Cocaine blues and beating the shit out of prison wardens. HELL YES!
Also, check this out because it’s awesome and yeah, just do it, lads. Enjoy your little mafia Frerardness.
More about prison & shiz. Have fun.
Please note that in this chapter and indeed this story I will be using racial slurs because the fifties were rather xenophobic and whatever, and I can’t exactly imagine Sing Sing back in the day being totally tolerant and shit. Note that I hgave absolutely nothing against the ethnic backgrounds that I mention throughout this story, I think in an upcoming chapter I even blast my own country, so…*writer fail* The ones I used in this chapter are both real, but of course I would never fucking say them. I ain’t gonna say them here but you’ll probably guess.
Btw, the song sung by Mikey in the beginning is ‘Cocaine Blues’ (an AMAZING song) by the singer Johnny Cash. ‘Internment’ is to be sentenced to jail without a trial. It more refers to Frank than Gerard but hey whatever.
So, in reference to future chapters of this story: gore, yay or nay? I have allowed several people to read Karma Police/ First of the Gang to Die and I either get:
-“OH MY GOD THAT BIT WHERE YOU DESCRIBED HIM LIKE TAKING A BANDAGE OFF WAS SO FUKCING GROSS EWWWW YOU SICKO LORNA HOW COULD YOU EVERN WRITE ABOUT THAT”
-“Stick to your day-job, man. And by ‘day job’ I mean gore as opposed to happy shit.”
Aren’t my friends just the nicest folks or what? Most of my friends actually like abandoned me when they found out I write fic because in the words of one “Lornaigh you’re such a freak ew don’t touch me”
So yes, opinions on gore would be good…if you think I can write them or whatever. If you think I suck please be honest, I really have no clue. There isn’t like “A Fan Fiction’s Writer Guide To The Galaxy”
Come here so I can touch you with my dirty fan fiction writing hands, *grabs at nearby cat*
Frank woke up the next morning much earlier than he was used to. He graced with reluctant acceptance that this would now be the norm.
The boy blinked again, hoping he would wake up to his own room-which, while smile and rather plain, still was home. A small single bed with beige coverings with a small bedside table where his Bible lay. A picture of a lamb was above the bed, to signify the Lord and his Flock, a fluffy white creature with buggish eyes and bright white flesh. Frank’s rabbit normally resided on the pillow, but it was now stuffed inside his small fist, delicate ears being crushed by the young one’s fierce grip. The rest of the room was minimal in it’s contents; he had a battered old chest of drawers and a small statue of the crucified Christ. That, no matter it’s ecclesiastical value, had always scared Frank. In the night time he’d chance a glance over at it and flinch at the grotesque figure, the painted beads of blood dripping down the man’s face, his chest, his legs.
He imagined he’d wake up and his momma would be making breakfast; pancakes and syrup, his favourite. He eat the pancakes in a quick gollop and then sip at the syrup so that the sticky sauce would slip over his lips, run across his tongue, pleasure his throat. He always had to take his meds in the morning or he’d be coughing up for the rest of the day. Frank’s family were too poor to afford a well-insulated, comfortable residence (on a seamstress’s and a priest’s salary) so they rented a run-down little bungalow on the rough side of town. It was stifling hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. Frank’s emphysema would always take the worst turn during the November-to-January months. He’d sit in bed with a swollen throat and a fragile chest while his momma brought him up ice cream and apple juice.
Instead Frank opened his eyes and saw he was on a plain grey bunk, his hazel orbs sweeping over the entire cell before it sank in again. He was in jail because his brain-dead father had heard he was sodomized by an older man. He rubbed his eyes as his chin quivered in an effort not to cry. He brought the rabbit under his chin and stroked the long ears along his skin, the black fur warm to the touch. He instinctively reached for his crucifix and clutched it. He didn’t quite know why.
“Early one morning, while making the rounds…”
Frank’s ears perked up when he heard someone singing brightly from the neighbouring cell. Their voice was light and cheery as it carried across. From the sound of it, the broken lyrics, they were also partaking in another activity whilst singing. Frank kept quiet and sucked the rabbit’s ear, hoping the voice would sound again.
