(Short-short Story | Science Fiction, Crime)
Spend some time in lockup with the inmate formerly known as Lucky Seven as he reminisces on his fate…
LUCKY SEVEN. That’s what they call me. When you get under twenty they pretty much forget your real name and start using your number. And most of them have some nickname attached. Like Lucky Seven. Or Sweet Sixteen. Eightball. Nine Lives. Tenspot. You get the idea. Some guys revel in the numbers. Like some sort of badge of honor. I heard about a guy in Texas who had all his numbers tattooed on his back. And he entered somewhere around two-hundred. Crazy bastard. He’s dead now—made Top Gun back in ’19.
Personally, I don’t like the numbers. It’s not like boxers who have to spar endlessly and beat the shit out of guys to move up the ranks. We move up or down depending on the misfortune of others. Up mostly. It’s frustrating really. And when someone calls me Lucky Seven now it’s like a rusty needle in my eye. I wish somebody, anybody, would call me Cecil.
Funny. I hated my name before. Thought a lot about getting it legally changed. Had people call me John as a kid because Cecil seemed like such a wimpy name.
I’m pretty sure no one will ever call me Cecil again. At least not until I’m One, Numero Uno, Big Cheese, but then it won’t matter.
I stare at my three walls and wait.