Rangstad
"Rangstad"
by Slight ([email protected])
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is copyright (C) 2008 Slight
This story continues...if you enjoy or have any thoughts let me know. Hoping for feedback before I get the rest on the page. Yiff is at the end, if that's what you're looking for, but getting there is half the fun.
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The steel door at the end of the hall shears at the hinges and slams shut, bolts move into place. I'm awake immediately but decide not to show it. Eyes shut, the air in the room still and cold. I'm not bothered by it. My weight shifts slightly on the threadbare mattress and the metal bed frame grates against itself.
Boot heels move down the hall..."Get up, Don."
"I'm asleep" The bass in my voice reverberates against the walls of the empty cell.
Reggie, a doberman guard I'm not fond of, responds by sending stale coffee through the bars onto my head and back. I run my hand against the dampness soaking into my fur, bring it under my nose and into my muzzle. They don't give me coffee, it is lukewarm and the flavor lingers, it's wonderful.
I sit up and rub my face in my hands..."nobody's going down to the pits for another 45 minutes...what".
"Davis told me to give you these" and he digs a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. The guard slowly taps one out of the softpack, he has obviously helped himself to a few. He lights the cigarette with a zippo, smoke curls in the air toward me, he tossed me the pack. I catch the pack and pocket it. "That it?"
He turns to move down the hall and kicks a tray piled with canned meat under the barred door. "Don't get too comfy...you got a new roommate."
I mutter "Fuck" under my breath. I dig the cigs back out of my pocket and hope the guard didn't hear me, I don't want them to hear me curse. I stand and walk to the barred window and smoke. It is snowing, December I think. I had a calendar until the warden decided to put a coat of whitewash over it. Now I tell time by the sun and the scent of the guards after big holiday dinners. Mechanically I eat the chow and wait to go to the pits.
12 hours later, my shift ends. Davis is waiting for me, shackles hang from his belt. The big grizzly bear is my shadow in this place. He's the only guard that can possibly subdue me by himself, he is also the only other bear in this place. He puts the first cuff around my wrist, then the second and secures them to my belt in a fluid motion that comes from years of repetition. Our little dance together.
"Thanks for the smokes, Davis."
"Five years behind you, kid." he smiles and claps me on the back. "Now get moving."
We have an understanding. I allow him the easiest job in the prison, and he keeps me well fed. The math on this is pretty simple...his only responsibility on the job is me. The other guards can treat me however they want, to a point. If any guard tries to cripple or kill me, Davis will lose his meal ticket, and Davis will kill that guard, guaranteed. This is the only reason I'm still able to bust rock after five years. Time in the pits will break you down. I do not care how tough you are, no one can work hard labor for 12 hour days on bread crust. I get solid rations, a blanket, and a mattress. Enough to keep me healthy. Five years ago I was 290lbs, been awhile since I've seen a scale but I think I'm still in 260lb territory and holding. Solid enough for a polar bear.
Every time I leave the pits all I can smell is diesel exhaust and rock dust. The dust is pervasive, it's in my eyes, ears, nose and it burns. The fur on my arms is dark gray instead of the dull off white it should be, I pat them lightly and a small cloud descends off of me. There is no point in trying to clean myself, showers are once a week, and I've got two days before my next one.
Back in my cell I stand with my back against the door, arms behind me through the bars. Davis works the key into my restraints, click, and they clatter to the floor. There is something in the corner that wasn't here this morning, as my eyes adjust to the dark I can see the tracks in the dirt around my new cellmate. At least three different sizes of boots prints and a pair of wingtips. I missed a visit from the warden.
"He's beat to hell" I say flatly. New guys usually show up in bad shape, but the lump in the corner looked tortured, broken.
"Wasn't under my watch, kid."
Davis releases my hands, I walk over to the bed. I hear the new guy breathing shallow, ragged. Through the dust caked in my nose I catch the scent of dog, blood, and urine. Crawling into bed, I turn to face the wall and cover myself. I heard a whimper a few feet away. I shut my eyes and fall asleep immediately.
A moan from across the room wakes me. His breath drawing though chattering teeth. Dawn is still hours away. I roll over slowly. The moon is full tonight and light through the window falls on the dog, illuminating his profile. He is curled on his side facing me and he is naked. The standard issues left by the guards are still folded on the floor next to him. The blood and whatever else mats the fur against his skin. He has the look of a soldier, wiry and strong. The shape of his muzzle suggests a German Shepherd, but with his coloring obscured by the filth in his fur, I can't be sure.
