The Harvest

“As you sow, so shall you reap,” the blonde critter intoned solemnly, her big blue eyes staring up at him. Teddy looked down at Betsy-Mae Thomas from his place in the tree in her yard, high among the leaves so that her parents wouldn’t see.

“Wha’s that mean, lil’ darlin’?” Luckily Betsy was wrong in the head, so no one ever thought much of it when she talked to the tree.

“It’s all your own doing. They’ll die all in a row.” Betsy pulled at the hem of her blue dress, hitching it up so that her dirty knees showed. Teddy licked his lips. Betsy might not be much over twelve, but she was developing nicely. “It’s your fault, you could stop it if you wanted, but you don’t.”

“Stop what, chickadee? Jes raise that skirt up a little higher, would ya?” Teddy felt himself getting hard inside his jeans. Betsy had no idea what she was doing to him, talking about death and staring at him, her skirt riding higher and higher up her thighs.

“The corn is high. Time to reap.” The sun caught the golden hairs on her legs that she would never think to shave.

“It’s August, sweetness, ‘course the corn’s high.” He loved her, this time he knew it, loved everything about her, even her craziness. He wanted to fuck her so badly, but she was only a kid, and an addled one at that. He was eighteen; her Daddy’d never let him near her.

“All the ducks in a row, putting your ducks in a row, that means sorting things out,” Betsy said with a sage nod. She sat on the grass and pulled bits up, dropping them into the fabric of her skirt sagging between her sprawled legs. From this angle Teddy could nearly see right down the front of her loose dress, a white vest with a lace border, stretched across, if he just got a little further along the branch, yes! Budding breasts, pushing the fabric out in new and exciting ways. Teddy would be able to jerk off about this one for a week.

“Everyone you love will die.” Betsy announced suddenly, her attention snapping back to him with the force of a gunshot.

“Well, that mus’ mean you, darlin’,” Teddy smiled, his hand pulling at the buttons on his jeans, even as the branch cracked beneath him and he started to fall…

“Shift it, Bagwell, get to the yard,” Bellick shouted, rattling the bars of his cell and waking him out of his pleasant dream. He hadn’t thought about crazy little Betsy Mae for years.

“Git up, T-Bag, we’re going shopping,” Trokey called as he passed the cell, reminding him that today was new arrivals.

“Harvest-time,” T-Bag muttered to himself as he stretched and did a quick hair check in the mirror. He needed a new cellie; that last one had worn out so quickly. T-Bag smiled at the thought of all that shiny blood washing around in the showers. He’d find him a real pretty little thing and fix him up nice, train him to be a good little bitch like Betsy Mae. That time he’d tempted her out into the woods with candy and taught her to suck dick. He was getting hard again at the very recollection. “Defee-nately a blonde this time,” he cooed to his reflection.

Out at the fence, he held back from the idle chitter-chatter of his compatriots, not joining in with their shouts and catcalls when the bus finally arrived. He needed to find his nymphette, his Lolita. That Humbert Humbert had the right idea.

“How ‘bout that one?” Lip asked, pointing at a coxcombed queen that was working the crowd with a velvet walk and eyes full of trouble. All the Wolves were watching him, but T-Bag wasn’t interested.

“Naw, that lady is far too well acquainted with the ministrations of a man. I don’t want to be sticking it in someone’s sloppy seconds.” T-Bag licked his lips as he spotted his target; eighteen but looking about twelve years old, inside for something stupid like killing a kid while DUI, blonde haired and blue eyed as a summer down home.

“Oh, my itty bitty pretty one, you just found your long-lost Daddy.”

The Witch

Maytag was cold as hell, leaning against the bleachers in the yard with only his t-shirt on, but you had to let them all get a good look. He’d tucked the prison issue white into the waistband of his pants, so that it clung suggestively to his chest. The fag he called Chicita, AKA Lil’ Pepe, was leaning with him, his shirt tied up in front like a blouse so that the world could see his toned belly, his pants pulled down low so that his hip-bones showed. Both of them had been approached numerous times, but knew not to jump too early. They hadn’t had a good enough offer yet, and being a queen gave you certain privileges that punks and fish didn’t have. Mostly they were allowed to make their own choice, such as was available, as long as they didn’t take too long about it.

“I think I like that one,” Chicita said, gesturing with a painted fingernail at a massive black guy with a shaved head, leader of one of the biggest gangs in the joint. “He likes me, I can tell, and I hear he’s real good to his prags.”

“Been there, done that,” Maytag said, affecting boredom he didn’t feel. There was only one dude that interested him in there, and time was running out to get his attention. He was stuck in a cell with an old head called Westmoreland, who kept out of the way of all the politics of the prison, so was no help in getting closer to his target. Maytag wanted Theodore “T-Bag” Bagwell so badly that he could taste it, but he was getting nowhere. He didn’t know what it was, it was like voodoo or something. Maybe that all the other powers in the prison were so hideous, except for maybe the Mafia guy, but he didn’t swing like that — or maybe it was just the way T-Bag walked, swaggering around as though he owned the place, looking at that little blonde fish as though he really wanted him, rather than just something to pass the time. Maytag wanted T-Bag to look at him like that.

He was up on the bleachers now, holding court with his devoted followers. Maytag shivered, not just from the cold, but from the soft Southern drawl that kept reaching his ears on the wind. It wasn’t fair, why should he, with all his looks and carefully cultivated charms, not be able to get the one man he actually found interesting to even look at him? Meanwhile some punk kid was getting all the attention.

“He’s coming over!” Chicita squealed beside him, momentarily raising his hopes until he realised that it was the black guy, Midas, taking easy strides across the grass towards them. Chicita was trying to drape himself over the bleachers in the sexiest way possible, but the big man kept moving and squeezed himself in beside Maytag.

