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Crossing the Ruse-i-con

In prison, confidence is a preference. 


Walk the beat, meet and greet, shoulders back, flash the teeth. Uniform clean, boots that gleam, badge on the breast, move with the rest, do your tasks, no questions asked. 

Empty cell? Scream like hell—and that’s what I done in 301. 

‘Moore is gone, he’s on the run’, I said squawky in the walkie-talkie. Alarm bells rang, cell doors clanged. Pandemonium? Prison opium; they got high, I walked on by, checking cells, took names as well. 

Armed police, dogs baring teeth, swarmed all around but nothing found; no hole in wall, no sign at all. 

Disappeared, building cleared. The angry Sarge, ‘criminal at large’. The news had said, ‘check under the bed, he’s laying low, we’ll get ‘em though’. 

I’m not so sure, ‘cause I know Moore. He’s a wily fox, he don’t pick locks, he don’t pick walls, don’t like to crawl. 

A self-made man, a simple plan, in the mixer, confidence trickster, hides in plain sight, boots gleaming bright, looks like the rest, badge on the breast. 

Easy for me, the forgery, flashed once more, walked out the door. For sin and strife, was given life, but lucky me, I’m out in three. 

Months I mean, I wasn’t keen to sit too long and play along. 

A life anew, oh what to do, another town, to settle down. I’m no slob, I’ll find a job, a different mix, try politics?


In politics, confidence is a preference. 

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