PAIRING: Schillinger/Other.
RATING: PG-13. Implied sex, Vern-o-vision.
Though he knows others might not think it to look at him -- had *better* not think it, for that matter -- Vern knows a lot about compromise.
Not the compromise that means giving in to your enemies -- making concessions, coming to "terms" -- but the compromise of making maximum use of limited resources. In Oz, you can never get all of what you want, never get the best possible material or help; so you learn to use what you have, to maximize its strengths and avoid its weaknesses. You learn to conserve, not to waste. You learn, essentially, to make do.
Which is why, despite the impressions among the hacks and the A.B. -- impressions which he's done nothing, so far, either to prove or dispel -- he never in fact intended to kill James Robson.
Robson was a moron, but it was never his intelligence Schillinger valued: it was his loyalty. Say what you would about his distinctly limited capacity for thought, Robson never betrayed Vern or the Cause. Even after Andy, he knew what to say. Never doubted Vern. Never condemned him. Never once given him that hastily-concealed look of revulsion he's seen here and there in the A.B., the Gen Pop prisoners --
( -- your own face in the mirror -- )
-- to Robson, Vern could do no wrong.
Schillinger is willing to cut a lot of slack to someone for that.
He can't just overlook what Robson did. Loyalty to the Cause means keeping your own system pure and fit, not wasting your money on poisons; and being so stupid as to think he could get away with it under Schillinger's fucking *nose* raises imbecility to something approaching a crime in itself. Vern still isn't happy about it, but he never had any real doubts. The moment he found that powder on the floor below the rip in Robson's mattress, Robson was gone. The notification of the hacks, the announcement to the A.B. after the arrest, the Hole time -- those were just ritual confirmations.
But Vern is nothing if not fair. In all probability, what *really* happened is that Robson decided to get into the dealers' end of the business, to make a little extra cash -- he might even, in that stodgy excuse for a brain of his, thought he was serving the Brotherhood by trying to force out that skinny Mick fucker O'Reily, who Robson *knew* was a severe pain in Schillinger's ass by his very presence. After all, Vern never saw Robson anything other than stone-sober.
So: Banishment, yes; that was never a choice. Murder? No. Stupid he might be, but -- for lack of better material -- Robson was still too useful to the Cause (and might have been again, one day) to kill outright. And in the name of conserving his limited resources, Vern decided that the banishment would be the end of it.
It pisses him off immensely that someone else apparently disagrees, and has actually managed to enforce that disagreement.
(Jumpin' the gun there a bit, aren't you, pal?)
This is, strictly speaking, true. All the hacks found two days ago was Robson's body in the stairwell. A discarded shank in one corner, but no blood on it and no fingerprints other than Robson's. According to Nathan -- who for a mongrel bitch, he has to admit, is pretty good at her job -- he'd been dead for anywhere between one to three hours when they found him, and all his injuries, from the bruised knees and elbows to the fractured skull and broken neck, are consistent with a completely accidental fall and fluke landing. Besides, Vern can count on one hand the number of people with the ability and desire to kill Robson, and as far as his quietly put out inquiries found out, none of them were missing at the right time. All the rational evidence seems to point to a genuine accident.
But Vern has never allowed himself to be dependent on purely rational evidence. And here and now, as he sits in the quad leafing idly through one of his most recent mail-orders (a book by some Canadian professor named Rushton that's finally backing up the Brotherhood with a little honest goddam *science*), all his instincts are telling him there's more to this than the rational evidence indicates.
For one thing, the hacks are hedging. Murphy, who's by far the straightest shooter among the blue-clad fucks now that Wittlesey's gone, keeps telling Vern, "We're looking into it," without saying exactly into what or how they're looking. For another, the Brothers are getting paranoid, and most have stopped going anywhere alone; it may just be reflex, or it might be instinct sounding off about a genuine if unseen threat. Even Kobold, scatterbrained as the little freak usually is, has started keeping close to Schillinger -- he's sitting a few tables away now, periodically checking him out from under that stupid-ass fold of white-blond almost-braids he sports, as if to make sure Schillinger hasn't left the area when he isn't looking.
