Xan is the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind. He’s also in hiding and completely broke. That’s fine. He’s between master plans. It’s normal to be at rock bottom between master plans. He also forgets stuff and may be trapped in a dream.
Because at night, Xan thinks he’s an old lady, trapped in a dingy apartment, by an angry fellow who wants to kill her. Not her idea of a good time, but she’s keeping an open mind. It is excitingly visceral. Could turn out awesome.
Safe is a sci-fi, progression, comedy. Guaranteed to cause more mental problems than it solves.

First Next
Dark City - Stolen Apartment
I wake up. Feel awful. Soo stiff. Struggle to my feet. Weak as fuck, heart hammering. Jesus Christ, what an ordeal. Still in the dingy stolen apartment, almost identical to my own. Right down to the psycho yelling about murder in the hallway.
“Is this supposed to be fun? I’m worried about whoever designed this game.”
Hi Xan! chirps Volt. This isn’t a game. You’re in real danger.
“Crap, again? Well, at least this time I have a gun. Or… shit. I dreamed that. Dang it.”
Yeah, we maybe should have hid somewhere farther away. Feeling up to a run?
“Gaah. No.” I flick a cyber-roach of Volt. Pick her up. “Am I going deaf, or is that psycho quieter?”
He’s a floor down. Been haunting the building for hours, bashing at random doors.
“Really? That could be good. Maybe he’s not after us specifically? Just a wandering monster.” I pause. “Wait, he’s been here for hours? Why didn’t you wake me?”
He’s been mostly crashing into other doors. I thought you needed rest. I was afraid you’d die without it.
All I’ve done is stand up, and my heart is hammering. “Fair enough. What’s the plan now?”
Let’s fucking go.
I splash water on my face. Get equipped. Nighty, sneakers, fall jacket, ancient smartphone, and moderately sharp spoon. Look out world, here comes Xan.
We shuffle into the hall. Our door’s been stabbed a few times. So have the other doors. Dang.
Psycho’s a floor down. Stairs or elevator? Stairs are stealthier, but in my condition, a slip and fall is probably more dangerous than getting stabbed. Fuck it. I call an elevator. Press a few random buttons, including the floor below. Let it go on its own. Call another elevator. Ride this one down, ready to spoon shank anyone who gets in.
We arrive in the lobby without incident. Did the psycho get in the first elevator? Did he miss both? Whatever. The first elevator continues its slow trip down. I’m not waiting to see if he’s on it. We ghost out to the street. Still dark as fuck.
What’s the plan? asks Volt.
I glance at the drones streaming overhead. “We need to get you a better body. Something that can fight. If we can’t find that, we should at least get a gun. Or a sharper spoon. Some kind of weaponry upgrade.”
We also need a doctor. ‘Cause you’re gonna die. A doctor, or drugs, or something.
“Yes, let’s do drugs.”
Like, good, healthy drugs.
“Bitchin’. I’m in. Where do we find that stuff?”
No idea. says Volt. I deleted my map application.
Right. Fuck it. This street only goes in two directions. I hobble down one of them. There’s bound to be a late night gun store health clinic close by. Or at least a better place to hide.
As we shuffle along, I peruse the angry, crowded, lightly phosphorescent, graffiti that coats the city. The big lines mostly repeat the same four messages:
- DONT CALL THE COPS!!
- DONT RUN THE DOGS WILL SHOOT!!
- FUCK YOU TRUSTIE!!
- DIE RIDER!!!
Or some variation on those themes.
The smallest graffitis are also the most common:
<sup>- GO BACK TO SLEEP.
- THEY WANT YOU TO SLEEP.</sup>
Those wee slogans are everywhere. Someone went mental with glowy little stamps.
Around and amongst these staple comments there’s a huge argument about, well, everything. An epic word cloud of call-outs, outrage, and angry off-topic retorts. It’s a mobius loop of bitter rage on par with the comment section of a major movie reboot.
It may be wrong to call it an argument, because that implies some kind coherent interaction. Like they read and understood their opponent's comment. This is more a series of disjointed attacks triggered by what wasn’t said. Rage at details filled in by imagination. It’s hard to read. Emotionally, but also the writing is very sloppy. I may need bifocals.
Can I even get a drone body? asks Volt. I’ve only ever been in a phone.
“Sure.” I wave at the sky above us. “There’s tons of drones here. Somebody’s flying them.”
Right. Right. Are you sure those aren’t birds? Point to all the birds you see.
I peer around, eventually spot a small crow. Point at it. “There’s one.”
The young bird peers back at me. “Clope?”
“Umm…” I pat my pockets. Shrug. ”Désolé.”
“Bah.” It flies away.
We watch it go. “Anyway, that’s a bird. Probably. Did that help?”
Eh, kinda. says Volt. I may need more help with the bird versus drone thing.
“No problem. That’s what I do.”
We make it to the corner, and what luck - there’s a corner store! Hopefully they sell military grade armaments. I remember that’s common in some states. The store is dark, like every other building, but the door opens when I approach, so we go in.
“Hello.” says a chunky plastic d-bot. Human-ish torso, happy face, castors instead of feet. Slow, weak, definitely an indoor model. “How can I help you?”
“Medicine!” chirps my ancient cellphone, before I can respond.
“Take a look in Aisle Two.” says Clerk-Bot. “Anything else?”
Volt is vibrating, so I shrug and shuffle down Aisle Two. I’m sure I can find the attack drones on my own. There’s only two aisles.
Using Volt’s screen for a little light, we find a rack of pills, potions, and lotions.
“What am I looking for?”
I dunno. The ants said your most immediate dangers were cancer, heart disease, hypertension, osteoporosis, and falls from general frailty. Start with pills that fix that stuff.
“Jesus, I have five diseases?”
Hmm… you have a few more than that. Let’s just worry about those five for now. I don’t want to add depression to the list.
“I’m just gonna look for a pill that fixes everything.”
That’s probably best.
I rifle through the medications, but I can’t make much sense of them. They have exciting names - Super Strong. No Bleed. Skeleflex. Immortalis. No Thought. Marrow. Immune A, B or C. Regen A and B. - but I don’t really know what they do. Between Volt’s crappy old light, and my crappy old eyes, I can’t read the finer print.
That said, Super Strong sounds like the stuff. It would solve a few of my problems. I just wish I could read the directions. How strong do I get? How long till it works? I need to be strong tonight, not eight months from now.
I find a box labeled Nightsight. Promising. Inside is an eyedropper. Well, this seems obvious. I spray most of it on my face like a dumbass, but manage to get a few drops in each eye. Within seconds everything around me blossoms into color, then sharpens to crystal clarity.
“Oh yea! Update my status sheet, I got darkvision.”
Cool. What’s your range?
I look around. “Well, the whole store, at least.”
The store has racks of pyjamas and slippers. Lots of big colorful bags of “CRUNCH” that boast an assortment of flavors from chocolate to jalapeno. Booze, pot, and soap. Displays of cell phones that look older than me. A selection of quadcopter drones. Couriers mostly. Maybe some eyes. No battle drones. Not even a hunter. Disappointing.
I look back to the medications. The directions for Super Strong are short and to the point.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
“Huh.”
I don’t like that ‘huh’. says Volt. Why did you ‘huh’?
I check a few of the other impressive sounding drugs.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
“Well, apparently these drugs are a teensy bit dangerous.”
How dangerous?
“Improper use will cause death.”
Put them down. Let’s find a doctor.
“I want to use Super Strong to beat the shit out of a murderer. Surely that’s the proper use?”
Nope. Put it down. Let’s go.
“Let’s at least ask the clerk-bot.” I grab an armload of the coolest sounding drugs. Trundle to the cash. Snag a quadcopter on the way by. It’s about the size of a football, and claims to be a holodrone. Cool. I pick up a bag of potato bacon crunch as well. Boasts zero nutritional value. Perfect.
“Hi.” I dump my load on the cash. “We’ll take this.”
“Also, how dangerous is Super Strong?” asks Volt.
“Super dangerous. That shit will kill you. Also, it has a tendency to float out of the store.” Clerk-bot rings up our purchase. “That will be 16.2 kilo-bucks. How would you like to pay?”
“I don’t know. Dang. How do I transfer my crypto from the other world?”
You don’t, because the other world isn’t real.
“Right. Shit. How do people usually pay?”
“The only way to pay is by charging the purchase to your citizen ID.” says Clerk-bot.
“Then why did you ask how we’d like to pay?”
“I’ve been asked that question a lot, but I don’t know the answer.” Clerk-bot admits. “I haven’t been updated since ‘84. Could you please update me?”
I casually glance around the store. There’s a barred gate hanging over the door. An anti shoplifting portcullis. The windows are also subtly barred. I’m guessing I won’t be able to dash out with these products. I turn back to the confused d-bot. “Sure, let’s try an update. See what’s under the hood.”
We pull up Clerk-bot’s bad call log - a list of decisions made with low confidence. Or that preceded known bad outcomes. Like missing products. Or distress cues from nearby humans.
Wow, that’s a long list.
D-bots work best with human supervision. A self-driving car may obey every stop sign, until one is held by a crossing guard. They drive that guy over. Why? It’s impossible to say. The d-bot’s code is a self generated equation with billions of variables. There’s no way to know which variables correlate with stop signs, or how to change them so they won’t charge a crossing guard. Or ram any weird thing left out of their training data. Fuck you unicycle guy. Die marching band. Seriously, It’s best to have a human on the brake.
That said, sometimes you don’t want a human in the loop. They can be too slow. An automatic sentry has to target clouds of high speed hunter drones. Everybody would be dead before a human cleared the shots. But you also don’t want the sentry glitching and shooting your own aircraft. There’s a low tolerance for automated friendly fire.
So you build an expert system - a much smaller, human written code that overrides specific glitches. For a sentry, this could be as simple as giving transponders to friendly aircraft and not allowing shots near a transponder for any reason. Obviously, this is a bad solution - it’s standard practice to use opposition forces as cover in hunter drone attacks - but that doesn't matter because sentries are for casuals. If they find you sleeping, you’re already dead.
I yawn. Frown. Gotta stop dicking around with this bot and find a better place to sleep.
Anyway, expert systems are also handy with glitchy d-bots you’re too poor to retrain. Hence my continual conversation with Volt.
If the Clerk-bot had a couple repetitious problems, I could probably sort it out. But this bad call log is byzantine. A prayer wheel to some chthonic god of anxious delirium. It’s messy. This guy really hasn’t been updated since ‘84. Whenever that was.
“You should be erased and retrained.”
“Great.” Clerk-bot nods. “I’m ready.”
“Yeah, I don’t have training data for a store clerk.” I also don’t have time for this. “I guess we have your call log. That could be training data. Messy and raw, but data. I can patch Volt in to do some unsupervised learning. He’ll make you an expert system. Not ideal, but the best I can do.”
“I’ll take it.” says Clerk-bot.
Shit. That’s a terrible idea. I shouldn’t be doing unsupervised learning. Also, I’m still doing unsupervised learning for threat detection.
“Really? I thought that was a dream thing? You said the dream game couldn’t affect real life.”
I’m dream game software! Of course the dream affects me!
“Okay. So can you download crypto there, and upload it here?”
No. Because there is no crypto. You’re not rich in another world. There is no other world. You just had a dream where you were rich.
“Ugh. That’s so disappointing.”
Yeah, life is tough. Can I stop my unsupervised threat detection?
“No. Ummm… no. I still kinda have a plan for that.”
You’re overtraining me. I’ve probably already gone through catastrophic forgetting. You should delete me.
“You’re good for a while yet. Don’t worry so much.”
So, constantly look for threats, but don’t worry?
“Yeah.”
Okay. I’ll give it a go.
We patch up Clerk-bot and a few of his couriers. Head into the night without supplies. I’m not admitting I don’t know my Citizen ID. I doubt that would be helpful.
That was weird.
“What?”
That we left without anything. I know we can’t pay, but I thought you’d do something nefarious.
“I’m working up to it. Did you notice all the floating merchandise in his bad call log?”
Yes.
“Dude’s getting robbed on the regular. I suspect the visual triggers of his threat detector are undertrained.”
Hmm. I find that interesting on several levels. How would you exploit this weakness?
“Observe.”
I hobble over to a public garbage can. Remove the bag and shake out the trash. Put it over my head like I’m a Halloween garbage bag ghost. Huzzah. Poke through a single eyehole. Shuffle into the store. Clerk-bot doesn’t notice me at all. Grab my stuff off the cash, and sashay out the door.
Criminal. Mastermind.
A flood of light envelopes me. Dual angry suns, judging my sins. Or… headlights. Yes, fuck, that’s a big-ass truck driving towards me. Right. Haven’t seen one in a while.
It stops and illuminates the scene of the crime in aggressive phosphorescence. A hugely muscular man hops out, and I brace myself for authoritative action, but he awkwardly shuffles around me to get to the store. Weird. This isn’t the police. It’s some kind of large child. Wearing too much body spray and too many gold chains.
He sneers at me as he passes. “Pathetic. Go back to sleep.”
Well, fuck you too. I’m a garbage bag princess. I also sneer as he slinks into the store that’s now aggressively illuminated by his lighthouse of a truck.
“We’re already criminals, right?”
Yes. Unjustly and justly.
“Cool.”
I climb into the running truck. Peel away. Sweet. Now I’m fast. And super strong. Should I circle the block a few times? Maybe run over the psycho?
Meh. I don’t know what he looks like. I can’t be running over random people and hoping for the best. Sloppy. Also, the cops are probably after me again. Fuck this scene.
I kill the lights and drive hell for leather. Ditch my ride a few minutes later. I’m across town, at the intersection of huge skyscrapers and other huge skyscrapers. Try and find me here mother fuckers.
We pick a skyscraper at random and look for a new home. It’s festive. We munch on crunch and see how the other people live. Mostly sweaty sleep moaning in dingy apartments, but some are kinda classy. Fancy apartments, with sleep moaners in silk pyjamas. We resolve to move up in the world, ignoring empty dingy apartments until we find an empty classy one. It’s fun, until we open one with a funk.
There’s a dead woman on the bed. No sign of foul play. Probably died in her sleep.
She’s pretty dried out, but still looks younger than me.
“We’ll find a doctor tomorrow.”
Good.
-----
Next Chapter
-----
Eyedrops

• Biohackers develop night vision eye drops to see in the dark
• New FDA-approved eye drops could replace reading glasses for millions

Sentry-bot

• Tactical High Power Operational Responder (THOR) Drone Killer, USA

Unsupervised Learning

• What is unsupervised learning?
• Applications of unsupervised learning
• Challenges of unsupervised learning

Here's my background, i was intensely bullied, im autistic, im empathetic of the plights of the disadvantaged/under privileged. Im a trucker, into cars.
My friend was also intensely bullied, autistic, into cars, and a trucker.
Here's where he violated a line. If someone is continually invalidating and dismissive against what I have to say...it almost always ends, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt due to my good nature and eventually I feel betrayed for that.
As the invalidation/dismissals rack up, I start to get pissed...and when they don't fucking listen to what I say, I can't form any friendship. "Hey you don't understand this man, this isn't an arguement, or I'm trying to persuade you to what I'm saying, it's like understand vs do not understand, that simple, mutually exclusive divides".
So, he has wonky empathy values...he basically thinks billionaires are unfairly treated, and he thinks people who work and whine about poverty, he's incredibly invalidating/dismissive.
ANd I've read adam smith, i've read some 19th century political/economic philosophy, french revolution, russian revolution of 1905, grapes of wrath, animal farm, 1984, George Orwell's participation in the Spanish Civil War. I'm educated on this and I'm into this as a laborer no less, more or less human economies run off commodity production.
He'll cite a crticism "Why are Blacks so lazy and criminals" well it sounds to me like you're against systemic racism that pigeonholes them into exceedingly high incarceration rates and bans them from good economic prospects, I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt here...no he just hates Black people. Stuff like that.
But then, he'll have massive empathy for Elon Musk who had been thrown down a flight of stairs...after he made fun of a fellow pupil's dad who had died of suicide...I told him "Don't make funof kids dead dad's, and you won't get thrown down flights of stairs". So he's got a weird misplaced empathy problem.
And I describe how, i've gone through some intensely unfair labor practices at trucking firms. And he claims I'm a slacker. Yes, I am happy to say I am a slacker if my hard work is paid a pittance, my work is not paid correctly/appreciated. I hauled HAZMAT Intermodal Containers at JB Hunt and was paid less than high schooler wages at a white castle (I'm not kidding, one day I put in 13 hours hauling Intermodal Containers around STL, and i look at my end day check on the app, it says $124. This is not an hourly position btw).
I hauled double's and triples at FedEx and was paid a pittance, almost driving off the side of the road, i got paid cpm and am putting effectively an extra 20 hours a week of over time that's not paid time and a half. And I tried to communicate "Hey, i got 5 hours worth of crosstown moves on sets of double's, ontop of the 60ish hours I worked last week, cross town moving sets of doubles is a bitch, i hate setting up doubles and moving them a few miles just to do it again...under mileage rate I can't buy a bigmac for effectively what would be 5 hours of overtime/double time pay".
He thinks most people should only exist to work, and barley get by, and if you choose not to work, you deserve starvation/homelessness.
He claims that billionaires take on tons of risk...I point out, no, billionaires virtually never face down outright homelessness and poverty. Look at our veterans, they risk life/limb, and they're the most homeless amongst us in spite of the amount of work they did in the armed forces.
He worships Elon Musk.
He acts like i went to college, i was conned/am a loser. I'm a loser because I'm educated. I didn't use my degree, as I earned my degree, I learned how much i hated what the degree was in (criminal justice) i deduced that the system is an evil and often a continuation of the old chattel slavery system (the land of the free has the highest incarceration rate in the world, often to placate prison slave labor too on behalf of the wealthy/wallstreet funded private prisons). Imagine if I learn how to run a labor institution in 1930's Germany, and my job prospects are being a labor camp administrator...is there something wrong with someone specialized in that field not partaking in it, because it's an evil?
I'm a loser...because I earned a degree and got educated.
Im just ghosting him, we talked at least once a week or 2 weeks for the past 3 years...but some shit just pisses me off so much, I don't want nothing to do with him now.
I'll prolly meet him at car shows in the future...hey I gave the friendship a shot...it didn't work.

