Christopher
Bonn Prison, Germany

I am sitting on a small-sized bed in a German prison, and I look like a hopeless rogue who met his nemesis.

The only difference is, I am none of those things. I am a businessman. A man who runs a bakery with lads in his employ. A man who is supposed to be at his work location, conducting a business meeting with his employees, not waking up to gray walls, unpleasant-looking toilets, and bloody mosquitoes that are miraculously able to decipher which inmate is new or old.

The other jailers seem used to the system. It's either they are used to being bitten by mosquitoes, or the mosquitoes didn't bite them at all. Still, it was easy for that little beast to feast on inmates that did not look haggard like the others!

That old woman! She's the reason I'm here now. She's made such ridicule of me. Why on earth can I ever be here? I never visualized myself being in a prison cell.

After the whole feud at the alehouse three days ago, the old German lady had pulled me out of her alehouse in my nearly naked state. It was only the blanket I'd snatched from the room that stayed lowly around my waist, shielding my unmentionables from public view.

It was unbelievable to see how furious she was. I had no other option but to beg her to let me put some clothes on. She was more than willing to drag me bare to the police station!

I was silly enough to think I could talk her into letting me go so I could pay for her damaged property.

"Please, ma'am. I'm so sorry. I will refund the money. Please, you can't drag me to jail like this, " I cried that morning as she dug her hand in my belt buckle, pulling me out of her alehouse.

"You don't mess with my property, young man. You have to suffer, and I shall make you pay dearly for it!" she yelled over the blasting sirens of the police van that had arrived for me.

I've been in here for three days, disobeying the most crucial law of business — the golden importance of time. I've been sitting in this prison doing nothing while my employees are busy with what is left to do. They are waiting for me to give my next orders. They don't know that their boss is in a prison cell.

This is a stain on my impeccable white garment. I can't help but wonder how my wife or stepchildren will feel if they saw me like this. If Yemisi learns that her husband is a violator of the law, I know she will be embarrassed.

What will I tell her was my reason for vandalizing someone's property? That I woke up naked in a scattered room, smelling strongly of alcohol because I'd been wasted the previous night and I'd let another woman kiss me senseless?

I begin to visualize her dark-colored eyes cloud with pain and utter disbelief, her left little finger twitching, and the constant furious biting of her plump lips. Then that laughter proceeding from her lips— the straw that broke the camel's back. That laughter scares me more than a financial loss. It makes me wish she would cry and yell at me instead.

Visualizing these things in my head makes my heart pound painfully. I bury my face in my palms, clenching my fists tightly till my palms hurt incredibly.

I have to get out of this place.

This small room, guarded with thick iron bars, a small hollow square for a window, letting only a tiny ray of light illuminate the room. This small room where everything was timeless, day or night, never mattered because it went by unnoticed. You only sit here, aimlessly awaiting an acquittal that might never come.

It is maddening to wake up to nothing— nothing but a cold room with a hard bed, peeling walls, and lousy inmates from other cells. If I am unable to make a call across to one of my employees today, then there is no doubt that I'm going to run mad because I've been making several requests to a particular white-haired police officer in this prison to let me make just one phone call.

I asked a couple of other cops in the prison that I could muster the audacity to approach. Nothing positive came from my numerous requests.

Still brooding deeply about my pathetic state and thinking of what else I can do to get myself out of this place, I hear a subtle shaking of the iron bars guarding my cell room. It goes on for a little while until I hear a psst sound very closely. Then I realize that the noise is that of someone trying to get my attention.

I look up and see a dark-skinned guy in a Gumby cut, wearing the same uniform as mine. He is raising his eyebrows hysterically, looking around him occasionally like he is doing something that he mustn't be caught doing.

He shakes the bars with his fingers wrapped tightly around two iron rods. He shakes it in a way that signifies that he has no more time to spare, and I act accordingly. Quickly, I get on my feet and walk towards the guy. I'm close to him now but unable to make much physical contact with him because of the bars standing in between.

"What is it?" I whisper.

