Post by bennett on May 31, 2022 13:04:46 GMT -5
"‘The only language that men understand is violence.'"
Bobby Bennett sits in the prison cafeteria, running a plastic fork through a sloppy pile of ‘food’ on a metal tray. It’s not that he minded the quality; he’d eaten worse before.
But he’s still on-edge. His mind was so full of racing thoughts, worries and schemes that he didn’t have much room in there for an appetite.
His eyes dart back and forth around the open space, as if watching for signs of trouble... not that it often bothered to announce itself before arriving.
Particularly here.
"Papa Bray always used to say that. Sticks with me to this day, no matter how much I try to forget him."
His attention turns to an argument several tables away; a pair of raised voices cuts through the sound of chewing and small-talk between prisoners. He watches two men point fingers, accusing each other of some slight or disrespect.
"Used to figure he was bullshittin’. Tellin’ us what we needed to hear to become the killers he wanted us to be. Never was interested in raisin’ kids, far as I could tell; he wanted his offspring to be attack dogs. Vicious. No morals. Always ready to follow his orders without question."
Suddenly, the argument erupts into a fight. The rest of the table stands up and moves away to give them a wide berth. There’s a brief flash as the bright cafeteria lights glint off something metal held in one man’s hand, before it’s driven into the stomach of the other.
Numerous times.
Blood is leaking through his shirt by the time the guards finally react, as several Correctional Officers rush in to separate the two. Rather than get the stabbing victim to the medics for treatment, they toss him to the ground and begin to beat on him with batons.
The man holding the shank gets it even worse.
Shrugging, Bobby turns away to look back down at the unappealing mess on his tray. Wasn’t any of his business, and one of the first lessons he learned as a kid was to mind his own... as much as possible, at least.
"Then I spent a few weeks inside, and I realized the old man was more right than I was comfortable admittin’. After I dealt with those two hasslin’ me on work detail, people started lookin' at me different. For a while, I thought I’d made my point... but I guess that was just wishful thinkin’."
Someone takes a seat across from him, and his eyes travel up to stare at a young African-American man who appears to be about the same age.
“You’re Bennett?”
Bobby runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. Underneath the table, one hand slides into the waistband of his pants to pull out a toothbrush... with the plastic handle filed down into a sharp point.
He clenches the shank, keeping it hidden as he looks at the stranger warily. After some hesitation, he replies, preparing himself for trouble.
“I’m a Bennett, sure.”
Slapping the table with one palm, the other man laughs. Some distance away, the two trouble-makers are finally removed by a team of guards. The man who was stabbed doesn't move as he’s dragged across the floor.
Doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
Not that it bothers Bobby; apparently, it doesn’t bother any of the other convicts in the room, either. With the fight done, everyone’s attention returns to their own table.
“So. You must be Billy’s cousin, or brother, or what?”
Bobby raises his eyebrow, as he looks at the man sitting across from him with newfound interest.
“Her brother. How d’ya know Bill?”
“She came around the block for business about half a year ago, just before I got caught up in this bullshit. Ended up staying a few days to party with the crew... let me tell you, she might not the prettiest, but she sure knows how to throw it back.”
Under the table, Bennett grips the shank so hard his knuckles turn white, hand trembling. When he finds his voice, it comes out cold, low, and threatening.
“Don’t talk ‘bout her like that...”
“Oh, come on. You grew up with that crackwhore, I’m sure you know what she's like."
"Truth is, I didn’t. Not really. Or maybe I just saw the good parts of her. Never heard nobody talk ‘bout Bill like that; everyone back home knew better."
Bennett remains silent, picking away at his meal as he tries to keep his cool. The other man stares for a few seconds, before shrugging and standing up to walk away.
“Well, see you around, Bennett. Say ‘hi’ to your sis for me.”
The moment his back is turned, Bobby’s eyes move up to stare daggers at him as the man strolls towards the exit. The shank is slid back into his waistband, before he shoves his tray across the table.
---
A day or two later, in a seldom-traveled area of the prison.
Bobby has the same man from the cafeteria pressed up against a wall in a dimly-lit alcove. He drives the sharpened end of the toothbrush into his side over and over. His sister taught him where to strike in order to avoid hitting the ribs; the shank slides between the bones repeatedly, as his victim slumps down to the ground, shirt soaked in blood.
“Keep her name outta your fuckin’ mouth...”
"Bit unnecessary, since he wasn’t gonna be sayin’ anythin’ no more. Guess I went a bit overboard, but the important thing is my daddy knew what he was talkin’ ‘bout. Violence really is the only language some people understand."
Scowling down at the dying man, Bobby rubs the bloody end of the shank on the gangster’s shirt before placing it back in his pants. He begins to whistle a cheerful tune, as he backs away.
"Guess I’d have to learn how to speak it a bit more fluently, then."
