RATING: AA. Harsh language, violence, Vern-o-vision.
NOTES: This story is a sequel to Gemma's "Hearts and Flowers",
and should be read more-or-less simultaneously with "Never-After".
DISCLAIMERS: With one exception, all characters and situations
herein are the property of Tom Fontana and HBO, and are used here without
permission for the purposes of private nonprofit entertainment only.
The exception is Egon Kobold himself, who is the creation and property
of Gemma Files and who is used by permission of the author.
"Skinny little fucking son of a *bitch!*"
Egon Kobold knows what anger sounds like. He's heard it all his life. His father's icy denunciations; his mother's querulous, bitter whines; the frustrated lack of understanding from teacher after teacher, unable to believe that a mind so brilliant on some levels could be so stunted on others. Most recently, of course, the screams and yells of the survivors who'd come to see him tried, the few who'd lived through the raging fire his illegal Net-sent commands had carefully directed every firetruck away from. He hadn't *set* that fire -- the single fluke of circumstance that his lawyer had parlayed into a dismissal of the first-degree-murder charge that would have got him fried -- but that hadn't seemed to matter to anyone there. The judge, the attorneys (even his own), the jury, and the crowd -- everyone had glared at him. Hating him. Despising him.
To Egon, that's what anger is. Anger is revulsion, disgust, contempt in its fiercest form; a rejection more on moral levels than emotional.
It's never been what he's seeing now, here in this empty stairwell as he cowers against the wall, staring up at James Robson as the larger man starts downwards towards him. What Egon sees in the half-mad glare of James Robson's eyes, in his clenching left hand and the gleam of the shank in his right, in the solid, savage stomp of every footstep as he closes the distance to the Aryan Brotherhood's youngest and smallest member, is nothing more than pure, uncomplicated murder. There is no contempt in this gaze, none of the moral judgement that Egon is used to. Sheer, elemental, killing fury is all -- a rawness of rage that has no room for such civilized aspects as contempt or moral revulsion. This is the primal predator, hazed with blood and vengeance, set on the destruction of its enemy as purely and nonjudgementally as a rabid dog.
Egon's knees weaken as if the bones have turned to liquid and he feels a terrible urge to bawl.
* * *
It had seemed so simple a week ago.
<"KILL him, dipshit.">
The words of Tobias Beecher, Vern Schillinger's ex-prag, dispensing contemptuous advice on exactly how to win the attentions -- if not affections -- of the A.B.'s leader: Get thrown out of Gen Pop, get into Vern's cell, and make yourself available. Robson's already there? Eliminate him.
Coming from the man who'd bitten off the tip of Robson's dick when the Brother had tried to force him, Egon wasn't really surprised at Beecher's suggestion. But he shriveled from the notion of actually trying to implement it. Moron that he was, holder of the prized place in Vern's cell that he was, Robson was still a brother of the blood. Letting an infestation of subhumans get burned out was one thing. Deliberately, personally murdering a Brother? No. Egon wasn't *that* much of a moral imbecile.
Besides, how was he supposed to do it? Personal violence was out of the question: Egon didn't have any delusions about his own capacity to give or take punishment, and knew that in any kind of a fight Robson would wipe the floor with him. Getting somebody else to do it? Egon had no jizz, no buying power, and no contacts or influence except in the Brotherhood itself. And none of them hated Robson enough to go against Schillinger.
So: Where you can't kill a man or persuade him to leave the party, find reasons to make the host throw him out.
Which had led him, inevitable as the sun falling into the west, to the side of Ryan O'Reily, Em City's resident titsmaster.
* * *
He's beaten the rest of the A.B. to the mess hall by a few minutes, and doesn't have much time. Still not knowing what to say but knowing that if he dithers any longer he'll never do this, Egon summons what frail shreds of impulse pass for courage and slides in beside O'Reily at the mess hall table. He clears his throat. "Uh..."
