The Jailhouse Blues

PROLOGUE:

The Lowe Institution for Male Behavioural Offenders. (L.I.M.B.O.)

December 2070 (Twenty seventy).

Dear reader,

My name is Len Lightwood, and I am seventy years of age.

Fate has not been kind to me. And so I hope you will forgive the rather rambling and sometimes vague and disjointed memoirs of a man whose best years are long behind him.

My mind is still basically sound, per se. But due to the sedative-based 'medication' that has been administered to me on a weekly basis for almost a year now by my Carer, Miss Bella Donna, my mind is sometimes not very clear, and often rather fuzzy.

Nevertheless, as best and as coherently as my egregiously tampered-with faculties will allow, I shall relate to you some of the more salient, and profoundly disagreeable events of the past fifty years of my life.

Events, in which my now Carer, Miss Bella Donna, features most prominently ...

*

To the eyes of a casual or uninformed observer, it might appear that the two elderly gentlemen (me and my fifty-years-long friend, Ross Chapman) sitting listlessly in their power-assisted wheelchairs, each with a rough woolen blanket draped over their knees and staring at the forlorn images of themselves in the large mirror on the wall of the L.I.M.B.O.'s residents' lounge, were just simply waiting, for 'the end'.

For such, these days, is the customary lack of animation in our jaded, timeworn faces.

But then, when our two Carers stood behind Ross and I, and put their proprietorial hands on the handles of our wheelchairs, that same casual or uninformed observer might have noticed the sudden change, in our lethargic demeanour.

Might have noticed, the sudden look of trepidation in our eyes.

Might have noticed, our unease - our unease, so evidently occasioned from being in our Carers' immediate presence.

And, having noticed our unease, the casual or uninformed observer might then have noticed the underlying, deeper fear - the fear, that has been ruthlessly and sadistically instilled into us over a coalescing blur of prison-cell bound decades - as Ross and I stared back at the reflected visages of our respective Carers: Ross's, Billie Jo, and mine, Bella Donna.

The reflected faces ... of our nemeses.

L.I.M.B.O. is a government-run institution, staffed entirely by females ... Females, of a certain ilk.

Assigned to the supervision of aging prison inmates now deemed to be in the low-risk 'F' category, L.I.M.B.O.'s Carers are exclusively comprised of retired former prison officers.

These no-nonsense, mature stature ladies who know what's what and are accustomed to being obeyed run a stringent regime. Rigidly ensuring, that each and every House Rule of the 'F'-rated superannuated prisoners' 'residential home' is strictly adhered to - subject to their no-exceptions administering of harsh disciplinary consequences to any non-conformist's slightest transgression.

Already financially comfortable on their generous prison-officer occupational pensions, most of L.I.M.B.O.'s Carers work only part-time. But some of them, including my own and Ross's dedicated Carers, Bella Donna and Billie Jo, work full-time. They love their work: Love 'looking after' me and Ross ... just as they've 'looked after' us, for the last fifty years.

To Bella Donna and Billie Jo, 'looking after' me and Ross has never been just a job.

Almost from the very first day of our having been disastrously deflected into their orbits (Ross, about four months earlier than me), it has been their 'vocation' ... and continues to be. That they are extremely 'dedicated', no one will deny - least of all, me and Ross.

Into their early 70's now, Carers Bella Donna and Billie Jo are themselves no spring chickens anymore. But it's like they've discovered the secret of eternal youth: they aren't so much aging and declining, as maturing majestically.

The saying goes these days that 70 is the new 50. And quite obviously there's a lot of life left in the pair of them yet ... and a lot of mischief, too.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo are still sparkle-eyed. There is still a spring in their step. They have lost none of their vitality, none of their vivacity, and they are still lithe and fit and vigorously healthy. Still full of vigour, with which to pursue their wicked mischief.

And they are both still attractive, too. Barely a sign of a wrinkle, and what lines there are on their faces have much more to do with laughing, than with aging ... And Ross and me are primarily responsible for that: responsible for giving our now so-called Carers their laughter-lines, in our so inadvertently having given them both so much to laugh about, over the past fifty years.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo have told us that "looking after" Ross and me keeps them young at heart. Certainly, I know that it helps keep them so sparkle-eyed - I've known it for fifty years.

