| "SKULLFUCKERS" CONTINUED |
"I'd like to speak to Frank please. It's Larry Robertson. I'm a client of his."
"One moment."
Larry hears an electronic click on the line. Ten seconds later the call is connected.
"Hi, Frank here."
Larry doesn't recognize the voice. It's not his lawyer.
"The receptionist must have made a mistake. I wanted to speak to Frank Cole. I'm a client."
"And you are?"
"My name is Larry Robertson."
"This is Frank Cole."
Shit. This is bad. The man he's speaking to is not his legal counsel. He's never heard the voice
before. His call has been intercepted within the prison.
"Okay, I tell you what, I'm going to call you back," Larry replies.
"Suit yourself," says the voice. Click.
Larry puts down the receiver. He turns around and looks over the range. The inmates are all raptly
engaged in some kind of activity: eating, talking, watching television, playing chess or cards. At a
table a group of young men are playing poker and giggling at a joke. At another table sit four
middle-aged men. Deep lines run through their hard skin. These men are at home. They have the
comfortable calm of men who had seen a few years behind prison walls and expected to see a few
more. Larry can hear one of them above the cacophony of the unit.
"There's a number of ways to fuck someone up real good in here. You can pipe him in his sleep
when the cells are opened in the morning. I've used a metal coffee pot and a wooden broom head.
Head wounds are messy though. Too much blood. Don't take much to turn a guy's face inside
out."
The man pauses, glances around, and then hunches in a little closer to the others at the table with
him. "I'm HIV," he says. "I got the AIDS. That's what I'm in here for, in a roundabout kinda
way. Got the little bug back around '97 from a hooker. Found out I had it from a routine jailhouse
blood test. When I got out from that bit I made it my personal mission as a disciple of the almighty
Lord above to eradicate as many of those pestilence-spreading, streetwalkin' cunt-flaps as possible.
Got quite a few of 'em too. Butchered more of those vermin than they'll ever get me for, that's for
sure. Then one day I get stopped by a cop for turning left at an intersection against the light and the
fuckin' pig-bastard notices that I got the head of this one that I de-capped a couple of weeks back
sitting beside me on the passenger seat. A motherfuckin' traffic ticket and now I'm looking at life.
But my lawyer says he'll get me outta here on appeal, so I ain't worried. Anyway, here's how you
do it. I got a hypodermic syringe that I picked up from one of my visits to healthcare. Stupid fucks
didn't even miss it. You fill that hypodermic with my blood and you got yourself a deadly weapon
loaded with liquid death for ammunition. After lockup the screw'll let us into his house and we'll get
'im. Fuck him up good. And it's clean - no muss, no fuss. Slow death - just as much psychological
as physical. Maybe moreso."
The man taps his index finger to his head a couple of times and leans back in his chair, grinning,
basking proudly in the afterglow of his monologue. Then he turns and locks a pair of dead, cold
eyes on Larry. As he stares at Larry, the man's grin washes away and is replaced with a malevolent
scowl. Three others at the table follow his gaze, the entire group locking on Larry. Then, one by
one, every prisoner on the range looks up, looks away, or turns from whatever he's doing and stares
him down. One man on the second tier steps out of his cell, rests himself on the railing and peers
down at him. Two more on the third tier do the same.
Larry is perspiring. The sweat is glacial. Waves of fear ripple through him. When the mind is
exposed to this kind of horror there is permanent damage done. Ice fright that leaves irreparable
freezer burn, even after the thaw. If there is a thaw.
The bull calls out to him, "Robertson, the chaplain will see you now!"
Larry now knows why the bull suggested he see the chaplain: He is being given a final opportunity
to make his peace with God before they kill him.
The guard gestures towards an adjacent door. Larry enters the small room and closes the door
behind him. Sitting at a desk is not a man dressed in the traditional garb of the church, but a
balding, bespectacled, middle-aged man wearing tan slacks and a chequered shirt, a couple of pens
and a case for his glasses in his breast pocket.
"My name is Karpac." The chaplain extends a hand which Larry takes and shakes. "It's
Robertson, right?"
