Thursday Afternoon: Montana State Prison

Three young, African-American prisoners stood outside the entry to the long corridor leading to the laundry room.  The youngest of the three, Jingles, stayed at the entrance as a lookout. Jingles was twenty-six and three years into a fifteen-year stint for rape.  He looked out onto the prison yard.

“Any sign of the man?” asked a second prisoner known as ‘Two-bit.’  He was twenty-nine and enormous, over six-feet-seven and three-hundred pounds, and not an ounce of fat on him. Two-bit had served seven years toward a life-without-parole sentence for murdering two police officers with his bare hands. He referred to all prison guards as ‘the man.’

“All clear,” Jingles replied, wide-eyed. This would be the youngster’s first ‘hit,’ and he was not excited about it. He wished he was anywhere else. His lawyers had been trying to introduce new evidence that might earn him an opportunity for a new trial.  If they caught him, he’d blow any chance he had. He didn’t want to be there, but no one asked his opinion.

“You know the drill, Jingles,” warned the third man, the alpha of this pack, a man they called ‘Oven,’ because he brought the heat. Oven was in prison for murdering four men. Rumor had it, he’d killed at least that many in prison already. “This is a big son-of-a-bitch, so when I give you the signal, you come running. We may need you. You got your shank?”

Jingles nodded, his eyes widening even further. He’d seen the man on many occasions in the prison yard. Privately, he wondered if the three of them could handle him.

“How about you?” Oven asked Two-Bit.

Two-bit held up a seven-inch piece of shard glass, with a handle fashioned from duct tape.

“All right then, let’s go get this big son-of-a-bitch,” Oven said.

Jingles watched as his two friends slipped down the hallway as quietly as possible.  The two men blended into the dark shadows as they reached the doorway to the laundry room.

“Now!” Oven bellowed. It was too dark for Jingles to see what was happening. He leaned forward to listen. A crunching noise and a loud thud resonated, followed by an unholy howl, then a second thud, followed by another cry of pain. There was a final clunk and then... silence. The young lookout nearly lost his water.

Jingles would have run—he wanted to—but realized that if Oven and Two-bit managed to live through this, he’d be a dead man for running away. He bit his lower lip and ambled down the hallway cautiously, holding his shank in front of him. He was breathing heavily, near hyperventilation, and sweating. When he reached the doorway, he noticed his two friends on the floor, writhing in pain.

The dim light in the corridor did not prevent him from realizing just how badly his friends were hurt. They looked as though they’d been hit by a train. He took a quick peek into the laundry room but saw no one.

“Two-bit, Oven, what happened?” he whispered.  Neither man answered. Oven’s body went still, probably dead, he thought. Two-bit writhed in agony. Jingles decided to hell with the repercussions—he’d take his chances and run now, but when he turned, he sensed a large presence standing next to him in the dark. He heard a whooshing sound whipping toward his face.

Jingles recoiled at the force of a vicious blow landing flush on his nose.  Never in his life had he felt such pain. Blood sprayed from his nostrils as he fell backward and to the ground, landing on his backside with an enormous thud.  The blow stunned him, but he was not unconscious. He sat up. For a split second, he considered standing up and swinging back, but the pain seared through his nose and straight to his brain, virtually paralyzing him in agony.  He vainly trying to stop the flow of blood gushing from his nostrils, down his neck and onto his chest.

The dark, towering figure loomed over him. Jingles looked up. The figure squatted in front of him. There was no fight in him. He relaxed, choosing to accept his fate.

“Who sent you to kill me?” the deep voice asked.

“I don’t know,” Jingles replied.

“That’s ok. I know who put out the contract.”

“They arranged it through Oven.”

“Which one is Oven?” he asked.

“The dead one,” Jingles answered.

“He is severely... damaged, but he is not dead,” the dark figure said, “but when he wakes up, he may wish for death.”

“What about Two-bit?” Jingles inquired.

“I doubt he ever walks straight again,” the shadow responded, “and it would surprise me if he does not lose at least one testicle.”

“Are you going to kill me, Mister?” Jingles asked.

“Maybe not… if you help me,” he replied.

“You name it—anything.”

“This little incident will cause an investigation,” he noted. “It cannot involve me. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“When the guards find you, I want you to tell them that three men jumped you and gave you this beating. Tell them they jumped you from behind. When they ask you about me, remind them there were three men. Tell them you did not see who did it. Make them believe you. Do you understand?”

Jingles nodded.

“You saw how easily I neutralized you and your friends. If the stench from this mess blows back in my direction, you will pay the price, all three of you. I will not be as gentle next time. Am I clear?”

“You don’t have to worry, Mister, I promise,” Jingles said.

The dark figure stood and stepped back into the shadows.

He disappeared.