
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.
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