I.
Tattooed skin collides frictionless
against skin of a darker hue, lubricated by the juices of two men. Their
muscular forms dance in darkness, one on top of the other, eager hands slide
across chiseled abdomen, mountainous chest, as teeth, lips, and tongue push
like a muddy swamp snake against the backside of broad shoulders and a
midnight-black neck. An ear is nibbled, the hairs on the back of both necks
stand upright, erect and bold. Body and spirit are alight with fervor, ardor’s fires
crackle within two hearts, beating in rapid sexual rhythm along with heavy
breathing that almost echoes off the walls of the small room.
The
man on top glistens like a white porpoise cut from Greek marble, humping with
slow, almost calculated thrusts into the solid black onyx form beneath him,
supported from the bedspring by arms like columns of the Parthenon. Their
sentimental moans resonate like notes in a phantom melody. Room is damp with
the odor of sweat, stale love, months of mold and dust. The white man reaches
around to the missile-like black phallus in front of him and strokes it with a
violence unshowable on daytime cable. The grind and squish of white meat into
deep, black cavity is a cinematic sequence waiting for the right filmographer
to capture it, for its qualities are too great to be lost to this tiny room. They
are like unchained tigers let loose on each other in a cage of matches. These
matches will burn if their love rages free as the Phoenix.
Here we have the meeting of two very
different worlds, one man representing the rolling green hills of Ireland, one man
descended from the tribal tundras of Africa. Worlds apart at birth, they unite
in the power embrace of forbidden romance, cuddled in a dark cell in a very
different kind of prison. They soar soundlessly through the deep stygian of
space, hurdling toward distant stations among moons and rocks and cosmic dust.
Ireland and Africa are but fading memories in each man’s head, as even Earth itself
is but a far away blue dot.
The
prison ship is overcrowded, but prison fire codes mean nothing to anyone aboard.
Especially not the Warden-Captain, Commander Greg; Commander Xgay Greg to those
who know him in a more spiritual sense. He deals with his prisoners like
livestock; nameless, branded, herded into cells just right for destroying one’s
sense of self. Not only a ship’s captain and a prison’s warden, Xgay Greg is a
Baptist preacher, a converted X-gay man who once hungered for the rotund
buttocks of other men, for the succulent sweet treat between the meat. He now
finds the thought of a man in anything less than a toga repulsive. He wears his
grin like a necktie, it’s always on and always proper, taken off only in
private quarters. If Xgay Greg catches anyone gaying it up on his ship he’ll
step in to set them straight. It wouldn’t be the first time. He makes a habit
of transforming people into what he wants.
Vanilla
fingers twist chocolate black nipples in pitch darkness, pulling deep screams
from the African throat. Shifting their weight to improve balance over the
squeaking bed, the rhythmic breathing and heaving makes a short pause. Bodies
move, adjustments seem suitable, the heaving and thrusting continue.
“Do
you (heave!) ever (unnngh!) wish I (huh!) had a (heave!)… vagina? (mmph!)”
Dreadlocks fly back with each jerk of the head—at each thrust of the pelvis.
Irish
fingers tighten on African nipples. “Never (hmmph!) have I (ugh!) ever!
(heave!)” His hands wander now from nips to hips, holding his African prince in
classic missionary style. Thrusting grows faster, breathing accelerates, the
bedsprings are a machine gun of squeaks and stretched metal. White teeth shine
like ivory from black lips, the most luminous things in the room, and a roar of
pained pleasure erupts from the same mouth.
Though
from vastly different worlds, these anally involved prisoners share a
remarkable similarity that almost seems to hint at their being cellmates as a
predestined thing.
Our
black onyx prisoner, shortly after taking work as an iron miner with a six
month stint on the Martian surface, was on leave at Phobos Base, right in the
Stickney crater, for an unspecified number of weeks. An early morning trip to
the only bar on the moon granted him a lone meeting with the daughter of the
bar’s owner, named Miranda. Hungry for drink, thirsty for power, the miner
noticed a chance to obtain both, and drank to his heart’s content before
overpowering Miranda and raping her in the bar she had grown up watching her
father make a living in. It was a horrible scene which will not be described
here. After the rape our friend feared punishment, and set Miranda on fire to
cover his tracks. Leaving her ablaze in the bar, he hurried away with ounces of
alcohol in his blood, supposing the girl would be reduced to ash in a matter of
minutes. But Miranda’s screams had awakened her father, who was able to douse
her in buckets of water before the fire stopped her heart. Rushed to the
medical ward, she spent months on life support, and underwent countless hours
of plastic surgery. Our African miner was quickly arrested and condemned to
hell on the prison of Mars.
As
the strange tentacles of fate or destiny or illusory connectedness reached
through the universe, they came upon our Irish prisoner, who, merely a year
after the Phobos incident, met the very same Miranda on Earth, in the town of
Limerick, Ireland.
Going
through plastic surgery and the reconstruction phase, Miranda’s body still
showed the morbid signs of a burn victim. Our Irish friend was an odd sort, a
disgusting and cruel sort who deserves no sympathy, for he had an affinity for
burn victims. Not an affinity for kinship, but an affinity to make them his
victims. He assaulted Miranda in the parking lot on her way from the plastic
surgeon one dark evening. Her tazer fell from her purse as he snatched it away,
and she was thrown into the grass, savaged with unrelenting aggression.
The
Irish boy was arrested on the spot, as medical staff security heard the ruckus,
and assailed him, brutalizing him in the traditional Irish custom, then handing
him over to the police after they felt they’d broken enough of his bones. When
the police felt they’d caused him enough internal bleeding, he was booked for
the night, and down the road was condemned to hell on the prison of Pluto.
By
odd chance, after an incident with a shiv in the cafeteria of the Mars prison,
our African amigo was sentenced to a more severe sentence, also in Prison
Pluto. You might see how fate’s tentacles are beginning to work.
So
it was that upon the great prison ship Dungeon
that transported prisoners from here to there, and there to there, the Irish
man and the African man became cell mates. As prison ship trips will take weeks
to years for some prisoners, there is its very own prison culture on the ship,
composed of the same gangs one will find in any prison on Earth, Mars, Venus,
Pluto, or various moons. When one finds himself imprisoned among such filthy
scoundrels as our two lovers, some of whom are so filthy they make these two
seem like timid penguins in comparison, it is tradition for one to join a gang
for protection and allegiance, as well as a sense of belonging that all humans
desire on some level.
Here
now they fuck hard in the dead of night, lights off, hands on hips, dim
starlight seeping in from the four-inch wide window, the succulent smell of
unshowered bodies working together toward climax, toward a special moment. Our
friends, though by now you certainly loathe to call them such, are desperate
for the seconds they will spend ejaculating from erect penises, one into the
anus of the other, one into the bedsheets they will share in the stronghold of
sleep. It is a scene brought together by statistically unlikely violence and
disgust, but somehow illuminated by a love that transcends prison walls, even
in space. The cell’s only light flickers on, it is four o’clock in the morning.
The room glows a nasty yellow. We see now our two hulks going at it like machines,
propped over a bed stained with the yellowing crust of semen. The white one,
his back and arms covered in tattoos singing his Irish heritage, keeps his eyes
closed, his hands still on his partner’s hips. His face is red with the surge
of passion. The black one, tattooed with tribal designs and African symbols,
clutches the sides of the bed, his dreadlocks hang like weeping willows over
his face. Grunts and moans continue to echo from this tiny room’s walls.
