N.A; Polly Rowen, Jacob Harlson and Warden B are © to me. I apologize for Max being such pervert and how long it took for me to finish the chapter. I didn't scare anyone off, did I? It was delayed due to a few minor editing problems that stretched out for about a week .
Yasmine: I could tell you this was going to be slash, but then I'd be lying. Sorry, the only 'slash' happening would be playful and not serious.
Shire cat: Naw, don't worry 'bout it. I had the chapter just sitting on my hard drive anyway awaiting to be uploaded. I'm glad you take interest in my story :)
C.T. 127: Well thank you very much. I feel flattered. Personally I couldn't believe that Leo did that to Max either. Not until I looked over the facts anyway, which still point to Leo being a selfish, backstabbing, poop-head. pout
Thanks for your feedback!
Chapter: IV - Let's Make A Deal
"All we have is frozen peas."
I nodded, took the unsought bag, and placed it delicately against my swollen eye.
"That's fine, it works all the same."
For a prison nurse, she was pretty nice. And I don't mean just in the elegance department, although she did 'raise my spirit,' if you catch my drift. From the number of men that must come in and out of her office seeking (or not) her aid each day, I was rather surprised to find her still in one piece.
The office I was currently seated in was small and was plentifully stocked with all sorts of mysterious gadgets and gizmos. Good thing Leo isn't the one sitting on this bed; I'm almost positive he's claustrophobic, not to mention horrified of women. This would turn out to be quite the predicament for him.
Shelves stacked with numerous books, jars, and other questionable items of a purpose I could only begin to imagine were hung from the walls. Well...that was until my eye stumbled upon a box of syringes. I tensed up, and my hairs rose, one by one, in discomfort. Pinching at my shirt collar, I made sure it was still effectively masking my possibly-infected cut.
"Are you alright, Mr. Bialystock?" the nurse asked, easily catching my lack of ease. Her green eyes scanned me over in curiosity as she pushed her long blonde hair from her face. My lips curled into a gentle smile.
"Of course," I said reassuringly, "It's just a little chilly in this room.
"Isn't it?" She replied, rubbing her arms to produce more body heat. "I keep telling the warden to turn up the heat in this place but he always ignores my request."
"I take it he circumvents all the other filed complaints, too, huh?"
"Unfortunately," she replied. "Though I haven't a clue how he survives the health and several other inspections that drop by every few months."
I gave a shrug, although I was almost positive how the warden was passing these tests to keep his prison up and running. It included a little help from our dear friend Mr. Lincoln who can be found printed upon an American five-dollar bill.
"Perhaps they're now hiring the blind at the adjacency." I suggested as the nurse scribbled down minor notes for herself on her clipboard.
"I'd believe it," she giggled. "Now, did that big, bad bully hurt you anywhere else?"
Saying it the way she had, I couldn't help but give a laugh. The nurse placed her hand over mine to hold up the bag of frozen peas soothing my pain. You know, could really get used to being mauled by those other prisoners just to see this woman.
"I wouldn't exactly say he got the best of me," I replied. "I mean, I gave him some pretty nasty bruises too." While boasting to her about my rather fictional version of my heroic battle, I snuck a peak at her 'head-lights', currently parked in front of my face.
Oooh hoo hoo! Max likes, Max likes!
"Is that so?"
"Mmm hmm." I nodded, eyes still resting on the lovely portrait before them. It was a lovely sight, indeed. I tilted my head slightly to the side for further inspection. I'd say she was about a C 34, although the low-cut top made them appear rather larger then they probably were. Oh how I missed sag-less ones! Restraining myself from literally throwing my face into her cleavage was proving almost impossible at this point
"When I saw Jacob earlier, he looked perfectly fine to me, aside from a few minor burns. Judging from the smell, I'd say it was today's breakfast."
My reply was the same as the last with a subconscious nod and 'Mmm-hmm'. My mind was set elsewhere, on far more important matters; such as if my specimens of study were made from 'natural ingredients' or not. I rubbed my chin throughout the current physiological debate going on in my head, and tried to appear most intrigued by the nurse's words...whatever they were. It wasn't until I heard my name that I awoke from my train of thought.
"Mr. Bialystock, my face is up here."
