Merle is getting back to being the nasty man that he was, his body is working better now his libido is giving him a kick in the ass. He is being a nasty nasty man in this chapter. Oh the joys of brothers! I'm writing more slowly now and there is less medical stuff, so I have to do more research for each chapter. I'm learning about hunting, trapping, weaponry, things that Merle needs to teach me prior to him telling me his detailed account of how he is getting reacclimated to his skills. He is feeling the press of time. Will he be well enough to fight the Governor when he returns? No one else seems to be considering that he Will return with a vengeance. So Merle is trying to come back from his injuries faster than may be good for him.

As always drop me a note to let me know how I can improve. I love reviews (who doesn't after all)

Merle POV

I end up in the main hall of the prison, set up like a mess hall with picnic tables and watching the Woodbury women and the prison group buzzing around with food preparation, mixing stuff peeling vegetables, potatoes, cooking up game of some description from the smell(guess Darlina found somethin' after all). I drop my bucket; at least I already cleaned the damn thing out, still a little dirty from working on my chopper. I approach the women stealthily; enjoying the shift of their tits under their shirts and the fine melon like shapes under their pants and skirts. I have been healing for such a long time that I have nearly forgotten the simple pleasures of watching women, the many shapes that their bodies exhibit. Many body types here with Beth , Skya, Carol, Maggie, & Michonne representing most of them; from nubile to athletic to petite, and curvy Beth is there flirting with Zach; I think his name is. Skya is setting the tables with her kids; her fine tits pressing up against her shirt, the nipples prominent, her hips and long legs filling out her cargo pants perfectly (I've always liked curvy women). I walk quickly around them and put my borrowed supplies away wordlessly before my rising boner gives me away (Damn!). Maggie calls my name but I slip away, not wanting to deal with her bullshit (especially not in my horny condition). It's been too damn long!.

I go to look for my brother, not wanting to listen to anyone gab until I need to go grab my food. I find his cell empty but empty is what I need. I sit down on his cot smelling his dirty clothing and the haze of my brother's stink. I look around his surprisingly tidy cell. Along with an impressive array of weaponry,I see a small variety of worn shirts, pants and boxers. He is the same size as me with pants but my shoulders are broader and I never have been able to wear his shirts. I dump his piles of stench onto the floor and attempt to handle "my problem". With memories of juicy tits and curvy hips filling out her clothing with imagining my hand removing piece by piece my face buried deep between her warm breasts; tasting her sweat running down her neck and into her deep cleavage. My tongue licks my lips imagining he deep laugh and her knowing smirk as I start exploring her body bit by bit with my tongue and my remaining hand. I snort at the pleasure of my fantasy, trying to lose myself in the images and imagined scents, finally feeling a little more like my naturally horny self. My hand lacks coordination and begins to get stiff,(similar to other parts of my anatomy) but I compensate for it and refuse to let my limitation ruin the joy of my masturbatory expertise. I force it thorough and find my release, even though it is a poor figment of what my right hand used to be able to do. I clean myself up on one of Daryl's stinky shirts and fold it as best I can. My energy is still thrumming through all parts of my body and I feel much more improved and relaxed. I'm still not ready for lots of talking at me all at once. I prowl around in his cell looking for something to fiddle with until I need to make an appearance.

I found little Merle! I hadden't thought of it for a while, not even being a possibility of tolerating the weight until now. I turn it over in my hand looking at it, seeing remnants of my blood covering the leather straps and around the duct tape securing the bayonet. I sit down and start working my still swollen healing broken arm into the metal and leather sleeve trying to work it on until it fits. But It's too swollen and I haven't used any compression wraps on my stump since I was injured. The weight makes my arm twinge miserably. Feeling frustrated and crippled, I take it back off and pull the inner leather sleeve out working my arm into that at least, tight, uncomfortable & not a perfect fit but at least the still too sensitive skin is covered. I can adjust the damn thing later. I gotta retrain this useless fucking arm to be an asset, being that it is doubtful that I will ever punch solidly with my left again. I then remove the duct tape and the blade (I will be as frustrated as a cat with a bell tied to its ass when there is no more duct tape). Daryl's smell and the rhythmic picking of tape send me back, down the spiral of years until I'm younger, less desperate and whole, with a huge amount of mischief and bad decisions in my curly head. I smile at the remembrance of the shit that I pulled on Daryl and with Daryl.

