Anyway, my
attitude about joining a new community of cons had evolved by this point. My
first three walks into the lion's den were pretty scary, not knowing what to
expect and trying to fit in. This time I didn't give a shit−I knew most people don't
care about my deal because they had their own shit to worry about. I also
intended to keep a low profile to reduce interruptions and keep people from
bumming stuff. Perhaps I was already a hardened criminal just over three months
into my sentence. In fact, I was almost unfazed by a rather violent conflict,
mere steps from my bed.
As I was on
my bunk reading and minding my own business an argument broke out, apparently
over a poker debt. "Meek Guy” was screwed out of some winnings by
"Alpha Guy,” who seemed bored with M.G.'s beef, so he dissed and dismissed
the motherfucker. I returned to my book after the two split, assuming the
dispute was settled.
In fact, the
quarrel wasn’t over at all −
not by a swinging sock. About
ten minutes later came a concentrated explosion three feet away from me,
followed by fallout and dust like a bomb went off. No-so-Meek Guy after all had
returned with a remedy for A.G. −
a sock with a lock in the toe, and he was swinging it to crack a nigga’s
dome. A slight problem emerged for M.G. in the process, however: the seam in
the sock gave out as it was whipped around, (nice work, sock-making inmates).
The lock shot into the air as if from a cannon, right into a bank of
fluorescent lights nearest my bed.
My book
(Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying) indeed went flying as I reflexively covered my
face from the fallout and wondered what the fuck happened. Sadly, in the
commotion I missed the look on M.G.'s face when he realized he no longer
wielded a potent weapon, but held a limp sock instead. By the time I looked
over there A.G. had home slice in a headlock and was repeatedly ramming it into
his bed frame. Several gentlemen finally managed to pry him away as he yelled
and screamed to the unconscious lump: "You wanna try me, punk-ass
bitch?"
The question
was rhetorical, of course, because M.G. was out cold, crumpled in the middle of
the walkway. By this time some snitch-bitch had alerted the guards, of course, and
soon four were on the scene looking for answers. Remarkably, no one seemed to
have noticed any commotion at all, let alone an assault. A.G. had long since
slid elsewhere, and all the cops knew was they had what was possibly a corpse
in the middle of the floor and powdery shards of fluorescent light fallout
everywhere. (I can attest that shit doesn’t come out of a blanket easily.)
The Bedpost
Beatdown consequences arrived over the subsequent days, as guys spilled the
beans in private so no one would know who was singin'. (I was briefly questioned,
but my anonymity on the camp allowed me to claim I was out in the yard at the
time.) A.G. ended up in cuffs, sent over to the hole and parts unknown after
that, and M.G. landed at the prison hospital in Raleigh with a fractured skull.
No word on whether the card debt was settled, but my life at my new home sure
was less laid back than my old one.
Twitter: @WitStream
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