"What?" Lifting my gaze up slowly, I was unfortunate to find the nurse glaring at me; not only unimpressed, but disgusted by my behaviour, as well. I gave an innocent toothy smile before receiving a slap across the cheek. It took a moment for the pain to set in and to realize she had hit me.
''...Ow." I responded at a speed even a tortoise could out-run. Bringing my hand up to rub the sour spot, I asked, "What was that for?
The nurse rolled her eyes. "Oh please, don't play stupid with me. You men are all the same." She sighed and sat in the chair across from me. "I was hoping you'd be different, considering your age. Oh well..."
Considering my age? What was that supposed to mean! Still rubbing my cheek, I asked, "What about my age?"
"Never mind, let's just finish up," she replied looking back at her clipboard of medical notes. "I have other patients waiting." The playful mood we had underwent moments ago was now replaced by one of those 'get the hell outta here' ones. A lot like when you're stuck talking with someone you dislike. "Because you've only been in prison for one night, we unfortunately have not received your health records in the mail yet. They should be here within the next week, so for the time being, I'll be writing up a new record for you and will simply be attaching it to your old ones."
Rolling to her desk on her chair she quickly snatched a paper off it and rolled back in front of me. "Alright," the woman began as she clicked her pen "I'm just going to ask you a few questions and I expect you to respond to them honestly."
"No problem," I replied. "Honest is my middle name." The nurse raised a brow at my playful wink and smile before frowning.
"Mr.Bialystock, I am almost one hundred percent positive your middle name is not 'Honest' nor near any form of 'Honest'. Now can we please just get this over with?"
Giving a sigh in defeat I waved my hand at her carelessly. "Alright, alright. Fire away."
"May I have your full name and number?"
I blinked in surprise before grinning, "Why I didn't know you felt that way. I mean, just a moment ago it sounded like-"
Like she was asking me out.
"Your prison number in which you go by, Mr.Bialystock."
"Oh. Ehh...I'm not familiar with this number. Was I supposed to pick one up at the souvenir stand on my way in?"
Rubbing her temples, the nurse shook her head. "I'll get it later from the warden. I'm sure he has it handy, he's been worked up about you coming here for the past week ever since receiving notice of your trial."
"Worked up?" I asked, curious as to why the warden could possibly take so much interest of my well being in their prison. "How so? –Max Samuel Bialystock. B. I. A. L. Y. S. T. O. C. K."
Scribbling the name down on the health form, she looked up at me thoughtfully "Let's just say he's not exactly your biggest fan.
Giving a chuckle, I stopped rubbing my sour cheek and brought the bag of frozen peas back up to sooth the pain of my aching eye. "It wouldn't be the first time someone disliked my work. Critics these days..." I said, shaking my head in an imperceptible swaying motion.
"They can be a bit rough these days," she replied in a softer tone, "though I have not seen one of your plays since I was a child, so who knows. –Year of birth?"
"That would be...1943." I said through my teeth after a brief moment of thought.
The nurse did not look the slightest bit pleased with my answer causing her pen's movement to come to a halt. "I may not be the brightest crayon in the box Mr. Bialystock, but do you seriously expect to pass by me as twenty six?"
"I was merely testing you. It's June 28th, 1935."
Tapping her pen against her clipboard in annoyance, she crooked an eyebrow at me as if to ask 'Are you sure about that?'
"1930?" I asked hopefully.
She glanced at her wristwatch in a bored manner before looking at me with the same tired and annoyed expression. Hmpf. There's no way to get around this woman, is there? Just how does she know how old I am anyways? What makes her so confident that I was lying about my age?
"I've been doing this for quite some time Mr.Bialystock, and am rather familiar with those who try to hide their age." the health personnel said in a matter-of-fact tone. Well, that answered my question quite well. "Now, you can either tell me your real year-of-birth, or I will simply guess; and I can assure you that it won't be anywhere near twenty six."
Damn.
"June 28th, 1920."
"Oh."
Blinking, I looked at her rather puzzled while she tried to suppress what looked like a laugh. "I...didn't think you were that old."
I frowned in disapproval, giving a severely dry and annoyed, "Thank you."
"I didn't mean it that way. I meant you look rather young for your age."