"I've been watching you ask these cops for a chance to use a phone. Those brutes ain't gonna listen to you, and you'll be there thinking it's yo' fault. They stingy as hell, but one of my mates here got a cellphone you can borrow for a sec. These cops ain't supposed to know, okay? So tell me quickly, who you wanna talk to? Yo' momma?"

"No, I want to talk to my employee, Mr. Damian. I need him to come over to bail me out, " I explain, swallowing thickly. "But I have no money on me right now, so how am I going to pay to make a call? Or is that not how it works?"

"You ain't gotta worry 'bout that. I have the cellphone with me, and I gat no time to waste 'cause the owner gon' come real soon, looking for it. He only let me walk away with it 'cause I lied. I was speaking to my homie on the phone when I thought of you. I considered you and thought you might still wanna make a call, " He explains.

"Oh. Thanks. I appreciate it, " my voice is struck with surprise and sincere gratitude.

"You gat one minute, bro. Good luck," he slots the cellphone in through the narrow space between the bars, and I receive it with trembling fingers, immediately typing the digits of the only employee whose phone number I know by heart, and I place it quickly against my ear.

After the second ring, his voice comes to my hearing.

"Hello, it's me. Your boss, " I say hurriedly.

"H-hello, sir. It's good to hear your voice. Where have you—"

"Look, Mr. Damian. I can't say much right now because I'm in prison, and I need you to come and bail me out. Bring some cash on your way."

"W-what? I think I'm speaking with the wrong person."

"Come to the general police station in Bonn with five thousand dollars. Take it from the safe in my quarters, " I continue, ignoring his remark. "The passcode is my wife's name. When you come to the police station, introduce yourself to the policeman on duty as my secretary who has come to pay a monetary fine for the unintentional vandalism of property.

The policemen will put a call through to the plaintiff. She's an old woman. When she comes around, give her sensible reasons why I mistakenly damaged one of the tables in her warehouse. Try to defend me well so I can get out of this place. I'm trusting you, Mr. Damian. I will explain the rest of the details to you when I get out of here, " I say breathlessly.

"O-okay, sir. I will be there in forty minutes."

I disconnect the call and slip the phone back through the narrow space. The dark-skinned inmate collects the cellphone, chuckling.

"You lucky you got the money and people at your beck and call. Good luck, man. I gotta go."

"Thanks. Err...can I request a favor from you?"

"Hmm. Shoot," The guy raises a curious brow. His left little finger is twitching, which makes it evident that he's very impatient right now.

"Once my employee comes, he would want to let me know that he's here. He might want to call the number I used. So I–"

"Err...No man. That ain't gonna work. First, I ain't gon know it's yo' employee calling. Also, it ain't my cellphone, as I said. I just did you a favor when I saw a small chance."

"O-okay. Thanks."

"Sure thing, man."

He leaves like he never showed up after torquing the cellphone into his breast pocket. I am left to battle with the maddening anxiety tugging at my gut.

Everything is too much to contemplate. If only something could happen to distract me from this torture from now till the next forty minutes. And I wish it would come quickly.

***

After a seemingly endless timelessness, a bald cop with a mountainous body frame walks up to my cell. He's holding a bunch of keys. He opens the door, motioning for me to step out of my cell.

Quickly and almost delightedly, I step out of the cell, knowing that Mr. Damian is here and has done justice in letting the old woman understand who I am. With a stern look on the cop's face, he informs me that someone is here to see me. I nod eagerly.

When I get to the counter, I see Mr. Damian in a gray suit with a pair of sleek gray trousers to match. His outfit is topped up with a mysterious black hat. A hat. Why the hell is he wearing a hat?

Mr. Damian always comes to work in a moderate style—not in this questionable choice of fashion that is similar to the outfit of an Englishman from the nineteenth century.

In actuality, none of my employees dress like this. Or is this...?

My thoughts are cut off sharply by the loud discussion between my employee and the old woman in the German tongue. The octagenarian woman is giving Mr. Damian a curt smile as they shake hands. I am tempted to chuckle a little as I watch the older woman's temper cool down when she had been furious three days ago.

Now, I am even more thankful for my status. The rich rule the world.

