14 Oct 06
Visited by Mum, Dad and Auntie Lily the Slug Killer
Mum, Dad and Auntie Lily arrived in Tucson yesterday for a seventeen-day stay. Barring another hostage situation, I expect to see them today. I'm doubly excited because not only are they here to see me, but also to plead my case with the Arizona Board of Executive Clemency at a hearing on 19th October, which, could result in my freedom as early as February 2007.
4:15am I woke up excited about the visit and I couldn't get back to sleep.
8:15am Full of joy, I trotted to Visitation.
I had been told there was a good chance that Auntie Lily, who I hadn’t seen in fifteen years, might cry upon seeing me. Indeed, she was rubbing her eyes. Moving in closer to give her a hug, I couldn't see any tears. Then, she suddenly said, “The sun shining off your head is blinding me. You look like a Buddha in that bloody orange.”
We all laughed. Mum and Dad radiated a happiness not of this world. After a round of hugs we sat down as far away as we could from the windows to avoid the sun. We chatted incessantly.
The smell of microwaved food wafted by, but the burritos I enjoy the most were all sold out.
Looking at the two inmates waiting to use the restroom, Auntie Lily said, “That one’s waiting for a wee. The other’ll be wanting a number two.”
“How do you know that?” Mum asked.
“Because he’s letting people go ahead of him,” Auntie Lily said.
“They don’t do number twos in here, do they?” Dad said.
“It’s got to be bloody urgent to do a number two in here,” Auntie Lily said.
“I couldn’t come here to visit and do a number two,” Dad said.
“Who is Number Two?” Mum said. “I am not a number. I am a free man.”
Admiring the flowers in the prison garden, Auntie Lily asked if they had a problem with slugs.
"I'll have to ask Xena," I said.
“I vinegarise the slugs,” she said.
“Why do you do that?” I asked.
“They’re slimy and horrible, and they eat my plants.”
“Some people salt them,” Mum said.
"I prefer putting vinegar on them, because if you salt them you get a big glob of gooey slime.”
“That’s horrible,” Mum said. “It’s really cruel. I put trays of beer out at night and in the morning they are full of slugs. I suppose it’s still cruel but at least they die happy."
“Your mum likes to drown them in their favourite beer,” Dad said. “She’s tried them with both Stella and Budweiser.”
“Yes,” Mum said. “They definitely prefer Stella.”
Spotting the prisoner who takes visitation photos, I remembered I had prepaid for five. (They cost $2 each.)
On the wall a sign read:
PHOTO RULES FOR POSES:
ALLOWED:
SIDE BY SIDE
ONE ARM AROUND SHOULDERS OR WAIST
HOLDING HANDS
ABSOLUTELY NO:
HUGGING
KISSING
KNEELING
SIGNING
FAILURE TO COMPLY MAY RESULT IN DISCIPLINARY ACTION
The photographer took five, one of which I wasn’t ready for, so it had to be retaken.
“He can’t take it again can he?” Auntie Lily asked.
“Of course he can, he’s got a digi,” I said.
“He’s got a digi one,” Auntie Lily said. “Like a digi widgey?”
“No,” I said. “A digital camera.”
After the photos, I bought Mum and Auntie Lily some flowers so rich in pink and magenta they looked as if the colours had been spray-painted on. For vases we used empty water bottles.
At 2.30pm we hugged and parted.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
09 Oct 06
Two Tonys Excites Yard 1
Wielding a stick, Two Tonys – wearing a baseball cap, smock, pants, and white New Balance – strutted onto Yard 1 and stopped at the basketball court. Inmates surrounded him.
“Two Tonys,” Too Tall said, “whatthafuck are you doin’ here?”
“I’m down here to run this yard, motherfucker.” Two Tonys slapped the stick against his left palm. “Don’t start no shit, and there won’t be no shit.”
“Wassup wiv da stick?”
“My teacher,” Two Tonys said, “Sister Teresa – God rest her soul – used to whack me in the head with a stick like this.”
The crowd laughed.
“And it didn’t knock any sense inta ya did it?” Red said.
“He’s gotta stick 'cause he’s turned kinky in his old age.”
“It looks to me like,” Two Tonys said, “you’ve got some of the kinkiest motherfuckers in captivity down here on Yard 1.”
“Shee-it. Just 'cause you’re a killer and Yard 4’s the killers yard, you think you can come down her and talk shit.”
“So what,” Two Tonys said, “if I’ve killed a few motherfuckers? So what if I’ve left a few bodies along the highway? All o' those punk-ass bitches had it comin’.”
A paint crew from Yard 3 sprawled over the basketball court. Two Tonys disclosed he was the overseer.
“Yard 1,” Two Tonys said, “changes motherfuckers. You guys come down here gangsteronies and killers, and leave outta the sally port with Bibles in your fuckin’ hands. Well, lemmetellyasomethin’: I’d like to come down to minimum and get me a Bible too.”
The crowd roared with laughter.
“I’m happy to see you motherfuckers,” Two Tonys said. “Now who’s gonna fix me up a sandwich, or get me a honey bun or a bagel or some shit?”
Within minutes, a man shaped like a tank, Jim Hogg, rolled up to Two Tonys with some bagels.
“I salute you,” Two Tonys said. “You are my ace cool spoon, my pride and joy, my dawg, a big-headed motherfucker, but still my road dog. Now who’s gonna get me a water bottle that no motherfucker has used, and wipe off the rim real good?”
A paisa produced a drink.
“Gracia',” Two Tonys said. “Que onda, paisa? Como estas?”
“Bien bien.”
“How come they’re all paintin’ the basketball court, and you’re walkin’ around with your hands fulla bagels?” The inmate pointed at Two Tonys.
“Put your finger down, motherfucker,” Two Tonys said. “You’re not on the fuckin’ witness stand. And I sure as hell ain’t your crimey [crime partner]. I’m the supervisor of the paint crew, and it’s about time someone brought the boss a cup of coffee.”
“Whattup dawg!” Flaco said.
Two Tonys flashed a gang sign, and said, “I’m comin’ at ya live and unrehearsed, bro. The Mexicans aren’t fuckin’ with ya are they? If they are, I wanna know about it. 'Cause I’m runnin’ shit on Yard 1 today. And if anyone has a problem with that, I’ll peel their fuckin’ caps.”
