The Logan Tapes 2 - Sex in the slammer 1

To Nicole Wagner the Deadly Gambit in the hope that she gives
us Broken 3 soon because, frankly, I do need my Nicole fix.

Here I am, master of all my sight can encompass, the only
drawback is that all my sight can encompass is a 6 by 12 cell
with a doubledecker bed, a dinky table and chair and a flushing
toilet ensuite. Oh, yes I'm in the slammer for having broken a
crazy fucker's jaw in a pub brawl. Now I ask you, is this dignified?
I got grabbed and barely had enough sense left not to
disembowel the police, but I expected the bloody Xmen to get me
out. Ok, they're pissed at me because I was supposed to be on
a fact finding mission and instead of lying low and quiet I get
involved in a pub brawl, but what the fuck do they expect of me?
They *know* how the rage takes me over, they know the
Wolverine is a bit unstable, but we're mates, aren't we? Mates,
pals, partners and a family. HA! Nice family. So now I have to do
my stint because my *family* - HA! – has decided it's all my own
fault I went to that sodding pub and got arrested. Yes, well, did
they really expect me to stay in the hotel all the time I was not
scuttling about playing `I spy with my little eye'? There's this great
pub in London where all the best bands play – ok, the ones I like
best, same thing, innit? – and I went there to have a listen. Was
minding my own business too, drinking good beer and good
music, and not a thought on anything else but the glorious music
shattering my ribcage. I had forgotten what else was the pub
famous for until I was slammed into the wall and there was the
merry sound of bottles smashing against chairs, tables and the
occasional forehead. The band, old hands at this, chose
discretion as the best part of valour and I was going to do the
same, when this crazy fucker screamed at me "I'll kill you,
half-pint!" Now I ask you. `Kill you', yes, that's standard for a truly
classic pub brawl, but `half-pint?' Who does this peckerhead
thinks he's speaking to? – Whom, sorry, heat of the moment –
I'm the Wolverine for fuck's sake! Nobody calls me half-pint and
lives to tell the tale. So I up and smash his jaw to splinters. Good
ol' adamantium, huh? Makes your punches really hard. I'm
shaking my hand – skin gets a bit mashed, but what's a healing
factor for? – and turning to go away when my nose is face to face
with the shining buttons of this very young very frightened bobby
who gulps twice before saying straight to the top of my head "I
am arresting you, sir." As I said I can't disembowel the police,
and this young thing stinking of fear, touches my feral heart –
well, I say heart… He's rather pretty in an officious way – and I
get arrested. So I get time for GBH – that's grievous bodily harm
– and am now in this cell.
I've been in prison, you know, so I know how it works. It's all
written rules and unwritten laws and if you don't get a reputation
soonest, you're going to have a loooong and weary haul of it.
Luckily for me, I'm short, badtempered and ugly as sin so the
buggers and pervs aren't interested in me as such, but if I don't
make the chief thug see the light ASAP, it will all be fistfights and
damage and getting screwed royally even, if too many come at
me because I don't want to risk getting life for multiple
ripping-people-to-ribbons and have my bloody mates *not* come
to the rescue just to teach me a lesson. So, as soon as I put my
things on the upper – if I'm lucky I won't have to share but better
to stake out your territory as soon as you can – I wander into the
corridor and ask the first poor bugger I see "Who owns this
place?" For a second he doesn't get it and I'm ready to translate,
when he grins "Ah, Baz." He says "That gobshite is in the
workshop. You can't miss him. Big bald tattooed brainless thug.
The biggest bald tattooed brainless thug, I mean. You the one
who broke Derek's jaw, ain't you?"
See? Famous already, a rep for GBH goes a long way in the
slammer. "Yes." I growl.
"I saw you, nice punch you have."
"You were there too? Didn't see you."
"The p'lice did, bad cess to them. Are you going to tackle him?"
"Yes." and I grin, it's nice to have supporters in a fight "Wanna
watch?"
"Bet your ass on it." and we go.
See how it works? No names. Names are never asked, just
offered. You can get given a nickname and God help you if they
call you `cunt', but never ask anybody anything about why they're
here, or what's their name, or if they have a life out of here.
