The Royal Perfects

by Jeremy Neeley

  Chapter 11: Time in the Grinder

  Day two of Perfect prohibition began with Smirks Puffchest buying a dozen beet cakes from a local bakery. The morning meal would provide the energy needed to unleash another blitzkrieg of guerrilla performances upon the denizens of Upper Southrump. He dropped the shopkeep a couple of coins and began to walk the few block trip back to Lester’s. That’s when he spotted a constable posting a large sign on a storefront across the street. After pasting the sheet in place, he walked for several more paces and erected another. Even from a distance, Smirks could see the heading clearly stated, AS PER MAYORAL DECREE. He quickly ran over to read the document, and after having done so, made haste back to Lester’s.

  “They’re being put up all over town,” Smirks conveyed to his beet cake munching-brothers. “Apparently, our spontaneous skits have not sat well with Snodgrass. He has issued a second formal proclamation stating that, at no time, can a member of the former acting troupe known as The Royal Perfects be seen in public with another member of said company. The transcript goes on to list all of our names and images, citing that if anyone sees any combination of two or more of us together, they are to immediately alert the authorities. The transgressors will be subject to a mandatory seven-day prison term upon first offense. A subsequent offense will result in one year imprisonment, and a third earns ten!”

  “This is outrageous!” Bugs shouted, whipping his beet cake off the wall in disgust. “Who the hell does he think he is?!”

  “The mayor,” Snoots responded.

  Timmy realized the stakes had just been raised, and if he and his men were going to continue their acting assault, they would have to do so under increased cover. He proposed they devise well-manufactured disguises to hide their faces. John Ladyfist’s mind immediately began to churn. He rooted through some boxes, still packed from their banishment from the Rat’s Tail, and pulled out numerous wigs and satchels of makeup.

  There was more complexity to the matter, however. While the disguises would be required to allow them free passage while in their groups, they would also have to be easily removed. There was still the need to let the people know it was The Royal Perfects performing, and that they would continue despite any obstacle.

  Ladyfist planned accordingly. He developed several masks and alterations that would change a man’s appearance, but could reveal his true identity in little time. The plan was the same as before, except that once a proper location was found for a show, the covers would be removed and the acts performed while in their true Perfect personas. They could then hide behind the veils of concealment and blend into the faceless crowd once more.

  The men agreed on the gameplan, each one fully accepting that, if caught in the vicinity of one another, imprisonment was guaranteed. It was a circumstance that quickened the heart, but focused their intent. Newly determined to thumb their noses at the Mayor and his Ill So-So puppeteers, the rogue battalion embarked on another day of skit skirmishes.

  The previously designated clans had rotated members in an effort to further the illusion of a varying group appearance. Timmy was now paired with Snoots and Francis Dinkyworth. Because the trio had drawn Sooty Stoops as their day’s beat, they were last to leave Lester’s. The Stoops was Timmy’s home turf, and he knew it like the back of his hand. He could recall time spent running among the red-roofed flats and cock-eyed shacks of the neighborhood. He passed by familiar spots on the street upon which he used to find warmth while living as a vagrant. Before him stood the fruit cart where he first performed as a fledgling hobo actor just trying to survive. The ward held a wealth of memories, some bad, some wonderful.

  Nostalgia set in and Timmy pointed to that original street corner by the fruiter.

  “Fellas,” he whispered to Snoots and Francis beneath a beard made of wool, “how’s about an old-time show upon the very spot the Perfects were born?”

  Francis was happy to oblige. Snoots said nothing, which was equivalent to an agreement in McGee-ese. The three milled about the scene, scoping out the relative safety of the location. They didn’t see any constables, only men and women on their way here and there. A small group of five factory workers, with their pale brown caps and matching suspenders, haggled with the fruiter over some produce. Meanwhile, a homeless woman sat on a staircase, sharing cracker crumbs with a stray cat. Everything appeared fine enough, so Timmy gave the signal. The trio ripped off their masks and yelled to those around, “The Royal Perfects present an impromptu performance of Three Men and One Hat!”

  The skit revolved around three gentlemen trying to purchase the only hat left in a parlor. Each argued his case as to why the hat was essential to him. The first was a magician, and he needed the hat to perform his grand finale, pulling a rabbit out of it. The second man pleaded that he needed the hat to bail out his sinking rowboat. It was of dire importance because his mother-in-law had caught her foot on a nail in the vessel’s hull, and stuck fast, couldn’t get out from the quickly drowning vessel. The third man argued that he needed the hat for the most critical of all reasoning. His long-time love was, at that very moment, waiting for him upon the altar. But she had made it perfectly clear that she would only marry a proper gentleman, and a proper gentleman wore a hat to such an affair.

