Noble Warrior

by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

  On the inside, M.D. felt a surge of power rise up inside of him. Being anxious would negatively affect his ability to execute this mission. Did he want to be anxious?

  No.

  Did he need to be terrified?

  Alert, yes. Terrified, no.

  Was all this negative energy of any actual use to him?

  Energy is just energy, which means this fear can be a gift if you rechannel it.

  His inner power began to grow.

  My body is ready, I am in the best shape of my life, and I am motivated by the purest reason that exists. I will be okay.

  McCutcheon repeated the last line to himself a second time, knowing that once inside, the power of his mind would be his sharpest sword.

  I will be more than okay. I will succeed.

  He breathed in and breathed out, slowly, patiently, deeply.

  Thank you, fear, McCutcheon said. Stay if you like—or go—but know that I hear and appreciate your concerns.

  Poof! The terror vanished. In its place was a reservoir of confidence, power, and poise.

  “Hey,” Puwolsky asked, snapping his fingers. “Hey kid, are you okay?”

  McCutcheon blinked his eyes open and they shined with the light of a wolf. He turned to the colonel.

  “I’m ready.”

  Whoa, Puwolsky thought. Who is this kid?

  “Yeah, um...sure,” he said.

  Puwolsky flashed his car lights as a signal to someone on the inside, and a few seconds later the back door by the loading dock cracked open.

  A man approached. A skinny guy with bad teeth and yellow hair named Major Daniel Krewls. He was not particularly tall, not particularly muscular, but he stomped his black boots with authority through the foreboding puddles on his way to meet the car.

  Puwolsky rolled down the window. Krewls stuck his chin in the vehicle and looked around.

  “LeRoyce didn’t make the trip?”

  “LeRoyce is no longer with us.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “So they say. This the guy?” Krewls shined a flashlight on McCutcheon’s face. “Seems a little young to play with the big boys.”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate his abilities.”

  “Where’s my money?”

  “Where are the details?” Puwolsky began. “The story goes that...”

  Krewls interrupted. “The detail that comes first is my motherfuckin’ money,” Krewls interrupted.

  There was a stalemate but it was brief, and Puwolsky relented. He reached into his jacket. “You’re like one of the damn prisoners, making sure you get paid first before anything happens.” He passed Krewls an envelope.

  “I’m worse than the prisoners,” Krewls said as he fingered through a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. “’Cause I got a badge.”

  Wardens run state penitentiaries, but Jentles’s warden, John Jeffrey Johannsen, had suffered a mild stroke and didn’t want to lose his retirement package, so he went on temporary sick leave in order to protect his benefit plan.

  That was three years ago.

  Six months after Johannsen stepped away from his desk, Deputy Warden Steven Elliot found himself indicted for stealing from the prison employee fund. Next in line would have been the associate warden, but the state of Michigan, in its infinite wisdom, decided to eliminate the position of associate warden from all of the correctional facilities, in order to trim the budget and cut down on bureaucracy. Major Krewls, a man with nineteen years under his belt at the time, turned up next in line in the chain of command.

  “Eight thousand,” Krewls said. “That’s it? I deserve a bonus.”

  “Go hump a turtle,” Puwolsky answered.

  Krewls soured his face. Clearly, this was not a negotiation.

  “All right,” Krewls said stuffing the cash inside his jacket. “What we got?”

  “This prisoner’s name is”—Puwolsky passed the file over to the major—“Lester Alfred Rawlins. Story is he was sentenced to forty-five to life but escaped from Longacre Penitentiary upstate, and is now being transferred here.”

  “Forty-five years? Whew-weee,” Krewls said. “That’s a long time for a young buck like you to do a bid up in here.”

  “It’s just three days,” Puwolsky said with a glare in Krewls’s direction. “We’re starting there.”

  “Oh yeah, right.” Krewls took the forged paperwork from Puwolsky’s hands. “Three days, gotcha.”

  The seamless way in which everything went down between the two men made M.D. wonder just how many other people had been sneaked in through the back door and railroaded into the prison, without ever having seen a trial, a judge, or a jury. Certainly, the scheme ran far too smoothly for it to be the first time Krewls and Puwolsky had ever pulled it off. No nerves. No anxiety. No signs of concern about being caught or discovered.

