'Nice psychology,' Karen said, getting to her feet.
'That wasn't psychology,' Becker said, 'it was the truth. I'm scared shitless.'
Karen looked at him closely. His face was ashen and sweat had broken out on his forehead. Karen started to say something but Becker rose quickly and started after Jack, heading towards the chimney.
Lights out in the cellblock was like sun down in the jungle, time for the predators to emerge and for the vulnerable to hunker in hiding. But unlike the jungle where the hunters moved in stealth and silence, within the cement walls of Springville prison it was the predators who made most of the noise. And there was no place for anyone to hide.
Three cells away, the new punk was being introduced to the pleasures of prison life, and his screams excited the inmates. Cries of support rang out from the length of block as his fellow predators urged on the aggressor.
Some of the habitual victims raised their voices, too, eager to have someone else degraded. And of course a few of the victims had come to love their victimization, some to adore their tormentors. Their response was to coo sympathetically or to eye their cellmates seductively. Not that much seduction was required. The prison population is primarily young, and most of the prisoners already have too much testosterone for their own good or that of society. Sex pervades the prison like the overheated summer humidity, clinging to the skin, freighting the air.
'Get used to it, honey,' said a weary voice, offering the only advice applicable to the situation. Once a punk was initiated, there was no turning back, no reversing of roles. For the rest of his term he would remain what he had become.
Cooper lay on his bunk, listening to the uproar, a slow grin building on his lips.
'Hear that, punk?'
The shape on the bunk above him did not stir.
'I'm talking to you,' Cooper said. He kicked upwards and slammed his foot into the base of the upper bunk.
'What?'
'Don't pretend you don't hear me,' Cooper said.
'You hear me.'
'What is it?'
Cooper's grin broadened. He enjoyed it when his punk tried to outsmart him because, in here, in the cell, there was no way anyone could outwit Cooper. In the world, intelligence counted for something. Every two-bit clerk who could subtract well enough to make change for a ten was intimidating to Cooper. They could disrespect him and live because there were too many of them to kill.
Everyone seemed to sense the awkward and clumsy movements of his mind and to dance around him like hyenas around a shackled lion. They were legion and he was just one. There was nothing he could do but let them cheat and bully and mock him. The world belonged to the agile; but here, in this cell, the universe belonged to the strong. Cooper's power was rooted neither in wit nor cunning but in raw strength.
'What is it?' Cooper said in mincing tones, mocking the convict above him. 'What is it?'
'Honestly,' Swann said. 'I don't know what you want!'
Honestly.'
Cooper waited for Swann to respond, then kicked the bunk again.
'Now,' he said.
Swann leaned his head over the edge of the bunk. He had the look on his face that Cooper loved to see. The placating look of someone trying to hide his fear while calming a menacing dog.
'I don't feel very well,' Swann said.
'Shit,' said Cooper dismissively. 'I want it now.'
'No, truthfully, Cooper. I think I have an infection. It might put you in jeopardy. I wouldn't want that.'
Cooper laughed. He recognized the tone even if he didn't grasp all of the substance. It was the same bullshit that they all tried on him in the world, scooting around him with their words, twisting things so he didn't know what to think.
He didn't have to put up with it here.
'Time for your nightlies,' Cooper said.
'You know I want to…'
'I know you do.'
'Anything you want. Normally. But tonight Cooper grabbed the smaller man by the ear and pulled until he came off the bunk, yelping in pain.
'Old Coop's going ridin',' called out a neighboring inmate who heard Swann's groans.
'Coop's ridin',' Cooper called back happily, delighted to be recognized.
He was a respected man on the block, people spoke to him, called out his name in admiration.
If not the strongest man on the block of strong men, he was close.
Three cells away, the new punk's initiation came to a climax with the exultant scream of his tormentor. Between catcalls from the kibitzers the punk could be heard weeping. If he didn't stop soon, the predator would beat him until he couldn't. Cooper hated weepers, particularly crying women or anyone that reminded him of them.
His punk didn't cry. His punk loved him. Not just because Cooper protected him from the other cons who might want to abuse him. He loved him because he loved him, because Cooper was lovable, because he was a good man, and a stud and a nice guy-or at least in as much as circumstances allowed him to be a nice guy. Niceness was not a highly valued characteristic in the jungle.
Cooper tightened his fingers around Swann's throat, feeling the cords of muscle that held the little man's head to his body. It would be so easy to yank it right off. Just one good tug, Cooper thought. He was strong enough, he could pop it off like he was snapping string. Cooper wondered if Swann would flap around like a chicken, or would he just die, collapsing like a poleaxed steer. Cooper had seen the way cattle died in a slaughterhouse, falling as if a hole had opened beneath them, slaughtered without a twitch. He had never seen a human being die that quickly, there was always some fuss, usually noise, too. But then he'd never seen anyone die because his head was pulled off, either. He tightened his grip on Swann's neck until the punk began to cough.
Cooper felt the throbbing begin.
'You love me, don't you?' he demanded, his voice husky now and low so no one else could hear.
'I love you,' said Swann.
Cooper thrust harder, beginning to lose control.
'I love you, too,' Cooper said, each word tortured from his frantic breathing, and for the moment he truly did. He wanted to squeeze his punk in his arms although the position did not allow it. He wanted to be wrapped in another person's embrace, to feel the warmth of another body, his beloved's body, against his skin.
Cooper finished with the orgasmic scream of a cat, announcing his dominance as he had learned to do in prison, letting the listeners know of his triumph. Quiet passion was for the prey, not the predators.
He slumped across Swann's back as the last of the tremors shook him, then, as always, was almost immediately filled with guilt. He thrust the punk away from him, pushing him with his foot against the wall.
The punk hit his head and moaned.
'Shut up,' Cooper said.
'That hurt.'
'You're lucky I don't kill you,' Cooper said. 'If I didn't have to live with you, I'd kill you.'
Swann was silent, a shape in the dark, huddled against the wall. Cooper wanted to kick him again. Like a cowering dog, he thought. Just asking for the boot.
'You know that, don't you?' Cooper asked,
'I know that.'
'If I didn't have to live with you, I'd probably pull your head right off. You know I could.'
'I know it.'
'I killed a faggot once.'
'I'm not a faggot, COOP.'
'You'd better not be.'
'I just do it because I love you.'
'God damn if I'd share a cell with a faggot. If I ever find out you are one, I'll kill you anyway, I don't care if I
