SMARMSLUT QUEEN: Howdy everyone! Time once again for another installment of our story.

SMARMSLUT ADEPT: Yes, we're set to go now that we've recovered from our turkey comas and chocolate truffle-traumas.

SMARMSLUT MASTER: A word of warning to all our friends: never eat an entire box of chocolate truffles at one sitting.

QUEEN: Serves you right for trying to sneak around and eat all my goodie stash.

ADEPT: Don't worry, neither one of us wants to hear the word 'chocolate' anytime soon.

QUEEN: Gee, that's too bad.

MASTER: Nice to have your sympathy.

QUEEN: Guess I'll have to give those life size chocolate Ezras to someone else... (walks away)

MASTER: What??

ADEPT: Wait! Come back!

MASTER: Enjoy the story folks! (sound of running feet) Wait!

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Ashes of the Mind, pt 14
by the Smarm Sluts

Jed Maxwell was thoroughly enjoying himself. And best of all, he hadn't even had to lift a finger to do it.

He stood now in the violent's ward, a large, forbidding room with no windows. It was much darker than the non-violent section of the facility, lit only by flickering torches set high on the walls. Here the worst inmates were kept, the ones who posed a danger to the others. There were more chains here, more inmates confined to straightjackets and stuffed into cages. Branford had the most casual attitude towards his inmates in the best cases-most of them, after all, were sent here because no other facility wanted them and their families didn't care where they were. In the case of the violents, discipline was maintained through rigorous doses of pain, restraint and occasionally, death.

The men confined to this part of the asylum were mostly wild and destructive, many of them strong specimens who could kill with their bare hands if allowed to run free. Without anyone to care for their mental anguish, they had mostly degenerated into a feral state, driven to fits of rage through their unending, unanswered suffering.

And Ezra was now in the middle of it.


Ezra lay uncomfortably on the cold floor, his hands bound behind him, trying to catch his breath as he stared at the inmates who were gathered around him. His head swam with pain and fatigue, but he tried to muster up enough strength for whatever lay ahead.

"What are they doing?" he finally asked. Jed laughed.

"Just looking you over, Standish. Impressive, aren't they? They could kill either one of us in a heartbeat."

"Your heartbeat or mine?" Ezra asked.

"Oh, they won't touch me," Jed assured him. "Not after the little disciplinary demonstration we had today. I must say, Branford's methods of correction are pretty ingenious. Right, boys?"

A few of them turned to glare at him, and Ezra could see that they bore still-bleeding whip marks, cuts and burns, and their wrists were chafed and bloodied. He shivered.

"Yep, I'm pretty safe," Jed mused. "You, on the other hand, ain't."

The small group pressed closer, muttering among themselves. One of them reached out and felt the collar of Ezra's shirt, nodding.

"I think they like your clothes, Standish."

"A small comfort," was Ezra's tense reply. "Where are the doctors? Why aren't these men getting help?"

Jed laughed. "Ain't you the softie! Ain't no doctors here, Standish, nobody cares what happens t'these men. If Branford didn't like beatin' 'em up so much he'd have probably let them die long ago. But that ain't as much fun, y'see."

Ezra lurched back as one of the inmates grabbed at his shirt. He didn't want to hurt these men-their miserable state was surely the result of years of neglect and misuse, in addition to their original mental problems-but he was beginning to feel very threatened.

The inmate didn't like Ezra's movement. He grabbed Ezra's collar and held fast, trying to rip the shirt off of him. Ezra kicked out, trying to force the man back, and instantly realized that it was a mistake. But by then it was too late.

Ezra would have little memory later of what happened next. He could only dimly perceive hands grabbing at him, tearing at his clothes and hair, striking him, clawing his skin. He could do little to protect himself against the inmates' fury, and he could see that Jed and the guards were hanging back and enjoying the spectacle immensely. Then Ezra was pulled down into a red sea of fists and pain.

After what seemed like an eternity, he dimly heard Jed say, "Okay, that's enough!", saw through bloodied eyes the guards wading in and pulling the inmates away. By now Ezra was lying motionless on the floor, gulping for air, covered with blood and dirt, his clothes torn. The inmates were pushed to the edges of the room where the guards threatened them and threw cold water on them to calm them down.

"Touchy, aren't they?" Jed chuckled as he circled Ezra's helpless form. Ezra glared at him with angry green eyes as he lay on his side, still panting, his injured skin slick with sweat. Jed walked around him, a mocking shadow in the dim torchlight. "I don't think they like you at all, Standish. Know who else didn't like you? That snot-nosed puke we killed last night. Your little friend."

Ezra swallowed and tried to move, but was anchored to the spot by weariness and pain. The nightmare image of the pit came back, the buzzards feasting on a blackened, bloating corpse, and Ezra was too weak to push it away.

"Too bad you missed it," Jed continued as he circled Ezra, drinking in the sight of his enemy now so helpless. "But don't worry, I'll let you know exactly what happened. That kid died cursing your name, my friend, for getting him into this. He was screaming in agony at the end, but I could still hear what he said. He blamed you for everything."

