When ex-con Thumper White is given a joint to live in upon his release from prison, he had no idea he’d be shacking up with a doe-eyed prettyboy… That handsome homie Rico fancies himself a thug and a ladysman. Maybe he is both those things, but Thumper will take what he likes, and he likes Rico’s backside a whole heck of a lot!
Thumper’s a booty bandit old head who doesn’t take no for an answer, which means Rico’s in for the ride of a lifetime! Can Rico take Thumper’s brand of prison-starved love?
Thumper is fresh outta prison, and he’s got a booty bandit reputation to live up to… or down to! But more importantly for him, he’s gotta stay on the good side of his social worker. That means he’s gotta be kind, calm, employed and maybe stop ramrodding men on the downlow. He might even hafta attend a symposium on culturally responsive social work. Can he handle that?
He’s in for a wild ride, and so is any man he’s alone with!
Thumper is outta prison, and he’s in for something he’s never faced before…
Working as a bouncer, Thumper finds himself haunted by a owl-masked woman whose very presence scrambles his brain. She presents him with a dilemma and an opportunity — to turn back time and be a young man again — but is he man enough to take it?! Will the Lady of Vows sink her talons into Thumper’s soul?!
Thumper White is an ex-con and a retired heavyweight boxer, and he do lay the smackdown on any fool who talks back to him.
Descriptions
A door in the hall opened, and a middle-aged Black man with a graying beard like a billy goat and ebon cornrows on his scalp poked his head out. He was so tall he had to stoop down into the doorway. Bill could just barely see by his bare, broad shoulder muscles that the man was shirtless. The rows between the corn on his scalp were dappled with sweat.
The man opened the door the rest of the way, revealing his bare chest, muscles glistening with sweat. A frown flitted over, then he plastered a sunny smile on his face. He filled the doorway, body failing to fit within his tight-white briefs, bristly pubes protruding around the sides. He had thighs like tree trunks and arms like cannons… His file said he was a pro boxer before his arrest. That was thirty-four years ago. He still got the body of a heavyweight boxer though, now peppered with salty hair and coated with prison tats, and his hands were the size of catcher’s mitts. His topaz skin glistened with moisture that dripped down to make his hand slippery in Bill’s grip.
He wasn’t ugly, but he certainly wasn’t handsome either, with a squat, bullish face, wild cornrows and a scruffy chin. He wore only a pair of thin shorts, so his body, pockmarked with scars and tattoos, was nearly bare.
Thumper’s apartment above Lipsweet 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.
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.
He was Thumper White, twice the age of Jaekwel and Deon and twice as loud too. He got a coarse silver chin like a untended goat and peppery cornrows on his head. His boominous voice rumbled above the idling work-truck… Despite his age, he stayed a spitfire and hit every beat. He ain’t dawdle, even at five-thirty in the morn… Thumper leaned forward, his rammy beard smelling like the unwashed parts of old ladies… Thumper done lift his unclean undershirt up over his uneven cornrows, so his overheaten high yellow chest steamed with a gleamy sheen in the teeming air… He clasped his faded six-pack — he usedta be a professional boxer, before his prison stay, so you could tell he carried a six-pack his whole life before it faded away like a sun-bleacht carpet.
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.
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.
But he was much larger than Kevin, brimming with muscles and tattoos; he had prison-thug swagger and a hard-as-iron jaw, and his presence made Kevin’s knees weak all over again. Kevin’s soon-to-be cellmate had been a professional boxer before he was locked up, and he was still built like the heavyweight champion he had been back then. His cornrows were scraggly and tinged with silver. Thumper was rugged, firm, stout, crisscrossed with cheap tats and scars, silvery hairs on his chin, chest, arms and legs. He must have been working out before Kevin arrived because he wore only shorts — with a noticeable bulge — and he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
Thumper felt like an old-timer. He had been in prison for thirty-four years and five months. He felt like he had withered away to nothing in here. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally. Physically he was still a towering man, swarthy, broad-chested, with biceps that bulged from ten years of daily improvised workouts. He had prison tats covering his body, and a network of scars from a couple stabbings and one incident in which he was splashed with boiling water, leaving little tiny dots of permanent scars over the left half of his body.
Just ten years ago, he thought, he had had a six-pack like a movie star, and a handsome shock of jet-black hair. He had thundered across the country on a motorcycle, leaving a chain of broken-hearted chicks and pissed-off cops. Now it was stricken with splashes of gray, and his six-pack had melted away into a flat but meaty belly. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with deep brown skin and a rather squat face like a boxer. He looked to be in his mid-thirties but he had the body of a man half that age, muscles bulging out of his overly tight tee shirt.
