"Oh, I recall the moment when
You ruined me for other men..."
--Joan Osbourne, "Poison Apples (Hallelujah)"

PART ONE
(From the secret logs of Vern Schillinger):

'Nother week spent snatching mental coffee-breaks wherever you can--slices of down-time, preserved
and perpetuated like a litany of lost citizenship rights. 11:15, stand point so your work detail
buddies can steal a smoke; 3:33, congregate in front of the TV bank to worship at the twin altars
of Miss Sally; 7:00, open checkers tournament with NO cheating, or fuckin' ELSE; 5:25, wake early
to masturbate undisturbed...

Yeah, it's the crack of dawn--before, even. But it ain't like I ever wanted to do my thing on
display, unlike (say) Jungle Jim Robson the one-man monkey house, who used to keep on polishing
that place where his knob used to be pretty much non-stop ever since he found out he still
*could*. And Jesus was THAT embarassing, having to lie there listening to him go through the same
sorry routine every Goddamn night. Like neighbors screwing through a paper-thin wall, only not as
much fun, 'cause you already know what to picture--not to mention exactly how repulsive an image
that particular picture WAS, all told.

 (Eeeeugh.)

Nothin' like that with Kobold. Kid'd sleep through a hailstorm, 'f I let him. And today,
"amenities" regardless--today, I'm gonna.

Just gotta do for yourself sometimes, that's all. If you want to stay a man.

Granted, in Oz, you get used to doing your business in front of everyone *else*. But this one
thing I try to keep to myself; almost rather not do it at all, if I can't. Not like it's a
weakness, only natural, but intimate nonetheless--an essentially private act, best done IN
private. Intimate, private, personal...

 (vulnerable?)

Screw *that* crap: Fact is, if I really thought anyone wanted to see me flog my log in public, I'd
sell tickets and turn a profit. That fuckin' simple.

Might do it surreptitiously, under the covers, if I really, really need to sleep and can't figure
out any other way to knock myself out. I mean, shit: Used to *fuck* in front of the whole
glass-walled world, way back when--

 (And wasn't THAT fine?)

Damn straight.

Like nature and God intended.

But: I will not...

...think about Beecher, yeah, yeah. 'Course you won't.

Trying, with a huge effort, to drag my thoughts away from that particular trap. Flushing my brain
clean with a straight-to-the cortex injection of blonde, blue-eyed fantasies: Old-school tail like
Marilyn, Jayne, Farrah; straight-outta-Johannesburg post-Apatheid pin-up gal Charlize Theron;
career indie slut Jennifer Jason Leigh in her bleached-out 1950's gang-rape-bait crown of
hairspray-stiff thorns...

And fine, okay: Over the hump and into the groove, slapping hands on skin now as quietly as
flesh-to-flesh contact allows. Breathing slow and deep through the nose as images flip by, faster
and faster and faster: Marilyn, Jayne, Farrah, Charlize, Jennifer, Rachel,
Marilyn-Jayne-Farrah-Charlize-Jennifer-Rachel, MarilynJayneFarrahCharlizeJenniferRachel*Beecher*--

 (--aw, FUCK.)

Double-exposed memory-snap, like two sunspot-bright afterimages run together. The way Rachel's
cleavage blushes, on the one hand--all sunburnt red and blotchy--whenever she's in the throes,
gasping and fisting and swearing (not quite) under her breath. Or that dirty-blond tuft sprouting
just where Beecher's tailbone blurs into the top of his crack, on the other, sweat-soaked and
red-tinged with an all-but-identical crimson surge--not like you're *lookin'* for it, exactly, but
it's kinda hard to MISS whenever you got the son-of-a-bitch all spread out wide in front of you...

How well I always thought I knew 'em, both of them, inside and out. Like they knew me. And how,
amazingly--little--that actually is.

Flushing *deep* myself, then, under this horrible secondary rush of heat and prickly sweat, this
sudden feeling that maybe I'm so institutionalized I can't exactly recall what being with, being
*inside* a woman is actually LIKE anymore. Not--

 (absolutely)

Breath catching deep in the back of the throat, hand frozen mid-stroke while that tension twists
my balls from the inside-out, like wire. And thinking: Okay, fuck it, then. THINK of Beecher, you
gotta. Just get the damn thing *done*.

