Some of my Christian brothers first pointed Irish out to me in the chow hall of the maximum security prison we call home. He was seated at a table in the white section with a couple of younger prisoners who couldn’t have been half his age. Irish was the self-professed head devil worshipper in the joint, and he made no apologies for it. Now we’re not talking Wicca here; this was a flat out Satan worshipper. And Irish’s influence was considerable, especially over the younger men who were new to prison.
From time to time, I would see Irish and his entourage on the yard. It seemed like he was always surrounded by a group of younger men who wore pentagram earrings or charms around their necks and who sported various demonic tattoos, including the perennial favorite “666” on their hands or necks. One youngster had 666 tattooed in bold digits on his forehead.
On a few occasions when Irish’s entourage hadn’t arrived yet and Irish was sitting at a table by himself in the chow hall, some of my Christian brothers would sit down at his table and begin to say grace before eating. It didn’t take long for Irish to leave in a fit, muttering curses as he went.
We prayed for Irish and his young followers that God would open their spiritual eyes and save them from their sins, even as He had saved us. We knew they were surely on their way to hell, even if they thought it was only a party destination. We knew better.
Then one day Irish was diagnosed with colon cancer.
His treatment included some form of radiation therapy. An unfortunate side effect of apparently too much radiation was that Irish lost control of his rectum. As a result, he was reduced to wearing diapers under his pants. I remember him in his last days, moving slowly in a walker, his posterior padded thickly with double diapers.
Some of the Christian brothers tried to minister to Irish, but he would have none of it. It was really pitiful to see a man reduced to such a state. One can only imagine the humiliation he experienced.
Then one morning when we came out of our cells for breakfast, we heard the word: Irish was dead. We got the account from prisoners who lived on his run. Late at night they were awakened by terrible screaming and pounding. The guard in the control room either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore it, and no help was summoned.
When Irish’s cell door was finally opened, there was a blood bath inside. Irish had hemorrhaged to death and splattered the walls with his blood before he finally left this world.
The brutality of his death wasn’t lost on his followers.
In the passing weeks, several of his young disciples were seen in chapel services reciting the sinner’s prayer and turning from their allegiance to the prince of darkness. This was too much, even for them.
Irish’s faithful service to his master had earned him a brutal, painful, humiliating death and an eternity in hell.
In a final twist of irony, Irish was laid to rest in the prison cemetery. It turned out that his family members were Christians and, although they didn’t want to claim the body, they requested that Irish be given a Christian burial. When I spoke with the Chaplain who had conducted Irish’s interment service, he told me it was the toughest funeral he ever preached.
Gordon Grilz 42972
ASPC-F East Unit
P.O. Box 5000
Florence, AZ 85232
