Life at Hard Labor chapters 1-5

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor chapters 1-5
Date: 15 June 2011

This is a work of complete fiction, and is not intended to represent any specific people, places or events in reality, nor do I condone any of the actions, or situations portrayed. It is a work of gay, erotic fiction which has elements of hard discipline, bondage, forced labor, and sex. If you find such material objectionable, or if such material is restricted by the laws in your area, please read something else.
The subject of this story is a man who has been sentenced to hard labor. There are a few elements of the story which are very unrealistic, but they are only there to build up a kind of ambience of harshness and finality. I use quite a few American terms and slang, and I’m sorry if this confuses you. It again is part of the feeling I’m trying to create. This is my first attempt at writing anything like this.

I both welcome and request any feedback, criticism and suggestions you may have. Thanks.

Chapter 1-

It’s about five hours away from sunset on a long, dirt road. It’s dead calm, and the light colored, dry earth bounces sunlight upwards where it mingles with rippling waves of heat. It had rained earlier that day, but that had evaporated by then, and all the moisture hung low in the air. The rain clouds have all departed, and the sun blazes in a stark blue sky. A heavy pick axe sinks into the dry earth at the side of the road. The rocky ground needed to be loosened up if it was going to yield to a shovel. Wielding it is a man with strong, long arms and hard dirty hands. There are beads of sweat beneath his short brown hair on a tanned forehead. His face is covered in a thin beard and moustache with gleams with sweat dripping off. He is wearing only a tattered and dirty pair of carpenter jeans, with the back right pocket slightly torn away from the seat. A pair of brown work boots cover his feet, with part of the dirty leather torn away at the toe showing scuffed, but gleaming steel. Connecting each of these boots, are a set of thick shackles, and a length of heavy chain. He is out in public, and must be restrained, for this man is a convict.

The torn pocket on his pants folds down and hides the letters and numbers M-023-D. He had born other numbers, but always the letters M and D followed him. They were hard reminders of both his old life, and his current one. The M, was the first letter of his first name, and the D was the classification he had been given. That D meant hard labor, with no escape in the parlance of that grim and hard society. A longer chain trails back from the one that binds this man to his toil, and connects to still a longer chain. Next to his chain, and a few feet away, another chain is attached, and another and another.

There are 49 other men in nearly identical clothes, and in nearly identical physical shape; all swinging pick axes, all bound to the long chain. Some wore flat topped blue hats with short flat brims, in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the weight of the sun, but they are facing west as they work, and it does little to help. A tall man in a beige uniform is standing next to them. He is unrestrained, and wields no pick, but a long leather strap attached to a wooden handle. Luckily for the toiling men, he does not swing it, but only holds it at his side, and taps his leg with it. This is enough to keep the men working. He wears a patrol hat and a streak of sweat runs even down his back. He is one of five men charged with both the confinement and the punishment of these 50 filthy drudges.

The convict with the M and the D once again sinks his pick into the hard ground. He hits a rock, and swings hard again to break it apart. This was really tough ground, and even with his physique, he found it hard to break the earth. This convict is myself.

How I came to be here is not on my mind at the moment, but only how long I have left today. I glance at the sun. 6 hours at least before I can cease. Next to me is a younger kid. He had only been here a month, and was finally starting to pull his weight. His short blond hair gleams reddish in the lowering sun. He was clean shaven, and his eye squinted. With each swing, I could see his flat hands begin to shape. His arms were ropey, but were strong enough for the work. The sides of his chest were starting to ripple from the constant bending that we had to do to get the pick from high in the air to low in the ground.

We did other work of course, they had a fair variety of jobs that they needed done, but today we were digging ditches. Behind us down the road stretched our days work. I could scarcely see where we began, and I didn‘t dare to look back for fear of the strap held by the guard. My eyes belonged on my pick, and on the dirt it was sinking into. If I needed another sight, my jeans would have to do. They didn‘t like us “eyeballin” out here on the road crew. I’ve been here countless years, and the softness of my old life is utterly gone. Only a few fleeting memories of it remained.

I had little to look back on other than hard labor, and I had nothing else but hard labor to look forward to. Hard labor. Those words rung in my mind every time I sunk my pick, or every time I swung a sledge or axe. It was in everything I saw, smelled, touched, heard, or tasted.

