rico’s mouth as his tongue invaded. That nigga tasted as sweet as Thumper bin expecting, sweet as a free summer’s day, sweet as meadowy candy. Thumper licked his loving face.
Rico squirmed. His tight little muscles was hard as metal bars beneath Thumper’s grasp, but they wasn’t big. He got no heft on Thumper, whose chest pressed down on Rico’s tautness. His muscles flexed perky under Thumper’s callused fingers like battering bats.
The bedroom filled with Rico squealing outta the sides of his mouth plugged up by Thumper’s tongue. The smell and taste of Thumper’s liniment or pomade or some old-nigga shit like that overwhelmed Rico and bringed tears to his eyes. Thumper’s callused hands roamed over Rico’s smooth body, rough-handling him like a disobedient steak.
Thumper was immovable, despite Rico on claw at his back. Thumper ain’t care. He just kissed.
It felt damn good to kiss a clean nigga like Rico. In prison, a nigga like that would be expensive. A nigga like Carson wouldn’t just put a nigga like Rico in with a nigga like Thumper in prison.
He pulled down Rico’s boxers, tongue still invading Rico’s mouth, and he gripped Rico’s cock and balls with both hands. Rico finally squirmed his mouth off Thumper’s.
“What the fuck, old man?!” he sputtered.
“You said you ain’t got no female no more,” Thumper said. Rico sat up, but Thumper kissed him on the cheek, hugging his little body close. He stroked Rico’s limp dick too. Rico panted and pushed Thumper’s chest. Thumper was too heavy though, and he just moaned at Rico’s touch. His scratchy voice resonated in Rico’s ear. “C’mon, nigga, lemme pull a nut out. I’ll fill you up so good you forget where babies come from. We be deep in the downlow, nigga, ain’t nobody gotsta know.”
“I don’t — what does that mean?!?!?!!” Rico cried out, but Thumper plugged up that nonsense with his tongue again. He grabbed a tube of lube from the bedside table, and he smeared a big wad of it over Rico’s shiny booty. He pulled Rico to lay on his side, and one Thumper’s hands massaged his buttcrack with a palmful of lube, while Thumper’s other callus-thick hand aggressively stroked Rico’s limp pecker.
“Hey, nigga, what’s Poke He-Man Go?” Thumper asked.
The question was so incongruent Rico stopped a-wriggling. “Huh?” Rico gulped. Thumper’s brick-like fingers smeared more cold goop in his ass, then he rolled Rico over. Thumper’s chest hair rubbed against Rico’s back, and Rico struggled but remained ensconced in Thumper’s powerful arms.
Thumper took that moment to ram his cocktip into Rico’s tight asshole. Rico squealed, and his whole body tightened. His butt clenched around Thumper’s cock. “I axed, what’s a Poke He-Man Go?”
“Wha…? Ow, shit, nigga, ow, ow, ow, shit, whatchoo doin’, Thumper? Thump! Quit playin’-“
“What’s Poke He-Man Go?” Thumper asked again. He was kneeling behind Rico, who be on his knees too. The bed creaked under them. Rico tried to squirm away, but the pain made him wince, and Thumper drilled in a little deeper. “What’s Poke He-Man Go? Explain this shit, c’mon. You my nigga, right? So help a nigga out, damn. Why’s it a pro’lem when a li’l Lay-Ocean guhl come to a barbershop for a Poke He-Man Go Jim?”
“You mean Pokemon Go! It’s a game!” Rico said. His voice was tense and clipped. “It’s a mobile game!” His hands waved around behind hisself as he tried to dig at Thumper. “It’s… augmented reality.”
Thumpter stopped moving. He lowered his noggin and furrowed his forehead at Rico. “What?”
“Nigga, lemme go!”
“Whats’at mean?” Thumper asked. He gripped Rico’s shoulders and held on tight, drilling his dick in deeper. He threw out a moan and slapped Rico’s buttcheek. That broke something open, and Thumper was able to ram mad inches into that nigga behind.
Intense pain erupted in Rico’s backside. He squirmed and tried to scream, but Thumper placed one meaty hand over his mouth. His other hand gripped Rico’s cock and gave it a few strokes. It was limp as a spineless snake. Shivers of pleasure ran through Thumper’s body, and he let out a creaky moan like a crypt being opened.
That made Rico shudder. He bit at the pillow beneath his head.
“It’s — ow, fuck, c’mon, nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Rico panted. He hung his head, his whole body sagging like he wanted to lay down but it hurt.
“C’mon, nigga, don’t be shamey,” Thumper said. “We just messin’ around on the downlow. You want a reacharound, right? You ain’t a punk if you get yo’ nut off at the same time.” His callused old-man hand kept on jacking Rico’s dick as he plowed into his butt, like Thumper ain’t realize yet that Rico’s meat stayed soft. “Yo’ butt feel damn good. Squeeze it around my dick some, squeeze it good-“
“Ow, fuck, fuck, c’mon, Thump, don’t be a booty bandit!” Rico’s daddy and uncle Jermaine bin told him to stay away from ex-cons and don’t never bend over afront them, and now Rico realized how good that advice was. “That’s nasty pervert shit!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Thumper snapped. His meaty hands caressed Rico’s back and kneaded his flesh. “Ain’t nobody gots a right to judge — nigga, please!” He was annoyed now. He pushed Rico’s head down, pulled his ass up and gripped his nape to keep him in place. His barrel chest done left a sheen of sweat on Rico’s clean back. “You ain’t nevuh got locked up for thirty-four years, nigga, don’chu tell me what to do!”
“Ow, fuck! I ain’t-! It ain’t-! I ain’t-! C’mon, Thumper, c’mon-!” Rico cried out.
Thumper was all the way in now, plowing so hard Rico’s whole body shook. Rico bit back a scream of pain. He pushed hisself face-first into the mattress, which stank like Thumper’s band-aidy ass. Thumper massaged Rico’s back and shoulders as he pounded back and forth. He was so damn lean, ain’t got extra skin and scars and smudgey tattoos done by Italians. It made Thumper wanna own him forever. Thumper kissed him on the prettiness of his back, and Rico squirmed and roared like a sexy cougar.
“Hey nigga,” Thumper said as he lowered hisself again to the apex of his descent, all the way in, so Rico was holding his breath, asscheeks quivering like jello. His booty squeezed and massaged Thumper’s shaft just right, like it was begging for nuts. He was all the way into the wreck of Rico’s guts, his balls laying heavy on Rico’s taint. “Hey nigga?”
“What?!” Rico gritted his teeth and shouted into the mattress.
“If we was in prison, you’d be in love right now,” Thumper grunted out into Rico’s ear.
Thumper’s cock throbbed and spewed a wad into Rico. Thumper groaned into his ear and nibbled on his earlobe, as his voice broke and a wave of pleasure frissoned up Thumper’s spine. Heat seeped into Rico’s flesh, and both them niggas moaned, Thumper’s a croon of desire and Rico’s a cringe of pain. He felt jissom trickling inside him, and Rico winced and gritted.
At last, Thumper pulled most the way out, still nutting, so he could see his veiny shaft pulsate in the dim light. Splashes of manjuice leaked out Rico and down to the mattress.
“Oh shit, nigga, we makin’ a mess. I blame you. You a spillsy nigga,” Thumper said with another thrust all the way into him for one more jissing. That caused Rico’s sensitive asshole to twinge with pain, and he howled.
His final cumwad flowed into Rico, but Thumper ain’t stop right away — he was plowing on auto-pilot. He rammed his dick back in and out, churning his nut into a big frothy mess. Soon his shaft was limp and doubling up like a phone cable on Rico’s shinier-than-ever backside, and it popped out.
“Oh god, fuck, Thumper, don’t… thank god, that hurt, nigga-“
Oodles of ooz gooed up Rico’s buttcrack, but Thumper licked up every drop of that felchy fluid outta Rico’s shine. He tasted like funk-a-butt, and Thumper slathered love in Rico’s tender crack.
Then he mounted Rico’s smoothness and kissed it all into his pretty-nigga mouth.
The taste of his own assjuice and Thumper’s salty semen made Rico’s eyes opened wide, when he realized what that foul taste was. He screamed but Thumper still kissed him, and he swallowed that scream up. The stink smeared between both nigga faces. It got into Thumper’s salty beard hairs and between the cornrows on his old head.
Eventually, Thumper moistly pulled his tongue outta Rico’s mouth. Rico lay, a-breathing heavy and suppressing gags because Thumper pinched him when he retched.
So Thumper again kissed him, and this time Rico didn’t resist, even when he again tasted his own ass-funk on Thumper’s lips. Thumper’s hand wrapped around his cock and stroked. Rico ignored it, trying-a settle his stomach and ignore his sore ass. He whimpered a little. Thumper’s hand was so big and so callused it was like sandpapery leather on Rico’s dick, which shrinky-dinked with every passing moment. Rico wiped his face off, but the smell of cum and ass persisted.
“C’mon, nigga, get hard,” Thumper whispered into Rico’s ear. “I’ll help.” He moved his head down, licking a trail over Rico’s pecs and belly, and he put Rico’s cocktip in his mouth. He suckled on it like he was getting something outta it, and Rico gasped in surprise.
He ain’t expect that at all. He was still in too much pain to get hard, he thunk, but his dick did begin to firm up despite hisself. The goo on his face made it hard to focus on the warm wetness of Thumper’s mouth encircle his shaft. Thumper gripped it with one hand and licked the length of it, shuddering back a gag.
Rico was still rumbling up a retch too, as Thumper soon lay on his side, opposite to Rico, so he could slurp on Rico’s knob. That placed Thumper’s own santorum-coated cock not far from Rico’s face. It flopped onto Rico’s chin. The smell of his own ass and the slimy remains of Thumper’s cumwad clinging to the shaft made Rico wrinkle his nose.
A painful wrack of pleasure made Rico suck in his breath. “Shit, nigga!” Rico banged his head on the wall, as Thumper’s mouth filled with oozes of prenut.
Thumper was merely getting Rico started — that was a prison thing. It cost less than actually paying a nigga to swallow a nut. “Getting a nigga started” meant putting his pecker in your mouth and stiffening it, then pulling off when you taste prenut and finishing the nigga with your hand. Lotta niggas would get’cha started for cheap but consider it humiliating to actually taste a nut.
And Thumper ain’t mind that too bad. But Thumper got carried away when he tasted salty precum, and it felt so real, so visceral, that he ain’t wanna pull off. He be thinking he got more time.
So he throated that nigga dick until his nose smushed into Rico’s trimmed pubes. Thumper let his throat stretch around it, and he savored the feel of its hotness throbbing in his belly like a second heart.
Then Rico shot a big creamy load that coated Thumper’s gullet. Neither them niggas was expecting it — Rico was barely aware he was even hard, while Thumper was off in dreamland and exulting in the smooth young muscles of Rico’s body. He liked the cocoa-butter flavor of Rico’s skin, so he ain’t pull off until his mouth overflowed with sunshines of jissom.
He removed his lips from Rico’s manhood and spat all that cum up onto Rico’s face. He mounted Rico’s limp body so he couldn’t get away, and though Rico shook his head left and right, Thumper pinned him down and coated his face in juices. Eventually the cum dwindled to pure spit, but Thumper liked that too.
All that whatever on Rico’s face made him a extra-shiny nigga.
Rico gagged violently. He tried to get up, but Thumper still wouldn’t let him. “Nah, nah, you done made a mess, lemme make it bigguh.” Thumper smeared the nut all over Rico’s face with his tongue. The bracing saltiness and the intense funk made Thumper wrinkle his nose, but every time he did, Rico let out a shallow-breath gag and undulated his perky frame beneath Thumper’s tired old muscles.
Then he lay down and pulled Rico to lay down with him on the soggy mattress. Rico’s whole body was covered in body fluids.
“C’mon, let’s go to sleep,” Thumper whispered hotly into his ear, which he nibbled on like a juicy raisin. “In the mornin’, you gonna be dry again, and then you can shower.” Making a man sleep covered in jizz made him more amenable to the downlow in the future, and he was likely to make Rico dirty again when he woke up at dawn anyway.
He still got that prison schedule in him, after all.
“Man, nigga, Thumper, that hurt,” Rico said in a hoarse whisper. “That was so gross. Lemme shower-“
“Sorry, nigga. You’ll get used to it,” Thumper said. He hugged Rico buddy-tight and snuffled up the fudgey nuts and full-butt scent that clung to Rico’s lumps. “You nevuh finished explainin’ what ‘Pokemon Go’ is. Do I gotsta get one?”

