Tales From Wary Wardens': a Cupid in Crime and a Thief
A warden began his rounds; the only soul brave enough, or stupid enough, to venture into this cell block at night; all others were scared off by inmates; scared or scarred; either way, they never returned. The warden’s shirt was ruffled and crinkled; he wore a large and thick suit, it was as a grey as a cloudy night; it’s buttons dirtied by the many years spent walking around dusty cell blocks, a box of cigarettes rattled in his pocket. His skin was dim yellow lavender; his emblem was a golden pocket watch, with a snapped chain; his mane was covered by his hat, but it stuck out, too big to fit in, it was a dark brown, like leather left out in the sun. The suit was unsettled enough that it looks as if he was in a hurry to come here; his red tie, loose and thrashing around the shirt; he was being clever, to survive the night, it takes brains; and a great deal of alertness.
This cell block is feared among the guards, only the most fearless, or the most dim-witted, go in; it’s has horrified so many guards, that they have began to nickname it ‘Wary Wardens’’ as even the sharpest of nails could be struck down here; if you’re a dim bulb, you are going to get put down. Over fifty guards were reported missing in this cell block; found with their neck snapped, back stabbed or suffocated. This cell block housed the main criminals: murderers, gangsters, bank robbers or, in some cases, all three. This dangerous block was on the north side of the prison, it was the furthest it could be from land; more space, more concrete, less fatalities, less escapes. Though some of the Citizens of the cells did try to have vacations now and again, many ran and fled, almost all were caught and thrown back in; some have stated their vacations permanent; running into the shadows of any city, town and village possible. The Varkoor prison was on an Island, to escape was almost impossible, out of all a hundred that tried to run; only three got their freedom guaranteed. Well, Varkoor’s motto is ‘lock and key’. Lock and key, fits like a glove for the prison, but it would make more sense if it read ‘Lock and key...But we got some brain-dead security...Sorry’...
“Hey Warden,” A gruff voice spoke from the darkness in a cell; the empty walls amplified the words out into the block “Can I have the smokes?” The figure stepped into the light, his face was scared; the slashes had deformed the face; making a figure into a monster hiding under the bed. The scars didn't stop on his face; it was on his claws, accompanied by lazy stitches. The jumpsuit was torn, shredded, tank green scales stuck out the back of the blue suit; the buttons were scratched off, apart from two, the only two things keeping the jumpsuit together. His eyes showed no bliss, no mercy, no good meanings for the rights of others; the only thing that could be seen in those eyes was naked aggression. His face was a watered down purple, with blots of lighter pinks from attacks and fights.
This was Spike, a deformed and aggressive criminal; convicted for bank heists, drug dealing and connections with the mob.
“You can have the smokes,” The warden clutched the carton in his mouth, lowering his head so it was almost in reaching length “when, I have the bets” his mouth was muffled by the white box, as he rose his head; the dragon gave the guard a death stare; staring daggers into the warden.
“Fine, yah idiot,” The dragon turned to the wall, and read something scribbled on the wall, while muttering to himself, after a minute, he turned back “Hooves Lightening knocks out Spits Fire Shine in two rounds, no blood,” he turned back to the wall, mumbled to himself again, look at the warden and said “Make that round one, old Spits gets a nose bleed from an uppercut” his gruff voice mysteriously matched the conversation, like a mansion to a billionaire; a bat to a cave; a convict to a cage.
“Here,” He threw the carton into the cell; it clattered into the darkness, finally making a soft thud as it hit an unseen wall “How do you know these anyway?” The warden tried to slither his vision to the wall spike was muttering to.
“It takes time, I write down the possibilities, flip the switch and you will see,” the warden obeyed the little dragon, and flipped the switch next to the cell, the light erupted outwards in the block; shining like a beacon “Look”.
The warden saw every scribble and pieces random writing but he saw nothing about the matches, or about the players, just lines and scrawling. “Well, I’ll just keep it a little mystery; it will be more fun to see the others’ faces when I win, see you in the morn, Cupid in Crime” A crusty snort blew from the criminal’s nose, the aggression that was in his eyes, had changed; to complete hatred.
As the warden trotted off, a claw attempted to pursue him through the bars “don’t call me that! You know that!” Scraped at the bars, little sparks leaped off the bars, leaving chalk like trails.
“I know,” the warden yelled over his shoulder “It’s about as must fun to see you mad then winning bits” he had a slight chuckle to himself, and continued to trot down the block.
“I’ll kill you!” The unlawful figure took hold of the metal bars and tried to force them to open; but to no triumph “I swear!”
“On what?” He had to bellow now just to get his voice near to the cell, but the giggle reached just fine on its own “the cigarettes?”
The prisoner muttered to himself, and went back into the darkness. Then, a light shone, then three sounds could be heard; puff. Cough; puff. Then he said under his breath “That warden may be as bloody dense as a donkey, but he knows a good smoke, that’s for sure”.
