AUGUSTA HILL

<<Women--the "gentler" sex.
     <<Used to be, men thought women couldn't even be allowed to read
the paper on our own, or our little heads would explode: Too much
information! Thought women went crazy 'cause of all that sperm they
pumped into us gettin' stuck inside our cervixes, goin' bad and drivin'
us crazy with the fumes...though how that's *our* problem, exactly, you
really GOT to wonder.
     <<When the British first started sendin' people to Australia, back
in the 1700's, they held off on the women as long as they could. Then
they sent a whole ship-full, right to a place called the Female Factory
in Hobart, Tasmania, where the Devils come from--and you just KNOW that
place was a close to Oz as those Aussies down under ever got.
    <<And every woman on that ship--"these damnable bitches", the Warden
used to call 'em--ended up being registered as a prostitute, even the
ones who were forgers, or pickpockets, or *murderers*...'cause most of
'em were poor, and most of 'em were married "in the common-law fashion".
Which meant, to the powers that be, they weren't married at all.
     <<You're either married, or you're a 'ho. And maybe you ARE
married, and you're *still* a 'ho. A 'ho for bein' a 'ho--or a 'ho just
for goin' to jail in the first place, no matter WHAT you did to get your
ass thrown in there.
     <<Down at the Female Factory, those Australian hacks used to pimp
out all the girls, just like in here--but they did it *legal*. Used to
have auctions, and any man with money could come on down and pick
himself a convict 'wife'. Even the ones who used to be convicts
themselves.
     <<I mean, everything got a name. Got to call 'em like you see 'em.
Call the Devil's name, and he will appear. And that goes double for Mrs
Devil.
     <<'Hos 'hos. Prisoners OF prisoners. The lowest of the low: That's
us. Weak and crazy and packed full'a sperm gone bad--and once *we* turn,
baby, ain't NO goin' back. The "gentler" sex, for sure...
     <<...yeah, *RIGHT*.>>

~~~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

I've been in here one year. One year of staring at the same plexiglass
walls, doing the exact same thing day after fucking day...

...well, not *every* day. There *were* those times I got sent to the
hole--but that's still another version of the same fucking thing, now,
isn't it?

//I don't belong here//

I am...I WAS Tory Beecher, corporate lawyer, wife and mother, member of
the PTA. Top shark at the firm, corner office, the queen of
schmooze--given enough alcoholic lubricant--at all those boring parties
Giles always insisted we go to. Respected in my community. Outstanding
in my fucking field.

Not just another inmate at Oz, Oswald Correctional, the largest Women's
Prison in the tri-state area--a murderer...'scuse me, vehicular
*man*slaughterer...with eleven more years to go, and no parole in sight.

And the beat goes on, inside my skull: Same old same old. Same old list
of tired "if onlies", 'round and 'round and 'round...

If I hadn't had that fucking last drink. If I hadn't gone out to
celebrate closing that deal, just to rub it in Giles's face that *I* was
one making all the money. If I hadn't gotten in my car to drive home,
drunk after a three-solid-hour binge.

If, if. Fucking if.

//There really ought to be a LAW against that word.//

And I remember singing along with Robert Palmer in my car. I remember
the station suddenly tuning out. Remember reaching over, to tune it back
in. Remember hearing a thud
and a crash, as my car went up on the curb...

...but I don't, I still don't, even now--I STILL don't remember seeing
that little boy bounce off my windshield.

Yet here I am, all the same. Here in Oz, just trying to live day by day
without getting my ass kicked, or having to kick anybody else's...

...*too* much.

I was sweet and street-dumb when I got here--about prison, at least.
Corporate lawyer, right? I didn't know how criminals acted, even now I
WAS one. I was used to country clubs, expense accounts, bi-weekly
manicures; thought if I only I was nice to people, they'd be nice back.
Please and thank you, smile smile smile...I mean, that's the golden
rule, right?

//Wrong.//

Manicures...heh. Last *manicure* I had, in here--well, that'd be when
Vee Schillinger made me cut my lipstick power-broker claws down to the
quick, because the next place my hands would be going was up inside of
her...and we don't wanna *hurt* anybody now, do we, cupcake?

Oh, nooo. No indeed.

//No--ma'am.//

I should have just come in here acting like the corporate whore bitch I
was back out in the business world, because being *nice* got me nowhere
but on my knees.

"Prag": Some word, huh? Kind of rolls right off the tongue...

//Mmm. And THERE's an open invitation to memories best left *right* the
fuck alone.//

Vee. Verena, Tory-baby--Vic-TOR-i-a--but Vee for short. And the
Schillinger part, that's her *maiden* name, 'cause she was never one to
let a MAN hang his on her just because they'd signed a piece of paper
together. Not like me and Giles...

So now people get to call me by his last name all day. BEECHER, prisoner
number 97B412! Step out, step back, line up: Count! Shower! Work! Mess!

//On your knees and suck it, bitch!//

Ah, Lord. And I used to be such a...*nice* girl.

But anyways, back to me--and Vee. How she ran her Ilse Koch Nazi Mommy
shit on me, got me all grateful for a hand on my shoulder and a place to
stay, after that crazy African woman-mountain Simone Adebisi and her
endless voodoo chants. And then, before I knew it, I doing her laundry,
running her errands, sucking her out and fisting her whenever she
demanded it. I wore what she wanted and played her girlfriend, kept my
mouth shut and licked her fucking boots, right in front of everyone...

...and then she fucked me back, with whatever came to hand. And called
me sweetpea while she did it.

But that only lasted so long.

One hole for another--pretty fair trade, don't you think? Rhea
O'Reilly'd been supplying me with drugs, all I could buy; she slipped me
half a gram of Angel Dust instead of my usual heroin, and it got me high
enough to finally stop rolling over and playing dead. I went after Vee
with everything I had; nearly put her eye out, too.

Time one.

Wasn't enough, though. So after I got out, I beat the fuck out of her,
shit all over her face...and then, for an encore, I pulled my tampon out
and stuffed it in her mouth.

The hole, revisited. Time two.

It came to me then, buck naked and shivering and covered in blood--the
hacks laughing at me through the door, because I used the only *sanitary
item* I had left as a weapon. And I just laughed back--barked, snarled,
snapped at them when they stuck their hands in with my food. I saw that
the only way to survive this fucking place, to deal with the insanity
that was Oz, would be to become just as crazy as the situation I was in.

Probably shouldn't've bitten that one hack's dick, though, if I ever
*really* wanted to see Gen and Bobby again. But I guess I'd just had it
up to here with people expecting me to...swallow.

And as for Vee, that big bitch of a cunt, with HER boys coming to see
her every week--a *fit mother*, by God, while Giles doesn't even let MY
kids write to me anymore--

//--and God, that's an ache for you. Worse than any rape...//

...well. Maybe not.

I was done with her. I thought she was done with me.

But, like so many other times before--

--I was wrong.

~~~~~~~

It all started when Tina...Christina. Keller.

//that bitch//

--when Keller came into EmCity, swinging her hips and tossing back her
long brown hair like some '50's femme fatale--should've been dressed in
black pedal pushers and a white angora sweater, with a pink chiffon
scarf knotted around her neck, instead of Oz's issue dark blue
combination with white t-shirt. But even in that outfit, she was a
knockout.
Not that she was beautiful, or even pretty...feature by feature, in
fact, she was almost outright PLAIN. But I can't lie, lawyer or no: What
she *did* have was a pair of hazel eyes that made you look twice,
whether you wanted to or not, and a body that just wouldn't quit. The
bitch oozed raw sex appeal from every fucking, and I do mean *fucking*
pore.

Heads all over the quad turned as she sauntered along beside me,
wiggling her ass like a one-woman parade--hacks, cons, even poor
celibate Brother Pete, double-taking by on his way back to the office.
It made me nervous, frankly; I don't want people looking at me at all,
let alone the way they were looking at her...even by association.

We got to our pod, and I motioned to her bunk.

"You a dyke?" I asked.

"I do what I have to."

//I bet you do, sister.//

A tease in everything she said, one brow cocked, like she was snapping
an invisible piece of gum. I stood there and watched her make up her
bunk, still wiggling her ass about, then got bored with THAT view and
turned slightly to look out the window--where I saw Vee, almost falling
off her chair trying to act nonchalant: Looking, but not *really*
looking.

Should've known then. Should've...

//But how *could* I?//

Even now, it simply wouldn't occur to me.

So I left her there, and retreated to Brother Pete's office. I'd done my
job, after all: Showed her where she lived, and whatever. Now it was up
to her to survive, on her own.

//Just like the rest of us.//

~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTINA KELLER

So I've just been fingerprinted and strip-searched, washed and given new
clothes, when I'm told to hang back for transfer to *Em City*. Don't
like the sound of THAT as soon as it comes out of the hack's mouth--I
got this feeling, this vibe, that it's bad news. But fuck it: I can't
do--or say--anything.

Then this chick with wild eyes and a halo of curly, blonde hair combed
down over her face, like she's hiding behind it or something, comes to
get me. Beecher, that's her name: Says she's gonna show me to my *pod*.
Yeah, pod, not cell--like I'm a fucking pea, or a body snatcher.

And her NAILS. Man, they're scary. Long, square-filed. Wicked sharp.

She catches me looking, and kinda smirks. Sharp teeth on the bitch, too.

Now, I 've been inside before, done time before--a *lotta* time, lotsa
times. But I have NEVER been in a place like this. Glass walls, so
everyone can see your business? Who the fuck designed this place, Hugh
fuckin' Hefner?

I'm trying real hard to keep cool, but I know my face is burning and I
know everyone's
looking at me. So I start to strut, like always; fall back on the old
tricks. Get 'em wet and keep 'em that way, so they don't care *what*
YOU're thinking.

//Yeah, go ahead and look, you cunts. *I*'ll give ya something to look
at.//

Winking at the male hacks: You too, sweethearts.

I'm relaxing into it, takin' it all in stride--when suddenly, we're
home, and the blonde takes off. And that's when the real fun starts.

"Hey."

I look up to see Vee Schillinger leaning against the doorframe of the
pod, her large--even larger than the last time I saw her--frame blocking
the entrance. Hair seems to have gotten blonder with age, like *that*'s
likely, tied all up in this massive bun at the back of her head,
tendrils of wispy hair framing her face. But her eyes, those
eyes--they're the same. And so is she.

//Oh shit, here we go.//

"Hey."

I sit back on my bunk, a playful smirk on my lips. Tryin' to charm her,
so she'll step the fuck off and leave me alone--without doing TOO much
damage.

//Just like old times.//

"Long time no see," she says. "Whatcha in for?"

Fluttering my eyelashes at her: "This n' that."

"You getting cocky, prag?"

//MAN, I hate that fucking word. Always did, and she knows it.//

So I stand up to her. "I ain't your *prag* anymore, Vee."

But Vee just laughs. "We'll see about that."

She looks back over her shoulder, like she's checking for someone--who?
The blonde? Then  shifts the weight onto her other leg, her hip resting
against the aluminum door frame, and fixes me again. Says: "I got a job
for you."

//BIG fuckin' surprise.//

Then she leans in close and tells me about her plan to fuck this Beecher
chick over--*Tory*, that's her name. So close I can smell her, that
familiar smell of talc and Camay with just a touch of Gold Bond--the
same smell that always brings back memories of me and her in Lardner,
her protecting me from that gangsta bitch, and what followed. Two years
I put up with her shit, listened to her dole out advice and threats. She
kept telling me that us women had to stick together, because men would
fuck you over the first chance they got. Said that men were only good
for propogating the race, and there should be stud farms where a girl
could go, get knocked up, then never have to deal with them again. And
me...I was 18, and scared. I looked up to her, worshipped her,
even...hell, I guess I loved her, back then.

But that was then. And this--

//--*ain't*.//

Must'a looked like I was drifting, there, so Vee grabs my arm and
squeezes it, which brings my mind RIGHT on back to what she's saying.
But I don't want to get involved, man--why would I? I'm a whole
different person. Independent.

When I saw her sitting in the middle of the quad, a few minutes ago, my
heart sank. Back to the same old "prag" bullshit, playing stupid mind
games; wasn't submissive on the outside, so how come I had to be
submissive in here?

//All past ex-husbands excluded.//

Not like I'm gonna tell her that straight out, though. Instead, I listen
close, nod my head, furrowed my fuckin' brow in fake concentration. And
by the time she's done, Vee's so damn into it she's got a serious
*gleam* in her eye, like she's just about to come or something.

//Yuck.//

And I almost tell her no. Have the word right on the tip of my
tongue--when, almost like she KNOWS what I'm thinking, she says the one
thing I've been dreading:

"How's Dennis?"

I keep my cool, but inside, I'm screaming.  Dennis...he's the one thing
I love in this life, besides my three ex-husbands' alimony--my precious
son, the only man in my life who NEVER fucked me over.

After Lardner, when I was all knocked up by that prick Bart who said he
was divorcing his wife--but ended up married to both of us--I went to
see Vee, who treated me nice as pie. Gave me all her boys' old baby
clothes, fussing over me and giving me tips on how to deal with morning
sickness. And when Dennis was born, Vee came to see me again--cooed over
Dennis, and picked him up and cuddled him, and gave me *motherly advice*
on how to care for my new baby.

"Family is the most important thing in the world, Christina," she told
me. "Don't ever forget that. Just like your son means more to you than
life itself, he'll feel the exact same way about you.  I mean, look at
*my* boys--they'd do ANYTHING for their Ma.  Believe me, you'll do
anything for him."

//Who knew then that "anything" would include armed robbery and murder
after your boyfriend cleared out your bank account to buy crack, when
there was no food left in the house, and rent was due?//

I look Vee straight in her watery blue eyes--press my lips together and
smooth them out like I'm spreading my lipstick around, even though I
suddenly realize I'm not wearing any.  And answer, my stomach turning--

"He's fine."

"'Cause, you know, the boys don't live that far away from Dennis and
your Ma.  They
could go and look in on him once in a while, just to make sure
he's...okay."

"Don't think that'll be necessary. But thanks anyway."

And Vee smiles that smile of hers--one that says you you're gonna to do
whatever she tells you to, and act like you're happy to do it.

"Yeah, I'm sure he IS fine. I'm sure he'll be *real* fine...after Tory's
gone."

And I smile back, wanting to throw up. Saying:

"...right."

"Well, good to see you again, Tina." And she pats me on the back, like
she's my long-lost aunt--then smacks my ass, sniffs the air, and adds:
"And if I'm not mistaken, *you*'re real happy about seeing me."

//SURE, Vee. You wish.//

Bright: "You know it."

"Good girl."

After she's gone, I collapse on my bunk and take a long, deep breath. Of
all fucking places and all fucking times, *she* has to be HERE. Which
means I'm trapped, man. If anything were to happen to Dennis...

But I push that thought from my mind, push it right out. Close my eyes.
And think:

//I have to do this.//

No choice. None at all.