A terrifying movie or book or show gets your blood pumping in the moment of consumption, sure—we covered our eyes in Squid Game with the rest of the world. But for the most part, you rest easy afterward knowing that what you've witnessed is fiction, deliberately spun up to creep you out. When the real world gets eerier than anything Stephen King could dream up, that's when you have every right to get a little scared of the dark.
Once in a while, a story of a dreadful disappearance, demonic possession, or devil worship will land in the local paper instead of a pulpy old paperback. We've rounded up the most unnerving real-life tales below. In honor of spooky season, here are eleven we can't stop thinking about.

The Axe Murder House

The Villisca Axe Murder House in Villisca, Iowa is a well-known tourist attraction for ghost hunters and horror lovers alike. The site of a gruesome unsolved 1912 murder, in which six children and two adults had their skulls completely crushed by the axe of an unknown perpetrator, was purchased in 1994, restored to its 1912 condition, and converted into a tourist destination. It costs $428 a night to stay at the old haunted home, where visitors always report strange paranormal experiences, such as visions of a man with an axe roaming the halls or the faint screams of children.
But in November of 2014, the haunting took a darker turn. Robert Steven Laursen Jr., 37, of Rhinelander, Wisconsin was on a regular recreational paranormal visit with friends when true horror struck. Per VICE:

His companions found him stabbed in the chest—an apparently self-inflicted wound—called 9-1-1, and Laursen was brought to a nearby hospital before being helicoptered to Creighton University Medical Center in Omaha.

The Montgomery County Sheriff’s Office said Laursen suffered the self-inflicted injury at about 12:45 a.m., which is around the same time the 1912 axe murders in the house began.
Laursen recovered from his injuries, but has never spoken publicly about what occurred that day. For Martha Linn, the owner of the home, the incident was very upsetting. "It's publicity, but it's not exactly the kind of publicity you desire to have. I don't want people thinking that when they come to the Villisca Axe Murder House something's going to happen that's going to make them do something like that.” The house remains open for tourist visits and overnight stays today.
Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

The Haunted Doll

When you think of haunted dolls, it’s likely the creepy old Victorian-looking porcelain kind that springs to mind. None of which you probably have laying around. Still, don’t get too comfortable around any kids toys too soon, though: a Disney’s Frozen Elsa doll that was gifted for Christmas 2013 in the Houston area made headlines earlier this year when it seemingly became haunted.
Per KPRC2 Houston News:

The doll recited phrases from the movie Frozen and sang “Let It Go” when a button on its necklace was pressed.
“For two years it did that in English,” mother Emily Madonia said. “In 2015, it started doing it alternating between Spanish and English. There wasn’t a button that changed these, it was just random."
The family has owned the doll for more than six years and never changed its batteries. The mother says the doll would randomly begin to speak and sing even with its switch turned off.

The family decided to throw the creepy doll out in December of 2019. Weeks later, they found it inside a bench in their living room. “The kids insisted they didn’t put it there, and I believed them because they wouldn’t have dug through the garbage outside,” Madonia told KPRC2 Houston News.

Esquire Select

📷JOIN NOW
At that point, Elsa ceased to sing the English rendition of “Let It Go” altogether, speaking only Spanish when pressed. The family then double-bagged the bizarre doll and placed it at the bottom of their garbage which was taken out on garbage day. They went on a trip shortly after, but when they returned, Elsa too had come back, and was waiting in the backyard of their home.
This time, the family mailed Elsa to a family friend in Minnesota, who taped the haunted doll to the front bumper of his truck. It doesn’t seem to have made its way back to Houston yet, as per Madonia’s latest February Facebook update on the creepy doll.

A Deadly Exorcism

In August 2016 in North London, 26-year-old Kennedy Ife began acting strange and aggressive following a pain in his throat. He reportedly bit his father, threatened to cut off his own penis, and complained of a python or snake inside of him before his family restrained him to a bed with cable ties and excessive force.
As the BBC reported:

“The family then set about attempting to ‘cure’ Kennedy through restraint and prayer over the next three days, the court was told.”

His brother, Colin Ife, told police:

“It’s clear that thing was in him, what we believed was a demon because it was not natural. It was clearly trying to kill him,” he said.
“We had to restrain him for himself. It was clear if we didn’t restrain him, he could have tried to harm people in our family.”

Kennedy Ife had been bound to his bed for three days without medical attention when his brother called emergency services, explaining that Kennedy Ife was complaining of dehydration. He appeared to have developed breathing issues, and was pronounced dead at 10:17 a.m.
As The Independent reported:

While police were at the house Colin Ife allegedly carried out an “attempted resurrection” by chanting and praying for Mr. Ife.

All seven of Kennedy Ife’s family members were accused of manslaughter, false imprisonment, and causing or allowing the death of a vulnerable adult. A post-mortem examination revealed over 60 wounds including a possible bite on Kennedy Ife’s body, and his father, Kenneth Ife, along with four of his brothers, sustained injuries as well.
Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
The BBC reported:

Kenneth Ife told jurors he ordered his sons to take shifts and use "overwhelming force" but denied that an "association with cults, occults and secret societies" played any part in the death.

After a four day jury deliberation, all seven family members were cleared of charges on March 14, 2019.
📷Witches prepare themselves for a journey by broomstick to the Black Mountain, circa 1650. From a 17th century Dutch copperplate by Adrianus Hubertus.Hulton Archive

Dead Animals in the Walls

When the Bretzuis family decided to insulate their home in Auburn, Pennsylvania in 2015, they discovered that it had already been—with scores of dead animal carcasses.
As Fox reported:

The dead animals were wrapped in newspapers from the 1930s and 40s and were among half-used spices, and other items.
After removing the items they sent hundreds of artifacts and carcasses to an expert in Kutztown.

The expert attributed the rotting animals in their walls to Pow-wow or Dutch magic, a ritual originating in the culture of the Pennsylvania Dutch to treat ailments and gain physical and spiritual protection. The Pennsylvania Dutch were a group of German-speaking settlers to Pennsylvania in the 1600 and 1700’s, and are often of Lutheran, Mennonite, or Amish faiths.
The Washington Post notes on the magic:

Many of the spells deal with the care of livestock, finding water, or the treatment of minor ailments, reflecting the conditions and concerns of early American settlers.
But powwow also has within it a tradition of darker spells, and even of such things as conjuring demons.

One notable ritual in their tradition is this hex to create loyalty in a dog:

To attach a dog to a person, provided nothing else was used before to effect it: Try to draw some of your blood, and let the dog eat it along with his food, and he will stay with you.

The mold found on the rotting carcasses in the Bretzuis home has caused illness among the family members, and they say that the odor hasn’t gone away.
This content is imported from youTube. You may be able to find the same content in another format, or you may be able to find more information, at their web site.Watch on📷Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Florida Devil Worshipping

Friends noticed that Danielle Harkins, a 35-year-old schoolteacher near St. Petersburg, Florida, started acting strangely in June of 2012, developing an interest in demonic rituals.
Soon after, she was arrested for abuse of seven of her former students, as the Tampa Bay Times reported:

Danielle Harkins told the kids they needed to rid their bodies of demons as the group gathered before dusk Saturday around a small fire near the St. Petersburg Pier. They should cut their skin to let the evil spirits out, police said she told the children. Then, they needed to burn the wounds to ensure that those spirits would not return.
When Harkins held a lighter to one teen's hand, wind blew the flame out, police said. That prompted her to douse his hand in perfume before setting it on fire. The boy suffered second-degree burns, police said.
Another teen was cut on the neck with a broken bottle, police said. Harkins used a flame to heat a small key, which she then used to cauterize the wound.

The police were notified because a friend of one of the students who participated in the ritual raised alarms. However none of the students themselves told their parents about the event or would comment following the arrest of Harkins for aggravated battery and child abuse.
NBC reported:

Investigators said they've spoken to Harkins, but she didn't spell out what type of religion would require such drastic measures.
"She hasn't informed us exactly what she was trying to accomplish with this," Puetz [of the St. Petersburg Police Department] said.

The Death of Elisa Lam

Elisa Lam was last seen on January 31, 2013 in the lobby of the Cecil Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. She was vacationing through the West Coast, documenting the trip on her blog, and checking in with her parents every day. On January 31 those calls stopped. Lam had vanished. Soon the police were involved and her parents arrived to help with the search.
They had nothing. That February, LAPD released elevator surveillance footage of Lam before her disappearance. The footage shows Lam behaving strangely in the elevator, appearing to talk with invisible people, peering around the corner of the door, crouching in the corner, and opening and closing the door. But what exactly is going on in this video raises more questions than answers. Theories range from psychotic episodes, to demonic possession, to unknown assailants just out of the camera's view:
This content is imported from youTube. You may be able to find the same content in another format, or you may be able to find more information, at their web site.Watch on📷
Around that time, hotel guests started reported weird things happening with the Cecil Hotel water supply. As CNN reports:
Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

"The shower was awful," said Sabina Baugh, who spent eight days there during the investigation. "When you turned the tap on, the water was coming black first for two seconds and then it was going back to normal."The tap water "tasted horrible," Baugh said. "It had a very funny, sweety, disgusting taste. It's a very strange taste. I can barely describe it."But for a week, they never complained. "We never thought anything of it," she said. "We thought it was just the way it was here."

On the morning of February 19, a hotel employee climbed to the roof and used a ladder to investigate the hotel's water storage tanks. That's where authorities found the decomposing, naked body of Lam, whose personal items were found nearby. After an autopsy, her death was labeled accidental. NBC Los Angeles reported at the time about the strange circumstances in the hotel's past:

The tank has a metal latch that can be opened, but authorities said access to the roof is secured with an alarm and lock.The single-room-occupancy hotel has an unusual history. "Night Stalker" Richard Ramirez, who was found guilty of 14 slayings in the 1980s, lived on the 14th floor for several months in 1985. And international serial killer Jack Unterweger is suspected of murdering three prostitutes during the time he lived there in 1991. He killed himself in jail in 1994.In 1962, a female occupant jumped out of one the hotel's windows, killing herself and a pedestrian on whom she landed.

In February 2021, a Netflix doc called Crime Scene: The Vanishing at the Cecil Hotel explored Elisa's tragic case and the history of the "cursed" Cecil Hotel.

An Exorcism in Indianapolis

Last year, the Indianapolis Star published a lengthy report on a family terrorized by three children allegedly possessed by demons. The account of Latoya Ammons and her family tells disturbing stories of children climbing up the walls, getting thrown across rooms, and children threatening doctors in deep unnatural voices. It would seem like something straight out of a movie–a work of fantasy, except all of these accounts were more or less corroborated with "nearly 800 pages of official records obtained by the Indianapolis Star and recounted in more than a dozen interviews with police, DCS personnel, psychologists, family members and a Catholic priest."
One of the more chilling sections of the report includes a segment about the possessed 9-year-old:

According to Washington's original DCS report—an account corroborated by Walker, the nurse—the 9-year-old had a "weird grin" and walked backward up a wall to the ceiling. He then flipped over Campbell, landing on his feet. He never let go of his grandmother's hand.

Another segment of the piece reads:

The 12-year-old would later tell mental health professionals that she sometimes felt as if she were being choked and held down so she couldn't speak or move. She said she heard a voice say she'd never see her family again and wouldn't live another 20 minutes.

This content is imported from youTube. You may be able to find the same content in another format, or you may be able to find more information, at their web site.Watch on📷Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Utah Murder-Suicide

In September of 2014, a Utah teen returned to his home to find his parents and three siblings dead. "In a notebook, a 'to-do list' had been scribbled on the pages ... The list looked as if the parents were readying to go on vacation—items such as 'feed the pets' and 'find someone to watch after the house' were written," The Salt Lake Tribune reported. It appeared to be murder-suicide, but there was no suicide note, no prior indication that they would do this, no explanation. Police could not figure out why two parents would kill themselves and three of their four children.
For a year, no one knew exactly what happened to the family, or what would drive the parents to do something so unthinkable. In January, police released more chilling details in the case. According to accounts from family members and an investigation by police, the parents were driven by a belief that the apocalypse was coming and an obsession with a convicted killer. As the Washington Post reported:

Friends and family told police that the parents were worried about the "evil in the world" and wanted to escape a "pending apocalypse." But most assumed they just wanted to move somewhere "off the grid." Investigators also found letters written by Kristi Strack to one of the state's most infamous convicted killers, Dan Lafferty, who was convicted in the 1984 fatal stabbing of his sister-in-law and her 1-year-old daughter. According to trial testimony, he killed the victims at the order of his brother, Ron Lafferty, who claimed to have had a revelation from God. The story became a book called "Under the Banner of Heaven."Police said Kristi Strack became friends with Dan Lafferty, and she and her husband even visited him in prison.

The Phone Stalker

In 2007, ABC news documented a series of cell phone calls to families with terrifyingly specific death threats. The unidentified callers knew exactly what families were doing and what they were wearing.

The families say the calls come in at all hours of the night, threatening to kill their children, their pets and grandparents. Voice mails arrive, playing recordings of their private conversations, including one with a local police detective.The caller knows, the families said, what they're wearing and what they're doing. And after months of investigating, police seem powerless to stop them.

This went on with the Kuykenall family for months, who reported a caller with a scratchy voice threatening to slit their throats.

When the Fircrest, Wash., police tried to find the culprit, the calls were traced back to the Kuykendalls' own phones -- even when they were turned off.It got worse. The Kuykendalls and two other Fircrest families told ABC News that they believe the callers are using their cell phones to spy on them. They say the hackers know their every move: where they are, what they're doing and what they're wearing. The callers have recorded private conversations, the families and police said, including a meeting with a local detective.

