| "SKULLFUCKERS" CONTINUED |
Larry lies on his bunk watching an eighteen-wheeler pull out of the lot across the street. He gets up
and takes a look through the door window at the guard three flights below sitting at his desk. The
guard is Asian, short, portly for his height, fitting snuggly into his blue uniform. He's got a pen in
his hand, updating a report, audibly tapping the pen on the desk between touching pen to paper with
his notations.
Tap tap.
Tap tap.
Tap tap.
Tap tap.
The guard ceases tapping. He sits motionless, and, as if sensing Larry's gaze, looks up at him
peering down. Larry retreats back to the bed and lies down. He listens to the sounds of the
prison. Someone switches on a TV, the tinny sound from the small mono speaker splashing
brightly off the walls of the unit, the content indecipherable; the ventilation system droning like
stale, stagnant wind through a forest of mechanical trees; a sink faucet is turned on; a toilet flushes.
Larry considers what Max said at lunch. Mutants working as informants within the penal system,
isolating themselves from society like monks of the underground. Larry had read something once
about a drug that inhibits the subject's ability to resist thinking the truth, a truth serum. It would
just be a matter of putting the serum into the prison drinking water and letting the bugs have at
'em. Prisoners would certainly make good guinea pigs. They're isolated and captive. Human
rights disappear behind prison walls. No one looks out for society's criminal class, a defenceless
and unknowing group of men who have been branded, labelled and discarded. They would be
extremely valuable to a pharmaceutical company or a government research and development arm
looking to test the effects of new drugs on people instead of rats. To a private incarceration
corporation it's another revenue stream. Convicts could be tested, monitored and controlled with
ease.
Tap tap. The guard taps his pen again, as if in response to Larry's line of thinking.
I've got to hand it to Max, Larry thinks. He sure spins a helluva tale, not like most of the illiterate
crank-heads with slo-mo synapse ability you come across in here. It occurs to Larry that if Max is
right about this, if he has been dropped into the middle of some kind of covert government
program, then perhaps the bull is listening to his thoughts right now. He decides to try something.
He'll put together a clear mental thought in the form of a question and see if he gets any response.
As he formulates his query for the guard, apprehension make an appearance. It's an acute yet
ephemeral moment of fear; like the rank, rotting carcass of a giant sea mammal floating to a placid
ocean surface, only to sink and disappear, both from sight and thought. Does he really need to
know the answer to the question that's sliding out of his brain?
He thinks: Boss, are you reading my mind?
Too late. The thought is released. It now courses freely through the ether to be captured by
whomever or whatever may have the means to decode it.
Taptaptaptaptap - the guard answers with rapid fire hits of his pen to the desk.
The realization hits Larry like a rusty bayonet up the scrotum: Max was telling the truth.
"Jesus!" Larry gasps.
He had just communicated with someone by means of telepathy. In that instant, the foundation of
all that Larry knows to be capital T true is being reshaped like primordial Earth matter. Everything
must now be reconsidered.
Taptaptaptaptap.
The sudden revelation into another plane of human communication makes him euphoric. He's won
the lottery and the jackpot is not a million dollars but instead admittance into the world's most
exclusive club. He's ten years old again and it's Christmas morning, or his birthday - and his
birthday - and he just opened his primary gift, the last one that is always the biggest and the best,
and it's more than he ever could have hoped for. But this is a gift of knowledge, of insight into the
possible that he had always considered impossible science fiction fodder.
Taptaptaptaptap.
My God, forget cellular phones, Larry thinks ironically, this is real wireless communication.
Taptaptaptaptap.
Larry starts putting this unveiling of the extraordinary, the ultra-normal, into perspective. If it gets
out it'll be front page news the world over. And it will get out. You can't contain something this
profound. It'll make the splitting of the atom, the discovery of penicillin, the moon landing all seem
like kindergarten projects. This is big.
Taptaptaptaptap. The guard's eager tapping seems to indicate that he is as excited about Larry's
revelation as Larry is himself.
Larry is giddy, his mind races and spins, backwards and forwards, over and under. Always looking
for the money angle, Larry thinks of how the proprietor of some kind of mind-reading property
would stand to make a fortune. Imagine how the shares of a company listed on a stock exchange
would spike like a rocket if they declared they had harnessed the power of psychic ability.
