Chapter Text
Donut was annoyed.
That was a massive understatement. It left out the part about how Donut was about ready to shit himself with fear. But it was so much easy to focus on the annoyance. And really, who wouldn't be annoyed in this situation? Anyone who was being sentenced to prison for murdering their roommate—an act of self-defence, but no-one had believed him—would be annoyed. But they'd be getting annoyed about other things. Like... well, the whole life sentence thing.
Donut's primary irritation at the moment was the orange jumpsuit that came with the territory. Orange wasn't his colour and it scratched and chafed something awful. Not to mention the crotch wasn't roomy at all.
Ugh.
“Move along,” the guard said, prodding him in the back with her nightstick. Donut quickly shuffled ahead to avoid further poking. He was fidgeting a lot, trying to get the jumpsuit in a position where it would stop chafing. Maybe the jumpsuit was the real punishment. Spending anywhere from twenty years to the rest of his life in this itchy jumpsuit? That was, at least to Donut, the stage of Hell that was always left out to stop people wetting their pants and crying in fear.
As they neared the warden's office, Donut started thinking about the other problems that prison life was bound to have. The same bland food, day in and day out. Laundry with no fabric softener. The fact that when—if—he left prison he'd be, at the very least, twenty years older. That part worried him the most. All his youth, gone. Gone!
Prison was not an inviting prospect. He was far too pretty for prison. If the movies and the occasional prison-themed porn had taught him anything, it was that guys like him were currency in a place like this. He didn't want to be currency! Prison guys looked like shaved apes, and that was way too close to bestiality. God, if he'd ever hoped the movies were wrong...
The guard directed him through a door, and upon entering Donut found himself in an office decorated top to bottom with war memorabilia. Posters, photos, medals that looked suspiciously like they were made out of plastic. And seated behind the desk was a man in his late fifties, by Donut's desk. Stocky and scarred. Military crew-cut and arms that could choke a python and probably had. The name plate on his desk didn't have a name, it merely said 'Sarge.'
“Sit down, Cupcake,” Sarge said, gesturing at the seat in front of his desk.
Donut's only audible response was a small grunt. His fear of everything around him was making it difficult to speak. He was lucky the grunt hadn't been a squeak. He sat down, uncomfortably aware of the guard still standing there, nightstick at the ready.
Sarge climbed to his feet and walked around him. Donut wondered if it was an intimidation tactic. Before long, Sarge stopped and snapped his fingers with frustration.
“Goshdarn it, you don't look like a sporty man. You look like a pansy,” he grumbled. “How is Red Team meant to smash the Blues into the dust if it consists of a pansy, a dirtbag and Simmons?”
“What's a Red Team?”
“Damn the dibs rule, damn it to heck,” Sarge continued, ignoring Donut's question entirely. “Damn Flowers, this is his fault. He called dibs on the last lifer, and we only have a cell open on the Red side. Conniving bastard. Well, you'll have to do. What's your name, Princess?”
“Um. Franklin Delano Donut... sir?” Sir felt right to say. This guy just looked so militant. The moment Donut said 'sir' a huge grin spread across Sarge's face.
“Well, some respect! Maybe you won't be so bad. I'm Sarge. Me and Flowers—captain of the guard, although I suspect subterfuge or something equally nefarious—are in charge of guarding you and the other criminals. Once we're done here, Tex will take you down to your cell. You'll be in the same row as those serving similar sentences. By which I mean other dirtbag murderers, both Red and Blue—“
“There's Blues as well?”
“—and you can have a nice chat with your fellow Reds about all the men you've gutted. It'll be just like in the army, son. Well, except what you did wasn't authorized by the military, and thus was wrong!”
“It was self-defence,” Donut protested. He'd been protesting ever since the police took him in, but it hadn't done anything.
“Yeah, kid, that's what they all say. Though to be honest, you don't look like no murdering scumbag to me. But all that means is that you're sneaky. ...Could always use a sneaky Red!”
“I'm not sneaky.”
“That's just what a sneaky person would say! Anyway, if you want to survive your time in here, here's a little Prison 101 for you, Cupcake. Be manly! Be tough! Maybe get one of them prison tattoos.”
Donut wrinkled his nose. Like he would ever get prison tattoos.
“Lift some weights and such. Well, this prison doesn't actually have a gym. But improvise!” Sarge thumped Donut on the shoulder in what was meant to be a manly gesture of comradeship. It was the most painful display of manly affection that Donut had ever received. “Stay on my good side, don't trust those goddamn Blues... do that and you'll live. Few scars, maybe. But a man should have a few scars to display his courage to the world!” Sarge looked at the guard. “Tex, take him down to the cells!”
The guard nodded and prodded Donut in the back. “Come along, you.”
Once they were away from the warden's office, Donut took his chances at asking a question.
“Uh... is Sarge alright?”
Tex snorted. “No. Sarge is insane.”
“Oh. That's reassuring,” Donut said faintly. “What's a Red?”
“Look at the ground,” Tex said, as she guided him into a cell block. Looking at the floor, Donut saw that there were two stripes painted on the ground, one on each side of the walkway. The left one was red, the right one blue. “Sarge ordered the inmates to be divided into two colours and now he forces them to play sports against each other. Who knows why. Boredom? Who the fuck cares. He runs 'Red' team and Flowers runs 'Blue' team.”
“Erm. Which sports do they make us play?
“Does it matter?”
It probably didn't. Donut wasn't brilliant at sports, with the exception of high school netball. That didn't feel like a prison sport.
“Anyway, you only play sports against the others in your row. For you, mostly other murderous lifers. And most of them are too lazy to act up.”
As they passed one cell, he heard footsteps stir and someone whisper, “Hey, Tex. Tex!”
Tex came to a halt. “Goddammit, what?! You, wait here,” she ordered, before backing down the walkway a little to talk to one of the inmates. Black hair and a goatee, maybe in his late thirties. Donut couldn't hear what they were saying, since they kept their voices low. But he could swear, although it had been a very quick, practiced movement, that the inmate had passed her something. A piece of paper?
After a few moments of talking, Tex walked back to Donut while slipping the paper into her pocket. The inmate with the goatee peered through the bars at Donut and grinned.
“Welcome to Hell,” he said.
“Church, don't be a dick,” another voice from the neighboring cell grumbled.
“Fuck off, Tucker.”
Donut didn't have a chance to respond before Tex pushed him further along the walkway. She stopped him again a few cells down and started rifling through her keys to unlock the cell. A minute later, it was open and she pushed Donut in none too gently.
The cell was sparsely decorated. A bunk with a lumpy mattress, footlocker, a slightly stained toilet and equally stained sink. Every piece of furniture was bolted to the ground, presumably to stop one of the bigger inmates from clubbing someone to death with it. While the cell wasn't as grimy as Donut had feared, it still smelt slightly of vomit. Donut wrinkled his nose. Lace. The cell needed lace. Or at least a nice rug.
“Don't make a fuss. Lights go out in a few minutes. If you make any loud noise or act out once that happens, you will be severely punished. Understood?” Tex said. Without waiting for a response, she slid the door shut. There was a small clang as she did so.
That tiny clang was the loudest sound that Donut had ever heard. It rung in his ears afterward. It had sounded so final. There was no getting out of this now. During his brief stay in the county jail—and that was nothing like federal prison, no hierarchy, everyone had just been waiting to go elsewhere—Donut had kept hoping. Maybe something would turn up. Maybe he'd be okay. He couldn't trick himself anymore. There was no getting out now.
