You are Steven Nelson, a large, slightly overweight, balding father-of-five, the five children being the primary cause of your balding, since they constantly have you tearing your hair out.
You have a wife, Wendy, who despite popping out five children is still far too slim and beautiful to be married to an average Joe such as you. Certainly it can't be your personality that keeps her interested. You have a very dour, down-to-Earth attitude, and simple tastes. You like football, beer, burgers, and boobs, ideally all at once. Nor can it be your wealth, since you work a low paid job as a prison officer. It's a stressful job, and you're on edge almost constantly. Even at home, after work, you find it hard to unwind.
It's not your ideal career of course. A college drop-out, you'd aimed for policing and missed, and wound up as a turnkey at a medium security prison.
Today you've overseeing the arrival of a new inmate, Samuel "Stretch" Harden, a cat burglar who attained infamy for entering and raiding the high security vaults of the richest casinos in the country. His method of entry and egress had left investigators stumped. Even after the police caught him during one of his raids, he still refused to give away his secrets.
He stands in front of you, an unnaturally gaunt figure with palid skin and drooping jowls, as you place his personal effects inside a metal tray, in which they will remain until his fifteen year prison sentence ends.
"One gold watch... One wallet containing... several expired credit cards... One set of keys... One necklace... One... brush..." You eye the final item curiously, unsure what it is doing in his personal belongings. "Didn't take you for a painter, Stretch. Thought you just stole them."
Samuel Stretch licks his thin, pale lips, his eyes not leaving the brush in your hand. "I don't, but it seems I'm to have plenty of time to take up a new hobby. I wonder, could I be allowed to have the brush with me in my cell? It would help me pass the hours."
He holds out his manacled hands to grasp it, but you shake your head and place the brush in the tray. "No personal belongings to be taken into the cells," you state firmly, slamming closed to lid on the tray.
"Wa..wait... b-but... I need it!"
"Maybe I'll let you have it if you tell us how you broke into those vaults," you offer. He seems to consider it, but his lips remain sealed as he is escorted away to his cell. A pity. You'd love to be the guy that solves that mystery. Perhaps the police would be so impressed they'd give you a job. Now wouldn't that be something.
With a sigh, you pick up the sealed tray of belongings and carry it through to storage. Just as you're about to lift the tray into its slot, a bubble of tar-like liquid oozes from beneath the lid, dribbling down over your fingers.
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