“You lookin’ for a father figure?” he asked, sliding a finger down Maytag’s cheek. “I run with Double D on the outside, hear you’re a real good little cocksucker.” Maytag looked away, suddenly embarrassed that word had gotten around about him. Worse than that, they’d drawn the attention of T-Bag’s crew, who were looking over and laughing. T-Bag was staring at him from under his eyelids, a grin hovering around his mouth. He was going to have to make a scene if he was going to keep their respect, and he knew there would be plenty of trouble coming his way for it. Sighing with resignation, he turned back to the smiling face of his prospective pitcher, and brushed his hand away.

“Back off, nigger, I don’t mix with rugheads!” he shouted at the top of his voice, pushing the surprised gang leader backwards with as much force as he could muster. He wasn’t strong, and Midas was soon coming back at him hard, rage written on every feature. Just as he was about to feel that rage hitting him in the face, two burly white men grabbed the gang leader’s arms and held him back.

“He said he had the taste and discretion not to mingle with people of your pigmentation, boy,” T-Bag was suddenly sitting on the bleachers just above him, looking as relaxed as if he were just out for a Sunday picnic. “So, my suggestion is that you take him at his word and cease attemptin’ to interfere with him.” Maytag watched, fascinated, as a turf war was conducted purely through the eyes of the two men. Finally the Midas backed down, giving Maytag one final look of disgust as he walked away. Maytag turned to thank his saviour, but found the bleachers empty. T-Bag was already whistling his way back along the grass, taking a stroll with his click.

When Maytag finally pulled his gaze away from that swagger, he took in an extremely ugly scene. Almost every pair of eyes in the yard was fixed on him, and most of them looked pissed off. Chicita was rattling away, a stream of loud Spanish abuse hitting him, no doubt more wounded that he’d been passed over than angry at the racist crap he’d come out with. Until he could get T-Bag’s protection full-time, he was in for some serious shit. That meant he was going to have to brave the Witch.

Teacher's Pet

“Theodore, could you pass out the books?” Mrs Linneman smiled at him, the smile she used only for him. T-Bag smiled back ever-so-sweetly and took the pile of books from her desk. TA in the prison literacy class was a cake set-up, and he took great pains not to put that position in any danger. Mrs Linneman enjoyed his gentle flirting and olde-worlde charm, thinking he was quite the gentleman. Never mind that she was ancient and had hair sprouting from places he didn’t even dare think about, he always opened doors for her and called her ma’am. Of course, she was a class-A bitch to just about everyone else in the class, a fact that pleased T-Bag immensely.

When she started the lesson, he leant against the wall at the back of the class and let his mind wander to all the filthy uses he had put Ducky’s mouth to that morning. He called his new cellie Ducky because of all that yellow fluffy hair, and he just loved to look down on it while the boy sucked him off. Unfortunately things weren’t working out as well as he hoped, and although he enjoyed the crying jags, he hadn’t enjoyed the choking and subsequent biting that had occurred. Boy needed to learn to conquer that particular reflex, and quick. Now he was going to have to punish him, and while that was fun, the kid had a very low resistance to pain and tended to draw attention with his screaming.

T-Bag’s mind drifted back to the present, and he found that he had been staring at one particular head without realising it. One particular head that was turned his way, pretty eyes locked on to his. That new queen, Maytag he was called appropriately enough, was staring at him as though he was a well in the desert, all hungry and needful. That was enough to catch T-Bag’s interest; he’d noticed the boy watching him a few times, but this look said everything. It would be difficult not to have some reaction to desire that strong. T-Bag wasn’t used to people wanting him that blatantly, and it made him angry and aroused all at once. He wanted to smash that pretty face in for daring to think he was some kind of fag that would be into that kind of thing, and at the same time he wanted to turn him over and fuck him dry and raw, to show him just what he was lusting after.

Maytag’s eyes snapped back to the front as Mrs Linneman started yelling at him, her lessons demanding all the attention of the class. All the while he was being screamed at by the old harridan, his fingers were curled around the leg of his chair, stroking it with firm, sure movements that where oh-so suggestive. T-Bag shifted uncomfortably, trying not to show his arousal on his face. Creepy little fag… but wouldn’t that feel mighty nice after Ducky’s inept ministrations this morning; those hands, so sure and steady, while those pretty eyes looked up at him all desiring and adoring… it would be nice. He looked like the kind of boy that could take a few cuts and bruises without making a fuss. ‘Sides, hadn’t he stood up to that big queer nigger in the yard? T-Bag liked a bit of fire, especially if it was burning up the fella that started it.

Still, taking on a queen like that was a big step. It was one thing to rough up and fuck a little fish, force ‘em to hold your pocket because you liked torturing them, it was quite another to get yourself an old lady, no matter how submissive. His boys would have a good laugh at his expense, and although he had plenty of face to lose, he didn’t much relish the prospect of losing any.

Status, status, the whole problem was status. Queens had too much of it, far too much in his opinion. Maytag was going to have to drop down a few rungs on the ladder, if he was going to be T-Bag’s bitch.

Never Kill a Boy on the First Date

The next few days were a waking hell for Maytag. He’d hoped that his little demonstration in the Witch’s classroom would get T-Bag interested, but so far the Wolf was ignoring him, not catching his eye, even looking right through him. He’d braved a lifelong fear of school for nothing. Maybe he just looked too old, at all of twenty, but abandoning his make-up and affectations would lose him what little status he had left, and God knew he couldn’t afford that. He’d be back to being a punk fish, and there’d be no way to protect his ass from anyone that felt the urge to rip it up.

