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nails dig so deep, they draw blood.  Fucks where you wet the sheets with your sweat, even on a cold winter night.  I think sometimes she got into a rip just to get started towards one of those fucks, anā€™ if that was the case, I could get one goinā€™ just as often as she could.  But sometimes...sometimes all I saw was that stinkinā€™ one bedroom rat-trap we had in Hollywood anā€™ the crappy furniture dressed to look new anā€™ the never-endinā€™ boxes of Top Ramen we had to eat instead of real food, anā€™ I just couldnā€™t get up for it anā€™ sheā€™d get tā€™ be too fuckinā€™ much anā€™...shit, Iā€™d have to bust out anā€™ walk it off or lose it anā€™ turn to my fists.

ā€˜Course, I know better than to hit her, now.  Last time I did, I almost lost my parole.  She had to threaten to take ā€˜em to court or somethinā€™ to make my P-O back off.  Heā€™d come by the rat trap to check up on me anā€™ he saw she had a split lip anā€™ he went all ape-shit on me till Connie slammed in.

ā€œI fuckinā€™ had a couple of fuckinā€™ beers anā€™ fuckinā€™ fell out of my fuckinā€™ car!ā€ she screamed at the asshole.  ā€œYou got a fuckinā€™ problem with it?ā€  One of the few times she used her mouth -- anā€™ attitude -- for somethinā€™ good.  Man, she knew how to make morons like him listen, even when theyā€™re tryinā€™ to hand out some shit.

Now understand, ten years of marriage -- well, four really, taking Mid-State into account -- gets you to where you know the bullshit behind the voice anā€™ can usually figure out what it is theyā€™re really pissed about.  Anā€™ deep down I knew that most of the time with Connie she was really rantinā€™ about some ā€œIā€™m-The-Artistā€ director or the usual five-second TV starlet, not about me.  She worked on movies as a clothes chick, no, ā€œcostumerā€, thatā€™s it.  But this time I just wasnā€™t hearinā€™ anything but her crap, for some reason, so as soon as she got onto the bitch wagon, I could tell where it was headed anā€™ busted out to grab a brew.

Problem was, I left without any cash.  Like I had so much.  People really ainā€™t so interested in hirinā€™ barely educated ex-cons for those six-figure jobs you hear so much about.  So I was cleaninā€™ fuckinā€™ offices after hours for a dyke anā€™ her pussy in a couple downtown office buildinā€™s for about a buck more than minimum wage.  Anā€™ that wasnā€™t every day; just when they had a big job.  Anā€™ then they paid me under the table.  Meaninā€™ no taxes taken out.  No benefits.  No nothinā€™.  I didnā€™t have a job lined up for that night anā€™ on top of it, Iā€™d only worked five days in two weeks.  Really makes you want to keep on the straight anā€™ narrow, as this ass-wipe of a priest said to me on my way out of County, once.  Like he knew dick about how the real world worked.  As I finally figured out.

Not that it mattered -- me not havinā€™ the cash, I mean.  I knew how to get a beer or two without payinā€™.  I was still on this side thirty, sort of blond anā€™ smooth skinned.  Well, except for some pimple scars along my chin.  But even those made me look younger.  Anā€™ I got a nice dick.  Not huge like a horse, but big enough anā€™ thick anā€™ cut, just like the rest of me.  I keep myself in shape, anā€™ I do mean top shape.  My gymā€™s my only real money taker -- after rent anā€™ food -- ā€˜cause if I ever go back inside, itā€™s the best way of lettinā€™ ā€˜em know straight off I canā€™t be punked out.  Not easy, anyway.  ā€˜Course, I got a week in solitary my first day in Mid-state ā€˜cause some dumb fuck of a Nazi warrior anā€™ his scum decided I was gonna be their bitch.  Only reason I kept ā€˜em outside of me was ā€˜cause I near ripped one of the Naziā€™s ears off with my bare hands.  That added to the rep I already sort-of had, so the fuckers left me alone after that, lemme tell you.

So not to brag, but all I gotta do is a few pushups, tuck my shirt in tight, hit Queer Town anā€™ let my muscles do the talkinā€™.  Anā€™ if I gotta put up with a few pinches anā€™ grabs in exchange for the quality brew, thatā€™s okay.  Sometimes Iā€™ll even let one of ā€˜em suck me off for a cash outlay.  Makes them happy, gets my mind off Connieā€™s crap, anā€™ takes my rocks off in a way that donā€™t mean nothinā€™.  I mean, once you been in jail a few years, you know a mouthā€™s a mouth, donā€™t matter whose it is.

So there I was in this skanky little fag joint in happy hour lettinā€™ this one fat-assed faggot ā€œply me with alcoholā€ in the hopes Iā€™ll get too drunk to push his hand away when he puts it on my crotch.  His problem is, he donā€™t know how much I can drink.  Not that Iā€™m a drunk or anything.  I lived without it in Mid-state; didnā€™t even think about it.  But this queer donā€™t know that, so heā€™s real easy to string along.  Iā€™m even thinkinā€™ Iā€™ll get a hundred extra since he wants my dick so bad.

Anyway, the fat-assed faggotā€™s name is Wayne.  Of course.  Half the guys I met in my life named Wayne were queer.  Like itā€™s a necessary part of being called that or somethinā€™.  The one thing my mom did right was name me Curt.  Itā€™s a real name.  A guyā€™s name.  Shit, itā€™s a whole attitude.  Short.  Sharp.  To the point.  No bullshit.  Yeah, thatā€™s me.  Cut the crap anā€™ get to reality.

But back

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