It's Not Equal at All!

IT'S NOT EQUAL AT ALL!

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part Eight

When we arrived at the Johnson's I almost gasped in amazement: it looked almost as big as the Club itself, a huge white porticoed mansion surrounded by acres of manicured lawns. As we got closer I could see dozens of slaves scurrying about carrying stuff out to tables which had been set on the lawns, each with a flower-decorated awning over it. Walter saw me looking open-mouthed in astonishment at the scene, and remarked "Old man Johnson is really pushing the boat out on this one! His wife really wants to make her mark in society, and with that daughter of theirs coming up to eighteen they must be hoping that they might find a suitable son-in-law. If I was a couple of years older my folks would be pushing me at her - they're worth a stack of money, and I'd be set up for life. And there'd be no risk, either - money from slaves is kind of recession proof: in fact, quite the reverse, as the worse things get, the more men are enslaved and the more

Johnson's profits go up."

"What does he do then?"

"He's the State's official slave processor. When the courts sentence you to enslavement, it's Johnson guards who take you down, Johnson slave transporters that take you to his facilities, Johnson people who register you and prepare you for sale, and then you go up onto the auction block at a Johnson facility. I don't think he actually deals in slaves - just processes them, for a fee. As I say, it's recession proof. So most of the studs in the neighbourhood will be after the daughter."

"Oh, come on, you don't go after a bitch just for the money.... You might want a casual fuck, but for life, well... Well I guess you've got to have love..."

Walter laughed. "How unsophisticated you whiteys are! Getting hitched 'for love'! I suppose that's why your barrios are always swarming with pickaninnies. When we do it, it's a family thing, a joining of two sets of people for good reasons, like business. Then a couple of kids - 'the heir and the spare', and you've fulfilled your obligations so you're free to play the field again."

"Oh come on, Walter, people don't behave like that...."

"Some of the very best in Society certainly do. Look at the number of film stars who do, and the British Royal Family... Didn't you learn about all the scandals at the start of the century?"

One of the party planners came up at that point before I could ask more, so I said goodbye to Walter, and he drove off. I saw that he and Rory where chatting and joking as he did, and I assumed they were probably laughing at me and my unsophisticated attitudes.

The party planner wasn't used to dealing with free whiteys, evidently, as she kept dropping into "slave mode" and commanding me to do things, rather than asking my opinion as an experienced valet; and by calling me "boy". We quickly established though where the guests were to unload from their vehicles, and she then took me to the "holding area" - which was actually quite some distance away. I told her that it looked as if it might be difficult, as if there were many simultaneous arrivals I wasn't sure there'd be time to get ponies to the holding area and get back, and she said curtly "Typical of a whitey! Always inventing problems", and left me to manage.

Fairly typical of the niggers' attitude to slaves was the fact that the holding area was just a blank stretch of lawn. Even though the sun was beating down there was no provision for the poor guys to stay out of it and cool off: the guests had flower-bedecked awnings, the slaves nothing. Worse still, there were no facilities for pissing, and more importantly, for "watering" them - after a long journey in the heat they'd be parched, and if they couldn't be watered, they would be under huge stress on their way home. I scouted around a bit, and the slave system did at least help me in one way: I found a gardener, and even though he said he was doing something else, I ordered him to come with me. I watched him closely (so he couldn't go off and do something else) as he found a hosepipe, connected it to a tap and ran it out to the holding area. I then made him dig over an area to provide some soft soil - the ponies could I suppose piss onto the

grass, but those that needed to crap had to have somewhere to do it without the droppings causing offence. That done, I went back to the front and awaited the arrival of the first guest.

Actually, I managed quite well, but only because the ever-obliging Jack was one of the first arrivals. I think I've told you that he was a "trusted" pony who wasn't shackled to his trap, and as he evidently hadn't come far and was one of those energetic kind of men who can't stay still, he was eager to help me. So I was able to take the vehicles as they arrived away from the arrivals point to just around the corner, and then Jack would run with it to the holding area. And, ever caring for his fellow ponies, he spent a whole lot of time with the hose watering them, and splashing them with the water to help keep them cool.

I wanted to give Jack a present of some sort for all his help, but what do you give a slave? Money would be no use to him as he couldn't spend it, and although he might have enjoyed some sort of special food or candy as a treat, I didn't have any of that. So my thanks would have to do, and at a quiet point in the afternoon I sought him out to have a chat.

