Sin
Anger
"Wrath, strong vengeful indignation."
So don't fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It's alright, Ma, I'm only sighing
(It's Alright, Ma, I'm Only Bleeding)
"You're new here, aren't you?"
Jason looked up from his book. "Why do you ask?"
The other man ignored the hostile tone and smiled at him. "I'm Lars Ulrich. Mind if I sit down?"
Jason shrugged. "It's a free prison."
Ulrich smiled as he took the chair opposite Jason. "You're a funny man, Mr-?"
"Newsted."
"Do you know who I am, Mr Newsted?"
"You just told me. Lars Ulrich."
"And do you know what I am?"
"Annoying?"
"Funny. I'm the gateway to anything you want inside this place, Newsted."
"What I want," Jason glared, "is some fucking peace and quiet."
Ulrich got up, never breaking eye contact. "Unfortunately, that's one of the few things I don't deal in: that and freedom. But if you ever want anything else, just ask for Lars Ulrich. Everyone here knows me."
The cell door shut behind Jason with a loud clang. "Hi," a voice came from the top bunk.
"Who are you?"
"Fred Durst. Your cellmate."
"Jason Newsted. What are you in for?"
"I thought we weren't supposed to ask that question."
Jason shrugged. "Whatever. I don't intend to fit myself into the social system of a jail, Durst."
"So you're just not gonna get involved with people inside?"
"Pretty much, yeah.
"What are you talking to me for, then?"
"I'd like to know what kind of guy I'm gonna be living with -- whether I need to watch my back or not. Do I?"
"No. Do I? What are you in for?"
"Manslaughter. Killed a guy who was trying to rape a girl. And you still haven't answered my question."
"I ..." A sigh. "Rape."
Jason let out a short, harsh laugh. "Let me guess. You were framed."
"Not really." Fred swung his legs onto the bunk, folded his arms under his head, and closed his eyes. Taking this as a sign that the conversation was over, Jason laid down on his own bunk and stared at the underside of Fred's mattress. He tried to will his body into sleeping, and sleeping restfully, but to no avail. As usual, the unwanted memories assaulted him.
He walks into the bar with the intention of getting completely shitfaced drunk. He's not usually a heavy drinker, especially when he's alone, but Liz told him she's leaving, and he's about to lose his job, and he fucking deserves this for once. He knows it's a bad idea, that he gets violent when he's drunk, but it's not like he'll be going home to beat up Liz -- because Liz won't be there for him to go home to.
Five beers and two whiskies later, he's one of the only two customers left at the bar. He gets up, pays the waitress, and makes for the exit. He has the doorknob in his hand when he hears noise coming from the bar, a distressed sound, and when he turns around, some guy has one hand around the woman's wrists and the other down her blouse, and she's struggling to get away.
When the guy starts fumbling under her skirt, Jason feels something inside him snap, and he just becomes his anger.
The next thing he remembers is standing over the guy's broken, bloody body, his knuckles painful and raw, and the woman's screams in his ears.
Sometimes Em thought his name was the only thing he had left, and one day Hetfield would take that away from him, too, and he'd just stop existing. Marshall Bruce Mathers III, he thought. Eminem. Slim Shady. It was his mantra; when Hetfield would take him, hurt him, break him, he'd concentrate on his name, his names. Because if he didn't have his names anymore, he'd become nothing more than "Hetfield's Bitch". Then he'd lose his anger, and his anger was what was keeping him alive.
"Talk to me, bitch," Hetfield grunted. He pressed the metal closer to Em's throat, adding to the now familiar pain of penetration. He'd assumed it would get easier with time, but it hadn't. He'd stpoped hoping that it ever would. "Bitch! Talk to me."
"I hate you," he grunted out through tightly clenched teeth, infinitely careful not to scrape against the small, self-fabricated knife. Last time, he had, and Hetfield had accused him of trying to kill himself -- of trying to get out without permission. The wounds on his back were still healing, and Hetfield was taking great pleasure in opening them up again. "I hate you," he repeated. "I hate you, you bastard!"
"Oh yeah, you hate me. Hate me all you want, bitch. I. Own. You."