These things are gifts, they get given to friends. Even the
thumpers buggers and pervs never ask these things. Unwritten
law of the slammer community. The authorities make pretty free
with all these things not to mention your person, and you just
don't do what your enemies do, simple as that.
Down we go to the workshop my nameless supporter showing
the way and there he is. Bigger brother of a wardrobe, as wide
as he is tall and thick. I walk up to him and see that I'm going to
have congress with his privates if I try to crowd him. Too bad, I
like to crowd. Instead I stop at clawing distance and say. "You
Baz?"
"Yeh. What' the fuck d'you want?" he grunts, he cannot articulate
with all those bulging jaw muscles I suppose.
"I want to be left in peace." I grin and snick the claws out. Perfect!
Just on the wobbly bits – this'll teach you to be so tall, fucker –
and he freezes. His body and my body are covering the action, as
it's done in the slammer, and though stupid he feels cold steel –
well, I suppose that's what he thinks it is – and, as I hoped, he
doesn't look down too afraid of what he may see. I push the
claws in a wee bit, just to make him feel the sharp points, and
say in a low snarl "I don't get no aggro and I don't give no aggro. I
don't muscle in on your cunts – no fear there, if the talent on
display is what he gets off in, he can keep them forever. Beefy
and useless are not the words – but I digress, as usual - and
you don't muscle in on mine. You can stay head honcho or
whatever the fuck you call it, but *nobody* - another slight push to
emphasise the point – bothers me in any way from now on or
you'll be singing soprano in the choir. – Ooops over his head,
better rephrase it, Logan! – I mean you'll wear your tackle around
your neck, do you agree?"
Not much he can do is it? The king of conversationalists grunts
"Yeh." so there's just one last thing to take care of. "I don't know if
you have noticed, you look stupid enough to me, but nobody's
seen anything and I bet nobody's heard anything either. So
mum's the word, and we just become mates. Agree?"
He mulls it over a bit, I wouldn't want to be a cell in his brain,
that's for sure, a lifetime of sluggish movements wouldn't suit
me at all, but he finally understands his rep is not in any great
danger.
"Yeh?" He grunts, a bit uncertain.
"Yeh." I say and snick the claws in *and* take a few steps back,
you never know. But he has finally understood that it's in his own
interests to do as I say – as I said, they're never interested in me
as such – and opens his mouth in what he fondly imagines is a
smile.
"Yo, Steel, you my mate. Anything you want, you ask Baz."
Steel, I ask you! But then it must have taken an Herculean effort
to come up with something that wasn't offensive, so I let it pass.
"Will do Baz, and you ask me, alright?"
Oh, yes you can ask and then you can get your throat slashed,
but some things have to be said, besides that was
slammerspeak for don't ask for nothing or you'll have to pay for it,
so in a sense it's ok. I wouldn't ask Baz the hour of the day. I go
away followed by my supporter, who's very keen to be seen with
me now, protection, you know, and sings "That was sheer poetry,
mate, sheer poetry! What did you do to him? I couldn't see."
Better and better, I don't want anybody to know about my claws,
they're my secret weapon, see? "Sodoff." I say, in character, and
he does just that.
And the days drag on. I politely decline the chance to work in the
workshop or the laundry, my stint's too short, they can't make
me, and pass a lot of time in the library. A nicely appointed
library, if you ask me, full of good books I haven't read yet. Yes,
so it's out. That's why I speak like I do. I read a lot. But a lot. I am
a voracious reader. Some books bore me, but not many. And I
even finish the boring ones. You never know too much,
especially when the past you remember may never have
happened. But not the slammer. I really have been in jail at least
a couple of times before. I know it too well, I settle in too quick,
I'm not bothered by the noises or the toilets or the showers a bit.
This means habit, not memory.
So, as I was saying the days drag on, I fuck some nice boys, but I
ask them and give them the chance to say no, rape doesn't do a
thing for me, I prefer a partner in bed – be it man or woman,
though I admit I prefer men… no, no, lengthy digression, you'll
lose the thread, I can always work it in later, what say? – and I
definitely prefer the heady perfume of arousal to the stink of fear.
