Ken Bruen: The Max

The guy laughed then let the weight fall onto the brackets so hard the whole bench shook.

“Look,” Max said. “ No necesito trouble.” Then, hearing the hillbilly in Deliverance saying, You in trouble now, boy, he said desperately, “I mean, I’ve got nada against Puerto Ricans.”

“Puerto Rican?” The guy sounded offended. “I look PR to you? Man, I should cut you just for saying that shit. I’m fuckin’ Panamanian.”

Jesus, weren’t Panamanians supposed to be, like, midgets? The only fucking Panamanian giant on the planet and Max had to run into him. Was that shit luck or what?

Then the guy said, “I should introduce myself properly, if you’re gonna be my little puta. Me nombre es Sino.”

Sino? What was that, fucking Chinese? The guy wasn’t fucking part Chinese, was he, some kind of ChinoManian? Max had had enough Chinamen visit his ass for one lifetime, thank you very much.

“Sino’s what they call me in the Bronx, shit’s short for asesino. You know why I got that name? ’Cause I like to kill people, that’s why. I killed sixteen people and you gimme your ass you won’t be number diecisiete. Most people in here, they don’t like to talk about people they took out, think it’s gonna fuck up their parole. But Sino got Life, No Parole hangin’ over his ass. Sino ain’t goin nowhere so Sino don’t give a shit.”

Max was about to give a shit – in his pants. But out of nowhere Rufus appeared and said, “Yo, lay off my bitch, bitch, ‘fore I beat yo’ ass.”

Sino stood face to face with Rufus, both mad bastards about the same height, and a crowd formed around them to watch the confrontation. Max felt like he was in high school – well, not like he himself had felt in high school, but like he might’ve felt if he’d been a popular girl in high school. It was like Max was head cheerleader and the two jocks were fighting over him. Max had to admit – it felt pretty damn good.

But the good feeling passed quickly. Max was thinking maybe he should’ve taken the Ed Norton in The 25 ^ th Hour route after all, gotten somebody to beat the crap out of him before he went away. He was just too damn pretty. A face like his, naturally guys couldn’t resist it. Maybe if he hadn’t been so interested in getting laid during his last forty-eight hours, and hadn’t wasted all his time reading books and watching movies, he could’ve thought of this practical shit.

Rufus was yelling into Sino’s face, “Mohammed Fisher’s my bitch. Stay off my bitch, know what I’m sayin’, bitch?”

And Sino was screaming back: “I don’t see no sign on his ass say he your bitch. I don’t see your dick in his ass neither.”

Rufus said, “There don’t gotta be no dick in his ass. Just ’cause there ain’t no dick in his ass don’t mean the bitch ain’t mine.”

Max was tempted to yell, You’re both fucking morons! but had a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. Maybe the guys would decide to share him, holy fuckin’ shit.

A guard came over and told the guys to break it up. Rufus grabbed Max by the hand and led him away.

Later on, back in their cell, Rufus said to Max, “You clean yo’ ass out good tonight, know what I’m sayin’? I don’t want no brown on my dick. My dick got enough brown on it, don’t need no more, know what I’m sayin’?”

There was nothing for Max to do now but lie in his bunk and wait for the inevitable. He was thinking about, of all people, Elvis. Max, in those last forty-eight hours of freedom, had watched so many movies, his fucking eyes hurt and how he ended up with Jailhouse Rock in his DVD player was anyone’s guess. The King, singing on the tiers, had brought tears to his eyes. He’d never really given Elvis a whole lotta time. Let’s face it, The Max was a classical music kinda guy, could pronounce Tchaikovsky without a single moment of hesitation. Fucking hum that, yah morons.

Shit, he realized he’d been talking aloud again.

“Well, fucking excuse me!” he shouted. “I’m under a little goddamn pressure here!”

Inmates in the other cells starting laughing and Max blocked it out, thinking about Elvis again. The El was one good looking hombre and Max wondered if that’s what he should do later when Rufus was, er, visiting him – pretend he was getting screwed by The King. Yeah, he’d pretend to be Priscilla. Max pledged that if he ever got out of this hole, he’d go straight to Graceland, give his thanks for help in a tight spot. Maybe hang with Priscilla. The babe had mileage but serious bucks – he could use some of that.

He was weeping now, and he knew, dammit, only a real man could allow himself that freedom.

After the slop they called dinner it was lights out. Jesus Christ, Max was sobbing again, begging for his mommy. He wished he’d read more of that fucking Genet book so at least he’d know what to expect. He would’ve paid a fortune for some Vaseline so at least it wouldn’t hurt. But he knew, worse than the pain would be all the fucking humiliation tomorrow, all the guys knowing that Rufus had done the deed. He just hoped that Rufus didn’t make him walk around the prison wearing lipstick and fucking skirts, like that queen in Animal Factory .

But then something weird happened.

He was waiting for the brute to climb down and deliver the meat, but the bunk was still. Maybe Rufus was just playing head games with him, making him think he wasn’t gonna get fucked tonight, then… kaboom.

But another ten, fifteen minutes went by and still no Rufus. And what was that noise? Was he actually snoring? The fuck was going on?

Max wanted to feel happy, but he didn’t dare let himself. It had to be part of some plan or something. A guard would unlock a bunch of inmates’ cells and let them into Max’s and the goddamn gangbang would begin.

He waited. At some point, he fell asleep.

In the morning, he woke up and wriggled his ass around a little. No pain. Was it possible he’d slept through being anally raped? It wouldn’t have been the first time but, nope, his ass was its good ol’ self.

Then another surprise: Rufus hung down from the top bunk, smiled, asked, “Yo, what up? Sleep good, Mohammed?”

What the fuck? Was this some kinda fuckin’ joke? Was this how the guy turned himself on, let his victims think they were off the hook, then, when their guard was fully down…

“Yes,” Max said hesitantly.

“That’s good,” Rufus said. “If there’s anythin’ you want me to do today, yo, you just let me know, hear, and I get that shit done for you fast, know what I’m sayin’?”

Max had no idea what to make of Rufus’s sudden turnaround, but he wasn’t complaining. His ass wasn’t complaining either.

Then the biggest surprise of all: At breakfast, there was no whistling, no catcalls, no nothing. Shit, people wouldn’t even make eye contact with him. The fuck was going on? Yeah, he was glad he hadn’t gotten raped, but the insecure Max Fisher was coming out, asking, Have I, like, lost my appeal? Other guys in the room were getting the old come-hither looks, guys younger than Max, and he found himself actually feeling jealous.

In the yard, Max went up to one of the guards, Malis, and asked, “The fuck’s going on? How come nobody’ll fuckin’ look at me anymore?”

Malis, chomping on gum, didn’t look at Max, said, “The fuck do I know?”

“Come on, give me a fuckin’ break,” Max whined. “If this silent treatment is just a set-up, if I’m gonna get ambushed tonight, the least you could do is let me know about it. I’m a well-connected guy, if you get my drift.”

Yeah, let the asshole think he was in store for a hefty bribe. Like that was gonna happen.

“You’re not gonna get ambushed,” Malis said.

“Yeah? How the fuck do you know that?”