in a prison – Mansploitation

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter12

The White Trash Veteran

“Hey, Pops… was Mama a…?” Buck’s voice trailed off. “Was she like…?” He gulped. “A… nice lady?”
Goose put the truck in park. They done come over to a cathouse outsidea Martinsburg — Lipsweet, it was called. It wasn’t owned by the Gray Snakes, so Goose was gonna hafta pay. He could take Buck to a Gray Snakes bar and get him a free slut, but he admiredta hire Buck someone special. Buck just turned eigheen a couple weeks back, and Goose done come home. After rejoicing in togetherness, Goose took him to Lipsweet as a birthday present. Buck got that raga in him, and Goose could understand for sure. He was young once too. Just once.
They was laughing mosta the way from Smashwood. Goose done come home wearing old ratty jeans and a wifebeater, and his gray-spackled beard was raggedy, so Buck came in one of walking right past him at first — Goose looked like one the hobos who moped around the trailer park.
But Goose felt less like a hobo than he had in a very long time.
“What do you mean?” Goose frowned at Buck.
“I heared… Lotta guys say, like…” Buck shrugged and looked down at his feet. He got a big jaw, big nose, big face and a broad pair of shoulders. Damn was Goose proud of him. He done growed into a mountain of man, and he got a hercules mullet. “Some guys got notions ’bout her.”
“If’n any fellers say one unkind word ’bout’cha mama, you best smack the stuffing outta ’em, Buck,” Goose said. He done lost the smile he had the whole way here. “Nah, that ain’t ahimsa. Don’t hit ’em. But don’t tol’ate dirty words and unclean claims neither. She was a saint, toting heaps of metta,” Goose said. He paused to attend to his anapanasati, while Buck pondered and plumped and rolled his eyes at Goose’s orientalisms. “There ain’t no such thang as permanence to a soul, Buck, not yor’n and not her’n. She was not her actions, she was her wisdoms, quiet as they was. She wouldn’t nevuh do nuttin’ foul, nothing. She done e’rythang she could fer you. She nevuh had nuttin’ but love fer you. And fer me. And the world really, she was all love, Moses.”
Buck nodded. “Good. Thought so. I ain’t believe ’em…” That did sound like a lie, but it was one Goose was glad to hear. If there was anything worth lying about, this was it.
“C’mon, son,” Goose said.
He done arrange for Buck to come with him of a Wednesday night cuz Helena was working. Goose knewed her well. She was a plus-size lady of indeterminate race, she got ass that don’t quit and she got pussy that takes a big boy dick when the occasion do arise.
That was good, cuz Buck’s dick was almost as big as Goose’s. Maybe bigger. Goose don’t wanna measure. Buck was a taller than Goose anyhow — Buck was damn near seven feet tall.
Anyway, couple minutes later, Goose was curling his naked body round Helena’s side so he could watch his boy blow up her pussy. She be canoodling, begging for more, Helena know how to play the game. She got more prajna than she seemed.
The plan was for Buck to fuck her, then Goose. Then they’d drink, for which Goose’d hafta sneak likker for Buck, cuz the drinking age was twenty-one — that was new, nationwide. Buck was barely eighteen.
But in the end, Goose slipped out without even blowing his wad. He handed over the dollars he had to the pinkie-ring whomberry Mr. Gregarian, so’s Buck could spend the whole night with Helena. Buck was young, dumb and fulla cum for sure. He done watch Buck pour gallons of nut up her pussy, and it ain’t even slow him down. Ain’t slow her down neither. He barely lit a cigarette before his dick was hard again, and he splashed his knob into the jizz flooding outta her snatch. She was clawing at his back and begging for more, and not just cuzza the money. Goose could tell when a woman was fooling, and that whore was not fooling. She was needful for Buck’s dick.
So Goose let Buck spend the wad for tonight, so Buck could exercise his raga, Goose his dana and the hooker her rigpa. It felt good to restrain, and Goose liked seeing his boy growed up. He don’t need to satisfy his own lusts. He is the master of hisself.
Whenever he sees with insight the rise and fall of the aggregates, he is full of joy and happiness. Duck Fat said that, and he was one wise gook.
When Goose left, dropping his lobha into the nothingness of the universe, he kept only a couple dollars for a drink. He went outside to get a breath of fresh air and sacca, and he decided to leave without buying a single drink.
He went on down by to the police station. Precinct 17 was nigh. Goose done made hisself known there on a couple drunk in public charges, and he was told they gots a bucket trustee a couple weeks back.
His name was Hassle, and he was a dowdy chowder-white Nazi, complete with swastikas and German words tattooed on his muscle-bound body. Hassle said he only joined up with the Aryan Way cuz he gotto in the state pen, he don’t got him no dvesha. Goose dunno if that was true.
Anyway, Hassle was the bucket trustee at Precinct 17, and Goose had an in there with Officer Jackson. He was a squat sumbitch who knewed some of the same fellers Goose knewed in the Army. Jackson let him know about the bucket trustee.
A bucket trustee is a man hired by prison guards or cops to do shit like mop floors, redd toilets, etc. All the shit work they don’t wanna do. Or rather, that’s what a ‘trustee’ does. A ‘bucket trustee’ do all that plus slurp cop dingdong.
When a cop wanna get off, the bucket trustee gotsta do it. That’s why no self-respecting man would tale the position.
But Gose don’t mind taking advantage. None those hangups matter anyway. Reality is an illusion called maya, and devotion to it is the fundamental ignorance of moha. Hassle got moha in spades. Goose could see it in Hassle’s sunken eyes.
“Hey, Hassle, you up?” Goose said when Jackson let him into the jailhouse.
Hassle groaned. “Yep.” He stood there in his cell, next to the free weights he was lifting a minute ago. His pale skin gleamed with sweat. “Goose. No ass.”
Goose shrugged. “Fine. But you swallow, and you go deep.”
Hassle sat on the side of his bunk and motioned for Goose to come into the cell, which he did. “You stop when I tap you on the ass.” Hassle had a six-pack of beer waiting beside his bunk too. Goose eyed that with upadana eyes, but he tamped his thirst down. Sunyata was better than beer, sukha better than preya.
“Cops say you gotsta swallow,” Goose said with a grin. That part weren’t true. He heared a rumor the cops made Hassle swallow they cum. Ain’t nobody say nothing about Hassle swallowing nobody else’s. He just get fellers off, reckon. But Hassle seemed to accept that the Goose was transmitting the word of the policemen in the front of the precinct.
Pulling down his trouser-pants and drawers, Goose hefted his fat meat in hand. He fed it into Hassle’s mouth, then let his eyes roll back as his dick firmed up. Hassle done get plenty of dicks hard, and he knewed how to do it with a quickness and with upekkha. He slurped up and down Goose’s knob. He don’t shirky-dick it. He was methodical like a fucking pro.
In the Army, Goose got a blowjob once from a Turkish whore, and she sucked dick like that, like so good it was too quick and he barely felt it. Took like ninety seconds. Hassle was like her. Goose was older now, and he saw it coming, this weren’t his first time with Hassle. Goose’s first time he cum before he meant to, he was planning on sticking it up Hassle’s behind neverminding Hassle’s protestations.
But he got good at delaying it. He don’t wanna premature nut. That experience was burned into his alayavijnana — that’s the deepness of a man’s notions — and like everything that ever done happen, Lucent shooting himself in the face, Masterson and Berringer, Sam’s brains, Ellen, the river, Buck raising up like the everyday sun, all of it was in there. They was meanders and dams and oxbows, but Goose ain’t let none of it interfere. He experienced only the sensation of the moment.
When Goose felt an orgasm coming on strong, he pulled outta Hassle’s mouth like he was gonna finish hisself off with his hands. Hassle even got up to wipe his face off.
That meant his ass was turned round, so Goose ripped down Hassle’s workpants and drawers. He shoved Hassle off-balance and onto the floor on all fours.
“Hey-!”
Then, before Hassle could move, Goose mounted him and rammed his dick into his ass. The only lube was Hassle’s spit, but that was enough to get started. Maybe two inches of Goose’s dick slid in.
“Get off me!” Hassle roared. He bumped his head into the wall of his cell. Goose had a good grip on his shoulders though, and Hassle couldn’t get enough leverage to stand.
“Relax, relax, Jackson said I could,” Goose said. He forced his dick in with all his might. He grinned. Jackson did say Goose could, but ain’t nobody gonna come hold Hassle down. All three them — Goose, Jackson, Hassle — was the culmination of they vasana, which led them like fate to this conflict in this cell. There ain’t no use fighting over it. You gotsta just let it play out.
Easy for Goose to say, cuz he was on top.
“Owwww shit!”
When a burst of pain hit Hassle, he collapsed to the floor. Goose grabbed the bottle of lube Hassle kept beside his bunk, and he went down with Hassle, who screamed in pain. Hassle lay on his belly on the floor, and Goose pressed down atop him.
“Ow, fuck, Goose-!”
“Sssh, relax, lemme just put the tip in,” Goose said. He already got the tip in and then some, but he done hit resistance. He be plowing against it though, holding onto Hassle by the nape.
Goose smeared lube on his dick and stabbed again into the hole. This time it mostly went in, but Hassle yet wriggled and grunted in agony. A wave of pleasure made Goose’s chest ripple. Hassle’s chowder-white face turned red like a Indian, and he buckled and wriggled beneath Goose.
“Oww, shit, man, c’mon! Sheriff said I only gotsta take cop dick up behind!” Hassle said. He wrenched his head this way and that. “Ow, shit! C’mon!”
“I’ll be done in a sec, just a sec,” Goose said. He laid his face on Hassle’s back and pumped his hips at every angle he could find. It felt good as Goose hoped, Hassle was well-broke-in from all that policeman dingdong and who-knows-who-else. A tight intact booty was nice, but a soft and warm chute was good too. Hassle don’t got a no in his bones, so he could say it over and over like a tractor, but he couldn’t clench.
A shot of creamy jizz spurted into Hassle’s guts. A long flow of it went in, and Hassle groaned in disgust and pain. Goose shot a huge load, it just kept on filling up his guts and dripping down his fat buttcrack onto the cell floor.
A moan came from both men but with very different cadences. Goose’s hot breath condensed on Hassle’s shoulder muscles. More jizz spurted into Hassle’s tight ass, and Hassle grunted with each wad of cum to coat his guts. Hassle’s whole body shook beneath Goose.
Both men was still. Then Goose pistoned his hips, ramming it in deep to drain the last couple drops of nutjuice. Hassle grunted, his muscles and swastikas jostling up and down with Goose’s thrusts.
At last, Goose raised his chest off Hassle, and he let his cock slip out. “Sorry, Hassle,” he said. He ain’t sound sorry at all. He had no regrets. No fetters. He got only shrugs, as he calmly wiped his pecker clean, got his garb back on and debouched into one of the unlocked cells.
Despite Hassle’s dirty looks, Goose slept there in his own cell, letting the waves of night lull him to slumber, and in the morning, he left and roused his hungover son from his lady’s arms. The sun did shine, like a bowl of merriment, upon Goose’s brow and upon Buck’s dozey dome. With viriya in they step, them two went by shanks’ mare back to they trailer in Smashwood.
Goose was from there, so coming home to it was the best thing ever.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 8

