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11/24/2023
Puderperle
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Puderperle
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15
The new prison inmate
"Shh, have you heard about the new one?"
"Nah, who do you mean?"
"The new inmate. He's supposed to be one of the really tough guys. But don't worry, chicken leg. We don't know any competition." Steele flexed his muscles and contorted his face to look as dangerous as possible.
There had been excited whispering behind the prison walls ever since an empty cell in the high-carat wing had been disinfected for a new occupant. The really tough guys were at home here in the corridor. Robbery, murder and manslaughter alone were not enough. A good dose of disobedience and resistance to law enforcement officers, as well as a negative prognosis for social rehabilitation, were required to apply for five square meters here. At least for the next 10-15 years.
Steele was secretly excited, but he would never reveal that to the others. He would take the secret to his grave. He knew a thing or two about secrets. He was the leader of a gang that flattened pretty much anyone who stood in the wrong way. Yes, a crooked look was enough for a good punch in the jaw. So it was an advantage to gain his favor and become part of the gang. It certainly saved a lot of trouble and chipped teeth. Steele was reminiscent of a Marvel character with a neck like a bull, sultry eyebrows and massive muscle mass. Even the skull was tattooed.
It was self-explanatory that all newcomers had to get past him first. If he sensed strength, they were put through Steele's selection process. From tests of courage to surprising attacks. His ingenuity in terms of perfidy was almost endless. He only shrugged off the rags he had discarded. You didn't get your hands dirty with mosquitoes.
At lunchtime, the new inmate was led into the hall by an officer and introduced. The prisoners raised their heads to check him out first. Steele was one of them. Everyone looked furtively at the gang boss and held their breath, wondering how he would react to the newcomer. After all, his judgment was the one to follow.
"What's your name?" barked Steele as the prisoners stood behind him.
"Lucky."
"Lucky? What are you - a dog?"
"Never heard of Lucky Luke?"
Steele grunted contemptuously. He was still unsure whether he should lose his temper just yet. It was hard to tell whether the guy was trying to make fun of him or whether he was just being stupid. The latter would be too boring for a real rivalry, though. So he came closer and stood up to his full height. He eyed him aggressively.
"Why Lucky Luke? What do you have to sit for?"
The newcomer stood in front of the machine in a relaxed posture, almost without a pulse. The scene seemed to amuse him, the hint of a grin flitting across the corners of his mouth.
He was a head shorter than the giant in front of him and had a slimmer build. An angular masculine face and a full head of black hair to match his dark complexion. His black eyes flashed like two pointed spears, ready to eliminate the enemy in seconds. Nothing escaped his watchful gaze.
"Why am I here? I burned Aventus Creed's lemon orchards and cut down Layton's apple trees, trampled Sauvage's lavender fields with my horse and drowned King Naxos in a honey pot. Then I..."
The prisoners shuddered.
"You did what? You can't be serious! No one has ever dared to do that before. Golly!" Steele exclaimed before he was even aware of this recognition.
From the crowd, a thawed voice with a pounding heart dared to ask: "Yes, but what's going to happen to the world? Are we all going to stink from now on?"
"Don't worry," said the self-proclaimed Lucky and pulled up a chair with a flourish. "The world will smell better than before. I've taken his Delina from old Herod."
That couldn't be true. No one dared to say another word. What kind of guy was he? Delina was the queen. And she was willing to share her bed with him? Who is this guy?
Steele sat down across from him at the table without a word. He shredded the chicken with his meaty fists. Why cutlery if not for fighting.
"Why aren't you eating?" he growled with his mouth full, making the chunks fly. A lack of table manners was part of social climbing here.
Lucky wiped half the chicken out of his eye and stuck out his tongue, which was covered in ash. A horrible smell of cold smoke drifted through the eating hall.
"Already ate."
Disgusted, Steele turned his head away. Apparently the guy had sucked the ashtrays dry, because cigarettes cost almost a fortune in prison if you could get them legally.
"I absorbed the ashes with my mother's milk in the desert. The fire of the Orient burns in me. Don't mess with me, little steel, otherwise you'll bend..."
Now Steele saw red! That was enough provocation. He jumped up as if stung by a tarantula, took the fork from the table
And rammed it full force into his upper body. The fork pierced his black leather jacket and turtleneck sweater. The newcomer lifted his sweater unimpressed. A muscular, angular body was revealed. But not a single drop of blood! To everyone's surprise, he shook sawdust out of his clothes. Really nice splinters with the finest grain.
Steele's jaw dropped.
"Bleeding is only for girls! I'm made of real wood. Eat your chicken and get your strength, sugar baby," the newcomer said, adding with a wink before leaving the room for a smoke, "My name is Maahir. Mahir Black."
"Lucky Luke is a joke," a frightened little voice whispered from the background, interrupting the dead silence.
A clever move by Maahir to change location, otherwise there might have been more deaths. From now on, Steele ate huge amounts of spinach to become even stronger. He also decided to apply to Maahir for membership of his gang. He is not yet sure about the bribe, because he really doesn't know what to do with fags. Tattoos don't look so good on a wooden body either. Maybe a children's Maxi King...
Maahir Black is a testosterone-laden fragrance. Slim in variation, muscular and very persistent. I would say it has horsepower. One you better not mess with. No sense of detail, rather coarse. He's unlikely to win the prize for the art of seduction. He only wears black leather and announces himself from afar with cold smoke instead of fanfare. In the desert this is an art, in closed rooms almost a torture. Balsam or sweetness have been completely robbed from it and replaced with lots of wood and a pinch of pepper spice. Masculine to the bitter
-Finish
"Nah, who do you mean?"