"Never." He stopped listening to Hetfield and concentrated, once again, on his mantra.
Justin's hands clenched on the metal rail as he watched Hetfield and his pet exit the shower stalls. "Bastard," he muttered under his breath. The bitch was supposed to be his, dammit. He'd carefully made his moves, only to have Hetfield fuck up his plan and steal his prize from under his nose.
It wasn't just that he'd really wanted this particular body. Oh, sure, he'd been looking forward to carving into that perfect skin, forcing that perfect mouth around his cock. But what really stung wasn't that he was deprived of all that, but that Hetfield was the one having it. Losing was bad, but losing to his main rival was worse. Hetfield had one up on him now, and he didn't let a single opportunity pass by to rub it in. After five months, every fiber in Justin's body was aching for revenge.
"Justin." A soft voice from behind him, a familiar hand on his shoulder. "Don't you think it's time to let it go?"
"He's laughing at me, Joe. I can see him laughing at me. I have to get back at him."
"Why bother?"
"Because if I don't, I'll just get killed out there." Justin sighed, shaking his head, and changed the subject. "Who's the new guy?" He gestured at a figure sitting in a corner, reading.
"Jason Newsted. Manslaughter. His cellmate's new, too. Fred Durst, rape and battering."
"Either of them of any use?"
Joey shrugged. "Hard to tell at this point." Justin nodded.
"Keep an eye on them."
Greed
"Excessive or reprehensible acquisitiveness."
Well, God is in his heaven
And we all want what's his
(Blind Willie McTell)
The thing about Lars was, prison wasn't really a punishment for him. Inside or out, he thrived on smooth talk and brains. In his extensive "career", he'd dealt drugs, traded stolen car parts, set up a porn business, tried to rob a bank, and then when he landed inside, he'd just gone back to dealing drugs, with a side order of whatever people wanted.
Humming a tune, he rounded the corner to the showers, where Fred was waiting for him. "You got the stuff?"
"You got the dough?"
Silently, the other man handed him the money. Lars counted and pocketed it before handing over the coke. Finding Durst's weakness had been fairly easy. When he'd come in, word got around pretty quickly about what he'd done. Rape under the influence. It was obvious it ate at him, and it had only taken Lars a few gentle nudges to get the man hooked on oblivion.
Finding the Bitch's weakness had been even easier. He'd come to him early on, even before Hetfield had claimed him. Heroin was one of the hardest things to get into prison, but for a good client, Lars was willing to risk a lot. And the Bitch was a damn good client.
Technically, Lars supposed it was Hetfield who was the good client. He gave his pet a steady supply of money, which got dutifully transferred to Lars. Sometimes Lars wondered if heroin was the Bitch's way of killing himself slowly. He didn't really care, as long as the money kept coming in. And as long as Hetfield kept the money coming in from his end, Lars would limit the supply to make sure the Bitch would live. Hetfield didn't like anything to be out of his control.
Like most everyone of importance or influence inside, Lars had been forced to choose sides between Hetfield and Timberlake. He'd simply shrugged and sold his loyalty to the highest bidder. Whatever Hetfield wanted to know, Lars could find out, for a price. Of course, for the right price, he'd find things out for Timberlake as well. After all, money didn't come with loyalty attached.
Loyalty. He'd spent the first thirty-two years of his life running from it, only to have it thrust upon him by his own damn fault. It had seemed like the perfect plan. He hadn't been able to believe his luck when the guy he'd picked up in a bar turned out to be a clerk at Hoffman's Bank. It had taken weeks to convince Kirk and plan the whole thing, and somewhere along the line, he'd allowed himself to fall in love. Biggest mistake of his life.
He should've known that there's no such thing as a fail proof plan. He should've known they'd get caught.He should've known better than to let himself get emotionally attached.
Lars had found the one thing he couldn't make disappear with money: guilt. Guilt tied him to Kirk stronger than any loyalty could. He hated Kirk for it, but at the same time he could never escape it.
