Naked Hysteria in a Come Lacquered Cell

This is the second chapter in the anti-tale about the misanthropic adventures of a junkie-degenerate named Smith (now reread that five times fast), titled: “Naked Hysteria in a Come Lacquered Cell”. If you haven’t already read the first chapter, you can find it in the “Home” button at top, titled: “Sick and Longing for a Walgreen’s Bathroom”.


I awoke naked, curled in a wash of sweat next to a cold steel toilet on the slab of what I later learned to be a ten by eight cell. It was dark, my vision was terribly comatic, and my brain quickly became inundated with its struggle to filter through the optics.

As I lied there struggling with my recent memories, I recalled the shirts who barred me in the Walgreen’s, and the shitstorm I’d unleashed. Then, one by one, the beating came back as each blow resounded in my mind as quick, broken flashes.

The air was uncomfortably humid.

Old musk — warmed with age between the rolls and clefts of unwashed flesh, stained the memory of the room like a fever dream. It was the stench of confusion, violence, and of a thousand injustices.

The chilling hot-flashes of the kick had long thawed in this humidity, washing all retention of its violence from my mind. All that remained was a slight, yet acute sensation resonating from my lower spine that ripped through my body when I rolled onto my back.

Like a safety-pin scraping through a cavity, it bit in my teeth as it ripped up, and then down my spine, sending me into choking spasms between breaths.

Each gasp returned a fierce ache in my ribs, and in the strain of balancing these efforts my ears suddenly popped, releasing a head-splitting frequency that muffled my exclamation.

It pierced my eardrums, rising to a nauseating pitch before filling my throat like a vibrating hum — until, resounding back up and out my ears into the hollow of the cell, it faded altogether.

But this was it. A dose of hard sleep, and 20 years marriage to a drug had been reduced to a mere head full of ache and shot in the gut for each struggling breath.

Jesus, how long was I out?

After an eternity of hard squints, my eyes were able to catch gifs of data for my brain to digest- and the surreality of the scene woke me into a terrifying rebirth.

The walls were a peeling grey-blue struggling beneath a Pollack of human excrement.
Rusted rebar lined a 1’x 1’ hole high on the opposite wall, where intermittent wafts of a counterfeit freedom teased up from the city’s bowels.

The floor was tepid- sweaty from untold polishes of waste — and it dipped toward the center where a drain waited like a grated mouth belonging to some dejected fetishist.

Its feel beneath my nakedness unnerved me, and I suddenly became aware of a cool, wet sensation on the side of my head. It gobbed in my ear and pooled in the dimples of my eyes, and nose. I sat up wiping at the liquid to examine its smear, but my muscles were too weak, and my head swam and throbbed with a flush of blood.

My head hit the concrete with a gross, melon “plop” as I fell back — and the last thing I remember, was bloody ejaculate running over my eye with the sticky texture of a cold egg.



I awoke again to the sounds of a large, naked man heaving into the toilet. In his strain, his whole body pushed against the bowl and because of his enormity, his stomach and arms shook with a grotesque roil. His bald head was flush, spider webbed with varicose that flexed through each strain.

Every retch stretched his jaw into the fat of his neck, until he resembled a violent mass unconducive to the human form.

At last, after many furious attempts a weak spittle of pale-yellow drooled into the steel orifice, and as soon as it had, he quickly resumed his efforts.

“Jep made you ‘is bitch!” a high southern drawl choked behind me. Its shrill graveled nature left the impression he had long tried to scrub the slack from its inflection — like a steel pad scraped over Teflon.

I looked up to find a sinuous young man smiling down from a top steel bunk. He had stringy brown hair and large empty eyes that looked to’ve been borrowed against his character. His arms and legs were jointed, dangling over the side of the cot and suited with wispy dark hairs giving him the appearance of a large spider.

In his left hand toyed a burning cigarette between his index and middle fingers, back and forth in nervous contemplation before dragging deep, and then repeating the tic.

