under your name.
“We ain’t gonna treat you no different than any o the other loonies in this bin, what’d you expect sunshine? A big slumber party?”
They threw her in the back cell.
Broadmoor Institution for the Criminally Insane
Those words were boldly scripted on all the starchy jumpsuits and the backs of chairs, even stenciled on the ceilings of some of the cells as sort of a cruel joke. Only the really loathed patients were placed in those cells, and they called them patients instead of prisoners on account of political correctness, but there was no difference between the patients here and the prisoners at Wadsworth, as far as Charles Bronson was concerned. The only real difference, in his words were “well, they’re fucking loonies ain’t they?”
Charles Bronson, formerly known as Michael Peterson, later to be deemed Britain’s most violent prisoner.
He was a beefy fellow, standing at about 6 feet tall, delicately laced from neck to feet with toned muscle and tattoos. Leading up to his arrival at Broadmoor, Mr. Bronson was charged with grievous bodily harm, when he attacked a prison officer at Wadsworth, then attempted suicide. The Queen couldn’t allow a psycho in her prestigious prison system, so under the mental health sanction Charlie was moved here.
Madeleine wasn’t loony, she was just misunderstood. Dropping out of highschool to persue her dream of sex drugs and rock n’ roll. She got to the sex and drugs part, as for the rock n roll she had a bit of a snag in the line when the Sex Pistols frontman o.ded and she had no one to groupie around anymore. No matter though, she still had the drugs, the sex not so much, when a man in the alley she was hiding in decided to try her. That was how she ended up here actually. He did a bit of a trauma to this poor bird even though he didn’t get very far , cut it right off didn’t she? Back in that alley, she didn’t mean no harm, she just meant no harm to come to herself, if that mean clashing a blade into the nearest piece of flesh on this man’s body, she had every right to it dinnshe?
Well Her Majesty didn’t think so, and this girl was deemed unfit for society. She didn’t really even seem off her rocker until they started feeding her the drugs. Surprisingly, she, being an avid lover of the same drugs as were in here, was being given a higher dose than that which she was giving herself on the street, and knowing any doper, she gave herself as much as she could bare.
Charlie knew it too, he remembered himself on the first day in here, drooling in the chair, while some sicko attempted to intoxicate his mind with thoughts of rape. She didn’t look like he had, she wasn’t drooling on herself, she was as paralytic as he had been though, but instead of eyes strained from trying to scream, they were rimmed with brown and lifeless. Charlie was tempted to call for help, thinking the lifelessness was legitimate when her painted fingernail scraped across her arm, ripping off a scab from what looked like a cut of a razor.
“You ain’t gonna do no good damage with those chewed up nails.” Bronson said, her eyes lifted to view him, looking up and down, he actually felt a bit subconscious, which was odd considering his general distain from the opinion of other’s.
Was my moustache groomed? Was one of the particular thoughts that rattled him.
Her hand fell from her wrist, numbly laying in her lap. He noticed her entire arm which was tanned had lines of white. Sort of like a zebra, is it white with blacks stripes or the other way around? Were her arms brown with white stripes or the other way around?
She trusted this funny looking man, he didn’t seem like a loony… well that may be an overstatement but he certainly wasn’t eating handfuls of his own feces like their hospital group mate Joseph was currently doing.
“They giving you too much, are they?”
Bronson never seemed so normal, there was no tweak in his voice, he wasn’t overanunciating his words like he had always done before.
She nodded as much as she could before he decided to let her in on his own remedy for the dullies. Sticking his pinky finger in the piece of paper in his pocket, he coated it with white powder, held it under her nose and she breathed in deep.
The coke did help her jolt up a little bit, before she started gagging from the awful taste it leaves in your mouth as it makes its way down the back of your throat.
Sitting forward and convulsing up the remnants of the cocktail of anesthetics the hospital gave each of the new recruits, Bronson tried his best to be what he thought was “supportive” and patted her on the back.
She sat up and smiled through a sweaty pale face.
