HARD TIME
"Hey, Horton, you're getting a new roommate."
Mr. Horton looked up from the book he was reading-a lengthy biography of noted filmmaker Roman Polanski-to see Pete, the thin, young guard with the badly pockmarked face.
"Come again," Horton said.
Pete rolled his eyes impatiently and repeated, "You're getting a new roommate."
Horton placed the heavy tome on his bed and stood up, approaching the guard. "You're pulling my chain."
"Nope," Pete chuckled.
Horton reached the bars and stared intensely into the young guard's eyes. "I like it by myself. I've grown accustomed to the solitude."
Pete shrugged. He was grinning like a clown.
"Isn't there someone else you can stick him with?" Horton asked hopefully
Pete shook his head while absently twirling his baton.
"Who is he?" Horton inquired.
"Well," Pete said. "he ain't no Irving Dudkewicz, I'll tell you that much."
Horton backed up from the bars, a look of profound horror spreading across his round face.
"You lucked out with Irv, old man," Pete said, raising an eyebrow. "The only guy in the whole place who was a bigger wimp than you. Too bad he got paroled."
"I don't want a cellmate," Horton protested. "I want to speak to the warden."
"The warden," Pete huffed. "Good one."
"Please," Horton begged, running both hands through the grey fringe that encircled his bald dome. "I don't want one."
"Well see, this place ain't a friggin' hotel, Horton," Pete pointed out, still twirling his baton.
"Who is he?" Horton asked again. "Wh-when can-when is he arriving?"
Pete flashed a smile that was one part cheeriness and nine parts sadism. "Tomorrow," he said, stretching the first syllable out more than two seconds.
Horton sat back down on the lower mattress of the half-used bunk bed. All the colour had drained from his face.
"Looks like you're finally gonna get what you deserve, Mr. Bicycle Man," Pete said, shuddering with satisfaction. "You're gonna get a taste of what you made those boys do before we locked your ass away twenty years ago."
"You're going to install a Jello bath?" Horton muttered before he could stop himself.
A sneer of revulsion came across Pete's face. "You sicken me, Horton, you really do. You make me want to puke my guts up, you and all the pederasts like you. It's bad enough you're a rapist and a pedophile, but a murderer on top."
Horton placed his head in his hands and proceeded to weep. "That was an accident, why won't anyone believe me?"
"His name is Daryl," Pete said at last.
The inmate looked up at the guard, his eyes running from side to side as if he could size up his new cellmate going on a first name alone.
Pete snorted. "A piece of advice-I don't know why I'm telling you this because I'd just love to see you cross this dude-but, I wouldn't call him Daryl if I were you?"
Horton nodded his head enthusiastically. "Okay, good. Uh, what do I call him?"
Pete flashed more teeth than Horton had thought existed in a typical human mouth. "Most people call him 'the Gooch'."
Needless to say, Horton got no sleep whatsoever that night, not a wink. Then, in the cafeteria, he was unable to eat his breakfast, handing it over to Carl, the only person in the penitentiary to actually treat him with a shred of civility.
It was not until three o'clock that afternoon that Pete showed up with another guard and yelled, "Open cell D-37." A loud buzzer echoed in the cavernous cell block and a moment later, the bars slid aside.
"Hey there, Horton," Pete was grinning wildly again. "Excited to meet your new roommate?"
Horton got to his feet and puffed out his flabby chest. He had already rolled up the sleeves to his jumpsuit and had messed up his hair a bit. Best to present at least a semblance of toughness to the new guy.
"In ya go, Daryl," Pete stressed the name, and Horton could swear he heard a low, rumbling growl from around the corner.
And then he saw him.
The Gooch was the single largest man Horton had ever laid eyes upon. Not only was he an easy seven-foot nine, but he had to weigh close to six hundred pounds as well. He figured the man's gut alone weighed more than Horton himself.
His head was topped by an unruly mop of greasy black hair and stubble dotted his fat, flabby face. A tattoo of a dead dog decorated his left cheek. The right was marked by a jagged scar.
Horton was positive he had crapped himself, but that was the least of his worries. This Gooch character was as imposing as a grizzly bear, and probably a whole lot more mean-spirited. Horton figured he would be lucky to make it to lights-out, never mind live through the night.
"H-hi," Horton tried to greet the giant.
The Gooch ignored the lesser man and threw his things onto the top bunk, lumbering past Horton as if the man did not even exist.
"You're screwed, Bicycle Man," Pete whispered. "I already told him you like to molest and murder little boys."
If Horton hadn't shit himself earlier, he certainly did just then. There was no one lower down on the prison food chain than a child molester.
