Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (41 page)
Read Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." Online
Authors: Bad-Boy Storyteller
.
I
t’s after four in the morning at the Shelter; the waitress and bartender left over two hours ago. But due to the fact that Cools had his gun on the table, simply staring at it through wary eyes, no one asked him to leave. Now he is hidden within the darkness, sitting alone in front of a pile of cocaine, snorting, drinking, smoking, plotting. He pictures himself storming into William’s home, 21550 Kingsway Drive, gun drawn, crying his name, emptying the clip, calling 911, getting arrested, confessing, arraigned, pleading guilty, sentenced, shipped to WSP, finding Joshua, and choking his fucking life from him. This drug, alcohol-, and rage-induced scenario plays over and over. And although it involves many dramatic variations, the outcome remains the same.
.
O
ver the first week or so, no one approaches or messes with Joshua in the least, but they examine his every move. His cellmates represent a diverse mix: Davidson (the lying loudmouth), Borost (the Russian), and Junkie (the junkie). They are fair with him, even though they ask a lot of questions, never tiring of bringing up many differing situations.
“What would you do if this happened?”
“How do you think we should handle some of our current problems?”
“What are solid codes of ethics a white man should live by?”
It soon becomes crystal clear that all is a test. And he knows it won’t be long before they’ll want to see if he will stand up for himself and fight. When it’s time, I hope its Davidson (the lying loudmouth), the asshole who sleeps below me and never shuts the fuck up. Not even for a minute—always going on and on about nothing and everything. Fucking lying dumbass!
Suddenly it dawns on him that he should initiate the fight. Yeah, I’m getting tired of all this being tested bullshit anyway; it’s going to happen sooner or later, besides, I’m dying for some action.
So atop his bunk, he begins stretching and working on his strategy, taking in consideration Davidson’s shorter but bulky size. Be quick and wiry, enough to stay free from his grip. Throw many blows, fast and hard, keeping him busy until his fat ass is winded; then when he’s lost his energies, move in for the blood and the respect.
It isn’t long, just as he expected, for an opportunity to arise. A guard passes by on his hourly rounds. And sure enough, not twenty minutes later, Davidson is disgorging one tall tale about the time he got into a bar fight with five Italian guys. Joshua waits until he reaches a point in the story where he’d cleanly taken out the second guy using a kung-fu move, then breathes out a loud and skeptical, “Hmm!”
Davidson pauses for a second, but says nothing, before continuing, “Okay, so now I’m down to three, right…except this lanky guy to my left has a knife. I take it away from him and—”
“Uh-huh. Whatever, man.”
“No, it’s true; I’m telling you exactly how it all went down!” Davidson replies, defending himself. Then he steps out of his bunk to reenact the situation.
Joshua let’s out an exaggerated sigh, saying, “Okay, let’s hear the rest.”
“Yeah, you’re going to hear the rest!” Davidson blurts out, noticeably agitated.
Borost and Junkie sense an imminent altercation and pay closer attention, given that this is the exact sort of conflict they thrive on. And Davidson, now with their undivided attention, begins to put on a show. He swoops his leg out quick and low, demonstrating how he kicked the feet out from underneath guy number three (the one he took the knife from); then he stomps hard on the floor, showing the way in which he’d incapacitated number four; followed by a foot chase of the fifth guy, who was by this time running for his life.
“Yeah…I…uh…I think I’ve seen this movie,” Joshua wisecracks, setting Borost and Junkie into sharp laughter.
Davidson becomes instantly enraged. “What’re you saying? You calling me a liar?” he yells, flailing his arms around.
Joshua constricts his eyes and raises his voice. “I’m saying I’m getting real fucking tired of hearing your bullshit fucking stories all damn day and night!”
“Well, maybe you feel like you need to do something about it,” Davidson challenges.
Borost and Junkie shift quietly to the toilet, giving them room.
“All right, bad ass, stand over by the bars. Let me get down and put my shoes on.”
“Fuck you!” Davidson yells, grabbing at Joshua’s legs and trying to pull him off the top bunk.
Joshua kicks at him barely missing his head as Borost lays down the rules. “No! You let him put shoes on!”
Davidson turns to see that even Junkie agrees. “Okay, put your shoes on, punk! I’m going to destroy your rich pampered ass. And that might not be all I do to your ass, you yuppie bitch. I’m going to make you my bitch. I’m going to butt-fuck your face.”
