03 Feb

He sat at the top of the stairs.  Evil incarnate.  Tonight he would drive them over the edge…past the point of no return..they would rue the day they crossed him.  Their sentencing him to solitary confinement, what a joke.  His cell was filled with all the necessary tools to negate the insanity that some prisoners, put in his situation, developed.  They just didn’t get it.  They just didn’t get him.  “How lame”, he thought.

He had waited till after midnight and his escape had gone unnoticed by the jailers, who worn out from the usual trials and tribulations of their day, had been swallowed  into coma’s of slumber.  He had watched them closely and knew their routines. As with any other plot, for it to be successful, timing was everything.  If the chiming of the clock twelve times had not disturbed them, he knew they were lost in deep REM sleep, full of dreams which could be manipulated

He slowly removed the bag of marbles from his over his shoulder, careful not to let them prematurely rattle together.  Striking fear into the hearts of his incarcerators  had to be perfectly timed.  Silence of the night ruled and the only sound was the soft tick-tock of the Grandfather at the bottom of the stairs next to their bedroom door.

Carefully he opened the bag  and withdrew his first volley round.  It was a large shooter, originally designed  to knock the most mini’s from the circle, but for his purpose, it was the perfect size to produce a sharp retort.  He had one hundred and ninety-nine just like it in the bag, enough he thought to do the trick.

One by one he rolled them towards the precipice of the top landing and one by one they bounded downward on the hard pine steps, arcing higher with each bounce and the ensuing racket was enough to wake the dead, he laughed gleefully. .

Would they cower fearfully in a cold sweat, thinking gangsters with Tommy Guns were commencing a home invasion or would they come rushing out in their nightshirts to see what the commotion was and like the Three Stooges on Cartoon Network every Saturday morning, skid over the marbles going heels over head only to land with a flourishing finale .

Anticipation was palatable in the air and for a six year old holy terror, retribution seemed to be as sweet as dessert.

Thinking Ten Plot Thickens, Thursday:

A bag of marbles


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