Three months remained in my prison sentence in Walla Walla Penitentiary. I stitched a hackie-sack out of a shirt sleeve, and I brought it with me to big yard. That was the day I first spoke with a black man while incarcerated. If the institution didn’t segregate its customers when they arrived then every white man would have a black cell mate, and the racism wouldn’t exist to the awful extent that it does. His name was Blue. Blue kicked the bag like it was gonna hurt his foot. I told him to try and loosen up his legs, to try to have fun with it. Just allow yourself to look a little goofy is what I told him. Blue cared about his physique a great deal. He was a tall dude, ripped like a UFC fighter. He had stiff legs when he kicked the hack and sent it flying away from the circle. I told him he was trying too much.
He would listen to my critiques. Perhaps, because I was good at it. A lot of the inmates would listen to me in this respect. I learned that Blue was in prison on his third strike for robbery. He never used a weapon. He was serving a lifelong sentence because of his repeat offenses that were considered violent. I am not sure if he ever committed any violence when he had robbed people. I think he just intimidated people in general. He said he liked prison. I think he didn’t have a choice.
We kicked the bag around and every few kicks the pebbles and sand from the track would fling out of the poor stitching and we would have to fill it back up grain-by-grain. It was a nuisance, but it did not stop other inmates from joining our hack circle during big yard. It was something new and different, and it was fun.
A couple weeks into the daily hack circles, Blue showed up to yard with a gift. He had sewed a new hack out of a laundry bag and a piece of denim. It was sewn proper, and it kept sand. This was a real treat, and we had a growing group of men out there, every day, laughing and feeling the easy-going vibe that a hack circle offers.
It gave me something to feel apart of. All of the men who joined were excited about it. They didn’t talk about it. You could just tell. I became popular and guys started giving me shout outs and props of respect, because I was good at kicking the bag around and teaching guys how to become friends through it. It was nice making friends, although it was the last thing I could have possibly wanted. Becoming known in prison was a scary thing for a nineteen year old kid who had just gone through puberty.
I was arrested for stealing a purse out of a shopping cart. The woman was loading groceries into her car. It was a cowardly and chicken-shit thing to do. I was withdrawaling from heroin. I had become addicted to the drug, and I didn’t yet understand the nature of what I was going through. I just knew that I needed some money and that I couldn’t afford my growing habit on my wages as a cook. So, I stole a purse and a man chased me and managed to write down my license plate number. When I was confronted by the police a few weeks later I had heroin and cocaine on me. In fact, I was in the middle of fixing up a speedball shot when my driver’s side door opened up and there was a gun in my face. I remember looking up and realizing that I had been boxed-in by undercover police. There were four or five unmarked cars and six or seven officers with their weapons drawn on me. They had me. They had a case too. I was guilty. I admitted my guilt by taking a plea bargain. I didn’t have a real attorney so I was sentenced to a year in prison plus four years of community custody, and a lifetime of limited opportunities as a felon. It was considered a violent crime even though there was no violence. I didn’t know that at the time. I was just scared to death. I was extremely sick throughout all of the fast moving court appearances. I was never allowed to speak. I was ushered in and out and directed where to signed and when to say guilty. I did as I was told. What was technically a Theft 1 became a Robbery 2. “My” attorney told me that it was way better to spend a year in prison than six months in the county jail. At that point in time, that logic made sense to me. I didn’t realize the difference was a lifetime of being categorized as a violent criminal and all of the awesome benefits that that entails. I was just a teenager. I was locked up in the county jail and facing a prison sentence, and I was withdrawing from heroin so badly that they put me on suicide watch with the madmen. One of the guys on suicide watch would piss under his door and throw his shit at the guards. He was as lunatic. Once a week they would hog-tie him to a steel loop on the floor of the shower room. They would douse him with powdered soap and hose him down with a high pressured hose. I could watch that entire occasion from my mat on the floor of the “Suicide Pod.” I remember the guards really enjoying that event. It made me feel worse than I did. I will never forget the shrieking screams of that man being hosed down. After my Plea Sentencing, they shipped me to Shelton Corrections Center where I stayed for about six weeks. Then I was chained, hands and feet, connected to a group of other men, like a link in the chain, and we were loaded on a bus and shipped to Walla Walla Penitentiary. It was a six hour bus ride. None of the men in orange jump suits and shackles said a word the entire trip.
