Hans sat on the floor of his cell. He looked at the bleach-white, thick band that was wrapped around his left ankle. The rumor had only been part true. There wouldn’t be any shocks if they made it outside the perimeter of the prison, unless warden Denny "Dick" Jennings was just holding back that little fact for an extra surprise if somebody made a break for it. It would just set off every alarm known to man. Dick had bragged and raved, over and over… “Wave of the future…” “It will trip flood lights, silent alarms, loud alarms, and we can add whatever we want to it,” Dick had said, hands on his hips, chin tucked back into his three other chins.
“You guys gonna love the next thing,” he had said as they lined up in the cafeteria and started having the bracelets put around their ankles by two men in shirts and ties among six guards.
“Your hero is going to put trained K9 dogs—the ones that had a bit too much ‘aggression’ to be used by police—I’m gonna put those bad boys in cages that get automatically opened if the perimeter of this fine domicile is breached. But,” he had said, walking down the long, single-file line, pointing one finger in the air, “your hero is a fair hero. See, I’m gonna give you a chance. I personally have elected to only put the tracking range of the devices at four-hundred yards. If you can get over our impossible primary wall which, as most of you veterans know, is seventy-five feet high and smooth as shale, then get past our highly-trained, extremely observant guards, then over the twenty-five yards of razor wire, over the seventy-feet-tall secondary wall, where, upon your descent, my dogs will have already been turnt loose to offer you what your hero is going to call a ‘Welcome-to-Freedom Committee,’ if you can get past them and over the final, third wall which is a mere fifty-five feet high, with my highly trained marksmen shooting at your dumb, escape attempting asses, and you can get four-hundred yards away from the perimeter, still alive… well,” he said, his smiling face changing to a serious one—he believed he was an excellent actor … “Hell, you got a chance to escape your hero.”
He looked around to see who might make eye contact.
“Now,” he said, hands back on his hips, “I know how much you love this hero, so I have zero doubt that you would have no desire to leave these fine accommodations that I and your government are providing for you,” he said. “But, if you should,” he said, smiling again, catching as many eyes as he could before speaking again, “I’m going to ask my gentlemen marksmen to hold off, and we’re gonna let the dogs welcome you into freedom. And every dog has his day,” Denny “Dick” Jennings yelled, then, shouting quickly,” ain’t the right, Wacko Hansy Fonzie?”
Hans looked up, wanting to lay low but knowing that laying low would raise suspicions… he was, on the deepest threads, popular with the other men because he never cowered to warden Dick Jennings, and the fact that he did not befriend anyone made his allure even stronger… he was mysterious to them. He marched to his own drum… some said just a crazy loon, others said he must be the guy that they based the character of Michael Myers on in Halloween… even Biggie Smith, the giant black man serving life plus 20 that ruled everything Dick couldn’t get his paws on, had mentioned that he wouldn’t mess with Hans, saying, “It could make for unnecessary hostilities,” which was Biggie’s way of sounding smart while paying tribute to someone who may be, at least in some cases, worthy of his own feeling of fear.
But time was ticking, and all eyes were on Hans. And one area Hans was admittedly weak in was finding balance in-between two extremes.
“Yes, sir. Every dog does have his day. Even that wretched bitch you call your momma.”