L'affaire Bob

34. Rickypus And The Chauvinistic Pigs

(Michael)Mike's POV

I was peacefully laying on my deluxe wooden bed, designed by some unknown carpenter, who, for some unknown reasons, didn't want to put a soft mattress in his masterpieces.

I couldn't blame him for all my backaches, though, since he wasn't the one who decided to make these bunks flat and uncomfortable. It was as if the purpose of their existence was to torture not just me, but all the other fellows, who had arrived here after trying to earn or obtain something.

From simple thieves who wanted to gain their neighbors' fortune and respect to dangerous criminals who had planned on acquiring the reputation of a despicable and black-hearted murderer, they all ended up here after getting caught for whatever operation they had achieved. In the end, they all succeeded in "winning" something, even if it wasn't what they had been initially expecting.

Indeed, each prisoner benefited from a breathtaking view of old English undergrounds. The only barrier separating us from it was a massive bronze door decorated with a beautiful set of iron bars. We also had the incredible privilege of having a soothing and relaxing atmosphere, with the top-notch stench of London's sewers and the peaceful symphony the rats and crickets played for us every morning.

Now, people might call this place a prison, and some might refer to us as prisoners, but I tend to think of us as homeless lads who, if they hadn't been arrested, would still be living on the streets right now-- or maybe not, but that's not the point. See, I had always been optimistic, and I had always believed this old saying that said: "Always see the half-full part of the glass."

So, as I said earlier, I was laying down on this damn bed when I heard shouting and squealing outside. I immediately rushed to my bed and cracked a piece of wood out of it.

Taking the long metal stick I hid under my bed, I carved with it, as fast as I could, the message "DogFace, what's happening?" on the wooden fragment I had cracked from my bunk. I shoved it in a little hole in the left wall of my cell, which was hidden by another bed that only got occupied twice while I was here.

Now, let me introduce you to the only friend I have. He lives in the cell to my left, has dared to kill his next-door neighbors but is afraid of rats, and can be easily mistaken for a dog because of his oh-so-good-looking face, which owed him the nickname "DogFace" I gave him.

I'm sure you all will ask me how did we become friends. For the record, I'm not sure about it myself. Everything happened so fast and in the weirdest way ever.

It all started when a tumult woke me up on a beautiful summer day. I had planned to sleep in this morning, but the shouts and insults of a young man, the yelling of the guards, and the excited whispers of the prisoners didn't let me oversleep.

***

The young man's voice was low and deep; the way it resonated made everyone within a fifty-feet radius want to bow down to him or run away as fast as possible. Whenever he spoke, you would feel authority and power dripping off him, showing everyone that he was the one in charge.

At that moment, however, it was clear that he wasn't. Indeed, as soon as I heard him, my curiosity had been peaked. I headed to the small window in my cell's door to take a look at what was possibly happening outside. Four guards were trying to maintain him still, in vain. He was much more robust and jacked, and so they needed a fifth person to help them. Together, the five of them succeeded in leading him to the cell to my left.

Before he entered his cell, I took a last glance at him. He was a guy in his mid-twenties, with brownish hair and dark eyes, and an enormous patch around one of them, which reminded me of the dog that almost bit me when I tried to escape from here-- long story. But that was, as you may have guessed by now, what led me to give him the nickname DogFace.