A Sign Of The Times (standard:drama, 18277 words)
Author: Reid Laurence	Added: Dec 16 2008	Views/Reads: 3157/2085	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A psychological drama, A Sign Of The Times is a story about a man who sees his life not so much through the eyes of a hero, but as one who must keep pace in a world he could never, and will never connect with. In the end, he seems to lose out and win all

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suppose. Or maybe the war before the war.” “I'm not sure I know what 
you mean?” probed Raymond, even though he knew it was best to leave 
Corporal Steinberg to himself. “Be'in a foster kid,” he began with a 
rub of his eyes. “Go'in from house ta house like a lost pet nobody 
wanted. Leastways,” he continued, as he aimed a playful right jab at 
Raymond's upper arm. “That's what the prison shrink tells me. Ta be 
truthful, I ain't got a clue. I just get mad sometimes, know what I 
mean? It's like, I lose my temper an I don't even know where I am 
anymore, or who's in front a me. I just get really steamed.” But oddly 
enough, Raymond had to admit to himself that he and Franklin had much 
in common, only one of the more obvious differences was that the 
Corporal did not have a taste for human flesh as Raymond did. A habit 
he acquired out of the need to establish a more lasting, permanent 
relationship with other males – to consume them and become a part of 
them and to forever, in this manner, always remain in touch, so to 
speak. Even going as far as to mount and varnish their heads on dinner 
plates, so they would always remain available for any imaginary 
conversation he might conjure. Only this habit of Raymond's had become 
the main ingredient residing in a human stew of conflict, responsible 
for his incarceration and present whereabouts. “Hey Ray,” came a voice 
from behind, where Raymond stood talking on the catwalk in front of the 
open cells. “Member what we talked about? First chance we get, right?” 
“Sure Marco,” replied Raymond, turning his body around in Marco's 
direction. “Right after class, I promise.” And the reference Raymond 
made to ‘class' was the one in which he taught arts and crafts to any 
willing patient who felt that focusing on some sort of project might 
just help to resolve some of the inner conflict within them. That is, 
any patient consciously aware of their own particular agony - or what 
could be causing it - might benefit from such a practice, but some, 
like Franklin, didn't have ‘a clue'. As a result, these were some of 
the patient/prisoners who were somewhat worse off than their associates 
and consisted of roughly half of the population which took the 
opportunity this class time presented and used it to aimlessly mill 
about like broken robots; play board games; argue over nothing, or 
stare out the window as some unfortunate people are want to do... much 
to the benefit of none. As some of the more interested prisoners took 
up their seating positions in class, a man who'd been diagnosed with 
Capgras Delusion sat down next to Franklin. Recently, it seems his wife 
could not get him to recognize her as hard as she tried and, in 
believing that his own deceased mother had taken her place as an 
imposter, he did his best to lock her out of the bedroom they'd shared 
for the past twenty-five years. He then purchased a handgun from a 
local pawnshop and one day began blasting holes through their bedroom 
door as he heard her knock and plead to come in. Fortunately for both 
of them, none of the forty-five slugs had penetrated any vital organs 
and Mr. Iben Vild had no problem at all getting admitted to the very 
same Southern Illinois Correctional Institute that so many others like 
him had become proud, but unwilling residents of. “Mr. Vild,” inquired 
Raymond, as most of the prisoners in class had taken their seats. “Do 
you recognize me today?” “No,” he responded sharply, resting his folded 
arms on the table before him while looking around at the many faces in 
the room, some of which were recognizable to him, but some, completely 
and utterly forgotten. “I don't know you,” he added. “Why? Should I?” 
“He ain't gonna remember you Raymond,” blurted Marco, anxious to get 
things moving. “Lets get on with the class.” “Yes indeed,” remarked 
another man, who was fond of dressing himself in all white clothes as 
the attendants of the hospital wore, but every resident; attendant; 
guard and so forth knew that he was not an employee, but a patient and 
prisoner, that is... all but Mr. Vild, who could not seem to retain 
much at all in the way of facial recognition. “Let us begin,” he went 
on. “I wish to begin where we left off yesterday.” “Alright then,” 
agreed Raymond, himself anxious to start the class, knowing only so 
much time during the day could be allotted to it. “Everyone get their 
clay.” And with no further hesitation from most of the students who 
attended that day, Raymond's group of captive yet interested budding 
artists got up from their seats, went to shelves were they had last 
stored the large, clay busts they'd been shaping, and returned to their 
respective work areas. As the ninety minutes of class time came to an 
end, Marco Pollo's mood began to brighten. He so wanted Raymond to 
paint his portrait that he did whatever he could to make it easy for 
his teacher to begin. He pulled a canvas down from it's shelf; got 
paint ready and assembled where Raymond would have easy access; found a 
palette that nobody seemed to be using and finally, a smock for Raymond 
to wear so the artist would not smatter himself with paint in the 
excitement and flurry of genius, which Marco and others came to realize 
was not a joke, but truly resident in Raymond and was not all that 
difficult to summon. But just as Raymond was about to begin and as luck 
would have it, Officer Peters - who was a veteran of all but three 
months on the job – decided to find out exactly what the two inmates 
thought they were doing, as to him, things just didn't look right and 
also because he was more inclined then others to treat the patients as 
prisoners and not the former. “Class is over you two,” he said sharply. 
“It's time ta exercise now. Everyone's in the yard,” he added, with a 
threatening wave of his nightstick for emphasis. “Hey, wait a 
minute...” began Marco, noticeably upset by the intervention. “He was 
just about ta start paint'in me. What's your problem? I'm a patient 
here just like everyone else. I got my rights.” “Is that so? Lemme tell 
you someth'in Pollo, I know what you went down for. You're no 
anti-Christ. You don't scare me... you're just another chickenshit 
nutcase. Why do I gotta keep remind'in you? Is he tell'in me the truth 
Mort?” he asked of Raymond, but with more meaningful intent. “You 
really painting him or what? You got something up your sleeve, you 
better spill it now. I know he ain't smart enough ta plan someth'in,” 
continued the guard, making sure he made eye contact with Marco to add 
special significance to his point. “But you Mort... I don't know about 
you. It's the quiet ones you gotta watch out for. You get me?” “Yes, I 
get you,” returned Raymond without hesitation, as earnest as he could 
be. “It's the truth, I swear on a stack of bibles. I was just about to 
begin his self-portrait.” “Oh really?” replied the guard, with as much 
cynicism as he could deliver. “An I suppose he's gonna hang it in his 
liv'in room, next to the fireplace?” “What's it to ya?” complained 
Marco in a low murmur. Feeling compelled to retaliate, but knowing that 
it might work to his severe disfavor. “Crawl back in yer hole, Pollo. 
I'm three months in this stink'in can an I already got a bellyful a 
nuts like you.” But before Marco had a chance to push the situation to 
any much more unfortunate end, Raymond intervened and somehow, got 
Officer Peters to relent... “He didn't do anything wrong... please 
Officer Peters... I just need him to sit for a few minutes a day after 
art class. He sincerely wants me to paint him. Honestly, that's all 
this is about.” And when the guard's temper finally did appear to 
soften and he withdrew from the aggravating clash he himself had 
caused, Marco seized the opportunity to begin to express how determined 
he was to do something... anything, about his situation. Among other 
things, he vocalized, “a'hm gonna eighty-six that bastard. No good 
cop,” letting Raymond know exactly how he felt. “Don't do nuth'in crazy 
now,” replied Raymond to his neighbor's appeal, knowing full well about 
the sharpened toothbrush Marco kept hidden on his person at all times, 
snugly fitted inside a remote cavity of his body. Having been 
threatened by Marco before, at such a time when they were not as well 
acquainted and Raymond, in all his outward innocence and disconnection 
from any God, was somehow perceived as representative. As if such a 
thing were possible and such a man without conscience could be 
misconstrued as to having one. That in itself being one of the greatest 
lies Marco Pollo ever told himself, besides the fact that he believed 
he was the Devil incarnate. The very issue responsible for the 
captivity he detested. 

By the time Raymond had gotten a good start on Marco's portrait, the
cafeteria had opened for lunch. An attendant nurse had already passed 
out medicine for the day and prisoners would not have to take anything 
in addition until evening hours gradually advanced. As they did - 
forcing the light of day to slow retreat, encapsulating an otherwise, 
well lit prison hospital – the night brought with it a mood of despair 
which only succeeded in negatively and repetitively charging a 
worsening state of mind, much like a sine wave in its downward collapse 
and Marco was no exception to the rule. After a meal like lunch though, 
spirits were temporarily uplifted, and the voices of the men talking 
amongst one another echoed through the concrete block hallway, 
resonating through the building – even into the heating and ventilation 
chambers – and it was for small reasons like this that much of the 
prison population was not found hanging from their bed sheets, or in a 
pool of their own blood, caught in the culminating act of suicide. “Hey 
Marco,” asked Franklin in just such a mood, as the hall slowly filled 
with patients on their way back from the cafeteria. “You got change in 
your pocket? What's that jingle'in?” “None a yer business.” “Gimme 
some...  I need a pack a cigarettes an I'm broke.” “Get yer own damn 
change, bitch,” expelled Marco, like a gust of bad air, but even that, 
a fair mood for a patient like him. “Wha'did you call me?” “Quit it 
already,” exclaimed Raymond, doing his best to bring peace between the 
two problematic inmates. But that alone was not enough to keep the two 
from the physical conflict that'd been brewing between them for some 
months and before guards could rush to the scene to break it up, 
Franklin had badly beaten Marco, smashing the back of his skull into 
the two inch concrete floor slab beneath them, causing it to fracture 
in several places and causing in turn, his own severe punishment... a 
deserved two week stay in an isolation chamber – an emotional trauma 
which struck fear even in the worst of prisoners, who were to begin 
with, a psychiatric shambles, ill equipped for such a stressful ordeal. 
As a result, at the end of his two week term, kept from his medicine 
and all else which helped him to survive even the easiest of days, 
Franklin was found in the hospital exercise room, hanging from a weight 
machine cable, far beyond the reach of any additional mortal aid, 
abuse, or extant intervention. When Marco heard the news, he was still 
in the infirmary recovering, but it did little to assuage years of pent 
up emotion and hate unrelated to Franklin, but still, focused on him 
for lack of a better source or immediate explanation. “At least 
someth'in went right around here,” he remarked to Raymond, after 
returning to his cell and walking slowly from the gurney which 
delivered him back to his cot. But Raymond only stared on at the clay 
busts of the friends he was busy sculpting. Friends which constantly 
occupied his thoughts... even at times, controlling his thoughts – a 
primary reason for his own wretched state of mind and incarceration - a 
cacophony of voices in his head that kept him company practically 
around the clock. Unfortunate symptoms of schizophrenia that could be 
alleviated with medication, but never fully resolved. 

