Trust no one was the rule. Except yourself, of course. Ultimately, M.D. knew, it might fall entirely up to him to find a way out of this hell.
Despite his initial plan to keep Kaitlyn away from his thoughts at all costs, a new voice in his head now cried out and begged for him to hold on to the vision of Kaitlyn, like a life raft in a sea of growing blackness.
Yes, she needed him but he, too, needed her.
Don’t fight it, he told himself. Think of her inner beauty.
The beast within began to calm as McCutcheon began to remember he hadn’t come here to fight for himself. He came to fight for her. The only reason he’d even ventured into this pit of despair was because he’d listened to the most golden part of his heart.
Now that gold, in his darkest hour, would need to sustain him.
Though uncertain about the existence of God, McCutcheon dropped to his knees and said a small prayer for the guy not named Timmy. He never had a chance, and now he was gone. What kind of God allowed for things like that to happen?
An answer did not arrive, but McCutcheon remained on his knees. Was it out of respect for the victim? Out of fear of nothingness? M.D. wondered if perhaps he needed to believe in God simply because he’d feel too hopeless about life without the knowledge that there was a good, loving, logical force behind all the things in this world that made absolutely no sense.
McCutcheon opened his eyes and found Fixer staring at him.“I gave up on God a long time ago,” the old man said. “But to be fair, God gave up on me, too.” McCutcheon rose from his knees. “And my penis,” Fixer added. “God gave up on that as well, so if you’re keeping score he’s winning, two to one.”
Fixer smiled but the grin was short-lived because a wooden baton clanked at the iron cage’s door.
“Okay, sugar pie, hope you’re ready for tonight,” Krewls said. “’Cause in a few hours, it’s time to rock-’n-roll.”
Krewls spit the gnawed shells of a few salted sunflower seeds onto the cold, concrete floor and reached into his pocket to reload his supply. Aside from the two guards who had escorted M.D. to the Think Tank, no one else had yet arrived for the midnight festivities.
McCutcheon surveyed the battle terrain. Hard walls. Hard floors. No impediments or perimeters, just a squareish end of a poorly lit corridor with no windows, furniture, or phones.
Pretty straightforward, he thought. The only potential danger: the entrance to Cell One One Three lurking toward the back.
M.D. could see the front bars of the cage’s door but little else as a result of the darkness engulfing the interior of the room. Cell One One Three looked more like a catacomb than a standard prison cell. In the late eighteen hundreds the space housed the state’s most mentally deranged inmates. Not much since then, it seemed, had changed. He knew evil lurked inside—M.D. could almost feel its presence—but more than this he could not yet tell.
McCutcheon made a mental note that no matter where the fight took him he needed to keep away from the front of those bars. Hands could reach out—maybe even teeth—and a win could turn to a loss if he found himself ambushed from behind.
As his eyes scanned the room searching for other clues that might help lead to victory, a door handle turned, and the sound of scratchy metal reverberated throughout the room. Seven prison guards emerged from a behind the door, each wearing red and green uniforms with black patches on their sleeves that read MOORLY. A felon, blond hair, hands cuffed behind his back, thick and taller than McCutcheon, followed behind.
M.D. immediately deduced that these guards had come from a different institution. McCutcheon had expected a war against a prisoner from Jentles. Instead, he realized, tonight would feature inter-penal system battle.
“No big crowds tonight, sugar pie. Just a private showing for me and some of my buddies down the road. That man right there,” Krewls said, in reference to the prisoner M.D. would be forced to fight. “His name is Thrill Billy. A real wild one. Doesn’t just like to beat opponents; likes to take their teeth.”
Krewls withdrew a thick wad of hundred dollar bills from his pocket.
“But I got a feeling you like to chew that tasty food Fixer been fixin’ for ya,” Krewls added. “And me, well...my aim is to thicken this here stack and enjoy myself while I do it, too. Let’s both head back to our beds happy tonight, shall we?”
Krewls spit out another sunflower seed and walked off to greet the men from Moorly, a three-and-a-half hour van ride from Jentles with no traffic. McCutcheon didn’t pay much attention to the officers from the other facility, however. His opponent, Thrill Billy, captured all of his concentration.
