Tag: fighting

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 Three

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 Six

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

The city of Martinsburg was vibrant and inky-black tonight, as Teddy strode and Knuckle limped back to Teddy’s apartment. Knuckle was bruised-up again, ice on his black eye, his nose bandaged by the nurse at the fight — Knuckle had just competed in a bare-knuckle boxing match against a stout Bulgarian fellow.
Knuckle limped victoriously because he had smashed that Bulgarian man into the dirt. He limped because the Bulgarian got a buncha good hits in first. Teddy walked with a pumped-up gait to his step because he had bet big-time on Knuckle, and he was now eight hundred dollars richer. He had never done anything as exciting.
The fight was brief, but a half-dozen matches between smaller men came up before the heavyweights. During the bouts between smaller men, Teddy stood behind a short but well-muscled Mexican man with macabre tattoos covering his bare back and neck (and probably his front, but Teddy couldn’t see that). Teddy had gotten up so close to him that he was shoved face-first into the man’s sweaty shoulder muscles.
Seeing that other men were touching each other too, Teddy’s own fingers had moved to the Mexican’s warm belly and up his side. Teddy gripped him as though he was being jostled hard from behind.
The Mexican ain’t respond. His back was so sweaty, his muscles firm beneath a thick layer of padding. Teddy couldn’t help but moan into his manly meat. The roar of the crowd was loud — Teddy couldn’t even have heard the Mexican complain if he said something, but he ignored Teddy’s fingers creeping around to his chest.
Then before Teddy knew it his own dick was out, his hands moving on autopilot now. The Mexican man had a thick layer of fur on his chest, which Teddy teased with one hand, while his other slipped lower, into the Mexican man’s pants.
His dick was warm and wet with sweat, and the Mexican man shouted then, startling Teddy — but he was just cheering because the Mexican fighter he had bet on just won his match. The Mexican still ignored Teddy, giving no signs he had even noticed Teddy’s hand jacking him off his in his mud-crusted workpants or Teddy’s cock leaking precum into the puddle of sweat in the small of the Mexican man’s hairy back.
Teddy had no idea which of them came first. The Mexican’s crotch was so wet with sweat that it wasn’t until his dick got limp that Teddy realized the crotch-sweat was now creamy and sticky with jizz. Then Teddy shot his own wad over the Mexican man’s hairy, tattooed back.
He stepped away. Had anyone noticed? He didn’t think so. Teddy giggled and put his cock away, watching his jizz drip over the Mexican man’s gang tats.
But then Knuckle’s fight began, and Teddy paid attention to that. It was over quick, and Knuckle showed no emotion when the burly black man refereeing the bout held up one of Knuckle’s arms to show his victory.

Then Knuckle collected his share of the take, and Teddy got his winnings from the pimp in a green suit flanked by scantily clad hos. Teddy was so excited he didn’t even notice the hos trying to seduce him or the pimp scowling cuz Teddy ignored the hos.