Jack didn't seem quite as cheery as he usually did, though, and looked a bit pinched and drawn. There were those signs of tiredness about the eyes, and I hoped that having him help me that afternoon wasn't the cause. But as we spoke, Jack told me that he'd been allocated to a new owner "The fucking son of the house, Steve!" - I always let Jack call me "Steve" rather than "sir", as he was a nice guy and I enjoyed our conversations: they wouldn't have "flowed" as well if there had been an artificial barrier between us, and as it was, it could be tough as he stood nearly naked with only that tiny pouch preserving any bit of modesty.

"...He's just turned sixteen and so he's old enough to be allowed to drive on the public roads by himself. So for his birthday my owner "gave" me to him: he can't officially own me until he's eighteen, thank Christ, but in all other respects I'm his as no-one else in the family now uses me. The school run isn't so bad, except that he's a a lazy little shit and never on time so I have to take it as if it were a race, rather than a nice steady jog. And during the rest of the day I can lurk around the school chatting to some of the other guys who are also allocated to the kids. But it's the evenings and weekends...."

I wasn't sure that Jack ought to be referring to his owner's son as a "lazy shit" and wondered whether to rebuke him. But we were supposed to be kind of buddies, so I said nothing and looked questioningly, to hear more.

"Don't get me wrong, Steve, it's not the work I'm objecting to - all the running around from cafe to cafe, house to house, party to party as he has a very active social life as you'd expect for a rich nigga. And I don't even mind that a lot of nights he's so drunk that I have to help him into the trap..."

"Drunk? At sixteen?"

"Sure! He's a rich nigga, as I said. And of course he throws up over the trap, and sometimes even over me if I'm not careful. I guess you expect that kind of behaviour from kids with a lot of money. No, it's the fact that he's a mean bastard - and he likes to be 'in fashion'."

As he said this, Jack turned around, and I almost gasped in astonishment as his shoulders and back were covered in ugly red stripes. But even worse, running across his ass, were four deep, ugly red marks - lines which appear to be scabbed, as if there had been bleeding all along them.

"See, Steve? My back? Even though I'm running as fast as I can, or as fast as it's safe to in the traffic around the school, he's mad on speed and slashes at me all the time with the carriage whip. There's no point, as I'm an obedient guy and do my best - but if he doesn't turn up at school with the whip cracking and me flat out so that we can screech to a halt, and with me totally covered in sweat and gasping for breath, he doesn't think he's 'arrived' to make a show for the chicks. It really hurts, I can tell you, and it's so fucking pointless..."

"But your ass.... That doesn't look like a whip......"

"No, Steve, it isn't. That's a punishment cane - you know, really thin so it cuts in to you, and then leaves a scar like that. I guess I have them for life."

I felt bewildered, and didn't quite know what to say. I mean, I'd always had Jack marked down as an obedient kind of guy, and yet he'd been punished, punished severely. But I couldn't make no comment at all, so I muttered "Tough. But I expect you deserved it....."

I was shocked at Jack's reaction. His voice was so loud that some of the other ponies turned to see what all the commotion was about. "Deserved it? No Way" You've got to be Joking!"

"Calm down, Jack, people are looking...."

"Listen, Steve, there's no way I deserved what he did to me. It's another of those macho things that kids of his age want to do - show they're tough and in charge, by beating a slave. So one night when I'd pulled him home after school, some of his buddies came around to enjoy the pool. I guess they had a few beers, and then a slave came to the stables and told me I was needed around there. I was actually looking forward to it as I like to swim, and I thought it was because they wanted to see my body in action."

"Me too, I like swimming...", I added, wanting to keep the conversation going.

"As soon as I entered the pool area two of the guards grabbed me - the family employ a few big niggers in case there's trouble amongst the slaves - dragged me over to a flogging horse, and threw me over it. It was useless to struggle - they knew what they were doing and instantly fastened the wrist and ankle straps."

"What's a flogging horse?"

"Oh... I guess you don't know, not being a slave owner. Well it's a kind of thick plank on four sturdy legs. You're pushed down on to it and it runs from about your navel to your neck, so your head hangs over one end and your groin over the other. There's leather cuffs at the base of all the four legs, just simple things as once they're fastened around your wrists and ankles there's no way you can get them undone. You just have to lie there."

