A cigarette in his hand, a young man relaxes on a bench of the San Diego prison. Having just arrived, he takes care to savor carefully the few herbs that cost him his shoes.
Looking closely at the fence in front of him, he wonders if he will ever come out of this place, or if the court that promised him life imprisonment for the assassination of an assassin will drive him to suicide before that.
The tattoos that mark his skin would make any decent person avoid him, but for his fellow prisoners, they only incite provocation.
Here, everything is ruled by brute force, being smart, handsome and whatnot has absolutely no value.
"hey." A tough looking guy with a white tank top with suspicious stains on it walks up to the tattooed man and challenges him, trying to judge his reaction. People around having nothing better to do turn around hoping to enjoy a show. This is for them the usual ceremony that all newcomers must go through. A kind of test to see if they have won a new toy or a new player.
Unfortunately for them, the tattooed man is neither. he merely throws his eyes towards the other guy's direction for a second without bothering to move his head, while drawing another puff of smoke from his cigarette.
Seeing that the tattooed guy is ignoring him as if he was a fly raging in his ear, the rage of the buff dude increases as seconds pass. The ones around who are looking at the scene are also getting irritated by the arrogant attitude of this newcomer.
"Yo! I'm talking to you f*cker!"
"..."
At the silent response, both the crowd and the raging man get the sudden urge to bash the guy. Therefore, the prisoners, not wanting to get involved but also wanting to see blood, start to cheer on the tough guy and encourage him to fight and win.
Finally, the young man starts what he had come to do anyway, throwing a punch to the expressionless face of the smoker.
In the smoker's eyes, this fist is slower than a disabled grandmother trying to get down the stairs. So slow that he finds time to think about the consequences that would come if he were to kill this man, and if he should lead the example for the sake of having peace in the long years that follow.
He notes during these few seconds that his assailant has a pair of shoes that would be worth two or three cigars.
The poor wearer of these shoes did not have time to blink before he found himself on the ground and barefoot.
The other prisoners had a bewildered look on their ugly faces; they had a hard time believing what their eyes were showing them. How freaking fast! What the heck is wrong with this guy?
The man who just hit the jackpot does not waste his time worrying about the staring glances around him and examines his reward with an air of satisfaction rarely seen on this face suffering from facial paralysis.
The barefoot boy on the ground gradually comes back to his senses, feeling like he is in a dream.