Michael Darko was assigned a cell in Level Three Housing, a facility for homicidal offenders capable of self-restraint. Two guards walked him to his new home, turned him over to yet more guards, who processed him into their facility. He was then given fresh bedding, and led to his cell.

He arrived during the afternoon break, a time at which the cells on the main block were open, and main block prisoners were allowed to mingle in the common areas.

The two guards brought Darko to his cell and pointed out a sheet-less bunk.

“This side. Your bunkie’s a brother named Nathaniel Adama-bey. Calls himself a Moor. He’s in for two homicides, but he ain’t so bad.”

“I am sure we will become great friends.”

“I’m sure you will.”

The guards left, and Darko turned to his bunk. He unrolled the mattress, straightened it, then picked up his sheet. It was coarse, and stiff with plenty of starch. Darko hated making a bed, and wished he had one of his whores to take care of it. Then he chuckled. Maybe he would make this Nathaniel Adama-bey his whore, and then Nathaniel could do it.

Darko unfolded the sheet, and shook it into the air to open it. The sheet billowed out, and floated for a moment like a great white bubble. The bubble was still in the air when Michael Darko slammed face-first into the wall, breaking his nose. Then an arm as hard as steel locked around his throat, and something stung his back like an angry wasp, low on his side over his kidney—stickstickstick, stickstickstick, stickstickstick—a sharp pricking that happened too fast to hurt, and moved from his side to his ribs—stickstickstick, stickstickstick.

Michael Darko tried to rise, but the man kept him off balance—stickstickstick—until a hissing, hot breath scalded his ear.

“Don’t die yet, not yet.”

Darko was flipped over. He saw a short Asian man with tremendous shoulders and arms, whose face was dimpled with scars as if from horrible wounds. Michael Darko tried to raise his hands, but couldn’t. He tried to defend himself, but was beyond all that. The man’s arm moved as furiously as a needle on a sewing machine—stickstickstick, stickstickstick—punching Darko in the chest with an ice pick.

Michael Darko watched himself being killed.

The man suddenly grabbed Darko’s face, and leaned close with his rage, close enough for a kiss.

“You’re gonna meet Frank Meyer, you piece of shit. Tell’m Lonny sends his love.”

The man shoved the ice pick hard into Darko’s chest, all the way to the hilt, and abruptly walked away.