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter One

Read it now for free from Smashwords!

Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Desmond wished he could just buy meth and find his way home on Baltimore’s byzantine transit system. That’d be so simple. But he gotta meet his man, Jaython, and do the deal with him. Buying from Jaython was always complicated.
“Yo, nigga, hey, how you doin’? There you are, I see you. What’s crack-a-lackin’, you stayin’ upright? You got it goin’ on, right?” Jaython said. Jaython was speaking to Desmond but aimed his words over Desmond’s shoulders. So Desmond just mumbled a yes and went along with him. Jaython continued without listening. “I know you do! Hell yeah, nigga! I know how you play it. You keep it low-key, huh? Yep, that’s you, nigga, I seen that!”.
Jaython walked away as though Desmond was supposed to follow him, but normally Jaython would say if they had to go somewhere. They met in a burger joint downtown, which was normal. But instead of leading Desmond into a booth — where he could put the meth under a napkin, slide it over to Desmond and receive the money in the same manner — he headed out the door. Desmond followed.
The air outside was hot and humid, a typical late-summer evening in Baltimore, and Desmond was sweaty as soon as he walked one block. Desmond wrinkled his nose at Jaython, who kept motormouthing. He grimaced. Jaython was so obnoxious. Why couldn’t drug dealers be normal?
“I’m glad you called me, I was settin’ some shit aside for you. I figured you was about to call me. That’s what I said, this other nigga be like ‘lemme get a couple, Jaython’, and I say ‘nah, I ain’t got none’. But I got three jawns set aside just for that friendly-face Desmond. I ain’t tell that nigga I got ’em set aside, he just keep talkin’ shit ’bout my ‘nventory. He always tryin’ not to pay anyhow, all oh ‘you know, I get you back, Jaython’, then I gotta go call him up all the time like a goddamn stork.” That made Desmond scrunch up his eyes — what did Jaython think a stork was? But he let him continue. “That ain’t me. I like you, friendly-face, you always pay up front and on time. Uh-huh. Hear that.”
“Uh-huh. Where are we going?” Desmond asked when he could get a word in.
“Yessuh, back to my place, that’s where I got whatchoo need, friendly-face,” he said. He groaned and nodded towards the squat brick building down the road. “That’s my building, the one wit’ the barbershop on the outfront. Don’t be surprised by that old head hangin’ out there, like he pretending there a stoop and he be filling it up. He just moved in a week ago, and he done got my goat-“
“Yo, Jaython, my nigga! How you doin’? You got them females on point, right? You got one to share? We could double-team her! Our sacs, nigga, slappity-slap!” That old head with gray tinges barked up the street at Jaython, along with a beatboxing slappy noise like two ballsacks thwacking together. The old head glanced at Desmond, looked away, then looked back and stared at him like a hungry wolf. His eyes taking in Desmond, the old head spoke to Jaython in a high-calm voice. “‘Sup Jaython. You keepin’ it real?”
Desmond sucked in his breath as he got up close to him, the liniment-and-lotion scent of that barrelhouse nigga sending Desmond reeling with desire. Men like that made Desmond wanna smoke meth and jack off. The old head was maybe fifty or so, and his unkempt beard was salt with black streaks, but the hair on his head, done down in tight cornrows, was jet-black and thinly peppered with silver. He wore a ruddy brown jacket with a lapel like a pool shark atop old-fashioned daddy-bear jeans. He was broad-shouldered and thick as a boxer.
“You can ignore him, he old as shit. He just move in, but he stay up in my grill,” Jaython said under his breath.
“Yo, Jaython, hey nigga! Hey, I’m rappin’ at’cha!” The old head drank from a bottle of something concealed by a brown paper bag. He put it down on the sidewalk. “Hey!”
Jaython rolled his eyes. “Yo, Thumper, ‘sup-“
“Hey, how’s yo’ dick, homie?” Thumper grabbed at Jaython’s cock through his jeans and cackled. Jaython swatted his hand away, keeping a serious-nigga look on his face. The old head Thumper drank from the bottle in his other hand. “Where’s yo’ females at? Huh? I know you got females, ain’t ya gonna share? Lemme hollah at ’em. Did’ja tell ’em I lick pussy?” He stuck his tongue out between two of his fingers, again looking at Desmond as he spoke to Jaython. “Tell ’em I got the tongue of a much younger man.”
“They don’t want yo’ old ass, Thumper, lay off,” Jaython said. He again smacked Thumper’s hand off his crotch, and he looked that old head upside his melon crossways.
“Oh, you talkin’ some shit now, boy! You happy-flappin’ nigga!” Thumper called out, flapping the fingers of one hand in front of his lips. He cackled again and seemed about to say something else when he saw Desmond once more, and his eyes turned serious.
“Thumper, shut yo’ old head up,” Jaython said, brushing past him as he led Desmond into the building. Desmond followed but shook his ass and turned around to make eye contact with Thumper. Thumper removed his old-fashioned newsie cap as though going to formally woo a female, but he ain’t say peep. Desmond made a kissy face and licked his lips.
But he went in through the little door in the narrow alley beside the door to the barbershop, following Jaython. Desmond wanted to jack off with Thumper, but he needed to smoke meth.
“Fuckin’ old heads, man, I swear. If I ever get real old and obnoxious like that ashy-knee mothahfucker, just slit my goddamn throat, Desmond,” Jaython said. He almost never called Desmond by name, and it made Desmond smile — he was horny and excited about Thumper. As Desmond’s heart sped up in anticipation, Jaython opened the door to his apartment.
He did the deal as quick as he could with Jaython prattling on, and then Desmond pocketed the meth. He wanted to get back out there, so he bade his goodbye to Jaython and skedaddled. He had meth in his pocket straining to get smoked when he strode out to the building’s outfront. He barely even listened to Jaython say goodbye. Desmond could only think about Thumper.
And the meth.
“Sup,” Thumper said when Desmond came out. He was playing it cool, leaning against the wall of the barbershop. He glanced at Desmond with deep and dirty eyes. He musta known Desmond was here buying drugs, but he didn’t ask which one. Thumper was too thick to smoke meth, so Desmond didn’t mention it. He wasn’t one to share unless he had to.
His old head booty thickly beckoned Desmond. He sashayed in front of Thumper, who still played it cool. Desmond could tell he wanted to jack off too.
For one thing, Thumper been waiting out here, knowing Desmond would come out eventually. Now he rumbled like a demure earthquake, licking his teeth in Desmond’s direction. He shifted his hefty weight between his feet, and his wide nose wrinkled.
“Hi,” Desmond said with a winsome giggle. “My name’s Desmond.”
“Hmmm, you smooth as shit, Desmond.” Thumper took his newsie cap off, and his wrinkled face ruttled as he chewed on his lower lip.
Desmond leaned in and whispered near Thumper’s neck — he wore some kind of strong-smelling lotion, which Desmond inhaled deeply of. It was astringent and harsh, vaguely medicinal. “You wanna go somewhere?” He moaned in as feminine a manner as he could muster.
A baritone, raspy grunt came outta Thumper, like he was cumming already. He touched his crotch through his pants, rearranging the hardon that strained the fabric. He let out a little growl. “Boy, I bin lookin’ to get my dick wet, and you look plenty moist. I-“
“Yo old head, nice shoes!” A couple young black men walking by snickered. Thumper looked at them and nodded as though he ain’t realize they was teasing him. Thumper wore sneakers that was old and frayed and faded. As the young men left, they shoved each other towards Thumper and whispered as though issuing dares to approach him.
Thumper muttered, “Fuck them. Whatchoo doin’, boy?”
With an insouciant shrug, Desmond said, “I got no plans I couldn’t change, y’know… if something better came up.”
“Shit, you wanna come up to my place, sweetheart?”
Desmond nodded. “You aren’t gonna hurt me, will you?” He shook his ass in Thumper’s direction and followed him into the lobby of Jaython’s building.
Thumper whistled, a long, low sound. He glanced up and down the hallways to make sure ain’t no one there. Then he turned around, planted his lips on Desmond’s and rammed his tongue in. He wrapped his arms around Desmond, swooning, bending him and kissing him more passionately than any woman ever could.
But only for a few seconds. He let go, and Desmond almost fell to the ground.
“Sweetheart, I couldn’t nevuh hurt someone as pretty as you,” Thumper said. “You look like you ready to bust a nut, and I wanna jack off wit’choo.” He sidled up behind Desmond, his rock-hard dick plainly palpable and jutting against the fabric of his khakhis. He pistoned his hips against Desmond, dry-humping him through their clothes for a moment. Then he grunted. “Shit, I gonna make you feel so good you grow some titties. I can’t resist that. I was in prison fo’ a long time, boy, and I done learnt some lessons in there I wanna teach you.”
Exulting in the feel of Thumper’s heft and the warmth radiating off him, Desmond giggled and touched his bulgey-muscled arm through his shirt and jacket. “Hmmm… We need to go somewhere more private.”
“I can’t wait, baby, c’mon, lemme inside you-” He kept dry-humping Desmond, who made it to the elevators and pressed the up-button. His rammed rigid as rebar into Desmond’s thigh. “Oh shit, baby, I need you. You feel me? I’s hard fo’ you. I don’t even care you male, don’t bothuh me none, I can pretend like none othuh. Shit… You shook yo’ ass at me out there, I need you-“
“Okay, baby, wait-” Desmond said, grunting when Thumper’s muscle-humping became too intense to take — he was leaning on Desmond, and he was much heavier, so Desmond couldn’t support him. Thumper’s cock jutted against his pants and jabbed Desmond in the side through both men’s clothes.
The elevator door opened, and they both walked in. Thumper kissed him on the back of the neck. “Shit… we could stop this elevator between floors and-“
“Wait for me!” An old woman’s voice filled the air. Then, moments later, just as the doors shut, a cane appeared in the threshold. The doors stayed open.
A fat old lady in a colorful hat came in to the elevator, bustling in bursts and murmuring musically to herself. “Thank you, sweethearts — oh hello, Wendell, so good to see you. It was a lovely sermon this mornin’, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yes, Vera, Rev. Cherrymore is a wise man, drippin’ wit’ righteous,” Thumper said. He leaned awkwardly against the wall. His cock strained against the fabric of his pants. It would have been obvious if Vera looked down, but she seemed oblivious. “Vera, this my nephew…”
“Desmond.”
“My nephew Desmond,” Thumper said. His voice was throaty and tense. The elevator whirred into action and ascended. Thumper’s hand roamed over Desmond’s back, then slipped under his shirt and caressed his smooth skin. Thumper flexed his muscles and arched his back, subduing a moan.
“Nice to meet you, Desmond,” Vera said. “Did you go to church today, Desmond?”
“Uh…” Desmond paused for a long time. Then he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I was, uh… not around here though-“
“Well, as long as you go. Glory goes to the good lord on high,” Vera said. The elevator came to a stop on the second floor. She smiled at Thumper. “God bless you and yours, Wendell.” She gave Desmond a nod. “Desmond.” Then she walked out.

“Hmm-hmm, you too, ma’am,” Thumper said in a low growl. He shuffled out behind Desmond, who walked much more slowly than him. Thumper bumped into him from behind, and that massive erect dick rammed into the small of Desmond’s back.