“Why’re you bustin’ our balls? And why’ve you gotta stick?”
“To bust a motherfucker in the jaw with,” Two Tonys said.
“Do you still beat the fuck outta trash cans and walls?”
“Yeah,” Two Tonys said. “And the trash cans and walls don’t fuck with me no more do they?”
“Why dontcha lick my cock?”
“I’d rather,” Two Tonys said, “put a bullet in your head.”
“If you had your nines right now, who’d be the first on Yard 1 you’d put a bullet in?” Jim Hogg asked.
“There’s motherfuckers here who deserve to die but none of 'em are on my list.”
Later on, I managed to steer Two Tonys away from the crowd.
“How’s Mom and Dad doin’?” Two Tonys asked.
“Great,” I said. “They’re visiting soon. They told me you broke your comments record with Two Tonys on Drugs, with ten comments.”
“Which one was that?”
“The one where you’re driving down the freeway, all high, after whacking someone, and your decision-making ability is all messed up.”
“Yeah. That’s the time I had my .357 ready. If the cops had stopped me, I was gonna shoot it out with the motherfuckers.”
“My mum said a guy who was going down the same path as you, read that blog, and it’s influenced his life. Maybe sharing your experience saved him.”
“I often wonder late at night after whackin’ some flies and layin’ on my bunk lookin’ at the swatted flies on my ceilin’ if I was put on earth to whack motherfuckers or to save someone’s life. I wonder why I’m goin’ through all this sufferin’ and bullshit. Maybe this guy is saved. Maybe he’s gonna have a son or a grandson who discovers the cure for AIDS or West Nile virus. It mighta been my callin’ in life to save that guy.”
“My parents are sending stacks of blogs with comments, I can’t wait to read them.”
“You can’t wait. Howdja think I feel?”
“So you got a new celly?”
“Yeah. I’ve known him since he was thirteen. He used to wash my Eldorado. His playmates were my goombahdies’ kids.”
“How’s things with Ogre?”
“He’s stayin’ away from me - for the time being.”
“Are you still walking?”
“Every day. And workin’ out on the station. I walked seventeen laps on Saturday.”
“Yard 1,” came a voice over the speaker system. “Lock down. It’s count time.”
“Take care, little bro,” Two Tonys said.
“And you,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
Two Tonys Excites Yard 1
Wielding a stick, Two Tonys – wearing a baseball cap, smock, pants, and white New Balance – strutted onto Yard 1 and stopped at the basketball court. Inmates surrounded him.
“Two Tonys,” Too Tall said, “whatthafuck are you doin’ here?”
“I’m down here to run this yard, motherfucker.” Two Tonys slapped the stick against his left palm. “Don’t start no shit, and there won’t be no shit.”
“Wassup wiv da stick?”
“My teacher,” Two Tonys said, “Sister Teresa – God rest her soul – used to whack me in the head with a stick like this.”
The crowd laughed.
“And it didn’t knock any sense inta ya did it?” Red said.
“He’s gotta stick 'cause he’s turned kinky in his old age.”
“It looks to me like,” Two Tonys said, “you’ve got some of the kinkiest motherfuckers in captivity down here on Yard 1.”
“Shee-it. Just 'cause you’re a killer and Yard 4’s the killers yard, you think you can come down her and talk shit.”
“So what,” Two Tonys said, “if I’ve killed a few motherfuckers? So what if I’ve left a few bodies along the highway? All o' those punk-ass bitches had it comin’.”
A paint crew from Yard 3 sprawled over the basketball court. Two Tonys disclosed he was the overseer.
“Yard 1,” Two Tonys said, “changes motherfuckers. You guys come down here gangsteronies and killers, and leave outta the sally port with Bibles in your fuckin’ hands. Well, lemmetellyasomethin’: I’d like to come down to minimum and get me a Bible too.”
The crowd roared with laughter.
“I’m happy to see you motherfuckers,” Two Tonys said. “Now who’s gonna fix me up a sandwich, or get me a honey bun or a bagel or some shit?”
Within minutes, a man shaped like a tank, Jim Hogg, rolled up to Two Tonys with some bagels.
“I salute you,” Two Tonys said. “You are my ace cool spoon, my pride and joy, my dawg, a big-headed motherfucker, but still my road dog. Now who’s gonna get me a water bottle that no motherfucker has used, and wipe off the rim real good?”
A paisa produced a drink.
“Gracia',” Two Tonys said. “Que onda, paisa? Como estas?”
“Bien bien.”
“How come they’re all paintin’ the basketball court, and you’re walkin’ around with your hands fulla bagels?” The inmate pointed at Two Tonys.
“Put your finger down, motherfucker,” Two Tonys said. “You’re not on the fuckin’ witness stand. And I sure as hell ain’t your crimey [crime partner]. I’m the supervisor of the paint crew, and it’s about time someone brought the boss a cup of coffee.”
“Whattup dawg!” Flaco said.
Two Tonys flashed a gang sign, and said, “I’m comin’ at ya live and unrehearsed, bro. The Mexicans aren’t fuckin’ with ya are they? If they are, I wanna know about it. 'Cause I’m runnin’ shit on Yard 1 today. And if anyone has a problem with that, I’ll peel their fuckin’ caps.”
“Why’re you bustin’ our balls? And why’ve you gotta stick?”
“To bust a motherfucker in the jaw with,” Two Tonys said.
“Do you still beat the fuck outta trash cans and walls?”
“Yeah,” Two Tonys said. “And the trash cans and walls don’t fuck with me no more do they?”
“Why dontcha lick my cock?”
“I’d rather,” Two Tonys said, “put a bullet in your head.”
“If you had your nines right now, who’d be the first on Yard 1 you’d put a bullet in?” Jim Hogg asked.
“There’s motherfuckers here who deserve to die but none of 'em are on my list.”
Later on, I managed to steer Two Tonys away from the crowd.
“How’s Mom and Dad doin’?” Two Tonys asked.
“Great,” I said. “They’re visiting soon. They told me you broke your comments record with Two Tonys on Drugs, with ten comments.”
“Which one was that?”
“The one where you’re driving down the freeway, all high, after whacking someone, and your decision-making ability is all messed up.”
