No Stone Left Unturned

by Kenneth R. Ramsley

On a mornin’ with birds singin’ somewhere and clouds driftin’ somewhere else, I got 278 hours left to live—maybe addin’ up to 12 days more or less – but I stopped countin’ the days ‘cause the number’s too small. I don’t say how I don’t deserve to die no more – ‘cause nothin’s gonna be any different in 278 hours that’ll change what’s suppose to happen in 12 days.

Sometimes I hope the world ends before they get a chance t’finish me off. Makin’ the world end sounds about right ‘cause maybe I like the idea of goin’ down and takin’ them with me. But it ain’t nice when I think it through ‘cause if the whole world’s gotta go – then a lotta kids and decent people out there aren’t gonna make it either. And I don’t got time enough to say which kids and decent people get to live and which bad people gotta die. I got 277 hours and 30 minutes left, and I see no time to waste playin’ God.

Funny thing how I ain’t dead set against the death penalty – like when they a put mean dog down sometimes. It ain’t okay when there’s hope for the dog – like a nice dog turned mean and scared ‘cause it got cornered and beat up. A dog like that – they ought’a wash up and feed and give it a warm place to sleep and hope it starts feelin’ good about itself again ‘cause a dog feelin’ good about itself won’t be bitin’ for no good reason no more. But a mean dog—that kind hates itself and everyone else and don’t care nothin’ about hurtin’ no one. A dog like that—it’ll bite any chance it gets no matter the chow it’s got in its belly and how warm if feels on a cold night. And if a dog like that keeps hatin’ itself and keeps wantin’ to bite and can’t even see that it’s bein’ a bad dog – then there ain’t no harm in puttin’ it down.

I suppose that’s goes for people, too. Most ought’a stay in jail and think about what they done ‘cause most know they done wrong. But the bad ones killin’ like it don’t matter—those they ought’a put down – just like that mean dog.

Nobody says nothin’ much when puttin’ down a dog like that. You put’m down ‘cause they’re bound to keep bitin’ – jus’ like you put the meanest people down ‘cause they’re bound to keep killin’ ‘cause nothin’ you do is gonna make’m feel sorry about what he done. A bad guy like that don’t give one pile of crap if he lives or dies or kills again, and you ain’t gettin’ no apologies outta him ‘cause he ain’t got nothin’ left to give.

When the time comes – you put’m down jus’ to make things safer for everybody else. You do it clean and quick with no noise and hatin’. You don’t say nothing about getting’ even and makin’ the guy pay. And you don’t hurt the guy more than it takes to do the job ‘cause you don’t get nothin’ back he took away no matter how he’s cryi’ and moanin’ – and you only hurt yourself and turn yourself mean by wantin’ him to sweat and shake and squirm.

I guess that that’s what I’m thinkin’ about it – dogs that deserve to die and dogs like me that don’t – ‘cause as far as I can see, I’m sweatin’ and shakin’ and squirmin’ for nothin’ I can think of.

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275:07

I suppose I could pop the keys off this thing and choke myself – but it’d hardly make no sense ‘cause they’re killin’ me in jus‘ 275 hours – and I’d only be savin’ them some work. This keyboard and screen I found when I got dumped here a few days ago. The screen is stuck behind a plastic window like they got in banks and the keyboard’s glued to a metal shelf. On the screen next to a bunch of funny pictures I see a clock down in one corner, so that’s how I can tell the time.

My bunk is a concrete slab poured into the wal’ with a pad for a mattress and a wool blanket to pull over for sleepin’. There ain’t no pillow – jus‘ one end of the pad that’s thicker. It ain’t bad and I seen worse.

There ain’t no chair in here – so I jus’ sit on the end of the bunk. Inside the ceilin’ behind a wire cage I got a light up there so I can see the keys okay and I got a food slot at one end of this shelf so I don’t starve. Besides this, the cell’s got a door with no handle, a shiny metal sink, and stainless steel shitter..

All the necessaries of life.

The guy who set me up says he’s usin’ what I write for research – in case there’s anythin’ I’m say worth savin’. I don’t believe him – but maybe he’s on the up and up. I figure they read everthin’ I write. But I don’t care. It don’t change what I got to say and if I make them sit somewhere readin’ all this crap, maybe they won’t have time to hurt other people. I don’t see the good in it for myself – but I suppose now that I’m on the clock I may as well be sittin’ here typin’ instead’a sittin here waste’a time starin’ at the floor doin’ nothin’.

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274:40

Most days before lunch they stick me in a room with a frosted skylight up in the ceilin’. I don’t know if the light’s from the sun or jus‘ somethin’ that’s made to look that way. If it’s really daylight – it’s the first daylight I seen in two years.

