Page 51 of Pulling Strings

I tucked my chin and grunted out, “Clyde, a little help?”

York kept pulling until a thick-fingered hand reached over my head. Clyde stood slowly while palming—I looked up to see—York’s face.

The guards who had been monitoring the arm wrestlers took notice of us. With a minefield of tables and inmates littering the floor, it would take them several seconds to intervene.

As Clyde drew his hulking form to full height, York’s grip loosened. I ducked under his elbow and struck my spork against the tabletop. The plastic snapped, leaving the handle with a jagged edge.

Jette shrieked and threw herself at Clyde, who had fully removed York from my proximity. Her absence gave me space to step over the bench and stand. I rounded on Jax, who remained seated, cackling like York wasn’t getting his skull juiced a few feet away.

I dove toward Jax with the spork shiv raised like a spear. I’d learned from the safety razor. A swipe wouldn’t do, so I aimed for the weakest point of entry.

Flimsy plastic protested when it hit the skin of Jax’s eyelid. I piled onto him, using my weight to drive the stick as deeply as possible.

Bellowed shouts from the guards barely registered as the sharpened handle burrowed into Jax’s eye socket. Blood sprayed my hand.

The other man’s garbled howl echoed to the high ceiling as we pitched over onto the sticky linoleum.

Jax curled into himself, his fingers spread around the bloodied plastic jutting out of his eye. I released the spork to punch him instead, trying to drive the shiv deeper but instead breaking it off in his socket. Crimson spritzed the air as his head rocked backward.

“Is this an accident, jackass?” I asked between rushed breaths. “Or is it a joke?”

Shouts and chanting voices clamored as bodies crowded in. Inmates from adjacent tables swarmed into an angry mass.

Something hard and flat struck the side of my face, smearing cooled mac and cheese across my cheek. I glanced over to see Jette clutching a lunch tray. Her chest heaved as she cocked back to swing again.

“Hey! Break it up!” guards bellowed, closing in quick.

Dodging Jette’s attack, I rolled off of Jax and through splattered cheese, blood, and chunks of hot dog. My wounded ribs ground against the floor.

Three guards barreled into the fray, shoving prisoners aside and barking orders.

Jette leaped on top of me. I caught the collar of her coveralls and held her at arm’s length. With one hand holding her and the other swinging forward, I landed a flurry of punches. Her nose crunched, and her lip tore. She screamed, spitting blood while swiping at me and mostly missing.

I barely saw the first guard to break through the mob. He grabbed Jette, but I held onto her for one last punch, spreading red across the lower half of her face.

“Get back!” a guard bellowed.

The crowd began to thin, letting in light and space.

With a prying, pulling sensation, Jette was dragged away. I sucked hasty breaths as I sprawled where I’d been left on the ground.

Clyde and York stood apart. It was impossible to tell how much damage the big man had done with York cupping both hands to his face.

Guards corralled the agitated prisoners, slapping handcuffs on Clyde, York, and Jette.

One of the officers stood over me. “Fucking Fitch Farrow,” he growled.

Red splattered everything from the table to the floor, thickening the closer it got to where Jax lay curled and whimpering. He fumbled uselessly with the fragmented spork handle lodged in his eye.

When I braced my arm on the ground and moved to stand, the guard blocked me. “I knew you’d be trouble. Can’t wait to get rid of you.” He moved around behind me and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his duty belt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I replied as the cuffs ratcheted down.

Grabbing under one arm, the guard hauled me up. “You’re leaving, all right,” he said. “Just got yourself a one-way ticket to solitary.”

Three strikes, you’re out.

“See you in hell!” Jette shouted. Two guards held her by the elbows, pushing her toward the door.

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