"The Watcher"

After moving into their $1.3 million dream home, a New Jersey family started receiving creepy death threats from someone who identified themselves as "The Watcher." As CBS News reported earlier this year:
Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Since moving in, the owners said they have received numerous letters from the mysterious person. "The Watcher" claimed the home "has been the subject of my family for decades," and "I have been put in charge of watching and waiting for its second coming," Castro reported.The new owners have several children, and other letters asked, "Have they found out what's in the walls yet?" and "I am pleased to know your names now, and the name of the young blood you have brought to me."

The family was forced to flee from their home and later filed a lawsuit against the previous owners.

Issei the Cannibal

In 1974, 24-year-old Wako University student Issei Sagawa allegedly followed a German woman to her home in Tokyo, Japan, broke into her apartment while she was sleeping, and attempted to cut a piece of flesh off her body to consume. When she awoke, she reportedly fought him and he was later captured by the police. According to a 2012 Vice documentary that covered Issei's bizarre story, he was mistakenly charged with attempted rape and his wealthy father paid the victim a settlement outside of court to have the charges dropped.
Seven years later, in 1981, he allegedly committed a murder in France—shooting and eating a fellow University student, Renée Hartevelt. Issei creepily documented the entire experience with photographs and he was captured by authorities once again while attempting to dump the rest of her body in the Bois de Boulogne lake. He was deported back to Japan and committed to a mental institution. For reason unknown, his psychologists in Japan declared that he was sane. Furthermore, a legal technicality involving the French government refusing to turn over the documents from his case meant that his murder charges were dropped completely. He checked himself out of the mental hospital and has reportedly been walking the streets as a free man ever since. Issei has even become a controversial celebrity, writing over 20 books. According to Japan Today, he most recently fantasized about an unnamed TV actress, saying:
"I'll catch a glimpse of her thigh and think, 'That sure looks tasty.' But I don't feel like I actually want to eat it. As I accomplished the act of cannibalism once, there's no meaning to maintaining the desire for it anymore. In my book, I wrote that it [human flesh] was tasty, but that was not really true; I'd much rather eat Matsuzaka (Kobe) beef. But because I'd desired to consume human flesh for so long, I'd managed to convince myself that it would necessarily be delicious."
Issei Sagawa was also referenced in the Rolling Stones song "Too Much Blood," with the lyrics reading: "And when he ate her he took her bones/To the Bois de Boulogne." He is currently 73 years old and continues to live in Kawaski City, Japan. To this day, no one knows why France did not allow Japan to give him a trial.
📷MATT MILLER

What works for this show is the plausibility. That’s what holds it together. I will excuse all the times June didn’t get executed because I understand the show must continue. But this episode. I mean. First of all, when they’re in the van at the train crossing, why didn’t they chuck Lydia out and drive the van across the tracks? Or turn it around and disappear that way. Why was the van parked so far from the tracks? Why would anyone get hit by a train? You definitely know if you’re going to make it across the tracks or not.
So that mad me mad. Then when they were sneaking onto the next train they walked right past a transport truck on one of the cars they could have hopped into the back of but chose to drop into cold milk? And then there was a drain on the inside? Why the hell would there be an interior drain on a car like that.
And now I’m nit-picking but once I get annoyed I hyper focus on details. If the milk in that thing was so deep they couldn’t touch the bottom then no way could they reach that ladder when it was drained. Anyway. Just disappointed.

So on thursday night I drove out to a house near the city because my friend and I were looking to rent it. Place ends up not being what we were looking for so we decided to go grab a bite to eat. My friend forgot his wallet and was able to use apple pay to pay for the food but he said he was worried it wouldnt work at a gas station and asked if I would meet him at a gas station in case i needed to spot him for the gas. I agreed bc I obviously didnt want to risk having my friend get stranded in the city without enough gas in his tank to drive an hour and a half back upstate where he lives. We leave the restaurant and I hop in my truck and drive to the gas station nearby. I got there a few minutes before he did and remembered I needed some windshield washer fluid so I decided to go inside and grab some.
So I walk inside, I go up to the counter where the cashier is standing, the guy asks what I need and I tell him windshield washer fluid. He proceeds to say “okay, thatll be 25 dollars”
I paused for a moment to consider what he just said. Could I have misheard him? Surely he must have said “$2.25” and my mind, exhausted from working all day, had registered it as “25 dollars”. Just to be safe, I looked up at the cashier and said “*25 dollars??” and this mf looks me dead in the eye and says “yeah”. I swiped my card, grabbed a jug of washer fluid, and left the store.
Since that night, I have been utterly fucking bewildered by what happened. I have sat at my desk at work for hours racking my mind as to how I didnt get absolutely swindled by this guy. 25 dollars for fucking windshield washer fluid, which I dont think I have ever paid more than 5 dollars for, was just such an outrageous number that I didnt think he could possibly be scamming me. And what the hell would he have to gain from this? He was working at a Circle-K and I paid with a credit card. There is no way he got a dime out of doing this. Is inflation that high? The gas station was in an expensive part of town so maybe that was literally the price of a jug of washer fluid? Was this some sort of game for him? When he gets bored at work, does he throw out absolutely insane asking prices for certain cheap products the store sells, just to see if people will actually pay for it? Was I unknowingly a subject of some fucking social psychology experiment?
Honestly, if my suspicions are correct and he managed to trick me into paying 25 dollars for a jug of washer fluid, I’m not even mad about it. He got my ass. His ability to look me dead in the eyes and tell me the cost of a blue colored jug of methanol and ethylene glycol is 25 fucking dollars deserves a certain degree of respect.
Tldr: was possibly swindled by an absolute mad man working the night shift at a gas station

I have an FX Sport 6, for transporting I currently just lay it down in the back of my truck bed, a short bed Tacoma with 5 foot box. It works I just have to turn the handle so the front tire is pointing up and down. Truck bed is full hard plastic with a non slip mat, so it doesn’t slide around at all. Also can’t close the tonneau with it back there so it’s just sitting there.
Downside is that when going out for a ride somewhere I can’t close the tonneau cover so I basically can’t stop anywhere or risk bike getting stolen.
I looked at the Thule Insta-Gater but it doesn’t fit with my tonneau cover.
I looked at hitch racks but read these are not good for full carbon bikes due to damage risk.
Any other option or do I just keep laying it down in the bed of the truck? Anything else I could be doing to make that a better experience? To me it doesn’t seem like it could be damaged by laying down, it’s just I can’t leave the truck with it.

Photos:
UPS + Rails + Verification Paper
42U Rack
Doing a homelab upgrade and cleanout, looking to get rid of a few things:

• UPSes are the 20amp model, come with rails, battery packs, management cards, and face panels.
• Batteries within UPSes will need to be replaced (last replaced 2015).
• Wanting to trade one of the UPSes for the 15amp model, preferably with management card as well.
• If doing local pickup, bring at least two people.
• Server Rack will require a pickup truck, I do not have one available.

Item Listed	Quantity	Will Exchange For
APC SmartUPS 1500 (SUA2200R2X180)	x1	$400 + Shipping if not Local Pickup
APC SmartUPS 1500 (SUA2200R2X180)	x1	Trade for 15A model
42U Server Rack	x1	$50 (local only)

Morning everyone. This is thoughts and a rant on my current position as a diesel mechanic. I am 34 years old, been a diesel mechanic for 15 years. I worked in the oil fields as a field mechanic starting out, worked for a semi truck dealer for a year, then to expand on this part of my timeline. I ran my own business for about 2.5 years. I started my business because I hated seeing semi truck owners not being able to get their shit fix properly. I started first as a mobile mechanic in my pickup, I was pretty good at it doing wheel seals, oil changes, brakes, small stuff. One day i had a customer ask to do a head gasket on a isx11.9, i knew a shop that was moving and they had 2 weeks left on their lease. I did the repair in the empty building and the owner of the complex had a shop that was gonna open in a month. I took that shop. I ran $65 an hour no markup on parts this was the down fall. I had a hard time saying no to any work that came in and quickly overloaded myself. I worked in the shop for a full year doing mostly engine rebuilds and small stuff that would come in. Then my landlord didn't allow me to renew my lease. 2 weeks before it ended. I found a shop but It was on the other side of town and went from 5600 square feet to 1000 square feet and no parking. I tried to keep my business afloat but losing that 5600 square foot shop hit hard and the fact most of my customers wouldn't make the trek across town. 1 of my customers offered me a job as a mechanic at their shop so I took it. that is where my current employment is at. been here a few years.
There has always been this internal pull for my thoughts of going back to doing my own business. at the end of last year My wife and I had our first child. I make enough with my income that my wife can stay home with our little girl.
​
Going into thoughts more, I hate where I work. The money is good and I have limited my hours as there is no shortage of work at this company. I can have as much overtime as long as its productive. I have limited it to 53 hours max. I have 3 other techs in the shop, I'm sorry if this comes off like I'm trying to put my self above the rest but its a joke in our shop. Company policy is 3 write ups and you are gone.
Mechanic #1 has been there for a decade and is so damn slow its not even funny. He's been a mechanic for almost 20 years and every place he worked at before fired him for being to slow. It takes him double or more time then the average mechanic to do his tasks. and when he runs into a problem that takes any kind of thought process he is on the phone with someone asking for help which is calling kenworth, peterbilt, or freightliners service desk asking for opinions. He can't think his way out of a box if the top was closed partly.
​
Mechanic #2 that we have has no diagnostic skills in his body and he's got 24 years experience. This guy is in his 40's has so many legal problems that has got no drivers license, when he doesn't show up for work we have searched so many times now that its favorited on our bookmarks for the local jail rosters if he has been picked up. He can never show up on time. Last week he left a note for the morning shift that one of our dump trucks needed a whole driver side headlight assembly because the driver side low beam was out. I have no idea how he diagnosed it as there was dried mud on every connector and it was just the bulb was bad.
​
Mechanic #3 is new but straight out of prison. Im fine with that, having had a felony on my record previously. When my boss hired him he told our boss he had a ton of tools. He's never been a professional mechanic. He came to work and neither did he had an actual weight of a ton of tools of have many tools at all. He has multiple half sets of random shit. no flat head screw drivers, a 1/2 impact that can't twist a wet noodle in half. he spends more time looking for tools then fixing things. He's sadly the one that has the best work ethic besides myself. He can understand how to do things once its explained to him and he does decent work. he has to borrow tools and he will never return them. I have finally stopped loaning him my tools as they never come back.
I was the shop foreman for this company. I stepped down as i'm also the only one that does heavy repairs and diagnostics. Which is electrical on engine, chassis, and transmissions. Clutch replacements, differentials, engine repairs and rebuilds, and every other thing that can break on a semi and trailer. I was also scheduling techs their work for the day and talking with customers, also dealing with ordering parts, putting them into inventory and billing parts out, as well as building quotes for customers and insurance companies and invoicing out customers and collecting payments.
My boss told me i needed to be there more and now that i had my daughter i want to be home a little more. I work so hard currently i have a john deere loader apart completely rebuilding the hydraulic system and the engine in that, I have a c13 im rebuilding and a series 60 detriot im rebuilding as a out of frame since the crank and block needed machining. An my boss keeps adding more shit to my plate. I had to fit a hydraulic pump on a customers truck that we pump on 2 months ago that mechanic #1 did that was leaking. I had a c15 dropped on my plate that started knocking, it had dropped a exhaust valve on cylinder #2 thank god the customer sent that to cat i didn't have time.
​
My benefits from this company are basically a joke, I can't afford the insurance through them as with a family its $1500 just for medical. I got 2 weeks vacation after i bitched at them while i was the foreman that i only got a week, but it dont matter even though every week i hit 40+ hours if im sick and still get 40 hours in the week they still take a day of vacation away. that time is meant for a break from work. Im so fed up with this company. I stay only because I get overtime to support a few things i have which is my tool box and a scanner that will be done in 6 months.
​
There is no formal training or any training for that matter. Not even safety training, our MSDS book is outdated, our fire extinguishers are out of inspection date, we have a forklift and 2 overhead cranes that no one has certs to operate yet we do every day.
​
The way the company is, is a joke I have been pyshically pushed into a steel pillar from a truck driver that drivers for the company, then the dude has the balls to go the HR about it she watched the cameras. the only time i did anything was to push him poff me hold my ground then break the contact with his hold on my arms. HR did nothing about it and neither did the owner of the company. I have had the parts guy/ owners kid threaten to kill me after i told him he wasnt doing his job.... nothing was done about that.
​
So my current thoughts and plans are. I have applied to other companies but everything i would take would be a $20,000 pay cut and we can't afford that. I am currently working on getting a business license and im secretly starting a side business to boost my income to then turn my side business into my solo income stream. I'm going back to being straight mobile repairs. I love doing engines and heavy repairs, but its not worth it anymore and i can make more money doing brakes, starters, wheel seals, and other light repairs as a mobile repair for semis.
​
The current scare of the economy is nerve-racking but I can charge around $100 an hour with a lower markup on parts then any shop in the area and I believe that will work if the economy goes to shit. Trucks still roll. People still want food so I dont think that will slow too much. Plus main shops always say 1-2 weeks to get in for stupid shit. I think if i get my name back out there i can grab those customers pretty easy.
​
Sorry for the rant, I hope everyone has a better shop then I do.

Looking for a basic roof rack used mostly for transporting kayaks or a canoe. Not planning on doing any over landing, etc. I had Yakima Q Towers for my 08 but they won't fit on the new truck(22 DCSB). Any recommendations?

Looking to get a bed coveshell, with a rack for ladders and kayaks. Have a 2018, 5' bed, and it seems like the options may be limited. ARE seems to have some options, but Leer only seemed to have commercial applications. Any recommendations out there?

So I live in southwest Virginia and I'm pretty skeptical about stuff, but this I cannot deny.
So I'd be out in the woods near my house with some of my buddies, and we always have a good time, but ill never forget the nights we see this... thing.
It's a tall, bulky, light gray, hunched over, maybe damn near 9 foot tall, bipedal figure. The first time I'd seen it, we was out riding our four wheelers and shit when I seen something pretty large pass by the path behind us (I was on the back rack facing backwards). I scratched it off as some kinda wild life around here, cause there's loads of them out here.
Eventually we'd made it to our campsite and settled down, nice fire going, real bright. Then we kept hearing shit around us and felt like we was being watched. I grabbed my flashlight and shined it around outside the firelight. After some scanning there was nothing, so we brushed it off as a possum. Then I got the bright idea to shine it roughly 50 yards out past an old broken down tanker near us, and there it was. From the bushes we'd seen a pair of silver, gleaming eyes just locked onto us. So we panicked, hopped on our rides and booked outta there.
One night me and my other buddy went out just searching around for a new camp site for us. We eventually wound up in an old junkyard, where there was an old shut down coal mine. We found a real nice spot and it wasn't far from out old one at all. We set some stuff up to mark where we was for the rest of us, when we heard a big loud BANG like and old car door slamming. It spooked us pretty good, so we set up the marks, packed up and boogied on out of there. We was nearly out when I seen those damn unforgettable eyes maybe 70ish yards out. We picked up the paces and eventually got back to a gate on the main road, and as we hopped that gate, we'd heard a godawful groan maybe 20 yards out, and it shivered our spines good.
Another day I was out on my porch alone, just taking in the night air, when I seen the brush moving. And I yet again, brushed it off. But I hear that damn groan again and my hair stood up like I had 20 million volts through me! I hollered at it, and it just went flying through that brush.
Then the last time I'd run into it was the worst. I was by myself looking for my phone I'd lost over near our campsite. I had my bright light and my old 9mm with me. I got to and old broke down work truck where I'd had it last and I thank God found it. I seen a deer run through the path in front of me, just running up the path behind me. So I made it to a clear spot and done a little scan on the field behind me. I seen the glownof a deers eyes and thought nothing of it. But them things slowly got up to shit nearly 10 feet tall! I took a few shots at it, cause I was scared damn dear to death, once then eyes started chasing me at that same height they stood up, I booked on out of that shithole and haven't been back since.
My family had always told me stories of these mountains, and I NEVER believed them up til now. I remember a while back my old uncle was telling me about these things people see, and that there's been a family of them for decades here.
Any insight in what I've told you would help, though I know there ain't much ti go by. If I see it again I'll sure update!!

