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Bred For Crime Series

Inmate Von Toth

This guy is another prisoner who suffers from ‘bipolar’ disorder. He is a white, blond tattoo’d Negro-hater/Hitler-lover of some mild intelligence and education. He has a wife who smuggles in a few crumbs of dope (marijuana and trash speed) in her baby’s diaper during their one hour visits. Toth is singular in that he doesn’t smoke and claims not to shoot the ‘speed’, but rather sells it to others for food and other niceties.

Like most of the enslaved, he tries to sleep through the judge/DAs sentence (five years for theft). So Toth will put a rag over his eyes and try to sleep through the day as well as the night. Since this is impossible, he becomes irritated at excess light and tiny noises which he claims are preventing his plan. He once thought he was going to browbeat me out of eating cheetos because the crunching disturbed his ‘sleep’. He didn’t have the guts to actually fight about it, but he did determine to escape my cage.

His scheme here involved us pretending to be incompatible in front of the guards. This didn’t work because guards apparently prefer prisoners to injure (though not kill) each other.

The paperwork way involved four persons signing a cell-move request form. He’d talk to his many Nazi Brotherhood ‘friends’ and they’d all say, “Yeah, you can live with me. Sign the paperwork and send it to us, and we’ll sign it and turn it in.”

I’d signed at least four of these papers for him, not caring who took his place, and each one failed to get him moved. No one could figure out why he wasn’t moved, including the guards, whom we expected to lie no matter what, since their policy is to never say “no” but to dodge potential conflict by always saying “Soon” and “Wait”. It turned out that his phony Nazi buddies were lying to him and failing to give the form to the prisoncrats. None of his Nazi buddies had guts enough to tell him that they didn’t want to live with an irritable and possibly dangerous schitz who could unexpectedly go bonkers at any moment. Each one of these tattoo’d sissies copped out in secret until one of the guards got tired of hearing our questions and snitched off their sincere lies. Eventually a fellow Nazi took him in, and I’m sure Yon Toth is out by now, probably shooting trash speed into his arm until he gets caught again.

Inmate Nunio

Just to show you what kind of miseducated people prisons contain, I offer ‘Villa’ as an example. He’s a 44 year old San Antonio Mexican who had a judge take 18 solid years of his life because he was drunk among friends, one or two of whom decided to steal a watch off the arm of a fellow drunk. (Of course he’d been previously enslaved for drunken hooliganism and had a judge take 11 years of his life then.) This means he was 15 when he first went to prison and subsequently had virtually no other contact with civilized society since. He gets out in February, and the first thing he will do is go get drunk.

Being short, as all Mexicans usually are, Villa (whom I’ve named after Pancho, the guy who gave the US govt so much trouble at the beginning of this century) has both the little-man’s complex and suffers cultural affectations of machoism. This makes him a loud, obnoxious Chihuahua easily set to barking by sleights, mostly imagined, to his manhood. The Negroes love to bait him all the time while the gates are locked and no one can get to them or anyone else. The same scenario ever repeats: him barking death threats and insults while the Negroes laugh and guffaw at their cleverness at belittling him. Before the gates are opened, the Negroes all apologize to make sure he doesn’t find a way to slice them up. Soon as they am all safely back in their cages and bored, the Negroes repeat this cycle.

A disgusting little-man/machismo-induced behavioral flew he exhibits is a thing he performs after urination. Part of the diabolical torture of the scum who design and run prisons is to force people to shit and piss in public. When Villa excretes, his back is only ten feet from me, and in front of him is anyone strolling the corridor and the prisoners in the cage across the way, who are always draped in the gate, staring and gaping at any movement in the hall or in nearby cages. With an audience on both sides, Villa ends his pissing with many diggings and gropings to his crotch, as if he is sexually abusing himself or is having some great difficulty stacking his genitals back into his pants just right. Then he violently slaps his organ to and fro a few times; more if someone is watching. In doing this, he makes loud smacking noises that attract attention, and sprays urine far and wide, sometimes causing him to wipe off his legs, but not the sink or anything else. If he is angry at me, he does this slapping routine both before and after urination.

Villa is fairly intelligent and he doesn’t harbor the hatred of white culture that most Negroes and Hispanics have. He can’t read English very well, and only reads the Bible. His main occupation is pacing and hollering for tobacco and coffee. He has done this and little else for 29 years. He takes at least four pills twice a day, and claims he has bipolar disorder, which is likely, as well as schizophrenia of some type. (He also rocks back and forth at times, indicating either autism or a reaction from the drugs he takes.) I think that schitzophrenia is a term that the psychological sciences are phasing out as having become too stigmatising. I’ve met many schitzoids in here on schizoid medication that call their disorder ‘bipolar’.

Villa makes 12 ounces of coffee with three tablespoons of instant crystals and slugs them down one after another until he has drank the whole bag or fallen into a sleep of fatigue after up to 48 hours of apparent wakefulness. During these manic stages he does calesthenics as well as paces, and smokes with much hacking and gagging with each inhalation. He eats this prison food with relish, almost throwing the stuff down his gaping hole. (All prisoners I’ve seen eat extremely fast, like dogs with worms.) He even eats the poisonous ground gut-meats and is glad to have mine too. He has almost constant diarrhea as a result, as do most of these prisoners, yet appears to think such is normal. He likes to emit loud farts as a way to demonstrate his power and make up for his minimal stature. Just last week I gave him my mound of macaroni and gutmeat. About 18 hours later he tried to squeeze out a loud fart and shit a curtain of diarrhea down his leg and onto the floor. His subsequent defecation sounded like a torrent from Niagra. Apparently he hasn’t connected the bubbling gut-pains that rotten meat gives everyone as a signal that diarrhea is forthcoming.

During his manic episodes he sometimes determines to clean tables and floors. In this he is meticulous and detailed. A common source of worry for many prisoners is a dirty toilet bowl, and Villa zones on it more than most. Worse than his piss-flinging is his proclivity toward grabbing a rag and diving into the toilet with both hands, scrubbing away. This he does first, then, as an apparent afterthought, he took this same rag and rinsed it out in the sink, wiping every surface, then headed for the floor to mop with it, sans soap.  (Adequate quantities of soap are very hard to obtain in prison.)

Trying to enlighten him about septic procedures is a lost cause. He immediately takes offense though I use every art I know to bring him to discover for himself how he is spreading infection rather than cleaning it up. To him I represent the smug, know-it-all oppressor race that stole his life.

He will be returned to jail and prison within one year of their release of him, solely due to alcohol induced crime, such as petty theft or assault. A sanctimonious judge/DA will read that he grew up in prison, and on this information and little else, see that he dies in prison. The courtcrats will congratulate themselves in costing taxpayers over $200,000 on this one alcoholic alone so far. They will celebrate costing us at least another $200,000 on this one alcoholic during the last segment of his life.

I’m so proud to be an American, but I’m embarrassed to feed these lawcrat crocodilians so profusely.

Inmate Gomez

Gomez is a 19 year old scared kid from California. He is bred for crime, judging by his culture and philosophy. His Mom has no husband, and he was thus allowed to run wild and escape school for the largest part. He has the usual Hispanic exaggerated concept of self-worth. His extreme self-esteem goes beyond the ‘macho’ cultural imperative. His teachers tried to convince him to stay in school by massaging his ego: they told him he was very smart and that it would be a terrible waste if he didn’t use his ‘gifts’.   This went straight to his head. He concluded that he was so superior that he didn’t need any school; that he could work everything out from first principles. Proof of this fact is, ostensibly, provided by the extreme ease with which he could manipulate his mother and fellow Latino peers.

Gomez is a painfully shy, very small boy suffering from retarded social development. He’s never had any real contact with the opposite sex beyond his mother, evidenced by his calling them, when referring to them, ‘bitches’. He is so small and timid that he can’t weigh mom than 110 pounds. He is so small and soft and long-haired, we can, at first, mistake him for a girl. His shyness made it take a long time before he got comfortable enough with me to begin boasting. Also, his fear is so great that he had to take a long time spinning his fight stories. Being such a runt, he relies upon kissing up to gang members, real or imagined, to get his ‘bang’ down sufficiently to feel protected enough and safe. He likes to put out that other people are racist; he’s found this is a good way to make Caucasians self-conscious, overly generous and pliable to his suggestions. Like many whores I’ve know, Gomez is adept at obtaining benefits from others without specifically asking for them. This way he can get things or help without the onus of reciprocation, since the giving was, ostensibly, our idea. Also, by playing on our natural urge to help the needy, he adds to his feeling of superiority to the people he thus manipulates. There is no chance that such a ‘Player’ will feel gratitude, much less say ‘thanks’. Their universal constant is to think of such politeness as being weakness.

When Gomez finally began boasting, his life story came to this: Thanks to having no father, Gomez learned quickly how to take advantage of his mother’s love: she was relatively prosperous, until her son began stealing her money and household goods for his ‘gang’. They’d sell her food, furnishings, even lawn equipment for alcohol and weed so they could stay drunk and high all day long.

Thanks to California’s lax truancy enforcement, these layabouts had an easy time hiding out in their moms’ kitchens, attics, garages or back yards. Eventually an older black found their juvenile gang and took over. “Psycho” taught them how to steal, find places to burglarize, steal cars and pawn items they carried off from the homes of peers stupid enough to let them inside. Psycho’s best trick was to pretend he had a large wad of cash and ask around for anyone who had a large cache of dope to sell. At least once he was able to find a greedy person who both believe he had money and actually did have dope to sell. Additionally, he was stupid enough to let Psycho bring his gang of children along. Gomez was so impressed with this clever trick of obtaining something for nothing that he decided to make it his career and vocation.

After many days of petty crime and drunkenness, psycho called on Gomez and another twerp to help him obtain payment from a debtor. Psycho pushed into the guy’s home on a pretext, but was clumsy at it, pulling his gun out. (The only gun he could get was a rifle, and it was suspicious to wear a winter coat in summer to conceal it.) The intended victim shoved him out, locked the door and called the cops. Psycho panicked and ran after giving the rifle back to Gomez’s twerp-buddy to hide. They pedaled their bikes to the twerp’s mom’s home where the twerp had Gomez hide it in their ‘clubhouse’ in the attic above the garage.

Twerp’s mom came out and caught them. Twerp insisted they’d done nothing, and Gomez pulled his standard trick: hanging his head and staring quietly at his feet as twerp’s mom demanded to know what he was doing climbing out of their attic. Gomez couldn’t take the woman’s interrogation for very long. He decided to run when it became apparent that she would not stop demanding information. Also, she moved to call Gomez’ mother.

Gomez got caught by the cops on his way home. Like an idiot, he pedaled his bike past a neighbor who identified him. He got out of everything by snitching on each of his gang members for the cops. He sent psycho to prison for life and took his gang-name as his own. His mother had been so drained by the lawyers, judges and social workers that she had to move to Oklahoma and stay with her mom. Her little Demonspawn was put in a special school for recalcitrance. This didn’t work either. He managed to find a way to get expelled and was rewarded in this with plenty of time to hide out and get drink.

One day Gomez was so drunk he could hardly walk while stumbling around outside trying to make it to another hangout. He was eaten up with hatred of the rich white people he saw zooming past him in their cars. He saw an old, fat white ‘bitch’ by herself acting as a clerk at a gas station. It was dark, no one was around, and his feet hurt; he was tired (drunk). His dim mind told him to steal her car.

He went in and demanded her car keys. She laughed and told him to go suck an egg. He attacked. She slapped him off as she called the cops. Gomez managed to steal only the keyring she’d left in the cash register. He was too stupefied to get the drawer open. Plus he was in a bit of a hurry, of course. None of the keys was to any car. He stumbled off into the darkness and into the arms of a cop. She knelt on his head, hogtied him and threw him in her car.

Mom’s money again came to the rescue. She bought her little darling a 4 month sentence at the Okie ‘Boot’ ‘Kamp’. Gomez was too weak, small and undisciplined to last even 10 days! He was such a master manipulator that for a short time he had the kops there agree to make it easier on him than the others because he is such a shrimp. He kept pushing for more and more special treatment until they finally threw him out in disgust. He thus turned 4 months into a 3 year sentence.

They put him in their sissy prison at Hominy. He lasted less than a month. Gomez is very effeminate, and of course joined the Mexican gang as soon as he could find it. They refused to come in from the big ‘yard’ cage one day for no clearly described reason. This idiocy got them all sent to this place; Okie’s worst slow death prison: Big Crack. It is hard to have a gang protect you when you’re forced into a 2-man care. Gomez was run out of at least 3 cages before a soft headed guard took pity on him and put him in mine. She thought he would he safe with an old man with no history of exploiting people.

Gomez was much relieved and tried hard not to show it. He had secretly filled out many ‘separation orders’ that notified the guards as to which inmates he shouldn’t be made to live with. Gomez also pretended to have just learned how to play chess, (this is another standard excuse for taking so long to get good at a hard game.) He liked to play, but he knew no openings except the ones he’d copied from better players. He came into my cage an ‘A’ level player and left a ‘C’ level player in a very short time; about two months. (The rankings go A,B,C,D,E, expert, master, grandmaster and international grandmaster. I’m only a master after having quit studying in my twenties.) Without even knowing the rankings, he thought he was a master merely on the basis of his asking my ranking. To show you the colossal impudence of Gomez, he seemed to believe this despite his inability to win more than one out of six games, and many of them due to my boredom.

To learn his philosophy is to be appalled. His highest goal is to obtain free or taxpayer subsidized housing. Tie wants a fine lowrider car that can hop up on its shocks, but he doesn’t want to work. His only job was forced upon him as a condition of release. This was at a pizza joint. It lasted only 3 paychecks due to his extreme laziness and jealousy at others making more than him for what he perceived as less work. He plotted to rob the place as he worked there. His plan makes the Keystone Cops look competent. Starting out with nothing but a drunken haze and his thumb up his ass, Gomez enlisted the help of twerp, who could steel a couple of his mother’s scarves for masks. They had to go to another twerp’s home so he could steal, temporarily, his older brother’s gun. Twerp II wouldn’t steal the gun without being included in the robbery. Gomez and twerp had wanted to avoid letting twerp II know the purpose of their wanting his gun, fearing that he’d take over their operation, meaning that he’d keep most of the money for himself and drink up most of what they (he) bought (them) with their share. Like some kind of magical mind reader, twerp II instantly guessed that they wanted the gun for a robbery.

He quickly included himself and took over their operation despite their protests.

Step 2 involved stealing a car. This turned arduous, as they had to wait for a mom to get off work so she could drive them to the Mall, since none of them had bus fare to do so. On the way there the mom caught her son with a stout screwdriver and made him leave it behind. They begged her for money for snacks. This they spent on a flimsy screwdriver. They searched the massive parking lot for cars with keys hanging in tile ignition. Nobody was stupid enough for this today. Also, they got harassed by a gang of Caucasian twerps looking for tape players, radios, CDs, radar detectors, etc, to steal. The Mall parking lot cops harassed them too. They’d found a car sufficiently secluded with the doors unlocked. Twerp II, the criminal genius, went to work on the steering column with the cheap screw driver while Gomez and twerp stood watch. While they were ducked down rolling a joint, the mall cops swooped, capturing all in various criminal acts.            The dope blew away and the scratches on the steering column were so slight that the owner didn’t want to get involved. The Mall Kops held them for their mothers.

The next day was a repeat of the first, except at a different Mall. They did manage to find a car with the keys in it. Twerp II drove to the pizza place, robbed it himself and drove off. Since Gomez and Twerp had done nothing beyond supply the idea and a couple of scarves, they got nothing beyond a couple of beers and a shot of cheap gin.

It never became clear whether or not they’d gotten caught at this; judging from his body language during the telling, it appears that Gomez himself escaped punishment, but he could have again snitched his way out when the cops visited past employees and accused them of the crime, as is their standard practice.

What strikes me about Gomez and his hispanic pals is their extreme greed when it comes to alcohol and drugs. The one who buys, steals or swindles the alcohol passes it out sparingly to favorites and hoards most for himself. The largest hispanic will guzzle it at a frightening speed, sometimes not even closing the refrigerator door before snatching up another can or two. In fact, such flagrant greed and thievery occurs that often none is even put in to cool, but is instead either drunk on the spot, on the way home, or simply concealed in bedrooms or other hiding places. Then they go to raid the common supply again. This same greed and thievery goes on in the case of drugs, too. They claim to have two types of weed in California: the good stuff, which they call ‘chronic’ because of the way it makes you cough. It seems to me that they get light headed from holding their breath as their bodies try to hack their guts up. This war between trying to keep their mouths shut while their lungs try to explode leads to extremely high blood pressure pounding on their brains. Smoke and mucus shoot out their noses with sprays of snot spewing down their chins. Their eyes water and turn red. They stagger backward and wipe the slime off their faces with their sleeves, or simply flick or blow or spit it onto the ground and quickly jam the slobbery end of the joint in their mouths to noisily suck up another hit. This blatantly screws everyone else out of their turns. The others snatch at the joint. The biggest or the fastest one gets it and repeats exactly this process of excessive greed, and the smallest guy, last in line, is lucky if he gets even One hit, much less a buzz.

They call the other type of weed ‘spas’, probably because it is such trash that you have to be a spas to buy it. They pay outrageous sums for both kinds ($5/joint of the green ‘chronic’; $2/toothpick joint of the homegrown ‘spaz’). Gomez has not yet gained enough experience to realize that most people wishing to sell him dope will make up any kind of nonsense to facilitate the transfer of his (mama’s) money to their pockets. Thus he believes the “white superweed myth (Weed ‘grown’ in darkness is much more powerful) even to the extent that he will swear to having had some and that it was the best possible. He claims to be ‘gifted’ and ‘talented’, yet somehow missed the scientific fact that all plants require light to grow. He also believes he can type 60 wpm using only two fingers, despite being handed mathematical proof that this requires his two fingers to hit five correct keys each second. He believes an Indian created a still in this prison out of rubber tubing and thus distills fermented fruit garbage into ‘white lightening’. He believes that fresh bread is required to make prison ‘beer’, and denies that 20 minutes baking in a 375 oven doesn’t kill the yeast. He is more full of nonsensical folk lore than most teenage children I’ve met.

