Somewhere outside these walls, the Powers That Think They Be will have already started putting up decorations, festooning shop-windows with tinsel and random trees with light. Bulbs everywhere like bright, white fruit, breath like rising smoke. Like ghosts, escaping.
     Norms pointing it all out to their gaping kids: Rudolph, Frosty, Santa, honey. Everyday miracles caught once again in progress, presents still pending. Look, see how *pretty*.
     While in here, the only way you can tell it's even winter, let alone coming up to Silent Night itself, is that icy extra draft nobody can ever trace or block efficiently--the one that makes you have to layer up on issue tube-socks, a fresh whiff of mass male foot-sweat superimposed over every other stink. And hey, THERE's a built-in Seasonal work detail to follow up on: Oz potpurri, targeted at the ever-burgeoning relative/parolee market. Boil wood-chips in laundry, package, export...mmm, instant conjugal.
     But meanwhile: Tobias Beecher sits alone in that oh-so-useful blind spot under the stairs, slugging cough-syrup mixed with fermented--fuck, who knows, or wants to. Friendly Neighbor Luis (the prison drunk's best pal) is packaging it in poured-out Coke cans, these days; Beecher makes himself take small sips, manfully resisting the urge to break cover by cackling insanely whenever Murphy shoots McManus' office window one of those frequent yearning looks, or Adebisi's re-Christianized head prag starts trying to lead the Gays in yet another round of "Hark, The Herald Angels", or Keller...
     (Chris)
     ...Keller, Chris. Chris/Keller. Don't mind if I call you "Chrissie", do you, Chrissie? Chris, Chrissie, Chris-to-pher--
     (fucking KELLER, idiot)
     --and O'Reilly swan by, together-but-not, whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears when they think nobody else is paying attention. Plotting and slouching, blatantly anthropomorphic as any given DMX chorus leaking rythmically from any given gangsta's ghetto-blaster: *The *cat*, the RAT, the bat and the hog...*
     Big, black-haired black panther cat-man, prowling and posing in his brand-new version of the patented Beecher "Don't Fuck With Me, Fellas" nutbar facial hair; sleek Mick rat-snake, coiled and watchful, firmly fending off the ever-present polysexual vibe/offer with one metaphorical hand even while reeling Keller in ever-closer with the other: Look, buddy, I really do *want* you on my back, just not...well, how can I put this...
     (...on my BACK.)
     Y'know what I'm sayin', "bro"?
     And: Oh, just give him a blow-job to seal the deal and get OVER it, already, Beecher finds himself thinking. I mean, won't actually *help* the situation--
     (much)
     --but it certainly couldn't HURT.
     (But then *again*...)
     Yeah, well.
     Slugging and glugging and warding off other inmates' cruise-y stares with the occasional hiss or snarl--fuck, has he already given EVERY motherfucker in here a taste, or are most of them just betting on an (apparently) sure thing? Body count aside, Keller's general "try and die" manifesto doesn't really seem to have quite made the rounds, as yet--remembering, always, that in Oz, hot sex vs. cold death is the kind of loaded equation most of their peers probably see more as an adrenaline-spiking gamble than a bad investment. Nothing to lose but a privilege or two, or maybe a few more years...and who the hell wants to spend those extra years *here*, anyway?
     *Given your record, Mr Beecher, an early parole does seem out of the question.*
     Not much of a SURPRISE, as such--just still more status quo in (in)action, along with every fucking thing else. Numb routine, daily quota of fifty boring files to process for yes-it's-"Sister"-again Pete; bad food, worse sleep, nothing on TV but Miss Sally and the Discovery Channel, old CROCODILE HUNTER re-runs playing what seems like five times a day at least: Crikey, but these predators can be a little bit naughty!
     And on top of it all, Keller's probing eyes, always at a distance: That invisible leash, that constant silent treatment. Continual thought-projection of No, I DON'T forgive you and Yes, I need more time, more proof...but No, I'm not gonna let *you* know just what that proof might entail, 'cause that'd be too fucking easy by far.
     (Not--just--yet.)
     So...settle back and SUFFER, Toby...
     ...'till I tell you something different.
     Useless, unnecessary instruction--'cause what's it look like to you, buckwheat, exactly? Sitting here abusing his body, courting yet another violation, letting every shaky "alliance" he fucked and sucked his way to over King Adebisi the First's brief but tumultuous rise and sudden, final fall go straight to Hell along with him...does Beecher really strike Keller like he's NOT suffering, for fuck's fucking sake?