"Yes, Larry Robertson."
"Are you new here? I don't think I've seen your face before."
"I got in this morning. Listen padre, I've got to get out of here. I need to transfer somewhere else.
This place isn't right for me. I'm feeling anxious and uneasy. Schizy. I've got to see a doctor.
You can help me right?"
"Well Larry, as I'm sure you know, this is a brand new correctional facility. It opened only ninety
days ago as a matter of fact. First of its kind in the world. Now, with any new operation there are
going to be bugs that have to be worked out."
Bugs. He said bugs.
"One of those bugs is coordinating around the clock access to non-emergency medical service. But
we are working on it."
Working on it. "This is an emergency. I'm having a fuckin' breakdown here."
"Larry, I have no doubt that what you are dealing with right now is very real to you. But I see you
before me walking and talking. You sound coherent and reasonable. Physically there's no reason
why you can't wait until the doctor is back on duty. Clearly this is not an emergency. I'm sorry
that you guys have to be the test subjects, guinea pigs if you will, while we get this ship up to speed."
Guinea pigs? I'm no fucking guinea pig, Larry's mind yells. I'm just a convict who wants to survive
his stay in this bloody asylum.
Karpac smiles. "We have a service on Sunday. I really hope to see you there."
Larry wants to beseech him for help, to tell him that he was sure tonight he was in mortal danger.
But what was he to say to him? That the guard was a mind-reader and he knew this to be true
because of the way he tapped his pen? That he had been savagely gang-raped by a pack of
inmates, yet his cell had been locked and he was alone when it occurred? That all the inmates on
the range had implicitly signalled his forthcoming execution? Nuts. Surely the chaplain could see
the blazing fear in Larry's eyes.
"Is this your first time being incarcerated, Larry?"
"No, it's not."
"Then you know that jail has its own natural order, a type of Darwinism - survival of the fittest. It
seems that men in prison need some kind of hierarchy. That hierarchy can be based on physical
size, the strong overpowering the weak. It can be based on resources - some prisoners have access
to money on the outside that can provide privilege on the inside. And then, of course, there is social
standing based on the nature of ones crime. Some offences command respect. Others do not. It
would appear you are in something of a fix Larry. Only you, and you alone, can come to terms
with your present predicament. Every person outside that door behind you is here because of their
own actions. This is prison, friend. Every prison is unique, this one is no different. My
observation is that you are simply adjusting to the natural order of Fraserview. That process can be
brutal, but in its own way it provides a necessary sort of justice that our courts do not. A parallel
system, if you will. And it's all neatly contained within these hidden concrete walls."
What the fuck?
"Again, I really hope you are able to make it to the service."
Good God, it sounds like he's wishing me luck, Larry thinks incredulously. It's as if he's saying,
Well this is it, my condolences, I'll see you around, you're on your own. And then it struck him that
Karpac is no messenger of God. The man sitting before him is the mastermind behind his mental
misery. This son of a bitch is the project manager of this pendulum pit. Larry pictured him in a
dark control room standing behind a group of technicians in white lab coats scouring over
prisoner-derived data on banks of computer monitors. But how did Larry fit into this madness?
Perhaps they're doing research into the effects of grievous, heart-pounding stress on the human
psyche. His psyche. Please God, just let this be an experiment, a test.
"I hope I can make that service too. I really do," Larry replies, stumbling backwards out the door,
Karpac watching him go.
Larry makes his way across the range. So much noise. Thunderous, belligerent noise. The din
deafens him. He can't shut out the barrage. Screaming televisions compete to be heard; playing
cards snap onto tables; cell doors clank open and slam shut; chairs shuffle and scrape the floor;
microwave ovens beep; toilets flush; faucets pour; brooms sweep. And all the while the infernal
scheming. Every single inmate bastard eyeing him, talking about him, whispering about him,
thinking about him. He catches bits of their conversations. People talking about getting ratted out,
or how their lawyer screwed them, or how their family abandoned them. He knows they're really
talking about him. It's all about him. Everything. The scuff marks on the floor; the news-lady on
the television; the time on the clock; the molecules in the oxygen. Everything is about him. His
mind swirls in all directions. He can't stop it and he knows every person in the room - GODDAMN
PSYCHIC FUCKS! - can hear it all. They're listening to his thinking. God, my hysterical
thought-diarrhea-rambling must appear pitiful, pathetic, he thinks. He tries to halt his thoughts and
go blank. He can't. He tries counting slowly to a hundred but he gets as far as three and already his
brain is exploding again. At the stairwell, frantic, he wants to run. Gripping the handrail he
summons composure and reasons that if he can maintain the one last drop of self-control he has, at
least until he gets to his cell, maybe it will all be okay. He'll close the door and lock himself up.
