Playing the board game RISK with some guys, a Romper Room Reject suddenly got mad at me and threw the dice hitting me right square between the eyes. Blood gushed everywhere and I had to be taken to the infirmary. Mad that I invaded South America from the U.S. and wiped out all his armies, Buddy lost his temper and not only hit me with the little white cubes, he also turned the game upside down tossing all the cards and game pieces on the floor. At the hospital, I spoke with Nurse Cake as she bandaged up my nose. “Sorry to ruin your solitude tonight Ms. Cake. But some idiot flipped out on me when I reneged on my promise not to invade his country. Ever play RISK?” I asked. “Yeah! What a fun game! I personally like to start out with North America and go from there.” she said. “By the way,” I continued with our conversation, “Is that idiot we all call the crypt keeper bothering you? Because if he is, we’ll make sure he leaves you alone.” “No, it’s alright,” she said and smiled. Bandaged and smitten with the beautiful nursey named Cake, T returned to the unit with a smile.

Every man in the joint malingered, feigning illnesses. Everything from full blown heart attacks to migraine headaches just to get to see Nurse Cake. It got to the point where a truly sick person couldn’t get medical treatment at all. Staff started to notice the attention Nurse Cake was getting. Other nurses gossiped and hated on Nurse Cake and I knew it’d only be a matter of time before they’d get jealous and she’d get canned. And sure enough, when speaking to Nurse Cake at pill line one evening, she told me she’d given her two week notice and was being forced to resign. Never fails. Every time we’d get a nurse or female doctor that gave a shit, the administration would come along and find a way to get rid of them. Fire them, saying they were either too friendly or not doing their job. When Donnie, aka the crypt keeper, aka ass clown, found out Nurse Cake was leaving, he damn near cried. He really was sick then. And the fucker faked so many illnesses those last two weeks, he spent the entire time in an observation cell on suicide watch just so he could be close to Nurse Cake.

I got out of prison. 8 months later I got a P.V. (parole violation) and was sent back to the pen. At Pine Bluff Diagnostic, who else did I run into? The ass clown! Housed in a different barracks than mine, I only briefly got to talk to him in the chow hall. But when I did, he whispered to me, “Remember Nurse Cake?” “Yeah,” I said. “Well, I married her!” “No you didn’t! Why you lyin’ little piece of shit!” I yelled. “Quiet down inmate!” screamed a nearby CO. knowing inmates weren’t suppose to talk in the chowhall. “You didn’t!” I whispered across the table. “No, I did! I swear it! She and I have an apart­ment together in North Little Rock. I got a job working on a barge and I am supporting her and her kid.” A week or so later, we rode the prison transport van to Varner Unit. That’s when he told me the whole story and I’ll have to say, the dumbass kid really did hit a lick. Once at Varner he even showed me a picture of he and Cake together. In the end, as much as it surprised me, I guess old Donnie really did get to have his Cake and eat it too!

T’m Tripper! Better Days!

     There was a time when I drank a little bit. Jack Daniels was my whiskey of choice. I’d usually start out with a pint of Old 7. By the end of the night I’d drank three or four. Never was one to consume anything in moderation. Not speed, cocaine or alcohol of any kind. They say it has to do with having an addictive personality. Truthfully,  I don’t know. What I do know is, I like to get high. When you party with me, we’re going to roll until the wheels fall off! Drink un­til the well runs dry. Don’t so much care for booze these days. But when I used to get the urge to tie one on, I drank Jack Black right out of the bottle tossing the lid into the breeze. This is a blog about one of those nights after the bar closed. Smashed on liquor and trashed on methamphetamine, my friend Steve Young and I left the Stagedoor and headed to an old friend’s house in Moffet. Little did we know,  the guy we were going to see was just as fucked up, or maybe worse, than we were.

