The baseball bat connected with his kidneys the minute Jack entered the
room. The attack surprised him and he grunted as his knees buckled beneath
him. He reached out to the wall at his side to gain some support. He
avoided falling to the floor but he didn't turn around. He couldn't fight
back against the armed guards and, anyway, he didn't want to give them the
pleasure of seeing his face screwed up in pain. He heard the sound of the
footsteps receding as his captors left him alone, and then a loud clang as
they closed the heavy prison door behind them. He slid down the wall into
a more comfortable crouching position to nurse his injuries and look around
his cell.
'It's clean enough if lacking in home comforts' he mused. It would be his home for 4 weeks until the date of his trial and he had that long to infiltrate the group of three bombers thought to be guilty of the recent infamous campaign of terror. He would get his first chance in 30 minutes time when he'd been told that there was a one hour exercise period. He needed to get himself a high profile within the prison community and he needed to do it quickly. He had decided before he entered the prison that his best chance would be to pick a fight with a previously identified aggressive prisoner who had established a leadership role within the prison community. Jack had seen him fight and knew it wouldn't be straightforward. He was strong and much bigger than Jack but technically unimaginative and Jack thought it should be over fairly quickly. He didn't intend to start his undercover period with too many injuries. But then, he hadn't counted on his painful initiation at the hands of the prison guards. His undercover story had obviously been written very colourfully and they had decided that he should be taught a lesson in submission. To save himself the pain, he had wanted to submit but he knew he was being watched by other prisoners and that his reputation depended on his stoicism. The three guards had kicked him about a bit and then shown him the branding iron.
'Kiss my feet arsehole' the guard in charge had said and his colleague had walked up behind Jack and forced him to his knees with a hefty crack of his rifle on Jack's neck. He winced again and gingerly moved his head from side to side, assessing the lasting effects of the attack as he remembered what had happened next. He had looked up from his hands and knees position and replied quite simply, 'Fuck you'.
'No thanks arsehole' the guard replied. 'You know what happens in this prison arsehole? Mouthy prisoners like you get branded. Now you wouldn't want that would you?' He snarled menacingly. 'So you'd better change your little mind hadn't you? Kiss my fucking feet or I'll make you fucking scream'
Jack stood up, crossed his arms and stared back at him –'I don't think so 'he said simply. 'Do what you like' he added with a dismissive shrug. The number of prisoners watching the exchange had increased and they jostled for a better view through the top half of the window. Jack took his shirt off as he was ordered, his wife beater hiding the scars of his torture two years earlier. The guard put the brand, shaped with the prison symbol, into the fire. So – another tattoo – Jack mused, and he concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing to disguise his apprehension. He knew better than most how much this would hurt but he felt confident that he could handle it. He knew too that it could only help his reputation amongst the inmates and so accelerate his integration. The guard brought the brand up to Jack's face, so that he could feel its searing heat before it burnt into him. Beads of sweat formed on his face but he stared back stonily. He gasped noisily as the brand was brought down on the top of his left arm, his shallow breathing quickened and his face muscles revealed his fight against the pain, but he held the glare of the guard and saw in his eyes the frustration of failure. And so he had entered the prison community.
'It's clean enough if lacking in home comforts' he mused. It would be his home for 4 weeks until the date of his trial and he had that long to infiltrate the group of three bombers thought to be guilty of the recent infamous campaign of terror. He would get his first chance in 30 minutes time when he'd been told that there was a one hour exercise period. He needed to get himself a high profile within the prison community and he needed to do it quickly. He had decided before he entered the prison that his best chance would be to pick a fight with a previously identified aggressive prisoner who had established a leadership role within the prison community. Jack had seen him fight and knew it wouldn't be straightforward. He was strong and much bigger than Jack but technically unimaginative and Jack thought it should be over fairly quickly. He didn't intend to start his undercover period with too many injuries. But then, he hadn't counted on his painful initiation at the hands of the prison guards. His undercover story had obviously been written very colourfully and they had decided that he should be taught a lesson in submission. To save himself the pain, he had wanted to submit but he knew he was being watched by other prisoners and that his reputation depended on his stoicism. The three guards had kicked him about a bit and then shown him the branding iron.
'Kiss my feet arsehole' the guard in charge had said and his colleague had walked up behind Jack and forced him to his knees with a hefty crack of his rifle on Jack's neck. He winced again and gingerly moved his head from side to side, assessing the lasting effects of the attack as he remembered what had happened next. He had looked up from his hands and knees position and replied quite simply, 'Fuck you'.
'No thanks arsehole' the guard replied. 'You know what happens in this prison arsehole? Mouthy prisoners like you get branded. Now you wouldn't want that would you?' He snarled menacingly. 'So you'd better change your little mind hadn't you? Kiss my fucking feet or I'll make you fucking scream'
Jack stood up, crossed his arms and stared back at him –'I don't think so 'he said simply. 'Do what you like' he added with a dismissive shrug. The number of prisoners watching the exchange had increased and they jostled for a better view through the top half of the window. Jack took his shirt off as he was ordered, his wife beater hiding the scars of his torture two years earlier. The guard put the brand, shaped with the prison symbol, into the fire. So – another tattoo – Jack mused, and he concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing to disguise his apprehension. He knew better than most how much this would hurt but he felt confident that he could handle it. He knew too that it could only help his reputation amongst the inmates and so accelerate his integration. The guard brought the brand up to Jack's face, so that he could feel its searing heat before it burnt into him. Beads of sweat formed on his face but he stared back stonily. He gasped noisily as the brand was brought down on the top of his left arm, his shallow breathing quickened and his face muscles revealed his fight against the pain, but he held the glare of the guard and saw in his eyes the frustration of failure. And so he had entered the prison community.