| "SKULLFUCKERS" BY CALLUM HOUSTON |
Tonight Larry Robertson is going to be beaten. Taught a painful, punishing, bone-breaking lesson.
If he's lucky. More likely they'll shiv him. Or throw him over the third tier railing. Maybe hang
him from that same railing, make it look like suicide or an accident.
Fraserview Correctional Facility represents a new era in modern prison design. One of the first
models of its kind, it has the most advanced inmate observation capabilities on the planet, a new
technological level in the enterprise of incarcerating criminals. At Fraserview every convict is
micro-watched - and heard - 24/7. An inmate who knows his every motion is being monitored is a
compliant inmate. While Fraserview's technical design is impressive, its most revolutionary
dimension is not the electronic scrutiny of inmates. In Fraserview's Bravo North unit there are no
other convicts. Sure, Larry's fellow inmates look, dress, and act like cons. But they're not.
They're all on the government payroll. At first he thought maybe the most scarred, toothless,
ragged, leather-skinned motherfuckers might be legitimate cons, but now he knows different. The
guards are in on it too. They're all pros here.
In the corrections van coming from sentencing court that afternoon, a junk-sick, sleepy-eyed con
sitting across from him in the sheet metal carriage looks up and says, "Prepare to see a slammer
unlike any you've ever seen before."
The junkie was right. Unless you'd been told, there is no indication you are approaching a federal
penitentiary. The prison is located in a newly constructed office park fitting in inconspicuously with
the generic buildings that house the industrial wholesalers and corporate head offices that surround
it.
The van pulls into the sallyport and the bay door closes shut behind it. Larry steps out of the
vehicle, shackles and cuffs jangling like oversize jewellery. The chilled, air-conditioned atmosphere
sends a shiver through his body.
The intake process: Waiting. Questions of health. Waiting. Questions of personal history.
Waiting. Mug shot. Waiting. Issuing of ID bracelet and card. More waiting. Five hours later
Larry is given his cell effects and linen and is led to the Bravo North unit entrance. The door to the
unit clicks unlocked. Larry opens it and enters. A few inmates look blankly at him for a moment
and then away, returning to their card games or food. The white walls and the bright artificial light
of the room fatigue his eyes. The range floor is made up of tables and chairs and there are elevated
televisions in two opposing corners of the room. One of the TVs is showing black and white
footage documenting LSD experiments on American soldiers in the 1950s. There is a skylight, but
the ceiling is so high and the window so small that it is merely pretence of any natural outside
exposure. In a small concrete yard with a wire mesh ceiling two men play a vigorous game of
handball.
There are three tiers of cells. A bull with a name tag that says Armstrong assigns him cell
twenty-seven on the third tier. The walls are dotted with black, half-baseball size glass bubbles.
Remote cameras. In the ceiling, at the corner of the unit above the entrance and guard's station, is
a one-way glass booth. Master control, the eye in the sky. He imagines the screws inside the booth
switching between remote cameras as if editing a live, on-going prison channel. This is a fishbowl
unit. They put you here first, to assess you, to watch you, in order to determine the appropriate
place for you to do your time - either in a medium or maximum security joint.
Larry enters his cell, unpacks his effects and makes the bed. The room is standard austere prison
design: a small closet for toiletries and clothes, a toilet and a sink, a desk with a TV on top, a chair,
a bed. He was popping the cherry on this room. No previous tenant had stayed here. No wear, no
markings, no graffiti. The stainless steel toilet and sink shine like buffed automobile chrome. This
jail is so new the paint is probably still drying, Larry thinks to himself. There are two dark tinted,
rectangular windows above the bed. Larry looks outside. Across the prison parking lot and on the
other side of the street he sees what looks like a commercial trucking operation. He watches a semi
pull out of the lot and wonders if the driver knows who his neighbours are over here. He thinks of
the driver going on his journey down the highway, the distance marked on a odometer, and Larry
going on his journey through the system, the distance marked on a calendar. Larry is looking at the
front end of a five year bit for fraud. Long haul. The willingness of the average dumbfuck to part
with credit card and bank account information never failed to amaze him. Anyone that stupid
deserved to have their accounts flushed. The cost of an education. Caveat emptor, my friend.
Supper is called and Larry goes down to the floor. He gets his tray of food and waits for everyone
to go to their usual seat. He looks for a vacant spot. A native Indian man sits at a table alone.
"Mind if I join you here?" Larry asks, setting his tray down on the table.
