Hockey player Rene

Rumors about the arriving of hockey player Rene in Bordeaux had leaked outside the walls of this respectable Montreal prison long before Rene himself appeared. He made the third walk, was known as a recognized authority, and bore the nickname Crazy - for rabies he often fell into. Toward evening, when the prisoners carefully watched the criminal life of their native province on the news of the private television channel TQS, just at that time, the faded blue door of sector G pushed the Mad Rene into the common hall. There were joyful cries and loud applause, friendly handshakes greeted him. Who played cards, sitting on the “quarters” of iron chairs around the same round tables embedded into the floor. Someone drank coffee from paper cups for a patati-patata. Still, others hung on a two-story black sports simulator. But at this moment of the appearance in the sector of a new roommate, everyone suddenly tore off their lazy asses and all grouped at the entrance. 
Rene towered visibly above the crowd with his pale, twisted face and shaved head. A mouse-colored t-shirt and a pantaloon hake hung loosely around his emaciated, bony body. To put it simply, nondescript wearable clothes hung loosely on the bones of a seasoned robber.
In a single hum, not less than five dozen voices, individual shouts were distinguished:
 -Our Rene took three deepeners alone! Who else could do that?! Only Rene! Well done, Rene! He's from Longue! Only there are such desperate and real Quebecois guys as Rene! He will show this Russian! Tabernacle!
Raking his legs like a boxer and sinking his lower jaw in his raised right shoulder, Mad Rene broke through the crowd of lively room maters and stared with a deadly gaze of his dull brown and push-button eyes into the one who did not rise in greeting. At the same time, the prison hall of the "G" sector, shrunken in length, seemed to have narrowed even more in its size.
There was a tense pause a nearby, away from all the noisy events, a broad-breasted and pumped-up boy of about thirty-five was sitting at a table, shaded by volleys of sunlight from a wide prison window, covered with a cunning ligature of a thick lattice, The guy sat quietly and independently, not being distracted by anything and apparently not understanding the meaning of what is happening. He did not pretend to be carried away, but was, indeed, deeply immersed in reading some kind of thick book. The pause dragged on.
- I'll make you coffee, Rene! - Unable to withstand the stress, through the gilded rings in the lip and in the nose, he chased the flimsy Patrick and rushed to grind at the plastic coffee maker.
Standing next to Ren;, a fat and unkempt Rod from Gaspesie bent down and chirped, jabbing a sausage finger in front of him:
-That's what it is, the same lousy Russian ...
From Rod's sharp movement, his thin red pigtail rose threateningly over his head with a crooked pirate knife.
The "Russian" sitting in the distance, it seems, caught the meaning of what was happening, left the round table and made a performance in English:
-Hay! My name is Denis. In French it is the same as Daniel. I see - you are some kinds of boss here and I, like everyone else, am glad to see you ... But, you yourself understand, not here, not in prison.
The growth in Denis turned out to be not so much - a little above average. He was dressed, like many Russians "abroad" - in blue "jeans". Outwardly - nothing special: black hair with gray and in the skin of the face, as it were, stuck.
-You see, you see! - made a noise in the crowd. -He doesn't speak our way! He doesn't want to speak our way! What is he muttering there, you damned tabarnak? And how does he behave here? He acts like he is the president of our entire sector!
-What the hell are you reading here, fucking? - Rene said with a long arrangement in English words and with a visible strain in his voice.
-This is Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. Only in Russian, fak y. I found this in the prison library.
-Well, you got it, partner! - Rene exclaimed without blinking and without averting his dull gaze. - Probably a great time to annoy these guys that they hate you so much?
- I don’t know why they got so fucked up! Well, I gave one or the other on a face, but I did not start the first ...
-What are you sitting for, fuck u?
-I told our men that I was imprisoned for the rape of cattle. A translator was found. True, he has already freed himself. But actually, 'm sitting for speeding. My driving skills are slightly different from those in your province.
And he added in confidence:
 -What kind of Russian does not like a fast and therefore awful drive, right? You, of course, were on Laronda and rode on the "Roller coaster" there. True, great! Only in Russia these slides are called "American", fak dzem. I think the Russians have a reduced instinct for self-preservation. This is the secret of their national mystery, and that is why they are fucking so recklessly brave.
The silent crowd gazed in disbelief at the conversing, exchanging harsh "fakami", that is, fucking. It was clearer than clear: an inevitable fight was brewing. Some instinctively retreated further, as if clearing a place for a scuffle.
