Life at Hard Labor chapters 59-60

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor Chapters 59-60
Date: 24 March 2013

Chapter 59

After a few more hills, and a few more potholes, the truck pulled onto a straight, level road, and sped up. The wind blew over the top of me, and chilled my bare arms. I’d relaxed my hands, but the rope still dug in. It was more of a dull pain now. The shocks I’d received the day before had worn off, but my ass was sore. The guards must have had a bit of fun kicking it while I was out. I tried to drive it all out of my mind. This would be my last opportunity to rest. I shut my eyes, and let the sound of the wind put me to sleep.

I slept an uneasy sleep for hours. I woke up briefly from time to time which gave me some idea of what time of day it was. It was getting close to sunset. “How far away are they taking me?” I thought to myself. I knew I was going on the chain gang, but I really had no idea what kind of place that gang would be in. My future was both uncertain, and written in stone.

The truck stopped once around nightfall. The driver got out and grabbed one of the gas cans, to put in the truck. I was given a little water, and soon afterwards we were moving again. I tried to sleep again, but the night was cold, and my mind was going a mile a minute. What kind of work would I be doing? What kind of boss would be out there? Not that the answer to these questions would change anything. I’d be working. I’d have a boss breathing down my neck. There was no escaping that fact. I shut my eyes, and tried in vain to sleep.

Hours later, I was stirred from a restful half sleep by the brakes squealing. The truck lurched to a stop. I opened my eyes, and saw the pale, dim light of the morning. I could feel a cool moisture in the air, but it felt like it could quickly heat up. I heard the quiet clinking of chains, and a few muted coughs. My cock grew hard as I slowly realized what that noise probably was.

The tailgate opened up, and the driver of the truck grabbed me by the waist of my jeans and pulled me out. He set me on the cold ground, and I was shocked to see not bare dirt or gravel, but grass. It was long, and covered in cool dew. The feeling was almost angelic. It was cold and wet on my arm, and the dew glistened white and pure on the rich, dark blades of grass. I was beyond confused. Was I being rewarded?

I knew better than that. The grass thinned out to reveal a thick, sickly, brown pile of mud, next to a gaping grey hole. A row of short handled shovels stuck out of the ground, held in place by the thickness of the mud, and behind them was a row of boot prints, made solid by the cold night.

My cock grew hard as I realized where I’d landed. The sound of the chains I’d heard earlier belonged to a chain gang and that hole was where that gang spent its long days. And soon, I’d be on that chain gang. I heard a gun cock, and the driver of the truck cut the ropes on my hands and feet. I felt the cool air rush over my newly unbound wrists. I rubbed the feeling back into them.

“On your feet convict,” said a tall, stern faced guard. I leaned on my ball and chain, and got myself to my feet. My back cracked as I stood up straight. Then I saw it. There were seven convicts standing side by side in a line. They had white stripes running down the outer seams of their blue denim pants which were splotched in dry, grey mud. They wore brown work boots bound together by heavy grey shackles, and a heavy chain hanging between them. The words “CHAIN GANG - D” were stamped in dirty white on each of their left thighs. Instead of the black shirts I had worn on my second run on the temporary chain gang, these convicts wore filthy white t shirts with the words “CHAIN GANG - D” Stamped on them in black.

A trusty wearing bib overalls walked up carrying an anvil in both hands. A one handed sledgehammer hung from the hammer loop, and a pair of heavy leg irons were draped over his thick, muscular shoulder. His hair was black, and recently buzzed, and his eyes were deep set under straight, firm eye brows. His mouth was shut tight, and was straight on his angular, thick jaw. He looked at me as if I were just another job, which I guess I was.

He set the anvil down next to the shackle of my ball and chain. “Foot here,” he said, but didn’t wait for me to move it. He grabbed my leg, and put the shackle up on the anvil. He took a chisel and started to pound on it with the hammer. The shock went up my leg. The rivet that held the shackle shut around my ankle started to loosen, and was soon broken. I felt the shackle fall off, and my ankle felt cool. The trusty then picked up the ball and chain, and threw it in the back of the truck.

The guards who had driven me out got right in the truck, and sped away soon afterward. Then the other boss who was closer to the chain gang spoke up.

