BRED FOR CRIME: MARCHING MORONS
One of the most pathetic things I see of the hideously immoral and sadistic U.S. politicians' dungeons and profits bureaucracy is the many failures of their education system in these human warehouses (see Unspanked Children). They won't let parents spank their little darlings, so they automatically turn into a cash crop for the politicians' use. Teachers can't spank them and make them learn basic normal human behavior, much less any math or science, so again they profit the politicians' welfare and lawyer and prison systems. The delinquent females turn into whores and welfare moms while the males wind up in taxherd subsidized torture and abuse pits with lengthy sentences.
One prime example of this is in my cage right now, hurriedly pacing two steps up, two steps back, endlessly, like a rabid skunk. He is Michael Mitchell (MM) OSP # 232422, an almost completely mis-educated 26 year old man with a 9 year old mentality. He barely reads on a 7th grade level. His mind is completely empty of anything but reminiscing about his short stint of freedom between ditching school at 13 and getting busted for his first big sentence 7 years ago. For those short 6 years he surfed the jails he brags about having bought and sold ounces of cocaine or trashcan "speed". Subtracting the usual bullshit factor, he sold a few $20 crackrocks. He really "had it goin' on!" Proof of this is the fact that his hairline has receded a full 4 inches at his tender young age. This fact tells the astute observer that MM has traded most of his cocaine to women for more sex than his testicles could handle, causing his hair to fairly leap out of his scalp in the telltale pattern. He knows it, too, and tries to conceal it in a most ridiculous-looking way: he shaves his skull in the pattern of a 40 year old sex maniac and grows the back long, in braids, and calls it an Indian "do". (He's less than 1/2 Choctaw but is accepted into the "Indian" gang. He has the required feather tattoo of the Indian Brother Hood (IBH) plastered at the corner of one eye.)
He's brain-damaged too, or feigns such. The state has him on antipsychotics. This being a convenient excuse judges and social workers will often accept for leniency, many manipulative twerps have discovered the usefullness of feigning psychosis. He took their drugs once, but quickly learned to spit the crap out, if possible. Easy to do, here in prison, impossible at the mental hospitals where they make you drink it or shoot it into their buttocks.
MM is a mad Indian, too. Mad and scared, and one who craves attention. He's slightly paranoid, along with being wrapped up in the Native's culture of purposeful primativisim. He's a bit cruel and sadistic, too, when he thinks he's found someone safe to harass, annoy, and play master (to him) head-games on. I find him a boring churl who could become mildly dangerous if not carefully circumvented.
He's paranoid because he's been manipulated all his life. His facial and other structures mark him as "slow". He complains of others being "devious", yet secretly wishes he was quick enough to be even more devious himself. He learned he didn't like school when everyone outpaced him. He left as soon as he learned he could defy his mother. He found that cocaine was good and easily traded for sex. His dual addictions (plus alcohol) caused him to finally get caught burglarizing a relative's home once too often, resulting in a short sentence that he has lengthened into 9 years, so far.
The other inmates scared him so badly with their standard prison horror stories that he was hot to join the appropriate mutual protection society. He joined the Mexican gang first. The Frijolies were glad to get another soldier so far from their own homes. Then MM was moved in with an Indian who promptly suckerpunched MM's nose for no explained reason. MM then was manipulated into stabbing the guy with a "knife" that was more like a scraped bottlecap than a weapon. Also it involved sneaking up behind the unsuspecting victim. Relying on TV for methodology, they both got punished for "fighting". The Indian gang told the Mexican gang to let them have MM. The Mexicans said "NO" and punished MM themselves with a gang beating.
MM quit the Mexican gang, who had not taken care of him all that well and yet had not taken advantage of him other than protecting him from Indian retaliation with their own abuse.
MM promptly joined the Indian gang, who supposedly were going to kill him days previously. They also were glad to have obtained a new, gullible soldier to throw at their targets. They lost no time telling MM that he must "prove" himself. (MM never realized that the reason they wanted him was because he'd already proved himself gullible and foolish enough to savagely attack someone for no good reason.) They threw him on another "Indian", or thought they had. The story gets more garbled than usual from here. Best guess is that MM finally met someone who demonstrated how he was being sorely used by pretty much everyone else. There was a mixup on MM's "hit". He brought a "knife" to the fistfight, while the attackee brought 3 friends: stalemate. MM caught "out" to the nutward to dodge his gang. Since then, they duped him into stabbing someone else, or some kind of mindless nonsense ensued because I met MM just as we both were transferred off the Okie state pen extra-punishment dungeon. He must have at least been near trouble to be there.
MM has told me his life story, pretty much, and it is nothing to brag about. A few years or just months ago while he was soaked in anti-psychotic drugs his family disinherited him of $180,000, he says. I'm helping him sue for a piece of it back. His day consists of being scared silly that the injuns will get him. His primitive pals have been strutting past the cage, kissing their huge biceps, staring an evil-eye at him and using other types of juvenile forms of social terrorism. MM hid in the cage for a week,
then finally went out to the "yard" (big cage, outside no grass) to "handle-up!" Again this turned out to be more hissing than scratching, and it quickly evolved into kissing and hugging, since no one wanted to fight over a non-fight anyway.