Glancing his way, O'Reily arches his eyebrows over those startling irises of mingled hazel and green, white light glinting there to reflect back oddly blue. Though the Mick's way too skinny for Egon's tastes, those eyes strike him dumb for a moment.
"There an end to that sentence?"
Egon flushes, heat in his face as if he's too close to a furnace. "O'Reily, I -- they tell me you're who I gotta see about, uh --" His tongue is thick and dry in his mouth, and the air doesn't seem to have enough oxygen. "Tits," he finally manages in a dry whisper.
"Do they." O'Reily returns his attention to his tray, ploughing through the starchy food with diligence if not enthusiasm.
Egon's hands twist together, over and over, knuckles white. "How much?"
"How much can I give you, or how much do I want *you* to give *me*?" The Mick grins.
Egon's flush shifts to anger, now; he can't read people as well as he does Net-usage stats, but he can tell when someone's jerking him around as well as anyone. "Both. Come on, O'Reily, don't shit me. I don't got a lotta time."
"Don't got a lotta smarts either, you're messin' with tits in the A.B." A sidelong look, half-mocking, half-curious: "You DO know Schillinger's rules on that?"
"Yeah, I know, I know, okay? Quit fucking around, O'Reily, you got the tits or not?"
"I got. What'll you give?"
This, at least, Egon's worked out in advance. His pitiful "salary" won't buy what he needs, not in the amount he needs it; but luckily he has something better to offer -- if he can help the Mick realize that it *is* better. "How'd you like to know the full exact profiles of every con and hack in this place?"
Those narrow, black eyebrows go up again. "I'll believe *that* when I --" He falls silent as Egon, grinning now, whips out two thin sheaves of paper and drops them in front of O'Reily's nose. O'Reily puts down his fork, picks up the papers and -- eyes moving faster than Egon would have expected, and hey, his lips don't move at all! -- scans through them, assessing the cold, exhaustive detail of the records on himself and his brother Cyril.
Egon feels rather smug about that. Not only is this proof that Egon *can* do what he's promised, but it doesn't give a thing away beforehand that O'Reily doesn't already know -- and that's something, Egon knows, that very few people who deal with the Mick can say.
At length O'Reily looks up. "You can get this on anyone. Con or hack."
"Anyone." Egon folds his arms and tries to look infinitely competent.
"How much do you want?"
Egon names the amount he's carefully worked out that he'll require. It's a lot, but he's sure he's proved his buying power. What he *isn't* prepared for is the sudden, dangerous narrowing of O'Reily's eyes. "You planning to go into business yourself, kid? I don't like competition."
"No! No, I swear, O'Reily, it's nothing like that. Believe me. I need this for one thing, after that, I'm out of this. For good."
O'Reily considers him, his gaze still narrow and flat as a snake's. But then his eyes drop to the records, and he lets out a breath. "Get me Sean Murphy's record by the end of the day. I'll meet you at the computer room an hour before lockup tomorrow."
"All right!" Egon forces an awkward grin and sticks out his hand.
O'Reily regards it as if he's just tried to hand the Mick a turd. But before Egon has time to flush with anger, humiliation or embarrassment -- before he can even pull the hand back or drop it -- O'Reily rises, carrying his half-finished food. "Schillinger's here," he mutters. "Don't look at me."
Casually, he saunters off.
Egon stuffs his hands in his armpits, holding his narrow chest as if to physically pen in his exultation.
* * *
Four days later, he steps through the empty door of Vern's cell, one fist knotted in his ill-fitting wifebeater over his rabbiting heart, pressing hard, this time penning in terror.
He thought his opportunity would come sooner than this, and he didn't dare take the chance of having the tits found by a hack or another Brother in the interim. So, with what seemed like perfectly sensible logic at the time, he decided to carry the tits *on* him -- seven knotted condoms of dried heroin-kernels stuffed inside an eighth, twisted into a long, skinny ropelike strand and threaded between his buttocks. When he first put it in the unlubricated latex felt like a gloved finger probing him, half-pleasant, half-painful.