"Knock yourself out, bud."
Larry looks at the man's face. It's puffy and swollen. It looks like the flesh has been rearranged -
forcibly - a few times in the past. He's got a thick scar that runs from the side of his eye down to
the corner of his mouth, the tissue a lighter, milkier shade than the rest of his brown skin. His
thick, black-as-midnight hair is tied in a ponytail that dangles to his waist. He's lean. Larry figures
he probably spends a lot of time in the weight pit. His arms are entwined with muscles and adorned
with ink. When they finish their food he asks Larry's name.
"Larry Robertson. Yours?"
"Maximillian Nicholson." His smile is a void where his top row of teeth had once been. "Call me
Max."
"What beef are you in for?"
"The question is, What am I not in for? Got me on thirty-eight charges. Forcible confinement,
kidnapping, assault, theft, extortion - you name it. I'm looking at a fifteen year bit."
"Once they smell blood they fire up their steamroller and run you down."
"You know it. Take a look at this -"
Max pulls the sleeve of his shirt over his left shoulder and shows Larry a massive scar. It's like a
ditch has been dug out of the circumference of his bicep. Flecks of brown scab remain where the
flesh hasn't yet finished repairing itself. Max pushes his chair back, raises his right leg, and drops it
onto the table like a slab of butchered meat. He pulls up the cuff of his red prison pants and lowers
his black sock. Around his ankle is another grotesque scar.
"You get into a fight with a shark or something?" Larry asks with a wince.
"Worse," Max grins, "a police dog. I'm walkin' down an alley downtown with some home theatre
gear I found. The next thing I know there's some fucknuts shitsmear up on a balcony with a cell
phone pointing at me and a VPD cop car is pulling into the alley. The car stops and two pigs and a
dog get out, so I drop the gear and start bookin'. I tried to climb over a fence but the dog got me.
Damn near took my arm clear off. Wish I could've hung that fuckin' mongrel to the fence by its
collar. The cunts charged me with assaulting a police officer just for messin' with the dog. Did you
know they cap their teeth?"
Larry shakes his head. "No."
"Yeah, it's true. They cap the dogs' fangs with titanium. Fuckin' titanium. Deadly. A word of
advice: If you ever meet up with a police dog, do not fight back - just makes it more vicious. And
then when the dog's done with you, the pigs'll kick the shit outta ya real bad. That's how I got this-"
Max runs a finger along the scar on his face.
"I'm a real, live, walkin', talkin' native Indian carving," Max says.
Larry drains his cup of milk. He notices Max doesn't give a shit what he's in for.
Max says, "So you know it's about eighty-twenty in here, right?"
"Eighty-twenty?"
"Yeah, eighty-twenty. Eighty percent bugs, twenty percent legitimate cons."
"Bugs?"
"Fake convicts working for the man. Informants."
Larry takes a look around, everyone eating or gabbing. They all looked like dealers and hustlers
and punks and crackheads to him.
"What makes you think that?"
"Look at the guard. Only one fuckin' bull on our unit and he's new, a greenhorn. Can't be any
more than twenty-three, twenty-four. You think they're going to put him alone in here with thirty
prisoners, some who're looking at life and would think nothing - I mean nothing! - of dropping a
guard? No fucking way. He may not even know it but he's surrounded by backup if he gets into a
code yellow situation."
"But why? What's the point?"
"Well, for starters, it's a good way to train the rookie bulls. It's safe. They don't have to worry
about getting dummied while they learn the ins and outs of the job. But the main reason is
information."
"Information," Larry repeats.
"Information. Let's say the prosecution is pretty sure their guy's guilty but they want confirmation
before they convince a judge to lock him up for ten to fifteen. They dump his ass in here and let
the bugs work on him. Most people in jail can't wait to start bragging and tell anyone who'll listen
about their indictable accomplishments. And if the bugs can't get what they want by making the
squid talk, they read his mind. Get what they want that way."
Larry laughs, "Yeah sure."
Max looks him in the eye and gravely says, "Straight goods, pal. I'm serious. You are in a room
full of mindreading bugs."
Oh shit, Larry thinks. Crazy fucking Indian. No wonder he was eating alone, he's a whack-job. Is
this the mental ward? Nurse Ratched where are you? Get this nut out of general population.
"Psychics huh?"
"If you don't tell them what they want then they keep you here 'til they extract it from your brain."
Larry takes another look around. "Max, these people look just as much like criminals as you and
me."
