The faint smile that tugged on Gerald's lips turned into a frown; then his brow creased into a glower, with his eyes beginning to glow malevolently in fiery choler. His mouth parted a little and twisted to bare slightly his teeth into a feral snarl, wrinkling his nose. He leaned in over the table, placing his hands on its edges once more, and stared right into Joshua's eyes. Oh, how he wanted to hit the guy; oh, how he wanted to just shoot the bastard and let him bleed on the floor, having everyone watch -- his gun was literally inches away from his fingers. But, he wasn't going to, for that was, he thought, exactly what the inmate wanted him to do, and he would not be swayed so easily by someone whom he considered lower than himself. Instead, he chose to admonish.

"Listen here, you ungrateful mongrel," the tone of his voice was calm as ever, something which distinguished Gerald from other guards, though it, through subtle cues, betrayed obviously great anger. "I have lost twelve -- twelve," he emphasized, "good friends because of people like you. Be thankful that the Government even lets you live, and be even more thankful that us guards are not allowed to kill you, because, frankly, I couldn't give less of a damn if you just up and died one day, Joshua. For none of you are innocent. All of you are collectively guilty of murder in my eyes, regardless of age or gender, or whether you actually committed the crime in the first place."

He did not wait for an answer, however. Stressed and infuriated by this unpleasant encounter, Gerald chose to leave immediately, heading to the rec room to find his quarry and get this detail over with, guards and inmates alike looking uncertainly at him.

Though, he could not help but think: dark mocha or latte? Which flavor should he pick from the vending machine next?