Those Knocked Out Jailbirds (Working Title) Prologue/?
and I’m hoping I can do it justice. This is a relatively short chapter, but future ones should be longer. Also, I’m relatively new to posting to a community and such, so I apologize if this doesn’t quite work out. And one last thing: the title comes from Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock".
Pete gazed out through the barred wall in front of him. The cold grey walls that greeted his eyes were no surprise, he was quite used to the monotony. The only color in his dismal life was the bright orange everyone around him wore. Sighing, he leaned his head back against the concrete wall behind him. His eyes wandered beyond his bars and down the hallway to where a door had just crashed open. Two guards were dragging in a short, redheaded man. Intrigued, Pete leaned forward. It wasn’t often that they were graced with the presence of a new convict. The man was struggling against the guards as if he hadn’t quite accepted his fate yet. The cell he would soon be calling home? Well, it’s the last home he’ll ever have.
Pete watched closely as the guards guided the man into the cell across from his. With a metallic clank, the bars were closed and the man was locked in. He had started to pace around his cell and wring his hands through his hair as if trying to think his way out of the situation. This was a habit Pete had seen many times before - no one really wanted to believe that they were their to die.
Pushing himself off his bunk, Pete stood and started to shake the man sleeping in the bunk above him.
“Andy, man, wake up.”
“Mrph.”
“Seriously. There’s a new one.”
Yawning quietly, Andy rolled over and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked across the hall to the new convict, who was now sitting on the ground with his back against the bars. Catching sight of the grin spreading across Pete’s face, Andy sighed.
“Only you would be thrilled about another one coming here. Only you.” With that, Andy rolled back over and closed his eyes again. Scoffing, Pete made his way to the bars that held him captive.
“Hey, kid. What’s your name?” Pete asked, his fingers wrapping around the bars.
The new convict flinched as Pete spoke, a small yelp escaping from his lips. He turned around cautiously, his fingers carding through his hair. “P-patrick. Yours?” was his shaky reply.
“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third, and I, m’dear, am the most fun you will ever have on Death Row.”
Pete gazed out through the barred wall in front of him. The cold grey walls that greeted his eyes were no surprise, he was quite used to the monotony. The only color in his dismal life was the bright orange everyone around him wore. Sighing, he leaned his head back against the concrete wall behind him. His eyes wandered beyond his bars and down the hallway to where a door had just crashed open. Two guards were dragging in a short, redheaded man. Intrigued, Pete leaned forward. It wasn’t often that they were graced with the presence of a new convict. The man was struggling against the guards as if he hadn’t quite accepted his fate yet. The cell he would soon be calling home? Well, it’s the last home he’ll ever have.
Pete watched closely as the guards guided the man into the cell across from his. With a metallic clank, the bars were closed and the man was locked in. He had started to pace around his cell and wring his hands through his hair as if trying to think his way out of the situation. This was a habit Pete had seen many times before - no one really wanted to believe that they were their to die.
Pushing himself off his bunk, Pete stood and started to shake the man sleeping in the bunk above him.
“Andy, man, wake up.”
“Mrph.”
“Seriously. There’s a new one.”
Yawning quietly, Andy rolled over and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked across the hall to the new convict, who was now sitting on the ground with his back against the bars. Catching sight of the grin spreading across Pete’s face, Andy sighed.
“Only you would be thrilled about another one coming here. Only you.” With that, Andy rolled back over and closed his eyes again. Scoffing, Pete made his way to the bars that held him captive.
“Hey, kid. What’s your name?” Pete asked, his fingers wrapping around the bars.
The new convict flinched as Pete spoke, a small yelp escaping from his lips. He turned around cautiously, his fingers carding through his hair. “P-patrick. Yours?” was his shaky reply.
“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third, and I, m’dear, am the most fun you will ever have on Death Row.”