"They are criminals. They're all from the street. Terminal users - crack, smack, ecstasy, down,
jib. They've got no family, no hope, no future. They get busted, brought in here, and the feds test
them for telekinetic ability. Could be they get busted because they've got the ability. They're
useful. The program's been going on for about ten years. That's when they started noticing that
some heavy drug users had this special power. They say drug use brings it out in some people.
Creates a chemical reaction in the brain that spawns it or unlocks it, or it could be the next level of
human evolution and the drugs kinda push it along. So if a bug's got this psychic shit going on he
gets offered a deal: room, board, cash and a lighter sentence. All he's got to do is scan some
suspected skin hound and see if he's left a trail of child diddling on the outside. Some bugs keep on
working in the system even after their bit is over. It's a better life than the street."
Larry sees a glint of madness in Max's eyes. He's been holding this stuff in and finally he's found
an ear that will listen, like a kid who's been entrusted a secret he had no intention of keeping in the
first place.
A distorted voice overloads the ceiling loudspeaker, "Lockdown in five minutes, five minutes to
lockdown."
Max goes on, "You see the dudes at the table behind us?"
Larry takes a quick glance. Two convicts with big smiles are listening and nodding in agreement as
a younger man - a boy really - passionately waxes enthusiastic about his expertise in stealing cars.
He looks back at Max.
"Yeah, I see them."
"They got that poor chump spilling his guts. They're playing him like fuckin' Nintendo.
Eighty-twenty, man. Could be even higher."
Larry takes another look. The car thief continues his tale, the other two taking it all in. Sure, it was
possible, that they were I.N., informants milking the kid for info. The idea of undercover cops in
prison was long rumoured but dismissed as bullshit by most cons. Larry was enough of a cynic to
consider that it was probably done at one time or another. But a government run gang of psychics
gathering information for the Crown?
"These motherfuckers get you going and they worm their way into your lobes. They skullfuck ya,
man. They feel what you feel, see what you see, taste what you taste. If they're skullfuckin' you
when you're jacking-off alone in your cell late at night after lockdown, they feel the whole thing just
like you do. They feel the cum coursing through your cock when you squirt, just like it was their
own dick in their hands."
"Lockdown. Lockdown and formal count. Counts to control," crackles the ceiling loudspeaker.
If he's lucky. More likely they'll shiv him. Or throw him over the third tier railing. Maybe hang
him from that same railing, make it look like suicide or an accident.
Fraserview Correctional Facility represents a new era in modern prison design. One of the first
models of its kind, it has the most advanced inmate observation capabilities on the planet, a new
technological level in the enterprise of incarcerating criminals. At Fraserview every convict is
micro-watched - and heard - 24/7. An inmate who knows his every motion is being monitored is a
compliant inmate. While Fraserview's technical design is impressive, its most revolutionary
dimension is not the electronic scrutiny of inmates. In Fraserview's Bravo North unit there are no
other convicts. Sure, Larry's fellow inmates look, dress, and act like cons. But they're not.
They're all on the government payroll. At first he thought maybe the most scarred, toothless,
ragged, leather-skinned motherfuckers might be legitimate cons, but now he knows different. The
guards are in on it too. They're all pros here.
In the corrections van coming from sentencing court that afternoon, a junk-sick, sleepy-eyed con
sitting across from him in the sheet metal carriage looks up and says, "Prepare to see a slammer
unlike any you've ever seen before."
The junkie was right. Unless you'd been told, there is no indication you are approaching a federal
penitentiary. The prison is located in a newly constructed office park fitting in inconspicuously with
the generic buildings that house the industrial wholesalers and corporate head offices that surround
it.
The van pulls into the sallyport and the bay door closes shut behind it. Larry steps out of the
vehicle, shackles and cuffs jangling like oversize jewellery. The chilled, air-conditioned atmosphere
sends a shiver through his body.
The intake process: Waiting. Questions of health. Waiting. Questions of personal history.
Waiting. Mug shot. Waiting. Issuing of ID bracelet and card. More waiting. Five hours later
Larry is given his cell effects and linen and is led to the Bravo North unit entrance. The door to the
unit clicks unlocked. Larry opens it and enters. A few inmates look blankly at him for a moment
and then away, returning to their card games or food. The white walls and the bright artificial light
of the room fatigue his eyes. The range floor is made up of tables and chairs and there are elevated
televisions in two opposing corners of the room. One of the TVs is showing black and white
footage documenting LSD experiments on American soldiers in the 1950s. There is a skylight, but
the ceiling is so high and the window so small that it is merely pretence of any natural outside
exposure. In a small concrete yard with a wire mesh ceiling two men play a vigorous game of
handball.
