It Gets Worse
ByHugh Fritz
ByHugh Fritz
The lights were dead, making it impossible to see inside, but Tristan had visited the store so often he could navigate his way through it blindfolded. He hurled the brick through the front window and was pushing his way through the glass before it had fully shattered. He ignored the shards that landed on his hat and coat as he sprinted to the front desk. What he couldn’t ignore was the alarm that was so loud it made him squint as he drove the crowbar into the register. This was not his first burglary, but he feared it may be one of his last. The years were weighing on him and while adrenaline pushed him forward, he was panting more than usual when he made it to his car with the bag of cash. His hands also shook as he tried to put the keys in the ignition. When he tore out of the parking lot he realized he had been too slow this time; a police car followed close behind with its siren blaring and its lights flashing.
His body might be wearing down but his car ran just as well as the day he bought it. The chase continued for several blocks and Tristan noticed he was putting distance between himself and the cop. A traffic light turned red and another driver, either ignoring the siren or not realizing how close it was, moved into the intersection. Tristan had no intention of stopping. He spun the wheel and successfully avoided the other vehicle, but heard a thunk moments before his headlight connected with a streetlamp. As he shifted into reverse he noticed someone who looked familiar on the sidewalk. On account of the excitement it took Tristan a moment to realize why he recognized the man. It was Arnold Draft, the mayor, who was cradling a small body.
Arnold was sobbing, a number of bystanders were crowding the scene, the officer who had been pursuing him at the store was now telling Tristan to get out of the car, and more cops were definitely on the way. Tristan took a chance and accelerated. He clipped a few cars as he swerved to avoid getting hit when the officer opened fire. The rear window and one of the side mirrors shattered but none of the bullets struck him. He turned on the first intersection he came to and drove a few blocks before he pulled over, grabbed the bag, and abandoned the car. He hopped fences and ran through other people’s yards until he came to a one-story adobe house. He ran to the back door and pounded on it until a man answered wearing loose-fitting pants and no shirt.
Tristan pushed the man aside and slammed the door. “Get dressed, Marcus” he panted as he fell to the floor and leaned against a wall. “And be cool.”
“You’re not being cool,” said Marcus.
“I know,” said Tristan. “Jus’ let me… catch my breath. I need… need a ride.”
Marcus snatched the bag and looked inside. “Tristan, what’s going on?”
“Smash-‘n-grab. Went wrong. Don’t worry, I lost da cops.”
“You sure about that?” said Marcus as he looked out the windows.
“Jus’ go n’ get dressed. Gimme a ride… ta my hideout.”
“Get there yourself!”
“Ditched my car. Marcus, please.”
Soon Tristan was lying on the floor in the back of Marcus’ car silently thanking his mother for teaching him the magic word. Marcus drove slow and calm, not drawing attention as he worked his way along dirt roads through the mountains until he came to a weathered shack.
“One mo’ favor,” said Tristan as he grabbed his bag.
Marcus started pulling forward. “No way, I’m done.”
Tristan threw his body onto the hood before the car made a complete circle. “Look, it’s nothin’ hard. Jus’ go ta my place an’ leave my door open a crack.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Please,” said Tristan as he slid off the car. “It’s important ta me.” Marcus left the shack as quickly as Tristan had fled from the store.
Tristan emptied a can of dog food into a bowl near the door before helping himself to spam straight from the can as he counted the money. When he was finished he stared at the open door, unable to sleep. He stayed there until a dog with brown fur scampered inside. It went straight for the food and growled when Tristan tried to pet it. He didn’t need to check the collar. That was definitely Pretzel’s attitude. The dog ran away from Tristan’s house every chance it had, but always wound up at the shack. In a way the hideout was both his and Pretzel’s second home. Tristan closed the door and went to bed. Pretzel stayed up a while longer, running about the house and scratching things, but eventually calmed down and slept as well.
When he woke he let Pretzel outside and ate a bowl of dry cereal before calling Marcus from his land-line phone. There was no answer so he hung up, found a deck of cards, and played Solitaire before trying again. The cycle continued for nearly an hour.
“Stop calling me!” Marcus shouted when he finally picked up. This was followed by a click and silence.
Tristan redialed and needed to wait longer than he was accustomed to before the call was answered. “Marcus, come on, what’s wrong?”
“You didn’t tell me you killed the mayor’s son!”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“The hit-and-run’s all over the news, Tristan. Your picture’s on the TV. The cops are looking for you. Some of them stopped by my place today.”