My eyes lit up at the comment. "Oh!" a smile appeared upon her lips as well as my own that soon led to laughter. It wasn't forced, though. It was a natural laugh that deteriorated the tension that had been between us mere seconds ago. The nurse's laugh had a small snort to it, causing us to both laugh a little harder.
"I'm sorry," she apologized as she tried to calm herself down. "I laugh like a duck –Oh my goodness, Mr. Bialystock, you're leaking!"
Staring at her, I leaned in a smidge closer to insure that my ears had not been playing a trick on me "Beg your pardon?"
"Peas, you're leaking peas!"
"What!" I exclaimed in horror. Now I'm almost certain I couldn't have been laughing that hard. I still had perfect control over my bladder...didn't I?
My gaze slowly began to lower before the nurse shook her head and pointed at my face "The frozen peas! In the bag!"
Taking the package from my eye, I realized that it was indeed leaking. Somehow, a small hole had opened up at the corner of the bag. I inspected it closer by holding it up to the light, only to have practically the entire contents of the bag pour out onto me.
"Well then," I began, after a wave of silence from myself, bringing the bag down into my lap during a short recovery from the wave if peas that had attacked me "This will give the janitors something to do for awhile."
Once she had cured herself from the laughing spell cast upon her, the nurse replied in an amused—yet irritated—tone, "I wouldn't count on it. They only come once a month. I'll clean it up myself later."
"Don't be ridiculous, I'll help you." Looking at me completely dumbstruck, she was just as surprised with my offer as I was. "...Because that's what a proper gentlemen would do," I continued.
"And this is coming from a convict." the woman said as she glanced away for a brief moment and pushed her hair from her face. A grin had spread upon her lips, and my cheeks turned an ashen white when she cast her gaze back upon me. I don't think I've ever sat across from a girl younger than me for such a long period since High School. I folded my legs to hide my 'excitement' for the second time in the last twenty minutes.
Clearing my throat, I said with great antiquity "A Broadway Producer is always a gentlemen, Miss...?"
"Rowen." she replied while giving a click from her pen. "I take it Broadway Producers always stall on their health reports as well, hmm?" Placing the name into my memory bank with great care, I shook my head in denial of the nurse's discovery.
"Poppycock!" I rang out. "That's not my style."
I was waiting for her to ask what 'my style' was, but instead she caught me by surprise, bringing our—or rather my—conversation straight to the point.
"Mr. Bialystock," she asked, "are you trying to seduce me?"
I thought over my response for a moment before I asked, as coolly as I could manage, "Is it working?" I was honestly screaming on the inside from the fact I had, in fact, been figured out.
"Polly! What the hell are you two doing in there, having a party! It's been at least ten minutes!"
Unaware that someone had entered the room, I sprung at least two feet off the bed and onto my feet. The nurse was a fair share startled, herself, but showed no signs of alarm when she saw that there was no one but the two of us in the little office. I slowly seated myself back down onto the bed as the woman rolled off to her desk and her chair. The peas on the floor slowed her down a fair bit, so she simply got up and walked to the wooden structure, instead.
Trying not to focus on her ass, I watched Miss. Rowen as she leaned in close to a speaker box planted on her desk that I had not caught sight of earlier, and pushed down on a small button practically hidden behind a stack of papers.
"I'm writing a health record for him, since I haven't received his official ones yet." She spoke calmly, her finger lifting off the button once she was finished speaking.
"Yeah, well how long does it take to fill out a bloody form?" snapped the unfamiliar heated voice.
Sorting through a fair amount of the content of her desk she replied without the slightest hint of distress "At least thirty minutes." I grinned.
"I don't have that kind of time on my hands. You can finish with him later."
"Yes sir." She lifted her finger off the intercom button, then turned to face me again.
"We'll arrange a better time for us to finish your record if we don't receive it within' the next week." she said, now spotting my grin and giving an uncertain smile. "What?"
"Nothing," I replied, masking with the best of my ability my amusement from the short conversation shared between the nurse, the warden, and the way her breasts just...giggled. –What? I can think about breasts all I want, thank you very much. It's my right as a man and a privilege I use as frequently as possible. Especially when I've been stuck having to eye your granny's for most of my life. Case closed.
"What colour of lollipop would you like, Mr. Bialystock?" Ms. Rowen asked, a rather large tub filled with a variety of colours suddenly nestled in her arms. My expression became sour and I felt as if she had underestimated me from Great Broadway Producer to whiny child.