“Keep
(heave!) yourself (unnngh!) going (hhhhh!),” whispers the Irish man into the
ear of his African prince, as he removes his penis from the anus, and scampers
to the toilet in the corner. He removes the lid from the tank, takes a handful
of partially melted ice cubs out of the water, beside the siphon tube, and
hurries back to the black mass of muscle and dripping anticipation who is using
a hand to keep his penis erect. The Irishman rubs the ice on the African’s
buttocks, slides it between his crack, down his legs, and asks him to take it,
to rub it over his body while he (the Irishman) re-inserts his penis to bring
them each to a glorious climax. The thrusting begins anew, as the African rubs
ice on his chest and his scrotum.
A
siren blares from the hallway outside the cell, and red and blue lights flash,
alerting all prisoners it’s time for
breakfast. A guard will be along soon to open doors and order the prisoners in
a single-file line to the mess hall where they will feast on liquid grapes and
oozing vegetable pastes. Our Irish and African cellmates know their time is
running short.
Commander
Xgay Greg marches down the dismal tunnels of the prison ship, the tunnels he
calls hallways, lined with cells full of despair. Every once in a while he
knocks his metal stick against a cell door, making a clang that echoes down the
tunnel, and gives him a simple satisfaction. The clang announces his
importance, heralds his closeness, increases the heart rates of all prisoners.
Another day, another strict adherence to routine, thinks the commander. Seven
or eight executions are scheduled for the day. It’s his favorite part of playing
prison warden, watching the vile and the evil meet their ends. He only wishes
he could make their ends worse than they are allowed to be by law. But in space,
the warden commander recognized long ago, there is no law but his law. He might be on a ship owned by
the Federation of Planetary Prisons, which is ruled by the Department of
Corrections, now a sub-department of the Department of Justice back in America,
but he is ship captain, ship god, ship alpha, and ship omega. He is all, and
all is he. He rules like an emperor. This emperor loves justice.
The
whites of the white man’s eyes are turning red, though in a room lit by a
yellow bulb this is hardly noticeable. And because the black man’s eyes are
shut tight, facing the mattress, he will not see it. Both men, on the verge of climax, find
their minds swirling with thoughts of the other, memories of their first moment
of eye contact.
“I’m
Jim,” announced the muscular white man walking into the cramped cell on the
prison ship for the first time. He wore only the orange jumpsuit assigned him.
“I’m
Jim II,” said the equally muscular black man already sitting on the bottom bunk,
his orange jumpsuit unzipped at the torso.
“Jim
too, eh? I like that.”
“Jim
II, like the number 2.”
“Jim
Junior. Got it.”
“Just
Jim Two,” seated Jim insisted. “Or Jim the Second. We don’t do Juniors where I
come from.”
“You
come from Africa’s my guess. I can tell by the black of your skin and the tribal
click of your voice. Would I be right about that?”
“You’d
be right, Jim. Where you from? Ireland?”
“Green
and gorgeous Ireland.”
“I
can tell by the white of your skin and the green of your eyes and the clover in
your voice, Jim.”
White
Jim smiled and sat on the toilet, not for bodily purposes, but to take the only
seat that wasn't the bed. “Where you coming from, and where you going?” he
asked.
“Been
on the Dungeon since Mars. Heading to
Prison Pluto. Or Pluto Prison. The one on Pluto.”
“Fuckin’
nice. Me too, Jim Two. They say it’s the worst hell a prisoner will ever know.
Think it’s true what they say, that some pissheads try to get themselves offed when
they know Prison Pluto’s their fate?”
“It
is true, Jim. First cell mate of mine was on the Dungeon since Europa Jail, about two months. We bunked together a
week after leaving Mars ‘til he choked two guards to death. So he could die
before Pluto.”
“Two
guards! With his bare hands?”
“His
bare hands, Jim. Esteroy was his name. Executed few weeks back.”
“How?”
Jim
Two scrunched his lips and looked to the hallway as though listening ears might
spy upon them, then sat up straight. “Just space shot, Jim.”
“Where
they just toss you into space and let you die?”
Jim
Two nodded. “That the one.”
“Lord.”
Jim stood up to stretch, flushing the toilet reflexively. “Guess it’s better to
be on death row than destined for Prison Pluto.”
“This
whole ship is death row, Jim.”
The
Dungeon is a squalid ship where
anything that can happen between man and man happens without second thought. Every
non-extinct prison gang to ever come into being in American, Venetian, Martian,
or moon prisons exists on the Dungeon,
among its almost 4,000 prisoners. Gangs unique to the ship are found onboard,
molded by the peculiarities of the only self-contained prison flying through
space at tens of thousands of miles per hour (unless one wishes to argue
planets and moons are, themselves, prisons). Legendary and still thriving
prison gangs roam the Dungeon, like ultraviolent
MS-13, the Salvadoran, Honduran, Guatemalan, and Nicaraguan gang known for
their cruelty and inhuman violence, formed as a self defense mechanism against
Mexican gangs; the Marxist, racist “anti-racist” Black Guerilla Family, known
for its so-called revolutionary motives shrouded by death oaths, formed from
anti-government, anti-white sentiment; the incredibly well connected and strict
Mexican Mafia, with its ruthless hand in the goings on of every prison in the
solar system, formed as a means of protection against other gangs; the
adamantly racist Aryan Brotherhood, with its Blood In—Blood Out policies, and
unrestrained berserk violence, formed in hate-fueled response to the Black
Guerilla Family.
There
is new, fresh blood in the prison plethora of organized crime. Unfamiliar to
residents and prisoners of Earth, and perhaps unknown to residents and
prisoners of Mars, is one of the newest gangs to jolt into creation in the
solar prisons system. Rising quick to power among Venus Prisons 1, 2, and 3,
and practically dominating the Io Prison Systems, they call themselves Predators,
a name perhaps most fitting for their class, the most violently hated of all
prisoners, by all prisoners, the
pedophiles, the sex offenders who rape and murder the youth of the world, the
ones who take by force the innocence and purity of children and replace it with
venom and a wound unable to be undone. For eons the child killers and rapists
found themselves the lowest of the low, the bottom rung of prison society.
Hated by all, forever in danger, the killers of the young have always been the
most targeted convicts in every prison, persistent victims of assault, often
murder. By the late twenty second century, with prison overcrowding surpassing
acceptable numbers, and ultraviolence at an all-time high, special prisons were
built to house the predators of children. Considered even by prison guards to
be below their hate, Venus and Io, said to be the least pleasant places in the
inner solar system, were housed with special sex offender prisons, with entire
divisions segregated for the convicts who made children their victims. Like all
prison gangs before them, the Predators formed as protection against other
gangs. With prisons to call their own, their power climbed like fire to the
highest point of space.
The
Predators hold almost as much power as the Aryan Brotherhood, have a larger
membership than the Black Guerilla Family, and exact a cruelty harsher than
MS-13. The Dungeon is a temporary
home to prisoners of all gangs. And on its present voyage, it houses an
extraordinary number of the Predators gang.
Jim
grasps the tree-trunk dick of Jim Two and tugs it in synch with the rhythm of
his pelvis, a tug for each thrust, slowing his movements now to stretch out the
pre-orgasm as the muscles tense in both men, preparing for the peak of pleasure.
Jim’s lips slobber across Jim Two’s back, wettening the man’s Black Guerilla
Family tattoo on his right shoulder, a dragon encircling the Martian prison.