All Teddy cared about was making sure Knuckle was okay and that he got home okay.
Teddy’s apartment building was quiet and dark by the time they got there. The walls were thin like water, so the sounds of TVs and radios and air conditioners were audible in the halls. They went up the stairs to the third floor.
“Oh, that smell,” Teddy wrinkled his nose. “I think that must be a rat or something. I smell it sometimes.” It was a sort of a cat-piss-in-a-sandbox aroma.
“Meth.”
“The landlord’s a dick. He sent an exterminator around last year, but he was just looking for roaches,” Teddy said. He went to his apartment and opened the door. “Did you say meth?”
Knuckle nodded. “That’s meth. Somebody’s smoking meth.” He strode down the hall to the showers. Teddy shut his apartment door and followed Knuckle.
There, right where Knuckle had kicked his ass a couple months ago, was Bax. He crouched and smoked his meth from a glass stem. The dense smoke filled the shower area. He glanced up at Knuckle when he came in, but he didn’t seem to recognize him.
“Hey, mistuh, you got a nasty scar on ya face, you all beat up,” Bax said. “You look like you went through the ringer, the ringer, the ringer, what is that? What are you doing? You live here, huh, do you? I am just getting high, exploring the linoleum. Linoleum. Linoleum.”
He yelped when Knuckle punched him in the face, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him face-first into the wall. Knuckle growled. “I thought I told you to get outta here and nevuh show yo’ face.”
“You bitch-ass! I live here!” Bax spat and fell limp, groaning in pain. Knuckle dropped him to the ground. Bax crawled around at Knuckle’s feet, unable to get upright, either because he was hurt or because he was too methed up, or maybe some of both.
This had all happened so fast that Teddy could do little more than stare. He went pale. He realized Knuckle was talking to him, repeating himself over and over, but it took some time for Teddy to focus.
“If I hit him more, he won’t be able to leave,” Knuckle said.
Teddy gulped. He hadn’t meant for Bax to get seriously hurt, so he didn’t want Knuckle to hit him again. But without a serious injury, Bax seemed likely to come right back.
Teddy slyly smiled. “Knuckle… will you show me what ramrodding is? I’ve heard about it, it’s a prison thing, right?”
Knuckle shrugged and nodded. He got down behind the barely conscious Bax and dropped his pants. He shoved his limp dick at Bax’s butthole. Knuckle seemed unaware until he tried that he had no erection and couldn’t possibly get his dick into Bax’s bony bottom.
The motion definitely woke Bax up thoroughly though. His wiry limbs flexed as he tried to get up. Knuckle smacked him hard. Bax yelped and tried to squirm away, but Knuckle held onto him by the back of the neck.
“Don’t move, punk.” Knuckle rabbit-punched Bax in the back of the head. Bax howled. “I said don’t move. On your hands and knees-“
“What the fuck is you doin’-?”
“Shut up.” Knuckle kept aiming his dick for Bax’s asshole, but he wasn’t hard so it didn’t go in. He did stroke it though with one hand, so it was getting hard slowly. “This is ramrodding.” He was so matter-of-fact that Teddy didn’t realize Knuckle was talking to him.
“Oh, I-” Teddy gasped.
“Ow, ow, ow! You fuckin’ freak!” Bax howled. Knuckle punched him again in the back of the head, then in the side. Bax flinched in agony. He clutched his already-bruised ribs where Knuckle had bruised them again. “Ow! You owe me then! You owe me! I charge fifty bucks to take it up the rear!”
Knuckle shoved his dick in, still only part hard but hard enough now to get purchase on Bax’s buckhole. His dick doubled up then — it looked painful — as it almost slipped out. He kept stroking his pecker with one hand. He plowed his hips, forcing his dick in a little deeper.
“Get ready,” Knuckle said. He kept a tight grip on Bax’s neck. Now that his dick was rock-hard, he forced it in, using one hand to hold Bax in place and the other to motion for Teddy to get ready behind him. “Be done in a sec.”
“I don’t care how quick you done!” Bax roared. He thought Knuckle was talking to him. “You still gotta-!” He squealed as Knuckle squeezed his neck to shut him up.
But Teddy realized Knuckle was telling him to go next. Teddy’s heart raced. Knuckle’s whole body flexed right in front of his face, as Knuckle blew a nut and Teddy massaged his weary asscheeks and powerful back.
Cum filled Bax’s butthole. Knuckle didn’t move a beat or make a sound, he simply kept going, churning Bax’s loose butthole into a giant bubbly mess of white. He stopped only when his balls were thoroughly drained.
“You ready for a go?” Knuckle asked.
Teddy nodded, and Knuckle pulled his limp dick out. Teddy raced to take his place. He got behind Bax, who still squirmed and wriggled, but he didn’t try to get up.
Teddy shoved his dick in. Bax’s grimy asshole gaped in front of him. He howled in pain, and Teddy almost backed off out of instinct.
“Ow, shit!” Bax roared. Teddy wanted to tell him that he would pay for his ass, as long as Bax agreed to leave and not come back.
But mind-blowing bliss enveloped Teddy and compelled him to stay quiet, to push on, penetrating deeper into Bax’s loose hole. There was no resistance in the hole, though he sensed Bax’s whole body trying to flex his butthole — he wasn’t intact and couldn’t squeeze effectively.
It did send a wave of pleasure through Teddy though, whose whole body shook and tensed as he reached orgasm.
A burst of jizz sprayed into Bax’s now-loose butthole. Teddy cried out loud, virtually screaming, the sound ricocheting off the linoleum walls of the shower. Bax sprawled out flat on his belly. Teddy kept humping, making a puddle of jizz form beneath his taint.
Teddy’s cock plopped out of his ass, followed by a pair of giant cumloads dripping onto the shower floor. Bax grunted with relief, then staggered upright on unsteady feet. His pants were around his ankles, and he was dizzy with bruises on his face and ribs. He croaked out loud.
“If anybody evuh see you in this buildin’ again,” Knuckle said, “I will slit ya dumb bitch throat.” He shoved the still-mostly-naked Bax towards the door. “Now run.”
Bax sprinted out with his pants around his ankles.