He looked at me quizzically, and I nodded, trying to imagine what Jack's body would look like lying there. "So I guess your ass is kind of stuck into the air...?"

"Yes, Steve. There's a thick leather strap they can fasten around your body if they want you totally immobile - like when they brand a low-level field slave, or when a master doesn't want you to move too much as he's going to fuck you - you're totally exposed, you know, as you can't move your legs together or anything because of the cuffs."

"Brand a low-level field slave....?" I must have looked as surprised as I sounded, as I had no experience of that sort of thing: poor whiteys like us didn't go out into the countryside.

"Yes, of course. All slaves doing mass work like that are branded, in case they escape. But look, do you want to hear what happened, or explore the way slavedom is implemented?"

"Go on...."

"Anyway, I knew I was probably in for a beating as they don't use the body strap for that: although your wrists and ankles are cuffed, there's some 'play' in your arms and legs and so your body can thrash around as they beat you. It's meant to add to the excitement, they say - the excitement for the master, that is! My stable mate who was caned a few months ago as he didn't stay where he was left and went to find some shade says it's worse, to have some movement, as each time the cane strikes your body jerks away in the vain hope it can break free. It kind of adds a psychological aspect to the physical. If you're totally immobile with a belly strap as your owner rapes you, you know there's no escape. But when your body can move, you think there's some hope, and you struggle even though the cuffs are holding you."

Jack held out his wrists to me and I saw there was bruising and chafing there, evidently from where he had been desperately struggling to try to free himself. I nodded sympathetically, and Jack went on "So there I am, trying my best to make myself comfortable, and my driver and his buddies come swaggering over. He's swishing this cane through the air, and even I know enough to know that this was going to be terrible - it wasn't one of the thicker malacca ones like the one that had been used on my stable mate - that hurts like hell at the time and for the next few days, but doesn't do a lot of damage. No, this one was all springy and plastic-looking, so I guess it was one of the semi-professional mylar ones."

"So my driver starts to tell his buddies how he's going to really thrash me. His dad had said that I couldn't be branded, as it would reduce my value, but he wanted to 'leave his mark on me'. All his buddies cheered then, and I asked him, very politely, what I'd done to deserve a beating. 'Not a thing, Jack' - he was laughing as he said it. 'Not a fucking thing - until now! You've spoken, without being asked a direct question. And you know ponies aren't allowed to do that. So now I'm going to beat you for it'."

"That's terrible! He had no reason to do it, and now was using an excuse..... That's not fair!"

"Who said anything about an owner punishing a slave being 'fair'? Look, Steve, if an owner wants to beat a slave, he can. He has he right to, as he owns him. And it's especially easy when his dad employs two huge niggers to force you onto the flogging horse! Anyway, there they are, all laughing, and one of them asks my driver if he's going to leave my pouch on me. There's a lot of discussion about this as the string runs up my ass crack as you know, and they decide to strip me of my last remaining shred of decency anyway, as one of they said that he'd heard that a guy gets an erection when he's beaten, and he'd like to see if it was true."

I could hardly contain my curiosity. "And does it?"

"Yes, actually. But that's not the point!"

Actually, I thought I'd like to see Jack's tackle, too, erect or not. I could observe that the tiny pouch concealed something that looked more than adequate, but it's kind of interesting to know what a compact, muscular guy like Jack would actually pack. But I nodded, to show I was still listening, and he went on "Look, Steve, I've got nothing to be ashamed of. I'm not as well hung as some of the really big drays in the stables, but for a guy with my physique, I'm pretty impressive. And it was only other guys standing looking, after all - and we've all got dicks and balls, haven't we? It's not as if I had to be naked in front of women. But when you're lying there helpless, and some sixteen year old pulls off the last little bit of concealment you're allowed, it's pretty humiliating. And to make matters worse, my driver then stood by me and started to poke at my dick with the end of the cane, separating it from where it was stuck to my balls with

sweat, and kind of 'teasing' it. All his buddies were watching and I knew they'd see me through my parted legs, too. I don't know how long it would have gone on for if one of them hadn't said to my driver that he should stop playing with my dick as otherwise it wouldn't be a good test of whether the beating made me go erect."

