Three square meals a day, lowered into the pit, the pots checked for tampering afterwards. Even the flimsiest of handles could be fashioned into a shiv.
Despite hellish conditions, with no light or fellowship, the pots always returned empty, and the will to survive and hate endured.
Written for: Twittering Tales
In the unlikely event that they manage to scale the sheer rock face, we’ve provided an added deterrent in the form of an electric fence. At this point even the most ardent aristocrat will thing twice about their dreams of a ‘Mexican Utopia,’ turn tail and rejoin their outlaw band of hedge fund managers and rapists.
It may seem a little Draconian, but think of the children, think of your watered down tequilas, your drooping moustaches (and even droopier sombreros). It’s a vision too terrible to contemplate. Mi nombre es Don Trumpino and I approve this message…
Written for: Friday Fictioneers