INTRODUCTION
We were nearing the end of a long and great depression but the populace had no way of for-telling the future. There still remained a constant, harsh struggle by the common people to survive. Families had been torn apart when the heads of house-holds could no longer scrape together means to support them. A number of the hungry took their own lives, too proud to face downfall. Some unable to cope with the grief of personal loss died even of a broken heart.
Amidst all of the despair and desperation shined one who raised the spirits of men. Through the course of his daring travels he had acquired the wisdom to willfully refine the minds of others, profoundly affecting the lives of those who came to know him.
Otis Sandstrom stood before the judge on a cold day in March of 1935 showing little emotion as the verdict was being handed down. "Otis T. Sandstrom... the court hereby finds you guilty of manslaughter; a crime punishable by a sentence of no less than twenty years in the Puget Sound Correction Center."
The prison above Puget Sound had been constructed high on a bluff overlooking an expansive inlet. Otis caught sight of the bay every now and then as a glimpse of it flashed between branches of heavy forest. The prison bus was routinely bouncing over a gravel road toward its course. On board only one other convict accompanied the Swede. He was a sullen, quiet, Black fellow by the name of Web Henry. He was being returned to the prison after spending some time under psychiatric observation. The large man had also been put away for manslaughter. Physically, Web Henry was a mightily strong man, yet his continence portrayed that of one who had endured more than he was capable of accepting. He held the vacant stare of a man who had mentally removed himself from the world. Otis never heard a word out of him.
Otis Sandstrom and the mentally distant man were awkwardly chained together, wrist and ankle. The Swede sensed the muscled giant dangerous so endeavored to hold still and quiet. He had never had to fight a deranged man while bound in chains and didn't want to have to practice the effort now. So he silently sat watching out of the window as the last of his freedom faded with each receding mile.
Steel bars would soon close tightly behind the fifty seven year old Swedish fisherman from Gig Harbor. It had been supposed that he had beaten to death a policeman in Tacoma. Like most other men Sandstrom felt much trepidation at being caged up like an animal. But unlike most other men he would prove to stand out as one capable of taking on all that confronted him, as though nothing was detrimental to his purpose, merely another riddle in the game of life.
CHAPTER ONE
"Put these on!" The guard threw a pair of over-alls to the dripping-wet prisoner after he had just been deloused. "Follow me... we're going to get you a mattress and blanket." The red cheeked guard was a slow country boy and to the Swede's bafflement a pleasant fellow who made small talk as he led Otis to his cell. "Well, here we are... home sweet home. Will Lin... you've got company. Say hello to your new roommate... Otis... Sandstrom... is it?"
"That's right." The door swung shut and Otis faced the residing cellmate.
"You get the bottom... I'm on top. My name's Will Lin." The young Asian held out his hand to shake and Sandstrom returned the gesture. "Do you mind if I ask what you're in for?" The young fellow carefully inquired.
"Manslaughter," Otis casually replied.
"You killed a fella?" Will Lin sounded concerned.
As Otis Sandstrom pressed the worn and flattened mattress into the bottom bunk he professed. "If I say no... the law still says yes... take your pick. But either way... you can take it easy... I'm not going to harm you."
Reclining with arms folded across his chest the Swede stared at the bottom of the bunk above him.
"You were just kidding, right?" Will Lin asked as he paced about the small cell. I mean... you're not really claiming that you're innocent?"
"We're all innocent son. We enter this world new and clean but the ignorant human condition fouls the river of existence. A young fellow doesn't even get a chance to know what his rightful purpose in this life is... before he's corrupted by the mendacity of other men's foolish minds."
"Well... I'm not certain that I understand just what you're saying mister, but I'm not going around making out like I'm innocent. I take responsibility for my actions. I've accepted the word of the lord into my heart," Lin proudly proclaimed.
"That's nice," Otis was in no mood to thrash out religion, though tried to dismiss the young neophyte lightly.
"I'm talking about Jesus. Have you ever read the Bible?"
