Tag: fighting

Buck Sampson steered the Jaguar into a parking spot. He done squash his hillbilly ass into the driver’s seat, his giant frame not fitting without lotta effort on his part. Mistah Gregarian slid graceful as a weasel out from the backseat b’fore’n Buck could heft hisself outta the front.
Putting on his sunglasses, Mistah Gregarian scowled at Buck. He preferred Buck to open the door fer him. Classier. But he ain’t wanna sit in the backseat and wait fer the galoot to get in gear. “C’mon, you moron, hurry up,” Mistah Gregarian said. “You could be less oafish, Buck. I have an image to maintain.”

“I’s tryin’, Mistah Gregarian,” Buck said. He lowered his bass-booming voice. Buck was a chambery hulk of a man, damn near seven feet tall and as broadly muscled as a ox. He got a thick, unkempt mullet the color of a new moon at midnight. Buck’s scruff covered up his ruddy cheeks.

Wrinkling his nose, Mistah Gregarian said, “You might have to threaten him. If I give you a signal, give him what-for.” He motioned fer Buck to go ahead — t’was classier fer the lackey to go in front. Buck was more concerned ’bout an attack from behind though. This was a rough-side homeboy neighborhood, and the locals was more dangerous than the Koreans they was here to visit.
But Mistah Gregarian wanted his bodyguard in front, so’n Buck hopped to position. He ain’t know where they was going though, to the front of the shop or the back or maybe the Kims’ apartment. Buck walked a few feet then hesitated. “Suh?”
“It’s down there!” Mistah Gregarian spat. He glanced at Buck’s hillbilly mullet. “Come on!” Mistah Gregarian weren’t a hillbilly ‘t all. He was not the kinda man who’d ever set foot in the trailer park where’n Buck lived. He’d curl his lip driving past it. He done do precisely that on numerable occasions.
But Buck was strong and tough and loyal, and he was a rely-able bouncer at the strip club Mistah Gregarian owned. Sometimes, he accompanied Mistah Gregarian on missions like this one, collecting a debt.
They went into the Korean drycleaner’s, and the chemical smell made Buck wrinkle his crooked-cartilage fist-shape nose. He breathed loud cuz he was a amateur boxer and his nose done got broke buncha times a couple years back, in the early 90s. He tried to breathe normal, cuz Mistah Gregarian scumbled on another one his looks. Buck straightened his tie, which looked too short. Buck was so big most clothes ain’t fit. How far down was a tie sposedta go anyways? Buck ain’t know, and Mistah Gregarian’d scold him silly if’n Buck axed, so’n he ain’t ax.
Inside the drycleaner’s, Buck stood up on a somber face. Mistah Gregarian do admire Buck to look good — tie, shirt buttoned up, slacks, whole nine yards. He wanted Buck looking like a goon, cuz Mistah Gregarian fancied hisself a mobster. If’n Ann Arbor had more Armenians, he prolly woulda made up a mafia.
“Mister Kim, Mister Kim, so good to see you.” Mistah Gregarian cleared his throat when the spindly Korean man came out and bowed o’er and o’er. “I haven’t seen you this month.”
“Yes, sih, yes, sih, I sowwy, I sowwy,” Mistah Kim said. He got a politely nervous way of talking.
Buck zoned out. He got confidence Mistah Kim weren’t gonna stab nobody. The two mistahs slapped noses, but they both bowed and apologized and got respect in they voices. Ain’t no blowup like when they did deals with Señor Delgado the Cuban, he a fiery sort. Mistah Kim was calm as a pickled peach.
And his missus was purdy and petite, Buck peeped her in the backa the shop.
“Buck?” Mistah Gregarian elbowed him.
“Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah,” Buck said. He ain’t know what Mistah Gregarian was signaling.
He raised his eyebrows at Buck. “Do your thing,” he whispered.
Buck cleared his throat. “You, uh… You admire me to heeit him?” Buck ain’t been paying attention, but he thought the tone of the conversation was cordial. Mistah Kim done agreed to sump’in, Buck was sho’re of that. They shook hands.
The face that Mistah Gregarian put on suggested Buck was indeed sposedta hit him, was sposedta have done hit him, was a goddamn gorilla-brain goombah fer not knowing it, was in trouble fer making it look like Mistah Gregarian be hiring retards as muscle and was gonna be on the sorry end of a long monologue after this.
But how hard to hit? Buck advanced upon Mistah Kim, who was a whimpery old Korean feller. Buck could knock his head clean off if’n he admired to.
That’d likeish reduce his debt repayments though. Who redds a drycleaner’s when it gets gommed up?
“Prease, sih, sih, sih-“
Buck smacked him, closed-fist but hard enough to knock him down. Blood spurted from Mistah Kim’s nose. He shouted and squirmed and collapsed ‘gainst the wall of the dry cleaner.
“Don’t try my patience, Mister Kim,” Mistah Gregarian said. “You- — … Buck? Did you knock him out?”
“I ain’t know how hard to heeit him!” Buck threw his hands up.
“Not that hard!”
They both peered down at Mistah Kim, who was curled up by his counter. Buck looked round to see if’n anyone done witness that. The good lady Missus Kim weren’t visible, and the drycleaning shop weren’t open yet, so’s the curtains was drawn and ain’t nobody could see in.

After just a second, Mistah Kim gasped hisself wakeful, and both Buck and Mistah Gregarian brightened up. Mistah Gregarian looked at Buck like a cockroach, and Buck threw his hands up again. Mistah Kim groaned and moaned, while Mistah Gregarian gave him another minute to recover.
Finally, Mistah Kim stammered, “I — I — I can not- I haff no mon-ee!”

“I’s sawry, Mistah Kim, fer knockin’ you out-” Buck said.
“Don’t apologize!” Mistah Gregarian hissed. He shoved Buck, who was mountainous as a unmoving wall. Mistah Gregarian shoved him harder, and Buck obliging-like stepped back as though he got shoved.
“Prease, I have no mon-ee-” Mistah Kim said.
Mistah Gregarian looked down at him. “You had better be grateful I don’t take your store. We’ll be back in one month, and we’ll have paperwork to transfer ownership. If you don’t pay in full, I’m exercising the possession clause.”
“Yes, prease, sih, prease,” Mistah Kim stammered, holding his bloody nose.
Mistah Gregarian stalked out, and Buck followed. Once they got onto the street, Buck hurried to walk afronta him and open the Jag door fer Mistah Gregarian, then scurried to the front seat and hefted hisself in with as much as grace as a barrel of a man could muster sliding into a car made fer the diminutive hunchbacks of inbred British dukes. He gotta crane his head to the side.
“You made me look like a moron in there. You threw me off my game. I had him eatin’ outta the palm of my hand,” Mistah Gregarian said. “Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Yessuh,” Buck said. He nodded ‘long as Mistah Gregarian ramped up a monologue. As always, he ain’t stick to the pertinous subject. He lectured Buck on focus, men’s fashion, finesse versus tact, class and etiquette, diction and articulation, Korean cultural appreciation, comparative advantage, the looseness of women these days, state taxes, Aztec prophecies related to the upcoming millenium shift, the environmental consequences of the drycleaning industry and considerations on how far down “yo’ boys” sag they trouser-pants.
Buck nodded and apologized and promised to do better on all those topics as he drove the Jag back to Lipsweet — that was the nightclub Mistah Gregarian owned. T’was only noon, so’s nary the girls done arrive, just the janitor Ernie mopping the floor. Teddy’d be here soon to open the bar. Buck followed Mistah Gregarian into the backoffice, cuz his monologue was ongoing and Buck knewed better’an to walk away till t’was done.
“Get outta here,” Mistah Gregarian eventually said, when he sat down at his desk. He done pause amid his monologue like he forgot what started it all. He waved Buck off. “You’re working tonight, right? Wear a clean shirt. There’s blood and pitstains on that one. And get ridda that stiffy before you come in.”
He stayed casting aspersions upon Buck and t’other bouncers, claiming they got stiffies that made ’em dumb and gropesome. He discottoned to bouncers getting freebies with his girls, and if’n he let ’em have stiffies, that’d prolly be what happened, Mistah Gregarian do say.
Buck couldn’t argue with the logic. But he ain’t have no stiffy at the moment. He knewed better’an to try and convince Mistah Gregarian that that was true. Buck got a hefty slab of foot-long meat, and as far as Mistah Gregarian was concerned, t’was always hard. He’d grab it thru them slacks and declare it a stiffy.
T’wasn’t fair. Buck’s dick was big, and Buck’s body was big, so’s he ain’t fit in his slacks, his dingdong don’t fit in his tight-whites, and Mistah Gregarian be frowning at Buck’s bulges.
Couldn’t argue ’bout the blood and pitstains though.
B’fore’n Buck headed to his pickemup in the parking lot, he went thru the bar and caught that janitor Ernie sniffing ’round the rail liquor. He was looking demure as a daisy, moving a mop round and putting on a thirsty face.
“You sneakin’ drinks, Ernie?” Buck axed.
“No, Buck!” Ernie said. He was a helter-skelter kinda homeboy, all ropy limbs and taut muscles. He was skinny as diet pie though. “I’s moppin’, whiteboy!”
“Why you moppin’? Bar ain’t even open yet, reckon,” Buck said. “You mopped it aftuh close last night, and ain’t nuttin’ happen since then.”
“Floor’s sticky. Mistuh Gregarian get hot about it-“
“Shuddup,” Buck said, clucking his tongue. “You sneakin’ drinks. Mistah Gregarian’d het up ’bout that fer sh’ore. He’d blame me. He be sayin’ I gotta watch you.” He put one hand upon the back of Ernie’s neck and pushed him towards the backdoor. “There’s a mess in the back you gotta redd up.”
“Done did the back, Buck, nuh-uh,” Ernie said. But he ain’t fight back. “I don’t steal drinks. It’s just rail liquor. I don’t steal it.”
Buck pushed Ernie into the back hallway, past the waitresses’ changing room. It smelled like women in there. The stink of they lingery perfume and fragrant ladyparts got Buck’s cock throbbing good. Ernie scampered afronta Buck, who said, “Don’chu even try and run, Ernie.”
“Shuddup, Buck!” Ernie was looking round fer a chance to run. Buck got him blocked from the backdoor though. “You is dumb as a goat, hillbilly!”
“You gotst to redd up the mess-“
“Ain’t no mess! And ‘redd up’ don’t mean nothin’-“
“Yes, the’uh is, and yes, it do!” Buck said. He opened the door to one the storage closets, where’n the stink of spillt wine was overwhelming. “Teddy dropped a bottle of wine in he’uh. You gotst to mop. It done bring in ants.” The walk-in closet was mostly tablecloths, cups and couplea cooking implements Buck’s hillbilly ass ain’t reckonize, like a French press. A line of ants crawled o’er the floor. “See? Li’l black ants.”
“All ants is li’l and black,” Ernie said.
Buck sucked upon his teeth. “No they ain’t! You gotsta mop to get ridda ’em!”
“Make Teddy mop! He spilt the wine!”
“Teddy ain’t he’uh yet, and when he get he’uh, he gonna be busy openin’ the bar,” Buck said. “Tha’ss why Mistah Gregarian hired a janitor. His name is ya hobo ass, Ernie.” He grabbed Ernie by the nape. “Now bend ovuh. I got sump’in else fer you to do fuhst.”
Ernie’s bony spine bristled ‘neath Buck’s burly fingers. “Nah, whiteboy, get off me! Quit playin’! You retard!”
Buck shoved Ernie ‘gainst the wall by the door to the hall, where’n bunchesa waitresses was coming thru to start they shift. Lipsweet was due to open in fifteen minutes. They gabbed on in tight tee shirts in the breakroom across’t the hall, and Buck could smell they hungry pussies o’er Ernie’s knappy ass.
The door was shut tight, and Buck could hear ’em giggling and going on, and he could smell they perfume. He could hear ’em hum along with a TLC song, but they couldn’t hear him.
Now, Buck did got a stiffy. T’was Caitlin’s voice that did it — she was purdy as peace, and she got a voice that was nice and soft like a ripe melon. It got Buck’s cock throbbing even b’fore’n he freed it from his overly tight slacks.
But first, he ripped down Ernie’s trouser-pants, exposing his firm asscheeks. Ernie was taut as tight rope. He got a wiry old-head body, and he ain’t eat much food — Ernie preferred a liquid diet, supplemented maybe with occasional crack. He done swan he quit the rock, but Buck got low expectations. His callused fingers spread Ernie’s cheeks.