Surprisingly, though, he is proficient at math up to elementary algebra, having solved several problems most others could not solve. Even so, I showed him statistical proof that even the most successful bullshit artist criminal in prison is only making about 3¢/hr in a cost-benefit analysis using their own inflated claims of ‘profit’ coupled with their sentences. He performed his own calculation that was illustrative of his ethnic psyche. He figures that he (and everyone else) sleeps 10 hrs/day, and that criminality is the one and only possible vocation that would give him the life of leisure he craves.

He did mention one other possibility: that of making a middleman’s living off recording a friend’s rap songs and selling them to a producer. Parasites such as these should be locked in a room and given the most powerful dopes and alcohols until they solve the problem that is them.

An interesting thing he mentioned was being able to contact various juvenile ‘gangs’ on the net and in chatrooms. Apparently they set up sites, post each other’s pictures, call each other ‘rats’ and ‘snitches’, pretend to be females as they make the equivalent of crank calls school children of previous generations used to do.

Despite Game,’ gifts and talents, he came to my cage with one usual idea most prisoners seem to have: that of rinsing his clothes of soap residue by wanting to flush them down the shitter pipe! I had a long talk with the little twerp, reminding him of all the sickness that comes from sewers. He responded with how sparkling clean the crapper has to be before he flushes his clothes down the shitter. Seeing that there was no reaching this sniveling little punk, I told him not to flush his clothes down the shitter pipe. He waited two weeks, then I caught him hiding behind the toilet sheet saturating his clothes with feces bacteria by flushing them down the crapper. It is no wonder to me why their average lifespan is so very short: they hate Caucasians and thus our technology and science so badly that they would rather die early than wound their (excessive) pride.

The politicians, their news-whores, their public relations firms, the church and other people who have not had to live and work near or among minorities are all programed to believe and sell the lie that prejudice is what Caucasians do to minorities and that we should simply love them and everything will be all right. This is nonsense. It is like the prariedog should love the weasel. Prejudice is part of minority culture, as is their hatred of Caucasians and their jealousy. They are born and bred to it. I’ll show the blind how to spot it: when you jog past a Mexican, even while smiling, he will most often look mean at you and spit. This is how they make certain you know of his hatred and jealousy of you. You have done nothing to him but smile and wave; he spits and looks mean at you.

One of the first things Gomez did when he was saved from a beating by his own kind for being a rat and was moved to my cage is constantly grope and jerk and rub at his crotch. This is another method of their disrespect, hatred and jealousy of you. Gomez knew nothing of me but that I looked Caucasian and spoke English. That was enough knowledge for him to start his crotch-groping reflex. This is their stealthy, cowardly way of saying, “I hate you and all white people, for no other reason than that it was taught me, ingrained into me, by my forebears.” Now, if I was a miserable young, ignorant fool with dogshit for brains like him, I’d have bashed him one time on his worthless head and I’d have from then on gained his perpetual feigned respect and actually done something to earn his hatred. Since I’m a sarcastic bastard, I did consider ridiculing him by jumping up and scaring him out of his tiny wits by demanding, “Are you eat up with crabs, you little twerp? If you got the syph, you got to go, NOW! Get over by that door and stay there until the cops come to fumigate your nasty ass!” And on and on…

But, unlike mindless, hatred-filled minorities, I know that meeting shittiness with shittiness makes their prejudice and hatred increase, and for a reason. This is what minorities can’t figure out: When Gomez first walked timidly into my cage and began shitting on me in his cowardly, crotch-groping way, he couldn’t see 10 minutes into the future when he’d need a cup from me so he could have some of that saccarine-dye orange juice he loves so much for supper. (His fellow Mexican compatriot wouldn’t let him escape his cage with much of his stuff. He had pretty much nothing when he came here, and he was permitted to leave with even less-only clothes, such as 2 pair of shorts he wears, gang-style, one to cover his hairless, feminine-looking ass, and the other drooping down below his knees. Wearing 2 sets of oversize, droopy clothes makes them think they look bigger and more dangerous; a significant worry for an ethnic group known for its lack of height)

I said nothing about his crotch groping, and I gave him a cup without making him ask for it or do without (he would have done without before asking, or would have tried to finagle the gift without asking by obliquely making it know he didn’t have a cup and hoping I’d simply be generous enough to offer one. They know Caucasians are generous with their plenty when given the chance.)

What we call politeness, generosity and just plain right, minorities call ‘weakness’. Church people will imagine that these qualities in us transform the minorities’ thinking. Rarely it does, but mostly it doesn’t. (Bear in mind that I speak of the dregs of minorities and Caucasians found in prison.) Soon as there is an opportunity for them to steal from you, or extort from you, or take any type of advantage, most will, immediately, without any thought for the future. Of 30 years of studying minorities, I have found that they have progressed to the point where they no longer sell out for a cigarette, cup of coffee or stamp. Now they have learned to feign civilized behavior for longer periods so as to sell out for larger amounts, such as a porn magazine, a bag of coffee or a whole bag of cigarettes. They think of Caucasians as supermarkets they can steal from by merely promising eventual repayment. They don’t seem to be able to connect our riches with our employment-probably because they are too busy burglarizing our homes while we are at work. If they do make the connection between work and riches, it is only to think of what fools we are to work 8 hrs/day while we could be keeping drunk and fed by being parasites like them. Gomez’ thinking that everyone needs at least 10 hours sleep every night likely comes from his steady diet of alcoholic stupor, when he can get it.

Gomez’ first choice of vocation was to be a ‘pimp’ as it was described to him by his black friends. Gomez tried hard to learn how to find young females who would accept abuse plus give him their profits from prostituting themselves, but he dust couldn’t manage to move theory into practice. He says this is the ideal ‘work’ for him, being a parasite living off young, beautiful girls, but he is still mystified as to how his black pals pull off this coup. Thus he has committed himself to more study of this phenomenon while he pursues vocations that he ‘knows’ provide the combination of high profit and low work he desires, such as theft, drug sales and robbery.

He is, truly, bred for crime, both socially and culturally.

Inmate DJ

©2005 James Bauhaus

I met a new kid last month. He was skinny, blond, not to tattoo’d and apparently more intelligent that the usual prison inmate. We were eating our garbage in the mess hall when he mentioned to me that he was broke, would never have any money sent to him, was never going to leave prison and thus might a well sue these  encarcerrating bastards for the betterment of everyone suffering their caprices. He’d heard that I knew the law and suggested a deal: I would write the lawsuits and he would sign them and suffer getting his head shot off by the bureaucrats and lawyers for having the courage and gall to contest their daily harassment and enslavey. I promised to try and think up some things that we, (he) could sue for and have no chance of winning, and I explained to him the legal fact that the chances of winning anything from them is practically nil for two primary reasons. One, judges dodge prisoner lawsuits by simply stating their doctrine (dogma) of trying never to interfere with a warden’s bailiwick: two, this “non-interference” doctor., is almost never broached until a pattern of prison deaths and/or injuries can be proved to be “negligence” AND “deliberate indifference” to death and abuse. Since few prisoners were dying or being maimed due to prison policies (aside firm the standard cleverly disguised medical malpractice and shackle torture, which is not counted), we could not win any suits for improved conditions.

A month later we met again in the big cage. While walking circles within it for exercise, I admitted to him that the lawyer’s system was a costly fame that would sic the prison bureaucrats on him. Then I began to explain a better, more effective way that involved swaying the court of public opinion by w writing complaints that expose the corruption and propose a better solution. From this point our goal-oriented quest for better conditions more suited to twenty-first century man degenerated into a more rambling gripe session and me listening to his opinions and life story.

DJ is obviously intelligent but suffers a lot of ill-conceived `knowledge’ and ‘facts’ sold to him by some of the most cunning propagandists on Earth. Though obviously of Nordic descent, DJ professes to Judaism since his conscious memories began. He’s an Anarchist, though he likes all the video cops watching all the time because it cuts down on the “Bullshit” (meaning the rat-pack attacks on individuals). He staged unaware that anarchy would cause MORE attacks. He sits at the Nazi feeding-table, but disdains the gang practice of snatching up scared youngsters and indoctrinating them with supposed `Aryan’ ‘culture’. He disdains most of the people here and now does not feel he should sacrifice himself for their good. He described himself as a “geek” in that he actually did learn something impressive about computers, particularly the windows operating system and a bit of dos. He appears to know how to get into dos and how to construct custom characters. He’s anti-abortion, wants to save the (fertilized human) eggs, wants to stop killing embryos for stem cell research. (He’s a bit cloudy on this, not knowing the scientific arguments for therapeutic cloning, only the religious arguments against ALL cloning.) He disdains science in general, evolution in particular: another sign of lack of school and a self-accrued education. He dodged school and fell into drugs, burglary and other crimes. He started this behavior late and got caught early enough to be permitted to dodge prison by ducking into the service. He said this was where his Attention Deficit Disorder “came in handy”, though I can’t remember his reason for saying this: apparently the Army needs youngsters who can’t concentrate too well.

The govt gave him plenty of lethal toys to play with and taught him murder-theory on how to kill (urban warfare), then sent him to Honduras to fold parachutes for the contras in Reagan’s secret war against Nicaragua. (This makes him about 35 years old or so, if true.) They let him pretty much run wild. He remembers the fabulous “parties” of marathon drug use while “serving” his country. Some time later he learned he was an unknowing cog in Reagan’s machine that imported crime into the US and Europe to pay for that war. He dropped one of those “harmless” “flash-bang” grenades: the same type the cops use and fried his eyeballs. This got him a discharge. He returned to his previous life of drug use and sponging off his mother.  (His father died in a wreck.) He used and abused his family so badly that they won’t write him. His mom and sister called the cops on him when he began robbing gas stations after finding him passed out drunk trying to hammer open a cash-box. The cops said, “Let us ‘help’ him.” Too late, the mother and sister discovered that the cops’ “help” consisted of burying him under a life sentence for mere robbery without any weapon in which no one was hurt.   The “robbery by force and fear” was really only a snatch and run.

DJ has joined the Nazi clique, which is, incredibly, run by a wire-haired numbskull with a Polish suname and Semitic ancestry! Apparently today’s Aryan brotherhood is a bit foggy about features to look for to detect their ancestral prey. “Lech”, as leader of this tiny unit of Nazis, got into trouble when he bravely suited up at six AM, took his aluminum pipe and, soon as the doors opened, clubbed his sleeping victim into a coma and deftly made his getaway.

He bragged of his prowess to his pals, they gossiped about “the great hit” to their pals. Eventually the story reached someone who was appalled by it enough to break the inmate code of silence. The guards were told and Lech was dragged off to “jail”. Thirty days later Lech whined to his buddies, “I can’t take any more of this sensory deprivation and have come up with a great plan for you guys to get me out: you just go a round and ask for volunteers to go to jail until they fill up all the cages and squeeze me back out with you guys. Than it will be just like before; us shooting dope, eating junk food and rat-packing individuals who have too much coffee, tobacco, groceries and porno.”

Guess who gets sent to lead the first man to free Lech? You are correct! DJ: They picked his victim for him. The target was to be a studious, law-library type guy who was also a fellow dope fiend with them, but whose skin was too brown to qualify as Aryan. Bo was a tiny Orlando-looking English-Mexican mix, which made him a full foot taller and 40 pounds heavier than your average Mexican. Since he was big and DJ was thin, they assigned to him two “helpers”: tough-acting children hot to do anything to join the Nazi clique. They barged into Bo’s cage and delivered their ultimatum: ‘Either you go attack some poor sap in front of the kop, thereby sending both you and your victim to the hole, or we three Aryan Brothers are going to rat-pack you right here and now, beating the crap out of you. Which is it going to be?”

No fool, Bo said, “Whoa! Wait a minute! Just let me get dressed (prison cages are so hot in summer that you can’t stay in one long while fully dressed) and get my shoes on and I’ll trot right out and attack some little runt of my choosing, just like you guys want!”

Soon as Bo got ready, he also put on thin, cotton work gloves. The three Aryans were bit slow in objecting to this and thus were very surprised when, while heading past them to the door, Bo bashed DJ in his face three times, slammed him back ever the other two and commenced to feed them a steady succession of lefts, rights, knees and head-butts as he fell on top of them in a pile. He hadn’t meant to trip over DJ, maybe DJ tripped him on purpose as part of his military training. The result was that DJ was the last one able to squirm out from beneath Bo when the tables finally turned. The brawl didn’t last five minutes. They never managed to subdue and gang-beat Bo as satisfactorily as they had wanted or been instructed to. They just got tired of beating a guy who kept punching, biting, kicking and gouging. They were all gasping like asthmatic whales when they finally left to report to Aryan Central and Fearless Leader. An inventory of harm was taken. The three “soldiers” looked like they had been pushed into a cement mixer with their bleeding contusions, fat lips, swelling eyes and heads all skobbed-up from the banging they’d taken off the steel racks and concrete on the way down and at the bottom of Bo’s pile.

The stories were told and evaluated. The Fearless Leaders decided that Bo deserved better, so they got together a delegation to pay another visit. They ran in and they gang-beat Bo again like the rat-pack they were, then each of the dog-shits shook Bo’s hand, told him how they were very impressed with the amount of “heart” he had shown. Lastly the told him that their targeting of him was over no hard feelings; all friends again now. Soon a Bo agreed that they were all buddies together again, the rat-pack left, feeling themselves safe from much deserved one-to-one retaliation of even a “knife” in their backs or a slash in their faces with a razor-blade melted onto the handle of a toothbrush. As is almost always the case, their chickens did NOT come home to roost; what goes around did NOT come around; instant karma did NOT get them and neither did God. They all got completely away with it and were never made to pay a cent, unless you count the food they had stolen cut of the mess hall to feed Bo, while he helped them get further away with their crimes against him by hiding in his cage so the guards would not see his wounds and force an explanation from him. It took a week for him to heal enough to walk to the food, at which time the `Aryans’ were happy to loan Bo a pair of sunglasses to hide his black eyes for them until THEY healed.

Meanwhile, DJ is still the rising star of the Aryan clique leaders because he was more German than all of them put together, plus he had military training, which they, as mere poolhall scofflaws, wished to learn. DJ was ready to quit, though, he had both failed miserably and gotten his shit kicked. He told them that he wasn’t good enough and they told him that he was the best; plus they offered him “The Patch”. The “patch” is no longer the thing that poor kids’ Moms put on the knees and seats of their britches. Nor was this patch a particularly colorful embroidery of skulls and spiders that Harley-riders sew onto their jackets. This patch began with the Aryan nation organization about 40 years ago and was two tiny light lightening bolts tattoo’d low on the neck where it could easily be covered with a shirt collar. This neck tattoo concept was quickly stolen by the next gang of illiterates, the Oklahoma “Aryan” Brotherhood who enlarged and colorized it so boldly that it looked like a huge red and blue Meadow cold milk emblem high up on the side of their necks. This proved too showy and they all rapidly met bad ends, but not bad enough for the concept to die. The patch tattoo concept was next pilfered by the current gang of knuckleheads, the universal “Aryan` Brotherhood, who moved it to their stomach. Their “roots” show that they probably spent a lot of time spray painting graffiti on buildings, because this is similar to what they engraved into their bellies. Usually it was two-inch high initials “UAB” on top of their belly buttons and their gang name below or a trite line out of a popular movie or video game.

In order to earn his patch, DJ would only have to suffer one more mission. He and three other want-to-be Nazis were told to make the same offer to Larry the Loser, (previously called ‘Black’ in Bred for crime: Robbery). LtL was a connive-artist and a sneak-thief of about 33 years of age and, though strong, muscled and confident, he was not easy to look at. His nose was shoved sideways and up into his face, his eyes were hideously cauliflowered and his yellow teeth were ragged, chopped and missing in two cases. Obviously his lifestyle of telling any type of lie about swearing to God to pay later for dope now had betrayed his actual fighting ability. No fool any longer, he quickly decided to take the second option. The five warriors trouped outside unobtrusively (for them) and took up positions not far from the guard, who was being “chatted-up” by an old, shriveled, former alcoholic/homeless/DUI person, LtL sneaks up from behind and, without warning, begins bashing the guy’s face. Alkie takes one and a half hits before he falls over backward, both from the power and surprise of the attack. The guard shrieks in horror, leaps back, turns in midair, runs for his glass habitat and, while safely inside, calls on his radio for the swarm of guards to lock up their prisoners, then converge on this “trouble spot”. This gives the prisoners plenty of time to fight before the kops come to pry them apart.

