Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Teaching / Society / Social Order / Hierarchy versus Conviviality / Jail /
I jotted most of this stuff in 2008, once the FBI had returned my computers to me (unnetworked, in pieces, the carefully wrought synergy destroyed).
Terry joked that he was the only criminal in Boca Raton.
I liked Terry, at first. I think I was the only one who could stand him. Actually, I went out of my way to like Terry.
He turned on me. Not surprising. Now I hate him.
Terry bragged about killing a guy, as deliberately as you can get, and getting away with it! every one in the court knowing he’d done it deliberately.
(2013 06 10 If I still remember the story correctly, Terry had murdered a much un-loved drug dealer: no one wanted the murderer or that murderer punished!)
Terry told about filling a fourteen year old girl with ‘ludes at a party at his house. Everyone fucked her while she was out cold. Terry put his fist up her ass. Finally, they left her, still unconscious, dis-played, a banana sticking out of her ass.
It’s not everyday you meet someone deliberately ugly, ostentatiously evil.
Maybe he had a reason, ’cause he was physically ugly. He’d had a head on collision with a car. He and his motorcycle were doing eighty. His face was split: like a mask in a horror movie. One side of his face was dead, the eye drooped. He knew it. He knew no one liked him. So he played on it, he made it worse.
Terry is the only “white” person I’ve ever seen, let alone known, who would talk out loud about “n-s” and how he hated them: in front of “blacks”!
(I can easily imagine the bloods instantly wanted to maul him, then looking at his Frankenstein’s monster face, and backing away!) [Bowdlerizing K., 2016 08 01, I censor an offensive word and substitute something more obscene: euphemism!]
At first I thought I might be able to figure out what portion of Terry was self-destructive and what portion merely stupid. Now I don’t believe I would easily have gotten closer to the truth.
Terry hung around me because I was the only person who listened to his stories. Other people started drifting away within moments of Terry arriving.
I’m starting Terry stories here in no particular order. This is just the fetus of the module to come.
Terry always said that he was from Boca. His father’s house was in Boca; Terry’s house was in Del Rey Beach. Terry was born in Wyoming, Jackson Hole. He told me Idaho was to the east! Told me he was from there, so he knew. He may have been from there but he clearly did not know.
Terry would brag about how many times he’d been in the SHU for fighting, almost killing guys: because they objected to his snoring.
“I can’t help it,” he’d explain.
Terry’s snoring was a fright. I spent time with him in the SHU, trapped in the one cell together. Lemme out!
You’re not too bright, are you, Old Man?
It gave me great pleasure once to read aloud to Terry an Isak Dinesen passage about a guy who came to live, and eventually die, on her farm near Nairobi, a guy who hated authority, and admired the “criminal.” I thought of Terry because he was always calling himself a criminal. (This was before he started tormenting me, trapped together in the SHU — we were fine for a few days, but it couldn’t last. Ray was in the cell next door, he came running in to hear me finish it, marveling aloud at how well I read.
That’s my profession, buddy: and nobody is better at it. (A profession I’ve never been allowed to earn an income from.)
2013 06 10 I first met Terry in the FDCTallahassee, on the bus to Jesup, Terry coming out of FDCTallahassee’s SHU. But then we were dumped into the same dorm. They quickly put Terry in the SHU, but then they put me there too, for my last month or so at Jesup! Then they made us roommates! Then they unmade us roommates, or I never would have gotten to come home. Terry was threatening to kill me, and that’s something I suspect Terry would have kept his word on. Fortunately for me, the FedBoP, demands a monopoly on violence: if anyone’s going to kill me, it will be the Fed, according to the Fed.
Wait: did I tell this one? Terry was growing pot in his house in “Boca”: using huge lights, moron sets fire to the place! That may be how he’d gotten arrested this time.
One thing I felt sorry for about Terry was he had no friends inside, he had no friends outside. He never had a commissary account, not one penny. But: he was used to it.
If you’re a caveman you’ve never had a Big Mac, never had a vanilla malted. You don’t miss it. But what if you’re bombarded with Big Mac ads, even while in jail? Ah, but Terry was used to that too. Then again, since every jail kept him in solitary most of the time, he was spared the TV set with it’s hysterical flood of consumerism.
Remembering Terry reminds me of something I’ll say in a separate, post.
When I started this scribble about Terry, I got no further with other jail scumbags. If I live, I’ll fix that.
Here’s a quick example I may not have already told:
There was a guy I noticed at Jesup much older than any others I saw. I was in my upper sixties, that wasn’t that unusual. At Palm Beach there had been guys in their eighties: that was unusual. This oldster in Jesup was seventy-something. White, white hair. Had a hobble but loved to play basketball, limping around under the basket, undaunted by the leaping studs. After a while I was near him, he said something, I asked what he was in for (hoping he’d ask me back): “Drugs,” he said.
“I don’t approved of drugs,” I lectured.
“Neither do I,” he smiled: “What I love is the
Ah, now that story reminds me of another: there was a guy I liked at Jesup, gave me a wicked chess game, told me a string of Mickey Spillane put-down stories, maybe Mike Hammer was half-based on this guy, lived across the canal from Spilane in Myrtle Beach. Jails clump people, Jesup had a dozen supposed child molesters, the guards didn’t have to torture those guys, the common convicts tortured those guys: inmates don’t need proof any more sophisticated than the kleptcracy itself requires. Anyway, everywhere you turned no matter the jail, there were drug dealers. The majority openly admitted it. They weren’t philosophers, rebels, revolutionaries, they were greedy guys whose luck had turned, just doin’ their time.
Anyway this guy bragged about the money he’d made dealing dope, then he bragged how he’d gotten years knocked off his sentence by lying about being a user himself. He put some cannabis oils into his system, pissed “dirty”: now the jails were only too happy to reduce his sentence if he submitted to “education” on the matter!
The kleps just ask for it, don’t they?