I was sitting in chow hall at Walla Walla one afternoon shortly after I had arrived, and I was thinking how strange it is that the institution segregates inmates by race before the inmates have even had a chance to make their own judgments of an individual’s character. They segregate people by race when they arrive. The prison only cells up blacks with blacks and whites with whites and Mexicans with Mexicans and islanders with islanders and natives with natives.
I remember looking across the chow hall and thinking how strange it is that the entire enormous cafeteria was color coordinated, small round tables, in clusters of race. If I could choose to be any race while being incarcerated it would definitely be Native American. They get all the privileges… As they should.
I was born, and I had white skin. I was raised by my mom and her boyfriend, Charlie Bassie. He was a black man. He was a Crack dealer and a junk fiend. When I was about seven or eight years old, I walked in on Charlie, my dad, injecting heroin into my mother’s vagina. He yelled at me, but he wasnt able to slap me in that moment because his hands were full. It was a scarring memory. One of my first authentic memories in life. I haven’t been able to shake it. Charlie was really mean to me and creepy to my little sister. I hated him. I never hated him because he was black. I never hated him because he did drugs or profited off of my mother’s body. I hated him because he was an asshole. I hated him because he would beat me and he would touch my little sister. If anything, being black, made him seem cool in my eyes.
I don’t remember much of my life before Charlie. I know that my mom had ran away from Alaska with me from another former shit bag boyfriend of hers. Then she had hooked up with this guy who sold used cars. She always insisted that she had played that car salesmen like a fool. The car guy got her pregnant though. That is where my sister, Calantha, came from. We never heard from that guy again. I doubt it was his decision.
Once Charles, the African American boyfriend, took over my mother it was all shitty. I remembered that she always screamed when they would have sex. I think Charlie must have been one of those freak-dick type of black men.
Charlie ruined everything good about my mother, I think. Again, not because he was black, but because he was a controlling, violent, and perverted asshole.
Eventually Charlie and my mom were hooked on crack and heroin. That’s when things at our apartment got really terrible. Especially if they started in on the malt liquor. Their drug habits were viscious. They were always fighting. There was always violence. I stood up for my mom a few times and Charlie would slap the piss out of me.
I remember the last time I ever saw Charles. He hit me so hard that my left eye was swollen shut and I had a knot on my head from hitting a corner of the counter top. I ran away with my skateboard after that occasion. I had nothing else to to stay for except my sister. I couldn’t save her, let alone myself. I had nothing else to say to them. I didnt want their shelter. They never had food.
I stayed at my friend Isaiah’s house. Isaiah’s mom was a junky too. She was a sad loner and she didn’t seem to care about anything. I never really saw Isaiah’s mom when I was there. There were people that always hung out there that nobody liked, but they were intimidating and much older than Isaiah and I, so we put up with their shit.
I remember one time those assholes talked Gene and Kraut into doing a beer run. They got busted. I had taken an entire bottle of dramamine that night, because I heard that it made you “fry.” I felt like I was gonna die that night. It was frightening over at that house. Probably worse than the crack den where my mom stayed. What a fucking shitty transition into adulthood.
I remember that I received a phone call on the land line over at Isaiah’s house from my grandmother, Truth. My mother’s mother. I had probably been staying at Isaiah’s for three months at that point.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Elliott, this is your grandmother speaking, honey.”
“I am aware.” I said like a stiff little prick.
“What are you up to? You sound beligerant.No one has heard from you in weeks. Even though we know where you’ve been, we have been so worried about you.”
“How in the fuck could you know where I have been?” I said, annoyed. “Anyways, Grandma Truth, what do you want?”
“Oh, well, honey. We have been trying to get ahold of you to let you know that your mother has court on Wednesday the 6th. Which is in three days, honey.”
“Court?! What is it this time?”
“Yes, honey… Oh my goodness, you don’t even know?”
“Know what?” I asked. “What the fuck are you talking about, Truth?”
“Please, Elliott, honey, don’t swear!” She said sternly with a bit of contempt in her voice. “You sound like your mother.”
“What do you expect, Truth?” I asked sincerely. The frustration not gone from my voice.
“Elliott, your mother was arrested for sexual trafficking and intent to sell heroin and crack-cocaine. She has been in the county jail since about three days after you dissapeered.”
