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 The show was never really clear on how Keller got involved in 'Operation
Toby' and I was always curious about what else could have been behind that
little smile of Keller's after Beecher woke up from his nightmare. Here is
my take on that. I own the rights to nothing related to the show, nor do I
own the rights to "Intolerance" by Tool. I just did this for fun.
  
  Pawn by sahem62896  

  "No one is innocent'" '"Tool	 

The bitch in the hack's uniform at the front of the room had been going on
about the rules to follow and the classes to take for so long that to
Keller it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher. Her name was Officer
Whittle-me or Diddle-me '" some fucking thing like that. Whatever her name
was, Keller had already discovered that there was no charming her. He had
tried for a few minutes to meet her eyes as she talked, acting as if he
was fully absorbing everything she was saying, but really hoping that she
would pause for just a minute in her monologue to notice just how nice
those bright blue eyes of his were, or that he had a nice set of
shoulders. He had even tried pinching his chin idly in hopes of drawing
attention to the cast on his arm and maybe extracting a morsel of
sympathy. No luck; Whittle-me was immune to it all. He wondered for a
second or two if she wasn't into guys, then shifted his gaze to the cast
on his arm, surveying the crisscross terrain of the fiberglass that held
the whole works together while she went on flapping her gums. Only once
had Officer Whittle-me stopped to ask sharply if he was paying attention.
He had given a noncommittal "uh-huh" in response, and she had resumed her
lecture. There were other people in the holding cell, but he paid them no
mind. They all looked as bored and washed up as he was. 

Keller heard his name and looked up. "Huh?" 

"I'm going to get your sponsor and I'll be right back," Whittle-me said,
her voice almost drowned out by a harsh buzz. The gates into the part of
the prison she kept calling 'Emerald City' rolled back and she slid
through them. 

Sponsor' he thought idly as they clanked shut again. Must be what they
call the poor bastard they've assigned to me to showme where to shower,
shit, and sit for all these classes. 

He began to focus on the cast again. Really looking at it like this
conjured up the memory of the motorcycle accident that had resulted in him
getting it' the memory of botched robbery, of shooting that clerk dead
before he had a chance to fire his big bad shotgun' about all the drugs he
had done before he got on that bike in the first place' and mostly about
the eighty-eight years in Oz that now awaited him on the other side of
that gate. 

 Eighty-eight years'. Eighty-fucking-eight years'   

The number rolled around in his head in strange, swirling movements that
would have made him nauseous had they been projected on a screen in front
of him. Every once in a while he would look at the gate, and the numbers
would stop swirling in his mind for a second or two. Then they would flash
in his head in a frightening shade of red, filling every part of his
mind's eye and looming over him like some horrible version of the Twin
Towers in lower Manhattan. There was no getting around it this time. He
was going to die in prison. 

"Fuck," he whispered to himself. 

He'd been thinking about that number all night long before his transfer to
Oz, and he had barely slept a wink. His jaws opened in a yawn and then
snapped shut. He gave his head a little shake as if to clear his thoughts.
The cast was itching and all he could do was wiggle his fingers in hopes
that maybe that would do until he could get his hands on a pencil or a
toothbrush that he could shove down in there to scratch that maddening
itch. 

There was another sharp buzz and the gates were rolled back again.
Whittle-me was coming back in again, followed by a guythat was maybe half
a head taller than her. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and the
look on his face was as blank as the dark t-shirt he was wearing. The
man's sideburns were long and ended in two straight lines just below his
cheekbones. They were connected by a goatee that surrounded a mouth that
was nothing more than a colorless slit below his nose. For some odd
reason, the man's wavy hair reminded him of a lion's mane. 

"Chris Keller," Whittle-me said, then cast a glance over her shoulder at
theguy who stood just behind her. "Tobias Beecher. He'll be your sponsor
in Emerald City. He's going to show you the ropes." 

Keller turned a bit and looked at the guy again. All that hair and that
tough-guy beard distracted him for a bit, and then he was able to lock
eyes with its owner. The look on the man's face changed from blank to the
classic jailhouse look, and Keller knew he was being sized up. But for
some reason he couldn't tell exactly what it was that he was being sized
up for, which was both discomforting and exciting. Keller was a master
manipulator and accordingly an expert reader of people's expressions.
Usually he could tell right away what someone was thinking or feeling, and
he'd used that to his advantage on more than one occasion. Hell, it had
worked twice on one ex-wife. It had also worked in that seedy gay bar in
Chelsea where' 

Keller felt his face muscles relax at the memory and started to see the
number eighty-eight spin in his head again. Hetightened his gaze on
Beecher's eyes, and the swirling stopped instantly. The number
eighty-eight vanished like a coin in a magician's hand. No sooner had it
gone, his special instinct kicked in and information that Beecher had no
idea he was broadcasting came flooding into his mind. Keller could tell
that Beecher had not been here in Oz for very long, but the look in those
eyes told him that something pretty bad had happened to the guy and now he
was trying to hide it behind all that facial hair and that
"don't-fuck-with-me" expression on his face. For an instant, he could have
sworn that the beard disappeared, the hair magically shortened itself into
a tight, conservative style, and a pair of glasses appeared on his face '"
glasses that covered up a pair of eyes that were giving up hope for
redemption for every hour that he spent in Oz. Then the eyes behind those
imaginary glasses twitched and the image broke apart, revealing the man
standing in front of him right now. 

Keller knew as he stood up to follow the guy into Emerald City that he was
going to have to be ready for one of two things '" either a man who was
really ready to blow a fuse and go batshit at a moment's notice, or a
simpering pussy hiding inside that crazy-guy costume who would at some
point emerge and come seek him out for protection from the boogeyman that
had gotten him before. As ugly as it could possibly get, Keller hoped
Beecher was crazy. Crazy he could probably deal with, but not a pussy...
not right now anyway. The crazy guy could also be smart enough to be a
good ally; the pussy would just be a thorn in his side. He also knew that
this was one of several things he was going to have to find out as soon as
possible. Keller had done time before and already knew that the first
order of business was always finding out who was in charge of what behind
that gate. That also included trying to figure out where this guy Tobias
Beecher played into that scheme of things.

