rotgut confessional Who: Ian Terrell and James Hawkins Where: Gen Pop, La Quinta Correctional Facility What: Sarge has a confession to make. Rodeo does not take it well. When: Late evening on December 1, 2018
hey man, i kinda like your sister. hey man, i hope that's cool. hey man, i kinda lose my mind every single time i find your sister suntanned by the pool. hey man, how can i resist her? hey man, i kinda like your sister.
Praise the lord for pruno.
Rodeo's side is aching, the pain sharp with every breath, and the only thing that can ease the throbbing and stabbing all over his body is this nauseating prison wine. He bought a bottle off one of their boys with a snack cake stolen from a bedroll a CO was tearing apart to search for contraband, and though it pained him to let his girl Lil' Debbie go to another, the liquor is doing him better. His mood is sour as he considers the sorry excuse for an interrogation they all had to endure, and the promise of more to come as the Mayor sends more pigs and lawyers to rub their noses in their mess. This trial will be nothing but a sham, no different from the last trial he endured six years ago. A mountain of evidence against him, with no one all that worried about whether or not it can be substantiated or not. Their guilt has already been determined; the trial is just for Olinger's vanity.
Stretched out on his bedroll with his head propped up against the corner bar of the bunk, Rodeo shuffles a deck of Iraqi Most Wanted playing cards he got from a fella he beat at poker, trying not to think of all he's missing back home. He should be crowded in his trailer tonight with Sarge and Adelaide and Charlie, Sweet Melissa and Cat and Skittles. He could be playfully bench pressing his giggling nephew while Sweet Melissa sniffs at his little kicking feet and Adelaide stands in the kitchen fixing them supper. He could be hooking up the TV to watch some rowdy old WWE special with Sarge and a bottle of Jack that would get him riled up enough that he'd antagonize his best friend until he baited Sarge into socking him in the mouth. He could be drinking around the bonfire while a long-legged woman straddles his lap and distracts him from his longing heart for a while. He could be sitting in the Council Chambers, sipping whiskey from a glass while he picks the brains of his best and most beloved. (Teagan would be there. Teagan would always be there.) But he can't have any of those things, not locked up in here.
Well, maybe there's one thing he can have. Sort of.
It's no Jack Select, but he can still share a bottle with his best friend. Rodeo sets down the novelty cards and shifts, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching up to grip the bar overhead to help brace himself as he stands. The knife wound in his leg that Lita stitched up was healing well until a CO kicked it five or six times with a steel-toed boot. Now his leg is feeling like it's been tenderized and there sure as hell ain't no sweet woman to take a look at it this time. He gives the battered gash a few pats to make sure it hasn't started bleeding again before he hooks his arm up over the top bunk and discretely passes the old plastic Coke bottle of pruno to Sarge.
"I don't want to die on this rotgut shit alone," he declares simply, half under his breath.