“Yeah. That’s the time I had my .357 ready. If the cops had stopped me, I was gonna shoot it out with the motherfuckers.”
“My mum said a guy who was going down the same path as you, read that blog, and it’s influenced his life. Maybe sharing your experience saved him.”
“I often wonder late at night after whackin’ some flies and layin’ on my bunk lookin’ at the swatted flies on my ceilin’ if I was put on earth to whack motherfuckers or to save someone’s life. I wonder why I’m goin’ through all this sufferin’ and bullshit. Maybe this guy is saved. Maybe he’s gonna have a son or a grandson who discovers the cure for AIDS or West Nile virus. It mighta been my callin’ in life to save that guy.”
“My parents are sending stacks of blogs with comments, I can’t wait to read them.”
“You can’t wait. Howdja think I feel?”
“So you got a new celly?”
“Yeah. I’ve known him since he was thirteen. He used to wash my Eldorado. His playmates were my goombahdies’ kids.”
“How’s things with Ogre?”
“He’s stayin’ away from me - for the time being.”
“Are you still walking?”
“Every day. And workin’ out on the station. I walked seventeen laps on Saturday.”
“Yard 1,” came a voice over the speaker system. “Lock down. It’s count time.”
“Take care, little bro,” Two Tonys said.
“And you,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood
Season’s Greetings
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to
All my readers
Thanks for the numerous books, Christmas cards and letters. Thanks for visiting the blog, sending emails, and making comments. Once again I’m touched by your kindness and generosity. A special thanks to my friend Stephanie who has worked hard on myspace.
I must apologise to my regular correspondents, as I am behind in answering mail. Please be patient with me, I will write as soon as I can.
Yours appreciatively
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to
All my readers
Thanks for the numerous books, Christmas cards and letters. Thanks for visiting the blog, sending emails, and making comments. Once again I’m touched by your kindness and generosity. A special thanks to my friend Stephanie who has worked hard on myspace.
I must apologise to my regular correspondents, as I am behind in answering mail. Please be patient with me, I will write as soon as I can.
Yours appreciatively
Jon
Email Jon as writeinside@hotmail.com or post comments below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
06 Oct 06
Psycotherapy With Dr O’Malley (6)Dr. O. pondered my homework: a journal of anxious/abnormal thoughts that documented the roars of F-16s making me antsy, frantic activity in the chow hall making me paranoid, grief over my grandmothers death.
“The grief,” Dr O said, “and guilt over your grandmother is perfectly normal. Her death is reality. But your hypervigilence with the F-16s in the chow hall is something we need to work on.”
“I realise how daft those thoughts are immediately after thinking them, but it all happens so fast.”
“You need to breath normally in those situations to calm the cascade of chemicals. You need to be able to appreciate and evaluate reality. There are habitual criminals who are incapable of being anxious in crowds.”
“Like psychopaths?”
“Yes. You need to desensitise yourself, and regain control. Instead of being hypervigilent, you need to be in a state of mind where you can evaluate things. If the F-16s catch you by surprise, breath. I had the same reaction when someone dropped a bucket by me once. Pay attention to visual clues instead of overinterpretating things.”
“Another thing that got me going was reading about a bomb going off on a plane and the jet oil burning people’s flesh, bits of the plane dismembering people, and them falling to earth. I’ve got a thing about planes.”
“With explosions at altitude you immediately lose consciousness. The shock wave knocks you senseless. It’s surprising how fragile the brain is. Troops in Iraq who survive IED attacks are tore up physically and they suffer heavy physical trauma to the brain. When the IED goes off, the survivors know nothing other than waking up in Walter Reed.”
“I had some head trauma that made me pass out once. I was jumped by four lads who repeatedly kicked me in the head, back in England when I was about twenty. A point came when I could no longer feel the kicks. I went warm, and passed out.”
“Have you suffered any other head trauma?”
“A speaker fell on my head from a third story window in Liverpool.”
“Did it knock you out?”
“No, the wood broke in half.”
“The break probably dissipated the force.”
“I’ve been in around half a dozen car crashes. In one we knocked down a brick wall, bounced, ended up with the car lopsided up a hedgerow. I’ve also had multiple airbags smash me in the face. Could these accidents have affected my personality?”
“You shouldn’t be too concerned about them. You’re not showing any signs of the subtle problems one would expect. We should be more concerned with your anxious thoughts.”
“Do I need to learn to accept anxious thoughts?”
“No. Learn to look at them: yes. Learn to build them up: no. In a dark room, the presence of objects may seem dangerous, but when you turn the light on you see the safety of chairs, lamps, and small shelves. The eight-foot ogre is suddenly a small spider. When you perceive reality, breath and push back the fear response. Comfort yourself as if you are a little kid. Calm your system down. You need to perceive reality because when you hit the streets you’ll need realistic aims of who you are, what you’re doing, and where you’re going. In the prison environment it’s realistic to be mentally prepared for fights, but you don’t have to be hypervigilent. Just be prepared to get out of the way if something’s going down. There’s an atmosphere you can usually pick up on when something is going to happen in here. I’m sure that you can interpret ate that by now.”
“Yeah. You can usually tell if something is about to happen. When there was an all-out race riot at Towers, I eventually got up the stairs, and stayed in my cell.”
“And that was a realistic plan. If you go around panicked all the time, you’ll crash. With all the people on the roads in tonnes of steel going 40 to 60 mph, who are just as big idiot drivers as I am, I drive defensively. Vigilant but not hypervigilant. I assume that the other person is going to do something. I keep my distance from the car in front of me. I check my rear-view mirror. I don’t tailgate. I do whatever I can to minimize the force of impact. That’s my realistic plan. Try to go about realistically.”
“I will.”
“For homework I’d like you to document yourself talking to yourself in relation to how you justify or criticize your past actions. And to compare and contrast what you are thinking and feeling with your present expectations.”
“OK. Thanks.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Psycotherapy With Dr O’Malley (6)Dr. O. pondered my homework: a journal of anxious/abnormal thoughts that documented the roars of F-16s making me antsy, frantic activity in the chow hall making me paranoid, grief over my grandmothers death.
“The grief,” Dr O said, “and guilt over your grandmother is perfectly normal. Her death is reality. But your hypervigilence with the F-16s in the chow hall is something we need to work on.”
