Headcell: Part III

"The story of one man struggling to retain his sanity in a world dominated by an evil, inhuman society that demands absolute perfection from its citizens."

Night zero was over, but the Prisoner's reformation was just beginning. The first long stretch of repeated, ritualistic denial was now over and the age of contemplation was just beginning. The guard who had watched over him was now replaced with another anonymous one. At each and every cell the same happened; the new overtook the old, exactly as it had done in every facet of State society itself. Block 13 was no exception. Routine, routine, routine. The Prisoner knew what to expect for the rest of the day; the usual mental exercises, the test to see how far one would go to desperately shield themselves from giving in to the vice. 

The Prisoner had no idea what time it was, but he knew that in here, time was simply a product of the imagination. No windows, no clocks, no calendars, thus no reason to worry about time. His instincts told him morning, but morning may as well be night, in the same way noon may as well be twilight. You just never knew in Block 13, that was its greatest strength. The clocks were striking six, and out of the side passages came the guards clad in their daily black. They stood rapt to attention, waiting for that claxon to sound. If the phantom snipers existed, their replacement shift was sure to arrive soon enough.

The tannoy crackled to life with alarming intensity.

"Guards, move forward! Prisoners, remain where you are!"

So they did; the boots clapping on the well-beaten concrete. The Prisoner stood in the center of his confinement; he had seen this all before. Routine was the bread and butter of Block 13 and the prison as a whole. Stray from it and beware, stick to it and be damned. He watched them through the bars; hard-faced men and women who had given their lives to trying to change the unchangeable. In a strange way, he respected them for it; their commitment to their work was somewhat admirable. They stood before him now. Each three went to their respective prisoner, batons clenched and equipment jangling. His pair would be along momentarily, he need not look at them to recognize them. Seconds passed, the dull pain in his stomach not coming from nerves, but from the nausea of the night before still lingering painfully in his stomach.

Ah, so they arrived, the Prisoner remarked. Right on time, ready to retrace the steps of yester-years. Deywun's cold, calculative face drifted into view. His mouth remained tight-lipped.

"Good morning. Has one slept well?"

"Now, you know I have not slept at all, for sleep here is no different to death, neverending suffering."

Deywun shrugged.

"So it was terrific."

He turned to Deytoo, standing right beside him. 

"Get him out of there."

Deytoo pulled out a bunch of keys and inserted one into the lock. The cell door slid open with a rusty whoosh and the Prisoner stepped out into the open cavern. Deywun and Deytoo pointed upwards. He looked towards the pitch black heavens and stretched his arms, to allow his two tormentors to search him. They would find nothing, they never did, apart from his own regrettable flesh and blood. Today was no different. They stood up slowly, nodding to each other. Deywun tapped the Prisoner on his shoulder to bring him back to reality. He looked at them smugly. Never have, never would.

They took him by the shoulders and led him away, towards the canteen. This daily journey took them towards the bowels of Block 13, intricately woven as they were. Deytree was still yet to be seen, but his presence hung heavy in the air. Somewhere he was watching. The Prisoner was always good at picking up on things like that; he had what one may call a form of extra-sensory perception. As they walked, he picked up on something; they were passing what may have been Christian's cell. The only evidence of human life which remained was the emptiness itself; ominous, palpable and direct. Perhaps his soul was trapped in there, but the body itself was well burnt by now; the ashes being scattered into the stratosphere via the giant chimneys. One wondered whether Christian had finally gotten his wish and met his maker. Thoughts of impending death did not frighten the Prisoner, for he accepted them as merely part of the great cycle of life.

They reached the canteen; a large and somewhat more upbeat room than the main cellblocks; white floors, walls and ceiling with two long central tables lined on one side with chairs on both sides facing each other. The food was served through a system of chutes in the ceiling; packages were dropped to each prisoner individually from above, and the contents varied from day to day. Nobody ever saw the servers nor where the food came from, for every hint of normality affected the flow of the reformation process. Today's cuisine was dried bacon, charred black bread and lukewarm, soupy baked beans. Considering some of the things he had been forced to eat in the past, the Prisoner considered this to be quite a treat, usually meat meant that rations were plentiful this year. As he chewed, he looked carefully across at Deywun and Deytoo, who were sipping cups of coffee and staring right back at him. The prisoners always ate facing their guards for one simple reason; to realize that life's simplest pleasures were tainted by unreformity; by the prisoners' very existence. Their only hope lay across the way, with authority.