"I'm a grown man!" I snapped, stressing the 'man' at the end as greatly as possible. But oddly enough, it did not appear to affect the nurse. Instead, she simply moved the tub of candy a little closer. I eyed it hungrily, drawn by its content, regardless how hard I tried to retrain myself from its spell. Suddenly I felt as if I were five years old again. In defeat I sheepishly requested, "...Green please."
Bearing a proud smile for her accomplishment, she pulled the elected colour from the container and delicately placed it in my hand. Immediately after it came within contact I frantically ripped off its wrapper and jammed it into my mouth. My teeth crunched into a corner of the candy and broke off a small portion, which I began to suck on. I never, ever was capable of just sucking on my suckers; I would always crunch it into pieces, eager to taste the flavour of my choice.
Green was usually my favoured, soon followed by red, purple, orange and lastly yellow. I was never a fan of yellow lollipops. Nor was I a big orange fan. The two flavours sometimes tasted slightly the same depending on the brand so whenever I received one of the two colours I'd usually give them away...when I'm out of this place I'm buying myself a bag of lollipops.
"Miss Rowen, Bialystock's attendants are here." came a bored voice from behind the office door. I hadn't expected that my escorts would be arriving so soon. Not that I had intended on bursting out of the room to make a break for it before my escorts came or anything, just the fact that I didn't feel so impersonated when with the health attendant. I'd have been caught, or possibly shot by the guard posted outside the door that I had spotted when being dragged into the office earlier. He was probably there to ensure the nurse's safety.
"Alright Earl, he'll be out in a second." Polly replied, gesturing for me to get up.
I carefully manoeuvred around the spilled peas (a majority of them already thawed) across the floor and asked, "When is my next appointment?"
"Well," she began picking up the clipboard from her desk and flipping through it, "your physical should be in two weeks but we can cover that later this week if you come in to complete your temporary health form."
Checking my shoes to insure I hadn't stepped on any peas, I looked up at the woman in terror. "Physical!"
How long it had been since I had taken my last physical? I hadn't a clue. All I did know was that I did not want this young, beautiful, and rather successful woman to see my fat and aging body, because in the end, even I had to agree that I had risen a little above the ideal weight for my high.
And here I thought dropping my soap in the shower would be the worst that could happen.
---
"Why if it isn't the famous Bialystock," spoke the voice which I had heard from the intercom. "I've heard so much about you, how unpleasant to finally meet you." His lips slowly curled into a grin while he took a long drag of the cigarette nestled between his fingers. "Sit down."
As told, I rested myself down in the poorly manufactured wooden chair placed in front of the warden's desk. The chair was uneven with the floor and wobbled, and I had to fiddle with it for a brief moment before looking at the man across from me. Just as I did, he plopped himself down in his own chair (much more formal then mine, for obvious reasons). His desk was vast, with a wide variety of utensils upon it. It reminded me of my own desk back in my office. Unlike mine though, his had a name tag...bar...whatever you call them, placed at the front for viewing pleasure. It read in bold lettering 'Warren Bergström'. Bergström being his last name...I think.
"You think you're smart, don't you?"
My brow rose and I looked up from the plaque upon his desk. I wasn't exactly sure how to answer him and out of complete stupidity replied in question: "Yes?
"Well you're not!" he snapped, cutting me off sharply. "You may be famous out there, but in here you're just as worthless as these other men."
"I never thought of myself any higher." I replied calmly. It wasn't my intention to sound like a smart ass...at first. But after I had spoken I realized I had an advantage over the man. A small but notable one. I clamped my fingers together and rested them in my lap while giving Bergström a smug grin to match my response.
The warden growled. "And you shouldn't! Now that you're under my roof you live by my rules!"
"Good, I'm glad we could agree upon these terms. I can see we're making progress already. Excellent!" My feet propped themselves up upon the wardens desk as I leaned casually back in my chair.
Please don't ask what it was that made me so confident that the man sitting across from me wouldn't throw me in the much-dreaded 'pit' that Phillip had mentioned earlier, because, to be honest, I was frightened he would. I was stepping into his minefield, oblivious as to where I'd be stepping and to all consequences.
