He slid over, got under the wheel (it had some worn carpet taped to it, top and bottom), reached across me and closed the door—he had to slam it twice. “The bitch back there was work—” he turned the key with the hank of keys hanging off it, pushed pedals, pulled one of the two gearshifts: the truck moved—“but you and me are gonna have a little fun. Yeah, she must’ve been a dyke. ’Cause it was a fuckin’ dyke who hired me. Bundle up over here next to old Hogg. I want to be able to smell you when you start to stink. They call me Hogg ’cause a hog lives dirty. I don’t wash none. And when I get hungry, I eat my own snot. I been wearin’ these clothes since winter. I don’t even take my dick out my pants to piss most times, unless it’s in some cunt’s face. Or all over a cocksucker like you. What I usually do is park the truck in the sun with the light comin’ in the window and piss my pants up something terrible.” The truck turned another corner; he dropped one hand from the carpeted wheel between his legs, hefted his meat around some—but I couldn’t tell if he was doing it or thinking about it. His pants were too wet already. “Yeah, boy; all that nice, hot stuff, running down my leg, and squirmin’ my ass around in it.” He glanced at me. “When I was about your age, I used to do it in school—sit in the back row and pee all over myself. Finally, they kicked me out.” He chuckled, looking back at the rolling road. “I got worms, boy—had ’em ever since I was a kid. But I won’t get rid of ’em ’cause I like the way they make my asshole itch.” His hand came up to pat his belly. “I gotta drink a lot of beer and eat a lot of pizza pies and French-fried potatoes to keep a gut like this and all them little fuckers fed. I got a hairy ass and it sure cakes up crusty. But I just don’t believe in wipin’ when I got a freaky little son of a bitch like you to eat it out for me. Now how you like that?” He laughed; and changed gears. “After I got tired haulin’ fruit backwards and forwards cross country, you know what the next job I had me was? A garbage man! Got my own truck so I could specialize in shovelin’ shit!”

I was trying to wiggle around without looking like that was what I was doing to get myself away from my wet shirt—even though I had a hard-on.

“Now that was a job I liked. But a job I liked didn’t make enough to hardly eat, and dog turds make you throw up after about two days, every time.” Hogg glanced at me, then settled one of the gears the other way. “So you just seen how I make my living now, boy. Stickin’ pussy. Hogg’s old shit sticker is pretty much half hard all the time anyway—bad as a goddamn nigger’s. And there’s this whole bunch of racketeers and bulldykes and bankers and big men in this county who’ll give me a hundred bucks, a hundred-and-fifty sometimes, to bust up cunt. Like you seen me doing. She never even know’d I was alive before twenty minutes ago, and when she found out, she was one surprised bitch. That’s my work, see? That’s the kind of work I like, boy. Nice and nasty. Can’t help it.” He let go the wheel with one hand, rubbed his armpit. It was wet all down the side of his shirt with sweat or something. “I’d do it every now and again anyway, so I might as well get paid. Thinkin’ about the way that bitch was beggin’ and hollerin’ when I stuck it to her just gets me hot all over again. Take it out and suck it, boy.”