As the sun sunk lower, we finished our ditch. I saw a truck with a large flatbed pull up. It was open to the sky. Good god, it was going to be an early day. A whole hour of daylight and twilight remained but we were almost done. Just a few more seconds till that truck stopped. We had worked our full hours already, but out on the road crew, you worked till they told you to stop. They did just this, and I relished the sight of the truck pulling up. I could soon get off my feet. The bosses shouted “Alright convicts! Movin out!” We picked up the long chain, and carried our picks to the truck. We put them on a rack on the side, and after our gang had been split in half, they lowered a few wooden planks. We climbed up, chains and all.

This wasn’t the worst place to be for a convict. These chains were only meant to restrain, not to punish, so there was a good length between our legs. We could walk rather than shuffle, but we couldn’t run. We sat flat down on the bed, nearly butt to butt so we could fit. 25 men on each side, their boots and legs interlacing. Chains rattling as the truck idled.

The bosses got in the front of the truck, and we took off towards tomorrow’s work site. We would get our sleep as we traveled. This gave my mind the time to wander and dream about how I had ended up here. It wasn’t often I though about the past, but my sheer elation at being able to quit early had reminded me of just how low I has sunk. As we rolled on, and I stared at my boots, I painfully remembered my old life.

Chapter 2-

It was Friday night, and it was a hot evening. I had just walked out of the factory. I was 29 years old, and cursing likes a sailor. I had only been there a month or two, and was still the bottom rung. I had higher ambitions though. I had been a dropout, but I had resolved to finish college. I was enrolled and actually getting good grades. As a single gay man, I had no family to support, so I figured I would just work here a few months to make some money to live on, and loans would cover tuition. Love could come way later, but god damn there were times I needed a good man to talk to. To be with. Right now for instance. I needed someone to tell me I was damn lucky to have a job and to be doing so well in school despite working full time.

The petty reason that I was cursing, was that I had to work bright and early on Saturday morning. Most of the guys they called in were smiling, and talking about overtime pay, but Saturday was one of those rare days that I wasn’t too tired from school and the night shift to actually go out and photograph in the wilderness. That was my passion, and what I looked forward to, but recently, I had damn near given it up.

School and everything was becoming too much pressure, and I didn‘t feel like making any decisions for myself anymore. I dreaded them that much. I hopped in my loud, crappy car, and slammed the door. “Son of a bitch!” I pounded the wheel with my fist. I looked in the rear view mirror at my sweaty forehead, and the stringy long hair that lay on it parted at the middle. I could see and hear that douche bag boss of mine in my mind. Whining about Democrats, or bitching out some guy for standing around for a few seconds and talking. The only bright side was that he had tomorrow off. I wouldn’t have to look at him.

I peeled out of the parking lot, and drove straight to the liquor store. I threw the door open, and the jingle bells stopped ringing as the door hit the wall. I thundered straight back to the beer cooler, and picked up a 12 pack of PBR. I tried my best to tamp down my anger for the clerk. He was in probably the same spot I was in. He felt inadequate, and unable to make the big decisions that no doubt awaited him. “Can I get a pint of Jack please?” I said to him. He turned and got it, set it on the table. He gave me the price, and I paid him. I don‘t think he would have carded me if I were 5 years old. I looked that tired and pissed off.

I knew better than to drink and drive, so I drove to my apartment. I drank alone staring at the TV. There were no calls or messages from my friends, and I doubt I would have answered them if there were. Not really watching letterman, I checked my alarm clock and passed out. I didn’t think anything of it. It was just like any other night. It would be the last time I saw anything of my old life again.

I awoke staring at a sky with a few wispy clouds. I didn’t think anything, but panicked. A kid had just kicked me in the butt, and ran away laughing towards his other friends. I paid no mind to him. “What the fuck?” I thought, and said “What the hell happened?” I looked around, and saw some old time buildings. They’re the type you see remaining still in the old towns of the United States. They made great photographic subjects. These building however looked like they were only 20 years old rather than 90.

“What the hell happened?” I repeated to myself. I hadn’t changed my clothes since the night before. I was still wearing the cargo pants, blue shirt and black sneakers with thin red accents. My fat wallet (it was fat with old cards rather than with cash) was missing.

