The BBB of Alcatraz

At this moment, Mike shakes like a corned rattler and, his hysterical conscious screams in his skull: I will get through this. You will get one more chance to be a great artist.

Cool sweat pools above Mike's ass. His mind buzzes like the dim light over the dumpster. Beige spitball bugs swarm it in figure eights. His leg burns as 'fight or flight' blood pools through leaving leftovers for his right eye. He drops the sac of silver. The distant silhouettes of hunting men crash lands his knees to the Florida mud. He kneels behind a grove of waving mangroves. Are my mom and dad watching from the sky? Will my sister go hysterical that I am not home for dinner?

"Did you check over there," a policeman said.

Mike abandons the hot silver and floats across a green, wet blanket of hills. His adrenaline paints midnight streaks that strobe his prospecting path—police flashlights. Their German Shepherd clamps his ass. His paper bag lungs flatten against the earth and a chill of handcuffs strangle his wrists. "I can't breathe," he said.

County jail. A white coat with a cigar flashlight strips Mike naked and hands him a warm square of orange cotton. On top: two flip flops to keep his feet cold and his soles slapping rubber. The higher the floor, the worse the crimes. His parchment soles dust the stairway to the fourth floor under dozens of murderers and rapists. "You assaulted a federal judge during an armed robbery. You will be charged with a federal crime," the guard said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means Alcatraz honey," he said.

"I get one phone call...," Mike said.

"Officer Lexington already told your sister about your predicament," he said.

"Who the fuck is Lexington?"

Mike's court date. In 1952, Judge Jacobs and Alcatraz's Warden Wilson were co-pilots in the Korean skies. Bathing in that nostalgia, Judge Jacob's cracks his gavel and drops Mike's incarcerated body to Alcatraz's A block. The sentencing: two years.

The boat ride out. Mike's pallet fills with Pacific salt while he smears his frozen raspberry cheeks and squints. He sees white foam spit the hard-jagged rocks of Alcatraz Island. Shackled, his marching swings a chain above both knee caps like a short jump rope. His feet smoosh down the creaking planks. Passing guards—as card-board cut-outs contemplating his terror.

In the shower room. White and shamrock green pillars align a row under a long narrow pipe. Dozens of shower heads dangle like robotic sunflowers. Mike undresses and stands under the first one. A tall guard with blue skin hands him a chip of soap. Hot water blazing down. "Fuck, this is hot," he said.

"So, you don't get acclimated to cold water and swim to Angel's Island," the blue guard said.

Another inmate wearing a white top with AZ 587 steps up. Stroking his eight-inch cock into Mike's shower spray. "You are third class. You want to be first class?"

"How?" Mike said.

Inmate 587 steps back and tangles all his fingers in his hair. Leaving his erection for Mike's limelight. "On your knees."

"Can you get me cigarettes, art supplies, and a reduced sentence?" Mike said.

"First class inmates get reduced sentences by half," inmate 587 said.

The two guards turn their backs to the slurps of an eight-minute blow job.

Mike dries off and slips on a white cotton shirt, underwear, and pants. Over the right breast, AZ inmate 333. He follows a guard down Broadway Alley. "Who is inmate 587?"

"The warden," the guard said.

Mike plunges down in his cot, putting his elbows on his knees and perching his chin in his palms. "I sucked a dick for eight minutes and shaved off a year," he said. Was that really the warden?

"Guard...I need to call my sister!"

Mike presses his forehead against the thick steel bars of the door. A mirror blinds him from an adjacent cell. It speaks and spins colors of Broadway Alley inside a tiny white plastic frame. Then it parks on a large blue eye. "You know who I am?"

"No," Mike said.

"They call me the Birdman," he said.

"My sister is all alone out there with four kids. When I am not around, she dates pieces of shit that treat the kids like shit. I robbed a judge by accident, and it was for her. To put them in a better location, less crime, you know. I am not built for this prison crap. How can I get supplies to oil paint and sell my paintings and give the money to her, Birdman?" Mike said.

"Everything takes time in here...be patient," Birdman said. "How long you got?"

"One year," Mike said.

Birdman hands him two plastic bottles and a book of matches. "It is honey and lemon juice. With some water and heat, you can mix them to make a hair removal wax," he said.

"What for?" Mike said.

"You already have a feminine body...and with a smooth one...your sexiness can get you many favors in this pussy-less dungeon."

"You mean be someone's bitch?"

"Be the right people's bitch and you will be the prison's fucking Pablo Picasso with serving just a quarter of your sentence."

Next flying in; a paper airplane with instructions: drop some lit matches and newspaper in the coffee can, put your tin soap dish on top. Pour in water, lemon juice, and honey. Mix to a syrup and let try.

