NOTES: This story takes place at Lardner, some two decades before "Operation Toby." Endless slobbery thanks to Stacey H., Linda, Ardent, and Gemma Files for patience, suggestions, and catching my dopey mistakes.


For Stacey, who threatened to hunt me down if I didn't write this...


JAILBAIT

by Rustler


March 1978

By the morning of his thirtieth birthday, Vernon Schillinger had come to grips with the fact that he was one of those unfortunate fuckers who was doomed to an early middle age.

Nobody was ever going to hang the tag 'surprisingly youthful' on ol' Vern, that was for sure. There was too much hair gone already. Too many lines in his face, set too deeply. Too much softness beginning to settle around his midsection now, the flesh starting to bunch into rounded accordion folds when he rolled himself up from his bunk every morning for count.

No, his thirtieth birthday would pass as unremarkably and uncelebrated as his twenty-ninth had. And his twenty-eighth, before that. Which was, frankly, not all that big a deal. Not like his birthday was the important anniversary in Vern's life, anyway. The day for celebration, the only one that counted, was still a year, one month, and fourteen days off in an irreconcilable future.

"Hey, Vern-o!"

Vern's hand slipped in mid-shave. Before he could recover and steady his stroke, the razor had already dipped at enough of an angle to snag on the underside of his left nostril, slicing open a small but stinging nick.

Mercer. Great.

Willfully ignoring the overly familiar tone, the detested nickname, Vern pressed his lips into a thin greeting smile as he met Mercer's lantern-jawed mug in the shower room mirror.

"Larry," he acknowledged with what passed in Vern's facial vocabulary for a pleasant nod.

"Cut yourself, there."

Mercer leaned past Vern's shoulder to jab at the reflection, where the base of Vern's nose was now showing a short dash of crimson.

"Thank you, I see that," Vern replied dryly, comforted for the briefest of moments by a flash-vision of himself turning suddenly and lashing out at Mercer with a much larger razor than the sadly ineffectual orange plastic Bic disposable he currently held in his hand.

A gleaming four-inch cutthroat would do the trick nicely. A blindingly swift lunge, because hell, while he was fantasizing, Vern would be a sleek weapon too -- twisting effortlessly into and out of Mercer's range with the avenging grace of a chop-socky movie martial artist.

Yeah, boy, the stark-yet-dingy shower room tile splashed with Mercer's blood, spurting out in a four-foot radius from the vicious energy of Vern's attack...

He suppressed a chuckle. Oh, Lordy...

"New guys comin' in from processing this afternoon. John says there's maybe a couple of ours on the bus," Mercer continued, rudely jolting Vern back to reality.

Vern picked up Mercer's movements again in the mirror, watching surreptitiously as he unbuttoned his sloppily tucked, grease-and-sweat-stained work shirt. Now that was just a fucking disgrace. Leader of the Aryans running around like that, looking like a gas station attendant, for chrissakes.

Where was the example? Where was the pride?

"We could use some new blood," Vern replied as neutrally as he could manage, monitoring Mercer's reflection carefully for a reaction.

Mercer did pause for a moment, ridiculously enough, in a wobbly one-footed, mid-pants-shedding crouch. But as much of an idiot as Mercer could be, it wasn't likely he'd be goaded into that easy a reveal.

"Yeah." Mercer gave his wadded up pants-shorts-socks combination-unit an unceremonious kick into the same corner he'd discarded his shirt before straightening, pulling his deceptively cherubic form to full six-foot height -- as if in reminder -- or warning.

He wasn't all that big, really, but Mercer did have the hale Brownshirt build -- a kind of old-time Bund beer hall burliness that had managed to carry him into his early fifties still able to more or less fend for himself.

More or less. For now.

Meathead.

"If there's new guys coming, we oughta have a meeting," Mercer shouted back over his shoulder at Vern, competing with the noise of the shower. "Get it set up, huh? Organization Man."

Vern seethed silently, half turning and cocking his hip against the hard ledge of the sink. Get it set up. Like he was Mercer's goddamned secretary, or something. But not only did Mercer not wait for Vern to reply, he immediately stepped into the shower and blasted the spray hard and loud enough to preclude any further conversation.

Dis-missed.

Vern aimed a deadly glare at Mercer's glistening wet back. Get it set up. Certainly. Of course. Anything you say, massah-suh.

Asswipe.

Vern turned back to the mirror. He blotted the remaining scraps of shave cream from his face, packed up his kit, and strode back to the block, grumbling the whole way. 'We oughta have a meeting', he mimicked savagely under his breath, jutting out his jaw to caricature Mercer's oversized chin.

No wonder the fucking wops were gaining the upper hand in Lardner these days. At least the greaseballs understood how to run an operation. Mercer was nothing but a joke; Bobcat Allan would be turning over in his grave if he saw things now.

Oh yeah, Mercer could bust skulls, all right. But any stupid ape could do that -- just ask Tutweiler and the niggers down the hall...

###

Ordinarily, Vern wouldn't have thought much about the sounds of commotion on the other side of the unit. Stupid shit was always going on at the dark end of town -- Tutweiler, or one of his hench-gorillas shaking down some other dumb 'bunny for money, drugs, disgusting nigger-faggotry.

Once in a while the spectacle of violence would rise to the level of genuine entertainment, but real shank duels, or well-matched knock-down brawls, those were pretty rare. For the most part, the white inmates at Vern's end of the corridor would just lean out of their cells, peer down the way to make sure they weren't missing anything really good, and shout a few choice suggestions for the combatants to shut the fuck up already.

But when John Ahrens came running up and grabbed his arm hard enough to hurt, Vern knew something unusual was going on.

"What's happening?" Vern asked between panting breaths as he followed Ahrens at a brisk trot. Inmates beginning to spill out of their cells milled aimlessly into Vern's path, cutting off his ability to hear Ahrens' reply. He did manage to make out a spat reference to 'Tutweiler', though, and really, that was enough.

As they neared the back of the unit, the noise suddenly increased, shouted curses: fuck off motherfucker! and a clangy metallic crash.

Holy shit, what the hell was going on in there?

Shouts and jeers rang off the walls:

"Yo, Tutty! Fuck that sweet white ass!"

"Get that boy, man!"

White

The word burned in Vern's ears, and something automatic, primal seemed to kick into gear. New busload of inmates, and Tutweiler was trying to take another white prag. He'd had a string of 'em in F-block and now he was trying to do it here? Right under the nose of the Brotherhood? Not in Vern's goddamned unit. Not while he was still alive to do something about it.

Blood pumping, roaring in his head, Vern bulled his way through the startled crowd beginning to gather around Tutweiler's cell. Before any of Tutweiler's buddies could react, Vern had already burst through the doorway, Ahrens following in his wake.

"Get your fucking hands off that boy!"