Another moan, louder this time, and his teeth chatter so hard I'm surprised their still in his muzzle. I've had my own cell for at least 6 months. Apparently I've forgotten how to share. I move from my bunk towards the dog and kneel in front of him. A moment later I sense he's moving, and I barely dodge a punch square in the muzzle. The shot glances off my cheek, there isn't much power behind it. I pin his arms back to the ground rest my knee on chest so he knows he's not going anywhere. He lets out another cry in pain and gets out "motherf" before I get my muzzle against his ear.
"Stop, I'm not trying to hurt you." He either believes me or gives up, because he's not fighting.
"You're in Rangstad, it's 40 degrees in this cell and you're lying on cement, naked. Clean yourself up and get off the floor, I don't want to listen to you all night."
A hoarse "O.K." in response, sounds like an American.
I ease off him and he sits up slowly, keeping his eyes on me. I back up a few steps and he tries to get to his feet, bracing himself against the wall awkwardly before weakening and sliding back down. I move to the folded clothes and grab the socks. A few steps to the sink and quick soaking and I toss the socks back to the shepherd.
"You got it from here?"
He looks down at himself slowly, his eyes rise back to mine and stare incredulous. The eyes say "socks will not fix this", but he speaks softly, "Get me to the sink and we'll see."
I move to his left arm and he stops me, "Try the other one, this one ain't feeling so hot."
We move to the sink, his right arm over my shoulder, while I stoop a bit to minimize the height difference. I leave the tap running as he scrubs the damp socks against his fur, occasionally wringing the blood and filth into the sink. It takes ten minutes for him to clean his head and face, he moves as if the socks weight twenty pounds. I lose patience and tell him to sit again. I clean him up as quickly as I can getting the majority of the blood and grit off his back and chest, moving lightly around his left arm and shoulder. Neither of us says anything, and after getting the worst of it off of him I bring him the clothes.
"Those cuts aren't bleeding too bad anymore, a few scars maybe, but they should heal up. Deal with the arm tomorrow."
I heft myself onto the previously empty top bunk and try to sleep. I hear him struggle into the clothes and the bed frame creak as he crawls onto it. I glance out the barred window from the top bunk and the night sky is turning gray on the horizon.
Davis shows up at the same time every morning to escort me to the pits. I hear the guards getting the inmates in line, cell doors opening, chains moving along the floor. I'm shackled in last. The shepherd is still asleep, the guards know he'll be useless for a few days and probably don't want to carry him back to the cell at shift end.
Davis is in my ear on the way to the mineshaft "The dog looks better, I'm thinking that was you."
"Get him into the showers today, he still smells like piss. While you're at it, get me on the list too."
"I'll see what I can do, kid." Davis chuckles," And you'll owe me a favor."
Davis has a wife at home, but he's always got something going on the side, and if he's in the right mood, it's me. Another small part of our arrangement . I don't mind obliging the guy, I've always been attracted to males, he's in his mid forties and a good looking bear. A touch of gray on the muzzle these days and slightly rounder than I am, but broad shouldered and naturally muscular. There's a gym in the guard barracks and he's a regular there, which we chat about sometimes. The only thing I lift these days is rock, but I know my way around a weight room. Our time alone together is simply two bears blowing off steam, usually with a quick jerk-off through the bars of my cell. The only gestures resembling affection between us would be Davis ' crushing grip on my shoulder as he gets off or me resting my forehead against the bars next to him as I come. Davis is the only guy who's touched my cock in five years.
I follow a hyena shackled in front of me to the pits. Twenty or so prisoners walk down a steadily inclined hallway that wraps every 30 feet or so. Hanging bulbs filmed with dust illuminate the way. Eventually we reach the rail carts to take us down into the pits. Davis follows me a step behind and takes a seat next to me. I breath deeply, taking in familiar scents that will soon be obscured by grit and fumes. Old leather work gloves mixed with Davis' clean musky scent, and faint meat and potatoes.
"Pot Roast for dinner last night?"
"Yup...good too."
The rail cart jolts and we ride down together.
The shift ends and I'm returned to my cell. The dog is still in his bunk, but sits up slowly as Davis locks the door behind me.
"How long were you gone, I've been in and out all day" he asks.
