Drip. Drip. Drip.

The leak of the broken water pipe pounded in 'Rhino's' head like one of Satan's own drums. Before long, the rhythm of the throbbing pain rocked his thoughts straight to hell.

"Nine years!

Nine wonderful years spent swimming in the cesspool of society.

Surrounded by everything from murderers to child molesters, each one an innocent man.

What bullshit! They'd slit their own mother's throat for a smoke.

Hah, I guess it is funny. I haven't met an innocent man in this hole yet.

And everybody's a tough guy. Yeah, everybody's gotta try his hand at the top seat.

But no, it's not like years ago… like when I first walked in here.

There was honor then.

Guys knew how to throw hands and the one who wanted it more, he came out on top.

Not today though. Today, the skinners, the diddlers, all the twisted freaks travel in packs, each one lugging a blade. Each one bragging of some fabricated bank robbery or kidnapping - anything to conceal the truth. The young gang bangers, the bikers, the bugs - groups of racists who roam this concrete jungle like a walking powder keg.

Shit, everybody's gotta take a weapon into battle. Broomsticks, shards of glass, razor blades - anything to give them the edge. But not me. No. I've always relied on just my hands.

And respect - Damn! That went through the barbed wire long ago.

Even the guys who stayed strong, stayed solid, have no problem dropping a dime when there's something in it for them. And they call it survival?

I call'em rats! And there's more of the two-legged kind than the four-legged bastards I share my dinner with.

But me, I'm halfway there. Eleven more and I wrap…"

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The big man emerged from his daydream to discover he was still living the nightmare. His head felt like it was going to explode.

"…eleven more years of stink. The smell of piss and shit so bad, you can taste it.

Eleven more years of punks trying to test my gut. Watching the strong, no matter how, take anything they want. And the weak - take even more from the weaker.

Each day surrounded by conmen, hit men, pimps and the queens who fill their pockets. Men so unpredictable - they would just as soon jam a pen in your eye than give you the time of day. And in this pit, everybody can spare a little time.

But it's the ones with AIDS who scare the shit out of me. Of course, nobody can know who they are. That has to stay confidential.

Nope, it's not like years ago when you could bleed on the floor with a guy and not have to worry you were just handed a death sentence.

Frigin' junkies! They should house'em in their own pen. Let'em tuck the drugs up their assholes somewhere else. God knows they have no problem getting the shit in here, no matter who tries to stop it.

I guess that's the wonder of the human will. Where there's that will, some ingenious bastard will always concoct some hare-brain scheme and get it in.

And the way I see it, there's only two ways out of this house of horrors: Escape or suicide. I've witnessed both. But not me. No, I'll walk out the same way I walked in.

Yep. Nine down and eleven more to go.

Eleven more Thanksgivings - just sitting and counting the cockroaches, most of which should outlive me.

Eleven more Christmas hidden behind a wall.

Almost halfway there…"

A portable radio squelched once, calling 'Rhino's' attention back to reality. A Correction Officer stood over him and for a moment, the sight startled him.

"What's your problem," the smaller man asked, "everything O.K.?"

Michael 'Rhino' Evans stood, unhooked his radio and handed it over to his second shift relief. "The boys were quiet today. You might want to keep an eye on Pauli Patricio, though. It looks like he's getting ready to strong-arm the new guy, Gisherman. The nut just got admitted yesterday and from what I can tell, he doesn't look like he's going to do too well in his new home." He chuckled and added, "Other than that, the count's the same - seventy-five living, breathing convicts."

Jack Butler laughed, then turned to face the block.

"Oh, Jack," Michael said, as he opened the heavy steel door, "if you get a chance, call maintenance. Let's see if we can get that water pipe fixed. It's driving me nuts!"

On his commute home, Michael continued to dwell on his chosen profession and the bizarre warehouse he spent his every workday locked within. He couldn't help it. It was that consuming. "It's just another day at work," most would say. Michael didn't want to hear it anymore. He knew better.

For him, concealed behind the tons of concrete, bricks and steel, reality took on a horrifying appearance. Time silently stood still within the hidden jungle, while desperate cries of men fell upon deaf walls. Shunned by a self-sedated world, yesterday knew no memories, today was blind and tomorrow tasted of broken glass. Like the caches of lethal weapons and plentiful drugs, these truths were also hidden well. Somewhere along the way, razor wire had replaced a once blue horizon, while a single gun tower became the only beacon of hope.

Michael solemnly shook his head. Protected by only the small tin badge above his left breast pocket, his future was one where getting the edge could mean certain death and staying on top equaled another day in hell. In the air of an August afternoon, it chilled the bones.

Pulling into the parking lot of Muckey's Liquor Store, Michael experienced one final sobering thought. "I wonder what other people think about when they drive home from work?"

Even old man Muckey didn't know.