"The new inmate. He's supposed to be one of the really tough guys. But don't worry, chicken leg. We don't know any competition." Steele flexed his muscles and contorted his face to look as dangerous as possible.
There had been excited whispering behind the prison walls ever since an empty cell in the high-carat wing had been disinfected for a new occupant. The really tough guys were at home here in the corridor. Robbery, murder and manslaughter alone were not enough. A good dose of disobedience and resistance to law enforcement officers, as well as a negative prognosis for social rehabilitation, were required to apply for five square meters here. At least for the next 10-15 years.
Steele was secretly excited, but he would never reveal that to the others. He would take the secret to his grave. He knew a thing or two about secrets. He was the leader of a gang that flattened pretty much anyone who stood in the wrong way. Yes, a crooked look was enough for a good punch in the jaw. So it was an advantage to gain his favor and become part of the gang. It certainly saved a lot of trouble and chipped teeth. Steele was reminiscent of a Marvel character with a neck like a bull, sultry eyebrows and massive muscle mass. Even the skull was tattooed.
It was self-explanatory that all newcomers had to get past him first. If he sensed strength, they were put through Steele's selection process. From tests of courage to surprising attacks. His ingenuity in terms of perfidy was almost endless. He only shrugged off the rags he had discarded. You didn't get your hands dirty with mosquitoes.
At lunchtime, the new inmate was led into the hall by an officer and introduced. The prisoners raised their heads to check him out first. Steele was one of them. Everyone looked furtively at the gang boss and held their breath, wondering how he would react to the newcomer. After all, his judgment was the one to follow.
"What's your name?" barked Steele as the prisoners stood behind him.
"Lucky."
"Lucky? What are you - a dog?"
"Never heard of Lucky Luke?"
Steele grunted contemptuously. He was still unsure whether he should lose his temper just yet. It was hard to tell whether the guy was trying to make fun of him or whether he was just being stupid. The latter would be too boring for a real rivalry, though. So he came closer and stood up to his full height. He eyed him aggressively.
"Why Lucky Luke? What do you have to sit for?"
The newcomer stood in front of the machine in a relaxed posture, almost without a pulse. The scene seemed to amuse him, the hint of a grin flitting across the corners of his mouth.
He was a head shorter than the giant in front of him and had a slimmer build. An angular masculine face and a full head of black hair to match his dark complexion. His black eyes flashed like two pointed spears, ready to eliminate the enemy in seconds. Nothing escaped his watchful gaze.
"Why am I here? I burned Aventus Creed's lemon orchards and cut down Layton's apple trees, trampled Sauvage's lavender fields with my horse and drowned King Naxos in a honey pot. Then I..."
The prisoners shuddered.
"You did what? You can't be serious! No one has ever dared to do that before. Golly!" Steele exclaimed before he was even aware of this recognition.
From the crowd, a thawed voice with a pounding heart dared to ask: "Yes, but what's going to happen to the world? Are we all going to stink from now on?"
"Don't worry," said the self-proclaimed Lucky and pulled up a chair with a flourish. "The world will smell better than before. I've taken his Delina from old Herod."
That couldn't be true. No one dared to say another word. What kind of guy was he? Delina was the queen. And she was willing to share her bed with him? Who is this guy?
Steele sat down across from him at the table without a word. He shredded the chicken with his meaty fists. Why cutlery if not for fighting.
"Why aren't you eating?" he growled with his mouth full, making the chunks fly. A lack of table manners was part of social climbing here.
Lucky wiped half the chicken out of his eye and stuck out his tongue, which was covered in ash. A horrible smell of cold smoke drifted through the eating hall.
"Already ate."
Disgusted, Steele turned his head away. Apparently the guy had sucked the ashtrays dry, because cigarettes cost almost a fortune in prison if you could get them legally.
"I absorbed the ashes with my mother's milk in the desert. The fire of the Orient burns in me. Don't mess with me, little steel, otherwise you'll bend..."
Now Steele saw red! That was enough provocation. He jumped up as if stung by a tarantula, took the fork from the table
And rammed it full force into his upper body. The fork pierced his black leather jacket and turtleneck sweater. The newcomer lifted his sweater unimpressed. A muscular, angular body was revealed. But not a single drop of blood! To everyone's surprise, he shook sawdust out of his clothes. Really nice splinters with the finest grain.
Steele's jaw dropped.
"Bleeding is only for girls! I'm made of real wood. Eat your chicken and get your strength, sugar baby," the newcomer said, adding with a wink before leaving the room for a smoke, "My name is Maahir. Mahir Black."
"Lucky Luke is a joke," a frightened little voice whispered from the background, interrupting the dead silence.
A clever move by Maahir to change location, otherwise there might have been more deaths. From now on, Steele ate huge amounts of spinach to become even stronger. He also decided to apply to Maahir for membership of his gang. He is not yet sure about the bribe, because he really doesn't know what to do with fags. Tattoos don't look so good on a wooden body either. Maybe a children's Maxi King...
Maahir Black is a testosterone-laden fragrance. Slim in variation, muscular and very persistent. I would say it has horsepower. One you better not mess with. No sense of detail, rather coarse. He's unlikely to win the prize for the art of seduction. He only wears black leather and announces himself from afar with cold smoke instead of fanfare. In the desert this is an art, in closed rooms almost a torture. Balsam or sweetness have been completely robbed from it and replaced with lots of wood and a pinch of pepper spice. Masculine to the bitter
-Finish
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