T-Bag!
Title: A Beautiful History
Character/Pairing: Theodore ‘T-Bag’ Bagwell
Prompt: 031. Death
Rating: R
Summary: There was something about that old shed in the yard that sort of drew criminal behaviour to it, like little moths who didn’t know better to the big bad flame that they just didn’t realize was going to permanently put them out of order.
Author's Notes: A little departure, plot bunny care of thelana. Some graphic violence, some fun along those lines. And thanks to miss mandy because she made the awesome list of T-Bag quotes that helped write this fic.
A Beautiful History
There was something about that old shed in the yard that sort of drew criminal behaviour to it, like little moths who didn’t know better to the big bad flame that they just didn’t realize was going to permanently put them out of order. T-Bag heard stories from his first day in Fox River about all the people and all the things that went down in that shed and he liked to keep a little catalogue of them in the back of his mind, keeping track of the darkest moments to recall when taking some fish up the ass to get off.
He was all torn up in thought about Jimmy and that was the only reason the mafia boys managed to sneak up on him like that, because on a normal day he’d never let his guard down without at least one of the Alliance hanging around with him. He knew he was smaller than most of the other inmates and knew how to keep on his toes in just that right way. He screwed up though. They came up behind him and had him in three seconds and when he kicked at them they caught his feet too and dragged him into that haunted old shed he idolized so bad. They got him in there and that was that, he knew things were going to go down fast.
About a year before he came to Fox River about six guys caught themselves a CO and dragged him into that shed. He fought like a maniac but one guy got his little stick and another got his gun and another stole one of his shoes and it turned into some sort of trophy for almost a month. They beat him to death with bare fists and shoed feet. Maytag was there, even though all he did was watch. He said it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.
The mafia boys made like they were going to do to him like what was done to that CO, taping up his hands and pounding him in the face until their big bad boss Abruzzi slid inside like King of the Shed. “Hey, that’s enough. Leave us alone.” Funny getting some sort of salvation from a man here to kill him. Just in a different way.
“You sure?” The mafia boys always looked out for their big man.
“Get out of here.” John was a big man, a bad man, in more ways then one. He stood there like some sort of Mafia Lord. He looked bad. T-Bag wanted to look bad like that someday, but instead he was the one the mafia boys threw down on the table as they shuffled obediently out of the way.
One guy came into the shed one time, about five or so years before T-Bag came to Fox River, and cut his wrists open with some shank he had and he painted over all the floors all kinds of curses and hate words all directed towards the world and towards himself. He curled up on the table and bled out there, all that blood trailing out of all the cuts and pooling on the ground, smearing away some of the words he worked so hard to paint there. They had to buy a new table after that because anybody who walked in got so distracted thinking about all that blood.
“You don’t have to do this.” He wasn’t sure that it was his own voice, even though he knew it should be because it was his mouth that was moving, and there was only him and Abruzzi in the shed there. He flinched just a little bit when the shank slid out from John’s sleeve, which was a stupid human flinch because he already knew it was there because it was impossible not to. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.” He wondered when he started sounding like all his victims right before they died. Death did something funny to people, that was for sure.
Good old John cornered pretty little Scofield in this same shed one of the first days Scofield was in there. He let his mafia boys hold him down and cut of two little toes. Word spread out about it so all of A wing knew by the end of the day. Word travelled fast in enclosed spaces like that. The thought of pretty Scofield lacking in the toe department with blood streaming down got T-Bag jerking off that night.
“You brought it on yourself.” It wasn’t that he’d never had a shank pointed at him like this before, just never thought he wouldn’t have a chance to retaliate. “I’m just an emissary for all the pain and suffering you caused. All the families you ruined, all the kids.”
People always fell back on that, like murdering a child was somehow on a completely different level from murdering an adult, which he supposed it was in some ways but hardly enough to justify anything. “What about Jimmy? He had nothin’ to do with this. You didn’t need to kill him. And what about his beautiful son? His whole life in front of him, you didn’t need to kill a beautiful child.” He wasn’t sure where all this babbling was coming from in him but it was. Looking death in the eyes wasn’t an experience he’d gotten any familiarity with, except when he was the one dealing it. He didn’t like it much on the other side. “After all I’ve done maybe I do deserve to die, maybe I do, but you are no better than me.” Maybe he did deserve to die, he supposed. But that didn’t mean he wanted to.