“You make it sound as though it were my fucking fault. It is her own goddamn fault! She is a junky whore!” I was screaming the last sentence and my voice shattered into a sobbing shit-show of emotion at the snivvelling word, whore. Thats when my composure was gone. I wasn’t tough. I was broken. I was homesick for the sickness that was home, and I had nowhere but shit boxes to go. A few places without power, where drunk fuck offs would piss in the corners near where I was allowed to sleep. I fucking lost it, fell apart.
“Elliott, Honey, Baby boy, My sweet child, it is not your fault. I was not implying that… Listen, Elliott, there is more.”
“More?!” I asked sniffling as if that were an absurd impossibility. Inside, I knew. I knew… of course there was more. My mother is the centrifugal force of tornado-like destruction. “Let me guess,” I said trying to resume my anger to keep the tears away. I knew I was going to get major crap from the jerks that squatted at isaiah’s for crying on the phone to my grandmother about my, ‘mommy,’ the word they were mocking me with in the backround of that phone call. I thought about just hanging up.
“Let me guess,” I said loudly for the jerks in the room behind me to hear, “she has a loud applauding episode of the clap. What, she got cheese on her clam? I am not surprised, and I do not need to know about her disease infested flappy-trap.”
“NO, ELLIOTT! Shame on you for saying that! We are talking about your mother. Your mother is a very sick woman, Elliott. Please speak with some respect, please, at least try to with me. She is my daughter. Please… with me.”
“My bad, G-Truf.” I said. My grandma Truth was there for my sis and I each time, ‘ mommy’ was locked away in a cell or in a trap house. She would abandon my sister and I for days and weeks sometimes.
When she didn’t have us kidnapped and starving on some shitty, litter box floor in a crack-fogged room, while flipping tricks and spinning minds, she would have some random puke face with a dick teach us some discipline. “They need a male role model. They need discipline.” She would say. That was interpreted in sll sorts of shocking ways. Then the men would slap her in the face, with a fist occassionally.
She was a busy business, my mother. She should have charged men cash for the shit she did. I never saw any money from all that hard work. I only saw her blank expression, eager and desperate for another wash of the spoon or another hit off the brillow. She was mostly paid the scanty crumbs of cocaine freebased w/baking soda, or black tar heroin rinses from used syringes. Her needs were the eclipse of my stomach, and Calantha’s stomach. What were we supposed to eat. There wasn’t ever any food.
“Elliott, after your mother was arrested, the police obtained a search warrant for your house.” Grandma Truth continued. A long silence ensued…
“That is not my house!” I pulled the phone away from my ear, suddenly very frustrated again. I was tempted to hang up again. I poured myself a glass of warm Canadian Whisky into a rinsed out cup of noodles styrofoam. I took a salty pull and a bit of the alcohol went down my air pipe. It burned and I started coughing madly. I could here my grandma yelling for my attention from the cordless landline telephone. Again, I though about hanging up the phone, but I put it up to my face. I closed my eyes and exhsled the burn and a few more quick tear drops fell from my eyes.
“Elliott, are you still there?”
“Elliott, I am going to get straight to the point before you hang up on me and I never hear your voice again. Elliott, The police found some sort of drug lab in your ma’s house.”
It was quiet for a curious moment.
“Elliott, her fingerprints are all over everything. Honey, your mother is in big trouble. She wrote me a letter and asked me to find you and beg you to attend her trial. In her defense, honey, she has been in county and off the smack for about three months now. She is thinking clearly. She is very emotional and apologetic and desperately broken. She misses you most of all. She even apologized to me extensively for years of manipulative abuse. Elliott, your mother is going to prison for a long time. I want you to think about that. Good night, child.”
Then my grandma Truth hung up on me. That was curiously impactful. I sat motionless. Thinking: my mum has always been in and out of jail. That is expected and accepted as a part of her life process. Each time she gets cleaned up in there and she is so sorry, and legitimately, sincerely, sorry…
Sometimes, Some People Are Just SORRY.
Mom never went home. Neither did I.
Shortly after my mother was sentenced to fifteen years in prison, my mom’s parent’s took custody of my sister and I. We went to live with G-Truf. I guess things were lots better, but, things just didn’t really feel like getting better. I was an angry kid and rebellious beyond reason. It ended up being a real miracle for my sister, a sad and disguised miracle… at first. Her childhood became somewhat normal and she came to life slowly. She was younger and needed the love and security of a sober and clean household. For me it was a shit show. I was a total problem child. I was a teenager that had been ruined by the trap life. My grandparent’s didn’t know how to deal with me so they sent me to a private christian boarding school in Yakima, WA. It was a very pentecostal, charismatic sort of place. I learned how to pretend on the outside and get away with almost anything I wanted.
