I stay up all night writing. Every time I try to tell my chick some old anecdote now, she snaps at me "tell it to James LaFond!" Writing is just like drinking. Women hate to see you like anything more than them.
-Tony Rooster
Dude, I started the same way—like you said, it's like drinking and you get tragically better at it. Writing always screws up your relationship with existing women and gains the admiration of strange women.
-James
HIV Steve was one of my first cellmates. He was a fifty something year old dope fiend, and I was an ignorant eighteen year old. Steve was small, high strung, and talkative. I didn't like the idea of sharing oxygen or a toilet with him. To his credit, he was clean and never shit in the cell. His old lady turned tricks for him, and he talked about her with a genuine fondness. He rolled up and left after about a month, and I had the cell to myself for all of 6 hours before I met my new cellmate, Champagne.
Champagne was a gold toothed pimp from the Central District. His bitches still faithfully put money on his books, sent him dirty letters, and posed in pictures with his cars, an assurance they were safe. He loved his cars.
"Look at that shit. Lincoln Mark IV, with my name on the side of the door. Custom paint job, Cocaine White. Goes with everything."
He said he always made sure the car he drove matched the outfit he was wearing that day.
This moneyed maquereau never learned to read, however. That's where I came in.
"Oh Champagne, nobody can fuck me like you big daddy.....", I'd read aloud.
"NOBODY can fuck that bitch as good as me!" he'd laugh. I'd take my time reading these nasty notes, drawing it out, leaving him hanging on my every word. Sometimes, I'd add a little extra here and there if it was a letter we'd already read.
He generously supplied me with ramen noodles for my skills as a reader and orator. It was a symbiotic relationship.
Champagne was the first one to tell me the legend of Knock-Out Bob.
"Hey bro. For real, if you find a candy bar on your bunk, don't eat that shit," he warns me, "Knock-Out Bob put it there. It's a trap."
"Who's Knock-Out Bob?" I ask.
"Knock-Out Bob will get 'cho ass. He got my little cousin. Broke his spokes, man. After Bob got done with 'im, his asshole looked like it had pussy lips."
The humor is gone from his face. I'm all ears now.
"Bob will leave a snickers on your bunk. After while, ol' Bob comes to ya, and wants to know where his candy bar is. If you don't have a candy bar to give him.......He'll knock yo' ass out! One punch, boom!"
"When you wake up, yo' pants is around yo' ankles, and you be bleeding from yo' asshole."
I heard the same story from countless others. Whether or not the legend of Knock-Out Bob was true or not, I can't say for sure. I suspect there's a kernel of truth in there somewhere.
The day after Halloween, I found a candy bar on my bed that one of my children set down and forgot about.
Everyone has their own boogey-man.
Books by James LaFond
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
Yeah, write it up!
Oh shit it's Knockout Bob!
Apocryphal for sure, I don't have a sweet tooth.