“Prison is an unpleasant place. I don’t enjoy it very much. It’s as though someone cordoned off a warzone with big cement walls and carpet bombed it with latent homosexuality. I do not wish to speak further of prison, because doing so would involve me describing bad things going into places they shouldn’t.”
“I would not so much mind, however, telling you how I got here. You see I was once the world’s greatest botanist, but I wasn’t a botanist at all. No one ever believes that I’m not a botanist, and who could blame them, if the world’s greatest botanist kept insisting they weren’t really a botanist you’d be repulsed as well. “
“Anyhow this story, despite me not being a botanist, starts out in a garden. While futilely watering dying carnations, I was reminded of a few choice words my mother was fond of:”
“Son, a botanist you are not, and a botanist you will never be!”
“My mother, god rest her soul, had managed to be an old crow all her life, with the feet and everything. Regardless, she had been right; the angels that gave people green thumbs we’re busy the day I was born.”
“As I continued to unintentionally drown my failing plants, I tried to think of a reason why I attempted to cultivate anything anyway. To my annoyance I could find no reason, it was a habit I had been born with. Every since I was old enough to fall I had been killing foliage.”
“When I was ten I had tried to water a field of daisies, but as it turns out the water was gasoline. Something or other then caused the gasoline to get very irritated and it decided to see if fire was a less stressful state of being.”
“While I don’t think the gasoline/fire ever let anyone know the answer, it did take the opportunity to burn a field, two houses, and an airplane to the ground. At age eleven the same thing happened only with a green house, and flammable pig pheromones. That one ended with hundreds of horribly burned, although satisfied, pigs.”
“That’s the story of my life, even the flowers on my parents’ grave died, and I had just been happy they didn’t combust in my face.”
“You see botany is a risky business. It’s a competitive field, one you can’t just walk into. It takes many years of dedication to make it successfully, and only the true few who have the charisma of a politician and the focus of an engineer ever make it big.”
“There is a lack of phonies in my profession. No trust fund brats, nor neck-beards. I like it like that. It is very similar to killing for money, but you have to wash your hands a lot more when dealing with plants, their very temperamental.”
“I love botany though, the moisture of it all, it’s a very tactile job. I love that about it, I love working with my hands. I think that’s because my dad was a mechanic, like father like son they say. Or do they anymore? Hard to tell, I don’t own a television.”
“I digress botany is competitive, and that’s my problem”.
“I asked you what you were going in for” the burly man across from me grunted.
“No you asked me what I did wrong, and I assert that I didn’t do anything wrong, but if I had it would be because I was too competitive.”
“Well you’re a faggot”
“Fuck you! You’re a faggot!”
“No talking”, a robotic voice boomed over our heads.
I looked at the tattooed Aryan across me. He was a moron and a racist probably. I hate those two things, especially in people. I hate him. If he had a plant business I would compete the shit out of him. Oh well, you can’t out compete all your problems. It was a problem in itself, and no one seemed to like how I had solved it.