The White Trash Veteran

The air was thick in wafts and gummous throughout, steamy like a sauna of algae. Harley bumped into Goose, and the gunboat smoothly glid underneath him, jostled by an occasional rock or maybe a river crocodile.
Blood splattered, and water splashed. Goose leaped into action onto the pibber’s wooden deck. His own gun was hot and heavy in his hand, rumbling and jumping up and down when bullets popped outta it. His chest heaved and huffed and probably shouted out something, Goose ain’t listen, cuz he was pulling the trigger harder than anything ever been pulled.
“Goose, you okay? Hey! Sampson!” That was the voice of Willamee Bowder, this old-timey feller with a gray beard and a gravel-choked throat. His voice rattled out next to Goose. Willamee sat behind the wheel of the work-truck. “You in dream-time, Sampson. We got a day’s work aheada us. Get ready.”
Willamee Bowder weren’t in Vietnam. Neither was Goose. Neverthelessly, he felt a bullet pass close to his shoulder, wind like death scything down stillness. Gooks on shore musta done been were firing at the pibber, which teetered beneath Goose’s boots — turbulence from the soldiers rushing into action, shifting the weight on the boat. River water splickety-splashed, blood puddled up sticky as spillt wine and sunshine wafted like heat from an opened oven.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Goose said. He seed the work-truck come to a stop, and he seed Willamee get out from the driver’s side of the cab.
Goose left the truck too, moving like a dream, no friction, no weight, no texture. The real world was a cloud whooshing by, and the whole universe lingered like a fart. His Garand made his arms shake when he fired it, the heavy gun weighing down on his tired muscles. Liquid leaked onto his ankle, hopefully river water but prolly not, as he bumped into a barrel of something or another, he couldn’t remember, but it was solid enough to stop bullets.
“A’ight, old man,” Goose said to Willamee. “Hooray! Let’s get this shit unloaded! Let’s do it! Fuckhead Squad on it!” He knewed he was being too enthusastic, he wasn’t making sense to Willamee. “Come on!” he screamed. Spittle splattered afront his eyes or maybe that was tears, Goose couldn’t tell. “Get it done!” A clapping sound came from his hands coming together, and Goose jumped, fitting to work. They was laying pipes for a irrigation system at a farm — a soon-to-be farm — in Nowheresburg, California. T’was just dirt at the moment.
Willamee stood beside the truck like a cowboy, furrowing his brow. Goose’s heart pumped much too fast for the situation, but he ain’t feel it. He felt only the pibber reaching rocks, which made it rattle and roll like a drummer beneath his feet. Jostling bursts of pow-pow closemostly punctuated the whitewater frothing down below.
“Relax. It ain’t a race,” Willamee said. He spoke so slow, like he was talking to a retard. His words snipped and festered like skeeters from the future.
“We just gotta do it! Do it! Do it!” Goose screamed at the truck. He grabbed something, some pipe or anywhat, he moved too fast to look at it. “I’s unloadin’, fuck you! You gonna help!? Huh?!” He tossed it off the truck and onto the ground. It felt like nothingness in his grip. Hot blood splattered on his face, probably Delmonico’s, cuz he died then, maybe — Goose couldn’t remember, somebody did and there was blood flecked like drool on his mouth, wonder if they told his mama that part. Water ricocheting outta the river’s turbulence washed the scarlet away. Goose saw hisself ripping irrigation piping outta the back the truck, his chest heaving like it took all his might. “Do it! Get it done, Willamee! We gotta do it! It’s the job! I’s doin’ it!”
“A’ight, we will, we will, slow down, Goose, you is freakin’ out, man-“
“It’s all happenin’! We gotsto finish it!” Goose said. He either fell or jumped outta the bed of the truck — possibly intending to lay out the irrigation pipes, but they wasn’t in the right place and the ground wasn’t prepped for it and he ain’t grab the right pipes to start with. He paced like a furious pendulum. “Let’s unload this shit!” A bullet got him in the leg, and pain splintered up him. Goose yowled like a deer, and he plopped onto the pibber surface. Blood spurted, which Goose felt but ain’t see, cuz he seed hisself collapsing like a coffin into the cold California topsoil.
All thanks to the Lord above, the sudden movement of his tumble and the smell of the American dirt snapped him outta it. He was fully in the present now — the year was 1986, and everything that happened was real, just like all the places between California and Vietnam was real. Death was real. Buck was real. Delaware was real — Goose seen it, he punched a fry cook at a Shoney’s in Rehobeth last year — Manhood was real. Time was real. War was real. Jury was still out on peace.
He weren’t dying from that bullet in his leg cuz he done not die from it. Army doc took it out.
In a tent, like on Mash! That was Korea, but the tent was the same. War is war. Comedy don’t stop bullets. That was a good show though. His heart was pumping like a dyke, liketa bust outta his chest, like that alien in that movie.
“We will, we’ll do it — you’re not even unloadin’ the right shit. Slow ya toes, Goose, you gonna break something,” Willamee said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Goose said, and he was fine. Well, not fine, but he was finer than some things. He no longer felt Vietnam around him. He was in California, and he could touch it. He did touch it. He touched the soil to remind him what California felt like. It ain’t feel like a wetland, that was for damn sure. “I’m fine.”
“What happened the’eh?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” Goose said. “Let’s get to work.” He looked at Willamee as though to explain, but he didn’t. Work answers itself, so they unloaded gear from the backa the truck.
They was building heaps of farms out here. The pay was good, and they don’t got enough people in the locale to do the job. Cuz Goose had experience, they snapped him right up.
He got that experience in his first prison stay, which was before he got called up for ‘Nam. T’was just a six-month bid, and he did it in comfort cuzza Goose’s daddy being dead. His daddy was a Gray Snake — the biker club — and he died in the line of duty. Gray Snakes honor they dead by gifting the orphans a lifetime of protection.
That meant Goose could get right into the Gray Snakes’s good graces, soon as he arrived at the Virginia State Pen — Goose got to stealing cars in Staunton, Virginia, so he done his time across the state line. The work crew was employed laying irrigation pipes at a Mennonite farm out that way.
He worked alongside this hippie sumbitch Steve. He got long stringy hair like a dirty girl and a love for LSD, which was something Goose knewed nothing about. It was everywhere a couple years later. Steve was aheada the curve on that one.
“It makes you see beyond the universe. Well, not see, exactly,” Steve said by way of explanation. Goose done ask if it was like the mary jane, and Steve spent several million words explaining the difference. “But you can sense the breathing, the pulsations of the universe, the oneness of all things.”
“Oneness?”
“We’re all the same, really. You and me, and the trees and birds and rocks, we’re all just stellar stardust,” Steve said.
“Uh-huh.”
He went on, but Goose quit off listening. He ain’t need to hear tell of drugs he got no chance of doing.
Plus Goose was hot on the wonder about what was for supper tonight. He hoped it was Salisbury steak. Salisbury steak was proper at the Virginia State Pen. He pondered on that, letting the desire flow through and away, contemplating the moment, not that Goose was aware of that way of thinking. Steve did, but Goose ain’t listen at the time. Steve’s wisdom only resonated in retrospect. Not a problem for a Buddhist, cuzza time being an illusion and all that. Goose could grasp his contemplation retroactively.
Supper turned out to be meatloaf, which was virtually the same thing as Salisbury steak. Not as good though. Salisbury steak was meatloaf with a pretty dress and enough ass to fall in love with.
Goose and Steve sat with the Gray Snakes in the mess hall, and Steve managed to stop talking about LSD. Steve weren’t really no Gray Snake, but he joined in with them after his arrest. Since he was a rank pussy and not a proper biker, the others could and did tease the hippie sucker.
“Ooh, Stevina is smelling purdy today!” someone said, and they all cackled. They was calling Steve Stevina cuz he got long hair like a girl. He weared some kinda solid deodorant that smelled like wildflowers vomited into a bucket of ballsweat.
Normally Goose’d join in. He was the one who came up with ‘Stevina’. But at the moment, he weren’t feeling it. Goose found out his draft number was called.
He was going to ‘Nam.
‘Course, he was in prison now, so he was exempt from the draft. But his release date was in three weeks, and he’d end up transferring straight to the Army. He got only a couple days to make it to boot camp. He ain’t even got time to kiss his mama both hello and goodbye. He just hafta say aloha instead.
Somebody mentioned Vietnam during dinner, so that was all Goose could think about. Even afterwards, when they was led to they cell — Goose and Steve together — Goose kept running through his options in his mind: go to boot camp or go AWOL. Goose weren’t a coward or a commie, so only one of those options was optional.
He was going to war. He’d be blowing down gooks by Christmas, most likeishly. A man’s gotta give it, and a man’s gotta take it. Goose dunno yet which side of that equation was which in the grand scheme of things, but he knewed where he was in the here and now.
