Blood to Dust(42)

I shake my head. I killed a man, but I’m not a murderer. All the same, I understand the underlying order in his invitation. Saying no is not an option.

“I’ll just mess with him a little.” I won’t break his spine, but a few ribs—sure. Why not?

I find Hefner scrubbing pans after dinner. Godfrey’s soldiers are behind me, and they signal the kitchen workers to f*ck off with a nod.

Everyone leaves Hefner and me alone.

I stalk in his direction, much bigger in size and presence than the useless prick. I’ve spent my years here working out and bulking up, while he spent his years stirring shit and causing trouble. Hefner wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, wheezing.

“Looky here. There’s our pretty boy.” He still sounds cheerful, but underneath the make-believe smile lies fear. I can smell it. The acidic sweat, the labored breaths. Un-f*cking-canny. I want to bottle it up and smell it every time I think about Frank.

I brush my fingertips against a row of pots and pans hung neatly beside the stovetops as I stride toward him wordlessly, my eyes dead.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” He sniffs, still scrubbing the sink clean. “I got brothers inside and out.”

My hand that’s traveling through the pans stops and yanks out a heavy metal tray.

“You killed Frank.”

“He ain’t dead,” he spits. Swallows. Stops what he’s doing.

Scared, scared, scared.

“He’s as good as dead,” I correct, “and so are you.”

I smack him in the face with the tray. He stumbles backward, his back hitting the wall. I shove the tray against his middle, creating a gap between two of his ribs. They snap and break like twigs, the sound sending chills down my back.

Hefner collapses on the floor, tipping over a full bucket of lard.

I kick him in the middle twice, letting him roll over the greasy ground as my Converse sneaker targets his sensitive spots. Spots that bleed easily. Mouth. Nose. The less meaty parts of the legs, ankles and arms. After I’m done assaulting him, when he’s red and purple and swollen, I bend down, baring my teeth next to his ear. “Next time, it’ll be your dick I snap in two. Just to give you a heads-up. Now, get back to cleaning, little bitch.”

Hefner offers a bloodied smile, looking like the Joker. He didn’t yell or scream once I’d beaten him up. Never tried to fight back either.

“He set you up,” he mumbles through broken teeth, collapsed against a wall, his head rolling from side to side. “God told me to kill Frank. Frank worked for him on the outside. There was a contract on Frank’s head before you even arrived in here, you stupid little shit,” He throws his head against the wall and laughs manically. “He was always dead meat. Oh, man, you’re so f*cked.”

Crashing the tray against his head, I speed out of the kitchen, leaving Hefner injured, yet very much alive. I skip over the pool of blood under him, anger and fury rattling my chest. Rage detonates in my gut, nausea washing through me.

I’m sick.

I’m seething.

I’m f*cked.

The next morning, I find out that Hefner was beaten to death. Not by me, but killed nonetheless.

Lockdown.

Big mess.

And back to ad-seg until further notice.

People don’t get offed too often in prison, let alone at one that’s as high-security as San Dimas, and especially when there are no traces of a murder weapon in sight. Fortunately, I figured shit like this might happen and ran straight into the arms of correction officer Beth Bouscher after the Hefner incident. I have an airtight alibi, but that doesn’t stop people from suspecting.

The death of the Aryan brother sparks a prison riot. Word is I sought retaliation after Frank.

I have a motive. I was seen by the security cameras, walking into the dark corner of the kitchen. Snitches get stitches, so no one’s going to say a word even if Hefner’s killer was seen doing the deed.

Words are weapons, and the ammo on me is being spread by the correction officers who are on Godfrey’s payroll. In cells, hallways, canteens and on the outside, where the real life I hold grudges against is awaiting my return. Jabbers with mouths working overtime, and the good-souls of San Dimas are all too happy to let the rumor loose.

A rumor that Godfrey himself put in everyone’s mouth.

Godfrey knows that now, I need his help more than ever.

Hefner was a dick, but he was also right. My so-called “fatherly figure” set me up.

And now? All I’m left to do is wait and see what plans God has for me next.



NOVEMBER 8TH, 2014

“THE QUICKEST WAY OF ENDING A WAR IS TO LOSE IT” (GEORGE ORWELL)

My release day is in two weeks. Godfrey’s sentence was cut. He’s been pardoned, let go with nothing but a slap on the wrist. Will be out in a month. The governor, no less, pulled some strings to make it happen. Godfrey told me Irv’s already waiting for me on the outside and that I can crash at his until I figure shit out.

The outside world is bad, but Godfrey is worse. He harvests on oppressing people, a powerhouse of corruption. To tell you that I hate him would be an understatement. He put me in a debt that would chain me to his good graces forever. There’s nothing I’d like more than to see him and his right-hand man, Sebastian, losing their lives in an unfortunate accident involving a hazardous waste truck, gasoline, fire and a f*cking missile for good measure.