Life at Hard Labor chapters 31-35

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor chapters 31-35
Date: 05 July 2011

Let me just reiterate that this is work of complete fiction. Some of the scenes
in these chapters are very intense, and should not be attempted by anyone. I do
not condone any of the actions, or situations portrayed in this work of fiction.
It is a work of gay, erotic fiction which has elements of hard discipline,
bondage, forced labor, and sex. If you are under 18, find such material
objectionable, or if such material is restricted by the laws in your area,
please read something else.

Chapter 31-

Finally Midday. I was uncommonly hungry, and the bland beans I’d been served for the past 100 years looked better than they ever did. I watched as the trustee plopped them unceremoniously into my dinged up metal plate, and they looked like a gourmet meal. I don’t know what it was, but something about working with Mark made me appreciate the small and infrequent comforts we convicts found or were given.

I sat right down in the dirty field. I could smell manure, but it was almost second nature to me now. It was like smelling Queen Ann’s lace in a field, or grease in a mechanic‘s shop. You could smell manure, but it was an expected smell, and I had no problem sitting in a field that had just been covered in it. It was well tilled, clean dirt. In my old life, this was the only variety of dirty that I didn’t mind. I hated dishwater, I hated attic dust, but god did I love good clean dirt, and of course, that’s one thing a convict always has in abundance. As I quickly finished my plate of beans, I laid down shirtless and sweating in the fresh earth, and despite 10 hours of backbreaking, mindless work, I felt content and at peace.

It was strange, but I noticed the same behavior in Mark. He seemed to relish the beans, and ignore the dirt on his hands. I had met him as a sweaty, but clean cut boss with a fine fitting uniform. Back when he was a boss, I was more concerned with where his strap was going to land, but I did notice that he tugged at his collar a lot, and never really looked comfortable.

There in the hot field, I watched his jeans drape off his legs. The folds made hard angles, and as he lay down, his knees were raised slightly off the ground, and his work boots were flat on the dirt. I looked over at Craig, and noticed much the same scene albeit with a different haircut. I then looked at my own jeans. I had produced a small tear in the left knee, the threads fraying out, and hanging down limp with my sweat. The frayed bottoms were covered in dirt, and met my dirty work boots leaving just two eyeholes visible. I stretched my arms out, and joined Craig and Mark in a nap with the harsh sun on our peacefully shut eyes.

“GET YOUR ASS UP.” How long had I been out? God these sons of bitches didn’t let up. I still had 5 minutes. I opened my eyes, and was met with a shiny black boot, which geared up to kick me. Before it could strike my teeth, I woke up. I didn’t know 20 minutes was enough time to dream.

“Hey man. Almost time.” Buck had nudged my knee with his hard but kindly hand. I couldn’t remember a better meal, free or enslaved. Buck walked over to Mark, and said “I GUESS it’s time to get up.” We were awake, and ready to get to our feet when the second shift boss blew his high pitched whistle.

I looked at my strong, hard hands; fingerprints and handprints permanently lined with dirt, and set them to the thick handle of my pickaxe. I used it as leverage to return to my sore feet in my scuffed, clunky brown boots. My cock rubbed the inside of my carpenter jeans, and I threw my hands into the back pocket to take a plug of dip before I began to work again. I put it in my mouth with my dirty fingers, and then lifted my pickaxe and brought it down into the earth.

Mark had already begun. His eyes were squinted against the sun. He might have been mistaken for angry, but his limbs moved loosely and strongly.

“Ya’ll work your wills. I got a hell of a hangover.” Said Boss Bill. He could be a real ball buster on his bad days, and he worked us hard, but he was funny.

“Hangover at midday?” I thought. I looked at Mark again. He was swinging like any old con, and he almost looked contented. I glanced back at the boss who was sitting under an umbrella, and thumbing through some paperwork. Sinking my pick in again, I relished the feeling of hard work. There was just something in the air that midday. I almost pitied the guard stuck with his vapid tax forms or whatever they were. I toiled on, satisfied with my station in life, but still sore and hot.

“I’m getting dog ass tired man.” said a convict of 900 years; but it wasn’t. It was Mark. “If I ever whipped you, it was too hard.” he said.

“Couple times. You do what you gotta do man. Used to be whippin, now it’s diggin.” I said.

“God damn right.” he said, half grunting, and swinging his pick. “Sounds nuts, but I think I like diggin more.”

“Sound’s nuts. Don’t mean it is.” I said. “To be honest, it beats the hell out of my job in the free world.“ A few of the other, newer convicts were wary of Mark, thinking he was a kind of spy from the bosses, or that he still harbored some resentment towards convicts. Us older boys knew better, just from the tone of his voice. After almost 50 years of tilling soil, and cutting cane, the newer cons wouldn’t be new, and they would abandon all doubt about Mark’s convict status.

“Why, what’d you do?” Mark asked me.

“Worked in an auto parts factory.” I said

“Sounds cushy.”

“Not really. Well, Compared to this shit, it was. It was also boring as hell.” I swung my pick.

“I had you pegged for an artist type. Always lookin at the sky the way you did.” He winced with a sudden guilt as he realized he had whipped me hard for such interludes.

“Well, I wanted to be. It’s tough though. Took a lot of time and energy that I didn’t have.” I said “Now I’m here, so that’s the end of that.” I hit a cane stub with my pick. Sweat poured off my brow onto the ground. I wiped the next bead of sweat off my brow.

“I here you man.” he said and sunk his pick again. “I would have loved the military, I know it. Still, I’d rather be here than back guarding that chain gang. I couldn’t stand putting those poor boys through that hell. I thought I could put an end to it.”

“Yeah man. It ain’t no fun on the other end either. That’s damn fine of you trying to help out on your end though. Tell me, did they still have them wearing boiler suits?” I said.

“I guess you mean the temp chain. Nope.” he said. “That’s a kind of punishment for some kind of incident. They’ll put em through it for a week, or a few hundred years depending on the severity.”

That was comforting to know. Chet wouldn’t be sweltering under heavy canvass for 100 percent of the rest of eternity, and Wes would also be spared the sweaty one piece suit for his relatively short sentence. Still, I knew they were going through other hells more severe by far. “Man, it’s getting late!” I saw the sun beginning to turn gold in the west. “You’re rollin man. I made it a little past 10 my first day. You’ll damn sure make your 20.”

