Forged in the rot of dark corners, the gloop, so tepid, is the result of oats and the hard tap water of the world’s worst institutions.
The gloop, on that particular day, was no exception.
It was a morning like any other at Feltham Prison. Every pawn was in its place: the reds scowled at the blues, and the blues mouthed back to the reds, all from their respective dining benches.
Kitchen hands served out the gloop, each ball making a slopping, plopping sound as it hit the surface of the bulk-bought breakfast bowls.
Entry and exit were sealed off by the screws, guarded with fear, and truncheons and missed opportunities.
All incarcerated souls sat, head down, choking down their gloop, with water. No one liked gloop, but it sustained them, and it was one of the only constants in their lives. By its very nature, the gloop held the place together, a devil’s adhesive.
Then something happened.
A blood gargling cry broke the ambient mash of slurping, chomping and tapestry of expletives.
The prison’s most feared inmate hit the floor, his mouth foaming like a washing machine filled with soap suds. He croaked; he’d been glooped.
As half digested gloop oozed from his cake hole and gasps whirled through the air, a ball of matter flew across the room and soiled a screw’s tunic.
Everything erupted: fists connected with jawbones and tasers came into contact with balls, spoons became blunt stabbing devices and bowls flew towards ceiling fans.
Everyone turned on one another, punching away their frustrations and all the while, the gloop sprayed walls, coated skirting boards and stuck to human skin, glueing the whole scene together in a sticky glory, uniting the room as it tore itself apart.