Post by justin on Jan 2, 2014 13:40:41 GMT -5
I’ve heard the same sound for the past ninety-nine days, multiple times a day. But when the metal door clanks shut shivers are sent down my spine, an unneeded reminder of where I was, how long I had been here, and how much longer I had to be here. The customary calendar hangs on my way with the expected mark through each day; the countdown to freedom is painfully dreadful. Old worn out books with layers of dust are perched on my small steel table that juts out from the wall. Beside the stack of books are two cans of some no name brand noodles and meat sauce from the famous canteen.
Some would tell me to stop complaining because my current residence is a Federal Prison Camp and not a Penitentiary. I’m sure I have it easy compared to those serving time for violent crimes, but either you way you slice the pie, I’m still in prison. I still have to eat mystery meat instead of lobster tail. I have to drink water that I’m sure is contaminated with something as opposed to Fiji water. What I’m trying to say is…
Prison is prison.
“King!” a voice shouts from down the hallway, “Warden wants to see you.” A burly guard approaches, his keys jangling in his hand.
I straighten up from this news. The only encounter I’ve had with the warden is when I first got here. He held a two minute orientation and then he vanished, never to be seen again. His wanting to see me definitely has garnered my interest. The guard unlocks the door before ushering me out.
Five minutes and too many hallways to count later, I find myself sitting in the waiting room outside the warden’s office. His secretary, who is surprisingly beautiful, gives me a quick smile before turning her attention back on the paperwork littering her desk.
“Come on in King,” the warden appears from his office. His baritone voice does not match his diminutive frame; I can’t help but think that he has some sort of little man complex.
I say nothing; just give a slight nod as I enter his office. He motions for me to sit down and I follow his directions like a good inmate should. Glancing around his office I seriously doubt the government is furnishing his office with such nice things. His desk appears to be hand carved as does the matching bookshelf.
“How are you doing King?” the traditional conversation starter breaks my train of thought on the man possibly being corrupt.
“Life’s a beach; I’m just playing in the sand.” Sarcasm oozes from my voice.
Ignoring my comment, the warden peruses an already open file on his desk. This takes about thirty seconds or so in which I just stare absently at the file, my mind grasping for ideas about why I’m here, until he finally breaks the silence. “How much is your restitution?” His question catches me off guard.
“Uh…uh…six hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” I stutter.
The warden lets out an exasperated sigh, “That’s a lot of money Mr. King.”
I decide not to respond to his observation of the obvious.
Changing subjects the warden says, “I understand you used to wrestle.” I’m caught off guard again. My gut is starting to tell me something fishy is going on here.
“That is correct.” I answer apprehensively.
The warden lifts his head up from the file and looks me directly in the eyes. “How did you have
time to wrestle and be a mayor? I’m sure the schedules conflicted.” The warden broaches the subject of my time spent as a mayor. I know he has by now figured out that it is a button he can push if need be for it is a sensitive subject for me. I am sitting across from him because of my time as a mayor. I didn't do anything to hurt or harm my constituents, but I increased the revenue for our small quaint town, but I guess my efforts weren't appreciated.
“New Shoreham, Rhode Island is a town of about a thousand people. Not to mention that ninety percent of those people are elderly so there isn’t much that goes on around there. I had a lot of free time on my hands.”
“I see,” the warden nods his head. “Nobody ever raised questions about your whereabouts.”
“Nope.” I replied curtly. I am getting weary of his questioning. I know he has a purpose….I just wish he’d stop beating around the bush.
“Interesting…” the warden’s voice trails off as he begins to stroke his two-day old stubble. He closes the file before clasping his hands together and focuses on me once more, but says nothing.
“With all due respect sir…” I’m tired of waiting so I break the silence, “do you mind telling me what all this is about?”
A slight smile etches across the warden’s face. “So you’re a cut-to-the chase type of guy…I like that.” The warden stands up and walks over to a window that is in the corner of his office. “How would you like to wrestle again Mr. King?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The question catches me by surprise and has rendered me speechless for the moment. I take a deep breath and rub my right eyebrow to buy me some time. “How would that be possible sir?” I grab the collar of my prison jumpsuit for theatrical purposes.
“You’re a politician Mr. King so you should know that as long as there is will there is a way.”
“How would it work?” I am officially interested.
A grin from ear to ear envelops the warden’s face as he makes his way back and sits down at his desk. “Long story short….you will get paid; however your paychecks will go straight to the court for your restitution.”
“How much is your slice of the pie?” I ask bluntly.
“Excuse me?” The warden gives me an incredulous look.
“Like you said, I’m a politician….I know when somebody has their hand in the cookie jar.” My little
jab feels good.
“Do you want to wrestle or not?” The warden ignores my last comment. His tone is speckled with
anger.
“Yes.” I will do just about anything to get outside of this concrete building, even if it is only for one night a week.
The warden claps his hands together, “Good!” He opens the top drawer in his desk and removes another file, this time handing it over to me. “I knew you would say yes.”
I reach for the file and slowly open it. Staring up at me is the official announcement for Crisis, a
live pay-per-view event by some wrestling outfit known as Pure Wrestling. My eyes drift to the bottom of the listed matches for the show until they reach my name.
Howard King vs. Allen “Portal” Bartsch vs. Xianlong
A thousand questions are floating around in my brain, but I stay silent. A wave of excitement shoots through my body at the thought that I will be able to leave this place once a week. Controlling my excitement I flip the page and my eyes zero in on a headshot of both of my competitors. Nothing else accompanies the photos, but I don’t need anything else. I have a history of working with nothing and making a name for myself. This holds true for both the political arena and the wrestling ring.
