Me and Mike have been thinking for two straight weeks. We realized that there is a lot we do not know. For instance, if Mike is allowed a retrial, or whether he was forbidden by his sentence. There was no way of finding this out, unless we had another brain of whom was granted a little more knowledge than we were.
It was not a very sophisticated operation, but we were getting desperate. When our jailer opened the door to let us back in after dinner one night, just before he closed the door, Michael grabbed him, and forced him inside.
He was screaming and flailing madly, so we did the only thing we could think of; we stuffed Mike's bed covers into his mouth.
That shut him up real nice. When he finally stopped squealing like a piglet, he slumped in his chair, clearly feeling defeat. His eyes progressed back to their original shape and stopped looking like dinner plates, so we thought we could take the cover off of him.
'What the HECK do you want?' he said, in the calmest tone he could manage (though he really just sound like a whimpering dog)
'What we want,' said Mike in an exasperated tone, like this guy was slow on the uptake 'Is information'.
'About what? Look, if you kill me, don't you go thinking you'll get any of my pension.' I stand heavily corrected; this guy is slow on the uptake.
'ABOUT MY SENTENCE YOU IDIOT!' yelled Mike, finally losing it. I indicated for him to quite down with a wave of my hand. If he got any louder, the rest of the guards would hear. I think he got the message.
'I don't know a thing about your pension-' began the guard, all his long hair flying askew. Before he could get the rest of his sentence out, Mike slammed him against the wall.
'Liar' breathed Mike, slowly and dangerously.
'-But I would be happy to make a few calls', he finished hastily.
'Good,' I said. The guy looked like he had seen a ghost. (Oh. Wait a minute.)
'I want daily information, starting tomorrow.' I continued, as if I had not seen anything. The guard didn't stick around long after he realized we had finished.
'Well, at least one good thing came of today' mumbled Mike as he got his covers off the ground ans slipped into bed. I agreed. We might actually get out of here before Christmas; but I must not get my hopes up.
YOU ARE READING
The Blackbirds Song
Historical FictionFlavian Jeong fled his combatant country, with little more than the torn clothes on his back. He was hoping for a welcoming home in America, but he was not expecting hatred, brutality, and to be wrongfully convicted of murder. When he stumbles acros...
