Prisoner No. 12 sitting on the floor with his occiput against the wall: “My melancholy mauls me, what crimes I have committed. *sigh*. But, what I have done. Was I not an assassin, was I not a philanderer, was I not a lavish spender, was I not avaricious, what power did I not have? Hahahahaha…”
His roar of triumph reverberated through the night, jetting, swooshing like an anaconda through the Amazon river. The smoke of his roaring flame on the air, eyes visible therein