“I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down…”
Frank smiled when they sang again, but his flash vanished once the thin boy with brown hair popped his head around the wall of the grey blocks. Frank blushed furiously and hid behind the stuffed animal. Mikey waved.
“Hey dude,” he said in a friendly voice, half of his cheek still covered in shaving foam. Frank laughed openly, like a shriek, and bit his lip. “Aw shit, yeah. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you with my shitty singing. I just can’t concentrate on shaving without singing, ain’t that weird?” Frank barely nodded and smiled, eager to stay chatting with Mikey. “Yeah, yeah…I gotta question! Why do Folsom get Cash and we don’t? We’re bigger and nastier, and probably got a better taste in music.” He shrugged ad looked in the broken glass on the wall that doubled as a mirror. “I went right home and I went to b-ed….I stuck that lovin’ forty-four beneath my head…”
“You’re a good singer,” the fifteen year old commented, gushing. His blush was so bright it let out a small glow of pink neon light. “Really good. Like the men on the radio.” He looked nervously around. “Do you know where Don Way is?”
“No,” Mikey said in a bout of apathy. He pouted his mouth like a fish and brought his razor blade to his cheek, holding it at an angle to catch the awkward areas, like the space between upper lip and nose. He brushed the blade against his amber skin a few times, humming between his teeth. It was quiet enough to be beautiful, but loud enough for Frank to get a good listen. “Got up next morning and I grabbed that gun...”
“Who sings that song?”
“Johnny Cash,” Way replied. Frank noticed now that Mikey was wearing the same blue jumpsuit Frank had been supplied with yesterday; the other boy still wore his gold jewellery and his brown hair was slicked back into a quiff, but he was downgraded aesthetically by the jumpsuit. He wore combat boots under the trousers. The word WAY was printed on his back. “Ain’t you ever heard of Johnny Cash?” Frank shook his head. “Aw, well shit, he’s just like the best singer ever. He sings good stuff, not that Marilyn Monroe shit. I mean, she’s pretty and all, but…” A small pause. He regarded Frank and swept his eyes up and down the young boy’s form. “You take you to the fights yet?”
“The…what?” Frank asked, felling dumb for the millionth time in his life.
“Ah, nothin. Just me being dirty-minded,” he muttered, focusing on a spot underneath his left ear. “Yanno, I just figured he woulda done it by now. He normally doesn’t waste much time on getting inside a guy’s pants.”
The fifteen year old cocked his head. “Why would he want my pants? He has his own, he was wearing trousers when I met him.”
“I don’t mean it like that, Frankie,” Mikey said with a small chuckle. “I mean when he’s gonna take you, honey, when he has sex with you. Not that we’re not gonna know about it, last time he moaned so goddamn loud the windows fuckin cracked…but no, it’s good he hasn’t done ya yet.” He dipped his hands in a bucket and splashed his face lightly with it. “He’s just a huge man-whore.”
Frank shivered at the swear word.
“Don’t you like him?” He asked quietly. “Don’t you like Don Way? He’s your brother. I thought you liked him.”
“You kidding?” Mikey said with another cruel laugh. “Can’t stand the bastard. He’s the reason I’m in the goddamn place. Motherfucking cocky little shit, don’t even tell you his own damn name….such a cunt.” He began dabbing at his face with a worn grey rag and peered in the mirror. “Do I look okay?”
“Oh yes,” Frank rasped quickly. “You look gorgeous.”
Mikey laughed loudly, only for the sound to be drowned out by a dull, slow clunk down the hall. Frank immediately drew the bed sheet around his chest, conserving his modesty, and tried in vain to peep around the sharp corner of the wall to see the oncoming spectacle. He craned his neck to try and catch a view; Mikey, however, couldn’t have looked less interested. He threw the grey rag over his shoulder, headed back towards his own cell and began humming the next lines of the kitsch country song. Frank gasped a little when he saw what was coming.
