Blood Vane

As he walked up the narrow path leading to the Hillbern A. Boot facility for wayward boys, Judge Royal A. Pope ruefully thought that he had never been more right about anything in his life than he had been about not getting any sleep after sentencing the Edwards boy. He hadn’t slept one wink the previous night for worrying and now he was tired and cranky to boot.

To avoid a repeat performance he had decided it would be best just to take the time, and drop by Hillbern to check on Seth for himself and make sure the lad was alright. Once he set his mind at ease he was sure the insomnia would pass with no problem. It would be worth it, even if it was out of his way... and even if it did mean he might run into ole Shoe Bootie.


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Meanwhile, inside of Boot Hill, Alistair Boot stood in the small infirmary gazing down at the hospital bed of a skinny unconscious little boy with fury in his eyes. How dare someone… how dare ANYONE do such a thing in his facility. Someone would pay for this, he intended to make sure of it.

In his early forties, Alistair was a handsome man, tall and regal with a mane of distinguished looking silver hair, a strong jaw and warm golden brown eyes that more often than not shown with intelligence and compassion. Right now though, the devil himself might have taken a few steps back if confronted with that furious gaze.

This was his second visit to check on the boy this morning and it was barely nine o’clock. He had only left in the first place because he had to take the time to question the boys cellmate and the guard that had checked the Edwards boy in. So far both denied any wrong doing, but Alistair had no intentions of letting it drop. He swore to himself that just as soon as this young man came to and could tell him what happened, someone’s head was going to roll.

Florence Abigail, a large and usually cheerful blonde ball of fire, bustled in beside him carrying a tray with bandages and other assorted medical items. As the only full time nurse living at Boot Hill she ran things in the infirmary with an iron fist and a lot of love. Not even Alistair Boot himself wanted to tangle with Flo when it came to one of her charges.

Sitting the tray down on a gurney Florence took some alcohol and cotton swabs and began cleaning the nasty cut on the boys forehead. The large blonde clucked under her tongue as she worked to get the dried blood off the poor boy so she could bandage the wound. “Its such a shame Alistair; such a pretty little thing. Who would do such an awful thing?” she said fretfully.

All Alistair could do was to shake his head, as far as he knew no one had had any reason to hurt the boy.

One of the guards, a large black man that had been at Boot Hill for around ten years, Donald Avery stuck his head in through one of the swinging doors leading to the infirmary and loudly announced, “Mr. Boot! Mr. Boot! Judge Popes on his way down here and he’s madder than a wet hen someone tossed on an electric fence!”

Alistair sighed wearily as he ran a hand through his silver locks. That was all he needed to make this morning truly perfect. A visit from Royal “pain in the ass” Pope.


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Thomas Vane was also having a difficult morning. He was supposed to be concentrating in English class but after what had happened in the showers with Mickey that morning, and then finding his new roommate beaten and bloody there really wasn’t much chance of that happening.

Still, he chewed on his bottom lip and tried to focus on what the teacher was saying. Templeton Nixon was a fair man but he was firm that everyone in his classes pay attention or there would be detention handed out, and Blood really was not in the mood to spend his afternoon cleaning toilets or sweeping out classrooms.

The scene in his cell that morning wouldn’t leave him alone though, and soon his mind had wandered back to when he had gently rolled the new boy over on his back and gotten a good look at his swollen and bruised face. The blond hair had been matted with blood at the temple and it was obvious that he had been struck across the forehead with something viciously hard.

Trembling and heart pounding Blood had grabbed the nearest guard and soon the cell had been swarming with them plus Florence Abigail. He had heard one of the guards calling on the hand held radios they all carried for Alistair Boot himself to meet them in the infirmary.

By eight o’clock Blood had been in the wardens office along with Peewee Bundy and soon afterwards they were both getting the third degree about what could have happened to the boy.

He knew he hadn’t been of much help really. He hadn’t known anything but that the boy was hurt already when he tried to wake him. The kid had looked so small…. so pale… just like a broken china doll. Thinking about it was enough to make Blood want to punch the daylights out of whoever was responsible.

Seth, the boys name was Seth; he had learned that much from listening to the guards, that and the fact that Peewee had been the guard that checked the new boy in. His jaw clenched and he ground his teeth together as a fresh wave of anger washed over him. He wouldn’t put it past that short legged, knock kneed motherfucker to have done it.

Alistair Boot had questioned them separately, but Blood had no doubt that Piss ant Peewee had tried to pin the whole thing on him to save his own wretched hide. If there was one thing everybody agreed on about Bundy it was that the man was a devious motherfucker who would sell his own soul to the devil if it meant getting by with something. Peewee didn’t care about anything or anybody but Peewee and woe unto anyone who got in his way.

Blood had managed to get in his way on several occasions, unintentionally and on purpose, so he should know.

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On the other side of the compound, sitting at his post in unit J on Boot Hill, Peewee Bundy was just another of a rapidly growing list of people who were not enjoying a good morning.

He had been kicking himself since the moment his eyes popped open and it wasn’t going to stop any time soon. How could he have been so careless? How could he have allowed himself to lose it like that?

Peewee was well and truly a sadist and a bastard but he took a lot of pride in his restraint. He never lost control. Never until last night that is.

Never until that little faggot whore had laughed in his face and refused to shut up. Well, he had shut him up alright, and then he had taken him and left him in his cell just like no one was going to notice he’d been beat half to death and just like no one knew Peewee had been the one checking the brat in. What in the fucking hell had he been thinking? He had risked everything, and for what?

It galled him to no end; knowing he could lose everything because of one second of lost control. He honestly couldn’t recall a time when he had ever been more disgusted with his self.

Peewee had never been what you would call handsome, or particularly smart or in any way talented, but he was good at his job and he loved it. It gave him access to sweet young flesh that would otherwise have never taken a second look at someone like him, plus the power he had over so many young lives was a heady and addictive thing. He couldn’t lose it. He wouldn’t lose it. No matter what it took.

He would never be able to find another job with something like this on his record, especially not a well paying job like the one he had now. Hell, he would be lucky if he didn’t end up in prison himself after the facts came out. Peewee had no desire to discover what it was like on the other side of those bars or to be at the mercy of other guards, not to mention what the inmates would do to him once they found out he used to be one.

Peewee groaned, he had to think of something. Losing his job was definitely not an option and he’d bet anything that that fucking fairy was going to squeal on him as soon as he woke up.

Well then…. He would just have to make sure that that never happened now wouldn’t he?