Slinging Hash

Flash fiction presented in seventeen 100 word parts as submitted to the 100 Word Stories Podcast based upon the Weekly Challenge prompts of:
  • Hash (Part 1)
  • Cool  (Part 2)
  • Run (Part 3)
  • Star Wars (Part 4)
  • Lodge  (Part 5)
  • Monster (part 6)
  • Watch (part 7)
  • Butter (Parts 8 and 9)
  • An Untold Labor of Hercules (Parts 10, 11, and 12)
  • Cold (Part 13)
  • Storm (Parts 14 and 15)
  • Temper (Part 16)
  • and Sausage (Part 17)

Hash - Part 1

What do you say to a man when he tells you that for his last meal on earth he wants corned beef hash? Straight from a can. Cold.

Do you ask him if he wants a side of brown bread? Maybe some ketchup?

Warden was baffled. He had encountered other odd final requests; the usual gluttonous excess. But a can of Hormel? Cruel and unusual.

He pensively rubbed his sandpaper chin.

“Well fuck Warden!” Davidson spat while sprawled hairy ass naked in his cement cell, “Why should I carry the memory of a pleasant taste on that stainless steel ride?!”

Music: "Blue Like Venus"
spinningmerkaba / CC BY 3.0

Hash - Part 2

Davidson refused to wear clothes, choosing to remain naked like an ape in a cage. Ten days from execution, what the fuck were they going to do to him?

Well he didn’t think they’d turn on the damned air conditioning. Hell, he didn’t even know they had air conditioning.

He’d shiver but when his mind was set he was a rusted bolt.

Talk of Davidson’s nude stand spread throughout the pen with excitement. This was not some ear hustling chin music. This was real.

To them, he was the coolest of cool staring down the big jab of Warden’s needle.

Music: "I Knew a Guy" Kevin MacLeod (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Hash – Part 3

He had always been a runner. They said he ran before walking; ran away at thirteen; ran with the wrong crowd; ran drugs; ran up against one enormously fucked up situation with no good outcome; ran from the law… not fast enough, obviously.

Now he would run in place to stay warm.

What a sight; this pale hairy naked man in some prison escapee pantomime; junk swinging in time with his flat feet slapping the cell floor.

The self-image made him laugh… loudly.

The guard outside scowled. “Have your fun Davidson, in nine days your time will have run out.”

Music: "Kokokur"

Hash – Part 4

The sound was designed to provoke fear. Boots. Double-time. Hard shelled armor clacking.


The extraction team, those freaking Star Wars storm troopers, helmets and face shields in place, burst into Davidson’s cell, led by the screw they called Hercules; the biggest bad ass motherfucker in the system.

He threw Davidson flat to the floor like a slice of baloney.

“No marks. Remember.” one bull interjected.

“I ain’t going to hurt him.”

Hercules leaned over and proceeded to urinate on Davidson.

He shook and zipped, grunting, “Put your damned clothes on!” Then they left.

“Seven and a wake up,” sighed Davidson.

Music: "Hidden Blues"
Pitx / CC BY 3.0

Hash - Part 5

The steel bar telegraph went crazy after Davidson’s encounter with Hercules. Bigger than the daily numbers lottery; this wager was electric… betting on when they would break Davidson.

Everyone wanted in; even the punks, diaper snipers, and cheese eaters in protective segregation. The syndicate went into overdrive.

Bets were lodged through the gang heads and the block kings; funneled to The Reckoner’s personal accountant; who now held book on almost every stamp, cigarette, fuck mag, and piece of illegal contraband in the joint.

Most of the cons were pulling for Davidson but betting against him. They knew the odds.

Music: "Whiskey on the Mississippi" Kevin MacLeod (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Hash - Part 6

It was a monster bet with the better's name held in secret. More green involved than most cons had ever seen on the inside, with every penny riding on Davidson.

One catch, though, it was a parlay; not only did Davidson have to remain naked until execution but he had to eat that whole can of cold hash, as his last supper, without puking or shitting until he was dead.

The Reckoner had weaseled the game so it stacked his way.

But with ten authentic G's sitting in the kitty, some crazy con was definitely dreaming about getting prison rich.

Music: "See You Later"

Hash - Part 7

Now came the watching game.

All the cons were watching Death Row for any developments in the clothing department.

But Warden was watching even closer...

Operation Icebox had failed. Goon squad intimidation had only bolstered Davidson's resolve. It was time to try shame.

They spiked his food; Viagra; two meals in a row. The guards kept watch on their rounds, "no effect."

"Still flaccid?!"

"Totally," they reported.

"Give him another dose," ordered Warden.

Meanwhile, Davidson, the center of everyone's attention, just watched his last days like he was at a movie in the back row with a tub of popcorn.

Music: "Mojo No Mo"

Hash - Part 8

That night when he slept, Davidson dreamt.

He saw a crowd of men in a circle. They were focused on the center, yelling, making exaggerated pointing gestures. It was someplace he had never been; the stock market or a boxing match. Maybe a cock fight.

He was gliding through the throng towards the middle, not walking but standing still and riding. Moving sidewalk? Segway?

No. Looking down he saw that he rode on the flat end of a spatula, flying towards a gigantic black cast iron skillet with a pool of butter sizzling on the bottom.

