The Jailhouse Diaries 1
I have been absent from the K5 community for awhile now. This is partially due to a dust up between the moderators of the site, PETA, and several degenerate junkies that mistakenly felt worthy to post to any of my work and then whine when I rated them down.
The main reason I've been away is because I just spent five months in jail...
See, earlier this year I became quite unhinged. First, I had to take a shitty job at Subway serving "food" to despicable welfare mommies and street garbage after getting fired from my previous job for sexual harrasment (I have given up any hope of suing the bastards for wrongful termination as I can barely afford to eat let alone hire a lawyer.) I was later arrested for assault on a police officer (another bullshit charge; ejaculating in someone's face is NOT assault--don't ask.) After my stinking whore of a mom posted my bail, I found I had been fired from my job at Subway. I went out seeking revenge and gained my satisfaction by burning my manager's precious cat alive with some Ronsonol fluid and a bic lighter.
This murder of an animal for some reason outraged the local community and Dudley Do-Right reporters ran around trying to stir up mock-outrage over that retarded cat that would have had to been put down eventually anyway. Seeing as I'd recently been fired from her store, the manager immediately pointed the finger at me. The cops even came an arrested me for the crime, but released me because the fumes from the accellerants on my hands were not the same as the Zippo lighter fluid I used.
Truth be told, I thought I was caught. I had just been washing my hands in gasoline to kill the ticks I'd caught from some diseased crackhead while in county.
Everyone suspected me though, and when the judge sentenced me for the assault on this fat oinker who calls himself Officer Timmerman, I think I got more time than I normally would on a first offense. The judge sentenced me to another six months in county.
In the two weeks before I had to report to jail, I tried to figure out how I was going to survive. I rented every season of Oz from Blockbuster and slowly tried to formulate my plan of staying on top of the jailhouse hierarchy.
My main goal, of course, was to prevent myself from becoming a bitch and my best chance to avoid that fate was to join a gang. Since I'm white and not some liberal scumfuck, my best option was the Aryans, even though I despise inbred rednecks as much as rapping gangbanging spearchuckers. But this would be difficult, because they would undoubtedly want me to shank someone to prove my loyalty, and I didn't want to do anything that would extend my sentence. The guards would be after me since I had come in the face of one of their own, so I couldn't expect any protection from them. Perhaps I could get by on just playing the other gangs off against each other like a jailhouse Machiavelli. Whatever, anything so I wouldn't have to take it up the ass...
I realized quickly that the reality of county jail is much different than TV prison. When I reported, they took my street clothes, and issued me my orange DOC clothes, along with bedding, a toothbrush with the handle cut down so I couldn't sharpen it into an effective shank. The most humiliating part of the experience was when the guard stuck his finger in my anus to see if I was hiding drugs up there. I plan to kill the sonofabitch someday for that.
Due to overcrowding, I was forced to sleep on a cot in the gymnasium with ten other inmates. Most of them were new arrivals too; primarily crackheads who got sent up for robbing a liquor store or something. Worse, they were all in withdrawl. At least three of those sweaty, ashy-faced pricks woke me up in the middle of the night asking me if I was "holding" and called me a cracker when I said I wasn't. They would scream in the middle of the night and the guards had to muzzle a few of them and restrain them to their cots since the isolation cells were all full up.
Between their screaming and me being unjustly deprived of my freedom, I didn't get any sleep that night. It was the longest night of my life...
That's all for now.
The Jailhouse Diaries: Part Two
Since being released from jail, I've had to move in with my whore of a mother. She lives in this place that's barely a shotgun shack in the middle of Mexican town. Her house smells like sour milk and piss. She is morbidly obese and sits all day on her second-hand, sweat-stained couch and does nothing but watch The 700 Club and listen to Michael Savage on the radio while getting drunk off of Black Label whiskey straight from the bottle. She rants on and on about how the liberals are destroying this country and how our culture is too "permissive".
This is the height of irony. My mother is living on welfare money, and she used to be the biggest slut in the world. She'd fuck bikers, homeless guys, fat black dudes; anything with a dick pretty much. She's force me to watch her and then beat me with a broom when I cried.
You'd think that sort of childhood abuse would have shaved at least a couple months off my sentence (and I told it all to the bitch in the DA's office who was filling out the pre-trial sentencing report) but nooooooo...
I despise living here. I despise living with her, but it's either this or go sleep on the street in a puddle of cold dog piss. I can take it for a little while.
Anyway, back to jail life...
Life in jail is pretty much structured around meal times. If you go to jail, I sure hope you like chicken nuggets and ketchup because you're gonna have to eat them about three times a week. Some days we get hot dogs, and mac and cheese was served often too. My first week, we were in lockdown for three days because one spic stabbed another spic over a game of checkers. We had to eat in gymnasium, three days of nothing but peanut butter and jelly, or ungrilled cheese sandwiches. It was disgusting. In jail, you just have to get used to the fact that everything you eat is going to taste like shit.
Figuring out where to sit in the cafeteria is hard for a newcomer. The tables in the cafeteria are divided mostly by racial lines, and then divided further by which gang or neighborhood you're from. The whites are closer knit, but it's mostly because there are so few of them. None of them are Nazis, mostly they are all wiggers who speak a dialect of ebonics that make the blacks sound comprehensible. For some reason, they didn't like me, and I was fine with that since I'd probably slit my wrist if I had to spend a significant amount of time with those Eminem wannabes.
Unfortunately, that left me with the only table that was left; the table where all the people who were so crazy nobody else wanted to sit with them congregated.
The moment I sat down, this bug eyed black dude stared at me. After a few minutes he said to me, "I'm a kill you honky."
I sat there shocked, but this old guy next to me (who was inside because he'd whipped out his dick to playground full of kids) put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Don't worry, he always says that. He wants to kill everyone."
"Shuddup!," Bug-Eyed Blacky said. "I'm a kill you too! I'm a kill alls of you niggas!" He kept muttering about killing shit to his mashed potatoes and fried bologna through the whole meal. He did that for about two of the months I was there before they actually RELEASED that guy for some reason.