And on top of that he now had Jason Newsted to worry about. If there was one thing Lars hated, it was being unable to find someone's weakness. Everybody had a weakness, Lars knew from experience. Weaknesses could be exploited if you knew how; weaknesses meant money.
And money was Lars' native language.
Lust
"Intense or unbridled sexual desire, an intense longing."
I want you, I want you
I want you so bad
Honey, I want you
(I Want You)
Fred hadn't thought he'd get used to prison life this fast. The strict time schedules, the food, the abuse from the guards, ... it all became normal after a while. The only thing he couldn't get used to was the lack of privacy. Jason rarely got out of their cell, and that didn't offer much privacy to begin with.
He'd taken to showering at odd moments during the day, just to be alone for a while. It didn't always work. Today, for example, there was already someone in there.
He took the shower head furthest away from the other, not really paying attention to him. The guy looked like he wanted to be alone, too. Once he felt the scalding water streaming across his body, he finally relaxed. The ritual of soaping up his body absorbed all his attention, until he heard a sigh.
He glanced over and let his eyes wander across the other's toned, muscled body, the almost impossibly white skin, ... With something of a shock, Fred realised this was Hetfield's fucktoy. He hadn't actually ever seen the guy on his own, which would explain, he thought vaguely, why he'd never bothered to find out his name.
"Hey," he called. "What's your name?" He received a stunned-suspicious look from shockingly blue eyes.
"Marshall Mathers. People call me Slim. My friends call me Em, for Eminem."
He nodded. "I'm Fred Durst."
"I know. You're Newsted's cellmate, right?"
Fred raised his eyebrows. "Ho do you know that? Or him, for that matter. He hasn't been out of our cell at all."
"Oh, he's well-known as the latest object of Hetfield's and Timberlake's little power struggle. They're both getting itchy because he's showing no intention of taking sides at all."
Fred grinnned. "I think they can wait forever for that. He's really serious about not getting involved in prison life."
"Really? I guess we've got ourselves a nice little stalemate, then. This should be interesting."
"You have a really weird idea of 'interesting'."
"Yeah, well, considering what passes for 'normal' in my life, I gotta take excitement where I can find it."
"Sorry," Softly.
"Don't. Not your fault, nothing you can do."
They both finished their shower in silence. When Em left, he grinned at Fred. "Nice talking to you, Durst."
"You too, Slim."
Lars hesitated outside the cell. He hated running these errands for Hetfield, but they were part of the deal, and he got paid for his trouble. Still.
"Are you a vampire or something? Need to be invited before you can come in?"
"Would you invite me?"
"Depends. What do you want?"
"Just talk."
"No harm in that. Come on in."
Lars walked in and saw Newsted lying on the bottom bunk, reading. "Haven't seen you around much lately."
"Haven't been around much lately."
"So I noticed. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Hetfield and Timberlake are getting antsy about you not taking sides."
Newsted looked up from his book. "Why would they care?"
Lars shrugged. "Don't ask me, I'm just the messenger. It seems that for some reason, they've made you a personal thing, so to speak. If you choose Timberlake's side, they'll be even again. If you choose Hetfield, he'll have two up on Timberlake, and Timberlake will lose power completely."
"I'm not interested in being a pawn in whatever power game they've got going." Jason said, and went back to his book.
"Ah, but you see, Mr Newsted, you don't really have a choice here. You will have to choose, and choosing not to choose means death. So the question is, which side has the most benefits for you?" Jason looked up again, silently. Once again sure of the other man's attention, Lars continued, "That's where I come in. I'll offer whatever you want if you choose Hetfield's side."
"Anything, hm?"
"Anything I can get you. Drugs, a link to the outside world, power, ... me, if you'd like." After a short silence, Lars smiled. "I'll let you think about it."
Once again, Fred walked into the showers to find himself not alone. Once again, Mathers was there. "Hey," he greeted.
"Hey. What are you doing here?"
"It's a free prison."
Mathers snorted. "Stealing comebacks from your cellmate, now? That's low, Durst."
"Call me Fred."
"What? Why?"
Fred shrugged. "All my friends call me Fred. You seem like the kinda guy I could be friends with."