Tales From Wary Wardens': a Cupid in Crime and a Thief
A baton smashed against the bars of the cell “wake up! Come on; get up, you lazy slobs!” Spike’s eyes were bloodshot; tears almost rolling down his cheeks; his eyes stung like a hornets’ nest was in his head. As he rose from his minor slumber, his eye lids hung down; he looked half dead, maybe more. “Come on, up and at them!” The warden was right outside the Dragon’s cell, banging against the metal; trying to keep him awake. In his half dozed state; he snatched the stick and threw it at the guard’s head “Oh, you want to play? You, dirty rat, you want to play?” The other inmates roared with jeers and cheers; it was like a coliseum, a gladiator and a lion; well, a gladiator wearing a jumpsuit and a lion with hooves.
“Look, brown bucket, I’m Spike T. Bursa, the Dragon convicted into ‘Wary Wardens’’ the most dangerous place in this prison, now, now let’s say I’m thinking like you, well, you are saying: I’m going to pick a fight with an inmate from it. Do you think that makes the slightest bit of sense?” He swept his hands down; his claws were colliding with the bars; sparks jumped everywhere. “Look, I’ll cut you some slag, fatso, leave now, you leave with all four legs, deal?”
“Yes-s-s-s-s, sir” then he continued; trotted through the block, waking up the others.
Spike walked the block in a line of other convicts, all different shape, sizes; but all ponies; no other dragons, not even a changeling. The line was walking down the corridors, through the other blocks; the other inmates backed off as the Wary Wardens’ residents passed; some almost trying to dig into the wall with their backs. Fear was the only thing that haunted this place; no ghosts, no ghouls, no demons, just plain old fear; whether it was the inmates getting scared or the wardens getting cold sweats; it was the same none the less; Wary Wardens’ powered the generator and the generator controlled the terror. The line was going to do their chores; whether it was washing clothes or cracking stones, it was yet to be debated. Although out the line, whispers were trying to slip around; most were about the morning and the truncheon; the loudest was a stallion behind him, you could probably hear him over a thunderstorm with hurricanes; he just wouldn’t be quiet for a minute. After halfway down this corridor, Spike’s slither of sanity snapped; mental tape doesn’t hold that well. Spike lobed his claws at his thought, gagging him; his irritating words becoming a pitiful wheeze; the line’s murmurs stopped. He let go of his throat; there was wounds where spike had clenched his claws.
“Could I please ask a favour?” His gruff voice swarmed the silence of the hallway; but a sea of nodding heads followed it “Would all of you please shut up about me!” His shout shot through the corridor like an arrow; again, followed by a sea of nodding heads. “Thank you, now let’s keep going!”
They continued their stroll onwards, but the murmurs didn’t continue, but it had split into two things: Some looking back at him, and some trying to burrow into the back of his head with their eyes. But Spike bottled the rage and continued. When the long line stopped at a brown door, groans began to go off from different areas in the queue. When the door was opened, it went out into a large hall, wooden walls, brick walls and it stank of fat guys’ sweat and cheap soap. While the line bustled around, attempted to get into the hall, a green Pegasus leant against the wall; tooth pick in mouth; eyes beady like a raven. She was watermelon green, her mane was even greener; she looked a bit like a garden. She wasn’t wearing the suit, like the other wardens, just the shirt and tie, no hat; but this made it even worse, as her hair was shooting out into different places. Her cutie mark was a heart, split in two. She was Watermelon Lace, but, because of rumours and another obvious reason, she was nicknamed ‘the heart breaker’, but she would most likely break your spine first.
When the colts had stopped their hoof tapping, made a bit of a crowd, and were completely silent; the Warden spoke:
“Okay, you are going to the pits, we’ll see you here in about six hours or in hell, which one comes first,” She was still leaning against the wall, barely no emotion in her voice, but a slither of boredom was there; it seems commanding a whole cell block of the most dangerous criminals isn’t really a rush “six hours, pits, here or hell, got that?” She spat the tooth pick at the crowd, hitting one of them square in the chest, it was ‘bulldog’ his skin could be amour for tanks, he was scarred and battered, his left eye was blind because of a slash attack by a lone mugger, he was, apparently, a murderer; killing his own brother. He had a brown mullet and pale cream skin, the pick snapped on contact; he just grunted, and glared a bit harder. The crowd shifted uneasily; he grunted loader and they stopped shuffling; but then he spoke:
“Let’s go,” his voice was as gruff as a train running on sand paper; the crowd didn’t move, just stood there “Ahem. Let’s go!” He said again but it seemed gruffer; now the crowd moved, out of a door; as the line went through, ‘Bulldog’ smirked at ‘Heart breaker’; he looked even more horrifying when he was smirking.