Bergström looked dumbstruck by my actions. Or perhaps it was disbelief. Both? I don't know, but he definitely was not satisfied with my response. The cigarette in his hand shook like the burning rage inside of him, which caused me to grow tense. Quickly he brought more nicotine into his system to calm his nerves.
I surveyed the man in silence and conducted a miniature study upon him. What was it that made him so uncomfortable about my whereabouts in his prison? Sure, it was an advantage for me to have him shaken, but it was also a disadvantage. There was no telling what he'd do to me.
Funny; now that I think about it, we hadn't spoken a word about the fight, nor about Harlson, the iron giant whom I had had the pleasure of fighting in the prison cafeteria. He was with us though. I had spotted him sitting in the corner of the room behind me like a child when being sent to sit in the corner of the classroom wearing the Dunce hat.
-Harlson wasn't wearing a Dunce hat by the way. Just so you know.
Remaining in my comfortable position I resisted the urge to rub my chin in thought.
"Don't get cocky with me, you bastard," Bergström growled. My brows rose at the unnecessary language being used. That was rather unexpected...well, not really. But it still had an impact on me. "I have legal ownership of you and can do whatever I damn well please with the likes of you," he continued, shaking a handful of papers into my face and blocking my field of vision for a moment before reeling them away when my hand went to grab one. I didn't receive a chance to read what had been printed on the parchment—surely by the warden's intention—and could only guess that they were my legal ownership papers. It sounds legal for him to own me, especially after my new appearance as a criminal.
"I hated Funny Boy." the man spat.
I said nothing.
"I hated all your productions. Horrible garbage that only a rat like you could produce!" He Leaned over his desk and continued to glare over at me, sucking my life's accomplishments away with ease. "And then you made that new one, that play honouring Hitler. You're disgusting. Disgusting!" His fist slammed against the desk and caused a majority of the papers upon it to give a small hop. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me!"
The warden threw today's newspaper at me fiercely, which hit me squarely in the face. I hesitantly peeled it off, guessing the press had printed another grotesque article about me, and gave it a shake to straighten it out, while focusing on the headlines. Nothing appeared all too appealing until I spotted my name near the bottom of the front page in bold, black ink.
"Bialystock's Best Move Yet: Prison!
Yesterday Judge Johnson gave out his best sentence proclaimed in 30 years of work after enduring the case that jury members are calling 'the biggest flop in history'. Famous Broadway producer Max Bialystock, along with comrade Leopold Bloom were both sentenced five years in the states penitentiary (Sing-Sing) setting play-goers at ease to return to Broadway without another horrid musical crammed down their throats.
In other news on Broadway, the new Neo-Nazi musical 'Spring Time For Hitler' is a strapping success! Exclusive Interview with director and stage performer, Roger Debris, on page seven."
Beside the article featuring info about my case, I noticed they had placed my prison mug shot taken from the time I was in lock up and waiting for my trial. Taking a closer glance, I found a subtitle below: 'Bialystock: Livin' Large.'
Oh sure; they give Roger all the credit and glory for my award-winning production. I hate the media...the mug shot, though; it didn't look all that bad. In fact, it was probably one of the better pictures of me. I tilted my head to the side to view it at a different angle. Yep, definitely one of my better ones.
But now what was I to say to Bergström? Without thinking things out all that clearly, I responded in possibly the worst form available. "Ah yes," I began, a broad grin upon my face as I folded the paper back up. "Spring Time for Hitler did have a good run, didn't it? I mean the reviews; they were fantastic! Last I heard it was up for the Pulitzer Prize..."
Biting down on his cigarette in anger, the warden broke his cancer-stick in two. One part fell to the floor while the other fell into his mouth. I tried to maintain a straight face while he did the same.
I looked down at the paper to comment once again, "I love the picture by the way. It really captures my wild side. Do you think I could get a copy of—"
Bergström snarled and spat out the piece of cigarette that had been looming inside his mouth. This time both hands slammed down on the desk as he pointed an accusing finger at me. "You fat twit! Don't you get it! The press is watching me like a hawk, now that you're here!"
My lips became dry as I brought my feet down from his desk and loosely crossed my legs and threw one arm around the back of the chair. I had a feeling this prison was corrupt the moment I stepped into it, and now I have more reason to believe that my hunch was correct by the man's behaviour towards the current situation.