And then he'll pray. He ascends the stairs. At the third tier landing he walks into Max.
"Hello Larry."
"Hi Max," Larry says. He can't look Max in the eye. "Excuse me, I'm going to my room for the
night."
"For the night? It's early."
"I had court this morning. Got five years. I'm tired."
Larry tries to walk past Max. Max puts a hand on his chest, stopping him mid-stride.
"What's going on, Max?" Larry snaps. A burst of spittle ejects from his mouth and lands on Max's
shirt. "This place is a crazy house."
Max looks down at his shirt and wipes away the spit with a couple of strokes. He looks back up at
Larry. "The way I see it, the only thing crazy around here is you."
"Huh?"
"We've seen inside your head. We know everything there is to know about you," Max tells him.
"You're reading my fuckin' mind right now, aren't you? You know what I'm thinking. You're one
of those goddamn bugs you were telling me about."
"Of course I am."
"What's the purpose of this exercise?"
"We are Lords of the Moral Order. An inspection has been ordered on your head. Every memory
you have since conception, we've witnessed; everything you've ever seen, so have we. We call this
process 'the extraction of truth.' We've even observed your dreams...and your nightmares."
Larry tries to appeal to Max as a fellow prisoner, as a fellow man. "You and me, we've got no
beef, brother. Let's keep it that way. You do you're time, I'll do mine."
"You're thoughts run deep. You're intelligent. That makes you dangerous. At least that was the
thinking of the Crown. The judge granted the prosecution a concealed order to have you scanned.
That's where we come in. They drop your ass in the brainwave bucket and we find out if you're
hiding any dark secrets. We're all skullfuckers here, Larry. You've been probed."
"Leave me be." Larry tries to push past but Max's fingers are on his chest, his tattooed arm
extended like a steel pipe.
"Most of the people they ask us to scan are knuckle draggers, simians." Max takes his hand off
Larry's chest. "Their thought patterns are like the roads of a small town - narrow, dead end. Your
thoughts, however, are like the arteries of a complex city. A metropolis. Sadly, all those streets
lead to the sewer; to dark slums where unspeakable acts are being committed in dark alleys. Your
mind is infected. We've seen the shit that goes on in your head. It's repulsive. Your mind goes
places no mind should ever be permitted to go. We know what you're all about. You can't take it
back now."
"Fuck you. Why are you lying? What have I done for you to attack me with these lies?" Larry
asks, tears welling in his eyes.
"We both know I'm not lying. You mouth says one thing, but your mind tells a different story.
Remember, I know what you're thinking."
"Max, we all have thoughts that are outside the norm from time to time but they're just thoughts.
It's not a crime."
"You're dead wrong. To us and many others it is a crime. A secret crime. That's why you're here.
The fact that your mind has the capacity for such vile sickness makes you a problem. It's
unacceptable to allow those kinds of thoughts into the air."
On the floor the mob of bugs are watching his interaction with Max. He looks down at the bull at
his desk and shouts out to him, "Hey, boss, some assistance up here, please!"
The guard looks up at him for a moment then looks away.
"Officer!" Larry cries. The screw ignores him.
"We sucked some serious grey matter garbage out of you. You're vulture crap, man."
"Jesus, Max," Larry pleads, "there's fuckers in here for all kinds of sick shit." He thinks of the
AIDS infected whore killer. "Please, I'm begging you. I've acted on nothing. If you guys can
really read my mind then you fucking know that!"