As we watched Carers Bella Donna and Billie Jo staring with undisguised ill intent at their subdued charges' wary, mirror-reflected faces, from the tell-tale glint in their eyes Ross and I knew all too well what was coming next: our weekly 'medication' jab.

In the mirror, Ross and I apprehensively beheld our respective Carers. Watched them, slowly and gleefully depressing the plungers of their hypodermics until all of the air was expelled, and the familiar dirty-yellow coloured droplets of the sedative-based drug began spurting from the wicked-looking needle points.

Their hypodermic needles now prepared, in their usual fashion our Carers addressed Ross and me.

Carer Billie Jo said, "Right, you two ... time for your weekly med's. This will keep you both quiet, and easy to handle. Nice and docile, for us."

"You heard!" Carer Bella Donna snapped at us, almost before Carer Billie Jo had even finished speaking. "Come on! You know the drill: drop your trousers, and pull down your underpants - let's see your scrawny bottoms."

Not daring to hesitate in complying with Carer Bella Donna's order, Ross and I set our handbrakes, and got out of our power-assisted wheelchairs.

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I respectfully replied, as I unbuckled my belt, and began dropping my trousers.

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," replied Ross, equally respectful, as he pulled his underpants right down to his ankles, and presented his bare bottom to his Carer as instructed.

Carer Bella Donna then said to me, "Now, turn around, Leonard. Facing me. Hands held behind your back."

"Yes, Miss Bella Donna," I answered respectfully. And I turned around, and held my hands behind my back, just as Carer Bella Donna had told me to.

Carer Billie Jo said to Ross, "You too, Chapman. Turn around. Facing me. Hands held behind your back."

"Yes, Miss Billie Jo," answered Ross respectfully. And he turned around, and held his hands behind his back, just as Carer Billie Jo had told him to.

As always, Ross and I unhesitatingly obeyed our Carers' commands. We obeyed them without question. And we addressed them respectfully: unfailingly using the appellation 'Miss', accordant with their fifty-years'-long standing instruction.

This was Bella Donna and Billie Jo's weekly, sticking-it-to-us ritual. Both metaphorically and literally.

To stand there, and look down at our exposed genitals - exposed, at their command ... and laugh, at our manhood.

Laugh, in our unfailingly obedient, ever respectful faces ... before they needled us.

I suppose I could say that Bella Donna and Billie Jo's weekly, sticking-it-to-us ritual symbolised the dynamic of our five-decades-long 'relationship' ... but those words seem sort of flowery. Not earthy enough. Come to that, 'earthy' isn't earthy enough.

Our manhood ... Yes, that was a laugh.

Effectively, Bella Donna and Billie Jo have emasculated me and Ross.

In my case, I had lost my virginity when I was eighteen ...

I wasn't a bad looking lad, and I'm not saying I was Casanova but with my outgoing personality to help things along some I found I was soon enjoying reasonable success with my female-chasing exploits.

Sure, I got knocked back plenty of times - what eighteen-year-old guy doesn't? And sometimes a girlfriend might dump me, after we'd had only one or two dates. I could get pretty upset when this happened, I remember, thinking back ... It always seemed to happen with the girls I was most keen on; the ones I felt most attracted to, and who I would find myself thinking about the whole day long, counting the minutes until I would see them again. I even cried a couple of times, over these 'lost loves' - what eighteen-year-old guy doesn't? But I don't think my heart ever got actually broken, as such. Without too much moping, I usually managed to put these painful reversals behind me, and move on - life's too short, and there are plenty more fish in the sea, as the saying goes.

The odd painful reversal aside, I was looking forward to what I guessed most randy guys my age were looking forward to: a lively and highly satisfying sex life, sprinkled with lots of eventful girl-chasing escapades.

And I could see no reason why that wasn't going to happen. And maybe I would even fall in love, a few times - or at least think, I was in love, and not just infatuated - and so those more special relationships would last a bit longer, and become more meaningful ... before we split up.

Sooner or later though, I thought, Miss Right herself would show up. Love, would happen. I would put a ring on her finger. And then there would be marital bliss: I'd end up parenting the proverbial 2.4 children, paying the 30-year mortgage, running the family car, being plagued by the dreaded mother-in-law - and all the rest of the marital shebang.