After four days there's no pleasure left in it, and the friction is driving him crazy with every step he takes. His single daily shower alleviates the pain only for a few minutes during and afterward, and his refusal to let the condom out of his hand makes those showers awkward, clumsy, and terrifying -- what if someone notices how his left hand is locked in a fist every time, and wonders why? Hacks are trained to look for shit like that, he knows.
By the time his opening finally comes -- an order by Vern, during an A.B. meeting, to fetch a recently-ordered book to use in proving some point or other -- Egon is so relieved at the chance to get *rid* of this shit that at first that's all he can think of. It's only as he approaches the cell that his pace slows, and he begins to realize just how dangerous this is. All it would take is just one fluke of timing -- Vern sending Robson to help, or Robson getting bored and wandering back here on his own -- and Egon is, literally, a dead man.
He fumbles his pants down with shaking hands. His muscles are so unsteady he finally has to rip the sweat-sticky condom from between his asscheeks in a single painful movement, biting his lips to hold in the yelp. He tears the condom open, catching the seven packages of heroin as they scatter over the floor, and drops to his knees to grab them up like a moronic freshman whose books have been knocked out of his arms by a bully.
It's that image, oddly enough, which steadies him: the bite of the fresh, yet anciently familiar humiliation, the thing he experienced practically every day of his short life -- schoolyards, dinner tables, classrooms. It rouses his own anger. He closes his eyes, sucks in a few deep breaths. Picks up the condoms one by one, then stands, surveying the cell. Eyes narrow, cold.
Planning.
One packet goes into the inside front pocket of a clean pair of Robson's jeans, the tiny pocket intended for change which nobody ever actually uses: this is the "marketing" piece, the one the hacks will have to find if Egon has to get them involved. Five of them are stuffed inside a slit in Robson's mattress, far enough back to be out of sight but not so far they won't be easily found when someone searches. The last, the seventh, is carefully placed just beneath the edge of the slit, under the fabric. Egon uses a fingernail to rip a hole in this last one, letting a trace of white powder sift down, past Schillinger's bottom bunk, onto the floor -- not a lot, just enough to be visible against the grey cement.
Ideally, Vern'll see this himself and search before Egon has to call a hack, preferably later today or tomorrow. Which is why it has to be visible enough to alert him but not blatantly obvious -- the latter would only rouse Vern's suspicion. Setups and frames aren't anything new in Oz. And normally, this kind of easy-to-find concealment would smack of nothing *but* setup.
Fortunately for Egon, James Robson happens to be a moron. Which means that something stupid and obvious is exactly what everyone will be expecting.
* * *
It pays off sooner, and better, than Egon could have prayed for, if he was minded to believe in something as idiotic as the idea of God. Egon's opinion on religion comes straight out of the Robert Heinlein books he devoured as a preadolescent:
"God is all-good, all-knowing, and all-powerful -- it says so right here on the label. If you have a mind capable of believing in all three of these attributes simultaneously, I have a wonderful bargain for you. No checks, please. Cash and in small bills."
All the same, it seems like *something* Up There has decided to toss a minor favour Egon's way, because it happens the very next day. It's the beginning of the shift, and Egon and Robson are standing around together waiting for Vern to show up and get things moving. Egon knows he's not doing much of a job hiding his nervousness, but he's *always* been nervous around Robson, and the other man knows it. As he moves restlessly from X-ray machine to shelves to carts of boxes and letters, Robson sits with his arms behindhis head, eyelids at half-mast from boredom.
He's wearing The Jeans.
Some half-seen expression gives Egon away, gives something away. Robson catches one of his nervous, compulsive glances, and his brows draw down over a suddenly suspicious glare. "What're *you* lookin' at, ya freak?"