     Which observation, typically, kickstarts an equally typical flashback into gear behind his bleary, half-looped eyes--himself two short years ago, asking Sister Pete, in desperation: *Two guys shouldn't *love* each other, right? I mean, that's not LOVE...*
     (Well, no. Apparently--not.)
     Squirming with the hot rush of shame, once again. Acid under his skin. Curdled adoration. Sugar in the wound: Gritty, clumpy, solid, abrasive. Less an outright hurt, cursable and treatable, than some indefinite, intrusive, invisible...itch.
     And jump-cutting straight into Keller's mocking voice, in the gym; 'ho savant Chris, taking every perverse contortion Beecher'd ever put himself through trying to justify this tangled, contradictory knot of emotion he'd tied himself into and stretching it 'till it screamed--first to the literal breaking point, then beyond--
     *I *never* loved you. Not EVER.*
     Followed by Beecher's subconscious doing a clever imitation of the same come-hither rasp, pared soft and husky by memory's weight. Whispering:
     Hey, but c'mon ahead anyway, Toby-baby, if you still got the balls to try and...scratch it.'Cause you *know* you'll feel SO much better, when you do.
     And: Oh. *Will* I.
     (Christopher.)
     So betrayed to discover you couldn't "trust" me, when it all came down to dust--which is pretty fucking funny, considering everything you've already let slip on just how much more than I ever suspected YOU've lied about: By omission, by comission, natural as breathing. Whining about hell, raving about your tats. Protesting: Sure, I killed guys I slept with...but I'd never kidnap your *kids*, Tobes. And besides, that was DIFFERENT.
     Not like you and *me*.
     Not like LOVE.
     But who can *I* trust, Chris, if I can't trust you? You, who I gave up everything for-- who I GAVE everything Vern Schillinger ever had to bully and berate and outright, ass-branding *fuck* me out of: My family, my reputation, my precious, precious addictions?
     You said I'd been born a bitch; well, I let you treat me like one, and that was my mistake. Neither first nor last, just one...of many.
     But screw it. What's it matter, in the final analysis? Nothing serious, nothing out of the ordinary, especially for a self-torturing angstoholic like shyster-turned-nut-turned-slut Toby B. Business as usual, really--the regular downswing of every cycle, that long-awaited classic A.A. First Step finally kicking in. Been through it before and he'll go through it again, for all that it all just makes him so, so, *so*--damn--
     (--tired.)
     Tired. And ready, more and more, to simply...
     (let it go)
     Sister Pete doesn't know, yet, how he phoned his father yesterday and TOLD him point-blank to give up custody of Holly and baby Harry to Gen's parents; send me the papers and tell them I'll sign, no contest. His sole caveat for doing so being their solemn promise, *in writing*, to move as far away as possible and never let the kids come see him again, under any circumstances. Best-case scenario will have Beecher out by the time they're old enough not to need parental permission, anyway--
     ("Out". Or whatever.)
     And these days--it's the "whatever" that's...finally...starting to worry him.
     Because whatever else life with Chris was, life *without* him--in Oz--just moves so incredibly fucking SLOWLY, comparatively. Without pace, or the emotional intensity required to fuel it, all the mind-crushing sameness of day after day after day just falls on top of you at once: The inescapable knowledge that not only is this your life, what's left of it...but that there's still so damn *much* left to go, before it'll finally be over and done with.
     Not that this is any kind of new observation, of course. Just the exact same one Beecher always finds himself (re-)making, every time events conspire to slow him down far enough to remember he's already made it.
     But: Now there's no more Keller--hitherto the most maintainable entry on Beecher's list of addictions--to distract him from self-analysis's familiar sting. Which means he'll have to find his own fun...and make his own trouble, too.
     Not that *that*'s ever been much of a problem.
     And he can't even talk to Said about it, either--Karim the Committed, perhaps the only person on Beecher's dance-card who still acts like they NEED to care about what he's been doing to himself, or why. 'Cause Said's taking his turn in the Hole, for the first time since last year's Christmas gym melee; probably going to be in there a while, too--McManus and company tend to crack down pretty hard on murder, as a rule. 'Specially when they actually catch you in the act.
     (Unlike...some people we could mention.)
     One more thing they have in common now, him and Keller: Premeditation. Another thing almost everyone he KNOWS has in common, in here. Normalcy, the Oz version; never ceases to amaze Beecher how your standards of acceptable behavior really do start to slip and slide, morally or otherwise, depending on where you lay your hat every night...
