I wrote this as Facebook comments in one nigt, bar the last paragraphs that I wrote today (you can probably notice by the drop in quality).
[align=right]In
Before
Psyborg[/align]
START
"And all the fucking state laws I couldn't give a fuck about; lemme me tell you some goddamn something! If it moves, you gotta right to fuck it! No Texan surpreme court ever gonna convince me or my fine cattle otherwise, is all my old man taught me before he departed from this mighty fine land I got to inherit and take care of after I been left his one and only sole descendant; bless 'is soul may he rest in piece amen." It was then I realised this prisoner rehabilitation class was starting to accelerate downhill with due speed and, surprisingly, no effort on my side. I took the chance to note my vision and overall cognitive processing entering a blackened and rather blurry state. I promptly began hyperventilating.
The grizzled man of self-proclaimed Texan descent sitting on my left seemed to take heed of my disturbed state and put an overshadowing claw over my shoulders, moving the gusts of cheap cologne my mother always insisted that I pour onto myself when I was in my teenage years (and much to both the cologne manifacturer and my now dead mother's fortune - I still kept buying over the last three decades) aside. Like a pedophilliac bear, he rest his sandpaper-covered log of a hand complete with four and a half fingers on my back gently and in an almost welcoming, ushering manner. Rather than clutching me in a death grip his movements suggested a hearty smile to follow, surely the smile of herding me back into the red barn and laying me down on the hay, eyes gleaming with steadfast love. If I was to have four stomachs, maybe the situation I was in would've been handled better by my humble self, but even with the contradicting inner blessings and curses that I was currently - and indeed so - not a cow, one thing was for certain. My one, sole stomach did not seem to handle the circumstances at hand with much success.
"Ey you okay there feller?", I heard, not even bothering to look him in the eyes. I sensed that trademark burn feeling rising in my throat and not before long my mouth was gleefully expelling both my scarce breakfast and late lunch I didn't want to eat anyway on the tiled floor, all in one swift go. While I seemed content with doing just that at the moment, several chair legs were heard scraping the ground as several orange jumpsuit donned legs lifted the respective torsos they belonged to and shuffled uncomfortably out of the way of my daily meal's victory liberation upflow towards the small, tacky rug in the center of the circle. My Texan friend remained above, his rectangular head obstructing whatever light sources were hanging from the ceiling; his hand hung in mid-air where my shoulder used to reside but a moment ago. I could feel his vacant look of confusion trailing the curve of my spine all the way back to the chair I departed from also, as my body had conveniently decided it best to crumble down on its knees and proceed with the oral discharge I was just about finishing with now, as a matter of fact.
Throat and nostrils burning, and head now pulsing with pain and blood, I took the moments of both short and awkward silence usually following an event of such margin to contemplate on the state I kept finding myself into, no matter how hard I was trying to wake myself up. I concluded this was probably not a dream after all, and much to my dismay the alarm clock to my right confirmed my fears - it did not wake me up. The beep, modest in length, but in grand decibel levels - at least for my tortured brain - signified the end of the Texan's sixty seconds, at least fifteen of which I had taken with my personal problems and respective bodily fluids; an injustice I intended to repair later with a sincere apology, provided he was back behind bars and in no way able to touch me. As for now, I thought it best, with utmost effort as to note, to continue the course irregardless of my condition.
Palms coated with puke, I made an attempt to raise my body to a more respectable position than the one the unusually agitated looks of the inmates lead me to believe I was in right now. I quickly understood I had underestimated the dedication one must take when carrying out a task of such deceitfully humble proportions. I found that every part of me was stiff with insurmountable weight, a feeling I could only liken to being a large stone pillar. The stench of my cologne suddenly felt stronger, causing a sharp pain between my hemispheres and helping reject the already unlikely theory of mine that I was indeed a stone pillar (as, I believe it is common knowledge, stone pillars cannot smell). Being done with that, I expressed my frustration at not being able to move with a pathetic gasp from my lungs, which were still hurting from their earlier convulsions. Realising that I was wasting the inmates' time and that the warden would probably turn his head pretty soon and notice the new prison psychology consultant had thrown up on the floor through the small door window, I hastened myself to buck up and just get on with the session already.
Admitting defeat, I remained at my current position and attempted to output some calm-toned words of reassurance to the orange jumpsuits hovering over my bended stature. To my misfortune, no words of reassurance would come to mind. "Keep yo cool", a phrase one young african-american man had impressed upon me back when I was working way up in Jersey suddenly struck me, and as my brain was really lacking any type of coherent thought (and possibly oxygen) right now, I snatched it and held onto it for the sake of my and the prisoners' well-being. His whole predicament floated, dimly, from the bowels of my memories: "And I'm like, ya gotta keep yo cool, man, you shuuure gotta keep yo cool! And so I wash the knife carefully, cause I know they'll find the fucking DNA, man, I done watched CSI, but them fuckers ain't gonna catch a nigger. You still got it man, you always gotta say dat, they ain't gonna catch you.", his story continued with several other bad descisions that ultimately led to his conversation with me. Disregarding the fact that his philosophy did not get him far (it did get him a life sentence to be fair), I decided to instead concentrate on his admirable efforts in positive thinking, and as such, I vowed to too retain my "cool" and somehow carry on with the course.
Fifteen more seconds had surely passed by now and I was beginning to understand that this situation could go without any comforting words at all, just fine at that, as long as I actually said something. Anything. I was surpsied that none of my patients had called on the warden yet, but the breakpoint was probably pretty close. Wasting time no more, I raised my hand with pain and pointed to the figure who’s turn I believed was now.
"Carl, y-" began I, choking with what I now hoped was vomit rather than blood, "tsyour turnkkkhhh. Now you tell us-" everything suddenly stopped at that time. The puzzled face of the prisoner pertified in an eternal frown, the dust motes in the air frozen in their flight, the thick line of stomach acid dripping down my beard grinded to a halt. My breath, my thoughts, everything. I must've stood there for about twenty minutes.
"-tell us why you hate the system and why you think your sentence is unfair in sixty seconds."
I spat the rest of my plea in a burst and gasped loudly for air, as everything resumed to its normal speed with the force of a truck ramming into a deer when I was 8 we had stopped because my dad had to pee and it was just looking at me and I heard the horn but the deer just kept staring at me and I killed it oh god its body broke and the sound was I gasped for air again. I tried to remember where I was, which led me to realize that the time that had taken me to ask Carl to take initiative in our session was around five seconds rather than the twenty minutes I must've imagined. This ongoing lack of reliability concerning my concious thoughts felt unusually disturbing and I, for the first time since the morning, asked myself if I was actually all right - questions zig-zagging through the crimson patterns on the tiles below me, pieces of my lungs sprayed by the irregular coughs that had wholly replaced my normal breathing by now.
"Mister Riley you ain't looking good at all we're going to call for a medic, just hang in there, okay?" the bald-headed voice of Carl rang above me, his bulky silhouette flashing left and right, backing up with barely contained panic and tripping in the chair in his haste. The rest of the jumpsuits scrambled from their seats as well, their tough prison attitude finally caving in.
I heard a fist whamming at the door. The warden's cursing. "Dear Lord almighty I think I've a nosebleed." the bear to the left whispered with a voice of great alert. "He's contagious, we're all dead, Harvey, we're all-" another voice echoed right before someone I'd only imagine was Harvey himself cut it with a continued chant of a certain F-word. More things kept happening.
Garboil was abound. I blacked out completely.
