Central Unit (Part 3 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
Part 2 left off with Warrior arriving at a lockdown run in Central Unit and two inmates, Mike and Wilo, getting out of their cells to fight each other.
Mike dropped his head and tried to rush Wilo’s legs. Wilo pounded the back of Mike’s head repeatedly. Mike struggled like a fish on the deck of a boat trying to stay alive, yet knowing it was only a matter of time.
Focussed on the combat taking place, I hadn’t noticed the two officers until they passed my field of vision. They both strolled by nonchalant. Like seasoned inmates, they appraised the violence without expressing any emotion.
Both of them were tall, about 6’3” give or take an inch. One Hispanic, the other white. In addition to the traditional officer getup – uniform, shank-proof vests, protective eye goggles – each wore two holsters. One for a state-issued Taser. The other for a monstrous can of mace that resembled a fire extinguisher. The mace canisters were so heavy, the guards were straining to maintain a smooth stride.
“Break this shit up you two, or we’ll fuckin’ mace and tase your fuckin’ asses!” said the Hispanic C.O. annoyed.
The redneck C.O. stood by with a mouthful of tobacco cud, chewing like a bovine. He followed with a “Yeah,” which sounded more like a bellowed moo.
Wilo looked up at the two no more than ten feet away. His eyes were saying, Quit pestering me! I’m in the middle of something!
The C.O.’s released the snap holding the Tasers in place. Their other hands seized the canisters and began shaking the mace.
Capitalizing on the time he had left, Wilo struck Mike again. He then headed to his cell, stepped in, and the bars racked shut.
The inmates on his side of the race war applauded and commended his victory.
The two officers sandwiched Mike in order to pick him up by each arm. At first, Mike’s legs couldn’t bear his weight. He struggled like a baby taking his first steps. When he was finally cognizant of reality, his legs locked in place and he stood firm.
“Get the fuck off me!” he roared, jerking his arms from the possession of both officers.
“Do you need medical?” said the Hispanic C.O..
“Fuck you!” he shouted, and headed back to his cell.
The Hispanic C.O. glanced at the redneck, who in turn just chewed his cud and shook his head.
“At least we ain’t got no paperwork tuh do,” the redneck said.
Both strolled away as nonchalant as they’d come in.
Voices jumped out from the crowd.
“Mike, I’m gonna get atya!”
“Orale, Wilo. Te voy amandar un mensaje!” I’m going to send you a message.
I kept thinking I need to be brought up to speed on what’s going down.
Cowboy lunged to the bars with a “Hey!” mirror in hand.
On edge, I flinched back, but played it off as best as I could that he hadn’t caught me unaware. Being a prison vet, he saw through me and basked in his minute victory. His smirking eyes told me so.
“Homeland Security is back to yella…ur green…ur whatever fuckin’ color is at the bottom. Hell, Bush don’t even prawbly know!” Cowboy said excitedly. “Never a dull moment in this bitch, Warrior. Ha…ha…whew!”
“What the fuck was that about?” I asked.
Cowboy leered to the left and then the right, trying to discover who may be listening. In an attempt to lean in closer and be hush-hush, his mirror substituted the action as he pulled it in. “Since yer peeps ain’t been able to get witcha, I’ll tell ya. Ya see, we on the same team, yer peeps and mines. Ya familiar with the race war right?”
“Yeah.”
Since the mid 90’s there’d been an ongoing war within the Hispanic race. Some considered themselves Mexican nationals or paisas. Others considered themselves Chicanos, raised in the States. Paisas looked at Chicanos as sell outs for embracing a U.S. mentality. Chicanos looked at paisas as sell outs for maintaining Catholicism and a partial European mindset. Chicanos in Arizona embrace and pursue their Aztec and Mayan roots, denouncing anything that isn’t Central American Indian. Ideologies weren’t the sole reason for the war, but made good propaganda for recruitment purposes. Drug and yard control, along with the money-making hustles were the real reasons.
“Well, we’re backing your people [Chicanos] up these days. The fellas [Aryan Brotherhood] and yer carnarles [La eMe/Mexican Mafia] decided to join sides to get rid of all of the paisas.” Given my light skin and no trace of a Spanish accent, Cowboy had assumed I rolled with the Chicanos.
I was torn, given that I was born in Mexico, raised in the States, and half white. But I knew I would eventually be forced to choose a side.
At this time, there were still a few of us able to maintain a sense of independence from it all. But we were dwindling fast. With the new pact with the Aryan Brotherhood, it would be just a matter of time before the masses questioned independent status as friend or foe. No in between allowed. Choose a side or else.
Cowboy continued, “Word hasn’t trickled down to the yards yet. Yuh know we hear it here first. So we at war with them, brother.”
“I’m rollin’ independent. I don’t believe in what’s going down right now.”
“I hear ya.” Cowboy shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time before yer people expect ya to pick a side to stand on. Independent status don’t exist no more really. In fact, the heads of yer peeps and mine are talkin’ ‘bout not recognizin’ independent status in the system. Them paisas is rollin’ with the Border Brothers [Mexican nationals’ prison gang]. They don’t give a shit ‘bout independents either. They stickin’ all of us. If I wur you, I’d pick a side. Before ya know it, yull be a man without a country. And that ain’t no place tuh be.” What Cowboy said was true.
“I hear ya, but I’ll take my chances. It’s carried me this far.”
Cowboy nodded his head with respect and approval.
“So what’s the deal with these cells opening?” I asked.
“Ah…that’s the fun part. Ya see, this here is gladiator school, and when the cell opens class is in session. These cops think it’s funny to open two cells at once. They get a kick out of it. Remember them cops stagin’ them human cock fights in Cali? Same shit. They bet and get a kick outta it. If they really don’t like ya, watch out. Ya might end up with two against ya. The rules is no sleepin’ durin’ the day ‘cause ya never know when it’s yer cell they gonna open. Stay a good distance from other cells where the enemy is at. They’ll try to cut or burn ya. By yer name, I’m guessin’ ya can chuck ‘em, and ya look like yer healthy and work out. So the rest…just be on point at all times. Or yull be like Mikey there.” Cowboy glanced at Mike who had washed up and was doing pushups. “Ya shoulda been doin’ that from the gate ya fat fuck!”
Mike pretended not to hear Cowboy and continued with his pushups.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 1, including a description of the cell just added on 1st June 09.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 2.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Warrior to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
A Doomed Sock (by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger is one of the brightest men I met during my incarceration. He is serving a 25-year life sentence. He recently agreed to start writing for Jon's Jail Journal.
While attending our local school of higher education, namely the Arizona Prison's Work-Based Vocational Training, I've found that trying to learn complex tasks is not helped in the least by the standard-issue sack lunch provided by the guards. Whatever brain food might be, it is definitely not processed turkey offal. Thus I try to provide for myself. For the last year, I have been smuggling in baggies of peanut butter, so I don't have to eat the rot-meat. Smuggling is required as we are officially prohibited from bringing food from our cells into the school.
Everything had been going splendidly until last week. I was on my way to school, and for the first time, the baggie stashed in my sock gradually slid its way south.
Uh oh, I thought, trying to discreetly wriggle and squirm it under my arch, so it wouldn't burst. There were too many guards around for me to remove my boot and fix it properly, so I just had to roll with it, stepping gingerly all the while. About half way there - pop! Squish. Oh dear.
At school, I hobbled to the W.C. to inspect the damage.
Maybe it's just a pinhole, I thought.
Alas, it was anything but. Peeling back the elastic revealed the empty bag mashed up by my toes, and the entire underside of my foot heavily slathered with a thick coat of peanut butter. Hmph. It seemed lunch was no longer on the schedule.
I stripped off the oily befouled sock, flipped it inside out, and placed it lovingly atop the rubbish bin. It looked as if it had been used to mop up a bowel eruption with.
I went on my way, a bit hungry yes, but consoled by the thought of the poor soul who had to empty the trash that day.
As this is Polish Avenger’s first blog for Jon’s Jail Journal, your comments and questions would be greatly appreciated.
Email comments and questions to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Polish Avenger is one of the brightest men I met during my incarceration. He is serving a 25-year life sentence. He recently agreed to start writing for Jon's Jail Journal.
While attending our local school of higher education, namely the Arizona Prison's Work-Based Vocational Training, I've found that trying to learn complex tasks is not helped in the least by the standard-issue sack lunch provided by the guards. Whatever brain food might be, it is definitely not processed turkey offal. Thus I try to provide for myself. For the last year, I have been smuggling in baggies of peanut butter, so I don't have to eat the rot-meat. Smuggling is required as we are officially prohibited from bringing food from our cells into the school.
Everything had been going splendidly until last week. I was on my way to school, and for the first time, the baggie stashed in my sock gradually slid its way south.
Uh oh, I thought, trying to discreetly wriggle and squirm it under my arch, so it wouldn't burst. There were too many guards around for me to remove my boot and fix it properly, so I just had to roll with it, stepping gingerly all the while. About half way there - pop! Squish. Oh dear.
At school, I hobbled to the W.C. to inspect the damage.
Maybe it's just a pinhole, I thought.
Alas, it was anything but. Peeling back the elastic revealed the empty bag mashed up by my toes, and the entire underside of my foot heavily slathered with a thick coat of peanut butter. Hmph. It seemed lunch was no longer on the schedule.
I stripped off the oily befouled sock, flipped it inside out, and placed it lovingly atop the rubbish bin. It looked as if it had been used to mop up a bowel eruption with.
I went on my way, a bit hungry yes, but consoled by the thought of the poor soul who had to empty the trash that day.
As this is Polish Avenger’s first blog for Jon’s Jail Journal, your comments and questions would be greatly appreciated.
Email comments and questions to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Germany (Part 3)
The People
The Germans are friendly provided you are introduced to them, but initiating small talk with strangers is a no-no. When I said hello to an old couple walking a dog in the park, they recoiled as if I had pulled a gun on them. Kathi yanked my arm, and scolded me for behaving outside of the German norm.
The Peisnitz Insel
Is the park opposite Kathi's house.
"If a tick drops from a tree and sucks your blood, do not pull it out. We must see a doctor," Kathi said at the beginning of our first romantic stroll in the park.
"Why?" I asked, looking up at the branches and quickening my pace.
"If you pull the body out, the head stays under your skin, and you can get Lyme's disease. My friend's mom got very sick from this."
Through the forest, we descended down to the River Saale. Kathi bought me a delicious lemon ice cream. We stopped on a bridge to watch a beaver swimming by the bank. We took a mini train ride, the Peisnitz Express, operated by a driver and a little boy in a dark-blue GDR uniform who waved coloured signals, and frowned at all of my attempts to initiate small talk with him.
The Rote Ochse
This former prison, now a museum, is a ten-minute walk from Kathi's. The cell furniture and carpenter's workshop are decades old, but walking a run of cells reminded me of some parts of Joe Arpaio's jail system. Then I came to the execution room, death cell, and the room for the disposal of corpses. It was hard not to imagine what horrors had happened here. Outside of the routine torture in the Rote Ochse, the Nazis killed 549 people, and the Stasi an unknown number. Mostly political prisoners.
