Freaky Dave

The following is an excerpt from part one:

Following Jed’s release, dip-shit Dave is the cursed affliction moving into P-7. Maybe I am having a nightmare about the Little Mermaid giving birth to an ill-fated granddaddy catfish child? Nope, it is my bank robber cellmate inflicting the most undeservedly grueling few days of my life. He does not actually have wiggly, black whisker-mustache sort of things like a full-fledged catfish. His unfortunate appearance and regrettable deportment are best dealt with as though trying to forget a frightful dream.

The luxuriant waves of strawberry bronze flowing halfway down his back complement the freckled pinkness. While it would be a strikingly suitable style for Aphrodite, on a dingbat with a godforsaken excuse of a puss it does not work. It looks like someone stuck a disproportionately large Cabbage Patch head onto a Barbie doll. In his inexhaustible ranting about his woes, he continually cites his unconventional appearance as the reason for his being a target of scorn and scolding. On top of the freaked-out looks, to exacerbate the hideous parcel further, he maintains an air of derisive cynicism.

Derelict Dave possesses a distinct eeriness transcending the limits of physical attributes. What we have here can only be described as “the creeps.” I have little doubt that childhood taunting of “Freaky Dave” have branded indelible scars of self-loathing. At every opportunity, the long-haired wonder boasts of having spent “more money in the last four months than most people earn in four years.”

After the first several hours of our hideous courtship, I can’t take it. I find anything other than him to position in front of my nose. The annoyance diminishes dramatically when I stick the headphones on with the radio blasting. Just before that, I attempt perpetual TV watching but it is too easy for him to participate in the distraction. He feels that he is as much an object of interest as whatever is on the screen.

When he is not carrying on about his depraved life, he is absorbed in bucking the C/Os. The first night he is locked in for not tucking in his shirt. While he is waiting for our door to open, I warn him three times that he needs to tuck it. Smugly, he responds three times, “But I’m only going to the shower.” The exact same conversation ensues with a C/O just as rec begins. Surprise! His entire rec period is revoked. I have to smell him for another night, Frito factory feet and all. We are both locked in, me by choice, him by defiance.