mentioned I haven’t been laid in over forty-seven years?”
“You did.”
“Well, that’ll tell you all you need to know about the cruelty of incarceration.”
Fixer turned his attention to the mustard and meticulously squeezed every last drop from each of the packets onto the hot plate. Following proper jailhouse protocol, he then reached out his arm
and offered the empty packets back to M.D.
“Suck?”
M.D. waved the old man off .
“Suit yourself.” Fixer put the mustard in his mouth and extracted every last bit of flavor he could from each of the already empty packets. “In due time, everyone starts to
suck. Ooh...” Fixer turned his attention back to the mustard crackling on the makeshift cooking pan. “Here we go.”
Like a sous-chef in a five-star restaurant, Fixer mixed the sizzling mustard into the ramen noodle dish, twirled the contents in the bowl, holding two spoons in one hand like a man who’d
graduated from a high-end culinary institute, and then blended everything together with musical smoothness, as if keeping a regular rhythm to his twirls enhanced the flavor of the food somehow.
Once satisfied with his creation, Fixer unplugged the stinger and served up two evenly divided, heaping portions of sizzling hot grub.
The old man plunged a spoon into the bowl of the simmering jailhouse cuisine and then offered a nice, big serving to M.D.
“Dig in.”
McCutcheon didn’t reply. Instead he stared at the wafts of spiced scents rising from the dish that hit him in the nostrils and caused him to salivate against his will.
“No owe. You contributed the mustard,” Fixer said. “So if it makes you happy, you can just eat the parts touched by that.”
McCutcheon understood the logic behind Fixer’s words. Since the mustard touched everything, M.D. could eat the entire bowl without feeling indebted. His new cellie hadn’t just
identified M.D.’s problem; he’d offered a solution, too.
But why, M.D. wondered. No, an apple was never just an apple.
On one hand, Fixer might have just been friendly, an old man with too much time on his hands, hungry for conversation and a sense of camaraderie. On the other hand, perhaps this was all a
scheme, a way of manipulating M.D. into letting his guard down.
For what, an attack? M.D. considered the age of his new bunk mate.
Not likely, he deduced.
“What’d you do?” M.D. asked as he accepted the bowl of food, grabbed a seat on the edge of the bed, and loaded up his spoon. “You know, to get locked up.”
“Murder one. Two counts. Gonna be fifty years next May,” Fixer said. “And I know you’re next question: how’d I do them?”
“Yeah, sure,” McCutcheon answered.
Fixer’s eyes narrowed as he watched McCutcheon take his first bite of food.
“I did it the old-fashioned way,” Fixer replied. “With poison.”
Suddenly, a surge of heat blazed in McCutcheon’s mouth. Liquid fire.
M.D. spun his head around and immediately realized his new cell mate had not yet taken a bite of his meal.
“There, there, relax into it,” Fixer said. “The pain won’t last that long at all.”
A guard’s voice bellowed down the corridor. “Lights-out, Tier Three!”
Like a warehouse factory being closed for the evening, a switch flipped from on to off, and the overhead fluorescent lights in every cell on the block shut down for the night with a staticky
buzz.
Darkness in the cages, however, did not mean there’d be silence.
“You fill his tank, old man?”
The thin and angled face of Krewls appeared between the weathered and worn bars of McCutcheon’s cell.
“I believe he is satisfied.”
M.D. found the word satisfied to be an interesting choice of terms. His body lay on the cot with only a thin piece of flattened foam serving as a mattress, and the scratchy gray blanket
he’d been provided with smelled of mold and vinegar. Yet he’d just eaten one of the most delicious meals he’d tasted in years. The hot sauce burned his
“You did.”
“Well, that’ll tell you all you need to know about the cruelty of incarceration.”
Fixer turned his attention to the mustard and meticulously squeezed every last drop from each of the packets onto the hot plate. Following proper jailhouse protocol, he then reached out his arm
and offered the empty packets back to M.D.
“Suck?”
M.D. waved the old man off .
“Suit yourself.” Fixer put the mustard in his mouth and extracted every last bit of flavor he could from each of the already empty packets. “In due time, everyone starts to
suck. Ooh...” Fixer turned his attention back to the mustard crackling on the makeshift cooking pan. “Here we go.”
Like a sous-chef in a five-star restaurant, Fixer mixed the sizzling mustard into the ramen noodle dish, twirled the contents in the bowl, holding two spoons in one hand like a man who’d
graduated from a high-end culinary institute, and then blended everything together with musical smoothness, as if keeping a regular rhythm to his twirls enhanced the flavor of the food somehow.
Once satisfied with his creation, Fixer unplugged the stinger and served up two evenly divided, heaping portions of sizzling hot grub.
The old man plunged a spoon into the bowl of the simmering jailhouse cuisine and then offered a nice, big serving to M.D.
“Dig in.”
McCutcheon didn’t reply. Instead he stared at the wafts of spiced scents rising from the dish that hit him in the nostrils and caused him to salivate against his will.
“No owe. You contributed the mustard,” Fixer said. “So if it makes you happy, you can just eat the parts touched by that.”
McCutcheon understood the logic behind Fixer’s words. Since the mustard touched everything, M.D. could eat the entire bowl without feeling indebted. His new cellie hadn’t just
identified M.D.’s problem; he’d offered a solution, too.
But why, M.D. wondered. No, an apple was never just an apple.
On one hand, Fixer might have just been friendly, an old man with too much time on his hands, hungry for conversation and a sense of camaraderie. On the other hand, perhaps this was all a
scheme, a way of manipulating M.D. into letting his guard down.
For what, an attack? M.D. considered the age of his new bunk mate.
Not likely, he deduced.
“What’d you do?” M.D. asked as he accepted the bowl of food, grabbed a seat on the edge of the bed, and loaded up his spoon. “You know, to get locked up.”
“Murder one. Two counts. Gonna be fifty years next May,” Fixer said. “And I know you’re next question: how’d I do them?”
“Yeah, sure,” McCutcheon answered.
Fixer’s eyes narrowed as he watched McCutcheon take his first bite of food.
“I did it the old-fashioned way,” Fixer replied. “With poison.”
Suddenly, a surge of heat blazed in McCutcheon’s mouth. Liquid fire.
M.D. spun his head around and immediately realized his new cell mate had not yet taken a bite of his meal.
“There, there, relax into it,” Fixer said. “The pain won’t last that long at all.”
A guard’s voice bellowed down the corridor. “Lights-out, Tier Three!”
Like a warehouse factory being closed for the evening, a switch flipped from on to off, and the overhead fluorescent lights in every cell on the block shut down for the night with a staticky
buzz.
Darkness in the cages, however, did not mean there’d be silence.
“You fill his tank, old man?”
The thin and angled face of Krewls appeared between the weathered and worn bars of McCutcheon’s cell.
“I believe he is satisfied.”
M.D. found the word satisfied to be an interesting choice of terms. His body lay on the cot with only a thin piece of flattened foam serving as a mattress, and the scratchy gray blanket
he’d been provided with smelled of mold and vinegar. Yet he’d just eaten one of the most delicious meals he’d tasted in years. The hot sauce burned his
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