"I, I, uh -- " Helplessly Egon flushes. It's maybe the worst possible response he could have made. Robson's intellect may not be much, but there's nothing wrong with his instincts. He wouldn't have survived long in Oz otherwise -- occasional mistakes of judgement like Tobias Beecher notwithstanding. The older man stands, glowering at him, stepping towards him with a slow heavy tread.
"You know something."
"No!"
"So you don't know *anything?* You're not so fuckin' smart after all?"
"Jim, I -- "
"Don't you call me Jim. Don't you fuckin' call me *anything* except 'sir', you hear me, freak?" Robson's too close now, and Egon has to back away, towards the shelves. "What is it, Freak? What's goin' down in your head? 'Cause if it's about me, you cough it up. Now. *Right* now, you hear me, E-Gon?"
Egon tries to make his mouth work. It won't, beyond disjointed spasms. His skin feels like he's rolled in seaside snow, cold, slick and salty. Robson's face is less than a foot from his. The other man's big hands are clamped on his shoulders. It *hurts*. Egon can feel the confession bubbling up inside him, like nausea-borne vomit, acid and lumpy, about to burst forth in a spray of terror --
"ROBSON!"
They jump apart. Egon swallows his terror like a lump of moldy oatmeal as Robson spins to face the hacks in the door, who swarm him and swamp him before he has a chance to get his feet set. Two men on each arm, clamping tight, they haul Robson upwards, holding his weight just slightly off the floor to ruin his traction and resistance; he flails and struggles, but there are too many of them and they're trained to move too fast.
"Get off me, you fucks!" roars the Aryan, kicking out wildly. The hacks ignore him, hauling him towards the door; his struggles slow them but don't stop them. Egon watches in amazed fascination as the knot of tangled limbs makes its lethargic route to the door -- and, he knows, to the Hole beyond.
Then it slows, as the hacks pause to look up at the newcomer in the door. Schillinger steps in, flat eyes surveying everything, lizardlike. Robson's head jerks up at the sight. "Vern!" he gasps. "Vern, you gotta help me, man, what *is* this shit?"
Vern says nothing, only meeting Robson's desperate stare without expression or reaction. It is the leader of the hacks who answers. "We found your tits, Robson."
"Tits? You're out of your fucking mind! I never touch that shit -- you know that, Vern! Tell 'em I'm clean, man!" As if in response to the raw, frightened appeal in his voice -- tits means Hole time, and Robson *hates* the Hole -- the hacks hesitate a moment, waiting for Schillinger's answer. *Tell* 'em!"
A pause.
Schillinger looks past him, blank expression not changing.
Robson will never be very smart. Comprehension is slow to come. But when it does, it bursts across his face like a sunrise through a grey winter overcast, cold light spreading chill and bright and razor-sharp. "Oh no. No, goddammit, Vern, it isn't mine, I was set up -- Vern, you gotta believe me! Vern!" The hacks are moving again, hauling him out past the Aryan Brotherhood's leader, whose impassive gaze is now fixed upon the far wall. "Vern, goddammit, you know I stopped when I joined the A.B. -- I haven't touched it in five years! I was set up! It's *not* MINE!"
The last is a trailing echo from outside, as Robson is hauled at a crisp trot off to face Warden Glynn. Egon gawps. Schillinger, as calmly as if this happens every morning, steps past him and takes up his place at the X-ray machine, powering it up with the smooth flick of switches. Egon pivots slowly to turn his gape upon Schillinger.
The A.B.'s leader ignores him, just grabbing the first package and running it through the machine. His ignorance is only a semblance, however; midway through the inspection he pauses and arches a nearly-invisible silver-gilt eyebrow at Egon. The motion reminds him of a snake's flickering tongue. "You waitin' for an order?" he rumbles dangerously.
Egon turns the colour of a brick. "Nnno," he mutters.
"Then get to work."