I returned for leave from the Marines when he was 12 & I was 20. He was just heading into puberty & stunk to high heaven having no one to teach him the basics of grooming. Amazingly he still attended school, and they didn't hose him down as soon as he showed up. BO in the hot Georgia spring and early summer was no joke. Imagine it in close quarters of a bunch of 12-year-olds, some of them as ignorant and backward as my sweet baby brother. My Father also needed a lesson in grooming as he generally stunk of old booze, bitterness and sweat; but he was years past repair or caring for whatever was outside of the needle and the bottle. Such is life in the disastrous Dixon household. Daryl was feral, with big brilliant blue eyes (same shade as mine). Eyes peeping out of unkempt greasy hair and the stench of unwashed clothing. I couldn't believe the change two years could bring. Taller but still small for his age and too thin, underdeveloped, gangly, unkempt, gnawing on the edge of his thumb, quietly considering his equally unrecognizable brother, who returned from the Marines looking like the hulk.

Getting him to change his clothing much less to get in the shower was as difficult and painful as dressing up a skunk in drag. I sat on him pinning him under my superior bulk and strength, farted generously in his ear, then turned the shower on and dumped an entire bottle of shampoo over him clothing and all. Suds were everywhere, he was cussing and the most violent threats filled the air with all the inventive intelligence of my very bright but undereducated little brother; I was laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Water flowed out of the shower and down into the kitchen below until the angry drunken monster came calumphing upstairs in his steel toed shoes and kicked me hard in the back, opening a new gash and breaking a rib. I threw my body over Daryl until my father stopped, turned and grabbed his foot leaning with all of my weight into his ankle until he howled with pain and defeat. The shower ran red with my blood and Daryl's tears. I thought to myself thank God it was only me and Daryl is still Okay. How wrong I was, how I wish now that Daryl has been strong enough to tell me what was happening to him the moment I left. I never considered that I never saw him with his shirt off that entire time I was on leave.

I taught him how to do laundry, too. I even threw in a red sock to prove my point. (I think he had pink underwear for years after that). I taught him how to drive and even wired blocks of wood to the pedals so the shrimpy little shit could reach the pedals. I taught him how to get into 1st gear and reverse then made him learn the rest with me in the passenger side half asleep and high off my ass; then we were lucky enough to get pulled over by a high school friend of mine, (officer Dipshit) he asked

"what the hell you boys doing having a little shit like Daryl driving".

I hazily replied slurring "Well officer, I didn't want to drive drunk, I know that is against the law, Daryl here is small for 16 but is learning to drive."

(If y'all believe that line of hog shit then I have a toilet seat of solid gold to sell you). Not wanting to deal with the Dixon brand of bullshit they let me and Daryl hiccup the truck away in fits and starts rather than filling out a pile of police reports on everything we were doing wrong that day. Amazingly we got home from the titty bar just fine, with me satisfied and Daryl educated; eyes as big as saucers. I remember that being a good day, too bad I was too stoned to remember it clearly.

I hear a big obvious sigh and the cascade of years fall away leaving my brothers tired face I look up at the silent form shadowing my brothers cell.

"ya know I don' sleep in there but doesn't mean I want it smellin' like yer damn jizz bro".

I shake my head refusing to rise to the bait also being too close to getting caught in the act.

"Ya stink little brother do I have to force you into the shower again" (I'm rewarded with a ghost of a smile).

"Better get yer ass down to dinner 'afore its all gone. Theyre not gonna make exceptions for yer ass yer not tha only one mending, remember all the sick ones?"

Can ya get the rest of the damn tape of the metal part of my wrist cuff. Cant quite grab it. Too clumsy.

Daryl looks up surprised; being that I've never have asked him for help not even when I lost my hand.

"Shut yer mouth. I don' wanna hear it EVER!"

"whatever man, you're too skinny ya need to eat.

I leave to get some food as Daryl sits down and starts removing the rest of the tape around my bayonet. "I'll get this done, be righ' behind ya".

I quietly head downstairs to get some food, He's right even I think I am far too thin and weak. This is the first time in our lives that he is actually bigger than I am. I run about two inches taller and 30 lbs or so bulkier with my larger build. He tends to be lanky and in a fight moves faster and scrappier than I do. That's changed for now; I'm the scrawny one.

