conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for a book with the title 'Dirty White Boys'
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dirty White Boys
  Three men at McAlester State Penitentiary had larger penises than Lamar Pye, but all were black and therefore, by Lamar's own figuring, hardly human at all. His was the largest penis ever seen on a white man in that prison or any of the others in which Lamar had spent so much of his adult life. It was a monster, a snake, a ropey, veiny thing that hardly looked at all like what it was but rather like some form of rubber tubing.
  Therefore he was Number One on the fag hit parade, but the fags knew to stay away and could only dream of him in private. Lamar wasn't a fag, although, when the spirit moved him, he was a buttfucker. He wasn't a boss con's fuckboy, either, or a punk, or a bitch or a mary or a snitch, and he carried a simple message in the graceful economy of his movements: to fuck with me is to fuck with death itself.
  It helped, of course, that he was also protected by Daddy Cool, the bullet-pocked biker king who ran the Mac's dirty white boys; with Daddy's special mojo protecting him and his own reputation as a man-killer, almost nobody, con or guard alike, messed with him. And it helped that his hulking cousin Odell stood ready to back him up on the dime if it went down hard. But mainly it was just Lamar and his attitude. He was the prince of the.
  It was four o'clock in the afternoon, on a day like any other in the institution's melancholy history as Oklahoma's toughest prison. In the guard quarters, through two levels of security off the D corridor, Lamar turned on the shower and let the water hit him. Its blast struck his bulging muscles, washed the sweat away. This was his favorite moment of the day, and as a ranking lifer, he had earned the right to a private second or two in the hack's shower before lockup. It meant as much to him as a million dollars in the bank, and he knew he'd never have a million dollars in the bank. What he had was a nice, fresh bar of Dial soap, which he'd just unwrapped: none of that green liquid disinfectant soap the regular cons used in their showers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: four more paragraphs. End with the sentence ' Lamar parked near the barn, then ambled toward the house.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Richard tried to guess what. It just looked sort of disappointing. The frosting was white, somewhat unevenly applied, but mainly it was that the shape of the loaf of bread wasn't obscured enough. It just looked like a loaf of bread smeared with frosting.
  Everybody agreed that this was a wonderful idea. Richard set to work. Quickly he located supplies: peanut butter to etch the face, two raisins for eyes, smashed bits of Frito to form the mane. Steadily he worked, as the other two hovered over him in the small, warm kitchen. At first it was chaos. But Richard had invested so much over the weeks in lions that he was able to bring the shape out from nothingness, just seem to demand that it emerge from the swirls of peanut butter. And the liquidity of the peanut butter as a medium was interesting: somehow it was more naturally akin to the texture of muscle that he had had so much trouble getting into his drawings. The body-form just seemed to define itself out of the glop, powerful and radiant, vibrant with predatory muscularity. It pleased him.
  Slowly, like a Mediterranean mosaicist adding his last few tiles, he built the Fritos into a mane. Then he added the two raisins. They were too big. It looked stupid. Then he saw a half-opened package of Oreo cookies; Odell liked to pry the Oreos apart and lick the frosting off. He took a cookie out, broke it into bits, and found two of approximately the right size that looked like eyes. Carefully, he placed this last detail where it belonged.
  Just then, they heard the car pull into the yard. Lamar parked near the barn, then ambled toward the house.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last paragraph
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Finally, I should say that though I represent certain Oklahoma State Agencies—notably the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation, and the Oklahoma Bureau of Prisons—the preceding work is entirely fictional and not in any way intended to reflect upon their performance of their duties.