(no subject)
Audrey Fenske gave me the starting sentence for this one, and I wrote the rest.
Sleepily, the prisoner dragged himself to the door of his cell, desperately hoping that his bag of Doritos had been safely delivered. Sitting there, a few inches away from the bars and directly in front of the food slot, was a small red bag. Hastily, he grabbed it, popping it open and shoving his hand inside. But the moment his hands touched the chips in the bag, he deflated, head hanging and shoulders slumped. He pulled his fingers out, crushing one the greasy yellow chips and letting the crumbs fall through his fingers.
“Joe,” he said quietly at first. The reply he got was silence, minus the table fan sitting on the desk in front of his cell. “Joe,” he said, a bit louder. When Joe didn’t answer or appear, the prisoner got a little fed up. “Joe, god damn it,” he yelled, “get your fat ass in here!” Angrily, he smashed the bag of chips and threw it against his cell wall.
Immediately, short, shallow breaths were heard, and a large man in a sheriff outfit materialized. He was sweating profusely, and pit stains were extremely visible on his khaki-colored garments. He slightly resembled a pig in the face, with mousy brown hair that was plastered to his forehead, and gold-rimmed, oversized aviator sunglasses.
The prisoner picked up the trampled bag of chips with one hand, while his other arm rested on his knee, cradling his head. “What the hell is this?” he asked quietly, not looking up at Joe. “I ask for one thing in this place - a fairly simple thing - a bag of Doritos.” He finally brought his head up to look at Joe, who was shrugging. “I see you eating Doritos all the time, lard ass,” the prisoner spat, “so I know you’ve got them.” Joe stuttered a bit, apparently unable to come up with an excuse for this. The prisoner heaved a sigh.
“I jus’…I can’ letchya have ‘em,” Joe drawled. He had the stereotypical Alabamian accent, and spoke very slowly. The prisoner gritted his teeth, sighing again. Joe shrugged, throwing up his hands. “S’agains’ policy, I jus’ can’…”
“I don’t give a shit what the policy is here,” the prisoner interrupted. “My lawyer told you to give me whatever I want, or you’d have a lawsuit on your hands, and all I want is one fucking bag of Doritos!” He shot up and began to pace. “I mean, honestly, one bag of Doritos! I’m not being a high maintenance prisoner here, I’m not asking for an A-bomb or anything too complicated. One bag of chips,” he emphasized, hitting his hand on the bars of his cell with every word. When Joe didn’t respond, just stood there shrugging as he had been, the prisoner let his head fall against the bars, the impact echoing in the room. After a few moments resting against the bars, he slowly pulled away, walking back to his small cot and sitting down, defeated.
Joe remained in front of the prisoner’s cell for just a few moments more. Turning around awkwardly and shuffling away, he returned to the sandwich he had been eating before. Looking at the Doritos that accompanied the sandwich on the plate, he chuckled to himself as he stuffed a handful of the chips into his mouth, crumbs falling and speckling his shirt with orange.
Back in the cell, the prisoner reluctantly stretched out on his tiny bed. Folding his arms behind his head, he stared angrily at the ceiling, envisioning an enormous bag of Doritos and a dead Joe.
Sleepily, the prisoner dragged himself to the door of his cell, desperately hoping that his bag of Doritos had been safely delivered. Sitting there, a few inches away from the bars and directly in front of the food slot, was a small red bag. Hastily, he grabbed it, popping it open and shoving his hand inside. But the moment his hands touched the chips in the bag, he deflated, head hanging and shoulders slumped. He pulled his fingers out, crushing one the greasy yellow chips and letting the crumbs fall through his fingers.
“Joe,” he said quietly at first. The reply he got was silence, minus the table fan sitting on the desk in front of his cell. “Joe,” he said, a bit louder. When Joe didn’t answer or appear, the prisoner got a little fed up. “Joe, god damn it,” he yelled, “get your fat ass in here!” Angrily, he smashed the bag of chips and threw it against his cell wall.
Immediately, short, shallow breaths were heard, and a large man in a sheriff outfit materialized. He was sweating profusely, and pit stains were extremely visible on his khaki-colored garments. He slightly resembled a pig in the face, with mousy brown hair that was plastered to his forehead, and gold-rimmed, oversized aviator sunglasses.
The prisoner picked up the trampled bag of chips with one hand, while his other arm rested on his knee, cradling his head. “What the hell is this?” he asked quietly, not looking up at Joe. “I ask for one thing in this place - a fairly simple thing - a bag of Doritos.” He finally brought his head up to look at Joe, who was shrugging. “I see you eating Doritos all the time, lard ass,” the prisoner spat, “so I know you’ve got them.” Joe stuttered a bit, apparently unable to come up with an excuse for this. The prisoner heaved a sigh.
“I jus’…I can’ letchya have ‘em,” Joe drawled. He had the stereotypical Alabamian accent, and spoke very slowly. The prisoner gritted his teeth, sighing again. Joe shrugged, throwing up his hands. “S’agains’ policy, I jus’ can’…”
“I don’t give a shit what the policy is here,” the prisoner interrupted. “My lawyer told you to give me whatever I want, or you’d have a lawsuit on your hands, and all I want is one fucking bag of Doritos!” He shot up and began to pace. “I mean, honestly, one bag of Doritos! I’m not being a high maintenance prisoner here, I’m not asking for an A-bomb or anything too complicated. One bag of chips,” he emphasized, hitting his hand on the bars of his cell with every word. When Joe didn’t respond, just stood there shrugging as he had been, the prisoner let his head fall against the bars, the impact echoing in the room. After a few moments resting against the bars, he slowly pulled away, walking back to his small cot and sitting down, defeated.
Joe remained in front of the prisoner’s cell for just a few moments more. Turning around awkwardly and shuffling away, he returned to the sandwich he had been eating before. Looking at the Doritos that accompanied the sandwich on the plate, he chuckled to himself as he stuffed a handful of the chips into his mouth, crumbs falling and speckling his shirt with orange.
Back in the cell, the prisoner reluctantly stretched out on his tiny bed. Folding his arms behind his head, he stared angrily at the ceiling, envisioning an enormous bag of Doritos and a dead Joe.