Rating: PG-13 (for subject matter)
Summary: Theodore Bagwell was not a forgiving and forgetting kind of man.
T-Bag watched Scofield move across the Yard, stopping to bend down to tie his shoe.
Now there was an interesting sight, he thought. The Pretty was looking far too comfortable in his surroundings these days, and that bothered T-Bag no end.
Did he think stabbing poor Maytag had been forgotten? Theodore Bagwell was not a forgiving and forgetting kind of man. No, he didn’t believe he’d ever forgotten a single bad thing anyone had done to him in his whole life. There would be rectifying for Maytag, and T-Bag would be watching for his opportunities. Abruzzi had taken that away from him once, but he was a patient man and he knew how to bide his time.
The Pretty would become his, of that he was certain. The boy had no possibility of escaping his destiny, once T-Bag set his mind to bringing it about.
T-Bag had his posse, of course, but they didn’t interest him that way. They were an ugly bunch, for the most part, but that wasn’t what mattered. What he really liked about Fish, other than that shapely behind and beautiful face, was that the boy was afraid of him. T-Bag loved the smell and taste of fear. It was like an aphrodisiac. That delicious terror, as he violated his victims, and finally cut his mark into their mortality—it was a drug that could not be refused.
A man with time on his hands could look forward to meeting that thrill again. It had blue eyes and lush lips and pain written all over it, and he would claim it and make it his own.
The ecstasy of lust and panic and blood called to him, roaring in his ears with remembrance. Waiting was a kind of sweet agony to him, the anticipation almost as heady as the kill.
The day was coming.
The Pretty would be his, would be part of him forever.
He would gasp his last in T-Bag’s arms, and join his gallery of tortured souls.
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More T-Bag, please!