A fruity giggle came from Desmond’s lips. “She called you Wendell,” he said.
Thumper squeezed his shoulder. “Hush up ’bout that,” he said. “That’s my chu’ch name.” Desmond continued to walk slowly. Thumper grunted, huffed and puffled, holding Desmond by the shoulder as though to push him — but he remained gentle, not actually pushing. His bulge rubbed against Desmond’s back.
Finally they made it to an apartment, and Thumper fumbled with his keys before he got the door open.
It was a sparse bachelor’s abode. There were no personal belongings, no decorations, just a plain couch, a chair, a Super Nintendo and clothes neatly folded in compact piles on the floor. Towels and clothes hung to dry on all the interior doors. They smelled like body soap, not laundry detergent. His mattress was on the floor, and the sheets wasn’t done up right, the bed unmade, just a tangle-pile of blankets, dirty socks and bedsheets.
“Oh my god, do you have the original Mario Kart?” Desmond said. He went right to the Super Nintendo. “I was unbeatable in that game.”
Thumper sidled up behind him, pawing over Desmond’s side. “You wanna play games, or… you wanna play a game?” He nuzzled Desmond’s back. “I wanna hear you make that sound you made before, that girlish sound. Let’s go in the other room. Leave yo’ phone out here.”
With a slim smile, Desmond squealed and moaned like a female. “Hmmm… Thumper, I want you to ravage me. I love jacking off.” He blushed and turned around to face Thumper, who hurried to drop his khakhis, all while slathering Desmond in sloppy kisses. Desmond dropped his phone as they made they way into the bedroom. “Sorry, I-” Desmond was cut off by a kiss. “Thumper, baby-“
“I need you, sweetheart. Whatchoo want me to do? Huh? I’ll make you feel so good, you don’t even know-” Thumper gyrated his hips, slamming his powerful body against Desmond.
“Why don’t you go sit down on that couch and relax. Let me worship you,” Desmond said. He pushed Thumper away and clucked his tongue, and then Thumper raced to jump onto the couch. He winced because his erect dick was slammed into his prison drawers, which he pulled down. His manhood stuck straight up, massive and already throbbing. It was thick and veiny, and it beckoned Desmond.
Desmond touched his dick, and Thumper threw his head back and moaned as though already finna cum. He gyrated his hips to hump Desmond’s hand.
With a guttural grunt, Thumper moaned, “C’mon, sweetheart, lick it, please? Please?-” His whole body buckled, like he gotsta hold back from humping Desmond hard.
“You don’t need to beg me, Thumper,” Desmond said. He licked his lips and ran his hand up and down Thumper’s pulsating shaft. “I want to worship you-” The more Desmond lazily stroked his dick, the more agitated Thumper became. It pulsated and humped Desmond’s hand. Thumper hyperventilated, hands flailing because he didn’t want to touch Desmond — he knew if he did, he would lose control. His cock throbbed angrily in Desmond’s grip. “I want to make you feel so good, baby. Will you take your shirt off?”
“Hell yeah, please, make it wet, okay? Make it wet? I need it, I need it, I need it-” Thumper ripped his shirt in his haste to get it off. He tossed it on the floor. “Sweetheart, I think I love you. Let me in you, okay? Lemme in you right now, get my dick wet.”
He moved frenetically, while Desmond got down on his knees, stroking with one hand and moving closer to actually slurping on Thumper’s manhood. Thumper’s thick body twisted above Desmond’s head.
Finally, Desmond planted his lips right on Thumper’s cocktip. He loudly, moistly suckled, producing as much spit as he could. He made a big mess. Thumper was in a frenzy the whole time, sitting up on his ass, then lifting his ass up and resting his fists on the couch, then dropping back, leaning his head back and moaning. He grabbed Desmond’s head, tried to plow into him, but Desmond resisted, so he let go.
“Shit, sweetheart, goddamn, you, shit, ah, damn, nigga, nigga, oh fuck, awwwwww goddamn,” Thumper said, gasping and moaning over and over.
Desmond smiled and pulled off his dick. “You taste so good.” He moaned and flopped Thumper’s cock — with precum already flowing down the shaft — over his face. “I love your dick, baby. I haven’t even tasted most of it. What part did you want me to lick next? The underside, like this?” Desmond giggled and slathered spit on the underside of his cock, tongue running up and down it. Thumper twitched. “Or maybe the other side-“
“Shit, c’mon, sweetheart, you got such nice lips, you know what I want, you know where I want ’em, I know you do. You just teasin’ me now. You teasin’ me-“
Desmond laughed. “Hmmm…. I bet you want me to do something like this.” He put Thumper’s dick back in his mouth and rammed his head all the way down, until his face was buried in Thumper’s unkempt pubic bush. Thumper let out a long low howl. He barked and twisted beneath Desmond, licking his lips and sucking in his breath.
“Goddamn, shit, shit, shit… You got it, go back and fort’ on it, go back and fort’ on it-” He gripped the couch cushions beneath himself, his toes curling. “You makin’ me feel good, nigga!”
Desmond went back to just sucking on the tip. He kept stroking too, with one hand, while his other gently massaged Thumper’s balls. They were heavy and low, and Desmond dragged his tongue down to them. He made eye contact with Thumper as he slurped the sweat off his sac.
“Shit, sweetheart, lemme stick you now, okay? Please? I wanna get in yo’ butt. I’ll make it nice and open first, okay? I’ll get in there and lick yo’ butt until it feels good. Lemme suck yo’ asshole.” He paused. “You shave yo’ ass, right?”
“Of course,” Desmond said. He bent over the couch next to Thumper, who was still sitting there.
Thumper grumbled and took a deep breath. He didn’t like eating boy-ass, but he had learned to slam males in prison, and in there, it became deeply ingrained in him that, if you wanted to be nice to a man, you got to lick his ass to open him up. Thumper wouldn’t want to do it if Desmond’s ass was hairy.
But it was smooth and inviting. As always happened, when he got close to that sweet boy-ass, Thumper’s inhibitions melted away. As long as his boy got a feminine shape and made feminine sounds and his skin was smooth like a girl’s, Thumper could lick a booty. It was a little bit of funk, a little difficult, a little gross, but that seemed like something necessary — it shouldn’t be too easy, Thumper thought, and he knew his dick hurt his bottoms, even the experienced ones, on account of his thickness, so it made sense to sacrifice to make it easier.
Desmond smelled of girlish fruity perfume anyway, so with his eyes closed, Thumper didn’t even have think about what he was licking. He plowed his face in there, scratchy beard hairs rubbing against Desmond’s cheeks. His tongue rammed right into Desmond’s tight hole.
“Ooh, your tongue is so big… It feels nice, lick it, baby, oh god…” Desmond moaned. He gritted his teeth as his own dick twitched and flexed. Pleasure wafted up his spine.
Thumper had never enjoyed licking ass like this. It had never tasted so good, so filthy and so clean all at once. He growled, lapping at that tight hole. At first he was just doing it because he thought he should, it was a rule in his mind — if a man is cooperating, a nigga should eat his butt open and get him off too — but now he did it cuz he wanted it, so he could taste every inch of it. That faintly funky odor just made it taste better. Thumper savored the mind-blowing flavor.
Then his tongue ran up Desmond’s back, making his spine pucker. He ignored the sound of Desmond’s shaky hands lighting his meth-pipe, and his nose wrinkled at the cloud of meth smoke blooming in the air. Thumper kissed a trail of moisture up Desmond’s spine, while Thumper’s cock moved up his legs to his sweet brown bottom. Thumper’s dick slid right into his ass. “Ah, damn, nigga, I’s inside ya…” Thumper hadn’t even meant to do that. He was going to rub his dick in Desmond’s moist asscrack first, before finally penetrating him, but Desmond’s ass had been so inviting it virtually sucked him in. “Oh fuck, that okay? You a’ight, sweetheart? You okay?”
“Hmm yeah, that-” Desmond gritted his teeth as a jolt of pain finally hit him — he was well-lubed with spit, so most of Thumper’s cock made it into him before there was any resistance. The meth in his lungs turned that pain to pleasure, so Desmond moaned and sucked in his breath. “It feels good, papi. It hurts just a bit, you can keep going-“
“Nah. Nah, I said I wasn’t gonna hurt’cha, no way,” Thumper said. He pulled his dick out, bent back over and went back to licking Desmond’s ass. This time his asshole gaped already, and Thumper’s tongue stretched it. Desmond cried out. Thumper noisily licked, slurping, sucking. He gagged because he could taste his own precum and the flavor of Desmond’s ass’s deepest recesses. But Thumper ain’t care — he loved watching Desmond squirm beneath his tongue’s tender touch.
“Oh god! Oh god!” Desmond gasped. He clutched the couch cushions beneath himself and lowered his head, raising his ass as high as he could.
“You ready, baby? I’m gettin’ back in there. Won’t hurt a bit! No way, I forbid it,” Thumper said. He gripped Desmond’s cheeks and slid in. This time there was indeed not a scrap of pain. Desmond’s ass was open wide and loose, ready to accept every inch of Thumper’s cock.
That was what Thumper wanted, and he was willing to lick male ass to get it — he got to plow in and out of Desmond, all the way, the full length of his cock ramming in. Desmond couldn’t stop huffing for more. Intense pleasure exploded in Thumper’s dick, running through his body in his veins and making him shout so loud his downstairs neighbors banged on the floor with a broomstick.
“Shush, sweetheart, we wakin’ up the neighbors…” He said even though he was the only one making noise, because he had been stamping his feet. He whinnied and got down even lower, his strapping-muscled chest rubbing over Desmond’s back.
“Cum inside me, okay? I wanna feel you cumming in me…” Desmond begged. He knew men loved to cum inside their bottoms, and they loved to hear him beg for it — since women often didn’t want it or used condoms to avoid pregnancy. Desmond cried out, repeating himself over and over. “Fill me up with your nut, please? Please?”
“Of course, of course, sweetheart, shit, goodness me-” He bit his lip and grunted as though his orgasm hurt. His hands even roamed around and gripped Desmond’s cock, stroking him just a few times to bring him to a methy orgasm. He simply needed to stimulate and touch and experience Desmond orgasming; he wanted to feel every bit of it.
So he stroked Desmond off with one hand, while his other hand kept Desmond’s ass in position. Grinding his dick around, he soon felt Desmond’s prostate — he could tell because, when he touched it, spraying his cumwad onto it, Desmond’s cock pulsated in his grasp. Desmond even dropped the glass pipe.
“Ah, shit, shit…. You feel me cummin’ in you? Lemme hear you, okay? Say it loud-“
“Oh god, you feel so good inside me! Yes! Yes!” Desmond shouted until Thumper shushed him and then put his free hand onto Desmond’s mouth. It tasted of clean assjuice and body hair and salty cum. Desmond sucked it all up off his palm, then sucked on each of Thumper’s fingers as he was filled with creamy hot jiss.
“Ah, shit, boy…” Thumper shot the last few drops of cum in him and shook his hips, making Desmond throw his head back and howl. Again the people beneath his apartment banged on their ceiling, and Thumper grumbled. “Them niggas best shut they fuckin’ faces up. We makin’ stink in here.”
“Hmmm… You feel so good inside me, baby…” Desmond said, his voice breaking because of the limpening dick inside his ass. He leaned back and kissed Thumper’s neck, while his hands desperately grabbed the glass pipe he had dropped. When Thumper began to remove his dick, Desmond gasped. “Wait, no, I ain’t done. Leave yo’ dick in me for a minute. I wanna feel it some more, it’s so big and so hot inside me… Please don’t take it out yet…”
“Course, sweetheart…” Thumper said with a chuckle. His cock was beginning to get pained because it was soft now, but his machismo wouldn’t let him take it out before his bottom was done. Desmond knew that, that was why he asked even though his own ass was beginning to get sore.
Thumper gasped. The exquisite sensitivity of his cock became apparent as his whole body twitched above Desmond. When Desmond clenched his ass around Thumper’s shaft, Thumper cried out loud, stamped his feet and kissed Desmond right on the lips.
“Hell, sweetheart, shit, shit… I love you so much…”
Desmond clucked his tongue. “No you don’t, baby, you’re just feeling good cuz I made you feel good. Okay, you can pull out now, I’m finished.” He sighed as Thumper pulled out. A banging sound could be heard downstairs.
“Shit… We ain’t gonna be alone much longer,” Thumper said with a chuckle. “Go hide, baby, they can’t know I’m messin’ wit’cha.” He kissed Desmond on the lips. “Them niggas ain’t never got locked up. They don’t get it.”
Desmond was gonna ask where he should hide when there came a loud banging on the door. Desmond scurried off to the bedroom, where he shut the door and shut his ears. He had his meth pipe in hand and cum dribbling out of his behind, and that was all that mattered. The baritone arguments wafting from the front door bothered him none.
“Yo! Thumper! You old-head mothahfuckah! I am tryin’ to get some goddamn sleep! I got off work-“
Thumper opened the door, still naked, his cock limp now but shiny and thickly throbbing between his legs. “You best not come up here yellin’ like a damn fool-“
“Whatchoo stompin’ around ’bout, naked as a shaved pussy, graytag?”
“I’s stompin’ to protest yo’ mama’s tasteless asshole!” Thumper shouted in that downstairs man’s face.
Their screaming degenerated into a brawl, as Thumper threw down a flurry of fists. Desmond poked his head out and smiled at the sight of them fighting. There was something arousing about seeing a naked man fight, Desmond thought. Thumper’s dick gleamed, flopping against his legs as he passed punches on to that downstairs neighbor, a younger prettyboy with fashion tats, short dreads and a swole lip.
Desmond hid again when he was almost seen. He settled down and sighed. He lit his pipe and exhaled a long plume of thick cloud. He loved the look of clouding meth smoke. It felt good to have plenty of meth for the night, not to mention a macho nigga with as much dick than Desmond could take.
It was gonna be a good night.

