30 Apr 08

Women's Incarceration Experiences: Cherry Valentine


Ever wonder what it’s like for a woman to be in a jail or a prison? In this series I am going to relay the incarceration experiences of women, starting with the Cherry Valentine (ex-SuicideGirl member Norah).

“So you’ve been to jail?” I asked.
“Twice. Well, the first time, let me start off with what I went to jail for. I was shopping at Dillard's – one of my favorite clothing stores in the mall – and ran into this girl who thinks I stole her man (who is actually a homosexual). She had this whole Revlon collection in her purse that she decided to start throwing at me. She began screaming, and something in me just snapped. I grabbed her head and threw it into a display case full of I don't remember – it could of been ties for all I know. Then I began to pound on her face. She called me a kike too, so that didn't make me any happier. Luckily for that girl they had cops around and they grabbed me away and brought me up to this office where they asked me to tell the story over and over again. I was in this office for over an hour. A squad car picks me up and it's very embarrassing to walk out the mall with cuffs on, especially when you know a lot of people. So I was very nervous to go to jail cause I had never been.
I was wearing a really nice suit with runs in my pantyhose, and all these African American guys start screaming, ‘Hey baby.’
And I remember telling them to fuck off.”

“Where was this jail?”
“Southeast Texas. In this jail there are two giant men cells and one cell for girls. Then you have three of these individual cells for the really crazy ones they put in these strange straight-jacket-like outfits. One of them got a little violent with a guard and eight of them climbed on this guy and tasered him, then he pissed all over himself. That was pretty entertaining for me. In the women's cell I was in was a group of really nasty larger girls.
I remember one of them saying she was hungry to a cop, and he replied, ‘Your fat ass doesn't need any food.’
They were very mean. One of the girls was taking a pregnancy test and there was another young lady all washed up that had fallen asleep. We had no benches to sit on, just a cold concrete floor, and of course the food was awful. I really didn't like having to stare at these girls taking their jumpers off so they could pee, ’cause there are also no stalls or anything, just one nasty toilet. If you have to go, everyone has to see. That's embarrassing for me. They took the girls in blue jumpers away to their own cells where I was alone until a girl in an orange jumper came in. She was African American and in there for murder but was very nice to me. We had quite a conversation and she made me want to turn my life around. She told me her story and that she had a daughter who wrote her a card on Mother's Day. I felt sad for her. Eventually, I fell asleep after all the finger painting that was done. Then I heard bail. I wasn't in there but a few hours the first time, my father had to bail me out.”

“What about the second time?”
"The second time I was framed. My car broke down so I called my brother and asked him for a ride. Two of my brothers were in the car along with a girlfriend of theirs. I am in this vehicle for not even two minutes, and a cop pulls us over. He arrests both my brothers because they had warrants for their arrest for whatever reasons. The cop is talking to the other girl and I asking us if we have anything on us.
I proudly said, ‘No officer I don't do drugs and you can search through all my things if you like.’
The other girl said no as well. He searched through her purse and opened up a cigarette box where he found a joint. He said, ‘You fucking lied to me, what else do you have?’
She replied, ‘I have a stash in my panties.’
The officer calls for another squad car and they handcuff her. He searches through my things and tells me I can go.
I just start walking towards my brother's telling them I would call Mom when the cop yelled, ‘Wait a second, put cuffs on her too.’
I yelled, ‘For what? I haven't done anything.’
The officer screams, ‘There's marijuana all over the backseat where you were sitting.’
I know there was no marijuana there, and I remembered that my brother just cleaned his car and he said there was nothing back there. So I started talking shit to the cops, calling them dirty, and well, every name in the book as they cuff me. So they take me back to the same place and I am pissed off. I am giving every cop in there attitude. They called me a bitch and threatened to spray mace in my face. It was very strange to be in jail with my family, but comforting at the same time ’cause we could all see each other across from one another in our cells. So we were giving each other messages back and forth. We all tried calling everyone we knew to bail us out of jail. The cops laughed as they listened to me tell my grandmother that were pulled over by a dirty cop that planted marijuana on us. They even planted a crack pipe but charged my brothers for it. That is something my brothers have never tried, so I know that for sure was made up as well. I mean, we're Jews, we aren't into that heavy shit. But our family has been pretty notorious for getting in trouble and we are the only Jewish family in this area so everyone referred to us as the Notorious Jews. I always thought that title was lame. So we all sat in jail all night waiting for someone. I saw another man get tasered like the first time and I remember my brothers thinking it was quite hilarious. In the women's cell there was only me and the other girl that was dating my brother. This girl was only eighteen years of age. But she acted like she had been to jail before. One of the guards came and checked on us and was watching the girl sleep.
I didn't like the way he was looking at her so I asked, ‘What the fuck are you looking at you pervert?’
The cop replied, ‘Bitch you better shut up before we decide to keep you in here longer.’
All night I was arguing with the cops. Luckily I never got into trouble for it. Around eight o'clock in the morning my mother bails us out leaving the other girl in jail by herself. I was still talking shit as I was leaving the jail house but I couldn't help it, I was very angry. If I can help it, I will never go back.”

“What do you think of the jail guards?”
“The guards all had pretty huge egos which really doesn't fly too well with me. When I was being searched it was hard for me ’cause at the time I was very modest and hadn't broken out of my shell. I was nineteen years of age. The female cops were okay I guess.
I got testy with one and she said, ‘Oh so you think beause we are all dressed in blue we are all the same?’
I said. ‘Yes.’"
“What’s the worst thing a guard did to you?”
“I can not remember what the worst thing a guard did to me. Just a lot of arguing going back and forth. Me being a smart ass and the cop not liking the way I talked to him. I can honestly say that I hate cops with a passion ’cause most of them are dirty and when I've needed help several times in the past, they were never there.”
“I read some of your blogs at MySpace. Your attitude is similar to that of my friend in Paradise Valley, Jill Cuomo – funny in a tough way – who I spent some of the best times of my life with.”
“Yea I like to blog a lot. I always have opinions on things but most of the time people don't know how to take it. I don't like to sugar coat things and I just say whatever is on my mind.”
“You were a SuicideGirl member. What happened?”
“Yes, I can not believe SuicideGirls. They said I was too harsh and honest, or well rude to the other girls when people really just took things I said the wrong way. The other girls and I did not get along at all. Hard to believe. But I model for all kinds of sites now so I'm not worried about it.”
"Well thanks, Cherry Valentine, for sharing your jail experiences at Jon's Jail Journal.”

You can check Cherry Valentine’s blog and modelling pics out at: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=133534047

and her horror modelling shots at: http://www.deadlycreations.org/cherryvalentine.cfm


Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

28 Apr 08

The Removal (Part 3) by Xena

Xena - A transsexual giant and Wiccan priest. The charismatic leader of Cult Of Xena (COX). Tattoos include a wasp on his penis and ant trails running up his legs. Recently cut off a testicle, as told in this series, which left off with Xena almost bleeding to death.

I did not want to die. That was not what I was trying to accomplish. All I wanted was to rid my body of that nasty hormone testosterone. All I wanted was to feel like a normal person, one step closer to being a woman. I didn’t want to feel what it was like and then die because I bled out.

The testicle slipped from my grasp. I breathed out heavily. I was exhausted and frustrated. I was afraid that if I were not able to finish the job I would never get this chance again. I did not want to accept this scenario. So I reached into my scrotum yet again with my right hand.
“Godammit! Where the fuck is it!” I exclaimed, as I shoved three fingers as far as they would go into my scrotum. I was searching around and could not find anything which remotely felt like the left testicle, which must have swam away inside my body somewhere.

Slipping my pinky into the wound I shoved my hand up inside my body, searching frantically for that illusive left testicle. I could hear the news report of this inside my head: This just in…Xena the prison giantess, while trying to feel more feminine, opted to remove her testicles using only a razor blade pulled from a disposable razor. During the attempt, and after the removal of one of the dreaded hormone makers, the other testicle decided enough was enough, packed its bags, and left for a vacation somewhere inside Xena’s lower abdomen. The medical term for this phenomenon is retraction. However, it is our belief that given the fate of its neighbour to the right, el lefty tesosteroni’s true desire was to hang around for another thirty-nine-and-a-half years rather than having to swim the septic canal like its dearly departed, el righty testosteroni, is doing now.