Walking up to the gate with a sign that read, “To Hell With the Dog! Beware of Owner!” I immediately became skeptical. Especially since the pit bull on the chain was chomping at the bit to take a bite out of our drunk asses. “Vaughn! Vaughn! Come out here and get this goddamn dog before he eats our ass alive!” Steve yelled toward the porch. Stepping from the doorway of the old run-down shack came Roger Vaughn, ex-Vietnam Vet, and he was wearing two .9mm automatic pistols in a shoulder holster. “Young? Steve Young? That you? Why I’ll be goddamned! Come on in here boy!” Sidestepping the length of the pit’s chain, we proceeded into the front room of the house. “What’s up Tripper? Long time no see. Last time was in the Sebastian County Jail, wasn’t it?” “Yeah, Rog’. You doin’ alright man?” I asked.   “Couldn’t be better! You boys sit down. Wanna beer?” Watching crazy one-eyed Roger walk toward an old refrigerator in the corner, I noticed what looked to be several bullet holes in the wall, plastic and glass all over the floor.

After a beer and a shot or two of Jack, Roger asked Steve if he’d brought his pistol. Steve then took out his 2-shot .38 derringer from his boot and an Army issue .45 automatic from his waistband in back. Sitting on a shelf along­side the icebox was nine of those little drinky birds that bob up and down. You know the kind? The ones with the stupid little faces and red tophats? Apparently there used to be twelve but Roger had already blown three of them away—their mangled bodies strewed about the old wooden floor near the base of the kitchen table. “Bet you ten bucks you can’t hit one of them birds with that derringer first try,” Roger said to Steve. “Are you sure you want me shootin’  shit up in your house man?” asked Steve. “Fuck it!” he replied. “Go ahead. Hell, I do it all the time!” Taking a swig from the bottle of J.D., Steve expertly aimed his little 2-shot pistolo at one of the drinky birds, pulled back the hammer, and pulled the trigger.    “Missed the damn bird all the way!” Roger announced laughing his crazy ass off. “Now watch this,” said one-eyed Rog’. Quick drawing his .45 he blasted the first drinky bird on the shelf to bits. And believe me, that little bastard never drank another drop ever again.

My ears ringing from the gunshot blasts and the pit bull barking like mad on his chain just outside the door, I briefly wondered if the Moffet Police might show up. But then again I thought … this is Moffet.  And there’s only one pig and he’s probably home drunk or in bed. Next thing I know, Roger’s pulled out a hammerless .380 from his front pocket and is blowing away a few more plastic birds. Laughing hysterically, both Roger and Big Steve seemed to be having a blast. Me? I just had a headache from all the loud noise.    “Ever shoot a flamingo, Steve?” asked Roger.  “Because I got some more shit out here in the backyard that’d make good targets. C’mon. Follow me!” Before walking through the back hallway of the house, Roger tossed me his .380 and said, “Here Trip. You might need this. After all, these goddamned pink birds can be some pretty mean mother fuckers. Wouldn’t want you to go out there unarmed.” Drunk as a dog I found myself wondering … does this fucker really have flamingos in his yard and he wants us to shoot them the fuck up? Or maybe it’s that he just has one wheel stuck in the mud. You just never knew about crazy fuckers from eastern Oklahoma. It could be both.

In the backyard, fighting roosters and laying hens ran for cover knowing their nutcase owner was coming out to raise hell. Stepping in a huge bunch of chicken shit, I almost slipped and fell. “You owe me ten. Double or nothin’ says you can’t hit one of those pink freaks with that .45 with a hand over one eye!” said Roger. Looking toward the barn at the end of the lot, Steve saw nine of those plastic pink lawn flamingos and said, “You’re on mother fucker! But I tell you what. Let’s make it forty and I’ll bet I can annihilate three of those long-legged bitches before you can even shoot one!” And before Roger had a chance to respond,  Steve pulled his chrome-plated automatic and shot the fuck out of not three, but four pink flamingos sending their remains flying across the yard in bits! “Pay up mother fucker. It’s almost daylight and time for me and Trip to go.” Roger just laughed and laughed and laughed. Ears ringing and tripping on all the noise and flying debris, I looked at my best friend Steve and said, “Why you crazy fucker! Damn good shot for real!”

