Joe Jackson was not a man to be trifled with. So, he had to knock those two light-skinned milk-dud chumps out back at Shay’s Bar. Least ways he had the good sense not to fight the police when they came. Here he was, bossed down off the back of the wagon by some by-the-book dude who looked like he should be on a Nazi recruitment poster from back in the old-ass day.

That’s all right. His youngest baby’s mamma was still sweet on him. She’d bail his big ass out on Monday. He’d just get some sleep among this crowd of fools—20 dudes in this little-ass cage with all this disease going around.

As they were secured with the other seventeen fools, him and the two little negroes could not help but check out that fine, fine piece-of-ass corrections officer who walked around behind the Nazi. She was tall, round-assed, big-tittied, red-haired—her own real red hair, off-set by crazy green eyes with a complexion as if Hallie Barry had been re-designed by Michael Jackson’s doctor—like some mad scientist had been breeding big bucks on little red-headed Irish bitches for a hundred years to get that mix just right!

“Shieee, dis bitch is like a young Jay Lo as an insane white bitch—beautiful!” said one of the dude he came in with.

“Damn” said the one drunk little fellow next to him and the Nazi guard gave them that look, as if a dude was supposed to respect something that the Lord had merely designed for a brother to inspect!

“Watch out, y’all” said the wise old timer with the silver beard, “that’s all ‘bout trouble dare. Dat bitch has fucked all the good loogin’ female inmates, the warden, and is bangin’ two of the male officers.”

“Whad’ him?” asked Joe.

“Naw,” drawled the Old Timer. That there is Officer Hardass Boone, ole Dudley Do Right his own self. Family man. Wouldn’ touch dat rancid bitch with my ole broke dick. Datz da rub. Dis bitch can ged his attention en he da man—done beat shid outta twenny niggas up in dis joint—regula’ Negronator...wham bam, thank you Uncle Sam. See, dat bitch is oways causin’ a fuss, wanz dat dude in trouble fo excessive force ‘cause he won’ use no friendly force on her fine ass.”

Joe bristled at the idea that some guard could whoop his ass all on his own. He also had to wonder, the way she looked at him over her shapely shoulder as she walked off and flashed those crazy green eyes, if maybe she could be baby’ mamma number five?

“Young Brutha, say it ain’ so,” said the Old Timer. “Drunk and disorderly, you’ll be out on Monday.”

“I ain’ loogin’ fo no trouble Old Time…”

But the question hung there and the little man next to him said, “She fuck inmates—of the male kind?”

The Old Timer shook his head sadly as a Young Player who had the look that he’d been here for a while said, “Sucked my dick once. That bitch was so hot over Mister Man there whoopin’ my ass and then ignoring her, that she took care of me on the way to the infirmary while Mister Man was writin’ my shit up.”

Old Timer elbowed the young player and glared at him, which told Joe that Old Timer figured Joe might be up to the task of sticking up for the now 20 men—all black don’t you know—shut up in this cage by that white man and that mixed breed traitor bitch!

Young Player glared back to Old Timer and quipped, “You know Mighty Joe Young here would whoop ole Boone ‘til his ass grew soft!”

Old Timer sat down and shook his head between his hands as Young Player said, “Dat dick-suckin’ was so good, it was worth an extra thirty days—the way she looked up at me wit dem crazy eyes!”

“Come on, Man,” said Old Timer, “dey comin’ back ‘round. Keep Strong Joe outta trouble. I mean, he is strong...but…”

“Joe couldn’t help it, these people all in his mess, and hissed “But whad, ole Nigga?!”

Old Timer just shrugged all sad like at the skinny old player setting across the cage on the bottom bunk, “Tell ‘im Winchesta Redd, tell ‘im.”

The old wizened player, forty going on sixty, with narry a tooth left in the front of his head, drawled, “Show, Joe all swole en buff, but Boone ain’ neva been beat—big as he is wit dat kung fu—three ta one, Boone.”

“Shit too, nigga,” hissed Young Player, “Big Man here will wreck dat cracker inside a ten seconds, even up!”