I shoved practically my entire hand through the wound in my scrotum looking for the testicle. At one point I could feel my bladder and then something large and squishy, which I believed was part of my intestines. Fed up, I stopped the search and began instead to look for the severed spermatic cord where my right testicle used to be. I searched frantically for almost a minute and then, resolved in my failure, I looked at the clock and it read 2:40.

I removed my hand from inside my body and began to ball up toilet paper and shove it inside the wound of my scrotum. Then I patched up the cut with more toilet paper. I had to name my creation the Bloody Van Gogh Toilet Paper Stucco Nut Sack. I stood up on shaking legs and went to the door. I removed the sheet from the door, and looked out the window.

Two Orangemen were out in the pod. One was inside the porter closet, which doubles as the handicap shower. He was out of sight. However the other was a medium sized man covered with tattoos named Loco. I began to pound on the door and yell for him. He looked once and then began to walk away out of sight.
So I yelled louder, “Loco!”
He came back to within my sight and yelled, “What do you want, Xena?”
“I need your help,” was my answer.
“You sure this isn’t just one of your games?” he replied, shaking his head as if saying no to himself. He walked slowly toward my door.

I thought of the boy who called wolf, standing naked in the woods with a disposable razor blade six inches long screaming, “Wolf! Wolf,” while cutting into his flesh and bleeding all around himself, then asking for the wolf, who sat on his haunches watching, to go and alert the town folk and his family of his self mutulation folly, and the wolf just sitting there laughing, then saying, “Yeah right, dumb-ass. I’m a wolf!”

Loco came to the door. “What, Xena? I swear, if this is another one of your games I’m in no mood for it. I have things I have to do today,” he said, looking exasperated.
“Look, Loco,” I began, then after a second pause, I said, “I’ve cut myself real good.” I lifted up my hands to show him the bloody proof.
But Loco wasn’t buying it. He didn’t even look at my hands. He thought I was playing some kind of sick joke, that I had chose him as my target for playing games with today. “Yeah right, Xena,” he said, turning to go away.


Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

26 Apr 08

From Iron Man (Letter 2)

Iron Man - A martial-arts expert and personal trainer whose crimes include smashing someone’s door down: "I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted my fuckin’ money." His workouts are brutal. "I’ll have you in the best shape of your life by the time you get out," he told me.

3-29-08

Dear Shaun,

Hello bloke! How are you doing? I hope that you are staying focussed and bending the world and shaping it to your will.

Things are going alright for me but I am dealing with some kind of intestinal problem. It may be something serious. I don’t know for sure yet. Some blood work has been done and I am trying to force them to do some more tests. The symptoms I am suffering from most often indicate something terrible. Whatever it is, I am determined to beat it. First I am going to identify it, and then I am going to kill it.

I am still working out as hard as ever. About a month or so ago a guy came to me and asked if I could help him get in shape in 100 days before he went home. I told him that if he would commit to my program and put in the work, then I would have him in the best shape of his life by the time he got out. He lasted for two weeks. It takes a lot of heart to stick to an intensive workout program. Some people have it, some don’t.

It is real hard for me to find someone to have an intelligent conversation with. I miss you, brother.

Shane moved into my building. He is doing alright. He showed me some pictures of you and Posh Bird and your recent blog entries about her and Hammy. I have a couple of comments I want to make to you. First of all, this girl Posh Bird doesn’t know you at all if she thinks you are easily influenced. Does she think you are naïve or gullible? She obviously either doesn’t know you very well or she has exactly the impression of you that you want her to have.

I am enjoying the argumentation/persuasion tapes you recommended. I’m on my second time listening to them. They were difficult to absorb the first time around. I’m happy about that because it would have sucked to have spent the money on that course just to find that I already knew all of it. I’m finding this course to be extremely interesting and useful.

I bought an Air Stream travel trailer with the money I had saved last year. It is 27 feet long and worth about $10,000. I got it for $600 from my sister because she needed the money to move to California. The trailer is sitting at my mom’s house right now and my sons are going to get it all fixed up and ready for me.

My son is out of the joint and back with his fiancee and his son. He is working construction making $15.00 per hour.

How is your family doing? Is your sister’s marriage working out for her? How are your mom and dad treating you?

So are you still working out? How long has it been since you did burpies? Did you ever join a gym or a dojo?

Did Kat the Nutless Navajo write you?

So what is going on with you? What are the big issues you are dealing with in your life? Drop me a line and let me know how you are doing. I’ll let you know what is wrong with me as soon as I get the test results.

I think about you all the time, brother. Seize the day, every day, and stay focussed on what is most important to you. The world is yours for the taking, so take it, and make it your own.

Love and Respect,

Iron Man

Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

24 Apr 08

Two Tonys Solves the Murder of Joe Hootner

Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Claims all his victims "had it coming."
Earlier in Jon's Jail Journal, Two Tonys had briefly mentioned the murder of Joe Hootner. After reading that blog, the son of Joe Hootner emailed to ask if Two Tonys would be willing to describe the circumstances surrounding his father’s death.
Two Tonys wrote:


In regards to S’s inquiry, ask him if he knew a guy named Rudy Perfido who mysteriously went missing with his old man. The guy was in the pizza business. Ask him the name of the pizzeria. I can understand the interest of trying to find out about his old man. Maybe we should rest his mind about his old man. I mean, I didn’t whack this guy. I can only pass on the info I picked up by the guys who claimed to do him and why he got taken out. If that would ease his mind and all those whackers are dead (they are) I feel I will do the right thing. No harm no foul. We want to do the right thing here. I don’t want to make sport of a guy’s missing father, so the more I think about it the more I’ve decided to help the guy, and I’ll tell you what I was told of the guy’s old man.

I used to pick up a bag of old guns (.38’s - .32’s shit like that) from this pawn shop on 4th Ave in South Tucson. This old dago and his son ran it. Somehow he skimmed a few old guns, throwaways, and saved them for Peter Licavoli. I’d pick them up maybe 3 times a year, take them out to Pete’s ranch, the Grace Ranch east of Tucson. One day I get a call to go to the pawn shop. So I go down. The old guy, whose name was Nick Corona, gives me an AR-15 with a scope on it for Pete Licavoli. This was about 1968. So I deliver it to Pete. His son Mike tells me later Pete kept it for himself.

So I get a job from this guy who’s being shook down by the Bonannos (Bonanno crime family) to whack Joe and Bill Bonanno and this lame Pete Magadino out of Buffalo. So I put a crew together and we’re setting up the hit. It was going to be a beauty. We had a way of setting them up at a desert restaurant called El Corral on River Road. So I get this idea I’ll go and ask Pete Licavoli for that gun. My guy, who was named Vic, says he can make it fully auto and we can kill everybody with it and they’ll be like Swiss cheese. My job was going to be after Vic sprays them and they’re down, I’ve got to run up with my shotgun and put one in everyones head. This way nobody lives wounded. This guy calling for the contract was a developer with a big project highrise on the board, but those scumbags kept fucking him up with the zone board. He wanted them gone. And he paid good and I got the guy to front me the money, all of it, $10,000. A lot of cake in ’68.

So anyway, I go see Pete Licavoli. He’s out by his pool at the ranch. So I get with him, just the two of us. He’s got an olympic pool with a nice decorated bath house where we talk. I explain to him what I’m getting ready to do. Now you got to remember he’s not my boss, but I do things for him and he does things for me. It’s a quid pro quo. But I know he’s not to be disrespected. (He was my boss in Detroit at one time.) And he called on me for a few favors in his retirement in AZ (the gun delivery is an example). Anyway, I tell him what’s going on and what I’m working on, and I pop the question to him can I buy his AR-15 with scope to put in this work. Well he looks at me and thinks a min or two, then this is what he says, “No! you can’t have it. For reasons I don’t have to explain to you, I can’t get involved in this thing you are going to do. But I’ll tell you this, get the sons of bitches. They’re hated all over the country. Get ’em good and if you ever tell anyone this conversation took place, I’ll make a liar out of you. You understand?”
Yeah, I understood he hated the Bonannos. And I could forget about his help in any way.

