Post by War / Slate on Sept 8, 2021 1:44:35 GMT -5
The cell door closed, and Jesse slowly lowered himself down onto his cot. One hand rested palm against his leg, digits caging loosely over his kneecap. The other held a white washcloth, slowly turning reddish-brown, to the cut on his forehead. Across the way from him, the big Mexican laying down on the other bed peered up at him, smiled and scoffed.
Hernandez: Got into it again, eh homes?
Slate: Something like that.
Jesse pulled the cloth away from the cut briefly, testing his knuckle against the wound to see if it was still actively bleeding.... and it was. So he reapplied it firmly.
Hernandez: You know...
Hernandez began, sitting up.
Hernandez: ...I've never met a white boy so eager to stay in jail. You really like it here that much, huh?
That earned a smile from Jesse, and the two men chuckle in near unison.
Slate: That ain't it, Dez. Just don't like people going off at the mouth, that's all. Besides, guards are on my side this time. I didn't start it.
Hernandez: What you've got, ese, is an anger management problem. And I would know.
Jesse supposed he would, Hernandez was in prison for largely the same reasons he was. Assault and Battery, Reckless Endangerment... although Hernandez also had manslaughter on his list of charges. The big man was quiet for a moment, as Jesse dabbed at his wound.
Hernandez: ...Well, good thing you didn't start it this time, and that the bosses know. Be some stupid-ass shit for you to go and fuck yourself over the day before your parole.
Slate: That it would, but as you know I'm the king of stupid-ass shit. S'why I'm even in here.
Hernandez: Ain't it for all of us? If you add up all your 115s cowboy, what number do you get.
Slate: Oh, somewhere around 'kiss my ass'.
Both men laughed again. It finally seemed to Jesse that his head had stopped bleeding, so he pulled the dirtied cloth away and leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed.
Hernandez: ...I'll tell you what, gonna miss you in here man.
Jesse opened his eyes. To a lot of people, being taken into your cage on day one and learning that your cellmate was a big, tattooed guy like Hernandez would have been a nightmare. Jesse would have been lying if he claimed that the site of the bigger, heaver latino hadn't at least made him a little nervous at first. But 'Dez had turned out to be a good guy.. a good man who'd just done a whole lot of wrong that he dearly regretted. He wasn't Jesse's only friend behind bars, but he was the first. And he'd stopped looking very scary after a few weeks... in fact, looking at him now, all Jesse thought was that he looked tired.
Slate: You don't have much longer in here yourself, partner.
Slate leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees.
Slate: Your stint is almost up.
Hernandez: Guess it is. Gotta say that I'm not quite so eager as you, ese. I don't think I have much on the outside anymore, you know?
Jesse bit the inside of his lip and thought about that. Hernandez had been in the slammer a lot longer than he had... since the nineties in fact. A damn near thirty year stay, and from the way the Mexican told it, there wasn't much for family or friends on the outside willing to help the big guy get restarted on life.
Slate: I should have something figured out, by that time. Just come find me.
Hernandez chuckled.
Hernandez: Oh yeah? I appreciate it brother but... I'm not sure about stepping between the ropes like you do. I dunno if it'd be a good place for me.
Jesse shook his head.
Slate: Didn't mean that 'Dez, I'm talking about the garage.
Hernandez's eyes shot over to the cell door for a moment, waiting and listening for a few moments even though he could see there was nobody there. Then he scooted forward a little bit, lowering his voice closer to a whisper.
Hernandez: Thought you had to stay away from the club, homes? Ain't that one of your parole conditions...
Jesse clasped his hands, sliding his fingers together, and grinned.
Slate: Sure, sure it is -- but there's a loophole. Besides, the club has nothing to do with what I did to get in here anyway. The prosecution just knew it was an easy thing to pin some of the blame on.
Hernandez looked doubtful.
Hernandez: You sure?
Slate: Positive. Don't worry about it, my council and I have it all figured out.
The other man didn't say anything for a few moments, but eventually shifted to lay back down on his cot.
Hernandez: Alright man, if you're sure... I appreciate that.
Jesse gave him a nod, and shifted in his own seat to lie back on the cot beneath him.
Hernandez: Homes?
Slate: Yeah?
Hernandez: You do plan on getting back in the ring though, don't you?
Slate: Probably. It's the best place for me.
Hernandez: You uh... you sure about that?
Jesse knew what the big guy was thinking. He'd told him the story before, and if Slate closed his eyes he could replay it almost perfectly in his head. That last match with Mark Metal, no disqualifications. Chasing him from the ring, chasing him with that truck. The molotov cocktail that set the whole damn thing on fire. Wrapping that chain around Mark's throat in the middle of the road and pulling back...