Donut felt his eyes prickle and tried to hold back the tears. He couldn't cry. They could smell weakness. He just stood there, silently trying to fight back the sobs. He stood there for so long that the lights went out before he even reached his bunk.
Life. He was a lifer. His only chance at leaving this prison was parole, and he wasn't even eligible for twenty years. But that was still hope. He could behave for twenty years. He just had to behave... and survive. Twenty years without dying or going mad.
He could do that.
...There was no way he could do that. Who was he kidding? He wanted to cry already and it'd only been twenty minutes. How could he last twenty years?
But what other choice did he have?
Donut didn't sleep that night. This wasn't unusual since his roommate attacked him, but usually he managed an hour or two. He lay there and listened. He didn't hear much. All he heard was the guards occasionally pacing by. Sometimes he saw the brief flicker of flashlights. He did not know what to feel about the silence from the inmates.
It felt like that night went for eternity, although it was only nine hours. Donut lay there until the room started to lighten. He got up at that point and used the sink to wash his face, hoping it would help disguise how red his eyes were and how sticky the quiet tears had left his cheeks. He didn't look outside the cell. He just sat down on his bunk once he was done and waited.
Eventually, he heard more shuffling around. Quiet chatter between cells. Then a guard called out and there was a loud scraping sound as all the cell doors opened at once. He heard the word roll call being yelled out.
Standing up, Donut edged closer to the cell door and peered out nervously. Other inmates were wandering to their doors. Some looked sleepy. Others looked like they'd been up for hours, though few looked like they'd been up all night like Donut had. The inmate living in the cell to Donut's right had already emerged and was standing straight in front of his cell. A lanky, freckled guy whose stance looked too rigid and well-behaved for prison. Donut thought about saying hello, but he was afraid.
A guard paced along the walkway, holding a clipboard. He stopped in front of each cell, checking that the inmate was there and ticking them off. He stopped a couple of cells down and tapped on the bars.
“Come on, Grif, you have to get up!” he called. There was an angry mumble in reply. “Yeah, fuck you, too.” The guard looked at the lanky inmate. “Simmons, make sure he doesn't try to stay in bed all day.”
“Yes, sir,” the lanky inmate said immediately.
The guard nodded approvingly before moving on. When he stopped in front of Donut and squinted at his face, Donut noticed that one of the guard's eyes was damaged. There was a scar across it and the eye itself was milky white. Donut shivered.
“You're, uh...” The guard looked down at his clipboard. “...Donut? Wow, that's a name.” A couple of feet away, Simmons snorted quietly under his breath. “How much of a rundown have you gotten? I know the warden isn't the easiest person to talk to and... which guard led you here?”
“Tex.”
“Tex, huh? She can be pretty rough. Yeah, that's not a great start.” The guard looked at Simmons. “Can you handle guiding this kid around?”
“Yes, sir.”
The guard nodded again before looking at Donut. “Simmons will guide you around, then. You'll be fine. He's pretty well behaved for a murderer.”
“Uh,” Donut replied.
“If you have any problems, you can come to me. Name's York. I'm the nice guard—“
A guard from further away shouted, “York, get back to work!”
“Alright, alright!” York grinned sheepishly at Donut before moving on. As he did so, an inmate wandered out of the cell next to Simmons'. A fat Hawaiian guy who was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.
“Don't smoke that shit near me, fatass,” Simmons complained. “Bad enough you're messing up your own lungs. Don't screw mine up as well.”
“Fuck you, that's a bonus,” Fatass retorted. “Might shut up your kissassing. 'Yes, sir, I'll wake him up. Yes, sir, I'll guide around the new fish.' What's next, you gonna shine his shoes and give him a blowjob?”
Simmons rolled his eyes. Fatass shifted a little so he could see Donut better. He looked him up and down before holding out his pack of cigarettes.
“Want one, new guy? One-time offer.”
“Um... is it true that cigarettes are used as currency? I saw it in a movie once and—”
“Well, I mean... sometimes. Anything people want, really.”
Donut eyed the cigarette packet before taking one warily. He didn't smoke, but it couldn't hurt to have something to offer. “Um. Thanks.”
“No problem.” The fatass took the pack back and stuck it back in his pocket. “I'm Grif. The kissass showing you around is Simmons. You're... is Donut actually your name? Is there literally anything else I can call you?”
“Um. Everyone calls me Donut. They always have.”
“That's awful. Nothing you face here's gonna be as cruel as whoever gave you that name,” Grif said.
“Oh. Really?”
“Well, no. Everything kind of sucks here. Or really sucks.”
“...Oh.”
Simmons rolled his eyes. “Grif, you're not helping.”
“Who said I was trying to help?”
At that point, the inmates further away started moving. Grif perked up and moved past Simmons and Donut.
“You handle the new kid, I've got shit to do,” he said before slipping past the people ahead and disappearing into the crowd.
“What's he—“
“Ugh. You'll see.” Simmons nodded his head forward. “Come on.”
Donut fell into step just behind Simmons, looking around apprehensively at the inmates around them and trying to look like he wasn't afraid.
“First-timer, right?”
“Is it that obvious?” Donut mumbled.
“Oh yeah, it is.” Simmons caught the look on Donut's face and said, “That doesn't mean you're going to die. Just try to look less afraid of things. Pretty much all of the guys on our row are first-timers, it's just... well, life sentences.”
“They all only committed one crime?”
“I didn't say that. I said they only got caught once.”
“Oh.”
They walked along quietly before Simmons said, “Since I'm your designated guide, I should probably ask... you have any questions?”
“Um, yeah, I was kind of... is there anywhere I can order stuff? I kind of wanted some lace—uh, I mean. Not lace.”
Simmons stopped to turn and stare at him. “Lace.”
“Erm... I mean... base. Baseball. Yes, I wanted baseballs.”
Simmons stared at him for a few more moments before saying, “Okay, uh... word of advice, since you seem set on getting transferred to the female prison. Don't put lace in your cell. Just don't. You don't want that kind of attention unless they have some great reason for leaving you alone. Here? Girliness? Really bad.”
“Yeah, I... okay. I meant baseballs.”
“No, you didn't.” Simmons started walking again. They were falling a little behind. “Now, if you need something... they might have it at the commissary. For basic things, go there. Snacks. Soap that hasn't been used by fifty guys. Things like that. We all have our accounts, and any money we earn from work goes into them. Same for any money sent from the outside.”
“I don't have any money from the outside. Not right now, I... a lot went into lawyer fees and cleaning up and stuff. Haven't managed contact with my mothers yet, either.”
“Too bad. Anyway, you can't use physical money, although you might get it here or there through... uh, not legal ways. But our prison has stamps that can be used. Kind of like prison currency.”
“Then why do I need the cigarette?”
“Sometimes bartering is cheaper. Supply and demand. Especially if... if you want something under the table.” Simmons kept his voice down, keeping a wary eye out for guards. “I prefer to stick with the commissary—no chance of getting in trouble—but if you need something they don't have... well, you have to go through other channels. Black market channels. Anything hard to get is expensive. Cigarettes are valuable. There's always someone who wants cigarettes. Other things are valuable, too. You wouldn't get much with one cigarette, though.”
