14 Nov 08
Keystering for the Aryan Brotherhood (by Shane)
Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs financed by burglaries. The medication in prison caused him to suffer a period of spontaneous ejaculations. Shane is the author of the blog Persevering Prison Pages.
When I was fifteen, I lived in a little dive of an apartment complex in Arizona. My next-door neighbors were a twenty-six-year-old woman named Tori, and her two toddlers.
I’d partied with her and the tattooed biker types that often hung out with her. I didn’t care for them much, but Tori was nice and her parties got me free crank and beer.
One day Tori invited me into her place, closing the blinds and locking the door. At first, I thought she’d done this in order to get me high, as this was her routine whenever she shared a bowl of meth with me. But this time was different.
“Shane, will you go with me to visit a friend in jail?” she asked in a whisper.
“Sure, but what’s with the paranoia?” I asked, gesturing at the door and blinds.
Tori pulled out two quarter-roll-sized packages shaped like bullets. “I have to bring these in to him,” she said slightly embarrassed, holding one up for me to see.
Having been in juvy [juvenile hall] before, I knew what they were and where she had to hide them.
“One’s weed. The other’s half heroin, half crank,” she said.
Grabbing the bullet, I looked it over. The contents had been packed tightly into a rubber balloon, then put inside two condoms and tied off, and the excess condom snipped off. Judging by the size, weight and how solid they were, the contents had to be worth a lot in the jail system. Especially the one with the hard drugs.
“Where’d you get this much dope?” I asked.
“It’s not mine. I’m just dropping it off…but…I need you to go with me. I’m not doing it alone.”
“I don’t like it, but I’ll go.”
She hugged me, relieved.
Desperate to be accepted by people around me, and wanting to be needed and depended on, I hadn’t thought twice about agreeing to do this for her. In the back of my mind I thought this might get me closer to getting into her pants too. She was average looking, but had an attractive figure, and I knew she slept around. In my mind, I may have had a chance - not likely!
Later in the day, we drove to the jail. I was surprised with how well she’d cleaned up. In a short loose skirt, tight white T-shirt, makeup, perfumed, and hair all done up, she was a beautiful woman.
Entering the jail visitation room, I was nervous. Inmates littered the large room, sitting with their visitors, vending-machine food and sodas on all of the tables, which had thick Plexiglas tops.
There was one deputy watching over the room. No cameras. I was amazed at the lack of supervision.
Sitting across from Tori and an inmate in his early twenties, I could see how nervous she was by the way she kept rubbing her hands as if they were cold.
“Did you bring it?” he asked in a hushed voice.
Tori just nodded a yes.
“Give them to me one at a time under the table,” he said, moving his hand onto her inner thigh.
As his hand moved up between her legs, lifting her skirt up, exposing her, I looked into her eyes. She was embarrassed, and so was I.
Looking into his eyes, he seemed amused.
It was over in a few seconds. He now had both bullets.
“Go get me some food. I gotta use the can,” he told her, getting up and walking to a small bathroom to insert the bullets inside his rectal cavity.
As soon as he was out of earshot, I told her, “He’s a dickhead.”
She got up and bought him a couple of items from the machines. I could tell she was bothered a lot.
A few minutes later, he returned. Leaning in, he kissed her, then ate the food she had bought him. Devouring the food as if he hadn’t eaten in months, I didn’t understand that hunger - until I experienced jail food.
The entire visit was awkward. The little conversation he had with Tori, or me, revolved around him and his legal problems. He’d been busted with a gun as a felon and charged with Prohibited Possessor. He explained his innocence and how he was set up by the cops. I didn’t believe him. Nor did Tori.
An hour after entering the visitation room, the deputy came to the table and informed us that the visit was over.
The inmate kissed her again, this time hugging her closely and grabbing her behind. Shaking my hand, he told me, “Take care, youngster.”
Later that evening, Tori explained the guy we’d met was a mule for the Aryan Brotherhood. That she’d never met him before, but her dealer told her to do this to write off debts her ex-boyfriend had run up with him and the prison gang. Doing ten years for aggravated assault, her ex was in a prison where the Aryan Brotherhood dictated which members of the white race lived or died. This was long before the Aryan Brotherhood leaders were rounded up as a Security Threat Group and locked-down in the supermaximum prison in Florence. She was told his drug debts were passed on to her, and if she didn’t pay her life was in danger. Scared, she’d agreed.
It was that easy to find a mule and even easier to keyster it in. The tidy profit probably fuelled an already-raging fire but the cost was immeasurable. The experience seriously rattled Tori, to the point of depression and weeks later a suicide attempt that resulted in her being hospitalised and her babies taken away from her.
Yeah, the cost was tremendous.
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Shaun P. Attwood