(Great. I always wanted a poodle.)
And most of all, the simply impossible-to-believe timing -- of this on top of everything else. Robson's death so soon after losing the protection and security of the Brotherhood is too convenient to be coincidental, and the odds on a genuine accident are too low to be worth considering.
Someone is out to get them.
Normally that would inspire rage, or smug certainty of victory. Now, it inspires... nothing.
Vern lets the book fall closed. He hasn't really read anything in it anyway, he admits to himself. He's tired of this. Not so much the Cause itself, but all the goddam *work* that goes into it. He's sick of the Brothers, most of whom are morons more interested in excuses to beat shit up than in learning about or solving the real problems of American society. He's sick of settling for the limited victories available in this inbred little dungeon. He's sick of Adebisi, of Hill, of that goddam sanctimonious Said, of Wangler, of Glynn most of all. He's sick of Mukada, Nathan and Oh-look-I'm-a-human-being-again-ex-Sister Pete. And most of all, *most* of all, he's sick of watching his two ex-prags flaunting their mutual perversion all over the goddam prison. Jesus Christ, at the *very* least you'd think they could learn to shut up about it....
He's not about to give up. It'll be a cold day in hell before Vern Schillinger rolls over and knuckles under; and if somebody *is* coming after the Brotherhood they're gonna learn the hardest way possible that that's one big fucking mistake. But he's fed up with fighting over and over again with nothing *real* to show for it. No matter how many little riots or feuds flare and burn themselves out in here, there's always another one. And another one after that. And another after that...
(Merciful Christ Jesus, get me the fuck OUT of this place.)
He scrubs at his forehead with one palm, trying vainly to ease the headache that's begun to throb there. When he drops his hand he's only mildly surprised to see Egon settling into the chair next to him, looking all helpful and worried. "Are you okay, sir?"
"'M fine, Kobold." And then, from some well of long-forgotten habit his fatigue can't quite cap anymore: "Thanks."
Kobold ducks his head and flushes. Schillinger considers snapping at him -- never let the troops think you're *too* grateful to them or they might start thinking you *owe* them shit -- but can't be bothered. "You got a reason to be here?"
"...Yeah." And for the first time Kobold looks up, and Schillinger is struck by the fear in the kid's eyes. Not just fear of getting hurt or killed. Schillinger hasn't seen that look in anybody's eyes in years... not since he was last home with his boys, and they had to admit to some mischief or other. The fear of *disappointing* someone.
"I need to talk to you about some... pretty bad shit."
Schillinger doesn't particularly feel like playing father-confessor at the moment, but at the very least it'll get his mind off his own troubles. "Your pod empty?"
"It is right now, yeah."
"So let's go."
* * *
Half an hour later Schillinger is sitting on the lower bed of Kobold's pod, trying very hard not to let his surprise reduce his expression to that of a pure-D moron. "*You*... killed Robson?"
"I didn't mean to. God, Vern, you gotta believe me, it was an *accident!*" Kobold rushes across to him, reaching out as if to grab him for emphasis; he seems to realize at the last moment this isn't a good idea and stumbles to an awkward halt, hands jammed in his pockets. "He comes at me, screaming about me framing him, picks me up and says he's gonna throw me down the stairs, and, well, I was fighting, and I kinda tripped him up. Next thing I know we're both goin' down the stairs and when we hit, his neck breaks."
"Framed," Schillinger repeats.
"I think -- " Kobold dares a glance up at him -- "Vern, I think maybe he might have been. You know what he was like about tits. Maybe it *was* a setup! What if somebody in Gen Pop wanted to try turning us all against one another? Or maybe even someone else in the Brotherhood?"
"Like you?" It's more a reflex riposte than a serious challenge. The only kind of smarts or guts Kobold's *ever* had are the ones he needs a computer to use. But Vern's never liked to let anyone think they were beyond suspicion. It keeps people on their toes... and loyal.
Kobold looks alarmed anyway. "Me? What the fuck would *I* wanna frame him for?"
