Bimefo Tupperworn the gnome sits, back to the cell bars as to avoid meeting gazes, especially the glowering one from the prisoner across the way. His coat is off, and laid out under him, his boots stand upright and orderly next to him. He wears an intense expression as he hunches over the bowl of gruel in his little lap. It's clear, to himself anyway, he's prepared for a long stretch of jail.
"Strobbery Boys", he says. A wince later. A sample of the gruel, delivered by finger, deepens it. Though stripped of equipment, how could the guards care about a coat pocket full of dry spices, cloves of garlic? The one on his left breast full of salt and pepper? Some of it he sprinkles on the meal.
"Guaca-internees... noooo...", he offers, but immediately frowns. Admonishes himself, he declares, "A prison gang must be named for toughies." He gently nibbles and masticates a small piece of garlic. His expression says it all, disgusted but determined. Prison life is sparse, he must make do. The mush travels down on his finger, and is stirred in by it.
Wiping it off on the cloth napkin tucked under his collar, he then aims the finger again, to try the meal.
"Wonton and...", the bucket of water the guard tosses drenches him, and ruins the meal.
"FOR THE LAST TIME GNOME, SHUT UP!"
Jailbirds and jailgnomes
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