Although unable to speak and barely able to carry a tune, I started to make alarm sounds.
Both sides thought reinforcements had arrived. Presumably SWAT!
The guards let go and fled, not wanting to get blasted by stray bullets.
And the prisoners fled, because after the guards let go, all of us went flying to the ground, where something in my larynx dislodged, allowing me to say: “Hey, isn’t it time to watch the latest fun-filled, action-packed episode of ‘Cops’?”
So the prisoners fled too, leaving me lying on the floor in a battered and shattered body cast.
Couldn’t tell what condition I was in. Was I paralyzed or just numb? Was I even alive?
If I wasn’t alive, the P.R. guy for the afterlife did an excellent job of overselling it.
As the dust cleared, I noticed that Sidney “The Birdwatcher” MacGuffin still stood among the rubble. Everyone else had left.
So I said, “Hey Sid, you know what would be fun?”
“Naw, I’ve seen every episode of ‘Cops’.”
“Not that, silly. Drag me to the Experimentation Room; and I can show you something really, really fun.”
“I - I - I don’t like that place. I - I - I’ve heard horror stories. N-n-no way.”
“Fine, don’t have a backbone. But from now on, your nickname will be The Chicken Birdwatcher. You don’t want that; do you?”
“I’ll drag you there, but I ain’t tryin’ nothin’.”
“That’s why this will be so much fun. You don’t have to try a thing.”
After another forty-five minutes of uttering every persuasion technique I know, Sid finally dragged me to the Experimentation Room.
This is the room where convicts can volunteer to be part of experiments to get their sentences reduced by helping scientists help humanity.
As I lay on the floor, feeling my liquefied bones gushing out of my busted body cast, I told Sid which ingredients to mix together for a super fun experiment.
Using a funnel, he poured the mixture down my throat at my request.
I do not condone unsupervised experiments upon one’s self or anyone else, but I had no choice. I would have been paralyzed or worse, if I hadn’t taken action.
After swallowing the crazy concoction, I passed out. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, I don’t know. Probably a combination of all those.
When I awoke, I no longer felt myself oozing away. I clenched and unclenched my fists to warm up my arm muscles and curled and uncurled my toes to warm up my leg muscles.
I then used my will power, determination, and a piece of lead pipe to stand.
I laughed with glee at my triumph. Laughter must heal all wounds, because my guffawing caused the rest of my battered and shattered body cast to fall away, leaving me still standing.
I took a few tentative steps. I jumped. I tried to perform a cartwheel, but landed on my back.
As I stared at the stained ceiling with the peeling paint, I knew:
I’m completely healed. I could never do a cartwheel!
The serum healed all my broken bones, so I fled. I was only supposed to spend the night in jail, but the guards blamed me for Chuck’s fall, so I knew they’d never let me go.
And besides, it was such a silly law anyway. No legal holidays in August? So no one can have any fun all month long? I don’t think so. Not in the summer. February maybe, but not August.
I snuck into the laundry room and put on a guard’s outfit. Okay, five guard’s outfits. Seemed like no one was my size. I finally went with the fifth guard’s uniform regardless and rolled up the sleeves and pants.
I hid in a hamper until the next shift change to avoid getting attacked by any convicts or caught by any guards.
As the five o’clock whistle blew, I jumped out of the hamper and scampered to the exit.
Once outside the prison, I looked back to make sure I had really escaped. Only the prison didn’t say anything about being a jail or a prison, it just said: Dream Factory.
I wondered what that meant.
But then a semi-truck blared its horn at me. I froze with fear. Or the bone-solidifying solution suddenly over-solidified my bones. The driver slammed on the brakes. The brake pads squealed. The tires smoked as the truck charged at me. Just then, at the very last second, right before impact, I awoke to find myself still in jail.
My cellmate Tony “The Tainted Taxman” Turner asked me for a breath mint; and even though his breath smelled like stale tortilla chips covered with lemon salsa left in the rain, I said, “No!”
So now all the other cellmates think I’m stingy, but at least I’m alive and not frozen with fear in front of a charging semi.
And I have tons of breath mints all for myself.
