Prison has a strange way of separating people into groups that they would never consider being part of in the real world. I don’t know if it’s the lack of outside influences or the absence of the judgment you would receive if you were known to associate with these people in your real life, however this environment can create some strange bedfellows.

Take me, for example. I’m sitting at a table filled with neo-Nazi’s, breaking bread—or whatever the hell you want to call the hockey puck-like substance that sits on my tray in lieu of a bread roll—with an easy comradery that makes it appear that we share a similar world view.

Would the man I was known to be on the outside have done this? Not a chance. Yet in here, I was forced to find a clique of some kind that would accept me, or I would have been labelled a loner and subjected to everything that tag brings. Beatings from all the other groups. Targeting by any of the guards who liked to use their strength on lone prisoners to compensate for their own shortcomings outside these walls. Sexual advances from the inmates who didn’t care where they satisfied their craving for human contact.

It was a case of integrate or die.

And, I wasn’t quite ready to die.

I’m a six-foot-two, decently educated, white man. Joining the white supremacists was my only shot at survival. I don’t regret it. Not one bit.

Bloody hell, if it wasn’t for them, I’d be the unwilling bed partner of the big, tattooed guy whose cell door faces mine. He’d made his interest known the day I arrived with puckered lips that blew promising kisses in my direction. Of course, the two assholes escorting me to my new home had made it clear that he could have me if their price was met. Thankfully, a chance encounter with the local Aryan Circle members in the dining hall had put an end to that arrangement since even the guards abide by the rules of engagement set down by the various factions that make up the prison population. I was now under Aryan protection and not for public consumption unless they agreed.

“You gonna finish that?” Mark-Lee, the leader of the gang I integrated into when I arrived, slides on the seat next to me. I stare at my tray with unseeing eyes, not sure what he’s talking about. He quickly lets me know, swiping the previously reference bread roll from my tray, and biting down on it before I’ve answered him.

“Hear you had a little visitor today?” Bread crumbs fly out of his mouth. They hit me on the chin and chest, spraying across the edge of the table and landing in what’s left of the gruel on my tray. “A hot, blonde number in a tight skirt with a set of titties that’d make a grown man weep. Did you tap it or was she here to make you an offer you can’t refuse?”

Fuck me drunk.

I hadn’t even thought about B’s visit becoming common knowledge around the prison. Now I’m left scrambling, needing to decide in a split second how I’m going to play this without pissing off the only person who stands between me and a painful reminder of how alone I am in this establishment.

“I’d rather stick my dick in Sasquatch.” I point at the black guy who sits at a table across the room. He is all brawn and little brains, any ongoing joke to those who aren’t a part of his gang. His effeminate mannerisms are at odds with his beefy appearance. To his left is seated the leader of the Black Guerrilla Family—the Aryan Circle’s most hated enemy. As the main muscle of that group, Sasquatch is as gay as they come, and more than a little dangerous to us.

Mark-Lee guffaws. More bread crumbs soar free. He bangs his fist on the metal table then throws his head back to laugh even louder. The other members of the Circle join him, even though it’s unlikely they even know what’s tickled his humour. It takes everything I have to keep the disdain I’m feeling from showing on my face as their spectacle draws the attention of everyone in the room—from guards to food servers to rival factions.

While I’d love to shrink down until I’m under the table and out of eyesight, I sit proudly beside my leader and eyeball those who stare at us for too long. On the outside, I’m a good little white supremacist—unafraid to share my self-purported superiority. All the while the long-healed tattoo that I received once I’d finished my initiation burns like a brand on my shoulder, and I pray like fuck that no one decides that Mark-Lee’s ongoing antics are reason enough to start a dining hall brawl.

As quickly as it began, the laughter stops, and I find myself on the receiving end of a look I know well. Mark-Lee has smelled a rat and he thinks the stench is coming from my direction.

“Well, since you say you didn’t fuck her, tell me about the offer she made?”

The guy’s paranoia is well-known and extremely warranted. Every now and then, the authorities will pick someone they think is an easy target and offer them a deal to out the Aryan Circle. It never ends well—for the one offered the deal or the authorities.

Mark-Lee makes sure of that.

Knowing this, I decide that honesty is the best policy. “It’s to do with my parole. She’s offering me early release in exchange for my assistance in murdering her enemies. I haven’t decided how I’m going to play it yet.”

He slaps my shoulder, breaking back into laughter that’s louder than before. The response is confusing. Why the fuck does he think this is so fucking funny? I sit there with fear clawing at my gut while he tries to regain his ability to speak.

Once he’s calmed down a bit, Mark-Lee slaps me on the shoulder once again. He leans close enough for me to smell the remnants of our stewed dinner on his breath and reminds me with clear intentions why the authorities are so keen to get their hands on him.

“Now, lying to me is a quick way to get dead.”

I nod when he pauses. Everyone knows this.

“I’m—”

“I get why you might be slow to admit that you’re fucking her.” My protest is cut off and I’m caught off guard by his change of tact. “Milo said she looked like she had a stick up her fancy ass and I know from experience that, while those rich bitches who like to fuck with prisoners on the down-low can pay well, they’re also a hoity-toity fucking nuisance. My advice is to just keep your eye on the prize and make sure you don’t speak out of school.”

The new course this conversation is taking starts a dozen questions hammering around my skull, but I manage to nod when he stops and stares at me, waiting for my agreement.

“Good,” Mark-Lee continues. He stands, and the rest of the gang stands with him. A dozen Aryan Circle members stand tall, glaring down at me with matching promises of retribution in their expressions. “I’d hate to find out that you’re a rat. I despise rats, they’re only good for one thing and that’s stomping.”

“I’m not a rat.”

My objection is ignored as they move en masse toward the exit. I watch them leave, then slowly glance around the dining hall in search of the only two people who can help me. Clocking sight of the guard I’ve nicknamed Mr. Chatty Porn Lover, I push to my feet and make my way over to him.

As I approach, I make eye contact. His eyes widen when I incline my head subtly. They widen further as I pass and mutter, “Tell her she has a deal, but I need out tonight before the shit hits the fan.”

“Consider it done,” he replies just before I reach the door. A heavy hand on my shoulder stops me from leaving and the guard jerks his head toward the exit at the opposite side of the room.

I ponder my next step while he radios for someone to take his place. This door leads to an area of the prison I have never been to before. Over this side, there is only one person with enough clout to protect me from Mark-Lee.

The goddamned Warden. I’m not sure if I’m interested in opening that can of worms. It’s seems counterintuitive to involve the authorities in B’s plan to have me evicted from this prison.

“Follow me.” The guard steps out of his position and another one takes his place. “She told us this might happen. We can have arrangements put into place right now. Ain’t no shit gonna be hittin’ the fan tonight.”

I should feel a weight lift at his breezy assessment of the situation. But, I don’t. Because when your hand has been forced by circumstances beyond your control, there’s no victory or relief to be had.

There is only the stark notion that you’ve been outplayed from the get-go.