But in the end, Bug-Eyed Blacky was not nearly as scary as the old guy, whose name was Nathan. At least you could kind of tune Blacky out. Nathan suddenly thought of me as his best friend, and started making all these creepy confessions to me.
"It wasn't really wrong what I did. I mean, I didn't hurt any of those kids. They weren't even scared. They were laughing the whole time. That's what I was doing, trying to make them laugh. The laughter of children is what makes my dick hard. You gotta believe me Poopy...I love children."
I didn't want to think about HOW he loved children. Suffice it to say, no one wanted to talk to this creep, but he persisted in humping my leg all day, every day in the jail. The final straw was when he started jerking off while I was in the shower and he said, "Do you think the Nuggets will get to the playoffs this year?" without skipping a stroke. From then on, I avoided the showers whenever Nathan was there.
The most pathetic was this little tweaker fuck named Reynaldo (or Rey-Rey, as he insisted we all call him by his "street name"). Rey-Rey was missing most of his teeth, and probably weighed at the most 110 lbs. He was always trying to hustle me out of food, like offering to make my bed if I gave him two of my chicken nuggets, or offering me a three month old Time magazine for my Jello. If he'd offered me a blowjob for my french fries, I'd probably have strangled him.
Worse, Rey-Rey was the biggest pussy in the world. You'd think prison would attract a harder type of character, but Rey-Rey would cry like a little girl with a skinned knee over EVERYTHING. He'd cry if you didn't trade your chicken nuggets; he'd cry if you broke down and yelled at him to get out of your face, he'd cry if he stubbed his fucking toe. He was in jail because he tried to rob and old lady, and the old lady beat the shit out of him and called the cops, that's how much of a pussy this guy was.
Anyway, let me end by saying that if I never see another chicken nugget in my whole life, it will be too soon.
The Jailhouse Diaries: Part Three (with two paragraphs from "Jesus Is A Cunt")
Fuck religious people. They can all suck my scabby cock. I don't care which religion they follow, they are all a bunch of fucking sheep you try and justify their miserable, pathetic lives with thousand year old bullshit like the Bible or the Koran.
Right now there are about ten of these Jesus thumping assholes protesting outside the abortion clinic on my block. My mother is drunk and cheering them on because her Focus on the Family overlords told her too.
Fuck these people. I bought a smothered breakfast burrito earlier today and was walking home with it when one of these yahoos waved around a picture of a ground up fetus in front of me. I had to throw the burrito away after that. Four bucks down the drain.
My mom actually invited some of the abortion protesters on our block in for rice krispy squares and Tang. I had to listen to all of them start an impromptu "prayer circle" while I hid in my room and mastrubated to this video I ordered online called Teriyaki Vomit Sluts. It doesn't have subtitles and I don't speak gook, but you really don't need to with this. I need to date a Jap chick because they are submissive and you can get them to do anything.
I tried turning up the volume, so those churchy fuckwits outside could hear it, but I don't think it could reach them as they were all speaking in tongues and crying to Baby Jesus to kill all the abortionists. I hope my mother drinks a shitload a Schlitz and passes out after they leave, then maybe I'll get to watch some Buffy reruns on Fox this afternoon.
I'm so sick of religious people because you meet a lot of them in jail and are forced to live with them 24/7. Churchy prisoners are more despicable than any other prisoners in the jail.
After two weeks of living on a cot in the gymnasium, I finally got assigned to a pod (jail speak for a cell). I guess they released a bunch of rapists, murderers and drug dealers to make the space to keep an innocent man like myself inside. I only had to share it with one other prisoner, but that other prisoner was this spearchucker who called himself Mohammed bin Shabazz or something (I think his real name was JayShawn or something.)
Mohammed had converted to Islam when he came to jail. He sent out a letter to the Nation of Islam after he was put inside, and they mailed him a Koran, a cheap prayer rug, and a form letter "signed" by the Honorable Louis Farrahkan. He was always saying cheesy shit like "a sallam aleikum" whenever he saw me, and was always dragging out his prayer mat and letting loose more "allahu ackbars" than an Iraqi sand nigger slitting someone's throat on camera.
Mohammed was the only Muslim in the jail, and of course, all the other niggers avoided him because they would get a whole speech about how they were "people of the sun" and how Islam was the only way to shuck the chains of the white man's religion. of course, Mohammed was a hypocrite because he was inside for raping some poor black girl for a gang initiation. Shows how down with his people he is.
Since I was a "white devil", I didn't have to deal with Mohammed trying to convert me. He was always making snide comments though. If they served Spam in the cafeteria, he'd say something like "Don't open your mouth, devil. I can smell the swine on your breath." Fine, I didn't want to talk with his ass anyway.
After having to share a five by eight foot cell with this fucker for a couple of weeks, I was beginning to wonder if I could get a butcher to mail a pig's head to the jail and if the guards would let me have it. I'd put it in his bed and he'd have to sleep on the floor for the rest of the time he was here. That would have ruled, but the jail has rules about prisoners receiving meat.
I couldn't take his fucking "allahu ackbars" any more. One day, while he was napping in the afternoon, I stole his Koran, went to the shower room, squatted down and took a big juicy shit on it. God wished I was free man when I did that. I'd have video taped it, put it on the Internet, and let the towelheads riot and kill each other off.
I left the beshitted Koran in the day room when no one was looking. At first, Mohammed tore apart the cell looking for his precious bullshit book. Then when he saw it laying next to the rack of chessboards and Chutes and Ladders, he started screaming, dropping to his knees and (I guess) praying to Allah or something.
He created such a scene the guards came up to try and drag his ass away to isolation. He whipped around and elbowed one of them in the face. Big mistake. A couple of SORT guys came rushing in and beat him to a bloody paste. I think poor Mohammed lost an eye and a testicle to the SORT team's batons.
