Locked up with the Badboy.

I take a seat on the floor in front of him, "What?"

He combs a hand through his dark hair and sighs, "This is a maximum security prison, the people here have killed babies, shot up schools , killed multiple partners and run crime rings and you, are saying that I'm mean? "

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13. Escape.

 

 

“How does one escape from a maximum security prison” I ask as our breakfast trays are deposited through the door.

Flicking me an irritated look Ben rubs his eyes, “Well for one, you don’t talk about it when a guard is standing right outside your door.” He says as he collects his tray and sits heavily beside our table.

“Oh right… sorry,” I say, placing a little bite on my lip before joining him.

We eat in silence until breakfast is finished and our plates are cleared. It seems that food improves his mood immensely because Ben begins to smile as he pulls a notepad and pen from underneath his bed. “Let’s do this.”

“Yeah!” I yell pretty loud, trying to amp up our enthusiasm.

Then we sit for forty five minutes staring at a blank sheet. Ben moves around, lying on his back, his front, his either side while I just wrap my arms around my knees and think about what I’m going to eat first; cake or cookies.

We do another hour of constructive nothing before I come up with something; “Maybe we should date it?”

Frowning slightly he dates it.

“And our names?”

Reluctantly our names are scribed in tight little letters at the top.

I try to think of anything else worthy of my genius when Ben hits the jackpot, “Okay, how about we imitate a guard?”

“But Mt Simpson is the only guard that patrols this area, and she’s not the sort you or I could impersonate.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He says with a smile.

“What do you mean?”

I mean, we could escape together as Mt simpson.”

It takes me a moment to understand him and his brilliance, “So we’d look like one person?”

“You got it, way harder for the authorities to track down.”

“You ever done this before Ben?” I say looking at the paper he scribbles ideas across.

“All the time,” he murmurs, “Plus I used to watch MacGyver.

****

Somehow Ben’s mysterious contact manages to convince Guard Simpson to work with us, and each night instead of dinner we get a tray full of shoes, a latex face mask and bits of a prison uniform. At night we practice walking in sync, kind of like ballroom dancers, we try on our face mask and fill out the prison uniform with sheets to make it appear rotund. All the while hoping that we’re not being observed.

It takes two weeks to prepare, and both of us get tired, not being able to sleep during the day in case it causes suspicion and missing a heap of meals because they’re used to smuggle in gear.

On the morning of  our escape two hands rock my body slightly, “Clara,” goes a whisper, “Time to wake up.”

Blearily I open my eyes, and realise that it’s still dark, We’re escaping today. I remind myself. It doesn’t perk me up and rather lazily I flop onto the floor.

Ben pulls our disguise out from under his bunk, there’s a lot of it. Plus a change of civilian clothes and a wallet stacked with money. “Mr rich boy,” I say with a low whistle that makes Ben laugh, “You drool in your sleep.” He replies, annoying me.

Silently I go to the shower and get changed into Civilian clothes while Ben does the same at the other end of the room. Top crop and a pair of flowy shorts never felt so good.

Both changed, and already feeling nerves jolting through my body we begin to get into our disguise. The process is relatively simple; both holding up the right leg of Mt Simpson’s pants we step into it me first and then Ben, do the same for the left leg and then stuff a sheet and our pillow cases into the legs to fill out gaps.

The shoes are the hardest part, which is why we had to practice, even so I still stand on Ben’s feet a couple of times. He calls me an elephant, I call him a platapussy.

Ben slides his arms through our guard jacket, while I cross mine around my chest. With even more towel stuffing, the latex Mt Simpson mask applied and concealer added to replace Ben’s original skin colour things begin to heat up a little.

Around us are a whole heap of sheets, clothes and latex, which give us the appearance of being obese. Being tallest Ben is able to see through the mask, while I have to use one eye at a time through the pocket.

The downside to all this clever filling is that Ben and I are pressed together underneath everything, and all the rubbing together just from taking a practice walk around our cell a few times makes things unbelievably hot for us. Not to mention the fact I have the body of my dreams touching me from behind.

Ben’s saying something, so reluctantly I focus back in; “What?”

“I was just saying she should be here by now.” His voice travels to my ear even when he speaks in a whisper, it’s kind of thrilling being so close to a person.

“She’ll be here soon,” I whisper back to him, “It’s okay for her to be a little nervous.”

“If we get caught in this we’ll never get another chance,” It’s amazing – despite how worried he is, Ben’s voice still remains calm, almost like it’s giving hope.

“We’ll be alright,” I say patting one of his legs.

He growls slightly and tries to move one of his Mt Simpson hands to touch me. It barely reaches the front of our overstuffed stomach. “How does she scratch her back?” Ben wonders aloud as the door to our cell swings open. Mt Simpson stands in her underclothes, as usual very little expression plays out on her face.  

“It is me.” She says finally as she waddles over to our bunk, as she sits down on Ben’s bed, as the frame takes her weight it gives a nasty creeeeaaaak. Underneath our disguise Ben winces.

“Thank you for helping us,” Ben says, more polite then usual.

Mt Simpson turns the T.V on, apparently not caring that we’re here, “I help her, not you.”

“Thank you… Toosafiiiina.” I say, getting her name messed up again.

She looks at me, right through her own shirt pocket and smiles, “You brave girl, you enjoy life.”

Ben reveals a gun and shoots her in the butt.

