In sleep, Adebisi moved with the fluidity and laziness of a jungle animal soon after fresh kill. He adapted to Oz better than most. He had to do what he had always done, act first and fast to show he would not be fucked with. He was a survivor. Adebisi felt he had a duty to help those who were not. Of course they might not agree, they might rebel, but Adebisi always put them in line. And they paid him back, with their bodies, their souls. Come one, come all, for an African tribal course in the school of hard cocks. Bendable knees required. His latest pupil had a finesse for cock-sucking, which made the lessons even sweeter.

This pupil cried out in the midst of another boring night trauma. Adebisi had not heard so much squealing and crying since the first time he gutted a wild zebra. He jumped to the ground, crouching over the bottom bunk.

*smack*

Beecher flew awake with a start. The first vision in his sights was a stunningly bizarre black man, leering at him with no apparent hint of concern. Beecher stared back in confusion. Adebisi simply grinned at him, white teeth practically gleaming in the darkness. He enjoyed the nights when they didn't remember where they were. Then the recognition, the horror, the forced acceptance.....there it goes.

"You hit me."

"Yeah. I hit you white boy. I have the right."

Adebisi mustered every bit of his power to induce fear. He never expected pasty hands that shoved him to the floor. He stared back through the darkness, noticing, for the first time, a flicker of rage behind placid blue eyes.

"Don't...don't touch me..."

Adebisi slowly sauntered back to Beecher, cupping his face in his hands. Temptations to tell him he was pleased with the growing warrior's instinct were brushed aside. He had to show who was in charge. Adebisi wrapped his hands around Beecher's throat, his own dark eyes bulging almost as wide as those of the man he choked. The singsong joy of stealing life began to echo inside his mind. He only stopped when he realized Beecher had nearly run out of oxygen. He wrapped him in his arms, rubbing his dull gold hair. The sobs choked into Adebisi's muscular shoulder were more pleasurable to him than he expected. Arousing, even. A short time later Beecher lifted his head up, eyes puffed. The telltale signs of remorse over his crimes. Adebisi never had to worry about remorse. Or if he had the last time had been so long ago he had forgotten.

He seductively wiped his thumbs along Beecher's eyes, removing the moisture. The digits were then licked with his own eager tongue. This was supposed to be the foreplay. Adebisi made no effort to search for signs of pleasure in his prag, his own needs had to come first. He dragged the quivering man to his knees. Adebisi roughly pushed his boxers down to his ankles. Beecher closed his eyes, complying, enclosing his mouth around the tip of the large erection. The master grinned and exhaled at the warm mouth descending on his cock. Smart boy.

*****************************************

(September 20)

The day began with a sunrise never seen by Oswald's inhabitants. Adebisi missed the pleasures of morning, wishing he had not taken them for granted when they were available.

When the relatively free time arrived Adebisi began his own schemes. His nighttime plaything had a life of his own to lead. His crew never understood why he kept Beecher around in the first place. They could never begin to understand the sheer pleasure in domination. Drug collections, beatings, murders, attempts to corner the tit market...but he had his own little slice of prag heaven to please him every night.

The gang arrived. Minus Jefferson Keane, as it had to be. He missed Keane. He was the closest Adebisi had come to a friend. But not quite a friend, and not a dedicated enough ally to allow Beecher to visit the gangster-turned-Allah sucker on death row. Adebisi nodded at Markstrom, ignoring the Kennyprick tagging behind.

"Yo Adebisi, where's your boyfriend?"

Adebisi lunged forward, never intending to strike. The terror on Kennyprick's face made his mornings so much brighter.

"I have no boyfriend Kennnyyy..." he accentuated the syllables in a way they assumed he could not help, "unless you want to volunteer. You got such a nice little mouth."

Wangler kept his nice little mouth shut that time. Markstrom patted Adebisi's shoulder. Adebisi ignored him, staring at the lanky mick strutting from his upstairs pod. Their eyes met as he descended the stairs. He pondered whether Ryan O'Reilly was worth more as ally or enemy. "C'mon, we gotta get movin' man. We got debts to collect."

