Some major shit went down here at FCI Big Spring a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t want to talk about it for a while. But now that the smoke’s finally cleared, it’s probably safe to tell you guys what happened. You see, there’s a lot of gang activity in federal prison. The Paisa and Aztecas are sworn enemies. Texas Syndicate can’t be housed with Serangos. And the Washington D.C. blacks don’t get along with anybody. Not even their so-called brothers. Therefore, the B.O.P. takes special care not to house certain specific groups of assholes on the same prison yard. FCI Big Spring is ran by the Paizas. Paizas, for those of you who don’t know, are Mexicans from south of ..the U.S. border. Dangerous little mother fuckers they are, they’ll gang up and ratpack you in a New York second. For the most part, I don’t have any problem with them. Yet the Azteca guys from south Texas near El Paso do. About a month ago, an Aztec gangbanger hit the yard. Everyone thought he rode with West Texas. He didn’t. And soon as someone figured out who he was, they busted him out and he damn near got killed.

Suddenly one evening, they called an institution lockdown. That just meant everyone had to return to their housing units for a body check and count without unwarranted delay. Rumors travel fast among convicts. Soon as men started coming in off the yard we knew what went down. One minute there were about fifty Mexicans under a pavilion next to the soccer field. The next minute there was only one, and he wasn’t standing any more. He was lying in a puddle of his own blood with a broken back and caved in skull. I know this because about fifteen wetbacks got rolled up that night. After staff came around and made us all pull off our shirts so they could check us for injuries and fucked up knuckles. Shortly after that we saw an ambulance out front carting the assaultee off to the local hospital. Yeah, steel toed boots can really do damage to a man’s cranium. We stayed locked down all night until the cops got everyone rolled up, taken to the hole and all their property inventoried and packed. Next morning, it was back to normal operations.

They say this old boy was suspected as an Azteca gang member the day he got off the bus. Yet when questioned by the Paizanos and other gang boys, he claimed to be a West Texan from Odessa. Most of the convicts believed him. But something seemed fishy to others. His tattoos were wrong. No one from the area really knew him either. And eventually I guess someone figured out he wasn’t who he said he was. When shit like these planned assaults go down, the assaultee usually doesn’t know about it. Yet all the perpetrators do. They knew old boy was going out on the recreation yard for the evening. They might even had a secret or double agent set him up. All I know is, I saw a lot of suited and booted Mexicans going out to the yard that night. And by 7:00 pm, everyone was all locked down and the Aztec Warrior was in the Big Spring hospital in a coma. Damn the bad luck dude. The way I see it, the guy shouldn’t have lied. He should have admitted he was an Aztec day one and checked in. If he would have came clean and done that, he’d probably still be okay today. The same rules don’t apply inside here. It’s about survival of the fittest, and while checking in isn’t too much fun, I don’t suppose a coma is either.

One of the Correctional Officers here told me the guy was in the hospital and the doctors were giving him regular injections to keep him paralyzed from the neck down. That way he couldn’t feel the pain or mess something up if he moved. They were waiting for some of the swelling to go down in his brain so they could try and fix his back, and the rest of the shit that was wrong with him. Last I heard, he was still breathing but shit wasn’t looking good for the home team. I guess the B.O.P. finally broke down and contacted his family. Normally, prison staff won’t notify family members until an inmate is, or damn near is, DEAD! Their fear being … if they do, someone might come to the hospital, overpower the guards, and try to break their family member out. Stupid ass shit if you ask me. I mean with this guy? He’s obviously not going to jump up, rip the IV out of his arm and run off. The dude’s damn near a vege­table for Christ’s sakes! Here’s something else the normal everyday Joe doesn’t know. They leave the cuffs and leg-irons on a prisoner even after he’s dead! Standard Bureau of Prisons procedure, or so they say. Humiliating to the family if you ask me and unreasonable. As I said, the same rules do not apply inside these walls. It’s a jungle in here, and if you don’t know the law of the land very well, then you may very well be taken out like Mr. Coma.

I’ve seen a lot of violence in these places. Everything from a guy getting a hole knocked in the side of his skull the exact shape and size of a combination lock. To an inmate who had his head caved in with a horseshoe. The latter of the two also having his throat cut ear-to-ear and buried in a pauper’s graveyard outside the fence at FCI El Reno no less. I tell ya, these Mexicans are some straight up crazy ass fools. I use to think the blacks were bad inside these places. Hell, they look like a bunch of first grade pansies compared to these south of the border ‘bangers when it comes to splitting somebody’s head! I saw firsthand what these Paizanos can do back in December of ‘07.(See previous blog titled, “No Mo’ Cho’ Mo’s”)
They’re as ruthless and dangerous as the day is long. At any rate, just wanted to give everyone a little insight on the latest in reference to what goes on in shithole joints like these. Things are not always cool, calm and collective as prison staff wants the public to believe. Fortunately, there hasn’t been a Hispanic on White incident at FCI Big Spring since late ‘04. In closing, know this, there are no more fair fights in prison. Only beat downs! 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!