Jim Two reaches his arm back behind Jim’s shaved head, down his neck, rubs the
back of his shoulders, where the man’s Iron Eagle Swastika tattoo sits proudly.
A
piercing clang rings out from the hall, beyond the cell door. Commander Greg is
close. His metal stick has struck the Jims’ tunnel. Already hearts are pounding
up and down the hallway, and prisoners stand from their beds, preparing to be
herded to breakfast. The Jims hush themselves as orgasm creeps up, with Jim’s
hand placed firmly over Jim Two’s mouth, to muffle the grunts both know he will
emit at the final moment. Another clang, louder this time. Greg is closer. They
can hear his voice. He says something to a guard, the guard laughs. Footsteps
become audible.
Whispering
now, “Almost! (heave!) (tug!) there! (heave!) (tug!)” Jim pulls on the wet dick
one last time. Both men erupt like geysers unplugged for the first time in
millennia, Jim into the black hole of Jim Two’s sphincter, Jim Two with a
fountain of the unborn into the bedsheets beneath him. His arms and legs quake
in dramatic tremors, uncontrollable, unstoppable. A post-sexual groan erupts
from Jim Two’s mouth, muffled by Jim’s palm, stretched into feverous pitch by
Jim’s lips slipping up and down Jim Two’s neck. They are in heaven for one
brief fraction of the day, and there they float in holy baths of light and
love, where the Dungeon fades into
foggy nothing.
A
third clang! Commander Xgay Greg is right outside the door. The men fall from
heaven and throw themselves into their orange jumpsuits, Jim Two throwing a
pillow over his fresh bed stains. They stand at attention, legs shaky and faces
wet with sweat.
The
cell door flies open, Xgay Greg is standing within view, scolding a guard for
letting his facial hair grow beyond the admissible half millimeter. He briefly eyes the Jims, then looks down the
tunnel to the opened cells.
“Breakfast,
you muck-fuckers!” roars the commander. “Out and in line!”
The
prisoners evacuate their cells, swarming into a quick tunnel-length line in the
hallway, segregated by race. The commander walks toward the far end of the hall
to inspect the other tunnels on the deck. The Jims cover their slowly drooping
erections with their hands, Jim Two clenching his anus to keep the seed of his
white lover inside him until he can use the bathroom.
Everyone
is looking forward to breakfast.
II.
“What
you in for?” asked Jim, getting used to the tiny room aboard the Dungeon. He had heard it would be a
tight fit, but this hardly seemed legal. He climbed onto the top bunk and let
his feet hang off the side.
“Rape
and a fire. And a knife fight on Mars. You?”
“Same,
without the fire. And no knife fight. Not that I haven’t killed with a knife
once or twice. But no, just the rape’s why I’m here.”
“Tell
me about yours.”
The
Jims conversed at depth about their rapes, with great and explicit detail as
only rapists can, with words and ideas that would make regular chaps sick to hear.
Let it be known that no detail was left unsaid by the men, and it is for this
reason they came to find that they had raped the same girl, barely a year
apart. They found some sick pleasure at this, and pondered the dizzying statistical
unlikelihood of such a sequence of events having brought them together.
“What
do you suppose allowed the stars to align just right?” said Jim. “Maybe us
meeting was fate.”
“Fate’s
broad paw swipes the most unassuming among us,” Jim Two answered. “Good to know
you, Jim.”
During
his month aboard the Dungeon before the
arrival of new cellmate Jim, Jim Two had made the association of a number of
fellow black inmates, all belonging to the notorious Black Guerilla Family, an
ancient gang dating back, like most important prison gangs, to San Quentin
State Prison on Earth. Coming aboard the Dungeon
is like stepping into the bottom ring of Hell, most say, and no man is safe
from the predatory jaws of gangs and individuals alike, all salivating for a
target, a tool, a fuck, an enemy. It is for reasons of protection, strength,
and validation of self-worth among the beasts that prisoners join gangs. One is
safest not alone, but as part of the pack. Fear and the desire to belong drive
men to the gang life. Jim Two was no different than other men aboard the Dungeon. His muscular build and menacing
glare made him a formidable ally for the Black Guerilla Family.
“Kill
the biggest, whitest motherfucker you can get your hands on,” ordered a man
named Pento Brensch, leader of the Black Guerilla Family on the Dungeon. “You a big boy, Jim the Second.
We gonna call you Slimy Jim. You gut us a big white pig, Slimy Jim, and you get
your dragon. Once you in, you in for life, brother.”
Muscular
Jim from Ireland looked like Jim Two’s big white pig. His feet dangled off the
bunk like easy meat. One quick pull and the Irishman is on the ground, throw a
knee into his back, bash his head into the floor until he’s unconscious, and
cut the neck with the valve from the toilet. Quick and easy. But no, thought
Jim Two. Wait til the boy is asleep. No resistance.
The
Jims talked through the night, with secret saucy thoughts far away from what
their words hinted. Ten o’clock thundered by, announced by sirens and flashing
lights in the halls, as the cell doors closed electronically. The sickening
yellow bulb in the cell went out. Waiting for his time to strike, Jim Two fell
asleep, missing his only chance, while Jim sat awake, easing into the first black
night of his many-year long trip aboard the infamous Dungeon.
In
the mess hall Commander Xgay Greg takes the podium to address his prisoners.
“Morning to all, and before we eat, a prayer.”
The
sound of digitally simulated organ pipes chugging out holy notes tears through
speakers in the gigantic room. Members of the Mexican Mafia bow their heads,
reminded of the Catholic masses of their childhoods, and a few Predators,
having once been priests themselves, are respectful of the music, silently
lamenting their easier days.
The
commander is unaware of the organ’s association with the Catholic Church, his
least favorite sect of Christianity. To him it is nothing more than simple holy
music for one to think about Jesus to. In his mind, the notes are the voices of
angels, where the digital imperfections in sound reproduction are merely a
representation of angelic sounds that cannot be perfectly heard outside of
heaven. He grins all the way to the final notes.
“After
breakfast, we have,” the commander holds an agenda in front of him, swipes
through a page or two, and blinks, “seven executions lined up. Good ones. It’s
already that time again. Those of you who know the condemned are welcome to
observe. Those of you known to be in gangs with the condemned are required to observe. Anyone curious to
see some death, and I know plenty are,” the commander laughs at this, “are
welcome to observe. You’ll have an hour after breakfast to shower and work
before executions commence. Now eat!”
Thousands
of sloppy mouths are shoveled full of liquid grapes and vegetable paste, wetted
by green mystery juice and ice cubes. Conversations pitter patter through the
tables. Jim sits with the Aryan Brotherhood, segregated from the rest of the
room, and Jim Two sits with the Black Guerilla Family, also segregated. They are
across the mess hall, out of sight. They do not make eye contact outside of
their cell. If anyone knew…
“Commander!”
spurts a young prison guard running up beside the ship leader. “I mean,
Warden!”
“I’m
both, son,” says Xgay Greg, his grin now a smirk. “What is it?”
“Rumors
abound about the Predators plotting treachery ‘round execution o’clock, sir!”
“Predators,
eh?” The commander checks the agenda again. He loses his grin, mumbles
something to himself, eyes the prisoners, and reads on. “Sure enough. One of our
condemned seem to be of the Predators, today. Sounds about right. Tell your men
to expect something in, oh,” he looks at his watches, one on each wrist, “a
little while. Before the end of breakfast. We’ll have a scene. I’ll be on the
bridge.” The commander-warden spins around like a perfect ballerina and marches
out of the mess hall. His breakfast awaits.
