Author: August8th PM
Trials and tribulations of a petty dealer. It picks up in the second chapter.Rated: Fiction T - English - Adventure/Humor - Chapters: 3 - Words: 7,419 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 04-24-06 - id: 2909660
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I heard that most prisons are pretty much schools that graduated petty thugs into full fledged criminals. This was true. Organizations had recruiters come in and pick potential future members a few times every year, depending on race or social disposition it seemed like they would pick guys that looked not necessarily intimidating, but people that blended into a crowd, the non specific members were commonly picked up, their sentence 'reduced' by members that are working on the inside, and they're given a place in the group, if they moved up, good on em, if they died, the recruiting process is repeated.
That was something learned within the first six months, before that I was obviously in the dark about many things, but I found my crowd, kept to myself, didn't start shit but put up a hell of a fuckin fight if someone tried anything on me, and did what I had to do to survive. And then everything sort of clicked, one of those recruiters saw me get in a fight and that was it. He approached me after I'd gotten out of a sixty hour stay in solitary for beating another inmate into critical condition. He had it coming, but the warden was a toughass, which I didn't really didn't argue against. He's the warden for fucksake, its part of the job. Regardless, it attracted some good attention.
we all get our meals and sit at out respective tables, determined
solely on ethnic group, so naturally I sat with the white guys. The
table is mostly occupied by this point in time; I get the end seat,
adjacent to a guy name Mort, who's been serving time for assault on
multiple officers and across from an empty seat. As I'm eating, a
guy I'd seen around before but never talked to walks over to the
table with his tray and sits in front of me.
"You inarested in a job on the outside?" He asks quietly, he had an Irish undertone, and you could sort of tell just based on stereotypical impressions. Red bushy hair, lots of battle scars and something that resembled moonshine on his breath.
"What kind of job you talking about?" I ask, trying not to sound like a pompous piece of shit, just someone being cautious.
"We need a couple of good guys; got a couple big heists, need some people that can disappear real fast. You up for it boy?" At this point in my life, I figured 'why the fuck not, it's not like anyone's going to miss me, and vice versa, family's gone, don't have a steady girl, don't particularly feel the need for one, and where the hell am I going to get a job I can keep that pays well and requires little to no school credentials.'
"I'm in. What now?"
"We'll worry about that in a few days, sit tight, I'll get back to ya." With that, we shook hands and he walked in the same direction he had come.
End result being I had to 'off' a couple of people in the prison. The were a few really easy kills, just guys in for getting caught with stuff like fraud, they duped the wrong people; people that believed imprisonment wasn't deemed a worthy repentance. The hardest one, the hit that got me back on the streets was the staff sergeant for ward b. Each section has a rank structure. The staff sergeant was the guy that the chief officer assigns to delegate guards in accordance to the situation. Basically he was the guy that told everyone in ward B what to do; therefore it affected the treatment of the inmates. This sergeant had offended a family of organized criminals by apparently focusing abusive and excessive punishments specifically to members of this family.
So, the sgt. isn't around all the time, and when he is, he's being briefed by all his lackeys. Reports have to come in every three hours, activity of certain high priority inmates; psychos just borderline of the loony bin ('twitchers' I like to call em), public enemies that have high attention in the media, etc. The only time this guy is alone is when he's leaving his office in the far west of the building to take a piss about twenty meters down the hall.
I was within earshot of the pisser that he used, waiting until I could hear him approach I tapped the bars on my cell. I knew it would send him into his whole patrol skit. Immediately after I had tapped I could see the light of a flashlight beaming down the walk. Footsteps aggressively getting closer. I stood with my face to the wall and got as close to the bars as I could and knocked again. Footsteps ceased, the flashlight now focused at the opposite wall of my call. The few cautious footsteps towards my cell were barely audible, but it was what I was relying on. The second I knew he was beside me I reached and managed to get him by the neck. I pulled using my legs as leverage against the bars and mashed his face in between the bars, then using my bed as leverage I pushed him away from the cell. He toppled over the rail and down three stories.
The smack of his body woke up three quarters of the inmates, a few on the first floor were awoken by the spray that hit their cells. Little taps against the bars, random hitting of objects, I think it was like the most applause you could ever expect to hear in there. The sirens rang that night; but they couldn't pick a cell to blame it on. The entire top floor was first to be interrogated. Every inmate had to line up outside their cell with their hands out and teeth exposed. They were looking for fresh cuts or newly missing teeth, everyone knew this sergeant as a die hard character and wouldn't have gone out without a trace. Luckily, he did, almost. I had a red mark on my arm where I had rubbed it against the bar. "What's that?" The cop asks, pointing at the redness. "You ever slept on one of those beds?" I asked, nodding back at my bunk. He just gave me a puissant glare, like if he stared hard enough he would actually decipher something. He grabbed my hands and inspected them closely. Cuts and scrapes all over, but nothing fresh, I didn't even lose a scab.
few weeks later I get the word that I'm being released on good
behavior. Proof the system works, if it's completely crooked. I was
let out and didn't hear anything for a few weeks, then, after
finding a low rate apartment, having to deal small amount of cheap
drugs to survive I finally got the call.