“I realise how daft those thoughts are immediately after thinking them, but it all happens so fast.”
“You need to breath normally in those situations to calm the cascade of chemicals. You need to be able to appreciate and evaluate reality. There are habitual criminals who are incapable of being anxious in crowds.”
“Like psychopaths?”
“Yes. You need to desensitise yourself, and regain control. Instead of being hypervigilent, you need to be in a state of mind where you can evaluate things. If the F-16s catch you by surprise, breath. I had the same reaction when someone dropped a bucket by me once. Pay attention to visual clues instead of overinterpretating things.”
“Another thing that got me going was reading about a bomb going off on a plane and the jet oil burning people’s flesh, bits of the plane dismembering people, and them falling to earth. I’ve got a thing about planes.”
“With explosions at altitude you immediately lose consciousness. The shock wave knocks you senseless. It’s surprising how fragile the brain is. Troops in Iraq who survive IED attacks are tore up physically and they suffer heavy physical trauma to the brain. When the IED goes off, the survivors know nothing other than waking up in Walter Reed.”
“I had some head trauma that made me pass out once. I was jumped by four lads who repeatedly kicked me in the head, back in England when I was about twenty. A point came when I could no longer feel the kicks. I went warm, and passed out.”
“Have you suffered any other head trauma?”
“A speaker fell on my head from a third story window in Liverpool.”
“Did it knock you out?”
“No, the wood broke in half.”
“The break probably dissipated the force.”
“I’ve been in around half a dozen car crashes. In one we knocked down a brick wall, bounced, ended up with the car lopsided up a hedgerow. I’ve also had multiple airbags smash me in the face. Could these accidents have affected my personality?”
“You shouldn’t be too concerned about them. You’re not showing any signs of the subtle problems one would expect. We should be more concerned with your anxious thoughts.”
“Do I need to learn to accept anxious thoughts?”
“No. Learn to look at them: yes. Learn to build them up: no. In a dark room, the presence of objects may seem dangerous, but when you turn the light on you see the safety of chairs, lamps, and small shelves. The eight-foot ogre is suddenly a small spider. When you perceive reality, breath and push back the fear response. Comfort yourself as if you are a little kid. Calm your system down. You need to perceive reality because when you hit the streets you’ll need realistic aims of who you are, what you’re doing, and where you’re going. In the prison environment it’s realistic to be mentally prepared for fights, but you don’t have to be hypervigilent. Just be prepared to get out of the way if something’s going down. There’s an atmosphere you can usually pick up on when something is going to happen in here. I’m sure that you can interpret ate that by now.”
“Yeah. You can usually tell if something is about to happen. When there was an all-out race riot at Towers, I eventually got up the stairs, and stayed in my cell.”
“And that was a realistic plan. If you go around panicked all the time, you’ll crash. With all the people on the roads in tonnes of steel going 40 to 60 mph, who are just as big idiot drivers as I am, I drive defensively. Vigilant but not hypervigilant. I assume that the other person is going to do something. I keep my distance from the car in front of me. I check my rear-view mirror. I don’t tailgate. I do whatever I can to minimize the force of impact. That’s my realistic plan. Try to go about realistically.”
“I will.”
“For homework I’d like you to document yourself talking to yourself in relation to how you justify or criticize your past actions. And to compare and contrast what you are thinking and feeling with your present expectations.”
“OK. Thanks.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
04 Oct 06
Too Tall
Too Tall stands out as much as his pet.
The pet. A large grasshopper. Black but with patches of lustrous yellow. Looks like something you'd see on an acid trip that's about to go bad.
Too Tall. Six foot seven. Of Puerto Rican descent. Face resembles Adam Sandler's. Has tattoos of Japanese characters on his neck (vampire in red and courage in black), a skull in a stingy-brim hat on his left shoulder and angels on his back that could do with a touch-up by Raphael.
“How’d you end up in prison?” I asked.
“I got eight-and-a-half years for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon 'cause I stabbed a dude that was a chick that I thought was a dude.”
“How did that happen?”
“I was gamblin’ at pool with the person I thought was a dude. I won money and the dude didn’t wanna pay up. We took it outside, and he pulled out a knife and stabbed me in the arm. So I took the knife and stabbed the dude in the chest, half an inch from the heart. Then I blacked out 'cause my blood-alcohol level was so high. At first the cops thought it was a dude, but when the paramedics lifted his shirt they saw a pair of tits. The cops beat the shit outta me after they’d found out I’d stabbed a woman. My left arm swolled out like a softball. My right knee swoll like a football. The back of my head swoll like a beachball. The victim was a bull dyke who dressed like a guy on the streets, but showed up in court wearin’ makeup and a dress.”
“And you got eight-and-a-half years for stabbing someone who’d stabbed you first?”
“’Cause my public defender didn’t help me for shit. He told me to sign, and I’d get from three-and-a-half to five. I signed and got eight-and-a-half. All he cared about was gettin’ me to sign a plea bargain, and gettin’ his pay check from the government.”
“You musta been drinking a lot?”
“Yeah they brought me back to life twice.”
“What had you drunk?”
“Two gallons of hard liquor: Black Velvet Whisky, Puerto Rican Spice Rum, Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, Bacardi Rum. And twelve large pitchers of Budweiser.”
“That’s a fair amount of alcohol. So when do you get out?”
“In three-and-a-half years.”
Did Too Tall act in self-defence? Did he deserve to be beaten by the cops for stabbing a woman? Did he deserve his sentence?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Too Tall
Too Tall stands out as much as his pet.
The pet. A large grasshopper. Black but with patches of lustrous yellow. Looks like something you'd see on an acid trip that's about to go bad.
Too Tall. Six foot seven. Of Puerto Rican descent. Face resembles Adam Sandler's. Has tattoos of Japanese characters on his neck (vampire in red and courage in black), a skull in a stingy-brim hat on his left shoulder and angels on his back that could do with a touch-up by Raphael.
“How’d you end up in prison?” I asked.
“I got eight-and-a-half years for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon 'cause I stabbed a dude that was a chick that I thought was a dude.”
“How did that happen?”
