A Wizard's Succession 11

*** Chapter 11: One Winter Night

Marco ate his breakfast with great gusto as he found a renewed vigor and spark in his life. He finally found love in Aldrin, and he hoped he did the same. As he ate, a paperboy delivered the newspaper right at their doorstep, and asked for payment. Aldrin fumbled through his purse and gave the kid a few loose change. Something that the kid frowned upon on and murmured, "Gee, thanks, mister "'

That's all what's left in it, anyway.

"Hey, I got the paper,' he mused to Marco.

"What's new?'

"Some " breakout in Norway,' Aldrin continued, "and the Norwegian government wanted to keep the Interpol on high security. Guess these crooks are wanted, all right.'

What the world doesn't know is that within that group of fugitives, one is not a member of the maximum security. According to a warden of the high-level prison, the breakout happened two days before the publication of the news about it. News was delayed because they had to secure the premises before they made a statement, which included rounding up the other prisoners, fixing the escapeway, and identifying the escaped fugitives. As he finished his statement, the warden confirmed that there were four fugitives escaped, one of them happened to be newly incarcerated.

But it was more than that "

--- IN NORWAY ---

The four fugitives were on the run, away from the government, away from the seething eyes of the public, away from everything. One of them didn't want to leave prison just yet because the governess promised him full parole if he stayed there as her sole desire. Heck, he was treated better than anything from his entire life. But only one thing made him join the ruse.

He wanted to see her again.

He was in prison for at least 9 years, and his name shook the souls of any inmate who dared cross paths with him. Even the other two of his escapees feared him, but one grew rather fond of him, for he reminded that man of his own father he never had.

And the very first day in prison was the one he couldn't get rid of.

***

'You're in here.'

The lad walked through the forbidding doorway. His new home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a spacious anteroom. The door was slammed shut behind him as his eyes adjusted to the bright light inside and reluctantly opened another door. A generously furnished space, enough for two comfortable beds, complete with house appliances, fully furnished washroom, and a welcoming atmosphere made his stomach lurch in confusion.

Is this really a prison?

He instantly knew he would never survive in here. He was sure of it, before he got himself arrested. As his eyes scanned the room, he saw a tall, well-muscled man dressed only in boots and jeans. The man was beside the bed furthest the door, doing press-ups on the floor. He was doing it one-armed when the lad took notice. His working arm bulged, taut. He grunted with each thrust, switching after ten to repeat with the other arm. After a good ten more, he finally stopped. He pushed himself up, bounded with surprising swiftness for his size, and stood massaging his left arm with his right.

He noticed the tattoos adorning the man's enormous chest, which are fuzzed with hair. A deep scar ran on the man's lower lip on his left side. He was built for anything, and with just a stare can mean business, benign or otherwise. As the lad stared, the man returned his gaze with a direct stare at him with an inscrutable expression. It's not outright hostility, but it's not hospitality either. After a good ten seconds of silence, the man just nodded curtly at the newcomer.

'About time.' He pointed at the other bed. 'Yours.'

'Right,' the lad mustered.

Stanislav, or Stan, was the local neighborhood tough kid who'd got in with the wrong place at the wrong time. Though he was tough as nails, the only serious crime he committed was stealing a car. He didn't want his mother to suffer another indignity, yet he wasn't experienced, nor fast enough. That was why he was going to be in here for at least the next two years. Still, he knew enough to know trouble when he saw it, and this guy looked like one. He put his stuff on the bed and sat down, took a deep breath. Take it easy, Stan, you're not going anywhere.

The man was back down on the floor now doing another set. The lad watched him cautiously out of curiosity; not much else to look at after all. The man's measured breathing filled the room, his broad back beading with sweat. He was sweating an awful lot, even though the room's fully air-conditioned, and the window displayed a velvet carpet of fresh white snow. Nine. Ten. Switch. One. Two Three...

'How old are you?'

Stan jerked back to reality. He was mesmerized by the up-and-down movement of the chunky torso. He'd barely acknowledged that the man was now resting on his knees, still on all fours, and was facing him again.

'19'

'Thought so. My kid's nearly that age.'

The workout resumed. Crunches now. The man didn't seem too unfriendly, Stan thought. Gruff, yeah, but that was hardly a surprise. Still, something had lodged itself in his gut the minute their eyes met, and refused to go away. He couldn't say what it was. He no longer had any private space, and this unnerved him as much as anything. The man was soon back on his feet. He stretched both arms above his head and breathed out loudly, then dropped them again. His sheer physical presence dominated the room.

An uncomfortable silence"

'You work out?'

'Yeah, sometimes.'

The man stared at him impassively and clicked his fingers, pointed at the floor, and said, "Pushups. Thirty.' Before he knew it, Stan was on all fours, doing what he was told. He couldn't say no to the big lug, as fear gripped his very being the minute he stepped inside. The adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream, and it made him at ease. He badly needed to divert his mind from everything. And, having a mate to work out with made his stay a bit easier. But, above all, he didn't want to disappoint this man. He reached the end of the set and sat up, breathing calmly, determined to show he could hack the pace. His arms ached, but he could do plenty more. This made him sweat, and feel hot. He followed the man's example and took off his T-shirt, throwing it on the bed. The man nodded curtly.