Anyway, he left a big red smear as they dragged him to the infirmary, and this semi-retarded prisoner named Buck was left to mop it up. Mohammed spent a few weeks in there before being sent to solitary with another three months tacked onto his sentence.
I, of course, never had to see that fucker again while I was there. Allahu ackbar.
The Jailhouse Dairies: Part Four
When I first went to jail, I was concerned primarily with coming out of it with my heterosexuality intact.
At first, you jerk off like a fiend (I jerk off like a fiend anyway.) After awhile, you don't even get self-conscious if there are other guys around when you do it.
Hardcore pornography (schiesse movies, Jap scat, vomit porn, the stuff I'm into) is forbidden in jail. You can occasionally get a Hustler or a Penthouse through the mail, but you can't subscribe.
I tried to get my mother to mail me some girly magazines. Being the born-again churchy bitch that she is, she ended up sending me some Jack Chick pamphelets to share with my friends. Fuck that.
I was going nuts. After three months, my man-oynaisse was backing up into my brain and I didn't have access to so much as a five-peso beaner crackwhore I could blow my chowder into.
I am a heterosexual and always will be, but to deal with my needs while I was in jail, I decided to get myself a prison bitch.
This kid named Chad ended up being my new cell mate after Mohammed got beaten half to death by the guards. He was this preppy college frat fuck who got stuck inside for roofie raping some sorority slut. I'm a straight man, but he did look handsome and certainly cleaner than most of the other prisoners in that place. You could catch hepatitis-C from sharing a toilet seat with half the motherfuckers in there. Most of all, Chad was naive since his richie parents sheltered him from everything except high school football. In other words, he would be a perfect candidate to "turn out."
"Once a bitch, always a bitch" is the maxim inside jail. In order to turn him out, I'd have to run a game on him, trick him into taking it up the ass. Once that happened, he would have no one to turn to but me. If I got sick of him, I could trade him to one of the other prisoners for a carton of cigarettes or some crack (not that I do either.) Figuring out what kind of game to play on him, was the hard part.
Though no one could prove I was the one who shit in Mohammed's Koran, it was generally known around the prison that I was the one who took care of that self-righteous prick. This gave me some flex with the homeboys who hated him for always preaching at their asses. I still couldn't sit at their tables, but we'd make small talk now and then and do each other favors now.
For a some cigarettes (which I got my mom to mail to me inside) I convinced the gangbangers to start picking on Chad; trying to provoke him into a fight, or maybe steal his food or something. Then, they'd let me step into the fight and they'd back off. Chad would think I could protect him and I'd tell he'd have to give me regular blowjobs and maybe some anal for my protection (Poopy is a pitcher, not a catcher.)
I didn't think this would go as smoothly as it did, but Chad was insanely scared of black people. Probably the only ones he'd seen in his life were either on MTV or cleaning his house. The homeboys backed off when I stepped in (I was kinda worried they wouldn't) and Chad was clinging to me like a fucking puppy. I took him around Bug-Eyed Blacky a few times just to hammer the point home, but he was totally convinced I was the person to know in that jail.
So one night, after lights out, I tell him if he wants me to keep the niggers off of him, he has to give me a blowjob. He punched me and called me a faggot at first. A few more ass-kickings from the homeboys with me not stepping in convinced him otherwise.
I turned him out later that night. It was my first time having anal sex with a man, and though I tried to close my eyes and pretend it was a girl, it's not really the same. First off, the prostate gland kinda creates a weird bump around the base of my dick that you don't get when doing a chick. He was much tighter, not being accustomed to things going up there. It did kind of suck that I didn't have more than saliva for lubricant.
Poor Chad, he cried the whole time it happened and started to bawl later in the night when I was back up on my bunk (I had to get down and slap him around some to get him to shut up.) The next day, he walked funny, kinda like a cowboy, and all he other prisoners knew what had happened. His new name was "bitch" or "Boy-Pussy" every where he went. Strangely, I started to get even more respect from the prisoners, even though technically I was a homosexual now too.
I started to make Chad wear make-up and shave reguarly too. You can't close your eyes and pretend it's a chick when you got chin-stubble sandpapering your scrotum. He still couldn't get into the anal. He bled almost everytime I hit it. Then again, I always hit it pretty hard.
The bad thing about having a bitch is that Chad always cried like a bitch too. I tried to cheer him up by forcing him to wear flowers in his hair, but it didn't work. He quickly became very depressed about his situation.
Anyway, I usually spent my days in the breakroom playing checkers or dominoes with some of the other prisoners. I returned to my cell and it looked like an abbatoir, with gouts of blood splashed all over the walls, streaking the mirror and the toilet.
Chad was laying pale and stiff on the floor of the cell, with blood and little chunks of flesh hanging from his mouth. I guess he decided he couldn't take it any more and chewed chunks of his wrists out with his teeth until he bled to death. The fucker ate down to the tendons on both his forearms, that's how determined he was to shuffle off this mortal coil. You kind of have to admire the willpower it takes for someone to do that.
Unfortunately, I was now not only without a bitch, but I also had to move back onto a cot in the gymnasium while they cleaned Chad out of my cell. C'est la vie.
The Jailhouse Diaries: Part Five
In jail, as in life, it's not about what you know. It's about what you can prove.
It was generally known that it was I, Poopypeanutz, who was responsible for shattering Chad's sexual identity and ultimately, for his death. Sodomy is against the rules in jail and I could have been tried for sexual assault if they found a witness. IF is the operative word here, as it is verboten amongst the prisoner population to snitch on another, even someone as low on the food chain as I was.
The guards knew this, and would have blown the whole incident off except that Chad's father was a bit richer and more powerful than I'd been led to believe. He was a prominent lawyer in town; he played golf with some judges, and went out for martinis with a couple councilmen.
As such, there was a great deal of political pressure on jail staff to figure out how in the space of three weeks, his son went from being a handsome, second year Alpha Tau Omega, captain of the lacrosse team, finance major at the local private university to being found wearing lipstick with his hair in pigtails, chewing his wrists off and bleeding to death in jail cell.