Adebisi jerked his head absentmindedly at the words. "Yeah, yeah. Let's get the fuck out of here."

******************************

Hours later, Adebisi found his prag at a library table, lost in a sea of words. Such a fool, ignoring his own instincts to drown in other men's commands. No wonder he got himself a space in this shithole. The law book flew across the hard surface with a single swipe of Adebisi's hand. He eased himself onto the table in the tome's place. He spread his legs wide, giving Beecher a full view of the merchandise he'd already seen too many times. "What's in the book?"

"You wouldn't be interested."

Adebisi lifted Beecher's chin with two fingers, his stare ordering him to tell.

Beecher sighed. "It's a law book. I'm working on Ryan O'Reilly's appeal."

Adebisi pulled Beecher from the chair by his shirt collar. "Ryan O'Reilly? You ask me before helping that mick. Got it?"

"But I just...."

"Ryan O'Reilly is off-limits."

"I thought you said I could do what I wanted during most of the day." The look of self-pity. Adebisi wondered if that worked on people in Beecher's pre-bitch life. Probably.

"You can. But only if I approve first." He slid off the table, dragging Beecher along with him. He slung a heavy arm around his shoulders. "What time does my watch say?"

Beecher quickly looked at Adebisi's watch, his own former watch. "Half-past 4."

Adebisi smiled. "Gym time."

Master and servant walked through the prison briskly, Adebisi feeling generous enough to let his boy walk a few feet away from him. As if that made anyone believe Beecher had balls. A blood-red fingertipped queen passed them, glaring at Beecher with envy. Beecher ignored him. Adebisi got to the gym first, pushing away a biker using the nearest weight bench. He nodded for Beecher to sit. A few weights were put on the bar and slowly lowered into his arms. He began pushing the weight back up, the effort not as strenuous as it was only weeks ago. A half-hour or more passed, Adebisi didn't look at his watch. He crouched down. "Go hit the punching bag."

Beecher wiped away some of the exercise-induced sweat on his face, putting his glasses back on as he stumbled to the other part of the gym. Adebisi watched him admiringly. He didn't want a blob to service him. That's what the overfed, overdrunk, overspoiled white boy was in danger of becoming when he arrived. Now he was leaner and meaner. Never enough to pose any danger to his boss, Adebisi would make sure he stopped before that. But he liked having a healthy prag, until he had a reason to make him not so healthy. "Hit harder." He left his property long enough to snort. When he returned, Schillinger stood beside the bag, offering Beecher tips on how to hit with more force. Adebisi leisurely motioned with his finger. Schillinger ignored him. After a few more moments and a pat on the back to the trainee, he finally walked toward Adebisi. Even his walk told people never to fuck with him. He was another survivor.

"You've got a beauty there. Hope he's worth the sacrifice."

Adebisi looked at the approaching Aryan through long, drowsy eyelashes. "Fuck off."

Schillinger gave him an attempt at a sincere look. "C'mon Adebisi, you know I'm right. The other homeboys don't understand. Beecher needs to be with his own kind."

Adebisi scratched his head. "Ah. Now I see. You don't like the idea of a nigger plowing a white ass. Too fucking baaaaaaad. I'm going to fuck him tonight just for you."

Vern's sincerity vanished, replaced by outright disgust. "I bet you're high right now. Such a waste of that small little brain you got."

Adebisi grabbed at his crotch. "This isn't so small. How do you match up Nazi...want to be beside my other white boy tonight?" He made a grab for Vern's crotch, flinching at the Aryan's strong grip. Quick reflexes.

"Do that again and die nigger."

Adebisi jerked his arm away, prepared to strike. The white, bloated heart of American bigotry and the dark heart of deepest, most deadly Africa. The intense eyefuck ended only when a third party, Ryan, sidled up. "Aren't Aryans supposed to stay away from tainted meat?" Vern shifted his venomous glare from one ruinous motherfucker to another. "Don't fuck with me O'Reilly. Tell the *boy* here he's close to signing his own death warrant. He's too dumb-ass stupid to listen for himself." He stalked away, not looking back after his warning.

