Author's Note: The fourth chapter is based on the song NUMB by XXXTENTACION! I hope you like and enjoy the fourth chapter and the song for additional ambience! 

--- *** ---
--- A Couple of Hours Later or So ---

Dozens of politely meek, unremitting raps battering the door didn't channelize its blood-curdlingly frigid twitch of Jude's satin muscle, credulous to the inevitably unpredictable noises piercing the very walls of the site.

A luxuriously exotic, hedonistically mouth-watering Martini cocktail motionlessly perched on top of the bureau accompanied by a magical violet orb as its bewitchingly pale manipulation of its reflection glazed her hazelish-brown optics, glittering up its vibrantly glossy, silken desired site to be supervised strictly. In addition to their meager bond, a wooden-frame Polaroid photograph of the High Countess posing with her most beloved, docilely diligent soldiers Leslie Lee and Raymond Moore affable memorable partly outnumbering the very background of the High Countess's luxurious office.

"Yes?" At the moment, the Bostonian managed to seat on her working bureau, emitting a blatantly stringent, invitingly raspy mewl ushering the uninvited guest behind the door to set foot inside her site. A straight line prominently adorned her parchment, elderly youthful façade and beautifully matching with her lion mane of vastly silken, glossy old Hollywood aureate locks plastering her forehead. The straight line surreptitiously blurred each pattern of heavenly euphoria and any kind of a vibrantly poetic emotion credulous accenting her facial attributes. "Come in!"

"High Countess, the inmates just finished fully their daily tasks!" The suddenness of the ominously nefarious door's whine droning the background as Leslie stepped inside the High Countess's office, dolling her radiantly cheesy, humble smirk up to permeate across her wine red-painted cherub lips parted in the formal address, whereas a gutturally subconscious frosty gasp emerged from Jude's mouth as she manipulated to incline perkily her dark, thin eyebrow. "Madam?"The incredulous idleness of the blonde dancing her spidery gloved, deft fingers around the glass of Martini and lifting it up as her lower vermillion lip spooned timidly the rim of the glass to gulp a handful of tiny, docilely hedonistic sips to hydrate her oral caverns and tongue, hardly oblivious to the formal address.

"Just a second, Leslie!" Gesticulating amicably gentle with a hand as her wedged bright red, plump lips mumbled the blatant whimper as plenty of vowels and syllables found themselves being relentlessly untenable victimized due to the mouth's asphyxiation. Then the blonde dumped aloof the glass settling motionlessly comfy on the desk and darting her honey brown optics to prong her recent visitor. One of her guards who have obdurately diligent served her very duties to not bestow her master even the wee inkling of lukewarmly fierce chagrins to impale her very bones and cells with shadows of her past to chase her down in the further future once she either no longer served the Bostonian or on the contrary the disappointments were just a bleakly smoggy cloud of the past overcastting her blizzard of thoughts. "It's so good to see ya in the nick of time!" At the moment, the older woman channelized to elaborate a couple of brief strides in its meek footsteps whispering against the floor until she peaked to her dream destination bluntly ruthless, whereas the former pious holy woman's lusciously vermillion lips sluggishly buffed an inescapably radiant, welcoming smile flexing her delicate jaw.

One of the most obdurately loyal, dedicated people inside the purgatory to the former pious holy woman was eventually Leslie Lee and Raymond Moore. Or rather, the woman donned up in its solemnly hedonistic, cordially heartwarming attires of the true blue and its ferocious blood of contentedness coursing through her very veins and building its heat of ecstasy rippling her epidermis followed by electrifying goosebumps.

The jail female guard was eventually in her late sixties and towering her manager with a handful of inches that gauged approximately three, throughout utterly reckoning her 5'8 and her mildly rotund body structure contouring her curves and very anatomy. Her crumbly tanned skin tone superbly matched with her dark, naturally thick-shaped eyebrows, her medium mop of fashionably velvet jet-black strands curtaining her outstandingly elder facial attributes and collimating her haircut to a sheerly medium bob. Bonding inexorably with her doubtlessly alluringly big, rotund pools of ocean blue inscribed her very eyelids' and individually functioning to chase down every eye candy that glimmered past her eyesight. Notwithstanding her larger frame, the former bartender's birth town was actually New Orleans, Louisiana.