But until then - until the day I put an engagement ring on a girl's finger - I wanted to have lots of girlfriends. Play the field, as the saying goes. Sow some wild oats.

But, so tragically soon after its commencement, my liberal sowing of wild oats was brought to a sudden and permanent stop, upon my (albeit, unwittingly) falling foul of the new Crimes Against Females Act.

And that was it: My sex life was over - over, when it had barely begun.

For me, there would be no more playing the field. No more highly exciting and eventful girl-chasing escapades. No more sexual adventures - from the casual and carefree one-night-stand liaisons, through to the more special, longer lasting and more meaningful relationships ... No more love-life.

So I would never get to meet Miss Right ... never get to put an engagement ring on her finger.

And so there would be no marital shebang, either.

And why? Because of Bella Donna.

Ross, on the other hand, had confided in me that he'd still been a virgin, upon his being imprisoned.

And so ... he still is.

I wondered if it was better to have loved and lost, as it were, as I had. And so therefore know: know, exactly what I was missing. But at least consoled, somewhat, by my having ... indulged, in the pleasures of the flesh.

Or had Ross been better off? Not knowing. Not knowing what it was actually like, to 'dip his wick', as the saying goes. And therefore not knowing, just exactly what the heinous Billie Jo had so cruelly and maliciously deprived him of ... Maybe in this case, ignorance was bliss.

But of course, that is to miss the bigger picture - to ignore the real tragedy: As pleasurable as those callow adventures might be, there is so much more to be derived from the rich tapestry of life, than 'dipping your wick', resultant of a successful highly exciting girl-chasing escapade.

Ross and I never got the chance to meet our Miss Right - and why? Because we were both ruthlessly cheated out of it.

Ross and I missed out on the chance of marrying our Miss Right, and of proudly raising our kids, and of joyously watching them raise their own kids: missed out, on all of the attendant heartwarming and spirit-soaring fulfillment that building our whole lives around our cherished families would bring - and why? Because we were both mercilessly deprived of it.

Ross and I missed out, on our marital shebangs. And why ...?

Because that had been the decree, of our fiendish nemeses - the dark and ineluctable ordination, of our malevolent mistresses: To hold us captive, and deny us freedom.

Right in the prime of our blossoming adulthood, they had 'claimed' the remainder of our lives, for themselves. And why? To use us, misuse us, abuse us - to sadistically torment us.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo actually held us captive, whilst we were already held in penal captivity ... held us captive, as their own, personal captives.

Repeatedly, they 'played the system'.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo repeatedly contrived to extend the duration of our penal captivity: contrived to extend, indefinitely, the duration of our 'penal servitude', to them.

And why? For no other reason, than to satisfy their own malicious, wickedly selfish purposes.

So that Ross and I would be made to 'build' our wretched lives, purely around them.

And be forced to cherish, them.

Be forced, to warm their hearts.

And, to make their spirits soar.

So that, they, the stitching-up, nimble-fingered weavers of our wickedly purloined life's tapestries; the malevolent embroiders of our profoundly miserable story - the inhumane illustrators of our wretched fates - would be our 'pride and joy' ... Our surrogate fulfillment.

Essentially, Bella Donna and Billie Jo have stolen our lives ...

Of course, the sedative-based medication with which our Carers inject us weekly, is totally unnecessary.

Ross and I had been thoroughly cowed and comprehensively conquered - subjugated - fifty years ago, by Billie Jo and Bella Donna.

Brought to heel, they'd called it.

And this was true. Applicable in both the metaphorical and the literal sense.

Almost effortlessly, the wicked and callous Bella Donna and Billie Jo had ruthlessly crushed our early valiant resistance to them - our early resistance, to their absolute and uncompromising authority.

It was very soon patently obvious to us that, in the face of such malicious, merciless domination, not only was our painfully expensive resistance to them not just utterly futile, but also, that it was always doomed to an extremely ignominious failure.

With soul-crushing despair, Ross and I had both very soon realised that the game was up.

Realised, that this was a 'game' we could never win; that the deck was too heavily stacked against us.

Realised, that Bella Donna and Billie Jo couldn't lose ... because they were holding all the cards.

Ross and I realised, that our valiant, brave heart, expensively-paid-for resistance to Bella Donna and Billie Jo's power, and defiance of their authority, was a wholly impotent exercise.

