Tobias Weiss.

Chapter 1

                          2013 by tore56789 (GOS) All rights reserved.

                               

                      Chapter 1                            

             

                                    The year, 2051

Hands Mac Cormack sat on his bed after using the toilet facility on the wall.  His biggest problem at that moment in his dinky cell, which just about left his six feet eight inches lie down with a little space to spare, and his huge massive muscular bulk, was he had only two wipes left on the bog roll.  Which meant, he would have to be a real nice little nigger to the guards to get something everyone on the outside took for granted ever day.  Otherwise, he'd have to wait a few days for a new roll.

He was an enormous man.  And it was his hands which incidentally got him his name in the world of professional killers.  Because as a hit man for the Mafia, it was known he preferred to use those huge things of his to strangle the life out of anyone his bosses said he was to silent.  It was even said amongst his peers, his fellow killers; he got a thing seeing the life leave a person's eyes.  And for that same reason, only liked using a gun when the chances of getting up close and personal with a hit, wasn't going to be so easy.

His good days ended, putting him on a stay on Death Row in a New Orleans prison, when someone he knew and trusted turned State evidence against him.   He knew if he ever got out, he would find that S.O.B.  And kill him so slow, he'd make his agony last for all the fifteen years he had been in this place.  In a room no bigger than a kennel, in a way of life, you wouldn't even give to a dog; as you'd have far more compassion.  His only thing he could look forward to, which wasn't much, was being allowed one hour of solitude in the yard each evening.  Where the guards would only return once that time was up, to secure his hands and feet once more, to take him back to his cell.

He read strangely a lot in those years, where before he rarely looked at a book; as he preferred the easier fix of TV.  And books like white people might think he mightn't have any real time for; being his profession and all.  Like poems by Emily Dickinson.  Hemingway.  He wasn't terribly interested in trashy paperbacks, by here to day, gone tomorrow authors, found in the abundance at the prison library.  The sad thing was, the way his life was, he had buckets of time on his hands, just to seek out distractions.  He didn't know it then, but in a matter of a few minutes, his whole life was about to change.  He might have looked on it that possibly the Almighty had heard his words.  As like a lot of Death-Rowers, he too had also taken up bible reading –as a ploy to show those on the outside, he had changed his ways.  And found the great healing power of prayer.

He had picked up a book by Edgar Allen Poe, just thirty seconds before, and was lying back down on his bunk, when he heard the voice, "Looks like nigger, you're going to escape the needle after all.  Seem these military type want your black ass."  The guard gave a laugh, in an Irish sounding brogue,  as he looked in at him through the cell door, "They have just been onto the warden.  Beat that.  Want you as you're a big fellow I guess, and stupid as shit, for some universal soldier program or something.  That's the impression the warden got anyhow, from the talk."

He looked up, "Are you jiving with me?"

"No, you're going to be as free as a bird, once you sign some papers.  They're sending one of their boys here now.  Seems you're going to be taken away too in real style in one of those helicopters?"  The guard stopped, gave a sigh, shaking his head with wonder, "Can't fathom why they want a Death Row trash nigger like you though.  Can only think it's for something like where they reckon you ain't going to be coming back from sort of missions.  Like in that real old movie from the past, what was it called again?  Oh yea, the Dirty Dozen," he chuckled afterwards.

"Sure as hell will beat this hole anyway, and listening to your stupid motherfucker cracker mouth, sounding off all the time."  He looked up, "Won't have to be going Yes master, No master sir, no more, just to wipe my big old fat ass."

Then the colored man laughed. One of those laughs when something hits, you feel amazed it never dawned on you before, "I bet O Riley, this is as good as it gets for you.  Oh, I betting, as soon as you go out that gate, your real hell begins.  Oh, I'm even betting, you got nothing out there, just some mangy old dog or cat to come home to, because no white assed bitch would want your raciest white ass, or any sister for that matter?" 

He stopped, and chuckled quietly to himself, "Oh, I'm even betting, this is as good as it gets for you, bullying us poor lost folk, because no one else would put up with your insults."  He gave another soft chuckle, "I'm even guessing, you never even had your...," 

"You shut the fuck up," the guard came back annoyed.  You don't forget where you are nigger.  You know what happened to you last time you sounded off like that?"

Going back to the book, he said more quietly, laughing to himself like, with that sort of expression, without any sound, "I ain't forgetting.  Only like you said, I'm getting out of here.  And I'm going on the bet, these military boys don't want their parcel they are about to collect, all banged up and that, when they get here?" 

The guard walked away, still very annoyed, giving his cell door a few bands with his stick.  As he did, "Hands roared, "If it is to make me into one of those universal solders O Riley, I'll be coming for you, like in that old movie too.  You just wait?"

He heard silence, then some laughter, as the guard wondered off to upset another Death Row resident, which there were plenty of.