Pool_2

bottom half exposing a glimpse of an impossibly muscled chest, a big tool belt hanging heavily over his woolen kilt. He had calves like trees. His powerful head turned turret- like on his steely body as his eyes paused on a large framed poster tacked on the cluttered wall situated behind the desk officer. Above all the fugitive notices, it read, in prominent letters, " A Protestant State for a Protestant People!" Ian swung his large long tool box, which he had clutched in his hanging left hand, crashing onto the officer's desk, who jolted backward in his chair with a screech of dragging wood clearly startled at the massive man standing before him, and unnerved as this monster fixed vacant eyes on the wall poster behind him. The kilted giant rumbled, "Oh that's swell. But what do we do with the others?" The officer, shook a second, as other men in work clothes and large tool chests were filing in, recaptured his aloof bearing and smiled, "Kill'em or let'em rot here." He began pushing at the tool box. "So. What can I do for you - and get that dirty - receptacle - off my desk. You have business here?" Here, was an unnamed holding house, one of many so called temporary facilities which were in fact older than anybody alive. This was a jail, a jail for those who had no charges against them. It works better to leave such places without official names and off the regular listings. How else can you just let uncharged pesky people just rot? The big man in kilt made an impassive face and a vague hand gesture, "We're here for the changes." This particular building was nearly all stone. "What changes? Please, get that thing off my desk. Now! What changes?" Why were carpenters here? Can't people get anything right? "Repairs. They are due."