After breakfast, the prisoners were taken out of the room and assembled outside the Block 13 doors. The guards stood in a row at the very top. Somewhere above lay the Warden's voice; that old tannoy. Such were the vastness of the doors that the device was concealed in the shadows, giving the impression of some almighty God speaking down to his subjects. The voice echoed menacingly down; it was enough to make any man quake in his boots.

"Good morning, you have survived night zero. But the past is no longer, the present is now. What it brings is the first chance to reclaim the outside world, yet remain in mine. You shall be escorted to the yard, for a variety of exercises of the mental kind, although physical prowess depends on your former life. The first step towards reformation has been complete, but the second step involves the development of strength. So go forth and succeed, for your place depends on it."

There was the intended short pause. The Prisoner found these speeches entertaining in a strange way; you had to admire the Warden's way with words, taste as bad in the mouth as they might. Were he not a servant of the State, he could make a brilliant actor, perhaps a great thespian. But reality dictated differently. It for everyone in Block 13.

"Place has no importance in the outside world; for it is simply a matter of hardship measured against success. In the end, none of it matters. We are all in the same great game. You must choose to play well, or not play at all. I have given you that choice. Make the most of it."

Another heavy silence, to allow his words to sink in. Those who had not heard it before wept or tried to hide it, their faces quivering like jelly. Those like the Prisoner, who had been before, simply stood stoically waiting for it to end. The Prisoner himself, his mind drifted elsewhere, to that special place untouchable for anybody else. The Warden had one final message, then the games he spoke of would begin.

"This choice determines a lot. Make sure it determines the best for you. Enjoy your day."

The announcement broke off as abruptly as it had begun. The great mass of unreformed broke their statue-like poses and the guards retreated back to high-alert. A wave of realization shot through the crowd, as it always did, the shock horror of the direness of their situation dawning upon every human being in the room, excluding the authorities of course. The guards moved quickly into the crowd and around the sides, with an unbreakable row forming across the top. The Commander stepped forward, a heavily-built man with a bristling black moustache. He shouted a call to move forward, and as they approached Block 13's exit, the gigantic doors slowly began to part open. The Prisoner knew what was coming in the yard, but was not worried. The Warden loved repeat performances.

And so they marched forth, the tunnel of hell stretching out before them. The Prisoner was aware of everybody's situation; stepping out of darkness into even deeper darkness, for the journey of the sick mind is a contradictory one. It involved exactly what was happening now; several trips through hell and back. The imagination played many tricks on all; hiding in the shadows could be monsters, their gaurdian angels looking down upon them with contempt. Perhaps even God himself was doing the same, if he existed.

Considering what was soon going to happen, the Prisoner remained wholly unsure of that.

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The prison yard was unlike one found in the other institutions around the world; of course there still existed the necessary walls and towers, but their function was not just to stop escapees, but observe their very actions. Searchlights were switched on at night to comb the grounds. The size was immense; perhaps three football fields put together. At the far end lay bare grey brick, the opposite end where the group came from, had only the door into the prison itself. Nobody was ever allowed here without permission, not even the Warden himself. The less the unreformed knew about this place, the better. One of the truths of past life that remained in the new world, outside and inside, was that fear is the greatest tool anyone can use. The Warden kept plenty of it in reserve, just like his predecessors. The unreformed and their keepers moved into the wide expanse, nerves shot. The guards kept a close eye as they moved towards the very centre. As they drew nearer, they saw a single podium stood, with a microphone attached. Its purpose was obvious.

The First Realization. This ceremony was one of the most dreaded amongst the unreformed, for it was never clear whose turn it would be on the day. This was your first great challenge, if you were unlucky enough to be chosen. 

All simultaneously came to a stop. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the soft wind and the distant sounds of the harsh reality; the hum of traffic, airplanes overhead streaking jet-streams across the blue sky, sometimes the odd bird chirping. No clouds could be seen anywhere, making one feel even smaller in the midst of this huge space. The Commander moved towards the microphone, his bulk dwarfing the small wooden stand. He tapped the microphone to test, and took it between his fingers. Listening closely to his voice, the Prisoner realized this was the one who had driven Christian to his fate. Now he was going to attempt the same with a larger crowd.

"So here we are. Today marks one of the key steps towards reformation and re-integration, today we exercise will. Namely, the will to change and to live differently. But this involves pain."

