Fear Me

12

That evening, in C-block rec room, a child molester named Neil Givens was hiding out in a darkened corner reading his Bible, trying to figure out a way to make God forgive him for violating one of his lambs.

“The way I understand it,” he said in a low voice, “is that we are brought unto this earth imperfect and therefore, we sin.”

A skinny black kid named Skiv, nodded his head without looking up from his magazine. “If you say so.”

Every day at Shaddock Valley was the same for Givens. Hour after hour, hoping, praying he would not be noticed by the other cons that came and went. Today, he had been successful. None of the usual toughs baited him, noticed him, or even insulted him. Nothing.

Like he was invisible.

Did not exist.

And that was oh-too fine with Givens. He did not deny what he had done. He lay awake most nights thinking about it in detail and if that was from guilt or simply the fact that he enjoyed gloating over his crimes in the darkness, nobody knew and Givens was not talking. He just wanted to do his time, make no trouble, and get out on the streets again… even though by the state clock that would not be for many, many years, if at all.

“Would you like to pray with me?” Givens said.

“No, I’d rather not,” Skiv told him.

Skiv was doing time for molesting several native American boys during his tenure as a reservation student teacher. Givens felt superior to him in that his victims had been female; Skiv, on the hand, thought he was worlds above Givens because at least his victims were still alive, he had not kidnapped a little girl, brutally molested her, and left her corpse in a shallow grave.

Maybe he’d scarred some little boys for life, but, hey, he hadn’t killed anybody.

They were both keeping an eye on the only other person in the room: Palmquist. Funny one. He didn’t try to fit in with the other cons nor did he try and hook up with the other losers and rapos. He stayed to himself. When you spoke to him, he barely acknowledged your presence.

Givens had tried to get him to read scripture, but Palmquist wasn’t interested in that either.

When a con named Poppy came into the room, both Givens and Skiv visibly tensed. Poppy was just a little guy with bad skin, worse teeth, and graveyard eyes that were constantly searching the yard for new fish to pop. He was the sort of con that went scampering away when guys like Romero, Black Dog, or Riggs came bearing down on him. He did not want to know pain; he only wanted to give it.

Palmquist stared off into space, unconcerned.

Givens and Skiv looked at Poppy quickly, then went back to their respective literature.

Poppy liked that, thought that was funny. As if maybe they ignored him he would just go away. But he figured they knew better. “Must be rapo center in here,” he said. “We got nothing but short-eyed chi-mos as far as the eye can see. I feel like a kid in a candy store.” He smiled, revealed his yellowed teeth, giggling with a high repetitive squeaking laugh that was known to go right up spines. “Eeny-meanie-miny-mo, catch a nigger by the toe.” He got up close to Skiv, put his hand’s on the arms of Skiv’s chair, leaned in so close Skiv could smell the rank decay of his teeth. “If he hollers, let him go. My mama said to fuck the very best one and you ain’t it!”

He rasped that last bit right into Skiv’s face. Skiv dropped his magazine, badly trembling.

“I said, you ain’t it,” Poppy told him. “Go over to that candy machine. Get a couple Milky Ways, you hear?”

Skiv did but he was trembling so badly he kept dropping the money. He knew what was going on here. This is exactly what had happened to him when he first got to Shaddock Valley. It had happened to Givens more than once. Maybe it was Palmquist’s turn.

Thank God it’s not me this time, oh thank God—

Then Tony Gordo came into the room, filling the doorway, picking his teeth with a needle. Gordo was so big he had to stoop over to get in the door and turn himself sideways to fit through it. His head was like a cinder block, a steel gray buzzcut on top and a square jaw below, everything in-between a no-man’s land of old knife cuts, cratered scar tissue, and pockmarks sunk so deep you could fit the tip of your thumb into them. He had no neck. That block of a head sat right atop his shoulders which were nearly as wide as two men standing abreast.

He stood there in his oversized orange jumpsuit, eyes like crouching death taking in his little harem because that was exactly the way he saw things. These were his bitches and he would have them and nobody had better think of stopping him.

As he told Poppy, Any rapo ass walks through those gates, it belongs to me. I break it, I fuck it, I school it, and I sell it.

Gordo saw Skiv shivering in the corner and went right over there.

“Please, Mr. Gordo, I—”

Gordo gave him a quick open-hand shot to the face that left a stinging imprint in his brown skin. Skiv was on his knees, sobbing, remembering oh too well what had landed him here and how those boys themselves had sobbed.

