Rule #1

Rule #1 is always get along with your cell mate. They live with you, shit next to you, sleep above or below you, and they have access to kill you in your sleep.

‘Whistler’ didn’t seem like the type to kill someone in their sleep, but then again, you couldn’t be too careful.

“Mornin’ Mongo.”

‘Mongo?’ That was new.

“Mongo? Why’d you call me Mongo?

“Cuz you’re big and dumb. I like giving people nicknames.”

“How do you know I’m dumb?”

“All you big fuckers are. God Giveth and God taketh away. Don’t think I didn’t see that giant poker you got in your drawers. If you had a little pecker you had a chance to be smart, but NOPE! Mongo!”

“Whatever Whistler.”

He’d been called worse.

“So who do I need to avoid pissing off around here?”

“Other than everyone?”

“Specifically.”

“Ok. Don’t piss off the spics, nazis or blackies.”

“Oh is that all?”

“Ya. And don’t fuck with Charlie”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“Resident bad mother fucker. Has his own gang.”

“What’s he look like?”

“I’ll point him out fish. Don’t want to accidentally get shanked if they come looking for you.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“Get up. It’s time for lunch.”

“How do you kn...”

The cell doors slid open.

Damien stared at it for a moment. “How’d you know?”

“Been here 27 years. I’m bound to know when lunch time is.”