Sometimes playing is not about fun
One way I can deal with the Mooks is by "playing" with them. They seem to find this enormously entertaining but for me it serves several purposes.
I don't play. I burn off energy (sitting around and sleeping is making me flabby and flab is a prisoner's worst enemy—makes escape more difficult). I also find out what entertains them. Entertained slave masters are complacent and lazy and don't notice things...like when I'm moving toward an open door. But mostly it gives me a chance to hurt them.
Many times they have said, after an energetic "play" session, "He's rough, the little bastard." Yup. I don't hold back. I hop about, bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali, aiming for the face. If I can't actually bite the nose or some other protuberance, I go for the hands. This sounds innocuous but a dozen or so small nips on the hands can cause big problems, especially in winter. The dry hands of winter get drier, after "play" the have to be washed, and all those little bites and scratches, over a few days, take their toll. Within a week, and without being able to trace how it happened (ie: "playing" with me), their hands look like raw hamburger and no amount of lotion and washing will help. In fact, washing can make it worse. Mook A's hands look like he was grating cheese and slipped into the grater...over and over again.
So, let us "play", motherfuckers, for tomorrow you die.
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