Paul Newman is my hero.

Not old Newman, no, I'm talking 1967 Cool Hand fucking Luke cutting the heads off of parking meters. You could say he was my inspiration. I cut the heads off of parking meter attendants.

Now, hear me out.

I'm not talking about all those sweet men and women who give us tickets, I'm just kidding around. I'm only talking about two of them. It started outside a bar in Tennessee. I was just a kid, seventeen, too young to be inside the bar, but my cousin owned the place and he didn't care. I got high, I got drunk, I started a fight, broke a bottle off a guy's head and, even though I wasn't even considered an adult, landed in jail for my first offense.

But this guy knew who I was.

And this guy showed up at my house while I was gone and did something to my younger sister.

They released me two days later and I hunted him down as soon as I heard what happened. I found him leaving a ticket on a parked car that had an expired parking meter. After, we had a little conversation with my machete. I stripped him and cut him up in parts like an old buck and spread him out in the woods. No one ever found him. His cousin, who worked with the guy, heard about me chasing after him. He either lost it or sensed some kind of calling for vengeance and chased after me. Unfortunately, they found him.

So now I'm here, serving life and then some in this shithole of a prison.

In here they call me the Enforcer. Fifteen years of weights and breaking people in half will get you a reputation and nickname. I liked mine. No one would fuck with someone nicknamed 'The Enforcer,' especially inside a prison. I'm in the gym this morning with two of my best guys guarding the entrance and watching my back. The guard, who we paid off, is out in the hallway. Being known also has other perks. I'm about to shank this new kid who thinks he's the shit when the alarm suddenly blared. Confused, I turn to the guard and he shrugs. I cautiously slip the shank into my boot and hit the floor with the rest of them. A tactical team arrives, all geared out with shields and tear gas and rubber bullets. They circle me, push my head down, cuff me, pull me up to my knees, and drag me from the gym. Maybe they caught wind of what I was planning to do. That kid is lucky. For the rest of the way, I don't fight.

You have to pick your battles.

The warden's office is at the top floor with high windows that overlook the yard with bars and turrets. As if the old guy would be covering us in his spare time. The old guy probably couldn't piss straight, too. The team leads me through the office door, sits me in a chair and steps back in a crowd by my shoulders. The warden looks over a manila folder with my picture taped to the front.

"S117, how are you doing this fine day?" he asks me with a grin, lowering my file.

"Just peachy," I reply.

"Good. Well, my day," he scoffs, "hell, my month just got better, you know why?"

"I have no idea. Do I-"

"Got a call from a buddy of mine, warden at Moundsville, and he's having a little problem up there."

"So?"

"So...You are transferred as of an hour ago," he claps the folder shut. "Your belongings are packed and ready. Transport is waiting outside. These gentlemen will accompany you," he gestures at the men behind me.

I shook my head in disbelief. "Whoa, hold on there, cowboy. I'm transferred? Why?"

"It's a long ride to West Virginia," he starts to say, ignoring my question, "and, if you create any problems, these sweet men who are standing behind you are authorized to contain you with any force necessary. Do you understand?" I nod, having no say in the matter. I don't understand anything. "Speak up, boy."

"I fucking understand," I hiss. A fist harshly slams into the back of my head, hitting me hard enough off the chair. I think I see stars. It gradually clears.

"When you arrive, you are to create a disturbance, and then get transferred to their solitary confinement program or whatever the hell they have. Just make trouble and get inside there. Ask around and you'll see what is happening. Solve this little mystery and we can arrange a reward." 

So I'm an investigator now? There's a mystery waiting to be solved, but that's not what caught my attention.

"A reward, huh? What kind of reward are we talking here?"

He smiles, motions to the guys behind me, and I'm hoisted to standing. "I'll be in touch," he says. He goes back to my file and I am taken out of the room.

- - - - -

The ride makes it feel like it's been forever. I'm strapped into a chair. They let me up only once to walk and use the bathroom while being followed by three guards, and then tie me down the moment I'm done. After a couple more hours we finally arrive, and I take in the building's shape as we cross the gate. Holy shit did it look like a fucking castle, like someplace hiding a dragon. We park at the prisoner entrance and I'm led inside. Paperwork is signed, body cavities are searched, and I'm immediately taken to my cell. The door closes and I take inventory.

