Bang spoons together, bang them on the iron railing, don’t stop when the guards approach, pay no attention to their clubbing you, it’s how they survive and a way to set you up for release.
Sooner or later it’s bound to happen, the iron gate swings wide and there’s sunshine and orange trees, an ocean and a rainbow.
They’ll follow you from their tower with binoculars. “Pow,” they’ll say. “Pow, pow, pow,” pretending to shoot you until you’re one of the crowd again.