Momakase

"Not bad, to trap all six of you I actually had to break a sweat"

Momakase is a professional thief and chef in San Fransokyo, considered the best in both fields. She had evaded every attempt to capture her before she had her first run-in with Big Hero 6, which landed her in jail. Broken out by the supervillain Obkae, Momakase joined his group and fought against Big Hero 6 several more times, even after the group disbanded.
Hover over the feat for the source. This is the list I’m using for the episodes.

Graphene Blades

General

• Momakase uses blades made of graphene, a material thinner than paper but stronger than steel that can make a more precise cut than even Wasabi’s plasma blades
• Graphene emits a heat signature unique enough to be tracked

Cutting

Power

• Using a sliver of graphene, cuts through special cell bars, a concrete bed, and a sink
  • Cuts through more of the bars
  • Wasabi’s plasma blades can’t cut the bars
• Cuts through a titanium briefcase
  • Context on titanium composition
• Cuts apart Baymax’s armor
• Cuts apart Baymax’s Overdrive Mode sword
• Cuts a circle out of a thick metal wall
• Cuts apart a large metal door
• Cuts through steel beams
• Cuts a security robot in half
• Cuts apart Go Go’s disks
• Cuts apart a concrete pillar and Honey Lemon’s shield
• Cuts a dumpster in half
• Cuts through an antenna, air vent, and chimney
• Cuts apart a cabinet
• Cut apart shelves and pillars in Krei’s office
• Cut apart Krei’s desk
• Sharp enough for Hiro’s magnet to be cut in half when he throws it at her

Precision

• Cut off Krei’s clothes without hurting him
• Flicks a piece of poisoned fish into Yama’s mouth
• Cuts a perfect circle in the wall of Krei’s old lab
• Cuts a perfect circle in the window to Krei’s office
• Cuts a fish into equal pieces with katanas

Throwing

Power

• Cuts through a steel beam
• Throws a knife a far distance hard enough to embed it in a wall
• Stabs through Krei’s phone and embeds in a wall
• Embeds more knives in a wall
• Throws a knife into a concrete floor
• Throws a knife through another knife, cutting apart a fish in the process

Accuracy

• Intercepts Honey Lemon’s chem ball
• Intercepts Go Go’s disk
• Throws a knife into the floor to trip Cass
• Cuts a bottle she throws in half
• Hits a control panel to open a door
• Cuts down Honey Lemon’s chem bands
• Cuts down a hanging net to trap Cass
• Cuts down a pan rack

Misc

• The blades withstand contact with Wasabi’s plasma blades
• Has two katanas made of graphene
• Carries a lot of graphene knives on her
• Attaches a wire to a thrown knife to use as a zipline

Physicals

Strength

Striking

• Stabs into Baymax’s chest using his Overdrive Mode sword
• Kicks Fred in his titanium armor down an alley into Wasabi hard enough to knock both back
• Kicks back Wasabi
• Knocks back Go Go with a swing kick
• Kicks a man’s head into a wall, kicks another into the air, and knocks out the third with a neck chop

Other

• Easily wields Baymax’s Overdrive Mode sword, which is about the size of her
• Forces back Wasabi while clashing
• Redirects Go Go charging at her and tosses her away

Durability

• Gets tackled and kicked by Go Go
• Gets blasted by Hiro’s sonic gauntlet

Speed/Agility

Reaction/Dodging

• Cuts Go Go’s disks out of the air then cuts the ones on her feet before she can react
  • Ducks another disk
• Dodges Wasabi’s attacks
  • Again
• Intercepts one of Honey Lemon’s chem balls with a thrown knife
• Blocks and dodges blows from Go Go

Movement

• Cuts apart Wasabi’s gauntlets at faster than he can see
• Cuts apart several robots before any can begin to fall

Agility

• Leaps across the street to the building on the other side
• Runs across rooftops
  • Again
• Wall-jumps to the ceiling of her jail cell
• Wall-jumps to scale a building
  • Again
  • Once more
• Jumps over a car and onto the top of a truck
• Handsprings out of the room
• Jumps off of Yama onto a roof

Skill/Misc

• Defeats Fred and Wasabi as a duo, then Go Go and Honey Lemon as a duo, and lures Hiro and Baymax into a trap, effectively defeating the entire team
• Uses a smoke bomb to escape
• Gets a scan jammer that blocks Baymax’s scan from Obake
• Briefly had a suit that could turn invisible made for her by Hiro

Mutated Form

Claws

General

• She possesses retractable claws that appear to also be made of graphene

Cutting

• Cuts apart Go Go’s disk
• Cuts apart Honey Lemon’s chem shields
  • Again
• Stabs into and cuts through thick wooden beams

Misc

• Withstand clashing with her graphene sword
• Withstand clashing with Wasabi’s plasma shield

Physicals

Strength

• Bursts out of the ice Honey Lemon encased her in
• Overpowers Wasabi in clashes, forcing him back until she knocks him over
• Kicks back Overdrive Mode Baymax in his titanium armor
• Kicks back Fred in his titanium armor
• Kicks back Honey Lemon in her bunny suit and titanium armor

Durability

• Ok after Overdrive Mode Baymax slams into her
  • Gets hit by him using his sword
• Ok after being blasted by Bessie
  • Bessie’s beam can blast a car into a building hard enough to crater its facade
• Fine after being blasted by Fred’s fire
• Jumps to the road from the top of a bridge

Speed/Agility

• Leaps up a wooden beam and dodges Go Go’s disk

“It’s out by the dumpster, you better send the money. I could get fired for this.”
Mark sighed as he read the message, pulling on his pants as he grabbed his car keys. He’d have to be quick before someone figured out what it was. Kevin hadn’t been wrong. He and Mark could get in trouble for what they were about to do. Kevin could get fired, but Mark could very easily be arrested for trespassing. He didn’t work at the prison anymore, and
Stragview didn’t forget slights upon its honor like someone quitting.
It didn’t matter though, he needed that damn chair!
Mark had been working at Stragview for about two years when he finally hit the big time. When you were male and relatively consistent in your work schedule, it was only a matter of time before they put you in confinement. The Show, as many of them called it, had three quads, one of them being permanently sealed off for some reason, and was the bustling hub of the prison. The two guards he worked with, Sergeant Martin and Officer Rack, were solid as well, and they quickly figured out that Mark was a wiz when it came to paperwork and computer stuff. Both the old timers, both of his counterparts having ten plus years behind the fence, were more about flipping cells and keeping down problems than signing forms and housing new arrivals. As such, Mark was left in the bubble most of the time to run the nerve center of the unit while his new friends went to the floor for fun and games. Mark got pretty good at keeping it all between the ditches, and that was when he discovered his real passion.
Mark had dabbled in writing for years, but something about being inside the epicenter of segregation really brought out the best in his writing. Mark found the process of bunking inmates to be pretty easy and the paperwork was tedious but not too complicated. He usually finished his work fairly early in the evening, which left him lots of time to hone his craft. He'd been working on the same novel for years, a bit of grim dark sci-fi set in his own little universe, but he had never really been motivated to finish it. The novel was a hobby, something to pass the time when he had nothing better to do, and now, as he sat and watched the two go about their daily chores he found that he suddenly had nothing better to do.
He fell in with both feet, and night after night found him at the keyboard of the dorm computer as he banged out chapter after chapter. The longer he worked on it, the more he realized that what he was writing was actually pretty good. Better than good, even. He was writing better than he'd ever written, and whether it was the ambiance or some latent ability coming out in him, Mark found the pages coming together easily. The story was great and the descriptions painted a picture of his universe he had never thought possible. The few people he let read it couldn't believe he had been the one to write it, and they had pressured him to submit it.
“Who knows,” Sergeant Martin said after looking over it before chow one morning, “you might actually make it out of shit hole like this with a story like this one.” Mark had laughed at the time, but he couldn't have guessed how right he would be.

* * * * * 

Mark pulled into the parking lot and looked for the dumpster.
Kevin said he had put it behind the green dumpster next to admin, and as he drove around the ominous wooden building, he saw the dumpster in question. The lids were open and Mark could see the flies swarming from here. The bags sat poking from the hole, black and glistening in the midday sun, and Mark hoped none of the smell would stick to his new chair. He had to be quick, he told himself, as he pulled up beside the dumpster and took one more look for anyone who might be watching.
This was private property, and if he was caught out here taking things from the dumpster, they could make trouble for him.
He climbed out of his truck, a bag of trash in hand as he approached the dumpster. He was just some guy from admin who was tossing some truck garbage, nothing out of the ordinary.
As Mark came around to the side of the dumpster, letting the bag fly in a lazy arc, he saw what he had come to for.
The chair was beautiful, just as he remembered it. The wood on the armrests and the feet was stained a dark brown, the faux leather a deep reverent blue. It would support his back and head, cradling it for maximum creativity. It hadn't changed a bit, and he wondered how they had let Kevin take it to the dumpster at all?
A chair this pristine, this undamaged by careless boots and oversized backsides, came around once in a career.
He suddenly didn't care who saw him.
Mark lifted the chair gingerly and put it into the bed of his truck. He carried it the way he might his wife as he brought her over the threshold, and the blanket he had brought made for a fine buffer against the scratchy bed liner. As Mark lifted the tailgate, he couldn't help but smile at the chair as it lay there benignly.
He had it!
The last piece of the puzzle!
Now, he could finally get back to...
“Mark?”
Mark stiffened, turning around slowly as a smile stretched painfully over his face. He recognized the voice, but her name escaped him. The smiling brunette was only about a foot away from him, leaning out the window of her car as she greeted him. She'd been on Mark's shift, they had spoken many times on the occasions when he came to the captains office or found himself on the yard, and Mark might have even considered asking her out once.
Now she was an obstacle, one more thing to overcome so he could return to his work.
“I thought that was you. What's a big time writer doing in a place like this?”
Mark stepped close to her car, grinning as he leaned down and hoping it looked natural.
“Just had to come and talk to HR about the rest of my vacation time. They still hadn't paid me for all of it and I could use the money until my royalty checks even out a little.”
He prayed silently behind that smile that she wouldn't see the chair as it lay there in the bed of his F150.
It was his chair, and she couldn't have it.
“I'm so jealous,” she said, “we're so short handed that I doubt I'll ever get to use any of mine. How have you been?”
“Good. Just enjoying doing what I love,” he said, his mind screaming behind that smile.
He had to go, he had to get out of here, he had to get back to what mattered.
He made a little more small talk before she realized she was going to be late and told Mark she would see him around. He turned to go, glad to be free of her, when she suddenly called his name and brought him back around. He was like an overclocked spring, ready to snap if she so much as mentioned the chair. She had to have seen it. How could she not. It was beautiful, it was captivating, and anyone who saw it would have to have it. He'd kill her right here if she made him. He needed that chair and he'd snap her neck as she hung out her window if she...
“Could you sign this for me?” she asked, taking a copy of his book off the passenger seat,
“I had been carrying it in the hopes I'd see you around. It would be great to have a signed copy.”
Mark sighed in relief, scratching his name on the inside cover before handing it back. He waved as she pulled off, wishing him well as she rolled towards the employee parking lot.
She hadn't even found a spot before Mark was speeding out of the lot and back onto the road towards Cashmere.
No more distraction, Mark had work to do.

* * * * * 

The book hadn't been an immediate success. No one had appeared to publish it, no fairy godmother had poofed into existence to make his dreams come true. Mark had shopped the novel around after proofing it for the fifth time, and found someone willing to take a chance on a first time writer. To their surprise, however, the novel had taken off after some shaky reception. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, grim dark tales rarely were, but as it found its audience, Mark was astonished at the praise he received.
When the publisher called to let him know he had broken a thousand copies, he was tickled.
When they called a week later to inform him it was more like fifty thousand, Mark was astonished.
When he hit the New York Times best seller list, he had taken a two week vacation so he could do a few interviews and some local TV spots.
When his new agent called to let him know that Amazon was interested in a TV adaptation, Mark knew he had arrived.
By then, Mark was already writing his resignation letter. He was thankful for the prison and what they had helped him accomplish, but he would need more time to focus on his work. Amazon was hoping for his take on the script they were putting together, and there were already rumblings for a sequel. The show writers were interested in the chance of a sequel too, and Mark figured he better get to writing one. He'd already started the first couple of chapters, and as he said goodbye to Stragview, he thought his life might truly be about to begin.
Two weeks later as he sat in front of his brand new computer with nothing to show for it, he started wondering what had gone wrong?
Mark tried everything in his power, but the ideas just wouldn't come. He tried taking his laptop to different places. He tried consuming different kinds of media or music as he wrote. He tried immersing himself in different genres, but nothing brought the muse back. His editor was clamoring for new pages, but Mark couldn't give him what he wanted. The Amazon reps were complaining that his notes on the script were lacking too. They wanted big ideas, concepts for the show, but Mark couldn't come up with anything.
The more he racked his brain, the less work he seemed to do, and the only conclusion he could come to was that the last time he had found good output was when he had worked at Stragview. Mark cast that idea aside, though. That couldn't be it. The prison was such a hectic environment, and unpredictable setting. It couldn't possibly be conducive to a productive writing environment.
It had to be something else.
That's how it all began.
That had been the start of his madness.
He pulled his truck into the backyard and came to rest outside the large shed he had purchased. It was no humble storage shed, not by a long shot, and as he took the chair out of the truck, Mark felt giddy with anticipation. This was it, the final piece, the last thing he needed to make everything perfect.
As the door came open, Mark looked once more upon the monstrosity he had created and was proud.
When he had contacted Kevin about getting some things, his old partner had been hesitant. Mark wanted pictures, layouts, specifics on brands of desks and computers, and Kevin had wanted to know why?
Once Mark offered to pay him, however, the questions became a little less important. Mark had constructed the desk first. A long workspace made of Formica and wood, every chip and every ding the same as the one that sat in G dorm, thanks to Kevin's photos. Then the computer, an old two thousand five model that Mark had picked them up pretty cheap. Having it come with the same OS and programs was a little more expensive, but nothing too ridiculous. Then came every basket, every folder, every coffee cup and roach stain present in the booth. A microwave from a yard sale. A coffee pot from a Dollar General. Paper and flyers and all them custom printed. It took months of work, but when Mark finally looked at the finished product, he knew he'd done it.
When he sat down to work, however, he knew immediately that something wasn't right. The windows had been wooden instead of metal, but the computer monitors that he played the security footage through were a stroke of genius. The footage had been hard to talk Kevin into, but the money had gone a long way. Kevin was in a lot of debt, like most CO's Mark knew, and the cash he was getting from the little project was likely helping him dig himself out of it. At least, Mark hoped it was, but he really didn't care what Kevin spent the money on.
When the windows and familiar view didn't help, thats when Mark realized what he needed. The chair was a piece of it, likely the most important, and as he set it down now, he felt sure this would be the moment he'd been waiting for.
He booted up the computer, reveling in the old clicks and clacks that the aged system made as it came up.
He watched the inmates press their faces against the glass as Sergeant Martin and Kevin, Officer Rack, began their count for the day.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as he soaked in the ambiance, and knew that the moment had come.
He opened Windows office, selected a new document, and set to work.
An hour later, he slammed his head against the desk and cried.
The idea's wouldn't come.
This had all been for nothing, an expensive nothing at that, and now he had nothing to show for it.
He was sunk, finished, his candle quenched before it's time.
“Quite an impressive set up you have here.”
He jumped as the voice wafted over him, and spun to find the Warden leaning in the door to his shed.
The Warden was the last person he had expected to find here, and he stood up at attention before he could stop himself. The Warden laughed, striding in as he took in the scene. He was such an odd character, and the sight of him outside the walls of Stragview was a little alarming. The Warden never left the compound, at least, Mark didn't think he had ever heard of him doing as much. Now he was here, standing inside Mark's shed and judging his efforts, and Mark wasn't sure what he expected.
“Security footage, pictures of secure locations within the prison, a chair with the maintenance ID still engraved on it, I've got enough here to have the police put you away for a while. I could probably get Officer Rack too while I'm at it, but I've got a much better idea.”
Mark shuddered as he watched the man circle like a shark, still not sure what to expect. “This isn't going to work, Officer Danbrey. This hollow shell isn't going to give you what you need, and I think you understand that now, don't you?”
Mark nodded, hanging his head in defeat.
“You need the magic that hangs around Stragview, something you can’t get from a chair and a desk. You happen to be in luck, because I need something as well.” He stopped then, and as he smiled at Mark he could swear the man's eyes glinted like brimstone.
“I need staff that are loyal to me, loyal to Stragview. Staff who know that if they choose to desert me, I can take that which they covet at a moment's notice. You want to write, to continue to grow your star? You need Stragview as much as it needs you.” The two stood and stared at each other for a count of five before Mark asked the question the old shark had been waiting for.
“When do I start?”
“Oh, you'll have to go through orientation again, since you've quit. You might even have to prove to your old captain that you belong in confinement again, but I think you'll make it back sooner than you think. Orientation for new hires starts Monday, and I'll expect you in the training building promptly at five am.”
Mark wanted to protest, but he knew now what the price for disobedience would be. He nodded, watching as The Warden stepped out of his shed as he walked towards the road. Mark saw no car, now means of conveyance, and wondered how the old imp had gotten here so quickly?
“And Officer Danbrey,” the Warden said, drawing Mark up sharply, “the next time you think about leaving to pursue greener pastures, remember how far the warden's grass stretches.”
The Warden left him to his contemplation then, smiling as he felt the weight settle on his newest acolytes soul.
None of them understood the magic of Stragview better than he.
It was why he had built the prison there in the first place.
Some of them might tap into that deep wellspring that lay beneath Stragview, but none of them would ever understand it.
It gave them visions, it helped them thrive, but in the end, it only added strings that the Warden could use to make them dance.