"No offense son. Jesus must have been a great man of profound insight...that is certain... but I believe his is a path other men have walked as well." Before he had even finished the statement the Swede wished he had exercised a little more restraint and kept his mouth shut. He was anxious and tired. He hadn't meant to open a can of worms with this green kid. He only desired to think; to plan a strategy.
The ever pacing kid kept chattering. "You speak peculiar mister. I wouldn't say things like that if I was you. It's the son of God you're talking about."
Otis let go a sigh of frustration. He had heard it all so many times before. Yet thoughts elsewhere, the tired convict reluctantly delivered a familiar refutation, "we're all the sons of God... aren't we kid?" The stranger had little respect left in him for the church. The unusual man considered he had found himself a clearer path apart from the one that had offered him no rational answers.
Will Lin was growing quite agitated. "You don't believe in God or you wouldn't say such things... it's blasphemy."
"Settle down son." Otis finally made a movement and turned his head to face his inexperienced, young cellmate, capturing his attention with his piercing blue eyes and poignant words, "oh... I know there's something ... it's just that I never could hold with a God who would torture and kill his own boy... it just doesn't set right with me. How are you going to put trust in a notion like that? It scared the hell out of me when I was a kid... makes me queasy now."
Will Lin continued to pace across the cell. A hyper, fidgety, young fellow of mixed Chinese and Anglo decent, he was a little in over his head and misplaced among the prison population, no more than a snot-nosed purse-snatcher; a kid trying to hold up under dire circumstances.
The Swede barely had enough headroom to sit upright on the lower bunk. The baffling stranger was already up to something. "Oh hell... I haven't done this for a long while. My legs are stiff." The newcomer was attempting a cross legged position. He thought it might be entertaining to see how far he might stretch Will Lin's imagination.
"What are you doing?" Will Lin moved toward Otis with cautious curiosity.
"I'm fixing to meditate. I need to keep my mind aligned and in tune with being in this joint... ease my worries. Do you have worries Will Lin?" The Swede was initiating an attempt to manipulate the younger man. Otis had become quite aware of his personal connection to the source many years ago and no longer actually had reason for meditation. The foreign practice had long since merely become a means to exact attention and gain confidence.
"You don't seem to be worried about much Otis. What are you sitting like an Indian for?" Will Lin puzzled.
Otis began to explain the odd practice and the supposed benefits it bestowed upon the mind and spirit. It didn't take the stranger much effort to tempt the kid's curiosity and shortly Will Lin was likewise sitting upon his bunk, cross legged, receiving subtle instruction from a calculating man he knew nothing of.
The charismatic but unusual fellow subtly attempted to guide. "Listen to all the sounds around you. Stay in the moment. Push thoughts out of your mind as they enter. Your own thoughts hold great power to torment you. Take control and remain in the moment. Focus on everything you can hear. The universe contains omnipotent wisdom and it is right here for the tapping but as long as the mind is overloaded with ceaseless chattering there is no way for the delicate connection to be made. A fellow has to learn how to clear his mind of all the worthless and damaging debris it has collected so that he can hone his ethereal senses. With practice it becomes much easier."
A young man's mind ventures naturally toward the mystic and although being yet naïve, Will Lin quickly began to conceive Otis Sandstrom as a figure of worldly experience; a man of some undisclosed power. The older man's serene continence and strange concepts were compelling for certain, but stepping outside his Christian institution was unsettling for Will Lin. The threat of an all-seeing deity watching down with angry eyes frightened him.
Will Lin was getting hot under the collar. His thoughts would not cease. He had let himself be opened for a while to a completely different concept and he was finding the practice very frustrating. "This is impossible! It doesn't work for me! There's no way to shut off my thoughts!"
"What are you thinking about that is so important kid?"
"Everything... a lot of words and ideas... I don't know... just everything I guess."
"You're part Chinese aren't you? I'm surprised that you don't have a notion of your own spiritual heritage. Your people followed fellows with names like Buddha and Confucius. Confucius was a teacher in China five hundred years before Jesus was even born and he was teaching wisdom that had been carried forth by gifted philosophers, centuries before his own time. One of the first things old Confucius said was: 'what you do not like done to yourself, do not unto others'. Now if Confucius was heathen and ignorant of God, what was Jesus doing wandering around preaching the same thing? Confucius and Buddha, like Jesus, were leaders on a path toward perfect living, teachers of inner peace, moral integrity and clarity of mind."