“Can I know who? Not that I'm going to—“
“Your best bet is Wyoming. There's a few small-time smugglers here and there. But Wyoming can get anything. He's been here for a long time, lifer in a different block. Older man. Mustache. You will see the mustache.”
“Okay. So... commissary and Wyoming.”
“Right.” Simmons spoke at a normal volume again. “Now... guards. Most guards are okay. Just doing their jobs. Be really well-behaved around Tex, Wash and South. They're much harsher. York and North are more easygoing, although pushing North too far is a really bad idea. He's got a mean streak—he's related to South—it's just better hidden.”
“...North and South?”
“North and South Dakota. Don't make fun of their names. If you need to...” Simmons lowered his voice. “If you have to squeal, don't go to York, whatever you do. He can't lie at all under pressure. North's the most likely to keep you anonymous. But really... you shouldn't do that at all. If anyone finds out...” Simmons let the sentence hang.
“I know what happens to prison snitches,” Donut said.
“I hope so. You look like the type, okay? Just warning you.”
“Eh? Oh, I guess I can see that.” Donut had been a huge gossip in the past.
They entered the cafeteria. Most of the inmates had already lined up and a fair amount had sat down at the tables to eat. Donut followed Simmons to the line, peering around. He saw that Grif had already gotten his food, but was wandering the tables and talking to various inmates. A pile of fruit was accumulating on his tray. Donut glanced at Simmons, who was watching Grif with disapproval.
“He's going to kill his liver one day,” Simmons muttered.
To Donut's mild surprise and delight, despite what the movies had told him, the food was not as terrible as he'd anticipated. He'd expected gruel or food with bugs living in it. Instead he got cereal, a bread roll, a piece of fruit and a box of orange juice. Cheap quality, it was true, but otherwise rather similar to what Donut would have eaten if he didn't have time to cook pancakes.
“You'll get sick of it soon enough,” Simmons muttered when Donut voiced this sentiment out-loud. Grif, meanwhile, had gotten into an argument with someone on the other side of the cafeteria. Simmons eyed this development, frowning, before saying, “Wait here. Just making sure he doesn't do anything dumb.”
Donut watched Simmons leave to talk to Grif and the inmate he was arguing with. He stood there for a few moments before wondering where he was supposed to go. Other inmates were jostling him slightly as they moved past, though it didn't seem to be on purpose. Maybe he should go somewhere less crowded—
Donut moved a step to the left and immediately walked smack into a wall. Only it couldn't be a wall because he was still in the middle of the cafeteria.
Donut froze, then breathed in slowly. He was almost too terrified to turn and look, but he managed it and came face to face with a wall of orange fabric. He had to look upwards to see the inmate's face. It reminded him of his old roommate, and that was just not what he wanted to remember right now.
“Oh my god,” Donut squeaked. “Please don't hurt me.”
It was not his bravest moment.
The inmate blinked slowly at him, scrunching his nose a little. Panic was building in Donut's chest. This man was the exact kind he'd been afraid to meet in prison. Built along the lines of a gorilla. He knew how this was going to go. The inmate would grin and make a lot of comments about how pretty he was—because Donut was pretty, dammit, and normally he was happy about it but—and then he'd somehow arrange to get Donut as his cellmate because all the crazy, rapey psychos had connections and—
All those thoughts flew out the window as soon as the inmate opened his mouth. Out came the most cheerfully dimwitted voice Donut had ever heard.
“Hello! You are the new person! You are very tiny!” the man said. He did grin at Donut, but it was a genuinely friendly smile.
“I... I'm not that tiny. You're just ginormous,” Donut said under his breath.
“My name is Caboose! Church said that was a fitting name, but I do not know what he meant.” Caboose reached out and shook Donut's hand cheerfully, nearly breaking all his fingers in the process. “I saw you come in yesterday. You are on the Red side! Which means, according to angry sergeant, that we are mortar M&Ms.”
“What? ...Did you mean mortal enemies?”
“Yes. Mortar M&Ms,” Caboose said seriously. “Because of the colours. Red M&Ms are meaner. That is what the commercials said. But we will be the best, most friendliest mortar M&Ms ever.”
Donut was completely lost at this point and felt it best to simply agree. “Uh, sure. M&Ms for life.”
Caboose smiled brightly at him in response. Before he could say anything else, Simmons reappeared. He was dragging Grif with him.
“You met Caboose, I see. That's almost everyone from our row, then,” Simmons said. He shot Caboose a wary glance, before nudging Donut slightly away from him. “Come on. We sit over here. Best not to go sitting with strangers.”
They started making their way towards the tables. Donut still following just behind Simmons. Grif, however, fell back a little to walk next to Caboose.
“Hey, Caboose,” Grif said. “Can I have your fruit? I'll give you a tiny chocolate bar.”
“I have to eat the fruit and get the vitamins and be big and strong,” Caboose said stubbornly.
“I think you have that covered, dude. Any bigger and you won't fit in your cell.”
“I have always wanted to be taller.” Caboose shuffled forward more to be next to Donut. “You do not look like a murderer, Mister... uh...”
“Donut.”
“I miss donuts as well. Especially the kind with sprinkles.”
“No, that's my name. I'm not a murderer. It was self-defence. I'm a victim of circumstance.”
Grif laughed and said, “Sure you are. And I'm president of Alaska. Simmons is First Lady.”
“Alaska isn't a country, idiot,” Simmons grumbled.
Caboose nodded seriously. “People say I am guilty, too.”
“You're innocent?” Donut asked curiously. Now that he was getting over the sheer size of Caboose, he didn't seem that scary. He just seemed like a little kid who'd been fed way too many steroids.
“If innocent means 'in heavy denial' then Caboose is the most innocent there is,” Simmons said.
“They fell and strangled themselves at the same time,” Caboose said, frowning. “We do not think it was anyone's fault.”
Nevermind. Donut was still terrified.
The three inmates sat down at a table. Donut hesitated, holding his tray tightly. There were two others already there. Donut recognised one as the Goatee Inmate that Tex had stopped to talk to the previous night. He didn't recognise the other one, a short black guy who was currently using the blunt end of his spoon to try and carve the shape of a penis into the table. Neither of them were paying attention to the others, instead talking quietly about something else.
Simmons looked up and, noticing that Donut hadn't sat down yet, said, “No-one's going to eat you, Donut. Maybe Grif might if he's still hungry, but—”
“Fuck off, Simmons.”
Donut took a deep breath and sat down between Simmons and Caboose, tray clattering in front of him. The guy drawing dicks on the table looked up and grinned at him.
“You're the guy Church was picking on yesterday. He's an asshole, don't worry about him,” he said.
Goatee Guy made an irritated noise, but didn't rebuke the statement.
“Oh. It's, uh... it's okay?”
“You don't seem too sure.” The guy reached out across the table in an attempt to offer his hand. “Nice to meet you, I'm—“
Grif reached over before Donut could shake his hand and pushed the man's hand away. “He's a prick. Don't talk to him.”
The guy frowned. “Don't be an ass, Grif. What's your damage?” He didn't reach out again, but continued talking to Donut like nothing had happened. “I'm Tucker. Grumpy McDickface here is Church.” He gestured at the goatee guy. “And I see you already met Caboose. We try to take him out for regular walks to stop him bothering people.”