They expelled me eventually. Then I turned eighteen.
It wasnt long after, I was arrested on some reckless charges. I was off to prison just like my mommy… I guess I missed my her. I missed my mother before she ever had a chance to ruin it for me….
On my way out of the chow hall, I saw Blue and he came at me like a brother and I received and exchanged a natural sort of hand shake with him. A shake that would appear smooth and cool. Almost rehearsed. I liked Blue. I considered him my friend. He made me a hackie-sack out of a laundry bag and an old pair of his state issued brown demins. The two fabrics stitched together in an ‘S’ shape with dental floss and a piece of guitar string. The brown side remained brown. The laundry bags were white originally, but laundry bag half of the bag had been soaked in ink. Cell-made ink that was made by collecting the sut on the bottom of a steel bunk. It was made using a baby-oil candle with a toilet paper wick through the center of a hot cocoa packet with an aluminum foil lining. So it was a really thoughtful and time consuming investment that Blue made for the hack circle I had started up. I just happened to be the one entrusted with the hack. I thought it made perfect sense and I really appreciated the gesture.
That circle gave me something to look forward to.
It didn’t seem to be an issue that guys of every tribe, gang, clique, and brotherhood participated in this same game at the same times. Normally, in other sports at yard, it was colors sticking together; otherwise, it was blacks vs. whites, etc. I felt good that I was able to be myself around other people without being labeled as a traitor to my own skin. I guess hackie sack is the one exception to those unspoken and violently martyred segregations put into affect by the institution itself.
I was a good hackey.
Blue was one of the core men involved in the circle. I thought he was cool. He was always casual and chill. He formed his words well when he wanted to. He showed up to yard one day with that custom new bag that actually held sand from the track. He handed it to me and said, “Ey, Kid,” (Kid was what everyone in the joint called me, because I was a teenager and I still looked like a kid; I really was just a kid then.) “Ey, Kid. Check it what I made this here. I dig your skills and I think it’s cool what you brought to the yard with the circle. So I figured I made it to you if you want it.” Those were his words exactly.
It was the fucking coolest thing. I was so grateful. It was the only kind gesture I had encountered since I had been incarcerated. That bag had a way nicer stitching job than the one I had made. Mine lost sand so fast that it almost wasn’t even worth the effort.
The hack circle officially became a thing at big yard. In such a small world of racial politics, violence, and self-hatred it became this sort of acceptable thing for any race to join. It was an open circle. I cherished that bag. I used it a lot. I got really good at it. It kept my mind occuppied. I used it in my cell all the time too.
I got to know blue a bit just hacking for 20 minutes or so each day. He was struck-out by the strike three law. So he was locked away for 25-life for unarmed robberies. He had been sent to state two other times in his early 20s for similar crimes.
One day he said that he would run by my cell sometime soon and talk some business with me. I had heard that the blacks had recently came-in on some decent weed. Too good for prison, I had heard. It smelled up the whole unit.
The blacks went about smoking weed a little differently that the whites did. The natives had sweat lodge and drum circles and other privileges that they were able to get their high on at. The blacks were blatant about it, they didn’t get caught though, because they would sync their smoke times together. Just like how they control our movements. The blacks would blaze up, all at the same time, in different cells on all tiers and that is why the whole unit would smell like chronic occasionally. The white guys were more private, in general, and sneaky about smoking shit. When an individual wanted to smoke it was at their own risk generally. Which meant that they would make custom, ‘bounty blowers,’ out of scented lamp oils and deodorant sticks, rubbed onto toilet paper, and packed into toilet paper rolls. They would blow their smoke through such a device.
So when Blue showed up during an open movement one day and my skinhead celly was not there, (my celly was in another cell getting tattooed), I was happy to invite him in. I thought of Blue as a friend. There was specified time each day that the inmates could freely move around their floor. We were allowed to use the phones, to make collect calls, and take showers, and mail letters, etc. This is when all the drama and politics took place. Shots get fired. Missiles. Kites. Snitches. And people with something to hide, sweated in fear of their court papers’ surfacing. People tattooed a lot during this time. It was not allowed to be in another person’s cell, but it happened during this time every day, consistently. You can’t change a person. You can take away everything but what is untouchable in their soul.