Some guys went into the shed one day, a year or two after T-Bag came to Fox River though he didn’t know how long because he never bothered to keep track of time in prison because whenever he did it just reminded him that he was in there until the day he died. Still, those three guys went in and two of them ganged up on the little one and fucked him til he bled and then when they got up to walk away he pulled a shank out from his pants and stabbed them both in the back eleven times each and killed them and then some CO that walked in shot him out of panic everyone supposed. It was more people to die in one room in that prison than T-Bag’d ever heard of. He told Maytag the night after that he wished he’d been there to see and Maytag had sort of laughed and said that he’d drink to that.
The Big Bad Mafia Man looked somewhat scared by what T-Bag said, as if it was showing him things inside of himself that he wasn’t going to let himself see for fear of ruining his perfect little façade world where everything he did was excusable. He picked T-Bag up off the table with that shank staring at him in a way he wasn’t liking. “But I can be! If I want! God, has given me the chance to choose.”
“Wha…?” It was prison. People found God all the time and it always baffled him as to how they could think that any God could ever forgive them after all they’d done. No God was about to forgive him. Why would he even try anymore?
“And maybe I should give you the chance as well.”
A few of his boys from the Alliance ganged up on some fish one time because he refused to cooperate. Didn’t seem to understand the politics of Fox River too well and he paid the price for it. Three of them held him down while the fourth carved out his eyes and cut open his throat so they could all see just what exactly made this particular man. T-Bag did get to watch that time, Maytag standing next to him with a gleeful sort of look on his face as they watched him die. The blood’s the best part… Maytag murmured that night when T-Bag fucked him. He was very inclined to agree.
The idea of a chance sounded good to him. A chance meant weakness, mercy, opportunity. He could work with those sorts of things exactly the way he could not work with God. “Yeah, you should. Please, anything, please. Please. Please.” Someone should make a study on the way people changed when they were going to die because it was honestly fascinating. He was saying things he’d never say otherwise, so what made death so much different?
“Back out.” The shank came right up against his face, pointing the tip right at his eye so he could feel that tiny little sting leading up to a tear in the skin that he was so used to giving and not at all used to receiving.
“Of the escape?” It was a pointless question because he knew the answer but he heard himself asking it anyway, like it made some sort of difference to hear it.
“Or die.”
One of his days with Cherry he pulled the boy in the shed and gave him a good looking to. Poor little Cherry couldn’t take much at all, but that didn’t really mind to him because it was a nice departure from the way Maytag always was. I could kill you right here. You’d be part of a beautiful history, wouldn’t you boy? He whispered in Cherry’s ear just before he came to try to put all those images in both their minds and pretend that he’d do it. Part ‘o all that blood that’s been spilled in here. You like that, Cherry? He didn’t hate it because he came just as T-Bag did. People never would admit just how dirty they could get about things.
“I wouldn’t, I…” He didn’t want to be saying this, but it seemed to be the right thing to say. That sort of survival mechanism was kicking in big time in the back of his head and he’d never been able to fight it. Not when it told him to kill. Not when it told him to run. Not when it told him to lie. “I wouldn’t make it out there anyway. Not with my proclivities.”
Proclivities to all sorts of things. Proclivities to picturing the day that some inmate dragged another guy into the shed with him and stabbed him in the chest three times before a CO dragged him off. Proclivities to wishing he’d been the one doing the stabbing. Proclivities to all sorts of things.
The Big Bad Mafia Man seemed strangely appeased by something in his voice and he wasn’t about to stop and wonder what it was because he could feel the chance slipping in there, right in between them that could give him an out. “I want you to give me your word. You hear me? I want you to give me your word!” He wondered why the mob boss would take his word. He knew better, so what was making him fail to think clearly? Did he really think a threat would get him all straightened out again? Did he think God and a brush with death could save him?
Sometimes people were beyond salvation. And sometimes people just didn’t want it.