“Yard time,” Caboose said happily.
“Yeah, that.” Tucker gave up carving penises into the table, instead picking up his juice box and poking the straw through it. “Has anyone punched you yet?”
Donut let out a squeaking noise before coughing in an attempt to cover it up.
“Smooth,” Grif muttered.
“No. They... no. Should they have?” Donut asked.
“They probably will. It's kind of a tradition. You get punched in the face or stabbed or whatever. And then people are like 'that guy's not dead. He's cool.'”
“Just so you know—“ Simmons started. “Those are the Blues. Don't socialise with them while Sarge is around, or he'll accuse you of fraternizing with the enemy.”
“But... you're sitting with them,” Donut said slowly.
“We're not much for logic at this table,” Grif said. “The whole 'red vs. blue' thing is stupid, anyway.”
“Blue vs. red,” Caboose said. “It sounds stupid when you say it backwards.”
“It's not stupid. Sarge is just keeping us alert,” Simmons said.
“Ugh, you kissass.” Grif leaned a bit on the table, gesturing at Donut's tray. “Hey, new kid.”
“Donut.”
“Still a dumb name. You gonna eat the fruit?”
Donut looked down at his untouched food. He felt too nervous to eat, and he wanted to stay on everyone's good side. “You can have it.”
“Don't give stuff away for free,” Tucker said. “That's dumb.”
“No take-backs.” Grif picked up the piece of fruit with a grin. “Thanks.”
“If you don't mind me asking... why the pile of fruit?” Donut asked Grif. “Do you like fruit?”
Simmons snorted derisively. “Grif liking something healthy? Fuck no.”
“Healthy food is for chumps,” Grif said. “Nah, I'm making pruno.” He moved the pile of fruit on his tray to one side. “You know what that is?” Donut shook his head. “It's alcohol. Prison wine, basically. Do you know how difficult it is to procure proper alcohol in here? Wyoming can get it, but it's really expensive. So, pruno.”
“It's fucking disgusting,” Simmons said. “You know how he makes it? He dumps fruit, old bread crumbs, orange juice and other junk in a plastic bag and lets it rot under his bed.”
“Eww.”
“I've been working on moonshine, too. But it's harder to come across the ingredients and keep it long enough for it to do its thing. Anyway, you two can complain all you want,” Grif said, in a holier-than-thou voice. “But when you're all sad and sober don't come crying to me.”
“Don't come crying to us when you get caught and get black marks on your record. Might fuck up your parole chances.”
“Worth it,” Grif said confidently. “Keep the attitude up and I won't let you have any.”
“Whoop-de-fucking-doo.”
Grif and Simmons continued to bicker. Donut looked around at the rest of the table. Caboose, for some reason, had dumped his cereal out of the bowl and onto the tray. He was now sorting it into two neat piles. Church wasn't paying attention to anyone. He was picking at his cereal and watching someone on the other side of the room. Tucker, however, was still looking at Donut.
“You dealing well? You afraid? First-timers usually are. Fuck, who wouldn't be? I was about ready to shit myself when I got here,” Tucker said, playing with the straw of his juice box. “It's not that bad. Okay, so there are assholes. Exhibit A.” He gestured to the table at large. He received three middle fingers and a puzzled stare from Caboose. “But they're not that bad. Most of us just want to get out without dying or getting extra prison time.”
“So it's an exaggeration? Prison's safe?”
“Oh, it's not safe. I mean, it's 'not bad' in the sense that it's not as bad as testicular torture.” Tucker turned to Church. “There's no-one who does that, right?”
Donut's eyes widened slightly.
“The point is, y'know... friends. Friends are where it's at. Or at least, you know... assholes who don't want to stab you. We can be those people for you. Fuck, you're already in the same row, so—“
“Hey, Donut,” Grif interrupted, louder than what seemed necessary. “What do you think about moonshine? I mean, lifetime of no alcohol? That's not worth the tiny chance the guards will bother to clean my cell out, right?”
“Oh, uh... I guess it makes sense. I like fruitier drinks. Not in a... made of rotten oranges way, but—“
The conversation devolved into the merits of alcohol. Even so, Donut caught the glare that Grif shot at Tucker, who in turn just rolled his eyes and went back to chatting at Church. Donut wondered why Grif seemed so against him. Tucker seemed alright to him.
As Donut tried to finish his cereal—it wasn't bad, but it tasted slightly stale—and ignore his queasy, nerve-wracked stomach, a ringing bell went off and everyone started to climb to their feet.
“What's happening?”
“Work hours. You were probably assigned to the laundry room, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Our whole row is. Changing jobs might be possible, but it'll require special talents or good behavior at least. They wouldn't give Grif a position in the kitchens, but that's just because it's Grif.” Simmons got to his feet, picking up Donut's tray as well as his own. “If there's anything you need from that tray, grab it now. I'll take your tray over to where we dump them.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Grif dropped his tray in Simmons' hands, too. The pile of fruit had disappeared. Donut wondered where Grif was hiding it. He grabbed Donut's arm and steered him away from the table. Donut glanced back at the Blues. Church and Tucker were talking to each other and not paying much attention to the things around them. Caboose waved happily at Donut, who waved half-heartedly back.
Once he and Grif were out of the cafeteria and following the crowds presumably moving towards where they worked, Grif let out a little sigh.
“Alright, they can't hear us. Probably.”
“Who can't?”
“Them. The Blues.” Grif glanced casually around before tugging Donut a little closer and lowering his voice. “Listen, we didn't want to say it in front of them. But be careful what you say around the Blues, alright?”
“Are the sporting games Sarge runs that serious?”
“Fuck no, it's not about that. It's not because they're blue. It's because they're assholes.” Grif looked behind them and frowned. There were some guards nearing them. Tex was among them. “Look, just... don't piss off Caboose. Don't believe anything Tucker says. And... just keep away from Church, if you can.”
“Why?”
“Later. Just... be careful around those assholes, alright?”
“Alright. Thanks.”
“Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't.”
It was official. Orange had replaced pea-soup green as Donut's least favourite colour.
Less than twenty-four hours and he was sick of it. The ugly orange colour was everywhere and the laundry room was even worse than the rest of the prison about it. Everywhere he looked there were stacks upon stacks upon even more stacks of orange jumpsuits.
Donut normally liked doing laundry. He certainly had at home, but he'd had fabric softener there. Donut liked nice, clean clothes that had been soaked thoroughly in brand-name fabric softener so that it felt like he was wearing clouds. These jumpsuits were, at best, coarse and itchy. At worst, they were horribly stained and sometimes torn.
Most of the time Donut could guess what had made the stains. Yellow stains. Macaroni. White stains. Meant people fucked too quick and forgot to clean themselves off. Ew. Occasionally, he found the rusty brown of old bloodstains, and tried to pretend he hadn't seen it.
His curiosity was nagging at him. Donut had been skirting around Church—difficult considering they were stuck in the same laundry room—and because Church was constantly nearby Donut couldn't ask Grif more questions about what he'd meant.
It was driving him insane. Although proper insanity would probably help time pass quicker. Then he might not notice his youth slipping away from him. He was still majorly bummed about that. He wasn't even allowed to legally drink yet. He was a year off from being allowed to all the cool parties and nice drinks with fruit and tiny umbrellas in them, and wham. Prison. If he ever got out, he'd at least be in his forties. By then his life would be over.
