*I wish I had a reason
My flaws are open season
For this I gave up trying
One good turn deserves my dying..*
The jail cell gave him goosebumps. He had been in one before, a couple times and usually for the same reason. Sometimes he deserved it, but this time he believed he didn't. He hoped that bastard's nose was busted. Broken and it would heal disfigured. Oh how it would already enhance his grotesque face.
That Thursday afternoon stuck behind bars, Harry shared his cell with two others. One sat on the far bench obviously drunk out of his tree, head against the stone wall, a pile of barf near his feet. The guy was easily pushing 300 pounds and had lookd like he had passed out leaning back like that legs upon, hands limp at his hands. One flinch and he would probably fall over and into his lovely pile of barf. How nice.
The other was also obviously a prostitute. Wearing some sort of fur coat, and red spike heels, she sat at the side wall on a bench, indifferent and picking at her red fake nails as if the cell was her second home, knowing one of her horny clients would shovel out the cash jail to get a fuck out of it.
Just disgusting. Utterly disgusting the world he lived in. Drunks, postitues and child abusers, everywhere he turned.
The hours that had passed, he had not moved a muscle fearing he would also be lying in a pile of his own barf if his body and headache had decided to play games and be cruel to him. So far so good. If the pounding throughout his brain could have been considered 'good' in any light.
Upon getting arrested, he had had no choice but to call the school and 'embarrassly' confess that he was locked up with a ball n' chair at the Big House. He knew what a gosspier that secretary was. The whole damn town probably knew where he was, and what he ate for breakfast too, at that. After making the secretary get off the line, Harper had pounced on, angry but concerned at the same time. It had taken a while for him to convince Steven just to send somebody down to bail him out, saying he would of course write them a stinking check as soon as the book was in front of him.
The voice of that someone had arrived to the pig station then, and Harry groaned. Ronnie. He had sent Ronnie to bail his sorry ass out. Of course, she was the 'lawyer' after all. Harry put his elbows on his knees and relaxed his exploding head into his hands, his fingers weaving through the front of his hair that now needed some sort of haircut. He had stayed like that and even a bit after the fat blonde guard had come to the bars, yelled, "Senate!" as he rolled open the animal cage.
Ronnie stood timidly behind him, and Harry raised his face and squinted to because of the neon lights that hung down from the ceiling. The expression on her face was hard to read. It was either disappointment or just plain horror.
"Okay, get your ass out. You're free. See you next week, Senate," the guard heartily laughed and Harry glared at him.
That bastard still worked there. It was only a matter of minutes before the fatass dropped dead from clogged arteries because of the chili dogs he scarfed down - but obviously it had been years since Harry had thought that. His heart was still ticking. God damn.
Harry slowly stood up using his hands to push on his knees not wanting to trigger anything unpleasant and walked out of the cage as the guard yelled for the drunk to wake up probably just noticing his insides splattered on the floor.
"Thanks," Harry mumbled, knowing he owed her that at least. Steven or Scott rather, probably would have opted to keep him in there for a couple days.
"Don't thank me Harry. What has gotten into you? Beating up some guy?" Ronnie started to quack. Good 'ol farmiliar Ronnie. For once he was actually happy to hear that voice.
However he didn't respond. He was almost afraid that if he went on how if he had gone back to would have done it all again, but with brass knuckles, that she would have shoved him back into the cell, hiding the key in one of the guard's chili dogs. Then he would surely be doomed.
They started to walk out of the police station and Harry wondered how long he had been in there. Minutes? Hours? Or maybe what it felt like, weeks?
"You are damn lucky Harold Delaney isn't going to press charges.." she continued as they exited the building. He wasn't going to press charges? A miracle. But he of course knew why. The bastard had beat his daughter to a pulp and Harry knew all about it. It didn't take a genius to figure that out, and he wasn't a genius by all means.
The artificial sunlight had been easier on his eyes then the real sunlight. He was surprised to find that the sun was still there which meant he hadn't been in the slammer too long. It was cold though, colder than he had remembered upon his fuming excavation to Harold's house. Who cared. Wow, his arms were cold. Ashley was dead. Who gave a fuck about his cold arms.
Ronnie did, and she linked his arm with hers as they walked down the stairs as if she was leading a zombie. He felt like a zombie. DeadDeadDead.
Surprisingly, they reached Ronnie's awaiting car without her saying a word. They both got in and she rubbed her hands together and started the engine. Then paused before backing out of the parking space.
"Harry, talk to me already," she said and looked at him. He looked straight ahead, staring at the dashboard of the Saturn, arms dead on his lap. She looked at him a moment later and then pulled out of the space without another word as if a blink from him assured her that he was indeed not a zombie, just close to one.