 

 

Balancing a pillow, a blanket, some toiletries, and a couple of towels
that looked coarse enough to sand wood on the arm without the cast, Keller
walked beside Beecher through Emerald City trying to gather as much
information as he could. The usual little bits of it were getting through.
Some of it was just common sense based on previous experience, and some of
it he knew would learn in time. Beecher, however, who was only a step or
two ahead of him had gone back to being a dark mystery. He kept watching
the people around him to see who made eye contact with him or hailed him
as he walked past. No one did. In fact, it seemed that a few eyes quickly
diverted as they walked past. Keller didn't like it at all. It was
confirming the idea that whatever it had been that pushed Beecher close to
the edge or whatever Beecher had done in response had been bad enough to
make people look away lest they actually send him right over it. But he
was also watching Beecher too, and had never seen a man who was both
enjoying the fact that people were keeping their distance and also dying
from loneliness because of it. Keller was usually much faster at figuring
out the reason behind shit like this and the fact that he couldn't right
now was frustrating. 

But it was also exhilarating! 

He was always drawn strongly to two different kinds of people: the ones
that were very easy to read and therefore easier to manipulate, and the
ones that eluded him and made him want to try harder so that he knew how
to play the game' and it was always a game. Bonnie, whom he had married
and divorced twice, was of the first type. Beecher was falling into the
second category, and Keller was finding himself more and more intrigued
because very little was getting clearer and what was only added to the
mystery. Even the way Beecher walked with his eyes straight ahead, saying
nothing was hard to resist. 

Hard to resist? Shit, it was fucking sexy! 

 It was pretty fucking sexy in Chelsea too, eh?   

Keller grit his teeth and hauled himself back to the present moment. 

Beecher pointed to the right at an open door and gave a little ground as
Keller walked past him into the pod. But for the plexiglass walls, it was
your typical two-man cell with a sink, a crapper, and a bunk bed. The
bottom mattress on the bunk was bare. Perfect. Keller liked the bottom
bunk. Now it was time to see what his new roomie really was beneath the
shell. 

"So, you a fag?" he asked. The question came out sounding conversational
and cool, like he was asking Beecher for a smoke. It was exactly how he
was hoping it would sound. 

Beecher stopped outside the door, his jaw set. "No," he snarled. "You?" 

Keller set his stuff down on the bed, looked back at Beecher, saw the
crack in the other man's veneer, and silently applauded himself. Success!
He visually measured the distance between himself and Beecher. It was
about six feet' not far enough to shout but definitely not close enough to
converse in a normal tone of voice. Beecher was doing neither. The answer
came effortlessly to Keller right then; Beecher had been raped. He had
been raped repeatedly and violently, and probably by several of the guys
in here. The other inmates were either looking away because he had indeed
fought back in a way that shocked them all and now they were keeping their
distance. Keller wondered not too casually just how Beecher had retaliated
and realized he had to play his next hand carefully. Even so, he was eager
to press on. He absolutely lived for this kind of thing. He paused long
enough to watch some color flush into Beecher's face and relished at the
thought of the next discovery. His own face was perfectly calm. 

"I do what I have to," Keller finally answered. 

Beecher smirked and after a pause began to chant, "Rats in the garden'
catch 'em Towser! Cows in the cornfield' run, boys, run! Cats in the cream
pie'stop her, now, sir! Fire on the mountain' run, boys, run!" 

Keller looked up, totally caught off guard. Of all the things Keller had
been expecting, that response was about as far away from anything he could
have imagined. He now knew that Beecher was crazy, but it was the wrong
kind of crazy, definitely not the kind you wanted to ally yourself with in
here. It was the kind that conjured up memories of the freaky twitching
movements Charles Manson made with his face during some interview he had
been granted years ago. Beecher hadn't moved from his spot in the doorway,
but now his teeth were bared and the veins in his forehead were quite
visible. His face was red-going-on-purple. Keller quickly looked out the
plexiglass in the corner to see if anyone was watching them, waiting to
see what kind of mayhem was about to take place. None of them were. The
window to his left only offered a view of the empty adjacent pod. 

For the first time ever, Keller felt unsafe' and trapped. 

Trapped with a crazy man. 

 Holy shit!   

Beecher tittered from the doorway and then stood there, his lips pulled
back in a grin that Keller liked even less than the fact that no one was
making eye contact with him as they walked to the pod. He, of course, had
no way of knowing that Beecher had been deliberately acting like this and
was in fact taking a great deal of satisfaction and security from the fact
that people were recoiling from him in fear and uncertainty. All he could
see was a man inches away from implosion or explosion because his ass had
been used too hard for too long. Had Keller had any idea just how long and
how hard or had even an inkling of the humiliation Beecher had endured up
to that point, he might have played this game a little with a little more
finesse. But he had not, and now he was standing there feeling like he was
now being marked. That, more than anything else, turned Keller inside out.
In a way, it was worse than seeing the veneer crack and a blubbering
weakling come out. Much worse. 

Beecher turned on his heel and walked away, that maniacally satisfied grin
never leaving his face. Keller watched him go, and it was only after the
man was out of sight did he realize his dick was so hard that it was
aching.

 

 

"Hello there," came the soft coo from the doorway. 