Joshua keeps his cool, saying nothing. He simply laces up tight and gets into position. And as soon as Davidson starts to say something, he jabs one in flattening his nose. Crunch! Blood spurts out.
Davidson reacts by charging with a deadly haymaker swing. It grazes Joshua’s cheek, knocking him back into the toilet, where he falls into the wall. Borost and Junkie jump out of the way, observing every detail. Davidson rushes in. Joshua, off balance, swings, misses, and gets crushed into the wall. They lock horns and thrash around, knocking books and papers off the writing table. Joshua is cornered, and Davidson smashes him again and again against the concrete. Joshua goes wild, trying to break free. He manages to briefly push Davidson away, then as he lunges in again, Joshua impels a fierce uppercut, catching him under the chin. It hits, fracturing his jaw. Davidson lets out a guttural groan. He staggers backward, trying to catch the edge of the bunk to break his fall. Joshua charges forward, over him, heaving another heavy fist keen on his eye socket. Crack! And Davidson drops to the cement like a weighted tree branch in a windstorm.
“Yeah! Fuck yeah!” Junkie shrieks in a tenor of nervous excitement. Joshua slants a scorching eye at him, and he quiets himself at once. Borost is left thunderstruck.
Then Joshua seizes a moment, inspecting Davidson’s lifeless body carpeting the floor. He hovers above him, mumbling incoherently.
Borost yells, concerned, “Let’s get him up!”
“No!” Joshua snaps. “I’m not finished with this story-telling piece of shit!”
“You fucked him up!” Borost replies. Junkie’s expression agrees.
Joshua ignores their distress. He kneels down and cinches his arm tight around Davidson’s neck, making clear his intentions. “Yeah, but he called me a punk and a bitch, and I’m not giving anyone a chance to do it twice!” Then he begins squeezing just as Davidson regains consciousness and starts to squirm.
“Don’t! No!” Borost and Junkie screech. “He’s one of us!”
Joshua disregards their mercy, wrenching even tighter. Davidson’s legs flail, kicking the air; his face transforms to red, to purple, to fear. “Die…you…motherfucker… die!” Joshua’s own face turns colors under the strain. Davidson’s bulging, bloodshot eyes scream for help before his body goes into a brief seizure. “Die, you fuck.” Then the writhing decreases. “Die!” He slumps. He stops.
Borost and Junkie cannot discern whether he’s dead or alive. All they know is Davidson is one of them. And in this split second, they don’t care about their rules, which decree to never get involved. At once they spring in unison. They start to pummel Joshua, beating him in the back of his head, booting him in the side. Joshua stoops and tucks under their raining blows, still compressing Davidson’s windpipe.
“Stop! Stop it! You’re gonna kill him!”
Borost strikes full force, then snatches Joshua’s arm, breaks him loose, and drags him off. Junkie leaps in, and together they try to restrain him, but he battles on. “Are you going to stop? Are you done? Stop!” Finally he submits by ceasing to struggle, and Borost ultimately lets him go. Then everything falls silent, only wheezing and gasping for oxygen, while the three of them rise to their feet and look in shock, circled around Davidson, who is lying comatose on the floor. He isn’t breathing.
“Hey! Junkie? Borost? What the fuck’s going on over there?”
“Don’t fucking worry about it,” Junkie answers through the bars. His voice is shaking, but his eyes never leave Davidson’s limp form. Then, worriedly, he looks to Borost. “What’re we gonna do?” Borost stares unknowingly, catching his wind. “Davidson! Davidson!” he yells, jumping up and down, kicking him lightly but repeatedly, calling him a fat piece of shit, anything to rock him back to life.
Borost kneels to check him out. The closer he gets, the more unmoving he is. He slaps his face. Nothing.
“Do the CPR! Do the CPR thing!”
Borost starts compressing his chest as Joshua rests on the lower bunk, assessing the damage. Oh fuck, what if I killed him?
Then suddenly Davidson sucks in a bottomless breath. Borost rears. Junkie jerks, freezes. It scares the shit out of all of them, but at the same time awards relief. Junkie helps, and Davidson is aided to his bunk, where he immediately passes out again, wounded but alive.