“I guess so.” he said; reinforcing his nickname. “I got cramps in muscles I forgot I had though.”

Finally, the sun set. A few more minutes, and we’d be marching back to the bunkhouse. I noticed that Boss Simon was back; talking to Bill and passing a flask back and forth. Something was up, and I feared for Mark.

“ALRIGHT BOYS, BRING EM IN.” I swung my pick in the air loosely, threw it up on my back, and rested my arms on it. It was an effort to pick each of my sore feet up, and bring it down to move forward. I slumped back to the bunkhouse next to Mark, Miner, and Nate. Craig was well ahead of us with Buck laughing about something. I really didn’t expect a good day, but it was. Good days always come to an end in prison camp, and the night falls hard.

Chapter- 32

The bunks, hot meals, and cigarettes awaited us in the bunkhouse, and I was anxious to have a good bullshitting session with the new convict. Our faces were sweaty and streaked with dark brown dirt. We walked like wounded men, but we were all in a damn good mood. As good of a mood as a convict can be in.

“Mark fall out.” Said a sneering voice. It belonged to the warden.

It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my gut. He’d done nothing wrong. He didn’t even get the strap once that day. I saw two leather straps tied to the bars next to the bunkhouse, and my heart sunk. I knew those bastards had one strung up for Mark. Who was the other for?

A group of about 15 bosses was standing around with beers and flasks, and cigars sending up a hellishly sweet miasma.

“Bill! Keep em’ out here. They better watch this.” The throng of tired convicts was not allowed in the bunkhouse.

“Matt fall out.” Me and Miner both stepped forward, but they motioned Miner back. He gave me a grab on the shoulder and I felt his hand tremble.

“Seems you boys been havin a bit too much fun out there.” Said the warden. “Talkin’ damn near the whole second half of the day. That ain’t why you’re here. Can you tell me why you’re here?” He walked up and held a shock baton under my chin.

“Because we’re payin our debt!” I shouted. “We’re here to work!”

“WRONG.” He shocked me right in the neck and I fell to the ground. I heard him continue, but his voice sounded metallic, and my ears were ringing. “You god damn apes are here because we keep you here. YOU WORK BECAUSE WE MAKE YOU WORK. THAT‘S the way this shit works.” He kicked me hard in my ribs, and I coughed out tobacco and blood. Craig almost sprang forward, but Buck’s strong arms held him back. Craig realized his folly, and just stared at us.

“STRAP THEM FUCKERS UP!” A trustee pulled me to my feet, and gently walked me over to the bars. I offered no resistance, as I didn’t want to get the trustee in trouble. He held my legs tenderly as he spread them out, and tied them to the bottom bar. They clasped my hands together, and tied them to the leather strap on the top bar. Then, they did the same to Mark.

“YOU BOYS WATCH AND LEARN.” The warden belted out. “THIS PLACE AINT NO SOCIAL CLUB. AINT GONNA BE NO TALKIN THE REST OF THE NIGHT. I HEAR ONE FUCKING WORD, I SWEAR I’LL SEE YOU ALL UP HERE MY DAMN SELF.”

I expected a lash but, he walked up to me and spoke softly in my ear. “I got something here for you. It’s a card. It’s got your picture on it.” He held it in front of me. A yellow, and tattered card; it was my driver’s license. The pasty long haired kid who stared back was like an image of an old relative from Hungary or Poland. They then unveiled a dull metal sheet attached to the side of the wall which served as a mirror. It was actually the first mirror I had seen in over a century. My temples had recessed slightly, my bearded skin was tight on my jaw, my short hair was sparkling with sweat, my neck was long, and muscular, and my pecs and chest were rock hard, and blocky. I was covered in dirt which pooled in each bead of sweat. My eyes were the same, my soul was the same and I retained my memory, but nothing else remained of that kid on the license.

“That’s a little late centennial present we like to give choice convicts. Just though you might get a kick out of it. “ he then stepped back, and swung the thick prison strap through the air landing it right on my back.

“GAAH!!” He was a pro. God, it hadn’t hurt like that in a long time. I shut my eyes, and when I opened them, I looked at the mirror, and watched my chest heaving up and down in agony.

WHACK.

“AHH…Ahh..” Sweat began to pour from my forehead, and my arms went limp.

WHACK.

“GAAAAH!” I pulled down at the straps, but it was no use. They were leaving Mark alone. I looked over at him, blood dripping out of my mouth from the kick. My bloodied eyes met his tears. They made a grown man; a hardened boss, cry.

WHACK

“GHnnnng.” They strapped me five more times, and as I was given a respite, they finally laid into Mark with a clean strap. He was still looking at me when I heard the strap land on him and felt the wind from the swing. His eyes clenched shut, and his mouth opened wide. I panted in agony.

“GAAA!” he screamed.

“HOW YOU LIKE IT MARK? SPEAK UP!”

“FUCK YOU!!”

WHACK-

“GAAAAH.”

“THIS IS WHAT YOU FUCKING COP KILLING SCUM DESERVES.” Screamed the boss. “You got more sympathy for them than us? Then you’re gonna live like one of them. And man are we gonna make you pay. Don’t worry though. Hundred years, we’ll be long gone, and you’ll still be a shit raking convict.”

WHACK

They were back to me. It felt like he was swinging hard enough to take my arm off. My ankles tensed against the bar.

“Didn’t forget about you chubs.” I hadn’t heard that in a long time, and it was no longer an accurate insult. I assumed they got the idea from my picture.

The rest of the convicts were standing there staring. Some didn’t even flinch. They knew the strap well enough. They knew how it felt. Their feet hurt, and they were starving. They stood and watched as 50 more straps landed on our back, leaving red, bloody marks. They whipped Mark with a flat leather strap, but mine had a metal tab at the end. They had shown this metal tipped strap; my blood still dripping from it, to Mark. It was standard issue for chain gang guards.

They finally cut us down, and I saw that most of the bosses had big tents in their pants. I was hosed off, and given a clean unmarked t-shirt from the trustee who had tied me up. It was one of his own, that he had bought with his own credits. The bosses walked off in the direction of a campfire, and left us limp and bloody on the ground.

