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“What’s your name?” he said. “I’m Moe. Did I already say that?”
“You did. I’m Alyssa,” I said.
I wasn’t desperate, but Dick Fingers, that walking sinus infection, was going to keep me in here as long as he legally could. Another human would stave off a mental breakdown, even if he might be one of Ram’s many ass-lickers. This prison was crawling with them like roaches.
“Hi, Alyssa,” Moe said in a tone that reminded me of a dog greeting a beloved human. Though I should have hated him being joyful over nothing, it eased some of the fury swirling within me, like a hurricane moving over land. “I’m in for counter bands.”
“You mean contraband?”
“Is that what it’s called? I had a bottle of beer; I only took it to be polite and because it had a moose on the label. I like meese.”
“Moose,” I corrected.
“No, I like all meese, not just one.”
“You know what, never mind.”
If he had alcohol that wasn’t fermented in a toilet, then he could have only gotten it from Ram. It was one way he bribed other prisoners to do his bidding—or at least to look the other way. And I wasn’t talking to one of Ram’s bastards.
Especially not one who made my tongue itch for a taste of shitty beer.
I turned away from the gap and glanced around for something to block it with, but this place didn’t even have toilet paper. I could rip a page fromDick Fight Island, though it seemed a shit move to damage a prison book when most of our books were already in bad shape.
“I don’t even like beer or any alcohol,” Moe said, and I turned back to his crack. “But when I first arrived, this guy—Rod, I think—”
I snorted at his misremembering Ramrod’s preferred nickname.
“He invited me into his cell and I thought, hey, prison is friendlier than TV led me to believe. Then Rod offered me a drink, and I don’t drink even when it’s legal, but my papa always said it was rude to turn down an offer from your host. Maybe that’s why he ended up swinging with the neighbors. Anyway, I said thanks, and could I take the bottle to go? Rod was super nice, but when I was walking back to my cell, a guard stopped me and said you can’t have glass because I might stab someone, but I would never! So, now I’m here.”
I gaped at the gap in the wall. Was this guy really that dense? Or that blindly trusting, which I guessed was the same thing as being dumb.
“Why didn’t you tell them who gave you the beer?”
Moe gasped. “Narcs get knockered.”
I frowned. “You mean snitches get stitches?”
“No. So, what are you in for?”
I gawked at the gap again. Either Ram had recruited the most disarming person ever who would snitch everything everyone said back to him… or Moe was truly clueless. I didn’t know which.
“I attacked a guy with a tampon.”
Moe was silent for a moment. “Wow… there’s a lot I don’t understand about pussy pushers. They’re sharp? Why are they sharp?”
I was silent for a moment. “What did you call them?”
“Don’t the sharp ends hurt?”
I shook my head. “Tampons are not sharp. I jammed it down his throat.”
“Oooh… that’s clever.”
I eyed the wall, wishing I could see Moe to get a better read on him. How could someone as stupidly happy as a tummy-rub-starved dog admire unique ways of choking out a dude?
“What are you in prison for?”
“Playing my ass bongos in public.”