"Gotta keep quiet after you suck on those tits man. They give a real fatal case of overinflated ego."

"I'm not afraid of him." He leisurely ran his finger over Ryan's neck. "Not afraid of you either."

Ryan stayed cool under his touch, refusing to flinch. "Listen. I need Beecher's help."

"What you got to make me give a fuck? And don't say free tits."

"He's got a shitload of relatives. And the face of a fucking angel."

"Yeah?"

"Aunt tit, Uncle tit, Cousin tit...." The light bulb clicked on inside Adebisi's head. A shark smile spread across his face. "Hour a day. No more."

The smaller man flashed his own mick's grin. "That's all I need."

*********************************

"No. I won't Adebisi. I'm sorry....."

Adebisi grabbed Beecher's hair and yanked him forward, snaking a deadly bicep around his pale throat. "You do what I say prag. Don't forget."

"They'll catch me. I don't know how to smuggle drugs." Adebisi began to grow tired of the pointless excuses. And he was coming down from his high. Bad combination. "See man. Or woman. Take drug. Swallow. Go potty. What's so complicated lawyer boy?"

"But I....I didn't live in the right world for this."

Adebisi felt the coldness sweep over him. He knew the prag did too, the only explanation for his ashen face. Beecher made a pointless attempt to break free. Too late. Even if he'd said the magic words.

"Right world? Then it's time for a tour." He shoved Beecher onto his hands and knees, ignoring the hiss of pain as flesh met concrete. He ripped Beecher's shorts off his trembling body, placing his hand over Beecher's suddenly dry mouth. "Just call me the goodwill ambassssador." A strange sense of warmth spread through his entire body when he ripped inside the unwilling floor-hugger, a strangled cry of agony coming from his victim. He pulled out as far as possible, pushing back in with more force than even he expected. The process continued until the body underneath him began to lose consciousness. Minutes, hours, Adebisi had no idea. He concentrated, shot his product with a satisfied groan, and roughly pulled out. As he stood, he wiped himself off with nearby toilet paper. Beecher laid still, nearly immobile. A few well-placed kicks cured his paralysis. He crawled back to his bunk, unable to resist when experienced hands tied his hands to the metal bars with bedsheets.

"You are *mine*." Adebisi thumped his chest. "And you will be tied to this bed every night until you realize that. Wrong answer, and I gut you in your sleep. If you're lucky." His nose snarled in derision. "Bitch."

Adebisi began drifting into the relative peace of sleep, drowsiness preventing him from being more surprised that no cries came from the man below him. No sound at all.

*********************************

(December 1)

Months had passed since the last heroin-hazed rape. To Adebisi's initial amazement, and eventual taking for granted, Beecher willingly took it up the ass. Lately, willingly became eagerly. He circled around him like a puppy to his master, no longer giving a fuck about dignity or image. He had finally found his place.

Adebisi watched Beecher out of the corner of an eye. Both men dealt, Adebisi a packet of bliss, Beecher the hearts of boredom. He spoke no words, not even to the old man or O'Reilly. O'Reilly....chatting with the old dago Schibetta at another table, leading him into slow death. Adebisi grinned at the thought of that mick on his knees, experiencing the taste of true chocolate for the first time. Perhaps he could take Beecher's place, when Beecher lost his excitement. They all did eventually.

He heard the call for lights out, finishing his business and slowly climbing the stairs. His Beecher had already arrived, smiling at him contentedly. BBBBBeeecchhheeeerrrrr. What a fucked-up name.

Adebisi adjusted to the arms thrown around his waist when the doors sealed shut. A head leisurely fell onto his shoulder. "How you get a name like Tobias Beecher?"

"Bad luck and WASP breeding. How'd you get that cap?" He playfully grabbed the poofy hat from Adebisi's smooth head.

"Traveling, half-broken down touring bus going through the Serengetti." He smiled at the memory, and the nuzzling into his neck. "Poor fuck lost wallet, hat, life....shitty day for him."

"It probably looks better on you anyway. I missed you."

Adebisi shrugged. "Business."