Craig knelt down, and dabbed the t-shirt on my wounds. Nate did the same with Mark with one of his own old shirts. My back burned like it had been in long contact with a glowing iron pan. Craig gave me a hard dirty hand, and I grabbed it. He pulled me up, and held me as I staggered like a drunk towards the bunkhouse. Buck was on my other side. Mark was entirely passed out. Miner grabbed his legs, and Nate grabbed his shoulders.

There was no food that night. Every tired convict shuffled to their bunks and lay down. Mark was flopped down, and covered up. His wounds had already begun to scab, and would be nothing but pink marks the next day. The pain would still linger though.

I flopped down on my bunk and held my head. I wanted to cry, but there were no tears in me. I grabbed my head. Buck gave me a light pat on the arm, barely moving it. He then lay down and covered up. I saw his short hair and his neck through my misty eyes. Craig grabbed my hand, and patted me on the shoulder. He then climbed in the top bunk. The bunkhouse was silent except for a few deep breathers.

Chapter 33

The guards who had beaten us would suffer no consequences for their unjustified beating. Usually there was some by the book boss who reported things like this to the penal labor director, but there were none that night on the cane field. We were helpless, and defenseless against the whims of the bosses out here. Punishments were meted out for frivolous things like “cutting at the wrong angle.” One of the most insulting was a whipping for “refusing water.” We didn’t refuse it; they just didn’t give it to us until we were close to falling over from thirst.

The morning after our whipping, Mark and I were only given about half a cup of grits, and one strip of meat. Bosses stood behind Craig and Nate, and they didn’t dare try to sneak us any food, and none of us dared to speak. Before we filed out to work, I alone was pulled aside by the bosses.

“Son, you’ve been looking a bit to free if you know what I mean. This aint some farm job where you can roll into town at night and get drunk. This is prison. We’re gonna remind you, and everyone else of that.”

Two ox men walked up, each carrying something heavy. One carried an anvil, and the other carried a 50 pound iron ball attached with heavy chain to a heavy shackle. They fitted the shackle around my left ankle, and pounded a hot rivet down and it was bolted shut.

“You’re gonna wear that the rest of the detail. Day and night. Your evening meal, tobacco, and shower privileges are revoked for the remainder of the detail. Any convict caught trying to give you any food, or tobacco is going to spend a night in the box, and you’ll spend a night hitched up to the bars right next to them. Now get out there and work.”

I tried to lift the ball with one hand, and I struggled out a great distance into the field with my pickaxe in my other hand. The ball was so heavy, but there was thankfully enough chain for me to stand erect while carrying it. When I got where the boss wanted me, I dropped the ball and began to work.

I stood for a long time, and swung the pick, making sure that there was plenty of freshly turned earth before I moved forward. As I moved to another patch of earth, I felt the ball refuse to move. I wasn’t pulling hard enough, because I forgot it was there. I pulled hard, and the ball ground forward through the soft earth. I’d be wearing this damn thing for 50 years straight.

“God I’m so sorry Matt.” Mark said to me. “You don’t have to talk to me no more. I don’t want you to get caught up in my problems.”

I sunk the pick a few times silently, and I struggled to sound like I wasn‘t dejected. “Listen Guess man, your problems are my problems. And Craig’s, problems, and Buck’s, and Miner’s, and epically Nate’s. We need you out here workin hard so we finish our tally. If we don’t, the slo(edited)okes among us get whipped.”

Mark just silently swung his pick. There was no consoling him. He knew they were torturing me to get to him. I knew it too, and that’s why I felt so bad when he refused to talk to me. Yesterday, I just wanted to have a good talk with him in the mess hall. I wanted to compliment his hard work, and make a few jokes about him being a former boss. Instead, his old work buddies beat the tar out of him, and tried to send him on a guilt trip by beating the tar out of me.

For the first time in my sentence, I felt inclined to pray. Not just arrow prayers like ‘Please don’t let him whip me.” or ”Please just let this day be done,” but real, deep, honest prayer. I didn’t care who or what might have been listening in this world, but in my heart, I silently spoke with whoever might listen.

“I know this is where I belong. I belong out here working with these guys. I’ll take any punishment you think I deserve, but please, get us out from under these bosses with our souls and our hearts intact. They’re crushing us. Don’t let them drive the kindness out of us. It’s all we have. All we have here is each other. Please.”

I tugged on the ball again and moved forward. 10 hours till midday. 10 hours till rest. God I was tired.

When Midday came, I was pulled aside by Boss Simon. His scraggly hair was slick with sweat, but he didn’t stink like I did. His clean smell was almost repulsive to me. It was industrial and unnatural, whereas my smell came from the good, honest dirt.

“Boy, I think you need to loose some weight. I saw that picture of you. Pitiful! God how did you let yourself go like that?” He was talking sarcastically to me; a lean, muscular convict who could have lifted his house. Loose weight! God damn I wanted to take that ball and club him with it, but that would bring me to a whole new level of hell. I tamped down my anger.

“Eat up.” He handed me a metal coffee cup which had about ten beans in it. They weren’t cooked. It was illegal for them to do this to me. They were required by the law of the state to give a convict two full meals every day as long as he worked; they hadn‘t given me one that day. I crunched the dry beans, and struggled to swallow.

Alright boy, now you’re gonna run some laps round the group here. You’re gonna be runnin the rest of the break. MOVE IT.” he flicked his strap in the air.

I lifted the ball with both hands, and ran around the circle of convicts who were sitting and eating. The chains rattled, and slapped my leg as I ran forward. Before I had even finished my first lap, I was panting. Every mouthful Craig swallowed made him feel like a worm. I was going hungry, and I would get no break that day.

I ran if that‘s what you could call it; lap after lap, my pace gradually slowing, and the ball sinking lower as I struggled to take it with me. Mark sat with his head cast down and resting on his hand. I got a few straps as I ran past boss Bill who had just arrived and was talking with Simon.

On my tenth lap I tripped, and fell to my face. Craig couldn’t take it anymore. He walked up and handed me a dirty hand. I grabbed it and leveraged myself up, and began to run again. I saw that Craig ran beside me, slower than he could have, keeping with my slow pace.

