Thursday, September 22, 2022

Inmate Padilla (Part Two of Three Parts) blog post #568

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So Claudio’s in the penitentiary for a long stretch. Five years for his first takedown, armed robbery of a ranch. Not a rustling, but theft of payroll money. Sounds like something personal’s going on there, doesn’t it? Let’s see what happens next.


Last week, a con named Lawless approached him at work in Prison Industries. Claudio warned the man off. Did the warning take?




                                                             INMATE PADILLA                                           

“You don’t understand. I don’t want no prissy queen” Lawless said. “They all over the place. I like fresh, young ones that ain’t never been plowed before. Hell, man, I want you.”

Claudio stood up. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

He fought them all, punching and kicking and butting. He made no noise, raised no cry, but the ruckus was considerable. Any minute the guards would come running and put an end to it. They’d lock him up for fighting, but that was better than getting fucked.

But no one came. The four men worked him out from behind the table. He put one down, but the other three took whatever punishment he dealt and fought for what they wanted. He connected with a roundhouse to Lawless’s temple and kicked a second man in the groin. But the other two had the upper hand by then. A fist to his jaw made him go blind. He lashed out wildly, but he was taking more than he was dishing out. Eventually, he quit swinging.

They dragged him to his workbench and tried to bend him over it. When he mustered the strength to throw two of them off, someone slammed him over the head with a board. Hands were already tugging at his pants before he passed out.

He came to lying beneath the worktable with his trousers around his ankles. Localized pain told him they’d raped him. He staggered to his feet and pulled up his clothes. He winced as he sat on his stool. The four men were gone. His own crew was back at work, each man intent on his own job. No one glanced in his direction.

Claudio’s face burned. He blinked back tears. He was twenty-five-years-old and a man and a tribesman. They could stain his soul and violate his body, but they’d never see him cry. He went to work as if nothing had happened and turned his rage inward where he could feed off of it.

That night, he slept little. Instead, he relived the attack and plotted his revenge. They’d learn not to screw with Claudio Padilla. Damn them all! Damn the Martinsons and that whore of a sheriff for putting him here. They’d planted marked money on him. He’d gone thirsty to keep from spending a dime of that loot. But there it was in his bedroll when the FBI punk and that son-of-a-bitching sheriff came out grinning like bitches in heat. He’d kill Wilson Little Wolf. And that slut of a wife, too. They’d robbed him, and then they turned him in. They’d put him in this cesspool to be fucked like a faggot. He seriously considered strangling the Mexican kid sleeping in the bunk above him just for practice. He might have tried it, except every part of him hurt. His sphincter burned and spasmed like a thing in agony. He had only half a grip in his right hand and could lift his left arm no more than shoulder high.

It was almost dawn before he slept, but he awoke at the bell amazingly refreshed. He reported for work as if nothing had happened. As he passed Lawless’s workstation, the man gave him a wink. By the end of the day he knew what he was going to do and how he was going to do it, but he let a month pass before he made his move.

One minute after Lawless left his work area for the latrine, Claudio slipped into the short corridor and hid behind a stack of lumber. When the man walked by on his way back to his station, Claudio grabbed him by the collar and swung him around. Lawless ran right into the wall, his head making an audible thunk against the concrete. He fell to his knees, hurt but not out.

“Hey, man, no hard feelings. Most new guys get it like that.”

Claudio kicked him in the solar plexus. Lawless fought for air until he could speak again. “Okay…tables turned…my turn…on my knees.”

A chop behind the ear laid the man on his belly. Still without uttering a word, Claudio stomped on the man’s neck as hard as he could. Then he sauntered back to his bench and turned out the best work he’d ever done.

For the next two hours he expected someone to raise an alarm, but Lawless wasn’t missed until headcount. The screws went crazy when the body was found. Industries was locked down, and every inmate was stripped and searched where he stood. Then there was a general lockdown while the authorities tried to decide what to do.

Two of his rapists staged a fight and went into solitary confinement. The third man slugged a guard and accomplished the same thing. That’s all right. He was patient.

The excitement lasted a few days and then died away. Lawless had been involved in running drugs in the prison, so the authorities elected to think his death was connected to that.

Claudio’s aches and pains faded, but the inability to fully utilize his arm did not. That was how he discovered the inmate’s greatest obsession—physical fitness. He began exercising daily. In a few weeks, his muscles puffed and rolled. His waist shrank; his hips slimmed. He drew more and more hungry stares, but no one made a move in his direction. Everyone in the joint knew who killed Lawless and why—except the people responsible for keeping the convict alive.

Claudio worked in Industries and exercised in the yard and ate and slept and avoided everyone… except Luis. The kid was cute and his ass trim and snug. Still didn’t mean anything… just relief, that’s all.

The small Indian population in the prison had formed itself into a clique, but he held them at bay, content to live alone with his constant companion—hate.

Despite the corded muscles and the glow of health, the grip refused to fully return in his right hand, and there wasn’t as much strength in his left arm as there should have been. He didn’t dare risk reporting to sick call. Too many sharks would jump him at the first sign of weakness.


Eyes followed Claudio’s every move as he strutted across the exercise yard. It was a chilly March day, but he’d stripped off his shirt to give them one last show before putting these wall behind him. They always watched him: hacks, cons, pansies. Some of the hard cores wanted a go at him. The queers wanted him. He’d driven them crazy for three years, flirting and then hurting if they made a move. Whistles and catcalls followed him to the fence and back to the building. Luis had been released, and Claudio didn’t replace him. Hand jobs kept him from going loco, but weren’t as sweet as the kid’s tight ass.

Three years of long hours on weights had purged his mind and body of every ounce of flab. He was something rare in this house of hardened, callous men—a pretty boy who refused to be fucked over. The terrible retribution he’d extracted for his rape wrapped him in an invisible shield. Physically, he was in better shape than his Corps days. Except for the arm that’d been injured in the rape. Invisible to the eye, it was nonetheless a weakness and a constant threat. If the bastards ever sensed he was vulnerable, they’d flock like vultures on a rotting carcass. But he’d hidden it from them. At times, he strained the arm almost beyond its capacity on the weights, probably contributing to its weakened state. Well, the bastards would never find out.



I guess that proves you don’t screw with Claudio. After the assault, Claudio kept them off his ass, but he didn’t see anything wrong with laying it to Luis any time he wanted it. Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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 See you next Thursday.



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