The
young prison guard alerts his subordinates there will be trouble.
His
second day on the prison ship, Jim was assaulted in the recreation compartment,
slashed thrice by a glass shard at the hands of a Mexican. He fought back,
knocking his assailant’s front teeth out of his mouth, and breaking his nose.
Jim’s stab-wounds required a two-night stay in the clinic, which he thought to
be a bad start to his time on the prison ship.
Jim’s
clinic stay proved inconvenient for Jim Two’s planned murder of the Irishman. Slimy
Jim passed feeble white men every day, each looking to be an easy kill if he
wished it, but not impressive enough to put him in favor of the Black Guerilla
Family. Prison guards made acceptable targets, sure, being the prime enemy of
the Family, aside from whites, but on the Dungeon,
the guards are invincible. Armor, helmets, rifles, blades. Unkillable. Jim Two
waited eagerly for his cell mate’s return.
Upon
his release from the ship’s clinic, Irish Jim was approached by three skinheads with tattooed faces,
swastikas on their knuckles, on their necks, cryptic runes and strange symbols
adorning their forearms.
“Jim
Roadsink,” boomed the largest one, an inch shorter than Jim, gray beard down to
his chest.
“You
got the Jim part right,” replied the Irishman. “What d’you fellas want?”
“We
come on good salutations. I’m Simpson, this is Flagg and Tortov. The spic who
put you in there,” pointing to the clinic doors, “the one you beat up, he’s a
member of Barrio Azteca. It’s a Mexican gang with a lot of muscle. He’s a sicario
for them. A hitman.”
Jim
silently marveled at Simpson’s well-spoken, academic air, at odds with his
grisly, Nazi woodsman appearance. Whatever this man said must hold some
importance, some truth, some kind of relevance to Jim’s stay in the Dungeon.
“So
I beat up the wrong guy, you’re sayin’?”
“I’m
saying Barrio Azteca will retaliate. Against you. This was a case of mistaken identity. You micks all look alike
to the spics. Micks and spics, the two don’t mix.”
“You
fellas aren’t in the Barrio Azteca, I take it.”
Flagg
shook his head, the swastika on his throat gleaming at Jim like a holocaust
waiting to happen. “Aryan Brotherhood,” growled Flagg, throwing his right arm
into a Nazi salute.
“Put
that away,” Simpson ordered, knocking Flagg’s arm down. “You’re a big guy, Jim.
A muscled log who looks like he can break a man in two if he wants. AB always
needs muscle. What are you in for?”
“Rape,
mostly.”
“That’s
it?” asked Tortov, raising his eyebrows, or rather, raising the place where his
eyebrows would have been had he not shaved them off to make room so the words
‘SIEG HEIL’ could be eternally branded onto him. “They don’t bring much rapists
aboard the Dungeon.”
“I
raped a burn victim and used her own tazer on her vagina, before breaking her
ribs.”
Tortov
and Flagg nodded approvingly at one another.
“We
like a violent man,” said Simpson. “Jim, you’re going to want protection.
You’re new to the ship, so you might be unaware of the prison climate. It’s a
rough place where lone wolves are devoured by the roaming packs. I’m sure you
can handle yourself, you look capable. But no man is strong enough to survive
alone, here. You want to stay alive, you either go into solitary, or you join
up with a gang. And the Aryan Brotherhood is the most powerful force on this
ship, after the guards.”
“Sounds
like I ought to join the guards, then.”
Tortov
and Flagg looked unamused, but Simpson let a smile escape his whiskery lips.
“See how that works out for you. If it’d been a member of the Mexican Mafia
you’d beaten up, we’d be having a different talk. La eMe and the AB have been
in alliance on and off for over three centuries. But the Barrio Azteca are a
nasty group of spics who offer nothing.
It’s a war when they’re involved. You want to survive this long haul to
Pluto, or whatever your destination, you’ll need to prove your loyalty to the
AB. No one else will save you.”
“The
way I hear it,” said Jim, “I might not want to make it to Pluto. I’d be better
off dead.”
“Your
choice, then.”
The
Aryan Brotherhood managed to befriend Jim, convincing him by a show of Barrio Azteca’s
cruelties toward ‘non-compliant’ prisoners later in the day, of gang-forced
coprophagia followed by a stabbing death, that he was, in fact, in danger.
“Kill a nigger or a faggot or a kyke or a guard,” said Simpson, in his closing
words to Jim. “You do that, you’re in the Brotherhood for life.”
Those
tentacles of fate or destiny grapple themselves onto curiosities in the
universe. And by now it’s evident that with peculiar intentions, those
tentacles held Jim and Jim Two in a strange ballet of danger.
The
massive window at the front of the ship’s bridge shows a panorama of black
voids, speckled with stars and the dust of space. Commander Greg reclines in
his velvet captain’s chair, with a grilled cheese sandwich in his hands. “Update,
Nav-control,” he requests.
“41.5
AU from the Sun, sir,” announces the pilot. “Six days from the orbit of Pluto,
sir. Current speed seventy-eight thousand kilometers per hour, sir.”
“Thank
you, navigator. Lieutenant!” the warden commander’s mouth is now full of bread
and melted cheese, “any news from the mess hall?”
A
chunky stone mountain of a man with tight fitting officer’s uniform inspects
the communications panel. “No, sir. Nothing. Shall I make a call?”
“No,
Lieutenant. No. Just, ahhh. Let’s keep this bird flying. Execution o’clock is
almost here.”
Breakfast
in the mess hall ends without incident. The prisoners are siphoned out of the
room according to gangs and affiliations, the guards not wanting pre-execution
violence to erupt so early in the morning. Prisoners in work-programs go to
their designated stations in the ship to melt ore, sort and repair clothing for
the prison population, wash dishes, clean the engine rooms, and endless tasks
assigned to prisoners deemed responsible, or looking to earn a little spending
money. Others hit the showers or return to their cells. Business aboard the Dungeon is open for the day.
Quick
as he can, Black Jim sneaks away from the pack, to the bathroom where he
unzips, unclenches his ass, letting the jizz of White Jim fall from his hole.
It’s smeared across his inner thighs, drips down the back of his legs, his
hands hurry to wipe it up with toilet paper. It’s still warm. He licks a finger
or two after he’s done, the taste is candied syrup, gliding down his throat as
smooth as breakfast.
Less than an hour later, alarms and sirens ring
through the halls and rooms and recreation compartments of the ship, the
Commander’s voice booms over the intercom, announcing Execution o’clock is
approaching. All interested and required parties are to report to Execution
Theater, deck 12, segregated by race and gang affiliation.
The
amphitheater fills with curious prisoners, and whole gangs affiliated with the
condemned. The Aryan Brotherhood and the Black Guerilla Family are among the
gangs present, the Predators and the Mexican Mafia are the others. All gangs
are separated by many rows and aisles, all seated in different areas of the
theater closely monitored by armed guards. The house lights go dark, leaving
just the front area lit for the executions. Jim’s heart throbs in yearning for
Jim Two’s embrace, for he associates darkness with the comforting arms and
delicate kisses of his cellmate. Jim Two is in the midst of a conversation
about Totalitarian Democracy when the lights go down, but he soon is lost in
thought about his lover.
Commander
Xgay Greg takes the stage, as seven condemned prisoners are herded in behind
him, black hoods covering their heads and faces.
