By Hunter Perez

(The final chapter to the story)

It was dark by the time Patterson came scurrying across the courtyard with a bright lantern in one hand and an oversized ring packed with keys in the other. He was huffing and puffing in tremendous movements and paused for a minute at the base of the pillory to catch his breath. I feared he would collapse before ending my imprisonment, but he caught his second wind and quickly freed me. He asked about my physical well-being before handing me a small silver flask which he said contained brandy.

“Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course,” he added. “You never catch a cold with brandy.”

Patterson was apologetic that he did not arrive earlier, explaining that an emergency arose within the prison that required all on-duty guards. In our walk back to the cottage, Patterson provided an excruciatingly in-depth recollection of the emergency, giving violently graphic details to the bloodied injuries that several brawling prisoners inflicted on each other. By the time we reached the fence outside of the cottage, Patterson exhausted his gory story and paused for healthy sip of his “medicinal” brandy with the assurance that it helps rebuild strength and courage.

“I won’t be here first thing in the morning,” he added before we parted company. “Tomorrow’s a big day around for a lot of us. We are having a ceremony in the morning – the warden is promoting the sergeant to lieutenant and Merrifield will be sworn in as a new guard. Two other men are being promoted to corporal and I’m getting an extra stripe – I’ll be Sergeant Patterson tomorrow.”

I was genuinely happy for Patterson and said, “Congratulations, Sir. You greatly deserve that promotion.”

“Thank you, son,” he said, betraying a slight smile. He put his hand out to me and I responded, a bit nervously, with mine. He initiated a firm handshake and patted me on the shoulder.

“The sergeant – or, the lieutenant, as of tomorrow – said he would be here later to talk to you about what happened today,” he said, dropping his smile for a grimace. “You’re a fine young man and you don’t deserve what he’s doing to you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I answered softly. “And, again, congratulations.”

The cottage was dark and empty. I headed straight to my bedroom and climbed in bed. The heavy blanket, thick pillows and soft mattress created a maternal-level embrace. I fell into a deep sleep that stirred back my memories of last night of living in Martinique before I had to return home. I could almost smell the salt air and feel the humid breezes coming off the sea, and in my dream I witnessed again the wonder of the Caribbean night sky full of shooting.

I must have overslept dramatically, as the room was full of sunlight and there was a commotion of multiple voices outside of my bedroom when I awoke. I turned over with my back to the room’s door, hoping that anyone who might peek inside would mistakenly assume I was still asleep. I heard the front door close and Merrifield’s bedroom door close, and I sighed with relief that no one bothered to inquire after me.

I sat up in bed and stretched. I was hungry and needed to relieve myself, but I had no urge to rise and shine. I pushed back the blanket and crossed my legs when there was a gentle tap at the door. I croaked out a low “Yes?” and the door opened ever so gently.

It was Merrifield, dressed in his new dark blue guard uniform. It was difficult not to admire the tailoring of his outfit – the jacket complimented his broad shoulders and strong arms, while his cap was a perfect fit. His pants were sharply fashioned, with the hems resting the slightest micro-inch above his intensely polished shoes. His face was shaved smoothly and his longish hair was clipped away into a significant shorter style.

Merrifield stared at me with a hopeful expression. “How do I look?” he said, almost meekly.

Whatever calm I enjoyed in my sleep was abruptly erased by his presence. The pain of yesterday’s escapade at the pillory quickly filled me with an anger that I never knew I could create.

“You look like…yourself,” I said, turning away from him. I felt that my temper was going to boil over and I wished he would have the sense to leave me alone.

“No, how does my uniform look on me?” he ventured, his voice even less audible.

“It looks like a uniform,” I answered, still not looking at him.

I closed my eyes and listened for him to walk away, but there was silence. I waited and he stayed in the doorway. I heard him breathing heavily and he started to clear his throat, but I opted to speak first.

“The prisoner is secured in the pillory, Sir,” I said.

“I don’t understand…” Merrifield began to say.

“I’m quoting you,” I said, looking directly at him. “Yesterday, around four-thirty in the afternoon. Your exact words: The prisoner is secured in the pillory, Sir. The prisoner is secured in the pillory, Sir. The prisoner, the prisoner, the prisoner…Merrifield, I have a name. Why didn’t you call me by name? When you take away my name, you take away my dignity. Didn’t it occur to you how I would feel?”

Merrifield slumped against the doorway and struggled to get words out. “I’m sorry, I…it’s, it’s…we’re taught…I’m taught not to use…the sergeant told me…”

I got out of the bed and stood in front of him.

