Ole’ Tin-tin – Chapter Three

I couldn’t wait for him to continue, although I could tell that it was going to be painful.  I could see it in his eyes and I could hear it in his voice.  A sort of agonizing rendition of a life he had lived so many years ago.

But again, his voice seemed to have a lilt when he spoke of George.  He laughed and said, “George and I got on that Greyhound and as soon as we started rolling, he started singing.  I wasn’t sure if the rest of the guys were going to throw us off the bus or join in the fun, but after a few minutes of his caterwauling, they chimed right in.  Later, he had the whole bus rolling in the aisles when he gave one of the worst performances of the National Anthem you ever heard, but at least he remembered all of the words.”

I’ll tell you,” he said.  “George never met a stranger, and I never met anyone who didn’t instantly like him…with the exception of his sixth grade teacher, of course, and there was no excuse for the humiliation he got from that old bitty.”

“After a few hours on the road, George reached into his pocket and pulled out a harmonica.  I remember thinking ‘Oh, Good Lord.’  Anyway, he took to playing what I’m sure he thought was a symphony worthy performance.  To the rest of us, it sounded like a screeching banshee who was experiencing decapitation.”

“He was so proud of that harmonica.  When I asked him where in the world he had gotten it, he said, ‘at Lords’ Drugstore.  Remember…old Sandy Lords’ folks owned it?  Shoot…I even got a good-bye smooch on the cheek from Sandy before I left’.  Then he winked and said, ‘she said she’d wait for me’.  I laughed and said that even if I believed him, and I didn’t, he should have told her that he was going to be gone for a minute.”

“George looked at me and said, ‘you’re just jealous because you didn’t get a smooch and you don’t have this wonderful, marvelous, magical musical instrument in your pocket’.”

“That, I said, is just a piece of tin.  Tin!  The other guys heard me and started chanting ‘tin-tin…tin-tin…tin-tin, and from then on…that’s what it was called.”

I was curious about George and I asked Grandpa what he looked like.  He said, “what do you think he looked like?”  I said, “well, I think he was probably around five eight or nine, had sandy blonde hair, wore glasses; maybe had a few freckles sprinkled over his nose, was of average build and always had a wide grin on his face.”

Grandpa leaned over and looked at me with his intense eyes.  I thought he was going to say something like, “wow.  Pretty good guess,” but he didn’t.  Instead, he said “you might want to hold onto your day job, because I’m not sure you’d make it as a profiler.”

“George,” he said, “was six foot, six and a half inches tall.  He had jet black hair, pale blue eyes and was built like a wrestler, but you are right about one thing.  He always had a grin on his face.”

I’m not sure that I would describe the way my grandpa spoke about George as nostalgic or poignant.  It was more bittersweet, and to me, that was somehow more painful.

“Tell me more,” I begged.

Grandpa took a deep breath and continued.  “Well, we finally got to the base and I remember how we strutted off the bus, like we were all somebodies.  But it didn’t take very long for us to find out that we were nobodies.  We were just the newest green recruits…grunts…wide-eyed and bushy-tailed innocent soldier-wannabes.  FNGs.”

“We didn’t’ know it then…but we,” he said, “we were lambs being readied to be sent to the slaughter.”

I felt numb and couldn’t find any words.

Then grandpa looked at me and said, “do you realize that if you drop the ‘s’ from slaughter, it spells laughter?”

 

To be continued________________

 

Ole’ Tin-tin – Chapter One

For as long as I can remember, it sat on the top shelf of my grandfathers’ bookcase, housed in a clear acrylic box with an engraved brass plate at the bottom that said “Ole Tin-tin.”  Next to it were several medals hanging from the picture of a young man.  I didn’t know who the man was and I had no idea what the medals were for…they were always just there.

I asked my grandfather about the box once.  I remember the sadness in his eyes when he looked at it and said, “that’s ole’ Tin-tin.  One day when you’re older, I’ll tell you the story about it; and when I’m gone, I’ll pass it along to you.”

I didn’t ask where it came from or what that name meant, and it was certainly nothing I would long for in the years to come.  I was too young to understand, and I really didn’t care.  To me, it was just some old rusty piece of metal.

