“Either two people shit in here back to back without wiping or flushing, or somebody has been eating MREs.”
“It’s like parfait. That shit comes out in layers.”
I got whored-out to a post to cover for a sick-bay commando, and what made things worse, was the post. Bbay and C-bay were two posts within the confines of housing unit six, the Medium Security Unit (MSU). B-bay was not as bad as C-bay. Though you had a similar inmate, you did not have to put up with Devo, the tyrannical case manager in charge of supervising you.
While performing a locker search in housing unit 6B, I found what appeared to be a six-inch dried-up turd. For starters, I could not imagine why someone would save a turd in their locker. Well, that is not entirely true. I can imagine why a young Marine would. A young Marine would want to show it off to his biological brother, and in the mean time, he would show it off to his fellow Marine brother. That thought led me to believe that this inmate might have pranks in mind. I paged the offender back to his sleeping location to question him.
It turned out that it was not a turd at all, but a mixture of items made to look like one. The recipe included paper towels, old kitchen brownies, and instant coffee. He would not divulge the entire list of secret ingredients, because it would prove he stole items from work in the CSI shops. I am not sure I needed to know unless I ever wanted to design my own creation. All this discussion had passed a good portion of my morning, so I decided to reward the inmate by leaving him a real turd. When I got home, I took a dump in a ziplock bag and carried it in my lunchbox everyday until I got back to B-bay. It was plenty dried out by then. Holding the bag and aiming without peeing was the tricky part.
In the Department of Corrections in Nebraska, CSI means Cornhusker State Industries. Nebraska correctional officers have called it CSI long before the Crime Scene Investigation television shows were popular. This CSI is a very simple manufacturing facility that provides products for use by Nebraska State Agencies such as office furniture, institutional furniture, brooms, filing cabinets, picnic tables, and road signs, just to name a few.
The nature of their business does not stop their personnel from thinking they are anything short of a crack investigative team. We also make remarks at their expense when our staff
People Would Buy Ticketsmembers go a little overboard in their duties. “You need to work for CSI.” One such relief control station officer, M. Leybold, was posted in our housing unit to work the B/D side of the house on Wednesday, and it so happened that this particular officer did not like to spend much time in the control station. It was slightly claustrophobic, and boring, and he liked to stretch his legs, often. Consequently, every time I stepped into his work area, he would leave, thinking I was relieving him to roam around the housing unit. That was definitely not the case, so I had to step on his toes frequently.
On one occasion when I allowed him out, I requested that he do a cell search. He had just finished the task and was on his way back to the control station when a new commit (fresh inmate) was entering the housing unit with a garbage sack full of his own property. The old salty officer properly halted him and asked for identification and a patdown (search for contraband without undressing the inmate). What happened next was not terribly unlike what you would expect from a Wal-Mart greeter. During the pat-down, Leybold gave him the housing unit three welcome as he moved his gloved hands over his entire body.
“Welcome to housing unit three, I’m Officer Leybold. Your caseworkers are Batiste and Whalen. They are the best in the entire department. You are going to love it here. In just a few days, our unit will be first in line for chow. Our canteen day is tomorrow, so you’re just in time. I see you’ll be in cell A-7 with inmate Munoz. He has made the bottom bunk available, and we’ve placed a brand new mattress and pillow there just for you. Munoz even has a color television that you can watch.” The guy was visibly cheering up and did not give Leybold any static at all. I kept waiting for Leybold to say, “Can I get you a cart?”
“He’s got a smile and a boner, so you know he’s all right.”Cy Wildberger
Cy was an old inmate. I do not mean he had been around for a long time, though he had. When I say old, I mean, he had seen many years of his life go by. Not coincidentally, he had seen many of them go by at the Nebraska State Penitentiary. Cy had originally begun his incarcerated time in the Old Cell House, prior to the construction of the Nebraska State Penitentiary. He was in for murder, and conspiracy to commit murder, and he would continue to serve his life sentence until he perished. That time appeared to be coming soon.
You would not know it by looking at the sweet old man, particularly when you had to call the hospital for an emergency breathing treatment, but once upon a time he and his wife were swingers. The multiple crimes resulted from the stalking neighbor lady that just could not get enough of old Cy. Apparently, she went a little Psycho and Fatal Attraction on him, so Cy and his wife made plans to get rid of her.