If he ever got out, he was going to do background checks on all his roommates.
As Donut glared at the piles of jumpsuits and bemoaned the absence of fabric softener he heard someone speak up behind him.
“Why do you keep skirting around me like I'm a goddamn disease?” Church asked irritably, making Donut jump. He shrieked a little, but quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself making too much of a scene. “Well? Why are you avoiding me?”
Donut opened his mouth to answer Church's question before closing it again. He didn't actually have an answer.
“Uh. Well, uh... you know, these clothes could really use some fabric softener!” Donut said, trying to turn Church's attention to the closest pile of jumpsuits. Church glanced at the pile that Donut was brandishing his hands at, then back at Donut.
“Are you trying to put a giant neon 'I'm gay as a unicorn' sign on your forehead? Because people can already tell.”
“I, uh... don't know what you're—“
Church snorted. “Seriously? You have bleached blond hair and you wave your hips around far too much for a straight guy.”
“Do not.”
“Yeah, you do. Add in the lace thing and—“
“How'd you know about the lace?”
“Well, when you act like a fucking idiot and tell everyone—“
“I told one person!”
“Yeah, you did.” Church rested against one of the washing machines, although he looked around first to make sure none of the guards were watching him. The only guard nearby was York, and he was distracted trying to figure out how Caboose had gotten his head stuck in one of the jumpsuits. “Look, I'm just saying... either you're gay or really girly, and people don't distinguish all that good here.”
Donut tried edging away from Church without him noticing.
“Now, if that's the mental image you want to project? Go ahead. It's classier than Tucker's 'fuck anything with with an orifice and a working set of lungs' deal. Thinks it doesn't count as gay if he says 'no homo.' Classless motherfucker.”
“Fuck you, I'm classy as shit!” Tucker called out from further away.
“Uh huh, sure. Anyway, just saying.” Church looked sideways at Donut and said, “Look, try not to broadcast whatever it is. People see it, they might take it as an invitation. Assume that because you're gay you'll enjoy it. You know what happens in prison, right?”
“Currency,” Donut whispered, shivering.
“Fuck no. They wouldn't trade you away. Not the closest thing the prison has to a woman, even including Tex and South.” Church snorted and mimed carving something with his hands. “I'd give it a week before someone tattoos their name on your ass and makes you a prison trophy wife.”
Donut quickly stepped away from Church, at the same time instinctively tugging his jacket down in an attempt to cover his ass. “Please don't! Don't, I—“
“What? No! No, no, no, fuck, I didn't say I would!” Church looked angry at the insinuation. “I was trying to warn you! Goddamn, I've done some bad shit. But I'm not a fucking rapist. Hell, even Tucker will ask. All I'm saying is that not everyone has our standards.”
Donut did not stop gripping his jacket. He looked around for Grif and Simmons, and saw that they'd gotten involved in another argument and weren't paying attention.
“I didn't... mean it like that. I just... you sounded like you were—“
“Nah, it's fucking disgusting. Look, I won't jump you. That's gross in like nine different ways. But what I'm saying is there's guys who get off on the struggle. And the guards... well, they don't always stop it. They especially don't trust word of it.”
“What? But, I mean... if someone told them...”
Church shook his head. He watched York try to pull the jumpsuit off Caboose's head for a few moments. “I'm not saying they'd all watch. But most don't care enough to seek out the truth. It's just a tragedy of the prison system, right? Don't do the crime, don't get fucked.”
“That's... but...”
“You don't have to tell me it's fucked up.”
Donut was twisting the jumpsuit he was holding in his hands. He knew he'd have to iron it again, but his brain was too busy supplying him with horrible, vivid imagery to concentrate on wrinkled clothes. He pictured faceless men in the orange jumpsuits, leering smiles and all built along the lines of Caboose.
God, he should not have watched all those movies. No more prison films. No more prison-themed porn. Not that he felt like it, anyway. Prison in real life was way more than enough.
“Why are you telling me this?” Donut asked quietly.
“Because no-one was nice enough to warn me when I got here. And you seem like an easy target. Besides, do I need a reason? Most don't deserve it. So... anyway, you have three options here. One, you could just accept that people are going to corner you. Try not to struggle too much and hope they get bored. It'll be painful, humiliating and you'll be forever labeled as a bitch. But you probably won't bleed to death.
“The second option? You could try to fight back. But with you?” Church snickered a little. “Er, I wouldn't call it an option. Try to punch a giant guy who's got you turned around and—“
“I don't need you to explain...”
“Good! Then you're not as dumb as you look. Anyway, that way you probably will bleed out. But whatever. Third option.”
Donut stopped twisting the jumpsuit and attempted to flatten it out again, trying to smooth the wrinkles. He couldn't even begin to guess the third option, given how nasty the first two were. The third couldn't be worse, could it?
“What's the third one?”
“You hire protection. I can organize things so that no-one can touch you.”
“Really? You can do that? Wouldn't that be difficult? I mean, if the guards can't keep things safe—“
“The difference is the guards have to look out for everyone, and the inmates outnumber them many times over. I get someone to watch you, on the other hand... well, they're just looking out for you. It's very exclusive. Like one of those clubs that sell the fruity drinks but only let you in if you're well-dressed, to put it in your sort of language.”
“...Are you insinuating that gay people speak a different language?”
“Deal?”
“I don't have anything to trade.”
“Not yet. But maybe that'll change. Maybe you'll see or hear about someone doing something they shouldn't. Attacks, smuggling, plans to stick it to someone. If you heard something like that? Or even better, hear things like that regularly? Well, I'd consider that valuable enough.”
“Oh my god.” Donut pointed a still-manicured finger at Church. “You're a prison snitch.”
“I'm not a fucking snitch!” Church snapped, though in a hushed tone. “I'm a blackmailer.”
“How is that different?!”
“It's more beneficial to my health.” He crossed his arms, scowling. “I'm silent as long as people pay the price. Snitches get rewards from the guards for telling on everyone. There's a difference.”
Donut let out a doubtful little 'hrm.' “Uh... well, sure. Whatever you say. So you want me to pass information along to you? Like, secret stuff?”
“If you hear anything. You could also pay me with what you earn doing laundry, but we get next to nothing. Like, minimum wage would look like the stuff of billionaires from down here. Some build their own little inside businesses... y'know, selling spare food or jailhouse liquor and shit. But that takes time to set up, and the longer you wait...” Church trailed off and shrugged. “But hey, odds are you'll hear something somewhere. What do you say?”
Donut still thought it sounded like snitching, and nothing good ever happened to snitching. Sure, he was a gossip. But snitching? Donut would prefer to live.
Still, he was afraid to say a straight-out no to Church. Not after Grif's warning, and honestly... maybe it was just the creepy general prison atmosphere, but Church made him uneasy.
“I... will consider it,” Donut said slowly, turning back to his laundry.
“Suit yourself, Donut. But the longer you wait, the longer they have to jump you. Just a friendly warning. And trust me when I say you're going to need friends in here. You won't survive otherwise. Loners never do.”
“Right... okay...” Donut mumbled, picking up his laundry basket. He made to leave, but Church grabbed the edge of the basket before Donut could pull away.
“One more thing. Tell Grif to shut his fucking mouth.”
Church let go of the basket, and Donut hurried away as fast as he could while still trying to look like he wasn't afraid.
