Chad pushed the hair out of his eyes as he threaded a new piece of paper into the typewriter. It didn’t seem like this machine deserved to have such a nice piece of paper inserted into its greasy, convoluted bowels. Yet there it was, 8 ½ by 11 inches of white, sinking into the gears with every line of India ink pounded into its dying fibers. He continued to type, his dull gray eyes shifting back and forth between the keys and the old records to the rhythm of the typing.
Richard Perry: Age 43, Weight 210 lbs.
Chad flicked his gaze around the large room, and typed with a snicker:
Charged for flashing.
He would be punished if the warden noticed. He had not typed three more letters, when a shadow fell over his workplace.
“Yes, teacher?” he asked, tensing his jaw in frustration. This man was not a teacher; he was nothing more than a guard.
“What does that sentence say, Mr. Comerro?” the warden asked, his voice steeped with mocking bitterness.
“Well, it says —” Chad was cut off by a fierce thwack to the back of his head.
“I KNOW WHAT IT SAYS, YOU FOOL!” bellowed the warden. “You will eat your lunch ration outside today!”
“But it’s ten below outside, teacher--”
“I don’t care if it’s one hundred below outside!” the warden interrupted again. “You are here to learn, through punishment. Obviously, you haven’t learned.”
“What am I supposed to be learning, then?”
“Respect, perseverance,” the warden continued, pacing around Chad in a slow circle, his fierce brown eyes sweeping the room, daring anyone to look up. “A good work ethic, and patience.”
The warden gave a little start as the timer on his desk suddenly jumped and rattled. “Off to lunch, the lot of you!” he snarled, giving Chad a swift kick to the leg. Chad gritted his teeth and shuffled out of the stuffy room, the pain pulsing in his calf muscle.
The cold gruel slopped around in the bowl as Chad made his way outside. A bitter wind swept down from the north, punctuated by occasional balls of sleet. He crunched through the snow across the barren yard to the most sheltered area, where two men huddled.
“—And just before her father broke down the door—oh, hey Chad, you made it. We were wondering when you was planning to show up,” said the big one.
“Gus, Harry,” he nodded politely. “Now, have you got the stuff?” he asked, looking around the yard nervously.
“Right ‘ere,” said Gus, producing a small bottle from his coat pocket. “All ready for tonight. He shook the vial, swirling the chunky, dark brown liquid inside.
Chad shuddered as he replayed in his mind all they had done to procure the precious liquid. Harry had found a small bottle in the warden’s trash basket one day. Then Gus sneaked some raw meat juice into it while he was on kitchen duty, by hiding the vial in his shirt. The trio agreed to keep it in Gus’ cell, behind the toilet. Chad remembered Gus once bragging about a mouse he had killed, crowing, “Waste not!” It had been fermenting for three months, and by now was quite possibly the nastiest thing Chad had ever seen. He screwed the cap on tight before gingerly placing it into his pocket.
“Okay then,” said Harry, “You guys still remember the plan?”
“Yup, tonight at 8:15 you go out, and Harry will make a distraction,” Gus said, “And Chad, once you get out, lay low for awhile. We’ll meet you in two weeks at May’s Diner once our sentences are up.”
“Okay. Thanks guys!” Chad said as he stiffly got up to go back inside.
Later that evening, Chad picked at his mashed potatoes, glancing up at the clock every few seconds. Three, two, one. Yes! He pushed himself away from the table, and nonchalantly walked to the door, and asked permission to use the restroom. The hallway was empty and dimly lit. The sound of breaking glass and shouting suddenly filled the hallway. Chad continued down the hall, past the warden’s office to the restroom. Just after he had passed it, the office door slammed open and the warden bolted down the hallway and into the cafeteria. Chad slipped into the small room, where a half-eaten meal of roast beef lay on the table. He mixed the bottle’s contents into the dark gravy; then retreated to the shadows of the warden’s closet. He had barely closed the door, when the warden entered the room, and finished his meal.
Not five minutes later, the warden collapsed to the floor, trembling violently in a seizure. The door creaked as Chad stepped out, his grin saturated with malicious intent. The warden glared up at him, mouth foaming, obviously fighting the urge to wretch. “Ah, these will fit nicely,” he said as he removed the warden’s uniform from the rack. “I’ll meet the guards at the gate and tell them I have important business to attend to.”
“You know, I was never guilty. I was framed!” he hissed into the warden’s ear. Chad turned to leave, but paused at the door, running his weathered hands along the holster. “But, it would be a shame to have wasted seven years of my life for no reason,” he said, cocking the pistol.