But then an alarming siren sounded heartbreakingly.
-Tratatata, tabarnak! -Rad from Gaspesie screamed furiously with his pupils, stamped his feet, shook his pigtail and woman's backside in colorful print shorts on crooked knees.
The frightened "zeks" fluttered alarmingly from behind the tables, as partridges fly up from under the snow in a fan, and, hurrying, but with visible dignity, scattered into their cells. On the first and - up the stairs - on the second floor. The walls of the stone burrows and the deserted hall gleamed with burnt salad.
The evening check began. For this, in “Bordeaux” no one runs out to the parade ground. Not in lines, not in ranks, not in rows. And no one calls out the names on the list. Here, on a signal from the central control panel, the steel doors in the cells are electronically slammed for twenty minutes, and then the guards, one by one and without exception, count people, glancing briefly into the bulletproof windows.
-What do you really know how to fight? Rene asked.
In the "Gee" sector there were cells for both eight and four prisoners. But by the will of fate and by his prison role, Rene found himself "registered" with Denis, in his double cell, the first from the turn from the stairs, on the second floor.
-I don’t know, - Rene shot Denis with an eye, casting steel. -But I've been to the war. When your guys ran into my camera, this rogue Patrick immediately fell over on his back from my one sharp movement. Fran;ois - the third with them - immediately ran out. And the noisy and squeaky Rod had such a strong face that my knuckles still hurt. Even through the towel struck. I gave him a little kick to ass, went out and called the guards: "Guard!" I looked, and the giardiniera slipped out of her glass and washed away. Well, I tapped a little on the glass armor with my talking tube. The pipe and crumbled ... But you  saw how this Rod from Gasp;sie screams for no reason, no reason! I don't like that. Russians, in general, do not like to be shouted at.
-No, just look at him! You! Sucker! There is much you don’t know and you don’t guess much. Rod is the president among the prisoners in our sector. He's not yelling at you. He dubs the electronic signal "On cameras" with his voice! So that everyone gets it. And if not, then the entire sector will be deprived of the day's walk. Has it entered your stupid head? Did you get it, tabarnak?
-Collective punishment is prohibited. This does not fit into the framework of human rights in a civilized society. And why is such a president even needed if there are guards around? This is dubbing!
-Well, don't tell-and-and, - Rene thoughtfully stretched out. - The guards have their own interests; the prisoners have their own. Sit - you will find out.
 -Yes, but I don’t love Rod anyway. Are you a boxer, aren't you? I immediately noticed how skillfully you move.
 -And you are wrong again! I'm a hockey player. But yes, I took paid boxing lessons. Because today's hockey is both a brothel and murder. Now some old fagot sticks to you in the locker room, then they kill you right in front of the approvingly whistling and all-aware public. Once hockey was a beautiful game, now it is not. This is a monster. People, deprived of the terrifying spectacles of Grave Square, have found many other ways to enjoy the sight and smell of human blood. And then, hockey is now one of the main roads to an unexpected and million-dollar state. If you survived, if you did not lose health, if you made your way to the major league and were lucky at the same time. And before that - a naked reality for many: one thousand, one thousand two hundred "geese" a month ... But I loved and love this game.
The alarm siren sounded again heartbreakingly and, unlocking, the bolt on the door, built into the core, snapped open with a clang. The prison people poured into the hall for evening coffee with cream, with a cigarette, with cards of cards, with a cool shower, with phone calls to friends and relatives and - via the "intercom" - with duty guards, fellow countrymen, planted right there between sections in their transparent armored booths ...
 -Hey, Denis! - shouted in English one of the guards, using the loudspeaker system. -There have already been told about your exploits. Are you really Russian? And straight from St. Petersburg?
At the same time, the "Gee" sector is drowning in the thunder of confused English and Russian linguistics.
-Yes! - answered Denis. -Three months ago.
-And I’m going there in a week for a vakeition. Beautiful city. Maybe what to convey?
 -What about you? Also from St. Petersburg?
 -No, I'm a Pole. But I can tell you if that.
-Thanks, I do not need anything. Neither I had time, nor did they miss me there yet. I just wanted to ask ... This guard, Cecile, where is it from?
- You will know a lot - you will quickly grow old, - the prudent Pole laughed in the "intercom". -It is not accepted here to tell your wards such things! You, just tell me, is your surname really Fak-in?
-Yes! Fakin. Bai ze way, one of my friends was called even cleaner. He was Fak-s!