Still a bit paranoid that the cops, or maybe even an Oklahoma Highway Patrol might come along, I patted Steve on the shoulder and said, “We’d better go.” Suddenly, our host seemed to be offended. Raising one eyebrow and spitting a sucked-dry chaw of Redman on the ground at his feet, Roger Vaughn said, “What? I ain’t good enough company for you boys any more? Come back in the front room and let’s shoot up some more drinky birds! Hell, I’m just startin’ to have fun. Surely you guys can stay a little bit longer, can’t you?” Seeing Roger was all wild-eyed and toasted,  Steve said, “Okay Rog’. Just a couple more. Then we gotta kick rocks.” Soon as we hit the living room,  Steve popped in his extra clip and unloaded on the remainder of the top hat-wearing birds. What really made things bad was, Roger did the same with both of his nines. Never did think my ears were going to stop ringing after that. I was sure I suffered major hearing loss, not to mention nerve damage from putting up with these two gun-wielding maniacs.

All the way back across the Arkansas River Bridge, Steve spoke but I couldn’t hear a single word he said. I could see his lips moving but my hearing was G.O.N.E gone! To this day I think I have hearing loss due to that night. Smelling of speed, whiskey and gunpowder, I took a shower as soon as I got back to my motel room. The next day I went to the walk-in clinic on Rogers to get a few Valium because my nerves were shot. The Asian doctor gladly prescribed me a hundred blues just so long as I paid the $45 office call. Funny, but when I walked up to the cute little Vietnamese nurse standing at the receptionist window, there sat one of those stupid little drinky birds bobbing up and down getting a drink. Asking for a cup of water and tossing back six blue tens, I remember thinking to myself … I hope I never see one of those little top hat-wearing, big-eyed fuckers ever again. Good riddance to you bird! By the way, this blog is dedicated to my old friend Steven DeWayne Young who passed away last year.  I’m Tripper!    Better Days!

Monday I’ll be taken to what they call UDC (Unit Disciplinary Committee). I can already tell you what they’re going to do. They’ll find me guilty of possession of contraband and they’ll suspend both my commissary and tele­phone privileges for 30 days. All that means is I won’t be able to call my dear old 70 year old mom once a week like I have for the last 8 plus years letting her know I’m okay. Retaliation and reprisal against an inmate for ex­ercising his First Amendment Constitutional Right to file a complaint is strictly prohibited by law. Yet the B.O.P. and all their undereducated, vindictive cronies do it all the time. I’ll appeal my write-up. And, I may very well win. But, the entire process will take well over a month and by that time, I will already have suffered the consequences and they’ll say, “Oh well! Damn the bad luck! Harmless error! Sorry Tripper!” Again, not my first rodeo. I know exactly what’s going to happen even before they open their rotten-ass mouths.

Do your job! B.O.P. employees hate to hear that. And the higher up the ladder they advance, the less work they think they have to do. If the assholes in the kitchen would do what they’re suppose to do, stuff like this would never happen. It all boils down to prison staff being inmate haters. They have the attitude they’re here to punish us. They prepare the sorriest tasting food using the poorest quality ingredients they can buy. Then, they serve us a child’s portion and tell us to like it! If you buck and write them up, they’ll put a hit on you. Just like they did me. But you know what everybody? I’m used to this kind of shit. I knew what to expect when I started this war with Food Service. I knew they’d retaliate. I knew they’d send one of their henchmen after me to destroy, search through and steal my personal property. But guess what? No matter what the consequences or repercussions, I’m going to file again, again and again. Nothing will ever change around here unless I put the paper on their sorry ass! I’m not a quitter. I’ll never lay down.

In closing, just wanted to give everyone a little insight as to what’s been going on with me lately. And let everyone know I may be writing my blogs from the SHU (punitive isolation) sharpening my stubby little golf pencils on the concrete floor. I’m not the kind of inmate that’ll just bend over and let them fuck me in the ass. I know I broke the law and I know why I’m in federal prison. I am incarcerated “as” punishment, not “for” punishment. And the sooner the idiots that run this shithole figure that out, the better. I won’t waiver. I’m doing my bit and all I’m asking the jerkoffs that run this place to do is … their job. Do your fucking job! Is that too much to ask? I think not. I’ll send a copy of my shot with this blog and see if Nic can scan and post it for your amusement. Be advised, I’m a dangerous convict who possessed a 0.6 fluid ounce bottle of white-out which in effect threatened the good orderly running of the institution. Not really! What I did was complain about the shitty food and got slammed for it! I’m Tripper! Better Days!