The bosses didn’t know what to think of this. They weren’t going to punish Craig for using his free time for exercise, but they didn’t like the encouragement I was getting. If it weren’t for the 50 pound iron ball grinding into my palms, Craig and I could have been workout buddies jogging through a breezy park, lined with shady willows. Instead, we were chafing in our jeans, stomping our work boots, and getting scorched by a midday sun in a bare field of dirt and shit. I was nearly doubled over with the ball. The bosses crossed their arms, and plotted some new toil that would be sprung on me at the end of the day.

When the boss blew the whistle to call us back to work, I stopped running, and walked over to my pick. I was exhausted. Before I began to work, I leaned on the pick for a few seconds and panted. Craig gave me a pat on the back. “Good hustle man.” He said. I wanted to laugh so hard. Usually it was Buck who came up with these comedic quips. “Dude, better get on that pick. I don’t think they’re gonna let up on you today.”

“They aren’t …..Huh…huh….going to ……Huh ….huh….Let up on me at all.” I said still panting.

“Here have a dip.” He said.

“NO NO NO. Put it back man. They’ll give you the box!” I whispered, and Craig quickly dropped the can back in his back pocket. It was too late.

“Craig! You just earned yourself a night in the box. We revoked his privilege for a reason. Now I don’t wanna hear another word out of you two the rest of the day!”

We toiled on silently the rest of our shift. My leg still tugged at my ball, and the weight of it was like a weight in my mind. I was glad Craig was there next to me. As much as I’d been helping and working with people like Mark, and Wes, and Dan, I still needed a little encouragement myself.

The though of Craig cramped in that box sweating his ass off, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes was worse to me than the ball, or the prospect of being strapped up to the bars all night myself. As the sun sank, I repeated my prayer from earlier, but I knew in my heart that it was unheard. I didn’t have any god to turn to. All I had was some of the best friends anyone could ask for, unjustly confined and condemned to hard labor, and tyrannical torture. Even though my prayer was unheard, it would not go unanswered.

Craig and I were led from the field to the boxes, and the bars. Again, the rest of the convicts were not allowed to go right into the bunkhouse. I was again strapped up, and I glanced over as Craig crouched and crawled into the metal box, and then the door was shut and locked. I could hear Ryan and Paul shifting in the boxes next to him.

“This is a reminder boys.” said a thick, black-haired bunk house guard named Mitch. “You aint no free men out there workin. You’re convicts, and you’re here to be punished as well as work. They tell me these two boys were running laps today. You’re all gonna be running them tonight. 20 AROUND THE BUNK HOUSE. GET MOVIN!!” They all took off, and I saw their reflections whizzing by in the metal mirror. When they were finished, they again stood and watched me on the bar. Mitch pulled down my pants, and began whipping my ass. I was thankful Craig couldn’t see that it was my ass and not my back.

After he had finished whipping, he un-strapped my arms, and re strapped them to a lower bar. I was bent over. He took out his cock, and rubbed it a few times to work it up. It went rock hard, and he plowed it into my sore, whip marked ass. The blue serum in my blood protected me from disease, but I was still thankful he had not drawn blood with the whip. I moaned as he moved his cock back and forth. As he thrust, he pulled out his shocker, and stung me in the butt cheeks, giving his own cock a slight tingle.

It was too much for Mark. On the brink of tears, he fell to his knees, and said “GOD MITCH LAY OFF HIM. I’LL DO ANYTHING!! I CAN’T STAND IT!!”

“That’s what we wanted to hear convict.” Mitch said as he came in my ass. “I think you know what we want.” He pulled out, and handed Mark a prison strap, and pointed to my back. “Just 10. We won’t ask no more. Then we’ll let up. You can do your time and work in peace. You‘ll just be one of them to us.”

Mark shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to whip anyone ever again, but his refusal to do so now would have doomed me to 50 years of further torture. He lifted the strap, and brought it down gently on my back. It was the one without the metal tab. It might as well have been a kiss.

“Harder than that.” Said Mitch.

WHACK. That felt familiar. He knew how to make it hurt just enough to get us back to work. He was quick with the other eight. WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK. He paused WHACK WHACK WHACK. I didn’t even scream, but I did squirm. Finally WHACK. He had finished. He threw the whip to the ground and kicked it.

“Don‘t worry about me. Thanks Guess man.” I dared to say quietly enough for only Mark to hear.

“Alright boys, go on in.” Said Mitch and Mark followed the convicts back into the bunkhouse with his head held low. Another bunkhouse guard strapped me back up to the high bar.

The night was hell. I was thankful they didn’t smear me with molasses as was the practice, but it didn’t cause the mosquitoes to let up. Unable to swat them, I was covered, and it felt like a thousand needles being hammered into my skin by a sledgehammer. Mitch had left my pants down, with cum dripping out of my ass and the mosquitoes even landed on my dick. I twisted my hips to swing them off my dick. I wasn’t entirely defenseless. I could faintly hear Craig talking to a faint voiced and trembling Ryan. I swung my head back and forth to ward them off, until I finally passed out

Chapter 34

I was awakened by a bucket of icy water being thrown at me. I sputtered and shook my head, and a boss let my down. It was 04:00, twenty minutes before the morning bell. I was astonished to see a medical guard.

“Come with me boy.” He said, and I swung my arms to get blood flowing back into them. I followed him to the bunkhouse.

“Open up.” He stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth, and shined a light. He looked at my arms, and the quickly healing wounds on my ass. I saw none of the same guards in the bunkhouse, except one. He was being handcuffed by a burly man in an immaculately clean green uniform. The man being handcuffed was boss Simon, who had just arrived, his sickly long hair still wet from a shower.

“Yep, they’re goin to court.” said the doctor guessing my expression. “Turns out there was an unscheduled inspection from the penal labor commission yesterday, and they saw some guy running laps in a ball and chain. They started asking some of the trustees, and didn’t like what they heard apparently. Son, I have to ask you and answer me honestly. Did you get your full rations yesterday?”