Because of the political pressure, the guards did more than go through the usual motions of investigating Chad's death. I was worried that it might all come down on me and I'd never leave that godforsaken place. But no one talked, and no one could prove that Chad had been my prison bitch.
This ended up being a problem for me.
I was in the cafeteria for dinner, getting my plate of beanie-weenies and fruit cocktail, and heading for my usual table with the crazies when the leader of the gangbangers, named Trey-Dog, waved me over to take a seat on the bench next to me. Trey-Dog has some sway in the jail, and when he wants your attention, you give it to him. Besides, it would probably be more pleasant than watching Bug-Eye stick green beans up his nose or Nathan talk about the fragrent smell of a little boy's anus.
"'Sup nigga?" he says. No wonder he's in jail if he's too stupid to see that I'm white.
"Nothing. How are you?" I say.
He laughed, and so did the rest of the gangbangers. "Actually, I'm doin' pretty shitty, 'cuz. Always sumthin' comin' up when you in here."
I'd transcribe the rest of what he said, but it was soaked in some Ebonics bullshit, I could barely understand it myself, so I'll just paraphrase. Apparently, some spic named Armando was getting sent to our jail for an armed robbery. Trey Dog had it in for Armando because Armando had shot one of his little nigger cousins for his Timberlands, or his "bling" or for being on the other's turf, whatever these savages are shooting each other for these days.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I say, shoveling a scoop of tepid beanie-weenies into my mouth. "That guy sounds like a real scuzz bag."
"I'm glad you agree," Trey Dog said, slapping one of his paws on my back. "I hope you'd agree too that someone ought to take care of that shorty, so he can't do something like that again."
"I don't care," I said. It was nothing but one less asshole on welfare as far as I was concerned.
Trey Dog kept smacking me on the back. "But you should care. Don't you think we all should take responsibility for making dis world a better place? What do you think you should do, nigga?"
"Stick a penny in the Jerry's Kids jar at 7-11; I don't fuckin' know."
He grabbed my shirt and jerked me towards him. "You tryin' to play me nigga?" he said. "Since you a dumb whiteboy, I'll make it simple. I want you to stick a shank in Pedro's ass and don't stop until you've sent him back 'cross the border into Hell."
Well, when you put it in English like that...
Trey Dog let me go. "No way. I'm not killing anyone for you."
"Actually, you are," Trey Dog said. "Otherwise, the warden might could hear that you were the one who made a sissy out of a certain someone that a certain someone has an interest in."
I'd lost my appetite now. This was exactly what I feared, getting drawn into this jail bullshit and probably getting a life sentence instead of the few months I'd otherwise have to serve.
"Look, I've never killed anyone in my life," I said. "Why doesn't someone in your gang do it? I'm sure they're used doing drive-bys on old ladies and shit."
That earned an upper-cut into my stomach from Trey Dog. "Fuck you, cracker. Reason we gotta use you is 'cuz we got a sort of truce with Mexicans in here, and if one of my niggas shanks his ass, it'll fuck that up. So it's gotta be you."
His punch winded me, and shortly after that, I puked up my baked beans right on the table. All the gangbangers started groaning.
"Get the fuck out of here, whiteboy!" Trey Dog yelled, throwing my tray off the table. "Armando is gonna be here on Wednesday. If he's still breathing the Wednesday after that, I'm a have a talk with warden about who you be butt-fuckin'!"
I didn't bother to get any more food. I stumbled back to my cot in the gymnasium to lay down and wallow in the nightmare my life was quickly becoming.
The Jailhouse Diaries: Part 666
Armando "El Diablo" Herrera was processed into general population on Wednesday, just like Trey Dog had said. I got my cell back after the guards had cleaned up the mess that Chad Van Hertzwelder's carcass had left. Lo and behold, Armando was going to be my cell mate. It started to make sense now why Trey Dog would choose me to do his dirty work.
Though it would be easier for me to slit Armando's throat in the middle of the night with him in my cell, this was definetely a mixed blessing. Trey Dog had forgotten to mention one important fact: that Armando was quite possibly the biggest fucking Mexican I'd ever seen.
This was definetely not Armando's first time in jail. He looked like he'd worked out for years in a prison weight yard. His biceps were bigger than my head. His neck was non-existant. His face was pitted with pockmarks, cris-crossed with scars, and he had three teardrops tattooed under his right eye (that's a prison code that means he'd killed three prisoners while inside.)
I was fucked. I was so fucked.
He didn't talk to me while we were in the cell. When he ran off to talk to his Mexican Mafia buddies, I quickly tried to figure out how to make a shank.
Ironically, it was Bug-Eye Blacky who saved my ass on this one. He told me to unlatch one of the springs under my mattress, then straighten one of the metal ends out and sharpen the end against the concrete wall behind the toilet, making sure to clean away any metal or dust that accumulated (the guards look for signs of sharpening when they inspect the cells.) Then wrap the coiled end in tape to help with the grip.
"That'll done make a good shank for stabbin' niggas good," Bug-Eye told me. "Takes longer to make a shank that'll done cut a nigga good."
It took me a couple of days to make my shank, following Bug-Eye's instructions. It hardly looked like a work of art when I was finished with it, but I figured if I got the drop on Armando, I might be able to jam it in his jugular good enough so he'd bleed to death before he could retaliate. I kept it hidden in my pillowcase and prayed that the guards wouldn't toss the cells in the next few days.
In the meantime, Armando pretty much hung out with the rest of the Mexicans, lifting weights, playing poker, and watching Sesame Street and soap operas in the day room. The vatos treated him like a rock star from the first day, and it dawned on me that after I killed him, they would likely seek retaliation.
Somehow I doubted that Trey Dog and the homeboys would be offering me much protection after the deed was done.
During lights out, I tried to make small talk with Armando. Better to act friendly so he didn't suspect I was out assassinate him. Armando never responded until he yelled at me one night to "Shut the fuck up gringo, before I tear your head off and shove it up your ass." Armando was not the friendly type.