MM is off the (Phantom) hook, and to celebrate, he tests me, since he perceives me to be old and weak. I try to treat him as an adult and soothe him when he continues to complain bitterly at people staring at him as they walk by. I'm about tired of babysitting this empty-headed cur, and he's within a hair's breath of finding out the hard way how superior intellect and experience triumphs over youthful strength and stamina. He is almost as tall as I am, weighs almost as much, with no fat, and is perceptibly stronger, probably quicker, and is constantly perforrning his mickey-mouse workout, but I can rip his head off any time and stuff it up his ass sideways before he can say "please stop!" (Not that I would, unless forced.) But he sees grey hair and beard, and begins calling me "Oldtimer" before asking my age. I add 10 years to my age and he blythely accepts it. His favorite trick is to play "nut-out". He positions himself quietly in my line of sight and pretends to read the bible. (This is the only literature he ever reads.) As his concentration limit expires (about 45 seconds, when he tries real hard) he suddenly twists his face around and at me and says with a scowling threat, "You talkin' ta me?" Feigning auditory hallucinations is a thing I've gradually weened him away from through judicious use of ridicule.
The most pathetic thing I've been forced to note is his (and his peers') ignorance of germ theory. E.g. soon as we got in this cage, he is overwhelmed with disgust at sight of the toilet. He immediately obtains a brillo pad and dives into the shitter in a frenzy of "cleaning". From shitter, he goes directly to scrubbing the sink, sink to the food-hole, then, as a finale', he washes his own food bowl with the same pad that began in the shitter! I didn't even want to hear his justification for such flagrantly stupid actions. I simply make certain he doesn't contaminate anything of mine and let his ignorance be bliss until it kills him. Other things beyond his ken is why he can't keep a full cup of liquid upright. He drinks out of a stack of 3 or 4 styrofoam cups and has no concept of center of gravity being the force that helps him spill shit everywhere. His world is step, step turn; step, step turn; repeat all day. His "TV" is my mirror stuck out the bars to bring him the Negro-channel of cage servers. Every time there is a loud noise, he bolts for the TV. He has nothing, not even the sheets and clothes the pris-crats are forced to provide each inmate, yet this is not due to illiteracy/disability, but simple apathy and laziness. He can pace all day and drape himself on the bars looking at "corridor TV" for hours, but he can't write a request for a sheet, laundry bag or jacket. It's too easy to simply mooch comb, soap, spoon, salt, toothpaste, food, razor and everything else off everyone else or do without. Now; how thoroughly worthless do you have to be to not lift a pencil for. . . toilet paper!
But MM and his peers are beanhole junkies. He can be fast asleep, but if something free and un-asked-for is pushed through the hole, he leaps up and is on it as if it is an amoral woman or a smoldering joint. He thinks he's clever by announcing we should share everything like brothers. He seems to think I am unable to notice that 50% of everything he gets already belongs to me, and that everything of real value in the cage was bought by me. As with most people like MM, he has sorely abused all his relatives until even his own mother will not write him. He loves to tell me how he's "got game" (streetspiel for "I'm cunning!") but if he could focus, he'd see he's really "got screwed!"
MM doesn't even have a servicable bulshit game, which is standard for most twerps 1/2 his age these days. He's got all the Negro rap-star gangsta body language moves down pat, but he's just a little confused as to what follows after you get your moves down, especially when you don't have a radio to provide the rest of the secrets.
MM pays lip-service to work, family and God, but only displays his true span of concentration when he finds me a ready source of drug information that he thinks he can exploit for profit. (Nothing trips up youth's "game" faster than an old Hippie who professes to possess the secret of fast riches through drug manufacture.) Trouble is, even if he did find someone who would/could show him idiot's chemistry, the course is so beyond him that he wouldn't even absorb enough to suffice to cause him harm! Maybe he could remember enough to murder his lungs sniffing a bottle of pool acid, but I doubt he'd have the wherewithal to earn enough money to get one, or shoplift it. Any money he gets goes straight to the alcohol man, and if any is left, that goes to the weed man, then the speed/coke man, than the wo-man, in that order.
Someone who doesn't profit off the crime-creation/prisoner-warehousing industry should photograph MM's day and show it to schoolchildren. When it is made thus perfectly clear how American politicians and the cop/lawyer lobby, et al, squander human life en masse for inconsequential transgressions, many may think before they try a shortcut through society; Doubtful, yet possible, though not probable.