As days turned to weeks and weeks to months, Raymond completed four clay
representations of the real heads he'd kept on dinner plates in his 
Chicago apartment. The human heads which he had laboriously varnished 
and spoke to quite often were key pieces of evidence weighing heavily 
against him and were mostly responsible for his committal to Southern 
Illinois Correctional Institute - a place he was more and more growing 
accustom to, largely because he had no other choice in the matter. His 
own attorney had told him many times over how lucky he was to end up 
where he did – even though the chances of him getting out of prison 
were very, very remote or did not exist at all, Raymond realized that 
he was fortunate to walk away with his own life... a mistake to some, 
especially to those surviving family members who were hoping to see him 
pay more dearly. “Remember your bible,” reported one of the parents of 
a man whose life Raymond took. “And remember it well,” he said, slowly 
standing to deliver his words more clearly and carefully to a courtroom 
already reeling with grief and looks of dreadful concern. “... ‘If any 
harm follows, then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for 
tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, 
stripe for stripe.' We cannot allow this man to walk away from this 
court and one of the wisest and ancient of Gods Laws.” But walk Raymond 
did, at least far enough to get himself to prison/hospital; a warm cot 
to sleep in and as many art supplies as he could utilize. Not a bad 
deal, thought many who'd been following the trial. In addition to the 
four clay busts he created – which no law existed to prevent him from 
producing – he painted a beautiful portrait of his girlfriend, a 
voluptuous blond transsexual named Vicky and lastly, a very descriptive 
and telling portrait of Marco Pollo, the prisoner in the cell next to 
him who venerated the portrayal of himself by hanging it promptly on 
his wall for all who passed by to see, marvel at and at times even show 
envy of. “Hey Ray,” asked one of the prisoners who happened to walk by 
and see it one day. “I like what you done there for Marco. You think 
you can paint me like dat? I mean... It's not like you don't got the 
time an all. You're here for a stretch, aint'cha? I mean... last I 
heard, anyways.” “Yes,” replied Raymond, doing what he could to clear 
his mind of voices that existed only in his imagination, but to him, 
were all too real. “I think I could fit you into my busy schedule. But 
it's gonna cost you.” “Cost me? What are you, serious? How much are we 
talk'in about here? I ain't got a pocket ta piss in, an you know it.” 
“I know... three packs. Whaddaya say?” “Sure... yeah, I think I can. 
it's a deal. When do we start?” “Tomorrow, after class.” But the more 
time that went by, the more other inmates had grown gradually envious 
of each others wall paintings and it wasn't long before Raymond had 
accumulated at least one lifetime worth of smokes, which he neatly 
arranged in rows and columns, from wall to wall at the far end of his 
cell. If there existed any conundrum at all, it was what to smoke in 
the number of following lifetime sentences he was committed to serve, 
but logic would dictate that Raymond - like anyone else - had but one 
lifetime to render or offer and so had only an appropriate number of 
cigarette packs to be concerned with. “What'cha gonna do with all them 
fags?” asked a new inmate, who'd only lately moved next-door to 
Raymond, in the very same cell once occupied by Franklin Steinberg. 
“Who?” replied Raymond, caught off guard as he lay resting on his cot 
with his hands behind his head. “The smokes you rummy, what'd you think 
I meant?” “Oh, those,” said Raymond, unsure of exactly how to interpret 
what the new prisoner had asked, especially because he knew the man was 
suffering from an illness doctors call; Confabulation, in which nearly 
everything he said was an out and out lie, or mixture of truth and 
imagination, though he never realized he was guilty of telling any 
untruth at all. “I'm gonna smoke ‘em I guess.” “All of ‘em?” “No, I 
guess I could give you some.” “That'd be great. I got an idea too,” he 
continued, who'd asked Raymond when they first met to call him ‘Newt' 
and ironically said on one occasion, ‘don't never lie ta me.' “What's 
your idea?” responded Raymond blandly. Already weary of Newt's form of 
mental illness, and more concerned with a scraping noise he thought he 
heard from time to time, but couldn't quite put his finger on what it 
was, or where it was coming from, or even if it was real, or another 
symptom of his own illness. “Do you hear that noise,” he asked suddenly 
of Newt. “No, I don't hear nuth'in,” he answered, as honestly as one 
could hope him to. “That scraping noise, don't you hear it? Is it my 
imagination, or what?” “A course,” interrupted Marco, who'd been 
listening to the conversation - or most of it - as might be expected 
given such close proximity. “I know what it is... it's rats, that's 
what it is. Ain't you nuts seen ‘em in the mess hall. I seen three of 
‘em just yesterday.” “Is that right?” replied Raymond, satisfied with 
Marco's answer. “Anyway Newt,” he continued. “What was your idea?” “Oh 
yeah, I forgot. Wait,” he replied, as a hundred newly manufactured 
themes ran amuck through his mind. “Now I remember. Why don't we sell 
the cigarette's back ta the mugs who gave ‘em to ya. That ways, we can 
even make money on ‘em.” “You call dat an idea?” intervened Marco 
again, unable to restrain himself, having overheard such an outlandish 
suggestion. “A'hm gonna buy back my own butts now? Are you crazy or 
what?” But such an understatement of Newt's disorder never seemed to 
have much effect at all except to add fuel to an already raging fire 
and Marco had only succeeded in replacing one enemy with another... an 
innate ability peculiar to his personality which had a tendency to make 
his stay in prison all the more difficult for it. “No, I ain't crazy,” 
answered Newt, getting up from his cot to stand, grasping the bars of 
his cell with clenched hands, venting some of his anger on the 
inanimate steel which bared no opinion of him or his situation either 
good or bad, save for the stubborn resistance to his hold they forever 
maintained... as he was not just put where he was on a whim or caprice, 
but for murder - with no conscience or memory of it - having long since 
juxtaposed many lies over it and around it; an amalgam which made him 
an especially odd and dangerous criminal. 

