He inadvertently gave some cons the Whitfield ointment instead of the requested petroleum jelly. Needless to say, all the cons in the tank and the inside picket boss knew for certain some screwing was going on in Number 3 tank that night. One of the Whitfield ointment recipients, Ol’ Mus Havit, had gotten with his partner and paired off under a bunk. That ointment got hot and all of a sudden a loud howl was heard, “Whew! Say man, git up offa me! My ass is on fire! Oh! Gotdam!!”
They came out from underneath the bunk like two mad bulls. The culprits were put out of the tank by the building tenders, and the inside picket boss made them sit under the picket all night without allowing either to wash it off. I bet they would have been glad to sit in something wet and cool, even the stinking shit ditches.
With two bars on his shirt collar now, Captain Walden ventured downstairs to the tanks without Doc Cateye at his side. He must have thought there was a need for him to come down alone every so often to establish that he was the man with the fuzzy balls and not Doc Cateye. He wanted the cons to get used to the idea that everything having to do with medication, lay-ins, or the hospital in general had to be coordinated through him and him alone.
It seems the classification committee made another terrible miscalculation when they sent a “gnat liver” (young) first offender to serve his measly two-year sentence at the burnin hell. There weren’t many young cons on our camp, and even fewer serving under ten years unless they had screwed up on one of the other camps. If that was the case, they were reassigned to Retrieve to help rid them of whatever “adjustment problems” they were experiencing. However, they were already pretty tough cookies by the time they got here.
Yet, here the new con stood pitifully, like the Pope in the middle of hell. When Black Betty dropped him off at the backgate, the boss brought him in the building and stood him underneath the picket to await his tank assignment. The “goon squad” (building tenders) crowded up to the bars, hung on them like apes, shouting obscenities at the “new one.” They acted like a bunch of dogs over a bitch in heat. Their clamoring worsened when Cap’n Smooth showed up.
One started begging, “Please Cap’n, put him on my tank. If y’all put ‘em in heah wit me, I swear I’ll pick a bale a day.”
Then another, “Cap’n, you knows I been heah a long time, pleeze Cap’n, hab mercy. Pleeze, lemme hab ‘em.”
Still another, “Cap’n, if y’all put ‘em in heah, y’all sho won’t have no troubles wit dat nigguh. I keep it so slick twixt his legs he won’t be able ta walk fo runnin,” he remarked blatantly.
“You nigguhs dry up them ol’ mouths an git back away frum them bars! You sonsabitches act lak you ain’ never had no boar pussy befo. Hell, this heah ain’t the first little ol’ mare nigguh y’all dun seed.” He continued, “I ain’ gonna tell you sonsabitches no more ta git down on that ol’ head runnin!”
After they quieted down a bit, Cap’n Smooth asked the new con, “Nigguh, if I wuz to letcha choose the tank you want frum one to four, which’un you’d choose?”
Mumbling, “It don’t make no difference.”
Sarcastically, “You mean it don’t matter who fucks you in yore ass?”
In a voice reeked with fear, “Captain Sir, I ain’ no punk, sir. I jes wanna do my time an git away frum here.” This was a whole lot easier said than done.
“Hey, y’all hear that? This nigguh claims he ain’ no gal-boy. Whutta you thank about that, Ol’ Trigger Bill? You b’leeve this little ol’ nigguh’s tellin me the truth?”
Trigger Bill was the building tender on Number 2 tank begging to have the new con put in with him. After being singled out, he looked down and started shuffling his feet and grinning like a mule eating briars. “I don’t know, Cap’n, suh,” he said sheepishly, “jes whutevah y’all say.”
“Tell you whut I’m gonna do, since you ain’ no bigger’n a piss ant an wouldn’ last long as a fart in a windstorm in that field, I’m gonna put yore scrawny little ass in the kitchen. Now, I hafta pick a tank fur you since I can’t gitcha to do it.” Turning to the bar apes, “I’ll put this little ol’ nigguh on the nigguh’s tank whut cums up wit the best name fur ‘em.”
The vultures began hollering out name after name. “Betty Grable, name ‘em Betty Grable, Cap’n.” That got a sharp stare from Cap’n Smooth.
“Name ‘em Sweet Meat, Cap’n,” another shouted.
“Cap’n, bein dat y’all dun put ‘em in da kitchen, name ‘em Ol’ Dumplin,” Bull rendered.