But time is a ‘llusion, so that’s fine!
“Gots to take mah mind off it, Steve,” Goose said with a sympathetic clucking of his tongue. They been back in they cell for mostuva hour. Lights out loomed ahead with ominous imminence like a war, but for now, they got free time. Not that there was much to do.
There was one thing.
“Aw, c’mon, Goose…” Steve hung his head. He looked up at Goose. “Uncle, I mean. C’mon, Uncle Goose-“
“Nah.” Goose weren’t really Steve’s uncle.
But the Gray Snakes at the Virginia State Pen got a uncle and wife system. When a biker first does time for the Gray Snakes, he is a “wife”. That means he do laundry and shit for his cellmate. Wifey stuff. Second time, he is a “uncle”. That means he gets a wife to do his laundry. Lifers are automatically uncles, and so’s orphans, like Goose.
Steve was a wife. He done sweep the floor, and he done wash Goose’s sheets today. Only one wifing duty remained.
Goose plopped his ass down on Steve’s bunk, which was thin and scratchy. Steve don’t got no pillow, cuz Goose done took it. Goose leaned back on the bunk. When that ain’t prompt no response, Goose frowned at his wife. He spread his legs and aimed a nod at Steve.
“Maaaaan, c’mon…” Steve murmured. He rolled his eyes, but he tacked up the curtain that blocked they door and the window in it. Outside, inmates streamed past, getting they chores done and hurrying back to they cells before lights-out, rushing like they gotsta beat a air-raid.
Slow as a turtle, Steve got on his knees afront Goose. He unzipped Goose’s blue jumpsuit, which went down to his crotch; everybody had the blue jumpsuits like a uniform ‘cept the oldest inmates, who, like officers, had snazzier denim uniforms. Goose’s fat cock popped out, as long and as thick as Steve’s forearm. Steve picked that jiggly torpedo up with two fingers and sniffed it. “Ewh, dude,” he murmured. He held out his tongue as though to lick it, but then he hesitated. He held back a gag and dropped Goose’s cock. It dangled like a landmine from Goose’s overgrowed wetland of a crotch.
“A wife don’t do that, Steve,” Goose said. He lightly smacked Steve’s cheek. “J’st lick it.” He done punch Steve ’bout his dallyiance. Steve was calcitrant about it.
Holding his breath, Steve licked it from tip to root, his tongue moving up and down like a cat cleaning itself on an army base. He ain’t pick it up, he just licked, and it stayed limp as a dead snake, bet they got lotta snakes in Vietnam. His tongue was cold and unpleasant.
“You gotsta do sump’in wit’ it, Stevina,” Goose said with a chuckle. He yawned and leaned back even farther, making his cock flop and rope round upon Steve’s face.
“I’m trying,” Steve whined. His tongue done dry out, so it kinda tickled, but not much else happened, ‘cept that Goose’s draft date growed nigh, nigh as hell. He still kept his hands off Goose’s foot-long dick. It was like blubber in his hands, haggling and wiggling. “It’s not getting hard.”
“Tha’ss cuz you’s j’st playin’ wit’ it, baby,” Goose said. He shrugged. “I kinda like it. No rush. Take all night if’n you want.”
With a sigh, Steve took hold of Goose’s cock by the root with one hand, his other hand slowly working up and down the shaft. Then he put his mouth on the tip for just a moment. “Can I just use my hands? No mouth?”
“Nah. That ain’t proper wifing,” Goose said. “Would you marry a woman who only use her hands?”
“Well, I mean…”
“I got hands, Stevina,” Goose said. He aimed his crotch to bap his dickfat onto Steve’s nose. “I can’t reach mah mouf onto mah pecker. Only you can do that.”
Steve sighed, only for the deep breath to almost make him gag again. He held it back, and he again planted his tongue on Goose’s shaft. He spat on it.
Both his hands worked up and down, and he got a good rhythm going. Goose gotsta give him that one. But he kept spitting on Goose’s dick. His tongue sorta glancingly touched it. He ain’t slurp on it though.
He be shirky-dicking, that’s what that is. Goose don’t tolerate it in a prison wife.
He pushed Steve’s mouth onto his knob. “C’mon, hold it in ya mouf, Stevina.” He closed his eyes. “Just hold the tip there and move ya tongue, make lotta spit.” As Steve began to get a rhythm with his hands, Goose let out a little moan. “There you go, there you go,” he said. Steve either spat or gagged up spit, either way, it got some moisture onto Goose’s knob.
It slowly firmed up in Steve’s grip, not so much from Steve’s touch as from Goose’s imagination. He let himself remember women from back home — that was the only way he could stop thinking about his upcoming enlistment.
He wanna recollect local women. Virginia gals sure is gorgeous, pretty as peanuts. Goose tightened his grip on Steve’s head. He pushed down, gently, but dumbass Steve couldn’t even take that, and he erupted into a ferocious gag.
“Uccckkkkkk!” Steve spat up into the toilet. He clutched the rim. “Man, dude, c’mon. That tastes so bad!”
Wondering if Army got latrines or what in the field, in Vietnam, Goose stood. His hefty cock slapped back and forth. It bapped Steve on the face a couple times, as Steve winced but avoided outright whining. He sat on his ass.
“Okay, wait, I can get you off-“
“Nah. I have trouble cummin’ from mouf-stuff,” Goose said with a chuckle. He done tell Steve that before, but Steve really admired to avoid taking Goose’s meat up behind. He motioned for Steve to get off his ass, which Steve did slowly.
“C’mon, man, don’t harsh my mellow,” Steve said. He wearily got up and gripped the wall with both hands. He was already wincing like he was in pain, like a prisoner of war in a bamboo cage.
Goose swaggered his thickness behind Steve, who unzipped his jumpsuit slow as a aircraft carrier and let it drop to his ankles. He shivered. Goose thwapped his cock on Steve’s lower back, which was a signal for Steve to stand on his toes. He did so, and Goose bent his knees too. That lined up his dick with Steve’s ass.
He rammed hard at the hole, way too hard to actually go in. Steve winced as Goose’s cock deflected like a bullet off a tank and slid up his buttcrack. Then Goose aimed it again.
“A’ight, open up, wifey-“
“Owww, shiiiiit!” Steve cried out and clopped his face onto the wall. He tensed up, but Goose got the tip of his dick in there. Steve clenched, trying to expel Goose’s meat.
Goose was ready for that. Like a draft board, he weren’t taking ‘ow shit’ for a answer. He rammed hard, and Steve slammed into the wall. Goose kept pushing, getting a couple inches of dickmeat in.
“Ow, c’mon, wait a sec, wait-“
“Sssssh,” Goose said. He got a fistful of Steve’s hair in one hand and pulled it to get Steve’s attention. “Remembuh? Wifey? Say sexy thangs.”
Steve howled in pain, as Goose kept pushing in deeper. He did spit on his hand, smearing that on his shaft. That was being nice, like a GI Joe. He ain’t got to. Once you get real deep in a booty, it ain’t possible to clench no more. Steve was past that point.
Maybe some words was gurgling outta Steve’s mouth, but they ain’t make no sense. Steve be squirming like a vermin. Prolly got lotta rats in Vietnam too.
How’s a country gonna have lotta both rats and snakes? One them had gotta give!
“C’mon, say sexy thangs or I’mma lose mah hardon,” Goose said. That weren’t true, this was feeling better than it had in awhile — Goose was really letting loose, and Steve was broke-in enough that Goose could pound hard. Waves of pleasure hit Goose with each thrust into him, and Steve’s whole body puckered and shook on the withdraw. Goose held him by his long hippie hair.
“Oooh, uh, baby, ooh, I love you,” Steve said, panting. He ain’t sound sexy at all. That was fine. Goose appreciated the effort.
As a wild waft of sensations rocked his body, Goose let out a chest-rattling moan. He pumped his dick in deep, and he held it in place all the way up Steve’s behind. A tense howl came outta Steve’s mouth — do they got wolves? Nah… — then he clamped it shut. Goose shot a fat wad deep up his guts, and he ain’t think about the Army the whole time.
“Aaaah-“
“Ewww, c’mon-” Steve bit his lip. Goose do dole out punches for whine. Steve hung his head and kept his whine to hisself.
Another burst of jizz coated his booty. Goose pistoned his hips as hard as he could, and Steve yelped. More melty bliss hit Goose’s senses, and he sighed and moaned, collapsing his body onto Steve’s back. Steve smushed his face into the floor as though to burrow outta here. One more final cumwad sprayed into him.
But Goose ain’t pull out right away. He savored the long slow undulations rocking through his muscles, as his sweat smeared onto Steve’s back. Steve’s hands fluttered behind hisself like a Vietnamey butterfly — Goose was assumpting Vietnam got butterflies, everybody got butterflies. Steve patted and clawed at Goose’s hairy asscheeks the best he could reach.
“Sssh, almost done, almost done,” Goose murmured. He lifted his chest off Steve, and he rolled his body, flexing all his muscles as he humped his exquisitely sensitive dick in Steve’s ass. Steve grunted, pounding on the cold cement floor.
“C’mon, man…” Steve whispered through clenched teeth.
Goose let his cock plop out, slowly, inch by inch. Steve winced and seethed the whole time, cuz Goose made him poop his meat out. That meant it hurt more and more with every passing moment. Then at last, Goose’s meat dropped to sway between his legs, glistening with jizz and booty juices.
“You gotta relax about Vietnam. You gotta abandon your attachments to earthly struggle. Can’t argue with a river, can’t worry a bridge into existence,” Steve said as he gingerly wiped his ass clean with a wad of toilet paper. “You probably won’t even end up on the front lines.”
Goose slapped him. “Bitch, don’t bring that up!”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 7

