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And a fully erect dick pointing at Marilynn.
“He wants to know why you boys are keeping the new—juicy cunts to yourselves,” Ruth chokes out the last of the translation like it physically pains her to repeat it.
“Yeah, I gathered that much from his tiny manhood standing at attention,” Dessin says.
“Is it his manhood, though?” Warrose slowly turns to the blond-bearded man as if to show off his masculine physique. “Because it looks more like a clit.”
Ruth gags on the water, still pouring over us from the ceiling. Warrose grins at the sound of her trying to breathe and laugh simultaneously.
The man glares at Warrose, then points at Ruth with a reddening face and quivering finger. “Haxasfertiú mehzezï damö nadastraskazez!”
His small, naked body storms out of the shower room.
“He says…I’ll have this one bouncing in my lap by the end of the week.”
Warrose exchanges a look with Dessin. “I’ll kill him first.”
We shuffle to the wall rack of rags. Dessin tosses them to us and turns away as we all dry off. Niles nudges Ruth, yet still keeps his eyes on the ground. “Look at you, Ruthie. Already making friends.”
She sighs. “This morning is off to a great start.”
“Should we invite Baldie Baby Dick to eat breakfast with us?” Niles pulls on a clean pair of black pants just as I slip into my new skimpy uniform. It smells like sweat and greasy food. I try not to gag.
“He’ll be dead before then, Niles,” Warrose grumbles.
“No killing. At least not yet. We need to keep a low profile until an escape plan is cooked up,” I whisper to the group.
Dessin nods reluctantly.
“Now, let’s try to eat breakfast without getting into a confrontation,” I say after helping Ruth slip into the pathetic shreds of her uniform.
I’m thankful that I’m not in this alone. I’m not showering with strangers. They’re my family. I’m not plotting by myself; I’m plotting with some of the greatest minds of our time. We have each other’s backs.
We follow the length of the hallway until we reach an opening. The music is louder, and the yellow and red light bulbs cover the ceiling completely. It’s bright, like one giant chandelier. Circular tables fill up as prisoners take their seats to eat their breakfast.
And that smell…
Raw fish and something sour. Like milk that’s been left out for several days.
Dessin and I share a look, and I wrinkle my nose at him. The corner of his mouth tilts up, not enough to be counted as a smile, but his subtle way of telling me he likes when we silently communicate.
Heads turn to get a better look at us. Eyes trailing over each member of our group, speaking to each other without looking away.
“Are they serving bile with a side of poo?” Niles pinches his nose to block out the stench.
“Shhh,” I hiss, baring my teeth at him. “You really want to draw attention to us right now?”
He sighs dramatically, running a hand through his mess of wet, golden hair.
“Let’s get in line to eat,” Dessin says, nodding toward the counter where prisoners grab plates and cups.
“I’d rather starve,” Niles mumbles under his breath.
Stepping up to the metal counter, I avoid looking directly at anyone. Today is for laying low and observing. We need to understand how this place is run; then, we can make trouble if it suits our plans.
Prisoners in black aprons stand on the other side of the counter, passing out metal plates and cups, stirring pots of steaming gray goop, and making small talk in another language. They’re older, maybe in their sixties or seventies, and perhaps that’s why their job is to serve meals.
“What is it?” Niles asks the woman with long, stringy hair the color of storm clouds.