“Merrifield, I went deep into your private hell to save your soul,” I said. “Nobody else did that. Nobody else wanted to. Holmgren didn’t care about you – he had no problems letting you sit alone in the crummy cell while starving you with that slop he calls food. The only reason he threw me in with you was because he thought he could a promotion if I got you to speak. And I had to stand up to him – a prisoner standing up to his jailer – and demand that you get proper food and the materials to help you get better. He could’ve done that before I got here and he didn’t. And your uncle didn’t give a damn about you. How long did he keep you locked up like that? That’s not my idea of how an uncle treats a nephew. You saw me confront him – I’m the one who demanded that you get moved out of that cell and into the fresh air. If I didn’t speak up, we’d still be in that damn cell.”

I put my hands on Merrifield’s shoulders and forced him to look right into my eyes. “Merrifield, I worked nonstop for weeks and weeks to get you well. I could have been punished badly for challenging Holmgren and your uncle, but I took those risks because I believed in you. And, Merrifield, the one time that I needed you stand up for me and to protect me from being tortured and degraded by Holmgren, you didn’t stand up for me. You imprisoned me.”

Merrifield hung his head and turned to leave. He paused, and started to turn back to me, but then abruptly walked out the front door.

* * *

The day dragged on with the same tiresome monotony of the other days when Merrifield was absent from the cottage. I cut a few thick slices of brown bread and coated them with jam while making a fresh pot of coffee. I swept the floors, polished the furniture and made more coffee after consuming the pot’s content. By two in the afternoon, I took out the deck of cards and shuffled myself into a game of solitaire. My initial hand was a disaster, so I reshuffled and started over when I heard the front door open. The jingle of spurs accompanying the footsteps identified my visitor before I saw him.

“Can I come in?” Holmgren said, standing at the kitchen entrance. His expression was somber as he strode into the kitchen and walked behind me, leaning his face over my left shoulder while resting his hand on my right shoulder.

“Congrats on your promotion,” I said while keeping my gaze on the cards.

“Thanks,” he muttered, pointing with his left hand at the table. “Eight of clubs under the nine of diamonds. And move that five of spades under the four of diamonds, you can free up a column that way.”

I followed his instructions and continued playing. Holmgren’s right hand began to slither off my shoulder and moved slowly under my neck. I didn’t flinch and kept flipping the cards.

“Move the three of spades under the four of diamonds,” he said while his hand slid up and over my left shoulder. I started to put up hands to repel him when he secured a headlock around my neck.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “I want to see the next cards. I bet there’s an ace coming up.”

“I guess that you had a conversation with Merrifield today,” I said.

Holmgren tightened his grip slightly. “That’s a very good guess,” he replied. “And not only did Merrifield speak with me, but his uncle was part of the chat. Can you guess who we were talking about?” Holmgren placed more pressure around my neck. “Why did you stop playing?”

“It is kind of distracting to play cards while you’re in a headlock,” I muttered as his grip began to transition from uncomfortable to painful.

“You can multitask,” he said. I raised my hands to his arm and he squeezed tighter. “I asked you not to touch me. You’re not very good at listening, are you? You’re all mouth and no ears.”

I realized that I was not going to be able to physically pry myself free from his grip. If I am going to be choked to death, I thought, at least go out with a laugh.

“Can you please choke me harder?” I said. “I really need it badly.”

Holmgren’s grip loosened slightly. “What are you babbling about now?” he demanded, push his face close to mine.

“Well, when I was in college I took a psych course and there was a lesson about autoerotic asphyxiation,” I said, trying to be annoyingly funny. “I’ve not enjoyed a good cum shot since I got here, and I figured that if you choke me I can get hard and…”

Holmgren released his grip, screamed and slapped me across the back of my skull. He stomped about the kitchen, shaking clenched fists while muttering obscenities. He screamed again, pounded a fist on the kitchen counter, then grabbed a chair and sat directly opposite me at the table.

“Patterson is right – you talk too much,” he yelled. “And it’s bad enough that you talk too much, but what you say and how you say it makes it even worse. You are the most irritating, obnoxious, disrespectful, sarcastic, tactless, loud mouthed, unfunny, high maintenance train wreck of a person that I’ve ever encountered.”

Holmgren slumped in his chair and fished out a flask from his pocket and took a healthy gulp. Closing the flask, he placed it on the table and slid it to me with a flick of his fingers.

“The only thing that prevents me from breaking your neck is that you are also most honest person I’ve ever encountered,” he continued in a more sedate voice. “Merrifield told the warden and me everything that you said to him before we went through with the ceremony. He has a great memory and I am sure he got every word right. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

I didn’t touch the flask and Holmgren reached over to retrieve it, taking another gulp of bourbon.