Cap’n Smooth liked that name, so “Ol’ Dumplin” it was. The picket boss threw the lever and the door opened. Clutching onto his few personal belongings tightly, Dumplin noticeably flinched when the big steel door slammed shut behind him.
Bull, nicknamed for his brawny wide chest and beefy arms, was an imposing figure as he stood waiting. The two daggers and trace chain hanging from his homemade belt were a daunting sight. No sooner had the door closed, Bull quickly made his move.
“You kin put yo stuff in my locker so nobody won’t steal it. An you kin use anythang in it. I’m gon hep you til you git settled in.”
Next, Bull got permission from the picket boss to go to the laundry to get some sheets for the new con. All a building tender had to do to get out of the tank was ask. They received preferential treatment and were privileged to possess overt weapons. They were the policemen of the tanks. Under the guise of enforcing the “rules,” their brutal behavior was tolerated by the prison hierarchy from the warden on down to the lowly bosses. Their gang rapes, beatings, and harassment of weaker cons were ignored and their versions of “what” happened in the tanks were readily accepted.
Bull used his power position, promised to pay cigarettes, or whatever, and soon returned from the laundry with a mattress cover, pillowcase, and two neatly starched and pressed sheets. Unlike the rest of us, Dumplin would be sleeping on a sheet instead of the stiff ducking mattress cover.
“I’m gon look out fo you,” as he slow eyed the young con’s physique. “If any uv dese nigguhs fuck witcha, jes lemme know.” Lavishing his concerns, “Betta put yo brogues on cuz dey’s gon call you in a few minutes so you kin go ta wek in dat kitchen.”
Just like he suggested, Dumplin sat on Bull’s bunk and changed from his free world shoes to his brogues. He followed Bull’s lead like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Bull was a pro when it came to conning new cons.
It wasn’t long before the call came from Cap’n Foots, “Boss, lemme have that new nigguh outta thar.”
The boss opened the door, “Ol’ Bull, gimme that new nigguh. That Cap’n wants ‘em in th’ kitchen.”
When Dumplin stepped out, Bull stepped out behind him and hollered up to the picket boss, “Comin out wit ‘em Boss, I needs ta see da Cap’n.”
He said this to back up what he’d been shooting Dumplin about being heavy with Foots and talking to him in his behalf. Cap’n Foots sent the new con on to the kitchen before asking Bull what he wanted. Bull knew that was the way it would go down and had timed it perfectly. Dumplin was gone now, and wouldn’t hear him tell Cap’n Foots, “Cap’n, suh, we’s outta toilet paper.”
As soon as Dumplin finished his shift in the kitchen and came back in the tank, Bull met him at the door and led him to his bunk in the back. Bull sat down beside him and began making his demands for payback.
“Man, I thought me an you wuz awright, that you wuz my friend. I ain’ doin but two years an I don’t wanna git involved in no stuff lak that.”
Bull got more aggressive, “Muthafucka, you dun smoked up my tight rolls, et up my stuff, used my fuckin locker, an I’m even out dere gittin down tu da man fo yo ass. Whut you mean you ain’ gon do nuthin? Nigguh, jes fo dat, you gon suck my dick!”
With no forewarning Bull punched him in the eye, knocking him clear over to the next row of bunks. Before Dumplin could get up, Bull’s brogan caught him in the short ribs, preventing any outcry. Bull fiercely stomped him while Big George blocked the alleyway so the picket boss couldn’t see
. They didn’t want to involve him as a witness, that way if any inquiry was made, it was their word against Dumplin’s.
After Bull tired of his kicking assault, he got some water from the basin, dashed it on Dumplin’s face, and jerked him up by his shirt collar. “Nigguh, you gon suck my dick!” he bellowed while pulling out his prick and forcing it into Dumplin’s bloody mouth.
Nearly every night after Dumplin pulled his shift, Bull lay on his bunk in the back and forced the young con to play with his pecker until he raised a hard. Then he’d make Dumplin suck him off while anybody in the tank who wanted to, looked on. Bull mistreated him until it was hard to stomach, but it wasn’t my fight. This wasn’t a place to lend a helping hand and say, “Man, don’t do him like that.”
After work one night, Dumplin came back to the tank and took his shower as Bull waited for him. He went up front and put his toilet articles into his locker, obediently returning to Bull’s bunk to begin the nightly ritual.