     Hey, though--really gotta *watch* that shit, Tobester. Drifting again. Gotta straighten up, fly right, keep your bleary eyes on the prize--
     --wherever the hell THAT might be, these days.
     Beecher sighs, snuffles, swipes his runny nose against his sleeve. Sinks further back into the shadows as the Em City contact gates disgorge C.O. Lopresti, mister born-again honorary Italian/Aryan himself, ushering in Vern and cart like he's Gabriel announcing the Second Coming: Christ is risen, He's definitely white--and by the way, you've got mail!
     Not that the old Nazi fuck looks HUGEly Savior-esque, right this moment--or any other time Beecher's caught sight of him recently, to tell the truth. Oh, there was that little spurt of energizing "I'm gonna be a Grampaw" pride, back when dear dead Hank S.'s five-minute missus came by with the good news, but nine months is probably a pretty long while to keep that initial charge up. And no matter how real things seem at the time, in here, it never takes too long at all for them to just slip away into the mist...turn flat, and grey, and see-through, before--at not-so-long last--they disappear completely.
     Like ghosts.
     Squint just a little, through booze-fuddled eyes, and you get an instant memory flip-book parlor trick: Old Vern suddenly laid on top of new Vern, bulk on top of buff, scar tissue fresh and bruisy-pink around the orbit of his fixed, blue-grey "bad" eye.
Staring at Beecher the way he used to back when Beecher was working him hard, ma-NIP-u-lating him into losing his own parole--that baffled, embattled, bear-like glare: Stop pokin' me with that STICK, you little piss-artist, 'fore I come over there and make you *eat* the fucking thing.
     And really: How would *I* look, if I knew somebody was doing their damnedest to keep me away from MY kids? What *wouldn't* I do, to make that person pay, and pay, and pay?
     Not hire some "old friend" to break the person in question's arms and legs over it, that's for sure. But then again, I never did have a LOT of friends--not ones I could really depend on for stuff like *that*, anyway.
     No, I'd probably just turn inward, like always. Shuck my armor and leave myself bare, even shave my protective facial fur. Leave myself open to the world, the killing wind, bare-soul naked and utterly vulnerable to whatever slick, dark-eyed hunk of danger lay lurking in wait inside my pod, stretched out and gloating on my very own bottom bunk...
     But any-fucking-way:
     *That* look, meanwhile--the one Vern's giving him right this minute, glancing up over the bars of his cart and somehow finding him immediately, even as he shrinks instinctively back into the below-stairs shadows: Beech-dar obviously still in full effect, as ever. What IS that oh-so-penetrative, huffy-looking stare of his *about*, anyways?
     Interest? DISinterest? The usual blend of sworn vengeance and unspoken, plausibly deniable leftover lust?
     Noooo, none of the above. More like--well, if Beecher had to take a guess, he'd say it was more like, sort of--
     --disappointment.
     (Thought you were OFF the tit, ToBIas--'s what I heard, anyway. But there you sit, still suckin' away; you practicing, cupcake? Boning up, so's to speak?)
     Homesick for Keller, maybe. Or homesick for...
     (...yeah, *right.*)
     Sudden rush of infant rage, making Beecher color deeply and--no doubt--prettily, hair and eyes popping out even paler than normal against suddenly moist, red skin: Well, and fuck you too, SIR. Just who the hell do you think you *are*, looking at me like that? Since when do I give a shit WHAT you think, anyway?
     I mean, you're not my *Dad*--
     (-dy)
     Not my nothing, not anymore. Never were. Never will be.
     (And vice versa.)
     Three years back, with Vern's foot still on his neck--always figuratively, often literally. And hearing the older man rumble yet again, appropos of some occasion when Beecher hadn't been *quite* fast enough with the Sir-I-love-you, thank-you-for-saving-me-from-being-gang-banged-by-(ahem)-"black people" cant for Herr S.'s posessively pseudo-paternalistic liking--
     "Weak-assed junkie Yuppie slut. Lucky I even bother to keep lookin' after you..."
     And shooting back, packed to the gills with temporary courage from his latest O'Reilly-given heroin high: "Yeah? Well thanks, ever so. 'Cause maybe I don't *need* to be 'looked after'; MAYBE I'm a grown fucking man, and I can look after *myself*--"
     A snort, utterly unimpressed. "Not much, you can't."