Normally, we would just send him to the NSP clinic, which is located in the upper floor of the administration building, but his lips were blue and we did not want to take a chance that he would not make it across the yard. He was 88-years old after all. We called for a wheelchair. Cy did not want it. It was degrading to his dignity. He declared that he would not go. I asked him if he would allow me to talk to the officers providing his escort to see if they could just follow him with the wheelchair, and that was acceptable to him.
“My neighbor in the next cell is in because he and his girlfriend wanted the Avon lady to participate in their kinky activities so much, they abducted and raped her. Now there is a fantasy-visual permanently engraved on the back of my retinas.”
About the only thing that pisses off Cy anymore is when a good cell neighbor moves to a single-cell in another unit. It was not as if he would miss them, his concern only had to do with who might move in as his replacement. There goes the neighborhood.
Dream JournalI have had the typical underwear dreams while sitting in class, even though I know that nobody forgets to wear clothes to school, I would frequently catch myself sitting in class without pants. The most frequently recurring type of dream I have these days is the one where I pose as a dentist and give some poor unsuspecting large-breasted blonde with a short-white skirt too much numbing. Of course, the dental chair tips way back like most. I simply lift up the skirt (no panties of course) to reveal a freshly-waxed snapper, spread her deeply-tanned legs, and try to push my face inside. After an hour or so of licking and sucking, I fuck it like crazy.
“Because in life, vaginas vibrate.”Mountains of Porn
We were sorting through and chucking out the old porn when two prior service Marines, the deputy warden and the external unit administrator, entered the control station. They saw the pile before we could hide it. Walker had been there before.
“Found it in the day area, just checking it out for identification and further contraband.”
“Make sure it’s properly disposed of when you are finished,” chuckled the unit administrator.
“Aye aye, Sir.”
The unit administrator hovered close to the pile, “Men, for the most part, dress more conservatively than women. Don’t you agree Marine?” He inquired of me, knowing my prior service.
“That may be true Sir, but I think it’s because men don’t have to advertise that we’ll fuck at the drop of a hat.”
“Keep up the good work,” he mockingly stated seriously, as he and the Deputy departed the housing unit.
“That was close.”
“Close to what? Did you think they cared or didn’t know we looked at the inmate porn?”
“Did you see what Green did there?”
“Yah, he’s been looking at that Buttman magazine for 20 minutes; he’s book-marked two pages with his fingers, and he’s taking it to the john.”
“You KNOW he’s going to rub one out.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“He ripped out the advertisement.”
“What advertisement?”
“The one that talks about the life-like vibrating vaginas.”
“Because in life, vaginas vibrate.”
“I didn’t have access to this much porn in the Marines! We have mountains of the stuff. There must be a bazillion different angles to photograph a naked woman, but I’m so glad that people continue to experiment.”
“Like Ron White says, ‘Once you’ve seen one naked woman, you want to see them all.’”
“What inmate did you get these off of?”
“Orlando.”
“Take ‘em back.”
“Why?”
“Because Orlando is a 4’10” Mexican with a 13” pecker. It is a cock of pure majesty. He pets it and talks to it like an animal. It is a phallus of Homeric proportions.”
“Can he suck it?”
“Seen him do it.”
“Why would he suck it?”
“Because he can.”
“And you watched him?”
“I couldn’t take my eyes off of it; it was like watching
God creating. I call it Dog-dick red.”
“Can you find that in a paint store?”
“You look away, then you look back. It’s just like when
The Epistle of James
13 Let no one say when he is tempted, “I am tempted by God,” for God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does He Himself tempt anyone.
14But each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed.
“You gave up chocolate for Lent? I bet Jesus is proud. Fuck, open up the pearly gates and let the fat bitch in, she just went 40 days without a Kit-Kat bar.”
Card PartyCount and I were invited to a card party in Waverly, just 10 minutes drive east of Lincoln on Cornhusker Highway. The party was to be held in the Trackside Keno bar. We gathered around a table waiting for the rest of our party to arrive. I quickly learned that Count was no stranger to this place, as a few ladies greeted him. One large gal in particular sat right next to Count. It might have been more accurate to say she sat on his lap, but she was not quite there. She was not all large. From the waist down, she had nicely tanned and fairly firm legs. Her loose short shorts also revealed that she wore no panties. Her upper body was very thick, with a nice portion of it in her bra. There was a lot of leg-to-leg contact, and a great deal of hand to innerthigh contact.