This was knowledge that Will Lin had never had an opportunity to consider and he was indeed struck by it but his own arrogance held him back. His outlet was denial and so he continued to denounce the Asian religions as heathen, the shameful side of his racial mix and continued to herald Christianity as the one and only truth. "The Bible is the only way to God!" He responded with a voice of resolute. "I can't do this monkey-business. It's impossible to shut off thoughts... it goes against nature... a fellow would have to be dead!"
"Otis grinned as he sat rigid on his bunk and asked, "who's in control Will Lin... you or your brain? It's just a blob of grey guts sitting on top of your head. Are you going to let it tell you what to do?" With that simple little question Otis Sandstrom had instilled an unshakable, reoccurring dilemma into Will Lin's thoughts that would remain with him for the rest of his life.
The stranger had come from somewhere way outside the realm of anyone he had ever come in contact with yet for some reason the shaky kid had begun to feel rather secure in the mysterious Swede's company.
"What in the heck are you doing?" Duane, the stocky, rosy cheeked, guard who had introduced Otis to his new abode shouted as he rattled the cell door. Will Lin informed the guard that they were meditating to improve their minds and that he ought to try it sometime.
One of the cons in a nearby cell called out, "hey Duane... what's going on over there?"
The big, boyish looking guard with the perpetual smile answered, "I don't know what they are up to. But I'm pretty sure they've both gone nuts. They're sitting in there legs crossed like a couple of Indians with their eyes closed... now ain't that the damnedest?"
"It's no big thing Duane... we're just making contact with the universe. You can't imprison the mind... right Otis?"
"The mind can only be imprisoned if you allow it kid." Otis was amused by Will Lin's response even though he knew that the smart-aleck was not being serious, merely playing it up just to needle the lumbering guard.
The cocky young kid was still poking fun at the good natured fellow. "You're here every day Duane. What crime have you committed? Do you even know what side of the bars you're on?"
The cherub faced guard with the nervous, habitual smile just shook his head and benignly recommended the kid knock it off or he would put him on report for insubordination.
Will Lin found it easy to pick on the soft-hearted guard and had made a habit of annoying him. On occasion, after Duane had taken a belly full of it, he had suggested that a couple of days in 'solitary' might straighten the cocky kid out. But as yet the amiable country boy had not followed through with his ineffectual threats.
After the local grown, easy going guard had strolled on to continue his rounds, Otis called to the bunk above. "How old are you Will Lin?"
"Twenty four... why?"
"You've got humor and maybe a little something between your ears besides space. We're going to get along just fine. Good night... Will Lin."
All was quite for a moment and then timidly the question arose. "Otis... did you kill a fella?"
"Good night... Will Lin."
Otis was an average sized man around five feet ten. No overly distinguishable features except for a small tattoo in the palm of his left hand and his unusually gentle and compelling blue eyes. The hair was sandy blonde, typical of Swedish ancestry, with wisps of white and gray. He had aged well, appearing fit and rugged. He bore certain attributes of a younger man; not over weight and his muscles were taunt and strong. He carried himself with an air of confidence and purpose yet his manners were subtle.
As Will Lin walked beside Otis on the way to breakfast a short and tattered, skinny con with a crippled leg hobbled toward them.
"Lin... you need some opium? It's smooth man... Chinese." The little creep gazed around warily.
"Let me try some."
"It ain't like that... I've got to sell this stuff."
"That ain't jake, Dewey. I came across last time... you owe me. Come on... just pinch me off a crumb."
"Shit... okay but don't say I never did you any good. Hey... can I sit with you guys?"
Otis took a probing look at the scrawny little hustler but said nothing as he kept on walking toward the cafeteria. Dewey shuffled along beside the two, curious of the new arrival.
The unlikely looking trio entered the cafeteria together. Some heads turned and a few barbs came their way as Otis sat down at a long empty table.