Vern's voice sounded huge and furious, even to himself. It took a moment to register the fact that it really was a boy struggling to breathe past Tutweiler's monstrous strangling hands.

"...kill this fucking little bitch!" Tutweiler yelled -- a strange, high, crazed note in his voice very different from his usual, cool 'hey-my-brother' bullshit mellow.

"Tutweiler!" Vern bellowed again, this time stepping in, stepping up, and reaching prying fingers in to ease back Tutweiler's vise-grip on the boy's throat. Ahrens jumped in too -- once Vern had led the way, of course -- surprising Tutweiler with a two-handed, laced-fingered smash to the upper back.

When Tutweiler twisted around to look for the source of the clubbing, Vern managed to land a blow to his jaw with one hand, while continuing to tug on that iron-fisted stranglehold with the other.

"...kill you too, Schillinger!"

The kid let out an audible gasp: fuck, and suddenly broke loose. Tutweiler's buddies had had time to react by now though, and in what seemed like an eyeblink, the tiny cell was filled with hot, angry bodies, roiling in ancient hatreds and generalized rage.

Jostled and tossed in the melee, Vern felt an odd peace, dizzily elated in the luxurious wash of violence. He tasted blood in his mouth and lost track of the scot-free damage he was inflicting, how many times he'd lashed out, making hard, random contact with his fists and his feet.

"Break it up! Break it up!"

The shouts, billyclubs, and blue-jacketed elbows of the hacks moving in finally managed to penetrate Vern's awareness. He was hauled in mid-swing off some nameless 'spic who'd wandered into the mix. Rough Irish, cop-reject hands shoved him to the far side of the cell with the other white faces, all held at bay by a wall of braced uniformed arms.

Vern blinked and found himself standing again -- panting, humming with energy -- next to the boy whose life he'd likely just saved. He turned slightly to try and get a better look at the unknown beneficiary of his own foul mood that morning. Not that it really mattered. Nothing personal, here. Vern had just been sparing the Brotherhood an indignity, after all... He could admit a slight curiosity though, as to what it was about this kid that had pissed off Tutweiler that badly.

But before Vern could even manage a good look, more hack arms were in his face, more hack hands grabbing and pushing, bored hack voices yelling: "Show's over! Back to your fucking cells!"

And Vern was about-faced and shoved into a shuffling double-time, close enough behind Ahrens to breathe the hot scent of his sweat. Together, the small gang of white inmates were herded away from Tutweiler's cell and back down the corridor. Up at the front of the line, Vern spotted the fuzzy tips of Mercer's gray-blond brushcut.

Nice of you to stop by, fuckhead. Last in, first out. Way to stand up for the race.

Once he had come down a little more from his adrenaline-smug high though, Vern couldn't help wondering what the hell he had been thinking, jumping in blind like that. He might have just put his timely release from this hellhole in jeopardy with that little stunt.

At least the hacks didn't seem inclined to make a big paperwork-generating mess out of the altercation, thank God. And for once, Vern was actually grateful for derelict government employees doing as little work as possible on the taxpayer dole.

The entire Brotherhood was buzzing with excitement at the other end of the hall. Without particularly trying, Vern tuned in tidbits of conversation:

"Seventeen fucking years old, that kid."

"And they sent him here? You on the bus with him? He talk?"

"Yeah, but no, kept to himself."

Seventeen, Jesus. Vern knew the state was starting to sentence some juveniles as adults now, but in the three years he'd been at Lardner, he hadn't seen one yet. Guess there had to be a first time for everything.

"Where'd he go?" Vern was mildly surprised to hear his own voice speaking.

"Who? Keller? Hack took him to the infirmary, see if his head's gonna stay on," Ahrens replied. "Think you got there just in time, Vern."

"He even one of ours?" Vern asked with a resigned sigh, knowing in his gut the answer was going to be 'no'.

"Nah. Seems like a loner," piped in a guy Vern had never met before. One of the new Brothers, presumably.

"He's still a white kid," Ahrens said quietly. "We oughta get him moved down this end. You saw Tutweiler, that ain't just gonna pass."

Everyone was silent for a moment as the implication of that sank in. And it was true, if Tutweiler had set his sights on the boy, for whatever reason, it would be a major loss of face if he failed.

"You got nobody in with you now," Mercer spoke up suddenly, nodding in Vern's direction. "Why don't you take him for a while?"

"What? Larry..." Vern started to protest, but it died in his throat under the dismissive shift of Mercer's eyes back towards Ahrens, and the impromptu AB meeting Vern had managed to set up without even meaning to. The continuing conversation drifted around, while Vern's main attention settled in for a good mental bitch'n'moan at this latest insult to his fast-waning dignity.

Fate had it in for him, Vern didn't know what other explanation to credit or blame at this point, because he had already been stuck, over the past three years, with the worst succession of cellmates imaginable.

For the first interminable 18 months, it had been Eyre -- the loudmouth. From lights up to lights out, Eyre had jabbered non-stop, voicing his moronic opinions on every fucking thing that happened every fucking day. It was like being stuck in hell with play by play from Howard Cosell. And of course since Eyre had been a personal pal of Mercer's from a previous stint, Vern couldn't even beat the jackass to shut him up. The day Eyre had been released early on good behavior, Vern'd felt like he was the one paroled.

Then there had been Forrest. Oh, Christ. Snivelly old guy with the nervous stomach and lingering odor of flop sweat and vomit hovering around him like a noxious cloud. Fortunately, Forrest's condition had turned out to be some kind of horrible gastric cancer and he didn't last too long.

Caswell snored like a buzzsaw. Hafker was a disgusting slob. Watson stuttered so badly Vern just wanted to shake him.

In fact, the only halfway human cellmate Vern had had in the whole fucking time he'd been here, was Herbert Nestor. And he'd turned out to be a kike -- so, not halfway human after all.

But finally, finally! For the last six weeks after Nestor'd been transferred out, there'd been no one.

Blissful privacy, blessed quiet.

And now Mercer was going to stick him with this... teenager?

Vern didn't like teenagers. Shiftless, disrespectful, spoiled. Congregating in bored, unsupervised gangs in parking lots and on stoops. 'Hanging out' -- as though that were an ambition. Playing that godawful music too loud. Wearing their godawful hair too long. Bringing in drugs. Drinking. Leaving broken glass and shit everywhere they went. Some future of America. Fucking kids were bad as niggers for a neighborhood of hard working people.

And now Mercer wanted him to live with one. Well wasn't that just great. Go up to the office and offer to take in some good-for-nothing piece of juvie trash who hadn't been here two hours without getting himself into trouble.

But what was Vern going to do? Refuse? Risk open mutiny?

Shit.

