DICKS AND JARS AND A THIRD WORLD WAR by Beau Johnson

Beau Johnson, Crime Fiction, Down and Out Books., Fiction, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

I needed to change the way I approached things. The laziness inherent to me is what prevented this from happening earlier I think, or maybe I’m wrong and it only comes down to what most of my life came down to: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of dying. Fear of sucking cock when I know I’m not meant to. This last one is what it’s really about, the one which screamed loudest I suppose, but the admission of failure comes in at a hard second best. It was the dick sucking though, this what ate at me most. And just so we’re clear, I’m not gay, not in the slightest, but certain things tend to occur once you make your way to prison, most of them being what you already know. It’s different when you have to perform however, and goddamn if that ain’t the truth. Does things to a man who isn’t right with what’s going down, making him a bigger target if he chooses to go and buck the program placed before him. Lucky for me I’m a fast learner.

Why was I like this? Fuck, who knows? I could say no mother or father but that’d be me making shit up. My life is what it is, and all I can do now is push forward and acknowledge my attempt at change. A planner now, everything I do is put down to paper and everything on it is then scoped out. No more cash and grabs for me. No more going in on a wing and a prayer. Two little things need to happen before I fully embrace this new way of life. It means facing certain fears already stated, sure, and only because the man instrumental to the big one is released just last week. Vic Sessions. Head queer of cellblock nine.

The man who made me his bitch.

***

Vic was actually Big Vic and he was larger than most of the men on the inside, in muscle as well as meat; my backside as tender today as that very first day, especially if the chair I choose is mostly made of wood. “You been duckin’ me, I know.” Eating at the worst type of mean he was the kind of bull queer who liked his eyeliner thick and his mustache thicker. The first time he and his boys come looking they find me in the laundry. I wasn’t alone. Not then. But the silence their presence brings causes that to change, the place clearing out faster than fat kids to cherry cola. After that it’s the cold steel of a big industrial trying to take an imprint of my face. Done, it’s a sea of orange above me, and then a happy ending for all. “Not bad, Hollister. Not bad at all. Thing is, we’re still gonna have to do something about them teeth.” Monstrous. Evil. Prison-issued leather a taste no man would ever think to acquire.

Shit was enough to drive even the most well-adjusted straight man insane.

Vic wasn’t done with me, though. Not for another nine months, three days, and as many goddamn hours.

Only then was I reborn.

***

Reborn by way of freedom—time served in lieu of good behavior. Vic doesn’t miss a beat at this, ensuring the honeymoon stage of our relationship is resurrected the night before I’m released. “You best not be shittin’ on my dick none either. You do, it’s you who pulls clean up duty. You get me?” And just in case you’re wondering, I did try to kill him during my time inside, once, but the attempt was by the old me, the Jimmy who Feared. The Jimmy I am now is going to rectify this oversight, having had a good long time to figure things out. I believe that. I really do. And only because there’s more than a lovely shade of brown in the bottom of the bowl whenever I stop to wipe.

I also gag if I let myself think about things too much. Hard enough not to, not with how many times I’d been forced to perform. I will change this though, as I think I’ve said, the outcome I seek worth every goddamn thing they’ve done to me.

Am I bitter? I counter: Can you fucking blame me?

I have to force these thoughts to the back of my mind though, ensuring they won’t fuck up my plans. This is easier said than done and anyone who suggests otherwise is either lying or straight up doesn’t know.

“You want me to do what?” said Brady Aldeen. Of my childhood friends he was the last to remain and the second little thing to this plan I have set in motion. And just so we are clear, I didn’t like him much, not anymore. The old Jimmy liked him well enough, the one who really couldn’t be bothered to put the pieces together and see how he might have ended up in the joint to become Vic’s bitch in the first place. This was another thing I was getting better at by approaching life with new eyes; at seeing the forest for the trees. It’s liberating really, what it offers a man. I say this not because of what I have learned but because of the opportunity it presents me. All told, they will never see me coming.

“It’s only for a night and it’s only pretend. Five hundred if you say yes.” What I wanted him to do was minor, his role only to get Vic into the car. He had to act the part however, and this was the thing giving Brady second thoughts.