And THAT's how it really begins.

~~~~~~~~~

VEE SCHILLINGER

I'd be home with my boys right now if it weren't for Tory fuckin'
Beecher, and that's the fact: Educated rich girl, pretty little
Barbie-doll bitch. Nothin' ever enough for that gal, one way or the
other. And here I was thinking we were finally starting to get along...

Now, now, "Brother": Don't you look at me like that. I mean--*you* been
married, or so I hear.

Partly my own fault, I guess. When Essie Ross came in, that 'ho, I kinda
threw old Tory over there for a while--remembering all those GOOD times
Ess 'n' I used to have, ridin' around with that bike club her old man
started, before he pancaked his ass on the highway somewhere near
Lexington and she inherited his weed business. Good breeding stock,
those hog-humpers, as I found out soon enough; gimme a minute, I'll dig
out the latest snaps and show you the results.

Dumb, blond and big as two houses, like a couple of Viking fuckin'
warriors--that's what I wanted, and that's what I got. Not exactly brain
surgeons, but they *do* take a damn good picture.

And, 'course, they'd do anything for me. Anything. At all.

Already *have*, in actual fact...

...but I don't think I trust your patient confidentiality bullcrap quite
THAT far, thank you much. 'Bout as far as I could throw *you*,
maybe...little man.

Aw, c'mon. Just jokin'--cupcake.

*Jesus CHRIST*, but you Catholics take yourselves seriously. Half'a ol'
Tory-baby's problem, right there.

Y'see, things all come down to personality. Invisible signals, like
signposts tellin' you what you can get away with. I catch an eyefuck
from Simone Adebisi, and I KNOW that one day, she 'n' me are gonna have
to dance--but *race* don't really have shit to do with it, any more than
it does with that one big, black C.O. keeps following me 'round with my
mail truck, like he's tryin' to stare his way through my clothes. Prick
hack motherfucker.

That's what that Sister-Doctor-Minister-what-friggin'-EVER Khadija Said
can't seem to get, dumb Eastward-genuflectin' cunt: *We* check our
fuckin' hides at the jailhouse door. Throw guys in a cage, they get like
rats; don't give a damn what the hacks have to say about it, 'cause
they're only interested in whatever they can do to each OTHER. But us,
the minute we walk in here, we're right where those uniformed sons of
bitches want us.

Could be green with yellow spots for all these fuckers care. They look
at you and see two tits, an ass, a wide-open pussy to plug. Meat on a
stick, lookin' to get screwed.

Well, not Vee Schillinger--and not in Oz, that's for damn sure. I had my
fill of *that* shit on the outside. There's exactly two men I trust in
this world...and that's 'cause they both came out of ME.

I mean, look at that hack son-of-a-bitch Dave Whittlesey. Seems on the
up and up, not cuttin' himself out a con "girlfriend" like the rest of
'em--all those bastards linin' up to stick it to O'Reilly, that
stringbean Mick slut, just so she can keep her drugs flowing free and
save her retard sister from having to do the same. And sure, that's
mainly 'cause he's off doin' miss high-and-mighty McManus on the sly;
sure, he only ever *said* he'd get Tory off my back 'cause I knew he
killed Ess during the riot. Plugged one squeeze over another, thinkin'
with his dick--and his gun: *Just* like a man.

Then turns around and tries to fuck ME, too, helping Tory set me up. Two
birds with one stone. No one's gonna believe I saw what I saw, now.

So yeah, men'll fuck you over if they get the chance--women, too.
*Anyone* will, if you LET 'em. And you should thank me for teaching you
that, Tory, honey...

//...not that I think you *really* didn't know it already.//

I mean, my Dad was the ripest kind'a asshole, sure. But my Old Lady? TEN
times worse. She didn't like other women *at all*. Didn't like...

...the competition.

But that's the way the world works, right? Tradin' back and forth, tit
for tat. You scratch my back...

...scratch my *itch*...

Oh, and Tory was always good at THAT, believe me, much as she may not
like to admit it. Those soft little hands of hers--

Oughtta ask her to give you a demonstration, sometime.

Still: You gotta ride her *just* the right way, that stuck-up law-bitch,
and it's ain't like she comes with operating instructions. Press too
hard, slack off too much, and off she goes like a fuckin' rocket.

But hell, I was ready to forgive and forget, even after everything she
did--up to and including that little trick with the tampax--'till she
lost me my parole, that is. Got me ten more years, a one-way ticket back
into Gen Pop, six months no privileges...saddled me with havin' to come
see *you* every goddamn week, just so's you can tell McManus whether or
not I'm fit to play nice with others yet...

And how'm I doing, Brother? Shit, *you* can tell ME.

Mmm. That good, huh?

Who? Oh, right: Cynda O'Reilly. Well--I get a little bored sometimes,
Brother, I'm the first to admit it. It's a fault.

'Sides...I'll bet she's forgotten all about it by now. Don't remember
much, that one, if it don't involve her big sis, candy or cartoon
animals.

My parole, though--THAT was *sacred*. I mean, Tory's a mother too, damn
it. She knows...SHOULD know...

But if she really *knew* what it is to love anybody more'n she loves
herself, she wouldn't be in here for running over somebody else's kid,
now, would she?

Which brings us to the really PRETTY part, Brother. And remember, you
told me you can't tell a soul, right? Just between you and me and the
bedpost--not that there *is* one--

Just did the mail and I'm sitting there shooting the shit with the gals,
showing them the latest from my boys--and who the hell do I happen to
see, trailing 'long behind that bitch Beecher, but ol' Tina Keller:
Queen teen slut down at Lardner, best recreation fuck I ever had. Catnip
on two long legs. And that's when I *know* what has to happen.

Shit, if I even BELIEVED in God, like crazy old Bertha Rebadow--or
*you*, Brother, comes to that--I'd say my prayers just got answered.

So. What now, you ask? Well--that'd be telling.

'Sides, I see by the clock our time's up. FINALLY.

See ya tomorrow, Brother. Sweet dreams...

...sweetpea.

End Part One

GENTLER, Part Two
By Gemma and Nicole S.

~~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTINA KELLER

So I'm sitting here in my *pod*--still can't get used to that fucking word--watching my toenails dry, waiting for Tory Beecher. She's one predictable chick, that Tory: Likes her routine. Could set my watch by her, if I had one--

//--or hers, if her first cellmate hadn't STOLEN it first.//

Yeah, I heard that story already, 'bout how Simone Adebisi took her for everything she had on her at the time, from the Rolex to her wedding ring--and not from Tory, either. Got it from that gang she sort'a belongs to, much as she *belongs* to anything: That bunch of freaks sits 'round by the TV bank, playing checkers and watchin' the rest of Em City go by. "The Others", Miss stick-up-the-ass McManus calls 'em. 'Cause everything in here's gotta have some cute little name.

And man, *they're* some pieces of work. We got Bertha Rebadow, so old she almost got herself crisped in the ELECTRIC chair, right before they decided to stop doin' it anymore; chick talks to God--or maybe God talks to her, whatever. And Gussie Hill, in that chair of hers--dreadlocks down to her ass, and so much gold in her ears she practically rattles. Word on the quad is her pimp tried to push her off a roof, and she was so fuckin' high she took him with her. Came down right on top of him; he died, and she snapped her spine in half.

Yeah, Tory's got quite the rep, according to them--and everything Vee didn't tell me 'bout why she wants her screwed over, the Others were more'n glad to fill in: The thing with the eye, the Tampax special...what she did to that hack, when they had her slung in Ad Seg after the riot...

Scary shit, and it explains a lot. The nails. The *teeth*. Way she creeps around, hiding behind her hair, snappin' at anyone looks at her twice. Stupid people see how she acts, and they think it's 'cause she's scared of them. But that's bullshit. Only thing she's *scared* of--is HERSELF.

Scared of what's she's done. Of what she *might* do.

//Something to keep in mind, when the time comes...//

Kentucky-fried Gramma Rebadow, Hill the 'ho on wheels, and Tory, fastest mouth in the West. And me, Mata Hari Keller, undercover seductress for Oz's queen Nazi bitch...

//...man, Tina, 's like you got some kinda GIFT for getting into this kinda crap.//

Outside, a couple of gang-bangers walk by--real baller bitches, shaking their hips and throwin' their sets, their processed hair covered in Lee press-on jewels. They start laughing at some Italian girl, calling her a slut and a whore. The Italian chick spits back at one of 'em: "Tu putana!" And then--

--the fur *really* starts to fly.

Man, these pod windows are almost as good as TV. Cat-fight cinema, all day, every day. McManus ever went Pay-per-View, that'd be the whole fuckin' Em City budget right there.

A minute or so later, Whittlesey's already breakin' it up and I'm checking my nails: Almost dry. Did 'em in red--"Fatal Attraction", to match my fingers and lipstick. Yet another thing Rhea O'Reilly pushes, you got the dough...or the favors...to pay for it.

Some people call me femme 'cause I choose to look this way--like I even give a shit. Butch, femme, it's all the same to me:  I'm a WOMAN, and I got the right to look good, 'specially in *this* hell-hole.

Makeup keeps me sane, makes me feel better about myself. All part of the attitude. And attitude is everything, right?

//Right.//

Hell, I didn't get three husbands by *not* makin' an effort--but I'm NOTHING compared to those Hispanic girls.  I've got my routine down pat, don't take a minute longer than I have to. The cholas, though, they spend HOURS primping and preening in front of any mirrored surface they can find. Spray their hair so high, sometimes, I wonder how the hell they can sleep at night.

Maria Alvarez, she's the worst...that's what got her in here in the first place. Word is, she's so fuckin' vain she actually KILLED some waitress who tripped and spilled a glass of water on her, 'cause it made her mascara run; should'a used something all-weather, 'stead'a that Maybelline Long Lash shit. One minute she's out with her boyfriend, celebrating gettin' knocked up, ridin' high and havin' herself a time--the next, she's so pissed and dissed and *embarrassed* she picks up a steak knife and STABS this waitress like 30 times, while her boyfriend holds the poor bitch down. They got charged together, murder two and accomplice, 25 to life each; must'a thought they were both gonna end up in the same place, dumb fuckin' kids.

Got a scar across her mocha cheek, the one flaw in a perfect face. I heard she did it after she lost her baby--went loco, and carved herself up. Talk about post-partum depression.

The hacks, they encourage the chicks to dress up. Wanna think we're doin' it just for them: *Want* you to look like a hooker, so if...make that WHEN...they catch you alone somewhere, they can tell themselves you were asking for it.

But fuck it. And fuck them too--if I have to.

//Which I probably will.//

Tory, though--*Tory* doesn't do a damn thing with herself, 'cept take a shower every day. And she looks...

...GOOD. For a *lawyer*.

Yeah, the law-bitch thing: That came out pretty early on, along with a few other choice little bits and pieces--little snippets of her life, let slip here and there whenever she cracks her guard. 'Cause we're talking now--sort of. But I know I've only scratched the surface with her, just barely. Have to convince her to let me scrape a little more, show her how good it feels. Get under her skin, so deep she'll beg me to keep on cutting deeper and deeper--go all the way down, and never, ever stop.

//Oooh, yeah. That sounds NICE.//

I mean, ain't like I never *had* to sweet-talk some shy boy--or girl--outta their clothes before, so I could go through their stuff when they fell asleep. I'm good at it, dare say so myself. Got a serious KNACK.

Sex. It's the best high there is--and all it takes is a good hard look, most'a the time. 'Cause there's always something about anybody, you watch 'em long enough...something that'll make you think, even for just a second: Oh, uh huh. I could go for *that*.

Take Vee, right? She walks by, and I can see Tory go all tense--gets that look in her eye, like blue sparks jumping. Like she wants to take a knife to her, but she can't remember where she put it. But when *I* see Vee...I think of Lardner, sure, all the good AND the bad. How strong she is, 'specially when she holds you. How soft she can talk, when she wants to. That Mommy rumble of hers--man, she's got it *down*. How she can look you in the eye, almost like she's hypnotizing you, and make you feel like you're the only person in her world...

I never had a Mom, and Vee knows it. She could tell that first day, just to look at me. KNOWS I know she knows. Doesn't care.

And Tory...I can see why Vee wanted *her*, too. So tiny, so fine, so DIFFERENT: She's a toy, a doll, a Barbie gone bad. Perfect, like she came gift-wrapped. Only time I ever got close to a chick like her, out in the real world, would've been when I was lifting her wallet or stealin' her date.

So yeah, Vee's gonna get just what she asked for, that fuckin' loomin' cunt. I'm gonna do her dirty work, get close to Tory, get her to trust me. And then...

//...yeah, *then*.//

Ain't fucking easy, though, I can tell ya THAT much. Tory's got a ton of hangups and doesn't trust ANYONE. I mean, Vee used her pretty hard. Now she's like some pedigreed housecat got left out in the street--hisses at you 'till you get it by the scruff and haul it home, wash it off, pet it 'till it starts to purr again...

For the past few weeks, I've been offering up tidbits of information on myself to extract the same from her. I told her about MY husbands, and that got me hers, this guy Giles who's always been jealous 'cause he couldn't make as much dough as she could. Her kids, and how she can't see 'em anymore. What she used to be.

Make her talk about her kids too long, though, and she drops the subject--or starts to talk in rhyme. When that happens, I know it's time to move on, 'cause I'm not going to get anything more out of her right then. Have to leave her alone for a bit, and wait for her to calm down.

These rhymes she spouts off, I recognize some of 'em:  Parts of songs, bits of poetry stuck together. Once, I caught her doing this thing by Robert Frost, the one they used in that Charles Bronson movie about Russian spies. "Dark and deep and miles to go..."

It's not WHAT she says, just the WAY she says it that makes you look at her like she's nuts. That, and the fact that most people here wouldn't know a poem from the inside'a their own pussy.

See, I'm not just some ditz who's all eye candy and no brain.  I finished high school--

//barely//

Yeah, well.

Vee used to make fun of me for reading. To her, a library was somewhere you could talk, 'cause the hacks wouldn't watch you as hard as usual. She never reads for pleasure, never wants to escape into a world that's not her own.

I was a kid when I met Vee, so that explains why I didn't speak up back then--but I'd be fooling myself if I claimed she didn't have the same power over me now.  She does something to me that makes me bow down, let her take the lead, treat her like she's queen of the world or something. Almost makes me laugh at myself. If I only had the guts to spout some of the one-liners that come into my mind sometimes, out loud, right to her *face*...

//I'd be dead.//

And that's when Tory finally walks in, back from her job tip-tapping on the computer in Brother Pete's office. Right on time.

//Like always.//

I want to ask her if he's ever tried anything with her--I mean, he's a nice old guy and all, but NO SEX? After you been *married*?

That's gonna have to wait until later, though. After she lets her guard down some more.

So I put on my best *no threat here* face, and look up at her through my lashes. "Hey, Beech," I say, and start to take the spacers from between my toes.

"Keller."

"Noooo, no, no. Christina, 'member? TI-na."

She gives me a long look, under her own lashes: Pale blue, blurred with gold. Then repeats, quietly:

"Tina."

She sits down on the box I just used to put my feet on, hugs her knees, a little awkward. Be able to see Paris, France if she was wearing a skirt, which she ain't--never does. And she checks me out, carefully; not in a sexual way, but her curiosity about me isn't hidden.

I look up again, and smile at her--that all-purpose smile of mine, the one that can mean anything from *I think you're nice* to *please don't beat me when my son's around.*  Look at her hands, with those long, wickedly sharp nails. And ask, all innocent:

"Ever get a manicure...Tory?"

She glances down. Equally soft: "...used to."

I grab her hand, examine them at close range. She flinches, starts to pull back, bristling--

"I don't like people *touching* me," she snaps. A bit TOO fast.

//Oh, yeah. *Sure* you don't.//

But I just hold on, not havin' any--push her nails with my thumb, watch 'em bend, turn her hand over to look at the palms. They're soft, no calluses, square little hands with slim little fingers. A bit of rough skin on the pads of her fingers from typing, not that it counts.

"Your nails are kinda weak," I tell her. "Got a hardener my Mom sent me that'd make   'em--"

//more deadly//

"--less...prone to breakage."

I her deep in the eye, give her that smile again.  I can see her running this through her mind, weighing the consequences. Having one of those lawyer debates with herself.

"No thanks," she says, finally. And tries to pull away.

I don't let her, though. And she...

...lets me. Not let her.

 "C'mon," I say. "Lemme at 'em. I can trim your cuticles, too. I'm really good."  I release one hand, and wiggle my fingers in front of her face. "See? Always do them myself."

I know she wants to, man. Chicks like her, they're used to getting pampered; probably went to an expensive spa once a year, for high colonics and sea-salt rubs. Must miss it, too.

//You can't miss what you never had.//

She leans back against the wall, hand still in mine, trying to decide if she's amused. I give her the look through the lashes again, along with my best puppy dog face.

"Okay."

"Good call, Tory. You won't regret this."

I open my bag, dig out my tools, and get to work. Start by moisturizing her hands and fingers, massaging the cream up her arms, caressing her with long, fluid strokes, making sure I'm extra gentle. Put all my feeling into touching her, so she'll catch the vibe--won't be able to avoid it, even if she's trying not to.