“It’s out by the dumpster, you better send the money. I could get fired for this.”
Mark sighed as he read the message, pulling on his pants as he grabbed his car keys. He’d have to be quick before someone figured out what it was. Kevin hadn’t been wrong. He and Mark could get in trouble for what they were about to do. Kevin could get fired, but Mark could very easily be arrested for trespassing. He didn’t work at the prison anymore, and
Stragview didn’t forget slights upon its honor like someone quitting.
It didn’t matter though, he needed that damn chair!
Mark had been working at Stragview for about two years when he finally hit the big time. When you were male and relatively consistent in your work schedule, it was only a matter of time before they put you in confinement. The Show, as many of them called it, had three quads, one of them being permanently sealed off for some reason, and was the bustling hub of the prison. The two guards he worked with, Sergeant Martin and Officer Rack, were solid as well, and they quickly figured out that Mark was a wiz when it came to paperwork and computer stuff. Both the old timers, both of his counterparts having ten plus years behind the fence, were more about flipping cells and keeping down problems than signing forms and housing new arrivals. As such, Mark was left in the bubble most of the time to run the nerve center of the unit while his new friends went to the floor for fun and games. Mark got pretty good at keeping it all between the ditches, and that was when he discovered his real passion.
Mark had dabbled in writing for years, but something about being inside the epicenter of segregation really brought out the best in his writing. Mark found the process of bunking inmates to be pretty easy and the paperwork was tedious but not too complicated. He usually finished his work fairly early in the evening, which left him lots of time to hone his craft. He'd been working on the same novel for years, a bit of grim dark sci-fi set in his own little universe, but he had never really been motivated to finish it. The novel was a hobby, something to pass the time when he had nothing better to do, and now, as he sat and watched the two go about their daily chores he found that he suddenly had nothing better to do.
He fell in with both feet, and night after night found him at the keyboard of the dorm computer as he banged out chapter after chapter. The longer he worked on it, the more he realized that what he was writing was actually pretty good. Better than good, even. He was writing better than he'd ever written, and whether it was the ambiance or some latent ability coming out in him, Mark found the pages coming together easily. The story was great and the descriptions painted a picture of his universe he had never thought possible. The few people he let read it couldn't believe he had been the one to write it, and they had pressured him to submit it.
“Who knows,” Sergeant Martin said after looking over it before chow one morning, “you might actually make it out of shit hole like this with a story like this one.” Mark had laughed at the time, but he couldn't have guessed how right he would be.

* * * * * 

Mark pulled into the parking lot and looked for the dumpster.
Kevin said he had put it behind the green dumpster next to admin, and as he drove around the ominous wooden building, he saw the dumpster in question. The lids were open and Mark could see the flies swarming from here. The bags sat poking from the hole, black and glistening in the midday sun, and Mark hoped none of the smell would stick to his new chair. He had to be quick, he told himself, as he pulled up beside the dumpster and took one more look for anyone who might be watching.
This was private property, and if he was caught out here taking things from the dumpster, they could make trouble for him.
He climbed out of his truck, a bag of trash in hand as he approached the dumpster. He was just some guy from admin who was tossing some truck garbage, nothing out of the ordinary.
As Mark came around to the side of the dumpster, letting the bag fly in a lazy arc, he saw what he had come to for.
The chair was beautiful, just as he remembered it. The wood on the armrests and the feet was stained a dark brown, the faux leather a deep reverent blue. It would support his back and head, cradling it for maximum creativity. It hadn't changed a bit, and he wondered how they had let Kevin take it to the dumpster at all?
A chair this pristine, this undamaged by careless boots and oversized backsides, came around once in a career.
He suddenly didn't care who saw him.
Mark lifted the chair gingerly and put it into the bed of his truck. He carried it the way he might his wife as he brought her over the threshold, and the blanket he had brought made for a fine buffer against the scratchy bed liner. As Mark lifted the tailgate, he couldn't help but smile at the chair as it lay there benignly.
He had it!
The last piece of the puzzle!
Now, he could finally get back to...
“Mark?”
Mark stiffened, turning around slowly as a smile stretched painfully over his face. He recognized the voice, but her name escaped him. The smiling brunette was only about a foot away from him, leaning out the window of her car as she greeted him. She'd been on Mark's shift, they had spoken many times on the occasions when he came to the captains office or found himself on the yard, and Mark might have even considered asking her out once.
Now she was an obstacle, one more thing to overcome so he could return to his work.
“I thought that was you. What's a big time writer doing in a place like this?”
Mark stepped close to her car, grinning as he leaned down and hoping it looked natural.
“Just had to come and talk to HR about the rest of my vacation time. They still hadn't paid me for all of it and I could use the money until my royalty checks even out a little.”
He prayed silently behind that smile that she wouldn't see the chair as it lay there in the bed of his F150.
It was his chair, and she couldn't have it.
“I'm so jealous,” she said, “we're so short handed that I doubt I'll ever get to use any of mine. How have you been?”
“Good. Just enjoying doing what I love,” he said, his mind screaming behind that smile.
He had to go, he had to get out of here, he had to get back to what mattered.
He made a little more small talk before she realized she was going to be late and told Mark she would see him around. He turned to go, glad to be free of her, when she suddenly called his name and brought him back around. He was like an overclocked spring, ready to snap if she so much as mentioned the chair. She had to have seen it. How could she not. It was beautiful, it was captivating, and anyone who saw it would have to have it. He'd kill her right here if she made him. He needed that chair and he'd snap her neck as she hung out her window if she...
“Could you sign this for me?” she asked, taking a copy of his book off the passenger seat,
“I had been carrying it in the hopes I'd see you around. It would be great to have a signed copy.”
Mark sighed in relief, scratching his name on the inside cover before handing it back. He waved as she pulled off, wishing him well as she rolled towards the employee parking lot.
She hadn't even found a spot before Mark was speeding out of the lot and back onto the road towards Cashmere.
No more distraction, Mark had work to do.

* * * * * 

The book hadn't been an immediate success. No one had appeared to publish it, no fairy godmother had poofed into existence to make his dreams come true. Mark had shopped the novel around after proofing it for the fifth time, and found someone willing to take a chance on a first time writer. To their surprise, however, the novel had taken off after some shaky reception. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, grim dark tales rarely were, but as it found its audience, Mark was astonished at the praise he received.
When the publisher called to let him know he had broken a thousand copies, he was tickled.
When they called a week later to inform him it was more like fifty thousand, Mark was astonished.
When he hit the New York Times best seller list, he had taken a two week vacation so he could do a few interviews and some local TV spots.
When his new agent called to let him know that Amazon was interested in a TV adaptation, Mark knew he had arrived.
By then, Mark was already writing his resignation letter. He was thankful for the prison and what they had helped him accomplish, but he would need more time to focus on his work. Amazon was hoping for his take on the script they were putting together, and there were already rumblings for a sequel. The show writers were interested in the chance of a sequel too, and Mark figured he better get to writing one. He'd already started the first couple of chapters, and as he said goodbye to Stragview, he thought his life might truly be about to begin.
Two weeks later as he sat in front of his brand new computer with nothing to show for it, he started wondering what had gone wrong?
Mark tried everything in his power, but the ideas just wouldn't come. He tried taking his laptop to different places. He tried consuming different kinds of media or music as he wrote. He tried immersing himself in different genres, but nothing brought the muse back. His editor was clamoring for new pages, but Mark couldn't give him what he wanted. The Amazon reps were complaining that his notes on the script were lacking too. They wanted big ideas, concepts for the show, but Mark couldn't come up with anything.
The more he racked his brain, the less work he seemed to do, and the only conclusion he could come to was that the last time he had found good output was when he had worked at Stragview. Mark cast that idea aside, though. That couldn't be it. The prison was such a hectic environment, and unpredictable setting. It couldn't possibly be conducive to a productive writing environment.
It had to be something else.
That's how it all began.
That had been the start of his madness.
He pulled his truck into the backyard and came to rest outside the large shed he had purchased. It was no humble storage shed, not by a long shot, and as he took the chair out of the truck, Mark felt giddy with anticipation. This was it, the final piece, the last thing he needed to make everything perfect.
As the door came open, Mark looked once more upon the monstrosity he had created and was proud.
When he had contacted Kevin about getting some things, his old partner had been hesitant. Mark wanted pictures, layouts, specifics on brands of desks and computers, and Kevin had wanted to know why?
Once Mark offered to pay him, however, the questions became a little less important. Mark had constructed the desk first. A long workspace made of Formica and wood, every chip and every ding the same as the one that sat in G dorm, thanks to Kevin's photos. Then the computer, an old two thousand five model that Mark had picked them up pretty cheap. Having it come with the same OS and programs was a little more expensive, but nothing too ridiculous. Then came every basket, every folder, every coffee cup and roach stain present in the booth. A microwave from a yard sale. A coffee pot from a Dollar General. Paper and flyers and all them custom printed. It took months of work, but when Mark finally looked at the finished product, he knew he'd done it.
When he sat down to work, however, he knew immediately that something wasn't right. The windows had been wooden instead of metal, but the computer monitors that he played the security footage through were a stroke of genius. The footage had been hard to talk Kevin into, but the money had gone a long way. Kevin was in a lot of debt, like most CO's Mark knew, and the cash he was getting from the little project was likely helping him dig himself out of it. At least, Mark hoped it was, but he really didn't care what Kevin spent the money on.
When the windows and familiar view didn't help, thats when Mark realized what he needed. The chair was a piece of it, likely the most important, and as he set it down now, he felt sure this would be the moment he'd been waiting for.
He booted up the computer, reveling in the old clicks and clacks that the aged system made as it came up.
He watched the inmates press their faces against the glass as Sergeant Martin and Kevin, Officer Rack, began their count for the day.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as he soaked in the ambiance, and knew that the moment had come.
He opened Windows office, selected a new document, and set to work.
An hour later, he slammed his head against the desk and cried.
The idea's wouldn't come.
This had all been for nothing, an expensive nothing at that, and now he had nothing to show for it.
He was sunk, finished, his candle quenched before it's time.
“Quite an impressive set up you have here.”
He jumped as the voice wafted over him, and spun to find the Warden leaning in the door to his shed.
The Warden was the last person he had expected to find here, and he stood up at attention before he could stop himself. The Warden laughed, striding in as he took in the scene. He was such an odd character, and the sight of him outside the walls of Stragview was a little alarming. The Warden never left the compound, at least, Mark didn't think he had ever heard of him doing as much. Now he was here, standing inside Mark's shed and judging his efforts, and Mark wasn't sure what he expected.
“Security footage, pictures of secure locations within the prison, a chair with the maintenance ID still engraved on it, I've got enough here to have the police put you away for a while. I could probably get Officer Rack too while I'm at it, but I've got a much better idea.”
Mark shuddered as he watched the man circle like a shark, still not sure what to expect. “This isn't going to work, Officer Danbrey. This hollow shell isn't going to give you what you need, and I think you understand that now, don't you?”
Mark nodded, hanging his head in defeat.
“You need the magic that hangs around Stragview, something you can’t get from a chair and a desk. You happen to be in luck, because I need something as well.” He stopped then, and as he smiled at Mark he could swear the man's eyes glinted like brimstone.
“I need staff that are loyal to me, loyal to Stragview. Staff who know that if they choose to desert me, I can take that which they covet at a moment's notice. You want to write, to continue to grow your star? You need Stragview as much as it needs you.” The two stood and stared at each other for a count of five before Mark asked the question the old shark had been waiting for.
“When do I start?”
“Oh, you'll have to go through orientation again, since you've quit. You might even have to prove to your old captain that you belong in confinement again, but I think you'll make it back sooner than you think. Orientation for new hires starts Monday, and I'll expect you in the training building promptly at five am.”
Mark wanted to protest, but he knew now what the price for disobedience would be. He nodded, watching as The Warden stepped out of his shed as he walked towards the road. Mark saw no car, now means of conveyance, and wondered how the old imp had gotten here so quickly?
“And Officer Danbrey,” the Warden said, drawing Mark up sharply, “the next time you think about leaving to pursue greener pastures, remember how far the warden's grass stretches.”
The Warden left him to his contemplation then, smiling as he felt the weight settle on his newest acolytes soul.
None of them understood the magic of Stragview better than he.
It was why he had built the prison there in the first place.
Some of them might tap into that deep wellspring that lay beneath Stragview, but none of them would ever understand it.
It gave them visions, it helped them thrive, but in the end, it only added strings that the Warden could use to make them dance.

“It’s out by the dumpster, you better send the money. I could get fired for this.”
Mark sighed as he read the message, pulling on his pants as he grabbed his car keys. He’d have to be quick before someone figured out what it was. Kevin hadn’t been wrong. He and Mark could get in trouble for what they were about to do. Kevin could get fired, but Mark could very easily be arrested for trespassing. He didn’t work at the prison anymore, and
Stragview didn’t forget slights upon its honor like someone quitting.
It didn’t matter though, he needed that damn chair!
Mark had been working at Stragview for about two years when he finally hit the big time. When you were male and relatively consistent in your work schedule, it was only a matter of time before they put you in confinement. The Show, as many of them called it, had three quads, one of them being permanently sealed off for some reason, and was the bustling hub of the prison. The two guards he worked with, Sergeant Martin and Officer Rack, were solid as well, and they quickly figured out that Mark was a wiz when it came to paperwork and computer stuff. Both the old timers, both of his counterparts having ten plus years behind the fence, were more about flipping cells and keeping down problems than signing forms and housing new arrivals. As such, Mark was left in the bubble most of the time to run the nerve center of the unit while his new friends went to the floor for fun and games. Mark got pretty good at keeping it all between the ditches, and that was when he discovered his real passion.
Mark had dabbled in writing for years, but something about being inside the epicenter of segregation really brought out the best in his writing. Mark found the process of bunking inmates to be pretty easy and the paperwork was tedious but not too complicated. He usually finished his work fairly early in the evening, which left him lots of time to hone his craft. He'd been working on the same novel for years, a bit of grim dark sci-fi set in his own little universe, but he had never really been motivated to finish it. The novel was a hobby, something to pass the time when he had nothing better to do, and now, as he sat and watched the two go about their daily chores he found that he suddenly had nothing better to do.
He fell in with both feet, and night after night found him at the keyboard of the dorm computer as he banged out chapter after chapter. The longer he worked on it, the more he realized that what he was writing was actually pretty good. Better than good, even. He was writing better than he'd ever written, and whether it was the ambiance or some latent ability coming out in him, Mark found the pages coming together easily. The story was great and the descriptions painted a picture of his universe he had never thought possible. The few people he let read it couldn't believe he had been the one to write it, and they had pressured him to submit it.
“Who knows,” Sergeant Martin said after looking over it before chow one morning, “you might actually make it out of shit hole like this with a story like this one.” Mark had laughed at the time, but he couldn't have guessed how right he would be.

