This is a story about a dude we all called,  “Cutter”. Not as in the kind of cutter that likes to slice their wrists. Another kind of cutter. The kind of cutter that cuts people who fucks them over.Cutter’s real name is Kyle. Last I heard, he’d been transferred back to USP Leavenworth. A born and raised Okie like myself, Cutter did a lot of state time behind the walls at McAlester. He’d murdered a man and got a life sentence. When I met him, he was doing a 30 piece in the feds. He was my celly at FCI El Reno in ‘01. An average looking old boy, you wouldn’t think Cutter a badass at first sight. Yet once you got to know him and learned of his repuation and/or saw him in action, you immediately knew,  look can sometimes be deceiving. You see, Cutter was a straight up killer. He was notorious for stabbing and slicing people up who stole from him, disrespected him or called him names. That’s just the way it was. Lots of men fell to the ground bleeding like a stuck pig at the hands of Cutter.

    Fortunately, Cutter being my homeboy from Oklahoma, we saw eye-to-eye on stuff and got along just fine.He knew some of the same dudes I knew from the Oklahoma joint and we’d done time at some of the same prisons.Quiet around those he didn’t know, Cutter was pretty mild mannered and calm. He stuttered real bad and didn’t talk much but when he did say a few words,  the worst thing a man could do was tease him about his speech impediment. Many times the alter­cations he got into had something to do with some asshole chastising or making fun of him when saying stuff like,”Wha-wha-what are y-y-you-you loo-lookin’  at du-du-duh-dumbass? “Constantly pumping iron and doing pushups, Cutter was in excellent physical shape.And, not only was he trained in mixed martial arts, he was one hell of a dirty,  state raised, prison fighter too. If you came to Cutter looking for a fight, you’d better be ready to go like hell. Because true to what I’m telling you here, he wasn’t anyone to fuck with.

At El Reno, if an inmate wanted to watch a particular television program, that inmate would sometimes make a sign and tape it up on the wall near the tv. Being an old cowboy, Cutter liked professional rodeo. As a kid he’d been both a bronc and bull rider. And a pretty damn good one so T was told.One evening Cutter put up a sign that read,  “PBA Bullriding 6:00pm tonight.” At six when it was time to kick back and watch bull riding, Cutter went into the TV room only to find some black guys had tore down his sign.”Who-who-who t-t-t-tore down m-m-m-my sign?” he announced to the room full of convicts. At first, no one answered yet with basketball on TV and a room full of St. Louis gangbanger it was pretty much easy to figure out.”I said, who-who-who t-t-t-tore down m-my sign?” Suddenly, one young black dude with a mouthful of gold teeth stood up and said, “I to’ it down cracker! Now git yo’ stuttering ass outta here. Nobody wants to watch no fuckin’ white boys ride bulls!” Cutter silently left the room while all the blacks began to laugh.

Standing in the center of the housing unit,  I saw the same black dude that had just embarrassed Cutter in the TV room bending over at the water fountain getting a drink. That’s when Cutter came out of nowhere making his move. Sneaking up behind the  ‘banger with a homemade ice-pick, Cutter brought it down hard stabbing the guy in the shoulder. He was aiming for his neck but at the last minute the black guy saw what was coming and jerked to one side.His reflexes saved him. Because,three or four inches to the left and Cutter would have got him right square in the jugular. Stabbed and bleeding,the black guy ran toward his cell grabbing a folding chair along the way holding Cutter at bay as a lion tamer might do a ferocious lion. “Come on out of th-the-there mo-mo-moth-motherfuck-er! You asked for this sh-sh-sh-shit!” To make a long story short, the cops rushed in and took both Cutter and the black dude to the hole.Later on, the black guy apologized to Cutter for teasing him about his stuttering and both were released back to the population.

      Another time, Cutter came in from work and noticed his new NIKE tennis shoes had been stolen from his cell. Asking around, no one knew anything. A few days later Cutter was walking by the bank of telephones in the unit and saw a black guy wearing his shoes. He knew the shoes were his, because like everyone else in prison, he had them marked so he’d know they were his in the event someone stole them. Tapping the guy on the shoulder Cutter said,”Hey! Th-th-those are m-m-m-my shoes!” Mad because Cutter interupted him when talking to his baby momma,the black dude covered the mouthpiece on the phone and said, “Get the fuck away from me punk fo’  I kick yo’  cracker ass!” Thinking no more of it, the black dude kept talking on the phone. Cutter quietly went to his cell, got a single edge razor blade, slid down the wall next to the bank of phones, reached up and cut the guy’s throat. Damn near bleeding to death before prison staff could get him to the hospital,  the black guy never stole another pair of tennies nor did he ever talk trash to another man with speech issues ever again.

     Cutter got sent to lockup and then to USP Terre Haute. Anyone who knows this guy, knows he’s for real.I thought about him because there’s a guy here named Dave who knows him and we were talking about him the other day. Dave told me he’d been at both Beaumont Medium and Forrest City Medium and got into fights over the TV at both joints. Dave knew him from USP Florence where once again he cut some guy with a lawn mower blade for cutting line in front of him in the chow hall. One more thing before I close. Ever heard the old saying,  “Think before you act?” Well, here’s what Cutter told me one time. “Trip,  sometimes it has to be the other way. A man does wha-wha-what he has t-t-t-to do, and thi-thi-thinks about the con-con-se-se-se-sequences la-la-la-later.” An average looking man who stuttered, men in prison thought they could take advantage of Cutter. Just goes to show you, sometimes the real badasses don’t always look all that bad. Watch out for guys nicknamed Cutter. Don’t steal from another, don’t cut line and don’t make fun of anyone who stutters. I’m Tripper.    Better Days!