Taptaptaptaptap.
If the bugs can be used in prison then the value of applying that same talent to the needs of
government or business would be enormous. Being able to know what the party across from you is
thinking would be an invaluable edge in any kind of negotiation.
Taptaptaptaptap.
How would the public react to the knowledge that these creatures walk among us? The concept of
personal privacy would have to be totally reconsidered. The bugs might be perceived as freaks and
ostracized, branded mentally ill. They would be feared. Self-preservation would force them to
hide their special ability. Those identified as psychic might be forced to submit to a court ordered
pharmaceutical lobotomy, required to take drugs to curb their psychic ability, followed up with
community supervision and random blood tests to ensure compliance. A witch-hunt. It makes
sense that they would seek the shelter of prison, working in an environment that understands them
and considers them useful. Or maybe instead of sub-human they would be revered and respected,
thought of as more advanced and better than the rest.
Taptaptaptaptap.
Larry directs another thought at the screw: Boss, why the fuck have I been let in on this?
The tapping stops. Silence.
Again apprehension rises from the depths, but this time the putrefying, stinking behemoth of alarm
lingers in full view on the surface, refusing to disappear.
Silence.
Larry decides he's had enough. This abrupt consideration of that which was previously
unfathomable has wearied him. He doesn't want to think about it any more. What about all the
other inmates here? He wonders if they're lying in their cells listening to his thoughts in amusement.
Tap tap.
Oh for fuck sakes, Larry thinks as his elated mood plummets, get me the hell out of here. This is
crazy.
Panicked, Larry gets up from the bed and paces the cell in a circle, walking around the chair. He
lies back down on the bed on his stomach. Suddenly his arms and legs are gripped by hands
holding his wrists and ankles like handcuffs clamped too tight. He tries to scream. Nothing comes
out. He tries to turn his head to see who's there. He can't. He's physically paralyzed with fright.
The hands around his ankles slowly move up, stopping at his knees to separate his legs into a V.
He tries to resist but the strength of the unseen interloper is too much for him. His pants and
underwear are pulled down and a penis slowly enters his rectum. Larry's mind reels. He is being
raped. Sodomized. Please no. Anal intercourse. Don't. He grips the pillow for dear life like a
mountain climber to a rock face. How long will this go on? Please stop now. A final thrust
indicates climax. In a cell down the hall an inmate groans with pleasure. The phantom cock slides
out of him.
Psychic anal intercourse. Raped by a bug, Larry thinks, sickened. Buggered.
This is a gang rape. For the next thirty minutes nine convicts take him, not one of them physically
entering his cell. Each lets out a grunt upon release. He wonders who has had their way with him.
The final encounter is from a comparatively large cock. It's rammed in hard, aggressively, going
deeper than any of the others, worked around, in and out. Whoever is butt-fucking me now, Larry
thinks grimacing, is doing it with relish. When this last rapist finishes he lets out a guttural cry that
echoes throughout the unit. Larry recognizes the timbre of the voice. It's Max.
The apparition restraining Larry to the bed releases him. Normal physical movement returns. He
gets up and pushes the emergency call button with his trembling hand. A voice in the speaker says,
"What do you want?"
"I need to get out of here. I need medical help. Drugs. I need drugs. Can you get me to a
doctor?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"I'm sick, I'm ill."
"How so?"
"Listen, are you a doctor?"
"No, I'm not."
"Well, what I need is to get out of this cell and see a doctor. Can you get me to a doctor please?"
"It's Friday night. The doctor isn't available until Monday."
"Monday? For Christ sakes, claustrophobia's eating at me in this cell. I need a sedative. I can't
wait 'til Monday."
"Sorry, bud," the voice says. Click. Transmission ends.
This is fucking madness. Larry wonders if some higher power has decided that imprisonment alone
is insufficient restitution for his crimes, that he must also endure psychological torture.
More panicked cell pacing. "Oh God," he cries.
A voice through the cell speaker says: "God? Oh yes, very soon."
They're fucking with my mind here, he thinks with increasing despair. This is an evil mindfuck.
Mindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindf
uckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmi
ndfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuc
kmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmin
dfuckmindfuck.
Lockdown ends. All the doors in the unit are unlocked in unison by remote control, the electronic
bolt components whirring together like a buzz saw being revved up. The prisoners leave their
cells. Larry takes a few minutes to gather himself. As he shuffles down the stairs, a tall, wiry man
with long straggly, unwashed hair and mad eyes passes him. The man murmurs, "You sure could
use a bowel movement."
That bugger had his prick in my ass, thinks Larry with revulsion.
Larry makes a straight line for the screw. It's a different guard now. This one's Caucasian, his
short hair dyed bright blonde. His tag says his name is Dallas.
"I want to be sent to the hole," Larry tells him.
"Why do you want to go to segregation?" asks the officer.
"This place isn't going to work for me. I'm finding it...difficult."
"Do you feel you're in danger from someone here?”
Asking a guard to intervene in a conflict with another inmate can get you hurt. Disputes amongst
cons must be settled amongst cons. Can't take that angle. Larry knows that the uniformed brain
scanner standing before him is aware of the turmoil frothing in his head, but trying to explain the
nightmare he just experienced in his cell isn't an option either.
"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm having a hard time with the noise level. It's too loud. This place
echoes like the Grand Canyon made of steel. It's pounding on my head. Sleep is going to be
impossible for me here."
"Welcome to jail. I can't send you to solitary, no."
"I'd like to request a transfer to another jail then."
"Transfer is not an option either. The chaplain will be coming around shortly, though. Would you
like to talk with him when he arrives? I think you should."
The chaplain? Why the fuck would the chaplain be made available after regular working hours on a
Friday night and not a fuckin' doctor?
"Yes, yes. I'll see the chaplain then."
"Good. I'll let you know when he arrives."
Larry cautiously backs away from the guard's station. His mind spins. He decides to phone his
lawyer. Maybe his lawyer can contact the warden's office and make them aware someone on the
outside knows things aren't right in here and get him to the healthcare unit or seg. They at least
might think twice about subjecting him to this torture. He inserts his ID card into the phone and
dials his lawyer's number.
"Cole and Company," answers the receptionist.
and takes a look through the door window at the guard three flights below sitting at his desk. The
guard is Asian, short, portly for his height, fitting snuggly into his blue uniform. He's got a pen in
his hand, updating a report, audibly tapping the pen on the desk between touching pen to paper with
his notations.
Tap tap.
Tap tap.
Tap tap.
Tap tap.
The guard ceases tapping. He sits motionless, and, as if sensing Larry's gaze, looks up at him
peering down. Larry retreats back to the bed and lies down. He listens to the sounds of the
prison. Someone switches on a TV, the tinny sound from the small mono speaker splashing
brightly off the walls of the unit, the content indecipherable; the ventilation system droning like
stale, stagnant wind through a forest of mechanical trees; a sink faucet is turned on; a toilet flushes.
Larry considers what Max said at lunch. Mutants working as informants within the penal system,
isolating themselves from society like monks of the underground. Larry had read something once
about a drug that inhibits the subject's ability to resist thinking the truth, a truth serum. It would
just be a matter of putting the serum into the prison drinking water and letting the bugs have at
'em. Prisoners would certainly make good guinea pigs. They're isolated and captive. Human
rights disappear behind prison walls. No one looks out for society's criminal class, a defenceless
and unknowing group of men who have been branded, labelled and discarded. They would be
extremely valuable to a pharmaceutical company or a government research and development arm
looking to test the effects of new drugs on people instead of rats. To a private incarceration
corporation it's another revenue stream. Convicts could be tested, monitored and controlled with
ease.
Tap tap. The guard taps his pen again, as if in response to Larry's line of thinking.
I've got to hand it to Max, Larry thinks. He sure spins a helluva tale, not like most of the illiterate
crank-heads with slo-mo synapse ability you come across in here. It occurs to Larry that if Max is
right about this, if he has been dropped into the middle of some kind of covert government
program, then perhaps the bull is listening to his thoughts right now. He decides to try something.
He'll put together a clear mental thought in the form of a question and see if he gets any response.
