10:20 AM - Calling You Out
Category: Life

With the holidays coming up, I am sure the hustle and bustle is about to begin. Tomorrow is black Friday. Some people do all their holiday shopping in one trip that day. I've never been so lucky finically to do that, but they sure have incredible deals. What do you want for Christmas this year? Have you been a good little boy/girl? For the women, I'm sure Tripper would love to arrange a little spankin'! *winks*  And for the men, I'm sure Nic could figure something out…tehehe

Seriously though, from about November through February, it's a more tough than usual for Tripper. The holiday season. They call this Friday "black Friday", but for Tripper it's more like "Black November, December, January, and February", and it's not in a good way by any means. I wanted to make a play on the "black" thing since it's such a huge deal everywhere. And then I started to think about Tripper and what I wanted this whole blog to mean. I thought of his family, his loved ones, the people here on MySpace that have become an integral part of his life now,  and all the people that would give up damn near everything just to give him a hug, real friends, real people who care about Tripper, not his money, not his bag of dope, not what he can do for them.

Tripper's Parents and Sister, last picture taken, I believe 5 years ago.

 To hear his laugh on Christmas morning, to sit around and have a beer with him on Christmas Eve.  To hold his hand and tell him that everything is going to be alright, and really mean it. Tripper owns up to what he did. He is serving his time, albeit entirely too much time for the crime. He does his own time, and makes it through every single day, ending with a sort of peace in his heart.  Every year though, during the holiday season, he loses all hope. As big and bad as Tripper is, this time of year seriously knocks him on his ass, and every year I am more afraid he will not get back up. He loses the ability to dream, wonder, and know he can make it out here again. He takes himself to a place within that is incredibly dark and lonely. He loses his will and his ability to hope.

 Many of us do that out here as well around the holidays. Some have suffered endless tragic things during the holidays, and even if it's not the holiday, it's the person or place that takes you to that dark place within yourself.  Out here at least that person has options. Such as the ability to go to a church service without assholes having sex in the pew behind you or fear that if you do go to the church inside that some horrible act of violence will happen, as the church is an easy place to do almost anything. There is no respect for any higher power.  You can have a holiday drink, or 5, to ease that pain or go to your doctor and ask for some sedatives to help make it through.  You can go see your family or to their gravestones, you have the ability to communicate with your body, your hands, fingertips, lips and heart. You have the ability to move, to do something, anything, even if it is to only run away. Tripper has no option like that.

His family will not be able to make a trip to see him, it's just simply too far, and his elderly folks are not in good health, another thing Tripper relishes on and worries endlessly about. He would trade 3 life sentences just to be with them and take care of them while they age. And they miss him terribly as well. It's not only Tripper that does the time ladies and gentlemen. Everyone who loves him does the time as well. 15 years, we are incarcerating people for 15 years on non-violent drug charges with quantities that you and I piss in one trip to the bathroom. It's insane, not right, and something that makes me ashamed to say I live in America. But Tripper does his time.

I am calling you all out again to please help make the holidays a little more bearable for Tripper. I'd like us to give him the best Christmas he can have inside. We can do it, but it's going to take all of us. Pulling together on his birthday was in-fucking-credible!  You guys shocked the hell out of me, there seriously are people out there who love, care, and are committed to seeing Tripper succeed. The word to describe that is simply good will. Good hearts, people who understand, people who never want to understand but care, people who will walk the extra mile to make sure somebody has a good holiday. People who pay it forward.

Please, send Christmas cards!! I am going to be packaging them up and mailing them to Tripper on December 20^th.  Every single card is a HUGE deal to Tripper. Something maybe you and I take for granted. And as Lisa said in the birthday blog, I'm passing a hat around. I am putting up $50 again. He can't have SO many things it's easier to list the things he can have.

