RockBottom Heads Toward Bottom

Editor’s note: This is part of a “hood novel” that Bert Burykill is writing. Read the first installment here, the second one here, and the third one here.

The early morning air stunk of pissy pussy and unwashed balls. RockBottom did his thing all night like always, dispensing drugs to the party people. The fiends were nodded out, neck-cramp proper, and the freaks spun out on E were in the bedroom, fruitlessly masturbating each other as they had been for hours. RockBottom was on another level, smoking his rocks every five minutes, rubbing his dick, wondering why it seemed so mean and small, like a bent needle. Common sense told RockBottom that he should try to get that thing sucked off to get it out of its shell.

Fiends weren’t really RockBottom’s shake of the stick, and the touch-holes sniffin’ the Molly… Well, as much as he’d love to silently beat his sodomoizer silly to their naked sexcapades, they terrified him so much with their big, vacant eyes and smooshy sex pieces that he couldn’t bring himself to sperm in the corner. The rock paranoia hits RockBottom hard sometimes, to the point where he’s only able to communicate with another smoked-out individual, and the hornies that occupied his primal loins demanded the presence of a female with a tragic habit.

“Yeeah what’s up. I Need a date… a girl, young stupid white and recklessly irresponsible with an eager-beaver willingness to pretend to be a human dog, chicken-lo-mein chow mein, mane?”

The telephone pimp knew the sped-up sound of RockBottom’s patter. This was not the first “date” he had ordered at seven in the morning. He liked the girls who were ready to crack after already undergoing a long night. Truthfully, RockBottom was broken, too, so he often loved girls from the gutter as long as they maintained some shred of dignity. They were just his type.

“Oh yeah… no problem. We got just the girl—Flora, she’s a lotta fun. Real wild chick, you’ll love her. She’ll be there in under an hour.”

RockBottom had just enough time to run to the liquor store for a bottle of some of that pink Andre. Show a lady a little respect with some nice liquor, and she might just might lick your ass, he thought. Maybe she’d do better with a couple little bottles of this strawberry-tequila shit. Bitches love strawberries.

An hour later, the door opened and Flora started rappin’ right away: “Ohhh, heyyy, hiii, you’re cute. Do you work out? Who the fuck is that fucked up on the couch? You got the money? You got something to drink? Mind if I sniff this? Ooh, nice TV, you wanna watch some porn? I like Wesley Pipes, you kinda look like him, can I see your dick? You gotta condom? Oh yeah, I’m Flora what’s your name?”

“Slow down, grrrl. I’m RockBottom. Nice to meet you, Relax a minute, Take off your clothes, get comfortable. You’re beautiful—nice face, real pretty tits, bangin’ ass. Do you dance? I got you some nice chamm-pagne and every form of get-high you could ever want and I got money, too… Why don’t you just go hop in the fuckin’ tub and scrub up. Here’s a Benjamin. I’ll bring you whatever you want. You say what I say how much.”

“You have Molly or crack or some pills? Maybe some meth 'cause it helps me fuck—I mean focus, especially when I’m on dope I lose focus, and with meth I grind my teeth a lot less than with coke. Hey, who the fuck are these naked fuckers jerkin’ each other off? You gotta towel? You said you have crack, gimme a couple dubs and another hundred bucks and that’s good forrr… let’s say the day.”

Flora was maybe 18 and clearly at the beginning of what was gonna be a long, painful downfall. This is when RockBottom was the kindest to them—the older ones didn’t enjoy it anymore. Flora still had never really felt love, and that’s really what she wanted most. She just went about it the bozo way. As she stripped her clothes off, RockBottom hoped the crack wouldn’t kill his dick tonight, or it’d be a long night of gettin’ off strictly from ball licking and maybe some ass play.

“You like my tan, it’s spray on… it costs a lotta money. It’s what the celebrities do except they fucked up this one spot where it looks like it jizzed on me but they didn’t—I didn’t fuck anyone tonight, I just shit on a guy and gave two massages. I don’t really fuck a lot, but you seem cool and you’re hot. I bet your dick’s real nice.”

She took a violent blast off the stem, held her breath, and then stepped in the tub. RockBottom took a hit, held it for a minute, then asked, “You really didn’t fuck anyone tonight? You want some Molly and then we can watch porn and you can give me a massage. My back really hurts from gettin’ money at the gym.”

“Oh yeah I can tell. You’re like really hot. I bet you have a big dick too daddy, I can’t wait to suck it.”

“Grrrl… when you’re done smoking your shit and you want some more you can come suck this damned dick, and lick my hairy balls just like the smutty little dog you are. If you really want some more, you’ll stick your tongue in my ass like you love it, pork lo mein?”

This intricate little dance played out between drug-dealin’ john and drug-abusing hooker damn near every week with RockBottom. He knew deep down in his heart that this could never end well. His behavior was beyond disgusting and it only got worse. He was addicted to smokin’ rocks and beatin’ up crackhead pussy.

She nodded while picturing this familiar scenario. “Yeah, I pork lo mein what you’re sayin’, just gimme another hit, daddy.”

Bert Burykill is the pseudonym of our prison correspondent, who has spent time in a number of prisons in New York State. He tweets here. 

Previously: Prisons I’ve Known and Yelped