Special Prisoner (standard:fantasy, 3358 words)
Author: Alpha43	Added: Apr 11 2005	Views/Reads: 3406/2833	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An old con thought he had seen it all until he ran into a new fish who had powers beyond anything seen before.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

the first of several “head checks” or roll calls performed each day. 
Once everybody is accounted for, we are marched down to the mess hall 
for what some people would laughingly call a meal. Everyone knew that 
‘The Pick’ had struck, meaning we were going to be short one con that 
morning. 

The ground floor cons were accounted for, so they were heading out of
the wing when everybody on E2, or the upper deck, was told go back in 
their cells, roll up their mattresses and stand them on end at the head 
of their bunk. All footlockers were to be open and all pictures and 
posters were to be removed from the walls. The upper wing cell doors 
closed on the cons and the bitching and moaning commenced, as eight 
Bulls entered the upper deck to check each cell. If one of us is too 
sick to get out of the sack, or if someone has attempted escape or died 
during the night, then the guards use this opportunity to do a weapons 
and contraband check, so as usual, the cells got tossed. 

When they got to Bud Patton, he was on the upper bunk, smiling and
chewing on something. They say he was chewing hard, like he had a wad 
of bubble gum in his mouth, and his left-hand knuckles were bleeding. 

‘The Pick’ was also on his bunk, fully dressed, hair combed, hands
folded across his body, and he too had a slight smile on his face. His 
dead face. ‘The Pick’ looked peaceful. There were no wounds or signs of 
a struggle. 

There was a lot of confusion and turmoil: guards going for the doctor, a
stretcher was brought in, photographs were being taken. The State 
Police had to be called: fingerprinting, autopsies, and mountains of 
paperwork. 

Bud sat on his bunk quacking like a duck and he was told to stand in the
corner and to touch nothing. That’s when Bud asked the Head Screw, a 
thirty year veteran named Nameth, a chap who was considered as pleasant 
as a constipated rattlesnake, if he was still molesting all of his 
sisters or had he finally picked out one favorite. 

If Patton were not the cellmate of a dead man, sure to be questioned by
security and the Warden, he would have been beaten and returned to the 
“hole”. Instead, Bud was told to shut his mouth and he was reminded 
that when this situation was over, Mr. Nameth and Bud would be having a 
short conversation. In the past, some conversations with Captain Nameth 
have ended in moonlight burials out past the exercise yard. They say 
that since Warden Drevdahl has been here, the burials have stopped, but 
I would not want to wager either way about that issue. 

They shackled Bud, hands and feet, and he was led away for
interrogation. We did not see Bud back in E wing for nearly a week, 
but, oh what a week that was. The word came down that Bud had offered 
up numerous explanations for the untimely demise of Mr. Thomas. But if 
Bud could just have a little chicken and biscuits, or if they would 
give Bud a little free time to gather his thoughts, he would be able to 
clear up any questions about this homicide. Each time the Warden 
granted Bud some special considerations, Bud would make a major 
theatrical production out of his unbelievable and idiotic explanations. 


Eventually, Bud had them all primed for the “full and honest truth”:
stenographers in place. State’s attorneys present, the Warden and the 
Board assembled. 

After much rambling, he told them that a small spaceship entered the
cell, emitting a bright light and a high pitched pulsation, which is 
what did ‘The Pick’ in. Bud was told that if he was not truthful, there 
would be extra time added to his sentence and all special privileges 
normally afforded him at Jackson Prison would be withheld. 

That’s when Bud suddenly looked somber and then asked if he could make a
private comment to the Warden, so the guards allowed Bud to approach 
Warden Drevdahl. When Bud leaned down to whisper something in the 
Warden’s ear, he made several clucks like a chicken, then suddenly 
kissed the Warden on the cheek and asked, “Are we still on for tonight, 
Honey?” That’s when we got Bud back on E wing, but only long enough for 
him to gather some personal gear, as he was off to solitary for a 
record forty days. 

Bud was quickly making a name for himself around our institution, and he
enhanced that reputation by reportedly not eating anything for the last 
twenty-five days of his stay in the hole. Of course he sang loudly and 
non-stop. If he wasn’t singing, he was having long and extensive 
conversations with himself, or honking like a goose. 

