1.

West didn’t join the Aryans to protect himself from the Blacks.  Shit, he grew up in Detroit–black food, black music, black friends.  He never had a problem with the Blacks.  He joined the Aryans to protect himself from the Whites.  No fence sitting motherfuckers up in here.  Max security.  You fucking kidding?  Just try it, come in all level-headed and friendly, that’ll make everyone want to hurt you.  If you want, be a bleeding-heart liberal open-armed faggot outside the walls, but inside it all came down to the color of your skin.

Sort of.

There were pariahs of all shades.  They didn’t have an umbrella at all.  They didn’t even like each other.

It was bad enough already that West had killed his black dealer’s sister, the one who looked mostly spic anyway, killed her because he was choking her while fucking her.  Held down too hard.  And, like, no fucking way West knew she was fifteen.  Not built the way she was.  Word was already out-West was a microwave burrito once inside.  Two minutes away from getting nuked.  Prize of the month, worth, shit, worth like five other fish. And he’s big news in this new joint, not even half-filled. Yet. Shit, the black don’t even have a cellblock yet, been staying in the gym. Contractors finished the gym before the cells and are still here working after the convicts had arrived. So yeah, it’s all new paint odor getting them high and talking about creative ways to fuck the new guy.

Too bad West was skinny and his face wasn’t meth ugly yet.

The Aryans, that was his rescue.  This guy Al wasn’t going to fuck West.  No, the man said, getting up with West as soon as his guard escort was gone.  A circle of whites keeping watch.  Eyes looking in, eyes looking out.  Al said you don’t build loyalty by raping some hot piece of meat soon as he walks in.  But what a man chooses to do, now that’s different.  So, you know, if you ever feel–

West’s like, Fuck no.  Like, get your fucking hand off my leg.

Al said if West wanted in, he had to do some cosmetic surgery to this femme fucker, former Aryan, sold out their white lieutenant to a black who’d been slamming him in secret.  Al didn’t bother saying what would happen if West said no.

They’re thinking, like, a broken piece of tile sliced through both cheeks, give the faggot more room for black cock, since he’d been taken in by a big ass Black named Ri’Chess.  Get it?  Fucking rap names, fucking initiations, fucking fish getting turned out just like that fucking TV show, the one where the boy genius escape artist somehow kept his asshole from getting bloodied. In two different prisons! Even a Panamanian pit of hell. Just like all those movies. Just like all the stories West heard about prison guards turning their eyes away if the price was right or the convict was shitty enough

So when the Aryans say, “Scar that cocksucker”, West is going to scar that cocksucker.  Leaving dinner.  Makes sure some Whites have his back and slips up behind the guy, fistful of hair, dig/slice left, dig/slice right, drops him while he screams and ragdolls to the tile, then West books it out of there before the guards get wind because after this, everyone’s going to lockdown anyway.

West keeps his mouth shut.  The Aryans keep their mouths shut.  The Blacks keep their mouths shut.  Shit, even those Spic M-13 motherfuckers, tight lipped.  And them being all jammed up in general pop dorm because the fucking cells are cramped and reserved for the even worse than convicts like West, hot as balls, smells like balls, even though it’s fucking ice outside, that shit ain’t cool.  But everyone keeps their mouths shut and sweats it out.

With that, West becomes a trusted white.  Gets a tat.  It gets infected.  He spends three days in the infirmary to get the fever and pus out.  Al makes another pass at West in his weakened state, but West pwns him in front of his gang.  Pwns him bad.  Like, bent over and slapped his own ass, singing, “This the closest you ever beeeeee. Get yourself some Jesus and love some pussy.”

The Aryans, man, they laugh and nod and say, “Amen” and “Hallelujah” even though a third of them are just as guilty-started out getting it from Al or, shit, from Blacks before Al stepped in, took them on, and was at least fucking sweet about it, you know?  Not like you were Al’s bitch all the sudden.  It was just something you did, something you didn’t talk about to everyone else.  It was a bad dream.  And most of those third, to wipe the memory as best as possible, end up fucking someone else younger and newer on the totem.  That’s the game: favors and protection in exchange for a man’s needs.  More bad dreams.

Except those Spics.  Very few drift over that line.  Catholics.  Mary watches them close, Hey-Zeus looking over her shoulder.

Anyway, West fucks that shit up.  The whole gang, right there, laughing and braying and telling Al, “He got you good.  Just funnin’ with you.”

But they know.

Al gives the nod to the one M-13 he’d been with, who knows someone else up the chain, who isn’t unfriendly with the Blacks, whose friend over there–they took a class together–pass the nod along to Ri’Chess himself.

They come to get West after the count at Light’s Out.

Startled awake by two big ass Blacks, one wide and one made of granite.  One blacker than the dark with bloodshot eyes, and the other lighter like copper with stab scars across his arms and chest like ancient runes.  You don’t see Blacks just waltzing into the White bunks without either a war coming on…or permission.  And West knows which it is.  Fucking sold out.  Fucking should’ve known better.  Don’t care what color they are, someone offers protection, the price is always too goddamned high.

Shaking too bad to scream.  He knows screaming would bring guards and lose whatever cred he’s built up.  Not like it fucking matters.  Just in case it still does, in case he survives and finds this was all another part of the initiation, West does as he’s told.  Gets up and walks sandwiched between the soldiers through too many bunks where West feels the open eyes of fellow Aryans who’ll never ever admit to it, giving those slits a little stink eye himself.  Some “I’ll remember this, motherfuckers.  Fucking right.”  Like they ain’t seen that look a thousand times already.  But they understand West still has to pose.  A man’s got nothing if he can’t posture.

Ri’Chess is holding court in his bunk.  Only man in the dorm who had cleared out the top two bunks of a three-tier unit, put up double-thick sheets on all sides, and was left the fuck alone by guards and cons.  The one with the old scars parts the sheets to find Ri’Chess sitting like Buddha, watching Jimmy Fallon on a little flat-screen TV.  Looks clear, like cable.  He has a phone/fax in there.  A Macbook.