“Yeah, you got it, John. Come on, you got it. Please.” He could hear people saying that to him in the back of his head before he slaughtered him like the pigs they were just because he could and just because he loved hearing them beg. He supposed that was the difference between a murderer and a killer.
“Swear.”
“I’m out! I swear! I swear to God!” The last time he’d sworn to God was when he was eight years old and his daddy made him swear that he hadn’t taken some of the alcohol from the cupboard in back. He hadn’t meant it back then either.
But it was enough because then the shank was gone and John was embracing him like some sort of a brother, like a member of the big old family of Jesus Christ. Sentimental and sweet and like he really meant it.
A grand total of fourteen people had died in that shed. He wondered why no one tore it down.
One more might do it.
“Alright. Alright! I have forgiven you.” John pushed him back down on the table like he was disgusted that he ever accepted him in such a small gesture. He seemed disgusted by him like he was some sort of a lesser man, a lesser creature altogether. “I have forgiven you.” Like he was on the same level as God compared to him. “You just have to pray that the lord Jesus Christ will do the same.” And he made the mistake of turning around and walking away.
Never turn your back on a killer, Johnny-boy. The child in the back of his mind that giggled when people died on the ground in front of him whispered. They just can’t help themselves. You oughta know that, Johnny-boy…
He kept the razor in a little tear in the cuff of his sleeve so he could get at it when it was necessary, which was less often than one might expect. It took less than two seconds to pull it out into his mouth, to sit up and slide it out from under his tongue in that practiced sort of way that he knew so well, never cutting himself since that one time the first time he did it. His hands didn’t need to be unbound for this.
“You know, John, actually, about Jesus…”
His blood would pour out on that floor with all the other blood that’d been shed over the years. He’d be part of a beautiful history. It was almost like T-Bag was doing him a favour really. Nobody would forget him now. Nobody could forget him now. He was another victim in that shed. Maybe they’d tear it down now. But he doubted it.
One second, one slash, one mistake, all over.
People were stupid when it came to death.
“Say hi to him for me, will ya?” He almost hoped that he did. Give him a sense of what might be coming his way one of these days.
After all, even the killer had to die.
Character/Pairing: Theodore ‘T-Bag’ Bagwell
Prompt: 031. Death
Rating: R
Summary: There was something about that old shed in the yard that sort of drew criminal behaviour to it, like little moths who didn’t know better to the big bad flame that they just didn’t realize was going to permanently put them out of order.
Author's Notes: A little departure, plot bunny care of thelana. Some graphic violence, some fun along those lines. And thanks to miss mandy because she made the awesome list of T-Bag quotes that helped write this fic.
A Beautiful History
There was something about that old shed in the yard that sort of drew criminal behaviour to it, like little moths who didn’t know better to the big bad flame that they just didn’t realize was going to permanently put them out of order. T-Bag heard stories from his first day in Fox River about all the people and all the things that went down in that shed and he liked to keep a little catalogue of them in the back of his mind, keeping track of the darkest moments to recall when taking some fish up the ass to get off.
He was all torn up in thought about Jimmy and that was the only reason the mafia boys managed to sneak up on him like that, because on a normal day he’d never let his guard down without at least one of the Alliance hanging around with him. He knew he was smaller than most of the other inmates and knew how to keep on his toes in just that right way. He screwed up though. They came up behind him and had him in three seconds and when he kicked at them they caught his feet too and dragged him into that haunted old shed he idolized so bad. They got him in there and that was that, he knew things were going to go down fast.
About a year before he came to Fox River about six guys caught themselves a CO and dragged him into that shed. He fought like a maniac but one guy got his little stick and another got his gun and another stole one of his shoes and it turned into some sort of trophy for almost a month. They beat him to death with bare fists and shoed feet. Maytag was there, even though all he did was watch. He said it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.
The mafia boys made like they were going to do to him like what was done to that CO, taping up his hands and pounding him in the face until their big bad boss Abruzzi slid inside like King of the Shed. “Hey, that’s enough. Leave us alone.” Funny getting some sort of salvation from a man here to kill him. Just in a different way.
“You sure?” The mafia boys always looked out for their big man.
