CHAPTER 7 — I GET KICKED OUT OF A STRIPCLUB

The following is a chapter from my latest novel, “HITMAN WITH A HEART.”

“Was it good for you?” I asked Raven.  She smiled and even let out a little laugh.  The rays of the strobe lights bounced off of her eyes making them sparkle.  Now that I had squirted all of my lust into my pants, I could focus on her and not just her tits. She had a tough look but with a touch of sadness that I could relate to.  I wanted to know about her life, like how she ended up here and not on the cover of some fashion magazine.  But it was premature for me to ask her such questions.  I didn’t want her to go.  I felt a real connection, more than your average strip club hard-on.  There are only a few people in the world that when you’re near them the world just seems better.  There’s an energy that pulls you in and the idea of not being near them is sickening.  There was also an undeniable desire to have her, to own her, to lock her up in my basement so no one else could have her but me…but in a romantic way.  Maybe it was her tits, or eyes or some kind of pheromone thing.  Or maybe it was just the first piece of ass I’d been close to in two years but something had happened.  I wanted her like a junkie wants a glass pipe full of the finest meth and if that’s not love I don’t know what love is.  I decided that whatever this feeling was, it was worth taking a shot to get to know her, as unlikely as that seemed at the time.  

“We can keep this party going for another 20 bucks.”  She offered and smiled.             

“I’m broke,” I said, “but if you want to throw in an encore for free—“ Raven stopped smiling and jumped off of my crotch like my balls were on fire.  It was clear to her that the job was done and my potentially lucrative desire was extinguished for the moment.  Relationships are not born from the dark, jizz-drenched walls of a strip club; at least not the ones that last longer than twenty bucks.   

I went into the men’s room to clean the spunk out of my underwear.  When I looked in my pants it look like a bottle of conditioner had exploded in there.  I had built up a super nut from my days spent in prison, even if I was spanking off three times a day on average. 

After a quick wipe down I left the men’s room and headed for the bar.  I was going to buy a drink but realized that I had blown, pun intended, all the money Mason had given me.  I desperately needed whiskey but I’d have to wait. 

The bartender was an Asian lady who looked like she had seen it all and she probably had.  I ordered a glass of water.  She replied, “No, you buy drink or go.”

“Relax Mrs. Miyagi.  I just spent a bunch of cash on a very satisfying lap dance.”

“No, buy drink or go.”  She insisted.

“Fuck off, I’ve paid enough.”  As soon as I had uttered the words I realized that a very large black man was standing behind me.  I tried to defuse the situation by saying to him, “Twenty bucks for a lap dance right brown sugar?  But be gentle with me, I’m still sore from the last time.” 

He smiled then said, “All right, another honky motherfucker I get the pleasure of kicking the shit out of.”

Since I didn’t want to be having a black man’s gigantic Nike surgically removed from my ass, I decided to do as he told me.

“Okay,” I said.  “I’m leaving; just let me tell my brother that I’ll be waiting out in the parking lot.”  He thought it over and reluctantly agreed. 

The massive man escorted me into the VIP room where I saw three strippers grinding on Mason.  Evidently he spared no expense on treating himself.  I walked up to him and said, “These cocksuckers are bouncing me, let’s go.” 

Mason motioned to the strippers and said, “Well these cocksuckers are getting ready to go to work.”

“Quit fucking around.  If they’re kicking me out, you’re coming with me.”

“Oh, I’ll be cumming, just not with you.”

“Fuck you, let’s go.” 

“Fine, just let me finish this lap dance, I still have like five minutes,” Mason said, as he buried his face into a pair of tits. 

I left the VIP room and headed out to the parking lot.  The black bouncer followed me out and he said, “Don’t come back less you got some money.”

“Sure thing, what time does your mom’s shift start?”  I said, lighting up a smoke. 

He smiled and said, “Shit, more like my daughter.  And she’s got the finest ass in here.”

“Can you get me a discount?”