Just about every prison is the same. They all talk a good game about reformation, rehabilitation, education and all that shit that makes liberals have wet dreams during daytime, but the real job is to take us animals and cage us up 'til we die or go crazy. Prison is security, both for the outside world and for us. It is a fine balance if you just think about it. We, the prisoners, create our own structure and we ignore theirs, the outside world. We figure out how to live and the good citizens sleep better at night. We meet our demons and make friends while you pray to your angels we don't get out. It's a give and take.

I spend my first night staring at the ceiling of my cell, planning on my course of action. The most important thing to do is talk, to make friends, gain allies, and find a place to fit, because outsiders and new guys, especially in a prison, are dead in more ways than one. After an hour, I decide it's time to sleep.

The next day, during lunch, I begin. The cafeteria here is a major downgrade compared to the previous one. The walls are white, peeling, and have different shadings of brown on them. The tables are creaky and rusty, and look like they were made a century ago. After I receive my grub, I walk around. I look for guys like me: white, my age, sleeves of ink and a hint of southern blood. I see them, five to be exact, sitting on a table all the way in the back. Walking towards it, I see they have two empty seats. I make sure the rebel flag tattoo on the back of my hand is showing as I get near them. I go to sit in one of the empty seats, but two guys step in front of me and stop me.

"Whoa partner," one of the guys, a muscular one, puts his hand in front of me. He wore the same prison uniform as everyone else, but the sleeves are ripped off. Like me and almost everyone sitting at the table, his arms were full of tattoos. I loosen the grip on my so-called meal and flex the muscles on my arms so I can react quickly, just in case I made a mistake in coming here. "Not there, seat's reserved."

"Looks like it's free," I look up and let the accent creep in.

"That's Roy's spot," the other guy informs me. He had a smaller frame compared to the other guy, but the huge and visible veins in his forearms tell me he's not someone you can push around. He looks at the other inmates, nods, and then faces me. "You can have the other spot right there." I ease up and I go around the table to take a seat.

"What you in for?" the muscle-head asks me. The others give me a look and await my answer.

"I tell you mine, you tell me yours?" I ask back. Everyone agrees, and I clear my throat. "First degree murder," I start, "I killed two people, but they only found one, and they didn't even find all the limbs for the one that they did find," I chuckle and gloat. A couple of them seem impressed, but the others not so much. They must have done things that were worse than killing two people. "Long story short, the police found the last guy's grilled arms and hands buried near a forest, which then led them to finding his head, which then led to me."

"Damn, brother, that bites," one of them commented.

"What'd you do 'em in for?" one of the other inmates asks. "Or are you one 'a them persons who do it just for kicks?"

"No, I ain't like that. Given that I'm a little crazy just like everyone else here, but I don't find joy in just killing random people. The story behind it is that I got sent to jail for a couple nights after I got into a bar fight with this bastard. I was seventeen, but they decided to keep me in anyways. While I was in there this fucker I got into the fight with went into my home and raped my sister, and she was only fourteen." Everyone had a look of disgust, sounds of disapproval going all around. It's funny that even the people inside the prison find these kinds of humans disgusting. Even when it comes down to the lowest of all people, pedophiles and rapists are even lower. Though, it is a little ironic for them to be criticizing.

"What about the other guy?" follows up the same guy.

"He was a cousin of that guy and decided to come after me when he heard what happened. He was basically just collateral damage, but he might be the one laughing now since he was the reason I got caught."

Afterwards, one by one, they tell me what happened to them. Murder, manslaughter, theft, arson, and other reasons I didn't bother listening to after a while.

"Well where is this Roy?" I ask after I notice the silence. I pick up the sorry excuse for a bagel and take a bite. Tastes and feels like cardboard. This guy next to me, tall and lean, leans to my side.

"He's gone," he whispers.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, "Ride the lightning?"

"Disappeared," the guy says to me, shaking his head. The others start murmuring and mumbling all at once. In the middle of all that, I heard someone say 'it's already been a few days.'

"That's a little weird," I state in between my bites. "Did he literally just disappear? Why are you still saving his spot if he's gone?"

"You ask a ton of questions for a newcomer," the muscular guy says. The phrase is a question and a challenge, and I'd beat this guy close to death, but this is not the place for me to accept it and fight.

"Just curious," I answer. I lower my eyes to my food and keep eating.

"It don't do nobody any good to be too curious. You best watch yourself."

