How I Conquered Your Planet by John Swartzwelder

to keep my spirits up by singing loudly in my cell
all night long. And imitating a trombone. I learned Latin, which I’ve always
been meaning to do, but never had the time; then forgot it, which I always
figured would happen.
    But no matter how high my spirits got, they always came
crashing down again when I noticed the calendar. The date of my execution had
already been set, and the more I sang in my cell, the more they moved it up. I
decided I’d better stop trying to make the best of things and start trying to
get the hell out of here. But I knew it wouldn’t be easy. If it was easy, I
would be alone in here. Everybody would have escaped already.
    I asked around. The other prisoners didn’t know of any way to
escape off hand, but said if I found one they would appreciate being told about
it. Otherwise they’d kill me. The warden was no help. He wouldn’t even discuss
the subject. So I asked a guard.
    “ Settle a bet for me,” I said casually, pretending this was just
a gambling question. “If someone wanted to knock your stupid head in and escape
– this is a hypothetical question, you understand…”
    “ Yes, go on.”
    “ How would he do it? When do you usually look the other way? And
what’s the quickest easiest way out of here once you’ve been disposed of?”
    The guard wasn’t very helpful on this score. He didn’t think
knocking him on the head would work. Even if a prisoner did get past him, there
were other guards. And locked doors. And searchlights and vicious dogs. The
prison was escape-proof. Knocking him on the head would just be a waste of
time, in his opinion. He advised against it.
    I realized I needed a better mind than mine working on this
problem, so, as many people have before, I turned to the great minds of
Hollywood. I went to the prison library and checked out an old 16mm copy of
“The Great Escape”. I had the prison projectionist run it over and over, while
I took notes, occasionally asking him to run it back so I could watch various
tunneling scenes again, and get ideas on shooting guards. I watched it so many
times my captors started speaking a little German. Just a few words they had
picked up like “schnell” and “raus”.
    Once I had a pretty good idea of how to proceed, all I needed
were the proper tools.
    One of the great things about being in prison is you can get
practically anything from the guards in trade for cigarettes. Of course the
guards aren’t supposed to be providing this service, but everyone knows it’s
going on. It’s an accepted feature of prison life everywhere. If a prison didn’t
have it, it probably couldn’t compete.
    When I told one of the guards I needed a shovel, he looked in
all four directions to make sure no one was within earshot. Then, just to be
sure, he looked in a fifth direction I hadn’t noticed before.
    “ That’s rather a tall order 0775321. What do you need a shovel
for?”
    I had to think fast. “I collect them,” I said.
    “ May I see your collection?”
    “ No.”
    “ Well, what particular kind of shovel do you need for your
collection?”
    “ Doesn’t matter.”
    “ Hmmm.”
    “ Better get me some dynamite too.”
    He looked at me questioningly.
    “ For my collection,” I explained. “I might need to blow up my
collection.”
    It ended up costing me 475 packs of cigarettes, but I finally
got my shovel. The guard was nervous about being found out, but he felt it was
worth the risk. He now had enough packs of cigarettes to retire.
    The first tunnel I dug went under the prison showers, breaking
all the pipes. So there was no more hot water in the showers. Just hot water
everywhere else. Everybody was pretty mad about that. The next tunnel went
straight into the warden’s bedroom and up his right leg somehow. I was very
embarrassed when I climbed out of that tunnel carrying my suitcase. I had a lot
of explaining to do.
    As my execution date grew closer, I dug more frantically. I
even paid other prisoners to dig,