the guards banging on the cell’s metal bars with his baton.
“Hey, wake the fuck up,” the guard said.
“I’m up. What?” Burnside replied.
“What does it take to wake you up anyway? I’ve been pounding away on these bars forever and you haven’t batted an eyelid.”
“All it takes is an obnoxious fuck like you doing what you’re doing,” Burnside said as he sat up on the side of the smooth metal bunk and glared at the jailer.
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but apparently you actually had a friend who came by to visit you earlier,” the guard said.
“So I guess I can assume by your use of the past tense that he’s no longer here,” Burnside said.
“You can’t have visitors while you’re awaiting transfer. But I can give you this,” the guard said as he held a paperback novel inside the cell bars.
Burnside’s eyes widened as he stood quickly from the bunk. He grabbed the book away from the guard as if it was a bar of gold and stared at it, greedily. He ignored the guard’s disgusted “you’re welcome, asshole,” as he read the title: Nightmares and Dreamscapes by Stephen King. His favorite author! He only knew one person who could have brought it. It was his best friend from high school, Bob. Bob was the only one who had visited him during his stay in this fleabag motel. He was also the only one who believed his story about being framed. Burnside vowed that he would not forget this kindness.
He briefly examined the cover art, which consisted of a spooky-looking scarecrow set in the middle of a dark road, and began hastily flipping through the pages. He remembered reading the book in high school, but he considered it a classic and was happy to read it again.
This ought to kill some time.
When he finally looked up from his prize, the guard was gone.
I’ll miss his wit.
The ex-cop sat on the bunk, opened to the prologue, and began reading as voraciously as a man who hadn’t eaten a meal in a week.
It was impossible to measure time in the bare, windowless cell. He guessed he was reading for hours before he finally fell asleep. Later, he was subjected to another rude awakening. A loud metallic banging sound, which reminded him of a pickaxe striking steel, rocked him from his slumber. It turned out it was just another guard banging on the bars with a baton. Three guards stood outside his cell with batons at the ready.
"What the fuck do you want?" Burnside asked, as he tried to re-orient himself to his surroundings.
"Wake the fuck up, asshole. Time to go to court."
A surreal feeling overcame him.
Court? What's he talking about? I’ve already been tried and convicted! Was it all just a dream? Am I still in the middle of the trial?
He sat up and glanced around at his Spartan surroundings. Memories of the past several days came back to him in disjointed images.
I still have to go through the charade of sentencing - despite the fact the court already knows my sentence, I know my sentence, this asshole guard here knows my sentence, and everybody in the general public knows my sentence. We still have to go through the pathetic ritual of officially pronouncing the sentence. Talk about rubbing it in.
Burnside stood, frowned, and lifted his chin defiantly in the air, "Let's get this charade over with."
His words had an ill effect on the foremost guard. He glanced back at the two guards backing him up, as if appraising if they would be enough to subdue the psychopath. The prisoner grinned at him menacingly.
"What's the problem? Having second thoughts, asshole?" Burnside snarled as his body tensed up for action.
The guard ignored his comment and turned to one of the other correction officers.
"Call for more back-up. This guy's a fucking nut."
"Sure," the other guard replied as he drew his radio from his
“Hey, wake the fuck up,” the guard said.
“I’m up. What?” Burnside replied.
“What does it take to wake you up anyway? I’ve been pounding away on these bars forever and you haven’t batted an eyelid.”
“All it takes is an obnoxious fuck like you doing what you’re doing,” Burnside said as he sat up on the side of the smooth metal bunk and glared at the jailer.
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but apparently you actually had a friend who came by to visit you earlier,” the guard said.
“So I guess I can assume by your use of the past tense that he’s no longer here,” Burnside said.
“You can’t have visitors while you’re awaiting transfer. But I can give you this,” the guard said as he held a paperback novel inside the cell bars.
Burnside’s eyes widened as he stood quickly from the bunk. He grabbed the book away from the guard as if it was a bar of gold and stared at it, greedily. He ignored the guard’s disgusted “you’re welcome, asshole,” as he read the title: Nightmares and Dreamscapes by Stephen King. His favorite author! He only knew one person who could have brought it. It was his best friend from high school, Bob. Bob was the only one who had visited him during his stay in this fleabag motel. He was also the only one who believed his story about being framed. Burnside vowed that he would not forget this kindness.
He briefly examined the cover art, which consisted of a spooky-looking scarecrow set in the middle of a dark road, and began hastily flipping through the pages. He remembered reading the book in high school, but he considered it a classic and was happy to read it again.
This ought to kill some time.
When he finally looked up from his prize, the guard was gone.
I’ll miss his wit.
The ex-cop sat on the bunk, opened to the prologue, and began reading as voraciously as a man who hadn’t eaten a meal in a week.
It was impossible to measure time in the bare, windowless cell. He guessed he was reading for hours before he finally fell asleep. Later, he was subjected to another rude awakening. A loud metallic banging sound, which reminded him of a pickaxe striking steel, rocked him from his slumber. It turned out it was just another guard banging on the bars with a baton. Three guards stood outside his cell with batons at the ready.
"What the fuck do you want?" Burnside asked, as he tried to re-orient himself to his surroundings.
"Wake the fuck up, asshole. Time to go to court."
A surreal feeling overcame him.
Court? What's he talking about? I’ve already been tried and convicted! Was it all just a dream? Am I still in the middle of the trial?
He sat up and glanced around at his Spartan surroundings. Memories of the past several days came back to him in disjointed images.
I still have to go through the charade of sentencing - despite the fact the court already knows my sentence, I know my sentence, this asshole guard here knows my sentence, and everybody in the general public knows my sentence. We still have to go through the pathetic ritual of officially pronouncing the sentence. Talk about rubbing it in.
Burnside stood, frowned, and lifted his chin defiantly in the air, "Let's get this charade over with."
His words had an ill effect on the foremost guard. He glanced back at the two guards backing him up, as if appraising if they would be enough to subdue the psychopath. The prisoner grinned at him menacingly.
"What's the problem? Having second thoughts, asshole?" Burnside snarled as his body tensed up for action.
The guard ignored his comment and turned to one of the other correction officers.
"Call for more back-up. This guy's a fucking nut."
"Sure," the other guard replied as he drew his radio from his
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