My flaws are open season
For this I gave up trying
One good turn deserves my dying..*
The jail cell gave him goosebumps. He had been in one before, a couple times and usually for the same reason. Sometimes he deserved it, but this time he believed he didn't. He hoped that bastard's nose was busted. Broken and it would heal disfigured. Oh how it would already enhance his grotesque face.
That Thursday afternoon stuck behind bars, Harry shared his cell with two others. One sat on the far bench obviously drunk out of his tree, head against the stone wall, a pile of barf near his feet. The guy was easily pushing 300 pounds and had lookd like he had passed out leaning back like that legs upon, hands limp at his hands. One flinch and he would probably fall over and into his lovely pile of barf. How nice.
The other was also obviously a prostitute. Wearing some sort of fur coat, and red spike heels, she sat at the side wall on a bench, indifferent and picking at her red fake nails as if the cell was her second home, knowing one of her horny clients would shovel out the cash jail to get a fuck out of it.
Just disgusting. Utterly disgusting the world he lived in. Drunks, postitues and child abusers, everywhere he turned.
The hours that had passed, he had not moved a muscle fearing he would also be lying in a pile of his own barf if his body and headache had decided to play games and be cruel to him. So far so good. If the pounding throughout his brain could have been considered 'good' in any light.
Upon getting arrested, he had had no choice but to call the school and 'embarrassly' confess that he was locked up with a ball n' chair at the Big House. He knew what a gosspier that secretary was. The whole damn town probably knew where he was, and what he ate for breakfast too, at that. After making the secretary get off the line, Harper had pounced on, angry but concerned at the same time. It had taken a while for him to convince Steven just to send somebody down to bail him out, saying he would of course write them a stinking check as soon as the book was in front of him.
The voice of that someone had arrived to the pig station then, and Harry groaned. Ronnie. He had sent Ronnie to bail his sorry ass out. Of course, she was the 'lawyer' after all. Harry put his elbows on his knees and relaxed his exploding head into his hands, his fingers weaving through the front of his hair that now needed some sort of haircut. He had stayed like that and even a bit after the fat blonde guard had come to the bars, yelled, "Senate!" as he rolled open the animal cage.
Ronnie stood timidly behind him, and Harry raised his face and squinted to because of the neon lights that hung down from the ceiling. The expression on her face was hard to read. It was either disappointment or just plain horror.
"Okay, get your ass out. You're free. See you next week, Senate," the guard heartily laughed and Harry glared at him.
That bastard still worked there. It was only a matter of minutes before the fatass dropped dead from clogged arteries because of the chili dogs he scarfed down - but obviously it had been years since Harry had thought that. His heart was still ticking. God damn.
Harry slowly stood up using his hands to push on his knees not wanting to trigger anything unpleasant and walked out of the cage as the guard yelled for the drunk to wake up probably just noticing his insides splattered on the floor.
"Thanks," Harry mumbled, knowing he owed her that at least. Steven or Scott rather, probably would have opted to keep him in there for a couple days.
"Don't thank me Harry. What has gotten into you? Beating up some guy?" Ronnie started to quack. Good 'ol farmiliar Ronnie. For once he was actually happy to hear that voice.
However he didn't respond. He was almost afraid that if he went on how if he had gone back to would have done it all again, but with brass knuckles, that she would have shoved him back into the cell, hiding the key in one of the guard's chili dogs. Then he would surely be doomed.
They started to walk out of the police station and Harry wondered how long he had been in there. Minutes? Hours? Or maybe what it felt like, weeks?
"You are damn lucky Harold Delaney isn't going to press charges.." she continued as they exited the building. He wasn't going to press charges? A miracle. But he of course knew why. The bastard had beat his daughter to a pulp and Harry knew all about it. It didn't take a genius to figure that out, and he wasn't a genius by all means.
The artificial sunlight had been easier on his eyes then the real sunlight. He was surprised to find that the sun was still there which meant he hadn't been in the slammer too long. It was cold though, colder than he had remembered upon his fuming excavation to Harold's house. Who cared. Wow, his arms were cold. Ashley was dead. Who gave a fuck about his cold arms.
Ronnie did, and she linked his arm with hers as they walked down the stairs as if she was leading a zombie. He felt like a zombie. DeadDeadDead.
Surprisingly, they reached Ronnie's awaiting car without her saying a word. They both got in and she rubbed her hands together and started the engine. Then paused before backing out of the parking space.
"Harry, talk to me already," she said and looked at him. He looked straight ahead, staring at the dashboard of the Saturn, arms dead on his lap. She looked at him a moment later and then pulled out of the space without another word as if a blink from him assured her that he was indeed not a zombie, just close to one.