I wrinkle my brow in concentration as I continue to sharpen the small piece of plastic tray I have in my hand. I’ve become a bit of a shank connoisseur, and business is booming already. I’ve sold ten shanks this week, and it’s only Thursday.
My first one was from a spork, and I simply sharpened the handle, but I’ve gotten more creative since then. For my second shank masterpiece, I plucked the teeth off a comb and stuck them in some toothpaste. I then let the whole thing harden overnight. I call that bad boy The Minty Hedgehog. I sold it for a hot fifteen bucks, which is basically a grand in here.
I’ve also used the end of a toothbrush, a piece of concrete, and a really colorful one made out of Jolly Ranchers. I kept that one for myself. I don’t know how useful any of them will be, but no one seems to care. Apparently, just the illusion of protection is worth a pretty penny in here.
While the others talk, I hum nineties music to myself and sharpen the plastic with a pretty rock I found. I’m sneaking this rock inside with me later. I love rocks just as much as I love colors. I’m thankful for the rec time and being outside, and sigh in relief again at how relaxed I am. This is so much better than being at home, constantly hounded by my mat.
There are thirty or so inmates in the rec yard right now, all of us getting our allotted sunlight time. A few of them are playing football, but it’s mostly an excuse to throw a ball at the other team member’s faces, tackle them, and then beat the shit out of each other. I didn’t think the contact sport would be allowed in here, but the guards don’t break it up, and the others that aren’t involved just watch because it’s entertaining as hell.
I’ve been here for a week now, and I’ve got a system down. I know which guards don’t like my particular brand of humor. I know which ones still hold a grudge over my little cafeteria tray incident. I know that this place serves epic Sloppy Joes on Saturdays. I also have a tentative inmate group that I hang out with, courtesy of my good friend Zen. Well, maybe friend is a strong word. It’s more like she tolerates me. But that’s all I needed, because it gave me the perfect in.
Which is how I find myself in the rec yard every day, hanging out with Zen, the wolf shifter Sophie, a couple of water fae, the Medusa-wannabe with the broken eyes—she can’t turn anyone to stone with her gaze, and yet, she won’t let me pet her red snake hair either—and Joe. He’s a troll who doesn’t talk, but even though he’s scary looking and has to go in sideways through every doorway because he’s too big to fit, he’s nothing but a big teddy bear. At least, I think so. He only grunts when I talk to him, but they seem like friendly grunts.
Zen presides over the whole crew, but she also has people outside of this little circle that she talks to on a daily basis. No one fucks with Zen. Not the other inmates, not the guards, not even the Warden, who I see from time to time. He always has a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and he’s cloaked in shadows and smoke.
As for the prison guard, Rook, I’ve only seen him a couple of times since our weird ass meeting in the medical ward. I was fully expecting Dr. Brina to come search me out after she realized she wasn’t feeding off my dreams, but luckily, I haven’t seen her again.
And even though Rook hasn’t bothered me at all, the other guards are a different matter. It’s like they got all pissy just because I hit one of them. So sensitive.
They like to make their presence known every once in a while, but I take it in stride. The most they’ve done is shove me harder than necessary through doorways or trip me as I walk by. I can handle it.
With Rook, I’m still on my guard. I don’t trust his presence here. Cockatrice shifters aren’t all that common, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a coincidence. So I watch him carefully, though he doesn’t pay me any attention whatsoever, even though I changed his name tag to read Rookie and put it back on his uniform when he wasn’t looking. When people were snickering at him in the cafeteria, his eyes found me, and he arched his brow like, Really? I thought it was a win.
But overall, I’m still not sure exactly how I feel about him.
Movement by the doors that lead us back inside the prison catches my attention. I look over at the waving hand that belongs to a guard who I discovered has a situation I can use to my benefit. He looks nervous. I shake my head to myself as I watch him pace and wipe the sweat from his upper lip. I step away from my crew, tuning out whatever new topic is being discussed, and pocket my shank project as I start to walk over.
I approach the anxious guard, and he waves me around the side of the building where inmates aren’t normally allowed to go. I look around to see if anyone is paying attention, but only find Zen’s eyes tracking my movements. I give her a wave and smile as I disappear around the corner where I’m met by a manila folder practically being shoved in my face.
“Damn, activate your chill, Chuck,” I censure as I step back, checking my face for papercuts.
“I got what you wanted. Just take it. Before someone sees,” he tells me with a distressed catch in his tone.
“Chuck, you seriously need to just take a couple of deep breaths. It’s not like I’m asking you to shove a sub sandwich up your ass for me. It’s just some papers you printed for me to have a look at. No biggie,” I tell him reassuringly.
Chuck opens his mouth to say something, and then his features fold with confusion. “Why would you want me to shove a sandwich up my ass?” he asks, taking a step back and looking me over with renewed concern.
I huff out an exasperated breath. “Apparently it’s a thing, but I wouldn’t ask, that’s my point.”
“But how would that even fit?” he demands, his hands dropping to cover his butt, clearly not focusing on the fact that no one has requested an ass sandwich from him.
Rolling my eyes, I ignore the question and instead open the file and read through what I asked Chuck to get for me. My eyes scan the pages, and then I sigh a little. Officer Rook’s employment file isn’t half as exciting as I hoped it would be. The dates in this file confirm that he’s worked here for four years, and he’s received two promotions. From what I can see, he hasn’t had any complaints filed against him since he started here.
I flip through the copies of the reviews he’s had and read through the lease agreement that Chuck printed off for the condo it seems Officer Rook rents. I glance quickly over the registration in the file for a 1970 Ford Bronco and then close the file, handing it back to Chuck.
It seems Rook checks out.
I look past Chuck in thought, but his nervous rocking makes it hard to focus on other avenues I can discreetly check to be sure I’m not missing anything on the Rook front.
“You did real good, Chuck,” I coo, and the man wipes more sweat off his upper lip and gives me a smile. “I appreciate your help and your discretion,” I add with a hint of warning in my tone that this obviously needs to stay between us.
Chuck nods his head vigorously and shoves the file back up the front of his shirt.
“The next time that harpy gang comes into your wife’s shop, tell her to say shlecom...and that Sinclair said hi. After that, they won’t ask for the protection fee anymore, and they’ll make sure nobody else messes with her. Her new flower business will be blooming in no time,” I tell him, smirking at my pun. Chuck doesn’t appreciate it though, he’s too busy mouthing the code word multiple times to make sure he’s got it right.