I had a boyfriend once who told me touching that pad of flesh where the thumb joins the rest of the hand is like sticking your hand between somebody's legs. "The Mound of Venus", he called it. A real pretentious asshole, that dude, always talkin' about Tantra, like he's fuckin' Sting or something; yeah, *right*. Guy couldn't even keep it up for more than ten minutes, let alone five hours straight.

Her flat little mouth comes open a bit, eyes going glassy. She's panting, shallow. Sweat-sheen on her forehead, at her temples, over the hollow of her pale throat.

My guess, it's been a *long* time since Tory's had anyone touch her like this. All the more reason to make it last--so I make sure I take an extra few minutes to rub her hands, my long fingers gently working the pulse point on her wrist.

//Why is this so fun?// I wonder. Then know: 'Cause here, *I* get to be on top. Figuratively speaking.

//For now.//

Finally, I pick up the cuticle trimmers: Done, baby. Tory shuts her mouth, swallows. I can practically HEAR the disappointed moan caught in her throat, and she seems to know it. So she swallows again, coughs. And says:

"About last night..." She pauses. Carefully: "I know you were...just trying to help."

Last night. That was when I woke up to hear Tory screaming in the grips of a nightmare--same one she always has, just *louder*, and so bad it shook her right off the top bunk onto the pod floor, where she lay in a sobbing, crumpled heap.  I wasn't sure what was going on for a minute, 'till I saw her at my feet. Then I picked her up and held her in my arms, cooing to her like she was Dennis--like she was my child, and there was nothing wrong with me hugging her body to mine: That soft skin, those slim, hard limbs, that nice little rack. Running my hands through her hair, over her wet, red face...

She let it happen for a minute, sagging, almost asleep again--then realized what was going on, and pushed me away. Snuffling, liquid. Snarling, hoarse:

"Okay, m'*okay*. Leave--me. 'LONE."

She lunged for the toilet, retched dryly. I shrugged, and climbed back into my bunk. Pretended not to watch as she calmed herself, splashing water on her burning cheeks.

"Hey, no problem," I say, as I start pushing back her cuticles. "We all have nightmares, sometimes."

//Just not usually ALL night, *every* night.//

I coo over her nails, marvelling at their length, her expert work with the file; I'm extra-gentle and extra-supportive, and she eats it right the fuck up. Last time anybody gave Tory THIS much attention, it was probably Vee. But I ain't out to bend her over--just speak to her soft and low, and make sure to smile a lot. And soon's I'm done, I make her promise I can do this once a week, at least. 'Cause not everyone has their very own manicurist in their very own pod.

She laughs out loud at that one; a humming note, surprisingly throaty. I can see that twitch in her eye, like she wants to rhyme--but she swallows it, turns it into a smile instead. Blushes, too, just a bit.

//*I* did that.//

Yeah. And...I like it. Wanna do it some more.

Mmm. I can really feel it, now--that liquid thing, deep inside me, like I'm starting to melt. That trick I play on myself, so I can get other people feeling the same way. And is it so fake, really? I mean, it's real to *me*.

//Her too, not that she'll admit it. Yet.//

Then it's later, out on the quad, and we're sitting around shooting the shit with the Others, laughing at some sly, sideways thing she just said: Got a wicked sense of humor, Tory, when she *wants* to be happy. I catch Vee out of the corner of my eye, roaming behind her mail-cart with her hair piled high in some kinda French twist, solid bulk moving slow and weirdly graceful as an overloaded deep sea freighter. See her raise a brow, and give her that look I use to get out of parking tickets: //Doin' my job, Mommy Dearest, just like you asked. Doing whatever it takes to keep my Dennis safe.//

And Tory?

//Ah, shit.//

Well, I knew the stakes, going in--and they haven't changed. So...

...long as it gets *me* what I want, whatever happens to her--will be worth it.

//I hope.//

~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

The next morning, I stood in the shower room with my scarred ass to the wall and my face bent under the spray, eyes closed tight--too kinked and sore and wretched from last night's bad dreams even to *care* which passing hacks might be getting an eye-full. Let the tangled, sodden mass of my hair hang forward, shielding me from view; opened my mouth wide, and took a deep, hot, shampoo-flavored swallow. And thought--for neither the first time this particular hour, nor //probably// the last--

//--God, but I need a DRINK.//

I'd woken up that morning missing Giles, so intensely it made my heart throb and ache like an amputated limb. Not for his personality, so much--not ALL our problems had stemmed from the fact that *I* drank, after all.

//Chicken and the fucking egg, THAT situation...//

But--Giles, himself. The physical *facts* of him, so tall and dark and handsome, with his crooked smile and Tom Selleck moustache. His smell. His grip. And, not to beat around the bush--

//shit, these images//

--the sex. I mean, if you can't drink or do drugs--which I apparently can't anymore, according to McManus and Brother Pete, or get slung right on back into Ad Seg--a big screaming orgasm has GOT to be the next best thing, no matter where you happen to get it...

//or with whom//

So odd for me to be thinking about sex, let alone *wanting* it. I'd been booze- and drug-free since the riot, sex-free since that first go-'round with Vee in the gym. And happy to keep it that way, frankly--making myself as deliberately unattractive as I possibly could to hacks and other prisoners alike, protecting myself against whoever else wanted to take a crack at re-pragging me. Though I doubt even O'Reilly could've set me up with one of her regular crowd, truth be told, after that little dick-chomping incident. And I *sure* wasn't about to hook up with another woman, not after Vee. Not even if the person in question was someone more like, say--

//Tina//

And where'd THAT come from?

Tina Keller, with her constantly half-quirked eyebrows, her rough hands and her soft, soft touch. Cat-hipping her lithe way around *my* pod like a panther on the prowl, leaning up against the plexiglass wall with her arms crossed behind her head, chest thrown out like she was inviting me to hang my figurative hat on those perky nipples of hers--staring me down, under sultry, lowered lids--

God, she was disturbing. But then...I guess I was pretty disturbed, back then.

//Just  generally.//

Blundering back and forth past her, unused--after sharing with Hill--to company that *wasn't* wheelchair-bound. And turning the wrong way at the wrong time as I got up off the toilet, forgetting just for a moment that I was being watched--flashing my butt, and seeing Tina's hazel eyes widen. A moment's pause, followed by the inevitable question:

"What...is that?"

//What's *what*?//

Oh. Right.

//THAT.//

And me replying, utterly cool--deadpan outside, burning inside, feeling that betraying blush of mine sweep across my cleavage, my neck--up over my jawline, hairline, *face* like some unstoppable, rosy tide...

"...*that*...is the letter V."

//Any questions, bitch?//

Thought not.

But oh: I DID miss Giles, even that last, worst time with him, on the conjugal suite's hard and narrow cot. Missed the riot, that screaming rush of psycho-freedom--striking out wildly with my stick just to see people yelp and scatter, staring through the wall at the sweet sight of McManus bound and silent //for fucking once//, her bloody nose smeared wide like some brave new shade of lipstick. Missed my madness, that warm cloak of gleeful non-caring, which had been draining away by slow degrees ever since they let me back into Em City; ever since I tricked Vee into losing her parole and then threw it back in her teeth, grinning. And most, most, most of all, I missed--

A drink, a drink. My kingdom for a dry martini. ANY fucking martini, dry or otherwise...a snort of heroin, a hit of angel-dust...

//...or just a good hard fuck up against the nearest wall, and not from somebody I'd rather ventilate at close range, either.//

I leaned back further, shut my eyes and let my hands roam, nails trailing through the lather on my breasts, my belly, and beyond--scraping just hard enough to tease, but light enough not to leave a mark. Braced myself, circling a nipple while my other hand rummaged between my legs, scratching idly for that vague, gathering itch; felt my tongue quest out, traitorously automatic, in search of some answering, phantom mouth--some wicked, curling, smiling pair of lips, fire-engine red with Fatal Attraction from O'Reilly's personal horde--

Breath quickening, helpless. And thinking, lost in a sudden wave of inarticulate fantasy:

Don't, oh don't . Oh don't, don't, *don't*--

//*don't*...STOP//

Mmmmm...

Then--I heard someone clear their throat nearby, too close for comfort, though kept almost studiously polite. Opened my eyes, squinting through a haze of steamy, waterlogged lust--

--only to find Vee standing in the doorway, naked as I was. Watching me.

//And...smiling. Ever so slightly.//

I froze, back of my neck gone cold and rigid, all pleasure abruptly flushed away like somebody's used condom. Taking in the all-too-familiar sight of her, piece by piece, a jigsaw series of mnemonic smash-and-grabs. Her sturdy Valkyrie thighs, with their long, flat muscles; crossed biceps, lightning-bolted shoulders. Her age-softened stomach, its post-childbirth stretchmarks mocking my own. The faded blue oval of what had once been an all-American eagle in flight decorating one big, slack breast.

Her deep voice in my mind, amused precursor to a million tiny tortures: Object lesson, Vic-TOR-i-a. Don't ever get a tattoo when you're drunk, *from* somebody who's drunk--and if ya HAVE to, then at least get 'em to put it somewhere it won't end up goin' south for the winter.

//And thank you so very much for the unsolicited body modification advice. *Ma'am*.//

"You're drippin'," Vee observed now, aloud, deceptively mild. And reached up to pull the pin on her French twist, letting loose a hip-length, wheat-pale sheaf of hair--blonde-grey, heavy and fine, uncut since she was fourteen at least, she told me once. I know, because I had to brush it every night: A thousand strokes, top to bottom.

//Don't pull the tangles, either, bitch, you wanna be able to sit down tomorrow.//

Her pride and joy, the one adornment her Spartan code of neo-pioneer femininity allowed her. I would've taken a match to it, gladly, given the opportunity--and watched it burn like dry straw, to the roots.

//And *her* with it.//

I felt my lips peel back, showing teeth--my hands become claws, ready to slash. Met her pale blue eyes, and found them bright with a rich--if nasty--vein of irony: You really up for this, cupcake? Well, go right on ahead--*I* won't stop you.

//Won't have to, the hack comes by. And YOU'll be the one gets Hole time, not to mention maybe losin' *your* parole.//

So how's it feel, Tory-baby? Turnabound being...UNfair play...

I took a long, shuddering breath. Uncurled my fingers. And straightened, slowly, to full height--smaller than her, sure. But not by SO much, in actual fact.

"Get out of my way," I told her, coldly. She shrugged, and stepped aside. Throwing back:

"Hey, don't feel you gotta cut it short on *my* account. Sweetpea."

//Ain't like I never SEEN your skinny rich-bitch stuff, after all.//

And vice versa.

This sheet, this WAVE of anger, boiling up, over, through me. Unable to help myself, I snarled, spat in the suds swirling at her big, bare feet. And--

--fled. Leaving her to laugh, alone, at the punchlineless joke of my hatred--my toothless rage. My enduring, obvious fear.

//Fear of her. Fear of *me*.//

Fear for my very--

//--*soul*, I guess.//

Not that I really thought I had one left to lose. Anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outside, on the quad, I found Rhea O'Reilly separating her "little" (ha, ha) sister Cynda's lank blonde mane into Shirley Temple-style pigtail braids, anchoring each with a brightly-colored plastic barette. Cynda was none too happy with the whole procedure, I could tell; her lower lip already starting to puff, eyes bright with incipient tears. Rhea just twisted harder, took a long drag on her contraband cigarette--and looked up as my shadow fell over them both.

"Hey, Beech," she said, grinning, the scar on her chin pulling taut. "Run in'ta any old pals lately?"

"Vee's in the shower."

"Yup. Saw her goin' by." To Cyn: "Stay *still*, man! More ya move, more it's gonna hurt."

"Don't WANT it," Cynda murmured, mutinously.

"Gonna look so pretty, just like some chick on TV."

A faint whine: "*Nooooo*."

"Cyn, come ON, for fuck's sake. *Food preparation*, remember? You wanna be gettin' hair in everybody else's hash?" She snapped the last one on, sat back and tapped her ash, with a flourish. "There, all done."

Cynda bolted up, running for the shelter of the Others' enclave--checkers and chat, plus all the latest bulletins from the Almighty, and Hill's sardonic commentary on the chaos around her. Calling back, over her shoulder, as she passed me: "Hi, Tory--'bye, Tory!" And adding, further on, as an afterthought: "Thanks, Rhea!"

"Yeah, yeah."

She shot me a glance, patted the step next to her. I sat, keeping a hesitant distance, wondering just what she might have to offer, *this* time 'round--and what I'd wind up being required to do, in order to get it.

"Looks like we're in the same boat, you 'n' me," she said. "Schillingerly speakin'."

I snorted. "Not quite the SAME boat."

//As you often used to point out to me, in between free heroin hits.//

"You 'n' *Cyn*, then. That better?"

I glanced over at Cynda, her pain already forgotten, giggling as Rebadow patiently showed her //yet AGAIN// how the pieces were supposed to move. Sighed. And asked, in reply:

"What is it you *want* from me, O'Reilly? Exactly?"

"Help."

"I'm crazy, remember? NOT the world's best best bet, help-wise."

"Yeah, well." That grin again. "Said you'd be my sister, though. Didn't ya?"

Sure, I thought. Back in the RIOT. When I thought we were going to die, any minute  now--and *welcomed* that joyful possibility, with open fucking arms. Back before you got cancer and threw me over for sexy Dr Lucian Nathan, just because you liked to way he cut your tit open--and I found out, after all of the above...that you actually HAD a damn sister, anyway. For *real*.

"I'm tired, Rhea," I said. "Takes a lot out of you, biting dicks and shitting on faces; let the cycle be unbroken by and by, Lord, by and by. Don't really feel like getting back into it with Vee--or anybody else, for that matter."

//Even you. Lying, murdering, hack-fucking Irish-American slut that you are.//

It sounded plausible--to me, at least. But O'Reilly just exhaled through her nose, twin streams of smoke, obviously unimpressed. Gave me a narrow green stare. And warned me:

"Vee ain't gonna quit, just 'cause you do. Think *she* don't have a plan?"

"You mean--like YOU do?"

Another grin, tighter this time. Scar sharpening against her freckled skin, a half-moon cicatrice blade.

//Nothing *I'd* want to be on the receiving end of--"sister" or not.//

"OH yeah. Just like that."

And pinched the head of her cigarette between two fingers, crushing its bright eye dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sisters. Like I really needed more fucking siblings, when my real ones acted like *I* was the one who'd been hit by a car--or another fight with Vee, with all the trouble THAT was bound to bring, this close to my own potential parole. Just nine more months, barely a year, 'till my first hearing: Time enough to gestate a whole new me, post-nutbucket Beecher, and birth my own freedom from the belly of this beast called Oz.

No, I didn't need a sister. I needed--something--

//different//

Or maybe not. Maybe I didn't NEED at all. Maybe I didn't *want* to. Easier, that way. Safer.

//lonelier//

But before I could complete the thought, I came around the corner and almost ran smack-dab up against McManus, lurking outside my pod with Whittlesey--her on/off, murder-rap-evading, uniform-wearing *boyyyyyyfriend*--dancing attendance. Keller inside, as always; she cleared the door for me to step inside, past McManus's oh-so-*concerned* gaze. Ignoring her completely.

//That self-satisfied cunt.//

"Beecher," she began. Then: "Tory..."

"Oooh, promotion. Didn't know we'd become so CLOSE, McManus."

Whittlesey: "Play nice, Beecher."

"Tara 'n' Day-vid, sittin' in a tree," I sing-songed back at him, spreading my toothbrush with paste as I held McManus's eyes in the pod's "bathroom" mirror. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G, in her personal peni-tent-iar-y..."

"Tory," she repeated, a little louder. Surprisingly--*scarily*--patient.

I turned. "Okay, WHAT?"

"You might want to sit down."

And then--then, I lost time. The way I do. Throw it away, more often than not, with both fucking hands. Both fucking, drunken, blood-covered hands...

She told me Giles was dead. In a CAR accident, no less.

//Typical.//

Got distracted, wasn't looking where he was going. On the phone in the middle of traffic, the way I'd told him a million times. A million.

//Distracted. His fuck-up, alkie, junkie wife in jail. Single father with kids. Couldn't pay the bills, couldn't keep up. Never made the kind of money I--//

Uh. Unh...

And Keller--Tina--by my side, somehow. Supporting me down onto her bunk, making me sit. Telling me: "Breathe. Just breathe."

*Uh, uhh, uhhh, *uuuaaaaaggghhhh*...

"C'mon, Tory. Just breathe. Breathe, baby."

//Don't call me--*baby*...//

I mean...she barely knew me. And I--

--I found myself putting my forehead against hers, leaning in. Leaning hard, because she could take it; c'mon babe, sweet Tory-honey. Heard myself being told not to worry, because she was here. Not to worry 'bout NOTHIN', 'cause everything's gonna be juuust fine.

Her arms around me, hands at the nape of my neck, my still-wet hair. My face buried fast in my own cupped hands, tears and snot dripping. And Keller just making those soothing noises, like I *was* her child, her baby. Her--

//lover//

Hers, at any rate. And glad to be. To be--someone's.

//Anyone's.//

Vee's voice, in my mind's ear: *'Cause you gotta be looked after, Tory. Delicate like you are. That's why you should be grateful I took you in. Grateful you're...*

//...*mine*.//

Goaded, stung, I tried to straighten, to push Keller away: No. NEVER. Never again. But she was strong, so strong--stronger than me, that's for sure. She held me fast. And we sat there, rocking back and forth under Whittlesey's impartial stare, from his post across the hall...allowed our moment, in the face of death. Our moment alone--

//--together.//