Most of these innate fights begin with a suckerpunch or two, a couple of retaliatory blows, then they lock together and roll in the dirt for a minute or two before stopping to gasp for a while maintaining a tangle of arms, legs, hair, etc, safe from more tiring, painful blows. They wait patiently in the tangle exchanging curses until the kops come and save them from further folly. But not this time. Alkie is down, LtL is winging a massive boot toward his victim’s head. It slams into Alkie’s face in what looks to be a devastating blow. But Alkie catches it in his hands and twists: LtL screams like a little girl, tries to save his knee by throwing himself over his leg. He nose-dives into the compacted dirt, then snakes free, crawls, rises, tries to scrabble away just as Alkie tackles him around his ankles. LtL eats dirt again, hard, with a loud “Oof!” Alkie tries to crawl up LtL’s legs, but LtL lands a lucky boot to Alkie’s face, gets loose and staggers away with Alkie right behind. LtL limps straight for DJ, as if he’s expecting help. He groans something to him that includes, “My leg: My damn leg!” Then Alkie is on him again; gets him in a headlock and begins feeding him a steady s succession of knuckle sandwiches. DJ looks around,     ostensibly to make sure no kops are looking, then snatches at Alkie”s wrist, trying to unlock LtL’s head. Alkie throws an arm around DJ’s neck! Now he’s got both of them in headlocks, swinging them around and trying to keep them off their footing while he knocks their heads together: Finally a swarm of kops arrive with their knee pads, bean bag gun, electric shock shields, beatsticks, chains, shackles, legirons and cowties. They find Alkie, DJ, and LtL on the ground, still in headlocks, gasping for breath. LtL’s nose is bleeding, Alkie”s face is gashed, and a gob of DJ’s yellow hair blows across the yard like a tumbleweed. The kops drag them all off to solitary confinement.

This is the turning point for DJ. The last time I saw him, he was telling the Aryan pinheads that he’d just pass on the brotherhood thing. Privately he told me that while in the hole he had met Lech and found him to be the biggest buffoon he had ever encountered, excluding his ROTC CO’S in Honduras, of course. Then he said he might check with the Indian Brotherhood, officially called “IBH”, or, because of their identifying tattoo, usually scratched into their faces, “Featherheads.”

This decision, more than any other part of his life, is why I selected DJ to feature in this series cause it proves that DJ was, sincerely and truly, Bred for crime.

Inmate CS

You can call me all the racists you want, but I’m only recording the ugly facts. After that shitbrain, Mikey Mitchell pulled his cowardly sneak attack and I delicately peeled his scuzzy ass off my back and convinced the Kops to finally take him away and leave me relatively unpunished for their making me suffer him for months, they put another, more intelligent Indian in with me. He is not quite so young and dumb as MM, and a lot less scheming and less requiring of the constant ego-petting and attention most of these ignorami insist upon. Even so, he thought other judges would forgive his robbery of his Aunt’s cigarette store on the technicality that it occurred on ‘Indian’ land. I am always amazed at how inmates will believe that judges somehow are bound by the constitution: they are not bound by anything, except perhaps generalities.

The next inmate I got was a Scot who is 22 and enamored of the Irish Mob Gang, into which he was inducted while I lived with him. He was very intelligent in the ways of being a thief, and solved the gold bellrope problem even more efficiently than the book, “Aha! Insight!” by Martin Gardener. He did this by proposing slamming the knife into the hole in the ceiling in such a way that from the floor you could send up waves that would cut it down, effectively stealing 100% of both ropes. He once stole a car and was in the trunk when the cops came to steal it back. He hid there and successfully escaped while the cops’ wrecker service was stopped at a red light. He is a nice guy who may dodge a lifetime of state abduction by inheriting his dad’s barber shop. His philosophy is that he is entitled to steal anything he desires unless it belongs to a friend. He was being tortured by a much larger redneck when they moved me into his cage. He was almost forced to cave the guy’s head in while he slept, but the prison pigs finally solved his problem by moving that piece of shit into the cage with my Indian.

Next was CS, a 43 year old, 270 pound food addict who claimed German/Indian ancestry. He was able to sit still and read/enjoy pulp fiction for long hours-my idea of a low maintenance inmate-one who didn’t require you to entertain him; one who could entertain himself, wasn’t illiterate and had a life going on beyond and above the usual inmate plane of ego-tripping and bullshitting. He’d gotten 7 lifes and 10 years, some without parole, for mere marijuana sales. His story got bigger every time he told it, and he told it often, but he apparently got caught with 300 pounds of dope and claimed to sell this much every month with the help of his twin sons. Of course he spent it as fast as he made it, and the lawyers got about 20 to 50 thousand of it and had him stupidly cop out to all his maximum sentences! This is clearly a case of robbery-by-lawyer, who made CS believe the lie “We’ll win on appeal.” The judge and lawyer simply performed as is usual in their supposed ‘adversarial’ system-by being in cahoots in stripping victims of all their assets and burying their client in prison so the silksuited Mafia can sleep fearlessly in their beds. CS didn’t appeal and feigns the appearance of going to appeal by waiting 7 years for his wife to photocopy his copout transcript. He seems to think the law will change so he can get out through no effort of his own.

Like most fat people, he’s fat because he is a food addict. He spent a major fraction of his profits taking himself and family and sycophants to “gormet” restaurants every day. He can’t taste anything because he drowns everything in hot sauce and pepper. Fat-sos also think they are gormet cooks. Some are, and CS had these inmates eating out of my trashcan. He’d buy that ground gutz ‘chili’, toss in beans, hot sauce, cheetos, noodles and ‘summer sausage’ (more gutmeat) chunks, and mix it all up in the wastebasket. This is the only thing he had big enough to hold all this crap. Then he’d spread it on tortillas and call it ‘burritos’. He’d insist people eat this shit, and most would, willingly and with relish. I did once, just to shut him up, tossing out the sausage chunks, of course, and have to admit that it was good, though too hot. It tasted like burittos with too much pepper, but the other inmates went nuts over it. One even emulated him by making ‘tuna’ ‘burritos’ in his trashcan. Food is such a factor in CSs life that whereever he goes, he starts a food-loaning business to supply his habit. He’s full of stories of how fat and rich he got doing this the last time, and seems incapable of accepting the fact that his ‘best customers’ eventually clean him out. Every purchase day (2 times per month at Big Crack) he’d get paid his debts and 10 minutes later they borrow even more from him. They can only pay back $20/fortnight, so eventually CSs food is eaten by them for credit. They make token payments by mail, vend hard-luck stories, then move off to other cage-stacks to continue their process of ‘borrowing’ without paying. CS can’t beat payment out of them during the 1-hour of ‘yard’ we have every few days since this would get him removed to the super-harassment cages, thereby losing all his debtors. He likes to say he can hire others to collect debts, but this doesn’t work, since you can’t spend a beating. If any money can be coerced out of the debtor before he can have the guards move him to safety, it goes to the thug, not CS.

CS is a nice enough guy and has a certain amount of cunning. He feigns membership in both the Indian Brother Hood (IBH) gang and the Nazi gang when expedient to coerce payment. He’s got an even bigger cousin in the Nazi gang who sucked out a $10 payment from CS for pretending he was a Nazi and had their gang behind him. He and I once had a shouting match over his electronic pacifier noise and he shaved his head into a stupid looking ‘war bonnet’ (Iriquois Indian style) to make me think he was in the Indian gang and better shut up about his radio. Many inmates, trooping by for shower, commented on how idiotic it made him look. The shaving makes you look like a bald man, which is shocking to see on one who yesterday had a pile of kinky brown hair on top. This embarrassed CS into claiming he just had a wild hair up his huge ass instead of the obvious “I’m on the warpath:” nonsense.

CS got over it, and it turns out that he isn’t a loudness freak about the radio like the youngsters. (He’s at least 40). He does have a habit of combining a sneeze with a shriek. This is undoubtedly a type of power trip that almost all large, fat faux indulge in-a way of saying, “I’m large, and I can get away with harassing you in subtle ways that are too mild for you to decide it’s worth bashing me in my sleep.”

Being a fat, sweaty hog, he had a skin condition that he attributed to a soap allergy. His skin is a feast for bacteria because he was so fat that he’d always overheat and sweat moisture and salt, which bacteria love. Sleeping on a plastic pad helped to cultivate these bacteria too. You couldn’t make him see this. Instead he’d blame it on the prison laundry, which is only half at fault, and wash his bedclothes in the laziest way possible. He’d soak them for hours in a trashcan of boiling water, then rinse them thoroughly. (Not as bad a technique as some, who will actually rinse clothes by flushing them down the crapper pipe.)

Living with CS was like living in a stall with a large farm animal that possessed two huge asses. He’s a nervous type who would do the little 3-step pace, back and forth, for hours. Reminds me of a scared parakeet that’s had too many buffoons slap its cage trying to make it talk. Or a dog constantly running between windows to press its nose up against the glass to catch the ‘action’. The action in this case was the innate substitute for TV, You have only 2 channels; chain-link-fence/empty-street drama or runman-mopping theatre. He’d leave greasy face-prints on the door glass. He’d also do an hour workout 2 or 3 times a week that he’d stretch into 3 hours per day. He’s too fat to do pullups, pushups or jumping jacks, but would lay on the floor with his arms locked straight and vertical, looking like a beached walrus. (I hereby revise my estimate of his weight to 300 plus pounds, just thinking of this.) For an extremely obese person, he was in very good shape. He would do squat thrusts and ‘lunges’ so much that he had grotesquely misshapen thighs, particularly the quadriceps muscles. This was because his style of fighting called for strong legs. His strategy was to sweep the opponent off his feet with a kick, then throw his full weight of blubber onto him in a smother-move. Once the victim was pinned to the floor under all his fat, there was nothing to do but absorb punches, which CS had in abundance. This fat guy could even jog for a few minutes.

CS used to pay Will next door 25% to receive money for him. Wil had no money, but could spend $60 every fortnight. CS would have him buy food for him and his ‘store’.

One of the stories CS would tell me many times involved Wils guts. He’d enjoy plying ma with tales of how Wil had gotten gutshot by many police slugs while stealing a car. The subsequent surgery created many pockets where Wills feces would catch and rot. CS assurred me many times that Wil was thus given to much farting which stank prodigiously worse than anyone’s ordinary farts. His purpose in trying to grind this nonsense into my memory was unknowable at first, but probably had to do with a fear that I may want to enter into some kind of business arrangement with Wil or, more likely, try to move in with him. CS also early-on told me of someone having caught Wil with his hand far up into his ass. This ‘fact’ he appeared to merely enjoy telling, rather than have an ulterior motive in doing so.

Almost every inmate’s primary timekiller is boasting. You can’t stop them. Now-adays they pretty much follow a program. They begin by telling you all the many fights they have won. The more they fear attack, the more vicious and numerous are their fight stories. Soon as they feel safe, they try to discover what you have or what you can do to benefit them. They’re looking for anything of value, but primarily tobacco, coffee, food, stamps or anything they can trade for dope, food, etc. Then they start re-living the past by bragging.

Over the course of the months I lived with him, CSs life story came to this: His parents let him run wild. He dodged most school, he learned to sniff paint early. He was befriended by an adult homosexual who would treat him very special for certain liberties. They would go ‘fishing’ and practice perversion at the same time. He spent so much time doing this that he enjoys it even as an adult in prison, though he is very subtle in fishing around for fellow perverts in prison. It would not do for a big, fat, tough guy to be found to like rectal massage. He spent a weekend bashing a hole into the side of a building and stole a pop truck out of there. He drove it to a river, then got caught by his dad. His dad helped him abscond with cases of pop he’d hidden. The woods came alive with piranhas wanting pop before they got back with a truck. He also ripped open a boxcar and stole 10 or 12 boxes of lawn mowers. His dad helped sell these too.

He and a retarded teenager used to rob wine-os, (or just beat them up for fun, seeing how much alcohol or money they had) and actually killed one at the trainyards one winter in okc. .They never got caught. He sold a lot of marijuana, using his sons in doing so, for a few years. A special forces friend enlisted CS to help kill a rat who’d stolen some of his dope. It turned into a clusterfaux of stupidity and incompetence. The cops’ rat took 2 slugs while snatching the gun out of special force’s hand. Then he ran into the dark. CS finally killed him by smacking him with a car. CS dodged prison somehow, probably by snitching on his pal. Special forces had set CS up in the marijuana business, and now his customers switched to CS. A salesman stole a trailer of marijuana from CS and he got snitched off for beating the guy into a coma and sexually assaulting his wife. One of his suns got blown away for undercutting a bunch of Vietnamese.            A judge and a lawyer connived away thousands of his marijuana money by tricking him into saying “guilty” to the maximum on 7 or 8 crimes, all of which were equal to mere sales of marijuana.

CS told this story with considerably less candor than I. Much of it I threw away in favor of the ‘facts’ which are available in police/court and other records. CS will die in prison because the judges and cops have inscribed upon their secret record of him the notion that he dodged 2 murder convictions. Also they have probably got accounts by numerous prison snitches who relate to them CSs detailed revenge fantasies. He blames all his convictions on only one cop’s snitch, a guy who used to sell weed for CS. CS enjoys telling each of his cagemates for the past 11 years exactly how he’d like to torture this guy if ever the wall fell down and he was able to waddle away.

CSs excess blubber tries to smother his heart and lungs. He has to sleep on an incline so that gravity pulls his fat off his vital organs. I like to give him most of the inedible gutmeat the prisoncrats pass off on these inmates as mystery meat patties, poisonous balonas or ground tendon and cartilage hidden under sauces and gravies. I’d sneer at it, call it the worst kind of garbage that would gag a maggot, then ask him if he wants it. He’d act like he was disgusted too, just for show, and act like he has to think about it for a while, as if weighing important factors. When he sees me move to dump it in the shitter, he quickly says, “Oh, all right. Give it here:”

He likes to get back at me for this by cutting loud farts very often, in addition to his sneeze-shrieking. I’d hope he’d get diarrhea from this garbage like everyone else. So far he has not shit down his leg yet that I know of, but it hasn’t been for lack of goading by me. Also, fat people are able to eat with impunity crap that would kill a vulture. It is odd that so many are thought to be gormets. CS eats stuff so vile that it would chase dogs off a gut wagon, and though he shits at least once every day, he knows when it is diarrhea and has not yet made the Morales mistake. He craps the same way a coo-coo drops an egg into a strange bird’s nest: quickly and easily, barely pausing long enough to alight.

One o£ the quirky things CS liked to do was look up words in his dictionary whenever he found a new one in the many pulp thrillers he would read. He’d sneak it out, look up the word quietly, read the definition, then tick me what the word means. I’d answer be cause I kind of like the guy. If he thought I’d just make something up if I didn’t know, he was disappointed every time. If I do not know something, it’s no bother to me to admit that I do not know. Usually I’d get at least one definition right, then CS would pretend to dig out his dictionary and read all its definitions to me, acting as if he was scoring me. Since I was helping him with the math and English parts of his GED homework, ‘maybe this was his way of returning the favor.

As for CSs crimes, they gradually got so big with the telling that he was making $2 million/year, and he got away with them for 7 years. I asked him what he did with all the money. He said he bought 7 waterbikes for $5,000 each, a home for his wife (probably not more than $100,000), various cars and trucks, (surprisingly not ‘vettes of suv’s), a few electronic toys that were also nothing special, and karate classes for him and his kids. He mentioned having excess cash and was thinking of buying a hot dog business, (gormet, of course). He never did. Then he got busted and the lawyers skipped off with no more than $70,000. So, the big question is; what happened to the other 13 million dollars and change? I don’t think the comet restaurants got them, no matter how many mouths he brought with him. Besides, they all seemed to be glorified taco joints anyway. How pricey can you make corn, beans, cheese and ground beef?

Despite CSs temporary success as a dope wholesaler and lack of investment and accounting skills, he did far, far better than any of these ghetto rats I’ve met in 30 plus years of my experience in Okie prisons. Nevertheless, I must mark him down as being bred for crime.

Marching Morons Part 3

We are plagued with vicious, silly, Fatherless children in men’s bodies when there is no need for it but to be scapegoat and stepladder to even more vicious merchants and politicians.

I just had to whiz. MM has a plastic bag over his mess in the shitter. I’d rather piss out the window than suffer what he’s done, but gingerly I take the bag off and hurridly whiz. The fumes rise like the stench of death reborn. It is like Yeti shit in a truck tire and then set afire. The choking miasma stalks the run and visits each cage within 50 feet. A chorus of cursing ensues. They bring their dogs out and try to zero in on the offending cage. Their eyes bulge, their necks crane, they shout up and down trying to see or find anyone in the act of defecating. The invisible belching smoke is so thick that I pinch off pissing and run to the window, frantically cranking it even farther open. Returning to finish pissing, I’m spotted. The turd-Posse has turned up no one, but I am their chief suspect. It is amazing how accurate 20 or 30 inmate shitsniffers can become through concerted effort. The hue and cry is raised on my cage, and confirmation enough for them is when I try to replace MM’s plastic sack over his mess. They are certain MM is the culprit now, because they know him, and they haven’t the guts to accuse me. (They are different from the run-Negroes and the run-Cauc who previously brought forth their nasal accusations. They get courage from not living nearby and showering separately from their targets. Also, there is no gainsaying these pig’s asskissers because they will contaminate your food on the sly. Run-rats are carefully selected by the pigs for their snitching, asskissing and bootlicking abilities. The bigger the pigkissers they are, the scummier they are toward their victims. They are careful not to victimize anyone they live near or must have contact with.)

MM suffers the catcalls and abuse of the local stink-police. Since they live nearby, they are careful to keep the abuse half-humorous. Since they are illiterate rubes with most of their brains wired directly to their olfaction centers, they are particularly inclined to cock their Chameleon-like nostrils in every direction until they acquire a target. It’s just MM’s habit of doing aerobics then crawling into his never-washed, sheep-hair coccoon that makes him their usual target.

12-29-00: Seems like we’ve been without water and electricity for weeks instead of days. My finger is too dirty to rub my eye with. Fifty crappers reek in unison. Ninety-nine people have shit twice or thrice each, and it stinks. They are passing bags of feces to cages with holes in the windows to throw them outside. The guards in the towers caught this and thought it was smuggling. The Captain-guard sent Lt. Flunky to investigate. His recommendation is that they steal all plastic bags in prisoner areas that exhibit emptiness while threatening all prisoners with revocation of privileges. Since the pigs have stolen the privileges of 1914 era sewage service and the privileges of light, heat and water, next theft must be the privilege of sustenance.

