The cocky shit sat up and spoke. Santos narrowed his eyes and snarled, "Are you even speaking English, fucker?" He'd understood, but he really hoped it would get under the chink's skin, wanting to know what pushed his buttons. He jerked his chin up, aggression and anticipation seething under his skin. The cell was tight, with no where to retread to or to properly move around in. There was also the guards, distracted for the moment putting the rest of the convicts in their cells. They'd have long enough.<br/><br/><em>Claim it</em>, he'd said. He'd been claiming territory for years on the streets where the war was fought with guns and knives and anything else that could be grabbed at the time. A few punches and the yellow pansy would curl up and whimper like a bitch. Santos dropped the cheap supplies, not giving a shit how they scattered over the floor and grabbed the man by the front of his newly issued shirt and dragged him down from the bed with one hard jerk.