He extends his fingers in front of him.  “Have a seat.”

Scars puts pressure on West’s shoulders, easing the boy down, nice and slow.  The bunk is soft.  He has a mattress cover, nice satiny sheets.  Once West is opposite Ri’Chess, mirroring the Buddha squat, Scars closes the sheets.  West can see the two soldiers’ silhouettes by the TV light.

“Fuck they call you?” Ri’Chess says.

Dry mouth.  “Um.  Uh.”

“Something like a motherfucking cowboy or some shit?”

“No, it’s my name.  West.  Last name’s West.”

“Like I said, motherfucking cowboy shit.”

The fuck do you say to that?

Ri’Chess says, “You want to make this problem go away?  Tell me it was all Al’s idea.  Al can take the bite.  Maybe someone over here will, uh, look after you, know what I’m saying?”

Not a fair offer.  Always a trap.  West looks away.  “I’m not a rat.”

“Smart boy.  Good boy.  Nigga could like having him a bitch with sass like that cleaning his bunk.  Sweet bitch.”

West’s cheeks are on fire.  “I ain’t nobody’s bitch.  I’m Aryan.  You’re motherfucking monkeys, man.  Surprised you can even talk in sentences.  You must got white in you somewhere.”

Ri’Chess laughs the whole time West goes off.  Some other blacks listening in, obviously, and they start up.  Whole place starts up.  What are they thinking?  Laughing like that’s going to bring the guards in.

Maybe they want to.  Just going to gut West and leave him and let the guards clean up.

So do it already.  West balls his fists.  Flexes all his muscles, thinking if they shiv him, he can make himself hard like armor, like Iron Man, like a flesh wound is as bad as it would get.  They try to slit his throat, shit, going to drown in his own blood, so that won’t work, but then it would fuck up the bunks.  Ri’Chess looks too proud of his little hotel suite to let that happen.

“Got a proposition for you.”

West blinks. Gut feels sick after all the clenching.

Ri’Chess keeps on. “Got ourselves a man needs to be dealt with. You know? Like, permanent. He needs to be got.”

West knows what’s next. It’s a white man. If West wants any protection at all, he has to kill a white man. And even then, the blacks ain’t promised anything yet.

“What do I get if I do it?”

“You get to be left alone.”

Shi-it. “You can’t promise that. Bullshit, motherfucker.”

Ri’Chess sinks down, takes a breath. That fucking Buddha vibe. Guy is a sea of calm. Zen and shit. “Let me ask you. You scared up in here? You have trouble sleeping? You acted a fool and got your white ass thrown our way. You know why? You stopped being scared. You’ve got to be scared and smart. You wasn’t neither.”

“I’m not scared. Not scared of any-”

Boo! Granite outside, punches the sheet. West nearly falls out the other side, bangs the back of his head into the frame. Scrapes his scalp bloody.

They laugh, laugh, laugh. West so scared he’s about to piss his pants and he’s so angry he’s got Chuck Norris fantasies running through his head-taking out all the niggas with one roundabout kick in slo-mo, yeah, fuck yeah.

Not happening.

Ri’Chess grins while his soldiers keep giggling like they at a slumber party.

“Not scared, boy?”

West cracks his neck, hold his lips hard. “Just on guard, that’s all. You ain’t told me my prize yet.”

“You ain’t done anything yet.”

“Whatever, can I go back to my bunk now?”

The blue light of the TV makes Ri’Chess glow. Makes West realize how many men are listening in, their shadows large and looming on the sheets.

“You’re never going back.”

West’s throat turns dry and there’s a rock in it. “Right. What, you think they won’t notice I’m missing tomorrow?”

“How would you like protective custody?”

Magic. Fucking. Words.

Ri’Chess went on, “Because your child-killing ass just got loosed from your cage, you dig?”

West isn’t cut out for this. Bar fights, some fun on Friday nights? Goddamn, he didn’t have murderer in him. A fucking accident was all. Someone he cared about, not that he could let on. In here, he had to be badass. The girl had to be a piece of ass, nothing more. And her age, finally getting floated around. All the shit about short-eyes getting the worst of it in jail? Kind of true. But only as an excuse to rain down terror without worries of retribution. If all the gangs agree the fucker gets fucked with, it’s open season.

Teenagers, well, not quite the same. Like none of these guys would’ve. Like they never would. Like they hadn’t already. And West got lucky to be taken in before people knew.

Except now, that grace no longer covered thee.

“What’ve I got to do?”

Ri’Chess smiles. Cheeks all rolly-polly. “First, you check in. Second, we get you the tools you need. Third, you get up on this motherfucker and end him. It’s easy to do.”

“Then why haven’t you done it, it’s so easy?”

“Because I got you now.”

West grinds his teeth. The prison meth works on his nerves. Thinking, who’s in PC? Got to be a snitch. That’s where they put snitches. If he can check in there and the road is paved for him, then it’s easy sailing.

“Got a name for me?”

Oh that smile, the TV blue on his swelled cheeks, the man got some sort of enlightened guru shit. Says the word. “Lafitte.”

West says, “Holy shit.”

Because no one thinks of getting Lafitte. That’s not even realistic. He’s a legend. Stone cold woman killer, cop killer, even killed Steel God, the unbreakable leader of the biker gang Lafitte rode with. And a goddamned traitor, too. Had conspired with homegrown terrorists, funneling them money from meth sales, that’s what West heard.

“You want me to do Lafitte?”

“The one and only. You’ll be a hero.”

Head shake. “I heard he’s like a ninja. Can’t even get close to him. He’s got hands that’ll rip your balls off, one tug.”

“A man’s a man.” Ri’Chess glances at the TV. Some skinny bitch actress, making West get that catch in his throat and stiffen up. How’s this nigga get a set-up like this? Sort of thing they give O.J. Simpson, not some guy thinks his name is Righteous.

“You do this,” Ri’Chess’ voice floating softly while West watches the actress, skirt too short, legs shiny and slick, laughing at something while the host stared at her tits, tiny as they were. West hasn’t seen a woman except a guard or two in weeks. “You’ll be king up in PC. Bet they’ll give you a TV, laptop, extra conjugals, so your boyfriend can come see-”

“Fuck you, man.”

