Bull
“A pair of motorcycle boots, size thirteen. A Harley-Davidson T-shirt. A pair of blue jeans ripped in both knees. A black hoodie. A leather wallet containing eighty-five dollars. And a silver necklace with a St. Christopher medallion.
“Here is two hundred and fifty dollars, a map, and three condoms. You got someone picking you up?”
Shaking my head, I reach for my belongings spread out on the long wooden counter before me.
“The nearest bus stop is half a mile that way.” He points over his shoulder.
“I’ll walk,” I reply bluntly, kicking off my white sneakers and shedding myself of this uniform that has been my second skin for twelve long years. I don’t care that someone’s grandma gasps from just feet away when she sees my tighty-whities. I need to get it the fuck…off me.
“Walk to where? Things have changed since you’ve been locked up. Folk ain’t like they used to be.”
“I’ll figure it out.” My jeans are a little loose around the middle, which is no surprise. You wouldn’t even feed your dog the shit I’ve been eating in here. However, the T-shirt is tight across my chest and upper arms. Boots and hoodie still fit. The chain is the last thing I put on.
Pederson cocks a disbelieving brow and shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Good luck, Bull. You’re gonna need it.”
I nod in gratitude. He was the only guard in this hellhole who actually gave a rat’s ass if I lived or died.
I don’t bother taking one last look at the place that has been my home for over a decade because every corner, every crevice of this shithole will be burned into my memory for as long as I live. You don’t forget Kinkora Correctional Facility, and it sure as shit doesn’t forget you. Half the crims are locked back up within six months of release because it’s easier to deal with the politics inside the walls, than on the outside.
The rules on the inside are easy:
Don’t trust anyone.
Don’t show emotion.
Don’t snitch.
Follow these three simple rules, and you’ll do just fine.
What’s completely foreign to me and my brothers before me are the rules on the outside. I’ve almost forgotten society’s rules, because when doing time, you abide by an entirely different law. Inside, it’s survival of the fittest, and unlike real life, the difference will cost you your life.
Pederson presses a button behind the counter, granting me my freedom. I shoulder open the glass door and stroll toward the steel gates that swing open slowly. The guards watch me closely. I can smell their fear. They weren’t so attentive when they turned a blind eye the night I got shivved in my cell, thanks to some white supremacist assholes who didn’t appreciate me calling Hitler a mama’s boy.
But that’s in the past because unlike my predecessors, I refuse to become a statistic. I’d rather end my own life than be trapped in a six-by-eight cell ever again.
Once the gate is open, I take my first steps as a free man.
Looking from left to right, I see that Detroit hasn’t changed an iota. It’s still a piece of shit wasteland where dreams go to die.
I toss the map and condoms into the dirt and decide to head north. If I remember correctly, there’s a cheap motel a couple of miles away. The deserted road has represented my freedom for so long, so I can’t help but think I should feel something, anything, to be walking along it. But I’m dead inside, and I don’t feel a thing.
Refer to prison rule number two.
The farther away I walk, the more isolated things become. I’m thirty years old, and I have no idea where I’m headed. Not just literally, but figuratively as well. I have no skills, no trade, and no special talents. I was just a punk ass kid who should have studied harder in school.
If I was more like my older brother, Damian, I could have been a fucking astronaut by now. I don’t blame my parents for the way I ended up because it wasn’t their fault. It was mine. I had idle hands and used them time and time again as the devil’s plaything.
Blood.
So much blood.
I swallow down the memory that plagues me every time I close my fucking eyes. If I’m going to survive this, then I need to learn how to survive with my eyes opened and closed. It’s the only way I won’t end up back inside.
The cool breeze has me drawing the hood over my shaved head ’cause the dark storm clouds ahead look angry as shit. Moments later, the heavens open and dump angel piss all over me. I pick up the pace to a steady run when I see the red flashing neon sign of Hudson’s Motel a few blocks ahead.
Even though the name has changed, it’s still the same run-down dump it was twelve years ago. No amount of paint can polish this shithole. But this shithole will be my home until I can put my plan into motion.
So home sweet fucking home.
The bell above the door sounds sick as I shove open the woodgrain, happy to get inside and out of this biblical weather. Behind the white reception desk sits a middle-aged woman flicking through a magazine while smoking a thin cigar.
Her blue eyes flick up and meet mine. “Hey, sugar. You’re all wet. Did you walk here in the rain?”
Nodding, I slip the hood off my head and wipe a hand over the short dark bristles on my skull.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a hundred-dollar bill. The skull tattoo on the back of my hand catches her attention. “How many nights can I stay here with this?”
Her red fingernails are like talons as she draws the tattered money toward her. She fingers the note and looks at me carefully. “You just get out?”
I nod once again.
She must be able to smell the felon all over me. “For you, sugar, this will buy you a week.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” She reaches into her low-cut neckline and produces a creased white business card. “If you’re needing anything, give me a call.”
She leans across the counter, holding the card between two fingers. I accept it and read the name.
Venus Bisset—Manager.
“I appreciate it,” I say, holding up the card.
“Oh, sugar,” she purrs. “With pretty eyes like yours, don’t hesitate to call me. Day or night.” She winks her ridiculously long fake eyelashes, which look like caterpillars have mutated on her eyelids.
“Thanks, Venus.”
“Thank you. I’ve never seen someone with two different eye colors before. It’s as if heaven and hell are fighting their own personal battle, wanting to conquer the other side,” she reveals, appearing in awe of my genetic anomaly.
Her gaze darts from my left eye, which is a bright blue, to my right, which on any given day can appear green or amber. Her attention swings back to my left—the blue always seems to win.
“Which side is winning out?” she asks as I slip my hood back over my head.
“Ask me that next week.”
She smirks, licking her red painted lips before shuffling through her drawer, which holds a stack of white key cards. “I’ll sign you in. What’s your name?”
Shuffling my boots, I give her the name I’ve been known by since that night. But this name can also be comparable to who I’ve become. “Bullseye. But call me Bull.”