Metal Fatigue Page 3

  * * * *

  “God in Heaven,” I started.

  “God, I’m very angry with You, You know. Of course You know.

  “I apologize for being angry. Which is not to say I’m not angry; still, I am. But I apologize for being angry, and when I stop, if I stop, I’ll probably apologize for having been angry. I know it isn’t a healthy or productive emotion. I have come, over the years, to look upon health and productivity as admirable things and always supposed You did as well.

  “Then there came the imminent end of the world—whatever that means—and we stopped talking for a little while. That is, I stopped talking. I stopped talking when You took Clara, Cathy, and BB, my three wives; but I started again soon. I stopped talking when You put me in prison and took my son, sending him to do whatever it was You wanted him to do instead of making my life fuller, and I started again after a while. Now I’m talking again and I hope You’ve noticed. This does not mean things are any better; they are not. I just did not want the world to end while we were not on speaking terms, so this is only on a contingency basis. I hope You’ve noticed anyway.

  “Listen, I’d appreciate it if the world did not end. I know it’s a stretch to change Your plans. All the retooling and rethinking and paperwork. Well, maybe You don’t do paperwork, but there must be something like paperwork involved or else You would not plan in such long terms.

  “Your boy, the priest, told me that the course is set and it’s just a question of placing blame, and all I’ve got to do is figure out whose fault it is and let him take care of the rest. The priest was unclear, by the way, whether it was You or he who decided this would be my job. I’m not sure how closely You micromanage his performance. Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate the fact that You—or even he—saw fit to make me a part of all this. I still wonder why me, but I won’t quibble.

  “What I wonder, and I don’t expect You to tell me now, especially while I’m still a little angry—make that really angry, since I cannot see a reason yet to be less angry than I was when I first ran into all this stuff—what I wonder is whether You could see Your way clear to give me a little flexibility here. The way You did for Ishmael’s mother.

  “God, You remember Ishmael’s mom, Hagar, right? To appease his other jealous wife, Abraham sent Hagar and little Ishmael into the desert to fend for themselves. To die, it seemed. And at some point when things looked bleakest, You opened her eyes so she could see a well full of water. I read that part carefully, and found it was worded very precisely. You did not plant a well there, or crack a rock open to create a spring, or say, ‘Let there be water,’ and there was water. You caused her to see, is all the good book says.

  “No retooling. No rethinking. Probably a minimum of paperwork; maybe just a requisition form, or something.

  “What I’m asking You to do, if You would, is—when the time comes—just open my eyes. Okay? No big miracles. No abrogation of Your laws of physics or chemistry. Just if there’s a way through my task—the narrowest way through it—and nobody else sees it or thinks to go there, just open my eyes. Give me the sight. Give me the magic words to write. Give me the desperation, whatever it takes. Just open my eyes. Please.

  “I know I said I was angry with You, and I probably am, but I love You.

  “And Clara and Cathy and BB, too, they should know. Don’t forget my son.

  “Amen.”

  Silent Voices

  “The voice of protest, of warning, of appeal is never more needed than when the clamor of fife and drum, echoed by the press and too often by the pulpit, is bidding all men fall in and keep step and obey in silence the tyrannous word of command. Then, more than ever, it is the duty of the good citizen not to be silent.”

  Charles Eliot Norton

  In Hell Without A Roadmap

  Dear Dad,

  I’m innocent… completely. I’m not guilty of the smallest item they charged me with. My mind never held the slightest thought on such matters as I’m accused of.

  Dad, You instructed me, saying, “Know your enemy!!!”

  The last nine months leave me ripped off by all, no hope, repulsive to society, and abandoned by friends, except, of course, those for whom I am a meal ticket. Even my attorney lies and refuses to discuss my case. You tell me, Dad, that I must be guilty of something, or I wouldn’t be in jail. You do nothing. You don’t believe me.

  Dad, I’m not guilty. So, what do I do now?!!