I end up in the main hallway of the prison and a couple of people look up and greet me. I make my way over to the impromptu buffet line the last to get food, I balance my plate against my hip and load it with nameless stew, bread, peas (yeech)

I'm not a fan of eating the food that my food eats (I'm very carnivorous). Glad of the fact that the meat is in the stew and nothing needs to be cut smaller. I don't have to suffer the indignity of asking anyone to cut my food into a manageable bite size.

I sit down next to Hershel and the big black guy who nods to me, Skya is sitting across the table with her kids.

Hershel doesn't miss a beat "Do I really need to spell out what you can and can't do until your back closes completely. Don't think I didn't notice the lower half of you sticking out from underneath your motorcycle. Lying directly on. your. back. just hours after I put those sutures in. What about don't move around too much for a couple of days is hard for you to understand.?'

"Old man I wasn't moving much, didn't climb or go out of the prison grounds, didn't kill any walkers or hunt. I simply was lying down fiddling with shit on my bike. Shit. I'm not gonna ask permission. I'm gonna listen but I'll make up my own damn mind."

I get up in a huff and take my food to an empty table before anyone can answer me. The rest of the people are staring at me and I ignore them and choke my food down as quickly as possible. I scrape the remaining crap off my plate and prepare to leave when I feel a tug on my pant leg. I look down seeing Skya's daughter.

"Don't be mad Mr. Merle. Everyone wants you to get better". I take her hand off my leg not wanting to be touched right now.

"Is that so sweetheart?"

She just smiles and winks at me. Saucy little thing. Just like her Momma, who walks over to pull her daughter away from me, understandingly so given my delightful mood. Skya stares at me with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing look, she then turns to walk back to the table tilting her head at me in an inviting manner, knowing it would get me to follow. Horndog that I am, I never have been able to resist a woman who seeks me out. My temper drains from me as I return to the table with her as Hershel and Skya make room for me again.

Someone passes me a bowl of mumbles "Skya harvested these for our dessert, don't miss out" as Daryl joins us in surprisingly fresh clothing dripping wet from a shower. He drops my newly tape free wrist guard into my lap. He scoots the big black guy right off the bench, who gets up and grumbles at him, but joins the coffee skinned broad at the other table.

"Cause any trouble yet?"

"Nah. Waiting for ya"

"Grubs not bad" I wink at Maggie and smiled. She looks like she is ready to pop a blood vessel but when I complimented the food her color diminishes in her face.

I just shake my head at her defensiveness

"Sheesh, y'all need to grow a sence of humor". Bunch a sticks up yer asses. Foods good, I'm not here to cause any shit. Thanks for the berries Skya, one of my favorites"

I nod & she smiles looking a bit sweaty and white (hmm not quite right). I look at her a bit too long, she shakes her head and looks back at her untouched plate.

she gets up with her kids and yawns. "I'm gonna lie down for a while"

Hershel looks at her closely too. "you okay?"

"I'll be fine I just need some space. I'm just kinda tired"

Daryl and I sit companionable and quietly listening to the multiple conversations as I watch Skya and her kids walking away;her daughter holding her hand and Liam looking back at me. Somethings up with her and I plan to find out what in a little while, but first I need to listen to the conversation here. I'm kinda out of the loop as to shit that's been happening while I was healing. I feel the need to ramp up my recovery. These pussies aren't remembering that there is a psychopath out there who hates us and wants us all to suffer. I remember the kids faces and the ghostly image of Daryl's little boy face superimposes itself. I need to think on this like the military man who I once was. How can we fortify this place and if the worst does happen and we have to run where can we go? I nod to Daryl and Hershel and silently wander off into my thoughts and let my feet take me back to the infirmary away from curious gazes. I remember what I am bringing with me. My strongest asset from before this; my bayonet, little Merle.

Author's note most amputees use stump shrinkers to keep their prosthetic fitting well and reduce swelling; at least for the lower limb. Merle's broken arm was originally misaligned and had to be reset which caused increased swelling and slower healing. He is still a bit swollen and quite weak on that right side of his, He is starting to use it to hold stuff down, but his stump is hypersensitive as sometimes happens. He also hates the way other people look at the stump itself. He needs the prosthetic because it has straps that he can stabilize things that he is working with. All in all he feels a need to get this fckng thing working NOW.