Which is exactly what Vern thought, but again, you never admit to the troops they're right -- at least not *too* regularly, or they start thinking they don't need *you* any more. Still, the skinny little fucker's got a point. Vern had originally discounted Robson's claims of being framed -- what *else* would he have said? -- but if he'd been pissed enough over it to try killing someone, maybe he'd been right. In which case Vern is gonna have to take a closer look at the rivalries within the Brotherhood and the enemies outside.
(Fuck, maybe it *was* O'Reily. Tits and bullshit, it's like his fuckin' signature, right?)
Kobold, meanwhile, has started to pace again. "I can't keep this up," he mumbles. "Every time one of the hacks looks at me I want to start screaming. Somebody's gonna put two and two together, if they talk to enough people. Jesus Christ, Vern, whatamIgonnaDO?" His voice is skirling up towards hysteria, and his breath is hitching. "They'll put me in the Hole and then they'll kick me out of Em City. I don't wanna go to Gen Pop. I'll be dead in a month! Jesus fucking Christ I'm so FUCKED -- "
"*Kobold.*" It's not a shout, exactly, but it's that strong booming Command Voice that Vern's always prided himself on; he's gratified to see it's lost none of its effect as it jerks Kobold to a stop and silences him. Schillinger stands. "First thing you do is you *stop* panicking. Right. Now."
Kobold swallows a breath and nods jerkily. Schillinger folds his arms. "Next thing you do -- you turn yourself in."
Kobold's jaw drops. "Whaaa..." He can't even finish the word.
"Turn yourself in," Schillinger repeats patiently. "If the hacks have to put it together and come after you, they're gonna think it was deliberate murder. You turn yourself in now, you *might* have a chance of convincing them it was an accident. That'll keep you out of the Hole at least."
Kobold holds his own arms as if to warm himself up. When he looks up at Schillinger, his eyes are shadowed. "But not out of Gen Pop?"
He's quick, Vern has to admit. "No. Not after killing him. But the Brotherhood looks after its own, Kobold."
Kobold's mouth twists in a distinctly unconvinced look. Schillinger sighs. "You want the best guarantee of safety possible, Kobold? *I'll* take you. Shit -- " he shrugs -- "not like I got a roommate now."
Kobold blinks. "Sir, I... wait -- I *killed* Robson. I killed your *friend*. I mean it was an accident, but still, I...." He runs out of words, his dumbfounded eyes saying it all:
(Why are you *doing* this?)
Why indeed.
Schillinger can think of a number of answers. Because the Brotherhood *does* look after its own, and it's time Schillinger started taking a more personal hand in things again. Because simply by showing the smarts to come to Schillinger, and the guts to fight back against Robson at all, Kobold's shown he might not be as useless a Brother as Vern had originally thought him. Because Kobold reminds him in some ways of his own sons --
(Andy)
-- and just maybe this might be a way to... not make *amends*, exactly; Schillinger regrets nothing -- but to start again from the beginning and get it right.
But in the end, the only answer *Kobold* needs to hear is the one Schillinger gives.
"Because if I was interested in punishing people for shit they had to do to protect themselves, I'd be wearing a blue suit and a gun."
* * *
It's not that simple, of course. It never is. While Egon's spilling his guts to McManus, Schillinger is standing before Glynn --
(that arrogant fuckin' mud-ox)
-- gritting his teeth behind the neutrally bland mask he reserves exclusively for dealing with the Warden of Oswald State Correctional Facility. Who is leaning back glaring at him with narrowed eyes, as if *he's* the aggrieved party here.
"You know, Schillinger, I can't help but remember what happened the last time you asked for a new cellmate. Why should I do your bunch of fucked-up racists any favours?"
Fortunately, Schillinger has an answer ready for this one. "Because if Kobold doesn't get under my protection he'll be dead inside two months, and you *know* what another death's gonna look like on your record."
"You can protect him in Gen Pop without having him in your cell. I don't see why I should dance to your tune just for that."
"Don't exactly see how granting one request concerning proper prisoner safety qualifies as 'dancin' to my TUNE'...*Warden*."