The smile left, “Don’t push it motherfucker.”  He said then slammed the door leaving me alone in the parking lot.  I leaned against Mason’s car and smoked.  I could smell the glorious whore-scent of Raven, or whatever her real name was.  I said a silent prayer that there was a girl out there for me; a girl like Raven.  Beautiful, mysterious, perfect tits, and the open mind of a porn star.  And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t even have to pay for it. 

CHAPTER 6 — LAP DANCE ORGASM

This is the latest chapter of my new novel, “HITMAN WITH A HEART.”

All strip clubs smell like cheap perfume and a zillion dead sperm cells.  Mason took me to one of his favorites.  He handed me a little cash and now I was ready.  My penis started growing before we even got in the door.

We went inside and Mason said, “Take your time, I’m gonna mingle.”  He walked away and I looked around the room with a watering mouth and tightening pants.  A short blonde with big thighs was wrapping her set up which meant her well-manicured pussy and winking asshole were on display like two rare butterflies that were fighting over the same banana.  It was comforting and deliciously evil.  The forgiving red lights hid her wrinkles and almost totally concealed the sadness in her eyes. 

Some men get off on the sadness, like it’s better for them when the stripper has no choice but to be there.  Not me, I’m in it for the pleasant shock of seeing a new set of tits and ass no matter what shape they may be in.  Every woman has the goods, but they are all unique, especially the pussy lips.  I prefer a little flesh hanging off as opposed to a neat slit.  The blonde dancer was really flapping in the breeze like some roast beef curtains but I didn’t care.  She could’ve been a double amputee and my cock still would’ve been pointing towards the heavens.

Being fresh out of prison, my libido was influential which means I could fuck a meat grinder then go for seconds.  I sat down and started the methodical process of choosing which girl I would be wasting money on.  This part of it was almost my favorite.  In the moral world, it’s frowned upon to blatantly leer at a woman.  I’ve never understood that.  It seems to me that the only thing worse for a woman who gets stared at all the time by filthy-minded men, is to never be stared at, although many women would probably disagree with this.  I am not a ladies’ man and have never understood the female mind; that’s more Mason’s area of expertise.  I always assumed that woman thought the same way as men but if that was the case, there would be a lot more random fucking going in gas station bathrooms all over the world.   

I set my sights on a tall brunette with big tits and a firm ass; just my type.  I got up and walked over to her with way more confidence that I would’ve had if she wasn’t a stripper who I was going to be paying.  A man with cash in his pockets at a strip club feels like he’s walking around with his cock dragging on the floor.

Just as I approached the brunette, a fat bastard stepped in and took her by the hand.  This was unacceptable, so I put my hand on his shoulder then said, “Sorry Charlie, this one is taken.”

Fat bastard replied, “Go fuck yourself, I got here first.”  The brunette looked amused.

I said, “Number one; I just got out of prison.  Number two; that’s my sister you’re putting your sweaty, fat-fuck fingers on, and number three: one of us has committed multiple homicides and the other one is you.”  

The guy looked me over trying to see if I was bluffing.  I gave him my murder stare and that was all he needed.  He walked away and grumbled something about me sucking on a homeless man’s asshole. 

The stripper took me by the hand and led me to a private couch in the corner of the room.  “What’s your name?”  She asked.

“Marshall, what’s yours?”

“Raven.”  She said, trying not to look bored.

“Come on, what’s your real name?”

“I don’t ever use my real name.”  She said and took off her top revealing a pair of tits that even Jesus Christ would jack off onto. 

“You can rub your pussy on me but you won’t give me your real name?” I asked which seemed like a reasonable question.

“It’s a privacy thing.  It balances out.”  She said as she sat down on my lap.  My cock was forged steel.  “Wow,” she said, noticing my erection. “Someone’s eager.”

“It’s been a while; I wasn’t bullshitting when I told Porky I just got out of prison.” 

“What did you do?” She asked with genuine interest. 

“Got caught fucking a horse.”   

“Did the horse notice?”  She asked which made me laugh.  “So you’re my brother huh? I didn’t know I had one.”