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Two

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper recognized the humpty-dumpty nigga who came into Lipsweet late on Thursday night. It was only a half-hour till close. The sky done gone dark like it might rain, but it never did. The stars hid like shy cockroaches.
“Yo, Thumper? That you?! Aw, hell!” said that nod-happy nigga who approached the door. His name was Rashid Jenkins. He was cold-shouldering the couple niggas he lined up with, and he gave Thumper a pip and a dap when they gazes met.
“Oh, shit nigga!” Thumper’s eyes opened wide, as him and Rashid hugged it out. Thumper stacked lips at them other niggas waiting in line. Back inside, couple years ago, him and Rashid was in the same cell for awhile. Rashid was a top-heavy nigga, squishy and dense like overstuffed pillows. Thumper ain’t see him in years, and he recollected hard with his arms around Rashid. His fingers gripped that nigga’s thickness. “Goddamn, I ain’t know you was still kickin’ around Bangor. What’choo bin up to, Rashid?”
Rashid scoffed and sucked on his teeth. “J’st keepin’ it real, holdin’ it down, Thumper. You know how a nigga do.” He sucked on his teeth again. “That’s all. You ain’t go back to Baltimore?”
Thumper shook his head. “Parole officer won’t lemme leave the state.”
A harsh air spilled between Rashid and his niggas, plus the dozen or so lippy whiteboys and one Asian impatient-waiting in line behind Rashid. They all finna see some dancers in the club, and they dim-eyed Rashid and Thumper chopping it up. They mumbled on the underhush that Rashid shouldn’t be slowing the line down and that Thumper was a doddery old nigga who dresses like a fossil. Thumper woulda told them to spit and sit, and he’da flurried up a couplea fisty cuffs if they ain’t show the proper respect with a quickness. If Thumper was in prison still and some young cats fussed at him to hurry, he’d correct them kittens sans mercy. Sans mercy as hell.
But the owner Mr. Gregarian was in the club tonight. He was at the bar drinking something tasteful and tasteless. He want Thumper to behave, and Thumper gotta do what he say. So Thumper gave Rashid a hug and a shrug and said he’d talk to him later. Rashid got entranced by a tangerine-cream bitch with tits like sharks. He floated after her like a tasty surfer, and Thumper proceeded to check the idees of them dour niggas, whiteboys and that one sunnyskin in line.
When the tide of hungry horndogs dwindled well into the early morn, Thumper took a break and let Davon watch the door, while he rushed off to piss. He went up to the floor his apartment was on though, rather than use the club’s bathroom. He was self-conscious of how long it took to get a flow going. The prison doctor said he got that old-nigga bladder. His “bladder neck” be bugging. He don’t want Davon to know it took him awhile.
But he ain’t dawdle in the bathroom. He wanna get back down there so Davon don’t fuss. Thumper ain’t trust hisself to react like a outside nigga if that young-body pretty-face jive-white smile-hard nigga Davon tried to correct him.
Davon wore a lor band-aid on his cheekbones. Nigga musta got a rainbow of band-aids cuz he steady wore one to match the drawers he displayed under his sagging jeans — Mr. Gregarian was mad on the “trousers” trip and curled his lip at sagging, but Davon could smile through any of Mr. Gregarian’s tut-tuts. So Davon rumped pink drawers tonight and a pink band-aid to match. Thumper ain’t even got the words to call that out.
When his old-nigga bladder done empty, Thumper hustled to the stairwell.
A glossy piece of paper was on the floor on the stairs. It caught Thumper’s eye cuz it couldn’t-a been there when he went up the stairs. He woulda noticed it for sure. He prolly woulda done slip on it.
He picked it up. It was a playbill for a show called “The Invocation”, and the picture on it featured a familiar woman wearing a barn owl mask.
It was that woman, Delsinerr. That woman he dreamed of, with the dress of screams and beaming tresses of horrid hair. He was gonna recognize her forever.