* * * * * 

Mark pulled into the parking lot and looked for the dumpster.
Kevin said he had put it behind the green dumpster next to admin, and as he drove around the ominous wooden building, he saw the dumpster in question. The lids were open and Mark could see the flies swarming from here. The bags sat poking from the hole, black and glistening in the midday sun, and Mark hoped none of the smell would stick to his new chair. He had to be quick, he told himself, as he pulled up beside the dumpster and took one more look for anyone who might be watching.
This was private property, and if he was caught out here taking things from the dumpster, they could make trouble for him.
He climbed out of his truck, a bag of trash in hand as he approached the dumpster. He was just some guy from admin who was tossing some truck garbage, nothing out of the ordinary.
As Mark came around to the side of the dumpster, letting the bag fly in a lazy arc, he saw what he had come to for.
The chair was beautiful, just as he remembered it. The wood on the armrests and the feet was stained a dark brown, the faux leather a deep reverent blue. It would support his back and head, cradling it for maximum creativity. It hadn't changed a bit, and he wondered how they had let Kevin take it to the dumpster at all?
A chair this pristine, this undamaged by careless boots and oversized backsides, came around once in a career.
He suddenly didn't care who saw him.
Mark lifted the chair gingerly and put it into the bed of his truck. He carried it the way he might his wife as he brought her over the threshold, and the blanket he had brought made for a fine buffer against the scratchy bed liner. As Mark lifted the tailgate, he couldn't help but smile at the chair as it lay there benignly.
He had it!
The last piece of the puzzle!
Now, he could finally get back to...
“Mark?”
Mark stiffened, turning around slowly as a smile stretched painfully over his face. He recognized the voice, but her name escaped him. The smiling brunette was only about a foot away from him, leaning out the window of her car as she greeted him. She'd been on Mark's shift, they had spoken many times on the occasions when he came to the captains office or found himself on the yard, and Mark might have even considered asking her out once.
Now she was an obstacle, one more thing to overcome so he could return to his work.
“I thought that was you. What's a big time writer doing in a place like this?”
Mark stepped close to her car, grinning as he leaned down and hoping it looked natural.
“Just had to come and talk to HR about the rest of my vacation time. They still hadn't paid me for all of it and I could use the money until my royalty checks even out a little.”
He prayed silently behind that smile that she wouldn't see the chair as it lay there in the bed of his F150.
It was his chair, and she couldn't have it.
“I'm so jealous,” she said, “we're so short handed that I doubt I'll ever get to use any of mine. How have you been?”
“Good. Just enjoying doing what I love,” he said, his mind screaming behind that smile.
He had to go, he had to get out of here, he had to get back to what mattered.
He made a little more small talk before she realized she was going to be late and told Mark she would see him around. He turned to go, glad to be free of her, when she suddenly called his name and brought him back around. He was like an overclocked spring, ready to snap if she so much as mentioned the chair. She had to have seen it. How could she not. It was beautiful, it was captivating, and anyone who saw it would have to have it. He'd kill her right here if she made him. He needed that chair and he'd snap her neck as she hung out her window if she...
“Could you sign this for me?” she asked, taking a copy of his book off the passenger seat,
“I had been carrying it in the hopes I'd see you around. It would be great to have a signed copy.”
Mark sighed in relief, scratching his name on the inside cover before handing it back. He waved as she pulled off, wishing him well as she rolled towards the employee parking lot.
She hadn't even found a spot before Mark was speeding out of the lot and back onto the road towards Cashmere.
No more distraction, Mark had work to do.

* * * * * 

The book hadn't been an immediate success. No one had appeared to publish it, no fairy godmother had poofed into existence to make his dreams come true. Mark had shopped the novel around after proofing it for the fifth time, and found someone willing to take a chance on a first time writer. To their surprise, however, the novel had taken off after some shaky reception. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, grim dark tales rarely were, but as it found its audience, Mark was astonished at the praise he received.
When the publisher called to let him know he had broken a thousand copies, he was tickled.
When they called a week later to inform him it was more like fifty thousand, Mark was astonished.
When he hit the New York Times best seller list, he had taken a two week vacation so he could do a few interviews and some local TV spots.
When his new agent called to let him know that Amazon was interested in a TV adaptation, Mark knew he had arrived.
By then, Mark was already writing his resignation letter. He was thankful for the prison and what they had helped him accomplish, but he would need more time to focus on his work. Amazon was hoping for his take on the script they were putting together, and there were already rumblings for a sequel. The show writers were interested in the chance of a sequel too, and Mark figured he better get to writing one. He'd already started the first couple of chapters, and as he said goodbye to Stragview, he thought his life might truly be about to begin.
Two weeks later as he sat in front of his brand new computer with nothing to show for it, he started wondering what had gone wrong?
Mark tried everything in his power, but the ideas just wouldn't come. He tried taking his laptop to different places. He tried consuming different kinds of media or music as he wrote. He tried immersing himself in different genres, but nothing brought the muse back. His editor was clamoring for new pages, but Mark couldn't give him what he wanted. The Amazon reps were complaining that his notes on the script were lacking too. They wanted big ideas, concepts for the show, but Mark couldn't come up with anything.
The more he racked his brain, the less work he seemed to do, and the only conclusion he could come to was that the last time he had found good output was when he had worked at Stragview. Mark cast that idea aside, though. That couldn't be it. The prison was such a hectic environment, and unpredictable setting. It couldn't possibly be conducive to a productive writing environment.
It had to be something else.
That's how it all began.
That had been the start of his madness.
He pulled his truck into the backyard and came to rest outside the large shed he had purchased. It was no humble storage shed, not by a long shot, and as he took the chair out of the truck, Mark felt giddy with anticipation. This was it, the final piece, the last thing he needed to make everything perfect.
As the door came open, Mark looked once more upon the monstrosity he had created and was proud.
When he had contacted Kevin about getting some things, his old partner had been hesitant. Mark wanted pictures, layouts, specifics on brands of desks and computers, and Kevin had wanted to know why?
Once Mark offered to pay him, however, the questions became a little less important. Mark had constructed the desk first. A long workspace made of Formica and wood, every chip and every ding the same as the one that sat in G dorm, thanks to Kevin's photos. Then the computer, an old two thousand five model that Mark had picked them up pretty cheap. Having it come with the same OS and programs was a little more expensive, but nothing too ridiculous. Then came every basket, every folder, every coffee cup and roach stain present in the booth. A microwave from a yard sale. A coffee pot from a Dollar General. Paper and flyers and all them custom printed. It took months of work, but when Mark finally looked at the finished product, he knew he'd done it.
When he sat down to work, however, he knew immediately that something wasn't right. The windows had been wooden instead of metal, but the computer monitors that he played the security footage through were a stroke of genius. The footage had been hard to talk Kevin into, but the money had gone a long way. Kevin was in a lot of debt, like most CO's Mark knew, and the cash he was getting from the little project was likely helping him dig himself out of it. At least, Mark hoped it was, but he really didn't care what Kevin spent the money on.
When the windows and familiar view didn't help, thats when Mark realized what he needed. The chair was a piece of it, likely the most important, and as he set it down now, he felt sure this would be the moment he'd been waiting for.
He booted up the computer, reveling in the old clicks and clacks that the aged system made as it came up.
He watched the inmates press their faces against the glass as Sergeant Martin and Kevin, Officer Rack, began their count for the day.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as he soaked in the ambiance, and knew that the moment had come.
He opened Windows office, selected a new document, and set to work.
An hour later, he slammed his head against the desk and cried.
The idea's wouldn't come.
This had all been for nothing, an expensive nothing at that, and now he had nothing to show for it.
He was sunk, finished, his candle quenched before it's time.
“Quite an impressive set up you have here.”
He jumped as the voice wafted over him, and spun to find the Warden leaning in the door to his shed.
The Warden was the last person he had expected to find here, and he stood up at attention before he could stop himself. The Warden laughed, striding in as he took in the scene. He was such an odd character, and the sight of him outside the walls of Stragview was a little alarming. The Warden never left the compound, at least, Mark didn't think he had ever heard of him doing as much. Now he was here, standing inside Mark's shed and judging his efforts, and Mark wasn't sure what he expected.
“Security footage, pictures of secure locations within the prison, a chair with the maintenance ID still engraved on it, I've got enough here to have the police put you away for a while. I could probably get Officer Rack too while I'm at it, but I've got a much better idea.”
Mark shuddered as he watched the man circle like a shark, still not sure what to expect. “This isn't going to work, Officer Danbrey. This hollow shell isn't going to give you what you need, and I think you understand that now, don't you?”
Mark nodded, hanging his head in defeat.
“You need the magic that hangs around Stragview, something you can’t get from a chair and a desk. You happen to be in luck, because I need something as well.” He stopped then, and as he smiled at Mark he could swear the man's eyes glinted like brimstone.
“I need staff that are loyal to me, loyal to Stragview. Staff who know that if they choose to desert me, I can take that which they covet at a moment's notice. You want to write, to continue to grow your star? You need Stragview as much as it needs you.” The two stood and stared at each other for a count of five before Mark asked the question the old shark had been waiting for.
“When do I start?”
“Oh, you'll have to go through orientation again, since you've quit. You might even have to prove to your old captain that you belong in confinement again, but I think you'll make it back sooner than you think. Orientation for new hires starts Monday, and I'll expect you in the training building promptly at five am.”
Mark wanted to protest, but he knew now what the price for disobedience would be. He nodded, watching as The Warden stepped out of his shed as he walked towards the road. Mark saw no car, now means of conveyance, and wondered how the old imp had gotten here so quickly?
“And Officer Danbrey,” the Warden said, drawing Mark up sharply, “the next time you think about leaving to pursue greener pastures, remember how far the warden's grass stretches.”
The Warden left him to his contemplation then, smiling as he felt the weight settle on his newest acolytes soul.
None of them understood the magic of Stragview better than he.
It was why he had built the prison there in the first place.
Some of them might tap into that deep wellspring that lay beneath Stragview, but none of them would ever understand it.
It gave them visions, it helped them thrive, but in the end, it only added strings that the Warden could use to make them dance.