Beecher...

 (and Rachel)

Beecher, Rachel, Rachel, Beecher: Beecher and Rachel, Rachel and Beecher. But NOT just Beecher
instead of Rachel, or Rachel over anybody else. It's me wanting, *wanting*, WANTING them--

 (*both*)

Wanting them both, and...

 (...not having either.)

FUCK.

Submission, exacted for power and revenge; possession, to subjugate and school. Different desires,
undercut--equally--by the same grudging, *wounding* base emotion. Kobold's okay, but he's too
easy: Likes it too much, if you can believe it. And me, I need something...different. Diffi*cult.*

I want a wife. I want MY wife. Which is--

 (Rachel)

--or *you*. Tobias.

 (You scab-picking, finicky, persnickety little brat.)

Perverse as a cat--the kind of animal rolls on its back with its belly up, purring to be stroked,
then bites you to the bone for "making" it do it in the first place. For infringing on its
*dignity*.

Poor, poor pitiful me, St Toby of the Sorrows, persecuted and aggrieved. Cry me a freakin' river.
Oh no, don't bother giving me extra penance, Sister Pete: Just bring me the nails, I'll go on
ahead and put myself up for the night.

Feel the injustice of it all rise up in me like a tide, and think: So you told her all about it,
huh, TO-by? Yeah, I bet you did. Told her how you used to choke like a little girl puking when you
had your nose in my crotch-hair; how I used to throw you over my bunk and make you come so hard
you cried. How I could crank you up like an old-time car just by slippin' a couple of fingers up
your tail and...*twisting*.

And you hated it, sure. You hated ME. But that don't mean it never happened.

I was some kind of judgement on you, law-boy. And you know as well as I do, you deserved
everything you got.

Watching Beecher and Keller, these days, I find myself feelin' kinda sorry for slinky, slutty ol'
Chris-to-pher--and not the least 'cause what he wants out of Beech is something that bitch is
patently incapable of giving, EVER. Which makes it all the funnier Keller can't see it, since the
two of 'em *are* s'posed to be in luuuv, and all...

 (And: So just what DID you want out of him, Vern-o? Exactly?)

'Cause whatever it was--you sure don't have it now.

Keller, looking worried, and Beecher, looking--oh, what's that damn word?

 (Why, I do believe that'd be..."refined")

Quite a change from the he first came in--just spoiled, sloppy, willfully dumb and dumbly willful,
self-blinded, blindsided. But now, it's like all the bullshit's finally been burned and boiled
away at last. Amazing how well he still cleans up, too, time after time, like he's always just a
shower away from erasing his own history...only the wary, guarded blue gaze to show for the hoops
he's been put through, the tricks he's learned--and *turned*--

Keller follows him 'round like he's God on a stick, some ever-changing maze with no end or
solution in sight--all those twists and turns. Gotten himself all tied up in knots over tryin' to
unravel the puzzle: Oh yeah, baby, you're SO complex...

 (...not.)

But I know better, always did: Just whip out the knife, slash the fucking thing in half. THERE,
done, over, on to the next disaster. Talk about a relief.

Beecher won't admit he needs it, but he *does*. Hell, he probably dreams about it, even now. Just
like--

 (*I* do)

Feel my hand start to move again, blood beating up and down like rain--and let myself remember,
*remember* just how Goddamn powerful it always made me feel to see the bitch gasp and turn red,
stir myself in deep and hear him cry, helplessly, hopelessly...

Beecher groaning freely, soft little yowls like one sweet song of release and triumph, that
*primordial* fuckin' song which says you're not here for *you*, you're here for ME. And all in
all, you're nothing--nothing special, anyway. But right here, right now, this very minute, this
tiny slice of fuck YEAH aw RIGHT uh HUH God DAMN bitch slut whore YOU...

...you...

...you're...

...the single most...important thing...in the entire fucking world.

 (oh, fuck, *yes*)

And then: Then I'm coming like a spasm, still tense, muscles all knotted and head pounding.
Joyless. No blackout, no bliss. Just staring up at the bunk above, and hallucinating everybody's
open eyes all around me. Everybody listening, watching, *knowing* how...