I spent every summer with my grandfather and those warm, lazy days and nights would leave me with some of the best memories of my life.  I loved to listen to the stories he told about his childhood and he always had a twinkle in his eyes when he told me about the mischief he “got up to.”
He’d smile, shake his head and say, “my poor mother, bless her soul.  She had the patience of Job.  I don’t know how she survived raising me.”
Then he turned and said, “when I was a little boy, I was quite a handful, you know.”

As I grew older, I would come to appreciate the final five words he always said when it was time for me to go home.  “Be good to your mother.”

Sometimes my grandfather and I would go down to the lake and throw little stones.  He’d tell me to watch the ripples every time I threw one.  “See?” he said.  “Every time you throw a stone, whether it be little or big, it makes ripples in the water.  That’s a reaction.  It’s just like life.  Those ripples might not seem noteworthy to you, and may even be viewed as beautiful, but it disrupts the calm of the water.  Everything you do in your life will have a reaction.  It may be insignificant or it may be life-changing, so just be sure that you always try to do the right thing, and cause as few disruptive ripples as possible.”

I loved our times late in the afternoon.  It would be just the two of us, sitting on the front porch and drinking Dr. Pepper from the bottle.  I listened intently to his famous stories and what he called his “pearls of wisdom.”  He told me about how, as a little boy, he loved to run down the hill barefoot.  “There was a method to my madness, you see,” he said.  “If I could make it all the way down without stepping on a cow patty, I won.”

“Won what?” I asked.  He looked at me and said, “why bragging rights, of course.  Running all the way down that hill and making it to the bottom with nothing but a few grass stains on your feet was quite the conquest.”

“How many times did you win?” I asked.  He laughed and said, “only once, but it’s something that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.  You see…sometimes, it’s the simplest, most innocent things from childhood that stay with you forever.”  His gaze drifted away as he quietly said, “and the loss of childhood innocence is always such a tragedy.”

He was a wise man, and a good man.  He never raised his voice, nor did he ever make me feel that I was anything less than the most special kid in the world.  When he sometimes used big words I didn’t understand, he always took the time to explain what they meant and would then smile and say, “see?  You just got a new wrinkle in your brain.”

The year I turned eighteen was the last summer I spent with my grandfather.

 

To be continued________________

 

 

 

“Tie”-dal Waves

I thought this looked like waves.  Ironic, since I despise the ocean or any other body of water.  At a distance though, someone said it looks like a shamrock.

There are 256 different ties in this quilt.

 

Kaleidoscope “t-Eyes”

I think the center of this quilt looks like an eye, (if you don’t have on your spectacles or are perhaps a bit inebriated).  Imagine, under those same circumstances, seeing the “eye” through a kaleidoscope.

There are 288 different ties in this quilt.

 

Extended Car Warranty Call

For the last several months, almost daily, I’ve been getting those “car warranty expiration” scam calls.  Sometimes, I just let them leave a partial message…”press 2 if you wish to be removed from our calling list.”  Sure.  That works…NEVER.

I’ve played with them before.  When they ask the make and model of my car, I tell them that if they know the warranty is expiring, they should know the make and model of my car.  This pisses them off and they hang up.

The other day, I got “the call.”  I was feeling a bit playful, so here’s how the conversation went.

 

Caller:  What is the make and model of your car?

Me: (In my very best proper British accent).  Hello.  Are you there?

Caller:  Yes, I’m here.  What is the make and model of your car?

Me:  Hello.  Can you hear me?

Caller:  Yes, I can hear you.

Me:  Oh, good, good, good, good, good.  Now tell me, dear.  What is the model number of the item you wish to purchase?

Caller:  Um…what?

Me:  What is the model number of the item you wish to purchase?  You should see the model number next to the item.

Caller:  What are you selling?

Me:  Dildos, dear.  Which particular one will be tickling your fancy?

Caller:  Silence

Me:  Hello.  Are you there?

 

 

A Town Called Nowhere – Chapter One

Somewhere far off the beaten path, about thirty-eight miles from the city of Nine Times, is a town called Nowhere.  No one is really sure how it got its name, but if you ask someone who lives there, they would most likely say something like…”well, it’s called Nowhere because the old-timers ain’t never been nowhere, and the young-timers ain’t never going nowhere.”

