Chapter 22 - They Can’t Rape Me If I Don’t Shower
Quelle est la date de ton anniversaire
Quelle est la date de ton anniversaire
Quelle est la date de ton anniversaire
A little jingle our French teacher at school taught us, to learn the question ‘when is your birthday?’ Today is my birthday Mr Ducat – December 15th 2016.
Quelle est la date de ton anniversaire, motherfucker.
It’s 2pm and I’ve just realised. . . best not to tell the others in this place, imagine the birthday bumps. Papa Noel!
I have a mandatory meeting with the careers officer, to see what bright future lies ahead for those with a criminal record. If you’re unable to come out and drop some sick bars over an explosive track, then you’re shit outta’ luck. . . there’s a few chairs in a circle outside the career advisor’s office, each seat is filled by a prisoner.
An awkward silence fills the air, in a way that’s the same as on the outside with the addition of face tats and loose pubic hairs. So, in jail there seems to be loose pubes everywhere and under the law of superstition, I’ve collected a couple and keep them in my pocket as an unhygienic guardian angel.
Protect me, pubic guardian angel!
Protect me against those who sport face tats.
A small chode of a man with no visible tattoos, breaks the ice and stands up from his seat. “Hey everyone, my name is Chris and spoiler alert, I’m a Leo.”
“Hey Chrisssssss.” We all say in unison.
“When I was a kid, I dreamt of being a lifeguard. I fucking loved it all. . . the red whistle, the authority, the beachside banter. Baywatch was, and still is my favourite show.”
“What are you in for?” A voice asks.
“Child molestation.”
“Sorry what?” Another voice enquires.
“Well, children molestation if your being technical as there were multiple victims. Ok, I’m off to see the careers advisor. If they tell me that it’s not possible to become a lifeguard, then I may have to touch some feet.” He looks at me. “I’m talking to you, smooth legs. Ok bye.”
Why always me?
*
The careers advisor is a warm, welcoming woman. She’s giving me the lowdown and I can’t help but notice a smudge, right on her name badge. . . God it’s annoying.
She notices my daydreaming. “Are you paying attention? This next fact is crucial, 80% of convicts are immediately rejected for jobs due to their criminal record.”
“So, what you’re saying is lie about it?”
“Exactly, don’t tell them. Apply for the shit jobs that won’t do background checks, you know, call centres, building sites. Anything that will eat away at your soul.”
Working 9-5, what a way to develop a drug habit.
I’m safe here on the inside because Ketamine doesn’t seem to be available.
But boy, oh boy, on the out when I’m grafting a shit job that is about as enjoyable as the fourth wank of the day, then I’m destined to fiend. . . things got bad on the outside before coming to this holiday camp, if I hadn’t done Ket then I couldn’t complete the simplest of tasks.
A bump was necessary to do absolutely anything, and I’d call it floativation. . . a morning exercise routine to get you going?
Pfft.
All you need to do is ram some of that bladder wrecker up your snooter. . . no need to wait for your fourth wank of the day before you can’t feel the pleasure either. Daily ketamine intake ensures that your member is a floppy lil’ boomerang.
That’s a good fucking point actually. “Do you know anyone to get Ketamine from?”
“No sorry, I could get some Spice?”
“Eurgh, no thank you. My neighbour smokes Spice and he always soils himself.”
She sniggers. “Bob?”
“How’d you know?”
“He’s been in and out of here for the last 20 years, I’ve helped that man with his CV more times than I can count.”
Everybody knows bob. I ask. “Does he include super soiler under the experience section of his CV?”
“You’d be surprised the number of doors that it unlocks.”
“What doors?”
She seems genuinely fed up. “The ones at the entrance of the prison. That man is doomed.”
What a loser.
There’s something about doing a shit infront of strangers and eating food seasoned with prison cajun (ethnic cum).
There’s something that this combo does to people and when one throws smoking Spice into the cocktail, then all hope is gone.
The careers adviser takes me to a computer room so I can write up a new CV. “Are you not going to help me?” I ask.
“No, you seem capable, you can read and write, right?”
“Yes?”
“Then you’re in the top 1% of prisoners, in terms of intellect.”
“Ain’t that something.”
She smiles and leaves. There’s certainly one career option that’s no longer available, thanks to the Me-Too movement. Now that Harvey Weinstein is locked up, it’s closed down an avenue for a lot of people. . . I would have happily sucked him off for the lead role in Wonder Woman.
Those balls would have been cradled and once the act was finished, his nuclear jizz would have been gurgled like Listerine.
Fucking hell, it’s only just dawned on me that I have to shower at some point, please don’t rape me prison people. I really fucking stink right now.
*
Not going to lie I still haven’t taken that shower, I’ll most likely never shower again. Building up a pungent stench which will hopefully make me un-rapeable. The time?
Dinner time, and last night I left my plate and cutlery on the table, in the rec room, on the assumption that it would be washed and I could grab another the following day.
I am now shitting myself because all of the other prisoners have their plates with them already. No need to worry you pussy, there must be a stash somewhere, not like we’re in prison. . . hmmmm.
A correctional officer – he will know where to replenish my plate and cutlery. What’s the plate version of cutlery?
Wish I wasn’t in the slammer so I could google it. We shall call plates, ‘plates’, for the time being. I tell the guard the details and he frowns. . . “Misplaced how?”
“I left the equipment out on a table yesterday.”
“Well, that was stupid.”
“Please sir, can I have some more. . . plate?”
He pauses to let me know how much of an inconvenience I am, then bluntly tells me. “Let’s go and have a look for you Oliver Twist, we may not have any.”
We walk up to the second floor, he unlocks some white gates, walks through them and tells me to wait. Well, I’ll have to see if I can fit that in my diary. . . just about. He best be speedy though.
A month ago, I was watching Lacy finger herself and waiting to slip inside of her, now I’m in prison waiting for a plastic knife because inmates can’t be trusted with metal ones. Good for me if anything – I would be the stab-ee rather than the stabber. Yes, I am a vagina.
God, when will I next see a vagina?
They’re myths around here. For the time being I’ll have to live off memories, ahh yes, Lacey’s freshly shaven coochie. I’ll even think of the time when there was stubble – man, that was some sexy hair. . . I would love to prick my thumbs against it and feel that spikey friction.
“Daydreaming is for the weak.” Says the prison guard, as he passes me a blue plastic plate, and a blue plastic knife and fork.
“It’s not daydreaming if you haven’t had dinner yet.”
He points at me. “You have a boner – that rule is now void under article 7 act 1382.”
“Hey, that boner isn’t for you.”
He sighs. “Go and eat your dinner before I recall your cutlery.”
This cutlery means a lot to me, I’ve learnt my lesson and will never leave you, you’re safe now.