“But you didn’t tell them nothin’, right?” There was a click. “Marcus? Hello?” He slammed the phone onto the receiver.
It couldn’t be true. He never meant to hurt anyone. He was a burglar, not a killer.
Marcus couldn’t have told the cops anything. They were friends. He had Tristan’s back.
Pretzel’s barking made him check outside. An armored truck was idling in front of the shack. The window rolled down and Arnold’s head poked out. The engine revved and Pretzel’s barking grew louder. Arnold stretched his hand outside the window and held it high with his middle finger extended, and then the truck lurched forward.
Pretzel darted to avoid being run over. Arnold continued and plowed the truck into a section of the shack. The old wooden boards gave way easily and a portion of the structure collapsed. Tristan made it out unharmed and prayed for a miracle as he ran from the roaring engine.
A yelp made him stop. He turned and saw the truck near Pretzel who was on the ground and having trouble getting up. The truck reversed and Tristan watched as his dog’s head was crushed under the tires. He fell to his knees. There was no chance of holding in his tears. The truck made its way his direction and this time he didn’t run. His body stayed still as his mind processed what had just happened.
Moments before the truck struck him he sprang into action. He rolled and the truck rushed past him. He ran, staying away from the road and making his way deeper into the mountains. Arnold tried to follow but the path soon became too steep and rocky for the vehicle to handle. As Tristan made his escape he vowed that he would meet Arnold again and that next time things would go much differently.
----------
Tristan watched from across the street as Arnold entered the restaurant wearing a suit that matched his guest’s. The newspaper article had mentioned the other person was some kind of executive of a big business but Tristan had forgotten most of the details. He waited until Arnold and the executive were seated before entering himself. He hoped he didn’t stand out too much in the slacks and dress shirt he had picked up from a thrift shop which looked like rags compared to what everyone else was wearing. He also hoped he had covered his face well enough. His picture had circulated after the robbery and a hat, glasses, and mustache wasn’t much of a disguise. To his relief, none of the customers gave him a second look.
“Jarred Glassford,” he told the maître d’. “Party of three.” The man behind the podium checked his records and confirmed the reservation. “My friends are running a little late. If there’s a table available, would you mind seating me now?”
“There won’t be a table available for a few minutes, sir.”
“No problem.” He said as he took a seat on a bench near the door. Five minutes later he was called back to the podium where a waiter was standing next to the maître d’.
“We have a table ready, sir. Your friends?”
“Be here soon. They said to hold their spot.” The waiter collected three menus and guided Tristan through the dining area. Tristan scanned the tables and when he located Arnold his fingers and leg muscles twitched, but he hesitated. There was too much space and too many people between them. He continued following the waiter, glancing in Arnold’s direction every few steps.
The executive pointed to a painting on the wall, which made Arnold turn around. The other patrons didn’t pay Tristan any mind but Arnold rose from his chair. “You!” he shouted as he approached Tristan.
Tristan grabbed a knife off of a nearby table and ran at Arnold. Several people screamed and Arnold retreated to his table where he picked up his chair and used it as a shield.
As Tristan feared, someone tried to be a hero. While nowhere close to peak physical condition, he was determined enough to make it difficult for the man trying to wrestle him to the ground. He flailed with the knife while trying to keep his eyes on Arnold, but there were too many people running out of the room. He swung the knife in an ark and felt it sink deep. He wasn’t sure where the blow had landed but the man’s grip went slack and Tristan ran through the crowd. As hard as he searched he was unable to find Arnold. He decided to try again later and fled the scene before law enforcement arrived.
----------
The rain made it difficult to see or maintain his balance, but stopping wasn’t an option. After months of running and hiding the cops had caught up with him. But he couldn’t allow the chase to end yet. Arnold was still alive.
He turned a corner and was met with a group of officers. When he spun around the ones who had been chasing him were close behind. It was over. He fell to his knees and put his hands on his head.
He was handcuffed and forced to his feet. Instead of being led to a vehicle he felt something cold and hard pressed against his spine.
“Mayor Draft sends his regards,” said one of the officers.
Tristan jerked his head back and turned as the gunshot overpowered a distant thunderclap. There was a biting pain near his ribs, but he was still on his feet. He tucked his head and barreled through the other officers who tried to grab him but were unable to keep hold of his slick coat.