Pete Licavoli, Joe Bonanno, Charlie Battaglia and his brother in law all go into a business venture developing a tract of land with homes. It was called Telesco Terrace. So Pete Licavoli has to go to prison in Atlanta for refusing to appear before Congress “investigating organized crime.” So he had this guy Hootner, who was running a book (a bookie for him), designated as his guy while he was away to get his end of the $ and do with it as instructed. Well, Charlie Battaglia and the Bonannos start skimming while Pete Licavoli is in the joint, and they got Hootner, who Pete Licavoli tells me with all sincerity is one of the nicest gentlest guys around, but Pete thought Hootner could handle this no rough stuff assignment. Well they got his bookie $ and the development $ and I guess they conned Hootner pretty good. But just before Pete Licavoli gets out of the joint, they whack Hootner so he can’t run the whole thing down to Pete Licavoli. Pete licavoli finds out from Tony Telesco, after they fuck Tony Telesco’s end of the $.
Now Pete looks at me and says, “And you know who the cops think had Hootner killed?” He says, “Me.” He was mad at having to ride the heat.

But you have to remember at one point, the Bonannos were strong, real strong. But now they were weak, real weak. They had just got run out of New York. They were a real fucked up crew. But my point is, Pete Licavoli talked real good of Hootner, said he was a real trustworthy guy, but that gang of thieves broke him down and killed him along with a runner of his named Rudy Perfido. Pete Licavoli couldn’t retaliate, it would have been too much to bite off. He had to eat it. But he did wish me luck with my project, and sent me on my way. No gun for Two Tonys.

But we went on with our plans to get these bastards. When Pete Licavoli told me the whole country hated them, he meant other outfits, or as the movies say, families. Now the developer decides to call off the hit. His name was Walter Prideaux and he turned into an FBI informant for David Hale a renegade FBI agent who lost his fuckin mind and job, but that’s another story.

Getting back to S’s inquiry about his dad. Now years later, I’m at the Sahara Hotel in Tucson and Charlie Battaglia comes in. He says he’s got to talk to me so we go out to his car. He tells me he’s got this guy who’s just got whacked in the car trunk and will I help him put him away.
I said, “Who is it?”
Well it was this one eyed Jewish guy from L.A. named Jules. They called him Julie. The Batts says he’s got a spot out by Rockin K Ranch ready to go.
So I tell him, “Look, Charlie, I’m not going for it. I don’t know why or what this is about but I’m not involved and not up to driving across town 30 miles with a stiff in the trunk that I’ve got no involvement with. A piece of work is one thing and a favor another. Besides it’s Saturday night and I don’t want to change and I’ve got some broad stopping in to have a drink. This joint is hot and the cops are probably checking us out right now. Find somebody else. I’m not involved. Don’t come at me on a spur of the moment with shit like this. This is how guys get busted. No disrespect intended.”
We go out and he drives off. I go back into the hotel bar.

Now it’s almost a month later when he comes into the hotel and acts as if the world is his oyster. We’re having a few drinks. It’s a slow night, no band playing, and I ask him what’s up. It’s seldom we see him downtown. He’s sort of in the bag but he says he’s meeting a guy named Angelo down here later.
So we have a few drinks and I say to him, “Hey look, no hard feelings about that night a few weeks back.”
He says, “No sweat. It’s over.” Then he smiles and says, “Hey, back in the day, I had to put two away by myself. It took all night. In fact they’re all in the same area.” Then he joked and said, “I might open a burial service in my old age.”
“Anybody I know?” I asked.
He looked at me and smiled and said, “No. You don’t know. This was before your time out here. But they were friends of mine and I did as proper as could be, all things considered. Yeah, one was a real gentleman. He just got caught up in the life.”
And for about 5 seconds I saw some sadness come over the Batts as if he was actually sorry for his chosen profession. His guy never shows up, and he has a couple more drinks and leaves.

Now later my buddy Sal shows up and I run this all down to him. He says when him and Batts were partners in Tucson Vending Company, Batts got drunk one night and was all melancholy about killing Joe Hootner, who he said was a good guy. He talked shit about Rudy Perfido, but like Joe.

So S, that’s what I know about your old man. He seemed to have a rep as a good man. And he probably was. He just got involved with a bunch of crooks on a different level than him. Bad decision. It’s all about decisions. You asked, I told you what I know. Personally, I believe that’s what happened.

Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

20 Apr 08

Month 4

My routine – roll out of bed, cook cheese on toast, stare at the computer all day except to eat, take a shower, stand on my head – was interrupted for ten days by a visitor from Canada, Cat Eyes, a reader of this blog who sent books to Tucson prison, and introduced me to such authors as Gabriel García Márquez, Yann Martel, and Gil Courtemanche. For ten days I endeavoured to immerse Cat Eyes, a French-speaking graphic-design graduate, in the cultural offerings of the English Northwest.

“It’s interesting to see the moss and plants growing on the roofs,” Cat Eyes said as we travelled to Liverpool (the European Capital of Culture for 2008). “The chimneys look like terracota plant pots. And the pointy-roof train-station houses remind me of the Gingerbread House from Hansel and Gretel.”
At the Albert Dock we spent three hours at the Tate Liverpool pondered paintings, including three Picassoes. Cat Eyes relished the exhibition of the work of the only female member of the Nouveau Réalisme movement, Niki de Saint Phalle, a self-taught artist who used to shoot her paintings and sculpures with a .22 caliber rifle to make them bleed from pockets filled with paint and foodstuffs.
Having served time at the supermaximum prison in Florence that houses Arizona’s death row, I preferred Electric Chair over Marilyn in the Andy Warhol room. To me it symbolised the barbarism of a justice system whose corruption DNA evidence continues to expose.

At the International Slavery Museum we learned that the Manchester-Liverpool railway we had used that day was financed by the proceeds of slavery, and that the Penny Lane popularised by the Beatles was named after the slave-ship owner James Penny.

In the Walker Art Gallery a suspicion I had formulated at the Tate Liverpool was confirmed: gazing at art for hours on end causes my brain to ache. Out of all of the galleries we visited, I appreciated the Walker Art Gallery the most, especially the painting of Henry VIII by a pupil of Hans Holbein, and I related to the mood evoked by James Campbell’s painting Waiting for Legal Advice.

At the World Museum Liverpool we met up with Gary, a former lecturer colleague of Mum’s, who’s now the curator demonstrator in the museum’s Natural History Centre. He prefers to be called the “bug man,” a title conferred on him by the swarms of visiting children because he’s in charge of showing them the dangerous spiders. With his white hair, black trench coat, and Irish brogue, I’m surprised Gary hasn’t been typecast as a hit man. Rare are the sentences to come out of his mouth without the word “shite” in them – a vocal aberration he credits his lack of success at job interviews to. Which is surprising because his portfolio of degrees includes two PhDs (Psychology and Animal Behaviour), two MScs (Neurobiology and Information Services), a Psychology BA and a PGCE in Mathematics.
“All these qualifications I did years ago, that seemed important at the time, are shite now. I was a different individual and part of another era. All I ever wanted to do was act, write, talk and have my own TV chat show where I make fun of politicians, entrepreneurs, celebrities, religious loonies, right-wing tossers and all those who create the shite society is in. Sadly, here I am in the museum and in the council, being told what to do by those very cretins I despise.”