Mathers stared at him, silently. "Okay, Fred it is." He held out his hand. Fred clasped it. "So when you say 'friends', do you mean friends, or friends?"
"Um."
"Hey, man, either is cool. At least you're asking. Sorta."
Fred blinked. "You'd actually have sex with me?"
"Sure, you're good-looking, you seem nice enough, ..." Fred remained silent. If Mathers didn't know why he was in, he wasn't gonna tell him. "So, what do you say?" Mathers trailed a hand down Fred's chest, halting right above his groin. "Do you want me?"
"Oh, hell, yes." Fred leaned in and kissed Mathers. He could tell the other man hadn't been expecting that, because his eyes flew open and he tried to pull away. Fred grabbed the back of Mathers' neck, gently, softly stroking his nape while concentrating on the kiss. It seemed to be working, because the man relaxed under his lips, opening his mouth tentatively, hesitantly kissing back. Fred deepened the kiss, nipped at the other's lips, and soon had to pull back to breathe.
He eyed Mathers, who looked confused for a moment, eyes diluted and impossibly blue. Then he composed himself. "So, how do you want to fuck me?"
"Actually, I was thinking you could fuck me."
That shattered any pretense of composure the other man had. "Seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Well, then," Mathers grinned predatorily.
"So." Ulrich walked into Jason's cell. "You decided yet?" Cocked his hips, smiled seductively. Jason wasn't impressed.
"Not really, why?"
"Because, my man, things are getting desperate."
"You mean Hetfield and Timberlake are getting desperate."
"Same thing," Ulrich shrugged. "Time's up, Newsted. Choose now."
"I don't even know what my choices are. If I don't choose either, I'm dead. If I choose Hetfield, I get ... you. Or whatever you can get me. But I don't know what Timberlake's offering."
"That's why I'm here, to tell you what he's offering. You choose him, and you'll be his right hand man."
"I thought he already had one? What's his name, Fatone?"
"Nah, Joe's just muscles. He lacks the cunning for the job."
"Whatever, I'm not interested. I don't want to get any more involved in this than I have to be. But since I don't want to get killed in here, either, I guess that leaves Hetfield."
Ulrich nodded. "I'll relay the message. So, what do you want in exchange?"
"Nothing."
"Hetfield's not the kind of guy who likes owing people, Mr Newsted."
"So I figured." A brief pause. "I guess I might as well get a lay out of this whole mess." Ulrich just grinned and shut the cell door.
Joey was sitting on the bottom bunk, vaguely aware of Justin pacing the confines of their cell. "He should've decided by now. Ulrich is still in there. He's probably discussing his reward for choosing Hetfield. Or maybe he's still deciding. Shit! If he chooses Hetfield, I'm gone, Joe. I'll be fair game out there, and there's plenty of people who'd love to help me go all the way down." Joey just nodded. He'd heard this speech a thousand times before. "Dammit, what's taking them so long?" When Justin punched the wall, Joey decided enough was enough.
"Justin." He got up, had Justin's wrists in his hands before the boy knew what hit him. "Relax." And did the only thing he knew would distract Justin at this point, pushed him down on the bunk roughly, one hand pinning Justin's wrists, the other already at his clothes.
Envy
"Painful or resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed by another joined with a desire to possess the same advantage."
Love that's pure won't lead you astray,
Won't hold you back, won't mess up your day,
Won't pervert you, corrupt you with stupid wishes,
It don't make you envious, it don't make you suspicious.
(Watered Down Love)
"Has he chosen?" Justin was lying on the bed, post-sex limp body sprawled out. When Joey didn't answer, he knew. "He's chosen Hetfield, then. Well, fuck." Justin wondered why he didn't feel anything. He should be terrified. Instead, he felt detached. "So."
"So." Joey just looked at him. Justin looked back.
"Are you gonna be standing there forever?" Joey shrugged. "Stay or go, Fatone. This is your chance to save your hide."
Joey shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere. Besides, they won't just forget I used to be one of yours."
"Thanks, Joe." Quietly. He got up and walked to the door, leaned in the doorway. "I'm not going down quietly, Joe. I'll get him back for this, get everything he has or at least die trying." Joey didn't answer.