Meanwhile, life was a bitch, not even trying to be funny. He was sticking like shit to Westmoreland, although the old head had made it pretty clear that he thought Maytag had made his own bed for once, and should lie in it. Westmoreland wasn’t always around, though, so Maytag spent a lot of time out in plain sight of the Bulls, trying to look casual and imagining that he was failing miserably. There was a rumor going around that he was the son of a famous white supremacist, and his behaviour with Midas only seemed to confirm it. Never mind that his Dad was nothing but an ordinary shoe salesman with white-collar ambitions for his illiterate drop-out son, never mind that he’d stolen fifty bucks from his Dad’s wallet when he was thirteen and hadn’t seen him since, suddenly everyone was talking about this man he barely knew as though he were some kind of big noise. Where it had come from he had no idea.

Chicita wasn’t talking to him, his ese nose in the air whenever he came near. Maytag tried to stay as close to the Aryans as possible whenever Westmoreland wasn’t around. They tolerated him as long as there was a big group of them, but if there were only two or three they felt duty-bound to run him off for being a fag. He’d had a few nasty moments, particulary in the showers, and had some bruised ribs and a badly wrenched wrist to show for them, but he knew he’d been lucky so far. A burn was coming his way, and there was nothing he could do about it.

That Saturday, after speculation had been running particularly high about his Dad and some rumored lynchings in Chicago, Maytag found himself standing alone, as usual, in the middle of the changing room outside the showers. He was trying to get dressed as quickly as possible, eyes straying to T-Bag and his crew who were propping up one end of the room, watching Ducky get undressed. Ducky was looking in pretty bad shape, covered in bruises like tropical fish, his mouth torn at one side, his ribs pushing his sallow skin out. Maytag would have felt sorry for the punk, if he wasn’t in so much danger himself. Punks like that, that didn’t know which way was up, when to beg and when to cry and when to take it silently, they never lasted for much. Maytag’d been so mad at him when he arrived, but now it was obvious that the kid wasn’t going to be around much longer.

He got so caught up thinking about Ducky’s inevitable death, that he forgot to think about his own. He was almost surprised when hands grabbed him roughly from behind and threw him down on the filthy, wet floor. Black faces were all around him, shouting and laughing angrily. Maytag tensed as the first boot came towards him, kicking him across the floor and curling him into a ball. He had skidded around so that his face was towards T-Bag, and he saw a couple of the Aryans about to get up and come over, but T-Bag stopped them with one gesture. The sick bastard had a grin on his face; he was enjoying the show.

Kicks and fists were raining down on Maytag, pain bursting over his body like thunder, but his eyes stayed glued to T-Bag’s, reading the mockery and unconcern there. He’d managed to inspire nothing but contempt with all his hard work, and now he was taking the punishment for it. A sudden flicker of something more than amusement passed across those brown eyes, and just before his own eye was shut by a heavy blow, he saw T-Bag mouth one word. Sing.

Maytag opened his mouth and screamed until it felt like his throat was ripping open. He didn’t stop when the beating slowed, then stopped amongst the sounds of a scuffle. He kept his face pressed into the dirty tiles and screamed until his air ran out, then he drew breath and screamed again. He didn’t stop when he heard the room clearing out, heavy feet moving around his body, until there were none left. He didn’t stop until he heard one light tread stepping over to him, cool fingers on his neck, and a soft Southern drawl caressing his swollen ear.

“There now, lil’ one, t’aint no need to have a conniption. There’ll be far worse comin’ your direction than that.” Maytag let gentle hands help him up until he was sitting on a bench, his body swelling into one huge bruise. He kept his eyes shut as salt tears ran freely into the cuts on his once-pretty face. It was all over, he was nothing but a punk and he’d soon get what was coming to him. Still, T-Bag was there, and a tiny flicker of hope shuddered into life in his belly. A cold cloth touched his raw skin, and even as he flinched, he realised that T-Bag was washing his face.

“Look at you, angelchile, you gonna be all the colors of the rainbow when you’re done. Such a pretty one, too, but in my considered opinion your visage looks better,” a flicker of a finger over what was left of his cheekbone, “like this.” Soft puffs of air blew on him as T-Bag spoke, and Maytag realised that the older man was very close to him, almost rubbing against him. In any other circumstance, with this man, it would have been very sexy, but as it was he could hardly hold himself together. All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die, not have the man he’d wanted so badly looking at him, touching him, when he was like this.

“Oh yes,” T-Bag whispered, and Maytag heard the cloth hit the floor with a wet slap beside him. “Look at me, boy.” Maytag did his best to open his good eye, the one not so swollen, and look up at the man standing over him. “There now, nothin’s as terrible as you think.” Maytag realised that his eye was level with T-Bag’s fly, even as those hands that had been so gentle moments before started to roughly pull it open. Almost unconsciously, Maytag started to lean away, turning his head. He couldn’t, not this time, it was too much to ask. “Uh uh uh, angel, time to make Daddy happy.”

Daddy. A thumb was pushed into the side of his mouth, causing agony to jolt through his split lips. Daddy. He opened his mouth without any further protest. Might as well do a good job and get it over with. Daddy? What did that mean? Maytag wrapped his lips around T-Bag’s already straining cock, using his tongue to the best of his abilities despite his injuries. He cupped T-Bag’s balls with the hand that didn’t have a broken finger, and played with the soft, creased skin while he sucked T-Bag’s cock deep down into his throat. All the while his mind was racing; did T-Bag mean it? He swallowed convulsively as T-Bag groaned loudly, his head thrown back. Any other time, this would have been about the hottest thing he could have imagined, but now he just wanted to close his mouth to ease his aching jaw. Still, Daddy? Could it be?

T-Bag’s legs buckled under him as he came hard, throwing all of his weight down onto Maytag’s head and neck. Maytag nearly screamed, but held himself together enough to get the dick out of his mouth before he did it an injury. T-Bag was leaning on him, his breath coming in quick pants, his heart racing against Maytag’s ear.