~~~~~~~~~~

VEE SCHILLINGER

Motherfucking shit, fuck, piss, *fuck*, SHIT--that bitch, that fucking nigger mother-cunt-FUCK--

--oh, and fuck you too, "Brother"! Go minister to Adebisi, why don'tcha. Give her absolution, last fuckin' rights, 'cause she's gonna *need* it where SHE's goin'...

...no, she didn't cut me--not deep, anyway. I've had worse, so fuckin' what? That AIN'T the POINT.

What? Jesus, what *are* you, anyway--blind as well as deaf? I'm talkin' 'bout my HAIR, you dumb old son-of-a-bitch!

I mean, *look* at me, Goddamnit! I look like--

--a *man*.

Ah, huhhh. Okay. Hmmm.

You want it from the beginning. Fine, fuck it. Here's how it goes:

I'm in the shower, just had--words--with Tory Bitch-er, before she tore outta there like her ass was on fire; crazy fuckin' freak. Next thing I know, I'm halfway through shampooing and there's Adebisi coming in like the wrath of Mama Lumbago the Voodoo Goddess or somethin', and she's got a fuckin' shank in her hand. Starts screamin' at me about shit knows what, 'cause I don't happen to SPEAK Nigerian, you get me? And then she cuts a *chunk*, a whole fuckin' CHUNK outta my--

--hair.

Crosswise. So's I can't even save half of it. Not even half.

Hacks break it up before the blood really starts to flow. I got her down and I'm knockin' her head on the floor, and she's biting my fuckin' *breast*, for Christ's sweet sake--that Spic prick Nathan oughtta give me a rabies test, 'cause I'll swear to GOD that bitch is *not* human. Not like a REAL person is.

I got attacked, so she's in the Hole and I'm not. Fine. Some justice, I guess.

But I had to see my sons today. My boys. Like THIS.

They've never seen me, I didn't have long hair. I've never not HAD long hair. And what's that gonna do to them? *There*'s a trauma, right there: Them sittin' across from me, through the glass, starin' at me like I grew another head. Like: Ma, what HAPPENED?

Saw Tina Keller in the next room, then, havin' a contact visit with *her* little boy. And he IS cute, Brother, oh yes. A very sweet child. Kind of boy should have some male attention in his life--and not from that dumb-ass Tina married, *twice*, either.

We done yet? Yeah, thought so.

Good.

'Cause I got somewhere to go, right about now...and somebody to see, about something they owe me. Something they should hurry up on, they don't wanna reap the consequences.

And I WOULD be more specific, Brother, I really would--'cept, ya see, I don't *trust* you. Like we already discussed.

Thanks for listenin', though. It's been--helpful.

Though...not in the way you *hoped* it would be, prob'ly.

SUCKS, huh?

End Part Two

GENTLER, Part Three
By Gemma and Nicole S.

~~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTINA KELLER

So it's yesterday, right after the bad news about hubby pasting himself to the freeway wall: I'm holding Tory, not letting her get away--and the more she struggles and squirms, the harder I hold on. I see that Guard Whittlesey out of the corner of my eye, whispering to miss Em City queen bitch McManus, pursing her lips and clutching her clipboard--and lo and behold, he must be smarter than I thought, 'cause it turns out he's tellin' her to leave us   alone. Leave Tory to grieve, 'cause two women hugging isn't anything to be alarmed at or nothing, even in here--'long as somebody just *died*, that is.

I rub her back and whisper in her ear, keeping my voice low and smooth, like warm milk. Same way Vee used to talk to *me*, back in the day--kinda surprised Tory don't recognize it, actually. But she's got other stuff on her mind.

"S'okay," I tell her. "'Course you miss him. You loved him, right?" She struggles again, all feeble, half-hearted--but I just pin her wrists, brush my lips against her ear. "Father of your children, how could you *not* love him?" Right into her, a whisper: "So go ahead and MISS him, baby."

//*I* won't tell nobody.//

And at that, she slumps against me, gone limp. Not struggling anymore.

//That did it.//

I can feel the sobs come wrenching up from inside'a her--her body, shaking under my hands, as she takes a long, deep breath, then lets it all back out.

Thinking: Yeah. Feels good, don't it, honey?

//Could feel a whole lot better, too, sometime soon. When we finally do it RIGHT.//

That'd be cuttin' it a little fine, though, even for me--pushing my way on through plain ol' comfort to...what comes next.

Not now. Not...yet.

So I hug her tighter and kiss her temple instead, murmur into that damp rat's nest of hair. Keep on saying it, over and over and over: "Okay, it's okay. It's ohhhhkaaay..."

And her arms come up and around me, holding on for dear life. Like she's drowning, or something. My neck is wet from her tears, but I don't try to wipe 'em away--just keep on  rockin' her, holdin' her, cooing softly in her ear. Kiss it too, gently.

//Man, she just smells so damn...*good*.//

And for all my planning, everything I know--not to mention HOW I know it (same way she does, truth be told)--I feel my mouth move lower, down the soft curve of her cheek, lingering. Like I can't even fuckin' help it.

That's what she does to me now, what I've tricked myself into feeling. What...I do to her, maybe.

//I hope.//

Wondering just how far I can go, before she makes me stop. How far I WOULD go, before I stopped--myself--

--and finding out, right then, as she pulls away violently--scrubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, like she's tryin' to rip those tears out by the roots. Crazy Tory, back on track; Beech the bitch, all teeth and claws and nothin' *nice*. And the same words from the night before last:

"M'okay, I AM okay.  Leave me..."

'Lone?

Yeah, I know.

//Whatever you say, babe.//

So...

...I let her go. Hand her a wad of toilet paper so she can blow her nose, clean herself up. I sit there beside her, not touching her, just being with her; need to let her know that I care about her, that I'm here for her, no strings attached. For now.

//I mean...that's what friends're for, right?//

Man. Pure-ass Vee logic, right there, like she's talkin' through me--like she's got her hand stuck aaaaalll the way back up my boot-lickin' little Judas puppet ass. Fuckin' SCARY.

And speaking of which...

~~~~~~~~~~

...it's a day later now, and I'm back from breakfast. Word all up 'n' down the mess hall was about Vee and Adebisi gettin' down in the shower--and I gotta tell you, that Adebisi's sure got some *balls* on her. Ain't a lot Vee loves in life BESIDES her hair--and her boys, of course--

--yeah, those two, Karl and Vern: Hell on wheels already, just like their bike-ridin' Dads. Just like Vee *trained* 'em to be. Had a visit with Dennis yesterday, with Vee's brood comin' in at the very same time--the LOOK on their faces, when they got a load of her new haircut.  Man, they were not liking it *one little bit*.

I mean, Ma's not supposed to change! Ma's MA, forever and always, right?

They're growing up and out, though, just like her--all blond and blue-eyed, built like brick shit-houses. And they got that *look*, too, in spades--Vee's look, that Schillinger fuckin' STARE: Like fuck YOU, 'cause I'm gonna fuck you. Ya fuck.

Fuck you up, fuck you over. Or just, plain--

//--*fuck* you.//

I give 'em a year before they're in Juvie, both of 'em. Takin' bets NOW.

Turned my back the second she caught me lookin', but I could still feel those eyes on me anyway, burnin' right through the playroom glass. Heard her tap the divider, so's her boys could get themselves a good old look, too. Thank God Dennis didn't notice; enough to give a grown person nightmares, havin' THAT family give you the eyefuck.

It got ME cold, I'm not afraid to admit it. Had to stop myself kickin' something on my way back to the pod...like myself, maybe, for bein' dumb enough to get thrown IN'ta this hell-hole in the first place, right back where Vee wanted me.

When I get there, meanwhile, Tory's freakin' out--I mean buggin'! Nutbag little freakazoid that she is...

//...but so *pretty* when she does it, in a crazy-ass way. Like always.//

Pacing like a rat in a cage, rhyming to herself--something I don't recognize, about moons and marigolds and shit; her eyes all wild, shootin' blue sparks, like one'a those wind-up toys with a flint inside.

//DEFINITE damage control time.//

I take a deep breath, slap on my *no threat* smile, and step on through. "'S up?"

Stopping in mid-rhyme, rounding on me: "Tina, they're coming!"

"Who's coming?"

"My fucking KIDS!  This afternoon--McManus set it up, that cunt-licker. Giles' parents, my kids, an oh-so-*special* visit, just because...because...because, because because because BECAUSE--"

//--because of the wonderful THINGS she does--//

McManus, Em City's wizard...ess. Witch? Wicked witch'a Cellblock 5, Experimental Unit...

But Tory's already gettin' all funky again, so I force a big, bright grin. "Hey, man! That's great."

"No, it's *not* fucking 'great'! Anything but! I mean--I mean, just LOOK at me, Tina!"

//Mmm, baby. I *am*.//

And thanks for callin' me Tina...Tory.

"They haven't seen me for a fucking year. Won't even recognize me. I'm..." Her voice dips, goes soft, toneless. "...just some fucked-up weirdo. Not--their Mom."

I put my hands on her shoulders and stare into her eyes, trapping her so she can't get away: So fucking wired, now, they almost look black--pale blue obliterated by waaay too much pupil, like suns behind an eclipse.

"You ARE their Mom," I tell her, sternly. "Always BE their Mom. No one gets that..."

//...'less you give it away.//

"Tory, I need you to calm down, okay?  Take a deep breath."

Snapping back: "*You* take a deep fucking breath."

"Sure, man, sounds good: We'll do it together. Deep breath in...deep breath out. Deep breath IN..."

She looks at me and her mouth twitches--that a smile? Or is she trying *not* to breathe along with me?

"In and out, c'mon. Like Lamaze?"

Another twitch. She half-opens her mouth, like she's gonna say something--then snaps it  shut again, right away. I start kneading her shoulders, putting on my *soothing* voice: Why not go for the gold while I'm at it, huh?

"So--when are they coming?"

"Two o'clock."

"Okay, good, fine. Gives us plenty'a time."

I'm still massaging her shoulders, the pads of my fingers digging in. She shoots me a suspicious look, tensing against me; gone too far, too fast.

//Slow 'n' steady, Tina. High-maintenance territory here, for sure.//

Not to mention--dangerous. As even VEE found out.

//And that's half the thrill, right there.//

"Time for what?"

"Time to--"

// Try and get your freaky assed shit together//

"--spruce you up a bit." To her blank stare: "Facial, some makeup...do your hair."

I reach up, brush back a strand or two--fine, dull gold, still kinked tight from the shower. Gonna mat into dreads soon, daily dose or no, she doesn't do something more than WET it.

She swallows.  "I...don't know."

"Hey, man, I'm not gonna make you look like Tammy Faye Bakker, or somethin'. Don'tcha *trust* me by now?"

//To do your NAILS, at least?//

Pointing out: "You're due for your manicure anyway, so why don't we do it all at once?  A whole new you. People'll stop 'n' fuckin' *stare*."

I can see her eyes start to soften, much against her will. Watch her start to calm down, defuse, fade on back to normal--normal as she *gets*, anyway.

And man, this is like...bungee-jumping, or whatever. Like roaring along on the back of that sexy asshole Xander's bike, no helmet, wind in my hair and hangin' on for dear life. Like WINNING his fuckin' bike in a card game, pulling his own piece on him when he wanted to back out and takin' the fuck off with it while the rest of his gang hooted and hollered, while he yelled I was ONE DEAD CUNT, he ever saw me again--shootin' him the finger and revving it high, practically poppin' a wheelie around the corner--

"Okay?"  I say, eyes still on hers. And she--

--nods.

"Okay."

//*Yes*! Tina, on top. KELL-er. KELL-er. KELL--//

I let my smile *really* rip, and dig into my makeup case--my armory, my last ex-husband used to call it. Pull out a big jar of deep conditioner, for that rat's nest she's wearin' on her head, and hand it to her.

"First things first," I tell her. "Go take another shower, slap this on and leave it for five  minutes, then rinse it off." Give her an extra-strong comb, too, to take along. "Use THIS on the knots."

She looks down at the jar in her hand, like she's dimly recognizing some long-lost relic of her past...then looks back up at me, like *I*'m the one who's nuts.

//And maybe I am.//

But fuck it. I just throw her a towel--and say, impatient: "GO, Tor. Steam'll open up your pores, right? We need that for the facial."

She looks at the jar again. Nods, slightly.

And leaves.

I start to pull out all my supplies, actually excited I'm gonna get to do this. Talk about every aspiring make-up artist's dream makeover. And I'm almost done setting everything out--when a shadow blocks the doorway, dousing my light.

//Well, I WONDER.//

I don't even need to look--but I turn, anyway, and try not to stare...TOO hard.

//Whoo. She just looks so...*different*.//

Unsmiling: "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

I swallow, memories of Lardner popping like flashbulbs:  Brushing that hair, getting slapped if I did it "wrong"--how many damn ways ARE there to brush hair, for Chrissakes? Sit straight and try not to flinch as she eyes me up and down, feral, like a hyena circling a wildebeest on the Seren-fuckin'-geti.

//'Cept that hyenas don't usually GET that big.//

"Hey, Vee."

"'Hey, Vee,'"  she shoots back, in mocking imitation. "Cut the shit. How's Operation Tory comin' along?"

"It's...coming."

"Well, make it come FASTER! *Told* you how to play it, didn't I? Leave a bottle of hooch where she can get at it, slip her some heroin..."

She is *some* pissed, her usual rumble gone just this side shy of an outright snarl. I press my lips together, smooth my lipstick reflexively--flirtatious bullshit, which just makes her glare at me harder.

"I'm close, Vee. No lie."

"Yeah. TOO close, from what *I* saw."

//Why, VerEna. You jealous, or something...sweetpea?//

"Just gimme a bit more time, that's all."

Vee's eyes don't waver, don't blink--don't move from mine, narrowing, like she's right on the edge of figuring out just HOW I'm trying to play her. Blue enough on the outside, but if eyes really *are* the window to your soul, then all she has in there is one big, black piece of coal.

"Saw you with Dennis, yesterday," she says, slowly. "Good-lookin' boy, I'll give you that much." She smiles, all teeth. "Like I said, could always have the boys look in on him--just in case."

Yeah, right: So he won't turn into some fag. 'Cause I've heard *that* lecture before, just about a hundred million times:  *Needs a male influence, Tina. All boys do. He'll turn into a faggot, he doesn't have someone with a pair of their own to show him how to kick some ass.*

//Gotta kinda wonder about Karl and Vern, then, though. Seein' how all THEY had...was *you*.//

Cutting me off, before I can answer: "Or they could just decide to pay him a call on their ownsome, without me even knowin'. I mean, who knows? All depends on how... things...go."

//So you better 'do what you have to', Tina. Like always.//

And if what you HAVE to's what you *want* to--that's a GOOD thing, right?

Well...

//...*isn't* it?//

I'm fucking sick inside--but I bite it down, and smile. "No problem, Vee. All gonna come to a head, *very* soon."

She snorts. "It'd fucking BETTER."

And with that, she saunters away--right past Tory, shuffling back from her five-minute instant spa. Their hips almost brush; Tory hisses, and Vee grins. Flutters her lashes at her.

I lean my head back against the wall and exhale, closing my eyes on them both.

"What was SHE doing here?"

I straighten, shrug. "Fuck if I know. Comin' onto me, prob'ly--told her if she wanted somethin', she was gonna have to ask me straight out...and get ready for a big fat no way, Jose."

Tory grunts. "Yeah, well--subtlety's not exactly her *strong* suit."

"Bitch can be as subtle as she wants, I still wouldn't touch her lard-ass with a ten-foot pole. Sit on down, we'll get started."