Joe pulled down his mask to frown off on this trifling bullshit and then came the word from Hardass Boone, back at the cage, “Jackson, mask up, over nose.”

He turned and glared at him as he started to pull the mask up and then that crazy green-eyed bitch just had to start up, “Jackson, you don’t want my man Boone to have to come in there.”

He went to raise the mask, thinking about his baby’s mamma commin’ with the bail money and that he’d fuck this bitch down the road anyhow, and then the cheap-ass string that went around the ear snapped and the mask came off in his hand and he glared at it and Officer Boone, put a calming hand out towards the bitch guard and said to Joe, “Mister Jackson, you must mask up, or I’m going to have to come in there and throw you in the hole.”

That was it! When Joe Jackson—all 260 pounds of him—was coming down off of a drunk he tended to be short-tempered, “You and whose army, Cracka! You talkin’ ta Joe Kayo Jackson en dis is ma cage—you gotz ta aks permission ta even enta! We rollin’ twenty deep in here, white-boy!”

The other men were on their feet backing him up, cheering him on, hands on his back in solidarity and support, all except for that Uncle Tom Old Timer—chump-ass nigga right out da history books!

Officer Boone motioned with his hand for the bitch guard to open the cage and stay back. Then, as that cracker stepped in—un-armed dumb-ass—rollin’ up on twenty dudes done sick and tired of his racist bullshit, the bitch guard locked the cage behind him and looked Joe deep in the eyes with those crazy ‘I want to suck your dick’ eyes and even licked her lips.

It was on!

There was one reasonable voice, because the cracker must have got scared at the sight so near of all of them, “Mister Jackson, one last chance to put your mask on.”

The air was heavy around him his crew were so thick around and deep down—done with this bullshit. This was just like a police, to get all polite when he was outnumbered. It was then that Joe Jackson felt in his groans that he was destined for greatness, that he was going to be the big man in this jail house, that little niggas and crackes were all going to be lined up with their food trays after he struck a blow for them all!

Down he threw the face mask and declared, “Fuck you, Cracka!”

The cop then took his face mask off and showed a hard face and nineteen breaths drew in behind him as 19 bodies scattered to each side of the cage, as if Joe Jackson had that damned disease and now they didn’t want to even know his name.

‘Like that?’ he thought as he raised his fists and somehow, that cracker of a cop who must have been bred up with kangaroos, kicked Joe in his chest and sent him flying back against that wall—where there was no one to catch or cushion him, as if them back-stabbers had seen all this shit before and knew to jump off to the side—knocking the wind out of him...almost!

Joe Jackson was stronger than some kung fu bullshit!

The cracker charged in and hugged him from the front, which didn’t make no sense, with Joe being a good thirty pounds heavier and about to head butt those blue eyes right out of they sockets…

‘Why are my feet above this Nazi’s head?’

‘Why am I looking up at them?’

‘Why are all these Negroes cheering like Kevin Copperneck just threw the winning pitch at the World Series of White Stuff?’

‘Oh, this shit ain—“booooom!”

‘Oh, I think that was the sound of my back breaking—this shit ain’t right.’

His recent friends and supporters were cheering on the Nazi Cop!

This was very disheartening. But Joe Jackson was a fighter from way back and he was determined to get up as all of those smiling, grinning and yelling faces, some holding knot rolls of money, others handfuls of smokes feasted on the sight of his sudden distress from some hellish gallery above…

The cop spun off of him—Joe was free and he began to stand and get ready to knock some crumbs off that cracker—and there was another cheer as he was slammed face first into the concrete floor and his arm was bent behind him and he heard Young Player say, “A fine piece of work, Officer Boone! You a credit to the camunity!”

All but hog-tied, wind knocked out of his sails, being dragged like a dead dog across the slick concrete floor, the last thing Joe saw of his erst-while friends was of Old Timer arguing with Young Player about the odds while Old Player was mumbling something about being owed a dinner tray…

The only person that was even a bit nice to him was the Nazi Cop, who helped him up outside the cage, and inquired as to his health as they walked to “the hole.”

He did, however get a whiff of that bitch guard, who was so worked up by the brief event that he could smell her bitch scent like something promised from heaven to a man headed to hell.