“My bad, my bad. I know a pussy lover when I see one.” A gentle laugh. All a joke. How can they plan to kill Public Enemy number three and laugh about it? Maybe that’s all it was, setting West up. But a shot at immortality had to be better than thirty more years of this.

Ri’Chess leans forward, said, “I hear even the food is better.”

West nods. Balls his fists. Yeah, he can do it. Lafitte, guy won’t suspect a thing. West’ll buddy up with him if he can. Do what it takes. Guy would be doing his country a favor, like the guy who killed Oswald. Who was that? Rubies? Diamonds?

“Aw-ight.” Getting into character. “I’m in. I’ll do it.”

Ri’Chess spreads his hands. “Excellent.”

Nervous energy. “So what do I do? Got some fish to shank? You can put out a rumor, right? Say Al is going to kill me? I’ll turn on him, some bullshit like that.”

Buddha shakes his head. “You don’t know shit about shit. None of that’s gonna get you there. You’ve got to be in straight up danger, son. I’m sorry about this, but remember the mission, you got that?”

“What?”

But West can’t get out anything else because giant granite arms reach in, grab him under the armpits and pull him out the cold floor, bad tailbone bruise. But that ain’t what scares him most. He looks up and sees a lot of black men with wide-open eyes and tight jaws saying all sorts of shit, and then he looks up at the Granite Man, his skin faded, nearly blue in the light.  Muscles hard and jagged thanks to the scars and tattoos. West is looking at every inch of him, because the Granite Man is naked. Not a stitch on him except where West can tell the docs stapled up plenty of bullet holes and knife wounds.

In the middle of all that Frankenstein meat, Granite Man’s hand is wrapped around his brutally long, thick, bent to the right cock. Stroking slowly. Eyes on West the whole time.

West’s not fast enough. Two guys grab his ankles and hold his legs up and out. One brings a boot down hard on his balls. And again and again. West cramps like he never has before. Doubles up. They’ve still got his legs. A kick to the knee. Nearly breaks. West closes his eyes and sees colors exploding. Kick to his ribs. Somebody rakes a sole across his face, fucking up his nose, lips, cheeks.

A kick to the head. Green explodes. More kicks to the nuts. Purple and blue and electric black.

So many, like hailstones. He’s watched golf ball sized ice bombs dent up his old Honda, put a hole in the windshield. This has to be the same feeling. Cracking, denting, bruising.

Then West feels his pants being pulled off. Goddamn, so baggy it’s not even funny. Should’ve gone with a size that fit. He grabs at the fabric, tries to hold it up. Someone takes his arms, hold them away. Pants, off. West opens his eyes. Watches a guy toss them across the room. Then his briefs. He squirms and shouts and wonders where the fuck the guards are.

A hand grips him by the back of the neck, forces him up on his knees, then down, down, down, face to the floor. He fights, but the guy’s too strong. West scrambles, reaches for the sheets covering Ri’Chess’ bunk. Pleads. The crowd mocks him. High-pitched, saying Oh, Lawd, that faggot can yell, man. Shakes off the hand on his neck to push on past the sheet.

The TV light flashes on nobody. Empty. Ri’Chess not sticking around to watch.

Hands on West’s shoulders, pulling him out. He grips the sheets, the bunk coming along with him, metal legs screeching on the floor.

Then, two hands on his waist, one yank and West was like a ragdoll. Sheets rip, leaves him with bent fingernails and scraps. He looks over his shoulder. Granite Man was on his knees, holding onto West’s hips, pushing the slick head of his cock against West’s cold bare ass.

The Granite Man is not gentle. He is not kind. He is fucking huge. He pushes up inside West’s ass and it burns. Skin rips and bleeds. West can barely breath. Not supposed to happen like this. They told him all the rape shit, that was just myth. Better chance of getting killed, they’d told him. Fuck, fuck, this goddamned Frankenstein monster ramming and ripping and every muscle in West cramping and him drooling, gagging, wondering how long, how long?

He tries to remember what his lawyer, court-appointed, told him right before they sent him in. Shit, what was it? All he’s feeling is the pressure, like a shit that’s going to tear him up from the inside. The burning that just fires worse and worse with each thrust. What was it? Lawyer said, “Look, if they come after you, ask to be put into protective custody, alright? Don’t be stupid. All you’ve got to do is ask.”

All you’ve got to do is ask.

As he stares at the floor, the bile stringing from his mouth, all his muscles tight to the point of spasm, he thinks But no, you had to play with the big boys, didn’t you?

What’s his mom going to say when she hears about this?

2.

Seven weeks later, West checks out of the infirmary and into PC. Granite Man fucked him so hard it cracked West’s kneecap, had to be pinned together. Weeks of physical therapy. His ass would never be the same again. Lost a lot of blood. They had to pump in some new stuff. He lost twenty pounds, and he was already a scrawny fucker. His hands shook all the time unless he balled up a fist. Good news was all the tests for HIV came back negative. Bad news was he’d limp forever and he couldn’t control his sphincter. West would be shitting his pants without any say in the matter.

But PC…wow.

Fewer people. Quieter. Fucking pervs, most of them, or snitches, so nobody said much. They were polite. The pervs weren’t prison types. Mostly white, pudgy, older. Stereotype, yeah, but here they are. Like six of them. Maybe they aren’t all pervs. The fuck if West is going to ask, that was sure. So he watches them from his chair, the one he had moved against the wall so no one could come up behind him.

So far, a couple of hours here, no sign of Lafitte. He’d been told the man looked like an aging wrestler-bulky but getting flabby. Still had the moves, but it just went to show how important the steroids were. The long biker hair and beard had been shaved, and no one had taken a photo of him since the trial when he was still sporting it.

And which one of these guys will be giving him the tools? No one had approached him. He’s got no clue. He’s jumpy. He’s blinking too much. He hasn’t had any crank in…since…yeah. Just painkillers. All they do is make him stare because he can barely sleep anymore.