~~~~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

I sat down on Tina's bunk, still a bit wary--my hair was wet again, and I'd done my best with the comb, but I guess I was more than a little out of practice. Tina took it, and started deftly unhooking those last few *big* tangles; she had the touch, all right. Missed her calling when she took up armed robbery--'cause God knows, the world needs more hairdressers. And manicurists. And...makeover-givers...

"Hardly any grey in here at all," she said, admiringly. "All mixed in with the blonde--that's artful, baby."

"*You*'re not going grey," I pointed out, feeling myself begin to lull. Resisting the urge to bend my head into the movement, relaxed and slack, as she stroked my hair up and back, up and back...

"Uh huh; thank God for hair-dye." She cocked her head, waggled her brows, and gave me that sidelong grin--a shared, nasty joke at the world's expense. "Catch me next month, you'll find out this ain't even my real shade of BROWN."

She squirted my hair with spray, then put both sides up in clips, and held out her hands: Manicure time. Started with the moisturizer again, massaging deep. I felt my pulse quicken under that touch--so strong, so delicate, soothing and caressing. Her nails were at least as well-kept, but purely for adornment, not weaponry. Not like my...talons.

I wanted to close my eyes, to give way, give in. But I couldn't--couldn't let her know how much I was enjoying this. Let people know what you like, in Oz, and it never comes to anything good. And besides--

--whether they know or not, everything's always over too soon anyway.

//Just like this.//

Top coat, polish, hardener. More stroking. More...soothing.

And my God, I *was* getting...VERY relaxed, now. Almost--

//--aroused//

"Okay, hair's done, nails are drying--just got your face left to do." She spread a towel over her knees, leaned back, patted it. Smiled again. "Now turn around, and put your head in my lap."

//Ex*cuse* me?//

She must have sensed my apprehension, because the smile only got deeper. "Hey, Tory, c'mon. I won't bite."

//Not like ME, huh?//

Well. On your head...or whatever...be it.

I turned, slowly, and lowered myself onto the support of her half-spread thighs. Felt the heat of her, through the towel; smelled her perfume, close as though *I* were wearing it.

//At least...I THOUGHT that was her *perfume*...//

Looking up, only to find I was sudden front-row-centre for a way-too-close view of her (apparently bra-less) breasts: Right here, right now--Tina Keller's boobs, one night only! If her t-shirt was any tighter, I'd've been able to see her heartbeat.

//Talk about *distracting*.//

So I DID close my eyes, that time; closed them tight, and wondered desperately why this had to be happening NOW. Why I had to start thinking of my new podmate in *that* particular way, feeling myself hum with almost...predatory lust, when I'd practically put a woman's eye out for forcing the very same thing on ME. Why I was suddenly...moist.

//So damn LONG//

--but I couldn't *think* of that, not ANY of it. Had to be on the ball. Had to be NORMAL for my kids, dammit.

//"Normal". HA.//

At which point Keller started rubbing my face with an exfoliant, and--

//Oh God, that felt so NICE//

I hadn't had a facial in...well, anyway. What was it they used to say, down at the office?  A good facial is like good sex--

//dangerous metaphors you're playing with here, Tory-baby//

--you don't get it that often...but when you do, it's worth every penny.

I felt the tension melt away, wipe away, the same way she was wiping the granules from my skin. Sighed and settled back between her firm thighs, eyes still closed, as she ran a cotton swab doused with toner over the oily T of my face: Forehead, nose, chin. Sighed again she started applying cream, circling her thumbs across my cheeks and down along my neck, squeezing my earlobes, tracing my collarbone. Hearing myself whimper as her fingers dipped down into the V of my t-shirt; resisting, with all my fading strength, the growing the urge to squeeze my legs together, create some sort of...*friction*.

Her hands feathered along my cheeks, caressed my temples. When she rubbed her fingers along the outside of my lips, I felt a burning stab--an almost PALPABLE urge to suck one into my mouth and nip down, *hard*.

"There ya go."

Oh no, please, don't...

//...stop.//

My eyes snapped open, met hers--equally bright, equally heavy-lidded. Her lips were parted, wet;  above me, her nipples seemed harder than ever. Was this, could this be...

...turning HER on? Too?

//So it's NOT just me.//

I didn't know if that made me feel better--or worse.

A flick of mascara on either lid. Lip-liner, plus just a touch of gloss. A dusting of powder. And then...

"Take a look," she said, steering me to the mirror. "Pretty, huh?"

...yeah. Pretty.

This woman, this *pretty* woman--she wasn't anyone I'd ever seen before, in Oz OR out of it. Not Mrs Giles Beecher, the PTA Mom; not Victoria Beecher of Goldshaw, Winston, Beecher and Dorff, the killer in the boardroom. And definitely not weak little Tory-baby, Vee Schillinger's prag, all dressed up like Hooker Barbie on parade...hands off, you like the way your body works, but you can look--and *laugh*--all you want.

No, this was someone else. Someone--new. If I'd passed her on the street, even *I* wouldn't have recognized me.

This perfect, unfamiliar face, and Tina's strong hands holding me up, my back against her chest, her breasts and belly burning into my spine. Lungs heaving, head spinning, mouth juicing. Pussy...throbbing.

//And: Oh, Tory, you maniac. What the *hell* are you thinking?//

I turned in her grip, to find us abruptly nose-to-nose--quite a LOT of nose, in her case, though weirdly regal as some Hittite queen's. Stared straight into her dark, inscrutable eyes, thinking:

So what's this all in aid of, Tina, really? You wanna slip your tongue between my teeth, knowing what happened the *last* time someone tried that move? Or are just doing this 'cause you're scared of me, like everybody else?

//I mean...you SHOULD be.//

"Thank you," I told her, stiffly, through thick lips--thick, dead, gorgeously lined, like some very rich corpse's at an upscale funeral home. "It's...beautiful."

She smiled that smile again. And corrected me, softly:

"No, baby. *You*'re beautiful."

Her lips, so close to mine. Was she--would she--was she really going to--

//Aw, fuck it.//

Unable to wait one microsecond longer, I leaned forward--amazed, hungry--and kissed her myself.

Arching into her mouth, her body to mine. Her long, lithe, lovely body.

Brown hair falling over us both, like a curtain, hiding us from the world beyond those see-through walls.

//And NOT like Vee. Not at ALL. Because...I'm the one, *I*'m the one in charge here...//

And then she kissed me back, and I was lost. Gone, long gone, without even the ghost of a trace.

My ass humped up onto the rim of the sink, legs spread and squirming--*undulating* against her, groin to groin, height disparity readjusted for BOTH our comfort. And that blush rising everywhere she touched, so fucking *hot*, fingers like lit fuses, my skin like a thin layer of napalm. Her hands on my thighs, thumbs digging into my fly--I felt myself begin to hyperventilate, so oxygen-deprived I don't think I could've remembered my own name, had there been anyone else there to ask me.

Rocking back and forth, shameless, desperate to make sure her thumbs came in contact with my clit through the fabric of my trousers. I slid my hand under that shirt of hers and cupped one of her firm, round breasts: Yep, no bra. Cunning observation on my part...that keen, legally-trained mind hard at work...

//...oooohhhh...//

I pulled back, bit my lip, trying to quell the moan I felt bubbling up through me. But Keller--

//Tina//

--kept right on kissing, pressed harder, digging at that spot, her nipple a hot nail through my palm...making me dance, legs wide and twitching, one eye scanning over her shoulder for watchers, passersby--

//quick, be QUICK, before someone, Whittlesey, *anyone*--oh GOD//

*So* good. And I DID moan into her mouth as I came, muffling it with her lips--then let go of her breast and slid off the sink, flopped back against the wall, breathing heavily.

Heard a noise then, intruding. The P.A. buzzer. My name, repeated over and over: Beecher, Tory, you have visitors...

//Tina//

I glanced back at her, dazed. Saw her licking her lips, already moving toward me. And I--

--stood up, all at once, suddenly prim and proper: Stared at her, the mess at my crotch already cooling, like she was the Devil herself.

"...Tory..."

//Tina//

"I...I gotta go."

And I turned, I ran. Ran out of my pod, down the hall and straight to the visitor's room, stopping for just a second in the shower room to check my makeup--my pretty, *pretty* new face--so I wouldn't scare my own children half to death.

~~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTINA KELLER

Shit, man! That fucking Tory--

//*fucking* being the operative word, here//

One minute she's ridin' my hand like a pro, bouncing and makin' these little...*noises*, rrrraowrrr. Next--she hears the announcement, freaks out big-time, 'n' just cuts and RUNS like a bitch. Leaves me here, hot and bothered and breathless, with my clit throbbing and my underwear all soggy...hell, my damn PANTS are soggy. And everybody's lookin', too, tryin' to figure out what *made* Tory run...so there ain't a whole lot I can DO about it, either, without giving the world at large a free floor-show.

I lie back on my bunk, turn on my side and dip my hand down inside my pants, rubbing myself with a practiced thumb and finger 'till I feel the river start to flow between my legs;  crush my hand between my thighs, my fingers moving slightly. And it's not the same, not even close--but it'll have to suffice, for now.

//For NOW.//

After which I roll over onto my back and let out a frustrated sigh, still horny. Then change my underwear and leave the pod, which I'm sure smells just as skanky as I feel--and go find something *else* to think about.

A couple'a hours go by, and I'm sitting there with the O'Reilly sisters, sharin' Rhea's smokes and watching Cynda play checkers with herself--Rhea's somebody to keep one eye ALL the time, from what I heard, but what the fuck...so'm *I*, according to most people.

Right now I'm a customer, which automatically gets me a little grace; might be more, one day, if and when I find just the right angle...ie, one that won't cost me more than it's worth my own while to pay for her brand'a strictly business-oriented "friendship".

Suddenly, I see Tory wandering back to our pod, walking all stiff and weird--bent over, kinda, like she's hiding something under her arm, and not bothering to do much more than a half-assed job of it. I turn to Rhea, raise my eyebrows. She shoots me back a look, like *got my own shit to deal with, baby*, then turns to her sister.

"Cyn. Break's over, man--gotta start settin' up for dinner."

Cynda bounds to her feet, braids flopping. Rhea puts her hands in her pockets and gives Tory one last glance, then follows. As she brushes by me, I hear her murmur, under her breath:

"Heads up on the hooch alert, Keller. Might wanna nip THAT in the bud, 'fore you get busted for somebody else's contraband."

//Oh, *I* get it now.//

I can see Vee over there in the corner with some biker chick she's delivering a package to, bent over her cart and pretending to read--yeah, THAT's a good one--some magazine: 1001 Star Haircuts, talk about cheap fuckin' irony. And I remember her instructions, earlier on...how Tory gets when she's under stress, headin' straight for the nearest bottle, the nearest snort, the nearest *whatever* so's she can throw herself in and drown her sorrows...

//But that's exactly what Vee wants her to do, right? So why the fuck should *I* care?//

Shouldn't, I wanna keep my own hide intact. Or DENNIS's.

But I get up and make my way over, just the same.

And man, she looks even worse at close range--all numb and silent, white around the edges and not reacting to a damn thing, like she's gone blind or somethin'. Worse than seeing her sobbing, earlier, 'cause at least THAT looked like she *needed it*.

//Shit, you crazy hooker--CRY, why don't you? Get it over with, like any normal person.//

'Cept--she's not. Is she?

My heart goes out to her, immediately. Never mind she's a freak. Never mind she left me stranded in smutty underwear. Never mind I want so bad NOT to feel for her, given what's at stake here; been trying to fight it all day, and losing miserably. I've been squeezing my legs together all afternoon, just thinkin' of when I could get her back between 'em.

"Hey, Tory. Whatcha got there?"

"Medicine."

"Looks like booze to me."

She runs her eyes sidelong at me, and lets her lips peel back--a "smile" that looks more like some rabid dog baring its teeth, gettin' ready to...