 (he's *mine*, still mine, always mine)

Even now.

 (And that's. All. That matters)

To me.

...fuck.

***

PART TWO
(From the secret Pillow Book of Tobias Beecher):

Chris always thinks he has to say "love". Like it's some word he heard in a foreign movie once,
and even though he can't really pronounce it correctly--doesn't even *really* understand exactly
what it means, truth to tell--he thinks it sounds so super-cool, he just always has to...slip it
in, here there and everywhere. Like so many other things.

But whose fault is that? I mean, *I* was the one who said it first. Practically double-dog dared
him to step across that line and breathe it right into my open mouth like fumes, a shared
hangover, 100-proof PROOF we were both bold and crazy enough to make that particular jizz-draining
claim to infame aloud, right where any other occupant of Oz could (prospectively) overhear...

*...love you too, Toby.*

'Cause: You know I love you. Know you love me. Right?

(*Right?*)

So tell me. TELL me. Keep on, keep on, keep on keepin' on telling me you fuckin' well *love* me,
you--

 (fuckin' contrary slut)

Ahhh. And *there*'s the rub.

Still nothing but fucked, after all, that's me: Fucked in the head, not to mention everywhere
else; fucked in the heart, even all these post-Millennial months on--my limbs knit, my scars
healed over, my many wounds supposedly drained. And I just can't even hope to be so easily
*un*fucked, not now. Maybe not ever.

Certainly not by yet more fucking, at any rate.

Which is too bad for Chris, because that's how he deals. The one and--as I've finally come to
realize--only way. A kiss, a blow, a kiss FOR a blow, transactional even when it's not meant to
be: "Hard" currency, ha ha ha. Fuck or be fucked.

And he thinks because he says "love" I'm not property, not marked out from the herd as part of his
private preserve, his officially recognized harem of one--and Christ, I want to snarl at him
sometimes, even *Vern* was never THAT dumb. Like nobody on the quad ever shoots me the
contemptuous/covetous eye when he's not looking and sometimes when he is, flexing for both our
benefits; revising my gender in their heads to "her" and "she", my status to "Keller's"--Beecher,
bitch-er, bitch. Prag at worst, wife at best: Parrot, pet, pretty-pretty plaything...

I mean, we can't *both* be men, 'cause that'd be like--two guys fucking, or something. Like, GAY.
And Chris, much as he might like to slyly poke at other guys' gender boundaries, well...in actual
fact...

...I'm beginning to think that Chris may have some bad associations with the word "gay".

Which is why he feels he might as well wear the pants in everybody else's eyes, strike that pose
for both of us, step up and represent for every passing predator to see: M-I-N-E, fellas. Hands
fuckin' *off*, if you wanna keep 'em.

(Always also bearing in mind, of course, that even if I do happen to somehow get caught unawares
at the base of the stairs without a big, strong pod-mate to back me up--the fact is, THIS
bitch...bites.)

Ancient history, though, by now. A year in Oz, even half a year, and most of the guys you once saw
every day are dead or gone, transferred, paroled, packed off to Ad Seg or the Hole. The difference
a year makes can turn a psychiatrist-nun back into a psychiatrist, or a dumb young C.O. into one
more guy on Death Row.

And yet: The hell's it matter *what* they think? He'd probably snap back. I mean, you know how it
is in here, baby--gotta be one thing, you don't wanna be the other. So who gives a fat rat's ass,
'long as WE know how it really is?

How it really is at night, after lights-out, when we're quote-quote alone--aside from the
occasional patrolling hack, that is, the occasional officious warning glass-whack: Hey,
*lay*-dies! One to a bunk, I'm not gonna tell you twice. You want me to write you up, or what?

Smirking over at Murphy, doing the bow-and-scrape shuffle--oh, you *know* I'm all about
co-op-er-A-tion, Ossifer. Then waiting 'till the beam moves past and doubling right on back,
slipping in next to me with one hand already down the front of my y-fronts before I can react, let
alone object. Ruffling the fur of my underbelly and murmuring, in my ear:

"Hey, Beech. Ya 'wake, or what?"

"No. I always talk when I'm asleep."

Which just draws another smirk, one I don't even have to see to recognize. "Hmmm. Didn't know we
were *talkin'*..."

