STOP! This material is NOT edited for content. It is not fiction. It contains explicit language and descriptions of real situations. It is not suitable for minors, and may not be suitable for people who easily disturbed…
In prison I understood the drugs. I knew speed had me from the first day I ever tried it. I started at about 11. When I was on the streets I switched to methamphetamine, easier to get even back then. It almost killed me twice, I mean like blood pressure over 220, stroked out, but I could not quit. I finally managed to stop. I watched my son being born and that floored me. I watched my cousin Mike continue on with Cocaine and die in his sleep, massive heart attack at twenty-six. I had another friend I saw check out from that same drug with a heart attack in his early thirties. Bad stuff, all of it, and I cannot tell you why it didn’t get me back then, why it took so long. But because I understood it, I saw the draw. I could see how these guys came to prison with addictions to drugs, alcohol, gambling, sex, and how they could be unable to stop those addictions even though they knew it would probably kill them. Too bad it didn’t also convince me to stop drinking, but there was still time left on that train wreck
In prison I was always the guy that had to stand up to the bullies. You would think from watching prison movies that all the guys in prison are bad asses. Nope. Most are bullies that had it made outside of prison, but they can’t run the same game there. That’s because in prison there is always someone who will yank their chain. Out in the world they might intimidate someone, but inside the guy will say, “Let’s go then. Right now.” And then the game is up. Many times I ended up being the guy that had to yank that guy’s chain. I hated it because, although I have skills, I am not superman. My ass can be kicked, and that could have cost me more time, and it could also lead to violence, and violence doesn’t solve violence. But the other part of me, the part that was ashamed of the way I used to be and hated bullies just could not pass it up.
The biggest scam was extortion. A big guy comes along and tells a kid, ‘Look, when you go to commissary next time you are going to pick this list of shit up for me, if you don’t I am going to fuck you up so bad you may not ever make it home.’
The kid could tell a C.O., or drop a slip as we used to say. If he did either, the most that would happen would be that he would get placed into P.C., but P.C. Is not a safe place. It is just as easy for someone to get to someone in P.C. as it is in Pop. Or the C.O. may tell him flat out, ‘Deal with it. I don’t care.’ So really, unless you have a bigger guy you can send to have a conversation with that bully, you better be getting his list of shit when you next go to commissary.
Jesus. I used to watch those kids write those letters. Their family, sister/mom/brother/aunt is barely making it outside and they are asking them for top of the line sneakers and cartons of cigarettes. Wow. I could not believe it, but that is the mentality there. It’s the extreme of what men inside put their families through, not the least of which is writing for cigarettes, boots, sneakers and anything else they think they can talk their grandmother on social security into, so they can pay off those guys that are extorting them. It makes you want to smack the shit out of guys like that.
Smacking the shit out of someone really doesn’t do any more than say I can do that to you and you have to take it. It makes the person worse, not better. So I used to step in, but I policed myself. Stuck to my guns. Never overstepped the boundaries I myself set. There were a few times that I stepped into an extortion that some guy was doing and shut them down. I cannot tell you how many times guys told me someone would kill me eventually, but that’s just another bully tactic. No one ever got me. I walked out the door in one piece, and I was glad I stepped into situations and stopped those situations. It made me feel better about me.
I was tempted to get a tattoo a few times in prison, but I knew two different guys that nearly died from Hep. On top of that I taught and played guitar in prison and those guys would buy my bottom strings to cut up into needles for their home made tat guns (Made from cassette players) I knew how long those guys used those needles, and how clean they were, too long, and not very, so I took a pass even though I saw some really good artists.
I did see guys do tattoo work in prison who were very careful, and other guys that were very sloppy. I saw guys in prison eat from the same bowl as their friends. By that I mean they make food in bowls, rice dishes usually, cooked on top of the radiators, then they get two or three forks and they all eat directly from the bowl together. It used to freak me out because of AIDS and HEP and TB, and I would see guys eat after guys who had those things. It just made no sense to me. So dirty needles for tattoos were not the only thing to be concerned about. Prison is like one huge infectious nightmare. You have to be careful, and tattoos are just one small part of that care.
There was a guy who had ‘Fuck You Cop’ written on his forehead. The C.O.’s hated him, but could do nothing. Every time they had to frisk him they would be staring at ‘Fuck You Cop‘. They gave him a hard time all the time. Rough in prison, and not so good when or if you go home. The guy had life so he didn’t care, and it bought him a certain amount of prison cred with some inmates and a few of the C.O.’s too. In prison lots of guys get their girls face done. Usually not good as they are rarely together long into the bid. And some prison artists are not that good. So they end up with a face that doesn’t look like their girl… Forever too.