Tripper's Christmas Wish List via the Representative

Magazine Subscriptions, no nudity or violence, mailed from the manufacturer directly to him

He really would love the Fort Smith newspaper, a little piece of home (it's really expensive though, and I haven't been able to come up with the cash for that.If this is something that you are interested in doing, please shoot me a message and I'll tell you how to send it! Stamps and ribbons take priority)

Soft Cover books, again, no nudity or violence

Cards of all kinds! No stickers, no musical cards, no voice record cards, and no over-sized cards. (Bummer isn't it, *sighs*)

Money (he can use this to go to the inmate store to buy foods, he can order clothes ex. Sweat pants, tennis shoes, socks, underwear, tee shirts (the real world kind, prices jacked high as hell of course). He can get his ribbons for the type writer and his correction tapes. He can also buy stamps! Plus he has to pay a co-pay to see the inmate doctor and dentist. Common things are not given to them, Band-Aids, ibuprofen, cortisone cream, things we just need from time to time. Him not having an income, it's really tough sometimes. Well hell, all the time, but he survives. I would just like to make it a little bit better for him. I just can't do it alone.

 This can work, but I need all of you. Tripper will be happy with my card and gift, but he will be floored to get a card package and money order like he did for his birthday. He was very emotional when he got the packages that day, and couldn't believe so many of you out there cared.  And seriously you guys, MySpace has renewed his faith in people. If you could've seen him before he started blogging, you would've seen a very bitter, angry man. You all make a difference in his life. An incredible difference.

The address to mail the cards to me for processing is:

Tales From The Cells

P.O. BOX 430

O'Neill, NE  68763

By December 20th, 2008

Please message me with any questions, concerns, or ideas. As I said in the birthday blog, if you want to send a monetary gift, NOTHING is too small. It is easier for me to process and get into a money order if you send cash. If you are not comfortable with that, let me know, and will let you know how to address it to me personally to add it on to the money order. There is also a calendar in the making especially for Tripper.  I will give details on that in another blog coming up very soon, but to give you an idea, we would like any photos you want in his calendar, and also your town's "special days", your birthdays, anything to fill up the calendar and make it bad ass. Gypsy Adair and  Road ~ Trip ~ Junkie are the ladies doing this, so speak with them directly, or hang tight for further instruction here.

                                        Tripper at 6 y/o

I will be pimping this out, I ask that you too please pimp it out. I am going to get a banner put up as well.  BUT if you talk to Tripper directly, LET'S KEEP THIS A SUPRISE. There are so few good surprises in his life, we have the possibility of doing it big!! I hate to ask this all of you. The economy is tough right now. People are suffering. People are going without. A  gift is nice, but let's try to get as many cards as we possibly can gathered up!! Your well wishes and thoughts to him are worth a pot of gold, seriously. Sometimes it's hard for people to understand how something so simple can end up being such a big thing. When everything is taken from you, the things you do get that are good, are the most important things in the world. I speak from my own personal experience, and understand where Tripper is coming from. Again, this is a big surprise, so let's try to make it BANG ladies and gentlemen!

Be Good and Be Well…..

Tripper's Representative, Nic

Tripper's Representative Nic and her son

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10:20 AM - Convict Defintions 101 part 2
Category: Life

For those of you have been, or will be, reading my blogs here on Tripper's "Tales From The Cells" ……

Please find listed below a few definitions of prison terms and phrases you'll need to know in order to better understand convict lingo and be penitentiary literate. Be advised some of these definitions apply only to United States Federal Prisons whereas others are universal in state institutions as well. This blog is meant to be both education­al and amusing, but does have graphic content. I hope you'll enjoy and let me know if you want to continue Convict Defintions 101.

                                 -Tripper

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10:20 AM - The Jail House Lawyers; Dewey, Cheatham & Howe
Category: Life

There are all kinds of hustles in federal prison. There are guys who shine shoes,  fix watches and iron uniforms. Then, there are your inmate attorneys. Also known as writ writers or jailhouse lawyers. These are men who have, or sometimes claim to have, knowledge of the law who'll help you work on your case. Some are hard working dudes. Others, well ...  they're simply in it for the money. If an inmate brings me his case and I read it and see he ain't got nothin' comin'? Then I'll tell him he ain't got nothin' comin' and like it or not, go away. The harsh reality of prison is, very rarely does anyone win their case on appeal. No use lying to these guys telling them they're going to win. Because 999 times out of 1,000, they can't and won't. And the sooner they get this through their thick skulls, the better off they'll be. Know what I'm sayin'? Holding on to hope that just isn't there is what steals your soul and life blood.