“I hope I’m not, but you never know.  If I am it just makes this hotter.” 

She smiled then said, “And that part about multiple homicides?” 

“Not unless you count being a lady killer.”  I said realizing that holy shit that’s a bad line.  The truth was that I had only killed two people at that time and both of them deserved it so it didn’t even seem wrong to me. 

“Right,” she responded, “that’s why you’re in here.”

“I like to support my local economy.  So do you like being a stripper?” I asked, not sure why I was continuing this conversation when I was only a cash transaction away from having her tits bouncing off my face.

She replied, “We prefer the term “dancers” but to me that’s ridiculous.  No one is paying to see our snappy moves. I think the dancing is more for the girls so they can distract themselves while creepy dudes stare at them.”

“I don’t mind the dancing, but it is nice seeing some quality T and A,” I admitted.  “I’m not such big fan of stretch marks though.”

“Why does that bother you?  A lot of woman have those.”

“When I see the stretch marks it makes me think somewhere there’s a little boy or girl that will one day learn that mommy had to let the beaver out to buy their new school clothes.”

“What’s wrong with a parent doing what they have to do to provide for their children?” She asked as her beautiful eyes darkened.  Her look made me flinch so I went on damage control mode. 

“I don’t blame the women at all but if anyone is getting screwed in this deal, it’s the men.  The strippers who have perfected their craft, can sniff these jerk-offs out then zero in on them and that’s all it takes.  The men have no chance.”

“Men like you?” She asked and sat down on my lap.

“I’m the worst of all, you could take a shit on my chest and I’d invite you home to visit my parents. Well not my parents, they’re dead, but someone’s parents.”

The beautiful stripper, I mean dancer, put both of her hands on my face.  I could smell her inexpensive shampoo and perfume and I marveled at the glitter that sparkled on her face and tits.  To me it was better that she was most likely from the wrong side of town.  I find people with hard upbringings to be much more interesting than others who grew up soft in a womb of comfort and privilege.  But this stripper was different somehow.  I actually wanted to talk to her, well after she rubbed her pussy and tits on my face.  Getting the lap dance was going to be enjoyable so I figured it was time to get down to business and right on cue she rubbed my things and brushed up against my ball sack that had turned hard like a turtle shell.  She was going in for the kill and I didn’t care.  “Twenty bucks gets you 5 minutes.”  She said as if it mattered what it cost.  I would have cut my nose off just to lick her asshole clean after she ate ribs all night. 

I gave her a twenty and she went to work.  When she started doing her thing, I nearly lost consciousness.  She gently grazed my face and mouth with her nipples that were so hard they could’ve smashed diamonds.  She rubbed her pussy on the tip of my dick and I pushed through the pee-hole in my underwear, leaving my penis exposed to a savage, lap dance pounding.  My cock smashed against my jeans and soon chaffed with no buffer between me and the harsh fabric.  It didn’t matter.  I could’ve been grinding my cock to a nub on a belt sander.  She could feel my hard-on and she turned around so her back was facing me.  She spread her ass and let me wiggle in between there, in that magical place between pussy and asshole.  I could feel the intense heat and it was moist.  I wanted to put my face in there, to smell it.  Taste it.  Fucking move into it.  She turned back around and stared into my eyes.  It couldn’t be bullshit; no way could she fake this moment.  I was the God of Cock.  She was dying and the fountain of life only spurted from me.  It all became too much.  I could feel the orgasm start in my toenails then race up through my knees, then stop in my butt cheeks.  I held out as long as I could.  I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in.  Then I let it go.  Electric spunk-blasts rocketed out, splashing against my pants and filling them up with sticky goo.  More and more filth kept coming until it was all out of me.  There was nothing left; a band of horses wouldn’t be able to raise my cock for at least three hours. 