As for MM, he'll get out next year or so just long enough to come back with 30 to life next time. He'll get drunk the first day, steal or burgle while blacked-out, hurt someone, then wake up in jail with another set of years or decades to practice his step, step turn; repeat game. If the coplobby and crimjus pirates ever decide to stop exploiting MM and his peers for their own lucre, the answer is, to my scientific mind, Edu-porn and drug-rewarded schoolwork. Drugschoolwork I've already described elsewhere, and Eduporn is just another way to similarly incentivitie the shortcut-artists into accepting a semblance of modern civilization where parasites are gradually taught symbiosis. The MM's need teaching badly. More of the MM story is he's really only 26 ( I paid $7 for his criminal record and smuggled it in here.) Like a child, he is in such a hurry to attain age (in his case "Chiefdom" ) and respect, that he thinks 25 1/2 is as good as 26. He says he doesn't need or want friends, but he adjusts his sleep time to fit mine because he simply must have someone to chase away the echos in his empty head. If I take a nap in the middle of the day, so does he. His main questions are what am I going to do, stay up or sleep, and what am I doing, what am I looking at, what am I reading, what was that noise I made, etc. If he didn't have a real person to marvel at and study, he would probably slip quietly into self-induced catatonia. He appears incapable of stimulating himself other than endlessly reliving his past while playing his pacing game. The first ten minutes I was forced to endure him, I took out a pill and ate it. Instantly his ears pricked at the rattle of the bottle, and his eyes zero'd in like radar onto the big, blue "two-way" pills. "Whut'sat cha got there?" he says. "They any good?" He knew all about antihistamines, or so he thought. "Duh, that's just like speed! Gimme some'." (No, phenylpropanol is not like speed, but to today's children-addicts who have never had any real speed, it's like what they think is speed; the bathtub trashdope made of ephedra-oid cold and flu medicines by goofs who were taught by Igors whose masters were burned at the stake in the late '60s .) I tried to explain this to the idiot, but his tiny mind was targeted and locked. His sole objective in living was to obtain these pills as speed, even though they contained 50% of a substance neither of us had heard of before.
"I've taken cold pills by the handfulls" he bragged, same as a child would boast "I rode the big carosel horsie!" Knowing that he would eventually work up nerve enough to steal them while I slept, and that his attempts to lie them out of my hand and into his mouth would never cease until he got some, I decided to teach this moron a well-needed lesson on how ignorant and stupid he is. His kind usually follow similar patterns. They are so excited to think they are about to get high that five minutes seem to them like five hours. Like the cartoon dog craving the dog biscuit, his tiny mind went into an endless loop of oh boy! Oh boy! I'm going to get high! I'm going to get high! He repeats this as he ecstatically performs his other endless repeat of step, step, turn. . . I gave him two of the huge, blue pills that had a groove across the center for breaking them into halfs. Of course he wanted 4 to start, knowing that Doctors always set the maximum dose at 1/2 the effective (high-producing) dose. I made him sing for an hour to talk me out of the 2nd two pills. He bragged up a big, steaming load of bulshit to get them, and I made sure he couldn't back up on the specifics, when it came to the "I told You so" tomorrow.
Those four satisfied him for about 15 minutes of step, step; Oh boy-oh boy! Then he began begging for more just like a wino going into D.T.s. I made him listen to an hour's worth of explanation on exactly how slow the digestive system works and why.
He began getting off. He began speaking very quickly, interrupting me to spew his own hastily-invented testimonials on how his digestive system works at near sonic speed.
I gave him two more, and they satisfied him for 15 minutes before he came back abegging. This time he had schemed up a new (for him) trick. He of course wanted four this time, and to pay for them, he promised not to ask me again. (Previously he had begged to buy all my pills with a promise of payment, it being obvious that he had nothing and was never going to get anything, but I couldn't permit him to stupidly kill himself. First, he probably would not have the grace to die, and second, he would immediately have told the pretty nurse where he got his poison.) I made him admit that he was "high" (at least by his ignorant experience), and I made him promise to wait , two hours before he took only two, and wait two hours if he took the 9th and 10th. Each of these hours I made him wait were supposed to be two-hour intervals. He and his peers are so antsy that a whip and a chair is not sufficient to make them wait for a full two hours for what they think and perceive is "dope". As expected, he waited until he thought I was unaware. I stood looking out the window specifically so I could hear him sneak two more into his mouth and chase them with the water he had to draw to get them down. This promise was broken within thirty seconds of my back turning.
He never asked for any more, and he doesn't like to talk about what happened a few hours later. MM ditzed back and forth like a nervous budgie on a perch, far into the night. Finally he climbed into his top rack and stared at the ceiling for a few hours. The prisoncrats serve mostly water adulterated with varicolored dyes and saccharin. MM drinks my share, his share and all the more he can get. When his bladder finally forced him to get up and whiz, he barely made it off the rack and collapsed to the cement with a thud soon as he touched the floor. He wallowed around for five minutes in slow motion trying to get up, then decided to stay down and just piss on himself. He lay there, trying to gather strength far an hour, while I tried to make him think he was dying and call for the guards to help. He wouldn't do it, and eventually he survived to crawl back into his rack to heal. I hope he learned something essential, such as how extremely ignorant he is and how he needs to shut his scheming mouth every time he interrupts his betters. His mouth flies open and his lips begin flapping every time he is given a chance to learn something. Between the flapping and the "buh-buh" noises he makes whenever he detects an intelligent person speaking, there is no chance of his ears registering important information even if his mind could absorb it.