Realised, that our defiance was and could never be anything more, than a just-for-show, face-saving effort: Was nothing more, than a mere token gesture. Could never be anything more, than a minor delay - a pathetic preliminary, to the inevitable raising of our white flags.

And, once Bella Donna and Billie Jo had brought us to heel - forced us, to total, absolute submission at their feet - brutally downtrodden and sadistically oppressed, right from the get-go, Ross and me were two worms who were never going to turn.

With Bella Donna and Billie Jo's frequent painful and humiliating 'reminders' to maintain (and even further reinforce) our subjugation, Ross and I had soon begun to lose heart. Soon became despairing. Soon became hopeless ... Soon became resigned, to our fate.

Ross and I could see the writing on the wall ... And, in Bella Donna and Billie Jo's very distinctive 'handwriting', it was written in a language that we could all too easily understand.

Let alone dream of revolt, very soon it rarely even entered our heads anymore to even think of defying the heinously tormenting pair of harpies.

Such, was our capitulation.

Bella Donna and Billie Jo's vile and vindictive victories, were mine and Ross's devastating and demoralising defeats.

And, in our tacit acknowledgement of that sad state of affairs, it was through our henceforth unfailingly respectful, obedient and compliant - pathetically submissive - demeanours, that Ross and I had indicated our unconditional surrender, to our cruel and callous conquerors.

Living in the shadows of the pitiless and malevolent Bella Donna and Billie Jo, has been our daily lot, these last fifty years.

Living in constant fear, of their seemingly boundless capacity for cruelty and malice, has been the staple of our every-day existence.

Living in ever present dread, of the abominably inventive manifestations of Bella Donna and Billie Jo's insatiable sadism, has been our nerve-wracking norm.

For the last fifty years, our only viable option has been to endeavour to behave impeccably towards Bella Donna and Billie Jo. To scrupulously obey their every command, in the (more often than not, futile) hopes of receiving less severe treatment from them.

For over half a century, we have been "quiet" for them. And "easy to handle". And "nice and docile". Without even the slightest need for any sedative-based medication. Because, the alternative ...

And of course, the sedative-based drug administered to us weekly by our now Carers has long been available in both capsule and tablet form.

But then, Billie Jo and Bella Donna have always enjoyed 'needling' Ross and me ... and they certainly have no intentions of stopping now.

Come to that, Ross and me don't need our power-assisted wheelchairs, either. Remarkably, given what we have both been through, at the hands - well, mostly the feet - of Bella Donna and Billie Jo, we are both still reasonably able-bodied.

But Bella Donna and Billie Jo have been pushing me and Ross around for the last fifty years ... and they quite obviously have no intentions of desisting with that, either.

* * *

May - 2020 (twenty twenty).

Sodbury Crown Court, south London.

Dear reader,

now we come to where my story really begins.

Here, I shall describe the lead-up, and the upshot of my appearance in court.

And I'll also include some essential background information, which I hope will imbue you with some notion of the governmental dictates of the time, and a sense of the prevalent social attitudes ...

The Authoritarian Female Party (AFP), led by their beautiful and highly charismatic leader, Caroline Flynt, had been elected to govern the United Kingdom on the overwhelming tide of an unprecedented 95% voter turn-out General Election victory, in May - 2010 (twenty ten).

Since then, the UK has been a 'female-friendly' country.

Moreover, under the continuing rule of the all-female run government, the 'female-friendliness' theme has been expanding all the time ... While forever reaching new, male-averse bounds: the ever increasingly put-upon male population, being put to further and further expense, and to further and further grievous disadvantage and, quite often, hardship.

Among the many benefits that UK female residents have enjoyed since Caroline Flynt led the Authoritarian Female Party to power, is tax-free income. Since the country's tax burden now falls squarely and exclusively upon male shoulders, working females pick up their salaries tax-free.

If they so choose, though, females needn't work at all - and many choose not to. After all, why should they? When, as ladies of leisure, they can instead receive a generous AFP government Living Allowance.

On the other side of the coin though, long-term male unemployment has become a thing of the past. Male idleness is simply not tolerated by the Authoritarian Female Party.

Males who are unemployed for over a month, and also school-leavers, who are aged eighteen or over and have no work or training to go to upon their leaving education, are given work-for-your-dole-money assignments, called Placements.