When I was a kid, our family took vacations in this old Ford station wagon. I have no idea what model year it was, but the back end could be used to hold groceries or children, complete with fold-down seats. Two children could easily sit on either side, facing each other. Ford engineers probably did not think about it at the time, but sitting sideways in a moving vehicle caused many a child to upchuck on the one sitting across from them.
Our wagon was old, and the carpet had been torn out after it was completely ruined by some older siblings repeated travel sickness. At this point, rust had eaten a hole, large enough to watch the pavement going past, but not large enough for father to worry about losing a small child through it. The world became our urinal through this hole. Dad knew we were doing it. In fact, he encouraged it. He did not have to stop nearly as often, and we made much better time on long hauls. He warned us frequently, “Don’t forget. Aim carefully. And don’t stick your pecker through the hole, the shocks are going.” I never knew why he told us that until I met inmate Pleskac. He had lost his penis in a car accident. Whether it was ripped off clean, or grinded off, he was not clear. I did not pry. My mind flashed back to the potential nightmare of having my schwance removed while trying to piss through a rusty hole at the same time the car bottoms out.
It was an early August morning, and the temperature was approaching the mid-80s already. As I watched out the back of the office window, I could see an inmate pull down his pants, and shove a plastic wrapped sausage in his ass. Then he pulled it out, unwrapped it, and ate it. It was a dare for a fat cigarette.
I saw my first butt-fucking. I was doing count, and I stuck my face in the window where two black cell mates resided. One was bent over the toilet with a centerfold laid out on his back. The other was just pulling his pecker out of his ass. There was blood on the floor and shit on his dick. They were cousins. I think I will skip lunch today.
One of my inmates got kicked out of church for jacking off in the confessional. He claimed it was part of his penance.
Joe “The Hammer” Ruth shot his wife in the head because she had aborted their third child without his consent. Other than that isolated incident, I would say he has one of the finest attributes a human being can have, in my opinion, and that is kindness without motives. One Saturday morning when I was at work with a huge hang-over, he “accidentally” left a V-8 on my desk. Now I was concerned for several reasons. First, I should not have consumed alcohol in such quantities; second, I should not have come to work in this condition; and thirdly, I should not have accepted this gift from an inmate. Never, did he ask for any return favors. He left it because he was genuinely concerned for my health and well-being.
The Hammer gets out next year, because his now ex-wife actually lived through the shooting. She must be some sort of fucking Ninja, because he put six holes in her. Attempted murder carries quite a lesser sentence than actually killing somebody. The Hammer still talks about wanting to get married and have kids when he discharges. He will be 46 when he gets out next year. It should not be too difficult finding a woman of child-bearing age with which to build a relationship. It should not be too difficult to get her to fall for him. When she asks him where he has been all her life, let alone the last 15 years, the answer could be a deal-breaker.
“I’ve got to tell you, I’ve gone to sleep with happier thoughts.”
No comments:
Post a Comment