Later in the day, during recess, I find the thin guy who was sitting next to me out in the yard sitting on the bleachers, his nose digging deep in a tattered copy of Moby Dick. He flinches and almost drops the book when I jump to sit next to him. I notice the guards watch our conversation. They're trained to spot alliances and note any signs of conflict. I know, and they know that I know, I'm being watched.

"How's a guy vanish in here?" I rub my hands together. "He escape?"

"You do ask a lot questions," he replies. "Not a very promising reputation you're building up around here, new guy." He looks back down to his book.

"Listen brother, I've served a bunch of time down south. There ain't no prison in the business of losing people out of the blue. Is it the guards?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because if this shithole is gonna be my new home, I don't want to be the one missing next." Please believe me. He closes the book and places it on the bleachers. Rain starts to fall, black as the smoke from the factories that sit just beyond the prison walls and fences. The horn sounds tells us to line up to get back inside. We walk together towards the entrance.

"Come on man, just talk to me." He looks a little annoyed now as he sighs.

"How about I tell you how not to disappear instead?" he suddenly suggests. "All you have to do is stay clean." He takes my hand and the motion shocks me enough that I jump. People don't just shake your hand in prison. He pulls closer to me and a guy whistles behind me. "I don't know what the hell you're getting at, but I would stop if I were you. Please. Just stay out of trouble." He pats me twice on the cheek and we go inside.

I pace around my cell and think about the warden's instructions. That guy knows something. Hell, I'm pretty sure almost everyone here knows something, something that even criminals keep quiet with each other about. The guy told me to stay out of trouble, but I know that I have no choice. If I want to go back to my old joint, maybe no longer having a life sentence and the chance to see free daylight again, I can't stay clean. At least not here. I need to cause a problem. Fuck the weird, thin guy. This place isn't my home, and it is time for phase two.

The next day I'm in the gym, my favorite place, waiting for the bench press. The set up is older than ours down home; the equipment is rusted, benches creak under the weight of the prisoners. Seems like everything here is older and more broken. I count the people: four guards, ten guys, probably enough to break up the fight before I get killed. Hopefully. I wait until this black guy starts bench pressing and amble over until I'm standing behind his head.

"It was my turn," I say. He looks up at me, his boys laugh. The guy lifting keeps going with sounds of struggle, arms like flexible blocks of concrete. "I don't know if you heard me." I take a hold on the bar, pushing it down to his throat and the fun begins. "It was my fuckin' turn." It doesn't matter how strong the guy is if he's tired and I'm adding extra force. The guards sound the alarm. I feel a volley of fists hitting my back, my head, my legs, but I muscle through it and keep pushing; I am the Enforcer after all, and it's about time that these guys learn who I am.

I see the man's eyes go red with burst blood vessels, he gasps for air and I keep at it; just a little longer. I hear the warnings from the guards and feel the punches from the rest of this guy's crew, but they don't know that they're hindering the guards from doing anything. I keep pushing until the prongs hit my chest. "Move!" the guards keep screaming out. Finally, a taser fires and hits my ribs. A continuous flow of electricity shock me, and before I fall to the floor and lose consciousness, I catch a glimpse of my victim's emotionless face. Mission accomplished.

- - - - -

I awake lying in a cave. At least that's what I think it is. It looks and smells like a cave. Well if it looks like shit and it smells like shit, then it is shit. Water drips from the ceiling above my head. I hear a cough. I sit up and see a guy in a suit sitting across from me, his hands folded, a diamond ring on his pinky finger. So that's him. He's younger than I thought.

"Two days, eh? You're quite a quick worker. I appreciate that." He reaches his hand towards me and I spit on it. "I understand." He has a calm and collected tone. He takes out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it off. "We had to make it look real, you know?"

I try to move and hear the chains scraping the ground. My hands and feet are shackled to the floor. My back, where endless punches landed, was throbbing with pain and my ribs feel sore from the shock. Slowly the room comes into focus. It's like something out of a bad movie. The bars welded into rock, a moldy mattress on the floor, a hole in the corner for a toilet. This confirms it. I am in a cave.

He extends his arms to the sides. "Welcome to our black level solitary confinement program. This is a little gift from wardens of the past, and I decided to make use of it." He drops his hands to his lap. "This is where we keep the worst of the worst, and you, my friend," he points at me, "have arrived. Now, I believe you know why you're here. You solve my little problem, and I'll make sure you are out of here as quick as you came. Sound good?"

"Yes." The word barely escapes my lips. I realize I haven't had anything to drink in hours. I clear my throat before continuing. "You mind telling me your problem, exactly? I wasn't told much. The only thing I was told to do was to make it here."