The loud stripper music, that ridiculous orchestra, blared away.  Something special had happened.  Something in my brain would never be the same.  Already, I could feel cum cooling and congealing in my pants and tangling in my pubic hair.  I didn’t care.  Somehow the shame made it that much better.  It was worth soiling my only pair of pants, for the second time that day.   

Chapter 5 — MY BROTHER, KING OF THE ASSHOLES

The following is a chapter from my latest book, “HITMAN WITH A HEART.” If you like my work feel free to donate since I can’t get any reputable publisher to take me seriously. Fuck those douchebags.

“Now that we’ve hugged it out,” Mason said stifling a laugh, “where do you wanna go little brother?”

“You can drop me off at the nearest bar.”  I said. 

“Come on man, don’t be like that.”

“What the fuck happened?” I asked.

“The cops came out of nowhere.  They must’ve been staking the place out.  It’s like they knew we were going to steal that car.”

“They did know, it was a bait care asshole. I mean what the fuck happened to you?  You were supposed to watch out for me.”

“Marshall, I was right there with you all the way, that is until you got in and actually started the car.”  Mason said with such sincerity that he sounded like he actually believed his own bullshit. 

“So why didn’t you get caught then?”  I asked.

“I damn near did.  When the cops rolled up I had no choice but to walk away.  My gut told me something wasn’t right.”

“How come your gut didn’t say shit to me about it?”  I interrupted and had to resist the urge to punch him in the face.  “You were supposed to be the lookout, but instead you watched me get hauled off like I tried to assassinate the President.”

“That’s a little dramatic, bro,” Mason pointed out.  “As far as I could tell, the cops treated you pretty good.”

“I got tasered… twice.”

“You did kinda resist.”

“I resisted because I wanted to break away and beat you to death for leaving me there.”

“I’m sorry, if there was anything I could do I would’ve.”  Mason assured me.

“So why didn’t you hire me a real attorney instead of that dumb fuck, grease-ball public defender?  That guy spent more time trying to fuck the prosecutor.”

“Oh yeah, she was hot.” Mason pointed out.

“She wasn’t hot when she was telling the judge that I was the next Ted Bundy.  Seriously Mason, why didn’t you help me?  I could’ve beat the charges or maybe got a reduced sentence.”

“Bro, they had you on video tape stealing a car and you head-butted a cop.  No way were you getting off.  If you weren’t a white guy they woulda given you the gas chamber.”  Mason said and he sort of had a point.

“You could’ve kicked in some money for a lawyer.”

“I didn’t have any money.  I used it all to pay off our debts,” Mason said lighting up a smoke.  I lit one up too.

“Our debts?”  I asked.  “You mean your debts.”

“We’re family, for richer or poorer.”

“Fuck you.  Find someone else to eat the peanuts out of your shit.” I said.

We rode along in silence for a few minutes then Mason suggested, “It’s been a rough homecoming for both of us.  So let’s just take a step back and analyze our feelings for a second here.  You know, really connect and by that I mean let’s get shit-faced and have a stripper ride your face like a scooter.”

“You’re paying.”  I said and threw my smoke out of the window.

“Baby brother, I’ll pay for a lot more than that.  Cheer up Marshall, the world is a ripe fruit, filled with the sweet nectar of sin and depravity.  And we are going to suck that motherfucker dry.”  He said, and then cranked the radio up to full blast.

CHAPTER 4 — I GET RELEASED FROM PRISON

Here’s the next chapter of my new novel, “HITMAN WITH A HEART.”

I was released from prison shortly after my 23^rd birthday and it was a day like no other.  I had been saved from the bowels of hell.  The Man had taken his bite out of my ass and I had survived. 

Most people don’t even realize they have choices in their lives and they take the vastness of freedom for granted.  Regardless of their situation, they make their own mental prisons.  To understand the feeling of incarceration you have to be locked up in a room that smells like shit, cleaning products and utter fucking failure; all the while knowing that you can’t leave until they tell you.  Sometimes you have to be locked up with a bunch of animals for a while to appreciate how not-shitty regular life is.