At this, he clicked his fingers, and some of the guards behind him parted, to reveal a trayful of cakes, chocolates and sweets being wheeled out in full view of the crowd. Mouths watered all around, tastebuds lusting for a morsel. Things like these had no place here, except for very special reasons. They were going to see now. The Commander took out a clipboard and ran his finger down the page, occasionally looking up. Suddenly, he stopped, having found what he wanted. He took up the microphone.

"Walker, Harry."

Everything was absolutely still, until the sounds of subtle movement grew louder and louder, until a lone man surfaced from out of the masses. He was chubby and heavily-built, his breath short simply from the act of walking a few steps. He looked up at The Commander in quiet terror. He coughed and cleared his throat.

"Yes sir, that's me."

The Commander smiled, his moustache bending with the contours of his face.

"Walker, your vice is one that is very common. Which is it?"

"Food."

"Yes, food. One of life's necessities. But necessity can become a vice in of itself, especially when one takes it too far. The State finds you guilty of this crime."

Walker gulped and held his hands behind his back, then moved them to the front and clasped them, back and forth, over and over again. His resolve was especially weak, the Prisoner remarked. This one certainly won't be making it. The body language said it all; nervous, indecisive and right in the path of the storm. A prime deer in the headlights. The Commander picked up on this too, and relished his power over Walker.

"However, one's guilt can be changed, if one has the strength to do so. Show me your strength and you shall be set free. Mentally speaking, at least."

The Commander stood down from the podium, leaving Walker standing alone. All eyes were on him; their pierce could be felt in the air. Walker seemed like a man who abhorred the spotlight and, in his former life, would have done anything to get out of it. But here he was, with all of Block 13 and its controllers boring directly into him, with all the temptation in the world right in front of him, with its glistening sugary glory. The Commander had stood down, but not moved over to Walker. They were nowhere near done yet.

"Look at it. Your temptation is here, but do you want to take it? Suffering lies with either option; take it and fail, ignore it and endure the next two days. They are equal, but one offers a light at the end of the tunnel."

Walker was faced with a difficult choice; take the temptation and die, continue paying his penance but eventually die anyway. One way would bring it on quicker. He began to sweat it out; great drops of the stuff ran down his face, matting the ends of his dark brown hair. He began to make small movements back and forth; indecision was making him dance. The guards loved this, some of them allowing themselves small smiles. The prisoners looked on with dread; they all hoped he would make the right choice. Walker probably hoped so too. 

The Commander spoke yet again, his voice carrying powerfully in the wind.

"Your sheet says you have never been here before. The State does not look down on you for your actions, but for what your actions hide, what lurks beneath. This is your first time here, but you are equal with the others. All of you are unreformed. This is your chance to show us yourself."

So Walker had to. He danced his same little dance again; that unsure side-to-side. He put one foot forth. No reaction from the officers. He put forth another. Still nothing. So he grew more bold and ran to the food. The officers did nothing, nor did the unreformed, but all eyes were locked on him like piercing daggers, perhaps seeing into his very soul. Walker was so close to destroying what had not even begun, but in that familiar moment which comes with all giving-ins, he simply didn't care. The officer grinned.

"Go ahead. What stops you now?"

The next few minutes was a feeding frenzy. Walker's height hid most of the action, but his lips smacking and the crumbs scattering were enough for most. The Prisoner sighed. He had given in many times before, but this was ridiculous even for him. Failure builds strength, but even failure has to be timed correctly. When Walker was finally done, and had gobbled the last of the sugary treats, he stood silent, staring at the empty dish. The Commander sidled over beside him. The silence had changed from tense to downright dangerous. The full error of his ways began slowly dawning on Walker as he began to put the pieces together. He had had his cake and eaten it, but what next? The Commander knew.

"Do you feel any better? Food is your pleasure. But think about it. What has it really done? Do you feel powerful, confident or enlightened? What comes next?"

Walker stuttered. The Commander leaned in, cupping a hand over his ear.

"What was that?"

"It's gone. I'm not hungry anymore. You're....they....when are you going to torture me?"

The Commander shook his head.

"We're not. At least not right now. But it could be avoided."

Walker's relief was visible. The sweat slowed and the face relaxed. He raised a thick hand to wipe the last trace of crumbs from his mouth. The officer stared; neutral and unassuming. Walker felt free to ask anything he wanted.

"How can I get out of it?"

The Commander looked behind him and jerked his head towards the podium. One of his men walked forward and took something from a compartment underneath. He walked over with a tightly wrapped package, handing it to Walker. The Commander nodded and returned to his position, leaving his superior officer to speak.