I decided I would kill him on Sunday night. He was on the top bunk and I'd wait until I heard him snoring for a couple of hours before doing it. My hand was clammy with sweat as I held the shank under my pillow, waiting for him to nod off into what would hopefully be a permenant sleep.
Unfortunately, I nodded off waiting for him to sleep. I woke up abruptly in the middle of the night with Armando on top of me with both his hands around my throat.
"Make a sound and you're dead, pendejo," he hissed.
Fuuuuuck. How did he find out I was planning on killing him? Did one of the homeboys tip him off? Did he find my shank? Dammit! I didn't want to die in this shit hole.
Armando leaned over silently, stuck his tongue out and licked my cheek, slowly, leaving a slime of tobacco flavored saliva over my face.
"Yeah, that tastes goooood," he said. "Don't say shit, puta. Just pull down those panties and flip over real quiet like a good white bitch."
And then I knew, I was REALLY fucked.
The Jailhouse Diaries: Part Seven
I empathized with Chad now. After being Armando's prison bitch for a mere two days, I wanted to bite my wrists until I bled to death myself.
I didn't sleep at all after Armando anally raped me all night. It took the fucker ages to finally blow his load, then he made me suck him off afterwards. Ass-To-Mouth might look hot when you're watching a porno movie, but it really is disgusting to slurp your own shit off another guy's dick. I hope the girls in those movies get paid a whole lot more for doing it.
I was still bleeding from my anus when I limped off to the morning count. Everybody already knew I'd been turned out. That's the way fortunes run in jail. One minute you're the pimp of the cell block, the next you're some ese's fuck pig. Not even that child molestor Nathan would talk to me in the cafeteria.
To my credit, I was much more humane to Chad than Armando was to me. After breakfast, he told me to get back to the cell, and gave me a tube of lipstick and eyeliner. "I don't want to ever see you not wearing this bitch." Then he made me get on my knees and perform more oral sex on him. I think I used too much teeth.
"Turn around and face the sink," he said. I obeyed, though I didn't know why.
Suddenly I felt him kick the back of my head. My mouth slammed down against the edge of the sink, and I felt an audible CRUNCH as my jaw became a white hot cinder of pain. I fell to the floor, and spat out about five of my teeth into a pool of blood and spit before I passed out.
I woke up a few hours later laying face down on my bunk with my pants down. Armando was scratching something on my buttcheek. "Gotta make sure you got your brand, puta." He scratched the hell out of it with a needle. Turns out, it was tattoo. After he left to go watch TV with his homies, I stood up and twisted around in the mirror to see what it said. As of that moment, I had the word COCKSOCKET tattooed on my ass for the rest of my life. I cried until my eye-liner ran down my cheeks like clown tears.
Armando must of been a horny spic. He was buttfucking me almost every spare chance he got. For some reason, his Mexican Mafia buddies didn't mind. It did not effect their feelings of machismo towards him. Still, I shat blood constantly and still do to this day. I'd always thought a "Donkey Punch" was just an urban myth made up by some sickos. I found out first hand that I was wrong.
Tuesday came, and I was walking to the day room to watch some TV. "What'sup, cuz?" Shit, it was Trey Dog.
"What do you think's up, nigger?" I spat at him. It wasn't like he could do anything to me now that I was Armando's. There are some advantages to being a prison bitch.
Trey Dog just laughed. "Well white-bitch," he said. "I'm just here to remind you that if you ain't too busy getting fucked, you best go handle that bidness we was talking about. Otherwise, I'm a have to talk to the warden, and you gonna be a bitch for a looong time."
Any moral problems I had with turning Armando into a bleeding meat sieve had pretty much evaporated. It was problem of logistics since every time we were alone in the cell together, his dick was up my ass. But I had to do something. I couldn't take this for another month, let alone years.
Armando wasn't as frisky that night and was satisfied with a just a gum job from my toothless mouth. If he fell asleep on his bunk instead of laying on top of me, I might have a chance to ram my shank into his throat. Or maybe gouge his eyes out first. Yeah, then he wouldn't be able to see me. That might be...
"Everybody out of your cells!" the guards started yelling. "Contraband check! Everybody out of your cells!"
Fuck. Just what I needed.
Everybody lined up in the hallway and waited for the guards to toss their cells, looking for stuff like drugs and weapons and such. They frisked you too, so there was no hope in hiding anything on you body. Anybody caught with contraband was immediately sent to solitary. It took about half an hour for them to get to my cell. The guards didn't give fuck, they threw our shit all around as they searched.
"Whose is this?" the guard came out holding up my shank between me and Armando. "Which one of you motherfuckers does this belong to?"
Armando shrugged. The guard looked at me, and it just came out automatically: "It's his."
"What the fuck!" Armando screamed. "He's full of shit!"
"Stupid gangbanging fuck," the guard sneered. "Trying to use your sissy to hide your weapons. Welcome to hole scumbag..."
It took four guards to haul that Mexican away towards solitary. He screamed at me as he was being dragged. "Chingalo! You're dead! You hear me, puta? When I get out YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD WHITE BITCH! I KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FUCKING FAMILY!"
When I got to my cell, a wave a relief came over me. Finally, I would be able to spend a night without being assraped by that wetback. I would sleep like a baby.
Then, suddenly, it dawned on me. If Armando was in solitary, I had absolutely no chance of killing him by my deadline tomorrow. And I didn't think that Trey Dog was the type of person who gave extensions.
I didn't end up sleeping at all, just laying there in a cold sweat with the certainty that I was completely and utterly doomed.
The Jailhouse Diaries: Part Ate
When I stepped out of my cell the next morning, I knew I was a marked man. If the guards weren't coming for me to charge me with turning Chad briefly into my prison bitch, I knew that one of Armando's Mexicans would be arriving shortly to stick a shank in my guts and I'd just be another scar bellied snitch shitting into a bag the rest of my days in jail.
The end was coming. I could feel it.