Keller, who had been shelving his toiletries and making his bed in hopes
that some kind of activity would make his cock deflate and his mind stand
still long enough to figure out his next move, turned and looked at the
queen in the doorway. Having lived in New York for a while, Keller had
seen his share of ugly ass transvestites, but this one took the cake.
Queenie had tied his shirt in the front so that it exposed a navel that
was surrounded by a sickening amount of belly fat. The mop of curly hair
was shiny with some kind of liquid or gel, probably from the stick of
deodorant each inmate had been given. The shoes were clunky high-heeled
sandals that pushed the queen's calves up into unsightly rounds that
merged into even fatter thighs. And the makeup' oh shit, the makeup. Even
a clown wore less! Keller's ex-wife Bonnie had been a very large woman,
maybe a few pounds heavier than this freak, but she at least had some
style. This guy was over-the-top in fabulosity and loving it. It made
Keller's stomach turn like it had with'. 

 No, don't go there.   

"You've gotta be kidding me," Keller groaned. He was also silently
grateful that the erection had finally gone away. 

"Well, nice to meet you too," came the sassy reply. 

"Look, I don't care if Beecher did tell you that I was a fag," Keller
said. "It's not going to happen, so just fuck off!" 

The queen's lip curled up in a sneer and he made a clicking sound with his
tongue. "Oh, I love it when they talk tough and dirty." 

Keller advanced toward the door, and was glad to see the queen take an
involuntary step back. "Are you fucking deaf?" His voice was icy cold. 

Queenie's hands went up. "Hey, I'm only here to give you a warning." 

"What?" Keller demanded. 

"That if you are gay, you're going to want to keep your dick holstered
around that crazy fuck, if you know what I mean." 

"You mean Beecher?" 

"Well, who the fuck else would I mean?" 

"I think I've already figured that part out," Keller said, turning to go
back in to the pod. "Thanks anyway." 

"What you think you've figured out isn't even half of it, sweetie!" 

Keller stopped. "What do you mean?" he asked. 

"I mean that if you are hoping for a mouth-hug from Beecher tonight or any
other night, don't do it. The last guy who tried to get head from Toby
ended up with half his dick lying on the floor." 

"You're full of shit," Keller declared. 

One neatly shaped eyebrow went up. "Am I?" 

Keller's people-reader snapped itself on and he stared directly past
Queenie's makeup into the pupils of his eyes. What he saw was disquieting.
He knew at some level that Queenie was telling him some bit of gossip that
had already been around Emerald City and was therefore exaggerated, but he
could also tell that the queen had met those eyes wild eyes of Beecher's
and had also seen those veins pulsing in the center of his forehead. He
had probably heard Beecher rant a nursery rhyme or two as well. It was
enough to convince him that what he was hearing was not too far from the
truth. 

 Bitten the guy's dick off? No, probably not.	

 Bitten him hard enough to draw blood? A lot of blood? Quite likely.   

 Maybe bitten off a piece of the guy's cock?   

Keller felt his back straighten as memories of a cold winter night on the
corner of Eighth Avenue and 20th shortly after New Year's sneaked in. He
quickly had them shot on site by the brain police. He blinked and looked
at Queenie whose eyes were now glowing with a horrible satisfaction as he
realized that Keller was not only registering what he was saying, but also
believing it. 

Queenie went on, secretly enjoying the fact that he was getting this big
brute to take him seriously. "He also threw a chair through one of these
glass walls and blinded the guy who made him his prag shortly after he got
here. Pinned him under a bench in the gym and took a shit right on his
face, too." 

Keller's eyebrows knit together as he tried to imagine something that
disgusting, but then his breathing stopped and he went zero at the bone. 

 Prag? Did this fat fairy just say 'prag?'  

Another sickening wave of memories hit him, and it was worse than the
swirling eighty-eight or even those first few months in New York City. 

"His what?" Keller asked, not realizing he had said it until the words had
passed his lips. 

"Prag," said Queenie, enunciating the word carefully. "Around here, it's
what they call'" 

"I know what it is!" Keller snapped. 

Queenie was not put off pace by Keller's reaction. "Then you should also
know what to do as far as Beecher is concerned," he said. "I don't know
why they picked you of all people to move in here, given that the last
cellie he had was in a wheelchair and couldn't roll Beecher over on his
belly to fuck his ass. Perfect pair, if you ask me." 

Keller said nothing. His mind was still caught on that word 'prag.' 

Queenie, who had probably never been met with such attentive silence
before, showed his teeth in a grotesque smile. "So if I were you, I'd
start sleeping with my eyes open," he said. With that, he minced off, his
arm swaying and the palm of his hand parallel to the floor. 

 Prag' of all the fucking words'   

Keller sat down on his bunk, closed his eyes, and wondered just how this
whole fucking situation could possibly get any worse. He had no idea that
it already had.

 

 

Keller had to get out of that pod because now he was feeling trapped in
there even without Beecher standing in the doorway spitting nursery rhymes
at him. Now he sat at one of the industrial round tables in the main room
into which all the pods faced. There was a checkerboard painted on the
surface of this one, and Keller found himself staring at it with the same
intensity with which he had been looking at a similar pattern on his cast.
It beat thinking about the number eighty-eight or the ease with which the
word 'prag' had rolled off that queen's tongue. He could only remember
hearing it one other time in his life' and from one other person in his
life too. 

So much for figuring out who was in charge of what behind the gates of Oz.
Seemed like all anyone could talk about was Beecher. 

His musing was interrupted by something he saw moving just past the
table's edge. He looked up and saw the hack drawing nearer. It was another
blonde like Whittle-me, only this one was male and as big as an ox. His
thumbs were hooked idly in a belt that was laden down with all kinds of
neat gadgets that could stop Keller in his tracks or slow him down should
he decide to dart from the table. Keller quickly measured how far his
hands were from any of them, and deemed himself safe for the time being.
But the hack was still getting closer, and moving right toward him. Keller
sat there poised. He may have been quick-witted and fast, but this dude
was big and armed. 

"You Keller?" the hack asked. His voice was a booming but smooth baritone
that probably made the glass in the pods rattle when he shouted. 

Keller's eyes fell on the hack's badge. METZGER it read. Well, now that he
knew who wanted to know, Keller figured that there was only one question
to ask. "Why?" 

