T-Bag, Hours
Title: Incarceration
Character/Pairing: T-Bag
Prompt: #006. Hours
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “You’re one of us now. Ain’t no badge or uniform sayin’ you’re our keeper anymore.”
Author's Notes: Pre-series. AU. Part one of a five-part story.
“Hey, boss.” T-Bag rapped his knuckles against the metal bars of his cell. “Boss,” he repeated, in an irritated tone.
The C.O. stopped and turned his head toward T-Bag, his hand resting comfortably on his baton. “What is it, Bagwell?” he growled, digits tightening around the wooden truncheon when T-Bag smiled at him languidly, a serene smile that seemed to say, “I could get out of this cell at any time and fucking kill you.”
“Can’t a guy get a periodical or a, uh, newspaper up in here, hm?”
“Didn’t realize you knew how to read, Bagwell.”
T-Bag stuck an arm through the bars, resting the crook of it on a horizontal cylinder. “Guess you just learned somethin’ then, didn’t ya, boss?” T-Bag gave the C.O. a cheeky grin. “Now, uh, how ‘bout that newspaper?”
“It’ll come around.” The C.O. continued pacing the line of cells. T-Bag retreated to his bunk and leaned his head back against the cool brick of the wall. Whistling to himself, he stared up at the pictures he’d collected over the past two years-pictures he’d stolen from his former cellmates. Pictures of family, pictures of friends, prom, graduation, birthday parties . . .
T-Bag reached out and ran a finger along a picture of his most recently deceased cellmate. He was a fun one. Such energy and exuberance. T-Bag never thought a man could scream so loud.
It took him three hours to die.
The man had shoved a knife in his own gut while T-Bag watched him. Just laid there in the middle of the cell, bleeding to death, choking, sobbing, whimpering here and there and T-Bag watched him.
“You see what I’m doing, huh, you, you, sick freak?”
“Yeah, boy, I see you.”
“I’m doing this . . . to show you . . .”
“I do enjoy a good show.”
“. . . rather die than be a pedophile’s bitch.”
“Aw, ain’t that sweet? Boy thinks that just because a man and another man are fuckin’, it makes him gay. You homophobic, boy?”
“I’m not gay!”
“We been down this road already an’ I told you, neither am I.”
“You are! You’re a sick, homosexual, freak!”
“‘Fraid of what your friends back home would say if they knew you let another man fuck you? That you rather enjoyed being fucked by another man? Think they might ostracize you?”
“Shut up! Shut up shut up!”
T-Bag nodded. “Yeah. You got a good couple hours yet, what do ya say to one last fuck, huh?”
“I’m not gay!”
“No one said you were, boy, but do you see any women ‘round here? Gettin’ friendly with another man doesn’t mean shit in here.”
The C.O.’s had discovered his body in the morning then carted off a groggy T-Bag to the SHU, despite his protests of innocence. Warden Pope had released him back into GenPop a few hours later, after further investigation into the death had been undertaken.
He couldn’t remember his name. What had it been? Mark, Martin, Marshall, Mitch, Mack. . . . T-Bag grabbed the picture and flipped it over to read what he’d written down about his last cellmate.
Marcus. That was his name. T-Bag replaced the picture as a wrinkled newspaper was tossed into his cell.
Grabbing the paper, he scanned the headlines on the front page before flipping to the inside.
“Well, now.” He grinned and read a small article on page three.
Finishing with the article, he stood from his bunk and leaned against the bars, shouting to the nearest C.O. in a voice loud enough for all of GenPop to hear, “So, when was y’all gonna tell us ‘bout Bellick’s unfortunate run-in with the law, hm?”
The C.O. rounded on T-Bag. “Shut your fucking mouth, Bagwell!”
“Pretty dishonorable for a C.O. to get caught takin’ a bribe, wouldn’t ya say?”
“Yeah, pretty dishonorable!” Trokey repeated from down the row.
“Nobody wants your input, Trokey!”
“Nobody wants yours either!”
A cacophony of raucous noises was soon erupting from A-Wing and T-Bag smirked, waiting for the other cons to quiet down.
It took a little yelling from the C.O.’s, but soon A-Wing was momentarily draped in silence.
“Y’all know what the best thing is?”
“You shutting up?” someone from the third tier growled.
T-Bag ignored the convict and continued, “Bellick’s serving ten years for his infractions . . .”
