[ WP ] You have been sentenced to 300 years in prison . The catch is that you are an immortal being .

I lie on the bunk, wondering why I had come to be in my current circumstances. Not how -- that is clear. The evidence of my crimes was ample, irrefutable, and in some cases even true. Rather, I wonder how the authorities came into possession of it to begin with. 
 
 Deep in thought, I register but pay no mind to my surroundings -- the cold steel bed beneath me, the mingled scents of humanity, human waste, and cheap disinfectant, my cellmate screaming that he'll `` fuck me up'' if I do n't get out of his bunk, the dull murmur of conversation, argument, and television from the common area outside, and the stained concrete ceiling above me. 
 
 It must have been one of my kin. That much is obvious. But who, and why? I'm not close with the few others of my kind; familiarity breeds contempt, as the saying goes. Was my incarceration meant as revenge for some half-remembered slight? A prank? A romantic overture? A... I momentarily lose my train of thought as my cellmate jams the sharpened handle of a toothbrush into my eye socket. I remove it, wipe it clean on the pants of my uniform, and extend my hand to return it to him. He flees, stumbling over his feet in his haste, and I return to my contemplation. 
 
 I decide to put aside the question of `` who'' for now. Time will tell. It always does. Furthermore, I decide that the question of `` why'' is irrelevant. I choose to see my imprisonment as a gentle reminder to avoid complacency. I admit that I had been neglecting my network in the mundane world this past century. Useful individuals gradually drifted away on the currents of life or passed away of old age, and I was lax in replacing them, so that by the time the police broke down my door I had even been unaware that there was a plot against me, much less able to escape it. Ah well, 300 years is a small enough price to pay, and it will be a learning experience. I firmly believe that one is never too old to learn new things. 
 
 -- - 
 
 I once again begin the process of molding a place for myself in the world, a process familiar enough that it may as well have been engraved into my bones. The details are always different, but the main steps are always the same, and the outcome is never in doubt. I remain mindful all the same, to avoid wasted effort. 
 
 The rumors spread by my former cellmate have already provided the kindling. Mystery. Incredulity. Curiosity. I fan the embers through my indifference -- exaggerated slightly for effect -- to the stares, entreaties, and threats. I don ’ t need to wait long. One day, while taking my shower, the other inmates furtively slip away, thinking I don ’ t notice, and a gang leader and his men file in and surround me. They try to appear intimidating, casting sidelong glances at him for guidance. 
 
 He comes in close to me, pokes his finger into my chest, asks what the hell I am, and if I know what he could do to me. Using his native tongue, I instead tell him who he is, in terms both profane and inarguably true, and what I will do to him. As he teeters between horror and rage, a slight twitch of my hand is enough to spur him and his enforcers to action. They beat me to death with metal pipes, padlocks wrapped in towels, fists, and feet. 
 
 Once they are finished, I rise and rinse off the blood. They stand transfixed before me as I walk, slowly and deliberately, to the leader. He retreats blindly, realizing too late he has backed into a corner. He screams at his men to attack me. They don ’ t. He begs them to save him. They don ’ t. He pleads with me to spare him. I don ’ t. I shower a second time and leave. 
 
 Mystery. Fear. Revulsion. The pieces are falling into place. The next and final attempt on my life is more thorough. I am woken in the dead of night by two guards who escort me from my cell to one of the prison ’ s several industries, a meatpacking facility. The lights switch on to reveal a coalition of high-ranking gang officers. The guards collect their payment and leave me in the hands of the prisoners, who to their credit don ’ t bother with threats or needless brutality. They summarily dispose of me in an industrial meat grinder. 
 
 -- - 
 
 One of the guards involved in the conspiracy is overseeing the breakfast line the next morning. He is not a slim man, and his heart can not handle the shock of seeing me line up and claim my tray. I step over his body, take a seat at a suddenly-empty table in the center of the room, and begin eating my sausage and eggs. Mystery. Fear. Awe. 
 
 I chew slowly and carefully, waiting until the paramedics have come and gone. All eyes are on me as I swallow the last bite and raise my head. I turn my head slowly, making eye contact with every man in turn. Most of the inmates flinch and look away, others stare back at me with cold murderous hate, and a rare few gaze back in wonder. From among the latter I decide on a skinny teen -- nearly still a boy -- with a fresh bruise on his cheek. I raise my hand and motion for him to approach. A jolt runs through his body and he glances around nervously, praying that I meant someone else. No, I shake my head, and repeat the gesture. 
 
 He approaches cautiously, nearly on tiptoe. I place my hand on his shoulder and gently pull him down into the seat next to me. “ What ’ s your name? ” I ask him. “ J-j-jimmy ” he manages to get out. I respond feigning concern. “ Jimmy, do you have any friends here? ” He looks down at his hands and answers almost inaudibly. I knew his answer before he opened his mouth, but still I lean closer as if I didn ’ t hear. He repeats himself, this time loudly enough for others to hear. “ No. ” 
 
 “ Well Jimmy, ” I say as my face slips from its normal benign indifference to my best smile -- and it is a very good smile indeed -- “ you do now. ” I look deep into his eyes and am satisfied with what I see. Confusion. Fear. Awe. And soon: Worship. I scan my eyes across the room for my next convert. 
 
 **Epilogue to follow**
