Trent couldn't breathe. Jorge's grip tightened, cutting off air, vision tunneling black at the edges.
"They become our slaves," Jorge said. "They clean what we tell them to clean. They give us what we tell them to give us. They bend when we say bend. And if they refuse?"
He released. Trent sucked in air in ragged, wheezing gasps, coughing blood flecks onto the sheet. "If they refuse, we make them wish they'd cooperated. And we take our time doing it."
Jorge climbed back up. Settled in like nothing had happened. "Now clean the toilet," he said. "With your toothbrush."
Trent stared up at the slats. "What?"
"You heard me. Clean the fucking toilet. With your fucking toothbrush. And when you're done, that's the toothbrush you use every morning for the rest of your sentence."
Trent's stomach lurched. "I can't—"
"You can," Jorge said, calm as death. "Or I'll hold your head in that toilet with my shit in it and flush until you drown in my precious shit. Your choice."