There are three tiers of cells. A bull with a name tag that says Armstrong assigns him cell
twenty-seven on the third tier. The walls are dotted with black, half-baseball size glass bubbles.
Remote cameras. In the ceiling, at the corner of the unit above the entrance and guard's station, is
a one-way glass booth. Master control, the eye in the sky. He imagines the screws inside the booth
switching between remote cameras as if editing a live, on-going prison channel. This is a fishbowl
unit. They put you here first, to assess you, to watch you, in order to determine the appropriate
place for you to do your time - either in a medium or maximum security joint.
Larry enters his cell, unpacks his effects and makes the bed. The room is standard austere prison
design: a small closet for toiletries and clothes, a toilet and a sink, a desk with a TV on top, a chair,
a bed. He was popping the cherry on this room. No previous tenant had stayed here. No wear, no
markings, no graffiti. The stainless steel toilet and sink shine like buffed automobile chrome. This
jail is so new the paint is probably still drying, Larry thinks to himself. There are two dark tinted,
rectangular windows above the bed. Larry looks outside. Across the prison parking lot and on the
other side of the street he sees what looks like a commercial trucking operation. He watches a semi
pull out of the lot and wonders if the driver knows who his neighbours are over here. He thinks of
the driver going on his journey down the highway, the distance marked on a odometer, and Larry
going on his journey through the system, the distance marked on a calendar. Larry is looking at the
front end of a five year bit for fraud. Long haul. The willingness of the average dumbfuck to part
with credit card and bank account information never failed to amaze him. Anyone that stupid
deserved to have their accounts flushed. The cost of an education. Caveat emptor, my friend.
Supper is called and Larry goes down to the floor. He gets his tray of food and waits for everyone
to go to their usual seat. He looks for a vacant spot. A native Indian man sits at a table alone.
"Mind if I join you here?" Larry asks, setting his tray down on the table.
"Knock yourself out, bud."
Larry looks at the man's face. It's puffy and swollen. It looks like the flesh has been rearranged -
forcibly - a few times in the past. He's got a thick scar that runs from the side of his eye down to
the corner of his mouth, the tissue a lighter, milkier shade than the rest of his brown skin. His
thick, black-as-midnight hair is tied in a ponytail that dangles to his waist. He's lean. Larry figures
he probably spends a lot of time in the weight pit. His arms are entwined with muscles and adorned
with ink. When they finish their food he asks Larry's name.
"Larry Robertson. Yours?"
"Maximillian Nicholson." His smile is a void where his top row of teeth had once been. "Call me
Max."
"What beef are you in for?"
"The question is, What am I not in for? Got me on thirty-eight charges. Forcible confinement,
kidnapping, assault, theft, extortion - you name it. I'm looking at a fifteen year bit."
"Once they smell blood they fire up their steamroller and run you down."
"You know it. Take a look at this -"
Max pulls the sleeve of his shirt over his left shoulder and shows Larry a massive scar. It's like a
ditch has been dug out of the circumference of his bicep. Flecks of brown scab remain where the
flesh hasn't yet finished repairing itself. Max pushes his chair back, raises his right leg, and drops it
onto the table like a slab of butchered meat. He pulls up the cuff of his red prison pants and lowers
his black sock. Around his ankle is another grotesque scar.
"You get into a fight with a shark or something?" Larry asks with a wince.
"Worse," Max grins, "a police dog. I'm walkin' down an alley downtown with some home theatre
gear I found. The next thing I know there's some fucknuts shitsmear up on a balcony with a cell
phone pointing at me and a VPD cop car is pulling into the alley. The car stops and two pigs and a
dog get out, so I drop the gear and start bookin'. I tried to climb over a fence but the dog got me.
Damn near took my arm clear off. Wish I could've hung that fuckin' mongrel to the fence by its
collar. The cunts charged me with assaulting a police officer just for messin' with the dog. Did you
know they cap their teeth?"
Larry shakes his head. "No."
"Yeah, it's true. They cap the dogs' fangs with titanium. Fuckin' titanium. Deadly. A word of
advice: If you ever meet up with a police dog, do not fight back - just makes it more vicious. And
then when the dog's done with you, the pigs'll kick the shit outta ya real bad. That's how I got this-"
Max runs a finger along the scar on his face.