“Who the hell is Jep?” I growled, sitting up much slower, and digging a gob of cold semen from my ear.

His smile dropped mechanically to release a billow of smoke and nodded toward the fat man, who now snored loudly with his face smooshed onto the vomit spattered rim.

“Frank Jepson. Been like that ever since he arrived ‘bouta’ week now.” He arched a brow as he spoke, nestling back into his slouch.

“Moment they threw his fat ass in ‘ere, I coul’ jus’ tell he wasn’ right. Came in smilin’ an’ starin’. Hardly ever stopped, bug-eyed sum’bitch. Sometimes his eyes’d git big, ya’ know?” he deadened his expression altogether, while somehow opening his eyes even larger for proper illustration. “An’ he’d hug himself tight, like he was scared — but then he’d start rubbin’ his body an’ smilin’ a’gin.” He paused to flick the ash from the cigarette before another drag, and long exhalation, adding, “When he did talk — man, it was o’ways ‘bout some borderline shit. Like…” he paused again to search for an example, “You know-” but with each attempt he was forced to concede with an exasperated struggle, finally pulling on the cigarette and alluding in exhalation, “well you know how you can jus’ tell about a fella? You know? Well fella, that’s a fella you can tell about! Said he was a ‘camp buddy’, whatever the fuck that is exactly.

“Shit jus’ made my skin crawl!” He finished his cigarette and then flicked it to a small pile of butts near the drain where it smoldered amid the old waste.

There was an outlet next to his head fitted with two pieces of graphite, one in each hole. I watched him pull another cigarette from under his pillow, and then traded the package for another piece of graphite and a tattered roll of toilet paper.

“Now, I’m usually real good at readin’ people, you understand?” he began again while tearing, and twisting at the paper before wrapping its end around the graphite.
“I was born in prison, know that?” his voice trailed with his focus as he channeled his concentration to now delicately tapping the three pieces of graphite together.

Suddenly the string of paper alighted, and he erupted with a triumphant “Yessir!” as he rushed the flame to the cigarette between his lips exclaiming through billows of smoke “Right upstate!” and then relaxed back.

“Anyways, I’ve encountered pro’by ‘bout ev’ry kinda’ shit you can encounter in present day U.S.A…” He shook his head with a light chuckle, conceding, “so I thought.” and then sucked his teeth before leaning in with a straightforward tone.

“‘Bout middle o’ th’ second night, that pasty pig-fucker wakes me up from a nice dream, I mean nice, son! An’ he’s just achin’ an’ moanin’ — an’ th’ vomit was jus’ pourin’ out ‘im! No shit!” As he spoke, his arms acted out the events like he was giving a physical summary of some Avant-garde drama, thus creating an Avant-garde performance of his own.

“That’s when I knew- Pedioton-pedi-pediodonto… whatever! Sumbitch’s comin’ off a heavy dose of the shit is what matters.” He broke into squealing laughter. His voice had shed its graveled nature for the delight of swine, filling the cell with a piercing ignorance.

Then, as quickly as he started, he stopped, adding in his best efforts; “Then- whew! He stands up, lifts his gut an’ starts rummagin’ fer his dick — all while I’m watchin’, you understand?”

No. To this day I don’t understand why anyone would entertain such a scene, but in the spirit of social ques, I nodded for him to move on.

“An’ then starts rubbin’ his balls — moanin’ an’ beatin’ his dick, fucken pervert! ‘Bout six days a’ cum in that spot you was pass’ out in. When they brought you, guards placed you directly in that area. Yessir! Laid you out all neat like, cracked ya mouth just so, then they patted ol’ Jep on the back an’ told him t’ ‘have fun’.”

He paused and stared for a moment, and then looked at me assuredly before adding, “In his defense, he did aim away from you for the most part. Towards the end though, he musta’ shot his shit dry cuz he’s just been cumin red, like an Appalachia sow on Christmas eve.”