Buck knewed that booty well. Him and Ernie done share a crowded prison cell couple years back. Ernie was a cell girlfriend — that meant he gave up his ass fer hootch and smoke money — he let men use his hole as a makeshift pussy. Ernie claimed he done quit rock when he left prison, but he still drank like a fish. He worked fer Mistah Gregarian in exchange fer minimum wage, a closet to sleep in and plentya cheap booze.

Plus skimpy girls to peep at. Lipsweet was mostly a college-student bar. The GHU campus was o’er on down the street. Aside from the loose women, Lipsweet’s only attraction was that they didn’t check idees at the bar — they only let eighteen-year-olds in, and they marked the hands of them under twenty-one, but neither Teddy nor the waitresses refrained from serving folks too young to order alcohol. The lights was dimmed such that they could plausibly claim they ain’t seed the marked hands, if’n the police ever got involved. But Mistah Gregarian got connections in the city council, and Lipsweet was ne’er cited.
“Nah, Buck, no way,” Ernie said, but he ain’t fight back much. Buck done overpower him plenty in the past. He knewed better’an to make it difficult fer hisself. He closed his eyes, gripped the wall, lifted his ass and his head but lowered his back. He sucked in his breath when he felt Buck’s meat poke at his buttcrack.
With a powerful heave, Buck rammed his erect cock into Ernie’s asshole, watching the waitresses check they makeup in the breakroom across’t the hall. Ernie grunted and clenched his teeth. Buck cut the lights off, so’s it felt just like prison again — Ernie mainly did his cell-girlfriending after lights-out.
“Shit, Buck, c’mon! Spit on it!” Ernie muttered. His neck got taut, and his back arched. His asshole clenched the best it could — not much, cuz he got run up by plentya homeboys and more’an a few whiteboys in prison.
“Fine, fine, shuddup,” Buck said. He spat upon the palm of his hand and smeared it upon his dick. Then he spread Ernie’s cheeks with that hand, his other arm wrapping ’round Ernie’s neck.
“Don’t choke me, whiteboy! I’m doin’ it-“
“Shush, I won’t choke you,” Buck said. But he did tighten his arm muscles, just enough to make Ernie work fer air. That helped him unclench his asshole, and that let Buck ram his foot-plus dickshaft into Ernie’s reluctant booty. A warm melting sensation enveloped Buck, who sighed.
A narsty, knappy ass like Ernie’s stayed gross till he got into it, then Buck forgot what turned him off. Even a shattered prison-ass like Ernie’s got enough friction and grip to get Buck’s blood flowing, and goddamn did those girlies giggling help too. Ain’t have sounds like that in Cell 19C.
Ernie squirmed like a worm, but he was swallowed up by Buck’s giant body. “Gimme a bottle. You owe me a bottle!” he hissed.
Buck scoffed, his breathing growing heavy as he rammed at Ernie’s ass. He pounded good now, back and forth, each time sending a heightened wave of pleasure thru his body. “Fine. Not a full bottle. Like a half-bottle.” He knewed Ernie was expecing like whiskey or sump’in, but Buck was gonna give him a half a five-dollar bottle of wine.
“Fine, fine, fine,” Ernie said tautly. After a few seconds silence, he said, “Them girls in the dressin’ room is fine indeed. Is that Caitlin?”
Buck nodded. “Think so. Love her booty.” He rammed his meat deep and held hisself in there. “Why you call it a dressin’ room, Ernie?”
Ernie furrowed his gravely eyebrows. “What? That’s what it is, retard. Says it right there.” He grunted and twitched, a spasm of pain hitting his rangy limbs.
Each room back here got a li’l placard beside it naming it. That “breakroom”‘s placard called it the dressing room, cuz this place usedta be a strip club. City council was full of finger-wagging bible-thumpers nowadays.
Buck grunted his acknowledgement, but he ain’t say nuttin’, both cuz he was fitting to cum and cuz anythang he might say was gonna make him seem more like a retard to Ernie. Ernie closed his eyes and clenched his teeth again anyways, as Buck got deep in his guts and shot a thick wave of jizz inside him.
The heat of his cum seeped into Ernie, who usually complained ’bout fellers cumming inside him. He do tell ’em to pull out. Only milkweed fools listened to Ernie’s demands though, so Ernie ain’t bother saying nuttin’ to Buck. He just grimaced and ignored the rolling moans emanating from Buck’s equine chest.
Anoter fat load of cum spurted into Ernie, a long flow of it that kept on coming and coming. His whole body clenched ’round Buck’s shaft, and he sucked in his breath.
“Ewhhhh-” Ernie bit his lip. Buck’s ramming at his ass got too hard to take, and Ernie clawed at the wall. His forehead banged into it, and he growled. “Dammit, Buck!”
An orgasm ran thru Buck, whose meaty hands pawed at Ernie like he was hoping to find tits somewhere. Ernie twitched, and Buck did too but fer opposite reasons. If’n Ernie’s trouser-pants weren’t ’round his ankles, he’d-a scampered off, but he’d just trip over hisself. All he could do was cringe and take it.
Cum ran down Ernie’s legs. A long stinking flow of it that turned to a flood when Buck finally let his cock plop out. Ernie danced back and forth, then wiped his ass off with a paper towel he found in the closet.
Gobs of jizz bubbled outta his ass. Ernie done race to get the paper towel into his buttcrack in time, but he couldn’t clench enough to keep it in. All Buck’s nut ran out in big bubbling wads. The cloying smell of it filled the storage closet.
“Nasty ass ign’ant hillbilly,” Ernie muttered. He wiped his ass off the best he could, while Buck simply tucked his shaft back in his Korean-blood-splattered slacks. Ernie was still muttering when Buck walked out. “You a dumb shit, Buck.”
Buck said, “Shut the fuck up, Ernie,” as he left the room. “Get this floor mopped.”