I applied my lipstick and eyeliner in the morning, even though Armando was safely in solitary. That is the degree to which that fucking wetback had cracked my psyche.
When I stepped out of my cell for count, all eyes were on me. Everybody knew my time was limited. Trey Dog and the homeboys were smirking at me from across the hall.
I almost hoped that Trey Dog would snitch to the warden straight away. If I was thrown into solitary for a few weeks, I might be safe. But with my sentence increased, the Mexicans would be sure to find some way to get me, and I'd heard stories of people being burned alive in solitary confinement. All it took was paying off one of the underpaid guards to allow someone inside with a water bottle full of gasoline and book of matches.
I stood with my back against a wall the whole day and tried to stay in places that were populated. Not that that would have helped much. Even if someone shanked me with everyone watching, I doubted if anyone would see anything. Prisoners have a tunnel vision in which everything that doesn't concern them is blocked out.
No one had said or done anything to me by lunchtime, and I began to get a false sense of safety. Perhaps I'd been forgotten, or at least given a reprieve. Then I made the mistake of taking a shower alone.
As I was washing the filth and grime off my body, the entire Mexican Mafia filled the shower room behind me. They slammed my face against the wall, breaking my nose. They took turns kicking me until I was sure they'd snapped a few of my ribs. Then, the ese's splayed me out on the tile floor, while the second in command of the Mexicans, this spic in a hairnet called Ernesto, pulled out a jagged looking shank.
"When a bitch turns snitch," he said, waving his blade infront of my eyes. "We slice the puta's balls off."
I had been resigned to a beatdown, but I needed to keep my balls. I tried to squirm out of their grip, but there were at least four of them holding me down. Ernesto crouched down and started tugging at my crotch. "After we cut them off, we're going to make you eat them like raw meatballs."
"Please, please, don't!" I screamed. I could feel the jagged edge of shank begin to press against the underside of my scrotum.
"Any last words you want to say to your cojones?" Ernesto asked.
I was blind in my desperation. I fucking screamed. "DON'T CUT MY BALLS OFF! I BELONG TO TREY DOG! I'M TREY DOG'S BITCH NOW!"
They all laughed. "Trey Dog don't take no sissies, homes. Nice try."
"Wait!" I kept going. "Trey Dog gave me his protection. He said that if I shanked Armando, he'd make me his bitch so you couldn't touch me!"
Ernesto paused. "Bullshit."
"Why do you think he came to me? He knew we were going to be in the same cell! He was the one who gave me the shank to do it with! I didn't want to do it though. That's why I told the guards that the shank belonged to Armando. Because I knew the only place he'd be safe from the niggers is in solitary. I was trying to save him!"
Ernesto took the shank away from my balls. "So you're saying Trey Dog wanted you to kill Armando, and that you're just the pawn in all of this?"
Ernesto thought about it for a moment. Then he stood up and motioned for the other vatos to stand me up. "Well, you're coming with us, and we're going to have a little talk with Trey Dog about trying to kill our leader," Ernesto then suddenly whipped around and stuck the shank under my chin. "And if you're lying to us, we're gonna cut your dick off too. You're gonna be as smooth as a Ken doll when we're done."
They let me put on my pants, then they marched me out to the gymnasium, where the homeboys were all playing basketball. There were about five homeboys and ten Mexicans in the gym. Ernesto marched up with me straight up to Trey Dog.
"Mi amigo here says that you've been asking him to cut our homie Armando. Is that true?"
"Dat's fuckin' bullshit," Trey Dog. "Bitch is lyin'. Been sucking so much dick he don't know what the truth is."
Ernesto looked at me. "Armando shot a couple of his cousins awhile ago. That's why he wanted me to do it."
"I heard about that," Ernesto said. "A couple of your Madison St. Posse trying to roll up on the Inca Boys," Ernesto looked at Trey Dog. "I heard they might have been relatives of yours."
"That's right," Trey Dog said. "He capped some of my boys. But bidness is bidness and I wasn't beefin'."
"You want me to believe that you'd just let the deaths of your cousins go?" Ernesto said. "Well, maybe you niggers are just as disloyal to each other as your are to everyone else."
"Fuck you!" Trey Dog threw the basketball right at Ernesto's face, bloodying his nose. Ernesto yanked his shank out of his belt.
"PUTO!" and he jammed it right into Trey Dog's throat. Blood from his severed artery squirted right into my face and mouth. Trey Dog fell to the ground making gargling noises.
The rest of the Mexican's collapsed on the homeboys, administering a severe beatdown. Soon, prisoners who weren't even involved in this fight started causing their own ruckus. The entire gymnasium was in chaos, and after about three minutes a fully armored SORT team entered with batons and shotguns to break it up.
Ernesto was still busy hacking away at Trey Dog. A SORT member brought his baton against the back of his neck, and he collapsed. He was going nuts, bringing the baton down again and again. The rest of us had a shotgun on us to keep us at bay.
Except for one of the ese's. He was standing in their blind spot and quietly heaved a forty pound free weight from the rack against the wall. He crept behind one of the SORT members with a shotgun, lifted the free weight up and slammed it down against his riot helmet. His helmet cracked and his visor filled with blood. The ese quickly grabbed the shotgun out of his hand and quickly blew away the next two guys from the SORT squad. They were wearing lead lined vests, so it just knocked them down instead of tearing them apart. The rest of the ese's quickly grabbed the other shotguns as they dropped them.
Ernesto was dazed, but he slowly got up from the beatdown he'd received. He snatched a shotgun away from one of his subordinates and stuck the barrel under the helmet of SORT squad member who had struck him.
"DIE GRINGO!" and he pulled the trigger, spraying his skull across the gymnasium floor. Ernesto then grabbed his keys and threw them to one of his homies.
"Someone go spring Armando from solitary. The rest of you, take the guns, grab whatever hostages you can, and make sure no one comes through the main entrance." Ernesto raised his shotgun above his head. "As of right now, we are in control of the jail. LIBERTA!"