Jesus Christ! What the fuck was this guy talking about??

“What the shit is that shit he was on? What’s it for?” I winced, tilting my head in sudden deep pain. Sonofabitch gave me swimmer’s ear.

He dragged thoughtfully on the cigarette with the air of a laymen who’d been asked for their expertise, then straightened his back matter-of-factly announcing; “It’s a medication designed for chemical castration. It don’ get you high, but — it zombifies th’ shit outta’ you!

“Yup, it depletes yor’ testosterone so you don’ even wanna think ’bout having sex! Ya’ gain a lotta’ weight, grow tits, an’ when you ain’t smilin’, it’s ‘cuz yor’ cryin’ o’er the dumbest she-it.” He counted on his fingers as he spoke, bending, and stretching their dexterity. He stopped with the middle finger; squeezing, and shaking it for an excessive amount of time, as if realizing this one doesn’t belong, and so it must be removed.

“But that ain’t the wors’ part, son!” he finally resolved to endure the presence of the appendage, flexing away the pain while glancing down, and then up to me, and then to Jepson before returning to me with a quizzical grin and sighed.

“The lack of sex gives you blue-balls from hell! They swell, an’ sometimes, I heard, they get so backed up with juice they turn necrotic, an’ shit — then they gotta’ be removed. But this ain’t that common, an’ half th’ time they don’ notice th’ pain, they’re so goddamned neutralized.

“So, whenever these fuckers miss a dose, the pain hits ‘er balls like dead weight from a twenty-foot drop onto a buckin’ bull.”

“Why the fuck was he on that shit?”

“You wern’ never tha’ brigh’, was you?” he quipped with a chuckling exhalation.


My face fell with the realization that my ear ached with the pain of a pedophile’s bastard rooted deep inside its canal.

I remember looking back to the floor where I’d lain for the past few days; the outline of waste, and a large ejaculate puddle was now all but saturated onto the sweaty concrete, adding to the general lacquer of filth.

Then quick violent flashes in my mind — the cum mask, the splash of vomit in my hair and dressing my body.

A hard fecal crust covered my lower back and legs like an aboriginal mosquito repellent, and a deep anger welled inside.

“Gimme a jack.” Perhaps I should have asked, but sobriety was starting to thin my patience. He recognized this, sucked his teeth, and then shook his head “Comma’sorry ain’t till t’morrow, an’ I ain’t got but three now. Sorry, son.”

A sudden vexation awoke in my mind, “Why the fuck are we allowed cigarettes, but not clothes?” to which he erupted with the furious inanity of a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Why — th’ fuck you mean?! T’bacca been a parta’ this worl’ since the foundin’ of this nation. Ain’t you never read history? It’s written’to our cons’tution!

“Genesis, Chapter one… er sumthin’. ‘Thou shalt have a right…” he shifted through a hushed garble of false memory before ending in reflective satisfaction: “an’ be free.’ Yessir! Right above guns — you got to read son! Know your rights.

“B’sides, cigarettes ain’t never hurt anybody. They’re a harmless pas’time to pass th’ time, nuthin’ more. Why you think they gave ‘em t’ kids back in th’ day ‘fore they got all connected on the goddamn FaceTit — er, you know what I mean.

“I mean, duh! An’ brutha’, have you seen where yor at?” his gangling arms gestured from his slouch with mocking recognition; wafting sweet tobacco smoke about like an ignorant braggard.

“An’ better believe fella, you wanna’ cigarette after wakin’ up in here lookin’ like you do!”


My mouth dropped in curious frustration. Was it possible for someone to be so nonsensically stupid?

Sifting through the errors of his defense would’ve been as efficient as sweeping the desert with a hand broom and dustpan, but no receptacle to put it in.

Perhaps it was my tone?

Yes. Yes that must be it. In prison it’s best to check your tone until you find your voice. But as I came to accept his response as a sardonic overplay, he quieted his laughter, leaning forward to continue.