"You don't want to sit here." Will Lin was concerned.
"Why not?"
"The guys who eat here are picky about this table."
Otis just smiled and replied, "oh?"
"Come on Dewey." Will nervously tugged on the grubby little man's sleeve. Dewey, in an unreasoned-out act of defiance, plopped down beside Otis and refused to budge. The cautious Asian warned them as he backed off, "this is prison... I'm trying to save you a lot of grief."
The Swede simply stated, "let's not save grief Will Lin."
Will Lin didn't give up. "Come on Dewey. What are you trying to prove?"
Dewey flagged him off saying nothing. He just sat there next to Otis Sandstrom, apprehensive yet unmoving. Will Lin slipped away to another table as the Mexicans arrived to discover the uninvited guests. They filed in one by one until they were all seated in eerie silence.
One of the Mexican cons stared with a look of confused disbelief at Dewey, "how stupid are you?"
Marco the leader of the group directed his attention on Otis, "what is your point? What do you hope to accomplish by bringing this sick mouse to my table? Who are you?"
"My name is Otis Sandstrom. It's good to meet you. I was just hoping that you fellas wouldn't mind letting me sit here with you. You see... I lived in Mexico for quite a while. I've taken a liking to Mexican folks and miss their company and the culture." Otis spoke in an innocent manner as if oblivious to any prelude to danger. His smile was warm and genuine. The Mexicans stared in sullen wonder and stayed stone quiet as they listened to his naïve talk. "I damned near died in San Blas... malaria. A tile setter... I'll never forget him... Carlos Rodriquez. Carlos and his wife and kids took care of me."
"So?" Marco was unimpressed.
"So... I've learned from my experiences."
"Oh yeah? You don't act so smart... but go ahead," Marco the leader insisted, "tell us more of your story."
"Well... I've learned that Mexicanos are generous and kind. They want to hate all gringos but their hearts are too full of love."
The group began to stir. "Are you loco hombre?" Marco signaled his amigos to silence their rumblings and then placed his attention back on Otis.
Again words calmly flowed from the Swede's mouth. "I have many good friends in Mexico. They are my friends because they are wise enough to judge a man one-on-one for who he is... as a person. If your friend is Mexicano he is a true friend... is he not?"
The group looked at each other in bewilderment. They had never come across such a careless gringo. The leader glared at Otis with a blank face. His demeanor was slowly beginning to loosen up. "If we allowed you to eat here... then wouldn't we have to let every gringo eat here... wouldn't we?"
Otis ginned, "only the good ones," then smiled broadly.
Marco laughed and the others followed his lead. "You have good eyes... Otis Sandstrom. You may remain. We might find subjects of common interest. That rat will have to go." Marco pointed his finger at Dewey. Dewey glanced at Otis and started to rise.
Otis, becoming almost serious, "this unfortunate, crippled man as wretched as he may be, sat down here by my side because he trusts me. Now I have only two choices: to get up and leave with him in disgrace... or defend his honor... no matter how little there may be of it."
The group sat with mouths agape. "You would fight for this... for this... vermin?"
Otis looked Dewey up and down questioningly, "well... I wouldn't want to... but if it came to that... I would." Silence again spread across the table.
Marco the leader was not one to allow the wool to be pulled over his eyes easily and it was obvious to him that the fearless gringo was blatantly up to something. Just what it was he hadn't a clue. Yet he was of mind to satisfy his curiosity. "Now why would you do a foolish thing like that? He couldn't mean anything to you."
"It is a virtue I learned from your people Marco. A man shows his true strength when he cares for the weak."
The leader, lost in thought, picked at his food slowly, trying to hold back a tender emotion that had been repressed for years. He laughed a little bit and shook his head slightly. "You are a Diablo Otis Sandstrom!" The leader lifted his cup in a gesture contrary to his normal character. "Eat drink and be merry! I am the benevolent king! Marco addressed Otis... "you are the muse"... and pointing to Dewey... "he is the fool!"
After the meal Marco approached Otis privately while they were returning their trays. "So you're not so dumb after all. What is it you want?"