Thumper was rather the opposite. He was older, just past fifty years old — he was three times Deyon’s age — and he had never been a prettyboy. He was a boxer in his youth (and still occasionally in prison). He retained a powerful, barrel-shaped frame, covered in scars and marks, with a hairy chest. He had never had a six-pack, though his belly was flat. He had frizzy, unkempt cornrows, and he was perpetually slick with sweat.
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.
Thumper was unplugging the television in the living room; he was bigger and older, scruffy, cornrowed and lighter-skinned. Thumper had an intense and potent flavor; he tasted of blunt ash and grimy city streets. He smelled of prison cells, men in cramped conditions and unwashed ballsweat.
Fucking Thump said his favorite food was buttered noodles, and his “specialty” was ramen with barbecue chicken — where “barbecue” means bottled barbecue sauce, not barbecuing, cuz that nigga spent his whole life in a cage. He ain’t some kinda gourmet neither, Deon thought with increasing bitterness, Thumper ain’t never had tempura, sushi or hibachi till last month, that out-of-touch notiony old nigga was Japan-ignorant. He’d prolly explode if he ate a curry. Thumper said he “never heard of ‘Thai food'” like he thought it was a conspiracy theory, shit, he even shot down jollof rice as “nightcheek bullshit”. That nigga maybe never cooked with nothing but a hot plate and a microwave.
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. 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. 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.
Thumper was a doddery old nigga who dressed 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.
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.
He arrived at his cell with blood streaming down his leg. The Bloods steady sent him out to fight — he was a enforcer, that was his job in the cell block. He ain’t never apply for it, he ain’t never say that’s the job he want. When you look like Thumper, with a face like a catcher’s mitt and hands like battering rams, you best believe every nigga gonna front like you is a enforcer, so you gonna hafta enforce something. Niggas do be stepping.
Then to his left, Thumper saw a big-ass powerhouse nigga, as high yellow as sunshine. It was him — Thumper recognized that young cat, it was Thumper hisself, Thumper from thirty-four years ago. He got a handsome mug and just a couplea tats. His skin was taut, and his bladder neck ain’t gone batty yet — couldn’t see that, but Thumper could tell. This nigga, this cheekbone-laden young-nigga Wendell, he got the swagger of a man who do piss a reasonable number of times a day. Thumper could tell from the tattoos that that young-nigga Wendell was from right before his prison sentence. He got them dice on double sixes on his shoulder. Thumper got that tat couplea days before the unlicensed boxing match that led to his arrest. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t got none the prison tats that present-day old-nigga Thumper got.
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.
Wendell White, a noir employ of Simon’s father. He barked out orders as soon as Sheriff Terwiliger was seen. Wendell was in charge of getting the noirs out back when needed. He was almost as big as Beau but his skin was the color of a light roux, and he got a round face, his close-knapped hair tinged with gray. He barked for action, quick as you please. He wasn’t Creole, but the noirs knew he was in charge.
He could feel dozens of pairs of eyes watching him, most importantly the gigantic beastly man in the cell right in front of him. Mason’s new cellmate was a brutish brown-skinned monster, Mason thought, like a shaved beast. Thumper wasn’t ugly, but he certainly wasn’t handsome either, with a squat, bullish face, wild cornrows and a scruffy chin. He wore only a pair of thin shorts, so his body, pockmarked with scars and tattoos, was nearly bare. He inhaled of his delicious old-homeboy scent — Thumper wasn’t really old, but he smelled like an old man, like all the older homeboys he had lived with behind bars until just a few days ago. He smelled like an old homeboy whom time had left behind.
Thumper the Booty Bandit: Thumper is outta prison after thirty-four long years, and he’s learned a thing or two about getting down and dirty without any women around! That puts him on a collision course with some of the toughest alphas, raunchiest deadbeats and soon-to-be submissive losers in Baltimore, each of whom is about to learn that when this ex-con wants to get his rocks off, he doesn’t take no for an answer. He gets involved in the manliest of adventures, with a mouthy young coke dealer, an aryan trustee, a college jock and so much more! Thumper’s ready for the rough ride of his life! (whole thing is free)
Thumper the Bodyguard: Thumper is a bodyguard for the Gregarian family, which puts this excon in a position to swing downlow with some unlucky men! You see, Thumper’s a booty bandit, so when he needs to or wants to or is bored, he’s gonna get up some homeboy from behind! He survived prison, but can Thumper handle bodyguarding a college girl?
Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Thumper is outta prison, and he’s in for something he’s never faced before… Working as a bouncer, Thumper finds himself haunted by a owl-masked woman whose very presence scrambles his brain. She presents him with a dilemma and an opportunity — to turn back time and be a young man again — but is he man enough to take it?! Will the Lady of Vows sink her talons into Thumper’s soul?!
Thumper on Parole: Thumper is fresh outta prison, and he’s got a booty bandit reputation to live up to… or down to! But more importantly for him, he’s gotta stay on the good side of his social worker. That means he’s gotta be kind, calm, employed and maybe stop ramrodding men on the downlow. He might even hafta attend a symposium on culturally responsive social work. Can he handle that? He’s in for a wild ride, and so is any man he’s alone with!
Thumper the Mover: Thumper’s a booty bandit straight outta prison and humping for the Milligan Moving Company. Him and his homies Deon and Jaekwel get down and dirty, and it don’t much matter to Thumper whether the other two want it. They’ll have to take every inch Thumper’s ready to give! Thumper’s not even on the downlow! That does boggle a homie’s mind, but Deon and Jaekwel gotta put up with that old head’s gropey hands, massive muscles and iron manhood. Can they make it through their time alongside Thumper with their booties intact?!
Thumper the Ex-Con: Thumper is getting crazy again! He’s about to be released after more than thirty years behind bars, but first he’s gonna have a good time with another inmate, whether he wants it or not! After his release, he’s gonna have to find a new outlet for his intense and potent urges. So where is he gonna find a spot to stick his meat?
Thumper Gets Nasty: Thumper is at it again — in prison and on the streets, he always gets his man! Thumper is a tough-as-iron convict who doesn’t mind swinging on the downlow… or out in the open, whichever’s dirtier! Thumper loves it nasty and filthy, and he prefers it with a man who needs a little force to convince him to bend over and take it. Can Thumper get the quivering man-meat he craves?! This ultra-raunchy story is the only way to learn the answer!
Thumper Chooses a Cellmate: Thumper is a legendary convict and a brutal dom, willing to force the men around him to submit and beg… so when he sees someone he likes, all hell breaks through! Can Thumper claim the clean, soft booty he craves? His target Deyon wants to keep his manhood intact, but will Thumper let that happen?
Thumper the Convict: Paul is in for a crazy stay in prison, and he’s gonna have to deal with the most intense booty bandit convict in the whole pen! His name is Thumper, he’s a tough and macho alpha, and he’s willing to do what it takes to swing downlow with Paul!
The Ex-Con, the Prettyboy Thug and Gang Loyalty: When ex-con Thumper White is given a joint to live in upon his release from prison, he had no idea he’d be shacking up with a doe-eyed prettyboy… That handsome homie Rico fancies himself a thug and a ladysman. Maybe he is both those things, but Thumper will take what he likes, and he likes Rico’s backside a whole heck of a lot! Thumper’s a booty bandit old head who doesn’t take no for an answer, which means Rico’s in for the ride of a lifetime! Can Rico take Thumper’s brand of prison-starved love?
The jawn was bumping. It was nice that they ain’t gotta walk nowhere, just go down the stairs and boop, there they was, in Lipsweet, surrounded by girls in tight things that showed off they other things. They got asses too!Girls got nice asses now! Asses got better in the thirty-four years Thumper was in ...
You done piss me off! And that’s why I is makin’ you go through with it,” Thumper said. That part weren’t true, he was always gonna make Rico do it. A nigga should fuck a ugly bitch sometimes. That’s what it means to keep it real. Niggas don’t explain, you gotsta figger it out. “You ...
He done share prison cells with lotta handsome young things like Rico, with tasteful muscles and cute tattoos and a tight ass you could bounce a kitten off of.
Going upstairs, he ain’t hafta listen to it. It was just a dull roar up here. Sounded better that way.
Thumper was not gonna fixate on the music. That was some notiony old nigga shit. He was better than that.
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.
Every nobody in this bar stared at him, none them listening to the disappointing rock music that dribbled out the speakers like a pansy’s nut. Music was awful nowadays.
