The guards laughed their asses off when I threatened to expose their corruption.
“Good luck, Cod,” one of them sneered.
“That is not my name,” I muttered through clenched teeth. My fists were so tight my knuckles felt like they might split open.
“Aww, does the poor little baby need his binky?” another chimed in, their voices overlapping in a chorus of mockery.
I stepped forward just enough to make them flinch. “No,” I hissed, “he’s going to expose every single one of you.”
Frank Ramirez grinned like he’d already won. “Then make sure you spell it right. I’m Frank Ramirez. That’s Jackson Campbell. And that’s Jamey Roiland.” He thumbed toward each guard as if he were introducing bandmates instead of accomplices to a crime.
They burst into another fit of laughter—ugly, wheezing, self-sat