When, before eleven in the evening, Denis went up to his cell for the night, Raging Rene was sitting there alone with his back to the door behind a metal block of a table under the virtual milk of an electric shade. "Zack", in French "prisoner", was picking something like that on the table and suddenly turned sharply to Denis:
 -Well, why are you silent? Say something.
-I do not speak French.
-And it is not necessary in French, fak dzem. In English! I need to learn to speak English.
 -What is it for you? You are, after all, a Quebequa. And you live in your own country.
 -Not! - Carefully choosing his words, Rene said thoughtfully. - You see what I'm doing now?
At the most superficial glance, it was easy to determine that Frenzied Rene had no experience of being in prison. Deftly, without any tools, the seasoned prisoner got rid of with a safety razor, which he, like all newcomers to the prison, received wrapped in cellophane along with toilet soap, a toothbrush and paste. Now, freed by him from the rim, the steel razor blade gleamed menacingly in the hand of the recidivist prisoner. At night - chick - in the throat - and - no - you!
But at this moment, Rene-Berserk was absorbed in a very peaceful occupation. Slightly biting his protruding tongue and snoring like a child, he diligently outlined the funny bunnies from the Playboy magazine, bypassing the lower parts of the obscene girls with his blade.
-Do you know who I'm trying for?
-How should I know?!
-I try for my girls. They need to write a letter. I have two little daughters. For them I try. And I clean the depaners for them. Do you want to see my girls?
 Looking around, Rene quickly pulled out a crumpled photograph from somewhere deep in his panties. Two lovely blonde girls, five and six years old, squinted slyly at the photo.
 ... At the age of seventeen, according to Rene's story, he showed great promise in hockey. He was a tall, strong and resilient young man from a middle-bourgeois family. Mom - a bank employee and father - a social worker doted in their only son. Young Rene's hockey skills grew rapidly. Dressed in the fluorescent aquamarine of bulky hockey armor strewn with white royal lilies, Rene was gorgeous. A real hero. Above the ranks and crowds of his peers, he towered like a slender young oak tree over the shrub greens of the gingerbread hazel.
Young Rene the hockey player was literally run over by vile envious people. Or maybe paid mercenaries. And, most likely, both this and that - all together. Because big sports is a gigantic, like an octopus, branched out business, where everything is sold and everything is bought.
It's still sheer nonsense to be shot at you with a heavy piece of compressed rubber directly into your unprotected face. At one of the regular training sessions, not even at a hockey tournament, envious peers in the youth league, like young wolves, tore Rene apart. They ran into him in the middle of the ice hockey rink when Rene had no puck and was relaxed. One hit the celebrity between the legs on the left, the other hit him on the legs with a full swing and dragged him to the right. There was a rupture of the groin muscles and a fracture of the neck of the right thigh. Rene screamed wildly and gritted his teeth.
Speaking to reporters, the team's coach, who proudly opposes the Canadian power style to the playing style of European hockey, only said:
-If a hockey player does not see the puck and the field, the referee, opponents and partners during the game, this is his trouble!
Since then, everything ended for Rene once and for all: fame, money and high expectations. The former young celebrity dragged his right leg despite the metal insert, got a disability and became one hundred percent crazy. He didn't know how to do anything. He was a forward, and this is a completely different character from the defenders. Soon the cottage was taken away from Rene for debts; his wife, a former stripper, immediately transferred to another man's maintenance and took away from Rene the joy of communicating with cute daughters. To top it all, after a couple of years, doctors discovered that the former combat guy had a fatal cancer.
 “When the doctor first told me that I had only three years left to live,” Rene said, curling his face, “I robbed my first depaner. I managed to grab seventeen hundred dollars for my girls, but the money was immediately taken away from me. The second time I took the night depaner, when, according to the doctor, I had a year and a half before my death. But this medic is always wrong in his calculations! The last time he gave me only six meyats, and I have lived, now, already eight. How do you like it? But this time I took three thousand dollars! And he gave nothing to the police. When I die, this money will be my last gift for girls.
At around midnight, the light in the prison automatically dimmed to half-darkness. Rene was forced to interrupt his "playboy" activities and, going to bed, began a painful for him crawling onto the second floor of a steel bunk bed. At the same time, he frowned painfully, slipping on the narrow twigs-cross-beams of the ladder-ladder, which was steeply welded to the bunks right from the face, and scolded in every way.
