Stewart had been a designer dope dealer, believing, well, kind of believing, that he was a different sort of entrepreneur.
Yeah.
Had bought his own scummy act, just supplying what the people wanted and had his rules.
Jesus.
Like that made it different.
He didn’t deal in heroin. As if all the other shite he peddled wasn’t lethal. How he met Jack Taylor, one of his regulars. He knew he was in deep and deepest shit when during process, the guard said,
“Pretty boy, I give you a week before you top yourself.”
And the thug he’d been manacled to, giggling,
“They’ll run the train on you, nancy boy.”
He learnt fast that the train was serial rape and the train ran all the long day. He took some severe beatings, which in a bizarre way stopped him from suicide.
Who had the time?
They’re kicking the living hell out of you at every moment, who had the energy to kill themselves? He’d have gone under, no doubt, just wrapped his neck in those wet sheets and let it swing. Then, his sister was murdered.
And everything changed.
Stewart didn’t know then about love but he did know he adored his sister. It was like a click in his head, the warden telling him,
“Your sister killed herself, probably so ashamed of you.”
He didn’t go after the warden. He went to the yard, walked up to the train head honcho, said,
“Any last words?”
The guy and his crew laughed, laughed a lot. Here was this yuppie, wannabe player, giving them cheek. The guy spat on Stewart’s prison-issue sneakers, said,
“You going to off me, that it, yah little queer?”
Stewart wondered why they not only aped American gangsters but spoke like them, too. Stewart glanced around at this guy’s crew, said in a calm level voice,
“I’m going to kill him now, then, day by day, I’m going to kill each and every one of you.”
The laughter had eased a bit, this wasn’t your everyday occurrence, a nerd not only called out the most dangerous guy on the yard but threatened his whole team.
The guy, his smirk less smirksome, asked,
“What you got homie, beside your head up your arse?”
Stewart used the palm of his right hand to slam the guy’s nose all the way to his brain. Killed him stone dead, turned, said,
“One down…”
No recriminations, no payback. The warden figured if the worst guy in the prison got taken care of, good.
Then he waited in his cell for hell or Armageddon. He was the most lethal kind of man now. He just didn’t care, and that vibe leaked its way to the crew who were clamoring for his head.
Day One….threats.
Day Two…silence.
The third day, a guy appeared in his cell, said,
“Enough.”
Stewart, working on marine exercises he’d found on the Internet, paused, asked,
“Is it?”
The guy was nervous, they’d never come across such a case. How do you deal with a man who truly doesn’t care? He tried,
“We want to call a truce, nobody will bother you and, if you like, we’d be glad to have your back.”
Stewart wanted to shout,
“Stop with the pseudo-American. You fucks tried to have my back all right.”
He said,
“I’ll give it some thought.”
And so began his Zen education.
He devoured everything he could on the subject and then got in touch with Jack Taylor. The broken-down PI solved his sister’s murder. For that, Stewart would always be in his debt. In a hugely overpopulated prison system, Stewart remained solo. No one, not one con, would cell with him. He got a makeshift desk, hung above it the following:
“….In the hour of adversity be not afraid for
Crystal Rain falls from
Black Clouds.”
He worked out every day.
Hard.
Till his body screamed,
“Enough.”