I was born and raised in Nowhere, and was surrounded by friendly and charming people, who seemed to be somewhat frozen in time, as if living in a state of self-imposed limbo.  It was the kind of town where no one locked their doors, car keys were left in the ignition, and children could walk to school and back, never having to worry about their pictures ending ended up on a milk carton.  It was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone.  There was only one traffic light which didn’t work most of the time, but served as a place to hang a twig of mistletoe during the Christmas holiday, and jut say that many a smooch was had under that lone traffic light.

It was true about the old-timers and the young-timers, but not for me.  I had dreams of going somewhere.  I didn’t know where and I didn’t really care where.  I just wanted to get out of Nowhere.  It was a dream I kept to myself, because I wasn’t sure anyone would understand my deep-seated wanderlust.

The most popular place in town was a cafe/bar/pool hall/sit around jaw-jacking/catch up on the local gossip/hole in the wall, called “Right Here.”  If you thought about it for more than a minute, it was sort of comical.  Right Here was right in the middle of Nowhere.

It was owned by Geraldine and Floyd Diggle, who had been sweethearts since the fifth grade.  They had some age on them, and people marveled that after almost 65 years of marriage, they still seemed to enjoy each others’ company.  They spent their golden years, sitting on the front porch, holding hands and rocking in their chairs, reminiscing about days and times gone by.  A few years earlier, they decided to leave the running of the cafe to their three sons, who in polite company would be kindly referred to as “quite the characters.”

Barrett Boone, also known as Bubba, was the oldest and had been named after the great Daniel Boone, from whom the family laid claim to having been directly descended, and the poet Robert Barrett Browning.  Bubba was known as the quiet one.  He looked a lot like his papa, but he had a touch of regret in his eyes, as if they held a painful secret.  It was well known that he didn’t take crap from anyone…especially his brothers, but he had an extremely long rope of patience.

Chester Camp, known as Pockets, was the middle son.  His name came from a city in South Carolina, coupled with his mother’s maiden name.  He was the typical middle child and was known as the one who was a couple of bricks shy of a load but he was a master prankster.  He’d walk into the cafe, Bubba would look at him and ask, “what have you got in your pockets?”
Pockets would innocently say, “I don’t know what you mean,” and then smile like the cat who had just eaten the canary as soon as Bubba turned his back.
You never knew what he had in his pockets, hence the nickname.  His mama once found the corpse of a flattened squirrel inside one of her oven mitts.  When she asked why he had them, he said, “that little squirrel just looked so lonely out there in the middle of the street, and he was cold.”  All she could do was shake her head, give him a hug, and say, “Lord have mercy, child.”

Third, known as Third, was the youngest.  He didn’t have a middle name, but he had all of his hair, most of his teeth, and was quite fetching according to the local single ladies.  When asked why he was named Third, he grinned and said he reckoned it was because his ma and pa had the first, and then had the second, and then had the third.  “I figure,” he said,” they done run out of names by then, so they just give me a number.  “Heck, I’ll answer to just about anything, except son-of-a-bitch.  Ain’t nobody going to be saying that word about my ma.”
Unlike Bubba, there was a twinkle in Thirds’ eye, and it was clear that if any of them was going to be a rebel, it was definitely going to be Third.  He was a jocular fellow who had always danced to a different drummer, and didn’t take life or himself too seriously.  He had a delicious sense of humor and I suspect, like me, wondered about an existence outside Nowhere.

Bubba was the cook.  He could whomp up a steak that might possibly require a chainsaw to cut, or if your taste leaned the other way, serve you one that would holler when you stuck it with a fork.  His homemade apple pie was renowned and could rot your teeth before you ever took a bite, which might explain why two of those boys and many of the townsfolk had so few.  When he cooked up a mess of Collards, the sweet perfume of those greens would waft through the air and spread all through town like a hypnotic spell.  Someone would take a deep sniff and then holler…”eatin’ time!”

All the good ol’ boys would come flying down the street in their pick-ups, ready to tie that red and white checkered napkin around their necks and chow down.  They were proud of those pick-ups, even with the missing bumpers, rusted through beds and plastic over the back window.  And missing a bumper didn’t deter them from proudly displaying a “honk if you love Jesus” sticker somewhere.

