Tyrant

by Tiana Laveen

  “Oh, so now you going out into the world and shooting people, kickin’ their asses, breaking into stores, driving off in peoples’ luxury cars, slicing a guy’s neck open so badly that his throat actually fell out, and stomping another guy nearly to death then laughing hysterically as he was rushed to ICU is all for our economy? You’re bludgeoning people outta the goodness of your heart, Hunter? Fiscal responsibility I take it? How kind of you!”

  “The bottom line is that I’m not gonna lie to you like you lie to me and every other prisoner you sit in this chair to tell him how fuckin’ lucky he is that the prison system is set up like a revolving door on purpose. You need me way more than I need you.” He pointed at himself as he got to his feet, releasing anger that had been pent up for far too long. “Without sickness, no doctors. Without rotted teeth, no dentists. You ain’t better than me, man… Just let me finish my time in here and leave me the fuck alone, all right? This is a dumb ass, phony meeting. It’s so you can jot in your little notes that you did your good deed for the day. Fuck you. I don’t have time for the bullshit.”

  The room went quiet for a spell.

  “Hunter, sit down. We still have a bit more to discuss.” Hunter simply glared at him. “Please.” After a few seconds, he reluctantly flopped back down into the seat. “This is beyond you and your warped views of reality. We need to know what you’ll do differently this time around. I’m serious. It has to go in your updated records. Just cut me some damn slack, please, and get this over and done with!”

  A moment or two passed, his thoughts churning and bending, shaping and twisting.

  “Before I agree to play your little game, I want those two drug charges taken off my fucking record.”

  “I didn’t mention them.”

  “I’m not stupid, man, I can see ’em on the paper!” He pointed at the open folder. “I didn’t do that shit and you know it. I’ve never had a drug problem in my entire life. That cop never found anything on me. All he saw was the wad of cash and a little white powder deposit that was actually the chalk I used on my stick from playin’ pool. Billiards, for God’s sake. The fucking idiot assumed it was rock residue… dumb ass. Didn’t even test it. Cigarettes, beer, a little weed every now and again, that’s it. Never sold or taken drugs my entire life. I told you I want that shit removed. At the very least, expunged. Lies. I want it gone.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Reynolds sighed. “I still need to know, Hunter, what your plans are because I pulled a lot of strings gettin’ you out. I’ve exhausted my favors owed on your behalf. No one else can save you from yourself. The buck stops here.”

  Hunter smacked his lips and flopped back in the chair. He was beyond sick and tired of this guy and his bowling-ball-shaped friend. There was a time he would’ve stood from his chair and beat both of them half to death while he made their wives watch. But he was trying to control himself, regardless of how satisfying the thought was.

  “Your grandmother begged me. That’s the only reason anyone gave a damn about what happened to you in the first place,” Reynolds continued. Hunter’s eyes narrowed on him. He swallowed down what he truly wanted to say… words that once out of his mouth, he could never retrieve. “Can I get at least a ‘thank you?’” The guy smirked.

  “I’m ready to go…” Hunter got to his feet and stared down at Reynolds. How high and mighty he must’ve felt being an asshole in high school, a person no one liked, and now a criminal attorney in the great state of Michigan, throwing his weight around. The man looked down at the paperwork and sniffed. His nose was red, his eyes glossy for no damn reason, and his skin had a bluish tint as if he’d not had sunlight in weeks.

  “Get him outta here,” he mumbled, not making eye contact. He gave a shooing motion as if someone needed to take out the trash.

  Hunter felt the familiar tug and jerk of his arms being pulled, the placement of the cold, uncomfortable handcuffs around his wrists, and the heavy door opening to give him room to exit. He always had to dip low to avoid hitting the top of his head on the doorway. When he was back in his cell, he lay down on the bed, his navy-blue uniform saturated with sweat. It had been hot as hell in that office, but no one had seemed to notice but him. He stared up at the ceiling as he listened to the snores of his bunkmate. Hours later, when dinner came along, he refused to eat it and shoved the plate aside. The day and night had become a blur, blending together like water and blood down a sink drain. Flashes of his mother’s face smeared in gore and her blue eyes rolling back in her skull, lifeless, entered his mind.