Yesterday MM got some sage advice from the kid directly across the run. He taught MM to make a straw out of a stack of styrofoam cups. This he stuck into the cropper and blew into for several minutes. He had his head deep inside the thing. The smell some how didn’t seem to bother him, and suprizingly, his loudmouth Injun buddy, Chief Foghorn watched in uncharacteristic silence (Karl Tiger), at least until he was finished. Next, MM decided it would be a terrific idea to also send the shitter Gods the only source of drinkable water he had. (He’d filled a plastic bag with about 3.5 gallons o£ water. Inmates commonly use these for dumbells.) Not two hours after having ditched it, he was begging for some from the guards, who of course have plenty and taunt us from behind their bulletproof habitat by slurping messily from bottled-water jugs. They hold up their gallons, wipe their lips with the back of their hands and shout “Ozarka!” Previously the Kops had given tea to their runrats to pass out with supper. Tea and coffee is poison to me, but I suffered it better than the hogs who tried and often succeeded in cheating the weaker and poorer inmates out of theirs.

Prior to this, MM defecated again. This time he chose to use the bag trick kid had taught him. He wrapped it into a dripping mess, strung it over the length of this cage and tried to push it out the window. The holes inmates can make in stainless steel screens with nothing are small and ragged. Plus, MM was in a big hurry to drop his bomb down 4 floors before the smell-cops caught him. His bag of shit ripped, he cut his fingers, the stuff oozed out, but caught on the wire to hang by a stretched shred of plastic, just out of reach. The bag would not fall. He dug around at it with rolled-up sheets of paper, poking at it through the tiny holes as if with chopsticks, trying to lift or tear the shit loose. After 5 minutes of cold winter wind blowing in his face, he finally managed to stretch the plastic shred enough so that the bag of his partially escaped shit gradually skidded over the lip of bricks and out of sight except for the smudge-track it left. It was too biting-cold to make it fall. He shut the window. His bag of shit will hang off the building til spring and beyond, probably, because only the guards can retrieve it, and they already know what it is.

Something the inmate-geniuses across the run told MM caused him to tape over the heat-hole with plastic. It is amazing to observe these goofs struggle to maintain competing goals of “surcease from their stench” and “capture some heat.” They chase around in circles holding their noses and begging for ventilation. Soon as they get it, they whine of the chill and begin blocking all the holes and cracks. MM tolerates both exceedingly well until some maggot plants a social stigma in his head by telling him he stinks. Anyone who can stick his head in a well-used, very ripe shitter for half an hour and flush it by blowing bubbles into it has plenty of control over his own sense of smell.

Soon as the plumbers manage to get the water working again, the Kops had their runsuckasses pass out Ozarka water. Of course they could not pass out water in the plastic jugs it came in. This would be too easy and logical. Inmates might use the gallon plastic jugs for something sinister, such as to hold water for the next time they fcuk us out of water. Worse, some alcoholic inmates might try to rot some fruit in them and drink the shit! (This is something they do with mere plastic bags they pass out in relative plenty for trash disposal. The pig-mind is set to sadism and cruelty. Deprivation is the means, and phony, unspecified threats to “security” are the excuses used to perpetrate sadism and cruelty through senseless deprivation. Also the pigs are just mean and jealous, perhaps from having been slapped and mocked by bullies in school, which they never got over and warped them forever. A fuller explanation of this phenomenon is elaborated in “Copculture”.)

The stupidest way they could figure to do it is to put the now-unneeded water into plastic sacks. To ensure maximum contamination, labor and hassle, they had guards empty the jugs into the nasty 5 gallon thermos containers they use to serve coffee and tea that they never wash and seldom rinse. Then they push these out to the server-inmates. They drag these to each cage and dip the cut-off bottom flimsy of a gallon jug, plus their fingers and unwashed hand, repeatedly in to slop water into each inmate’s waiting sack.

MM and his peers are ecstatic to get something, anything “free”, even if it is only Wow-ee! store-bought water and a plastic bag to spill it with. And spill it MM did! Like the slow and dis-educated, careless fool he is, MM immediately tied the sac in a knot and set it right next to all my papers, books and everything else water can destroy when it gets stepped on, the bag splits and splashes everywhere. Then he has to get surly about it when I don’t take my half. To the run-Negro he says, “I don’t know about dis old dude.” The stuff lays on the floor while MM does his endless step, step turn dance. In 85 years of enslaving people here, the backward state of Okie-coma still has no conception of shelves except to tear them down when inmates build them. Your state is this way too, in maxpriz places.) It is impossible to ignore such an oaf, but I try to get my work done. The store-bought ‘special” water calls to MM, and before 20 circuits of his dance, he’s drawn to it like dope. He spends 5 minutes untying the knot he tied in it 5 minutes ago. He tries for a full minute to pour 3 cups of water from a trashbag. He calls for help. He won’t dip his cup in like they dipped it out to him. Instead of telling him to lay his sac in the sink and dip it out, I become an idiot’s idiot. Trying to teach this punk anything results in an explosion of verbal stupidity from him that prevents his ears from working. I don’t have to be malicious and spill water on purpose. Plenty of water spills anyway due to idiot’s long-distance pouring. It is like tying strings onto the pitcher and having a blind man crawl up in the eaves and pour for another marionette. Goof has never seen a winesac either. Plenty spills, and though I toss him a cloth rag, he wastes gobs of scarce, valuable toilet paper mopping it up. All the time he’s blowing senselessly on and on, repeating himself at least 3 times each in his mindless nervousness and rage, the culled gist of which is: “I only want 3 cups. The rest is yours.”

My reply is as simple as possible. A mere statement of the fact that I do not went any. My minimalist strategy results in another explosion of loud, oft-repeated stupidness from Idiot that boils down simply to “Why don’t you want free, store-bought water? I can’t understand why you are different from everyone else.” I state the obvious, which is that I filled up my jars and drank my fill while he and his peers were drooling out the bars gleefully awaiting the arrival of their “special” too-late water. (Note: in all fairness I mention that the “hot” water is all that came on and was not clean at first.) Like a fool, I add that if the rest in that sac, knotted and resting near my books, papers and his clumping feet, was mine, I’d immediately throw it away.

Idiot explodes again, but he moves his precious water to his area near the shitter. .  There it sits still, two days later, half a gallon of special water in Vie thinnest bag human (merchant) engineers can devise, waiting silently for the time to come when it can spread everywhere and require even more work and scarce materials to mop it up.

The most “fun” part of this fiasco, intellectually speaking, was the inmates trying to figure out what the plumbers were doing and then telling each other what they should have done. We are on the 4th floor, and inexplicably (to the inmates) the first floor had water hours and hours ago. The first floor is what the inmates call “rat-row” and “catch out’ row” Inmates catch out when threatened or suckerpunched by bigger or many other inmates. The inmates who haven’t yet caught out are very loud and proud to display their hatred of they who have. (Most ‘out-catching’ is on dope debts.) The inmates seemed to think that the guards and plumbers had a conspiracy to provide ratrow with water first. Gravity seems to have never entered their equasions.

This same, exact breakdown of plumbing and electricity and heat happens here every year at least twice and has occurred with this frequency for almost 3 solid decades that I personally know of. Only difference here is that they had all 3 types of breakdown occur simultaneously. Today, 1-5-00 the heat is still not turned back on!

A few days ago MM found himself a friend next door in #21 They stayed up all night talking. They’re both from a tiny little no-name okie town called Lawton, ironically, and LH (Leon Hart) is a tattoo’d cauc of probable Nazi-wantabe empathy whom I’d angered previously. Last year. I’d almost got to sleep when out of nowhere this guy I didn’t know decided to throw a note at me. (I never found out exactly what the content of this note was, but they always have only one object: to mooch something for free.) I didn’t get out of bed to see what it was or to fish it in. He seemed to think that it was my duty to see to his needs. The more he insisted end demanded, the less I was inclined to bother, because if you let them put you to work for them, they never stop power-mooching on you. Then he turned it into a “Hot” kite, which means a note that could get him in trouble if the kop found it lying around. Since it is not my job to protect idiots who write about “hot” stuff, sign it and throw it out where the kops can find it before they can fish it back, I went to sleep and he worked at fishing it back in himself. This should have taught him a valuable lesson in restraint.

Now, this fool and MM are talking bad about someone else, and the head Nazi in 23 leaps up. He’s an even bigger idiot who talks like a country bumpkin who might say, “I’m stupid and proud, and that’s why I tawlk hard and loud!” In reality he says, “That is my “brother” yore tawlkin’ about and I’m mad, Blab, blah, blah!” This scares the bejesus out of MM, and he pisses the guy off worse by continually trying to kiss and slurp the guy’s ass until he promises not to kill him in the shower. BP (“Bubba-punk”) won’t promise, thus MM spends the 3 days til shower scheming up how he’s going to duck shower while appearing to be a man. But MM is only a man in body. In mind, he is a somewhat devious 9 year old girl. Since he’s previously adopted the “nut” defense, this plays a major role in all his strategies. The morning of shower day, MM pulls his nut act. He perches in the door to draw an audience of witnesses (the run-Negroes provide this as a free service. They are attracted to every noise and all movement, plus they spread their observations wide, along with their interpretations and opinions, fast.) MM pretends to devoutly read his bible while innocently standing in the door, then he springs into action soon as one of the run-Negroes strolls by. MM beats his bible up against the wall, then slaps around on the wall with his fists, making plenty of fight-sounding noises.

A few kicks, grunts and moans completes the act. All that remains is to lie-up a plausible scenario. “I got drove up behind a girl I used to know. Time just got to me, blah, blah, blah!”

An hour or so later, our turn for shower comes, and BP has not stopped barking to let anyone forget. MM runs to try and plant a story in my head. “My hands are too fcuked up!            (No; they are not. Another schitz, a true schitz I wrote about (Morales) pulled this same trick, and he did break his hand.) I can’t fight! What shall I evah dew?” (He even said he didn’t have a “knife”, as if this would make any difference.)

I wished I had a “knife” to give this idiot, but even that wouldn’t have sufficed to make him go stand up with his “Buddy” LH in the shower against HP in a shitstorm he created. End result, MM ducks, BP slaps LH down, the pigs go nuts and somehow nobody gets dragged off to the pig’s extra-torture unit, ostensibly because the head Nazi and Lt. Hess are in bed together. Anyone else would have dragged off four people.

MM has dodged every shower since then, and his knucklebrain gangmember pals (Negroes and Indians) all harass him every day for it.

Anyway, back to the plumbing. The inmates can’t seem to remember the previous time that this same exact type of plumbing nightmare occurred, a mere 7 months age. The plumbers shut off the water to the top floors, they told ratrow inmates, “Stop pushing your flush buttons!” Then they turned their water on only and began fixing all the stuck-on flush buttons on that floor. Then they move to the next highest floor and repeat this process 3 more times.

I propose some secret taping of the next crisis like this so that young people can see first-hand exactly what kinds of people, abysmal lackwits, guard and inmate alike, the state politicians make you subject to when their cops and lawyers decide to target you for their profit. Then make sure they know that this is only a few hours in an eternity of bi-hourly sadism they gleefully crucify you with in prison. No Hollywood bulshit can duplicate this reality. Their self-censoring apparatchik would not permit it even if they could play-act it near realism.

The other day this pinhead woke to find me brazenly reading peacefully at 4AM without being disturbed by his constant antsing around and incessant ego-tripping. Instantly he enraged himself and began childishly slamming and beating on his matress while on all fours. He looked so much like a chimpanzee throwing a tantrum that Z burst out laughing and could not stop. Like the chimpanzee’s display, his also was intended to frighten with sudden noise. This was probably the first time he’d gotten a reaction of gales of mirth, and he liked even less my description of what he looked like. He turned red and slunk back under the covers to speculate what he had done wrong. By 2 PM he’d thought up a cover story and fed it to me by porxy. He called to his Indian pal Chief Foghorn explaining how his mom used to catch him “sleepwalking”, and that his nut medicine (which he always spits out) “made him go screwy”.

This goof is so wound up in his nut routine and confident that it covers every possible contingency that he will not even bother to keep track of which lies he tells and which ones are current. I’ve seen him blithely switch his story 180 degrees in the record time of only 2 hours! He apparently chooses his “reality” on a minutely basis. The prison scum rebated $5 to each of us this mid-January, arrogantly calling it a “Christmas” “bonus” (it was neither). Everyone had the same SS and Mr. Supermooch does guess what? He needs his own comb, mirror, soap, envelopes, stamps, pen, pencil, eraser and everything else, but he buys none of this. Instead he plans to continue mooching all this off me and everyone else, plus eat all the food he can suck out of us with his universal “Pity me!” trip. He brashly says “I’m ordering all soups and snuff. The snuff I’ll sell for double or triple cash, one dip at a time while I beg smokes off everyone else!” What really happened is he spent most of it before he even got it, and wound up with 4 twenty-cent soups, a stamp and a can of cherry snuff. I bought stamps, envelopes and Doritos. He pestered me the whole time I ate Doritos by increasing his step-dance routine to include a squirm between the pinchpoint of desk and rack to the window and back. This he did so as to increase the number of times he could give me his hangdog look, hoping I’d get a guilt trip and offer him some.  I don’t pity parasites, and he didn’t have the guts to ask for some. He knew he would get none but my question, “If you wanted some, why didn’t you BUY some?” He did finally get so frustrated at my impoliteness to say “You gettin you munch on, aincha, Cellie?” To this I agreed, adding, “When you gittin your smoke on?” He began smoking immediately. I refused his “deal” of a stamp for Doritos. He didn’t get a smell of chips or soup, but I’m smelling his snuff smoke all day and night for 8 days now. Still, he didn’t pull his tantrum out this time, which is a good sign. I sure get tired of dealing with devious, arrogant children such as he.

CHIMP CULTURE: CONCLUSION

A last few items that might be instructive about poor, undisciplined street urchins bred for crime are here listed for your edification. All of them are anecdotes from MM’s personal treasury of the past “Good Old Days”.

The first should be entitled “Parasites Prefer Rich People”. This involves one of MM best friends in the ghetto who always had money to share. “Dan” would buy the gang’s friendship with cokes, candybars and other luxuries. This caused jealousy amongst one of them as they were all sniffing gluerags in an alleyw. One of them slapped Dan, causing Dan to take his largesse and go home. After a few days of no candy or other luxuries Dan used to provide, MM got angry and attacked Sam for running off Dan and ruining his meal ticket. MM took Sam’s gluerag and stomped his bandana, their “gang colors”. Then MM and his pals found Dan and tried to give him Sam’s gluerag and bandana. Plus they tried to regale Dan with the tale of Sam’s embarassment. Dan wouldn’t listen and slammed the door in their faces. The same cycle of friendship, envy, jealousy, attack and remorse had happened once too often, apparently.

MM was desolate. Also angry that a good source of supply escaped his use. Though he and his pals vandalized Dan’s mother’s home and car til they moved away, he found no solace. Even his crackwhore “girlfriend” got tired of his whining and took MM’s dope and money and had him give her a ride away from him.

Having lived such a short, brutal life of seeking respect where no respect was deserved, and thus making it a point to disrespect everyone else, it is no wonder that MM was Bred for Crime.

Marching Morons Part 2

Just a few forgotten and new observations: MM had sought attention by feigning sleeptalking. Often it would be some of the usual intimidationist crap. Other times it would be fantasies about women. This would be his fear speaking in defense mechanisms, then his ego wishing a boost, begging to be let to regale any listener with boasts of sexual prowess. Mostly this was so he could enjoy reliving the past aloud and making it better. Each of about 6 times MM pulled this ploy, his voice would be crystal clear, not the least affected by sleep paralysis. His unsophisticated mind seemed unable to appreciate the fact that this told knowledgeable persons he was shamming sleep. Since he mostly dealt with persons as ignorant as he, no doubt this clever conversational gambit led to titillating amounts of attention later when the target would usually remark upon his sleep talking. MM’s personality of inferiority desiring dominance and validation would thoroughly enjoy the inquisition he would then command. His desire to play this role was great indeed, considering that he played it 2 ways 6 times to no effect on me before giving it up.

About every day is a new crisis for MM. His newfound pal next door, LH, mooched us for our free Chaplain’s cards (the priscrats help fraud-up some sense of normalcy here to outsiders by providing gay holiday-type cards inmates can mail to anyone outside that may still desire to maintain some type of association with them, for whatever reasons.) Since MM. has no use for them, nor I, we gave them to LH, but not before MM picked through and took 3 of the best. LH and MM next went back and forth for 30 minutes like children: “Let me see all of them!” “You got to promise to send them back!” Like children fighting over a new toy, eventually LH managed to get his hands on all of them and promptly screwed MM down to two of 20. MM even complained that LH had switched envelopes on him. Then he promptly began selling the crap for pinches of tobacco. MM’s pal Foghorn made sure MM discovered this by relaying a snuff “messenger can” noisily into our door instead of the correct door. MM had it open, saw the snuff and was reading the note ordering more cards before LH realized Chief had purposely snitched off his game with a deliberately inaccurate throw.