I tried to look sympathetic, although I found the idea of looking at Jack's butt bent over, with his tackle hanging there between his open thighs, rather exciting. Don't get me wrong - it's not because I'm gay or anything like that, it's just that, like all guys, I'm interested in other guys' bodies from a general comparison point of view with my own.

Jack continued "And then one of the buddies pointed out that when slaves were beaten at his place, they always had a butt plug inserted, 'to avoid accidents'. I don't suppose anyone has ever forced a butt plug up your ass, Steve?"

"No, of course not!"

"Well I recommend you do everything to avoid it! This one was hard black rubber, and my driver took a sadistic delight in showing it to me - I couldn't believe that anything that big could go up my ass, but he bothered to 'reassure' me that because it was tapered he'd not tear my ass. And he pointed out how far in it would go, showing me the indentation that my ass would grip around. And then he did it - and I screamed, as he didn't know what he was doing and he went much too fast, pushing it in directly rather than screwing and twisting it, so my ass didn't have time to accommodate it. Not only was I hurting now, but I hated all these boys looking at the end of that black thing sticking out of my ass - it was so thick that I couldn't squeeze my ass cheeks together. It got worse, too - his buddies, having heard me scream like that, said I needed gagging. Look, Steve, I don't want you to think I'm a coward...."

"No, of course not....."

"...But when someone rams something huge up your ass it really hurts, hurts in a way you can't describe. I hope no-one ever does that to you. Still, they told my driver to gag me in case my noise alerted his dad or something - I am a valuable slave, you know, Steve, and I reckon my actual owner wouldn't want me permanently marked. Well, I know he wouldn't, as he hadn't ordered me to be branded when he bought me. So, anyway, my driver picked up my pouch and stuffed it into my mouth - it was vile, as I'd been working hard all day and it was really soaked with my sweat and all that stuff from around my dick and balls - and tied it there around my head with the string that had been up my ass crack a few moments ago. All his buddies laughed at him for doing that as they said there's no way they'd touch something that had been up my ass. That really seemed to piss him off, and so he turned, and the next moment I heard the swish of the cane through the

air...."

"Go on!", I said to Jack, as he'd stopped, just like that, in the middle of his narrative.

"I don't want to talk about it, Steve. Look, my driver was a sixteen year old, a guy who liked the gym and stuff - pretty strong. And a mylar cane's terrible - thin, kind of 'whippy', and terribly, terribly strong. So when it hits the unprotected bare muscle of your butt, it hurts. Really hurts. Hurts in a way that you can't even begin to imagine. My whole world exploded into pain as that first stroke cut in to me. I know I was screaming into my gag, and I carried on screaming as he laid three more on to me - by the end, I wasn't so much screaming as I'd broken down into incoherent uncontrollable sobbing. I could feel my body thrashing up and down on the plank of the flogging horse as I tried to move out of the way, and my wrists and ankles were getting torn and cut as I desperately tried to free them from the cuffs - but it's no use: they know a thing or two about slave control, and you can't get out of it."

"Fuck me...."

"...anyway, after four strokes one of his buddies told my driver he'd better stop."

"That was nice of him - it's good to see there are some humanitarians around, even in that crowd of rich niggas!"

"Not really, Steve. He told my driver that four strokes gave me 'nice even scarring' and that if he did any more, it would 'spoil the effect as all the scars would merge'. I couldn't really believe it, Steve - my driver was doing this just to mark me - he was deliberately cutting into my flesh so that he and all his buddies could see me permanently scarred. And for no reason!"

"That's terrible!" I didn't know what else to say. It was outrageous, really, that a guy could be harmed like that, just to amuse his owners. I thought of Walter and the easy relationship he had with Rory, and couldn't imagine him doing something like that to Rory. But then a thought struck me - Jack's driver was only the same age as Walter - so Walter could, if he wanted to, beat scars into Rory, and there wasn't a fucking thing Rory could do about it.

"They left me then, to go and play stupid games in the pool. I was gasping for breath through the gag as my nose was full of snot - in fact it was dribbling out of my nose. And I could feel blood trickling down my thighs - and that soon attracted swarms of flies! Anyway, that was a week ago, and I'm just about recovered. I was made to run the following day even though that tore the scabs that had formed and more blood ran all over the place - I think my driver was particularly pleased when he turned up at school that day, as a lot of the kids clustered around to get a good look. But now it's mostly OK - it still hurts, but the dreadful, agonising stinging has gone away and it's now a general dull pain. Actually, it's done me good today, helping you.... It's made me work my muscles a bit more, and the more I do, the easier it seems to get."