Gary treated us to lunch at the vegetarian restaurant, the Green Fish. On the streets of Liverpool, an assortment of characters greeted him. In the café at the Foundation for Art and Creative Technology, he introduced us to Hal Lever, the author of a book that couldn’t be about Hammy: I'm Not Drunk, Honest! Following a traffic accident, Hal suffered a coma and a tracheotomy. He slurs his speech, so the police often arrest him for drunkenness. During one arrest, he fell forward and was charged with “trying to headbutt a policeman.”
When Hal left we were joined by Gary’s friend, Hamish, a giraffe-sized astrologist who can tell your star sign by looking at the back of your neck. Hamish plays the guitar and lives entirely off nuts.
At the Philharmonic pub, Gary said, “Hamish inhabits that special place accessable only through pseudoscience and mysticism. A kind of latter-day John the Baptist who’s relaced religion and bath day with astrology and hocus-pocus. Frank Zappa’s son’s name Moonunit, would be a better label for him. He’s not of this earth, but another star system in the constellation Sagittarius where cranberries, nuts and lentils are held in highest esteem as part of the godhead. He’s wonderful and I can listen to him for minutes in small doses. Like that gobshite, George Bush, it takes a few minutes to realise he’s not speaking English as we know it, but the fun is thinking that he does and trying to interpret what he’s saying.”

We watched two plays at the Liverpool Playhouse: Arthur Miller’s The Man Who Had All The Luck, and a play I had to study at St. Joseph’s High School: Romeo and Juliet. Every seat was full for the latter, and in the gallery I swooned in the heat as if I were in a jail cell in Arizona. During the intermission, the playgoers mobbed the bar and toilets rendering peeing a social occasion, and at high rates of speed schoolchildren zigzagged everywhere including up and down the fire escapes – if only the Bard of Avon could have seen it. At the Everyman we saw Samuel Beckett’s End Game, and the acting of Matthew Kelly – playing a blind man in a wheel chair wearing dark glasses, thus limited to voice inflexion and gestures – was a tour de force.

My friend and former punk-rock partner from the Seventies, Julian, who lectures on art and graphic design, showed us around Manchester. We visited some smaller galleries, and took a tram to the Lowry Centre, a touring venue at the Salford Quays.
Not quite the same Salford I used to brave regularly nearly twenty years ago to visit a girlfriend. I remember blocks of dilapidated and graffitied council flats, and the Salford Skinheads chasing me back to my car, but their Doc Martens always failed to catch up with my British Knights.
Fast forward to science fiction. Crossing the footbridge to get to the Lowry, I admired the arc-shaped glass facades of the waterfront highrises and the penthouse rooftops. Further away, the nine cranes piercing the sky seemed to be guarding over all of the colossal new constructions.
The Lowry building is a cluster of geometric shapes, including a curved piece of mirrored metal on A-shaped pillars, which floats above the entrance like a ship’s sail. The colours of the sky – dirty clouds bathing in lavender water – were captured by the reflective metal and glass exterior. Indoors, purple walls and electric-orange stairwells greeted us. Ascending the elevator, I felt hypnotised.
Much art debate poured forth from Julian and Cat Eyes in what seemed to me a foreign language. Julian even penned criticisms of the Lowry and posted them in the comments box. I didn’t think Lowry could paint until I saw the Man with Red Eyes, which is what I saw in the mirror after a weekend of partying.

Despite tearing through all of the sports shops in the Manchester Arndale Shopping Centre and interrogating many a salesperson, we could not meet the demand of Cat Eyes’ son: a football with the name of his favourite team on it: Manchester United.
In the Cornerhouse we viewed art pertaining to the problems faced by women in India, and devoured pita bread and hummus in the café.

We travelled to North Wales with three professional walkers: Mum, Dad and their friend Paul. As if running late for a siege, they blitzed up the gentle slopes of Conwy Mountain, whereas I lagged behind, panting, amazed at the prowess of the sexagenarians. The surface of the mountain was a quilted blanket of grass in many shades of green. Below us, yachts dotted the estuary of the River Conwy, and the breaking waves kaleidoscoped patterns in the golden sands. Three hours later, I longed to be laid out on a massage table somewhere, or at least to be stooled and in the company of my computer. Near the summit, the walkers settled on flat stones and picnicked on Kitkats and thermos coffee. While Cat Eye’s sketched, I ate a banana.
We visited Conwy castle, built for Edward I (also known as Longshanks) between 1283 and 1289, as part of his “iron ring” to contain the Welsh. We ascended the stone spiral staircases of two of the castles eight round towers. At the top, Cat Eyes sketched the castle while the pigeons and seagulls hiding in the crevices eyeballed her suspiciously. On the wall adjacent to us, a jackdaw landed.

Cat Eyes brought Hammy a gift: Neige Ice Cider 12% alcohol.
“Thanks a lot, mate,” said Hammy to Cat Eyes over pints at the Ring O’ Bells. “I’m saving this for St. George’s Day. It’ll be the first drink I have at eight in the morning. I’m up at five cooking beef stewed slowly in Newcastle Brown Ale.”
“Your accent is difficult,” Cat Eyes said.
“I’ve been drinking. If you think I’m hard to understand go in that room over there we call the cage. You wouldn’t understand a bloody thing they say.”
“You should hear the pirate voice when he’s really drunk,” I said.
“What’s the whole point of drinking so much?” Cat Eyes asked.
“The whole point! To get drunk basically. There’s no point.” Picking up on Cat Eyes French accent, Hammy said, “I can read French. About eighty percent. I can read it. I was reading Sartre at the Sixth Form College in French.”
“I didn’t know you read Sartre,” I said.
“He wrote Huis Clos,” Hammy said. “I read it a lot more when I started smoking pot heavily.”
“Isn’t that where his hell-is-other-people quote comes from?” I asked.
“The characters in Huis Clos are in a room they can never leave,” Cat Eyes said. Forced to face each other. No escape even when they get on each others nerves. I wouldn’t mind reading Huis Clos again, to see how I interpret it.”
“It’s a child’s book,” Hammy said. “Like Janet and John.”
“A text that simplified doesn’t mean it’s childlike,” Cat Eyes said. “You have to read between the lines, you know. It’s not an easy text. I would qualify it on the same level as Beckett’s End Game, with the sense of subtle and absurd.”
“Are you an existentialist, Hammy?” I asked.
“I dunno. Maybe. My philosophy is this: if you can sit down, you sit down; if you can lie down, you lie down; and if it’s wet, you drink it.”
We laughed.
“Are you still worshipping Dionysius?” I asked.
“Yes! The grape, the wheat, the rye, and anything else. I’m thinking of making my own religion up anyway. I’ll call it Hamas.”
“A drinking religion?” I said.
“Yes, going back to the old pagan times.”
“What will the sacred drink be?”
“The way I look at things we celebrate the coming of something or other. Actually, I’m going to celebrate the coming of the new day. It’s guaranteed every night, so I can promise me followers it’ll happen.”
“Will you celebrate the arrival of the day with Stella or spirits?” I asked.
“Whatever. Cows blood if you want.”
“I feel buzzed,” Cat Eyes said after drinking a quarter of a pint of cider.
“That’s good,” Hammy said. “That’s the way it should be. Let it develop. Don’t fight it. That’s the whole point of it”
“I’m very sensitive,” Cat Eyes said. “Just a sip of wine spreads throughout my body.”
“Excellent!” Hammy said. “I’ll have to go to Canada and try whatever you’re drinking. I want a pint of it.”

Cat Eyes had booked her trip to England before I met Posh Bird. I told Posh Bird that Cat Eyes was coming for a cultural visit, and she seemed to understand. Until last Friday.
“You’ve turned my life into a chick flick,” Posh Bird said.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “Are we still going out this Saturday?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. I’m going out with my friends on Saturday.”
“OK.”
“Well, actually, I’ve met someone.”
“Met someone. Just recently?”
“Yes. While she was here visiting you, I met someone. And what's funny is I met him at the gym when I was sweaty and minging. I really like him.”
The next day I emailed Posh Bird: “You shot me through the heart with an AK-47 yesterday.”
Today Posh Bird rang. It seems to be over.

*

I am applying to do a MA in Contemporary Literature at Liverpool University.