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Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter One

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Inside the bar was smoky and slow like a steamed cigarette. Thumper White got there just past five o’clock, and the jawn was quiet. He worked the door at the strip club Lipsweet. Outside, it looked like it might rain. Thumper hoped it did, as he wanna feel rain upon his brow. He spent thirty-four years in prison, where the screws canceled outside time if it might rain — they thinks rain might help a nigga escape — or “abscond” if you a prison guard. He bin waiting to get rained on.
But his dome stayed dry all night as he worked the door alongside this statue-shape nigga Davon. They mostly checked idees, but Thumper saw some nice titties too. After so much time without women, that was a perk that got Thumper reeling.
The lead-up to Thumper’s release was intense. His world opened up again and seemed as limitless as the teeming night sky. A nigga don’t see many stars in prison. But now he was out, and he relied on the club’s owner Mr. Gregarian for a cheapy-deapy place to sleep above the bar and for the job he needed to keep his parole — he gotsta work forty hours or go back to prison, even if he ain’t need all that to pay the bills. He got mandatory therapist appointments and narcotics anonymous meetings even though he never been a mental nor did he ever get accused of using narcotics anonymously. He gotta answer his goddamn phone anytime day or night in case his parole officer called. No excuses. Fucking phone was like a manacle.
A manacle that beeped unscrutable-like. If anybody reading this know how to make a whoopy-doopy-whoop beep stop, let a nigga know. Any nigga wearing red will do. Word’ll get back to Thumper.
His schedule was just as determined on the outside as it was on the inside. He got more privacy on the outside, and his apartment was nicer. But he had homies and choices and free backrubs from the reverend at chapel every Sunday on the inside.
Out here, homies was scarce. Every nigga he knew before his arrest was outta his life now. World was never smaller than now that he was free to walk it alone. Shoulda “absconded” when he was young enough that living free was worth it. Now he ain’t even allowed to leave the state of Maine, so he couldn’t go home to Baltimore and dip his toes in the mighty Chesapeake again.
Thumper was sposedta start bouncering tomorrow night, but the bouncer who was scheduled for tonight done bounce without telling nobody. They was surmising he quit cuz he ain’t show up. Just gone, like a ghost. Maybe he was dead, ain’t nobody check. Cuz he wasn’t around, Mr. Gregarian brought Thumper in tonight to work alongside Davon, who was the head bouncer.
“A’ight, old nigga, we comin’ up on the night proper,” Davon said around nine o’clock, shattering Thumper’s nod. Davon grinned ear to ear. “They be bustling in now. You ready?” A foursome of cars was pulling into the parking lot, each of ’em plum with hipstering honkies lashing on liquidishly like they done start they drinking back home.

Folks did that now. It was trash-high behavior back before, but nowadays every whombody did it. Drinks was expensive for real.

“Hell yeah, Davon, I bin waitin’ for this day for thirty-four years.”
Davon nodded, with a smirky grin like he ain’t get why Thumper said that but ain’t wanna listen to any clarification. He knew Thumper was a ex-con, he just don’t care enough to think about it. Davon was a Blood, same as Thumper. Unlike Thumper, Davon was also a mud-color darkskin prettyboy with teeth like a skeleton and lips made for kissing buttflaps. He was a jubilous talkalot who pretended to pal with people like a pushy puppy. Already he be pimping palms with honkies and addressing ’em like he knew ’em. “There you is, welcome back! Love to see ya, sohn! You keepin’ it real… Scott.” He got they names off they idees as he checked ’em, but he pretended he remembered ’em. In return, they all pretended to be charmed by him. Thumper done hung out with farts that was more interesting than that nothing-muffin. His forgettable six-pack and baby-clean name-brand jeans stretched a teaspoon of charismatic gravy over two hundred fifty pounds of that nigga’s salisbury steak. If niggas was books, Davon’d be a romance novel that was ten pages long but fulla correctly spelled words. Davon was a sea of smiles and dimples, the velveeta of niggas, like a cushion and a cloud didn’t bake a cake, and that cake was sugar-free, fat-free, declawed, defanged and stuffed with puffs of nothingness. That nigga gladhanded every one them no-hoot pecker-toters who lined up to exercise they stiffies in Lipsweet.
The difference between Thumper and Davon — aside from the obvious ones — was that Davon got no problem saying all the fool-ass shit the world want him to say. He do stick to the lines he been given, and he wanna be nice to everyone in case they got more lines to give him in the future. Thumper got no choice to follow Davon.
Well, not true. He could beat that handsome nigga into a ugly stain. Doing so might be preferable one night to pushing obedience at a smooth sac like Davon.
But for now, he do what Davon say, at least as it relates to bouncering.
Not much happened, even when the club filled up. Thumper was hoping for more excitement. Prison was buncha boredom, but at least there was chances to stab a Mexican. The one time a trio of numptious niggas nipped at a dancer’s derriere without proffering payment, it was Davon who brung them a basket of dimple-fried smiles to tell ’em to lay off — nigga was smiling! Seemed nuggety to Thumper, but it worked. Davon smiled more than every nigga Thumper met in prison combined.
Eventually, as time do be doing, it went on, and night’s close drew near. This was it. Thumper was a free nigga, and he got a job, and here it was. This was freedom. He bin imagined hisself living like he did when he was nineteen and a champion boxer and got a coach and high-quality knees and a posse of niggas with plans and he couldn’t swing his dick around without knocking down a white bitch flinging her pussy at him. Now, he gotta speak up to get any fool to pay him mind. He was just another nigga, not in charge of shit, not even within earshot of being in charge.
And, as Teddy the bartender did his last-call bit and Davon began hustling drunks and skunks out the bar like it was his job, Thumper ain’t like it that he was the low soul on the totem pole here. He was twice the age of Davon and Teddy, but they was calling his shots. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.
In prison, Thumper was the nigga who did and everybody knew it. Here, he was just the creepy old head, the new nigga, nobody’s uncle, the graybeard whoever over there.
Ain’t neither of ’em, Davon or Teddy, pick up any what Thumper was putting out. That was good, cuz Thumper need this job. He be simmering though.
He was still simmering when Lipsweet finally closed, and Teddy locked the door. Davon told Thumper to take this unconscious ruddynut to the alley out back and slap the drunkness outta him. Thumper just dropped him by the dumpster and went back in, more outta desire to be disobedient than cuzza mercy. The door back into Lipsweet done lock when it slammed shut, so Thumper gotta rattle his key in the knob to open it up. He ain’t tell Davon he left the ruddynut drunk unsmacked. Davon’s prettyboy mug was putting on a show for the girlies, who watched him tell a story like they worshipped him. Thumper wanna make a shiv, stab his bitch-ass and rip the smirk off his face.
But thirty-four years of prison ran through his old-nigga mind. Thumper fights mean, but he fights clean. So he ain’t do jack shit to Davon. He helped Teddy put the chairs on the tables, so the janitor Ernie could quit spinning his wheels in the backcorridor like a haunted car and come up front to mop.
While Ernie pretended not to steal drinks from behind the bar, Davon disappeared, so Thumper escorted the dancers out to they cars by hisself. When Thumper saw him later, he got the impression Davon got sucked off by one the dancers. Prolly this fiery chowder-white Cherry. None the dancers gave Thumper a second look. Half them ain’t give him a first look.
Looks is scarce for a old nigga outsidea prison.
Thumper overheard the dancers whisper about him as the uncool old nigga, as out-of-touch as a frozen caveman. Davon too, he was joking earlier with Bud the club deejay that Thumper was “old-school but not the cool kind of old-school, he’s old-school like an abandoned orphanage”. They all looked at him like a car nobody makes parts for anymore. Thumper pretended not to hear all them all badmouthing him. That was easy cuz they thought he got old-nigga ears.
When the strippers was all gone home to they coke dealers and/or the highest bidder — they gots expectations to fill, and they fills ’em good — Davon and Teddy dipped. Thumper went upstairs. The apartment Mr. Gregarian gave him was on the second floor.
This whole jawn, the Gregarian building, was a ratmaze of renovated hallways and uncomprehendable architecture, hallways to nowhere, lor tumor-like spaces that done pop up in corridors, scatterings of solitary steps and three-stair staircases. It prolly started off as a mansion. But it done got scrambled and scattered since then, and Thumper got lost when he went looking for the laundry room or Rajesh’s office (Rajesh was the computer man for the club, and he fixed Thumper’s phone when he got a undismissable storm about a missing Spanish girl named Kia Sorento).
He stopped short at a ruffle of fabric, a off-white like light bone, billowing just outta sight to the right atoppa the stairs. “Who’s’at? Yo, uh… ma’am?”
A old-fashioned dress, he thunk, but its tail was all he saw. No way, nothing the strippers at Lipsweet would wear. Them’s the only women he got a expectation to see here now. But outfronts was all over the block in this building, so getting lost and wandering up here was plausibility for a female.
Mind ain’t working right? Wonderment on whether he was having a stroke tolled within Thumper’s mind.
The ruffling sound stopped like a timeless clock. From bottom to top, Thumper got blocked. “You — ain’t — s’posed-ta — be — up — here…” Stumbling short to cork his lungs, Thumper de-posed and unbeckoned like a unloaded weapon, unable to reckon the undead howls afronta his face and bowels.
Beneath a lacy hood like a owl’s head, battle-spike leather and satellite dish feathers surrounded around her mask. A porcelain corpse, she stood like a goblin, in a necklace of coffins, dress waffling in a breeze Thumper ain’t feel. Buggy-mugging, Thumper’s stout mouth and burnt tongue crowded about curtly, but no words emerged to be heard. She silently brayed like birds and bees. Fabric faded like a murky wheeze, silent as a lady’s pleas, lined with lace from rusty seas, the musty dress must be dusty like shaker cheese. Her flaky bust squeezing together with the mask and the ghastly dress made up a way Thumper’s brain couldn’t grasp.
She slid like dead flowers fading fast past showers of parchment in this petrified hall of broken doors in rows run nigga run dead light flowing like salted moths. His boots got rooted soft, and his broth froze awful in the cold wafting off her. He wanna go run leave flee sprint depart, but he couldn’t start, stuck tucked in to unlucky skin. Something missing within, felt like prison again, boxed in like a outfoxed hen, a would-be has-been with a fist-free tin chin who spent his ever-lasting hell in a thin cell of superlative sin. He be dropping nocked wins and bleeding blistered insight.
“Indeed, Mister White,” she said kiss-tight, voice skin-deep and slight, flinty as blight and thick as grout. “I done lost my route in this labyrinth of drought.”
At a standstill-turnt-rout, Thumper was cloudy and stout like a landfill of doubt, crowded with the devout, and his will filled without tingles at all, leaving him small and unshingled. His brain dewrinkled. Self-caging, Thumper felt hisself aging. “Wha… What’cha lookin’ for…?” Enraging in stages, Thumper face to face with her, her lacy grace hurt like a basic church.
A racing lurch under that mask was, like a bug on her face, scuttling like gutter butter into her gullet. Thumper bugged up bullets, agasp at last, after thirty-four years of crafting sass at white crap.
Her voice done did clasp tight as a flask, highly muffled and slightly rasped. “My vast dear, I did dash here to bask in the theatre of fat and fear.” Her mask skittered still as her head cocked aside like a lizard in a rancorous blizzard. Her words set off one and two thoughtful missiles. “You a actor? You come new to the Bangor official, yes?”
“I just moved in. There.” His regret at saying that rumbled soon as spores of doom, but that score was all he got in store. His point was one finger at the door above the floor. He got wishes galore he ain’t spill which apartment was his. This was one white bitch he don’t want dropping by. “The theatre — the movie theatre is closed down. It’s on the other side of the building. It outfronts on Stranger. It’s down those stairs I think.”
“No, Mister White, it ain’t closed, but thank yo’ bones.” She spoke dank as hoes.
“Who… is you?”
“I’s only the bereft wedge of empty woes,” she said, after laughter bounced her dulcet hair. “But you may call me Delsinerr.” A blot of a nod did crest her croney pall, and her blunt cunt glid smooth as a fall down the hall as though she floated above the floor, yet the clogs she wore clicked like clomps on blocks of gore. A stompy rhythm bore her stepless tour, and the wetness of her necklace did clink more and more in sync with the swirling squall of her furious footfalls, hauling gall down Thumper’s maw, for She is They, a slay-bent cabal that shall rend and maul to the end of it all.

