My ass is like a dog whistle. All I have to do is fart and the ladies arrive. I certainly do not want it that way, and I can not imagine how it works. It must be a freakishlystrange coincidence. I see a clear room and think I can safely let one seep out. As soon as I pass gas, females show up! Sometimes they enter before the audio presentation has faded, but they always happen upon the scene before the stink fades. I liken it to washing your car to make it rain. I should be nervous about passing gas in a housing unit composed mostly of child-molesters and homosexuals, thinking they might be listening and fantasizing about my asshole diameter and gauge or something, but I do not care.
As long as they do not start licking the windows, or doing other strange acts of perversion during their fantasies. Speaking of strange acts of perversion, Homer Forrester was a fucking Nazi stuck with the child-molesters (chimos) on housing unit one. The D & E unit was technically protective-custody (PC), but the majority of them were protected because they were chimos. Even inmates have a judgment system: You do not mess with kids. Most inmates will tell you that it is okay to rob somebody or get hooked on drugs, but it is not okay to prey on women and children.
Homer had received a breakfast tray and was looking for a place to sit and devour his meal. The next thing I knew, one of the chimo-pansies found himself on his backside with a swollen eye. Homer claimed the guy was talking smack. I learned later that Homer had tried this method multiple times until he found a patsy.
I asked a simple question, but the answer was quite complicated. I went to Homer, wanting to know why he would sucker punch a weasely little punk over a spot at the breakfast table. He explained to me that he had to get out of the unit, and this seemed like the easiest and most painless way. Pick a patsy that would not fi ght back.
"The Mexicans are out to get me."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the other day, when our side was locked down, I prepared a jolly rancher."
"What do you mean, prepared?"
"Well, I stuffed it in my ass, and pushed it back out. Then I wrapped a pubic hair around it, and put the plastic wrapper back on it. When I saw one of the Hispanic fuckers walking past the door, I slid it out at him. He accepted it as a gift, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth."
"Dude, I am Hispanic."
"Really? I wouldn't tell anybody. You look like a fi ne Aryan specimen to me."
"Never mind that. How did he fi nd out what you had done with it?"
"Oh, I got his attention and told him right away!" "Wait a minute. You have a tri-fecta here. First, you stuck a Jolly Rancher in your ass. Then you fed it to somebody. Then you told them about it? Well no wonder they want to kick your ass. I can't say I blame them. You have that one coming. You are the architect of your own misery."
"The spoken word is the least reliable and most misunderstood form of communication."
Previously I mentioned that I had met many intelligent inmates at the DEC. That said, I want to make it clear that stupid inmates are not in short supply either.
Inmate Claycan was a lonely white man who had accidentally felt up his girlfriend's children while he was sleeping. He claimed that he was still dreaming, and that he thought his girlfriend was in bed with him. That would be a good defense if it were true. I am not saying that in his case it is not, but after having studied multiple case fi les, many inmates claim to have done something completely different than what came out in the court system.
Claycan was fortunate that he resided in housing unit number one. It was the island of misfi t boys. Unit one was the only unit without any boat people. Boat people are inmates who have to sleep on cots in the day area due to overcrowding. Unit one can not have any overcrowding because it is the only unit where only half the unit is allowed to be out at a time because of its protective custody status. It is a necessity to be able to secure half of the population in their cells at all times. At no time can all of the inmates be allowed out of their cells. Any inmate who was in danger of being subjected to mistreatment from other inmates was placed here, for their protection.
Typically, if you are a child molester, puny, scared, on your fi rst number, or just a minority who can not speak English, the department believes that you might be a target for pressure. Pressure comes in the form of many things. You might be "talked into" giving up your food, your personal items, your clothes, or your butt-hole, but not necessarily in that particular order.
Claycan was invited to play cards with a group of Hispanic gentlemen. They needed a fourth, and they needed somebody stupid from whom they could take things. One of the Hispanics spoke a little English. Actually, he wrote and spoke it fl uently, but he did not want to let on. Honesty is not synonymous with truth. Being able to play stupid can get you out of stuff on occasion, and he was saving this trump card for later.
Claycan never realized that there were other Hispanics gathered around the table who could have been asked to join the game at any time. He was so overwhelmed that somebody was including him that it worked very positively on his selfesteem. All he wanted was to be included. Being included could save him from the depression of being incarcerated.
I kept an eye on the game. I did not care if some poor bastard got took for all his belongings and then some, but I did care if there was violence. God forbid I have to do paperwork because somebody got their ass handed to him during a physical altercation. On this particular occasion, I was extra concerned. One of the Hispanic gentlemen at the table was inmate Espinoza. Espinoza was once rated eighth in the world-fl yweight division. On his last number, I heard he punched a guy in the chow line and then caught him to lay him down so he would not hurt his head when it struck the ground. He had a temper as quick as his hands.
The cards were dealt for poker, and Claycan fi lled his hand. There were never any misdealings, or card stackings, or any sort of cheating going on when it came to the handling of the cards. The cheating occurred when Claycan fi lled his hand, and unknowingly exposed his cards to Spanish speaking friends of his opponents standing behind him. All manner of discussion was going on behind Claycan's back, and every card he held was identifi ed out loud in Spanish. Claycan never fl inched. He never seemed to be bothered by it a bit. Claycan was completely oblivious of the fact that everybody involved in the game, and many on-lookers, spoke Spanish, and were entirely aware of every card he possessed.
As I previously stated, my Spanish is limited to things like, "Donde es la cheespa?" which I think, means, "Where is the titty-bar?" But even without the ability to fl uently speak Espaņol, I knew what was going on. Claycan never won a hand, and lost almost every thing in his locker. Months later, I was scanning through Claycan's fi le. The mother fucker was bilingual! He knew all along that he was being cheated. I guess acceptance, in any form, meant more to him. That, or he was putting some serious investment into that trump card for later.