“And you think this guy is gonna believe I’m a queer?” What could I say? That yeah, maybe, especially with the length Brady now kept his hair. Or maybe I go and mention the overly soft features he’d been born with. Maybe that. Instead I lie, saying it would be a hell of a stretch but if anyone could pull it off it’d be him. I also suggest an extra five hundred just to smooth the shit out.

Brady exhaled, closed his eyes. “Make it fifteen and you and me got business.”

“You have to be able to sell it though. I mean, this is one mean mother he gets to thinkin’ something’s up.”

“Now you saying I might not be up to snuff?”

“No, I’m just sayin. Christ, Brady. Gimme a bone here. This piece of shit had his way with me for almost a year. If anything, you think you could understand that.” For a moment I couldn’t believe the words I hear coming from my mouth. Seems I had changed already. Understandable, sure, but be it a good thing or bad was still up for debate.

“Yeah. Yeah. You were his bitch. I get it.” I see red as Brady says this, and any second thoughts I might have had in regards to him being the one who ratted me out are out the window and on their way to goddamn fucking Alaska before the man I grew up with removes himself from the bar stool. Hands going hard into his leather jacket I watch as he leaves without looking back.

Who needs enemies, right?

***

Granted, sucking a man’s dick day in and day out for the better part of a year would probably do some damage to even the most resilient of heterosexual minds. This is something I can’t quantify completely mind you. But I have to admit such things might be possible. Why else had I so easily lumped Brady into the back part of my plan? Instantaneously choosing to add him to the carnage meant for Vic? Yeah, something had broken inside of me. I just can’t give you the words. I can try. And I think I will. I’m just not sure you’ll understand. But most of that could be misconstrued, as Brady had always been in the running as the one who sold me out. I might not want to admit this but I have to. The old Jimmy refused this, his fears and the reprisals they could bring allowing the blinders to stay where they were, lapping the shit up. But this is the new me we are talking about, the one who got shit done. So maybe it wasn’t so easily I lumped Brady into my plan at all. He was only always meant to die. I just hadn’t known it yet.

Or maybe it’s just the dreams, the ones I wake from colder than I usually am. They are full of penises, these dreams, and they will not stop. Sort of leads me into what I’ve planned for Vic. If I wanted a chance at any kind of normalcy I was going to have to cut some things out. Trim the fat, so to speak.

Because it concerned Vic, it was going to involve a pretty big knife.

Good for him.

***

“Back here, man.” I could only see the outlines of their bodies because the light in the alley was far from good. Underneath me the ground is wet with rain, it finishing not minutes before I hear Brady and Big Vic’s voices coming toward me.

“Your mouth better be ready to take me, boy. That’s all you gotta know.” I’d heard the speech before, usually before lights out, but this time it would be different. If I wanted any type of life for myself it’s what had to happen. Doors shutting, I make my move and slide in the back, right behind Brady. From the passenger seat up front I see Vic’s eyes go wide as he realizes who I am and then that I’m holding a piece.

As the commercials preach: motherfucking priceless.

And I wanted to have a conversation with him; I really did, it too being part of my plan. This was not to be, not as I had hoped. No regaling of what I was about to do or gloating of any kind. Just screaming as the rage inside me steps forward and proves it has a mind of its own. Just pop-pop into each of them and then each of them goes forward. I have to pull Brady back to stop the horn from blaring but in the end it’s no real biggie. Vic’s penis is the exact opposite of this and I smile as I tighten the lid to the jar it still now rests in. Brady’s too is now behind glass but the size of his jar is better suited to jams. Each now sit on my bedside table, there for me to admire. I should be getting rid of them, both pieces being evidence and all, but I’m finding it hard to part with what I’ve done. This upsets me more than I think it should. Worrying me for reasons contrary to what I’ve already said; that by changing the way I approached things I might be able to purge certain tendencies inherent to my life. This has yet to happen. Not as I hoped it would. One step beyond is what scares me even more.

What if I just like sucking dick now? Fuck, what if I always have?

