A lot of shit goes down in prison the average everyday citizen doesn’t know about in the joint. Being a veteran at all this crap, I can easily sense when something’s about to go down. When something’s about to jump off. It all starts when I see a lot of inmate movement and certain groups of convicts start to gather and click up. One guy will whisper to another and the word, whatever it may be, will be passed right on down the line. And before you know it, everyone who is anyone in the joint knows what’s about to occur. Everyone with the exception of a few squares, the baby rapers and most certainly … the cops. Unless of course, a two-legged rat for the folks gets wind of the situation and runs to snitch. Sometimes tension is so thick in these places you can cut it with a knife. Basically, if it doesn’t involve you, your click, or your entire race as a whole, the best thing to do is mind your own business and do your own time. Personally, I’m getting too old for this shit so all I normally do is sit back and watch.

I’ve seen a lot of fights in prison. In recent years, it’s not so much been about “the fight”. It’s been about “the assault”. It’s never one-on-one any more. It’s all about the numbers and who is running the yard. Back when I first started doing time, it was the blacks and whites going at it. Then, when I came to federal prison, it was more about the Mexicans - both Mexican Americans and the south of the border Paizanos. Prison gangs like the Mexican Mafia, Aztecas, Texas Syndicate and more. The Pistoleros, Serangos and the all treacherous dudes from the south Texas valley known as the Vallucos. These are the dangerous mother fuckers. The ones with the most members, the sharpest prison shanks and all the balls. You piss off a Mexican in here and you’ve definitely got trouble on your hands. Back in the old days there just wasn’t that many of them. Now there are more Hispanics in the federal system than there are cockroaches at your local greasy spoon.

Usually when shit’s about to hit the fan, it’s pretty well organized. Everyone knows and all go to the commissary days ahead of time to stock their lockers full of food and sodas readying themselves for an institution wide lockdown. And believe it or not, this is one of the things prison staff notice and watch for. Men buying everything they can from the store so they won’t go hungry in the event of a mass disturbance, beat down, or riot. Rarely does something jump off at the spur of the moment around here. But sometimes it does happen. Lots and lots of gang activity in prison. Worse now than I’ve ever seen it before. Whether it be at the high security penitentiaries, the medium security joints or at the lows. Shit happens everywhere. That old bullshit about, “Can’t we all just get along?” Doesn’t fly worth a fuck in the joint. The whole place is a hate factory. And as bad as I hate to admit it, I’ve been affected by it for real. There are certain ones I wouldn’t piss in their mouths if their guts were on fire. That’s just the way it is.

When I see an inmate start putting everything he owns in his locker. When he takes his Master® combination lock and puts it in a sock tying it securely at the end. Or when he puts on his weight lifting gloves and the weight pile has already been long shut down for the evening, you know something’s up. Better run and fill your Igloo cooler up with ice and do whatever else it is you need to do and get ready. Talk to your friends and make sure they’re going to be alright and stick with your own kind. Fortunately, I hang around with some of the biggest, most bad, highly respected cons in prison. Always have, always will. I make it a habit to choose my friends and associates wisely. No one in their right minds would want to mess with men like Big Sam Pernar or Wild Bill Archer. And to tell the truth, most of the idiots in these shitholes don’t want to fuck with me either. They know I’ll fight at the drop of a hat or in prison lingo … I’ll “go”. I may not have a lot of wind in my old age, but at my size, I can still pack a punch and will knock a mother fucker on his ass in a heartbeat. I’ve never had a problem protecting myself or on the streets, my lady and loved ones should the need arise. I don’t go looking, but sometimes it just finds you.

                                               Big Sam                                                      Wild Bill

Anyone ever heard the phrase “suited and booted”? Mikki, you probably have. And maybe the other Mickey too. When you see a bunch of individuals getting up from whatever it was they were doing, putting on their prison uniforms and lacing up their steel-toed prison brogans, you know shit ain’t right. Nothing like steel to kick a man’s head in. And once a man hits the floor and is unable to get up, it’s all over but the trip to the outside hospital riding in an ambulance. If a man gets blood on his clothes or his boots, all he has to do is get out of ‘em, rip the name tag off the shirt and pants, and toss everything in a nearby garbage can before the cops come to investigate. And take a shower of course. Can’t have blood all over your person when the pigs are trying to locate the guy who just left Joe Rat lying in a puddle of type “O” negative. For the most part, all a man has to do is keep his eyes open. But if he does get in a scrape, just clean up, ditch the shanks, locks and socks, and other implements of destruction and ready himself to be accosted by wanna’be FBI investigators.

Right now I’m doing time on a pretty laid back prison yard. Not a lot of shit going on here, but some. There’s been a recent shakeup in the inmate population. Since the disturbance of late ‘07, the Paizas are being shipped out and the blacks are being transferred in. When I walk in the chow hall now, I see more and more black inmates occupying their self chosen designated seats. Tension exists. No one likes an asshole and no one likes to be disrespected. With luck, maybe I’ll be able to transfer to another prison unit sometime soon. I’m far, far away from home and doing my time in the middle of this West Texas desert and it isn’t my forte. My team interview in reference to a move will come up in six more months. Yet more than likely, they’ll turn me down. Until then, all I can do is watch my mouth, control my temper, hang around with my friends, be aware of prison politics, and everything going on. I must be prepared to suit up and boot up in order to continue to survive in this hate factory in which I live. Take it easy everybody. I am Tripper, the professional convict. Better Days!