“Who-eee, girlie, I heard you was good, but Christ almighty!” T-Bag exclaimed cheerfully, finally pushing back so that he could sprawl back on the bench and tuck in. “I ain’t come like that since I been in here, and trust me, I’ve come plenty during my stretch.” T-Bag buttoned up and jumped up, suddenly full of energy. “Well, then, angel, lets get you to the doc. That finger looks plenty bad.” Maytag tried to haul himself upright, but it was a struggle. T-Bag took his elbow gently and helped him up. “Oh, one other little matter, before we go. Let’s do things by the book.” Slowly, and with all the patience in the world, T-Bag turned out the white pocket of his pants, and waited.

With a rush of gratitude and relief so big he thought it was going to knock him back over, Maytag took it.

The Pack

After Maytag’s inevitable fall from grace, T-Bag had a couple of days to get his house in order. Ducky he sold off to a group of lowlife bikers for a couple packets of smokes. Kid was more trouble than he was worth to look after, and after he’d felt Maytag’s mouth bring him off, T-Bag couldn’t hardly bear to let the little chicken touch him.

T-Bag reclined in his palatial, and temorarily solo, abode and thought about that stolen time in the locker room. Boy was all red and green like Chrismas, his packages all picked over and ripped open. That pretty face swelled up, with one perfect eye still working, still gazing up at him with resignation, then resentment, then hope. Doc said he had to stay in sick bay for a few days, get some mending done, wouldn’t even let T-Bag visit. Doc seemed to think he’d done the damage, and even though he kind of wished that he had, he resented the implication that his handiwork would look anywhere near as crude. Look at Ducky, for example, all them pretty colours distributed evenly over the whiteness, the careful pattern in shallow cuts drawn on his buttocks over a number of days. T-Bag took torture very seriously indeed; he was an artist, not a butcher.

Not even bothering to hang a sheet, T-Bag draped one leg over the edge of his bunk and pulled his rapidly hardening dick out of his pants. Let anyone that cared to have a show. One thing about ministering to yourself was that you always knew just what you liked, and at the moment he liked the thought of moving Maytag into his cell. He liked the thought of having those clever fingers and mouth all to himself after the lights went out. Queens’d do anything for their old man, he could get himself willingly sucked off up against them bars if he liked, show the world how good his boy was, how obedient, how well trained. Flip him over and drive into his ass so’s it’d hurt real nice, make him scream and cry some so they knew that it was all about possession, all about the fact that T-Bag owned what they’d all wanted. With a hard noise in his throat he finished and wiped his hand on his bedsheet. Soon he’d have someone new to pick up after him.

Before he had all that, owned all that, there would be one last price that he and Maytag would have to pay. Fortunately it was going to hurt Maytag a lot more than it was going to hurt him. They were going to have to deal with his boys.

The day he went to collect Maytag from sickbay was sunny, little motes of dust dancing in the striped light from the windows. T-Bag made his leisurely way along with the Bull to welcome his new cellie, feeling all kinds of right with the world. He felt even better when Maytag was waiting for him, a shy smile tugging at his bruised lips as he came forward. The doc took her sweet time signing him out, pushing at her hair and clearing her throat, trying to catch his boy’s eye, but Maytag was only looking one way. T-Bag felt his chest swell a little with pleasure, that the kid was staring at him because he wanted to, not because he was forced to. That was a pretty unusual feeling, but it was always real heartening when it happened. The doc was finally finished, and made a frustrated little noise as Maytag eagerly took the pocket offered to him.

“Angel,” T-Bag muttered when they got a bitways down the hall, quiet enough so the Bull wouldn’t hear them, “there’s something’s gotta happen, something I ain’t too chipper about, but you need to understand that it’s happening whether either of us like it or not.”

“Um, okay,” Maytag said slowly. Boy sounded hesitant, but there was trust there behind his words. No one had ever much trusted T-Bag.

“I’m going to protect you, you’re my boy, but I have to do something you ain’t going to like much first.” That was an understatement. “It’s just the way of things round us, but I promise I’ll take care of you after.” If he wasn’t getting a knot in his belly just talking like this, which made no sense because this happened every time, and he hadn’t felt one bit bad about it before. Time to shut up and get moving.

When the Bull let them back into Gen Pop, he led the way back over to his cell, where there was a sheet already hanging. Just for a second he let his fingers linger on the surface, half tempted just to walk away. He glanced at Maytag, who was fidgeting a little, waiting to be let in. With a resigned sigh, he pushed the sheet aside and took them both inside.

Four big men plus two smaller ones is a lot to fit into a pathetic little space like they were allowed to call their own in Fox River, and the four top dogs in T-Bag’s gang were doing their best to squeeze themselves in without sitting on the bunk. They’d’ve each arrived separately, so that the Bulls wouldn’t notice there was a gathering happening.

All of them gave big leering grins at Maytag when he walked in, and the boy himself took one frightened glance round and looked about ready to shit himself. T-Bag stretched out on his bunk with a smoke, and watched as the other fellas poked and prodded at Maytag, sizing him up with some ribald comments. He’d seen this plenty of times, and he didn’t really feel like watching. Told himself he was bored of it all, and stared up at the springs of the bunk above him. Maytag was a good boy, kept quiet while the big men huffed and grunted, pushing into his ass without ceremony. Didn’t take none of them too long, mercifully, and soon he was alone with a shivering, bloodied up kid, and didn’t that feel familiar. T-Bag pushed off his bunk and went to kneel beside his boy. Maytag didn’t flinch away from him like they usually did, but just lay there looking dejected.

