Shaw Shank Rejection

Shaw Shank Rejection

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chapter one.


I hastily absconded with the goods, tucked securely under my arm. Sprinting, I banked a left. The light of my exit was near, calling to me like haven from death. I could almost feel the whoosh of air as the double doors slid open, where I could hit the shoe leather express like Grease Lightnin’ with my new pair of Skele-toes

(1). And I would sneak away like some sort of modern day ninja. ...Batman. 

I pumped my legs faster, muscles straining, and was making good headway toward my checkpoint, when something caused me to reel precariously back, and....

A corner of my prize had snagged on a jagged metal edge of a gray, slightly rusted shelf, packed with tubes of a substance marked KY--which I didn’t recognize or care to name in my haste--and was slowly ripping inward, the hole in its lining expanding unnervingly. I stole a quick glance over my shoulder, where to my utmost horror, the morally obese sales clerk was bounding down the linoleum tiled isle toward me. 

I cringed and ripped the lining, and for a second felt as if careening through space and into a galactic portal of eternal misery, watching a portion of my precious cargo plummet toward earth. With a cry of frustration my face became hot with the stab of failure, my eyes tearing slightly--and with the misjudged yank that brought my precious goods to freedom, my foot caught the shelf and dislodged the section packed with the collection of tubes. 

This folly however, came through for me, and sent the clerk crashing and thrashing among the tubes,

(2) where I, although slightly shaken, orchestrated my (humble) escape. Only when the sliding doors had long since sensed my presence, did the clerk proceed to call the police in my pursuit. 

I was tired of running, although my fuel tanks were far from empty.

(3) I stopped on the side of a moderately busy road, where under the cover of darkness I checked on the goods--which were mostly intact. Sighing a small sigh of relief, taking a quick breather, I removed the panty-ho from over my face and smoothed back my hair, pleased to note that the dark strands had grown a considerable centimeter longer. 

Something gleamed from a distance. I looked to a house: sizable, fancy scrollwork gates, immaculate hedges and flowers trimming the driveway and porch, trees spotting the flawless lawn. A streetlamp shone, illuminating a spectacular sight--a gleaming red Harley chopper. Basking in its unparalleled glory for a moment, convinced my face would melt away if I didn’t avert my eyes from the marvel, I slowly made my way across the asphalt driveway. With trembling hands I placed my fingertips upon the rubber of its handle bars and mounted myself on the seat. I had to stretch really far to control the handle bars because of my precarious position, back arched awkwardly and shoulders forward. But it didn’t matter--I could imagine myself pulling up along the side of the old warehouse, the guys opening the humongo metal garage gate, where the trucks used to pull in. I would be there, upon my gallant steed of steel, my goddess of burning rubber, with my prize in tow. And they would kowtow to me, begging me to join them. To lead them! 

My heroic entrance did not go as planned. Firstly, I had forgotten the slight dilemma that I had not the slightest clue how to drive a motorcycle. I had never been allowed to come within about 100 yards of my Dad’s numerous, gleaming models

(4), which he had collected as a hobby and paid great attention to. They were his second life--and possibly only passion. Secondly, the road was slippery with rain, and I couldn’t exactly reach the handlebars. Thirdly, I am severely accident prone.

I fired up the engine without giving so much as a thought to these variables. As it turned out, the chopper ended up in the pool, a large tire track marred the once perfect yard,

(5) and numerous planters, statues, and various other lawn-related paraphernalia lay in smoldering ruin. 

Giving not much thought to this, I picked up my prize, which remained relatively unscathed, and continued on my way. Hopefully no one had seen. 

Nearly three hours later, I reached my destination--a large warehouse on a pier, with spider-like, rusted machinery perched in murky, sullen water. It smelled like fish and rot. I felt the thorough purge of adventure in my blood. I could imagine the unsavory characters lurking in the old warehouse, plotting their crime and sharpening their knives, perhaps conducting a dog fight. My blood tingled with excitement--I would finally meet The Rats, the most feared gang in the city. The most ruthless and evil group there is. And they would, finally, take me in as their Jedi after all these years. 

I rapped on the large door a few times, testing out expressions. I went with pleasant, cool surprise, about to make a really gangster remark, when the door creaked open, slowly. I was suddenly under immense cannon fire from my idols’ eyes and expressions, scrutinizing me. 

Andre, the infamous alpha-male of the Rats, stood at the front of the pack. He was one of many, I was sure, there had to be at least thousands of them, since the warehouse was so huge, and they pulled off so many jobs. 

I stood in the very wake of his immense, black girth, he seemed to shine with eternal glory and greatness. A Meister, my hero, was less than three yards away from me. His awesomeness was hard to handle, my eyes tearing up at the sheer sight of him. 

“Yo Sid. Watchya here for, my man?” He said in a cool, even tone.

(6) I caught myself, finding my breath again, which I had been holding. 

“....You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” I began, my voice only cracking a little, “Than your place here, homy-G.” I gave a slight hand movement, the kind that rappers make while wrapping something soulful.


I held out my prize, inhaling to puff my chest, “Stole this. I’m on the run now, from the police. Isn’t that so G?”

The garage exploded with laughter. 

I stood there, confused for a moment, holding out my sad looking, half full bag of wheat bread.


1. Mama says they was magic shoes. They could take me anywhere. 

2. Like a beached whale. Or perhaps a distant and slightly inbred cousin of Java the Hutt. If it were Vaseline I’d consider it more like a slug.

3. Not even when the light turns on and you still have like 20 miles left, but you always stop at the gas station anyway. 

4. I swear I wouldn’t be surprised if he had issued a restraining order.

5.  It would take weeks of tender love and care to fill in the large scar with new grass seed, and even that wouldn’t assimilate perfectly with its surroundings--the new grass would likely be a shade lighter of darker than the majority, or be of just slight enough a difference in thickness to make it noticeable. I pitied the poor souls who would be subject to the humiliation of such severe imperfection on my behalf.

6. Like Morgan Freeman times three.

7. Or something my mother would have a brain aneurism if she herd me listening to.

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Author's Note

There are probably a bunch of mistakes. The numbers in parenthesis are footnotes, I couldn't get the lil baby letters to work. Enjoy. I hope you get some of the movie references and such. Suggestions would be AWESOME. thanks for reading!!

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I got the movie references. Nice story beginning. I liked it. I would definitely read more.

Posted 8 Years Ago

pantyhose.... heh

Posted 8 Years Ago

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Added on June 7, 2012
Last Updated on June 7, 2012
Tags: bread, gang, black, store, dark, comedy, motorcycle, rejection



that place around the street corner from that guy., NY

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