The Executioner's Song by Norman Mailer

wouldn't even have looked happy on a black pimp, and Gary wore it with the brim tilted down in front and up in back like the Godfather might wear it. He'd stood outside on her mat, his body slouched, his hands in his pockets, and kicked the base of the door.
                    "Why don't you just lift the latch?" Brenda had asked in greeting.
                    "I can't," he'd said, "my hands are in my pockets," and waited for her to applaud the effect.
                    "It's a pretty hat," Brenda said, "but it doesn't fit your personality. Not unless you've turned into a procurer."
                    "Brenda, you're rotten," he'd said, "you're really ignorant." His whole posture was gone.
                    She had done it to him again. It didn't strike him well that she didn't like Nicole's tattoo any more than his hats. He got up to leave then, and Brenda walked them to the door. Coming outside, she was also surprised by the sight of the pale blue Mustang.
                    That was enough to restore him. Didn't it have to be fantastic, he told her. He and Nicole had both bought exactly the identical model and year. It was a sign.
                    She was in all wrong sorts the rest of the day. Kept thinking of the tattoo on Nicole's ankle. Every time she did, her uneasiness returned.
                    The worst story Gary ever told came back to her now. One night in Brenda's living room, he couldn't stop laughing as he told about a tattoo he put once on a convict named Fungoo.
                    "He was strong and dumb," said Gary, "and he loved me. One time when we were in Isolation, Fungoo was on the cleaning detail, so he was able to walk past my cell. Damn if he didn't ask me to do a rosebud on the back of his neck. I took out my needle and my india ink, and instead of a rosebud, tattooed a real skinny little dick on him and peanut-sized balls.
                    "Well, his mother and dad was coming next day. When he found out what I'd done, he went crazy. He had to see his folks with a towel wrapped around his neck. It was over a hundred that morning. Told them he liked to wear a towel in the heat," said Gary. Now, he laughed so hard he almost fell off the couch.
                    "But Fungoo was so dumb he wouldn't get mad at me. Came back and said, 'Gary, I can't go around with a pecker on my neck.'
                    " 'Okay,' I told him, 'I'll make it into a snake.' Only I got inspired and made it into a big three-headed cock. It had the ugliest warts you ever laid eyes on. I couldn't hardly keep from laughing all the while I was doing it. 'Make sure it's a nice snake,' Fungoo kept saying." Gary was laughing uncontrollably. Right in their living room the memory was still living in his veins. " 'Oh,' I said, 'I believe this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.'
                    "When Fungoo finally got to see it with a mirror, he went into shock. Couldn't even hit me. We'd had some hash smuggled into Isolation, and he decided I was bombed out of my head. He blamed the weed, not me. The last time I saw him, he had tattooed a giant rattlesnake all over his neck to cover the three pricks. He didn't trust anybody by then so he done it with soot and water." Brenda and Johnny's smiles had become as congealed as the grease on a cold steak.
                    "Guess that's an ugly story, huh," said Gary. "Yeah," he said, "a couple of times I got to feel bad about it. It sure fucked up Fungoo's world. I guess I must have racked up real bad karma on that one . . . but couldn't resist." He sighed.
                    It was exactly five weeks and two days since he had come to them from prison. Now she could believe the story. "God, how can he be so horrible?" she asked Johnny now. "How could he have done that to a man