[Home | Quicksearch | Search Engine | Random Story | Upload Story]

Beta'd by Erin.

Go Straight to Hell, Boy - part 13/17

by Ralu

"All hell will break loose when Schillinger gets back from the Hole," Hill says, rolling his wheelchair next to Beecher and O'Reily, sitting (as usual) at a table in Em City.

"Maybe, maybe not," Ryan replies, that devilish spark surfacing in his green eyes for a second.

"Why you say that?" Hill asks.

"Because Schillinger wants to stay in Em City, and that means 'no hell breaking loose', Augustus," Beecher morosely points out, keeping his eyes on the game of chess he and O'Reily had been playing: "He'd be out of here and back in Gen Pop in a fucking second if he were to do something. He's not an idiot."

Toby looks up at O'Reily, and they both seem to instantly have the same thought: 'Well, well, aren't we smart?' And it makes them leer at the same time, like a couple of kids. It feels unspeakably good.

He's always had this with O'Reily, even when the only thing bonding them together was heroin. This 'I know you're smart, you know I'm smart, so let's be smart together' feeling.

And it sometimes felt like friendship to Toby. Except of course...(--Ryan didn't have any friends.)

Kind of like the thing he'd had with Keller, both of them so enmeshed into each other's twisted brains, both enjoying each other's weird, irritating quirks.

Only that...(--Ryan never played that game for the same reasons Keller used to.) Or maybe he's wrong about Keller's motivations. Maybe he never *got* the other man at all. Wouldn't be that much of a surprise there...

"Anyway, something's got to happen. Schillinger won't just let this pass him by," Hill says.

"Maybe," O'Reily responds again, smirking triumphant, as he knows he's one step away from beating Beecher at chess. And God knows, that doesn't happen very often.

With Keller it did. More than often. Almost all the time, truth be told. Way back...(--a long, long time ago, when things used to go *his* way.)

When Keller and Beecher used to exchange more that two words to each other, and Schillinger was safely rotting away in Gen Pop; and...(--*Cyril* was twisting his long hair with his fingers, smiling...)

Yeah, a long fucking time ago.


"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw your ass back in Gen Pop."

Schillinger stares at the other man admirably cool, as though looking down at a bug.

"We made a deal, right? When you said you'll transfer me in Em City. I don't fuck with Beecher, we both keep our distance. Well, McManus, I kept my end of the bargain."-- a hypocritical smile: "We haven't even spoken to each other. So I don't see any reason for you not to keep *your* end of the bargain."

McManus nods, annoyed, leaning against his desk:

"Yeah you did. But that doesn't mean you can go around fucking with anybody else."

"I promise," Vern says in that mild-mannered, mocking tone of his: "What happened in the cafeteria was just an accident. It won't happen again." (--'Cross my heart and hope to die. *Really*.'--)

"Okay, but Keller's out of your pod as of this moment."

Schillinger just shrugs, lifting his shoulders and twisting his mouth in utter indifference. Good. He didn't want him in anyway. Not anymore.


Same place, different inmate.

"I don't wanna move out."


McManus frowns and bangs his knuckles on the desk in dismay, gazing at Keller, who's looking down at his feet.

"You heard me. I don't wanna move."

"Where the fuck do you think you are, Keller? This isn't a fucking hotel, you don't get to choose where you stay, *I* do. And why in God's name would you wanna share the same pod with Schillinger? He didn't beat you enough?"

Keller looks up and smiles, a bit amused by the other man's last words. (--'You think you control anything of the shit going on in here, Timmy? Take another good look around, and keep your eyes open this time.'--)

"I'll move you in with Beecher."

"I don't think that's such a great idea, McManus," Keller says choking a sudden, bitter snort: "Beecher doesn't want that," he adds, chewing at his fingernails.

"Yeah...I guess he wouldn't too thrilled about that now, would he?..."

Keller ignores the other man's sarcastic tone, slowly banging one of his boots against the desk in front of him:

"Listen... There's no need to move me out of Schillinger's pod. We're getting along fine," he says, making McManus cross his arms on his chest, huffing and puffing.