Glynn scowls at him. "Because doing *anything* you ask sticks in my throat, Schillinger. And the only reason I'm even listening is because I know having to *ask* me sticks in *your* throat, just as bad."
(Oh, you have no fucking IDEA, you cocksucking coon.)
Game face, game face. Schillinger sighs.
"Look," he starts. "This kid... has *no* damn street sense, not a shred. Half the Brotherhood thinks he fragged Robson deliberately--think they're gonna give a shit when the sharks start circlin'? If I can't keep an eye on him twenty-four-seven -- at least for the next little while -- he's a dead man. You know it, I know it. You really want the press makin' another shitstorm for you out of a nineteen-year-old kid gettin' shanked?"
Glynn looks sour, as if his lunch is coming back to haunt him. The problem is, Schillinger's just close enough to right that Glynn, fundamentally cautious man that he is, doesn't much like taking the chance. Sure, the press might cheer the death of the Net Nazi, but they're just as likely to use it as the latest excuse to try pillorying Governor Devlin and everyone who happens to be on his payroll, however indirectly. Given the universal tendency of shit to roll downhill, it's for damn sure any fallout from that kind of conflict isn't going to wind up on *Devlin's* desk.
Schillinger doesn't let any of this show on his face. Glynn may be cautious, but he hates Vern enough that he might decide it *is* worth the crap, just to frustrate him. Any sign of smugness or feigned innocence will push him over that edge.
At length, the Warden sighs, folds his arms and closes his eyes. "Fine. Go ahead. What do I care if you inbred morons prag one another."
*That* Vern can't let pass. "Brothers are never prags, Glynn. We don't bend for *anyone*."
Glynn doesn't even look up. And that's just fine with Vern.
* * *
A week has passed; the tension has eased. Not completely, but the basic statement of taking Kobold in at all seems to have made Vern's point: *If I thought Kobold meant to kill Robson, he'd be dead, not in with me. Any questions?* And for a dweeby little freak Kobold has his merits. He's adopted, *willingly*, all the habits of cell cleanliness and chore performance Robson and --
(Beecher)
-- and his previous cellmates used to do, and picked up on them faster than anybody else ever did. For a few days it was actually *nice* not to have to bother with the usual daily crap. Kind of like a vacation.
(Vacation. Sure. Pour me a cocktail, you little cyberfreak....)
Not that Egon wouldn't *try*, if Vern asked. Even as he's sorting the latest batch to currently go through the mail, he happens to glance idly in Kobold's direction. Like a dog going on point from a whistle, Kobold senses it and looks up, snapping to attention, weak-assed metal dog-grin at the ready; Vern swears to himself he can practically *see* the tail wagging. And that's --
-- really beginning to get irritating.
The respect of leadership is one thing. Vern knows how to wield authority and damn well knows when it's respected, even if the Brotherhood is getting fractious and unruly. But there's a difference between respecting your leaders and falling face-first into obsessive hero-worship. Vern never wanted to be anybody's messiah; he *much* prefers followers who can think for themselves --
( -- not TOO much, though.)
He scowls at Kobold and goes back to his current batch. The fucking thing is Kobold probably *could* get him a cocktail: Sneak a forged supply order into the Oz net, e-mail it off, have the booze sent through the post for Vern himself to pluck out of the incoming packages and conceal under his shirt, and nobody would ever know. Which is, Vern will admit to nobody else but himself, actually kind of unnerving.
Kobold works in the mailroom too, after all. If he can get booze sent into Oz, he can get... other things... sent in. He *probably* wouldn't on his own hook -- Kobold hardly does *anything* nowadays without checking with Schillinger first -- but Vern's never liked betting on "probably."
It's at that point (OF fucking COURSE) that Gorman swaggers in. Stubble blurs his cheeks, his jaw, the outlines of the lightning bolt tattooed into his skull, and his clothes are grubby with that not-filthy-but-worn-just-once-too-often-before-the-laundry griminess. It looks like sheer laziness. Vern knows it's a calculated insult.