The same scene had been played with such sickening regularity that most of the cons now paid little or no attention to it. He played with Bull’s pecker until it got good and hard. All of a sudden, Bull let out a bloodcurdling yell. His long black peter was lying on the floor in the alleyway, and looked like it was breathing. Dumplin had cut it off with a razor blade.
Bull went running up the alleyway toward the front of the tank, hollering every step of the way. He climbed up on the bars to get the attention of the picket boss who was pacing around in the picket, cracking and eating pecans. “Boss, Boss! Hep me! Dat nigguh dun cut my dick off!”
Boss Humpy angrily yelled back, “Nigguh, gitcha Gotdam ass down offa them bars, an quit a-skeetin ‘at blood in heah all over this fuckin floor!”
“Boss! Lookit whut dat crazy nigguh dun ta me!”
“Hell, nigguh, I don’t wanna look at it. Now, I dun tole you to gitcha Gotdam ass down frum heah! I don’t give a damn if he chopped yore nuts off! Aim that Gotdam thang th’ other way!” Trying to coax him down, “Ef ya git down frum thar, I’ll call fer Cap’n Walden.”
After Bull descended, Boss Humpy hollered across to the hospital, “Cap’n Walden, you an Ol’ Cateye betta cum on down heah. I got a ol’ nigguh wit his dick cut off. Cap’n, kin y’all hurry? He’s a-bleedin all over everthang.”
Ol’ Bull damn near bled to death before they arrived and took him upstairs. He left a trail of blood behind as they went. A trail the turnkey hurried to erase with his mop. From the hospital we heard Bull’s hollering, “Lawd! Ham mercy, Jesus! Oh Lawd! Oooh! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! OOOH! JESUS!”
Forty was on the back bunk playing cards and deadpanned, “Dat nigguh didn’ know shit bout Jesus til he lost his dick.” The other players cracked up.
It took a while for the “healers” to get him quiet. An hour had passed before Captain Walden and Doc Cateye reappeared at the tank door. Proudly displaying his blood-splattered doctor’s smock, Captain Walden called out, “Ol’ Forty, will you come on up here to the front? I need to talk with you a minute.”
Forty was the only building tender on the eastside tanks who treated everybody pretty decently. He didn’t participate in the gang beatings and wasn’t viewed by the cons as a bona fide member of the goon squad. He got punished many times because the other goons badmouthed him to the warden. About all he liked to do was gamble. So when Captain Walden called him to the front, he interrupted Forty’s card playing.
“Yassuh, Cap’n?” he asked with a frown.
“Ol’ Forty, I suppose you know what happened a while ago to Ol’ Bull.”
“Yassuh.”
After shooting up a puff of smoke from his pipe, “Well, what I need to ask you is this, ahem,” clearing his throat, “you wouldn’t happen to know if Ol’ Bull’s penis is still layin roun back there, wouldja?”
“His whut, Cap’n?” glancing at Doc Cateye.
“Reason I’m askin is I, we, might be able to save it for that nig … ol’ boy.”
“Yassuh, I reckon it’s still back dere somewhere, Cap’n. Ain’ nobody moved it as I knows uv.”
True. We were just stepping over and around the nasty-looking thing and laughing, especially after Beer Belly said, “Dat muthafucka look lak a dyin fish gulpin fo air.”
“Well, I tell you what I want you to do. Go on back there and get it and bring it up here so me and Cateye can have a look at it. We just might be able to save it, but we gotta work fast. I’d hate to see that ol’ boy go through the rest of his life without a stick to fight with.”
“Cap’n, suh, I ain’ tryin ta be smart witcha or nuthin uv th’ kind, but Cap’n suh, I been in heah over sixteen calendars an ain’ nobody never tole me ta go fetch anutha nigguh’s dick.”
Doc Cateye toyed nervously with his stethoscope as he watched the captain continue to hog the spotlight. “Now, Ol’ Forty,” Captain Walden persisted, “I admit this might be a bit unusual, but it ain’t every day that some nig … poor fellow, goes and gets his lifeline whacked off. How’d you feel if it was yore penis layin back there? Just think about it, Ol’ Forty. Let’s work together on this thing. Now, go on back there and get it so we can have a look. Don’t force me to pull rank on you,” he urged.
“Yassuh,” Forty yielded.
Forty was cussing under his breath as he walked down the aisle, “Gotdam muthafucka wonts me ta go git a nigguh’s dick. Shit, I be glad when I git th’ fuck outta dis muthafucka.” He went to the back where the mops and brooms were kept. He got a broom and began sweeping the severed sex organ up the alley. More than once it rolled underneath a bunk and he had to get down on his knees to reach it with the broom. He was having hell keeping Bull’s lollipop rolling in the right direction.