Oh, uh huh.

Quite the little pattern of interlocking obsessions we've got going here: Career liar vs. career
liar, finally caught with both our pants down and--very definitely--on fire. All hot and sore and
empty and yearning on either side, no matter who ends up (however nominally) on "top". Not to
mention for how long.

Pushing me over, pulling me down. Always pushing me just that *little* bit farther, no matter what
the consequences. Just call us Itchy and Scratchy, and get it over with--Four Funerals, No
Weddings. Not as *such*.

Chris with his hands down my pants, Chris with his tongue in my mouth. Pushing me, pushing me,
pushing me, while I just think: Oh PLEASE. Even Vern would never be fooled by *this* go
along-to-get along act I'm putting out here...

Hmmm. Weirdly apt choice of words, all told.
 
(Oh, though: And are you saying you really want Chris to act like VERN, TO-by?)
 
...maybe not.

But then again, Vern never wanted me to *like* him; quite the opposite, actually. And that's
Chris's real vulnerability, under the slick mask: A little clever conversation, some basic
amenities and indulgences, and he thinks I'm tamed. Little does he--CAN he--know that in the
lie-off stakes, my livelihood once depended on being able to make like best friends all day, get
paid for it, then turn around and stab said "friends"--
 
(ooh, *close* one)
 
--right in the back.
 
Oh, and God help me, there are times I almost think Chris's "love" for me IS "true"...truer than
mine, anyways, not that that'd be hard. True within context--and in Oz, context *is* content.
Context is everything.
 
*Jail* thing, baby. Use it or lose it. Step up, repraZENT.

Kobold asked me for advice; I gave it to him. He followed it, and got what he wanted. Happy
endings all 'round. And now, with Vern's attention safely off of me, Chris and I can finally
be...happy, together. Right?

But: I can't be *happy* in Oz, Goddamnit. Not here, not now. Can't LET myself be. Not if I want--

(and I do)

--out.

Out, while I still can. While I've still got something to go back for: A daughter, two sons, a
mother, a father--a life, or what's left of it. Some *reason* to go back *for* these things, even
if it means straitjacketing myself again in the trappings of a role I never really knew how to
play well enough to convice anyone who mattered. Especially not myself.

Besides which: Keller's still Keller, like I'm still me and Vern's still Vern. I know how both
their minds work, *intimately*, oh my yes; easier far than you'd ever dream to map out
thought-patterns when the only guys you deal with keep their brains down their pants. Know Vern
well enough to know his wick-dipping sessions with Kobold haven't done as much to distract him,
when all's said and done, than Chris OR E-gon want to think--couldn't've, could they? Or what
would he be doing rehearsing pre-parole intervention double-speak with *me* in the Post Office
closet, any chance he gets?

Which probably constitutes "cheating" on Chris, in a way--but then again, it's not like he'd never
cheat on *me*. Do it in a New York minute, especially if he somehow thought he "had" to--some
arcane, protection-racket equation of talking vs. walking, trade/trick vs. treat. And me,
meanwhile--

Cheating on him, in my way. No hands, no tongue, no bad touch. No money down. But cheating, just
the same, on the one who says he "loves" me: God, it's so very, very bad, isn't it? It's a sin.
It's just, just...so...

...*easy.*

Always was. Always will be.

Lawyer's trick, so pay attention now--not that I think most of us need a LOT of coaching in this
particular area, sad truth to tell, and K-boy himself very definitely included. All you have to do
is convince yourself you're not *really* lying, that it's just an "alternate interpretation of the
case". Like: No, no, no, Mr Keller--please don't tell me if you're guilty or not, 'cause I frankly
don't care to know for sure, either way. Not if I want to keep things exactly the way they are,
right up 'till that very split-second I...

...don't.
 
Putting out, putting up: Getting all the milk, buying none of the cow--or would that be bull?
MaNIpulating you, right under your haughty, hawkish nose, with every word, every move, everything
I say or do. Everything I let *you* do.

You want me so bad, and I'm SO yours, and you so *want* me to be yours. To SAY I'm yours. Which I
do, often enough: Say "love" fluently, readily, easily. 'Cause all in all, it's pretty damn easy
to say, especially under the usual circumstances--oh yes, oh *now*, oh Chris, oh *God* I LOVE
you...

