Beginning of the T-Bone ebook

Fresh out of the hole, T-Bone arrived at Yard 4 looking as if he had just materialised from a gladiator movie. With arms thicker than my thighs, making his 6XL T-shirt appear too small, and weighing more than two of me, T-Bone has got to be one of the toughest men on the yard. Showing up at my cell, he said he had heard of my good reputation, and that he hoped nobody was giving me “any shit.” After mentioning being in for drugs and trafficking in stolen property, he began a story about fighting an ex-cellmate.

“What did your celly look like?” I asked.

“He was six-feet tall and about 230 pounds,” T-Bone said. “He had gold teeth and long greasy hair. He was a strong man, a cut-up dude. He was benching 385, squatting 475, and dead-lifting 400 or more.”

“Wow! Why’d you get into it with him?”

“It came about ’cause he was a raper. He was raping people on the yard. He raped a retarded kid with mental problems in our cell. I said to him, ‘It smells like crap in here. What’s been going on man?’ He said, ‘What you thinks going on? I just got me some.’ I told him, ‘Man, you’ve gotta get your nasty tail up outta here.’ He said, ‘No. You gotta get your tail outta here. You ain’t nothing but a punk anyway, and I’m gonna cut ya.’ He stood up, looking at me all crazy. I hit him with a straight right, and broke his jaw in two places. He lost four teeth. Another blow fractured his eye socket. I hit him flush, and he was out.”

“What’s flush?”

“Flat. I thought he was dead. I laid him on his bunk, and took a shower. When I came back, he was still on his bunk calling for his mama. Some white guys came over who wanted to kill him ’cause  the dude he raped was a white guy. I stopped that. He was alone on his bunk, bleeding and groaning, and I looked in his eyes and saw a spark like he was becoming more aware.”

“Was he regrouping?”

“He had regrouped. From the top bunk, I moved my right leg. He jumped up. He had a rod of finely sharpened iron – an eight-inch blade with a rag on one end and a real nice point on the other. I backhanded the wrist of the hand holding the shank. He came at me. His eyes were red with rage. His jaw was swollen up. Blood was coming outta the corner of his mouth. He had death in his eyes: black pupils totally empty and void of emotion and feeling. I still have nightmares about the way he looked. He made his move: a lunge. I hit him in the right eye, and he stumbled back. I kicked him in his right thigh, and I felt my foot penetrate the muscle down to the bone. I knew I had to disarm him. His leg was momentarily numb, so in a split second, I grabbed his right hand with both of mine and twisted his wrist. I broke his wrist and elbow, and kicked him in his lung.”

“Did he go down?”

“Oh, yeah, he was finished. I put him on his bunk, but he couldn’t keep still ’cause of the pain. An hour later it’s count time. A cop comes by. I’m using the toilet. My celly rolled over, and blood came outta his mouth in front of the cop. He said I’d assaulted him in his sleep. They took me to the hole. I was charged with dangerous and deadly assault on an inmate. I got a seven-and-a-half-year sentence that ran concurrent with my other time.”

“So you did no additional prison time ’cause of the fight?”

“No, but the cops thought I was a real bad character after that.”

Click here for the fight story T-Bone v Scooter

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