“Yeah, Church is an asshole,” Simmons said.
“I guessed.”
Lunch was right after laundry duty, and right now only Donut and Simmons were at their little table. Grif had been held up, because he'd somehow offended Sarge with his existence. Something that Simmons assured him was a regular occurrence. As for Church, Tucker and Caboose, they were still lining up for their food.
Since Grif hadn't been there for Donut to explain Church's offer to, he'd gone to Simmons. Given that Grif and Simmons has spent the entire day so far, barring this one moment, joined at the hip, and that Grif hadn't said 'by the way, don't say shit to Simmons,' Donut assumed it was okay.
“But how'd he know Grif told me to look out?” Donut was pushing his macaroni around with his spoon. Much like breakfast, lunch was edible but muted where flavour was concerned.
Simmons shrugged. “Wasn't there, can't say. He might have just guessed.”
“Does it happen often?”
“Sometimes. Honestly, as much of an asshole as Church is, I would rather stay out of it. I don't need him bringing up things that'll get me more years in here.” Simmons coughed nervously and added, “Not that there are things that I was never convicted of, of course. Definitely not things he might have found out about. That would just be crazy.”
“...Right.” Donut ate a spoonful of macaroni before continuing. “So he just goes around blackmailing everyone? How does he keep getting away with it? I thought snitches got, y'know...” Donut made a stabbing gesture with his spoon. “Uh. Shanked? Shivved? Silenced?”
“Technically he's not a snitch.”
“It still sounds like snitching, though.”
“That's because it totally is snitching.” Grif appeared, plopping into the chair next to Simmons. He was holding a food tray, but it didn't have the same food on it. Instead of a bowl of macaroni and cheese with some vegetables on the side, he had a strangely gelatinous-looking loaf of a similar colour to the macaroni. Donut watched it with morbid fascination for a moment before looking back at Grif and Simmons.
“So... he just snitches on people and doesn't get attacked?”
“He's a slippery motherfucker,” Simmons grumbled. “There are so many people around here who would love to give Church a good pounding. God knows I would.” After a moment, Simmons flushed lobster red and waved his hands. “That came out wrong! Beatings. I meant punching. The regular kind of punching.”
“Smooth,” Grif said, grinning.
“Shut up, Grif.”
“Sorry, I have to ask...” Donut jammed his spoon in the direction of the loaf on Grif's tray. “Is that actual food?”
Simmons started laughing, although he hastily turned it into a cough. “It has the nutrients that we're obliged to receive by law, but... what's your definition of 'actual food?'”
“Okay, uh... what is it, then?”
“The log. Punishment food,” Grif muttered bitterly. Simmons started snickering again. “Shut the fuck up, Simmons.”
“Is it poisonous?”
“I'm told no, though the taste would make you think otherwise.” Grif prodded it with his spoon moodily. It jiggled ominously. “It's their way of ruining the best part of the day.”
“Can... can I try it?” Donut asked slowly. “I have to know what it tastes like. It can't be as horrible as you're claiming.”
Grif snorted. “Ohhh, you'll see.” He slid the tray towards Donut, who stuck his spoon in and pried away a small glob of it. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it for a moment before going slightly green.
“Mmph,” he groaned, as Grif and Simmons both burst out laughing. Without any napkins to spit the mouthful into, Donut was forced to swallow it. “Oh my god, that is putrid!”
“Congratulations, Donut. You've passed the first step into becoming a true member of this prison,” Simmons said, grinning. “If you can withstand the log, you can withstand anything.” Grif nodded in agreement, though he was still laughing too much to actually speak. It was infectious, and Donut smiled despite the fact that his stomach was turning from just that one bite.
Grif finally regained his calm enough to talk again. “Ah, good times. So, what're we talking about?” Upon receiving a brief rundown of the Church situation his smile did a one-eighty almost immediately. “Oh. That fucker. It's not really Church you need to worry about so much. I mean, yeah, he's like... the center of it, but—”
“Church is more dangerous. He's the boss,” Simmons said. “And you've heard the shit he's done.”
“But he's nothing without the other two. Especially Tucker, that son of a motherfucker. Aargh.” Grif smooshed part of the log with his spoon, face twisting angrily.
“Tucker doesn't look scary,” Donut said, peering over at the line. He could see Tucker saying something to Church. As Donut watched, he made some rather obscene hand gestures. Church responded by smacking him lightly over the back of the head.
“That's why he's a problem. Tucker's a con. And goddamn, he might act like a fucking idiot... and actually turn into one if there's a set of boobs in the room—“
“Not counting Grif's rack, of course,” Simmons said dryly.
“You know what I mean. Chick-tits, not man-tits. Anyway, that guy has like... kind of this easy-to-talk-to vibe, did you notice? Friendly. Way more friendly than most are in here. You gotta head him off fast.” Grif poked moodily at his food again. “Fucker. One minute, he's bonding with you over laziness and a mutual love of pornography. Then bam. Suddenly Church is blackmailing you with the fact that your sister is doing a bunch of weird drugs, and that it would take just one urine test to get her arrested, because you let it slip to Tucker like an idiot.”
“He gets distracted if you flash a porn magazine at him,” Simmons said helpfully. “It's his kryptonite.”
“Alright, so Tucker's an ass.” Donut prodded at his food lightly, more focused on the conversation than actually eating. “And that works on everyone? Just sending Tucker in and threatening them with blackmail?”
“It doesn't all come from Tucker. And blackmail doesn't always work. Some people just don't have any dirt, or they're too batshit crazy to care about it. But they still can't touch him because he's got Caboose. Would you want to attack him with Caboose standing there?”
Donut shivered. “Definitely not.”
“And on top of that, we're pretty sure he has guard connections. With Tex, at the very least. I heard a rumor they used to bang.”
“We don't know that,” Simmons interrupted.
“Yeah, but it's a maybe. He's got something going on there, at any rate, and having a connection with the guards... well, that brings perks. She passes on shit. Items. Information. Church probably knew you were coming before you got here.”
Donut was still pushing his food around. Once again, he felt too nervous to eat. “Is she allowed to do that?”
“No. But she's the best guard this place has. No way they'll fire her.” Simmons drummed his fingers against the table for a moment before eying Donut. “Did you piss off Church?”
“Um. A little. I might have said the snitch thing out loud,” Donut admitted. Simmons groaned in response. “Why? Is he, uh... the easily offended and stabby type?”
“Mn. No. You're probably okay, for now. Church doesn't really stab people personally, and not for things that small. He's easy to make mad, if he stabbed everyone he was mad at there'd be no-one left. But...” Simmons pulled a face. “Suspicious incidents have been known to happen.”
“Suspicious?”
Donut was interrupted by Simmons raising a hand to shush him, glancing over at the cafeteria line. While Simmons confirmed that Church was still occupied, Grif took the chance to steal his macaroni.
“Eh? Hey! Grif, give me back my food!”
“Licked it!”
“Fuck!”
Grif sniggered and stuck a spoonful of the macaroni in his mouth. “Tastes like victory. Here, have the log.”
“Get that shit away from me.”
“Then you can have the vegetables. Anyway...” He turned back to Donut. “When people annoy Church too much... well, they tend to die. Like Phil and Joannes.”
“I think his name was Jones,” Simmons said slowly.
