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The Saturn Inmates. The Saturn Inmates. Part One... THE DREAM I have this dream, you see… A recurring theme which haunts my nights and now is invading my waking days. I am in this room, the walls are all white, except for the pictures which hang loosely, like confetti which someone had thrown in a liberal way, to splatter an effect…Know what I mean? Anyway… These pictures have only one theme, a sort of red, scrawny neck, like a turkey’s neck…It’s a sort of picture you would not want to look at just before Christmas, or Thanksgiving; it would put you off your dinner! And in my dream, I stand, staring at these pictures and, as I do, I am squeezing two hard rubber balls, one in each hand, to strengthen my grip... And, each day, the pictures seem to grow. At night, in my dream, I lay on a sheet of paper, with another as a blanket, both of which has the same neck-pictures printed over them. I lay, staring up into the darkness; then a red sock seems to float down, as if by magic. I reach up and pull it down, feverishly stuffing it with the straw, taken from the thin pillow. I hold the sock up in the night, so that it glows…I see it now as a wrinkly, red-mottled neck; my mouth wears a wolfish grin, my eyes like twin black diamonds as I place my hands round the neck-sock and I squeeze, gently at first…Then tighter and tighter till the veins jut in purple strands from the sock. My mouth drips with saliva, fangs spring from my lips and I tear at the sock, ripping into it with those powerful fangs…And I hear a scream, over and over… “Alex!” the voice screams…”Alex! ...You Feckin’ Buzzard!” And, when I waken, I still see that neck, hearing those screams. And I am awake to a life of Prison Hell! Why the Prison Authorities saw fit to place two men, totally different in physical, biological, mental and emotional make-up, in the same prison cell was beyond me. You know what? ... I reckon the authorities do this sort of thing on purpose, to see how the weak fare against the strong, a sort of psychological thing, a David and Goliath combination, brains against brawn… To see who came out on top. Well that’s easy to answer! I got the brains and Hulk had the brawn… He also has the top bunk! It often used to keep me awake at nights, wondering why the big men always claimed the top bunk, jumping up like big , grinning at you as they passed wind in their accelerated climb. I mean, did it come from the time of childhood when the eldest and biggest claimed the top bunk simply because it was rule of thumb and too dangerous for the younger one to be on top in case he or she fell? I had determined that, in Hulk’s case, it was simply a way of, partly, imposing superiority, the need to look down on others and partly because of devilment, the desire to cause insomnia through his hacking tobacco induced cough, the snoring and twisting of the bulk which strained at the fragile bedsprings, causing a deep-based bulge which always threatened to cave in on me at any moment. Then there were the plutonic bursts of wind which caused the very bunk beds to shake violently, farts which seemed to rip through the thin palliasse and part my hair with the force. There…You hear, feel, see and eat…That was another one! “Must you do that?” I asked, pinned back to my mattress by the force. “Do what, Dimballs?” asked Hulk, leaning over, to peer down at me through the misty gas, the bed creaking and groaning in contorted agony. The fact I had acquainted my cell-mate to my name being Richard Kimble made no difference…He called me Dimballs and that was that! My cell-mate of this last month was a big lump and so ugly that he qualified for a government sponsored face-lift, in the sense that he would, psychologically, feel more able to face up to the world beyond the prison gates. But word was, the plastic surgeons refused to take the job on, referring to it as a wholesale overhaul. “Do what?” Again, the voice grated down to me from above, accompanied by another of the thunderous blasts of wind which pierced my ears back to my head. “That.” I said, softening my tone. Not that I was intimidated by the huge bulk of madness in the bunk above me, I was bloody terrified! “What are you on about, Dimballs? Them farts can be termed as ‘me currents of affection’, passed from me to you.” What really hurt was the fact this baboon liked cabbage, he could eat it by the bucketful and the kitchens dished out plenty of it, you could eat all you wanted and that’s just what the lummox did, till his belly swelled to double its maxim and then stewed in gastric juices till the gaseous, heinous, mixture exploded from his backside like solid nuclear blasts. I actually heard him telling someone that he had eaten a huge mess of cabbage and a large bag of peanuts, the outcome being that he pebble-dashed the front of his house in one of his explosive moments! “If