You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison (KELLIC) (boyxboy)

Chapter 1

[a/n I have like this entire fic drafted, it's just a matter of typing it up. This chapter is a little short anyway, so it goes well with the prologue.]

Song of the Chapter: "Prisoners of War" by Crown The Empire

"The court finds Victor Fuentes guilty of drug possession and dealing, participation in organized crime, multiple accounts of violence, and attempted evasion of arrest. The court sentences one Victor Fuentes to seven years in the California State Penitentiary with opportunity for parole and early release as determined by Warden Alan Ashby," the elderly judge tapped his gavel and the beefy security guard next to me stood up. I rose also, following him out to the prison bus along with the other men who had been convicted today. We all shuffled onto the bus quietly, obediently. It was humid outside, and the air on the bus felt thick and smelled rank. We were all placed in separate seats with our hands cuffed. The bus filled quickly, and officers began doubling us up. I recalled hearing that the state penitentiary was practically bursting at the seams since so many counties were too poor for holding cells.

"Four hour bus ride, no stops. And behave," an officer at the front of the bus grunted. Just like that, we were off down the dusty road.

"Well? What are you in for?" the guy next to me asked curiously, greasy hair hanging limply in front of his face. He had the thick stubble of a man who hadn't shaved in days, and tattoos crawled up his sweaty neck.

"Drug possession mostly. I was part of the San Diego Southern Constellations," I explained. The other prisoner looked impressed; we were a powerful and well-known gang, but my adolescent eagerness of being in the group wore off quickly.

"Huh. I'm in for attempted; a bar fight got a little too intense," the guy said, licking his lips frantically. I instantly associated the madness in his eyes as that of an alcoholic forced cold turkey. I nodded politely, not sure how to reply.

"Okay. Well my name's Vic Fuentes. I'd shake your hand, but..." I trailed off, holding up my cuffed hands. The alcoholic giggled maniacally, startling me. It was a wonder he didn't plead insanity. I would've believed it.

"I'm Craig Owens. I have enjoyed this little chat, but I think I might take a little nap," he said, leaning back on the torn upholstery of the bus seat and shutting his eyes. Sweat poured down my face, and I watched Craig twitch periodically. I wondered what he would be like when he was a little less deprived. The heat of the bus and the hum of the motor lulled me into a fitful rest.

"Up and out!" the beefy officer shouted, startling me from my half-asleep state. Craig was staring at me with wide eyes, his chapped lips spread into a creepy smile.

"We're here!" he exclaimed excitedly, joining the crowd pushing to get off the bus that felt more and more like an oven. I hung back, waiting until the bustle died down to an orderly line to get out. The air was still and just as sweltering outside without the roof of the bus protecting us from the merciless sun. There was no breeze. The state penitentiary loomed in front of us, all grey cinderblock and barbed wire. It was like something out of an old movie; the building was run-down and low-tech, the prisoners treated like animals since there were so many of us. I quietly cursed the government for choosing the prisons as the optimal place for budget cuts.

"Line up! Wait your turn for your assignment. Cooperate or we'll be stuck out here all day," a different officer, tall and mean-looking commanded. He wiped his brow and took a long drink from a bottle of water. My throat seemed to dry up even more just looking at the cold beads of condensation. I hated myself for ending up at the back of the line. The afternoon sun burned.

"Last name?" a bored guy with a baby face asked me once I finally reached the door.

"Fuentes." He handed me a stack of fabric and a bag of toiletries.