He's never made it an order, but he's never kept quiet about his belief that self-discipline includes a certain amount of personal cleanliness and appearance. For a long time, Gorman kept up with that, shaving skull and face with equal rigour. But sometime late last year, Vern can't remember whether it was before or after Andy's death, Gorman began getting insolent. Never so much as to constitute an open challenge. But hardly any pronouncement goes unquestioned, hardly any order is followed without backtalk. This deliberate flaunting of Vern's principles is just the latest in a long line of needling taunts.
Vern ignores it, as he has to. There's no response he can make that won't make him look like a petty bullying tyrant, and that'll only ruin his credibility with the portions of the Brotherhood he still *does* control. He can wait. Gorman will eventually step out of line far enough to justify a true response, and when he does....
But that won't be today.
"Hey, Vern." Gorman grins at Egon. "Heya, freak. Think you're ready to try breakin' *my* neck, jizzball?"
"Gorman."
"Jesus, Vern, it's a joke. Lighten up." And that response isn't even as nervous as it once would have been.
"Robson didn't die because of ME, Gorman." The voice is unexpected, as is Kobold's posture: Tense, nervous, but not backing down. "He *died* 'cause he was stupid. Which means you *really* gotta watch yourSELF."
Vern blinks. Did he just hear what he thought he did?
He must have. Gorman's face contorts like somebody's crumpled it in their fist. "You pissant motherfucker, I'll teach *you* to call me -- " He's halfway to Egon's throat when a blue-sleeved arm is thrust between them. Murphy shoehorns his compact but wiry form into the gap, prying them apart, glaring at them each in turn. In the doorway to the mailroom, the other hacks gather, hands on the clubs at their belts.
"There is no problem here, am I understood?" Murphy enunciates. "No... problem... at all."
"No problem, Officer," repeats Vern tonelessly. He holds up his hands in visible surrender: Nobody here but us chickens, boss. Gorman makes a savage sound under his breath and strides out. The hacks part for him, wary eyes monitoring every movement.
When he's gone, Murphy turns to Vern. "Schillinger, you better start controlling your people. Soon." He doesn't wait for a response, but walks out. The other hacks follow, all but the two who are used to standing guard at the door. Vern watches them go, struggling to remember what the next number after six is -- he's been trying to count to ten and somehow can't quite manage to pull it off.
Drawing close, Egon touches his arm, hesitantly. "Sir -- ?"
Schillinger spins, shoves him out of the way and kicks the mailroom counter, a single violent spasm of rage. He slams down control a second later, gripping the countertop with white knuckles, nostrils flaring over steady, calming breaths. Egon shrinks away, fear and worry in his eyes.
* * *
Later, sitting on his bunk while Egon folds the latest load of laundry, Schillinger realizes his entire problem can be summed up in the front-end section of that handy compound word Gorman just expanded his--severely--limited vocabulary with: *Jizz*.
That's what it comes down to, what it's all about and what Schillinger's been only too conveniently content to let himself forget. He's gotten way too caught up with his own personal shit to really keep an eye on the Brotherhood, and--as a result--what was once a slow jizz-leak has now become more like a life-threatening jizz-SPURT. Beecher and Keller, Andy's execution, Robson's "framing" -- all of it's been cutting the legs out from under him, and he's been so blind with depression and swallowed anger he hasn't even noticed... until today.
Well, that stops. It stops *right* fucking NOW.
"You're right, sir."
Schillinger has to fight not to start. Great. Now he's talking out loud without even realizing it.
(Shit, I'm getting motherfucking *senile*....)
"Maybe you should mount an operation," Kobold suggests diffidently. "Some kind of group thing. Take out Adebisi, maybe? I hate that mudskin king fuck."
"Mount an operation" -- what does Kobold think this is, a scout group? But Vern's too tired to snap, and loyalty, whatever its source, is too precious right now to trash. "I like the way you think, Kobold. Sometimes. But think about it. Who's it gonna point to?"
Egon, uncertainly: "Us?"
"Yup."
"Well -- " Egon gulps. "Then maybe you should, uh...." He trails off. Schillinger waits. The boy flushes and stares at the floor. "...forget it."
"I should what?"
"Well...