After agreeing to begin a new portrait, Raymond knew he must keep his
promise, as anyone who did not, soon learned that it was far better to 
remain honest, fair and equitable, rather then risk retaliation –  
which could amount to practically anything, but surely, the beginning 
of a feud. But painting had been an artistic outlet for Raymond for 
much of his adult life and so the task of applying himself to it was 
not so much a labor or job, as it was a self-gratifying experience 
which also allowed him some slight peace of mind while he struggled to 
focus on it and break away from imaginary voices which were a 
persistent strain on him. At this time, as he was just about to begin 
another portrait, something else had gone terribly wrong, which 
Raymond, nor any of the others had any control over whatsoever and 
neither could any have foreseen its development. But unfortunately, as 
the issue unfolded, the blame for it was to rest mainly with Raymond, 
as the warden believed him to be the main responsible cause. In fact, 
he was not merely a scapegoat as some of the inmates wanted to believe, 
but was looked on as accessory to the crime and was even forced to 
endure hours of interrogation – good practice for some of the more 
sadistic guards, but nevertheless, a necessity. “I'm not done with you 
yet,” replied Warden Stromboli, having assumed a pensive, thinking 
posture as he carefully chose his words. “I don't have anything else to 
tell you though,” said Raymond, plainly and truthfully. “Tell ‘im ta 
jump off a freak'in bridge,” muttered Joe, one of the resident voices 
in Raymond's mind and also one of the human heads Raymond had acquired 
and befriended long before the Chicago police had realized Raymond's 
habitual practice of beheading and consuming those whom he couldn't 
bear to live without. “Wait a minute,” interrupted Lorin, another of 
Raymond's friends who'd become both captive in Raymond's apartment as 
an inanimate head and as a well preserved memory, in tact in Raymond's 
thoughts... an ever present advisor and friend who Raymond had also 
sculpted – along with three others – in order to keep memories and 
thoughts of them fresh and alive, even though they'd long been dead. 
“Just hear him out,” he continued. “He's got someth'in on his mind.” 
“That'll be the day,” remarked Dan, also a well spoken friend and 
memory of Raymond's who was once very much alive, but who had 
unfortunately become another silent testimony to Raymond's skill with a 
dagger; his appetite for crime of passion beyond comprehension and the 
habit he procured of displaying a victims head to better involve 
himself in an ongoing friendship and communication; an exchange in 
which only Raymond could ever be a participant, due to his own wretched 
mental illness. Another of Raymond's clay advisors, Dan forever stood 
at the ready to assist his lamentable colleague. “Quiet you,” answered 
Raymond aloud, to his imaginary entourage. “What was that?” questioned 
the warden. “Are you talking to me like that?” “Ahh, no.” “Then who?” 
responded Warden Stromboli, getting up from his desk chair to approach 
Raymond, displaying a dominant body language as he sat at the front 
edge of his desk, peering down into the two bottomless pits of 
Raymond's eyes. “An don't gimme that schizo crap... I never did buy 
that shit from you Mort. You just like ta kill, don't you.” “Ahh...” 
repeated Raymond, for lack of anything better to say. “Never mind that 
now Mort... I didn't bring you down here just to go on about your past. 
No one can undo what you did and It's not my job to judge you - you've 
already been tried,” he added, turning to walk back to his desk chair 
and sit down in it, brazenly lifting his feet to rest them on the edge 
of the massive, solid wood desk he occupied; another display of 
dominance and arrogance easily afforded by and to, the warden's 
personality and office. “Only ‘The Man Upstairs' can adjudicate your 
case now. No,” he maintained, as he folded his hands behind his head. 
“I want more from you then just an admission of guilt.” “But what?” 
asked Raymond, “I told you... I had no idea at all what Marco was 
planning. Nobody knew. He had us believing rats were making the noise, 
and then it's like I said... No one knew.” “Yeah, sure,” began Warden 
Stromboli, mockingly. “Nobody home but us chickens... I know, play 
innocent all you want Mort. I can't say for sure who's lying and who's 
telling the truth, but we'll get Pollo. It's just a matter of time. 
What ticked me off so much is that you made the whole thing possible, 
you and your damn painting.” “I swear, I had no idea he was using it to 
hide a tunnel. If I'd known, I never would have painted it.” “Yeah, and 
then everybody wanted one, like an epidemic... not a bad plan Mort, not 
bad at all,” he said, watching the men below him slowly exit out into 
the exercise yard as he spoke. “Like I say, we'll catch ‘im. It's just 
time and inconvenience. Anyway, I don't suppose you know he sent you 
this,” continued the skeptical lawman, removing a picture postcard of 
Marco Pollo, whose arms hung draped around two beautiful girls, posing 
for the photo with him. “Gosh,” replied Raymond, taking the photo from 
the administrator's tightly held grip to hold in his own diffident 
hand. “He made it all the way to Las Vegas. He sure moves fast.” “Yes, 
he does, doesn't he,” agreed the warden. “Go on,” he continued to say. 
“Read the back of it.” “Okay,” said Raymond, turning the card over to 
read what Marco – former hospital inmate 72764-6999 - had quickly 
scribbled out for him to mull over. “It says... ‘Ray, I figure you're 
mad at me for bust'in out the way I did but you gotta look at it my way 
for a minute, okay? I couldn't take no more...  an I knew yer picture a 
me would cover up my tunnel real good. I didn't have no choice – an 
that thing with Steinberg, that was the last straw. I just had ta get 
out, an digg'in my way with a fork an spoon from the café was all I 
could figure. (Member that jingle in my pocket? An that wackjob 
Steinberg thought it was change. Big fight, all over nuth'in.) So... 
okay, it wasn't rats mak'in that racket... it was me. Anyways, so now 
I'm on the lam, so? Anything's better then sitt'in in stir. Hey, one 
more thing Ray, I met someone here, an guess what? I might join the 
priesthood. Yeah, I know, you're probably ask'in yourself, what's that 
nutcase talk'in about? Cause I went up for frigg'in stabb'in a priest 
in the first place, but, people change, you know... I could be real 
charm'in sometimes... when I want. Later, Marco. P.S. – Tell Warden 
Stromboli he can kiss my...' “What!?” interrupted the warden. “Give me 
that damn card, Mort. I always hated that dumb son-of-a-bitch. Who else 
would stab a priest and then become one? Anyway,” he went on to say, 
with a growing serenity in his voice. “I figured I'd give you the 
benefit of the doubt and show you this. Also,” he added, taking the 
postcard back from Raymond to return it to its place in his drawer. 
“There's something else on my mind. Something I've been tossing around 
in the back of my head for quite some time now.” “I told you he's got 
something up his sleeve,” said Lorin, in Raymond's mind. “Ease up,” 
interjected Guy, another of the imaginary friend's who resided in 
Raymond's bizarre intellect; who also happened to be one of Raymond's 
very first unfortunate victims, now duly represented in clay in 
Raymond's cell, alongside three other companions. But before Raymond 
could ask the warden to elaborate, or make himself more clear, the 
previously tenacious guardian of the prison/hospital actually began to 
flatter Raymond with respect for his work... “I couldn't help but 
notice the portraits you've been painting Mort, they're all over the 
place. But you know what?” he asked with growing emotion - a facet of 
the warden's artistic interest that had never before risen to the 
surface beyond the hard shell of discipline, or just and fitting 
punishment he normally portrayed. “They're good,” he added. “No,” 
murmured Raymond coyly. “No, really Mort... they are very good. You 
have real ability. Tell me,” he went on to say. “Are you self-taught, 
or did you go to school? Either way, anyone can see you have talent.” 
“I... I just picked it up,” remarked Raymond, still shy and reserved 
about most anything, including his talent for art. “I guess I learned 
how to keep myself busy, my dad was a real tyrant.” “That's what I've 
heard,” answered the warden, surprisingly acquiescent. “Anyway, about 
what I wanted to ask... I've been thinking.” “Yes... you've been 
thinking,” replied Raymond, sitting in his chair, arms folded over his 
chest, modestly peering at the proud figure of the man who's 
responsibility it was to repress, control and govern. “That's right,” 
he returned, rising from his chair to stand at his window and look out 
over the exercise yard. Not so much in an attempt to make emotional 
contact with the greater subordinate populace, as it was to allow 
himself the pleasure of feeling superior. Then, with both hands pressed 
flatly to the cold, bulletproof glass, until the faint lines and 
depressions of his fingerprints could be determined from the opposite 
side – as if any common perpetrator had made available his identity at 
the scene of a crime - he began to resume speaking, but this time, in a 
much more serious, pensive tone. “We all realize ourselves in the end, 
don't we Raymond?” “Huh?” “Mmm... I guess what I mean to say is, sooner 
or later we become that person we were meant to be all along, don't we? 
I've become head administrator here and that wasn't an easy road, I'll 
tell you. I've achieved things along the way you know. Maybe not every 
one of them a very big deal, but nevertheless, things I would like to 
remember. Even, things I would like to tell others, who for some 
reason, may not know me or my reputation.” “May not know you?” “Yes, 
you know,” added Warden Stromboli - as much the egomaniac as many of 
the inmates he blindly regarded as, ‘the sick bastards I babysit'. “To 
put it simply, I'd like to tell the story of my life to all those who 
may not know of me. I think it would be interesting to everyone here, 
to those who visit and to all posterity, if you were to paint it. I 
think that would be quite interesting, don't you? After all, you do 
have some time on your hands, don't you?” “Yes... I guess so.” “And you 
do have the talent for it... so why not?” “Okay,” began Raymond, 
finally feeling as though he'd understood what the warden was getting 
at. “What I usually do is, I ask whoever it is I'm painting to sit for 
me and then...” “No Raymond, I don't think you quite understand the 
magnitude of this undertaking.” “But, I thought you wanted me to paint 
you, the way I've been painting everyone else... you said you liked 
what I did.” “I do,” he restated emphatically. “But you're not going to 
paint me the way you've been painting those animals out there. No sir, 
you're going to paint my story, as a mural!” he exclaimed. “A mural 
that will cover the entire far wall at the entrance hall of the prison 
- now do you understand?” “Oh, I get it. Okay... but, that wall you're 
talking about... it's huge. That'll take me months, maybe years to 
complete it.” “Whatever,” replied the warden mockingly, “however many 
lifetimes it requires, I'm sure you can afford. You're here for quite a 
few I understand.” “But sir... I only have one real lifetime.” “That 
should do nicely Raymond and don't worry... you're going to make Pablo 
Picasso jealous. There is one more thing I'd like to add though and 
that is... if you do a good job for me,” maintained Warden Farfel 
Stromboli, striking a pose as he'd done some minutes before with his 
legs extended up and over the edge of his desk .“I'll see what I can do 
about abbreviating your stay here with us. How would that be?” he asked 
of his captive, yet newly motivated audience. “That would be n... n... 
nice,” stammered Raymond nervously, at the thought of being free once 
more and free to do whatever he chose, or whatever chose him – as in 
whatever unrestrained mood compelled him to act in the way he'd learned 
to respond in public; not surprisingly, when the weather changed from 
good to bad, or at the drop of a hat. “But if you screw this up Mort,” 
continued the head administrator, in a manner one might have expected. 
“I'll see that you rot in solitary. Remember Steinberg... he's no 
longer in attendance at this institution, is he? Is that the way you 
want to leave here Raymond – in a pine box? The penal system does have 
its failure rate you know. One more won't be very difficult for me to 
explain.” “I'll do a good job,” said Raymond, less nervous under the 
pressure of performance then he was when he considered the possibility 
of his freedom. And then, as Raymond extended his arm as he stood, the 
warden handed him a portfolio of his own historic past much as a 
favored runner might pass the baton of a relay race to another, for 
Raymond to consider in the collaborative design of the mural – a work 
which had quickly become of unequivocal importance not only to the 
warden, but to Raymond's very existence. 

As Raymond sat alone at the tiny desk in his cell - reviewing newspaper
clippings and assorted documents the warden had narcissistically 
collected over the years - he couldn't help but wonder how the 
administrator had gained his lofty position, as it appeared from his 
past that many others may have risen to the task before him. After all, 
even Raymond could see that the events which Warden Stromboli so fondly 
recalled as admirable were just not all that impressive... ‘Hmm,' 
Raymond thought to himself. ‘How did he impress people so much? He's 
not very nice, that's for sure.” “Good point,” remarked Lorin's clay 
sculpture, still and inanimate on the perch of his shelf, but very much 
alive in Raymond's mind. “Yeah,” agreed the clay bust of Dan, as 
plainly to Raymond as any flesh and blood, living breathing person. 
“What the heck did he do, anyway? He's a bitch, that's for sure. I 
mean... just look at his record,” he added. “Here's a clipping from 
when he was a cop on a beat,” referring to a newspaper clipping Raymond 
had come across, enclosed in the manilla folder. “We're supposed to be 
impressed because he brought a fourteen year old to justice... and what 
did the kid do? He pushed over a glass gumball machine. I mean really, 
what's the deal here?” “I know,” said Joe, another clay buddy. “Here's 
another one, look,” he continued, as Raymond turned over another news 
article. “We had ta get this kid off the street, he was a bad one... he 
stole baseball cards from a dime-store. Leave it ta the warden, the 
streets were a lot safer ‘cause a him, for sure.” “Wait a minute guys,” 
coming to an article that caught his attention. “I think I found 
something here,” said Raymond, thinking clearly enough, considering all 
that was going on in his unrestrained imagination. “This is 
something... look. It says here that Officer Farfel Stomboli's rich 
grandfather gave millions to fund the prison before he died.” “So, 
don't tell me,” concluded Guy, also present and accounted for on 
Raymond's shelf. “Officer Stromboli becomes none other then Warden 
Stromboli. End of story... there's your answer.” “Well great,” remarked 
Raymond. “We know how he got where he is now, but what am I supposed to 
paint... kids knocking over gumball machines, or stealing baseball 
cards? Take your pick, what do I do?” “That's a good point,” agreed 
Lorin. “Kinda stuck, aren'tcha? Why don'cha just make things up.” 
“Like?” “How should I know? It's your painting.” 

Having spent the night thinking over what to portray in the grandiose
mural he was supposed to paint, Raymond never took notice, or realized 
that there was already a new occupant in Marco's old cell. It just so 
happened that the new man was really more a boy – considering the fact 
that he was a senior in high school when he decided to put on his long 
black trench coat; hide underneath it his grandfather's twelve gauge 
shotgun - which he'd sawed off after seeing it take place in a movie - 
and begin to kill the kids who'd made fun of him because, lets face it, 
he didn't fit in. So when nobody accepts you and all you get is 
backlash, you get irritated, you get mad and you get back... sometimes 
anyway. Regretfully – in regards to the parents of his victims – he 
never turned the gun on himself, but they still have the satisfaction 
of knowing that only an act of God will ever get him out of psychiatric 
prison and he was fortunate also to have ended up there – likely 
because of his young age and delicate mental health – the latter, a 
characteristic he shared with many other inmates and so at last, 
through a set of strange circumstances, he'd finally found himself and 
his place in society, or for lack of better terms, his niche. “What'cha 
up to mister?” he asked of Raymond, who was by now deep in thought, 
considering rendering the warden as the male counterpart of the female 
Greek goddess, Themis - who to ancient western civilization had been 
goddess of justice and virtue. One of the problems with it though, was 
how to make the warden – who was not an overly handsome man – appear in 
the likeness of Zeus, who was pretty much delegated to the role of the 
universally perfect male. “Got any ideas yet, Mort?” asked Warden 
Stromboli, surprising Raymond from his thoughtful reverie, especially 
because the catwalk past Raymond's cell was a very seldom used path by 
the warden. “The new man isn't bothering you, is he? Say, you there...” 
asked the warden, who almost by nature, created a drastic contrast 
between himself - dressed neatly in a black suit with white shirt - and 
the inmates around him, dressed in typical prison issued clothing. 
“What's your name, young man?” “What's it to ya?” replied the new man, 
who's name was really of no concern to the warden, and his poorly timed 
sarcasm only served to spark Warden Stromboli's nervous tension, 
sending him into a fit of rage. “Johnson!” exclaimed the head 
administrator, in no mood to mince words with anyone. “Take this man to 
isolation.” “But he didn't do anything,” answered Raymond impulsively, 
in defense of someone he barely knew. And as the guard acted on the 
warden's order – opening the cell door and removing the prisoner – the 
warden moved to the next cell adjacent to Raymond's, to question its 
occupant as well... “Newt,” he began. “You're not bothering Mort here, 
are you?” “Why warden,” began the inmate, at rest with his hands behind 
his head, laying stretched out on his cot. “I didn't think you cared?” 
“Johnson, him too,” ordered Warden Stromboli, without hesitation. “He's 
going too.” And as that inmate was removed also, the warden returned 
once more to Raymond's cell, but this time with an anxious energy that 
transmitted itself through Raymond's entire psyche – or in a man like 
Raymond, at least what passed for one. “You can concentrate better now, 
can't you Mort?” “Huh?” answered Raymond, not sure how to reply to a 
question which made reference to his ability to concentrate, or lack 
thereof. “You have no neighbors now... no one to bother you anymore. 
Now all you have to do is think of my mural.” “But I promised I'd do 
another portrait... somebody else asked me to...” “Never mind that, you 
just get to work on my mural,” maintained Warden Stromboli, pointing 
his forefinger at Raymond for emphasis. “Remember Mort; remember what 
happened to Steinberg. I always get what I want Mort, and I get what I 
want anyway I can. Do you hear me? Am I coming through?” “Yes,” he 
replied, finally aware of the profound seriousness of the task he was 
assigned. 

