I used to be a muscular trouble maker but when leaving prison on parole I vowed never to commit a crime again and stay away from trouble. I got employed in a non-stop bar as a security guard but trouble came to me soon enough to send me back to jail.
He walked out of Prison a changed man.
After a dime and a half he learned everything he needed to hunt down and kill the bastards who’d framed him.
My flaw of bad teeth made me a hermit hiding out in the ice house and then before I knew it came the end of the really human wold with poison death.
I did find Wanda in the woman’s prison, but you can’t call it love when someone is so very terrified of your teeth they sometimes wet their pants.
I’m the master of the run on sentence, the Aryan told his Filipino cellmate. I’m about to begin another one.
I keep two birds locked in a golden cage, atop the kitchen counter in a dusty, musty house. The paint is peeling, the floorboards are gone, blood streaks the walls, and the two birds stare at me from the confines of their golden cage.
She made love to me with her eyes, her glance running over my body, her hands trembling to get close enough to touch, our worlds separated by an impossible expanse – our bodies so close, with nothing but three inches of bullet-proof glass to keep us apart.
She asked me if there was any word on when I might get out, if there was any chance for an early parole hearing, but there was no reason to give her any hope that my situation would change; her husband was still dead, and his brother was still the mayor.
He paced all morning, never far from the window – stopping every three or four times around to peer out, stretching his eyes for a glimpse of her, but she was never there. When he tried to write to her even that didn’t work; what he settled on at last was writing simply “Your Valentine loves you” before he folded the scrap of paper and pushed it through the bars, to drift like a butterfly to the ground outside far below.