When she was gone, Thumper’s mind cleared swift as bisquick, and he breathed normal again. Reality reordered.

Thumper scurried into his apartment and locked the door. He dragged the couch to block the door too. Only then did he start pacing and peeping through his peephole until dawn.
He was lucky the next night was a night off, cuz he ain’t sleep a nickel. He decided to move out, to go to the homeless shelter until he could find a new apartment. He ain’t wanna spend another night in that building where She might come by again, and he sat by the window until daylight flooded his room.
Seeing the sun rise made him think of prison and getting up early as roosters to start work detail, him and bunchesa niggas and Aryans bleary-eyed watching the horizon from the prison bus. He liked seeing the sun rise. Makes a nigga feel human, and watching it now made that crazy Woman in White feel like a dream.
So, in the warm light of day, Thumper decided he musta hallucinated. That was some crazy nightmare or something. She weren’t real. He peered in the window of the movie theater that afternoon, the one on Stranger Street, and it was dusty as a sneeze, unused in years, just a empty lobby and ticket window, one overturnt chair the only furniture. Scatterings of tarnished pennies dotted the counter where the concession-stand register woulda been.
It was just a dream. Thumper weren’t gonna tell nobody about it, cuz if he did, they’d make him for a notiony nigga telling tales. Maybe they would be right.
Somehow, after a full day of sunlight, he did sleep that eve. He thought he’d lay awake again, trying not to think of that masked woman whose presence broke his mind. But he did eventually drift into a fitless sleep and awoke even more tired than the night before.
Then Davon came by after noon, arriving without warning, like a bland tornado. He came to take Thumper to the private gym in the building, outfronting near that movie theater on Stranger. Thumper bin meaning to get down to the gym, but he ain’t do it till Davon brung him there. Davon gave him a doodad to wave around another doodad on the door to make it open. Doodad magic, look it up.
Inside was battle ropes, dumbbells and medicine balls, plus treadmills and one them home bowflex sets. Davon went right to the bowflex and got to flexing, while Thumper walked slow and steady on the treadmill. Felt good to exercise his lungs — not lotta chances to ambulate in prison. The sunnyskin prison doc said to go easy on his heart though, cuz he got a rhythm, so Thumper kept the treadmill turtley.
“Man, my girl sucked me off last night so much my dick hurts,” Davon said between sets. He bin talking about his girl like he expected Thumper to care and be jealous and wanna know the details, but Thumper weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction. Davon done pause his lifting as he raised his eyebrows at Thumper. He was muscled, but he was polished like glass — you could tell he never used them muscles for nothing but impressing females. If a nigga gonna lift, he oughta lift proper. Be the nigga you is pretending to be. Davon said, with a snorty laugh, “Nutted like a dozen times. She got down to the root.”
“Which one?” Thumper asked. “A dancer?”
“Not a dancer. Got sucked off by a dancer too, the other day, but Cherry ain’t my girl. She just a side thang,” Davon said with a laugh. “That side thang keeps it real too, on the downlow. She know what she is.” He resumed lifting intermittent-like, stopping every couple words to look dreamy like a disney stallion. “Shit, my girlfriend is white. Not trashy neither. She nice white, and her mama got a hunk of butt.”
While Davon bothered on about his girl, Thumper got off the treadmill. His old-nigga meat was flopping up and down as he ran, and he wanna put on a jockstrap before he got back on there. Imagineering Davon’s female made Thumper wanna bust a nut, so he took his dick out and gave it a stroke.
In prison, that weren’t no thing. Nobody complained when Thumper let his pecker swing free. That’s cuz Thumper was the complaints department for his cell block, and he do regulate complainers. No room for whining, cells are too cramped. A nigga gots to maintain.
When Davon saw Thumper’s plonker plonking in the cold light of day, he wrinkled his nose — which you could tell never done got broke. If you never broke your nose, you never said nothing pointy, so you either never noticed nothing or you did but kept your pussywillow shut about it. Either way is bad news for a nigga. Both prolly apply to Davon’s buttery mug.
“Shit, you ain’t in prison no mo’, old man. Outside niggas don’t drop dong,” Davon said. “Put’cha drawers on.”
“Nah. You ain’t the boss of me, nigga,” Thumper said. Davon bin acting like he thought maybe he was the boss, and perhaps he was — in the club. But the world outside Lipsweet was vast, and Davon was nothing in it. Thumper let his dingadingdoo jiggle near Davon’s face.
“Man, Thump-“
“Shut up when a old nigga is talking to you. You is in charge of the bouncers, Davon. You tell me how to bounce, you tell me how to clock in at the pill-” That made Davon suck on his teeth — the time-clock for the bar was on a “tablet” — which was a big phone — Thumper don’t like phones and he don’t like tablets — but a tablet was also a pill, so Thumper called the tablet a pill — Davon was too cute for wordplay. “But you don’t tell me how to do nothing else. Is there any female back here? Or kiddies?”
“No.”
“Then I’mma take my dick out when I feel like it. Get to liftin’, nigga. You ain’t big enough yet.” Thumper gently pushed Davon to lay down and do some bench-presses.
Davon turned up that perfect nose that never got broke. “Don’chu — this is a Gregarian gym, nigga. I work for Mr. Gregarian.”
Thumper scoffed. “Mistuh Gregarian work for the Bloods.” He pretend-rammed his dick at Davon’s face, but he ain’t touch Davon’s lips. Yet. Davon did look sickly at the smell of Thumper’s sweaty old-nigga balls dangling in the direction of his handsomeness. “And I did thirty-four years for the Bloods. You ain’t been alive thirty-four years. Lift, nigga. Use them muscles.” Davon did a benchpress, but he did it with a snort like he weren’t doing it cuz Thumper said so.
Looming large as a barge, Thumper remained overtop Davon’s crotch, straddling him now like a conquering colossus and slapping his stick on Davon’s six-pack. Davon kept his too-good face stoic as he lifted. Thumper pulled down Davon’s shorts.
“Whatchoo doin’, nigga?”
“Just playin’, don’t be squeamish,” Thumper said. Davon’s smooth cock spilled out, and Thumper gave it a stroke. Davon kept doing his bench presses like a smile-hard nigga who wouldn’t never challenge nothing. So he just lifted weights and let Thumper frot they wigwams together.
A hard sigh came from Davon, and Thumper felt the sigh rattle up and down Davon’s smooth shaft. Davon rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a freak, Thump. Get with the times,” he said softly, like he don’t expect Thumper to respond. Thumper got no response to that. He was getting with the times. He stepped outta time for thirty-four years, that was all. Thumper weren’t sure yet he even wanna catch up.
Thumper liked the feel of Davon’s prettyboy meat, limp as lips, rubbing on his shaft. Soon enough Thumper was firming up. He humped his erect cock onto Davon’s softness. Felt good to touch tugboats with another nigga again. Thumper ain’t done that since prison. Davon ain’t never been locked up, so he weren’t used to it and he ain’t get hard. That was fine. Made his dingaling squishy and moist and warm and fun to rub up against, like humping pudding.
“Yo, Davon, you know a masked woman? You seen her around this building?” Thumper asked. Davon looked at him like a crazy old fool, and Thumper added, “She like… wearin’ a dress, got a mask like a owl. She… weird. Weird as hell, nigga.”
Davon shrugged. “Maryanne wear a mask when she dance sometimes.”
“I met Maryanne. It weren’t Maryanne,” Thumper said. Precum oozed outta his cocktip and soaked Davon’s shaft. “Does that theater ever do plays?”
“The theater? On Stranger? That’s a movie theater,” Davon said. He stopped doing bench presses. “And it don’t even do movies no more. Shut down years ago. Nothing in there.” He looked down his body at his own cock, which was fat and juicy, glistening with Thumper’s precum. Thumper be stabbing his own manhood atop Davon’s over and over, like he was fucking a invisible pussy.
Thumper nodded. “Thought so, nigga,” he said like that was the answer he was expecting. He threw his head back as he orgasmed all over Davon’s limp meat. Thumper do love frotting with a squeamish nigga like Davon, who screwed up his face like a screwdriver, as a long flow of jizz sprayed atop his chest.
He got them perky chest muscles that girls love, pecs that’s big but never see no use aside from flexing to impress the females. Thumper’s first jizz was a big-ass splat of nut that went all the way from Davon’s shoulders to his glamorous six-pack — shit, don’t that nigga ever eat a carb? Then it puddled in his sternum, and Thumper scooted forward to aim his spasming pecker for Davon’s mouth.
That jizz only reached to his chin and lower lip though. It was enough to make Davon sour up, and Thumper shot yet another burst of cream onto Davon’s soap-opera jawline. Davon’s eyes wrinkled. Cum roped over his cheeks and nose.
“Ewwhhh, ni-hha!” Davon clenched his mouth shut.
All that cum lay congealing in a soup on Davon’s stomach and face. Big creamy wads of jism kept on coming out, until Davon’s entire face gleamed in the dim gym light. Davon twitched and writhed like he ain’t never before struggle to show off his nonchalance. Thumper chuckled and kept on humping Davon’s shaved cum-splattered chest till Thumper’s dick was just as soft and spongy as Davon’s.
That nigga weren’t so clean no more. That was good to see. Thumper do enjoy making clean niggas dirty.
Thumper got off him, and Davon sat up. He wiped nut off his nose. “You is one nasty old nigga-” He stopped to gag cuz some salty cum slipped into his mouth. “Be cool-” Another gag rippled through him, and he spat up jizz like a burping baby. “Nigga, be cool, shit, Thump…”
“Never forget, Davon, that you is only in charge of my bouncering,” Thumper said. He flicked his dick in Davon’s direction, making a few drops of jizz splatter over Davon’s shoulder. “In e’rrything else, this nasty old nigga do pave his own road.”

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 Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Two

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.

He ain’t know how long he stood there, eyes agogging that playbill. He was roused only when he heard some hubbubery in Lipsweet. He hustled hisself down and stalked into the backa the bar. He hushed up a heap of honkies, and he made sure to do it loud so Davon would hear. That way it looked like he be working, not shirking.


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.

The door to his apartment opened with a slow creak, and Thumper rose to stand upon his old feet. He wanna take a shank and shiv whichever nitwit just did strid into his crib unbid.

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

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Three

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

Mr. Perry stood over Thumper like a pagan idol, aiming his frowns down at Thumper’s mug. Thumper ain’t let it shake him, which was what Mr. Perry wanted. In prison, he stood down honkies who coulda, woulda, gonna, loveta and done did eat a dozen workface sumbitches like Mr. Perry for lunch, and they’d follow it up with meatloaf straight out the prison mess! Thumper bin telling Mr. Perry he worked for Bangor Night Security, and Mr. Perry only just now realized that meant bouncering at Lipsweet.
Soon as Thumper said the names ‘Lipsweet’ and ‘Mr. Gregarian’, Mr. Perry started inquisiting. All Thumper did at Lipsweet was check idees and make sure men don’t nip at ladies. Mr. Perry got a hankering that bouncers was gang enforcers and drug dealers.
Technicably, Thumper was a enforcer for the Bloods still — since Thumper got parole breathing down his neck, the Bloods wasn’t assigning him tasks right now — but Mr. Gregarian got nothing to do with that. Bouncering was a real job with a paycheck they take taxes out of.
Mr. Perry seemed unlikely to give Thumper permission to visit Baltimore. He was gonna axe today, but he thought better of that plan. Best to wait until he might say yes.

“I’d appreciate it if you got a better job, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. He called him ‘Wendell’ cuz he thought ‘Thumper’ was a gang name. It wasn’t, it was a boxing name. Back in Thumper’s day, he did thump bunchesa niggas and a nickname popped outta ’em. “Bouncering at a strip club is practically gangsterism, and don’t think for a second I accept Mr. Gregarian as a law-abiding citizen — he’s a gangster, and you do what he says. That makes you a gangster.”

