The other officer shrugged and unlocked the cell door, bearing its stenciled unit number and the rules, which were posted under a large sign reading Violent. The massive steel door also housed a special feeding and hygiene port, the operation of which was governed by its own set of security regulations. None of this mattered to Rodriguez. He wiped his perspiring hands on the sides of his pants and entered, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.
'How you doin’ ya fat fuck?” he asked, his voice soft, almost loving, as he struck the huge, bound figure across one of its legs. “That feel pretty good?” It turned him on to put his weight into a baton swing like that. He swung again with all his might, aiming lower and connecting against the side of the beast's weak ankle. The muffled oof of pain was like a lover's orgasmic scream to the little man. “You behave, blimp, and when I finish with you we'll let the doctor check you out for these little aches and pains.” He drew back and swung again. Hard.
It was painful for Bunkowski to remember such moments. The vividness of the guard whacking away at him was irritating. Why, when he could recall nothing else, did he have to seize on that hurtful event to replay in his head? The way he tried to dodge the baton strikes, moving ever so slightly at the last instant; the guard's body odor, heavy as his own; the plan that germinated with the first clubbing; all sharp, clear memories.
His impaired mental computer also recalled the visit to the prison shrink called Hodge, although the memory of it was out of sequence with the beating. It became part of the same plan, but that was later. Or, was he confused again? Had he escaped that time or had he been set free intentionally? It was too complex to sort out the chronologies. It hurt him to concentrate. The flashback, more of a blurback really, reconstructed a moment of wounded time.
Dr. Hodge, another of the zillion faceless sissies who'd been so fascinated with him over the years, resented Dr. Norman terribly, and all but throbbed with delight at the chance to have a session with the much whispered about occupant of cell 10 in D Seg of maximum security—the hole.
First there was the parade from the hole to Hodge's office, Daniel “Chaingang” Bunkowski, a quarter ton of dead weight, bound and gagged by every means possible. Even the handcuffs had their own boxes, as this inmate was notoriously monkey-pawed. A squad of strong, well-trained correctional officers shared the collective responsibility for controlling the occupant of cell 10 whenever he was moved. They were known as the SCUT squad, Special Convict Transport squad being the official title, but no army latrine honey-dipper or mental institution nut-wrangler ever faced such dangerous scut work. There was no letting down when you were within reach of the predaceous monster who lived in D Seg.
Chaingang, restrained and masked, had a badly swollen ankle and a cracked rib. The nonsequential illogic of the injuries defied analysis. Perhaps there had been other equally severe beatings. In any event he was transported to Dr. Hodge's office, rather painfully, but showed nothing in the hard black marbles that were his eyes.
“So, Dan...” the doctor began.
Dan? No one, not even sissy Dr. Norman, had ever used such a name on him. It would be like walking up to a rogue elephant with blood on its tusks and saying “Hi there, Jumbo.'
Abject hatred flickered in the hard black orbs. “Let's talk about your mother, shall we?'
If a worse beginning could have been devised, it would be difficult to imagine.
“You loved her and hated her, is that fair to say? I mean your case history is quite classic in that respect. Your stepfather abused you something awful, beating you, keeping you under the bed in a punishment trunk, only bringing you out to assault you sexually, forcing his perverted attentions on you as your mother stood by. God, no wonder you hated her. Still, she was your mother. So all the long hours while you were kept inside the darkened closet, what sort of confused and bitter thoughts must you have entertained?” Dr. Hodge was enamored of his own rhetoric and continued at some length. Daniel, of course, was examining the room for opportunities.
“But why the hearts? That's the part I don't quite understand Eating...” he made an ugly face of distaste,” ... a heart! Why, Dan? Why did you eat the hearts after you killed your victim? What's that all about, can you tell me?'
He remembered that in their own way the sessions with Hodge were harder to take than the amateur beatings he'd been given.
He set his mind to work on various projects, waiting for an opportune moment when the idiot prison psychiatrist way briefly called out of the office. Finally, it came. Instantly he went into his belly stash. Chaingang could barely move his fingers, but he possessed incredible dexterity as well as strength. Deftly, with the greatest precision and focus, his fingertips found temporary freedom, curling down under his apron of belly fat, and producing a horde of tiny objects. A plastic thing that opened into a hinged hook; which was tied to a short length of stout monofilament line, a tiny stoppered vial, a stub of pencil.
After six attempts he was able to catch the grapple hook over the edge of the nearby wastebasket and with the greatest focus slide it over within reach of his fingers. His luck held and it did not tip over. Quickly, hoping time would also be on his side, he pulled the metal container up to where he could sort through it, looking for something he might use as a weapon, a metal nail file or rusty razor blade, anything. There was nothing of interest. Only the shrink's discarded junk mail.
Out of disgust he found a clean envelope and took a stamp from his tiny vial, wetting it with perspiration and applying it over the cancelled one. Dr. Hodge's address was on a peel-off label, which is why Chaingang had selected it. He removed the label and retrieved a junk novelty catalog from the trash. Skimmed the pages quickly until he'd found something, then removed the order form and filled in a number with his pencil stub, using the doctor's MasterCard number from a discarded receipt.
He was about to seal the envelope that would send away for the joke novelty item, when he saw something that made his coal black eyes sparkle with momentary interest: a harmless-appearing toy called Slingshot & Water-balloon Game!
'Wouldn't it be fun if you could launch your water balloons 300, even 400 feet into the air?” the catalog copy asked, breathlessly. “Now you can! The Slingshot & Water-balloon Game was designed by a professional marksman to smack the target dead center every time! Competition-grade launchings can achieve super velocities of up to 250 miles an hour, just pull back the firing cradle, put your muscles behind it, and wing those water balloons skyrard. Warning: Do Not Aim At People Or Pets! Made in USA and 100% biodegradable. Comes with instructions, Poly-Vordex grips, rubber tubing, and nylon ammo cradle, plus water-balloon starter kit. Targets not included. “It was priced at $23.95. Chaingang thought it was a bargain.
There were two accessories to the game offered: one was a gross of heavy-duty balloons, which he ordered to go with his weapon, and a set of targets, which he didn't need. He already had a target in mind.
All these details were deliciously fresh. Daniel had no idea that the basic events had taken place nearly three years before and were unrelated to his present condition. They were, nevertheless, pleasantly comforting memories, albeit out of context and asynchronous. He recalled his ambivalence at finding the toy as it meant he would have to forgo the fun of sending for the gag item.
The peel-off label was reapplied to the order form. Thick fingers that could tear a human jaw loose took the stub of pencil, erased the item lot number he'd written, and ordered the slingshot and balloon set in its stead, crudely sealed the envelope, and daintily fiipped it into the Out tray of correspondence on the nearby desk.
One other slight change had been made: the order would be paid as a charge to Hodge's credit card, but while it would still be sent to the penitentiary, it was now coming to the personal attention of a trustee whose con name was Mousie. Chaingang had something Mousie wanted. Free enterprise will always rule. There would be some trade-offs. Bunkowski would end up with a weapon that he could transport with him wherever he went. Not rubber, nylon, plastic, nor “Poly-Vordex” would set off a metal detector. And while the hacks looked in Bunkowski's every orifice, there was one place no one, not even Dr. Norman, had thought to look: under his fat roll!
There were even prescribed methodologies for such unthinkable, unspeakable, unnatural acts as the monitoring of cell 10 occupant's bowel movements, the cleaning of and disposal of dejecta, and the post-
