The Beasts of Juarez R.B. Schow (reading the story of the .TXT) 📖

he was even talking about. The minute the guard left, the fish that had bumped into him earlier was back for more. He knocked Atlas a lot harder this time.

“Get up, pig,” the brute said.

Atlas sat up and stared straight ahead. He rolled his neck, popped his knuckles then looked down at his bowl like he’d missed something. He ran a finger over the surface of the bowl, picking up whatever gravy was left over then he licked his finger and relaxed. Even though he moved like he didn’t have a care in the world, Atlas was more than ready to go.

“That’s what I thought,” the big guy said, walking off.

Atlas had had enough. He stood up fast and charged the man. He fired a shot into his kidney, then grabbed his head and bounced it off the table twice. The inmate slumped to the floor, but Atlas gave him no room to breathe. He drove six or seven massive shots to the scumbag’s temple, knocking him out cold.

Two guys stood in their seats after Atlas had disturbed their lunch. He didn’t wait for them to attack before putting both of them down, too. The minute he cracked the second man’s jaw, one of the guards racked his shotgun and fired. The beanbag-round struck Atlas in his shoulder kicking him forward into the table. The pain was instantaneous. This would have stopped anyone in their right mind, but Atlas ran hot on a calm day and he was not in his right mind. At that moment, he was redlining.

Spinning around, he looked up and saw the guard re-racking his shotgun. One of the other douchebags from the table was suddenly in his ear with curse words, threats, insults. He drove an elbow into the man’s face, catching him in the chin. He dropped the same as the others, prompting the guard to take aim once more.

In one fluid movement of anticipation, Atlas spun his body sideways and swatted the air in front of his chest the way you would if you were trying to check a punch. His palm struck the projectile just enough to divert it from its original trajectory, causing the bean bag to skip off his hand rather than striking him dead on. It was a one-in-a-million block, something he would never replicate again, but at that moment, it was everything.

His hand hurt like hell, but he just looked up at the guard like it was nothing, like he could eat another round if that was the meal being served up. If the guard was stunned, he didn’t show it. But the chow hall…oh yeah, the chow hall got really quiet. He’d just blocked a bean bag round with his bare hand and now he was mad-dogging the guard with cold, defiant eyes.

The guard’s shotgun was trained on his chest for a long time. The moment felt eternal, but Atlas was steadfast in his resolve. He wasn’t backing down. Finally, the guard eased up, bringing Atlas a moment of relief.

He took his eyes off of the guard then took the fish’s bowl of slop and returned to his table. As he ate another helping of liquid dog shit, he eyed the men he’d just put down. The instigator was still laid out on the ground, his limbs stiff and his eyes only now starting to roll back down to normal.

A guard was now on the floor coming for him.

“Let’s go, slugger,” he said.

After quickly mopping his bowl clean, Atlas was escorted back to his cell with a rough hand by a guy who didn’t like him. That’s when he saw that Baxter Kirtman had moved into his cell.

“What’s that cocksucker doing in my cell?” Atlas asked the guard.

“That’s not just your house, it’s his house too.”

Atlas frowned, slowing his step so much that the guard gave him a light shove to keep him moving. Now he knew why the guard who told him “not to think about it,” said what he said. He knew Baxter Kirtman was going to be Atlas’s new celly.

“You Muppets just don’t know when you’re doing a bad thing, do you?” Atlas asked.

The guard didn’t answer. Had they all known BBK was going to be Atlas’s new celly or was it just a few of the guards?

“Either way,” the guard said, “this should be entertaining.”

Atlas could actually feel the guard grinning in anticipation. What made the situation worse, however, was that when he arrived at his cell, Baxter had taken all of Atlas’s stuff off the top bunk and moved it to the bottom bunk. An infraction like that was unforgivable.

Atlas walked into his cell and looked up at the serial killer. The cage door shut firmly behind him but he paid it no mind. Just when the little freak started to speak, Atlas grabbed him by the trousers and yanked him violently off of the bed. His body hit the floor with a loud thud, the impact so hard it left BBK gasping for breath.

The physical outburst hurt his aching hand but he was beyond pain at that point. He needed the time to clear the upper bunk of the serial killer’s things and put his stuff up there.

“You two play nice,” the guard said.

“No,” Atlas retorted.

By the time Baxter K. got to his feet, the guard had moved on and Atlas was ready for round two. He grabbed the smaller man and drove him into the cage door, his big hand wrapped around BBK’s throat. Atlas squeezed hard as he lifted him three inches off the ground. He felt his face shaking with rage. All that adrenalized fuel was five months of agitation and harassment boiling over. It was sadness, disappointment, and anger all wrapped in one. Baxter