The pain became worse with each step. He didn’t know how bad the wound was but his vision was getting blurry. He would not be able to run for very long. He noticed the arroyo, not far away and close to overflowing. He made his way to the sloped concrete and plunged into the water. The handcuffs and injury made it difficult to control his position, but as he tumbled away from the police he was granted brief periods where his head broke the surface.
----------
There was too much security to move around unnoticed, so he watched from the roof of an apartment. Below, Arnold delivered a speech to a crowd that was much smaller than the ones he had drawn earlier in his term. In front of Tristan’s feet was a row of glass bottles filled with gasoline. Instead of caps, they were stoppered with a shred of the city’s flag. He lit the ends of each one and threw them rapidly. He didn’t watch to see if any of them landed on the stage. As soon as he lobbed the last bottle he rushed down the stairs and into the crowd which was now in panic. Tristan blended with the frenzy, pushing people and stepping around pools of flames as he searched for Arnold. It didn’t take long to find his prey. They froze for a moment when their eyes met. Tristan’s hand went under his shirt while Arnold’s went under his suit jacket.
Tristan drew a knife.
Arnold drew a Glock.
Tristan tried to get away but it was impossible with so many people around. He heard a series of small explosions and gritted his teeth, but the pain he was expecting didn’t come. Someone collapsed in front of him with a red stain on their shirt.
Arnold continued firing while Tristan pushed through the crowd. Some of the bullets grazed him, but many left bystanders severely wounded. When the gunfire ceased Tristan glanced backward and saw the security handcuffing what would surely now be the former mayor.
Arnold struggled against the restraints. “Wait! That’s him,” he shouted. The outburst did not seem to mean anything to most of the people holding him down. Arnold looked one of them in the eye. “Larry, that’s Tristan! He’s right there, go get him! I’ll triple your pay!”
Tristan tried to run but tripped over one of the gunshot victims. Soon afterward he felt the weight of the officer on top of him. He lashed out, but the officer was more experienced than the stranger in the restaurant. The knife was pried from his hands and he was handcuffed. “Ya gonna kill me now?” said Tristan. “That’s what Arnold’s payin’ ya’ for, aint’t it?”
The officer leaned close to Tristan’s ear. “Forget the money. This has gone far enough. Both you and the mayor have got a lot to answer for.”
----------
“I know you’re not going to be OK with this,” said the warden. “This used to just be a thing me and a few other guards did every year, but everyone finds out eventually. You might threaten to go public after tonight. You wouldn’t be the first. No one’s ever squealed, though. We all know it’s wrong, but trust me, Ron, it’s hilarious.”
The warden led Ronald to the electric chair where a naked man was secured. On the floor in front of the chair were a tire, a blowtorch, and a tattoo gun made with a battery-powered motor and a pen. Several guards were standing by a wall holding onto a man in a prisoner’s uniform. The prisoner was struggling, but it seemed to be more out of eagerness than aggression. Ronald backed toward the door. The warden touched his shoulder and guided him out of the room.
“The guy in the chair’s Arnold Draft,” explained the warden when they were outside.
“Draft?” said Ronald. “I know about him. At least, I heard some stuff after I moved here.”
“Well, the other one’s Tristan Huckshell. Does that name ring any bells?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think I’ve heard it before.”
“You should have. It’s hard to talk about one without mentioning the other. It took a while catching Tristan and getting him in court, but once there his testimony helped unearth some surprising stories about the mayor. It turns out Arnold was paying several members of the police force to locate Tristan but not capture him. Arnold wanted Tristan dead, but it didn’t go the way he planned. Tristan got away more than once.” There was a scream inside the room. Ronald started toward the door but the warden stopped him.
“I’ve heard the story,” said Ronald. “But what’s with the stuff on the floor?”
“Tristan requested them. It’s his turn. He’s had a whole year to think about what he wants to do to Arnold.”
“And you’re letting him? Why?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe the lengths those two went through to kill each other. Even in prison they tried to go after each other every chance they had. We kept them separated for a while, but we couldn’t help being curious after hearing some of their threats. One day we decided to… let them go at it. In a controlled manner, of course.”
The screaming grew louder. “It doesn’t sound very controlled to me,” said Ronald.
The warden held his hands up in a defensive manner. “Look, we’re keeping a close eye on them. We interfere if we think things are going too far. Besides, it’s not like this happens with every prisoner. It’s just those two, and it’s only one night a year. It’s become a tradition. Like I said, if you want to try stopping it, you wouldn’t be the first. But humor me for one night. Watch what happens, then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to see what Arnold does next year. You know it’s going to be good.”