The White Trash Veteran

Goose robbed a grocery store in Wheeling at the tail end of 1983, went off smooth as a cat in a puddle of butter. Nobody said nothing about it when he got back to Martinsburg. He ain’t even spend none the cash yet. He was too focused on Buck, who be shooting up like a sunflower. Lil Buck and his buddy Cody was spending they days exploring the woods, wrassling, getting into shit.
It made Goose wish he was a boy again. Li’l boys like Buck crave the sombriety of adulthood, but soon as they grow up, they only wish was being young again. Goose admired watching Buck and Cody tussle.
That ain’t last long though. The cops showed up to Smashwood one day soon after he returned for his visit, clapped him up and brung him to the clink. Goose ended up pleading guilty so he could claim the money burnt up in a fire. Detectives ain’t believe him, but the judge did. Store got they insurance company to reimburse ’em, so ain’t nobody looking for the cash.
When Goose got outta prison, he’d be able to spend some tender at last. No more cheapy-deeping for this hillbilly! He gonna give mosta it over to Missus Dowdy anyway — that was who Buck was staying with right now. He called her Grammaw Daisy.
Prison turnt out to be not too bad. Food was awful, but leastways there was enough, and the guards let the Army vets all share a cell block.
And holy hokey-pokey, Harley was there!
His old Army buddy Harley was arrested a couple months back and was in the West Virginia Pen for a spell — he was arrested in Huntington, and he weren’t from West Virginia, so he don’t know he’s sposedta be humiliated by that. It felt good as gravy to be with Harley once more. It felt like the army again, but in a good way. Not a Vietnamey in sight.
That’s what Masterson and Berringer was saying, Goose now reckoned. They said to seek brotherhood, and here he was, surrounded by brothers. Dog tag brothers steada womb brothers. They done gone through the same trials and tripplations, and they done survive ’em. Goose was sadly glad to learn ain’t none of ’em — Harley included — make the transition to civilian life. All of ’em was struggling, and though they ain’t much talk about it, them’all got feelings in concert, difficulties in a row, memories sharing silhouettes against the same firelight.
“And I ain’t nevuh menace that man, nuh-huh!” Harley done explain the situation that got him locked up bunchesa times, and he maintained his innocence in the whole affair.
Or at least his innocence as to the menacing charges that got him locked up for a year. He pled guilty to those in exchange for more serious charges getting dropped. He ain’t dispute those more serious charges.
“Cops is fucked, man,” Goose said with a sigh. He was tired of agreeing with Harley on this matter.
Bucket hooch be bubbling away in one corner of the cell, which was filled with the yeasty aroma of drunken futures. Goose got three buckets working off right now, taking up halfa the cell. The guards let ’em get away with it — just this cell block, fulla veterans — and Goose was gonna make a pretty penny selling it soon.
Not ready yet though.
“Cuz I admit — I does admit, I was there, I was waving a gun around. Wouldn’t use it on a lady, mind you, I don’t shoot ladies,” Harley said, tapping his feet in sync with the melody of the calypso song they was listening to — they done bought some cassettes from a Jamaican on another cell block. It reminded them both, Harley and Goose, of boot camp, before anything happened. Neither them two acknowledged that. Neither one done spoke word one of boot camp, Army or Vietnam yet. T’was nice to be with a man who savvied without you savvying him. It was a happy calypso, but they both frowned through it, cuz it reminded them of the unspokeable river that will have done been flowing underneath and of Lucent, who shot hisself last year. Harley be puffing on his cigarette, leaning against the cell bars like he might could see something interesting out there.
Ain’t nothing interesting out there. That’s the whole point of prison. That’s the best parta it from a Asian perspective: prison can be torture or meditation, depending on how you hope to experience it. Goose chose torture at the time, as most people do most always. Enlightenment is the option that’s always at hand but is hard as torture to choose.
Harley was a burly sumbitch, with a rusty mustache that extended down to his beard hairs. He was a ruddynut whombody from Pennsylvania. That means he got red hair, but it’s the darkest possible shade of red with the swarthiest skin color that comes with red hair. He was like a ginger who been baked to crispy brown.
He used the cherry at the end of his smoke to light his next smoke. Harley be doing that. He worked as a mechanic before his arrest and after in the prison automotive shed, so he drew upon a good wage for a convict. He was swimming in cigarettes.
Goose stockpiled his. He waited till he genuinely needed a cigarette before smoking one. He coulda bummed some off Harley. But Harley’d want something in return, likeishly a buncha free pulls on the bucket hooch when it was ready.
But now, as the cell block started to quiet down in advance of lights out, Goose let hisself burn one. He savored the warmly blissful sensation of smoke filling his lungs, filling his veins with calm, filling his mind with sultry relaxation. It made him both alert and sleepy, like a blowjob from a ugly librarian.
He ain’t chain-smoke, so as he could anticipate his next ciggie. In prison, a feller has gotto find things to look forward to, or so did Goose think at the time. Nowadays he do advise a feller to abandon attachments and all that jazz. Pecan, Monongahela, ocean, done. Most fellers in prison got alotta attachments keeping ’em on the riverbank.
“That colored boy is comin’ ’round again,” Harley said with a guilty chuckle. He looked at Goose. “You gunna do it again?”
Goose shook his head. “Go fer it, man,” he said. He took another drag on his cigarette. He assumed ‘the colored boy’ meant this big-ass feller named Wimpy, who be coming round for to sell these larrupin’ apple pies he made in the kitchen. They was like turnovers, and they was tasty as a Vietnamey pussy, swan to God. Goose be eating them up! Last time Wimpy came by, Goose bought one pie with the ciggies he had on him, then two more he paid for with future hooch — first batch to be done, he gotsta give up cupfuls to Wimpy.
He don’t like the idea of being in hock to any man. Not just a colored man neither, any man. So Goose done say he weren’t doing that again.
But damn doodle, them pies was calling to him!
It turned out not to be Wimpy after all, it was a different colored boy. His name was Jugs, and his special skill was that he got lipstick.
He was dark-skinned like charcoal with big white eyes and teeth. He was slim but well-muscled — prolly bigger on the outside, but he been locked up for awhile, and he was owned by this tub of brown Darren who be swiping his food-meals. Darren do make Jugs go on all around and jerk men off for cash. Jugs don’t get to keep none of it neither.
That’s called ‘punking’. It prolly mean Jugs do heroin, and Darren won’t give him none unless he earns his keep. Since Jugs was broke as smoke, he got no way of gathering tender ‘cept by jerking fellers off. He use his mouth too. Narsty!
“Jerk ya off? Jerk ya off?” Jugs strolled among the cells, making offers. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Goose never did see him cry, but he stayed sounding like he was holding back a sob. Maybe that was his normal voice. Goose looked down on that. A man’s gotta keep his nose up, no matter what. Women cry and go limp when they get in a bad situation. A man’s gotta take action. Can’t take action when you’s bothered up hot, bawling like a waterfall.
Somebody musta said yes finally, cuz Jugs couldn’t be heared no more. Some titters of laughter over by Hash and Tingle and them suggested it was one those fellers who done it, prolly Hash, cuz he was like that. Cells was locked, but a feller could stick his dingus ‘tween the cell bars, and Jugs could slurpy-durp no problem that way. He puts a towel over his head, so you ain’t gotta look at him. Used to charge a half-packa smokes more to put a picture of Farrah Fawcett atop the towel, but Warden conscifated the fuck outta that. Gotta respect a lady.
“You should do it,” Harley said with a chuckle. He got out a pack of smokes, ready to do it the moment Jugs came by.
Goose sighed and shrugged. He did kinda wanna blow a nut. But the reason Harley hope him to do it and the reason Goose was reluctant was the same — Goose got a giant cock. That was how that he got his name, after all. It was like a goose’s neck.
But Jugs was little and got a shallow throat, and he don’t even try to swallop deep. Darren don’t care about customer complaints. T’was barely worth it to Goose. His own hand go as far up and down as he want it to. All thirteen inches. Goose done had enough of shallow head.
“C’mon, I wanna see you cover his face again,” Harley said with a cackle and a laugh. He mimed Jugs’s gagging last time when Goose shot his massive wad all over his face — all over his face and not down his throat cuz Jugs don’t swallow worth a goose turd. That made it funny for Harley to watch but disappointing for Goose to pay for. Last time Goose ain’t cum since before he got to the pen, so he had loads built up. He shot so much Jugs was sopping wet, huge wads of it overflowing his mouth, soaking his shirt and making his brown skin gleam white, knappy hair dripping with it. Jugs did retch as Harley guffawed and slapped his knee. Then Jugs scurried away.