"Use that airplane for burning," Birdman said.

After cooking, mike peals out a strip of wax the length of his soap tray. "It is done."

"Good, you can use it over and over again. Start with your legs, then your butt and pecker, your torso, and your neck and face," Birdman said.

A guard walks running his night stick over the bars like piano keys. "Inmate 333, you have been assigned to work in the rubber factory," the guard said.

"Why the fuck did the Bulls give you that job? Did you already suck a Bull cock before coming in this cell?" Birdman said.

"I sucked off inmate 587," Mike said.

"Never heard of an inmate 587," Birdman said. "Listen up...you will be working with like five guys...one is in charge of art supplies, one is in charge of magazines, one is in charge of food portions, one is in charge of the library, and the other is in charge of musical instruments I think...fuck all of them."

"Are you kidding me?"

"He is making that shit up fresh fish...don't listen to him...he gets off turning fresh fish into jailhouse whores for no reason other than his own amusement...he is a psychopath," a distant voice said.

"Do what I tell you and you will be out taking your sister to the movies in three months...okay?"

First morning at the rubber factory. Mike counts five guys which validates the Birdman a little. The training starts with digging hands in a barrel of cut rubber pieces and peppering them out evenly on a tray the size of a door mat. He hands the tray over to another inmate who adds sulfur and slides the tray into a vulcanization oven for eight hours.

"Boy that stuff stinks," Mike said.

The five men stare at Mike. I wonder if they spoke to Birdman about me. He stares back. In the corner there is a private nook: a brick wall and five feet of empty floor boards. Behind the bricks, a wooden desk and opposite, a barred window—with glass as blue as winter.

Mike walks inside of it and gets naked. He sets his shirt and pants on the desktop. His smooth ass jiggles around as he circles the nook fighting embarrassment and a fresh chill. His body shape mimics a slim woman's. It is the soft onion-like bubble butt wobbling on each step that drops all five men's jaws. The icy men stare at hot Mike bending over and flattening his forearms against the desk's cedar, popping his two adjacent white cheeks to bask the morning sun.

Mike closes his eyes and focuses on distant gulls across the bay, "Keow, keow...keow."

Abrupt shuffling into rhythmic versus of flesh pounding and smacking ensue. A table falls spilling rubber pebbles across the gravestone floor. Blood squirts into the window panes. Sounds of strangling obscure the keows.

"All of you get a chance...didn't you understand Birdman when he spoke of this?" Mike said.

"Birdman? I am first." "I am second." "I am...I am...third, fourth." "Fine, I am last...," the men cried.

The first man carries a dagger nose and triangular bangs pasted over his brow. In his thirties, thin; his crew cut and cartoon smile, he spreads and caresses the skin between Mike's bubbles. He stays dressed and pulls his cock out. A line forms at the nook's threshold. Four excitable naked inmates stroking their erections as if for their survival.

The first man moans and further bends his knees sliding his cock deeper into Mike's bubble ass. His hands climb from his hips to his breasts and pinch his nipples. "Oh, this pussy...this is sweet pussy...who's in charge? Who's in charge of this sweet pussy?"

"You are daddy," Mike said. Experiencing his first hard cock, his head spun from a dick that's been denied pussy for fifteen years. A fossilized erection exploding deep inside his bubble butt in the rubber factory of Alcatraz.

The second man is bald and fat with a nine-incher. He thrusts his cock in and immediately that rhythmic sound of two cupping hands bursts off the cement walls. The other men can see more flesh and a curved rock-hard cock smacking inside as Mike aches out an enormous moan. The third man blurs his cock and spills a load all over the threshold. Mike's bubble's ass burns and floods out another round of inmate come.

The last man is muscular and animalistic. He enters Mike making his bottom smack like soft butter. Fleshly waves drift about and capitalize the ass's design to soften the violence of a fuck. Mike's legs are spread, and his smooth thighs glimmer a half hour of fucking's sweat. Ten minutes more and now Mike's ass burns into a beautiful orgasmic numbness. "Fuck my pussy daddy!"

Lights out. "So how did it go?" Birdman said.

"They said if I serve out my two years—during that time, my sister and her kids could move to Alcatraz Island and go to school and work amongst the staff's families," Mike said.

"I told you smooth feminine skin is gold around here," Birdman said.

"They gave me a nickname like you," Mike said.

"Oh yeah?" Birdman said. "What is it? Picasso?"

"The BBB of Alcatraz."

"What does that mean?"

"The Bubble Butt Bitch of Alcatraz, Birdman," Mike said.

"Ain't she sweet?" Birdman keowed.