“You were a real good boy, angelchile, you took it real well. That won’t happen again. Just means that if anything happens to me, one o’ them’ll take care of you.” Softly, T-Bag pushed the oddly-dyed hair back from Maytag’s forehead, surprised when the kid leaned into his touch. “Promised I’d take care of you after, didn’t I?” Maytag nodded slowly. “Well, come here.” T-Bag offered his hand and the kid took it, let himself be raised up so he was standing. Gently T-Bag stripped away the prison issue duds until the kid was naked, then took a clean cloth and washed the blood off his legs. Finally, he took down the blanket from the top bunk and wrapped the boy in it, laying down on his own bunk and pulling the boy down next to him so Maytag could rest his head on T-Bag’s chest.

“Don’t go getting used to this, boy, this is a one time deal.” He felt the kid’s head nod once, twice against his shoulder. “You gonna take care of my needs from here on out.” The hand with the splinted finger worked its way free to splay across T-Bag’s chest.

‘Ain’t never been a kid like him for surprising a fella,’ T-Bag thought comfortably as Maytag’s breathing slowed into sleep.

Angel

T-Bag called him angel when he was in a good mood, in the mornings when Maytag jerked him off, when he was brushing his hair and whistling some old country tune and he wanted Maytag to pass him something, when Maytag’d taken some painful treatment without complaining, when T-Bag was repeating some story or joke they’d both heard in the yard. Maytag didn’t care that he’d heard the story or the joke before, just the fact that T-Bag was talking to him, using that word, that… what did they call it in Sunday school when he was little… that benediction, was enough for him. It was like a blessing whenever he heard it. Angel. T-Bag’s angel.

Still, he was stupid to get emotional about it, he knew that. Best way to get yourself damaged was to let yourself get too close. He couldn’t help it, though. He’d never felt that way about anyone before, like his heart was going to bust through his chest every time the force of T-Bag’s attention was focussed only on him. Even if there were dark clouds gathering in the morning, even if every line of his cellie’s body screamed at Maytag that he was going to get hurt that night, the hours of anticipation were sweet on his tongue because he knew that he’d be there when the storm broke. No matter how often he was degraded, cut up on, ripped into or choked, Maytag was always going to go back for more.

“Woulda made more sense if your Daddy had mistreated you.” T-Bag commented idly from his place on the bunk, watching Maytag painstakingly clean a deepish slash on his thigh. The shank had been jagged, and the cut was taking some time to heal. The edges weren’t right, and it wouldn’t come together properly. Maytag didn’t want to go to the doc with it, she’d just get all sniffy and give him another lecture about speaking up if someone was hurting him. “Can’t understand why you like it so much,” T-Bag continued, then smiled at the look Maytag gave him. “I know you like it, angel, I seen your face after, all glowing like a jack-o-lantern. Sometimes…” T-Bag stopped and pulled at the hair on his chin. “Sometimes,” he continued, as though the words hurt him, “I do it ‘cos I know you like it.”

T-Bag turned over, facing the wall so that his back was towards Maytag. Looking at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, Maytag saw what his cellie meant. There was a grin a mile wide splitting his face, and his eyes looked all shiny. Knowing there’d be hell to pay if he followed his gut impulse to dive on over there and cuddle up behind T-Bag, he quietly went back to cleaning his cut.

I, Robot... You, Jane

It was sunny. It was always sunny down in ‘Bama, seemed like, whenever there was visitin’ to be done. His Gramma took him down the dusty road into town, Teddy kicking up the weeds when she wasn’t looking. He was feeling a mite sullen and rebellious. She was wearing white cotton gloves like she always did, all o’ them did, showed how dumb she was. Weren’t nobody round those parts didn’t know jes where lil’ Teddy came from, what kinda monster her Alphonse had turned out to be, jes how wrecked the ol’ homestead was now that all the Bagwell money was gone. White gloves meant shit. Yesterday he’d been out playin’ cowboys and injuns by hisself in the woods, an’ Bobby Lee Thomas’d twisted his arm up behind his back an’ repeated all the crap about his Momma an’ his Daddy, called his sweet dumb mother a whore and all kinds o’ filth. He’d had his little blonde sister with him, but she didn’t watch, jes’ kept on staring off like she fell off the turnip truck.

“There’s worse to come,” the critter had told him before Bobby Lee led her off, him full o’ words ‘bout how she shouln’t talk to that son of a pervert, not never. That very minute, Teddy made it his mission in life to talk to that lil’ chickadee whenever he got the chance.

T-Bag woke up the way he much preferred to, with Maytag’s hand fisted around his already-hard dick. Boy slept in T-Bag’s bunk most always now, they were both skinny enough so it wasn’t uncomfortable. Maytag was breathing quickly but quietly, stale morning air hitting T-Bag’s neck, slightly greasy hair rubbing at his cheek. T-Bag felt warm and safe. Maytag was like an escape, he gave himself so totally that T-Bag seemed to get lost in there. He could feel the boy’s morning hard-on rubbing up against his thigh, more evidence that for once in this godforsaken existence, somebody knew T-Bag, really knew him through and through, and still wanted him. He nuzzled his cheek into the oily hair with its now-familiar smell of the fancy potions and dye the boy still insisted on spending all his dough on. Maytag squirmed closer at the sign of affection, draping his leg across T-Bag’s for more friction on his own need. T-Bag threw his head back and gripped the kid’s arm convulsively as one of those soft, sweet orgasms took over him, waves of pleasure that seemed to last for hours and were one of Maytag’s specialities.

When he came down from his high, the boy was having a quick, businesslike jerk to get himself ready for the day. Almost seemed a shame… T-Bag shifted onto his side so that there was more space between them, then pulled the kid further onto the bunk. Maytag looked up, suddenly wary, his hand stilling.

