WARDEN GRAVES WAS FORCED DOWN into her rotating office chair behind her desk — with the machete end at her throat. The guilt-filled and distressed Ramirez in a shaky voice was reasoning out aloud in Spanish, before executing her...

He was right now, caught in-between his past loyalty to her, and with his current arrangement for his survival...

"I have no choice Warden — either, I hand you to them — or the Sambos will kill me!"

The speechless Graves looked back at him outright with desperate thoughts...

'Where is that fat-assed Olsen? She was supposed to be here to protect! That dolt is never reliable and screws-up any given orders!'

Now Graves was desperately countering Ramirez by knocking some senses into the rubicund ruffian, with any thinkable promise from off her sleeves to stay alive...

"Please consider my offer, Ramirez — if you help me now — I will get Governor Harris to pardon you — and she will cut you a deal, so you will walk away Scotts-free, with your prison record squashed clean, how about it?"

"I am so sorry Erica, this is not a horse trade — if I come back empty-handed, I am already a dead-meat, the moment I walk out of this door — It is too late for anything now..."

The anguished Intersexual responded, but the woman was still hindering with her roseate options...

"Please listen here, I have always been lenient to you and your people since you all arrived here — return me this favour and help me escape — and, you can come with me too — I know a secret passage that will get us both out of Tombscradle undetected. Once we are outside — you will be pardoned for your heroic bravery in rescuing me the prison warden — and you will definitely get your immunity...

"Come on Julio, we can escape together!"

Ramirez was befuddled but at the same time, he was aware that those Blacks rivals were having the upper hand in the gen-pop numbers, and now they were also armed...

Even if he did escape to the outside world, and was amnestied by the governor as promised — the word would then be out in the streets...

The facts of the two cell blocks of almost 500 Hispanic, butchered by the Blacks for the price of his freedom — he would still end up dead, in the midst of his criminal underworld community.'

The corollaries made the malady Ramirez doubt in the warden's persuasive coaxes...

He was angrily ribald at the inflated woman now — who was simply stalling her own death...

"Pardoned? Hah, I don't believe that puta Governor of Texas would grant me that. The bitch will just throw me into another prison — because to all you women, we are just are mere freaks — so that, you can milk semen out of our fucking dicks — Why, so that, you cunts can multiply, and walk forever on the earth!!?"

The machete struck down, and chipped the wooden surface of the warden's desk...

The warden saw that Ramirez was adamant in his decision to execute her — and, her only way out, was to take him out herself — there was a .9mm Luger inside her desk drawer...

She had to move in with discreet — and execute him fast...

"Look, you are not thinking ahead, Ramirez! Come, let me put that on paper — and you can have a proof of my word!"

Her hand reached and opened the drawer — but, Ramirez had a fleeting sight of her palming the pistol inside — he refluxed with the wielded machete with unprompted swiftness — and, the rotating chair revolved a full circle, before revealing his handiwork for his own eyes...

A glimpse at the headless Graves...

"So, you wanna put your words on paper, you cunting puta bitch? Hah! I rather will put my freedom in your own puta blood!"

Crimson thick blood from the machete dribbled down, and Ramirez was still cursing in Spanish — recalling his years in paying the price of bartering sexual favours with the woman of authority who held him captive — bartering sex to the 'Cougar' for the saccharine privileges given to him and his people; ever since the age of eleven.

He stepped out from that office, gripping the woman's severed head by the hair — it swung like a pendulum — leaving behind a dripping trail of worming red scintilla bloodspots on the floor.

*

They remained hidden in a locked windowless pantry room. The wall clock was pointing way past their lunchtime — the Wesleyans were normally the early-birds lining up in the prison mess hall during all their meals — but anyway, nobody expected that today was the Redemption Day — with the crazy Preacher starting his promised revolution in Tombscradle, without any prior warning to them or anyone...

But, it was not a wasted day either...

The three Intersexuals had devoured slovenly with the sop of food from the refrigerator, satisfying their sweet-tooth with real candies, cookies and pastries at the pantry.

It was something they had not indulged for a long time since they left Wesleyan — it was where the meals were finer over there, prepared by European chefs — compared to — the mysterious processed meat patty that was served in the prison's chow menu — that tasted the same, whether it was poultry or bovine.

They could hear the faint skirmish outside the locked door in the IMU administration building — but. they remained seated on the floor — waiting for the ordeal to settle down on its own — but, Joe was restive and he suggested out to Kiki-boy and Hank...

"We can't stay here, let's go now."

"Then what, face those Jamaicans coons out there again? They almost fuckin' killed us just now, right? I say that once all the fighting is over, we then go out — are you with me, Hankster?"

Kiki-boy looked at his gang-mate who normally concurred to almost anything he advocated, which were normally mere specious and unavailing based excuses...