I stood anxiously waiting to be processed which takes forever like every other thing in prison does.  A fat guard put my personals on a table in front of me.  There was a money clip with no cash in it, a cheap lighter, half a pack of Lucky’s, and a three-inch Gerber lock blade that was sharp enough to circumcise a mosquito.  It was all I owned.

I exited like seven fucking doors before I finally got out of the building.  The last door was the best of them all.  It squeaked opened and fresh air filled my nostrils.  The dank stench of misery-soaked concrete was long gone.  It was a new day.  I could be anything.  Then I remembered that I was a convicted felon and a violent one at that.  The stamp of a loser would always follow me around.  I might as well have gotten a tattoo of a pig fucking a priest on my forehead.  I couldn’t vote or own a firearm.  I didn’t give a shit about voting though.

I took out the piece of paper Julian had given me and looked at the number.  I thought about throwing it away and part of me always wonders how my life would’ve turned out if I did.  But I didn’t.  I slipped it back into my pocket and lit a cigarette. 

I scanned around the parking lot and I saw my brother, Mason, standing next to a running car.  He was smiling and waving like I had just come back from a trip abroad.  I walked up to Mason and he went to hug me.  Instead, I viciously shoved him and knocked him flat on his ass.

Mason laid on the ground laughing which pissed me off even more.  He said, “Okay, I deserved that.  Now will you hold me?”

“I’m gonna piss on your chest,” I promised.  Mason kept laughing.

Mason replied, “Wow, I see prison has opened your mind to all kinds of hot fetishes.  If you wanna give me a rim job though, I would proceed with caution.  I’ve had nothing but whiskey and Taco Bell for the last week.”

“For two years I’ve done nothing but think about this day and what I would say to you.”  I said and realized I had no idea what to say to my older brother. 

“And, what did you come up with?”  Mason asked as he sat up.

“This,” I said and unzipped my pants.  I pulled out my dick and aimed it at Mason.  He stared at me and it was the first time I ever saw a look of shock on my brother’s face.

“Well, they say actions speak louder than words,” Mason said.  As soon as the first drop of piss came out of me, Mason rolled over lightning fast and kicked my legs out from under me.  I fell but continued peeing all over the place.  Mason was laughing and jumping up and down.  I suppose it was a funny sight; me rolling around trying to grab my dick that was spraying like some human sprinkler.  I rolled over on my side and finished peeing.

Mason noticed that I had finished then he asked, “Was it good for you?”  I got up and realized that I miraculously had very little pee on my clothes which was good since they were the only clothes I owned.  I got up and rushed Mason who grabbed me in a bearhug.  As Mason held me he said, “That’s it, let it all out.  Find your inner pussy, you knew it’s in there.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”  I screamed in vain.  Mason always was a bit bigger and stronger than me and that fact was never more evident than at that moment.       

“Hey shitheads!” screamed a prison guard who had come out to see what was going on.  “Knock that off Jones or you can get your ass right back in here.”

As much as I was pissed at my brother, I did not want to go back into that building.  So, I stepped back.

The guard yelled, “Not a good start, Jones, I give you a three weeks tops before I’ll be seeing you again.”

I yelled back, “The only part of me that you’ll ever see again is my jizz running down your wife’s ass crack.”  I said as I got into the car.  Mason flipped the guard off and got into the driver’s seat.  I turned the radio on and the station was playing, “I Just Want to Celebrate,” by Rare Earth.  It’s a kick ass song and was perfect for that moment.  I kept finding a few wet spots on my pants and shirt but I didn’t care.  Nothing could get me down.  We drove away and I watched the prison get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until it was only a gray blob on the horizon.  I made the decision that day that I would never go back to prison.  It was an invigorating feeling, like when an alcoholic decides to fall off the wagon and start running towards a river of whiskey. 

CHAPTER 3 — KILLING TIME IN PRISON

The following is a chapter from my latest novel, HITMAN WITH A HEART.