MM exploded quietly, as if this same, exact plan hadn’t occurred to him. Only reason he didn’t is because he couldn’t. (His plan to sell pinches of snuff failed too when he decided to smoke half of it himself and pay LH and co the other half for igniting them for him.) This time his tantrum was only verbal, making vague threats against LH in secret, to me, like visiting the people he’s writing and making up derogatory things about him. Not more than 3 days after making these threats, MM had apparently become amnesiac and asked me about my “people”. Fat chance this vicious pinhead is getting anything from me he can use as a threat later. He really does seem to have very little memory of what issues from that great, gasping hole of his. MM’s main fantasy in this regard are adolescent scenes where he steals the victim’s women. MM particularly likes to recount stories where he stole away with a sheriff’s or judge’s (or both’s) daughter. (The story changes, or it is 2 stories. One can only “listen” to this crap with half an ear or suffer brain damage, and only a minimum of affirmative grunts suffice; to feign more than ample reinforcement in the tale’er.) MM seems not to realize there is a difference between drugwhores/barflies/brats of affluence/ gluttons of privilege and actual normal women. MM’s only a “terror” to very young and very ignorant women, if them. All others have bled him dry and left the husk to rot in the rain. He reveals this himself when viewing LH’s pictures of girls he once gave dope to in exchange for sex. He keeps saying “cryptically”, “She kept a lotta secrets from me! Had secret life!”

MM continued to dither all day long at the sink, crapper and floor when not pacing or exercising. Again he wiped the toilet bacteria all over the sink, but hasn’t yet wiped out his cups with the same rag. I’m torn between letting natural selection take its course or trying to teach this fish to ski. If I saw a single redeeming value in this ape . .    But I can’t find one. This is why I’m wasting so much paper on him. Because I have never seen such vicious, childish, devious, evil concentrated in one bag. MM is nothing but an anvil, from what I see, and can only predate upon a society he refuses to try and improve, or at least let suffer his touch lightly.

Filling him with hate again are the nameless individuals who have resumed loudly proclaiming stink as MM exercises in the cage. MM has obtained a large rock and wants me and a run-Negro he has confided in to believe he’ll throw it on the next guy who walks by this cage saying “stink!” The only guy who has done this is the negro he confided in and who brought him the rock. Nothing was thrown, of course, and it was this negro, who was running by when he said it. Then he came back hours later to “apologize” for this “joke”.

For the 3rd time, MM has told me he’s going to move out next week. This never happens, because he gets over it, then thinks of all the ground-gut dishes I give him. He is a hambone, and he’s not going anywhere until I cut off my part of his extra food supply. In one instance of brilliance MM actually complained to me about my use of food as a reward for good behavior on his part. Not said, but at least subliminally realized was its withdrawal as punishment for bad behavior.

On the stink issue MM has apparently tried to shift his workout to night while the nose-cop inmates are asleep. He intends to sleep all day curled around the shitter for unknown reasons. This will stop.

It turns out that MM’s pal is this Pothead who screwed us out of our toothbrushes by poking a Negro with one. MM was instantaneous in making up a lie in defense of him when I mentioned this. MM said he used no toothbrush, but a “real” “knife”. If I was like MM, I would stop Pothead and ask him, “Is it true that you had 7 inches of metal up your ass?” The lie would immediately come undone, but to no purpose. MM is always bragging to people about his “dumb” game and how he should have been an actor. His dumb game is nothing I want to fault. MM does not need any ideas.

His dumb game is why he refuses to read anything but the bible. He plays dumb and asks questions. Each of us are his personal information market; his shortcut to knowledge. Why should he read when we can simply explain everything to him? This cuts out all the boring parts, and he can rudely interrupt, talking loudly over the parts he’s not interested in and direct his personal tutor to explain precisely what he wants to know and nothing else.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t ask me to be his dictionary. Idiots have tried to cast me in this role all my life and I simply will not do it. He gave up quickly on this. When he gets out next year, he will go beeline for the liquor store, black out, rob someone, and wake up in a cage again. Then some suits-on-TV can smugly claim how efficient their lawyersystem is.

MM proudly boasts of being a major weapons merchant of Fort Sill’s black market. He has sold small pistols to “yuppie kids”, but complains of no market for grenades, claymores, machine guns, etc. The most believable part is a couple of soldiers asked him for some dope and they became “friends” and taught him a choke hold. Thankfully they did not teach him the break of it, if they knew it. The last thing MM needs to know is military choke holds. It is tragic enough that the cops were taught to kill this way. Twice MM has bragged to me of his choking expertise. I will relish breaking his fingers, should he develop courage enough to attack. He’s been waiting for a gang-name. How about “3-finger”?

Another thing that needs to be recounted about young “nuts” is they all seem to have a desire to observe the effects of their medicine on others. Of the several I’ve had to live with, MM is the most devious in trying to entice people into trying his medicine.

At first he described it as a tranquilizer, which is true. He is stuck in the manic phase and needs tranquilization. When they switched his medication, he tried some out of curiosity. Despite their sales pitch, it was just another tranquilizer-like drug. MM, feeling cheated and used, strove to entice me and others to try it by describing it as “. . . like good weed!” for 2 hours before it puts you to sleep. No one would try it, not even for free. Weeks later, MM claims they switched it again, and this time he tries to dupe people into taking it by claiming it made him laugh himself silly for 7 hours. Still no takers. MM might get better results in his attempts to manipulate people into trying his medication if he would realize haw transparent his motivation is. Still this is doubtful, because it appears that most of these youngsters have long ago tried all the kinds of “nut” “dope” and found it not only lacking, but unpleasant as well.

Chimps can be devious. In them deception has been documented. Prison denisons likewise make rudimentary attempts at deviousness. This one goof I’ve been detailing, MM, both thinks he is a genius at playing games, and suffers a monumental inferiority complex. It surfaces in his self-image many times per day when he prefaces many of his remarks with “People think I’m a nut (or stupid), but. . . ‘

His ignorance is an eyesore for everyone to see, even him, and he compensates by believing himself the king of tricksters. He is so proud of his ability to dupe what he wants from people that he loves to explain how and give testimonials of his successes.

I guess everyone feels the need for self-esteem, and what better way to obtain it and validation than through teaching? I’m guilty of this myself, here, and no doubt some tenured professor will chuckle at the eyesore of my ignorance soon.

His many testimonials are inconsequential and relate only hi; version of how he was abused by someone else while crippled on “nut” medicine, or how he abused someone else with his intimidation game. (He actually has a little song lie sings about this intimidation game he made up himself, apparently. It is part of his ego/esteem/validation “game”.

Important is how he describes this game, which he was taught by indigent, caged Negroes in his same situation. It is simplicity. It involves encroaching upon your intended victim’s territory by increments. He and they call this “testing”/ They test until they obtain sufficient negative reinforcement. In ghetto culture slang, they push until their victim hits back, then they back off and figure a new, safer direction to push. Some of the “frills” included in this operation is softening up your target beforehand with accounts of personal violence they claim have previously perpetrated along with the singing of particular verses of ultraviolence in the lyrics of rap songs. He describes “testing” as subtle as merely pushing your shoes or other personal objects further out into the way of their target’s path or territory. Since he is still testing me, he is careful not to reveal less subtle ways he was taught, lest I counter them before he is able to spring them on me.

Basically, this testing program they’ve made part of their culture boils down to pretty much being nothing more than an asshole. MM is such an asshole that he has many enemies and few friends. One of his ostensible friends is the one leading the pack (from behind) that harasses him over his stench. He’s so cunningly successful at being an asshole that he is afraid to shower. (It is a communal shower, with 5 other persons). Nor can he go to the “yard” with 12 other persons.

At the height of their loudtalking war on MM over his stench he had one of his pals bring him a flat rock. He wanted me to believe he would throw it on the next one who walked by his cage and made a stink remark. As he perched at the aide of the door, sullenly hiding his rock, one Negro ran by and yelled “Stink!” It was the same server inmate who’d brought him his rock.

This told MM that his asshole/testing strategy was working too well. He decided he’d better make an alliance with me, however meaningless. In prison ghetto culture, tradition dictates that persons thrust together two to a cage form alliances and seal the pact with patriotic nonsense like, “Anything I got is yours (usually nothing)” and “Cellies fight together, right or wrong!” Like dogs sniffing asses, they work out details and agree how far this extends on a case by case basis as need occurs. The ones who fear retaliation the most are the ones most rabidly patriotic about cage warfare. They need protection and will make vociferous (yet pretty much worthless) promises to weld a two-man selfprotection team.

MM is sorely disappointed with the pact he made with me the day we met. He wanted someone to protect him so he could shower, walk the yard or sleep peacefully. He could sleep peacefully, but I told him specifically that I do not help people with their luggage. He was told that whatever dirt he brought with him was his own personal problem.

Now that he saw his asshole problem was much larger than he thought, extending even into his “ace boon-coon” friends, he wanted to make certain of our previous deal. He had of course violated this ‘sacred’ trust almost immediately by harassing me as much as he dared. He told me that he had to feel safe while in this cage and sleeping. He wanted reaffirmation of our ‘friendship’. This I gave him again, and did not have to explain to him that this new pact was more meaningless than the last one he wanted. He used the word ‘friendship’ but he meant my eventual submission to his childish will. I used the same term, but I meant ‘mutual nonaggression’.

Within days he was again engaging in minor harassments like violating my territory, peace and routine. I stopped pandering to him even in the polite ways of feigning minimal interest in his sole hobby, ego tripping. My philosophy is that assholes need to go join their own kind. He complained that I didn’t ‘kick it’ with him.  I told him I’m busy trying to get out of prison and other pursuits, such as learning and research. Like a child, he really only has one hobby, and that is gathering attention to himself. Since I had no interest in MM or his pitifully deprived short life and mindless viciousness, he complained that I rustled paper and breathed too loudly. I laughed and told him that the ‘no breathing’ cage is not on this floor. MM was miffed and nonplussed. He paced sullenly until he thought up another way to be obnoxious.

Since I wouldn’t talk to him and his Indian and Negro pals quit talking to him, he decided to meld his ‘nut’ routine with a strategy of loudly talking to himself. Prior to this, he informed me that he was going to “catch out”‘ to the nut ward in a clever way that would trick everyone into believing he was really nutty and not just a miserable buffoon the inmates would automatically assume is also a coward. He. would cleverly manipulate the psychiatrist somehow too, and spent many minutes of two days struggling to correctly spell psy-words. In one moment of extreme frustration with the dictionary he developed courage enough to beg me to give him the first 3 letters of ‘psychiatrist’. (I also wrote him a lawsuit against his family on the basis of his story of him being screwed out of his grandmother’s inheritance of over a million dollars. This came to nothing also and was merely another plea for attention.)

His surreal plan made sense only to him. He demanded a diagnosis from the true Indian who ran Psych-Services at the prison. MM added threats of lawsuits and justified his anger by alluding to past mistreatment. Also, he demanded an interview with a male psych because Mrs Ramaputra made him feel like a child scolded by his mother. This he told me: them he told she would simply not explain anything while telling him to take the pills she prescribed.

The inmates all told him to stop taking his nut pills, and he did exactly this when the doctors sent word he would neither see their record on him nor receive any diagnosis. His rage at this caused him to invent and play out the super tantrum I’ve partially described.

He began performing all he knew about being a bonafide nut. He began early, before dawn, by waking me and proudly claiming he’d been voted President. Apparently he’d forgotten that he’d bragged to me of his coming plan the previous day. Or he thought I’d forgotten. Who knows what mental midgets think, or even if they think at all? He gave me his breakfast slop, which really was abnormal if you’d seen what kind of gobbler he is. (He once ate a tube of gel toothpaste from hunger and the sugar it contained.)

Next trick was to convince the cage-server Negroes of his nuttiness. This he accomplished by claiming a TV camera was in the vent. He complained of being watched on national TV. The first day was a repeating monologue of him addressing the president with frequent breaks to mooch snuff cigarettes, lights for them and coffee from inmates in nearby cages. Being very much the empty headed fool, he ran out of material in that genre quickly. He began another monologue with the vent, ostensibly talking to various drug whores he’d ‘loved’. He made up an offspring of no revealed sex, age or name, then rambled on about how he wanted only to marry and lead a virtuous life caring for wife and baby.

Wednesday he began simply making loud, obnoxious noises of a meaningless sort often termed ‘talking in tongues.’ Thursday and Friday were endless repeats of these 3 monologues plus spates of off-key racist rap songs. His self imposed deadline of Friday came and went with no men with nets to carry him to his luxurious quarters in nut ward heaven. I politely failed to comment on this fact. He nonetheless continued being obnoxious all weekend.

Having to feed his nicotine addiction put the lie to his nut routine. Insane persons are not thought to mooch cigarettes, so he had to explain. He told them he must have gotten a bad nut pill and sold them a plausible scenario for this having happened. I’d watched this twerp spit out all of his medicine twice/day for 60 days except for once when a grizzled old barfly-looking ‘Nurse’ called Rose stood and watched til he had to actually swallow. The inmates swallowed this lie too, eager to believe in bad nut pill instead of devious inmate.

The guy finally got angry that the guards were not falling for his clever plan. He asked, nay demanded, to see the Captain Monday morning. The guards laughed at him and advised him that the Captain was too busy to come up 4 floors for nothing. “Tell me what you want,” they said, “and I’ll tell the Captain.” MM of course refused, because his new plan was about to devolve into the old plan of “Inmates X, Y and Z plan to kill me. Move me to safety on protection”. He could not relay this with at least 10 inmate ears straining to hear from nearby cages. Impasse. MM took quick refuge in raging incoherently at the fat guard (Wala, known as “Whale” to the prisoners), who left.

Anxious to rid myself of this vicious cur as he was anxious to catch out from his present misery, I asked him if he would like me to assist him in attracting the Captain’s attention. He agreed instantly.

Knowing exactly what to do, but knowing better than to give away dangerous knowledge to vicious children, I scribbled a note and gave it to the pig. The pig read it right in front of me, then moved off. I said ‘Thanks’. They continued their routine of service the inmates for many hours. Finally they finished and came and took nutso to the cracker factory.

Having this cage free of scheming illiterates for a little while was much better than having one constantly trying to force you to ‘respect’ him. Trouble with empty headed children is that despite all their bragging, they have no plan, no ability, no hope and are clueless. I put this buffoon in precisely the situation he’d connived for all week, and he still couldn’t convince them to let him slither back to nut row where he came from. All he had to do is answer ‘yes’ to their loaded questions, snivel, whimper and cry like he had intermittently all week long then kiss ass a bit. He would have spent one day on observation, then gotten his new cage among his protective custody/nut ward friends. (He particularly wanted to rejoin a Negro pal who appropriately called himself ‘Hard Times.)

But his anger usurped his deductive and reasoning functions. The ignorant guards shackled him up and on the lone, slow trudge to the clinic they slyly asked their own nosy questions, providing MM with all the hints he needed to show him which of his many clever games was called for now. Instead of listening for clues, he raged at their nosiness. Instead of planning what he would say to the nurse, he cursed the pigs.

They played with him for a full 2 hours, then decided finally that it was indeed safe to stuff him back into the same cage he so desperately wanted to escape. They were angry too, and tortured him with rough handling and pinching his ankles and wrists. Upon throwing him back in my cage, they told him not to ever waste their time again.

Soon as I asked Airhead what he was doing back, his paranoid defense screens shot up. He would only say vaguely that they asked him some ‘stupid questions’ and ‘pissed me off’. If I’d been one of his idiot ‘brothers’ I’d have harassed him about how worthless his ‘game’ is. Instead I was silently amazed to find he apparently has no deductive powers at all. The nurses also could not have inquired of him without being forced to provide him a roadmap to where he wanted to go. Somehow his train to Providence had jumped the tracks, spilling him beck in my lap.

Within half an hour the pigs were back, and of course they wanted to pilfer through our cage and all our possessions for certain specific items, just to cover their own immune-from all-negligence hides. They shackled us up and dragged us off to another cage while they burglarized. It took 2 of them twenty minutes to pilfer through our little dribble of possessions. They stole my inkpen barrel ‘faucet’, used to jack up the water pressure enough to wash hands. They stole Idiot’s waterbag (for weightlifting), found his book, stole it, his sheet and our ripped sheet curtain string. He says they stole his 4 inch toothbrush too.

The weightbag is sanctioned, as is the rock, but they didn’t take him back to their dungeon though they found it in the corner of his bunk barely covered by his smelly jail pad. Ordinarily they’d dungeonize all prisoners found in the vicinity of such a danger to guard’s heads. By some miracle, these rules didn’t apply now. They were going to make me suffer this moron no matter what. A nuclear detonation would be insufficient to peel him off me.

Goof never seemed to figure out why they stole his sheet and our curtain ‘rope’. All he evidenced was more unthinking rage.

The next day was the first time in 2 months that we were close enough to first in line for non-cold showers. We’d refused before: him from fear they’d wash the stink off him; me from not desiring such torture. (Instead of freezing in a cold winter shower in a leaky, breezy building, I’d wait a few hours and wash with hot water from the sink. This takes twice as long, but is cleaner.)

When the guard made it to our cage and offered us a shower, I tested the water temperature in the sink. It was barely warm enough, and I stupidly said so. Then I began fulfilling the guard’s routine requirement by stripping. My announcement and acceptance caused Shit-for-Brains to panic. It would make him look like the coward he is if I showered and he didn’t. All other times he could hide behind me, also claiming that the water was too cold. He could not claim this if Skinny-old-Man went.

In an instant he formed a plan. He leaped up while I was preoccupied and began screeching to the guard, ending up threatening to beat him up if he opened the gate to our cage.            The pig laughed and told me I could thank Shitbrain for him having stolen my shower ‘privilege’. (As if he could make me attack Shitbrain for his cowardice.) Another miracle occurred. Shitbrain again simply could not get jailed for threatening a guard with violence, an act their own policy book states ‘will not be tolerated’. Tolerate it is exactly what they did, twice.

MM took my fatalistic (realistic) attitude as more weakness on my part that he could exploit for his own sadistic pleasure. He became even more obnoxious and asshole-ish than before. When he decided to sit close to me and mumble while I tried to sleep, it became time to teach this maggot some manners or simply send him to the hospital. I’m not going to tolerate a vicious child hovering over me while I try to sleep, mumbling thinly veiled threats disguised as a nut’s conversation with his former drugwhore. The pigs and MM are going to force me to make this idiot act right or somebody to get hurt. It’s not going to be me who gets hurt; I’m not even going to get stuffed back into their dungeon, if this is possible to avoid. (Easier said than done, of course.)

