Ms. Monroe went through a battery of questions - the year, in what dorm did I live, who's president... you'd THINK I'd be ecstatic to forget Joe Biden (like Joe Biden does often), but deciding my brain was dying I melted into crying hysteria. My first concussion shared with an often aggressive woman many grown men want to punch, the lady that night was a mother. I'd lost mine, and this was the first time I needed one. K. Monroe isn't my pal or anything of the sort but God didn't fail me that scariest moment yet in prison.

     A trip to Danville's E.R. I learned from an MRI and a hot doctor I was well enough to try and flirt with, no brain damage. Stitched like a gay baseball I headed back. My assailant I learned was a dude named Wolf I barely recalled besides bumming coffee off me a time or two and was in trouble with

 

 

 

 

some around the wing over the card table - a common issue. The escort guard beyond that wasn't real forward with info. I hit the wing around midnight, and my "buddy" J. Boogie coincidentally as nothing can be was getting a late drink from the fountain. He ordered me not to enter but "check in", vernacular for voluntary admission to solitary confinement. The implication was something went down leaving me unsafe.

     Boogie and my closest, Mullins, were apparently trying to probate - pledge - a gang. The Royals were trying on this pair and it'd been said I'd dropped info to the police about a member's paraphernalia. Anyone seeing this guy who knew my incarcerated history and attractions would smell the lie-arrhea STAT. I'd haunted houses infested with junkies without choice or peers forever without a single enemy coming to a bad end not obviously self-induced. Not to mention the victim here I'd never once occupied the same space with was in my estimation the hottest man I've maybe ever laid eyes on. God knows I WANTED to talk to him, and

 

 

 

 

 

was on my to-do list to manifest that. Having a six foot gangster dreamboat who looked like a tatted Magic Mike dancer arrested and shipped? Clearly you ain't met me, Tina.

     Boogie and Mullins later played hero to me. Defending my belongings from the Royals to the point of a slug-out they related, overwhelmed by numbers. A third party - Nelson AKA "Piglet", a tragically misshapen man-child moronically bragged in the outside people-kennels of the hole his and the other two thieves exploits robbing, fencing, and passing inmate goods from side to side. A buddy of mine bought one of my books off Mullins, my partner in the junkie-wing, who assured him I'd been shipped. He was holding onto it until I left the hole, went the lie.

     The insurance policy of me getting moved to another prison after seven years of great (on paper) behavior? A false rape charge. Wolf, a five foot bald-and-beard creep who anybody sane would pick up the tykes and exit the ballpark upon sight of first told people I hit on him, so he attacked me from behind knocking me unconscious leaving a three-inch gap in my skull. Now he'd reported to Rainwater, the PREA (Prison Rape Elimination Act)

 

 

 

 

official I groped his wad unsolicited. One rounded-off decade without incident trumped his six months and three trips to Special Management in the investigation led by Sgt. Griffith, quickly learning I wasn't that scumbag due to my confusion at the proceedings. Many inmates despise the Sarge, but done right by me. Cops didn't put me here. Todd Hiett and a butcher knife did. I'm case sensitive with everybody - gang members, cops, inmates, queers, and all races. "You're the first I ever met" works best says 5 decades of almost getting it right maybe sometimes.