Hell Hole

By C.L. Finn

-Day one-

The cement floor is cold. Keller turns over onto his back, but forgoes trying to get up for the time being. His stomach has begun doing flip-flops, rebelling against the rotgut moonshine he poured into it. He bends his legs, wrapping an arm around his belly, breathes deep and concentrates on forcing it to settle down. If he throws up now, he's going to have to live with the smell for a week. That thought alone nearly sends his lunch up for an encore.

It's silent outside now-- the hacks who threw him in here, gone. All he can hear is dripping water, air rushing through vents above him, and his own harsh breathing.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters, and turns onto his side, curling up in a ball as he rides out the feeling of a rock tumbler in his belly. After a few minutes it begins to fade to a dull burn, not going away, but no longer threatening to reject its contents.

Stupid fucking Operation Toby.

How the hell did he get himself into this mess in the first place? Oh yeah, the little reunion with Vern-- calling in old debts.

Of course, the burn in his stomach and the jackhammer he can feel warming up in his skull-- those are his own fault. Or more precisely, they're Bonnie's fault. Stupid bitch and her "I just thought you should know, Chris." What the hell should he care that some other poor idiot was gonna have to put up with her bullshit?

"Fuck," Keller groans and rubs at his temple, the jackhammer settling in to a steady pace now. He licks his lips and then wishes he hadn't. He can still taste Toby-- the toothpaste, Kool-aid and cookies flavor of him. He must have had some kind of snack with his kids. It was the flavor of outside. No one in Oz ever tasted like Kool-aid and cookies. Incredible that he can still taste that over the acidic, chemical burn of the moonshine.

Tucking an arm under his head, Keller concentrates on that flavor, closes his eyes and tries to sleep off the alcohol-- tries to forget he's stuck in this cold, damp, tiny place for the next fucking week.

-Day three-

Twenty-four steps. It takes twenty-four steps to circle the cell Keller's stuck in. He knows because he's counted. He's also counted the number of laps he's made today-- sixty-three. No, sixty-four, he corrects as he passes the cell door once again. It's a stupid pastime, he knows. But what the fuck else is he gonna do?

If he sits around, all he does is think. And thinking can only drive him quickly up these slimy walls. So, he walks instead. The exercise is good for him anyway. It's too easy to get lazy in the hole, to sit around and feel sorry for yourself and find yourself weak and sore when you finally walk out. Chris Keller is not a stranger to administrative segregation-- ad seg, or the hole, in prison lingo. He spent plenty of time in a cell like this the first time he went to prison. Until he learned to control his impulses.

Or, until Vern's punishment taught him to control his impulses.

"You have really got to learn some self-control, Christina," he used to tell him, deliberately using that most despised nick-name.

But this isn't one of those times, Keller tries to remind himself, stopping to lean back against the wall. This was part of the plan. Make Beecher fall in love, get him good and addicted, and then take away the drug. Operation Toby is moving along just fine.

So why does he feel so fucking out of control?

Because Toby surprised you, didn't he? He came to *you*. And he did it when you weren't expecting it, when you had your mind off the game. When you were too busy being pissed off at Bonnie and feeling sorry for yourself, to take control when the plan finally fell into place.

Because Tobias Beecher *was* in control at that moment. His mark had turned the tables, stepped outside the game. Absolutely unacceptable. Let that happen on the street and you're a dead man.

Keller takes a deep breath and rubs at his face, then slides down the wall.

"Pull it together, Chris," he tells himself. Whether he planned that little scene in the laundry room or not, nothing has really been screwed up. Things are right on schedule.

Blame it on Bonnie-- always a good fall back position. Keller chuckles at the thought. God knows, he's had plenty of practice. Bonnie and her eternally bad timing.

-Two Days Earlier-

Keller lay sprawled over his bunk, still amused at the nervous whirlwind that was his podmate as he hustled off to the showers to get ready to see his kids. Damn Beecher hadn't slept the whole night before, keeping Keller up with the squeak and groan of his cot as he tossed and turned.