I needed to change the way I approached things. The laziness inherent to me is what prevented this from happening earlier I think, or maybe I’m wrong and it only comes down to what most of my life came down to: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of dying. Fear of sucking cock when I know I’m not meant to. This last one is what it’s really about, the one which screamed loudest I suppose, but the admission of failure comes in at a hard second best. It was the dick sucking though, this what ate at me most. And just so we’re clear, I’m not gay, not in the slightest, but certain things tend to occur once you make your way to prison, most of them being what you already know. It’s different when you have to perform however, and goddamn if that ain’t the truth. Does things to a man who isn’t right with what’s going down, making him a bigger target if he chooses to go and buck the program placed before him. Lucky for me I’m a fast learner.

Why was I like this? Fuck, who knows? I could say no mother or father but that’d be me making shit up. My life is what it is, and all I can do now is push forward and acknowledge my attempt at change. A planner now, everything I do is put down to paper and everything on it is then scoped out. No more cash and grabs for me. No more going in on a wing and a prayer. Two little things need to happen before I fully embrace this new way of life. It means facing certain fears already stated, sure, and only because the man instrumental to the big one is released just last week. Vic Sessions. Head queer of cellblock nine.

The man who made me his bitch.

***

Vic was actually Big Vic and he was larger than most of the men on the inside, in muscle as well as meat; my backside as tender today as that very first day, especially if the chair I choose is mostly made of wood. “You been duckin’ me, I know.” Eating at the worst type of mean he was the kind of bull queer who liked his eyeliner thick and his mustache thicker. The first time he and his boys come looking they find me in the laundry. I wasn’t alone. Not then. But the silence their presence brings causes that to change, the place clearing out faster than fat kids to cherry cola. After that it’s the cold steel of a big industrial trying to take an imprint of my face. Done, it’s a sea of orange above me, and then a happy ending for all. “Not bad, Hollister. Not bad at all. Thing is, we’re still gonna have to do something about them teeth.” Monstrous. Evil. Prison-issued leather a taste no man would ever think to acquire.

Shit was enough to drive even the most well-adjusted straight man insane.

Vic wasn’t done with me, though. Not for another nine months, three days, and as many goddamn hours.

Only then was I reborn.

***

Reborn by way of freedom—time served in lieu of good behavior. Vic doesn’t miss a beat at this, ensuring the honeymoon stage of our relationship is resurrected the night before I’m released. “You best not be shittin’ on my dick none either. You do, it’s you who pulls clean up duty. You get me?” And just in case you’re wondering, I did try to kill him during my time inside, once, but the attempt was by the old me, the Jimmy who Feared. The Jimmy I am now is going to rectify this oversight, having had a good long time to figure things out. I believe that. I really do. And only because there’s more than a lovely shade of brown in the bottom of the bowl whenever I stop to wipe.

I also gag if I let myself think about things too much. Hard enough not to, not with how many times I’d been forced to perform. I will change this though, as I think I’ve said, the outcome I seek worth every goddamn thing they’ve done to me.

Am I bitter? I counter: Can you fucking blame me?

I have to force these thoughts to the back of my mind though, ensuring they won’t fuck up my plans. This is easier said than done and anyone who suggests otherwise is either lying or straight up doesn’t know.

“You want me to do what?” said Brady Aldeen. Of my childhood friends he was the last to remain and the second little thing to this plan I have set in motion. And just so we are clear, I didn’t like him much, not anymore. The old Jimmy liked him well enough, the one who really couldn’t be bothered to put the pieces together and see how he might have ended up in the joint to become Vic’s bitch in the first place. This was another thing I was getting better at by approaching life with new eyes; at seeing the forest for the trees. It’s liberating really, what it offers a man. I say this not because of what I have learned but because of the opportunity it presents me. All told, they will never see me coming.

“It’s only for a night and it’s only pretend. Five hundred if you say yes.” What I wanted him to do was minor, his role only to get Vic into the car. He had to act the part however, and this was the thing giving Brady second thoughts.

“And you think this guy is gonna believe I’m a queer?” What could I say? That yeah, maybe, especially with the length Brady now kept his hair. Or maybe I go and mention the overly soft features he’d been born with. Maybe that. Instead I lie, saying it would be a hell of a stretch but if anyone could pull it off it’d be him. I also suggest an extra five hundred just to smooth the shit out.