     I mean, who the fuck you think put you in here in the first place, TO-by? The Prag Fairy?
     *You* did that, sweetpea. All on your wittle ownsome.
     'Cause fact is, even on the outside, nobody ever MADE you do shit you didn't really want to do, deep down. Nobody ever put a gun to your head and *made* you drink, or run over a kid. Bet nobody ever MADE you do a damn thing in your spoiled pussy life, come to think about it--
     (--'til *me*, that is.)
     Rinsing him off, yet again, after a particularly long and arduous session--brusquely efficient, like he was stripping down a motor, or something equally macho. Touching the swastika's scar in passing, feeling Beecher cringe. And snapping, without sympathy:
     "Think your life'd be all mended, if you could just walk out of here without THAT on your butt? Please. Your life's gone, Beecher, and it's ain't comin' back--you *killed* somebody, remember? That's about as gone as it gets."
     "It was an accident."
     "Yeah, yeah."
     "It WAS. I never...never meant to *kill* anyone, except..."
     "...yourself?"
     (Maybe.)
     So, okay, might be you were right, like always. Might be I DID want to throw my life away, on some level--to do something so bad, so irreversible, that they'd finally have to take me and *put* me somewhere where it just wouldn't matter if I kept on fucking up, anymore. Somewhere where I wouldn't be able to hurt anybody, aside from the more-than-occasional bout of hurting myself.
     But...
     (God, Christ, I didn't mean HERE)
     Ah, and *you* never felt like that in all your life--did you Vern-o? Not big strong YOU. *You*'d never be strung-out and stupid and WEAK enough to push yourself so far off the scale that you got in a place where you just couldn't *deal*, where the only possible option was to just take a penitentiary vacation and let things sort themselves out without your input--
     Ooo, wait a minute. Guess you kinda *did*.
     More times than me, even on my worst day. Rather be in than out, in point of perfect fact, going from what (grantedly little) you let slip, back in the day...
     (Can you say "institutionalized", kids?)
     I KNEW you could.
     Locking glares with Vern once more, game face to game face: Rude, raw, rote. And allowing himself just a single outright giggle, tiny but audible, at the flashback's lingering echo--
     Look AFTER me, right--oh, yes, *please*. C'mon over here and take CARE of me, your wayward ex-, massive walking let-down that I obviously remain...
     More memory, later still, its impact short and sharp as a synaptic face-slap: Hefting the chair, hearing the crash; pausing only long enough to register Scott Ross's amazed curse, Vern's pain-maddened roar. Then hoisting himself up onto the guard-rail with arms crucifixion-spread, poised to dive into the hooting, screeching crowd below--
     Apologizing, out loud, even as he let himself slip forward--to God, to Gen. To...
     (fucking *Vern*)
     Breathless no-gravity babble, like some half-forgotten nightmare. A last-second outrush of nothing more insightful, more relevant, more self-freed-slave DIGNIFIED than: Sorry, Sir, can't do it, sorry, I'm just--so--
     (sorry)
     Agh, ick, *yick*.
     Fresh burn of Coke-mix, going down hard. A final narrowed glance back in Vern's direction, targeting the nape of that thick bull-neck like Beecher's pupils were laser-sights, his mile-a-minute mind loaded for actual bear. While simultaneously musing away, despite himself--or TO spite himself, possibly--
     Like there's really any way--other than the obvious--in which Vern wants to "take care of" me, anymore. Or...
     ...so he keeps saying.
     Oh, and isn't *that* one fucking dangerous idea, right there: Suicide by Vern, the easiest way out imaginable. Step up close, press a few buttons. Then simply stop being such a "contrary little bitch", at long, long last--lay back, close your eyes, think of England. And just, just--
     (--let it happen.)
     Be a mercy, really. For both of us.
     Still. Can Beecher really trust Vern to keep his word, to get it RIGHT, after all the old bastard's myriad mis-steps? Not having proved himself exactly adequate to the task, thus far, big words or not--all bark and no bite, give or take the occasional shank in the side...
     Thinking, drinking. Drinking and thinking. And thinking and, finally, colder--and clearer--than he has in what feels like years:
     Tell you what, cupcake--I'm gonna be generous, here. 'Cause I can. Gonna give you one more chance to hit the mark before I move on for good, one way or another. For "old times'" sake.
     I mean, after all...
     ...it *is* almost Christmas.

To Be Continued