It was funny, Goose hadta admit that. But it ain’t feel especially good, and Goose had swollen balls then. That was only a week ago. He ain’t build up that much this time.
“You go’an drown that boy,” Harley said, already laughing as hard as he did last time. Ain’t nothing even happen yet.
Jugs musta done wipe his face offa Hash’s nutjuice but miss a spot, cuz there was some goopy circles of jiss on his forehead and dripping off his earlobe. That made Harley cackle again. He got a hyena-like laugh that irked Goose, though it was infectious, and it made Goose smile along with him, reminding Goose of worse times but in a good way.
“Jerk ya off?” Jugs said. He was hurrying past, no doubt hoping nobody’d say yes.
“Heck yeah, get on ya knees, boy!” Harley clapped and cackled again. He opened up his pack of smokes and put one cigarette behind his ear, then tossed the pack to Jugs — Jugs was required to accept that as payment of a pack of smokes. It was one cigarette short, which made Jugs a better deal than mosta the other punks in this prison. The resta them charged a full pack.
Harley got his britches down and his dick dangling through the cell bars before Jugs even smeared the lipstick on his lips. When he did, he smacked them cherry-red lips together. He picked up Harley’s dick with two fingers and put it in his mouth. He held back a gag as he went down to the root, smearing lipstick along the shaft all the way into Harley’s light burgundy crotch hair.
A sigh escaped from Harley’s lips as Jugs put the towel up over his face. He started off without the towel so the fellers watching could see the lipstick. Was sposedta make it feel more like a woman.
Goose was dubious about that. He finished his cigarette and snubbed it out. He then got up and checked on his hooch, drained his bladder into the toilet and sat back down. He wanna do his workout, but the buckets of hooch took up half the cell and Harley’s bare ass dimpling as he humped the cell bars took up mucha the rest.
Harley ain’t got a huge dick. It weren’t nothing to be ashamed of, it wasn’t small, but it was small enough to be easy for Jugs to swallow it. Even with the cell bars separating him from Harley’s reddish-furred crotch, Jugs got that whole cock in his mouth. His nose was buried in Harley’s pubes.
Every couple seconds Jugs’s whole body undulated, but he held back his gags. He choked up spit that dripped onto the cell bars. A long low moan escaped from Harley, who turned the sound into a laugh, followed by a gut-hurtingly loud retch from Jugs.
“Uhnnk…” Both Jugs and Harley made similar sounds.
First couple bursts of jizz went straight into Jugs’s throat. Jugs squealed moistly and squirmed, pulling off Harley’s pecker in time for one final cumwad to jet onto his face. Harley’s hands pulled through the cell bars in an attempt to get Jugs back on his dick, but he couldn’t reach.
“Ewwck-“
“C’mon, punk, finish it off!” Harley groaned and grunted, his hips still flexing as if to fuck the cell bars themselves. He finished himself off with one hand though, draining the last of his juices onto the floor outside the cell.
Holding back a peal of gags, Jugs wiped his face off with that towel. He paused, clutching his stomach as though to force all that nastiness to stay down.
When he had recovered, Jugs looked at Goose. “Hey, you’re the one they call Goose, right?”
Goose nodded.
“Well, uh… my man, Darren — my husband-” Jugs winced as he said that. “He said, uh… He said you can have a free ride on my ass, if you promise to give up a cupful of hooch when it’s ready.”
“Ah, sheeit, boy, you gettin’ booty!” Harley said. He grabbed for Goose’s crotch to pull his denim prison trouser-pants down, but Goose slapped his hand away.
“Ass? I dunno… Tha’ss dui’ty.” Goose ain’t want a reputation as a booty bandit. He ran his fingers through his hair, but he sighed.
“Ain’t ya big ol’ dick still work?” Harley asked.
Goose said, “Yeah, shuddup, Harley.” A sigh drug its way outta his chest. “But you best take the whole thang, Jugs.” He stood up. “You got lard, right?”
Jugs nodded with a sick frown on his face. He pulled out a little metal tin, half-fulla lard from the kitchen. “I don’t have much, I don’t — just go slow, okay?” Black boys in prison foreverlasting got lard. Ain’t no better lube in the world.
Goose snorted. He stood up and dropped his denims. When Jugs sawn Goose’s cock, he looked even sicker, he musta done forgot how big it was. Well over a foot long and thicker than a can of beer, it unfurled between Goose’s legs and swung back and forth.
Frown lingering on his face, Jugs kneeled with his back to the cell bars, ass pressed against ’em. He let the steel bars pull his cheeks apart. Harley cackled up Jugs’s butthole and smacked each cheek the best he could by reaching between the cell bars. Harley later on claimed Jugs got jisms dripping out his ass, but he was funning, Jugs got dark skin and cum would be visible if it was there. It weren’t. It was just a funnier story to tell if he got a dripsy butthole.
“Nah,” Goose said. “Stand up. Mah knees get sore kneeling.” Plus Goose was much taller than Jugs, so it’d be awkward to plow into his ass kneeling. And through the cell bars? Not easy.
“Oh, c’mon, man, c’mon, it hurts like that,” Jugs said.
Goose shrugged. “No complainin’, or I’s allowed to tell Darren you wasn’t cooperating.”
“No, don’t! I am! I’m doing it!” Jugs said amid a storm of wincing and cringing. “Don’t tell him that.”
“Then don’t fight me, punk. I’ll be quick,” Goose said. He wondered when he had done agreed to this. He ain’t never say yes, but Harley and Jugs both assumed he would, and Goose ain’t wanna back out now. They’d accuse him of having a donkeydoodle that don’t work right.
Jugs stood up, his underpants pulled down to bare his taut asscheeks. He stood with them separated by the cell bars, revealing his tight brown hole, no dribbles of nut. Jugs bent over, keeping his knees straight and pushing his ass up as high as he could. It looked much too small to take all of Goose’s dick.
But Goose done acquire plentya experience forcing his pecker into a man’s behind. They was surprisingly accommodatious, and you know a black punk done took plentya giant black-boy peckers. Goose bent his knees a little to lower it enough to aim for Jugs’s hole.
He got the tip in easy enough, the lard helping it slide right in. But then he hit resistance, and Jugs seethed through his teeth.
“Ow, wait, wait-“
“Okay, okay, just spread it open,” Goose said. He weren’t waiting though. He kept pushing, forcing Jugs’s ass to open wider and wider. Jugs’s hands fluttered behind his back as if he could do something that way, but that made it hard to remain bent over on all fours. His face plopped onto the floor.
“Owwwww!” Jugs cried out and slipped away from the cell bars. “Ow, shit!”
“Hey! Punk-ass, mothahfuckah, get ya black ass back on mah dick,” Goose said. “Or I’s tellin’ Darren-“
“Okay, okay, honky, shit,” Jugs muttered. With a weary groan, he got back in position. He squatted like to force out a troublesome turd, and he again backed his ass up to the cell bars.
When Jugs came in one of slipping off again, Harley saved the day by grabbing Goose’s sweat-soaked tee shirt from the basket of dirty clothes. He lassooed it around Jugs’s head through the cell bars, holding it tight in one hand so Jugs couldn’t complain or move his head.
That forced Jugs to stay in position, even as Goose forced his fist-thick dick into Jugs’s tender tight ass. Jugs seethed through the sweaty tee shirt in his mouth, making a series of rhythmic grunts with each thrust of Goose’s cock into him.
“He’uh I go, boy, he’uh I go, c’mon…” Goose’s voice broke as pleasure hit him hard. The one bad side of a big dick was that it took a lot of effort to get hard and a lot to go over the edge.
Finally Goose stepped over that edge, and a fat wad jetted into Jugs’s asshole. Jugs winced. Goose pumped his hips hard, his heart beating fast now, chest sweating. A grand sigh escaped from his lungs.
More cum spurted into his guts, and Goose let out a long low sigh as an orgasm overwhelmed him. “Aww, sheeit, Jugs…” That felt good, Goose thought, damn good.
Finally his dick popped out, followed by a torrent of jiss that stained Jugs’s ass white. Goose ain’t realize he was still cumming, so he grabbed his cock and stroked his last few spurts of jizz out with both hands. It coated Jugs’s left asscheek in ropes of cream.
Harley cackled and lit yet another cigarette. “Shit, that was hilarious,” he said.
Goose chuckled as he wiped his dick clean with toilet paper. He nodded sheepishly. “That did feel good,” he thunk. But now he owed three whole cupfuls of bucket hooch, and he ain’t even finish making one batch yet. Bucket hooch is temporary as rain, apple pies is fleeting like a waterfall, and orgasms last only a moment. Goose’s hillbilly ass be fording a river fulla them things, when he needta be flowing down ’em. He knew all that, cuz prison was nothing but studyment, but he ain’t yet have a sense of vairagya, ain’t even have the word. He thought the other bank of the river was too far away to reach, but in fact, t’was the distant ocean that was right at hand. Goose kept across the stream disregardless.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 2