“No, it was definitely Joannes.”
“What happened to them?”
“Well, Phil was a guard. Really had it in for Church,” Simmons said. “Not quite sure why. Most guards don't care one way or another, not enough to beat up on us, but... well, Phil just had it in for Church.” Simmons glanced at Grif. “You ever find out why?”
“Something about past crimes. Church hates talking about it, and apparently bringing it up gets you immediately on his bad side.”
“Well, anyway, one day there's a fight between them,” Simmons continued. “A bad one, and Church lands in the infirmary for a week. Next day, there's a riot in the cafeteria, and when it clears... there's Phil lying on the floor. Dead as... well, dead.”
“Smooth.”
“Shut up.”
“And you saw who killed him?” Donut asked. He had the spoon halfway to his mouth, but had forgotten about it. The macaroni had long since fallen off.
“No concrete proof. But his head had been crushed like a grape. Not many strong enough to do that, and Caboose is one of the few. I don't know if he did it on his own initiative, whether it was Church's orders, or what... but I wouldn't put it past him. And if he tried asking Caboose, he'd probably say the guy fell.”
Donut winced. “And Joannes?”
“I'm still sure it's Jones. He was a con-artist, too. Got up in Church's shit, and when Church tried to blackmail him... well, Jones blackmailed him right back. There was quite the little war between those two. Apparently Jones had some good contacts.”
“And what happened? Caboose crush him, too?”
“No.” Grif hooked a finger under his collar and pulled it up. He slumped his head and mimed hanging himself. “Suicide.”
“But... but that's not murder, right?”
“Maybe. But Tucker had been talking to him a lot recently,” Simmons said flatly. “And really... it probably wouldn't be hard to talk Jones into it. We're in prison. For some, death's the only way out, and Jones was a lifer. Maybe Tucker put pressure on the bad parts until Jones broke. Or maybe Jones was just tired of prison life. But it was just so convenient...”
Simmons clammed up immediately as Church, Tucker and Caboose finally headed towards them. Church grunted in recognition of the three as he sat down. Tucker grinned and winked at Donut as he passed by. Caboose greeted him with a cheerful 'Muffin Man!' Now that the topic of the conversation was sitting at the table, Simmons returned to arguing with Grif, this time about the various incidents that had occurred between Grif and Sarge.
They all seemed so at ease. Meanwhile, Donut was trying not to shake or start fiddling with his food or betray any signs of nervousness. It took everything he had not to freak out just looking at Caboose (his head had been crushed like a grape) building a little tower with his macaroni, or Tucker (put pressure on the bad parts until Jones broke) making jokes about boobs, while Church (when people annoy Church too much... well, they tend to die) steadily ignored him.
Even Grif and Simmons... Donut couldn't help but be suspicious of them now, because they were being nice, sure... but if Church and his friends were so bad, why were they sitting with them? What had they done to get here? Donut knew absolutely nothing about them. Then again, the unknown wasn't bad. Donut had definitely been less afraid before Grif and Simmons had explained everything to him.
Ignorance was bliss, after all.
After lunch, they were allowed to go outside. Donut breathed a sigh of relief once he got out there. He'd never liked being inside for too long and that feeling was quintupled once you were surrounded by brick walls, bars and ugly, orange jumpsuits.
Sure, the yard wasn't pretty. It was made out of grey concrete, grey concrete and—for an amazing change of pace—more grey concrete. There were walls surrounding it. Donut could see the huge gate which he had gone through less than twenty-four hours ago. It was all concrete, wire and guards. There were a few pigeons which hopped around the emptier parts of the courtyard. Donut was reminded for a moment of the parks back home, with the old people tossing bread at the pigeons. Donut didn't like pigeons much. They were smelly and diseased. And in a strange way, the grey pigeons matched the grey walls and the grey concrete floors.
But Donut could see the sun. That was something.
“I'm gonna go have a smoke,” Grif grunted. “I wanna do it away from the guards. York keeps trying to borrow my damn lighter. Apparently he can't use his because of sentimental reasons. Why even have a lighter, then?! Get a new goddamn lighter! You want to come with, Donut?”
“Erm... no, thank you.” Donut hated cigarette smoke.
“Okay. Come on, Simmons!”
“Why do I have to go?” Simmons complained.
“You need to be my lookout. For lighter vultures.”
“That's not a thing!”
"Tell that to Wyoming, I'm pretty sure he makes a business of it."
Regardless, Grif hauled Simmons away and they both vanished into the mass of jumpsuits. Donut found a bench and sat down pretty quickly, hoping the bench wasn't dibsed by some hardcore gang or something. He didn't know what else to do. Normally, this was the time of day he'd do his exercises. But there was no way he was going to ask anyone here to hold his ankles while he stretched out his hammies. No. Flipping. Way.
He sat there quietly for a while, peering around. He saw the Blues on the other side of the yard. Church was currently talking to one of the older-looking inmates on the other side of the yard, while Tucker clowned around him and occasionally threw in some occasional words. Caboose was standing to one side quietly, more interested in the pigeons than whatever Church was doing.
Donut absently moved to twist part of his hair around his finger, a nervous tic he'd often performed on the outside, but he stopped halfway. He couldn't do that. Not in prison. Nothing girly. Nothing that the others would see as gay. Donut was quick enough to admit that anywhere else... yeah, he could be pretty stereotypical. Girly things and fruity drinks and interior decorating were fun, alright? But he had to squash that down or get jumped in the showers.
He hated this place already.
Donut glared angrily at the concrete ground, too concentrated on it to hear the quiet footsteps behind him. He didn't notice anything until a hand rested on his shoulder and something was jammed against his back. Something pointy.
“Don't look surprised. Don't look shocked or upset. Pretend we're having a normal, pleasant conversation. Don't even turn around.” These words were half-mocking in tone, and it almost sounded like the man behind him was on the verge of breaking into laughter. “Don't listen? And you bleed out. It's all fun for me.”
Donut didn't say anything, although he started to shake. Whatever was being jammed into his back dug in.
“Sooo... you're the fresh fish. Donut, isn't it? Foolish name. Fits your nature, does it?” The man laughed quietly. It was a weird laugh, in all honesty. It sounded like the man had practiced his evil laugh in front of the mirror. It would have been funny if not for where they were, and so instead it sent shivers down Donut's spine.
“Who're you?” Donut asked, unable to stop his voice from shaking. His eyes darted around, looking for the guards, but he realised that from their view they likely wouldn't be able to see the pointy object jabbing his back.
“My name? You can call me O'Malley, my effeminate friend.” Donut could tell he was grinning. He bet it was one of those crazy slasher film smiles, too. “You are not a hardened criminal, are you? You look like a porcelain doll thrown in among a box of action figures. ...I can feel the terror rolling off you right now.”
Donut heard him take a deep breath, like he was breathing the fear in.
“Oh, that's stimulating. You're right to be afraid. Pretty thing like you? If I didn't need you for another purpose right now, I'd break you in myself. Don't move!” O'Malley suddenly snapped, as Donut attempted to jerk away from him. “One would think you wanted this screwdriver digging into your throat. But enough of that. I require your help.”
“I'm not snitching,” Donut whined quietly.