"I'm not after anything Amigo."
The Mexican was not so easily put aside, "come on... fess up... what's your angle?"
"No angle... I just like Mexicans."
Marco warned the stranger that he would be keeping an eye out on his actions and not to screw up.
The guards could not help but wonder about this uncommon event and they began to speculate amongst themselves. Interest festered between the inmates as well. What was the connection between the new inmate and the Mexicans? Shortly Will Lin was encountered by a trio of cons wanting to know; 'what gives'? When the high strung kid failed to come up with an explanation he had a time convincing them of his ignorance.
"I don't know exactly... he thinks he's some sort of weird Buddhist or something. He does this thing... oh what did he call it?"
"Meditation," Duane butted in with the answer. The amiable guard had caught the end of the conversation as he had methodically eased his way toward the small group, "yup... meditation. It's an Eastern religious thing," Duane intended to show the band of misfits that he indeed knew a thing or two.
"Yeah... meditation... I know that! He showed me how to do it for crying out loud Duane! Don't you have anything you need to go guard? I believe I was telling the story... he reads a lot of books... I can tell you that..." As usual the cocky kid had shown blatant disrespect for the easy mannered guard, pressing his luck, showing off, but as usual Duane had let the ill-treatment slide.
One of the older cons, Lars Nelson, put his two cents in. "He's just putting on... looking for attention. I've seen them before, operators thinking they're too smooth for the system. This place will pull him down off of his high-horse soon enough... or worse."
Lars Nelson and his worn out band of small time crooks had tried intimidating Will Lin, threatening to put the hurt on him if he didn't come to them with everything he found out about the Swede. Will Lin thought these characters almost laughable compared to the more sinister forces at play in the prison, and so he considered little of their toothless bullying.
Otis Sandstrom, Will Lin and Dewey were followed by Lars Nelson and a small group of curious misfits as they walked down a corridor toward the exercise yard. There they would be able to wander around in the open air and use a weight-lifting bench. There was a net-less basketball hoop screwed to a wall.
Still being surveyed by watchful eyes, Otis walked to the fence and gazed out over the cloud filled sky. It rained a lot in that part of the country. There was now a purplish-gray hue engulfing the compound. Otis shivered as his thoughts flew to exotic, far away places. Wanderlust had always been in his blood. He doubted that he would be able to tolerate a grim future behind bars. He missed the sea... but he would not allow himself to crack. He pledged under his breath, "as this world is my world... if it be prison I now find myself in... then it will be 'my' prison."
"So far so good; a little breakfast, some new friends, fresh air and now exercise... and they call this punishment?" Otis jokingly visited with the guards as a Black group watched with contempt. After the guards had strolled off the Blacks surrounded Otis as he was stretched out over the ground doing push-ups. They crowded around the Swede. They looked mean. The one who spoke first was named Isaac. "Saw you sitting with the Mex... what goes?"
Otis smiled as he arose, "just being friendly."
"Why do you have these sorry-assed sons-of-bitches tailing you around?" Isaac scanned the small, dismal band of curiosity seekers that still remained closely about.
"They're my friends," Otis grinned.
"What are you smiling at? Do you think I'm funny?"
"No... I'm just happy."
"What in the hell do you have to be happy about...fool? You're real close to getting yourself ass whipped!"
A rather handsome Black fellow wearing dark glasses pushed confidently though the crowd. Otis spoke first, "I'm sure glad to see you!" The bold Swede fixed his eyes on the suave looking leader and again spoke coolly, "these guys could use some adult supervision. For a minute there I was getting kind of worried... until I saw you coming." Otis stuck his hand out to shake... the leader of the Blacks did not.
"What makes you think that I should be friendly with you?"
The Swede looked him up and down for a moment and then, ignoring the question, went on to hurriedly exclaim, "why... I'll be... you know when I was a kid there was a fellow in the neighborhood that you remind me of! We grew up together. There were eleven kids in that out-fit. If you don't mind me saying so... you look just like one of them.... Ronald Blake! We enlisted together. I swear... you're the spiting image of him! He died fighting for his country. He saved my life more than once. I can tell you that. Old Ronnie was a good man and a good friend... he died a hero." Otis ended his story with a forlorn look on his face, yet there was not a word of truth to it.