Barely.

He’s startled when someone shakes him. Flinches back, yelps. A guard is standing over him. Square-headed guard with slicked-back hair. Big teeth.

Guard says, “Welcome to the Hotel North Dakota.”

West drops his chin to his chest.

“Getting settled in?” The guard looks like a preacher. Something about the hair.

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

“Got you a private room, of course. So you can sleep at night. That’s good. Your prayers answered?”

“Guess so.”

The Guard nods. “Need anything, just ask. You won’t get it, but it’s funny.”

He walks away, trailing some strong aftershave in his wake. West’s chest hammers. He can’t catch his breath for a minute. but at least he knows how he’s getting what he needs.

The Guard comes back before dinner. West is in his bunk, laid back, trying to quell the nausea. Should have gone away, right? Should’ve. Now it’s just worse. Thinking about how a fucking guard is in on this. Like he has a choice now. Like, what could Ri’Chess have done if West got to PC and just…chilled, right? Not going to fucking kill nobody.

Then a guard, man, what the shit?

Guard’s name is Garner and he’s got veins around his temples that West watches pulse like some Superman villain. He pulls out a screwdriver. Or it used to be. The end has been pounded into a razor-thin shard. The shaft was a good foot long. Black tape wrapped the handle.

Garner sets it next to West’s thigh, and West barely lifts his leg, lets the weapon roll underneath him.

Garner nods. “Good boy.”

“So if you want him dead, why haven’t you done it yourself? Call it self-defense?”

The guard’s eyes, too wide. Mouth like a devil’s. “First, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Second, same can be said for you. Now, you’ve got work to do. Doesn’t have to happen today, tomorrow. He’ll be leery of making friends. But don’t take months. Don’t take a year. Get it done.”

West slips his hands behind his head. “You had me fooled, man. Thought you was some kind of Jesus lover or something.”

Garner smiles, and West wishes he hadn’t. It’s all gums, turning sharp at the corners. “Busted. Praise the Lord. This pays the bills, but on weekends I travel around, preach Revivals. Maybe you’ve got a taste of the Holy Ghost in you, picking me out like that. Where did it go wrong for you?”

West doesn’t say what he wants to, that it wasn’t because of any spirit in him. The thing about Garner was that he didn’t look right. Not normal. The holy-rollers, they just can’t seem to fit in. Everything they do and say looks and sounds wrong. And Garner’s aftershave is burning his nose.

“My grandma.” Everyone’s go to answer. “She tried to raise me right. It didn’t take.”

Garner says, “Here, no better place to find those in need of saving.”

“But why do you want to kill a man, then?”

Garner rests his hand on West’s stomach. Sets off alarm bells. More cramps. But West stays still, doesn’t know what happens if you try to fight a guard in PC. Especially the one bringing him a screwdriver. Garner slaps West’s stomach flat, a little pop is all.

“You need some meat on you. Give you some protection. Right now, a shiv would rip all your guts, your organs. There’s no praying them back together. But listen, while we’ve got time, you and me can do a Bible study. Show you back to the path.”

“Okay.”

“Me and some of the fellows. The child molesters. Personally, I think it’s hard for them to shake that demon. Wrapped its tail around their privates and won’t let go no matter how much they repent. It’s sad. So, tell me, what did you do to get in here?”

That soft, moist palm on his skin. The creepy eyes and veins and gums. West tells him, “They can’t prove anything. I’m innocent.”

“Good answer.” Garner takes his hand away, looks over his shoulder. No one around. “The Bible says do not kill, but that means do not murder. And in this case, what we want is justice. A traitor to our country, to Christianity, and to our good sense of decency. Like, I know what you did. I know it was an accident. But what this…thing…did to women and cops was…abominable. That’s the word. God thinks he’s an abomination.”

“God told you that?”

“God showed us the opportunity. That was loud enough for me.” Garner leans closer. Whispers, “Jesus was only one side of the Lord. He left the job of retribution to us.”

West rubs his nose. That fucking aftershave.

Garner say, “At dinnertime, I’ll point him out to you.”

He starts to leave. West sits up and says, “What’s he like? I mean, you know, right?”

Garner stops, puts his hand on the doorframe. “Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was one of us. That’s how the Devil works, you know.”

Then he’s gone.

West walks right up to the table with his tray, approaches from the back. The man is not sitting alone, but he’s not with the guys near him either. He’s hunched over. His hair is a mullet-in-training, curling over his collar, short on the sides. Stupid to sit beside him. West makes a wide detour, going to face him. Side of the face-no sideburns. Patchy hair, not enough to call it a beard. Face scarred from too many fights, too many challenges.

The story was Lafitte, during one week in gen pop, killed six people in self-defense. Two of them guards. It got him six more life sentences-they didn’t want to kill him because they thought he had some intelligence about the terrorists, about the biker gang. But he was a brick wall. In PC, he was polite, quiet, kept to himself. Everyone last one of them-guards and inmates, even the pervs, hated him. It didn’t help that he’d had “Baby Raper” carved into his chest by a jilted lover, they said, even though he’d never laid hands on a child that way.

Maybe he’d been a handsome son of a bitch once. Now his cheeks are swollen and his eyes red and his skin pale.

West swallows hard and sits down, not right across from him, not right next to the others at the table. All by his lonesome. The smell of his food hits him like a fart and he winces. Better food, my ass. Same old slop. But here, at least West knows he’ll be able to eat it without worrying about someone stealing it, or stabbing him, or telling him he couldn’t sit at such-and-such table. Or telling him he had to sit at the Aryan table, now that he had pledged, and the Swastika tattoo on his neck now itches all the time and he thinks of what he can get it turned into when he gets out. Maybe by then they’d have some Star Trek medical shit to take it right off, painless, easy.

He looks at Lafitte. The man has his head down, scrapes his fork around the tray but isn’t eating anything. He wears a T-shirt, too small for him. Pants are tight, too. Not punk tight, not girl tight, but everyone wears the shit so baggy that West is surprised. Looking at some sort of throwback. Doing time Retro-Style.

