Post by The Convicted on Jun 15, 2019 14:42:18 GMT -5
The scene opens to "Homie" sitting at a small metal desk in a small room with little to nothing in it, a single bed a four drawer dresser and a 19" box television with rabbit ears hooked to it. A small lock box can be seen under the bed next to his black leather prison work boots, he keeps them as a reminder of what he has been through and still could be doing. A bottle of Tequila sits next to him unopened a shot glass sits upside down as he looks down at a pad of paper. He holds a newly sharpened number two pencil in his hand with a look of deep thoughts on his face.
He has an upcoming match in the new wrestling company he just joined with his longtime friend Eric Chronister, better known as "Chronic", but he would consider him more like a brother after everything they have been through over the last decade or so. He also has been needing to start the community service that the parole board ordered him to do, he is supposed to help those on the wrong path get on the right one by talking to them and what not. So now he sits there at his desk in his own room, in his and "Chronics" two-room apartment thinking of what to say.
When out of nowhere he realizes he could kill two birds with one stone by sending a message to his opponent's for the upcoming match while still doing his community service. He opens the bottle of Tequila pours a shot and hurridly downs it as he places the tip of the pencil to the paper and begins to write.
My First Prison Experience: The Walls 30 Years Ago...
"Chronic" has been driving me crazy to put my thoughts and experiences to paper, to help me get my thoughts in order. It's hard to do but Homeboy said that you all might be interested in what it was like. It seems like war stories to me and I don't know if any good comes from reliving the past. However, here it all is. Take it or leave it, this is the way I remember it.
I had pled guilty to burglarizing a pharmacy a year or so before I had actually gone to prison and had been given 3 years probation. It didn’t take long before I violated my probation and was destined to go to the pen. I was 19 years old and bound for The Walls Penitentiary in Missouri, "The Show Me" state!.
When I left the county jail, it was the sheriff and his wife who transported us. It was a Sunday afternoon and they treated us as if we were going on a leisurely drive. Besides the sheriff and his wife, it was me, an old white con, and a young black dude. We arrived in Jefferson City around lunchtime. I had been in and out of county jails but this was a whole new ballgame. I had heard the horror stories, especially about "The Walls", but really had no idea what to expect.
When we got to the entrance of the prison compound, we stopped at the front gate and checked in. The sheriff told the guard who we were and the guard gave him directions to Camp 9, which was receiving. We drove the 6 or 7 miles down a dusty dirt road and got to the building.
The sheriff’s wife wished us all well and told us she hoped we didn’t hold it against them, that they’d brought us here. She said the sheriff was doing his job. They said goodbye and were gone. I was half scared and half stupid, which is a bad combination.
The building had a large center round room with 3 wings that jutted off of it. The wings were the East Dorm, West Dorm, and North Wing. The East Dorm was a receiving and classification dorm. Everybody went through this dorm until they were classified and sent on. The West Dorm was the camp support prisoners. They were permanently placed in Camp 9 and had jobs like cooking and cleaning and yard detail. The North Wing was the kitchen, commissary, and canteen area. The wings all had doors made out of iron bars; they were the old time cell doors.
We were told to stand in the center of the central round room and to place our property bags in front of us. We were then told to strip naked, so the one-handed guard could do a strip search. As we did, the prisoners (who were already there) began to congregate on the other side of the cell doors. They gawked at us and whooped and hollered. They were yelling things like, “Hey sweet thing!” and “Pretty boy!” and “I see my new whore.” It was so loud and their taunts echoed all over the building.
I made up my mind at that moment that if I had to, I would fight. I didn’t want to fight, but I was willing. I didn’t want to be labeled a coward.
After I was stripped of my clothes and my dignity, I was issued, a pair of prison pants. They were the only piece of state-issued clothing I was required to wear. They were cheap blue denim with a white stripe up each leg. Those pants meant I was “C” custody, which was the lowest custody level at that time. I was also issued a number and my head was shaved.
Next, I was given a bed number, linens, a towel, and led into the East Dorm to find my bed. I remember a sign as you walked into the East Dorm that said “72 Man Capacity Dorm Currently Housing 216 Men.”
Overcrowded is not the word. It was literally like living in a can of sardines. There were metal twin bunk beds and the beds were literally pushed together to form one long row of beds. You had to climb in and out of the bed from the end. It was impossible to stand beside your bed and making up the bed was next to impossible. Your bed touched the bed of the guy next to you. Tempers flared and fights were common.
It was hot and of course, there were no air conditioners. The windows were without glass. They just had bars and partial screens to keep out the mosquitoes, which were the size of hummingbirds.
There were no property boxes. Your property stayed in whatever kind of bag you brought in with you. When you got into the East Dorm guys tried to buy your stuff from you. A wise man only took a change of clothes, otherwise, his stuff was going to get stolen. You could carry money with you and buy stuff from the canteen. But you never flashed any money and you only bought the absolute minimum. Otherwise, it was like advertising that your stuff was for the taking.
When I had been in the East Dorm for less than 10 minutes, I saw a guy looking hard at me. I took it personally. I stared back at him and finally, he said, “What are you looking at b*tch?” Me being the smartass punk I was replied, without any real reason, “Yo Momma was my b*tch.” More heated words were exchanged and the fight was on. We went to the shower, which was the “arena.” This is where the fights happened because it was out of the guards’ eyesight. There was one dim light and the concrete floor was slick from mold and mildew. I hit him. He scratched me with his long fingernails. He felt worse than I looked. We heard the guards coming and scrambled to be a part of the crowd that had gathered to watch the fight. The guards didn’t know who it was and nothing more became of it, except that I had a reputation of being crazy. In prison, being thought of as crazy is actually a good thing. Everybody knew I would fight and they didn’t mess with me at all. To be left alone was all I really wanted.