In addition to the older woman's physique, an off-shoulder denim jumpsuit paired with a chiffon oyster-white long-sleeved shirt embroidered on her anatomy as the stubborn buttons were fully buttoned to her parchment expanse, obscuring beneath its thin veil of fabric her tender flesh. Pair of knee-length leather jet-black boots shoed her sufficiently grand, versatile feet paired with a denim rigid sleeveless vest guarding her chest and fingerless ebony gloves ornamenting her fists promisingly inviting, solemnly. The axe's rigidly wooden, sheerly unblemished handle leaked even when spidery meaty, nimble fingers timidly cradled the entity for cases in self-defense or the villainously bloodthirsty, eccentrically spooky demeanor of the inmates that freely demonstrated remorselessly as their fiery impulse rumbled up their bones and muscles.

"Oh yeah! After supervising those kiddos downstairs!" Registering to scuff inwardly timorous her scalp as her neatly trimmed, medium-sized sheerly clean fingernails contacted the feather-soft segment of her skull, whereas worrying her front ivory teeth to nibble infernally recurring her bottom cherub lip. Utterly oblivious to her creased facial expression, throughout an abstractly fleet domino of outstanding absurdity, childlikely unchangeable canvas etched her femininely unique facial attributes.

"Are ya having problems with them, Les?" A low mellifluously modest, childlike hum in approval emerged from the older lady's candidly vibrant, sunny smirk while managing to shake her head in solemn disagreement. "N-No?" Conjugating an uneven stutter as her bottom bright red lip twitched abruptly, the very thought of the despondent inmates downstairs amplified the heart pulses of the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer's ethereally timeless, sluggish hammers into her brittle ribcage. What those humbugs have plotted stealthily against the jail's rules and the High Countess's leadership? Was there something that the Louisianian was incredibly confining its discreetly bone-chilling information or anything related with the inmates?

The wee hint of the unceasingly shattered its opulent, hazy valley of unsolved mysteries that were donned up in the thickly marvelous, rigid robes of the mysticism to peter out their chances to be discovered unless the former licentious nightclub singer's austerely indisputable acuteness detecting the incessantly flickering light bulb of the apocalyptically sinful, hazardous secrets. Even though the former religious woman of the cloth wasn't a keen enthusiast to detect her most beloved people's skeletons in the closet and screeching hysterically guttural the stark truth, yet the purely indistinctive valley of voices sardonically chimed her to format a tad tolerance and not constantly question the prisoners at all.

The unremittingly mutable flavor of the cocktail bizarrely altered with its dim fermentation on Judy's tongue tip even if she has sipped of the glass in less than a minute ago. Something paradoxally icy rasped her pit of the stomach sharply remorseless. As usual, each glass of mixed liquor beverage could format its initial innocuous leisure to be savored and it wouldn't grace her with any indisputable rueful woes to stumble her way. Howsoever, it really depended of her current location and who actually equipped her with a harmless glass of Martini.

The haphazardness of an unpredictably licentious vibration seething the blonde's delicate, ghostly pale expanse chimed the uneven noise of bobbing lump and vast cloud of grogginess encumbering her very caramel brown depths momentarily even during her attempts to maintain an appropriate eye contact with her beloved guard. Then she almost choked on the bob of her feminine Adam's apple and gesticulating with her gloved, satinly elvish hand to timidly fiddle her expanse as her fingers gingerly, fiery embarrassing traced the very curve of her neck up to her chin, an indication to slow down the dully prompt panic at certain moments when the anomalies howled their ferocious winds.

"Oh!" An inward groan expelled from her tongue tip, pinching broadly opened her amber brown cabochons to regain consciousness and elaborate the frequent function of her heart pulses pumping her frail torso. "God!" Then the Bostonian gravely thoughtless darted her gaze to the alcoholically scrumptious beverage for a split second and subsequently subconsciously imbibing every ounce of her eye contact's maintenance with the Louisianian.

"Is everything okay, Judy?" The former barwoman dashed to examine in a scrutiny her favorite manager and bending down, while maneuvering her petite, creamy hand to claw amicably her dainty shoulder blade, gnawing on her upper lip ruthlessly with her front unblemished pearly-white teeth.

"Oh yes, Les! Ya don't have to be worried at all." Meantime, the former licentious nightclub singer manager a docilely amenable nod in solemn agreement formulating to affirm her condition didn't encounter any brass anomalies. "Everything is okay!" At the moment, Jude settled her gloved hand to paw gently her guard's and manifesting to circulate its frequently comforting motion on reflex, offering her a kindheartedly serene, radiant smile etching her vermillion mouth.

--- *** ---

--- Later that Day ---

"You don't know the half of the abuse! All my friends are heathens, take it slow, wait for them to ask you who you know! Please don't make any sudden moves!" Heathens by Twenty One Pilots were currently playing on the jukebox as the vocalist's doubtlessly honey-mouthed, graciously melodious chanting accent tenaciously cardinal interpreted the song lyrics' genuine notion by rhyme.