“But clothes, well there you coul’ strangle someone. Hell, a shoe can, dependin’ on the shoe o’course, cave a fella’s face clean in — course it won’ be clean at all — but you git my meanin’.” Satisfied with his case, he pulled thoughtfully on his cigarette while relaxing back into his slump against the wall.

A spray of spit, and laughter shot out my mouth for his sincerity while he too, chuckled with suspicious ignorance of my response.

But this was short lived, for at that moment feeling crept back into my feet like a thousand prickling needles. I wiggled my toes and winced, paused, and then leveraged off Jepson’s face to rise against the pain.

Like a mechanical operation, I shuffled three numb steps toward the door before collapsing back in a heap.

Pain returned to my spine, shooting through its circuits like an unforgiving current.

It angered me, but this anger quickly dissipated into fear. Fear to be here while in such a state, with no physical means to defend myself should his prolix shift into aggression.

Then, again, this emotion suddenly gave way to an epiphanic sense of ‘fuck it!’ as I broke into another raucous fit of laughter.

I sat up, muttering, and waving in nonsensical gestures to play out the theatrics of my hysteria.

I began to imagine the scene as if I were a wealthy client at some five-star resort offering cum masks, and shit baths — while pedophilic swine retch out soundscapes into a hollow, steel drum.

A thundering exhalation snapped me back, and I felt a strange acceptance ease my heart and mind.

I was neither enraged, nor frightened, or hysterical — I simply, and truly did not give a fascist’s dry turd about anything.

This was an alien state.

Never in my life had I felt the truth of such an emotion, though experience warned me against its brief, and exclusive climax.

Another roar sounded from behind me, and so I turned, adjusting my seat to face Jepson’s cellulitic butt rising and then setting with every labored breath.

I slapped it.

I don’t know why I did this, other than at that moment it just felt like the right thing to do.

It was a weak, and pitiful slap of course, and in my fatigue my hand slid off his flesh with dead weight. But then without warning, I repeated this action upon his other cheek.

Again, I don’t recall thinking it, and indeed, the scene itself played out as if I were merely an observer.

Immediately, I began punching and slapping one cheek, then another, throwing my arms like a rag doll with each effort until — the cold check of reality crept back.

It hit with an unnerving irritation of being, and I was again reminded of the environment and my present condition.

All my efforts had been wasted on the natural equivalent to body armor.

In his enormity, his body had prevented him from enduring even my strongest, pitiful blow. But there was one part of his body within my reach that was still vulnerable — and so on behalf of anyone who’s ever been earfucked, I decided anything worth doing, is worth doing right.

After balancing all my weight upon a large hairy cheek, while struggling to keep my face just above — I then began hitting and slapping wildly for a testicle.

Despite my efforts his snores remained constant, except for an occasional grin, and inappropriate chuckle between; so I drew my arm back to muster every ounce of strength in my body, and then let it fly.

This was stupid.

My fist missed his testicles, and instead disappeared inside his sphincter with an unforgiving push.

Jepson shot forward, locking his muscles around my wrist while releasing a Wilhelm squeal, and then expelled a sour, malodorous gas before falling back to sleep.

“Now look what ya’ gone did!” the man on the bunk laughed with outstretched accusation, and all at once I remembered his previous words; “All while I’m watching…”

“You got yor’self an anger prob’m. I jus’ told you the man couldn’ help it…”
“He’s a fucken pedophile!” I barked flipping over to face him. To which he sucked his teeth and then conceded thoughtfully, “Well, yes. I s’pose that’s right.

“Still, you should take a class, or sumthin’- ‘cuz You ain’t never gettin’ outta’ here with that attitude, son! Never!” he repeated shaking his head with an air of finality.

“What they get you for? Junk? You look’s likea’ junkie- all covered in shit… Yor’ own shit! Jep ain’t do that. I watched ya’ kick!”