“Shit!” I said. I saw that there were a few quarters lying around, and there I found the contents of my wallet. Cards and the all of 17 dollars I had on me were scattered. I was confused, but I was relieved to find every item that had been in my wallet, including the credit card that concerned me the most. “Damn, I’d better try to find a pay-phone.” I didn’t own a cell phone any longer, and I knew that finding a payphone would be an ordeal. I walked down the road, and I saw a few old people sitting on porches, and little street urchin kids running around.

On an ornate looking building, there was a relief portrait of a man with a strange looking crown or headdress. In strong firm letters carved beneath him it simply said “THE STATE.” I kept walking. I didn’t even see any telephone wires, but I did see railroad tracks. “Where the fuck am I?” was the best that I could ask myself. I walked up to a thin middle aged woman sweeping her porch and, using my most polite speech said “Excuse me ma’am, could you tell me where this is?”

“Git the hell outta here! God damn trash!” was all I got out of her aside from thrown pebbles. I gave no argument, and kept walking. I tried to talk to several people, but few made eye contact, and all were silent.

After walking some ways, I heard it. “GET OFF ME! HELP! HELP! THIS GUY’S TRYING TO STAB ME!” The words which would change my life. I ran to where I heard the noise, and ran down the thin ally between the old buildings. A man in a dirty black coat was barely being held back by a younger man in a white button down shirt, black pants and shiny leather shoes. I grabbed the man in the black coat and tried to pry him away, but it was too late. I had lost my grip for a moment, and he had plunged the knife into his skull. Then he was after me. I held him off, but he was determined. It was life or death for me.

I pushed the knife away, but in the process, it had slashed his throat. He died gasping for air, and I fell backward panting. Finally, a few policemen ran back. “Thank god officer. That guy killed that guy, and tried to kill me!” That was what I wanted to say, but before I could open my mouth, he had clubbed me in the head, and gagged me.

“That’s the son of a bitch. I saw the whole thing. Those two mugged him and then he killed his partner. God damn sick fuck. Have fun breakin rocks asshole!” I heard an old man say. I saw a scrap of weeds among some bricks which faded in and out of focus, as I felt cuffs snap onto my hands behind my back. I saw nothing else for some time.

Chapter 3-

I opened my eyes, and rubbed my head. I needed to take a leak. I stood up, and saw a toilet, and a concrete bench. I also saw a black haired young man wearing only a wife beater and cutoff shorts. He was bare foot, but sandals sat beneath him. I turned around and saw a grey metal door with a barred window, and a slot at the middle which was closed. The man looked at me and shook his head laughing under his breath. I walked to the toilet, whipped my dick out, and unloaded. When I had finished, the man said, “They knocked you the fuck out.”

“Yeah.” was all I could say. “Do you know where the hell this is or what the hell’s going on?”

“This is district 14 court. We’re in holding. As far as what the hell is goin on, I can only answer for myself. They caught me with my crew and pegged me on accessory. The other boys are goin in for the long haul. I got lucky I guess, but I don’t feel it. I aint cut out for no workin‘. I think they got you on something way worse the way they clubbed you.”

I was in jail. “Shit. I’ve got to get a hold of someone“ I thought, and then said, “Can I make a phone call?” He looked at me strange. He had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

“Man, if you’re gonna shit, do me a favor and don’t. I don’t want to be smellin that crap.” There was another slab on the other side. I sat down, and the other guy just leaned back and shut his eyes. Our conversation was over apparently.

I sat and stared at the door for a few minutes and went over things in my head. I grabbed the guy, and he got away and stabbed him anyway. He came after me, I pushed his hands away, but I slashed his throat in the process. He was going to kill me. What could I have done different? I probably should have just stayed out of it like the rest of those paranoid backwoods creeps. Too late for that. I apparently had charges against me, and I’d just have to defend myself.

After a while, the door opened. A guard pointed at me, and told me to come along. The other prisoner called after me as I stepped out. “You stay tough man. Maybe I see you on the other side.”

“Alright.” was all I could think of to say to him. The guard then placed standard transport leg irons around my ankles, a belly chain fit snug around my midsection, and my hands were cuffed at either side to this belly chain. Then, the belly chain was linked to the center of the leg irons with a long chain dangling between my legs.

I was led down a long hallway, and finally into a stifling courtroom where two judges sat, and a few cops fanned themselves with papers. I was sweating, and I needed water, but I was to receive none. I guessed that this was either my arraignment or my trial. In any case, I would try to plead my innocence to someone and try to explain that I was only trying to help.