“Front and center convict,” he said, pointing to a pile of stiff, blue denim sitting on top of a pair of brown work boots. I knew the voice well. It was that same boss. That boss with no name. He had no name. He was just boss. In place of a name, he had a clean cut black goatee underneath a firm, large nose, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He wore a light tan cowboy hat, and a brown coat that barely hid his rock hard, strong torso, and stiff, rippling arms. He wore brown pants with a clean, lighter brown stripe; almost parodying the shabby, filthy uniform that the convicts wore. His boots were black, and had a lustrous shine. I only knew that boss by the steely look in his face, and the deep, harsh, commanding twang in his voice. Everything about this man said “I own you. Do what the hell I say.” I stepped forward next to the pile of clothes, and waited for the boss man to speak. It felt strange and a bit good not to have to drag that ball behind me, but I knew better than to indulge that good feeling. That 20 pound ball was about to be replaced by 7 other convicts.

“How you doin boy?” he finally said after a few moments of staring me down. He walked over close to me and spit on the ground next to the pile of clothing. “Been a while since I last seen you. And here you are again. Ever since I first saw you on that temp chain, I knew you’d wind up right here. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a good worker boy. You’re strong, you’re dumb, and you got a hell of a lot of stamina. But there’s one thing a convict needs that you don’t have; discipline. You’re gonna get it, right here. All we wanted or needed out of you is hard work, and what you gave us is a bunch of back talk, cocky bullshit, and defiance. Now that ass backwards attitude of yours led you to kill a man. The first time you killed a man, you got sent to prison. You got hard labor forever, and you’re still gonna pay that debt. Now that you killed another man, you’re gonna pay even harder, and I think you know how hard. You’ve been on the temp chain. You know what it’s like. Legs chained together day and night. Chained up to the man on either side of you. Workin 25 hours, sleeping 5 in a dog cage. Best of all, if we catch you blowing your wad, you don’t eat. Well, now you’re going on the chain gang for good. You’re gonna get much of the same, only harder, and it ain’t gonna stop. You can’t kill me boy. A few of these dumbasses tried, and they’re right here.” He pointed at the chain gang. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ground, and the uniform that waited for me.

“Yeah, I think you belong right here boy.” He looked back at me. “You’re the kind of guy who needs structure, hard rules, constant supervision, and swift punishment. I’ve been watching you a long time. Both on the chain and off. That number don’t fit you anymore boy. Strip down, and put on your new blues.” He pointed at the pile of clothes on the ground.

I looked down at the jeans I was wearing. M-067-D. That was my number. That was who I had been for a long time. The number had changed along with my bunk assignment and my labor detail over the years, but the letters were always the same. The D meant I’d be doing hard labor, forever, and even now, that wouldn’t change. The M was all that remained of who I was. In some distant past that I couldn’t recall, I wasn’t a convict. I wasn’t breaking my back every day. I was a guy named Matt. All the convicts I knew and even a few of the bosses and guards called me Matt even after I’d been sentenced and numbered. M-067-D. That number went with a bunk too. Bunk 67 back in rock quarry number 21. That’s where Buck and Miner were. Now I had to throw all of that away. I wouldn’t be relaxing and horsing around with them in the mess hall after work hours. I’d be crammed in a dog cage, or on a better night, I’d have my hands chained to my bed. All because I lost my head on a hot day.

I untied my boots and kicked them off. There was a clean patch of leather on the left boot where the ball and chain had been attached, but they were too worn out to do me any more good, so they were going to be replaced. My feet were cold and throbbing, as I stepped back down on the slimy grass. I unzipped my jeans, and pulled them down. My semi-hard cock came flopping out. The smooth denim fell at my feet like snow, and I then kicked them off. I stretched my arms out, and peeled off my sweaty, dirty t-shirt, throwing that on top of the others.

For almost the first time, I looked up at the convicts on the chain gang. They looked at my nude body with a kind of wide eyed and painful longing. They had not been nude or seen a nude body for many long years. The closest they came to the freedom of nudity, was when they got to pull down their pants and take a shit. Even then, their jeans still clung to their legs, their boots were still clamped on their sweaty feet, and their leg irons still kept their legs together. They had spent their days sweating, stinking, and suffering, and seeing my nude form gave them both longing, and regret. They knew that I wouldn’t be nude for long, and that I’d be joining them in their sweat stained confinement.

I picked up the pile of clothes that had been set out for me. I knew this uniform. The jeans were made of dark blue denim; heavy, rough, stiff, and stifling. A stiff, white canvass stripe was sewn all the way down the outer seam of each leg. I stuck my left leg down into the gaping hole, followed by the other. I pulled them up, stuffing my cock down into the fly. It got harder as it realized the prison that it was about to be locked into. I buttoned the top, and pulled up the heavy, stiff zipper, and I was locked in. The words “CHAIN GANG D” were stamped across the left thigh. One word on top of the other, in two inch high white letters. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel the same words stamped on the back right pocket, branding my ass as if I were a cattle. The chain gang’s expression changed from longing, to that same, tired, emotionless glare that they had worn before.