Lafitte says, only loud enough to be heard, “Stop staring at me.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Didn’t tell you to talk. Said stop staring.”

West looks down. He picks up his bread, takes a bite. Drinks some water. The gravy is already cold and he doesn’t want any of it. Bread. Water. All he needs for now. Only things that keep his stomach from churning.

West says, “I’m new. I’m sorry about, you know, staring. My bad.”

Nothing for a moment. The guy closest to West gets up, tray still mostly full. He walks over to another table and sits, leans over and thumbs back at Lafitte and West. The others at West’s table have topped talking altogether.

Lafitte finally says, “It’s okay.”

“Not looking for trouble.”

His lips move. That wasn’t a grin, wasn’t a scowl. Something. “Let’s just eat.”

West nods, takes another bite of bread. He looks around the cafeteria to find too many eyes on him. Some shy, some eye-fucking. And standing past them all is Garner. West imagines the guard’s eyes are glowing orange like hellfire. Sees a tail whip behind him.

West gulps water before he chokes on bread. Tries a bite of chicken, but it’s gone cold and gummy. Shit. Another night of cramps. His favorite meal of the day is breakfast. It’s the one he actually eats before he remembers what his life is going to be like every day for the next thirty fucking years.

Lafitte finally takes a bite of food. He’s slow about it. Chews slowly. Breathes slowly. West thinks this should be like gutting a walrus. Easy. So why haven’t they gotten him yet? It’s been, what, three years?

West clears his throat, says, “Name’s Bryce.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Just saying.”

“Nobody calls you that in here.”

Fuck, he was right. “It’s what I want to be called.”

Lafitte nodded, turned his eyes towards West. “Good luck with that.”

“You got a name?”

A sigh. “You know my name. You know what I’m about. And you’re supposed to kill me. So let’s get it over with and I can go back to my pad.”

All the eyes on West now. Except Lafitte’s. He takes another slow bite. Why is he so calm? Is this what he wants, to bleed out during dinner.

West has the screwdriver with him, tied to his leg. The damn thing cuts him every time he moves. But what’s he going to say, right? It isn’t a spectator sport. If they all know he’s here to kill Lafitte, then they all know how he got here.

West says, “Bullshit, I ain’t listening to this.”

“Whatever.”

“You calling me a liar?” Bowing up a little.

Lafitte pushes his tray away. “I’m saying you’re supposed to kill me or someone’s going to get to you. You checked in and on day one, you strut right up to me. None of this waiting til I’m alone shit. So I figured you’ll do it and be done with it and I can get some sleep.”

West on his feet. Everyone watching. Had to be a camera in this joint, too, so even more people watching.  He flats his hands on the table top, wide, leans close to Lafitte, dangerous territory, he knows. He says, real low like, “I don’t want to kill you, man. I just wanted out of there. I’m the one worried about being killed.”

Shrug. “You, me, aren’t we all?”

“I’m here to warn you.”

Something like a laugh rumbles through Lafitte. Not much. “Thanks for that. I appreciate it.”

“We cool?”

Lafitte lifts his eyes. Something’s there, something sad. Sad for West? Sad in general? West can tell he doesn’t like looking at people, like no matter who he looks at, it’s still the same dead face. “Sure. Cool.”

West nods, slides his plate closer, the spot across from the biker, and goes to sit.

Lafitte says, “Get the fuck out of here. Get as far away from me as you can, and don’t ever crowd my space again.”

What’s he going to do? West thinks about sitting. Really, gives him an excuse if Lafitte wants to start shit. West has the advantage. But that voice. It digs. It cuts without even getting loud. So West realizes this will take some time, because he doesn’t want to kill this lunatic. He’s got to figure out a way to get out of this and serve his time in peace and quiet. He lifts his tray from the table and starts off. No eyes watching now.

“Leave the food.”

West stands there. Right on the tip of his tongue: Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

But the food smells ripe and his stomach twirls some more so he bangs the tray down and slide it over, walks away with, “I didn’t want none of that shit anyway.”

And he hopes ain’t one of them fuckers saw how bad his hands were shaking.

3.

They come later. That guard Garner doesn’t say a word, just points through the door. West is taking a shit and suspects Garner knew it when he led these guys over. Two of them, one black, one white. The black man looks older, maybe in his Fifties. Lot of hair, frizzy. Has to be a snitch. The white man, one of those slippery, hard-to-pin down ages. Could be twenty-five, could be forty-five. He wears the sort of metal-framed glasses guys stopped wearing in the 80’s.

West covers his junk. “Jesus, what the fuck, man?”

The older man sits on the bunk. The slick one leans against the far wall. Garner waits outside, no even looking into the cell. Not good.

The old black man says, “You gonna kill this motherfucker or what?”

“What, I was supposed to do it there and then?”

“Why wait? We want him gone. You’re the one. You do it.”

West hates being pinned down like this. Wants to pace. Wants to lord over these assholes barging in. Taking a shit these days is a precious and tender thing for West. Ain’t nothing he wants to share.

The slick one mumbles, but West hears, “He gives us a bad name.”

“The fuck, man? What eight-year-old did you fingerbang to get in here, anyway?”

“Eleven. She was eleven. She looked fifteen. Wasn’t that how old yours was?”

The older con shakes his head. “No, no, cut that out. Doesn’t matter. You checked in, he’s not dead yet, and every day that’s true is bad for you. That’s the way it is.”

West cramps. He can’t let it go, though. They’ll hear the gas, the splash, so he clenches and grinds his teeth. Goddamn killing one of his molars, ground away already from four years of meth.

“I knew PC types were pussies, but goddamn, man. You all scared of him.”

“We’re not. It’s just not how it’s done.”

West almost stands, but his muscles won’t let him, not if he wants to hold on. “What is this? Any one of you, uh, like, uh, you’d be a hero. You’ve had three fucking years, man. What gives?”

He realizes as he says it: he’s being set-up. This isn’t just about Lafitte. There’s more to it.  But West can’t figure it. Before he can ask, the older man nods at Slick, who starts going through the stuff on West’s shelf.