Kathi's neighbour, Mario, told me that the Russians transporting prisoners into the Rote Ochse were a prisoner short so they just snatched a local person and imprisoned him. "The Russians were not too nice," Mario added.
Food and Drink
Kathi is a vegetarian, a rarity here. So I've only viewed typical German meals such as bratwurst, schnitzel, and roulade from a safe distance in restaurants and they did not look inviting.
"All Germans love Sauerkraut," Kathi said.
"That's why the Americans call us Krauts," Paul added.
Kathi has catered to my vegetarian needs, even going so far as to cook curry for the first time. I've been trying many kinds of cheese. My favourite is Saint Albray mild & würzig. I can't get enough of the strawberries, salted macadamia nuts and flavourful yoghurts such as Landliebe Jogurt.
I like the paprika bread. In general, the bread is grainy, less processed and strong tasting. Germans do not go for sliced loaves, but for fresh bread from the bakery. Kathi thinks English bread is too sweet.
East Germans are serious beer drinkers. Two favourites are Hasseröder and Becks. But I prefer less manly drinks such as the fruity Eiswein.
I also like the blood-orange juice.
Sex on the TV
Breasts are prevalent on daytime TV. In the words of Jörg, Kathi's brother: "In Germany they only don't show the vagina and the penis when it is hard." Anything else goes, and at nighttime the commercials for sex 900 numbers are pornographic. I was quite enjoying this until an old age pensioner came on, fondling her breasts, giving them a good slow roll while urging me to pick up the phone to talk to a 60+ year old for 99 cents a minute.
"Look, Shaun, Look!" Kathi just yelled.
It's 11:21pm and Kathi's pointing at the TV: a couple are having sex on the bonnet of a car. And on another channel, four female tongues are licking a whipped substance off two pairs of pierced breasts. God bless German television.
Clothes
I set off for the high street in the hope of buying a distinctly-German T-shirt. I was delusional. All of the clothes are American and English. In every other store I could have bought a T-shirt with New York, Los Angeles or Chicago on it. I resorted to asking sales assistants where I could find German T-shirts, only to be laughed out of several stores.
In Summary
My vacation is almost over, and I've had a great time. Kathi has spoiled me in every way possible, and I feel fully revitalised after my workaholism in England. We only fell out two times. Once after I told a sales assistant with pink, red, and silver streaked hair that her hair looked cool: Kathi didn't take kindly to this. The second time was in the disco, Objekt 5, when Kathi introduced me to a friend, emphasising how handsome he was: I didn't take kindly to this but I guess it was her form of payback. So it looks like Kathi will be visiting me in England in late July to continue this romance.
A new writer: the next blog is from a lifer I met in prison who is joining our team at Jon's Jail Journal.
The People
The Germans are friendly provided you are introduced to them, but initiating small talk with strangers is a no-no. When I said hello to an old couple walking a dog in the park, they recoiled as if I had pulled a gun on them. Kathi yanked my arm, and scolded me for behaving outside of the German norm.
The Peisnitz Insel
Is the park opposite Kathi's house.
"If a tick drops from a tree and sucks your blood, do not pull it out. We must see a doctor," Kathi said at the beginning of our first romantic stroll in the park.
"Why?" I asked, looking up at the branches and quickening my pace.
"If you pull the body out, the head stays under your skin, and you can get Lyme's disease. My friend's mom got very sick from this."
Through the forest, we descended down to the River Saale. Kathi bought me a delicious lemon ice cream. We stopped on a bridge to watch a beaver swimming by the bank. We took a mini train ride, the Peisnitz Express, operated by a driver and a little boy in a dark-blue GDR uniform who waved coloured signals, and frowned at all of my attempts to initiate small talk with him.
The Rote Ochse
This former prison, now a museum, is a ten-minute walk from Kathi's. The cell furniture and carpenter's workshop are decades old, but walking a run of cells reminded me of some parts of Joe Arpaio's jail system. Then I came to the execution room, death cell, and the room for the disposal of corpses. It was hard not to imagine what horrors had happened here. Outside of the routine torture in the Rote Ochse, the Nazis killed 549 people, and the Stasi an unknown number. Mostly political prisoners.
Kathi's neighbour, Mario, told me that the Russians transporting prisoners into the Rote Ochse were a prisoner short so they just snatched a local person and imprisoned him. "The Russians were not too nice," Mario added.
Food and Drink
Kathi is a vegetarian, a rarity here. So I've only viewed typical German meals such as bratwurst, schnitzel, and roulade from a safe distance in restaurants and they did not look inviting.
"All Germans love Sauerkraut," Kathi said.
"That's why the Americans call us Krauts," Paul added.
Kathi has catered to my vegetarian needs, even going so far as to cook curry for the first time. I've been trying many kinds of cheese. My favourite is Saint Albray mild & würzig. I can't get enough of the strawberries, salted macadamia nuts and flavourful yoghurts such as Landliebe Jogurt.
I like the paprika bread. In general, the bread is grainy, less processed and strong tasting. Germans do not go for sliced loaves, but for fresh bread from the bakery. Kathi thinks English bread is too sweet.
East Germans are serious beer drinkers. Two favourites are Hasseröder and Becks. But I prefer less manly drinks such as the fruity Eiswein.
I also like the blood-orange juice.
Sex on the TV
Breasts are prevalent on daytime TV. In the words of Jörg, Kathi's brother: "In Germany they only don't show the vagina and the penis when it is hard." Anything else goes, and at nighttime the commercials for sex 900 numbers are pornographic. I was quite enjoying this until an old age pensioner came on, fondling her breasts, giving them a good slow roll while urging me to pick up the phone to talk to a 60+ year old for 99 cents a minute.
"Look, Shaun, Look!" Kathi just yelled.
It's 11:21pm and Kathi's pointing at the TV: a couple are having sex on the bonnet of a car. And on another channel, four female tongues are licking a whipped substance off two pairs of pierced breasts. God bless German television.
Clothes
I set off for the high street in the hope of buying a distinctly-German T-shirt. I was delusional. All of the clothes are American and English. In every other store I could have bought a T-shirt with New York, Los Angeles or Chicago on it. I resorted to asking sales assistants where I could find German T-shirts, only to be laughed out of several stores.
In Summary
My vacation is almost over, and I've had a great time. Kathi has spoiled me in every way possible, and I feel fully revitalised after my workaholism in England. We only fell out two times. Once after I told a sales assistant with pink, red, and silver streaked hair that her hair looked cool: Kathi didn't take kindly to this. The second time was in the disco, Objekt 5, when Kathi introduced me to a friend, emphasising how handsome he was: I didn't take kindly to this but I guess it was her form of payback. So it looks like Kathi will be visiting me in England in late July to continue this romance.
A new writer: the next blog is from a lifer I met in prison who is joining our team at Jon's Jail Journal.
Germany (Part 2)
I'am in the roof of a 120-year-old house in Halle, Germany, the birthplace of George Frideric Handel. I am in Paul's bedroom. He is Kathi's 18-year-old hippy son. He credits his fluency in English to playing Grand Theft Auto for up to 12 hours a day for the past 5 years. When he is not playing video games, Paul is an artist. He painted the bedroom walls lime green with white spots. There are two windows. They slope with the roof, and the blinds are pulled over them, so most of the illumination is coming from the 32" computer screen I am facing. I am sat on a tiny dark-blue sofa next to Paul's bunkbed. It is a metal bunkbed. Not unlike a prison one except it is twice as broad. His mattress is on the thin side. He is a man of simple sleeping needs. I can relate to that. I am typing slower than normal because the arrangement of the keys is not what I am used to and there are letters I am unfamiliar with such as ü, ö, and ä that I keep hitting accidentally.
When I first arrived Paul was eating cheese that made the whole apartment stink like feet that hadn't been washed in a decade. Let's go back to that day.
In order to get by the emergency door in the middle of the plane - surely the safest place to sit? - I was one of the first to board the Ryan Air flight. When the staff in blue uniforms demonstrated what to do in the event of an emergency landing, I sat there committing every instruction to memory. I even visualised myself in the water, pulling the correct chord to add extra air to my inflatable, before being rescued by heroic fishermen. Taking off, I hoped the effects of the alcohol I'd consumed would last for the one-and-a-quarter-hour flight. The sweet smell of wine on my breath reassured me.
The flight went smoothly until the landing. Descending over a forest, the plane wobbled a few times, sobering me up.
Formerly a Russian airbase, Altenburg Airport is tiny. It has one baggage-claim machine and two passport-control kiosks. Approaching the customs agent, I feared my FBI and Interpol records would show on his computer screen. That I'd be stripped naked and subjected to German shephards sniffing my backside. But he just looked at my passport and nodded me through.
I picked up Kathi and kissed her. She was with another MySpace couple, Nici and Stefan. We joked about us all having met on MySpace.
Outside was hot. Not Arizona hot, more like Spanish-summer hot. I regretted bringing three sweaters.
Through coutryside, Nici drove on the American side of the street. The cars looked different. Many BMW's, VW's, Daimlers, Opels, Renaults, and Skodas.
Getting into Halle, I noticed the abscence of houses as we understand them in the West. No single one- and two-story homes. All three- and four-story buildings joined in rows. I admired the old architecture and the sturdy character of the buildings. I hadn't seen so much graffiti since driving through South Central L.A..
There were many bicycles in Kathi's hallway. I wondered about the axe on the floor. With my 15 kilos of luggage permitted by Ryan Air, climbing the 63 stairs to get to her apartment was a workout. I arrived at her front door sweating, and obeyed her order to take off my sneakers. As soon as I walked in, her interior-design skills struck me. So many vibrant colours. It felt as if I were walking into a good mood. One that rubbed off on me right away.
I'am in the roof of a 120-year-old house in Halle, Germany, the birthplace of George Frideric Handel. I am in Paul's bedroom. He is Kathi's 18-year-old hippy son. He credits his fluency in English to playing Grand Theft Auto for up to 12 hours a day for the past 5 years. When he is not playing video games, Paul is an artist. He painted the bedroom walls lime green with white spots. There are two windows. They slope with the roof, and the blinds are pulled over them, so most of the illumination is coming from the 32" computer screen I am facing. I am sat on a tiny dark-blue sofa next to Paul's bunkbed. It is a metal bunkbed. Not unlike a prison one except it is twice as broad. His mattress is on the thin side. He is a man of simple sleeping needs. I can relate to that. I am typing slower than normal because the arrangement of the keys is not what I am used to and there are letters I am unfamiliar with such as ü, ö, and ä that I keep hitting accidentally.
When I first arrived Paul was eating cheese that made the whole apartment stink like feet that hadn't been washed in a decade. Let's go back to that day.
In order to get by the emergency door in the middle of the plane - surely the safest place to sit? - I was one of the first to board the Ryan Air flight. When the staff in blue uniforms demonstrated what to do in the event of an emergency landing, I sat there committing every instruction to memory. I even visualised myself in the water, pulling the correct chord to add extra air to my inflatable, before being rescued by heroic fishermen. Taking off, I hoped the effects of the alcohol I'd consumed would last for the one-and-a-quarter-hour flight. The sweet smell of wine on my breath reassured me.
The flight went smoothly until the landing. Descending over a forest, the plane wobbled a few times, sobering me up.