The White Trash Veteran

It rained like rhythmic broth in the marshy jungle north of camp. The crippety call of crickets and the rattatat of machine guns boomed outta the steamy yonder and combined with the chop-chop of the helicopters overhead and the chirrup of the frogs and the splashing of Goose’s heavy boots in wetland muck, and his huffing breath lingered like saxophone sounds amid the clap-a-clap of his gun jostling to and fro.
Bwooooooooosh — schhhllaaat!
A bomb went off somewhere, and men cried out — maybe a landmine — them voices sounded gooky. They bumped and chattered and clashed crashing syllables somewhere nearabouts, maybe all around. The echoic jungle indistinctly whooshed past Goose’s ears, as he boot-splashed in some direction or possibly a different one.
“Woo-jai-goo!” sparked some gook, or some shit like that, it all sounded the same to Goose, who just arrived in Vietnam last week. Already, he be plussing.
More ding-dong chatter sounded from thisaway and thataway and yanway and from up on over yonder too, and Goose unclipped his gun. He dunno which direction to point it in, as all he heared now was the jungle calls of critters creepy-crawling. Vietnam got more bugs than sense. Goose hoped to draw his firearm.
But his hand was empty. No gun.
Goose had it a moment ago. Did he drop it?
“Stop! Stop right where you are! Hands in the air!” One the gooks had stellar English, with drawl and a trace of twang. Sounded like he was from somewhere proper, maybe Tennessee.
The peal of a siren shattered Goose’s rainy shards into panes of togethertude, and he stupored into stillness.
Cops surrounded him. Guns aimed himward. The sun blared in his eyes. No endless canopy clouding overhead. No wetlands under his boots. No helicopter sounds.
He was in America. Tennessee? Maybe. Pennsylvania? Indiana? Were those real places? Goose never was convinced Delaware was real.
“Put your hands in the air!” shouted the insistent cop in the lead. His gun glinted in the sun. He had a groomed mustache liketa grow into a beard but never quite got there.
“Aaaah… shit,” Goose said. He ain’t know where he was or what done happen. For a moment, he couldn’t even remember leaving Vietnam. Had he rotated out? Gone AWOL? Fragged his commander? Or did he die there?
Goose sunk to his knees. His mind still whirred as facts filed back into place. He recollected now the floaty-boat back to America. He was honorably discharged, if you can believe it, like a fucking knight. He did the paperwork. He got a medal. The cops stormed forth and slapped cuffs on him. Goose stumbled to the black and white, policemen shoving him this way and that like a sturdy man in a Navy brig, and they squeezed him into the backseat.
Martinsburg seemed very far away. Goose don’t know where he was, so t’was possible it was nearby, but it felt afar. He ain’t wanna ask after his current locale cuz he was feeling lazy in mind and soul, like a pecan floating down the gentle Monongahela. Nothing that happens now matters, because everything done happen, back in Vietnam. His ache for Ellen and for li’l Moses Buck was only a minor eddy in the current of the universe, and there was something comforting in the meaninglessness of it all.
The next few hours swirled through a relentless, incomprehensable tornado of questions and photographs.
But eventually it was over, and he lay in his jail cell, both sobering up and piecing together. He done start a fist and skull with a lippy larry in a bar, and then everything went blurry. He brawled ’em all like a hillbilly do. He punched up purple at a cop in his blues, then, seeing red, Goose took the cop’s black and white. He was going inside for sure. Hopefully for just a couple months.
“You okay, hillbilly?” came a deep voice from the cell next to him. It had a distinct New England tone to it, a portion of stawk and a dose of yip. Not quite New York, not quite Massachusetts. Yankee for sure.
“Who you callin’ hillbilly?!” Goose said as he sat up, which got him swimmy-headed. “Yankee bastard.”
The man across the way, with half-gray curls atop his squareness, chuckled. “Where you think you’s at, hillbilly?”
Goose shrugged. “Good question.”
“You’s in New Juusey,” said the man. “Name’s Dutch.” They both nodded back to each other. “You an Army man?”
Goose nodded. He rubbed his sore temple. “Yeah-um.” He grunted. “It’s 1976, right?”
“Yup.”
“When’s suppuh?”
“You had yu’s. You puked it up,” Dutch said. “You might get Castle to let you make yuuself a sandwich.” He sniffled and shrugged. “Prolly not. He’s a dick.”
Goose sighed. “Fine.” His belly done went queasy as a weasel anyway. He laid back on the bunk. He closed his eyes. He thunk he stayed awake and that only a few seconds passed, but when he opened his eyes, it was hours later. He awoke to the jailhouse door slamming shut, as a uniformed cop came in, looking like a blob-shape frown. He got a scruffy beard and a eyepatch over his right eye, which was blue as the Pacific Ocean.
He stopped at the cell bars by Goose’s head. His nametag read Castle. He held a clipboard. “You alive?”
“Yes suh.”
“What’s ya name, son?”
“Nobody.”
“Fingerprints gonna bring up a name?”
“Yes suh.”
Castle let out a long sigh. “Then why not tell me-?”
“J’st look at mah dog tag!” Goose said. He took off his dog tag and tossed it at Castle, who caught it.
A long pause sat ‘tween them two, and it grew like kudzu, snaking and sneaking, encircling the cell in sullen silence. Goose wondered if Castle done walk away, but he ain’t move his head to see. It was nice to stare at the ceiling, which was solid and unchanging.
“You gonna kill yaself?” Officer Castle finally asked. He scratched his eyepatch, which made him wrinkle his nose.
“No suh.”
“You got any medical whatevers?”
“No suh.”
“Good,” Castle said. He sniffled and rubbed his nose, which again made him wince. He dropped the clipboard and held it by his side. He looked at Goose for the first time since coming in here. “You okay?”
Goose shrugged.
“Ya public defender will be here in the morning.”
“Uh-huh,” Goose said.
“You took a swing at me earlier.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Suh.”
“Sorries don’t cut it, son. What happened? You was putting out crazy,” Officer Castle said. He paused but Goose kept them peepers trained on the ceiling. Goose was thinking of a response, but he ain’t show it and he ain’t wanna give nothing that sound like excuses. Officer Castle frowned so hard Goose heard it. “You lost control. You look strong, but you got weakness in you, son. You too weak to control yaself.” He took a step to the side, where’n he could better see Goose’s face. “You too weak, son-“
“I heared ya.”
“Well? You satisfied with that? Jesus Christ do pull thorns from the paws of lions, son. The pro’lem with you is you think you’re the lion, waiting for Jesus to show up. But really, you’s the thorn,” Castle said.
“Yessuh.” There was a huge bulge in Goose’s boxer shorts. He got a gigantic cock, and the too-small boxers made that obvious. He rearranged it so it didn’t look like he had a hardon. Rearranging it made it look like he did have a hardon and was concealing it.
“If you wanna take carea that stiffy, Dutch’ll jerk you off,” Castle said. He walked off, snorting at Dutch, who was in the cell leaning against his bars and smoking a cigarette.
“Yes suh.” Goose sat up and chuckled. He waggled his dick in his army-green drawers. The door to the jailhouse swung shut, and the lock loudly engaged.
All was still and silent. With no noise, Goose’s ears pricked up, and he soon heared the whirr of the ventilation system, the plink-plink of water dripping somewhere, the scurrying of a mouse in the walls. Them was good sounds, and a sortuva holy calm came over him for a few seconds, lasting until his thoughts commenced to pondering again.
He looked across the way at Dutch.
“I don’t gotta jerk you off.” Dutch puffed on his cigarette from across the way. “You got anything on you? Cigarettes?”
Goose patted his pockets and pulled out two nickels and a lighter. He showed them to Dutch. “Shit… I don’t got none. Can I get a cigarette?”
