2001: A Beecher Odyssey. Maybe not. I've been in Oz almost four years, and I've lived and died more times than I care to recall.

Last year, I thought I had a chance. Said taught me how to forgive others, and most importantly, myself. I could live day to day without crouching behind possessive men or facial hair. I got a knife in the side, courtesy of dear old Daddy himself, but that's a breeze compared to an ass-ripping by Nazi horseflesh.

Keller stayed in my head every day I spent in the infirmary. Those hours without his breath on my neck, eyes boring into my back, I finally acknowledged my feelings for him. That was much harder than the next step, realizing any relationship between us would bring nothing but pain. I was sick of pain, that's what I told him when I got back to Em City. I played up wet eyes and a choked sob, hoping if he really loved me, he'd stay away.

"97B412, Beecher."

But he loved me too much. Or not at all. One year ago today, my mentor, my spiritual adviser, my...friend was murdered. Not in that rumored race riot, in a storage room. Tongue cut out, body mutilated. Golly gee Chris, if you wanted to impress me, flowers or candy would've been perfectly fine.

The ripple effects were fitting for a man of Said's stature. McManus dedicated himself to catching the killer, which of course meant he was never found. Pressure groups ensured the firings of McManus *and* Glynn, since Glynn's skin color made him more responsible. Devlin's pawns run both worlds now.

Catherine "Stankysnatch" Stankowski took over Em City. All the articles gushing over a woman in charge, and they casually ignored her ability to do absolutely nothing while taking credit when anything good happens. Not to mention her near-arrest for solicitation back in '82. Hell, I found that out by typing her name in a search engine. A whore belongs in this pit, the place where prostituting your body and soul are the keys to survival. At least she has nice tits.

Adebisi went craz(ier), lunged at Keller with a shank, and was shipped off to the psych ward. I almost miss him, he was an unpredictable son of a bitch. We never even got past first base.

Schillinger and I haven't spoken in months, aside from his occasional taunts. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

I spent about four months wailing and rocking myself, exhausted from staying awake as long as possible. Those dreams have never left, but were at their worst then. The Kathy Rockwell Classic, followed by solo debuts from Kareem Said and Chris Keller.

Said takes my hand, he tries to speak, gagging on the rivers of blood flowing from his mouth. As I pray for his soul, his eyes, ears, and eventually his whole head devolve into an ocean of plasma.

The Keller dreams? Him taunting me about murdering Said, then fucking my ass. Or doing it doggy style beside Said's lifeless body, and then Keller puts my hand on Said's...oh God I can't think about that dream again.

Around May or June, I gave in to my first vice. I wish I could remember the look on Murphy's face when I staggered up to the guard tower, offering a little nip since our boyfriends were both bitches. I barely even remember going to the Hole.

The Hole was a great detox, not to mention more therapeutic than any session with Sister Pete had ever been. Dankness leads to clarity. Keller may have killed Said, but I was the accomplice. I deserved equal responsibility. If I hadn't been such a cock-tease, he'd still be alive. As long as I stayed away from Keller, the danger to anyone who dared to whisper my name continued. So I did what I had to do.

"Happy New Year baby."

Alone in our pod, his small nails scratch against my waist. His thinning hair bunches into my hand when I pull him forward, mouths opening on contact.

His tongue burrows under mine, one hand rubbing my belly, the other encircling my fingers, sliding into covered territory. I fight back, hand jerking, wanting his palm on my cock, not my own. But he's too strong, swallowing the moan produced when my thumb and head meet, feet kicked apart to accomodate his dry humping.

He's the closest I've ever come to evil, making me feel what Schillinger never tried to. Only Keller could destroy my life, twice, and have the nerve to expect me to love him. That I do makes me no better than this pile of scum.

I manage to break away, panting against the glass wall. His anger simmers through the small room.

"You've had my ass every night for months..."

"...and I'm not done yet."

I walk by him, pulling a jar from behind my pillow. He actually looks concerned.

"Toby, you're clean now."

A whiff of the opened booze brings back happy, hazy memories. I smile.

"Some addictions aren't meant to be broken. We don't have champagne, and it *is* almost New Year's, so...take a sip."

Our fingers brush when he grabs the canister, glug in his throat after his generous swallow.

"Powerful shit."

I admire his chest as the shirt goes over his head. His body is more dangerous than ever, tight and broad at the same time. He could snap my neck with a single hand. I almost wish he would.

The grunt flits near my ear when I grab his cock, stroking, our hands pulling his boxers off. I let him force my head down, biting his nipples, licking his pecs, tugging at his navel.

In the shadows, his erection gains power, fascinating me when I run my tongue along the underside. A few white drops coat my throat while I ease the jar over his penis.

"What are you...oh FUCK...you're bad."

Cock doused in the best of the prison still, I suck his head in with a slight hint of teeth, double addictions sending a jolt all over. The rest goes in relatively quickly. I've had enough practice. Liquor and sweat merge in my mouth, hands ripping my hair until his balls are under my chin. After he shoots, I pull off, too dizzy to stand.

I feel his heat beside next to me on the ground, muscled arm pressed against mine. He smirks at the jar waved in his direction.

