Gerard woke yet again to the rusted shackles

Gerard woke yet again to the rusted shackles round his infected wrists. And yet he was somehow stirred to shout for joy toward the far window of his tower cell, that others might

be cheered by his show of joy. But everyone else had died in their cells. The tower had been abandon nearly a month ago, and Gerard never knew. He was the last prisoner still

you'd be demoted to the lowest rank with the rest of the noobs, who would constantly geek out about how cool working in this godforsaken shit hole was. He only wished he could've

shoved burning hot french fries into their eyes when he had the chance, but luckily for them the fries had cooled and the moment of rage had passed without an incident. The clock

struck one, the mouse ran down. Hickory. Dickory.

Doc. Sleazy. Breezy. squeezy and wheezy started their own mining operation. They were a sick bunch of misfits and progress was slow. Doc was busy tending the others so little was

getting done in the pancake factory, who they thought, why not - lets get into mining. How hard could it be? you whistle while you work, no risk of sunburn, it would be cake. Or

fey Vsduz was the name of the uranium mine. At the weekend we would stuff uranium ore into extra large pockets and catch the coach from Budapest to Vienna. The only problem

is we were arrested by the FS police for illegal product placement in a story. Our argument that we weren't making a plug for HOT POCKETS® was rejected. Our sentence: FS purgatory.