The guards uncuffed Thrill Billy, and once liberated from his steel bracelets the convict shook out his wrists to get rid of the stiffness he felt from wearing handcuffs for so long. A moment later he yanked off his shirt without a care in the world for the frigid chill hanging in the air. A sea of blue ink covered his dense, puffy chest. McCutcheon knew a guy didn’t get that swollen in lockup without having spent years on the yard.
McCutcheon studied Thrill Billy looking for any small insights he might pick up that could help him form a fight strategy. The skull tattoos, the spiderweb inked around the entirety of his neck, the letters E-W-M-N etched across each knuckle on his right hand, a prison acronym that stood for Evil, Wicked, Mean, and Nasty. Thrill Billy’s whole body stood as a living, breathing painting.
A painting, McCutcheon realized, that told the tale of his personality. All color, rage, and in-your-face aggression. M.D. began to calculate his approach to the upcoming battle. The more he watched Thrill Billy warm up, the more convinced he became that he understood the best, wisest path to victory.
Thrill Billy threw a hurricane of strong, powerful left-right-left combinations and then rolled his head around on his neck with a big, wide, aggressive swirl. Not small rotations but rather full swivels designed to not only loosen up his body, but impress everyone with his thick, powerful torso. Each motion seemed exaggerated, every action occurred with a sense of pomp and confidence.
“Aaaaarrggghh!” Thrill Billy suddenly yelled, and then he smashed himself in the face with back-to-back open-handed slaps. The guards from Moorly smiled at the sound of their fighter’s hands cracking his face. They liked their man’s spirit. Liked it a lot.
Krewls crossed back over to McCutcheon, having locked in all the bets. M.D., knowing the time drew near, pulled off his shirt, folded it up neatly, and set it down on the floor off to the side where he expected it wouldn’t get mussed up.
Krewls squinched his eyes. Folding a prison shirt?
The major looked his fighter up and down. McCutcheon sported no tattoos, threw no warm up punches, and made no show of aggression whatsoever.
“Aren’t you gonna holler or something?” Krewls asked.
McCutcheon slowly turned his head and shot an ice-cold glare at Krewls. The major had been glared at by thousands of prisoners over the course of his career, but there was something different about the way M.D. lasered in on him, and Krewls felt his stomach sink. McCutcheon offered no words, but the major could feel the presence of a dangerous energy. Having already seen a taste of M.D.’s capabilities, he liked his fighter’s chances.
Liked them a lot.
M.D. knew how Thrill Billy wanted to fight even before they traded their first strikes. He’d come out of the chute like a tornado, a bull rushing forward looking to storm his opponent. No fear. No hesitation. A cyclone of violence and rage.
Sure, M.D. could choose to stand and bang with him. Or he could hop on his bicycle and dance, peppering him with shots from the outside till a bigger opening to land a significant blow appeared. But the most strategic way to beat this opponent, M.D. knew, would be to get in his head. To frustrate him. To use Thrill Billy’s own energy and aggression against him.
It was a classic judo mentality, and the more McCutcheon considered it, the more confident he felt it would work.
Clinch him up, lock him in tight guards, boil his
blood and get him agitated. Once Thrill Billy began feeling constricted and tense in McCutcheon’s confining holds, M.D. knew his opponent’s anger would grow.
And with anger he’d lure Thrill Billy into a mistake. Set a trap. Snare his prey.
McCutcheon would use patience to battle his opponent’s impatience. Use his mind to battle his enemy’s brawn.
McCutcheon knew his battle plan. Fighting strength and aggression with strength and aggression is what Thrill Billy wanted. Clearly, power was his strong suit. But did he have the temperament to roll around on the ground for seven or nine minutes with his arms tied in knots and his legs wrapped in a tangle of locks, without the ability to strike, kick, or punch? How would he feel snarled on the ground, unable get more than three inches of separation between his hulking upper body and M.D.’s chest?
