26 Nov 08
What Comes Around (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.
“Back up to the trap and put your hands out,” the sergeant told me.
I backed up to the tray slot built into the door, hands behind my back. The sergeant handcuffed me.
The sergeant was there because just minutes earlier a guard had a called for assistance to remove me from my cell. The guard had said he’d kick my ass if I didn’t want to listen to him. In response to his shameless attempt to provoke me, I told him to “pack a lunch.”
After ensuring I was cuffed tightly, steel cutting into my wrists, the sergeant removed me from the cell. Walking me down a hallway toward the cellblock’s backdoor, he told me, “Come on tough guy,” and yanked on the cuffs sadistically.
“Take these cuffs off, and I’ll show you a tough guy, you bitch!” I barked, hiding my pain under anger.
He led me outside, into a fenced area used for lockdown recreation. He slammed me face first into a chain-link fence, and punched me in the side.
“That’s it? That’s your best?” I asked him.
After ten minutes of beating me – bruises on my sides and arms, face scratched from the fence – he took me back to my cell.
After his shift ended, I went to Medical to document what had happened.
I also told the lieutenant that the sergeant and I had a conflict and I would not be treated that way again.
The lieutenant said he would “look into it.” Meaning he’d do nothing.
The next day, not ten minutes after the sergeant came on shift, he arrived at my cell. “Cuff up!”
“No! Come on in and cuff me up!” I yelled back at him.
“I’m giving you a direct order to cuff up!” he yelled, outraged.
“I’ll cuff up, just not for you! Where’s your back-up ’cause if you’re coming in this cell you’re gonna need it!” I yelled, pacing, my face hot, palms sweaty and ready to rock ’n’ roll.
He walked away from my cell door, radioing for back-up.
Satisfied I’d made him sufficiently angry, I watched him go down the stairs. I readied myself.
Minutes later, he returned to my cellfront. “I’m giving you a direct order to cuff up,” he said calmly, his eyes seething.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw four guards clad in black, with helmets and pads on their knees and elbows.
Shit, he’s got the tactical security team with him.
He smiled at me, a sinister grin that angered me. Little did he know I was ready for them.
Key in my door. A pepper-spray canister at the trap. Ready to suddenly storm my cell after spraying me.
His eyes widened when he saw me tie a damp shirt around the lower half of my face and step back away from the door ready to fight.
In one fluid motion, the sergeant opened the trap, fired his pepper spray and tried to rush into my cell. In slow motion, I watched the stream of spray leave his canister, hit the transparent sandwich wrap I’d stretched and taped over the trap and deflect back into the hallway, at the exact same time the door began to open inward.
Realizing his mistake, but far too committed to enter my cell to stop, he smashed his face into the door, as I front-kicked it shut.
They coughed cussed, and stumbled around on the other side of the door. Then as the noise faded away, I approached the door cautiously, spying them all staggering down the stairs.
Twenty minutes or so passed by uneventfully, except for the “Fuck ’em up, Shane,” or “Get yours, youngster,” occasionally shouted through the pod of fifty convicts. “Here they come again, Shane!” a lone voice of an Aryan Brother shouted.
As I ran to the door, I saw the same tactical team led by the same sergeant trying to sneak up to my cell. I knew they’d get me this time.
Opening the trap, they grabbed the wrap, pulling it out. They sprayed me in the chest and stormed my cell, the sergeant leading the charge.
First in the door, first on the floor – the sergeant caught my first punch on the cheek and went down. Before I could gloat over knocking him out, they were on me.
A riot shield on top of me and two suited-and-booted guards on top of that, I could barely make out the sergeant’s unconscious form. There were other guards on top of him, who’d tripped and piled up.
Eyes watering and burning, chest on fire, coughing, and completely immobile, I was ziptied and dragged to the hole.
There was a brief investigation locally, and they threatened to charge me. I threatened to sue. I was asked to take a polygraph. I asked to speak to an attorney. An “attorney” was called and asked to speak to me. When I asked who it was I was speaking to, the attorney revealed he was a county prosecutor. I agreed not to sue, if they agreed not to file charges. They didn’t charge me. I sued, but I didn’t know what I was doing and my case was dismissed on procedural issues.
That sergeant never bothered me again.
It was fun till you got knocked the f**k out, eh, Sarg?
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Shaun P. Attwood