“No sir.” I said respectfully. “They shorted me on the morning meal, and all I got for midday was 10 uncooked beans. By the way, I was the guy running laps.” “Alright convict. That’s all I needed to know. You’re good to work today, but tell the boss if you feel lightheaded. It’ll be someone more familiar with regulation, and justified punishments. You boys got it rough enough without people kickin your ass for nothing.”

My prayer had been unheard, but it was still answered by dumb luck. I looked at the doctor eagerly, and I looked at my ball and chain.

“Sorry son, that punishment stands.” he said. “It’d be a bad example if we cut you loose now. However, your shower, meal and tobacco restriction has been commuted to one week. Get to the bunks.”

I had forgotten how hungry I was. I walked to my bunk, and I took a dump in the bucket next to it. I felt the dry beans I choked down yesterday poke at my hole as they slid out. I was overjoyed to see that son of a bitch Simon in handcuffs, and I wondered how he would like the taste of the un-spiced beans given to convicts. I went to a water bucket, took out a ladleful and splashed it on my neck and hands.

I then heard Craig walk up. They had let him out of the box just after I had walked in the bunkhouse.

Craig walked over to our bunks, and sat on mine. I sat next to him. We whispered in those few minutes before the morning bell rang. “God damn Matt. I don’t know how much longer I can take this shit. They aint lettin up. If they try to beat you again, I’m gonna lose it, and there better not be a boss nearby.” He said.

“Man, don’t put yourself on the chain for me. I couldn’t live with that.” I replied putting my hand on his shoulder. “I can take a beating like any other con. Besides, I wouldn’t worry about them. I just saw boss Simon in handcuffs.”

“No shit? Ha! Damn.” he slapped my knee. “They just can’t pick on you dude. When they try, they get busted.”

“Yeah, AFTER they beat the shit out of me.” I said. “I could do without that part. You alright man?”

“Yeah.” he said. It was such an obvious lie, and he knew that I knew it. “I Talked with Ryan till he fell asleep. He’s doin real bad man. They’ve been givin him the rocks. I felt shitty leaving him.”

The morning bell rang. “GET ON UP!!” Said a boss.

Buck woke up and grabbed his boots off the floor when he saw us sitting on my bunk. “God damn!” he was shocked to see us. Usually they took you right down from your torture, and back to the field to work. “You two scarred the shit outta me. I was having a nightmare about that beating yesterday. They’re giving me fucking nightmares! When the hell are these guys gonna let up? I dreamed they put a ball and chain around Matt’s neck, and put Craig in a bread oven.”

“That aint too far off the truth Buck.” said Craig. “Hopefully they let up today. Boss Simon is in cuffs waiting for a truck to take him to court.”

“No shit.” Buck replied. “Must be someone lookin out for us.”

“Yeah.” I said. “There is. It’s other convicts though. Trustees told the penal labor commission about the boss’s little evening entertainments.” I said referring to the pink welts on my ass.

“Maybe they’ll let up on Mark too.” Buck said.

“I hope so.” I replied.

My hopes were unfounded. Even the new bosses didn’t let up on Mark much to start. He had killed a fellow boss after all, and that didn’t sit well with any of them. Every day he was whipped for every infraction on the field, and some nights, they would drag him behind the bunkhouse, tie him up, and kick him. All of this despite the PLC’s recent crackdown. Some would piss on him, and others would rape his ass. Some nights, they left him tied up on the bars and smeared molasses on his stomach. I don’t know how many times I had to convince him to eat his morning meal.

When Ryan and Paul were let out of the box, they and Mark usually ended up on laundry duty. There was some comfort for him in his fellow convicts, but it wasn’t always enough. After 10 years, they finally let up on him, but he received no Leigh weigh and had to keep his ass straight, and his knife swinging to avoid the lash. The Boss in him was gone, and all that remained was the fair minded man who had so impressed me when I first met him.

“God damn Matt. I‘m actually getting a credit today, and I ain’t been whipped once.” said Mark late the last day in the 50th year. The next detail was coming soon. “I guess all my buddies are retiring.”

“There you go guessing again.” I said. “Yeah, I’m finally getting a credit too, if I keep my ass clean.“ We had been recently docked, and had gone a week without evening meals, or dip.

I dragged the ball and chain forward and took a few more swings into the dirt. I was happy our last year on the cane field would be spent tilling and planting. Loading the cut cane onto the truck with the ball attached to my leg was murder. I had to get another convict to actually haul it up there, and they were more than obliged to take credit for my bundles. Many a class A convict had good records to show the reviewers thanks to helping me.

It had been 50 years wearing this ball and chain, and it had become second nature to force that leg a little harder. My left arm was now on par with my right in terms of strength from carting that thing around everywhere. When the evening whistle was sounded, I picked up the ball and began the long trek back towards the bunkhouse. We had finished that field, and 30 Convicts would be starting to cut the cane in field one the next day. Me and my deepest friends were spared that fate however as I saw trucks idling in front of the bunkhouses waiting to take 20 convicts to the timber camp.

“Alright, Matt fall out.” Said a boss calmly. “Let’s get that bad boy off you.”

“Yeah boss.” I said. I would have run to the anvil had it not been for the ball. I lifted my foot, and an ox boy cut the shackle, and it fell open on the ground. I took my first step, and it felt like I could run 20 miles. I ran back to meet the rest of the convicts loading into the trucks. We waved goodbye to Ryan, Paul, Hank, and the other convicts who had to stay on the field.

Before I walked onto the truck, I was handed a bowl of steaming chow, and a pack of cigarettes. A trustee had slipped two joints into a few of the cigarette packs, mine included. The bosses permitted pot once a month as we were unskilled convict laborers, most of whom would never know freedom again. Still, Joints cost us 4 credits a piece, and it was great to get them along with our cigarettes which only cost a half.

I sat flat down near the front of the truck between Craig and Miner, and across from Nate and Mark. I lit the joint, took a long drag, and holding my breath, I handed it to Craig who took it with his dirty fingers. After his hit, he handed it across to Nate, and when Nate was finished, he handed it to Mark.

“Never thought I’d do this shit.” Said Mark. “Oh well. Not like they’ll fire me.” He took a drag, and handed it back to me.