“You would think they’d realize I can’t really do no harm in here. I’m certainly no Charlie Bronson.” She said with a raspy sore throat
Charlie puckered his lips a little trying to find the words.
“Who, did you say?”
“Charles Bronson, you haven’t heard of him?”
“Well I have indeed, even met him haven’t I?” his silly voice was scratching through once again as he was unsure if he should be flattered or offended.
“Oh really? What is he like?” resting her elbows on her knees to lean closer in genuine excitement.
“well… I’d say he’s extraordinarily crafty, perhaps a bit moody, but justified, he has a brilliant moustache and a grrrreat head of hair.”
“He sounds lovely, although I tend to prefer men bald. He’s sort of my idol, well ever since I got thrown in here I intended to be as close to the next Charles Bronson as I can, he doesn’t get the business form no one does he?” She sounded so enthusiastic about him, Charlie put a finger to his lips instead of introducing himself, smiling instead.
“You and me is going to get out of here soon. Come er.”
She leaned in resting her head on his shoulder, he froze for a moment at the touch of a woman
“cell 3 row h, the door don’t lock, they don’t think anyone of us knows bout it, so they don’t do nothing about it, I’ve been weakening the bars in there the past few weeks, en there bout ready to give away.”
She breathed in with her nose inches from his muscular neck, he smelled like Irish Spring.
“Why would you be willin to let me out of here with you kind sir?”
“Well I- I dunno I guess I just gathered you weren’t really destined to spend your glory days in a padded room.”
“BRONSON, GET AWAY FROM HER!” The guard too big for his britches shouted from across the room. She sat there mouth agape looking at her hero who felt a rush of confidence big enough to kill a bear.
The next week went off as normal, Joseph was sent to the infirmary for eating too much of his own shit, Bronson attempted to kill a man with a necktie, and Madeleine zoned out on meds until Bronson was let out for free time and shoved snow white up her nose.
The end of the week came, Bronson had been here for a while now, and this was one hotel he was eager to check out of.
A few tricks of the butter knife he had stolen from the cafeteria and her cell door was jimmied open. She was zoned out from the needle they had shoved in her arse cheek when she had a “violent outburst” in which a patient attempted to lick her face and she promptly bashed him in the face with a plastic chair, still running full speed after her daily dose of coke from Charlie’s pinky finger.
“fuckin cunts.” He muttered as he heaved her up into his arms, tiptoeing through the linoleum hallways to cell 3, block h.
Trying his best to evade the creaky door of said cell, he pushed it open, tossing her on the bed in the room and giving the remaining 2 bars in the window a solid swing of the elbow, they popped loose. The pain gave him the adrenaline needed to pick her up and thrust them out the window, taking off for the exit. You see they don’t make the campus of mental hospitals very secure, they figure no loonie would ever figure out the fuckin door of their cell let alone which direction to run to, for the most part they were right, but not here, not these loonies.
He managed to get her down the hill to the freeway, all the way to the nearest motel. Tossing her on the bed he turned her on her side stuck a little more cocaine than usual in her nose and she immediately barfed from the fluids injected into her rump cheek earlier that day.
Startled she jumped out of bed, nearly swinging at Charlie before realizing the situation she was in.
Tears flew out of her as if they had wings, relief that the first sight she saw wasn’t the words Broadmoor.
Charlie tried to hug her, which he hadn’t done to anyone in ages.
She kissed him, making him freeze up as he had when she laid her little brown haired head on his shoulder.
His moustache tickling her upper lip was perfectly tolerable with the soft pink lumps of lips he had.
Leaning away from her, he spoke with a stutter.
“D-Dyou, Dyou want to fuck?”
A bit forward, she hadn't really considered sex with Charles Bronson, but he was Charles Bronson after all, and she was fluttering from the coke, quite interested in having sex, and what was more rock n' roll than shagging the most violent man in the area? He didn’t have to ask twice, he was sore from the journey but high on adrenaline, and she was sore from the needle stuck in her ass but high from the cocaine, so as he got hard and they wasted no time when he pulled her onto his lap and moved her hips up and down.