###

Hack dropped Keller off with all his crap less than two hours later. Vern gave his new cellmate the eyeball. There had been so much confusion with the whole Tutweiler thing, Vern hadn't really gotten much of a sense of who or what this boy even was. Some kind of mutt Vern figured, although what kind, lord only knew. Doubtful Keller had any idea himself. At least he looked pretty white.

Tall enough, closing in on six feet. Past the really gawky phase of adolescence already, but he obviously still had some filling out to do. Hard little street punk face, dead blue eyes. Oh, a regular tough guy.

Please.

They'd stuck a butterfly bandage over a gash on his eyebrow in the infirmary, the bright white of the dressing peeking out from under fashionably shaggy dark hair. Mottled bruises were beginning to form around his throat, and a few other marks looked like they'd be darkening shortly. Yeah, Keller was a little banged up from the scuffle with Tutweiler -- but all in all, he'd been pretty lucky.

Vern noticed one of those Saint Someone-or-other medals on a thin silver chain around Keller's neck...so, Catholic. Which was a shame, but at least the kid hadn't started running around mumbling Hail Mary's or any of those other voodoo chants. And at least he wasn't a fucking Jew.

At any rate, their first order of business was clear. Vern had picked up a passing reference to possession as one of the charges Keller was in on. Nobody seemed to know quite the whole story: assault, B&E maybe, someone had said something about grand theft auto -- but it was the mention of possession that stuck. Even if Keller wasn't AB, Vern was not about to put up with any drug bullshit. That little chat was going to take place straight away.

"You do drugs?" Vern asked, indicating with a pointed finger that Keller was to take the lower bunk. Vern had slept there before, back when this had been a private cell. Now he'd be moving upstairs, thank you.

"Some." Keller shrugged, face composed, eyes carefully blank.

"Some? Like what?"

"I dunno, nothing serious. I get high sometimes."

"On?" Vern demanded, starting to lose patience.

Another shrug. "Whatever's around." Then a small, wry smile. "Why, you a hack, or something?"

"Not hardly," Vern snorted, momentarily distracted by the crack, and surprised at his own amused reaction. But this wasn't funny. This was business.

Refusing to be charmed, Vern recovered quickly, calling up his best don't-fuck-with-me glare. "You listen up, boy. No drugs, got that? Not so long as you're living with me. You want to do that shit, you can go find yourself someplace else to stay."

"Not a problem," Keller said, straightening up. His face and voice had both gone so respectfully solemn, Vern wasn't sure he hadn't imagined the earlier smirk.

"Well, see that it isn't."

Keller continued to stand there, expectantly, and Vern suddenly realized he was awaiting the rest of the conditions.

Conditions... and Vern suppressed a savage smile as it dawned on him that this kid was really completely at his mercy. Of all his cellmates, with the exception of Nestor, who'd just had to leave pronto that had never really been the case before.

It certainly hadn't been true for the loudmouth, Eyre -- Mercer's prized poodle. And Forrest, before he croaked, had been somewhat of a Brotherhood elder statesman, besides playing the invalid card. Watson, the stutterer, also had a bench press of three hundred pounds - which seemed like a pretty good indication that he'd been given shit for that little problem one too many times in the past. Caswell and Hafker were both pretty popular in the Brotherhood -- easy enough for the rest of them who didn't have to live with either the snoring or the vermin.

But this kid? He was a zero. He wasn't even AB. He didn't count for shit in anybody's book.

So...yes. Conditions...

Vern quickly warmed to his task. Mentally reviewing the unbearable traits of cellmates' past, he began ticking off items of import on his fingers.

"I don't want to hear too much talking out of you. If I tell you to shut up, just shut the fuck up. Also, you keep this place clean. I don't want to catch you smuggling any food back here. No rats or roaches in my cell.

"You get sick? Crawl off and die in the wall or something, but stay the hell away from me. Oh yeah, and one more thing. No snoring. Swear to God, I'll smother you in your sleep if you fucking snore."

Keller seemed to consider the list for a moment before he gave an agreeable nod. "Okay."

Hmm. Okay. Easy enough. But what now?

An uncomfortable silence followed as Vern folded his arms across his chest, eyes sweeping around the cell for something else to make a point of. He couldn't help feeling like he ought to hassle the kid a little more, just on principle.

Giving Keller the once-over again, Vern's eyes fixed on the Saint-Whoozawhatsit medal.

"What's with the necklace?"

Keller glanced down at his chest, as though to check that the small charm were still there. "Ah, 's from my mom. Supposed to protect me or some shit."

Vern arched an eyebrow. "Doesn't seem to be working very well, now does it?"

"I'm still alive." Keller shrugged. Then his face lit up with a smile, disarmingly handsome in spite of the bruise beginning to purple high on his left cheekbone. "Anyway, chicks like it."

Vern blinked and glanced away, self-consciously aware he'd been staring.

"Do you, uh, have a girlfriend?" Vern asked to cover his discomfort, forcing a casually conversational tone as he busied himself smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the chest pocket of his impeccably pressed work shirt.

"A few."

And when Vern looked back up, Keller was leaning against the bunk, the smile settling into a conspiratorial grin.

Well...

Suddenly, Vern hoped to hell he wasn't visibly blushing. How fucking pathetic. He was going to come across like some kind of goddamned prude. What the hell had gotten into him?

Of course these kids today were all screwing each other's brains out left and right. Not like when Vern was growing up. The only ones cashing in on the whole 'free love' thing back then were those degenerate, Marxist, artsy fartsy guys. Or college brats, banging stoned, stringy-haired hippie co-eds.

Not being artsy or a college brat, Vern hadn't managed to get it wet until he was nearly twenty, grunting out his massed frustrations into a mousy but serviceable cousin of Bobcat Allan's who'd always seemed to be hanging around.

"You can fuck her if you want, you know," Bobcat'd said to him one night after everyone else had gone home. "It's okay, all of us have."

Vern shook himself back to the present. It was neither here nor there, since there weren't any women at all in this fucking place. Not unless you counted shriveled up old Mrs. Exley, the warden's secretary -- and Vern didn't.

"Well, I hope you're not planning on hanging any rosaries or anything up here," Vern muttered, still pissed at having to think about any of this shit at all.

"Nah, I'm, uh, not real religious or nothing," Keller said quietly. "And...I know this isn't what you wanted. You saved my life today, man. I owe you. I'll try to keep out of your way."

There was an appealing reasonableness in the tone of that softly spoken voice. It managed to penetrate Vern's burst of temper, and he felt a little silly for having reacted so strongly. It wasn't really Keller's fault, after all. He hadn't asked to be put in here, that was Mercer's doing.

"Ah," Vern let out a huff of breath. "Let's just see how it goes."