  As you instructed, I identified my enemies as the ones I love most. My life, totally destroyed, in a system where revenge is the only justice available. No value on love, not by anyone. Where failure to take vengeance for wrongs done me and those I love will doubly curse me. But love, you always taught me, is the ability to bear pain silently in order to protect those I love. I love each of you: my wife, my son, you Dad, Mother, my friends, and even my business associates.

  I’m not guilty, Dad. What do I do?!!

  I’ve seen that when a man cries, the whole world cries. I’ve never seen a man cry, though, till I’ve seen a man die. I’m determined to fight… I’ll not die! Except maybe, I’ll cry if I’ve seen how someone shaved a little Chihuahua dog bald.

  Dad, what do I do?!!

  You often said to me, “You’re depressed.” I realize it’s from years of swallowing rage and sadness. I found when I look reality in the eye and deny it; I’m not depressed. But now, Dad, I’m stuck in a field of battle which is nothing but a land of standing corpses. Dad, I’m in hell without a road map.

  Please... Dad, Come find me!!!

  Your Son

  Liberty Denied

  “When the rights of just one individual are denied, the rights of all are in jeopardy!”

  Jo Ann Roach

  Metal Fatigue

  Jimmy passed his eighteenth birthday locked inside a cold, stinky cell in the obsolete old city jail. The toilet obviously didn’t work, an issue probably for several years… running.

  He thoughtfully reflected on his dry-humor pun. Besides, no one locked up ever flushes the motherfucking john. Never. Revoltingly putrid fecal matter, left in desperation by prisoners with nowhere else to go, overflowed and formed a vile puddle at a low spot in the frigid concrete floor. The prison smelled like shit. Smelled worse than shit. His own more recent addition was beginning to decay.

  If Jimmy had been home for his birthday, no doubt his father would’ve treated him to a steak dinner at The Outback; and perhaps a ballgame at the stadium afterword. Instead, Jimmy celebrated with foul-tasting water—grey water reprocessed from sewer waste—and several slices of stale bread upon which a near-microscopic dab of something resembling peanut-butter could be found sticking near the center—if one studied it closely, of course. The rancid bread was always stale in this place, just like the air, thick with mildew and the smell of unwashed bodies. It all mixed with the reeking toilet to produce an odor more disgusting than sweaty armpit pubes set on a smoldering fire.

  Tonight, for the most part, a stifling quiet lingered throughout the cellblock. The only sounds being the incidental shout of a guard, the muffled moan from a prisoner, or the occasional fart from either. Every so often, a cell door clanked open, followed by scuffling noises signaling a new prisoner’s arrival.

  Two weeks forever, he’d sat there in solitary now. But he still wasn’t so desperate as other prisoners on the cellblock who would actually shit themselves just for a laugh. Two weeks plus three lonely days, he reminded himself, marking off another day on the wall with the sharp edge of a small stone, chipped away from a section of rotting-old concrete. He made the mark with an awkward jab of his left hand. His right arm hung broken, suspended in a dirty sling he’d torn from an old rag.

  Sinking down onto the cold concrete slab that served as a bed, Jimmy leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes. He figured it might be nine o’clock… or thereabout, although he really couldn’t be sure. Maybe ten. His watch had disappeared on intake at R&D receiving the first day, along with all his other pers
onal effects… confiscated for “purposes of security” by the prison R&D guards. Problem was, they’d never listed his expensive Rolex watch on that property receipt they’d forced him to sign under the threat of tossing him in solitary stripped naked.

  Any questions about time, or anything, for that matter, brought only taunts and trouble from the guards. Especially the big one called ‘Boiler Bob’—so named by the prisoners for those angry-looking boils in evidence on the back and both sides of his incredibly thick neck.

  “What’s time to a prison roach?” Boiler Bob would mock, his furry broken teeth bared in a cruel laugh. “Hah, I know! I bet you’re impatient for your next fine meal… is that it?” Invariably he and the other guards goaded the prisoners about the food: food so foul even the cockroaches all passed around it in wide arcs.

