Sadistic Trio
Spike leaned across the railing along the second floor of
the prison, looking down speculatively. He ran his tongue over the top of his
gums, feeling the gaps between each tooth and debated spitting on the guard
standing almost directly below him. Nah, not worth it. Not worth getting turfed
out of his spot. Had something to see about, didn’t he? Business to attend to.
Busy, busy, busy man...
And here they came now, the lost and the few. Some old offenders...you could
tell by the way they walked, looking around, checking out the alliances and
little groups that formed. Mostly by race or creed. Angel and him...they were
the exception, rather then the rule. Hello, who’s that big bastard? Spike
thought to himself, hunching further over the rail to stare consideringly at a
man standing head and shoulders over the rest. Golden blond...natural, if Spike
had any clue. Wore it long. Big fucker. Mean looking. The blue-eyed man frowned
slightly, making a mental note to mention it to Angel at some point, and looked
at the others who’d come in.
Bingo!
Lanky, brown haired ‘don’t touch me’ angry not that far past adolescence youth.
Pouty shaped lips, and something a little bit hard about the doe-brown eyes.
Streets? Maybe. But what he was doing here with the A and B class
offenders...Spike would have to find out. Grinning, he resisted the urge to
lick his lips. He could almost taste the thrill of terrified submission, the
frenzied escape attempts and the burning all-consuming shame...oh yeah, this
would be fun. He didn’t acknowledge the arrival of Angel next to him, the older
man taking up a similar stance leaning over the rail as the guards started the
you are here and this is what this is and you will behave speech they gave as
rote.
“Find one?”
“Oh yeah.” Spike turned his head slightly now as the new prisoners were led off
to their bunks and given more instructions on how to play nice, grinning
wolfishly at Angel. “Lean. Brown hair, brown eyes. Bloody gorgeous.” He held
one hand out in front of him and studied his nails thoughtfully, fingers spread
in a fan. “We’ll need to drop a hint in Doyle’s ear...and then...”
“Showers the easiest?”
“Well, yeah. He’s already naked then, ain’t he? Better then trying to grab him
in his bunk. Don’t know who he’s with yet...make sure it’s someone
co-operative, if we can.” He snapped his fingers, remembering. “Big mean fucker
with an 80s hairstyle came in today as well. We want to watch that goon.”
“Who’s talking about 80s hairstyles now?” Angel mocked Spike gently, getting a
punch in the arm for his efforts.
“Leave off, Angel, or I’ll put me bleach in that nancy froofroo hairgel you
love so very, very much.” Spike smacked one palm down on the railing and turned
away. “Let’s go collar ourselves a bitch, yeah?”
“You put it so crudely, but yes...let’s.”
~*~*~*~
Jonothon Starsmore, known more commonly just as Jono, scowled down at the floor
between his feet as he followed after the guard. Unjustifiable as manslaughter,
his pale British arse. It wasn’t like he planned to shoot the old man with the
wanker’s own very illegal handgun. It just sort of turned out that way.
Besides...fucker had been hitting Mum again. He deserved it. Thirty something
years of domestic abuse. At least she was free of it now. Just that her son was
in gaol for killing dear old Dad. Murder. Twenty years to life. Possibility of
parole in twenty years, depending on good behaviour. Oh, his lawyer had been such
a fucking prize winner when it came to brains. Fucking relatives. All too happy
to say wisely that he was disturbed young man, hated his father, very violent.
The previous police record didn’t help none either. And especially not the
records of animal cruelty, assault and battery, assaulting an officer of the
law, vandalism, all those lovely antisocial crimes that made a judge see red.
Jesus fuck.
He bared his teeth slightly and took a step further away from the tall blonde
loomer that had been dogging him since the guards had gotten the group together
to be taken into the prison proper. God, his guitar. He had had to leave it
behind, along with all his other junk that could conceivably be made into a
weapon. And his clothes, for some reason. Idiotic prison uniforms.
Maybe...maybe he could manage some sort of deal that would give him access to
his instrument. Fuck the twenty years – he’d be in a loony bin before then if
he couldn’t make some sort of music. Absobloodylutely barking mad.
“Starsmore, Jonothon,” the guard read out in a bored voice and Jonothon stepped
out and went into the cell that was indicated. Glancing at the man before he
moved off, he noted the nametag read ‘Doyle’. Looking around at the cell, he
grimaced slightly before putting the gear they’d given him on the bunk bed that
looked unoccupied and sat down on it, running his hands through his hair.