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 4

Buck left Lucy’s house just after dawn, that way nary the neighbors would see. Lucy was his long-time girlfriend. Unfortunately, she been shacked up with another man fer awhile. She was still seeing Buck on the side, so’s he gotta sneak out pre-dawn. He ain’t have enough time fer a morning quickie, which meant he gotta run the whole way with a hardon.
Another reason to leave early was that Buck gotta go in to work — not bouncering at Lipsweet, he also got that part-time job as a exterminator with Central Pest Control. Buck discottoned to the early-morning work, but he gotta have that “gainful” job to keep his parole officer calm.

He undressed in the locker room, last one there, so’s he gotta race to get his uniform on. He hoped Mistah Taggart seed that he weren’t late to arrive, cuz he was late by the time he got his job clipboard from the box by the office. Mistah Taggart was in there scowling.

“I was he’uh on time, suh,” Buck said. Technically, he walked in the door one minute late, and he was leaving the workshop late. He picked up the clipboard fer his pickemup. The clipboard got a long list of addresses, but more importantly it came with a printed-out map of the county. The addresses was labeled upon it. Buck knewed this county like a hound-dog knows its dish-bowl, so’s he could find the locations easy as ice cream.
“Fine, go,” Mistah Taggart said like he ain’t entirely believe Buck. But he shrugged him off anyways.
Buck stopped and showed Mistah Taggart the clipboard. “This one got two addresses, suh. Which one do I go to?”
Mistah Taggart raised his eyebrows. “Go to the first address to get the key. Second address is where you gonna spray.” He paused. “That’s a broke-down building, Sampson. Be careful. Kick the hobos out before you spray. That’s why I gave you that one, you’s a big feller, you can handle a rough situation. That building was abandoned two years ago, and some squatters moved in. If’n they give you too much trouble, call the police.”
“Yes, suh,” Buck said.
Buck nodded as he walked out. The clipboard listed the pesticide to use. Buck don’t know them sciencey words, but he could match ’em up with the labels, and he got a good memory fer the details of how to use each one.
Still waking off his nods, Buck headed to the nearby gas station fer a breakfast sandwich, a cuppa coffee and a full tank. Then he went out to his first couple stops, which all went swift as a breeze. He set down some rat traps and bait stations, put a one-way flap in a lady’s bat-filled attic and picked up a raccoon in a cage.
After letting the raccoon go free in a state park, he went to get the key to the abandoned building, and he drove to it. The building looked fine from a distance, but when he got close, he seed all the shattered windows and the untended grass.
He went in the old apartment building — ain’t need the key, it turned out, as the front door was ripped off its hinges. He smacked a stick upon a rustbucket icebox near the door, which made a loud ringing sound.
“Hey! All y’all! Anybody in this buildin’ best get out!” Buck shouted. His deep-chested baritone echoed. “I’mma fill it wit’ poison! Central Pest Control he’uh, ’bout to kill lit’ally e’erythang he’uh’! You gotto skedaddle!”
A shambly black man glanced at him, then hobble-footed out the door. He was followed by two more fellers, and then a woman with blue hair and safety-pin piercings lurched out. She was smacking two fingers upon her elbow like she was fitting to shoot up. Buck ain’t say nuttin’ to nary the squatters, as they was leaving peaceable-like, and he ain’t wanna interrupt that.

When he was satisfied there weren’t no hobos left on the first floor, he went up the creaky step-staircase on the lookout fer more. He kept repeating hisself and making buncha noise. He imitated a siren’s squeal too, hoping that might rouse some lazy hobos. “Gonna fill this place wit’ poison gas, y’all! Best skedaddle!”
Nobody on the second floor. Buck went up to the top floor, the third, and looked round there. Seemed quiet, but he kept calling out regardless-like.

Gonna cost a purdy penny to fix this place up, he thought. It musta been got abandoned to the squatters a long time ago. The grime was caked in. Plumbing and wiring gonna hafta be redone entirely. Roof too, likeishly.
“Hey!” Buck snapped when he seed some mohawky whiteboy, who be lingering like a rash. “You gotsta get out.” The whiteboy got a blanket and some clothes spread out in the least rubble-filled room upon the third floor. A boombox and a heroin kit was the only furniture. Sunlight streamed in from the shattered windows upon one wall, illuminating the cloud of dust and drug smoke that filled the room.
The mohawky whiteboy looked at Buck like one them two was a idiot, but he weren’t sho’re which. “I’m stayin’ here, I claimed this place in the name of freedom. You can’t institute your system of oppression here, you fascist!”
“Ain’t no fashist, you fashist,” Buck said. He got no inkling what a fascist was. “I’mma fill this place wit’ poison, mothahfuckah. Fashist! You fash e’erybody-“
“No! You can’t!”
“It’s fulla cockroaches, hoss. Rats too, fer sho’re. It’s bad, they’s fixin’ it up-“
“No!” The mohawky thang tottered left and right. He was on sump’in fer sho’re, or maybe he was off it at the moment and jonesing fer more. Buck seed his heroin kit but ain’t see no heroin. The mohawk on a needle frowned and eyebrowed hard upon Buck. “Nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong with cockroaches, you’re a — they’re my friend. You’re a fascist! You’re a fascist, man. You’re imposing your… whatever, and… All life is sacred anyway.”
“A’ight, dawg, you gots to go,” Buck said. He took him by the arm, which was muscled but shrunk, with track marks abundant.
“Nah, nah, no, you gonna get outta here, gotta go, gotta go, I’ll kick ya hillbilly fascist ass redneck motherfucker-“
“Hey! Don’t test me! You is vexin’ mah ire now,” Buck said and wagged his finger at the mohawky whiteboy, who jerked away from him. He feinted hard at Buck, but Buck do stoneface.
The two squared up, Buck big and burly, the squatter dim-eyed, ripple-muscled and padding-less. Anarchy symbols and a portrait of Che Guevara covered his muscle-limbed body. His name was Jenner, and he snarled at Buck like he wanna fight, like he ain’t notice Buck was so much bigger’an him.
“Come at me then, fascist!” Jenner patted his own chest like a skinny Hulk Hogan — like Hulk Hogan had a baby with a rake. Then he punched Buck right in the belly, and Buck shrugged it off like a meow. He was too addled to punch effectively, and he got wiry arms, strong but withered. Buck shoved him away.
“Quit it, I ain’t playin’, hoss, you best step off,” Buck said.
“Shuddup, I’ll fuck you up, you think you’re hot shit!” the mohawked punk said. “C’mon! You work fer the police, huh? You a piggie?”
“No! I’s a ext’minatuh, son, slow ya toe! C’mon, I’s j’st killin’ the cockroaches. You cain take ya shit wit’cha,” he said. “You cain even come back in four hours, I don’t care. If’n you come back early, you gonna die.”
But the mohawky Jenner punched him again, his fist colliding with the meat of Buck’s belly. Flinchless, Buck gritted his teeth. He shoved the mohawked stack of string down like a disrespectful tombstone.
“Lay off!”

“Fascist!” Jenner bounced back onto his feet, and Buck shoved him to the wall. His pants dropped to his ankles, baring a ratty pair of boxers. Buck ain’t mean to do that, but it got the mohawk stumbling. He ain’t seem to grasp that his pants was ’round his ankles, and he steady tripped on ’em.

Buck grabbed Jenner by the mohawk and pulled his boxers down. “See what you makin’ me do?” Buck wrapped one arm ’round him to squeeze his neck. Buck’s free hand undid the fly of his workpants and fished out his cock, which he rubbed limply upon the mohawked man’s buttcheeks.
Still unaware, Jenner stumbled in place and shouted. He stopped only when Buck rammed his cock in the man’s ass, the knob slipping in, followed by just an inch or so of shaft b’fore’n he hit resistance.
But Buck weren’t in the mood to honor resistance. He squeezed the man’s neck till his body tensed, then he leggo and the mohawked man took a deep breath. The relaxation opened his butthole too, and Buck’s cock rammed in deep as a ditch.
“Oh god!”
“Sssshush, I done gave you a chance, motherfucker,” Buck said. He shuddered as pleasure coursed thru him. “Now this is happenin’.”
He spat upon his hand and smeared that on his shaft to give a li’l lube. But not much, cuz Buck ain’t intend this to go easy. His cock cornholed in and out till the mohawked man’s knees went weak, l’il deeper each time, and Buck followed him to the ground.
His asshole was well-worked and not intact in the least. Buck weren’t surprised. He prolly give it up fer heroin and whatever, you ne’er can tell with the ones with mohawks and anarchy shit. His ropy asscheeks squeezed ’round Buck’s manhood and sent more shivers of sensations thru Buck’s nerves.
“Ow, fu-uuuuuck…!” Jenner panted and wriggled. Buck slammed down on him with all his might, and Jenner’s bony ass got no resistance left. Buck moaned into his ear.
“You gonna get the fuck out?” Buck murmured. Jenner opened his mouth to say sump’in, but Buck bit his earlobe, and Jenner wriggled again. Buck grunted as his orgasm came nigh. Jenner shuddered. Buck said again, “You gonna leave, fashist?”
“Yeah!” Jenner said thru gritted teeth.
Buck’s heavy chest pinned Jenner to the ground, so’s he could scream into the ratty floor as much as he want, he ain’t make much noise. The hairy meat of Buck’s chest pressed ‘gainst Jenner’s bony back. Buck pistoned his hips, forcing the final couple inches into his guts as a climax wracked him. He spat upon the side of the man’s face.
A vast wave of cum seeped into Jenner, who closed his eyes and cringed. Buck moaned again and again, as he jerked his hips, pumping a fat flow of goo into Jenner’s guts.
Buck was right: Jenner done went thru this b’fore. Don’t make it no easier though. He heaved fer breath as his ass struggled to accommodate Buck’s cockshaft and his river of jizz. Jenner felt it flowing thru his body and puddling up under him.
His grunts condensed hotly upon Jenner’s cheek. One final cumwad spurted into him. Buck growled, and his muscles twitched ‘gainst Jenner’s back. Jenner twitched too.
When he done drain his dong, Buck slowly lifted his still-clothed body off the mohawked man’s bareness. Buck raised up till his cock plopped out. Jenner lay like he wanna crawl away, but when Buck got off him, Jenner plopped and sprawled out his lanky limbs in the puddle of Buck’s jizz. He lay there like a sleepy earwig.
“You best run, hoss,” Buck said. “Or I’mma redd up mah dick wit’cha tongue.”
“I’m outta here, you better not spray anything before I leave! You’re a fuckin’ fascist asshole piece of shit moron!” Jenner spat into the ground as he struggled to his feet. “You talk like a retard!”