The warden opened the door and Ronald couldn’t resist peering inside. The tire rested on Arnold’s neck and Tristan melted it with the blowtorch. The tattoo gun had been used to etch a jagged shape on Arnold’s chest.
Ronald’s eyes followed the intersecting lines of the tattoo. “What is that? It kind of looks like a pretzel.”
The warden shrugged. “Don’t think about it too much. Just watch.”
His body might be wearing down but his car ran just as well as the day he bought it. The chase continued for several blocks and Tristan noticed he was putting distance between himself and the cop. A traffic light turned red and another driver, either ignoring the siren or not realizing how close it was, moved into the intersection. Tristan had no intention of stopping. He spun the wheel and successfully avoided the other vehicle, but heard a thunk moments before his headlight connected with a streetlamp. As he shifted into reverse he noticed someone who looked familiar on the sidewalk. On account of the excitement it took Tristan a moment to realize why he recognized the man. It was Arnold Draft, the mayor, who was cradling a small body.
Arnold was sobbing, a number of bystanders were crowding the scene, the officer who had been pursuing him at the store was now telling Tristan to get out of the car, and more cops were definitely on the way. Tristan took a chance and accelerated. He clipped a few cars as he swerved to avoid getting hit when the officer opened fire. The rear window and one of the side mirrors shattered but none of the bullets struck him. He turned on the first intersection he came to and drove a few blocks before he pulled over, grabbed the bag, and abandoned the car. He hopped fences and ran through other people’s yards until he came to a one-story adobe house. He ran to the back door and pounded on it until a man answered wearing loose-fitting pants and no shirt.
Tristan pushed the man aside and slammed the door. “Get dressed, Marcus” he panted as he fell to the floor and leaned against a wall. “And be cool.”
“You’re not being cool,” said Marcus.
“I know,” said Tristan. “Jus’ let me… catch my breath. I need… need a ride.”
Marcus snatched the bag and looked inside. “Tristan, what’s going on?”
“Smash-‘n-grab. Went wrong. Don’t worry, I lost da cops.”
“You sure about that?” said Marcus as he looked out the windows.
“Jus’ go n’ get dressed. Gimme a ride… ta my hideout.”
“Get there yourself!”
“Ditched my car. Marcus, please.”
Soon Tristan was lying on the floor in the back of Marcus’ car silently thanking his mother for teaching him the magic word. Marcus drove slow and calm, not drawing attention as he worked his way along dirt roads through the mountains until he came to a weathered shack.
“One mo’ favor,” said Tristan as he grabbed his bag.
Marcus started pulling forward. “No way, I’m done.”
Tristan threw his body onto the hood before the car made a complete circle. “Look, it’s nothin’ hard. Jus’ go ta my place an’ leave my door open a crack.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Please,” said Tristan as he slid off the car. “It’s important ta me.” Marcus left the shack as quickly as Tristan had fled from the store.
Tristan emptied a can of dog food into a bowl near the door before helping himself to spam straight from the can as he counted the money. When he was finished he stared at the open door, unable to sleep. He stayed there until a dog with brown fur scampered inside. It went straight for the food and growled when Tristan tried to pet it. He didn’t need to check the collar. That was definitely Pretzel’s attitude. The dog ran away from Tristan’s house every chance it had, but always wound up at the shack. In a way the hideout was both his and Pretzel’s second home. Tristan closed the door and went to bed. Pretzel stayed up a while longer, running about the house and scratching things, but eventually calmed down and slept as well.
When he woke he let Pretzel outside and ate a bowl of dry cereal before calling Marcus from his land-line phone. There was no answer so he hung up, found a deck of cards, and played Solitaire before trying again. The cycle continued for nearly an hour.
“Stop calling me!” Marcus shouted when he finally picked up. This was followed by a click and silence.
Tristan redialed and needed to wait longer than he was accustomed to before the call was answered. “Marcus, come on, what’s wrong?”
“You didn’t tell me you killed the mayor’s son!”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“The hit-and-run’s all over the news, Tristan. Your picture’s on the TV. The cops are looking for you. Some of them stopped by my place today.”
“But you didn’t tell them nothin’, right?” There was a click. “Marcus? Hello?” He slammed the phone onto the receiver.
It couldn’t be true. He never meant to hurt anyone. He was a burglar, not a killer.
Marcus couldn’t have told the cops anything. They were friends. He had Tristan’s back.