  It was the screams in the prison that triggered it… He hated those screams, the high pitch wailing that happened late in the night.

  “Come on, man! Help, somebody! Motherfucker!” A ruckus ensued, a fight to the death. That was nothing new. Typically, someone would be having a mental breakdown, someone else would be in the throes of some paranoid delusions and then, of course, there were the assaults… one after a fucking ’nother. Hunter heard a loud bang, as if a body had been thrown against a wall, then again, like a sack of rocks. He remained on his cot, ankles crossed, hands folded over his stomach.

  “Suck it! If you bite it, I’ll kill you!”

  He closed his eyes as gurgling noises and more screaming ensued. Some of the inmates were laughing, making jokes, yelling sickening words of encouragement.

  “He got yo’ ass now! You betta hope he use some grease!” someone yelled, followed by a burst of husky outbursts of merriment. Hunter wasn’t completely certain which cell it was coming from that particular evening, but he had his suspicions. An old guy by the name of ‘Big Time’ was known to butter up some of the hardcore addicts that rolled in. He had a thing for the skinny ones with blue eyes, the ones that used everything under the sun to get a fix – the straight-up junkies. Those were his favorites, though he’d settle for a short plump one with the same weaknesses if the pickings were slim. The old, broad-shouldered, sleepy-eyed ass bandit was known for offering the drugged-out newbies all kinds of shit knowing that they had no money and no one would put a damn thing in their commissary. They’d burned all of their bridges with family several hits, snorts, and needle pricks ago.

  They had no visitors and people alienated them, with the exception of other hardcore addicts. Friends were few. Much of the prison population had some issues with drug dependency, it came with the territory. It may have been one degree of separation – no usage, but selling, or setting up pick-ups and drop-offs as a third party. Regardless, for predators like Big Time, they were a dream come true.

  Hunter chewed his inner jaw as the all too familiar sounds of shoes sliding against the floor, the twice-repeated bang of a cell wall, desperate yells and horny curses ensued.

  “HEY! What are ya doin’, man?! Get tha fuck offa me! I’m not gay! Get off me, motherfucker! No… NO!!!! Guards!!! GUARDS!!!! AhhhhhHHHHHHH!”

  And then it all began, the blood curdling screams of a sexual assault in progress… It was so common, so routine, damn near expected that people barely flinched. The shrieks grew louder and louder, the kind that ran through you, grabbed hold to your heart and squeezed the living shit out of it. Hunter remained motionless on his bed, still staring at the ceiling, still full of venom, fueled further by his depraved environment – the gray walls steeped in pain that were closing in on him.

  The rage and hatred in his heart fucked and had a baby while behind those walls. Every ninety days he got worse. His soul gave birth to stillborn pitch blackness. His descent into madness worsened each season, like an anniversary of doom. There was no rehabilitation in prison, no work programs, no education, no coming to Jesus or great New Age awakening. Nobody cared about him, them, or anyone that lived and breathed behind those steel bars. They were mere men turned into animals. Caring was too costly.

  In fact, Hunter hadn’t cared either. He hadn’t given a shit about much in a long ass time. Ever since his best friend Noah was released a year prior, things had gone from bad to worse for him. That was the guy h
e could talk to back then. At least he still had his bunkmate Leon to help him reach the finish line before he lost his damn mind. The screams carried on, grabbing him from his musings. Everything around him suddenly became acute. Sharp to the touch. A burst of laughter trickled and echoed throughout the chambers. Ferocity was a caged man’s entertainment. The yelling now was so shrill, it sounded like a wounded beast; the guy seemed to truly be putting up a fight. But then, as usual, he was left to his own devices. The screams were becoming less and less intense, now replaced and followed by heavy grunting. The place reverberated of a wet, feverish smacking noise that increased in speed every few seconds… and then more banging against bars. Reaching for his mp3 player, he placed the earbuds to his ears and turned the volume up as loud as it would go.