Every couple of weeks, ol’ Pete drive would drive up to the cafe on his prized 1892 Waterloo Boy John Deere tractor, used by his daddy and his daddy before him.  It took up most of the real estate in front of the cafe, but weighing close to 300 pounds, he figured he ate two or three times more than the average person, so he didn’t worry much on taking up more than his share of the parking spaces.  He’d waddle in, sit down on his favorite bar-stool and yell, “Bubba, fix me up a juicy piece of cow that’s still a mooin’.”

 

To be continued__________________

The Question – Chapter Four

April returned to her cell.  Roberta was waiting.  She looked at her, but said nothing.  April had never spoken about her crime, and although Roberta had told her all the gory details of her own, she knew that April would tell her in her own good time…or maybe she wouldn’t.

April had stopped going to the visitation room years ago.  Roberta never went.  She knew, like April, that no one would ever come to see her.  She was a disgrace.  All of her fair-weather friends as well as the ones she considered to be loyal, had abandoned her.

She mused that it was always about what she had done to her husband.  It was never about what he had done to her.  He had lied to her for years.  He had cheated on her.  He had a child with another woman.

She had devoted her life to him, had been a dutiful wife, and had taken care of him when he was seriously ill.  “That’s the way it is,” she once said.  “The ones who destroy everything, suddenly become the victims in everyone’s eyes.”

True, Roberto was indeed a victim, but no one tried to understand what it must have been like for her.  What was it like, finding out that her entire life had been a lie?  Why did no one see her as the victim of a lowlife, deceptive Lothario?  She didn’t know and she had long since stopped caring.

Two more years went by and once again, April was being considered for parole.  The board consisted of the same tired quorum of special commissioners, with the exception of a new, young man named Roger Carson, who all but announced, “I’m going to flex my muscles.”

He looked at April and took the lead.  “I see that you have been somewhat uncooperative through the years.  Let me ask you something.  You do understand that there’s still time for you to have a life, or do you want to die in prison?”

April reacted with the same blank expression the others had been seeing for years as she asked, “you say there’s still time for me to have a life?  What kind of life?  A solitary life?  That’s what I have here, and I don’t know if your records reflect anything other than my refusal to answer the question, but I have never had one visitor since I entered this steel and concrete purgatory.  Tell me, Mr. Carson.  What would be different?”

Mr. Taylor said, “very well Ms. Drummond.  As I have stated numerous times, we have a certain amount of sympathy, but the fact is, you committed murder.  You took revenge and…”  Before he could finish, Roger inserted with a smirk, “before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.  I think Niche said that.”

April looked at him and said, “that was said by Confusious, you moron.  Dig two graves?  He’s the one in the ground, isn’t he?”

Mr. Taylor smiled slightly and said, “Okay, Ms. Drummond.”  April waited for the question.

“If you had it to do over, would you do anything differently?”

April calmly said, “that monster raped and murdered my child.  I hunted him down and broke into his house.  I went into his bedroom and blew his brains out.”

“Again,” said Mr. Taylor.  “If you had it to do over, would you do anything differently?”

Through gritted teeth, April said, “YES.  I WOULD HAVE MADE HIM SUFFER.  I would have made him beg for mercy.  I would have made him beg for his life.  Then, I would have made him beg for death.”

Mr. Taylor once again stamped “DENIED” on her form.

 

Het Einde.

 

The Question – Chapter Three

April’s parole hearing was scheduled for 10 o’clock that morning.  She sat in her cell, stared at the wall and waited until the guards came for her. Roberta asked if she wanted to be alone.  April said she didn’t care.

Roberta tried to lighten the mood by saying, “you know it’s not called a parole hearing around here.  It’s called a ‘hopeful denial’ hearing.”

April knew her consideration for release hinged on “the question.”  It always did.  Sitting motionless in a chair in front of a panel of people who thought they knew what reform and readiness to rejoin society really meant, she resented being judged by their rules.

Rules that were written years ago onto a now obsolete pile of papers, and adopted as absolute law, constructed to make the “exert specialists” feel good about giving a lowly convict a second chance.

Say the right thing…beg…cry…plead.  Boast about starting a class for the inmates who could barely read…say you were growing your hair to be donated to children with cancer…and the one that got the most attention…tell them that you had found your God.  Anything convincing enough to make the “powers that be” believe that you had been reformed…worked.

April knew the spiel.  She knew what she had to say, and she knew what they wanted to hear.