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 5

Buck got outta the Jag, which he done park in a lawny neighborhood with bunchesa young homeboys riding round on bicycles. He snorted and rubbed his nose, then opened the door fer Mistah Gregarian in the backseat. Mistah Gregarian took it that Buck delayed opening the door cuz he forgot, whereas in fact Buck remembered, he admired to keep eye upon them homeboys. Security was his job, after all.
But Mistah Gregarian sucked on his teeth when he got outta the Jag, and he said, “Can’t you remember anything, you ape?”
All Buck said was, “Sawry, suh.” Seemed easier to go ‘long with it. If’n Buck said anythang about homeboys or tried to pronounce s’cuh’ty, Mistah Gregarian’d have words to say.

He followed Mistah Gregarian o’er on up to the run-down house. Buck hadta step ’round a bucket of children’s toys and generic-brand cabbage-patch dolls that musta sat there fer a coon’s age, judging from the moss growing upon ’em. The paint on the house was fading.

The man hisself opened the door — James Macklevan was his name. He was sump’in called a “pullman-ologist”. It seemed to be a doctor, but Macklevan ain’t got no money. So’s maybe he was like a charity doctor or some shit, or maybe Macklevan weren’t very good at it.
“Mr. Gregarian! I was going to call you,” Macklevan said.
“Hmm-hmm.” Mistah Gregarian waited, then motioned fer Buck to go in as though Buck shoulda knewed that. Buck walked past him and barreled into the house.
“Please, wait-“
But Buck knocked him out with a fist to the side of the head-noggin. Macklevan crumpled to the ground like a snotty tissue.
“Goddamnit, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a sigh. He checked Macklevan. “He’s unconscious!”
“Oh. Sawry, suh,” Buck said. “I thought I was sposedta heeit ‘im.”
“You were!” Mistah Gregarian said.
“Sawry.” Buck looked down at his feet. “H’ain’t mean to heeit him that hard.” Mistah Gregarian scowled. T’was unfair — Mistah Gregarian thought Buck oughta know what he wanted without saying so. That’s how it worked in the movies. The boss clucks his tongue or sump’in, and his lackeys know whether that means ‘kill this dude’ or ‘close the door’ or ‘punch him hard enough to hurt but not knock him out’ or whatever.
Outside the movies though, Buck got no way of knowing what Mistah Gregarian wanted unless’n Mistah Gregarian say so. T’ain’t classy to give direct orders.
How does the mafia do it? Buck don’t know — as a general rule, Buck don’t know thangs — and Mistah Gregarian was too small-potatoes to find out.
With a light slap upon his face, Macklevan roused. He stumbled to his feet. He was only unconscious fer a minute. Not really a big deal, Buck thought, not that Mistah Gregarian would treat it that way.
“You owe me money, Dr. Macklevan,” Mistah Gregarian said. He had to repeat it a couple times. Finally Macklevan nodded his understanding.
“I… I do,” Macklevan said. “I owe you money. I’ll pay, I really will. I’ve got a divorce lawyer, you see. It’s expensive. I-“
“So you’re paying your lawyer and not me? Is he more important than me?”
“Well, well, Mr. Gregarian, it’s complicated. If he can get my payments down, I’ll have more money to pay you,” Macklevan said. “Almost all my income goes to my wife right now.”
“You got anything you can sell?” Mistah Gregarian said. He motioned fer Buck to do sump’in — Buck woulda assumpted that meant ‘punch him again’, but he done got that wrong once, and he ain’t wanna do it again. Mistah Gregarian turned to him and scowled. “Go look for stuff to sell.”

“Yessuh,” Buck said. He went off to the kitchen first. Mistah Gregarian musta forgot Buck done scour this house fer pawnable items couple months back. Buck weren’t gonna point that out though, or Mistah Gregarian’d snap at him.
He ain’t find nuttin’. Last time they was here, he even took the icebox. Macklevan done found or maybe bought a mini-fridge, but Buck figgered t’weren’t worth much. He ate a cooked sausage outta it though, real quick so’s Mistah Gregarian wouldn’t see. He ain’t like Buck eating during missions, or even ‘tween missions.

When he came back to the front hall, Mistah Gregarian scowled in Buck’s direction. “Where have you been?”
“Lookin’ fer shit to sell,” Buck said. “He got nuttin’ in the kitchen.”
Mistah Gregarian shook his head like he was ashamed. He shoved Macklevan ‘gainst the wall. “Do it, Buck.”
Again, Buck hesitated. He ain’t know what it was. He got the notion Mistah Gregarian been threatening the doctor, but Buck ain’t know what the threat was. Mistah Gregarian done aim Macklevan at the wall, so’s t’ain’t seem like hitting him was the goal. Buck raised his eyebrows at Mistah Gregarian.
“Ramrod him, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a vituperative slit to his eyelids.
That made Buck frown. He admired not to get a reputation as a booty bandit. As a man who done went to prison, which e’erybody knewed, and a man who done bandit buncha booties behind bars, which lotta fellers knewed, Buck was sensitive to a reputation. He done told Mistah Gregarian b’fore not to plan on him cornholing men to get ’em to pay back they debt.
Fer one thang, it don’t work. Don’t nobody keep money up they butthole.
At least there wasn’t no witnesses this time, and Buck done got on Mistah Gregarian’s bad side, so’n he ain’t complain. But he side-eyed Mistah Gregarian as he grabbed Macklevan by the pants, and the doctor’s cloudy eyes ain’t realize what was happening. Macklevan squirmed and squealed. He got no clear words to say though, he just looked at Buck like a lost puppy.
He pulled Macklevan’s sweatpants down and bared his ass. He squeezed Macklevan’s cheeks. They was plump, strong fer a middle-aged doctor — maybe pullman-ologists was like… the gym teachers of medical school, Buck thought. Or maybe he been living rough since he was on the feud with wifey.
In a’ry case, Buck lowered his own workpants just enough to get his dick out, and he thwacked it upon Macklevan’s buttcheeks. They rippled, and Buck chuckled. He stroked hisself hard. Macklevan weren’t even trying-a run away.
Do doctors know ’bout cornholing? Prison doctors do. But prisons don’t got pullmanologists. Macklevan grunted and stayed stoic like he thought the punishment was getting thwacked on the buttcheek by a hillbilly dingdong. That was just Buck getting hard. So maybe doctors don’t know about cornholing, or at least pullmanologists don’t.
Regardless-like, Buck rammed his hardon into Macklevan’s butthole. Macklevan cramped and cried out, cringing and whinging. “Hey, hey…! Hey, shit, what’re you doin’?!”
“Shuddup,” Buck murmured. He rammed a li’l harder. His cock slipped into Macklevan’s ass, and Macklevan’s eyes bugged out.
He was intact, so’n Buck hit resistance right away. Mistah Gregarian done left the room — he don’t wanna watch — and he ain’t see Buck struggling to get his dick in b’fore’n he lost his hardon. Macklevan’s booty was too tight, and Buck got no lube but his own spit, plus he was too tall, so’s he gotta bend his knees.
And Macklevan be making all these pained noises and panting and wordless begging, all of which Mistah Gregarian could prolly hear. Buck kinda wanna stop, as he weren’t ‘specially horny. Macklevan even done took all the photo-pitchers off the wall, so’s Buck got no females to look at it. The rectangles of faded paint showed where’n they usedta be.
“Ow, shit, c’mon, c’mon, Buck, c’mon…” Macklevan panted. Despite not wanting to go thru with it, Buck weren’t gonna stop. He got a hardon. A man gotta blow a nut, or the stuffed-up juices in his balls gonna get him in trouble.
And with a l’il spit, Buck got his shaft working back and forth in Macklevan’s grippy butthole.
T’ain’t feel good. It felt fine, Buck could get thru it, but this ain’t like t’was in prison. Ramrodding don’t feel the same out in the real world. He wouldn’t ne’er-a did it if’n Mistah Gregarian ain’t tell him he had to. Coulda drug it out fer hours too — Buck gotta close his eyes and concentrate to blow a nut. He was going back and forth fer a couple minutes b’fore’n he realized he gotta work at finishing up. By then, Macklevan was wincing, weak-kneed, panting and clawing at the wall of his own unkempt house.
Buck closed his eyes and remembered the last time he was with a beautiful woman, one the waitresses who spread her legs fer him couple nights ago. That got his manhood throbbing, and it got him pumping his hips powerful enough to make Macklevan cry out again and again. Buck’s neck and face ruddened, and his cheeks grew taut. The vein upon his forehead throbbed.
It took all his concentration to send him o’er the edge. Then, like a dam was burst, he let out a long moan and thrust his meat deep into Macklevan’s guts.
“Ow, fuuuuuuuuuuck-“
“Goddamn, doc…” Buck’s voice broke and his knees buckled, but he stayed upright and slamming. A massive flow of jizz spurted outta his cock and spread thru Macklevan’s guts. A long wave of it kept on coming. The fact that Buck hadta work at it meant he shot a big load, big even fer Buck, who’s muscles all tensed up like it took e’ery ounce of strength he got to shoot his jizz. “Daaaamn…”