Right now he is washing out each of our styrofoam cups with the same rags he uses for the floor and shitter. For good reason, I don't like him to touch anything of mine and have to develop strategies to prevent him from infecting me and my stuff with his constant dithering.
More of his life story came out. He didn't smoke those ounces of rock cocaine, (News-artists and negroes call this "crack".) He doesn't even know haw to make rock, so we are speaking of a very brief period, measured in weeks or months. He wasted his money on a car, three apartments, clothes and eating out. Then a hooker convinced him to try a lungful. His own words are revealing. Soon as he got his first rock-smoke headrush, he ran outside and puked. This is to say that he kept pretty drunk virtually all the time, like most asian-descended persons who are missing one of the genes for detoxifying alcohol. Soon as he finished puking, he and the girl smoked up all his inventory. He began making promises, getting fronts, not paying, then he sold or traded off everything he had, including friends. The girl threw him away like spent toilet paper soon as the money ran out and he lost it completely by beginning to steal and burglarize for crack. Then he went to jail, then the nut ward, then prison, etc.
MM mentioned that, like all small-time dope addict/"dealers", he applied an excessively greedy "cut" for himself. He claims to have taken one ounce of good dope and made it into 3 ounces of powder cocaine. Real dealers do not cut more than 50%, and they are avoided by the ones who don't waste their time cutting at all. Fact is, if you are an idiot selling to other idiots, you screw them with "cut" and they accept it because they either don't know dope or don't know a real dealer. People who really know their dope do not adulterate it with trash unless perhaps they are selling it to enemies. MM mostly sold rock instead of powder for a reason he probably doesn't even realize. His masters quickly learned of his excessive greed through complaints to them about lack of purity. They quickly moved to circumvent this idiot by only letting him sell (more "deliver" than sell) rock, which can not be easily diluted by greedy idiots. MM doesn't know it, but his low cunning with the cut cost him more money than it made. He couldn't be trusted to deliver good cocaine to his route, so the people on his route that demand quality got their dope elsewhere, through a courier who could be trusted. These customers are the ones who inject cocaine. Slick as MM thought he was, the very first time he cut his dope he got caught by the needlefreaks. His treachery lay exposed in their spoons for all to see and taste. MM lost most of his route and all of his master's respect when he tried to triple his money by trashing his dope. He was consigned to the lightweight, throwaway section from then on.
MM acts like the crap he trashed his dope with is a secret. To him, it is special; to others it is ludicrous. He used an expensive commercial concoction for headaches that is chock full of chalk, caffeine, aspirin and no telling what else. If he'd had sense enough to simply ask someone else or read a book, he could have maybe fooled someone with cheaper and better "cut" called lactose, which is safer and harder to detect.
Another self-enriching strategy people like MM quickly learn in prison begins with their envy of what others have. E.g, while on the extra-punishment unit we have nothing to throw away, and thus plenty of trash bags to hold it. We are deprived of our plastic cups and provided with 24 styrofoam cups per cage per day. Toilet paper is of course supplied in shortage amounts. (Which doesn't stop a curious phenomenon: these inmates often are not the least timid in scrubbing the shitter with their bare hands and then simply rinsing their hands off without soap, but let a drop of urine or a drop of water they can mistake for urine touch the rim of the crapper after a whiz and the subsequent fake hand-rinsing, they will use their last sheet of toilet paper to wipe it off, knowing they can't get any more for a week. Their step-daddies programed them as children to perform this ritual, evidently, or their mothers and it burned so deeply into their minds that they can't conceive to change it in response to its complete obsolesence in the face of a new situation. (This compulsive shitter-wiping ritual every time they whiz and the way they gobble their food like starving dogs are two universal traits of inmates that haven't changed a bit in 30 years that I know of.) Another main item that future-thinking prison victims conserve is plastic sporks, since without them, you eat with your fingers like cave men.
Despite these obvious, everyday problems and their usual ready solution by simple conservation and requesting more before you run out, MM brings none of these free items to our new cage, while I bring them all. Of course the new cage has none of them, and as soon as I arrive, MM needs each and every one in turn. Bad enough that most inmates can't or will not think ahead for essentials, worse is that they are so used to essentials just popping out of nowhere just for their lucky convenience that they don't wonder where it all came from. To them, it was a deserved gift from God Himself. The gutwagon rumbles down the hall, they say aloud to you, but mostly for themselves, "Wow! Duh! I need a cup and spoon and salt and pepper, etc. You got any? Their eyes flip like magnets onto this stuff you've just unpacked and they say "Oh! Never mind. Here's some'." Like it just appeared between asking the ceiling and looking at the table. "Everything I need is right here."
A couple of days later the guards bring back most of the property they stole from us before dragging us into their extra-punishment torturehole. MM has nothing but some clothes; miraculously the guards chose not to steal the junkfood they let me buy from them. MM's eyes grow large and his lips smack as he inventories my belongings as I check what the guards did steal and pack the rest away. MM sees ten hot chocolate packs, 12 pasta/bullion soups, eight snickers and a big bag of popcorn and doritos. The run-Negroes are watching the guard shovel this stuff in too, and they spot a few items they want. While MM is launching into his strategy to "con(nive)" me out of food, the run-Negroes come by with offers to buy my TV cable and power cord for a promise. (Gallingly, the only thing "computer-age" a prisoner can buy in this stoneage prison is an $8 surgeprotector when a $1.29 extension cord suffices for all our needs. This is just another of thousands of sly, common, casual ripoffs the prisoncrats use to screw us and enrich themselves.)