The first thing they say to you in prison is, “Bend over and spread your ass cheeks.”  It’s quite the warm welcome.  The system wants you to know that you are theirs.  You are an animal and they are the masters holding the cattle prod up to your twitching asshole. 

As I was pulling my butt cheeks apart, as instructed, I noticed that I was the youngest prisoner being checked into the joint that day.  Most of the others were in their late twenties or early thirties.  Some were old weathered men whose faces looked like life had used them as toilet paper.  I looked like the lead singer of a boy band to these monsters.  Many of them leered at me and licked their lips like there were stray dogs looking at a pile of vomit. One guy in particular, I came to know him as Randal, was a hulking brute with scars all over his face. He kissed in my direction and I could tell for him it was love at first sight.

But I knew something that most of them didn’t; I knew how to kill and wasn’t afraid to.  If I decide to hurt someone, I never hesitate.  That’s very important when it comes to violence.  Hesitation is worse than anything.  If you telegraph an attack you might as well just assume the initial prison welcoming stance.  It’s always better to attack with everything you have.  Don’t try to look pretty or fundamentally sound.  Bite, claw and tear testicles off and don’t stop punching or stomping until you hear the death rattle. 

         I slept, or tried to sleep, with my back against the wall that night keeping an eye on Randal.  From time to time I would see him look over at me with the wide eyes of a man bent butt fucking something to death.  He would come for me at some point; it was prison law.  That’s okay, I thought, I’ll be ready.  My first night in prison was coming to a close; only 729 to go.     

         Much like the lifestyle of being a hitman, prison life is mostly boring with a lot of jacking off.  But then suddenly swift, horrible violence is needed to survive. 

Each day in jail is indistinguishable from the next.  You get up early, shower, eat, and then head off to your mundane job for the day.  I was assigned kitchen cleaning duty which meant my days were spent with a mop and the desire to jump off a building.  In the afternoon they would let us go out to the yard for exercise and most guys would lift weights as if it would make their dicks bigger.  I had never been in such good shape.  I was doing 500 pushups and 1000 sit-ups a day.  What else was I doing with my time?  And besides, it doesn’t hurt to be in good shape if you have to fight to the death to protect your anal cherry. 

Randal kept his distance but I would catch him leering from time to time.  If I saw him looking, I would simply smile and wave back.  He tried to look tough and mean and although he was one scary-looking motherfucker, I could tell there was uncertainty in him.  He couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t afraid of him.

Most criminals are not educated but many of them have decent street smarts.  Part of that common sense means being able to tell who the real bad asses are.  It’s almost never the shit talkers you have to worry about.  Those guys talk shit because they’re afraid and they’re bluffing like a monkey who screams and throws shit everywhere.  The quiet men are the ones to avoid.  They rarely utter a word but when a confrontation breaks out, they’ll be the first ones skull stomping the shit talkers to death.  I guess I’m somewhere in the middle of this spectrum.

The physical stature of men varies wildly in the joint.  You’ve got everything from the little guys who look like gymnasts all the way to the fucking behemoths who look like they were meant for medieval battle.  Guys like Randal.  I’m 6 feet 185 pounds so nothing special.  But you never know what to make of the average-sized guys.  All the professional killers I’ve met and known are almost always average looking in every way.  It’s much easier to kill someone if you look like everyone else instead of the starting offensive tackle for an NFL team. 

Most of the people I’ve killed never got a good look at me.  But there are times when it makes sense to approach them face to face with a smile.  People are trusting if you have an honest face, which I have.  The trick is to hide the deadness in your eyes.  A soul is the hardest thing to fake. 

My first and only major confrontation in prison happened in the showers.  This is cliché but it’s true.  Shower time is when you are most vulnerable and it makes sense that pussy starved men would get frisky being in a steaming room with lots of other pussy starved men.  “A hole is a hole,” is a common prison motto.  To men like this, it’s not the sex they are necessarily into when they rape.  It’s the power.  These rapist fucks get off on the whimpering pain of the weak.  The bible tries to explain the justice of it all by saying, “The meek shall inherit the earth.”  My philosophy is that the meek shall inherit the earth but only after the strong are done butt fucking it. 