Now he was trying to make a decision. Nothing earth-shattering, just whether to get his ass up and go do his laundry, go find someone to play cards with, or just take a nap. The last option being the most tempting, the first most pressing. Beecher, the fuck, had done his laundry yesterday and not even offered to throw his in. He fucking hated laundry, but he was down to the point where even *he* couldn't stand the smell of his own clothes.

A little hard to seduce someone when they can't stand the smell of you, an inner voice piped up. Decision made, he pulled himself off the cot and started gathering his shit together.

"Keller," one of the hacks poked his head into the pod, "you got a visitor."

"Yeah? Who?" Keller asked, trying to figure out who he still owed money to.

"What am I, a butler? Get the fuck out here."

Keller shrugged and tossed his laundry onto the bed. Whoever it was had to be better than the damn laundry room.

And it *was* far better than watching his clothes spin around-- for the first thirty seconds anyway. Bonnie looked great-- really fucking great. She was letting her dark red hair grow out again, and the curls were a wild mess, pulled back from her full, round face with a headband. She was gaining weight again, adding to her chipmunk-like cheeks, the dusting of freckles across her nose hidden under heavy make-up as usual. Chris had always loved those freckles, but was never able to convince her to leave them alone.

After giving Keller a thorough once-over with her laser-like green eyes, Bonnie smiled, and he couldn't help grinning back at those infectious dimples.

"Hey Bon," he said, picking up the phone when she did. "What's up, baby?"

"Hi Chris," she answered softly, reminding him of intimate nights, nights when they hadn't been fighting or fucking. "How are you doing?"

Keller shrugged and winked at her. "You know, one prison's the same as the next. Accommodations aren't too bad, but the maids keep forgetting to leave those mints on my pillow."

"Jesus Christ, Christopher," Bonnie sighed, glaring at him. "Be serious. Are you staying out of trouble?"

"Bonnie, I'm in prison. Telling me to stay out of trouble is a bit late."

Bonnie rolled her eyes and snorted. "Like you ever listened to me before."

"Baby, I think you filled your life-time quota of 'I told you so's. Was there something specific you wanted, or you just missing the good old days?"

"Yeah," she said, her eyes moving away from Keller. "I did come for a reason." Great, he thought, she can never look me in the eye when she has bad news.

"Well, spit it out, Bon. I only have so much time here."

He watched her glance back at him in annoyance, then her eyes slid away from him again and she took a deep breath. "I got married. I thought you should know, Chris."

"What?" he asked, stunned at her news.

"You heard me. I got married again. You could try being happy for me, if that's not too much of a stretch for you."

"Who the fuck did you marry?"

Bonnie? Married? He couldn't imagine it. Hell, she'd moved back in with her parents after their first marriage fell apart, and stayed there till he came back after a second prison term and two disastrous other marriages and convinced her to give him another try.

"Does it matter?"

"Well, I'd guess it does from that response. Who is it, Bonnie?"

"Bruce Roberts," she mumbled, her eyes glancing around the room frantically looking for something to land on.

"Excuse me?" Keller asked coldly.

"Don't flip out, Chris. It's not like you've got any claim on me. You left *me*, remember? I've got a right to be happy. Jesus, you even remarried twice, so don't pull any betrayal kind of shit on me."

She was looking at him again, finally having worked herself up to being angry at him. It was a familiar pattern-- one he'd always secretly loved. He used to push her just to piss her off, because he loved the way her green eyes flashed and her voice got rough. But this time it did nothing to soothe the anger coursing through his veins.

"You're telling me you married that fucking little troll who talked me into taking a plea, landed me in here for 88 fucking years?!" he yelled, standing up. When a hack started toward him, he sat back down, but didn't calm down.

