Slammer

Still, the blade was small, which meant for it to be effective, he needed to get close to me. Once I had my hands on him, it wouldn’t matter what he was packing.

I stood there, unflinching, and waited for him to attack. And then he did. He moved quickly. His small stature gave him the advantage of speed, but he ran right into me, giving me the chance to yank him up before he could even swipe the blade my way.

The gang members covered their smiles behind their palms. They had obviously set him up to fail. These men were bored and watching some kid get his ass whipped was considered entertainment.

Fuck that.

I wasn’t a dancing monkey.

Scooping the newbie up and pressing him against the wall with one hand, I yanked the paper blade from him and tossed him to the side like a sack of laundry. He scrambled back on his hands and knees, running into the group of watchers, all dying for some form of excitement.

Their smiles disappeared, and they peered angrily at me for not snapping on the dude and beating him within an inch of his life. That wasn’t my thing.

I knew what was coming, but it didn’t matter. As I held the paper blade in my hand, seven of the gang members surrounded me, pissed that I wasn’t playing their game. Their tattoos were shiny from sweat, and their black hair was slicked back with oil. Dark brown eyes took in my stance, sizing me up for their attack.

My eyes skimmed over them as I tried to figure out which one would pounce first, but they surprised me when all seven jumped on me at once.

As I fought back, my fists flew and made contact several times. I didn’t use the paper blade even if seven on one wasn’t a fair fight. I was old school, so fuck it. If I was going to go down, I was going down swinging, but I held my own. It wasn’t until one of them stuck me in the leg with a blade that I went down completely.

Officers filled the room at that moment, pulling the fight apart and ripping the paper blade from my fist without even noticing the other guy with his blade. As usual, they ignored everyone else who brandished a weapon. I was on their shit list and didn’t have any of them in my pocket, which meant I was the one who always got the short straw.

No one ever said the COs were fair. Money and drugs were the only language they understood.

Before long, I was being cuffed and shuffled off to the infirmary. The smell of my blood filled my senses and sent my memories reeling. The gang members who jumped me laughed as I was hauled off, spitting onto the cold concrete at my feet.

My leg ached where the blade had entered, and my khakis were slowly turning rusty red. I walked to the infirmary without a limp and with my head held high. I wouldn’t let those fuckers know how badly my leg hurt.

While three of us, Carlos included, went to the infirmary, the rest of them went back to their cells. A few of them, including the newbie, had run at the first sight of custody moving in. I smirked to myself, knowing that I’d at least gotten a piece of Carlos and some other asshole. I knew for sure that Carlos would need stitches. I’d felt his skin rip when I hit him.

Officer Reeves roughed me up on the way to the infirmary. He was a dirty bastard who thrived off excessive force. He had eyed me the first day I entered the block. I’d seen the way his eyes took me in, and I wondered if maybe he was thinking of trying to make me his bitch. Honestly, the way he’d looked me over was one of the main reasons I’d started lifting weights.

He kept his eyes on me for weeks until he finally approached me. Believe it or not, the COs posed more of a risk than the inmates did. When he made contact with me, I found out that the COs spent thousands gambling. There was somewhat of an officer-sanctioned “fight club” for entertainment. They’d put inmate against inmate and paid the winner a percentage. In his eyes, I was a prized fighter.

The winning inmate was given more than a percentage, though. They were given special privileges and rewards that were not usually found in the prison. Things were expunged from their records. Contraband was overlooked and sometimes even given to them. Money. Drugs. Weapons. Protection. Women. There was a lot to gain in the fighting ring, but nothing I wanted or needed.

I’d turned him down then, and I’d continued to do so for the last ten years. The bastard hated me for that and made my life hell. In his mind, if he kept it up, he’d break me. He wanted to use me as his own fighter dog. He wanted me to rip apart the competition and earn him thousands.

It wasn’t going to happen.

Inmates were nothing to the COs. We were treated like dogs, fed and bred by the officers who had the money to invest in their animal. They rewarded and punished their asset just enough to make sure the big dogs stayed on top and the rest stayed exactly where they were meant to be.