Harry Shaw

Somewhere in the distance I hear the bucket clatter to the floor. I plunge the knife into his head, again and again. His arms lash out blindly, getting in the way. Blood mixes with water cascading to the floor. Meathead staggers to his feet, pulling off his shirt, trying to peel away the agony, but his skin comes away with it, leaving a raw, red mess.There__ a shrill alarm and the sound of pounding feet. I hurl the knife through the bars at the window. A blur of dark faces converge in my vision, fists and feet, punching and kicking. Meathead__ mates are yanking me off, trying to hurt me. Screws come rushing and soon they__e everywhere as I__ half-carried, half-dragged along the corridor. __limey,_ a thought comes from somewhere in all the chaos, ____e only been out a day and already I__ heading straight back down the chokey!_ The last thing I see, as a screaming Meathead is hurried to the hospital, is my cellmate in the middle of the crowd peering worriedly after me. Course he__ worried! The stinky bastard is wondering where his next bit of scag is coming from!