  Too much assurance M.D. thought. Too much arrogance. All signs of weakness, he knew. The overconfident were always vulnerable. McCutcheon filed this knowledge away in case he needed it later.

  “Anything else I need to know?” Krewls asked.

  “Yeah, read that.”

  Krewls scanned the materials.

  “Hmmm, I’m thinking Think Tank.”

  “Don’t fuck around with this, Krewls. You know why he’s here.”

  “I’m just saying,” Krewls answered. “You’d bet on him, right?”

  “I’m warning you, don’t mess around.”

  “Come on, Puwolsky,” Krewls says. “With the chump change you’re paying, I could use the extra cash.”

  “Why are you always bitching about money?”

  “’Cause money rules the world,” Krewls said. “Just tell me, would you bet on him?”

  While the eight grand was supposed to get M.D. into a position whereby he could execute his mission, Puwolsky knew that dirty officers like Krewls always liked to make a little extra something-something for themselves whenever the chance presented itself. Smuggling in phones, looking the other way during a beat down, there were scores of ways that prison guards could puff their pockets. Besides, once M.D. exited the car and entered the D.T., Puwolsky knew that Krewls was going to do what Krewls was going to do anyway; he was lord of the realm, so the colonel figured it was better to simply tell the truth in order to try to move things along as quickly as possible.

  “I’d bet the fucking farm on him,” Puwolsky said. “Just make sure a certain someone has an encounter and ends up in the morgue truck sooner rather than later.”

  Krewls smiled, his crooked teeth ready to take a big bite out of this new opportunity. “Nothing to worry about.” Krewls tapped the cash in his pocket. “You, son, are fixin’ to triple this for me, ain’t ya?”

  McCutcheon didn’t answer. He hadn’t come to Jentles make crooked prison guards smile. He was here for other reasons and he knew he had to keep those reasons front and center in his mind.

  Puwolsky reached over, opened the passenger door, and McCutcheon climbed out of the car and into the rain.

  “So you’re a little soldier, huh?” Krewls stepped nose-to-nose with McCutcheon. “Just remember who the general is and we’ll get along just fine.”

  Even though Puwolsky had always suspected Krewls might put M.D. through a few extra challenges before he’d be placed in a position to take out the High Priest, the colonel hadn’t mentioned any of this to McCutcheon. In fact there were many things Puwolsky hadn’t mentioned to McCutcheon about this mission.

  Of course, there were a few things M.D. hadn’t mentioned to the colonel, either. Like the fact that he had absolutely zero intention of murdering D’Marcus Rose.

  “I’ll see you in about three days,” Puwolsky said.

  “Yep,” M.D. answered. Krewls grabbed McCutcheon by the elbow and began leading him inside.

  “Right this way, son,” Krewls said. “Let’s go get you set up all nice and cozy.”

  Puwolsky turned the key, the Cadillac roared to life, and all three men took the next step
forward in their lives, thinking about their own individual schemes.

  Each just having lied, lied, lied to the others.

  “Move it, ass breath!”

  Major Krewls hauled McCutcheon into a gray-and-white intake room that smelled of piss and fear and slammed him into a chair with four other cuffed felons.

  “Now, wait!”

  McCutcheon understood Krewls’s show of roughness. In prison, eyes are everywhere, and if even a sniff of the idea surfaced that M.D. was anything other than a convict, he’d be shanked before dinner, and Krewls himself would burn. Sure, the major wanted the envelope full of money that came with backdooring M.D. into his institution, but Krewls also knew it could cost him his badge, his pension, and maybe even his freedom.

  For all parties involved, the stakes were high.

  Krewls popped a roasted sunflower seed into his mouth, separated the shell from the nut using only his teeth, and then spit the gnawed husk onto the floor. A moment later he locked M.D. to a hard steel seat and then bashed him with a baton.

  “Uunnnnggghh!” M.D. groaned as the shot drilled him in the ribs.

  “Just a reminder, fucko,” Krewls said, making sure every other prisoner in the room heard him. “You’re cookin’ in my kitchen now.”