"Tryin' to get me drunk Toby?"

He grabs before I can answer, taking a second swig. Hand pushed over his mouth, I take it back long enough to drain the last third or fourth. Or fifth. I don't give a shit.

Laughing, I lick the tattoo on his arm, tongue tracing the messiah who screwed me over. I feel pressure on my shirt, ended when it rips in two.

"Keller, that was a good shirt."

My boxers tear away next, body exposed to his wandering fingers.

"Put it on my tab."

I'm on my back now, with those eyes boring into me, cold floor underneath sticky flesh. A finger glides up and between my thighs.

"I love you Toby..such a bitch."

My ass contracts with his finger inside, the rest of me distracted by his hand brushing over my neck.

"Great way to begin the year, ain't it?"

A second finger slips in, wiggling. His hand wraps around my dick. Have to keep some semblance of control.

"Did you kill Said?"

I thought he might get violent, or jump back, but he laughs.

"Yeah. That get you hot? Knowing I killed that pompous nigger just to get in your pants?"

The third finger is a surprise, scratching at my insides.

His words time with his strokes, emphasized with a nail in my piss slit, or a squeeze of my balls.

"Talk talk talk, all he ever did. He was no better than me. 'Cept he had you under his Allah spell."

I arch back when he squeezes a fourth finger in, fluid from my straining erection dripping onto that big hand.

"Nobody wanted to kill him. Cause he was so powerful, right? Wrong. Cause he was too small to fuck with. You wanna do a job right, you have to do it yourself."

Back and forth the fingers go, the stretching pain so bad I whimper for more. Try to look away, his...oh oh aaahhh...

"I took him into the storage room, pushed him actually, he had that look on his face. Y'know, like somebody broke wind. Quick knife to the gut, in the back, jugular, over faster than you can say Ramadan."

Delirious, shaking, want to strangle him with my bare hands. Won't let me get away, don't want to sweet FUCKING Lord...not the thumb no oh yes no...

"Not that he could say it. Loved cutting out his tongue. Tongue he'd never be able to rim you out with, suck your cock, swab that sweet femme mouth...no matter how much you wanted him to. Ha. Only I can do that. Only one who can make you come like a fucking firehose."

I feel the fist, me biting my lip so hard I break it, choking on my own blood when he's pumping me, cum sprayed over me and him oh holy Allah Christ please please p...

"Toby."

What? Huh? I'm in my bunk.

"What happened?"

My mouth is dry, lip raw and painful.

"I fisted ya."

He's staring at me, nervousness hidden behind that chiseled mask. I almost forget who he truly is at times like this.

"I must have passed out."

He nods, feet propped on his bunk. My sore body creaks a few spaces over.

"Hell yeah. Gotta do that again sometime."

We're both on top now, Keller tracing over the dried semen accumulated between us. Sometimes I still shiver when he touches me, more from fear than lust.

"Turn around Toby."

The groan echoes in my raw throat. How loud did I try to scream?

"You're not exhausted yet?"

He shakes his engorged penis. A small twinge of pleasure and pain runs through my spreading legs.

"Baby, after that show, I gotta put this thing somewhere."

It's almost time. Another fuck won't make a difference. My feet run across his shoulders, preparing as his tip enters.

"I'll stop if you yell."

"Sure Keller, you'll stop. Long enough to aim for my mouth."

The pain is smaller than I expected, his pounding into my hips and wheezing laugh distracting from the initial soreness.

His tongue meets each of my toes, left and then right foot. Other than the moments when he's working out, this is his sexiest time. Mid-fuck, determined, in complete control, the control I've never had. My opposite, the check to my balance. My lover.

Slamming for the last time, he empties into me, falling over to nip at my ravaged lower lip. His neck cranes into my shoulder so perfectly, his feet hanging over the bunk. I take a long look at his body, the instrument that gave me pleasure even when I hated the man inside.

"Lift your head up."

He does, eyes plastered shut, fuck-drunk and just plain drunk.

"I love you Chris."

He falls back into my neck, sighing against my collarbone.

"You never call me Chris now. Sure is a special night."

I smooth his hair, pulling him up again.

"It's the anniversary of Said's death. A man better than we ever were. Not a saint, but damn close."

His finger brushes my nipple.

"Bullshit."

"We're dark souls Chris. We reap what we sow."

"Blah blah..lesgo to sleep."

I wish I had a camera to preserve the drowsy grin, but I don't. I only have my shank, hidden under the pillow. By the time his reflexes kick in, I've already slashed across his throat. The blood pours out, Chris gurgling as he tries to go for my throat. I knew that booze would make the difference. He refuses to look away from me, gasping wordlessly before collapsing on the white-to-red sheets.

On the blade, Keller's blood looks as superhuman as he was, but it's only brown muck. I planned to kill him all along. The next part of the plan took more debate, even though I know it's the only true justice for my imam.

"Happy anniversary."

I stare at the ceiling. Chris is still inside me. I like that. A few years ago I would have giggled, but that's disrespectful. The drenched metal slices deep and fast, and I can finally be at peace. Said in jihad. Chris and I in Hell. Said, forgi...