He filled his ass with cum, a great creamy wave that flowed thru Macklevan’s body. He grunted, and Buck did too. Another spurt of jizz seeped into Macklevan’s ass. Finally, Macklevan sensed Buck was done, and he winced. He wriggled, only fer the motion to make the pain worse.

He stayed still, letting Buck grind his sensitive cock in the soup of Macklevan’s booty. Spasms of pain ran up Macklevan’s spine, while Buck shuddered with spasms of pleasure.
Now that he’d done it, Buck was glad Mistah Gregarian made him do it. He’d needed that. But he was still gonna hafta remind Mistah Gregarian that he wasn’t a booty bandit.
“Ewwh, uhcckk-” Macklevan grunted. He wriggled the best he could in Buck’s grip.
“You bettuh pay ya debt,” Buck said as his cock slipped out to dangle ‘tween the good doctor’s cheeks. “Or Mistah Gregarian gonna make me do that again.”
Macklevan darted away. Cum dribbled down his legs. He sneered at Buck. “That was gross,” He winced, wiping cum off his thighs. “And unsanitary. You’re a barbarian.”
Buck shrugged. “I is what I is, mothahfuckah, and you is a deadbeat.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter 2

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

Knuckle fat-lipped in the doorway, speaking only when he gotta. Knuckle liked working the door. It was liminal, and he hovered neither inside nor out but in the middle like a child hiding in scattered shadows. The sky drizzled lightly tonight, and his right shoulder got wet, but his left shoulder remained dry. He done confiscated a greaser’s switchblade. But the crowd lusted quietly tonight. He knew his scarred face scared men into submission and prevented brouhahas. As far as he was concerned, that was a good thing. Mr. Gregarian said it was a double-edged sword — no rowdiness, so no fighting, but no rowdiness, so no overdoing it on overpriced drinks either. Knuckle ain’t know if Mr. Gregarian told him that because he expected him to fix it or not, but Knuckle ain’t savvy changing how he got perceived, so he never did nothing about it. The switchblade still sat hotly in Knuckle’s pocket.
“Hey, scarface, is Caitlyn Smiles working tonight?”
“-got a pussy on his neck.”
“Sssssh, ssh, ssh, he’ll hear.”
The men all fell silent as sand before they shuffled up to the doorway where Knuckle stood, basking in the luscious leather napkin of the West Virginia night while being buffeted by the overwhelming warmth and wafts of cigarette smoke pluming out from the club’s insides. He checked IDs and sent them in. No cover charges on Sunday, only Friday and Saturday nights and some holidays, Mr. Gregarian said, because otherwise the place got too crowded and the men focused on tipping dancers instead of ordering drinks from Teddy.
Teddy has very soft fingers.
Ever since that night when Teddy jacked him off in the weight room, Knuckle thought about those fingers and returned to the weight room to see if Teddy might meet him there again and touch him with those fingers that were soft like a kitten’s tail. Those fingers had danced and teased his skin, caressing, affectionate, warm, inviting like a hot stove heaping out heat.
And that mouth was soft and warm too, and Knuckle craved it. Lips. Tongue.
Teddy said nice words. Knuckle ain’t recall them, but he remembered the tone and timbre, which resonated in his ears and remained there like resounding church bells and made his toes tingle every time he thought about them. He snuck drinks from his flask as he worked tonight. The vodka in the flask was thinly redolent of sun-baked plastic. It probably came in a plastic bottle, but he ain’t remember the bottle.
Just before midnight, Knuckle had to go in and lay hands on a black fellah who was getting garish and jagged in the mouth, cuz he done grabbed Caitlyn Smiles’s tits, and she looked at Knuckle with a ruddy face and a puckering pair of eyes and a torn bra, and she said, “You better wreck that bastard, Knuckle!”, and so Knuckle grabbed the man by the neck and dragged him into the back alley like a outside dog, and he punched him and kicked him behind the dumpster and left him there sputtering and bathing bloodwise in moonlight because tonight a full moon splashed effulgence through the clouds, and Knuckle liked that he could see so clearly, even in the alley where there ain’t no streetlight.
The black man had a gold crucifix with a ruby at the base. Knuckle took it. He gave it to Caitlyn Smiles later, and he wanted to tell her so many things that were true both inside the club and out, that the necklace was pretty like her, that Jesus would protect her, that Knuckle would protect her, that no man had the right to treat her like that or to paw her like a possessive puppy. In his mind, Knuckle thought all those things, but out loud, he croaked in a bumpy baritone, “Here. I’s givin’ this to you.” She took it and popped a tit out of her dress as though the necklace was a tip and she needed to earn it, but Knuckle ain’t even look at the naked breast. She stood there for a second with her tit out, realized Knuckle had no intention of groping it, then she screwed up her pretty face and scuttered away like she done see a ghost. She blushed. Caitlin Smiles never blushed except deliberately to seduce a man, but Knuckle made her blush by not looking at her bare tit.
Later, Knuckle saw her whispering about it to Teddy with the soft fingers and the lime-slicing knife in one hand. She said “he’s such a freak!” with a giggled-up laugh, and Teddy nodded grimly. They both took a shot of cinammon liqueur and scrupulously avoided looking in Knuckle’s direction.
But Knuckle ain’t let on that he heard. He stood in the doorway. Nobody thought he was where they were when he was in the doorway — Teddy was inside and treated Knuckle like he was outside, so Teddy and Caitlyn could share snickers about him in private, while the men approaching the door outside nervously talked about how to get past the scary-looking bouncer as though he was a statue who couldn’t hear what they said from a few feet away.
That was why Knuckle liked liminal spaces.
“Hey, Knuckle, is the shower in the back nice? Plenty of hot water?” Teddy asked a few minutes after close that night. The last of the men done skedaddle before Knuckle could tell them to leave. The dancers left in a big group because nobody wanted Knuckle to escort them one-on-one through the parking lot.
Knuckle plopped down at the bar. Teddy slid him a cheap drink, while he finished closing down and locking up the bar. Knuckle downed it in one gulp. “No,” he said.
Teddy looked at him like that hadn’t answered his question. He shrugged. “Oh. Okay. Well, I don’t wanna use all your hot water.”
“I do not shower a lot,” Knuckle said.
“Uhhhh…” Teddy stammered and blushed. “Yeah, the dancers complain about that, and… Nevermind. Knuckle, I, uh…” He thought for a long time, then broke eye contact with Knuckle. “Nevermind,” he said again. “I’m having trouble with the shower at my place. There’s this bum who keeps squatting there.” Teddy lived in a ratty old apartment building down the street, and it came with a group shower. Teddy said, “It’s fine. He’s usually passed out cold this late. It just makes the shower seem dirty, and I thought I could shower here before I leave for the night. But I know you’ve been staying here, so-“
“Let’s go,” Knuckle said. He stood up as though to leave, while Teddy was still closing down the bar.
Teddy paused. “What?”
“I will slit his throat if he does not leave,” Knuckle said. He walked to the door.
Teddy had to race after him. “Who? The hobo! Wait, Knuckle! That’s… a little extreme. Wait!” Knuckle stopped by the door and stood motionless. It took Teddy a few seconds to realize that was Knuckle waiting — he just stopped in the middle of Lipsweet like a robot whose off-switch had gotten flicked. “Wait, uh… don’t kill him. You don’t gotta kill him.”
After a pause, Knuckle said, “yes.”
“Okay, just… Talk to him sternly, maybe. Thanks for helping. Don’t kill anybody,” Teddy said. “Lemme just get the bar shut down.” He paused and said again, “Don’t kill anyone.” He raced to finish closing Lipsweet, then he and Knuckle piled into Teddy’s four-door to head to his building.
It was a square building with cardboard replacing most of the windows on the first floor. Teddy lived on the third floor though, which was the top floor. Knuckle saw a row of windows with blinds and curtains and flickering TV screens visible through them. One of those windows was Teddy’s place, the thought of which made Knuckle’s heart tumble over its beat.
Teddy followed Knuckle up the stairs to the third floor. The stairwell was a cold concrete column with spraypainted graffiti scrawled on every surface. The dancers would be shocked and exhilarated to learn Teddy had invited Knuckle to his home — it was an accident, but still, Teddy was going with Knuckle to a second location. The dancers wouldn’t even go with Knuckle into the next room.
Knuckle done took off his shirt and his wifebeater because it was a warm and humid night. His chest cooled, and the nasty burn scar on his shoulder heaved up and down with every breath. Teddy kept sneaking glances at his broad, powerful muscles. Those scars were stark in the dimly lit arteries of Teddy’s building.
Twenty apartments lined the central corridor of the third floor, and they all shared one group shower with just two showerheads. Teddy showed Knuckle to his apartment and pointed out the shower, but Knuckle went straight there, not into Teddy’s place. Teddy followed him, key in hand, into the shower.
The hobo, Bax, sprawled on his back, bugging out in a nest of rotting old clothes and scraps of cardboard. He lay in the middle of the shower area, so he ain’t gonna get wet even if both showerheads was running. That was rare though, as usually men showered alone here.
He ain’t move until Knuckle picked him up by the throat, smacked him in the face and growled. “You don’t live here! You-“
“Aaaagchk!” Bax’s eyes opened wide — he had been awake for days, on a meth binge, but he was unaware of Knuckle until he started hitting him. Knuckle slapped him again. Bax barked, “Git off me!”