//...bite.//

And: "Yeah," she says--cold, deliberate. "That too."

I lean back against the door, so I can keep a healthy distance and scan for hacks at the same time--two birds, one stone.

"C'mon, man, don't do it," I tell her. "Ya said you been sober, what, a year? Don't blow it all on some--BAD DAY..." Trying to jolly her out of it: "'Sides, wasn't *all* that bad, was it?"

And I--wink at her.

*Very* dumb move.

I can see it go through her, like an electric charge. Shock treatment. Good thing is, it makes her put the hooch under *my* pillow, so she can get up without wastin' any; BAD thing is, it makes her *get* up and stalk on over, right up in my face.

"Oh, that's right," she says, scary-sweet, like it just occurred to her. "Lose my kids, almost get thrown in the Hole--but it was a GOOD day, really, 'cause *you* got to make me come. I mean, what could be better, right?"

I put my hands up, fending her off. "Whoah, hey, hold on a minute--WHAT happened with your kids?"

But she just goes on, like she didn't even hear me. "You think you *know* me, TI-na? You don't know shit. And even *Vee* could make me *come*, she just TRIED hard enough."

//Oh, LOW blow.//

"Your kids?" I force myself to repeat. 'Cause I'm not about to get into the rest of it, not here, not now.

"They..."  She chokes back a sob, a snarl.  "...want custody. Say I'm...unfit."

"Who does?"

"Giles' parents, my IN-fucking-laws. They want my *kids*, Keller."

//No more "Tina" now, huh?//

"They can't do that, Tory," I lie. Knowing they damn well CAN.

*Really* snarling, now: "What the fuck do YOU know about it?"

//More than you think, rich girl.//

But I just keep quiet. Let her talk it out.

"They can," she says, quieter. "Can, and they will.  They never liked me, motherfuckers.  I wasn't good enough for their precious son, and now--now, they're finally getting their revenge."

//'Cause *I* let 'em...that's the rest of THAT song, ain't it, Tory?//

Hard thing to swallow, at the best'a times. Even *without* the hooch to wash it down.

She fills it in for me, slowly, back to fits and starts. How she got down to the same playroom where I'd met Dennis, and her kids came runnin', hugged onto her tight and called her Mommy. How her in-laws sprang this thing on her: Done deal, this VISIT just a stop on the way back to their brand-new home in another fuckin' city. How she felt like ripping Grandpa's stuck-up old head right off and takin' a shit shit down his neck...but didn't. 'Cause the kids were there.

But then their time was up, and the crying started, and Whittlesey practically had to drag her away, with the kids screaming and crying. And she snapped at him, snapped at GRANDPA--would'a liked to see *that*, I'd had a ringside seat--

They hadda take her out in an arm-lock, cuff her put her in McManus's office 'till she cooled down. And after they finally let her go, 'cause even the Wicked Witch could see there were some BIG-ass extenuating circumstances, she went straight on down to Alvarez's pod...and bought herself as much hooch as she could carry.

She takes a glance back at it now, automatic--then hides her face in her hands and curls up, crumpling by degrees, like she's been punched in the stomach.

//Which only makes sense. 'Cause--she HAS.//

I kneel on the floor beside her, rub her back. Feel her flinch under my touch, and keep right on doing it...then put my arms around her and hold her close, crushing her to my chest. Again, I start to rock her, like it's some rhythm we've got going: She gets all hyped up and I calm her down, soothing, smoothing, stroking. Worse ways to spend your next fifty years, I guess...

//...yeah. A LOT worse.//

Outside, Whittlesy walks by, giving us another sympathetic look. Therapy in action--something to tell his girlfriend 'bout, when they're swapping Em City success stories over dinner and nookie.

Bell's ringing for dinner, now. The others all start to file out, but we stay--and he lets us.  Somehow, I think he can tell Tory ain't hungry.

//Not for *food*, anyway.//

She's breathing now, light and slow...and I feel her head nuzzle against my breasts, unconscious, like she can't control it. I take a deep whiff of her baby-fine, dull-gold hair, still in its clips from this afternoon--looks coarse, but it isn't, not up this close. It's...soft.

I lift her head and look at her, glad to see that the tears have finally come--her eyes are red and swollen, just like her flat cat-nose, so I give her more toilet paper, and tell her to blow. My careful makeup work's all over the front of my shirt, smeared beyond recognition. She cleans herself up, then keeps sitting there, my arms around her. And I think--I *think*--

//Tina, Tina, Tina. You really wanna get into this again, right now, so SOON? Wanna stick your fingers in *Tory Beecher*'s screwed-up, angry little mouth?//

Well...

...FUCK, yeah.

I lean down and kiss her, gently, before I have time to reconsider. She pulls back, licks her lips--then moves forward again. Lets me DO it again.

//And again. And *again*.//

Like she...just. Can't. Help it.

//Oh yeah, baby. Gonna make this feel real good.  Take all your pain away.//

Our mouths meet and it's the sweetest thing I've tasted in a long time. I cup her face with both hands, and kiss her like my life--

//Dennis's//

--depends on it.

We're alone in Em City now, Whittlesey up on the podium--the guards' tower--with his back discreetly turned. Doubt they cut people this much slack in a GUYS' prison...but men always like to see two chicks together, even if they ain't actually *watching*. It's a no-fuckin'-brainer.

Slowly, I move Tory back so she's against the pod's one concrete wall, caressing her the whole time. She grips my shoulders, hesitating; I can sense her nervousness. So I cup her breast, distract her by circling the nipple; hear her gasp, feel her tremble.

//so *sweet*//

I'm kissing her, hard, my eyes closed. Feel her jump as I find the other breast, using my thumb to flick that spot again and again, keeping mind *firmly* on something other than all those damn good reasons she has NOT to let me do this.

I pull back and look at her, her lips swollen and red as her eyes now, cheeks flushed. Pull her shirt up and unhook her bra, letting her breasts loose--then dive in between them, all soft and welcoming; hear her moan and shudder, helpless, as I press into her. There's no turning back.

I nibble around a nipple, suck on the hardened bud, bite down as my hands move to the front of her pants. Suddenly, she seems to wake up--there are hands on my own breasts, slidding to grip my ass and crush us together, scratching slightly. I let out a small moan myself, gone sopping wet in an instant; pull down her pants, reach for her. And she seems to panic, just for a second--then opens her eyes, and sees that it's me.

//Me. Not Vee.//

'Cause Vee was NEVER like this. Right, baby?

I kiss her again, squirming, as my fingers press against the damp folds of her opening--rubbing up and down her leg like some fuckin' cat in heat, looking for any friction that I can get. Get her clit with my thumb, slip two of my fingers gently inside and probe, surprised when she opens her legs wider for me; hook them, feeling for that slightly rough spot on the back of her vagina, then start stroking--thumb still flicking back and forth, her breasts on mine, all hot and wet and oh, OH--

Tory throws her head back and howls, fuckin' HOWLS, in silent ecstasy. Her whole body jerks and twangs, like a bow.

//Man. Talk about *discipline*.//

And me, I'm so close, BEEN so close all fuckin' day--she's got her hand down the front of *my* pants now, helping me rub myself to completion. We're writhing against each other, whimpering. I can feel her juices gush over my hand, sweat pricking everywhere, like glue; my eyes roll back in my head. I give myself a few more thrusts and collapse, soaked.

We stay like that for a minute or two. Then I roll over, chest still heaving, relishing the coolness of cement on my back. Hear her beside me--a ragged gulp, like she's teaching herself to breath again. And feel...

...her hand on mine, softly. Tentative.

"Tiiiii-na," she whispers. Like she just realized it was MY name.

I knit her fingers in mine, squeeze hard. Give her that *just fucked* smile. And think, to myself:

//Ohhhh, man. What the hell did I just *do*?//

What Vee told me to.

//Oh, uh huh.//

The bell rings again; shit. Dinner's over. I'm hungry now, damn hungry--too fuckin' bad, 'less I can buy something off of O'Reilly.

//There anything that slippery Mick bitch DON'T sell?//

Meanwhile, I see Tory halfway through changing her shirt, straightening herself out...so I take the hooch out from under my pillow, and empty it down the toilet. Hoping no one saw me, 'specially now that people are starting to drift back in...no one who could tell Vee, at any rate. 'Cause if she ever finds out I had a chance to get Tory back on a drunk and screwed her instead, I am in deep, DEEP crap.

//Like you are anyway, Tina?//

...well--yeah.

"One hour free time, ladies!" Whittlesey yells, from the station. "Then lights out, no exceptions!"

//No exceptions. None.//

And Tory's starin' at me now, blue eyes wide--like she's hypnotized, or something. Like she's forgotten all *about* the booze, all of a sudden. Like I'm better than hooch, better than drugs. Like we're in...

//love//

Ohhhh, MAN.

//I am *SO*...//

...fucked.

End Part Three

GENTLER, Part 4
By Gemma and Nicole S.
 

VEE SCHILLINGER

'Kay, enough with *pretending* to talk to that asswipe fuckin' monk. I've had the world's worst week--worst since gettin' a mouthful of menstrual blood, at any rate--'n' I guess I maybe need a little...HONESTY...in my life.

Stompin' around Oswald with my thoughts hummin' and swirlin' like the funnel of some personal tornado, like I just can't *organize* 'em anymore. Like losin' most'a my hair's made me "light-headed" as I fuckin' feel. Like I can't even FOCUS.

First, we got NEE-ko-lah Stanislofsky, that nutbucket ex-Commie slut. Comin' up to me in the Post Office, bracin' me right on my own home ground, and askin', all fake-polite: "Mees Schillinger. Do you remember Sasha Vogel, perhaps?"

"The Jew?"

"The *Russian* Jew."

Next thing I know, she's halfway over the counter and tryin' to slice my NOSE off with a razorblade kiss; I slam her in the face with a package I'm holdin' and it goes right through her bottom lip--and that goddamn constantly-hoverin' hack of COLOR who spends all day, every day with his eyes stuck to my backside *still* has to pull her off me, spittin' blood. I mean, what the fuck IS this...Let's All Jump On Vee With A Sharp Object week, or what?

Sure, I killed Vogel--*had* her killed, anyway. But like I said before, her fuckin' RELIGION had crap-all to do with it, any more than the reason Simone Adebisi and me always gotta rumble is 'cause we don't like the look'a each other's skin-tone. Shit, Adebisi could be blue, I wouldn't like her any better...

//Not after she cut off my fuckin' HAIR//

Or big and white like Sash, her whole back *covered* in those funky Russian tats--some kind'a gulag gang shorthand,whatever. Both of 'em hardcase bitches, just like me; walkin' it *and* talkin' it, dumb-ass accents and all. And when she got up in my face one too many times--challenged my rep, looked a little too hard at what's MINE--

--WAS mine. Then.

//And can anybody guess what *that* was?//

Yup. That's right.

//Beecher.//

Tory...

//...*baby*.//

Got it in one.

But anyway. Somebody even looks at MY property, let alone makes a TRY, don't matter whether she comes from Moscow City *or* deepest, darkest Nigeria--anyone in Oz, OR out, 'd know I was gonna have to do somethin' about it.

And since *I*'m the one still here...

So Stanislofsky gets dragged off to Ad Seg, and I catch Rhea O'Reilly out'a the corner of my good eye, tryin' to stare me down--like she thought she could maybe burn a hole through me, she just squinted hard enough.

And I just raise a brow, give her a smirk: THAT's right, cupcake. Not a scratch on me.

Probably the one *told* that Vodka-drunk cunt what went down with Sash and me, in the first place--not that I could ever prove it.

Or like I'd ever try.

Meanwhile, back in Em City, we got my ever-amusin' ex-, pretty Tory B. Who is *not* so unhappy, anymore. Just the fuckin'--

//Huh. And THERE's a nice turn 'a phrase//

--opposite.

And at least *that*'s goin' according to plan.

Gotta get it secondhand, 'course, most'a the time--got that punk bitch Martha Mack keepin' tabs on her and Queen Christina, eavesdroppin' on all the lovey-dovey shit goin' on right under McManus' nose. Watchin' Keller work her very own brand'a magic, from the inside on out: Tamin' the savage beast, and turnin' her back into QUITE the little beauty, too...or so I hear.

//Mmm.//

Kinda like to see *that*, I must admit--

//--'cause...it's BEEN a while, ya know?//

But I hold off, bide my time--wait, nice and patient, for my turn back in the saddle. Back--

//on *top*//

I mean, shit--if all I wanted Bitch-er was DEAD, I'd just pick her up and break her myself. Size of her, I could snap her neck with one fuckin' hand tied behind me, anytime I want.

//Her...pretty. Little. Neck.//

But: STOP it, I tell myself, sternly. Sex is sex, in here more'n anywhere; a piece of ass, however nice--

//and oh, she *is*. NICE.//

--is *just* a piece of ass. Nothin' worth--

//bustin' your parole, scratchin' your eye, coughin' fuckin' FECES//

--over.

'Cause no matter how hard she tries to deny it, how she may like to *think* she's special, Tory's just a drunk with a degree--an addict, same's any'a O'Reilly's other customers. Always gotta be *some* kinda high to hide in, with her: Booze out there, drugs in here. Anything to keep her mind off what's REALLY happenin'.

So now it's Keller: Lips, hands, everything in between. 'Cause when it comes to monkey business, Tina's just about the best there is...take more strength of will than *Tory*'s got to resist her.

Which is exactly what I been bankin' on.

A day later, Beecher's off seein' her lawyer 'bout those upcoming *custody* hearings--like she's EVER gonna get her kids back, makeover or not. I track Keller down in the library, bent over with her tits to the table, readin' that poetry shit of hers again. Catch a glimpse over her shoulder, and realize I actually *remember* some of it--same freak she use'ta try and get ME interested in, back at Lardner, just 'cause the bitch had a German name. One killed herself over some MAN, and left her kids behind to live with the guilt.

//Weak-ass, legal-stamped, one-step-up-from-a *hooker*.//

I narrow my good eye, study the words. Try and get 'em to MEAN something, just for a laugh.

*Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell--*

//Ah, fuck it.//

I lean in over Tina's shoulder, and murmur--right in her ear--

"Hear you and Tory really been settin' up house together, these last few weeks. Goin' everywhere together, like you're joined at the hip..."

See her take a breath, careful--*hear* it, slow, deliberate. Just a LITTLE ragged.

//*Damn*, but she's good.//

And: "Sure, Vee. Just like you told me."

Oh, yeah. 'Cause you ALWAYS do what I *tell* you to, right, Chris-ti-na?

//...right.//

"Huh, yeah. 'S not ALL work, though, is it?"

Grinning down at her, wide and mild. Like: You can tell *me*--sweetpea.

Tina breathes in again, a quick little puff--like she's chargin' herself up, or somethin'--and matches me, layin' it on extra thick: The full-bore seduction special, hopin' I'll get so wet between the thighs I don't notice what she's REALLY thinkin'.

Bullshit fairly radiatin' off her, and she thinks I can't *see* it? Knowin' her well as I do, the WAY I do?

//Same way I know Tory, comes right down to it.//

I'm not *that* blind, not yet.

//Not EVER.//

"Welllll..." Tina drawls, batting those long, dark lashes of hers at me--like I'm Brad fuckin' Pitt, or somethin'--"...guess I *am* kinda--enjoying myself."

Oh, and I just bet you ARE.

//You prag's fuckin' prag.//

"Mmh," I agree. "Well, fun's fun--but 's been long enough, way *I* see it. Drop her."

