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Isn’t “Old Nick” one of the names of the Devil? I seem to remember that it is, but this could just be sensory deprivation talking. I do know that early European settlers used to invoke Old Nick as they sat around their campfires, too scared to sleep for fear of natives getting them. The Devil did come from European mythology, didn’t he? At least, this is where he spreads most of his fear and loathing, from ancient roman times, to the Spanish Inquisition, through the Dark Ages, all the way to the incessant religious wars we suffer today all over the globe.

So, nicknames come from the Devil, at least in prison, because here, they are used to conceal devilry from the mass of common apes who have morality and ethics enough to stamp it out. There are no police in prison, though most people think that the guards are cops. They are not. They stay in their dark, air-conditioned safe habitats near their coffee pots for 8 hours, then leave. Only begrudgingly will they ever come out of their lair, and they will scurry back into its safety at the slightest hint of danger. Nope: no police in prisons, though lately, the prisoncrats have begun a Public Relations (PR) campaign to pretend that there are. This is usually in the form of an easy to remember slogan: “Keeping us safe, the public safe, and the inmates safe!” Sometimes they put the words “proud” or “pride” in there. In the future, as prison slave industries continue to explode, I expect them to set these PR slogans to music, like a jingle that gets stuck in your head. This expertly conceals the fact that, if prison “policing” was practiced outside, the cops would mainly sit in their cop-lairs, watching monitors and slurping coffee instead of cruising around and lurking behind concealment.

In prison, its anarchy. The only police in prisons are the mob of apes themselves who do not hide their identities behind Old Nick‘s names. The nicest thing about prison is that the worst dirt bags point themselves out to you. They have put permanent scribbles all over themselves, it works like a gauge of scuzziness: the more square inches of skin graffiti and the worse its quality, the worse the person. The same goes for nicknames, which act as advertisements. They tell you he‘s a dope fiend, or a scared sissy, or a rat-packer, etc, One of these dirt bags hid behind the name “TeePain.” He was a sneak attacker and had a relatively long career of sucker punching people because of all the cop-cams snooping into every corner. This punk would never go where the cop-eye couldn’t see, and he knew all about how to hide his face and actions from the cop eyes while he was maneuvering his victim for his cowardly sneak attack. In the old days, before cop-eyes were everywhere, the mob would have killed this punk quickly. Thanks to the cop-eyes, this punk’s sucker punch career lasted two years before the ape-mob could get him. He died noisily, squealing for mercy. He wished to god he hadn’t left the safety of the cop-cam. One would think that cop-eyes are like police, and guards are like police. They’re more like cleaners—they take their time, strapping their balls on and waiting for “overwhelming force” to muster and grab their gear. The shit is over before they get there. All they do is clean up the mess. They are not police, and they only keep themselves safe. Their nickname would be the aftermath cops, or the mop up crew, but they want us to call them Goon Squad, Guards like this nickname.