"He's not a troll. And he didn't land you in here for 88 years, you did. He kept you from getting lethal injection, you stupid jerk. Look, Chris," she said, obviously trying to calm things down, "I'm sorry. I met Bruce at your arraignment and then I ran in to him a while back and he asked me out. He's a really good guy, Chris. A good family man. Can't you just be happy for me?"

A family man?! Oh.

"You got pregnant, didn't you?" he asked deadly quiet, working on a hunch.

She blushed under the accusation and looked away again. "Yes, but that's not why I'm marrying him. Chris, you know I never..."

"Don't," he said, cutting her off. He took a deep breath and let it out, then smiled at her through the glass. "You take care of yourself, Bon. Have a good life." Then he carefully set the phone down and got up and walked away.

He has no right to be mad at Bonnie. He knows that. But still, the thought of her married to that short, pock-marked, inept little public defender-- a fucking lawyer. *His* fucking lawyer. It just makes him furious.

And then the final knife in his gut-- she's pregnant. Keller never wanted kids, not the slightest bit. But Bonnie had always wanted a family, and that broke up their first marriage. Then he married her again-- his one and only attempt at having a normal life and going straight-- and he agreed to try for kids. He'd failed on both accounts. Miserably.

He knows that Bonnie always believed it was her failure, that she wasn't capable of getting pregnant. But he also knows the truth. He's pretty sure that a particular beating he received his second stint in prison is to blame. He'd nearly been killed, spent weeks in the prison infirmary, and for about three months afterward been unable to even get it up. He got that function back, but he figures that some kind of permanent damage was done.

She got pregnant once, after the first trip down the aisle. A supposed accident, though Chris always had his doubts. She'd miscarried in her fourth month, and Chris had left her not long after that, unable to deal with her sorrow and his own relief. Of course, he's never told her about the injury. But then, he's never told her about the things he's had to do in prison, or the things he did on the street after getting out that first time-- 19 years old and no where to go.

She was the only clean thing in his life.

But happy for her? Not likely.

Not yet anyway. Bonnie is his last link to anything not violent-- the only thing left he cares about, aside from his own hide. Bonnie, with her hidden freckles, her crooked dimples, and her soft body. She'd never had a great body by any standards, constantly on some kind of diet or another, fighting not to become the two-hundred pound house that was her mother. But he liked her softness.

One day, he'd ended up in a museum-- he can't remember which for sure, the Met probably-- hiding out from some asshole who was intent on exacting a piece of his hide in place of the money he owed. He'd wandered around the place and found a painting that he still has etched in his brain. It would forever be associated with Bonnie-- the naked woman who had soft curves and a slightly rounded belly, some kind of harem girl he'd surmised from the tag next to it, though the French name was beyond him.

Maybe she does deserve to be happy, he thinks as he rubs a hand across his belly, the way she used to do. Maybe the little troll can give her what he never could. Keller's not quite ready to be that magnanimous, but he knows that he's got no choice anyway. He'll be in here for the rest of his life, most likely. He's already blown his last chance.

Sinking down more comfortably against the wall, Keller's hand moves over his body and he closes his eyes, remembering the softness of Bonnie. His cock hardens and he reaches down to stroke it, imagining her small, pudgy hands, the warm wetness of her, the flowery smell of that sunflower perfume she likes so much, the silk of her curly hair...

...the taste of Kool-aid and cookies, the mingled smell of laundry soap and moonshine.

Beecher.

Shit!

His hand freezes, then he drops his cock deliberately. That was definitely not where he wanted to go. Still hard, he shakes away the taste he still imagines in his mouth, stands up and resumes his laps around the room.

"Sixty-seven," he counts loudly as he passes the door, as if daring himself to be distracted with impure thoughts of Tobias Beecher, or self-pity over Bonnie's life.

-Day Five-

Keller is bored. He just finished doing a hundred push-ups and now he's lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and he's actually considering counting the tiles. But he can't even manage to get himself interested in that idea.

