Horror Mansion: Short Stories

Eleven - Hard Times

Paul Newman is my hero.

Not old Newman, no, I'm talking 1967 Cool Hand fucking Luke cutting the heads off of parking meters. You could say he was my inspiration. I cut the heads off of parking meter attendants.

Now, hear me out.

I'm not talking about all those sweet men and women who give us tickets, I'm just kidding around. I'm only talking about two of them. It started outside a bar in Tennessee. I was just a kid, seventeen, too young to be inside the bar, but my cousin owned the place and he didn't care. I got high, I got drunk, I started a fight, broke a bottle off a guy's head and, even though I wasn't even considered an adult, landed in jail for my first offense.

But this guy knew who I was.

And this guy showed up at my house while I was gone and did something to my younger sister.

They released me two days later and I hunted him down as soon as I heard what happened. I found him leaving a ticket on a parked car that had an expired parking meter. After, we had a little conversation with my machete. I stripped him and cut him up in parts like an old buck and spread him out in the woods. No one ever found him. His cousin, who worked with the guy, heard about me chasing after him. He either lost it or sensed some kind of calling for vengeance and chased after me. Unfortunately, they found him.

So now I'm here, serving life and then some in this shithole of a prison.

In here they call me the Enforcer. Fifteen years of weights and breaking people in half will get you a reputation and nickname. I liked mine. No one would fuck with someone nicknamed 'The Enforcer,' especially inside a prison. I'm in the gym this morning with two of my best guys guarding the entrance and watching my back. The guard, who we paid off, is out in the hallway. Being known also has other perks. I'm about to shank this new kid who thinks he's the shit when the alarm suddenly blared. Confused, I turn to the guard and he shrugs. I cautiously slip the shank into my boot and hit the floor with the rest of them. A tactical team arrives, all geared out with shields and tear gas and rubber bullets. They circle me, push my head down, cuff me, pull me up to my knees, and drag me from the gym. Maybe they caught wind of what I was planning to do. That kid is lucky. For the rest of the way, I don't fight.

You have to pick your battles.

The warden's office is at the top floor with high windows that overlook the yard with bars and turrets. As if the old guy would be covering us in his spare time. The old guy probably couldn't piss straight, too. The team leads me through the office door, sits me in a chair and steps back in a crowd by my shoulders. The warden looks over a manila folder with my picture taped to the front.

"S117, how are you doing this fine day?" he asks me with a grin, lowering my file.

"Just peachy," I reply.

"Good. Well, my day," he scoffs, "hell, my month just got better, you know why?"

"I have no idea. Do I-"

"Got a call from a buddy of mine, warden at Moundsville, and he's having a little problem up there."

"So?"

"So...You are transferred as of an hour ago," he claps the folder shut. "Your belongings are packed and ready. Transport is waiting outside. These gentlemen will accompany you," he gestures at the men behind me.

I shook my head in disbelief. "Whoa, hold on there, cowboy. I'm transferred? Why?"

"It's a long ride to West Virginia," he starts to say, ignoring my question, "and, if you create any problems, these sweet men who are standing behind you are authorized to contain you with any force necessary. Do you understand?" I nod, having no say in the matter. I don't understand anything. "Speak up, boy."