"You're going to get messed up nasty. Real slow and hurtful. Skullfucker style. It's the natural
order. We provide justice inside that can't be provided on the outside. So long, Larry." Max walks
off.
Larry's cell is a one-man submersible. A bathyscaph. The hatch is screwed down, tightly locked
over his head. He can't get out. The sub is on a crane, swinging in the gale winds of Hurricane
Deathwatch. It hangs over the jagged, razor waves of a raging, black ocean. The life support line is
severed. The sub falls and splashes into the morose waters. Going down. Waves of shame,
despair, anguish wash against it, then over it. Going down. It sinks like a rock into the deep, dark
abyss. Claustrophobia grips him tight. His body prickles with fear. Going down. Every pulse of
blood in his veins is a sledgehammer strike to his temples. Nausea creeps into his intestines like a
sea serpent. Bottom. The sub comes to a rest on the muddy sea floor. As it settles into the sludge,
Larry realizes that the mud is actually shit. Shit excreted from dead people. Wriggling worms
burrow into the brown sediment. And the water is not water. It's piss. The piss-acid eats away at
the hull of the sub. Schools of maggot-guppies dart by, gorging on waste until their creamy little
bellies are bloated full. Viruses and diseases thrive. A warm radioactive current glowing fluorescent
green drags the sub, pushing it deeper into the filth. Larry is all too aware that this vessel wasn't
built to take the pressure of these depths.
Larry lies fetal curled in the corner of his cell at the point farthest from the door. His pants are
urine soaked. He is trembling and sobbing and asking any god that may be listening to save him.
Sanity has been lanced and squeezed out of him like puss from a boil. He looks at the cell door,
waiting for it to click unlocked and swing open, a guard stepping aside to let through a horde of cons
led by a psychopath wielding a syringe loaded with red death. He looks away from the door and
shifts his gaze to the makeshift hanging noose. It was easy to craft - he tied the TV cable cord to
the water sprinkler jack on the wall. Under the noose, a chair he'll kick out from under across the
small room. He looks back at the door. Then at the noose. He wipes snot and tears across his
face and gets up off the floor.
"One moment."
Larry hears an electronic click on the line. Ten seconds later the call is connected.
"Hi, Frank here."
Larry doesn't recognize the voice. It's not his lawyer.
"The receptionist must have made a mistake. I wanted to speak to Frank Cole. I'm a client."
"And you are?"
"My name is Larry Robertson."
"This is Frank Cole."
Shit. This is bad. The man he's speaking to is not his legal counsel. He's never heard the voice
before. His call has been intercepted within the prison.
"Okay, I tell you what, I'm going to call you back," Larry replies.
"Suit yourself," says the voice. Click.
Larry puts down the receiver. He turns around and looks over the range. The inmates are all raptly
engaged in some kind of activity: eating, talking, watching television, playing chess or cards. At a
table a group of young men are playing poker and giggling at a joke. At another table sit four
middle-aged men. Deep lines run through their hard skin. These men are at home. They have the
comfortable calm of men who had seen a few years behind prison walls and expected to see a few
more. Larry can hear one of them above the cacophony of the unit.
"There's a number of ways to fuck someone up real good in here. You can pipe him in his sleep
when the cells are opened in the morning. I've used a metal coffee pot and a wooden broom head.
Head wounds are messy though. Too much blood. Don't take much to turn a guy's face inside
out."
The man pauses, glances around, and then hunches in a little closer to the others at the table with
him. "I'm HIV," he says. "I got the AIDS. That's what I'm in here for, in a roundabout kinda
way. Got the little bug back around '97 from a hooker. Found out I had it from a routine jailhouse
blood test. When I got out from that bit I made it my personal mission as a disciple of the almighty
Lord above to eradicate as many of those pestilence-spreading, streetwalkin' cunt-flaps as possible.
Got quite a few of 'em too. Butchered more of those vermin than they'll ever get me for, that's for
sure. Then one day I get stopped by a cop for turning left at an intersection against the light and the
fuckin' pig-bastard notices that I got the head of this one that I de-capped a couple of weeks back
sitting beside me on the passenger seat. A motherfuckin' traffic ticket and now I'm looking at life.