I clear my throat loudly, and the sound achieves its purpose of gaining the attention of the old woman and "my employee," who I can't see because of the black hat shielding most of his face in a mysterious, synthetic silhouette.

The cop opens a metal locker with another bunch of keys and pulls out my clothes, throwing them at me harshly.

"You are bailed, Mr. Christopher. Mrs. Suarez has agreed to receive the refunds for the vandalism of her properties. Now you will have to sign a statement pledging that such civil wrong will never repeat itself, " the cop says strictly.

I nod absentmindedly. Still, my attention is fixed on this mysterious "Mr. Damian" in a black hat. The more I look, the lesser it seems like him or any of my employees. He seems to be staring into thin air, his hands by his head. Yet it looks like he's avoiding me because the hat is serving as a blockade.

Is he avoiding my gaze, or is he looking back at me? Who is playing games here? Me or him? Is he at an advantage here because his hat is making it difficult for me to know what exactly he's doing? Or am I at a benefit for being able to fathom that he's not my employee? Does he know that I can somewhat see right through his facade? Is he nervous?

What exactly is the case? And why exactly is this fellow here when it was Mr. Damian I spoke with on the phone?

I am no Adolf Hitler, neither am I Father Christmas when it comes to my relationship with my employees. Maybe I was a bit more of the latter, but they respect me as their boss but not to the extent of avoiding my face like I am going to murder them.

The darn peachy voice of that old woman comes in again, completely distracting my observations.

"YOU! I won't forgive you the next time this happens! You are lucky to have good people in your employ, " she says with a tone that's relatively soft if I am not mistaken.

She is the kind of woman who worships the rich and the influential. Three days ago, she did not mind disgracing me but seeing now that I can produce five thousand dollars without toiling for it, I know she sees me in a different light now, and I know she hates my guts too.

I bow slightly to the woman then I sign the statement given to me by the cop. I remove my prison clothes afterward and replace them with mine.

Once I am finished, I give another bow that's a bit deeper than the previous one. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm a very responsible man, and I'm sure this man–" I look up, staring at the mysterious lad, deciphering what to call him, and I chose to stick to the facade that's already been created. "...my secretary has told you all about it. All that occurred was purely unintentional. Please forgive me, ma'am."

She nods, which I take as her acceptance of my apology. She picks her bag up from the counter and leaves the exit slowly.

The moment I have been waiting for finally arrives. It's this lad and me now—no one to distract me from observing him. I still can't make out his features, but I know he is looking back at me now because I can see a bow of mustache shielding his lips. I observe that his chin is too oval-shaped for a man imitating an influential Englishman.

Also, Mr. Damian doesn't have a mustache.

He gives a slight bow—something unusual of him. "Sir, can we go now?" His voice comes out rather shrill— another unusual thing. As he bows, I take short notice of his fingers because he's holding his hat from falling to the ground. His fingernails are painted in red nail polish, and his fingers are pale, slender, and unusually long.

Mr. Damian is also not a cross-dresser.

I swallow hard. It's confirmed that this is not Mr. Damian, neither is it any of my female employees. It's clear now, but I choose to play along. However, I know something drastic is about to happen.

When we are at the parking lot outside the prison, they reach for my Range Rover, attempting to grab the door by the handle, and I place my hand above their hand to stop them. My frame towers over the person. Right now, the gender of this person is uncertain.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask in a low tone.

I can feel the uneven breathing and the smell of vanilla— a scent that reeks of femininity—the reason why her fingernails are covered in red nail polish. It's a lady. She'd planned for me to know.

She looks up and glares back at me. She pulls off the hat with her free hand, revealing her white face with the same black mustache that makes her look like a drag queen. Then she pulls the fake mustache away. I take in a full view of her face that is glistening under the sunlight.

Maybe she didn't look like a horse like I used to think, but I can never forget that blazing red lipstick she put on that night. She's wearing the same shade now, in addition with a grimace.

My jaws clench tightly. My teeth are grinding together with an insane force. I am livid to see this serpent here again. What on earth did Damian do? Or what on earth did she do to Damian?

"What the hell happened at the alehouse that night? And what do you want?!"