I personally cannot say that this next business is true, but on more
than one occasion, when Bud handed his still full meal tin back through 
the solitary door slot, it would contain a dead rat or several deceased 
salamanders that survive so well down in that dark and wet environment. 
They supposedly checked those rats and newts: autopsies, blood work, 
X-rays, and just like Charles Thomas, there was no medical explanation 
for their deaths. They had no wounds, they appeared unharmed. “The 
Pick” left here with a tag on his toe and a death certificate that 
stated, “Death by natural causes”. 

When Bud got back to E wing, he was still loony, appearing to be in his
own world. Unfortunately, it was my world too, because now he was to be 
my cellmate. I had no idea if it would work or if he could even 
understand me, but I decided that we needed to discuss Bud’s place and 
my position, and then maybe we could survive each other for a while. He 
was pretty hyper when they first got him moved into our cell, so I 
decided to wait until after supper, before lights out, to lay down the 
law. 

Bud got his gear put away, not complaining about having to take the
upper bunk. He was bouncing around like a yo-yo and trilling like a 
canary, but when the dinner horn blew, he seemed ready to eat. 

On our way to the mess hall, we were ordered to stop, and guard Captain
Nameth approached us. Just as he got in front of Bud, Nameth quickly 
turned his head to the left. Naturally, we all snapped our heads in 
that direction too, and that’s when I heard a deep moan and then a 
yelp. 

Nameth had shot a knee into Bud’s crotch and then when he brought that
leg down, he crushed the top of Bud’s foot. 

When Bud raised his head from his pain induced protective position, he
had a slight smile on his face, he was chewing on something, and his 
eyes had a glitter. Bud then slowly brought his left hand up, and two 
guards, securing his shoulders, instantly grabbed him. 

Bud made a hitch-hiker pose with his left hand, with his thumb pointed
in, instead of out, and he slowly rotated his thumb from the 2 o’clock 
to 4 o’clock position, and then back to 2 o’clock and back to 4 
o’clock. Strangely, that left knuckle began to ooze small droplets of 
blood. 

Nameth chuckled, telling the guards to let the moron go to dinner, but
stating he would find time to “chat” with Bud at a later date. That 
never happened. We were finishing supper when the PA system issued a 
“Code Blue” for Doctor Frost, then a “Code 99” at the guards dormitory. 
Before lights out that night, the entire prison population knew that 
Captain Nameth had suffered what was thought to be a massive heart 
attack, and was declared dead in the guard’s shower. 

I did not talk to Bud that night about our future together as cellmates.
He seemed completely at peace with the world, cooing like a dove, and I 
did not want to do anything to disturb that bit of good fortune for me. 


Over time, it was generally accepted that if you left Bud alone, let him
sing or argue with himself, he usually would not bother anybody. He 
never volunteered for any details; he never played sports or 
participated in other activities in the yard. He seldom attended the 
movies or the stage plays put on by the prisoners. He did try going to 
the library a couple of times, but Bud never kept his mouth closed and 
he made so much racket, that he was eventually banned. Sammy McCoy, the 
librarian, unfortunately died right after that, and the new librarian 
doesn’t know a book from a can opener. 

Bud would spend his days making his birdcalls and walking fairly
briskly; talking, arguing, pacing, but always taking in the activities 
going on around him. Yet Bud and I got along because he did not seem to 
notice me, just like I didn’t exist. Very distant cellmates. 

We had softball games daily, and we had a number of excellent players. A
good amount of money was wagered on our two fairly even teams. But once 
a week, we made sure that anybody who wanted to play could do so. The 
men would forgo their regular assigned teams and we would let everyone 
join in. Today we even asked Bud to play, but he was busy reciting the 
Magna Carta. 

Donald Albertson decided he would play, and we told him that he could
bat, but he did not have to play in the field. Donald did not have the 
ability to play in the field. Frank Hackett, Jerry Weber, and George 
Taylor joined in as well. Late in the game, the score was something 
like 24 to 19, but nobody cared, we were having fun. 

I was at the plate and Donald was on deck. Bases loaded, I barely hit
the ball, right at the pitcher, and what should have been an easy out, 
turned into a double when Cooper Mike threw the ball over the first 
baseman’s head. The score was now 24 to 22, and we assumed that would 
be the final score, because Donald had never come close to hitting the 
ball. But that was fine. It was a good close game that everyone seemed 
to enjoy. 