(oh, for *fuck's* fuckin' SAKE)
"...maybe you should break in a new prag."
(But I've GOT a -- )
Vern swallows the instinctive response. It doesn't matter. Beecher's his. Whatever current state of affairs prevails, it's only... a temporary aberration. *Nobody* walks away from him. But the goddam fucking truth is, most of Oz doesn't *see* that. They don't know what really lies between them, what's gonna drag Beecher back to Vern's side as sure as gravity. And they won't wait to let Vern say, *I told you so.* Not when they think he's already weak, and they're getting ready to take advantage of that weakness.
Ain't like he *is* obsessed, of course. But -- and this is the painful thing to realize -- he can't afford to even LOOK obsessed. Not any more.
The idea has its problems, all the same, as he points out to the kid: Who's a potential candidate right now? Over 80% of the Oz inmates are niggers, spics or some other variety of subhuman; of the true whites, most are affiliated with the Sicilians or the Christians. Busmalis and Rebadow are a pair of wizened, useless old fucks -- there's no jizz in pragging THEM. And tempting as it would be to try bringing down one of the O'Reily brothers, Ryan is too goddam treacherous. It'd be like trying to prag a cobra. Which doesn't leave much to choose from.
Egon's reaction isn't what Vern expects. He flushes again. "Yeah, I... I sorta figured that. I was thinking..." His voice falls to a mumble.
"Speak up, goddammit."
"...You need to get your power back. You need somebody who'd be suitable. And, well, it's in the interest of the Brotherhood. Keeping the Cause strong. I'd be... I guess, I'd, well.... I could help." Egon's tried several times, throughout this halting proclamation, to make his eyes meet Schillinger's and has never quite succeeded; he's turned back to his favourite choice of attention, the floor.
Schillinger's perfectly happy with that. He doesn't feel like showing off his revolted shock.
"Kobold. Are you saying you WANT to be my PRAG?"
"No, no, not *want*, exactly, I'm just saying, I'm, well, I'd be *willing*.... you know, to endure something to make the Cause look better...."
"Willing? Jesus fucking Christ, E-gon, the entire point of a PRAG is 'willing' don't even enter into it--that's where the jizz comes from, moron. Otherwise, you'd just be -- " He stops, dismayed, as the new thought hits him and makes so much else so nauseatingly clear. "Aw, Christ...don't tell me you're a *fag*."
Egon's head jerks up. "No! No, of course not. No. Never. Well -- " his hands knot in the fabric of his shirt -- " -- kinda...."
"KINDA?" It's a strangled shout.
"Well, I never, actually... *with* anyone. You know."
(Oh, Jesus. A virgin fag.)
But: Get a grip, Schillinger tells himself, covering one half of his face with his palm and grinding the heel of his hand into his bad eye's socket. The kid's confused; that's it. He's young, he's stuck in jail, he's jammed full'a hormones makin' him crazy nuts enough to hump the WALL, and he's fixated on--
(*you*)
Father-figure. Mailroom Boss. The most readily available hero, that's all: Vern Schillinger, substitute Daddy to his own little hard-won Nazi brood. And he can deal with that. What he *can't* deal with is the notion of some fake fuckin' Aryan wannabe deviant trying to *tempt* him into --
(Tempt? Vern-o, you can only be *tempted* to do something you *want* to, remember?)
Tobias Beecher's voice is as clear as if he's standing in the cell right next to them.
Schillinger struggles for focus. "No," he says thickly; then again, stronger. "*No*. Forget it. Outta the Goddamn question."
"Vern -- " Oh, shit, the *sir* is gone; Vern never thought he'd miss it -- "look, you need *some* kind of prag, you don't have any other choice, I swear, I don't mind! Really I don't!"
"Jesus Christ Almighty, Kobold, just keep it in your fuckin'--"
(Oh, BAD choice of words.)
The kid's face crumples, lips puffing in a weirdly hilarious pout. "It's the skin, right?"
(Well, now you *mention* it...)
Gruffly: "NO."
"The braces--they're coming off in a couple months, seriously. My orthodontist already--"
"Fuck, Kobold! What fuckin' part of 'no' do I have to spell out for you? You're...okay, okay? You're an allright-lookin' kid, I guess, I just--just..."