But as for anything else, after everything that's already happened between us--after everything
that might still--

(good, bad, indifferent, ecstatic)

--as for anything else, I guess I just don't trust you enough to give you that...satisfaction,
really. Not anymore.
 
Every other kind, but never that.

***

PART THREE
(From unsigned notes found in Chris Keller's pod, afterward):

Oz: Hard times doing hard time, buried alive in the most penile possible stretch of the entire
American penal system. Tits and shanks and fucks, eye- and other; McManus' whims, Glynn's
ultimatums, the various hacks' insults; Ad Seg on the one hand, Death Row on the other,
mind-numbing routine and endless ever-changing rules and widespread systematic abuse of power, oh
MY. And all of it on and on, world without end, every second of every *minute* of every HOUR of
*every Goddamn DAY*...
 
But that's not even true, not absolutely. 'Cause even on its worst week--no matter how Governor
Devil and his tough-on-crime cronies might like to pretend otherwise--Oz is still packed full of
human beings, kind'a big-brained monkeys who can make a minute's distraction out of two flies
fucking in a pinch, 'long as they get to put a little money down on who comes first.
 
Times like these, skells in Oz can almost convince themselves they're *people* again, 'stead of
two-legged rats in a too-small cage. And I can ALMOST see Tobias Beecher start relaxin' out of
that stiff-necked, diffident, nose-in-the-air pose he's been adopting, more and more, ever
since...when, exactly?
 
Since me'n him had finally that little talk about his upcoming parole hearing, maybe--gone into
specifics, got it all out in the open. When I finally set Toby-baby straight, *explicitly*, about
which of the many cards in our mutual deck--all those potentially damaging secrets the two of us
racked up on each other, over the years we already spent joined at the hip(s)--I'd be willing to
lay on McManus's table, if and when it finally came down to him, the Tobester, possibly getting
out early and leaving me lonely.
 
Pussy-bitch Beech, working sooo long and hard to get his hapless, "harmless"  image back on track,
after a whole year with no bit-off dicks or shat-on faces racked up. Keeping his nose and
record--give or take a few drunk and disorderlies, plus that pattern of fairly continual,
uh..."sexual infractions"--

(mmm, yeah, bay-bee)

--clean, so's he can look forward to waltzin' out those plexiglass contact doors with his branded
ass hidden under his mothball-scented suit, Mommy and Daddy and kiddies make six in tow: Time
served, lesson learned, a solid fuckin' citizen.
 
And nobody but nasty ol' lifer Chris K. left knowing any better about who it was--beside the kid's
own Nazi nutbucket Dad--helped set Andy Schillinger up with that last bag of junk, ushering the
weedy little fuck out of the Hole in a body-bag. Who it was in the copy-room supply closet with
the shank, face masked by shadows cast from a back-lit bulb and a shitload of close-stacked
paper--up from behind with the one, two, BOOM and out, *gone*, and me left high and not so dry on
the dirty concrete floor, coughing blood through my nose from a fuckin' perforated lung...
 
...or who it was in that *other* supply closet, mano to mano with C.O. Karl Metzger, while I was
spillin' my guts to McManus and riskin' Vern Schillinger's pure-White wrath for copping to
breaking Beech's limbs--just the arms, though--along with his heart. Who it was took sharpened
kitty-claws to the big hack's face and neck, popped his eye, opened his jugular; single-handedly
destroyed Vern's last foothold in Em City, then stalk-limped away before anybody could blame him
for the mess he'd made--

--let alone collar him, literally red-handed, and make him clean it up.
 
Last week, after lights-out: Toby staring up at me, eyes narrowed, face mask-set; that normally
cute line between his brows furrowed far enough to start looking more like a half-healed slash.
And telling me, without any emphasis at all--telling HIMSELF, more like, and frontin' so hard you
could almost think he actually believed it--
 
*You know you can't prove anything.*
 
(Four years on the floor, and *still* thinkin' like a fuckin' lawyer.)
 
While me, I just smirk wide. Then lean in even closer, all heat and scent and calculated smoulder,
to murmur:
 
*BAby. This ain't a court of law, here--I don't have to 'prove' shit. Just drop the hint, let
Glynn and whoever do the work for me, sit back...*
 
(...and watch the truth...set me free.)
 