Ezra turned his head away, willing himself not to listen. He didn't want to believe it was true, JD wasn't like that. But in some part of his dazed mind, Ezra thought that maybe it was true, Ezra had agreed to JD's participation, had encouraged it in fact. Jed was powerful enough to bring all this about, killing JD wouldn't be that much of a chore for him. Ezra wanted to think that JD got away, but what chance did the kid have, really? Look at what was happening to him-how could JD have gotten away from people this powerful? It seemed impossible, in this dark and pain-filled world, that JD could possibly have survived...and Ezra had seen the birds devouring the body...

"No," he whispered, trying to summon enough enough strength to defy what his sense told him was true.

Jed laughed, still circling. "Oh, sure, lie to yourself, Standish, but you know it's true. You probably saw his body out there today during your little jaunt. I'd gladly bring it in to show to you but there ain't much left now. Wait'll your other pals find out you got him killed. They'll hate your guts til the day they die."

"No!" Ezra cried out, wrenching himself around to stare at Jed. A new nightmare image flashed in Ezra's exhausted mind, Chris and Buck and the others waiting for word, finally discovering that Ezra and JD were dead. Ezra told himself that surely they wouldn't blame him, JD was a grown man able to take care of himself, but part of him knew they would blame him, and in his weakened, despairing state, he could almost believe Jed's words, that they would curse his name for what had happened. The only men he'd ever been able to even remotely consider his friends would hate him forever...

Jed smiled as he continued to walk around Ezra; his form was rapidly becoming a malevolent blur, but his words came though with cruel clarity. "I bet that kid was the pet of the group, wasn't he? Unlike you. I bet they'll be real sorry they saved your miserable hide back when they could've taken me in. Remember?"

Ezra blinked, his head swirling; could he remember? Dimly he recalled the scene, Chris and the others on one side, Jed holding Ezra hostage on the other, saying he'd kill him if he wasn't allowed to go free. And to Ezra's amazement, Chris had done just that-allowed Jed to go free in exchange for Ezra's life. Ezra hadn't understood it then, and was even less able to do so now. But Jed's words only fed the doubts he had long had about what had happened, and that them letting Jed go was a mistake.

"Yeah, you remember that, I bet," he heard Jed chuckle. "You know what they'll say when they find out you let the kid die? 'We should've let Maxwell kill 'im.' Your life won't be worth nothing to them. And y'know what? They'll be right."

Ezra turned his head away, trying not to listen, but the self-doubt that he always harbored came rushing over him, and he was too weak to fight it off. Jed was probably right, Chris and the others would regret letting Jed go when they found out that JD was dead. And they wouldn't mourn Ezra since he was responsible. And no one would ever know the truth of what had happened; by the time Chris figured out what was happening, Ezra would be dead, and Jed would likely be long gone.


The room began to tilt and spin, causing Ezra to gasp aloud. He was alarmed to find that he could no longer think clearly; everything seemed to be whirling together in a dark, overwhelming cloud, which try as he might Ezra could not dispel. JD was dead, he was going to die soon, and his only legacy would be a name cursed forever. Any good he had ever done would be forgotten, and this sin alone remembered.

He shut his eyes tight against the madly spinning room and groaned.


Jed smiled; he had Ezra Standish exactly where he wanted him. He turned to the guards. "C'mon."

The guards looked at him in confusion, and one said, "We can't leave the inmates, sir."

"Oh, we ain't goin' anywhere," Jed assured them, glancing at Ezra's curled-up figure on the floor. "We're just gonna step in the hallway for a bit, let th' crazies have their fun for a while. We can keep an eye on 'em through the window."

The other men smiled; none of them liked the man who was going to rat them all out to the law. As they were leaving the room, Jed walked over to Ezra and nudged him with his boot. After a pause the gambler lifted his head and blinked at him, as if he wasn't sure where he was anymore.

"We're gonna let you get acquainted with these fine gents for a bit, Standish," Jed said smiling. "Try not to get killed, okay? My fun with you's just started."

With that, Jed followed the guards out of the room and locked the door.


Ezra watched the departure of the guards with horror; now he was completely defenseless. The room was still swaying, and as Ezra tried to sit up he felt his entire body shudder with the effort. He quickly slumped back down, too weary from hunger, thirst and pain to move any further.

Time became a nightmarish blur; Ezra lost track of how long he was alone with the violent inmates, but it seemed to go on for hours. It was impossible to rest; he had to be alert to defend himself, to keep away those who ventured close. When the inmates realized they were alone with the person who had attacked them, they wasted no time renewing their attempts at revenge. Hands grabbed at Ezra's hair and shirt and struck his face, kicks lashed out at him from every side. Dazed and trapped, Ezra defended himself as best he could, but in his bound state he could do little more than yell hoarse threats at the inmates, which they disregarded.

The scene dissolved into a hellish whirlpool, mingled with the visions from Ezra's nightmare which his tormented mind now summoned. His reason fled; there seemed to be nothing in the world, no past or future, only the darkness, fear and pain which now consumed him. He felt himself drowning again, saw the vultures devouring JD's body again, and there seemed to be no escape from it, no matter how Ezra tried to push it all away. It seemed to go on and on, with no ending, the blows and kicks, the desperate attempts to defend himself which only earned him more pain. Overlaying it all was a building, dreadful roar; the inmates were losing control.