Formerly a Russian airbase, Altenburg Airport is tiny. It has one baggage-claim machine and two passport-control kiosks. Approaching the customs agent, I feared my FBI and Interpol records would show on his computer screen. That I'd be stripped naked and subjected to German shephards sniffing my backside. But he just looked at my passport and nodded me through.
I picked up Kathi and kissed her. She was with another MySpace couple, Nici and Stefan. We joked about us all having met on MySpace.
Outside was hot. Not Arizona hot, more like Spanish-summer hot. I regretted bringing three sweaters.
Through coutryside, Nici drove on the American side of the street. The cars looked different. Many BMW's, VW's, Daimlers, Opels, Renaults, and Skodas.
Getting into Halle, I noticed the abscence of houses as we understand them in the West. No single one- and two-story homes. All three- and four-story buildings joined in rows. I admired the old architecture and the sturdy character of the buildings. I hadn't seen so much graffiti since driving through South Central L.A..
There were many bicycles in Kathi's hallway. I wondered about the axe on the floor. With my 15 kilos of luggage permitted by Ryan Air, climbing the 63 stairs to get to her apartment was a workout. I arrived at her front door sweating, and obeyed her order to take off my sneakers. As soon as I walked in, her interior-design skills struck me. So many vibrant colours. It felt as if I were walking into a good mood. One that rubbed off on me right away.
16 May 09 12:42pm
Germany (Part 1)
The last thing you need when you are terrified of flying is a tall imposing black woman approaching you in the check-in line and insisting you carry things in your luggage for her.
Bomb came to mind as I told her no.
"Why not?" It was not like I knew this lady and had promised to carry things for her only to change my mind at the last minute, but by the way she was yelling at me, the ten onlookers probably thought so.
"It's a security risk."
Her face spasmed at my answer. Hissing all kinds of curses, she barged past me to the front of the line, and accosted the first available Ryan Air staff member. I hadn't experienced such behaviour since prison.
I'm writing this from Stansted Airport, London. I'm sat at the Globe Express Cafe + Bar, contemplating a glass of wine to settle my pre-flight jitters. I haven't flown since my deportation in December 2007. I am hoping my flight is a smooth one, and I attract no more lunatics with luggage problems. I am contemplating whether to get a medium or a large white zin. I take that back: I am getting a large. I'll be right back.
I haven't touched alcohol since March. I just took my first sip of white zin, and I already feel more confident about flying even though the alcohol could not possibly have pinged my brain yet. I am going to time my sips so the drink lasts until I have to board; that way I should still be tipsy during the worst time of the flight for me: the landing.
Through the full-length windows are planes docked at various gates. Further out is a control tower below low gray clouds. The smells of coffee and tea are wafting from the cafe. Sat around are couples and parties of British holidaymakers with pale pasty skin and lively southern accents. Most of them are drinking alcohol at much faster rates than me, including the tiny old lady sat at the nearest table who is half way through her second large red wine. I am telling myself they are all drinking because they are all as nervous about flying as me. I'm not sure whether I believe this or not, but it is making me feel better about my own nervousness and that I'm resorting to wine to deal with it.
The wine is affecting my brain now, and I'm pondering the fact that today, May 16th, is the day I was arrested by a SWAT team back in 2002. Today is also the birthday of the woman I'm on my way to see in Germany: Kathi. My mind is playing the linking game, for example, without my arrest, I would never have met Kathi, and I wouldn't be here drinking wine wondering if the black lady managed to get something explosive onto my flight, and whether there are sharks in the water I'm about to fly over.
I'm about to board, so I'd better head to Gate 56.
Germany (Part 1)
The last thing you need when you are terrified of flying is a tall imposing black woman approaching you in the check-in line and insisting you carry things in your luggage for her.
Bomb came to mind as I told her no.
"Why not?" It was not like I knew this lady and had promised to carry things for her only to change my mind at the last minute, but by the way she was yelling at me, the ten onlookers probably thought so.
"It's a security risk."
Her face spasmed at my answer. Hissing all kinds of curses, she barged past me to the front of the line, and accosted the first available Ryan Air staff member. I hadn't experienced such behaviour since prison.
I'm writing this from Stansted Airport, London. I'm sat at the Globe Express Cafe + Bar, contemplating a glass of wine to settle my pre-flight jitters. I haven't flown since my deportation in December 2007. I am hoping my flight is a smooth one, and I attract no more lunatics with luggage problems. I am contemplating whether to get a medium or a large white zin. I take that back: I am getting a large. I'll be right back.
I haven't touched alcohol since March. I just took my first sip of white zin, and I already feel more confident about flying even though the alcohol could not possibly have pinged my brain yet. I am going to time my sips so the drink lasts until I have to board; that way I should still be tipsy during the worst time of the flight for me: the landing.
Through the full-length windows are planes docked at various gates. Further out is a control tower below low gray clouds. The smells of coffee and tea are wafting from the cafe. Sat around are couples and parties of British holidaymakers with pale pasty skin and lively southern accents. Most of them are drinking alcohol at much faster rates than me, including the tiny old lady sat at the nearest table who is half way through her second large red wine. I am telling myself they are all drinking because they are all as nervous about flying as me. I'm not sure whether I believe this or not, but it is making me feel better about my own nervousness and that I'm resorting to wine to deal with it.
The wine is affecting my brain now, and I'm pondering the fact that today, May 16th, is the day I was arrested by a SWAT team back in 2002. Today is also the birthday of the woman I'm on my way to see in Germany: Kathi. My mind is playing the linking game, for example, without my arrest, I would never have met Kathi, and I wouldn't be here drinking wine wondering if the black lady managed to get something explosive onto my flight, and whether there are sharks in the water I'm about to fly over.
I'm about to board, so I'd better head to Gate 56.
From Two Tonys (Letter 11)
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.
Hey,
That Johnnie Bennett Battaglia that left a comment is the kid of Johnnie the Bat. The Bat came in my club one night with Charlie Batts’ wife and entourage, and had a drink. Charlie was in prison at the time. I didn’t pick up good vibes, so we all just glanced at each other. They didn’t stay long. He was over in Arizona on parole from California. He was doing a diamond score and a good one at that. Me and my partner turned it down. But the Bat did it and got away with it. Then they got him for violating his parole by going to another state. We heard he died in prison. The heist involved a jeweller named Newt Pfeiffer. Pfeiffer did a swan dive off the Pioneer Hotel without a parachute. That’s what happens to gangster groupies. Keep you day jobs, folks!
You remember my main guy, Jim Hogg. Yeah, the 280 lb hunk of rock some refer to as Rolling Thunder. Well, he’s always looked out for me in here. You know that. When I come back from the hospital, he meets me at the gate and tells me I’ve been moved to his pod. He is right across from me and he is godsent. He does so much for me, I feel both guilty and old. He’s my big-headed boy, and I got big-time love for him. But he goes home soon and I’ll miss him a lot.
Ya know, as screwed up as my life has been, I’m very fortunate with friends who actually want to look out for me. There’s a group of good solid nasty white boys I’ve known for quite a while who came to me and wanted me to move to their pod. Jim Hogg was with me, and told them I’m staying with him till he leaves. They put up an argument, but to no avail.
Hey! What can I say? Good guys all of them. Maybe society doesn’t care for them and probably with their own good reasons. But these are my people, and everyone knows it. I earned their respect and love not by being here, but by my conduct.
And while I don’t want to make this the T.T. loves T.T. blog, I’ve done some reflecting and pondering of my life’s journey. And as fucked up as it is now, there’s poor souls out there in the same boat as me who have worked, paid bills, raised families, went to church…. But are lonely and don’t have nowhere near the love and moral support I’m getting. As I reflect on this life, I realize, yes, I’ve taken guys out and they didn’t get 6-7-8 months to reflect on their fucked-up deeds. It was 1-2-3 – see ya – bam, it’s over.
Ok, moving on. If you read my Bad Weather blog, I’ve done that several times. Interfered in hits when possible or when I thought they were out of line. From prison yards to gangster business. I even talked up for a guy scheduled for a hit, and got it cancelled. And I was going to be part of the whack. Just the set-up guy, but I knew him well. I had just been a pallbearer at his baby’s funeral. Now I’m supposed to bring the guy in for slaughtering. That’s another blog. But that’s saving a life ain’t it?
Pulling a 3 year old from a ranch well, and assisting in his resuscitation. That’s like saving a life. A life on a child, that’s a good life. I don’t want a medal or any of that shit. What’s funny about the kid and the well is that his mom made me a whole chocolate pie, my favorite, the next day. But within 3 months, the kid’s old man is putting out word he’s going to blow my head off if I step on ranch property. Once again, I refer to Old Blue Eyes, “That’s life.”
But when I get up and read these blog comments from Ghost, Jose in San Diego my ese, Jayne, Barry from up there in Tonopah, Will, your Mom and Dad, Geoff, Big W., Cindy, Sue O, August, Hammy, all of these folks have inspired me with good advice, strong-hearted advice, fuck-the-odds advice, and I don’t know what to say.
I don’t consider myself a religious man. I’d like to have that blind faith that’s sang in songs, written in books, shouted about on street corners. But I can’t honestly say “Oh yeah!”
I’ve lived this life of robbing, stealing, killing, fucking over the weak and now as the moment nears, I can’t jump up and say, “OK. Forgive me. Sorry about all the sadness I caused families. I’m now a good Christian.” I’m having trouble in my mind with that. Sure I can say it.
You know, since word hit the yard I’m on my last legs or soon will be, I’ve had at least 5 inmates come up to me. 2 gave me books on Jesus and 1 on Jehovah. One had his people send me a student bible to study. Their thoughts are nice.
Now these ain’t pooty-butt guys. They’re guys you would get scared about if you run into them in an alley. They’re not chomos or rapos [child molesters or rapists]. They’re guys, I guess you would say, who’re all looking for change and answers.
I’m not rude, I take their books out of politeness. But to be honest, I haven’t cracked one of them open.
I told the cancer oncologist last week as we met over the TV-set hook up, “Hey, Doc, let’s keep it on the up and up here. I’m not afraid of death. In fact I’m trying to look at it as a possible new journey.” I’ve faced death before, but adrenaline was flowing, survival value was full-tilt boogie. There was never time for reflection or pondering. Now this is all I have time to ponder and reflect. I sure had a lot of fun, and an issue of sadness that never lasted long. Fun always seemed to override the sadness. I told the Dr. what I fear is the pain. He told me they can and will handle the pain. We’ll see.
You can tell I like that word ponder. I’m using the hell out of it. I hope this didn’t bore you. C’mon, let’s get back to having fun at the blog. What do you want to kick around? War? Politics? The Mafia? Prison?
Shaun, I’m really happy with your progress. Now get to work.
L&R,
Two Tonys
ps) Jim Hogg wanted to write to you so I told him to have at it. I’m worried about him and his release. But what the fuck? Look at the adventure. This place becomes a nest and some of these guys are like baby birds. My advice: Fly, motherfucker, fly.
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.