Buck had his own Joint which he wanted to share with miner, and two others nearby. “Here dude.” Buck said without letting his hit out of his lungs. He was trying to hand it to Miner.

“God damn.” Miner said as he held and looked at the smoking joint. “I’m with Mark. I never thought I’d smoke this shit.” He hesitated.

“Man we ain’t got nothing to lose.” I said. “Might as well just kick back and take what we can get, whatever it is.”

“Yeah. You’re right. I wasn’t such a prude with the Hooch, why start now?“ He took a hit, and started to cough. “God HACK HACK Damn! HACK.”

“Take another.” Buck said feeling generous. He did, and managed to hold it in, and then handed it to a class C, black haired convict sitting next to him.

I decided to save my other joint for the bunkhouse when we could sit and relax properly. We ate our meals, and soon passed out with the wind blowing across our tired arms. We were relaxed, high, and glad to be leaving the cane fields and the hard times we had there far behind. Mark’s expression was one of both peace, and firmness. He was right, most of his old co-workers were retiring, but he knew some who had no intention or leaving the game so early. We fell asleep as I started to see a few, scattered trees.

Chapter 35-

The sky was a shade of deep royal blue through the black trees. It was well before sunrise, but the light was growing. I awoke to the fragrant and nostalgic scent of pine. It reminded me of Michigan, and hiking through the forested dunes towards the lake. The truck has slowed down, and was pulling up to a long, low bunkhouse which had smoke coming out of chimneys. I then realized how cold I was. Every convict on that truck, awake and sleeping was shivering. I had on only a sleeveless T shirt I had brought with my own hard earned credits after the cane field guards relaxed their rule requiring us to be shirtless.

I remember in my early days in the quarry if such a thing as cold weather existed in this place. The 10 hour drive had brought us out of the main prison grounds and through free lands to this forested swampy place. We had left the quarries, and the farmlands, and had arrived at a small timber camp. It was only 50 general labor convicts out here (20 of whom would soon be us), with 10 trustees and ox men who shared a bunkhouse. There were 10 bosses, and 5 bunkhouse guards who lived nearby in fine houses by the river.


One of these bosses opened up the tailgate, and quickly directed us out of the back. “Alright, line up boys.” I took a few steps, and felt the absence of the ball and chain. We stood shivering in the cold morning, our guts churning in anticipation of another new round of hard work. It had just been planting season in the hotter climate we had come from, and t-shirts were enough there, but this was much further north and there was frost on the ground, and a thin layer of ice on some of the swampy patches.

“Welcome to the timber camp. The name is boss Gordon. I expect you to work hard, meet or exceed quota, and stay outta trouble. You do those things, we‘ll get along fine.” I looked at the man. He had brown, wavy hair, and was wearing plainclothes. He wore a hunting jacket, a camouflage baseball hat, and brown work pants. The only things revealing him to be a boss were a shock baton at his hip, and a badge on his jacket. He bore no strap.

“All I want out of you boys is hard work, so there aint a bunch of stupid punishments for little shit. You wanna wipe sweat off, wipe it off. I give you permission right now for the rest of the detail. Same goes for pissing, shitting, smoking, dipping, spitting, or getting water. Just don’t let me catch you slackin off.”

He walked up and down the line of shivering convicts, and got a good look at all of us.

“You boys have shown good work ethic in your past details. That’s why you’re out here. If your crew meets quota, you each get 3 credits. You exceed it, you get 4. You fail to meet it, you get nothin. Fail to meet it three days in a row, you’re gonna get beat hard, and we‘ll tie your ass to a tree way out. You won‘t get loose until the convicts work their way to you. After that, you won’t fail to meet quota. Got that?”

“Yeah boss.” we all answered.

“Alright. Now the work out here is directed by convicts. That’s right, rank and file, general labor convicts like yourselves. We got a few boys out here who were loggers on the outside working on free property, and we got a few who learned the trade real well on the inside. They tell you what you’re supposed to be doing, and then they do it with you. You work on your own, but believe me, we’re watchin. Don’t try to pull anything. You better get to be real good pals out here, because loners don’t go far. If I don’t like your attitude, I won’t hesitate to ship any two of you back to the quarry, or the field, or wherever I want. Got it?”

“Yeah boss.” We said, this guy was fairly long winded for a boss, but it was important information. This was not just pounding rocks. There was a right and a wrong way to do this stuff, and the more experienced cons would teach us.

“Last thing, is clothes. You’ll get sick real quick wearing light clothes like that. It’s late winter up here, and even though we don’t see snow, it gets bitter cold. Now, go on up to the commissary for your clothes, and your work assignments. Let’s move it, day’s a wastin.”

We walked to the commissary and there was a stocky, brown haired trustee with a flattop, but no beard. His was nearly the only clean shaven face in the camp. “Alright boys. Names Zach. Standard issue for cold weather. Two sets of thermal underwear bottoms, two thermal underwear tops, one long-sleeved heavy denim work shirt with convict number, one heavy denim jacket with number, one convict hat, and one pair of thick work socks.”

He handed us each a parcel with our bunk assignments on it. My new number was M-009-D. We took them to our bunks, and got dressed. The underwear was tight and warm on my legs, and the top clung to my chest. The collar was plain like a t-shirt, and the sleeves only went to my wrists where they clung on with tight elastic. I instinctively pulled up the sleeves. I didn’t like long sleeves, even in cold weather. I was a Michigan boy, and despite several years in hot weather, I felt fine in this weather. I put on the denim shirt, and unzipped my jeans to tuck it in. The fabric was rough, and durable, but again I rolled up the sleeves.

“Man, aren’t you cold buddy?” Asked Buck.

“Sure. I’m used to this shit though. I’m from a place where there’s snow in the winter.” I said. I noticed the word snow was a word only Nate seemed to understand.

This was a location analogous to Georgia, There was rarely snow, but it was still very cold in the winter. The climate in the quarries and fields were closer to that of southern Texas or Louisiana. But for now we were granted a reprieve from hot weather. I would later learn that the summers in the swampy timber camp would bring their own harshness.

