As soon as the vast steel doors have shut, his hands are free of their bindings.
He plunges them deeply into shallow pockets, fingers grasping for solutions to
the myriad of problems which could thwart his escape.
Left hand returns with a paper clip and a stale baked potato,
his right with a tuft of blonde pubic hair which he cannot quite explain.
‘Why is the cool stuff always in my other pants?’ he thinks
‘also why do these things only happen on laundry day?’
After a moments stare at the items on his outstretched palms,
MacGyver hatches his plan.
Seriously though, my drabble is up there