But my lawyer says he'll get me outta here on appeal, so I ain't worried. Anyway, here's how you
do it. I got a hypodermic syringe that I picked up from one of my visits to healthcare. Stupid fucks
didn't even miss it. You fill that hypodermic with my blood and you got yourself a deadly weapon
loaded with liquid death for ammunition. After lockup the screw'll let us into his house and we'll get
'im. Fuck him up good. And it's clean - no muss, no fuss. Slow death - just as much psychological
as physical. Maybe moreso."
The man taps his index finger to his head a couple of times and leans back in his chair, grinning,
basking proudly in the afterglow of his monologue. Then he turns and locks a pair of dead, cold
eyes on Larry. As he stares at Larry, the man's grin washes away and is replaced with a malevolent
scowl. Three others at the table follow his gaze, the entire group locking on Larry. Then, one by
one, every prisoner on the range looks up, looks away, or turns from whatever he's doing and stares
him down. One man on the second tier steps out of his cell, rests himself on the railing and peers
down at him. Two more on the third tier do the same.
Larry is perspiring. The sweat is glacial. Waves of fear ripple through him. When the mind is
exposed to this kind of horror there is permanent damage done. Ice fright that leaves irreparable
freezer burn, even after the thaw. If there is a thaw.
The bull calls out to him, "Robertson, the chaplain will see you now!"
Larry now knows why the bull suggested he see the chaplain: He is being given a final opportunity
to make his peace with God before they kill him.
The guard gestures towards an adjacent door. Larry enters the small room and closes the door
behind him. Sitting at a desk is not a man dressed in the traditional garb of the church, but a
balding, bespectacled, middle-aged man wearing tan slacks and a chequered shirt, a couple of pens
and a case for his glasses in his breast pocket.
"My name is Karpac." The chaplain extends a hand which Larry takes and shakes. "It's
Robertson, right?"
"Yes, Larry Robertson."
"Are you new here? I don't think I've seen your face before."
"I got in this morning. Listen padre, I've got to get out of here. I need to transfer somewhere else.
This place isn't right for me. I'm feeling anxious and uneasy. Schizy. I've got to see a doctor.
You can help me right?"
"Well Larry, as I'm sure you know, this is a brand new correctional facility. It opened only ninety
days ago as a matter of fact. First of its kind in the world. Now, with any new operation there are
going to be bugs that have to be worked out."
Bugs. He said bugs.
"One of those bugs is coordinating around the clock access to non-emergency medical service. But
we are working on it."
Working on it. "This is an emergency. I'm having a fuckin' breakdown here."
"Larry, I have no doubt that what you are dealing with right now is very real to you. But I see you
before me walking and talking. You sound coherent and reasonable. Physically there's no reason
why you can't wait until the doctor is back on duty. Clearly this is not an emergency. I'm sorry
that you guys have to be the test subjects, guinea pigs if you will, while we get this ship up to speed."
Guinea pigs? I'm no fucking guinea pig, Larry's mind yells. I'm just a convict who wants to survive
his stay in this bloody asylum.
Karpac smiles. "We have a service on Sunday. I really hope to see you there."
Larry wants to beseech him for help, to tell him that he was sure tonight he was in mortal danger.
But what was he to say to him? That the guard was a mind-reader and he knew this to be true
because of the way he tapped his pen? That he had been savagely gang-raped by a pack of
inmates, yet his cell had been locked and he was alone when it occurred? That all the inmates on
the range had implicitly signalled his forthcoming execution? Nuts. Surely the chaplain could see
the blazing fear in Larry's eyes.
"Is this your first time being incarcerated, Larry?"
"No, it's not."