“Full
house, almost!” the commander says, to start the show. “So many in attendance!
Must be a thousand of you out there! Good, good. Great! Folks, this is my
favorite time of the month—Execution Day. Here behind me are seven criminals,
many are known to you. They will be identified as their turn to die comes up.”
The commander steps aside. The first prisoner, a man on the far right, is
brought forward. The hood is removed to reveal a disheveled oriental man
showing the signs of guard brutality on his starved cheeks.
“Komo
Yitutsi,” announces the commander, not hiding the childish excitement in his
voice. “Komo Yitutsi was found guilty of fraud, bestiality, racketeering, and
identity theft in Florida, in 2288. After serving six years he was released,
and almost immediately robbed a jewelry dealer to pay for his wife’s funeral.
This was an armed robbery, folks. That alone is enough to place him among us!
But when he killed the jewelry dealer and used his hand to unlock fingerprint
secured safes in the shop, that really put him into bad territory! In 2294,
Komo Yitutsi was convicted of murder, and all the other little things he did
wrong on that day. Komo has no gang allegiance. By the honorable Judge Jonjon
Longojuwan, Mr. Yitutsi’s crime was deemed punishable by firing squad.
Gentlemen, take your marks.”
A
line of six gunmen walk onto the stage, and Komo Yitutsi is placed against a
cement wall that’s rolled up behind him. The gunmen take aim.
“Final
words have been granted to Mr. Yitutsi,” says the commander. “Any last words?”
Komo
Yitutsi says nothing, he closes his eyes, and breathes his final breath. The
gunmen fire, all at once, the blasts echoing loudly through the amphitheater,
seeming to draw out to forever. Komo slumps to the floor, blood dribbling from
his clothes, the cement wall behind him splattered red. Some of the prisoners
in the audience laugh, others applaud.
“Fantastic!”
shouts the commander.
The
executed man is removed from the stage, and the next one is brought forward,
his mask removed to show a black man with a dragon tattoo on one cheek.
The
commander squints at his card, tilts his head, looks the prisoner up and down.
He walks to him, whispers something in his ear while pointing at the card, the
prisoner whispers back, and the commander returns to his position at the far
left of the stage. “This is Gurg-oo-ma-ta-mak Rang-shwin-sun. Did I get that
right?”
The
prisoner nods.
“Gurgoomatamak
Rangshwinsun,” the commander giggles. “What a fucked up name,” he whispers.
“This man was convicted of mass murder in 2290, which he committed ten years
earlier. Leading the Martian police on a decade-long chase seems like an
impossible thing, but Mr. Rang here did it. And boy were they upset when they
caught him! Twenty two people, he killed! Then a cop! After serving twelve
years behind bars, our dear friend here meets his maker, our Lord Jesus Christ,
and God the Father. Gurgoomatamak is a member of the Black Guerilla Family,
holding a high position of power within the gang. All you negroid brothers out
there wave to this brave leader! Dammit, I said wave. Wave at him, or all the
blacks onboard go hungry for a week.”
The
Black Guerilla Family waves and hollers at Gurgoomatamak, and respectful words
of compassion and praise are shouted, confirming his place in gang lore as a
figure of great merit.
“With
such crimes to his name,” continues the commander, “and countless others
unreported, it is no surprise the honorable people of the Lintok Justice Center
in Texas sentenced Mr. Rang to death in the Phlegethon Cage.”
Gasps
are heard in the audience. Light chatter ripples through the amphitheater, the
acoustics of the place amplifying voices of discomfort. Jim hopes Jim Two is
not too upset at seeing a leader of his gang approach his demise. “We could
have done worse to the nigger if they’d let us,” says a skinny, young soldier
of the Aryan Brotherhood. Some of the brothers laugh, but Jim looks on with no
expression. “A’least we get to watch him squirm,” one of them says.
“Execution
orders give no allowance for final words,”
says the commander. “The prisoner is to be mute until execution.”
Gurgoomatamak stares forward without
betraying his emotions. A large gray contraption is pulled to the stage, and
the prisoner is forced inside. His hands and feet are locked into small metallic
braces, his jaw is propped open, his eyes are pried open, and a cylinder
descends from above, stopping inches above his open mouth. A long tube is
attached to the top of the cylinder, which
goes off stage, out of sight. Gurgoomatamak’s body is visible to
everyone, and the crowd is hushed by the elaborate machine taking up a large
portion of the stage.
“Whenever you’re ready,” says the
commander to the executioner, who is standing to the side of the stage.
The executioner pulls a lever, and a
mechanical roar rumbles from somewhere below the amphitheater. The metal braces
holding the prisoner’s hands and feet glow with searing heat, burning his
appendages, and he is unable to wiggle free, despite the effort he musters. His
screams shake in piercing oscillation while some in the audience cover their
ears or close their eyes. After a minute of extreme burning at his hands and
feet, the cylinder placed above his screaming mouth releases an orange deluge
of molten steel, completely liquefied, into his mouth, melting through his
tongue, his throat, the flesh of his face. He screams until his vocal cords are
nothing but ashes of tissue mixed with liquid steel. The metal courses through
his body, pouring from his nose, his ears, invading his veins, his lungs, and
soon, his heart. He fights with hopeless struggle, until his body is a lifeless
husk burned to its core. The smell of burned flesh fills the auditorium, and
some prisoners vomit into the aisles, others look on with fixation and horror.
In minutes, the machine quits. A
bubbling ooze of drying, cooling metal pours from the corpse within the
contraption, his features disfigured, singed, and melted into gruesome
nightmarish shapes. The machine is rolled off stage with the body still inside.
The audience is quiet for a moment, until two in the Aryan Brotherhood clap
their hands in mockery.
“God, look down on him in Hell, and
scorn him for eternity,” says the commander, unfazed by the scene. “Alright.
Let’s see who we’ve got next!”
Jim tried not to let the pain in his
abdomen show as he entered his tiny cell for the first time in two days. He thought
of Jim Two as an inspiring guy, and didn’t wish to appear weak in front of him.
The two nodded salutations to one another, their eyes meeting briefly with all
outward appearances of friendship. But behind those eyes lied dormant
volcanoes, eager to erupt with violence. A violence neither desired, but that neither
could repress if they were to survive. Here was Slimy Jim’s white pig to be
gutted and presented as a token for his entrance to the Black Guerilla Family.
Here was Jim’s unsuspecting negro, his sure way into the Aryan Brotherhood. The
cellmates eyed one another with no show of hostility.
“How’s the wound?” asked Jim Two,
lying on the bottom bunk, wearing only his underwear.
Jim considered, then, the advantage
in showing his pain. To reveal his hurting to his cellmate might cause Jim Two
to let his guard down, thinking Jim to be unthreatening. But it would make Jim
appear weak. What if Jim Two is planning something of his own? Jim worried for
a moment, deciding finally to try his hand at deception through honesty.
“About as good as three gut-cuts can
be, you know?” was his answer.
Snickering, Jim Two nodded and sat
up. Here’s the white pig. My pass, my chance, my ticket into the protective bond
of the Family. And look at him, so vulnerable in his agony. Snuffing him’ll be
easy, fast. He watched as Jim moved slow across the cell, struggling to climb
to the top bunk. At his cellmate’s struggle and apparent pain, a pain he seemed
to try to hold back, he saw for a second not a target, but a whimpering fool.
With such weakness emanating from that muscular physique, Jim Two found himself
in an uncommon state of sympathy. I
can’t do this. I can’t murder him, not while he’s down. There’s no honor in
that.
