There aren't many prison rock quarries left in these more enlightened times,
but there was this one. There aren't many leaves falling without trees, but
there was this one. There aren't many warders whose visual disorder can
cause them to mistake a falling leaf for an escaping prisoner and shoot with
impunity and without warning. There are many more aren't manys, rarely more
than one Aunt Mary (perhaps two if the mamas and the papas both have a
Sister Mary of the Conception (private moment, my spitty eye), more if a
Great Aunt isn't called Great), but the aren't manys don't make for good
readin' or eatin'. Fucking garlic.
Trepanners tend to leave it at just a hole. Trepanners with a genetic
predisposition to criminality will set their mind working as to how the
situation can be exploited in the exploitation of others for their own
nefarious purposes. As the cool cool breeze caressed his (bear with me
whilst I look up which bit of the brain sounds most like something rude)
basal ganglia, way back before the rocks, the leaf, the gun, he had an
idea - an idea which wasn't as good as it should have been, which took him
to the rocks, the leaf, the gun, but also briefly saved him from the gun...
but we're getting ahead of ourselves, and confusing everyone but me, and
that's only cos I know what's going to happen. He had a hole in his head,
which few people do, and which fewer customs officials search. A carpenter
friend with the most delicate fingers pushed the brain down and installed an
impeccably sanded platform betwixt brain and skull where small items could
be stored. without getting wet - provided the skin was left to grow over the
hole in the skull, or a hat was worn. He jangled too much as he walked and
was easily suspected and caught, fool. Orff to prison with a compartment,
but a compartment now sealed as a matter of prison security.
"Die you motherfucking prisoner escaping that looks just like a leaf",
screamed the guard as he brought us back to the time we were at before we
toddled orff to explain quite how a bullet can pass through a leaf, and then
through the top of someone's head, before finally hitting the most important
thing in the rock quarry: a rock. I don't suppose you've ever shot a rock,
so if you don't mind I'll play on your ignorance and pretend a shot rock
pops into the right sized pieces for whatever it is that rock quarries
provide.
Our prisoner with the compartment had felt something smack against the back
of his head, heard the crack of his skull shattering, but for the most part
wasn't hurt, and certainly didn't feel like he'd been shot. Stone throw? Had
to be. Couldn't be associated at all with the sound of a gunshot, or a guard
screaming about escaping leaves and prisoners. Had to be someone throwing
stones. Did I mention he was a natural theodolite? Sorry if I did, because
he wasn't. He felt the hit from behind, and only our shooty shouty guard was
there. Waddling over to confront the guard as fast as his chains would
allow, he received a further gunshot to the head as was the guard's right
when anyone was coming to attack him. A lower shot, plenty of brain to hit,
a death. Many a prisoner pondered that existence was futile before they were
threatened with their existence being just as futile unless they started
slapping their rocks with heavy stuff; the only living one who didn't get
back to trying to crack rocks was the prisoner whose rock had been cracked
by the first gunshot. There's no point threatening something unless to carry
it out; the poor dear got shot for not getting back to work.
Following the three shots, two deaths, there was a big changes at the rock
quarry: prisoners were given guns, not sledgehammers, with which to break
the rocks. Every day as they were being taken back to their cells, the
guards were taken hostage and threatened with being shot unless the
prisoners were released. Every day the prison authorities refused to
negotiate. Some days the guards were shot, others they weren't; either way,
the prisoners never won. Given the increased danger, guards' pay had to
increase by about 1000%, but this was offset in part by shorter, much
shorter, contracts, and by the healthy profit at which the prison quarry was
now running because of the impressive step up in efficiency that came with
the change from sledgehammer to gun.
Morals? Conclusions? Don't get shot, but if you must get shot and get away
with it, just act like nothing happened. And be the person who gets to not
negotiate, rather than the one who cries and pleads for negotiation as about
the only thing that will save your life. Existence is futile, but resisting
non-existence is usually a sensible option. Or be the carpenter who wasn't
even charged with being an accessory, or Aunt Mary who lived to the ripe old
age of 43 before getting hit by a bus in pub fight and dying of shame, or
none of the above, or know when to stop, or don't let crows drink your water
if you're a fox.