“I was gamblin’ at pool with the person I thought was a dude. I won money and the dude didn’t wanna pay up. We took it outside, and he pulled out a knife and stabbed me in the arm. So I took the knife and stabbed the dude in the chest, half an inch from the heart. Then I blacked out 'cause my blood-alcohol level was so high. At first the cops thought it was a dude, but when the paramedics lifted his shirt they saw a pair of tits. The cops beat the shit outta me after they’d found out I’d stabbed a woman. My left arm swolled out like a softball. My right knee swoll like a football. The back of my head swoll like a beachball. The victim was a bull dyke who dressed like a guy on the streets, but showed up in court wearin’ makeup and a dress.”
“And you got eight-and-a-half years for stabbing someone who’d stabbed you first?”
“’Cause my public defender didn’t help me for shit. He told me to sign, and I’d get from three-and-a-half to five. I signed and got eight-and-a-half. All he cared about was gettin’ me to sign a plea bargain, and gettin’ his pay check from the government.”
“You musta been drinking a lot?”
“Yeah they brought me back to life twice.”
“What had you drunk?”
“Two gallons of hard liquor: Black Velvet Whisky, Puerto Rican Spice Rum, Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, Bacardi Rum. And twelve large pitchers of Budweiser.”
“That’s a fair amount of alcohol. So when do you get out?”
“In three-and-a-half years.”
Did Too Tall act in self-defence? Did he deserve to be beaten by the cops for stabbing a woman? Did he deserve his sentence?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
02 Oct 06
The Booty Bandit Move that Befell Max in the Kitchen Cooler
“I heard something happened to you in a kitchen cooler,” I said to Max.
“Yeah,” Max said. “Me and Leo were makin’ French toast on the grill and this paisa, Chapo, who can’t speak English, and looks just like Fred Flintstone only with deeper stubble shadow and crazy-ass eyebrows, kept comin’ on to me. When I’d take a pan to the line, he’d lean over the food and put his ass out all seductive like. So I’m side-steppin’ him. I tell Leo, ‘You’ve gotta watch my back, dude. This queer’s tryin’ to come on to me, man. I don’t wanna hafta smash the fool.’ Leo says, ‘Yeah, dude. I’ve got your back, dude.’ A few minutes later, we start puttin’ excess food in the cooler. I go into the cooler. Leo’s watchin’ both grills with a spatula in each hand. I was holdin’ up a six-inch pan of French-toast batter about to slide it on a nine-foot-high rack when I heard the door close behind me. I kinda see movement by the apples, I turn – still holdin’ the pan up high with a corner on the rack – and Chapo – I don’t know how to describe this – is on his knees. All I saw was a stubbly face comin’ right at me, doin’ a little walk like a penguin on his knees. I said, ‘Whattaya doin’, man?’ I started coppin’ pleas, sayin’, ‘I don’t mess around. That ain’t my thing.’ In broken English, Chapo says, ‘You like. I promise.’ I told him no again. The whole time he’s shimmyin’ closer and closer on his knees. My arms are stuck in the air, so I turn 'cause I didn’t wanna expose my backside to him. He’s right there. I back up a step, so my back’s against the wall. That’s when he reached. He didn’t get my dick but he had a firm grip on my left nut. It was horrible 'cause I couldn’t move. He started unbuttonin’ and unzippin’ my pants with his other hand. Tryin’ to stop him, I started wigglin’ my hips like this.”
“You were doin’ the hula-hula?”
“Yeah. I started doin’ the hula-hula. But he gets my pants down and grabs me full on. I start gettin’ freaked out. Do I drop the batter everywhere? Do I kick him and risk injury to my man parts he’s clingin’ on to? He says, ‘Deja ver la vichola,’ [Let me see your schlong]. I tell him, I’m not a caquero – that’s a booty bandit – and I’m not up for another man. He told me again, ‘You like. I promise.’ I say, ‘No! Get away from me, man.’ I’m shocked, then angry, but some part of me was flattered in a small way that another man found me attractive.”
“Was he working your thing?”
“He’s tryin’, but I’m doin’ the hula-hula. He’s gotta good grip, so he’s followin’ me around.”
“Were you shrinking or getting aroused?”
“I’m not gettin’ aroused to the point that I wanna follow through, but I’m gettin’ a semi 'cause it’s bein’ touched. He let it go after much pleadin’. He looked all butthurt - like the finest woman in the world had shut him down. He turns around and leaves. I put the French-toast batter away and walk outta the cooler. Everybody in the kitchen is snickerin’, on the floor laughin’ at me, and sayin’ shit like, ‘Did you have a good time?’ Leo told me later that Chapo had come out of the cooler and wiped his mouth off when everyone was lookin’ at him to make them think he’d just got through blowin’ me.”
Should Max have dropped the French-toast batter?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Booty Bandit Move that Befell Max in the Kitchen Cooler
“I heard something happened to you in a kitchen cooler,” I said to Max.
“Yeah,” Max said. “Me and Leo were makin’ French toast on the grill and this paisa, Chapo, who can’t speak English, and looks just like Fred Flintstone only with deeper stubble shadow and crazy-ass eyebrows, kept comin’ on to me. When I’d take a pan to the line, he’d lean over the food and put his ass out all seductive like. So I’m side-steppin’ him. I tell Leo, ‘You’ve gotta watch my back, dude. This queer’s tryin’ to come on to me, man. I don’t wanna hafta smash the fool.’ Leo says, ‘Yeah, dude. I’ve got your back, dude.’ A few minutes later, we start puttin’ excess food in the cooler. I go into the cooler. Leo’s watchin’ both grills with a spatula in each hand. I was holdin’ up a six-inch pan of French-toast batter about to slide it on a nine-foot-high rack when I heard the door close behind me. I kinda see movement by the apples, I turn – still holdin’ the pan up high with a corner on the rack – and Chapo – I don’t know how to describe this – is on his knees. All I saw was a stubbly face comin’ right at me, doin’ a little walk like a penguin on his knees. I said, ‘Whattaya doin’, man?’ I started coppin’ pleas, sayin’, ‘I don’t mess around. That ain’t my thing.’ In broken English, Chapo says, ‘You like. I promise.’ I told him no again. The whole time he’s shimmyin’ closer and closer on his knees. My arms are stuck in the air, so I turn 'cause I didn’t wanna expose my backside to him. He’s right there. I back up a step, so my back’s against the wall. That’s when he reached. He didn’t get my dick but he had a firm grip on my left nut. It was horrible 'cause I couldn’t move. He started unbuttonin’ and unzippin’ my pants with his other hand. Tryin’ to stop him, I started wigglin’ my hips like this.”
