Prison Island – 3

Prison Island

3.

“So much boy pussy in here,” Karl said as he looked around. “At least my cock won’t get lonely.”

Francesco didn’t look at the guy across from him. He could be talking to him or himself.

“Hey, you, pink hair, do you like cock?” Karl shouted.

Naughty laughter was the answer.

“It looks like he does,” Karl said with a satisfied sigh. “Hey, Cesco, who’s your favorite? The one with the girl hair, or the one with the girl name?”

“Why does he have to like any of them?” Mouse intervened.

Francesco was trying hard not to get pulled in that kind of stupid conversation. The soonest they landed, the faster he would get busy running. The prisoners down there, they could be real or not. But this bunch clearly had only one thing on their minds.

Fucking. And Francesco didn’t plan on ending up with his holes stuffed and turned into a bitch, like always. No, this time, he would make a run for it.

“Don’t tell me you have the hots for Cesco, Ahab,” Karl said with venom in his voice.

“And what if I do? What do you care?” Mouse asked casually, like they were talking about the weather.

“Cesco’s mine, dipshit.”

Francesco jumped to his feet. “Cut the crap, idiot,” he said while closing his fists.

Karl moved lazily as he got up, too. “Or what, bitch?”

Francesco saw red in front of his eyes. He let out a loud cry and punched Karl straight in the nose. The blond clutched his face with a growl and then, to Francesco’s utter surprise, he began laughing. He moved his hands away and let the blood run on his t-shirt.

“I like you, Cesco,” he said and pressed one finger against Francesco’s chest, leaving a red stain on it. “You’re no pussy.”

Francesco willed his blood to slow down. “No, I’m not. So stop joking around, will you?”

Karl pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and then Francesco noticed what looked like a long knife in a sheath. What the hell? He had been kicked into the chopper with nothing but the clothes on him.

He cocked his head to one side. “What’s that?”

Karl wiped his face and then pretended to be surprised when he noticed what Francesco was pointing at. “Insurance,” he said with a grin. “Food, maybe. Surviving. You know, all that jazz. Just stick with me, Cesco. I’ll care for your ass.”

Francesco sat on the bench, the blood still pounding in his ears. That guy could have pulled that knife on him at any moment. Instead, he had taken a punch like it was nothing. Karl was dangerous, and he was better staying away from him.

“Whatcha you in for, Cesco?” Karl asked.

The nickname grated him, but he didn’t comment on it. He wasn’t sure Karl would let him take another swing at him without pulling out that blade. “I beat up my old man. No, scratch that. He’s not my old man. Just some dude banging my mom.”

And not only.