*

And finally, here's the link to my new website, which is still under development:

http://www.shaunattwood.com/

*
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

*

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

17 Apr 08

The Removal (Part 2) by Xena

Xena - A transsexual giant and Wiccan priest. The charismatic leader of Cult Of Xena (COX). Tattoos include a wasp on his penis and ant trails running up his legs. Recently cut off a testicle, as told in this series.

When I got back to my cell I removed my shoes and jumped onto my bunk. Laying with my head on the pillow, I had not realized how tired I was until Bamby woke me up two hours later at noon.
“What time is it?” I asked him.
“Twelve,” was his answer. “Are you going to school?” he asked.
“No,” was my reply.
“Why?” he asked, placing his hands onto my bunk.
“Because I’m feeling sick. I think I’m coming down with a cold,” I lied. I just didn’t want to go.
“No you’re not,” Bamby said. “Then if it’s a cold, it’s a head cold. All in your head!”
“Okay, I’m not sick. I just won’t go. Do you want me to explain why or just take it for what it’s worth?” I said, rolling over and ignoring him.
“Okay, fine, have it your way. I understand when you want cell time,” he said, and then picking up his school material he sat on his bunk waiting for the door to open so he could go to school. He didn’t have to wait long.

It was now 12:30 and believing I had not long to wait I got out my bleach, which was a small amount, and poured it into a bowl which I filled with water and placed into it one razor blade, two cut rubber bands, one needle and thread. I let them sit there for ten minutes then removed them and placed them into lightly soapy water. Now I had to wait for all the people or Orangemen waiting in the pod to go to school.

It wasn’t until 1:30pm when the announcement came over the loudspeaker for them to leave. During that time I had been thinking that superstitious feeling I had already experienced twice that day.
“Fuck it!” I exclaimed out loud, and said to myself, “As soon as these people leave I’ll start.”
I didn’t have to wait much longer. It was 1:45 when the door finally opened and Orangemen began to file out and on to school.

I got up and went to the door and strung a line above the door so I could place my bed sheet in front of the door. This would eliminate anyone from seeing in and would not draw any unwanted attention from far away because it was not taped directly to the window. I removed all of my clothes, and straddling the toilet I grabbed my scrotum with my left hand and with my right I cut the right side of my scrotum about 1 ½ inch long. The pain was minimal.

Blood began to run down the inside of my thigh. I glanced into the toilet and saw a steady drip, drip, drip bleeding from the wound. I placed the razor blade onto my table and reached into my scrotum with my thumb and forefinger. I grabbed my right testicle and pulled it to the surface of my newly aquired wound.

The next step was a little more difficult, cutting the inner layer of tissue which surrounded the testicle itself. At least remembering what I had read in the Mosby Medical Dictionary 2001 edition. I separated my testes with my left hand using my thumb and forefinger. I placed the razor at the top of the cut and buried the blade about one quarter inch into the testicle itself and began to cut down. The testicle came easily out of the skin. And with great amusement I realized that there was no pain.

Holding the razor blade between my teeth I grabbed one of the rubber bands from the bowl and tied it around the spermatic cord, below the spermatic bundle of my right testicle. I cinched it tightly, still no pain. Maybe it was adrenaline that was keeping me from feeling anything, or maybe hype with all the thinking that this would be so painful which was just not true. I grabbed the razor from between my teeth. Licking my lips I could taste the blood on the razor. I placed the blade directly above the cord about one half inch from the tied rubber band. In one swift motion I severed the testicle from my body, Then holding it like a fisherman would a minnow, I dropped it into the toilet and flushed.

I must tell anyone who wants to attempt anything like this at home to first numb the area. Either use a local anesthetic or take some strong painkillers. I looked to the ceiling and for the very first real moment I felt pain.
“Oh fuck!” I screamed.
The pain welled up like a hot arrow stabbing my abdomen and pounding as if it were tied to a jackhammer. Coffee is no suitable painkiller. It did not work when I was passing kidney stones five years ago, which at that time was the worst pain I had ever felt. But now the pain which shot into my body was way beyond the mere pain a kidney stone could cause. And coffee was just not doing the trick. The room began to sway and my eyes were losing focus. The pain was so intense I felt that that this were all I would be able to do. Of course I was wrong.

I set the razor blade into the soapy water bowl. Then I began to breathe. Inhale one deep breath, exhale, over and over until I regained my focus. I was not going to be defeated by pain. Pain was no match for my mind.

Looking down between my legs, I said, “One down and one left to be cut.”
I reached back into my scrotum and found the left testicle residing where it ought to be and brought it forward to the wound in my sack. One small problem, Mosby’s Medical Dictionary never mentioned that the testes were wrapped individually from one another, and that there was a divider of thick skin separating the two with a road map of blue and red veins crossing one another throughout this section.

There were only two options. One, let go and go through the other side. Two, cut through the middle and hope for the best. I opted for number two, and grabbing the razor I began to chop. This skin however was a whole lot tougher and hurt a considerable amount more. I don’t know whether it was the cup of coffee or the superstitious feelings which were bombarding my mind at that moment. My hands began to shake violently and I had a whole lot of trouble concentrating. I put the razor blade back into the water and let go of what I was doing.

I stared at the ceiling for a long moment. I did not want to believe the events which were accumulating. This operation was not going my way at all. Again I began to breathe. And after a while my hands felt a little more steady.

I reached into my scrotum and began to pull the testicle to the opening when to my total horror the rubber band tied to my right spermatic cord came loose and blood sprayed from inside my scrotum all the way to the bunk, a distance of five feet. Now things went from serious to deadly. I felt for the very first time a panic. It rushed down from my head into my belly and then onward to my extremities. I violently began to shake again, and even though my mind was preoccupied, I still heard the glug-glug-glug of blood in a steady flow from my body. It flowed through the wound of my scrotum and into the toilet. It sounded like water being dumped from a plastic jug into a pool of water.

“Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!” I kept saying over and over again. I looked down between my legs and thought about just how long it might take for me to bleed out. The blood was a steady stream from my body to the inside of the toilet. I reached back and flushed. I watched the water fill the bowl and realized that the water was already so full of blood that I could not see the bottom of the bowl. I grabbed the wound in my scrotum and squeezed it shut. I was worried that I was not going to be able to complete this job. Too much bleeding, just way too much bleeding.

I stood up and went to the door. I pulled the sheet away from the door and looked out of the window. No one was walking around, and the officer in the tower looked as if he were sleeping. I moved the sheet back and went and flushed the toilet. As I stood there and watched the bowl fill up with fresh water I resolved in my mind that I truly needed to hurry up and cut off the other testicle. After getting it, I pulled it to the surface of the cut and held it there with my left hand. The bleeding was enormous and I began to feel faint for the first time.

I grabbed the razor and before cutting I glanced at the clock. It was already 2:30pm. I had been doing this for 40 minutes. At least ten to fifteen minutes of heavy bleeding. No wonder I was feeling faint, and feeling cold chills up and down and throughout my body. Shaking these thoughts out of my head I began to cut again, except now my nerves were shot and I was afraid I was going to die.


Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

14 Apr 08

From Two Tonys (Letter 3)

Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Claims all his victims "had it coming." His acerbic wit may upset the politically correct.

3-23-08

Greetings & Salutations,

I received your letter of March 8th. Please forgive me for taking so long to respond. Yeah! Like you’re sitting on top of your mail box waiting for my letter. You cad, I know what you’re doing. Now that Mum and Dad are away for holiday (as you Limeys say) you’re playing house with Posh Bird (now that’s a classy moniker). Now let me be honest, I’d rather picture you laying up with Posh Bird than laying in that stinking fuckin cell eating your peanut butter as you wait for the door to crack so you can get to that fuckin chow hall and get your issue of whatever it was they were feeding you. It looked like some kind of rabbit or kangaroo food. No offense. I’ll always recall you out in the middle of that big field in the grass standing on your head or tying your skinny arse into some kind of figure 8.

Hey, I receeived some good books from one of your Brit friends in London. He sent me some Poe, some Into Thin Air, and Little Big Man. All 3 seem interesting, but my point is that was nice of the bloke.