I picked up the new pair of boots that was waiting there for me. They were the same construction as my old boots, but as I picked them up, they felt a little heavier. I stuck my bare foot in, and though I don’t know how, I felt something different almost immediately. These boots had some kind of metal weight in the heel. I couldn’t guess why. I imagined that the leg irons would be enough weight to punish me. Still, there was nothing I could do about it. If these were the boots they gave me, they were the boots I’d have to wear. I put my other foot in and tied them up tight.

I pulled the t-shirt over my head without giving it much thought, but once it was on, the stiffness and weight of it struck me. The plain white color too made me feel less significant. On my earlier stay on the temp chain, they had made us wear black t-shirts with big, bold white letters. The shirt that I had now on the permanent chain gang was a plain, dull white, with the words “CHAIN GANG D” stamped across the back shoulder, and front right pec in faded, cracking black letters. It was almost as if this shirt had been worn by someone else. I looked at the chain gang again, and their deep set, clear eyes stared back at me. That shirt had been worn by someone else; by them.

“Alright boy. Come on over here.” He motioned me toward the patiently waiting chain gang. “These are gonna be your last free steps, so enjoy em.”

I walked slowly over to where the chain gang stood. Next to them, the burly trusty had set up the anvil again, and the final part of my uniform was still hanging over his wide shoulder. Thick, heavy shackles, an inch and a half in height, linked together with strong heavy chain.

“Lock him up.” The boss man said to the trusty, who dropped them on the ground at my feet.

“Foot here.” The trusty directed me again in a gruff, low voice. I moved my right foot close to the anvil. The trusty leaned down and clamped one of the shackles tight over my jeans and my boots. He then picked up a pair of tongs and used them to slide a hot rivet into the shackle. He grabbed his one handed sledgehammer that was hanging from the loop on his overalls, and hefted it in his rough, dirty hand. With his other hand, he grabbed my leg firmly. He then started to pound on the rivet. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG. The top of the rivet was flat and permanently bonded to the metal of the shackle.

“Other foot here.” He patted my left leg to indicate where he wanted it. I inched over, and shortly afterward the trusty had clamped the other shackle down onto my leg. I looked up at the chain gang. They stared at me with that same hard, emptiness. The trusty held my leg again, and I heard the clanging of the last rivet being hammered in. I again looked at the chain gang, and now their eyes showed something other than emptiness. “You’re just like us now man. Welcome home.” It was then, in that final moment of freedom, that I realized the face of the convict I was looking at belonged to Craig.

Chapter 59

I don’t know how I missed him; the man I‘d worked with, lived with, and loved for all those countless years. It might have been that I was caught up in my own emotion. It might have been that he didn’t look all that different from the other convicts. He really wasn’t different from them at all. He had the same filthy skin, the same sweat soaked short hair, the same sad, defeated eyes as every other convict on that chain gang. But there were also those things about him that I couldn’t forget. His long, strong arms and his firm blocky hands. His deep set, slightly squinting eyes. The scar on his left temple he got when I accidentally hit him with a chunk of flying rock.

I could tell from the way he looked at me that he recognized me too, but there wasn’t any hint of joy, or fear, or sadness in his eyes. Just that same glare the rest of them had. It was a look of confirmation, and finality. A hard, empty, tough look that said, “You’re just like us now Matt. Welcome to the Chain.” Though I recognized him, he really was no different from the other men on that chain gang, and he wasn’t any different from me now. I was in the same uniform, wearing the same shackles; I had the same haircut, and the same expression. It was over. I was going on the chain.

My hands were shaking a bit. I could feel the new weight on my ankles. There was something in my mind that clicked when I stood there. The boss man was right. This was where I belonged. My whole life; even that larger part of it I’d spend in prison had been some vain struggle to be an individual. To be something better than what I really was. In my free life, that struggle had brought me nothing but misery and loneliness. In prison, it seemed like that non conformity had gained me a lot of friendship. Or perhaps I had gained that friendship in spite of it. I don’t know.

Questions like that were driven out of my mind when I realized that my legs had been chained together forever. I belonged right there on the chain gang, with Craig. Craig wasn’t some special man. He was a dumb, hard working convict chained to six other dumb, hard working convicts, soon to become seven.

“How’s that feel boy?” The boss man got between me and the gang. “Hutch here does good work. Those chains are gonna last you. You’re gonna be wearing them all the damn time. Only time you’ll get to take them off, is when we gotta put new ones on. That don’t happen too often.”

I looked at the boss man, and my eyes grew wide. He took off his glasses, and his hard, brown eyes drilled right into me and reminded me of my place in the world. That place was wherever the hell he told me it was. “Alright boy, before we lock you in and put you to work, I got something here you might want to have a look at.” He took out a small envelope from his shirt pocket. “Here, take it.” He handed it to me, and I reluctantly raised my hand to grab it from him.