“Hey Count, what’s up?”“Keep running your hands in there, and you’ll find out.”
“Oh yah, are you wearing my favorite boxers tonight?”
“Actually, I’m doing like Tom Petty tonight.”
“Huh?”
“You know, Free Ballin’.”
“Really? Did you give them up for Lent?”
“No. I didn’t give up anything for Lent.”
“I think I’ll give up wearing bras for Lent.”
“Just don’t give it up until I get you into bed.”
“So you’re not wearing any right now?”
“No more than you. Why don’t you just let your fingers do the walking, and see if you feel any boxer lines?”
“Oh God, Count, let me get you a drink.”
The gal waved her hand, and a Morgan and Diet Coke appeared almost instantly. From where I was sitting I proceeded to watch Count get a rub down through his denim shorts. A wet spot the size of a quarter appeared inside of two minutes.
“Hey Babe, where can we go to finish this off?”
“That depends on how much time you have.”
“Well, do you want five minutes now, an hour later, or both?”
“Both.”
“Then the women’s bathroom will do for now.” I watched Count follow the lady to the women’s bathroom, enter, and shut the door behind them. Count gave himself too much credit. He was back to the table in less than four minutes, and me with no evidence.
Dream JournalI have always said my brother is a genius. The proof is in his manipulation of Mom as a youth. He convinced her that his desire to be an artist required him to practice drawing naked models. He wound up getting a subscription to Playboy magazine when he was 12. I guess that’s where it started for me. Two years his junior, I never missed an issue. The first issue I saw was August, 1974 with Lynnda Kimball on the cover.
“…you know the difference between a hero and a liar; heroes don’t tell the story.”Howard’s Day
It was the 2nd of September, 2003. Belau said it was an inmate holiday called Howard’s Day, and the inmate porters got double pay. He was fucking with me, I was sure of it. Who in their right minds would create an inmate holiday? Not that it would break the tax-payers, most of them only made $1.21 per day, so doubling that would not make a huge difference. I called Gary Anderson, a Marine, co-worker and a good litmus test. He said it has something to do about a guy who started a petition and got rid of the striped uniform. I called the old salt, Sgt Marshall, and he said it really is an inmate holiday, “You won’t see anything different. We go about our business the same way we always have. The only people that need to be aware of it are the bookkeepers in inmate accounting who figure out the pay for the inmates.”
“Do the inmates celebrate in any way?”
“Hell, most of them don’t even know. Unless the veteran inmates tell them and remember the date, none of them will know shit until it hits their paychecks.”
“And by then, it will be over.”
“Batiste, you got any problem going on a TO to South O?”
“Marshall, I’m part Hispanic. My whole life, Blacks and Hispanics have been my closest friends.”
“Yah, but you look white. What if they fuck with you?”
“I ain’t worried about it.”
None of Howard’s Day mattered for me anyway; I was on my way to a funeral travel order in South Omaha. Coincidentally, on Howard’s Day, we were taking inmate Perry Manassero to his grandfather’s funeral. Sgt Craig Lovercheck and I escorted. Perry was a flight risk, and his grandfather, Howard Cotton, was being put to rest in a “Home Going Celebration.” Prior to the beginning of the ceremony, Lovercheck leans over to me and says, “Hey Batiste, we’re in South Omaha, but have you noticed that we are the only two white guys in the room?”
“Sarge, you’re supposed to be the observant one; you haven’t checked the casket.” Sure enough, Howard Cotton was as white as Lovercheck, and I don’t think he just lost his pigment upon old age. He had just turned 101 last Christmas. Apparently he was from a long line of Mississippi cotton farmers and decided to marry one of his laborer’s daughters, who happened to be black. Howard had 12 children who were all light skinned and very attractive. They all married black or light-skinned blacks, and their multiple children and offspring filled the church.
“Batiste, did you know it was Howard’s Day?”
“Are you referring to the inmate holiday, or to your grandfather’s celebration?”
“That’s good, Batiste, but that’s just a strange coink-edink.”
“I just learned about it this morning. I also learned that you are a flight risk, so don’t do anything stupid.”
“Aw, c’mon Batiste, I wouldn’t run from my own granddaddy’s funeral. My family would never let me hear the end of that.”
“You act like it’s never happened before.”
“Anyway, back to Howard’s Day. What did you learn about it this morning?”
“Nothing, ‘cept that it was today.”
“And you got a degree?”