"Have a look."

Walker was confused, but not scared. He unwrapped it carefully. Drawing a sharp gasp, he let the package fall to the ground. The unreformed, most of them anyway, craned their heads over the crowd to look. The Prisoner knew he didn't have to, for he knew exactly what it was already.

A razor. A four-inch, shining, sleek deadly blade with a polished brown handle. Walker saw his own face reflected in the steel; like a mirror of death. Vice had led him from one place to another, now it led him to this. The shaking and sweating restarted; he looked at the officer beside him desperately. His demeanour changed. 

"Pick it up! Now!"

The big man knelt down and did what he was told; he rose slowly to face authority. Authority now told him what was going to happen.

"You have been given temptation. You gave in to temptation. Before you had not thought about the consequences, only worried about the next fix. But this is different. This is Block 13, and I am a servant of the State. The State has no time for those who have no strength. Do you have the strength?"

It was amazing how life changed so quickly. A few minutes ago Walker was in seventh heaven; the pleasures of vice giving him all he needed and with no guards beating his brains out for doing so. He realized though that his brains were the least of his worries. The Commander leaned forward.

"Look how sharp this is. You are so insignificant. This blade has the power to slice through skin like butter, to punish you for weakness. Your weakness controls you. How does one gain strength? By ignoring weakness. You do this by ignoring your vice; food. Ignore food for the next two days. See how you feel then."

Walker was stunned. The Commander pointed to his stomach.

"Remove your shirt and see yourself. Look closely."

Walker was hesitant. The Commander snapped at him, his voice demanding. It was one you wouldn't argue with.

"Take your clothes off! Now!"

He grabbed the shirt and pulled it off. It was stuck over Walker's head; the man tore it off himself finally, his entire body quivering like a bowl of jelly. If the eyes piercing him were palpable before, they were even more so now, for there was no hiding one's secret out in the open. The Commander poked his stomach with a finger, the flab soft and mushy all over. The stretch marks showed through the skin towards the bottom, like chewing gum stretched too far. Walker turned a bright beetroot red with the embarassment, though it was much too tense for the watching crowd to dare laughter. The Commander motioned behind Walker and two guards came up quickly, grabbing his arms and holding them tightly behind his back. The Commander grabbed the razor out of his hands, raising his voice just enough to ensure everybody could hear him.

"Confront your weakness, know how weak your body is!"

The Commander then turned to the crowd. Unreformed eyes pointed at the spectacle he created; each set like a deer caught in headlights, about to be struck.

"Walker's crime is not just against himself, but State society as a whole! He stuffs himself on the back of the hard labour of others, true citizens who toil daily in our fields, farms and factories! The fruits of their labour are now digesting in his stomach, as he grows fatter and fatter! But no more!"

Quick as a flash, he brought the blade down across Walker's stomach. His pained screams echoed all around; soaring into the sky and possibly over the walls as the gash opened up. It was not deep en0ugh to cause serious injury, but sufficient for serious pain. The unreformed were all shocked into silence; all but the Prisoner of course. They allowed no music in Block 13, but this was the best song he had heard since last night. Christian would surely have been jealous. All of them went ghostly white, save for a few who looked to be getting as much grim enjoyment out of it as the Prisoner. When they dragged Walker away, still flailing and kicking, the commander marched calmy back to the podium. He folded the razor and tucked it in his pocket. 

"Today has been a success. Walker's path has not changed, he still serves his time like the rest of you. But now his mind has been fed just as his body was. The reformation process began with his final caving in, leading to the first realization. This happens to all of you, but differently. Weakness cannot be tolerated any longer. Until it is completely purged, one cannot join State society. Let today's lesson be your newfound awareness."

He turned to the rest of the guards, motioned them forward with his hands. They nodded and began dispersing amongst the crowd, to begin the journey back to the cellblocks. He stood observing proudly at the podium, the general admiring his troops. How efficiently they moved, surrounded by danger yet themselves also being the danger, as had just been proven.  The unreformed would have a lot on their minds for the rest of the day, living in fear exactly as the Warden wanted them to. The Prisoner caught up with Deywun and Deytoo, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. They looked at him questioningly. Deytoo spoke.

"You remember your first time there? Your first realization?"

The Prisoner nodded.

"Yes, but mine came before this place. Mine was, and still is, everyday."

Deywun spoke firmly.

"Your reformation will find a way. Every unreformed has their breaking point, and we shall find it."

