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Dramatic Monologue

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Introduction

Dramatic Monologue A greasy spoon caf´┐Ż in Downtown Michigan. It's about 8:30 in the morning. The place is pretty subdued with a number of people dotted around drinking coffee, munching on bacon and eggs. A rough looking, pale-faced, grey bearded man sits in the corner fiddling with a polystyrene cup. A tattered brown pair of trousers too short for him, a sleeveless waistcoat and a soiled white vest. A grey trilby hat covers his already balding head. A younger man in his early twenties sits opposite him, listening... That first night's gotta be the worst no doubt about it. Marched in naked as the day you were born, body throbbing from that bastard hosepipe they set on you; and half-blind, skin burning from that delousing shit they throw on you. Yeah, not the best feeling in the world at all. And you don't dare say anything out of line to the screws, I tell you, they should be the ones in there. Evil pricks, they are. I remember one time when some bastard named Eastwood, just cos he'd had a spat with his missus or something, decided to take it out on me for doing absolutely fuck all. I'll never forget that beating for as long as I live, I've still got the gifts from it to this day. There were loads of cons watching as well. Wouldn't dare step in though. ...read more.

Middle

I tell you what though, the first thing I'd tell anyone that I knew was going in there is get in with a crowd, any crowd, and quickly. Took me a good few weeks and those weeks on me own, fending for myself were hell. When you're a loner everyone's out to get you and they pick on you whenever the hell they feel like. Most of the time you wouldn't dare fight back; too many of the bastards. You just have to put your head down and get on with it and hope they leave you be. I'm not too sure exactly how I got involved with my crowd. It just kind of happened. Most are willing to let almost any new fish in just to boost up the numbers. I tell you what though, there were some tough sons of bitches in our set and when I was with them, most wouldn't dare terrorise me. To be honest though you never properly make friends in there. You just know that as long as you've got their back, they've got yours. A kind of protection policy, sort of. But as I said earlier, when the screws get involved and feel like starting something its pretty much every man for themselves. Oh, and the bloody racism in there is unbelievable. ...read more.

Conclusion

The dude behind the counter opened his till and was getting the dough out. Everything was going well up until this point. And then...then it all went horribly wrong. A man, about middle aged, greying hair, fairly well dressed decides to play the hero. He grabbed onto me trying to wrestle me to the ground. I didn't know what to do. I...I just panicked, I guess. I pulled out the gun, aimed it at his head and pulled the trigger. BANG! I'll never forget his face for as long as I live. Not a day goes by where I don't feel regret, and not because I wasted my life in that hellhole or because anybody else thinks I should, but because I look back at myself then, just some stupid kid who did that terrible crime. I wish I could go back now, talk some sense into myself, tell him how things are and how they should have been. But I can't. He'd still be alive if I could. That immature kid I once was has long gone now and I'm all that's left and I've got to be the one to live with that. Back in the real world now though, everything seems to move a lot faster, nothing seems the same as it once was. People even seem to talk faster, and louder. I tell you one thing though. Prison. I'll never, ever be going back there. By Jonathan McCabe ...read more.

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