The Grim Room (chapter 14)

Chapter 14 of my thriller novel

Photo by Carles Rabada on Unsplash

*Contains racist language

CHAPTER 14

Several members clapped lightly and also grinned. One guy said “Yeah,” and nodded his bald head, evidently enjoying the show.

Kid, now lowered down to Chris’s level, dragged out an old razor, filthy, with residue hairs attached to it, and carefully razored the skin. He must have keister stashed the razor, which would have been incredibly painful. Kid plucked a jar of black liquid and set it next to him. India ink, he said. Next he whipped out a big, harsh-looking shank; a “needle.” Chris wondered where in the hell he’d gotten that from. Obviously, Kid had connections.

Kid looked at Chris, the dark, dented blue of Kid’s eyes washing away all sense of safety. This guy was a psychopath. Chris knew it for the second time the moment he saw those dark death balls for eyes.

Kid pumped out the work, hard, quick. He was an expert. The pain subsided after a while; a numbness, like cocaine on your tongue, taking its place.

Rubbing the India ink on his palms, Kid rubbed it over the wound: FSP was permanently on his body. For life. He was in. Chris was one of the boys, one of the crew. If anyone fucked with Chris, a guy from another crew, or especially a “nigger or a spic,” then, goddamn it, they had Doyle’s back.

Those fucking spics really had it coming anyway, Kid reasoned. We need more than a goddamn wall to keep those stupid, lazy brown fuckers out of our sacred country. We need a fortress, and soldiers with submachine guns. The Republicans, he reasoned, were right on this one. We should shoot every one of those dumb brown fuckers. Shit, I’d do it myself, he said. Kill every fucking one of them.

“Right, Chris?” Kid said, placing a hand on Chris’s shoulder, smiling. The rest of the crew were staring. “Shouldn’t we get those spics out of our country?” One guy, the same one who’d said “yeah,” spat on the ground for emphasis. 

Chris stood in the midday heat. He glanced down at the new artwork on his collarbone, touched it. Pain shot through him. Getting a prison tat by Kid was not like going into a parlor on the outside.

He remained quiet, staring at the serial eyes, one by one, each one awaiting an answer. And it better be the right one. They all appeared the same in the circle, royal blue sweatpants with the yellow “CDC Prisoner” and wife-beater (to show the tat), navy blue jacket with “CDC” (California Department of Corrections) in yellow on the back.

His eyes fell and rested on Kid. He needed to say it, even if he didn’t mean it. He had to pocket his dignity and his integrity. No one would blame him for this moment. It’s what he had to do to survive. His heart patting his chest, he said, “That’s right.”

“That’s my boy,” Kid replied. He placed his other hand on Chris’s shoulder, facing him as if they’d hug, and Chris froze. It was so reminiscent of his father’s hands on his shoulder, as a child. He remembered his father with his old brown leather fedora, his gnarled construction hands, the talks they always had about building homes. All his memories of his father were so vivid, as if they happened just the other day. It made him want to cry. But for the love of God, not in front of these fuckers. Hell no. Later, alone in his cell, he’d quietly let it all out.