"Mr. Newsted, I presume?" Jason looked in the direction of the voice. Shit, Hammett.
"Yes ..?"
Hammett eyed him appraisingly. "You're not his usual type."
"Who?"
"Lars. Oh, yeah, I know about your little tryst."
"I wouldn't call a one-off payment a "tryst", frankly."
"Is that all you think this is? A payment? You do know that kind of payment is the one thing he's never been prepared to do, right?" Upon seeing Jason's look, he continued, "No, I guess not. Heh. Seems like Lars' plans finally got waylaid. He likes you, Newsted. Guess it's that Good Guy aura you have. Just don't get any ideas, boy scout. Lars is mine. Once the novelty wears off, I'm the one he'll be coming back to."
Gluttony
"Greedy or excessive indulgence."
Might like to wear cotton, might like to wear silk,
Might like to drink whiskey, might like to drink milk,
You might like to eat caviar, you might like to eat bread,
You may be sleeping on the floor, sleeping in a king-sized bed
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
(Gotta Serve Somebody)
Hardly anything really surprised Lars anymore these days, but he had to admit, Justin Timberlake showing up for a routine drug sale himself did the trick. "Mr Timberlake. What brings you here?"
"I wanted to have a word with you."
"About what?"
"I hear you offered Newsted a deal he couldn't resist?"
"Yeah, well," Lars shrugged. "You know where my loyalties lie, Timberlake. Always have known."
"Yeah," Timberlake snorted. "With the highest bidder."
Lars grinned, unperturbed. "That's right. And the highest bidder is not you. Especially not now, not anymore."
"Watch your mouth," Timberlake snapped. "I'm not dead yet. And I'm holding something you, or rather your boy toy, needs."
"Is that what this is about? You gonna stop the flow because I got Newsted over to Hetfield's side? It doesn't work that way, Timberlake. I can find alternatives. I always can."
Timberlake shrugged. "I know. That's not what I'm here for."
"What, then?"
"I want to offer you a deal. You help me get Hetfield down, I get you whatever you want, and you get to continue running your business after I take over."
Lars couldn't help laughing loudly. "You can't offer me anything big enough for a risk like that, Timberlake."
"Fine, have it your way." Timberlake threw him the bag of coke, snatched the money out of Lars' hand, and left. Lars shrugged and continued on his way.
"Kirk?"
"Finally!" Kirk grabbed for the coke and disappeared into the stall. "Took you long enough."
"Nice to see you, too," Lars muttered under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just get the fuck on with it before we get caught."
"Yeah, Yeah." There was a short silence, followed by heart-stopping noise.
"Kirk?" More noise, clattering. "Kirk? You okay?" He opened the door, and saw Kirk lying on the floor, twitching and convulsing violently. "Oh, fuck! Guard!"
They'd tried, of course, or at least they'd said so. Lars didn't know how hard they'd actually tried for a druggie inmate, but it didn't matter in the end. The coke Kirk had taken was strong enough to have killed him instantly. Which was why he was currently on his way to Justin Timberlake.
"What the fuck did you do, you fucking son of a bitch?"
"Me? Why, whatever do you mean?"
"You know what I'm talking about. Kirk. You know more about drugs than to accidentally sell stuff that strong. You killed him!"
"Yes, I did." Calmly.
"Why?"
"To make a point. I'm not quite dead yet, Ulrich. I still have some connections. I can still get to you. Now, are you ready to consider my offer?"
"What's stopping me from going to Hetfield, telling him about your plans, and watching you get what you deserve?"
"The knowledge that I can and will do this without you? Pick your side now, Ulrich. And pick wisely. Hetfield or me?"
After a short silence, Lars spat. "You're a bitch, Timberlake. But if I choose wrong, at least Hetfield will let me live; I'm too handy for him." He took a deep breath. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"
"For now, keep your eyes and ears open, and report to me. Here," he tossed Lars another bag of white powder, so remnisent of the last one. Lars almost dropped it, but his reflexes were faster than his memories. "That's for Hetfield's Bitch. Oh, don't worry, it's normal strength. Never pull the same trick twice. Didn't you learn that one yet?"