-Maybe it will be more comfortable for you to sleep downstairs? - Denis asked delicately, as if offering the patient his lower seat.
-Do not poke your nose where you do not need! -psyhanul Rene. - It is not customary to concede anything to anyone and anything here. If only someone is stronger than you and does not demand it! You, Russian, you will never pass the test for the mental rigidity accepted here. Do not flatter yourself in the future when you see someone smiling. It's like animals: they smile when they are full. Remember, if people turn to you with the words "Shpe wu zede?" , this does not mean that after that you can throw yourself into an embrace and tell about all your troubles. Remember, this is just an accepted form of social correctness. You were asked to answer in the negative, but also to thank for this. And, what, - tucking a better liquid prisoner's pillow under his head, Rene suddenly asked: - Do you have children?
-No yet, - Denis responded readily. -Only father and mother. Yes, a bunch of sisters and brothers.
 -How many?
 -Twelve! Small is small less.
 - And you came here to make a living for them?
  -What do you think?!
 -What do you intend to do?
 -Yes, at least wash the cars!
 - They won't take you. And they won't take it anywhere, because there are a lot of workers here. And because you do not know French, which means you are not bilingual.
  - Yes, at such a job, you can work dumb. But I will learn!
  -As long as you teach and life will go away.
  -So that?
  -You, of course, can condemn me! - hanging down his shaved head to blue, said Rene. - Yes, I rob depaners! But I do it without weapons, without violence and without any threat to the life of anyone. I just go in and say: "Give me money!" And they give. Will you come with me when we get out of here? I am dying and therefore perspicacious. I want to help you.
 -Need to think! - just grunted Denis.
 The July midnight stuffiness was incredibly haunted by the inmates. The windows of the prison were firmly installed with thick armored glass and did not open for ventilation. There was a stationary air conditioner built into the wall for the entire building, but the force with which it acted would not have been enough for the fluttering of a rose petal. At exactly one in the morning there was a demanding knock on the cell door. In the semi-darkness, Denis jumped up tensely from his hard bed and asked loudly:
 -What do you need?
 Then the bent-legged Rene fell on top of him, falling off the ladder. Denis instinctively grabbed the roommaker, saving him from hitting the concrete floor.
-Medicine! - sounded outside the door. -Medicine, fuck yu! What do not you understand?!
Rene jumped up and hit the signal button mounted in the steel frame of the doorway; the night guard on the control panel of the "Gee" sector below received a signal, and also gave a response. Finally, the electronic lock squeaked and the door opened, indicating on the threshold two guards, angry with the delay, dressed for some reason in black uniforms.
 - Who's Rene?
One of the guards blinded the inmates with a powerful police flashlight. Another, holding a pistol, held out a tiny orange capsule in front of him.
 -It's me Rene! - said Rene. - Sorry guys, I fell asleep.
 -What do you have? - Denis then asked curiously.
 -This is my prescripts. Medicine! I can't sleep without him.
The second treatment of this kind usually took place at five in the morning just before dawn. There were no overlogs or chimes inside the prison cell. Rene had neither a wristwatch nor a pocket watch, but disciplined, he began to tinker upstairs much earlier than the event. Rene woke Denis many times a night and asked anxiously in French:
-What time is it now?
That both angry and amused Denis, because for an unusual Russian ear, the phrase was amusing: "And kel dick?"
- Why are you so worried? - Denis once noticed. -The guards will come, they will wake up ...
-You don't know these guys! Rene screamed in indignation. -If something is not on them - shoot and that's it! And you and me! From a sense of self-preservation. And for breaking the prison order.
After that, the dying prisoner, belching muffled curses like "Oh, confused!", "Oh, tabarnak!", "Oh, brothel!", - slid and fell with his stiff legs from the stepladder of the second tier. Sometimes he fell from above.
All these disturbing nights, agitated Denis slept badly and did not get enough sleep. From time to time he raised his head warily, wondering what would happen, what would happen if Furious Rene got tired of his struggle for life, if he got tired of resisting death, if he had a so-called nervous breakdown? Then the Madman will take out the shaving he has stored and he will slash him, Denis, who is sleeping, on the throat, so that, for example, more than one person will go to the so-called "other world."
-Yes, take them to yourself, this watch, I give it! - Denis could not resist once. -If you want, then forever!
 And for the first time these days I fell asleep soundly.
