Dylan turns Dumbo by Sir Chuck

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Get a life, Lifer!

The lifer training camp doesn’t expect a convicted lifer slave to do it himself. The cage on the back of the black van carrying the shell-shocked lifer doesn’t stop at a bookstore, or a gym, or a dating counselor, or a martial arts studio. It stops at a Facility that will do it all for him. And do it fast.

From the moment the novice slave is dumped off the bus, his now false identity is ruthlessly erased and he gets given his true identity, free of charge. He surrenders his fancy clothes and sneakers. He surrenders his wallet. He surrenders his phone. He surrenders his photo ID, the one that shows his name, address, and stylish haircut. In return, he’s given a number. He’s given a uniform.

And he’s given a haircut. He’s shaved to the skull. And his dumbo ears stick out. Huge. Prominent. Weird shaped. Hot to the touch. A deep deep red from the buzzing of hair clippers so close around them. From the rough handling of those ears by farm boys turned from sheep shearers to lifer camp barbers. The cries, the begging of the new lifers to be spared at least that humbling shearing. The laugher of the young guards as they gleefully watch each new lifer getting transformed from a potential hot girl magnet to a laughable big eared dumbo freak. A naked, handcuffed slab of meat forced down on a small cold metal stool while a beaming tousled haired teen starts shearing him to bare scalp. Blunt, hair clogged osters clippers that take off way more than hair. Any moles, anything that falls in the way of those powerful merciless steel-bladed clippers goes. And then the ears. Grabbed and twisted viciously hard and pulled way out by a very strong youthful hand whose other hand presses the osters hard on the poor lifer’s skull. Four screaming, sobbing lifers perched on four tiny and cold metal stools at a time. The camp barbers bet each other on how fast they can skin a new lifer.

While he’s sitting there for the seconds it takes to dispose of his hair, the novice lifer feels the buzz go right to the bone. If - totally dazed as he would be - he cares to look down, he’ll see the fragments of his former identity piling up on the floor. Then a strong voice from behind bellows out loud ‘ON YOUR FEET LIFER. LINE UP N MARCH!!!!!!!!’ As the officer forces the dumb-folded lifer up from the tiny metal stool by what had already become the standard GRIP-TWIST-PULL of an ear, it’s no longer a mixed-up college student with floppy hair and a funny little grin. It’s a bald clown with raw red ears sticking out, wearing a marked lifer slave suit and getting ear-marched off to his new life in Block C, Dorm 2.

That was easy, wasn’t it, lifer slave?

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