"Ta-ta," Pete snickered, then called for the gate to close. It did, leaving Horton alone with The Gooch.
The following silence was awkward at best, terrifying at worst. Horton could hear Daryl's breathing from clear across the cell, like the purring of some kind of great jungle cat.
"So uh, Gooch, is it? My name is-"
Horton cut himself off when, to his horror, the giant placed his hand inside his jumpsuit, removed his organ, and proceeded to urinate on the bottom bunk. Horton was shocked, not only at the action, but the immensity of the man's piece.
"Wh-heh-what are you doing?" Horton asked.
"Marking my territory," the Gooch replied. His voice was at least two octaves below the deepest male voice Horton had ever heard.
Horton nodded. "Oh, okay. I'll sleep on the top if you want, that's fine by me."
The Gooch grunted something unintelligible. He was still peeing on the bed; the stench was godawful, like week old cat piss mixed with skunk.
"Wh-what was that?" Horton asked.
"I said, 'No, I sleep on top'," the beast replied, finally done with his activity and hiding his member again.
"Right, right," Horton said. "But you said you were marking your territory."
"I was," the Gooch replied. "The bottom bunk belongs to me, but I will allow you to sleep in it."
Horton looked at the puddle of foul-smelling, orange urine that now covered the entire mattress. "Gotcha, right. Anyhoo, I like the floor just fine."
The Gooch said nothing, only stared menacingly at Horton.
"So, what are you in for?" Horton asked after a lengthy silence.
"None of your damn business!" the monster roared. "Shut up with your questions, you little spot!"
Horton had by now crammed himself as far into the front corner of the cell as he could possibly go. Now, he was finding new ways to retreat even further.
"You're a little worm," the Gooch spat. "You are now my bitch."
"You got it," Horton grovelled. "I am your bitch."
"Damn straight," Daryl said, stretching his arms as far above his head as they would go without touching the ceiling, which wasn't very far at all. The sleeves of the orange shirt-there were no jumpsuits that fit this particular inmate-were not long enough, and Horton caught a glimpse of hairy, muscled forearms. "And do you know what a good bitch does?"
Horton shook his head. He knew, but there was no way in holy hell he was going to let on.
"A good bitch hands over all his meals to his protector and master," the Gooch explained.
"You betcha," Horton agreed, not caring if he ever ate again.
"Ain't you curious how you're gonna stay alive if you don't get to eat?" the Gooch asked.
"Nosir," Horton replied. "Not in the slightest."
The Gooch fixed him with a stare, his little pig eyes seeming to bore right through Horton's forehead.
"Well, maybe a little," Horton amended.
The Gooch pulled down his pants and defecated on the floor of the cell, depositing an aromatic log the size of a pound cake, then proceeded to stare into Horton's eyes again.
"Well, that answers my question," Horton said, then giggled nervously.
"How many kids did you molest, you sick bitch?" the Gooch asked.
"Uh, well, uh, that depends on how you define the word 'molest'."
Daryl slammed his cinder block-sized fist into the wall, eliciting a cloud of dust.
"Uh, uh, seven," Horton replied.
"Seven," the Gooch repeated. "Then that's how many beatings you're gonna get every day.times two."
Horton was still locked up in the corner. "Right, well, it's really six because I didn't really 'molest' Dudley Ramsey per se. I mean, I was filling up the tub with lime Jello, but-"
"Did you say Dudley Ramsey?" Daryl cut him off, a new level of intensity entering his frightful stare.
"Who?" Horton did not want to get into names, but out of nervousness, had spilled the name of the kid who had put him behind bars.
"Dudley Ramsey," the Gooch repeated.
"Uh, y-yeah."
"How old would this boy be now?"
Horton was not sure if he liked this new line of questioning. Sure, it took the Gooch's attention off that steaming loaf of almost black shit festering in the middle of the floor, but Horton didn't know where it was leading.
"I asked you a question, Bicycle Man!" the Gooch snapped.
"Uh, well, that was twenty years ago," Horton pondered aloud. "And I guess he was about twelve at the time, so I suppose he's thirty-two now, give or take."
"Did this kid Dudley have a friend?" the Gooch asked.
"Yeah, yeah," Horton answered. "A little fella, named Arnold."
"Arnold Jackson," the Gooch grinned, revealing a mouthful of twisted, blackened teeth. "Small world, ain't it, Horton?"
"Yes, indeed," Horton agreed. "The smallest."
"That little twerp sicked some fat slut on my ass once," the Gooch reminisced. "She was black, but from Italy."