//From a fuckin' *height*.//

Broken body, broken heart. Blood on the bricks, that's what I want to see; Tory jonesin' hard and not knowin' why,  cryin' and pining--suffering, sweet and clear, mopin' around out on the quad where EVERYBODY can see her doin' it. Spendin' every night trapped in a pod with the woman who made her think she was *somebody* again, made her feel REAL, then busted her right back down to freak on a leash. At which point...

...I step in. Offer her a--way out.

Not directly, 'course. I'm gonna leave that to my *other* catspaw in Em City, the one nobody knows about. Not even Tina.

//Yet.//

"DROP her," I repeat. And:

"I will," she lies. "Soon."

"NOW, Tina."

"*Very* soon. I mean it, Vee."

Uh huh.

I shrug, straighten up--full height--and fix her again. Give *her* the treatment, MY style: Cold eyes and big, warm grin, game face on tight like like a goalie's mask. See her recognize it, try and stop herself from shivering--and fail.

"That's good," I say. "Because...*I* mean it too, Tina. REALLY."

But then, you knew that already. Didn't'cha?

"Enjoy your poetry," I tell her. And walk off, whistling--feelin' her eyes on me, locked on HARD as that damn black hack's. But *much* more of a turn-on.

Fear, man. There's nothin' like it...beats any high I know of. 'S why *I* never needed DRUGS to keep myself occupied, even in Oz--unlike some I could mention.

Then I'm back out in the hall, and there's that same friggin' black hack, starin' me up and down; speak of the fuckin' devil.

//I mean, shit, what does he *have*, anyway? RADAR?//

I scrub my hand through what's left of my hair, and eyefuck him right back. Hearin' this little voice at the back of my head, at the same time, whisperin' low. Like: Ever consider you might not be goin' about this quite as smart as you like to *think* you are, Verena?

//Read Tory all wrong ONCE...and look where THAT got you. Remember?//

Yeah. I remember.

But: Tory, maybe. *Tina*, no. And THAT...

...*that*'s what's gonna make all the difference, THIS time 'round.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

Three weeks, give or take, since my kids came to visit on their way to a new home I'd never see, a new life I'd never share--not if their grandparents had a say in it, at any rate. Three weeks since I impulsively kissed Christina Keller, my tall, dark and handsome new podmate--so good with her hands, so temptingly *expert* with her manicures and facials--only to have her kiss me back...and more.

//Much, MUCH more.//

Now here I sit in Brother Pete's office, just staring at my computer screen.  I've got a pile of work beside me, probably haven't typed a thing in about 10 minutes; just sitting here, thinking again about what I've let happen, what I've done. What I'll--

//do//

--tonight, probably. Or sooner. Or...

//...the very next chance I *get*, frankly.//

And it turns me on, obviously: Best high since heroin, and a whooole lot cheaper. But it scares me, too, like everything does, everything--new. Everything since--

//my first time//

Not with Tina, no. With the angel dust, and the chair. And...Vee.

THAT first time, and--right after, thrashing in my restraints, shrieking 'till my throat went raw. My whole previous personality pared down to a dull bone nub. And the NOISES I made, like never before or since--

//--except with Tina, maybe--//

And *man*, that was when I felt my REAL cherry pop: Nothing like with those prep-school boys my Dad gave the nod to, or those no-name one-nighters I'd end up in bed with after too much of whatever was handy at those Harvard cram parties. Or even with poor dumb, dead Giles, on my wedding night, when I signed that contract and handed him my life, my loyalty, my soul...

Back knotting, wrists and ankles chafing, voice going, going, gone. Unrecognizable, even to McManus, to Brother Pete--to myself. After a lifetime of drinking myself too blind to realize how strong I really was, I suddenly saw I was capable of anything. Always had been.

And, like I said--

--it scared the shit right out of me.

//Still does.//

I want to be human. To be *humane*. I keep coming back to that. But in here, still close enough to Vee to see her every day, pushing her mail-cart and grinning that dead little grin...I don't CARE if Tina's standing between us or not. Because all I know is I want to make claws, jump at Vee--right *over* my friendly neighborhood lover/podmate/what-the-fuck-EVER, if needs be--and pull that smile off her face with my teeth. And that's, that's, just...not...

//*normal.*//

'Course, some people--the ones I used to do business with, for example, or my blue-blood relatives--might say that letting some woman kiss you in the first damn place isn't "normal", let alone what we've done since. Or getting drunk enough to run over a kid. Or going to JAIL.

//Fucking know-nothing civilian morons.//

So many masks. So many transformations. From sophisticated lush to naive rube, citizen to captive, free entity to bleating fuck-toy, idiot pet, slow-learning student. Confidante. Compatriot. Object...of desire.

Rebel, freak, crazy woman--crazy Tory Beecher, ladies and gents. Look all you want, but don't get too close, because...

...she *bites*.

With me and Vee--my Mommy, my mistress, my enemy mine--there's no truce, no real detente. It's like Wild Kingdom time, now and forever: Two circling animals, predator and prey, scenting slaughter on each other. Cage or not, bars or not, Oz or not, I don't know who's who anymore. Who has who. Who...OWNS who.

Been owned once, and I don't want to be again, not *ever*. Which--

--brings us back to Tina.

//Again.//

Every little detail, every swipe of her wet velvet tongue against my own. My breath catches in my chest, just reliving it.  And tonight, when the lights go out, it'll just be me and her, me and her against the world.  Together. Which is--exactly what I asked for.

Right?

But: The Talking Heads, chorusing in from the back of my brain, over a rising flood of jittery strings. That old, familiar, early-1980's Yuppie boho song.

*WATCH out. You might get what you're after...*

Get what you ask for. Get what you--

//deserve//

And when you ask for Tina Keller--what *is* it you get, exactly? Magic fingers. Soft lips. That BODY. Those firm, bra-less breasts against your own, one lithe thigh shoved in between yours, grinding. And those eyes looking down, always on top, even when *she*'s not: Big hazel eyes under brows flared like a movie star's--eyes that can change from brown to green to grey in a matter of minutes, in one hot gasp, one drawn or whimpered breath...

Lawyer-vision, my special stock in trade. I'm used to dishing out the bullshit and watching people absorb it; I can usually tell if it's working by the look in their eye. And when I look into Tina's, when she LETS me, I see--

--nothing.

Nothing *she* doesn't WANT me to see.

I can't get in, can't get under her skin, even now that she's so clearly gotten *deep* under mine. And the thing is--when I'm there, when SHE's there, doing those...things she does so very, very well...

...I don't mind. Not all that much, anyway.

Now, *there*'s a reason to be scared.

Because: Whenever I'm down on the ground with her, or up against the wall, or just in our various bunks--when she's making me feel so damn good I *don't* want a drink, or a free Almost start to feel like I--*owe* her something, or something. Like I've got something to prove.

//Don't you trust me, Tory? Baby?//

"Trust": Oh, yeah. That's a GOOD one.

And me, just looking at her--giving her the narrowed Beecher-bitch stare, and getting nothing but a big, innocent "who, me?" lash-flutter in return. Then replying, coolly:

*Suuure I do--trust you. Like I trust myself...*

//...*baby*.//

And we all know how far THAT goes.

Think I'm gonna trim my claws for *you*, Keller? Just 'cause you stuck your tongue in my--MOUTH--a couple of--

//thousand//

--times?

Still. Human, Tory. Humane. Right?

//Riiiight.//

Being Crazy Beecher: Much as I may bitch, there's a big part of me that *likes* it.  I *like* people looking at me funny, giving me ground, not speaking to me unless SPOKEN to. No one treating me as anything more than something to avoid, some natural disaster waiting to happen, except for Hill and the O'Reillys--or Rebadow, whenever her fucked-up version of God's got a little something to add to the mix. It's kept me separate, kept me *safe* in this UNsafest of places...up 'till three weeks ago, at least.

But now, now that I've got Tina...that Tina's--*got*--ME...

"Victoria?"

...everything I've done NOT to be known as somebody's prag is gonna go straight down the drain.

"Victoria--are you all right?"

//Brother Pete.//

I look up, shape an automatic smile, proabably not quite as convincing as it used to be--meet his weary dark brown eyes under their furrow of eyebrow, that stiff shock of curly, poodle-grey hair.

"Yeah, sure," I say. "I'm fine."

"You were a million miles away."

I rake a hand through my own barely-tamed mop, wondering--idly--how I ever got through life without deep conditioner before. "Oh. Um--I was just, uh..."

//wondering whether hard-earned rep for hot, hot sex was an equitable trade//

"...thinking."

He sits down behind his desk again, and I hesitate--then turn my chair, so I'm facing him. And ask--carefully--

"Brother, do you ever miss..."

"...what?"

"You know, after your wife got killed.  Do you miss her--I mean, do you miss the...uh..." //Jesus, Tory! Get it together.// I start again. "I *mean*--look, you're a guy--"

He gives a dry little snicker. "Last time I looked, yes."

"Yeah. So--you must have...urges."

"You know how many people ask me that question, Victoria?"

"A lot?"

"Yes. And yes, I have my--'urges'--but I try to put all that excess energy into loving God."

"Right. 'Course..."  I chew my lip, look down at the floor. Wish to that same God--well, maybe not the *same* one--I'd kept my damn mouth shut.

Brother Pete shoots me one of his patented "I'm no fool" looks. "You've told me on more than one occasion how you and Giles didn't have the best of marriages, even before you came to Oz..."

//though that certainly didn't HELP//

I nod, still not looking at him. He continues:

"...but the fact that you're hinting around--what ARE you hinting around, exactly?"

I shift in my seat, uncomfortably. "Nothing, Brother, Really. Forget I even said anything."

Undeterred: "You haven't fallen in love with one of the guards, have you?"

//A hack? Be SERIOUS.//

Now I *do* look at him--like he's as nuts as most people think *I* am. "Ahhh," he says, catching it. Quieter:

"Victoria...are you in love with another inmate?"

"Yes.  No.  I think so..." I pause, clear my throat. Then--

"Yes, I am."  I admit, softly. And actually fucking blush, for the first time in so long I can't remember when--

//aside from that last time Tina *made* me//

"I see."  Brother Pete leans over his desk.  "I'm happy for you, of course, but I really do hope you're being careful.  Love in here can mean...so many things.  Are you sure this isn't just sex disguised as love? Like--"

"..with *Vee*?" I grin, all teeth. "Believe me, Brother, she didn't even BOTHER to try and disguise it. That was brutal, all hurt and no comfort--sex used as power. But this--" I pause again, finding myself struggling to defend a relationship I was ready to deny just seconds earlier. "With--THIS person--it's sweet. And gentle. And..."

I drift off, not entirely comfortable revealing my sex-life's most intimate details to someone who hasn't had any in decades. But Brother Pete just nods, prompting:

"Good?"

"Yeah." I turn back to my computer, start typing madly--anything to hide my red cheeks, this spreading, betraying flood of blood creeping from cleavage on up. Squinting hard at the file beside me; cursing the day I ever decided that looking more like the hardcase I so desperately needed to be meant breaking my glasses, thus making sure I wouldn't be able to see much further than the end of my own snub nose...

And why'd I have to even SAY that damn word, anyway? That damn, four-letter word--simple as fuck, but a million times more costly.

Still, to be *able* to say it, at all...that's a step in SOME kind of more civilized direction, isn't it? A step back toward (if not *to*) safety, toward sanity--back toward the person I used to be before Oz, and Vee, and my own stupid, drunken stupidity got a hold of me. Back when...I COULD love. Because--

--I *was* loved.

//*am* loved?//

Well. So maybe I DO owe Tina a little something, after all.

Abruptly, the fugue-state ends: Rubber-band synaptic snap, less a sting than a single, full-body *wrench*. And I'm back in my skin, back in front of the blinking screen, hearing Brother Pete's voice behind me--that old man's voice, soft with compassionate worry, filled to the brim with such woundingly...*genuine* concern--

"Tory, just be careful, okay?  I'm here if you need to talk."

"Yeah, thanks," I say, and go back to my work.

