Boogieman
by Te
March 2000

Disclaimers: If he belonged to me I'd keep him safe,
warm, fed, and chained.

Fandom: Oz

Spoilers: Some general first season-ness here. 

Ratings Note: R for violence and imagery some
readers may find disturbing.

Archival: Sure, just let me know where, OK?

Feedback: Lusted for at thete1@earthlink.net.

Notes/Acknowledgments: To Rae for fine audiencing 
and encouragement, and, of course, to Gemma. 
Consider this a bit on account, yes?

*

It's anywhere between eleven-thirty and twelve-eighteen
at night according to the small, but treasured, collection
of watches in Adebisi's possession. He likes the 
*cheapness* of the collection. 

The rudeness. 

Sometimes there are still hairs left in the stretchy 
elastic wristbands, and sometimes he can catch the 
faintest hint of white boy aftershave -- always a little 
too tangy for his taste.

Fake sharpness to hide the soft, doughy truth.

He loves the way they look when he smiles at them, 
the way they try to take in every part of his body with
their eyes. Like they can't believe anyone in the world 
could possibly be this big, this black. Adebisi grins up 
into the gloom and settles back. 

Yes, black. Or maybe *Black*, like the crazy-fuck 
preacher says. One big, *Black* motherfucker in the 
night, blending in, just like he should. What they say? 
Boogieman? It's a funny word, and he likes that, too. 
Boogieman gonna get you...

He wonders how long it will be before the new prag 
starts to wonder if he shouldn't have just kept his 
sweet little mouth shut and stayed with him. Adebisi, 
he knows how it works with the pretty ones. He's 
listened as his own dreamed. Watched as they finally 
figured out how to drift away from his touch, just 
float away and dream that it's somebody, anybody 
else fucking them like that, so hard and deep.

Ah, shit he *loves* the prags. He loves them so 
much he wants to crawl right up inside them and 
watch them learn. Watch them search his face for 
anything but what they see. Adebisi wants to know 
what he looks like to them. Sometimes he hears 
something like... like pure rhythm thrumming at the
back of his brain, calling him to *move*. To leave 
himself all over this grey, grey place with all it's 
grey little people.

And he does. 

Adebisi knows instinct well. He knows that when *he* 
smiles it's to show his teeth. He knows how it feels to
sink those teeth deep into the flesh and pull. He 
knows the way it electrifies every muscle and sets his 
bones to burn so he can't help but to reach as far out 
as he can and howl.

What he *doesn't* know is what the others feel. He has
no brothers in Oz, no blood to claim as his own. He 
watches the way the others move, the way they slink, or
try to crawl on two legs, or swagger like men with 
elephant dicks. None of it is natural, though. All these 
men, these boys... they're all grey under the masks. The
only question is how dead men can feel so *warm*.

It's the closest he usually gets to thinking about how 
it was outside. How it smelled and tasted. The last clear 
memory he has is the feel of the dead cop's hair against
his palm. Lank and greasy with drying fear-sweat, 
clotted here and there with spattered blood. 

He remembers the way the sun shone on his back as he 
lifted his prize high. He remembers which of his boys 
laughed, and which puked, and which looked at him with 
envy shining bright out of dark, liquid eyes. He 
remembers reveling in the way his lips burned around 
the shrinking L, and the cool lip of the bottle against his
nose as he took his first few snorts of heroin. To 
celebrate. 

By the time he'd woken up he'd been in custody, naked
and beaten so thoroughly he could feel each individual
muscle singing for the vengeance he'd already taken. 

And when they'd come for him he'd laughed, long and 
loud. It was good then and it's good now. To laugh, 
and feel everything he can, and feed the rhythm inside
with every breath. It doesn't matter about the rest of 
them. He, Adebisi, is *alive*.

And he doesn't need any mask to scare the boogieman
away.

End.