It was Don Way. He was being led by two prisoner officers, Romano and a thin one Frank did not recognize. He was literally dripping in chains and shackles. Handcuffs secured his hands in front of his stomach; tight, heavy black lumps of metal that held his wrists hostage. A large black ball (made of titanium, most likely, from the scraping noises it was making as it dragged across the floor.) It made the boss’s leg drag behind as he limped to try and shuffle forward. The two guards had rather weak grips of his bulky forearms, his sleeveless shirt showing off the convict’s many tattoos and bullet wounds alike. A thick gold medallion hung down his chest and bumped along as he was led by the two men, who were sneering curse words and racial slurs at him as the three passed. Don Way easily passed them out by twelve inches or more but he looked tired, as if he had given up a heavy battle and had walked away, the loser of the war.
Shackles adorned his waist and abdomen as well; a tight, constricting wedge of metal curving around his stomach caught the boy’s attention. He wondered what it was until suddenly the boss jumped about one foot in the air, cussing at the two cackling law enforcers holding him down. He snarled at them venomously, pulling back his upper lip to hiss something in Romano’s ear, but the verbal abuse was utterly futile. He gave another sharp, unprecedented jump and clenched his fists, muttering angrily in a foreign language. He sucked in a large puff of air and dragged the ball along with severe force.
“You can keep on dirtying your tongue and spouting out vulgarity,” Romano said in a holier-than-thou tone, nose stuck up in the air pretentiously. “Be childish and keep on cursing in your Sicilian, fine, see if we care-“
“Sicilian is not a fucking language, you fucking nimrods,” Frank heard the boss reply sharply, so sharp one of them actually squeaked. Frank tucked himself under the blankets in order not to be seen. It seemed the criminal and the wardens were too preoccupied with other matters to deal with some fifteen year old kid. “Agh-FUCK-stop that-cazzo figa-figa orrible-you’re gonna burn in Hell, fucking cunts. I’ll send out every motherfucker in this city to rape your wives and slit your kids’ throats-won’t have a fucking drop of blood to your name when I’m done with you-“
“Good luck, ginzo,” one of them said, laughing heartily. The other idiot joined him and they crooned and cackled and screeched like a bag of cats. Don Way growled deeply and thrashed in their hold. A glint of deadly viciousness flirted in his eyes and the hazel orbs met Frank’s chocolate ones-the boy squeaked with fear and shut his eyes. “You’re just a hunk of metal locked up for a thousand goddamn years. You’ll be lucky if you ever get laid again, you piece of shit-“
The boss suddenly plunged a sharp, jagged fragment of glass into one of the guards’ leg, the warden screaming with pain and anguish. The Don dug the glass in, working it in with his fingers, however imprisoned they were. He worked his back muscles and groaned as he kept on jamming the weapon into the man’s upper thigh. Then he stopped, and the twitching, limp body of the guard fell to the floor.
“You,” Don Way spat at the other guard, leaning in right close to him, “you better fucking run as fast as your skinny-ass fucking legs can take you or you’re gonna get an assfulla goddamn bullets, you got that?” The words frightened Frank, so brash and hurtful, so terrifying; but also excited him in a strange way. The feelings mixed together in a peculiar cocktail in the pit of his stomach. “Run, bitch. Run away home and pray to any fucking God willing to listen to save you from me.”
The guard squeaked.
“I-oh-I-“ he fell to the ground in a dead faint, skull cracking against the pavement.
Don Way spat into his hair and stormed to his cell, still laden down with the shackles and metal. He turned around so Frank could see why the criminal had been forced so brutally to jump; a long, electrical wire ran from the boss’s neck to the small of his back, and small sparks were flying from the flex of the fuse. Way plunged his leg into the bars of the cell and kicked it harshly. If he had been playing soccer the ball would have burst open. He growled again and stepped inside, spitting and snarling. Frank pressed his back up against the wall, drawing the sheet right under his eyes. They glittered with blissful ignorance.