###

But as it turned out, living with Keller wasn't too bad. After a couple of days, Vern was even willing to admit that it was better than being solo. That had become, ultimately -- honestly -- kind of lonely. Because sure, Vern was a hell of a lot smarter than most of the stupid fucks in the joint, but it's not like he was a goddamned bookworm, or anything. He was a social creature at heart, provided the company was good.

And this kid was... good. Good company. An amusing companion.

He was mostly quiet in the group, careful so far not to tick anyone off. And considering that most of the Brothers seemed to have adopted Mercer's conviction that Vern wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs, there was something, well, gratifying about the fact that Keller seemed to save his sly sense of humor for Vern's ears alone.

He was quick on the uptake too, even though school clearly hadn't been in the picture very long. And he had a good memory. Which was fucking nice, frankly, because it was a royal pain to have to keep explaining the rules of each new flavor of poker over and over again to some of these jackasses. Forget about anything more complicated, like chess. But Keller seemed to be able to hang back, watch a few rounds of just about any kind of game, and grasp the basic strategy and objective. At that, he was a natural.

If Vern had any real complaint, it was that Keller could be kind of lazy. Maybe a little too accustomed to being able to slide by on his wits and charm. That might play in the outside world, but it didn't wash with Vern.

He stood in the doorway after work detail, arms akimbo, looking around the cell. It wasn't terrible, just some scattered clothes and stuff. But Vern didn't have to put up with terrible anymore. Hell, he didn't have to accept anything less than perfection according to the rules of his new arrangement.

Keller seemed oblivious to Vern's presence, stretched out bonelessly in the lower bunk, half-drowsing, half-reading an old motorcycle magazine picked up from one of the bikers. He looked like any aimless teenager hanging out in his bedroom, not a con doing hard time in a state pen.

Well, except for the bars.

And, as was his habit while kicking back and relaxing in his bunk before supper, Keller had one hand shoved down the front of his pants -- not really actively jerking off -- just kind of idly stroking himself.

Vern blinked when he realized how long he'd been standing there already. "I thought we agreed you were going to keep after this place," he barked, irritation suddenly rising again.

Keller glanced up, expression unreadable for a moment. Probably just startled, Vern figured, because he looked appropriately contrite now, chucking the magazine aside. He rolled out of the bunk with a languid, big cat stretch.

"Sorry."

"Sorry's not getting all your crap picked up," Vern sniffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Yeah." And still Keller hesitated, looking around as though taking measure of what needed to be done -- but not making a move to do anything about it yet.

"You waiting for an engraved invitation?" Vern pressed, heart rate picking up minutely at the whiff of defiance. He dropped his arms to his sides, ready to take a step in if necessary.

"Nah," Keller muttered, finally getting into gear. "I... just fuckin' hate laundry." He kicked at a t-shirt before grabbing it to stuff into the pillowcase he was using to gather his clothes.

Vern detected a surprising degree of authentic venom. "Cleanliness is next to godliness," he teased, mock avuncular, probing.

"It's no big deal." Keller looked down at his feet. Caught in a moment of honest expression, he suddenly seemed exceedingly interested in something on the floor.

"Chris?" Vern asked, but it wasn't a question.

"My stepfather," Keller started, then paused, looking up at Vern as though hoping that alone might suffice for an explanation. But when Vern crossed his arms across his chest again and raised a: 'Yes, go on...' eyebrow, Keller sighed and leaned back against the cell wall.

"We had problems." Anger flashed in eyes that almost never gave anything away. "And when he made me do his laundry -- which he did all the fucking time, fucking slob -- I kind of couldn't help but think about our problems."

"Bad association."

"Yeah, you could say," Keller grumbled under his breath, moving towards the bunks. He hesitated when he neared Vern, then reached out to rest his hand against Vern's shoulder. "I, uh, think there's more stuff under here..."

Vern stared down at Keller's hand for a moment before realizing that the kid just wanted to get by him. He fought a strange flush of embarrassment as he took a quick step back.

"Sorry," Keller said with an apologetic smile, brushing past and dropping to his hands and knees to dig a few more socks out from under the bed.

"Yo, Tutty! Fuck that sweet white ass!"

Vern started in surprise as the voice popped into his head -- whatsisname with the really big teeth -- egging on Tutweiler right before the brawl. In the heat of the moment, the word 'white' had been all that registered. Not...

Sweet.

Vern found his eyes drawn to the bent form on the floor beside the bunks. Yeah, Christopher Keller was one damned healthy looking young man, that was for sure.

And looking down over Keller, noting his effortless grace even doing something stupid like fishing for dirty socks under a bed, Vern swallowed down a lump in his throat he was sure was nothing but envy.

###

"Vern-o! Hey, where's your shadow?"

"My what?"

"The kid."

"I don't know. Gym or something, probably." Vern focused his eyes straight ahead into the mirror, hoping Mercer would get the message that he wasn't really in the mood for bullshit idle chitchat.

No such luck.

"Think he's got kind of a crush on you," Mercer chuckled, leaning against the sink next to Vern. "You bein' his big hero and all."

"Oh, stop," Vern muttered, fighting a flush.

"I dunno," Mercer said with a snicker, "hope you're at least getting a couple blowjobs out of it."

Vern turned to look at Mercer. What was this, some kind of trap?

"What?" Mercer held up his hands feigning protest, and laughed with that annoying chuckle again. "C'mon Vern-o, there's women you marry and women you fuck."

And with that, Mercer -- still laughing -- picked up his towel, and headed for the shower.

What the hell? Vern set down his razor and shook his head. Why would Mercer even joke about shit like that? Faggoty stuff. Vern turned to look over his shoulder at Mercer, now ducking his bristly head under the force of the shower spray. Brothers weren't perverts like Tutweiler and the rest of the cretins in this place. They weren't all...

Mercer didn't really... did he? With who?

Vern felt his ears burning as he mentally ran the list of possibilities, guiltily astonished at his ability to conjure at will an image of just about any guy in Lardner on his knees without even really trying.

Jesus.

Vern shook his head again, suddenly as sure as he had been when he was closing in on twenty with no viable pussy prospects in sight, that everybody and his brother was getting their rocks off on a regular basis, except him.

Except... no.

Oh, no. Mercer was playing head games with him. This was all part of some kind of plan. It had to be. Because Vern was no faggot. And Keller was a normal kid, damn it, with a quickly acquired stash of already wavy-paged porno mags to prove it.

So yeah, sure, Tutweiler wanted that 'sweet white ass'. And Vern pictured Keller again, like he'd been the other day, on the floor by the bunks: that young, tight body. Shit, Tutweiler was still staring daggers at the boy every night across the mess.

But... Vern's eyes narrowed into a squint as he watched Mercer scrubbing down in the shower. But, Christ, what, now he was going to have to keep an eye out on Mercer too?

Fucking hell. This was not what he had signed on for.