  Within this context, the three thespians dialogued back and forth, cutting one-liners and absurd justifications as to why their characters deserved the crown topper. More and more people began to gather and relish in the entertaining exhibition. By the time the show concluded, many appreciative fans were dropping donations into the hat props turned alms baskets.

  “Fine show lads,” the fruiter shouted with a smile.

  “Yes, a delightful scene indeed,” one of the factory workers complimented.

  Another of the men approached and dropped a coin into the hat. Extending his hand toward Timmy, he hoped to shake on a job well done.

  Timmy accepted with a grin. Suddenly, a loud click snapped through the air. Wicketts drew back his wrist, but much to his surprise, he could not pull away. The man had handcuffed himself to the actor.

  “Mr. Timmy Wicketts,” the fellow said, cracking a satisfied smirk, “you are under arrest!”

  With stealth, the rest of the factory workers surrounded Timmy, Snoots and Francis. Wicketts was now bound, so they set their sights on the other two actors, locking them soundly with cuffs and chains.

  The workers pulled off their stained apparel, revealing constable uniforms underneath. Apparently, the Perfects weren’t the only ones to contemplate camouflage on that day. The stunning capture had crushed Timmy’s spirit. Paraded unceremoniously into a waiting paddy wagon, the trio of friends was carted off to jail.

  The prison, christened the Grinder by those with an understanding of its inner workings, was a catchall for every manner of social deviant. From murders to the mentally askew, lock picks to trespassers, if you were deemed a public nuisance, a stone cell awaited at this medieval jail.

  Once there, the various degrees of decreed discipline were oftentimes molded into a single cast of painful punishment. While a grifter may receive a thorough lashing and be locked tight into a sweatbox, a man guilty of a lesser crime may be subject to the same. It was the whim of the warden that usually acted as the final verdict at the dastardly destination.

  As the wagon rocked and shook its way up a rough mountain road, Timmy could see the large stone watchtowers of the penitentiary rising like two foreboding colossuses overtop a craggy waste. A high masonry wall, topped with sharp iron spikes, surrounded the entire institution. At one time, it had been a castle, and by looks alone, one could argue it may have housed Vlad the Impaler himself. It was sharp, cold, dark and nasty, a real horror incarnate. Timmy felt a shiver pass over him when the wagon halted at the enormous wooden gate. The door groaned with the agony of ages as guards drew back the bolt and opened the barrier.

  A few meters later, the vehicle stopped and the three offenders were hustled out of the coach and directed toward the m
ain entrance. Spontaneous, and quite painful, baton strikes hastened them along. Ushered down a dim corridor, they came to a processing station. One of the constable escorts handed a man seated behind a large desk a slip of paper. The man read it to himself then stood and walked closer to Timmy, Francis and Snoots. He looked the three, top to bottom, his crooked eye uncomfortably ogling the men the whole time. After achieving whatever visual satisfaction he was apparently seeking, he returned to his desk and pulled out a massive, leather-bound ledger.

  “Block D. Cell 21,” the clerk stated, motioning in the direction of Snoots and Francis. He then cracked a wide, wicked smile and pointed toward Timmy. “Block C. Cell 33,” he stated.

  The escorting constables laughed, and Timmy grew even more uncomfortable.

  The men were led to another room where they were told to strip down to their undergarments. The clothes they had been wearing were thrown into a flaming furnace, and they were handed the drab gray uniforms of inmates. Once properly attired, the three were again herded out into the hall. Francis and Snoots were directed one way, and Timmy was dragged another. Francis tried to say something to his departing friend, but as soon as he drew breath, a guard smashed him in the stomach with a baton. A gasp of pain was all that passed over his lips.

  Timmy was chaperoned by a single, gritty constable. His gruff visage was covered in poke marks and scratches, and he wore a constant, misplaced look of giddy pleasure. It was the kind of psychotic expression a delirious wolf would wear upon seeing a wounded calf.

  “Going to 33,” the crazed constable said to Timmy. He struggled to hold back his joy and chuckled a rather evil laugh. “Looks like you’re gonna’ be George’s new friend. I think he’ll like you…a lot.”