I really wanted to do something for Jack, but, as I said, what good was money to him? And I didn't have any nice food. "Look... Jack.... That's terrible, being beaten like that just so you'll be permanently scarred. I'll go into the Slave Authority tomorrow and lodge a complaint on your behalf...."

Jack stood there and looked at me as if I was some kind of idiot. "Lodge a complaint? What about?"

"Well, well, there must be something.... That's 'Cruel and unusual punishment', I reckon. And that sort of thing is prohibited in the Constitution. I'll look it up. I mean, the founding fathers were pretty far-sighted and wanted all men to be treated as equals."

Jack just laughed. "Oh, Steve, you're so fucking naive! Yes, all men might be equals. But do you feel equal to the niggers? And, in any case, that refers to 'men'. I'm a slave, remember? And none of that stuff applies to slaves. You'll find that an owner has the right to deal with a slave's body in any way he wants - it's his property, after all."

"No, that can't be right....."

"It may not be right, but it's the law.", Jack added with an air of finality.

I'd have gone on talking to him, but the party organiser appeared at that moment and snapped at me "The first guests are ready to leave, boy! I can understand that a whitey like you would want to waste time with the slaves, but that's not what we pay you for!". So, concerned not to lose my wages, I went back out around the front and started to do the valeting job.

When it was Jack's turn to leave, I was expecting to see some sort of sulking, bully-boy - one of those gross, fat niggers who is unable to control his food intake so gets grossly fat, and then takes it out on the world - driving him. Instead he was slim and elegant, just like Walter, and I began to wonder if even decent, respectable folk could turn into monsters if they were given arbitrary and unchecked power over others.

With Jack gone, I really had my work cut out to deal with the other guests leaving, and at the end of the afternoon I was quite exhausted. The party planner came and paid me, so that cheered me up though, and then I sat for a few moments under the elegant portico, in the shade, enjoying the lush green lawns and the activities of the scurrying slaves as they began to clean up and pack away the tables and awnings. Giving a big party like that must be fun if you can afford it, and have slaves to do all the work, I thought.

"Hey, boy! Don't you know to stand up when a mistress is here?", a loud voice called, and, surprised, I scrambled to my feet.

The voice belonged to a tall, thin negress, about my age, I reckoned, although it's difficult to tell as bitches look older than guys, I always think. And niggers look different to us.

"I'm no slave! So mind your manners!"

"You certainly look like a slave", she retorted. "You're a whitey, and I've seen you all afternoon talking to the ponies, and doing slave work."

"Well I'm not. I'm as free as you are."

"I haven't seen you in school....."

"Probably because I go to school downtown, and I guess you're out here somewhere?"

She nodded, and added "But we do have some whiteys in our school - there's a busload of them brought in every day."

I'd read about that, as this 'bussing' was supposed to ensure integration in the system. But it didn't work very well, as the kids didn't want to leave their buddies and join a load of rich snobs.

"Well I'm not one of them."

"So as well as working like a slave, what else do you do?"

"Play football, swim, gym, hang out with my buddies....." I looked at her, and in spite of her black skin, she didn't look bad. ".....and date the occasional lucky bitch, of course."

"Why do you say 'lucky'?"

"Hey, a stud like me? Who wouldn't want to date me?"

"Most of the girls in my class wouldn't! Who'd want to be seen on the streets with a whitey? But I'm not as prejudiced as them - I can look beyond you being a whitey, and see you're kind of OK looking. So what's your name, anyway?"

"Steve."

"I'm Sh'Kwala."

"One of those stupid black names!", I said, laughing a bit, to try to show I was at ease and not intimidated by her.

"You mean a name that reflects our proud heritage, not some whitey trash name like Steve! That's a slave name, if ever there was one. Most slaves have short names, you know."

I shrugged (but thought she might be right - Brad, Rory, Jack). "It suits me. And I'm not a slave. I'm as free as you."