I almost didn’t know what to do with it. What was a convict really supposed to do with an envelope? I’d spent years handling sledgehammers, shovels, and pick axes, and things like envelopes felt foreign in my hands. I pulled out the contents of the envelope, and looked down at it.

Resting there in my calloused, blistering palm was a piece of crackling, thick paper. It was a little over three inches long, and two inches high. There were words written there, but they were so light and smudged that I couldn’t make them out. In the upper left corner of it, there was a dark square. It bore the image of someone’s face. I looked at it. It was a soft, chubby face framed by scraggly long hair. His mouth was closed and straight. The only feature that looked familiar was the eyes. The image was faded, yellow, and specked with dirt or mold. I vaguely remembered what this object was. It was my driver’s license. I could barely remember what it was even for or why I recognized it.

The person in the picture was me, but it wasn‘t me. It was someone I had been a long time ago. I remembered this card. It had been taken from me. They had shown it to me to taunt me one time just before I’d gotten a whipping. I knew that I had been this person and that I had owned this card, but I couldn’t recall any solid memories that could prove it. It was like trying to remember my infancy. I knew that it happened, but I couldn’t remember any part of it.

As the crackled piece of paper rested there in my hand, it started to settle into the cup of my palm. The paper was falling apart. I tried to pick it up to put it back into the envelope or do anything I could to preserve it, but it disintegrated in my hand. The pieces of it were caught by a light breeze and fluttered down to the ground where the row of shovels was sticking out of the mud.

“That’s alright boy. It’s pretty old, and you ain’t really gonna need it. All you’re gonna need now is a pick axe, and one of them shovels.” The boss man chuckled to himself. I almost felt like I wanted to join him in laughter, but I didn’t dare. Every part of my past had disintegrated along with that card. It was the last link to another world and to another life that I’d lived, but barely remembered. It was a life that I couldn’t go back to. I wouldn’t have gone back if I could. I don’t think I would have even wanted to.

Hutch, the trusty had busied himself with the rest of his chores. He had picked up my old uniform and had torn off the patches that had born my number. He stuck them in his pocket. He’d use them to check the oil in a truck, grab a hot handle on a pot of beans, or wipe his ass with them for all I knew. I never saw what became of them.

He folded up the jeans and the shirt, and stashed them in a truck. They’d be worn by another convict, new or old. That convict would likely guess that the jeans had been worn by another man, but they would have no idea of who I was, or what my fate had been. It had been the same with me my first day. I’d gotten a pair of second hand jeans, and they might have even belonged to one of the convicts right there before me. My past as a free man was gone, as was my past as a general population convict. All that remained was my future on the chain gang.

“Alright. Fall in convict,” the boss man said in a calm, low voice. The seven of them were locked onto one long chain by way of one of ten shorter lead chains locked onto it. There was one empty lead chain between Craig, and two other convicts on the back of the gang.

I stepped forward, and my leg irons clanked. My feet were heavy with the shackles and weighted boots on them. I shuffled in behind Craig, and in front of a convict who looked to be physically a few years older than me. His long muscular arms were tan and filthy, and he had a long, bulging neck. His eyes were set under firm slanted eyebrows. This man knew his place, and he’d known it for a long time. I read the word “CHAIN GANG” stamped on his shirt, and that’s all he was. That’s all Craig was, and that’s all I was. The boss man leaned down and chained the lead chain to the center of the chain on my leg irons. I was locked in where I belonged.

“LEFT FACE!!” the boss man shouted, and we all snapped to the left, facing the back of the convict in front of us. Our chains rattled, and then fell silent to the ground.

“SHOULDER UP!!” the boss man ordered. I put my hand up on Craig’s shoulder, and grabbed it tight. The older con behind me threw his rough, tanned, dirty hand up on my shoulder, and backed his cock up into my crack. I felt it throbbing as much as mine was, and that made me even harder. I took this as a cue to do the same to Craig. Our hard, sweaty bodies were all smashed together. Eight convicts on a chain gang, and none of us would leave it. Eight convicts on our gang, with room for two more.