  Timmy could sense the sarcasm and impending dread in the constable’s all-too-happy voice. He prayed that whoever George was, he could at least be reasoned with.

  “Yeah, last guy George roomed with found himself in the morgue. Good old George must’ve suffocated him in his sleep. No one saw anything. We just found the man in the morning, tucked under his covers, dead as a door nail.” The constable told the tale like it was a common occurrence. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  A few paces further and Timmy found himself on the cellblock. Passing by caged cretins, he received a variety of welcomes. One man shook his cell bars like a captured chimpanzee, all the while shouting and spitting. Another stared a hole through Wicketts as he passed by. The glare had the searing intensity of hot lead on exposed flesh. A couple of inmates paid no mind at all. Their wills had long since been broken.

  Finally, Timmy was brought to a halt at a cell at the end of the line. It had a large, faded 33 painted above thick, black iron bars. Inside, a mighty man stood motionless, his wide back facing Timmy. From behind, it was obvious the guy was thick and sturdy, with long, dirty, knotted hair. His arms were tattoo-covered and stiff as he held them to his sides. Large, clenched fists budded at the ends. The constable unlocked the door, sending a loud clang echoing through the cavernous building.

  “George, got you some fresh meat,” the officer stated while pushing Timmy into the cell.

  Timmy stumbled over his own feet, then quickly inched into the corner farthest from his new bunkmate. George still had not moved a muscle. It was as if he was in a comatose state, and Timmy was not keen on waking him. A second loud clang rang ominously as the constable locked the door. Wicketts was officially behind bars and now trapped alone with an unpredictable convict.

  The imprisoned Perfect slowly leaned out of his corner and tried to peer around the man’s shoulder in hopes of seeing his face. What he found was a broad, whisker-covered profile, the look of which put the man on par with a grizzly. When the fellow noticed Timmy attempting eye contact, he snapped around and threw a wicked glower in Wicketts’ direction. A spittle of drool oozed from the corner of his mouth. Then, with fury, the convict took three powerful strides toward Timmy, snatched him up by his lapels, and drove him back into the corner. Timmy immediately flashed back to the beatings he received at Vainville.

  Through gritted teeth and an enraged delivery, this man named George let out a gnarled bunch of gobbledy-gook. “Blagger bla, grumpty grum! Blagger bla! Tor tim grum, blagger bla!”

  Timmy had no idea what George was saying. It could have been Swahili for all he knew. But, regardless of the words, there was no doubting the tone. George was furious. He held Timmy there for a moment, locking eyes and spitting more drool. He then released his grip and walked over to his bunk. As George sat on the edge of his stained mattress, he rested his forearms upon his knees and mumbled incoherently, all the while keeping his pupils fixed on Timmy.

  Timmy cautiously moved toward his own bunk and carefully sat down. He had no idea what action, or inaction, may set the convict off again. He wanted to keep a sharp eye on George as well, but his glances were met with a continued glare, and intimidation was setting in. Eventually, Wicketts threw his legs up onto the mattress and slowly laid down. He averted his eyes, but did his best to keep George in his periphery. Lying there on a thin, cold, knotty mattress with a madman sitting only feet away, Timmy was in one of the most uncomfortable circumstances he could imagine.

  Had the unfortunate thespian been paired with someone who at least spoke English, he may have been motivated to drum up a conversation. But George apparently couldn’t manage anything close to a discernable word. As he lay there, Timmy could hear him sporadically mumble some sort of something, a sentence perhaps, or a name. Whatever it was, it wasn’t recognizable. However, this mental query became a much-needed game for Wicketts. As George blurted out some sort of nonsense, Timmy would try to decipher it in his mind. The translation task went on for the next hour or so as Timmy quietly contemplated the gibberish, searching for clues to its meaning. The exercise gratefully helped usher the day along.

  Before Timmy knew it, three constables reappeared at their cage door.

  “Up you filthy dogs!” one of the officers yelled.

  George rose slowly, and Timmy followed. The lawmen unlatched the door and motioned for the inmates to shuffle out. They did. Whatever was happening, George apparently knew the drill. He kept in step and did whatever was asked, almost before it was even said. Timmy simply mimicked his cellmate’s actions.

