The Escape

Jeff didn't know where he was. He didn't know what time it was. The sun was up, but he hadn't seen it set since arriving in this place, and that had been what felt like days ago. He was in a moist cell, crouched because of the low ceiling. The bars were covered in an olive rust and Jeff wanted terribly to have something to drink.

Something, anything, other than alcohol.

Jeff stunk like the inside of a tequila bottle. Normally a baby-faced, in-bed-by-nine kind of guy, he realized that he was now thick-bearded and couldn't recall the last time he'd slept. His stomach threatened to at any moment drop through his bowels like a wet turkey through a grocery bag.

He moaned for the guard, ready to confess to whatever sins his accusers named.

"Water! A bed! Someone, please help!" he shouted.

For a moment, his cries echoed down unseen corridors. Then, to Jeff's great relief, the slow footsteps of the watchman approached.

A young man with broad shoulders turned the corner and twirled a nightstick as he walked up to Jeff.

"So, finally cracked, eh. Ready to confess your sins, finally?" the guard asked Jeff.

"Yes! Anything! Just please--" he began to answer, before the two were interrupted by a growing rumble in the floor below. The guard held up his nightstick to sign to Jeff that it was time to shut up. He inched forward, to where the wall and the floor met at the edge of Jeff's cell, holding out his baton like a water rod.

The guard took four steps before the floor caved in and a ball of fire reached up and took him. It swallowed him in seconds, and his stick, with an eerie apathy, fell to the ground, orphaned.

A long-haired, bearded man leaped up from inside the hole, and locked eyes on Jeff with great excitement.

"Dude, Jeff, we gotta go, man! This party's all spent. Time to bounce, Jeff!" he yelled.

Jeff realized that the bars bad been blown open. His escape was underway.

His binge with Jesus Christ was not over.