When Bax peeped Knuckle’s scarred face and murderous mein, he squealed and squirmed. He clawed at Knuckle’s chest. His feet kicked the cold floor, but Knuckle brought him outta the showers and ignored his blows and cries.
Knuckle dragged him down the stairs and out into the West Virginia night. “If you come back, I will slit your throat,” Knuckle said. He tossed Bax like a sac of seed towards the road.

Then he turned around and came back inside with Teddy, who crouched by the door with wide eyes. Knuckle stood there as though waiting for another assignment.
“Thanks,” Teddy said, blushing. Bax stumbled off into the night, blood trickling from his nose. “You wanna come into my apartment? We could have a drink.”
Knuckle nodded.
They went into Teddy’s apartment. Knuckle stood there like a gravestone, while Teddy fixed them both a quick drink. Then Teddy saw him standing blankly and motioned to the couch. Knuckle sat down. He gulped his drink down in one motion. Teddy sat on the back of the couch, spreading his legs so he could rub Knuckle’s shoulders.
“Tell me about Emma,” Teddy said when he saw that tattoo again on the nape of Knuckle’s neck. His fingers hesitated before touching the burn scar on Knuckle’s neck, but Knuckle’s whole body relaxed at his touch, so he gathered Knuckle liked it or at least tolerated it. He wondered what kind of a woman would love Knuckle. Had Knuckle said she loved him? He definitely said he loved her, but had it gone the other direction? Teddy couldn’t remember.
Knuckle nodded. He waited for Teddy to pour him another drink, then he described the traveling carnival he had joined when he was a mere teenage runaway. He traveled all over the country with that carnival.
She was a glittering blonde beauty when Knuckle first saw her, swathed in bulb light from the carnival. She glid like a galleon through the crowd. She was accompanied by a boyfriend, Tom, but Knuckle ain’t clock him. The world parted like clouds around the sun, so nobody else existed, just her, serene and curving to forever, making Knuckle’s knees go weak.
The Sammy Smack-It Strength Meter dinged and belled behind him, but Knuckle couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
“Mister! Mister! You s’posed to gimme them tickets!” said the old man who had just scored nearly top marks on the Strength Meter. Thirty tickets had been dispensed from the machine behind Knuckle, so he tore them off the roll and gave them to the wiry old man.
When Knuckle looked again for her, she was gone, lost in the crowd of Indiana appleseeds.
They were in Peoria. It took Knuckle a few minutes to remember that — all these towns looked the same to him, the same people in the same clothes, speaking the same words as they lifted the same hammer and brought it down on the same strength machine.
The one thing different here was her.
Knuckle’s eyes opened wide when he caught a glimpse of her again later. This time she was swathed in swimming darkness, just outside the well-lit carnival grounds. Children streamed past in front of Knuckle, running outta the carnival with caramel apples and sacs of Candy Annie’s home-made sweets. Knuckle pushed past them to get close enough to hear the pretty blonde lady, whose face was pursed tight, her lips bloodless, glowing when she passed under a streetlight, where she stopped to snap something harsh to that man she was with.
“You are such a asshole!” she said to him.
It was only when she said that that Knuckle finally saw she was with a man. A boyfriend. Of course a woman like her wouldn’t be single. She probably had a line of suitors trying to meet her, Knuckle thought.
He went back to the strength meter. That was it. She was gone. He might see her again before the carnival left whatever dipshit town this was, but probably not. He could have talked to her.
But he didn’t, and that was that.
The carnival shut down at ten-thirty, but Knuckle was already done by then. Nobody came by the strength meter that late. He went to the tent he lived in and sat in the lawnchair he done place out front. The sky was dappled with stars overhead, and the night was cool and calm like that woman’s eyes. But inside, Knuckle was afrenzied, with desire and with rage, and he soon got overwhelmed by the feelings coursing through him.
He stood, as the other carnies came in for the night, and he spat curse words. He formed a fist with one hand and punched his other hand in palm hard enough to hurt. He kept doing it, stalking and pacing afront his trailer.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Pavel when he walked past. He was the horse-tamer and expert for the carnival, and he set up people — mainly little girls — with horseback rides. He always smelled like a barnyard. “There’s women here, Knuckle, don’t make ’em uncomfortable.”
Knuckle nodded. His face was grim and ruddy. He stood motionless, unsure what he could say or do that Pavel wouldn’t think made the lady carnies uncomfortable. There weren’t even any women around, most likely. The handful of female carnies were probably in their own tent by now.
“Let’s go for a bath,” Pavel said. That was where he was headed when he saw Knuckle. He always bathed first because he smelled so much like a horse. He ain’t like laying in bed in a cloud of horsehair and straw.
As he led Knuckle into the bath tent, Pavel listened to him talk about the girl he done saw. Pavel was older than Knuckle, and wiser, so he just smiled and patted Knuckle on the back.
“You’re getting this worked up over a girl you ain’t even talk to yet?” Pavel asked.
Knuckle nodded. “I guess it is kinda silly.” He blushed. His face ain’t riddled with scars then. He had a strong, straight jaw with a masculine jawline and a shaggy mane of jet hair.
Pavel filled up two wooden tubs with hot water, then he hurried to rip off his stableboy clothes. He was lean and ripped, powerfully built on his own merits, though he looked skinny next to Knuckle’s barrel-shaped body. Knuckle was slow, his eyes still dreamy and far away. By the time Knuckle was done, Pavel was already sighing and sinking into the warm water.
He leaned back in the tub and sighed. “C’mon into the water, Knuckle. Don’t get’cha hopes up about pretty nice girls. Set your sights on a carnie, most likely. Caroline Nazzir likes you.” She was a carnie, a mermaid in the Hall of Wonders, as well as a pickpocket. She done made it very clear she would sleep with any man, more or less.
But Knuckle never liked her.
His hardon jutted against his briefs when Knuckle dropped his pants. He ain’t even realize that until he took his underwear off and saw it. He covered it up with both hands, not because it would be scandalous for Pavel to see him sporting a stiffy but simply because Pavel would make of him being smitten when he did see it.
And Knuckle had to admit, he was smitten. He couldn’t stop thinking about that girl, Emma, as he climbed into the tub and sat across from Pavel. Their legs were intertwined. Since Knuckle was bigger, his legs were on the outside, pressed against the sides of the wooden tub.
“I see that, you horny dog, you sportin’ wood,” Pavel said with a baritone laugh. “You still thinkin’ about her, ain’cha?”
Knuckle nodded. He got an awkward grin on his face. “She was so pretty, Pavel…”
One of Pavel’s big knobbly feet gripped Knuckle’s dick under the water. He rubbed it up and down and laughed at the look on Knuckle’s face — Knuckle’s eyes lit up with surprise, then disgust, then a long slow melting bliss as his half-hardon turned into a full-on.
Pavel grimaced and laughed at the same time, and he put his other foot on it too. Knuckle’s dick throbbed under Pavel’s callused feet, softened by the water. Knuckle twitched.
Pavel was jacking Knuckle off with his feet for two reasons. The first was that it was funny. The second was that it would mean Knuckle ain’t gonna make Pavel use his mouth or even butt later. That was an option because Pavel owed a lot of money to this carnival, and he had to pay it by giving up the butt to any carnie who needed it. That mattered because a horny carnie was liable to start trouble in the small towns they visited.
But his plan backfired — Knuckle stood up, and, in one smooth motion, bathwater still dripping from his cock, Knuckle slipped his dick into Pavel’s mouth. Knuckle bent his knees, his eyes still upcast and dreamy, like he was moving on autopilot.
Pavel made a sourpuss puckering face, but he ain’t refuse. He been taking dick for years in this carnival, and it was better than starving to death in Poland. At least here, the food was plentiful. He slurped spit up and down Knuckle’s shaft.
A baritone grunt came from Knuckle’s mouth, and he pistoned his hips. His dick rammed into Pavel’s throat. Pavel was a tall man, so he managed to swallow almost the whole thing, until his nose was nestled in Knuckle’s pubic bush.
“Ooooohhhhmmmmm…” Knuckle moaned. He thought getting hard and blowing a nut would make him forget about that blonde woman, but it didn’t. He kept thinking about her anyway. She was too pretty to imagine himself fucking her, so he pictured her talking to him and touching his arm and giggling when he spoke — giggling with her eyes too, not just her mouth.
Sour, salty precum coated Pavel’s tongue. A moist gurgling sound came from Pavel, who patted Knuckle’s big asscheeks to signal he needed a break. Pavel spat a mouthful of prenut and wiped pubic hair off his lips.
“Gimme a sec,” Pavel said. He clutched his belly with one hand, his face tense and queasy. He held back a gag and pursed his lips shut tightly.
But Knuckle kept humping, his hips gyrating, his cock jabbing back and forth, without Knuckle paying any attention. Knuckle’s mind was fixated on her. He ain’t even notice at first that his dick moved through the air, not Pavel’s mouth. It poked Pavel in the nose when he was trying not to gag, and that caused him to retch violently.
“Uaaaaggghhhhk…!” Pavel held his stomach again and spat outta the bathtub. He intended to keep spitting until the eye-wateringly salty taste of precum vanished, but Knuckle’s dick kept poking him in the face like it was trying to find his mouth. “Gimme a sec, Knuckle-“
But his mouth opened to speak, and Knuckle — his eyes still closed — aimed his rod right for it. Pavel’s whole body buckled as Knuckle’s knob invaded his mouth, instantly filling it again with precum.
Pavel ain’t try to spit it out, though his wiry chest muscles all flexed as he held back a gag. Knuckle’s pecker pulsated like an alien beast in his mouth, and Pavel’s tongue slathered spit up and down the shaft.
Cum flowed into Pavel’s throat. Knuckle grunted again, and he pounded on his chest. Pavel winced, scrunching his eyes shut. The taste was intensely salty and powerful. He held back a gag.
Finally, Knuckle let go, and Pavel pulled off. He simultaneously gasped for air and spat jizz onto the ground outside the wooden tub. He paused for a moment. “Ecchk, your jizz tastes awful, Knuckle.” He spat again, as Knuckle sighed and wiped his dicktip off on Pavel’s cheek.
“Thanks, Pavel,” Knuckle said. His nostrils flared, and he sat back down in the spermy water of the wooden bathtub. “But I still can’t stop thinking about her.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter 3

