Nobody Likes Me In Here
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.
"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"
"40,045," I reply.
"But you've only been here two hours."
"Time can be very subjective," I offer.
"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something, and develop a skill that you can use on the outside. It would also demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."
"What kind of classes do you offer?"
"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."
"Nah," I says.
"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"
"No."
He flips a page. "Crochet?"
"No," I sigh.
"Painting."
"Uh-uh."
"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"
"Oh God no. What was that last one?"
"Painting," he repeats.
"Yeah, okay."
***
"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."
"Eneries?" I ask.
"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.
I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"
"It's a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside.' Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"
Uh-oh
"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.
Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?
An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the easel, "represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."
The room was alight with excited murmurs.
"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that's the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."
Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat as the room politely applauded.
"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"
"Eh, nothing," I says.
"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."
Dolefully, I am wheeled to the front of the class, and a guard sets my painting roughly on the easel.
"There," I try to shrug. "Happy?"
Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.
"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.
"It's a basket of puppies," I says.
Posey vomited into the isle.
"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"
... Nobody likes me in here.
[LOBO]
Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.
"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"
"40,045," I reply.
"But you've only been here two hours."
"Time can be very subjective," I offer.
"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something, and develop a skill that you can use on the outside. It would also demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."
"What kind of classes do you offer?"
"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."
"Nah," I says.
"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"
"No."
He flips a page. "Crochet?"
"No," I sigh.
"Painting."
"Uh-uh."
"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"
"Oh God no. What was that last one?"
"Painting," he repeats.
"Yeah, okay."
"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."
"Eneries?" I ask.
"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.
I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"
"It's a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside.' Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"
Uh-oh
"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.
Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?
An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the easel, "represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."
The room was alight with excited murmurs.
"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that's the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."
Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat as the room politely applauded.
"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"
"Eh, nothing," I says.
"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."
Dolefully, I am wheeled to the front of the class, and a guard sets my painting roughly on the easel.
"There," I try to shrug. "Happy?"
Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.
"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.
"It's a basket of puppies," I says.
Posey vomited into the isle.
"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"
... Nobody likes me in here.
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