DIESEL THERAPY BLUES


"Shit! Goddamn it!" he muttered as stared at the red and blue flashing lights of the prison four wheel drive in his rearview mirror. He let his foot off the accelerator and coasted slowly over to the side of the road, the snow crunching lightly under the tires. Slowly and hopefully without alerting the guard who was pulling him over, he turned the door handle to crack the window. The inside of his vehicle was a cloud of sweet, pungent marijuana smoke. He swallowed the roach down, the cold beer between his legs he'd just have to try to explain away.

Well fuck, there was just one guard in the truck, worse came to worse once the jack-off got out of truck, he could just throw his Mustang in gear, pull a shit-hook on the icy road and bust ass off the property. He was barely fifty yards on it. The Mustang had a re-built 35l Boss under hood, no way in hell that government issued piece of shit could even think about catching him. No, they already had his license down by now! Don't be stupid. Just show your I.D. and bullshit your way out of it. More motion in the rearview snapped his attention back.

"What in the fuck is going on here?" A local cop had pulled up behind the guard's truck.

The guard stepped out of the truck. Big black son of a bitch and he was holding a Remington 12 gauge legal sawed off, normally used for riots or cons on the fence. The cop, a tall white boy with a shaved head, Jesus Christ, what a Mutt and Jeff pair these two were! White boy walked up to big son of a bitch and they had a quick two second conversation while they eyeballed his ass through the rear window. The cop pulled out his piece, thing was a goddamn hand cannon.

The big son of a bitch racked a round in the chamber and came on the driver's side while the skinny white cop came on the passenger side. "Hands on the wheel, asshole!" That came from the son of a bitch.

"Move and I'll blow your motherfucking head off." White boy speaking from the other side.The door opened up letting in the sub-zero air. The barrel of the shotgun felt like an ice cube on the back of his head.

"Get out of the goddamn car onto your knees. One wrong move your fucking brains will be all over the road."

Doing as he was told he decided it was time to play his card."Hey, man! I'm an officer myself. I work in the state system over in Moose Lake. I'm a sergeant on the riot squad."

That didn't work.

"I know who you are, you piece of shit! Now get on your motherfucking belly with your hands behind your back."
He went down face first into the snow. The guard cuffed him just as he had been taught in the academy. A big boot stepped on the back of his neck driving his face further into the snow.

"Holy shit!" he heard the white cop shout out. "I hit the fucking jackpot. There must be seven or eight ounces here."

"You're in a world of shit, asshole." whispered the big son of a bitch.

****

"There's just a fine fucking line between a cop and criminal, or a guard and a convict. They both want the same goddamn thing. They just have never figured out how to get it or what it even is."

Axel's eyes snapped wide open as the heavy steel door slammed shut announcing the arrival of the breakfast cart at the far end of the cellblock. The buzzing of a jailhouse tattoo gun was quickly silenced. Had he dreamt the voice or really heard it? Was the voice his father's or Phillip's? Didn't matter now anyways.

By the smell wafting down towards his cell, Axel determined that the morning's entree would be shit-on-a-shingle, a prison staple whether it be inside a federal or a state or a county joint. That was the last damn thing he wanted in his gut. He was scheduled to get shackled up and shipped out this morning, if the guard on duty the night before hadn't been bullshitting him as they have been know to do, so the thought of getting on the bus for another day of endless and mindless riding with a case of cream chip beef induced shits with no where to let it go was not appealing.

On top of that, the orange juice based hooch that he had been drinking last night with his temporary cell mate, an obese child molester who had crossed state lines with a couple of his victims thus earning him a federal beef, wasn't sitting that well. In fact, his skull felt like a nail had been driven into it. Axel had drank literally gallons of jailhouse hooch, pruno, go-juice, or whatever the hell the current prison slang was calling it, but last nights batch had given him the weirdest buzz that he had ever experienced. When questioned about the ingredients, the pervert had given a sneaky little smile and admitted that he had crushed up several of his dispensary prescribed Prozac that he had been hoarding and had added it to the mix. Normally, Axel would follow the international jailhouse protocol about not associating with any scumbag involve in child molestation, but last night he been desperately in need of both getting loaded and sleep.