Lars didn't answer, just left the cell and headed for Hetfield's cell. Passing it, he nodded to the Bitch, and went right on to the bathrooms. He knew the guy was following at a safe distance, and sure enough, after a minute, there he was.
The first words out of his mouth were "Keep it." Lars looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded and pocketed the bag again. He understood.
Sloth
"Spiritual apathy and inactivity."
And you know something is happening
But you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr Jones?
(Ballad of a Thin Man)
James Hetfield was slowly going insane. Everywhere he went, every time he turned around, Timberlake was watching him. When he once again spotted the guy across the big hall, staring at him, he swore under his breath. He had no idea what the guy was up to, but he didn't have time for this bullshit. Timberlake was a washed-up, has-been little shit, and if James didn't want to end up like him, he had to keep up his reputation.
Keeping up his reputation meant, for one, not letting his bitch get away with whatever it was he'd been doing lately. He'd been sneaking around a lot, and James didn't like it. If the little slut was fucking around on him, he'd kill him. No inmate would respect him if he couldn't even keep his property under control.
Forget Timberlake. He had more important things to worry about.
"Hey."
Lars looked up from his hands at the figure in the doorway. "Newsted?"
"I heard about Hammett."
"What, and you came to express your condolences?" Lars sneered. "Or did you come to gloat? No, wait, don't tell me. You figured with Kirk out of the way, you might get laid again!"
"I came to give you my condolences," Newsted said, calmly. When Lars didn't react, Jason shrugged and walked out again.
"Finally!" Em hissed, pulling Fred behind the corner. "What took you so long?" Not waiting for an answer, he pressed his lips to Fred's and indulged in a long, drawn-out kiss.
"Sorry," Fred sounded out of breath. "Had to take a detour. Hetfield almost saw me."
"Shh. Don't mention him. We can worry about him later."
Later was a long time away.
Jason was hit by a wave of deja-vu when he looked up from his book to see Ulrich sauntering into his cell. "Hi."
Ulrich just nodded in acknowledgement and sat down next to Jason on the bed. He stared at the floor for a few moments. Jason was about to just go back to his book when Ulrich spoke up. "So, wanna fuck?"
Jason didn't react at first. Then, slowly, he asked, "What about Hammett?"
"Kirk's dead, Jason. Nothing's stopping me from finding a replacement." Ulrich's voice sounded flat and cold in his ears, but Jason knew the lack of emotion was just a lie. He didn't care, though. The need for a warm body against his own, for the delusion of love or even just caring, overrode his good sense.
He shrugged. "Okay, then."
Joey watched as the smoke of his cigarette made its way to the ceiling of the staircase. Normally, he didn't like to leave Justin alone, unprotected. But lately, it had been like living with a time bomb set to go off any second. Justin was tense as hell, and obviously planning something, but he wouldn't let anyone in on what it was. Not even Joey.
He threw the butt away with much more force than was warranted. "Fuckin' Timberlake," he growled under his breath. But as sick as he was of the boy's games, he couldn't bring himself to abandon Justin.
Pride
"Inordinate self-esteem."
Well, there ain't no goin' back
When your foot of pride come down
(Foot of Pride)
"Yo, Hetfield!"
"Mister Hetfield to you, punk," James growled. Justin grinned. This guy was so easy. "What do you want? Came to beg for your life?"
"Actually, I came to warn you."
"You? Warn me? About what?"
"I'm not dead yet. And I know certain things you don't." Justin's eyes were fixed on the cowering bitch behind James. Judging from the guy's expression, his words had had the effect he was aiming for. He suppressed a grin. Step one was completed.
Em cornered Ulrich in an empty hallway late that night, right before lockdown. "I need your help."
"Can you pay for it?"
"Yes."
"What do you need?"
"A weapon. A knife, a gun, anything."
Ulrich was quiet for a moment. "That'll cost you, if I even manage to get it."
"I can pay for it," he repeated.