Everything around this place is just as fucked up as normal. Ogre got out. Fuck him.

You asked about my highs and lows of the week here. My high of the week is Thurs night, I phone my kid in Phoenix. I talk to my grandboys ages 10 and 2 ½, sometimes my son-in-law. And I enjoy that call. They visit about every 4 months and that’s a lot of enjoyment. I love them all a lot. OK, that’s enough. I’m getting melancholy. I can’t afford to get melancholy in this shit hole. A man has to stay strong. Would Ivan Denisovich get melancholy? I don’t think Two Tonys can afford it.

You asked for my favorite movie. There’s a few. One is Unforgiven by Clint Eastwood. It was great. He was really fucked up. He did a lot of bad shit over the years. But in the end, when he pulled the plug and said fuck it, he really stepped up to the plate. I liked it. Also a movie called Ryan’s Daughter. Rent it. It’s good. This Irish guy is a rat and they blame his daughter and he lets her take the fall. It’s a good flick. You and Posh Bird will really enjoy it together. Look for the scene where the English officer is watching the sunset on the beach, missing the Irish girl. Like I said, it’s good. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. I’m the one who introduced you to Tom Wolfe when you were still reading Stephen King as you waited for your Big Mac and diet soda with fries. Besides it’s an English movie. Yeah, I said English. You guys do put on a much better flick than that Hollywood shit. Just look at Masterpiece Theater. My favourite was I, Claudius (16 weeks long). I was on the streets and had just got in a predicament where I was hurt and had to heal up for a few months, so I discovered Masterpiece Theater. It’s the best. You mentioned Tom Wolfe. Fuck yeah, he’s still my boy. If you run across a better author, please tell me.

If I could rewind any part of my life it would be a Saturday night in 1974, Anchorage, Alaska. I had a club called The Green Dragon, a rock ’n’ roll joint. It’s Saturday. It’s packed. I’ve had a few drinks. I’m feeling good and I go in the back of the bar to my liquor room to get a bottle or two, and my bartender, a dude named Joe Scanlon, is snorting some coke. So he offers me some and I try it. Bang! I grow about 2 feet. I get a lot handsomer, wittier and wiser. I love it. Then a short time later this hot chick hooks up with my sorry married ass and she loves it. And at first I could really bang, but in the end that shit affects your testosterone or something. It fucked up my whole life. That’s what I would rewind.
Drugs, what a fuck up they are. Look, I’m 67 years old now, and my daughter who I love more than anything in the world has two of the cutest boys I’ve seen, now you know I’d like to pick them up and spend the weekend, but no, I’m doing this time. It’s my fault, but it’s still fucked up no matter how I try to sugar coat it with my PMA.
I’ve been in crime since I was a kid. It was a neighborhood thing, a peer thing. But this other shit. This so called wackin thing. When the fuck did it show up? Sure we cracked a few heads and even broke a couple of arms, but this takin life thing started DD (During Drugs). Was it all business? No. Some was a get even for a so called affront to me. Yeah, I was a tough guy for 10 seconds and now I’m a shower porter and an asshole for 100 years give or take a few. It not only changed my life, but many other things. Victims got Mom, Dad, kids, sisters, but they got in de bizznezz or fucked with the wrong people. It boils down to bad decision making on all sides. Drugs, yeah bro, I’d re-do that shit. I’d keep my mind wired on success. I don’t want to sound like I’m snivelling because the world hates a sniveller.
I’ll do this time, or what I can do of it. I’ll have fun. I’ll watch TV. I’ll read books. I’ll visit my kids. I’ll joke with these jabronies. But if I could rewind, as you call it, I’d rewind the fuckin drugs. Don’t fuck around Shaun! But you know that don’t you?

Death penalty? We discussed this before but I’ll reiterate. Yeah, some motherfuckers need a good killing. People that hurt kids, old folks, nice ladies on their way to the mall, guys on their jobs or resting in their home. Kill kill kill the chomos, the rapos, the abusers of the weak. I faced a death penalty jury twice. They never gave it to me. Why? Because I killed scum. They knew it. The judge knew it. Even the sorry ass punk prosecutor knew it. That’s why I was blasé throughout my rigged trial. Yeah. The answer is kill the ones who have got it coming. Fuck their childhood, their old grey granny in the front row. Kill em. Let the worms eat their ass. Let God sort them out at the Pearly Gates. That’s his job.

Next president? Why New York Governor Eliot Spitzer of course. Any sorry bastard who can prosecute pimps and whores then go out and buy some $4000 ass in the fanciest hotel in D.C. has got balls. I’d vote for the shithead in a second. Seriously though, it’s got to be Obama. The future of the free world depends on his success. Is he a crook and a bullshitter? Hell yes. Aren’t they all? But he’s the best shithead for the job. It sure ain’t that prick McCain – woe is me, woe is me, I got shot down over Nam dropping nepalm on rice farmers, now I can be president with my charity robbing pill popping wife, I never had a real job in my life, I’ve lived off the taxpayers dole for years, let me lead, let me lead, we’ll never leave Iraq, it’s ours, we won it, we’ll never give it up – fuck him.
How about Hillary? – Let me lead, let me lead. I fucked Bill in the White House. I’m very qualified. I was even in the White House when Monica gave him head and he cigar fucked her. Let me lead. I’m qualified.
Bro, as you can tell, my goiter is throbbing. Those bastard crooks. They’re all crooks. But in my opinion Barack is the least crook. He’s the youngest. Let him get a few years and he’ll be Big Crook Obama, you’ll see.
“Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Who said that?

Hey mate, do good and know I’m pulling for ya. But let it be known from the East End to the West End – you’re my horse if you never win a race.

Hey! I miss ya,

Two Tonys


Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

11 Apr 08

The Removal (Part 1) by Xena

Xena - A transsexual giant and Wiccan priest. The charismatic leader of Cult Of Xena (COX). Tattoos include a wasp on his penis and ant trails running up his legs. Recently cut off a testicle, as told in this series.

Waking up on the morning of March 6/08 was nice. I had all the desire, when I rolled out of bed, to remove those unwanted glands which dangle between my legs. The surgery I would perform would test my mind and my ability to tolerate pain. The night before I had done a hydrocolonic so my intestines would be clean. Today I would be fasting and would continue to fast for several days after my surgery. Having to shit with dilated nerves connected to the prostate gland would be very painful. Of course, this was my first surgery.

I made my bed, then a cup of coffee. It was good coffee, made just the way I always make my morning coffee. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and shaved my face. Only this morning, unlike any other morning, I could not make a clean scrape without bleeding. I had so many bloody spots on my face it looked like I’d been hit with buckshot. I remember reflecting on this and thinking superstitious thoughts. Maybe Goddess was trying to let me know that today was not a good day. Had I had the TV Guide I would have read my horoscope. Or maybe I should have laid the cards. But I thought I was just being plain silly!

My cellie, this young gay boy everybody calls Bamby sat upright and asked, “What time is it?” rubbing his eyes and looking disorientated. He did not seem to be focussed within reality.
“Four thirty-seven,” I replied.
After placing his hand to his forehead and pressing for a moment, he said,”Oh.” Then he laid back down and fell asleep again.

I exercised, doing a warm up and stomach crunches. This is beginning to become a habit for me at 4:30 AM. I like it. I feel alert and energized when I am outside doing my yoga. I was just within breath 5 of downward facing dog when my door popped open. I thought this was kind of weird because I was usually done with my exercise before having to leave for the rec field. I looked at the clock but could not read the numbers. They were all jumbled as if the battery were going bad. I picked up the clock, removed the battery, then replaced it and now the screen was blank. I know I had just placed a brand new battery in it. Bad feeling, superstitious, I am getting worried. I had to shake my head and jostle the goosebumps from my body. “Coincidence, plain simple coincidence, that’s all!” I said to myself and looked at Bamby to make sure he did not catch me speaking to myself.