Unexpectedly I am lifted to my feet by the same burly guard that brought me to the warden’s office. Minutes later I am back in my cell…
The shivers returning.
Some would tell me to stop complaining because my current residence is a Federal Prison Camp and not a Penitentiary. I’m sure I have it easy compared to those serving time for violent crimes, but either you way you slice the pie, I’m still in prison. I still have to eat mystery meat instead of lobster tail. I have to drink water that I’m sure is contaminated with something as opposed to Fiji water. What I’m trying to say is…
Prison is prison.
“King!” a voice shouts from down the hallway, “Warden wants to see you.” A burly guard approaches, his keys jangling in his hand.
I straighten up from this news. The only encounter I’ve had with the warden is when I first got here. He held a two minute orientation and then he vanished, never to be seen again. His wanting to see me definitely has garnered my interest. The guard unlocks the door before ushering me out.
Five minutes and too many hallways to count later, I find myself sitting in the waiting room outside the warden’s office. His secretary, who is surprisingly beautiful, gives me a quick smile before turning her attention back on the paperwork littering her desk.
“Come on in King,” the warden appears from his office. His baritone voice does not match his diminutive frame; I can’t help but think that he has some sort of little man complex.
I say nothing; just give a slight nod as I enter his office. He motions for me to sit down and I follow his directions like a good inmate should. Glancing around his office I seriously doubt the government is furnishing his office with such nice things. His desk appears to be hand carved as does the matching bookshelf.
“How are you doing King?” the traditional conversation starter breaks my train of thought on the man possibly being corrupt.
“Life’s a beach; I’m just playing in the sand.” Sarcasm oozes from my voice.
Ignoring my comment, the warden peruses an already open file on his desk. This takes about thirty seconds or so in which I just stare absently at the file, my mind grasping for ideas about why I’m here, until he finally breaks the silence. “How much is your restitution?” His question catches me off guard.
“Uh…uh…six hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” I stutter.
The warden lets out an exasperated sigh, “That’s a lot of money Mr. King.”
I decide not to respond to his observation of the obvious.
Changing subjects the warden says, “I understand you used to wrestle.” I’m caught off guard again. My gut is starting to tell me something fishy is going on here.
“That is correct.” I answer apprehensively.
The warden lifts his head up from the file and looks me directly in the eyes. “How did you have
time to wrestle and be a mayor? I’m sure the schedules conflicted.” The warden broaches the subject of my time spent as a mayor. I know he has by now figured out that it is a button he can push if need be for it is a sensitive subject for me. I am sitting across from him because of my time as a mayor. I didn't do anything to hurt or harm my constituents, but I increased the revenue for our small quaint town, but I guess my efforts weren't appreciated.
“New Shoreham, Rhode Island is a town of about a thousand people. Not to mention that ninety percent of those people are elderly so there isn’t much that goes on around there. I had a lot of free time on my hands.”
“I see,” the warden nods his head. “Nobody ever raised questions about your whereabouts.”
“Nope.” I replied curtly. I am getting weary of his questioning. I know he has a purpose….I just wish he’d stop beating around the bush.
“Interesting…” the warden’s voice trails off as he begins to stroke his two-day old stubble. He closes the file before clasping his hands together and focuses on me once more, but says nothing.
“With all due respect sir…” I’m tired of waiting so I break the silence, “do you mind telling me what all this is about?”
A slight smile etches across the warden’s face. “So you’re a cut-to-the chase type of guy…I like that.” The warden stands up and walks over to a window that is in the corner of his office. “How would you like to wrestle again Mr. King?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The question catches me by surprise and has rendered me speechless for the moment. I take a deep breath and rub my right eyebrow to buy me some time. “How would that be possible sir?” I grab the collar of my prison jumpsuit for theatrical purposes.
“You’re a politician Mr. King so you should know that as long as there is will there is a way.”
“How would it work?” I am officially interested.
A grin from ear to ear envelops the warden’s face as he makes his way back and sits down at his desk. “Long story short….you will get paid; however your paychecks will go straight to the court for your restitution.”
“How much is your slice of the pie?” I ask bluntly.
“Excuse me?” The warden gives me an incredulous look.
“Like you said, I’m a politician….I know when somebody has their hand in the cookie jar.” My little
jab feels good.
“Do you want to wrestle or not?” The warden ignores my last comment. His tone is speckled with
anger.
“Yes.” I will do just about anything to get outside of this concrete building, even if it is only for one night a week.
The warden claps his hands together, “Good!” He opens the top drawer in his desk and removes another file, this time handing it over to me. “I knew you would say yes.”
I reach for the file and slowly open it. Staring up at me is the official announcement for Crisis, a
live pay-per-view event by some wrestling outfit known as Pure Wrestling. My eyes drift to the bottom of the listed matches for the show until they reach my name.
Howard King vs. Allen “Portal” Bartsch vs. Xianlong
A thousand questions are floating around in my brain, but I stay silent. A wave of excitement shoots through my body at the thought that I will be able to leave this place once a week. Controlling my excitement I flip the page and my eyes zero in on a headshot of both of my competitors. Nothing else accompanies the photos, but I don’t need anything else. I have a history of working with nothing and making a name for myself. This holds true for both the political arena and the wrestling ring.
Unexpectedly I am lifted to my feet by the same burly guard that brought me to the warden’s office. Minutes later I am back in my cell…
The shivers returning.