“Uh, uh, angel.” T-Bag shook his head gently, then stretched himself half over the boy’s body, flesh to flesh, and slowly unwrapped Maytag’s fingers from their positions, only to replace them with his own. The boy gasped, and when T-Bag looked up at him, his face was full of desire and awe. T-Bag had always been proud of his hands, their strength, the years of hard use that showed on them, their ability to destroy. Now they had a much more delicate use. He started mimicking those smooth movements that the boy used on him, and Maytag arched off the bed, pushing into his fist. Sweat was forming on his skin where the two bodies touched, hot stickiness everywhere, and Maytag was making these noises like he was trying to hold back from moaning the place down. T-Bag suddenly felt like he’d been missing out all this time, not seeing the kid like this, incandescent because of what he was doing to him, what his touch was awakening. Heat spilled over his fingers and Maytag cried out.

“I love you,” he moaned, loud enough so that laughs and catcalls started in the next cells, then caught and ricocheted up and down the block, ‘til it seemed like there were hundreds of voicing shouting ‘I love you, T-Bag’, ‘who loves ya, pervert?’ and moaning.

Damn fool faggot. T-Bag kicked at the grass in the yard. The prag was standing there, making puppy-dog eyes like he didn’t understand what was going on. People were laughing nearby, laughing at him no doubt, at his kindness, his downright generosity. This was what you got for being sweet to people, nothing but a kick in the teeth. Time to show that fag, Fox River was no place for emotion.

Couldn’t even much stand the thought of going over to his click, but he’d have to. They’d all be muttering and gossiping like his Gramma at the salon, and he had to reassert his dominance, show ‘em who was top of the pecking order, or he’d end up losing his place. Without even sparing a word for the prag, T-Bag threw on his swagger, his cock-of-the-walk moves, and about dragged his pocket out of the retard’s fingers in his sudden forward motion. He could hear scuffling steps behind him. Good. Faggot nearly tripped. T-Bag hoped he fell on his face, it would give him an excuse to beat him down in front of everyone. All that would really get him was a night in the SHU, though, when the guards caught him, and everyone saying there was ‘trouble in paradise’ or some such foolishness.

“Don’cha just LOVE it here, T-Bag? All us girls are gettin’ our nails done tomorrow, d’ya wanna COME?” Trokey was the first one to speak when T-Bag pitched up. Shoulda known that no-good-son-of-a-whore would have something smart to say. All the others were rollin’ about like ‘gators with a corpse. It was just plain sickening to watch, them all giggling like schoolgirls.

Smooth and easy-like, T-Bag ascended to his place above Trokey, a smile of pleasant enjoyment stretching his face. He even made sure the prag kept up, until they were both sitting real quietly on the bleachers, a still, calm eye in the storm. Didn’t take long for the boys to settle down, now that he was in the middle of them all. Didn’t take long for him to slide the shank out of his sleeve, so he could press it to the back of Trokey’s filthy neck, the smile never slipping from his face.

“You know, Trokey, I’m not one for makin’ a scene.” Irony. It was lost on morons like these. He pushed the point of the shank a quarter of an inch into Trokey’s neck, a friendly hand on the dog’s shoulder keeping him setting in place. “But in your case I am more than willin’ to make an exception. Next time I hear you castin’ aspersions on my good name, you’re gonna feel the full force of my displeasure. You hear?” Trokey did his best to nod, his hands twisted into white knots. T-Bag smiled a little more widely, and pulled the shank out. A satisfying stream of blood started to dribble down the back of Trokey’s neck, staining his prison blues purple. Very pretty.

“Well, now, boys, I think y’all deserve a little treat,” T-Bag announced expansively to the hushed crowd around him, “and since my prag here,” he ruffled Maytag’s carefully crafted hairstyle, “has been a bit overly demonstrative, I think it’s time he got a little demonstration of his own.” Maytag was staring at him in surprise, his big eyes all apprehensive. Time to show the little fag that those kind of sick feelings had no place around him. Unfortunately, the boy’s predilection for pain meant that he took most kinds of abuse as signs of affection, but there was one way that T-Bag knew to hurt him badly, one thing that’d make him feel like shit for sure. With the kindest smile in the world, T-Bag helped his prag up and led him off the bleachers.

“Meet us in the showers tonight, boys.”

The Puppet Show

Maytag didn’t get it. There was nothing about any of this that made any kind of sense. Things had been going real well, he’d been behaving himself, taking all kinds of shit and going back for more. Then, that morning, he’d thought… Well, didn’t he have a right to think that there was something more going on than just sex? T-Bag had suddenly changed the rules, he’d turned things around. He’d been the one that had lain Maytag down, stretched out on him all angles and sharp edges, and put his hand down there. His face had been all, sort of, heated and knowing, those perfect white teeth showing in the warmest smile Maytag had ever seen on his face, and it had been that smile, as much as the unheard-of sensation of T-Bag’s handjob, that had brought him off. It was heaven itself, the walls and bars had fallen away and he was in paradise. He swore he could hear angels singing. Maytag sighed. He didn’t have any rights, he shouldn’t have forgotten that.

Next thing he knew, he was on the floor, T-Bag stepping over him without a word. Everything was real noisy, cons banging on their cells and shouting. He’d lain there on the floor for a minute, trying to clear his head, feeling the bruises forming, until T-Bag was half dressed and gave him a look. There was nothing in that look, none of the warmth of moments before, not even hate. Just… nothing. It was horrible. Maytag stepped to it, pulling on his clothes hastily and rumpling up all his usual carefulness. He had about thirty seconds to do his hair before he had to rush to catch the pocket that was already heading out the door. Didn’t even get the chance to put eyeliner on. He felt ugly.