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

At first, Teddy thought the flat voice on the phone was a recording. It didn’t quite sound like a real person. He gradually realized it could only be Knuckle.
“Teddy. Come get me. I need a ride,” said Knuckle.
Teddy crossed his arms over his chest and wondered who was on the phone. Then the distinctive voice of Knuckle flooded his memory. He stammered over a hello, flustered, unsure what Knuckle was asking or if he should agree.
“Hello, hey, hi, Knuckle, I, uh… Hey.”
“936 Motter Street.” A man’s heavy panting, like he was hurt, could be heard near the phone. Then Knuckle hung up.
The whole conversation took maybe three seconds. Teddy stood there, needing to think — about how Knuckle got his phone number, who was that panting in pain, was Motter Street in Martinsburg, what was what number? 936? Teddy hadn’t been expecting a message, so he wasn’t sure he remembered.
It turned out that the reason Knuckle didn’t give him an explanation or wait for a yes was that he was on a mission for Mr. Gregarian. Mr. Gregarian had told him to call Teddy for a ride and to tell him he could get paid for his time as though at work. Knuckle hadn’t need a ride to his location because he could walk, but he was now blood-splattered and would attract attention if he walked home. So he needed a ride.

Knuckle didn’t tell Teddy any of that, Teddy figured it out later when Mr. Gregarian gave him the money.