Why does my life always seem to go from bad to worse?
The Jailhouse Diaries: Part Nine
Within minutes of the prisoners taking over, the cellblock was transformed into a ring of Hell. Flaming toilet paper rained down from the upper level cells, everything that could be broken was being broken. The normally clean environment was quickly strewn with debris and broken glass.
Without any authority in place, the thin veener of jail society was replaced with pure rage, where any and all accounts were being settled. Prisoners were being shanked for any and sometimes no reason. Prisoners were being hung by their necks from the railing on the upper tier, jerking from their necks in nooses quickly made out of bedsheets and pillowcases. Their blood, piss and shit dripped down onto the concrete below. It is doubly disgusting when you figure that most of these guys were HIV positive.
If I was a religious man, I'd say that this looked like how I imagined Armageddon would look like. But I'm not a religious man, and besides, God has nothing to do with what happens in jail.
The vatos led us out into the cellblock with their shotguns. There were seven of us; a couple guys from the SORT team looking naked without their vests, guns, and truncheons, two regular prison guards, and three surviving members of the homeboys. The other eses who had rushed in to secure the cellblock had gathered all the other guards and lined them against the bars to entrance at gunpoint, ensuring that any rush by the authorities to retake the jail would grind up their own first.
There was a cheer as the Mexicans led us in as their prized prisoners. Like typical beaners, they started shooting their shotguns off in the air in celebration (they also ended up shredding several prisoners looking down on this from the upper tier with their buckshot, but no one gave a fuck at this point.)
The vatos knelt us all down. "ISN'T THIS FUN?" Ernesto yelled out to the cellblock, getting a scattered peel of applause and dodging a flaming roll of toilet paper that was chucked at his head. "WHILE WE OUT OF OUR CELLS, WHO THINKS WE SHOULD HAVE FUN WITH THESE PUTOS?" The applause was louder this time.
Ernesto suddenly whipped around, racking his shotgun and firing in point blank in one of the SORT guy's faces. It exploded, showering the rest of us with blood, brain, and skull fragments. An eyeball rolled to stop just by my knees, all blue and bloody, staring up at me in an eternal "What the fuck?" Ernesto racked the shotgun again and stuck it the next guy's face. It looked like he was going to go down the line, and I was fifth.
"ERNESTO AMIGO STOP!" we heard a booming voice down the hallway. Armando was walking from the solitary cells, flanked by fellow gang members. "NOBODY KILLS THEM BUT ME!"
Armando "El Diablo" Herrera looked at all of us. He looked furious as he strapped on one of the bulletproof vests worn by the SORT team. He looked first at one of the homeboys. "I heard you wanted to kill me," he said. "Well here's you're shot. Get up here and try and kill me."
The homeboys knees were shaking as he stood up. He got his fists up and took one punch at Armando, hitting his square in the face. Armando shrugged it off, then reached up, grabbed the homeboy by his head and with one jerk broke his neck. A knot of bone jutted out of the back of his lifeless neck. Armando produced a revolver that he'd taken off one of the guards and put two bullets into his heart.
I can't believe that it wasn't until then that I started pissing in my pants.
Armando looked at the next fellow in line, one of the guards. "You were the one who brought me my meals in the solitary cells..."
The guard didn't hear him. He was pleading, "Please, I have a wife..."
"...everyday, you bring me the same thing. Chicken nuggets. Chicken nuggets and Jello."
"...my child is only three..." the guard wept.
Armando knelt down by him. "Let me tell you something," he said. "I FUCKING HATE CHICKEN NUGGETS!"
The guards pleas ended and turned into a blubbering and choking as Armando rammed a shank into his gut, and drew it upwards, the jagged edge tearing his abdominal muscles. One swift cut upwards, and then one to the side and the slippery loops of his intestines spilled out onto the floor. The guard was somehow still conscious and Armando picked up his intestines and wrapped them around his neck and choked him until his face was purple as his eyes were bulging out of his skull.
After a few minutes, he let him go and he dropped lifeless to the ground. He didn't even bother to give him a coup de grace. I guess he really didn't like chicken nuggets.
I had given up any hope of even receiving a quick death when Armando looked at me, but suddenly his expression looked tender. "You, you were my woman," he said. "For a few weeks, you took my dick up your ass, like a woman," then his expression darkened. "Then you betrayed me like a woman."
"Still, your asshole was sweeet," he hissed. "I will give a chance to get away from this with your life."
Armando pulled out the revolver and pulled out all of the bullets except one. He spun the chamber and then snapped the cylinder back into the frame with a flick of his wrist and held the gun out to me. "You stick this in your mouth and pull the trigger three times. If you don't die, I may let you be my bitch again."
I could barely hold the revolver as I stuck the barrel in my mouth. The gunmetal stung the open pits in my gums. I tried to bring tension down on the trigger (let's face it, this was a cleaner way to die than anything else I'd seen so far,) but my survival instincts could not do it. "Please," I whispered. "I can't."
"PUTA!" Armando twisted me around, grabbed my hair, yanked my head back and stuck the shank, still warm from the guards entrails, against my throat. "DO IT OR I SLIT YOUR THROAT AND PULL YOUR TONGUE THROUGH THE HOLE!" he screamed into my ear.
I put the gun back in my mouth and pulled the trigger before I could think about it. Click. I nearly vomited.
"Goood," Armando said with the shank still against my throat. "So far, so good. Two more times now. Let's go."
Pulling the trigger the second time was harder than the first. It took Armando digging his shank into my neck to get me to do it. Click. I gasped, drawing in air like it was my last breath. It could very well be.
"Come on," Armando said, tenderly. "One more time. You can do it. You always were a goooood bitch. I'd hate to lose you."
My chance was only one in four now that I'd pulled the trigger twice and hit empty. Those odds were still good though, and I'd been lucky so far. I tried to tell myself all that to keep myself calm, but my hands still shook and the barrel of the revolved moved unsteadily in my mouth as I slowly brought pressure down on the trigger, drawing the hammer back.