Same as always, me and Craig were next to Buck and Miner. Nate and Mark were across, but were blocked from view by a wood stove; still burning last nights logs. Next to us on the other side however, I met the convict who was tasked with our instruction. He had a dirty blonde crew cut, a powerful jaw covered by a short, dirtier blonde beard. His arms were tough like logs, and his voice was deep like the thud of an axe on a tree stump. His number read C-010-D. Another eternal sentence.

“Hey there boys. Name’s Chuck. I’m the lead man here. Good to meet you.” He said, shaking each of our hands. We were to be a crew of 10 men, and Greg was our leader. 6 of them were already my friends, and I’d hope to make friends of the other 4.

Chuck’s bunk mate was Hollis. He had dark brown hair and was fairly Lanky; having the faintest traces of cockiness in him. I could see that Chuck had largely whipped him into shape however. He was class A, but he had a very harsh term of which he had served 100, and had 4900 to go (Again, compared to eternity, that isn‘t even a drop in the bucket, but for a class A sentence, it was considered very harsh.) He’d be doing hard labor in this stagnant and eternal society for the greater part of human civilization in my old world. I rarely stopped to think of the gravity of my sentence, and when I did, I didn’t think about it a long time.

The other two in our group of ten might as well have been twins. They both had brown crew cuts, and dopey teenaged expressions. I guessed they were physically about 20. They had only been in prison for 10 years, and were still kind of stocky. How they got the timber camp so early, I didn’t know and they didn‘t look cut out for it. They were in need of a good 50 years in the quarry.

Their names were Jake, and Lee, and despite their obvious physical commonalities, they were quiet, and rarely spoke with each other. They didn’t actually speak much at all unless spoken to. Jake had a bit of a selfish streak when it came to tobacco or food, and he just had the wrong attitude about us convicts, even for Class B.

:”You boys are in luck. Light day today. No sloggin, no stumpin, just choppin. Good way to start out.” Said Hollis, as he chewed a toothpick.

“ Buddy, you know better.“ Chuck said in bitter anticipation. “The sloggin comes tomorrow, and it’s lookin like rain. Then stumpin comes a few weeks down the line when we’re done with section 3.”

“God damn Chuck, just tryin to cheer em up.” Said Hollis “Sorry boss man. I’ll get back to sloggin, back to stumpin, back to choppin!” He said in a sing song voice in parody of a convict’s usually obedient tone.

“Uh, I hope we’re speakin the same language.” Said Buck. “Sloggin? Stumpin? Don‘t know why, but those don‘t sound too fun.”

“Heh heh. Good ear convict.” said Chuck. “Yeah, that’s the tough shit. Sloggin, is when we gotta drag them logs through the swamp to the river. Stumpin is when we gotta dig up the old stumps, and plant new trees. Today though, we’re just cuttin em down. Don’t know yet if we’re doing firewood, or the big trees. Alright, let’s get some grub.”

We ate a generous portion of grits and meat, and when we were finished, we walked out and Chuck opened a shed where there were double bit axes. We each reached in and grabbed one, and then followed Chuck towards the edge of the forest. I was off put by the leisurely pace we were moving in, and I asked Chuck, “No offense man, but shouldn’t we be getting a move on?”

“Heh. That’s a good attitude, but you don’t need to worry. Just as long as we meet quota, we can go our own damn pace. I ain‘t one of those CONtractors, driving you boys ragged.” Chuck said putting emphasis on the syllable: Con.

“I’m guessing you mean the guys who did this shit on the outside.” I said.

“Yep.” he said, and was silent for a while. “So, ever swung an axe before?”

“Once or twice in boy scouts.” I said forgetting he knew nothing of my universe. “Uh…not really.”

“I’ll give everyone the rundown. Takes getting used to, but it aint hard, well…it aint complicated. It’s hard work though.’ he said

A few of the squads of men walked deep into the forest at the direction of bosses hollering to the leaders. There was one guard for each of the ten men, and they followed them in. A few of the squads stayed on the edge of the forest and began chopping at trees.

“Chuck, you boys take this patch here.” Said boss Gordon.

“Yes sir boss.” Said Chuck. “Alright boys come on over.” We followed him to a tall red pine a few feet in diameter.

“Alright men, none of you ever handled an axe before, so just watch me and Hollis to start. To swing, just hold the handle up by the head and bring it to your other hand like you would a sledge, but swing it across like this, and smack the tree at an angle towards the ground.” he took a few hard, quick swings, and chunks of wood soon flew out. “After a few strokes, start swinging under, and a little lower than where you cut before making an angle towards the sky.” He then took a few more, bending slightly, and swinging the axe upward slightly.

“Keep goin till you make a little wedge like that, and then just keep chopping. Now, Hollis here, has been chopping another wedge on the other side of the tree, and slightly lower. Keep an eye on what your buddy’s doing. Don’t want to hit him for one thing, and you can see how far you are along. Once you knock one down, move on to the next. These trees are for firewood, so later in the day, we’ll chop the trees up, and then split the smaller logs. Questions?”

“No sir.” We said.

“Alright. Mid day break is whenever they blow the whistle and bring the chow wagon over. “ he pointed out a box containing six metal canteens. “Come here and take these. This here is your water. If you need a drink, just stop and drink. I don’t want you boys getting dehydrated. If you need to fill it up, flag down a trustee, and keep workin. They’ll walk up eventually. Alright boys, lets get at it.”

Me and Craig walked over to another thick red pine, and I began to chop the higher wedge. Immediately, I started to make a dent in the tree, and chunks of wood started to fly. Like I had told Chuck, I had wielded an ax once in the boy scouts, and that brief moment of knowledge was returning to me. I remember my dad grabbing my arms, and showing me the right way to swing. I decided after an hour or so that I wasn’t cut out for this kind of work, but here in prison I had no choice. I was doing better at it than my boyhood self, probably due to the years of hard work I’d already done.

Craig took a swing, but the axe head fell flat on the side of the trunk. “Ah shit. Whoops.” he said and chortled. He then took a better swing, and a few chunks of wood flew out. He was having a tougher time than I was. We were like that. I was better with an axe, while Craig was better with a weed whip. I was better with a pick, and he was better with a shovel. I then determined that he would probably be better chopping this taller wedge.

“Hey man, let’s switch.” I said.

“Alright. Thanks dude.” He said.

