Tiny's Get Out of Jail Free Card

A short story

Image by mpmd2009 from Pixabay

The man called Tiny was a three-hundred-pound monolith who barely fit into the jail cell. He sat on the floor with tree-trunk-sized legs crossed beneath him, forcing his cellmate, Watkins, to retreat to the upper bunk bed. 

Watkins perched over the edge of his thin mattress, looking like a squirrel on a branch studying the dangerous cat below.

The steady drip drip drip of water from their perpetually broken faucet punctuated the shouting, growing, and cursing from the hundreds of other cells around, below, and above them. The buzzing from the cells’ fluorescent lights sounded like bees. 

“I'm not staying long. I’ve got a Get Out of Jail Free Card.” Tiny flashed the small orange card with black writing at Watkins. This card may be kept until needed or sold. GET OUT OF JAIL FREE. It looked like the Chance card Watkins remembered from Monopoly, complete with a black and white drawing of a man wearing a striped prison uniform being kicked out of jail at the pointed end of a boot. Except that instead of a bald man with a handlebar mustache, the card displayed a color likeness of Tiny’s face, with its thin goatee, round jowls, short, flat nose, and brown hair. Watkins scrutinized the card, then Tiny, then the card again. He frowned. 

Watkins’ frown annoyed Tiny, and had he not been in a good mood because of the card, he would have pummeled his cellmate into jelly. He balled his fingers into a tight fist and imagined Watkins’ face as he punched his open palm. “You’ll see. I got it from a witch who I played a Monopoly game with for real money.”

“There are gambling games of Monopoly?”

“Yeah. You can gamble on any game. You didn’t know that? What are you, an injit?” He breathed deeply and coughed when the clammy prison air filled his lungs. “If you’re smart, you can win big, and I’m smart.”

Watkins scooted forward on his bed, gripping the bed railing tighter. He didn’t want to fall off onto Tiny’s lap. “How much did you win?”

“I cleaned her out. Ten thou. She owed me more, too, but didn’t have it on her, so she offers me this Get Out of Jail Free card instead of the other five grand.” 

Watkins was about to ask, “And you believed her?” but bit his lip. That would not have been a prudent thing to say. Get along, stay alive was the cellmate rule. Instead, Watkins asked, “What are you in for?”

“Armed robbery. A bank job gone bad.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, so is the guard. He’s dead.”

Watkins took a slow breath to give himself time to formulate another question. “How’d you smuggle the card in? They’re still doing body searches, right?” It had been nine years since the latex glove mill, but Watkins remembered entering Mid-State Correctional as if it had happened only yesterday. Nothing that’s not part of a human body gets past the long fingers and bright lights. 

Tiny growled. “I told you. She’s a witch. The Monopoly card’s magic. I held it in my hand during the entire intake process. Nobody noticed because nobody but me could see it. 

“When did you play? Before or after the robbery?”

Tiny narrowed his eyes. “What difference does it make?”

Watkins shrugged. "I’m just curious.” 

Tiny hoisted himself off the floor, leaving his body’s impression in the cement. “After. I needed cash. But when she offered me the card, I figured I might be back at Mid-State sooner rather than later, given that I’d just robbed a bank, so I accepted her offer.” 

“How did you know she’s a witch?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” 

“Sorry. There’s not much else to do here.”

“If you’d seen her, you’d know. She had a thin face, long chin, pointy nose with a wart at the end, black, oily hair, and a gravelly voice with some kind of accent. The broom in the corner of her room swept by itself, no human attached. A large pot bubbled in the fireplace, and I heard squeals inside it. Plus, a black cat kept rubbing against my legs. So, yeah, she’s a witch.”

“If she’s a witch, why did she let you win?”

Tiny beamed a half-toothed smile toward Watkins. “Who knows?  Only a witch thinks like a witch. Maybe it was my good looks and shining personality.” Tiny waved the paper card in the air. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’ve got to go.”

“Wait, wait!” Watkins waved his arm. “Just one last question?”

“What is it?”

“How do you make it work?”

“I tap the card three times like this.” Tiny brought his forefinger to the card. On the third tap, Watkins propelled himself off the bunk, whistled through the short expanse, and wrapped his arms around Tiny’s neck.  

I’m getting out of here, too, Watkins thought. 

The card flamed like it had been soaked in kerosene and touched with a match, but it was a frostbitten flame. A roaring whoosh like a jet engine set to maximum thrust filled their jail cell. The burning card spun faster than a tornado, enveloping Watkins and Tiny in a ring of icy fire. 

Watkins opened his eyes but could not see. The air smelled old and stale like it had been trapped here for years. Where am I? He ran his palms along the contours of the cramped, metal space using his fingertips as eyes. The metal was as hard as the bars of the cell he had just exited.

The shape was unmistakable. 

No! 

He frantically examined the walls again, but nothing changed except for his state of anxiety, which leaped from bad to unbearable. 

This isn’t happening.

Nausea swelled in his belly, but he dared not throw up. I’m inside a metal dog. The dog. 

From somewhere nearby, Tiny screamed, “Help me!” Metal reverberated as Tiny pounded his fists against his enclosure. “Get me out of here! I’m inside a battleship.”

“Tiny, are you there?” Watkins shouted.

A roar like a boulder tumbling down a mountain rattled Watkins. He shivered, hoping whatever was rolling would not crash into his container. When the thundering stopped, a woman with an accented, gravelly voice said, "I rolled a five." 

“Stop, don’t pick the dog piece up!” Watkins screamed. “I’m inside!” He pressed his hands tight against the metal walls to brace himself. Up and down five times he went, as the dice commanded. He crashed into the walls as if he were in an elevator oscillating violently between floors.

“Baltic Avenue, but I already own it,” the gravelly-voiced woman said. 

The avalanche roared once more, rattling Watkins’ bones. A heavily tattooed man with a shaved head and biceps that would make Rocky jealous declared, “Eleven." He lifted his piece and moved it along the game board, square by square, landing it with a forceful thud each time. 

Tiny shrieked as he tossed around the inside of the battleship.

“Broadway. I’ll buy it and build hotels,” the man said. 

“You’re cleaning me out,” the woman said. “A few more moves, and I will have to declare bankruptcy. You're quite good at this game.” She strummed her fingers on the table. “I may not have enough cash to pay you the entire amount, but can I interest you in a ‘Get out of jail free’ card? I think you may need it.”

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