“You know the drill by now boy. Here on the chain gang, you always start out with someone on your back. That’s all you get, and all you need.” said the boss. “You’re gonna be on this chain gang forever. You ain’t gonna go on a different one. Your spot on the chain’s gonna change from year to year. You’re gonna be the lead man, you’re gonna be on the ass end, and you’re gonna be right were you are, but it’s gonna be the same eight convicts, and eventually, it’s gonna be the same ten. You’re gonna be on different jobs. Workin the rails, breakin rocks, and right here in the clay pit. Today, you’re gonna go down in that mud, dig that heavy fuckin clay out of the ground and slop it into a wheelbarrow. As far as I go, I’m gonna work you today, but then tomorrow I gotta go pay a little visit to that buddy of yours. Then I gotta get back to the temp chain. Don’t you worry though, Boss Jones and Hutch there are gonna take good care of you, and I’ll be back before you know it. Maybe 50 damn years from now. It ain’t gonna seem like no time at all to you boy. Welcome to the chain gang.”

“ALRIGHT! PICK EM UP!” the boss man stepped back. I looked down at the ground and saw that heavy pick axes lay in the grass at our feet. We leaned down and grabbed them close to the head. I pulled up a few blades of grass in my fingers as I put my hard, dirty fingers around the shaft.

The boss man blew a whistle. “ALRIGHT! ROLL OUT, SHUFFLE! LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!” he shouted out, and the gang moved forward. Our boots lifted and fell, level with the ground, and the chains rattled rhythmically as we marched forward. My hard cock rubbed against the rough denim of my jeans, and it was squashed into Craig’s hard, blocky ass. The older con behind me had his cock right in my crack, and his firm abs rubbed my back as we all moved forward. His rough palm gripped my shoulder and held me in place. My hand rested on Craig’s muscular shoulder and I could feel the muscles move as we walked.

The lead man was a guy who might have been physically a year or so younger than me, but he had clearly seen more of the chain gang than I ever had. His stubbly brown hair had sweat beading in it, and his tanned face and big sunburned nose were covered in grime. His eyes were deep set, and cast down at the ground. He led us around to the other side of the pit, and it opened up before me. It was a brown gaping mess of wet, thick, sloppy mud. He led us down some wooden planks that sloped down into the bottom of the pit. The chains rattled loud as they scraped the wood.

We got to the bottom of the plank, and I stepped down into the mud. My boot sank immediately down all the way to my ankle, and I felt the mud pull on my boot as I stepped forward again. The whole gang slowed down in the mud, but we didn’t have much further to go. We came to a patch of hard, grey clay and stopped.

“RIGHT FACE!!” the boss man shouted out from above us. We dropped our hands down from each other’s shoulders, spread out as far as the long chain would allow us, and faced the patch of clay. I saw that the rest of the gang held their picks in front of them, one hand close to the head, and the other at the end of the handle. We stood there; legs as far apart as our leg irons would allow, and waited. My boots sunk into the mud.

“ALRIGHT, WORK!!” The boss man shouted out.

“GO ON LIFT!!” The lead man shouted in a loud southern shout. We all lifted our picks over our shoulders.

“HUH!” we all knew to grunt, and we sunk our picks deep into the ground, pulling them up as quickly as we could.

“That was a basic drill. I think you know it by now. ALRIGHT, BACK TO WORK!” The boss man shouted.

“GO ON LIFT!” the lead man shouted.

“HUH!” Our picks landed in the clay. A few flecks of mud spurted up into my face.

“GO ON LIFT!” the lead shouted again.

“HUH!” I crouched down bringing the pick low to the ground, and sinking it in again.

“ALRIGHT, WORK IT LOOSE!” The boss man shouted. This was his way of saying shut the hell up, and pick up the pace.

“GO ON DRILL!” The lead shouted,

“HUH!” We all grunted a final time, and then began to sink our picks down into the hard clay at our own pace, and in silence.

My boots sunk deeper into the mud as I worked my whole upper body to swing that heavy pick. I lifted it high above my head, and bought it down hard into the thick, cool clay. I yanked hard at it, and brought it back out. The pick axe was heavy with a clump of clay that was stuck to it. The clump flew off and disintegrated, raining dirt down on my head and chest. I was starting to sweat profusely, and my breathing was heavy. My boots sunk even deeper, and soon my leg irons were submerged. I pulled my foot up trying to get out of it and steady myself at the same time, but it wasn’t much use.

“Quit stallin boy!!” The boss man shouted, and a bullwhip flew through the air, snapping me on the small of my back. I reeled in pain, and quickly got back to work. “You’re gonna sink deeper boy. That’s what a convict gets. Just keep your mind on that pick.”

I steadied my feet, and sunk deeper, swinging the pick again. The mud splattered up into my face, and all over my pants. The head of my pick was covered in wet mud and cool clay, and as I geared up for another swing, I grabbed it, getting mud all over my hands. I swung the pick again, and the mud got smeared all over the handle. It hadn’t even been ten minutes, and I was already covered in dirt and sweat, standing up to my calves in thick grey mud.

