Smoking pot in his cell one night, Judge wonders why there are no white power wrestlers. They work out all the time, have colorful tats and everyone hates them. Perfect. They could start here, hold open trials in the yard. He could arrange the whole thing. Judge jots down notes in his journal and resolves to write letters to other members of the movement as he drifts off to sleep. In his dreams he struts the square circle, a neo-nazi powerhouse throwing up the stiff-armed salute to his brothers in the audience, the lights gleaming off his spit-polished jackboots. He climbs up on the ropes and flexes for his dogs, his bulging lats a tornado of skulls. He does a back flip off the turnbuckle, looking so fine in his swastikaed satin shorts. The crowd loves it, loves him. He loses himself in the frenzy, issuing a faint gasp that is heard the length of the iron alley where it is transmuted into the stuff of cock-stiffening fantasy, the hiss of rain as it strikes the ocean, the mechanical whirring of the guard shack clock when the bell is poised to strike.