​
“It’s out by the dumpster, you better send the money. I could get fired for this.”
Mark sighed as he read the message, pulling on his pants as he grabbed his car keys. He’d have to be quick before someone figured out what it was. Kevin hadn’t been wrong. He and Mark could get in trouble for what they were about to do. Kevin could get fired, but Mark could very easily be arrested for trespassing. He didn’t work at the prison anymore, and Stragview didn’t forget slights upon its honor like someone quitting.
It didn’t matter though, he needed that damn chair!
Mark had been working at Stragview for about two years when he finally hit the big time. When you were male and relatively consistent in your work schedule, it was only a matter of time before they put you in confinement. The Show, as many of them called it, had three quads, one of them being permanently sealed off for some reason, and was the bustling hub of the prison. The two guards he worked with, Sergeant Martin and Officer Rack, were solid as well, and they quickly figured out that Mark was a wiz when it came to paperwork and computer stuff. Both the old timers, both of his counterparts having ten plus years behind the fence, were more about flipping cells and keeping down problems than signing forms and housing new arrivals. As such, Mark was left in the bubble most of the time to run the nerve center of the unit while his new friends went to the floor for fun and games.
Mark got pretty good at keeping it all between the ditches, and that was when he discovered his real passion.
Mark had dabbled in writing for years, but something about being inside the epicenter of segregation really brought out the best in his writing. Mark found the process of bunking inmates to be pretty easy and the paperwork was tedious but not too complicated. He usually finished his work fairly early in the evening, which left him lots of time to hone his craft. He'd been working on the same novel for years, a bit of grim dark sci-fi set in his own little universe, but he had never really been motivated to finish it. The novel was a hobby, something to pass the time when he had nothing better to do, and now, as he sat and watched the two go about their daily chores he found that he suddenly had nothing better to do.
He fell in with both feet, and night after night found him at the keyboard of the dorm computer as he banged out chapter after chapter. The longer he worked on it, the more he realized that what he was writing was actually pretty good. Better than good, even. He was writing better than he'd ever written, and whether it was the ambiance or some latent ability coming out in him, Mark found the pages coming together easily. The story was great and the descriptions painted a picture of his universe he had never thought possible. The few people he let read it couldn't believe he had been the one to write it, and they had pressured him to submit it.
“Who knows,” Sergeant Martin said after looking over it before chow one morning, “you might actually make it out of shit hole like this with a story like this one.”
Mark had laughed at the time, but he couldn't have guessed how right he would be.
* * * * *
Mark pulled into the parking lot and looked for the dumpster.
Kevin said he had put it behind the green dumpster next to admin, and as he drove around the ominous wooden building, he saw the dumpster in question. The lids were open and Mark could see the flies swarming from here. The bags sat poking from the hole, black and glistening in the midday sun, and Mark hoped none of the smell would stick to his new chair. He had to be quick, he told himself, as he pulled up beside the dumpster and took one more look for anyone who might be watching.
This was private property, and if he was caught out here taking things from the dumpster, they could make trouble for him.
He climbed out of his truck, a bag of trash in hand as he approached the dumpster.
He was just some guy from admin who was tossing some truck garbage, nothing out of the ordinary.
As Mark came around to the side of the dumpster, letting the bag fly in a lazy arc, he saw what he had come to for.
The chair was beautiful, just as he remembered it. The wood on the armrests and the feet was stained a dark brown, the faux leather a deep reverent blue. It would support his back and head, cradling it for maximum creativity. It hadn't changed a bit, and he wondered how they had let Kevin take it to the dumpster at all?
A chair this pristine, this undamaged by careless boots and oversized backsides, came around once in a career.
He suddenly didn't care who saw him.
Mark lifted the chair gingerly and put it into the bed of his truck. He carried it the way he might his wife as he brought her over the threshold, and the blanket he had brought made for a fine buffer against the scratchy bed liner. As Mark lifted the tailgate, he couldn't help but smile at the chair as it lay there benignly.
He had it!
The last piece of the puzzle!
Now, he could finally get back to...
“Mark?”
Mark stiffened, turning around slowly as a smile stretched painfully over his face. He recognized the voice, but her name escaped him. The smiling brunette was only about a foot away from him, leaning out the window of her car as she greeted him. She'd been on Mark's shift, they had spoken many times on the occasions when he came to the captains office or found himself on the yard, and Mark might have even considered asking her out once.
Now she was an obstacle, one more thing to overcome so he could return to his work.
“I thought that was you. What's a big time writer doing in a place like this?”
Mark stepped close to her car, grinning as he leaned down and hoping it looked natural.
“Just had to come and talk to HR about the rest of my vacation time. They still hadn't paid me for all of it and I could use the money until my royalty checks even out a little.”
He prayed silently behind that smile that she wouldn't see the chair as it lay there in the bed of his F150.
It was his chair, and she couldn't have it.
“I'm so jealous,” she said, “we're so short handed that I doubt I'll ever get to use any of mine. How have you been?”
“Good. Just enjoying doing what I love,” he said, his mind screaming behind that smile.
He had to go, he had to get out of here, he had to get back to what mattered.
He made a little more small talk before she realized she was going to be late and told Mark she would see him around. He turned to go, glad to be free of her, when she suddenly called his name and brought him back around. He was like an overclocked spring, ready to snap if she so much as mentioned the chair. She had to have seen it. How could she not. It was beautiful, it was captivating, and anyone who saw it would have to have it. He'd kill her right here if she made him. He needed that chair and he'd snap her neck as she hung out her window if she...
“Could you sign this for me?” she asked, taking a copy of his book off the passenger seat, “I had been carrying it in the hopes I'd see you around. It would be great to have a signed copy.”
Mark sighed in relief, scratching his name on the inside cover before handing it back.
He waved as she pulled off, wishing him well as she rolled towards the employee parking lot.
She hadn't even found a spot before Mark was speeding out of the lot and back onto the road towards Cashmere.
No more distraction, Mark had work to do.
* * * * *
The book hadn't been an immediate success. No one had appeared to publish it, no fairy godmother had poofed into existence to make his dreams come true. Mark had shopped the novel around after proofing it for the fifth time, and found someone willing to take a chance on a first time writer. To their surprise, however, the novel had taken off after some shaky reception. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, grim dark tales rarely were, but as it found its audience, Mark was astonished at the praise he received.
When the publisher called to let him know he had broken a thousand copies, he was tickled.
When they called a week later to inform him it was more like fifty thousand, Mark was astonished.
When he hit the New York Times best seller list, he had taken a two week vacation so he could do a few interviews and some local TV spots.
When his new agent called to let him know that Amazon was interested in a TV adaptation, Mark knew he had arrived.
By then, Mark was already writing his resignation letter. He was thankful for the prison and what they had helped him accomplish, but he would need more time to focus on his work. Amazon was hoping for his take on the script they were putting together, and there were already rumblings for a sequel. The show writers were interested in the chance of a sequel too, and Mark figured he better get to writing one. He'd already started the first couple of chapters, and as he said goodbye to Stragview, he thought his life might truly be about to begin.
Two weeks later as he sat in front of his brand new computer with nothing to show for it, he started wondering what had gone wrong?
Mark tried everything in his power, but the ideas just wouldn't come. He tried taking his laptop to different places. He tried consuming different kinds of media or music as he wrote. He tried immersing himself in different genres, but nothing brought the muse back. His editor was clamoring for new pages, but Mark couldn't give him what he wanted. The Amazon reps were complaining that his notes on the script were lacking too. They wanted big ideas, concepts for the show, but Mark couldn't come up with anything.
The more he racked his brain, the less work he seemed to do, and the only conclusion he could come to was that the last time he had found good output was when he had worked at Stragview. Mark cast that idea aside, though. That couldn't be it. The prison was such a hectic environment, and unpredictable setting. It couldn't possibly be conducive to a productive writing environment.
It had to be something else.
That's how it all began.
That had been the start of his madness.
* * * * *
He pulled his truck into the backyard and came to rest outside the large shed he had purchased. It was no humble storage shed, not by a long shot, and as he took the chair out of the truck, Mark felt giddy with anticipation. This was it, the final piece, the last thing he needed to make everything perfect.
As the door came open, Mark looked once more upon the monstrosity he had created and was proud.
When he had contacted Kevin about getting some things, his old partner had been hesitant.
Mark wanted pictures, layouts, specifics on brands of desks and computers, and Kevin had wanted to know why?
Once Mark offered to pay him, however, the questions became a little less important.
Mark had constructed the desk first. A long workspace made of Formica and wood, every chip and every ding the same as the one that sat in G dorm, thanks to Kevin's photos. Then the computer, an old two thousand five model that Mark had picked them up pretty cheap. Having it come with the same OS and programs was a little more expensive, but nothing too ridiculous. Then came every basket, every folder, every coffee cup and roach stain present in the booth. A microwave from a yard sale. A coffee pot from a Dollar General. Paper and flyers and all them custom printed. It took months of work, but when Mark finally looked at the finished product, he knew he'd done it.
When he sat down to work, however, he knew immediately that something wasn't right.
The windows had been wooden instead of metal, but the computer monitors that he played the security footage through were a stroke of genius. The footage had been hard to talk Kevin into, but the money had gone a long way. Kevin was in a lot of debt, like most CO's Mark knew, and the cash he was getting from the little project was likely helping him dig himself out of it. At least, Mark hoped it was, but he really didn't care what Kevin spent the money on.
When the windows and familiar view didn't help, thats when Mark realized what he needed.
The chair was a piece of it, likely the most important, and as he set it down now, he felt sure this would be the moment he'd been waiting for.
He booted up the computer, reveling in the old clicks and clacks that the aged system made as it came up.
He watched the inmates press their faces against the glass as Sergeant Martin and Kevin, Officer Rack, began their count for the day.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as he soaked in the ambiance, and knew that the moment had come.
He opened Windows office, selected a new document, and set to work.
An hour later, he slammed his head against the desk and cried.
The idea's wouldn't come.
This had all been for nothing, an expensive nothing at that, and now he had nothing to show for it.
He was sunk, finished, his candle quenched before it's time.
“Quite an impressive set up you have here.”
He jumped as the voice wafted over him, and spun to find the Warden leaning in the door to his shed.
The Warden was the last person he had expected to find here, and he stood up at attention before he could stop himself. The Warden laughed, striding in as he took in the scene. He was such an odd character, and the sight of him outside the walls of Stragview was a little alarming. The Warden never left the compound, at least, Mark didn't think he had ever heard of him doing as much. Now he was here, standing inside Mark's shed and judging his efforts, and Mark wasn't sure what he expected.
“Security footage, pictures of secure locations within the prison, a chair with the maintenance ID still engraved on it, I've got enough here to have the police put you away for a while. I could probably get Officer Rack too while I'm at it, but I've got a much better idea.”
Mark shuddered as he watched the man circle like a shark, still not sure what to expect.
“This isn't going to work, Officer Danbrey. This hollow shell isn't going to give you what you need, and I think you understand that now, don't you?”
Mark nodded, hanging his head in defeat.
“You need the magic that hangs around Stragview, something you can’t get from a chair and a desk. You happen to be in luck, because I need something as well.”
He stopped then, and as he smiled at Mark he could swear the man's eyes glinted like brimstone.
“I need staff that are loyal to me, loyal to Stragview. Staff who know that if they choose to desert me, I can take that which they covet at a moment's notice. You want to write, to continue to grow your star? You need Stragview as much as it needs you.”
The two stood and stared at each other for a count of five before Mark asked the question the old shark had been waiting for.
“When do I start?”
“Oh, you'll have to go through orientation again, since you've quit. You might even have to prove to your old captain that you belong in confinement again, but I think you'll make it back sooner than you think. Orientation for new hires starts Monday, and I'll expect you in the training building promptly at five am.”
Mark wanted to protest, but he knew now what the price for disobedience would be.
He nodded, watching as The Warden stepped out of his shed as he walked towards the road.
Mark saw no car, now means of conveyance, and wondered how the old imp had gotten here so quickly?
“And Officer Danbrey,” the Warden said, drawing Mark up sharply, “the next time you think about leaving to pursue greener pastures, remember how far the warden's grass stretches.”
The Warden left him to his contemplation then, smiling as he felt the weight settle on his newest acolytes soul.
None of them understood the magic of Stragview better than he.
It was why he had built the prison there in the first place.
Some of them might tap into that deep wellspring that lay beneath Stragview, but none of them would ever understand it.
It gave them visions, it helped them thrive, but in the end, it only added strings that the Warden could use to make them dance.

​
“It’s out by the dumpster, you better send the money. I could get fired for this.”
Mark sighed as he read the message, pulling on his pants as he grabbed his car keys. He’d have to be quick before someone figured out what it was. Kevin hadn’t been wrong. He and Mark could get in trouble for what they were about to do. Kevin could get fired, but Mark could very easily be arrested for trespassing. He didn’t work at the prison anymore, and Stragview didn’t forget slights upon its honor like someone quitting.
It didn’t matter though, he needed that damn chair!
Mark had been working at Stragview for about two years when he finally hit the big time. When you were male and relatively consistent in your work schedule, it was only a matter of time before they put you in confinement. The Show, as many of them called it, had three quads, one of them being permanently sealed off for some reason, and was the bustling hub of the prison. The two guards he worked with, Sergeant Martin and Officer Rack, were solid as well, and they quickly figured out that Mark was a wiz when it came to paperwork and computer stuff. Both the old timers, both of his counterparts having ten plus years behind the fence, were more about flipping cells and keeping down problems than signing forms and housing new arrivals. As such, Mark was left in the bubble most of the time to run the nerve center of the unit while his new friends went to the floor for fun and games.
Mark got pretty good at keeping it all between the ditches, and that was when he discovered his real passion.
Mark had dabbled in writing for years, but something about being inside the epicenter of segregation really brought out the best in his writing. Mark found the process of bunking inmates to be pretty easy and the paperwork was tedious but not too complicated. He usually finished his work fairly early in the evening, which left him lots of time to hone his craft. He'd been working on the same novel for years, a bit of grim dark sci-fi set in his own little universe, but he had never really been motivated to finish it. The novel was a hobby, something to pass the time when he had nothing better to do, and now, as he sat and watched the two go about their daily chores he found that he suddenly had nothing better to do.
He fell in with both feet, and night after night found him at the keyboard of the dorm computer as he banged out chapter after chapter. The longer he worked on it, the more he realized that what he was writing was actually pretty good. Better than good, even. He was writing better than he'd ever written, and whether it was the ambiance or some latent ability coming out in him, Mark found the pages coming together easily. The story was great and the descriptions painted a picture of his universe he had never thought possible. The few people he let read it couldn't believe he had been the one to write it, and they had pressured him to submit it.
“Who knows,” Sergeant Martin said after looking over it before chow one morning, “you might actually make it out of shit hole like this with a story like this one.”
Mark had laughed at the time, but he couldn't have guessed how right he would be.
* * * * *
Mark pulled into the parking lot and looked for the dumpster.
Kevin said he had put it behind the green dumpster next to admin, and as he drove around the ominous wooden building, he saw the dumpster in question. The lids were open and Mark could see the flies swarming from here. The bags sat poking from the hole, black and glistening in the midday sun, and Mark hoped none of the smell would stick to his new chair. He had to be quick, he told himself, as he pulled up beside the dumpster and took one more look for anyone who might be watching.
This was private property, and if he was caught out here taking things from the dumpster, they could make trouble for him.
He climbed out of his truck, a bag of trash in hand as he approached the dumpster.
He was just some guy from admin who was tossing some truck garbage, nothing out of the ordinary.
As Mark came around to the side of the dumpster, letting the bag fly in a lazy arc, he saw what he had come to for.
The chair was beautiful, just as he remembered it. The wood on the armrests and the feet was stained a dark brown, the faux leather a deep reverent blue. It would support his back and head, cradling it for maximum creativity. It hadn't changed a bit, and he wondered how they had let Kevin take it to the dumpster at all?
A chair this pristine, this undamaged by careless boots and oversized backsides, came around once in a career.
He suddenly didn't care who saw him.
Mark lifted the chair gingerly and put it into the bed of his truck. He carried it the way he might his wife as he brought her over the threshold, and the blanket he had brought made for a fine buffer against the scratchy bed liner. As Mark lifted the tailgate, he couldn't help but smile at the chair as it lay there benignly.
He had it!
The last piece of the puzzle!
Now, he could finally get back to...
“Mark?”
Mark stiffened, turning around slowly as a smile stretched painfully over his face. He recognized the voice, but her name escaped him. The smiling brunette was only about a foot away from him, leaning out the window of her car as she greeted him. She'd been on Mark's shift, they had spoken many times on the occasions when he came to the captains office or found himself on the yard, and Mark might have even considered asking her out once.
Now she was an obstacle, one more thing to overcome so he could return to his work.
“I thought that was you. What's a big time writer doing in a place like this?”
Mark stepped close to her car, grinning as he leaned down and hoping it looked natural.
“Just had to come and talk to HR about the rest of my vacation time. They still hadn't paid me for all of it and I could use the money until my royalty checks even out a little.”
He prayed silently behind that smile that she wouldn't see the chair as it lay there in the bed of his F150.
It was his chair, and she couldn't have it.
“I'm so jealous,” she said, “we're so short handed that I doubt I'll ever get to use any of mine. How have you been?”
“Good. Just enjoying doing what I love,” he said, his mind screaming behind that smile.
He had to go, he had to get out of here, he had to get back to what mattered.
He made a little more small talk before she realized she was going to be late and told Mark she would see him around. He turned to go, glad to be free of her, when she suddenly called his name and brought him back around. He was like an overclocked spring, ready to snap if she so much as mentioned the chair. She had to have seen it. How could she not. It was beautiful, it was captivating, and anyone who saw it would have to have it. He'd kill her right here if she made him. He needed that chair and he'd snap her neck as she hung out her window if she...
“Could you sign this for me?” she asked, taking a copy of his book off the passenger seat, “I had been carrying it in the hopes I'd see you around. It would be great to have a signed copy.”
Mark sighed in relief, scratching his name on the inside cover before handing it back.
He waved as she pulled off, wishing him well as she rolled towards the employee parking lot.
She hadn't even found a spot before Mark was speeding out of the lot and back onto the road towards Cashmere.
No more distraction, Mark had work to do.
* * * * *
The book hadn't been an immediate success. No one had appeared to publish it, no fairy godmother had poofed into existence to make his dreams come true. Mark had shopped the novel around after proofing it for the fifth time, and found someone willing to take a chance on a first time writer. To their surprise, however, the novel had taken off after some shaky reception. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, grim dark tales rarely were, but as it found its audience, Mark was astonished at the praise he received.
When the publisher called to let him know he had broken a thousand copies, he was tickled.
When they called a week later to inform him it was more like fifty thousand, Mark was astonished.
When he hit the New York Times best seller list, he had taken a two week vacation so he could do a few interviews and some local TV spots.
When his new agent called to let him know that Amazon was interested in a TV adaptation, Mark knew he had arrived.
By then, Mark was already writing his resignation letter. He was thankful for the prison and what they had helped him accomplish, but he would need more time to focus on his work. Amazon was hoping for his take on the script they were putting together, and there were already rumblings for a sequel. The show writers were interested in the chance of a sequel too, and Mark figured he better get to writing one. He'd already started the first couple of chapters, and as he said goodbye to Stragview, he thought his life might truly be about to begin.
Two weeks later as he sat in front of his brand new computer with nothing to show for it, he started wondering what had gone wrong?
Mark tried everything in his power, but the ideas just wouldn't come. He tried taking his laptop to different places. He tried consuming different kinds of media or music as he wrote. He tried immersing himself in different genres, but nothing brought the muse back. His editor was clamoring for new pages, but Mark couldn't give him what he wanted. The Amazon reps were complaining that his notes on the script were lacking too. They wanted big ideas, concepts for the show, but Mark couldn't come up with anything.
The more he racked his brain, the less work he seemed to do, and the only conclusion he could come to was that the last time he had found good output was when he had worked at Stragview. Mark cast that idea aside, though. That couldn't be it. The prison was such a hectic environment, and unpredictable setting. It couldn't possibly be conducive to a productive writing environment.
It had to be something else.
That's how it all began.
That had been the start of his madness.
* * * * *
He pulled his truck into the backyard and came to rest outside the large shed he had purchased. It was no humble storage shed, not by a long shot, and as he took the chair out of the truck, Mark felt giddy with anticipation. This was it, the final piece, the last thing he needed to make everything perfect.
As the door came open, Mark looked once more upon the monstrosity he had created and was proud.
When he had contacted Kevin about getting some things, his old partner had been hesitant.
Mark wanted pictures, layouts, specifics on brands of desks and computers, and Kevin had wanted to know why?
Once Mark offered to pay him, however, the questions became a little less important.
Mark had constructed the desk first. A long workspace made of Formica and wood, every chip and every ding the same as the one that sat in G dorm, thanks to Kevin's photos. Then the computer, an old two thousand five model that Mark had picked them up pretty cheap. Having it come with the same OS and programs was a little more expensive, but nothing too ridiculous. Then came every basket, every folder, every coffee cup and roach stain present in the booth. A microwave from a yard sale. A coffee pot from a Dollar General. Paper and flyers and all them custom printed. It took months of work, but when Mark finally looked at the finished product, he knew he'd done it.
When he sat down to work, however, he knew immediately that something wasn't right.
The windows had been wooden instead of metal, but the computer monitors that he played the security footage through were a stroke of genius. The footage had been hard to talk Kevin into, but the money had gone a long way. Kevin was in a lot of debt, like most CO's Mark knew, and the cash he was getting from the little project was likely helping him dig himself out of it. At least, Mark hoped it was, but he really didn't care what Kevin spent the money on.
When the windows and familiar view didn't help, thats when Mark realized what he needed.
The chair was a piece of it, likely the most important, and as he set it down now, he felt sure this would be the moment he'd been waiting for.
He booted up the computer, reveling in the old clicks and clacks that the aged system made as it came up.
He watched the inmates press their faces against the glass as Sergeant Martin and Kevin, Officer Rack, began their count for the day.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as he soaked in the ambiance, and knew that the moment had come.
He opened Windows office, selected a new document, and set to work.
An hour later, he slammed his head against the desk and cried.
The idea's wouldn't come.
This had all been for nothing, an expensive nothing at that, and now he had nothing to show for it.
He was sunk, finished, his candle quenched before it's time.
“Quite an impressive set up you have here.”
He jumped as the voice wafted over him, and spun to find the Warden leaning in the door to his shed.
The Warden was the last person he had expected to find here, and he stood up at attention before he could stop himself. The Warden laughed, striding in as he took in the scene. He was such an odd character, and the sight of him outside the walls of Stragview was a little alarming. The Warden never left the compound, at least, Mark didn't think he had ever heard of him doing as much. Now he was here, standing inside Mark's shed and judging his efforts, and Mark wasn't sure what he expected.
“Security footage, pictures of secure locations within the prison, a chair with the maintenance ID still engraved on it, I've got enough here to have the police put you away for a while. I could probably get Officer Rack too while I'm at it, but I've got a much better idea.”
Mark shuddered as he watched the man circle like a shark, still not sure what to expect.
“This isn't going to work, Officer Danbrey. This hollow shell isn't going to give you what you need, and I think you understand that now, don't you?”
Mark nodded, hanging his head in defeat.
“You need the magic that hangs around Stragview, something you can’t get from a chair and a desk. You happen to be in luck, because I need something as well.”
He stopped then, and as he smiled at Mark he could swear the man's eyes glinted like brimstone.
“I need staff that are loyal to me, loyal to Stragview. Staff who know that if they choose to desert me, I can take that which they covet at a moment's notice. You want to write, to continue to grow your star? You need Stragview as much as it needs you.”
The two stood and stared at each other for a count of five before Mark asked the question the old shark had been waiting for.
“When do I start?”
“Oh, you'll have to go through orientation again, since you've quit. You might even have to prove to your old captain that you belong in confinement again, but I think you'll make it back sooner than you think. Orientation for new hires starts Monday, and I'll expect you in the training building promptly at five am.”
Mark wanted to protest, but he knew now what the price for disobedience would be.
He nodded, watching as The Warden stepped out of his shed as he walked towards the road.
Mark saw no car, now means of conveyance, and wondered how the old imp had gotten here so quickly?
“And Officer Danbrey,” the Warden said, drawing Mark up sharply, “the next time you think about leaving to pursue greener pastures, remember how far the warden's grass stretches.”
The Warden left him to his contemplation then, smiling as he felt the weight settle on his newest acolytes soul.
None of them understood the magic of Stragview better than he.
It was why he had built the prison there in the first place.
Some of them might tap into that deep wellspring that lay beneath Stragview, but none of them would ever understand it.
It gave them visions, it helped them thrive, but in the end, it only added strings that the Warden could use to make them dance.