Now he was following T-Bag back across the yard, away from the bleachers and the sudden, horrible announcement. Trokey had been talking some random shit that made no sense, there had been a nice bit of blood, then there it was: meet them in the showers. Maytag didn’t know what demonstrative meant, but he must have behaved pretty badly to deserve that. He just couldn’t work out what had happened.

“T-Bag?” he asked quietly. No response, which meant that he wasn’t allowed to keep talking. He couldn’t stop himself, though. “Um, what did I do wrong?” Nothing. This was hell on earth. At least it didn’t look like he could make things worse. “’Cus, see, if I don’t know, I can’t learn.” That got his attention. T-Bag liked to teach, it was the one thing you could always count on.

“Are you playin’ dumb on purpose, or did your Momma really fetch you up that much of a retard?” Good, that was a start. There was anger flaring in those brown eyes, much better than the nothing from before.

“I really don’t know, poppa, please?” Maytag whined. He tried to look as young as possible, hoping to maybe turn things around. If he got T-Bag angry and turned on enough to give him a beating, he might avoid whatever was waiting for him in the showers.

“If you don’t know, I ain’t tellin’ ya.” T-Bag waved a dismissive hand and started walking. “You’ll learn your lesson later.” Maytag started to ask again, but T-Bag, still walking, grabbed the hand holding his pocket and gritted “Are you lookin’ to lose your privileges, fag?” He twisted Maytag’s hand, hard. ‘Cos I am this close to turning you loose in the rughead pen and tellin’ ‘em there’s a sale on fairy cakes, you get me?” Maytag closed his mouth, and tried to hold back the salt tears stinging his eyes, and not just because of his sore fingers.

Later; the showers. Everything was fish-belly white, blood red or sickly green. Things swam in and out of focus, the wound on his head dripping into his eye. Soap scum making his hands and knees slip from under him, every bit of him hurting. Rows and circles of hairy legs, coarse skin, rigid monstrous things pushed into him over and over again, anywhere they would fit. T-Bag laughing, leaning against the wall, and something inside Maytag breaking, curling up on itself so that nothing could get to it any more. Pain as a wrist snapped, bent back at a queasy angle. White teeth, baseball cap, poppa, what did he ever do to deserve this?

“Jason.” His Mom was calling him. Time to get up for kindergarten.

“Jason.” Rita from his gang had managed to snag breakfast.

“Jason.” Clean white sheets came into focus. The doc was standing over him, looking sad. She was touching his shoulder, the back of it because he was lying on his front. Her face made him want to cry. “Hey, how you doing?” she asked nicely, and he had to turn his face away. “Well, okay then.” He felt her straighten up and wanted to beg her to come back. “You’ve had a nasty set of injuries, Buchanan, broken wrist, bruised ribs, head wound, some, ah, rectal damage, nothing too serious there, thankfully, but all pretty painful, I’m afraid. You’ll have to stay here for a few days, at least.” She was sounded all business now, enough so that he could look at her again. “You’ll be pleased to hear that Bagwell’s been thrown in the SHU for an indefinite period, pending further investigation.”

“No!” Maytag shouted, unable to stop himself.

“What? What’s wrong?” The doc sighed and pushed her hair back, the pen in her hand barely missing her forehead. “Look, it’s time to make this stop, Jason. I’ve seen the damage he does to you, I’ve cleaned you up enough times.” Her voice dropped, almost begging. “Let us help you. We’ll transfer Bagwell somewhere that can actually help him, he’ll be better off. You’ll go into Ad Seg. You need a bit of peace…”

“He didn’t do it. He wasn’t there.” The words sounded true, made things easier in his head. The curled-up, broken thing inside him that used to be Jason squeezed itself tighter. The part of him that was JB pushed forward, clamped down on everything else and made things simple: protect yourself and your crew before anything.

“They found him at the scene, trying to pick you up. He laughed when they came in.”

“He came to get me. He was trying to help me.” He was shocked at how cold his voice sounded, how easily he could lie.

“Is that true?” The doc sounded urgent, frustrated. “Is that what you would tell the Warden if he asked?” JB nodded. A puff of angry sound from behind him, then a muttered, “there’s no helping some people,” and retreating footsteps.

JB let Maytag fall asleep.

Nightmares

Funny thing, people. T-Bag had never quite been able to work them out. Oh sure, he could get inside their heads easy as anything, work out what they were afraid of, mess with them some, but there were just things about them he didn’t get. There was Westmoreland, cooing over that raggedy cat. Only things T-Bag knew about cats were that they were good for scaring, and their insides were pretty. Yet people were always fawning over ‘em, giving them treats and petting them, even ignoring their own children for them. Children were bigger, they took up more space, needed more attention, but some people didn’t seem to get that. Still, he was always happy to step in and give them poor neglected little innocents all the attention they deserved.

T-Bag was bored. Being back in Gen Pop was fine for the first two days, but there was nothing going on. His boys were right back in line, afraid to step out in case he got mad. Conversation was dull (not that it was ever what you might call scintillating), all about pussy and tail, stories he’d already heard repeatedly. He’d been stripped of his TA job, even though Pope had told him he was in the clear, so that was definitely unfair. Kid had done his bit, taken his punishment and shut the hell up about it, exonerated him even, and T-Bag was still taking the lumps for it. Least he wasn’t in the SHU; that was boring as all hell.

Now he was lying on his bunk, looking at pictures. He didn’t have any of his own, so he was looking at Maytag’s. Here was the boy with two queers he’d moved in with for a bit. Kid had told him all about them, Charlie and Mo, they’d taken him off the streets for a spell and looked after him, in return for the use of his body of course. T-Bag had to respect that, they’d used him pretty thoroughly and made him grateful for it. He doubted there’d be much gratitude coming his way when the boy came back.