###

At least one night a week, Vern made a point of eating supper with John Ahrens. It wasn't solely out of friendship, although Ahrens was generally pretty tolerable. Far more vital, was the information pipeline: Ahrens knew more gossip than a washerwoman's convention, and his sources were unusually good.

For whatever reason, maybe because his jaw was already working, the mess seemed to be the easiest place to get Ahrens to spill. Vern would have taken even more frequent meals with the guy if not for his unfortunate habit of chewing with his mouth open. But for one evening a week? Definitely a worthwhile sacrifice.

"Looks like some housekeeping changes on the way," Ahrens started as they took their seats. He was already chomping noisily around a too-large bite of sogogy dinner roll.

"How so?" Vern asked, giving a dubious eye to the stiff puddle of reconstituted potatoes which had been thwapped onto the center of his tray.

Ahrens visibly warmed to his subject, wriggling down into an excited hunch. "Didn't you hear? Eyre got caught with a truckload of guns. Sentencing's next week. Dollars to doughnuts, he's coming back to Lardner."

"Eyre?" Vern blinked, looking up.

He desperately hoped he'd heard the name wrong, mangled among Ahrens' smacking chews. Like warped calliope music, the memory of Eyre's nonstop chatter began its demented play loop in some deep channel of Vern's brain.

"Yeah, your old roomie. Thought he was buying this stash off some busted up militia, but it was a sting." Ahrens paused to gulp down his mouthful of bread. "Anyway, I'm sure Larry's gonna try and get him back in with us."

"Us?" Vern didn't even make an attempt to keep the angry suspicion out of his voice.

"Well... you," Ahrens corrected with a weak smile, doughy residue smearing his teeth. He tore off another chunk of the roll, hesitating before wadding it into his mouth. "Hey, you're the only one who doesn't already have someone AB in with him, Vern. You can't really expect Larry to keep protecting your little stray puppy there, not when his buddy's on the line."

"Larry isn't protecting my..." Vern broke off when Ahrens suddenly swallowed again and awkwardly shifted his eyes to a far corner of the room. Before he'd had the chance to turn and look over his shoulder, Vern felt the movement beside him, and was surprised to realize how already familiar he'd become with the presence, scent, shape, settling in at his left.

"Vern. John."

"Hey kid," Ahrens mumbled softly, still carrying that watery-stupid look in his eyes.

Vern glanced over, trying to discern how much had been overheard, but Keller was looking down at his tray, face showing only the universal Lardner inmate's expression of terminal culinary disappointment.

Flicking his gaze back across the table at Ahrens, Vern tried to communicate, 'stop looking so fucking squirrelly,' with his eyes, but Ahrens just barked out a hopelessly artificial sounding cough instead, and rose quickly to his feet.

"I'm, uh, I've got to..." He made a gesture with his tray, as though it were tugging him towards some destination across the mess.

"See you, John," Vern muttered, waving Ahrens away before he bungled the exit even more badly by trying to invent an excuse.

They sat in silence for a moment after Ahrens had gone.

"I'm pretty much dead meat, huh?"

The question was asked in such a quiet voice, Vern wasn't sure at first whether he'd merely thought he heard it. He looked over again. Keller hadn't moved, but Vern could sense the tension radiating from him.

And indeed, Keller was in mighty deep shit if Mercer booted him out of the relatively cloistered AB fold. He didn't have any obvious ethnic enclave to slip into, no other affiliation Vern was aware of. And there was still one large, angry, gang-leading nigger who would just love to get reacquainted with the boy.

Now Vern was beginning to feel something that was edging uncomfortably close to the neighborhood of guilt. And that triggered automatic irritation. Because what the hell, not Vern's fault. Not Vern's problem.

He decided very deliberately to ignore Keller's question, and set to the grim task of supper. But an annoying interior voice kept intruding as he chased wrinkled, tasteless peas around the contoured plastic walls of his tray's veggie compartment with a dull-tined fork.

It wasn't his conscience, because, well... nah. But... just as a matter of logic, of fact, Keller was a preferable living companion to Eyre. Granted, almost anybody was better than Eyre, but Keller was...

...your little stray puppy...

Oh, for God's sake.

Vern let out an exasperated sigh and pushed his tray aside.

"Look, far as I know, this is still just a rumor. Nothing's been decided yet," he said in a low voice, glancing around quickly to make sure none of the other Brothers were close enough to overhear. Discussing inside information with Ahrens was one thing, talking to the kid was officially verboten.

Keller leaned subtly closer, inclining his head towards Vern's. His voice dropped to a rough whisper that left a warm ghost tickling at Vern's ear.

"There anything I can do?"

Vern shifted in his seat and drew in a long breath through his nostrils.

"Let me think on it."

###

Of course, trying to "sneak" Keller into the Brotherhood proper at this point was a longshot at best. He'd never shown any inclination, or expressed any interest before, for one thing. He was a fucking Catholic for another. But, it couldn't hurt to get the kid grounded in some basics, at least. Help them make some kind of case for keeping him around.

So, Vern did his best to remember the most fundamental things his father had drilled relentlessly into him when he was young. He dug fading rexographed sheets of Bobcat Allen's essays in The Vigilant out of his footlocker, and read them to Keller during evening lockdown.

"Control. Discipline. Order. These are the foundations of..." Vern's lecture voice trailed off as his eye was drawn, distracted by the sight of Keller lounging back further into his bunk and digging unselfconsciously at the waistband of his jeans.

He watched, involuntarily rapt, every movement of those strong-fingered hands -- following their progress as they dipped below denim to yank free the tucked-in hem of one of those too-small-by-a-size-now t-shirts.

Too small by at least a size, the knee-jerk proper sector of Vern's brain clucked in correction.

White cotton stretching thin across broadening shoulders, outlining thickening pecs... nipples. Keller had been hitting the gym with a vengeance since he landed at Lardner, packing on muscle rapidly. Certainly not a bad idea, all things considered, though Vern was vaguely glad that he was still bigger than the boy. Sheer mass-wise at least, for now.

Keller continued to tug at the shirt, fabric rucking up as he absently scratched and stroked at his stomach and chest. The casual show of all that taut skin, flat planes of muscle, sent a surprising curl of heat down into Vern's own belly.

"Stop that!"

"What?" Keller sat up abruptly. "C'mon, I'm listening!"

"Stop..." Vern spluttered, caught, "...touching yourself! Don't you realize what that..."

But, of course he didn't realize. Couldn't possibly realize.

Dumbass kid.

"Haven't you had enough trouble, Keller? Huh?" Vern jerked his thumb back over his shoulder emphatically towards the barred fourth wall of the cell, gesturing out towards the rest of the unit. "You just waiting for another one of these horny assholes out here to catch you alone? What if I can't save you this time, then what?"