Thankfully, the newest impersonation of the Rock had gone on with the group.
And wasn’t leering at him anymore. Frankly, the man gave Jonothon cold chills
up and down his spine. There were...things you heard about prison. Especially
this sort of prison. Given over to the lifers, mostly. It didn’t matter what
they did...they were here for life anyway. There wasn’t anything the
authorities could do to make it worse. And he was now to be counted among their
ranks. Forever and ever, amen.
“Jesus fucking Christ on a flaming bloody cross,” Jonothon swore, and flopped
back onto his bunk with a frustrated angry sigh.
He hoped his mother managed to get enough money for another lawyer and try for
an appeal. She would try at the least – she was a good old sort, really. Just
fucking weak against his father. Who was now thankfully, food for the worms.
Probably giving them the gripe as well. Wouldn’t expect him to be that tasty,
even to invertebrates. Still...
Jonothon mentally replayed the moment when the bullet had left the gun, the
shocked look on his father’s face as he realised what was about to happen and
someone had finally stood up to him, and the gory explosion that followed.
Bang. Blood. Thud. Lovely.
In some ways, it had been worth it. Just to see it. And to know he’d paid back
nineteen years of abuse on his own part, and another thirty something on his
mother’s. It was something to hold onto, anyway. Violence had always been fun,
and it had been just...wicked to see his father’s forehead explode. Great. Now
he just had to pay for it, because his lawyer had been a bloody idiot. Should
have gotten the hospital records, the teachers notes from primary school, high
school. All that kind of stuff, to prove a history of domestic abuse and try
for manslaughter by provocation. Idiot. Flaming bloody idiot. He could have
been put in an open prison...not a closed one like this. Been out in a lot less
time then he was facing now. Jesus. The world was just full of idiots
sometimes.
He hoped his new ‘room mate’ wasn’t one of them.
~*~*~*~
“Doyle, me old China!” Spike said in a happy voice as he and Angel drew near
the guard on his way out of the main prison hall.
“We want to talk to you...” Angel added, with a small elegant smile. “About
what I was discussing with you earlier.”
“You’ll be paying me now then?” Doyle asked, turning back and raising an
eyebrow. His green eyes glinted.
“Don’t say we don’t like ya, mate,” Spike said, pulling a wad of notes out of
the waistband of his pants and passing it to the guard discreetly. “Alright,
the one we want. Well, I want and Angel here is happy to settle for. Lanky,
young, brown haired. He seemed to spend an awful lot of time glaring at the big
blond fucker.”
“And there’s a bit extra in the money there for whatever you know about him,”
Angel added, tilting his head slightly. The pair weren’t afraid of whoever it
was. But still...know thy enemies. The towering man looked like he’d be trouble
down the line.
“Alright, the young guy’s name is Jonothon Starsmore. He’s in for killing his
dad,” Doyle said, flicking through the notes quickly and tucking them away in
his wallet. “Shot the man in the head from point blank range. Tried to get off
because his Da had a history of belting around the missus and him...didn’t
work. Parole in twenty, or life.”
“And the other?” Angel prompted.
“Jono, Jono...” Spike whispered, blue eyes distant and a horrible predatory
grin on his face. Doyle shuddered slightly, consigned Jonothon Starsmore to the
God above and looked at Angel. “Oh, he’s such a lovely boy. A star.”
“Victor Creed. Professional hitman. They finally caught him...” Doyle said,
glancing over his shoulder. “Look, I have to get going.”
“Go on then, lad, go on. For it’s a great service you’ve done for us today, and
no mistake. I’ll want to talk to you later about arranging some way for us to
get the boyo alone though,” Angel said thoughtfully and watched the other Irish
man move away quickly, catching up to another guard and walking out. Where he
could not follow. For the moment. He was working on that. Whether he’d take
Spike with him was still to be seen. “Well. Should we make some plans?”
Spike laughed, a low dark sound. “Yeah, let’s. I can look forward to the end of
this one.” He grinned at Angel as they moved back to their usual table,
slinging an arm around the other man’s shoulders. “We can play poker to see who
gets the first shot at that arse.”
“You’re on then,” Angel said, laughing softly. Sometimes, Spike really was just
a child.