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Lovelock
Topic Started: Jun 1 2016, 10:20 PM (42 Views)
0001366

June 1st 2016
Lovelock Correctional Facility
Nevada


She shuffles down the drab, sterile corridor, her ankle shackles clanging slightly with each step forward. We view her from the back, her orange jumpsuit emblazoned with inmate #0001366. A gauzy spit hood covers her head, and two correctional officers grip her tightly by her ropey biceps, pushing her along, keeping their faces turned away from her.

This one is a spitter.

Another guard walks behind her, his taser gun drawn and pointed directly at her upper back. A pneumatic door opens, steel bars sliding backwards to allow access through the threshold.

She is brought to an intake desk.

She thrusts her hands forward, fists balled and fingernails covered in chipped black marker “polish”. The intake officer reluctantly produces a key and unlocks her handcuffs, allowing them to clatter down to the desktop.

The correctional officer behind her lowers his taser gun and steps forward to pull the spit hood from her head. She shakes out her hair, midnight black with dyed white streaks, shaved on one side and long on the other. There’s a little tattoo just behind her small ear, a grinning mouth full of razor-tipped teeth. Just a little prison ink to pay homage to an old flame…

The guards lean down to remove her ankle shackles, and she steps daintily out of them, giving the correctional officers a coquettish wink with long, spiky lashes.

The intake officer pulls a battered green duffle bag up from a shelf below and places it on the desktop. The man is bald and weather-beaten, his eyes hard stones set within his skull. He unzips the duffle bag and begins to remove personal effects that are sealed in plastic baggies.

“Released early for good behavior? You? I’m pretty damn curious how you managed that.”

“Well…I watched a bunch of old episodes of Mister Roger’s Neighborhood during my incarceration. He’s all about morals and good behavior and the power of fluffy red sweaters. Total role model. I’d say I’m completely reformed!”

“You call stabbing your cellmate seventeen times with a toothbrush shank while she was sleeping last year…good behavior?”

“I saw bed bugs crawling on her. I was trying to stab the BUGS, not Bertha. I was just doing my civic duty to prevent an infestation. Pesticides are harmful, Malone. I saved Lovelock a shitload of money because you guys didn’t even have to hire an exterminator after I took care of that…”

Malone shakes his head in frustration, teeth gritted. He begins to rifle through the bags across the desktop.

“One eight inch butcher knife.”

He moves that bag to the side.

“One serrated hunting knife.”

He moves that bag to the side.

“One nine inch stiletto knife.”

Malone simply stares at the woman for a lengthy moment. She simply shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly.

“I love to whittle. Las Vegas Whittling Grand Champion three years running!”

“Is there anything in this fuckin’ bag that is NOT a knife?”

“Sure! See that uh…wooden handle protruding there?”

Malone reaches into the bag and pulls out a wooden baseball bat that has been driven through with several rusted nails. It’s encased in plastic, and he lets this drop to the desktop with a hollow thud. His nostrils flare as he stares at the woman standing in front of him.

“I’m a baseball enthusiast, kay? And I find it extremely rude that you guys would ruin my perfectly nice baseball bat by driving NAILS into it while I’m here serving time.”

She shakes her head shamefully, that black and white hair flipping.

“Cruel and unusual punishment, Malone…”

The correctional officer ignores her, continuing to dig into the duffel bag while sweeping all of the weapons into the “illegal to return” bin.

“Oh, look, you actually own things that are not made specifically to stab and bludgeon with.”

“One pair of scuffed combat boots.”

“One black latex bodysuit…”


“Just for the record, that black latex bodysuit is wresting gear. My BDSM black latex bodysuit is in storage right now.”

“One Magnum condom.”

“My former monster boyfriend has a monster dong. A girl’s gotta be prepared…”

“One pair of aviator sunglasses.”

“One stainless steel nose ring.”

“One tube of Mederma Scar Cream…”


“Gotta stay pretty, and ya know, I’ve just got such fair skin, I tend to be a little…SCAR prone.”

The woman giggles, a playful sound.

Malone pushes all of the personal effects towards the woman and dumps all the weapons into the bin behind him.

“You can change in the holding cell. I assume you’ll be waiting for the bus to pick you up?”

“Pshhhh. The bus, Malone? Nah. There’ll be a car waiting for me.”

The woman starts walking towards the holding cell, hips swaying, calling out to Malone once more before she closes the door.

“I’ve got some new friends.”

The guard just stares that sullen stare.

“Get the fuck outta here, Hellcat.”

***

She walks out of the main entrance of Lovelock Correctional Facility with her duffle bag draped over her shoulder. She’s bedecked in torn black latex and combat boots, the aviator shades pulled down low on her nose so that her turquoise eyes peer out from above the lenses. There’s a terrible, swirling madness in those eyes. Endless laughing lunacy, a lunacy that twitches her lips up into a welcoming smile when she hears the smooth churn of an engine approaching.

She stares at the ones in the car, offering each of them a little wave while simultaneously throwing a hand back towards Lovelock and offering the facility a goodbye middle finger.

The desert dust swirls around her as she approaches the car.

A car filled to the brim…with all of her new friends.




Edited by 0001366, Jun 1 2016, 10:23 PM.
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