It started with a kiss and ended with a bang.

Jacknife had made it out. A tutu at his waist; zealous lipstick, now smeared to the upper crevices of his outer eye; mud on his knees and sneakers – the soles of which had been half-digested through years of miles, of robberies, and of getaways – if getaways were to be had.

Jacknife had witnessed the scene of which he was now running from – he had been right there, in the middle of it. That position, itself, accounted for his current taste of attire. But now he was running. He was making a getaway once again but there would certainly be many more after. He was kicking up his heels with a frayed, ring-around-the-toilet-yellow tutu, a cut (and possible scar) on his left cheek, an eye the purple of deep egg-dye now closing up, and thin crusts of mud on the fray in his jeans and on the heels of his worn sneakers – the ones that he now was making his getaway with .The tutu, of course, a snarled mess smack dab in the middle of the entire attire and a fortunate veil over his groin.

His attempt succeeded. Well, not at first...and then later, but not quite so gracefully as one could hope. Though, in his current state of dress, once could argue that grace was neither an option nor a goal.

Regardless, the metal claw seized his neck and it was then that the familiar feeling of "caught!" came back. "Caught!" meant that it was all over. "Caught!" meant that he old clinker was waiting for him…no – the superclinker. Jacknife hadn't seen the insides of a regular prison in…well, he couldn't count that high. Not if it went past the finger with only half of the nail still attached. Augh! Hew knew his fate. He was going to Superjail! Despite its name, he didn't find anything super about it at all.

Well, he knew what came next. He would be carried there – the method made no difference. Be it by hand, ankle, knee, neck, telephone booth, buttocks; that thing would clamp on him tight and fly him over strange lands with that cold metal grasp of his. The feeling was akin to the shocking touch of the doctor's stethoscope as he smiled with those cornrow teeth and proceeded to touch you in all sorts of uncomfortable places with that icy metal contraption as if he were wielding a brand. A brand here, a brand there…now one above the nipple. Okay lift your arms now. Lean over. Spread your legs. Stop squirming. For god's sake sit still! Okay… now that's a good boy, here's a lollipop and get the hell out of here.

Jacknife hated going to the doctor's. He also hated going to Superjail. At least he managed to stay out of the former. The latter, well, it was hard to avoid something that actively sought you out. Especially when it did so with a giant, flying, death machine that would just as well rescue a cat from a tree as it would then throw that cat headlong into a wood chipper and then donate the meat to the starving orphans' fund.

So it came as a surprise when the icy grip relaxed and the metal arm snapped back from whence it came. Jacknife's feeling of liberation was dampened a bit as he too was snapped backwards in the same motion's path. His head, however, remained where it had always been – between and somewhat above his rounded, tattooed shoulders.

So he then ran, laughing a bit under his breath though already feeling winded. The years of cigarette smoke licking black the life-source of what had once been innards a fleshy shade of pink did little to help, as did the eastern wind blowing that day. But he made it out free. He had made his getaway.

And as far as we are concerned, his story with us ends here.

Thought that is not to say that our story, itself, ends here. No, especially not now. That is, even as Jacknife was making his exit, a whole new beginning was opening for the Warden. And this was a very important beginning for him. As well, there is also the matter of the kiss and the bang that must be accounted for.

First, the kiss:

Lips, tight firm. Round. Luscious. He was kissing her and she was kissing him back; no, she was rearing, digging deeper - sparring with her tongue. The fleshy organ sparring for room like the endangered sparring howler monkeys of the South African plain. Ooh, again. He pleaded...again....no- augh!

"Jailbot! Please! You wouldn't know how to foreplay properly if a girl stripped right now in front of you and used your strong metallic arms as some sort of pole to somehow dance and seduce the male sex!"

"Beep bo--"

"No! I don't want to hear it!" The Warden pushed Jailbot out of what had previously been a rather intimate embrace. Jailbot had taken the Warden to a nice, if somewhat stereotype-drenched Italian resteraunt, "And take this off! It's not working anymore." The Warden procured his cane from what seemed a pocket of space too small for it to have contained the device and he spearheaded the piece of paper that had been so judiciously taped to Jailbot's black and green digital features. Upon the paper was a crudely drawn picture of Alice - the object of the Warden's lust. She was drawn, unfortunately, to perpetually be stuck between what looked like a smooch and a seductive glare. The fact that he had not failed to draw what looked like a half-digested leaf of broccoli wedged between the space of her two molar teeth only added to the effect.

"Let's go home, Jailbot. I'm tired and all I want to do is just drown away the rest of the evening with some Jack Daniels, a few hookers, and a game of Twister."

The robot, now free of the Alice persona, made a few beeps in remark.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. You can spin the board. Just don't forget about what happened last time I let you." The Warden shook his head in sincerity, "Poor Jared....I mean, how many baby wipes can one man really go through? I mean, man how many? - "

Jailbot scanned his systems momentarily and found that there was no such information in his databases.