“Hey, no, get him out of there. Hey, Garner!” Lifts his ass from the seat just a little. Feels a burn. “Come on, leave my shit alone!”

“I know you don’t have the screwdriver on you.” The older man points, runs his finger up and down the length of West. “So where you keep it? Hm?”

He lifts the pillow and shakes it while Slick throws West’s few magazines and Bible on the floor. West is on and off. Throws his roll of toilet paper at Slick, then regrets it. It bounces onto the floor, rolls out of the cell. The older man is feeling around on the mattress, finds the pocket he’s looking for ,and pulls out the screwdriver. “Here it is, Steve.”

The slick guy named Steve reaches for it, fixes it in his grip, then steps over to West and presses it against his neck. West backs away. The sharp point follows, and then he falls off onto the floor beside the toilet, hands over his head, the smell of his shit slapping everyone at the same time.

“Whoa, boy!” The older man is up and over to the door lickety-split. Slick drops the screwdriver into the toilet and follows. West is splashed on his face and neck. Last words from the older man: “Get it done.”

And then he was alone, filthy, unable to hold his ass muscles any longer. Goddamn it, he couldn’t cry, could he? After all he’s been through, they’d never forgive him crying. Which just makes him do it louder.

Four more days. He stays out of everyone’s way. Not that they stay out of his. Call him “Stank” now. Too many people sneaking up saying, “Boo, motherfucker!” And he jumps and makes the right threats while everyone laughs.

Then Garner shows up and tells West he’s got a job. Starts immediately. “Come on.”

The guard leads him through the harsh-lit halls to a room with several computers in it, cons working away, oblivious to him. Several printers, a projector, a list on the screen-1) Archive files from 1986-88. 2) Make copies, send to Supervisor. 3) Double-check list… and so on. On one end of the room sits Lafitte, looking West’s way. He waves the kid over.

West takes a step but Garner grabs him by the arm and hums “Not here, okay?” before letting him keep on. “Don’t break anything.”

Lafitte keeps pecking as West approaches. “You run a computer?”

Slouches into the chair beside Lafitte. “Sweet. You got internet on this thing?”

“No.”

West thumps the keyboard with his knuckles. “Bullshit man, what’s this shit anyway?  Some sort of job.”

“You get twenty cents an hour. Take it or leave it.”

“I’m not a file clerk.” Crosses his arms and leans way back.

Lafitte stares at the kid a moment before going back to his work. “Most of it is labeling. They scanned a bunch of old records, or got them off floppy discs. We’ve got to re-label them and make backups. Easy stuff.”

“Dull stuff, is what you mean.”

Then Lafitte’s hand is on the back of West’s head, bringing him upright against his will. He doesn’t fight it.

“I told them to hire you for this. You want it or do I throw you back?”

“Why should I do their work for them? They ain’t done nothing for me. I got plenty to do without this boring shit.”

Lafitte takes his hand back, lays it on the mouse and keeps working. He speaks slowly, deliberately. “Trouble is what you do without this…so this…this is what you…um…” Click. “This is what you want. Something boring. Something monotonous. Something that fills up the minutes and hours and…the…days. It keeps you out of trouble. And it makes the time…go…” Click. “…by that much…faster.” Click.

He doesn’t say any more. Just steadily clicks and scans the screen. Drags. Scrolls. West sits with his arms crossed. He looks around. Other men doing the same thing as Lafitte. None of them look like they want to kill each other or West or the biker.

West leans over towards Lafitte. The man smells dark, like the woods at night. “I don’t get it.”

“You wanted to warn me about this hit, okay. I didn’t need to hear it from you, but you made the effort. I appreciate that. So if that…” Click. “…if that batshit preacher guard is giving you a hard time, let’s say I’m returning the favor. I’ll keep an eye out, all right? You don’t breath a word.” Click. “That’s just the way it is.”

West hunches his shoulders. Protection from the guy he’s supposed to kill. Right. Not like they won’t send more after him. West gets it-he’s expendable, whether he kills Lafitte or not. Once he’s out of the way, how will they deal with West? Fuck. He’s supposed to be here for years. Why does it feel like he might not make it through the week?

West puts his hand on the mouse, runs the arrow around the screen, and says, “Show me how to do this.”

Garner’s in his grill. “It’s good, I get it. Get close to him.”

Steve’s at his right. “Wasting time.”

“It wasn’t a rush job.”

“It sure as hell wasn’t a long one, either.”

Garner scrunches his eybrows-thick caterpillar things-and says, while looking at Steve, “You know, West, our friend here tried to buddy up to Lafitte, too. And Lafitte let him. Weirdest thing I might’ve ever seen inside.”

“That’s enough.”

“Like Lafitte was his big brother or something. And I don’t even think the man cared what Little Stevie did, either.”

Steve says, too loud, “That’s enough.”

Gets him shoved by Garner. The slap echoes three, four, five times. Steve steps back, rubs his chest. The guard’s open palm folds into a wagging finger. He keeps going.

“So there’s one day when some new piece of garbage, excuse my language, waltzes in here. He’s got the Mexicans on his side, right? Thinks PC is going to be like a siesta for him and his boys. Loud muchachos. Steve just asks this spic to keep it down a little. Brave boy. He knows Lafitte’s got his back. Except…” Garner blows on his fingers, fans them like it’s all gone.  “Not this time. These Mexicans were going to slice and dice. Steve runs back to Lafitte, and you know what happened?”

Garner looks over West’s shoulder at Steve. “Want to tell him?”

Steve keeps rubbing his chest, stepping back and back until he’s just not around anymore.

Garner gives West the gummy smile. “Stone cold silence. Lafitte shut Steve out. It was fine when all was good, but when Steve got a big head about his friend, down came the wall. Those Mexicans, man, they whipped up on him. If it hadn’t been PC, he’d been the same as you.” Garner cupped his fingers around his forearm, pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled. “Probably not as big as what you got. That nigga had a massive dick.”

Cramps all over. West puts his hands on his hips. Getting sick. Let out the gas, a loud fart, and he knows what’s next.  “I gotta go.”