“After Merrifield recalled your charming monologue, the warden asked him to wait outside while he spoke to me, and we confessed to each other that we failed Merrifield – he was embarrassed and disappointed in what became of him and I grew frustrated with having to deal with a statue of a man who I couldn’t reach. I offered to decline my promotion because I felt ashamed that I exploited Merrifield for my gain, but the warden reminded me that I was the one who identified you as the one who could help – that and all the other work I did over the past year counted in my favor, so I am a lieutenant.”

I gathered the cards together and stacked them into a neat deck.

“I needed to test Merrifield with an impossible task that would show his commitment to this job,” he added. “I knew you would react violently when you thought that you were tricked into a five-hour lock-up – I couldn’t tell you in advance because either you would have either refused to get locked up or you would have done a play-acting scene that rang false. The good news is that he followed my orders without question when I told him to relock you. But he failed badly by not raising the extenuating circumstances that resulted in your second locking. You were intentionally provoked into breaking the rules of civility – it was obvious, but he was too eager to please me rather than consider what took place, thus creating an injustice. It took Patterson and me a half-hour to explain his error to him – for some reason, he couldn’t comprehend it. I wanted to come by to explain this to you last night, but we had an emergency that kept me up for most of the night. I guess we failed you badly.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes. I looked everywhere around the kitchen except at Holmgren. The silence became uncomfortable.

“The warden has decided to commute your sentence to time served,” Holmgren said, somewhat blithely. “In view of the work you did on Merrifield’s behalf, he is asking the governor for permission to set you free.”

I turned to Holmgren in surprise. He slid his flask back to me and I helped myself to its contents.

“My first assignment as a lieutenant is to write up the letter to the governor tonight,” he continued. “The warden will review it and with his approval I will go into town tomorrow morning and get one of the sheriff’s deputies to ride it over to Santa Fe – we’re not waiting for the mail. The governor, as you know, is an old friend of the warden, so this is a done deal. Within a week or two, I will no longer enjoy the pleasure of your exasperating company.”

Holmgren laughed at his little joke, but I became worried.

“But what happens then?” I said. “I have no place to go, and no money. I don’t even know if you guys still have the clothing I came in. I’m thankful that you’re letting me go, but into what? I just can’t sit around waiting for those scientists to send a time machine to get me back where I belong.”

“I’ve been doing that for the past two years, and that wasn’t time well spent,” Holmgren lamented. “But it’s all good. When I’m in town tomorrow, I’m calling on that tailor who made Merrifield’s clothing to make you the same thing – you’ll be the best dressed man in the Wild West. I’m also going to speak with the guys who run the bank, the hotel, and the general store – if I tell them that a smart guy from the East is coming to town, you’ll have work. And I know the old lady who runs the boarding house – I’ll set up a place for you there and I’ll even pay your rent upfront for the first few months so you can start saving money. Knowing you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wind up as the mayor of the town within a couple of years.”

I shook my head in wonder. “Thank you. I really don’t know to respond.”

“Then don’t,” he answered. “Sometimes, a little silence isn’t so bad. Besides, I have more news for you – I have to move you out of this cottage. We have a prison inspector coming from the East – he was supposed to be here next month, but we got word he’s arriving in a few days with his wife and he has to stay here. So, I need to put you in a protective cell until we get the governor’s okay and everything for your new life on the outside. Patterson and Merrifield are setting it up for you now – if you can please gather whatever you want to take with you, I’ll walk you over there.”

“I can get my reading material,” I said. “I won’t have anyone to play chess and checkers with.”

“Patterson and I will hang out with you when we’re off duty, so we can play with you,” Holmgren said. “Merrifield said he wanted to do that, too, but I don’t know how you’d like that.”

“I will think about that,” I said, although I couldn’t see myself in a prisoner-jailer relationship with Merrifield. “I’ll get a box from the closet and get my things packed – it will only take a minute.”

There was a knock at the front door. Merrifield entered and informed Holmgren that the cell was ready for me. Holmgren said he’d meet us at the cell. I gathered my belongings into a box while Merrifield watched me sadly.

“I am sorry for yesterday,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We all make mistakes. No real harm done. And, actually, I should be sorry for not telling that your uniform looks great on you. How is the first day on the job going? Have you dealt with any unruly prisoners and show them who’s in charge? No handcuffing or locking people up?”

Merrifield scratched his chin. “No, I just moved furniture into your new cell. It’s a really slow start.”

“Hey, I have a silly idea,” I laughed. “Can I be the first prisoner that you handcuff?”