I put on my sweat pants and shirt. I made sure that my penis was properly tucked between my legs so as not to show when I was walking in front of other people. I put on my shoes and laced them then went to the sink and snorted some salt water waiting for me in a small dish. This is my morning ritual. I put on my coat, grabbed my I.D., and left the cell closing the door behind me with aloud clang!

It was time for yoga. I went to the small rec field and out there waiting for me were my other sisters. First was Angel. Angel is what anybody would believe without a doubt was a woman. She has long black hair, brown eyes, freckles, is thin with a very shapely body, small breasts and stands 5’11” tall. She even made the warden question why she’s on this yard and not within the women’s population. When she walks, every man on the yard stops and stares. No matter how long she has been here they still do.
“Hi girl,” I said as I embraced her within my sisterly hug.
She gave me a wink, and looking every bit a fashion model, she turned and began speaking to one of her friends.

Now Amber came up to me. She placed her hand under my chin and pushed my head up. This of course was purely customary. She did it in order to tell me to keep my head up. Smiling, I put my hands out in order to receive a hug. She complied. Amber is a friend I have known for about 12 years. We were lovers once. But now I don’t have any feelings of that sort for her. Amber has long blond hair balding on top. She, like me, is a (GID) [Gender Identity Disorder] who tried for many years to fit in as a man. When one day she decided, Screw it! She got real with herself and came out of the closet. And also like me she is covered in skin art. We are now very good friends.

Now Crystal came up to me, and we embraced. Crystal is tall – blond hair, green eyes, thin and also covered with tattoos. She is very wiry, and talks an awful lot. I, however, appreciate this because my mouth needs a break every once in a while so as to give my ears a chance to work.
She gave me a big hug and I, hugging back, said, “You’re lively this morning aren’t you?”
“Why should this morning be different from any other morning?” she said, flipped the hair from her shoulders, snapped her fingers and walked away from me.
I laughed. She sure did have her moments.

I turned, and standing there was Noonie, Angel’s soul mate but not lover. He’s a short stout Mexican. Black hair, brown eyes, and hairy. He’s a very good looking gay boy pretty boy. In my opinion, a very sexy man. One whom I have wanted to make love to since I met him. Keeping this in check is very hard indeed. I tell myself that thinking about it is not doing it, however wanting to is pretty damn close!

The four of us walked up to the basketball court, and each in turn gave Gina (of the Bon Voyage Balls blog series – of course we all know about her already), a big and glorious hug.

Yoga was fun as usual, we always seem to have a blast. Yours truly never seems to have enough sense to shut up. The whole time I kept talking about my titties vs Angel’s titties vs Noonie’s man titties. We were doing breaks in routine, feeling one anothers breasts and saying how much more we appreciate our own mams than the other while of course we were accentuating our bodily movements to look as seductive as possible for all the other Orangemen who were on the yard enjoying our display. Five firm and sexy asses all lined up and bouncing up, then down, up then down, then up where they would swing to and fro coupled with our combined oohs and ahs. This of course was completely unfair to all the Orangemen who share the yard with us every morning. Their hands rubbing their crotches and their eyes bugging out. It leaves me to wonder, Can a man get cancer from rubbing so much lotion on his penis every day? If this is true then every Orangeman here is susceptible.

After yoga we separated. We all live in separate pods and have our own cellies. Mine, Bamby, was waiting for me when I got back to my cell. He was sitting on his bed drinking a cup of coffee.
“So how was yoga?” he asked.
Before answering him, however, I glanced at the clock and noticed that it was working again.
“Is that the right time?” I inquired, while reaching over and picking it up.
“It should be,” was his answer as he pushed the up button on his TV, looking for a channel which displayed the time. CNN as usual had their display on and our clock was spot on.
I asked, “Did you do anything to this clock this morning or last night?”
“No. Why?” he said, looking thoroughly confused.
“I was just wondering,” I said, not wanting to talk about it any longer. I changed the subject and answered his first question as I began to get undressed and ready for a shower.

I showered and when I made it back to my cell the officer in the tower announced that we should standby for breakfast.
“Just in time,” I said to myself as I walked into the cell. I brushed my hair and put on my clothes. While I was tying my shoes all the other cells began to pop open, and the officer in the control room was yelling, “Chow time. Chow time.”
I went but did not eat breakfast.

During these times I often wonder how my friend Shaun Attwood is doing. He is one person in my life I truly miss as much as my own family. If he were here he would be holding his pad of paper and his pen going willynilly from line to line jotting down all the spirited hijinks I display on a daily basis. He would be commenting on things I say, laughing and saying how spontaneous I am. Now, however, those times are over. I usually just eat my meal and like most Orangemen just keep to myself.

However today was certainly beginning to jump off as a strange day indeed. When I left the chow hall, there was this young and good-looking Mexican named D-Boy.
“Hey Xena. What’s your name is!” he yelled from the rec field when he saw me exit the chow hall.
“What’s your name is!” I yelled back to him, shaking my hips and bending forward blowing kisses Marilyn Monroe style.

This of course was not unnoticed by the rest of the yard. Orangemen began to line up on the fence, and began yelling, “What’s your name is!” They looked like a chorus line of rough and tumble half dressed and tattoed men with their arms over one another yelling things like, “Xena, I want to be your man! Xena, I just want to live on your floor and serve you! Xena, you are my queen, and I love your country or none!”

The officers at this point were trying to establish some order by yelling onto the yard, “All inmates step away from the fence. Inmates leaving the chow hall must leave in single file including Xena.”
At this I looked up to the gun tower and said, “You will never be a cultist, nor know the reality of being free within your own mind.”
One officer said, “Since when do you know anything about being free?”
“Better than you’ll ever know anything about being free,” I replied.
“Yeah, and just how is that?” he asked as he began to hold his rifle in a menacing way.
“Because I am a prisoner, and yet I am free,” I replied and looking away I began to walk outside the line as was ordered.
The officer just watched not wanting or caring to repeat his order.

The Orangemen kept chanting and professing their undying lust and service to me while the guards had to listen. Things were beginning to become quite chaotic when an officer asked if I could ask the chanters to leave.
I began to blow kisses to one and all. Raising my hands into the air, I said, “My admirers, my children, my lovers, any and all of you are worthy of my devotion to your slavery and promises to me, your queen. Now you must dispense and lust me from afar. Your brave devotion to me this morning will be rewarded and my lusts pacified.”

At this point the Orangemen began to dispense and the guards could only gawk with awe at the sheer magnitude of representation.


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Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

08 Apr 08

From Xena (Letter 2)

Xena - A transsexual giant and Wiccan priest. The charismatic leader of Cult Of Xena (COX). Tattoos include a wasp on his penis and ant trails running up his legs. Recently cut a testicle off.

4/3/08

To my dearest friend Shaun,

I love you! I hope you and your squeeze are well. I am sending the first part of “The Removal” to you. I have been in a great amount of pain. The prison’s Health Unit will not allow me any pain pills since I’ve been back from the hospital. They are truly sadistic people.

The bastards who rolled up my property stole things which I had paid for before I did this. Most of my hygiene, stamps and clothing are gone. And for a very long time I was on self mutilation watch, which means a cell that has nothing in it + I was butt assed naked with an officer posted at the cell 24 hours a day. It sucked!

I’ve been out of lockdown for two days. I got these stamps from someone who has had them for 3 years. I lucked out. So now I am writing you this. I don’t know when I’ll be able to send you the next letter. It may be a while. I have no way of buying any stamps. Sometimes I wish I were a prostitute. But, I can not break that barrier in my mind.

I love you! I always think of you! I am glad you are doing well.

Love

Xena


In tiny handwriting, Xena wrote fourteen sides about the orchidectomy. After a certain point in the story, I couldn't stop squirming. It would take the rest of the day to type it up, so I am going to serialise it. I'll probably post the first installment in the next few days.

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Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

05 Apr 08

From T-Bone (Letter 3)

T-Bone - A deeply-spiritual and massively-built African-American. A prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.

3-26-08
4:01 PM

Hey,

What’s going on over there in merry old England?

Me, I am doing great. I am counting down now because next year I am out of here, and hopefully I’ll be able to visit you over there across the pond, or north in the B.C., you’d love Vancouver, Jon!