Hey,
That Johnnie Bennett Battaglia that left a comment is the kid of Johnnie the Bat. The Bat came in my club one night with Charlie Batts’ wife and entourage, and had a drink. Charlie was in prison at the time. I didn’t pick up good vibes, so we all just glanced at each other. They didn’t stay long. He was over in Arizona on parole from California. He was doing a diamond score and a good one at that. Me and my partner turned it down. But the Bat did it and got away with it. Then they got him for violating his parole by going to another state. We heard he died in prison. The heist involved a jeweller named Newt Pfeiffer. Pfeiffer did a swan dive off the Pioneer Hotel without a parachute. That’s what happens to gangster groupies. Keep you day jobs, folks!
You remember my main guy, Jim Hogg. Yeah, the 280 lb hunk of rock some refer to as Rolling Thunder. Well, he’s always looked out for me in here. You know that. When I come back from the hospital, he meets me at the gate and tells me I’ve been moved to his pod. He is right across from me and he is godsent. He does so much for me, I feel both guilty and old. He’s my big-headed boy, and I got big-time love for him. But he goes home soon and I’ll miss him a lot.
Ya know, as screwed up as my life has been, I’m very fortunate with friends who actually want to look out for me. There’s a group of good solid nasty white boys I’ve known for quite a while who came to me and wanted me to move to their pod. Jim Hogg was with me, and told them I’m staying with him till he leaves. They put up an argument, but to no avail.
Hey! What can I say? Good guys all of them. Maybe society doesn’t care for them and probably with their own good reasons. But these are my people, and everyone knows it. I earned their respect and love not by being here, but by my conduct.
And while I don’t want to make this the T.T. loves T.T. blog, I’ve done some reflecting and pondering of my life’s journey. And as fucked up as it is now, there’s poor souls out there in the same boat as me who have worked, paid bills, raised families, went to church…. But are lonely and don’t have nowhere near the love and moral support I’m getting. As I reflect on this life, I realize, yes, I’ve taken guys out and they didn’t get 6-7-8 months to reflect on their fucked-up deeds. It was 1-2-3 – see ya – bam, it’s over.
Ok, moving on. If you read my Bad Weather blog, I’ve done that several times. Interfered in hits when possible or when I thought they were out of line. From prison yards to gangster business. I even talked up for a guy scheduled for a hit, and got it cancelled. And I was going to be part of the whack. Just the set-up guy, but I knew him well. I had just been a pallbearer at his baby’s funeral. Now I’m supposed to bring the guy in for slaughtering. That’s another blog. But that’s saving a life ain’t it?
Pulling a 3 year old from a ranch well, and assisting in his resuscitation. That’s like saving a life. A life on a child, that’s a good life. I don’t want a medal or any of that shit. What’s funny about the kid and the well is that his mom made me a whole chocolate pie, my favorite, the next day. But within 3 months, the kid’s old man is putting out word he’s going to blow my head off if I step on ranch property. Once again, I refer to Old Blue Eyes, “That’s life.”
But when I get up and read these blog comments from Ghost, Jose in San Diego my ese, Jayne, Barry from up there in Tonopah, Will, your Mom and Dad, Geoff, Big W., Cindy, Sue O, August, Hammy, all of these folks have inspired me with good advice, strong-hearted advice, fuck-the-odds advice, and I don’t know what to say.
I don’t consider myself a religious man. I’d like to have that blind faith that’s sang in songs, written in books, shouted about on street corners. But I can’t honestly say “Oh yeah!”
I’ve lived this life of robbing, stealing, killing, fucking over the weak and now as the moment nears, I can’t jump up and say, “OK. Forgive me. Sorry about all the sadness I caused families. I’m now a good Christian.” I’m having trouble in my mind with that. Sure I can say it.
You know, since word hit the yard I’m on my last legs or soon will be, I’ve had at least 5 inmates come up to me. 2 gave me books on Jesus and 1 on Jehovah. One had his people send me a student bible to study. Their thoughts are nice.
Now these ain’t pooty-butt guys. They’re guys you would get scared about if you run into them in an alley. They’re not chomos or rapos [child molesters or rapists]. They’re guys, I guess you would say, who’re all looking for change and answers.
I’m not rude, I take their books out of politeness. But to be honest, I haven’t cracked one of them open.
I told the cancer oncologist last week as we met over the TV-set hook up, “Hey, Doc, let’s keep it on the up and up here. I’m not afraid of death. In fact I’m trying to look at it as a possible new journey.” I’ve faced death before, but adrenaline was flowing, survival value was full-tilt boogie. There was never time for reflection or pondering. Now this is all I have time to ponder and reflect. I sure had a lot of fun, and an issue of sadness that never lasted long. Fun always seemed to override the sadness. I told the Dr. what I fear is the pain. He told me they can and will handle the pain. We’ll see.
You can tell I like that word ponder. I’m using the hell out of it. I hope this didn’t bore you. C’mon, let’s get back to having fun at the blog. What do you want to kick around? War? Politics? The Mafia? Prison?
Shaun, I’m really happy with your progress. Now get to work.
L&R,
Two Tonys
ps) Jim Hogg wanted to write to you so I told him to have at it. I’m worried about him and his release. But what the fuck? Look at the adventure. This place becomes a nest and some of these guys are like baby birds. My advice: Fly, motherfucker, fly.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Two Tonys is dying from cancer. You can send well wishes for Two Tonys by emailing writeinside@hotmail.com or posting them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
15 May 09
Dawn of a New Adventure (Part 3)
I was travelling most of yesterday as I just gave my first presentation to a school. 100 14 to 15 year olds at Bishop's Stortford College in Hertfordshire. The jitters began the night before. I kept jumping out of bed at all hours, writing down additional stuff to speak about. I knew if I failed, I would lose the job I’d just relocated to the other side of England for. The pressure was on.
Nervous about speaking to an audience, I only ate half of my breakfast before I set off. Dwelling on how this talk was my chance to raise myself in society, I was scared of sabotaging such a fantastic opportunity.
It took over two hours – two trains, two lines on the London Underground, and a taxi – to get to the school. Once there, I met the contact teacher, Claire, a wonderful woman who gave me an invaluable prep. She knew it was my first presentation, and she suggested various techniques to engage the students, such as asking some of them to volunteer to read excerpts from my blog and book. She said some previous speakers on drugs had glorified their crimes. One had even used the F word, and she had to stop the presentation. She advised me to keep emphasising how my decision to do drugs had led to the horrible jail conditions.
The room designated for my presentation was like a drama theatre. It consisted of a stage facing rows of seats that went higher towards the back. Claire asked if I needed anything, and we set up a table to put my water and reading excerpts on. I refused a podium as I knew I couldn’t stand still. I expected to pace.
When it came time to talk, my nervousness peaked. Facing all of the little people in school uniforms gazing at me was an experience like no other. I’d prepared a detailed introduction, but my mind went blank and I introduced myself in a few short sentences that lacked enough information. Faltering, I wondered if I was not cut out for public speaking?
Some students showed up late, and I’m glad they did. I pounced on the opportunity to start again:
“For the benefit of those students who showed up late, I’ll start my introduction again. I am Shaun Attwood. I went to school in Cheshire where I did well. I went on to Liverpool University and graduated with a business degree. I moved to America, became a top-producing stockbroker, quit that, and then became a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. But I lost everything because of drugs. On May 16th, 2002, a SWAT team knocked my door down, and I ended up in America’s toughest jail.
So how did I go from where you are today to getting a 9 ½ year prison sentence? When I was about four or five years older than most of you I took Ecstasy for the first time. The rave scene had just started in Manchester…”
I am pleased to report my speaking flowed better from there. I could still feel my tension, but I remembered the words of Dr. O at Tucson prison: “It’s all energy. Just channel it in the right direction.” Breaking it up with the students reading excerpts allowed me to take breathers, drink water, and mentally prepare what I was going to say next. Thinking on my feet, a lot of what I’d prepared to say never came out, but I had so much material to draw on I was actually still talking into the time allocated for Q & A.
The students at Bishops Stortford College were pleasant and bright. So many hands went up, there was not enough to time to answer all of their questions, ranging from the prevalence of prison rape to legal questions about my case.
Even with all of the applause, I wasn’t sure if I’d done well or not. That changed when the teachers surrounded me, and congratulated me on doing such a good job. Fascinated by my story, they had questions of their own.
The group of girls who had shown up late even stayed behind to apologise and ask me further questions.
I left on a natural high, and immediately called my parents, who popped a bottle of a champagne that night.
If you are interested in booking my presentation click here.
Tomorrow, I’m off to Halle (Saale) to visit Kathi for two weeks. She lives in the roof of a 120-year-old building in East Germany.
I’ll be blogging from Germany, including a letter from Two Tonys and the story of Smiling John, in his own words. He’s a murderer who escaped from prison and ended up on America's Most Wanted.
Click here for Dawn of a New Adventure part 2
Dawn of a New Adventure (Part 3)
I was travelling most of yesterday as I just gave my first presentation to a school. 100 14 to 15 year olds at Bishop's Stortford College in Hertfordshire. The jitters began the night before. I kept jumping out of bed at all hours, writing down additional stuff to speak about. I knew if I failed, I would lose the job I’d just relocated to the other side of England for. The pressure was on.
Nervous about speaking to an audience, I only ate half of my breakfast before I set off. Dwelling on how this talk was my chance to raise myself in society, I was scared of sabotaging such a fantastic opportunity.
It took over two hours – two trains, two lines on the London Underground, and a taxi – to get to the school. Once there, I met the contact teacher, Claire, a wonderful woman who gave me an invaluable prep. She knew it was my first presentation, and she suggested various techniques to engage the students, such as asking some of them to volunteer to read excerpts from my blog and book. She said some previous speakers on drugs had glorified their crimes. One had even used the F word, and she had to stop the presentation. She advised me to keep emphasising how my decision to do drugs had led to the horrible jail conditions.
The room designated for my presentation was like a drama theatre. It consisted of a stage facing rows of seats that went higher towards the back. Claire asked if I needed anything, and we set up a table to put my water and reading excerpts on. I refused a podium as I knew I couldn’t stand still. I expected to pace.
When it came time to talk, my nervousness peaked. Facing all of the little people in school uniforms gazing at me was an experience like no other. I’d prepared a detailed introduction, but my mind went blank and I introduced myself in a few short sentences that lacked enough information. Faltering, I wondered if I was not cut out for public speaking?
Some students showed up late, and I’m glad they did. I pounced on the opportunity to start again:
“For the benefit of those students who showed up late, I’ll start my introduction again. I am Shaun Attwood. I went to school in Cheshire where I did well. I went on to Liverpool University and graduated with a business degree. I moved to America, became a top-producing stockbroker, quit that, and then became a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. But I lost everything because of drugs. On May 16th, 2002, a SWAT team knocked my door down, and I ended up in America’s toughest jail.
So how did I go from where you are today to getting a 9 ½ year prison sentence? When I was about four or five years older than most of you I took Ecstasy for the first time. The rave scene had just started in Manchester…”
I am pleased to report my speaking flowed better from there. I could still feel my tension, but I remembered the words of Dr. O at Tucson prison: “It’s all energy. Just channel it in the right direction.” Breaking it up with the students reading excerpts allowed me to take breathers, drink water, and mentally prepare what I was going to say next. Thinking on my feet, a lot of what I’d prepared to say never came out, but I had so much material to draw on I was actually still talking into the time allocated for Q & A.