Now, Donald didn’t exactly swing the bat. It was more of chopping
motion, like splitting firewood. “Strike one!” “Strike two!” And the 
third swing was the usual chop of the axe, but somehow Donald made 
contact with the ball, slamming it into the ground eight feet in front 
of the plate and bouncing it high into the air. Over the pitcher and 
second baseman’s heads it sailed, landing in short center field. Donald 
stood there grinning as everyone started yelling at him to run. He 
looked confused, then took a few steps toward first base, started to 
grin again, and he was off and running. 

The outfielders never expected Donald to hit the ball and they had
actually started for the sidelines. Donald was heading for second base 
and the infielders were busy colliding with each other. 

Michael West was playing third base and he was hollering for the ball as
I went around third base towards home plate. As Donald rounded third, 
Michael stuck out his foot and tripped him, and Donald went down hard, 
you could hear the snap as he broke his nose. 

Michael still wanted the ball, but ‘Time’ was called and the infielders
went to Donald’s aid, helping him up and trying to stop the bleeding. 
Donald had chipped a tooth and had a pile of dirt in his eye, but he 
did not care. HE HAD HIT THE BALL! We declared that Donald had scored 
because of Michael’s unsportsmanlike behavior, tying the game at an 
Official 24 to 24. 

The celebration was still going on when the horn blew for our inside
roll call. I was picking up the bats and gloves when I noticed Bud over 
by the backstop. He was red faced, left hand extended, screeching like 
an eagle. 

Bud had that thumb turned in, with the closed fist, and he was doing
that slow rotation thing and chewing, screeching with loud moans, and 
starring daggers through Michael West. This time he did not stop at a 
couple rotations, he just kept making that slow waggle, knuckles 
covered in red. 

Now, most of the things I relate to you about any one event here at
Jackson Prison is a combination of many different people’s opinions. We 
have a very structured lifestyle. Our movements and ability to be aware 
of activities at various locations around this facility is severely 
limited. But our grapevine is fairly accurate. You would expect some 
embellishment on some of the outrageous things that occur here, but the 
rumor-mill or grapevine can be trusted. 

I do not know for a fact that Bud sent out dead rats and newts with his
food tin while in solitary, but I believe that happened. I did not see 
Bud kiss the Warden, but that story has been sworn to by no less than 
three trustees that were in the room, and I believe that too. 

Here now, here is what I do know. I saw it. I can not explain it, but I
am ninety-nine percent sure that I saw this. Bud continued to screech, 
making his hitchhike and chewing gestures in Michael west’s direction. 

As Michael West was walking away, kicking the dirt, he left us. 

I do not mean he died, or passed out, or levitated. There was no sound.
There was, just for a millionth of a second, a fine bright red mist in 
the air, and then there was nothing. No clothes, no hair, no shoes, no 
Michael. 

Sometimes panic will cause a persons heart to go into overtime. I am
fairly sure that for several seconds, my heart stopped. 

I heard Bud in a low moan, like he was trying to give birth to a
football, his face contorted, blood around the knuckles of his left 
hand. Slowly he straightened up, gathered himself, and began to make 
the “tee tee tee” sounds of a chickadee. As I looked around, nobody 
seemed to be aware of the fact that Mr. West had vaporized. I took a 
deep breath, my heart started again, and I slowly made my way over to 
Bud. 

He looked as normal as Bud gets, and I asked him if he was all right. He
just nodded, and I asked him if he was ready for head count and some 
lunch.  He informed me that for some strange reason, he was both 
exhausted and famished.  He smiled and then began rubbing the knuckles 
of his left hand. 

I considered asking Bud about Michael West’s disappearance, but I was
speechless and my mind was not really accepting what I just witnessed. 

Then Bud mentioned that watching that ball game was a lot of fun and
maybe he might try to join in next week.  He stopped walking and turned 
in my direction, smiling as he said, “Would you care to bet that next 
time I can play third base?”  His smile went to a full grin,  “It 
appears there will be a vacancy at that position.” 

I never answered Bud and I certainly did not take that bet.  I was
pretty sure Bud could do anything he wanted. 


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