Merrifield looked at me strangely. “Why would you want to do that? You didn’t like being locked up in the pillory.”

“I know, but that was Holmgren’s idea,” I said. “This is my idea. And if you’re going to start doing guard-type work sometime, let me be the first prisoner that you put in custody. After all, what are friends for? Years from now when you’re warden, you’ll remember me as your first handcuffed convict.”

Merrifield shook his head with wonder. “If this is what you want, you can be the first prisoner I have in custody.”

I turned around put my hands behind my back. Merrifield snapped the handcuffs on my wrist, picked up my box of belongings and walked me out of the cottage.

* * *

We came to a large metal door at the end of a dark corridor where Holmgren was extinguishing a cigar under his boot. He opened the door, which exposed a vestibule that led to a cell with an open door that offered a large bed with two pillows and heavy blanket, a table with two candlesticks featuring burning white candles, a water pitcher with a tin cup and a waste basket tucked into the corner.

Holmgren looked behind my back and then looked at Merrifield with confusion. “Private Merrifield, why is this man handcuffed?”

“He requested it, Sir,” Merrifield replied.

“After all, Sir, it is his first day on the job and I wanted to do what I can to get him started in his new work,” I added.

Merrifield put my box on the bed and pulled out the key to unlock the handcuffs when Holmgren put his hand out. “I will take custody of the prisoner, Private Merrifield,” he said. “Please report to Sergeant Patterson for further assignments.”

Merrifield cautiously handed the key to Holmgren and shot a worried look at me. I mouthed “Don’t worry” to him and nodded. Merrifield then saluted Holmgren and left. Holmgren held up the key in front of me and grinned sardonically.

“Congratulations, you are the very first prisoner in this institution’s history who voluntarily asked to be handcuffed,” he said, dropping the key into his jacket pocket. Holmgren pointed into the cell and stepped in. He shut and locked the cell door. “You don’t mind if I hang with you for a few minutes? I just need to chill out. It’s been a crazy day, and it seems be getting crazier by the moment.”

“Can I ask…” I began to say.

“No, you cannot, and I will unlock when I feel like it,” he snapped.

I looked around my surroundings and asked, “What is this place? Why is there a cell within a cell?”

“Seriously, this is where we punish the worst of the worst,” he said. “It’s often called ‘the hole,’ but it is our solitary confinement space. Of course, we don’t put a bed and candles in here for the bad guys – they sleep on straw on the floor and are kept in darkness. Merrifield and Patterson really did a great job making this comfortable – or as comfortable as a prison cell can be.”

“You know, I don’t think you’ve ever spoken to me about your work in here,” I said. “For starters, how do you punish bad guys? I know the pillory, and I assume that keeping people in the dark can work for you. But what other punishments are there?”

“Oh, aren’t you the kinky boy wondering about punishments?” he laughed. “First you want to be handcuffed, now you want to learn about more punishments? Sometimes we do floggings – and trust me, it’s not like a bondage video you’d see online. And one of the punishments has now become the best entertainment in this place – we have a rock quarry where convicts get a ball and chain locked on their ankles and they smash and carry rocks. We used to break the prisoners in that punishment, until Big Zeb came along.”

“Who’s Big Zeb?” I asked.

“I thought I mentioned him to you,” he said. “Remember I told you about the saloon keeper who gives me free booze if I take care of his son who’s in here? Zeb is his son. And I like him a lot – he’s 22 and jacked like a superhero. I call him Big Zeb because he has muscles on his muscles. He can break rocks the way we break eggs.”

“Now you’ve lost me,” I said. “How are you taking care of the saloon guy’s son if you’re punishing him in a quarry?”

Holmgren rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Oh, that was a nightmare. Zeb is really cute – he has dimples when he smiles – but the poor guy is illiterate. A few months ago, he got a letter from a brother in Iowa or Kansas or one of those farm states, but he couldn’t read it and he asked one of the guards to read it to him. Unfortunately, he picked the nastiest shit of the guards. The letter mentioned Zeb’s grandmother died and the guard starting cracking nasty jokes about the old lady’s passing – so Zeb slugged him. There was a hearing after that with most of the guards demanding that Zeb get hanged. Patterson, of all people, stood up for Zeb and pointed out the extenuating circumstances of Zeb’s actions – that’s where I got the idea of testing Merrifield at the pillory with extenuating circumstances regarding your outburst. I was supposed to be judge on this and I agreed with Patterson, although I knew it would cause a mutiny if Big Zeb went unpunished. So, I sort of compromised and extended his sentence and put him into the quarry. Now he’s in here for a year – I told his dad and he was very understanding. But, damn, you have to see Zeb when he’s shirtless and sweaty and breaking rocks. One time I came by and there was a half-dozen guards watching him, and I swear some were drooling while watching him break those rocks.”