Brady exhaled, closed his eyes. “Make it fifteen and you and me got business.”

“You have to be able to sell it though. I mean, this is one mean mother he gets to thinkin’ something’s up.”

“Now you saying I might not be up to snuff?”

“No, I’m just sayin. Christ, Brady. Gimme a bone here. This piece of shit had his way with me for almost a year. If anything, you think you could understand that.” For a moment I couldn’t believe the words I hear coming from my mouth. Seems I had changed already. Understandable, sure, but be it a good thing or bad was still up for debate.

“Yeah. Yeah. You were his bitch. I get it.” I see red as Brady says this, and any second thoughts I might have had in regards to him being the one who ratted me out are out the window and on their way to goddamn fucking Alaska before the man I grew up with removes himself from the bar stool. Hands going hard into his leather jacket I watch as he leaves without looking back.

Who needs enemies, right?

***

Granted, sucking a man’s dick day in and day out for the better part of a year would probably do some damage to even the most resilient of heterosexual minds. This is something I can’t quantify completely mind you. But I have to admit such things might be possible. Why else had I so easily lumped Brady into the back part of my plan? Instantaneously choosing to add him to the carnage meant for Vic? Yeah, something had broken inside of me. I just can’t give you the words. I can try. And I think I will. I’m just not sure you’ll understand. But most of that could be misconstrued, as Brady had always been in the running as the one who sold me out. I might not want to admit this but I have to. The old Jimmy refused this, his fears and the reprisals they could bring allowing the blinders to stay where they were, lapping the shit up. But this is the new me we are talking about, the one who got shit done. So maybe it wasn’t so easily I lumped Brady into my plan at all. He was only always meant to die. I just hadn’t known it yet.

Or maybe it’s just the dreams, the ones I wake from colder than I usually am. They are full of penises, these dreams, and they will not stop. Sort of leads me into what I’ve planned for Vic. If I wanted a chance at any kind of normalcy I was going to have to cut some things out. Trim the fat, so to speak.

Because it concerned Vic, it was going to involve a pretty big knife.

Good for him.

***

“Back here, man.” I could only see the outlines of their bodies because the light in the alley was far from good. Underneath me the ground is wet with rain, it finishing not minutes before I hear Brady and Big Vic’s voices coming toward me.

“Your mouth better be ready to take me, boy. That’s all you gotta know.” I’d heard the speech before, usually before lights out, but this time it would be different. If I wanted any type of life for myself it’s what had to happen. Doors shutting, I make my move and slide in the back, right behind Brady. From the passenger seat up front I see Vic’s eyes go wide as he realizes who I am and then that I’m holding a piece.

As the commercials preach: motherfucking priceless.

And I wanted to have a conversation with him; I really did, it too being part of my plan. This was not to be, not as I had hoped. No regaling of what I was about to do or gloating of any kind. Just screaming as the rage inside me steps forward and proves it has a mind of its own. Just pop-pop into each of them and then each of them goes forward. I have to pull Brady back to stop the horn from blaring but in the end it’s no real biggie. Vic’s penis is the exact opposite of this and I smile as I tighten the lid to the jar it still now rests in. Brady’s too is now behind glass but the size of his jar is better suited to jams. Each now sit on my bedside table, there for me to admire. I should be getting rid of them, both pieces being evidence and all, but I’m finding it hard to part with what I’ve done. This upsets me more than I think it should. Worrying me for reasons contrary to what I’ve already said; that by changing the way I approached things I might be able to purge certain tendencies inherent to my life. This has yet to happen. Not as I hoped it would. One step beyond is what scares me even more.

What if I just like sucking dick now? Fuck, what if I always have?

Bio:

Beau Johnson lives in Canada with his wife and three boys. He has been published before, usually on the darker side of town. Such fine establishments might include Out of the Gutter Online, Spelk Fiction, Shotgun Honey and the Molotov Cocktail. Besides writing, Beau enjoys golfing, pushing off Boats and certain Giant Tigers.

Find Beau Johnson online …

Website: https://www.beaujohnsonfiction.com/
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Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Beau-Johnson/e/B079MHF7RG/
Goodreads Author Page: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17692442.Beau_Johnson

all of them to burn