For half a crazy second, Vern thought the twitch of Keller's lips was a fought off smirk. But no... hell, the boy was just embarrassed, lowering his gaze to the floor, dropping both hands almost demurely into his lap.

"Sorry, man. You're right," came the mumbled apology. "I, uh, I do really appreciate you looking out for me, Vern. I mean, I know you don't have to, or nothin', and... it's really cool of you."

"Oh, well..." Vern straightened his back, suddenly at a loss. "That's all right, Chris." He offered a stiff-armed pat to Keller's shoulder. "Let's just keep your nose clean, okay?"

"Control, discipline, order, huh?" Keller looked back up at Vern, and this time there was a smirk, a definite one, and Vern struggled against an impulsive desire to just give into the tease.

"Don't be a smartass," he grumbled instead.

###

Things were more or less quiet over the next couple of days, thank God. But Vern was growing increasingly concerned about the attention Keller was receiving from other inmates.

That conversation in the bathroom with Mercer had been a real eye-opener. He could see it clearly now: in the unit, in the mess, in the rec room. Roving, raking, hungry eyes, and where they were going. Some tried to hide it, tried to be subtle, but Vern had learned how to spot the sneaky ones too.

And Keller's continuing obliviousness didn't help matters any. Or else he wouldn't sit that way, goddamn it. That easy, long, open-legged slouch... boy might as well be putting himself on display in a showroom window.

Vern started purposefully towards Keller's table, reproachful lecture percolating at the ready, but he stopped short when he realized Keller was talking to someone. And not just talking, but fully engaged, leaning across the table, turning on the brights with one of those quick-flash grins. Who the hell was... Fishbein? What on earth could Keller possibly have to discuss with Harold Fishbein?

And Fishbein was... Christ, that was disgusting. Glaze-eyed, slack-jawed jizzball was practically panting. Probably had a big ol' boner just from Keller talking to him. In mid-stride, the verbal invective brewing in Vern's brain took an immediate turn in Harold Fishbein's direction. Because if that dirty old fucking kike thought he was gonna...

What the HELL are you doing?

Vern forced himself to stop walking, fists clenching spasmodically at his sides. What was he thinking? What was he going to do, march over to Keller's table and what, exactly? Make some big scene, go after Fishbein loudly and in public for...

And Vern glanced over at the table again, where Keller and Fishbein sat at opposite ends, the tableau appearing suddenly almost preposterously innocuous.

Talking.

Jesus. What in God's name was wrong with him? Acting like some kind of jealous...

Face burning, pulse beating in his ears, Vern turned sharply and walked with as much speed as he could towards the bathroom without actually breaking into a trot. Thankfully alone, he turned on the tap, ran cool water into his cupped hands and splashed his surprisingly sweaty face.

Goddamnit.

It was this place, was what it was. What prison did to a man, it wasn't natural.

The pressures, the boredom, the bullshit. Endless cycles of time-wasting, pride-squashing, kow-towing, CRAP. All this stuff just bottled inside him with nowhere to go.

Vern pounded his fist against the sink. The minute he got out of here, away from this filthy stinking rathole, he was gonna get himself a wife. Find some sturdy horse of a woman, and make some fucking sons and do his goddamned part for the propagation of the race and all that shit.

But now, right now, it was that asshole Mercer's grinning mug looming up in his brain:

C'mon Vern-o, there's women you marry and women you fuck.

Fuck.

And that was just it. It'd been too fucking long without any fucking... and now...

God damn it!

###

During lockdown that night, in their cell, Vern did his best not to watch Keller get ready for bed. Not to see him peel off his t-shirt, strip down to briefs. Not notice the graceful play of muscles in his back, or what beautiful skin he had, clear and firm, and smooth.

Order. Discipline. Control.

He forced himself to look away, continue with his own normal bedtime routine. Yes, routine was crucial. He bent his head down, and concentrated on unlacing his boots. So, it came as a surprise to him when he heard words growling roughly from his mouth:

"What were you doing today with Harold Fishbein?"

A brief pause let Vern know Keller was weighing his answer.

"'M gonna let him teach me how to play chess."

Vern looked up from unlacing his boots to see if that had been delivered with a straight face. Did Keller really think he was a complete moron?

"You already know how to play chess," Vern said with slow deliberation.

"Well...yeah," Keller laughed. "But Fishbein don't know that."

Vern let his boot drop to the floor with a thunk.

"What are you up to?" He did his best to sound conspiratorial, merely interested. Not suspicious. Not anything... else.

Keller stretched into his bunk, a long arc of limbs. He fixed Vern with a pursed-lipped expression, almost teasing: I-know-something-you-don't. But he was obviously too pleased with himself to drag it out for long.

"Know what Fishbein did before he got sent up here?"

"Fuck do I care?" Vern rumbled, instinctively annoyed at the suggestion he might waste the time or brain function.

"Owned a couple of dry cleaning stores," Keller continued, settling back against his pillow with a satisfied grin and folding his arms behind his head. "Did everything: regular dry cleaning, rugs and shit, fur storage, bulk..."

"Laundry," Vern cut in, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. You're gonna hustle that stupid fuck into doing your laundry for you."

The grin widened. "It's worth a shot."

And Vern wasn't even sure what it was that left him grinding his teeth. Seething. What did he care, really? What difference did it make if the kid practiced his moves on some dumbass hymie? What difference did it make, except...

Except it wasn't just going to be chess, was it?

Not with Keller. Hell, no. The boy couldn't seem to help himself.

No, Chris Keller was all eyelashes, and "shy" smiles. He'd be pretending to listen to the crazy old idiot's stories, laughing at his jokes. Sitting just that little bit too close, all that young, restless energy in his legs, always banging his knee, brushing his thigh against...

Yours.

Red-filtered rage propelled Vern the few steps across the cell. Grabbing the bunk post, he swung into Keller's space, looming over that easy, sprawled out form, throwing that smug face into shadow.

"You're gonna do your own fucking laundry, Keller."

The grin disappeared, replaced by a petulant scowl.

"What?! Why? Come on, Vern!" He tried to sit up, but Vern was quicker, planting a meaty hand on Keller's chest and pushing him back down.

"You shut up!" Anger living through his veins, Vern leaned in harder until he was practically on top of Keller, spittle flying from fury-wet lips. "You're going to do your own fucking laundry. Not only that, you're going to start doing mine!"

"The fuck I am!" Keller shoved at Vern, giving him just the resistance he'd been waiting for.

"Fuck you are, is right." Vern suppressed a savage smile as he lunged forward, knocking Keller's arms aside and pinning them down with his own weight. Keller tried to twist away, but Vern pushed the rest of the way into the bunk on top of him, crushing his bulk down over Keller's mostly naked body.