    Among we writ writers who sit here in the law library day after day, there's a private joke about a fictional law firm we call, Dewey, Cheatham, & Howe. Personally, I don't beat people out of their money, but there are a lot of these crooked so-called inmate attorneys who will. For example, there's a former federal public defender I met from Gary, Indiana. Of course, he's doing time for fraud. This guy will literally tell you anything you want to hear. He'll convince you he can win your case on either direct appeal or certiorari when in reality, all he wants is your dough. Sent Western Union from your family on the outside to his contact in the free world of course. That way there'll be no trace of any inmate-to-inmate or outside-to-inmate money transaction on record. The real deal being, "Yes we can cheat 'em and this is how."

Then there are your cheap jailhouse attorneys. Men who'll promise you the world on a silver platter for as little as a carton of smokes and a couple of jars of Folgers. There was one such guy at FCI El Reno. His name was Bill. Eventually Bill got ran off the yard for promising bullshit with his mouth that his ass couldn't pay. It's not nice to lie to someone, promising them you can get them back in court. Especially someone desperate, who just got a hot 30 piece, and a man with little or no understanding of the system, the new world he's been thrown into, or how the convict system works. If you know for sure a guy ain't got nothin' comin', then why would you lie to him knowing the dude's in for armed robbery, kidnapping and murder? One would have to ask himself,  are coffee and cigarettes really that important? If it were me, I'd have to say no. After old Bill checked in, I heard he got his ass beat in the hole. Shit happens. It just ain't gonna happen with me or to me.

There are former chiropractors serving time in prison who can work on your back.  And there are preachers who claim they can save your soul. However, beware of the slick talkin' inmate attorney who claims he can get you out of lockup, because again, more often than not, they're full of more shit than a Christmas turkey. Regardless of what they say, if their lips are movin', they're lyin'. I can spot a fraudster from a mile away. Take former California attorney Joe Jammy for example. The name of whom has been changed to keep him from being further beaten at whatever federal joint he's in now. This asshole decided he was going to bilk a mafia boss out of a few thousand bucks promising him he could write something that would set him free. When he lied, as it ALWAYS happens, the boss found out, he too found himself on the business end of a pair of homemade prison knucks. Badly beaten and bruised and barely able to breathe through his shattered nose, he spent many days in an outside hospital getting reconstructive surgery done before getting moved to a PC (protective custody) joint somewhere in the U.S.

      You're got your U.C.C. guys (Universal Commercial Code) that tell you the way to go is to lien up the judge and prosecutor that put you in prison. To have an outside collection agent go to their houses, change the locks on their doors and haul off all their vehicles. That too won't work. Just ask the Montana Freeman who got an extra 15 piece added to their already existing 30 for doing that same, exact, stupid shit. Sitting in the law library next to those guys at FCI El Reno, I told them that crazy crap wouldn't work. That all they were going to do was wind up getting more time. But nooooo! They wouldn't listen to me! Now they're buried under the hole in some unknown federal prison somewhere eating bread and water and a few cockroaches for protein. Rest assured, the United States Government has jurisdiction to prosecute you anywhere and for anything they'd like. Never underestimate the United States Attorney. You think the writ writers in prison are crooked?  You should see these guys work! All I'm sayin' is ... U.C.C. ain't the way to go.

I do a little legal work here in the joint. But only stuff I know how to do. I can file for a fast and speedy trial under the rules of the IADA (Inter­state Agreement on Detainers Act). I can get a guy jail time credit if it's due. And I've even been known to get a divorce or two granted, or a detainer dropped. But only because it's something I'm familiar with—something I've done before. I won't charge a guy an arm and a leg for my services either. If they don't have any money, I don't charge them anything at all. If they have the ability to pay and it's not going to take away from their wife and kids. It'll usually cost them a few books of postage stamps. No need in being greedy. I'll do what I can do only if I think my client can win. No Dewey, Cheatham & Howe here. Just straight up honest legal work done by a layman who has more knowledge of the complicated science of the law than the average con. In closing,  I'd just like to say ...  if you can't do the time, don't do the crime. That reference has haunted me for 8 years. If you come to me in prison lookin' for legal help, don't expect a miracle and get your mind set on doing your own time. It's just easier to accept it and try to live in today than hope for things that will never come tomorrow.     I'm Tripper. Better Days!