"New guy," Metzger observed, "and they put you in there with Beecher,
huh?" 

"Yep," Keller said. Man, the hacks too? Jesus, was he ever going to stop
hearing about this guy Beecher? About how crazy he was? Enough was enough
already! 

"Well, I saw your name on the paperwork today," the hack went on. "But I
figured it was you the moment I saw you." 

"Yeah? How's that?" Keller asked dryly. 

A tiny, knowing smile touched the corners of Metzger's mouth. "Because you
look utterly overwhelmed. I mean, trying to take this place in on day one
is one thing, but trying to take in this place and Beecher?" The hack
whistled and shook his head. It was a poor attempt to look sympathetic.
Keller saw right through it. "Hell, I'd be overwhelmed too." 

Keller looked back, saying nothing. 

Metzger's thumbs came out of his belt and he spread his hands. Damn, they
were huge! "And hey, if the last person I'd heard it from was that freak,"
he said, pointing to a corner where Queenie was sitting on a table with
his legs folded and his hand flailing, "I'd really be overwhelmed." 

Keller didn't like hacks who got too chummy too fast, and something about
this guy was not quite right. The people-reader was sending him staccato
alerts. But something else interested him more for the moment. "How did
you know'" he began. 

Metzger retracted the finger that was pointing at Queenie and jerked his
thumb over his shoulder at the guards' station behind him. It commanded
the entire wall and the entire second floor. The hacks could sit there and
see everything, and here in this fishbowl it was easy to do just that.
Keller even noted as he shifted his gaze back to Metzger that his and
Beecher's pod was still quite visible from that station. The staircase
that led up to it ran right in front of their door, but blocked nothing.
Keller realized that they'd be able to see in there if something went
down, but took no comfort from the thought. Now his eyes were back on
Metzger who looked as if he were awaiting some sort of response. 

"Oh," Keller finally said. What else was there to say really? 

Metzger folded his arms in front of him. He had a neck like a tire and a
fearsome set of shoulders, but the look on his face was calm. A bit too
calm, it seemed. Something was brewing behind those icy blue eyes. 

"Look Keller," he said after a second or two, "I'm not trying to be your
best friend or anything here..." 

"Good," Keller interrupted. 

Metzger went on speaking as if Keller had never opened his mouth. "But
sitting out here by yourself is only going to make it worse. You're really
going to overload then. And trust me, if you are on the road to overload,
you won't wanna be sitting here when the Homeboys decide they wanna play a
game of bones at this table." 

"I can handle myself," Keller said. 

"Yeah, but maybe they can't handle themselves," Metzger said, raising his
eyebrows. "I'm just saying that it might be good for you to just head to
the library for a bit if you want some peace and quiet to get things
sorted out in your mind." 

"The library?" 

"Yeah," Metzger said. "Perfect place if you ask me." 

Keller was less than an inch away from telling this hack that he fucking
hadn't asked him, but one more look at the size of the man and all the
shit that was hanging from the belt convinced him that he'd better play it
cool. Metzger simply raised his eyebrows and nodded approvingly. Keller
had some idea that he was supposed to take a hint from that, but had a
tough time grasping what it was. Was he subtly trying to tell him that the
Homeboys, whoever the fuck they were, were definitely going to start a
fight with him if they found him at their table and that maybe he'd better
move along? Could be. Even so, the hack was right about one thing, though
he hated to admit it. He was overloading. All anyone seemed to talk about
was Beecher' Crazy Beecher'. Crazy, dick-biting, face-shitting,
nursery-rhyme-chanting Beecher who was both his sponsor and his roomie.
More than anything else, a break from that would be nice. He sighed at
last and got to his feet. 

"Okay." 

"Want me to show you where it is?" Metzger offered. 

"Nah, I got it." Though Metzger may have just saved him from having to get
in a fight over a stupid table, Keller had no desire to be seen walking
around with a hack. He was already Crazy Beecher's cellmate. Why make it
worse by giving people the impression that he was already latching on to a
hack for help? He was no blubbering bitch. 

"Okay," Metzger said. 

Keller started walking away and Metzger started following him. It made
Keller nervous. Was this guy going to escort him there anyway? Keller
steeled himself a bit and kept moving, hearing Metzger's boots thud on the
floor a few feet behind him. When they got to the staircase that landed
just outside of Keller and Beecher's pod, Keller heard the rhythm of
Metzger's pace change to a steady thump-thump which could have only meant
that the hack was going up the stairs to the guards' station. Keller let
out a quick sigh and proceeded. 

"Hey Keller!" 

Keller stopped and took two steps backward until Metzger was in sight
again."What?" 

Metzger was about halfway up the stairs. "Don't worry about Beecher," he
said. "It won't be long before you know what to do." 

A broad grin surfaced on Metzger's face, and Keller felt a chill crawl
down his back. There was no good nature in that smile; there was something
quite sinister in it. He didn't move from the spot he where was standing
until Metzger had resumed his climb and was well out of sight.

 

 

"Why, Keller! Isn't this a hell of a surprise!" 

Keller whirled around in a quick about-face and found the way out of the
library blocked by two guys his size, one of whom had the trademark shaved
head of the Aryan Brotherhood. They had come out of nowhere and were
staring him down, practically daring him to try to muscle his way past
them both. 

Trapped again. 

He shook his head, closed his eyes, and snorted in disbelief. 

"No, stay a while. We've got a lot of catching up to do, you and I." 

Keller opened his eyes and turned around to face Vern Schillinger who was
seated facing the door at the long end of a table in the middle of the
room. His feet were propped up on another chair that had been turned to
face him, and in his hand was a styrofoam coffee cup. Except for the fact
that the bald spot had gotten larger and the lines on either side of his
mouth had gotten a little deeper, the man had barely aged in the twenty
years or so that had passed since Keller had last seen him. One thing was
different; he now had a wretched scar slightly distorting the shape of his
right eye. But even with the scar, the sly expression stamped on his face
was exactly the way Keller remembered it. He also remembered how that look
would remain stamped on his face while he brought an incredible amount of
brutality and misery on someone who was unlucky enough to be born anything
other than white, Anglo-Saxon, and Christian. No matter how loud the
screams of the victim were, that sneaky, sadistic grin would never change.


