Adjusting To Life On The Inside

  So, dear readers, at today’s writing, I find myself incarcerated still, locked away in jail like a common criminal, and apparently abandoned by my one friend and only hope of securing freedom; my attorney, “Double-Double” Medjuck. He had previously convinced me to refinance my house with a second mortgage and give him the money to fund our legal battle against the university, then summarily skipped out on me and I haven’t seen or heard from him since! I am left now to languish here in prison indefinitely as the wheels of justice seem to have ground to a halt, and I have become resigned to merely sit inside and wait until my trial date arrives.

  There is nothing I can do except wait, really, and the time begins to weigh heavily upon me, so I decide that I will do my best to try and stay occupied. All convicts have the right to attend school and university while incarcerated; they can get a degree from any of the online colleges while doing their time inside the joint and hopefully they may gain some discipline and receive a little practical training that may help them to straighten their lives out, and break free of their criminal lifestyles for good. A trade or a degree, that they can fall back on when reintegrated with society. They can get their doctorate while serving hard time as there are even PhD programs available! This opportunity is perfect for me because not only do I desperately need some sort of constructive activity to fend off the maddening boredom of prison life, but I also need to get a law degree ASAP because it would appear that my lawyer has left me holding the bag, and now, in terms of legal defense, I will have to fend for myself. So that is that, there can be no question, I am going to attend university behind bars and become an attorney so I can do the wise thing and represent myself in court!

  Before I can begin my new academic career, however, there are the finer details to deal with regarding my housing within this correctional institution itself. I need to be assigned to a cell, and given the basic toiletries and bedding that all inmates are provided. A hulking guard with spaghetti stains on her uniform grunts my name through the bars and I am called forward to be billeted my cell. We walk for what seems like hours through dimly lit hallways and dank passages, being admitted through remotely operated giant steel doors and clanking steel-bar gates until finally I arrive at what will serve as my home for, what looks like, a long time to come.

  My cell is an austere affair, 10x12 with a stainless steel toilet-sink combo in between two cots which line the opposite walls. There's a bare steel framed one, which I assume belongs to me and upon which I drop my bedroll, and a neatly made one across from it, at the foot of which, seated with back to me, the individual who would apparently be my cell-mate from now on.

  He’s ignoring me. I clear my throat and stand waiting for him to acknowledge, but he’s lost in thought. Maybe stupor? He just sits and looks at nothing, facing the back wall of the cell. I peek around to catch a glimpse of his face, and he seems to be in some sort of a trance, quite possibly medicated(?). His eyes are glazed over and half closed, his mouth hangs open, there is some drool running down his chin… then … suddenly he jumps to attention, he’s up on his feet like a flash of lightning and has his fists up in fighting stance, looking all around the cell as though he were being attacked from all sides. His eyes are like a wild animal, until he realizes there is only myself standing there, holding out my hand to shake. I demure to overlook his little outburst and politely introduce myself, to which he acts disgusted, stares at my outstretched hand, and shakes his head in disbelief. He sits back down on his cot and, dispensing with the formalities, lets me in on the “lay of the land” 

The Law of The Jungle is Explained to Me

   With no introduction whatsoever, he gets right up, into my face and begins... "Listen up punk! We're both going to be in here for a long, long time, and that means I gotta look at your ugly face every day when I wake up, so you better get a few things straight.” He hisses, “This is my home, and don’t you forget it, or else! Don’t touch my stuff, and don’t rustle my jimmies and you’ll be OK. There’s rules in here, just like the outside, except, in here, the big dogs eat, and the little dogs get eaten, capisc?” 

  I nod my head slowly in concurrence.

  “Oh yeah, and one more thing…” he adds, “No whistling! Only the screws whistle. If I ever hear you whistle I’ll shank you and cut your lips off!"
  "Other than that, I think you’ll be okay.” Now his tone is considerably lighter, almost friendly. “Just watch me, and do what I do, and you shouldn’t have any problems at all.” Now he even wants to know a little about me and asks; “So...what are you in for?”

  Nervously, I tell him, in one breathless sentence, that I was framed. I have been charged under criminal law and been accused of committing heinous terrorist acts in attempting to cause great personal injury up at the university, but it is all a giant misunderstanding, and that I’m planning on attending the jail-house university to get my Doctorate of Law degree from one of their PhD programs, so that I can announce my Innocence before the Judge and defend myself in the Court of Law when my trial date comes up.