MM's spiel is age-old though he invented it on the fly. People with nothing are embarrassed to have nothing and naturally invent times of plenty and excess just passed. Bad luck and theft brought them down only days before, but people elsewhere owe them big, and will send plenty soon, right after we eat and use everything you have.
I shared all the soups with him generously, 50% to him who had nothing simply because I felt sorry for him. Because he insults my intelligence and tries to connive me, he got nothing of what he really slavered for; the sweets, nor anything else. His friends never sent him a crumb, and now he is totally dependant on assuaging his insatiable food habit through begging the run-Negroes for more prison slop. This he gets in abundance.
BRED FOR CRIME: GEORGE RICHARDSON
Another one who uses the claim of riches soon to arrive to almost professional effect is GR. GR was put in my cage last summer, with pretty much nothing but his clothes, of course. He is a Caucasian, and only about 20; he was a very good bulshit artist to everyone outside the foodhole, but to me, he was the usual transparent boor. He never read, being totally talk-oriented such as most prison trash are. He was always blathering along on some inane tale no matter that I was busy with other things. I'm rude in my writings, but not so much in person, thus he never got the idea I didn't want to hear his spewings. Also, he had the irritating habit of sitting in the narrowest chokepoint and making it the biggest hassle to get past him to the sink, crapper and foodhole/door. All this time he would be facing me, leaning into his story as if the telling was a vivid as the day he lived or fantasized it. Fortunately for me he would quickly shut up if I let the TV blather. He especially liked wrestling, which he never was let to watch, and he liked circular car-racing, which I'd permit at low volume.
GR is not so much a conniver as an egoist, at least with me. He apparently said and wrote the correct key words in letters to others through the beanhole though, because everyone out there loved him and acted as if they'd been his friend for years. The Hitler Huggers seemed to think he was just their type and began sending little tokens of their esteem, like a soup here, stamp there, temporary use of a radio, etc: little comforts in expectation of future rewards, it appeared.
The Negroes were more practical and less patient, having less and wanting more. Also, they were more skeptical of persons with nothing trading promises for merchandise, since this has been their main strategy for centuries. Even so, they were fairly patient. They saw a Caucasian and were willing to believe that, like most Caucs, he had more than they, possibly much more. Basic Negro strategy for siphoning off money from anyone who might have some is gambling. A Negro who hid behind the prison name and gang alias of "Cutnut" (Stamps) wanted to play poker with GR. GR told me, and I told GR "Not a good idea". GR fell to the ruse of poker to suknut (My name for this scoundrel, who is a particularly obnoxious and loud craterhead who did indeed get himself most deservedly stomped weeks later.) the next day.
Within 2 or 3 days GR was indebted to suknut for $550! A startlingly short time to crash into such a deep hole. Fortunately for GR, suknuts could only intimidate him through the foodhole because they went to different "yards" and never showered at the same time. Also the tattoo-tribe were there to keep the Maumaus from getting too strident for payment.
GR skillfully played both mutual-protection societies against each other for weeks, which was not too hard when the prisoncrats only let you spend your money once every .fortnight. This meant that GR only had to come up with one excuse every two weeks. Eventually the Negro-clique shamed the Swastica-clique into admitting that GR should pay something on his gambling debt. Out of nowhere, seemingly, Sucknuts sent a note saying he would absolve the $550 for only $12. If there was any haggling intermediate to this, I was not privy to it. GR was happy, but still wasn't going to pay. By this time he realized that I couldn't care less if he paid anyone. He also had the wit not to ask me for a cent. He set upon a plan much like his original plan must have been: non-payment, but with a twist. The head Hitlerphile, a scuzzy piece of humanoid garbage who hid behind the prison alias "Ghost" (Lightle), advised GR that he must borrow from the Nazi 'store" at 50% interest and pay Suknuts his $12. GR composed a request for these funds in such a way as to convince the usurer that he would wait possibly forever for payment. As calculated, the loan was refused. Goat (he looked like one) sent GR to two other Caucasian loansharks, and GR finessed them too, using this same method. While this occurred, Sucknuts was being debt-squeezed by his own people. In desperation, he sent a note to GR proposing to ameliorate the $550 debt for a mere $3! This was so startling and small that I almost got weak and paid it myself just to get the shit over with.
The alternative was that GR would escape his debts by simply having the Guards move him due to nebulous mumblings of exploitation, etc. The end result is that they'd probably replace innocuous GR with the standard tattoo'd pinhead who has an even more devious/obnoxious/vicious or addicted bent. The reason I didn’t was two-fold. GR would only continue until it happened anyway, and I wanted to see what exactly it was that a little, young, know-nothing twerp had said to entice a herd of supposedly wiser Hitler-kissers to treat him like der Fuerer.
