{Do I need to tell you who Jack Handey is? I don’t think I need to tell you who Jack Handey is. The important thing is that he has a new novel out, and we at Bystander HQ have finagled the right to post the first three chapters here for our paid subscribers. We strongly encourage all of you to go here and purchase this limited-edition book.
Jack’ll even sign it for you; I bought one, myself.—MG]
CHAPTER ONE: Leis
At Aloha State Prison, the most terrifying sight was when the dump truck drove in and dumped a huge load of flowers. All those flowers had to be turned into leis by us, the prisoners.
After making countless leis your fingers would grow numb and you’d lose all sense of good color combination. If you slowed down, you were yelled at and whipped. You might be trying to decide between an orchid and a carnation when KA-RACK! YOWW! The cat-o’-nine-tails!
One bad lei and you’d get humiliated. The guard would rap you on the back of your head with his billy club and hold up your latest effort.
“What is this?” he’d snarl.
“A lei?”
“I wouldn’t wear this to a dog fight!” he’d shout and throw the lei in your face.
If you tried to point out that the leis were just for tourists, so they didn’t have to be perfect, the guard would yell: “You don’t think tourists have feelings?!” Then he’d whip you again.
Too many bad leis and you’d be sent to solitary. And you’d have to attend a Johnny Cash performance. Every few months Johnny would come to the prison and sing a song about what it’s like to be in prison. “Please, please, not another Johnny Cash concert!” you’d beg. But it did no good.
If people knew that leis were made under such horrific conditions, they might not buy them. Every time I see a photo of a smiling tourist wearing a lei, it makes me sick to my stomach.