“So does a rectal thermometer.”
“You got time to hear about Howard’s Day?”
“It’s an hour drive. I can give you some of that. Long as you don’t bore me.”
“John Howard was born in 1726, 50 years before America was even a country.”
“So all I know now is that he’s dead.”
“You gonna listen Batiste?”
“All right, Perry, go for it.”
“John Howard was a rich man and is considered to be the father of prison reform, but nobody knows why he came to make this cause his life’s work. At the age of 40, he had experienced prison. An English ship in which he took passage was captured by the French and he was imprisoned for two months before he was exchanged with other prisoners.”
“You sound like you are quoting this out of a book. How do you know all this shit?”
“I’m a legal aide, I study. Now, are you going to listen or what?”
“Continue.”
“At age 50 he was unknown, at age 60 he was an international hero. Despite his prison experience, the more critical event for John Howard would seem to have been his appointment as High Sheriff of Bedfordshire in 1773. It was a political position without qualifications and it came as a surprise when Howard took the responsibilities of the appointment seriously and began his inspection of prisons.”
“What made him want to inspect prisons?”
“Are you not listening Batiste? Nobody knows. People were amazed that he took it so seriously. Perhaps he was bored.”
“I can accept that.”
“For the next 17 years he was committed to the task, traveling thousands of miles by horse and carriage not only throughout Great Britain but including seven trips to the continent, even to Moscow and Constantinople. He died in 1790, having caught typhus while visiting Russian military hospitals. He had given his personal fortune, his health and his safety to the cause of prison reform. On one occasion, because of the reputation he had with the imprisoned, he was able single-handedly to intervene and stop a riot in the Savoy military prison in London.”
“One guy stopped a riot?”
“That’s right, Batiste. Because he was respected.”
“He should have been a warden.”
“You still don’t get it, do you? He was the top cop. His book, The State of Prisons in England and Wales, had three editions in his lifetime. John Howard advocated reform: clean, healthy accommodation with the provision of adequate clothing and linen; segregation of prisoners according to sex, age and nature of offense; and proper health care. These were his priorities. He decided there should be a Chaplain service because he was of the age in believing that spiritual starvation was a major obstacle to reformation of character. Finally, he was a firm believer in the work ethic and the need for prisoners to be provided with work in order that the sin of idleness could be combated.”
“How come more people don’t know about this guy?”
“Cuz nobody celebrates prison reform until it benefits them.”
“All you have to do is fill out the application on the back of Rolling Stone magazine, and Shazam, you’re ordained.”
Lays of Our LivesFrom the control station, we could hear the oohs and aahs of surprise from syrupy lines traded between lovers and concubines on the screen. The inmates wore headphones as the televisions had no speakers. The televisions were set up without speakers so as to not wake the other inmates who might be sleeping, but the real reason appeared to be preventing the staff from watching TV. I went across the bay on the giant voice, “It’s not real.” That provoked an inmate to approach the hatch.
“Whachu watchin?”
“You. My girlfriend gets into soaps too.”
Inmates always assume the worst, or try to pick a fight,
“You trying to say I’m a bitch or something?”
“I’d never call you that, directly.”
“Whachu mean directly? Whachu trying to say? I’m a
cunt or somethin’?”
“Wow, my girlfriend gets all wound up and defensive
like that too! She can’t ever let shit go, worrying about
every comment.”
The inmate scowled and stalked back to his program,
and I returned to my control station conversation. Between
the assistant shift supervisor, two housing unit staff, and the
external yard officer, we were full of Marines.
“I am a proponent of the pump. I have tried many
models, and have subsequently worn out as many.” “Do they work?”
“WebMD says no, but I can’t say.”
“What, is it a secret?”
“No, I’m just not sure. Over the last 20 years, I have
gained penile length and girth, but I am not certain if it was
from the pump, or from maturity and use in other areas.
WebMD claims you can add to the appearance of your length
by doing some very simple things.”
“Hey, we’re all ears.”
“First, they recommend losing weight. For every 15
pounds lost, you are supposed to get back half an inch.” “I guess I could stand to gain a couple inches.” “Then, they claim smoking damages your circulation,
which is vital to full potential blood flow.”
“I can see that. Anything else?”
“Yah, but I can’t remember if I read it on WebMD, or if
somebody subconsciously planted it in my head.” “Well, what the fuck is it?”
“Tanning.”
“Huh?”