Series of unquestionably unabating sways of hips and tissues to the song's rhythm and stealthily chanting under their breaths the lyrics as their cherub, healthily nude pink lips quivered, formulating their vivacious spirits freely waltzing in the game room where flock of scotch glasses of Goose Island bourbon statically overwhelmed up to the rim. The ravishingly plush fragrance of insatiably scrumptious liquor was the sole pleasant scent to outnumber aromatically the inescapably ominous reek of human sweat, flesh and mold villainously steeping up the thin air.

Even though it's been a handful of hours at least since the inmates have retired from their daily routine and attempting to dodge the diversity of methods that overwhelmed their physical and mental stamina, shortly after acknowledging their master was being found deeply drifted off asleep in her own office by one of her most true blue guards, consequently the inmates couldn't miss their chance to throw a miniature party in the game room. Ocean of tipsy, bourbon-stained belches and jovially childish snickers droned up and fantastically whisked with the song and the lumpy, fleet noises.

Notwithstanding the extravagantly furnished prisoners' wards, nevertheless, unlike the majority of the dilapidating, godforsaken prison's sites, the game room could be genuinely deemed as the fewest most decently atmospheric rooms bonded with the High Countess's office upstairs and their two of a kind architecture blended with their extraordinarily complacent interiors hardly ceased to disappoint its visitants.

A monumental jukebox battered to the lifelessly dull, lethally grizzly wall accompanying a cherry wood refectory table with a tattered black and white cashmere fleur de lis sofa meagerly maintaining a heinously adequate proximity. Further, a handful of deficiently lacquered stools circumvented the wide furniture and at times due to the severely entertaining, photogenically infective dances and motions of the inmates rippled certain furniture to quiver insecurely along with the diabolically high-pitched music's decibels almost exploding the very walls of the coherent site.

A vast cloud of claret red rigidly cashmere carpet cozily embellished beneath the refectory table, cashmere sofa and stools as dozens of subtle footsteps slowly but surely soiled after ghostwriting the floor precipitously.

Bizarrely within their arrival, the horde of inmates could fleetly use their vocal tissues to restlessly craft their poetically emotional utterances until the Bostonian didn't pay a visit to the site and interrupt their party. At least, they have limited time to distinct their own accents through their cataract of utterances even if they were the most futile.

"C'mon, lassies!" In the interim, the redhead traded a rhythmically platonic, amicable dance with Robin-Mary and manifesting to sway restlessly incessant their hips, oblivious to Elias's huskiness abrading prominently his emitted blatantly rowdy reminder to convey its truly inviting notion of his jovialness to contagiously engulf their attention into his small bubble of his own world, formatting his true allies, true dreams and vividly marvelous, mouth-watering ambitions and logically down-to-earth perspectives. "Oli and Robin!" Once the middle-aged gentleman's efficiently divine success carding the chaotically disoriented female pairing whose heavenly solemn dedication to practicing freshly their dancing moves and following modestly compliant the music's rhythm in no time, meanwhile, the Afro-American and the brunette engulfed their piercing stares into him as Olivia registered to fold her leanly satin arms across her chest. Wrathful incredulity whetted abruptly the parchment, refreshingly young-looking Olivia's complexion at her shorter name's toll rowdily overcrowding her vulnerable, petite ears that almost numbly muted Twenty One Pilots' composition unlike her dancing partner.

The brunette's femininely dainty, youthful facial attributes accommodated entirely its prim affinity, affable radiance's thin veil uniquely mantling overally nonetheless. Robin-Mary was far cry from unimpressed, nevertheless, she wouldn't mind to megawattly strong, ominously headstrong inflate her very bond with Elias and perpetually developing their platonic friendship.

"Elias!" The hoarseness of the Afro-American's ousted inebriated mewl as her bourbon-stained breath faintly fanned his flawlessly creamy facial skin didn't vanish at all, lingering her arms to be crossed across her chest, formulating her ultimate viciously mild ire boiling her blood and erupting the grandiose volcano of wrath pulsating into her frail skeleton once anybody dared to demandingly cocksure routing the brief version of her first name. "Don't call me like that!"

"I'm really sorry, dear! How would you like me to call you then?"

"Livvy is the better variant if you ask me personally." Then the middle-aged lady channelized her velvet, scabby arms to retreat, abiding immobile unlike Robin-Mary whose sheerly childlike impatience seethed her very muscles and the alcohol taking a grave toll on her and her recurring, energetic waltz to flee the very realm of idleness promptly. An inebriatedly cheesy, wide grin curved upon her naturally roseate, chapped lips, whilst clapping her hands in the thin air, struggling to conjugate a beatifically beaming, breathily girlish giggle tickling the beginning of her tongue. "Robin, how dare you hanging out to dry?" Then Elias couldn't stifle his boyishly coy, humble snicker whilst the younger woman registered lightly, kindheartedly to swat the brunette's shoulder, in order to append her in their company again.

