(No "action" in this one, FYI)
The light of the afternoon makes it into the hallway only through the barred windows. Four or five cells, unknown rooms beyond.
Arms rest on the door of the second cell down. Heavily tattooed forearms and hands, relaxed, the right hand moving only to bring up a cigarette or light another.
No sound reaches the cell from without or within. This is the prisoner's third day here, the lone occupant of a deserted facility somewhere. He yelled continuously at first... saw no sign it was noticed. The food keeps levitating down the hallway, a metal tray floating mysteriously up to his door three times a day, piled with subs, doughnuts, cold burgers, Marlboros and Camels. A pint of bourbon, sliding through the slot each night.
He waits, now staying calm. Watchful. Exhaling smoke, glancing down the hallway or out the window less frequently. Marking time.
With each hazy afternoon, becoming more settled in. The impossible predicament becomes familiar. Could be another week of this, maybe two. He's burnin' through three packs a day, now...
Career inmate. He knows the routine.
Tomorrow -
No, make it the day after. Be sure he's in the right frame of mind.
Well after midnight, he's washed up in the little sink and draped the greasy t-shirt over it to dry, had a few more smokes in the darkness. Then, snoring...
Interrupted. Bleary, pulled to his feet, the unseen door finally being opened... Dragged down the hall, wrestling harder as jeans and underwear are pulled off, a shot of dex slamming into his shoulder -
Off to the interrogation room.
No questions for him, though. None at all.
Down in the chair, thick straps tensing around wrists and ankles. Stale smoke in the air, palpably strong. Weed, dust... latex.
Brightness - in his eyes -
Angling down. When he can see again... Long two-way mirror. Clear reflection of him, naked. Caught. A long ten minutes to let him stare, wriggle, yell.
When he settles, a pack rises from under his chair. Tearing wide open so the last Camel can drift out...
A few more minutes of gaping at the unlit cig in his mouth, the frightened expression. Well-knowing.
When a glove appears, curled high on the door frame, he's all hyper again.
Flawless white, gleaming, bulgy... a few long seconds before it starts its approach, carrying a kitchen match.
He gets more animated, seeing it come. More vocal.
The match is put against the chair back and dragged to life. He watches in the mirror, seeing it head for his cigarette.
He hisses out a third lungful, big grey clouds -
Noticing a second hand... coming through the doorway. Squirming more, babbling, as it cruises on in. The first glove stops in line with his right foot, a yard or so from him...
Mirrored by the latecomer. Raised, immobile feet unmistakably indicated as the targets.
Another glove enters.
One by one...
Panic mounting... until around the twentieth hand takes position. Still the gloves keep coming. Satin. Material for... lingerie, dresses, underwear. Intimidating a hefty, mean-lookin' outlaw... worrying him to the core.
Finally, the Camel is tugged away, slung out the doorway by magic -
And the metal door closes, securely, lock turning with an unmistakable metallic clack.
28jul98