Pretzel’s barking made him check outside. An armored truck was idling in front of the shack. The window rolled down and Arnold’s head poked out. The engine revved and Pretzel’s barking grew louder. Arnold stretched his hand outside the window and held it high with his middle finger extended, and then the truck lurched forward.
Pretzel darted to avoid being run over. Arnold continued and plowed the truck into a section of the shack. The old wooden boards gave way easily and a portion of the structure collapsed. Tristan made it out unharmed and prayed for a miracle as he ran from the roaring engine.
A yelp made him stop. He turned and saw the truck near Pretzel who was on the ground and having trouble getting up. The truck reversed and Tristan watched as his dog’s head was crushed under the tires. He fell to his knees. There was no chance of holding in his tears. The truck made its way his direction and this time he didn’t run. His body stayed still as his mind processed what had just happened.
Moments before the truck struck him he sprang into action. He rolled and the truck rushed past him. He ran, staying away from the road and making his way deeper into the mountains. Arnold tried to follow but the path soon became too steep and rocky for the vehicle to handle. As Tristan made his escape he vowed that he would meet Arnold again and that next time things would go much differently.
----------
Tristan watched from across the street as Arnold entered the restaurant wearing a suit that matched his guest’s. The newspaper article had mentioned the other person was some kind of executive of a big business but Tristan had forgotten most of the details. He waited until Arnold and the executive were seated before entering himself. He hoped he didn’t stand out too much in the slacks and dress shirt he had picked up from a thrift shop which looked like rags compared to what everyone else was wearing. He also hoped he had covered his face well enough. His picture had circulated after the robbery and a hat, glasses, and mustache wasn’t much of a disguise. To his relief, none of the customers gave him a second look.
“Jarred Glassford,” he told the maître d’. “Party of three.” The man behind the podium checked his records and confirmed the reservation. “My friends are running a little late. If there’s a table available, would you mind seating me now?”
“There won’t be a table available for a few minutes, sir.”
“No problem.” He said as he took a seat on a bench near the door. Five minutes later he was called back to the podium where a waiter was standing next to the maître d’.
“We have a table ready, sir. Your friends?”
“Be here soon. They said to hold their spot.” The waiter collected three menus and guided Tristan through the dining area. Tristan scanned the tables and when he located Arnold his fingers and leg muscles twitched, but he hesitated. There was too much space and too many people between them. He continued following the waiter, glancing in Arnold’s direction every few steps.
The executive pointed to a painting on the wall, which made Arnold turn around. The other patrons didn’t pay Tristan any mind but Arnold rose from his chair. “You!” he shouted as he approached Tristan.
Tristan grabbed a knife off of a nearby table and ran at Arnold. Several people screamed and Arnold retreated to his table where he picked up his chair and used it as a shield.
As Tristan feared, someone tried to be a hero. While nowhere close to peak physical condition, he was determined enough to make it difficult for the man trying to wrestle him to the ground. He flailed with the knife while trying to keep his eyes on Arnold, but there were too many people running out of the room. He swung the knife in an ark and felt it sink deep. He wasn’t sure where the blow had landed but the man’s grip went slack and Tristan ran through the crowd. As hard as he searched he was unable to find Arnold. He decided to try again later and fled the scene before law enforcement arrived.
----------
The rain made it difficult to see or maintain his balance, but stopping wasn’t an option. After months of running and hiding the cops had caught up with him. But he couldn’t allow the chase to end yet. Arnold was still alive.
He turned a corner and was met with a group of officers. When he spun around the ones who had been chasing him were close behind. It was over. He fell to his knees and put his hands on his head.
He was handcuffed and forced to his feet. Instead of being led to a vehicle he felt something cold and hard pressed against his spine.
“Mayor Draft sends his regards,” said one of the officers.
Tristan jerked his head back and turned as the gunshot overpowered a distant thunderclap. There was a biting pain near his ribs, but he was still on his feet. He tucked his head and barreled through the other officers who tried to grab him but were unable to keep hold of his slick coat.
The pain became worse with each step. He didn’t know how bad the wound was but his vision was getting blurry. He would not be able to run for very long. He noticed the arroyo, not far away and close to overflowing. He made his way to the sloped concrete and plunged into the water. The handcuffs and injury made it difficult to control his position, but as he tumbled away from the police he was granted brief periods where his head broke the surface.