I stepped up to a railing which came up to my waist where I could walk no further. It seemed about a mile back from where two judges were sitting behind tall podiums. I grabbed the rail with my sweaty, cuffed hands in front of me.

They opened a file folder in front of them, read my full name for what would be the last time, and read the charges against me. It felt like there was a black hole in the middle of my stomach, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but whether by my self control or by sheer luck I did not cry. I was ready to explain my actions and prove my absolute innocence.

“Alright prisoner. “ The judge said in a hurried and uninterested manner. “You’ve been found guilty as charged on all counts. We have indisputable testimony against you from the district governor. One count of robbery and two counts of premeditated murder. ” I almost vomited as I tried to lunge forward and shout at them. “I DIDN’T DO IT!” I tried to scream, but the words died in my dry mouth as one of the guards flanking me clubbed my in the stomach. I crouched in pain trying not to fall over, and the heavy belly chain dug into me.

“Get back and shut your fucking mouth prisoner!” was all that came out of him, and I didn’t try to speak again for some time.

“You are hereby sentenced to the mandatory term of eternity at hard, physical labor.” The judge said like an executioner. If only he were. “You will be kept alive, young, and healthy for the same term, so that this sentence may be carried out in full. You will have no chance of release, and no chance of positive placement in the future.”

My dick went rock hard as he read my sentence, but then the full weight of it sunk in and my stomach began to feel empty and cold. Then the second judge said to a man in a moderately ornate guard uniform, “given the severity of the prisoner’s crimes, his deceitful professions of innocence in the face of obvious evidence against him, his poor conduct in this courtroom and in his free life within the State at large, I very strongly recommend that he be sent to a MPL 1 labor camp.”

The guard gave a quick slanted glance back at me, and said to the judge, “yes your honor.” he jotted something on a clipboard in front of him, and then got up and walked over to the gate where I was standing. Another, older guard took his place.

“Next case.” said the judge on the higher platform. The railing was lowered, and the two guards flanking me motioned me forward. As I glanced back, I saw that another prisoner was approaching the railing.

Chapter 4-

I hobbled behind the guard from the trial and turned to the right along the railing towards a set of double doors. We walked through them and down a long hall until we came to a barred door on the left wall. The guard took out a large key, opened the door and stood aside. Inside the room there were two chairs with a small table between them. The two guards led me in, and motioned me toward a chair where I sat, and slumped my head forward and shut my eyes.

The two guards left and continued walking down the hall while the other guard walked back in and sat at the other chair across from me. I glanced up at him as he set down his clipboard, leaned back, and opened a drawer under the desk. He had an average corporate goatee, a flattop haircut, with black hair and deep set brown eyes. His hands were very rough despite the office work he was doing. He looked down and pulled out a laminated sheet of paper. Most of the print was two small to read, but I caught the letters MPL-1 in bold red, and the numbers 2159 in bold black letters after that. He picked up a phone, dialed 5 numbers and said,“2159, this is district 14. We got 3 for you today whenever you’re ready. 14 out.”

As he read the sheet, he blew out a breath through his pursed lips. He looked up at me and said “Well son, you fucked up bad. Damn shame. Makes me sick sending men to these MPL hell holes, but I can’t say as though I feel too much sympathy for you. You knew what the hell would happen to ya, goin’ after aristocracy like that even if they are dressed down.”

I had no idea what “aristocracy” was supposed to mean. “I didn’t kill him.” I said in a low quiet voice.

The guard made a silent chuckle and said, “hell that don’t matter no more son. They got you on film plunging a knife in his skull. Whether it’s actually you, they don’t know and they don’t care. You’re the only one they got that’s connected to this crime, so you gotta go down for it. Anyway, you killed the other guy plain and square.”

“I was trying to stop him god damn it!” I belted out. “He had the fucking knife. I was trying to pry it away from him. If you know they set me up, why don‘t you help?!”

“Watch your tone boy.” he said as he narrowed his eyes at me. “They got you man. You better get it through your head that there ain’t no gettin’ outta this. I don’t like it no more than you do, but if I start tryin to stand up for you and pleadin your case, they’ll have me right back in there next to you with a pick axe. Just so you know, I’ve done hard labor too. I had a temporary sentence for mugging a guy. Did five turns diggin’ ditches and when I got out, they made me take this job. It don’t really please me none sending you boys off to prison, but it beats the hell out of breakin’ rocks and eatin’ mush.”