"You're getting along *fine*?... Well guess what, Keller. Getting the crap kicked out of you - no matter how personally gratifying that is - doesn't constitute for me a reason good enough to keep you with Schillinger, you hear me? You're moving out, and that's the end of it."

Keller's eyes narrow, turning dark and mean, matching the tone of his voice:

"Don't do it."

"Or you'll what?!" the other man barks at him, standing up and waving his arm: "Get the fuck out of my office!"


So Keller moves in with some stinky dork who he's never talked to before, who's name he can't even pronounce correctly. Ukrainian or Lithuanian or something...

Carrying his stuff, while Schillinger sits at a table with those two Aryans - mean, icy-cold smile firmly placed on his face. And Beecher and O'Reily gaze from in front of the TV.

"End of the fucking marriage, huh, Schillinger?" O'Reily throws at the other man, chuckling. (--'Shit! Even *wife* no. 1 - or no.2 - however you wanna count, sitting here, next to me lasted longer. Losing your *appeal*, or something?'--)

"Getting old, big daddy? Can't get it up for him anymore?" Ryan adds, a bit annoyed the other man isn't giving him the time of day.

"Shut the fuck up," Beecher says - quietly enough for only Ryan to hear - looking at the TV.

Well at least someone's giving him a bit of attention. And weirdly enough, O'Reily keeps his mouth shut. For once.


"I didn't wanna move out."

Schillinger glances up from the book he was reading, staring at Keller for a second, before letting his eyes fall back on the book.

"Get the fuck out of here."

"I didn't wanna move," Keller repeats, keeping his eyes firmly locked onto the other man.

"I heard you the first time," Vern grumbles, looking up at him, raising his eyebrows: "So?"

"I thought you should know," Chris lets out, in the most demoralized tone possible.

"Go tell that to someone who gives a shit, Keller."

"I'm tellin' you."

"Jesus fucking Christ, what do you want?!" Schillinger snaps, instantly regretting letting the other man know he's still somehow...interested.

"I want...things..."-- Keller seems to not be able to find his words, his eyes slipping a little to the corner of the pod: "If you still want me..." (--'I'm here.'--)

"*You*?..." (--'Jesus, it's happening all over again. Only this time you know better, Vern. Or you should...'--)

"Just for fucking," Keller adds quickly, rubbing his thigh with his fingertips, his tongue flicking for a moment over his lower lip, enough for Vern to notice: "And nobody has to know if you don't want them to. And you can do...whatever you want. You know, to make things *right*."

"*Making things right* would mean putting a shank through those ribs of yours, Chrissie," Vern says, a bit disconcerted: "Why?"

"I don't know..."

And he really does seem to have no clue.

Schillinger nods his head for a couple of moments, as if pondering whether to accept his proposition or tell him to fuck off. And the more unstable part of him, the *weaker* side of him wins. (For the moment.)

"Okay. We'll figure something out."

Just fucking him. No strings attached. No need for everybody else to know. No fucking headaches, right?


So later that day, in the same storage closet where Keller works - the same closet he got himself shanked in, the same he took somebody's life in - Christopher Keller finds himself bent over a table, grunting and cursing under his breath, shivering and aching all over, getting fucked in the ass by the same man he's been fucked and fucked over by for as long as he can remember. Even during those moments when Schillinger wasn't around.

Feeling the other man's rough hand clutching on his wrist, pinning him brutally onto the table; its sharp, cold, metal edge painfully nudging into Chris' still sore wounds, splayed on his stomach; Vern's other hand grabbing his throat from behind, making him gag and choke for air. Spit, on the back of his neck; feeling his own fingernails clawing into his arm, drawing blood.

And Vern, coming inside him, muttering slowly the same words he's heard for a lifetime:

"*You* wanted this, you fucking whore. You want this, Chris..."

Business as fucking usual.

---end of part 13/17---

Please send feedback to Ralu.