"Ya don't say," Horton nodded. As long as the Gooch kept on talking, Horton wouldn't have to dine at the all-you-can-eat turd buffet.
"Knocked her up," Daryl grunted. "She had two little mini-Gooches, twins. But they were, what do they call 'em, Chinese twins, when they're joined together?"
"Yes, uh-huh," Horton confirmed, not having the heart to correct the big lug.
"They were joined at the face," the Gooch said, "so we had to put 'em down. Ugly little bastards."
"I'll bet," Horton said, not thinking. He immediately recognized his mistake, but thankfully the Gooch had not.
"Arnold Jackson," Daryl chuckled. "I hear that whole family fell apart, in jail or dead."
"Wouldn't surprise me."
"I hated that little shit," the Gooch muttered, only for him, a mutter was still a rumbling growl.
"Don't blame ya," Horton said.
"So, did you boink him too?" the Gooch asked.
"Who, Arnold Jackson? No, oh no. He was too smart."
"That's too bad," the Gooch murmured. "I was thinkin' if you had, maybe you wouldn't have to do all the nasty things a bitch gets to do."
"Huh?" Horton felt his heart sink into his bowels. "What, now?"
"Man, anyone who woulda messed up Arnold Jackson is a friend of mine," the Gooch said. "Too bad for you."
"Well, I-I did, um, well, I-I-" Horton stammered. "Oh, Arnold Jackson, yeah, him, oh yes, now I remember. Yeah, well, as a matter of fact, I did-uh, boink him one time."
"You're a terrible liar," the Gooch said, approaching the terrified man. "And a pathetic excuse for a bitch."
"I suppose I am," Horton nodded frantically as the behemoth approached.
Up close, the Gooch smelled of rancid sweat and dandruff. "I'll whip you into shape, bitch."
"Please, don't hurt me," Horton begged.
The Gooch smiled wickedly and glanced back at the deposit he had left on the floor. "Not until you've had your supper, Bicycle Man."
Horton had time to emit one genuine tear from his left eye before the Gooch was upon him. With no possible way of stopping the giant, Mr. Horton had no choice but to do each and every sick, painful and perverted thing the Gooch was able to conjure up. He had been in jail for twenty years, but for, the Bicycle Man, the real hard time had not begun until that very moment.
"Hey, Horton, you're getting a new roommate."
Mr. Horton looked up from the book he was reading-a lengthy biography of noted filmmaker Roman Polanski-to see Pete, the thin, young guard with the badly pockmarked face.
"Come again," Horton said.
Pete rolled his eyes impatiently and repeated, "You're getting a new roommate."
Horton placed the heavy tome on his bed and stood up, approaching the guard. "You're pulling my chain."
"Nope," Pete chuckled.
Horton reached the bars and stared intensely into the young guard's eyes. "I like it by myself. I've grown accustomed to the solitude."
Pete shrugged. He was grinning like a clown.
"Isn't there someone else you can stick him with?" Horton asked hopefully
Pete shook his head while absently twirling his baton.
"Who is he?" Horton inquired.
"Well," Pete said. "he ain't no Irving Dudkewicz, I'll tell you that much."
Horton backed up from the bars, a look of profound horror spreading across his round face.
"You lucked out with Irv, old man," Pete said, raising an eyebrow. "The only guy in the whole place who was a bigger wimp than you. Too bad he got paroled."
"I don't want a cellmate," Horton protested. "I want to speak to the warden."
"The warden," Pete huffed. "Good one."
"Please," Horton begged, running both hands through the grey fringe that encircled his bald dome. "I don't want one."
"Well see, this place ain't a friggin' hotel, Horton," Pete pointed out, still twirling his baton.
"Who is he?" Horton asked again. "Wh-when can-when is he arriving?"
Pete flashed a smile that was one part cheeriness and nine parts sadism. "Tomorrow," he said, stretching the first syllable out more than two seconds.
Horton sat back down on the lower mattress of the half-used bunk bed. All the colour had drained from his face.
"Looks like you're finally gonna get what you deserve, Mr. Bicycle Man," Pete said, shuddering with satisfaction. "You're gonna get a taste of what you made those boys do before we locked your ass away twenty years ago."
"You're going to install a Jello bath?" Horton muttered before he could stop himself.
A sneer of revulsion came across Pete's face. "You sicken me, Horton, you really do. You make me want to puke my guts up, you and all the pederasts like you. It's bad enough you're a rapist and a pedophile, but a murderer on top."
Horton placed his head in his hands and proceeded to weep. "That was an accident, why won't anyone believe me?"