I looked to my right and saw Craig. He had his gaze locked on the clay in front of him. He was swinging his pick quickly and hard. His boots were sunk into the mud too. His face was streaked with drying clay that was crossed by more mud spurting up as his pick sunk down again. He looked over at me briefly, and gave me a stern, hard glance, and then set back to work.

I kept swinging my pick as well. I sank deeper, pulling my boots up without missing a beat. I had to keep struggling to maintain my footing as I broke up the hard clay. The bullwhip cracked on the back of the guy to my left, and I saw him swing more quickly in response. I looked down at the hard clay, and at the words stamped on my uniform that were already flecked with mud. CHAIN GANG. This was my world now. I looked around and saw nothing but dark grey mud, filthy blue denim, and tanned convict hide. This was my whole world now. Ankle deep in mud, chained up, and a pile of clay to dig up out of the ground that would never run out.

We worked that way for a few more hours. Then the boss man blew a whistle. “ALRIGHT, DIG IT OUT!” He shouted. The gang turned and walked toward the boss man, and the shovels that were stuck in the ground. There were only seven, but soon Hutch threw down an eighth for me. I picked it up, and the gang turned back to the clay, shovels firmly in our hands.

The boss man blew the whistle, and I jammed the shovel into the heavy clay. My calloused hand yanked back on the handle, and I twisted around behind me to slop the contents of my shovel into a deep wheelbarrow. My feet slid on the mud as I turned back to the pile, and I hauled up another pile of clay. The mud splattered all over my shirt as I slowly filled the barrow.

It was hours contorting and twisting, bending down, lifting, and sinking deeper into the mud. I saw the same picture on either side of me. Craig was frantically hauling the clay out of the ground. The guy on my left was damn near up to his knees in mud. The very second I filled a barrow, it was carted away by a trusty and replaced with an empty one for me to fill again. The boss man stood behind us, glaring down with a bullwhip ready to fly. In front of me was more mud, and more clay. This was that old familiar feeling of being on the chain. Boxed in on all sides, no rest, no escape, and no way I could quit without getting the shit whipped out of me.

I was busting ass so hard, and so long that I was surprised to see that mid day came. It was the same old shit. A pile of cold beans, and a chunk of dense bread in a dented metal bowl, and a filthy spoon to eat it with. Nothing but cool, metallic tasting water to wash it down. The boss man blew the whistle, and we had our chow. We weren’t allowed to sit. We had to rest on our haunches as we ate, and we weren’t even allowed to wash our hands. I crammed my chunk of bread in my mouth with my dirty fingers, and gulped it down as fast as I could. Then it was back to work.

We had another hard stretch of shoveling out the clay. We didn’t need to use the picks again for the rest of our work hours. The pick axes would have been a blessing actually. For the rest of the day, it was nothing but bending down with that short handled shovel, and it killed. My arms and my torso hadn’t twisted that much in a long time, and my right hand started to burn from having to slam down on the handle of my shovel so many times. My sides ached both from the twisting I had to do, and from sheer exhaustion.

The sun eventually came out, which was an extremely mixed blessing. The mud started to dry out a bit, and it was easier to trudge through, but it also meant that we got our share of sunburn. I could feel it sizzle on my shoulders, magnified by the beads of sweat that soaked my neck. My shirt was soaked in hot sweat, dirt and mud.

It also meant that the clay was getting harder to get out. I eventually had to slam the shovel into the clay with my boot, which meant that my leg irons kept being stretched to their limit. The chains were clanking, I was grunting, and there was still a big pile of clay that showed no signs of shrinking, despite all the hard work we had done. I knew well enough not to think about it too hard, or dwell on it. There was no future for me but that pile of mud, and those chains on my ankles. No one would ever know or care where I was, or who I was. I was a convict on a chain gang in a mud pit somewhere, and I was one of countless others spending their lives at hard labor. But I wasn’t alone. I’d never be alone. Craig would be right there, even if I couldn’t hold him or talk to him. We’d shoulder up at the end of the day. I’d have my hand on his back. I’d have Craig working with me along with everyone else out here. We’d bust our ass every day, and sleep every instant of the night, and we’d do it together.

As the sun started to lower and the sky really started to darken, I did give an idle thought to how we’d be passing the night out here. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the entire camp and had no idea where we’d be sleeping. Of course I knew it’d likely be one of two places. On a boxcar with narrow bunks, or in dog cages right out in the open. I didn’t give it much more thought though. We had to keep hauling that clay out until we were ordered to stop.

I topped off a barrow, and a trusty hauled it away. It wasn’t replaced by another, and I had no idea what I should do. Luckily, the boss man blew his whistle a moment later.

