Look down look down
Don't look 'em in the eye
Look down look down
You're here until you die...

Look down look down
You'll always be a slave
Look down look down
You're standing in your grave...

Prologue

The sun set on the barren island where only a dark prison existed. Alcatraz. No human mortal could escape from the godforsaken place in the San Franciscan Bay. The men who were held there were the most terrible of all prisoners. They had committed the most heinous crimes and were the most hardened of hearts.

Dinner was being served in the mess hall. That was the one and only good thing about prison: you got meals everyday like clockwork. They weren't about to let you starve to death. So while all the world lie in the Great Decline, prisoners got food and a place to stay. Granted the gray mush couldn't really be considered food, but it was better than starving on the streets.

In the far corner of the mess hall, a black haired man sat away from main population of prisoners. His harsh brown eyes stared at the gray matter before him and his face once again morphed into an expression of disgust. Nineteen years of that certainly could do that to a man.

Another prisoner came and sat at the table. His long brown hair was tied back with a rubber band, although the band did not prevent rogue hairs from falling across his eyes.

"G'day, mate. How'd they treat ya taday?"

The black haired man listened to the Australian accent before looking at his companion.

"Rock duty."

"Sorry, mate. That's gotta hurt."

The black haired prisoner allowed himself a smirk. "I've done it before."

"Chan, come on mate, I know ya don't like their rock yard."

"Rocks for bread. Isn't that the same temptation of Christ?" Sarcasm dripped off Chan's tongue as he picked up his spoon and with great determination began to eat the slop the prison had the nerve to call food.

The Australian laughed. "Haven't lost ya touch there, mate."

Another brown haired man sat down at the table. The scar on his left cheek was the most prominent feature on him. He immediately dug into the gray matter on his plate.

"Hey there, Brunsly. Whatcha get taday?"

"Rock duty."

"That smarts. My two best mates on rock duty and mae on cleanin' detail."

Before either of the "best mates" could respond, a loud booming voice echoed throughout the hall.

"Prisoner 24601! Report to the office immediately!"

The Australian looked at Chan. "Didja pull anotha job?"

"No."

"Well, mate, good luck. But be warned, there be a constable in them offices."

"New one?" Brunsly asked.

"Nah, tak'n one of us prisoners somewhere else."

Chan looked at the Australian closely. He wasn't lying. But where would any prisoners be going?

He let himself dwell on that thought as he rose from his seat and walked toward the doors at one end of the mess. The Offices were less than ten steps away once he was outside that door. He, after all, as prisoner 24601 had a duty to report when told. The doors to the office opened smoothly and he stepped over the threshold.

Inside the office, 24601 was led like a lamb to the slaughter: not a word came out his mouth. He was sent inside the last office in the hall and was greeted by two men in black from head to foot and two sentries.

The first man in black sat behind a desk and was the head of Alcatraz. Chan had seen him before. But the other in black had long white hair and seemed to be eyeing 24601 with disdain and disgust. The one behind the desk spoke.

"Jackie Chan, your time in Alcatraz is done. You have been designated for parole. Do you know what that means?"

"It means I'm free."

"No!" It was the white haired man. "You will not have freedom. You are a thief. All will look down upon you."

"Constable Valmont, Chan has spent nineteen years here for stealing bread and then trying to escape from the prison. There is no need to be so poisonous in your words."

"A thief is a thief is a thief. They never change."

The man behind the desk looked to Valmont. "Only if you don't give them the chance. You will do well to remember that."

He turned back to Chan. "Constable Valmont will give you your ticket of leave. You need to report at the San Francisco parole office in two days or earlier. He will also escort you to the mainland. After that you are on your own."

Chan nodded to his superior. "Thank you, sir."

Valmont looked at one of his sentries. The sentry, who had flaming red hair, gripped Chan's shoulder roughly, apparently intent on leading 24601 out of the office and to the boat that was presumably waiting. The other sentry, who looked to be more suited to wrestling than police work, followed Valmont out the door, followed by Chan and the red haired sentry.

Chan was right in assuming they were heading towards a boat. It was a tiny vessel, built for small cargo. The four stepped into it and they headed out onto the salt water of the sea.

