That's my nickname here. I've been in the Joint now 22 years and I'm never getting out. See, I knocked off my old man. Of course the sonovabitch deserved it, always pounding on me and the dogs. And if I'd gotten rid of the body on day one, I'd have never been caught. But old Aggie was a big guy, about lbs, and it seemed an awful waste of good dog food. So I cooked up pieces of him for Buffy and Rex.
But he was still just taking up too much room in the fridge, so I figured what the hell and cooked up the rest of him in a big stew, with veges and stuff, even brought some in a Tupperware container to the church supper. And damned if it wasn't a big hit. Imagine, after all those years of living with that mean sonovabitch, I finally found a good side of Aggie. Yeah, well, I forgot about the bones, and when the garbage collectors found Aggie's skull, it was all over.
Make a long story short, here I am. It's a year-old black stone fortress that stands grim and stark in the middle of a rocky plain; so desolate all you hear is the howling of wind and occasionally wolves. It holds 'incorrigible' female offenders doing serious hard time.
If we were men, we'd be on a chain gang, and that would be better than what we do, which is nothing. We don't even make license plates. We have no rehab, no gym, no TV, no hope.
For entertainment we sulk. The walls are thick, the bulls are tough as nails, and nobody hears you when you cry. And the toughest one of them all was Guard Captain Xenia Krieger. Six stunning feet of sadistic Law Enforcement. Black hair, blue eyes and breasts as dangerous as the. Always the same story. All the new prisoners came in, took one look, and turned queer on the spot. But before long they found out she'd as soon pistol whip you as look at you.
Oh, alot of 'em got to have her all right, some time or other, but 'having' her meant being on your knees on the concrete floor of the guard station 'making her happy' two, maybe three times a night with the barrel of her pistol sticking in your ear. Doing her was okay they said I never had the pleasure , but waiting for the furkin' gunblast when she started getting off, that made you piss your pants. Use to be some of them said no, but they got solitary in 'the hole.
Pretty soon word got out that 'yes' was a safer answer. And at least so far, the gun had not gone off. Krieger ran the place like Attila the Hun, and when someone got out of line, they got roughed up pretty bad and then cuffed to a shower head for a long ice shower to wash the blood off.
And every so often for a lesser infraction, some poor bitch had to scrub down the mess hall. Every table and all four walls. And the floor and the ceiling. I know because whenever Krieger went on one of her punitive cleaning rampages I was involved. I had enough seniority to manage the cleaning inventory and had the key to the storage rooms. Since Krieger did a lot of punishing, we were a real clean prison.
I remember it was a Tuesday. Always reminded me of Aggie. I was sitting with my girls around table Nr. Our cells are all on the fourth tier and we stick together, like a family, watch each other's backs. And then they brought in the new one. Sort of reddish blond. Short, with a good build, like she worked out. That was a plus. We gave her the once-over and decided she was just a kid, and looked okay. As the oldest and sort of head of the 'family,' I made introductions, each one's name and rap.
We were all proud of the rap. Show'd we weren't pussies. She had a good handshake. Pleased to meet you. We call her "Spearchucker. Where did you find a spear? Battery and Triple Homicide. With a fake sword! Not fake at all. But it's a long story.
I'd like to hear about it some time. With her bare hands. Show her those famous hands, Pony. But there was a kind of turf war and she's the only one left. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. And actually, it was a mistake, although I suppose everyone says that. You see, I 'm a writer. Well, more like a journalist. I was writing about women's issues, especially poor women, women who walk the streets, and so forth. I got sort of out of my depth.
I found out a lot of the women in my neighborhood were being pimped by a cop. He had been roughing up some of his girls too, and there was nothing they could do. So some of the girls and I confronted him. We didn't have any real weapons, just some sticks and lead pipes and only planned to scare him a little, you know? You see, I don't kill. Just wanted to maybe break a kneecap or something to get him to back off.
But things sort of got out of hand. You see, it was on the roof of this building. A really tall building downtown, and he sort of fell off. By the time he hit the street he was basically beef stew. Doing that to a cop, even a dirty one, So, I got murder one. She was wearing what she always wore, a crisply-ironed guard's uniform one size too small. The buttons of the shirt were straining to hold those breasts in. The perfectly creased pants covered that tight butt and those long muscley legs like they were painted on, and we all wished we were the painter.
Only the shiny black boots were not regulation. We knew that because one or another of us had to shine them every day. The gun holster was also fine black leather.
She wore it high on her right hip, in front. It pointed down at that hot and dangerous part of her that ruled us all. She scanned the room with those eyes like blue laser beams.
Then she began to slow-march down one of the rows between the tables, tapping her leg with her nightstick. The two sets of handcuffs and her ring of keys jingled with each step. It was a sound we all dreaded. She stopped behind the Kid. You could have heard a pin drop. She looked down the back of the Kid's neck and her eyes sort of half closed.
Anyone else you'd have called them bedroom eyes, but with Krieger it was more like panther's eyes. Predatory, savage, and a little bored. Then she took one more step, to where Laska sat and said to the back of her head: She didn't need the gun in the ear.
She was into that 'servicing' thing.