"Around 12 hours."
He extends his good arm and says, "Michael."
"Don."
I walk over and shake his hand. His left arm is still limp at his side.
"You want me to take a look at that?" I say gesturing towards his injured limb.
"If you know what you're doing."
"I know enough, and if it doesn't heal you'll get hungry here, they only feed the workers."
"was afraid of that." Michael says quietly. "I think my shoulder's dislocated, that Doberman guard got my arm behind my back and ran my head into a wall. I heard a pop but I don't remember much after that. It fucking hurts and I can't move it."
I sit on the bunk to his left. His shirt is open and he gingerly peels it off. Up close in the light, I see that the blood from last night came from cuts across his back. Looks like they belt whipped him pretty good. Dime sized blood spots dot the blue workshirt tossed on the floor.
I rest my hands on his shoulder and pressing firmly, tracing along the muscles. They are rigid, stretched tight, and I'm positive this hurts. Michael grimaces and sucks air between his teeth but does not complain.
I say, "I've seen a dislocated shoulder before. It looked like this and I know how to fix it. You could be OK in a few days but I'm not making any promises." He looks slightly relieved. "This is going to hurt." Now less so.
Keeping his upper arm hanging down along his side, I take his wrist and bend his arm at the elbow so that his hand is out in front of him.
"Make a fist." I say. He complies. Facing his left side I grip his elbow with my right hand and place my left hand over his fist. "Ready?"
Michael nods and says "Go."
Slowly and firmly I rotate Michael's fist towards his body until it's against his stomach, pivoting at his elbow. His head drops and he exhales loudly in pain. Before he tenses, I quickly pull his fist back out away from his body rotating his arm until it points the opposite direction away from him.
"Waifuuuck!" Teeth are bared in pain.
I may have forced it a bit, but there's an audible grating pop as it moved into place.
Michael is panting heavy now. "Feels better, but damn."
"Make a sling out of something, or just keep in on your chest and lay down."
"You got it, I seriously owe you one."
Twenty minutes later Davis strolls down the hallway and into view in front of the cell. "Shower time kids, lets go."
He shackles Michael and I together at the waist and walks us through the corridor to the showers. I'm handcuffed with my arms in front of me, but Davis gives Michael a break when he sees his torn up shoulder. As we approach, a line of inmates shuffles back toward their cells. I look to Davis.
"Just us?"
"The last group was full, they said they'd leave the water on an extra ten minutes, so by my count you got about eight left." He says "Hurry up." as he unlocks the waist chains.
I strip off my shirt and pants, fold them mindlessly, and leave them in the cubby in the corridor leading into the showers. Michael follows my lead and does the same.
Its a small room, five showers lining the front and back wall. I choose the center nozzle on the back wall, Michael follows me but keeps an empty nozzle between us. I soap up quickly, force of habit. If you share a shower with 15 guys and 10 stalls, you're either quick or an asshole. No inmate would start something with me if I take my time, but I don't want to make any one's life harder than it has to be. Rinsing off I glance over at Michael, his head is bowed and his face is pained as he lets the water hit his shoulders and run across the cuts on his back. He rotates his body toward me slightly, head and eyes still down. He has the standard coloring of a German Shepherd. His muzzle is dark, encircled by tan fur that runs beneath his eyes and across his cheeks continuing down his neck, chest, and stomach. The fur on his back is nearly black and trails to the top of his ass running to the tip of his tail. As the water dampens the fur across his chest and stomach, the muscles become more defined and I enjoy the view. My cellmate has a nice round ass and there's no one here to catch me looking. The fur up the inside of his thighs is lighter, cream colored, and my eyes wander to his hefty sheath. He lifts his head slightly so I avert my gaze back to the tile wall in between us.
"Hey Don, this might be too much to ask, but could you get my back. I'm pretty useless with one arm and I want these cuts to heal up."
"Uh, yeah."
I walk over, getting a good lather on my paws from the soap. He leans forward against the wall with his good arm and I move my paws across his back trying not to hurt him, the soap will sting enough. With him standing so submissively, my paws tracing the muscles lining his back and shoulders, my cock starts to hang heavy and my sheath swells a bit. I clean the cuts quickly and give him a pat on the good shoulder.
"All set."
I walk to the door. Davis is standing there waiting. He sees my cock, raises an eyebrow and chuckles to himself.