As he formulates his query for the guard, apprehension make an appearance. It's an acute yet
ephemeral moment of fear; like the rank, rotting carcass of a giant sea mammal floating to a placid
ocean surface, only to sink and disappear, both from sight and thought. Does he really need to
know the answer to the question that's sliding out of his brain?
He thinks: Boss, are you reading my mind?
Too late. The thought is released. It now courses freely through the ether to be captured by
whomever or whatever may have the means to decode it.
Taptaptaptaptap - the guard answers with rapid fire hits of his pen to the desk.
The realization hits Larry like a rusty bayonet up the scrotum: Max was telling the truth.
"Jesus!" Larry gasps.
He had just communicated with someone by means of telepathy. In that instant, the foundation of
all that Larry knows to be capital T true is being reshaped like primordial Earth matter. Everything
must now be reconsidered.
Taptaptaptaptap.
The sudden revelation into another plane of human communication makes him euphoric. He's won
the lottery and the jackpot is not a million dollars but instead admittance into the world's most
exclusive club. He's ten years old again and it's Christmas morning, or his birthday - and his
birthday - and he just opened his primary gift, the last one that is always the biggest and the best,
and it's more than he ever could have hoped for. But this is a gift of knowledge, of insight into the
possible that he had always considered impossible science fiction fodder.
Taptaptaptaptap.
My God, forget cellular phones, Larry thinks ironically, this is real wireless communication.
Taptaptaptaptap.
Larry starts putting this unveiling of the extraordinary, the ultra-normal, into perspective. If it gets
out it'll be front page news the world over. And it will get out. You can't contain something this
profound. It'll make the splitting of the atom, the discovery of penicillin, the moon landing all seem
like kindergarten projects. This is big.
Taptaptaptaptap. The guard's eager tapping seems to indicate that he is as excited about Larry's
revelation as Larry is himself.
Larry is giddy, his mind races and spins, backwards and forwards, over and under. Always looking
for the money angle, Larry thinks of how the proprietor of some kind of mind-reading property
would stand to make a fortune. Imagine how the shares of a company listed on a stock exchange
would spike like a rocket if they declared they had harnessed the power of psychic ability.
Taptaptaptaptap.
If the bugs can be used in prison then the value of applying that same talent to the needs of
government or business would be enormous. Being able to know what the party across from you is
thinking would be an invaluable edge in any kind of negotiation.
Taptaptaptaptap.
How would the public react to the knowledge that these creatures walk among us? The concept of
personal privacy would have to be totally reconsidered. The bugs might be perceived as freaks and
ostracized, branded mentally ill. They would be feared. Self-preservation would force them to
hide their special ability. Those identified as psychic might be forced to submit to a court ordered
pharmaceutical lobotomy, required to take drugs to curb their psychic ability, followed up with
community supervision and random blood tests to ensure compliance. A witch-hunt. It makes
sense that they would seek the shelter of prison, working in an environment that understands them
and considers them useful. Or maybe instead of sub-human they would be revered and respected,
thought of as more advanced and better than the rest.
Taptaptaptaptap.
Larry directs another thought at the screw: Boss, why the fuck have I been let in on this?
The tapping stops. Silence.
Again apprehension rises from the depths, but this time the putrefying, stinking behemoth of alarm
lingers in full view on the surface, refusing to disappear.
Silence.
Larry decides he's had enough. This abrupt consideration of that which was previously
unfathomable has wearied him. He doesn't want to think about it any more. What about all the
other inmates here? He wonders if they're lying in their cells listening to his thoughts in amusement.
Tap tap.
Oh for fuck sakes, Larry thinks as his elated mood plummets, get me the hell out of here. This is
crazy.
Panicked, Larry gets up from the bed and paces the cell in a circle, walking around the chair. He
lies back down on the bed on his stomach. Suddenly his arms and legs are gripped by hands
holding his wrists and ankles like handcuffs clamped too tight. He tries to scream. Nothing comes
out. He tries to turn his head to see who's there. He can't. He's physically paralyzed with fright.
The hands around his ankles slowly move up, stopping at his knees to separate his legs into a V.