A C.O. stepped in front of T-Bag’s cell, holding his baton threateningly.
“. . . here, at Fox River.” T-Bag stepped away from the bars before the C.O. did something rash. He didn’t fancy a truncheon-shaped bruise so early in the morning.
The cell doors opened.
“All right, cons, line up!”
It was around this time of the year that T-Bag wished he had a cellmate-a nice, warm body sitting in such close proximity so as to keep a hold of the “protection pocket,” would help maintain a certain level of heated comfort for T-Bag when he’d otherwise be freezing his ass off.
Like he was now.
The Alliance members sat in a two-foot radius around him, not nearly close enough to transfer any of their body heat to him. The word “homophobia” sprung to mind as T-Bag mused why they all avoided physical contact with him. Then again, they were all huddled against each other within a two-foot radius around him.
And they all certainly looked warm enough.
T-Bag sustained a shiver as a violently cold wind whipped by. He’d rather not cuddle up with one of the Alliance anyway. If he thought he was on the verge of hypothermia, he’d demand one of them relinquish their coat. And that’s all that counted. If fear was what drove them to abstain from touching him, then it was fear that would be used to abstain from freezing to death.
Maybe abstain was the wrong word to describe their actions or more over, their lack of action-though not inaction, as he didn’t expect them to touch him.
He scrutinized the group of men around him, critical of whether or not they would want to indulge in touching him and were restraining themselves from actually doing so.
They didn’t seem to be and T-Bag tried to place the correct word to describe their lack of action to keep their leader thoroughly warmed.
He gave up after another shiver brought his teeth together in a rough chatter. His thoughts fell back onto freezing to death.
Hypothermia wasn’t a subject he was well versed on. After all, it wasn’t something you often ran into in Alabama. He was sure, though, that if his fingers started to change colors, it was a bad sign.
He held the lanky digits in front of his face just to make sure they were still the correct pigmentation. Relieved that he wasn’t steadily becoming a rughead-extremities first, before moving onward to infect the rest of his body-he leaned back against the bench behind him and smiled when an Alliance member scurried to move his feet.
How many hours would it take for his entire body to blacken, for all of the tissue to die? Maybe he could finagle some time in the prison library to find out. He’d been meaning to try for an hour or two of time on a computer, anyway.
He’d barter with one of the C.O.’s later(“I’ve been a good boy, honestly, boss!”), for now, he was only concerned with not falling victim to that devil of an ailment.
His languid scan of the yard turned up nothing interesting. John and his boys were playing their usual poker game. The rugheads were going at it on the basketball court. The Death Row fish was dispiritedly shooting hoops in his own sectioned off court. The lines for the payphones were slowly growing.
Residual silence lay over the Alliance gathered around him. Even a short way down the bleachers-where those who hadn’t been nominated for “convoy duty” were sitting-there was little conversation.
“Y’all sure are boring today,” T-Bag stated, sitting up and leaning his elbows on his knees.
“Sorry, T,” Trokey apologized from the upper left of the circle. T-Bag tilted his head in Trokey’s direction-
“. . . didn’t realize we were here to entertain you . . .”
-before whipping it in the other, a scowl forming at the ignorant words of the newest member of the Alliance.
T-Bag slipped onto the next bench down-members of the Alliance promptly moved from his way-and slid up alongside the fish. He grabbed the fish’s chin and yanked it, forcing the fish to look at him. “You best watch your mouth, boy,” T-Bag spoke in a volume that caught even the attention of the Alliance members not in the direct vicinity. “Best be careful who you’re badmouthing,” he lilted. “Can get you killed in here.”
T-Bag released the boy’s chin and smiled a smile that was clearly laced with underlying intentions. “Best remember, boy, who let you in. Those rugheads woulda gobbled you up by now if it weren’t for me. Now,” T-Bag ran the tip of his calloused thumb along the fish’s jaw line, almost tenderly, though T-Bag really wished he could run a razor blade along the smooth, pale skin there, “you gonna keep your opinions to yourself or do I have to silence them permanently?”
The fish turned away and T-Bag ran his tongue along his bottom lip.
“I’ll be quiet,” came the fish’s almost inaudible reply, but T-Bag caught it and was satisfied-for the moment.
He moved back to his usual place and the Alliance members shifted back into their own.