  The guards defied all belief. They acted like caricatures created by some drunken madman in a nightmare. They seemed happiest when hammering a prisoner’s head against the concrete walls, or putting out their cigarettes on the poor guy’s hands. A few of them, considered “nice guards” or “decent guards” by fellow prisoners, stopped short of being altogether vicious, taking only a mild satisfaction in taunting the captive prisoners in their cells. But most guards, like Boiler Bill, struck Jimmy as altogether deranged.

  His broken arm and a few cracked ribs served only to prove his opinion correct.

  Jimmy opened his eyes as keys jangled outside in the cellblock corridor. Heavy, shuffling bootstomps signaled the approach of Boiler Bill.

  Jimmy tensed, waiting. After a moment, the cell door clanged open, and the barrel-chested guard thrust a new prisoner scrambling into the cell.

  The new arrival let go a stream of invective that sounded almost like a foreign tongue. With one heavy-booted thud, the big guard kicked the prisoner in the back, sending him sprawling against the cell’s rear wall.

  Got some company for you, Rich-Boy!” the guard announced to Jimmy. “You’ve had the royal suite to yourself long enough.”

  Jimmy glared at him, pulling in a long breath. The pain in his ribs reminded him that in his current shape he couldn’t take another pounding from Boiler Bill. So he remained silent.

  “The both of you should make a sterling pair,” sneered the guard. “A thieving faggot and a little rich boy.”

  Deliberately, Jimmy studied the disgusting boil that bulged just below the guard’s left ear, then transferred his attention to what appeared to be a large gravy stain on the front of his uniform shirt.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the new prisoner slowly uncoil himself from the wall and stand, hands clenched, glaring at the slovenly guard.

  Jimmy straightened a little to get a better look at his new cellmate. A homosexual! A “thieving faggot,” the guard had called him.

  Two homos did live in his town; but they mostly hung out in the local park for some reason he didn’t understand. After all, men walking hand-in-hand together, in strange clothes and gesturing effeminately, attracted attention and suspicious stares wherever they went. Then he wondered, did they possibly…? Nahhh.

  Anyway, this homo was young, probably not much older than Jimmy himself, and looked to be about the same height. Long-legged and lean, he wore designer jeans with several rows of elaborate stitching around the pant cuffs, and a bright blue silk shirt. The atrociously tight jeans set off the shirt, open nearly to his naval as if showing off… no, advertising—advertising something where Jimmy reckoned a clear cut deficiency existed. Dark brown boots, apparently of decent quality, showed beneath the pants legs of his jeans. A small angry red hole could be seen in his earlobe where some type of earing had obviously been confiscated. He was skinny, like the two ‘gays’ Jimmy remembered from the park at home.

  Did this one have AIDs? The thought flashed into Jimmy’s head. This one, he, must be the ‘She’, Jimmy decided.

  The door clanged shut, and Boiler Bill shuffled on down the corridor, shutting off the lights for the entire cellblock behind him. Only a faint trace of moonlight slipped in through the three-inch-wide slit, guards unhumorously called a “window,” located high up on the outside-facing cell wall.

  The two prisoners stood appraising each other in the shadows for a long moment. The ‘faggot’ broke the tomb-like silence first. “Did that happen in here?” He… or rather, She… asked, motioning to Jimmy’s arm.

  Jimmy nodded but offered no explanation.

  The faggot’s blue eyes took on a knowing look. “One of the guards?”

  “No,” muttered Jimmy.

  And after a passing hesitation, he added, “Two of them.”

  She/he winced as if she, too, had felt the pain. “How long you been locked here?”

  Jimmy’s arm inside the grimy bandages itched, and he tried to work it back and forth in the makeshift sling to gain some relief. “Close to three weeks,” he answered, not attempting now to mask his frustration. “It feels like three years.”

