I Should've Stuck With Books

Chapter One

June 6th, 2026

What's the distressed inmate to do? Being locked down in a compound stuffed with them calling the cops ain't optional. The fellas might look at me weird. I suppose I'll launch a citizen campaign wrapped in prison foolishness labeled a "blog post". Instead of summoning the Fuzz, I offer you thus: Strip a man's freedom if you must. The thin red line gets crossed when you mess with his precious TV.

     Practically daily I bring scores to say with nothing good to add about modern America's victim situation. Everybody wants to be one because of its voguish power. Thing is, everyone's a victim, ergo nobody is. The moment we wake up about our victimization we collide on Survivor St. and Opportunist Ave.'s intersection. I picked that second adjective with an R-Rated option being alliterative and superior to keep this joint classy. Real ones wearing deep scars are my victims. When truly assaulted you will watch me rock that sash and crown.

     OK Readership - I'm wounded, now listen up the both of you. There's a masher on the loose. Hundreds raped, robbed, and pillaged across this blue-grassed Commonwealth. Our attacker goes by Union Supply Group.

Monopolies are monstrous. That's Capitalism 101. Making any entity capable of gouging the public on essentials without the driving force of competition is unconstitutional. Example - extorting vast bodies with their personal shareholders 300 bones for a 13" TV that would go for 30.00 outside razor wire and concrete, or an analog radio of comparable expense. Welcome to incarceration! Being rabidly repetitive I'm not non-punitive. Problem being inmates with bridges intact have loved ones shouldering horrific treatment by bloodsucking vendors like Union Supply (USG), communications titan Securus, and dietary leviathan Aramark whose bankrolls they engorge. Outrageous opportunism overboard.

     Some might question the need vs. want of TVs and their essential nature to felons. Fair enough, I'll field this. Presently the need beyond our fence is history, 'Papaw' as Tang in a frosted Mason mug. But we have no internet nor search capacity on State-provided tablets. An ideologically slanted newsstand A.P. app sucks down 7 bucks every 30 days for articles past headlines. TV episodes to decompress with, not to mention a top method for staying out of troubles path average 2.50 per, expiring 2 days after opening, 30 when downloaded but unopened. Same routine for flicks, most 8.99. My #1 mode of escapism, music, averages at 2 bucks a pop. In four years my Songs folder has cost a mortifying 3,000+ dollars. The media store for tracks that deafen me to blaring chronic moron-ism allows a :20 second sample to shop off, and no length available for connoisseurs like me who'd sooner munch on maggots than suffer anything ten minutes long you can publicly gyrate to without arrests (even the sizzle of "Disco Inferno" by The Trammps that length leaves me cold).

TV owners can use their devices up to 2 AM unlike tablets. Other medium-security prisons oddly do not make this choice, closing content away we've spent a kings ransom downloading at 11 PM, 1 in the morning on A-Honor Dorm side. I vehemently disagree with the compound's schizoid segregated scene, done to correct the previous split via virtual duplication. Write-ups are arbitrarily based too often on the hole's space availability and a need to fill it making NPTC's calculator for bad behavior busted. Administration should use a balanced punitive approach, period. Every level-headed administrator, captain, and yard cop I've experienced discussing this concurs.

     Communal sets are provided, shared by 50 heads. Channels aren't changeable unless somebody has a verboden universal remote. Invariably one is snuck aboard damning the wing to "Wild'n Out", devotedly choking America on stupid. Now its Super-Glued there into the next day. The YAP (Young Ass Punk) who put it on watches 10 minutes then runs off to disrupt the peace by bellowing to the person nearest by like they're in a crowded amphitheater, his attention span outlived.

     Last July I picked an outrageously overpriced transparent TV (so there's nowhere to bury dope or anything worthwhile) up along with a bunch of other stuff long overdue. Basically a Costco run I'd needed since 2024 but astronomically inflated. One item was a turquoise comforter that had me stoked. Provided blankets we use are slightly less abrasive than a month-in Brillo pad and half as attractive. At a decade surviving 3 hits I felt I earned the upgrade at a hundred smackers. Arriving, it was sized like a standard car floor-mat. Checking the catalog, dimensions weren't given for this "Native American Blanket". The excuse given via e-mail about that blue swatch I rejected? It was designated for "praying purposes". This despite it being advertised with bed-sheets. I'd swear some criminals here got gifted a chain of warehouses.