He tries to resist but the strength of the unseen interloper is too much for him. His pants and
underwear are pulled down and a penis slowly enters his rectum. Larry's mind reels. He is being
raped. Sodomized. Please no. Anal intercourse. Don't. He grips the pillow for dear life like a
mountain climber to a rock face. How long will this go on? Please stop now. A final thrust
indicates climax. In a cell down the hall an inmate groans with pleasure. The phantom cock slides
out of him.
Psychic anal intercourse. Raped by a bug, Larry thinks, sickened. Buggered.
This is a gang rape. For the next thirty minutes nine convicts take him, not one of them physically
entering his cell. Each lets out a grunt upon release. He wonders who has had their way with him.
The final encounter is from a comparatively large cock. It's rammed in hard, aggressively, going
deeper than any of the others, worked around, in and out. Whoever is butt-fucking me now, Larry
thinks grimacing, is doing it with relish. When this last rapist finishes he lets out a guttural cry that
echoes throughout the unit. Larry recognizes the timbre of the voice. It's Max.
The apparition restraining Larry to the bed releases him. Normal physical movement returns. He
gets up and pushes the emergency call button with his trembling hand. A voice in the speaker says,
"What do you want?"
"I need to get out of here. I need medical help. Drugs. I need drugs. Can you get me to a
doctor?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"I'm sick, I'm ill."
"How so?"
"Listen, are you a doctor?"
"No, I'm not."
"Well, what I need is to get out of this cell and see a doctor. Can you get me to a doctor please?"
"It's Friday night. The doctor isn't available until Monday."
"Monday? For Christ sakes, claustrophobia's eating at me in this cell. I need a sedative. I can't
wait 'til Monday."
"Sorry, bud," the voice says. Click. Transmission ends.
This is fucking madness. Larry wonders if some higher power has decided that imprisonment alone
is insufficient restitution for his crimes, that he must also endure psychological torture.
More panicked cell pacing. "Oh God," he cries.
A voice through the cell speaker says: "God? Oh yes, very soon."
They're fucking with my mind here, he thinks with increasing despair. This is an evil mindfuck.
Mindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindf
uckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmi
ndfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuc
kmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmindfuckmin
dfuckmindfuck.
Lockdown ends. All the doors in the unit are unlocked in unison by remote control, the electronic
bolt components whirring together like a buzz saw being revved up. The prisoners leave their
cells. Larry takes a few minutes to gather himself. As he shuffles down the stairs, a tall, wiry man
with long straggly, unwashed hair and mad eyes passes him. The man murmurs, "You sure could
use a bowel movement."
That bugger had his prick in my ass, thinks Larry with revulsion.
Larry makes a straight line for the screw. It's a different guard now. This one's Caucasian, his
short hair dyed bright blonde. His tag says his name is Dallas.
"I want to be sent to the hole," Larry tells him.
"Why do you want to go to segregation?" asks the officer.
"This place isn't going to work for me. I'm finding it...difficult."
"Do you feel you're in danger from someone here?”
Asking a guard to intervene in a conflict with another inmate can get you hurt. Disputes amongst
cons must be settled amongst cons. Can't take that angle. Larry knows that the uniformed brain
scanner standing before him is aware of the turmoil frothing in his head, but trying to explain the
nightmare he just experienced in his cell isn't an option either.
"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm having a hard time with the noise level. It's too loud. This place
echoes like the Grand Canyon made of steel. It's pounding on my head. Sleep is going to be
impossible for me here."
"Welcome to jail. I can't send you to solitary, no."
"I'd like to request a transfer to another jail then."
"Transfer is not an option either. The chaplain will be coming around shortly, though. Would you
like to talk with him when he arrives? I think you should."
The chaplain? Why the fuck would the chaplain be made available after regular working hours on a
Friday night and not a fuckin' doctor?
"Yes, yes. I'll see the chaplain then."
"Good. I'll let you know when he arrives."
Larry cautiously backs away from the guard's station. His mind spins. He decides to phone his
lawyer. Maybe his lawyer can contact the warden's office and make them aware someone on the
outside knows things aren't right in here and get him to the healthcare unit or seg. They at least
might think twice about subjecting him to this torture. He inserts his ID card into the phone and
dials his lawyer's number.
"Cole and Company," answers the receptionist.
2 / 3