Garner waves the stink away. “Or did you already?”

West makes quick time back to his cell, little bitty steps.

4.

The only times West feels safe is sitting at the computer beside Lafitte, or locked in his cell at night to sleep. Even then, he’s on a hair trigger listening for the bolt to unlock and have something horrible happen to him. Again.

Lafitte doesn’t mention the favor again. West sits at his table at meals but still maintains a respectful distance. Doesn’t talk. Offers his dessert sometimes-can’t deal with sweets anymore-but is always refused. They don’t talk outside of the computer room, and West begins to wonder if Lafitte would really have his back at all. But days go by and that black guy, name’s Cooker, and Slick Steve leave him alone. And Garner leaves him alone. Always around, but no more personal visits or stories or any of that.

Until the day no one comes and gets him for work.  He figures at first it’s just an off day. No files to transfer. So he wastes his time, tries to read but gets bored. The fuck is with the magazines? Boring computer shit or Christian fucking enlightenment and shit like that. Where’s hot rods with women draped over them? How about computer games, man. Misses his PlayStation like crazy. Likes the zombie games, man. And zombie movies. Or he did until the Granite Man fucked him, cuz that guy, he’s a fucking zombie for reals.

Next day, no work.

Shit. Now he calls for Garner. They’re not even letting him out of his cell. Had to eat breakfast here. He’s freaking out, pacing. Sweating. Garner’s not coming. West is all like, “I’ve got a job. You can’t keep me from my job. I’ve got rights.”

Guard shakes his head. “Says here you’re in for the day. I just do what I’m told.”

“No, no, no, ask Garner. I’ve got a job. You’ve seen me in there. You know me. Come on.”

“Says here-”

“Don’t give a shit what it says!”

Guard gives West eye slits, then sighs. “Adding another day in for that one.”

West slams his palm against the steel door. Cold. Rattles and then numbs his hand on impact. “It’s not fair! Fuck you! I’ve got a job! I’ve got a fucking job!”

Guard gets right up to his face in the window. “Then do your fucking job already. This isn’t a vacation, for you ass pussy, you shit for brains.”

West’s eyes go wide and he backs off the door. His hand really stinging now. He cradles it. They’re all in on it. Like a fucking, um, what was that show, like, Twilight Zone shit going down. All the guards. All the inmates. All on his shoulders.

Four days. No one talks to him. He gets food shoved through the tray slot. He can trade out his lousy magazines for lousier ones, realizes the Rachael Ray magazine at least has pictures of Rachael Ray, so that’s decent enough for a wank. He can tell by the stiffness of the pages and smudge colors that other guys felt the same. No one surprises him while he’s taking a shit, and the shits are starting to feel better, too, so he’s healing. His stomach doesn’t heave quite as much, only after he eats.

So maybe, you know, this alone thing is not as bad as his keepers think. He can ride it out alone. Fuck Ri’Chess and the Aryans and Garner and the fucking pervs. Fuck Lafitte, even. Let the “protective” part of protective custody work to his favor. Not like life on the outside, but better to live in his head than in general pop.

Until he wakes up one morning at the door is wide open. No one there. He hadn’t heard the lock go. Hadn’t heard it swing out.  Hardly any noise at all out there. West stands up with his blanket around his shoulders and eases over to the door, peeks out.

Two guards flank a big man. A pale black man. The Granite Man. Marching him through the central area towards a waiting cell. West dips back into his and tried to keep from coughing. Flat against the wall, sliding down until he was on the floor. Couldn’t be. Another look. Yes it is. It is. It’s him. Fuck. It’s him. Here. Fuck.

This time, Granite Man catches him. Eyes flick left. He doesn’t move any other muscle on his face, but it still looks like the most evil smile the moment he locks eyes with West.

West is sweating. He’s too hot. He can’t let go of his blanket. He’s shivering. He’s a dead man. A dead man.

“Garner! Gar-ner!”

Over and over until the guards come tell him to shut up, and then more until they cuff him and leave him facedown on the floor of his cell, hours it feels like, until the lock clicks and West knows it’s Garner standing there. Before the aftershave hits him, he knows.

“What’s he doing here?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, convict. And have a little respect.”

“You know who I mean. Giant fucking nigger. You know.”

Sigh. “I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from-”

“The fuck, Garner? What the fuck?”

Silence. Maybe that’s all the answer he needs.

But then Garner says, all quiet like, “Same as you. Concerned for his safety, so he checked in.”

“Bullshit.”

Tk, tk, tk, with his tongue. “You haven’t learned your lesson yet. How about we keep those cuffs on until dinnertime?”

West doesn’t answer. Whatever. Gonna fuck with him, then whatever. He’ll kill himself before letting that monster have his ass again.  Stab himself with that screwdriver, right in the neck, before they can save him.

It’s the only thought that brings him comfort.

Granite Man sits at the table across from West’s at dinner. Lafitte’s back to the man, line of vision between West and his rapist. When Granite looks at him, it’s with the same stone face. A blink here and there, then right back to eating.  West pushes his plate away. Nothing going down would stay down anyway.

Lafitte says, “That’s him?”

Word gets around. West weasels around. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You missed work.”

“Not my fault.”

“But not good.”

“Shit, man, get off me.” Starts to get up. He notices Granite Man watching. Sits back down.

“I’ll handle it,” Lafitte says.

“You do and I’m dead.”

Lafitte drops his fork. “You’re dead either way. At least my way, you can cover your ass with both hands instead of having to fight him off with one.”

Lafitte rises like a giant in a fairy tale, at least to West. The man’s not that tall, but he’s got presence. Yeah, like an illusion or some shit. The biker pushes back from the table and walks right over to Granite Man’s, sits in front of him. Didn’t wait for an invite, so this is serious shit. Not even Lafitte can break all the rules whenever, wherever, right?