I welcomed Blue into my cell that day, and we chatted for a while. He said he would stop by again sometime soon. I said that was totally cool.
Roach was a lieutenant in the Aryan Brotherhood. He was one of the shot callers. ‘SS’ bolts tattooed on the side of his neck and shit. Scary mother fucker. Roach liked me. He told me he would look out for me. I looked very young after all. I didn’t even grow hair on my face at that point yet. I was skinny and undeveloped. I did drugs and never learned how to take care of myself during the most important and formative years of my adolescence. I was at high risk of being turned into someone’s bitch. I would have killed myself before I ever would have let that happen. I would do anything in my power to defend myself. I was always on guard.
Roach had told me, “Be careful of that ‘nigger,’” his words, referring to Blue. Roach said, “Niggers like that’ll fuck a young white boy. On the streets they want to fuck your Sweetheart, just to disrespect you as a white man. And lust after her for that beautiful milky treasure. They try to get white girls pregnant and tear apart families. In here it is the youngsters that they wish to ruin. They are just the unfortunate product of bad societal parenting. Intergenerstionally, this consequence of the white advantage, these men in here, and the ones blasting the ghettos to hell and abandoning all their children slong the way. Now, Kid, I’m not talking about the black race. Im talking about this gutter breed of darkies that our brotherhood likes to call, ‘niggers,’ if you haven’t noticed, that is also what they address themselves and one another as. Ignorant ‘niggers'” Roach said. “Just be careful, kid. You can’t trust a ‘nigger.’ It ain’t really their fault. They inherit that hatred. Then society confirms it their entire lives. It is their only defense against the cruelty that has happened to them as a race. They mock it. It is very ignorant and sad if you ask me. It is very sad.” Roach shook his head. Then he gave me this look that let me know that I had been warned. I thought about that interaction a lot over the next couple of days.
Besides hackie-sacking, I lifted weights with my celly. He was a big dude named Sean. He helped me feel a bit safer. I knew him from the streets actually. He used to be my dealer’s dealer. We had met a couple times. Then he walked into my cell one day with a bed roll. We became friends. I was so skinny. He pushed me to eat more and he had me pushing weights in the iron pile as well as doing workouts in our cell with a five gallon bucket full of water and a braided twine handle. We got creative and had a whole workout routine that we would do in our cell.
One day, out on the iron pile it was particularly hot outside. I took my shirt off during big yard for the first time since I arrived at the institution. I have a big dent in my chest. Pectus Excavatum is the medical term for it. Like, my ribs go inward and it looks different. Well I instantly regretted taking my shirt off because this dude started making all sorts of noise about how weird it looked. He called me an alien. He acted like a pirate the next couple times I saw him. He would say, ‘ARRRRR,’ he was looking for his sunken treasure chest. He was trying to get others to think he was funny or something. He was just an old trailer trash greaser. Nobody likes the boisterous man too adraid to think for themselves. Most of the inmates had that in common. It was very uncomfortable being publicly humiliated.
I knew that I could not allow this man to disrespect me like that. I had no choice. I responded quickly and without emotion. I stabbed him in the neck with a golf pencil and it stuck. I followed with a series of solid punches and the guy went down on his back. Right when he got ahold of me and I was about to get torn apart, a shot fired from a guard tower and there were goons all over us, apprehending both of us and taking us both to the hole.
That was my first experience in the hole. It was just a one man cell that you only get to leave once a day for thirty minutes to do laps or let some energy out somehow in a big open room, no hackey sack. None of my papers or books. Just thirty minutes a day in a half-court sized gym with concrete floors and chain nets on the basketball hoops. I would walk the perimeter and stare at the stale gray colored everything. I’d let my imagination go wild.
They can take away all my shit but I am still my shit. I will never let the man get me down. While I was in the hole, I started reading the holy bible. It was the only book that was offered to me. Some pastor handed it to me through the bars. He asked if he could pray for me. I didn’t realize he was talking about right in that moment. His prayer was very emotional and it touched my heart. Enough to open my mind up just a little – let some light shine through me. I had never read it, the bible. I never payed any attention at that stupid boys school in Yakima. The staff of that place were all pretentious assholes. I decided that I would give reading the old, original big book a shot. Surprisingly I found a lot of very useful shit in there. There are all sorts of nuggets that are valuable and still applicable… I chewed up the meat and spat out the bone. I decided that God might be real.
