Anbesol PLEASE!

The following is an excerpt from part one:

The C/Os can be cooperative when and if they want to be. In Piss mod, Kyle from the Marines’ billboard asks one of the lady—female, rather—C/Os about having an infected tooth pulled. It is obvious that she has the hots for him. In a minute flat, she makes a call to the dentist and reports back, “It’s too late for today but they’ll take you first thing in the morning.” That is exactly what happens.

After being in prison for a few weeks, Sid develops an infected wisdom tooth. He asks a C/O about getting it pulled. He might as well be talking to himself. He submits medical request slips, week after week, month after month. He asks a couple of other C/Os, to no avail. He keeps submitting requests. Finally, the pain is so unbearable that he pulls it out himself.

He removes the stem from his glasses and sharpens it on the cement cell floor. The tool effectively lances the abscess that is as large as the tooth itself. Using the scalpel that he has fashioned, he gouges the gum line over a period of several days and loosens the tooth. He pries it out using his thumb and forefinger as pliers.

For three months, he has been sleeping on the floor in various cells. Not a single staff person will assign him to a lower bunk. The floor was the only alternative since his spinal condition prevented him from maneuvering to the upper level. For eight months, he has been declined medication, even though he was taking Oxycodone at the time of his arrest. For two weeks he has been in solitary confinement for a fabricated “problem.”

Lightning up the ass

The following is an excerpt from part one:

His cellmate shudders while at top volume Sid expels, “I hate all you fuckin’ C/Os and the fuckin’ state marshals. I hope you all fuckin’ burn in hell. In the meantime I call upon the forces of the universe to fuck you up so bad that you wished you had never lived.”

His cellie jumps up and started screaming. “Sid, SiD, SiiiiiiD! Stop. Look what’s happening. Look at the sky.” Sid ignores him and continues. It is early afternoon and the grayness of overcast skies becomes black, as though the day has skipped a cycle and instantly turned night.

“I hate all you fuckin’ bastards for what you are and what you did. I haaaate all you fuckin’ C/Os.” The sky grumbles. Enormous flashes of lightning flicker through the angry clouds. Water begins to flood down. It is as though the oceans of the world are overhead and are falling. Sid is standing in the center of the cell, arms outstretched.

“Sid—Sid, man! You gotta stop. Look what you’re...” The incantations continue as freely as the falling rain. Lightning crackles and deafening thunder bellows unceasingly in competition with unrelenting cries.

“All you damn C/Os and sheriffs are gonna be sorry that you ever crossed my path. I call upon the universe to destroy you. I hope the lightning goes right up your ass. I hate everyone for what they did and I curse the day that they ever came into my life. I curse you all to a lifetime of misery.” Hail the size of kumquats starts to fall. The wind is unrelenting, and frozen ice balls hurl against everything in its course. Lightning fl ashes in every direction. Its thunderous aftermath shakes the concrete building like a sonic boom.

“I curse everyone who is responsible for putting me in this rotten place. Damn you all forever. I curse you with every breath I have ever taken. I curse you all to hell.” Then he collapses on his bunk, entirely drained of energy. His cellie is still in shock, “That was you that did that?”

“Yup. I scared myself.” Maybe it is all just another bizarre coincidence. Unfortunately, there are no C/Os or sheriffs who got a bolt of lightning up the ass as far as either of us know.

“I’ll get you, my pretty.”

The following is an excerpt from part one:

When Sid and I meet at a courthouse rendezvous we have the opportunity to exchange stories about how life—with C/Os in particular—has been mistreating us. He tells me about being transferred to different mods for “whatever reason.” The challenge of “fitting in” or “getting along” is sometimes difficult because some of the C/Os make it their business to pit inmates against him before he has a chance.

That is generally not too difficult to remedy. The C/Os become infuriated beyond reason. There is usually at least one inmate that also remains staunch in his irrational hatred and harassing treatment. As time goes on, Sid’s reputation precedes him. He is well-liked regardless of C/O interference. Sid also shares many accounts of his interactions with inmates. Some of the guys are frightened by his psychic ability, others amazed. Still others are skeptical. Of the latter, their doubt is usually because incidents that Sid describes have not yet occurred. Most often, they come to fruition within a short span and the skeptics join the ranks of the impressed. It gives Sid a shot at earning respect.

Whenever the staff has an opportunity to inflict punishment, there is not an inconvenience too great to stop them. They attempt to situate Sid wherever he might be miserable. If that doesn’t work, they separate him from the ones who have become friendly to him. In one mod he became very close to two influential black prisoners who had been instructed to “mess him up.” Before long they consider him a “brother.” After a few days of the chummy-chummy stuff they get moved.

. . . Sid asks me about the great storm which had befallen us over the summer. “Do you remember the thunderstorm we had with the big hail a few weeks ago?” “Of course I do. It was ferocious.” I generally love expressions of nature such as that but the storm he is referring to was ominous. We lost power for longer than anybody there can remember. It had occurred shortly after we were beat up and sent to solitary confinement. Sid is on a rampage, furious about the attack and that nothing has been done except to further punish us.

On top of that, the pain in my leg is increasing considerably since it took so long to acquire a cane. Then, it takes twice as long to get crutches. The strain on my hip finishes ripping the socket entirely from the pelvis. My femur was completely dislocated, protruding right into the glutes. Sid experiences my pain. It causes him much anger and distress. He decides to cast a spell.