There wasn’t much to do in the form of recreation. We had an old black and white TV in the dorm and it happened to be at the foot of my bed. I could lie in bed and watch TV which was ok. You could go outside in the yard and walk around. Some guys played football or lifted weights. I pretty much stuck to myself and didn’t socialize with anyone.
The first meal I got when I arrived at Camp 9 was supper. It had live maggots in it. The maggots were moving around on my plate. I don’t know if they just didn’t cook the “food” or if it sat out so long that the maggots hatched. Either way, I had money on me and I bought my food from the canteen. Otherwise, I’d have starved to death.
That first night I actually slept. I was tired and I guess I didn’t know any better, but I slept like a baby. For whatever reason, my age or my stupidity, I didn’t possess any fear.
In the dorms, at night, there were floor walkers. One was a white guy and the other was a black guy. They carried baseball bats and if you had to go to the toilet during the night they would escort you. There were no lights in the dorm and only one guard. Anybody who got out of bed, even to go to the toilet, was taking a risk. So, if you had to go, you got their attention and then asked their permission. The floor walkers were definitely in charge at night. These guys were there to protect us from being beaten, robbed, or {No Means No}.
While in receiving, I took aptitude tests and I scored 3rd highest in "The Walls" history. I got a job with the Penitentiary Employment Service. It didn’t pay anything, but it was my job to administer aptitude tests to the new guys who came in. When I got this job, I was moved from the East Dorm to the West Dorm with the camp support workers. It was a cushy job and it sure as hell beat working in the fields all day long.
I was in the receiving dorm for about 3 weeks. Once I got moved to the West Dorm, I could have weekly visits. At that time there were no phones, and one couldn’t use the phone unless it was an emergency. However, in the area where I worked, there was a regular pay phone. I got to use it whenever I wanted to. The only form of communication was to write letters. A lot of the guys couldn’t read or write, so they’d pay me to write letters for them. I had a nice hand-writing and could spell, so I made a lot of money writing letters.
I also watched out for my homeboys. When guys I knew were in receiving and since I was in the less crowded West Dorm, I’d hold their stuff for them. I would keep their watches and rings and stuff that was prime for the stealing. Men have literally had their watches stolen off of them while they slept. Since I also administered the aptitude tests, I’d try and help them get placed in good dorms and get easier jobs. They were my homeboys and it was the least I could do.
Even back then, we had conjugal visits. We didn’t have to be married to have conjugal, just have a willing partner. A lot of men had free world prostitutes that showed up on visiting day. The conjugal's happened in what’s called the Tonk House. This was an old wooden building with a tin roof. The building was well over 100 years old then and had no insulation or ventilation. It was literally a 4 room storage shed and when you were getting a visit, you signed the list. The trustees would call you to the Tonk House when it was your turn. There was only one room with a bed available for conjugal's and the woman brought the sheets and a hopefully a box fan with her. The other three rooms in the Tonk House belonged to trustees and was their living and sleeping quarters. They would sometimes rent out their beds for anywhere from $5-$10. Since they were keeping up with the list of those with visits, they would move the “renters” to the front of the line. There were also holes in the walls, and it wasn’t uncommon for prisoners to watch the conjugal visits take place. The building was scorching hot, humid, and muggy and you had about 30 minutes to take care of business. However, if there was a time in the visit, you could use the Tonk House more than once. There was also no toilet or running water in there, so cleaning up was really out of the question. Usually, you left the Tonk House with your hair matted to your head and sweat dripping.
I only stayed at "The Walls" for 6 months and 10 days. It seemed like 6 years and when I left I vowed I’d never been back. I was wrong. I went back and wasted a lot of my life in prisons. God help me, I won’t say I’ll never go back. I’m just going to do my hardest to stay out this time. I’m getting too old for this life in prison purgatory.
That was just the beginning of my life of crime and I have a lot more to tell, and a lot more to teach you young bucks. My life wasn't just me in prison but even when I wasn't locked up I felt like a prisoner stuck working for the Mexican Cartel. But that's a story for another day.
Now I work for the RSW and will soon make my in-ring debut alongside my brother "Chronic" we will face "The Last Direction". This will be our first step towards restitution for our past crimes as we show the world what "The Convicted" is about and what the convicted can do as we win this match. This may be our opponent's last direction but this won't be ours.
La Libertad es Nuestra
"Homie" Aaron Ortiz
"Homie" signs the letter with his signature catchphrase "Freedom is ours" as he signs everything, before setting the pencil down. He reaches over grabbing the bottle of Tequila and the shot glass as he heads into the other room where he can hear "Chronic" moving about. When he gets in there he sees his partner placing a couple of Cecil Whittaker pizzas on the coffee table and a couple of DVDs.
"Homie" Aaron Ortiz
Yo, homes, what's all this?
Eric Chronister
This, my friend, is a little celebration for our upcoming debut in the Riot Star Wrestling, man you know our first couple of matches didn't go the way we wanted but this is a new start for us. We are now signed to an actual company no more free agents we have a home in the RSW.
Eric Chronister
Trust me, "Homie" when I say it sucks bouncing from one job to the next and in my case one wrestling company to the next. So let's show this team of the "Last Direction exactly what direction they will be heading.
"Homie" Aaron Ortiz
Sure thing "Chronic", now let's dig in I'm starved!!!
The two guys open up the pizza box's and start grabbing slices as they sit there deciding which movie to watch first.