“No,” Dutch said as though that shoulda been obvious. Then he peered closer at the lighter. “Lemme see the lighter. If it’s full, I’ll trade you a couple cigarettes for it.” Dutch came outta his cell and over to Goose’s. Goose handed him the lighter, which Dutch hefted in one hand and looked at it in the light to see the silhouette of the level of fluid inside. Then he swiped the nickels too. “Three cigarettes.”
Goose nodded. He took the three cigarettes from Dutch and lit one. “I’s in New Juhsey?” he said as he exhaled. That only now sunk into his brain. “How’d I get to New Juhsey?”
“How in the name of Christ could I know that?” Dutch asked. He snubbed his cigarette butt out. He returned to his cell and laid down on the bunk with a magazine in hand. He leafed through it.
Goose puffed on his cigarette. The smoke felt good in his lungs, and it invigorated him. He felt truly alive, and for the first time since he woke up, all five senses was firmly in America.
“I’da signed up, you know, I’da done my part,” Dutch said. He was nose-deep in his magazine yet, laying in his bunk. “If I wasn’t in here. And if I was young enough. I’da signed up for the Army. Or maybe Navy, my dad was Navy.”
“Navy is a buncha nancies,” Goose said. He stood and jogged in place, which made his fat cock jiggle in his britches. Now that he was feeling fully awake, he really did admireta get a nut off, like Castle said. It’d help him get back to sleep. No point in doing anything else here but sleep.
First he finished his cigarette, and he did a quick workout in his cell. That helped settle the heeby-jeebies in his belly. He stopped when the push-ups reminded him of boot camp.
Dutch fiddled with the radio in his cell, trying to pick up a channel that was mostly static. He moved the radio round to find an effective spot. When that proved ineffective, he left his cell and went to the back of the jailhouse. The song finally came in clear. Dutch nodded his head in tune with the beat liketa dance, but he couldn’t cuz he was holding the radio in the one spot where it worked.
Goose checked his cell door, which was locked. “Why’s your’n unlocked?”
Dutch scowled, bopping his head to the beat. “I’m the trustee. I’m allowed out.”
“Ooooh, you the bucket trustee. Mil’tary police had them,” Goose said. He grabbed his cock through his boxers and waggled it in Dutch’s direction.
With a scowl, Dutch came to Goose’s cell and withdrew a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and came in. “I’m doin’ it how — eckkkk…!” He stopped short when he seed the size of the basket in Goose’s boxers. He whistled. “Shit, you hillbillies don’t play. Don’t even think about puttin’ that in my ass. I don’t do that, Sheriff says I don’t gotto, no matter what. Not even the colored cops can make me do it. He said so.”
“Fine. I don’t wan’cha ass,” Goose said. He pulled down his boxers and thwacked his hefty cock against the palm of his hand. “C’mon, I won’t be able to sleep without blowin’ a nut.”
“Lay on ya bunk,” Dutch said. “I’m not gettin’ on my knees. Don’t blow in my mouth. I’m allowed to hit you if you do.”
“Fine-” Goose aimed his dick at Dutch.
“You can shoot ya nut into the toilet,” Dutch said.
Goose said with a weary sigh. “Fine. J’st do it, Dutch. Jaysus Christ, New Juhsey fellers do thangs slow.” He got one hand working up and down his limpness, but he weren’t trying to get it hard.
“I’m from Rhode Island,” Dutch said.
Goose snorted and settled back on his bunk, boxers round his ankles. Dutch bent over and took Goose’s dick in one hand. He gave it a couple strokes, then lowered his tongue and licked it from tip to root.
It firmed up in his hand. Dutch used just one hand at first, his tongue teasing the tip, slobbering up spit. Then he put both hands on it and kept at it hard. He kept sticking his tongue out like he was gonna lick it again, but his tongue barely touched the tip a couple times.
“C’mon, t’ain’t-“
“I’m gettin’ you off, I choose how to do it!” Dutch said. His tongue teased Goose’s knob, then he winced and pulled away. He spat into the toilet.
“It won’t get hard like that,” Goose said. “C’mon, put’cha mouth on it. Swaller it. I won’t force it in, I won’t throat ya down, I swan.”
Dutch rolled his eyes, but he did stretch his mouth around the tip. He teased it with his tongue. He kept going with both hands too, and Goose’s cock firmed up. It throbbed against Dutch’s lips.
The more Dutch mouthed up on it, the more it tasted like spit, not pecker, so Dutch found it easier and easier. His tongue rocked up and down the shaft, but he didn’t move past the first couple inches, making no effort to throat it. Goose ain’t complain.
Soon enough, his dick was rock-hard, and Goose let out a moan. Dutch ain’t throat it none yet, but he kept both hands on the shaft and his lips upon the knob.
Then all at once, Goose grabbed Dutch’s head and at the same time precum slipped out onto Dutch’s tongue. Goose ain’t force his dick in, but he did push down on Dutch’s head, just enough to signal what he wanted. Dutch paused, pulled off and cast a glare up at him, then moved back to Goose’s cocktip. After a few more seconds, he was overcome by a gag. He leaned over to the toilet and spat into it.
“Ewck, you taste awful,” Dutch said. He gagged up more spit into the toilet.
Overcome by a desire to nut, Goose hurried to a standing position. Dutch was bent over the toilet, so Goose grabbed him by the head and forced his dick into Dutch’s open mouth. Dutch’s broad shoulders tensed up.
He tapped then patted then outright hit Goose on his thighs and the meaty part of his asscheeks. Dutch tried to wrench his head away, but Goose kept a tight hold on his scalp. Goose pistoned his hips. He ain’t force his meat down Dutch’s throat, but he did push it to the backa his mouth and ain’t let Dutch spit it out. That meant precum slicked up Dutch’s throat.
“C’mon, swaller it, j’st throat it a li’l-” Goose murmured. He stopped when his cock hit the back of Dutch’s throat — as far as Goose was concerned, that meant he lived up to his part of the bargain. He hadn’t forced it in, hadn’t “throated him down”, as they say in prison.
But Dutch erupted in gags and whoops, and he shoved Goose off. He spat up into the toilet. “Nah! No way! That ain’t how I do it! No-” His chest muscles roiled and undulated, as he retched again. Goopy white precum clung to his lips and his teeth.
Goose slipped the tip of his dick back into Dutch’s mouth, and despite his protestations, Dutch did swallow the first couple inches. He kept both hands on the root to keep Goose from throating him down. A few meaningless syllables slipped out when Goose let his cocktip come in one of leaving Dutch’s mouth, but Goose ain’t let up enough for Dutch to form any words, specially once Goose felt his orgasm burgeoning deep within him.
Cum spurted into Dutch’s mouth, and Goose sighed grandly. He held firmly onto Dutch’s head, pleasure roiling Goose’s chest, until Dutch managed to drag himself off and gasp for breath. Goose’s second wad spurted onto Dutch’s face. Goose bent his knees to aim his dick for Dutch’s open mouth, as he clasped Goose by the thighs and tried to push him away.
That meant his third and fourth jizzwad jetted straight into Dutch’s mouth, huge fat wads that overflowed and were instantly retched out. Dutch spat up jizz all over his stony face, which turned red as he tried to catch his wind. With his hands behind his back, Goose rammed his meat at Dutch’s mouth and let it rope up his face, so his final couple cumwads matted Dutch’s hair.
“I said no-!” Dutch was overcome by a gag, and he spat up more cum into the toilet. Goose finished himself off with both hands, shooting a few driblets of creamy jizz over Dutch’s face and head.
“Sheeit, sorry, Dutch,” Goose said with a throaty chuckle, his voice wavering cuz the aftershocks of an intense orgasm still rocked him. He thwacked his limpening moist meat onto Dutch’s ear and the side of his cheek.
Dutch scooted away and wiped his face off, holding back gag after gag. He shot Goose a stern look. “Fuck you, asshole,” he said, hoarse as a horse. “That was it, no more. No matter how long you’s here.”
Bouncing his meat between his two hands, Goose chuckled. “Yeah. We’ll see, Dutch.”

