Hey pachuco arranged by tom wallace sound clip

All Richard would do was sit there with a pencil and some kind of tablet, his hand flying over the surface of the paper, as if by concentrating so hard he could make it all go away. Newboy Richard was so scared of them he hadn't said a thing for a week, and Lamar at first wanted just to torture him for a while before he fucked him and sold him to Rodney Smalls's niggers for cigarettes, but goddamn Richard was so weak it wouldn't have meant a thing. It was Richard whoвЂ™d got his head turned in this direction. His chest was wide and white and not particularly hairy. Looking downward he saw an endless field of possibility. Lamar contemplated his chest in the hissing steam. When the water hit his muscles and deflated him, man, that felt so cool! Two hundred curls with the seventy-five-pound bar, two hundred squat thrusts with the two-hundred-pound bar on his shoulders, a long goddamned time under the chest machine, hoisting two hundred pounds of dead weight until he was swollen like a tire on a hot day. The water felt so good when it blasted against the swollen bulges of his muscles, with the contrast between the hissing steam and the sense of cooling. He just woke up one goddamned day during a two-year slide for assault with intent up at Crabtree State in Helena and there it was. He must have been drunk or high or something. Lamar couldn't even remember getting that one. On the top of his right hand, it said white greased lightning, with a rat-tailed squiggle in fading blue indicating a lightning bolt. On his left wrist it said shadow of death under a crude but unmistakably effective rendering of a skull. A stream of red droplets wiggled out of it. On his right forearm, in the same wobbly line, was a pictograph of a dagger jammed halfway to its hilt into the flesh. Though he had an open, friendly face and warm eyes showing over a nose that had seen much wear, he also had fuck and you! inscribed across the knuckles of his left and right fists and born to kick ass on his left forearm, all in the spidery and uncertain blue ink of a freehand convict tattoo artist. Lamar Pye was thirty-eight years old, with a tangle of thick hair, which he generally wore braided down his back or in a ponytail. What he had was a nice, fresh bar of Dial soap, which he'd just unwrapped: none of that green liquid disinfectant soap the regular cons used in their showers. It meant as much to him as a million dollars in the bank, and he knew he'd never have a million dollars in the bank. This was his favorite moment of the day, and as a ranking lifer, he had earned the right to a private second or two in the hack's shower before lockup. Its blast struck his bulging muscles, washed the sweat away. In the guard quarters, through two levels of security off the D corridor, Lamar turned on the shower and let the water hit him. It was four oвЂ™clock in the afternoon, on a day like any other in the institution's melancholy history as Oklahoma's toughest prison. He was the prince of the Dirty White Boys. But mainly it was just Lamar and his attitude. And it helped that his hulking cousin OвЂ™Dell stood ready to back him up on the dime if it went down hard. It helped, of course, that he was also protected by Daddy Cool, the bullet-pocked biker king who ran the Mac's dirty white boys with Daddy's special mojo protecting him and his own reputation as a man-killer, almost nobody, con or guard alike, messed with him.

Lamar wasn't a fag, although, when the spirit moved him, he was a butt fucker He wasn't a boss con's fuck boy either, or a punk, or a bitch or a mary or a snitch, and he carried a simple message in the graceful economy of his movements: to fuck with me is to fuck with death itself. Therefore he was Number One on the fag hit parade, but the fags knew to stay away and could only dream of him in private. It was a monster, a snake, a ropey, veiny thing that hardly looked at all like what it was but rather like some form of rubber tubing. His was the largest penis ever seen on a white man in that prison or any of the others in which Lamar had spent so much of his adult life. Three men at McAlester State Penitentiary had larger penises than Lamar Pye, but all were black and therefore, by Lamar's own figuring, hardly human at all. Norman Mailer's introduction to In the Belly of the Beast by Jack Henry Abbott No one knows what it's like to be the bad man.

Hey pachuco arranged by tom wallace sound clip