“Sorry man.” I said looking down. I could see his hands were figuratively tied just like mine were literally cuffed. “You say you’ve done some time, so what am I in for? What‘s it like?”

“Workin dude. Work, work and more work.” He replied. “I didn’t go to no MPL, so I don’t know everything they got lined up for you, but I can guarantee you’ll be workin long hard hours, every single day. Like I said, I mostly dug ditches and other road work, but I had a few rock quarry details too. Apparently, I was lucky because I got sent to a place that had plumbing and indoor cells, but I didn’t feel too lucky after 20 hours of swinging a pickaxe. From what I hear, these MPL’s are kind of well “rustic” if you know what I mean.”

Before he could continue, there was a loud, sudden buzz and a light above the door. “Alright man, they’re ready to ship out.” He took a yellow sheet of paper from his clipboard, and stuffed it in another drawer which was jam packed with other yellow papers. He took the white sheet in his hand and told me to walk through the door. The door was actually a loading bay, and there was a small trailer attached. Inside the trailer were two benches on either side and several square divots in the floor beneath them. There were two other prisoners sitting on the benches, and their leg irons were locked into the divots. The guard motioned for me to sit down next to them, and then he locked my leg irons in. “stay tough boys. You’ll do alright.” he said, though none of us believed it, and I don’t think he did either. All three of us were sentenced to hard labor.

He put the paper in a slot near the back of the truck where two other papers were already sitting, and then he shut the trailer door. There was a loud rumble, and what sounded like the release of steam. Then the trailer began to vibrate and moved forward slowly at first, and then it took off. The motion leaned us into each other briefly, and then went upright again.

One of the guys half looked the part of convict laborer already. He was wearing what looked like brown, canvas Carhartt pants, a plain white t-shirt, and well worn black work boots. There were parts of his boots which were shinier, and I honestly wondered if it was blood. He had a tattoo on his hard bicep of a skull wearing a mining helmet, with a pick and shovel underneath it. He looked like he had seen more than his share of hard work, but he was fairly pale. He had a very short dark brown beard, and hair that was about the same length. His fingernails were caked with dirt, and there was perma-dirt in all the lines of his long, but strong hands.
“You work in a mine?” I build up the courage to ask.

“Yeah.” was all I got out of him, and he stared at his boots. I suppose I would be just as receptive had he been the first one to speak up. The other guy was short, but thin. He was wearing olive green shorts, with a blue t-shirt. He was shivering. I wondered if he was cold, or if he was intimidated by the two larger men sitting next to him. I didn’t talk to him, and none of us made a sound other than a few coughs for the rest of the trip. Luckily, the trip was not long.

Chapter 5-

There was a sudden change in the air temperature, and the skinny guy quit shivering. “Hah. He was cold.” I thought, but then I realized that I had a bit of sweat on my temples. I tried to wipe it off, but my hand stopped short of its goal due to the chains. The back of the trailer opened, and it seemed like the bright light coming in was of a different color than when I had entered the jail. It was more yellowish, more like what I was used to.

A guard stepped up, but in place of a uniform shirt, he was wearing a green tank top with a long sweat mark down his back and front. He was tan, short haired, and he had a sharp jaw and his lower lip was slightly bulged. He spit a long stream of brown spit on the floor, came over to the miner and unhooked him from the floor. He then unhooked me, and the other kid, and said “Alright, Get out.”

We hobbled out, and down a ramp, and what I saw surprised me. There were mountains, and vast open spaces of boulders, a clear blue sky, and a big yellow noonday sun beating down on us. It was at least 87 degrees, and it felt like walking into a furnace after the cool trailer. Another guard standing out there also had a tank top, and he held a large key ring. “Hold up!” he shouted, and we stopped. He then unlocked our leg irons, and our handcuffs. He obviously was not threatened by our full mobility.

When we were free, the short guy must have snapped, and went ape-shit, lunging at the guard trying to choke him. It was like watching a strong wave hit a rock. The guard pulled a large baton from his belt and touched Shorty’s neck with it. He went limp and began to convulse. I got a kind of copper taste in my mouth, like licking a battery. “Hey Russ! Call the damn meds over, we got a live one here.” the guard drawled. “You two oxen feel like taking a swing at me?”