The phone rings at noon, I pick it up.
"Anitai, get ready, somebody'll be here in five minutes. Black Mercedes Coupe. Bring a weapon." And then the line goes dead. I pull on some pants, thought of what kind of weapon they were talking about. I had never really thought of picking up a piece, but I'm sure I'll be able to get one offa one of my new connections.
I was waiting out front having a
smoke when the coupe pulled up; I got in the left side back seat.
There were three men in the car; I didn't recognize any of them.
The one in the front passenger seat turns around and takes off his
sunglasses. "Anitai, you've shown the bosses you can hold your
own, we're going to be using you for some stuff that calls for
gritty candidates." I figured it was more of a compliment to be
gritty than an insult, I nodded. "What do you need me to do?" The
guy to my right pipes up, "This ain't gonna be an easy task,
we're needing a few people taken out in their sleep, gotta look
like a suicide, you're the bitch in all this."
"What the fuck you mean bitch?"
"Don't get all prissy on me, the bitch is the one that's gotta actually pull off the plan, we're the one's that are going to be telling you what to do, you just follow your instructions, we're the fucking people that got you out of prison remember. You survive, don't get caught, then you're on your way to doing good in this business. If you die, or get caught and rat, which means you're about as good as dead anyways, then, well, you just weren't a good enough candidate. Got me?"
"Gotcha man." That was the last word spoken on the ride. We approached an old factory on the far east of the town.
Turns out these people weren't just any schmucks on the street, there were three senators that were getting a little too close to talking about some 'government' properties that had proven 'beneficial' to members of certain 'public groups'. I heard this from the guy on the right as we were walking to the building from the parking lots. He used finger quotes upon mentioning his 'key' points to pretty much everything. It was an interesting quirk.
The doors in the front of the building had been chained shut years ago, there was a fire exit with a brick wedged in keeping the door open. I followed the lackeys into their mysterious Scooby Doo headquarters and down a set of stairs. The place was in pretty good condition on the inside, fully lit, surprisingly meager amount of grime considering the factory was probably close to a century old. There were many rooms leading down a hallway, doors shut except for one, which we walked towards. The guy on my left goes for the handle of the door adjacent to the ajar. "You'd think it be that one." I said nodding towards the door to his right. "Yeah," he says with a slight laugh. "What's in the other one?" I asked. "Shotgun on a chair wired to the door."
We walked into the room. I almost lost myself; it was like being in a fucking gangster movie. There were six guys sitting around the table playing poker and smoking cigars, pieces on the table three of em' hairlined. They looked up from their haze of smoke. "Ooz dis?" the guy with the least darkest pair of sunglasses at the table says. "Anitai boss." Righty says. "Anitai uh? I tawt youz was an Asian, good fuckin guys for this kind of shit. But hey, youz heard the fuckin rules right? You could still pull this off, ever got shot before?" A few of the guys around the table snicker a little. I just shook my head. "Well lemme tell youz dis boy. It fuckin hurts, get used to it." With that he and his 'crew' were laughing, and then coughing, and then they caught their breath.
"Now, let's get down to bizzniss boys. We've been figuring out how to off dese guys for some time now, and the boys 'ave come up with a pretty fuckin airtight plan if youz ask me. We got ahold of some untraceable chem that can off a guy like it was a heart attack even after da autopsy n shit. We'z also been studying some of the blueprints to their houses, workplaces and commonalities, you know, like hang outs and shit, scopin out what time e's usually doin certain 'particular' things." They all did that fuckin 'finger' thing. "So ere's what we've got. The first one, guy named Don Murray, fuckin cocksucker is the one that signed this deal in the first place, we get our labs for 'experimentin' and shit, and they get a forty percent cut in the money raised." "experimentin?" I was curious. "Yeah, meth, blow, you know, now shaddup ya stupid fuck, I'm talking ere!" Brief silence. " SO, youz is gonna be planting this shit in their drink whenever they happen to take one, got me?" "Gotcha." He didn't like that I didn't show him too much respect. But I think he figured I was gonna get shot in the face pretty fast anyways so he didn't really let it be known that it was pissing him off. "This whole fuckin thing is gonna take a while. We're takin em out slowly, as to not raise too much suspicion. You'll do this hit, and in a few weeks we'll ave somethin else for ya.
Not like I had too much choice in the matter, but it was an acceptable job. You gotta do what you gotta do sometimes. It was all set up; there was a car that would be waiting for me in front of a designated coffee shop down the street from my place. I had been briefed; they had given me a floor plan of Murray's residence, and a brief list of points of observation. Basically what time he had been reported doing what. IT was ten thirty when I got picked up, got a block away from the destination at about eleven. The driver stops the car and turns around. "Don't fuck dis up. Got me?" We got five guys watching every fuckin move, you even so much as fart suspiciously and we'll have a sniper shoot you through you the back of the head." "Gotcha." I said. I didn't believe them about the snipers, but I figured that I would be better off just getting the job done and not fucking around.