I found the lower wedge a bit tougher to manage, but I was holding my own. It was really a matter of bending as you cut over and over for a long period of time. Craig did better swinging at the higher wedge and after countless chops, we were moving closer together.

“Hey, I’m damn near through here Matt. Be careful.” Said Craig.

“I’m about done too. Let’s see if this bitch will fall. TIMBER!!” I knew to yell.

Chuck laughed, and called to me from a tree he was chopping. “We usually say HEADS UP! That works too though!”

“Alright buddy.” I shouted. I then I pushed from the side of the taller cut. It didn’t take much of a push to send the ancient tree cascading down, and it landed on the ground with a crackle and a thud. Kicking up dirt. We were the first to fell a tree that day, and I was proud of that. Before we moved on to the next one, Craig said “WIPING IT…. Hah, we don’t need to say that do we?” He then took out a white rag from his pocket, and dragged it across his sweaty brow. He had stared the work day with his sleeves down against the cold, but the sun was mounting, and it was getting hotter. He rolled up his sleeves, and we started the next tree.

About 5 or so swings into our new tree, a chunk flew out and struck me in the eye. “GAAAH!” I screamed, dropping my ax, and grabbing my eye. “SHIT!”

“You alright man?” said Craig.

“I think so.” I could see just fine, but my eye was in agony for a few hours afterwards.

“Yeah that’ll happen.” shouted Chuck. “If you can’t see, flag me down and I’ll get the boss. He’s got a med kit. Fix you right up.”

“Alright.” I said, and picked up my axe.

“HEADS UP!!” Buck belted out in a raspy shout. I felt the wind of Buck’s tree falling flat down. Off in the distance, I heard many calls of heads up, and as I glanced over, I saw trees falling. Then next to us, Chuck shouted, and a tree fell again.

Me and Craig had worked up a good sweat, and it streaked down our shirts. Without having to ask permission, we took off the denim shirts, and worked with the white thermal shirt exposed to the elements. These soon got dirty and sweaty, but it was too cold to work shirtless.

I drank deep from my canteen, and panted slightly. Despite the ax technique coming back to me, I was getting tired. New work did that to you. The first day on the cane field I felt like passing out, and that day in the woods, I felt like I had already worked 16 hours when it was only about 3.

Remembering that we governed our own movements for the most part, I leaned my ax against the tree and took a breather, fully ready for any consequences it might bring. I stood for a few seconds, and then set back to work. Nobody whipped me, or beat me, or gave me a strike. It was like they sent me out here to make up for the brutality of the cane field. It was like they were tempering me in a forge. I was heated up in the chain gang, and thrust in the water with the road crew. Heated up again in the cane field, and then thrown into the cold water of the timber camp. They weren’t forging a sword or a hammer; they were forging a hardened, long term convict.

“Alright boys!” Said Chuck. “5 minutes! Let’s grab a smoke.” I sat on a felled tree next to Craig, and the rest and puffed a cigarette.

“You aint bad buddy.” Said Hollis. “You sure you never did this?”

“Now that I think about it, I did when I was a kid.” I said. “I guess this place just jogged my memory.”

“Man, we are gonna have to pick up the pace.” said Chuck, finally showing some concern for meeting quota. “They expect two cords per man, per day. That’s 20 cords.”

I took another puff, and noticed that Lee and Jake were still on their first tree, and did not look like felling it anytime soon. Each of them was sitting by himself, far away from the group. As if he was reading my expression, Chuck said to me “You notice that shit too don’t you?”

“Yup.” I said. “Wouldn’t fly in the quarry.”

“Won’t fly here for long.” he replied. “I don’t mind pickin up slack for a class A, or a class B man, but we’ve each done three or more so far today. I’d expect at least one from them.”

“How are we gonna get them to work harder?” I asked.

“We won’t. We’ll pick up their slack, but I‘m writing them down for reprimand.” he took out a small notepad with our teams written on them. Next to Jake and Lee were two blue marks.

“Usually I wouldn’t write up a class A boy.“ Chuck continued. “I’ll take a few of mine and count it for them. That aint happening today. The bosses are gonna find out they’re slacking, and they’ll beat em. Today. They’ve been pulling this shit all week.”

“How long have they been here?” I asked

“Three weeks. They tried hard the first week because I told em to. The second week they slacked and I figured it was just fatigue. This week it’s laziness. They stand and talk, and then swing. Stand and talk, and then swing. At least they’re finally talkin to each other, but they need to fucking work. Today, it’s the third day they’ll be behind, and the third day I’ve written them up unless they pull their shit together.”

“Why not just ask them to pick up the pace?” I asked.

“They know what the hell they‘re doin.” He said. “They think they‘re better than us. They think they’re entitled to our good graces. They aint. You best learn your self too, I don‘t fuck around.”

“Duly noted.” I said. ”I’m not going to go out of my way to find out if you do.” At first I was apprehensive about Chuck’s solution. Ryan tried the same thing with Wes back on the field, and Wes ended up on the chain gang. Still, Wes was at least willing to work hard after he got his head on straight. These guys didn’t seem like the type that would, and they’d suffer for it.

We worked on, felling a few more trees, and finally a trustee walked up with a cart bearing a pot of beans. We sat on another tree, and with unwashed hands, and bent spoons, we shoveled the heap of beans into our hungry mouths.

“Kicked all your asses.” Said Hollis. “So much for beginner’s luck.” I had come to appreciate his cocksure, attitude. It was less about him being cocky, and more about him trying to keep everyone’s spirits up. Out here, working in the glory of nature, that was not a difficult task. We felt like free men. Only a quick glance at our numbers reminded us that we weren’t. So what if we weren’t? It wasn’t a bad life out here. It was hard, sweaty, filthy, and tedious, but it was also calming, and it really put things in perspective.

“Actually, we’re over the hump now. We’re close to the amount of wood we need, we just need to chop it down and split it.”

Over the hump. After the chain gang, and the brutality of the field bosses, was I finally getting over the hump? Nah, I got over the hump after Mark shocked the hell out of me on the road crew. Yes, I was over the hump, but there are always more humps. Tomorrow would be one. We would better acquaint ourselves with the swamp.