Now he remembers why he hates ad seg. He hates being alone. He absolutely can not stand being left with nothing but his own mind to amuse him. And the quiet is about to drive him up the walls. The simple truth is that he needs people.

Oh, not in the conventional sense. He hasn't relied on another person since he was 16 years old. Ties to other people are temporary and only on an immediate necessity basis. But he's only ever lived in the city, and he's used to the noise and the constant intrusion of other bodies, other voices. Having spent a large chunk of his time in prison, and the rest of it in cheap apartments with paper-thin walls, he is used to the background noise of humanity. All he can hear in this place is the rush of air through the vents overhead and the occasional rounds the hacks make.

Twice a day, they bring him food. But that doesn't really count. Hacks never count as people in here. It reminds him of that Dustin Hoffman movie... what the hell was it called? The one where he kept going back and forth between living as an Indian and living as a white man. He'd watched it on late-night tv in some shitty hotel somewhere when he couldn't sleep. Doesn't matter. Anyway, the Indians called themselves human beings and the white man was just that. They didn't count as human. That's what it's like in prison, he thinks, we're the Indians, they're the cowboys.

"Christ," Keller mutters, rubbing at his face and sitting up. What a stupid thought. Beecher would have a much better metaphor.

"Metaphor." There's a word he never would have known if it weren't for Beecher. "Fucking metaphor." He'd used it in some conversation and when Keller had stared at him blankly, he'd gone on to explain exactly what a metaphor was... colorful examples and all.

It still makes him laugh. Damn Beecher. He could be wickedly funny when he was in the right mood. That's what he needed right now-- one of Toby's observations on the state of prison life. The guy had a talent for looking at things upside down and inside out in ways that left you wondering if you were the one with twisted vision.

He wonders briefly how Toby is doing-- whether the plan is working. And he finds himself hoping that it's not, that Beecher is stronger than he thinks. He imagines that his podmate is holding it all together, biding his time until Chris gets out of the hole. He thinks that maybe he can make this whole thing go away-- warn Toby about Vern's plans and then tell the old Nazi to go fuck himself.

"And then what, Chris? We can live happily ever after?" he asks himself with a sneer. Yeah, stupid idea.

And then he hears that voice in his head-- the breathless one, the one filled with need. The traitorous voice that found its way out of his own mouth. "I love you, Toby," he'd said in the laundry room, just before that Kool-aid kiss. Before he'd jumped off a cliff and felt things spin way out of control, the ground rushing up to meet him as guards grabbed him and hauled him off to this place. What the hell was that all about?

"Part of the plan... part of the act," he tells himself. Right, a voice in his head answers back, a completely un-necessary part of the plan. You already had him. He came to you, remember?

"Dammit!" Chris jumps up, moving to pace around the room. This is why he hates this place, why he hates the quiet. He needs distraction, something to occupy his mind. There are only so many laps he can make of the room, only so many push-ups and sit-ups he can do.

And then an idea strikes him. Chess. He can work on his chess game. Sure, he's got no board or pieces in here, but it will take even more of his brain's energy to visualize it. That'll keep him busy, he's sure. Sitting back down in the corner, cross-legged, he begins to count off bricks in his mind, assigning them colors on the board and pieces.

He can do this. He can occupy his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself that it's all about business and any ridiculous fantasies about changing sides mid-game, are just that. Ridiculous fantasies. Dangerous fantasies. But still...

-Day Five (later)-

The Queen is cornered. Another move or two and he'll have her. Keller's visualization plan wasn't such a great idea after-all. He kept losing his place and having to start over. But he's found a small piece of brick, broken off from somewhere, and he's using it to scratch little marks in the wall as he moves the pieces. Of course, playing against himself isn't much of a challenge.

Leaning back, he stretches his arms over his head to pop his back. He's been sitting like this, staring at his make-shift chess board for several hours now. He has no idea what time it is, but his stomach tells him it must be nearing dinner time. And just as he thinks it, he hears the sound of hacks opening doors down the hall.