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

But before Thumper made it back to the front door, a storm of shouting kicked up. Couple clumps of niggas was standing off at each other, and Rashid was involved. Rashid done step to some slimfire kitkat, and both him and he got posses at they back. Both niggas and both they posses was fronting and saying all the shit niggas and they posses do say.
“Fuck this shit, nigguh!”
“You wanna step?”
“Come at me then-“
“Shit, nigga, I will end you-“
“Fuck that, fuck — fuck — fuck this shit, nigga-“
“I’ll go backta prison, I don’t care-“
“Who the bitch now?!”
Classic nigga shit. Ain’t even much point in saying it out loud. Might as well skip straight to holding a gun sideways and firing into a crowd. Thumper was glad he was a nigga with class. If everybody knows your lines, you might as well leave ’em unsaid.
“C’mon at me, nigguh!”
“Step to me then!”
“You best come correct-!”
Thumper put the fight down before it began. He slipped between them chin-to-chin niggas, finna slap the belligerence off they faces. “Simmuh down, you two-“
Before Thumper could finish, Rashid threw a fist at the slimfire kitkat, knocking him down like a disrespectful domino. Gravity hit him hard too, and the kitkat staggered around on the floor doing his best impression of a spreading piss-stain.
“Settle yaselfs, niggas, why you gotta act like that?!” Davon said, smiling handsomely into the club, laughing all along like he was a joke-a-day nigga and ain’t nothing in the world really matter. He ain’t risk his precious mug by getting between Rashid and the kitkat though.
“You can’t be like that,” Thumper said, pulling Rashid away with his shankin’ hands on Rashid’s jelly. Rashid do be like that though, always was. Thumper hugged Rashid close and talked straight into his ear. Rashid stiffed up like he ain’t notice Thumper, but he ain’t fight against him neither. He kept eye contact with that slimfire nigga and his posse until Thumper had him out the backdoor and into the corridor behind the club proper. “Nigga, slow yo’ roll!”
He pulled down Rashid’s pants and drawers in one quick motion. Rashid got a big pair of juicy brown orbs. Thumper recollected slamming into them on the regular while inside — Rashid got self-control troubles, and he put hisself in big-time debt throwing dice, drinking hooch and smoking cigarettes he couldn’t afford. Thumper ain’t mind forgiving that debt in exchange for breaking a nut off.
“Ah, shit, Thump, you into that booty bandit trip, we ain’t inside no mo’. E’rrybody alway knew you was gonna stay a ramrod, old head. That ain’t how a modern nigga act-“
“Shut up, nigga,” Thumper said. His hands ran up Rashid’s back and front, underneath his shirt. Rashid was one them niggas who get chunky in prison — he ain’t got the will to work out on the regular or to stop scarfing down commissary honey buns. He do buy what the candy folk sell him on. Now that he was out though, he be dropping his dollars on calorie-free blunts and nibble-size sluts. Tale as old as time. Even slimmed down, he was still thick as alfredo though, and you know Thumper love a high-carb booty.
Now that they stood in the cool and the still of the corridor, Rashid stayed calm. He was mad on a reluctant front, all lifting hisself up and sucking on his teeth like he was too good to let a old head knock on his backdoor. He weren’t too good for nothing though, and under his gotta-fight shell, Rashid was cool as hot oatmeal. “Shit, Thump, shit…”
“Why you gotta go after that slimfire nigga in there?” Thumper asked with a cluck of his tongue. “Mistuh Gregarian curl lip at niggas who start fights. City council expect him to keep peace.”
He scoffed. “Mistuh Gregarian — that that cracker who own this place? He a damn fool, Thump, he was steppin’ to me couple weeks back. I was ’bout to lay him out like Thanksgiving dinner, somebody gotta do it, shit…”
“You bettuh not, nigga. He keep it real,” Thumper said. “He will dig you a very shallow hole to lay down in, and he won’t think twice about it. Might make me dig it, and I dunno if my back can take that, nigga.” Thumper weren’t sure how much he was exaggerating that honky’s proclivities, but he ain’t want Rashid testing his ire. Mr. Gregarian got a gangster in his mind to live up to, and he seen some violent gangster movies. “Don’t go ruckusin’ in his club.”
“Aw, shit, Thump, shit…” Rashid bristled, as Thumper’s hands spread his buttcheeks. Thumper kissed his meaty shoulders too, over the shirt and then under it when he took Rashid’s shirt off. Rashid stood there with a glumness, pants around his ankles, his jelly browns jiggling beneath Thumper’s firm fingers.
“You ain’t in prison no mo’, you can’t be actin’ like a cast-iron nigga,” Thumper said. “How long you been out?”
“Like six months,” Rashid said. His head hung weary on them shoulders. Rashid stay submitory when he got to. He know how to say ‘yes, nigga’ when the proper kind of nigga was behind him.
“You havin’ trouble cividatin’?”
Rashid shrugged. “Don’t go up my backdoor, Thumper. Be cool,” he said. “C’mon, nigga. You can just stick it ‘tween my thighs. Do that, feels damn good. That’s what-“
Thumper chuckled. “Nah, nah, nigga. I’ll use buncha spit. You know I got good spit. Know that!” He spat on the palm of his hand, then resumed stroking hisself off. One finger on his other hand jammed into Rashid’s asshole. “You done tighten, nigga. I like that.”
“Ain’t nobody do that booty bandit shit on the outside, Thumper,” Rashid said. “You on the ramrod trip, that’s whack, that’s crackerjack-“, then he sucked his breath in as he felt Thumper’s knob touch his asshole. Rashid bent forward and leaned against the wall.
Thumper rammed his cock into that paira roundnesses behind Rashid. His buttcheeks dimpled bright despite the dim light of the back hall. Rashid threw his head back and looked this way and that, his hands fluttering fast behind hisself. Rashid winced and grimaced, but he ain’t struggle. Even when Thumper’s cock slipped outta Rashid’s hole, he ain’t try to get away. He let Thumper jam it right back in.
“Sssh, take yo’ dickload, nigga,” Thumper said. “Don’t play wit’ me.” He pushed it in deeper, and Rashid’s butthole spread open like a wedding invitation. It sucked Thumper’s shaft right back in, like his booty and Thumper’s manhood was best friends.
“Ow, shit, Thump, c’mon, go gentle…” Rashid gulped.
“Relax, I’mma nut real quick, relax, nigga.” Thumper clucked his tongue and plowed hard. His orgasm was coming on swift — something about the smell of Rashid’s backsweat gave him fond memories of prison, and it got his motor going good, like Thumper made a turn and was now driving on a road he recognized. Rashid was a well-trodded road, with little resistance left in his butthole, so Thumper could drive in and out with powerful thrusts. “Aaah, shit, see, already done…”
A fat load of cum sprayed into Rashid’s booty. He hung his head low but took every bit, wincing only when Thumper rammed his meat in deep. A long hot flow of jizz filled Rashid up, while Thumper’s moans echoed in his ear.
“C’mon, Thump…” Rashid muttered. He leaned his face against the wall. He shuddered and shimmied like a shameful snake.
When Thumper was done, he ain’t pull out right away. He let his wang marinate in the warmth of Rashid’s guts. His breath condensed on the backa Rashid’s neck.
Finally, his dick plopped out like a greasy sausage. Thumper swang it between his legs and rubbed the goo off in Rashid’s buttcrack. The last couple drops of cum dripped there between his cheeks. “Hmm, lemme see ya gape, nigga,” Thumper murmured. Rashid’s asshole did gape, whether that was cuz Thumper told him to or if it just happened, Thumper ain’t know. It was a satisfying sight regardless.
When Rashid pulled his jeans up, Thumper was still playing with them buttcheeks. Then he wiped his dick off with paper towels from the janitor’s closet, and they both went back out to the club. Davon was shooing niggas out the door, so Rashid went out to the parking lot too. Thumper helped Teddy shut down the bar and watched Davon get in one the dancer’s cars, then Thumper went up to his apartment on the second floor.
He got a shower and a snack. Thumper microwaved a brick of frozen broccoli and cheese, cuz he was pretending to like broccoli, cuz the world was like that these days, cuz Obama ain’t do nothing! Then he laid his weary head down on his bed. Moonlight shined through the window, and Thumper was glad to bask in the nighttime’s rays without trying to slumber.