I let Nutty do his hovering, leaning and mumbling act until his attention span gave out from lack of response; not even a full 10 minutes. During that time I devised my own cure for his sadism and harassment toward me. Next day or so I unfolded it in brief increments he could absorb without being able to duck away into his fantasy world when he saw, too late, what was coming. Devious scum such as he resist forced learning by capitalizing on their so-called short attention spans. Their attention spans are actually as long as you want them to be when you have them by the throat or lip.

But I wasn’t going to be so crude as to knock him out, tie him up and truly teach him as he deserved. The Psych-aides and guards had done this and it hadn’t worked. Worse, it probably had generated his current sick personality that similarly desires to abuse others, or at least some of it.

No. My technique is more effective and relies on their own imagination. It comes from many sources, mostly from U.S. military training manuals circa 1968. First, I took time out from everything I was doing and became friendly toward him by feigning an interest in his life. You can’t help but pity a guy too stupid to make the pigs supply him with bed sheets. Next I had to cure him of his very irritating habit of interrupting me to tell his own stories. It was necessary to condition him to let me talk and to take turns because I had complex concepts and situations to convey clearly and in sequence to be effective. Also they must be conditioned to pay attention. Airhead is so extremely self-centered that he couldn’t care less about me except as a listener to provide him with attention, validation and anything else he cared to predate.

This was the hardest part. No message can get out when it is chopped off in midsentence. Shaming him into giving me equal time did not work, and neither did negative reinforcement such as sanctioning him when he interrupted me. What I finally had to add to these techniques was a ‘secret’ that wise old men know that he could get from me free that would give him an overwhelming advantage over other arrogant snots like him.

It began as a version of his fantasized big-rock-candy-mountain; the fabled El Dorado; Treasure of Sierra Madre and King Solomon’s mine. The only thing that will hold this fool’s mouth shut and eyes forward for 20 second intervals was how to get his favorite drug dropped into his lap in large quantities without his having to rob someone of it. He is a crack fiend, so this is the gold I had to use to make him listen.

The story I concocted was short and like a quest novel. It involved me duping a wise old man out of this secret when I was a snot MM’s age. Of course it was entirely fiction, but it held his interest long enough to cram a moral down his gasping throat before he realized it. The last element is the only part that mattered. Supposedly this old man put me through hell to get his ‘formula’, cutting me, pulling guns and beating me while he showed me how to make crack cocaine from ordinary chemicals found in an home, a lie made plausible by the cop/media alliance’s many antidrug commercials. It ended when I supposedly ‘hovered’ over him while he was asleep, debating whether to steal his dope or wake him up and tell him it was ready to take to market. Kid vicious was expecting me to wake the guy and to share equally. He himself was thinking about how he would have long since stolen the guy blind and been gone. Just before the twerp could lose interest and interrupt, I surprized him by dramatically whipping out sharpened corndog sticks from nowhere and stabbing them rapidly and effectively into the pillow where the old man’s eyes should have been. “Blap-blap-blap-blap!” I shouted unexpectedly while I pummeled.

Then I put on my most hate-filled face, stuck it in punk-kid’s face of horror and shrieked “The guy’s blind now! I let him live so that schoolchildren could throw dog shit on him as he goes tapping along the curb with his cane! AH-HA-HA-HA-HA!” I laughed like Satan himself, then I reiterated the exact same moral I’d tried to impress upon this idiot the very first day we met. I stuck my hand out into punk-kid’s chest for a Negro-type handpat and shouted gleefully, “You shit on people, they shit back! Am I right?” he tried to squirm away, but I was already an top and blocked his escape, all the while insisting he answer, “Am I right? AM I RIGHT?”

Since I’m not the CIA and don’t have the U.S. govt behind me, my little trick to induce mutual respect into MM only worked 2 weeks or so. He expanded his nut routine to include so much obnoxious, loud, gibberish-speaking that the ‘Chief’ began complaining directly to MM and the run community in general. The two Hitler-huggers in 73, Dan and Bubba, also were tired of it. These two shitbirds were the ones MM was afraid to shower with and the cause, in large part, of the problem. Chief Tiger and the HH kids vied with each other to be the ‘leaders’ who set standards and the topics of conversation. Basically, this means ‘Alpha-Ape’ and means that their opinions are parroted by the lesser apes of the pecking order. KT has a mind, ethics and intelligence. The HH kids are mindless, egomaniacal, vicious sadists of the country hick variety. Their main pursuits are homosexual-advance ‘jokes’, rat-calling and being the stink-police. KT’s cage mate is a grizzled old tub of guts who sounds and looks like a fat Gabby Hayes, the chuck wagon cook on “Wagon Train”. “Dale” derives no end of pleasure by quietly instigating the HH kids, whispering about the stinks he’s traced to this cage. The main hick, Bubba, immediately and loudly proclaims his disgust, etc, to his sychophants (sic). Like quacking ducks, they spread this and other important news far and wide. Bubba sounds exactly like the standard caricature of a barefoot, wingeared, arkansas banjo buffoon you might see on “Deliverance”. It is for him I coined the phrase “Ah tawlk sloew ‘n loud ‘cuz Ahm stupit and proud!” You’d have to see and hear this goof to get a proper perspective on how he could possibly command any respect. His voice screams “I’m an Idiot!” but he is the Alpha (cauc) ape here because he’s muscular, tattoo covered and teamed with Danny, another muscular pinhead.

Like an idiot, I sent KT a note asking for specific legal advice on a small claims suit coming up on 2-28-01. He used this as an excuse to loudtalk about MM, who dropped his nut act long enough to defend himself. The end result of this was to agitate MM worse when the HH kids and their asskissers joined in. KT loudly revealed to the run community that I had apologized for MM’s stink and explained that it would be less now that the kops had hacked off the sheephair blanket Negroes “True” and “Devil” had sewn onto the jailpad MM now used.            MM had been using it without sheets. He’d do a sweaty workout, then sleep on the thing. It thus smelled like a horse’s saddlepad and could never be washed, being sewn around a plastic covered jailpad.

KT was trying to enamor me to the HH kids, who “don’t trust me” for unspecified reasons. MM heard them say this and concluded I gave a rat’s ass what they thought. MM also heard them talking about him. This pushed him into a day of moderation in which he told the camera that Satan had temporarily entered him, but he was all right now. This lasted only one day. The next he was at his nut routine with renewed frenzy. He began pissing while I ate, and he increased his pacing to pass by my rack more often. Clearly his plans were evolving. There is a pinch point in this extended path where MM has to decide if he wants to knock his knee on an immovable steel stool or knock his shoulder on the corner of the top rack. He gimped and squirmed his way past these obstructions many times/day until he could do it unharmed and speedily.

His nut act got louder and more obnoxious. He’d ask himself questions in English, and answer himself in “Islamic”. (This is his term for the gibberish he spoke.) He’d hear one of his detractors defame him. MM would perform a routine in which he would indicate the offender, loudly ask “his daddy” if the guy was a rat, rape-o, snitch or child molester. MM’s daddy would answer in gibberish that had 2 actual words that meant either yes or no. Then MM would ask and answer himself further questions such as who, where, how many times, etc.

The other routine was to pretend he was minding first a small boy of his, then a daughter. He placed restrictions on me, ostensibly to keep me from running over his imaginary children. Actually it was simply more harassment.

A 3rd schtick he enjoyed while maniacally pacing and mirror-vent-talking was pretending Garth Brooks paid him 600 gigabucks for a song he’d stolen from MM. MM spent 2 days giving this money to various organizations and friends. He’d write the subtractions down. Gradually even this became a bore to him. His frustration was evident by how violently he scribbled with his pen.

He cracked on 2-20-01, shortly after supper. I was lying on my stomach on my rack writing letters when he finally got courage enough to mount the cowardly sneak attack he had been planning for weeks. He even foretold his method somewhat in imaginary fights he’d create between “Christi Zinti”, his “wife” and some other female from his past. He taught Christi how to choke her opponent. He paced behind me, leaped on my back, bashed me twice in the head and began choking me. I reared up, losing my pencil. I was supposed to break his choke hold by jabbing it in his face and eyes. He didn’t know how to choke despite his bragging. Even so, I twisted out from under him, and this caused my windpipe to close. A vicious, sadistic maggot like MM prefers stomping an unconscious victim more than one who can possibly fight back. He was taking no chances with this old man. Unable to breathe or shout, I had no choice but to go for this eyes with my fingers. This loosened his choke and freed my windpipe. I dragged this scummy, 190 pounds of dog shit to the cage door, landed on top and began loudly calling for the pigs in as cool a fashion as possible. “Somebody get this maggot off me.” (I couldn’t make any threats or the pigs would surely dungeonize me for attacking too.)   I repeated this about 10 times before the pigs got there. They gazed stupidly at us for more minutes while the others gathered with their clubs. After only about 5 or 6 minutes more they’d gathered a large mob, locked up the service inmates and obtained courage enough to open the cage and make scumbag escape from beneath me.

Shit-for-brains was not injured. Knowing the prison fight policy of “everyone is guilty”, my strategy for weeks had been to try and escape. The pigs obviously were not going to let me escape. My fallback strategy was to prepare for Shitbrain’s attack and minimize both our injuries. Only if I left Shitbrain’s eyes in his sockets could I hope to possibly avoid another 60 days in the pig’s supertorture dungeon. (Remember they’d framed me for Towler’s “knife” and stuck me with 30 suspended in addition to the 40 days I’d actually spent in their dungeon being “investigated”.) Muckbrain would get 30 for attacking me, and I’d get 30 more for being attacked.

The shit-eating maggots quietly enjoyed my pain, suffering and struggle, especially “Ray”, a gamma ape hanger-on with the best view, in 3, directly across. He was amazed that a 50-year-old-man was able to drag youngster-maggot to the door, land on top and calmly call for the pigs. KT, the only one with any normality about him, has bowed his head, ignoring me in favor of siding with the Alpha apes in 23. The hick brothers immediately denounced me as a “rat”, as if MM was now their fellow homosexual lover instead of “Stinkpot”. Sycophant Smith in 21, a sonorous, lickspittal, know-it-all, fell immediately in line with the ratcallers, as did some shrieking voice-in-the-dark from 10, far up the hall who saw nothing and barely heard me over His radio blasting “Pantera”.

This tiny little exertion caused me to bleed from knees, elbow and tongue. My jaw muscle is so wrecked I can barely open wide enough to eat the slop. My back is wrenched, elbow jammed, shoulder partially dislocated, and I’ve still got a headache. It is now 2-24-01 and I’m still screwed up badly, but it was worth it.

Guard Grider, a grinning young kid who himself seems a closet sadist and instigator, came back the next day and told me “MM is downstairs”, and “He jumped you, didn’t he?” MM was supposed to be in their super hell unit. Like a fool falling for the oldest pig ploy in the book, I answered “Yes” to his trick question. Of course both the HH kids in 23 were pressing their ears through the bars eavesdropping like snoopy old harridans. Grider knew this and had set me up well: Appalling me with a lie (MM was really back in superhell), then suckering me into yes-ing his question before I realized a yes made me a rat in inmate eyes. The hick twins quietly waited until their secret pig-pal left, then began their rat-calling schtick. The pigs put another Indian gangster here. He’s not a sick mental deviate like MM.

Yesterday the pig Spears” brought me a paper accusing me of fighting. He had a lot of farcical rituals to perform that required me to sign away any rights I might have had and/or confirm my rathood by trying to defend myself as 20 or 30 inmate ears tried to press through the bars, straining mightily to hear every word. This is how the pigs get you to lose your witnesses. They make you declare right there while all the ratcallers eavesdrop. You can’t tell all the listening scum your witnesses, else you’re a rat. You can’t make a statement for the same reason: the ratcallers are straining at every noise, and will spew anything their imagination tells them they heard. Inmate wisdumb dictates that I do my cowardly attacker a favor for trying to murder/maim me by letting the figs nail us both. These morons hold the myth that if I pretend we were “playing”, we might “beat” the pig’s conviction machine. There is no stupider belief that can be held. Pig ‘courts’ are even more crooked than judge courts, and there is no chance this ploy will work despite mounds of lying inmate testimonials claiming success. Fact is, even the passive attackee must be extremely blessed to escape guard “justice”.

Despite my severe injuries and MM’s light injuries and the fact that mine were offensive and his were defensive, only one guard named Shitbrain as the aggressor. His signature is an indecipherable scribble.

I have numerous witnesses who know I was trying desperately to escape this cage before Shitbrain attacked. All of them are guards and thus will deny everything, as policy dictates. I even had family call these pigs and try to save me and them this hassle. I even wrote a judge. Not one of these scum ever replied. I have 2 carbon copies and a postal receipt proving I was trying to make these scum escape his pending attack. One was faxed to the prison HQ. Nothing worked. The entire bureaucracy was blind and deaf.

Only the future will tell if I can avoid guard punishment for surviving a murder/ maim attempt. (Nope. They punished me for 30 days for “fighting”.)

Marching Morons

One of the most pathetic things I see of the hideously immoral and sadistic U.S. politicians’ dungeons and profits bureaucracy is the many failures of their education system in these human warehouses (see Unspanked Children). They won’t let parents spank their little darlings, so they automatically turn into a cash crop for the politicians’ use. Teachers can’t spank them and make them learn basic normal human behavior, much less any math or science, so again they profit the politicians’ welfare and lawyer and prison systems. The delinquent females turn into whores and welfare moms while the males wind up in taxherd subsidized torture and abuse pits with lengthy sentences.

One prime example of this is in my cage right now, hurriedly pacing two steps up, two steps back, endlessly, like a rabid skunk. He is Michael Mitchell (MM) OSP # 232422, an almost completely mis-educated 26 year old man with a 9 year old mentality. He barely reads on a 7th grade level. His mind is completely empty of anything but reminiscing about his short stint of freedom between ditching school at 13 and getting busted for his first big sentence 7 years ago. For those short 6 years he surfed the jails he brags about having bought and sold ounces of cocaine or trashcan “speed”. Subtracting the usual bullshit factor, he sold a few $20 crackrocks. He really “had it goin’ on!” Proof of this is the fact that his hairline has receded a full 4 inches at his tender young age. This fact tells the astute observer that MM has traded most of his cocaine to women for more sex than his testicles could handle, causing his hair to fairly leap out of his scalp in the telltale pattern. He knows it, too, and tries to conceal it in a most ridiculous-looking way: he shaves his skull in the pattern of a 40 year old sex maniac and grows the back long, in braids, and calls it an Indian “do”. (He’s less than 1/2 Choctaw but is accepted into the “Indian” gang. He has the required feather tattoo of the Indian Brother Hood (IBH) plastered at the corner of one eye.)

He’s brain-damaged too, or feigns such. The state has him on antipsychotics. This being a convenient excuse judges and social workers will often accept for leniency, many manipulative twerps have discovered the usefullness of feigning psychosis. He took their drugs once, but quickly learned to spit the crap out, if possible. Easy to do, here in prison, impossible at the mental hospitals where they make you drink it or shoot it into their buttocks.

MM is a mad Indian, too. Mad and scared, and one who craves attention. He’s slightly paranoid, along with being wrapped up in the Native’s culture of purposeful primativisim. He’s a bit cruel and sadistic, too, when he thinks he’s found someone safe to harass, annoy, and play master (to him) head-games on. I find him a boring churl who could become mildly dangerous if not carefully circumvented.

He’s paranoid because he’s been manipulated all his life. His facial and other structures mark him as “slow”. He complains of others being “devious”, yet secretly wishes he was quick enough to be even more devious himself. He learned he didn’t like school when everyone outpaced him. He left as soon as he learned he could defy his mother. He found that cocaine was good and easily traded for sex. His dual addictions (plus alcohol) caused him to finally get caught burglarizing a relative’s home once too often, resulting in a short sentence that he has lengthened into 9 years, so far.

The other inmates scared him so badly with their standard prison horror stories that he was hot to join the appropriate mutual protection society. He joined the Mexican gang first. The Frijolies were glad to get another soldier so far from their own homes. Then MM was moved in with an Indian who promptly suckerpunched MM’s nose for no explained reason. MM then was manipulated into stabbing the guy with a “knife” that was more like a scraped bottlecap than a weapon. Also it involved sneaking up behind the unsuspecting victim. Relying on TV for methodology, they both got punished for “fighting”. The Indian gang told the Mexican gang to let them have MM. The Mexicans said “NO” and punished MM themselves with a gang beating.

MM quit the Mexican gang, who had not taken care of him all that well and yet had not taken advantage of him other than protecting him from Indian retaliation with their own abuse.

MM promptly joined the Indian gang, who supposedly were going to kill him days previously. They also were glad to have obtained a new, gullible soldier to throw at their targets. They lost no time telling MM that he must “prove” himself. (MM never realized that the reason they wanted him was because he’d already proved himself gullible and foolish enough to savagely attack someone for no good reason.) They threw him on another “Indian”, or thought they had. The story gets more garbled than usual from here. Best guess is that MM finally met someone who demonstrated how he was being sorely used by pretty much everyone else. There was a mixup on MM’s “hit”. He brought a “knife” to the fistfight, while the attackee brought 3 friends: stalemate. MM caught “out” to the nutward to dodge his gang. Since then, they duped him into stabbing someone else, or some kind of mindless nonsense ensued because I met MM just as we both were transferred off the Okie state pen extra-punishment dungeon. He must have at least been near trouble to be there.