Joshua doesn’t say a word, just evenly returns to his bunk. If he feels any remorse, Borost and Junkie cannot tell. None of them makes a peep for hours. In Joshua’s mind he’s assured he won’t have any other problems; he’s established himself, gained their approval. In his cellmates’ minds, he is now thought of as a man to be reckoned with, living up to his media revelations.
Then just before they attempt a restless night, Borost declares an additional law of the house. His voice punctures the dead silence. “You squeezed him so tight both his eyes will blacken; he’s too beaten up to go to meals for a week at least. And if his wounds are seen by the guards, we all go to the hole. And we
all
will bring back food until he heals; this is the way we do it!”
Joshua looks down and nods in accord to both of them, then restores to his former position on the thin prison mattress, gaping at the ceiling, secretly smiling. In just a few short and adventurous moments of violence, he’s answered all of their questions. He’s done proving himself. And now he can focus all his energies on figuring a way out of this hellhole.
Behind the closed doors in his mind, he has a plan. But then, he’s always had a plan.
.
O
utside of the Walls, his name has taken on a life of its own. The justice system has given more focus to the missing girls written in his scrolls—bringing forth investigations and press releases. Psychologists list him in their case studies and journals. Teen magazines interview his high school classmates, who claim he carried the traits of a psychopath, and ex-girlfriends cry for the investigative reporters, telling how numb he is within. The mainstream Christian rhetoric asserts he’s a sign of the final days. And just to get under their skin, clever pundits refer to him as the second coming of Charles Manson. Rock groups have released new titles like “Murder of the Unknown” and “Playboy Assassin.” Lawmakers are advocating a litany of newly needed laws. And he’s exploited in comedic routines and late-night monologues. His name is cursed, ostracized, ridiculed, but it’s a name that one man is fighting to save— William Siconolfi.
He’s been playing every card in the deck, threatening to expose all the dirt he’s acquired on his colleagues over the years, resulting in a list of influential members now contributing to his son’s freedom agenda, which includes cardinals, politicians, judges, and businessmen—the power players.
He leaves not a solitary sleazy stone unturned, securing at least a retrial. He’s also hired a
Fortune
500 promotion firm to sell the idea to the public that his son is innocent and a security team, former Blackwater militants, to protect his interests and the interests of those with whom he’s secretly conducting backdoor dealings. He has to be careful, as it seems the FBI has him under surveillance.
Today, his security team, has set up a meeting with a court of appeals judge. The rendezvous is at a local BMW dealership. The judge will meet him in full disguise. Wearing dark flashy sunglasses, a sporty-gelled man’s wig, nametag, and a cheap suit that has salesman written all over it. As the FBI agents sit across the street viewing with their binoculars through the plate glass windows, they’ll only see William at the negotiating table, discussing payment options.
When the meeting is over, a text message chimes. It’s from his security team, informing him who the mysterious man is (other than the government) who’s been following him. The text reads: Former Detective Bradley Cools.
.
A
number of nights after the cell brawl, nerves are calmed, and the men begin to bond as a result of Davidson being mostly healed up and the sharing of the OxyContin pills Joshua scored on the yard. They are now flying high, the best of friends.
Borost and Junkie contribute a few accounts of their past adventures and loves. Then Borost asks Joshua to tell of some personal things about himself.
Joshua quips, “I feel sometimes as if I’m being watched in the chow hall.” They all start laughing, picturing the setting of their dining area. Three times a day, they march single file through metal detectors into the large mess hall packed with hardened convicts. Walking among them are many guards carrying pepper spray and nightsticks. And standing above, on the second floor, other guards hold shotguns, teargas, and itchy trigger fingers. Security cameras rotate on their bases, following their every move. The cops are watching, the cons are watching, everyone is watching everyone. There is not one person who lives or works within the entire prison who doesn’t already know that Joshua won’t eat oatmeal, peppers his French fries, and will trade most anything for chocolate milk.
“Okay, that’s pretty funny,” Borost says. “But seriously, tell us what you’re all about, man.”
Joshua shifts his eyes to the wall, thinking for a minute, as the cell plunges into silence. “Well…all right,” he replies, and sits up, hanging his feet over the end of the bunk. And then for some unknown reason, he begins speaking freely of something he’s held close all his life. “I have dreams…I mean…When I dream, it’s different than the way you do. It’s called sequential dreaming.”