New to the federal prison system, it was my first day at the medium-high in Memphis, Tennessee. With a fresh sentence for drug trafficking, I was assigned to a cell in Beale Unit and was just getting my bed all squared away when the guard yelled, “Chow call!” Walking through the front door of the kitchen, two white guys saw I was a newbie and motioned for me to come sit with them at their table. “Where you from big man?” the little dude named Santa said extending his hand for a shake. “Fort Smith, Arkansas. You?” “Gary Indiana. I’m serving 235 for guns and Big Charlie here,” pointing at the guy shoveling his mouth full of eggs, “has 360 for weed.” I immediately made friends with these guys. They were cool, white, and hip to what was going on. Almost every day we hooked up in the chow hall to eat our meals together. They were my new road dogs. These were the guys I kicked it with. These were my new partners in crime.

One morning I went to the chow hall and neither of my friends were there. Knowing inmates self-segregated, blacks sat with blacks, Mexicans with Mexicans and whites with whites, I went to the area where my buddies and I normally sat. I saw a white guy sitting alone and went over to his table and sat down. Taking a bite of my bland prison cereal, I watched as the buffed out jock-type dropped his spoon in his tray and said, “How long you been in prison?” Looking up seeing this guy was obviously pissed, I thought first and replied, “I’ve done about 6 up state. First time in the feds though. Why?” Raising his voice and staring at me in a menacing way he said, “Because you don’t just come and sit down at another man’s table and start eating without asking first. That’s why!” “Well, excuse me!” I said standing up picking up my tray. “I just thought you were white and it’d be okay. But apparently not.” And I moved to another table.

Later on that day, the same dude approached me on the yard. “Hey big man, I’m sorry about earlier today. But I come from a USP (meaning a high security United States Penitentiary) and you just don’t come sit down at another man’s table and start eating without asking first. Okay? I …” Cutting him off in mid-sentence I gave him a menacing look of my own, “Look man. I don’t give a rat’s ass where you came from. You’re not the only mother fucker that’s did time in a max. Bottom line - no one talks to me just any old way. Now get the fuck away from me before I rip your head off and shit down your neck!” Seeing I was the one now pissed off, he turned and walked away. Afterward, I talked to my friends who told me the guy was nothing but an asshole who thought his shit didn’t stink and to stay away from him. Which I did. But for the life of me, I couldn’t help but to remain mad.

Months went by, yet every time I saw this guy I wanted to kick his ass. No one liked him. Some Yankee fucker out of his region doing time for robbing a bank with a note who thought he was tough. One day I talked to the shot caller for the whites and told him what happened and that I wanted to beat the fucker’s ass. “Do what you gotta do,” he said. “Just don’t catch a case.” I told Santa and Crazy Charlie what I was going to do and they said they had my back. Passing me on the compound, Yankee fuckwad constantly gave me go to hell looks. He knew I didn’t like him and I knew he didn’t like me. And, I heard he’d been talking shit about me behind my back. Then one day I’d had enough. Shit was eating at me and it was time to make my move. I knew the fucker was a jock and he hung around in the gym with all the blacks. And I knew there was an important basketball game that night and asshole would be playing guard. Time to get suited and booted. Time to get even with the mouthy prick that thought he was better than me.

Entering the gymnasium, everyone was yelling, cheering and rooting for their favorite team. I saw Billy Badass Wanna-be coming toward the bleachers where I was standing between quarters. Approaching him face-to-face he said, “What? You want some of me?” That’s when I kicked him in the left shin as hard as I could with my steel-toed boot damn near breaking his leg. Bending over grabbing for his knee, I grabbed Billy by the neck putting him in a headlock giving him three quick right crosses to the face. Then, I let go and brought my left knee upward to his face breaking his chin. In less than a minute, the entire fight was over. A couple of guys came along and picked Yankee dicksucker off the floor carrying him away. Myself, Santa and Big Charlie turned and walked away. “Man Trip! I think you might have gave that guy a concussion! That fucker was seeing stars when they dragged him away!” said Big Charlie obviously impressed by my ability to box.

You see, it’s common place for guys who start their bits out at a USP to think they’re tough. They think just because they’ve done time at a maximum security, violent penitentiary that no one else is as mean or rough and tumble as they are. Hell, I was raised in a maximum security joint but I don’t go around bragging about it and mistreating other people. That’s not any way to be. Anyway, two weeks later, after the old boy got out of the hospital, he came to be apologizing and telling me I’d broke his chin. He didn’t rat. I will give him that. He told the cops he’d got elbowed playing basketball which saved both of us from going to the hole. Time and time again I’ve met guys like Billy Badass who thought they were the shit saying, “I come from a USP.” And time and time again they wound up getting their asses kicked by someone who could have cared less where they did their time. Hopefully, this guy never bragged or talked shit like that to anyone ever again.

I’m pretty sure he never talked trash to anyone else who came and sat at his table. Maybe I was wrong that day and should have asked before I sat down. But, there was no reason for him to treat me the way he did. Months after the incident I still had to watch my back. Didn’t want he or any of his friends to catch me slippin’ and blindside me one day. Soon enough, he transferred out and all went back to normal. I’m sorry I hurt the guy in a way. Again, maybe I should have asked if I could sit. Ran into him one more time several years later. He had a scar on his chin where they operated to remove a chipped bone. Saw him in a holding tank at the Federal Transfer Center in OKC. He simply looked at me motioning a “what’s up” with the very chin I smashed to bits with my knee. Yeah, that old “I come from a USP” don’t fly with me. If you talk shit to me, threaten me, steal from me or rat … come on and get what you got coming. Because I’m Tripper and even though I don’t brag or say, “I come from a USP,” I can take care of business when needed. Better Days!