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

But no more sound was to be found, and Thumper done dumbfound, dumb as a mute tongue or a brainless hound in a pound of sin.
With thin skin, his breath sucked in and ceaselessly spinned, cuz the air did unfold, as dead and cold as a mortician’s walk-in. That Bitch in White Delsinerr, it must be, cuz of the grim air and his mind behampering, she do be doing that to a nigga. His pot of cheese got the unfriendly gollygees.
“I wholeheartedly offer the sincerest of apologies, Mister White,” she said at her best, looking unlined in a new right-fright dress. She took Thumper’s find, the glossy flier, from his pants pocket. Her dashing socket then faced his dismay like a twist of fate. “This got mislaid, I’m afraid.” Her words clotted and clogged her wave, hobbling wakes and gobbling up meaning.
Thumper nodded, agoggling at that fiend steaming, his noggin beboggling by notions dropped in, misbegotten, stuck in a war he forgot to have foughten in. Layers of bog, his thoughts was tucked in, like befuddled puddles fog goggles — shit! — he was too rotten-hot fried to toggle his hide-or-fight side or even to think and blink when she pried and whitened his wrinkles, too lightened to abide.
She did ride astride his brain a-sprinkling pain, and she tightened her ugly head. “You ain’t frightened of me,” she said.
Thumper again slightened a nod. “I… I… can’t think when you’s around.”
“My words finely decline, making humankind ruint like by fumes, by the tombs of time, by the climb of crime, by a broken rhyme, by plumes of foul weather. Y’all’s cries is all mine.” The gray owl feathers that lined her scowl splayed out like a rainspout, as she peered fears and doubt into him deep as a well. “I hope to see you in hell when you die. Or before, for I like a bride will wait forevermore in store.”
“Why do you talk like that?” he asked like a unironed sheet.
“I don’t speak,” she spoke like a freak. Her mask’s beetley bug scuttled sleek as a sulfury lugnut in the sea of time. “I hammer seeds into yo’ mind. The grammar is your’n that you cling to like a daft raft in a slammer of slime.” The leathery feathers of her mask then did retract, unfit, and drift together into a rift. “I wish to give you a gift, He Who Thumps, a token of hope unsunk.”
Thumper was stumped as oaks. What kinda gift would a goat like this rhyme a nigga like him?
“The gift I chime is time. You had thirty-four years to deplore, but now, with the price of gore, you can go back to before. Be a young nigga again,” she said, her words singing bigger than laws or figures.
A long pause came up like the claws of riffing wiggers rilling open flaws upon prison lawns. Thumper narrowed his paws and stiffened ’em into fists like kisses by his side. “What?”
Looking snide, she unsheathed mist for miles beneath that mask of denial. “Just a fact to flout and file, Mister White. I do offer to undo yo’ last bout in style. You can tout thirty-four vile years of bother and clout. Fear not a rout.” She slipped out like a fatherless shout, leaving Thumper aloner than ever to ramble and pout and fail at draining the heeby-jeebies all the way out.

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Five

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper awoke in the night needing to piss on the urgent. Felt like his lower half finna explode. He got that bladder neck serious! He lumbered outta bed like a sloppy sasquatch, and he sleepyfooted outta his apartment. The hallway was cold enough to alert him into wakefulness on the way to the bathroom on this floor.
A underhushing of voices could be heard. Someone was in Lipsweet on the first floor, he thunk, as he stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.
Carson wanted him to kill Rico, but Thumper done resist — when he cased out the Seventh Street Playas, he saw a unmarked cop car surveiling the jawn. It’d be no good to strike at ’em now. Carson said to hold off for the time being.
Thumper told Carson he got a plan — hide out and wait for Rico’s mama to report him missing, then have him show up. That way if Thumper killed him later, his mama won’t be believed at first.
Plus it let Thumper think. He spent a long time as the head nigga in charge in his cell, and now Carson — a young pup — kinda young anyway — was telling him what to do. Thumper wanna buck. Rico was a brat, but he was pretty and he was young, and Thumper ain’t wanna bring the prison along with hisself to the outside.

On the other hand, Rico disappointed Thumper this weekend. Thumper done told him — and Carson did too — that the apartment him and Thumper shared was a safehouse. Ain’t no place to bring a female. Carson and Mr. Gregarian declared the apartment unlivable some time ago, so the county got no record of it as a address.