After a lengthy ordeal, he rolled Bull’s gritty prick up to the bars. While the healers bent down to scrutinize the seven- or eight-inch piece of meat, Forty leaned on his broom and looked off into the distance, totally unconcerned.
Captain Walden broke the silence, “Roll it over for me, would you Ol’ Forty?” Looking at his able-bodied assistant, “What do you think? Think we can make it work?”
Cateye, still making his own medical observation, said in his high-pitched Southern drawl, “Well Cap’n, I don’t rightly know, might be worth a try.”
“Gotdam, that ol’ boy sure was blessed! Here Cateye, take a look at it through this magnifyin glass.” When Cateye finished, Captain Walden asked, “You wanna look at it, Ol’ Forty?” offering him magnifying glass.
“No suh!” Forty quickly rejected. “I kin see it good nuff.”
“I’ll bet he had a lot of fun with that thing.”
“Yassuh, Cap’n,” Forty said, “I ‘magine he did. But it’s sho over now.”
After much deliberation, “Tell you what Cateye, why don’t you run back upstairs and take another good look at the other end of this thing, and see what you think.”
Cateye hurriedly ran upstairs. Before long, he was skipping steps as he came back down quickly. “Cap’n, I don’t thank whut you got in mind is gon wek atall.”
Captain Walden’s feathers drooped, “Why not? Why won’t it work?!”
Cateye went on, “Well, Cap’n, the other end uv Ol’ Bull’s dic … ‘scuse me Cap’n, penis, shrunk lak a vine afta we sewed it up. But this part heah is still so big an hard, I doubt if we kin match ‘em back. ‘Sides, it’s too heavy.”
Realizing he wasn’t going to get to practice his surgical skills on Ol’ Bull’s pecker replant, Captain Walden’s face flushed and clearly registered disappointment. As the two stood up and shook their heads in dismay, Forty interrupted, “Er … pardon me, Cap’n, suh. Now dat y’all ain’ gon use dis dead peter, whut y’all want me ta do wit it?”
“Well, tell you what, Ol’ Forty. Just take it on back there and get rid of the damned thing.” Captain Walden’s last action before closing the matter was to snap his fingers in disgust, “Damn! It’s a damn shame, that’s what it is, a damn shame.” As he turned and walked back up the stairs, he sighe
d, “What a waste.”
Forty began sweeping Bull’s “remains” down the alleyway. When he reached his destination, he got the dustpan from behind the big green trash barrel and swept Ol’ Bull’s once precious cargo onto it. Walking carefully so he wouldn’t spill it, Forty dropped the contents into the commode, mashed his foot down on the lid and SWOOSH! Away it went, off to the shit ditches en route to Oyster Creek.
The next day Black Betty came, and a neutered Bull was transferred to the Walls to the “sho nuff” hospital. He didn’t return after that. We heard a few years later he made parole. He certainly left prison with a lot less than he came in with.
As for Dumplin, Big Devil decided he should do his two-year sentence “flat.” This meant instead of getting out in the normal fourteen months and twelve days, the equivalent of two years with good time, he would serve the full two calendar years. Not too bad a punishment for hacking off a dick! After the de-dickatashun, even though his mouth may still have been dirty, Dumplin could pull his shift in the kitchen, return to the tank and get on his bunk without anybody bothering him. Not even a little bit! He had earned his right to sleep in hell.
My body had toughened to the work. I could do the different jobs well enough to keep up and the cons in the squad had accepted my presence. I was a bona fide hoe-carrying shit-ditch fighter. Boss Deadeye even let up a cunt’s hair. After I got cursed out about it, I learned not to look at him when he removed his patch to wipe the sweat away with his bandanna. He got madder than hell when any of us caught a glimpse of his “dead” eye.
When we cut trees in the bottoms that lay along the banks of the big Brazos River, we sounded like a bunch of woodpeckers. We dug the blades of our axes into the trunks of the huge sweetgum trees while the bosses sat lazily on their mounts. Both men and horses were half-dozing in the warm, wintry sun creeping down through the dense tall timbers. Their tranquil nodding allowed the tree-cutting foursomes to take turns standing behind the trees for a few minutes rest, while the other three cutters in their crews kept up the lick.
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