Monitoring the second copy of my phantom spell had turned into an unexpected form of entertainment. Watching Plink, the man who might be the most hilariously pathetic prisoner in the entire facility, was a guilty pleasure I couldn't resist indulging in.
"Plink, I brought you some stuff," hissed the serpentine voice of the snake-woman guard, slithering into the prison's visitation room with her usual bundle of "contraband."
She set down her offerings—a loaf of bread, a blanket, and a small basket of fruit.
"As always, payment upfront," she demanded.
"Yeah, yeah," Plink grumbled, tossing a coin her way before their meeting concluded.
Returning to his cell, Plink eagerly tore apart the bread, and out tumbled his new tools of potential mischief: a knife and a file. The bread itself disappeared into his mouth soon after—five loaves in total.
Five. He was going to balloon up at this rate.