Jed had been watching and enjoying it all, and frowned when one of the guards looked over his shoulder and said, "Looks like the crazies are gettin' out of hand."

"Yeah," the other guard said, as the inmates began to fight among themselves. "might be time to bust this up. If a riot breaks out Branford'll skin us alive."

Jed said nothing, keeping his eyes on Ezra. The gambler now lay in a motionless, bloodied heap in one corner of the room, exhausted and terrified as the inmates began turning on each other. Even from where he stood, Jed could see him shaking. He checked his watch; Ezra had been in there alone for two hours. Not nearly long enough.

"Look!" one of the guards cried, raising his rifle. He pointed to where two inmates, working in tandem, had succeeded in reaching one of the torches set high on the wall.

"Okay, that's it," the other guard said firmly. "We can't let 'em burn the place down."

Jed sighed in disappointment as they unlocked the door and charged in, swinging their rifle butts into as many heads as possible. One of the guards headed straight for the fire-wielding inmate and pointed his rifle at him.

"Stop!" he cried. The inmate glared at him; he was a tall, burly fellow, dressed in rags with a short red beard and wild blue eyes. He held the burning torch at his side, over the dirty straw which covered the floor.

"For God's sake don't let him drop it," the other guard hissed.

"Hand it over, McGhee," the first guard said angrily. Jed watched it all impatiently; the inmate was standing right next to the corner where Ezra was huddled, and Jed wanted to get his hands on the gambler as soon as possible.

The inmate snarled and looked around; the others were all under control now, calmed by severe blows and threats. McGhee gave them all a lurid smile, then began lunging at them with the torch, laughing.

"Shoot him dammit!" Jed bellowed.

"He'll drop the torch!" was the frustrated reply.

"Oh for God's-' Jed snorted angrily and strode forward, determined to wrench the weapon from the inmate's hand. He was halfway across the room when the inmate let out another laugh, turned and lunged at Ezra with the torch.

Ezra stared at the flames and screamed.

As the inmate chuckled and stood back, Jed stopped and took note. Ezra was watching the flames with something more than ordinary fear; he was downright petrified. All reason had left his face and he seemed to be transfixed by the fire in soul-wrenching terror.

Seeing his chance, Jed leapt forward and pushed McGhee back, twisting the torch out of his hand. As the guards slammed their rifle butts into the inmate's stomach, Jed settled the torch in his hands and turned to Ezra with a smile.

"Y'don't like this, huh?" he said softly, advancing on his enemy. Ezra said nothing, just watched him with green eyes full of mindless fear, pressing himself back into the wall as the hot, dancing flames drew near. His breathing became quick and ragged, as if he were being chased.


Ezra's mind raced; this wasn't happening, it couldn't be, but he was in his nightmare, drowning and burning. A wall of flame was coming at him, and he could feel himself being sucked down into an endless black river of cold and pain. He fought against it, told himself it wasn't real, but a larger part of him was clouded with terror and believed only what he saw. The world tilted again, crashing in on all sides, and Ezra felt himself swallowed up by the icy blackness even as he was consumed by the searing heat. His last conscious thought was a question of whether or not he was in hell.


Jed stood for a few moments, then smiled again. "Interesting." he looked at the guards. "Take 'im back to his cell. I got a few ideas I want to work out."

Two of the guards came forward and lifted Ezra to his feet. The gambler was limp, his head hanging lifelessly on his chest.

"Looks like he passed out," observed one calmly.

"Well, see if you can't bring 'im to before you lock 'im up," Jed growled. "I ain't done with him, not by a long shot. And I want him to feel every minute of it."

Jed watched with satisfaction as Ezra was dragged out. Then he left the room to the guards, who were actively teaching the inmates a lesson about getting out of hand.

Turning through a series of hallways, Jed finally came to another windowless room, this one unlocked; inside it was much better furnished and less crowded. Here Branford housed the fugitive criminals, mostly men on the run from murder or robbery charges. They were all a tough, surly lot, but respected Branford because they had heard of his ruthless ways.

Jed recognized a slender form lounging on the floor and walked upo to him. "Enjoying yourself, Lem?"

His partner scowled at him. "No I ain't, Jed! I'm goin' stir-crazy in here. When we gonna break for Mexico?"

"Soon," Jed replied casually, looking around as he cracked his knuckles. "Standish won't last much longer. But I'm getting my money's worth out of him. Hmmm," He scanned the room. "How many men we got here, Lem, ten?"

Lem shrugged. "'Bout. Talked to some of 'em, seems they run into Larabee's bunch too. Got quite a few who are on the lam 'cause of them seven men."

"Is that right?" Jed grinned. "Couldn't be better."

Lem frowned and asked uneasily, "What you mean, Jed?"

Jed stuck his hands in his pockets. "How do you think they'd like to take a crack at one of Larabee's men?"

"Standish?" Lem exclaimed. "Jesus, Jed, they'd just about kill 'im. They all know he was sent here t'see where they was hidin' at."

Jed laughed, highly pleased.

"Then I think it's about time he did, don't you?"