He thinks me helpless and unthreatening,
thought Jim, grimacing as he pulled himself to the top bed. Ought to be
dropping his guard. Easy target.
“Take my bed,” offered Jim Two,
standing. “You’ll hurt yourself. Cuts will open up, blood and gore will get all
over me. I don’t want that.” He chuckled deeply, from the dark heart of tribal
Africa, from a primordial place.
Jim laughed too, and sat on the
bottom bunk. “Thanks. Shouldn't be in bad shape for too long, I hope. You’ll
get your bed back, don’t you worry. I promise I ain’t gonna stain it.”
III.
The third condemned prisoner is pulled
forward by two guards, and the black hood is removed from his head. A grim face
with scraggly beard and yellow teeth snarls to the crowd. Some think it’s a
good thing he’s restrained.
“Now this is a wild one,” explains
the commander. “None of you know him, I can guarantee that. Though you surely
are aware of him. Known only as Troubadour Vermilion, this loose cannon’s real
name is a mystery. Burned his fingerprints off decades ago. Grew up working the
mines of Venus, until ol’ Troubadour moved to Titan where he quickly got to work
flying supply rigs around Saturn. In the 70’s, Mr. Vermilion got into smuggling
pussyfist around Saturn’s moons, and put together his own crime ring, which
turned fast to a little piracy. Some of you surely remember the legends of the
A-Ring Bandit. That’s our boy right here, leader of the pirates who hid amongst
the propeller moonlets in the A-ring of Saturn, then attacked entire convoys to
the moons, raping and pillaging and plundering any ship they got their hands
on. Lots of death and destruction and stolen property in your wake,
Mr.Vermilion.” The commander looks at the condemned, who is still showing his
yellow teeth to the prison audience.
“Mr. Vermilion was apprehended in
late 2281 with the help of the Outer Solar System Investigation Bureau. OSSIB
put our man behind bars, but the cases went on for years before he was
convicted of thirty three counts of Federal ship theft, two hundred ninety
counts of kidnapping, one hundred twenty six counts of murder, four hundred and
one counts of rape, eleven counts of terrorism, and even two proven incidents
of forced incest. We got a perverse psychopath here, gentlemen. No gang
association, but notorious and powerful all the same. No last words are to be
given. Honorable Judge Gorton Linx and jury have sentenced Troubadour Vermilion
to death by forced suicide.”
A guillotine is rolled to the middle
of the stage, and Troubadour is placed in position, his head under the blade. A
cord hangs from the top, and pulling it will drop the blade, severing the
condemned’s head. But before the cord is placed within Troubadour’s reach, a
plank of wood is set beneath him, and his feet are nailed into it. He doesn’t
scream, he doesn’t flinch. When the hammering is over, he laughs, and spits
onto the stage. The purpose of the setup is torture, to push the condemned to
the breaking point, until they end their own life. Psychological admission of
defeat. But with his penchant for self abuse, and his psychopathic history, it
strikes most in the auditorium, the commander included, as a waste of time.
It’s unlikely he’ll kill himself to cut short the pain—he’ll kill himself only
to be in control. This method of execution was a mistake, a short-sighted fuck
up on the part of honorable Judge Gorton Linx and the jury of the Titan moon
colony.
After an hour of slow abuse the
maniacal smile of Troubadour Vermilion remains unchanged. Prisoners in the
audience look away from the cruelties inflicted on his body. A mirror has been
set up to show the man his own ravaged, mutilated body, but he is unaffected.
He laughs. By this point in the sequence, most prisoners condemned to this form
of execution have killed themselves. Long before this point, they have been
reduced to tears, begging the torture to stop, agonizing over their inability
to kill themselves, pleading with the executioners to do it for them. But
Vermilion lies on the bloodied plank, his lower torso torn to shreds, his feet
severed entirely, his ass penetrated by burning irons, his back whipped until
there’s no room for new lacerations. Through all this, the man smiles. The cord
that ends it all is in his left hand, and he hasn’t considered using it.
“Just kill the fuck!” shouts one of
the prisoners. Others appear to be in agreement, guards included.
The commander looks tired. “Folks,
this is a shit run of bad thinking. We all want the boy to suffer, I think we
can agree. Where’s the suffering up here? The only ones suffering is those of
us watching. Vermilion, son, you seem to be deriving a perverse pleasure from
this torture. It’s over. Men, step away and let the man die.”
Vermilion looks around with limited
mobility of his head, and sees he is in control. “If ya’ll are done, looks like
I’ll clock out. Glad you gave me this opportunity.”
“Fuck, I said no last words!” shouts
the commander, but his words are too late, as Vermilion pulls the cord and the
blade severs his still-smiling face, which drops into a pan lined with
absorbent cloth. Blood is everywhere.
“Get him out of here,” angry now,
impatient, ready to move forward. A long sigh, and a gaze upward. “God, make
sure the man is able to suffer when he burns in your everlasting Hellfire.
Amen.”
The next condemned prisoner is
unmasked and pulled forward, a Hispanic man with a broad mustache. The Mexican
Mafia cheers for him, shouting praises in Spanish before being silenced by
guards. The man on stage has an air of cockiness about him that can’t be
pinpointed to any expression.
“Fat man Juarez ‘Sun God’ Homanas,
everyone. Notorious assassin for the Mexican Mafia, joined the gang in Los
Angeles at nine years old. A true brown turd of a man!” Xgay Greg is enthralled
at his own choice words, he takes a sip of coffee. “Long history of running
heroin and pussyfist for the mafia, before his promotion to muscle and
assassin. Ending the long held tradition of outsourcing hits to the Aryan
Brotherhood, Juarez Homanas became one of the most feared men in the whole
crime underworld.”
The Black Guerilla Family loudly voices
their hate for the man, with mostly incoherent shouting, a few decipherable
words making it through the noise. “Fuck that spic sack of shit!” yells one.
The commander waves his hand and
continues. “Yes, yes, our fat friend was an avid murderer of members of the
Black Guerilla Family. Boasting of a bodycount of over a hundred kills, Senior
Homanas was convicted in 2286 of only twelve counts of murder, conspiracy to commit
murder, and racketeering. But once he was in prison, our saucy little prince
was knee deep in the dead! Eighteen hits behind bars! And a-uh, a guard, in
fact. Juarez Homanas has been sentenced by the good Judge Nancy Bracketts to
die in the classic Chy Simulation, a traditional execution for the most
abhorrent members of the Mexican Mafia. I always love this one.”
“That spic did more for the
Brotherhood than most of us can rightfully claim,” says Simpson, sitting only a
few seats away from Jim. “Show respect, brothers.”
Jim is not concerned with the
about-to-die Mexican on stage, for his mind is occupied by Jim Two, as he
imagines the savory lips of his secret lover upon him. He reflects on the
nature of love, the nature of gang life, and how the two are radically
incompatible. Love is a personal expression of the self and of wholly personal
emotions toward another individual, completely at odds with the hive-mind
social structure of the gang. The life of one in the Aryan Brotherhood, as the
life of one in any other gang, Jim supposes, is about devotion to the
brotherhood, with every action and thought and decision made for the good of
the gang, for the propagation of the family. As a soldier, one is not free to
be an individual, but to slave away for the whole, to cooperate in a hierarchy
of violence, degradation, and greed. In their passionate embraces behind closed
cell doors, the Jims are free to be individuals, to be humans, not gang
members, to be feeling, thinking, giving, yearning beings of love and fire,
carried on winds of desire, fading from the gang unit into an obscurity of shared
experience, two parts of a more satisfying whole. They complete one another
with a selfless devotion that no gang can replicate. The racial segregation of
their collectives beyond that door does not exist within their cell. Black and
white are but words, their facades of hatred are extinguished with the spit of each
other’s mouths, the discharge of each other’s penises.
