the claim to know the future is the deceptive notion that you know the path of free will
A plate of grub slops down unto a metallic table, its echo lost to the cacaphony of conversating inmates. Miguel Diaz looks at the dish, testing its consistency with his fork. Lips soured, “what is this, culinary mess?” he asks his bunkmate.
Stephen Marcos laughs and slaps Diaz on the back, “it’s food man, like how ma use to make.” Marcos lifts a big spoonful and shovels it down his throat. “Ha, it’s better than ma’s!” he boasts.
Diaz shutters as he watches the massive Marcos eat, “truly disgusting!” He attempts to take a piece away from the block of food.
“It ain’t bad man!” Macros says, thinking that Diaz was talking about the food.
“It’s absolutely disgusting. Revolting even!” Diaz exclaims as the entire block of food lifts from the plate, unable to break.
“Best not complain fool! Betcha these killers and rapists in here gon’ take your food with quickness!”
“They can have it. I should complain to the warden.”
“Hahahahaha, man you’s a mess. That warden don’t give two squats about you, me, or any other bastard here. Eat yo’ food man and keep yo’ mouth shut down.”
“Who do you think you are, to talk to me like that?”
Marcos’ chin lifts and an awkward smile spreads, “I’m the dude you gonna sleep with for the next decade or so.”
Diaz misunderstands, “I will be sleeping with no one here. What the…”
Marcos unleashes a hearty laugh, “not my meaning brutha. What a fruit! Not sleep as in sleep dumbass. You and me gon’ be bunk mates is all I saying. So stop flattering yo’ self.”
Diaz calms down as he realizes his foolishness, his absurdity, “oh, yes, of course. Of course that is what you meant.”
Marcos slaps Diaz on the back again, “you seriously the weirdest wetback I ever saw.”