The students at Bishops Stortford College were pleasant and bright. So many hands went up, there was not enough to time to answer all of their questions, ranging from the prevalence of prison rape to legal questions about my case.
Even with all of the applause, I wasn’t sure if I’d done well or not. That changed when the teachers surrounded me, and congratulated me on doing such a good job. Fascinated by my story, they had questions of their own.
The group of girls who had shown up late even stayed behind to apologise and ask me further questions.
I left on a natural high, and immediately called my parents, who popped a bottle of a champagne that night.
If you are interested in booking my presentation click here.
Tomorrow, I’m off to Halle (Saale) to visit Kathi for two weeks. She lives in the roof of a 120-year-old building in East Germany.
I’ll be blogging from Germany, including a letter from Two Tonys and the story of Smiling John, in his own words. He’s a murderer who escaped from prison and ended up on America's Most Wanted.
Click here for Dawn of a New Adventure part 2
Central Unit (Part 2 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
Part 1 left off with Warrior arriving at a lockdown run in Central Unit and being told about a race war and to be on guard.
Ten o’clock arrived, and I was awakened by multiple shouts on the run.
“Good morning, woods!” shouted a white prisoner with a southern twang.
“Excuse me on da tier! Yo, Conlow! Mornin’ nigga!” hollered an African American.
“As-Salāmu `Alaykum,” a voice replied, which is Muslim for “Peace be upon you.”
“Despensa [excuse me] on the tier! Buenos dias to all the raza [Good moring to all the Chicanos],” another voice echoed.
Every race had their own way about doing things, even when it came to “good mornings.”
I got up, washed, and prepared mentally for the long day I knew lay ahead. I’d been through what’s referred to as a “roll call” so many times, I wasn’t looking forward to it. It was more of an irritation to me if anything.
A roll call means the new arrival at the unit has to send his name and Department of Corrections number to whoever is holding down the run for his race, along with a brief summary of what yard he came from, who was there and running that yard, along with why he was moved. A check is run to verify all of the information disclosed.
A roll call is routine on every yard in order to weed out sex offenders, snitches, and dudes who are wanted by the gangs for whatever reason. It’s not uncommon for identities to be mistaken, especially if your name is a common one like Smith or Martinez, and the gangs may try and kill you for no good reason. But hey, that’s life in prison, and a test of how well you function under pressure.
I snatched my 4x6 plastic mirror and moved towards the bars. Mirror in hand, I slid my arm out and wielded my low-tech camera around to get a lay of the land. I noticed some others doing the same. I could tell by the positioning of their mini screens who was caught up in conversation. I readjusted towards my neighbor. He had his headphones on, watching TV. I reached in his cell and tapped my mirror against his wall to get his attention. Tap-tap-tap… He looked and headed my way.
“Good morning, Cowboy,” I said.
“Hey now! Mornin’, Warrior.” He had that southern twang too.
“Sleep alright?” he asked.
“Eh…it was OK. Long bus rides are a bitch.”
“I hear that. Where’d ya come from?”
“Up north. Buckeye.”
“That place is pretty crazy right now. Is Wild Bill up there?”
“Yeah, it’s off the hook lately. Wild Bill’s there. He’s holding it down for your peeps. I’ve taked to him a few times. He’s cool. Real quick to have a white boy smashed if he steps outta line.”
A half snicker and a laugh came from Cowboy. “Ha ha. That’s my dawg! We’ve done time since the Eighties.”
Just looking at Cowboy, I could tell he’d done a lot of time. He had squinty eyes, like he’d spent years staring against the sun. He had a weathered face and a huge horseshoe mustache. I wondered whether his face was like that due to the sun, prison stress, or living a fast life. Probably all three.
Without warning, I heard the clicking sound of a door being racked open. Cowboy’s expression went from friendly to shark-eyed. Not a good sign. “Look alive and be on your toes, Warrior. Shit’s about to go down. Suit up just in case.”
I knew what suit up meant. Tie your shoes on tight, and get the battle gear on. I rushed to suit up and returned to the bars wondering what might happen next.
Again, without warning, another door racked open. Out came Mike, a white man about 5 foot 8 with long hair. He had a pudgy face and body. He looked around, focussed and intense.
Wilo, a 6-foot Mexican, lanky with short hair, bolted from his cell, charging at Mike.
Warning shouts of , “Behind you! Watch out!” echoed from various voices, but they were too late.
As Mike turned, he was met with a perfect blow from Wilo.
The whole tier erupted with roars:
“Kill ’im, Mike”
“Matalo, Wilo!”
“Chingalo, Wilo!”
“Get his ass, Mike!”
The boom Wilo’s next punch made against Mike’s face sounded like a mixture of a slap and the thumping of one’s finger against a melon to check for ripeness.
I clenched my teeth in pain as though I were the one hit. I’m familiar with hits like that, and I knew it had to hurt. I knew that hit had made Mike gun shy – afraid to get hit again.
Mike dropped his head and tried to rush Wilo’s legs. Wilo pounded the back of Mike’s head repeatedly. Mike struggled like a fish on the deck of a boat trying to stay alive, yet knowing it was only a matter of time.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 1.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments. Email comments and questions for Warrior to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
Part 1 left off with Warrior arriving at a lockdown run in Central Unit and being told about a race war and to be on guard.
Ten o’clock arrived, and I was awakened by multiple shouts on the run.
“Good morning, woods!” shouted a white prisoner with a southern twang.
“Excuse me on da tier! Yo, Conlow! Mornin’ nigga!” hollered an African American.
“As-Salāmu `Alaykum,” a voice replied, which is Muslim for “Peace be upon you.”
“Despensa [excuse me] on the tier! Buenos dias to all the raza [Good moring to all the Chicanos],” another voice echoed.
Every race had their own way about doing things, even when it came to “good mornings.”
I got up, washed, and prepared mentally for the long day I knew lay ahead. I’d been through what’s referred to as a “roll call” so many times, I wasn’t looking forward to it. It was more of an irritation to me if anything.
A roll call means the new arrival at the unit has to send his name and Department of Corrections number to whoever is holding down the run for his race, along with a brief summary of what yard he came from, who was there and running that yard, along with why he was moved. A check is run to verify all of the information disclosed.
A roll call is routine on every yard in order to weed out sex offenders, snitches, and dudes who are wanted by the gangs for whatever reason. It’s not uncommon for identities to be mistaken, especially if your name is a common one like Smith or Martinez, and the gangs may try and kill you for no good reason. But hey, that’s life in prison, and a test of how well you function under pressure.
I snatched my 4x6 plastic mirror and moved towards the bars. Mirror in hand, I slid my arm out and wielded my low-tech camera around to get a lay of the land. I noticed some others doing the same. I could tell by the positioning of their mini screens who was caught up in conversation. I readjusted towards my neighbor. He had his headphones on, watching TV. I reached in his cell and tapped my mirror against his wall to get his attention. Tap-tap-tap… He looked and headed my way.
“Good morning, Cowboy,” I said.
“Hey now! Mornin’, Warrior.” He had that southern twang too.
“Sleep alright?” he asked.
“Eh…it was OK. Long bus rides are a bitch.”
“I hear that. Where’d ya come from?”
“Up north. Buckeye.”
“That place is pretty crazy right now. Is Wild Bill up there?”
“Yeah, it’s off the hook lately. Wild Bill’s there. He’s holding it down for your peeps. I’ve taked to him a few times. He’s cool. Real quick to have a white boy smashed if he steps outta line.”
A half snicker and a laugh came from Cowboy. “Ha ha. That’s my dawg! We’ve done time since the Eighties.”
Just looking at Cowboy, I could tell he’d done a lot of time. He had squinty eyes, like he’d spent years staring against the sun. He had a weathered face and a huge horseshoe mustache. I wondered whether his face was like that due to the sun, prison stress, or living a fast life. Probably all three.
Without warning, I heard the clicking sound of a door being racked open. Cowboy’s expression went from friendly to shark-eyed. Not a good sign. “Look alive and be on your toes, Warrior. Shit’s about to go down. Suit up just in case.”
I knew what suit up meant. Tie your shoes on tight, and get the battle gear on. I rushed to suit up and returned to the bars wondering what might happen next.
Again, without warning, another door racked open. Out came Mike, a white man about 5 foot 8 with long hair. He had a pudgy face and body. He looked around, focussed and intense.
Wilo, a 6-foot Mexican, lanky with short hair, bolted from his cell, charging at Mike.
Warning shouts of , “Behind you! Watch out!” echoed from various voices, but they were too late.
As Mike turned, he was met with a perfect blow from Wilo.
The whole tier erupted with roars:
“Kill ’im, Mike”
“Matalo, Wilo!”
“Chingalo, Wilo!”
“Get his ass, Mike!”
The boom Wilo’s next punch made against Mike’s face sounded like a mixture of a slap and the thumping of one’s finger against a melon to check for ripeness.
I clenched my teeth in pain as though I were the one hit. I’m familiar with hits like that, and I knew it had to hurt. I knew that hit had made Mike gun shy – afraid to get hit again.
Mike dropped his head and tried to rush Wilo’s legs. Wilo pounded the back of Mike’s head repeatedly. Mike struggled like a fish on the deck of a boat trying to stay alive, yet knowing it was only a matter of time.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 1.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments. Email comments and questions for Warrior to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
I am presently a guest writer at Anne Mini’s blog Author! Author! which receives 100,000 hits a week, making it one of the most successful literary blogs in the world.
I’ve written about the challenges I faced, both from the establishment and prisoners, to keep Jon’s Jail Journal going. Anne Mini welcomes your comments at the guest piece.
Here’s the link to my guest blog: http://www.annemini.com/?p=4171
I’ve written about the challenges I faced, both from the establishment and prisoners, to keep Jon’s Jail Journal going. Anne Mini welcomes your comments at the guest piece.
Here’s the link to my guest blog: http://www.annemini.com/?p=4171
07 May 09
Mentored (Part 4)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read chapter 26 of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Here’s the start of chapter 26, followed by her comments.
I spent half a day in holding cells before arriving at a small two-man cell on the second floor of the Madison Street jail. It was about 2am. Light from the day room was filtering into the dark cell through oblong gaps in the door, illuminating my new cellmate cocooned in a white sheet, snoring lightly on the top bunk about two thirds of the way up the back wall. As I’d just come from a jail where men were prone to fight over the bottom bunk, I was grateful he’d taken the top. Delirious from two-days’ sleep deprivation, I was looking forward to a good rest. I thought my standard of living had improved – two-man cell, bottom bunk – until I noticed movement on the cement-block walls. Putting the movement down to hallucinations, I blinked several times. Still movement. Stepping closer, I saw the wall was alive with insects, and I flinched. So many insects, I wondered if they were a colony of ants on the move just like you see in documentaries. To get a better look, I put my face to within inches of the wall, and saw they were mostly the size of almonds and had antennae. American cockroaches! I’d seen them before downstairs in The Horseshoe, but nothing like this. A chill spread over my body. I backed away. As my night vision picked up, I spotted more insect shapes circulating on the ceiling, going in and out of the base of the fluorescent strip light. Every so often one dropped onto the concrete, and resumed crawling. Examining my bunk, it dawned as to why my cellmate had opted to sleep at a higher elevation: cockroaches were pouring out of gaps in the wall at the level of the bottom bunk. The area was thick with them. Placing my mattress on the bunk scattered them. I walked to the toilet, crushing some of them under my shower sandals. I urinated and grabbed the toilet roll. A cockroach darted from the centre of the roll onto my hand, tickling my fingers. My arm jerked as if it had a mind of its own, losing the cockroach and the toilet roll.