And then Rico gone and got his bitch Cherry to come upstairs and see him! Damn fool-ass nigga hiding out in a safehouse, and he got a goddamn stripper to come suck his prettyboy pickle.
Young niggas is dumb!
Goddamn stripper brung her dog! A Saint Bernard! It’s like a bus that drools!
Doing foolish shit like that? It’s no wonder Carson wanted Rico outta the Bloods. A nigga that dumb is gonna get caught and let his knowledge slip sooner or later. Cherry got sexy lips and enough ass for a white girl, and her dog was great, and both she and the dog promised not to tell nobody about the safehouse. She don’t even know no Crips, supposably, and she don’t mess with cops. Still foolish to bring a female in on it. Females got loose lips, a nigga can’t trust even the best of ’em to keep they mouth shut.
That Cherry was who Rico was sposedta rape and kill. If Thumper done read his lines from that script, that’s what woulda happened. Thumper woulda got to go back thirty-four years ago and not join up with that underground boxing league — that was how he got arrested; the nigga he fought in a unlicensed bout died, and Thumper caught a murder charge for it. He ain’t roll over on the Bloods, who put on the fight.
He coulda not joined in. He was in a legal league then, he hadn’t gotta fight unlicensed. But he could convince hisself to say no back then. He could now. He could live his adulthood with all the wisdom of a old nigga.
Rico don’t deserve shit. Let’s face it, Rico gonna get his dumb ass killed sooner or later, prolly sooner. He either gonna get killed cuz handsome niggas don’t last long or he gonna live long enough to turn into a pointless bump on a rump like Davon. Thumper kinda hoped that, when they robbed the Seventh Street Playas, Rico got killed by some other nigga. That way Thumper ain’t gotta do it. But there was no telling when that was gonna happen, and Rico prolly wouldn’t get killed during it. Thumper planned on hitting ’em quick and by surprise, so they won’t have time to fight back.
Thumper could do so much if he was Rico’s age. Rico be wasting his youth.
Buncha people was waggling down in Lipsweet. The more Thumper awokened as he pissed, the more he heard it.
Who was there? Lipsweet was closed.
“-the rehearsal-“
That was all he made out. Nobody should be in Lipsweet right now. Five o’clock in the morning of the a.m on a Tuesday. It was closed as buttoned clothes. There ain’t nobody there, not that should be there.
With his python tucked away, Thumper went downstairs. His brown hazed, mind blazed, heart and soul re-fazed. Fuck off, stay down, go out and back up, nigga, mind yo’ own business. Not a note gets paid for a nigga to poke his nose in unholy demon nonsense. And yet Thumper stayed.
Chanting emanated like lemonade from Lipsweet, and that urge to fade and stay stuck its gavel in. As reality do unravel, he be staggering, his perceptions scattering, deepness battering on the universe like bifocals shattering. Through the backdoor, he be rambling, behind dabs of gabbing voices in the bar proper.
Popping in like a spying copper, Thumper eyed a flight of hooded men, not robbers. They aura got Thumper to pant and slobber.
From they bothersome stance, Thumper chanced upon none they unhandsome pants. Flat rants came through they chants and they slow-circling dance. Thumper’s tramp ears couldn’t say dear outta the dark splendor he heared — a weak speech that sounded, not like English, another speak, like the howls of the damned in heat.
He bin sensing Delsinerr’s rowling beats, though he ain’t yet see the rays of her pitiless gaze. His grays thickened like lazy days, his blood thinned like sad spays, and his hackles got mad raised.
There she was, gliding like madness in waves through those men of sinister ways. They splayed out as if to lay down and kiss her gown like good sisters. One the hooded misters recited excitement from the script of the day, and Thumper glimpsed his face — Mr. Chambreux, a vig-swigging bigwig in Bangor, known for capitalist vapor and catapulting our savior.
“Greetings, Mister White,” she said, unwavered.
“You…” Thumper savored the rousing flavors of her thousand unspeakable sayers. “I ain’t do it. I ain’t say my lines.”
She spoke without talking, clocking his might and making him piss the kittenest of frights. “This I know,” she said in speak of her fill. “You have yet the taboo of free will.”
“What is this?” Thumper tapped his till toward the chanting pipsqueaks in Lipsweet.
“A big-meat rehearsal of curses,” she said, with heat and a guttery scutter of the bug out from under. From Lipsweet, that chant leaked in asunder like a grim fleet of blunders and blow. “You know him, no? Mister Chambreux? His words never stammer, only flow, like his riches through stealth grow.”
“I, uh… I never met him.”
“His wealth did flow from this show like snitches snow outta sour bitches. His power comes ultimately from this hour of witches,” she said. “His role is that which I did pitch him. Through ethical flinches over the torture of bitches, he sped to yes like wrecks done bled red in ditches and fed hits into misses.”
“You still want me to get Rico to kill that girl?”
“Of course,” she said without remorse. “Him and you together like mates of a feather shoulda forced Heather to gape forever and cleverly bed her to shreds the color of grapes using tethers and girders and levers to rape and murder that redhead on tape, convert her to dead, in a shape unwed, by stabbing her nape and her blurter, never let go, grab her fate and do hurt her. I could forever heave-ho on the soul of Rico and his triflin’ sac, and yo’ dearest life would come crawling right back.”
“Heather?”
The quiet she stacked spurted fast like deathbed confessions from a hearse on a rack. For the first time in this rap, Thumper felt her in his verses — she inserted herself in his gaps, searching his bellweathers for what he used to mean ‘Heather’. Then she said to boot, “The one he brung over, who you call ‘small sweet red fruit’. Currant? Raspberry?”
“You mean Cherry?”
“Yes. Her.” Laughter tarried and burst in the vastness of that mask, blasting like a train into the blackness of the rasps on his brain. Her face bug flickered and flung verbal flame at his lame mug. “Or any snack-size lady to roll like a log, if you ain’t wanna orphan her dog, you sentimental beast of a hog.” She scoffed with a start. “I can de-fog that parta yo’ heart, you know.”
“I like that dog!” Foolish indeed to naysay cuzza the stray. Thumper’s face shamed, as his mind exploded with a salad of nos. Like a salsa sans pico, he refused to kill Rico, his refusal infused with rejections of evil and upheavals of importance.
But a tournament of fortune swirled within, and Thumper want a win. He could assuredly sin. Rico don’t deserve nothing. A man deserves only what he is strong enough to pin, and Rico wrestled as weak as tin.