  The faggot nodded, studying him. “The guard called you ‘Rich Boy?’ You’re not from the city here, then?”

  “Yes. No… Well, my parents were, but they moved upstate to a small town when I was still little.”

  “You came back recently then to check out the old ’hood where your peoples originally came from?”

  Jimmy gave a bitter laugh. “So recently that I managed to get myself thrown into jail less than an hour after getting off the train.” The disappointment of having his plans so rudely thwarted washed over him again, renewing the pain; reviving the anger.

  His… It’s; Her… eyes glinted with peculiar interest. “I’ve never met a really rich person before.” She paused, then amplified Jimmy’s suspicions another notch. “Is your family really all that wealthy? I always thought nobody rich ever came from this city.”

  Jimmy remained silent. He was in no mood to relate his life history and finances. Certainly not to a faggot. Especially to a thief-faggot at that.

  “Forgive me. I’m outta line for asking.” His new cellmate turned Her eyes away, looking down at the floor. After another moment, She said quietly, “I’m David… Dave. And I’m sorry for your pain.”

  Jimmy looked up, surprised… caught off guard by his lisping cellmate’s good manners. In his neighborhood, at home, homosexuals were viewed as little more than uncouth, depraved savages. Ignorant perverts to be shunned.

  Still, he’d had no one to talk with for weeks now, except for the brutish guards, and they seldom made a pleasant sound beyond a grunt, or an oath. Though he admitted it grudgingly, even to himself, he was definitely lonely. Lonely and homesick for his father; for his pals and his regular neighborhood.

  “My name is Jimmy,” he finally offered tentatively. “Short for James.” He paused, then asked, “So—why are you here? What did you do?”

  The faggot sighed and shrugged.” I’m accused of stealing a police officer’s weapon.” She looked at Jimmy with a faint smile. “All faggots are thieves, no?”

  As a matter of fact, between thief and pervert, it pretty much summed up everything Jimmy had always heard. Even Father, a man not given to bigotry, had no use for “homosexuals,” and what he described as “their thieving ways.”

  Still smiling, faggot Dave crossed her arms over his chest. “What happened was I visited this bathhouse—a gay bathhouse—that got busted. During the bust, this homophobic cop snatched an old guy’s cane away from him and used his own cane as a baton to beat the guy down. A nice enough guy—the old man, that is—but he’d been moving too slow for that idiot-cop’s liking. And smarter than that cop, too, no doubt.”

  Abruptly, Her expression sobered. “I undertook to relieve that cop of the old man’s cane and moved the old man on outside. As it happened, other cops there took offense to my actions.” Again She shrugged. “And so now I’m in jail, for stealing an officer’s weapon.” She met Jimmy’s gaze straight on. “Not such an uncommon circumstance for my kind.”

  “Kind?”

  “Gay. My friends a
re all gay.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Jimmy was intrigued by his cellmate; somewhat taken aback by his lisping speech and courteous demeanor.

  “I hope your offence isn’t serious,” the faggot finally said.

  Jimmy uttered a grunt of scorn. “My offense,” he bit out, “was to try and get two drug-crazed thugs off this small, young boy on his way to school before they killed him! They wanted to steal his lunch-money to support their habit, I guess.” Twisting his mouth into a semblance of a smile, he added, “But I could see he looked half-starved; maybe that’s why he was so skinny. They’d probably done it before, too. Anyway, I wasn’t about to let them murder the kid for his lunch money! Unfortunately, one of their pals called the police on me. The cops tossed me in jail and took the poor school-kid—I never learned his name—off somewhere else.”

  The faggot nodded, as if Jimmy’s tale was a familiar one. “Not exactly the best of welcomes. Do you know anyone in the city who will be anxious for you to show up? Anyone who could help?”