Juarez ‘Sun God’ Homanas ascends a
staircase to a lousily crafted stage prop balcony, three stories high. It is on
this set piece he will be executed in a mockup of the legendary death of one of
the Mexican Mafia’s first and greatest bosses, Rodolfo Cadena. The execution
method is exclusively for members of the Mexican Mafia, reserved for those who
led exceptionally violent lives. Once he’s at the top, Juarez is given a moment
to speak his last words, a torrent of Spanish that is understood by none but
the Mexican Mafia, maybe a few of the more educated Predators. When he is done,
an incalculable number of small knives fly from all sides, piercing his flesh,
cutting him enough to wound, not enough to kill. The knives are driven by
mechanical arms from the ceiling, jabbing him over and over again into inches
of his life. He is curled into a bleeding ball, and a lead pipe pummels his
spine. The knives stop all at once, and the balcony tilts, dropping Juarez to
the stage, three stories down. He hits with a thud, and the knives swoop down
to carry out the final stabbings of his life. He is dragged away in a stream of
blood, alongside the stage prop balcony. Members of the Black Guerilla Family
yell in celebration at such a violent end, laughing, clapping, and cursing the
man as his body disappears from sight.
Alarms echoed through the hall
outside the Jims’ cell. Flashing lights and screaming sirens announced ten o’clock
PM, bringing prisoners back to their cells, before the doors along the halls of
every deck closed for the night. On the bottom bunk, Jim kept one hand at his
wounds, rubbing them softly to soothe the ache, another hand slipped into his
sock, where a shank given him by Simpson sat snug against his shin. Jim Two sat
on the toilet, wiping his ass, his fingers delicately removing something from
his ass that wasn’t shit. A shit-covered shank, three inches long, enough to
cut a throat. He rinsed it in shit-brown water, making sure not to let it chime
against the molded toilet bowl. An imaginary clock ticked slowly to Lights Out.
Flush. Zipping his orange jumpsuit, Jim Two stood and climbed onto the top
bunk. The yellow bulb lighting the room would soon blink out. The Jims said
nothing as they hoped the other dozed off to sleep, each contemplating their attacks
under steady breaths.
The room fell dark, lit barely by
the glow of stars from the four-inch wide window on the wall. Patiently, the
Jims waited for the snoring of the other to signal them to action, as minute
hands ticked by on unseen clocks. Both hearts paced faster and faster, in
opposition to expected late night behavior. Jim Two gripped his shank tight,
inhaled quickly through the nose in a nervous tremble, which Jim mistook for a
snore, leading him to believe the time to strike had arrived. As Jim Two rolled
out of bed, Jim shoved his shank through the cushion of the top bunk, emerging from
the top in feathers just as Jim Two landed on the floor. Lunging at Jim, who
was pulling his shank from the cushion, the African made desperate swipes for
the throat of his cellmate, his short blade nicking the skin of the Irishman’s
arm. Once Jim’s knife was free, he stabbed at his assailant, bringing the two
into a death tango under dim starlight. Swing, stab, lunge, neither landing a
hit, sparks flew from the wall with each missed attack. Soon, both shanks were
ruined, dulled by cement surfaces, and the Jims toppled in a muscular avalanche
to the floor. It might have been the starlight giving the eternal illusion of
night, or the musky aroma of adrenaline pouring from both prisoners, or the
cold contrast of the hard floor with the warm, soft-but-firm bodies grappled in
a warrior’s knot. Whatever the cause, something changed in the room. Violent
aggression seemed to transform to a more primal sort of energy, an energy
created as soon as the men became tangled in one another’s arms, their faces in
close proximity as they wrestled alone in the dark. Wordless and breathless,
their lips touched, their tongues found each other, and their violent hands
became tender transmitters of affection.
The Jims rolled on the cold floor
for hours, exchanging no words, just touch, just the delicate communication of
physical sensation. Their shanks lied broken on the ground, soon covered by
orange jumpsuits as the heavily breathing men stripped, bringing flesh against
flesh, before falling into a very physical scene much like the one that opens
this tale. The cruel demands of gang warfare were no match for the pounding,
fiery hearts of the Jims.
The fifth condemned prisoner stands
unmasked at the front of the stage, his shaved head covered in swastikas and
other Nazi designs that no one outside prison will ever see. His cheeks are
sunken in, his body is frail.
“The beauty of a prison ship is that
it’s so far away from all civilizations that visits by family and loved ones is
impossible.” Xgay Greg’s mood seems to be getting better as Execution Theater
goes on. “No conjugal visits, no children, no parents, no friends to see you or
fuck you. Some of you still send messages to your loved ones. But Jibb Oportnik
here never does. He’s never communicated with anyone outside of this prison for
his nine years aboard. And he never will.”
The man is stoic at the center of
the stage, eager to get his punishment over with.
“See if you can guess Jibb’s gang
affiliation, folks. Haha! Jibb came onto the Dungeon with a comparably non-violent rap sheet. Less impressive
than the rest of you. Participation in a gang rape, and a bank robbery. Not
enough to condemn him to death, you’re thinking. Jibb here is someone I’m gonna
make an example of.” The commander’s voice is now unsteady and hateful. “The
crime that brings him to this stage today was committed on this very ship,
three weeks ago. Jibb, see, is a perpetrator of homosexuality on this holy
spacecraft, my beloved prison ship. Tainting our vessel with his abomination
behavior. There’s no telling how long Jibb here was buttfucking on my ship
before I found out, but it doesn’t matter. I immediately threw him and his
accomplices into my rectification program. You know the things we do, there.
But the program didn’t fix Jibb. Two days ago he was caught in the act, after
we thought the program had spit him out a new man. You can’t fix some people.
Some are doomed to repeat their sins against God, and must be punished.
“I don’t need to remind any of you
that the Aryan Brotherhood has its own strict disciplinary action against
homosexuality. Fierce and quick though it may be, let it be known
Commander-Warden Xgay Greg’s action is more severe. And more memorable.”
The skinhead is stripped naked on stage, and
surrounded by guards, one holding a flamethrower. He is knocked to the floor,
then repeatedly hit with metal rods. Four guards kneel around him, each
grabbing a limb, holding him to the floor, while a guard in purple armor stands
over him, a power drill in his hands. He kneels beside Jibb’s genitals and
drills into his penis, sending convulsions through the naked body, and screams
into the open air. Soon the penis is lying in a bloody mess on the floor, and a
burning rod of steel is forced into Jibb’s anus. Members of the Aryan
Brotherhood, even with their disdain for homosexuality, cannot watch the things
inflicted upon their brother.
“You look into God’s eyes,” shouts
the commander, “when you fall to Hell. Look up and reach for him while he
smites you, you rotten bastard, you flaming faggot! And know that you cannot be
loved.”
Jibb Oportnik squirms in anguish on
the floor, the steel rod still inside him. The remaining guards step forward
and stomp him, crushing his ribs, his arms, his skull. The guard who up til now
has been standing still with a flamethrower strapped to him, approaches the
suffering man, the guards scramble, and a stream of fire engulfs Jibb. He is
dead in seconds, and is doused in water to extinguish the flames. As he is
hauled off stage, the sound of burning flesh is still audible as the steel rod
sizzles in his dead bottom.