Thumper shrugged. “You said I gotta have a job. I got a job. It ain’t illegal. I do what I is told. I pay taxes, got a bank account and e’rrything.” He phoned out to show Mr. Perry the bank app. “The bank is on my phone, swear to God, Mistuh Perry, it’s real. Rajesh showed me how. You just tap on it. Paychecks is on the phone too. Tap, zoooooop, boom, there it goes, paycheck gets emailed to the bank, taxes go out, money all gone. You don’t even gotta spend it. You know strippers get paid by phone too? You can text a eggplant to a pussy. Modern world is bullshit, suh.
“You better take this seriously,” Mr. Perry said. Him and Thumper was in his office at the parole board’s building downtown. His office was a rinky-dinky closet that was mostly fulla desk. The laptop on it be looking creaky, like it ain’t got turned on in years. Mr. Perry was a analog honky. That was his best quality.
“I’s stickin’ with the rightness of the law, suh,” Thumper said. “Don’t seem fair to say I gotta-“
“I will tell you what’s fair. I can tell you to quit any job I think isn’t conducive to your rehabilitation,” he said. “It means ‘helpful to-“
“I know what it means!” Thumper said with a snapdown. Mr. Perry was stacking lips at Thumper, like Thumper was a retard, but he lived beyond Mr. Perry’s expectations of a ex-con. “You said to work full-time. I’s workin’ full-time. Ain’t do nothin’ wrong, nothin’.” He sat and glowered in the chair. “Lipsweet is propuh, suh.”
Mr. Perry was quiet for a long time. As if on cue, he stood up and looked down his nose like Thumper was in the backstage of his mind plotting against him. Thumper be stone-facing and pitching flatness at Mr. Perry’s dreamy-owl eyes. “Lipsweet still got that blonde? Caitlin?”
“Caitlin Smiles, suh. Yes, yeah, she still there,” Thumper said. Mr. Perry was looking misty now. Thumper kept his mug still. “She pretty as a pumpkin, suh. Tits like a ol’ country buffet.” He didn’t mention that, when he talked to Caitlin Smiles the other day, she done snicker the whole time like she was too perfect to talk to a uncool old man who smell like a laundromat.
That was Thumper, but it was Mr. Perry too.
“Hmmm-hmm…” Mr. Perry murmured soft-like. He put one hand on Thumper’s shoulder. “I don’t go to Lipsweet no mo’, mind you. I got a wife. But I do recall her from back when I was letting my stiffies guide me, insteada Jesus.”
“Yessuh,” Thumper said.
He cleared his throat. “The problem I have with this, with you working at Lipsweet… It don’t show no dedication to cidivism. It suggests you’s tryin’ to dance on the edges of the law. I have a hard time believin’ Mr. Gregarian never asks you to do nothing illegal.”
Thumper shook his head. “It ain’t like that, suh,” he said. “Mr. Gregarian don’t want his bouncers gettin’ in trouble — city council, he said, they got rules for him, they ridin’ his ass ’bout crime and shit, had a bartender caught selling coke couple months ago, he don’t want the heat. He say bouncers gotta stay squeaky-clean, and he a righteous honky, suh. He go to a ethnic chuhch.”
“Hmmm-hmm…” Mr. Perry said, standing tall next to the seated Thumper. Mr. Perry stayed deep in his ponders, maybe wondering if Thumper was telling the truth or could be he was still on that Caitlin Smiles train. “You willin’ to prove to me that you got dedication in ya heart, Wendell?”
Thumper nodded. “Yessuh.”
Mr. Perry unzipped his fly and let his cock plop out. It jabbed Thumper in the forehead. It was spongy and soft still, and it had that familiar clammy-skin texture. Thumper done taste a tog or two in his time. He ignored it. Mr. Perry prolly wanted him to react like a inside-nigga, so Mr. Perry could treat him like one.
Thumper weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction. He did learn in prison that a nigga who do what’s expected of him gonna end up in low places cuz folks got low expectations of niggas. Thumper ain’t a default nigga.
He kept his mouth shut, like he ain’t notice Mr. Perry’s dick ramming his nose and teasing his upper lip. The taste hit his tongue, but Thumper bit back his revulsion. Mr. Perry grabbed Thumper’s hand and dragged it to his cocktip. Thumper gripped it, but he ain’t stroke it. Mr. Perry ain’t even told him to, so Thumper sat there like a topaz.
Thumper winced when he heard Mr. Perry moaning, and his cock thwacked Thumper on his lips and teeth. His meat firmed up in Thumper’s hand. It was kinda lor but not small enough to laugh about it. It was a normal honky-sized dingle, and you know Thumper know his way around them.
Still don’t wanna taste it.
Neverthelessly, Thumper ain’t gonna complain, cuz that was what Mr. Perry wanted. Mr. Perry ain’t even demand he open his mouth or slurp on the knob or nothing. Pussy-ass honky. If Thumper gonna throat a nigga down, you best believe that nigga is gonna gape his gullet.
But all he gotta do for Mr. Perry’s chowder-white dingdong was not bite it off, and anyway, crackers all taste crackery. Thumper ain’t close his eyes neither, so Mr. Perry wouldn’t think he was shook.
Soon enough Thumper’s mouth was open enough for Mr. Perry to stick his worm in and out, and it hit Thumper in the backa his mouth but not deep enough to make him gag too hard. He did retch a couple times when it rammed him deeper in there. Mr. Perry weren’t trying-a get all the way down though, he was just humping the tip on Thumper’s tongue.
Precum flowed like a river and coated Thumper’s gums. He felt it oozing into his mouth. Thumper hadta hold back a cringe, cuz he ain’t wanna look submissive. The taste was salty and intense.
He squeezed his lips around the shaft to give some friction — Thumper don’t wanna drag this out, after all — and that made Mr. Perry break out in baritone walrusy moans, rabbit-daggering his bunny into Thumper’s mouth. The precum be flowing plentiful now. Thumper knew better than to wipe it off his lips — it’d seem like it’d reduce the taste, but it would just smear it all over — so he kept his hands down.
Then, without a word of warning, Mr. Perry shot a fat load into Thumper’s throat. He pulled out to finish his self off with his hands — that’s some weak-knee honky shit — a nigga do finish inside. Great big gobs of goo coated Thumper’s nose and cheeks, and it dripped down to his chin and shoulders.
Not a huge cumload. Thumper done took more bigger ones than that from uglier honkies than Mr. Perry. Ain’t fun though. He let Mr. Perry jack off right on his face. At least he ain’t make Thumper open up again and swallow. He was content to get his own self off onto Thumper’s face, and when his dingdong done ding its last dong, he let it flop afronta Thumper’s mouth.
Thumper sat there stony, his face dripping with cum. He weren’t gonna gasp to wipe it off like some fresh fish whiteboy. Mr. Perry was watching him for a reaction.

“Good. I’m glad you’ve developed some self-control. You can go,” Mr. Perry said. He leaned against his desk with his dingle dangling out the fly of his workaday khakhis.
Thumper walked out and wiped his face off as soon as Mr. Perry couldn’t see. He spat up all the salty cum he could get outta his mouth, and he wiped his tongue off with a paper towel from the shitter in the parole and probation building.
Damn, the taste of jizz do stick to a nigga tongue. Thumper gotta smoke a fug to get rid of it.
He went home, walking like a nigga who ain’t just take a honky hullabaloo in his mouth. Walking with a low-hanging expression was begging a nigga to lay you out, so Thumper kept it real. His chin stayed high. The sky stayed higher, sun beating down, no clouds to block its rays.
Despite keeping his chin up, he felt low, even after he got home and took a shower. At least he felt clean then, and eventually, Thumper drifted to sleep on the couch..

A brilliant bulb awoke him, and Thumper stumbled in place as his face braced to smite. An array of bright lights at height laced into him like some kinds of whites might. His mind now did kite upon a stage that stank of shite and shame. Thumper was tight, lame as a sudden name, and he did fight to awaken his bacon.


Shaking his fakest of flanks, Thumper’s noodle be baking, making the opposite of bank. He dim as done beats took in a lake of empty seats, aching his knees right. The blinding lights be lining his sight with nothing but ruinous white like luminous bricks. Lurching right, a-twitch with fright, he done slipt, like a zombie out a crypt.
A script. In his mitt. One piece of paper, to wit. Words that bit, in a font that fits and that tapers fine to the tightest of tips.
It was a script with lines for a nigga to sip, highlighted in white — a dialogue to rip. The script had lines between so many lips of nigga-amigos named Thumper and Rico.
Thumper don’t know no Rico or the words the script do speak of.
Then like a leaky glove, she shoved into sight, reeking of the weakness of love — the Woman in White, whose skin flowed together with her multi-folded dress and the owl-like feathers surrounding her horrible mask. Before him she stood like a conquering avenging murdering invading angel of odd angles, and Thumper spiraled like bells into bangles, while her mask from hell returned him to that mousy cell, where he couldn’t run or fly or hide or ride.
“Mister White,” she said like a lie without pride, and once again, the movements of her mug and the motion of her mouth like tides behind her mask of flowing whys ain’t match the scurrilous fly that crawled out the sides. “Glad to sight yo’ eyes.”
“You again… Delsinerr.” Amid sighs, Thumper meant to go on, but he was dumb-struck like by a dumptruck. Again he be stuck in the muck of her pityless pluck and his debonair suck, and her foul air made him slouch and tear, his thoughts nowhere, not a wrinkle unspared. “Where am I?”
“On stage. You see the pages in yo’ face?” she asked like facts.
“Why… ? It — am I dreaming? Is this real? I-“
“Yes, and yes,” she said unpressed in a voice from pursed bony lips cursed with toney tints. “First, look at the script.”
“I see it.” He squinted his old-nigga asians to unblur the words outta they evasions. Drying to raisins like dark violence, Thumper endured her invasions and did cry in brazen silence, as he read the script of the minute. In it, ‘Thumper’ piloted ‘Rico’ into killing and raping ‘Cherry’ like a torpedo of daring.
“Enact this squarely,” she said, “If you want the treasure I’m fairly giving, to audition for my vision for this play.”
“I ain’t a actor.”
“Needless to say. We don’t cast actors for this chapter’s phase. With blue and white grace, we raptors prefer a more true-to-life gaze,” she said in line with a maze, bleeding fine baffling laughter from her mouth’s rafters, meting rhymes like a captor casting after feeding time. “Reading lines is what but one part of the custom to start for you to drum through. Yo’ audition may yet come true.” Her blunderous wig was chewed asunder quick by the bug under it. “You must mug a ho through a young’in to steal a soul and be made whole so so long ago.” Her words feeled faux yet as real as reality goes.
Then Thumper awoke, feeling old, skin hot and yet cold.
But that was it. She was gone. His mind worked fine now, or fine as it had since he got old. He sat up in bed, sweat streaming down his neck despite his shivering with an icy chill. Pain twanged his chest, and it felt like he was infarcting. But when the sensation soon dwindled, he took a deep breath.
Even after he felt better, it was a long time before he could get back to sleep.