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10:20 AM - Brick City
Category: Life

"Fire a few rounds in the air," said Mike when pulling out of the lot. "Let's give these assholes a scare!" Flames shot from the barrel of Benny's .12 guage Remington blowing the hubcaps off a new El Dorado as they burned rubber down south Greenwood. "Damn it Ronnie! I said 'in the air', not in the side of some dude's new ride!" The next day it was all over the news that the Ku Klux Klan had raided the Diamond Inn in retaliation for the beating of a white boy in the park. Of course it wasn't the KKK. Just four young north siders tired of taking ass whippings from the black guys in brick city and the surrounding area. A lot more shit went down at brick city over the next couple of years. None of which I had anything to do with of course. Like I said, I got sent to the pen. For unrelated reasons of course. Just sold a little bit of weed to the wrong dude - an undercover Arkansas State Trooper no less. Then again,  that's another story.

Brick city was finally condemned some time in the 80's. The old red brick buildings stood abandoned for several years afterward and were eventually torn down. Don't have any idea what might be standing on that piece of land today. MLK Park is still there though.    So is the swimming pool where blacks only go to swim. And although I haven't been around Fort Smith in over 8 long years, I imagine the Diamond Inn probably isn't there anymore either and the owner, old Earl himself, is probably in the grave. Thinking back ...  in my mind,  I can still see brick city. And, I still remember the night I got my ass kicked coming home bleeding telling my mom I'd been jumped by a bunch of black guys just because I was white. Rest in peace brick city and all those poor souls forced to live there over the years as well as all the white kids who fell prey to the blacks that assaulted them. I don't think it was so much a skin color as it was how much money they did not have. White or black, there were rough neighborhoods. This just happened to be part of my past, a neighborhood that made an impact in my life. That place and those times will be imbedded in my memory forever.  I am Tripper --a former resident of Fort Smith, Arkansas. Better Days!

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10:20 AM - Vengeance Be Mine
Category: Life

I once had a celly at FCI Memphis who everyone jokingly referred to as McGuyver. An ex-military nut, Carl Slick was quite a talented dude. His special area of expertise was explosives. As a matter of fact, he was doing time for blowing up his attorney's office with an IED (improvised explosive device). Bottom line? Piss Carl off and he was blowing your ass up. That's just the way it was. Ever see the old movie, "The Hills Have Eyes"? Well, Carl reminded me of the bald headed guy in that movie. Weird as fuckin' hell! When Carl walked across the prison compound, everyone stopped dead in their tracks and stared. Tall and lanky with pale white skin, he looked like some­thing out of a horror flick. Yet his prison uniform was starched and his boots were shined just like they were when he was in the Army. Carl would walk to the shower in full dress uniform and emerge from the shower the same way. Some compared him to a zombie, but truthfully, other than being a bit eccentric, Carl was actually a pretty good dude. He minded his own business and did his own time. He told on no one and he hated cops and rats. Carl was a convict. And over time, we became pretty good friends.

One day Carl came in from the Communications Office where he worked and said "Hey Trip! Check this out." Standing on the rail in front of our second tier cell, Carl and I watched one of the TV's on the floor below. Casually pointing down at the Spanish TV where all the Mexicans were watching "Caliente" Carl whispered, "Watch this."   That's when he tipped his Taster's Choice coffee mug up to his mouth as if he were taking a drink and pressed a button mounted in the handle. Suddenly the TV station changed to B.E.T. You see, no inmate was allowed to turn the channels on the TV. Only the prison guard could change stations using the remote control kept in the officer's station. So, when the station suddenly changed, everyone started looking around to see who had the remote. When they realized the cop was no where to be found, one of the guys hunted him down and asked him to put the TV back on UNIVISION. Back in the cell Carl showed me what he'd done.

"I took an old remote control from Communications and mounted the eye in the bottom of my cup. Then, I put the channel changer, on and off button and the volume control in the handle. Now we can change the channels on any of the TV's any time we want. All we gotta do is be within frequency range." Examining the cup, it looked like any other commissary bought coffee cup to me. Moving to the bottom floor, we approached the black TV room where 25 or so men were watching the Boston Celtics play the L.A. Lakers. Standing directly out­side the TV room looking through the glass, Carl once again tipped his cup as if to take a drink. And,  "blip!" Instead of watching Shaquille O'Neal slam a basket then hang off the rim like a monkey from a tree, all the Memphis blacks were watching "Little House on the Prairie". Talk about some mad mother fuckers! "Who got da remote?" was all I could hear them say. Laughing to ourselves, Carl and I walked away.  "We can't tell anyone about this Carl," I said.  "Because if we do, someone will snitch and we'll both go to the hole." Nodding to one another, we agreed to keep the remote control cup a secret.