“Yah, tanning. I’ve heard that tanned penises look
bigger.”
“Why do you keep using pumps? You’re married, and
you have girlfriends.”
“I like the way it feels. The pump works through
constant suction.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Well, I like the feel of it.”
“Would you let a hot girl use a strap-on on you?” “Depends how hot. If a girl sits on my face and sucks
my dick real good, and she starts a feelin’ around that hole,
I might allow one-knuckle deep with the pinky. But a strapon? It would have to be Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie.
Maybe Brittney Spears before she got stupid and shaved
her head, like back when she was singing, Oops, I Did It
Again.”
“I got the best one. I was at Brewsky’s on South Street
with this chick. I pretended I put a hit out on a chimo who
fucked his granddaughters from ages three to 19. I told this
chick that I put the hit out because he was bragging about it,
wishing he was still doing it. Then I claimed we have this
hidden store of goods from our shake downs. I told her we
had confiscated quite a bit of dry goods, and non-perishable food items. Then I told her I paid for his beating with two sodas, a box of Twinkies, and a half bag of pretzel sticks. It was not a true story, but I was drunk and I wanted to impress this chick, hoping she would fuck me. The term back-fire would be an understatement. She chewed my ass about, “That’s not your job. You can’t do that!” But later that evening, she fucked me anyway. She mounted me in the
back seat of my car. Good thing those seats are vinyl.” “Oh yah, well I got laid in the Platte River.”
“Where and what year?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because if you claim to have done it near your
hometown in Columbus in the last two years, you’re a liar.
It’s so shallow you could walk across, and you could not
conceal anything.”
“Who says I was trying to conceal anything?” “Dude, last time I was in Columbus, I saw this wicked
billboard. Congratulations Platte County! You’re number
one in the country! You’re first in alcohol related deaths,
and teen-pregnancies in the country! Isn’t that something
to be proud of?”
“Oh yah, well I got laid in the Waverly convent house. I
was there with my wife for the engaged encounter. We were
sent back to her room to discuss our differences on an issue,
like the other couples, when my fiancé decided she wanted to
fuck. Back then, she was as easy as the Junior Jumble.” “Ya know, none of this shit could top an inmate story
about getting laid in the penitentiary.”
“Provided it was with female staff.”
“Hell, fuckin’ a dude beats all your stories!” “I can’t believe this shit happens voluntarily! I am
familiar with the phenomenon of taking what is available,
having spent a great deal of time in the military with nothing
available but less than attractive women, but never could I
imagine myself taking what’s available when there are NOT
ANY women.”
“You say that because you are Catholic.”
“Oh, here we go again with the religion thing. I work
with a Seventh Day, a Latter Day, an Atheist, and a nonpracticing Catholic. I myself am a Catholic in denial.
Perhaps I’ll become Asatru.”
“What do you mean, in denial?”
“I just have some serious problems with it.”
“We got a whole shift, Batiste.”
“I’ve been reading this old book, Churches of Today, by
some guy named Tomlinson. I laugh every time I open it up,
because it’s really old, and it says of Today.”
“You can read, Batiste?”
“Fuck off, man; there are three primary issues I have.
First, and foremost, I don’t believe I should be required to
confess my sins to a priest. The priest claims that you have
to humble yourself in front of another human being in the
form of the priest. I just ain’t buying that. If I screw up,
I’m just talking to the man. You know, just me and JC.
Confessing to a priest is like smoking with a filter. I just
don’t feel like it gets the job done.”
“What else?”
“Well, why should I have to go to mass every Sunday,
plus the other holy days of obligation? Sometimes, I just get
tired of this shit. I’m beginning to think that Catholicism
is just an indoctrination into guilt and fear. I don’t want to
feel guilty and afraid all the time. It sucks.”
“You’re right. So what’s the third thing?”
“When the priest says he turns the wine and the wafer
into the real blood and body of JC. He ain’t really doing that.
It’s a good representation, but I ain’t buying it.”
“He actually told you that when he rings the bells, the
wafer actually becomes The Flesh?”
“Yes.”
“Then can he not ring the bells when I’m up here?” “Dude, you’re weeding out accountability, and you’re
not in denial, you just ain’t Catholic.”
“Blood from the non-believers will rain from the sky!” “So, go back to the Asatru thing. What’s the attraction
there, or were you just spitting out the first religious group
you could think of?”
“How many people do you know that are Asatru on the
outside?”