Post by Awesome Stick Labor on May 17, 2017 8:44:24 GMT
Chapter 2
"COMMON GROUND"
~Special Guest Star~
FIONA MCFLY
"COMMON GROUND"
~Special Guest Star~
FIONA MCFLY
May 15, 2017 -- 11:00 PM
Inside the Hamilton County (OH) Justice Center...
...we find James Gilmore trying to relax in the bottom bunk of cell #547, trying to close his eyes and gain at least SOME semblance of shut-eye. It's been quite the long evening for the Islander alum, culminating with a trip to the slammer in the back of a paddywagon. He'd never been in jail before--much less in trouble with the law--so the experience came off as a shock to his system. Oh, he heard the gleeful yells of "fresh fish," the threats of being accosted in the communal shower by the jail's "Bengal Brigade" inmate gang...and for the first time in his life, it left him genuinely worried to the point where he had to watch his back at all times.
It had your basic amenities--barren white walls, a single LED overhead light, a military-style bunk rack, and a sink-toilet combination.
As for the jail cell itself, it wasn't too bad.
But the hellish atmosphere of being "in the system" with hordes of dangerous druggies, violent offenders, and pedophiles left him scared shitless.
Nothing helped him out, not even a brief moment of personal meditation. As it stood, he had to contend with his top-bunked cellmate, an older white gentlemen with a receding hairline who constantly played random "sad music" notes on his harmonica. It was bad enough that Gilmore had to potentially spend the night in such a depressing setting, it was augmented by the bluesy nature of the man's music...so much so that James tried to cover his ears in some attempt to get some sleep.
The cellie, aged 59, stopped playing noticing Gilmore's reaction.
CELLMATE: Hey...I ain't playin' too loud now, ain't I?
James looked up at his cellie, both men sporting gray HCJC uniforms, and shook his head slightly
JAMES GILMORE: A little. Just tryin' to get some sleep, this place is a livin' nightmare. The Bengal Brigade, the food...
CELLMATE: Yeahhhh...you'll get used to it.
JAMES: I'm gonna be bailed outta this joint real soon, just you watch.
Gilmore's cellmate, physically strong for his age, couldn't help but chuckle.
CELLMATE: Riiiight..that's what they ALL say. What you in this hellhole for, anyway?
JAMES: A-and-B.
The man hopped out of his bunk just as Gilmore sat up; he couldn't help but eke out a sly grin, looking over the pro wrestler's smaller stature, slicked-back hair and bushy goatee.
CELLMATE: You...assault and battery? You don't seem to...look the part to whup another man's ass.
James couldn't bear to giggle slightly as he explained his situation and why he was in the pokey in the first place, but deep in his mind...he was still too scared to tell the cellie that Fiona McFly had damn-near tried to choke the life out of him minutes after the Monday night program ended.
The older man, giving off a wise persona, noticed the red marks on Gilmore's neck--it looked terrible.
CELLMATE: You might wanna get your neck checked out, bub...it's really red.
James closed his eyes, not wanting to think any more about the incident in question.
JAMES: How'd you end up in the pokey yourself?
Gilmore watched his cellmate take a seat at the cell's lone desk and chair.
CELLMATE: B-and-E...breakin' and enterin'. Stole a bunch of Hillary Clinton signs from some gal's home during last year's campaign. Doin' a two-year stretch for it, but I'll live. Glad that old, lyin' hag didn't win...and the sad thing is that those far-left nutjob Dems are STILL blamin' Russia and misogyny for their loss. Ain't that somethin'?!
He peered his eyes upon his cellie, trying to ponder the nature of the man's crime; yet in his soul, it made me smile--after all, he WAS a gleeful supporter of now-President Donald J. Trump. For the first time in God knows how long, James Gilmore began laughing...almost to the point of hysteria.
CELLMATE: I take it you hate Hillary too, huh?
JAMES: Darn right, but what can I say though...it's a jungle out there that's gone completely un-American.
James let out a hearty laugh as he locked eyes upon his cellmate. They had similar beliefs and ideologies, given them a common ground in a world that's gone mad around them.
CHARLIE: The name's Charlie, Charlie Vaughn--I actually used to play for the Cleveland Browns back in the mid-1980s. People in this joint call me "Pork Chop Charlie."
JAMES: I hope ya get outta here soon. I could use some company on the road.
CHARLIE: I'll look you up when I do, bud. I might take up on that offer.
The men shook hands, the act being quite professional and very sincere. James cheered to himself, knowing that there are still people who agree with him on SOMETHING, but the moment is short-lived as...
"Open cell five-four-seven!"
...the cell's lone door slid open, revealing a pair of jail guards and its chief supervisor, a charcoal-gray suit-wearing African-American male named Mr. Terrance Stamphill.
CHARLIE: Lettin' me out early, eh Mr. Stamphill?
The suit-wearing chief chuckled with glee before shaking his head.
MR. STAMPHILL: Sorry...not you, Vaughn. Him.
Mr. Stamphill pointed to Gilmore, who stood up and collected a manila folder filled with various documents.
MR. STAMPHILL: You're free to go, Mr. Gilmore.
"Whew, finally..." James thought to himself as he grabbed his small, standard-issue toiletry bag and headed towards the doorway. Nodding at his friend and former cellmate, thanking him for the chat, Gilmore quietly left the cell behind him as the door slammed shut. With a steady, yet joyful stride, he walked down towards a small lobby at the end of the hallway...
...only to find a surprise waiting for him. It was none other than Fiona McFly, still sporting a look of contempt on her face.
JAMES: Awww maaaaaan...
McFly gritted her teeth at Gilmore's unappreciative gesture. Deep in her heart, bailing him out of the slammer wasn't just the "American" thing to do. It was the right thing to do.
It left James Gilmore with plenty of questions.
~TO BE CONTINUED~