"I no want to read this book!" the inmate grunted as he tossed a Stephen King book out the flap of the door. The warden sighed. Library hours at Guantanamo Bay were always difficult.
"Are you sure? Stephen King is very popular." he coaxed.
"I NO WANT!" the inmate shrieked, banging on the door. "I WANT GOOD BOOK!"
The warden was frustrated. What could possibly be wrong with Stephen King? He picked up the next book in the pile. The Fault in Our Stars. The warden walked over to cell block 69420B and slid the book through the flap door.
"How about some John Green, eh?"
The inmate eyed the book suspiciously.
"This not crappy Stephen?"
"Nope, this is John Green, it's about two teenage cancer patients who fall in love."
The inmate took the book and looked at the blurb.
"You lying! Book says ǝʌoן uı ןןɐɟ oɥʍ sʇuǝıʇɐd ɹǝɔuɐɔ ǝbɐuǝǝʇ oʍʇ! YOU LIE!" he threw the book at the wall. The warden sighed again.
"You're holding the book upside down."
The inmate paused for a second and his face dropped. He had realised his error.
"Oh. Okay. I read this book now." He picked up the crumpled The Fault in Our Stars from the ground and began reading.
The warden turned to head back to his office. There weren't many inmates who accepted John Green books when given, but luckily this one didnt seem to know any better. Upon returning, he shuffled through his desk under piles of miscellaneous paperwork and old employee files to reveal his own copy of The Fault in Our Stars, now a Hollywood feature film, garnishing over 266 million undeserving dollars.
Yes, John Green was a juvenile writer at best, and yes, perhaps his core audience can't distinguish good literature from bad; but he loved this book, and secretly awaited the day he could speak about it with that inmate.
The warden heard scuffle and Arabic shouting outside his offic door. He put down the book and looked at the Mickey Mouse shaped clock on his desk. Holy smokes! 1am? He had spent the whole night reading.
Suddenly, his office door burst open and the Stephen King hating inmate stumbled in, held by a handful of guards.
"Sir, sir!" a white ex-navy-turned-Guantanamo guard yelled. "Inmate 69420B has been causing a ruckus in his cell and demanded to see you! He has threatened us with attempts of suicide!"
The warden quickly slipped his book back underneath the old paperwork.
"Well, what do you want?" the warden rose up slowly.
"A ceegarette."
"I'm sorry?" the warden was confused. He did not understand Arabic and often had difficulty breaking the language barrier.
"A ceeeeeegarette."
"A cigarette?"
"Ya."
"Very well." the warden produced a pack of Marlboro Reds from his chest pocket, took out a cigarette and slipped it in the inmates mouth.
"I no need light." the inmate muttered with the cigarette flapping up and down in his mouth.
"You don't want a light for your cigarette? the warden inquired, confused as ever.
"Metaphor." the inmate growled, shaking his head.
The warden dropped his pack and the lighter in awe.
"Boys, leave him here." he instructed the guards.
Could it be?