Sketches for the mural progressed sluggishly, as Raymond struggled to
bear the weight of what had become a burden. But were it not for the 
pressure Warden Stromboli had applied, it would have been just another 
art project to him – even though the scale of it was beyond anything 
he'd ever attempted. So when he sat to draw out any ideas that came to 
him - even though it was very much as if he was working along with the 
aid of his four clay friends, the final drafts of concept were slow to 
materialize. “I don't think he's gonna like it if you paint him naked,” 
remarked Guy, quite frankly and to the point. “He's way too up-tight to 
appreciate the artistic significance of it.” “Yeah,” said Joe, about to 
agree. “I don't think you wanna go there anyway... or do ya? I'm still 
gett'in used ta your girlfriend Vicky.” “You leave her out of this,” 
returned Raymond aloud, and with no close neighbors to hear him, his 
imaginary conversation went largely unnoticed. “She's the best thing 
that ever happened to me.” “Yeah, but she's a chick with a...” “Pipe 
down Joe,” interjected Dan. “The warden's coming around again. Don't 
piss him off, he'll toss Raymond into solitary.” “How's it coming along 
Mort?” asked the chief administrator. “Making progress?” But as anyone 
could see, this was not just a visit from an interested or concerned 
patron, as the warden had come to see Raymond with a police nightstick 
in hand, and he used it without discretion as he spoke, flagrantly 
replacing a much less lethal forefinger which he previously employed to 
make his point. And literally aiming it at Raymond, as it projected 
through the prison bars of his cell, the warden continued to speak... 
“Let's see what you've got so far Mort. Hold it up so I can take a 
look.” “Well, it's just some preliminary stuff really... nothing set in 
stone,” answered Raymond. Not too badly shaken by the warden's strange, 
determined presence, but nevertheless, worried. And holding up the 
first sketch – which Raymond thought one of the best in the group – the 
warden looked on in what was at first, a sudden, contemplative mood. 
Then at last, he remarked “...I'm naked Mort. I'm naked in that sketch. 
What am I doing with no clothes on? That's depraved and immoral Mort. I 
won't have it, do hear me?” he said, raising his voice all the more as 
he crashed the baton he held very purposely into the steel prison bars, 
causing a terrible reverberating noise throughout the hospital/prison 
for any and every inmate who had the ability to hear. But as a 
consequence of his action, the reactionary force which returned into 
the nightstick had traveled back into the warden's firm grasp and up 
into his arm, causing a shockwave of pain which he'd clearly not 
anticipated, but carefully tried to mask over. However, he again let 
his intentions be known, and the pain which was considerable, affected 
his madness all the more. “You put some damn clothes on that drawing 
Mort, or I'll pay you a visit you'll never forget. Is that clear?” 
“Yes,” returned Raymond, driven to humility - which although was not an 
unfamiliar emotion to him, was an especially embarrassing situation 
played out in front of not only his four clay friends, but to all of 
the other inmates who could hear the warden yelling, and on an even 
more personal level, reminded him of his own father, who on dark rainy 
days often returned home drunk, releasing his anger on Raymond. “I 
think he means it Ray,” muttered Lorin, in Raymond's fragmented 
imagination. “I think you're right,” said Dan. “Whatta we do now?” “Put 
clothes on ‘im... what else?” determined Joe correctly. “I'll do better 
Warden. You'll see,” replied Raymond, trying hard to block out the 
voices of his friends in his mind. “You better,” he said, grabbing the 
right arm he'd used to hold the nightstick and make his startling 
point, which was continuing to produce a throbbing, dull ache he could 
conceal no longer, “You just better. Because God help you if you 
don't.” “Geez, he sure fires up, don't he?” noted Guy. “You can say 
that again,” returned Joe. “Better do a good job,” he added, 
considering all that had gone on. “Back to the drawing board,” remarked 
Raymond, as the warden walked away. And in the same manner as Warden 
Stromboli, Raymond did his best to hide the real and worsening pain he 
felt. 

In the following days - and despite the warden's harassment - Raymond
tenaciously applied himself to the task and drastically improved his 
concept and approach to the mural's design. In fact, Raymond's work 
improved to such a degree, in the warden's opinion, that he began to 
suspect Raymond had enlisted the aid of some outside source, or 
knowledgeable fellow inmate, but in reality, neither was the case. The 
only assistance Raymond had received was through the influence of his 
mute, clay buddies who were to Raymond, all the help he ever needed. 
Depicting the warden as a warrior of justice and virtue - 
characteristics Warden Stromboli greatly admired but in actuality, 
could never conceive of – Raymond transposed facial characteristics of 
some of the teenage delinquents Officer Farfel Stromboli had vanquished 
from the mean streets of crime and chaos to portray the enemy, drawing 
representations of peace and prosperity to reign ever after in their 
place. These faces of truth, justice, virtue and the like were to be 
represented by none other then Raymond's collection of four close 
friends that he'd accumulated, intending to solve two problems at once. 
One of which and of primary importance, was to make the warden happy by 
designing something he could appreciate, but in doing so, Raymond 
seized the opportunity to help his friends achieve immortality and 
intended to include them in the mural as conquering warriors. Of 
course, the warden could not care less whose faces were among those he 
led to victory, when what impressed him so at the sight of Raymond's 
detailed composition, was the glory of his own image, purposely 
establishing a focal point and in the center of Raymond's creation - 
adorned in beautiful shinning armor, which brightened through the light 
of God from Heaven above - the sword raised high in his right hand, and 
shield in his left. “Wow Ray,” expressed Joe in admiration. “That's 
some design. The warden's gonna love it when he sees it on the wall.” 
“It's terrific,” agreed Guy. “You might even win some kinda award for 
this... never can tell.” “So when are you gonna start to really paint 
it?” questioned Dan. “It's no small project.” “No time like the 
present,” replied Raymond, as he very purposefully did his best to get 
Officer Johnson's attention. 

As Newt Weiner and Raymond's newest neighbor, Philbert Knutz sat
listlessly in isolation, Raymond sat – feeling resolute to his task – 
stirring paint and mixing colors on one lonesome looking, plain wooden 
chair... an antique from the days in which the prison had first opened 
it's steel doors to any qualifying criminal, but nothing anyone could 
ever really rest on. The only thing that might've been called an 
extravagance and the only thing allowed Raymond while he painted was 
the company of his four clay companions which rested to his side on the 
floor - lined up in a row to give advice upon request, or at other 
times, to just plain butt in. “Okay Ray, lets get crack'in,” commented 
Joe - always one to vehemently assert his opinions whenever he deemed 
it appropriate, and even at times when it wasn't. “Let's get this show 
on the road. What's tak'in so long anyways?” “He's busy, can't you 
see,” replied Guy, who by now had become used to coming to Raymond's 
defense whenever he deemed it appropriate, and even at times when it 
wasn't. “I don't wanna start unless I've got all the right colors ready 
to go,” answered Raymond to his friends. “So please, let me 
concentrate.” “The drawing looks good,” remarked Dan, in reference to 
the charcoal sketch Raymond had made on the wall, outlining the entire 
theme. “Just slap some paint down on it.” “I can't just ‘slap paint' on 
it Dan. It's not abstract art, it's much more photo-realistic then 
that. I need to focus... you guys don't understand.” But eventually, 
and contrary to the friendly argument his imaginary colleagues 
presented, Raymond did make slow progress... although it was  progress 
roughly akin to the type a sane person may have made in an office 
filled with bosses; co-workers and the like, all tending to slow a 
worker down with pressure and attitude particular to that specific 
person. In other words... a typical office environment. Of course, the 
warden didn't help much either... “It's a good start Mort. So far, so 
good, but...” “Yes, Warden Stromboli?” asked Raymond, during one such 
conversation, as the mural began to take shape beyond mere dark 
outline. “But, when will you be done?” “When I am finished,” remarked 
Raymond, who had over a period of some weeks, become much more dynamic 
in character, and at times spoken to the warden without regard for 
station or status – a new development in their relationship and 
naturally, something the warden could never appreciate, but for some 
reason... tolerated. And usually, after just such an altercation, the 
warden would turn and leave the great, cold vestibule in which Raymond 
labored, only to repeat the event time and time again. “Hey Ray,” 
mentioned Joe one day, after witnessing one of these brief squabbles. 
“You sure you're not tak'in chances?” “What do you mean?” asked 
Raymond, who really did not understand his own transformation in 
attitude and was thought by his friends to be precariously disposed to 
a conflict that he could never win. “He means...” interjected Dan, 
who'd been napping, but woke up just as the warden walked away – easily 
guessing what the conversation was about. “You're gonna be knee deep in 
shit if you don't quit pissing the warden off like that.” “Like what?” 
returned Raymond, as he simultaneously applied streaks of white and 
yellow paint to portions of the sky, while standing on his chair. “What 
are you guys talk'in about? I'm busy here, just say it.” “Are you 
dense, or what?” remarked Lorin impatiently, who could not understand 
how Raymond could so misinterpret the situation and put himself in such 
a dangerous position. After all, Warden Farfel Stromboli was not above 
punishing a prisoner to the absolute extreme. “If you don't quit 
answering him like that, you'll never see the light of day again. Why 
don't you get it?” “I just say what I feel,” explained Raymond. “It's 
like, sometimes, I can't answer for myself. Someone else takes over an 
answers for me.” “Oh yeah? Well how about waking up ta the fact that 
when yer done with this painting, the warden might just lock you up an 
throw away the key,” said Guy, which was not in keeping with his 
character and who rarely even admonished Raymond, but on this topic, 
realized that far too much was at stake not to. “He might have Johnson 
an Peters hang you upside down an walk away. Ever think a that?” “Et 
tu, Brute?” asked Raymond, as he continued to paint brilliant colors 
over the wall, depicting the universal judgment of God and its 
effectual law to the order of mankind. “I don't know who you're 
becoming Ray,” replied Guy very seriously. “You're getting scarier all 
the time.” “Don't worry about it. You guys worry too much. Everything's 
gonna be just fine... I just know it” 

