Back in prison, I wasted away, eking away a meager existence on water, wine, four meals a day each including salad and dessert, and smack. I was allowed out of my cell only for ballroom dancing, box socials, conjugal visits with interlopers, forced prostitution, and our eight daily showers.
"Brunhilda," I asked, in the darkness of our cell that night. "What are you in for?"
"Ethnic cleansing."
"It's perfectly fine in West Belgium, my dear Brunhilda," I offered. "Practically anything goes there. I mean, we allow Fox to broadcast there."
"And you call yourself a civilized nation?"
I let that slip by. I had no excuse, and grew slightly red in the face, although the darkness and satin sheets hid the fact.
"Tell me, Brunhilda," I said, as I always made sure to use her name when addressing her. "Brunhilda, did you see yourself winding up in prison when you were growing up? What was your childhood like?"
"Well," she answered, "I guess it was pretty normal. I mean, what was yours like, Bitch?" (I had earned the title through my feisty manner and resemblance to a small poodle. Some of the inmates crafted me a lapel pin saying "Bitch" and compelled me to wear it.)
"If you must know, Brunhilda, my childhood was most singularly normal. I was born into the House of Pain, as Katrina von Pain, Crown Princess of West Belgium. I was to be heir to the throne, but my father decided when I was an infant that he would make me earn the title by competing against the cat. He would daily take measure of my food intake and diaper output, then measure those against the cat's food and litter, in order to measure which of us was more efficient at living. I lost, and the cat was named Prince of Brussels and given my birthright."
The warden came in the next morning and announced that I was to be summarily executed for my gross negligence in driving while eating fast food. He explained that he was simply speeding up the process by which the food would have hardened my arteries and killed me anyway, and that the sentence was to be carried out through the Deerfield tradition of being fed to the squirrels.
Brunhilda tried to comfort me with meaningless sex, but not even her acquisition of an officer's billy-club to aid in the act was enough to offer me distraction. "I've got powerful friends," I taunted the guard, "and my daddy's richer than yours!" After ignoring these threats for several hours, he finally responded by informing me that his daddy owned the local newspaper and could crush me or even the entire town with a single ill-informed editorial. I chose to remain silent and concentrate my efforts on deciphering the ornamental carvings on my cell wall. Apparently, there were many "good times" to be had locally, if only I could escape.
At the crack of dawn, I was taken to the Squirrel Pit, a large fissure in the earth deep within the Deerfield woods. Officer Pascaranelli of Deerfield Metro read the charges against me, and asked if I had any last words. "Yes," I replied, but the Officer cut me off sharply. "Okay, that's enough. Agitate the squirrels!" he yelled. Several other officers began tossing sacks of squirrels into the hole, along with pamphlets on person-eating and silverware for their usage.
"On behalf of the town of Deerfield, we offer this foreigner to the squirrels!" Pascaranelli yelled, wiping some inbred drool from his lip and gesturing to the other officers. Brunhilda turned her head in horror and began to make out with another inmate. The officers pushed me into the Squirrel Pit.
Nothing happened.
The squirrels were actually quite distraught by having my person tossed upon them, and those who were not mortally wounded from the impact scurried up the sides of the crevice and into the forest. The officers shrugged and left. I overheard several of them complain that this happens all the time, and that a more reliable method of execution should be devised, involving perhaps badgers or pointier creatures. This did not concern me, for I was now free to recapture my crown.
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