  Krewls marched out of the room, and three of the four handcuffed inmates awaiting processing into the facility eyed the new fish in the tank. The fourth, bound in a restraining jacket made of unchewable cloth and fitted with leg irons and a waist chain, gazed at the walls as if there was an animated cartoon playing on them. M.D. noted a hint of drool dribbling from the guy’s bottom lip, and a zoned-out daze in his eyes. Behind this prisoner’s head, McCutcheon spied some graffiti scribbled on the wall.

  WELCOME TO THE DEVIL’S TOILET, A POEM

  WELCOME 2 THE DEVIL’S TOILET

  KILL URSELF NOW

  IF U HAV THE CHANCE.

  AND NO DIS DON’T FUCKING RHYME

  Really inspirational, M.D. thought.

  “Y’all know we’re fucked, right?” said a skinny guy with big teeth making herky-jerky twitches. “Fucked like rabbits about to be stew. Screwed like turkeys about to be dumplings. Cooked like cows about to be hamburger pie.”

  “I ain’t fucked,” came the booming voice of the bald-headed convict sitting next to the motor mouth. “Night Train is the guy who does the fucking. The fuckin’ up of people that is.” Night Train kissed his left bicep then his right, each arm a boulder. “Ain’t nobody want a piece of Smith and Wesson.”

  “Too true,” Motor Mouth said. “Ain’t no one want a piece of Night Train.”

  Suddenly the eyes of the restrained prisoner turned wide and crazy and he began smashing his head against the wall and screaming.

  “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud.

  “Aw, shit, we gotta a banger,” Motor Mouth said. “Yo, guard! Get this boy some meds.”

  “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud.

  No one came.

  Then as abruptly as he started, Banger stopped. No rhyme, no reason, no explanation. He simply returned to staring at the walls.

  “Just a damn shame how there be so many peoples with mental unhealthiness in our prisons,” Motor Mouth said. “A damn shame.” Motor Mouth twitched two more times and then turned his attention to the guy on his left. “Hey, Timmy, what you in for?”

  A twenty-three-year-old white kid, no tattoos, no facial hair, looked up with a Who me? expression.

  “Yeah you,” Motor Mouth said. “What you done?”

  “My name’s not Timmy.”

  “Well, you look like a Timmy to me. Lemme guess. Drugs?”

  The guy not named Timmy didn’t answer.

  “I knew it!” Motor Mouth exclaimed. “What you slangin’, X? Shrooms? Young fella like you might be pushing a little blow but definitely not the Big H.”

  The guy not named Timmy kept his mouth shut. He’d taken a course on How to Survive in Prison paid for by his father before heading out to the D.T., so he’d been coached on all the rules of how to act in order to make it through his bid.

  Keep your eyes in your own head. Don’t take any favors from anyone cause nothing is free in lockup. Since many attacks happen when you are using the toilet, always piss while sitting on the shitter with your pants all the way off, so in case you’re targeted, you can defend yourself without having your prison chinos trip you up at the ankles while you fight.

  “And remember,” his coach told him. “One rule trumps all others: Show no fear. Poop your pants on the inside but on the outside you gotta wear the mask of a stone cold killer.” Weak prisoners would be exploited.

  The guy not named Timmy practiced his cold, dispassionate, “Don’t mess with me” face for two solid weeks before entering the D.T., yet less than three hours into a twenty-two-month sentence, his hands trembled, his mouth dried, and his eyes blinked at more than twice the normal rate.

  “Aw, wouldya look at this,” Motor Mouth said. “Young buck here about to dookie in his pants. Just please don’t tell me you in for mareee-juana? A damn shame the way society’ll take minor little trafficker like you and toss ’em in a place like this. Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Motor Mouth said, smacking his lips. “The D.T. ain’t no place for a dude like you, in here with murderers and armed robbers and sickos who’ll take your manhood quick as they’ll take a muffin off your breakfast tray.”

  Motor Mouth leaned forward and looked compassionately at the guy not named Timmy. “Baby, you wanna know what’s gonna help you survive in here? Do ya?”

  Motor Mouth leaned gently forward and spoke slowly, making sure to clearly pronounce each of his words one at a time.

  “Not. A. Damn. Thing.”