Ulrich nodded. "I'll see what I can do. I'll let you know when I have something."
The next morning, Lars went to see Timberlake for 'debriefing', as the man termed it.
"Hetfield's Bitch wants a weapon."
Timberlake nodded, as if he'd been expecting this all along. Lars had the uneasy feeling he probably had. "Give him this," handing him a fist-sized, round object.
"A snowglobe?"
"A glass snowglobe."
"How'd you get glass in here?"
"None of your business. Just give that to the Bitch, and make sure he doesn't suspect anyhting. Charge him for it, but not so much he can't afford it. Got that?"
"Sir, yes, Sir," Lars muttered as he left the cell.
Em stared at the small orb in his hands. He'd had one of these as a child. He'd never thought he'd ever be using one to kill a man. He wasn't sure he could.
'I'll have to. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, when he wakes up, I have to. It's the only way I'll ever make this stop. He'll wake up, and call me, and I'll break the glass and cut his throat. How should I break it? I have to make sure I get a piece that's big enough to hold. Have to be careful breaking, or I'll fuck up my only chance.' He tossed the globe from one hand to the other, simulating the motion of the thoughts going around in his head.
When morning came, he was ready. Hetfield ordered him to come down, and he jumped down, looking like he did every morning, the globe hidden behind his back. Hetfield grinned at him, nodding at his crotch. "Take care of that, bitch."
"No."
"No?" Hetfield looked more amused than shocked.
"No. Not now, not ever again. Go to hell, you suck motherfucking son of a bitch!" He put as much venom in it as he could, trying to provoke Hetfield. It didn't seem to work at first, but then Hetfield was pressing him against the wall, hand on his throat, choking him.
"What was that, bitch?" Em kicked him in the balls as hard as he could, and smashed the snow globe against the wall. Quickly grabbing the biggest, sharpest piece, he hissed, "Go to hell!" And then the world went mute and red as he struck blindly.
Slash, cut, slash, again and again until he was sure Hetfield's dick and balls were nothing but mince meat. It gave him a grim satisfaction to know that even if he lived, Hetfield wouldn't ever be raping anyone again.
He knew the man must've been screaming, his mouth open, head thrown back in a mockery of ecstasy, but he couldn't hear anything but his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears.
Next were the eyes, those piercing blue orbs that used to have such power over him. Not anymore. Never again. They were gone now, the blue washed away in a sea of clear, red blood. It was almost cleansing.
Finally, with one last, clean cut Em didn't know he had in him, he cut the throat artery, and it only took a few seconds before Hetfield stopped twitching and lay utterly, completely still, mouth still open in a last wordless scream.
Then it was over, and the sound began to filter through again. Guards were shouting, the door opened, and someone tackled him to the floor. He vaguely felt the handcuffs around his wrists, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore, not even Fred's voice filtering through allthe other noises. None of it mattered anymore. He was free.
Joey repressed the urge to hit Justin. He'd been unbearable since Hetfield's death, cocky as shit, acting as if nothing could harm him anymore. "You know, Justin, the warden seemed pretty determined to find out how the Bitch got that snowball. And he's not stupid. He's already got Ulrich in for interrogation."
"Whatever," Justin shrugged. "I own Ulrich. That bastard won't rat me out."
"If you say so."
Whatever retort was on Justin's lips died there as the cell door opened, and the warden stepped in. "Ulrich talked. We know everything," the man grinned. Justin closed his eyes, shoulders slumping, and Joey knew he'd finally been defeated.
Two guards came in to handcuff Justin, three others waiting outside. Obviously, they'd expected a lot of resistance from them, but Justin didn't seem to have any fight left in him. He went quietly, obediently letting them lead him away.
He watched the staircase under his feet as he descended, the sound of his sneakers hitting the metal the only thing disturbing the silence. He didn't look up from his feet. He knew, without looking, that every inmate in the joint was looking at him. They knew he was done for, now. He'd gambled big, and lost.
Joey watched the guards take Justin down to solitary, probably to a cell right next to Ulrich's and the Bitch's. "Pride goeth before destruction," he quoted softly to himself.