“I’m shit, cocksucker. Hogg is all shit, won’t ever be nothin’ but shit; I’m shit all through and proud to be shit. You like that, don’t you, boy? You like this Hogg shit? Sure you do; you lick shit, you suck shit, you eat shit, Hogg shit … yeah,” which was because I shot diagonally up his heaving belly. “You’re gonna suck shit out of my mouth, my ass, take my shit and shove it up your own.…” His thumb’s ham wedged between my teeth. “Yeah …!” which was because he shot.

He took one thumb out my mouth and put the other, dripping with scum, in. Then he reached down—I turned and looked down his hairy belly at his groin beyond the bulge of his gut—and with his fingers pulled up the gray drops from his stomach fur, so that the little volcanoes, as his fingers left them, curled their heads down. He pushed his scummy nubs in my mouth, and I sucked them. Like that, he picked up globs of come, his and mine, and fed them to me.

Finally he rubbed the rest of it around on his hair—catching a drop of mine that rolled down his side with his thumb and eating that himself—then lay with his hand over his face, licking his fingers. His red tongue bulged and moved between his knuckles. Then he clapped his wet hand on my face (I looked out between his thickened, callused joints), took a very deep breath—my chest lifted. And when he let it out again, he was snoring.

7

Hogg came back down the gravel.

The sun was very bright.

Behind him, Mr. Jonas scowled, then stepped inside and closed the door.

Hogg had the money in his hand, folded in a sheaf. “Here you go.…” He slowed, counting.

The wop, leaning on the fender, stood up and stepped forward, uncrossing his arms. His jumpsuit (the blood had dried stiff and black) was zipped all the way up. His hair was awry. He squinted, not really awake. Two days unshaven, his face was puffy.

“Hey, there,” the nigger said. “Hey, there, boy—” He was teasing Denny: he would bop around, making jive talk, hands swinging; when he’d pass Denny, he’d swing his hand against Denny’s fly. “You like that? Hey, you like that …? Oh, man! How’s that one feel?”

Denny would wince, stagger a little—only the wince would have a grin both sides of it. Denny’s hands would jerk out from his sides, and he would turn, unsteadily, for the next blow.

“Hey,” Hogg said to Denny, “how you feelin’?”

The nigger stopped jiving.

“It’s all right.” Denny pushed his hand across the front of his pants, caught his breath. “It’s … yeah; all right. Only … I think the fucker’s got infected, you know? I got a … fever, I think. But it’s … all right …”