  A grin, big and wide, grew across Motor Mouth’s face. “You need to abandon all hope, motherfucker, ’cause baby, you about to enter a place from where you ain’t never gonna return. Haaa-haaa-haaaaa!”

  “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud.

  Motor Mouth cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West, Banger smashed his head against the wall, and McCutcheon watched as a new wave of whiteness washed over the face of the guy not named Timmy.

  “And what’s your deal?” Motor Mouth asked, turning his attention to M.D.

  McCutcheon didn’t reply.

  “Oh, the strong, silent type, huh? I bet you’re one of those bitches who thinks he ain’t even did nothing wrong to be in here.”

  M.D. glared, wordless and fierce.

  “Ooh-weee, you got a mean mad-dog stare on you, don’t ya now?” Motor Mouth said, practically feeling the energy ooze from McCutcheon’s chest. “Well, that’ll help you some in here, but ain’t nothing gonna save you from the food. They be serving toes in here for lunch.”

  “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud. “Aaaeerrgggh!” Thud.

  Krewls stomped back into the room and smashed Banger in the gut with his baton. “Cut it out. You’re giving me a headache.” Banger doubled over from the blow. It was abusive but it worked, and Banger stopped banging.

  “Can I just say how much I hate these lawyer paper jockeys always sweating us for overcrowding? Okay, listen up,” Krewls announced. “I only have four beds right now and one’s in the infirmary. But my problem is ain’t a one of you need the infirmary.”

  Krewls looked up from his chart. “Yet,” he added, as a sinister smile crept across his face.

  The major looked around at his five charges. “Okay, which one of you wants to send another to the hospital for me?” he asked. “Come on, come on, I ain’t got all day.”

  Night Train surveyed his peers then nodded his head. “Smith and Wesson’ll do the honors for ya, boss.”

  “Great, we have one volunteer. Who’s next?” The other four prisoners, Motor Mouth, Banger, the guy not named Timmy, and McCutcheon, all stayed mum.

  “Okay, if that’s the way it’s going to be.” Krewls tucked his chart und
erneath his arm, walked into the center of the room, and began tapping each of the remaining prisoners on the top of his head.

  “Duck. Duck. Duck...GOOSE!”

  Krewls’s hand stopped on the guy not named Timmy, and the new convict’s eyes practically popped out of his head.

  Me? the look on his face said. You want me to fight this animal?

  “I’ll do it,” M.D. suddenly blurted out.

  Krewls shook his head back and forth. “Oh, no,” he said in a disapproving manner. “Please don’t tell me I just boated a fish with a conscience.”

  “I said, I’m in,” McCutcheon replied.

  The guy not named Timmy looked up at M.D. with wide, thankful eyes.

  “All right,” Krewls said. “I guess I get to road test my new ride to see what I got under the hood before the big show begins.”

  Krewls uncuffed M.D. and then Night Train. Both stood.

  Night Train, three inches taller, seventy pounds heavier, stepped nose-to-nose with McCutcheon.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up.”

  “I don’t have a beef with you.”

  “You will in a sec.”

  “I don’t want to fight,” M.D. said in a calm and tranquil voice. “We do not have to do this.”

  “Shit, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to fight me either,” Night Train said. “Prepare to meet Smith and Wesson.”

  Night Train rolled his neck in a wide circle, raised his fists, and kissed each of his biceps one at a time. Fifteen seconds later, he lay crumpled on the intake room’s floor, blood running from his nose and mouth, the center of his face looking as if he’d been smashed in the middle of his grille by a metal pipe.

  Muscles without speed were like birds without wings for M.D.: nothing but target practice.

  Krewls rubbed his chin. He’d seen a lot of prison fights in his time, but this kind of quickness, strength, and precision? The major smiled. “You gonna make me some genuine cash-o-la, ain’t you?”

  M.D. spit, sat back down, and reminded himself yet again that he’d only come to the D.T. for one reason, and it wasn’t to assassinate the High Priest. His aim was to save Kaitlyn. Nothing else mattered. He owned a plan to do it, too. A plan that did not involve murdering D’Marcus Rose. But he hadn’t shared it with anybody. Not Puwolsky. Not Stanzer. Not Krewls.