Sweet Hell on Fire Read Free

the toilet and shoved something in the bowl.
    “Don’t do it! Do not flush that—” I didn’t even get the command out before he’d tried to flush whatever contraband he didn’t want me to find.
    Good thing I’d turned off the water to his cell before I’d confronted him.
    “You bitch,” he shrieked when the toilet didn’t flush.
    Your mom, asshole . Of course I didn’t say it. They could call us every filthy name in the book and we had to take it, but we weren’t allowed to insult their mothers. Because it gave them “rage issues.” Whatever. What kind of pussy can dish it out but can’t take it? Oh, right. It’s prison.
    But I’m a professional. So I kept my comments to myself.
    Even when he whipped his dick out and pissed all over his cell. The arc of urine sprayed his walls, his desk, his bunk, and the pile of clothes in the corner. I had this sinking feeling in my gut he was going to try to spray me too.
    “Good luck, bitch.” He turned, the stream of piss arching ever closer to me.
    He could piss on his own things; that’s why we have gloves. But on me? Oh, hell no . “Rack the door!” I called down the run to the other officer on the tier, telling him to open the inmate’s door. He’d be pissing in a bag when I was done with him.
    The cell door dragged open, the mechanism slow and plodding, creaking like an old man’s knees. He let go of his dick and it hung there out of his state-issued boxers like a shriveling sausage. All color drained out of his face in tandem with the dwindling stream of urine. He hadn’t expected me to open the door.
    “Now what?” I’d launch myself into the cell to gain his compliance if I had to, but if I could get it done without touching him that was better for everyone involved.
    To my surprise, he turned around and faced the wall. He put his arms behind his back, showing he was ready to be handcuffed. I locked the cuffs into place quickly, careful to make sure I kept my own stance balanced and a good distance between us. Should he have decided to fight, he wouldn’t have the advantage.
    “I didn’t think you’d open the door, Sarge,” he said this under his breath.
    Yeah, they never do. Lots of officers make a big show of threatening to rack the door, to let the inmate out to make good on his threats and the officer to make good on his, but they don’t. The inmate keeps talking shit, the officer keeps talking shit, and it’s just a bunch of posturing—and more shit. Males circling each other’s territory, waving their dicks around. I didn’t have a dick to wave around, so I had no room to posture. I could only make him feel like I’d slapped him with someone else’s dick, rode him hard, and put him away wet.
    I hauled him out onto the run and directed him down to the office. Catcalls echoed throughout the cell house, calling him a pussy for cuffing up, calling me alternatively a badass and a bitch for cuffing him. A couple of guys even mooed at me, but that wasn’t anything new.
    Even on my first day, when we took the tour, I heard animal sounds and whispers of, “That’s a big bitch.” You got that right, motherfucker. Don’t forget it.
    Down in the office the Officer in Charge (OIC) gave me a stern look, his old jowls shaking with his displeasure. “Why’d you wind them up?”
    A guy pissed all over his cell, wouldn’t come out to shower, called me every name in the book, and I’d wound them up?
    “Had to be done.” I shrugged.
    “I heard them mooing at you. You can’t take it out on them because you’re fat. You need a thicker skin.”
    My jaw almost fell off my face it dropped so fast. “Right. Let’s look at this again. A targeted search of an inmate’s cell because it hasn’t been searched in weeks coupled with the inmate’s unusual behavior makes me doing my job some sad, fat-girl vendetta?” I stopped and turned around, trying to look at my own ass. I looked back up at the OIC, incredulous. “Well, fuck me. Where did