  “I was on my way to find my father’s old friend. I’m supposed to be staying with him, at his estate, just outside the city.” Jimmy twisted sideways, and a sharp, searing pain shot along his tender ribs, making him catch his breath. At the same time, a different kind of pain gripped him, a pain made of resentment and frustration at the mess he’d gotten himself into. After all these years, he’d finally achieved his dream of going it alone, without his parents, to see the place of his family roots—only to have his newly-found independence ripped away before he scarcely gained freedom!

  “Your father’s friend owns an estate? He must be a wealthy man, too.”

  Immediately Jimmy’s guard went up. Faggots were notorious for thieving and robbing—though Jimmy couldn’t quite understand what made a pervert into a thief. “It might not exactly be an estate,” he hedged, just in case. “I think the place originally belonged to his grandfather.” After all, the guard had called this faggot “a thief.” Intellectually, Jimmy could not seem to get around the concept that the faggot’s charges were false even though he believed the faggot to have stated the facts correctly. Police just didn’t arrest innocent people. Nor could Jimmy quite grasp the idea of the faggot’s charges being false even though he himself had been charged with a humbug.

  Dave regarded Jimmy with a studying look. “And does your father’s friend know what happened to you? That you’re here in jail?”

  Jimmy shook his head, still smarting from the reminder of his foiled plans. “I’ve had no way to get him word. When I demanded of the guards my right to a phone call, they pointed to that payphone on the wall up front. But that phone doesn’t work. They said, “Oh. Sorry. As soon as we get it fixed, we’ll let you try again.” They all laughed. And worse, we moved recently. My dad’s friend doesn’t have our new phone number yet to call my folks and ask where I’m at. I was supposed to deliver the new number to him. So I’m stuck here and no one knows it.”

  The faggot nodded sagely, saying nothing. Turning, she crossed the cell, the heels of her boots clicking loudly on the concrete floor. For a moment, she stood staring at the mean excuse for a bed. With a look of distaste, she remained standing.

  Scraping uselessly at the concrete floor with the toe of her boot, she seemed to consider her words carefully. “I might be able to help you,” she said. “Perhaps we could arrange for you to get a message to your father’s friend. If he’s wealthy, he must have influence. Possibly enough influence to get you out of here.”

  Jimmy detected the undertone of a bargain in the making, but he was unable to bank the fires of interest rising at the faggot’s suggestion. “And just how could you manage that?” He asked warily. “It seems to me you’re locked up just as tight as I am.”

  The faggot’s answering smile was cryptic. “Maybe ya gotta become a homo like me.” She couldn’t contain her laughter. “No. Seriously. I happen to know the guy in the next cell over. He’s a drunk. I overheard one of the guards talking… they plan to release him when he wakes up sober in the morning. What we do is pass him a message and get him to deliver it. The promise of a couple bottles of whisky will provide plenty of motivation. He (now with a beam of hope, Jimmy was forgetting to think of the faggot as she)… He stopped, rubbing his fingertips along his chin. “But it must be a written message. Your wealthy benefactor will not be likely to believe the word of a faggot, delivered by a drunk.

  Jimmy didn’t miss the barbed edge in his new friend’s tone. Nor did he give any further thought to his being a homosexual. If there were any chance, even the slightest, of getting out of this hellhole, he’d be a fool to allow his personal prejudice to prevent him from taking it!

  “What is his name… your father’s friend?” asked the faggot.

  Jimmy hesitated not an instant. “Baker. Chet Baker.”

  Dave looked at him. “The one from Milan? The great trumpet player from Milan?”

  “Uh, you know him?”

  The faggot shook his head. “Only the stories I’ve heard. Chet Baker is a great trumpet player of much controversy, I gather, and great respect.”

  Jimmy would not be distracted from his purpose. “What would you expect,” he asked bluntly, “in return for helping me?”

  Dave made a small effeminate gesture with one hand, then smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to get you to take off your pants for me. Perhaps I might, however, hope the great Chet Baker would help me out as well. I’ve been through this before, see? and I don’t like this place any better than you do.”