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 Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Four

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

The Bloods meeting was at the barbershop on the same street as Lipsweet. The Gregarian building was built around the barbershop, a forgotten story of bricks whose backyard done sprout that monstrosity that grew to take over the resta the block. Thumper’s bladder neck be bugging when he got there, so he first went to take a piss, the sound of niggas gathering in the barbershop growing louder as they arrived in small groups. All the hoopdey-hoos in the Bloods came to the meeting.
He ain’t understand why Carson wanted him — Carson was the head nigga in the Bloods of Bangor. Thumper was a Blood, but he wasn’t involved in any Blood business, and he was on parole, so he couldn’t do much. His parole officer be riding his tail for real, and parolees got no constitutionals against being recorded, followed or searched.
So putting a parolee on anything important was foolish as tossing beans.
Still, it felt good to be surrounded by real-time niggas again, just like in lockup. He got to the barbershop early, so he got nothing to do. That was just like lockup too. He ain’t know none the niggas who gathered, which was unlike lockup, except for Davon, who showed up like a smooth sac of pointless dimples, smiling at everything but responding to nothing, like he ran outta reality, looking like a charred koala bear, shit, he just sat there, like a boatload of cuteness collided with a glacier of too-good-for-this and went down in a sea of swooning females. He got on a shiny shirt with like Chinese letters or some shit all over it, like Davon was too handsome for the English alphabet. He wore a white band-aid on his cheek too. As if he’d ever risk letting his cheekbone get cut.
Them niggas Thumper don’t know was milling and filling the air through with gab and daps and hairdos, but Thumper sat alone. They all avoided watching him brood like a bothered tiger. That’s what Thumper woulda thunk too, thirty-some years ago, if he saw a cast-iron nigga sitting on his lonesome surrounded by young cats he ain’t talk to. He ain’t put out menace, but they all picked it up. Outgoing ex-cons get a million nosey questions from numptious niggas, so Thumper was glad to scare ’em off. If they all got to chatting at him like lightbulby poppa-rot-seas, he’d-a most likely dropped one or maybe all. So he gloomed around like a ex-con who pretty niggas should stay away from, and they did so, wise as newspapers.
A young nigga named Rico came in just before Carson got to talking. That grabbed Thumper’s attention — Rico was the other nigga from that script Delsinerr gave him. The name sounded omens to Thumper.
Rico also attracted Thumper’s eye cuz he was young and high yellow, cool as a pear and dimpley like a golf ball, dimpley like Davon — but Rico’s dimples was less arrogant. Rico was the kinda young nigga Thumper woulda got to know real good in prison. Thumper woulda shared a bunk with Rico, and he’d-a bin got Rico to feel some love deep in his heart, deep enough to make Rico bend over and spread his cheeks. Rico was handsome as a kangaroo, handsome enough to make Thumper forget about women during the cold of a empty night. Thumper would teach Rico how to get a nut off without women, and Rico would teach Thumper all the cool modern lingo that handsome young niggas say.
Doing time for the Bloods meant Thumper still got respect here. Frightened respect, but that still counts. When Thumper told Rico to come sit by him, Rico got no choice but to fulfill every one of Thumper’s expectations. Namely, to sit next to him so Thumper could go grope-a-dope during the meeting. Rico and Thumper got naked as noodles too — all the niggas in the meeting got naked, as Carson requisited. That was to ensure nobody got no recording devices and so nobody could palm no heroin when they weighed it out into lor baggies later.
Not a matter of trust. If it’s a rule you enforce every time, it’s no big deal. If you only make a nigga do it when you don’t trust him, then every time you do it, it’s a big deal, it’s telling a nigga he ain’t trusted and prolly won’t never be. So Carson made ’em do it every time, and no nigga felt singled out.

Thumper did feel singled out due to his out-of-fashion clothes. All the niggas snuck secret snickers at his old-school jeans, which he bought at a thrift store cuz he couldn’t find a normal men’s clothing store. They looked at him like a accidental dinosaur.