"We're losing people. I mean, gone, like smoke." He reaches down next to his leg and picks up a bottle of water that was hidden in the darkness. "We've got no cameras down here, barely any lights even, and your fellow inmates aren't talking." He opens the cap and hands it over. "Five, five in the last month, gone, no bodies or anything, no trace, and I need you to stop it." I swallow half the bottle until my stomach threatens to send it back up.

"Why don't you put cameras here then?"

"We've tried, but they always end up missing or get broken by someone. Or something."

"You want me to use my bare hands, or what?" I ask.

"When I leave, you'll be unshackled and find a loaded gun in the corner to my right. Try to get pretty with it and I'll personally see to your punishment." He stands up. "You have a week and, if you fail, I'll send you back up to the wolves. Did you know that you killed that guy?" he asks me, and then smirks. "Of course you did. How else would we admit you here, right? What you didn't know was that those guys he was with are his brothers. Now they're waiting to get their hands on you for that stunt in the gym, so consider this a vacation." He exits the cell.

A guard enters, unshackles my arms and legs, and exits again, shutting the cell door behind him. I'm left staring across the small arched hallway at an orange light emitting from the corner. The lights are strung the length of the hall, flickering and barely working. I count three cells on each side. I'm in the middle. In front of me are two cells right next to each other, and to my right is another cell attached to mine. Further down the hallway are the other two rooms, one on each side. Other than the hallway, the inside of the cells are dark. After the warden and the guard are out of sight, noise erupts.

It's deafeningly loud. Screams, moans, wails, pleads in different languages. The amount of voices greatly outnumbers the amount of cells. I hold my hands over my ears, pressing down tightly. Things aren't right. I've seen the ways guys can crack in the joint, and this group is fucking something else. He dropped me in the fucking psych unit. I go to the corner of the cell and feel around in the darkness until I find the gun. He wasn't lying. I check the magazine and it's full.

"Hey...hey man, fresh meat..."

I barely hear it over the screaming. The words are close. I move along the wall on my right.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, yeah. Over here. The door."

I reach the cell door and see a hand holding a mirror. It's a shard of glass and the hand grips it hard enough that blood runs down the wrist. The reflection of my neighbor's face is scarred, a pattern of cuts in the skin, one eye half closed and the mouth slit into a permanent frown.

"What the fuck?" I take a step back and think of pulling the gun.

"Welcome to hell," he greets with his eyes popping out. I back away as he starts laughing, forming a misshapen smile. I sit on the floor, waiting for the noises to calm and the chance to figure out a course of action before I lose it and join the crazies. I glance at the gun. It's a tempting option.

I start to notice more of the cell. Cracks run along the walls, spiders hide in the corners, and a small screen is set high above my head in the middle of the ceiling. I lift my hand and feel a very slight breeze. At least they're providing fresh air. Suddenly, a hiss comes from the screen and a stream of white smoke flows down into the floor of my cell like a waterfall. I back away from it. My gut tells me to cover my nose and run, but where to? I run to the door and start pounding on the bars. More laughter came from next to me. The mirror and scarred face reappears.

"What the hell is this?" I ask.

"This? It's sleepy time," he replies, continuing to laugh.

The smoke reaches my waist, the entire cell being filled with it. The noises begin to subside and I hear the soft thuds of bodies beginning to drop in the other cells. My neighbor's laughing fades to silence. God, they're drugging them to sleep. The walls around me begin to spin as I drop to my knees and drift away into darkness. What did I get myself into?

I jerk awake to an expensive dress shoe drilling into my side.

"Get up," the voice comes from above. I see the warden again, this time looking much less pleased than the day before. "Did you see anything?"

"When? Between the lunatics and gassing us to sleep?" I feel weak and wobbly. Probably an after effect of that damn gas.

"Funny," he replies, emphasizing each syllable. He points over his shoulder. I struggle up and see the cell further down on the left standing open, guards shining flashlights around the space. One is taking pictures with a flash camera. "I wasn't expecting you to find much on your first night, but remember that that leaves four of you down here. Figure out what is happening and do it today, or you might be next." He shakes his head and walks away.

After I gather enough strength to sit, my thoughts focus to conspiracy. Maybe they're doing it on purpose, killing the problems to make the jail look good. They could refuse visits from families, make up excuses, and tell the public whatever they wanted. Seems foolproof.

Hours pass.

