I have a scar on the index finger of my left hand. It’s barely noticeable, even though it traverses the pad, wrapping around almost touching the nail on both sides. The bone is what kept the finger from being completely severed. There’s some nerve damage, this strange tingling like it’s not my real finger. It reminds me to always keep my mind where my ass is at!
Back at my former unit, this dope-crazed gang kid, all spun out on meth, came at me with a razor blade. I sacrificed my left hand so he didn’t get my neck. Then I punched him dead on the chin. He slipped and hit his head. Before I could stomp him to finish him out, his people stopped me.
There’s a lot of prison politics that goes on down here. I’m no white supremacist, but those other white guys were scared there would be a riot. The black and Hispanic gangs gathered up and talked. I suppose their little kangaroo court decided that since the kid was 20-something and charged at a 50-year-old man with a weapon, then he in fact was in the wrong!
Actually, nobody gave a damn about me or my finger. They were just worried that I might snitch. Snitching in prison is taboo. We lived in a 125-man dorm and had way too much dope, phones, and other contraband for the law to be coming in. People were nervous about me going to medical too. The gang leaders, or “speakers” as they’re known in here, wanted to know what it would cost to make it right. At this point, I was still in excruciating pain and mad as hell. I told them, “My finger is worth more than all you sons of bitches!”
I washed it, closed it, wrapped it tight, then held it up until the bleeding stopped. As the night went on, people started to come by to offer me stuff to pacify my pain with whatever they deemed fair tribute. So I got this crazy idea. Well, if they’re already worried about me snitching in prison (and pretty much accused me of it anyways), then I might as well violate my own principles!
Revenge is a dish best served cold. There was some dope in the floor with other commissary items. I had my cellie chop up all that meth into about a dozen fat-ass lines. I already knew who was wacked out and couldn’t pass a drug test. Now, I went after multiple organizations. I crushed up some antacid tablets and made me a line of similar size and shape to the others. Then I told my cellie who to go get, and the guys all came down to sit at the dayroom tables.
I let them see the mirror and all those lines. Then I said, “This is a peace offering. No more blood!”
I snorted my minty fresh calcium powder and handed the pen tube to their speaker. He shook my hand and told everybody, “Y’all hear that? This is how a real O.G. fades his own heat!”
One by one, these fools snorted their lines. One by one, they each ingested enough methamphetamine to piss dirty on a urinalysis. The trap was sprung.
So now, we had at least two dozen idiots spun to the gills, all twacked out on dope. I was in too much pain to sleep. I drank coffee and focused on the task at hand. Although my right hand was swollen and sore, I could still write. And write I did. I gave up everything on everybody, everywhere.
I had all night long and the perfect excuse to get it down. They would simply think I was doing the same thing they were. You see, meth is a sex drug. It hyperstimulates the pleasure centers in the brain. In this crazed state of euphoric arousal, all them fools wanted to do was masturbate. So they made tents out of their sheets for privacy.
Therefore, I spent my time under my sheet writing detailed letters to prison officials. My finger throbbed with every heartbeat all night long. Yet somehow, I remained thankful for all that pain. It kept me awake. It kept me focused. And it allowed me to accomplish the mission.
They call breakfast so early that very few people turn out to go. I put a stock of a dozen envelopes inside my shirt and hid my bandaged finger in my jacket pocket. I dropped all those letters in the mailbox and came back to lay down.
My nap was very short-lived. My plan worked even better than I had imagined. About 7:30 a.m., roughly a dozen guards rushed in. They strategically spread out so they could cover every angle and see every inmate. Everybody came to this party, the wardens and all other ranking officers. They even brought in K-9 units and regional search teams.
Immediately, about a dozen confirmed gang members were taken away in handcuffs. And after they drug-tested our entire dorm, over a dozen more were told to go pack up their stuff. Oh sure, some people had drunk enough water to pass a drug test. However, with all the information and cell phones found around the wing, it set in motion a chain reaction that was like dominoes falling in a line.
There were a lot of guards caught up in this fiasco too! One would think that after something like that, the fools would crack down on this systemic organized crime. Unfortunately, it continued for several more years. It finally took about three dozen murders before the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) would institute a statewide lockdown.
An old friend once told me, “Water flows downhill. Dirty money always flows up! If you want to kill a snake, you gotta chop off its head!”
Brian Fuller #02046619
Texas Department of Criminal Justice
Stevenson Unit
1525 FM 766
Cuero, TX 77954
One Comment
Very clever and bold! I love it! I hope it brought some peace to your unit.