T-Bag rolled over on his stomach, still holding the photo. Kid looked happy. This had been taken before they found out that Mo had the blickey, Hi 5 the niggers called it, AIDS. Boy was clean, T-Bag’d paid to see his medical records so he knew he wasn’t getting any of that fag disease. He still hadn’t gone near the boy for a spell, though. Maytag and Charlie had taken care of Mo as long as they could, but things turned cold and bitter while Mo got sicker and sicker, until Maytag couldn’t take it anymore and went back to the streets. T-Bag liked that story, it was full of suffering. He could relate to it. He imagined Maytag, glossy and sleek after a few months’ good chow, his eyes all kicked puppy as he said goodbye to the retching, shaking thing on the bed that used to be his lover. The other one standing there angry and impotent. Probably wanting to stick his dick in the boy and fuck all the pain into him, rip him a new one and stick it in that as well, but too much of a girly fag to do it.

It was stupid to miss Maytag. T-Bag carelessly shoved the picture back into its place under the boy’s mattress. He’d spent enough time over the years by himself, wasn’t like he didn’t know what it was like to sleep alone. If the boy were there he’d have made him sleep on the floor anyway. Probably.

Although, he had taken his punishment. He’d been so beautiful on the floor of the showers, all that blood. He hadn’t looked right though, looked like maybe he wasn’t going to make it, and that had felt weird in the pit of T-Bag’s stomach, so he’d sent the rest of them away. He didn’t want Maytag to die, which was a whole new level of weird he didn’t even know existed in here. He started laughing when the Bulls came in, like he was relieved or some shit. Kid was a liability, he should slit his throat when he got back.

Grumpy. He felt grumpy as all hell, all through chow and all evening. Bored shitless too. He contemplated starting a fight just to have something to do, but he didn’t want to go back to the SHU. He tried to read one of the books that the Witch had brought in for him, Madame Bovary, but it was too sappy for his mood. The thing about love, he mused as he lay on his bunk, was that hate was nearabouts the same thing. To love someone, you have to hate them a little bit, because loving meant giving away a bit of your soul, and you had to hate someone that took something so precious from you. You have to love someone to hate them, because the fire that burnt behind hate was passion. You have to be in love with the idea of destroying them.

Betsy-Mae had loved him as best she could right until the end. Wasn’t much love in the girl to start with, she was cold in the middle like Baked Alaska, but what little there was she’d dumped on him. He still remembered the night it had all come out. He’d been listening outside the window, waiting to crawl in beside her after lights out, when the mother had asked tremblingly when Betsy had last had her period. His stomach about dropped into his boots. Betsy Mae didn’t answer, until the mother asked when she’d last had bleeding between her legs. The poor cracked kid started spouting about the first time Teddy was inside her, how the blood had come then.

After that was a whole lot of screeching and caterwauling, the mother rocking and saying the word ‘fourteen’ over and over again, Bobby Lee and their Daddy fixing to come after him with a posse. Betsy Mae hitting them with whatever she could get her crazy hands on, prattling that she loved him, which only made them madder. Teddy decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and skipped town for a while. Thought about taking Betsy with him, she was nothing but fun to be around, full of odd thoughts and a latent interest in violence, plus it sounded like she was having his baby. He couldn’t think of a way to get her out, though, short of killing every one of them, and you don’t shit where you eat. His Gramma was getting old, he wanted to inherit the house one day, such as it was. He wanted to be there when the old bitch bought it. So he hid out with Jimmy in the next town over, ‘til he heard they’d moved. There didn’t seem to be any stories circulating about him, other than the usual ones, so he guessed they’d hushed it up for the sake of appearances. Probably killed that little mite that had been growing in her belly too. He felt real sad about that.

At the other end of the scale was Susan. Susan had been different, he’d seen it the minute he met her. He’d been out walking, trying to clear his head, when he’d seen the lights on in the art gallery. Looked warm and there was free booze, so he’d stepped in. Next thing he was standing next to this little fine-boned thing, all creamy skin and ebony hair, looking at a downright indecent picture of a woman’s pussy, and he couldn’t help but laugh. She’d asked him what was so funny, then she’d started laughing too. It went from there. He bought her coffee out of the limited bit of dough he had in his pocket, and watched her speak, the way her hands talked, so strong and sure in her movements. He wanted to be near that surety, that clear purpose. She talked about her kids and he could practically see them, the boy all moody, trying to be the man of the house, the girl, her little angel, struggling at school with her dyslexia but just lighting up the room whenever she was in it.

Susan might as well have been Judas. Sold him out the minute she found out who he was. He’d been good to that woman, better than he’d ever been. He’d felt motivated by her, longed to be that man she deserved. He’d gotten a job in a restaurant, nothing fancy but enough to treat her time to time. He’d fallen in love with them kids the minute he saw them, wanted to take care of them like they were his own. But what did she do? Threw him in here first chance she got. Came to visit him to tell him what he’d done to her. What he’d done to her? That was a joke. When he thought about what he’d done to Maytag, and the kid hadn’t sold him out…

Back to him again. T-Bag’s mind seemed to be going in circles. He was a different person in here, that was for sure. You didn’t survive long if you didn’t change. That man that had stayed down for Susan, wanted to take care of her, he was gone, and T-Bag had no insight into his motivations. He couldn’t even imagine who that man was anymore. Meanwhile, here was Maytag, fucked up kid that he was, gripping his pocket tighter than anyone else. No, T-Bag could not understand some things people did, no matter how hard he tried. You could be their ideal and they’d shit all over you, or you could be their worst nightmare and they’d be right there by your side.

He let out a growl as the lights went out and turned over on to his side. His pants were draped over the chair next to him, and without much thinking about it he turned the pocket out, letting his fingers linger slightly over it, so he could see the whiteness even in the darkness of the cell. Ended up looking at it until he fell asleep.