copaseptic

It was a Bloods cell — not officially, it was just copaseptic to segregate the cells by race and gang — and they often got into gang business after lights-out.

So he got to lumbering through the cell blocks, knocking on them skulls who be making noise. Cell 55K was a problem that night and most nights round that time. It was a Bloods cell — not officially, it was just copaseptic to segregate the cells by race and gang — and they often got into gang business after lights-out.

From Malcolm Don’t Take No for an Answer

He need a niggaectomy

They can join the list of body parts that don’t work. His heart, his “bladder neck”, his left shoulder, his sinuses, some kinda flap in his throat, his knees and elbows, ankles, fingers, ears.

Goddamn the sun was bright. Did it always usedta be that bright? It ain’t seem like it when Thumper was young and got knees and elbows that worked. Maybe his eyes got old too. They can join the list of body parts that don’t work. His heart, his “bladder neck”, his left shoulder, his sinuses, some kinda flap in his throat, his knees and elbows, ankles, fingers, ears. He need a niggaectomy.

From The Ex-Con, the Prettyboy Thug and Gang Loyalty

All five of those years clung to him still like a fragrant armpit

To Rocky, it still felt like he got outta prison last night, like everything since then was a dream. He was unsure he’d ever acclimate to the outside world. He’d spent five years in there, and all five of those years clung to him still like a fragrant armpit

From Rocky the Ex-Con

Tap-a-tap-tap, he snap-snackin’ on ya cash

Kids was phone-bullying other kids into stabbing they grandmas, lazy-eyed niggas was buying Russian wives on the phone, cauliflowery whiteboys be stealing the treasury on they phone and burning down schools, it happens, shit, look it up!

Thumper scanned books and told customers to swipe or insert they card. Two ways to pay: swipe or insert. Or cash, but ain’t a soul pay in cash all morning. Thumper thought paying with a plastic card was paltry shit. A proper nigga paid in cash. Cards was like a wheelchair for your wallet.

There’s cards you don’t even gotta swipe or insert. You just tap it around, and it goes ding. You could walk by a nigga, and he be dinging your card. Tap-a-tap-tap, he snap-snackin’ on ya cash. Bullshit. When Thumper told this one high-faluting ruddynut honky to swipe his card or insert it if he prefer, the honky said, “Nah, I’mma tap it, you trashy tapless nigger coming outta prison ign’ant and shit, I don’t swipe or insert, I tap, you don’t know nuffin, oughta put you back in a bitch-nigger cage to learn how to tap yo’ thing on the other thing”. He ain’t say that exactly, but what he said he said like Thumper was a piss-poor nigga for not guessing he was the kinda honky who tap steada swipe or insert.

You can pay with your phone now too. Swipe, insert, tap or phone.
Thumper don’t know how to put money into his phone, and he ain’t wanna axe, cuz they’d treat him a lost puppy and show him how and it’d take like a hundred steps, buncha passwords to forget, prolly gotto talk to a gravelchin nigga on the phone. Thumper don’t got time for that nonsense. He like having real cash he can count in reality like a real nigga living in real-time and real-space. One sunnyskin man did it though, hovering his phone around like a hypnotized helicopter, till eventually there was bunchesa buzzes and beeps and boops and the phone vibrated, and then the cash register said “approved”.

Ain’t even a real cash register, it was really a li’l computer that was really a big phone that was really just a monitor, but to the Puffin Books bitches it was a register. Everything was a phone nowadays. You best believe Thumper disapproved of that, disapproved hearty as stew.
The morning drifted on like time was a chore. Thumper’s mind wandered back to prison, where at least you paid in cash or like ramen noodle packets or something. That was better. Thumper wished the world would go back to barter. Like, I’ll trade you a cow for maybe… a thousand apples. But then what would you do with a thousand apples at once? Make cider maybe.
And cider’s delicious, so that’s fine.

World was going in the other direction though. Everything was more abstract, ain’t nothing physical to hold onto. News was on the phone and mainly talked about what people was typing into they phones — seriously, they do whole things on the news about what bunchesa nobodies said, like a serious-looking racially ambiguous reporter get up there and say “somebody named buttmama called for peace in the Congo, but then a non-somebody named noodlesucker said Congo niggas can go fuck a duck”, and then the news is over, and Thumper still ain’t got a update from Congo since Ali won the Rumble in the Jungle.

Young folk don’t even smoke weed proper no more. They vape it. It’s like weed and email got combined. They done optimize smoking weed till there ain’t nothing left, you just look at this little doodad that lights up, exhale smoke that smells like sleeping by yourself for the resta your life, and you done. Don’t get high, don’t laugh at nothing, don’t run from the cops. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.

From Thumper on Parole

How did every part of music get worse while he was locked up?

Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music.

On the way, Thumper ain’t play no music in the truck, and Mr. Gregarian was okay with that, or at least he ain’t complain. Thumper liked the sound of the engine and the wind cracking past like gusts of freedom. Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music — every music-listening method required multiple steps he’d have to look up how to do. How did every part of music get worse while he was locked up?

From Thumper the Booty Bandit

Lazy-ass punks all over

Nowadays, in the free outside present-day here-and-now of the real world, early rising got niggas tripping, looking at Thumper like sad question marks when he said he got up at six.

He got up just after dawn. It ain’t feel early to him. In prison, he be getting up at the north side of dawn. Nowadays, in the free outside present-day here-and-now of the real world, early rising got niggas tripping, looking at Thumper like sad question marks when he said he got up at six. Lazy-ass punks all over.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit