The 803 consisted of the outcast black boys that were never nominated by a BGF member, and they were the least dangerous on the block. More than anything, they stuck together and watched each other’s backs.

The whites stuck to their own as well, branching into multiple gangs from the Aryan Brotherhood to the Skulls.

The Aryan Brotherhood, or the AB, was a supremacist group. They walked their side of the yard with bald heads and racial tats, waiting for a fight. They were a ruthless gang who regularly murdered and grew out of control at times—so out of control, in fact, that even their own ranking members couldn’t consider themselves safe.

And the skulls were the equivalent of the 803, just a group of white boys who needed someone to watch their backs. It was all political shit that led to death or the hole. Basically, Fulton Penn was one big cluster fuck of race wars, and I had no desire to be a part of any of their bullshit.

The newbies learned quickly that they were just sport for the high rankers. They would never gain an actual spot in the gangs. Instead, they were used for amusement. Like the poor punk who’d sucker punched me from behind. He didn’t stand a chance. He was too weak. Still, that didn’t stop the Mexicans from having a little fun watching me kick his ass.

Cracking my neck, I rubbed the raw spot on the back of my shaved head where his knuckles had pressed and eyed him. I was giving him ample opportunity to turn tail and leave. I didn’t know this new kid, but I knew he was at least a foot shorter than I was and had never lifted a weight in his life. I could tell by his puny arms.

Many of the inmates lifted weights in the prison, but they did it to bulk up… to better be able to protect themselves. Not me. Lifting was my only escape inside. I didn’t lift weights to build muscle or to be the biggest motherfucker on the block. I did it to relieve tension. To press away all the bad memories.

His nostrils flared and he held his arms out at his sides, his hands opening and closing into tiny fists. He was scared, looking for acceptance. I didn’t blame him. Prison was a scary place.

I looked him in the eye, taking notice of the fear that swam in his. His rapid heartbeat tapped against the side of his neck, and sweat glistened on the top of his brow. He was having second thoughts. Good. I didn’t want to fight this kid, but if he wanted to go at it, I was going to protect myself.

I didn’t speak often, so instead of talking to him, I lifted a brow, asking him if he seriously wanted to do this.

His expression shifted, and briefly, I thought he would be smart and walk away. But then he reached behind him, taking a paper blade from one of the gang members egging him on.

“Cut his heart out, bro. Earn your fucking spot,” Carlos pushed.

Carlos was a real fucked-up piece of work—had been since the day he stepped foot on the block. He was the leader of the Mexican Mafia, but he didn’t speak a drop of Spanish. Go figure. Somehow, though, he still managed to run shit. It never made any sense to me why a group of men would follow someone who couldn’t even understand half of them.

Again, the newbie held up his paper blade, taking my attention away from Carlos and the guys behind him.

A fucking paper blade? Seriously? They were practically setting him up to fail.

I’d had a lot of weapons pulled on me over the years. From toothbrush shanks to peeled paint balled up into hard paintballs to soda cans—inmates came up with all kinds of crazy shit to use. Being on the block meant becoming inventive. These boys pulled out some serious smarts when it came to making weapons.

It might sound crazy, but a whittled-down, sharpened toothbrush could do a lot of damage. Shit, I would know. I spent two days in the infirmary thanks to one of those bitches. The nasty scar it left behind was a constant reminder to never turn my back on another inmate.

And when it came to the fist-sized paintballs, those motherfuckers hurt like hell. Inmates put them in socks and slung them against your head. I’d felt a beating from one of those bitches. It was like getting socked by a cinderblock. I woke up a few hours later with a knot the size of my fist on the side of my head.

I had scars from some of the most ridiculous shit. Shivs. Shanks. Any weapon these assholes could manage, but paper blades were the dumbest. This small guy needed a big weapon, and I almost smiled at how ridiculous he looked holding the tiny, sharpened roll of papers. It was probably thirty pages from a National Geographic in the library.

Death by a research and science magazine. Yeah, fucking right.

Newbies favored the paper blade because they were easy to make, nothing more than rolling the paper up extremely tight, soaping it down, and salting it. It made the paper hard enough to punch through skin like metal. The main advantage to the paper blade was it could be unrolled and destroyed simply by flushing it down the john. That shit came in handy when the COs started to toss the cells.