Part 20 (1/2)

”Let me up, cuz,” B.T. said, trying to sound irritated. A bit late for that s.h.i.+t. Fat Rat responded by p.i.s.sing on B.T.'s back and head as he lay on the floor. I couldn't believe it.

”Ahh, cuz,” B.T. cried, ”you wrong Fa-”

BAM!.

Fat Rat kicked B.T. hard in the side.

”Oooff. . . Mister Fat Rat.”

”And don't even say 'cuz' no mo', you ain't no Crip.”

”Fat Rat,” I said, ”who gonna clean this s.h.i.+t up, man?”

”Him,” Fat Rat said, indicating B.T.

I knew Fat Rat wasn't going to untie him and expect him to clean up. Surely B.T. would make an attempt on Fat Rat's life now. Wouldn't anyone so treated?

”You gonna untie cuz? Man, Fat Rat, you on one now,” I said.

”Monsta', this n.i.g.g.a broke. He ain't wantin' to see me. s.h.i.+t, I should change my name to King Fat Rat.”

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling at Fat Rat's insanity. He then bent down and began to untie B.T. I slid back on my bed so as not to be in the way of what I was sure was going to be some stomp-down action. Once B.T. was loose, he stood up and went peacefully over to the sink.

Uhn-uhn, no you don't,” Fat Rat said in a fatherly voice. ”Befo' you clean yo' self you fin' to clean these walls, the toilet and . . . Hey,” Fat Rat hollered over the silent tiers, ”anybody need they drawers washed?”

”h.e.l.l, yeah,” several voices replied from down the tier.

”Send yo' line down here,” he shouted. ”What you lookin' at, punk?” he said to B.T., who flinched each time Fat Rat spoke. He was totally conquered.

B.T. washed the graffiti-packed walls, washed several pair of underclothes, braided Fat Rat's hair, ma.s.saged Fat Rat's back, and finally, Fat Rat made him eat a bar of County soap and drink some perm-repair shampoo. Rat was ruthless. After B.T. had done all of this without so much as a flicker of resistance, Fat Rat body-slammed him, tied him up again, and slid him under the bed on his stomach. Fat Rat had done all of this without an inkling of shame or remorse. B.T. was his de facto servant-slave. He followed through on every demand like a robot. The life had left his eyes and his swollen face showed no feeling. All of his movements seemed to be under the supreme command of Fat Rat's verbal remote control.

It was at times as amusing as it was scary and pitiful. How could B.T. let this happen? How had he grown up in South Central and escaped being tested for weakness? His will to resist was sapped like soda from a gla.s.s slurped through a straw. Fat Rat pranced around the cell like a proud little Buddha who had just converted another disciple. He kept trying to explain to me the process of the ”breaking stages” he was putting B.T. through. He had actually developed a little science to it.

”You see, Monsta,” he said like a college professor, ”the first thing I did was strip him of his clothing, dig? This make him feel less than strong. Then I degraded him by p.i.s.sin' on him, you see? And then I wouldn't let him wash it off, ya know? So he was feelin' pretty f.u.c.ked up inside, and wit' a punch now and again, sheeit, fool ready fo' anything.”

”Where you learn that from, Rat?”

”Slavery.”

”Slavery? n.i.g.g.a, you ain't never been no slave, fool.”

”Naw, but I read that in a book befo', 'bout how the slaves wasn't 'loud to have clothes or wash they self so they lost they self. . . esteem, yeah, that's it. So I took his self-esteem, see?”

”Yeah, I seen that.”

And when I looked at B.T. his expression was one of utter helplessness. I felt a little sorry for him, but I was a hard-line conservative and felt that this was the life he'd chosen. Unlike the slaves, he had joined the Crips. He knew the job was dangerous when he took it. Module 4800-this testing ground-was for some a breaking station. We had started calling it Forty-eight Hours, because if you could survive the first forty-eight hours-the noise, fights, stabbings, cross-burning by the pigs, tribalism, set tripping, interrogations, and being crossed, doubled-crossed, and triple-crossed-then you were in. B.T. couldn't handle it and froze up on the first occasion of hand-to-hand and knife-to-body combat. He'd left his homies out there alone-a fatal mistake. Now his homies left him to Fat Rat's desires.