“A three-day kick for a 20-year habit? How many kicks have you seen in the past… or am I the only one?”

My head was now directly beneath Jep in my restraint, with my arm raised above, laboring hard, quick tugs to free itself. Suddenly Jepson moaned, and then inched slightly forward, pulling about two more inches inward.

At that moment, a grotesque realization sank to the pit of my stomach — in some reverse act of digestion, I was slowly being consumed by another man’s asshole.

“I prefer weed.” he replied, ignorant for the growing urgency of my situation.

“That said, we all got our kicks, son. An’ while mine ain’t as fucked up as yor’s, I’m jus’ tellin’ you what I saw, an’ what I didn’ say b’fore.” He flicked the butt into the pile and continued through thick exhalation, “Jus’ ’fore they left they stuck ya’, emptyin’ the syringe right there in that arm.

“Full an’ fat — the entire syringe. An’ that’s when they tol’ Jep t’ have his fun.
“Fer all th’ nex’ day an’ night, you was sweatin’ like a sumbitch! Sweatin’ an’ shitin’, an’ achin’ an’ shakin’ like you had th’ legion in ya’!

“Th’ vomit, an’ cum, well, like I said, them’s all Jep. But this shit here” he paused, shaking his head with disappointment, and then suddenly breaking from thought urging, “man, I know you’ve been caught-up b’fore, ain’t you never learned how t’ manipulate th’ system?

“Control yor’ fucken anger, moron!”

His words resounded intermittently between anal flexes and thoughts of tribal Amazonians, half-digested in the belly of some lumbering snake.

I had just finger-combed a gelatinous balm from my hair, when a tiny door-latch slid open and a rich, sensual mix of expensive perfume spritzed over a week of peak pheromones flooded the room.

“Shit!” he scrambled, masking his pillow over his lower face while muffling through “Don’ breathe it in!” But it was too late.

The scent was absolutely intoxicating, and caused my penis to flush, swelling like an unruly appendage.

The little window slammed, and all at once, there was a loud Buzz, and then *click*, and the old mechanized door rumbled open.

“QUEER-RAPE!” the man on the bunk squealed in a terrible fit. One hand over his face with the other pointing, while drawing his hairy legs up to his chest until he truly resembled a large arachnid backing into a corner.

“Ohhh She-it!” it screeched down. “Thank Gawd you arrived when you had, aw’ficer Frien’ly! He jus’ fist-raped Jep, said he was gunna’ get me nex’! Don’ know what happened, he jus’ woke up in a sexual rage an’ started rapin’!”

The ominous silhouette of a man in full riot gear carved through the sterile floodlight like cheap special effects in a 1980’s horror film.

Before entering the cell, he struck, and then raked an electric rod across his riot shield, sending a menacing current across its surface, and then struck it again demanding; “Remove your hand from inside Resident 980212567d.”

“Best do what he says” the spider on the bunk warned crossing itself with an exaggerated “Halleluiah! Amen!”

“Wait!” I pleaded, tugging much harder now. “This isn’t rape! Please! I need help…”
The guard threw down his shield and marched forward.

“Oh, I understand! That’s why I’m here! T’ help.” He towered above me with an aimed hand and then jabbed the rod into the pit of my arm.


Sharp, unyielding pain.

It shot through my arm, biting at my tendons with hungry precision as my muscles writhed in rhythmic convulsion.

He struck again, and then again before I had recovered from the initial attack; until finally, he prodded into Jepson’s sphincter.

Now, I can’t definitively say he missed on purpose, but I’m not sure he didn’t either, for once he made contact he unleashed a terrifying force in the sleeping giant.

Like an angered boar, the large man bucked forward emitting a terrible grunt, releasing my hand with one powerful jolt. My arm dropped as if in slow-motion and now free, I instinctually curled away from the guard.

Unfortunately, this shock also released Jepson’s bowels, which then sprayed out, and onto me like a terrifying, yet unstoppable force.

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