  Jimmy might have promised even that to Dave if it meant a way out of this foul-smelling hole! So he was happy to settle for Chet Baker’s help. “You said give the drunk a written message. How do we get it to him from in here?”

  “Make a ‘car’ and drive it to him,” the faggot answered an incredulous Jimmy. “Watch this.” Suddenly, he caught the sleeve of his fancy silk shirt at the elbow and began tugging at it until the entire sleeve ripped free from the shoulder. With his fingers he began tearing it lengthwise into small quarter-inch-wide strips, and said, “Good thing this jail doesn’t confiscate our street-clothes and make us wear prison uniforms. They’re much harder to rip.” Next, he began tying the strips together to form a long rope. “We weigh the message down and tie it to the end of the rope. See that inch-wide crack at the bottom of our cell door? They’re all that way so the toilets can’t flood out a cell, causing the prisoner to drown. We simply fling it under the door and down the corridor. Then the drunk will figure something out to pull it under his door and into his cell. It’s a jailhouse car—we deliver. You’ll see. I know the guy from before.”

  “Okay, but you said a written message. Where do we find a pen and paper in here?”

  Stroking his chin, the faggot said nothing. He suddenly caught another piece of his shirt and ripped a piece of material free. Dangling it from his fingers, he motioned toward Jimmy’s broken arm and said, “This will serve as your paper. But I hope that’s not your writing hand.”

  Jimmy glanced over his makeshift splint. “It is,” he muttered. “You’ll have to do the writing.”

  Dave gave him a long, steady look. ”I’m afraid I cannot. You must manage with your other hand.”

  It took Jimmy a minute, but he finally realized his mistake. He remembered his father once telling him that faggot kids growing up in the city usually couldn’t read or write, that the other school kids usually gave them such a bad time they generally skipped school altogether. So while most the town and suburb homosexuals were usually rich and well educated, the poor homos from the city tended to be of a different class and grew up illiterate.

  Embarrassed, Jimmy nodded curtly. “I’ll manage.” Pushing himself up from the comfort of his concrete bed, he stood watching in bewilderment as the faggot went to the concrete bunk on the other side of the cell and, sitting down lifted a leg, and tore the heel from his boot. Holding it up, his face broke into a wide smile. He got to his feet, holding up the he
el for Jimmy’s inspection. “And this nail in the heel,” he said, still smiling, “…will serve as your pen. Then we can use the heel as a weight to fling the car down the corridor.”

  Jimmy stared at him.

  “We will need ink, of course,” said Dave, clearly undaunted.

  It struck Jimmy that, not only had he gotten himself mixed up with a faggot, but a daft faggot at that. “And where,” he asked impatiently, “do you propose to find ink?”

  Those blue eyes took on a deeper glint. “Blood,” replied the faggot as he drew the boot-nail across his wrist. “Blood will do the job very nicely, I think.”

  “Blood?” Jimmy echoed incredulously, then braced to defend himself in case that crazy faggot—possibly with AID’s—made a move toward him.

  Dave grinned. “Blood,” he said again. “Don’t worry, straight boy,” he added, seeing Jimmy cowering on his bunk. “A little faggot blood won’t turn you into a homo. To the contrary, a little faggot blood just might save your ass. So to speak.” He couldn’t help but laugh.

  The sound of the bars being pulled back jarred Jimmy awake two days later. He and the faggot were free.

  Mass Incarceration

  Americans love locking people up behind bars. The people demand a “lock-‘em-up and throw the key away,” society. Society loves “three strikes and you’re out” together with a death penalty. Government in return locks people up in increasing numbers even though crime is down in every category across the board.

  The United States of America imprisons more people than any other nation on the planet earth. Consider the actual numbers: The entire planet earth has over 7.3 billion residents while the United States only has 316 million residents, meaning that the USA only accounts for 4 percent of the world’s population. Yet the New York Times reports that the U.S. prison population dwarfs that of other nations at 25 percent of the entire planet’s prison population.

