The Dream Vessel Read Online Free Page B
Author: Jeff Bredenberg
followed by a blinding light. He found himself on his back, staring at a cockroach on the ceiling. Tiny streams of moisture ran across his face and down his throat. There was a grumbly voice, Dirk’s, and his head had not cleared enough to gully the meaning: “You bleed beautifully, my friend. Now go out and get yourself killed.”
Jay-Jay was gnawing on his eighth pork rib when the screaming started. The portly young man slammed the bone to his plate, shoved his chair back and huffed himself to his feet.
He was locked into this corridor of malodorous green carpet, and it was his job—with no arms but a billy-banger—to cruise up and down the row of steel doors delivering food, emptying slop buckets and handling the miscellany. Screaming red-leggers—that was miscellany.
The guard waddled down the hall, licking barbecue sauce from the stubble on his upper chin. A sweat mark crossed his broad shoulder blades in the shape of his chair back. He knew it was cell 243, those two red-leggers Dirk and Quince hollering their fool heads off. Hold a gang of pig-pokers for weeks like this, you get to know the voices. Even if they don’t know any English, you know ’em by the sound.
He threw the crossbar back and opened the window. Dirk, the dumber one, was right there by the window practically spitting in Jay-Jay’s face, for crissake. He was slapping his stomach frantically and pointing at Quince, who was rolling on the floor. On and on, Dirk was blathering in that Rafer tongue of theirs, sounding like, “Blad-de-la-de-la-de….”
“Back! Back ginst the wall!”
They don’t know English much, but they know that anyway. Dirk edged back, still gibbering.
“What’s a matter wichu, boy?” Jay-Jay shouted. That one on the floor, that one Quince, was always a pussy. “My Mama’s slop gone to your tummy, Quincey-poo? Huh? Get up, jerkoff.”
Quince lifted his head a little, all grimy from the floor, to look up at the window. He does look pretty pitiful, Jay-Jay thought, and what’s that—stomach convulsions? Gawd, I don’t want ta clean up more barf today. Pleeeease don’t barf.
Just then Quince retched crimson down his chin and onto the concrete.
Jay-Jay’s stomach tightened, and he worried about holding down his own dinner. He slammed the window shut, locked it, and ran down the corridor, making the floor quake. We’ll be needing a stretcher for this one. And Big Tom’s gonna be piss-angry if we lose another red-legger ’fore they ship off.
6
Taking Liberties
Sanders Lafitte cracked the cap off a Liberty Ale and set the brown pint bottle in front of the mainlander named Farmington. Farm, as he was called by people who were not friends (the familiarity irritated him), scraped a fleck of cork from the lip of the bottle and tipped it back against his mouth. He sighed, and leaned onto his forearms against Sanders’s oak bar.
“Someday,” Farmington said, “I am going to ship you down a proper electric icebox—we’ve been manufacturing them for years. It would cost, of course, bringing it all this far. But I’d jump your mama for a cold, really cold ale right now….”
Down the bar, Eric opened his eyes. He pushed cigar smoke out his nostrils in contempt and lifted his chin off his shoulder. His beard came away looking matted and lopsided.
“Talkin’ money, there, just you be careful with that bottle you’re swinging about so la-de-da. You drop it, bust it—well whatcha think, Sanders? A thousand centimes?”
Sanders rolled his eyes toward the rafters.
“Things’ve changed, Farm, since you were here lass…uh, last. Um, since you last had a lass.” As Eric straightened up, his drunkenness became fully apparent. “Juss one little ol’ fight in here and alla sudden Sanders wants 10,000 centimes! Hah! Just fer breaking a few bottlès.”
“Shut up.” Sanders was wiping a glass.
Eric frowned and shakily checked his own ale bottle, finding it still empty. Sanders produced a full one for
Jay-Jay was gnawing on his eighth pork rib when the screaming started. The portly young man slammed the bone to his plate, shoved his chair back and huffed himself to his feet.
He was locked into this corridor of malodorous green carpet, and it was his job—with no arms but a billy-banger—to cruise up and down the row of steel doors delivering food, emptying slop buckets and handling the miscellany. Screaming red-leggers—that was miscellany.
The guard waddled down the hall, licking barbecue sauce from the stubble on his upper chin. A sweat mark crossed his broad shoulder blades in the shape of his chair back. He knew it was cell 243, those two red-leggers Dirk and Quince hollering their fool heads off. Hold a gang of pig-pokers for weeks like this, you get to know the voices. Even if they don’t know any English, you know ’em by the sound.
He threw the crossbar back and opened the window. Dirk, the dumber one, was right there by the window practically spitting in Jay-Jay’s face, for crissake. He was slapping his stomach frantically and pointing at Quince, who was rolling on the floor. On and on, Dirk was blathering in that Rafer tongue of theirs, sounding like, “Blad-de-la-de-la-de….”
“Back! Back ginst the wall!”
They don’t know English much, but they know that anyway. Dirk edged back, still gibbering.
“What’s a matter wichu, boy?” Jay-Jay shouted. That one on the floor, that one Quince, was always a pussy. “My Mama’s slop gone to your tummy, Quincey-poo? Huh? Get up, jerkoff.”
Quince lifted his head a little, all grimy from the floor, to look up at the window. He does look pretty pitiful, Jay-Jay thought, and what’s that—stomach convulsions? Gawd, I don’t want ta clean up more barf today. Pleeeease don’t barf.
Just then Quince retched crimson down his chin and onto the concrete.
Jay-Jay’s stomach tightened, and he worried about holding down his own dinner. He slammed the window shut, locked it, and ran down the corridor, making the floor quake. We’ll be needing a stretcher for this one. And Big Tom’s gonna be piss-angry if we lose another red-legger ’fore they ship off.
6
Taking Liberties
Sanders Lafitte cracked the cap off a Liberty Ale and set the brown pint bottle in front of the mainlander named Farmington. Farm, as he was called by people who were not friends (the familiarity irritated him), scraped a fleck of cork from the lip of the bottle and tipped it back against his mouth. He sighed, and leaned onto his forearms against Sanders’s oak bar.
“Someday,” Farmington said, “I am going to ship you down a proper electric icebox—we’ve been manufacturing them for years. It would cost, of course, bringing it all this far. But I’d jump your mama for a cold, really cold ale right now….”
Down the bar, Eric opened his eyes. He pushed cigar smoke out his nostrils in contempt and lifted his chin off his shoulder. His beard came away looking matted and lopsided.
“Talkin’ money, there, just you be careful with that bottle you’re swinging about so la-de-da. You drop it, bust it—well whatcha think, Sanders? A thousand centimes?”
Sanders rolled his eyes toward the rafters.
“Things’ve changed, Farm, since you were here lass…uh, last. Um, since you last had a lass.” As Eric straightened up, his drunkenness became fully apparent. “Juss one little ol’ fight in here and alla sudden Sanders wants 10,000 centimes! Hah! Just fer breaking a few bottlès.”
“Shut up.” Sanders was wiping a glass.
Eric frowned and shakily checked his own ale bottle, finding it still empty. Sanders produced a full one for