And when it clicked this time, the hammer fell on a live round. BOOM.
The Jailhouse Diaries: Denouement
My mother is drunk again. This time she killed a twelve pack of Natural Lights in the space of an hour and half or however long the 700 Club is on in the early afternoon. She got excited when Pat Robertson started praying and sensed that "there is someone out there in the audience with back pain" and immediately called their 1-800 Prayer Line to say that she thought he was talking about her. Then, she passed out and promptly shat and pissed herself. I can see this large brownish yellow stain drying around the crotch of her stretch pants, and can smell it from across the room. I'd move her, but the bitch weighs three hundred pounds and I don't want to get any of her filth on me. It depresses me to know that twenty-four years ago, I emerged from that smelly brown stain she calls a pussy.
In the meantime, outside Mexican kids are running around and screaming profanities at each other in Spanish because their social leech parents have not bothered to teach them English. Zacatecas ice cream carts go by outside every fifteen minutes, ringing their bells and generally being a nuisance. Why does every low-rider out there have a huge system that has to be blasting Mexican accordion music at top volume. At this point, I wish they'd start playing some rap music.
Yes, my mother's house and this neighborhood truly feel like Hell. Yet though I am narrating this story from this place, I am not truly in Hell. This isn't some lame movie like American Beauty or The Sixth Sense where I've been telling you all this from the grave. In the end, for better or for worse, I survived my experience in jail and in the riot that ensued.
The third time wasn't a charm. I bit the bullet on the third pull of the trigger, which sent a .38 slug hurtling into my mouth. However, putting a gun to your head is a notoriously unreliable way to commit suicide because of the human tendency to flinch at the last second. Put a gun up to your temple, and you'll usually just end up blowing out both of your eyeballs and blinding yourself. Putting a shotgun under your chin, three times out of seven, you'll just end up blowing your jaw off and mumbling shit about how a backwards Judas Priest record caused you to do that to some church newsletter.
The blast from the gun eradicated most of my remaining teeth, the gasses literally cooking my tongue. To this day, the only tastes I have left are salty and sour, and those are muted. I could eat a sun dried dog turd now without retching. As unsteadily as I was holding the gun though, the bullet passed at such an angle that it exited at the top of my jawbone, shattering it and burning out a huge chunk of my cheek, before exiting out just under my ear.
That evil spic Armando, was not as lucky.
While holding the shank against my throat, his head was in such a position so that when the bullet exited my face, it passed right into his eye. The bullet had lost enough velocity at that point to not blow out the back of his head, but it had enough speed to ping-pong against the inside of his skull until his brains resembled gray scrambled eggs. He died almost instantly.
The trauma made me pass out, but got the rest of what happened from that child molester, Nathan.
Roughly the same time as I had inadvertently shot Armando, the SWAT teams decided to retake the cellblock. The Mexicans had gathered about five shotguns and a few pistols, but the SWAT team was loaded to bear with HK-5's, stun grenades, tear gas, AR-17's with steel jacketed rounds that could penetrate body armor etc. The prisoners had hostages, but apparently any one working or even entering our jail has to sign a waiver saying that they understand in the event of a riot, they are in a free-fire zone, and absolving the state from any liability. The only reason the SWAT team had taken so long was because the lawyers insisted they collect the forms from the hostage's files, just to be sure, before going inside.
Anyway, though Armando was out of the picture, the retaking of the cell block only sped up most of the hostages deaths. I think only two guards survived the whole ordeal, and they were quickly ferried out of state with huge settlements tied to non-disclosure clauses, so the press never heard from them again.
About twenty other prisoners were killed in the conflict too, since the SWAT team fired indiscriminately. Since I already looked dead, no rounds were expended on me. Once the jail was retaken, the entire place went into lockdown for two months while the ringleaders were removed and placed into solitary for the rest of their natural lives.
I was in the infirmary during all of that, with my jaw wired together and big piece of gauze covering the gaping hole in my cheek. The days there either felt like seconds or years depending on how much dope they pumped into my system. I feel a little more sympathetic towards junkies now, since that stuff really does feel good after awhile.
I didn't get any piece of a settlement, but the state did come with papers saying they would pay for some reconstructive surgery if I waived my right to sue them (apparently the ACLU was snooping around trying to put together a class action suit amongst the prisoners.) I could have been signing my soul away for all I knew with the amount of morphine I was jacked up on, but I did it anyway.
The plastic surgeons took me to a special clinic for the surgery. After breaking and resetting the bone, they grafted a piece of skin from my ass over the hole that was fried out of my cheek. I had to keep the bandages on for two weeks. By this time, I only had two weeks until I was to be reprocessed into the world. I was close to the end of my sentence.
I had recovered enough to be allowed back into general population for my last week. Almost all the faces seemed to have changed when I went back. The old gangs had been obliterated and new ones (that didn't have a beef with me) had emerged. There were a few old faces in the crowd, but they looked cowed, unwilling to speak of what had happened.
That week came and went, and most people were afraid of me because of the bandages all over my face. I wasn't a bitch, I was a deformed monster, an old timer who had been the only person to survive El Diablo's wrath. Most people talk about how they feel frightened to leave jail when their sentence is up; that the walls own them. That's some Shawshank Redemption horseshit. I couldn't wait to be the fuck out of that place.
I was to leave at noon on my last day in jail. That was also the first day I could take my bandages off. I woke up, ate breakfast (which was Eggo waffles and fruit cocktail that day), and went to my cell, staring at the mirror. I slowly started unwrapping the gauze from my face, gentle around the places where it had grown into the scabs.
At first, I was impressed. I was half expecting to see a completely different person in the mirror. I looked roughly the same as I had in past, though my skin was clammy and pale.
Then I noticed it. The piece of skin they had grafted from my ass conveniently was the part that Armando had tattooed COCKSOCKET onto. Only this couldn't be hidden in my pants. This was on my face for all of eternity.
I screamed. El Diablo had touched me from beyond the grave.