Later that weekend Carl was standing in front of the TV room pulling his antics when a West Memphis inmate saw what he'd done. Little Red, as they called him, ran straight to the Lieutenant's office and told. Ten minutes later the cops came to our cell and took the remote control cup right out of Carl's hand. Carl went to the hole but was released the next day. "I gotta get even with that rat bastard Trip. I know Red was the one that told on me. The officer who walked me to SHU told me so." "Yeah Carl," I replied. "I know it was him too. Because after you went to lockup, I watched Red as he stood around with all his gangbanger friends laughing and saying shit like, 'Cracker won't be changin' da TV any mo'!' I knew that little fucker was a snitch anyway." For the rest of the weekend, Carl stood on the rail in front of our cell deciding what to do. Not once did he look Red's way letting him know he knew. Finally he'd made up his mind. "I got him Trip. I got his funky rat ass! Just watch and see what I do!"

The first thing Carl did was sneak into Red's cell while everyone went to the chow hall for fried bird. From his pocket he took a bag full of Corning brand fiberglass insulation he'd also stolen from the Communications building and rubbed it in every pair of government issue underwear Red owned. That night after taking his shower, we watched and laughed as Red kept scratching his balls. Pretty soon Red got up to take another shower. And of course, it didn't do a bit of good. Taking his clothes to the laundry room Red started doing a load of wash. From the top tier, Carl watched to see which dryer Red was about to use. Soon as Red put his clothes in the dryer and left the room, Carl walked down to the laundry asking me to watch for the law. Carl took a black magic marker from his pocket, took off the lid and pulled out the wick. Then, he threw the wick in the dryer with all of Red's clothes. By the time Red came back to retrieve his clothes, everything he owned had black marks on them including his store bought sweats and the dew-rag he wore on his nappy ass head. Yeah, fuck Carl over and he's going to get even. That's just the way it was.

The next day Red looked at the call-out sheet and saw he had an appointment at Psych. What on earth could they want he wondered to himself knowing he wasn't a nutcase at all. Apparently, someone had submitted a request to staff member form in Red's name saying he felt suicidal and was thinking about taking his own life. Moments after entering Psychology, Red was escorted to SHU in cuffs and put in a rubber room wearing a straight jacket and dress. It probably didn't help matters that his clothes were all striped like a Zebra and he constantly kept scratching his balls. So you see everyone, karma can truly be a mother fucker. Even to someone doing time in the pen. Never underestimate the craft­iness of a convict nor a person vowing to get revenge. Once off of suicide watch, Red got tortured some more. Carl stuffed a summer sausage in the finger of a rubber glove, put it and a bottle of lotion under Red's pillow, then left a note to one of Red's friends saying Red was a fag. He liked to have never heard the last of that one. Vengeance be mine sayeth the Carl! Vengeance be mine!    I'm Trip.    Better Days!

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10:20 AM - Crazy Train
Category: Life

        Each morning when I wake up here in federal prison, I feel just like Ozzy says, "I'm going out the rails on a crazy train!" Yeah, the men who live and work here are some straight-up nutcases for real! Sometimes I find it hard to believe I'm even in a loony bin like this. I surely don't belong here. My mom and dad didn't raise me to be in an insane asylum or as the BOP prefers to call it, Federal Prison. In my book, the terms are the same. How dare that senile old bastard of a District Court Judge exile me away to do time with a bunch of crazy people! Wish that prick had to spend a few days in my shoes. Then maybe he'd be a bit more caring and sensitive when sentencing a man to a million years behind bars for a little of nothing. I think every judge and prosecutor should have to spend at least three months in the joint before he's ever allowed to give a man a single day behind bars. Know what I'm saying? Perhaps the time would fit the crime a little more appropriately.