  My cell-mate, upon hearing this laughs out loud. He’s slapping his knee and doubling over. This is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and wiping a tear from his eye, he grabs onto my shoulder to steady himself and tells me, “Man, you’re the limit, look around you, not only is every single con in this hell-hole ‘innocent’ but they’re all lawyers too!” He resumes his laughter, “College is a waste of time, school never did anybody any good! University is a joke. In here we have other things to keep us occupied.”

  As he’s telling me this I begin to realize who this man is, I recognize him from the pictures I had seen splashed across every newspaper and magazine only a few short months ago. This whole time, unbeknown to me, I have been sitting and chatting with “The Criminal Court Killer” a maniac lawyer who lost his mind while representing a client on trial for jay-walking and went on a homicidal spree. He had barricaded the court-room and taken everyone inside hostage, torturing and killing each of his captives, one by one. 

  The ordeal had lasted 3 days, and he had refused all negotiations, until finally, he had been lured out by the SWAT team rolling pennies down the hallway just outside the courtroom doors. This was too much for the lawyer and he could not resist running out after them, only to go straight into the arms of the heavily armed authorities, who were laying in wait. A perfect trap! 

  Afterwards, when they went into the court-room, and witnessed the scene of such extreme and barbaric violence, the results of days of torture and carnage, several senior police officers were reduced to tears, had to take stress-leave, even early retirement, and are all in therapy still to this day.

A Very Bad Man

   “University is for pussies, why would you want to sit around studying and learning in some jail-bird college when we’ve got REAL entertainment, boy!” He winks at me. I’m put off by my realization of just what an extreme psychopath I am sharing digs with, but I sort of half hear what he’s saying…

  “You’re gonna have fun with us in here, friend. We got's something extra-special... We got's ‘Gladiator Days!’ He’s very excited about this activity. I’m not sure what ‘Gladiator Days’ means but it has my bunkie all fired up, he’s writhing with pleasure. “Gladiator Days is the BEST! The guards set it all up for us! And it’s so much fun! I LOVE it! Plus, I’m the reigning and current champ, so all the fresh meat has to fight me, meaning YOU (he jabs me in the chest) are going to battle ME! Tonight!” 

  I’m starting to see what he’s talking about. Gladiator Days seems to be some sort of bare-knuckle boxing match, or wrestling, something athletic and competitive. And he’s informing me that I will have to fight him. It is kinda surreal because he doesn’t at all seem threatening or aggressive about it, just polite, matter-of-fact and to-the-point. I on the other hand, am starting to feel terrified. I try feebly to talk my way out. "I don’t want to fight you", I say weakly, shaking like a leaf, "I don’t know anything about fisticuffs!", I tell him, "I'm not a criminal, I’m a nice guy, just ask me."

  Again he looks at me like he doesn’t believe I could be so naïve. “This isn’t fisticuffs bro. This is gladiator days! Anything goes. Anything. And to the death! Two men enter, one man leaves. Don’t you worry, kid, it’s all sanctioned by the guards, it’s basically a tradition in here.”

 I’m starting to feel the panic arise within me, I start pleading with him, “Please mister, you don’t wanna fight me, I’ve never been in a fight in my life, I don’t know the first thing about it. Honest!”

  He sizes me up for a second, considers what I just told him, then says, “Look here sonny. You seem like a nice enough kid, I dunno, I like you. So I’m gonna do you a little favor. I’m gonna show you something, and maybe it will help you out.” And with this he reaches under his mattress and produces one of the steel bed-slats, about 2 feet long and sharpened along one side to resemble a crude, home-made machete. “It’s easy really,” he continues as he gets up and immediately grabs an unsuspecting trustee who just happened to be passing our open cell door at that moment. “You just have to move quickly,” he throws the trustee to the ground and puts him in a scissor-lock, “know and understand how to use your weapon,” he turns the machete a few times so I can get a good look at it, “And STRIKE while the IRON is HOT” saying this as he proceeds to carve at the trustee’s neck, amid gargled screams and spaying jets of blood, until he completely decapitates the subdued victim in about 30 seconds flat. “It’s easy, nothing at all.” He’s standing now, shrugging his shoulders at the simplicity of the whole thing, machete in one hand, twitching, bloody head in the other, lock-down sirens wailing behind him as he stands there smiling and looking at me as at least 15 armored guards with clubs and shields rush into our cell and proceed to pummel him into submission, drag him away and throw him in the hole. 

"Gladiator Days"

   When the commotion settles and the sirens are quiet, I sit alone once again, my cell covered from floor to ceiling in about a gallon of blood, and the trustee’s head sitting on the cot across from mine, still twitching slightly, the eyes blinking and the mouth moving as if to speak at me. I swear I could have heard it say “Don’t be a fool! Play it cool and stay in school!”