“You were doin’ the hula-hula?”
“Yeah. I started doin’ the hula-hula. But he gets my pants down and grabs me full on. I start gettin’ freaked out. Do I drop the batter everywhere? Do I kick him and risk injury to my man parts he’s clingin’ on to? He says, ‘Deja ver la vichola,’ [Let me see your schlong]. I tell him, I’m not a caquero – that’s a booty bandit – and I’m not up for another man. He told me again, ‘You like. I promise.’ I say, ‘No! Get away from me, man.’ I’m shocked, then angry, but some part of me was flattered in a small way that another man found me attractive.”
“Was he working your thing?”
“He’s tryin’, but I’m doin’ the hula-hula. He’s gotta good grip, so he’s followin’ me around.”
“Were you shrinking or getting aroused?”
“I’m not gettin’ aroused to the point that I wanna follow through, but I’m gettin’ a semi 'cause it’s bein’ touched. He let it go after much pleadin’. He looked all butthurt - like the finest woman in the world had shut him down. He turns around and leaves. I put the French-toast batter away and walk outta the cooler. Everybody in the kitchen is snickerin’, on the floor laughin’ at me, and sayin’ shit like, ‘Did you have a good time?’ Leo told me later that Chapo had come out of the cooler and wiped his mouth off when everyone was lookin’ at him to make them think he’d just got through blowin’ me.”
Should Max have dropped the French-toast batter?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Apropos of Arpaio – recent story filed in The Arizona Republic
10 British hooligans being filmed during voluntary stay in Tent City
Can British blokes change their lives for the better by living in Tent City? You’ll have to tune in to the yet-to-be-named documentary to find out.
Tent City opened its doors to 10 men described as British “hooligans” to see if wearing pink underwear and black and white stripes, working on chain gangs and eating 13-cent meals would change their ways.
The men arrived for their voluntary incarceration Nov. 5th and will leave Thursday.
“They know their lives back in Britain are spiraling out of control,” the show’s producer, Mark Rossiter, said in a news release. “But right now British courts and jails are so soft on non-violent criminals that imprisonment there isn’t dissuading them from bad behaviour.”
Two of the volunteers left after two days.
Rossiter got the idea for the documentary after seeing Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio interviewed by British media.
The documentary is supposed to air on Bravo next year.
“I’m confident my policies have a deterrent effect on some people,” Arpaio said.
About Tent City
Murder in Tent City
ARIZONA INMATE RECIDIVISM STUDY
Addendum
From the East Valley Tribune
Sheriff Joe turns around British hooligans
June 15th, 2007 · posted by daryljames
British television viewers apparently love Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s approach to American justice. According to a news release from the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, the Bravo Network in Great Britain has reported that its 10-part series on 10 British "hooligans" who spent two weeks in Tent City was the highest-rated show in the network’s history. In March, Bravo brought 10 English men to Tent City and subjected them to Arpaio’s jail policies to see if a tough jail experience might turn their lives around. Bravo said the men had shown behavior that was on the brink of criminal. Jail in Britain is a far "softer" experience, according to the show�s producers. According to the producers, the experience here did have a positive effect on the men who participated. The network is now considering a similar program with female hooligans.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
10 British hooligans being filmed during voluntary stay in Tent City
Can British blokes change their lives for the better by living in Tent City? You’ll have to tune in to the yet-to-be-named documentary to find out.
Tent City opened its doors to 10 men described as British “hooligans” to see if wearing pink underwear and black and white stripes, working on chain gangs and eating 13-cent meals would change their ways.
The men arrived for their voluntary incarceration Nov. 5th and will leave Thursday.
“They know their lives back in Britain are spiraling out of control,” the show’s producer, Mark Rossiter, said in a news release. “But right now British courts and jails are so soft on non-violent criminals that imprisonment there isn’t dissuading them from bad behaviour.”
Two of the volunteers left after two days.
Rossiter got the idea for the documentary after seeing Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio interviewed by British media.
The documentary is supposed to air on Bravo next year.
“I’m confident my policies have a deterrent effect on some people,” Arpaio said.
About Tent City
Murder in Tent City
ARIZONA INMATE RECIDIVISM STUDY
Addendum
From the East Valley Tribune
Sheriff Joe turns around British hooligans
June 15th, 2007 · posted by daryljames
British television viewers apparently love Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s approach to American justice. According to a news release from the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, the Bravo Network in Great Britain has reported that its 10-part series on 10 British "hooligans" who spent two weeks in Tent City was the highest-rated show in the network’s history. In March, Bravo brought 10 English men to Tent City and subjected them to Arpaio’s jail policies to see if a tough jail experience might turn their lives around. Bravo said the men had shown behavior that was on the brink of criminal. Jail in Britain is a far "softer" experience, according to the show�s producers. According to the producers, the experience here did have a positive effect on the men who participated. The network is now considering a similar program with female hooligans.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
25 Sept 06
Infamous
My neighbour two doors down, Infamous – a Chicano with a ponytail who wears a gold gangsta ring – ran a cross-border drug operation.
After reading through his police reports, I asked him some questions about his case.
“How did all the wheeler-dealing come about?”
“My father came from Mexico to Wellton, Arizona to work for my grandfather. He eloped with my mother - that’s how I came about. He had a farm fifty miles from Yuma, and he started bringin’ loads of drugs across from San Luis, Mexico. Slowly, I got involved. My father passed away in ’88 – killed by cops in Winterhaven, California. I went to prison and got out in October 2000. I wasn’t gonna mess around, but I went broke and started dealin’ again. Before I know it I’m havin’ females bring anywhere from ten to fifteen pounds of ice and glass over the border.”
“I read some of the women were keystering it. How much could they hold inside them?”
“Two and a half to three pounds packed in big condoms or cellophane.”
“If glass is super tweak then what’s ice?”
“Pressure-cooked glass.”
“Why did you bring it from Mexico instead of cooking it in Yuma?”