I began losing my grip on reality. Solitary confinement quickly ate away at my sanity.
I became a holy man in no time.
I was alone in the hole with only that book to make sense of. I slowly decided that there had to be something to the words in those texts. I let that something tug at a secret part of me that revealed a forgotten and perhaps unknown part of me, connecting all of me to the spiritual world, which my solitary cell became. It seemed to close the gap that temporarily caged me out of Earth. I liked certain books and sentences, and not because of the Christ saving us all thing. That was all very sweet of him or whatever. He didnt really deserve to be treated so shitty. The things he talked on that mount were what the human spirit is inherently all about. Everyone recognizes it in themselves and some confuse this miracle of life that everyone has with it somehow being that jew’s idea, once upon a time. The jew that really got his shit kicked in for no reason at all. It wasn’t his idea. He was just talking plainly from the heart. It was documented and then it was used as a tool of manipulation to control other people and scrape their earnings without having to do any labor. Im guilty of that shit too I guess. Im no judas. But I have robbed peter to pay paul and I was the dude who filmed the porno with Mary Magdalene. That woman sucked my cock so fucking blessedly. For real though, there is some useful shit in that book! I mean that. It breaks it sll down. For real though., there is done super whacky ass shit in that amalgamation of cannonized law books and pretending of spiritual masturbation. Sone gnarly desert cactus trips tslking about wild creatures and at the crux there was a neverending singalong in the sky with diamonds. Lucy come down now. Stop playing with your dingus behind the pulpit. Eat simething. Get some rest and hush now baby. Job was a bad ass. Stubborn and foolish as hell. So was king David. He just wanted that jezebel pussy. Little man syndrome who rigged a fight with a giant retard cslled goliath. Solomon was brilliant, actually. Much respect for king solomon. No sarcasm. That is a given. He was a womanizer. But he was also a fucking gangster that played so hard he crushed the mould he made. Then crushed the one he had commissioned. Solomon holds the all time king crush-it record. Jesus was pretty awesome though. Honestly. What did he do that would upset people? Why are people pissed at him. Be pissed at saul. That snake in the grass who glued christianity together with bogus tales. He was an educated writer and master of religious knowledge which he used to parallel the old law and weaseled his own little new set of, well no shit, sort of rules to live by. Positive reinforcement being the new drive. Smart move really. But fuck all that.
We all knew what is up. But we are all too fucking system washed to change the sinole things and make everything beautiful for all. Not just the super crafty. Fucking saul…written and mailed to clueless peasants of the filthy ancient asscrack of the known world. Simple folk desperate to survive another day.
Here is a letter that I wrote while I was in the hole:
I spoke with God today about my overwhelming lust for Miss Henckel. Miss Henckel is about five feet tall. She has very long red hair. She speaks with an ugly nasaly tone. It is enough to piss any guy off. Henckel’s face is very pale. Her teeth are not good. She has a groady mole on her neck and she has a crooked hook nose. She has no grace or cooth or class or tact. She is a mongoloid. Her ass is lumpy and strange and she limps down the tier with the clash and clang of keys on her hip, a mockery to my indigence. The worst part about Henckel is that she is a pompous cunt of a cop. I battle internally with my resentment of police and correction officers alike. Miss Henckel is everything that I hate about women. She is always sneezing and coughing up lung butter. She chews Copenhaagen snuff. Fucking rowdy. She is always itching in between her inner tube fat rolls. Henckel is a complete frumpy bitch and a savage loud beast; however, she is the only woman I have seen in months.
I can’t get my mind off of her unkempt body. I find myself salivating and day dreaming of her salty fat pussy. I really would like to savage her with all of my bottled up passions and emotions. Fuck her real horrorshow.
What can I say? My standards have fallen to the gritty bottoms of the power hungry, maximum security, correctional officers pick. I am in a concrete wilderness and I am surviving as I know how.
After speaking with God today, I feel as though God may fancy Miss Henckel’s phat pussy too. I told God that he gets first dibs, being God and all. I told God, “She is in rough shape, but I am sure that she has some ample experience sucking penis.”
