It was a rare quiet night in Springfield Penitentiary, and Bob was just sitting on his bunk, not doing anything. This was very unlike Bob, who was usually sable to find something to occupy his time, even in a place like this. Tonight, Bob felt like he didn't have the strength to do much. He just wanted to close his eyes and relax tonight, but he couldn't help but think about how he deserved better than his current situation, and how it was Bart Simpson's fault that he was here.
Oh, that stupid little brat! Why did he have to be so infuriating? Why did Bar's smug little face and voice always have to break through his thoughts like a weed in a garden?
Bob was so off in his own, vengeful little world that he failed to notice that he was grinding his teeth and rocking back and forth with enough force to make his bunk rattle. He didn't snap out of this fit of madness until he heard the voice of his cellmate, Snake.
"Dude, Bob, chill out! If they catch you getting like this, they'll put you in solitary again!"
"I don't care about that anymore," Bob said in a listless voice. His sudden burst of rage and frustration had sapped his energy. "Solitary confinement can be quite peaceful for me at times."
"What about the straitjackets?" Snake pointed out. "Straitjackets look like they would hurt like hell."
"Indeed they do," Bob admitted. He sighed and leaned back on his bunk.
Bob knew he should have practiced how not to let his agitation get the better of him. These fits of madness had cost him a few victories in the past, that he could admit (though not out loud). How could his sanity and brilliant mind have fallen so far that a recidivist robber had become his voice of reason?