[ WP ] Take a quote from /r/NoContext , give it an entirely new context , and end your story with that quote .

**ehhhh, I kinda went a little off the rails on the rules, whoops. I just read the quote and a story came rushing out. Sorry** 
 
 
 I met him in the lunch line, we shuffled forward, I was nervous. My first week in prison was not a good one. I had almost been shanked in a fight that broke out my very first day. I cowered in the corner of the cafeteria, my metal lunch tray in front of me like some miserable shield. All in all I managed to escape unscathed, but there were quite a few grievous injuries that day. Prison is no place for a man like me. No, not at all. I ’ m just a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not some hardened criminal. 
 
 As I shuffled with my head down, something I also learned my first day, don ’ t make eye contact with the Aryans. Even if you ’ re white, if you are seen as ‘ messing ’ with them, they ’ ll fuck you up royally. So, I kept my head down and moved along with the malaise line of men, it was better that way, lest I look at the wrong guy. I must have been deep in thought because the line stopped I bumped into the man in front of me. My heart leaped from my chest to my throat in an instant, forming a large lump that made it painful to swallow. I quickly muttered my apologies, careful not to look up into his eyes. 
 
 “ It ’ s all right, ” he said. His voice was calm, mellow and a little drawl. He was from the south originally, I presumed. “ Say, you look right nervous. ” 
 
 I nodded, my eyes haltingly making their way up, his chest, broad and muscled from years of lifting weights; his neck, a grizzled scar that ran from the adams apple to the jugular; his scruffy unshaven chin, dimpled in the center; his cheeks, sharp and defined with high cheek bones; his eyes, gray and soft. I didn ’ t recognize him. This was a big place and it was not unheard of, I guess, to meet someone new every now and then. He wasn ’ t new, that was for sure. His body language, his appearance, even the way he talked so calmly, said, ‘ I ’ ve been around, this ain ’ t my first rodeo. ’ 
 
 “ What are you in for? ” He asked. His slow drawl was hypnotizing. 
 
 “ I-I ” I stammered, the lump in my throat not receding. “ I— ” 
 
 “ That ’ s all right, ” he said, “ you ’ ll tell me while we ’ re eating. ” He moved ahead, held his tray out and the man slopped some greasy, food on it. It was soup—I think. “ Thank you kindly, ” he said to the man. The man just grunted and gestured, ‘ move along ’, with his head. I pushed my tray along the metal rails and the same grub was slopped down onto mine. 
 
 I followed him to a table; he seemed to move toward it like it was familiar. I don ’ t know why I followed, scared, I guess. I had been just finding an empty spot and planting myself there, unable to say anything or make eye contact with the other men around me. I would eat as fast as I could and then head on out to the yard. I sat down across from him, figuring if he was going to make a move I ’ d see it coming this way. It wasn ’ t long until I started to notice that no one else sat near us, gave a wide berth. 
 
 “ No, this food ain ’ t any good, ” he said, as if continuing a conversation that had lapsed into silence for a moment. “ Nothing beats a little home cookin ’. That ’ s what I used to do. On the outside. Cook. ” He studied me a moment and then lifted the grimy slop up to his mouth and slurped it in. My skin crawled at the repulsive sound. 
 
 I tried to eat, the food wasn ’ t agreeing with me. I ate mainly the bread and water. The soup, or at least I thought it was soup, it could have been extremely lean stew, was not filling. He watched me with those unnerving gray eyes, raising his spoon from the tray to his mouth, slurping, lowering again. 
 
 “ Yeah, ” he said, again continuing like he was enthralled in conversation that only he could hear. “ I used to cook, loved it, I did. That ’ s what got me into trouble. Damn bastards just don ’ t understand, they don ’ t. They just don ’ t know what it ’ s like I guess. ” 
 
 “ Don ’ t know what what ’ s like? ” I found my voice. It was small. 
 
 “ The flesh of another individual, ” he said. It was as if it was a natural as the sun rising. I ’ m telling you, you haven ’ t lived until you ’ ve had some nicely grilled retard. Medium rare with a little salt and pepper. ” 
 
 My stomach dropped, and a splash of vomit came rushing up the back of my throat. I was so scared and dumbfounded I didn ’ t know what to do with it so I swallowed hard. I pushed myself up from the table and with dead legs that wouldn ’ t stay still from the shakes, I backed away. He sat, smiling, studying me with those eyes—maybe wondering how I tasted or how to prepare me. Once I was out in the yard, what little lunch I ’ d had came up. 
 
 I see him every now and then, in the cafeteria, the yard, the cell block. I keep a wide berth like everyone else. And I hear him sometimes at night; his mellow voice carries through the cell block. He hums, like he ’ s a million miles away, not trapped like an animal in a cage, but like he ’ s in his kitchen, preparing another freakish meal. 
 
 
 
 https: //www.reddit.com/r/nocontext/comments/2iadjr/you_havent_lived_until_youve_had_some_nicely/ 