Keller had first made Schillinger's acquaintance at the age of seventeen
when he had been thrown into a cell in Lardner with an enormous black guy
who was determined to use him as both a tackling dummy and a jizz
receptacle '" more the latter than the former. One day, Schillinger pulled
the black guy off Keller, where he had been in a storage closet trying to
make a deposit in Keller's ass and a withdrawal from his jugular vein, and
beaten him into unconsciousness. Keller received protection from
Schillinger from that day forward, but naturally, protection came with a
price. Thus for the entire time Keller was incarcerated in Lardner,
Schillinger had him under his wing' and his thumb' and also his own body.
It was a hard and humiliating education for Keller, and it hardened him a
lot more than he would have believed. On the other hand, Keller's stint in
Lardner as Schillinger's prag was also the reason that his people-reader
was as keen as it was and his skills for deceit and manipulation were as
convincing as they were. Those skills had served him well in Lardner, and
even Schillinger had believed himself to actually be in control many
times, not knowing that he was being conned into doing several of the
things he did for and with Keller during that time. Those skills had also
served him well outside of prison for a while, but they had been obscured
by the copious amounts of drugs he had started doing not long after he had
arrived in New York City. As a result, he was now in prison again '"
Oswald, this time '" facing eighty-eight years. 

And Schillinger again. 

Schillinger looked Keller up and down and smiled. "Well look at you," he
remarked. "All grown up." 

Keller glared back and said nothing. He wanted to storm the old Nazi prick
and kill him right where he sat, but he knew that Schillinger was still
incredibly tough and wouldn't just sit there and let him try. It didn't
even matter that his bitches, Hans and Franz, were standing right behind
him ready to pounce. Schillinger would have broken his other arm at the
very least. 

Schillinger cocked his head to the side and looked perplexed. "Why
Keller," he said, "I'm getting the strangest feeling you aren't happy to
see your old pal Vern after all these years." 

Keller spat on the floor. 

Schillinger regarded the glob of spittle for a second, then sat up and put
his feet on the floor. "Well at least one of us should show some manners,"
he remarked. "Here, why don't you have a seat?" 

Keller found himself being propelled by Hans and Franz towards
Schillinger's side of the table and shoved into the empty chair across
from him. As Hans and Franz backed off, Keller's eyes fell on the
styrofoam cup in Schillinger's hand. Something told him that it didn't
contain a beverage, and he was actually relieved when he saw Schillinger
set it on the table next to him. 

"You know, Keller, I really don't understand the attitude," he commented.
"Here I am trying to help you out on your first day in Em City and you're
acting like such an ungrateful prag bitch." 

Hearing Schillinger say the word 'prag' made Keller's stomach go sour. It
was a much worse feeling than the dread that had filled him when he heard
the word come out of Queenie's mouth. "Help me?" he asked, realizing it
was the first thing he had said to his old Lardner bunkmate in nearly
twenty years. 

"Yes," Schillinger said, a slight smile touching his features. "Just like
old times." 

"Ah," Keller said, knowing exactly what was coming next. 

Schillinger leaned forward a bit as if to disclose to Keller some juicy
secret. "See, I don't know if you've heard already or not'" 

"But my pod mate is crazier than a shit house rat and you're worried about
my well-being," Keller chimed in. 

"Something like that," Schillinger agreed. 

"Bullshit," Keller said. 

"Alright, I'll just cut to the chase, then," Schillinger conceded. "I want
him dead. It's a matter of honor." 

"I could care less about your honor, Vern," Keller replied. He looked over
his shoulder at Hans and Franz. "Besides, you don't need me." 

"Oh, but I do." 

"Really?" 

"Mmmm-hmmm." 

"Why?" 

Schillinger smiled. It was almost possible in that moment to believe his
heart wasn't black and full of hate. "'Cause you're the most charismatic
motherfucker I've ever met." 

Keller smiled back. "Oh, you're just saying that." 

"No really," Schillinger went on. "You can '" and indeed do '" charm the
pants off just about anyone." 

"And why would I want to charm Beecher's pants off?" Keller asked. 

"Oh, you don't have to get them off, though you're certainly welcome to if
you want," Schillinger said, sitting back and glancing quickly at Keller's
crotch. "You've just got to get the prick to trust you unconditionally.
The more he trusts you the better." Schillinger shrugged and the grin
broadened. "Hell, if you can make him fall in love with you, that'd be
even sweeter." 

"For your honor," Keller added. 

"Don't worry, Keller," Schillinger replied, "I'll make it worth your
while." 

This time it wasKeller's turn to lean forward. It was also the first time
that Keller noticed how relatively fresh that scar was around
Schillinger's eye. "You know, Vern," he said quietly as Schillinger leaned
in to meet him halfway between the two chairs, "he uh' he chants these
weird little rhymes and sayings." 

Schillinger's smile was back. He nodded. "Yeah, I know." 

"I'm supposed get to someone that whacked to trust me?" 

"He will," Schillinger said. "If you even act like you hate the Aryan
Brotherhood as much as he does, you will have made a friend in that guy." 

Bits of his conversation with Queenie were coming back to him too now, and
a sly grin of his own appeared on his face. "Yeah, but have you really
heard some of the shit he says?" 

"Which nursery rhyme was it this time?" Schillinger asked, looking
interested. 

"Well, it was one I had never heard before," Keller said. "More like a
moral to a story than a rhyme. It was something like: 'An eye full of
glass in Vern's hand is worth two piles of shit on his face.'" 