  Bound in chains, the two were lead down the hall and then to a stairwell. Off in the distance, Timmy could hear the growing sound of group conversation. It continued to escalate until they finally reached the source. Hundreds of gray-uniformed prisoners sat at the long tables of the jail’s mess hall. The constables shoved Timmy and George into the room and then took up positions of vigilance among the barrier of officers stationed around the cafeteria’s perimeter.

  George immediately made his way toward a table. When he sat down, the three other inmates there got up and rushed off to find another seat. George’s reputation was well known, and it resulted in many solitary meals for the crazed jailbird.

  Timmy scanned the room and was enthralled to see Francis frantically waving to him from a distant bench. He hurriedly went over to meet his friend. Snoots was there too, although wisely choosing to be less flamboyant in his display of happiness. He offered only a single nod of recognition upon seeing Timmy.

  “Francis, Snoots, how’s it been?” Timmy asked with concern.

  “Boring,” was Snoots’ sour reply.

  “He’s just sore because I won first pick of beds,” Francis explained.

  “So you’re cellmates?”

  “Fortunately, yes. I saw you coming in here with that ogre-looking chap. He’s your ‘mate?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The fellow’s absolutely insane. He accosted me almost immediately, spitting out some type of jibber-jabber. He keeps gabbing the nonsense too, like he’s talking to someone who understands him. Maybe he’s saying something to me, maybe to his invisible friend, maybe to the voices in his head. I have no clue because I can’t make heads or tails of any of it.”

  A
server passed by the men and dropped a repugnant bowl of broth in front of each inmate. Snoots sniffed the skilly and shoved it to the side in disgust. Francis and Timmy looked at one another with a bit of hesitation before simultaneously taking a spoonful. It was bland, but edible.

  “What’s worse,” Timmy continued between scoops, “a constable said the loon killed his last cellmate. They think he suffocated him in his sleep.”

  Francis was both worried and appalled. “What are you going to do?”

  “I guess sleep as little as possible. We’re only here for a week. I can toughen it out.”

  “Hopefully only a week,” said the pessimistic Sir Snoots. “Now that we’re locked away, they could keep up as long as they want.”

  The nightmarish thought was not one Timmy and Francis wanted to dwell upon, no matter how true it may have been.

  Timmy’s face grew defiant once more. “I’ll tell you this much though, once we get out of here, I’ll be right back to sticking it to that horrible mayor and his scumbag puppeteer, John Smith.”

  Suddenly, an older man positioned a seat away injected himself into the conversation.

  “John Smith, the self-proclaimed actor extraordinaire?” the man wanted to clarify.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy,” Francis replied. “You know him?”

  The elderly inmate’s eyes filled with fury, “Know him? That bastard is the reason I’m rotting away in this damned stone block. If I ever get out, my first order of business is to kill that scoundrel, even if it puts me right back in!”

  The mention of Smith struck a deep, resentful chord in the gray-bearded man’s heart. He could barely contain the shakes brought on by his hatred.

  The oldie moved closer to the Perfects. “So, how’d that toad get you three gents locked up?”

  “You see,” Timmy began, “we are part of an acting troupe called The Royal Perfects…”

  “The Royal Perfects. No fooling? I was talking to a guy up on A block the other day that said he saw you once. Said it was the damndest show he’d ever witnessed. You guys have a rep as the best around. What the hell happened?”

  “Smith happened. He was jealous. He couldn’t accept his own troupe was just plain terrible, so he enlisted the help of Upper Southrump’s new mayor and closed down our production house. We weren’t going to just let it all pass into the night, so we decided to keep on performing. We took to the streets and held impromptu acts. Well, that didn’t sit well, and the mayor—I’m sure at Smith’s insistence—had us locked up. We’re sentenced to one week. If we get caught again, it’ll be a year.”

  The old man stroked his beard. “I got that beat,” he said. “Smith won me a ten-year sentence. I used to employ the nefarious imp. He framed me for forgery, stole my money, and ran off scot free.”

  The tale lit a wick in Timmy’s mind. He looked at the aged man with more scrutiny. “Mr. Jenkins?” he asked.

  “Yeah, that’s my name, Reginald T. Jenkins. Do I know you?”

  “No, not really, but I know your daughter.”

  Mr. Jenkins’ eyes began to mist. Thoughts of his daughter rose to the surface. “My Genny. How is she?”