MM has told me his life story, pretty much, and it is nothing to brag about. A few years or just months ago while he was soaked in anti-psychotic drugs his family disinherited him of $180,000, he says. I’m helping him sue for a piece of it back. His day consists of being scared silly that the injuns will get him. His primitive pals have been strutting past the cage, kissing their huge biceps, staring an evil-eye at him and using other types of juvenile forms of social terrorism. MM hid in the cage for a week,

then finally went out to the “yard” (big cage, outside no grass) to “handle-up!” Again this turned out to be more hissing than scratching, and it quickly evolved into kissing and hugging, since no one wanted to fight over a non-fight anyway.

MM is off the (Phantom) hook, and to celebrate, he tests me, since he perceives me to be old and weak. I try to treat him as an adult and soothe him when he continues to complain bitterly at people staring at him as they walk by. I’m about tired of babysitting this empty-headed cur, and he’s within a hair’s breath of finding out the hard way how superior intellect and experience triumphs over youthful strength and stamina. He is almost as tall as I am, weighs almost as much, with no fat, and is perceptibly stronger, probably quicker, and is constantly perforrning his mickey-mouse workout, but I can rip his head off any time and stuff it up his ass sideways before he can say “please stop!” (Not that I would, unless forced.) But he sees grey hair and beard, and begins calling me “Oldtimer” before asking my age. I add 10 years to my age and he blythely accepts it. His favorite trick is to play “nut-out”. He positions himself quietly in my line of sight and pretends to read the bible. (This is the only literature he ever reads.) As his concentration limit expires (about 45 seconds, when he tries real hard) he suddenly twists his face around and at me and says with a scowling threat, “You talkin’ ta me?” Feigning auditory hallucinations is a thing I’ve gradually weened him away from through judicious use of ridicule.

The most pathetic thing I’ve been forced to note is his (and his peers’) ignorance of germ theory. E.g. soon as we got in this cage, he is overwhelmed with disgust at sight of the toilet. He immediately obtains a brillo pad and dives into the shitter in a frenzy of “cleaning”. From shitter, he goes directly to scrubbing the sink, sink to the food-hole, then, as a finale’, he washes his own food bowl with the same pad that began in the shitter! I didn’t even want to hear his justification for such flagrantly stupid actions. I simply make certain he doesn’t contaminate anything of mine and let his ignorance be bliss until it kills him. Other things beyond his ken is why he can’t keep a full cup of liquid upright. He drinks out of a stack of 3 or 4 styrofoam cups and has no concept of center of gravity being the force that helps him spill shit everywhere. His world is step, step turn; step, step turn; repeat all day. His “TV” is my mirror stuck out the bars to bring him the Negro-channel of cage servers. Every time there is a loud noise, he bolts for the TV. He has nothing, not even the sheets and clothes the pris-crats are forced to provide each inmate, yet this is not due to illiteracy/disability, but simple apathy and laziness. He can pace all day and drape himself on the bars looking at “corridor TV” for hours, but he can’t write a request for a sheet, laundry bag or jacket. It’s too easy to simply mooch comb, soap, spoon, salt, toothpaste, food, razor and everything else off everyone else or do without. Now; how thoroughly worthless do you have to be to not lift a pencil for. . . toilet paper!

But MM and his peers are beanhole junkies. He can be fast asleep, but if something free and un-asked-for is pushed through the hole, he leaps up and is on it as if it is an amoral woman or a smoldering joint. He thinks he’s clever by announcing we should share everything like brothers. He seems to think I am unable to notice that 50% of everything he gets already belongs to me, and that everything of real value in the cage was bought by me. As with most people like MM, he has sorely abused all his relatives until even his own mother will not write him. He loves to tell me how he’s “got game” (streetspiel for “I’m cunning!”) but if he could focus, he’d see he’s really “got screwed!”

MM doesn’t even have a servicable bulshit game, which is standard for most twerps 1/2 his age these days. He’s got all the Negro rap-star gangsta body language moves down pat, but he’s just a little confused as to what follows after you get your moves down, especially when you don’t have a radio to provide the rest of the secrets.

MM pays lip-service to work, family and God, but only displays his true span of concentration when he finds me a ready source of drug information that he thinks he can exploit for profit. (Nothing trips up youth’s “game” faster than an old Hippie who professes to possess the secret of fast riches through drug manufacture.) Trouble is, even if he did find someone who would/could show him idiot’s chemistry, the course is so beyond him that he wouldn’t even absorb enough to suffice to cause him harm! Maybe he could remember enough to murder his lungs sniffing a bottle of pool acid, but I doubt he’d have the wherewithal to earn enough money to get one, or shoplift it.   Any money he gets goes straight to the alcohol man, and if any is left, that goes to the weed man, then the speed/coke man, than the wo-man, in that order.

Someone who doesn’t profit off the crime-creation/prisoner-warehousing industry should photograph MM’s day and show it to schoolchildren. When it is made thus perfectly clear how American politicians and the cop/lawyer lobby, et al, squander human life en masse for inconsequential transgressions, many may think before they try a shortcut through society; Doubtful, yet possible, though not probable.

As for MM, he’ll get out next year or so just long enough to come back with 30 to life next time. He’ll get drunk the first day, steal or burgle while blacked-out, hurt someone, then wake up in jail with another set of years or decades to practice his step, step turn; repeat game. If the coplobby and crimjus pirates ever decide to stop exploiting MM and his peers for their own lucre, the answer is, to my scientific mind, Edu-porn and drug-rewarded schoolwork. Drugschoolwork I’ve already described elsewhere, and Eduporn is just another way to similarly incentivitie the shortcut-artists into accepting a semblance of modern civilization where parasites are gradually taught symbiosis. The MM’s need teaching badly. More of the MM story is he’s really only 26 ( I paid $7 for his criminal record and smuggled it in here.) Like a child, he is in such a hurry to attain age (in his case “Chiefdom” ) and respect, that he thinks 25 1/2 is as good as 26. He says he doesn’t need or want friends, but he adjusts his sleep time to fit mine because he simply must have someone to chase away the echos in his empty head. If I take a nap in the middle of the day, so does he. His main questions are what am I going to do, stay up or sleep, and what am I doing, what am I looking at, what am I reading, what was that noise I made, etc. If he didn’t have a real person to marvel at and study, he would probably slip quietly into self-induced catatonia. He appears incapable of stimulating himself other than endlessly reliving his past while playing his pacing game. The first ten minutes I was forced to endure him, I took out a pill and ate it. Instantly his ears pricked at the rattle of the bottle, and his eyes zero’d in like radar onto the big, blue “two-way” pills. “Whut’sat cha got there?” he says. “They any good?” He knew all about antihistamines, or so he thought. “Duh, that’s just like speed! Gimme some’.” (No, phenylpropanol is not like speed, but to today’s children-addicts who have never had any real speed, it’s like what they think is speed; the bathtub trashdope made of ephedra-oid cold and flu medicines by goofs who were taught by Igors whose masters were burned at the stake in the late ’60s .) I tried to explain this to the idiot, but his tiny mind was targeted and locked. His sole objective in living was to obtain these pills as speed, even though they contained 50% of a substance neither of us had heard of before.

“I’ve taken cold pills by the handfulls” he bragged, same as a child would boast “I rode the big carosel horsie!” Knowing that he would eventually work up nerve enough to steal them while I slept, and that his attempts to lie them out of my hand and into his mouth would never cease until he got some, I decided to teach this moron a well-needed lesson on how ignorant and stupid he is. His kind usually follow similar patterns. They are so excited to think they are about to get high that five minutes seem to them like five hours. Like the cartoon dog craving the dog biscuit, his tiny mind went into an endless loop of oh boy! Oh boy! I’m going to get high! I’m going to get high! He repeats this as he ecstatically performs his other endless repeat of step, step, turn. . . I gave him two of the huge, blue pills that had a groove across the center for breaking them into halfs. Of course he wanted 4 to start, knowing that Doctors always set the maximum dose at 1/2 the effective (high-producing) dose. I made him sing for an hour to talk me out of the 2nd two pills. He bragged up a big, steaming load of bulshit to get them, and I made sure he couldn’t back up on the specifics, when it came to the “I told You so” tomorrow.

Those four satisfied him for about 15 minutes of step, step; Oh boy-oh boy! Then he began begging for more just like a wino going into D.T.s. I made him listen to an hour’s worth of explanation on exactly how slow the digestive system works and why.

He began getting off. He began speaking very quickly, interrupting me to spew his own hastily-invented testimonials on how his digestive system works at near sonic speed.

I gave him two more, and they satisfied him for 15 minutes before he came back abegging. This time he had schemed up a new (for him) trick. He of course wanted four this time, and to pay for them, he promised not to ask me again. (Previously he had begged to buy all my pills with a promise of payment, it being obvious that he had nothing and was never going to get anything, but I couldn’t permit him to stupidly kill himself. First, he probably would not have the grace to die, and second, he would immediately have told the pretty nurse where he got his poison.) I made him admit that he was “high” (at least by his ignorant experience), and I made him promise to wait , two hours before he took only two, and wait two hours if he took the 9th and 10th. Each of these hours I made him wait were supposed to be two-hour intervals. He and his peers are so antsy that a whip and a chair is not sufficient to make them wait for a full two hours for what they think and perceive is “dope”. As expected, he waited until he thought I was unaware. I stood looking out the window specifically so I could hear him sneak two more into his mouth and chase them with the water he had to draw to get them down. This promise was broken within thirty seconds of my back turning.

He never asked for any more, and he doesn’t like to talk about what happened a few hours later. MM ditzed back and forth like a nervous budgie on a perch, far into the night. Finally he climbed into his top rack and stared at the ceiling for a few hours. The prisoncrats serve mostly water    adulterated with varicolored dyes and saccharin. MM drinks my share, his share and all the more he can get. When his bladder finally forced him to get up and whiz, he barely made it off the rack and collapsed to the cement with a thud soon as he touched the floor. He wallowed around for five minutes in slow motion trying to get up, then decided to stay down and just piss on himself. He lay there, trying to gather strength far an hour, while I tried to make him think he was dying and call for the guards to help. He wouldn’t do it, and eventually he survived to crawl back into his rack to heal. I hope he learned something essential, such as how extremely ignorant he is and how he needs to shut his scheming mouth every time he interrupts his betters. His mouth flies open and his lips begin flapping every time he is given a chance to learn something. Between the flapping and the “buh-buh” noises he makes whenever he detects an intelligent person speaking, there is no chance of his ears registering important information even if his mind could absorb it.

Right now he is washing out each of our styrofoam cups with the same rags he uses for the floor and shitter. For good reason, I don’t like him to touch anything of mine and have to develop strategies to prevent him from infecting me and my stuff with his constant dithering.

More of his life story came out. He didn’t smoke those ounces of rock cocaine, (News-artists and negroes call this “crack”.) He doesn’t even know haw to make rock, so we are speaking of a very brief period, measured in weeks or months. He wasted his money on a car, three apartments, clothes and eating out. Then a hooker convinced him to try a lungful. His own words are revealing. Soon as he got his first rock-smoke headrush, he ran outside and puked. This is to say that he kept pretty drunk virtually all the time, like most asian-descended persons who are missing one of the genes for detoxifying alcohol. Soon as he finished puking, he and the girl smoked up all his inventory. He began making promises, getting fronts, not paying, then he sold or traded off everything he had, including friends. The girl threw him away like spent toilet paper soon as the money ran out and he lost it completely by beginning to steal and burglarize for crack. Then he went to jail, then the nut ward, then prison, etc.

MM mentioned that, like all small-time dope addict/”dealers”, he applied an excessively greedy “cut” for himself. He claims to have taken one ounce of good dope and made it into 3 ounces of powder cocaine. Real dealers do not cut more than 50%, and they are avoided by the ones who don’t waste their time cutting at all. Fact is, if you are an idiot selling to other idiots, you screw them with “cut” and they accept it because they either don’t know dope or don’t know a real dealer. People who really know their dope do not adulterate it with trash unless perhaps they are selling it to enemies. MM mostly sold rock instead of powder for a reason he probably doesn’t even realize. His masters quickly learned of his excessive greed through complaints to them about lack of purity. They quickly moved to circumvent this idiot by only letting him sell (more “deliver” than sell) rock, which can not be easily diluted by greedy idiots. MM doesn’t know it, but his low cunning with the cut cost him more money than it made. He couldn’t be trusted to deliver good cocaine to his route, so the people on his route that demand quality got their dope elsewhere, through a courier who could be trusted. These customers are the ones who inject cocaine. Slick as MM thought he was, the very first time he cut his dope he got caught by the needlefreaks. His treachery lay exposed in their spoons for all to see and taste. MM lost most of his route and all of his master’s respect when he tried to triple his money by trashing his dope. He was consigned to the lightweight, throwaway section from then on.

MM acts like the crap he trashed his dope with is a secret. To him, it is special; to others it is ludicrous. He used an expensive commercial concoction for headaches that is chock full of chalk, caffeine, aspirin and no telling what else. If he’d had sense enough to simply ask someone else or read a book, he could have maybe fooled someone with cheaper and better “cut” called lactose, which is safer and harder to detect.

Another self-enriching strategy people like MM quickly learn in prison begins with their envy of what others have. E.g, while on the extra-punishment unit we have nothing to throw away, and thus plenty of trash bags to hold it. We are deprived of our plastic cups and provided with 24 styrofoam cups per cage per day. Toilet paper is of course supplied in shortage amounts. (Which doesn’t stop a curious phenomenon: these inmates often are not the least timid in scrubbing the shitter with their bare hands and then simply rinsing their hands off without soap, but let a drop of urine or a drop of water they can mistake for urine touch the rim of the crapper after a whiz and the subsequent fake hand-rinsing, they will use their last sheet of toilet paper to wipe it off, knowing they can’t get any more for a week. Their step-daddies programed them as children to perform this ritual, evidently, or their mothers and it burned so deeply into their minds that they can’t conceive to change it in response to its complete obsolesence in the face of a new situation. (This compulsive shitter-wiping ritual every time they whiz and the way they gobble their food like starving dogs are two universal traits of inmates that haven’t changed a bit in 30 years that I know of.) Another main item that future-thinking prison victims conserve is plastic sporks, since without them, you eat with your fingers like cave men.

Despite these obvious, everyday problems and their usual ready solution by simple conservation and requesting more before you run out, MM brings none of these free items to our new cage, while I bring them all. Of course the new cage has none of them, and as soon as I arrive, MM needs each and every one in turn. Bad enough that most inmates can’t or will not think ahead for essentials, worse is that they are so used to essentials just popping out of nowhere just for their lucky convenience that they don’t wonder where it all came from. To them, it was a deserved gift from God Himself. The gutwagon rumbles down the hall, they say aloud to you, but mostly for themselves, “Wow! Duh! I need a cup and spoon and salt and pepper, etc. You got any? Their eyes flip like magnets onto this stuff you’ve just unpacked and they say “Oh! Never mind. Here’s some’.” Like it just appeared between asking the ceiling and looking at the table. “Everything I need is right here.”

A couple of days later the guards bring back most of the property they stole from us before dragging us into their extra-punishment torturehole. MM has nothing but some clothes; miraculously the guards chose not to steal the junkfood they let me buy from them. MM’s eyes grow large and his lips smack as he inventories my belongings as I check what the guards did steal and pack the rest away. MM sees ten hot chocolate packs, 12 pasta/bullion soups, eight snickers and a big bag of popcorn and doritos. The run-Negroes are watching the guard shovel this stuff in too, and they spot a few items they want. While MM is launching into his strategy to “con(nive)” me out of food, the run-Negroes come by with offers to buy my TV cable and power cord for a promise. (Gallingly, the only thing “computer-age” a prisoner can buy in this stoneage prison is an $8 surgeprotector when a $1.29 extension cord suffices for all our needs. This is just another of thousands of sly, common, casual ripoffs the prisoncrats use to screw us and enrich themselves.)

MM’s spiel is age-old though he invented it on the fly. People with nothing are embarrassed to have nothing and naturally invent times of plenty and excess just passed. Bad luck and theft brought them down only days before, but people elsewhere owe them big, and will send plenty soon, right after we eat and use everything you have.

I shared all the soups with him generously, 50% to him who had nothing simply because I felt sorry for him. Because he insults my intelligence and tries to connive me, he got nothing of what he really slavered for; the sweets, nor anything else. His friends never sent him a crumb, and now he is totally dependant on assuaging his insatiable food habit through begging the run-Negroes for more prison slop. This he gets in abundance.

BRED FOR CRIME: GEORGE RICHARDSON

Another one who uses the claim of riches soon to arrive to almost professional effect is GR. GR was put in my cage last summer, with pretty much nothing but his clothes, of course. He is a Caucasian, and only about 20; he was a very good bulshit artist to everyone outside the foodhole, but to me, he was the usual transparent boor. He never read, being totally talk-oriented such as most prison trash are. He was always blathering along on some inane tale no matter that I was busy with other things. I’m rude in my writings, but not so much in person, thus he never got the idea I didn’t want to hear his spewings. Also, he had the irritating habit of sitting in the narrowest chokepoint and making it the biggest hassle to get past him to the sink, crapper and foodhole/door. All this time he would be facing me, leaning into his story as if the telling was a vivid as the day he lived or fantasized it. Fortunately for me he would quickly shut up if I let the TV blather. He especially liked wrestling, which he never was let to watch, and he liked circular car-racing, which I’d permit at low volume.

GR is not so much a conniver as an egoist, at least with me. He apparently said and wrote the correct key words in letters to others through the beanhole though, because everyone out there loved him and acted as if they’d been his friend for years. The Hitler Huggers seemed to think he was just their type and began sending little tokens of their esteem, like a soup here, stamp there, temporary use of a radio, etc: little comforts in expectation of future rewards, it appeared.