I tell him to shut up as I yank my pants back on. The showers shut off abruptly.
Davis shouts,"Time's up new dog."
I'm shackled by the time Michael gets his clothes back on one handed, and Davis escorts us back to our cell.
It's lights out, I'm in the top bunk, Michael below me.
"Don, you awake?"
"Yeah" I respond.
"You're a merc, right?"
"Mercs get paid. I haven't gotten paid for a long time."
Only a soldier would call me a merc. "Where were you stationed?" I ask.
"London, grew up in California though." Michael replies.
I say "I know London...I miss London. Northern California? You don't sound like a surfer."
"Yeah, Sacramento, my parents had a farm, when the farm was gone I joined the Army, I was fighting in Poland when I got captured."
I hear his teeth chattering again. It's cold in here, but nothing compared to what it will feel like in a few weeks.
"Cold?"
"You're not?"
I let him think for a second.
"Oh..a chuckle...polar bear, forget I said that. So...what is the work like?"
"You'll see...but you get another day off tomorrow. The guards operate on a short staff four random days a month, tomorrow is one of those days."
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
"If we're not working, what do we do, sit around?"
"All the inmates get a meal in the mess hall." I say this flatly.
"Any good?"
I think he's referring to the food. "Three hundred inmates locked in the mess hall with no guards for two hours. Watch yourself. The guys in here on real stretches, murderers and the like, don't take kindly to us war prisoners, they're brothers and friends were usually on the other side, and they outnumber us two to one."
"Great (sarcasm)...the meal any good, though? This canned meat is going to get old quick."
"You never know, had pork chops once awhile back, usually it's stew filled with whatever they can find."
Michael says "Anybody who gets between me and a pork chop is gonna be in trouble."
I smile, "Night, Michael."
"Night."
It's eleven A.M. We walk to the mess hall. There is a raccoon in front of me that is scared out of his mind. I want to tell him to relax. Tell him that looking the way he does will bring the worst, but I say nothing. If I help him then he might try to hang with me in there and that is the last thing I want. The other inmates know not to mess with me, my size and general appearance grants me that. However crazy, half-starved lifers with nothing to lose will often track me down. Maybe they want me to end their sentence here, I don't know, but this raccoon has a bulls-eye on his chest and I draw enough attention alone. I hear Michael three or four deep behind me asking if anyone smells cinnamon rolls. Funny.
The guards move us through the doors, unchaining each inmate. Old hardwood tables, hundreds of pounds apiece, span the length of the room. I grab a tray and move along the wall. There's two lines and I get in the one furthest from the entrance. Easier to keep your back against a wall this way.
The raccoon doesn't follow me, he doesn't move. He stands next to the guard who unshackled him until the guard notices his shadow and kicks him into the hall. There's laughter, bad entrance.
Michael sees me as he enters but doesn't attempt to get my attention. He takes his tray and walks slowly around the room before ending up in the line next to mine. He keeps his left arm loose at his side, smart kid.
I start to investigate the menu, stew...again. The doors close and the guards lock them from the outside. I gave the raccoon less five minutes before he'd be on the ground, but I should have given him three. A large stallion, mottled gray and white coloring, approaches the raccoon. The Stallion's long neck is heavily scarred with old knife wounds and his short pelt does little to hide them. The stallion is flanked on the right by an old Ram with heavy horns and spectacles, and on the left by a fiercely ugly black bull. The Stallion says something I can't hear over the noise of the hall and reaches out a hoofed hand. The raccoon reaches out and shakes it, his nervous facial tics clearly stating he's not happy having this exchange. The stallion gestures to the Ram, who also holds out a hoofed hand. The Ram takes the raccoons paw, lowers his head slightly in what looks to be a polite gesture, then yanks the raccoon into a headbutt that echoes off the walls. The raccoon is out on his feet and hits the floor hard, blood flowing from his head and muzzle. The three laugh and stroll in line for chow. Michael is a few paces ahead of them, he's keeping his eyes up, but not looking at anyone in particular.
I get to the front of my line, and am rewarded with a deep dish of brown slop. Smells like there was chicken and corn in it once, when it went through the cannery a few decades ago. I move to the end of the hall and sit, five feet of space on either side of me and no one in the opposite bench. Typically I can stay in this spot and count the minutes without saying a word to anyone, I hope to continue the trend.