And one day in the showers…
I've heard a new talent is in and everybody is hot for his bod and
they mean to start him in in the showers, but, frankly, I haven't
paid much attention. They're always saying things like that in
here. It's the boredom, see? Makes any new face the most
interesting thing in the world, and there's a host of rats and
rattles who talk of nothing but who's fucking whom and why, like
a bloody soap for fuck's sake! But that day I'm preparing to take a
shower when I hear the thumpings and grunts and `sotto voce'
mutterings of a full fledged fight. Not hearing any whimpers I get
the wrong idea and go enjoy the fight. But I'm wrong. There's a
kid in there, somewhere under the heaving bodies and he's
fighting good and hard, just as I like. Without a second thought I
wade in and start ripping people off him and bashing them in the
process. They grunt softly but the noise is really low key. The
noise is really low key because you don't want the guards to
come in. And you don't want the guards to come in because A)
some guards will wade right in and slam their sticks all over you,
even up your ass if you give them the chance, B) some guards
ask for money with menaces and believe you me, they can
menace a lot as there's very little you can do about it and C) if
you don't pay or if you're thumped you end up in solitary at the
tender mercies of a lot of type A guards. So you try not to make
any noise. Well, now the situation has evened a bit I can see the
kid is really a kid, he can't be more than 18 if that, that he fights
like nobody business and that he's really a hot talent. I'm glad to
see he fights dirty, this no rich kid caught with illegal substances
or a stolen car, this is a streetkid and knows how to use every
inch of his body in a fight. I also see that the beefs we're
thumping are Baz' friends which is a complication because I
have already decided I want this kid, so I must move in on him
as soon as the fight ends. Do you really need to ask? I'm the
Wolverine! Of course the beefs slink away beaten and lavishly
bruised in tender places – this is the kid of course, I punchs `em
as I see `em - I help him up and he says "Merci, monsieur."
Mmmm, nice voice, all velvety rough. "Think nothing of it." I say,
gruff because his smell is doing things to me. "*But*" I add "you
can't go out in there without some protection." "No, merci, I can
take care of myself." and he walks away, a little shakily, for sure,
but proud and tall.
Well, we all know who this is, don't we? But he's 18 if that and
not yet as tall as he will be. He's nicely tall at this point, with a
colt's legs and a colt's grace. And proud. Lucifer is a shrinking
violet beside him.
`Oh, well' I think `Pity. He'll get his lesson and that will be that' I'm
not risking my agreement with Baz for a kid, no matter how
yummy, no matter how much I like him already.
We're in the yard, a little later, and I see him sitting alone in a
corner, after the obligatory walk around that so delight the
sodding authorities. He's hunched a bit, head low, but he
doesn't look shattered so I know nothing's happened yet. Then
Baz is walking to him and he raises his head and I see his eyes
for the first time. Ah. Another mutant. No human being has ever
possessed eyes like that. Now I can't leave him to the wolves…
alright yobbos. I make a beeline for him cutting Baz' path and
once more I am face to face with his lower intestine. It's *not* a
pretty sight, but needs must. "Yo Baz!" I say loud and clear and
everybody turns to see what's happening now. He's fucked, he's
mine, he can't back down now, now poor grunt Baz has to play
this through and he don't know how. I see he's more surprised
than annoyed, I haven't said a word to my *mate* since that first
encounter. "Yo Steel…?" he mutters and I can hear the question
mark. Good, he's out of balance. "Hey, mate!" I practically
scream all cheerful showing pointed teeth "Your cunts were out
of line this morning, y'know! But no harm done, I've given them
what for already so go easy on them, huh?" Out of balance? He's
mentally staggering now, can't see where this is supposed to
end. "Uh" he grunts "Thanks." I see, with the corner of my eyes
the kid is all attention, even if he keeps that relaxed pose, and
he's fixing me with an intent stare like a scientist into a
microscope. What's he looking for? But I can't get distracted. "All
cleared, then, so if you don't mind…?" and I nod my head to the
kid.
Yes well, Baz is slow but not that slow. I smell the anger coming
out of him and yell again "And thanks for taking care of my kid."