"His name is Daryl," Pete said at last.
The inmate looked up at the guard, his eyes running from side to side as if he could size up his new cellmate going on a first name alone.
Pete snorted. "A piece of advice-I don't know why I'm telling you this because I'd just love to see you cross this dude-but, I wouldn't call him Daryl if I were you?"
Horton nodded his head enthusiastically. "Okay, good. Uh, what do I call him?"
Pete flashed more teeth than Horton had thought existed in a typical human mouth. "Most people call him 'the Gooch'."
Needless to say, Horton got no sleep whatsoever that night, not a wink. Then, in the cafeteria, he was unable to eat his breakfast, handing it over to Carl, the only person in the penitentiary to actually treat him with a shred of civility.
It was not until three o'clock that afternoon that Pete showed up with another guard and yelled, "Open cell D-37." A loud buzzer echoed in the cavernous cell block and a moment later, the bars slid aside.
"Hey there, Horton," Pete was grinning wildly again. "Excited to meet your new roommate?"
Horton got to his feet and puffed out his flabby chest. He had already rolled up the sleeves to his jumpsuit and had messed up his hair a bit. Best to present at least a semblance of toughness to the new guy.
"In ya go, Daryl," Pete stressed the name, and Horton could swear he heard a low, rumbling growl from around the corner.
And then he saw him.
The Gooch was the single largest man Horton had ever laid eyes upon. Not only was he an easy seven-foot nine, but he had to weigh close to six hundred pounds as well. He figured the man's gut alone weighed more than Horton himself.
His head was topped by an unruly mop of greasy black hair and stubble dotted his fat, flabby face. A tattoo of a dead dog decorated his left cheek. The right was marked by a jagged scar.
Horton was positive he had crapped himself, but that was the least of his worries. This Gooch character was as imposing as a grizzly bear, and probably a whole lot more mean-spirited. Horton figured he would be lucky to make it to lights-out, never mind live through the night.
"H-hi," Horton tried to greet the giant.
The Gooch ignored the lesser man and threw his things onto the top bunk, lumbering past Horton as if the man did not even exist.
"You're screwed, Bicycle Man," Pete whispered. "I already told him you like to molest and murder little boys."
If Horton hadn't shit himself earlier, he certainly did just then. There was no one lower down on the prison food chain than a child molester.
"Ta-ta," Pete snickered, then called for the gate to close. It did, leaving Horton alone with The Gooch.
The following silence was awkward at best, terrifying at worst. Horton could hear Daryl's breathing from clear across the cell, like the purring of some kind of great jungle cat.
"So uh, Gooch, is it? My name is-"
Horton cut himself off when, to his horror, the giant placed his hand inside his jumpsuit, removed his organ, and proceeded to urinate on the bottom bunk. Horton was shocked, not only at the action, but the immensity of the man's piece.
"Wh-heh-what are you doing?" Horton asked.
"Marking my territory," the Gooch replied. His voice was at least two octaves below the deepest male voice Horton had ever heard.
Horton nodded. "Oh, okay. I'll sleep on the top if you want, that's fine by me."
The Gooch grunted something unintelligible. He was still peeing on the bed; the stench was godawful, like week old cat piss mixed with skunk.
"Wh-what was that?" Horton asked.
"I said, 'No, I sleep on top'," the beast replied, finally done with his activity and hiding his member again.
"Right, right," Horton said. "But you said you were marking your territory."
"I was," the Gooch replied. "The bottom bunk belongs to me, but I will allow you to sleep in it."
Horton looked at the puddle of foul-smelling, orange urine that now covered the entire mattress. "Gotcha, right. Anyhoo, I like the floor just fine."
The Gooch said nothing, only stared menacingly at Horton.
"So, what are you in for?" Horton asked after a lengthy silence.
"None of your damn business!" the monster roared. "Shut up with your questions, you little spot!"
Horton had by now crammed himself as far into the front corner of the cell as he could possibly go. Now, he was finding new ways to retreat even further.
"You're a little worm," the Gooch spat. "You are now my bitch."
"You got it," Horton grovelled. "I am your bitch."
"Damn straight," Daryl said, stretching his arms as far above his head as they would go without touching the ceiling, which wasn't very far at all. The sleeves of the orange shirt-there were no jumpsuits that fit this particular inmate-were not long enough, and Horton caught a glimpse of hairy, muscled forearms. "And do you know what a good bitch does?"
Horton shook his head. He knew, but there was no way in holy hell he was going to let on.
"A good bitch hands over all his meals to his protector and master," the Gooch explained.