He softened at the oceanic eyes gently staring inside him. "You taught me to be a man, kept me safe. I'd be dead now if it weren't for you. I love you."

Adebisi ruffled his hair. He didn't express love in return, he felt none for Beecher, and he knew Beecher knew that. He did feel a small amount of pride. Then surprise, when Beecher licked his own lips in some seduction attempt. He placed Adebisi's dark hand on his crotch. "Kiss me." Adebisi shook his head. What a bizarre little man. "Let's get high. Then let's fuck."

***************************

Adebisi lazily looked down at the face planted on his massive chest. Post-coital, post-tit bliss. But he felt wetness on his torso. Not blood, he realized. Must be tears. "no....no.....NOO!!!" Beecher shot up with a madman's pitch, almost banging his head on the bottom of the upper bunk.

Adebisi scratched himself. "Another nightmare?"

Beecher wiped his eyes. "Yes." He ran his hands through his hair, anguished. "About you. Schibetta and Ryan were standing over a dead body. Laughing and laughing. They were standing over your body."

"Bullshit." He put Beecher's hand on his chest. "They never get me."

"Didn't you say Schibetta was going to die?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Don't worry about it."

"But I'm so scared Adebisi. You won't be able to protect yourself, and if you die, I'll be alone, and then Schillinger or some other fuck's going to get their hands on me and I'm so scared and this isn't right and you and..."

"I put glass in his food."

Beecher stopped his rant, straddling Adebisi's midsection. "He can't tell?"

"Nah. Little tiny bits. Slowly kill him." Adebisi ran an eager hand over Beecher's bare stomach, surprised at the firmness. "You not my Pillsbury Doughboy no more."

Adebisi felt Beecher's hands exploring his muscled upper torso. "That's a brilliant plan. It's goddamn brilliant. Painful too I bet." He smiled at the tired nod. "You're a genius." Adebisi squirmed as Beecher circled the dark areas around his nipples, pinching them. Adebisi moaned in guttural pleasure. He shifted again when the wiry man leaned down, capturing his mouth in a surprising kiss. Adebisi grabbed the back of his head, pushing his tongue inside the willing, warm mouth. A tight hand wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping. "I've never been fucked by a genius before."

*********************************

(December 20)

You could suck my dick all year Poklewaldt, but no money, no tits."

Poklewaldt's planned objection caught in his throat when he saw a hack coming. The hack waved the drug-addled weasel away, staring at the dealer instead. "Come with me."

No threats of the Hole, they passed by the paths to the offices of either of the spineless pricks in charge of this prison. Adebisi did not recognize the path, winding, leading to a white door. The hack, visibly afraid but trying not to show it, pushed him inside the spacious room. He pulled out his shank on reflex. No one, until four dagos emerged from shadows. Adebisi recognized them. Nino's men.

The most familiar stepped forward first. D'Angelo. "I still haven't forgotten what you and that mook did to me in the kitchen. But now you've fucked with Mister Schibetta, and we're gonna fuck with you. We oughta force feed glass into those fat lips you got." Adebisi spit through his front teeth, the clear liquid landing at the other man's feet. "I'm gonna bathe in your blood for that, monkey."

Adebisi ripped off his cap and dodged the first ginny that tried to jump him. Fast on his feet, he locked trained arms around his head, smiling at the loud crack of bones. He didn't give a fuck about who ratted him out, or why, his sole instinct was survival. Retribution came later. He lunged forward, slashing his razor-sharp blade along the throat of the nearest enemy. D'Angelo clutched at his windpipe, gasping for air. He collapsed to the floor, arms and legs flailing.

The third managed to blindside the unstoppable creature, trapping Adebisi's arms behind him in a death grip. The fourth, still in shock from the carnage around him, clumsily pulled out his blade. He aimed for the jugular, but the squirming and twisting caused the blade to slice downward, still in his neck but not as fatally. Adebisi hissed at the pain, not letting himself scream. He kicked the shank-wielding dago hard enough that he stumbled into another section of the room. Adebisi's heavy foot slammed onto the toes below his, captor teetering off balance long enough to hear a second sickening crunch of bones. He tried to rise, falling again at the sudden, sharp kick to his balls. Adebisi jumped on top of him, hands reaching across his throat, choking, throttling.