Jesse blinked. And once again, Mark Metal was in the past.
Slate: Yeah, I'm sure.
Hernandez: Got into it again, eh homes?
Slate: Something like that.
Jesse pulled the cloth away from the cut briefly, testing his knuckle against the wound to see if it was still actively bleeding.... and it was. So he reapplied it firmly.
Hernandez: You know...
Hernandez began, sitting up.
Hernandez: ...I've never met a white boy so eager to stay in jail. You really like it here that much, huh?
That earned a smile from Jesse, and the two men chuckle in near unison.
Slate: That ain't it, Dez. Just don't like people going off at the mouth, that's all. Besides, guards are on my side this time. I didn't start it.
Hernandez: What you've got, ese, is an anger management problem. And I would know.
Jesse supposed he would, Hernandez was in prison for largely the same reasons he was. Assault and Battery, Reckless Endangerment... although Hernandez also had manslaughter on his list of charges. The big man was quiet for a moment, as Jesse dabbed at his wound.
Hernandez: ...Well, good thing you didn't start it this time, and that the bosses know. Be some stupid-ass shit for you to go and fuck yourself over the day before your parole.
Slate: That it would, but as you know I'm the king of stupid-ass shit. S'why I'm even in here.
Hernandez: Ain't it for all of us? If you add up all your 115s cowboy, what number do you get.
Slate: Oh, somewhere around 'kiss my ass'.
Both men laughed again. It finally seemed to Jesse that his head had stopped bleeding, so he pulled the dirtied cloth away and leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed.
Hernandez: ...I'll tell you what, gonna miss you in here man.
Jesse opened his eyes. To a lot of people, being taken into your cage on day one and learning that your cellmate was a big, tattooed guy like Hernandez would have been a nightmare. Jesse would have been lying if he claimed that the site of the bigger, heaver latino hadn't at least made him a little nervous at first. But 'Dez had turned out to be a good guy.. a good man who'd just done a whole lot of wrong that he dearly regretted. He wasn't Jesse's only friend behind bars, but he was the first. And he'd stopped looking very scary after a few weeks... in fact, looking at him now, all Jesse thought was that he looked tired.
Slate: You don't have much longer in here yourself, partner.
Slate leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees.
Slate: Your stint is almost up.
Hernandez: Guess it is. Gotta say that I'm not quite so eager as you, ese. I don't think I have much on the outside anymore, you know?
Jesse bit the inside of his lip and thought about that. Hernandez had been in the slammer a lot longer than he had... since the nineties in fact. A damn near thirty year stay, and from the way the Mexican told it, there wasn't much for family or friends on the outside willing to help the big guy get restarted on life.
Slate: I should have something figured out, by that time. Just come find me.
Hernandez chuckled.
Hernandez: Oh yeah? I appreciate it brother but... I'm not sure about stepping between the ropes like you do. I dunno if it'd be a good place for me.
Jesse shook his head.
Slate: Didn't mean that 'Dez, I'm talking about the garage.
Hernandez's eyes shot over to the cell door for a moment, waiting and listening for a few moments even though he could see there was nobody there. Then he scooted forward a little bit, lowering his voice closer to a whisper.
Hernandez: Thought you had to stay away from the club, homes? Ain't that one of your parole conditions...
Jesse clasped his hands, sliding his fingers together, and grinned.
Slate: Sure, sure it is -- but there's a loophole. Besides, the club has nothing to do with what I did to get in here anyway. The prosecution just knew it was an easy thing to pin some of the blame on.
Hernandez looked doubtful.
Hernandez: You sure?
Slate: Positive. Don't worry about it, my council and I have it all figured out.
The other man didn't say anything for a few moments, but eventually shifted to lay back down on his cot.
Hernandez: Alright man, if you're sure... I appreciate that.
Jesse gave him a nod, and shifted in his own seat to lie back on the cot beneath him.
Hernandez: Homes?
Slate: Yeah?
Hernandez: You do plan on getting back in the ring though, don't you?
Slate: Probably. It's the best place for me.
Hernandez: You uh... you sure about that?
Jesse knew what the big guy was thinking. He'd told him the story before, and if Slate closed his eyes he could replay it almost perfectly in his head. That last match with Mark Metal, no disqualifications. Chasing him from the ring, chasing him with that truck. The molotov cocktail that set the whole damn thing on fire. Wrapping that chain around Mark's throat in the middle of the road and pulling back...
Jesse blinked. And once again, Mark Metal was in the past.
Slate: Yeah, I'm sure.