The Jims are silent while the rest
of the amphitheater breaks into cheering and applause. Some give a standing
ovation to the act just witnessed. Now, more than ever, the Jims ache for each
other.
“Sadly, it looks like we’re down to
our last two. And these boys have been saved for last for a reason.” The
commander orders the last two condemned prisoners forward, where they are
unhooded to reveal scrawny faces, both showing the bruises of torture, and the
starving eyes of neglect. “The one on the left is Henderson Lowcut, convicted
in 2299 of luring a fourteen year old girl and her nine year old sister to the
house where he held them captive for six weeks, raping and torturing them
daily, before drowning them in the bathtub. The one on the right is Gyt Dorfo,
convicted in 2293 of holding an entire family hostage during a home invasion,
and raping every single person in that family. The father, the pregnant mother,
the eleven year old son, the seventeen year old daughter. Then he killed them
slowly, one by one, saving the boy for last, who he strangled with a computer
cable. Unforgivable as these crimes are, these are not what put them on this
stage, today. Both were sentenced to death, but that punishment was scheduled
to take place on Pluto, not on my ship. These men decided to be guilty of
something else on my ship, like our last comrade. The sin of homosexuality. God
forgives murder, God forgives rape, God forgives theft, God even forgives
treason. But God will never forgive homosexuality. These Predators are the
accomplices of Jibb Oportnik I just mentioned. Neither could be fixed in the
rectification program. As Predator brothers, guilty of the same abomination,
they will die together!”
Before the commander can issue the
final order of execution against Henderson and Gyt, there is a rumble from the
lightless audience, a commotion among the Predators. Screams tear through the
room, shots are fired from nearby guards, and chaos is awakened.
“House lights! House lights!” shouts
the commander, peering into the seats.
White light showers the
amphitheater, illuminating a display of violence where the Predators gang is
located. They are in combat with the guards, three of whom are on the ground,
being stomped by prisoners. A few Predators are dropped by shots of a guard’s rifle,
but this guard is quickly stabbed in the neck by a Predator. Where these
weapons came from is anyone’s guess. The Predators pick up rifles from fallen
guards, and begin an all out firefight with the guards across the amphitheater.
The Mexican Mafia, the Black Guerilla Family, and the Aryan Brotherhood each
explode into chaotic violence with their guards.
“Tame them!” the commander demands
to no one in particular. He pulls a pistol from his belt and storms into the
seating area, followed by the guards on stage, who fire round after round
toward the Predators. The Predators outnumber the other groups in the
amphitheater, and have killed all the guards assigned to them. They have now a
dozen rifles among them, and fire relentlessly at other guards, even at other
prisoners. The riot has become a war. Jim abandons his fighting Aryan brothers
to look for Jim Two, dodging bullets and guards as he runs crouched behind rows
of seats. Jim Two has abandoned the Black Guerillas to find his lover, to fall
into his arms in the hellfire that engulfs them.
Nothing but gunshots and screaming are
heard in the amphitheater, the acoustics amplify the harshness of already
horrible sounds. Rapid firing, orders barked among the guards, hateful screams
from rival gangs, the sounds of aimless aggression are relentless. In orange
jumpsuits all the skinheads look so similar, all the guerillas look so alike.
It’s hard for either Jim to find the other, and calling by name is useless.
“Back in your corner, blacky!” yells
an already terrified guard when he spots Jim Two running toward the Aryan
Brotherhood corner. Jim Two can’t hear what he says, he keeps running, he sees
Jim, he yells, it’s no use, but wait! Jim has spotted him. Jim stands erect,
runs from the protection of the row of seats, and opens his arms to embrace Jim
Two. Jim Two opens his arms like a mirror image, and bang! Bang! Bang! He
collapses to the filthy amphitheater floor. Jim cries out, his words lost among
gunshots and shouts of war, and he drops to the side of his cell mate, tears
already wetting his face, grabs his coal-black hand and buries his head in the
muscular chest of his soulmate.
“Away from him!” shouts the guard,
fearing the union of Aryan Brotherhood and the Black Guerilla Family at the
spectacle in front of his gun. “I said away!” Commander Xgay Greg approaches,
his gun raised as a shield.
Jim cannot hear the guard. He holds
Jim Two’s hand close to his heart, crying into the bloody wounds of his lover.
“The fuck is this?” shouts the
commander, observing the Jims in their distress.
“Sir?” the guard can’t hear him.
“The fuck is this! I said!”
“Interracial… cross gang something
or other, sir. I don’t know!”
“Almost looks like faggotry!” the
commander shouts, ducking to avoid stray bullets from the war raging behind
them. The guard ducks with him.
Jim looks into Jim Two’s face, his
eyes open, staring straight above, glazed with death. Jim’s cries are spastic,
frantic, desperate. He looks around for help, for a saving hand, for anything.
There is only chaos. He plants his lips on the lips of Jim Two, a final kiss
that crosses the barriers of race, the borders of sexuality. It is a kiss that
doesn’t kiss back, but confirms to the sobbing Irishman his soulmate’s life has
ended, and with it, their love.
“It is faggotry!” screams the commander, his wrath apparent in his
tone. “These faggots didn’t learn their lesson from Jibb?” The commander points
his gun at Jim and fires off a shot that sends the Irishman sprawling over the
African corpse. Xgay Greg crawls closer, sees Jim breathing, and fires two more
shots into his back. There is still sign of life. He fires until his gun is
empty, his face lights up with the blast of the barrel. When nothing more comes
from the gun, Xgay puts the gun back in its holster, and orders the guard fetch
the man with the flamethrower.
The Predators have been forced into
a corner, those of them without firearms are easy targets for the guards. The
Aryan Brotherhood and the Mexican Mafia have met somewhere in the middle of
section G, and are surrounded by the backup that has just arrived. The Black
Guerilla Family has killed all their guards, and are now armed, six rifles
among them. Riot control officers swarm the room.
The man with the flamethrower comes
to the commander’s side, asking for orders. “Torch those faggots,” says the
commander, pointing to the Jims.
Fire catches fast to their
jumpsuits, rages wild over their flesh, creating a pyre of purification the
commander watches delightedly. He can feel the heat, he wants to warm himself
in the warmth of the burning , godless perverts. Who they are is not important.
They will be identified later by their teeth, when this brief war subsides.
The commander and the two guards
disperse, returning their attentions to the war contained to the theater. It’s
getting quieter, peace is almost restored, only a few prisoners still fight.
Backup forces continue to flood the room.
The orange flame that consumed the
Jims has now reduced to a smoldering flicker of little fires. Ashes of human
flesh fall from bones seared black, no signs of orange jumpsuits remain. Two
lovers, at once like unchained tigers let loose in a cage of matches, have
burned together in the flames of defeat, after their love, so long contained to
that cage, screamed free into the world like the Phoenix. And so, too, like the
mighty Phoenix, might their love be reborn from the ashes of what came before.
Here smoke their remains, not simply the burned up parts of two human beings,
but boundless love, all its memories carried away in the smoke. The war comes
dramatically to a close in the amphitheater, all remaining prisoners
overpowered by an endless influx of guards. With every last ounce of strength both
sides fight, as the fire of the Phoenix soars invisibly around them, watching
and waiting for hearts that quietly beg to beat as one.
THE END.
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