Despite GR's calculated notes, Goat did find a loanshark to up the $3 to Suknuts, plus some slight overflow to GR, suprizingly. Probably Goats sucked off some for himself. The next day Sucknuts sent a note demanding the full amount. (Possibly Goats had lied to the shark about GR getting a huge check in the mail and this lie leaked to Suck nuts somehow.)
From here, GR's playing of the cliques against each other went downhill amazingly slowly to land with a buffet rather than the usual crash and burn. Goats and Sucknuts parleyed with one another intensively while GR enjoyed watching racecars circle endlessly at high speed. A new agreement was reached, and GR didn't pay it or even borrow it. Sucknuts sent more shrill notes and even shrieked up the corridor at GR until be got blue in his face. Nothing was ever sent, and GR sneaked out word to the guards to come and get him moved to a safe place where no one knew him or his ways.
GR did this in an even sneakier fashion than I'd ever seen. He wrote the Kops asking to be taken to sick call. While he was gone, the local busybody white run-inmate,
"Goombah" (Anthony Goombi, professional snitch for the cops plus professional ass-kisser for the prison kops) came by and asked me if GR was coming back.
GR did come back that time, but they must have given him the great idea because the 2nd time, he did not. A Kop came instead and wanted me to give him GR's stuff. Later that day, in the shower, on the "yard" and at the foodhole, numerous persons remarked to me "I sure thought GR was a good guy!" Usually they say much worse, trying to brand their former friends "Snitchin', rat-dog-child molesters". (Somehow "rape-o" has fallen into disuse of late.) Even Goats, who presumably had lost face with his fellow Hitlerkissers in vouching (and profiting) for GR didn't pull his standard trick of trying to brand GR with obvious lies.
GR didn't talk a bunch of dope nonsense, and I doubt this was what he promised the Hitler fools to make them so uncharacteristically docile and patient. My only guess is that GR was soon to get out (he was) and simply agreed to their own scams. GR didn't seem too imaginative or inventive beyond rhetoric, but it doesn't take much skill to elicit other people's schemes and agree to participate.
BRED FOR CRIME: MM
12-26-00: The electricity went out in the little town of McAlester that feeds off its inmate victims. In the torturehole itself, we were deprived of water and cleanliness all day long because they have no water tower. No electricity means no pump. The kops had plenty of everything, though. Their emergency generator kept them in power, and they got their own water. Soon as the sun went down promptly at 4:30 due to clouds, we were cold, in the dark and thirsty all night. Of course none of these deadheads prepared though they had plenty of warning. The lights went out at 10AM and the water began immediately dribbling to a halt soon thereafter.
The kops filled jugs and served water one time after dark. MM saved no water. Guess his mind is a total blank. Soon as the water shut down, he needed to take one of his famous diarrhea-laden shits. He was too embarassed to do it in front of me. He somehow held it inside him all day and most of the evening, but soon as he thought me asleep, he sneaked over and let loose his bowels.
The reason he is famous for his diarrhea is because he will eat any type of groundup guts the prison kitchen can try to hide beneath tomato paste and chili powder. Plus he will eat yours too when you try to give it to the sewer where it belongs. Amerinds in general will wolf down pretty much any type of garbage and offal the prison scum hand them that smells of dead animal or has a splatter of fat, gristle or cartilidge floating within it. All poor people ground under the heel of America's millionaire ruling class suffer this type of taste deviancy.
The guy across the hall, Ernie Smith, told this doof how to do it, then demonstrated it. You put a plastic garbage bag over the crapper and crap in that. Next, his cagemate called over here to MM to borrow a plastic bag so he too could demonstrate for MM. Last, the run-Negro passed out one plastic bag per cage for this purpose. What does MM do? He diarrheas in the crapper, than drapes the bag over the crapper. Then MM gets deodorant and rubs it on the toilet paper which he drapes over the bars, paying homage to the nose-Gods,-apparently. (As a matter of genetics, Amerinds-have particularly acute senses of smell.)
MM is particularly annoyed when the run-Caucasian came over and played his nose-game. Previously, when MM first got here and began his in-cage workouts that stunk up the downwind, a run-Negro cocked his nose in here and wondered loudly if "that old man" showers. You can't win with a nosy Negro by stimulating him with an answer. He was not on about the odor as much as he was playing to get me to talk to him. (I really should make more time to bs with people, but I'm too busy for small talk.) Negroes are most offended by being ignored. Talking to them is a sure-lose situation because they can get much louder and many-times stupider than you can, plus their fellows are all in the wings ready to shriek their brains out too. Like wrestling a pig, you both get dirty, but the pig loves it.
The run-Negro couldn't get the response he desired from me, not even when he manipulated the mindless near-abouts to chime in with their new-found nasal opinions. But it drove MM nuts. He went on a frenzy of begging for soap, washing the floor, washing himself, draping his deodorant-on-toilet paper strips everywhere and apologizing to everyone who would listen.