Blushing.

~~~~~~~~~~

TINA KELLER

So there I am, waiting in the visiting room hallway--linin' up to take my turn at one of those little plexiglass phone-booths, with my stomach still doing the Frug after that *chat* I just had with Vee. And all for what? 'Cause my two-timing, two-times-ex-husband Bart can't get enough of his shit together to send my mother a damn alimony check every once in a while, though he apparently CAN drive all way up here just to talk to me--and what about, I *truly* do not know.

//Nothin' good, proabbly. Never is, with him.//

And thinking, meanwhile, about Tory and me. Me and Tory. Me, and Tory, and...

//...Vee.//

Try as I might, nutty little fruitcake that she is, I just can't help *liking* Tory--her sly sense of humor, her smartness, the way she opens up under me like a--flower, or something--I just press hard enough.  And man, I know she's into ME--into the sex part of me, at least. Way she purrs and moans, those little looks of hers: Mmm. Been missing more 'n' *manicures*, that's for damn sure.

But is it just a cheap alternative to booze, a drug she can get behind with no jonesing, no side-effects, somethin' she don't have to pay Rhea O'Reilly for? Or is it more...is it...

...LOVE?

//Do I *want* it to be?//

>From Day One on, whole thing's all been my show, and she leaves it that way, even now--down to what we do, where, when. Gets acted on, doesn't *act*; she won't eat ME out, much's she seems to love getting eaten. Blushes, screws her eyes tight, goes all stiff, then limp. Lies there afterward, panting and sweat-sheened, like she's forgotten all about Oz...

//me included//

"We could take this a whole lot farther, you'd trim those claws of yours," I tell her, a couple of nights back, with my own--more *manageable*--thumb-nail stroking at her cervix. And she frowns at me, mid-groan, little cat-mouth crimping. Snapping back:

"I NEED them this long, Tina."

"What for?"

"...protection."

Which means, roughly translated from the original Beecherspeak: 'Cause I *still* don't trust you to protect ME. Yet.

Well, how long I gotta wait, exactly? Time's a-tickin', for me AND for Dennis.

Dennis...

And here's that deadbeat Dad of his, right--*not*--on schedule.

I file in behind the next person, smile at him, sit down, pick up the phone.  He smiles back, picks up his; kinda appropriate, now I think about it--

//--for YOU, you phony fuckin' motherfucker.//

"Hey, Tina.  How ya doin'?"

I shrug. "Whatever I can."

//Whatever I *have* to. Like always.//

And GOOD as I can, considering it's his fuckin' fault I'm in here, that dumb-ass dick on wheels.  If he'd been able to wrap his head around the concept of child support, I'd still be outside. WITH Dennis. With*out* Vee.

//or Tory//

But: Enough, man. E-fuckin'-nough with all that, for now.

"Lookin' good," Bart comments; he's checkin' me out, up and down, like his cock's gettin' thicker just givin' me the eye. Told me himself often enough how all it took was one look at me to get him ready. So I play along, like always: Flutter my eyelashe, front hard and send him secret messages in the way I lick my lips, the way I cock my head, stare down my nose, prop my tits up against the glass--

//See? Gotta look and not touch, you cheap-ass bastard--'cause I'm stuck in here, for the next eighty-eight fuckin' YEARS--//

"Soooo...whatcha swing by for, Bart, exactly? Wanted to surprise me with some money for Dennis, but ya thought I might have a heart attack from the shock when I found out 'less you warned me 'bout it first?"

He gives me that sleazy-cute little half-smirk I've seen a hundred times before--same one can mean anything from *Heyyyy, T--forgot to buy milk, but I *did* pick up some beer* to *Whoa, whoa, c'mon...didn't think you were gonna mind I sold the car, you bein' in the hospital and everything.*

//Oh, this is NOTHIN' good.//

He shifts in his seat, adjusts himself. Then starts over.

"Well, see...that's kinda the point here, Tina.  I can't afford to be sending that kid'a yours no more support."

//That kid'a *mine*, white boy?//

"He's half your kid too, Bart. Court proved it, remember?"

//Same way they ORDERED you to pay the Goddamn support, in the first Goddamn place?//

But: Fucker just sits there, hard as a post and twice as dumb, still sexy as the day I met him. 'Cause men really are my weakness--never-grow-up goofs with fast cars, fast bikes, hard abs and total pathetic loser approaches to life. And much as I want to shout and shriek at him to pay up or I'll find someone to cut off his dick, I know that ain't the way to go; never was, never will be. The look, the tits, THAT's the way you get to Bart...

//...I fuckin' *hope*.//

"Kinda got your hands full these days, huh?"

"Well, uh...yeah. See--" He pauses. "--come to tell you, I'm getting married again. To Sue..."

//Sue.//

Sue, that slut. Same bitch broke us up the first time. Sue, who ain't got half my looks, half my *personality*. Sue with three kids of her own and one on the way, if I know "my" Bart like I think I do. Fuckin' SUE, who ain't got--

//--a might-as-well-be-life sentence to ride out in fuckin' *jail*, either.//

"...and, well, uh...'m sure you can find someone else to take care of you, you haven't had trouble finding anyone before..."

Sitting there with my fuckin' jaw on the floor as every word gets absorbed into my body like lightning. Bart looks down, avoiding my eyes--probably glad there's this wall of glass between us, 'cause he knows if there wasn't I'd kick his fucking ASS.

"Got her knocked up?"

"Yeah. And her youngest's mine, too."

That hits me like a ton of fucking bricks. "What?" He shrugs. "So what the hell was Dennis? Practice?"

"Yeah...I mean, *no*...look, it was just one of those things, Tina."

"Just one of those things, huh? Just one of those things. Well, I'll tell ya what, BART-- one of those fucking *things* is that Dennis is still your goddamn SON, and I've got a fucking court order that says pay up or we'll garnishee your fucking wages, asshole."

"Tina, calm down."

"Calm DOWN?  You fuckin' prick!"

Which is when I slam the phone receiver right into the part of the window over his weak, lyin', cheating face, so hard it pops apart like a Crackerjack toy. And the hacks drag me off, kickin' and biting--takin' a little page from Tory's book, there--to cuntlicker McManus' office. And from there, straight to the Hole--'cept that Whittlesey intervenes at the last minute, takes me aside. Explains how he's gonna let this one go, 'cause I've been sooo good with Tory...so good, so good, oh oh SO good...

//Value of people who live in glass houses puttin' on a free girl-girl sex-show, night after night after night: *Never* underestimate it.//

Davy-baby prods me into the direction of EmCity, and I walk back to the pod in a daze. Anger's already gone the way of all flesh, so all I got left to think about is how Bart--*Bart*, fucking BART--

--doesn't want me.

I mean, sure I'm totally pissed that he doesn't give a rat's ass about his *son*, but this shit with Sue means he doesn't want ME anymore, either.

//He never wanted me. He married me--*twice*--and all along, he was fucking her.//

I lay down on my bunk, chest tight.  God, it hurts so much; nothing compares. Nothin' I ever did...nothin' Vee ever did to me...nothin' I'm gonna do to Tory...

//Tory.//

She was here, I'd just let her help me fuck my pain away, like every time I've helped her fuck away hers. But she's gonna be at Brother Pete's for awhile yet, and me--me, I just can't let this go.

Scoring hooch from Alvarez and her big-haired spic posse is the easy part...the HARD part is findin' somewhere safe to drink it. I take a look around, checkin' the hacks' positions: Two on the station, Whittlesey back down on the floor. Got the O'Reillys in front of the TV bank, got Simone Adebisi using the classroom to snort tits, *off* Kaneisha friggin' Wangler's tits; little Schibetta and her Gina pals're swappin' hairstyle tips over cards, while the Biker chicks talk weed and check each other's new tattoos. But past all that, towards the back--

--there's the laundry room.

Empty.

//Bingo.//

So I gather up all my dirty unmentionables, wrap the bottle in a t-shirt and stuff that down in the middle of the mesh bag. And a minute or two later, I'm sitting on the back row of washing machines watching my laundry dry, wishin' I had a pack of cigarettes to go with the booze. 'Cause the only time I smoke is when I drink.

Squeezing my eyes shut, so the tears can't slip out. Takin' a sip of the half empty jar of clear liquid, feelin' it burn all the way down my gut. And thinking: Yeah, a pack of smokes and a stool at Larry's Bar, that'd be real good right 'bout now. 'Course, that IS where I met Bart...

//Hell, that's where I met 'em all.//

Doesn't want me.  No one does.  Gonna be hagged out by the time I get outta here. Gonna be all alone and lonely, nobody left who even remembers my fuckin' name. Dennis'll be all grown up, hate my guts just like I hated *my* old lady's. And no one to be with, no one, NO one to love. Not even...

//Tory//

"*There* you are."

//...fuckin' TORY.//

Well. And ain't *that* the capper.

Slipping in when I wasn't looking, quick and silent as a little blonde cat. I give her a drunken smile, eyelids at half-mast. She raises an eyebrow.

"You alright?"

"Oh, yeah." I sniff, wipe my face, take a long swig of hooch right in front of her. And grin. "Yeah, baby. I'm fuckin' A."

"Hey, what the hell--?" She grabs the container from my hand, sniffs it, makes a face--then licks her lips. I watch, grin widening; maybe this "kick it up a notch" shit is gonna be easier than I thought.

But no. A second later--before I can even think of stopping her--she's already over at the utility sink, pouring it down the drain.

"Hey, whatcha...whatthefuck'r ya doin'? That shit cost money, y'know."

"'Course I *know*. Look, you're obviously upset. And that...STUFF...is that last thing you need."

"Oh, so no one 'round here gets to drink but you?"

"I don't drink. Anymore."

"Yeah, yeah. You're a fuckin' Twelve-Step triumph, all right."

She turns, brows knitting again. Voice soft: "Tell me what's wrong, Tina."

"Fuck." I sigh out loud, try to move the words from my sluggish brain to my mouth. "You know I had a visit today?"

She nods. "Brother Pete told me."

"Well, it was Bart. My ex-...ex-. Married him twice." I hold up my finger, laughing at myself--joke's on me, all right. "See, if you fuck a guy 'fore you marry 'em, they not only know what they're getting but they get it for free.  If you *marry* 'em first, then you got a ring, got a home...you got all this shit that they don't HAVE to give you, you just flop over and' let 'em at ya."

Which is how--and WHY--I married Bart, married Bob, married Phil. Married Bart, again...

//Ah, shit.//

Pain in my heart, TIGHT. Those blue eyes, watching. Schooled expression, prim little lips pressed together, like every social worker I've ever had: Like she wants to be fair, fix things, "help out". Wants to *understand*.

I turn on her, snapping: "Aw, but what the fuck do YOU care, anyway? Lawyer, lush, rich fuckin' bitch. You're high-class and I'm white trash, right? Just good for a quick screw late at night, where nobody has to see. Yeah, you like *parts* of me just fine, Vic-TOR-i-a...but since when have you every given a damn about what's goin' on further down. under the fuckin' skin?"

"Understand", fuck. Ain't like I know her, really. Not *really*. And sure as shit ain't like she...

...knows ME.

"I mean, you ain't the only one with problems, Tory. You ain't the only one with--NEEDS..."

I can feel the tears start again, but I'm not letting them come.  Instead, I look at the floor. Feel Tory come over, rub my arm with her hand. Try *not* to feel it.

"Hey, look. It's not so bad..."

"Yes it is."  I whisper. Take a great shuddering breath, exhale, repeat. "Yes it is. He don't love me. Nobody...loves me."

"*I* love you."

My head snaps up. "Whadja say?"

"Love you."  Her other hand comes to caress my other arm and if I had been sober, I would have seen that she was trembling as much as I was. "I--love you. Tina. I--"

//Ohhhh, Christ//

"--love you too, Tory," I hear myself say. And I--

--lean in and kiss her.

Sweet spit, tongue to tongue...arms winding around mine, dragging me down between the washers and the dryers with a strength I didn't know she had, too fast for the hacks to even see us go...

//Oh God, what the hell is happening here? And why can't I stop myself?//

And that look in her eye before, that calm, measuring look: Not bullshit *sympathy* at all. Just crazy Tory Beecher making a psycho-prag-cold assessment, like I used to do with Vee--and her too, probably. Figuring out where it hurt and layin' on hands--or mouth-- before she could even ask, let alone order...

//I know what *you* need, MA'AM.//

Beecher, that bitch. That crazy, crazy--little--*bitch*.

She's rubbin' up against me, everywhere at once; I'm trying to breathe with her tongue shoved down my throat and failing--miserably, wonderfully. Finally, she comes up for air and I take a gasping breath as her mouth moves down, across my jaw and onto my neck, my chest, my stomach. Hands on my tits, hard enough to tease but just soft enough not to hurt, and even through the booze I can feel it right in my clit: It's THAT fuckin' good. *She*'s that good.

//And mine, all mine. All for me...//

Shit. Startin' to sound like Vee for a minute, there.

So long since someone's taken ME over, I'm surprised I'm even letting it happen. But her mouth, her hands, her body are all over mine and I'm arching, moaning, whimpering as she undoes my pants and pulls my shirt up at the same time--

Lips on my nipples, teasing; teeth scraping along the valley of my cleavage as she presses her face between my breasts, going deep...

"God..." I moan softly.

She laughs. Hisses, into my mouth--a hot and nasty murmur--

"Not even close."

--and continues moving downward, tongue snaking a wet trail down my belly, into my navel. Thumbs in my waistband, pushing down my pants--

//oh my GOD//

--and then my pants are off and she's staring up from between my legs with those short-sighted blue eyes, giving me this look like I'm the only thing that exists in this universe. Same look she gave me a month ago, when I put her back against the wall and made *her* choke on her own scream. Same look she probably gave that prick husband of HERS, on their fuckin' wedding day.

"Did something for you, Tina," She whispers, slightly muffled, against the thin skin of my stomach. "See?"

And she holds up both her hands for me to see--her clever, square-fingered, SHORT-nailed hands.

//ooohhhh, TOry...//

So clean, and white, and naked. So Goddamn, fuckin'...defenseless.

I try to clear my throat, gulp helplessly instead. Repeating: "Fuh-- for *me*?"

//Baby, you shouldn't'a.//

No, I mean REALLY.

But she just smiles, sweet and silent,  I don't have the heart--let alone the guts--to tell her any different. 'Cause now she's licking the insides of my thighs, and I could care less about any fuckin' thing besides how damn *good* that feels to me.

//Her tongue, wet velvet. Her sharp, heat-slicked TEETH.//

Tory Beecher's teeth on my private parts--what am I, fuckin' *nuts*?

//uuuuugh, just do it, DO it...//

Tongue's moving up as her thumbs move in, spreading my labia to reveal the moist pink skin inside, my hard and throbbing centre. I let out a half-moan, half-*gasp* as she traces her tongue along my clit, flicking and stroking, still holding me open wide, massaging me.
And Christ, I'm so *wet*; smearing her face, her cheeks, her chin. She's gonna reek of me 'till we get back to the pod. Taste myself on her if--

//when//

--I kiss her. Markin' my territory, my--

//property//

--fuck, get out of my *head*, Vee, you big bitch...

My breath comes out in huffs as she moves inside me, stroking me--finger, finger, finger, thumb, with the other thumb feathering back and forth just outside, hitting all the spots she's too far in to reach anymore. I'm writhing on the floor like a cat in heat and just when I think it can't get any better, it does: She puts her lips around my clit and sucks.

Soft, hard. Soft. *Hard*. Soft, HARD, *soft*--

I can hear a sound like a baby mewling, and realize it's me. My fingers are clawing at the floor, thighs squeezing around her head and God, it feels so fine, so RIGHT. My chest flushing, nipples hardening even further as I strain towards orgasm. A tightness in my belly, fanning outward--sweat, starting to form all over--

--and then it comes, *I* come, in wave after wave of pleasure--biting my tongue to keep
from screaming, thrashing like I'm some puppet being pulled from all directions...

Finally, it's gone, and I'm back. And Tory's there too, head on my chest, waiting for me. She moves up and kisses me, so hard I can taste myself on her lips. I'm totally sober.

Then the bell rings.

"COU-NT!"

//Shit, 's later than I thought.//

We scramble up, wriggling back into our clothes--I grab for the laundry as Tory wipes herself off, scrubbing my hair back into place with both hands. But I guess I'm not quite as sober as I thought, 'cause as we leave I stumble right into Wangler, knockin' her toque half-off.

"Yo, watch it, bitch."

"Whyn't YOU watch it?"  I slur back.

She looks at me, then Tory, and gets a smile on her face like she just fell across a free baggie of butt-warm smack.

"Aw, a'ight, *I* get'chall. BITCH-a got herself a new owner."

//Like you *don't*? Fuckin' gangsta-ho prag.//

Tory snarls, makes a little DIP, like she's gettin' ready to spring. She does, she's in the Hole--*I* do--

//She's out. Out here. Alone.//

What I owe Vee. What I just fucked up, in there, when I let Tory fuck ME stead'a trickin. her into drinkin' the hooch like I was supposed to. The *plan*, for Dennis--specially now, since BART sure as hell ain't gonna help him out of this hole I dug us both...

//Now or never, Tina.//

Before I can think myself out of it, I haul off and smack Wangler right in the jaw so hard that it echoes across the quad--so hard the toque goes flying. So hard her *gold* snaps up and slaps her in the nose, splitting her lip on the way back down. She bounces back, growling, and I'm ON her like a fuckin' rash: One in the stomach to put her down, then a kick to the side, the back, the head...

Whittlesey, roaring: "KELLER! What'd I *say*?"

Fuck if *I* know, DAVE.

//Or care.//

Tory, gaping, gone in sixty seconds. A slim blonde after-image, light on light.

And then I'm cold, naked--bare ass on raw stone. The Hole. I bang on the door a few times just for show, to keep my rep up. Sit back, and scream 'till it gets me dizzy enough to stop.

Hangover time, faster than that still-booze's kick. I slump to the floor and hug my knees to my chest, head swimming, feeling my pussy pulse--a hot, wet clock keepin' time, my body still on fire from Tory's touches. Shit that was *something*, wasn't it?

//Like always.//

Tory'll be back in the pod, by now. Sittin' on the bunk, starin' down at her hands; looking at what she did to herself, all for me. Knowin' I left her alone in a world full'a enemies, and she don't have the weaponry anymore to do thing fuckin' one about it. Except,
maybe--

--go down to Alvarez for more of the same stuff *I* had, and get so Goddamn drunk she doesn't CARE if she lives or dies.

//Pretty good work, for a fuck-up--huh, Ve-REEN-a?//

I lay down on my side and put my arm under my head as a pillow and try to think pure thoughts. It doesn't work.

And: //God, it's going to be hell in here// I think, as I put my legs together and...

...squeeze.

End Part 4