The Prisoner ignored the comment. Replying would have been the same old lines from countless visits past; he had something to think about. The routine was different this time; exactly the same but completely different, something any ponderer may puzzle over for hours. The Prisoner was a man who lived in his own world, but now that world was starting to crack. The reality was so frank, seeing a man's face sliced open was plenty to think about, but the purpose was even more. Purpose and routine; the two keys to Block 13.

Those keys were close to unlocking his mind. As the yard doors closed behind him, the Prisoner  knew he needed to stay in his world just a while longer. If this was the time, then he had to be prepared.

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The sense of time had returned now that all had seen the outside world. The day did not matter, but the passage of time was constant. Wednesday was always going to be Wednesday, but four o' clock would eventually become five. In the same way, the Warden had hoped today's exercise would show the unreformed that their passage was inevitable; they were going to be transformed from the unreformed to State-ready citizens. The unreformed were led back to their cells, through the tunnel of hell. Block 13 seemed darker and more claustrophic than ever before, with the outside world a million miles away. Deywun and Deytoo stood outside the bars looking in at the Prisoner, after returning him to the natural habitat.

Deywun seemed more confident, perhaps he had sensed the Prisoner's break from his norm. He noted how the Prisoner usually he showed no signs of disturbance, but realized that, of course, seeing violence up close would disturb anybody. The Prisoner himself always remembered the horror his first realization; the Commander had been different then, but the pain was the same, digging into him mercilessly. To have all your darkest secrets revealed amongst the masses was a terrible thing, but even worse when you realize that the masses were all exactly the same as you. The Prisoner paced to and fro, lost in his world.

"The lesson of today? Has it sunk in?" Deytoo asked. The Prisoner stopped in his tracks, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"It is hard to tell. Maybe it has, perhaps it hasn't. But it always leaves one with food for thought."

"Consider it your supper then." Deywun grunted as he sank into a chair. He took his cap off and waved it in front of his face, for the air inside Block 13 was heavy today. Now the daily interrogation would begin. Deytoo folded his arms and leaned against the bars. His cap stayed on, the sweat starting to trickle down his hard face.

"The pain never bothers you? We know it rises again. You've shown the signs every time."

"This is nothing new. The past is my friend, but also my enemy. The present is the past in creation, but the future is predictable."

"Don't be so sure. How much time do you have? The unreformed never truly stay unreformed, but the passage of time is unstoppable."

The Prisoner sighed. He mopped the sweat off his brow with his hand. Deytoo decided to remove his cap.

"The present comes before the future. We shall see what transpires."

The Prisoner knew what would transpire; the great cycle of life would go on, or namely his own version of it; endure the system yet again, be released, be brought right back in. All of this would go on indefinitely, maybe even up until the hour of death. The human mind and body were the biggest enemies here, not the reformers or their prisons. The Prisoner's thoughts wandered to Walker; was he now traumatized in his cell like most of the rest of them, or six feet under? Did he show the beginning of change with his First Realization?

"What transpires this time shall be final," said Deytoo, now fanning the air around him as well.

Final. 

The only thing that was ever final in Block 13 was your own death. Or the others. But you could argue that the unreformed were either dead already or simply waiting to die. Deywun and Deytoo felt that the Prisoner was growing more aware of this fact every minute. Today may be the breakthough both men had so longed for. Block 13's routine demanded patience of all reformers, for part of the recovery process lay in their waiting. The inevitable would always come. The Prisoner could feel the cell closing in, moreso than it usually did. Night zero was nothing, tonight was the next challenge. Deywun and Deytoo's presence was not helping. To them, he had always been their personal property, a liability. The State's liabilities were always paid off.

The air grew tighter as the interrogation progressed. It was nearing the end, unlike the day itself. There remained much to think about, and urges to fight. The Prisoner's daily war againt himself would always continue unabated. It was one whose outcome was always uncertain, but things looked different now, as the conversation's close seemed to hint at. The claxon sounded for the end of daily questioning and the gaurds began moving away, until Deywun turned around.

"Night one has begun. The First Realization was a terrible event today, but that is its purpose. You endured it, yet remain here. A thousand times over you have endured it, but the future, as you say, is unwritten."

The Prisoner searched Deywun's face for the final answer; it came quickly.

"Every man has his breaking point. Keep that in mind."

