Worried wardens wilted while worrying about how to contain convicts conceived by canny creators, for Sister Archipelago continually connived and contrived and saw her sons set free, so they set in solitary her bastard boy Barachiel, preventing all pleasures, save certain self-published paperbacks and parcels procured by post.
Barachiel, mindful that mailed munitions would wind up with the warden, guffawed greatly upon emptying envelopes from his forbearer, finding not firearms, flamethrowers, nor files, but a plethora of prepackaged peanuts, and rapidly ripped them from their wrappers.
The clever criminal clambered on his cot and doused the ducts with dust, putting the peanut powder in the pipeline, ground the goober grit through the grates, and patiently paused as the particles promulgated throughout the penitentiary.
Sister Archipelago had ascertained that acute allergies afflicted all attendants surveilling her son, and since anaphylaxis acts apace, Barachile gave ear to garbled groans and strangled squalls as airpipes astringed six seconds after cell doors had been unsecured for Sunday night supper.
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