'Not bad. Again.'

Stan went down again and bid his time. The adrenaline still coursed inside him, but he still had control over him. He is fairly fit, a runner's build as one might say. But, he's got nowhere to run now. The man drank water from a cup, his eyes watching in strict contemplation. Stan's not too tall, has pale skin, short spiky black hair, and very well defined with smooth skin. As he finished drinking from his cup, he saw the lad's eyes looking at him expectantly. He looks younger than a 19 year old. He looks more like 16, and vaguely familiar, thought the man.

'OK. That'll do for now.'

Stan slowly stood up and rubbed his arms. 'I'm Stanislav, by the way'.

The man stared right through him again. Silence.

'Don't care for names much.'

The lad feared he had made a big mistake without realizing it. The fear resurfaced.

'Oh. Yeah. Sure.'

Another silence.

'The others call me Marx. But you ... you can call me dad.'

Now THAT was weird. But trouble was staring him right in the face, and the guy certainly wasn't joking. Just do what he says, Stan. Just do what he says.

'Okay.'

Nothing further was said for several hours. The man carried on his workout a while. Stan lay down on his bed and tried to take stock of his situation. He must have drifted off at some point. The first snowy night drew in. There were several hours of respite outside. As he neared the dining hall, every prisoner was as orderly as a lost child in middle school. The food is indeed scrumptious, but it all felt surreal. Stan noticed that the prison wardens were all women, but he dared not to ask. He took it all in: calm, cautious, ready to laugh at any jokes, no emotions, mind on the edge, trusting no-one. He got to play some hoops for a short while with some other guys older than him, but before too long he was trudging back to his room.

His inmate wasn't there, but followed him in less than twenty seconds later. The man pulled off his T-shirt to reveal his well-exercised tank of a torso once more and flung himself down on his bed. He pulled out a motorbike mag from a pile underneath and began to read. Stan hadn't brought anything to read, but did have a pack of cards which he shuffled through while sat staring into space. He stole a few glances of his intimidating cell mate. Time passed.

"Want to play a game?'

Stan looked over to see the man staring right through him again.

'Sure...' - only the slightest pause - 'dad.' He almost laughed at how easy it was. All the rules had changed now. This will be his life now. The man cocked his head slightly. 'Want something to drink?'

'You got any?'

'Got a supplier.'

Well, that was a turn up and no mistake. Stan needed a drink more than just about anything. The man produced a bottle of indecipherably labeled vodka from behind his bed and proceeded to pour a large measure into both plastic cups, handing one over.

'Thanks.'

The lad eagerly took a swig. Then he slowly savored it, breathed the fumes out and broke into a broad grin. The man grinned back at him.

'Fuck, that's good. I needed that.'

'No problem.'

They played rummy on the table in their room, and sat opposite each other. Stan managed well to start with, but increasingly began to lose, much to his annoyance. His cup was refilled.

'Ah, bullshit. I'm usually better than this.'

'Just my lucky day.'

They continued for some time, saying nothing much. Stan finally managed to claw back some dignity by winning a few hands. Then out of nowhere:

'You want to know why I've told you to call me dad?'

The man was looking up at the lad while still hunched over the table, like he was ready to strike. Stanislav, buzzed up now on the alcohol, nodded.

'It's because I'm going to protect you. Without that, you'll get your pretty little face gone within the next week or so, I can guarantee that. I know this place, been here 8 years. What you need to know is, my word goes. I say no one lays a fucking finger on you, that's it. Simple. They know better than to mess with me.' He reclined now on his chair, cards still in one hand and thumb of the other hooked in his jeans pocket. He stared. Stan didn't know how to respond.

Sounds good, maybe too good to be true.

So that meant there had to be a catch.

'But I'm not doing it for free, kiddo. You have to give me something back for that protection.'

There's the catch, but he was glum about it. 'Sure, but... I got no money.'

"I'm not talking about money."

'So what then?'

'One, you're gonna help with my business activities: some blood needed to run their noggin', know what I mean? I'll cut you in some. Two, you're gonna work out with me and massage me if I'm feeling tight. My shoulders are kinda bad right now. Better yet, you have to ease every tension I have, and you ought to do everything, and I mean EVERY DAMN THING, to relieve me from it. If you agree on these, then I can guarantee your safety.'

This was all said in such a normal way, that Stan could barely believe it. What kind of business does he conduct in here? Is it illegal? Dangerous? Questions kept swimming in his mind, and yet he was compelled to ask.

'Dad ... Er ... Business. Yeah. You just tell me what I need to do and I'll do it. Whatever you want. Be cool to work out with you too, and all that stuff. But ... But the business ... Is it safe? Legal, in some aspects?'

An uncomfortable silence. The man stared blankly at him and put down his cards. He emptied his cup of vodka in one sharp swallow and slammed the cup down on the table and proceeded to pour out another measure, still saying nothing.