"Then you know that jail has its own natural order, a type of Darwinism - survival of the fittest. It
seems that men in prison need some kind of hierarchy. That hierarchy can be based on physical
size, the strong overpowering the weak. It can be based on resources - some prisoners have access
to money on the outside that can provide privilege on the inside. And then, of course, there is social
standing based on the nature of ones crime. Some offences command respect. Others do not. It
would appear you are in something of a fix Larry. Only you, and you alone, can come to terms
with your present predicament. Every person outside that door behind you is here because of their
own actions. This is prison, friend. Every prison is unique, this one is no different. My
observation is that you are simply adjusting to the natural order of Fraserview. That process can be
brutal, but in its own way it provides a necessary sort of justice that our courts do not. A parallel
system, if you will. And it's all neatly contained within these hidden concrete walls."
What the fuck?
"Again, I really hope you are able to make it to the service."
Good God, it sounds like he's wishing me luck, Larry thinks incredulously. It's as if he's saying,
Well this is it, my condolences, I'll see you around, you're on your own. And then it struck him that
Karpac is no messenger of God. The man sitting before him is the mastermind behind his mental
misery. This son of a bitch is the project manager of this pendulum pit. Larry pictured him in a
dark control room standing behind a group of technicians in white lab coats scouring over
prisoner-derived data on banks of computer monitors. But how did Larry fit into this madness?
Perhaps they're doing research into the effects of grievous, heart-pounding stress on the human
psyche. His psyche. Please God, just let this be an experiment, a test.
"I hope I can make that service too. I really do," Larry replies, stumbling backwards out the door,
Karpac watching him go.
Larry makes his way across the range. So much noise. Thunderous, belligerent noise. The din
deafens him. He can't shut out the barrage. Screaming televisions compete to be heard; playing
cards snap onto tables; cell doors clank open and slam shut; chairs shuffle and scrape the floor;
microwave ovens beep; toilets flush; faucets pour; brooms sweep. And all the while the infernal
scheming. Every single inmate bastard eyeing him, talking about him, whispering about him,
thinking about him. He catches bits of their conversations. People talking about getting ratted out,
or how their lawyer screwed them, or how their family abandoned them. He knows they're really
talking about him. It's all about him. Everything. The scuff marks on the floor; the news-lady on
the television; the time on the clock; the molecules in the oxygen. Everything is about him. His
mind swirls in all directions. He can't stop it and he knows every person in the room - GODDAMN
PSYCHIC FUCKS! - can hear it all. They're listening to his thinking. God, my hysterical
thought-diarrhea-rambling must appear pitiful, pathetic, he thinks. He tries to halt his thoughts and
go blank. He can't. He tries counting slowly to a hundred but he gets as far as three and already his
brain is exploding again. At the stairwell, frantic, he wants to run. Gripping the handrail he
summons composure and reasons that if he can maintain the one last drop of self-control he has, at
least until he gets to his cell, maybe it will all be okay. He'll close the door and lock himself up.
And then he'll pray. He ascends the stairs. At the third tier landing he walks into Max.
"Hello Larry."
"Hi Max," Larry says. He can't look Max in the eye. "Excuse me, I'm going to my room for the
night."
"For the night? It's early."
"I had court this morning. Got five years. I'm tired."
Larry tries to walk past Max. Max puts a hand on his chest, stopping him mid-stride.
"What's going on, Max?" Larry snaps. A burst of spittle ejects from his mouth and lands on Max's
shirt. "This place is a crazy house."
Max looks down at his shirt and wipes away the spit with a couple of strokes. He looks back up at
Larry. "The way I see it, the only thing crazy around here is you."
"Huh?"
"We've seen inside your head. We know everything there is to know about you," Max tells him.
"You're reading my fuckin' mind right now, aren't you? You know what I'm thinking. You're one
of those goddamn bugs you were telling me about."
"Of course I am."
"What's the purpose of this exercise?"
"We are Lords of the Moral Order. An inspection has been ordered on your head. Every memory
you have since conception, we've witnessed; everything you've ever seen, so have we. We call this
process 'the extraction of truth.' We've even observed your dreams...and your nightmares."
Larry tries to appeal to Max as a fellow prisoner, as a fellow man. "You and me, we've got no
beef, brother. Let's keep it that way. You do you're time, I'll do mine."
"You're thoughts run deep. You're intelligent. That makes you dangerous. At least that was the
thinking of the Crown. The judge granted the prosecution a concealed order to have you scanned.