This didn't stop his day-long, in-cage workout sessions, though. A few days of these and the run-Cauc came over and asked MM if we shower. This is a calculated double insult that also implies that we are too cowardly to brave a shower amongst 8 other possible dangerous killers. Again MM went into his frenzy of cleaning and begging for soap. They've got MM so gunshy that he's always dithering with anti-smell measures.
Now, the run has been stewing in urine, shit, unwashed bodies and dirt for the 5th day. (The Holiday weekend quashed all showers, and this is the 26th now with no drink, flush or wipe.) The run-rats inexplicably stopped whining about their nasal cavities delicate structures.
Last night, MM crawled in his upper rack soon as the sun went down. The cage lights were out, but the kops kept the corridor lights on for their own safety. With Beanhole Junkie trying to make himself sleep, I sat reading in the doorway, the only available light. It didn't take long for MM to discover he can't sleep. Then he immediately gets jealous of me taking over the door and blocking half a step of his step, step, turn routine. He had to back up into the area of the cage the guards designed to knock necks and kneecaps against steel. He had to step, lean away from the upper rack corner while throw his knee away from the steel stool on the opposite side, baby-step, turn, repeat.
MM worked himself into a lather, but was too cowardly to say anything. I blocked him from his usual place at the door ("TV") for at least 2 hours, plus made him change his mindless stepping routine. He was seething mad when I finally got finished reading.
He childishly gave--me the cold stare-Amerinds call this the "Evil Eye". Previously he had thought he'd try and simply frighten me out of "his" spot. He began by hooting while still in bed. Amerinds think they can spontaneously and suddenly make hooting sounds and people won't automaticly think they're idiots because they're Amerinds. They are idiots, same as all the redneck pinheads who love to make livestock sounds. When the "Chief" (Karl Tiger) across the hall failed to answer, this was MM's cue to simply become obnoxious and begin screaming the lyrics to rap songs. (His particular Lawton culture is almost entirely subsumed by the stronger, more vibrant Negro-rap culture, as I earlier intimated while describing MM's body language, which is most noteably Neo-black.)
After even this fails to draw the needed attention to himself and his needs, MM develops his usual sly plan to make (to him) frightening "Noises-of-his-anger" which must play in his mind as a soundtrack to a chainsaw-killer fantasy. First, he determines that my back is to him and I can't see what he's doing. His whole plan is to induce me to turn around suddenly and stare at him in abject, open-mouthed fear without his having gotten close enough for me sock him in his jaw. He sneaks out of his upper rack, then stomps his bare foot as violently as possible against the cement floor. This sounds exactly like a childish moron dashing his soft, easily-bruised flesh into hard cement. He gets no reaction, so he slams both fists against the iron table. He has hurt himself mightily and repeatedly for nothing. The guy wants attention so badly he may as well be characterized as a child who blocks the TV during football to usurp adult attention, but can't deduce why this gets him yanked away by his hair and tossed in a heap of crying, whining frustration each time. (MM never had a father to do this to him, and mother loved him too much.) Now he's too big to be properly disciplined and trained into normalcy except by prison (Yeah, Right! Like that's going to happen!) Prison provides only punishment and torture, never any guidance or a spanking.
Of course, the cop's, lawyer's, judges' DA's, guards', and politicians' plans for MM and his peers is to continue to hold him out to their taxherds as their boogerman used to bilk them out of $40,000/year/head to keep him safely locked away in their S5,000/ year/head prison cages at a fabulous $34,000/yr/head tax profit for themselves. The exact last thing they want is to run out of MMs or accidently teach them the correct societal course to take. Of course MM is cooperating with their sly plans perfectly. They win.
BRED FOR CRIME: ROBBERY
The gov/media alliance often uses prison gangs to scare their vidiots into cheering and voting for their never-ending sequence of "git tuff on crime (and re-elect me)" schemes. They get millionaire "news" squawkers to portray each gang as even more vicious than the last pack of illiterate children in men's bodies. If you have a mind of your own and an interest in uncovering what is really going on, you may wish to read this and other of my essays, such as "A Social Puzzle You Can't Solve" or "Malpractice As A Goal" or ". . . Education Verboten!" et al.
My cage is under a stairwell. I share it with a young white kid of about 23 years of age. Next door is an even younger kid (18) with a 32 year old guy who qualifies as an adult. They are, in order of mention, Dick, Trick and Slick. Dick has a few friends just like him. They puff and blow like they are too tough to be taken advantage of. Trick is in their clique, as is, nominally, Slick, but Trick is low "man" and thus has to endure being financially and socially abused by his fellows to enjoy membership in their little self-protection society. All of them, even the un-named, are constantly scheming on dope, except perhaps Slick. Every penny they can beg from Moms and Sisters goes to the Mexicans or others for dopes. They prefer what passes for "speed" here or "heroin" (painkiller pills). Last on their list is tiny amounts of marijuana, but they are always alert for any substance that may addle their brains enough to give them temporary surcease from that big, roiling echo of ignorance and boredom ringing in their heads during reality. I can always tell these superfiends: every time one sees me use my white-out, he asks hopefully, "Is that the kind you can sniff and get high off of?"