Michael gets to the front of his line and an otter working the hall loads up his tray. He continues to hold the tray with his good hand leaving his left arm at his side as he turns back toward me.
I bristle a little bit. In a room full of hungry animals, protect your food or someone will take it from you. Michael is moving back in my direction, past the inmates still waiting for chow. Michael's eyes light on me sitting alone and his muzzle hints at a smile, he must think I saved him a seat intentionally. The black bull still waiting in line swings at the tray as he passes, the stew flies to the ground and splatters Michael's ankles and footpaws.
I could stop this. I could stand up and make them back off. I don't. Michael turns around to face the Bull. Michael's face is calm, the half smile still on his lips. The Stallion is standing to Michael's left, his face is still, calculating. The Ram steps out of line directly behind Michael. If Michael takes a swing at the Bull, the Ram is going to knock the hell out of him. Michael takes a half step towards the Bull, then quickly pivots around to his right bringing the edge of the tray up into the throat of the Ram behind him. The Ram falls to his knees instinctively clutching his throat. Bringing his his left paw to the tray, Michael pivots and steps back toward the Bull, swinging the tray around with both paws and shatters the hard plastic against the Bull's face. The Bull bellows, hands to his eyes and the plastic shards embedded in them. Michael turns back to the Ram and knees him square in the snout whipping his head back. Horns bounce off the floor, it sounds like a pool cue snapping in half. When Michael sees that the Ram is out, he turns to face the Stallion, whose expression hasn't changed. Michael snorts at him, as if to remove the scent of the exchange from his nose, then he picks up the Ram's tray, walks over, and sits across from me.
"You had me worried for a minute." I say.
"Don't need to worry about me."
"I can see that." I slide my dish to him. "I'll be right back."
I get another plate, we eat, and are left alone.
We are back in the cell. I'm on my bunk, Michael is trying to do a push up. He falls to his chest before his shoulder gives out. He rolls onto his back and cradles his arm against his chest.
"That really hurt." he says.
"Then don't do push-ups"
"No, when I took a swing at that guy."
"I think you came out of it OK."
"Could you check my shoulder again? Feels weird."
"Yeah sure," I hop down off my bunk and sit on the edge of his. "Sit" I point to the floor in front of me.
Michael sits on the floor and crosses his legs leaning back against the bunk. My legs rest on either side of his shoulders. I lean forward and rest both paws on his left shoulder. I trace the musculature up and around the joint, needing it a bit.
Michael grunts a little.
"That hurt?" I ask.
"Yeah but keep going, I think it'll help."
I keep massaging, enjoying the warm fur and muscle beneath my paws and the way he tenses as I work over his neck and delts. I haven't touched anyone this way for a long time. Michael's head starts to drop lightly, and his breathing slows as he relaxes. I lean in, being this close I cannot help myself. Take a deep breath through my nose and enjoy his scent. Still hints of the soap in his fur, his scent is light, like wet earth. There's no fear, just healthy male dog.
Minutes pass, I want him to lie on the bed so I can run my paws across more than his upper back, I'm about to say so when his head rises. "Thanks, I think you got it." He stands from his cross legged position, giving me a nice view of his ass. I'm half hard, and give him a blank look as he turns around. He must think since I'm not moving, I intend not to give up the bottom bunk.
"No worries, I was planning on moving upstairs anyways." Takes a few quick steps and vaults up past me and out of view. Nimble for a one armed guy. His weight sinks the mattress above me slightly.
I think about jerking off, but instead get up and throw some cold water on my face and neck at the sink before turning in. No way I can get off without him hearing...damn.
"Kid, get up"
Davis is outside the door, tapping the key against the bars. I look up at him, shaking the sleep from my mind.
He unlocks the door. "C'mon"
His voice is horse, there's a bottle in his hand, I can smell the whiskey he's been drinking.
"Hands"
I stand and walk to door. "What's up Davis"
"Let's take a walk" he says. I trust him, though I've never seen him drink on the job. I put my hands through the space in the door and he cuffs me. The door unlocks behind me, he grasps my arm and takes me out. Michael stirs a bit, I see him eye us from his bunk. Then Davis and I move down the hall. The cells at the end are unoccupied. He opens the door to an empty cell.
"Take a seat".
I move to the bunk and sit, my arms still locked behind me.
Davis crouches his grizzly bear bulk in front of me, his shirt is open, a clean undershirt underneath.
