Things could go sideways right about then. Or they could stay okay.

Finally Tonk hooted. “Nobody knows you like your cellie, right buddy?” Fishoil didn’t raise his head. Fishoil could have been in the trailer with Martin Luther King and Batman and if there was powder on the table he wouldn’t have noticed. He just stared at the drugs. Only this time Tonk noticed. There was bad silence, until you couldn’t take it and blurted. (Whenever Mommy and Tonk stopped talking, somebody ended up with a dented head, so you wanted to make nice… “Mr. Fishoil,” you started, not even knowing what was going to come out until it did. “Mr. Fishoil, how come your lips don’t move when you talk?”)

(Because they didn’t. Not even a little. His mouth might have been painted on. That’s why his moustache didn’t move.)

“Why, you disrespectful—”

Tonk swung for you and Fishoil grabbed his fist. Stopped it two inches from your face.

“See that?” Tonk hoot-laughed. “Reflexes like a fly. Convict reflexes.”

“Shut up,” Fishoil said, in a voice that sounded like chewed tin; then, in a kindly voice, he spoke to you. “Chow line,” he said, actually letting his lips move a little. “In Attica, they didn’t want you talking in chow line.”

Towards the end, Tonk took to clutching his testicles, huddling on the floor in the tight space between the couch and the coffee table. He couldn’t meet your eyes. Because he had meat on his eyes. “It’s the only thing that blocks the light. I’m drying up,” he’d exclaim. He was jumpy, wedged in, sweaty and naked. The table made deep indentations on his chest, underlining his pink nipples.

The doorbell’s disconnected and you won’t tap on the windows because You Know How He Is. He won’t wash his feet—or anything else—but he cleans his Lugers. When he finally opens the door, it’s by accident. He crawls right by you, on all fours, in what is either war-paint or some Special Ops combo of mustard, ketchup, and guano, muttering: “I am the insect of death, lord of dread and fuck-lust.” He shivers and cranes his neck like he’s trying to bite his ears. “I am. The Insect. Of Death. With dread. And fuck-lust…”

You sneak past him, close the door behind you, lock it, and sit on the floor. You want to be a kid. “I am The Insect!” His voice rises. When the pounding starts, you cover your ears. Now he’s wailing. Now he’s banging his head, too loud for your hands to keep the sound out. “Death and fuck-lust.” You think: he locks up his guns. You shake your Mommy. But Mommy’s crashing. You shake her again. She’s gone white zombie. Tonk slams his face off the window. The trailer shakes. “I am an INSECT.” He face-slams again, railing. “…OF DEATH!” Glass shatters. Tonk tumbles through. Scraped bloody. Erect. He slaps a knife-size shard from his eye, giggle-howling. “FUCKLUST!” You stagger backward, groping, when he lunges. Say the words before you hear them. Hell Box. You think: nail-bomb, clarinet, gun. Then, you reach. You—