"I'm a real, live, walkin', talkin' native Indian carving," Max says.
Larry drains his cup of milk. He notices Max doesn't give a shit what he's in for.
Max says, "So you know it's about eighty-twenty in here, right?"
"Eighty-twenty?"
"Yeah, eighty-twenty. Eighty percent bugs, twenty percent legitimate cons."
"Bugs?"
"Fake convicts working for the man. Informants."
Larry takes a look around, everyone eating or gabbing. They all looked like dealers and hustlers
and punks and crackheads to him.
"What makes you think that?"
"Look at the guard. Only one fuckin' bull on our unit and he's new, a greenhorn. Can't be any
more than twenty-three, twenty-four. You think they're going to put him alone in here with thirty
prisoners, some who're looking at life and would think nothing - I mean nothing! - of dropping a
guard? No fucking way. He may not even know it but he's surrounded by backup if he gets into a
code yellow situation."
"But why? What's the point?"
"Well, for starters, it's a good way to train the rookie bulls. It's safe. They don't have to worry
about getting dummied while they learn the ins and outs of the job. But the main reason is
information."
"Information," Larry repeats.
"Information. Let's say the prosecution is pretty sure their guy's guilty but they want confirmation
before they convince a judge to lock him up for ten to fifteen. They dump his ass in here and let
the bugs work on him. Most people in jail can't wait to start bragging and tell anyone who'll listen
about their indictable accomplishments. And if the bugs can't get what they want by making the
squid talk, they read his mind. Get what they want that way."
Larry laughs, "Yeah sure."
Max looks him in the eye and gravely says, "Straight goods, pal. I'm serious. You are in a room
full of mindreading bugs."
Oh shit, Larry thinks. Crazy fucking Indian. No wonder he was eating alone, he's a whack-job. Is
this the mental ward? Nurse Ratched where are you? Get this nut out of general population.
"Psychics huh?"
"If you don't tell them what they want then they keep you here 'til they extract it from your brain."
Larry takes another look around. "Max, these people look just as much like criminals as you and
me."
"They are criminals. They're all from the street. Terminal users - crack, smack, ecstasy, down,
jib. They've got no family, no hope, no future. They get busted, brought in here, and the feds test
them for telekinetic ability. Could be they get busted because they've got the ability. They're
useful. The program's been going on for about ten years. That's when they started noticing that
some heavy drug users had this special power. They say drug use brings it out in some people.
Creates a chemical reaction in the brain that spawns it or unlocks it, or it could be the next level of
human evolution and the drugs kinda push it along. So if a bug's got this psychic shit going on he
gets offered a deal: room, board, cash and a lighter sentence. All he's got to do is scan some
suspected skin hound and see if he's left a trail of child diddling on the outside. Some bugs keep on
working in the system even after their bit is over. It's a better life than the street."
Larry sees a glint of madness in Max's eyes. He's been holding this stuff in and finally he's found
an ear that will listen, like a kid who's been entrusted a secret he had no intention of keeping in the
first place.
A distorted voice overloads the ceiling loudspeaker, "Lockdown in five minutes, five minutes to
lockdown."
Max goes on, "You see the dudes at the table behind us?"
Larry takes a quick glance. Two convicts with big smiles are listening and nodding in agreement as
a younger man - a boy really - passionately waxes enthusiastic about his expertise in stealing cars.
He looks back at Max.
"Yeah, I see them."
"They got that poor chump spilling his guts. They're playing him like fuckin' Nintendo.
Eighty-twenty, man. Could be even higher."
Larry takes another look. The car thief continues his tale, the other two taking it all in. Sure, it was
possible, that they were I.N., informants milking the kid for info. The idea of undercover cops in
prison was long rumoured but dismissed as bullshit by most cons. Larry was enough of a cynic to
consider that it was probably done at one time or another. But a government run gang of psychics
gathering information for the Crown?
"These motherfuckers get you going and they worm their way into your lobes. They skullfuck ya,
man. They feel what you feel, see what you see, taste what you taste. If they're skullfuckin' you
when you're jacking-off alone in your cell late at night after lockdown, they feel the whole thing just
like you do. They feel the cum coursing through your cock when you squirt, just like it was their
own dick in their hands."
"Lockdown. Lockdown and formal count. Counts to control," crackles the ceiling loudspeaker.