Before I go on, it’s good to hear that you have a good lady to hang with. Also it’s cool to know that you are doing a lot of writing and spending time with your loved ones.

Hey man, slow down on the pints or any other spirits, because you are too strong for that junk, meaning it will lead to other things eventually. It might start with weird sex, and then drugs once you become used to that feeling. That’s why we watch who we hang with and what they’re into. I’m not sorry for talking to you like that because I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t tell you to be careful with the pubs and all the coke that is everywhere nowadays!

Check this out Jon, when I was running around in my coke days, or like the brothers call it “yayo,” I ran into all kinds of people who did all kinds of things and some of the money they made went places to hurt people. Do you her me Brother!!!? No matter how cool it may seem it will only lead to the police, prison or death! That’s real man, and you need to keep yourself away from anyone that is associated with drugs in any way because it is wrong and dangerous – period.

Hey, I’ve completed all the requirements to receive my certificate from Pima Community College. Here are my grades and man does it feel good because like you I spend my time doing something that is positive and good. I could very easily take things from the lesser guys here or people in general but that will make me like them. I’ve risen above the bull-___! You know there are always going to be ups and downs in life but it is our choices that make or break us, and you know that within minutes of leaving this place I can get anything, from drugs to ______! But I won’t ever do that unless I have to save a life. There’s an old saying of the Tuaregs that started hundreds of years ago in North Africa in the desert, and it goes something like this: “There is nothing worth one day of freedom.” They said that because someone was trying to take their land. It happened again in the 60s when there was oil found all over the region. They simply told them that no matter what they offered them or did to them they would never give up their land because there is nothing worth one day of freedom. Remember that when the temptation to do dirt or drugs comes over you!

Years ago I was on a yard doing hard time having all the fellas look up to me, thinking I was something because I had the dope sack. I had anything I wanted, money, women to come see me, talking to them on the phone. I had the cops scared of me and I thought I was cool, you know, one bad ass dude. I found out that it was only my flunkies putting that stuff in my head for the dope. Anyways I was walking around during count, getting blow jobs from a couple of ladies in uniform, working out to impress, and I got away with all that because I had the dope sack! Now, Jon, you must realise that you are a good man and your potential is unlimited. So do not allow yourself to be lowered to the level of a dope!

It’s all a matter of choice and the wrong choices got you in prison my friend! But then again we wouldn’t have met if you hadn’t of come? I personally believe that we would of met regardless of circumstances. Remember this as well, we are judged by the company that we keep.

Brother I hope you are doing OK and that you realize I do care about you because you’re my friend. Say hello to your parents and spend time with them because Brother, only strength can do what they’ve done. Don’t forget to write back! Say Hi to Posh Bird, and

BE CAREFUL BROTHER

Peace to you and yours

Strength and Honor

Each one Teach one!

Yours

T-Bone


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Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood

02 Apr 08

From Weird Al (Letter 2)

Weird Al - The most unlikely bank robber you are ever likely to meet. His true story of suicide by cop gives new meaning to the power of unchecked depression. His cutting wit would make a stoic monk giggle.

March 7, 2008

Dear Bloke,

You are of course correct in your letter when you proffer, “A letter from you would be more than I deserve.” Well said.
Nonetheless, I put pen to paper in an effort to show magnanimity and to maintain cordial relations with you war-mongering Brits.
Truthfully, I’d have written sooner but I’ve been swamped with legal work. Like venomous lava, legal sarcasms have been flowing forth from me at the rate of two-thousand gallons per hour.

Some Thoughts

Your seemingly prolonged presence on the dole is depressingly depraved. It must end.
My fellow countrymen and I want you to be aware of the fact that we hold you singularly responsible for our rapidly collapsing economy, the high price of gas, and our current housing-market meltdown.
In an effort to end this misguided charitable travesty, and to properly castigate you, I will shortly be contacting my dear friend/homeboy Jack Straw, the U.K. Justice Secretary, and request you be unceremoniously tossed into a Northumberland debtors prison where you will be waterboarded until you are both compliant and employable. Pack your bags!

On Prison Dorm Living

Sadly, in the mother of all understatements, I can not wholeheartedly recommend prison dorm living. Like a supermarket chicken stuffed full of campylobacter (look it up bloke! Too lazy? Okay, I’ll help. It’s an antibiotic-resistant germ responsible for 2 million cases of diarrhea per year – also about 120 deaths per year), it should be avoided whenever possible.
I pine for my previous single-cell living arrangements like a ten-dollar whore yearns for the ever-illusive hundred-dollar John.
There are only three toilet stalls for 40 prisoners, most of whom share, like kindred brothers, a propensity for long loud multiple movements per day.
Also, the huge amounts of secondhand smoke I am being forced to ingest into my frail, waiflike body at the rate of approximately one ton per hour is making me dangerously homicidal. I will likely be the first nonsmoker to be released from prison with a four-pack-a-day habit and expect to go into violent nicotine withdrawals moments after I’m released.

Krakatau Commode

The center toilet stall, my current favorite, also does double duty as a poor man’s bidet.
Due to some as of yet undiagnosed plumbing problem, the very second I flush, water springs upward onto and into my nether regions as I sit smiling, pleasantly perched on the porcelain throne.
This aberration provides all willing participants the opportunity to both take care of one’s business and be gifted with a high colonic at the same time, however redundant that might seem.
Like ones first sexual encounter, while often not the best, my premier trip to this volcanic toilet will forever be tattooed upon my brain. It’s one of those life-changing moments, not to be missed.
You might gleefully imagine my open-mouthed astonishment when upon first flush a somewhat unwanted, not to mention unexpected, blast of tepid toilet water shot upward like a rocket headed for Mars. It ascended rapidly through my colon, bounced off my spleen, and lodged itself, where it’s now found a new home, nestled snugly next to my left lung.

Politics

You’ll be pleased to learn that our beloved President Bush’s approval rating has cascaded upward to that of a bubonic-laden rat.

On Speaking To Youth

You mentioned you were asked to speak with young people about the possible dangers of drugs. Do so. Good karma.
Tell them this: The trouble with trouble is it starts out as fun. This is true with many forms of trouble, but markedly accurate when applied to drug use. This fact often blinds early drug users as to what lies waiting for them. Also tell them, “No” is a complete sentence, “Yes” is not.

Your Writing

Like many of your famous Irish bretheren to the West, I suggest you esconce yourself in a nearby pub and begin to drink heavily.
In that way you can become a drinker with a writing problem as opposed to the opposite.
Seriously, remember these two things: (1) I doubt there’s anything you’ve ever been successful at that you didn’t work on every day. (2) Good luck and hard work seem to follow each other around.

How I Avoided The Plague

Using my formidable clairvoyant powers to sense the oncoming epidemic which swept through my prison dorm like a nasty fart, I quickly changed my diet to nothing but barbecue potato chips and buttered popcorn, an ancient yet still effective curative for these type of things.
In all actuality, I began several months prior to the prison plague to cajole, beg, and threaten prison medical personnel for a flu shot. The less brainy here failed to do so. They were otherwise occupied.

On Kat’s Family Jewels

Your fallacious, aberrant interest in Kat’s genitals notwithstanding, her/his testicles, both of them, send their exuberant best wishes. As Mark Twain once said when told of a newspaper article stating he had died, “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

On Weird Al’s Pending Release

My unjust banishment to this malodorous noisome dorm is almost at an end. In anticipation of my triumphant return to humankind I have rented an apartment here in Tucson and sent out thousands of engraved invitations to my many female fans worldwide who fervently desire to help end my state sponsored chastity by deflowering me once again in a vigorous yet somewhat respectful manner which befits someone of my stature. Unfortunately, since my new place is not yet furnished, I am respectfully requesting each of the many applicants to come with a mattress strapped to their lovely back.
My alternative plan is to have a three-topping pizza delivered, eat the entire thing singlehandedly, and take a long quiet nap.
More on this later.

Love,

Weird Al

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Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood