<div class="floatleft">(http://img818.imageshack.us/img818/2395/samatclashofthetitanslo.jpg)</div><br/><br/><strong>Name:</strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;">Sam Washington</span><br/><strong>Age:</strong>28<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Beat his senior officer to death with a heavy duty stapler from the L.A.P.D.'s copy room while singing the national anthem.<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Prison Cell<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Group 1<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/>Sam was feeling restless. It wasn't something that happened too often, but right now it had him pacing him back and forth along the re-enforced glass wall that kept him locked up<del>   </del>along with several other, unfamiliar faces<del>   </del>inside the concrete box. Though he'd already spent some time in jail after murdering his senior officer, it still felt foreign and surreal to him, seeing the world from the other side. To be honest, he preferred a set of iron bars over this glass wall; the latter made it feel like a closed box, inducing a faint sense of claustrophobia on him.<br/><br/>What would happen now, Sam wondered. After being questioned<del>   </del>or interrogated, depending on wether or not you were wearing bright orange PJ's<del>   </del>they had all been put in this cell, cooping too many people in one small room. The cop in him wanted to slap them on the wrists for such blatand disregard for standard regulations, but then he reminded himself why he wasn't wearing a badge anymore. It was damn depressing. Sam had answered what he could, but many of his replies were scoffed at and brushed off as lies. His word seemed to have little worth these days.<br/><br/>His silvery eyes wandered around the room. There was no way out, all things present either bolted to the floor or too weak to cause any damage to the wall, and the possibility of the electric chair was a frighteningly real possibility with every passing second. It wasn't showing directly in his manners or expression, but the nerves were starting to get to him. A man who doesn't fear death has either nothing to lose or has lost everything already. When the frustration and fear began to boil over, he expressed them by slamming his fist into the glass wall, which didn't budge an inch, only causing a mild sense of pain to rush up the man's arm.<br/><br/><strong>"Fuck..."</strong>he muttered softly, leaning his forhead against the smooth, cool surface of the transparent material.