Warlord

'Yeah? Why's that?'

'I dunno. I figured maybe you, you know, went the other way. Batted for the other team, know what I'm saying?'

'What the hell you talking about? Baseball? I never played baseball! Didn't I just get done telling you I was a fighter?'

'Still.'

'Still what?'

'You know that guard, squat little guy with the walrus moustache, button-popper belly, you know who I mean, what's his name, Squirrel?'

'Yeah, Squirrel, I know him. What about him?'

'Well, I was talking to him about you the other day and-hold on a second. Lemme just bang out these last few reps real fast, okay?'

Stoke did ten reps in quick succession, heaving the massive barbell up and down like it was only a couple of hundred pounds. 'Okay, that's about five minutes. It's all yours, Chief.'

'Screw it, man, tell me about Squirrel. Tell me what did that rabbit turd asslick say about me?'

'Well, like I say, me and Squirrel, we were just shooting the shit, you know, talking about this and that, and the other thing and, hell, I can't even remember why, but somehow your name came up.'

'My name?'

'Yeah. Your name.'

'And?'

'And Squirrel told me you were a pussy.'

'Fuck! Squirrel told you that?'

'That's what the man said,' Stoke said, easing the barbell up behind his head to the upright stands used for support. He sat up on the bench, catching his breath. He was drenched with sweat, mopping his face with a towel, when he saw the Seminole Chief step forward, a twenty-pounder in each hand now, clanging them together in front of his massive chest like marching band cymbals.

'You two think I'm a pussy? Huh? You and Squirrel, that right? I asked you a question. You think I'm a pussy?'

'Now look, Two Guns, how the hell would I know if you're a pussy or not? I just got here. I'm just reporting what Squirrel said, that's all. He thinks you're a pussy. Now I know Squirrel doesn't have a whole lot of high-end electronics in his attic, but still. Man's entitled to his opinion, right?'

'Here's my opinion, you stinking piece of dogshit. Your daddy was a polesmoker and your black-assed mama sucked donkey dicks down in Tijuana two bucks a shot. Okay? That's my opinion.'

Stoke stood up, slowly and thoroughly wiping his hands dry with the towel. Carefully, concentrating on each finger.

This black man was a lot bigger than Two Guns thought he was, when he'd been lying there on the bench. A whole lot bigger.

'I want you to say that again, Chief. About my mother. Word for word.'

'I said, your black-assed mama used to-'

'Here's an idea,' a deep voice boomed from behind them. 'Why don't you two bottom bitches take this bullshit elsewhere? I got work to do here.'

It was the juiced-up Mr. Clean, aka the Bonecrusher, the White Supremacist Sharkey had warned him about.

Stoke smiled. An opportunity had presented itself and he was in a perfect mood to take advantage of it. Life was funny that way. It was why he never got bored. He couldn't wait to see what was going to happen next.

'Who the hell are you?' Stoke asked the new arrival. Man was pulling a torn prison-issue T-shirt over his close- cropped head of spiky, bleached blond hair. He had a bodybuilder's physique and the bulging blue eyes of a stone- crazy baby. Big red Nazi swastika tattooed on his forehead. One weird-looking dude, no doubt about it.

He did a bicep flex, pointed to it, and said, 'This is who I am, bitch. Right here.'

Stoke glanced at Chief Johnny Two Guns and smiled. 'Know what, Chief? If those muscles of his were tits, I'd say they were store bought.'

The Bonecrusher was so stunned by what he'd just heard, he was momentarily paralyzed.

'Here's my problem,' Stoke said, seizing the moment, smiling as he moved quickly between the two of them, totally nonaggressive. 'One of you two gentlemen just insulted my mother and the other one just called me a faggot. And, shit, I've only been here a week. This the way you treat newcomers? You two got to step your being polite game the fuck up, you understand what I'm sayin'? Otherwise, I can't be responsible, know what I'm sayin'?'

Bonecrusher laughed out loud. 'Po-lite? Ah, hell, he ain't seen us being po-lite yet, has he, Chief?'

Now Two Guns was all smiles, clearly relieved to have timely backup, especially someone of the Bonecrusher's caliber.

Chief said, 'Shit, this gutta thug player needs his black ass whupped, and I figure we just the right ones to do it? What d'you say?'

'I promise I won't crush his skull till after you put a fist through his liver,' the Bonecrusher said.

They started for him.

Stoke gave them both a second to get comfortable with the idea of what they were about to do to him. Then he shot both hands out at blinding speed, one massive fist clamping around the throat of each one of them. He squeezed until they both started turning purple. When they were just about to pass out, he lifted them both about a foot off the ground, like lifting two babies out of a crib.

'Never, ever, come within fifty yards of me again, understand?' Stoke didn't even notice the gathering of yardbirds behind him, all come to witness this prison miracle in the making.

There were strangled grunts from the two dangling men.

'I'll take that as a yes,' Stoke said.

And then he banged their two heads together with enormous force, forehead to forehead, knocking them both unconscious.

He released his grip and they both dropped like dead meat, collapsing to the blistering pavement, not moving a muscle.

'See that?' Stoke said to the two inert forms on the ground. 'I tried to warn you two boys I'm bad for your health. Now you know.'

A loud Klaxon horn sounded a thirty-second blast and Stoke knew it was time to head back to his cell. He jogged all the way across the yard, feeling good. He'd been saving the last three chapters of Dreadful Lemon Sky and was looking forward to reading them before chow time. Travis McGee and his pal Meyer were about to blow a pot-smoking ring wide open.

STOKE ALWAYS ATE ALONE IN THE MESS HALL, or 'cafeteria' they called it here, like a damn high school. Nobody ever asked him to sit down and that was fine with him. Most of the time he could find a table with only one other guy and sometimes an empty table, like now. He set his tray down, pulled his Koran from under his arm, placed it reverentially on the table, and sat down on the steel bench.

Man, he was hungry.

He had to admit he'd been surprised by the prison chow. It wasn't good, but it wasn't any worse than what you'd get in most hospitals, either. Tonight, for instance, he was having baked chicken breast, rice pilaf, and carrots. Plus chocolate pudding. Not bad, he thought, taking a bite of chicken and opening the Koran to a dog-eared page.

He took the Koran to every single meal. Not because it was such a nail-biter or even a page-turner, but just because he figured it was good advertising. And he was learning interesting stuff too. You hear people all the time talking about what the Koran says. But, after reading it, he got the feeling most of these people doing all the talking? Never read it.

Like what the Koran says about infidels and what must be done about them, basically kill all of them. Stoke, who had loved the Lord with all his heart all his life, had never actually thought of himself as an infidel. But, since he was a Baptist, a Christian, he was definitely high on their hit list. And there was some really unpleasant stuff about women in there that would drive every woman he'd ever known completely apeshit if they took the time to read it.