The Incontinuity of His Mother's Blood

Abstract

I saw Bass Catcher flexing his biceps in the shower. Each arm was raised slowly then cocked with a fist near his ear. He let the tension flow down his back, easing the arms back out and repeating it over and over. I went over and took my leak, being careful not to dribble on myself but not caring if I pissed on the floor or on the wall. My pants were tight and faded--a pair of Levi's I stole off some half-cocked big shot one night when I had a few extra warrior points in my pocket. So I couldn't zip up all the way and at that time I was out of clean underwear. I really didn't care. On my way out I glance towards the shower and see Bass Catcher flexing flexing flexing. The urge overtook me, and I pulled off my shirt and turned towards the mirror. My arms came up, and damn they looked good with rounded curves. But I caught site of that damn belly that the government has been treatying for to build an access road. I pulled the shirt down hard over my head and past the belly and was satisfied by the way an old shirt smoothes big problems. I turn to go out again, and again I see Bass Catcher in the shower, but this time he's flexing his chest and cupping each pectoral in his hands. That was it. I was out of there. But what the hell was that guy doin in there? Bass Catcher. He didn't hear me through the water and the steam so I said it louder. Hey! Bass Catcher! you doin in there? Practicing for ESPN? Well, I said, to hell with him for not hearin me. To hell with ya. And I walked out the bathroom door where Foot was waiting for his chance to get to the pisser, since he got real fired up last night, and I noticed he managed not to leak all over himself for once. Foot shuffled past me while fighting furiously with the fly buttons. He had both hands tearin at those buttons. I thought he might not get the weasel out in time and keep his record of pissing on himself intact. But he did it. Foot was so excited he never bothered to aim. A dark blue line developed on his jeans and ran smoothly to the knee. Ah shit. Hey? What's Bass Catcher think he's doin? Go on and ask him, I said while resting my shoulder against the door to hold it open. Foot hobbled over to the shower, his purple hand dragging the wet leg. He watched Bass Catcher flexing his buttocks in what looked like a quarter squat thrust--arms up, feet shoulder-width apart, bend at the knee and thrust. That purple hand of Foot's dropped the leg and scratched his head. After Bass Catcher repeated this for two more sets of ten reps, Foot finally remembered how to speak. What the hell. Hey, Bass Catcher! the hell!