The fortuitous Kiwi

The following is an excerpt from part one:

Being an only child, and a “mistake” at that (the understatement of the millennium,) is the reason that he is so demanding. It also explains why he has developed the infuriating habit of steadfastly speaking to himself. It is not subdued in the least; the volume is the same as in the heated debates with his elderly parents, both around eighty.

When he is not engaged in a full-fledged conversation, alone, he is engaged in some sort of stage act. Undoubtedly, the performance is as much for my viewing pleasure as that of the imaginary American Idol audience. Judging from the tireless nods, bows, and grins following each act, the standing ovations must be endless, the crowds mystified. All except for me: I am rapidly becoming delusional and suicidal.

Dave’s self-indulgent demands for conveniences are unlimited. I am repeatedly assured that I will not go uncompensated—he will place a store order and reinstate everything. Better yet, when he gets out he can “send a check.” Regardless, to keep the peace, I pamper him with stamps, daily snacks, and gallons of shampoo. I even provide toothpaste. He has a tube of prison-issued Elmer’s but he is “not crazy about it.” His order arrives. Ooops, he forgot to order my stuff. He continues with the variety show performances but now, munching contentedly on bags of health mix. That must be the preferred snack of coke and nicotine addicts. He offers me not so much as a dried banana chip.

After the fifth dreadful day of madness, the dimwit goes to court. I am on barbs and spikes, fearing the worst: he might come back. I spend the day praying for mercy. It is the day before my birthday. I am a disaster, wondering if hell’s torment will be returning to throw me a surprise party. If he does not, I will become the grateful heir to his notepad, envelopes, and bottle of VO-5 conditioner. It is the perfect bequest for a man with a head of hair like a kiwi.

Surprise!

The following is an excerpt from part one:

That provides him with a splendid chance, before I block him out entirely with the headphones, to inform me of his great wealth. He received a $120,000 insurance settlement. In four months, he pissed it away in support of his and the fiancée’s cocaine habit. To boast of that sort of frivolity as one’s claim to distinction simply withers me right down to the brain stem.

The fiancée, reportedly a buxom and beautiful black barfly, is the one who had birdbrain “arrested again” on some sort of sketchy domestic violence charge. The event occurred just hours before the harmonious couple were to enter into matrimony. As a result, he’s no longer sure if she is the best choice for him. Perhaps the Brazilian beauty who tends bar at his nightly hang-out of choice would be a more suitable life partner? She seems desirable considering the way “she was coming onto” him. Could it be that he was after the tits and she the tips?

I do not propose the question—I dread having to listen to the answer. Before I clamp the headphones on for good, he suggests that possibly we could “do something.” I magically go deaf. I have all I can handle to restrain regurgitation as it makes a massive charge at the back of my throat. Unfortunately, I cannot wear the headset to go to chow. I am vulnerable to attack. The robbery, for which he served five years in another state, is a real honey of a story. The heist occurred at a drive-up window. With a handwritten note, he demanded $5,000 from the teller. She handed over the cash and he drove off. He didn’t make it out of the parking lot. Surprise!

Freaky Dave

The following is an excerpt from part one:

Following Jed’s release, dip-shit Dave is the cursed affliction moving into P-7. Maybe I am having a nightmare about the Little Mermaid giving birth to an ill-fated granddaddy catfish child? Nope, it is my bank robber cellmate inflicting the most undeservedly grueling few days of my life. He does not actually have wiggly, black whisker-mustache sort of things like a full-fledged catfish. His unfortunate appearance and regrettable deportment are best dealt with as though trying to forget a frightful dream.

The luxuriant waves of strawberry bronze flowing halfway down his back complement the freckled pinkness. While it would be a strikingly suitable style for Aphrodite, on a dingbat with a godforsaken excuse of a puss it does not work. It looks like someone stuck a disproportionately large Cabbage Patch head onto a Barbie doll. In his inexhaustible ranting about his woes, he continually cites his unconventional appearance as the reason for his being a target of scorn and scolding. On top of the freaked-out looks, to exacerbate the hideous parcel further, he maintains an air of derisive cynicism.

Derelict Dave possesses a distinct eeriness transcending the limits of physical attributes. What we have here can only be described as “the creeps.” I have little doubt that childhood taunting of “Freaky Dave” have branded indelible scars of self-loathing. At every opportunity, the long-haired wonder boasts of having spent “more money in the last four months than most people earn in four years.”

After the first several hours of our hideous courtship, I can’t take it. I find anything other than him to position in front of my nose. The annoyance diminishes dramatically when I stick the headphones on with the radio blasting. Just before that, I attempt perpetual TV watching but it is too easy for him to participate in the distraction. He feels that he is as much an object of interest as whatever is on the screen.

When he is not carrying on about his depraved life, he is absorbed in bucking the C/Os. The first night he is locked in for not tucking in his shirt. While he is waiting for our door to open, I warn him three times that he needs to tuck it. Smugly, he responds three times, “But I’m only going to the shower.” The exact same conversation ensues with a C/O just as rec begins. Surprise! His entire rec period is revoked. I have to smell him for another night, Frito factory feet and all. We are both locked in, me by choice, him by defiance.