The Negroes were more practical and less patient, having less and wanting more. Also, they were more skeptical of persons with nothing trading promises for merchandise, since this has been their main strategy for centuries. Even so, they were fairly patient. They saw a Caucasian and were willing to believe that, like most Caucs, he had more than they, possibly much more. Basic Negro strategy for siphoning off money from anyone who might have some is gambling. A Negro who hid behind the prison name and gang alias of “Cutnut” (Stamps) wanted to play poker with GR. GR told me, and I told GR “Not a good idea”. GR fell to the ruse of poker to suknut (My name for this scoundrel, who is a particularly obnoxious and loud craterhead who did indeed get himself most deservedly stomped weeks later.) the next day.

Within 2 or 3 days GR was indebted to suknut for $550! A startlingly short time to crash into such a deep hole. Fortunately for GR, suknuts could only intimidate him through the foodhole because they went to different “yards” and never showered at the same time. Also the tattoo-tribe were there to keep the Maumaus from getting too strident for payment.

GR skillfully played both mutual-protection societies against each other for weeks, which was not too hard when the prisoncrats only let you spend your money once every .fortnight. This meant that GR only had to come up with one excuse every two weeks. Eventually the Negro-clique shamed the Swastica-clique into admitting that GR should pay something on his gambling debt. Out of nowhere, seemingly, Sucknuts sent a note saying he would absolve the $550 for only $12. If there was any haggling intermediate to this, I was not privy to it. GR was happy, but still wasn’t going to pay. By this time he realized that I couldn’t care less if he paid anyone. He also had the wit not to ask me for a cent. He set upon a plan much like his original plan must have been: non-payment, but with a twist. The head Hitlerphile, a scuzzy piece of humanoid garbage who hid behind the prison alias “Ghost” (Lightle), advised GR that he must borrow from the Nazi ‘store” at 50% interest and pay Suknuts his $12. GR composed a request for these funds in such a way as to convince the usurer that he would wait possibly forever for payment. As calculated, the loan was refused. Goat (he looked like one) sent GR to two other Caucasian loansharks, and GR finessed them too, using this same method. While this occurred, Sucknuts was being debt-squeezed by his own people. In desperation, he sent a note to GR proposing to ameliorate the $550 debt for a mere $3! This was so startling and small that I almost got weak and paid it myself just to get the shit over with.

The alternative was that GR would escape his debts by simply having the Guards move him due to nebulous mumblings of exploitation, etc. The end result is that they’d probably replace innocuous GR with the standard tattoo’d pinhead who has an even more devious/obnoxious/vicious or addicted bent. The reason I didn’t was two-fold. GR would only continue until it happened anyway, and I wanted to see what exactly it was that a little, young, know-nothing twerp had said to entice a herd of supposedly wiser Hitler-kissers to treat him like der Fuerer.

Despite GR’s calculated notes, Goat did find a loanshark to up the $3 to Suknuts, plus some slight overflow to GR, suprizingly. Probably Goats sucked off some for himself. The next day Sucknuts sent a note demanding the full amount. (Possibly Goats had lied to the shark about GR getting a huge check in the mail and this lie leaked to Suck nuts somehow.)

From here, GR’s playing of the cliques against each other went downhill amazingly slowly to land with a buffet rather than the usual crash and burn. Goats and Sucknuts parleyed with one another intensively while GR enjoyed watching racecars circle endlessly at high speed. A new agreement was reached, and GR didn’t pay it or even borrow it. Sucknuts sent more shrill notes and even shrieked up the corridor at GR until be got blue in his face. Nothing was ever sent, and GR sneaked out word to the guards to come and get him moved to a safe place where no one knew him or his ways.

GR did this in an even sneakier fashion than I’d ever seen. He wrote the Kops asking to be taken to sick call. While he was gone, the local busybody white run-inmate,

“Goombah” (Anthony Goombi, professional snitch for the cops plus professional ass-kisser for the prison kops) came by and asked me if GR was coming back.

GR did come back that time, but they must have given him the great idea because the 2nd time, he did not. A Kop came instead and wanted me to give him GR’s stuff. Later that day, in the shower, on the “yard” and at the foodhole, numerous persons remarked to me “I sure thought GR was a good guy!” Usually they say much worse, trying to brand their former friends “Snitchin’, rat-dog-child molesters”. (Somehow “rape-o” has fallen into disuse of late.) Even Goats, who presumably had lost face with his fellow Hitlerkissers in vouching (and profiting) for GR didn’t pull his standard trick of trying to brand GR with obvious lies.

GR didn’t talk a bunch of dope nonsense, and I doubt this was what he promised the Hitler fools to make them so uncharacteristically docile and patient. My only guess is that GR was soon to get out (he was) and simply agreed to their own scams. GR didn’t seem too imaginative or inventive beyond rhetoric, but it doesn’t take much skill to elicit other people’s schemes and agree to participate.

BRED FOR CRIME: MM

12-26-00: The electricity went out in the little town of McAlester that feeds off its inmate victims. In the torturehole itself, we were deprived of water and cleanliness all day long because they have no water tower. No electricity means no pump. The kops had plenty of everything, though. Their emergency generator kept them in power, and they got their own water. Soon as the sun went down promptly at 4:30 due to clouds, we were cold, in the dark and thirsty all night. Of course none of these deadheads prepared though they had plenty of warning. The lights went out at 10AM and the water began immediately dribbling to a halt soon thereafter.

The kops filled jugs and served water one time after dark. MM saved no water. Guess his mind is a total blank. Soon as the water shut down, he needed to take one of his famous diarrhea-laden shits. He was too embarassed to do it in front of me. He somehow held it inside him all day and most of the evening, but soon as he thought me asleep, he sneaked over and let loose his bowels.

The reason he is famous for his diarrhea is because he will eat any type of groundup guts the prison kitchen can try to hide beneath tomato paste and chili powder. Plus he will eat yours too when you try to give it to the sewer where it belongs. Amerinds in general will wolf down pretty much any type of garbage and offal the prison scum hand them that smells of dead animal or has a splatter of fat, gristle or cartilidge floating within it. All poor people ground under the heel of America’s millionaire ruling class suffer this type of taste deviancy.

The guy across the hall, Ernie Smith, told this doof how to do it, then demonstrated it. You put a plastic garbage bag over the crapper and crap in that. Next, his cagemate called over here to MM to borrow a plastic bag so he too could demonstrate for MM. Last, the run-Negro passed out one plastic bag per cage for this purpose. What does MM do? He diarrheas in the crapper, than drapes the bag over the crapper. Then MM gets deodorant and rubs it on the toilet paper which he drapes over the bars, paying homage to the nose-Gods,-apparently. (As a matter of genetics, Amerinds-have particularly acute senses of smell.)

MM is particularly annoyed when the run-Caucasian came over and played his nose-game. Previously, when MM first got here and began his in-cage workouts that stunk up the downwind, a run-Negro cocked his nose in here and wondered loudly if “that old man” showers. You can’t win with a nosy Negro by stimulating him with an answer. He was not on about the odor as much as he was playing to get me to talk to him.    (I really should make more time to bs with people, but I’m too busy for small talk.) Negroes are most offended by being ignored. Talking to them is a sure-lose situation because they can get much louder and many-times stupider than you can, plus their fellows are all in the wings ready to shriek their brains out too. Like wrestling a pig, you both get dirty, but the pig loves it.

The run-Negro couldn’t get the response he desired from me, not even when he manipulated the mindless near-abouts to chime in with their new-found nasal opinions. But it drove MM nuts. He went on a frenzy of begging for soap, washing the floor, washing himself, draping his deodorant-on-toilet paper strips everywhere and apologizing to everyone who would listen.

This didn’t stop his day-long, in-cage workout sessions, though. A few days of these and the run-Cauc came over and asked MM if we shower. This is a calculated double insult that also implies that we are too cowardly to brave a shower amongst 8 other possible dangerous killers. Again MM went into his frenzy of cleaning and begging for soap. They’ve got MM so gunshy that he’s always dithering with anti-smell measures.

Now, the run has been stewing in urine, shit, unwashed bodies and dirt for the 5th day. (The Holiday weekend quashed all showers, and this is the 26th now with no drink, flush or wipe.) The run-rats inexplicably stopped whining about their nasal cavities delicate structures.

Last night, MM crawled in his upper rack soon as the sun went down. The cage lights were out, but the kops kept the corridor lights on for their own safety. With Beanhole Junkie trying to make himself sleep, I sat reading in the doorway, the only available light. It didn’t take long for MM to discover he can’t sleep. Then he immediately gets jealous of me taking over the door and blocking half a step of his step, step, turn routine. He had to back up into the area of the cage the guards designed to knock necks and kneecaps against steel. He had to step, lean away from the upper rack corner while throw his knee away from the steel stool on the opposite side, baby-step, turn, repeat.

MM worked himself into a lather, but was too cowardly to say anything. I blocked him from his usual place at the door (“TV”) for at least 2 hours, plus made him change his mindless stepping routine. He was seething mad when I finally got finished reading.

He childishly gave–me the cold stare-Amerinds call this the “Evil Eye”.         Previously he had thought he’d try and simply frighten me out of “his” spot. He began by hooting while still in bed. Amerinds think they can spontaneously and suddenly make hooting sounds and people won’t automaticly think they’re idiots because they’re Amerinds. They are idiots, same as all the redneck pinheads who love to make livestock sounds. When the “Chief” (Karl Tiger) across the hall failed to answer, this was MM’s cue to simply become obnoxious and begin screaming the lyrics to rap songs.          (His particular Lawton culture is almost entirely subsumed by the stronger, more vibrant Negro-rap culture, as I earlier intimated while describing MM’s body language, which is most noteably Neo-black.)

After even this fails to draw the needed attention to himself and his needs, MM develops his usual sly plan to make (to him) frightening “Noises-of-his-anger” which must play in his mind as a soundtrack to a chainsaw-killer fantasy. First, he determines that my back is to him and I can’t see what he’s doing. His whole plan is to induce me to turn around suddenly and stare at him in abject, open-mouthed fear without his having gotten close enough for me sock him in his jaw. He sneaks out of his upper rack, then stomps his bare foot as violently as possible against the cement floor. This sounds exactly like a childish moron dashing his soft, easily-bruised flesh into hard cement. He gets no reaction, so he slams both fists against the iron table. He has hurt himself mightily and repeatedly for nothing. The guy wants attention so badly he may as well be characterized as a child who blocks the TV during football to usurp adult attention, but can’t deduce why this gets him yanked away by his hair and tossed in a heap of crying, whining frustration each time.    (MM never had a father to do this to him, and mother loved him too much.) Now he’s too big to be properly disciplined and trained into normalcy except by prison (Yeah, Right! Like that’s going to happen!) Prison provides only punishment and torture, never any guidance or a spanking.

Of course, the cop’s, lawyer’s, judges’ DA’s, guards’, and politicians’ plans for MM and his peers is to continue to hold him out to their taxherds as their boogerman used to bilk them out of $40,000/year/head to keep him safely locked away in their S5,000/ year/head prison cages at a fabulous $34,000/yr/head tax profit for themselves. The exact last thing they want is to run out of MMs or accidently teach them the correct societal course to take. Of course MM is cooperating with their sly plans perfectly. They win.

BRED FOR CRIME: ROBBERY

The gov/media alliance often uses prison gangs to scare their vidiots into cheering and voting for their never-ending sequence of “git tuff on crime (and re-elect me)” schemes. They get millionaire “news” squawkers to portray each gang as even more vicious than the last pack of illiterate children in men’s bodies. If you have a mind of your own and an interest in uncovering what is really going on, you may wish to read this and other of my essays, such as “A Social Puzzle You Can’t Solve” or “Malpractice As A Goal” or “. . . Education Verboten!” et al.

My cage is under a stairwell. I share it with a young white kid of about 23 years of age. Next door is an even younger kid (18) with a 32 year old guy who qualifies as an adult. They are, in order of mention, Dick, Trick and Slick. Dick has a few friends just like him. They puff and blow like they are too tough to be taken advantage of. Trick is in their clique, as is, nominally, Slick, but Trick is low “man” and thus has to endure being financially and socially abused by his fellows to enjoy membership in their little self-protection society. All of them, even the un-named, are constantly scheming on dope, except perhaps Slick. Every penny they can beg from Moms and Sisters goes to the Mexicans or others for dopes. They prefer what passes for “speed” here or “heroin” (painkiller pills). Last on their list is tiny amounts of marijuana, but they are always alert for any substance that may addle their brains enough to give them temporary surcease from that big, roiling echo of ignorance and boredom ringing in their heads during reality. I can always tell these superfiends: every time one sees me use my white-out, he asks hopefully, “Is that the kind you can sniff and get high off of?”

To watch them stick needles in their arms is disgusting, as is seeing them go through major preparations to smoke a few crumbs of marajuana dust. (They pay $5 for a quantity of weed dust that will not even loosely fill a chapstick cap, and this miniscule amount is shared among 3 to 5 persons.) Mostly they don’t shoot or smoke dope; mostly they talk about the dope they had before, wish they had some dope now, or laugh about how other people pheen, tweak and schitz over dope. It seems not to occur to them that in doing this they are themselves pheening, tweaking and schitzing over dope.

That is the background; here is the story:

I was in-the law library; later I was to go to the prison store and buy a Christmas sack of junkfood. Being over 50 years of age, old-looking, grey of beard and hair plus wearing glasses, I had attracted the attention of an ugly-looking indian kid. His astute powers of observation told him I didn’t have a bunch of shitty-looking tattoos scribbled in ink on my skin connoting gang membership. His subsequent stalking of me proved to his satisfaction that it would be relatively safe to rob me, provided certain conditions were met. He took care of these while I was gone.

Step one was to get the support of a pair of nearby indians who existed only 3 cages away from his intended victim. This would give him a place to hide and watch for his prey so he could sneak up behind and deliver his cowardly blow. Then he would need a            close place to run to and hide in should any pursuit occur. His fellow indians were happy to take a third each for allowing Ugly to use their cage to hide in.

Step two was to approach his victim’s neighbors and ask them if they cared if their white neighbor got robbed. The Negroes on one side couldn’t care less, and said so. The white guys on the other side, Slick and Trick, were not so easy. Trick wasn’t even        – asked, but Slick was scary to Ugly because he had spread lots of karate and kund fu stories about himself. Also, he was able, if he wished, to stomp Ugly into the ground, if he could catch him. What to do? Ugly simply told Slick that he had the whole gang of indians (about 30 of them) behind him on this one robbery of an old man. Slick quickly acquiesced and promised, as ordered, not to warn his neighbor of Ugly’s impending attack.

Step three was to approach Dick with the same scheme. Dick didn’t acquiesce fast enough, so guess what happened? Think Ugly attacked him then and there as was the stated threat? No. Ugly did something much more cunning: he offered Dick a cut of the take!

Dick quickly accepted. Both were not wishing to injure themselves for nothing. Dick, Slick, Trick and the Negroes all did as Ugly told them, which was to leave the scene and provide no warning.

Twenty years ago it was custom that the person you were forced to share a cage with was obliged to warn you of any attacks, especially if the attack was by a minority or someone outside your race. Now it is get in a gang or be prey for a gang. Minorities

are not minorities in prison, and they still have nothing. Also, Caucasians are thought of by minorities to be walking, talking convenience stores and supermarkets.

That’s what I was for Ugly that day: he fell in behind me and I thought he was the other ugly, scar-faced lazy misfortunate that mooched me that morning to bring him some typing paper. He followed me into my cage. I gave him the typing paper and he wanted my Christmas sack.

Now, as a robber, he would have made a better doorstop.       I could have gotten the first punch in, and though it would have made his eyes bulge out and he’d perhaps lose his breath and think he was having a heart attack, he wouldn’t go down where I could

kick his larcenous head in or stomp his face. Also, I’m not vicious, despite what all the lawyers and judges say. Worse, he would recover quickly while I was breaking my knuckles on his bony face. I simply can’t hit that hard. Also, he would out-last me. Plus he could scream for his buddies whom I knew to be near simply because of my previous experience of seeing how cowards run in packs. I don’t heal as quickly as I used to, either: that last indian shitbrain I had to peel off me cost me my shoulder ligaments. The dirtbag after him cost me some use of my poor, previously abused right pinky to this day. Punching one of three maggots in the nose to save my TV seemed to hurt my index finger more than his nose: it didn’t heal for two solid months. So 2 said, “Take it.” Thirteen dollars is not worth breaking my $75 glasses over, much less the injuries. I paid $500 for a cap on one tooth: this moron could get lucky, and I’d never get it repaired in prison. I’d have to go around looking like the idiots in here who trade their two front teeth for a $13 Christmas sack or a shot of trashdope. Instead, I’ll let him be encouraged by the ease with which he robbed so that he can be more quickly stabbed to death for it by someone with fewer scruples than I. Ugly took the sack and ran.

The turds who were supposed to warn me, ostensible “white” people, stayed gone until forced to return by count-time. Dick had an attack of conscious and did what no true criminal would ever do: he confessed the whole thing except the indian’s identity, including his taking a cut! Slick also confessed to giving his approval, no warning and to getting lost as ordered prior to the attack. Dick had the audacity to say I should have fought the thief. He tried to cover his own cowardice by multiplying the number of attackers. He tried to get me to tell him which indian(s) did it while trying to avoid telling me which indian(s) approached him. I did manage to trick him into telling me it was just the one indian, Ugly.

So there you have it: one clever indian feigning to be a whole herd of indians, duped four caucasians (or just three, since one joined the indians by taking a cut of the take) into allowing a robbery of their own “brother”, as minorities like to term it. This is why I chose Ugly for this series; he is more cunning than most and thus shows that he is truly Bred For Crime!