Pony Boot Camp — Part Seventeen

Seventeen

After an alarmingly short night’s rest it was the whistle once more that awoke me. I made it just in time to the washroom to puke into one of the toilets as the enormity of my situation hit me again. A nasty way to start the day, but it would pass. It had to. The same had happen to me at my very first stay in a holding cell, after I’d been nicked for the sacrilegious crime of dismounting pointless speed limit signs. Never been locked up before, I’d been overwhelmed by the consequences of my statement on traffic regulations. Apparently it hadn’t chimed with the opinions of the blokes who had ordered the signs to be put there in the first place. Being basically a bunch of hippies and communists, they couldn’t bear the thought that a) anybody would be able to drive faster than somebody else, and that b) anybody would excide the mind-blowing velocity of 30 km/h anywhere. Securing at least a moral victory, I’d never spilt where I had hidden the abducted signs (which had cost me an extra fine). But I digress. Back then the sickness had passed, and so would it do now. What wouldn’t pass was Kandrin’s hazing of us. That woman had a serious inferiority complex, judged by how hard she pressed her group to be the quickest and tidiest and most teachable. With the bile still burning in my damaged mouth, I stumbled outside for the little fall-in.

I forgot to introduce myself: My name is Seventeen.