“ALRIGHT, PUT EM DOWN!!” he shouted down to us. We shoved our shovels into the ground, and left them.

“FALL IN, SHOULDER UP!!” he ordered. We stepped back from the pile, and lined up. I set my hand down on Craig’s shoulder, and I felt the hand of the man behind me. We got closer together, and I could feel the cock of the guy behind me. It was rock hard and pulsing a bit. That set my cock off, and it pressed into Craig’s back. I squeezed his shoulder twice.

“ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT…” my left boot squashed down into the mud as the boss man shouted “left.” We filed up the planks and out of the pit, up onto the grass. A lot of the mud that had caked on my boots got shaken off by our stomping forward. That didn’t change the fact that my jeans were soaked, and covered in mud though. It was just something I was going to have to live with. The closest a chain gang got to a shower was a hose down once every two weeks, or a rainstorm.

We marched around the pit again, and then continued on. We stomped quite a ways away from our work site. I saw a few lanterns hanging with moths fluttering around them. The sweat on my back started to cool. The day was finally done.

Then I saw it. My worst fears and my best guess confirmed. There was a row of 10 cages, crammed together with the doors hanging open, ready to be filled. Hard iron bars, flat iron bottoms, and almost enough room to stretch your legs out. Almost. We were led to a row of shit cans. We all pulled down our pants, sat down on the cans, and squeezed everything we could out. We wiped our asses with strips of discarded t-shirts, and stood up, pulling up our pants. Then we were led over to the cages.

“FALL IN.” the boss man said as we came to the row of cages. I lowered my head and crouched down, crawling into the cage, while my leg irons rattled on the flat bottom. The long chain was lifted up and over an open bar in the cage, which clamped closed if the door and the lid were shut. There was a thin pad or something on the bottom of the cage made of burlap. It was softer than hard steel but it was little comfort. All I wanted to do was lay down. I’d spent all day twisting, and shoveling heavy mud, and I just wanted to lie down and sleep. That was too good for the chain gang though. We had to be cramped in a heavy iron cage like dumb animals.

The boss man slammed the door and the lid of my cage shut, and clicked the lock shut. The night guard stood behind him with a steel gaze, and a club in his hand.

“Well, this is the life you chose for yourself boy.” The boss man said. “You’ll get used to it. What is it your buddy there said?” He motioned toward Craig who had just been locked into the cage in front of me. “It gets easier, but never easy. Damn right. A sound bit of wisdom from a convict who knows where the fuck he belongs. Good night convict. I’ll be seein’ plenty of you.” he walked away.

“BOOTS AT THE FRONT OF THE CAGE.” The night guard said. I shoved my boots up against the front of my cage, which was the back of Craig’s.

“HANDS ON YOUR KNEES!” the guard shouted out, and I set my open palms down over my hard, denim clad knees. “You assholes know the drill. I catch one of you busting your nut, you get a bowl of air for breakfast.” That was his final word. A dim oil lamp was kept on all night, but the only thing I could see was Craig’s back through the hard metal bars, and the words “CHAIN GANG D” stamped on his shirt. I could sort of make out my own legs, but my eyes were getting heavy. The earthy smell of the clay and mud embedded in my jeans flowed up into my nose, and I hung my head low. My cock was hard, but it was loosing a fight with my eyes. I fell asleep to the sounds of our chains rattling quietly in the metal cages.

Chapter 60

It was still dark when Boss Jones, the other, less intimidating boss banged his club on the side of our cages. I didn’t know what to expect from the man, but in the absence of the boss with no name, it was clear that he’d be one of many bosses we’d have to suffer under, each with their own style.

“GET ON UP! MOVE IT!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He smacked the guy behind me on the back of the neck with his club. This boss was the less intimidating one apparently. The doors to the cages were open, and I stood up; stretching my arms out in the same motion.

“SHOULDER UP!” boss Jones said, and I put my hand on Craig’s shoulders again. “ROLL OUT, SHUFFLE. LEFT, LEFT, LEFT…” The boss was doing things pretty well by the book so far. He marched us over to the shit cans, and the sound of piss echoed at the bottom as we all sat there and unloaded ourselves.

We stomped our way back to the work site. As we went forward, I saw our camp for the first time in the daylight, and the cages weren’t all I saw. There was a box car with narrow bunks sitting empty. I hoped and guessed that it wasn’t just there to tantalize us. The cages must have just been something they put us through temporarily like before.

When we got back to the clay pits, there was a pot of mush, and eight bowls waiting for us. We lined up, and held the bows in our hand as Hutch doled out our morning meal. Craig got his, I got mine, but the guy behind me got nothing. I knew what that meant, and I silently chuckled to myself, rolling my eyes. He’d chosen getting off over getting fed. I was sure I’d probably do the same thing one day.

