My Amputations (Fiction collective ;) by Clarence Major Read Free Book Online

Mason back to her. As he goes back he thinks: “You are not yet the casting director: save your energy, man. You're one with a future. Don't blow it on fuck films.” Joe Wembly follows Mason's erection to Lilia's face. Her crunch was crowded with charm and dance music and air-conditioned erotic finger-licking-good messages . . . Then Eve Hott, in Chatterley's Lady. Mason's Chatterley: a Black mafia Boss in Harlem. Dressed in tux. The first four scenes show him unfulfilled by his harem of hot mommas. Then Galaxy Creole, a thug from downtown, sends Louisiana Eve Hott up to see him. And, wouldn't you know, the show . . . 
    Mason was a motion picture: you could run him forward then backwards. He split, resisting the temptation to squat in the Mickey Mouse closet with his “enemy.” He was in reverse at the moment—anxious about Painted Turtle, he wentto Forty-second Street and sat in a dark theatre, watching celluloid clambake, cluck, all the screensation of a quickie: couldn't keep his mind on the bark, the gelatin: something about a prison break. They have no idea , baby: one day he was bopping along First toward A when two plainclothesmen jumped out of a squad car before it even stopped. Sluff action. Gave him a one-eyed-fadeaway. Grabbed him. Twisted his arms behind him, banged his head against the building. Roughly rammed hands into all his pockets. He was clean. Slapped handcuffs on his wrists. Threw him in the back seat: barred in. The trial was quick. He couldn't afford a lawyer: at the mercy of city service, he lost and the next morning was driven out early in a huge Black Maria—a battleship floating on quicksand—with fifteen other black dudes smelling of sweat, grass, and rotgut . . . Up there Mason had lots of time to review himself: he'd grown up watching the chitlin' circuit, waiting to see the half moons in Freddie Washington's pretty eyes. When he daydreamed teachers shouted at him. Everybody was a potential enemy. If one wasn't playing with loaded dice one was about to bilk you in another way. He was just a run-by—out of focus. Every day was April Fool's: don't give a sucker an even break. One had to be a magician in such a world. He got a custard pie in the face at every curtain call. But at Attica, Mason was a model prisoner: with a head full of canned music, funnies, giddyappers, still he read books, books, books. Few others did: they were mostly into hick pics, horse stuff or close-up shots of Dirty Rats. (The young ones got raped: fucked in the ass by studs and jocks and heavy queens. The boys surrendered their assholes in exchange [so they were told] for protection from the bellybutton sweat of mass murderers, hit-men, and crazed maniacs. Public Enemy, Mason's old pal, was too old to get it up, although he, too, had, in his day, been one of these protection-granters.) In the joint Mason woke every morning with a bullfrog-headache and smelling like a shrike and unwilling and not ready to face the daily hullabaloo. His mind was a camera mount imitating the motion of a boat: seasick, ugh, vomit: his mother's words echoing just inside hiseardrums: you, like your father, ain't never been no good . . . his side of the family . . . rotten. Before Mason realized it he was grown, his father dead, his mother old: not even a dummyhead focused on the action! Growing up he executed cats, frogs, grasshoppers, snakes: had a definite criminal streak—struck out with redhandedness at the “degenerate” world around: nothing was “innocent”—not even insects. With pals Mason discovered the mysteries of Halloween, New Year's Eve: a feeling of craziness and anarchy were everywhere on such nights. One could do almost anything— anything! He was restless, when he wasn't interested in lessons, a future, but maybe in girls, his own “importance.” Interest in girls [as sex objects] came the year after sitting on the dunce stool in the fifth grade: stuck his tongue out at teacher when her back