Naked, Davon looked like modern music sounded. Goddamn Thumper do hate him. He held Rico close like it would protect Thumper from Davon being a tubba shit. Rico was high on his frowns when they all took they clothes off. He was bitsy and cute like a baby snapping turtle, both skinny and muscular, and he carried hisself like he ain’t realize he was young and pretty and short. Once he stripped outta his fancy shirt and his pokeymon shoes, he was looking even littler and handsomer. He sat down afront Thumper, who wrapped his arms around his back. Thumper’s hot crotch touched Rico on his spine, which felt good as candy to Thumper.
“Hmm-“
“Nigga…” Rico bristled, but he ain’t fight. He let Thumper hug him from behind. Lotta niggas was touching muchly in they nakedness during the meeting, as Carson went on about the need to send niggas to the college campus. That was untapped territory, Carson said. But it was a men’s college. Nobody wanna do it cuz a nigga never gonna get pussy on campus, and Carson bin telling them for months to sling there.
“Ssssh…” Thumper said soft as a teddy bear into Rico’s ear. Rico’s muscles rippled beneath his touch, as Thumper’s hands drifted up and down Rico’s arms. Rico stayed tense. His head looked around frantic as a llama like he hoped the touch-police noticed Thumper’s fingers. Not a nigga noticed cuz him and Thumper sat in the back. Carson musta seen, but Carson let Thumper do his thing — Thumper’s current thing was Rico. Thumper done his time for the Bloods, and he was allowed to take liberties with a nigga when he need to.
Finally Carson ordered some bangers to sling heroin at the college campus. He told ’em he’d send some hos they way if they did good enough, and that was enough to quiet they rumbles of discontent. Carson wanted the gang to take every inch of this city, cuz otherwise the Crips or the Latin Kings or somebody else would take it.
Or the Seventh Street Playas. They was some rap-eyed niggas who done peel off from the Crips. That was good. They ain’t join up with the Bloods though. That was bad. They was “gramming” videos in a instant, and in ’em, they claimed Bangor was all Seventh Street Playas territory. Thumper ain’t wanna axe what gramming is, less he confirm he was a out-of-touch old head. If they wanna claim a whole city, why’d they name theyselves after one street? Dumbass niggas doing dumbass nigga shit. Mention of ’em caused the naked niggas all around to erupt in naysays and whoops. It got the whole room worked up enough for they dinkydoos to jiggle like excited baseball bats.
“We need some niggas to strike at the Seventh Street Playas. They a buncha triflin’ niggas, they ain’t shit. We know where they got they HQ,” Carson said. “We know they schedule. You can hit ’em when they ain’t barely got nobody there. Might have to shoot some niggas, and you’ll come away with weight for sure.”
Ain’t not a nigga say a word.
The silence grew taut as a wire, and Thumper reckoned that Carson expected him to volunteer hisself. Thumper done time for the Bloods, so they was obligationed toward him. But duties went both ways. Thumper could still get gived a assignment.
Still, he kept both hands around Rico’s waist and kept his lips shut, despite Rico standing up on his frowns. Then some other nigga spoke up, and he said he could do something, but from the murmurs hushing under and the unconfident look on Carson’s face, Thumper gathered that that other nigga wasn’t regarded as capable of doing what it took.
But Carson ain’t say peep to Thumper. He just moved on without a solution to the Seventh Street Playas problem. They finished up Bloods business, and then they all got to weighing out heroin. Thumper ain’t weigh much, he focused on rubbing Rico all over. Rico focused on frowning and scooting away, you know how a young nigga do! All them other ugly niggas focused on not looking at Rico or hearing him protest. Nobody wanna see where Thumper’s hands went.
Davon ain’t stick around, cuz he gotta go home and polish his dimples. He prolly got honkies to suck up to and women to agree with. Or maybe he worked at Lipsweet tonight. Anyway, Thumper still be hating on him till he walked out the door. His drawers was plain white tonight, as was his band-aid, but you could tell them drawers was some name-brand, prolly something Italian, bet they cost a pretty penny and he’d throw ’em away if they ever get a skidmark, goddamn, he too good to fart. Thumper ain’t gonna fixate on that nigga though. Not when he got a young pretty thing like Rico to touch all over. Rico be mad on that frown train, choo choo! His frown made his muscles pucker and ripple and shine! Davon wouldn’t never allure a nigga, that was the difference between him and Rico.
“Rico, Thumper, you two stay behind fo’ a second,” Carson said when the weighing was done. He told the rest them niggas to put they clothes on and bounce.
They all did as told, while Rico tensed up like a bossy tambourine. Thumper hugged tight on Rico’s shoulders from behind him, and his hands roamed up and down Rico’s chest. Rico be bugging. All the other niggas whisked off into the rainless night, and the now-dressed Carson looked at Thumper and Rico — who stayed naked — like he ain’t notice Thumper’s hands running up and down Rico’s tight body.
Carson done met a booty bandit, so he weren’t shook up. All them niggas was prolly laughing about it soon as they left the barbershop. Thumper looked silly to young eyes. Rico was just eighteen, and he ain’t know a booty bandit was a real thing, he thought it was the nigga equivalent of a werewolf, something to be afraid of but not believe in. Rico pouted like a teapot beneath Thumper’s leathery hands. His dick throbbed where it lay hot as a rocket against Rico’s back.
It wasn’t erect, but if Thumper moved it, it prolly would be. So Thumper kept his stick still as a statue while his hands did they exploratories.
Then Carson said, with a wrinkle of his wide nose, “Rico, Thumper, glad you two met. Rico, you gonna be livin’ ‘bove the bar, in Thumper’s place.”
That sounded fine as fuck to Thumper. He ain’t live alone for a long time, so a roommate would be nice. He liked the idea of having a prettyboy nigga around to touch bunches. Rico got a nice shiny booty too, and you know Thumper love a shiny nigga.
Rico got less love for that idea. “What? C’mon, Carson, I don’t wanna live with old nigga! He lame! He could be my grandpa! Be cool, nigga!”
“Shut up, pup,” Thumper said, still hugging Rico from behind. Rico’s perfectly seductive muscles stayed as firm as his frown. Thumper wondered what Rico was gonna do if he met Delsinerr — prolly run away screaming and live the resta his life in a asylum. That was how almost everyone responded, Thumper was pretty sure. He was different cuzza his time in prison. He lost the flight part of his fight or flight instinct, but he was smart enough not to fight Delsinerr. Rico would flight and lose touch with reality. Prolly wouldn’t be pretty no more.
“You said you’d get me a place to live, not a spot on old nigga’s couch-“
“I got a bed, nigga!” Thumper wagged a finger at Rico.
“Old nigga smell like a band-aid! He prolly watch the news! Drinkin’ tea and shit, damn, Carson, I can’t bring bitches ovuh wit’ him there-” Rico shrank back when Thumper shot a dirty look down at him.
“Yes, you can,” Thumper said. “You got a female, bring her ovuh! We can double-team her. Go dick to dick in her pussy if she loose enough. Or you can lick her clit while I fuck her. You can slurp my jizz out her asshole, nigga. Shluurp! Hmm-hmm, yummy-“
“Step off, old nigga!”
Carson held out one hand and scrunched his face into a discomfitted mug. “Shut the fuck up, Rico. You needed a place to live. I got you one. Quit yo’ bitchin’, nigguh,” he said. “Go get settled in, Rico. I’ll come by later.”
They moved to get dressed as Carson left. Rico was conducting the frown train that whole time. Looking like he’s owed the world, damn did that nigga have a cute frown. Thumper wanna stick a dress on his frown and marry it.
After grabbing a duffel bag he done left in the barbershop, Rico walked with heavy steps up to the Gregarian building and then up to the apartment. Thumper was more eager. He felt like a lor boy having a sleepover back in Baltimore again.
“C’mon, nigga, we go’n have fun, swear to God. You go’n love livin’ wit’ me.”
But Rico clucked his tongue against his teeth, and he ain’t say nothing. He was still sullen as a stew when they got into the apartment, and Rico aimed his frown at that solo bed. Rico weren’t a share-a-bed kinda nigga, it seemed.
“You only got one bed,” Rico said.
Thumper nodded. “You some kinda mathematician or something?”
“No, I just… You said you had a bed for me.”
“I said I had a bed. It’s right there. We go’n be snug as a hug, my nigga.”
Rico looked like he was brainstorming a way outta this, as Thumper pulled down Rico’s pants. Rico was took unawares. He was one them niggas with dimples so perfect on his face that they spread to his asscheeks too. Shiny as wine! Thumper licked his lips. Rico was pretty like Davon, but Davon was easygoing, while Rico go some bite in his back. And Rico was a decade younger than Davon. Maybe in ten years, Rico be smiling like Davon, but for now he was frowning like a faggot of sultry sticks.
“Hey, old nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Rico threw his eyebrows back, and he shuffled off the best he could with his pants around his ankles. Thumper ain’t pay his guff no mind. He pulled down his own pants and took off his shirt. Rico be facing the other way. Fool-ass nigga aiming his pretty ass at Thumper’s old-ass nigga face. Lotta ass in that apartment.
Thumper’s fingers kneaded Rico’s plump buttcheeks, which made Rico turn around finally and see that Thumper was naked too. Rico frowned so hard he liketa grow a second mouth just for frowning.
“C’mon, nigga, watchoo doin’? Quit playin’,” Rico said. Thumper pulled him closer, planted his lips on Rico’s and stuck his tongue right in that prettyboy mouth. He tasted like a daffodil, or whatever flower got the sexiest frown, Thumper ain’t a florist. Rico sputtered and pulled away. “Quit playin’, old nigga! Whatchoo doin’?”
“Shush. You go’n be my nighttime female,” Thumper said. He grabbed Rico’s shoulders before he could get far away, and he gripped Rico by the tit — Rico got nice lor apple-sized pecs, too firm to be tits, but Thumper could pretend. Thumper got a great imagination for women’s bodyparts. “C’mon, make sounds like a female. We go’n get hot and dirty, Rico, dirty like rice, hot like spice-“
“Get off me-“
But Thumper kissed him again to make Rico stop his complaining. He kept going, but Thumper swallowed them protestations up. Rico got lost in Thumper’s massive arms. Thumper’s hands kept at Rico’s titless pecs.
In prison, Thumper woulda put a padded bra on Rico, plus makeup and a wig and these big-girl panties with a life-size pussy printed on both the front and the back. Thumper don’t need that to pretend, but it was fun to do anyway, and once Rico was used up, Thumper could pimp him out to all the ugliest niggas in that place.
Eventually he’d get to begging Thumper to be the only one to make love to him, and Thumper would oblige.
Out here in the real world though, Thumper couldn’t do that. Not enough ugly niggas. All the ugly niggas was in prison, doing they part to turn handsome men like Rico into uglier niggas.
Anyway, when Thumper had enough playing games, he bent Rico over the bed they was gonna share. He slammed Rico’s face into the mattress, keeping Rico’s ass high enough to spread them buttcheeks. He got them beautiful dimples dimpling like dumplings on Rico’s dumptruck, like his asshole was smiling at Thumper.
Thumper returned a smile to Rico’s ass with interest — “interest” being Thumper’s tongue, which he slammed in there to open him up. Thumper don’t got lube handy, so he used his spit. Rico howled.
“Old nigga, what-?” Rico sucked in his breath. Thumper lapped at Rico’s asshole with plentya spit. It tasted pretty as a petunia, or whichever flower got the tastiest butthole, Thumper ain’t a botanist. Thumper rammed his tongue in there deep as steeping tea! He be tasting all the unexplored flavor of that nigga asshole, and Rico’s ripe apple-cheeks swelled and jiggled like tits around Thumper’s face. Rico tried to get up, but Thumper punched him hard in the side.
“Stay still.” Thumper’s tongue ran all the way from Rico’s taint up to the small of his back, and Thumper’s sausagey fingers teased his tight hole. Rico’s back curved up like a seductive arch.
Kisses running up Rico’s smooth spine, Thumper groaned and moaned and slathered spit on his scalp. Then he rammed his dick at Rico’s butthole. Rico cried out, and he clenched hard. Thumper ain’t mind. He knew how to break a nigga open. Just the tip went in. Rico sucked on his breath.
“Shit! Nigga!” Rico howled. He panted and clawed at the bed.
“Ssssshhhh…” Thumper said. He ain’t need Rico to shush. He kinda liked hearing that prettyboy voice ring out like a girlish bell. But Thumper was used to hiding the sounds from the guards and from the Aryans — who do tease a nigga for being a booty bandit. Thumper don’t like being teased by Aryans, ‘specially when they got factual accuracy on they side.
He wrapped one arm around Rico’s neck, and he squeezed just enough to make him stop clenching. His asshole opened. Thumper’s dick slid in. A shiver of intense pleasure ran up Thumper’s spine.
“C’mon, c’mon! You can’t! Carson ain’t — Carson ain’t-“
Thumper laughed. “Whatd’ya think Carson sent you to me fo’, nigga? He knew I wanna bust a nut,” he said. He sighed like Rico’s butthole was scratcing a itch Thumper couldn’t reach. “Shit, nigga-“
“Ow, c’mon! Quit playin’!” Rico said.
Thumper’s moan intensified in Rico’s ears, making him wriggle and jiggle like a seductive dolphin. That made his booty squeeze Thumper’s dingdong most pleasant-like indeed. Thumper leggo his neck, and Rico’s ass loosened enough for Thumper to ram in deeper. “Damn!”
“C’mon, old nigga-“
“I love you, nigga,” Thumper said with a chuckle. He be working his dick in and out, and Rico’s tightness gripped it the whole time — that’s what was so nice about a intact nigga. His guts don’t wanna let a nigga meat go.
Stopping moving, Thumper let out another moan. He be getting close now. He stopped moving with his manhood all the way up there, throbbing in Rico’s guts. Thumper got a foot-long dick, plus some to spare, and Rico’s whole body be writhing and massaging it, as Rico panted and heaved.
“Shit, nigga, shit, nigga, shit, nigga-” Rico be broken.
It did get Thumper going though. He stayed motionless to make this last longer, cuz he could tell any motion on his part gonna make his balls explode. Rico be writhing enough anyway. “Hey, nigga, tomorruh go to the store and buy some hog fat.”
“Shit, nigga, shit, nigga… What?”
“Hog fat.” Thumper frowned like Rico. From the silence, he gathered Rico don’t know what hog fat is. That’s the best lube in prison, maybe the best in the world. Outside niggas don’t know. “Hog fat, nigga! Lard. Get lard.”
“What?”
“Get lard! It’s at the store!” Thumper said. “Damn, a modern nigga is stupid!”
Through his clenched teeth, Rico said, “Why?”
“Cuz then I can ramrod you more easy,” Thumper said, and his voice broke. Rico squirmed, and that was enough to send him over the edge. His moan turned into a deep-chambered sigh of relief, as his first spurt of jizz filled up Rico’s guts.
That was Thumper’s cue to get back to humping his butthole, which he did, using powerful thrusts. The movement got Thumper’s muscles tensing up, and Rico’s too, as Rico clawed at the bed beneath him and tried to crawl away.
With a grunt, Thumper lay atop him, shifting his weight left and right in lieu of back and forth. Cum sprayed into Rico’s backside, great big creamy gobs of it that kept coming and coming. Rico shuddered, and the movement awakened a wave of pain.
“Shit… You a good nigga,” Thumper said into Rico’s ear, pulling his chest off Rico’s prettyboy back. He lifted up Rico too, so he could kiss Rico on the side of his cheek, square on the sexier of his two dimples. “Now go clean up.” Rico’s scream of pain was swallowed up by the mattress as Thumper withdrew his manhood, every inch of cum-marinated dickmeat sending another wave of sensations through both them. Rico’s till-now-intact asshole held onto Thumper’s dick and made his orgasm last until the tip popped out, and Thumper’s final jizz dribbled out into a puddle in the small of Rico’s back.
“Owwww, fuck, old nigga!” Rico cried out, then jumped up. All that creamy goo spilled out his gaping asshole and down his legs. “Shit!”
With a mummy-like chuckle, Thumper grabbed Rico’s underwear and wiped his dick off with it, while Rico frowned and cursed and moved around the apartment like he thought the old-nigga lifeguards was gonna come rescue him if he kicked up enough fuss.
“Go’n and take a shower,” Thumper said. He gotta say it a couple times cuz Rico was stuck on transmit.
“Shit, old nigga! C’mon! What the fuck?! Shit, old nigga! Quit playin’! Shit, old nigga, c’mon! What the fuck?!” He stalked in a lor circle stretching his frown out. “What the fuck?!”
“Go’n take a shower,” Thumper said again and again, in between Rico’s whatevering. Thumper gripped his cock and balls to get his attention. Thumper’s callused fingers was like a sandpaper purse, and Rico sucked up his breath and clenched his teeth again. Rico trembled when Thumper licked his face from his chin to his forehead. “Go’n take a shower, nigga. If you wanna shower alone, do it now, or I’mma shower wit’cha later. Wit’cha and inside ya.”
His frown turning to open-mouthed surprise, Rico went to the showers to scrub himself for what felt like forever.
Thumper waited for him. He fully intended to ram that boy again. That was why Thumper don’t shower now. He wanna let Rico get clean and give his ass a couple hours to recover. Then he gonna wake Rico in the night with a bootyfull of dickmeat. Then he’d let Rico shower again, and if his old-nigga dick could get hard once more, he’d shower with him and plow Rico for a third time when he dropped the soap. That’d be funny as hell.
It’d make Thumper’s dick hurt, but it’d be worth it. Thumper was too old to be busting nuts multiple times a night. It don’t stop him, of course. Thumper was too old to do alotta the things he do. A nigga is only as old as he feels.
Before Rico returned from his shower, there came a knock at the door. It was Carson. He stood there in the doorway with a long look in his eyes and a bag of fast food in one hand. Then Carson came in without Thumper telling him to. Thumper couldn’t complain much, as Carson and the Bloods was paying for this apartment, but he ain’t like it anyway. In prison a nigga’d get shanked for that.
He put the fast food down. “I got some chow for Rico. And you,” he said. “Burgers and hot cherry pies from the Ruby Pearl’s on Broad.”
“Hell yeah,” Thumper said. He opened the bag. “I’mma take both the cherry pies from that Rico nigga. I sent him off to shower anyway.” He put the cherry pies aside. “What’d you come here for, Carson? I know it ain’t just to drop off hamburguhs and cherry pies. This nigga connects dots easy, so if you want something from me, come right out and say it.”
Carson nodded. “I said someone gotta rob the Seventh Street niggas,” he said. “You heard that, right? In the meeting?”
Thumper nodded. He cross his arms over his chest.
“I was expectin’ you to volunteer for that.” Carson cleared his throat. “You done time for this organization, Thumper, and I know prison ain’t make you soft. I got mad respec’ for you. You know I do.”
Actually Thumper ain’t know that. Thumper only met Carson after his release. He gave him the apartment, but that was a rule. He got to. He ain’t gotto have respect for a nigga. Ain’t no way to force respect into a nigga. All the honky judges and parole officers in the world couldn’t shove respect into a nigga.
“But I need you to hit the Seventh Street niggas and hit ’em hard. They got a safehouse on Broad,” Carson said. “Go in on a Monday afternoon. I know they schedule, it’s when they got a minimum of niggas there. I’ll get you guns. You can take Rico.”
“He know his way around a gun?”
Carson nodded. Then he leaned in and said, “It would be fine if Rico ain’t come back from this. That would be… ideal. I’d love it if you returned but he didn’t.”
“What? Why?”
“You don’t need to know the details, just… He’s not gonna be parta this organization fo’ long,” Carson said. “So I’m organizin’ the easiest, cleanest exit for him.” He mimed shooting a gun at a imaginary nigga. “Pow, pow.” He chuckled. “You gonna ramrod his booty, right?”
Thumper wrinkled his nose. He ain’t wanna say he done do it. “Come by around midnight tonight and see,” Thumper said with a shrug. “Bring lube and a clothespin to shut yo’ nose with.”
That made Carson frown like Rico! It was contagious, it seemed. Carson got a plumpbody nigga body though, and he wasn’t handsome. He was ugly as a cumrag and dark as a used-up barbecue. Carson be darkskin, but he talk like he was lightskin, like nobody told him how dark he was. He wore glasses too, and they shifted up and down when he wrinkled his nose. “Nah, nah, I’ll let you handle that.”
He nodded at Carson, but they was interrupted then by Rico bursting his frowny face back into the apartment. Rico froze in surprise at seeing Carson. He looked down behind hisself like he was making sure there wasn’t a nigga dick sticking outta his booty. Then he widewalked in, his ass no doubt smarting, holding his towel around his waist.
“Rico, Thumper has the plan for you two,” Carson said. “Don’t disappoint me again.”
Rico nodded. Thumper clasped him on the back, lifted up his towel and held his naked body close as Carson left. He liked the moist heat coming off Rico’s smooth back.
But Carson’s words lingered in Thumper’s mind: don’t disappoint me again. That meant Rico done mess up. Rico was a fuck-up already. Thumper gonna hafta get the whole story outta that pretty nigga’s insides. That story must be why Carson wanted Rico gone.
“I don’t like how niggas come and go on the outside,” Thumper said with a sigh. He went to the window and watched Carson leave the building, scurrying through the cold city streets to his SUV. “Ain’t nothing permanent.” He sniffled. “We go’n to church on Sunday, Rico. Be ready.”
“You been locked up too long, you notiony nigga,” Rico said. He hurried to his duffel bag and found some clothes to put on, which he labored to do without taking off the towel around his waist. “You gone crazy.”
Them words made Thumper’s blood run cold. He recognized that snippet of dialogue.
That was in the script Delsinerr gave him. Them exact words.
Thumper’s next line felt natural as rain. “Shut up, nigga. If you got a girlfriend, bring her over.” That made the apartment quiet, cuz Thumper said it weird and Rico sensed that. Thumper ain’t say it like he meant it, though he did mean it, he said it like a actor reading his lines. “We can double-tap her.”
Rico sucked on his teeth. Thumper mouthed along with him, as Rico said his next line. “You know that bitch Cherry? The dancer? I bin seeing her on the side. She got tight booty. She won’t get double-teamed though, not even for coke. She don’t like it.”
Thumper knew his next line clear as a cloudless sky. He ain’t wanna say it. He wanted it to be said, but it ain’t feel right — he was sposedta tell Rico to drag that bitch here by her hair. A nigga shouldn’t let his female boss him around. If Rico want her to get double-teamed, she shoulda both bent over and spread her legs. She was a stripper, not a angel.
If he wanna accept Delsinerr’s gift, he knew how to do it.

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