"But not as rich as me!". She laughed as she said this, and I remembered Walter telling me there was a daughter coming up to eighteen who was to be married off. So she was older than me, as I'd just turned seventeen at that point, but, as they say, if you don't ask, you don't get. And there's nothing intrinsically wrong with a bitch being older than you, or the wrong colour.... And all this work around the slaves was making me horny as hell - it was all those male pheromones from their nearly-naked bodies, I guess.

"I'd appreciate a drink - it's hot. Or if you wanted to go and get a soda someplace with me...."

"My, Steve, you are forward, aren't you? Two minutes in, and you're asking a girl on a date...."

I nodded, smiling a bit, as this looked like a pushover. "So tell me, before I agree to go anywhere with you.... Is it true what they say about whiteys?"

"What do they say?"

"Oh, you know: that there's only one thing on a young whitey's mind most of the time..."

I smiled again. "No, that's not right. It's on my mind ALL of the time.... Especially when there's a bitc... a lady like you around."

She smiled now. "So are you experienced, Steve? I need a man, you know, not a boy....."

"Try me, and see. The proof of the pudding's in the eating, as the old saying goes."

"So is the other thing they say about whiteys true, too?"

"Oh, and what else do they say?"

She giggled a little now. "You know.... Well, that whiteys are.... Well, you know, that they're not...."

Laughing's always a good sign I think. So I grinned back "..not what?"

"...Not as 'big' as a nigga! Everyone always says that niggas are 'big', but a whitey the same size and weight will be kind of 'smaller', I suppose."

Hey - this bitch was a real prospect. All this talking around the subject of dicks. She must like sex, or she wouldn't be talking like this: well bred nigga bitches were known to want to keep their virginity for the marriage bed. On the other hand, perhaps she wanted someone to pop her cherry... Either way, it looked good for me. I felt my cock stir in my boxers.

"I can't honestly say. I don't go around looking at guys like that. But, personally, I've never had any complaints about my 'size'. And, anyway, there are only whiteys at my school. You niggers don't come down there, irrespective of whether they're 'bigger' or 'smaller'."

"Oh, so you're experienced then are you, Steve?"

"Enough...."

"Well, Steve, I think you'd better let me find out if I agree with any of your former conquests...."

It had never been this easy! Never! As I've told you, I'd fucked around a lot, but it always took at least a couple of dates and a whole lot of messing around before we got down to the serious business.

She turned and walked away, telling me to follow her, but not too closely in case any of her folks were looking, adding "...not that there's much danger really, as you blend in with all the slaves around the place."

How fucking insulting, I thought! Still, she could be made to pay for it, once I was fucking her. I'd show her what a whitey could do, a whitey who was probably bigger than most niggers, I reckoned, regardless of whether he "blended in" with slaves, or not.

She led me across the lawns, through a wide shrubbery that merged into near forest, then along narrow paths. There was an amazing smell of freshness and "greenery", and as it was so warm, even under the trees, I pulled my shirt off. Exposing my torso to the air made me feel even more sexy and more determined to show this bitch how a proper man would behave, especially as she was irritating me more and more by striding ahead and never bothering to look back. She was clearly so confident that I'd be after her that she didn't need to look - was this what happened when you were used to total obedience from slaves, I wondered.

We came to a small summer house, now well away from the main gardens and the house, and she opened he door. I went to kiss her, but she pushed me away.

"I like what I see so far, Steve! You've got a nice body, for a whitey - and it's kind of cute, with those big dark nipples against your white skin - quite different from a proper nigga look. But I don't want your sweat all over my clothes. So let's have a look at the rest of you first, before I decide what I'm going to do with you."

What a stupid bitch! "Before she decided what she was going to do with me"! Didn't she know that it was guys who made all the running in sex, that it was me who was going to tell her what I wanted? But I decided to play along with her a little longer, until we were too far gone that she couldn't back out.

"Come on, Steve! Are you ashamed of that whitey body of yours?", she called, teasing me, and licking her tongue all over her lips very seductively.

"Ashamed? Me? You've got to be kidding...." I unbuckled my belt and opened my slacks and let them drop to the floor. I ran my hand seductively over the front of my boxers - they were already tented out with the understandable excitement I was feeling. Then, as she continued to look, I pushed the boxers down - and my dick, as it usually did, sprang out, fully erect, and almost slapping up against my belly it was so hard.

"So, is this up to expectations..... For a nigga, even?" I asked.

End Of Part Eight.