"Here's how this is going to work, if you want a drink, you take it from my mouth. When this bottle is empty, we take it from there."
I haven't had a drink in a long time and my dick was still hard when I woke up. I stare at the bottle between us. "Sure."
He picks up the bottle and unscrews the cap, tossing it into the corner, I hear it clatter off the walls.
He takes a deep pull on the bottle, the whiskey is in my nose from the moment he uncaps it and my mouth waters. I lean forward. He swallows and smiles, "that one was for me, kid" Then he leans in and kisses me hard, his teeth move against mine, his tongue in my mouth, I taste the whiskey and want more. He breaks the kiss and takes another pull, then moves back to me. I meet him halfway, the heat of the liquor in my mouth, it tastes so good and so does he. As we kiss he pushes me back onto the bunk, then moves away and pulls my loose pants off my hips to the floor. I'm lying naked now, rests a hand on the bed next to my head, looking down at me. He brings the bottle to his lips again, chugging a fourth of the bottle, he swallows a few times then lets his mouth fill. Davis leans down to me, his muzzle inches from mine. I open my mouth as his lips part and a stream of whiskey coats my face, I catch as much as I can. Davis leans down and runs his tongue up my chin and over the tip of my muzzle. As he leans in the weight of his thigh presses against my cock, I'm throbbing hard. I grind my hips against him and I can feel his heavy sheath on my stomach. He takes another pull on the bottle, a deep kiss, I'm swallowing around his tongue and kissing back hungrily. I feel fluid, relaxed, yet completely focused on sensation running through my cock and down my throat. Davis repeats the procedure, loosely tipping the bottle to his lips, whiskey dripping across my face and chest, before I take it from his muzzle and drink. Too quickly the bottle is gone. I'm still on my back, hands trapped beneath me. Davis drops the bottle, and I hear it clatter and roll away, then uses his free hand to unbuckle his belt and open his pants. Either too tired of leaning over me, or too drunk, Davis rests his knee next to my thigh. The bed groans under our combined weight. He rubs his thick sheath against my fully hard cock. Eight inches of pink dripping length have been humping against him for at least 5 minutes. Davis rubs against me, grinding the fur of his sheath up and down the length of my cock. The sensation is an overwhelming tease.
"Kid really wants to play today"
Davis' voice is hoarse. I feel him getting harder with each thrust, until he's dripping on me, slick skin against skin. The sex and whiskey flushes the skin of my face beneath the fur, heat is in my cheeks, the need is making me angry.
"C'mon man, I need to get off. Now." I say this tersely.
Davis' outstretched arm holding him above me buckles to his elbow. His round and firm belly is against me now and I can feel his deep hunching breaths. Davis's muzzle is inches from mine, huffing in my face. I concentrate on his details of his face. The wrinkles around the eyes, the gray fur on his chin. His whiskey and sweat and musk are in my nose, mixed with the scent of my own arousal. His strong hips, stomach, and chest cover me, flexing with each thrust. I feel his large paw encircle my cock and I assume his own. Davis's muzzle contorts and a line of spit trails from his tongue to my neck. He sounds close, he pumps his paw quickly over our cocks. He's too quick for me to thrust in time with him so I flex my back and ass up into his paw, and hold, feeling only the rough strokes on my dick. Losing control I buck against him, spurting into his paw, my jaw hangs loose while the rest of my body involuntarily spasms so strongly that I lift him off the bed. Davis has his eyes trained on my face watching me come. His arm gives out completely, his full weight collapses on me as he rides out his own orgasm, hunching like he's trying to get inside me, his seed soaking into the fur on my stomach and sheath. We breath hard against one another, Davis pushes himself back up, rubbing his head and muzzle against mine as he rises off me and the mattress, he shakes his big grizzly bear head.
"Stay there, I'll get a rag." Davis slowly stands, buttons his pants, and walks to the door of the cell and locks it behind him. I rest my head back on the bare mattress and I realize I'm drunk as well. I shift my cuffed paws underneath my bare ass and sit up. Slowly I move my paws beneath my knees and run my cuffed wrists under my feet. Davis probably won't remember which side he cuffed me on and I could really use a smoke. I scrounge a cigarette out of my pants on the floor, light one with the zippo in my pocket and take a deep drag. The smoke drifts to the bare bulb above me. I shut my eyes and enjoy the sensation.