The first to speak was Mr. Taylor, a stout, sweaty, bespectacled man, who began the usual inquisition with his pseudo, soft-spoken benevolence, as if talking to a child.  He had been on the panel before and hadn’t changed, other than being a few years older, as was April.

At some point during the hearing, he said, “Ms. Drummond.  We understand the immense grief you have suffered…”

Before he could finish, April looked at him and said, “do you?  Do you really?  How many of you have suffered immense grief?”

The panel looked back and forth at each other as if somewhat embarrassed.  Mr. Taylor said, “despite the horrific events you endured, you cannot take the law into your own hands.  That is why we have a judicial system.  If everyone took the law into their own hands, there would be utter chaos. Don’t you agree?”

April looked at him and said, “no.  There would be justice.”

Mr. Taylor sighed…and asked “the question.”  April sat in the chair, still motionless and silent.

“Ms. Drummond,” he said.  “The only reason you have been considered for parole is due to certain extenuating circumstances.  There is and always has been a certain amount of sympathy for you but…you must answer the question.”

Two full minutes of silence was interrupted only by the sound of “DENIED” being stamped on the application.

 

To be continued___________

 

 

The Question – Chapter Two

Six years and two parole hearings later, April Drummond, Inmate #11124721, now 44 years old, was notified of a third upcoming hearing. That’s when she would be asked…the question.

During that time, she acquired a cellmate, an unlikely sidekick named Roberta Nix.  Roberta was 60 years old, and was serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole for accidentally shooting her husband…five times.

The day she arrived in her worn-out orange scrubs and matching flip-flops, carrying equally worn-out sheets and the paltry amount of toiletries provided, Roberta immediately recognized the hierarchy, as she listened to the cat-calls and heard the intimidation tactics used by BB and her family.

April didn’t participate in the usual initiation and barely glanced up as Roberta strolled into her new “home.”  Like April, Roberta wasn’t interested in joining BB’s family, nor was she interested in having to service the other inmates.  At her age, she felt as though she had already paid enough dues.

April seemed to be protected by some kind of invisible shield.  Roberta wasn’t sure how or why, but noticed that the other inmates stayed clear of her.  Being smart, she knew that April could by association, provide insurance for her own safety…if she played her cards right.

Their collaboration started slowly; each testing the other’s loyalty, each divulging only the minimum amount of information about their lives before, and neither ever discussing the details of their crimes.

It was a year before Roberta began talking.  She married a man named Roberto when she was 16 years old.  His real name was Robert, but he thought Roberto sounded a little more exotic.  Everyone used to call them “the Robbies.”

Roberto, 10 years her senior, was a successful businessman who loved to make money, and loved to spend it even more.  He found Roberta at the local cafe, serving “a meat and three” to the local blue collar workers; workers with names like Bubba, Cooter, Josephus, Homer and Rufus.

The delicious homemade cooking wooed Roberto into the cafe week after week, and week after week he arrived, accompanied by a different young woman who was easy on the eyes, and appeared overly eager to please their older companion with public displays of affection.

Roberta knew women like that, and she knew men like him.  He had definitely caught her eye, but she played it cool.  “The ones who don’t pay them no mind, will lure them in every time,” her daddy once said…and she paid attention.  The more she ignored him, the hotter his pursuit became.

She let him chase her until she “caught” him, and entered into a lifestyle she never dreamed possible.

He shaped and molded her into a perfect lady.  He showered her with luxury and she slowly emerged as the queen of the castle; the lady of the lounge; the consummate hostess and the personification of the ideal wife.

Their union produced no offspring, of which she was disappointed, but also almost equally grateful.  Roberto was a selfish man, and through the years she had learned to be just as selfish.

When Roberto was 70, he was stricken with an undiagnosable illness that left him almost bed-bound.  Having been the epitome of healthy living, his affliction was a mystery and left his doctor scratching his head.

Roberta was his angel of mercy, devoting all of her time to his care.  She fed him, cleaned him, read to him, and tried everything to keep up his spirits.  She didn’t want him to give up and made it clear to him that she hadn’t married a quitter.

He slowly began to recover, thanks in no small part to her dedicated steadfastness.  His doctor was again, scratching his head.  “I don’t know what you did for him, but whatever it was, it certainly worked.  I expect him to make a full recovery.”  Roberta smiled and said, “all I did was love him.”  The doctor patted her on the back, smiled and said, “well, that was enough.”