​
“It’s out by the dumpster, you better send the money. I could get fired for this.”
Mark sighed as he read the message, pulling on his pants as he grabbed his car keys. He’d have to be quick before someone figured out what it was. Kevin hadn’t been wrong. He and Mark could get in trouble for what they were about to do. Kevin could get fired, but Mark could very easily be arrested for trespassing. He didn’t work at the prison anymore, and Stragview didn’t forget slights upon its honor like someone quitting.
It didn’t matter though, he needed that damn chair!
Mark had been working at Stragview for about two years when he finally hit the big time. When you were male and relatively consistent in your work schedule, it was only a matter of time before they put you in confinement. The Show, as many of them called it, had three quads, one of them being permanently sealed off for some reason, and was the bustling hub of the prison. The two guards he worked with, Sergeant Martin and Officer Rack, were solid as well, and they quickly figured out that Mark was a wiz when it came to paperwork and computer stuff. Both the old timers, both of his counterparts having ten plus years behind the fence, were more about flipping cells and keeping down problems than signing forms and housing new arrivals. As such, Mark was left in the bubble most of the time to run the nerve center of the unit while his new friends went to the floor for fun and games.
Mark got pretty good at keeping it all between the ditches, and that was when he discovered his real passion.
Mark had dabbled in writing for years, but something about being inside the epicenter of segregation really brought out the best in his writing. Mark found the process of bunking inmates to be pretty easy and the paperwork was tedious but not too complicated. He usually finished his work fairly early in the evening, which left him lots of time to hone his craft. He'd been working on the same novel for years, a bit of grim dark sci-fi set in his own little universe, but he had never really been motivated to finish it. The novel was a hobby, something to pass the time when he had nothing better to do, and now, as he sat and watched the two go about their daily chores he found that he suddenly had nothing better to do.
He fell in with both feet, and night after night found him at the keyboard of the dorm computer as he banged out chapter after chapter. The longer he worked on it, the more he realized that what he was writing was actually pretty good. Better than good, even. He was writing better than he'd ever written, and whether it was the ambiance or some latent ability coming out in him, Mark found the pages coming together easily. The story was great and the descriptions painted a picture of his universe he had never thought possible. The few people he let read it couldn't believe he had been the one to write it, and they had pressured him to submit it.
“Who knows,” Sergeant Martin said after looking over it before chow one morning, “you might actually make it out of shit hole like this with a story like this one.”
Mark had laughed at the time, but he couldn't have guessed how right he would be.
* * * * *
Mark pulled into the parking lot and looked for the dumpster.
Kevin said he had put it behind the green dumpster next to admin, and as he drove around the ominous wooden building, he saw the dumpster in question. The lids were open and Mark could see the flies swarming from here. The bags sat poking from the hole, black and glistening in the midday sun, and Mark hoped none of the smell would stick to his new chair. He had to be quick, he told himself, as he pulled up beside the dumpster and took one more look for anyone who might be watching.
This was private property, and if he was caught out here taking things from the dumpster, they could make trouble for him.
He climbed out of his truck, a bag of trash in hand as he approached the dumpster.
He was just some guy from admin who was tossing some truck garbage, nothing out of the ordinary.
As Mark came around to the side of the dumpster, letting the bag fly in a lazy arc, he saw what he had come to for.
The chair was beautiful, just as he remembered it. The wood on the armrests and the feet was stained a dark brown, the faux leather a deep reverent blue. It would support his back and head, cradling it for maximum creativity. It hadn't changed a bit, and he wondered how they had let Kevin take it to the dumpster at all?
A chair this pristine, this undamaged by careless boots and oversized backsides, came around once in a career.
He suddenly didn't care who saw him.
Mark lifted the chair gingerly and put it into the bed of his truck. He carried it the way he might his wife as he brought her over the threshold, and the blanket he had brought made for a fine buffer against the scratchy bed liner. As Mark lifted the tailgate, he couldn't help but smile at the chair as it lay there benignly.
He had it!
The last piece of the puzzle!
Now, he could finally get back to...
“Mark?”
Mark stiffened, turning around slowly as a smile stretched painfully over his face. He recognized the voice, but her name escaped him. The smiling brunette was only about a foot away from him, leaning out the window of her car as she greeted him. She'd been on Mark's shift, they had spoken many times on the occasions when he came to the captains office or found himself on the yard, and Mark might have even considered asking her out once.
Now she was an obstacle, one more thing to overcome so he could return to his work.
“I thought that was you. What's a big time writer doing in a place like this?”
Mark stepped close to her car, grinning as he leaned down and hoping it looked natural.
“Just had to come and talk to HR about the rest of my vacation time. They still hadn't paid me for all of it and I could use the money until my royalty checks even out a little.”
He prayed silently behind that smile that she wouldn't see the chair as it lay there in the bed of his F150.
It was his chair, and she couldn't have it.
“I'm so jealous,” she said, “we're so short handed that I doubt I'll ever get to use any of mine. How have you been?”
“Good. Just enjoying doing what I love,” he said, his mind screaming behind that smile.
He had to go, he had to get out of here, he had to get back to what mattered.
He made a little more small talk before she realized she was going to be late and told Mark she would see him around. He turned to go, glad to be free of her, when she suddenly called his name and brought him back around. He was like an overclocked spring, ready to snap if she so much as mentioned the chair. She had to have seen it. How could she not. It was beautiful, it was captivating, and anyone who saw it would have to have it. He'd kill her right here if she made him. He needed that chair and he'd snap her neck as she hung out her window if she...
“Could you sign this for me?” she asked, taking a copy of his book off the passenger seat, “I had been carrying it in the hopes I'd see you around. It would be great to have a signed copy.”
Mark sighed in relief, scratching his name on the inside cover before handing it back.
He waved as she pulled off, wishing him well as she rolled towards the employee parking lot.
She hadn't even found a spot before Mark was speeding out of the lot and back onto the road towards Cashmere.
No more distraction, Mark had work to do.
* * * * *
The book hadn't been an immediate success. No one had appeared to publish it, no fairy godmother had poofed into existence to make his dreams come true. Mark had shopped the novel around after proofing it for the fifth time, and found someone willing to take a chance on a first time writer. To their surprise, however, the novel had taken off after some shaky reception. It wasn't everyone's cup of tea, grim dark tales rarely were, but as it found its audience, Mark was astonished at the praise he received.
When the publisher called to let him know he had broken a thousand copies, he was tickled.
When they called a week later to inform him it was more like fifty thousand, Mark was astonished.
When he hit the New York Times best seller list, he had taken a two week vacation so he could do a few interviews and some local TV spots.
When his new agent called to let him know that Amazon was interested in a TV adaptation, Mark knew he had arrived.
By then, Mark was already writing his resignation letter. He was thankful for the prison and what they had helped him accomplish, but he would need more time to focus on his work. Amazon was hoping for his take on the script they were putting together, and there were already rumblings for a sequel. The show writers were interested in the chance of a sequel too, and Mark figured he better get to writing one. He'd already started the first couple of chapters, and as he said goodbye to Stragview, he thought his life might truly be about to begin.
Two weeks later as he sat in front of his brand new computer with nothing to show for it, he started wondering what had gone wrong?
Mark tried everything in his power, but the ideas just wouldn't come. He tried taking his laptop to different places. He tried consuming different kinds of media or music as he wrote. He tried immersing himself in different genres, but nothing brought the muse back. His editor was clamoring for new pages, but Mark couldn't give him what he wanted. The Amazon reps were complaining that his notes on the script were lacking too. They wanted big ideas, concepts for the show, but Mark couldn't come up with anything.
The more he racked his brain, the less work he seemed to do, and the only conclusion he could come to was that the last time he had found good output was when he had worked at Stragview. Mark cast that idea aside, though. That couldn't be it. The prison was such a hectic environment, and unpredictable setting. It couldn't possibly be conducive to a productive writing environment.
It had to be something else.
That's how it all began.
That had been the start of his madness.
* * * * *
He pulled his truck into the backyard and came to rest outside the large shed he had purchased. It was no humble storage shed, not by a long shot, and as he took the chair out of the truck, Mark felt giddy with anticipation. This was it, the final piece, the last thing he needed to make everything perfect.
As the door came open, Mark looked once more upon the monstrosity he had created and was proud.
When he had contacted Kevin about getting some things, his old partner had been hesitant.
Mark wanted pictures, layouts, specifics on brands of desks and computers, and Kevin had wanted to know why?
Once Mark offered to pay him, however, the questions became a little less important.
Mark had constructed the desk first. A long workspace made of Formica and wood, every chip and every ding the same as the one that sat in G dorm, thanks to Kevin's photos. Then the computer, an old two thousand five model that Mark had picked them up pretty cheap. Having it come with the same OS and programs was a little more expensive, but nothing too ridiculous. Then came every basket, every folder, every coffee cup and roach stain present in the booth. A microwave from a yard sale. A coffee pot from a Dollar General. Paper and flyers and all them custom printed. It took months of work, but when Mark finally looked at the finished product, he knew he'd done it.
When he sat down to work, however, he knew immediately that something wasn't right.
The windows had been wooden instead of metal, but the computer monitors that he played the security footage through were a stroke of genius. The footage had been hard to talk Kevin into, but the money had gone a long way. Kevin was in a lot of debt, like most CO's Mark knew, and the cash he was getting from the little project was likely helping him dig himself out of it. At least, Mark hoped it was, but he really didn't care what Kevin spent the money on.
When the windows and familiar view didn't help, thats when Mark realized what he needed.
The chair was a piece of it, likely the most important, and as he set it down now, he felt sure this would be the moment he'd been waiting for.
He booted up the computer, reveling in the old clicks and clacks that the aged system made as it came up.
He watched the inmates press their faces against the glass as Sergeant Martin and Kevin, Officer Rack, began their count for the day.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes as he soaked in the ambiance, and knew that the moment had come.
He opened Windows office, selected a new document, and set to work.
An hour later, he slammed his head against the desk and cried.
The idea's wouldn't come.
This had all been for nothing, an expensive nothing at that, and now he had nothing to show for it.
He was sunk, finished, his candle quenched before it's time.
“Quite an impressive set up you have here.”
He jumped as the voice wafted over him, and spun to find the Warden leaning in the door to his shed.
The Warden was the last person he had expected to find here, and he stood up at attention before he could stop himself. The Warden laughed, striding in as he took in the scene. He was such an odd character, and the sight of him outside the walls of Stragview was a little alarming. The Warden never left the compound, at least, Mark didn't think he had ever heard of him doing as much. Now he was here, standing inside Mark's shed and judging his efforts, and Mark wasn't sure what he expected.
“Security footage, pictures of secure locations within the prison, a chair with the maintenance ID still engraved on it, I've got enough here to have the police put you away for a while. I could probably get Officer Rack too while I'm at it, but I've got a much better idea.”
Mark shuddered as he watched the man circle like a shark, still not sure what to expect.
“This isn't going to work, Officer Danbrey. This hollow shell isn't going to give you what you need, and I think you understand that now, don't you?”
Mark nodded, hanging his head in defeat.
“You need the magic that hangs around Stragview, something you can’t get from a chair and a desk. You happen to be in luck, because I need something as well.”
He stopped then, and as he smiled at Mark he could swear the man's eyes glinted like brimstone.
“I need staff that are loyal to me, loyal to Stragview. Staff who know that if they choose to desert me, I can take that which they covet at a moment's notice. You want to write, to continue to grow your star? You need Stragview as much as it needs you.”
The two stood and stared at each other for a count of five before Mark asked the question the old shark had been waiting for.
“When do I start?”
“Oh, you'll have to go through orientation again, since you've quit. You might even have to prove to your old captain that you belong in confinement again, but I think you'll make it back sooner than you think. Orientation for new hires starts Monday, and I'll expect you in the training building promptly at five am.”
Mark wanted to protest, but he knew now what the price for disobedience would be.
He nodded, watching as The Warden stepped out of his shed as he walked towards the road.
Mark saw no car, now means of conveyance, and wondered how the old imp had gotten here so quickly?
“And Officer Danbrey,” the Warden said, drawing Mark up sharply, “the next time you think about leaving to pursue greener pastures, remember how far the warden's grass stretches.”
The Warden left him to his contemplation then, smiling as he felt the weight settle on his newest acolytes soul.
None of them understood the magic of Stragview better than he.
It was why he had built the prison there in the first place.
Some of them might tap into that deep wellspring that lay beneath Stragview, but none of them would ever understand it.
It gave them visions, it helped them thrive, but in the end, it only added strings that the Warden could use to make them dance.