Thrill Billy wanted a striking war, so M.D. would take him to the ground and like a snake, slowly and patiently tighten his coil, until aggravation clouded his opponent’s better judgment and he made a mistake. Once he did, M.D. would take advantage and finish the fight.
Perhaps an Achilles lock? Maybe an arm bar? Even something as simple as the snaring of the wrist that would lead to McCutcheon putting unbearable amounts of pressure on his foe’s tiniest joints. No, it wouldn’t be a sexy win with a big knockout punch and lots of blood, but M.D. owned no ego when it came to how he triumphed. What mattered most was victory—it was the only thing that mattered—and as McCutcheon watched Thrill Billy jump up and down like a hyper-caffeinated teenager who’d just swallowed a quadruple espresso, he knew his opponent had already lost the fight long before they’d even begun their dance.
He’d meet the storm with calm. The fury with serenity. Inevitably, cool waters always prevailed over hot seas.
“All right, my li’l darlings,” Krewls called out with a gleam in his eye. M.D. prepared for war the way he always did, with a final slow, deep and patient breath. Amateurs tensed up before battle; professionals knew the value of staying relaxed and fluid. “Time to put your big-boy pants on, fellas, ’cause once again it’s...”
“I know this is not what it looks like!”
All eyes spun toward the open end of the corridor. Walking up the hall, his black boots clicking with each step forward, came Major F. Franklin Mends, a newly minted major who’d recently transferred to the D.T. with the very clear goal of cleaning the place up.
Everyone knew the rumors. Everyone knew the gossip. F. Franklin Mends owned a master’s degree in public policy and a second master’s degree in criminal justice. He came to Jentles with a purpose. An idealist. As a man who believed in the power of reform.
An officer ready to put his money where his mouth was, too.
As many of his superiors knew, Mends could have pursued his agenda from the comfort of an air-conditioned office in the state capital of Lansing, but instead he chose to walk a beat.
“But why?” his wife asked when he informed her that he’d decided to take a position at Jentles.
“Because all reform must be started by people who have experience where the rubber meets the road.”
“But we have kids, honey. Twin three-year-olds.”
“It’s not as dangerous as the media makes it seem.”
“No, it’s more.”
“Jamie,” he said taking his wife by the hand. “These are people I am trying to help. Human beings that are being treated like animals. I can do some good.”
“Do your good at home, Franklin. I’m begging you.”
Despite his wife’s pleas, Mends took the position. She thought about leaving him over it. She knew he’d make no friends and be at constant risk every time he crossed through the front gates of the prison. F. Franklin Mends wasn’t merely seeking to change a penitentiary; he sought to change a culture. His ambitions seemed too high, too risky, too fraught with danger. Jamie didn’t have the stomach for it.
Franklin did.
“It’ll be okay,” he told her. “I promise.”
She did not believe him.
“You’re on the wrong block there, Major,” Krewls said in an authoritative tone. “I know you’re new here, but this area, my team, we already have it covered.”
“Do not make me respond to this in an official capacity,” Mends warned. “Times are changing, but I’ll do the right thing tonight and give you a chance.” Mends looked at the guards from Moorly. One report and multiple officers from multiple institutions would fry.
The Moorly guys held their tongues and looked to Krewls to make the next move. He was supposed to have his end entirely handled, and he didn’t. Far as they were concerned, this was Krewls’s mess and he needed to deal with it.
“Our friends have come a long way.” Krewls peeled off five one hundred dollar bills, crossed the room, and stuffed them into Mends’s pocket. Handling matters might cost a bit more than Krewls anticipated, but he figured he’d make it up on the back end by riding his new pony M.D. a little harder later on down the line. “Your shift, I believe, it’s on Cell Block D. Right, Major?”
Mends removed the cash from his pocket and tossed the bills in the air. Everyone watched as the money fluttered like rectangular green birds crisscrossing their way down to the floor.
“FSSSSSSSHHHH!” came a sinister hiss. Mends spun around, and the face of a dwarf with a triangular nose and glowing eyes popped his head through the iron bars.
“You’re in over your head, Major Mends.”
“You’re in up to your neck, Major Krewls. All of you are.”