The boat ride was tense to say the least. Valmont would not look away from California's coast as the sentries rowed toward shore. He only spoke once to the former prisoner.

"I will keep my eye on you Chan. Until the day you die."

The black haired parolee just glared at the constable as they pulled up to the pier. He grabbed the bag that held his meager belongings and turned to head off the pier. The first thought on his mind was finding a place to stay. It was January and it got cold enough with the fog that rolled in off the bay.

Chan stopped at the first inn he saw. The innkeeper opened the door.

"I need a room for the night."

"Papers first," came the harsh voice of the innkeeper.

Chan handed over his papers and as the innkeeper saw the yellow parole sheet said, "We're full for the night. Try down the street."

Chan's papers were handed back and the door shut swiftly in the former prisoner's face. Disgruntled, Chan hurried down the street, but received the same treatment from the innkeeper there and at the next place and at the place after that.

The tired, irritated parolee finally found a park bench to sleep on. It was not going to be a good night. The fog already had rolled in and—Ouch!

Chan looked over his shoulder to see an old woman poking him. "You can't sleep here, son. They'll arrest you."

"No inn will let me in. I'm not afraid of the police, old woman, I've seen enough of them."

The old woman read between Chan's words. "You're a convict," she simply stated.

"Yes."

"Try over there."

Chan looked over at where the old woman was pointing with her walking stick. It was a mission that looked like it housed on of those holier-than- thou heads of church. He was hesitant to go.

"I'm sure they will help you, son. They helped me."

"You are a harmless old woman."

She smiled a secretive smile.

"Knock on the door. See what they do."

Chan turned away from the woman and hugged his jacket closer to him. "Why would they care?"

"Why would they not?"

She poked him again. "It is worth a shot, son. If they disown you then you have a reason to be mad at society, if not then you have a place to sleep and food to eat."

Chan got up from the bench and started for the mission, if only to get the old wrench off his back, or at least keep her from poking him again. The old woman merely smiled as he walked away, and then turned towards the mists and disappeared.

Chan looked over his shoulder to see if the old woman was still there as soon as he got to the door of the mission. She was still disappearing into the mists as he hit the door with his fist.

Knock!

Knock! Knock!

Chan had been standing outside the door for five minutes at least. He was about to turn and go when the door opened revealing a middle-aged woman that had the air of the lady of the house.

"What do you wish?" she queried.

"A meal and a bed," the convict replied.

The door opened more to allow Chan to enter the residence.

It was a homey place to live, with warm rugs covering the terra cotta tiled floors, and tall stuccoed walls. There was a light feeling about it despite the darkness and the coolness of the air inside. The candelabras that held four to five candles apiece lit the entryway and the hall leading away from the heavy wooden door.

The woman closed the door behind Chan and, upon acquiring a candelabrum, led the former convict down the hallway...towards the sweet smell of a fresh home-cooked meal.

The kitchen was small in comparison to the dining room, visible through a doorway, but it served its purpose well enough. The fire pit with a chimney assured that the people here still cooked over the open flame, and the many shelves cut into the stuccoed walls showed the modest amount of food held by this small residence.

The woman let Chan study the kitchen before telling him to, "wait here," while she fetched, "his holiness." The convict inwardly grimaced at the way the woman termed the man he was apparently about to meet, but outwardly he nodded in expectancy. With that she left in search of the bishop whose residence this was.

Chan glanced at the straightforward surroundings around him. It was a modest home and living, yet there was a richness in the air that completely contradicted what he perceived with his eyes. However the silver candlesticks on the roughly hewn dinning room table did not go unnoticed.

At the rustle of cloth, Chan looked back towards the hallway entrance and saw the bishop. He was an old man with spectacles that rested on an angular nose and an impressed frown, but his eyes twinkled like those of a mischievous fellow. He was dressed in the customary white frock of his order, the red skullcap and sash standing out in a sea of white, and a wooden cross hung from a beaded string about his neck.

"So, you want a place to eat and room to sleep?" The voice of the bishop was tinted with an Asian accent. Chan looked closer and saw the slanted eyes that told the heritage of "his holiness."

"Yes," Chan replied.

"So, shall it be given."

The bishop gestured to the dining room doorway and Chan walked through it with the bishop behind him. Each sat at a chair and the woman brought the silver and two plates out of the cabinet on the right side of the table. She set a place for each at the table and turned to the kitchen. Before long, a hot meal sat in front of Chan and the bishop.

The convict hastily dove into a delicious meal while the bishop shared a glance with the woman, blessed his food, and began to eat in a more dignified manner.

After a little time had passed, the bishop asked, "Where are you traveling to?"

Chan looked at the man across from him. "No where."

"You seem to be one that travels, right?" The bishop dragged out the "i" sound in right.

"Perhaps."

"There are many inns in this city. Have you no money?" He dragged out the "e" this time.

"I have money, not a lot, but enough."

"So, no innkeeper would give you a room, because..." The bishop left the sentence hanging.

Chan began the inner debate. To tell or not to tell...that is definitely the question.

"I'm a convict. I'm supposed to report to the parole office in two days. They left me at the dock with only what I had and some money, as per contract."

The woman who had come to fill the water glasses froze in fright. She only moved again when the bishop began to speak.

"Aiya. What did you do, to go to Alcatraz?" The "a"s in Alcatraz were drawn out now.

Chan took another bite off the silver fork and studied the pattern while answering, "I was in for wanting to feed my sister's child. And then I tried to escape."

Chan realized that the silver was worth twice what he had earned in his nineteen years of hard labor.

"You stole to feed a child? And then tried to escape?"

A nod from the convict was all the bishop needed.

"Then I shall say goodnight and let Leslie show you to a sleep corner. I'm afraid there are no other rooms at the moment."

"A warm bed is all I wish. Thank you Bishop, for your kindness."

The bishop stood and left the table. Chan finished his dinner in a contemplative mood. Leslie remained nervous around the former prisoner.

Lying in a bed later that night, Chan finished his plan. That silver was his! What a fool of a man to let a thief in his house!

And so when the house was still, the convict arose in the night.

He took the silver. He took his flight.

Two days later, ironically while dinner was being served, there came a knock at the bishop's door. Two sentries brought in a disheveled man, whom Leslie immediately recognized. The convict was now back! As the sentries brought the man to the dinning room, she ran to get the bishop. The silver was back!

The bishop entered the dining room with an, "Aiya!"

"You know this man, bishop?" one of the sentries asked.

"Yes, he stayed here two nights ago." The "o" was drawn out.

"This convict was found traveling away from San Francisco with a bag full of silverware." The sentry showed the calm bishop the silver in Chan's bag. "We asked him what he was doing with such fine pieces, and he said they were given to him, by a bishop in the city. We of course knew the man was lying and are now bringing you back your silver." The setry held out the bag for the bishop to take.

The bishop took the bag and asked, "What then will happen to this man?"

Chan raised his head from looking at the floor. The bishop was asking about him? Why? "Probably to discover what kind of punishment I will recieve, and if it is harsh enough," Chan thought to himself.

"He will be sent back to Alcatraz." The sentry remained a neutral face.

The bishop looked at the bag, looked at the sentry, looked at the bag, and looked at Leslie.

"Bring the candlesticks, Leslie. And hurry." The bishop then turned towards the sentry. "I did indeed give this man my silver." Leslie couldn't believe her ears as she handed the bishop the candlesticks.

"But, you, sir, left so early in the morning that you left the silver candlesticks behind."

Chan raised his head and stared at the bishop as the candlesticks went into the bag. The sentries were dumbfounded as well.

"Sirs, I commend you for performing your duty, but the convict speaks true. May God bless you as you continue to serve the citizenry."

The sentries, not knowing what to do, left the home of the bishop more confused then ever.

Chan still had his eyes to the floor when the bishop approached him. "Ouch!" Chan looked at the bishop who had just hit him on the head with two fingers. "Next time," the "i" was drawn out, "ask before you take!" The convict stood there dumbly rubbing his black mop of hair.

The bishop's steely demeanor softened. "With this silver, I claim your soul for God above. Use it only for good, not evil. Use it to help, not to harm. May God bless you in your life." The bishop did the sign of the cross and showed Chan out the door.