The criminal stepped in and walked over to the sink Mikey had used only minutes ago. He lifted his arms, dripping with the heavy shackles, and thrashed the chains against the sink with such utter force the cheap porcelain fell to the ground and shattered into a million pieces, spraying the room with pottery. Several chips of the sink sunk themselves into the criminal’s flesh, into the skin of his shins and his ankles, through the silky material of his trousers. Frank remained transfixed to the spot, eyes barely daring to hover over the boss.
“Good morning, Frank,” the older man said, incredibly. Frank’s mouth ran a little dry as he watched the made man moan and groan with the pain and suffering the guards had inflicted on him. He was also a little surprised at the casualness with which he had been greeted. “You look very pleasant this morning. It’s rare enough that you actually find someone goddamn attractive in this place so I pass on my regards.”
The boy didn’t really comprehend the Mafioso’s flimsy, rather mindless flow that fell from his mouth, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. The Don tried in vain to stretch his tortured muscles but couldn’t even move his shoulderblades. He turned to Frank and raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps you could provide me with some assistance…?” He asked, a small trail of insinuation finishing the sentence off nicely. When Frank didn’t move from the bunk, he questioned quietly, slyly: “Are you afraid of me, Frank? You realize I am utterly defenceless at present.” He attempted to shrug and then gestured ruefully with his hands. “I guess I could just stand idle like this for the whole time…although I desperately need the water closet and I don’t think I can withstand much more…”
Frank flew from the bed nervously and, without looking up, began to prod and poke at the shackles around the criminal’s hands. He watched Don Way’s fingers flex and wriggle as he tugged uselessly at the gyves, biting his lip when they failed to even budge, let alone fall apart. He felt hot embarrassment as well genuine stupidity when the boss murmured:
“You need a key, Frank. Keys generally unlock things, honey.” The boy felt red gush into his cheeks even run down his neck, his chest, burning the pale skin. The Don seemed in very good humour as he simply laughed and tipped his head back, black hair falling down his neck. “It’s on the belt of the guard; the fat one, I can’t be bothered to think of his godforsaken name. The cuffs are nine inches thick…so I’m thinking a silver, slim key of about two inches would be sufficient.” He rolled his strong shoulders again and hissed when the pain shot through his muscles. “I would be so grateful if you could hurry, pookie, I’m beginning to lose feeling in my arms.”
The boy walked to the limp body of ‘the fat one’ and searched his uniform for the key satchel; a frayed, worn brown belt shimmered with life and tugged the boy’s vision to it. He fumbled with a small circle containing a vast amount of keys and locks alike. He fumbled with a silver, old-fashioned Yale for several moments before managing to pry it off. He raced back inside the cell belonging to the Don and began fiddling the key inside the shackles. It made him slightly nervous that the twenty three year old’s fingers began stroking the tender flesh along Frank’s hands. The boy’s breath came in short, sharp rasps as he did. He tried hard to focus on working the lock, swallowing at a fierce rate.
“Shh, calm down,” the boss purred, his finger trailing up Frank’s shirt, hooking the material up so he could trail his finger along the boy’s navel. “No need to try and jab it in so rough…be gentle…like this…” he nudged the boy’s wrist up so that Frank went slowly, gently. “There…just keep doing that…the shackles are old…they jam if you push them too hard.”
“Oh,” Frank returned, blushing still. He gently slipped the key inside the bolt of the handcuffs and felt it click open. “Did I do it right?”
“Yes, thank you. So obedient. Such a good boy.” Frank felt a sudden jolt of joy rise in his chest-he had never been praised before. The boss ripped his wrists apart and then the shackles fell to the ground, broken. “Thank you, Frank.” He turned to the boy fully now, hands newly liberated. He set his hands on Frank’s shoulders, thumbs sliding up and down the boy’s neck, Frank shivering with the tickling sensation. “Shh, baby, don’t tremble. You belong to me now.” A smile. A small, mischievous smile. Frank became entranced in those fluid eyes. “You’re my lil prisoner, now, baby.”
Frank looked at his wrists. They were clasped in shackles.