Being sidetracked for a moment, the leader asked, "were you in the war?"
Otis nodded his head somberly.
"So was my old man... Earl Baxter. Ever hear of him? He was in the Army."
"It was a big war... a lot of names... a lot of lands."
"Yeah... well he never came back. Missing in action they claimed."
Otis made a shrewd assessment. "One thing for sure... he was a hero... and that's for certain."
"What makes you say he was a hero?"
Otis continued to work on Baxter's emotions, "living in White man's country is tough enough, but enlisting in the White man's army goes beyond heroism. That took a whole lot of guts. I'm sure that your father would be proud to know that you're a wise and honorable man like him... a leader."
"What kind of line are you trying to feed me? What would you know of a Black man's pride? Don't assume to know me!" Baxter was beginning to rile.
Otis took another gamble, "my best friend was a Black man. I know what's in the hearts of your people."
"You know what's in the hearts... of my people!" the leader mockingly rebuked.
"Sure I do... love and goodness... but it is common knowledge that you're embittered over the indecencies that you've endured by the hands of the White man."
"What's your angle? What do you expect to achieve by all this talk? You come off like some sort of mealy mouthed preacher. You think that you can come in here and start spreading your religion around? Well we don't need your blue-eyed Jesus... chump!"
"It's none of my concern whether you're a sinner or a saint... Baxter."
"How do you know my name?"
"You said your father's name was Earl Baxter, missing in action. That means he could still be alive somewhere. Ever try to find him?"
Baxter took the question grimly. "What the fuck do you care?"
"Who said I cared?"
Baxter threateningly grabbed Otis by the lapels of his over-alls. "I'm curious to find out what you're up to with Marco... that's why I'm going to give you a little bit of rope. I want to see how long it will take you to hang yourself. If there is something going on that I might need to know about, you had better let me in on it now. If I find out something I don't like... well... I'm sure a clever man like you gets the picture." Baxter coolly smoothed out the Swede's lapels with the backs of his hands. "You're getting friendly with the wrong people... Mr. Sandstrom."
Seeming not to be intimidated in the least, Otis asked, "what do you have against the Mexicans anyway? I'm new here... what's the beef?"
Baxter's face went blank and for a moment as he couldn't help reflecting upon just what it was he had against the Mexicans, other than... they were Mexicans.
The Swede was relentless. "If you ever remember what it is... let me know. Power lies in numbers and there are quite a few Latinos in this slammer."
"What are you driving at?"
"Well... say you wanted to have your own way or make something happen. It would be a lot easier... well, the more folks you have on your side and all."
A look of apprehension crossed Baxter's face. "You are up to something!"
Otis pretended to reveal a plot, "sure I am... but it's not against you or the Mexicans... to make it happen it will have to work for all of us."
Baxter was not buying it. "To make what happen? Do I look stupid? You're tied in with Mex dope...that's what I'm thinking! I saw you and Rodriquez chumming it up... looked real friendly to me... just like old friends. You've been warned... interfere with me or my business and you're dead and that's a fact."
Otis, never one to show trepidation, came back with, "that's what the Mexicans said."
"You walk a thin line Whitey."
"I live on the line Baxter."
Baxter assured the plucky Swede that they would meet again... soon.
The chatter over the stranger continued to spread. He had met head-on with the Mexicans and then the Blacks all in one morning. No one knew what to make of the new-comer. Even the older, experienced cons couldn't put a finger on what was occurring. Baxter walked off as Otis bumped his way between the remaining thugs. They watched him as he made a path to the unoccupied weight bench where there stood a large, muscular, Black fellow, lifting barbells. The Swede recognized him immediately as the troubled passenger he had been chained to on the prison bus.
Otis sprawled onto the weight bench and inquired, "hey... would you mind spotting me? I'll spot you next if you want."