That's where we come in. They drop your ass in the brainwave bucket and we find out if you're
hiding any dark secrets. We're all skullfuckers here, Larry. You've been probed."
"Leave me be." Larry tries to push past but Max's fingers are on his chest, his tattooed arm
extended like a steel pipe.
"Most of the people they ask us to scan are knuckle draggers, simians." Max takes his hand off
Larry's chest. "Their thought patterns are like the roads of a small town - narrow, dead end. Your
thoughts, however, are like the arteries of a complex city. A metropolis. Sadly, all those streets
lead to the sewer; to dark slums where unspeakable acts are being committed in dark alleys. Your
mind is infected. We've seen the shit that goes on in your head. It's repulsive. Your mind goes
places no mind should ever be permitted to go. We know what you're all about. You can't take it
back now."
"Fuck you. Why are you lying? What have I done for you to attack me with these lies?" Larry
asks, tears welling in his eyes.
"We both know I'm not lying. You mouth says one thing, but your mind tells a different story.
Remember, I know what you're thinking."
"Max, we all have thoughts that are outside the norm from time to time but they're just thoughts.
It's not a crime."
"You're dead wrong. To us and many others it is a crime. A secret crime. That's why you're here.
The fact that your mind has the capacity for such vile sickness makes you a problem. It's
unacceptable to allow those kinds of thoughts into the air."
On the floor the mob of bugs are watching his interaction with Max. He looks down at the bull at
his desk and shouts out to him, "Hey, boss, some assistance up here, please!"
The guard looks up at him for a moment then looks away.
"Officer!" Larry cries. The screw ignores him.
"We sucked some serious grey matter garbage out of you. You're vulture crap, man."
"Jesus, Max," Larry pleads, "there's fuckers in here for all kinds of sick shit." He thinks of the
AIDS infected whore killer. "Please, I'm begging you. I've acted on nothing. If you guys can
really read my mind then you fucking know that!"
"You're going to get messed up nasty. Real slow and hurtful. Skullfucker style. It's the natural
order. We provide justice inside that can't be provided on the outside. So long, Larry." Max walks
off.
Larry's cell is a one-man submersible. A bathyscaph. The hatch is screwed down, tightly locked
over his head. He can't get out. The sub is on a crane, swinging in the gale winds of Hurricane
Deathwatch. It hangs over the jagged, razor waves of a raging, black ocean. The life support line is
severed. The sub falls and splashes into the morose waters. Going down. Waves of shame,
despair, anguish wash against it, then over it. Going down. It sinks like a rock into the deep, dark
abyss. Claustrophobia grips him tight. His body prickles with fear. Going down. Every pulse of
blood in his veins is a sledgehammer strike to his temples. Nausea creeps into his intestines like a
sea serpent. Bottom. The sub comes to a rest on the muddy sea floor. As it settles into the sludge,
Larry realizes that the mud is actually shit. Shit excreted from dead people. Wriggling worms
burrow into the brown sediment. And the water is not water. It's piss. The piss-acid eats away at
the hull of the sub. Schools of maggot-guppies dart by, gorging on waste until their creamy little
bellies are bloated full. Viruses and diseases thrive. A warm radioactive current glowing fluorescent
green drags the sub, pushing it deeper into the filth. Larry is all too aware that this vessel wasn't
built to take the pressure of these depths.
Larry lies fetal curled in the corner of his cell at the point farthest from the door. His pants are
urine soaked. He is trembling and sobbing and asking any god that may be listening to save him.
Sanity has been lanced and squeezed out of him like puss from a boil. He looks at the cell door,
waiting for it to click unlocked and swing open, a guard stepping aside to let through a horde of cons
led by a psychopath wielding a syringe loaded with red death. He looks away from the door and
shifts his gaze to the makeshift hanging noose. It was easy to craft - he tied the TV cable cord to
the water sprinkler jack on the wall. Under the noose, a chair he'll kick out from under across the
small room. He looks back at the door. Then at the noose. He wipes snot and tears across his
face and gets up off the floor.
| THE END |
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