Chief Raisin

Cold water ran through his hair, and dropped to the tub floor. He looked down at his dink, "the chief raisin," he called it. Bite-size, tiny, wrinkled, yet proud; a chief raisin if there ever was one. Wouldn't look out of place wearing a tiny tuxedo, or riding shotgun in a convertible with a flashy pair of shades on. The chief raisin was his dinker, to hell with any damn whore that had a problem with it.