We didn’t speak, but we shook our heads no. The other guard nodded at him, grabbed the chains off the ground, and then ran off to use a phone on the side of a building.

“Follow me ladies.” the guard belted out, as he walked toward another low building, and we followed. We were glad to have our legs free, but I still had that empty feeling in my gut. If I ever saw that skinny guy again, I didn’t recognize him. Despite everything that had happened, I still had half a chubby down there.

We entered the building; we saw a desk, and four doors behind it. No one sat at the desk. Soon Russ, the other guard, walked back in with our papers. Only two, I noticed. He sat at the desk, stamped each of our papers, and then put them in a cabinet. The guard who had shocked the short guy pointed at the miner with his baton. “You. Through that door” and he then pointed at the door on the far left. The miner walked to the door, opened it, and went in. The guard then pointed at me.

“Alright country crock, through that door.” he pointed to the door third from the left. I went in, and there was an old doctor’s chair from what looked like the 30s, and a stout middle aged man in a brown cop shirt with a red cross on the sleeve. “Sit down.” he said to me. I sat, and without a word, he had put a tourniquet on my left arm.

“Good thing I’m right handed.” I thought in a cynical voice. He then produced a needle and found a vein. He took a bit of my blood, and then took off the tourniquet and put a crude bandage on the spot. He then took out another needle with a small amount of pale blue liquid in it. Without warning, he stuck it in my right arm. It was cold for a couple of seconds, but luckily it was nothing like the aching agony of a tetanus shot. “Your sentence has started. Go on out through that back door.”

I didn’t know what he meant about my “sentence.” After the ordeal of the past few days and hours, it seemed like my sentence was well underway. When I opened the door, I entered a large room. Inside were several benches, and along one wall, a cage housed a wall of blue denim, white cotton, and brown leather. This was my introduction to the limited color palate of a convict. Behind the cage were two convicts wearing traditional, light denim, 5 pocket jeans. They also wore a flat topped white hat, and a white t-shirt both with the word “TRUSTEE” written in black, blocky letters.

I was thankful that this strange hell that I had stumbled into managed to use the English language. I knew that these two had done something right to obtain such cushy jobs, and perhaps I could ask them if there were any openings. Before I could take a step forward, a guard wearing a patrol hat thundered in through a side door and shouted “ALRIGHT CONVICTS, STEP UP TO THE WHITE LINE!” As I stepped forward, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the miner was also stepping forward. His tattoo had been replaced by a large white bandage. It had been removed so as not to stir any feelings of pride or nostalgia in the newly convicted laborer. I could tell without looking at him that he was beyond dejected, and on my end, the feeling was mutual.

I stared first at the wall of clothing, and then at the guard. “Welcome to the old 59.” the guard said as he folded his arms, and smiled like a devil. “I’m the warden. You call me Captain West. You boys did somthin’ real bad to get sent out here, and believe me, you’re gonna pay. Hard labor is the sentence, and god damn you better believe that’s what you gonna be doin’.”

He unfolded his arms, and took out a small piece of paper. “We got four classes of convicts workin here. Class A, class B, class C, and class D. Them two boys back there by the uniforms are class C. They’ve done their time breakin rocks, and they’ve earned a job here at the canteen. They’ll never get out of this prison, but at least they aren’t out there slaving anymore. Class B prisoners can work towards a transfer to a better facility. We thought we had one coming in today with you boys, but I guess he decided to have a little boxing match. He’ll be in the infirmary for a few weeks. Class A boys can work towards complete release from prison after 5 turns, and they even let them die once they’ve worked for the state a few years. You boys are class D. You aint getting out. You aint doin light work, and you aint got no hope.”

There went any ideas I had about handing out lollipops and cigarettes for the rest of my sentence. I was relieved that someone was finally explaining something to me, but I wasn’t exactly glad. “No hope. Yep, that about sums it up.” I thought. The guard continued.

“We got two big rules here, and a bunch of little ones you can learn as you go. Rule number one, is work hard, and don’t slack off. Rule number two is do whatever we tells you. You break the rules, the punishments are swift and hard. You’ll find out about those as you go along too. You follow the rules, and you won’t get much trouble from us. Enjoy your stay boys.”