Using a towel, I wiped the bulk of them off the bottom bunk, stopping only to shake the odd one off my hand. I unrolled my mattress. They began to regroup and harass my mattress. My adrenaline was pumping so much I was losing my general fatigue. Nauseated, I sat on the stool and contemplated how best to get to sleep. I wondered how my cellmate was managing to sleep through the infestation and my arrival. I decided to copy his technique. I cocooned myself in a white sheet and lay down, crushing a few more cockroaches. The only way they could get to me now was through the breathing hole I’d left in the sheet by the lower half of my face. Inhaling their strange musty odour, I closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I could sense them crawling on the sheet around my feet. Worried they were infiltrating my breathing hole, I constantly opened my eyes. Cramps caused me to shift onto my other side. Watching the wall, I was repulsed by so many of them just inches away from my face. I returned to my original side. The sheet trapped the desert heat to my body, coating me in sweat. I grew so uncomfortable, I had to open my cocoon to waft the heat out. Trickles of sweat tickled my body, tricking my mind into thinking the cockroaches had infiltrated and were crawling on me. It took a while to drift to sleep, and I only managed a few hours. I awoke stuck to the sweaty sheet, disgusted by the cockroach carcasses compressed to the mattress.
The cockroaches plagued my new home until dawn appeared at the dots in the protective metal grid over a begrimed strip of four-inch-thick glass at the top of the back wall – the cell’s only source of outdoor light. Then they disappeared into the cracks in the walls, like vampire mist retreating from sunlight. But not all of them. There had been so many on the night shift that even their vastly reduced number was still too many to dispose of. And they acted like they knew this. They roamed around my feet with attitude, as if to let me know I was trespassing on their stomping ground.
Sally’s comments on chapter 26:
– Good stuff. Very strong.
– Takes you right into the moment.
– Ends at exactly the right place.
– The writing does service to the story.
– Not too much extraneous detail.
For our fourth session, Sally asked me to meet her at the British Library, a building in Central London that Prince Charles once described as a “monstrous ziggurat,” and a “school for secret policemen.”
It’s a library quite like no other. Let’s start with the collection: over 150 million items (including 14 million books), that require 625 km of shelves; over 3 million new items added every year, requiring another 12 km of shelf space. The library receives a copy of every publication produced in the UK and Ireland. Its treasures include the Magna Carta and Leonardo da Vinci's Notebook.
Entering the library, I felt small. It was the largest building constructed in England in the last century, taking up 10 million bricks, and 180,000 tonnes of concrete. It has nine floors above ground, and five below. The foyer was like the check-in area of a grandiose hotel. I crossed the polished stone floor, and joined one of the many trails of student-looking types disappearing into the building. Further inside, many people were sat on the floor. There were rows of them at the foot of every wall, with laptops on their thighs, and cables running into the wall sockets. The screen glow reflecting on their faces added a ghostly aura to expressions mostly within the range of deep-thinking to tunnel vision.
It took a few flights of stairs for my first sighting of England’s Grande Armée of literature. The books were on shelves enclosed in glass columns bigger than most buildings. Mini skyscrapers shooting up out of sight, with row after row of books pressed against the glass, like prisoners watching their visitors arrive.
I tried to enter one of the reading rooms, where older highbrow types with eccentric asexual faces were gravitating, but I was rebuffed as I had no ticket.
In the café, Sally bought me a delicious pear juice.
In the last three mentored blogs, I’ve been polishing up the opening of the book. Sally put that to rest with this comment: “This is fine now. Be careful of over-polishing the first few chapters. Better to press on and revisit the beginning in the light of the rest of the book.”
Now we’ve seen what Sally likes, let’s look at Sally’s comments on chapters 8 to 11:
– These four chapters all feel a little thin. Perhaps stripped back too much.
– Might be an opportunity to introduce more about the jail system and why it’s so brutalising.
– At this point you can afford to introduce some moral ambiguity of your own, taking the readers with you.
– It’s difficult to balance introducing your own personal changes with avoiding editorialising. Do this by making your emotions more directly felt rather than summarised.
Let’s concentrate on Sally’s first and last comment. The writing has been pared back too much in certain areas and I am making the reoccurring error of editorialising. I’ve found a specific paragraph in chapter 8 that incorporates both of these weaknesses. The paragraph is about Alejandro who has already been introduced to the reader as a four-hundred-pound youngster arrested for shooting a car full of rival gang members with an AK-47. Here’s the paragraph:
Some of Alejandro’s victims were in critical condition, and if any of them died, he would be facing death by lethal injection. For a week, the condition of his victims made nightly headline news. Stunned by the shock of this inextricable linking of his fate with theirs, Alejandro watched these reports on the lone TV affixed high on the day-room wall.
Sally underlined the sentence in bold and wrote: Editorialising. Instead show us Alejandro’s reaction. Make it real.
Ok, I’m going to expand it, and try to make it real. Here I go:
Every night, just in time for the beginning of the news, Alejandro emerged from his cell with a look of dread, and positioned himself at the back of the two dozen or so noisy prisoners clustered in front of the old TV set fixed high on the day-room wall. When the news started, he’d move forward as if yanked by its familiar jingle. Sweating far more than the rest, he’d urge everyone to hush. Out of deference for the gravity of his situation, the heads of all of the races would order their youngsters to shut up. By the time the condition of his victims was reported, the unusual quiet – which in the jail meant something bad was happening to somebody somewhere – had drew the attention of the card and domino players, and even brought the hermits from their cells, doubling the size of the audience. I was sure that all of the men watching from the balcony and every corner and table of the day room were thinking the same as me: Will a victim die? What’s it like to be facing the death penalty? Alejandro would stand there, arms folded, his bulk swaying slightly, with a fear in his eyes as if he were not looking at a battered TV set that barely tuned in, but at a gun pointed at him by an executioner. The prisoners usually remained quiet, except for the night a reporter revealed that one of Alejandro’s bullets had exited through a girl’s nipple. That caused many groans and other sounds of displeasure. The reports invariably ended with his victims in critical but stable condition, none dead. After digesting this, Alejandro would set off relieved. He’d trudge up the metal-grid stairs, the hermits disappearing into the cells in front of him and the noise in the day room picking up behind him.
I'd like to end this blog entry with a big thank you to the people at Koestler. The progress I've made with Sally over just these four sessions has exceeded my expectations. I couldn't have been assigned a better mentor!
Click here to read Mentored Part 3.
If you are a publisher or an agent and wish to read sample chapters from my jail memoir, please email writeinside@hotmail.com.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 4)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read chapter 26 of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Here’s the start of chapter 26, followed by her comments.
I spent half a day in holding cells before arriving at a small two-man cell on the second floor of the Madison Street jail. It was about 2am. Light from the day room was filtering into the dark cell through oblong gaps in the door, illuminating my new cellmate cocooned in a white sheet, snoring lightly on the top bunk about two thirds of the way up the back wall. As I’d just come from a jail where men were prone to fight over the bottom bunk, I was grateful he’d taken the top. Delirious from two-days’ sleep deprivation, I was looking forward to a good rest. I thought my standard of living had improved – two-man cell, bottom bunk – until I noticed movement on the cement-block walls. Putting the movement down to hallucinations, I blinked several times. Still movement. Stepping closer, I saw the wall was alive with insects, and I flinched. So many insects, I wondered if they were a colony of ants on the move just like you see in documentaries. To get a better look, I put my face to within inches of the wall, and saw they were mostly the size of almonds and had antennae. American cockroaches! I’d seen them before downstairs in The Horseshoe, but nothing like this. A chill spread over my body. I backed away. As my night vision picked up, I spotted more insect shapes circulating on the ceiling, going in and out of the base of the fluorescent strip light. Every so often one dropped onto the concrete, and resumed crawling. Examining my bunk, it dawned as to why my cellmate had opted to sleep at a higher elevation: cockroaches were pouring out of gaps in the wall at the level of the bottom bunk. The area was thick with them. Placing my mattress on the bunk scattered them. I walked to the toilet, crushing some of them under my shower sandals. I urinated and grabbed the toilet roll. A cockroach darted from the centre of the roll onto my hand, tickling my fingers. My arm jerked as if it had a mind of its own, losing the cockroach and the toilet roll.
Using a towel, I wiped the bulk of them off the bottom bunk, stopping only to shake the odd one off my hand. I unrolled my mattress. They began to regroup and harass my mattress. My adrenaline was pumping so much I was losing my general fatigue. Nauseated, I sat on the stool and contemplated how best to get to sleep. I wondered how my cellmate was managing to sleep through the infestation and my arrival. I decided to copy his technique. I cocooned myself in a white sheet and lay down, crushing a few more cockroaches. The only way they could get to me now was through the breathing hole I’d left in the sheet by the lower half of my face. Inhaling their strange musty odour, I closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I could sense them crawling on the sheet around my feet. Worried they were infiltrating my breathing hole, I constantly opened my eyes. Cramps caused me to shift onto my other side. Watching the wall, I was repulsed by so many of them just inches away from my face. I returned to my original side. The sheet trapped the desert heat to my body, coating me in sweat. I grew so uncomfortable, I had to open my cocoon to waft the heat out. Trickles of sweat tickled my body, tricking my mind into thinking the cockroaches had infiltrated and were crawling on me. It took a while to drift to sleep, and I only managed a few hours. I awoke stuck to the sweaty sheet, disgusted by the cockroach carcasses compressed to the mattress.
The cockroaches plagued my new home until dawn appeared at the dots in the protective metal grid over a begrimed strip of four-inch-thick glass at the top of the back wall – the cell’s only source of outdoor light. Then they disappeared into the cracks in the walls, like vampire mist retreating from sunlight. But not all of them. There had been so many on the night shift that even their vastly reduced number was still too many to dispose of. And they acted like they knew this. They roamed around my feet with attitude, as if to let me know I was trespassing on their stomping ground.
Sally’s comments on chapter 26:
– Good stuff. Very strong.
– Takes you right into the moment.
– Ends at exactly the right place.
– The writing does service to the story.
– Not too much extraneous detail.
For our fourth session, Sally asked me to meet her at the British Library, a building in Central London that Prince Charles once described as a “monstrous ziggurat,” and a “school for secret policemen.”
It’s a library quite like no other. Let’s start with the collection: over 150 million items (including 14 million books), that require 625 km of shelves; over 3 million new items added every year, requiring another 12 km of shelf space. The library receives a copy of every publication produced in the UK and Ireland. Its treasures include the Magna Carta and Leonardo da Vinci's Notebook.
Entering the library, I felt small. It was the largest building constructed in England in the last century, taking up 10 million bricks, and 180,000 tonnes of concrete. It has nine floors above ground, and five below. The foyer was like the check-in area of a grandiose hotel. I crossed the polished stone floor, and joined one of the many trails of student-looking types disappearing into the building. Further inside, many people were sat on the floor. There were rows of them at the foot of every wall, with laptops on their thighs, and cables running into the wall sockets. The screen glow reflecting on their faces added a ghostly aura to expressions mostly within the range of deep-thinking to tunnel vision.
