(no subject)
I've been watching a lot of Oz lately--including the series finale, which I saw for the first time--and it's two in the morning and I've had way too much caffeine today. Way too much.
Spoilers for the finale, etc, etc. Not really a whole piece--I'm not quite sure I said everything in my head--but God only knows when I'll have the energy to write again this year.
"You made Lizzie quit," McManus said.
"She was no Pete." Beecher looked over his shoulder at Officer Paulson watching him through the window.
"Who is or ever will be? That's seven in twelve months, Beecher. Querns is getting testy."
"So?"
"So," McManus said, standing and twitching the blinds shut against Paulson, "when he get testy, my dick gets yanked, and when my dick gets yanked all you guys's chin hit the table. So knock it the fuck off! You're supposed to *help* the shrink, not chase her away!"
Beecher had stood there, looked that shiny-faced little girl straight in the eye, and screamed--no words, just screamed--until the guards popped him in the jaw and dragged him out. She'd been having a bad day. She never came back. He'd spent a week in the hole and he still smelled like piss. "Look," Beecher said.
"Look at what? What's the deal with you and her? What's the deal with you and Paulson? What's the deal with you and Lopez, while we're at it? What's your deal, Beecher?" McManus swung a chair around backwards and stared Beecher down, face to face.
Beecher sighed and stretched his legs out, feeling the ache in his thighs. "I'm getting arthritis in my hip," he said.
"Hip replacements aren't in the budget."
"Not my point." There was a picture frame on McManus's desk; Beecher leaned forward and picked it up. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," Beecher said.
Claire Howell and her brown-skinned little boy. Howell was smiling. The kid was holding a baseball bat. Beecher blinked, grinning in spite of himself. "Fuck you," McManus snarled, ripping the picture from Beecher's hands.
"What's my deal? What's *your* deal? You're better than Days of our Lives, man!"
McManus didn't answer, just set the picture face-down on his desk and stood up. "Okay," Beecher said, "okay, okay. Lopez thinks I'm a serial killer; Paulson is a Nazi; Liz was going to quit in two days anyway."
McManus rolled his eyes. "This was Lizzie's dream job, Paulson is *Jewish*, and you're not a frigging serial killer."
"But people keep dying around me and I'm never to blame. Lopez thinks I have an angle. He's going to try to move into my cell. I'd appreciate it if you didn't let him."
McManus shook his head.
"And Paulson is, in fact, Jewish, since his mom is a Jew. Is Orthodox, actually. He's still a Nazi and I still have Schillinger's blood on my hands."
"But you didn't--"
"That's Lopez's point," Beecher said.
"And Paulson--"
"Is going to try to kill me pretty soon."
"Fuck," McManus sighed. "What about Lizzie?"
Beecher closed his eyes. Liz: innocent, brilliant, a child. "Did you know she's ten years older than my daughter to the month? Not the day, but the month."
"No. Your daughter's--"
"Fourteen. And I've been in here ten years." He had to open his eyes to say that; had to look at the clean white glass of the window.
McManus leaned against the door, looking casual. Beecher could feel Paulson glaring at him balefully through the slits in the blinds. "And?"
"And..." (Ten years, twenty years, thirty years, forty years...) "...if I start thinking about how long it is until my next parole hearing, I get dizzy. Physically dizzy." (Fucking Keller, jealous bitch, fucking jealous beloved passionate lover Keller bitch.)
"You should get your inner ears checked out."
"I couldn't let her sentence *herself* to Oz," Beecher said.
"Oh, for the love of God..." McManus rolled his eyes up to Heaven. "You're off the shrink's office and into the mail room. The homeboys hate Paulson; you'll be safe there, *if* you're right."
"You know I'm right."
"Beecher. You play me like a slide trombone. Get the fuck out of here." McManus opened the door. Paulson stood there like a grizzly bear, all red hair and muscle. "I can't do anything about your little stalker friend," McManus said.
"Well, I'm in the market for a new boyfriend anyway." And there was still a tiny flash of shock in McManus's eyes when Beecher passed him. He was starting to understand Torquemada.
"Laugh it up, faggot," Paulson whispered, marching Beecher down the stairs.
"I know the way back to my cell. I don't need an escort," Beecher said, eying a lumpy shadow by the wall at the corner.
"Oh, but you *might*. If you *tripped*. If you lost your fucking way and slipped into a brick *wall*, you--" Paulson stopped, his mouth a perfect O.
Beecher turned Lopez's wrist, spilling Paulson's guts out like rope. "Oh, shit," Lopez whispered.
"Yeah," Beecher agreed, "smells that way. Help! Hey! Help!"
Lopez gasped and threw the shiv away, but it didn't matter. Paulson was writhing across the floor, leaving red handprints on the gray paint. Hacks were charging down the hall.
