Monday, October 02, 2006

(WT 10) Chrome

I want to write a story about a man forced into a chrome-plating bath until he turns to metal.


Dave said...

a man forced into a chrome-plating bath until he turns to metal

Dave said...

I think the story starts here:

Every convicted felon has a Pulitzer Prize winning novel in’em if only they can write it. All Clayton needed was an opening line. He lay on his bunk with a pencil on a steno pad and wrote — Even through the cement walls, the inmates could hear the patter of cold rain under the big harvest moon. Clayton’s bunk shook and jerked the pencil as Bubba jumped to the bars.
“Shut up, nutcase,” Bubba’s voice resounded from the walls of the cellblock, Crazy Billy yodeled in preparation for his nightly serenade as Shirley Temple. Bubba didn’t like Crazy Billy, yodeling, or Shirley Temple. Bubba didn’t like much. Clayton ignored the fuss and scratched out another first sentence — Only the howling of wolves penetrated the jail as Sheriff Barker wondered if his prisoner would ever regain consciousness.
“Quit that yodeling or I’ll rip your throat out,” Bubba screamed. The gates clanked as guards entered the cellblock. Clayton put his pencil in a safe place. He turned and faced the wall. After they hauled Bubba away, he would resume his writing. Crazy Billy began to sing “On the Good Ship Lollipop.” Bubba howled like a wounded bear and shook the bars. Guard Sergeant Jenkins faced him down.
“You misbehavin’ again tonight Bubba?” Guard Sergeant Jenkins asked.
“Bubba behave if Billy not sing that song,” the big man whimpered in his own childish way. Guard Sergeant Jenkins pointed a tazer at Bubba’s chest. Bubba just whimpered like a corralled dog and dropped to his knees. He knew the drill. The sound of electronic discharges echoed across the cellblock as another guard tazered Crazy Billy. They’d never done that before.
“Both of you, on your knees, put your hands on your heads,” Guard Sergeant Jenkins ordered. Tucker slid off the bunk and knelt on the floor. Four guards stood outside the cell as Warden Petrovitch stepped up to the bars.
“Tucker Clayton Corcoran, you are hereby declared dead. You’ll be happy to know that your body has been donated to scientific research. Guards, remove the deceased carcass from the cell.” Guard Sergeant Jenkins triggered the door and the four guards grabbed Tucker quickly subduing him.
“I’m not dead. What are you talking about,” Tucker managed to say before a guard shoved a large red ball gag into his mouth and Guard Sergeant Jenkins shoved a hypodermic into Tucker’s bicep.
“Silence fool, the dead don’t talk, do they Bubba.” Warden Petrie snarled. Bubba still knelt, hands behind his head, eyes closed.
“Dead men don’t,” Bubba said, nodding in agreement. He didn’t have the brains to do much of anything else. He didn’t even remember that the guards carried an unconscious Tucker out of the cellblock. They declared Tucker dead and that was that. All that mattered to Bubba was that Crazy Billy wasn’t singing anymore.

(469 words)