Without saying a word the bodybuilder picked up the weight bar and balancing it carefully, placed it into Otis's raised hands. Then in a deep and quiet voice he uttered, "no white man I ever knew had your balls mister. You're crazy but you've got nerve."
The surrounding cons all watched in awe... now it appeared that the stranger was hitting it off with one of the most feared and respected inmates in the joint, Web Henry. Henry was his own man. Even Baxter and his bunch gave him wide berth. He was a quiet sort, content in his own company. He had killed a banker who had foreclosed on the family farm.
Undoubtedly a lot of poor folks wanted to kill bankers and big business men. The president himself, Herbert Hoover, had been blamed for the scourge of poverty across the land. He was head of the elite party believed to be responsible for the horrible depression the country was being forced to endure and was despised by the oppressed... so many had lost their jobs, homes and existences. Web Henry had snapped and broken the mortgage holder's spine with his bare hands. He had been lucky they hadn't strung him up. The judge must have had a moment of consideration for Web's plight when he merely handed down twenty years; coincidently the same sentence that Otis Sandstrom had drawn.
A horn sounded and as the cons retreated into the prison confines the lost and misfit followed the mysterious stranger. He had something they were drawn to. They just didn't know what it was.
Back in the cell Will Lin could do nothing but pace. Otis warned him that he had better affix his mind on something or he was going to drive them both crazy. There were a couple of tattered books on the floor but Will Lin had already read them. Duane came around shortly and Otis politely asked him if it might be possible to get a checkerboard. After a while the amiable guard returned with a chipped and scarred, wooden chess-set. The pieces were so worn they were barely distinguishable but the gesture was greatly appreciated and Otis praised the likeable Duane for his humanity.
Duane stood out as an oddity among the other guards who were typically callous and bullying. The simple young man endeavored to display dominance but in truth he had not that sort of character. Any of his shallow attempts at malice were short lived and easily seen through by everyone. Duane went home to a fat, big titted wife and a messy house full of kids every night and was most grateful in the fact that he held a government job. So many lives had been destroyed throughout the hard years that Duane felt humbled to pinch himself from time to time, thanking God for merely being able to put food on the table.
Otis was teaching Will Lin how to play chess. All of the doors were open and the cons were mingling about on the cell block when a huge, curly haired, White man prodded his way through the cell entrance.
The intruder spouted, "who are you... the Pied Piper?" Then Filthy Phil kicked the chessboard over, pieces flying. The large audience in the hall, curious to see what was transpiring, stretched their necks as they quickly wrestled amongst themselves for a view. Will Lin hopped up onto his bunk, back pressed against the wall. Otis held calmly where he sat.
Phil picked the stranger up by the neck until they were face to face. Out of nowhere, with the slightest effort and hardly a movement noticeable by the onlookers, the bully was suddenly turned around and brought down to his knees. Otis held him in a painfully paralyzing, thumb hold. The bully was then forced to his stomach, his arm distorted behind his back. The baffling Swede was in control with merely a thumb to twist this way and that. Filthy Phil squirmed helplessly in pain.
"I went to school with a loud mouth show-off like you once. I kicked his backside up between his shoulder blades so high he had to take his shirt off to sit on the crapper. After I knocked all the spit and piss out of him we became friends. Am I going to have to knock the piss out of you... big man?" The audience stood with their mouths agape. Otis twisted the sensitive thumb a little harder.
"You're a dead man!" The downed bully proclaimed before he omitted another painful moan.
"I can make it worse," the Swede assured him, "I know a lot of tricks. Listen... whoever you are. I'm a little tuckered out right now... how about... I let you up and we start over, maybe a little less hostile next time?"
"Okay, let me go!"
"Can you act like a gentleman?" Otis twisted the thumb a little bit harder.
"Yes... damn it to hell! Let me go!"
The Swede slowly released his grip and Phil arose. Again the angry giant lunged and this time Otis went down under the weight of the massive man. Duane and three other guards quickly appeared and pulled the two brawlers apart before Otis had a chance to out-maneuver the lug.
The two fighters were hauled away and thrown into solitary confinement, customarily known as... the hole.