----------
There was too much security to move around unnoticed, so he watched from the roof of an apartment. Below, Arnold delivered a speech to a crowd that was much smaller than the ones he had drawn earlier in his term. In front of Tristan’s feet was a row of glass bottles filled with gasoline. Instead of caps, they were stoppered with a shred of the city’s flag. He lit the ends of each one and threw them rapidly. He didn’t watch to see if any of them landed on the stage. As soon as he lobbed the last bottle he rushed down the stairs and into the crowd which was now in panic. Tristan blended with the frenzy, pushing people and stepping around pools of flames as he searched for Arnold. It didn’t take long to find his prey. They froze for a moment when their eyes met. Tristan’s hand went under his shirt while Arnold’s went under his suit jacket.
Tristan drew a knife.
Arnold drew a Glock.
Tristan tried to get away but it was impossible with so many people around. He heard a series of small explosions and gritted his teeth, but the pain he was expecting didn’t come. Someone collapsed in front of him with a red stain on their shirt.
Arnold continued firing while Tristan pushed through the crowd. Some of the bullets grazed him, but many left bystanders severely wounded. When the gunfire ceased Tristan glanced backward and saw the security handcuffing what would surely now be the former mayor.
Arnold struggled against the restraints. “Wait! That’s him,” he shouted. The outburst did not seem to mean anything to most of the people holding him down. Arnold looked one of them in the eye. “Larry, that’s Tristan! He’s right there, go get him! I’ll triple your pay!”
Tristan tried to run but tripped over one of the gunshot victims. Soon afterward he felt the weight of the officer on top of him. He lashed out, but the officer was more experienced than the stranger in the restaurant. The knife was pried from his hands and he was handcuffed. “Ya gonna kill me now?” said Tristan. “That’s what Arnold’s payin’ ya’ for, aint’t it?”
The officer leaned close to Tristan’s ear. “Forget the money. This has gone far enough. Both you and the mayor have got a lot to answer for.”
----------
“I know you’re not going to be OK with this,” said the warden. “This used to just be a thing me and a few other guards did every year, but everyone finds out eventually. You might threaten to go public after tonight. You wouldn’t be the first. No one’s ever squealed, though. We all know it’s wrong, but trust me, Ron, it’s hilarious.”
The warden led Ronald to the electric chair where a naked man was secured. On the floor in front of the chair were a tire, a blowtorch, and a tattoo gun made with a battery-powered motor and a pen. Several guards were standing by a wall holding onto a man in a prisoner’s uniform. The prisoner was struggling, but it seemed to be more out of eagerness than aggression. Ronald backed toward the door. The warden touched his shoulder and guided him out of the room.
“The guy in the chair’s Arnold Draft,” explained the warden when they were outside.
“Draft?” said Ronald. “I know about him. At least, I heard some stuff after I moved here.”
“Well, the other one’s Tristan Huckshell. Does that name ring any bells?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think I’ve heard it before.”
“You should have. It’s hard to talk about one without mentioning the other. It took a while catching Tristan and getting him in court, but once there his testimony helped unearth some surprising stories about the mayor. It turns out Arnold was paying several members of the police force to locate Tristan but not capture him. Arnold wanted Tristan dead, but it didn’t go the way he planned. Tristan got away more than once.” There was a scream inside the room. Ronald started toward the door but the warden stopped him.
“I’ve heard the story,” said Ronald. “But what’s with the stuff on the floor?”
“Tristan requested them. It’s his turn. He’s had a whole year to think about what he wants to do to Arnold.”
“And you’re letting him? Why?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe the lengths those two went through to kill each other. Even in prison they tried to go after each other every chance they had. We kept them separated for a while, but we couldn’t help being curious after hearing some of their threats. One day we decided to… let them go at it. In a controlled manner, of course.”
The screaming grew louder. “It doesn’t sound very controlled to me,” said Ronald.
The warden held his hands up in a defensive manner. “Look, we’re keeping a close eye on them. We interfere if we think things are going too far. Besides, it’s not like this happens with every prisoner. It’s just those two, and it’s only one night a year. It’s become a tradition. Like I said, if you want to try stopping it, you wouldn’t be the first. But humor me for one night. Watch what happens, then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to see what Arnold does next year. You know it’s going to be good.”
The warden opened the door and Ronald couldn’t resist peering inside. The tire rested on Arnold’s neck and Tristan melted it with the blowtorch. The tattoo gun had been used to etch a jagged shape on Arnold’s chest.
Ronald’s eyes followed the intersecting lines of the tattoo. “What is that? It kind of looks like a pretzel.”
The warden shrugged. “Don’t think about it too much. Just watch.”