But not YOU, honey-bunny. Oh no. Not anytime before twelve years gone, or more--or even longer,
things play out their absolute worst-case scenario. And don't think it won't come to that,
'specially if you make it.
 
Now: Do we *understand* each other?
 
(Good.)

Just yet one more of the continuing mysteries of Beecher, for all that the bitch shouldn't even
*have* any more mysteries to uncover, skim, plumb. Then touch bottom and still find yourself
somehow shit out the other side, with no firmer a grip on his slippery core than you ever had to
begin with...

Watching from the sidelines, like always, while he limp-stalks between the clicks: Hill, Pancamo,
O'Reily--the Others, the Sicillians, the Gays. Said, new beard on end, reaching to grab Beech's
sleeve on the go-by; see 'em leaning with their heads together, dark and bright, while Arif and
*his* bunch glare daggers from the study-room door. 'Cause nobody likes their imam--deposed or
not--getting all cozy with the quad's resident whore, not even when he's cut his business back
down to one particular port a' call...

I let him sit, slide my pawn over and give him a sly glance under my brows--*not too slick,
bay-bee.* Then wonder aloud:
 
"Hey, you back in the fold, or what? I mean, not like I don't love the idea of seein' you with
your ass in the air four times a day --"

"Chris. Don't be a moron."

"'Moron''s the same thing as 'retard', right?" Leaning closer: "C'mon, though--you really think
he's gonna let you worship again, with me in the picture? Koran pretty much frowns on that shit,
last time I heard."

"It's...complicated. But no, I'm not; besides which, if I *was*, I'd have to worship with Arif
looking over my shoulder, not Said. In point of fact."

"That'd suck."

A nod, a snort. "You're telling me."

And both of us glance over at the guy in question, prob'ly thinkin' pretty much the same thing: I
mean, Hamid Khan you could actually have some kind of respect for. Sure, he was young, dumb and
full of the Will of Allah, but he was--*righteous*, I guess. Talked it like he walked it. Arif,
though--

"You know," Beech says, "Arif's basic problem is he's a snob. A rule man. Just, so--"

"--stick-up-the-butt?"

"You could put it that way." A pause. "Well, and so was Said, when he first came in--but he always
wore it a little better, you know? Arif'll never be more than a good second-in-command; he tries
to strike the same pose, but he just ends up looking...persnicketty."

"Man, THAT's a word. Say it again: 'Per...SNICKetty.'"
 
He gives me a look--*the* look, same one I get for anything more'n breathing, most days. And
shoots back, coolly--

"How come everything you say, no matter the context, always ends up sounding like 'Do me right
here on the table'?"
 
I shrug, grin. Like: *It's a gift." Or maybe: *Hadn't thought you noticed, kitty...*

Except I'm not gonna SAY that, 'cause all I'd get back would be more of the same, plus a big
helping of: *Like you even notice what I 'notice', Christopher.*

Aloud: "Hey, I can't control where your mind goes, baby."
 
(No. But you do keep on *trying*, don't you?)
 
So he leans forward, and does *somethin'* with his forehead, like he's rolling his eyebrows down
for the night: This blue stare, this--smoulder. Little halfway smile, just a few teeth-tips
showin'...
 
Which is when I realize he's doin' ME, right? And not the good way.
 
But damn, it IS funny when he makes his voice all low 'n' raspy, like some really screwed
900-number porno call. And says--
 
"'Laryn...gitis.' 'Goiter.' 'CondoMINium.'"
 
"Well, see, that *does* have 'condom' in it: Not a real big leap."

"Hmmm, I guess." Takes a beat, then: "'...forensic audit.'"

"Aw, look who's gettin' all lawyer on my ass, usin' those big, sexy words."
 
"You mean like 'recusal'? Or 'torte.'"
 
"Yeah. 'Heyyyy, darlin'...c'mon over and let me suck on that--torte awhile.'"
 
"'C'mon over here and help me...organize my briefs.'"
 
And we break up, like little fuckin' kids. So loud I can see Murphy and Howell *both* swerve their
heads around to look--*that somethin' we gotta worry 'bout? No? Shit, then, what IS that,
anyways?*

(Yeah, and that's still the question, though, even afterward. Pretty much.)

