“Franky, everything is fi’s all going acc to pn.”

  “But yoing to prison,” Franky repeats for the tenth time.

  “Which is part of the pn!”

  “How is going to prison part of the pn?” he yells on the phone. “Yo-yoing to prison. Some guy is going to beat you up and then make you his bitch.”

  I roll my eyes. “Really Franky? Really? I know not to drop the soap.” I sigh. “When did you bee such a pessimist?”

  He frowns. “Cause of the stupid dreams.”

  “Memories,” I correct. “Those are the memories of your previous life—speaking of which, why are you remembering only the shit parts? You had three geous wives and nine goddamn brats. How the hell aren’t you remembering that?”

  “The fuck if I know! I get a lot of bits and pieces of random things. It’s so very fusing. I-I remember the guild, Camelot, and some of the quests.”

  “It will e to you in time,” I assure him, “it was your first summon, so it takes a while for your body and soul to reie.” I stop grinning. “Anyway, that's not important now. Are you following my dires?”

  He pauses for a sed and takes a moment to stare at the outlines of the gss s separating us. “Yeah, I found the house and all the stuff…”

  “You’re free to talk. This versation isn’t being monitored,” I inform him. “I’ve already got everyone in this holding facility on payroll.”

  He stares at me, wanting to say something, then shakes his head.

  “Yeah, all the ons are there. The food, guns, ammo, fuel, and the, uhh, tank.”

  “Armored personnel carrier,” I correct him, “but good. You’ll to survive. If you want, bring a couple people with you to the hidden pound, but not too ma people tops. If you have too many, then you might be targeted for the God Game, at which point you’ll surely die.”

  He sighs.

  “Alright, I’ll follow your dires.”

  “Good, good,” I nod.

  I g the clo the wall and see my time running out. I stand up out of my seat.

  “Well Franky, it looks like it's time for me to go. Try to stay alive, alright?”

  He sighs, but nods.

  I hang up the phone and walk out of the room. At the exit, several waiting guards handcuff my wrists and ese out of the holding facility. They lead me, alongside a procession of other criminals, to a bus. We all enter and are subsequently tied to very unfortable seats.

  With my butt seated ohi leather possible, the bus starts up and we are on our way.

  Not even ten minutes into the ride, the priset bored and start talking with one-another, which elicits a “Shut-up” from the armed guard in the bus. Which then is replied with various forms of ‘Go Fuck Yourself’ from the prisoners alongside other insults.

  Regardless, the stant shit-eating grin from the guard puts a big damper on the mood. After all, everyone in this bus is going to prison for life.

  “Hey, cabron. Puto with the bck hair.” the prisoner on the seat o me calls. I turn to the guy, a skinny hispanic dude with tattoos all over his ned up to his jawline.

  “You’re that rich pendejo from the news. Why yah here? Don’t you have money?”

  “Good question,” I tilt my head to the guy, “You’ve heard of the world message about the god games, right? Well, I’m pnning on joining the games, and the prison we’re heading to will be the perfect pce for it to happen.”

  “Valia,” he curses. “You’re fug nuts if you belive that shit.”

  I roll my eyes at the guy. “The entire human popution just so happens to see the exact same message as everyone else, and you think it isn’t real?”

  He scoffs.

  “You know what?” I shrug. “You keep thinking that. Just know that when shit hits the fan in prison, yoing to be one of the first to die.”

  “ga tu madre! I ain’t some pinche gabacho.”

  I chuckle. “Really? Well then, prove it at prison. I dare you to insult the warden, unless of course you’re a coward.”

  “You think I’m scared of some fat shitface? I’ve shanked hundreds and killed a dozen already. I ain’t no fish like you.”

  I grin. “Prove it.”

  ___________________________________________________________

  After about twelve hours of stant travel, we eventually ehe Mojave desert. Three more hours through the desert, and we eventually turowards a rocky outcropping. As we got close, a hidden door built into the mountain opened upward. The bus drove into the hidden facility.

  The bus stopped in a wide hangar, uhe flickering glow of artificial lights. The guards in charge of keeping us from doing anything crazy exited the bus. We sat there, waiting. Mier the guards returned with several more dressed in Jasperz. They unlocked the s and herded us off and into a line beside the bus.

  “Don’t fug push me!” one of the prisoners curses.

  With the most bored expression seemingly possible, the guard reaches to his side, untches a baton, flips a switch, and then jams the baton in the prisoner's side. The prisoner screams as electricity floods his body and he drops to the floor.

  “Get in lihe guard orders.

  “Fuck you!”

  The guard smiles as he stabs again and again until the prisoner is a whimpering mess.

  Once we are all lined up, the warden makes her entrance from a port-sized elevator that leads down into the extensive prison plex.

  The warden is a 6’ 2”, lean, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman wearing a German trench coat that has the Ameri fg on one shoulder and the swastika oher.

  Heedless of said red fgs, the prisoners begin hooting and h at the only woman they’ve probably seen in a long while.

  When she finally stops in front of the prisoners, her hands move behind her back.

  “SILENCE!” she yells with the force of someone who deals with unruly prisoners every day.

  The prisoners all go silent… all except one.

  “Oi, bitch. You’ve got a nice mouth there. I got a pair that would fit in there real nice.”

  The woma answer. Instead, she looks at one of her guards. The guard steps forward and raises a clipboard.

  “Prisoner 43372. Juan Garcia. He is incarcerated for quadruple homicide, multiple ts of rape, and the sale of illicit substances. No bag of any kind. He is senteo life in prison. Bck ranked prisoner.”

  The warden nods. She then looks at the prisoner.

  “Juan, tell me, do you like sports?” she asks calmly.

  Juan grins fidently. “So long as I get to use my balls, then yeah, I do.”

  The warden nods again.

  “The us py a sport. Bring mir den Golfschl?ger!”

  At her order, fuards step towards Juan.

  “Hey, what the fuck are you doing!? Let me go!”

  He is pulled forward and held in front of all the prisoners. One of the guards ties a rope around his mouth while the others force him to stand with his legs spread apart.

  A fifth guard hands the warden a golf club.

  She does a few test swings with the club.

  “Now, prisoners,” she takes position in front of Juan. “I am Warden Irmgard Von Braun, and I am in charge of the prison plex under our feet.”

  She stares at the man as he is forced to stay standing with legs spread.

  “This prison is not like the other prisons. In my prison, there is no parole. There is no reduced time food behavior. There is no escape. Ead every one of you are here precisely because the powers that be do not want you alive, but ot legally kill you… yet.”

  She takes a stance. “You all are expendable.”

  She swings forward with the gold club. A perfectly practiced swing that creates a squelg sound as it makes tact with a ball.

  All of the priso pletely white as Juan screams, only to be muffled by the rope around his mouth. His legs fail, but the fuards keep him standing and his legs spread.

  “If somethio happen to any of you, then nobody would know.”

  She swings again.

  “And nobody would care.”

  And again.

  “Acts will happen to unfortunate inmates.”

  And again.

  “Perhaps, it will be self defense.”

  And again.

  “We are very lucky to have a crematorium on site.”

  And again.

  “That fit a lot of prisoners.”

  Again, again, again.

  She drops the bloody golf club on the ground and gives the prisoners o look.

  “If you want to stay out of the mue, then you will show your betters some respect.”

  She turns away from the prisoners and starts walking away.

  Only to pause a moment and gnce back.

  “Oh, and wele to Downside Peiary.”