Prof. Anthrax didn’t look up. He kept his head down when he was working in the prison woodshop. It wasn’t that the other inmates intimidated him; he simply had nothing to say to the thick-necked mouth-breathers around him.


Still looking down, he asked, “What is it?”

A gruff voice: “I heard you have a carton of smokes stashed away.” Anthrax didn’t reply, so the other inmate prodded, “Is it true? I’ll make you a deal for ’em.”

Word travels fast, Anthrax thought to himself. “Yeah, I’ve got some. What’ve you got to trade?”

“Got some nudie mags. Mega-Girl’s in one.” Anthrax was silent. “Awright, how about a shiv made out of T-Wreck’s tooth?” Still silent. “Well, I’ve also got this.”

Anthrax glanced over to see what the man was holding. Play it cool, Anthrax, he told himself. Casually: “Do you know what that is?”

Shrug. “Remote control of some kind?”

Yesss. “Right on the money.” You chump! “Sure, I’ll trade you for it.”

“Hang on a sec…”


“They filtered or unfiltered?”

View this story's 4 comments.