God, it felt good. Vern was accustomed to the heady adrenal rush of battle, but this... This was something else entirely, a whole new experience of power. Vern felt a raging, aching awareness of the body wriggling and struggling beneath him. He was growing harder by the second, every movement a rub of delicious friction. He shoved his face down into the hollow of Keller's neck, breathing deep to drag in the hot, sweet tang of skin, and sweat, and arousal.

"Get offa me, man," Keller panted. His heavy breath and husky voice puffed moistly into Vern's ear, well close enough to sounds that Vern had been missing for far too long. "Get off of me."

"Oh, I don't think so," Vern grunted, pleased at the excuse this new burst of defiance gave him to grind down harder against Keller's body. "I think perhaps you need a lesson or two about respect."

"Fuck that," Keller spat. "Fuck you!" And with that, he made one big surge, a wrenching twist of his torso that caught Vern off guard, dislodging him momentarily.

But Vern recovered quickly, and for all of Keller's rangy strength, he was no match for Vern's full-grown density -- not to mention Vern's two-plus years of intimate experience with the precise geometry of a Lardner bunkbed.

It was a gratifying scuffle, though, and Vern managed to lever Keller over onto his stomach, bringing that tight round ass, clad now only in sweat-soaked briefs, right into range. Vern silently cursed the layers of his own constraining underwear and pants as he brought his weight back down against Keller's back, humping his hips hard, grinding in mindless pleasure as he felt his cock instinctively lining up right where it belonged.

"Lights are going out any second now, Chris. I'll leave it up to you whether we do this the easy way or the hard way," Vern hissed into Keller's ear. "You don't move, and I'll go get something to make it easier. All right?"

A sniff and barely perceptible nod of acquiescence let Vern know Keller would stay put. Which was good. Smart boy, easier on both of them this way. Vern didn't really want to have to hurt the kid, after all. Not in a way that needed doctors and questions and pointless crap like that. He really rather liked Keller. He just wanted... well, he just wanted, was all. And now he was going to have.

Vern made a quick scan of the tiny cell, then jumped up just long enough to snag a bottle of cream rinse from Keller's toiletry kit. The boy remained still, and silent, waiting.

The call for lights-out came, plunging the cell block into the security-bulb pierced gloom that passed for nighttime in Lardner. Vern quickly stripped off his clothes, pausing a moment to listen for any telltale sounds of a hack on rounds. Satisfied that there was no impending interruption on the horizon, Vern stroked his cock with a gob of the cream rinse and snugged himself back into position between Keller's legs.

He shoved in, then deeper. No crying, thank God, but then, Keller was a pretty tough kid. It was going to take a lot to break him. He pushed harder, the boy's groans, "Vern...come on. Please," enflaming him even further. Only the dimmest part of Vern's brain registered the whispered, harder to hear, "don't."

But all this was Keller's own damned fault, anyway. It wasn't Vern's, it couldn't be -- this body arched beneath him was too knowing. It was sinful. Wrong. Bad, bad, bad. (God, so fucking good!) Stupid, uppity, (beautiful) boy. It was just what he deserved.

Vern thrust harder, punishment pouring out of him. It was all pounding: in his head, in his veins, thrumming through his body more gloriously than any beating he'd ever delivered before. Driving harder still, each slap of skin another lash coming down. A lesson or two about respect, all right, because Vern demanded respect.

Orgasm ripped through him with righteous violence. He shot and shot until his balls ached, and tried to keep his wits enough to force the growls and moans pouring from his mouth to quiet into a vein-popping expulsion of air.

After a moment of savoring release, Vern pulled out to survey the devastation. He sat straddled over Keller's hips, heaving hitching, gasping breaths as the flood tide slowly receded and the familiar surroundings of his cell became recognizable once again. He wasn't sure how much time had actually passed before a labored groan emerged from the limp body below, muffled down into the foam of a state-issue pillow:

"Fuck."

A feral grin rose to Vern's lips. God, where had this feeling been his whole life? How had he never known this before? Yeah, fuck. Fuck is right. Think you're so smart now?

Another groan, low, complaining noise.

"Vern--" That cocky voice gone soft, hoarse. Yeah.

Keller paused to swallow, clear his throat, but Vern doubted it'd do much good. Hoped it wouldn't, because defeat sounded so much sweeter in a whisper. Hips, legs, beneath him, shifting now as Keller tried to roll off of his stomach and onto his side.

Vern eased his weight back just enough to allow the move, but maintained his perch. He could admit it to himself now: he wanted to see. He wanted to look down into that face and enjoy the fear. Wanted a good view of his conquest.

It took a moment to register what he was seeing as Keller rolled over -- mouth even lusher than usual now, bruised and welling. That split-lipped pout breaking into a slow, crooked grin, flashing bloodstained teeth. Laughing in a soft rasp:

"Gonna make me fold it for you, too?"

Vern was caught too stunned to know whether to lay down a pounding fist, or... He swooped in hard, fast, twisting and pinning Keller onto his back this time. He crushed a brutal kiss onto abraded lips and reveled in the taste of Keller's blood in his mouth. He just couldn't seem to muster the...whatever it would take to actually be all that angry right at the moment.

Not after coming his brains out like that. Not after feeling like that. He was too drained, too exultant.

Too relieved.

Of course he couldn't let Keller get away totally free...

"Fold it for you too, sir," Vern growled, breaking off the kiss. "Damn straight I want it folded." Then he reached around to give Keller a hard rub behind the ear. "And it's time you got a goddamned haircut, you hear me? I'm sick of this fucking mop."

"Yes, sir." Keller nodded, composing his features with beautifully faked sincerity.

"You are some piece of work." Vern shook his head and finally let loose a smile. He patted Keller's ass. "Now, be a good boy and go get me a towel."

###

Vern sipped at his wretched coffee and let his gaze wander over the assembled faces of the Brotherhood sitting spread over the greater part of two long tables in the mess. Granted, breakfast wasn't the most forgiving time of day, but man, what a sorry looking bunch of motherfuckers this group had turned out to be. Bleary-eyed, unkempt. A total disgrace. They needed a leader, and what they'd had was Mercer. Good to drink with, good with his fists. Not exactly a visionary.

Vern let out a sigh. So much wasted time.

And where had he been? Just slogging through day, after day, after stinking day. Grumbling and grousing about Mercer, the state of the Brotherhood, and his crappy, stupid cellmates. But he hadn't done anything to change his circumstances. An unforgivable lapse on his own part.

Yes, he'd been dejected over his incarceration. And deeply embittered at being ripped away from his home, his community, his carefully guarded way of life, by a bullshit government more interested in protecting niggers and immigrants than its own real citizens. But explanations weren't excuses. And there was no excuse for accepting his current state of mediocrity. For going along to get along. It was like spitting on everything Dad and Bobcat Allen had ever taught him.

He'd just been going about this whole prison thing all wrong.