But, Hank was silent in thoughts and Kiki spoke out...

"What are you thinking, bro? I am thinking, that this Fat-fuck here is gonna get shot dead, the moment he walks out that door!"

Joe felt it was even more unsafe to remain there because the guards may walk in and probably put a bullet each into them — so he voiced his gravity out at Kiki for remaining inaction, after enthusiastically volunteering in the prison yard earlier, to participate in the Preacher's reinforcement calling.

Big-Joe then made a splenetic remark...

"Do you know, you just monkey-mouth, and you only good at bragging in a lot of shit, Kiki — but deep inside, you are just a real fucking pussy?"

"Fuck, you fat-assed ding! How do you expect us to fight out there without any damn weapons!!? Even that fuckin' bitch Reeves Jensen had on lying to us that the Preacher is getting us guns — and look at us now, we are fucking cornered in here!

"Use the little brains of yours, Joe, it is wiser to hide in here, than we risking our lives out there!"

Kiki became defensive and was still untenable...

It had been half an hour since the craven Wesleyans locked themselves up in the pantry — so Joe finally stood up and exasperated...

"Fine, you stay, I am out of here..."

Joe started walking to the door. Kiki-boy was bowled over for a second when his buddy Hank also stood up saying...

"I am going too Boy, what is the fucking use of hiding in here?"

Kiki-boy now made a snide remark out to him, with remonstration...

'Hank, so, are you also a stupid moron like that goofy-fat 'J Cat'? You follow his ass now, you are gonna get yourself ki-killed out there we-without a gun, you f-fool!"

"Then remain here in the Enterprise, Captain Kiki-Kirk."

Hank smug back — it baffled Kiki more, who was now left alone in the pantry room...

"Hank, fuck you! You-ki-ki-kunt!"

Kiki-boy's actual name was Kirk — with last name unknown...

He used to stammer a lot when he was excited and panicked when he was younger in Wesleyan — and he usually went stuttering 'ki-ki-ki' — before he started uttering any sentence, and even to his own real name — so, the nickname stuck.

The annoyed Kiki was left alone, threw the half carton of orange juice that he earlier had slaked. He got on his feet and left the room to join them. Kiki trailed alone on the elongated hallway until he spotted Hank and Joe ahead, staring inside a separate room. When he reached them, he shared the spectacle which they both were peculiarly looking at...

It hung above, from the ceiling.

The trio froze in shock awhile, viewing in horrid at a sanguinary sight of the naked Capt. Olsen strung up to a slow rotating ceiling fan...

All her four limbs were severed off at the joints — her face was bleeding with pencils impelled into her eyeballs and earlobes — two soda bottles were inside both of her sexual orifices.

The Black Jamaicans had left behind their spite message, for their growing hatred at the thriving Aryan-Pride movement among the guards in Tombscradle — where many guards rococo hate-tattoos on their arms emulating Capt. Olsen — Walking-Tall like some 'Buford-Pusser' figure, and they whipped anyone in their way with their rotangs.

Joe switched off the slow rotating fan which had caused the blood drips in circular motion, forming bloody scintilla rings on the outer floor...

The severed limbs of Capt. Olsen's tattooed arms and legs too were in the middle of the room — bent and displayed in the likeness shape of a Nazi Swastika on the floor — inside in rings of splats of her own blood.

"Is she dead?"

The wide-eyed Kiki-boy murmured, standing behind the two bigger Wesleyan boys who then stepped closer, to check the moribund and motionless hanging body of the blinded Olsen. The Captain of Guards' limbless body then gave a sudden jolting jerk-like movement — her erected head, screaming out defensively...

"You fucking Niggers!"

The 'Billies' trio soon scrambled out of the room — shrieking in fright — into the hallway.

*

Only a dozen of the surviving Elite soldiers stood the ground, fighting back the advancing hordes of armed Intersexuals in the prison yard. The rabble numbers had been significantly reduced in the ghastly battle with the shooting Blacks, Whites and Asians.

A frightened e-SWAT member pleaded to Commander Petersburg...

"Sir, we have to retreat, we have to run — there are too many of them!"

It was a wise measure before the mission's e-SWAT platoon amounted to none — but, the conceited Commander barked her spleen out...

"No soldier! We stay put and we fight back! The backup is coming any moment — just hold on and fight!"

The livid Petersburg had refused to yield to the untenable defeat of her military-trained troop to a mob of uprising teenage guerillas — led by a proletarian cursed monk who was going to ruin her career again if he won...

Reeves from the rooftop looked over his shoulder, to approaching rotor sound — and he spotted the twin combat Blackhawk helicopters soaring into the horizon, coming towards Tombscradle...

Hajja heard it too, he mottled susceptible at afar, of what was emerging from the late afternoon sun.

"Fuck, what now?"