It was dark, the wind slightly blowing. A warm breeze, but that was hardly noteworthy. Especially after what I had just done.

I had escaped. After months I had finally escaped. My hard work paid off greatly. The planning required to pull off a stunt this magnitude would have choked a horse, and the luck that ran under my nose would have also drowned said horse, if luck was a liquid that also disobeyed gravity.

Lets go back a bit. Pretend a clock is turning backward. Find the clock in your house and imagine time going backward really fast. My name is Sherman Downey. 7 years ago I was convicted of murder by my best friend, Tom Patey, who ran the salt shop a mile from where I lived. He had walked in on me with another woman, similar to my wife, but not my wife. Tom Patey killed that woman after a scuffle and a short game of crokinole, which got heated fast. Frankly, I was mildly intoxicated, and high of life, so most of what happened was a blur. Let me spell it out in point from:

  • -I was fucking a lady that wasn't my wife
  • -Tom Patey found me in my own home, fucking a woman that wasn't my wife
  • -I became drowsy from shock and estacy
  • -Tom Patey and the woman had a shouting match, then played some crokinole
  • -Then Tom Patey killed her
  • -Called the Cops
  • -and framed me

Now if this wasn't bad enough, I had a mortgage to pay with the DSA, and they were nair too happy about my current arrangement. Jail is not a place where you can easily access large amount of monthly payments, especially in this time period... that time period. Well, now too, I guess. It was always hard to do that, while in jail. Got it? good.

Ok, so they arrested me, I couldn't afford a lawyer, so they appointed me with one. He was an idiot. I'm no lawman, but this guy was the cream of the crop. "Cream of the crop? Isn't that a good thing?" I hear you ask in your frail mind. Well this particular crop grows shitflower, a rare species that smells, looks, feels, and tastes like human feces. This was a crop, and then it got creamed, and then it was my lawyer. His books were messy, and he couldn't even speak. I doubt the jury could even understand what he was saying half the time, and they didn't care either. The prosecutor in the case was so well prepared, lively, and dapper, that I had no chance either way really. I think Tom Patey paid them off. Paid off everyone but the judge. I knew that judge was clean, and he was suspicious the same as me, but he couldn't do anything about it. The Baliff had a gun to his temple the whole time. Hard to concentrate with several millimeters of a bullet potentially entering your left lobe at any second. I think he paid off the bailiff too.

At any rate, I was sent to St. Falhs Penitentiary, or Saint Falls Pauls for short. It's an ugly nickname but everyone used it, and it grew on me. It grew on me like a ham. It was a relatively nice prison, and I hadn't even heard of it until I was convicted. I overheard a guard talking on a phone in his office while I was in temporary holding. I had no idea what he meant when he said "FallPauls", but in the context of what he was talking about on the phone, I pieced it together.

I was bused over to the place with 2 other people. One a wormy looking guy that wouldn't stop squirming in his seat (I guessed he was an ex-frepper) and a tall mexican man with a teardrop tattoo. Half way through the trip, stretch leaned over to me and introduced himself.

"Hi, i'm Maurice"


Maurice shut up after that. We couldn't argue, it wasn't a diaper party. Couldn't take that away from him.

The drive over was pretty calm. We were going deeper and deeper into a desert, which at noon was hot fuck. Turns out the desert is fucking hot and it makes you sweat. I was leaking out of every gland, I was pissing and shitting trying to stay cool. Jesus fuck I can't remember ever being that warm.

We arrived around 6PM, but this was only a guess. I was hungry for patios, and I usually only got hungry for patios at 6, right after keeshtime.They walked us in through the entrance, being surprisingly unformal about it. No guard escort, no handcuffs (even though we were cuffed the whole time in the bus), I could even see the unguarded open gate just around the front of the bus, I could have ran if I wanted, but I thought it was a trap, an easy trick, a test by the guards to see what we would do given the chance to escape, so I didn't. Because we didn't have a guard escort, there was a slight confusion after exiting the bus. I mean, we understood we were meant to get inside the prison at first, but we were expecting someone to show us to the building, or even just to tell us "ok, step with your legs and go inside", nothing. The driver and the attending guard that were on the bus with us just stared at us and stood by. The bus was still running, so I guess they had somewhere to be right after, so... I mean it was obvious what we were to do, but, you know. You get the idea.

We went in and the buildings entrance was uninhabited. To be literal, The lights were on but no one was home. I listened around from one foot, leaning all the way forward, like a figure skater. All I could hear was the hum of the tube lights, the similar hum of the vending machines, and the sound of cloth rubbing cloth as the wormy guy looked around and niffed.

"Hey, as I was saying before, I am Maurice" It was only now that we were in a safe area did I realize that all of Maurice's height came from his torso. His legs were about the same as mine, definitely shorter, but his torso was very long, about 70% of his body. I didn't mind. He held out his hand at me, frendidly.

"Sherman" I said, also agreeing to the hand contact, We jiggled and disconnected.

Maurice backhanded wormy guy's upper arm,"Hey guy, i'm Maurice" and held out his arm the same way.

I thought we had something good going, Maurice. You fucked it up. It was going to be Sherman and Maurice, we didn't need wormy guy, he was probably a frepper, or an ex-frepper, and we don't need people like that. Not when we're already a team. Fuck's sake Maurice, I still can't imagine why you'd do that. Muhammad Upall. I hope he regrets what he did, because as he held out his hand, wormy guy braced it with his teeth and tore it clean off. Fuck you Maurice, we are no longer best friends.

Continued maybe in part 2 maybe.