Schillinger's smile collapsed and Keller's broadened. It was as sweet a
success as seeing the first crack in Beecher's faade. The next thing
Keller saw was the wall and the bookcase to his right as Schillinger
delivered an eye-watering smack to his face. He had put his whole arm into
the blow and, for a second, Keller actually thought that the old bastard
had knocked a few of his teeth loose. He shook his head, trying to get his
eyes to focus again and rubbed at his cheek. 

Schillinger pointed at the cast on Keller's arm and said, "You're sure
going to look funny trying to jerk off with one of those on each arm." 

Keller knew saying anything else was going to bring trouble, but he just
couldn't stop himself. "At least half of my dick won't be bitten off and
lying on the ground." 

Schillinger rolled his eyes and shook his head as if he were disappointed.
"Funny you should say that," he remarked. He looked up at Hans and Franz.
"Hold this prag still for me, will you?" 

Keller barely had time to move before he found himself in a headlock and
his unbroken arm wrenched behind his back. He struggled and tried to pull
Franz's arm from around his throat, but the cast would not let him get a
good grip. Hans delivered a swift, sharp elbow to Keller's gut, and as
Keller cried out he threw all of his weight into Keller's lap. Keller
landed back in the chair with a thud. Franz was digging his chin into
Keller's shoulder and Hans was digging his needle-like elbows into the
meat of his thigh and pulling back on it until Keller's legs were spread
as far as he could get them. Keller flailed his free leg, but could get no
leverage out of it. Franz gave the arm behind Keller's back another twist
and Keller screamed. 

"Sit still, cocksucker!" Franz hissed, digging his chin in a little
deeper. 

Keller ceased his struggle, and three pairs of eyes went to Schillinger
who sat in his chair, placidly tracing the rim of the coffee cup with his
middle finger. His face was set in that way that all three of them '"
especially Keller '" knew all too well. 

"Did you know they deliver the New York Post to this fucking place?"
Schillinger waved his hand, dismissing the question. "Of course you
didn't. I'm just saying that they do. Not really sure why, though 'cause
it's a fucking rag. Politically conservative, which is nice, but
second-rate journalism at best. Still, every once in a while, they do trip
over a very interesting story. For example, not too long ago they were
covering a really grizzly series of killings in Chelsea. You hear about
those?" 

Keller froze and felt his breath stop in his neck. 

Schillinger sat back and put his elbow on the edge of the table, holding
the coffee cup near the side of his face. "Yeah, apparently three little
faggots who all had the same fag bar in common in that neighborhood were
all found beaten and dead within a month of each other." Schillinger took
a quick peek in the cup and then looked back up at Keller who was still
restrained but no longer fighting back. "The article said that they had
all been tortured before they were killed." His eyes went wide, and then
he added, "One of them had his balls cut off! Can you imagine how shocking
that must have been to find a murder victim in one room and his balls in a
coffee cup just like this one in another?" Schillinger took his elbow off
the table and held the cup in front of Keller's face. Then he held out his
hand with the palm facing up and turned the cup upside down over it.
Something fell out, and Keller began to squirm and fight against the two
Aryans who were restraining him again. 

The blade sitting in Schillinger's palm was small and crude, but very
sharp and very much a serious piece of weaponry in his hand. 

"You know how much a guy bleeds when you cut off his balls?" Schillinger
asked, setting the coffee cup aside and securing the little shank between
his fingertips. His sly smile reappeared as he turned back to Keller.
"Ofcourse you do." 

Keller thrashed uselessly against the two men's embrace, his eyes wide and
dry. "Motherfucker!" he screamed. 

Schillinger clamped a hand over Keller's mouth and held the blade less
than an inch away from his eye. "Shhhhhhh." 

Keller stopped squirming. His eyes went back and forth from the shank to
Schillinger's face and back again. He was breathing through his nose in
audible, shuddery sniffs. He knew he was closer to death than he had ever
been in his life, and expected to see a lifetime of conning, thievery,
crime, and killing pass before his eyes. Memories of the Chelsea murders
flashed before them instead, complete with sounds of screams and pleas for
mercy that at the time had been blunted by the all the drugs. The number
eighty-eight looming large over him was absolutely peachy in comparison to
them. 

Schillinger stood over him, the shank steady in his grip. "Now let me
explain something to you, Keller," he whispered. "Metzger is right outside
the door, so don't even think about yelling for help. He may be a hack,
but he's one of us and if he does come in, he will stand by and watch
while I give you a sex change. Got it?" 

Keller nodded, glancing at the shank again. 

"Good boy," he said, uncovering Keller's mouth and reaching down and
unbuttoning the top of Keller's pants. Keller wanted to tell Schillinger
to stop, that he would help pull the string on Beecher, and that nothing
was more valuable to him than Schillinger's honor, but he knew if he made
a sound, he was going to lose both his tongue and his balls. Instead he
watched in horror as Schillinger knelt down, pushed his other knee aside,
and lowered his zipper. 

 No!   

Schillinger looked up and held the shank up for Keller to see. "Now's the
moment of truth," he declared. "What's it going to be?" 

There really was no other choice. "I'll help you," he gasped. 

Schillinger looked at him speculatively. "You sure? I mean, just a minute
ago you were telling me that you could care less about..." 

Keller screwed his eyes shut. "I was wrong! I'll do it!" he cried. 

The pause that followed seemed like an eternity. Slowly he opened his eyes
and saw that Schillinger was standing up. The blade was no longer poised
for cutting but was still pinched between his fingers. The look on his
face was smug, as if he had known Keller would snap under this kind of
torture. He probably had known it all along. 

"Let him go," Schillinger said to Hans and Franz. 

They released him, and Keller plopped back into the chair feeling the
layer of sweat that had formed between his skin and his clothes for the
first time. One of Aryans slapped the back of his head making it rock to
the side, but Keller made no fight back. 

Schillinger was back in his chair, the smug look never leaving his face.
"See what happens when you coperate? All your difficulties go away just
like that." 

Keller sat there panting, saying nothing. 

