In A Reclining Way

Hey, Mr. Davis. Whatcha doing?

“Bein’ black and better than you.”

I can’t disagree. That’s some bed you got there.

“Custom-made. I can fit six bitches in here. All sorts of room for freakiness. Plus I got hidey-holes.”

Hidey-holes? For what?

BANG!

“Don’t be asking me about my hidey-holes.”

You brought it up.

“I’ll bring my foot up your ass. Fuck’s the point of a hidey-hole if you’re gonna run around telling everyone what’s in it?”

You’re right.

“Shit, I know. But you’re half-dead or something, right?”

Something like that.

“Yeah, so I’ll let you behind the black door. That’s very kind of me, letting your semi-civilized ass into my hidey-holes.”

Thank you, Mr. Davis.

“I got a drug drawer.”

Sure.

“Next to that is for devices of a sensual purpose. I got some wet-wipes in there, too.”

Smart.

“Under there I got, maybe, nine or ten deflated soccer balls.”

Why?

“Ask Cicely.”

If I see her, I will. Anything else you want to share about your bed?

“PIllows are custom, too. Feathers only come from good-looking ducks. I picked ’em out personally. Went upstate to this cracker’s farm. Man’s got ducks out the ass. I chose the attractive birds.”

There are good-looking and ugly ducks?

“Shit, yeah. Some of those motherfuckers were uglier than Gary Bartz. I can’t be putting my head on that shit.”

I guess not. One last question.

BANG!

What was that for!?

“You act like we ain’t met before and I don’t know you’re about to say some stupid shit.”

Yes, sir.

“Ask your stupid shit.”

Shoes on the bed?

BANG!

“They’re bed-slippers, you hillbilly shithead!”

I enjoy our visits.

“I’ll throw you out a window if you come back here.”

Yes, sir.