The next day, and before Raymond had begun his daily routine of getting
out of bed for the sole purpose of working on the warden's mural, he 
received a letter. It wasn't the only letter he received while locked 
away in prison/hospital, but it was – up till now – the most 
emotionally rewarding. And considering the fact that very few living 
people ever had such emotional impact on him at all, that one unique 
event was significant in itself. The letter read as follows... ‘My 
Dearest Raymond, It's been too long since we last saw each other. Every 
time I'm on stage I think of you, sitting there in the audience 
watching me. Everything here is the same, but for one thing... I'm 
without you. I'm lonely, and nothing I do seems to make it better. I 
must come to see you. I have a train ticket on my desk as I'm writing 
this... It feels like a ticket to happiness in my possession, as I pick 
it up and hold it dearly in my hand. Please be there for me when I get 
there. I couldn't stand the thought of you with someone else. There is 
no one for me but you, and no one for you but me. I'm never giving up 
on us. Love Forever, Vicky' 

And as Raymond began to paint that day, his mind drifted to his loved
one who was more then partly responsible for his present state of well 
being, and for the fact that the idea of hanging himself by his bed 
sheet rarely crossed his mind. “Nice letter,” noted Guy, who was by 
nature, more emotional then the others and so, more deeply touched by 
Vicky's correspondence. “She's great,” replied Raymond, applying shades 
of brown and gold to the warden's shield as he spoke what was on his 
mind. “If it wasn't for her... I don't know what I'd do. I might not be 
here now talking to you guys if it wasn't for her.” “What about us?” 
asked Lorin. “What would we do? We're a team Ray, remember?” “I 
remember, but you Guys don't have two or three lifetime sentences to 
serve in this nuthouse. I can't even remember how many. I don't even 
know why you guys stay here. What could you possibly be getting out of 
this?” “We're buddies till the end Ray... whatever the ‘end' is, 
anyway. Besides,” added Dan, always the practical one. “When was the 
last time you seen a clay head walk out a door? That'd be a trick, 
wouldn't it?” “I suppose,” admitted Raymond. “But nothing would 
surprise me anymore. I mean,” he said, as he stood back a few steps 
from the wall to examine the last few brush strokes he'd made. “Who 
would'a thought I'd be standing here painting this stupid...” But even 
as the last word had left Raymond's mouth, Joe struggled effusively - 
but not in vain - to get Raymond's attention and to make him realize 
that the warden was there, paying them another surprise visit. “Don't 
let me interrupt you Mort. I don't mind it when people talk to 
themselves. I catch myself doing it sometimes too. What were you 
mumbling?” “You wanted to tell him how brave he looks in the paint'in, 
didn't you Ray?” said Joe, feigning his true feelings, of course. 
“Yeah, that's right,” observed Raymond, who after all, had truly 
depicted the warden as the most courageous warrior of justice in the 
mural, so it made good sense to him to use that fact in the matter of 
his own self-defense. “When this is all done,” continued Raymond, more 
excitedly. “Everyone's gonna wish they had a dad like you when they 
were kids. I mean look... you look like a super-hero in this, 
don'tcha?” “Why yes, I must admit, I do radiate a kind of super-hero 
appeal don't I?” “Yes, you do,” answered Raymond in compliance, partly 
because he'd felt beaten into submission by Warden Stromboli as his 
father had done, and partly because of his own great talent as an 
artist. As a result of the latter, he'd succeeded in fooling even 
himself into believing that the administrative leader had character. 
“That's how I became head administrator around here Mort. An uncanny 
ability to rise above the others, given situations that would make most 
men pale with fear.” “I can see that,” responded Dan derisively. But 
before Raymond had the chance to answer his imaginary friend - calling 
attention to his schizophrenia – the warden continued to speak. Having 
had another reason for visiting Raymond on his mind then the usual 
progress report would imply. “Ur... by the way Mort,” said the warden, 
in no hurry to make the following announcement, as no one's time was 
ever as important as the warden's own. “There's someone here to see 
you, and she's really quite pretty. You must introduce me to her.” 
“Ohh! Vicky's here!” shouted Raymond, who for just a few seconds, 
forgot himself; his neurosis; all associated problems, and even... the 
overbearing warden. In fact, in the tiny space of time in which Raymond 
responded, he'd shed all those things that had confounded him and 
fouled his personality since childhood, and for a few fleeting seconds, 
became a normal man. Aside from the fact that he was not heterosexual - 
a gauge of normalcy to some, but not to all. “She's waiting for you, 
but I want to remind you to be sure and observe the visitation rules 
here Mort.” “Of course Warden Stromboli,” replied Raymond, beyond the 
reach of all admonition, as all of his mind was consumed with thoughts 
of one and only one thing... Vicky. 

Entwined in a ball of their own arms and legs, Raymond and Vicky could
not contain the passion they felt for each other and what began as an 
eager reunion soon turned into a fireball of emotion. Inmates seated 
around them who were also receiving visitors did what they could to 
ignore the event, but through the tempered glass of the visiting room's 
fireproof door, Officer Peters stared on in anticipation and watched, 
as the floor of the visiting room became more and more, a sexual 
playground for the couple. It was at one point - some minutes into the 
encounter - that Vicky's dress rolled up beyond her lower abdomen, 
revealing her contradictory anatomy and shocking even the most seasoned 
of prison veterans. The next day - after Vicky had left and gone to a 
nearby hotel to spend the night - Raymond was cautiously notified by a 
guard that the warden wanted to see him. He did not say what the topic 
of conversation would be; leaving Raymond to surmise only that he was 
either about to receive fair warning for not adhering to 
prison/hospital rules, or that Warden Stromboli wanted to add something 
else to the mural's design. Either way, he was only mildly concerned 
about their forthcoming meeting. 

“Pity about what happened to Newt and Philbert,” began the warden, as he
stood looking out his office window, taking in the view. He watched 
with apathy as two pine coffins were loaded into the hospital 
ambulance, on their way to the prison cemetery. “I don't understand,” 
replied Raymond, who was never a prison gossip enthusiast - never got 
the inside dope - and had no idea what Warden Stromboli was trying to 
say. “The way those two left us... so suddenly. Oh well,” he went on to 
say... “back to business, right? Do you know why I wanted to see you?” 
“Nope,” said Raymond, hoping that the warden's calm mood might be some 
barometer of what was to follow. “Is it about the mural? I think it's 
really shaping up, don't you?” “Splendidly,” replied the warden, 
smiling back at Raymond, grinning widely as he never had before. “But 
that's not what I wanted to talk about right now Mort. Not now 
anyway...” “Then... what did you want to talk about?” remarked Raymond 
with caution, slowly realizing that no good could ever come of their 
conversation. “If it's about what happened with Vicky, I can explain. 
We haven't seen each other in such a long time... I just didn't know 
what I was doing... After a few minutes...” “No Mort,” interrupted 
Warden Stromboli. “I don't care about what happened in visitation. At 
least... not now, anyway,” he added, folding his hands on his desk in 
an effort to calm himself and settle the tension in the room. “That's 
not what I wanted to talk about either. You see...” he went on, rubbing 
his eyes as if there was an itch he could not quell, and changing his 
body posture to again take in the view from his office window. “Because 
of my job here, I don't really get out as much as I would like.” “Yes, 
you're job here,” repeated Raymond in agreement. “It's important, isn't 
it?” he answered, as if he was really not sure of the importance of 
Warden Stromboli's position, but nevertheless, Raymond was genuine and 
not facetious. More like the innocent child that had long ago, been 
beaten out of him. Choosing to overlook Raymond's naïve response - 
which may have been construed as sarcasm – the warden responded only by 
saying, “It's about Vicky, Mort. If you don't mind... I would like to 
see her.” “I don't understand,” said Raymond, fidgeting nervously with 
his hands. “She's my girlfriend. I love her, she's all I have in the 
world... besides my buddies.” “I can appreciate that,” replied the 
warden firmly. “What if there were some agreement we could arrive at? 
What then?” “I don't think you know about her,” answered Raymond, 
expecting that the form of defense he had on his mind would be enough 
to deter the warden. “She's not exactly what she looks like to 
people... I don't think you understand.” “I understand exactly Mort. 
You don't have to explain anything to me. I have eyes everywhere in 
this prison, nothing gets by me.” “Then... you know?” “Yes, I know. Now 
then... you do remember the old saying, ‘you scratch my back, and I'll 
scratch yours,' right? This could work out to your advantage you know. 
Besides the fine job you've been doing on the mural – you do this for 
me in addition, and I'll see what I can do about an earlier release 
then what the state had planned.” “But the state had three-hundred 
years planned. How do we get around that?” “Never mind Raymond, you 
leave it to me. I've been thinking over a work/release program for you 
in the near future. I have a friend who's a warden in Indiana. He's 
very much interested in getting you to paint a mural for him, too. 
After all, your fees are next to nothing - only as much as any inmate 
could hope to make churning out license plates... the state likes that. 
So, am I coming in clear? You set this date up with Vicky, finish the 
mural in the next few months, and then we'll see. I have friends 
Raymond... friends in high places. So what about it? Will you play 
ball?” “Let me talk to her,” said Raymond, astonished and in shock from 
all he'd heard exude from Warden Stromboli like thick, brown bitter 
syrup – unrefined as molasses, but nevertheless, tempting enough to 
take part in. 

“What do we do Vicky? He has friends in high places; he can help me get
out of here. I'd be free again... free to do anything I want. It'd be 
just like it used to be, don't you see?” “I thought you loved me,” 
replied Vicky, feeling emotionally abandoned after having listened to 
Raymond's suggestion. “I can't believe you'd ask me such a thing 
Raymond.” “Just come over Vicky, I can't talk to you on the phone like 
this. When can you get here?” “Hold on,” she said, responding to 
Raymond with mixed feelings. Unwilling to let go of her relationship 
with him; not wanting to leave him in the midst of an otherwise, 
hopeless situation, where in all probability, Raymond would perish in 
jail. But still, unwilling to compromise her own body and mind - much 
of all that anyone could ever possess in the course of a lifetime. 

“He's got some kind of work program on his mind Vicky. He says, if I
finish the mural and if you do this for him, he'll get his friends to 
help me.” “You can't trust him,” replied Vicky, with the same hurt 
expression on her beautiful face that she'd had during their telephone 
conversation, but in person, in the visiting room, her pain became much 
more apparent. “He's a cop. You can never trust a cop.” “He's not a cop 
Vicky... he's a warden. Besides, if I don't at least try, I'll never 
get of here. What do I say Vicky? What do I tell him?” “Let this be on 
your conscience then Raymond,” she said. But if anything at all rested 
on Raymond's conscience, the fact that Vicky had willfully consented to 
making herself an available consort, was about to become the only and 
loneliest act upon it; considering that nothing at all had ever rested 
there before - a peculiarity characteristic to the mind of the 
incredibly flawed human being that Raymond was. 

