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!

My last drink of hooch. Sitting here in federal prison, I just finished my last goddamn cup of prison wine. Thinking to myself … what will I do now? I’ll write a blog. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll write whatever comes to mind and try to make people laugh. And at the same time, I’ll try to make myself chuckle a little bit too. Because just like they say in Reader’s Digest, “laughter is the best medicine.” And everyone likes to laugh. Right? I don’t normally get drunk in prison. Actually, this is the first time I’ve ever done so. Couldn’t resist. I’d been having a bad day and decided to tie one on. Looking around, all I see are a bunch of men who are afraid of their own shadow. Guys who’d literally pull down their pants and let a person fuck just by hearing the word “boo!” What pussies there are here doing time. Makes me wonder how some of these wimpy dudes ever got put in prison in the first place. Just a bunch of weak individuals who let the system run over them day-in, day-out. They literally aggravate me to death.

Me? I’m a bit different. I’m outspoken. If a guard mouths off to me, I talk back. If I get screwed over by the prison laundry, food service or medical? I file formal complaints. I won’t eat bread and water and work like a Hebrew slave in the prison war factory known as UNICOR. I could give a damn less about their 23 cents an hour job. Newbies come in and say, “Tripper, why don’t you go to work in the UNICOR factory?” And I say, “Hell boy, if I wanted to work in a factory, I wouldn’t be in prison!” Fuck working in prison, fuck UNICOR and fuck the bullshit hard labor that senile bastard of a federal judge supposedly sentenced me to. I’m not here to work nor kiss the prison administration’s ass. They’re not going to work me to death. Some say I’m incorrigible. I say I’m a convict. And convicts don’t always do what prison officials tell them to do. Yeah, if I would have wanted to work at a factory, I’d be working at one of those old furniture factories in Fort Smith making minimum wage and I wouldn’t be doing time. Sorry everyone, but that’s not my idea of a life. Just keeping it real.

Had a couple of cups of wine with my friends tonight. And with the headache I have right now, one thing’s for sure, I won’t be doing it again for a while. Back to my writing … yeah sure. I’ve spent a few days in the hole. But when I left I still had my pride and dignity. I never rat and each and every morning I wake up and look at the man in the stainless steel mirror, and I know I’m not one. I don’t like abusive prison guards, jailhouse rats and penitentiary queers. One day I’ll once again be free to roam the earth as the warped, deranged idiot I am. And to those out there who might thing they’ll want to take a shot at me and run me down? Rest assured, you’ll have a bad day coming. Because again, I ain’t the one. With all this pent up anger, hatred and racism driving me day after day, if you decide to fuck with me, expect to get your head knocked off. Believe it or not, I ain’t no joke. No brag, just fact. If you want to be an idiot, I can be an idiot too. Don’t like being that way but sometimes shit just happens. Know what I’m saying?

Some of these so-called inmates in here are simply wasting good air. Their oxygen supply should be cut off. Especially the child molesters and homosexuals who take advantage of little kids. Take this sex offender that sleeps in the rack next to me for example. He comes in from the factory every day bragging to his bunky about just having sucked a wee-wee. And how his relationship with his big black daddy from Cincinnati is going so well. A guy that got a couple of years for possessing hundreds upon hundreds of images of child porn while I sit here doing a 17 year bit for a small amount of methamphetamine. A 45 year old white male who is still a predator just waiting for the day he is released from prison so he can go right back out there and rape more little boys.

Real Life Sex Offenders, Not All of Them The Nasty Picture You See In You Mind. One Smiling, and Quite Proud. Sick. Sick and WRONG!

Sorry everyone, but tonight I feel like speaking my mind. And one thing’s for sure, a drunk always speaks the truth about what’s on his mind. Yeah, this guy is one sick, perverted, twisted little boy goober gobbler who I detest and abhor. He needs to be run off the yard. He needs to be forced to check into protective custody. Yet he is allowed to live here. Why? Because the punishment for making him check in is too severe.

Then occasionally, I run into a real mother fucker. Someone who’s been there/ done that and doesn’t give a fuck about society’s law in that smoking pot is illegal but former politicians who rape little babies is okay. Like my friend Big Sam for instance. The guy who shared a couple of cups of wine with me tonight. Now here’s a guy that lives in a world of reality. At 62 years old and having just spent almost 16 calendar years in the pen, he knows life is almost over for him. And when he gets out? Fuck some supervised release. He’ll jump that first day I predict. I imagine plans of cooking up a batch of speed and hittin’ one last good lick. No need in being scared! Eat, drink and be merry. Enjoy life to the absolute fullest. No living in the gray twilight, never having had any fun in life for Sam. Be all you can be! Kick ass, take names and tell the Judge and Prosecuting Attorney that put you in here … kiss my fucking ass! Again, I’m sorry everyone. Just my drunken rant. But I admire guys like Sam. Fuck ‘em and feed ‘em fish heads. He’s the real deal all the way!

