Paul Masson. Hot sauce. Colgate - old and stale as puke. Grease. Newports. Former head. Recovery. Country dirt. Pecans. Cotton. A black fist held high. Hope that one day he'll be able to fit his ex-wives into a nice, cordial sentence. Love. Real love. Man love. Type love that kicks *** when it has to. Sears cologne, OG ****. Some Christianity, but not a lot, not nauseating and obnoxious, more like quiet and almost not there. More Masson. More Newports. Gold fillings; the Midas Touch on his tongue; the ability to blind you in the glow of his breath. Rotten *****. Real rotten. Rotted to viral nostalgia because it tastes like **** and makes him lick the roof of his mouth to get that smell out, just to make room for it again. Chitlins. Obama's saliva. Collard greens with all the vinegar and red pepper in Satan's *******. Herman Cain's armpits. Fear for me. Love for me. Power. Former riverboat porter. The smell of rich white men that talked about ******* while he stood stoically. Strength like you've never smelled before. Human.