The watch that Denis parted with so seemingly easily were, meanwhile, rare. If not priceless. And for the price, and for the model, and for the memory that connected them and what was dear to Denis. At the very top of the dial of this watch, a large five-pointed star invitingly mysteriously luminesced in red. A little lower, shaded with a seemingly miraculous star symbol, the blue image of a Sukhoi-class jet fighter jet streamed its irrepressible and endless flight. In the lower tier, just under the hairpin of the central hands of this remarkable watch, the formidable "T-34" was cast in emerald. The top of the dial, like a royal crown, was crowned with a steel azimuthal sphere, with which you can set and hold a given direction. All - on seventeen rather big ruby stones. And - what is most important - this watch was with a "strike", that is, with an alarm clock ... "Komandirskie" were called. Still Soviet-made. Plus a ribbed black "asphalt" strap of durable molded rubber.
Denis's philanthropic escapade unexpectedly drove Frenzied Rene to the forefront of deep moral reflection. The practicality of the "Komandirskie" was beyond doubt. Rene immediately checked it out and did not hesitate. Refuse a gift, just because he himself taught this narrow-minded Russian peasant mental rigidity? This is stupid! In this situation, it was completely unclear who is showing softness: who takes or who gives? Rene did not care at all about the fact that, perhaps, other prisoners would not understand in any of his decisions regarding the gift. And on top of that, thanks to his rigid moral principles, which had sown him as a result of the misfortunes that had fallen on him, Rene was not at all worried that he was disturbing his cellmate with his noisy medical rises at night. But, at the same time, Rene did not say rudely to himself: "Yes, let this stupid Russian suffer without a watch!" He did not say that, for he kept in his soul something else, which he preferred to keep silent about for the time being.
 -I took! - Rene said firmly and, with emphasized reverence, fastened the presented Russian rarity into his arm.
Since then, the Quebecuan prisoner crawled out of his bunks for his nighttime medication. Suffering from pain and dumb-patient, he every time for half an hour, silently, as if hiding, waited at the door window for black prison guards with their special medicinal preparation, which is given only with weapons. Drug use began to take place more calmly and without incident. Just like this time.
 The next morning, early in the morning, at ten o'clock, the guards took the sleeping Denis straight from the cell for an interview at the prison office, and Rene appeared in front of the prisoners who had breakfast even later. Unusually loudly for everyone and firmly, Rene slammed the spring-loaded door, so that both the guard in the "glass" and the roommakers in the hall looked up as if at the stage.
-Hey, you! - holding onto the balcony railing, as if the railing of the captain's bridge, he shouted to Rod. And suddenly he added in Russian: -Come here, fuck your mother!
Fat Rodney from Gaspesie hastily climbed the stairs, and Rene punched the responsible prisoner with a weighty slap in the face that looked like a boxing hook. The prisoners in the hall laughed and even the guard took the slap in the face for a friendly trick.
- We must behave ourselves! And further. This Russian from his first visit cannot be a manager here, - Furious announced loudly to the hushed audience. -Because, as you know, Russian is not bilingual yet.
 At this point, even more friendly laughter from below was interrupted by Rene, but he persistently continued:
-Russian will be the guest of honor of the "Gee" sector. And from the second run you will see it yourself!
Barely drinking his morning coffee, Rene, with an enlightened face and a clear gaze, hurried to the public telephone located on the wall under the stairs. Rene called and called back for a long time and persistently somewhere there. Rene approached Denis, who was studying his "Les Miserables", in a youthful way, as if by a different, renewed person. He unconsciously liked that he had a stupid newcomer, a ward, who needed to be taught and mentored personally, to lead, and sometimes to protect.
-That's it! he said joyfully. -And you said why I need English! I got through to my old hockey buddy from Pennsylvania. You know, this is la - in the States. He is the owner of a large transport company there. Promises up to four thousand dollars "America" per month, full insurance and full coverage of possible damage! Will you come with me, huh? I told my American that I have a Russian replacement. And a buddy is waiting for both of us!
But two days later, by the evening, Ren;'s high spirits, similar to a short spring flood, subsided and the hockey player's health condition deteriorated sharply. From time to time he groaned in pain and gritted his teeth.
     Yes, the esteemed Mr. Roca cannot be fooled anywhere. Hockey player Rene's doctor, like all doctors, is certainly not a god; but in their predictions of death, physicians are usually wrong only in timing. As well as forecasters. If those say that bad weather is expected, then do not hesitate, badness in nature will come obligatory. Albeit a month late.