“I am literate in the process of cookin’ dope, but I was on parole. So I’m rollin’, but I end up in jail on smaller charges. I’m in the state pen and I get page-twoed [indicted] for illegal control of an enterprise to bring drugs into the country, and there’s twenty-four witnesses against me. Ten I didn’t even know. The case had been built by US Customs, Homeland Security, the Southwest Border Alliance, the FBI, and Immigration, over four years and I didn’t even know about it. I ended up signin’ for six-and-a-half years with three years intense probation, and here I am waitin’ to get out with two years to go.”
“So you got prosecuted by the same people as me then: the AG’s Organized Crime Division?”
“Yeah, by Terry Goddard and Billie Rosen.”
“So are you gonna party when you get out?”
“I will when I’m off parole. I don’t fuck around in here though. Whattaya gonna do getting’ high in here? Jack off all night or go fuck a man? I’m not doin’ none of the two.”
Did Infamous get lucky receiving only a six-and-a-half year sentence?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Infamous
My neighbour two doors down, Infamous – a Chicano with a ponytail who wears a gold gangsta ring – ran a cross-border drug operation.
After reading through his police reports, I asked him some questions about his case.
“How did all the wheeler-dealing come about?”
“My father came from Mexico to Wellton, Arizona to work for my grandfather. He eloped with my mother - that’s how I came about. He had a farm fifty miles from Yuma, and he started bringin’ loads of drugs across from San Luis, Mexico. Slowly, I got involved. My father passed away in ’88 – killed by cops in Winterhaven, California. I went to prison and got out in October 2000. I wasn’t gonna mess around, but I went broke and started dealin’ again. Before I know it I’m havin’ females bring anywhere from ten to fifteen pounds of ice and glass over the border.”
“I read some of the women were keystering it. How much could they hold inside them?”
“Two and a half to three pounds packed in big condoms or cellophane.”
“If glass is super tweak then what’s ice?”
“Pressure-cooked glass.”
“Why did you bring it from Mexico instead of cooking it in Yuma?”
“I am literate in the process of cookin’ dope, but I was on parole. So I’m rollin’, but I end up in jail on smaller charges. I’m in the state pen and I get page-twoed [indicted] for illegal control of an enterprise to bring drugs into the country, and there’s twenty-four witnesses against me. Ten I didn’t even know. The case had been built by US Customs, Homeland Security, the Southwest Border Alliance, the FBI, and Immigration, over four years and I didn’t even know about it. I ended up signin’ for six-and-a-half years with three years intense probation, and here I am waitin’ to get out with two years to go.”
“So you got prosecuted by the same people as me then: the AG’s Organized Crime Division?”
“Yeah, by Terry Goddard and Billie Rosen.”
“So are you gonna party when you get out?”
“I will when I’m off parole. I don’t fuck around in here though. Whattaya gonna do getting’ high in here? Jack off all night or go fuck a man? I’m not doin’ none of the two.”
Did Infamous get lucky receiving only a six-and-a-half year sentence?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
20 Sept 06
Jon gets Honourable Mention in Writer’s Digest Competition - ranked at number 50, almost 19,000 entered
Dear Jon,
One of my most enjoyable tasks as editor of Writer’s Digest is passing along good news to writers. This is one of those fun occasions. It is my pleasure to tell you that your manuscript, Pee Tested, has been awarded Honorable Mention in the Memoirs/Personal Essay category of the 75th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. Enclosed is your Certificate of Achievement to honor your accomplishment.
This year’s contest attracted close to 19,000 entries. Your success in the face of such formidable competition speaks highly of your writing talent, and should be a source of great pride as you continue your writing career.
I congratulate you on your accomplishment, and wish you the best of luck in your future writing.
Respectfully,
Kristin D. Godsey
Editor
Writer’s Digest
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Jon gets Honourable Mention in Writer’s Digest Competition - ranked at number 50, almost 19,000 entered
Dear Jon,
One of my most enjoyable tasks as editor of Writer’s Digest is passing along good news to writers. This is one of those fun occasions. It is my pleasure to tell you that your manuscript, Pee Tested, has been awarded Honorable Mention in the Memoirs/Personal Essay category of the 75th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. Enclosed is your Certificate of Achievement to honor your accomplishment.
This year’s contest attracted close to 19,000 entries. Your success in the face of such formidable competition speaks highly of your writing talent, and should be a source of great pride as you continue your writing career.
I congratulate you on your accomplishment, and wish you the best of luck in your future writing.
Respectfully,
Kristin D. Godsey
Editor
Writer’s Digest
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
FLASHBACK TO YARD 4
T-Bone - V - Ponytail (Part 2)
Part one of this story ended with T-Bone and Ponytail squaring off, a guard aiming a rifle at them, and a sergeant giving them the choice of boxing or going to the hole.
“I tell the sergeant," T-Bone said,"‘I wanna go to the ring.’ Ponytail ain’t sayin’ nothin’. His eyes are red and he’s as angry as a ragin’ bull. Then he says, ‘Wraps, no gloves.’ His people put stones in his wraps, but the cops see 'em and take 'em out. In the ring he tries to bullrush me. I sidestep him, stick my left foot out, grab his left arm, and trip him, holdin’ on to his arm. I hook his arm as he falls, and hit him in the base of his head with my right hand. Turn around and I’ll show you.”
Before I could say, “Go easy,” T-Bone hit me in the head with his massive right hand. “Ouch!” I said.
“Sorry if I hurt you. I’m just showin’ you where I hit him. Ponytail was stunned for a second, and I’ve still got his arm hooked, so I begin whalin’ on his head and neck. He kept turnin’ his head, so I hit him in the side between his liver and kidney. Lemme show you.”
“Do we have to?”
“Lift up your right arm. I’ll hit you softly.”
Trying to be a good sport, I raised my arm and – bam! - my right ribs were socked. “That’s enough demos for one night.”
“Imagine how Ponytail felt? The sensation was unbearable. He let out a big ol' warrrrgggghhhh! Like a wounded bear. He started bangin’ on the mat.”
“Tapping out?”
“Yeah. But I wasn’t finished. I let his arm go, and I jump up and kick him in the side of the neck. He moves his arms to protect himself, so I kick him in the same spot between the kidney and lung. His whole face turned red. People jump in the ring and grab me off him. There’s eighty blacks in the yard of seven hundred and fifty prisoners, and all of 'em are jumpin’ around ecstatic.