“Yo, nigga,” Thumper said, direct into that chocolate nugget’s ear so his voice would drown out the clanging clatter (which was maybe a band called “Dubstep” and sounded like computers being tortured).
That’s proper music, nigga. If you ain’t never listen to Fatback, go put it in the internet now. Hope yo’ booty don’t got plans, cuz it’s go’n be shaking and baking!
The limp-beat rap music from the party drowned out his voice and threatened to ruin Thumper’s erection — goddamn modern music was awful, no wonder every male under forty was impotent incompetents.
He called hisself a deejay, which meant looking studious when he played a pointless track of beats, no funk, no rapping, no singing, no guitar, just some boom-tiss, boom-tiss bullshit, like dance music for people with retarded ears.
All them partyers virtually shouting to be heard over the failed razzle and aborted dazzle of the warbly pop music, shit do it get Thumper’s dick soft!
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.
It sounded like eternal loneliness, like the notion that hell is just the shadows the damned live in and from there they can see into heaven where souls eternally rejoice in God’s radiance. It was reggae that sounded like that concept.
He typed in fatback, cuz that was what he was looking at, what his ears was craving, what his mouth was hungry for and and what his pecker was currently deep within.
Luckily, Thumper heard a song on the TuneBleed that he curled his lip at, and he couldn’t resist mouthing off about music nowadays and how it made him wanna crawl in a cave and cut his ears off.
The jawn was bumping. It was nice that they ain’t gotta walk nowhere, just go down the stairs and boop, there they was, in Lipsweet, surrounded by girls in tight things that showed off they other things. They got asses too!Girls got nice asses now! Asses got better in the thirty-four years Thumper was in ...
He was watching Shark Tank and eagered to see the result of the pitch, so he went back to the teevee then. Honky bitch both invented and was a high-protein cracker.
“Shit, I couldn’t get my arms all the way around that bitch-” Banter was interrupted by niggas laughing like hyenas. His lor-nigga voice rose above ’em. “I was fuckin’ her, got lost in her tits, swear to God. Had to send a signal flare up to find my way out. Called my sister to come ...
Men gonna be paw-paw yumming all over her in that thing. Thumper snuck peeks at her pair in the mirror. They was jiggling up and down like untrained seals.
You know bitches get they flaps contoured? They bleach they assholes too. Bleach! Asshole oughta be nasty, Thumper thunk, that’s how you know it’s worth it!
You done piss me off! And that’s why I is makin’ you go through with it,” Thumper said. That part weren’t true, he was always gonna make Rico do it. A nigga should fuck a ugly bitch sometimes. That’s what it means to keep it real. Niggas don’t explain, you gotsta figger it out. “You ...
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.
They can join the list of body parts that don’t work. His heart, his “bladder neck”, his left shoulder, his sinuses, some kinda flap in his throat, his knees and elbows, ankles, fingers, ears.
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.
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!
He phoned out to see if he got a app that could build, deliver and install plumbing before his next poop.
But there ain’t no such app. Not everything’s a phone yet!
Kids was phone-bullying other kids into stabbing they grandmas, lazy-eyed niggas was buying Russian wives on the phone, cauliflowery whiteboys be stealing the treasury on they phone and burning down schools, it happens, shit, look it up!
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.
Thumper smoked weed on the reg, did lines of coke now and then, snorted heroin once when he thought it was coke, and he did something unpleasant called salvia that caused reality to ooze and twist like funnel-cake batter in hot oil.
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 they don’t got jungle gyms no more? That shit do emboggle a nigga’s brain. They ain’t even a thing. Put ’em in your phone and what comes up? Brazilian niggas lifting weights with sloths. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.
So Thumper walked all rappy-dapper, like his rickety walk was a gangsta lean, as he brought the other two to the back porch, where a sheet-curtained corner got a hole in the sheet and a nigga sticking his dick in that hole. That duckydoo nigga was moaning like a moist walrus when they got there, ...
When the legendary boxer Thumper White is released from prison, he never thought he’d be rooming up with a doe-eyed prettyboy named Rico! Neither of them will ever be the same. That’s cuz Thumper gets horny sometimes, and he don’t take no for an answer when it comes from a darkskin slice of handsome pie ...
Thumper is a bodyguard for the Gregarian family, which puts this excon in a position to swing downlow with some unlucky men! You see, Thumper’s a booty bandit, so when he needs to or wants to or is bored, he’s gonna get up some homeboy from behind!
He survived prison, but can Thumper handle bodyguarding a college girl?
