When the Mexican federal police captured me and my American partner in my pot-growing venture, we were taken to the town of Uruapan. Over the course of the next few days, they began to round up and arrest Mexican citizens who they thought were involved in my nefarious deeds. They put them with us in a police compound. All told, including my friend Jack, they brought in nine people. Five of whom I had never met in my life. They didn’t even know my name nor I theirs.
During the day we were free to roam the compound and at night we were locked into two small rooms. After a few days, two of the Mexican nationals they brought in escaped at night by simply getting out of their room and climbing over the compound wall. Needless to say, my captors were none too thrilled about this and from that day forward they handcuffed us together at night while we were locked in these two rooms. I was always handcuffed to my friend, Jack.
The compound itself was a strange place. Under a two-story covered part was stacked up at least ten tons of marijuana. We felt free to pilfer small amounts for our personal use. The police knew we were doing this but did not seem to mind in the least. When we grew hungry, we were allowed to send out for food from a local restaurant provided I paid for it.
The police who had us were a strange lot, friendly one minute, brutal the next, often times apologizing for the brutality saying it was only their job, nothing personal. I did not know about the others, but I did take being tortured personally. Although for the most part they were far more violent with the Mexican citizens than with Americans, I nonetheless got a pretty good taste of some of their “questioning” skills. The very first day they had me my right elbow was broken with a rifle butt. It still at times bothers me to this day.
I was also subjected several times to the Mexican version of water-boarding. What they did was this: A popular mineral water was given several good shakes while still sealed in the glass bottle. A towel was stuffed into my mouth, so I could only breathe through my nose. I was tilted backwards in a chair. They poked a small hole in the bottle cap and shot the bubbly water up my nose. The sensation was akin to drowning and burning at the same time – a tad uncomfortable to say the least.
After about eight or nine days of this, Jack was brought back to our cell about dusk. They had been very hard on Jack that day and he was clearly in a great deal of pain. When I awakened the next morning, Jack’s cold dead eyes were staring at the ceiling. As usual, I was still handcuffed to Jack. I went crazy. Absolutely barking mad. I began screaming at the guards that I would kill all of them. They were afraid to even come near me and as such I remained handcuffed to Jack’s dead body for the next day or so. Being handcuffed to a dead man creates many logistical problems. Going to the bathroom for instance. I was so crazy that I began talking to Jack and thought he was answering back. It was the closest I have come to pure insanity in my entire life. Dead people can, at times, have quite a lot to say.
About two days after the handcuffs were removed, which had connected me to my dead friend, the Federal police who had questioned me flew me back to Guadalajara in a private twin-engine aircraft and placed me in a local jail. A few days after that I was transferred to a Mexican prison, where I spent the next two years trying to escape. The Federal police’s last words to me were, “Gringo, the next time you come to our mountains, you need to work with us. If you buy one ton of marijuana from us we will give you another ton for free.” Believe me, they were quite serious. I know because I later took them up on their offer.
The author of this blog entry, Weird Al, was deathly sick a few months ago. He’s presently in a nursing home battling hepatitis C. Please support Weird Al at his Facebook page. His email is: firstname.lastname@example.org