Plumbing Hate

((The reason I did this is to get my mindset into both a character and a setting that I have in my mind. Thought I’d post it up as I quite like how it turned out. I think I will make this into a thing (called Scribbles) where I just post up little exercises I set myself.

This piece does contain foul language, so if you’re a minor and reading this, imagine me waggling my finger and shaking my head))


Drip. Drip. Drip. I can’t stand the fucking dripping. Sergeant Chase’s pitiful attempts at interrogation are nothing in comparison to the god damned dripping. It lasts all day and all night. I can’t sleep.

I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The white paint is cracked and peeling in places. Probably due to the damp. They need to sort their fucking plumbing out. I tilt my head to look at who is on guard duty. Private Morris. A waster of a soldier, if these pigs can even be called that. No, they are just bullies in uniform. The whole world goes to shit and some self-important fuck up will manage to assert his or her ideas of democracy and freedom, when all they do is create Nazi fucking Germany.

Old Jim starts to sing some hillbilly trash, though Private Morris quickly walks up and silences him by clattering his baton against the bars and barking orders at him. I wish Old Jim would shut up. Sure, he’s probably here for some ridiculous reason, but he’s really annoying me with his constant one man karaoke attempts. He shuts up every time whoever is on guard duty intervenes, which is usually pretty quick, but sometimes it happens when I’m trying to sleep; sometimes it even happens when I finally manage to get to sleep through this fucking dripping!

I need to get out of here. I am going to lose my mind in this god damned cell. I stand up and start pacing, running my fingers against the old, rusty metal bars that stand between me and my freedom. I could trick Private Morris into coming close and then strangle him through the bars. I look down at my hands, then over to Private Morris. I’m about to call over to him when Sergeant Chase enters and approaches him.

The two of them begin talking in a whisper. I try to listen in, but they start to walk down the corridor towards the end of the cells. Perhaps this is my chance? Nobody is around to guard the cells, so I quickly start to examine the lock that binds my cell door shut. It looks easy enough to break. Perhaps I could even force it open?

Private Morris enters again before I am able to do anything, snuffing out any hope I had of escape at this time. Oh well. I will just have to bide my time until someone fucks up. I lie back down on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The dripping is really pissing me off. I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. I’m tired anyway, I’ll plan possible escapes when I wake up. It must be getting late, but nobody can tell as this jail has no fucking windows and no way of telling the time. But with this fucking dripping even thinking about sleeping is optimistic.

I hate the fucking dripping…

Suddenly a clatter against the bars on my cell.

‘The fuck?’ I shout at Morris, pissed that he woke me when I finally managed to get to sleep.

‘Visitor.’ The words uttered so simply cause my mind to turn on its side. Visitor? Nobody fucking cares enough. I stare at Morris with a confused, yet still pissed expression. ‘Your lover… Or something,’ Morris elaborates before stepping away from the bars, standing against the far wall. The door at the end of the corridor opens and shuts with a loud clang. Many people appear to have taken position near the bars of their cells and Sergeant Chase seems to be suppressing them. It’s not surprising, some of these men probably haven’t seen a woman in years. I stand up from my bed, curiously walking to the front of my cell to get a better look.

Blue summer dress, long, golden blonde hair, woven, wide-rimmed hat concealing the upper half of her face as she looks at the floor, heels clattering against the stone floor as she walks. The way she carries herself rings out a dissonance with the messy, dirty surroundings of the prison. She carries a brown leather bag, hooked over her shoulder and held just under her armpit. She is no lover of mine. I have never been so lucky to attract such beauty.

As she reaches my cell, Sergeant Chase seems to gesture at me, receiving a nod from the woman before walking back down the corridor. Is she really a lover of mine? How fucked up on drugs and alcohol was I that night as to not remember such luck? Maybe I really do need to give that shit up. She turns to Private Morris and whispers something quietly. He just seems to nod and walks a few paces further down the corridor.

She turns to me, bright blue eyes behind black, thick-rimmed glasses locked with mine.

‘Baby, I’ve been so worried,’ she starts, walking closer to the bars. Her voice was silken and thick with concern, a heavy southern accent seemed so out of place this far north. Who is she? I walk up to the bars to meet her. I briefly look down as I feel her hands locking with mine. Her hands are smooth to the touch, almost impossibly so for a wastelander. I notice Private Morris staring at us from across the room. I should have expected it, really. I look back into her eyes and stare longingly. Though longing is not the only reason.

Her expression had shifted dramatically into a sly grin. Her smile radiated both comfort and a level of confidence beyond perception.

‘Who are you?’ I ask her curiously, my voice a mere whisper, ‘I do not remember you. Was I fucked on amphetamines or something?’ I continue to question. Her grin widens.

‘I am here to offer you a job, mister Moore,’ she utters quietly, her tone quick and to the point, ‘my employer wishes to make use of your skills for a job.’ Of course. I accumulated quite the reputation as a hired gun before I got captured. Robert Moore: the man who could get anything done. My reputation as a wasteland bad-ass was certainly something that I abused on many occasions to get into a women’s pants. Fuck, I miss that lifestyle.

But this woman… She seems different to the low-lives and whores that I’m used to fucking on a drug-hazed lust spree. I don’t think she would fall for my cheap tricks and reputation bragging. But shit, she is so fucking beautiful.

‘Yeah, well in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m stuck in a fucking cell,’ I respond, my eyes still locked with hers, ‘and you didn’t answer my question. Are you my lover? Where did we-‘

‘Perhaps my employer was wrong about you,’ she interjects quietly, a frown spreading across her brow, ‘but since you’re not thinking with your brain, I’ll enlighten you. No, we have never met. I am here to extend a job offer and an opportunity to you. Nothing more.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘Meet me in Scrape’s Bar in the nearby settlement when you get out. I will only be there for a week, so that’s your time limit.’

‘What makes you think that I can get out of here?’

She grins once again.

‘That’s for you to work out. Consider this the start of your formal interview.’ Before I can start speaking, she plants her lips upon mine. Like her hands, they are impossibly soft for a wastelander. I slide my hand around her hips to her backside as we kiss, though she is quickly pulled away by Private Morris.

‘Right, that’s enough you two. Visiting time is over,’ he barks as he drags her away.

‘I’ll always love you!’ she calls over to me as she is dragged away, her voice back to mimicking concern. As she is dragged out, I feel something lingering on my tongue. I look around at the other prisoners who seem more intent on staring at the woman as she is escorted out. Opening my mouth, I reach in and pull out a pair of hair pins. I make my way casually back to my bed and place the clips within my mattress, using one of the many splits in the fabric to slot them in and conceal them. As I hear someone re-enter the corridor I stand up again and decide to take a look.

‘We’re going to have to search you,’ Sergeant Chase says with frustration as hereaches my cell, unlocking the door and making his way in, Morris standing outside with his rifle in hand. I just stand there as they search me for any extra items, suppressing a grin beneath a tired expression. Idiots.

‘He’s clear,’ Chase informs Morris as he leaves the cell and locks it back up. I can almost feel his disappointment as he walks away. The bastard just loves a good excuse to beat prisoners.

For now though, I need to sleep. If I am going to escape, I can’t do so when I am suffering from sleep deprivation.

I hate the fucking plumbing.

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