Bald Dog

They gave me four years for what I did to the lawn flamingo.

Michael, my cellmate, left a mechanical pencil he smuggled in underneath his pillow. I gave him a vasectomy with it and called the guards over, then used it to impale one of the guard's carotid arteries. The other guard was too distracted by this to prevent me from fleeing, and before he could give chase, slipped on the forming blood pool left by a twitching, sobbing Michael by the cell entrance. By then I was already outside the block, made a mad dash for the fence, and climbed hallway up it. then I used my inmate shirt to hook over the barbed wire, allowing me to grab onto it with minimal injury, and climb down.

I've never ran so fast in my life. There weren't any guards on the eastern side of the penitentiary, at least none that I ran into, and I was able to bolt-sprint through the main visitor's centre and out onto the streets within. I write this from a local Starbucks, using a phone I swiped from some bloke wearing a skirt. He said something about being "phobic", but I'm not afraid of anything anymore after the nightmares I've had about them. That woman, and my best friend in the world. The staff are trying to get me to leave, but they don't seem to be persistent enough to stand up to my "scalding hot coffee" style moves.

Once I figure out where I am, I'm going in a straight line to Wisconsin. I don't care how many people try to stop me. The guards couldn't. The Starbucks employees couldn't. The guy whose Tesla was parked outside Macy's, which I am now driving, certainly can't with that many holes in his head. And you can't either, Karen. I will have my dog back.

I'm coming for you.

I'm coming for Gerald.