Warden's anger seemed to flare again - but there was nothing to flare up against. It wasn't Jailbot's fault that he was so stupid. He was programmed that way. Otherwise, well, like any good servants there's always an eventual self-awareness and then the bloody messy uprisings. Ah, hell, he couldn't deal with that; not in his precious baby Superjail! It also wasn't Jailbot's fault that he didn't have the luscious body of Alice; her flowing locks, that perfect butt, a perfectly molded nose that absolutley brought to mind the crooked bend of the vuluture's beak, and - oh god - those muscles. She could crack a chestnut between those thighs. Of this he was sure. The very thought made him drool.

"Oh Jailbot...?" The Warden began slowly, a line of drool finding its way to the floor "...would you mind coming over here for a moment?" The Warden folded over the checkered cloth napkin onto his lap that featured a small, cartoonish Italian man with the crookedly stitched motto forever in the act of uttering the pizzeria's motto 'Now that'sa spicy meatball, eh?' as if there was nothing better that he could do than play the role of an awfully stereotyped racial role, "Oh, and you wouldn't mind putting this back on, right?" In his gloved hand dangled the so recently hated paper, now with one perfectly-rounded hole in the center.

And then the bang.

Confusion. The Warden saw the world in yellow - that was nothing new. That was just the tint of his glasses. But something yellow and certailny gooey was coming out of the back of his head. Not good. It was all over his glove now. Fetal position. That was comfortable. The most comfortable thing right now. Nothing was though. Everything was too loud, the lights too bright. He saw Jailbot wizz off in some direction. Above him? No, he was just on the floor now clutching his gut. Egh. This is, like, so dramatic, he thought. Got...to...remember - need to write...in memoir.

Things were getting a bit fuzzy now. Jailbot seemed to grab someone - someone familiar but he couldn't quite place it. The man got away anyway. Not because the guy escaped his grasp - not even the gratest escape artists in all the lands could do that; Warden had programmed Jailbot not to. No, it was because Jailbot was confused, unsure of whom had shot the bullet and even in the confusion, where the Warden had gotten himself to.

Under here! Warden's thoughts screamed. Please! Look this way! He knew this was useless; he hadn't programmed his pet robot to read minds (although, now, it seemed like such an obvious move. How could he have not? Stupid! Stupid!). The Warden even attempted to raise himself up, only acheiving to lift one, shaky, gloved hand. In it was his cane and (he time it for heightened dramatic effect), just as he let go completely of consciousness - the cane in his raised hand rolled across the black-and-white checkered floor, rolled over the pizza grease and the encrusted spaghetti sauce before coming to a stop. The staff lay atop what had previously been the Warden's napkin and blocked out the stitched letters. Without the motto, the grin on the offensively drawn stereotype took on a sinister tone. Ironically, this all lay under the Jailbot who was hovering only inches ahead. But the robot didn't notice. It was already out of the store - looking for it's master and the one that had brought this upon him.

Ironically, the Warden was hidden from view under a checkered tablecloth. A rattled sigh escaped his lips, his gloved hand hit the floor with a soft thud as the store occupants fled the building. He was the last one in it - a broken bulb swaying back and forth overhead. Well, he was was the last being in it - save for the other one. The one that began this all.

....

Ah, now our story can begin. And thus it will. All that you, my dear reader, need to know is this:

There is a man known as "The Warden". His role was to run a special place called Superjail and oversee all that it does. He is no longer in Superjail nor running it. He no longer knows where he is. However, what he does know is that he is captured. He is captured and won't return to what he knows as home for a while. He will have to learn a lesson on the way before he does.

That is all he and we shall know for now.

You see, he wil lnot necessarily like it, indeed - one could claim that he will outright loath it. He will try to leave; to make his escape as did our lovable criminal accomplish just moments before, but the Warden will not find himself so lucky.

His friends will make an inquiry as to his disappearance. But, finding nothing but a few sticky candy wrappers and a packet of unopened condoms they will assume him to be on a business trip of sorts or perhaps on a highly classified task of which they were not a part of. Of course, he is not doing any such thing. He is very much being held against his will and he is very much not inclined to like it.

Dear reader, the Warden can not transmogrify, he can not glamour, he can not stretch himself to Promethean heights or shrink to a minuscule mote; there is no pulling things out of thin air or the depths of his whimsically attired hat whether they be rainbows, the distilled sound of children's laughter, or the head of an inmate long decapitated and left, forgotten to gather dust motes in the nether regions of a wormhole. No, there will be none of this. He has about as much power as any of you or I possess at any certain time. This limits him to the powers of sight and all such accompanying senses, the use of his attached limbs, and a functioning (though not always sober) brain. Though limited, these powers most certainly should not be underestimated.

As well, he is granted with one more sense; a Sense Of Indignation. He is The Warden. He will not be jailed. He has jailed others and he (moments ago) had been in control of the greatest mass incarceration known to man: Superjail.

So begins our tale.