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Jailbird (standard:Fan Fiction, 3357 words)
Author: Reid LaurenceAdded: Nov 29 2005Views/Reads: 2309/1297Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Jailbird is the story of two hopeless prisoners who endure the punishment of incarceration and as the story unfolds, the reader slowly learns what these inmates have gone through, and what they've become! Read on, and find out...
 



"I don't know ‘bout you...," said Wild Bill - a nickname the other
convicts had thought of which stuck and seemed to suit Bill Tyson's 
rowdy nature. “But I'm sick an tired a look'in at these four walls.” 
“Don't start complain'in again,” answered Bill's cell mate - called 
Penguin for the way he preached his thoughts to his fellow prisoners. 
“Ya know it never gets ya anywhere. Besides, the Man's on his way - I 
can hear ‘im com'in.” “Big deal,” replied Wild Bill, just as 
disgruntled as ever. “Elvis Presley his self could walk through that 
door for all I care. Ain't ya sick an tired a the same old routine, day 
in an day out? Don't it make ya wanna get up an get the hell outta 
here? I never could understand why you're so content ta just sit there 
on your ass an eat that crap they dish out? There's a whole world out 
there just wait'in for us, an you couldn't give a damn, could ya?” 
“Hey,” said Penguin, in the same cool, calm tone he used whenever his 
good common sense predicted outburst or disorder in the crowd around 
him. “You find a good way outta here, an I'm with ya all the way. Until 
then, ya know what?” “What?” “I don't wanna hear no more,” replied 
Penguin. “Besides, you remember what happened ta the last poor bastard 
who wanted out? Even the cons wanted a piece of ‘im for mak'in all that 
trouble for the rest of us.” “Yeah, I remember the guy. He made a lotta 
waves didn't he. What the hell was his name anyway, I forget?” “Just 
plain Bird I think. That's con talk for prison time. Never knew his 
real name. But anyway, you keep mak'in waves like Bird, an they'll do 
the same thing ta you as they done ta him.” “What'id they do to ‘im?” 
asked Bill, whose curiosity had by now, gotten the better of him. “They 
fried ‘im early. Whaddaya think they done? They sure didn't pat ‘im on 
the back.” “What difference does it make,” replied Wild Bill. “We're 
all on death row here anyway. If ya ask me, he didn't lose much.” 
“Well, if yer ask'in me,” answered Bill's cell mate. “He took a gamble 
an lost. If ya want my advice Bill, don't play against odds like 
that..., you'll lose every time.” Just as Penguin's words began to sink 
through Bill's callous exterior - making him realize what might happen 
if he caused dissension within the prison walls - the guards showed up 
with lunchtime meal trays and began handing them out, one by one to the 
great population of hungry, waiting prisoners. But when the guard slid 
Bill's tray into his cell, Bill's reaction was only to ignore it. Even 
as the other prisoners around him contentedly ate, he very willfully 
turned away from the food, as he'd done many times before. In fact, by 
now, Bill's stomach had gotten used to being empty and the urge to eat 
that normally accompanies the very thought of food, had all but 
completely disappeared in Bill, leaving in its place only the stubborn, 
determined attitude that was so characteristic of Wild Bill - a 
prisoner of great moral conviction. “Ain'tcha gonna eat taday Bill?” 
asked Penguin. “It's been days. You must be starved ta death.” “Mind 
yer own business,” replied the thin but wiry Bill. “I'll eat when I'm 
good an ready.” “Oh yeah?” came Penguin's reply. “Well I'm good an 
ready,” he said, frantically digging in to the food on his tray, as if 
someone were going to take it away. “You just starve yerself then,” 
continued Penguin. “See what I care. In the meantime, I'm gett'in 
bigger an bigger an yer just as small as ever. Besides, there's nuth'in 
wrong with this chow,” said Penguin, sucking up the last tiny morsels 
of food from his dish with his mouth. “You're just too damn fussy, 
that's all. Ya know, this ain't no restaurant here. Whaddaya expect 
anyway?” “A life, that's what I expect. That's all anyone expects ain't 
it? They took it away from me, an I'm gonna get it back, you'll see.” 
“Fine,” answered Penguin, as he finished the food from his own tray and 
at the same time, kept a carefully trained eye on Bill's untouched 
meal. “But don't say I didn't warn ya when ya wind-up like Bird. By the 
way,” he continued. “You ain't gonna eat your lunch, are ya?” “Nope, I 
ain't gonna eat my damn lunch. Here,” said Bill, about to become 
facetious, pushing his lunch tray within Penguin's reach. “Here ya go, 
It looks better on you. As far as your advice goes, for all the good 
it'll do, I'll try an remember.” The next morning the prisoners awoke 
to a dreary, cold, rainy day but to many, the weather on the outside 
world meant very little. It was only something to observe every now and 
then through the tiny opening in each cell Bill called, ‘a sorry-ass 
excuse for a window'. What then could be the cause for the disquiet 
mood in Bill's cell block? If not the weather, what then? No one knew 
exactly, but a sixth sense told the prisoners something was up. 
Something was about to happen that would alter their daily routine of 
waking, eating, exercising and sleeping but what it was exactly, no one 
could say. That is, until one of the big cell block doors opened and 
four big guards came rushing in... “What the hell is this!?” asked 
Penguin. “A raid? I ain't hid'in nuth'in, they got nuth'in on me.” “No 
stupid, it ain't no raid. Look,” answered Bill, as he watched one of 


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