I pace around my cell again, walking to each corner and counting my steps. Yesterday was too loud, today is too quiet. I almost wish for the yelling to commence, but my cellmates seem to be in mourning for the lost guy, whoever he was. The walls feel tighter. I stretch for outside ideas to keep my mind moving. I hear the hallway doors open and the sound of a cart coming towards us. Two guards slide a tray of food inside each cell on both sides. A sandwich of spoiled meat and discolored cheese, and forced down as much as possible. A delicious lunch. They wait for everyone to finish eating, take our trays, and disappear again.

I replay what the warden said again and again. There are four of us left: me, the guy next to me, and two others somewhere around here. I go near the cell door and listen, trying to pin down their location. I call out for a response, but none comes back. My neighbor was the only one making noise. Whispering to himself, singing nursery rhymes, periodically popping his lips. I swear, if I make it out, I'll kill him and the fucking thing that was taking everyone else.

Night comes and I've made no progress. I stare at my gun as the waterfall of smoke emerges again. I already know what comes next. Instead of fighting it, I lie on my moldy bed and close my eyes.

In the morning I feel another kick to my side, harder this time. He got me right in between two ribs. Before I can open my eyes, the warden pulls me up by my hair and close to his face.

"Maybe you don't understand the severity of the situation," he calmly says, but the expression on his face tells me he's anything but. He drags me to the bars, pushes my face to the metal and turns my head. The cell in front of me was open. "And then there were three. Good luck." He lets go and my head drops to the floor. The guards are repeating their inspection. I can see traces of blood on the walls mixing with the mold. I wait for everyone and my head to clear. I need information. I need a friend. Maybe we can get this thing together. I lean closer to the cell next to mine.

"Hey buddy, hey man, did you hear anything?" I ask. "See anything?"

I hear him whimpering, rocking back and forth against the bars.

"Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Listen, I have a gun," I take it out from the band of my prison pants. "They want me to stop it. Tell me, help me, and we'll do it together." His rocking stops.

"A gun?" he asks. I hold it against the bars. I hear him swallow and stand, the sound of his faint steps get closer. Then, the mirror. I move a little closer so he can see the reflection of the gun. This is the closest we've ever been since my arrival. I can smell just a hint of the stink on his breath and see the face of the man from before the scars. I slide the gun down.

"What happened?"

"You want to know the story?" He speaks nervously, each word carefully crafted in the humid air. I've never heard the guy put more than three words together before this.

"Tell me," I feel my hair stand, my pulse kicks up in my chest.

"This place..." he takes a hold of the bars, "was a mansion once."

"I knew it wasn't your normal prison, but a mansion this huge? It looks like a damn castle."

"The guy who owned it turned the mansion into a hospital, added wings and rooms, and treated patients here. That's why it's so big. He hired staff, became well known. He had two children, a girl and a boy."

"Do you know their names?"

"No, no one knows their names, but that's not what's important here. It's the doctor. The doctor liked to experiment, for the sake of science, and his young boy had the good fortune of being the first born. He was..." he glides his fingers down the bar and whispers, "the plaything."

Chills run down my spine. I hear movement in a different cell. We both jump. He begins to have short breaths.

"The doctor! The doctor detached limbs and placed them in other locations, removed organs, changed the boy's face," he takes a peek down the hall, speaking quickly. "He injected things under the skin and waited to see what happened. When the boy grew too big, they sent him down here, where his private room is." He takes another look. "There." He points and I turn, a thin arm stretching between the bars, away from us, deeper into the hall.

I see some movement in the shadows, as if it is an answer. It sounds like scratching.

"Then, the girl. The girl missed her brother." I turn my head back. "She searched the wings of the hospital, in her blue summer dress, red glitter shoes, tears pouring from her eyes. There was never a day she didn't search for her brother. One afternoon, she climbed up the stairs, entered her father's office on the top floor, opened the window latch and climbed onto the roof. The doctor tried to stop her. She looked at him, smiled, and jumped."

I think of the ride in and picture a small body, wrapped in blue, falling from the top of the building.

"They say the brother and sister are seen to this day. The girl was buried somewhere around the compound. She's seen all around the prison, skipping from one place to the other. She looks the same way as she did after her landing."

"And what about the brother?" I almost didn't want to ask, "Is he dead also?"