That TV was hard-won. The set I previously purchased was stolen with everything else during my skull-splitting trip to Danville's hospital resulting from time #1 on my Hit Parade. After being passed like a bong at a frat rager, it came home to me as I was about to slap its mug on milk cartons. Like the weathered football it became, the coaxial unit was spent so I sent it right before expiry of the warranty for repair/replacement/refund. A year-point-five with mobs from Northpoint, Union Supply, and ClearTunes, its manufacturer failing to catch this for me it was Ms. Rogers heroine of the story weeks ago, and Captain Stambaugh my former Landscape boss (I was Executive Ass-sistant replacing Suck-retary "Peaches" who staffed the firm with tattooed hard-bodies, bless him) saving the day by procuring my check.

     They finally succeeded where mobs failed passing buck and blame. It's only some inmates dead moms money, so who cares? Rogers, because she values accomplishing her job and helping the demographic she's here with, and a Captain who does the same. Simple. It's a DOA art called 'work ethic' combined with something people at Northpoint a majority lack - care. Other prisons maintain an equilibrium from aspects of fear and respect mutually. This is absent here. Having no genuine inmate government, note several transplants from other facilities inmates and non-, solidarity is extinct in favor of tattling on others to accelerate over them. This place has turned repugnant in that capacity.

Back at my crib setting new property up in our bed area I got treated to an unforeseen byproduct of my shopping day: a BLACK EYE. Kindly bunky "Ball-Head" and I were equally shocked and befuddled when a fist contacted the left side of my face. Mr. Head by the way looked spot-on Florida Evans off "Good Times (Esther "Neck" Rolle later featured on "Esther's Caring Psychic Family" infotainment spots) with a scraggly beard. Doubled over with no sound whatsoever was the response Reuben, my "gal-pal" - a 50such queer, and I both had with matching cackles when I pointed out this resemblance. Two days running, in fact.

     My anonymous assassin was a recent domestic partner who'd arrived via big bus a month prior. A posse from Eastern, a different compound altogether brought general pop dudes who were manna for my starvation. I'd been shipwrecked in Dorm 1, then reserved for sex criminals. Nightly I watched young dudes around 21 hop in the shower getting nasty with old farts for things like that already mentioned mac and cheese. My blood boiled nonstop and I begged to head back to B. An administrator who later suspected me of trading reheated frozen food for sex (#you-already-know) would have it, citing his "big move" when half the joint became Honor inmates. Irony thy name be Batmama.

I had gone to the hole first because I entered Dorm 5's office to get my ID on a pre-approved gym junket. The C.O. seated there demonstrating spectacular instability (the opinion of one present cop, another witness to the footage, and a sergeant) with poor choices flooded me in O.C. spray, burning me down past my nethers. Yeah, he aimed into my eyes and dumped so much he inflamed my balls despite my write-up noting a 2-sec burst. Clearly asking what to do with my coffee when asked to get against the wall, I can be seen in footage. The argument was it looked like I was throwing it.

      Upon release I came to Dorm 6, then the non-sexy crimes Honor Dorm despite its entry requiring six months clear (seewhadduhmean?). This was bliss. Rife with peers minus the stalking murderer who'd been ported out while I was in the hole. I went to U.A. Smith, the one later unceremoniously booted for office hi-jinks and relaying stories of status getting stolen I'd earned historically. A pact was sealed and I was gifted permanent residence.

     That weekend after getting marooned in a heavy dark blue polyester jumpsuit for two 95 degree scorchers I borrowed a t-shirt and shorts after a necessary shower, sleeping less than two feet away from five others. Immediately I was cuffed and documented for "Unlawful Transfer of Money or Property" over borrowing another inmate's threads. Unheard of, and nobody believed this "crime" could clear investigation. It led me incredulously back to the hole for 2 weeks. Why? Vacancies and politics. Hundreds had done this to the point nobody recognized its illegality. Hole administrator Ms. E couldn't recall anybody being locked up for this infraction before. I begged to stay out because Stepdad Mike died during my prior trip two weeks before and my taken tablet meant I couldn't contact anyone for what would become a month. No sparing rendered.

     Escorting me this time was an angry captain who stopped Stanley Hensley, pro-power-bottom lesser-legal aide (you really should check that post) telling him to hop on my appeal to the warden. He didn't, because I forgot to purchase his concierge package I suppose (staff aren't exclusive in not giving a fuck about inmates). I did my own. More than one guard noted this created a health hazard situation. Our warden never responded.

