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Violent is the label that all the politicians, bureaucrats, cops, lawyers, prosecutors, judges, parole boards and media personalities love to smear onto their targets. This is their key word for attracting attention to themselves. The gullible citizens respond to it like dogs to a whistle. Their ears prick-up, the stop doing everything that they were doing. They turn up the television or radio as if the talking head was saying something important. They freeze to listen intently, like frightened mice, as if this ‘expert’ knows all about violence.

He doesn’t. He thinks that he does, but he’s never seen real violence. He’s only heard stories about violence from others who have. Like me. Like this:

1979: McAlester prison; Oklahoma’s shittiest slow-death camp. A casual friend of mine is Joe. He’s short, but beefy, strong and quiet. He’s from Texas, but got slammed with a four year sentence here for a petty crime that is a misdemeanor everywhere else. The Oklahoma Lawyers’ system and our politicians are like this. They collect people into cages for glory and profit. It is their primary means of obtaining lucrative elective office. They shout “crime!” The taxpayers shit money. Joe likes to work out on the weight pile. He likes to eat, but he’s not yet fat. He’s almost 30, and he works in the kitchen, both for the food and for the ‘good’ time that shortens his sentence. This 7-days/week job is his quickest way out. His closet friend and co-worker, is Ken. They do vegetable preparation: peeling potatoes, chopping lettuce, washing greens. Ken was on death row, but got off in 1975, when top judges admitted how crooked their process was. Ken will never get out, but at least the prosecutors gave up trying to get him killed. Joe and Ken are in the kitchen now.

The doors to the cage stacks all slam open at once. Everyone in the tiny, toilet sized, two-man cages rush out to chow, trying to be first. The chow hall is too small, and they run lines through too quickly. No one gets enough time to eat like civilized men. If you’re first, you can sit down, eat your slop quickly and leave before the prison kop manning the exit door at the end of the hallway gets squirrelly. He likes to pile people up before he lets them out. It’s a power trip that is also a policy statement. If you’re last, you can try eating standing up. Or you can find someone weak and take his seat. There is one kop in this small room stuffed with 200 people fighting over 50 seats. He does nothing nut look tough and ceaselessly bellow at everyone, “Hurry up!” and “Get out!” He spends the rest of his time beating on the kitchen door, trying to get himself locked inside, safe from the madhouse that he and his fellow kops have been trained to create. Everybody hates being there. Everybody wants to kick people out of their way. Everyone would like to see someone take a metal tray and bash it into the kop’s barking teeth. Everybody wishes that they could rip one of the four-seat tables out of the cement and throw it through the cinderblock wall to escape into the sunlight on the other side. The windowless, concrete cave and the constant harassment within is that oppressive.

I was one of the first men in to grab my tray of slop and begin choking it down. While I was choosing what was safe enough to eat and what to throw back at them, an enemy who was still in line leaned over the railing to slam his cup onto my table, snarling, “That’s my seat you’re in!” I sneered back, “Not while I’m sitting here!” Just the noise was intolerable; shouting, cursing, threats, slams and bangs. It all rang off the walls and bounced back to irritate you again.