“Get out of here.” John was a big man, a bad man, in more ways then one. He stood there like some sort of Mafia Lord. He looked bad. T-Bag wanted to look bad like that someday, but instead he was the one the mafia boys threw down on the table as they shuffled obediently out of the way.
One guy came into the shed one time, about five or so years before T-Bag came to Fox River, and cut his wrists open with some shank he had and he painted over all the floors all kinds of curses and hate words all directed towards the world and towards himself. He curled up on the table and bled out there, all that blood trailing out of all the cuts and pooling on the ground, smearing away some of the words he worked so hard to paint there. They had to buy a new table after that because anybody who walked in got so distracted thinking about all that blood.
“You don’t have to do this.” He wasn’t sure that it was his own voice, even though he knew it should be because it was his mouth that was moving, and there was only him and Abruzzi in the shed there. He flinched just a little bit when the shank slid out from John’s sleeve, which was a stupid human flinch because he already knew it was there because it was impossible not to. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.” He wondered when he started sounding like all his victims right before they died. Death did something funny to people, that was for sure.
Good old John cornered pretty little Scofield in this same shed one of the first days Scofield was in there. He let his mafia boys hold him down and cut of two little toes. Word spread out about it so all of A wing knew by the end of the day. Word travelled fast in enclosed spaces like that. The thought of pretty Scofield lacking in the toe department with blood streaming down got T-Bag jerking off that night.
“You brought it on yourself.” It wasn’t that he’d never had a shank pointed at him like this before, just never thought he wouldn’t have a chance to retaliate. “I’m just an emissary for all the pain and suffering you caused. All the families you ruined, all the kids.”
People always fell back on that, like murdering a child was somehow on a completely different level from murdering an adult, which he supposed it was in some ways but hardly enough to justify anything. “What about Jimmy? He had nothin’ to do with this. You didn’t need to kill him. And what about his beautiful son? His whole life in front of him, you didn’t need to kill a beautiful child.” He wasn’t sure where all this babbling was coming from in him but it was. Looking death in the eyes wasn’t an experience he’d gotten any familiarity with, except when he was the one dealing it. He didn’t like it much on the other side. “After all I’ve done maybe I do deserve to die, maybe I do, but you are no better than me.” Maybe he did deserve to die, he supposed. But that didn’t mean he wanted to.
Some guys went into the shed one day, a year or two after T-Bag came to Fox River though he didn’t know how long because he never bothered to keep track of time in prison because whenever he did it just reminded him that he was in there until the day he died. Still, those three guys went in and two of them ganged up on the little one and fucked him til he bled and then when they got up to walk away he pulled a shank out from his pants and stabbed them both in the back eleven times each and killed them and then some CO that walked in shot him out of panic everyone supposed. It was more people to die in one room in that prison than T-Bag’d ever heard of. He told Maytag the night after that he wished he’d been there to see and Maytag had sort of laughed and said that he’d drink to that.
The Big Bad Mafia Man looked somewhat scared by what T-Bag said, as if it was showing him things inside of himself that he wasn’t going to let himself see for fear of ruining his perfect little façade world where everything he did was excusable. He picked T-Bag up off the table with that shank staring at him in a way he wasn’t liking. “But I can be! If I want! God, has given me the chance to choose.”
“Wha…?” It was prison. People found God all the time and it always baffled him as to how they could think that any God could ever forgive them after all they’d done. No God was about to forgive him. Why would he even try anymore?
“And maybe I should give you the chance as well.”
A few of his boys from the Alliance ganged up on some fish one time because he refused to cooperate. Didn’t seem to understand the politics of Fox River too well and he paid the price for it. Three of them held him down while the fourth carved out his eyes and cut open his throat so they could all see just what exactly made this particular man. T-Bag did get to watch that time, Maytag standing next to him with a gleeful sort of look on his face as they watched him die. The blood’s the best part… Maytag murmured that night when T-Bag fucked him. He was very inclined to agree.
The idea of a chance sounded good to him. A chance meant weakness, mercy, opportunity. He could work with those sorts of things exactly the way he could not work with God. “Yeah, you should. Please, anything, please. Please. Please.” Someone should make a study on the way people changed when they were going to die because it was honestly fascinating. He was saying things he’d never say otherwise, so what made death so much different?
