What you're about to hear is based on actual events.

Listener discretion is advised.

The van bumps over the pothold riddled road alongside the prison fence, which stretches

almost organically to both ends of the horizon.

Its all John can see outside the tinted windows of the transfer vehicle, the fence, and

the yard beyond, and then the prison itself.

The same ugly, blocky sort of building he'd spent too much of his life on the inside

of, staring at the occasional cramped interior window at more endless fencing and the

distant shapes of vans bringing and taking prisoners.

The road was long, and though the seats in the back were mostly empty, the interior of

the vehicle smelled like feet, and something else.

The seats themselves were badly worn fake leather upholstery, split up and down like somebody

had taken a knife to the gray material.

Most of the stink comes from the yellowish foam on the seat padding, puffing out in little

waves whenever he or anybody else shifts to get more comfortable.

But that last arid bit of stench is something entirely onto itself, mildly familiar, low,

peppery, in a very, very bad way.

Then the smell gets stronger, and he can feel the depression of somebody dropping into

the seat beside him.

Stay in your side seats back there, the driver calls out.

But it's basically a formality.

He doesn't give a shit what they do as long as they don't leave a mess.

...