'Cause give him a minute or two, and the laughter trails away; give him *ten* minutes, he's up and
movin'. Doin' the hiss 'n' spit two-step with Vern's new bitch Kobold up on the catwalk, near
where los bros O'Reilly slouch and grin--can't really hear what *that*'s about, and B. sure ain't
tellin' when I ask. Just snaps back, short and sharp--

"Look, what am I supposed to tell you? Kid just keeps feeling like he has to fuck with me, for
some stupid reason; territorial, I guess. Like I give a shit *who* Vern's showing the store-room
floor, these days..."

(...or ever)

I shrug, lids droopin' half-mast, kinda doin' my own version of him doin' me--not that he notices.
And thinkin' how damn easy it is to read him, sometimes, 'specially when he thinks he's got his
game-face on tight: Easy as Kobold, still all red and shaking as he pushes the mail-truck past,
looking anywhere BUT at Tobe when he goes by. Which is how I know there *must* be somethin' he's
not telling me, 'cause for all that kid may be dumb--street or otherwise--he AIN'T stupid enough
to get mad over anything he don't need to...

(not in here)
 
So: You *sure* you never did nothin', baby? Nothin' you can think of, to get that Aryan Warrior
Prince blood in that pimply teenage face? Nothin' to keep him still glarin' at you 'cross the
mess-hall floor by the time that dinner-bell rings, with Vern all Big Daddy smug 'n' chatty beside
him...and lookin' everywhere *but* at you, too, come to think. For fuckin' once.

Itch in my crotch, like my pants're on too tight; itch in my brain, like that sore spot you just
HAVE to scratch. Just to see whether or not it keeps on hurtin', which--it does. More and more,
and more.

Lawyer games: Some kinda hook-up in action, some kinda spark hitting match, just out'a my range of
vision. Kinda thing I could sense in my sleep, no matter *how* fucked-out Beecher tries to keep
me--not that I'm complainin', mind you. But even so.

Because: Later, tonight, under the covers, the both of us slamming back and forth like a flesh
cross-saw with his hips hiked over mine, his legs over my shoulders...sweat dripping in each
other's faces, all red and gasping, strained beyond pleasure, beyond pain and out the other side
into something different, something new. Just that same raw, raw itch and *fuck* it feels so good
to scratch at last, in him to the root, our pubic hair tacked and matted together like glue-y
straw; crushed silky glide and slide between us, leaking hot delight all over each other. Balls
like purple stones oh GOD oh FUCK...
 
Never done anybody like this, baby. Never, not no way, not no how. And, knowin' ME, that really
*is* sayin' something.

Oh Jesus, Beecher. Jesus. If you were just somebody else. Or I was. Or we--

Fuck it, though.

'Cause I can see it, now--that thing you think I can't see. That thing you don't want me to. And I
know--

--nothin', not yet. Not yet.

But I'll be watchin'. And...

...God damn it! 'Cause nothing's ever enough with you, is it? Just never know when to lie down and
let things take their course, to let things go. Just be where you are when you're there, and let
it all happen: You and me, together, happy. Most of the time. Right?

I mean, *most* of the time...

Never that simple, though, never ever. Not with YOU, you lyin' fuckin' shyster bitch--

Oh, man. And who do I sound like now, right there, huh? Who?

(Well, I wonder.)

You and me and him, peas in a pod, stuck together like two dogs fuckin': Doomed to haunt each
other for the rest of our Goddamn lives, parole or no parole. You 'n' me, haunting each other like
you haunt Vern-o, like Vern-o haunts you. Like I won't *let* him haunt me, not anymore...

God, God, shit. God DAMN it, Tobias.

Toby.

(-baby.)

Yeah, I'll be watchin', and you'll slip up--soon. Can't not. You bein' you. This bein' Oz. Can't
not, kitty. Because nothin' ever goes the way you want it to, not with us, and sure as *hell* not
in here...

...not yet.

"And if I die before you do
Believe me, I'll be haunting you
I'll come upon you while you sleep
And drown you in a kiss so deep--"
     --Joan Osbourne, "Poison Apples (Hallelujah)"

THE END