“Stand the fuck up, nigger,” Gordo told him, his eyes gleaming like dirty nickels. He smiled. There was blood on his teeth from poking his gums with the needle. He did not seem to notice. “Gimme them bars.”

Skiv stood up, handed Gordo the candy bars and Gordo very carefully, almost effeminately, unwrapped them. He shoved one after the other into his mouth, working them together into a melting ball of chocolate and caramel. He chewed them slowly, staring at Skiv the entire time, then he swallowed. He grabbed Skiv and pulled him close, running his chocolately tongue over his face. Skiv shook so badly his teeth chattered. You could easily hear the sound of his piss striking the floor.

Gordo threw him aside.

He put his eyes on Givens. Givens tried to make a break for it and Poppy took hold of him, held him.

“You’re the one that raped that little girl and strangled her,” Gordo said. “I enjoyed your sweet ass, oh yes. But it ain’t your turn neither. You ladies get out of here.”

Poppy giggled.

Givens sobbed.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Gordo said. “And close that door behind you. You think of ratting me out and I’ll use the both of you every day for a fucking month.”

Skiv and Givens raced out the door, slamming it shut behind them.

Gordo turned to Palmquist who stared up at him with dead gray eyes. There was no true fear in those eyes. In fact, there was very little of anything.

Gordo grinned. This was the one. This was the one Papa Joe wanted to feel some pain. And, good Christ, what a treat that was going to be, hell yes.

“All right, Palmquist. I been looking for you. Time to go to school. Lights out, motherfucker, lights out for you…”

Palmquist stared at his tormentors. He was not surprised by any of this. He expected it just like he’d expected it at Brickhaven. His eyes were shiny, almost mirrored, just as black as the steaming mud at the bottom of a well. He stared blankly at both men.

“You sure you want this?” he asked them, blinking his eyes.

Poppy started squeaking with laughter. He’d heard a lot of punks say some damned crazy things before Gordo had them, but this beat all and he couldn’t stop laughing.

“First thing,” Gordo said, “is I like my women to do a little begging so you start getting into the act and I won’t hurt you no more than I have to.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” Palmquist told him.

But Gordo didn’t see it that way. He moved fast for a big man. Before the words had barely left Palmquist’s mouth, he had him in those big grimy fists. He pulled him up into the air and planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth that was all tongue. No romance here, just a beast tasting its food before it took a bite. That and nothing more.

And that’s when the door opened and Romero came storming in.

“Hey—” Poppy started to say and Romero gave him two quick jabs to the face that opened his nose like a blood blister and brought him to his knees. Romero grabbed him by his greasy hair and kicked him in the stomach. When he folded up, he brought his elbow down with considerable force on the back of Poppy’s neck and Poppy hit the floor with his eyes rolling.

Gordo tossed Palmquist aside. “Fucking beaner,” he said. “You wetback fucking spic fucking bean nigger.”

As he moved at Romero, Romero leaped at him, every bit of anger and frustration and deprivation that life behind those walls had inspired in him coming out, boiling out of him like poison. Before Gordo got his hands on him, Romero drilled him in the face with three fast piston-like blows that barely even registered. Then Gordo had him, crushing him in his massive arms. Romero thumbed him in the eye and Gordo responded by delivering a head butt that drove the smaller man right to the floor.

Palmquist, bless him, tried to intervene and Gordo backhanded him, dropping him like a felled tree.

Romero pulled himself up, wiping blood from his face, knowing he was in for the pain coming at an animal like Gordo without so much as a shank or a good length of lead pipe in his hands. He ducked as Gordo tried to hit him and got two more good shots in, then kneed Gordo in the jewels. Gordo grunted like a grizzly bear that had been stropped with a belt, but no more.

He hit Romero, piledriving him to the floor.

And before Romero could do more than wonder what day it was, Gordo picked him up and threw him eight feet through the air until he collided with the wall. When he again opened his eyes, there were half a dozen hacks in the room beating Gordo down with their sticks. As he was hauled away for his mandatory thirty days in the hole, Sergeant Warres helped Romero to his feet.

“That big piece of shit started it,” Palmquist said.

“Of course he did, son. He always does.” Warres held onto Romero until he could stand on his own. “That’s gotta be the most selfless act of suicide I ever did hear of, Romero. Sure as shit. Well, let’s get you to the infirmary, get you cleaned up.”

As Romero was led away, cons pushing up to the rec room door to see what was going on, he was wondering if he had just punched his own ticket with Papa Joe or if something darker was about to punch Gordo’s.