"Oh don't…please. Make it stop!" The Warden snapped his head down and away from the luminescence flickering in front. He was currently seated upon a metal-framed hardback chair – if sitting it could even be called. Perhaps more accurately it could be said that he was curled up in a purple, somewhat sweaty fetal position over the chair back; black oiled shoes carving white divots upon the seat that was far too creaky to be considered anything but safe. He was neither restrained, bridled, nor subdued in any way, however it appeared as if he was unable to remove himself from the chair; opting instead only to curl himself into an ever tighter ball. In fact, his efforts seemed almost superhuman – as if he were a creature crafted more out of silly putty than human bone and flesh.

The cause of his pain was obvious. Stationed immediately in his direct gaze was a television set. It was of the antique variety: one of those old analog transmissions that contained all the trappings of wires – half-chewed, spitting electric flames – and dependent upon the function of two haphazardly bent antennas. The source of his lamentations, which caused him to clutch the brim of his whimsically purple hat well past his ears, emitted a low blue tone of picture.

"As you wish…however, don't expect this to be the last of it." The Mysterious Voice® echoed once more from its unknown source and much to the relief of the Warden the television screen shut down as the last whisper of the voice echoed out. The picture distorted, whined, and then came to a small point as the box powered down; officially ending the program that had been endlessly playing in a repetitive, torturous loop. Cher's live performance still danced behind the dark of his eyelids as the Warden squinted them shut. Trying to rub them out with the massage of his gloves upon his temple, he lamented on the fact that the horrible images would probably haunt him for the better part of a week…if not more. Once watched, the experience was not easily forgotten.

His tight grip on his hat loosened. The Warden climbed down to a more suitable seated position. Strain still showed, however, in the fact that he gripped the sides of the chair with such force as to cause his gloves to begin to pull loose and reveal the pale slip of his wrists. He also displayed an odd nervous tick; running his tongue over the gap in his teeth. However, the overall effect was of relief…or at the very least, a lessening of stress.

The light then dimmed, enveloping the Warden in darkness. He was in the corner of the room which, as had been when he first arrived here (wherever "here" was), was now cast into an inky black save for the one light bulb that hung perfectly still – casting an equally perfect radius of light. He had only been able to see the television and accompanying chair in the first place when an additional light, before unseen, came to life in the far left corner. Not only did it reveal these two items, but the light also gave clue as to what material encased him in this prison; the walls were made of stark grey concrete. It was riddled with what appeared to be grime; eroded due to long streaks of water – source unknown; and where the concrete had disintegrated to such a far degree that it lay in irregular pieces on the equally grey and concrete floor; an older brick wall full of more wear and signs of green, mossy life came into view. It was apparent that whoever had constructed this cell had built it over an older one, merely encasing the original brick foundation with a cheaper, concrete one. However, upon further analysis (analysis that involved the Warden, his head, and a good running start) both proved impenetrable. Then, as mentioned afore, his figure disappeared along with the bulb.

Like a moth, he scurried back into the center of the room – back into the radius of light.

He felt safe here. It was because of the bulb dangling stoically overhead; he knew that much. And the reason? Well, he never had told anyone before and, thankfully, there was no one here to find out (other than The Mysterious Voice®, but the Warden figured his secret was still safe from detection. Voices didn't have the eyes to be seeking out secrets, everyone knew that). Truthfully, he had never gotten over that most primal fear buried deep within us the psyche of mankind. The fear that could paralyze one's legs, send one into cold sweats, cause a shriek to rattle up through one's throat only to be blocked by the sharp clamp of one's teeth. It was the fear that he knew all too well.

You see, the Warden was afraid of the dark.

Good thing this is here. He looked up lovingly at the hanging bulb. The brilliance of the light reflected in his yellow specs; a miniature reflection of globular sun in each lens, "You won't let me down now, will you?" The Warden had a habit of talking to inanimate things. Although, usually, the 'thing' in question was a 5-foot, floating, killing machine by the name of 'Jailbot', "Of course you won't," he stroked the bulb lovingly and ignored the slight hiss and singe of the heat against his gloves.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Warden figured that making friends with light bulbs was something that could perhaps be labeled as 'insane' or maybe even 'psychotic'. But he didn't dwell on the thought because he was too busy listening to what it was saying.

And then suddenly, he leaped back from the thing as if repulsed. The light bobbed wildly around on the axis of its vertical wire sending the light to dance wildly around the room, "But that's an anatomic impossibility!" A pause long enough for the bulb to make a rebuke. And it seemed as if it had for now the Warden was pulling off his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his neatly buttoned undershirt, tossing his hat off to the side, and pulling clenched fists up eye-level. He hopped back and forth as would a boxer; constantly shifting his weight between each foot.

The light-bulb just dangled, now steadied from its previous manic convulsions.

"I thought we were friends," the Warden attempted to channel emotion into his words – to show truly how much he regretted this transgression in their relationship, "But now…it's GO TIME!" …apparently not enough to prevent a round of fisticuffs, "Put them up and fight like a man."

The light bulb just dangled some more. There was an imperceptible sway to the left before realigning itself back to the center.

This seemed like cause enough for action because the Warden took a step back before throwing a right handed jab into the air. Missed. Then a left hook. The bulb swayed to the right. The Warden growled. The bulb flickered. "Augh!" the Warden went all in; flinging himself at the thing.

The glass was everywhere. The filament was laying in pieces on the floor – not that he could tell; everything was now cast into a deep, inky blackness. It was the kind of darkness where, if one were to wave their arm about their face in an effort to perhaps see its movements, they were liable to only injure themselves in the process. Which, of course, the Warden did.

He also began to whimper, slightly. Though he had just proven his manliness in his sudden act of illogical aggression, he was just about to lose that in his pathological fear of the dark, "Okay…" his voice betrayed a bit more anxiety than he would have liked, "…just don't panic. All I have to do is breathe - " the sound of air whooshing into lungs could be heard, "-and everything will. Be. Just...fine." The pent up breath hissed out.

Silence.

Then there was a sound, quick and sudden, of something quite like a sack of potatoes being dropped heavily on the floor.

Then silence again.

"Oh hell." The Mysterious Voice® boomed, "Now I've got to go clean this up, don't I?" The lights flickered on. All of them.

Now the entire holding cell could be seen. There was the Warden, behind the bars. A faint groan in his throat. He was lying crumpled in a pile – his shirt sleeves still rolled up, tie blanketing one eye, hat in the corner, and jagged glass all over. Small blots tarnished his shirt where the glass cut lines into his flesh. Mysteriously, the chair and television set that had been in the left corner of the cell where no longer to be found.

Now a door was opening and this too could be seen with the new, albeit harsh illumination. There was a figure visible in the opening; though all features were still shadowed. The poor Warden's vision was fading a bit – everything a blurred mess of color and shape. However he was still conscious enough to see the figure walk towards him, and stop to survey the mess. And even as unconsciousness descended, the Warden made sure to leave a parting gift.

"Shit!" The thing groaned – its voice not so booming now, "Another thing I got to clean up." And it began to clear away the remaining contents of the Warden's lunch that he had so thoughtfully produced. The figure sighed. This whole thing better be worth it.