"Big B," I said, "I'm willing to make an offer."
"Warden Bergström," he corrected icily.
"...Yeah, I have a proposal."
"Not interested."
"If you are capable of fulfilling my expectations, I shall fulfill yours. A little contract agreement between men."
Bergström looked as if he'd consider the deal, then rose from his seat and began pacing around his desk in what appeared to be the deepest of thoughts. Whatever was going on in this prison had to be something big. Maybe he was debating whether or not he'd tell me what was going on. If he didn't I'd figure it out myself; how hard could it possibly be?
"I see this requires some serious thought from you," I said in amusement. "I'll give you sixty seconds. ...Go!"
"What!" he snapped, unaware that I was truly timing him by the clock over his desk.
Okay, so I've used the same trick twice in two weeks, already. But if you knew how many times I've actually used this method during the period of my Producer-Hood and seen it work, you'd be using it all the time, too. People work much more accordingly under stress. It's the easiest way to get your way.
"Forty-Six seconds..."
The grin spreading upon my face was difficult to mask as I continued to watch Bergström struggle through a fog of complete panic. There was no denying that I was enjoying this. Yet at the same time I was just waiting for him to whip out a firearm and blow my brains out. I began to chew on my lip at the thought.
"Ten seconds left..."
"That wasn't even close to sixty seconds!"
"Well I'm sorry," I said mockingly. "I don't have the proper instruments on hand to keep track of time accurately, so you're going to have to make due with—Time's up! Have we reached a decision Mr. Bergst...ehh...," Squinting, I quickly scanned his desk again for the small plaque with his name, finding that I was unaware what sound the dots on top of the 'o' would make it sound like. "...Warden?"
Expressionless, he seated himself in his chair and opened his desk to pull out a piece of paper. "What do you want?"
Triumphantly, I cried out "Alright!" And without realizing it, I had began to clap in a fashionable—but easily seen as childish—manner. As quickly as I had begun, stopped and cleared my throat to rid myself of the simple-minded roll I had just given myself in the warden's books.
"I want a new cell-mate."
"You'll have to wait a week till we find a suitable applicant." Bergström replied.
"I'm rather certain Bloom is an acceptable replacement. He's available and qualified. Just the man for the job."
"No."
"Great!" At first, I did not catch what the man had said. The reply had been simply brushed aside and took a moment for it to sink in. When it had, I found myself doing a double take on the situation and piecing the short 'montage' together to formulate an ...understanding of the situation. "Wait, what?"
"No." he repeated firmly.
A frown formed upon my face in disapproval to his words "What do you mean 'no'? You're not supposed to say 'no'!"
If anything, I had expected him to give a smug grin with his explanation. But he didn't. Instead, his expression remained rock-hard, almost staring right through me. If his narrowed eyes had not been resting their gaze on mine I would have agreed that he had been disregarding my existence at this point.
"No, Bloom will remain where he is, separate from you, till further notice."
"And why's that?" I asked through a haze of irritation, demanding an answer aside from 'no' from the man. This word, 'no', it was not a part of my vocabulary. Well, not when it was holding me back from something particular that I had my eye set on, anyway. My voice changed to concern as I reviewed the situation to find a new concept at hand. "He hasn't broken any rules has he?"
"No, he has not." the warden confirmed with ease.
Well, there was a relief. I could never see Leo as the sort to cause much trouble, anyway. He was far too apprehensive and timid. Completely innocent of crime, and only a sucker to it.
Except for when it came to that whole Rio thing...that bastard.
I clenched my fists and inhaled sharply, then did my best to forestall the wave of anger taking me over. This was not the time to be focusing on 'that'; there were larger matters at hand. This was only becoming an un-needed distraction.
Think Max, think! What else could Bloom have done wrong to plunge into the atrocious portion of Bergström's books?
"Has he done anything offensive?"
"No."
"Refused to follow any instruction?"
"No."
I took a quick glimpse over the warden and asked "Did he make fun of your hair?"
"What about my hair?" he demanded, his brow ever so slightly rising in either curiosity or a result of his bottled up anger on the verge of escaping.