After some months had passed, the mural was looking up and Warden Farfel
Stromboli was eager to show it off to his friends and colleagues. It 
was quickly becoming a monument and testimony not only to the 
grandiloquent warden, but to the real talents of Raymond - whose 
patients and labor were soon to pay off. The warden was planning a 
party, and although the literal background theme consisted of the 
obvious and enormous wall painting, the nonliteral, or intangible theme 
was an unsavory concoction of blackmail, coercion and intimidation, 
enough to make any common criminal jealous. But to a person like the 
warden – who'd grown so used to doing such things over a span of many 
years, and did not seem to be able to distinguish right from wrong - it 
was a mere continuation in a lifetime of self-justifying injustice. A 
course of wrongdoing gone unnoticed by all but a few – like Raymond and 
Vicky – who'd been forced into becoming unwilling participants, and 
even by the warden himself, whose grandiose ego had proportionately 
grown to match and to cloak his misbegotten achievements. One thing was 
true though, the warden really did have friends and they were born of a 
similar mold; as corrupt and conniving as he and connected through 
deeds and abetment, as the tentacles of an octopus called; 
‘Government.' 

The evening of the party began with Raymond nervously pacing in his
cell, wondering which shirt – from a selection of three – to wear. But 
the problem on his mind would have been no problem at all to most other 
people, in light of the fact that all three shirts he had to choose 
from, were identical prison issue... each one light blue and each one 
long sleeve. And so, choosing one over the other made very little 
difference at all to anyone but Raymond. It was just such a waste of 
time and effort – as his friends tried to point out. But at a time like 
this, when so much depended on everything going right, Raymond could 
not summon the patience to listen to reason, or to control what little 
he had left of his worried, distressed mind... “Just put one on 
already,” remarked Joe, growing more irritated with Raymond's 
indecision, in as much as Raymond had come this far, only to be stopped 
by one, rudimentary matter of selection. “It don't matter which. 
They're all exactly the same. Besides, nobody's even gonna be look'in 
at you. Everyone else is gonna be wear'in suits an ties. Geez.” “No, 
that's were you're wrong,” began Raymond, feeling obligated to explain 
himself. “Everyone will be looking at me because I'll be standing out 
from the crowd... the only one dressed in a prison uniform.” “You're 
being paranoid,” remarked Lorin. “Everyone gets looked at, an 
besides... you don't have a choice, do you? I mean, what's stopping 
you? The shirts are identical. What a moron.” “Don't start calling him 
names now,” said Guy. “He needs all the confidence he can get. But Ray, 
do you mind me asking, what is stopping you? Why can't you just put one 
on?” “You really want to know?” returned Raymond. “Yes, we're dying to 
know,” remarked Dan. “Do explain.” “You can't die twice,” said Guy, to 
what appeared to be a euphemism for something he took very seriously. 
“And you're already dead.” “That's a matter of contention,” said Dan. 
“Now then, what's the problem here?” “Well, I'll tell you then...” 
Raymond started to say, pausing to clear his throat while he searched 
for the right words. Then, turning toward the one small window in his 
cell - which provided nothing more to his discussion other then the 
immaterial, fading light of late afternoon – he added, “I...” But was 
suddenly interrupted by Officer Johnson, who was making his rounds and 
couldn't help but notice Raymond standing Idly, in his cell... “Let's 
go Mort,” he declared, with a loud, metal ‘thud' of his nightstick to 
Raymond's prison bars for emphasis. “You'd be late for your own 
funeral, wouldn'tcha?” “Okay, okay,” replied Raymond, reaching out 
hesitantly for one of the shirts on his cot, but still stubborn to make 
his choice, stalling for time until the guard had walked away. “Would 
you put one on already,” remarked Lorin. “This is the last time I'm 
gonna tell you.” “An then what?” asked Joe very poignantly, with no 
regard for Lorin's feelings. “You gonna climb down off that shelf with 
no arms an no legs? Just what are ya gonna do about it, Bub?” “Nobody's 
going to do anything, that's what,” interjected Raymond. “Except that 
I'm going to put this shirt on,” he said. Then at last he reached for 
the nearest one, unbuttoning it and finally, putting his arms into the 
sleeves. “Hooray!” shouted Joe facetiously. “He's finally got one on!” 
But of course, sooner or later, it had to happen... or so we would like 
to infer. 

When people began arriving, Raymond couldn't believe his eyes. He just
couldn't understand how he could play such a key role in the whole 
event, and that the greatest sample ever of his work overshadowed 
everything else, either animate or inanimate - regardless of class 
distinction; power and wealth; or function. And the fact that he'd 
arrived in his prison uniform only made him stand out more from the 
crowd, as he rightfully guessed it would, but visitors flocked to him 
one after another, keeping his mind so busy with their questions and 
activity that he was not even able to do what came naturally to him... 
which was to hallucinate. In fact, even negative thoughts could not 
penetrate, or find their way to Raymond's occupied mind until all at 
once, the entire tempo of the gathering began a descent, not for 
everyone mind you, but for Raymond, and for one newly arrived guest, 
who for a short space in time, had been lost among many more immediate 
and pressing human exchanges. “You have no idea what he puts me 
through,” said Vicky, looking as beautiful as the day she'd first met 
Raymond near a famous, bustling, six corner intersection in Chicago, 
Illinois. “I'm not sure I understand,” replied Raymond, lightly 
grasping her chin in an effort to redirect her gaze from the floor to 
his own face – a milestone for Raymond, who was once too shy to meet 
practically anyone at anytime. “...But I'm glad you're here,” he added. 
“These people have been buzzing around me like flies since this thing 
started... I never got attention like this in my life. I just can't 
believe it.” “I'm talking about him!” she returned, nearly frantic with 
emotion, locating Warden Stromboli amongst a small crowd of people in 
an effort to point out the object of her frustration. “You're not even 
listening to me,” she went on to say, making eye contact with the 
warden, who returned her stare and continued to watch her as he spoke 
very cliquishly to others. “Don't you know what I'm going through for 
you? Don't you know what you put me through?” she reiterated. “I'm 
sorry Vicky. Please believe me,” Raymond struggled to say - speaking 
earnestly for one of the very few times in his life, focusing his 
attention on the only living person in his existence who mattered to 
him. “If there was only another way... but he said, he'd help me. I 
can't stand it in here anymore. I'm going crazy. Everyone I meet here 
Vicky... they're all so nuts. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. 
Please...” But Raymond's plea for forgiveness went mostly unheeded, as 
Vicky could no longer put Raymond's feelings before her own, as hurt 
and humiliated as she was. “I don't know,” she said. “I don't know if I 
can go on like this. I don't know if I want to.” “What are you talking 
about?” asked Raymond. But before much more regard could be given over 
to Vicky's dreaded disclosure, the wife of one of the warden's longtime 
acquaintances suddenly, but innocently, intervened in her attempt to 
meet the newly emerging artist responsible for the entire event... 
“It's you, isn't it?” she guessed rightly - poised elegantly with a 
drink from the open bar in one hand, and a cigarette in a long, 
pearlescent handle in the other. “You're the one who did this, aren't 
you?” she said, waving her right hand, balancing in it a glass of 
champagne between her forefinger and thumb, gesturing toward the mural, 
drawing attention to it as she spoke. “It's not everyday I meet someone 
who can do that. You're Raymond Mort aren't you?” “Yes, I am.” “I would 
ask you to a party I'm giving next week,” she began to say with a note 
of sarcasm. “But I'm just betting you're busy,” she remarked smiling, 
referring to Raymond's lengthy prison sentence. “What's it like?” She 
went on to ask. “What is ‘what' like?” replied Raymond, who had no idea 
what this very cosmopolitan looking woman was alluding to. “Oh, the 
whole thing... you know.” “What whole thing?” asked Vicky, who was 
normally fairly quick to catch on, but this time, just as baffled as 
Raymond. “Well... killing someone of course,” she commented quite 
boldly. Flourishing in that talent or facet of human nature which can 
only be described as a desire to cause pain, while somehow, 
simultaneously avoiding any further and enduring conflict. An ability 
practiced and engaged in by many, but abstained from by few. “Killing 
someone,” she reiterated, as Raymond stood looking on, frozen into 
position like a rabbit... afraid to move and unsure how to react. “And 
just how do you vacillate from one thing to another... from say, 
cutting someone to pieces, then painting so beautifully? Tell me... 
What's it like?” she repeated, sipping casually from her glass then 
thoughtfully puffing from her cigarette - taking up the lax time in 
which Raymond found himself too surprised to say anything. “I... 
they're... they're my friends,” stammered Raymond. “They're with me all 
the time.” “Really, they're your friends... interesting. And how does 
that work?” “Raymond doesn't have time for this,” interrupted Vicky, 
just as the conversation was getting increasingly embarrassing for an 
artist who did not have the ability to draw the figurative line between 
life and death – a concept abstract for a man whose schizophrenia had 
left parts of his mind underdeveloped. The Theory of Mind - of self and 
others around him - or other cognitive abilities, never seemed to take 
hold, respond and grow, except in their application to the world of 
art. “He doesn't have to tell you anything,” Vicky went on to say. 
“You're just trying to make some weirdo out of him... you don't even 
know him. Why don't you leave him alone?” “Aren't you afraid of 
becoming one of his friends,” replied the woman coldly. “From what I've 
heard, they're just a bunch of insensible, talking heads.” “I'm not 
just a friend,” said Vicky in response, turning to look into Raymond's 
blank, bottomless eyes - a view she was fond of and had identified 
with. “I'm his lover,” she stated proudly. “My,” replied the well 
dressed, immodest woman. “Aren't you the lucky one?” But Raymond's 
frustration did not end as the difficult guest walked away. Instead, 
more problems had been left upon her departure in Raymond's mind, than 
had been present before ever speaking a word. Another talent of some, 
attributed to the ‘art' of conversation and the human condition – a 
condition for which we are all held liable and responsible. “I don't 
know,” muttered Raymond, watching the woman as she engaged easily in a 
more welcome conversation, amongst guests she considered her peers. “I 
don't know who's worse... the nuts in here, or the ones on the outside? 
People like her make me feel like I'm not missing anything being in 
here. You know what I mean?” “He's coming this way,” mentioned Vicky, 
suddenly very much detached from Raymond's train of thought. “What do I 
do?” “Huh?” returned Raymond, grasping his girlfriend's hands in his. 
“Who? Who's on his way?” But Raymond did not have long to wait before 
finding out... “Why Vicky, I didn't expect to see you here,” remarked 
Warden Stromboli, facetiously and with ill intent. “I hope you weren't 
rude to her, Mort. That was Warden Cilantro's wife I saw you talking 
to. She could be very influential to your case.” “No, I wasn't rude. We 
weren't rude, were we Vicky?” “I certainly hope not,” replied the 
warden. “How are you two getting along these days?” he asked, knowing 
full well the stress he'd put upon Vicky and Raymond's relationship, 
wondering if it had suffered as a result. “Still friends?” “We're more 
then friends,” Vicky found herself saying. Finding that she was even 
more committed to Raymond then she'd thought herself in the past. 
“We're more then friends and nothing will ever change it... nothing.” 
“Fine then,” returned Warden Stromboli, newly charged with resentment 
for not having caused a more dire conflict. “I'll see you first thing 
tomorrow morning Mort,” he added. Determined in some way at least to 
stir up the occasion, refreshing his own diminished spirit with the 
life's energy of others, as a fictitious vampire might feed upon its 
victims, enslaving them in the course of time – or like some people 
we're better off never having met. 

