Springfield Penitentiary

Ugh. "Mystery Meat." Has all of the same properties of a school's regularly feared cafeteria lunch, only more flavors (I say joyously).

Usual meaning: you eat this and die a miserable, slow death.

I watched the guards take Robert's food to him; they aren't hard to pick out. I sighed, eying my father at a nearby table with several other inmates.

The tables are filthy as well; never washed with real water. I sat down, looking forward to starvation later on. "How's life?"

Father sighed. "Disappointing."

Nobody said anything for a while. Snake was talking to several others; we were the only ones at this section of the table.

"Have you heard anything about Mum?"

"She's bailed herself, Gino and Francesca out. They're working on ours."

"Just ours, or—"

"They want Bob to stay in here a while longer, just in case."

"Ah."

On the side, there were mashed potatoes. But there was also gravy, to which I had heard made somebody go into a coma at one point.

"How far along into our bail have they gotten?"

"To cover approximately two and a half of us."

I jumped a little. "How long have they been out?!"

"Long enough. This close," He held two fingers about a half inch apart, "to our freedom."

There was also a side-salad. It looked safe; no sewage dressing or rat bits.

"I've always hated the number eighty-seven. Especially after our sentence. If everything goes according to plan, I'll scoff at it later on."

"Why not now? The sentence is already broken for good behavior. I think they're posting our bail today or tomorrow."

"I've gotten cocky in the past. Won't make that mistake again. Why didn't you tell me?"

The salad looked too clean. For all I knew, somebody could have sneezed in it.

"Ah. We all paid for that one, didn't we? I wanted our bail to be a surprise."

I took a small bite out of the mashed potatoes, avoiding the gravy as best as I could.

"Actually, it was when I took Bob in at the dam. It seems so long ago now, though. I want to say years ago, but it couldn't have been."

"That day was sad for all of us."

"Even worse for me, I was hoping on escaping."

"And killing your brother and two children in the process."

Silence to that.

I felt the first hints of nausea give way to the back of my throat. I took a sip of water. It helped some, though the feeling kept creeping up. I also experienced a brief flash of pain in my head.

Great, just like the second day—I'd be in the infirmary, unconscious while the other inmates drew their trademarks on my forehead.

Lunch was up. We went to the courtyard now, most of us showing off how many pounds we could lift with the weights. I started for that section, but stopped.

I massaged my temples as the first signs of a major class-five migraine set in. "Ah, god…"

"Your mistake of eating the food," Father walked past me.

I groaned, stumbling a few steps forward. Somebody pointed at me. I dropped my hands at my sides and stopped trying to walk. My eyes dropped to the ground as I lost the energy to hold my head up.


There were no words for this agony, not even the mystery meat could have caused this.

Cecil couldn't think straight now; his eye sight was dissembling into shadows; limbs were immobilized.

His head went numb, meaning the hearing did as well. Now there was only the sound of his beating heart—

Which was pounding at his skull, and only speeding up by the minute.

There was a crowd around him now, taunts and teases coming from his fellow inmates. Robert Sr. watched sadly as his son was bullied, shook his head, and continued lifting the weights.

Cecil's head raised up, his eyes now a mirror anguish for the pain behind his head. This expression alone caused the taunting to stop.

His heart continued to grow faster, the pumping becoming all one sound, until . . .

It stopped.

He let out the cry of torment—which was cut off—and fell to the side.


"-Kent Brockman, with the Springfield News. First off, we have the prison news," he glared to someone off-screen, "to which I have agreed to tell first." He smiled at the camera again.

"Well, there was a possibly fatal accident with a prisoner inmate, a Cecil Terwilliger. Doctors say that he suffered a major heart attack after the prison's "Mystery Meat" triggered the allergic cause. Because of the lack of people who care, the prison infirmary and the one doctor—his father—were not good enough. Family members posted a bail so that he could get to a real, better hospital in time.

"They were able to save him through the surgery to get the meat out of his system, though he left us," Kent's eyebrows went up, "three times during the time. Cecil now rests in the hospital, in a coma. Now that's a man who wants to stay with us!

"Uh . . . in a related matter, his brother, Sideshow Bob, finally snapped out of his, to put it politely, "special phase." He has returned to normal, only less talk about killing Bart Simpson, and more on the "life is truly precious" crap no one wants to hear about.

"Now, to return to my normal news stories, there was a bridge collapsing downtown today, trapping—"

Homer turned off the TV. "Boring!"

He got up, going to the kitchen. Bart and Lisa sat on the ground, shaking.

Bart calmly said, "Think he's gonna kill me for real this time? Or," he gulped, "make it slow and painful?"

Lisa paused, still shaking, "Maybe. Maybe they'll leave us alone, because of the accident."

"What if it wasn't an accident?"

Neither said anything.


I know I really shouldn't be writing anymore than what I already have, but I've been meaning to start this for a while now.