”Monsta, you can go on to sleep now, cuz. I can handle it from here.”

Fat Rat said this as if I'd actually been helping him work B.T. over.

”Yeah, I guess I'll kick on back now. I've seen enough for today.”

I knew what Rat was up to. He was ready to sodomize B.T. and felt reluctant while I was awake. It made me feel like a conspirator. I hadn't said a word in protest to Fat Rat about his treatment of B.T., and by not saying anything I felt like I was condoning it. Silence gives consent. When I opened my eyes to protest, Fat Rat had B.T. out from under the bed and was ready to rape him.

”Naw, Rat, I can't let you trip that hard. Don't do cuz like that.” I'd swung my legs over the side of the bunk and was looking directly at Fat Rat.

”Aw, Monsta, this ain't got nuttin' to do wit' you, homie. Hey look,” he said, grabbing B.T. on the a.s.s, ”he got enough a.s.s fo' the both of us, Monsta.”

”Stall cuz out, Fat Rat. You done already ruined him in the gang world. He can't go home. Now you wanna take his manhood, too? Stall him out, Rat.”

”d.a.m.n! Monsta . . .”

Fat Rat looked genuinely disappointed. I guess he figured he had done all of this and rightly deserved a piece of a.s.s. But I couldn't let that happen, not while I was in the cell. Fat Rat slid B.T. back under the bed and went to sleep.

The next morning he untied B.T., broke his jaw with a short right hook, and put him out of the cell. Twenty minutes later our names came blaring over the module's P.A. system.

”Kody Scott, Ray Davis . . . roll it up for transfer.”

”d.a.m.n, Fat Rat, now look what you done,” I said. ”Fool went and told.”

”G.o.dd.a.m.n!” exclaimed Fat Rat.

Now he looked awfully silly as his pride over what he had done shrunk to a peevish little glare. We rolled up our property and went to face the music We got our customary whacks from the pigs, a few stomach blows and a slap across the head, which we could do nothing about as we were handcuffed. They sent us to the Hole for ten days. We were given ”joot b.a.l.l.s” during our entire stay. These are brick-shaped blocks of all the preceding days' leftover food mixed together. They were terrible!

I had my gray jumpsuit on the bars one day and a Blood, who was also in the Hole, came by, s.n.a.t.c.hed it, set it aflame, and threw it over the tier. He shouted to his comrades that he had burned up a ”trashman uniform.” Long before we had recognized and taken gray as one of our colors, the Bloods had zeroed in on it as symbolizing Crip. So my gray jumpsuit was just as good as a captured blue flag to the Bloods.

We were allowed out of our cells one at a time to shower. When I came out for mine I threw a milk carton of urine on the Blood who'd burned my jumpsuit.

”Burn this, slob!” I shouted and ga.s.sed him full in the face with my warm p.i.s.s.

”Aw, Blood!” he cried, running to the back of his cell.

”Aw-my-a.s.s, punk. Shut up,” I said and kept on stepping.

That day he was let out of the Hole and I got no additional flack from the others. In fact Pee Wee from Swan was my neighbor, and he and I got along fine. He had given me the names of some East Coasts that were telling on him. He said one of them was in Forty-eight Hours. I told him I'd get on it. A rat was a rat. Pee Wee was charged in the deaths of two East Coasts. He eventually got the death penalty.

When we got back to the module things had changed. It had only been ten days, but as soon as I came in the door I sensed it and saw it on every face in the rotunda. ”They” were here, is what the faces said. I began to sweat a bit as I wondered about B.T. What if he really was hooked up?

I went to Denver row, and Fat Rat went back to Charlie row. I was a.s.signed to Denver-7. My cellmates were Sam from Santana Block, Killer from 107 Hoover, and Li'l Bubble from Six-Deuce East Coast. I had known Killer from the street and Li'l Bub from the hall. The conversation inevitably came around to B.T.