McManus clattered down the stairs. Beecher caught his eye and shrugged; then the hacks pulled him off balance and dragged him down the hall.
Spoilers for the finale, etc, etc. Not really a whole piece--I'm not quite sure I said everything in my head--but God only knows when I'll have the energy to write again this year.
"You made Lizzie quit," McManus said.
"She was no Pete." Beecher looked over his shoulder at Officer Paulson watching him through the window.
"Who is or ever will be? That's seven in twelve months, Beecher. Querns is getting testy."
"So?"
"So," McManus said, standing and twitching the blinds shut against Paulson, "when he get testy, my dick gets yanked, and when my dick gets yanked all you guys's chin hit the table. So knock it the fuck off! You're supposed to *help* the shrink, not chase her away!"
Beecher had stood there, looked that shiny-faced little girl straight in the eye, and screamed--no words, just screamed--until the guards popped him in the jaw and dragged him out. She'd been having a bad day. She never came back. He'd spent a week in the hole and he still smelled like piss. "Look," Beecher said.
"Look at what? What's the deal with you and her? What's the deal with you and Paulson? What's the deal with you and Lopez, while we're at it? What's your deal, Beecher?" McManus swung a chair around backwards and stared Beecher down, face to face.
Beecher sighed and stretched his legs out, feeling the ache in his thighs. "I'm getting arthritis in my hip," he said.
"Hip replacements aren't in the budget."
"Not my point." There was a picture frame on McManus's desk; Beecher leaned forward and picked it up. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," Beecher said.
Claire Howell and her brown-skinned little boy. Howell was smiling. The kid was holding a baseball bat. Beecher blinked, grinning in spite of himself. "Fuck you," McManus snarled, ripping the picture from Beecher's hands.
"What's my deal? What's *your* deal? You're better than Days of our Lives, man!"
McManus didn't answer, just set the picture face-down on his desk and stood up. "Okay," Beecher said, "okay, okay. Lopez thinks I'm a serial killer; Paulson is a Nazi; Liz was going to quit in two days anyway."
McManus rolled his eyes. "This was Lizzie's dream job, Paulson is *Jewish*, and you're not a frigging serial killer."
"But people keep dying around me and I'm never to blame. Lopez thinks I have an angle. He's going to try to move into my cell. I'd appreciate it if you didn't let him."
McManus shook his head.
"And Paulson is, in fact, Jewish, since his mom is a Jew. Is Orthodox, actually. He's still a Nazi and I still have Schillinger's blood on my hands."
"But you didn't--"
"That's Lopez's point," Beecher said.
"And Paulson--"
"Is going to try to kill me pretty soon."
"Fuck," McManus sighed. "What about Lizzie?"
Beecher closed his eyes. Liz: innocent, brilliant, a child. "Did you know she's ten years older than my daughter to the month? Not the day, but the month."
"No. Your daughter's--"
"Fourteen. And I've been in here ten years." He had to open his eyes to say that; had to look at the clean white glass of the window.
McManus leaned against the door, looking casual. Beecher could feel Paulson glaring at him balefully through the slits in the blinds. "And?"
"And..." (Ten years, twenty years, thirty years, forty years...) "...if I start thinking about how long it is until my next parole hearing, I get dizzy. Physically dizzy." (Fucking Keller, jealous bitch, fucking jealous beloved passionate lover Keller bitch.)
"You should get your inner ears checked out."
"I couldn't let her sentence *herself* to Oz," Beecher said.
"Oh, for the love of God..." McManus rolled his eyes up to Heaven. "You're off the shrink's office and into the mail room. The homeboys hate Paulson; you'll be safe there, *if* you're right."
"You know I'm right."
"Beecher. You play me like a slide trombone. Get the fuck out of here." McManus opened the door. Paulson stood there like a grizzly bear, all red hair and muscle. "I can't do anything about your little stalker friend," McManus said.
"Well, I'm in the market for a new boyfriend anyway." And there was still a tiny flash of shock in McManus's eyes when Beecher passed him. He was starting to understand Torquemada.
"Laugh it up, faggot," Paulson whispered, marching Beecher down the stairs.
"I know the way back to my cell. I don't need an escort," Beecher said, eying a lumpy shadow by the wall at the corner.
"Oh, but you *might*. If you *tripped*. If you lost your fucking way and slipped into a brick *wall*, you--" Paulson stopped, his mouth a perfect O.
Beecher turned Lopez's wrist, spilling Paulson's guts out like rope. "Oh, shit," Lopez whispered.
"Yeah," Beecher agreed, "smells that way. Help! Hey! Help!"
Lopez gasped and threw the shiv away, but it didn't matter. Paulson was writhing across the floor, leaving red handprints on the gray paint. Hacks were charging down the hall.
McManus clattered down the stairs. Beecher caught his eye and shrugged; then the hacks pulled him off balance and dragged him down the hall.