The sound of a bus caught T-Bag’s attention almost minutes later. He grinned, knowing that the newest fish had arrived.
T-Bag leaned his shoulders against the gritty brick and was only slightly frustrated when the rough brick caught on his shirt like a pricker bush would as he slid down it a few inches. He’d sat on the floor only an hour earlier, head leaning back slightly on the thin mattress of his bunk, and watched all the new inmates he could see from his cell-which wasn’t many, to tell the truth.
He’d counted five-three on the second tier and two on the ground floor. It was too difficult to tell whether or not there were any on the third tier, but he knew there were at least ten new inmates in A-Wing.
He was mildly disappointed he remained by himself in cell sixteen but looking at the new fish, he was hopeful he could find one to get transferred in. The nights in Fox River were getting colder and he needed something to keep him warm.
T-Bag stared up at the second tier, watching one cell in particular. Cell forty-three, previously unoccupied, now home to the man who’d tormented the residents of Fox River for years. Brad Bellick, a man unanimously hated by the entire Fox River population. T-Bag could only assume Bellick had swung the empty cell because his C.O. buddies were feeling generous for their former boss.
Licking along his upper lip, T-Bag imagined all the nasty things he could do to Bellick. All the nasty things he wanted to do to Bellick. All the nasty things he was going to do to Bellick.
All he needed was a little time, some persuasive action, then initiative for a transfer of his new pocketholder into his cell.
Bellick would crumble and T-Bag would be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together again.
T-Bag made his way over to the cell door and rested his chin on a horizontal bar.
“Hey, Bellick.”
There was a slight movement in cell forty-three, but beyond that, no response.
“Bet you still think you’re better than all of us, don’t you?” T-Bag grinned. “Yeah, I think you do.”
“At least I’m not in here for raping children,” came Bellick’s sour reply. “So why don’t you just shut the fuck up, Bagwell?”
T-Bag shook his head. “You ain’t got the authority to tell me what to do.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re one of us now. Ain’t no badge or uniform sayin’ you’re our keeper anymore.”
End note: *giggles* When I was spell checking it, it amuses me that WordPerfect suggested I change "bitch" to "arrogant woman" XD ". . . rather die than be some pedophile's arrogant woman."
Character/Pairing: T-Bag
Prompt: #006. Hours
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “You’re one of us now. Ain’t no badge or uniform sayin’ you’re our keeper anymore.”
Author's Notes: Pre-series. AU. Part one of a five-part story.
“Hey, boss.” T-Bag rapped his knuckles against the metal bars of his cell. “Boss,” he repeated, in an irritated tone.
The C.O. stopped and turned his head toward T-Bag, his hand resting comfortably on his baton. “What is it, Bagwell?” he growled, digits tightening around the wooden truncheon when T-Bag smiled at him languidly, a serene smile that seemed to say, “I could get out of this cell at any time and fucking kill you.”
“Can’t a guy get a periodical or a, uh, newspaper up in here, hm?”
“Didn’t realize you knew how to read, Bagwell.”
T-Bag stuck an arm through the bars, resting the crook of it on a horizontal cylinder. “Guess you just learned somethin’ then, didn’t ya, boss?” T-Bag gave the C.O. a cheeky grin. “Now, uh, how ‘bout that newspaper?”
“It’ll come around.” The C.O. continued pacing the line of cells. T-Bag retreated to his bunk and leaned his head back against the cool brick of the wall. Whistling to himself, he stared up at the pictures he’d collected over the past two years-pictures he’d stolen from his former cellmates. Pictures of family, pictures of friends, prom, graduation, birthday parties . . .
T-Bag reached out and ran a finger along a picture of his most recently deceased cellmate. He was a fun one. Such energy and exuberance. T-Bag never thought a man could scream so loud.
It took him three hours to die.
The man had shoved a knife in his own gut while T-Bag watched him. Just laid there in the middle of the cell, bleeding to death, choking, sobbing, whimpering here and there and T-Bag watched him.
“You see what I’m doing, huh, you, you, sick freak?”
“Yeah, boy, I see you.”
“I’m doing this . . . to show you . . .”
“I do enjoy a good show.”
“. . . rather die than be a pedophile’s bitch.”
“Aw, ain’t that sweet? Boy thinks that just because a man and another man are fuckin’, it makes him gay. You homophobic, boy?”
“I’m not gay!”