Schillinger pointed at Keller's crotch. "Close your fly and then listen
while I tell you how this is going to play out," he ordered. 

Keller did as he was told. A part of him was disgusted with himself for
collapsing under the fear, but the survival instinct and the part that
knew what Schillinger was capable of was squishing that part underneath
its boot. 

"Now listen up," Schillinger said. 

"I'm listening," Keller said, his breathing slowly returning to normal. 

"Beecher works for Sister Peter Marie, the psychologist here in Oz, and
will be taking his lunch in about an hour. It's Tuesday, so he's going to
be making a phone call like he always does to his attorney. Not sure why.
I think he's trying to work out something so that he can see his kids." He
dismissively waved his hand again. "Doesn't matter why. Point is, you're
going to go wait in line to use the phone at that time too. I'm going to
have Mark Mack waiting outside the door. He's going to tell you that it's
going to cost you ten dollars to use the phone or something like that. You
punch him in the gut. Someone else '" I'll figure out who in a bit '" will
jump on you trying to start a fight. That'll bring Beecher out of the
phone pod. He'll start pounding on that guy until one of the hacks breaks
it up." He looked past Keller and said, "Has Metzger left?" 

Hans cracked the door to the library and peered out. "Yeah," he finally
said.  

"Then it'll probably be Whittlesey," he noted. "You let her break up the
fight. Once everything quiets down, you tell Beecher that you owe him for
that." 

"Then what?" Keller asked. 

Schillinger shrugged. "Then you just keep turning on that classic Keller
charm until he trusts you," he answered. "Like I said, the more he trusts
you, the better. You just leave the rest of the planning to me and focus
on your part. I'll let you know when it's time to spring the trap." 

"What makes you think Beecher's going to come to my rescue when this fight
starts?" Keller asked. 

"I told you," Schillinger said. "He hates the Brotherhood, and anyone else
who hates the Brotherhood is on his good side. Besides, he sailed over the
edge so long ago that I don't think he could possibly resist a chance to
fight with one of my boys." 

"Can't say I blame him," Keller said, regretting it the minute it came out
of his mouth. 

Schillinger held the blade up. "Don't get mouthy, Keller! You were doing
so well a second ago." 

Keller held up his hands apologetically, and the blade went back down.
There was a beat of silence, and then Keller said, "One question." 

"What?" 

"How do I know you're not trying to set me up to get killed?" 

Schillinger looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Hmmm, good question." He
sat there like that for a second or two, then looked back at Keller with a
sticky smile. "You don't." 

Keller snorted and shook his head. "Goddamn it." 

"I'll make you a deal, though," Schillinger said, picking up the coffee
cup. "If you get through this first part with the phone, you will never
see this blade or this cup again." He held both up and dropped the shank
into the cup with a small flourish. He set the cup back on the table and
leaned in. "You go through with the rest of 'Operation Toby' till it's
done and nobody will find out about what happened in Chelsea... not from
the Brotherhood, anyway. I promise." 

Keller knew that Schillinger was many things that were contemptible, but
he was also a man of his word on matters like this. True, it often cost
the other person their soul to get Schillinger to be a man of his word,
but once he had your soul, he kept his promises. Keller didn't need to
rely on his people-reader to figure that out. He knew this because he was
exactly the same way; he had, in fact, learned to be such a man from
Schillinger. Still, it embittered him. He was stuck being Schillinger's
bitch again after all this time... and over a crazy man he didn't even
know. However, the payoff was not ending up on Death Row for the killings
in Chelsea. 

Schillinger raised his eyebrows. "Well?" 

 Jesus Christ, I don't want to do this.   

 Tough shit. He's got you by the balls... literally.  

"Alright," Keller said at last. 

Schillinger sat back, satisfied at last. "Good. Now go back to your cell
for a bit, get settled in, and then go make your phone call in about half
an hour." 

Keller nodded and stood up. He felt spent and emotionally defeated as he
headed for the library door past Hans and Franz who were smirking at him. 

"By the way, Keller?" Schillinger called. 

Keller turned around. 

The quintessential Schillinger grin was back on his face. "You look good.
Really filled out well over the last twenty years. Too bad you're still a
prag."' With that, he and the other Aryans started to laugh at him. 

Keller felt his lip curl up and his teeth grind. He walked out of the
library, swearing that if he got through all this, he would get revenge on
Schillinger, even if it took him every one of those miserable eighty-eight
years he had in this shit hole.

 

 

Keller lay in the dark listening to the bedsprings above him squeak and
croak as Beecher grappled with a vicious nightmare. Once, Keller had
gotten out of bed, ostensibly to get some water, but really to see if the
man was whacking off and practicing a new rhyme in a hushed voice. After
quietly slurping up a handful of water at the sink, he had looked in the
mirror and seen Beecher in the reflection. He was definitely asleep, but
his face didn't look so crazy anymore; it actually looked frightened, as
if Beecher were pleading through his closed eyes for safety '" the one
thing he was hoping Beecher wasn't going to do this morning when he met
him. Empathy had never come easily to Chris Keller and he didn't even know
the what the word meant, but now he felt it partly because he knew that
the man was suffering under a tremendous mental freight but also because
he knew what Schillinger had planned for him. Knowing that he was going to
have to deliver Beecher to it as well only intensified the feeling. 

Incredibly, the fight Schillinger had staged outside the phone pod had
gone almost exactly as the son of a bitch had planned it. Well, not
exactly... Keller had taken the liberty of backhanding Mark Mack squarely
in the face instead of punching him in the gut. He had also taken a great
deal of pleasure in hearing the bone and cartilage of the guy's nose snap.
As he looked at the blood pouring out of the man's nose, he suspected that
someone from the Brotherhood, maybe even Mack himself, was going to seek
him out for retribution for that, but he didn't care. After nearly having
his balls cut off by the Brotherhood's leader, he found that he could
probably take whatever was dished out to him in response for that action.
Knowing Schillinger the way he did, he figured that Vern would probably
see it as a fair turnabout for what had gone down in the library and would
let it slide. But that was a small matter. 

