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“Ms. Kittles, what up with you?” Slam asked
“I’m all right, Mr. Mason. I saw you on the front page Monday,” the CO answered, making herself comfortable to begin her shift.
Slam had been in the county for four days and seemed to have a thing for Ms. Kittles, who was the night shift officer on his unit. She didn’t give him any rhythm, though. His yellow complexion, salt-and-pepper hair, and muscular body were preserved from his long prison term, indeed a turn-on. His age and extremely institutionalized traits were a complete turn-off.
“Fuck a front page, I’m tryin’ to go home in a day or two. Maybe see you.”
“I hear that. Mr. Mason, where are you from out there?” she asked, logging into the jail’s computer system.
“Southwest. Bartram Village. I made Harley Terrace what it is.”
“Oh, really? You gotta know my boo, then. He a boss,” she said, digging into her purse to get a picture.
“Who ya boo? Where he be at?” Slam asked playfully, snatching the picture from her hands and turning it faced down.
“Lambchop. He get—“
Slam cut her off and aggressively said, “Yeah, I know, Lambchop. That’s my young bull. I ain’t seen him since he was like four or five.” He smiled at his lie. “You got his number for me?” Slam asked, hoping to get information out of the loud-mouthes hood rat.
She pulled a phonebook from her bag and gladly gave Slam Lamar’s number. She smiled as Slam walked off with the phone number after thanking her.
Ten minutes later, Slam came back out into the dayroom dressed in nothing but a towel and his brown state boots, headed towards the shower before the time came for everyone to lock in for the count. Inmates wore their boots to and from the shower just in case they had to protect themselves en route. It was an absurd idea, that didn’t protect men once they got into the shower wearing shower shoes. He flexed his pecs for Ms. Kittles to see as she conversed on the telephone. She turned her head away from the unit and looked out at the rotunda in the middle of the four D1 units as if she didn’t see him.
Seconds later, before the unit inmates’ eyes, two inmates rushed into the shower that Slam occupied. One of them called out Slam’s name, who was slipping, with soap in his face.
“Who that?” Slam asked, trying to wipe soap from his eyes.
“Nigga, it’s somebody you really don’t want to see,” the smaller one of the two yelled, wildly swinging a jailhouse knife.
After waiting for two minutes to go by, the CO screamed, “Going down! Going down!” into her walkie-talkie. “Lock it down,” she yelled to the uninvolved inmates, as she waited for more officers to get to the unit.
Slam swung punches blindly in an attempt to defend himself, but the two men kept at their attack. All of the other inmates slowly walked to their cells, watching as Slam’s blood leaked out of his body, mixed with the water, and moved down the drain. Both attackers’ arms moved like tattoo guns. There were determined not to slow up. When the other officers finally reached the blood-bath, the men were still sticking Slam, who laid in the shower, having gone into shock. The officers maced both of the soaking wet attackers, dragged them out of the shower, and slammed them before cuffing them. Slam, on the other hand, was taken to medical where he was air lifted to the hospital.