“Think about it,” she said like a foe and clucked her tongue of woes. “Consider it well, my biggest of niggas.” Then she bid off past his vigor, doffed the door like a broken ticker and returned to the bar. Her confusion went across with her.

Thumper went upstairs. He ain’t like getting tremorous. He wasn’t that kinda nigga, but he couldn’t deny he was shook. He sat on his bed and tried to stop thinking about That Woman and her weird-ass words. He thought he’d be unable to sleep, but he drifted right off, drenched in moonlight and craving rain.
He dreamt of prison and the cozy confines of his niggas, a place where everything made sense and there weren’t no crazy ladies noodling around his brain. All he gotta do is fight from time to time, and that felt good as grandpa’s grip to Thumper.
He dreamed about limping, badly injured after a fight he remembered well cuz he got stabbed by some Aryan in the thigh. 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.
A lor nigga Zeke Lampman reenacted the fight, which he done watch from the sidelines — Zeke’s role was to be the lookie-lou, keeping an eye out for the screws. Zeke done told Thumper when the guards was coming, so Thumper could stop fighting back and look like the victim.
“Damn, nigga, you fucked that mothuh up!” Zeke said with a cackling laugh. Thumper smiled, but he was in too much pain to be entertained. It took all his concentration to shield the pain from all them cellbodies looking at him. He got a reputation that nothing shook him, and he gotta uphold it. Last time he fought, he got stabbed and had trouble walking back to the cell, they all said he be slipping and some nigga stepped to him. Thumper hadta regulate with eighty stitches on his side. So now he ain’t show that he even felt the little slit on his cheek.
“C’mon, nigga, lemme stitch you up,” said Bradley Smalls. He done start sterilizing a needle with a grill lighter soon as Thumper walked in. He got the job of stitching niggas up cuz his sister was a nurse.
Thumper gritted his teeth and sat down. Smalls wasted no time in getting the needle in. Some other nigga wiped the blood off Thumper’s face, cuz that was his role in the cell — blood wiper-offer — and he did it right. The blood wiper-offer was prolly lor and got no skills, that was why he got such a picayune role. Nothing wrong with that. A useless lor nigga who know he be useless and lor and who behave proper cuzza it is fine, Thumper got no problem with that nigga. Somebody gotta be the blood wiper-offer.
While Smalls did the stitching, Thumper cleared his mind. He thought about nothing but the needle going in and outta his skin, like his flesh was made of sweater getting knitted. He let hisself take in the cloying-nigga warmth of the overcrowded cell. His skin sheened with sweat. The pain of the needle might as well be happening to some other nigga.
That was when Zeke again caught his eye. He done took off his shirt and pants to play-act Thumper stabbing that Aryan — the Aryan was in his drawers, so Zeke stripped down to play the part of the Aryan getting stabbed.
“C’m’ere,” he said to Zeke, just as Smalls finished stitching him up. Zeke was daffy-laughing with couple niggas still, cuz he was lor and cellbodies assumed lor niggas gotta be funny. If Zeke wasn’t funny, maybe he’d be a blood wiper-offer or a warm body getting shanked in the meat of life. In prison, niggas got a way of rising to or falling down upon they correct level. Only tragic thing is when a outside nigga don’t know his level of competence. Sometimes niggas learn quick in prison. Sometimes they learn slow outsidea prison.
Anyway, the cell niggas all stopped laughing when Zeke came to Thumper, who got tunnel vision and ain’t none them other niggas exist in his notions. All that mattered was him being alive right now, heart thumping, meat bumping, flesh rubbing, mess spilling.
“Whatchoo want, Thump?” Zeke said. The hubbub over Thumper’s injuries be dwindling, so Zeke’s jump-and-jive act died down. Zeke ain’t funny without a audience.
Thumper gripped his shoulders firm, and Zeke quaked a little. All them niggas in the cell turned away with a quickness, and even Bradley Smalls fucked off to clean his needle. They all sensed where this was going. They knew how Thumper do, and they knew what was expected of ’em. When Thumper first got locked up, any nigga who never ramrodded got teased for it. A real man do need to blow a nut. Young niggas see that as unfashioned now.
Smears of blood still clung to Thumper, but that ain’t slow him down none. Tunnel vision, remember. Only this moment do matter.
He pulled down Zeke’s prison boxers, revealing a fine brown booty. Thumper whistled slightly. The other niggas in the cell was getting involved in a craps game, and they all stayed facing away like polished butlers. “Sssh, Zeke, you might wanna go grab the hog fat.”
“Aww, shit, Thump, c’mon, don’t be a ramrod, a nigga, that’s old-ass uncool shit… Be my nigga, nigga… Don’t stick it in me…” Zeke said. He got no compinktions about being loud, it seemed, cuz he ain’t lower his voice none. He slipped away from Thumper, who held onto his shoulders so he gotta squirm like a earthquake to get out from under. Then he scurried off to grab the tub of hog fat they kept in the cell.