“Back out.” The shank came right up against his face, pointing the tip right at his eye so he could feel that tiny little sting leading up to a tear in the skin that he was so used to giving and not at all used to receiving.
“Of the escape?” It was a pointless question because he knew the answer but he heard himself asking it anyway, like it made some sort of difference to hear it.
“Or die.”
One of his days with Cherry he pulled the boy in the shed and gave him a good looking to. Poor little Cherry couldn’t take much at all, but that didn’t really mind to him because it was a nice departure from the way Maytag always was. I could kill you right here. You’d be part of a beautiful history, wouldn’t you boy? He whispered in Cherry’s ear just before he came to try to put all those images in both their minds and pretend that he’d do it. Part ‘o all that blood that’s been spilled in here. You like that, Cherry? He didn’t hate it because he came just as T-Bag did. People never would admit just how dirty they could get about things.
“I wouldn’t, I…” He didn’t want to be saying this, but it seemed to be the right thing to say. That sort of survival mechanism was kicking in big time in the back of his head and he’d never been able to fight it. Not when it told him to kill. Not when it told him to run. Not when it told him to lie. “I wouldn’t make it out there anyway. Not with my proclivities.”
Proclivities to all sorts of things. Proclivities to picturing the day that some inmate dragged another guy into the shed with him and stabbed him in the chest three times before a CO dragged him off. Proclivities to wishing he’d been the one doing the stabbing. Proclivities to all sorts of things.
The Big Bad Mafia Man seemed strangely appeased by something in his voice and he wasn’t about to stop and wonder what it was because he could feel the chance slipping in there, right in between them that could give him an out. “I want you to give me your word. You hear me? I want you to give me your word!” He wondered why the mob boss would take his word. He knew better, so what was making him fail to think clearly? Did he really think a threat would get him all straightened out again? Did he think God and a brush with death could save him?
Sometimes people were beyond salvation. And sometimes people just didn’t want it.
“Yeah, you got it, John. Come on, you got it. Please.” He could hear people saying that to him in the back of his head before he slaughtered him like the pigs they were just because he could and just because he loved hearing them beg. He supposed that was the difference between a murderer and a killer.
“Swear.”
“I’m out! I swear! I swear to God!” The last time he’d sworn to God was when he was eight years old and his daddy made him swear that he hadn’t taken some of the alcohol from the cupboard in back. He hadn’t meant it back then either.
But it was enough because then the shank was gone and John was embracing him like some sort of a brother, like a member of the big old family of Jesus Christ. Sentimental and sweet and like he really meant it.
A grand total of fourteen people had died in that shed. He wondered why no one tore it down.
One more might do it.
“Alright. Alright! I have forgiven you.” John pushed him back down on the table like he was disgusted that he ever accepted him in such a small gesture. He seemed disgusted by him like he was some sort of a lesser man, a lesser creature altogether. “I have forgiven you.” Like he was on the same level as God compared to him. “You just have to pray that the lord Jesus Christ will do the same.” And he made the mistake of turning around and walking away.
Never turn your back on a killer, Johnny-boy. The child in the back of his mind that giggled when people died on the ground in front of him whispered. They just can’t help themselves. You oughta know that, Johnny-boy…
He kept the razor in a little tear in the cuff of his sleeve so he could get at it when it was necessary, which was less often than one might expect. It took less than two seconds to pull it out into his mouth, to sit up and slide it out from under his tongue in that practiced sort of way that he knew so well, never cutting himself since that one time the first time he did it. His hands didn’t need to be unbound for this.
“You know, John, actually, about Jesus…”
His blood would pour out on that floor with all the other blood that’d been shed over the years. He’d be part of a beautiful history. It was almost like T-Bag was doing him a favour really. Nobody would forget him now. Nobody could forget him now. He was another victim in that shed. Maybe they’d tear it down now. But he doubted it.
One second, one slash, one mistake, all over.
People were stupid when it came to death.
“Say hi to him for me, will ya?” He almost hoped that he did. Give him a sense of what might be coming his way one of these days.
After all, even the killer had to die.