Page 437 of Hell Hath No Fury
“Sounds like you did something to piss ol’ Ronnie off.”
“You c…c…could say that,” Pete replied, his eyes still pinned to the shitty concrete floor.
“I’m guessing whatever you did landed you both in here.”
“Ronnie married my b…b…big sister, but he hates my g…g…guts. I was trying to g…g…get him to like m…m…me, so I got us a b…bunch of P…P…Pink Floyd tickets to scalp, but we got p…p…pinched in the p… parking lot trying to sell them.”
“Tough break,” I said. “But I don’t have any drugs and I’m not a lawyer, so best of luck with your brother-in-law, I’m gonna try to get some sleep.”
My eyes had only been closed for a moment when Ronnie pushed his way through the inmates surrounding us and made his way to the spot where Pete and I were sitting.
“I mean it, you stammering little prick,” Ronnie spat out to Pete, while pointing a nicotine-stained finger at him. “I don’t give a shit that you’re my old lady’s little brother. I’m gonna tear you a new asshole for this.”
“P…P…Please. P…P…Please, d…d…don’t.” Pete struggled to get the words out as sweat poured from his forehead. He curled up tightly in a ball as Ronnie continued to get closer and closer.
I’ve never been one to insert myself into anyone’s business, especially the family kind, but I hated bullies more than anything and I’d heard just about enough from this Ronnie fellow. I rose to my feet and my eyes met his, once I looked up another four inches.
“How ’bout you lay off the kid for now?” I asked politely.
“How ’bout you mind your own goddamned business, you piece of biker trash?” Ronnie replied and poked my chest.
That would be the last thing Ronnie would do with that finger for the next six weeks. Before he knew it, his right index finger was in my left hand. Once he was aware of that, his finger was then snapped in two places. Reflexively, Ronnie dropped to his knees, and my boot easily pinned his head down to the floor while I kept control of his arm.
Two feet of space and six seconds was all I needed to gain complete control of my larger opponent. Ronnie could thank the United States Army for that.
CHAPTER TWO
Duke
Ronnie winced in pain as I maintained my hold.
“I think you owe this young man an apology,” I said, nodding toward Pete. Our scuffle had now gained the full attention of the entire cell’s population, including the Burning Saints, the biker gang I’d spotted when I entered.
“What the fuck for?” Ronnie said, his head, still under my boot.
“For starters, you can apologize for making fun of the way the boy talks. He can’t help that shit.”
“That stuttering prick can go fuck his mo—”
I gave his finger a twist.
“Alright, alright! I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry, okay?” Ronnie cried out in pain.
“Not to me,” I said. “To Pete.”
“I’m sorry, Pete. I won’t make fun of you no more. Just tell this guy to back off, okay?”
“I f…f…f…f…forgive you, R…R…R…R…R…”
At this point, I wasn’t sure if Pete’s stutter was worse due to adrenaline, or if he was just fucking with Ronnie. Either way, I could tell he was enjoying the moment.
“…Ronnie,” Pete finally finished.
Before I knew it, and with my hands still full with Ronnie, another inmate came up from behind me fast. Pete, God bless him, tried to warn me but only got as far as “L…l…look”
Whoever had Ronnie’s back had gotten the drop on me and I could only hope he didn’t have a shiv. I barely had time to let go of Ronnie and begin to rotate around when my would-be assailant was tackled by one of the Burning Saints. A big cornfed looking fella with red hair, a bushy beard, and a checkered shirt on under his kutte. This ol’ boy looked like Paul Bunyan might if he rode a Harley.
“You got him, Zaius?”