    Here at FCI Big Spring, I live in an open dormitory type environment. Each morning I wake up in a hot room full of maniacs snoring, farting and stinkin' up the place. I walk to the bathroom and the acrid smell of urine overpowers me. The homosexual we all call Psycho is standing in front of one of the toilets savoring the aroma of another man's feces. "The sweet smell of love," he announces out loud. He briefly looks my way and I fake a swing at him and flip him the bird. In my opinion, he's a sick and twisted freak of nature standing there waiting on his make believe faggot lover to meet him on stall 2. Then, in walks the inmate I call the Boxer. Extremely dain bramaged from one too many blows to the cranium, he's totally lost in this world away from a world. He brushes his teeth in the toilet, what few teeth he still has left, pisses half in the urinal and half on the floor. Then idly wanders back to his bunk -to sit and pick his nose and play with his dick until the prison guard yells, "Chow!"

I know I've talked about some of these weirdoes before. And for those of you who have read all of my past blogs, I apologize. It's just that I can't ever seem to get used to these frickin' dumbasses! A couple of the strangest of these yo-yo's did get out of prison recently - only to be replaced by nuttier and more ignorant assholes of course. Sometimes I wonder why our government even goes through the trouble to lock these fruit loops up. They need to be in mental institutions. Not in federal prison doing time. Like the oddball I call the Mad Bomber. Apparently this guy decided he was going to blow up some huge propane tank out in California somewhere and kill a bunch of nearby religious nuts. Wearing dirty socks on his hands for gloves, his pants pockets constantly turned inside out and his government issue brogans on the wrong feet, you'd never know this guy could do calculus and trig. Fun to talk to on occa­sion. But most of the time he's so far out in left field I can't even under­stand what he's saying. One wheel stuck in the mud for real!

Six o'clock arrives and all the delusional psychopaths, dressed in their khaki uniforms and Chinese made prison boots, amble toward the chow hall for a bowl of runny Malt-O-Meal. The whackos from Sunset 4 are smiling ear-to-ear as they drop food on the fronts of their shirts and spill their powdered milk on the floor. Some of the nuts skip breakfast altogether and head straight to the pill line for their thorazine or prolixin. Others can't wait to get to the kitchen so they can play in or wear their over-easy eggs. One Silly Billy tries to sneak his sausage patty out to put under his pillow but gets caught. He knows it's against the rules to take food out of the inmate dining hall but he tries it every day anyway. And, he always gets caught and sometimes ends up in the hole if he goes off on the guard calling him all kinds of dickeads and ho's. He might even end up naked in four-point restraints on suicide watch. You just never can tell. So many nitwits in this place. Somehow, it never ceases to amaze me. Crazy folks running rampant everywhere! Are there really that many on the outside world? I don't remember life being so full of mentally challenged men or women for that matter.

   Here's something I bet none of you normal folks on the outside ever heard of. We have what you call phantom shower shitters here at this insti­tution.    Nasty mf'ers that like to defecate in the place where we few sane prisoners have to wash our ass everyday. Nothing like walking in a shower stall to find do-do in the floor. Okay, TMT? (too much information)'. Let's just say when those particular jerk offs get caught doing "shit" like that, they really get their asses kicked and bad! And nine times out of ten, prison staff won't do anything about it. No punishment for the men who take matters into their own hands. It takes all kinds I guess. I just can't wait to get out of this shithole and back home where I can at least have the piece of mind to know I can walk in the bathroom in the morning without having to step in a pile of crap. No more breakin' the law for me. No siree Bob!

     "All aboard! Ha! ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" Yeah, the crazy train! Dumb-fucks all around me that don't even know how to tie their own fuckin' shoes. It makes me wonder how some of them were even smart enough to get put in the pen in the first place or how many where just thrown here because there was no place else in the real world for them. Just goes to show you, our government will lock up anyone and everyone they can to make a buck. Because let's face it. Prisons are big business. Our United States Justice Department will do everything in their power to cram these places full of human bodies as fast as they can just so they'll all have a job. Maybe I'll stick a note on the wall requesting the Phantom Shower Shitter go to D.C. when he gets out and take a dump in the Supreme Court Justices' sink and see how they like it! In closing, just wanted to let everyone know that I'm not only doing time in federal prison. I'm serving my sentence in a madhouse with a bunch of water head incest babies that don't know the difference in their asses and a hole in the ground! Judgment on these men sounds harsh, but they don't belong here. Someone is liable to mame them or worse, and sadly, the person being stupid won't even realize what he's done is wrong. What are the judges out there thinking? What do you all think? Any experiences you'd like to share with me to help save my own sanity?    I'm Tripper! Better Days!