This stops everyone, even the kid looks stunned but now the
agreement's on my side and in the slammer you don't break
agreements. Not ever. You lose your reputation and your former
friends turn against you in a micron and you're meat for the
taking, in spite, if you look like Baz, but meat for the taking
nonetheless so that the unwritten law is applied because if you
don't respect that, if anybody doesn't respect that, then nobody
can survive. He blinks, poor slowheaded Baz, and knows he's
fucked buggered screwed to perdition and has no moves left.
Okay, except one. "Pass him on, huh?" he grunts and I nod,
another easy agreement, you can grow old and die four
thousand times before I do that, Baz! But I nod and say, to lock
the thing "Of course. When I'm tired of him." He can but nod and
go away and I sit beside the kid who's looking a t me in *very*
peculiar way and I find out that red-in-black eyes are difficult to
read.
Now I'm embarrassed, don't ask me why, maybe it's that look,
maybe it's all that stillness, maybe it's the intensity that pours out
of him, but I'm awkward and a bit unsure. I clear my voice and
essay "Look, kid…"
"Remy" he cuts me off and this shows me he's streetwise, not
prisonwise and I have to teach him a lot before he's safe.
"No names, kid. Never any names. Okay, I appreciate you told
me, but never tell your name to anybody you don't trust as you
trust yourself and then some more. Okay?"
"Okay, monsieur.
"Now, where do you sleep? Have you got a cell alone or…?"
"I think the cell I was put in is monsieur Baz' cell."
Oh shit! That's all I need! Put a bone in a starving dog's mouth…
"Okay, I think he won't touch you, but we can't be sure."
"I can take him."
"No you can't, he's too heavy for you…" I stop realising what he
has just said. "You'd let him bugger you?"
"No!" he's indignant "I can fight him."
Whew! But he's really naïve. "No, you can't and I'll tell you why.
Because the guards will put you in solitary and fuck you to
kingdom come."
This hits him hard. He nods and waits for me to speak, I think
he's finding his way in this new territory. Wise kid, he learns
quick too.
"I claimed you to make him back off. Nothing happens,
understand, but you need protection because you're just a bit too
young and goodlooking to survive. Now I don't want to know what
for, is that clear? But how long are you gonna stay here?"
"I got 8 months."
"Shit I go out in 7. Well, we'll work something out. Now I just
pushed it to the limit before, so I can't menace Baz anymore. He
should stick to the agreement, but having you so near all night…
I don't know."
He has heard nothing but the word the way he repeats it in an
odd voice "Agreement? That you give me to him when…?"
"No! And listen! This is for your own good. Baz and I have an
agreement, he doesn't bugger me and I don't bugger him. His
cunts are his cunts and my cunts are mine."
He cringes a bit at that says "So now I'm your cunt, monsieur?"
Touchy, huh? And I can smell no fear on him.
"Are you listening to a word in ten or are you actually capable of
taking in what I say?" I am annoyed, I don't know at what, I use
the language of the place it means nothing.
"I heard." He's pissed off as well "You want to protect me so I
have to be your cunt, or I'll be Baz' cunt, or the guards' cunt. It
seems I'm to be a cunt no matter what."
Is there a God of Wolverines who stops them from losing it every
2 seconds? Must be because I manage to keep my cool.
"No." I say, very patiently "Listen, the guards will take us back in
in a moment, there's no time to argue. I *have* to say you're
mine or they get you. I have no intention – LIAR! – of doing
anything to you. But if I can't find a way to take you out of that cell,
things are gonna get hairy."
He thinks a bit. I can see he has something on his mind and
give him the time to think it through. It's not easy to adapt to the
brutality of the place, I know, and he needs some time to resign
to his fate.
"Monsieur" at last he says "There's a guard who said he'd help
me. Because he's a mutant too, you see? Only it doesn't show.
Maybe I could ask him to change my cell."
"Which guard?"
"His name is Barrett."
Good. This is good news. Barrett is an halfway decent guy, as
guards go. At least he's one of the paymeordie type and his price
is low enough.
"Okay, kid," I say "ask him. Do you have any money?"
He actually blushes at that "Non, monsieur." He mutters.
"Okay, no harm done. Tell him I will pay and to put you in my cell."