Well, things were certainly looking up now. The last few days had been revelatory, the sleep finally rubbed from his eyes. He felt sharp, alert, more clear than he had in years. That was good.

And he had the boy, who was also good. Well, except for when he was bad. Vern suppressed a private smile as he glanced across the table.

The haircut helped Keller fit in better. Short-clipped now, lying dark and sleek against his strongly sculpted head. Set off the clean, athletic lines of his neck and shoulders too. Much better.

Yep. Things were definitely looking up.

But when Vern returned from work detail that afternoon, he found Mercer standing, arms folded and officious-looking, at the door to his cell.

"Larry, what's..." And Vern did a double-take as he looked past Mercer's shoulder to where Keller sat on the floor, footlocker open, slowly and morosely stuffing his things into a pillowcase. "What the hell is going on in here?" Vern demanded, brushing past Mercer into the tiny room. "Chris?"

"Larry said the Brotherhood needs the space," Keller started quietly. "That you're going to the office today to ask for..."

"Put your stuff back," Vern snarled, "you're not going anywhere." Vern pivoted sharply to face Mercer. "Forget it, Larry."

Mercer let out an aggravated sigh. "Don't be stupid, Vern-o. You know Eyre's gonna be..."

"I don't give a flying fuck about Eyre," Vern snapped. "You love that shit-for-brains motormouth so much? You live with him."

He and Mercer were standing squarely in a face-off now.

"Are you actually refusing to request this transfer?"

Let's see, Vern thought, wishing he dared say it out loud: Keller's hot, silky mouth wrapped around my cock? Or, Eyre's 482nd boring and stupid retelling of the time he went fishing for speckled trout? Hmm, decisions, decisions...

"The boy stays with me."

"Vern!"

Mercer looked livid. Understandable, considering what a cooperative sort Vern had generally been in the past. But that was then.

"Sorry, Larry." Vern patted Mercer's tensed shoulder. "I'm sure you'll figure something else out."

"You are making one big mistake, Schillinger."

And Mercer stormed out.

After he'd gone, Vern turned and let out a deep breath. Well! That had been unexpected and rash. Good work there, too. Always made sound, rational, policy decisions thinking with his dick.

Christ.

He looked over at Keller who was still sitting on the floor, a satisfied grin on his face as he offered a sarcastic little 'see-ya' wave at Mercer's retreating back.

"Oh, don't think I don't know what little game you've been playing," Vern muttered as the cascading ramifications of the stand-down with Mercer began to tumble in his brain.

"Mmm..." Keller slid himself up from the floor to his bunk, the sinuous movement pulling Vern by the balls back to the present. "You mind?"

Vern almost laughed. "You're still here."

"I'm very grateful." That bullshit smile.

"Trust me, son. I plan on taking full advantage of that."

###

By suppertime, it was obvious that word of Vern's refusal to let Eyre move back in with him had reached the ears of the entire Brotherhood. John Ahrens looked worn out but pleased, like he'd just had a good fuck. Gossip this choice -- dissention in the ranks -- didn't come along all that often, after all.

Vern was well aware of the eyes turning in his direction as he took his seat, and he could admit to a degree of apprehension. How would the events of that afternoon play among the others? Would they see it as a move against Mercer? A personal objection to Eyre himself? Or, as a slap in the face to the entire Brotherhood -- turning away one of their own to satisfy Vern's selfish indulgence?

Well, there was no way of knowing, except to find out. Vern looked up from his tray, and slowly surveyed the group. They were all still looking at him, faces revealing a nearly even split between sly smiles and disapproving frowns.

Interesting.

The meal resumed, but there was definitely a heightened sense of tension in the air. Most of the frowns had been clumped at the other table. Mercer's inner circle -- men who'd known Larry a long time, grown old and stale together. And Vern's table, he noticed for the first time in a really concrete way, was mostly filled by younger guys, newer guys. Brothers who hadn't found themselves a clear spot in Mercer's regime.

Freddy Pearson, a muscle-bound college football jock who'd murdered his girlfriend, came over with his tray from the chow line and sat next to Keller. It seemed to Vern like a conspicuously deliberate show of support. Then Vern picked up snatches of their conversation -- weight lifting, basketball -- and realized Keller and Pearson were becoming buddies from the gym.

Very interesting.

Of course, John Ahrens was the most important piece of the puzzle. He occupied the middle ground. He knew everything, and everybody wanted to stay on his good side lest they get cut out of the information loop. Ahrens liked Vern, but well enough? Vern looked down towards where Ahrens sat, technically at Mercer's table, but all the way at the end. If he slid his ass over twelve inches to the right, he'd be sitting at Vern's table.

It was an ambiguous position, but not discouraging. That ass could slide.

Vern was still mulling over the scene at supper when they returned to their cell for evening lockdown. Keller climbed into his bunk on his belly, leaning over the edge to rummage around the pile of magazines on the floor below. He emerged with a battered favorite and began leafing through the pages.

"Mercer's scared shitless of you," he mused, flipping open the centerfold.

Vern startled momentarily, alarmed that Keller could read his thoughts.

"You think?" His voice was tight with unrealized anticipation as he waited for the answer, for the confirmation he needed to hear.

"Mmmhmm," Keller hummed softly under his breath, angling his head back to be able to scope out all four pages of stapled, airbrushed slut.

Vern strode over and snatched the magazine away. "Focus."

"I was trying to," Keller groused mildly, propping himself up on one elbow before fixing Vern with a more serious expression. "Of course you're a threat to him, Vern. You're younger, stronger, obviously smarter."

And Vern couldn't help but preen a little at that, even as he began to feel the knot of tension spinning larger in his chest.

"He's losing 'em, man. Old Larry-boy's got to know it's just a matter of time before you're running the Brotherhood." Keller shrugged as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And then the floodgates opened. Because it was, wasn't it? The most natural thing in the world. Survival of the fittest. That was part of their credo, a big part. And of the AB here at Lardner, Vern was the fittest. Evidently -- and not just in his own mind, either, if it was that clear to a seventeen-year-old.

The prospect of action, engagement, the inevitability of triumph, set Vern's mouth watering. And yes, there it was, that vital heat he now craved, rising powerfully, spreading out until it was coursing freely through his veins. Was this what destiny felt like?

"Yes." Vern nodded, grinning, nearly giddy, as he moved to sit on the edge of Keller's bunk. Keller shot him a quizzical look, but slid back towards the wall to make room.

Vern let out a sigh and reached almost without thinking to run his fingers through Keller's freshly shorn hair. Keller startled at the initial touch, but soon responded to the petting with a little hum in his throat. Almost a purr, Vern thought indulgently, continuing the motion.

"I think it should be soon," Vern mused. He paused to absently scritch behind a tantalizingly vulnerable looking ear. "Don't you?"

--FIN--