So they went, symbols of said breaking point. The Prisoner could only imagine how many they had pushed over the edge, the madness, the madness. But Block 13 was more or less his home. Was his adjustment to the madness mad unto itself?  To the unadjusted, Walker's stomach being slashed conjured up nausea and disgust, yet to the Prisoner it was merely part of his daily life. Violence in here was different from violence in the outside world; here it had a purpose. Night one and the First Realization ritual always brought a certain understanding of the system for the first-timers, and pure re-affirmation for the rest. By now, the prison population would be feeling somewhat stronger. They understood their predicament and the Warden's intentions perfectly. But how their reformation would be played out depended entirely upon themselves.

For the Prisoner, the final hour before bunk-time passed in a blur. He sat on the lone chair and watched his world pass by; its simplicity was both comforting and terrifying, for the first time in a long time. The bars represented all the wasted years, as his thoughts kept mixing. He usually regarded his wasted years here as irrelevant, for time was non-existent, but now the regret began seeping back in. The regret of finding vice, the regret of living so much life in this sinister cycle. The Prisoner lay on his bed motionless, frozen with doubt. The lights buzzed. Unreformed shouted, cried and laughed in equal measure. The Warden and the gaurds were safe in the knowledge that their paths were set and their lives vice-free. Their pet projects, the prisoners, had to suffer to achieve success.

The Prisoner closed his eyes, allowing the blackness to overtake him. His status was not as a human being in here, but he felt the faint glimmers of potential still alight in his soul. Nightly they yearned to be freed, whether in here or outside. He knew how to ignore them in the past, but today had struck a chord deep within. All those lost years, all the missed opportunities, all the built-up potential left to fester yet unable to break out.

Perhaps it would, perhaps it wouldn't, the Prisoner thought as he drifted into a sleep. But one thing was certain, night one's trials and tribulations were far from over.

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Great. All alone again.

Where the hell had He gone? The last time I saw Him, he was with that blondie by the bar. Not that I could blame Him, she certainly looked His type; tall, slim, well-appointed. I'd known Him for years; He was always the social type, the party animal, but usually His women were all one-night stands. I'd been observing His moves for some time now; chat for a few minutes, get drunk, take them home, do what He did and forget about them the day after. But it had been an hour. Might be a "long-lost love of His life" sort of situation perhaps. Oh well. At least the music's good. The crowd thronged before me, their bodies undulating and gyrating to the beat like those possessed by demons.

"'Scuse me..." somebody close by suddenly drawled.

I turned just in time to be elbowed in the face by a big guy pushing past me like an elephant trampling the crowd. Cold beer spilt down my front and over my arm. I let out an angry sigh. At least nobody saw. I looked around for the toilets. Over the bopping heads of the crowd, I saw the unmistakeable glowing green neon sign come into view. I gulped what was left of my Heineken and made my way over.

I glanced back at the bar, He still looked happy as can be, just where He was. Typical. He gets a girl, I get soaked with cheap booze. At least somebody was having a good night. If only I could say the same for myself, as I stood in the long queue of drunks and druggies outside the toilet. Some of them looked like ghosts with their pale skin and sunken eyes. In some cases, couples stood right next to them, kissing with crazed, alcohol-fuelled lust. I tried my best to ignore them all.

"You hate it too?" 

A little voice broke my chain of thought. I looked around and saw a Girl next to me. Young, long brown hair with a petite face and wearing red lipstick. In one hand she clutched a plastic cup of vodka. Now she was directly addressing me.

"Excuse me?" I asked hesitantly.

She smiled. 

"Don't you hate queing?"

I glanced up and down the line of miscreants again. I shrugged.

"I've never paid attention to it. I guess I just have the patience."

She giggled.

"Patience sucks. I like getting things right away."

I looked her in the eyes. How beautiful She was; the image of perfection. She was almost too good to be true. But I had to find out first. I spoke admiringly.

"You seem very efficient."

She smiled widely and took a slug of vodka, draining the cup. She crumpled it in her hands and, tossing it aside, reached down and grabbed me by the hand. I was taken aback.

"Only when it comes to my men."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, intrigued.

Her grip grew tighter. She winked suggestively. What an angel.

"Why don't you come find out?"

Well, when She put it like that, it was hard to refuse. I smiled right back at Her and, dumping my drink on the floor, we moved into the crowd, still cheering and roaring with the thrill of loud house music. The night was still just as young as my newfound friend, and both looked to promise plenty.

Author's Note

Is the dialogue well-written or is flat? Is the philosophy of the reformation process coming out? Is the violence realistically unforgiving or gratuitous?