The story continues:
"Fuckin' a," John said in awe. "What sort of jail is this?"
That's about when the music kicked in, and the opening credits rolled. The title played across the screen in huge block letters. "_THE_ JAIL"
John looked at Dirthog. "Well, what the hell does that tell me? _THE_ JAIL? My question still stands. What the hell kind of jail is this?"
One of the Father-Rapers, formely of the group-w bench growled at him (growling being the main form of communication in _THE_ JAIL).
"See man," Dirthog said, "this here's the sort of jail that you don't ask no questions."
John nodded, and taking a cue from the dirty (dirty mean? Or dirty lecherous? A depressing amount of both) looks he was getting, and stopped asking questions.
A shout came echoing down the corridor. It was time for a new cellmate. I reedy, high pitched voice stabbed into John's brain, "I will not stand for such treatment from you ruffians! Officers of the law indeed!"
A man was roughly shoved into view, or at least he was ostensibly a man. If possible, he looked gayer than the elf that had been here previously. Dressed in a smart, 19th century suit of bright pink, John (who had pinched books from libraries) instantly recognized him as none other than Oscar Wilde.
"Amazing! Thrown into an American jail for the simple crime of-!" As Oscar opened his mouth to confess his crime, John, concerned only for the effete man's safety leapt up and stifled his mouth.
Once Oscar stopped struggling, John released his grip. "Unhand me scoundrel!" Oscar took an offensive position, in that it would have offended anyone with the slightest knowledge of self-defence. John fortunately, did not have such a knowledge. "I was simply going to say, the simple crime of six dozen outstanding parking tickets."
John, already cringing at the butt-raping he saw coming, was rather surprised to hear this. "P-pa-parking tickets?"
"Young man, you sound like an Edison Cylinder that has been gouged. _Yes_ parking tickets." Wilde flopped down, not looking where he was going, and found himself using Dirthog for a chair. Dirthog, roughly five Oscars in size, didn't seem to notice the sudden addition of wieght, and Oscar was too distraught to even care. "They impounded my beautiful, beautiful baby! You should have seen her," Oscar looked up at John, his eyes wet. "A nineteen-seventy-six Cadillac Eldorado, cotton candy pink with a mohair interior... my fuzzy dice! My fuzzy dice! If one of those uncultured, pus-filled, ill-begotten, horse-loving _pigs_ touches my fuzzy dice, why I'll! I'll!"
Dirthog, finally noticing the sobbing ball of wild gesticulations on his lap patted Oscar on the back gently. His hand, pinky to thumb (can you call the sixth finger a pinky?) spanned from shoulder-blade to shoulder-blade on the poor nineteenth-century author and sodomite. "Give them a tongue lashing that will flay the very flesh from their bones, and leave their souls as naked as their bodies?" Dirthog offered.
"Why, yes!" Oscar raised a fist in the air at this. "That is exactly what I shall do! Thank you kind sir!"
"Hey, no problem. Just wanted you to stop crying, you might make my tattoos run."
Oscar gave Dirthog's tattoos a closer look (a simple matter since he was almost completely surrounded by Dirthog's bulk). "Why, gentle sir, are these drawn on in _sharpie_?"
Dirthog blushed, and a few of the other toughs in the cell started laughing. "Shhh!" Dirthog said, cringing. He whispered so that only Oscar and John could hear him, "I'm afraid of needles."
Expect more of this stuff when i'm avoiding studying as studiously as I can.