 Alongside a host of others released one morning, I got stuck on the garbage barge. Sexual mania consumed the house. What anybody expected when 600+ sex offenders are domestically conglomerated I'll never understand. Too, the youth population without any actual fearsome convicts all behaved like the baddest sumbitches to lace up State boots. Weeks in I'd shouted two into the bathroom who wanted to play bad-ass with their Fisher-Price My First Prison Adventure Playset. They folded like pup-tents. Now a pushing-60 queer recovering from shoulder surgery was the scariest thing going if that clues you to the Charmin softness. Despite once being beat bloody and robbed I missed hoodlums. A happy medium though, guys who weren't silly little bunny-farts obsessed with their gonads but not blabbing incessantly about nothing but prison cults and dope either. Balanced. Along came the August bus, answer to this loneliest of inmates prayers...

Down the road I'll tell you about the big picture fallout from that Gray Goose full of guys from the hills. One in my wing wound up following me like a lost lamb and I loved this lad. He was an STD, or a "scared-to-death", the adored and adopted of a pharmacist and his wife, worshiping the ground their cheerleader angel cartwheeled over. To jazz up his routines, he added in kilos of meth losing his top row of chompers and holding Papa hostage at gunpoint. Now a hardened criminal without the juice needed to be as such he resided in a huge houseful at Eastern likely perpetually pooping his previously privileged pants. Not quite kissing the ground of fluffy Northpoint yet his PTSD had him nervous as a cat in a roomful of rockers carrying knives and combination locks in socks.

     We paced the aisle endlessly learning each other in depth. Myself a chef who can hold his own against any comer this guy threw nightly in with me and sometimes another recent arrival, Northpoint's #1 sexual opportunist Chase (#23 - "The Best Things In Life Ain't Free"). By night Chase would provocatively engage me, even inviting me to do things like suck on his long, freshly-washed hair. He was our third party mainly. The trio of us even attended church together once. Mine and the Cheerleader-sy was domestic partnership. Chase and I would careen from buddy to bromantic to overtly sensual and sexual. Primary was the six plus-foot meth-head pom-pom boy and me, though.

     Across the hall was a light-skinned dude with a ponytail and rippling muscles named Ali. He was Chase's numero uno running buddy who'd toss in on my meals too. From the top: tried to get with me when I was with a dude named Brent, a Northpoint Crip = sex criminal Honky and queer. We've got a bushel here exclusively. He got shipped, and if genuine blue-thugs find out his sexcapades and status it could be bad, beddy beddy bad. Ali would publicly want to call me his "girl" which sickens me to pieces. Check me on the homepage: does anything there non-ironically scream "female" to the visually endowed? Playing the part so some insecure fag can puff his chest out? Ugh. Privately he wanted me to plow his muscular hindquarters. I'm severely OK with this. Some secrecy I'm cool with. Kinda hot truthfully, as sneaking stokes our furnaces. The problem came when he showed out for the useless turd-crumbs on A-side one night. He was flippant in tone, brushing me off then dismissively commented on how he couldn't even let a man fix his dreadlocks for him. He threw shame at me. Bad form, Bitch.

I'd been letting this closet case borrow and read my graphic novels. He'd always returned them a day later in mint condition respectfully. When I split to Dorm 5 he had my favorite "Jane Foster: Saga of the Valkyrie" trade. I kept trying to get it back across the tunnel to no avail. Lil' Bro Brad located it, sold to another inmate. Thinking he'd won with me being moved and him holding my property, he didn't think through I now lived with his gangsta chums.

     Quickly I entertained the troops about his designs on my ding-a-ling and how obsessed he was with the girth of Brent, my exs tool. Ali wound up getting busted in a shower "swapportunity" with fellow light-skinned macho top Austen after coming over to deep humiliation courtesy of moi. He then went in on a Spig deal with an outta-shape Honky brat having a sex case (toldja everybody goes extra ridiculous over that junk - see #2, "Friends-Shipped") and screwed his partner. When "Peanut" called this macho man to the mat he promo-ed within earshot of the law. "Slip-checking", doing something audacious to hit the hole to avert an ass-whooping or debt payment clearly was the motive. Ali walked like a man til his slip showed. I saw him after release out the hole to A-side Honor Dorms which, again, isn't supposedly possible. Licking his chops as I filled my net-bag at the store, I met him with the kindness I do every moron after it all detonates. Said he wished he was eating like that. I reminded him he could have but decided to be a poser instead. He sadly cosigned. Maybe there's hope for this flower yet.

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END OF CHAPTER ONE