  Childish Gambino’s ‘Redbone’ blasted, the rhythm seductive and funky. Closing his eyes, he swayed a bit as if dancing far away from there… He lifted two fingers in the air, brought them to his lips, and pretended to smoke a cigarette. Blowing out fake smolder, he smiled as his eyes glossed over with manic flashes of blood gushing from fresh bullet holes, sliced flesh cut down to the muscle and bone, gang fights on the yard… Bodies piling up like Autumn leaves cascading on the ground from a dying tree. Screaming children torn away from their incarcerated fathers on visiting day… Daddy was on Death Row, time to say goodbye…

  Seconds turned to minutes until finally, he saw two guards running past, more than likely to arrive at the cell down the way where some poor son of a bitch was getting his asshole torn out the frame by a plotting, scheming maniac with a long history of prison terrorism, sexual deviancy, and psychological sickness. By the time the guards arrived, it would be too late. The bastard would have to be sent to the hospital to get pain killers and sewn up with stitches. No one would address his state of mind, then soon after he’d be tossed into the mouth of the whale, returned to the same population that laughed and egged on his assailant. He’d be a marked man, passed around the compound and rented out like an old school porn magazine. Hunter fell asleep sometime between the silence of the damned and the tearful prayers of the wicked.

  A guy in the cell right next to his was speaking in tongues or perhaps having a mental breakdown. Each day was like the last, and the time before that. He had to admit, this stint in prison was the absolute worst. Hunter counted down his last forty-eight hours like a hawk watching a snake slithering by from high in the sky. Now it was twenty-four hours to showtime…

  The day before his release, he found himself hurling in the toilet from undercooked mystery meat. The morning began with a gut churning bang. He wasn’t on shortage of greasy looks from guys that toyed with the idea of testing him, knowing they could fuck up his release if he engaged in a physical altercation. That morning, he was every motherfucker, White piece of dog shit and son of a bitch under the sun. Nonetheless, he didn’t fall for it. It was bait on a hook. And he wasn’t hungry. Hunter had been in and out of jail and prison so much during his life that he knew the routine frontwards and backwards. This was just how the game was played. That night, he and his bunkmate, Leon, an older Black man, decided to have dinner together in their cell. They laughed, listened to a bit of music, and prepared to say goodbye to an unlikely friendship out in the free world, but one that was worth its weight in gold behind bars.

  “Hunter, I’ll probably die up in this bitch.” Leon took a swig of his water then shuffled the worn Uno cards.

  “Well, we all have to die sooner or later.”

  “Who wants to die in prison though? I’d rather go out up in some twenty-five-year-old’s pussy. At least I’d die with a smile on my face.” Da Brat’s ‘Give it to You’ played on the older guy’s little radio. “I’m almost sixty-seven years old, man. With the way they got me jammed up this time, it’s over for me and everybody knows it.”

  “You might get lucky. Maybe you’ll get paroled early.”

  “I don’t have the right color skin for all of that, but it don’t matter if I do get paroled early anyway, Hunter. I ain’t got nobody out there missin’ me. I’ve burned too many bridges.”

  Burnt bridges seemed to be a common theme as of late. Hunter knew a bit about that, too.

  “What about your two daughters and son you talk about sometimes?” He looked at his cards as Leon passed them out.

  “My children are all grown and none of them talk to me no how. I just been sharing old stories from over the years with you. Their mamas don’t talk to me either. I got a bunch of grandkids and never get to see ’em. A lot of my people dead or moved away after the factories closed down. Is that what you want for yourself?”

  “Now why would I want that, Leon?” Hunter threw a card down. Sometimes Leon said shit that just didn’t make any sense… like asking a child if they wanted a spanking and being surprised when they didn’t respond, ‘Hell, yeah!’

  “’Cause you sho ’nuff act like it, Hunter.”

  “I thought we were talking about you.”

  “We are… you gonna be me if you don’t straighten up. You say you’re not trying to be Leon part two, but actions speak louder than words. Everyone you love hatin’ you for choosin’ the streets over them – that’s where you’re headed.”

  “I didn’t choose the streets; that’s all I had, and anyway, I can’t be anyone but myself.”

