The Warden knew he’d pulled off a good scam when they threw three squares and a bed into the bargain. There is a God, he thought, nodding with fake sincerity at the shrink.
‘I’ll take it – as long as I’m not tied to it,’ he said.
‘You’re a voluntary patient, free to leave when you feel you can cope again.’
‘Thank you, my man. You’ll be the first to know when I can cope – that is of course, when I can cope with the idea of coping.’
The Warden was a balding Generation X-er with a fame fetish and a flaming intellect that kept burning out when his passions became obsessions. As a teenager he’d affected the speech of Sean Connery to distinguish himself from his nasal-slurred mullet-cut Aussie peers, and since that time his primary ambition – to which he’d applied himself diligently – had been…
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