“We been down this road already an’ I told you, neither am I.”
“You are! You’re a sick, homosexual, freak!”
“‘Fraid of what your friends back home would say if they knew you let another man fuck you? That you rather enjoyed being fucked by another man? Think they might ostracize you?”
“Shut up! Shut up shut up!”
T-Bag nodded. “Yeah. You got a good couple hours yet, what do ya say to one last fuck, huh?”
“I’m not gay!”
“No one said you were, boy, but do you see any women ‘round here? Gettin’ friendly with another man doesn’t mean shit in here.”
The C.O.’s had discovered his body in the morning then carted off a groggy T-Bag to the SHU, despite his protests of innocence. Warden Pope had released him back into GenPop a few hours later, after further investigation into the death had been undertaken.
He couldn’t remember his name. What had it been? Mark, Martin, Marshall, Mitch, Mack. . . . T-Bag grabbed the picture and flipped it over to read what he’d written down about his last cellmate.
Marcus. That was his name. T-Bag replaced the picture as a wrinkled newspaper was tossed into his cell.
Grabbing the paper, he scanned the headlines on the front page before flipping to the inside.
“Well, now.” He grinned and read a small article on page three.
Finishing with the article, he stood from his bunk and leaned against the bars, shouting to the nearest C.O. in a voice loud enough for all of GenPop to hear, “So, when was y’all gonna tell us ‘bout Bellick’s unfortunate run-in with the law, hm?”
The C.O. rounded on T-Bag. “Shut your fucking mouth, Bagwell!”
“Pretty dishonorable for a C.O. to get caught takin’ a bribe, wouldn’t ya say?”
“Yeah, pretty dishonorable!” Trokey repeated from down the row.
“Nobody wants your input, Trokey!”
“Nobody wants yours either!”
A cacophony of raucous noises was soon erupting from A-Wing and T-Bag smirked, waiting for the other cons to quiet down.
It took a little yelling from the C.O.’s, but soon A-Wing was momentarily draped in silence.
“Y’all know what the best thing is?”
“You shutting up?” someone from the third tier growled.
T-Bag ignored the convict and continued, “Bellick’s serving ten years for his infractions . . .”
A C.O. stepped in front of T-Bag’s cell, holding his baton threateningly.
“. . . here, at Fox River.” T-Bag stepped away from the bars before the C.O. did something rash. He didn’t fancy a truncheon-shaped bruise so early in the morning.
The cell doors opened.
“All right, cons, line up!”
It was around this time of the year that T-Bag wished he had a cellmate-a nice, warm body sitting in such close proximity so as to keep a hold of the “protection pocket,” would help maintain a certain level of heated comfort for T-Bag when he’d otherwise be freezing his ass off.
Like he was now.
The Alliance members sat in a two-foot radius around him, not nearly close enough to transfer any of their body heat to him. The word “homophobia” sprung to mind as T-Bag mused why they all avoided physical contact with him. Then again, they were all huddled against each other within a two-foot radius around him.
And they all certainly looked warm enough.
T-Bag sustained a shiver as a violently cold wind whipped by. He’d rather not cuddle up with one of the Alliance anyway. If he thought he was on the verge of hypothermia, he’d demand one of them relinquish their coat. And that’s all that counted. If fear was what drove them to abstain from touching him, then it was fear that would be used to abstain from freezing to death.
Maybe abstain was the wrong word to describe their actions or more over, their lack of action-though not inaction, as he didn’t expect them to touch him.
He scrutinized the group of men around him, critical of whether or not they would want to indulge in touching him and were restraining themselves from actually doing so.
They didn’t seem to be and T-Bag tried to place the correct word to describe their lack of action to keep their leader thoroughly warmed.
He gave up after another shiver brought his teeth together in a rough chatter. His thoughts fell back onto freezing to death.
Hypothermia wasn’t a subject he was well versed on. After all, it wasn’t something you often ran into in Alabama. He was sure, though, that if his fingers started to change colors, it was a bad sign.
He held the lanky digits in front of his face just to make sure they were still the correct pigmentation. Relieved that he wasn’t steadily becoming a rughead-extremities first, before moving onward to infect the rest of his body-he leaned back against the bench behind him and smiled when an Alliance member scurried to move his feet.