To watch them stick needles in their arms is disgusting, as is seeing them go through major preparations to smoke a few crumbs of marajuana dust. (They pay $5 for a quantity of weed dust that will not even loosely fill a chapstick cap, and this miniscule amount is shared among 3 to 5 persons.) Mostly they don't shoot or smoke dope; mostly they talk about the dope they had before, wish they had some dope now, or laugh about how other people pheen, tweak and schitz over dope. It seems not to occur to them that in doing this they are themselves pheening, tweaking and schitzing over dope.
That is the background; here is the story:
I was in-the law library; later I was to go to the prison store and buy a Christmas sack of junkfood. Being over 50 years of age, old-looking, grey of beard and hair plus wearing glasses, I had attracted the attention of an ugly-looking indian kid. His astute powers of observation told him I didn't have a bunch of shitty-looking tattoos scribbled in ink on my skin connoting gang membership. His subsequent stalking of me proved to his satisfaction that it would be relatively safe to rob me, provided certain conditions were met. He took care of these while I was gone.
Step one was to get the support of a pair of nearby indians who existed only 3 cages away from his intended victim. This would give him a place to hide and watch for his prey so he could sneak up behind and deliver his cowardly blow. Then he would need a close place to run to and hide in should any pursuit occur. His fellow indians were happy to take a third each for allowing Ugly to use their cage to hide in.
Step two was to approach his victim's neighbors and ask them if they cared if their white neighbor got robbed. The Negroes on one side couldn't care less, and said so. The white guys on the other side, Slick and Trick, were not so easy. Trick wasn't even - asked, but Slick was scary to Ugly because he had spread lots of karate and kund fu stories about himself. Also, he was able, if he wished, to stomp Ugly into the ground, if he could catch him. What to do? Ugly simply told Slick that he had the whole gang of indians (about 30 of them) behind him on this one robbery of an old man. Slick quickly acquiesced and promised, as ordered, not to warn his neighbor of Ugly's impending attack.
Step three was to approach Dick with the same scheme. Dick didn't acquiesce fast enough, so guess what happened? Think Ugly attacked him then and there as was the stated threat? No. Ugly did something much more cunning: he offered Dick a cut of the take!
Dick quickly accepted. Both were not wishing to injure themselves for nothing. Dick, Slick, Trick and the Negroes all did as Ugly told them, which was to leave the scene and provide no warning.
Twenty years ago it was custom that the person you were forced to share a cage with was obliged to warn you of any attacks, especially if the attack was by a minority or someone outside your race. Now it is get in a gang or be prey for a gang. Minorities
are not minorities in prison, and they still have nothing. Also, Caucasians are thought of by minorities to be walking, talking convenience stores and supermarkets.
That's what I was for Ugly that day: he fell in behind me and I thought he was the other ugly, scar-faced lazy misfortunate that mooched me that morning to bring him some typing paper. He followed me into my cage. I gave him the typing paper and he wanted my Christmas sack.
Now, as a robber, he would have made a better doorstop. I could have gotten the first punch in, and though it would have made his eyes bulge out and he'd perhaps lose his breath and think he was having a heart attack, he wouldn't go down where I could
kick his larcenous head in or stomp his face. Also, I'm not vicious, despite what all the lawyers and judges say. Worse, he would recover quickly while I was breaking my knuckles on his bony face. I simply can't hit that hard. Also, he would out-last me. Plus he could scream for his buddies whom I knew to be near simply because of my previous experience of seeing how cowards run in packs. I don't heal as quickly as I used to, either: that last indian shitbrain I had to peel off me cost me my shoulder ligaments. The dirtbag after him cost me some use of my poor, previously abused right pinky to this day. Punching one of three maggots in the nose to save my TV seemed to hurt my index finger more than his nose: it didn't heal for two solid months. So 2 said, "Take it." Thirteen dollars is not worth breaking my $75 glasses over, much less the injuries. I paid $500 for a cap on one tooth: this moron could get lucky, and I'd never get it repaired in prison. I'd have to go around looking like the idiots in here who trade their two front teeth for a $13 Christmas sack or a shot of trashdope. Instead, I'll let him be encouraged by the ease with which he robbed so that he can be more quickly stabbed to death for it by someone with fewer scruples than I. Ugly took the sack and ran.
The turds who were supposed to warn me, ostensible "white" people, stayed gone until forced to return by count-time. Dick had an attack of conscious and did what no true criminal would ever do: he confessed the whole thing except the indian's identity, including his taking a cut! Slick also confessed to giving his approval, no warning and to getting lost as ordered prior to the attack. Dick had the audacity to say I should have fought the thief. He tried to cover his own cowardice by multiplying the number of attackers. He tried to get me to tell him which indian(s) did it while trying to avoid telling me which indian(s) approached him. I did manage to trick him into telling me it was just the one indian, Ugly.
So there you have it: one clever indian feigning to be a whole herd of indians, duped four caucasians (or just three, since one joined the indians by taking a cut of the take) into allowing a robbery of their own "brother", as minorities like to term it. This is why I chose Ugly for this series; he is more cunning than most and thus shows that he is truly Bred For Crime!