"I didn't mean to,"

"Of course, you meant it!" A heavy, jaded sigh dislodged Robin-Mary's frail lungs, squinting up her azure blue depths at the tiny gap of an appropriate distance her buddies exchanged with one another and sensing the frigidly real sentiment of being a third wheel between a futilely puerile bicker accentuating their heated debate, worrying her lower chapped lip. The unfalteringly stiff-necked cleave of the brunette caught her off guard once the touch sent chills down her spine due to the feeble predictability highlighting instantaneously the chances of spoiling her entertainment she obtained.

"You don't know the half of the abuse! Welcome to the room of people! Who have rooms of people that they loved one day docked away!"

"The poor folks!" The suddenness of the former policeman shifting his attention to the trio on the dancing floor abruptly rode its dynamic roller coaster of anomaly and narrowing his ocean blue gemstones at the former devotional priest, dawdling its ethereally timeless, afflictively contagious huge grin embellishing his parchment complexion and crinkling his lower eyelids and sufficiently heavy wrinkles inlaying its very curves. The tipsiness not only has took a toll on its recent preys of the sinfully wanton and indubitably magnetic brown liquor to inhale quietly its promisingly welcoming and acute fragrance, but also ushering to tainting apocalyptically demonic their blood and cells, following its sharp-wittedly enigmatic construction of a mild migraine and dim haze clouding Timothy and Frank's eyesight. "It's freaking unbelievable they're fighting over a teeny-weeny name that triggers the other."

"Not everyone embraces entirely the fact that certain short names are so obnoxious! I really can't blame sometimes Livvy for hardly craving to be called Oli." The platonically male duo reclined undemanding on the couch and their fleshy, pallid fingers apt to brace their scotch glasses of bourbon.

"Nevertheless ya ain't getting offended for being called Tim or Timmy."

"That's incredibly true, Frank!" All of a sudden, the older gentleman ushered to swig greedily hungry the brown alcoholic beverage immediately, invincibly impressing the British compatriot at the deft hastiness of his inmate, fixating his smoky quartz huge, roundish gemstones glinting its profuse vibrantly profound ray of gold, ablaze by the kindhearted company of his frenemy. Then Frank slammed blatantly his emptied entity on top of the furniture and maneuvering to dart his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to lick greedily mischievous his upper and lower pale-pinkish lips. "I just don't take way too seriously certain elements that may trigger the others due to their shorter names used informally." Thickness absorbed viciously vindictive the British compatriot's Adam apple instantly and barely even attempting to sort his mind during his pretty informal colloquy with the former policeman, whereas the soar lump conveyed its friendly reminder to be released sooner or later.

"It's true!" A sweet purr sailed clumsily out of the older man's mouth as his mammoth, masculinely veiny hand shifted from his other up to Timothy's thigh, subconsciously assimilating his undeniably fatal desires he may regret on the morning after and clashing with the symptoms of a hangover, whereas dropping his head to paw gingerly his broad, muscular shoulder. "To each his own!" In the meanwhile, his meaty, creamy fingers smoothly glided up to the former aspiring Monsignor's hip, whereas Timothy struggled sluggishly to gulp the soar lump in his throat as he followed the widower's frequently thought-provoking, cheesily tempting touch ghostwriting his hip's anatomy and seizing his lips in a pensive, arcane purse.

"W-What are you doing?" The sufficiently visible crotch's bulge magnified gradually due to the intoxicatingly enticing dozens of fingertips and digits of fingers scraping his tissue, manipulating his colossal, amusingly warm hand to claw wickedly his mate's silken, ghostly pale to format his categorical inkling to halt his seduction that could contaminate them with pangs of the conscience and drawing a further, unwanted audience even if it was a few more people crowding the site.

"Just because we check the guns at the door doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades! You're lovin' on the psychopath sitting next to you! You're lovin' on the murderer sitting next to you!"

"I know what I'm exactly doing, baby boy!" Their façades scarcely inched as soon as the widower leant down and pinkness playfully tinging aggressively their chubby, well-sculptured cheeks as his liquor-stained breath fanned feather-soft Timothy's tender facial skin, followed by hitch warily squeezing his regular breathing and his heart leaping monotonously unstoppable. The older man scarcely had any idea what he was actually doing even when the alcoholic beverage took a roughly inevitable toll on every amenable victim.