  Timmy was pained to tell Mr. Jenkins what had transpired. The man had already lost his freedom due to Smith, but hearing how his devious plot had virtually imprisoned Genny may have very well sent him over the edge. Timmy swallowed hard and told Reginald the entire state of affairs. He could see the sorrow of it all stacking like bricks upon Mr. Jenkins’ already burdened back. When it was finished, the poor man sat in silent agony.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jenkins,” offered a sympathetic Timmy. “I just wish there was something we could do, some way to prove your innocence.”

  “Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about the same. There’s only one thing that may be able to clear me. I know it exists because I saw it myself, and I know Smith all too well. The little turd kept a detailed ledger of all his dealings. He left it behind one day at the parlor. I happened to come across it the next morning and started to leaf through, not knowing exactly what it was. Smith showed up and snatched it out of my hands. He told me it was only a list of contacts, friends from his acting academy. At the time, I paid it little mind, but now looking back, I know it was a log of his black market dealings.

  “Funny thing was, I only saw it for a minute, but a couple names written in the book stuck with me. They were just so odd. Verlander ‘The Beak’ Oats was one of them. What’s even more fortuitous is that I ran into Verlander Oats a couple weeks after I was locked away. I didn’t know who he was, just started up a conversation with a new dreg, and after this and that, I heard his name and it sparked my memory. Oats said he’d been locked away for smuggling. When I asked him if he knew Smith, he said he did. They had cut a few deals and made some good coin. I didn’t let on my exact connection, but it was all the proof I needed. If someone could get a hold of that ledger, it may be able to set things right.”

  Timmy knew who that person would be. If getting the book could free Mr. Jenkins, thereby removing the grip Smith held over Genny, then that’s exactly what he planned to do.

  “Mr. Jenkins, I’ll get that blasted ledger,” Timmy stated boldly.

  Francis and Snoots could easily comprehend Timmy’s motivation. Genny was still on his mind.

  “Once Percival Snodgrass’ decreed sentence ends, I’ll make it my mission.”

  The mention of that name brought another visible reaction to Reginald Jenkins’ face. “Percival Snodgrass. Is he the mayor now?”

  “He is,” Timmy replied. “He was elected not too long ago.”

  Mr. Jenkins face grew long. “That just about smothers any hope. Hell, I dealt with Snodgrass myself occasionally. He was a slimy, egotistical individual who I never really cared for. He often made advances toward Genny I thought were inappropriate. He was a real smarmy type of lad, but one that Smith felt we needed to keep as a client. Smith convinced me that Snodgrass brought in a nice satchel of change and was worth the pain. Eventually, I let Smith handle all dealings with Snodgrass. The pair seemed to do a lot of transactions, and I was spared having to put up with him. As long as everything kept on the up-and-up and contracts were paid on time and in full, I thought nothing more of it.

  “As I think back now, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that Snodgrass also had a hand in Smith’s illegal deals. There was more than a few hints, like hushed conversations that would end as I passed by and after-hours meetings held at the parlor in my absence. If the tight, underhanded connection you spoke of between the two exists now, I bet you all the gruel in this urine-soaked mess hall that they were in cahoots back then. As long as Percival Snodgrass is mayor, no amount of proof in the world will get him to convict John Smith. I’m sure the mayor would fear the trail could eventually lead back to him.”

  “Mr. Jenkins is right,” Snoots agreed. “Smith and Snodgrass no doubt have a devious connection. Our current state is evidence of that. Even if the matter would be brought to light, the mayor, and in turn the chief constable, would turn a blind eye. I’m sorry to say, but nothing can come of any of this.”

  Timmy was just as disheartened as Reginald Jenkins. It was a frustrating realization and one that was further exaggerated by their dismal surroundings. A constable then shouted loud that the time for chow was at an end. All of the inmates rose from their benches and raced to form two single-file lines. Timmy shook hands with his friends and Mr. Jenkins, and then departed. They all scurried to pair with their respective cellmates as guards verbally berated them while dishing out a painful dessert of baton strikes. Once in order, they were systematically escorted off to their crypt-like abodes.

  Back in the cell, Timmy quickly found himself playing the same game he had before. George scratched markings into the stone wall by his bed using a rock chip he had found on the floor. All the while, he chatted to no one in particular using a language only he could understand. The ramblings were varied and at times melodic, and Timmy occupi
ed the remaining hours of his first day continuing to make mental notes and connections concerning the words he was hearing. It was a pointless mental diversion he was very happy to have.