I decided after my conversation with God that I will let Him have his way with her first. Then I want to hear all of the details of how God struck down his red-headed daughter-in-law with his holy bat. Then, when the timing is right, I will make my move and come a thousand pathetic premature ejaculations all up on and in Miss Henckel. I know that I will have to play my cards just perfectly. After all, Henckel is my only chance at some trim for the rest of my mortal eternity. I am sure that I will check myself out of this institution long before God or “The Man” choose to show me some grace.
One Can Only Be Broken Down So Much Until One Breaks Himself Down Completely.
Ah… Miss Henckel. What rank fuck around I’d love to give her. Root her through real thorough and true true…
What a mother fucker is time.
I have given up on time completely. Why should I keep track. What benefit is time to me?
I will spend my every last breathe from now until then in this place of prescheduled monotony. Every day is exactly the same. I have no need to know nor care of the hour of day, or day of week, or week of month, or month of year, or year of years totaled since the birth of calendar seasons. The hourly paid employees of the penitentiary tell me when to shower and eat. They try to assert that they can decide when I can’t poop or pee, but I will shit when the movement conveniences my bowels. I stopped pushing and flexing my abdomen to hurry my trots along, why? I just let the shit fall when and where it wants to. You can accurately label me depressed…
I have given up on time and now I have one less thing to stress about.
My institutionalization is almost completed.
Tomorrow Miss Henckel works again. I salivate in eager anticipation of her chunky folds. Jingle jangling on down the tier she struts with her language of disregard and discontented self-abhoration. The lowest of self esteem. Even the other guards talk about how nasty she is. I chimed in with em one day. I said, “Yeah, I bet it stinks like moldy vagina infections and shit.” The correction officer goons scoffed and laughed a bit. I knew they thought I was on their side, but I was drooling inside. How dare those ignorant idiots think of me as a shallow, picky sorta, snobby poff. Never. I like pussy to be real ripe and spoiled-rancid like. The riper the older, the dirtier, the, stinkier, the better for me… Those idiots thought of me, making a real rude sort of comment, about Miss Henckel, out of disgust?!
Oh, if those poor idiots only knew how much I wanted to cut their fucking heads off and set them up like puppet dolls, and just to watch me and old Miss Red, from their dead-eyed purply stares. The thought of it brings me a nice warm sort of joy. I even spoke with old Mr. Voice about it again just now. Old god voiceMR. Sr. thinks that the juices of miss heckles trappy flaps give a stink that is as pure as the holy spirit of decay isself. Ha, how fun that would be: I would place their stupid rotting heads on the coffee table, facing miss heckle and I. Just set them up like dolls, squish-sitting their dumb nuggets atop their leaky little flesh-necks.
Oh, I can imagine it now, even here within this concrete tomb. Here where I plan to die, deep within my own mother’s strung out vagina. Way up in here, lost in the dark. Like a big wet loogie, spat out the tip of my step-father’s black cock. I am imprisoned in this dank hole. Where the Strongest men go mad and the weaker men get turned out by other, even weaker, men.
Oh, Miss Henckel. I can see her now. She is naked on that sad old lucky boy couch, the ripped up and busted in half sorta fuck-hard kicker. Miss Henckel, Spreading her curdy stems, Her gaping floppy-lips and dark red forest of unkept raunchy, messy-pie-yum-yumms. Oh how I imagine the scent so strong that it gives me the most glorious involuntary upheavey sort of gag tears. Oh, Yes! What foreplay! I would gag and absorb the bacterial disaster with such delight. If she would just allow me to feast on her despair and lowly-esteem, even just once in my life, before I take it away from me. I would surely make her feel beautiful. Perhaps even enough that she would invite me into the boiler room again. This fantasy is really what has been getting me through. It is ongoing and is truly quite a steamy affair within the confines of my unchecked madness.
It just seems so unreasonable to be all cheat cheating on miss henckel with my thoughts on the appropriately acceptable type of women I was so fond of in the former existence that I was so fond of. I think I called it living. Here, I do not live. It would simply be wrong to go parading around my memories, preying on the bodies of my former lovers. NO NO NO. Miss Henckel deserves my devotion. Even if no one else will ever love her the way my mind worships her, I will give her all that I am and more than she can ever understand.
What business do I have thinking of a life that no longer exists anyways. My life is over.
