I once had a celly at FCI Memphis who everyone jokingly referred to as McGuyver. An ex-military nut, Carl Slick was quite a talented dude. His special area of expertise was explosives. As a matter of fact, he was doing time for blowing up his attorney’s office with an IED (improvised explosive device). Bottom line? Piss Carl off and he was blowing your ass up. That’s just the way it was. Ever see the old movie, “The Hills Have Eyes”? Well, Carl reminded me of the bald headed guy in that movie. Weird as fuckin’ hell! When Carl walked across the prison compound, everyone stopped dead in their tracks and stared. Tall and lanky with pale white skin, he looked like some­thing out of a horror flick. Yet his prison uniform was starched and his boots were shined just like they were when he was in the Army. Carl would walk to the shower in full dress uniform and emerge from the shower the same way. Some compared him to a zombie, but truthfully, other than being a bit eccentric, Carl was actually a pretty good dude. He minded his own business and did his own time. He told on no one and he hated cops and rats. Carl was a convict. And over time, we became pretty good friends.

One day Carl came in from the Communications Office where he worked and said “Hey Trip! Check this out.” Standing on the rail in front of our second tier cell, Carl and I watched one of the TV’s on the floor below. Casually pointing down at the Spanish TV where all the Mexicans were watching “Caliente” Carl whispered, “Watch this.” That’s when he tipped his Taster’s Choice coffee mug up to his mouth as if he were taking a drink and pressed a button mounted in the handle. Suddenly the TV station changed to B.E.T. You see, no inmate was allowed to turn the channels on the TV. Only the prison guard could change stations using the remote control kept in the officer’s station. So, when the station suddenly changed, everyone started looking around to see who had the remote. When they realized the cop was no where to be found, one of the guys hunted him down and asked him to put the TV back on UNIVISION. Back in the cell Carl showed me what he’d done.

“I took an old remote control from Communications and mounted the eye in the bottom of my cup. Then, I put the channel changer, on and off button and the volume control in the handle. Now we can change the channels on any of the TV’s any time we want. All we gotta do is be within frequency range.” Examining the cup, it looked like any other commissary bought coffee cup to me. Moving to the bottom floor, we approached the black TV room where 25 or so men were watching the Boston Celtics play the L.A. Lakers. Standing directly out­side the TV room looking through the glass, Carl once again tipped his cup as if to take a drink. And, “blip!” Instead of watching Shaquille O’Neal slam a basket then hang off the rim like a monkey from a tree, all the Memphis blacks were watching “Little House on the Prairie”. Talk about some mad mother fuckers! “Who got da remote?” was all I could hear them say. Laughing to ourselves, Carl and I walked away. “We can’t tell anyone about this Carl,” I said. “Because if we do, someone will snitch and we’ll both go to the hole.” Nodding to one another, we agreed to keep the remote control cup a secret.

Later that weekend Carl was standing in front of the TV room pulling his antics when a West Memphis inmate saw what he’d done. Little Red, as they called him, ran straight to the Lieutenant’s office and told. Ten minutes later the cops came to our cell and took the remote control cup right out of Carl’s hand. Carl went to the hole but was released the next day. “I gotta get even with that rat bastard Trip. I know Red was the one that told on me. The officer who walked me to SHU told me so.” “Yeah Carl,” I replied. “I know it was him too. Because after you went to lockup, I watched Red as he stood around with all his gangbanger friends laughing and saying shit like, ‘Cracker won’t be changin’ da TV any mo’!’ I knew that little fucker was a snitch anyway.” For the rest of the weekend, Carl stood on the rail in front of our cell deciding what to do. Not once did he look Red’s way letting him know he knew. Finally he’d made up his mind. “I got him Trip. I got his funky rat ass! Just watch and see what I do!”

The first thing Carl did was sneak into Red’s cell while everyone went to the chow hall for fried bird. From his pocket he took a bag full of Corning brand fiberglass insulation he’d also stolen from the Communications building and rubbed it in every pair of government issue underwear Red owned. That night after taking his shower, we watched and laughed as Red kept scratching his balls. Pretty soon Red got up to take another shower. And of course, it didn’t do a bit of good. Taking his clothes to the laundry room Red started doing a load of wash. From the top tier, Carl watched to see which dryer Red was about to use. Soon as Red put his clothes in the dryer and left the room, Carl walked down to the laundry asking me to watch for the law. Carl took a black magic marker from his pocket, took off the lid and pulled out the wick. Then, he threw the wick in the dryer with all of Red’s clothes. By the time Red came back to retrieve his clothes, everything he owned had black marks on them including his store bought sweats and the dew-rag he wore on his nappy ass head. Yeah, fuck Carl over and he’s going to get even. That’s just the way it was.

The next day Red looked at the call-out sheet and saw he had an appointment at Psych. What on earth could they want he wondered to himself knowing he wasn’t a nutcase at all. Apparently, someone had submitted a request to staff member form in Red’s name saying he felt suicidal and was thinking about taking his own life. Moments after entering Psychology, Red was escorted to SHU in cuffs and put in a rubber room wearing a straight jacket and dress. It probably didn’t help matters that his clothes were all striped like a Zebra and he constantly kept scratching his balls. So you see everyone, karma can truly be a mother fucker. Even to someone doing time in the pen. Never underestimate the craft­iness of a convict nor a person vowing to get revenge. Once off of suicide watch, Red got tortured some more. Carl stuffed a summer sausage in the finger of a rubber glove, put it and a bottle of lotion under Red’s pillow, then left a note to one of Red’s friends saying Red was a fag. He liked to have never heard the last of that one. Vengeance be mine sayeth the Carl! Vengeance be mine! I’m Trip. Better Days!