Before we could begin to eat, boss Jones motioned to Hutch. He then shouted at us “HOLD UP!” Everyone dropped their spoon immediately. “Unlock those two.” He pointed to me and the guy behind me. Hutch came over and unlocked the lead chains from our leg irons.

“Alright boys, one of you has food and one of you don’t.” He pointed at the man behind me. “If either of you wants your chow for the morning, you’re gonna wrestle each other for me. Winner gets chow, looser gets nothing. Now get on down in that pit.” He pointed toward our worksite where our picks and shovels lay from the day before.

I looked at the man with wide and confused eyes. He stared back at me with that same, emotionless glare I’d seen the day before. We both slowly trudged to the bottom of the pit. Boss Jones led the rest of the convicts to the top of the pit, and they looked down at us.

We were out of earshot for a few seconds, and we were able to talk. “Listen man, I don’t want to fight you.” I said.

“You ain’t getting no chow then.” He struggled to say, as if it had been some time since he talked. “No hard feelins man, but we do gotta fight, or it’s gonna be hell on everyone. Besides, this is the closest thing we get to sex.” He patted me on the shoulder. I nodded in resignation.

We waded out into the mud, and looked up. Craig came down after us, and stood between us. He was going to act as a referee. Me and the older guy faced each other, and leaned on our knees a bit, stretching out. If we had to fight, I was going to give the best one I could.

“ALRIGHT! FIGHT!” The boss man shouted from above.

The guy lunged at me, and grabbed me by the chest. I fell down on my back in the mud, and soon his legs and arms were wrapping around me. I grabbed onto his abdomen and tried to turn him over. My arms locked together with his muscular arms. We were both grunting in pain, rolling around in the mud. His hard cock was rubbing up against my outer thigh, and my own cock was rubbing through my jeans on his inner thigh. This went on for a long time, and I couldn’t help what happened. I blew my wad right in my jeans. I moaned in pleasure and in pain as he was still trying to get me on my back. It was lucky for me that my jeans were already covered in mud. No one would see the cum stain.

I tried like hell to get him to flip over. “Come on Matt.” Craig whispered. God he remembered me. I tried to push back against the man I was wrestling, but it was no use. The guy got me flat on my back and held me down.

“1, 2, 3” Craig shouted out, and it was over. I lay there in pain and covered in mud.

The other guy struggled to his feet, and extended his hand to me to help me up. I could read what he wanted to say in his eyes. “You’re a good man, and it ain’t nothing personal. It’s what we gotta do out here.” I took his hand, and pulled myself to my feet. We all lumbered back up the planks where an empty bowl awaited me.

“Good show convicts.” boss Jones said. “Now get at that chow. Got a whole day of diggin ahead of you boys.”

The excitement was over now, and everyone just chowed down on their mush. Everyone but me that is. I sipped a cup of water, trying to fill my stomach up. I nursed the pain in my neck and back.

“ALRIGHT, SHOULDER UP!!” boss Jones said after everyone had finished. I put my hand up on Craig’s shoulder, but when the guy behind me put his hand on my shoulder, I felt something. There was a lump he held in his hand. He squeezed my shoulder once to tip me off. He’d snuck me a small chunk of his bread. It was all he could get to me without being seen. When we got down to the work site, and the order was given to spread out and grab our picks, I quickly grabbed the lump of bread which rested on my shoulder and crammed it in my mouth.

“ALRIGHT WORK!!” boss Jones ordered.

“GO ON LIFT!!” The lead man said.

“HUH!!” I grunted just after I had swallowed my bread, and landed my pick in a new patch of hard clay.

“GO ON LIFT!” The lead man shouted.”

“HUH!!” We all grunted.

Apart from being covered in a lot more mud, the day went exactly the same as the day before. I didn’t get any more food till mid day, but the chunk of bread was enough to hold me over. This chain gang was starkly different from the quarry or any other detail I did in general population. There wasn’t the opportunity or the desire to defy the boss’s unusual or demeaning orders. In some small way, it was the same as general population too. We still gave a damn about each other and did what little we could to help each other through the hard days, and the short nights.

Those words I spoke with the man behind me on our way down to the pit to wrestle were the last I spoke with anyone for months. If we did speak, it was usually just a word or two. A “look out” or a “how you doin?” The bosses didn’t make us do a lot of chants or work songs. They were more interested in wearing us out, and getting as much clay out of the ground as they could. What the clay was used for, I never knew, and I didn’t bother to guess. It didn’t matter to me.