The main course, a breaded gut-meat, was inedible. I had better things to do. I took my tray with me to the low, one-by-four foot hole in the wall that served as the table into the dish room.  It was dark and humid in there, full of splashing; hoses spraying and the scent of caustic soda. The kops lock two men in there when the lines come through to feed. It’s a way-station for smuggling food out and contraband in. Just as I came up to throw my tray in, the keys jangled and light briefly poured in. the reflection off of the wet floor showed four legs coming in. the door behind them slammed shut and locked. Someone inside there let out a high-pitched scream of terror. I crouched down to look in and see its cause. A narrow slit of light came through the tiny observation port in the door that had just locked. A fist with a meat cleaver held high flashed down on someone’s upraised arm. Again and again, this angry fist chopped down with its cleaver. His victim screamed each time, slipping on the floor as his killer pressed his attack, bending him over backward onto the bed of the dish machine. Others heard the cries signaling impending murder and rushed to crowd their heads into the filthy tray-hole. While this killer was busily hacking at his victim’s defending arms to get at his brains, the guy behind him attacked the other dishwasher with a butcher knife. His target, forewarned, was determined not to die easily. He took a couple of slashes; one across his face another down his arm, before managing to get his hands on the wrist and fist that held the weapon. They struggled briefly but mightily, for control, grunting and wheezing with effort as they pushed, pulled, heaved and twisted for their lives. The tray-man lost the battle for possession of the knife, but succeeded in hooking a leg behind his foe and shoving him backward to the floor. He squatted to launch himself powerfully, aiming to catapult himself through the crowded tray-hole and into the chowhally with us, where there was at least a chance to run a few more feet to the next locked door. His face was white with fear and desperation where it was not dripping or smeared with blood from the gash across his nose and cheek. Gawkers in his path leaped backward as he landed on the table and clawed for the lip to drag himself across and out. The meat cleaver changed onto the tile floor as Joe noticed his second victim’s escape. The bleeding man pulled himself across there table, getting his head out into the light. Strong hands clamped around his ankle and began dragging him back into the dim pit. A wall of despair escaped the guy’s lips as his grip tore loose. I took his arm and pulled. Out of at least twenty gawkers, only one other person had the wherewithal to help. Rodney and I pulled the man back two more feet into the light. Then death row guy got back on his feet a clamped onto the guy’s other ankle, pulling with fero-city. The press of curiosity-seekers gibbered to itself as Rod and I struggled against Joe and Ken for the guy’s life. One of them hissed advice to someone: “Don’t do it, man! They’ll get you next!” Our grip failed in the sweat and blood. He wailed once more in despair as his terrified, pleading face disappeared into the darkness. They hacked him to death while Rod and I ran down the hall to trick our way past the exit-door kop before he learned what had occurred. A knot of about thirty gawkers came to their sense and got out behind us before the kops locked all the doors and gates, trapping everyone else. Rod and I got to our separate cages and scrubbed the blood off before they could rope us in as accomplices. We needn’t have worried. The “investigation” was a total farce: the Lawyers’ system was completely useless except for benefitting itself. Ken took all the blame, copping out to two more meaningless life sentences on top of the one he already was lucky to have gotten. Joe, who had both instigated and performed these murders, walked away, free as a bird, two years later after finishing his original sentence. The judge/prosecutor team was happy to let a double-killer get away just so that they could avoid wasting their time on a trial when they could be making none off of paying clients. Now that’s violence! Violence by the Lawcrats in setting a double murderer loose upon an unsuspecting citizenry, whom they swore, as a condition of their office, to protect. That tray-hole held the faces of twenty or more witnesses. Not a single one was asked to testify. No one asked why the kop locked two armed vegetable preparation workers into the dish room. No one asked what possible business they had in there amongst the slop barrels and soiled trays. No one asked why the cops, prosecutors and judges so eagerly and swiftly accepted the tidy little plea bargain presented to them by the former death row inmate. These are questions that jurors and the kin of the slain victims would like to have had answered.

More violence is the way that the self-called “watchdog” media chose to ignore all of the inmates’ letters to them detailing these murders. After every instance of violence, (McAlester prison averaged a murder every month at this time) the prison kops get stacks of letters full of “intel” that they generally file away and ignore. Since the inmates are more terrified of living amongst soul-less killers than are ordinary citizens, (having no protection from them in prison), When their pleas are ignored by the kops, they appeal to the media. The soul-less media did nothing useful to the captives or the citizens that they purport to serve; not even turn these detailed accounts of the murders over to the next of kin. This violence is called “Destruction of evidence.” The station managers, editors and news-professionals could not care less. They were assured that they would not be prosecuted for this crime. They followed the instructions of the cops and lawcrats: “Throw those eyewitnesses statements away! They would only keep wounds open and festering!” this is very ironic, considering that the media usually leads the mob, bleating demands for “closure”. This victims’ kin got no closure. They got lies instead. The facts must never escape. The victims’ families must be forever separated from these eyewitnesses’ statements. Else they might come to understand the nature of wholesale social violence that hides its snickering face behind mere individual acts of violence. The fact that the citizens are so easily tricked and kept stupid by the super-criminal elite within the Gov/media alliance is by far the worst violence of all.