“While I'm sure you are on the side, that's not what I wanted. Although it does involve your little snitching friend, Church. Me and some other, ah... unhappy friends are quite annoyed at him. But, as I'm sure you know, it's very difficult to lay a hand on him. Or to knife his stomach, for that matter.” O'Malley snickered. “If I tried jabbing a screwdriver in his back, someone would intervene. Unlike you. So, this is where you come in.”
“I'm not stabbing anyone, either.”
“Oh, no, nothing so crass. I just want that big monkey away from him. Just for a few minutes.” The man reached around to touch his face, making Donut's skin crawl, and jerked his head a little so he was looking right at Caboose. “Distract the fool. Take him to play with the pigeons. It's a simple task.”
“...What happens to Church?”
“Oh, he won't be killed. No, that's no fun. We're just going to have a talk with him.” O'Malley laughed and the screwdriver dug a little more into Donut's back. “Of course, we might get carried away... 'talking.'”
“No. No, no, no. No. No,” Donut said quickly, before he lost his nerve. “No. I'm not doing it.”
“You are hardly in a position to argue, my little pastry. After all... you have a screwdriver sticking into your back. It might be a little rusty, perhaps, but it will hurt. I hope you've had your tetanus shots.” O'Malley pressed the screwdriver in deeper, digging through the jacket and scraping the skin. “Just one... simple... thing.” With each soft word, O'Malley pushed the screwdriver a little deeper. Donut couldn't help but whimper as quick bursts of pain cut through him, leaving a sharp ache once they faded, only to flare up again as O'Malley dug the screwdriver in further. “Playing with the pigeons? Or getting stabbed with a rusty screwdriver? Honestly, isn't the best solution obvious?”
Donut felt him shift forward, close enough so that he could actually feel O'Malley's warm, wet breath on his neck.
“Whatever you choose, someone's getting stabbed. Either Church... or you. And I'm not fussy, as long as someone is bleeding and screaming. I'm already tempted to forsake business for pleasure.”
O'Malley put just a tiny bit more pressure on the screwdriver, and what little nerve Donut had left broke.
“Okay, okay, please don't hurt me!” Donut pleaded. “I'll do it, just stop!”
“Perhaps you're not as foolish as you look.” O'Malley lessened the pressure he was putting on the screwdriver, though he didn't remove it completely. His other hand reached forward and took the cigarette sticking out of Donut's front pocket. “Listen carefully, because if you fail I'm going to do everything that I have planned with Church to you instead. Plus interest.
“Tomorrow, when we are sent from lunch to the yard, someone will stop Church and Tucker to talk to them before they get outside. When this happens, convince Caboose to go and play with the pigeons with you. Do not alert Church or Tucker. Keep Caboose distracted for a few minutes, and that'll be enough. Do not fail. Do not tell anyone. Anyone. For as much your safety as mine.”
The screwdriver rubbed against the hole it had made in his back briefly before O'Malley pulled it away.
“Until tomorrow, little pastry.”
Donut didn't hear him move off, but when he looked behind him O'Malley had vanished. Either that or Donut couldn't tell which one of the inmates he was.
He climbed to his feet and shifted over to sit down next to the wall, so no-one could sneak up on him again. He pulled his legs up and rested his chin on his knees, trying to stop shaking.
Suddenly, Church didn't seem scary. At least not compared to... that. Why hadn't Grif and Simmons warned him about the crazy asshole with a screwdriver? Sure, Church seemed to have more resources, but at least he wasn't shivving people in the back! At least, not as far as Donut knew.
Donut remained there until he heard Grif and Simmons' voices.
“Grif, when a guard approaches you about why you're smoking in a secluded corner, it is not a smart idea to blow smoke in their fucking face. Seriously. You pretty much deserved that punch in the stomach. Besides, you know how Wash is.”
“I can't breathe.”
“Dumbass.”
Donut looked up to see the two approaching him. Grif was hobbling a little, holding his stomach and grumbling.
“Are you going to sit down the entire time, Donut? We don't have a weight room—“
“Like you could lift weights,” Grif grumbled at Simmons.
“—so this is the only possible activity we really get. Shouldn't waste it. It's cool, it's pretty safe. There's heaps of people around.”
Donut just stared at Simmons incredulously for a moment—safe, really?—before getting up shakily. He winced a little as pain shot through his back. “Alright, I'll wander around. Where are you guys going?”
“I don't know. Walking around? Walking's good for you,” Simmons said.
“Exactly. Ew. Can't we just sit?” Grif complained.
“Just because you're a lazy fuck—“
“Just because you're a... not-lazy-enough... kissass...”
“Wonderful comeback.”
“I... I, uh... yeah, we should walk! We should go in this direction, and stay together and not separate for a while,” Donut babbled quickly, turning and pointing at some random direction. “I've never been that way before, new experiences and all that...”
Upon only receiving silence, Donut glanced back at them. Both Grif and Simmons were staring at his back.
“Donut, why the hell are you bleeding?” Grif asked.
“Bleeding? Is it that—ow!” Donut had tried to twist his back to see where O'Malley had jabbed him, but pain had shot through his back again. Simmons reached out, his hand hovering awkwardly around Donut's shoulder.
“Don't do that, you'll twist at it! Did someone do that? How did that happen? It's been five minutes!”
Donut stared blankly at them for a few long seconds before speaking. “...I fell?”
Grif and Simmons exchanged looks that clearly said 'Donut is trying to bullshit us.' The excuse was, admittedly, not Donut's most creative moment. Part of him wanted to say the real reason, but what if O'Malley found out?
They didn't ask again. They just dragged Donut to the infirmary to stop him from staining his orange jumpsuit any redder.
Donut spent the night lying on his front. The screwdriver puncture had been small and shallow, but it stung like hell and the blood had partially ruined his jacket. It felt ominous, like the blood had painted a target on his back.
Maybe it had. O'Malley had given him a clear warning. He'd be coming back if Donut didn't do what he said.
Grif and Simmons had spent the rest of the day giving him those 'bullshit' looks, but they hadn't tried to get him to tell the truth. Maybe they knew to stay out of it. Donut knew the prison doctor had been suspicious about it—Donut hadn't caught his name, Grif and Simmons had just called him Doc—but he hadn't pressured for an answer either.
Donut tried to sleep with his face buried in the flat pillow. He listened to Grif snoring nearby, and Caboose talking loudly in his sleep further down the row. Donut thought about the next day. Distracting Caboose didn't seem difficult. It wasn't the task itself that worried him. He was more worried about what would happen afterward, regardless of what he did.
He could refuse. But he didn't want O'Malley anywhere near him. He could feel the screwdriver against his back and that warm, wet breath on his neck. A bit of prodding had been bad enough. What if O'Malley got carried away? What if Donut ended up dead? If O'Malley killed him, Donut knew it would be slow and painful. Ignoring O'Malley wasn't a choice.
On the other hand, he'd be condemning Church if he did it. While Donut didn't particularly like the guy, being indirectly responsible for getting him mauled, even killed, was not something Donut wanted on his conscience. Even leaving out the guilt, what would happen to Donut afterward? Would Church figure it out? Would Tucker or Caboose? If Donut went through with the plan, would he be the next one to be found with his head popped like a grape, or swinging from a makeshift noose?
Donut pondered this all night, barely sleeping at all. It was a losing situation either way.
It boiled down to who Donut was most afraid of. And that was an easy decision, once he gave it enough thought.
Church might kill him. O'Malley definitely would.