"The brother? Him? Oh no," he shakes his head multiple times, "he's down here, over there in his room, too afraid that the doctor will find him and hurt him again." He stops to breathe, taking yet another look down the hall. "Promise me you'll protect me." He reaches towards me and I shake his hand, cringing at the feeling of the scabbed cuts and scrapes on his skin. I can feel his hand trembling.

"I promise."

- - - - -

We wait in silence. I was finally able to get some information, but I don't even know if it's reliable. When I called whatever it is down here a 'monster,' I was doing so metaphorically. To think there'd actually be a monster and a story behind it puts me into a situation of doubt. Maybe if I'd heard the same story from other inmates it'd be believable.

The smoke is coming soon; I can feel it. If only there was some way I can prevent it. I look around my cell and at my mattress. Then, an idea came to mind. I get the bed and stand it up, placing it right below the screen. It can almost reach it, so I might be able to use it to block the smoke. I take my shirt off and rip it down the middle on one side. I roll up the mattress like a carpet and use my ripped shirt to tie it in place. I take my pants off, leaving me freezing in my underwear. I fold my pants in half as many times possible, and then place it under the mattress. I stand up and check the ceiling.

Yes! It reaches. The mattress should block most of the smoke. Having minimal smoke come into my cell means it could give us the needed time to face this thing. Water drips. I check the gun and the bullets as I lean on the bars, feeling the coolness of the metal while looking out and watching for movement in the hallway, making myself ready. I think of that night in Tennessee, the impulses of teenage angst and realize this is my punishment. I am destined to be here; trying to kill something I haven't seen or can't understand.

The hallway door opens. I point the gun and keep steady until I could see what was coming. I hear the clacking of shoes, but in an awkward rhythm. The incoming shadow was big and deformed. My breathing begins to change and I grip the gun harder. But, as the figure gets closer, the shadow gets smaller. Suddenly, it jumps from the corner of the hallway. It was a girl, face as white as porcelain. She wears a blue summer dress, red glitter shoes, and her head hangs off to the side on a broken neck. She smiles at me as she skips pass me. Her left ankle looks sprained and is turned to its side, her right arm turned outwards from the elbow.

This is it. I finally lost it. The pressure, whatever they put in the food, the smoke, they have taken their toll. I aim the gun at her as she keeps going. She stops at the cell next to mine. My neighbor begins to yell. "No! No, no, no!" I hear him screaming, begging for help, throwing himself against the wall.

"Stop right there!" I demand. The little girl ignores me and disappears into the cell, the hem of her dress moving through the bars. The screaming stops.

My grip becomes loose as I keep the gun pointed.

The cell slams open. The little girl hops out and turns around, extending her hand. Next thing I know the guy comes out and takes her hand, following her to the cell that was in front of his. He produces a key from his pocket. The door clicks open and he goes inside. Seconds later, he emerges pushing a wheelchair. An elderly man sits in the chair, his body no more than skin hanging on bones, oxygen and IV lines running into his arms. His scalp is bald and covered in spots. He opens a toothless mouth and smiles. My cellmate leans down and kisses him on the cheek.

"I'm proud of you, my boy." His voice is like wind in a graveyard. "Now, go enjoy your dinner." You can't be serious.

The guy snaps his head and looks at me, a smile reveals sections of bone filed to razor points, his hands forming into claws. His back arches with a pair of black wings hanging down from his shoulders. No fucking way.

"Did you like our show?" he asks. The little girl claps.

"Are you fucking serious?!" I back away as he opens the cell door and enters. I hear the hissing of the smoke as it starts from the screen. He comes towards me, hitting the bed out of the way. The smoke pours down into his body, but he walks through unfazed. I aim the gun and empty the magazine on him. He smiles again. I drop the gun. I take a swing and he catches my fist halfway.

"It's sleepy time." With one quick move, his other hand pierces my skin and digs deep into my ribs. I feel his scaly fingers wrap around my bones, and he squeezes it, breaking them. I let out a horrendous scream, and the last thing I see before blacking out is my blood, quickly traveling down the monster's arm.

- - - - -

The phone rings in the warden's office just after midnight. He checks his watch before picking up the receiver.

"Hello friend," he says. "I knew I'd be getting a call from you soon. How did it go?"

He listens to the response.

"That's excellent." He chuckles. "Glad I could help. You scratch my back and I scratch yours. You know what they say."

He listens again.

"Oh, it was my pleasure. I'll talk to you soon."

He lowers the receiver, pours a glass of brandy, and looks out to the full moon that hangs over the prison yard.