It took a few flights of stairs for my first sighting of England’s Grande Armée of literature. The books were on shelves enclosed in glass columns bigger than most buildings. Mini skyscrapers shooting up out of sight, with row after row of books pressed against the glass, like prisoners watching their visitors arrive.
I tried to enter one of the reading rooms, where older highbrow types with eccentric asexual faces were gravitating, but I was rebuffed as I had no ticket.
In the café, Sally bought me a delicious pear juice.
In the last three mentored blogs, I’ve been polishing up the opening of the book. Sally put that to rest with this comment: “This is fine now. Be careful of over-polishing the first few chapters. Better to press on and revisit the beginning in the light of the rest of the book.”
Now we’ve seen what Sally likes, let’s look at Sally’s comments on chapters 8 to 11:
– These four chapters all feel a little thin. Perhaps stripped back too much.
– Might be an opportunity to introduce more about the jail system and why it’s so brutalising.
– At this point you can afford to introduce some moral ambiguity of your own, taking the readers with you.
– It’s difficult to balance introducing your own personal changes with avoiding editorialising. Do this by making your emotions more directly felt rather than summarised.
Let’s concentrate on Sally’s first and last comment. The writing has been pared back too much in certain areas and I am making the reoccurring error of editorialising. I’ve found a specific paragraph in chapter 8 that incorporates both of these weaknesses. The paragraph is about Alejandro who has already been introduced to the reader as a four-hundred-pound youngster arrested for shooting a car full of rival gang members with an AK-47. Here’s the paragraph:
Some of Alejandro’s victims were in critical condition, and if any of them died, he would be facing death by lethal injection. For a week, the condition of his victims made nightly headline news. Stunned by the shock of this inextricable linking of his fate with theirs, Alejandro watched these reports on the lone TV affixed high on the day-room wall.
Sally underlined the sentence in bold and wrote: Editorialising. Instead show us Alejandro’s reaction. Make it real.
Ok, I’m going to expand it, and try to make it real. Here I go:
Every night, just in time for the beginning of the news, Alejandro emerged from his cell with a look of dread, and positioned himself at the back of the two dozen or so noisy prisoners clustered in front of the old TV set fixed high on the day-room wall. When the news started, he’d move forward as if yanked by its familiar jingle. Sweating far more than the rest, he’d urge everyone to hush. Out of deference for the gravity of his situation, the heads of all of the races would order their youngsters to shut up. By the time the condition of his victims was reported, the unusual quiet – which in the jail meant something bad was happening to somebody somewhere – had drew the attention of the card and domino players, and even brought the hermits from their cells, doubling the size of the audience. I was sure that all of the men watching from the balcony and every corner and table of the day room were thinking the same as me: Will a victim die? What’s it like to be facing the death penalty? Alejandro would stand there, arms folded, his bulk swaying slightly, with a fear in his eyes as if he were not looking at a battered TV set that barely tuned in, but at a gun pointed at him by an executioner. The prisoners usually remained quiet, except for the night a reporter revealed that one of Alejandro’s bullets had exited through a girl’s nipple. That caused many groans and other sounds of displeasure. The reports invariably ended with his victims in critical but stable condition, none dead. After digesting this, Alejandro would set off relieved. He’d trudge up the metal-grid stairs, the hermits disappearing into the cells in front of him and the noise in the day room picking up behind him.
I'd like to end this blog entry with a big thank you to the people at Koestler. The progress I've made with Sally over just these four sessions has exceeded my expectations. I couldn't have been assigned a better mentor!
Click here to read Mentored Part 3.
If you are a publisher or an agent and wish to read sample chapters from my jail memoir, please email writeinside@hotmail.com.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
04 May 09
The Cathy Licavoli Caper
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.
Back in 2006, I asked Two Tonys if he had ever run into any celebrities on his Mafia rounds.
“Yeah,” Two Tonys said. “I’ve gotta story for ya. Pete Licavoli – a mob boss from Detroit – retired out here in Tucson. He brought his crew with him, includin’ me.
I getta call from Pete’s son, Michael Licavoli, sayin’, ‘My fuckin’ sister ran off with a fuckin’ band. Cathy’s only sixteen. My ol’ man and the ol’ lady are goin’ bonkers. We’ve gotta find her.’
I asked him, ‘What band? Where were they playin’ at?’
He told me, ‘The Dollhouse.’
I called the owner of The Dollhouse, Barry – a motherfucker who, later on, we ran outta Tucson by puttin’ a bomb under his car – and asked him to call his bookin’ agent to find out where the group went. He called back and said they were playin’ next in Orange County, California, so Pete Licavoli gets me and Michael tickets to fly out there right away.
We know she’s hangin’ out with some rock ‘n’ rolla called Shaky Walls. He thought he was a Beatle, a blooty Beatul. He had the hair, the John Lennon boots, all that shit.
We called our connect in L.A., Terry Dean a.k.a. Freddy Few, an Englishman who we knew in Detroit. He was a good-lookin’ fella, a legit male escort for actresses and stuff, a floor walker at the Playboy Bunny Club. Terry says he’ll pick us up at the airport.
We get off the plane – and who’s there to pick us up? – Terry’s wife, Evelyn Silvers, the ex-wife of Phil Silvers, Sergeant Bilko. And she’s got all five of Bilko’s kids with her. She says, ‘Terry couldn’t make it. He’s at a meetin’. I’m supposed to take you back to the house.’
So here we are, two guys out to take care of business, in character, on a mission, and we’re cruisin’ down the freeway with five kids singin’, ‘McDonald’s is our kinda place.’ And we’re lookin’ at each other like to say, What the fuck kind of shit is this? while playin’ the role, gigglin’ with the kids and shit.
We pull up at her place in Beverley Hills, and there sits a Tudor fuckin’ mansion, with cut grass, and a Mexican gardener mowin’ the lawn and shit. It’s Phil Silver’s house. She got it in the divorce.”
“Where was Phil?” I asked.
“Runnin’ around L.A. and shit, you know, bein’ Sergeant Bilko. Finally Terry shows up and runs us down to some club in O.C. in his Lincoln. At twenty to nine who comes in the joint, but Shaky Walls and Cathy Licavoli. Michael grabs his sister, and tries takin’ her to the car.
She’s screamin’, ‘No, Mikey! I love Shaky! I don’t wanna go home! We’re in love!’
Shaky – the blooty Beatul – is standin’ there with a goofy look on his face. The tall skinny motherfucker doesn’t know what time it is. So I grab him – not rough stuff – I just grab him and say, ‘Hey, pal, lemme tell ya how the cow ate the cabbage. If ya know anythin’ about this girl, ya know who her pop is, and she’s only sixteen. Listen, if we’ve gotta come back, you’ll never see us comin’. And I can guarantee ya one thing: you’ll never be able to tie your shoelaces again much less play that guitar, Elvis.’
He didn’t want trouble. He was coppin; deuces all over the place, sayin’, ‘She told me she was eighteen goin’ on nineteen. Wah-wah-wah.’
We took Cathy Licavoli back to Beverly Hills, and me and Michael were gonna spend the night at some flea-bitten motel on Sunset Boulevard. But Terry decides to take us to dinner at La Dulce Vida.
We go there – me, Michael, Cathy, Bilko’s ex-ol’ lady – and it’s a nice fuckin’ joint, and everyone knows Terry and Evelyn there.
We’re on our way to a booth, and I hear Terry go, ‘Hi, Peter! Hi, Peter!’ I look across the room, and I see Peter Lawford goin’, ‘Hi, Terry! Hi, Terry!’
We sit down, and Terry says, ‘Look over there. It’s George Raft.’ He was the guy who always played a gangster in the movies. He had distinct aquiline features.
Raft had been a guest of Pete Licavoli in Tucson. Michael had met him, so he says, ‘I’m gonna fuckin’ go say hi to George Raft,’
I said, ‘I’m goin’ with ya,’
So Michael tells him, ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Pete Licavoli’s son, Michael. I met you at the ranch.’
Raft says, ‘I remember your dad. How is he?’
They small-talked for two minutes, but the motherfucker didn’t even ask us to sit down. So we went back to our table, and Michaels was slightly pissed.
After the meal, Terry takes us to a club called The Daisy. The one where O.J. met his wife who he had whacked. We sit down. Music’s playin’. It’s lit like a nightclub.
Then Terry points out a big football player, a black guy, Jim Brown, whose with some broad, and says, ‘Guess who that broad is?’ We dunno, so he says, ‘Tina Sinatra, Frank Sinatra’s daughter.’
Michaels had a few drinks. He’s a little schnockered. He’s got his Italiano whiskey muscles up, and for some fuckin’ reason, he gets it into his head, that the daughter of the famous ol’ crooner shouldn’t be messin’ round with a black guy, Jim Brown, who’s a big bad motherfucker. A black guy and an Italian broad was a no-no in his eyes. So Michael starts loud-talkin’. Sayin’ stuff like, ‘If her father could see her now.’
And I’m thinkin’, Oh no. Goddamit. Michael’s gonna get this place in an uproar.
Back then we called a gun a schubetzo. I’m strapped, and I’m thinkin’ Jim Brown’s gonna hear this drunk motherfucker, and he’s gonna do a number. Nothin’s gonna stop Brown other than a .38 in the jaw, which there’s absolutely no need for ’cause he’s only dancin’ and havin’ a good time. And so what if he’s pokin’ Sinatra’s daughter? I’m hopin’ I’m not gonna have to whack any motherfucker in The Daisy. It’d be all over the fuckin’ news.
Michael’s still loud-talkin’, and just when it looks as if all hell’s gonna break loose, Terry had the good sense to hustle us outta the fuckin’ joint.”
“So was Pete Licavoli pleased you saved his daughter from Shaky Walls?” I asked.
“He was ecstatic, but he never so much as gave me an attaboy. All he cared about were the visions in his head of his wayward Mafia princess marryin’ a Mafioso. That’s how they unite their families.”
Click here for Two Tonys’ previous blog
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Two Tonys is dying from cancer. You can send well wishes for Two Tonys by emailing writeinside@hotmail.com or posting them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
The Cathy Licavoli Caper
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.
Back in 2006, I asked Two Tonys if he had ever run into any celebrities on his Mafia rounds.
“Yeah,” Two Tonys said. “I’ve gotta story for ya. Pete Licavoli – a mob boss from Detroit – retired out here in Tucson. He brought his crew with him, includin’ me.
I getta call from Pete’s son, Michael Licavoli, sayin’, ‘My fuckin’ sister ran off with a fuckin’ band. Cathy’s only sixteen. My ol’ man and the ol’ lady are goin’ bonkers. We’ve gotta find her.’
I asked him, ‘What band? Where were they playin’ at?’
He told me, ‘The Dollhouse.’
I called the owner of The Dollhouse, Barry – a motherfucker who, later on, we ran outta Tucson by puttin’ a bomb under his car – and asked him to call his bookin’ agent to find out where the group went. He called back and said they were playin’ next in Orange County, California, so Pete Licavoli gets me and Michael tickets to fly out there right away.