Men without a program. Men without ambition or a plan in life. That’s all who live and sleep around me. Everyone but Wild Bill Archer. Now here’s a guy who has literally done it all. The former Las Vegas Chapter President of the Hessians Motorcycle Club. The feds never caught him doing anything. Yet they lied on him in open court, set him up from the git-go and sentenced him to 295 months in the pen. Bill doesn’t work at UNICOR. He doesn’t conform and kiss the warden’s ass. He hasn’t raped any little boys or girls and got a minimal prison sentence. Just like me, he can’t stand the child molesters who are allowed to do their time on this yard. Bill is a man’s man. He does his time the way he wants to do it. If someone says something stupid to him, whether it be a prison guard or one of these cho’mo’s (prison slang for child molester), he tells them where to get off—how the cow chews the cabbage. I respect guys like Wild Bill and Big Sam. They’re convicts who mind their own business and do their own time. And I want to be just like them when I grow up. I already am. I’m Tripper. I’m drunk. And I hate all who live in my world wasting fresh air.

Just thought I’d rant a little bit tonight and let you know what’s going through a drunk convict’s mind. I write this blog sitting in a prison barracks full of noisy, disrespectful, asshole inmates who have no respect for anyone. Not even themselves. The mental and physical torure a man puts up with in prison will drive him to drink. And it’s unfathomable to the normal every day Joe. It’ll be amazing if I leave here with my sanity and not hate every law enforcement official, faggot and gangbanger I run into out there in the world. Nights like tonight wear on me. I sometimes feel like a ticking time bomb waiting for my time to explode. Again, thank God for what little sanity I still possess and thank the prison psych for Prozac. Wish I had a big fat joint of marijuana to smoke right now. From the mind of a temporarily drunken, unusually disgruntled inmate locked away in federal prison for a little bit of speed. I’m Tripper. And really everyone … I’m okay. Better Days!

Just a short one … Drinking a cold one at the old Relay Station one Saturday afternoon, an old friend of mine came staggering through the door. “Hey Bull! You crazy old mother fucker! Where in the hell have you been?” “Just got back from the horse races Trip. Lost my license a while back so I had a friend drop me off at the bar.” said Bull. Sharing a few Michelob’s with my old pal, he told me how his construction company had recently folded and he’d pretty much lost all his money at Hot Springs earlier in the day. Several pretty girls were in the bar. Bull and I flirted with them all. One old boy shooting pool kept hating on us staring across the way. When he went to the restroom leaving his longneck Budweiser on the pool table, Bull walked over, pulled out his dick, and rubbed the head of it all over the bottle’s rim. When the guy came back, he took a big old swig of his beer. That’s when the girls standing around just laughed, and laughed and laughed! That’s the kind of crazy shit David Bull use to do. Never a lack of entertainment when he was around.

Suddenly, the bartender and bouncer got mad. Big Steve came over and said, Bull! I’m throwing you out! Finish your beer, get in your car and leave.” “But I don’t have a car Steve! I got dropped off!” said Bull. “Well, I don’t care,” said Steve. “Finish your beer and go!” Downing his last swallow and shaking my hand goodbye, Bull looked at the bouncer and said, “Guess you’ll have to call me a cab.” A few minutes later there was some kind of ruckus on old Greenwood road right in front of the bar. It was Bull and the cab driver fighting. I watched as Bull took a bumper jack away from the cabby and chased him down the road. After he ran away, Bull walked slowly around the cab meticulously knocking out every window. First the front windshield, then the back, then all the windows in all four doors. Soon after, someone called the cops and a Fort Smith black and white arrived. After a few minutes of arguing and the patrolman pulling his gun, Bull was cuffed and placed in the back seat and hauled away.

About a year later, I ran into David Bull in the Sebastian County Jail. “Last time I saw you, you were beatin’ the hell out of a cab driver and tearing up his fucking car! What happened Bull?” “He got smart with me Trip,” said Bull. “So I slapped him up side the head. That’s when he grew balls and got out and grabbed that bumper jack and tried to kick my ass. So, I took it away from him, run him down the road and commenced to destroying his cab. Then the cops came and took my drunk ass to jail.” “Did you have to stay in the pokey very long?” I asked my old buddy Bull. “Nope. Soon as I cleared book-in and made bond, I saw the same cop that arrested me and I asked him if he’d give me a ride. Had him take me right back to the Relay Station.” “Thought the bouncer just threw you out of there?” I asked. “He did. I drank a few beers before he noticed me. When he did, he came over and said, ‘Goddamnit Bull! I thought I just threw your drunk ass out of here! I saw what you did to that cab driver in the street. Now go on! Git! You gotta leave!’” “Damnit Steve!” said Bull. “You know I ain’t got no car!” “I don’t care,” said the bouncer. Bull finished his beer, sheepishly looked up and said, “Guess you’ll have to call me a cab.”