"You betcha," Horton agreed, not caring if he ever ate again.
"Ain't you curious how you're gonna stay alive if you don't get to eat?" the Gooch asked.
"Nosir," Horton replied. "Not in the slightest."
The Gooch fixed him with a stare, his little pig eyes seeming to bore right through Horton's forehead.
"Well, maybe a little," Horton amended.
The Gooch pulled down his pants and defecated on the floor of the cell, depositing an aromatic log the size of a pound cake, then proceeded to stare into Horton's eyes again.
"Well, that answers my question," Horton said, then giggled nervously.
"How many kids did you molest, you sick bitch?" the Gooch asked.
"Uh, well, uh, that depends on how you define the word 'molest'."
Daryl slammed his cinder block-sized fist into the wall, eliciting a cloud of dust.
"Uh, uh, seven," Horton replied.
"Seven," the Gooch repeated. "Then that's how many beatings you're gonna get every day.times two."
Horton was still locked up in the corner. "Right, well, it's really six because I didn't really 'molest' Dudley Ramsey per se. I mean, I was filling up the tub with lime Jello, but-"
"Did you say Dudley Ramsey?" Daryl cut him off, a new level of intensity entering his frightful stare.
"Who?" Horton did not want to get into names, but out of nervousness, had spilled the name of the kid who had put him behind bars.
"Dudley Ramsey," the Gooch repeated.
"Uh, y-yeah."
"How old would this boy be now?"
Horton was not sure if he liked this new line of questioning. Sure, it took the Gooch's attention off that steaming loaf of almost black shit festering in the middle of the floor, but Horton didn't know where it was leading.
"I asked you a question, Bicycle Man!" the Gooch snapped.
"Uh, well, that was twenty years ago," Horton pondered aloud. "And I guess he was about twelve at the time, so I suppose he's thirty-two now, give or take."
"Did this kid Dudley have a friend?" the Gooch asked.
"Yeah, yeah," Horton answered. "A little fella, named Arnold."
"Arnold Jackson," the Gooch grinned, revealing a mouthful of twisted, blackened teeth. "Small world, ain't it, Horton?"
"Yes, indeed," Horton agreed. "The smallest."
"That little twerp sicked some fat slut on my ass once," the Gooch reminisced. "She was black, but from Italy."
"Ya don't say," Horton nodded. As long as the Gooch kept on talking, Horton wouldn't have to dine at the all-you-can-eat turd buffet.
"Knocked her up," Daryl grunted. "She had two little mini-Gooches, twins. But they were, what do they call 'em, Chinese twins, when they're joined together?"
"Yes, uh-huh," Horton confirmed, not having the heart to correct the big lug.
"They were joined at the face," the Gooch said, "so we had to put 'em down. Ugly little bastards."
"I'll bet," Horton said, not thinking. He immediately recognized his mistake, but thankfully the Gooch had not.
"Arnold Jackson," Daryl chuckled. "I hear that whole family fell apart, in jail or dead."
"Wouldn't surprise me."
"I hated that little shit," the Gooch muttered, only for him, a mutter was still a rumbling growl.
"Don't blame ya," Horton said.
"So, did you boink him too?" the Gooch asked.
"Who, Arnold Jackson? No, oh no. He was too smart."
"That's too bad," the Gooch murmured. "I was thinkin' if you had, maybe you wouldn't have to do all the nasty things a bitch gets to do."
"Huh?" Horton felt his heart sink into his bowels. "What, now?"
"Man, anyone who woulda messed up Arnold Jackson is a friend of mine," the Gooch said. "Too bad for you."
"Well, I-I did, um, well, I-I-" Horton stammered. "Oh, Arnold Jackson, yeah, him, oh yes, now I remember. Yeah, well, as a matter of fact, I did-uh, boink him one time."
"You're a terrible liar," the Gooch said, approaching the terrified man. "And a pathetic excuse for a bitch."
"I suppose I am," Horton nodded frantically as the behemoth approached.
Up close, the Gooch smelled of rancid sweat and dandruff. "I'll whip you into shape, bitch."
"Please, don't hurt me," Horton begged.
The Gooch smiled wickedly and glanced back at the deposit he had left on the floor. "Not until you've had your supper, Bicycle Man."
Horton had time to emit one genuine tear from his left eye before the Gooch was upon him. With no possible way of stopping the giant, Mr. Horton had no choice but to do each and every sick, painful and perverted thing the Gooch was able to conjure up. He had been in jail for twenty years, but for, the Bicycle Man, the real hard time had not begun until that very moment.