Florida Man Novel, Chapter Forty-Four by Mike Baron


They booked Krystal into the Glades County Jail Friday afternoon. The bored woman cop who fingerprinted her said without looking up, “Look who’s back.”

“Nice to see you too, Edna.”

A matron wearing blue latex gloves walked her back to the big holding cell, steel benches bolted to the floor, holding a dozen women. Two huddled in a corner. Six sat rapt in front of the flat screen TV behind the chain mesh grill tuned to The Shopping Channel. The other four sat by themselves. As the door slammed shut behind Krystal, a big, wiry black woman who looked like she played pro basketball stared at her in amazement. For an instant, Krystal thought she was going to get in a fight, but the woman’s expression morphed into delight.

She came right up. “Ain’tchoo the Black Dildo?”

Krystal put a hand to her face. “I am so embarrassed.”

“What for, girl! You should hold your head up! I watched that video myself about a dozen times, and everybody I know loves it! They should give you some kind of medal!”

The woman turned to the room. “Hey! Y’all know who this is? This is the Black Dildo!”

She grabbed Krystal’s hand and held it up like the winner of a fight.

Every woman except one sad soul in the corner stood and applauded.



They crowded around, reaching out to touch her as if she had special properties.

“How you like that big black cock?” asked a wan white woman with a blue neck tat.

“It was a wedding gift. I got me a real man. I don’t need no lady’s aid.”

“I hear that!” whooped one.

A dyke with a shaved skull and a nose ring closed in. “You swing my way?”

Krystal smiled. “Nope. Sorry!”

The basketball player stuck out her mitt. “Airwrecka Jones.”

“Krystal Duba.” They shook. Then everybody else wanted to shake, high-five and fist bump.

Airwrecka pushed people back. “All right, all right, give her room. Whatchoo in for?”

“I tried to buy wine with my food stamps. So they called the manager and I threw a frozen lobster at him. Then the cops chased me and I went into a canal.”

Airwrecka nodded sagely. “Been there myself. Now look here. You got name recognition, girl. I don’t know who put up that video, but you a private person. You got the right to your own video. People will pay big bucks to advertise. You got a youtube channel?”


“Who put up that video?”

Suddenly, Krystal saw things clearly. “Jen. Jen put up the video.”

“Who Jen?”

“My best friend.”

“She ax your permission?”

Now Krystal was getting mad. “You’re right! That’s me on the video. I didn’t give her no permission!”

“You should sue her.”

“No, she ain’t got shit. What I should do is take over ownership of that video and start selling ads, like you said.”

“Now you’re talkin’. Now omma do your hair.”

A female guard came up to the gate. “Duba, it’s your call.”

Krystal perked right up. “Who? What?”

“It’s your turn. You get one phone call.”

The guard accompanied Krystal to a wall phone where she phoned her mother.

“Trixie, it’s Krystal. I’m in jail again.”

“Whazzat you on the news?”

“What for?”

“Crazy lady waving a lobster.”

“Yeah. Can you bail me out?”

“How much?”

“A thou.”

“Jesus, Krystal honey, I ain’t got that kind of money and neither does Stanton. Did you call Gary?”

“Gary’s out of the country right now. You call him. He should be back this evening.”

“What do you mean out of the country?”

“He took a job to fly down to Mexico City and bring something back.”

“What do you mean, bring something back? He ain’t involved in drugs now, is he?”
“Of course not! It’s just a favor for a friend.”

“Well I’ll try him right away, but he ain’t got any money neither.”

When Krystal got back to the holding cell, Airwrecka went to work braiding her hair into corn rows, using a comb. First she washed Krystal’s hair in the stainless steel sink, using liquid soap from a dispenser in the wall.

“Then I part the hair in rows from front to back,” she explained as she went to work. “Then I divide the first row into three small sections, and make the first braid stitch…”

“How do you know this?”

“I got a degree from the Fuhrman School of Cosmetology in Miami. I’m licensed to braid, dye, cut, and curl. I been workin’ at Miss Thing’s Hair Salon down in South Miami.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“Girl, that’s a long story.”

“We ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“That’s true. Well my man Graham come up with a plan to sell pedigreed papillons.”

“Oh I love papillons!”

“Me too. They are so sweet. Anyhow, what I din’ know, Graham was making up those pedigrees himself. He’s a printer, see, so he knows how to make up all sorts of things. Fake certificates and documents, things like that. He just did it as a goof for his friends all these years, you know, when someone retirin’, they ax Graham to make up a certificate World’s Biggest Crybaby, or World Fart Champion. He make up all these impressive seals and things, you look at ‘em you swear they’re real. There’s elected officials who have Graham’s certificates on their walls and they don’t even know they’re fake.”

“Where’d he get the pups?”

“Well Graham knew a lady breeds ‘em from painting her house. These was unplanned pregnancies. Her papillon and a schnauzer. That’s what tipped ‘em off I think. Those Papillons they didn’t look quite right. They call ‘em ‘Butterfly Dogs’ on accounta the ears, but these here, they was more like moth dogs or somethin’. Anyway, they had moth ears.”

“I told him, Graham. You may as well make up new certificates that say these here are Moth Dogs, and you tell ‘em it’s a new breed, and you’re waiting to hear from the American Kennel Club ‘bout recognition. But he says to me, don’t you worry about it, sweet thing. These people don’t know a Chiuahaha from a pitbull. ‘Cept he was wrong about that, and when this lady tried to verify her pup’s pedigree, the AKC set her straight.

“Graham was ready to give her her money back, but no. She wants to go on Judge Judy. So we got tickets for the show. You can bring one guest. So we fly out there, they put us up in a nice hotel, and then we do the show. She was a nasty bitch, that woman who sued Graham. Her name was Nancy Something, from Palm Beach. She just nasty. She makin’ all sortsa racist comments and shit. She brings the dog. Judge Judy looks at that dog and says, ‘I know dogs. And that’s no Papillon. Judgment for the plaintiff for five thousand dollars. Step out, please.’”

“But that was in Los Angeles,” Krystal said, trying to keep up.

“I know it was, but then I saw that bitch down at the Quik-Mart last night and I put her on her ass.”

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