“Well, I have an idea,” I said. “If those guys with the time machine ever come to rescue us, let’s take Zeb with us. I have a friend who owns a gym in lower Manhattan and I can get him a job there.’

“I’m sure that Zeb will appreciate knowing that there’s a job waiting for him in the year 2023 in a lower Manhattan gym,” Holmgren smirked. “I feel bad for Zeb, of course, but I also feel bad for his dad. He’s a nice old man, very generous and trusting, and he wants to pass on his business to his son. But if his son can’t even read a label on a whiskey bottle, how is he going to run a business? Do your hands hurt you?”

“Of course they do,” I said.

“Good, then Merrifield knows how to use handcuffs,” he smirked.

“Can you bring in a teacher to help Zeb learn to read and write?” I asked.

Holmgren frowned at me. “Dude, you keep forgetting this is New Mexico in 1875. We can’t even get teachers for our schoolhouses. Where am I getting a teacher to work in a prison? And we don’t even have enough money to pay the guards the properly – where are we getting the money for a teacher?”

“Well, ask Zeb’s dad,” I suggested. “If he gives you free booze to watch his son, maybe he’ll also pay to get him educated? I know asking doesn’t mean you’ll get anything, but why not try?”

Holmgren pulled a cigar from inside his jacket and started to twirl it in his fingers. He stopped and studied his cigar pensively. “Tell me, how long do you think it would take to teach a guy like Zeb to read and write? He’s in here for the next 12 months. Could it take 12 months for him to become literate?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea. I don’t know the guy and whether he has the capacity to learn. If he does and he has the right teacher, why not?”

Holmgren curled his index finger to beckon me to move closer. We were nearly face to face with the cell door bars separating us. “Do you like big muscle boys?”

“I dated a couple of bodybuilders over the years,” I said. “Why are you interested in my…” I stopped talking when I saw Holmgren’s face break into a sardonic grin. “Lieutenant, why are you smiling at me like that? I didn’t say anything funny. And didn’t you say the warden wanted my sentence commuted and I was to be released?”

“He did,” Holmgren said, returning his cigar to his jacket. “But if I can chisel a nice bit of change from Zeb’s father to get his son to read and write, and then split that fee with the warden, your release might be delayed. After all, you got Merrifield to learn French and read Dickens. What could you do with Big Zeb?”

My heart started to pound ferociously. “You’re joking, aren’t you? A little while ago, you said I am getting out in a week or so. I don’t want to be in here for another 12 months.”

“Of course, you do,” he said. “If you want to be handcuffed by your big prison guard friend, then I think you like it in here.”

Holmgren thrust his hands through the bars and locked them behind my head, pushing my face into the cell door. He came up to me until we were nose to nose. “I don’t care what you want. You keep forgetting that I’m your jailer and that I own you. If I can convince the warden and Zeb’s dad to pay us so you can tutor him for the next 12 months, I will. If not, we’ll move ahead with the scenario I discussed back at the cottage and forget this was ever raised. But if the warden and Zeb’s day both say yes, then you’re staying. And that would be a win-win situation for all of us. Zeb would learn to read and write, his dad will be able to pass his business to him, and the warden and I will make a profit on this arrangement.”

“And how do I win?” I asked.

Holmgren planted a light kiss on my lips. “Well, you get to spend the next 12 months locked in a cell with a gorgeous 22-year-old muscle boy. In my book, you’re the biggest winner of them all.”

Holmgren released his hold on me and stepped back. He pulled his cigar out again and lit in, blowing a train of smoke into the air. “I’m going to run this idea by the warden. If he buys it, I’ll speak to Zeb’s dad tomorrow. And if he buys it…well, you’ll get more opportunities to get handcuffed by Merrifield and me. Maybe I’ll get you on the post for a flogging, too. And I really need to thank you. If you hadn’t started asking about how we punish prisoners, I would never have thought of this. You really are the gift that keeps on giving.”

Holmgren marched out of the vestibule, slamming the outdoor door with fury and clicking its lock with a melodramatic flourish. I banged my head into the cell door’s bars and exhaled in anguish at the prospect of another 12 months under his lock and key.

“Patterson is right,” I said aloud. “I do talk too much.”

The End

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Metal would like to thank the author, Hunter Perez, for this story! If you liked this you might be interested in his book The Friend Request, available on Amazon.