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Head of The Table Doctor you high
“Suicide…me suicide…you high doc cut down the weed it’s messing your work now.” Ben chuckled slightly as he took another sip of Alfred’s afternoon latte, mhhhh! He sighed gladly as he inhaled the steaming wave like vapor circling around the white office coffee mug labeled Big D. Me, kill myself, his as high as f**k! Ben chuckled again only this time inwardly, but based on the circumstances and turn of events it’s either his high or I actually did try to kill myself. After he recollected himself and still dazed by the sudden new environment, the drawers clamped together in wheels, needle wrappers scattered all around the bin at the edge of the door, capsules in jars gathered and placed on nailed wooden benches on the office walls, so if he makes it all up, his in the prison ward. How did he get there? Well Alfred explained it to him, everything, the ferocity, the chaos, the ear disturbing shrieks, the constant cursing, all of it…but somehow he still was in disbelief and instead of tal
Head of The Table In the oven
Gabapentin…Albuterol…aaaah! Here it is epidural steroid injection, old man Giddy was back, inmate number 402 he was referred in the system, just like all fellow men in orange he too was a felony regarded by the government as an A class offender. And just like any other man he had to satisfy his monstrous erotic behavior, but this wasn’t the States penitentiary where inmates could call in their partners and help themselves out…hell no!...here only two ways to help yourself out, one, if option A fails sure you can use the alternative hole, and by that is every being has that butthole for excretion purposes but here that wasn’t the only purpose. Sensitive nerves around the hole ensure that if it was used for other purposes apart from the assigned excretion it guarantees the same satisfaction a vagina would give. So that’s the first option though not every inmate was a fan for it, see in prison more so this one… having a d**k shoved inside your butthole deprives your manliness, basically
Head of The Table Cobra
Diphenhydramine…aka the death pill…down the streets many local crooks went rampage robbing man and child, beggars weren’t safe and if any one brought a scuffle…pooof! They disappeared…so cops too feared crooks. But an old dictator…was it Hitler…law can be bent not broken, so the crooks were bending a malleable concrete enforced unbreakable brute force of strength and intelligence. After a month of chaotic gangster and crime regime cops were no longer the nice guys…sometimes if you can’t jail a crook how bout killing them…no that’s illegal how bout making them disappear, that’s not against the law is it? So one by one, crooks were cuffed and brought in stations crowded in cells fattening them like a cow in spring. Coffee, they loved it, two hours after a crook was arrested they would be escorted in king style, waist carried ruthlessly and violently barely on the ground with your tip toes and rushed being swung like a bowling ball smashing desks and walls till barged in the inspector off
Head of The Table Just a talk
Constitution act 44B…circumstances an inmate can be released under heavily armored and guarded security, “When visiting a family relative” page 456 out of 1k plus pages, on the right leaf at the far right in bold. Many think that since this act is in the law book, means it’s effective like inmates, so when an uncle dies…or an aunt…or at times an uncle to a friend of your father’s brother…complicated ties to basic blood bonds, inmates cook up new family bonds every day sending countless paper scribbled notes filling the state prison owner Mr. Mark office with a pile some of baby child hand writings, some readable some not. That’s the thing with the law…if every day this act was passed across this mountain of demands every day then the prison may run out of inmates since every day they would be taking planned trips to long lost relatives who in most cases they don’t f*****g, so there’s a catch a hook that makes all these inmates hard work of scribbling they’re two year old English adding
Head of The Table Bull fighting
Yanagi Sang, founder of the Yanagi crime society or how he likes to call it the white pigeons quite a funny name many think, but that’s because they don’t know just how this name came up. Well no different from Cobra, Yanagi too started from the ground the only difference was unlike Cobra who never knew wealth till he turned five, Yanagi was the lineage of a befallen prince. His father, Klaus Sang, a foreigner encrypted his foreign ways with those of the Korean was deemed unworthy after helping the Sang family build a billionaire dollar earning business monthly thanks to Klaus’s idea on the best way to go around selling drugs in the inhabited places of Middle North Korea. Pigeons…weighing less than an average sized LED remote, with an average population 80% of the country’s pigeon in this area alone meaning on every tree parch, treetop…one was bound to see a puffy, feathery, two side eyed creature hooting over and over. Now that it’s proven pigeons are twice the population of the inh
Head of The Table Year of The Sparrow
13th October 2004, the day his jail time turned on him, what he mirrored as a paradise far from the world’s troubles…no rent burdens, no food bills, no power outs, what else could he want…but that was the thing he had everything and what the devil won’t give he takes, and he doesn’t ask. The annual Year of the Sparrow, a once in every decade celebration where the red necked spawns gather from the deep forested coast of West Netherlands descending the unbelievable 100km mile migration over the sea and the scorching deserts to eventually make their conspicuous landing in the mid-October for the end result of the past ten-year erosion period. After the rivers end up reducing as the daunting dry times near specks of magnesium mixed with slight ammonia sparkling crystals are left behind and clamping year-after-year they eventually form lumps of irresistible salt nutrients. A risk worth 100km journey, but if one was a sparrow, they would do the same it’s like an invitation to the Queen and
Head of The Table Bad news
Sky blue gnome around a hand size tall, red hard covered historical 1000 paged book titled, “The Last of Man” some inches from the gnome. A little further, well wooden picture framed memory one wore a red shady flowered linen dress, on her lap her offspring in a ninety’s outgrown thin grey pajamas showcasing her God gifted gums a year old her teeth yet to sprout. Clamping her shoulders on both sides hands held gently like handling a bubble, growing upwards the manlike features emerge biceps, triceps, the thick neck muscles, all grow to the man like big sized jaw its beard shaved to a small smart gage, to the huge pearl eyes between the extended nose up to the bald head its veins visible from the earlobes to the fore head, zoom out this picture… meet Mrs. Mariam Gunner- the one in red-, first born child Gideon Gunner-the young toddler-, and lastly the army muscled husband and father Mr. Joe Gunner…the picture encased the whole Gunner family. These three objects populated the wide 12-i
Head of The Table Burst the bubble
Tamarind blue skies, the milk white teeth glued to the reddish gums, his mischievous chuckle was addictive and contagious, the mere thought made him chuckle, the tiny fingers with a despicable tight grasp, the mere fragments of the facial features, his jawlines, those bat-like ears, the moist curly hair, his dark brown skin complexion, only when he closed his eyes could he paint what he thought was the memory. In the dark vacuum of his will, he placed the ears, glued all eyes, mouth and nose, here he unleashed his artistic potential and painted all to one picture, one who he named his heir, one he thought to be his son. But now, this very son he pictured, the 1-year-old child he saw, carrying his genes, his blood in his, all of that was going to dust. Like an eraser erasing lines drawn by pencils whether thick or thin, it somehow removes the evidence that it actually existed and no matter how hard what’s erased can’t be undone similar to the impending doom awaiting his son. Cobra’s f