    Think about how a physician can make a mistake? There are laws, and there are patterns! The processes of development of plant and animal organisms are both life-giving and planned. Here is a man in the form of a baby was born. Here his milk teeth have gone. Here are the so-called "second" teeth. But the time has come for puberty ... And so on.
      On the contrary, the processes of painful extinction of an animal organism are not only irreversible, they grow unpredictably like an avalanche, like a snowball, like the number of variant moves in a chess game. That is, not in simple arithmetic, but in geometric progression. Cancer metastases have already filled Rene's body. Such a serious patient is usually not subject to surgery or therapeutic treatment. He is doomed to progressive dying and the "medicine" of such - nothing more than the strongest painkillers, relieving the death throes of the doomed.
     It happens that a creative person, scattered in character, often distracted by the struggle for better living conditions, constantly postpones the completion of works for a more distant time. It seems that if you live for a long time, you will have time to succeed, to achieve the peace necessary to complete the work, but nervous exhaustion sets in, an inexorable mental fatigue comes and you do not want to complete the work or exist at all.
      On this day, on the first traditional night wake-up call, Rene could not get down from his bunk.
     -Over! - he hissed trilingually at a knock on the door. - Open! Open up!
    Two new sleepy guards loudly expressed their dissatisfaction with the violation of order, they did not want to enter the cell, and Denis, pressing the signal button, passed the yellow capsule of the medicine to the upper bunks. Then he brought Rene water from the tap.
    After swallowing the drug noisily and breathing relief, Rene suddenly spoke up.
    -Do you think why I patronize you and how do I know how to swear in Russian? In the nineties, now of the last century, I visited Czechoslovakia and Finland in exchange of players, played with the Germans and the Italians. God brought me, I also visited Russia. And, you know, I was just in your city of St. Petersburg - then it was called Leningrad. How do you like to swear?
     -I? - Denis hurried. -Caramba!
    For the convenience of communication, Rene dangled his head from above and continued:
    -I was assigned to live in a large family, where there were seven or even eight children. They were practically starving. But they gave me one of their rooms, while they themselves slept in the corridor, where the doors of several more families went out. I took my hospitable hosts to Nevsky Prospekt and Detsky Mir, bought toys and ice cream for them. And a boy from this family, my peer, stayed at that time in Montreal with my parents and trained with the Quebec boys ... My parents bought him a lot too. And he brought a bunch of gifts to Leningrad. And I spent all my money on this family, and they could not give me anything ...
     At this point, Rene slightly choked, cleared his throat, was silent for a while and, unexpectedly for Denis, continued:
     -Your "Komandirskie" is the first and only gift that I have in memory of Russia ... I never thought that this could happen! Many years later, for me, you became, as it were, the personification of this great and beautiful country, where I have never been.
    -And you have become a wonderful Quebec for me! - Denis responded and could not find anything else to say in response.
    At this moment, Raging Rene, apparently completely exhausted, abruptly leaned back against the wall and fell silent. On a deep and sultry June night, he did not get up for the medication the second time. Like angels of darkness, two angry guards in black tights rushed into the cell with pistols at the ready.
    -To Wall! - growled one of the guards, holding Denis in the slot of the sight. - Face the wall! Do not move!
    The guard's partner, in two counts, blew up a stepladder above the upper bunk, sharply pulled Mad Rene's hand and immediately felt
The guard's partner, in two counts, blew up the stepladder above the upper bunk, sharply pulled Mad Rene's hand and immediately felt the chill of death that entered Rene's silent body. In the blinding and rushing light of the lantern beams, the guard hurriedly jumped down from above.
-Tabarnak! - he shouted in horror and thrashed into "swearing words", "voking-talking", into a mobile phone or whatever.
Ten minutes later, a special brigade of guards arrived on an urgent call. These were dressed in white. The noise of movement and loud conversations bounced off the salad walls of the stone bag of the "Gee" sector. And then, as if realizing the deadly meaning of what was secretly happening, at once, at the first kick from President Rodney, the deafening knocked and pounded from the inside on the cast-iron doors of their cells, the prisoners who had been silent until then. They made it clear that if something happened they were ready to defend their partner, justice and prison laws.
Dazzling spotlights on the ceiling, provided in case of a prison riot, flashed warningly in the sector.
And then soon the body of Mad Rene the hockey player was safely removed from the upper bunks; then he was just as safely moved up the stairs to the first floor of Sector Gee and was taken to the quiet prison morgue in a medical gurney.

               *****