He found 936 Motter Street near the city college campus. This was a party-zone most of the year, choked with fraternities, sororities, teams of young men marching through with jockstraps on their faces (Teddy had seen that once). 936 was a frat house.
But it wasn’t the frat that owed money, or even any of the fraternity brothers. Greg Hardinger’s father owed money, but he had been playing hard-to-find with Mr. Gregarian, who cottoned to that like a cat on fire. He didn’t mess around — if Mr. Hardinger was gonna hide from his debt, Mr. Gregarian would either get the money or send a message or both through the young Greg Hardinger.
It was a hockey frat — not by rule, but most of the hockey players on campus were in Kappa Gamma Phi, and the frat brothers who lived in the house were all on the team.
And they were tied up in the kitchen.
Teddy knocked on the door, having no idea of any of this — Knuckle hadn’t told him a thing — and his eyes opened wide at the sight of Greg Hardinger’s handsome face a bloody mess. He was crawling around on the frat house floor. Knuckle came out with blood splattered on his scarred cheeks. He held a small wad of cash — Greg’s emergency stash.
It was only a small payment towards the debt, but it would satisfy Mr. Gregarian for now. And Greg had promised to deliver the message to his father: debt must be repaid.
Greg wasn’t that badly hurt. Knuckle went easy on him.
That feller ain’t gone easy on you… The words now hung in Knuckle’s mind like a trapeze artist. He ain’t thought about those times — the carnival days, with Emma and them — in a long time. But Teddy been steady asking about it. Nobody ever asked Knuckle nothing about his past usually. They assumed he was sensitive about it.
Which was true.
When Knuckle saw Emma for that first time, he ain’t get a chance to talk to her. The next morning though, he saw her on the street. She was like a golden angel, and Knuckle said hello to her, and she said hello back like she ain’t know who he was, and then she recognized him from the carnival last night, so she must have looked at him at some point, even though Knuckle ain’t seen her do it, and that thought made Knuckle’s heart race. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Then her dickhead boyfriend Tom yelled for her to come to him, as he was coming out of a store, struggling with a buncha bags, and Emma looked away from Knuckle to Tom, but she winced like she ain’t wanna do it even as she padded softly over there. Tom shot Knuckle a mean look.
Knuckle ain’t give that mean look much regard. Tom was a middle-class mudclot, and Knuckle ain’t got a lick of worry for him.
But Knuckle done misjudge Tom. He musta learned from Emma that Knuckle was a carnie, because later that evening, when Knuckle left the carnival grounds to find a hardware store, he was beset upon by Tom and a gaggle of his coiffed polo-prep prickless pals, who broed around him like agreeable jackdaws.
“That’s for talking to Emma!” Tom said when he kicked the bloody and broken Knuckle in the side. “She’s got better things waiting for her in this life than some carnie!” He kicked him again. He and his buddies chortled off into the night. “C’mon, guys, let’s get back to my place.”
He musta told Emma what he did, because she came and found Knuckle a few minutes later. He done prop himself up and leaned against the brick wall of a brush factory, hidden from the street by a dumpster that smelled of rotten Chinese food and insulated him from the rumbling engines of the cars putt-putting along on the other side. He cradled his badly bruised ribs. He ain’t think none of his ribs was broken, but it hurt to breathe, and pain bloomed all over like endless marigolds.
“Oh, you got hurt! That’s so awful, oh no…” Emma said when she came upon him. She clucked her tongue like a nurse. “Oh, you poor dear… C’mon, can you stand?”
“I’m okay, miss,” Knuckle said, blushing, eyes opening wide when she looked at him so nicely. When she got down beside him, he kissed her, and though he tasted only blood and sweat, his heart swelled with rising roses, while his heart rapidly raced and shudders wracked his frame. His meaty hands swept over her shoulders.
She pulled away with a pause, lips trembling and hovering above his own. “C’mon, you have to go to the hospital.”
He shook his head, which flung a few drops of blood onto the ground beside the dumpster. “The carnies will take care of me. I’m fine.” He struggled to his feet. His legs wobbled.
“You’re not fine!” she said. But she didn’t insist on it. She wrapped one arm around his waist, as though she could provide any support to his towering frame. He didn’t need it though. He could still walk, despite his bloody and broken face. He lumbered like a lovelorn frankenstein.
They made it onto the street and headed north, towards the carnie encampment. Knuckle limped, but his gait straightened and smoothed once he walked a block or two, and Emma talked but Knuckle’s mind whirred too fast to hear a word she said, so he listened only to her mellifluous tinkling tones, which hung in his head like a heavenly harp.
A siren whooped, and a cop car pulled up behind them. Emma stopped. Knuckle kept going at first, but he stopped when Emma ain’t continue alongside. He turned around.
“You okay, missus?” asked the cop, a stout middle-aged black man with a shaved head and a dense mustache like a push broom, which wriggled when he wrinkled his nose at the sight of Knuckle’s beat-up, swollen and bloody body. But he went right to Emma, who got a little of Knuckle’s blood on her face and flecking her sundress. “He hittin’ on you? You one of dem carnies, fellah?”
“I’m fine,” Emma said. “I wasn’t hurt. He was. He’s hurt.”
“I do’n need-uh go to the hospu’al,” Knuckle said. His broken nose made it hard to talk.
The cop, whose badge ided him as Officer Castle, sighed. “You drunk?” Knuckle shook his head. Officer Castle pointed to the chain-link fence beside the road, sectioning off the university parking lot from the road. “Hands on that fence, carnie.”
Knuckle did as he was told, while Officer Castle listened to what Emma told him. She patiently explained that her boyfriend had beaten Knuckle up for no good reason. She spoke in a dulcet timbre that calmed Knuckle’s agonized nerves. Castle was sympathetic throughout, then put her in the front seat of the squad car, while Knuckle got in the back.
“I’ll drop you off at home, missus,” Officer Castle said. He started the squad car and headed off.
“Then you’ll take him to the hospital?” Emma asked.
“I don’ need-uh go!” Knuckle said from the backseat.
Officer Castle winked at her. “I’ll make sure he gets took care of, missus,” he said. “Where do you live, miss?”
She gave him directions, but her voice was clipped and her lips were tense, like she was holding back a pout. She kept shooting Knuckle apologetic glances. Knuckle ain’t know how to react, so he just sat there and tried to look like he weren’t in pain, for both her benefit and so Officer Castle ain’t think Knuckle really needed a hospital.
Finally, the squad car pulled into a streetside spot next to Emma’s building.
“You never told me your name,” Emma said after Officer Castle got out. She didn’t move to open her door, so Castle came around to that side to open it. She and Knuckle had a few seconds of perfect silence.
“Knuckle,” he said, his voice a bloody flat croak that ruined the silence.
“I”m Emma,” she said. She smiled so softly she looked like a pillow. Knuckle’s eyes opened wide. His cheeks burned a bright pink.
Then splendid silence ended. Officer Castle opened up Emma’s door, and she got out. He walked her to her front door. Before she went inside, there was an awkward moment as Officer Castle leaned in to kiss her, but she deftly maneuvered away. He did get his hands on her waist though, and he gently cupped one buttcheek before she scuppered into her house.
Officer Castle arranged his now-erect cock in his uniform slacks before he walked stiffly back to the squad car. He got behind the wheel. He whistled. “Reckon I ain’t surprised you got tempted by that sweet young thang. She is a fine woman.”
Knuckle nodded.
“Hmmmmmm…” Castle sighed. “Look, buddy, she a nice girl. She got a nice man for a boyfriend. He gonna set her up wit’ a nice life. Don’chu you ruin that for her wit’cha low-trash self, you feel me? You shouldn’t be messin’ wit’ no local girls anyway. I know Sheriff Torkelson wouldn’t like that at all. He don’t like carnies. So I can’t arrest this Tom fellah for assaulting you. Don’t look like he did much damage anyhow.”
After a long quiet pause, Knuckle said, “Are you taking me to the hospital?”
“No,” Officer Castle said. “I told that nice lady I’d get you took care of.” He pulled into the parking lot of precinct 17. “Don’t’chu worry, you ain’t under arrest neither. Just come in.”
He led Knuckle into the police station, whose lights was mostly off. A few emergency lights remained, along with a room in the back. They navigated among the desks into that backroom, which was the local jail.
A couple jail cells lined each side. One of them was the drunk tank, and it stank of piss and vomit and was choked with passed-out coal miners — there was a brawl in a miner’s bar this afternoon. The rear cell on the left was the one with the light on, and in there was a tall hairy man in his boxers, watching TV.
He was almost as tall as Knuckle, and he was powerfully built too. He ain’t have a barrel-shaped chest like Knuckle though, he was more of a naturally lanky man who grew muscular because there was nothing else to do but work out in prison.
His name was Baker, and he was a trustee. That was why he was allowed a TV in his cell, which was furnished comfortably. He scowled though at the sight of Officer Castle and then Knuckle’s beat-up and bloody body. He turned down the volume on the talk show on the TV.
“Whatchoo want, Castle? I finished cleanin’ the ter’lets,” Baker said.
“Get this fellah bandaged up,” Officer Castle said. “He don’t wanna go to the hospital, and he a carnie, so the hospital prolly wouldn’t want him neither. I’ll get doc’s kit.” He went back out into the main room of the police station and rummaged through drawers.
“Sit.” Baker pointed to the chair in the center of the cell. Knuckle sat down, while Baker used a towel to dab off the dirt and blood on his face. “What happened to you?”
“A fight.” Knuckle ain’t wanna say that he had gotten ganged up on, and he ain’t wanna talk about Emma lest Officer Castle launch into another tirade about nice girls and carnies. So he couldn’t think of any details to add.
Baker let out a hoarse chuckle. “Okay, yeah. Makes sense, buddy.”
By the time Baker got off enough blood to see the wounds, Officer Castle done come back with the doctor’s kit. Baker was experienced with it — he’d worked in the infirmary back in the prison — so he got to work bandaging up Knuckle’s wounds. He put a butterfly bandage on the deepest one first. That made Knuckle wince, as he had to force the torn flesh together.
Officer Castle told Baker a little more about what happened, focusing mainly on how pretty Emma was. Soon Castle was looking dreamy-eyed. “She got legs like you wouldn’t believe, Baker, I ain’t seen ’em till she get in the light of her front porch.” His hands were on Baker’s smooth bare back now, massaging his tattooed muscles.
“Goddamn, I love a girl wit’ legs,” Baker said. He was distracted by applying another butterfly bandage, this time to Knuckle’s side. “You want some ice, fellah? I’ll get’cha an ice-pack.” Baker tried to get up, but Officer Castle clucked his tongue and massaged Baker’s back more firmly.
“Nah, Baker. I put a ice-pack in the bag,” Castle said softly.
Baker grabbed the ice-pack from the doctor’s kit, grumbling. He put it on Knuckle’s sore belly, and Knuckle sighed with relief. Baker gave his ribs a couple pokes to see if they were broken, but Knuckle ain’t seem fazed.
Then Castle took his dick out through the fly of his uniform slacks. It jabbed, already hard, into Baker’s side. Baker grunted and swatted it away. “C’mon, Castle, I is fixin’ him up-“
“Don’t lemme stop you,” Castle said. “Hmmm-hmm, you got nice smooth skin, Baker. No hair neither. Like that. I like that,” he said emphatically. He winked at Knuckle. His dick rubbed Baker’s spine. Then his hands pulled down Knuckle’s boxers.
“Here. Ibuprofren,” Baker said. He handed over some pills he found in the doctor’s kit. He poked around in there as though looking for more bandages, but he was actually hoping to find more pills. He ignored Castle’s fat fingers groping him like a girl.
Before he could put gauze on the asphalt-scraped shoulder, Baker grunted and gritted his teeth. Castle’s cock slid into his ass.
“Carnies do ramrodding, right, fellah?” Castle said, his voice a low simmer. His hands reached around Baker’s body to his chest. One hand squeezed his pec, the other groped the flesh and nipple — you could almost sort of pretend it was a tit.
“Yes, suh,” Knuckle said.
“Well, if you wanna do it next, you can,” Castle said. His whole body tensed as he flexed his hips.
Baker grunted and closed his eyes. “Ow, shit, Castle!” He spread his asscheeks with both hands, which always seemed like it should reduce the pain but never did.
“Hmm-hmm, c’mon, Baker… Moan for me, get me goin’-“
“You goin’, shit, ow, ow, ow, Castle, c’mon! You already goin’ good and hard!” Baker’s knees went weak, and he winced. He took Knuckle’s dick in hand as though to put it in his mouth, but he didn’t, as Officer Castle behind him spurted jizz into his booty.
“Hmmm-hmm…” Officer Castle murmured.
A huge wad of cum bloomed within Baker, whose cheeks went red. He did manage to get Knuckle’s limp dick in his mouth for a second, but then he lifted his head to grab some toilet paper. He sopped up all the cum leaking from his butthole when Officer Castle pulled out. He screwed up his nose at the messy wad of toilet paper in his hand, then threw it away into the little trash bin in his cell.
“Ya turn, big boy,” Baker muttered. He stroked Knuckle’s dick with one hand, which he lotioned up with some vaseline. Knuckle leaned back on the chair.
“Shit, you jack off e’ry dude that come in here?” Knuckle asked.
Baker scoffed. “No. Just the cops and, y’know… visitors,” he said. He shrugged. “It’s better than prison.” He kept stroking Knuckle’s dick with one hand, his butt hovering above it. It stiffened up in his grasp. “I got a pretty loose butthole.” He grimaced as he lowered his ass onto Knuckle’s dick. It entered the hole.
When Knuckle’s hands touched his waist to pull him down, Baker clucked his tongue and stopped him.
“Nah, son, wait. You got big meat, I’m goin’ slow,” Baker said. His eyes flicked back to the TV, which had finished the commercials and was back on the talk show. “And keep it down. I’s still watchin’ my show.”
Knuckle’s hands hovered above Baker’s asscheeks. He didn’t touch it, though the sensations arising from his ass were intense. He threw his head back and moaned.
Cum spurted into Baker’s butthole. A long flow of it filled him up, and Knuckle sucked in his breath. His massive dong flopped out. Baker winced again, ready with a wad of toilet paper to wipe up the cum that plopped out. Baker kept his eyes trained on the TV the whole time.
Finally, Baker’s butt was clean, and Knuckle leaned back in the chair, relaxing. Knuckle’s dick was still covered in juices. He took a deep breath, only for images of Emma to return to his mind.
Baker tossed him the roll of toilet paper. “Clean ya dick up, son. Then get outta my cell.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter 6