"Nothing, it looks lovely." I quickly replied. Hopefully, the man wouldn't think much of it. It would be entertaining to see how long he could go through the rest of the day with that cowlick.
Pressing on, I continued with my questioning. "Has he been—"
"—Leo is not the problem." Bergström suddenly cut me off. His frustration became obvious at this point. "And I'm rather positive he won't be. I only have one concern at the moment."
"And what is that, Warden?"
"You being miserable and rotting away in my prison."
"Oh."
Well there's a task you don't find on your agenda too often. But so is 'make love to every little old lady in New York'. Ha, ha...ha...ahhh, that wasn't funny, Max. Now is no time for cheap, weak, and completely unnecessary authorized humour.
A heavy silence hung over us before I spoke again. I had to make certain to have a plan on hand before I took any action. This chance may not appear again, I had to take advantage of it now, before it was gone. I hate having to think on my feet.
"Okay then. I want a plumber to come and fix the toilet in my cell."
"Fine."
He scribbled onto the piece of parchment in front of him furiously. The pen looked as if it were about to break from the amount of pressure it had to withstand.
"And I want all the privileges that a block-C prisoner has."
The warden's lip twitched. "We can't leave your cell door open and allow in-and-out access so easily. Not with your cell mate's condition."
"Then I want to be moved up to C block without a cell mate."
"I can't allow that either. There are no available cells left."
My eyes narrowed "You don't know that, you haven't checked."
His lips curled in satisfaction "You're right, I don't know."
"Well then go check. Right now; I can wait. Or get the guard over there to check." I waved the guard standing by the long forgotten Harlson in the corner of the room. "Hey you! Go check if there are any available cells on C block! Go on, what are you waiting for?"
The guard looked confused at first, but began to leave the room to fulfill the task I had given to him. Bergström rose from his seat and barked at the man to not only stay put but also never again take orders from prisoners like me. I couldn't help but grin as he scolded the guard.
"...and you!" my attention snapped to the warden, who sent me a deadly glare. "You'll be spending a week in the pit if you ever utter so much as one order to one of my men again!"
I forced a smile that turned out to look out right ridiculous, due to the sudden awareness of the mine field I had just entered. "My lips are sealed."
"You better damn hope so, because you'll be the one paying, not me." He slowly sank back into is seat and pushed his writing utensil toward me. "Now sign beside the 'x' and get out of here."
He didn't have to tell me twice. I took the pen and took the paper in front of Bergström to skim through it and as he had ordered and with great pride for my accomplishment, signed it. But I was rather curious when reading, taking in every last detail up to the colour of pen that the agreement had been written in; blue.
'Prisoner 145195, Max Bialystock remains under oath of keeping low from public and sitting out of activities that may cause further exposure to the press to L. Bergström, Warden of Sing-Sing Penitentiary. In return he is promised one plumber to perform maintenance to his cell's pipes, and a limited quantity of C-block privileges.
L. Bergström'
What do you know? He had put in the C privileges. Limited, but still there. I scanned a piece of the parchment a second time to familiarize myself with my prisoner number, 145195 (kind of a bit of a ring to it, don't you think?), and finally signed the contract where I had been told. But as doing so I also added an entitlement of being moved to the same block as Leopold Bloom.
Before handing it back to the warden, I folded it neatly into three so he would not catch what I had added till I had left the room. It was safer that way...really.
"Get him out of my sights."
At least two guards came to my sides and literally lifted me out of my seat and dragged me out of the office. I could see Harlson being escorted out, as well, by three guards, one holding a gun out at the convict, shaking due to his nerves but at ready in case the giant tried anything drastic. You know, for their safety.
As I passed, he glanced at me with great appeal. And yet not a word escaped him. I hadn't a chance to say anything to him, and even if I did I wouldn't. So as I was carelessly dragged away, I could only look back at him bug eyed in a state of fear. After all, he was the size of the Hulk and would have killed me in the cafeteria if I hadn't been rescued by the guards. If you could even call that a rescue.
Through wide, shining eyes, I suddenly found myself replaying what felt like the most fictional events that had just been put into play. There was definitely something else going on here. Something to do with the press and attention focused on Bergström's prison. But what? I hadn't the slightest clue but I intended to find out, if it's the last thing I do. And to be honest—and to consider all the consequences—it just might be.