The two men glared at one another. A standoff. Krewls’s eyes told Mends he needed to wander back up the hallway he’d just walked down, and go disappear behind some paperwork. Mends’s eyes said that he’d snitch on every last one of his crooked comrades if this nonsense did not stop right away. Goblin and Pharmy began banging on the bars of their cell and howling like monkeys in a zoo. The Moorly officers, knowing their place, remained silent. Both Thrill Billy and M.D., still shirtless in the center of the room, remained where they were, neither knowing what to do next.
“I guess our brothers drove a long way for nothing,” Krewls finally said.
“Not really,” Mends answered. “They drove a long way to learn that they ought never drive this way again.”
The seven men from Moorly glared. If a prisoner would have set Mends on fire just then, not a one would have spit on the man to extinguish the flames.
“You,” one of the Moorly staffers called to Thrill Billy. “Let’s go.”
Two minutes later the door slammed behind them, seven hours’ worth of driving all for nothing. Mends, after picking up the neatly folded prison shirt sitting on the floor, tossed it to McCutcheon.
“I’ll escort this gentleman back to his quarters,” Franklin said. “You men can relax and finish your shift in peace.”
Mends grabbed M.D.’s arm by the bicep and led him down the hall. Not in a domineering way, though, more like a caring son might lead an aging father by the arm with a strong but compassionate grip. Thoughts of reversing the hold and locking Mends into a Kimura never even crossed McCutcheon’s mind.
“Don’t worry, son, you won’t have to do this again.” Mends opened the door to M.D.’s cell. “You’re not an animal. You’re a human being entitled to fairness and dignity. The system needs to remember that. Going forward, we’re gonna try.” M.D. stepped inside his six foot by eight foot space and the door locked behind him.
“Get some sleep,” Mends said. “I’m sorry it’s gone so far.”
Major Mends walked away, his black boots echoing softly through the prison with each receding step. M.D. turned around and saw Fixer staring at him. The old man inspected McCutcheon top to bottom, checked his face for injuries, his fists for signs of impact, his body for any markings of battle at all.
“Hmmm,” Fixer said. “An interruption, I presume?”
M.D. didn’t answer.
“The new guy, Mends?”
McCutcheon hopped into his bunk.
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“A guy who thinks he is going to change the system is admirable,” Fixer said. “But what guys like this usually find is that it’s the system that changes them.”
Hostility and tension permeated the atmosphere of the prison like dampness does the air just before a rainstorm. At every turn the potential for violence existed. Inmate versus inmate. Guard versus inmate. Inmate versus guard. And now even guard versus guard. In a facility used to being on edge, a new edge existed, and each man in the penitentiary felt the tension of an invisible, threatening vibe.
Secrets didn’t exist in lockup. Word had spread about McCutcheon, Mends, Thrill Billy, the guards from Moorly, and Krewls, and by lunchtime the only thing that remained unknown was how the conflict would be resolved. Disputes between gangs got settled on the yard or in the showers. But battles between guards? Would it be a war of paperwork or something more? No one knew.
Yet everyone felt this was just the beginning, not an end. Krewls had ruled too long and too viciously to simply walk quietly away.
Over the next twenty-four hours McCutcheon felt an eerie calm following him as he made his way through the D.T. He took breakfast and lunch in his cell with Fixer, read about forty pages of a book the old man owned about a woman who quit her life to travel to Italy in order to eat, drink, and find the meaning of life, did an hour in the yard for rec with some stretching and a light workout, and then went back to his cell where he passed the time with a nap as well as intermittent visions of upcoming dream dates with Kaitlyn.
The entire day passed without incident. At each turn M.D. felt the gaze of many others following him, but obviously someone with significant influence circulated the word to leave McCutcheon alone.
Clearly, the request was being honored, too. Not a soul in the facility batted an aggressive eye in M.D.’s direction. He felt almost invisible.
“I didn’t invent the prison campfire,” Fixer said as he barbequed a few links of summer sausage on the thin silver poles of an old radio antenna. “But I definitely perfected it.”
Noble Warrior Page 11
