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41 Corrections So this kiddy diddler sharpens a spoon, strips, and starts candy caning his arms and legs as he hums, twitches and grins in the back of his cell waiting for me to tug myself into this bite suit that’s supposed to protect me from the blade and poison blood leaking from his skinny, greasy, white as a wedding cake body. Two other guards, both without wives and with even fewer hours in than me pad up too since, lucky us, we get to go in and save this ass ripping rapist from killing himself quicker by beating the ever living loving hell out of him. And so we pounded away until he stopped squirming, stopped smiling, until my hands stopped hurting and I started running out of places to hit and there was nothing left of that sick prick but a purple bubbling. Until he was subdued. Saved. They washed blood and skin off our suits. Stripped, I went back to my post on D. My knuckles sore as shit. My hands shaking. I couldn’t get them to stop shaking. For hours. Even after I snuck a snort in the can, they kept twitching, like they weren’t ever mine. ...

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