Keller stands up and stretches out the rest of his back, feeling his knees pop as he does. It reminds him that he's getting older, that in the last few years his body has begun to betray him. His knees are pretty much wasted from the beating they've taken over the years and his back has seen much better days, especially since that last wreck he had on his bike. He runs a hand through his hair-- there's that too, a quickly receding hair-line.

Of course, he thinks, it doesn't really matter. He's going to grow old in this prison, or more likely, he'll never make it to old. Shaking off that morbid thought, he goes to stand against the back wall as he hears keys rattle in the door to his cell.

He raises his eyebrow when he sees which guard has brought him his dinner. Vern's buddy-- that giant Nazi, Metzger. Keller only recently found out who it was Vern had on the inside, and he's not sure he's happy about knowing. He doesn't trust this guy. He's all about the cause and isn't interested in money-- a very bad combination in Keller's opinion. Much harder to keep under control. Not that Vern would ever listen to Chris' opinion on the matter.

"Dinner," the hack says stupidly, setting the tray on the floor in the middle of the room. "And a message from a friend," he says in a lower voice, pushing the door almost shut behind him. "Your friend wants you to know that Beecher has fallen off the wagon. And he wants to remind you to keep your eye on the ball."

Keller pushes away the brief flicker of disappointment he feels at the news.

"Yeah?" he says, moving towards his dinner tray. "Thanks for passing it on." He surveys the tray with disgust-- the usual prison fare, but he's used to that. It's the milk he can't stomach. Fucking milk. He's hated the stuff since he was a kid, and that's all he's had since he's been in the hole. Every meal, a fucking carton of whole milk.

He realizes that Metzger hasn't moved. He's still standing inside the closed door, watching him. It's damned unnerving. "Hey," he says needing to regain a bit of balance, "you think you could get them to give me something else to drink besides milk? I hate this stuff!"

"This isn't room service, Keller."

"Yeah? Then what are you waiting for, a tip?"

Metzger's eyes narrow. "Something like that," he says, with a sneer. "Our friend highly recommends your services. Says you've got some real talent."

"Excuse me?" Keller asks, trying to pretend he doesn't know exactly what Metzger's talking about.

God damn, fucking Vern Schillinger! Nazi cock-sucking asshole! Keller has the urge to pound at the walls of his cell and scream those words, but he doesn't. Instead he just stares back at the hack, waiting to see if he'll push it.

"I believe," he says, reaching for his fly, "a demonstration is in order." When Keller still doesn't move, he glares at him. "Unless of course, you'd like to stay in here another week."

Fuck. No way is he going to stay another week. And even if he did, that wouldn't get him out of this particular chore.

What the fuck. It's not like he hasn't done it before.

Taking a deep breath, Keller moves forward carefully, sinking to his knees in front of Metzger. Fucker's so tall, he has to keep his weight on his knees instead of shifting it back on his feet. He knows he'll be feeling it for the next two days.

He does it all by memory, it doesn't take thought anymore. His hands and mouth go about their task on instinct, while his mind starts to worry at how to get that Queen uncornered. He finds a little pride in the way Metzger groans when he comes, trying to keep himself quiet, trying not to lose his balance as his legs shudder. Vern wasn't lying about one thing-- Keller is a hell of a cock-sucker. Has been since he was seventeen years old, trying to please the man who protected him. Vern trained him well.

And that's what this is about. He knows this is as much a message from Vern as the other. Vern's just trying to remind him, once a prag, always a prag. As soon as Metzger zips up his pants and leaves, locking the door behind him, Chris spits out what's left in his mouth.

As much as he hates the taste of the hack in his mouth, it helps to clear his mind. All of this other bullshit is useless, dangerous. What matters is taking care of business. What matters is his debt to Vern. Beecher is just a mark, that's all he is. Stupid of him to forget that fact.