He was the hash.

Music: "The Window"
by Wildbirds and Peacedrums
( / CC BY-NC 3.0

Hash – Part 9

It wasn’t butter. The cons called the small square pale yellow pats “blubber” and would mockingly say: “I can’t believe it’s not butter.”

They got two with every meal.

Being tasteless, they had no real food value other than as a lubricant when swallowing whatever stale dry cockroach leftovers of bread or muffin that got tossed onto their tray with the usual chow.

But in prison, idle creative minds always devise extraordinary uses of ordinary items.

Davidson awoke from his dream and checked his stash. Fifty-seven blubber pats still stuck to the underside of his rack.

His plan was intact.

Music: "Porch Blues" Kevin MacLeod (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Hash – Part 10

The buzz clang of the bolt release jolted Davidson from another daydream. The solid steel cell door opened. It was Hercules.


Davidson curled his lip. “Shower again… already? Got soap this time?”

“No, just want to talk to you.”

“I’m not putting pants on.”

“Don’t want you to.”

“Reverse psychology?”

“Personal gain; I’ve got ten grand riding on this. You don’t wear clothes and you’re gonna eat that whole damn can of hash, in one sitting without puking or shitting.”

“I’ll never get to shit again?”

“Not until you’re dead.”

Davidson frowned. “Hash makes the best shit. I’ll miss that.”

Hash – Part 11

Hercules paused while a single tear left a shiny trail on the permanent five o’clock shadow of his cheek. “Do it for me. Please! I need the money… bad… for a sex change”


Davidson’s eyes widened.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hercules said looking himself over, “but when you live your whole life denying who you really are, you go overboard in the acting department.”

“But why tell me?”

“Cause I just gotta tell someone… and you’ll be dead pretty soon.”

“But Herc…”

“Call me Tiffany please”

“Tiffany, I think you’re gonna need a lot more money.”

“Not in Greece.”

Hash – Part 12

Davidson pondered Greece, and for a moment Tiffany thought she saw regret on his face.

She changed the subject, “Hey, did you know that Warden is spiking your food with Viagra? I think he thinks you’ll get embarrassed and put pants on.”


“An erection?! Hah! I’d be damned proud! Why ain’t it working? They mix it up with saltpeter?”

They looked in each other’s eyes and knew they would both be alright; experiencing a connection that only a man who is about to be put to death and a woman who lived her whole life in a man’s body could.

Music: "Ophelia's Blues" Jason Shaw (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0



Hash – Part 13

Bring on this last meal, a testament to a life lived imperfectly: greasy bits of potato with ground meat compacted together to attain the unappetizing consistency of leftover dog food.


Warden had the hash served cold. Not room temperature cold – back shelf refrigerator cold. Left in the opened can for presentation cold.

The saliva thickened in Davidson’s throat as he drew the first spoonful to his mouth; just three chews and a rough swallow down.

Then he heard the thunder of hard rain pelting the metal roof.

He smiled. “Food sucks; service is subpar; but the atmosphere… oh the atmosphere!”

Music: "Acoustic Blues" Jason Shaw (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0



Hash – Part 14

The atmosphere was now alive with possibility:

The storm that rumbled fiercely outside was an unexpected but welcome addition to the plan. It provided the perfect cover…

After Davidson had finished the hash, they left him alone to contemplate the sins of his existence.

He needed to move fast.

He slathered his nakedness with the stashed blubber, climbed atop the combo toilet sink, scraped away the fake cement and popped the duct screen out.

Then he paused with a temporary sense of melancholy.

Running two fingers down his body he scooped enough blubber to write on the wall: ‘Sorry Tiffany.’

Hash – Part 15

It was a snug squeeze into the air duct made possible only by that miracle prison food service lubricant smeared over his body.

Davidson inched his way forward, sliding against the metal ductwork that tightly enclosed him until it opened into a larger space; an octopus junction, with seven branches each as small as the one that had brought him thus far.

Davidson placed his nose at the ducts one-by-one and sniffed. On the fifth duct he smelled it: rain on hot summer pavement… freedom!

He grew excited. Then the storm began in his belly.

And the Viagra kicked in.

Music: "Hustle" Kevin MacLeod (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0



Hash – Part 16

They caught Davidson; he didn’t get far; got stuck in the HVAC directly above the guards’ lounge. He couldn’t go any further without causing himself more pain than he was willing to endure. 

Given the choice between his erect manhood pinned and savagely scraped across the rough prison sheet metal air duct or lethal injection, well…

They rushed him straight to the gurney as is; naked and all greasy and shiny, with his stomach rumbling and his member at attention, bobbing and leading the way.

Warden was of ill temper. He had seen botched executions before but this was obscene.

Music: "Plantation" Jason Shaw (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Hash – Part 17

They strapped him onto the stainless steel table; inserted two IV’s and started the drip.

Davidson smiled, closed his eyes and quietly died.

Warden sighed.

The cons stood at the front of their cells silent… and naked.

Tiffany fought tears. She had won the bet but lost the closest thing to a friend she ever had.

She fit him into the cadaver pouch, pausing to position his hands to show two middle fingers before zipping the plastic shut.

"Fuck you world!”

Maybe Davidson’s life was a hash but now stuffed into that body bag he more closely resembled a sausage.