Four down, one more to go if he wanted to get out of here alive. Adebisi chuckled as he saw the blood pouring from his neck wound. He'd bleed to death or be beaten to death by hacks, but he had finally run out of time. No final prayers or bargain with God crossed his mind, only a bargain with himself, and violence. Slowly, with the predator's instinct, he crept for the door, opening, slicing and cutting the unexpecting hack outside until he was barely identifiable. Adebisi looked down at the body through blurred, fleeting vision. Right back where he started. Another cop to kill. He traced the blade across the pale ginny neck. He pushed down, digging into the flesh as deep as he possibly could, and slashed in a horizontal direction.

His vision blacked out before he could see if the hack still had a head. Too soon, yet he had expected this his entire life. Death. He raised his fists into the air, screaming an enraged, booming war cry that sapped his remaining strength. Adebisi hoped his scream echoed through every corner of the prison. Warriors should be remembered, and feared. Even in a shithole called Oz.

***********************************

(December 21, 1997)

".....the brutal killings of five convicts and a correctional officer, one Anthony Guiseppe. The governor is expected to issue a press release at any moment."

Beecher rose from his chair, tossing the headphones onto the seat with a loud thump. He never meant for all those people to die. Just Adebisi. More deaths he had to blame himself for.

Every group inside Em City was speechless at the news. The great McManus Himself stood by the stairs with Whittlesey, listening in disbelief. Even the hushed rumors of a coming riot were briefly swept under the rug. Overdose, maybe, but no one ever expected Adebisi, the unbreakable killing machine, to be murdered himself. None suspected his mourning prag either. Beecher at least hoped his tearful display had fooled the throngs. "He was my life..." he didn't add that his great love Adebisi had abused his body in countless unspeakable ways. Nothing like having to shit a tit out of the ass that was brutalized only days before to make you see the need for those pathetic little hemorrhoid pillows.

Beecher still felt some amazement that he pulled it off. Being the perfect bitch, learning the routine, training himself to retch only when Adebisi was asleep or too high to notice, and picking for information. Nothing worth using, until that one night, after too much sex and too many nosefuls. The memories began to hit him, vivid visions of the risk he took, only a few weeks ago.

//Beecher lightly tapped on the glass, interrupting Nino's snack time. Adebisi was otherwise occupied, leaving him with a few precious minutes. "You're Adebisi's....."

D'Angelo sneered. "Bitch."

"Crude wording, but effective. What business do you have?"

Beecher tried walking into the cell, but a muscled arm stretched across the entryway. He glanced to Schibetta, pleading without saying a word. Schibetta waved D'Angelo away. Beecher moved as close to him as possible, kneeling down beside his chair. "Adebisi's planning to kill you."

Schibetta pushed his hand forward to stop his goon's oncoming charge. "Wait. Why should I believe these accusations? How do I know this isn't just some lover's quarrel?"

"I've risked my life telling you this. But why should I be believed? I'm just some bitch, right? Understood." Beecher picked up a baby tomato from Nino's package. "Adebisi puts glass in these, and the rest of your food."

Schibetta frowned contemptuously, grabbing the tomato from Beecher's hand. "What am I? Some stugatz? I can taste glass."

Beecher shook his head. "Small bits of glass. The long-term damage is fatal. Run some tests, on the food, on yourself, anything. Don't let Adebisi do this. He's crazy. He's going to kill us all. He has to be stopped."