We know she’s hangin’ out with some rock ‘n’ rolla called Shaky Walls. He thought he was a Beatle, a blooty Beatul. He had the hair, the John Lennon boots, all that shit.
We called our connect in L.A., Terry Dean a.k.a. Freddy Few, an Englishman who we knew in Detroit. He was a good-lookin’ fella, a legit male escort for actresses and stuff, a floor walker at the Playboy Bunny Club. Terry says he’ll pick us up at the airport.
We get off the plane – and who’s there to pick us up? – Terry’s wife, Evelyn Silvers, the ex-wife of Phil Silvers, Sergeant Bilko. And she’s got all five of Bilko’s kids with her. She says, ‘Terry couldn’t make it. He’s at a meetin’. I’m supposed to take you back to the house.’
So here we are, two guys out to take care of business, in character, on a mission, and we’re cruisin’ down the freeway with five kids singin’, ‘McDonald’s is our kinda place.’ And we’re lookin’ at each other like to say, What the fuck kind of shit is this? while playin’ the role, gigglin’ with the kids and shit.
We pull up at her place in Beverley Hills, and there sits a Tudor fuckin’ mansion, with cut grass, and a Mexican gardener mowin’ the lawn and shit. It’s Phil Silver’s house. She got it in the divorce.”
“Where was Phil?” I asked.
“Runnin’ around L.A. and shit, you know, bein’ Sergeant Bilko. Finally Terry shows up and runs us down to some club in O.C. in his Lincoln. At twenty to nine who comes in the joint, but Shaky Walls and Cathy Licavoli. Michael grabs his sister, and tries takin’ her to the car.
She’s screamin’, ‘No, Mikey! I love Shaky! I don’t wanna go home! We’re in love!’
Shaky – the blooty Beatul – is standin’ there with a goofy look on his face. The tall skinny motherfucker doesn’t know what time it is. So I grab him – not rough stuff – I just grab him and say, ‘Hey, pal, lemme tell ya how the cow ate the cabbage. If ya know anythin’ about this girl, ya know who her pop is, and she’s only sixteen. Listen, if we’ve gotta come back, you’ll never see us comin’. And I can guarantee ya one thing: you’ll never be able to tie your shoelaces again much less play that guitar, Elvis.’
He didn’t want trouble. He was coppin; deuces all over the place, sayin’, ‘She told me she was eighteen goin’ on nineteen. Wah-wah-wah.’
We took Cathy Licavoli back to Beverly Hills, and me and Michael were gonna spend the night at some flea-bitten motel on Sunset Boulevard. But Terry decides to take us to dinner at La Dulce Vida.
We go there – me, Michael, Cathy, Bilko’s ex-ol’ lady – and it’s a nice fuckin’ joint, and everyone knows Terry and Evelyn there.
We’re on our way to a booth, and I hear Terry go, ‘Hi, Peter! Hi, Peter!’ I look across the room, and I see Peter Lawford goin’, ‘Hi, Terry! Hi, Terry!’
We sit down, and Terry says, ‘Look over there. It’s George Raft.’ He was the guy who always played a gangster in the movies. He had distinct aquiline features.
Raft had been a guest of Pete Licavoli in Tucson. Michael had met him, so he says, ‘I’m gonna fuckin’ go say hi to George Raft,’
I said, ‘I’m goin’ with ya,’
So Michael tells him, ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Pete Licavoli’s son, Michael. I met you at the ranch.’
Raft says, ‘I remember your dad. How is he?’
They small-talked for two minutes, but the motherfucker didn’t even ask us to sit down. So we went back to our table, and Michaels was slightly pissed.
After the meal, Terry takes us to a club called The Daisy. The one where O.J. met his wife who he had whacked. We sit down. Music’s playin’. It’s lit like a nightclub.
Then Terry points out a big football player, a black guy, Jim Brown, whose with some broad, and says, ‘Guess who that broad is?’ We dunno, so he says, ‘Tina Sinatra, Frank Sinatra’s daughter.’
Michaels had a few drinks. He’s a little schnockered. He’s got his Italiano whiskey muscles up, and for some fuckin’ reason, he gets it into his head, that the daughter of the famous ol’ crooner shouldn’t be messin’ round with a black guy, Jim Brown, who’s a big bad motherfucker. A black guy and an Italian broad was a no-no in his eyes. So Michael starts loud-talkin’. Sayin’ stuff like, ‘If her father could see her now.’
And I’m thinkin’, Oh no. Goddamit. Michael’s gonna get this place in an uproar.
Back then we called a gun a schubetzo. I’m strapped, and I’m thinkin’ Jim Brown’s gonna hear this drunk motherfucker, and he’s gonna do a number. Nothin’s gonna stop Brown other than a .38 in the jaw, which there’s absolutely no need for ’cause he’s only dancin’ and havin’ a good time. And so what if he’s pokin’ Sinatra’s daughter? I’m hopin’ I’m not gonna have to whack any motherfucker in The Daisy. It’d be all over the fuckin’ news.
Michael’s still loud-talkin’, and just when it looks as if all hell’s gonna break loose, Terry had the good sense to hustle us outta the fuckin’ joint.”
“So was Pete Licavoli pleased you saved his daughter from Shaky Walls?” I asked.
“He was ecstatic, but he never so much as gave me an attaboy. All he cared about were the visions in his head of his wayward Mafia princess marryin’ a Mafioso. That’s how they unite their families.”
Click here for Two Tonys’ previous blog
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Two Tonys is dying from cancer. You can send well wishes for Two Tonys by emailing writeinside@hotmail.com or posting them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Central Unit (Part 1 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
I remember when I first pulled up. Central Unit reminded me of a cross between Alcatraz, and the prison in the Shawshank Redemption. It’s one of the oldest prisons in Arizona. Its reputation for violence and death has no equal.
You probably know that in all prisons a subculture of violence exists, but in Central Unit it is as acceptable as a morning cup of coffee – by guards and inmates alike. Even though it is 23½-hour-a-day lockdown. Anyone heading there has to get ready for battle.
The 1980 movie, Stir Crazy, with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, was filmed at Central Unit. These days its décor consists of rusted bars, cracked-moldy concrete, and generations of rats, roaches and feral cats. Rumour has it that the prison was to be condemned a long time ago, but the State of Arizona just has the health inspector and OSHA look the other way.
Standing in front of my new cell, I stared through the bars. It was early morning, about 5am. The other inmates on the run were still asleep as their lights were off, except for my neighbor’s. The escorting officer radioed the guard in the control tower to rack my new home [open my door]. He did, and I entered.
As the steel bars closed behind me, I felt somewhat more comfortable. I could let my guard down a little as a closed cell buys a little protection, or perhaps just piece of mind.
I turned on the light to get a better view. Tired blue paint was peeling off the walls, exposing the concrete underneath. The stress cracks in the cement floor were climbing up the bottom of the walls. There were leopard patches of rust on the steel toilet, sink and single bunk. The iodine and iron smell that only weathered old steel gives off penetrated my sinuses. The floor was filthy with dirt and little balls of lint and hair. I could feel the dirt against my sandals as if I were walking on sandpaper. A square 12x6 inch window was above the toilet. I hopped on the toilet, and discovered the window to be a square hole with bars that led straight outside. It had no safety glass, making my new place feel more like a dungeon. I didn’t even entertain the thought of bugs coming through it. I took a deep breath and exhaled, and told myself it was time to clean and christen this place my new home.
Tack-tack-tack-tack…I heard the rapping of a plastic mirror being tapped against the concrete wall. I turned and saw an arm stretched from around the cell next door. The hand was holding a mirror, in which I saw a reflected combination of a face and bars. The hand and mirror waved for me to come over. I motioned over to the bars, and the hand disappeared with the mirror and returned with a note. I took the note and went back to the light to read it.
The note read: I am Cowboy and I am white. The run has rules. No talking between 10pm and 10am, or when people are on the phone. He also warned me about a race war taking place, adding he would give me the scoop later.
I wrote him back, and made my introduction as well. What yard I recently came from. Who was there, and all of the usual idle chatter to let him know I was all good.
We shook hands and that was it as far as formalities. I went back to cleaning and organizing, then fell asleep.
Before Warrior’s story progresses, I’m wondering if any of you are aware of the ways prisoners who are locked-down in separate cells manage to fight each other?
Click here to read Warrior’s previous story.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Warrior to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
I remember when I first pulled up. Central Unit reminded me of a cross between Alcatraz, and the prison in the Shawshank Redemption. It’s one of the oldest prisons in Arizona. Its reputation for violence and death has no equal.
You probably know that in all prisons a subculture of violence exists, but in Central Unit it is as acceptable as a morning cup of coffee – by guards and inmates alike. Even though it is 23½-hour-a-day lockdown. Anyone heading there has to get ready for battle.
The 1980 movie, Stir Crazy, with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, was filmed at Central Unit. These days its décor consists of rusted bars, cracked-moldy concrete, and generations of rats, roaches and feral cats. Rumour has it that the prison was to be condemned a long time ago, but the State of Arizona just has the health inspector and OSHA look the other way.
Standing in front of my new cell, I stared through the bars. It was early morning, about 5am. The other inmates on the run were still asleep as their lights were off, except for my neighbor’s. The escorting officer radioed the guard in the control tower to rack my new home [open my door]. He did, and I entered.
As the steel bars closed behind me, I felt somewhat more comfortable. I could let my guard down a little as a closed cell buys a little protection, or perhaps just piece of mind.
I turned on the light to get a better view. Tired blue paint was peeling off the walls, exposing the concrete underneath. The stress cracks in the cement floor were climbing up the bottom of the walls. There were leopard patches of rust on the steel toilet, sink and single bunk. The iodine and iron smell that only weathered old steel gives off penetrated my sinuses. The floor was filthy with dirt and little balls of lint and hair. I could feel the dirt against my sandals as if I were walking on sandpaper. A square 12x6 inch window was above the toilet. I hopped on the toilet, and discovered the window to be a square hole with bars that led straight outside. It had no safety glass, making my new place feel more like a dungeon. I didn’t even entertain the thought of bugs coming through it. I took a deep breath and exhaled, and told myself it was time to clean and christen this place my new home.
Tack-tack-tack-tack…I heard the rapping of a plastic mirror being tapped against the concrete wall. I turned and saw an arm stretched from around the cell next door. The hand was holding a mirror, in which I saw a reflected combination of a face and bars. The hand and mirror waved for me to come over. I motioned over to the bars, and the hand disappeared with the mirror and returned with a note. I took the note and went back to the light to read it.
The note read: I am Cowboy and I am white. The run has rules. No talking between 10pm and 10am, or when people are on the phone. He also warned me about a race war taking place, adding he would give me the scoop later.
I wrote him back, and made my introduction as well. What yard I recently came from. Who was there, and all of the usual idle chatter to let him know I was all good.
We shook hands and that was it as far as formalities. I went back to cleaning and organizing, then fell asleep.
Before Warrior’s story progresses, I’m wondering if any of you are aware of the ways prisoners who are locked-down in separate cells manage to fight each other?
Click here to read Warrior’s previous story.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Warrior to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
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