I once saw a guy get shanked in the belly then while he lay there bleeding out, two other inmates jacked off onto his face.  That poor sheep was one of the weak and a lot of good it did him.  He never fought back and it cost him his life.  Let that be a lesson to anyone reading this:  If you go to prison and don’t fight back, you’re liable to end up with some holes in your belly and a face full of spunk.

Speaking of faces, as I was washing mine in the shower, I noticed the other inmates were clearing out of the area which is a bad sign if you’re not one of them.  It means that shit is going down, or in my case shit was about to get pushed in.  I looked up and saw Randal holding a prick the size of a pop can.  He had his hand around the base of it and he was pointing it at me, like a laser guided cock rocket.

I started soaping up my hands as much as possible and I turned the water on as hot as it would go.  When the big fucker came at me with dong in hand, I threw a handful of the scorching soapy water into his eyes.  He let go of his penis burrito and put his hands to his face.  I got behind him, grabbed his head with my right hand and slammed his face into the water spigot that was still pumping out scalding hot water. 

He tried to scream but only a gurgle sound came out and I continued pushing his face into the spigot.  I could hear his teeth breaking off and he started shaking.  I let go and he fell limp on the floor; both his body and penis.  I wanted him dead so I stomped on his throat putting all my weight down.  I crushed his Adam’s apple and watched him kick and claw at the air while he suffocated; kind of like the dog did that my father killed on my birthday years before.

After, I calmly washed off the blood on my hands and left the shower stalls.  When I entered the main locker area the other inmates were surprised to see me walking upright and not bleeding from my asshole.  The Aryan guys, Randal’s buddies, were especially surprised.  I walked up to their leader, he was an old White Power shithead with all those stupid fucking swastika tattoos.

“What happened to Randal?”  The leader asked. 

“He choked on my cock.” I casually said feeling like the ruler of the underworld.  The prisoners all nodded their heads in respect as I walked out of the room. When the prison investigated Randal’s death all the other inmates agreed that it was an accident which was obviously bullshit but it’s not like the officials cared. Randal wasn’t the type of man to be missed, least of all by the relentless machine that is the US penal system.  Within a day, a fresh inmate had taken Randal’s cell and his absence was only noticed by the prison softball team that now needed a new left fielder. I tried out but didn’t make the team.  I can’t hit for shit, well not a baseball anyway.

That night I stayed up late in bed reliving the shower scene and not because I was jacking off to it.  I became angrier and angrier and I was twitching with rage.  Finally, an image came into my mind that let me drift off to a peaceful slumber.  The image was Randal’s shaking body and the feeling that the act was just. Randal was bad blood just like my father.  Both men were evil beasts fueled only by a need to inflict pain on those who were unable or willing to defend themselves. 

Days trudge by in prison, like they do in all aspects of life.  The routine keeps you going; keeps your feet moving.  You make no memories because there is nothing worthy of being remembered.  Except for maybe the occasional triumph in cards or a particularly intense, self-inflicted orgasm. 

After the battle with Randal, my status among the prisoners rose considerably.  The perks were subtle, like getting a little more food at lunch time, or having other inmates get out of my way in the library.

Randal was a legend in the butt-kicking and ass-fucking department, or so they said.  But no one ever actually witnessed Randal do anything.  He was so scary looking that he never had to prove himself.  Being an average looking guy, I’ve constantly had to show the world that I can handle myself.  I’m not brave, I’m just angry all the time and anger is dangerous.  Almost as dangerous as fear or love.  It’s funny how closely related all those emotions can be. 

Killing Randal gave me a sense of pride.  It always feels good to get the better of a bully.  That was Randal’s problem.  He believed too much in the stories that other inmates told about him. He had gotten used to men voluntarily bending over for him.  He wasn’t expecting a fight, or at least such a dirty one.  But in the end all of his size and strength didn’t mean fuck all. 

Life is all about results.