Free Wild Blood by Nancy A. Collins

explained with a restrained urgency. “First thing is, don’t go lookin’ a man in the eye while you’re in here, unless you’re in the mood for a fight or a fuck. I seen men get their guts handed to ’em on the end of a sharpened spoon just cause some cracker didn’t like the way he was being eyeballed.
    â€œAnd especially don’t go borrowin’ shit like cigs or gum, cause the first time you can’t pay back you’ll find yourself washin’ socks an’ pullin’ trains to make up your debt. But the single most important thing you got to remember, kid, is to do your own time and hold your mud. If it gets out that you’ve snitched—you’re good as dead.”
    A slightly built prisoner with a state-issue upper plate sidled up alongside Creighton. “See you’re schoolin’ yourself a fish,” he grinned.
    â€œHowdy, Top Gum,” Creighton replied. “This here’s Skinner, my new bunkie.”
    The old man nodded and smiled, careful not to send his ill-fitting dentures flying out into the yard. “How long?”
    â€œShort-termer,” Creighton said, not giving Skinner a chance to answer for himself. “Green as goose shit.”
    â€œYou better make sure Mother and Rope don’t get wind of him, then.” Top Gum’s mouth was smiling, but there was no humor in his voice.
    â€œWho are they?” Skinner asked.
    â€œYou already saw Mother,” Creighton grunted.
    â€œYou mean the guy with the muscles and tattoos?”
    â€œThat’s him.”
    â€œWhy should I watch out for them?”
    Top Gum shot Creighton a look out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the bigger man to take up the tale, but he remained silent. When he didn’t, Top Gum sighed and pressed his plate back into place with the ball of his thumb. “There ain’t a nastier set of bookends to be found in Los Lobos. Mother—that’s short for Motherfucker, mind you—is trash that don’t burn, as my sainted mama used to say. He’s got more tattoos than Carter’s got little liver pills. He’s a tough hombre outta Texas, originally. Kilt him a few, if the brag’s true, but they ain’t been able to pin him for nothin’ worse than attempted manslaughter. He likes to rape. When he’s on the outside, he rapes women. When he’s in here, he rapes boys. Don’t seem to matter what kinda hole he sticks it in, long as whoever’s attached ain’t got no say in the matter.
    â€œHe travels with his homey, a big ol’ buck called Rope. Normally the Blacks and Whites don’t have much truck with one another in here, but Rope and Mother are tighter’n ticks at a nudist colony. I figger it’s on account of nobody else bein’ willin’ to hang with ’em. Rope’s as mean as Mother, but more subtle on account of him bein’ mute.”
    â€œYou mean he’s deaf?” Skinner asked.
    â€œNah, he can hear as good as you or me. Better, mebbe. He just can’t talk on account of gettin’ lynched awhile back. Got hisself accused of rapin’ some white gal in Alabama. Mebbe he did, mebbe he didn’t. Who knows? Anyway, he gets caught by some crackers and carried out to the piney woods, where they beat on him some, took a buck knife to his privates, and then strung him up. I reckon they thought they’d kilt him, so they drove off in their pick-ups and left him hangin’ there. He weren’t dead, though. Somehow he managed to get himself free.
    â€œRope’s been in and outta jail ever since—mostly on assault charges and crimes against nature. Just because some Alabama crackers cut his pecker off don’t slow him down none. He just uses coke bottles, broom handles, and whatever else is handy to get the job done. Like I said, him and Mother is a mean machine you want to stay the hell clear of.”
    That evening Skinner had his