The mob boss waved for D'Angelo to return. "Get him the fuck out of here. I have to think." ///

Beecher didn't know how he came to believe him, or how he avoided eating Adebisi's prepared meals. He didn't want to know. Schibetta believed him, that was all that mattered. And once Schibetta believed him, Adebisi's days were numbered. Beecher dreamed of slaughtering Adebisi himself, but was smart enough to know how to delegate. Beecher's life expectancy may have shortened too, he had to wait and see, but he could deal with the old man. Especially if it were true about killing being easier each time.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, glasses and clean-shaven face. Physical resemblance aside, he no longer recognized his reflection. Rape and revenge had taught him to evolve. He laughed at the thought of Adebisi having a point in all his abuse. Better living through sodomy and all that. Staring more closely, he saw a black face leering back at him, grinning as he flicked a toothpick between pearly white teeth. Beecher threw water over his eyes, the mirror image changing to a young girl, her whole life never to be ahead of her, dead on the car hood. He turned away, hurriedly pushing his glasses back on.

At that point, anything was a welcome distraction. Ryan smiled at him familiarly as he entered the pod uninvited. "Sorry to hear 'bout Adebisi man." Beecher sat down on the bottom bunk, putting his head in his hands. "He was a ruthless sonuvabitch, but not easily forgotten. What he gets for crossing Nino I guess. Poor Nino's beside himself, he hasn't come out of his pod all day, won't eat either. You OK?" Beecher mumbled through his hands. Ryan ran his hand over the naked space between Beecher's shirt collar and gold hair. "I've missed our talks Beecher. We were pretty tight for a while there."

Beecher suppressed the urge to break Ryan's arm for touching him without permission. He looked up at him slowly, a smile mixed with tears. "Yeah. We were."

Ryan rubbed his hand as he passed over a small container. "We could be again."

Beecher looked down at the silver object, snorted before he could think about it, and laid back on his bunk. "I'd like that."

***************************

Several hours later, Ryan strolled to the infirmary, walking quickly but not quickly enough to arouse suspicion. This wasn't supposed to happen.

He overheard bits of conversation between the cock-sucker and Dr. Nathan, standing over an unmoving body. Overdose. Almost fatal. Comatose. Possible chance of recovery.

Ryan cleared his throat and stepped out to meet them, exuding concern more real than he wanted to admit to himself. "Can I see Beecher?" The cock-sucker instantly opened his mouth to say no, Ryan could tell just by the sour expression on his lemon-sucking face. Then Nathan put her hand on his arm. He changed his mind, nodding sharply.

"A few minutes. That's it. Any more, just send flowers."

Ryan mumbled his favorite nickname for him after he and Nathan left. He turned his attention to Beecher. Lifeless, pale, the beginnings of stubble on his porcelain madman's face. The fatal error of amateur schemers, they plan in the fucking here and now, never thinking of long-range consequences.

It took so long to get to Nino, to get rid of the obstacles, and this pussy lawyer blew the whole wad after a single afternoon. Ryan would have to start all over again, chipping into that dago's paranoia.

Looking at the still man, O'Reilly realized he had to expect the unexpected from Beecher. Beecher, a fresh-faced legal eagle with a cherry fresh for popping, never should have lived more than a month with crazy Adebisi as his top and top bunkmate. Beecher never should have figured out how they were going to bump off Schibetta. Beecher never should have been able to whack the toughest, baddest-assed con in the whole prison. (Except *me*, of course, Ryan thought to himself smugly.) Anyone else, Ryan would have sliced off their dick and shoved it up their ass for the destruction of his plans. But he couldn't do that to Beecher. Just one fucking look at the pasty, suffering face, and he couldn't. He tried to make his death relatively painless. Instead, Beecher fucked that all around too, surviving instead of slipping away in quiet bliss. He had to die, he knew about the glass, if he ever had a hint Adebisi didn't work alone, if he told Schibetta....

Ryan snapped himself out of his thoughts. A single word from him, and Beecher could be dead by next morning's breakfast. That's what he should do. He looked at his hand, at the shamrock tattoo, dripping a single drop of blood. The symbol of survival. With no one looking in the near vicinity, he briefly clasped his hand around the comatose Beecher's, whispering a strange blend of comfort and threat. "I'll take care of you." Yeah, he'd kill him. It was the best decision for all. Those baby blues could finally find some peace. He had to get rid of him, maybe not at the moment, maybe when he got more time to prepare, but Beecher *had* to die. Soon. If Ryan told himself that often enough, he could almost begin to believe it.