258 hours. That's how long all of you Confederate prisoners have been bound, chained, oiled and soiled upon the prison barge, Wrecked Her, Damn Near Killed Her!!!, one of the hundreds of ships that deposit the refuse of society onto their new home when Rupert or Big Stevie see fit. Locked in the bowels of the ship, and let's face it... better it's bowels than someone else's, the hours have dragged by. It's dark, not the usual kind of darkness, but the low-income kind. As if they didn't care to spend enough in designer dark, even though they know it's your last ride. Damn them...
It smells, too. Like asparagas piss, but no one remembers eating any. Where did they get this piece of space junk anyways? Is there no end to the torture? That's when the guards get creative and decide to give an impromptu concert by blasting Tiffany's "I think we're alone now..." throughout the prisoner decks. Several men immediately go shithouse rat crazy and bang their heads against the bulkhead, ending their misery. The rest are left to anguish in the loosely named 'music', hoping the ride to HoL ends before your sanity.
On the end of a bench sit three men, chained for their crimes and awaiting their sentence of HoL to start. "Thumbs", "Two-Dick" and Dr. Thetic linger in the dark, not knowing what's going on around them, but guessing at it by the wet sounds coming from the right. A guard walks by, the tell-tale scent of Old Splice wafting after him. A man seated next to "Two-Dick" howls in pain as th eguard thumps him in the groin with a rusty pipe. He walks away laughing, leaving the man crying softly...