All West sees is Lafitte’s back. Hears nothing. Granite doesn’t storm out or yell or slam Lafitte’s head against the table. It’s all diplomacy. It’s unspoken, whatever it is. West closes his eyes, rests his forehead on his arm, and takes in short breaths. Thinks, I so didn’t want to kill that girl. It was just kinky was all. Thinks, God, no, please, that’s got to mean something. I don’t deserve this. Thinks, I’m so sorry. I am so sorry. Thinks, Fuck you, God. Fuck you. Fuck you and Jesus and Mary and and and–

A hand on West’s shoulder. Makes him jolt like firecrackers going off right next to him. Turns to see Lafitte behind him. Up at the other tables, Granite Man has taken his tray and gone away.

Lafitte says, “Don’t worry about him.”

“Shit, man.”

“Don’t worry.”

And Lafitte is gone.

The next day, Granite Man is gone like he was never there. Moved during the night. Funny, because West had been awake all night and not heard a thing.

5.

They come to get West for work and he’s out of his gourd, pacing, having not slept a wink. Crazy tired, but crazy wired, too. What’s next? Who will they send for the next round of intimidation? How far will they go before just deleting him and starting over with another gung-ho fish?

The lock goes and Garner pokes his head in. “Rise and shine.”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” He leans across his mattress, takes the screwdriver from its hole, and hides it in his sock. Glances up at Garner, who nods, says, “Let’s go.”

Sweaty. Too hot, even though he’d heard the weather outside was harsh-icy, two foot snow pack, winds blowing from hell via Canada. And that wasn’t so bad for North Dakota. Only January. It would get much worse. But in here, he’s burning up like he has a fever in the desert.

The walk is too long, but he doesn’t feel the same pressure from Garner that he usually does. No hints. No taunts. But, Jesus, the sweat. He blinks drops out of his eyes then wipes his forehead with his arm. The slime beads up, runs down his fingers. Still nothing from Garner.

West asks, “Do I get back pay?”

Garner says, “Inmate will not speak unless spoken to.”

That’s that.

In the computer lab, he takes his seat next to Lafitte, who gives him a long look before turning right back to his screen. West looks around. New instructions on the board: LAST DAY TO FINISH THE WEST FARGO PROJECT. REMEMBER TO COPY TO THREE FILES. He had overlooked Steve and Cooker, sitting apart at other machines, pretending not to notice him. But that’s the message, isn’t it? No need to lay it on thick any more. As long as West knows they’re all watching him…

Shit. He says it under his breath. “Shit.”

Lafitte says, “Just do the job.”

“You don’t get it.” He turns in his chair towards Lafitte, enough for the newbie guard with the red flattop to shout at him, “Stank, face the screen! This ain’t play time.”

West ignores him. “I can’t take it, man. They’re ramping up the pressure. They’re not going to let it slide, man. What the fuck?”

“Stank!” Guard Boy gets his baton ready.

Lafitte says, “Say ‘Sorry, boss’ and face the screen. Don’t give them a reason.”

West does as told. Blue screen. Basic Windows. Sweaty palms on the keys and mouse. Like he’s been standing out in the rain. The guard keeps coming, stops halfway. West nods and tells the guy he’s sorry and he’s not feeling well.

“Want a day off, is that it? Want to see the doc?”

“I’m good, boss.”

“And stop calling me boss. Asshole.”

He heads back to the door, got that constipated look they get when they want you to know they’re watching you, but really they’re praying, Please God no fights, no fights, no fights.

West clicks randomly, not even aiming for his log-in icon. “I’m done. Either by those guys or on my own. I can’t take it, man.”

Lafitte keeps on at his own work for a few minutes. West wonders if he gives a shit. Wonders if this is his brush off, same as Steve got.

Then Lafitte says, “If they could kill you, they’d have done it by now. The worst they can do is make you feel bad now. You’re not going to die up in here.”

West lifts the mouse, a puddle now under it. He shakes the moisture off, but splatters his screen. Breathing through his nose to keep from throwing up. “Oh God.”

“I’m telling you, man. Just cool it. Think of the long haul.”

But all West can think about is another beating, another rape, another week in his cell alone, never knowing when someone might walk in on him. Granite Man with Garner waiting outside the door. Not again. He couldn’t. He was done.

West slips the screwdriver from his pants leg. Eyes on Steve. Fucking perv. Greasy fucker. Show those motherfuckers up, man, show them what he’s really made of. Grease and blood. Hear him cry. Hear him beg. They would leave him alone. Damn right.

He whips around and launches the screwdriver, thinking he’d get Lafitte deep in the armpit first. A good vulnerable spot. Then he’d move on to the neck. Sees it in his mind like it’s already happened.

But he can’t get his arm swinging without a shout, and he’s still inches away when Lafitte grabs his hand mid-flight like it was a crumpled ball of paper.

Shit! He yanks out of the big man’s grasp and stumbles off his chair into the next chair, and he’s tangled and frantic trying to get back up as Lafitte rises, all zen master calm and shit. West pushes himself up and waits for the guard to beat him or tackle him from behind, but there’s nothing.  He looks back to see Cooker and Steve holding the guard back, Cooker whispering into his ear. The guard nods, backs off and crosses his arms.

West turns to Lafitte, man just standing there. “Drop it and we’ll call this a misunderstanding. Water under the bridge.”

West shakes his head. “Fuck you, man. This sucks!”

“Do this, it gets worse. Like they’re going to let the fucking hitman live. Son, they’re playing you.”

Tune him out. Tune him out. Just his ass on the line, that’s all. Go low, aim for the thigh. Artery. Stab and twist. There ain’t no shot at the neck any more.

West lunges, closes his eyes. He feels his arm go slack, muscles weak. Drops the screwdriver and it clatters on a keyboard. Lafitte’s got him in a sleeper hold and West is kicking and straining and can’t breath and and and

Lafitte’s voice in his ear: “Jesus, kid, I was so hoping this wouldn’t happen.”

Then Lafitte’s hand reaches across West’s face, grabs hold, and there’s pressure and his neck is twisting-

And then West is dreaming. He knows it’s a dream, feels like it, one where you know it’s all wrong but you can’t wake yourself up. Trapped in the dream. But the goddamnedest thing of all was that in this dream, he was still in prison.