Egon does, jumping to it with alacrity, if no particular dexterity; his hands are shaking so badly he drops three of his first five parcels, earning another glare from Schillinger as he collects them. But this once, Egon can't calm himself or waste time. He's too excited, and wants to use that energy to do the very best job he can. His door has opened; if he can do the best assistant job *ever* in the next few weeks, then maybe... just maybe... he can ask Schillinger if he's interested in another podmate.
Because Robson is *gone*.
* * *
"Stringbean MOTHERFUCKER!" Robson slams him against the wall, holding him up with one arm. Egon's feet dangle helplessly; Robson has come to the edge of the landing and holds him out above the body of the stairs' descending flight. "Think you can frame *me* and get away with it? Think you can frame *Vern?!*" A strong, foul-breathed face shoves itself against his. "You got a lot to fuckin' learn about being a Brother!"
"Robson -- "
"They put me in the *Hole*, you son of a bitch." Robson's hand clenches in the meat of Egon's shoulder. The younger man can't repress a scream. "You ever been in the Hole? Bare concrete. You're fuckin' *naked*. One meal a day. No talking, no company, no TV, no bathroom, no soap." Robson's mouth contorts into a grin. "But one thing it does do is give you a *fuck* of a long time to figure shit out."
"Uurrgghhh," Egon manages in response to this observation.
"You planted those tits. You wanted me gone, and you knew you could never get me yourself. So you set me up so Vern would kick me out. Well, you got one chance to put things right." The grin widened. "You come with me *right* fucking *NOW* to McManus' office and tell him who planted those tits... or you take a headlong dive all the way down these stairs."
Panic is choking Egon now almost as badly as the hand gripping his shoulder, its thumb digging into his throat. He shakes his head, trying to make this not be happening. Robson takes it badly, although his grin doesn't slacken; the red rage in his eyes only brightens and his grasp, already painful, becomes pure acid-lined fire eating into his torso. Egon bawls, tears beginning to stripe his cheeks, and kicks out in futile struggle.
Robson merely lifts him a little higher, arm muscles bulging but otherwise showing no sign of the effort. Egon coughs up a despairing sob, unable to believe it's all going to end like *this*, so close to what he really wanted. Though he can barely breathe, he flails frantically as Robson draws him back to hurl him headfirst down the flight.
It's more accident than anything else that one of Egon's feet manages to hook the leg of Robson's jeans, and it's nothing but pure blind luck that Egon yanks his foot away at precisely the wrong moment, just when Robson is shifting his weight in preparation for the big heave. Force meets object and knocks it out of support like a falling pillar--*two* falling pillars, Robson's twisting knee snagging on its own brother and carrying them both even further, over the edge: too fast to stop, too far to go anywhere else but...
...down.
Down the stairs together, with Egon--ha HA--on top, and the rest of Oz going by in a grey-steel-concrete-shadow blur: Robson's skull meeting the last step's rim as Egon's forehead slams against Robson's, blood smearing his chin like cheap lipstick. As Egon feels his bruised hands wrench under Robson's weight, catches the last of Robson's breath in a fetid, face-on huff--
--and hears, not quite registering its significance, the amazingly matter-of-fact, casually world-altering sound of Robson's neck--
--breaking.
Bumpitty, bumpitty, bumpitty...CRACK.
Egon pants, staring down, lacerated tongue caught between reddened teeth. While Robson stares blindly back, own tongue lodged half-out--looking for all the world like some inexpressibly ugly human version of Egon's long-dead grandmother's similarly too-dumb-to-live Siamese, the one so easily distracted he'd periodically just *forget* he wasn't still licking himself, 'till he went to do something involving the rest of his mouth.
But: No alarms ring. No witnesses come running. No hacks materialize, cuffs out, to take *Egon* to the Hole. And Egon just keeps on staring, heart hammering hard enough to fuel a Speed Garage deejay's beatbox. Thinking to himself, in stunned semi-hysteria:
*So...how's the old phrase go? Better be careful what you ask for...*
(...'cause...you might GET it.)
*And, I guess--*
*--I just DID.*
End Part One