After Whittlesey broke up the fight and escorted Mack to the ER, he turned
to Beecher, who was wild-eyed and panting, and told him that he owed him
just as he was supposed to do. Beecher had regarded him for a second and
then said, "I didn't do it for you, pal. I hate those Aryan fucks." Then
he stormed off. 

Me too, Keller had thought as he watched Beecher go. 

But on the heels of that thought came images of Beecher throwing a chair
through the glass of Schillinger's pod and blinding him in one eye
followed by images of Schillinger pinned under a weight bench with his
face covered in shit and Beecher cackling triumphantly above him. Whatever
fear Keller had of Beecher and his insanity was suddenly uprooted right
then and a huge crop of respect had started growing in it's place. You had
to admire the risk the guy was taking for standing up to Schillinger and
indeed the whole Aryan Brotherhood with such a devil-may-care attitude
after being tortured by them for as long as he had been able to take it.
Keller couldn't recall ever quite having the gumption to do so himself in
Lardner, and certainly had not had it when Schillinger had a razor inches
away from his balls. It was probably that admiration that also evoked
empathy in Keller later that night, but as he watched Beecher disappear
down the hallway back to Sister Peter Marie's office, all he could think
about was how fucking hot that guy was for being so damned ballsy. 

He felt his cock twitch, and then suddenly was hit with the realization
that he was still going to be allowed to keep what was twitching. Thinking
he might fall over if he didn't start moving, he had stumbled away from
the phone pod, forgetting to make his own call, and gone back to his pod
to regroup. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Keller wondered if Schillinger was going to
give him four shades of holy hell for not making a phone call, but at
dinner that night he had gotten his answer when a torn piece of a paper
napkin was dropped into his creamed corn (or what he thought was creamed
corn). The spiky handwriting on it was unmistakably Schillinger's, and the
message was four words long: No coffee for you. Keller had eaten the piece
of the napkin with his next spoonful of the yellowish goop, knowing that
he now to go all the way through with this to save himself from ending up
dead courtesy of the State of New York. 

Now as he lay in bed, listening to Beecher fight a losing battle with his
dream demons, Keller finally understood that the only bitch in that pod
was himself. No denying it. He realized that when he had told Beecher that
he owed him, he may have been following Schillinger's script, but now he
was going to be indebted to this guy if he somehow managed to survive
whatever Schillinger had planned for him. He didn't like being beholden to
anyone, but he hated being beholden to someone who really did deserve
respect... especially if he had to kill him. 

I don't want to do this, Keller thought for the second time that day. I
don't wanna march this guy in to his death. 

Another voice, one Keller had never heard before, spoke up then: ' Maybe
you don't have to. 

Keller froze. That voice was so clear, he actually thought someone was
speaking aloud. "What?" he whispered in the darkness. 

Maybe you don't have to, the voice said again. 

 What do you mean?   

 Maybe you don't have to send him to his death.'   

 What the fuck am I supposed to do instead?   

 Break him.  

  Break him?   

 Yes.	

 What the hell for?   

 Because if he's dead, he's never going to be able to help you get back at
Schillinger for all this, and you, boy, are going to need the help of
someone utterly unafraid to take that big a risk if you're going to take
on Schillinger.  

He almost sat up in bed, struck by the idea. Could it work? Could he
actually pull it off? Could he get this guy to help him get back at
Schillinger even after he broke him? 

Are you kidding? the voice answered back. Schillinger said it yourself;
you're the most charming motherfucker around. Of course you can! If you
can get three women to marry you '" one of them twice '" then you most
definitely can do this.  

This is going to take some serious planning, Keller thought. 

Well shit, said the voice, you've got eighty-eight years to figure it out.
 

But what about him? Keller wondered. He may be getting out soon. 

The response was quick. Start getting the facts tomorrow, and start
getting them fast. You're going to need this guy and time may be of the
essence. 

Keller started getting excited. It was the same feeling he got as he
planned the fleecing of the fools he was going to leave in his wake. It
was a rush like no other; it totally beat whatever drugs could do. 

In the bunk above him, Beecher was screaming himself awake. The cries
brought Keller to his feet. Beecher was sitting up in bed, drenched in
sweat and reeking of terror. Chris put his hand on Beecher's knee. "Hey!
Hey! What ha..." 

"Don't touch me!" Beecher barked, swatting Keller's hand away. 

"I was just wondering..." Keller began a second later, not realizing the
arm with the cast on it had drifted into Beecher's perimeter as he spoke. 

Beecher put his hand on the cast and shoved Keller as hard as he could.
"Hey, keep your fucking hands off me, you fucking faggot!" he screamed. 

Keller backed away and looked at Beecher, not sure of what to do or say.
The new voice in his mind spoke up unbidden: Don't take it personally.
Just back off. Give him his space. Remember you're going to need him
later. If you do it now, he'll get that you respect him. 

"Alright," Keller said, retreating. "Alright." He sat down on his bunk and
slipped under the blanket again. A second later, he could hear Beecher
crying silent tears. 

That's right, Keller thought. Let it out, man. Just get those scary demons
out so that you can be the crazy, fearless motherfucker I need to get back
at Schillinger. I'm going to have to hurt you to get there at first '"
badly, in fact '" and I'm sorry, but I will make it up to you. Someday,
somehow, I will make it up to you. I told you I owe you and I do. 

Keller smiled in the darkness, knowing this was the start of one hell of
relationship with Beecher. As he rolled over on to his side, the most
incredible thought slashed through his mind: What if I do fall in love
with him?  

One final time the voice spoke up: Well, wouldn't that be poetic fucking
justice for those gay guys in Chelsea?	

Seeing the humor in that, Keller's smile broadened and he drifted to
sleep.	Please send feedback to sahem62896.