(Just...WHAT, Vernon?)
"Then why *not*?"
This tone of voice, at least, Vern can handle. It's the whiny, spoilt pissed-off snarl of some spoiled brat denied the latest Jap trading card gamepak, or a begged-for piece of candy--he's heard it a thousand times from his own sons, and knows exactly how best to deal with it. Just step up, like this--and backhand Egon right across the jaw, hard enough to rattle a few of those tin-slicked teeth.
Egon reels back and falls onto the bunk. Vern stands over him, glowering; actually relishing, in a strange way, the slight pain from his hand, where Egon's braces tore the skin across his knuckles. And tells him, with deliberate care:
"'Cause you can't always GET everything you want, Egon--'specially if it's shit you should already have brains enough not to let yourself *want*, in the first fuckin' place." He turns away, crossing his arms--catches Kobold's half-reddened, tear-shiny face in the mirror above the sink, and grimaces at the sight: Is that sweat all over his upper lip, or snot?
(*Uck*.)
Adding, quieter: "It's called 'self-discipline', E-gon; try a little of it on for size. Might learn something useful."
Egon presses his hand to his face, his eyes wide with betrayed hurt and petulant fury. "Disci -- " Suddenly, he spits on the floor between Vern's feet. "You fucking *hypocrite*, this isn't about *discipline!* You're just saying that 'cause you haven't got any in years. 'Cause of that thing you got with Beecher."
Which arrests the blow as it's forming. That name. That goddam name again. Vern's voice is startlingly soft, even to him. "What... thing?"
*Now* Egon starts to look afraid, but too goddamn late for Vern's liking, and *just* when it's guaranteed to be its maximum pain in the ass. "You... you know. That thing you two have." Defensively: "Everybody knows -- "
"Everybody knows -- what?"
"You know...."
Schillinger's out of patience. One more delay and Kobold's gonna find out firsthand what Jim Robson went through, and *fuck* the Parole Board. "For a guy with a four-digit IQ you can be pretty fuckin' stupid, Kobold. What the fuck are you talking about, my thing with Beecher?"
Pale and shiny as waxed linoleum now, Egon mumbles the answer into the floor. "Yyy... yurinlufathim."
"Whaaaat?!"
Egon raises his voice: "You're in LUH--"
"I'm fucking WHAT?" A shout to bury the word, to bury the entire goddam conversation. Schillinger hears footsteps as a hack, somewhere in a corridor over, reverses course and begins moving in. He does not, cannot care.
"*Want* him," Egon amends with frantic speed. "You...WANT him. Back." Though visibly shaking, he manages to look Vern in the face. "That's why you can't even let yourself *think* about this, why you never got another prag. 'Cause you can't get him out of your head."
Vern's almost too dumbfounded to be angry any more. If Kobold can't tell a righteous hunger for vengeance and justice from some kind fag-boy in-fuckin'-fatuAtion, then no *wonder* he can't tell his ass from his elbow.
"The guy took a *crap* on my FACE," he tells Kobold. "I am NOT in -- " He catches himself at the last second, just barely managing not to look around like a shamefaced schoolboy admitting to having masturbated. "I want him *dead*," he says. "Not... nothin' fuckin' else, you got that?"
Egon says nothing. Just looks at him.
"DO YOU GET THAT?!"
Into his shirt-collar: "...okay."
Well, GOOD.
(Long as we finally got *that* one straightened out...)
But: Then, incredibly, Kobold moves *towards* him, fists clenched--lays them on Vern's chest, tentatively, and looks up at him. His lips part, throat gulping, jaw bobbing. And Vern gets a sudden, delicate puff of toothpaste-breath across his own mouth, from WAY too close for comfort.
Staring at him, wide-eyed. Like he's friggin' HYPNOTIZED.
Egon Kobold dips his head, shyly--looks up again, from under his quiff's protective shade. And demands, so softly Vern can barely hear the whisper:
"So, okay...then--"
(--*prove* it.)
End Part Two