Why wait for the hostage negotiator?

Roland would just curse him.

The negotiator would talk nice.

Roland would make more death threats against Sgt. Miller, his prison guard prisoner.

The correctional emergency response team would try to outwit him. Get ready to blow a hole in the roof and rappel down like killer ninjas or some such shit. Prepare to fire gas grenades. Pose for effect in armored tactical gear like honkies from outer space.

He’d just tighten his grip on Miller’s throat and threaten to plunge the shank into his Adam’s apple. He’d keep cursing and bad-mouthing the white man’s system. He’d finally take a stand.

The negotiator would make bullshit promises about inmate health care and human rights.

And, if Roland gave up the hostage unharmed they’d beat him into a coma, throw him in the hole and torture him every way they could for the rest of his life without leaving physical marks. Maybe even pay a white Aryan Nations killer to rape him.

Roland lost no matter how this shook out.

So fuck it.

Plunging the shank deep into the guard’s throat, he twisted the blade, ripping the sharpened metal blade in and out and up and down. Dripping blood, Roland screamed his dirty words against the white world that held him down. CERT was on him fast, pulling what was left of the sergeant from his clutches, ripping Roland’s shirt, punching and pounding him with flashlights, illegal lead-lined sap gloves and batons. These elite officers, all white, cursed, too, calling him ten different kinds of nigger.

Days later when Roland came to in the prison infirmary, he spotted a familiar form in a bed across the room.

Boo Boo? That you?

With his throat swollen from taking heavy kicks, talking hurt real bad.

Boo, he said.

Boo.

Who are you, Casper the friendly ghost?

Painfully turning his head to look over his right shoulder, Roland saw Lt. Smith standing behind his bed.

Sgt. Miller’s dead. You did a real number on him.

He pushed too far. All you motherfuckers push too far.

We let you live because of the surveillance cameras. 

Will you let Boo Boo live?.

Too late for that, Smith said.

As Roland strained against leg and wrist restraints to see his friend, he saw the inmate orderlies pull the sheet over Boo Boo’s head and wheel his bed from the room.

Corona bug got him, Lt. Smith said.

Tears rolled down Roland’s bruised cheeks.

I tried to help. I begged Miller. Boo Boo deserved help.

You must have caught the infection, too, Smith said. I can see germs jumping up and down in your eyes. Yeah, you definitely got the bug.

I’ve never been tested, you fool.

No, you’re sick enough to die.

I’m not sick.

Let me help you.

Taking a fist fill of Roland’s thick Afro, the guard lifted the prisoner’s head. He wrapped the plastic intravenous line around Roland’s neck. Pulling the IV line as tight as he could, he tightened his grip. With his other hand he pulled the pillow from under Roland’s head and slammed the thick cushion over Roland’s face. Pushing with all his 260-pound bulk, he cut off any remaining oxygen to Roland’s nose and mouth, using his forearm to press with all his might against Roland’s throat until the prisoner stopped struggling.

After removing the pillow, Smith undid the plastic tubing and checked to make sure he had disconnected the surveillance camera properly. The corrections officer called out when the inmate interns returned to the room.

Over here, he said.

Smith slowly shook his head.

Respiratory failure, he said.

Another one bites the dust.