Prison
life is not quite what I expected. I had heard rumours (or for
the Americans and their dislike of the letter U because of its
Communist undertones, rumors) about "tossing the
salad". Nothing of the sort. In fact the only salad tossing
that goes on here is drizzling my watercress and feta with
balsamic vinegar (although I don't actually get involved with the
day to day running of the balsamic operation: one of my bitches
does it for me). I think I have been installed as Mr. Big, but I
have no idea why. Perhaps it's 'cos when I was arrested I was
wearing my "I'm Mr. Big" t-shirt, and the police and
prison warders didn't dare take it off me in case I complained to
Amnesty about them again.
The
numbers racket is my most profitable. I charge on a sliding
scale, from £0.75 for the number 1, up to a somewhat
extortionate £8 for 9. Once people have paid for a number, they
may use it as many times as they like during the next calendar
month. One of the other prisoners known only by his nom de guerre
"El Statisticiano" buys all the numbers for £17 and
half an ounce of "snout", whatever that is. I let my
accountant deal with all the unpleasant 'money' side; it's why he
gets paid the big bucks. My Vice-President In Charge Of New Lines
suggests we move swiftly in crushing the new trade in Roman
numerals that is springing up in D-wing. It's his call. If he
says it's a threat we'll whup their asses until they get to
Country Joe McDonald and his fish cheer.
All of the warders
seem nice. Most of them spend all day telling me what Woodstock
was like. Apparently Joan Baez was a huge fat bald woman with a
penchant for extreme bondage and domination, and Crosby, Stills,
Nash and Young were in fact all the same person. And also the
brown acid wasn't bad; that was just a rumour spread to
facilitate the influx of the 70s, and help create all the band
names. The warders all jumped the fences. They jumped up on stage
and danced naked with Jimi. Most importantly, then helped create
the 99 version on the old army base (who said Americans didn't
understand irony?)
I'm rambling now.
Prison'll do that to you. The first thing that happens is your
mind goes. You can't hold a thought for more than thirty seconds.
The next thing that some big 7ft guy named Bubba tells you that
you're his little monkey. My bitches tell Bubba he's mistaken.
Bubba apologises profusely and becomes another one of my bitches.
Pretty soon everyone in prison will be my bitch. Wherever I go
people worship me as a god. There's nothing I can do about it. If
they chose me, who am I to contradict them? They ask for rules,
all I can suggest is that they buy numbers.
Of course they let
me out - even I wasn't allowed email facilities in
prison. The Man was running scared. They had no case. No
plausible witnesses. No motive. No evidence that I had shot all
those people. No confession. No nothing. I'm just surprised it
took them so long to realise that. Perhaps I'll sue them. I
should be able to shoot postmen in the privacy of my own home if
I so desire.
Apologies. This
sucks, I know. I was constrained by having to write about prison
life. Perhaps I should do the honourable thing and not post it.
Nah, fuck that. Read this shit. You are all my bitches.