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Description
               The asylum was a dank carbon-copy of hell. And Malcolm, against his better judgment, now found himself at the foot of its sooty doors. To use a trite expression – Nobody every went in, nobody ever came out. And Willy Wonka sure as hell did not live there. He knocked thrice.
               A buff guard opened the heavy doors and peered at him. "How can I help you?"
               "I come in place of Herman."
               The guard nodded and stood aside. "You can leave the packages in the security office."
               Malcolm stared at the man. "I was under the impression that I'd be delivering to the... patients directly."
               "Kid," the guard laughed, "The nuts here haven't the foggiest who Auntie Gretel or Granny Trudy are anymore. A hand-knit blanket or homemade pie have more significance to us than to them, you get me?"
               "I – I'm only here for today anyway."
               The guard motioned impatiently. "Get in before I shut the door, kid."
               As Malcolm walked down a corridor of ashes and wails, he shuddered at the thought of becoming a permanent resident. Hands and screams reached through the barred cell windows.
               He carefully stacked the packages on the pool table in the office. "To: My Mate Will From: Rustic" or "To: Reginald From: Alyssa" or "to: Samuel From: Auntie Emily" – didn't matter much in the end, Malcolm thought. Just then the door opened. The guard from the entrance had come in for a break. "Sorry, I'll be out of your way now."
               "Not so fast, kid." The guard grabbed his arm as he tried to walk through the door. He pushed Malcolm against the pool table.
               "What the fuck are you doing?!" protested Malcolm.
               Two more guards entered the room, laughing with the first as he proceeded to fist Malcolm. "You know what kid? You're not very observant, not at all." The man brought Malcolm's bloodied face close to his own, his rotting breath forcing its way down his throat like bile. "A few years ago, kid, I killed a man in a bar. I'd rather they send me to jail than be here."
               "But – But you have a job here, I don't see the issue – "
               "Shut up! Will, bring the irons."
               "Wait, what?!"
               "I said" – Malcolm's face was violently pressed against the table – "shut up. Reginald, has anyone else showed up at the front door here?"
               "No sir."
               "What's going on?!"
               The first guard punched him. "You wanted to deliver the packages directly, didn't you?"

Description
               The asylum was a dank carbon-copy of hell. And Malcolm, against his better judgment, now found himself at the foot of its sooty doors. To use a trite expression – Nobody every went in, nobody ever came out. And Willy Wonka sure as hell did not live there. He knocked thrice.
               A buff guard opened the heavy doors and peered at him. "How can I help you?"
               "I come in place of Herman."
               The guard nodded and stood aside. "You can leave the packages in the security office."
               Malcolm stared at the man. "I was under the impression that I'd be delivering to the... patients directly."
               "Kid," the guard laughed, "The nuts here haven't the foggiest who Auntie Gretel or Granny Trudy are anymore. A hand-knit blanket or homemade pie have more significance to us than to them, you get me?"
               "I – I'm only here for today anyway."
               The guard motioned impatiently. "Get in before I shut the door, kid."
               As Malcolm walked down a corridor of ashes and wails, he shuddered at the thought of becoming a permanent resident. Hands and screams reached through the barred cell windows.
               He carefully stacked the packages on the pool table in the office. "To: My Mate Will From: Rustic" or "To: Reginald From: Alyssa" or "to: Samuel From: Auntie Emily" – didn't matter much in the end, Malcolm thought. Just then the door opened. The guard from the entrance had come in for a break. "Sorry, I'll be out of your way now."
               "Not so fast, kid." The guard grabbed his arm as he tried to walk through the door. He pushed Malcolm against the pool table.
               "What the fuck are you doing?!" protested Malcolm.
               Two more guards entered the room, laughing with the first as he proceeded to fist Malcolm. "You know what kid? You're not very observant, not at all." The man brought Malcolm's bloodied face close to his own, his rotting breath forcing its way down his throat like bile. "A few years ago, kid, I killed a man in a bar. I'd rather they send me to jail than be here."
               "But – But you have a job here, I don't see the issue – "
               "Shut up! Will, bring the irons."
               "Wait, what?!"
               "I said" – Malcolm's face was violently pressed against the table – "shut up. Reginald, has anyone else showed up at the front door here?"
               "No sir."
               "What's going on?!"
               The first guard punched him. "You wanted to deliver the packages directly, didn't you?"