Three days later, I’m walkin’ near a blind spot where people handle their business, and there’s four whites includin’ Ponytail in a cubbyhole. One says, ‘Hey, nigger boy, you ain’t gettin’ away with doin’ that to one of us.’ I act like I’m trippin’, and pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in the dude’s face. The rest of 'em stop and look. My friends Red and T see what’s happenin’ and they come over with three black prison-gang members. Eight more woods come as well. One of the leaders says, ‘Chill out. Everyone get against the wall and let these two handle their business.’ I square off with Ponytail. I break down in a crouch and start circlin’ him. He don’t know how to act. I fake a lunge. He kicks me square in the shoulder with prison boots. I step back, shake the pain loose, and smile. He sees I’m injured, and like a dummy rushes me. I throw my right hand like you throw a ball, square in the middle of his face. He stops. His nose is bleedin’. I throw a left hook to his lung. I kick him in the leg. He bangs his head into the wall and – crackkk! - he goes down. Blood’s comin’ outta his mouth, both ears, and he defecates on himself. I kick him in the solar plexus and start stompin’ on his ribs, breakin’ them. I take his arm, and break it by puttin’ it against the wall and kickin’ it. He was out, but that wakes him up.”
“Didn’t you think that you’d done enough damage by now?”
“No. I’m tryin’ to kill him. He’s tryin’ to kill me. I had to do what was necessary 'cause he was gonna come back again and again. Then I try to break his leg against the wall by kickin’ it, but that doesn’t work. I ran into it with my shoulder and it breaks.”
“That’s got to be enough?”
“Hell it is! I put him in a chokehold meanin’ to choke him to death. The cops come around the corner to stop the death hold. They spray me with Mace in my mouth, eyes, and nose, up real close, and I let him go. The Mace brought me back to my senses. The death rage had left. You know, the kill thing that gets in you. They helicoptered Ponytail to hospital in Phoenix, and that was the last anyone ever heard of him. The white dudes in the cubbyhole that tried to beat me up were moved from the yard. I went to the hole for two weeks. When I got out, I had a reputation. People were sayin’, ‘Don’t mess with him. He’ll kill ya.’ But you know how it is in prison, reputations attract gunslingers. The peace didn’t last for long.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
T-Bone - V - Ponytail (Part 2)
Part one of this story ended with T-Bone and Ponytail squaring off, a guard aiming a rifle at them, and a sergeant giving them the choice of boxing or going to the hole.
“I tell the sergeant," T-Bone said,"‘I wanna go to the ring.’ Ponytail ain’t sayin’ nothin’. His eyes are red and he’s as angry as a ragin’ bull. Then he says, ‘Wraps, no gloves.’ His people put stones in his wraps, but the cops see 'em and take 'em out. In the ring he tries to bullrush me. I sidestep him, stick my left foot out, grab his left arm, and trip him, holdin’ on to his arm. I hook his arm as he falls, and hit him in the base of his head with my right hand. Turn around and I’ll show you.”
Before I could say, “Go easy,” T-Bone hit me in the head with his massive right hand. “Ouch!” I said.
“Sorry if I hurt you. I’m just showin’ you where I hit him. Ponytail was stunned for a second, and I’ve still got his arm hooked, so I begin whalin’ on his head and neck. He kept turnin’ his head, so I hit him in the side between his liver and kidney. Lemme show you.”
“Do we have to?”
“Lift up your right arm. I’ll hit you softly.”
Trying to be a good sport, I raised my arm and – bam! - my right ribs were socked. “That’s enough demos for one night.”
“Imagine how Ponytail felt? The sensation was unbearable. He let out a big ol' warrrrgggghhhh! Like a wounded bear. He started bangin’ on the mat.”
“Tapping out?”
“Yeah. But I wasn’t finished. I let his arm go, and I jump up and kick him in the side of the neck. He moves his arms to protect himself, so I kick him in the same spot between the kidney and lung. His whole face turned red. People jump in the ring and grab me off him. There’s eighty blacks in the yard of seven hundred and fifty prisoners, and all of 'em are jumpin’ around ecstatic.
Three days later, I’m walkin’ near a blind spot where people handle their business, and there’s four whites includin’ Ponytail in a cubbyhole. One says, ‘Hey, nigger boy, you ain’t gettin’ away with doin’ that to one of us.’ I act like I’m trippin’, and pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in the dude’s face. The rest of 'em stop and look. My friends Red and T see what’s happenin’ and they come over with three black prison-gang members. Eight more woods come as well. One of the leaders says, ‘Chill out. Everyone get against the wall and let these two handle their business.’ I square off with Ponytail. I break down in a crouch and start circlin’ him. He don’t know how to act. I fake a lunge. He kicks me square in the shoulder with prison boots. I step back, shake the pain loose, and smile. He sees I’m injured, and like a dummy rushes me. I throw my right hand like you throw a ball, square in the middle of his face. He stops. His nose is bleedin’. I throw a left hook to his lung. I kick him in the leg. He bangs his head into the wall and – crackkk! - he goes down. Blood’s comin’ outta his mouth, both ears, and he defecates on himself. I kick him in the solar plexus and start stompin’ on his ribs, breakin’ them. I take his arm, and break it by puttin’ it against the wall and kickin’ it. He was out, but that wakes him up.”
“Didn’t you think that you’d done enough damage by now?”
“No. I’m tryin’ to kill him. He’s tryin’ to kill me. I had to do what was necessary 'cause he was gonna come back again and again. Then I try to break his leg against the wall by kickin’ it, but that doesn’t work. I ran into it with my shoulder and it breaks.”
“That’s got to be enough?”
“Hell it is! I put him in a chokehold meanin’ to choke him to death. The cops come around the corner to stop the death hold. They spray me with Mace in my mouth, eyes, and nose, up real close, and I let him go. The Mace brought me back to my senses. The death rage had left. You know, the kill thing that gets in you. They helicoptered Ponytail to hospital in Phoenix, and that was the last anyone ever heard of him. The white dudes in the cubbyhole that tried to beat me up were moved from the yard. I went to the hole for two weeks. When I got out, I had a reputation. People were sayin’, ‘Don’t mess with him. He’ll kill ya.’ But you know how it is in prison, reputations attract gunslingers. The peace didn’t last for long.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
