The Emancipation of Jebidiah Baby Hands
Jebidiah Baby hands was born that way, so there was no point for anyone to hold his freakishly small hands against him, especially since he would hardly feel it if someone held his freakishly small hands against them, seeing as they were freakishly small. People held his hands against him anyway, though, because people can be stupid and petty that way.
He could thimbles in his palms, and not much more. And his fingers were stubby and adorable. Like succulent plants, or river rocks.
He rolled over on his cot. The gulag did not have very nice cots. They scratched. Jebidiah stared at the far wall and the intricate scrawled maze scratched there with an old nail that used to be an inch longer before the cell started using it as a chisel. They expanded the maze every few days, so it took longer to solve. There were several ways out, because they were in a prison cell, and making up ways out seemed like the right thing to do considering there weren't any real ways out.
The doors were locked tight, and the guards had cattle prods.
Bullet-Eater and Lance Gibbetrronomarian were Jebidiah's cellmates. They weren't very good company. Bullet-Eater had no teeth and a highly developed sense of shame about the speech impediment which resulted from the condition. Lance Gibbetrronomarian didn't talk much because he had been in the cell for fifteen years and the guards played tricks on him until he went slightly insane and started to scratch himself compulsively any time someone mentioned "sand" or "desert," which happened with proportionate frequency in Dirtworld. The only way anything happened frequently in Dirtworld was if it happened proportionately frequently. Dirtworld was a terrible, sun-baked, and treacherous place, but even terrible things didn't happen often. Lance was also a philosopher. But he wasn't a very good one, so conversations with him generally started pretty interesting, with thought experiments and the like, and ended with some severely dysfunctional logic.
"But what if it wasn't?" He liked to say. "And if it weren't, what if it was?"
Jebidiah punched a man for turning his back while he was talking to him about the local sports team, the Siltville Scrotal Smashers. It wasn't very a very hard punch, nor was it followed up with anything more severe. A bullet, say, or a larger fist. Too be honest, it didn't hurt much after the first few minutes. But it was a matter of pride. One which could only be settled in front of a full tribunal, with the potential for imprisonment.
Jebediah's victim apologized for landing him in the gulag. But he wasn't very sincere, and the apology rang somewhat hollow through the bars of Jebediah's cell window.
At the edges of the wall, Jebidiah and his cell mates have drawn little pictures of what they'll do when they get out, so that eventually the maze will reach the little pictures, and they'll feel like they accomplished something. A sense of accomplishment would do wonders for Bullet-Eater, because the poor ammunition-obsessed former-soldier hadn't really done anything before, other than dropping a mortar down a tank hatch by "accident."
Bullet-Eater drew a picture of bullets and a set of dentures. Made out of more bullets. Lance Gibbetrronomarian drew a picture of the sunglasses he wanted to get to offset his awkward shyness. Jebidiah drew a picture of the man who got him thrown in the gulag being impaled on rebar.
They spent a lot of time while they were locked up thinking about what they wanted and how they could get it when they finally got out. Whenever that would be.
He could thimbles in his palms, and not much more. And his fingers were stubby and adorable. Like succulent plants, or river rocks.
He rolled over on his cot. The gulag did not have very nice cots. They scratched. Jebidiah stared at the far wall and the intricate scrawled maze scratched there with an old nail that used to be an inch longer before the cell started using it as a chisel. They expanded the maze every few days, so it took longer to solve. There were several ways out, because they were in a prison cell, and making up ways out seemed like the right thing to do considering there weren't any real ways out.
The doors were locked tight, and the guards had cattle prods.
Bullet-Eater and Lance Gibbetrronomarian were Jebidiah's cellmates. They weren't very good company. Bullet-Eater had no teeth and a highly developed sense of shame about the speech impediment which resulted from the condition. Lance Gibbetrronomarian didn't talk much because he had been in the cell for fifteen years and the guards played tricks on him until he went slightly insane and started to scratch himself compulsively any time someone mentioned "sand" or "desert," which happened with proportionate frequency in Dirtworld. The only way anything happened frequently in Dirtworld was if it happened proportionately frequently. Dirtworld was a terrible, sun-baked, and treacherous place, but even terrible things didn't happen often. Lance was also a philosopher. But he wasn't a very good one, so conversations with him generally started pretty interesting, with thought experiments and the like, and ended with some severely dysfunctional logic.
"But what if it wasn't?" He liked to say. "And if it weren't, what if it was?"
Jebidiah punched a man for turning his back while he was talking to him about the local sports team, the Siltville Scrotal Smashers. It wasn't very a very hard punch, nor was it followed up with anything more severe. A bullet, say, or a larger fist. Too be honest, it didn't hurt much after the first few minutes. But it was a matter of pride. One which could only be settled in front of a full tribunal, with the potential for imprisonment.
Jebediah's victim apologized for landing him in the gulag. But he wasn't very sincere, and the apology rang somewhat hollow through the bars of Jebediah's cell window.
At the edges of the wall, Jebidiah and his cell mates have drawn little pictures of what they'll do when they get out, so that eventually the maze will reach the little pictures, and they'll feel like they accomplished something. A sense of accomplishment would do wonders for Bullet-Eater, because the poor ammunition-obsessed former-soldier hadn't really done anything before, other than dropping a mortar down a tank hatch by "accident."
Bullet-Eater drew a picture of bullets and a set of dentures. Made out of more bullets. Lance Gibbetrronomarian drew a picture of the sunglasses he wanted to get to offset his awkward shyness. Jebidiah drew a picture of the man who got him thrown in the gulag being impaled on rebar.
They spent a lot of time while they were locked up thinking about what they wanted and how they could get it when they finally got out. Whenever that would be.
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