He mulls over it for a moment or two then he looks at me straight
in the eyes and says, rather hard - which is a pleasant surprise, I
can't stand crybabies – "But we make an agreement, oui? I
understand that I will have to be your… cunt" he spits that, the
kid's full of fire, and goes on "but if we do this, you'll wait until I'm
ready. In exchange I'll tell you when I'm ready."
"Okay." I say at once and take him aback. I grin and explain "I'm
not into rape. `Course I want you, I'm not blind or impotent, but I
can wait for you."
He smiles then, no, grins, looking about twelve. "Agreed,
monsieur." He grins into my eyes.
Of course I know he's no intention of ever being ready, I know he
thinks he's blocked me, he doesn't know the laws yet but figures
he can always find a loophole. Streetwise kid. He doesn't yet
know about the life-destroying boredom in here. He doesn't yet
know about the lonely nights when you just *have* to touch a
living being or you go mad. He doesn't know the *real* difference
between the slammer and the streets which is, you can always
run away in the streets if you're quick and nimble enough, but
you can't run away here. You're in and there's no out to run to.
But he'll find out, and I am patient man.
To make a long story short – ok I know you're laughing at me
now – he talks to Barrett and is moved to my cell in what seems
to be a minor moving about of people that you constantly get in
jail. Costs me a lot too, but that's ok because that way Baz
doesn't see it as nothing more than the routine screwing that we
are subjected to.
Now it's night, lights out and that breathless moment before the
dark sounds kick in. He's put his pitiful sack on the lower and
lies there. That bloody kid can emanate a disturbing intensity just
by being there and I ask myself if I'll be any better than Baz at
containing the imperious demands the Wolverine is making of
me. You didn't know, huh? The Wolverine lives down there,
inside the scrote inside the balls in the tightening of the sack that
heralds the awakening of the beast. There is where the animal
lives and prowls especially at night, there is where it rears its
shaggy head and howls at the moon. Poor Logan, poor me with
my implanted memories that are maybe better then the real
ones, is sometimes helpless and defenceless against the
beast down there, the *me* me that thirsts and hungers for prey.
Gloomy, huh? But that's what I am deep down. A gloomy
bastard. And the prey is just a leap away, just a heartbeat away
and only Logan-mind can keep him safe from the beast. And that
velvety-rough voice says suddenly – low enough thank all the
Gods of steetkids and wolverines – "I really will tell you."
Well that screws me up good, now, don't it? "Go to sleep kid." I
manage and the night noises tuck us in.
Morning and the worst part to go through. What has got me so
protective of the kid? The fact that he won't protect himself? The
fact that I had a hellish dream in which I saw the kid die in
mysterious circumstances and I was powerless to help? So I er
and ahem but in the end I have to say it brutally, `cause there's
no other way. "I have to mark you, kid."
He's up in a flash and his otherworld eyes are shooting fire.
"What?"
"Mark you." To my own ears I sound sad, what has come over
me? "If I don't the others will think I'm not interested anymore
and all this rigmarole'll have been useless. So don't argue for
once, `s just a scratch."
He's breathing hard, not liking it for a second, desperately trying
to find a way out – but there isn't any, lovely colt, there isn't any –
and suddenly he sees it.
"Very well, monsieur. What do I do?"
So brave, so brave… I wouldn't have been able to get to the gritty
end so quickly.
"Just expose your neck, I'll try not to hurt you too much." Because
you can't bite a thoroughbred, you have to be careful not to hurt
his pride, his integrity or it may go wild or break, two things I don't
want him to do.
I snick out my claws – is this the first sign I love him? How the
fuck can I know? It just seems the right thing to do, to use
adamantium to mark him, as if he were harder than steel, harder
than diamonds and much more precious, you get into rituals in
the slammer, they give some sort of meaning to the endless
boredom of the days – and his eyes open wide like a cat's.
"You are a mutant too, monsieur?" he breathes.
"Yeh." I say - I see talking to Baz has affected my vocabulary –
"Now be still."
I carefully slash the base of his neck twice from the right and
from the left. A virtual collar for my kid. There's a little blood but
not too much. The cuts will scab easy and leave no trace in a few
days. But for those few days even scrotes like Baz will get the
message. Steel they call me. Steel has marked his cunt.
TBC