'Course it is legal, kiddo. Listen, you think these blokes are as meek as lamb? They're not. I was locked up here longer than those sumbitches, and these ladies -  yep, those wardens -- they ain't gonna last long, either. With only a few guys as wardens, this place has nothing left to chance,' he said, allowing him to swallow another swig, and serve another measure, "so... I'm gonna teach you how everything works, and keep you safe, and you're gonna, well, help me out. Simple.'

Silence again. The lad stared as if he still didn't understand. Marx put his cards on the table and quickly leaned forward to roughly grab the lad's chin in one meaty hand. He brought his own face up close, snarling and fierce.

'It's a rather generous offer, son, believe me. You don't want to get on the losing side in this place. If you do as I say, you might get lucky. Deal?'

He let go and sat back in his chair. Stan rubbed his jaw and looked at him. He knew there was no way out of this one. Fight the guy? Ha, what a joke. He'd be scraping him off the walls. The thug had him over a barrel alright. Why had they put him in here with him?

'Deal?'

Safety, and for what? For "business'? He was terrified as hell, and yet his adrenaline coursed in his veins. Though they weren't much of a use right now. Stan swallowed hard, trying to grope for his answer.

'Deal?'

Marx stared at the boy. He knew that the kid wouldn't fight him. That would be like a matchstick against an oak tree. Now that he knew what the kid would answer, he felt grateful to the governess. A new helping hand that would gladly do anything for him. Stan looked again at the menacing figure barely a few feet away and couldn't hold the sheer force of the man's stare. He looked down. Trouble wasn't the half of it. He could feel his heart pounding. This was a test, he thought. That's all. New rules. He'd have to get through it somehow. The words fell out of him.

'Sure, dad. Whatever you want.'

He looked back up to see a grin and a glint in the man's eyes.

'That's my boy.' He picked up his cards again, keeping his eyes fixed on the lad. 'Your turn.'

Stanislav returned to the game, barely able to concentrate. He couldn't think of the manner of business his newfound dad said. His head swam with the various types of business thugs do and he lost another hand. He swigged more vodka. They played on for a while. It was December evening, and the aircon hummed gently. Yet to Stan, the room was oppressively hot. He removed his T-shirt. The man watched him, and did a half-grin. They played some more, with Marx drinking all of the vodka, with Stan taking a few swigs. They continued to play until Marx gingerly touched his forehead and cleared his throat.

'I guess that's it. I'm tired as shit.'

Stan, being tipsy, also felt woozy. But his job had begun already. Marx clicked his fingers at him and said, "Sleep tight kiddo. Business starts early tomorrow.'

"Er, yeah " sure " Dad "'

Marx slept soundly the minute he lay down on his bed. The man surely was tired, after all. And deep down, Stan knew that his second job has begun. He did not sleep right away. He drank the last few ounces of vodka while staring at his old man. Marx, in fact, did look like someone.

Someone he knew that existed in his memory, but not quite sure where, or when.

Marx slept stark naked, save for his faded gray boxers. He was snoring all the way, his handsome face cupped by his right hand as Stan observed his newfound father doze off. He crept closer to his dad, wobbling in the process. In his drunken stupor, Stan delved in his father's innocent state. Marx has auburn hair, with his temples going gray. His body was built like a god, with his firm, slightly fuzzy, bulky chest rising and falling gently with each breath. His pale skin is tanned on his arms and legs. His thighs are thick and laced with muscle and fat, calves that demonstrate raw strength.

As Stan gazed at Marx, he felt compelled to get closer and feel him up. He knew that alcohol was his main drive in this rather dangerous exploration of this male territory. But still, he was still feeling chickened out, fearing that he might wake up soon.

Stan slowly went closer, stared knowingly over Marx, until he saw something peeking out of the bike mag he was reading earlier. It was tucked between the bed and Marx's arm. Gently and deftly, he pulled the other magazine that was tucked in by the bike mag and Marx, and read it.

It was a porn magazine. He chuckled and marveled at how his old man had sneaked this thing.

He opened at random, finding a sexy young blonde spread-eagled with her fingers in her pussy and licking her lips. Fuck. He felt his dick stir immediately into action. He turned the page to another picture of her on all fours displaying her pert behind. His hand moved to gently rub his dick through his jeans and his mouth fell lightly open. He turned to yet another page. This time, with eyes to camera, it was a close up of her face, mouth clasped around some guy's veiny dick. He rubbed himself harder and lightly moaned.

He was seriously enjoying this build up.

Stan focused hard on the picture again, the pretty face being violated. Either she was fairly petite or that was one monster dick she was taking.

All the tension that had been building since he'd arrived was being slowly relieved by his arousal. Look at it, Stanislav. Drink that beauty in. She was getting what she deserved, and she loved it. The horny youngster felt the porn and alcohol pushing insistently at his inhibitions. He knew where this was all leading and wasn't going to pretend otherwise. He just had to let himself go with the flow. No point fighting.

As he gazed on the magazine, Marx woke up.

"Hey, kiddo "'

Stan shot up.

"Show me that,' he ordered. Stan showed him the picture.