You know, some people don't deserve what they get.
Some people just don't.
Normally, there's a system of primitive checks and balances that makes sure that justice, of an Oedipal sort, gets done. Mostly, the criminals get shanked, mostly, the good guys get fucked over, and sometimes they get revenge.
But it works, because in here, we're all criminals. So we deserve our day-by-day serving of death.
Physical execution? Who needs it? We've got our own black masked menace in the walls themselves, in OZ.
I like working in the kitchen, it gives me time to think.
But then, I hate working in the kitchen for the same reason.
I don't got much to think about. Not much is happening for me right now. Cyril's doing the best he can, Gloria's gone. I got hardly any clout anymore thanks to that asshole Querns. Things are going to hell, in short.
Go, go, EmCity.
I remember the story of the Wizard of OZ. I used to like it as a kid. I loved the idea of some fucking prick, sitting behind the curtain, and making everyone fear and look up to him. And underneath it all, he's just some loser.
So, once and a while, I try and give these stupid fucks nicknames that fit the story. Like, the cowardly lion, and the tin guy, and Dorothy, and the dumb looking dog.
Oho. And here comes the fucking tin man, right now.
"O'Reily, I need a favor."
"Course you do, Keller. Whatcha gonna give me?"
"Don't fuck around with me today."
"Oh, right, trouble in paradise. What d'ya need?"
He doesn't hit me for the trouble in paradise comment. He's got a lot on his mind. Divorced five times, now.
It's easy enough to do what Keller needs, so I'm gonna do it. Might as well. He can fear, and cry, and rage all he wants, but that fuck ain't ever gonna be sorry. That's the way it goes. I know what heartlessness is.
See, EmCity really is the perfect name. Cause, when all's said and done, that curtain's ripped aside pretty damned quick. And then we're all just dying, bit by bit. Just one piece at a time.
And we do it ourselves, I guess.
Speaking of. I'm gonna go back and watch Miss Sally, check on Cyril if I can. Get the fuck away from all this depression hanging around EmCity now. It's not healthy, all the long faces.
Or all the black faces. S'not balanced, and it's dangerous. Especially for us.
I don't see Beech anywhere. Not a surprise. He's--
He's sinking, that's what he is. He's not gonna last much longer. It's a shame. I like Beech. I do. I wouldn't go out on a limb for him, but fuck. He was a good guy, for a law boy.
I liked him.
Poor fuck. He's going down on one of Adebisi's boys behind the stairs. Bet Pete's feeling like shit, watching her star prisoner rape himself. Maybe it'll be good for her, toughen her up, make her understand that a nun's supposed to be above the shit she's pulling with those two.
Supposed-to-be's. God, I hate'em.
Hill's sitting down, and so I sit beside him. We watch TV, and damn, her tits are nice. Hill shouldn't be here, y'know. He's too smart. You can tell when he talks about voting and stuff.
Beech comes back and goes into his pod without coming to sit down. Keller's nowhere to be found. Off on errands of his own, I'm sure. Maybe there'll be another body to show up in the morning. It wouldn't surprise me. Whether he'll admit it or not, Keller is one possessive guy.
He doesn't want anyone to get Dorothy but him. He just won't admit it.
Maybe I can use it to my advantage sometime. For now, maybe I can just convince Beech to stop the slut shit. If he doesn't, he's gonna end up in the AIDS ward, coughing up his daily dose of death into the toilet bowl, rotting away on the outside as well as in.
I wonder if he's even thought once about that, all the shit he's catching from those ugly Adebisi wannabes. There are thousands of things he could be doing to punish himself, but dying slowly, of a disease that eats away at your immune system bit by bit--
Well, fuck. He fell for Keller. Maybe it fits.
Still. Someone has to do something about it. Keller's walking around like the face of death, bartering with any fucker to try and buy his heart back -- and when that guy Beech is bunking with ends up dead, he might just have the currency to earn it, too. And Beech is getting down on the floor for all of them, making sure to dust the cold concrete with those ugly pants.
He must have bruises on his knees by now. Every day I see him. We all see him. The curtain got whipped right in his face, this Dorothy. Poor bastard. Really.
He's looking for penance, sure. Fine. But he's doing it the way he thinks he deserves.
...god, what a horrible way to die, on your knees, sucking off some random guy like he spurted heroin. It's not even execution style. It's a goddamned suicide.