26 March 09
Bad Weather (by Two Tonys)
Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Recently diagnosed with liver cancer, and is in chemotherapy fighting to prolong his life.
When I came down to prison in 1980, my crime partner was Big Steve, an overgrown young kid 10 years my junior. He was putting in some work with me on the streets. Pretty heavy stuff. But when we both got busted and came to prison, the roles did a reverse. He’s now a big shot caller with the white-boy clique. He looks out for me. I’m low profile, and he knows we’ll both be back on the streets some day.
Now I meet this guy called Bad Weather out of Nevada. Nice Guy. Hustler. Smart. At times too smart for his own good, as we shall see.
I come out to rec on a cold winter morning, and as all the prisoners file out, I notice these three young guys trying to be nonchalant as they dig up an area I know some shanks are buried. As they unearth them, I stroll up to them, and ask them what’s up. Now they’re young. Maybe 19 to 20 years old. They’re eager to make names for themselves.
The white-boy clique is set up so the older members can send the youngsters on missions to evaluate how they perform. Which will factor into their acceptance in the pack.
So these kids, with nostrils flaring, are ready for blood. They want to show what great killers they are, that their hearts are committed to murder. Now not to sound vain, but they know who I am and that I deserve an answer
One of them says, “We’re taking out Bad Weather this morning.”
I ask, “Who says so?”
They say an older white named Roy Boy had called the hit so they could get their hands bloody.
I tell them to hold off and that I’ll get back to them.
So I go to my crime partner, Big Steve. His big ass is over in this shack we had for drinking coffee. I ask him to step over with me, so we can talk.
I say, “Hey, these fucking nut cakes are getting set up to kill Bad Weather. I’d like to know what he’s done. Roy Boy called the shot.”
Well, upon that Steve’s nostrils flare because #1 no one is supposed to call a shot without several nods and #2 Steve hated Roy Boy as most did.
About that time, Bad Weather shows up.
Steve asks him to hang out in the shack for a few minutes, and then he asks a couple of guys to hang out with him.
Steve and me look for Roy Boy who’s not out yet. We see the three would-be killers and Steve tells them to put the shanks back in the soil and stand by.
Roy Boy walks out, and Steve and me go up to him.
Steve says, “Hey, Roy, you telling these youngsters to hit B.W.?”
Roy starts with some bullshit about a $50 debt for some smack. The bill is three months old and he’s tired of the stories and wants his money or his blood.
At this time I jump in with an “Excuse me” to Steve. I say to Roy Boy, “Look, B.W. ain’t perfect. There’s a lot of snake in him. We can all see that a mile away. If he got to you for $50 or $500, that’s on you. He’s a friend of mine and that makes him a friend of Steve’s, and he don’t get stabbed on the prison yard, specially by a pack who don’t even know what he’s about. So rethink your plan of action.”
Steve cuts in, and says this in his old low frog voice, “Hey, if you feel he has to die, then go kill him. He’s right over there by the shack. We’ll dig two of these shanks up, and you go at it one on one, but don’t even try to send a pack in on him.”
Roy backs up and says he doesn’t want to kill him, just scare him.
Steve says, “Oh, then go scare him.” And we turn and walk away, leaving Roy “Pootie Butt” Boy to reflect on his cowardice.
Now I saved that Bad Weather’s life, and I’m glad I did. We had a few fun years together. We were even cellies in SMU2 [a supermaximum prison] for a time. I never told him about that day. Why should I? It was over. Why put him on a paranoid trip or stir up more shit?
Now did Bad Weather go on to discover a cure for cancer or some great gift for humanity? No. But he was a damn good legal eagle [jailhouse lawyer] and smart as a whip. And I know he got a few guys’ cases overturned and they were freed. And perhaps, just perhaps, out of those freed guys, one of their grandchildren might discover a cure for cancer that would not have been possible without Two Tonys being on a prison yard one cold morning. Wild ain’t it, how my fucked-up mind works? Am I actually trying to claim my exploits as a rogue were for a cause?
Click here to read Two Tonys’ previous blog.
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Shaun P. Attwood