Insert Coin Here
Reader:
A kick is a kick, and a punch is a punch, but you can't drink kicks or get a punch outta' lunch.
Objective: Guess the original (somewhat raunchy) school-yard rhyme!
Chapter Four: Conniption Fit
I started keeping a mental diary.
I forgot my entries within ten minutes.
Does that defeat the purpose?
Who knows. Who cares?
Isn't it interesting that 'who knows' is a statement, but 'who cares' is a question?
Okay, so it isn't. Shit, what do you want from me? I've been stuck in this damn cell forever! I barely know what day today is—Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Day 1, Day 3? I have no clue!
All I know is that they've finally had the fucking decency to feed me. It's not that bad in actuality, though I have to admit that I eyed the bowl of rice and tea a bit suspiciously at first.
Were they drugged?
Oh, undoubtedly.
I wolfed it down anyways.
To my utter surprise, I neither died nor fell unconscious a few hours later.
Okay, so the food wasn't drugged or poisoned.
That didn't mean it was good.
(Okay, it was delicious, if not a bit bland. But you know what, when you're as hungry as I was, even clothing tastes good.)
And absolutely none of this was of any comfort to me.
Once I gorged myself, (I suppose rice is one thing they can spare—there was a hella lot of it) I did the one thing I knew best.
"Hello? I'd like to be LET OUT!"
Throw a conniption fit.
"Just because you idiots fed me doesn't mean I like being in here! I haven't seen the sun in, like, a billion years! LET ME OUT!"
The guard down the hall (who had returned—joy) growled something to me.
"Communication issues, stupid," I snarled right back to him, pressing myself against the bars to the cell's front wall.
"Commm-uuuu-niiii-caaaaa-shunnnn. Say it with me—communication. It's like communist, only you bastards don't share anything, like your god-damn deck space!"
The guard stepped closer to the cell, closer, and then he was within arm's reach.
I slid one arm through the cell bars (they must have been made for men—my narrow arms fit through it without much work) and with strength the burly man probably found surprising, latched onto and yanked his armor's shirt-collar (and, effectively, him) forward with a sharp pull.
"Listen, you, if you don't let me out right now so help me god I'll shank you!" I hissed.
He stared at me blankly (although he seemed to be a tad intimidated—obviously a soldier who had been raised around women) and with one large hand grabbed my wrist in a steel hold and wrenched it off him.
I scowled, relaxing my hand to alleviate the pain as he slowly crushed it. I was more than used to this—it was what many of my male friends did if I grabbed onto something of theirs (shirt, shoe, hair, wrist) and wouldn't let go.
Well, so Jake was a bit vindictive and pushed his thumb-nail into the veins of my wrist to make it hurt more.
Just like this charming fellow.
"Cheating sunnuva—argh!
My eyes prickled with tears as I let loose my ultimate weapon—the one that made any foe (usually classmates, occasionally muggers, a commonplace in L.A.) drop to the ground, writhing in pain.
I screamed.