  As time passed, fatigue began to set in and Timmy caught himself dozing. He could still hear the blabbering of George fading in and out, but he just couldn’t keep his eyes open. Despite his worry that sleep would lead to suffocation, Timmy just couldn’t fight it off. His heavy lids fell shut, and he was out.

  The slumber was light, however. Worry stirred him awake numerous times that first evening. Dreams and nightmares tugged at Timmy’s emotions convincing him of impending doom. But when he opened his eyes, he was met by darkness and the candle-lit shadow of George snoring away on his cot. Convinced he was safe, Timmy closed his eyes once more, only to repeat the ritual minutes later.

  Daybreak came with the clanging of a baton across the iron bars of the cell door. It startled Timmy and he sat straight up in bed. George was already awake, squatting over the latrine. The whole place had a constant, unpleasant stench, so thankfully for Timmy, George’s business just blended in.

  “Recreation!” shouted a constable as he unlocked the cell doors. Bound once again, George and Timmy were led to a courtyard at the center of the Grinder. It was an open-air, brick-covered slab. A couple of gardens once housed flowers and plants, but now contained only weeds and dead stalks. There were benches and a patch of brown grass, but otherwise, not much to note.

  Several dozen inmates milled about the area. Some formed into small groups and exchanged banter while others chose to sit alone. George could be counted among the latter. He strode over to a spot under a dead oak tree as other inmates cleared a path, eager to stay out of his way. Timmy spotted Mr. Jenkins by a low brick wall. He was talking to Snoots and Francis.

  “Sirs,” Timmy greeted. “Fine morning, isn’t it?” All four men looked toward the drab overcast sky. It was lifeless and chilly, much like their current living conditions.

  “Yes, a fine day, lad,” Mr. Jenkins replied with sarcasm. “Your friends here tell me you are quite the actor, Mr. Wicketts.”

  Timmy waved off the compliment in protest.

  “Don’t be modest, Timmy,” Francis said. “You’re top of the class.”

  “I have a great supporting cast,” he deflected.

  A strange voice broke into the conversation. “Hey, boy,” the baritone sound began, “you look like you’re ten years old.”

  Timmy and the others turned to see a large, muscled man with a bald head approaching them. He had several similar-looking fellows with him. All sported polished domes, but the speaker was by far the largest and most imposing.

  “How’s a pretty little twerp like you get yourself locked up in a place like this?” the hairless monster asked. Before Timmy could even say a word, the man cut him short. “Eh, who cares? All that matters is you’re here, and you failed to properly introduce yourself. That wasn’t very nice.”

  Mr. Jenkins whispered to Snoots. He told him that these guys were members of the Bald Bricklayer Gang of Bentley Hill. The largest one was called Hammer, and he liked to make sure everyone knew, and feared, the name.

  The behemoth crowded in on Timmy, forcing him to take a step back.

  “Since you’ve refused to introduce yourself, I figured I’d let you know who I am. They call me Hammer, and I’m about to pound that name it into your brain.”

  The big man clenched his fist and raised it high. Snoots and Francis stepped up hoping to defend their friend. Hammer’s men moved forward as well, outnumbering the Perfects. It was a tense standoff that only grew more so when George came walking into the middle of it.

  “Brattle bran!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Hammer and the rest of the Bald Bricklayer Gang were caught off guard by the sudden outburst.

  “Brattle bran!” George blurted again, this time posturing up and swinging his arms wildly. Everyone packed away from the flailing lunatic, Bricklayers and Perfects alike.

  “Brattle bran! Brattle bran!” The jawing psychotic just kept shouting and twisting, spitting and turning with ever-increasing frenzy. “Brattle bran!”

  Constables began to notice the incident and headed toward the congregation.

  “Brattle bran!” came another cry.

  The officers surrounded the group of inmates and pulled out their batons.

  “Alright boys, break it up,” shouted one of the officers as he swung his club and rapped a few shins. George simply continued to spin about in a violent fit of spasm. Hammer gave Timmy a stern eye and retreated. His minions followed. Francis, Snoots, Mr. Jenkins and Timmy withdrew as well, leaving four guards to corral a wired George.

  The order was issued that recreation was over and everyone was to line up for escort. As the convicts hustled to obey, Timmy could see George slowly calming down. Maybe the guards had talked him into submission, or maybe he was just tiring out. Whatever the case, George’s outburst saved Timmy a mouthful of knuckles that morning, and he was thankful.

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