He was so in control, she thought, turned on knowing he could and most likely would snap on her and knock her out at any moment.
He was always worried about someone seeing him orgasm, thought it was a bloody ugly sight, but seeing her tilt her head back and moan out his name he wondered if maybe it could be sexy.
Releasing himself he laid back and she rolled off of him.
“We have to go and rob someone you know that right?” He was never good at the pillow talk.
She got up and stretched her legs a little to help re adjust them having been popped out of place a bit, pulled on a dress belonging to whoever was supposed to be in this room.
Bronson found himself a suit that felt like it was made of carpet. Not bothering to do up the tie, it would just get in the way of the robbery.
Out the walked to the street, sun still not up, but peeking over the hillside.
The jewelry store they held up didn’t even attempt to stop them, being fresh out of the bin they both had some wicked crazy eyes. Laughing as they ran away with bags of gold diamonds and cash.
Back at the motel they burnt their clothes.
“I rather liked that suit.”
They watched their thieving costumes disintegrate in the bathtub, catching a glimpse of himself in the shattered mirror, he decided there was something else that needed to be burned too.
“Oh Charlie you can’t!” Madeleine squealed as he took a sharpened pocket knife to his infamous moustache.
He nearly squealed too, his pride and joy falling into the drain.
They sold the lot of the jewelry to random motel cretins, except for one ring in particular Bronson had seen Maddie eyeballing before they stole it. A modest little thing with just a band of white gold and a needle tip sized diamond.
He kept it in his pocket, never once considering giving it to her, he was terrified she would say no, just absolutely petrified that she would laugh like the last cunt did.
Napping on the sheetless bed, Charlie felt a cold sting on his bare chest.
Madeleine was laying with her head in the crook of his arm, and was playing with the ring that was laying between his pecks.
“Where you find that love?” He was genuinely worried that perhaps she was about to tell him off.
“Fell out of your pocket when you rolled over. Can I wear it?”
“well I’ve been trying to find the words to ask you if you would wear it.”
She turned up to face him.
Kissing his stubbley face and running her hand around his head while he slid the ring on her finger. He had gotten much more adjusted to this human contact thing, rather enjoyed it actually. The way her lips felt on his lips, the way her hands felt rubbing on his back while he showered, the way her tongue felt running a line up his cock. He didn’t just love the feeling of her skin on his, oh no no he wasn’t the type to leave a love hanging, his absolute most favorite thing to do was to slide his fingers down her back and squeezing her arse before sliding his fingers into her warm wetness. Her perky boobs up against his chest while she rocked back and forth on his rod whenever he asked her to.
Constantly telling her he loved her, choking up the words was hard for him at first, never muttering those words since his mum was taking care of him, now he could let them roll off his tongue like breaths.
About a month now on the run and they were happily wedded in their own eyes, two peas in a pod. Bronson donning a fake moustache as he robbed any store he so shall choose, taking it off and wandering the streets like any other civilian, often getting looks from young ladies, which he properly declined even when his pet wasn’t in his presence.
He saw the headline of the paper one morning while on his way to hold up a bank, his most ballsy of acts yet. Charles Bronson still at large with young lady held against her will. He scoffed to himself, invisioning the night before when she had pleaded with him not to leave, offered him a back rub and a cuppa tea, because she just wanted to spend the night together without doing a job. She was as “against her will” as he was.
He couldn’t get the thought of his name in bold black font, in the hand of every father at the breakfast table, in the bin on every intersection, he was finally turning out to be the celebrity he was meant to be.
The incognito life was profitable, being able to live without fear, but still, the thought of someone seeing him walk in a room and scream “Dear God It’s Charles Bronson!” was all he could focus on.
He turned to the bank street, sizing up his next event. The thought of being caught was thrilling, his name could be in the paper the next day too “Charles Bronson finally apprehended after murdering bank teller.” Okay, maybe he was reaching for the highest star in the sky, but he believed in himself enough to know he could at least commit another case of “grievous bodily harm” once more.
And so he did.