with me having both hands and feet in shackles, she shrank away from me. Junkyard alley cat wins again.
“I guess you learned a lesson”, I said quietly as the guard was coming back, “pull an alley cats tail and it scratches your eyes out”
Soon, I was back on the wing. Things were different now. People gave me a wide berth. I was trouble with a capital T. I was the one who’d taken the mighty Diane down, and fractured big Alicia’s skull with my own tiny skanky head. Nobody knew what to make of me. The lesbians at first thought I was one of them, what with my new butch haircut, but when one felt my ass, I told her that if she touched me again, I’d cut her fucking hand off and make her eat it. My hair soon begsn to grow out anyway into a sexy blonde pixie cut. Alicia looked like she wanted to murder me, but she recognised something in me, something that meant that if she tagged along, she’d be the bodyguard of the new top dog. Me. Top fucking dog after a few weeks. This was gonna be fun. Big D was different. She was huge, and with a butcher haircut than mine had ever been. She looked like a fucking marine. But she was surprisingly gentle. She looked more like a guy than any woman I’d ever met. I think she fancied the ass off me. She said sorry for taking part in my beating, and had argued against Diane doing it. She said she loved my new haircut, the new me, she called it.
Over the next few weeks, things changed. I was in charge on the floor now, I had respect. But there was still a problem. Respect built on fear is bullshit. It means you’re always keeping on eye on your back for the knife in the dark, always watching for the next young pretender. I was kidding myself if I thought I could last ten years on top. Eventually, I would be in Diane’s place, getting older in here and some young kid would come and smash my skull in. No, it had to be different. Like I said, rule by fear is bullshit. Rule by respect is much better. And so I changed things. Instead of taking fifty cents from the women, I took a full dollar. But for that dollar, the women got free toiletries and female hygiene shit. You see, when I was at work in their crummy call centre, I got to know a guy who worked in a pharmacy, someone who could get stuff out the back door for me. So I got him to give the stuff to Bruce, who brought it to us, with a small fee for each of them and a huge profit for me. Profit that I kept hidden in a small secreted cupboard in the art room, which I was in charge of cleaning. Big D had to do the meet with Bruce, I wasn’t a trustee remember and most likely never would be, and despite being good, I still wasn’t trusted with important things by the ‘management’.
Bruce was contracted to bring us other things too. Through Big D, I gave him an address to go to and collect some phone cards, fake ones that we could distribute in the shop. The extra profit of course, was split between the shop trustees and me. Finally, there was the coke. That took a personal meeting between Bruce and me, something that would have got me time in solitary if I’d have been found out. But I wasn’t. Big D kept watch. It was going to be a risk for Bruce, my contact in the city was a volatile individual, and he lived in the middle of the black neighbourhood. I wasn’t even sure if my contact Zimo would even remember my name, or just shoot young Bruce first without question. But he didn’t, and we got a regular supply of stuff. That made me the most profit, but it was risky, and was the one thing that scared the crap out of me. If I’d have been caught with any of the other stuff, it would have been a misdemeanour, caught with drugs then I was solid fucked. But the money was good. Even with these bitches on only $4.50 a week, it meant I could live like a queen, and only work one day a week myself if I chose. Mainly I worked just