It was a day like any other, the guards shifted slowly through the people and hostility crowded halls. The cons lounged and lazed, idly circling each other in a slow dance of resentment and daring.
All the while a young thug lay slumped in a storage room, shiv protruding from his once clear but now purpling flesh, the deep wound oozing blood like a broken bottle of ketchup.
When the bruised and bloody body of the young homeboy was discovered Oz erupted, boiling over with the combined anger and conflict that seethes perpetually beneath the surface of a sadistic melting pot like this.
Observing the chaos bellow with the detached coolness that went along with him like bottle to bourbon was Alonzo Torquemada, bedecked in a pin-stripe suit, smoke from his cigarette curling around him like a snake.
Catching my eye from across the quad he winked at me before snuffing out his cigarette and returning to our pod.
Blondes, they’re nothing but trouble.