A week later, Roberto was out on the veranda, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.  Roberta smiled, excused herself and went inside with the promise of a quick return.  She had an idea.

She was going to look for old cards that she had given him through the years; birthday cards, anniversary cards, silly cards and of course, romantic, suggestive cards.  She thought they might elicit smiles and laughter and bring back good memories.

What she found was not what she was looking for.  There, among all the cards from her, were cards and letters from a woman named Lisa.  Lisa? One of her dearest friends was named Lisa.  As she was gathering them, she was shaking.

She picked up the telephone and called Lisa.  When she answered, Roberta dispensed with the niceties and said, “how long have you been fucking my husband?”  Lisa was silent for a few seconds and said, “I want you to know that we never meant to hurt you.”  Roberta raised her voice and repeated, “HOW LONG?”  Lisa quietly said, “for about ten years.”

Roberta hung up and went outside.  Roberto looked at her and smiled, but the smile disappeared when Roberta threw the cards and letters on the table next to him.  “What are these?” she demanded.  Roberto looked down and said, “I want you to know that we never meant to hurt you.”

Roberta said, “you sound like a fucking parrot.  That’s exactly what Lisa said.  How could you?  She said it had been going on for about ten years. Is that true?  When did it end?”

Roberto looked at her and said, “it hasn’t ended, but not because we’re still involved or because I love her.  It just a tryst that got out of hand.  You know I love you.  I always have and I always will.”

“What does that mean?  It was just a tryst that got out of hand?” Roberta asked.

Roberto looked down and said, “we have a daughter together.  That’s why I couldn’t completely end it with her.”

Roberta got up and walked back into the house, while Roberto was begging her to forgive him.  She got her purse and pulled out the pink handled revolver he had given her for protection.  She calmly walked back outside, pointed it at him and emptied the chamber.

 

To be continued_________

 

The Question – Chapter One

As April Drummond looks at her etiolated image reflected in the dirty, almost opaque windows of Craggy Prison, she counts the steel bars that separate her from the outside world…and waits.  She waits for the monthly visit that she desperately wants, but knows will never come.

She is inconsequential.  She is unimportant.  She is insignificant.  She is irrelevant.  She is nonessential.  She is meaningless.  She is picayune.

She is also a murderer.

There are no words of comfort from the guard, who watches her every move, as she sits and waits.  There is only a slight look of fear when her visitation time is up, and no one has come.

April has a look in her eyes…the kind of look that unnerves you.  The kind of look that makes you shudder.  The kind of look that makes you question whether she is predator or prey.  The kind of look that foments the common reaction of fight or flight, when confronted by fear.  For those reasons, other inmates don’t bother her, but those aren’t the only reasons.

A one time interaction with another prisoner named BB, aka Big Bertha, aka Big Bitch, who invited April to join her “family,” became folklore legend.

BB, an unsympathetic bully, was born in this very prison, and as if written in a playbook, she found her way back “home” when she was just 23.

Her mother, (street name Jasmine) was a drug addict, who got pinched for prostitution after she solicited an undercover police officer.

Jasmine told BB that she didn’t know who her father was, but whoever he was, for a minute or a month, he was surely a happy man after having “been with her.”

The day before Jasmine was to be released, she was stabbed to death by another inmate.

It was well known that BB ruled the prison, had a few guards in her pockets, had her defenders, her enforcers and her family, which included several “daughters,” and three “wives,” and was not the kind of prisoner you ignored, challenged, or turned down.

Although BB wasn’t a large woman, she was powerful and intimidating. April, being diminutive, was mistakenly considered an easy mark by BB and her family.  When she refused BB for the last time, the family gathered around her like a pack of angry wolves.

April grabbed BB’s left breast and twisted it like a corkscrew.  BB screamed in agonizing pain, and dropped to her knees.  After she surrendered, she attempted to smile as she said, “I forgot that you were a murderer.”

April leaned over and whispered, “don’t forget it again.”

At 38, she is three years into her forty year sentence, which carries the possibility of parole after ten years, or possibly sooner if she is a model prisoner, or overcrowding becomes an issue.

Everyone who is incarcerated declares their innocence, but not April.  She is the only guilty inmate in the prison.

 

To be continued_______________