-Several Months Earlier-

On his way to check in with his work assignment in the prison factory, Keller considered the question of his odd new podmate. Tobias Beecher was clearly not the typical con. He wasn't exactly soft, but there was something that told Keller he didn't belong in this place. All he'd been able to get out of the man when he questioned him was that he used to be a lawyer and he was in for manslaughter. He'd have to do some asking around to get more details.

But it was the weird edginess that concerned Chris the most. Not the rhyme spouting thing-- that was just bizarre-- but an underlying tension that was way too much like a rubber-band about to snap at any moment. And what the hell was that fag stuff? Who comes out with that as an opening question?

Very weird guy. But he also sparked Keller's curiosity, made him want to figure this guy out.

"Well, well," a voice behind him called. There was something familiar about it, so he turned around. "Christopher Keller. Seems it's old home week around here."

And there was a face he never thought he'd see again. Vern Schillinger... older, softer around the middle, harder around the eyes... but frighteningly familiar just the same.

"Schillinger?" Keller asked, trying to turn his surprise into some semblance of a smile. "Jesus Christ, what're you doing here?"

"Same thing as you, I would imagine," Vern laughed and moved forward, pulling Chris into a brief, hard hug. Even cons had their version of class reunions.

Vern pulled back and gave Keller a thorough once-over with his predatory eyes. He had to fight to keep from shivering under that stare, feeling like a kid again, terrified out of his mind. "You sure as hell grew up. Couldn't stay out of trouble though, I see."

"Nah, you know me. No impulse control."

"I have to tell you, Chris," Vern said conversationally as he grabbed the mail cart he'd been pushing and fell into step next to Keller as they continued down the hall. "I was thrilled when I heard you were on the list of new inmates. I pulled a few strings with my inside man to get you sent to Em City."

"Yeah? You over there too?" Keller asked, wondering where this was going and sure now that it was going somewhere.

"Fuck no," Vern laughed. "I got the hell out from under McManus' thumb a while ago. But I got plans for you over there. That's why I arranged for your room-mate."

"What?" Chris stopped, looking over at the maniacal grin on Vern's face. "That crazy guy's a friend of yours?"

"Friend? Not hardly. Let's just say I owe him," Vern said with all the hate Keller had ever seen in the man's eyes-- quite a bit, all things considered.

"Look Vern, I just got here. I got no interest in murder."

"Murder?" Vern laughed again, and ran a hand over a scar framing his eye. "I don't want to kill him. I have bigger plans for the little Beech-ball. And you, my old friend, are just the man to help."

Vern went on to tell his own version of the Tobias Beecher story. It was later that Keller would get the full story, asking around discreetly about his new cell-mate and his past with Vern Schillinger. What he learned would lead him to revise and refine Vern's plan.

The more Keller learned about Beecher, the more excited he became about the challenge. Keller was born a con-artist, with an innate sense of what people need and an ability to give it to them. It was very obvious that what Beecher needed was affection-- kindness. Not a tough call when Keller himself had experienced the Vern-treatment.

He went along with Vern for several reasons, some of which he would forget for a time. He thought the whole thing might be an entertaining diversion-- something to keep him from the mind-numbing sameness of prison life. And there was Vern-- he owed the old Nazi. The man had saved his life and taught him to survive in places like this. He'd been hardened on Vern Schillinger's forge.

Keller has to grin at that thought-- seems he's getting better at metaphors.

But that debt hadn't been the only reason he agreed. Vern's appearance in Oz presented Keller with a problem. This little plan of Vern's gave him a bargaining chip.

"All right," he told Schillinger. "I'll do it on one condition."

Vern simply grinned and lightly slapped Keller's cheek, a sinister parody of a caress. "Where'd you get the idea we were bargaining here, Christina?"

"That's what I'm talking about," Keller answered calmly, pushing Vern's hand away. "I'm not 17 years old anymore. I am not anyone's prag, and I don't intend to be. I'll do this for you because I owe you. But that's it. And I'm asking you to keep our past between us. I don't think that's too much to ask in return for something you obviously want so bad."