Side Note: Mental Illness is no joke. If you or someone you know are suffering and need help, please contact your local hospital or health care professional. An alliance for the mentally ill is a group called NAMI

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10:20 AM - The Beat Down..The Violence in my Home
Category: Life

        Some major shit went down here at FCI Big Spring a couple of weeks ago. Didn't want to talk about it for a while. But now that the smoke's finally cleared, it's probably safe to tell you guys what happened. You see, there's a lot of gang activity in federal prison. The Paisa and Aztecas are sworn enemies. Texas Syndicate can't be housed with Serangos. And the Washington D.C. blacks don't get along with anybody. Not even their so-called brothers. Therefore, the B.O.P. takes special care not to house certain specific groups of assholes on the same prison yard. FCI Big Spring is ran by the Paizas. Paizas, for those of you who don't know, are Mexicans from south of ..the U.S. border. Dangerous little mother fuckers they are, they'll gang up and ratpack you in a New York second. For the most part, I don't have any problem with them. Yet the Azteca guys from south Texas near El Paso do. About a month ago, an Aztec gangbanger hit the yard. Everyone thought he rode with West Texas. He didn't. And soon as someone figured out who he was, they busted him out and he damn near got killed.

Suddenly one evening, they called an institution lockdown. That just meant everyone had to return to their housing units for a body check and count without unwarranted delay. Rumors travel fast among convicts. Soon as men started coming in off the yard we knew what went down. One minute there were about fifty Mexicans under a pavilion next to the soccer field. The next minute there was only one, and he wasn't standing any more. He was lying in a puddle of his own blood with a broken back and caved in skull. I know this because about fifteen wetbacks got rolled up that night. After staff came around and made us all pull off our shirts so they could check us for injuries and fucked up knuckles. Shortly after that we saw an ambulance out front carting the assaultee off to the local hospital. Yeah, steel toed boots can really do damage to a man's cranium. We stayed locked down all night until the cops got everyone rolled up, taken to the hole and all their property inventoried and packed. Next morning, it was back to normal operations.

They say this old boy was suspected as an Azteca gang member the day he got off the bus. Yet when questioned by the Paizanos and other gang boys, he claimed to be a West Texan from Odessa. Most of the convicts believed him. But something seemed fishy to others. His tattoos were wrong. No one from the area really knew him either. And eventually I guess someone figured out he wasn't who he said he was. When shit like these planned assaults go down, the assaultee usually doesn't know about it. Yet all the perpetrators do. They knew old boy was going out on the recreation yard for the evening. They might even had a secret or double agent set him up. All I know is, I saw a lot of suited and booted Mexicans going out to the yard that night. And by 7:00 pm, everyone was all locked down and the Aztec Warrior was in the Big Spring hospital in a coma. Damn the bad luck dude. The way I see it, the guy shouldn't have lied. He should have admitted he was an Aztec day one and checked in. If he would have came clean and done that, he'd probably still be okay today. The same rules don't apply inside here. It's about survival of the fittest, and while checking in isn't too much fun, I don't suppose a coma is either.

One of the Correctional Officers here told me the guy was in the hospital and the doctors were giving him regular injections to keep him paralyzed from the neck down. That way he couldn't feel the pain or mess something up if he moved. They were waiting for some of the swelling to go down in his brain so they could try and fix his back, and the rest of the shit that was wrong with him. Last I heard, he was still breathing but shit wasn't looking good for the home team. I guess the B.O.P. finally broke down and contacted his family. Normally, prison staff won't notify family members until an inmate is, or damn near is, DEAD! Their fear being ...  if they do, someone might come to the hospital, overpower the guards, and try to break their family member out. Stupid ass shit if you ask me. I mean with this guy? He's obviously not going to jump up, rip the IV out of his arm and run off. The dude's damn near a vege­table for Christ's sakes! Here's something else the normal everyday Joe doesn't know.  They leave the cuffs and leg-irons on a prisoner even after he's dead! Standard Bureau of Prisons procedure, or so they say. Humiliating to the family if you ask me and unreasonable. As I said, the same rules do not apply inside these walls. It's a jungle in here, and if you don't know the law of the land very well, then you may very well be taken out like Mr. Coma.