That night, as Raymond lay thinking to himself, conversing with his
friends, Joe could not help but recall the difficult time Raymond had 
selecting a shirt for that night and as curiosity compelled him, he 
came out and asked - with what audacity had grown common to him through 
the years... “Ray, what gives? What's the story on the shirt, anyway?” 
“Yeah, while we're at it,” asked Lorin. “Why'd you have such a hard 
time picking one out? You never did tell us why.” “I don't know, 
really,” began Raymond, staring blankly at the ceiling which in turn 
provided a stark background – like the screen for a film - in which 
Raymond could imagine anything he could conjure up... from images of 
Vicky, to concealed thoughts that if revealed, may have landed him 
another life sentence. “I guess I just wanted to look my best. What's 
wrong with that?” “No deep reason?” asked Dan, “nothing else on your 
mind? You're telling us that all that hesitation was just a case of 
indecision?” “I don't know why you guys need deep meaning all the 
time?” returned Raymond, surprising Dan and the others with a sudden 
and firm resolution to his defense. “Maybe one had a spot on it... 
maybe one was just pressed better then the others... how should I know? 
You know what?” he added, working himself up before an audience that 
existed only in his mind. “If you wanna send a message, go to Western 
Union.” “What the hell sense does that make?” asked Lorin. “How could 
indecision possibly correlate to sending a message?” “You wanna know 
how?” Raymond replied, turning on his left side, simultaneously 
shutting down the mostly sanguinary visions he'd conceived. “I'll tell 
you how...” he started to say, reflecting on the last thirty years or 
so of his brutal, unfortunate life. “You people are always looking for 
some kind of deep meaning to everything. You think God runs the show or 
something, and you what? We're all alone... sometimes there isn't any 
meaning. Sometimes, shit just happens.” “Well put,” replied Guy. “I 
wish I'd said that.” 

The warden was conciliatory – a stark contrast to Raymond's many
meetings with him in the past, making Raymond feel uncomfortable and 
especially vulnerable. “I'm glad you could make it this morning Mort,” 
he said facetiously. But on previous occasions and on the part of 
Warden Stromboli, very little attempt had been made that even 
approached humor, as he deliberately directed the hierarchy of their 
relationship, maintaining a dominant role. “Why so jittery today 
Raymond?” he asked, instinctively pleased with Raymond's lack of ease. 
“I don't know. I'm just not feeling good today,” he replied, looking 
down at his hands as he did his best to answer. Then suddenly and 
without warning, Raymond came out and began to describe the way he 
really felt – a milestone for a schizophrenic murderer, who only mildly 
understood himself... “You ever feel like everything hits the fan all 
at once?” he explained. “Like a bunch of bad things happen all at the 
same time and it all just brings you down. You ever feel like that?” 
“Why Mort...” began the warden, leaning back in his reclining office 
chair, folding his arms over his chest to complete a very contemplative 
body posture. “I think we've all felt like that at times. What's the 
problem?” he asked with irony. Having had a very good idea of what it 
was that was eating away at the small amount of emotional strength 
inherent to Raymond's character. “For one thing... Vicky,” he let out 
truthfully, not knowing what kind of reply he might get in return. “Is 
that all? Is that it, or is there more? This is unexpected Mort. You 
know, I'm not qualified to make psychological evaluations. You'd have 
to make an appointment with the prison doctor for that, but if you want 
my opinion, I'd say you're chronically depressed.” “Well...” Raymond 
continued, searching for the right words to say. “It's more then Vicky. 
It's just everything. It's being here... locked up. It's last night 
too. The warden's wife - at the party - she asked me weird questions.” 
“Oh she did?” asked Warden Stromboli, rising from his chair to come 
closer to Raymond, taking a seat just in front of him, on the edge of 
his own desk. “What did Mrs. Cilantro have to say? You were nice to her 
weren't you? She's the reason I wanted to see you today.” “I can't 
think of anything bad I might have said. I don't think I offended her.” 
“Good, good,” expressed the warden. “Because she said she likes you, 
and her husband wants you to come out to Indiana.” “She does? I mean,” 
continued Raymond, having a hard time believing what he was hearing. 
“He wants me to come to Indiana? How do I do that?” “I told you I might 
be able to work something out for you, remember? This is it Mort... a 
part of the agreement we made. I'm a man of my word... you may think 
other of me, but I am a man of my word.” 

When Raymond got back to his cell, his four insentient friends were
eager to talk, although at a glance, anyone but Raymond might have 
difficulty believing that true. “What'd he say?” asked Joe, mindful of 
the fact that Raymond had just undergone what everyone familiar with 
Warden Stromboli called, ‘The Treatment', but was not looking as 
depressed and withdrawn as when he'd first left the cell – an 
appearance or condition no one would have expected. “Did he give it to 
ya?” “Give me what?” replied Raymond, not overlooking the possibility 
that Joe had facetiously indicated innuendo, and Raymond did not 
appreciate the sexual undertone, especially at a time like this. “You 
know...” continued Joe, as lucid as any clay sculpture could hope to 
be. “The treatment... did he give ya the treatment? Did he grill ya 
like usual?” “No, if that's what you mean. He didn't bother me much. In 
fact, I'm going on a little vacation.” “A what?” asked Dan 
incredulously, thinking Raymond had multiple life sentences to serve 
and would never be allowed past the walls of the prison/hospital. “I'm 
going on vacation... sort of, anyway. To Indiana State Correctional, to 
paint another mural.” “Cool Ray,” said Guy, an admirer of Raymond and 
his polished skills for a very long time. “You're not gonna leave us 
here, are ya? We're go'in too, aren't we?” “Of course you are,” 
returned Raymond. “If you don't mind traveling in these,” he added, 
pulling out several pillow cases he thought were appropriate for the 
occasion. “Are you kidd'in? I love ta travel,” replied Joe. “What's the 
food like in Indiana? I can't wait.” But contemplation of culinary 
delights to a clay bust seemed pointless and ultimately, the end result 
of such thoughts unattainable - even from Raymond's astonishing 
viewpoint - and suddenly realizing this, everyone felt quite uneasy. 

The very next day, Officers Peters and Johnson escorted Raymond out of
the cell block and eventually, through the enormous vestibule of the 
prison in which Raymond had painted his very first mural. Overwhelmed 
by the fact that such a small, unimposing figure of a man could have 
tackled a project of such magnitude, Officer Peters could not help but 
comment... “Someone must'a helped you Mort. Who helped you do that?” 
And even though the task was a sole venture of Raymond's - and the 
warden, including every inmate cognizant enough to hold a rational 
conversation, knew that it was Raymond alone who'd painted the mural - 
the officer's remark still touched a painful nerve, as Raymond always 
believed that his friends had helped him with suggestions and helpful 
criticism. “My f-friends helped,” Raymond stammered, spilling what he 
believed to be the truth. “I knew it,” responded Peters, feeling as 
though he'd solved a crime and the truth of the matter had finally 
emerged, revealing itself to the light of day, just as the three were 
walking out the very intricate, tempered, reinforced steel mesh, glass 
doors of the prison. “He had help,” the guard exclaimed, pushing 
Raymond head first into the waiting police vehicle. “Yer just a fag 
runt, ain't you Mort?” he added, to emphasize his complaint and help 
purge himself of jealousy. “You didn't paint that shit alone, did ya? 
Well I got news for you Mac... you're go'in it alone this time. An when 
you screw up, Stromboli's gonna bury you.” “Why don't you let him worry 
about it,” remarked Officer Johnson, stepping on the accelerator pedal 
of the car. “We got a long drive ahead, an ya know what? It ain't my 
problem. Whadda you care anyway if he comes through or not... you get 
paid the same.” “I just wanna see ‘im step in it,” replied Peters. “No 
crazy ass with a three-hundred year sentence deserves this kinda good 
treatment if ya ask me.” “Yeah, but nobody's ask'in you Peters – you 
dick.” 