The guard says I can wander around the room for exercise or jus‘ stand there for all he cares. I don’t do any sorta routine ‘cause routines make the time go too fast, and speedin’ up time ain’t a problem I need to be fixin’.

After I get back they send in chow plopped like dogfood on a paper plate with nothin’ else, so tear off a piece of the plate for a spoon and shove the food anyway I can that don’t look like a dog eatin’ – cause I ain’t a dog. The night before I die they say I can have whatever I want. Why they put people down on a full stomach don’t make no sense – but feeding people before killin’em’s been goin’ on for as long as they been puttin’ people down – like maybe if they treat the guy with some nice chow they don’t feel so bad about fryin’ or gassin’ or choppin’ his head off right after.

Most days the food guy stuffs my plate in the slot and walks away like he’s punchin’ a time clock. If I don’t eat I don’t suppose it’s his problem.

It’s my stomach not his.

Nothin’ makes sense in here – and there ain’t no one to ask. When they lock you up like this, you stop bein’ a human bein’ – like them guy’s on the planet of the apes. They expect you to jump at everything they yell, but you may as well be apin’ and hollerin’ like Cheeta for all they listen. Nobody hears a dead man—‘cause dead men got nothin’ to say. So I guess the only way I’ll make sense from now on is typin’ on this screen.

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272:03

I can’t make no headway – tryin’ to figure which key I ought’a pry loose and swallow. None’a them’ll do the job ‘cause they’re way too small and I’ll jus’ barf’em up or shit them out. I suppose there’s somethin’ inside with a sharp edge, but the thing’s all glued down and I can’t get at the screws even if I had the tools. So that leaves typin’ or eatin’ the keys – and I suppose I’ll jus‘ type.

A teacher once told me I oughta’write the way I talk – that’s why all the funny spellin’ here. He says that people like me have somethin’ to say even if we ain’t got fancy words comin’ out – but I guess I’ll never know if he was right.

Fancy words or no fancy words – I didn’t do nothin’ – except talkin’ about what happened the way they told us to. That’s all I ever did – told my boss about it – ‘cause that’s what we was suppose’ta do – and outta nowhere I’m down some hole goin’ deeper and deeper, like tellin’ the truth is the worst thing anybody can do.

Okay – before I start soundin’ like a lune – here’s some of the story…

I use’ta work at a place where they look at everythin’ right down to the dirt under your fingernails before you get the job. My life’s as borin’ as all get-out – nothin’ – not even a parkin’ ticket – so I get my nametag in no time flat. It don’t take much to push a broom, but once I’m in – I’m off to special security trainin’. That’s where they teach us how nobody’s suppose’ta see what goes on in the labs – and how it ain’t my business to find out by accident or on-purpose ‘cause my job’s about cleanin’ johns, sweepin’ floors, and emptyin’ baskets. After a while I’m pretty good with the doors – the punch codes and all the abracadabra – but that ain’t the end of it. Instead’a regular trash paper I’m bringin’ out confetti, and instead’a tossin’ trash into the dumpster I’m pitchin’ most everythin’ into a furnace. Nice work in the wintertime, hotter’n hell in the summers. But the place paid good and I was real happy with that ‘cause one thing that keeps you goin’ is sockin’ away enough dough to be thinkin’ about retirin’ before I’m too old to walk no more.

Anyhow I get this phone call after work at home one night a couple years back. Some guy tells me he’s standing in the parkin’ lot ‘cause he left his wallet in one of them labs. It’s in his coat pocket, and he says he left his keys and nametag, too. “So why are ya’ callin’ me,” I ask. And he tells me that he’s got a date that night with some hot babe and he ain’t goin’ nowhere without his keys and money – figures I live close and it ain’t no big deal to bail him out. I got half a brain to think it might be a scam. So I ask him about the buildin’ and the labs and he talks like he works there. So I figure it’s either my supervisor testin’ me or it’s all on the up and up, and the poor bastard ain’t gonna be screwin’ nobody tonight if I don’t head back in. Either way I figure it ain’t worth the risk. I tell him to call somebody else and hang up with him still yackin’ on the other end.

Next mornin’ I tell my boss all about the whole thing – word for word jus’ like I’m suppose’ta – and I figure that’s the end of it.

A few weeks later I hear this poundin’ on my door in the middle of the night. Nobody says nothin’ and before I’m rollin’ outta bed they come bustin’ the door down like the place is on fire of somethin’. I give’em hell, but they don’t say nothin’ then either – and when I look close I sees jus‘ a bunch of guys doin’ a dirty job like robots, like I’m wastin’ their time and I’m jus’ and hood they need to pack off to somewhere.

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