Mt Simpson’s eyes go wide, for a few seconds her facial features flicker to anger and then she blacks out, lifeless.

“What’d you do that for?” I ask, struggling to contain my emotion, struggling not to rip apart our disguise.

With a pelvic movement that nearly turns me on, Ben turns us around and we begin to walk to the door. “She needed an alibi,” he explains, “Otherwise she’d be arrested for helping convicts.”

“That was still cold hearted and you could’ve warned me.” I say in a sulky voice.

“And you would’ve blown it somehow.” Reaching one of his Mt Simpson arms up, and bumbling with the door, he manages to get a hand on the keypad. Nothing happens.

“Shit,” he whispers, and tries again. The door doesn’t move. “Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.” He repeats, tapping the button with each expletive. “We’ve got two minutes until procedure has them come down here and check on it.” He explains as we try to figure out what to do.

“Let’s just get out of here,” I say. Peering through my pocket hole for any sign of guards.

So with another pelvic thrust we turn down the corridor, in the direction Mt Simpson generally walked each day. A few inmates banged on their doors and try to curse through the soundproof windows, others draw lurid figures in their own blood.

“Sure glad I got put with you,” Ben says.

“Aww you really mean that?” I say in a sugar sweet voice as we pass a woman who mimics ripping out an intestine.

“Shut up and walk.” He laughs.

I stand on one of his toes.

“Oww,” he says, “What was that for?”

“Being you.”

We both cut the noise as we pass a balding, creepy-early sixties looking guard walking in the opposite direction. “Any disturbances?” he asks in a bored monotone.

“No.” Ben replies in an authentic Mt Simpson monotone. The guard nods and as he passes the corner Ben speeds up our feet. “He’s going to find her body sooner then we expected.” He says in a terrified hush. “We gotta get out.”

Luckily I’m not the one in control, as Ben rubs his abs against my back to turn us down a seemingly endless array of corridors I lose all sense of direction. It feels like we walk for hours and I begin to suspect that he’s getting an erection.

Despite how serious everything is, I find the excitement in his pants hilarious. A slight giggle escapes my lips and he nudges me with his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Are you aware?” I whisper into his chin, “That your little Benny has had a growth spurt.”

Ben can’t reply as we pass a female prisoner being escorted by two armed guards but his excitement seems to swell a bit more. I’m about to taunt him again when we run into trouble.

The male monotone guard that had passed us earlier stands with two colleges right in front of the departure booth. With one finger he indicates that we should have a little chat.

Leaving his colleges behind we move into a little nook in the corridor. He rubs his moustache and says in a low, self-important tone, “I couldn’t help but notice that the cell ten dee was open when I passed it.” He gives a little herr-hum. What an arse.

Benny swallows and says, “Open cell?”

The guy begins to look eager, “Yes, yes. And I know I’ve only been your department’s supervisor for one week but I’d like to lay down the law. He licks his lips and moves dangerously close to my pocket hole. “You haven’t aided prisoners escapes before?”

Ben shakes Mt Simpson’s head.

“Good, good. Well I sure hate to have to put this on your record.” He says with glee in his eye. Again, Ben shakes our latex head.

“Well, maybe then you can do me a favour,” he continues, I can barely stop myself from shivering as he runs a hand up along our thigh. “I want paper with the names of a few of the perkier young females we hold prisoner on the dashboard of my sleek red Maserati tomorrow.”

Ben nods incredibly slowly as he realises what he’s hearing, The supervisor’s hand stops moving up our leg and pinches a piece of our sheet stuffed thigh, twisting like he’s rying to give a Chinese burn. I hear Ben giving a fake whimper.

“Understood?” Mr Dimwit Supervisor repeats.

Ben nods vigorously, and the creep lets go. Brushes himself down and smiles, “It’s the only Maserati in the whole parking lot and I always leave my keys on the dashboard… Because no-one messes with me.” The warning in his voice could sell a bullet-proof vest. Then with a wink he leaves us.

I can feel Ben trembling behind me, “I want to smash his head against a wall so bad,” he says, barely able to keep his voice under control.

“Lets just get out of here okay?” I say, “If we escape on his watch that’ll be more harmful then anything else we can do.”

Ben wraps his arms around our chest, in effect hugging me. He seems to calm down, almost instantly and he whispers back; “Okay Clara, let’s go.”

Walking nervously back to the entrance where only the receptionist now stands we manage not to completely fall apart. She looks us up and down, narrowing her eyes at the thigh twist that Supervisor Dimwit had supplied, “You okay Tausa?” She asks, flawlessly pronouncing the name.

Ben nods, and we get let through without even an identity check, which means old Dimwit has helped us twice now.

As we waddle into the carpark, Ben immediately spots our car; an inconspicuous, white, rental Toyota. “It’s not the fastest…” he says with a sigh.

After we’ve waddled over I notice something; A bright red Maserati parked right next to it. “Ben.” I whisper, “Guess what I see.”

He laughs from his chest, “Heck yeah.”

Inside the hospital alarms begin to sound and the outside doors lock themselves. We open up the front door of the Maserati and I adjust the seat backwards as Ben awkwardly grabs Dimwits keys. “I always leave my keys on the dash…” He repeats sarcastically.

Shifting into drive, Ben floors the car out of the prison carpark and out into the Arizona sun. I turn the pocket hole just in time to see a dejected, bald, weirdo banging wildly against the front security door.

It just warms my heart.

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