  “I’m not sayin’ be somebody other than Hunter. Hunter is who you are… well, Tyrant, but I call you Hunter. I’m sayin’ be a better version of Hunter, man…” Their gazes hooked. “You’ve got a second chance.” Leon pointed his dark, wrinkled finger in his face. “Don’t waste it for some bullshit. Cash that shit in for a new lease on life, walk away with your chips and don’t look back. You don’t have an excuse.”

  “Here’s the thing, Leon.” Hunter threw down a card. “You don’t know me. You know what I show you, what I allow you to see.”

  “Young blood, you keep your cards close, but I can see the hand you’re playing. You think you’re hiding something, and from most you are, but I’ve been living with you all of these years, and believe me, your struggle is noticeable when you think everybody asleep or nobody’s watching. I watch you at chow time. You isolate yourself, sit alone. You look around watching people. People don’t know what to make of you. Half ’em scared to find out – you’ve got a reputation and it ain’t good. You confuse people… Big guy like you not startin’ no shit, not using your intimidation skills to get what you want outta somebody in here. This is a dog eat dog world behind these bars. Most of these guys wish they were you, looked like you, thought like you, moved like you. Reading those books of yours at night, they see you. Writing God only knows what in those letters you send out to your grandparents. You got your own problems, but if you put your mind to it, you ain’t got to come back here ever again. You weren’t addicted to heroin like me, or crack, nothing like that. You’re addicted to pain.”

  Hunter had never heard it put like that before.

  “Addicted to pain? That’s a new one.”

  “Yeah. You like the feel of it because you’re used to it. Pain to you feels like love. You strike out at others but you’re selective about who takes the brunt of it. You like hurtin’ people.” Hunter smirked but kept quiet. “You say I don’t know you, but I do. Believe me, I do.”

  “You see the outside me and make assumptions like everyone else, Leon. I’ve talked to you somewhat over the years but allow me to let you in on something. I am something different to everyone I meet. That’s intentional. Your turn.” He tossed down a card.

  “Boy, I’m tryna tell you something but you’re too hard headed to listen. Look, that’s all bullshit. Yeah, people are scared of you because of how you look. You’re threatening. You’re real tall, big and muscular. You don’t smile… your eyes got death in them too, like you’ve seen far too much in your life to ever be okay.”

  “I’ve seen my share.” He tossed another card.

  The old man grabbed a card and threw it down.

  �
��You don’t trust anyone, do you, Hunter?”

  “Why should I?” They both paused and regarded one another.

  “There’s degrees of trust, Hunter. You’re going to have to trust someone, eventually, so you can make it this time around. No one can do it all by themselves. You’ve got a prison mentality now… that’s all got to be deprogrammed out of you. You need a reset or you’ll repeat everything you’ve done.”

  “Prison mentality has kept me alive in here.”

  “That’s probably true, but the fights you’ve gotten into in here speak for themselves. You can stop trying to prove to the world whatever it is you think they should know. In here, you’re well established.”

  “In here, they don’t give you a choice. These guys get an inch from you and try to take a mile.”

  Leon nodded in agreement.

  “You’ve really fucked some mothafuckas up in here; you ain’t nothin’ to play wit’. Shiiid, you made me feel safer than a mothafucka up in here. I knew as long as yo’ big ol’ Dolph Lundgren lookin’ ass was up in here, wuddn’t nobody gone do a gotdamn thang to me!” The old guy smiled, showing dark gums and a few missing teeth as he laughed, causing Hunter to do the same. “People up in here think you crazy ’cause of the shit you’ve done, say you’re sadistic.”

  “What do you think?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know. But what I do know is I ain’t never seen that side of you, but I know it’s there.” What was there to say to that? No need to dispute the truth. “You not in here for being no boy scout. But you better watch out when you’re back out into the free world, Hunter.”

  “I should look over my shoulder? Nah, never going to live that way. Fight to the end, ya know? Live by the sword, die by the sword. I can never live in fear.”

  “You can’t live in fear because you are fear. You too afraid of going deep inside of yourself and find out what’s making you move like this, think the way you do. Everybody is afraid of something, Hunter. You’re afraid of yourself… Inside, you’re a ticking time bomb, the calm before the storm.”