Vern stared back at Keller coldly, assessing him, clearly deciding whether he was going to take offense and assert his authority or accept the deal. Eventually, a slow, cold grin spread over his face.

"I don't recall expressing an interest in your ass, cupcake. Been there, done that. You take care of Beecher for me, and I'll have no advantage in sharing details of your past."

Keller released a deep breath he didn't know he'd been holding and nodded his head with a smile. A win-win deal all around.

"But," Vern cut in, leaning forward into his space, "you cross me, Christopher, and I'll see to it you become King-Prag around here. We understand each other?"

And that's what the little visit from Metzger was about-- a little warning from Vern. A reminder of their deal, and the possible consequences of failure. Well, it served its purpose, because Keller can't seem to push the memories out of his head. Memories of a scared, angry kid, learning that the things that led him to crime in the first place were nothing compared to the horrors inside a prison-- the violence of his father, nothing next to the violence enacted daily in that place.

Memories of that nigger who'd raped him. Memories of Vern's rescue and the toll he'd exacted for it. The taste of his cock and the ache of it in his ass. And worst-- the mind games. But in all of that, Keller had found a way to survive. He could suck cock like a pro, and eventually he could defend himself so he wouldn't have to.

He learned not to take anyone's shit, not to trust, and under no circumstances to become attached to anyone else.

And that's what really pisses him off now.

Keller paces around the room, not unlike a large, caged cat. He thinks about Beecher-- his nightmares, his obvious physical reactions during the wrestling matches, his metaphors, his baby-clean face, and that damn Kool-aid kiss.

And he suddenly hates him for all of it.

He hates him for being so damn easy. For trusting Keller, for loving Keller, and for walking right into Vern's trap. For not knowing his own inner strength, and not being able to hold it together for seven fucking days. He hates Beecher for his weakness.

Weakness that Keller does not intend to share.

And that makes Keller calmer. He takes several deep breaths and scratches at an itch on his ass-- a rash forming from something he's picked up from the harsh cleaners they hose this cell out with between prisoners. Stretching his back out, he hears it pop and sighs in relief.

He's spent too much energy mooning over some stupid drunken kiss. Too much time grieving for something he never wanted with his ex-wife in the first place. And too much effort thinking he can change the rules.

Sitting down on the cold stone, he picks up his dinner tray and works at wiping his mind clean of anything except filling his stomach with something other than that hack's semen.

-Day Seven-

"I saw her today at the reception," Keller sings in a high falsetto, "a glass of wine in her ha-a-and."

He's now regretting the fact that he complained about the silence. Some poor mother-fucker down the hall has flipped out and he's been screaming and howling for the last six hours. Done with his work-out for the morning, Keller has begun singing in an attempt to drown him out.

He's laying on the floor, his feet propped up on the wall in an attempt to loosen the last of his stiff back muscles. Sleeping on this stone floor is a bitch he'll be glad to kiss goodbye. And he can't wait for a hot shower.

Aside from that, and the screamer down the hall, his last two days in ad seg haven't been too bad. He got juice with his meals-- orange for breakfast and apple for dinner. Not a carton of milk in sight.

"You can't always get what you wa-ant. You can't always get what you wa-ant. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. Ahh yeah."

There is wisdom in rock-n-roll, he thinks.

His off-key concert is interrupted by the sound of hacks in the hallway. He stops singing and turns around, listening for them. When he hears a key in his door, he jumps up.

"About damn time," he mutters when the hack throws his clothes at him.

Pulling his pants on, Keller steels himself for the return to Em City. It's time to bring an end to Operation Toby. He's ready to get it over with-- be done with his debt to Vern.

He can do this.

And then he can get on with the business of surviving in this fucking place for what will probably be the rest of his life.

He can do that too. Check-fucking-Mate.

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