Well, I am guilty of occasionally reminiscing here and there. Sometimes I will get an envelope containing the written words of people I once knew. It seems so long ago
When I was put back into population, things seemed a lot different. I no longer felt the need to control… anything. People suddenly knew me and had an unspoken respect for me. They knew that I was not going to take shit. I had stood up for myself. I stabbed a fat dummy with my golf pencil and keft it stickig out like a trachea thingy. People stopped making jokes about me having stolen some candy from a candy store and shit. They said shit like that to me before because I looked so young. That all stopped. I was, The Kid, I was no longer just, ‘hey kid.’
A couple of weeks after I got out of the hole Blue showed up at my cell during open movement. He announced himself and I told him he could come in. He walked across my cell in two or three aggressive steps and grabbed my head with both of his big black hands and started licking my face. I resisted by trying to break free with all of my might. Adrenaline hit me and I was flailing to get away from this fucking giant dude. Blue slapped me hard, really fucking hard across the face three times. It left me dizzy. I tried to reason with him but he kept going. He ripped my shirt of my back like it was tissue paper. He was so much fucking stronger and bigger than I was. He pinned me down against the bottom bunk with my face smashed into the pillow. There was a furious rage that was too much for me to break free of. I fought as hard as I could. I yelled like crazy, but Blue made me look like a rag doll. I was just a kid. I was only five foot eight inches tall at that point. I grew four more inches since then. Blue was easily six foot three. I barley weighed 120 pounds at that time. Blue was well over two hundred. Yolked and shredded without an ounce of fat. He was a monster. A demon. Blue had my face buried in the pillow with his elbow against the back of my neck and my arms bound behind my back and he pulled my pants down and started hacking up spit and flem from his nasals and spitting on my ass crack. I was begging him to stop. I was hysterical and frightened and fighting like hell to break free. I managed to slip one of my hands free and I swung it wildly. It sent his rage to a whole new level and he Hit me on the back of the head.
I don’t remember much after that. I remember laying face down on a hospital examination table. I was in the prison’s infirmary. They stitched my ass up with fourteen stitches they said. I had a meeting with the prison suits and they tried to reason with me. They wanted me to tell them who did this to me. They wanted to put me into protective custody. PC. No way. That is where the rapists and cowards are. I clammed up and went back to my cell. I didn’t tell them who did that to me.
Roach approached me a couple days later and said that he had heard about what happened. My celly had found me unconscious on the bottom bunk, on his bed. My shirt was ripped and there was blood all over. My pants had been pulled up but I was a bloody mess. I was ordered not to report it. The brotherhood asked me who did it. I told them that Blue did it. I never spoke a word of it since, until now. Until I wrote this.
I never saw Blue again.
This event shaped the rest of my time incarcerated in Walla Walla. I had to live a lie. I was terrified of the African Americans in there, but I knew in my heart that the segregation and all of the violence and racial politics that went on behind the walls of that penitentiary existed because of the rules of the institution itself. I knew that it wasn’t the inmates that created this hostile environment. I knew that the hatred and violent acts such as I had endured, were not happening because the inmates were all raised to hate other races. I knew that, just like myself, most of the inmates in that place were raised in public schools of their respective generations and that racism was not something that was encouraged. Even in the small town that I had grown up in, which consisted of mostly white people, it was not okay to hate or discriminate other people because of their skin color. I could have easily been persuaded into the belief that the trauma I endured in prison happened because African Americans were inherently bad people. I knew that was not the case. I spent the rest of my prison sentence thinking about the institution. It was the institution that segregated its inmates. The inmates are celled in together based on race. It was the institution that created this hostile environment among races. Humans are raised by a society that teaches them to follow and trust the system that they are subjected to. When humans make mistakes, commit a crime. They are punished and caged. They are segregated by race as they arrive in their mother institutions. Therefore, as inmates of such a twisted system, the caged humans simply follow the structure of their government.
Inmates learn to hate one another, because they are never allowed to know and understand one another. They are never given the chance.
I asked several of the inmates after I was attacked, why it is that the institution separates by race when they arrive. The response was unanimously the same. The answer I kept getting was that each time the penitentiary tried to desegregate their customers, race riots would break out and it would be total chaos. This was boasted of proudly by the ones who answered me.
The institution perpetuates its negative effects upon society.
Human beings are inherently good. It is content of character that defines an individual, not color of skin.