How many hours would it take for his entire body to blacken, for all of the tissue to die? Maybe he could finagle some time in the prison library to find out. He’d been meaning to try for an hour or two of time on a computer, anyway.
He’d barter with one of the C.O.’s later(“I’ve been a good boy, honestly, boss!”), for now, he was only concerned with not falling victim to that devil of an ailment.
His languid scan of the yard turned up nothing interesting. John and his boys were playing their usual poker game. The rugheads were going at it on the basketball court. The Death Row fish was dispiritedly shooting hoops in his own sectioned off court. The lines for the payphones were slowly growing.
Residual silence lay over the Alliance gathered around him. Even a short way down the bleachers-where those who hadn’t been nominated for “convoy duty” were sitting-there was little conversation.
“Y’all sure are boring today,” T-Bag stated, sitting up and leaning his elbows on his knees.
“Sorry, T,” Trokey apologized from the upper left of the circle. T-Bag tilted his head in Trokey’s direction-
“. . . didn’t realize we were here to entertain you . . .”
-before whipping it in the other, a scowl forming at the ignorant words of the newest member of the Alliance.
T-Bag slipped onto the next bench down-members of the Alliance promptly moved from his way-and slid up alongside the fish. He grabbed the fish’s chin and yanked it, forcing the fish to look at him. “You best watch your mouth, boy,” T-Bag spoke in a volume that caught even the attention of the Alliance members not in the direct vicinity. “Best be careful who you’re badmouthing,” he lilted. “Can get you killed in here.”
T-Bag released the boy’s chin and smiled a smile that was clearly laced with underlying intentions. “Best remember, boy, who let you in. Those rugheads woulda gobbled you up by now if it weren’t for me. Now,” T-Bag ran the tip of his calloused thumb along the fish’s jaw line, almost tenderly, though T-Bag really wished he could run a razor blade along the smooth, pale skin there, “you gonna keep your opinions to yourself or do I have to silence them permanently?”
The fish turned away and T-Bag ran his tongue along his bottom lip.
“I’ll be quiet,” came the fish’s almost inaudible reply, but T-Bag caught it and was satisfied-for the moment.
He moved back to his usual place and the Alliance members shifted back into their own.
The sound of a bus caught T-Bag’s attention almost minutes later. He grinned, knowing that the newest fish had arrived.
T-Bag leaned his shoulders against the gritty brick and was only slightly frustrated when the rough brick caught on his shirt like a pricker bush would as he slid down it a few inches. He’d sat on the floor only an hour earlier, head leaning back slightly on the thin mattress of his bunk, and watched all the new inmates he could see from his cell-which wasn’t many, to tell the truth.
He’d counted five-three on the second tier and two on the ground floor. It was too difficult to tell whether or not there were any on the third tier, but he knew there were at least ten new inmates in A-Wing.
He was mildly disappointed he remained by himself in cell sixteen but looking at the new fish, he was hopeful he could find one to get transferred in. The nights in Fox River were getting colder and he needed something to keep him warm.
T-Bag stared up at the second tier, watching one cell in particular. Cell forty-three, previously unoccupied, now home to the man who’d tormented the residents of Fox River for years. Brad Bellick, a man unanimously hated by the entire Fox River population. T-Bag could only assume Bellick had swung the empty cell because his C.O. buddies were feeling generous for their former boss.
Licking along his upper lip, T-Bag imagined all the nasty things he could do to Bellick. All the nasty things he wanted to do to Bellick. All the nasty things he was going to do to Bellick.
All he needed was a little time, some persuasive action, then initiative for a transfer of his new pocketholder into his cell.
Bellick would crumble and T-Bag would be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together again.
T-Bag made his way over to the cell door and rested his chin on a horizontal bar.
“Hey, Bellick.”
There was a slight movement in cell forty-three, but beyond that, no response.
“Bet you still think you’re better than all of us, don’t you?” T-Bag grinned. “Yeah, I think you do.”
“At least I’m not in here for raping children,” came Bellick’s sour reply. “So why don’t you just shut the fuck up, Bagwell?”
T-Bag shook his head. “You ain’t got the authority to tell me what to do.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re one of us now. Ain’t no badge or uniform sayin’ you’re our keeper anymore.”
End note: *giggles* When I was spell checking it, it amuses me that WordPerfect suggested I change "bitch" to "arrogant woman" XD ". . . rather die than be some pedophile's arrogant woman."