When Raymond arrived in the small town of Salem Indiana, he found Warden
Cilantro not only expecting him, but that he'd given orders to bring 
Raymond to his office as soon as possible. This urgency seemed to 
stress the importance of the new project and to reapply the same 
pressure that Raymond had sustained while working on the first mural – 
a job oriented struggle that he had no other choice but to endure. 
Unfamiliar to him, since he'd never before worked in a manner of such 
importance and never before had been caught between a job or task and 
the enormous ego which empowered it – which in this case, was 
exclusively in the custody of Warden Cilantro, a man who owned many 
things, but could never own up to himself. “Have a seat Mort, I'm glad 
you could make it,” remarked Raymond's new boss, in such a way, that 
for a few seconds, Raymond had to reassure himself that it was not 
Warden Stromboli speaking, and that in fact, it was Warden Delmonico 
Cilantro... the head administrator of the Indiana Correctional Center 
for the past ten years. But that was an error that had never, and never 
would be resolved. “Have a good trip? It's better then a fall, get it? 
Better then a fall,” he said, repeating the same punch line of a joke 
he'd heard as a boy, helping to shape the personality of the man he was 
today – the embodiment of sixth grade humor with all the refinement of 
those he oversaw. “Yes, I think I get it,” answered Raymond, slightly 
disoriented from his journey, not having been beyond the same prison 
walls for quite some time but nevertheless, keen to the warden's notion 
of humor. “So... you want me to paint?” Raymond asked modestly, never 
having been one who might plan to act differently then what their true 
feelings might portray. In other words, Raymond had never been 
practiced in the art of deception – something very much unnatural to 
him. “Exactly right,” announced the warden, still feeling amused with 
himself and giddy with the power of his position. “Think you're up to 
it? Never mind,” he added jokingly. “You don't have a damn choice, do 
you? You're gonna do it whether you like it or not.” And then, Warden 
Cilantro, in the midst of celebration, slammed his open palm down into 
his desk, enjoying the hilarity that unfortunately only he could 
appreciate or even perceive. “That's right Mort,” he continued on in 
the same vein. “Whaddaya think about that? Never mind... it don't 
matter what you think. I do the thinking here,” he went on to say, 
turning suddenly much more serious and provoking. “I do the thinking, 
and you do what I tell you to do.” But before Raymond could even try to 
comply with Warden Cilantro's thoughts and admonitions, two guards, 
Officers Knob and Wang burst through the warden's office door and very 
much according to plan, dragged him by his arms all the way to a cell 
in solitary confinement. An effort to show Raymond that not only was he 
not special because of his artistic talents, but that he would never be 
given better treatment because of them, especially not under the 
auspices of Warden Delmonico Cilantro – a man, who among other things, 
did not believe in reform, or the very system which he represented. 
After five days had gone by without seeing a soul, Raymond was more 
then malleable, he was a beaten man. Reminiscent of what his own father 
had done to him many years before, he remarkably, still could not bring 
himself to hate Warden Cilantro as he still did not – at least on a 
conscience level – admit to hating his father... learning to take out 
his arcane hostilities on others more unsuspecting. “I think we're 
ready to get to work now,” remarked Warden Cilantro. “Have any thoughts 
you'd like to share?” he asked of Raymond, who was back in the very 
same chair he'd been dragged from five days prior. “I...” began 
Raymond, thinking rightly that anything he said would find a way of 
working against him. “Never mind,” continued the callous administrator. 
“I know what you're going to paint. I got it all up here in my noodle,” 
he went on to explain, pointing to the side of his forehead as he 
spoke. “You're gonna paint my ceiling, how do ya like that?” “Paint 
what?” Raymond muttered, unable to contain his curiosity. “You heard me 
Mort. The ceiling... just like in the church that Michelangelo painted. 
You're gonna paint the ceiling of the vestibule, so when people walk 
in, they'll get used to looking up right away. Then they'll see me up 
there, right where I belong. Any questions?” “I guess not.” “Good then. 
Get busy right away. Knob will show you to your new home, wont'cha 
Knob?” commanded the warden, but in his urgency, he'd forgotten that 
Officer Knob was not present. Reaching for a microphone that stood idle 
on his desk, the fearless leader quickly flew into action... “Get in 
here Knob, an make it snappy. Escort Mort here to his room, and be 
quick,” added the warden. “The room was a broom closet we cleared out 
for you Mort, nothing fancy, but it's nice an close to the vestibule. 
You'll save a lot on fuel walking to work... get it? It won't cost you 
anything cause you can walk ta work, get it?” “I get it,” Raymond 
replied, “It's just that I've never seen the Sistine Chapel. Do you 
suppose I could look around in the prison library, just to get some 
ideas?” “The Sistine what?” answered the warden. “You know... the place 
where Michelangelo painted the ceiling. I'd like to know more about it 
before I begin.” “Oh sure,” answered Warden Cilantro. “Knob will take 
you there, won't you Knob?” But later that day, after making his bed 
and putting on a new prison uniform that made him look like any other 
inmate from Indiana Correctional – he finally found himself in the 
prison library, gradually beginning to wonder how and why he was the 
only one there. “There ain't nobody here but us chickens,” remarked 
Joe. “Hey, when ya gonna get our heads outta them pillow cases Ray? 
It's dark in there.” “Just as soon as I find something on the Sistine 
Chapel... boy, he's got me worried. I've never painted a ceiling 
before.” “No problem,” interjected Dan, coming to Raymond's rescue with 
technical assistance. “You can make a pretty stable scaffold out of 
four ladders if you can find some scrap two by six's.” “That's swell,” 
remarked Lorin. “But he's still got no idea what he's painting.” “Who 
appointed the warden?” asked Guy, very pragmatically. “I don't know? 
The governor I guess,” thought Lorin. “Then doesn't it just fall into 
place,” explained Guy. “You need the governor giving Warden Cilantro 
the power to rule in the center panel. Just like God gave life to man 
in the real painting... don't you see? The two figures will be just 
barely touching each others hands... beautiful... Whaddaya think?” 
“Idyllic,” added Dan, impressed with Guy's logic, and ability to think 
the project through. “I think yer both off your rocker,” said Joe. “But 
so is Cilantro. I bet he likes it.” 

It didn't take Raymond very long to locate the small collection of art
history books. They were old and of little value to men who were mostly 
in need of law books and the like, trying desperately to appeal their 
cases to higher courts which had not yet turned them down. But to 
Raymond, these books were sources representing some of the most 
fantastic works of art from around the world, and some contained fine 
photographic images of the Sistine Chapel – the ceiling of which was to 
be the focus of his very own creation, in likeness and in metaphor 
both. For Raymond could easily adapt to another painters style, but the 
imaginative approach and depiction of the warden accepting the powers 
of justice bestowed on him by the governor in the likeness of Adam 
accepting life from God was a triumph for Raymond, even though he 
unselfishly gave full credit for the idea to Guy. “This is great Guy... 
a great idea,” said Raymond, as he thumbed through the pages of a most 
impressive art history book, complete with color plates of some of the 
more important works. “But I can't just paint the two images alone,” he 
remarked aloud, even though anyone watching would have thought he was 
talking to himself. “There's just not enough going on.” “You need to 
paint in the angels that help support God, don't you?” asked Lorin, on 
a similar path of logic. “For instance, there's one he's got his arm 
around, and then they're others who're there as well, right?” “Yeah, I 
see what he's getting at,” said Dan in agreement. “They'll help fill up 
a lot of empty space and balance the whole big picture.” “Not just 
that,” continued Lorin. “But think about it... who helps Cilantro out 
in real life? The guards do right? So... paint them in. They'll all 
love it!” “Hey yeah, that's a great idea!” said Joe, as the wisdom of 
the idea finally took hold. “Knob, Peters, Johnson and Wang... all of 
‘em help'in the warden out just like in real life. Boy, I wish I 
thought a that.” “You did in a way,” replied Raymond, reluctant to give 
too much credit to one friend over another - a possible catalyst to 
jealousy and hard feelings. 

“I can't believe what Michelangelo went through,” said Raymond,
realizing for the first time what it felt like to draw in such a 
contorted body position. But the scaffold he'd made out of ladders 
didn't shake much and provided a sound base from which he could work. 
Even so, his four quiescent helpers remained on solid ground, 
preferring that to the possibility of falling and hurting themselves. 
“Yer not gett'in me up there,” warned Joe, as Raymond struggled to 
arrange the ladders and create a platform between them. “Yeah,” agreed 
Guy. “What if I fall? You know what happens ta clay when you drop it 
from a height like that. It shatters. I'll die a shattered, broken 
man.” “No you won't,” reaffirmed Raymond. “I'll rebuild you, and as 
long as you're in my mind, you're alive. Don't worry about death 
anyway. People believe that life is eternal.” “Okay then,” began Joe. 
“If that's the case... I'll take a hot stack with plenty ‘a syrup; 
bacon; an two eggs over easy, an you can pop for the tab,” he said, 
meaning that Raymond could pick up the check - probably because he was 
the only one among them with the hands and arms to do it. “I can't help 
you there,” conceded Raymond. “I'm too busy right now to think of 
breakfast.” And as he began to draw for the first time upon the 
ceiling, he felt as if he was really making his mark on the world, not 
just as his dark chalk glided through the outlines of images he wished 
to paint, but as thoughts of having people recognize his name; his 
work, and the good in him circulated in his mind, making him wonder 
about what the near future would bring – regardless of those he'd 
decapitated in alleys and befriended in death. ‘Was fame now too much 
to ask for?' he thought to himself, as he lightly sketched in the 
warden's huge head, or was it waiting for him like a stroke of good 
luck or the obscure stroke of genius which guided his brush? Of that, 
neither he, nor any of his friends could really say one way or another. 
But it did appear that Raymond's designs of late were working out more 
so in his favor then not. “I like what you're doing up there,” remarked 
Warden Cilantro, as Raymond lay prone on his back, painting shadows to 
bodies that made them appear like athletes in the prime of their life. 
“You keep up the good work now and who knows... the system may find a 
way of rewarding you.” “Oh really?” asked Raymond, who was getting 
spattered by his own paint, as it had a tendency to drip back down on 
him when he wasn't careful. “Yes really. I've been talking to Warden 
Stromboli, and he agrees with me. You keep up the good work and you'd 
be surprised to find out what we can do if we put ourselves to the 
task. By the way Raymond,” continued Warden Cilantro, unable to contain 
his interest and curiosity. “When will you be done?” “I don't know,” 
remarked Raymond with spontaneity. “When I'm finished, I guess.” 

People had spoken out from behind prison walls many times before, but
none so far with the voice of one like Raymond. His art work was more 
like a spectacle then a story, or like a performance Raymond could 
participate in from afar without having to reveal himself to any 
discerning crowd... those who might see past his talent and into his 
own personal history – an imitation of life led by a man who could at 
best portray only a crude caricature of it. One he'd grown used to 
drawing out and living, even from behind bars. But slowly, as all 
things and the course of many events are prone to change, so did 
Raymond's life behind bars as his prison work program became more like 
a prison release program, when time after time he scored the favor of 
his employer by completing murals so amazing, even people who rarely 
thought about, or looked at works of art realized what a skilful and 
consummate artist Raymond was. In two years time, and with the help of 
Warden Stromboli and other high ranking government officials, Raymond 
was given back nearly all his freedom, and had only to report his 
timely efforts to a parole officer who kept close ties with Raymond and 
knew where he was and where he would be. What made things easier for 
Raymond was the fact that his new job was just a continuation of what 
he'd been doing all along... painting, and most of the work he'd done 
was commissioned through state funded projects, controlled for the most 
part by Warden Stromboli and others like him, who realized the benefits 
of having someone like Raymond work for very little money. Freedom from 
the confines of the psychiatric prison was what motivated Raymond 
mostly and that included the luxury of seeing Vicky and visiting her at 
the nightclub where she still worked; Martha's Vineyard. “I've waited 
so long for you Raymond,” she said upon seeing him, so sincerely and 
wholeheartedly that Raymond knew he could never leave again, for any 
reason. “I've missed you so much... promise me you won't ever leave me 
again.” “I have money Vicky,” he replied, having something very 
important to him on his mind at the time. “Not a lot but, enough for 
awhile I think. Will you come with me?” he asked, full well knowing how 
important a question he posed, but seeing no other way other then to 
ask. “Where Raymond? This is such short notice... don't I need to pack? 
What about my job?” “Don't worry about clothes. We can buy them when we 
get there. And tell the nightclub you had a family emergency come up. I 
do feel like our family's growing lately, what with my good friends, 
and now...” “God Raymond,” Vicky interjected. “I suppose I can go. You 
know I want to be with you. Where though? Do you have somewhere on your 
mind?” “Mexico I think. I bet I can pay off the border patrol. I just 
don't want them snooping around in the trunk. I've got some personal 
effects in it. I'll show you if you want.” “Surprise me later,” she 
said, having some idea what Raymond was talking about, but her 
enthusiasm really centered on the trip itself and not so much on what 
was in the trunk of the car. “Okay, it can wait.” Meaning that the 
surprise could wait until they got beyond the border and besides, 
Warden Stromboli and Warden Cilantro had many old times to catch up on. 
Things that, in Raymond's mind, needed to be addressed if they were all 
to be together and get along. And they were both doing their share of 
talking too - for decapitated heads - in Raymond's mind at least. But 
then, what else mattered? 


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