“Shush. Pretend you like it,” Thumper said. As Zeke returned and smeared lard on his buttcrack, Thumper pulled him close and kissed him on the lips. “Make some girly sounds. Pretend like you a bitch wit’ a Baltimore accent, nigga.”
Zeke did play the part the best he could, quiet as possible. Thumper ain’t mind the quiet tone to his flirty moans, as that was a lot like a female. But he sounded reluctant moaning around Thumper’s tongue invading his mouth, and that made it harder for Thumper to pretend he was a girl. Thumper pulled off his gentle-nigga lips. “C’mon, sound into it, nigga. I’ll give you a reacharound.” Thumper stroked hisself into full erection, as Zeke’s whining turned feminine.
Then Thumper stuck his dick into Zeke’s asshole, just the tip at first, but that pushed some of the lard in too. It squeezed Thumper’s meat, while Zeke sucked in his breath. Thumper did too, cuz it felt good as candy, and he let out the moan shuddering up his chest and out his throat.
“Shit, nigga — gimme a sec, gimme a sec-” Zeke scrunched his eyes shut.
“Sssssh, don’t talk like that, nigga,” Thumper said. He ain’t hold on to Zeke no more. Thumper preferred to make a nigga choose to stay. Zeke hyperventilated like a woman in labor. Thumper clucked his tongue. “Make sounds like you like it,” Thumper said, as he reached around Zeke to grab his cock. “You makin’ sounds like a woman bein’ raped. I don’t like them sounds.”
“Man, nigga, Thump, c’mon…” Zeke said. He sucked in his breath and stood on his toes. His cock was going flop-a-flop in Thumper’s hand, but it felt good there — it felt like a moment, like this moment.
There was a time decades ago when a nigga could plow any nigga he want, and that other nigga ain’t allowed to fight back so long as the first nigga give him a reacharound. This one warden instituted that rule. Ain’t barely a single nigga who like it, and it was hard for the screws to enforce. Thumper did like it very much, and he did enforce it in his cell.
That was why Thumper kept on rubbing off Zeke, who ain’t get hard, while Thumper stabbed his dick in and outta his asshole. He don’t care about giving him a reacharound, it just felt good to feel Zeke’s manhood throbbing in Thumper’s grip. A young nigga’s dingdong feels good. Maybe it reminds a nigga of when his own dingdong felt like that. Anyway he played with Zeke’s limpness like clay, while Zeke’s tight ass squeezed and massaged a nut outta Thumper’s balls.
“Here I go, nigga, you good, you good, almost done…” Thumper moaned into Zeke’s ear, making him shudder. That caused a wave of tightness and pleasure to rocket through Thumper, bringing him over the edge. He shot his first cumwad into Zeke’s guts, then he backed up and humped his dick in and outta Zeke’s sensitive bootyhole as an orgasm wracked Thumper’s body.
A vast wave of cum filled Zeke up, making him grimace but also sigh, grateful that this was finally over. His whole body tensed up while Thumper’s relaxed, and the jism flowing into his butthole continued for what felt like forever.
Thumper lay back, satisfied, his pain having vanished. His cock plopped out amid his flow of jizz, and he smirked at the sight of cum pouring from Zeke’s ass. More and more kept spurting out, coating Thumper’s crotch and wettening his pubes. Thumper grinned at sight of Zeke’s twitch of pain, as he spread his buttcheeks apart and stood on his toes.
“Shit, nigga, that hurt!” Zeke said. He glared at Thumper like Thumper should be wiping Zeke’s ass clean. That was technically correct. Niggas was required to clean off a nigga’s butthole when he rammed him, but Thumper was a head nigga around here. He ain’t clean shit. So Zeke limped off to clean it his own damn self.
Thumper plopped down on his bed. Now that the adrenaline from the fight done wore off, he was sleepy as a sunset. The sound of the other cell somebodies roared back into his belltower. They was all doing they shit — lifting weights, conversating, pattycake, whatever, all that shit a nigga do, filling the air with behavior. It felt good to hear it. He lay there listening. Niggas wiggled on about the weather for tomorrow’s trash pick-up — it might rain, which meant the guards was gonna cancel it. Guards don’t wanna get wet. Niggas in prison do. Thumper don’t remember what the rain felt like, but he knew it was good.
Before he fell asleep, he eyed this muscley nigga named Ruck. “Hey, Ruck,” Thumper said from his bunk. He yawned as Ruck came to him. “When you go to bed tonight, come sleep wit’ me. We doublin’ up tonight.” Thumper ain’t wanna sleep beside Zeke cuz he was too bony, like cuddling with a coathanger, but Ruck got muscles and meat and plump bits to grab onto, and he used deodorant. That made him a grade-A nigga.
Ruck wrinkled his too-ugly-to-love nose. “Yes, Thump.” Once he got outta the light, it ain’t matter that Ruck looked like a portapotty exploded. He got a ugly face, but in the dark that don’t matter. Only the moment matters.