you don’t like it, Dimballs, you can always move!” growled the caveman, allowing another side-splitting roar to pollute the air with cabbage smell. The book I had been reading was, I noticed, turning a pale shade of green, the same colour as the brick-painted cell walls. Was it a reflection of the wall colouring, or was it really the pollution from the caveman’s exhaust? “The way I see it, Dimballs,” growled the voice above me as the bulk shifted position, … “You can stay in this cell with me…And you’ve got ten years to do, well, at least six and a half, with good behaviour… Or you buy yourself a single cell.” Now, prison life, and the comforts therein, always boiled down to areas of financial cost. If you were rich, you lived like a King. If you were a poor sod, like me, you were farted on from a great height, as was happening to me right now. “How much?” I asked. It didn’t matter that I had not a penny to my name; it was the dream of the situation, seeing myself at peace with the world, locked into a single cell on my own with no-one to bother me. When I think about it, your ordinary prisoner is very Pisces in all aspects, I mean…The majority of Pisceans have a romantic and dreamy view of the world and seek to escape through various mediums, the cinema or forms of creative and artistic means, like poetry and such, anything which gives respite from the reality of hardship. Your average prisoner escapes from the hassle of the ‘Rat-Race’, having to face the real world, by taking the easy way out, by taking things which do not belong to him! A prisoner is fed and watered, clothed, and allowed to drift along within the rules… But most of all, your average prisoner is a dreamer. Your prisoner dreams of the next big job, the big house and new car that money will buy. The one thing your average prisoner does not dream about is getting a normal life, of hard work and settling down. Mind you, if you listen to the tales, at night, down in the recreation hall, the majority of the prisoners here have been wrongly impounded, the majority never, ever, having done the crime they were accused of… And if you believed that, then you are a ‘Pisces Dreamer’! “A hundred notes!” came the growl, breaking into my thoughts and jarring my senses. “You must be dreaming! A hundred pounds! Where on earth would I get a hundred pounds from?” I cried, sitting up, forgetting the hulk above lowered the underside of his bunk by a good twelve inches. “I’ll never be able to get that kind of cash in a million years.” I continued, rubbing at the criss-cross pattern which had been bruised into my head. “Your loss, Dimballs.” gravelled the voice, the bed creaking ominously as the bulk settled itself above. A sighing, hissing, sound pressured a warning, before the volcanic eruption of a most hideous nature flattened me back onto my mattress, and I lay in subconscious state as the following smell of heinous methane polluted the air. money could buy you an easy life in prison, money was a saving grace. money changed the scene of living; it made a friend of madmen, like Hulk, who controlled what went on in the wing. If Hulk ordered something done, then it was arranged as money changed hands. Breathing hard through a piece of cloth, my voice whispered in green smoke, up to the bed above… “Suppose I get the money, how do I get it in?” The bed above creaked as the gravelled voice replied… “You just worry about getting the cash, Dimballs, and let me worry about how I get the money in." The voice grated and hawked between blasts and wracked coughing fits. There’s an old saying…‘The devil drives when your bum’s on fire!’… Well, the devil was in the driving seat, I mean, I had to find a way of obtaining one hundred pounds as quickly as I could. I simply had to escape from the odious outpourings which came from the ‘Hulks’ backside, or suffocate… And there was only one thing for it! If there was something else I could do, I would do it… But it’s all about ‘Sods Law’, and I’m the unlucky sod. My face was the picture of a miserable sinner as I sat in writing. In fact, I would imagine one would have a happier face at a ‘Will’ reading, knowing for a fact that nothing had been left to them, that’s how miserable I was. So it was with a sad state of mind that I wrote a ‘Visiting Order’, for Alex to come and see me on the Saturday. That miserable, mean-eyed sod was winning again…I needed him! Alex was the only one who could help me; he was my one and only hope. |
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What a great read!!! More please!! 
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Now the poor devil is been gassed to death, poor poor Richard. I don't think I will ever cook cabbage again, smelly bloody thing. The Hulk must eat it by the bucket full, the dirty brute. Looking forward to the rest of the story, great read 
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