  The USA with 300 million residents has more people locked up than do Russia and China put together at 1,500 million residents. I’ve heard some argue, “Yeah, right. Russia and China just arrest you and shoot you, and that’s why they have such a small prison population.” Sadly, this argument is totally wrong: the arrest rate in these countries is also far below the incarceration rate in the USA. While Russia and China are famously considered repressive countries, the real statistics tell an entirely different story. More freedom exists in present day Russia than in the USA today.

  But has this creation of a prison country by locking so many people up actually made us citizens any safer? Well, a general perusal of television news, local newspapers, and the Internet tends to embrace crime as being wildly out of control in America, and on the increase year after year with no hope of crime containment in the future. This is WRONG!

  Now the numbers grow absurd. CNN reports that the FBI Crime Statistics show crime down for the fifth straight year. Checking these numbers closer in the FBI Uniform Crime Reports, the single definitive source for accurate crime information, we find violent crime down not only across the board, but in every single category measured. Crime is down, not up, while the USA locks up every black male it sees, and now that it’s run out of blacks, has started locking up whites. The number of people locked up in the USA has quadrupled since 1980. Yet locking people up has not solved any problems. Clearly, what American society and government is doing does not work.

  One would think it appears reasonable that “locking people up” and “keeping them in prison for longer terms” would, in effect, “clean up the streets” and “make communities safer”. But instead, the United States has spawned a “prison industrial complex” costing taxpayers more than 61 billion dollars per year to maintain.

  What should America do?

  To keep people from committing more crime should we keep on locking them up for ever-increasing lengths of time? Should we penalize a hungry homeless man by locking him up for the rest of his life after he steals a candy bar, running afoul of a three strikes law; or lock up a young kid for the rest of his life over a non-violent drug possession mistake he made when only 17 years old? Should America continue ripping apart families just to maintain an illusion of feeling a miniscule amount safer? Or could it be possible a better way exists to deal with crime and those who break our laws?

  Consider the following twenty-one facts concerning America’s obsession with locking people up, as compiled by Michael Snyder at End of the American Dream.

  1.There are more than 2.4 million people behind bars in America as you read this article.

  2.Since 1980, the number of people incarcerated in U.S. prisons has quadrupled.

  3.The incarceration rate in the United States is more than 4 times higher than the incarceration rate in the UK and more than 6 times higher than the incarceration rate in Canada.

  4.Approximately 12 million people cycle through local jails in the U.S. each and every year.

  5.Overall, the United States has the largest prison population and the highest incarceration rate in the entire world.

  6.Approximately one out of every four prisoners on the entire planet are in U.S. prisons, but the United States only accounts for about five percent of the total global population.

  7.The state of Maryland (total population 5.9 million) has more people in prison than Iraq (total population 31.9 million).

  8.The state of Ohio (total population 11.6 million) has more people in prison than Pakistan (total population 192.1 million).

  9.Incredibly, 41 percent of all young people in America have been arrested by the time they turn 23.

  10.Between 1990 and 2009 the number of Americans in private prisons increased by about 1600 percent.

  11.At this point, private prison companies operate more than 50 percent of all “youth correctional facilities” in this nation.

  12.There are more African-Americans under “correctional supervision” right now than were in slavery in the United States in 1850.

  13.Approximately 90 percent of those being held in prisons in the United States are men.

  14.The incarceration rate for African-American men is more than 6 times higher than it is for white men.

  15.An astounding 37.2 percent of African-American men from age 20 to age 34 with less than a high school education were incarcerated in 2008.

  16.Police in New York City conducted nearly 700,000 “stop-and-frisk searches” in 2011 alone.

  17.The ‘SWATification’ of America has gotten completely and totally out of control. Back in 1980, there were only about 3,000 SWAT raids in the United States for the entire year. Today, there are more than 80,000 SWAT raids in the United States every single year.

  18.Illegal immigrants make up approximately 30 percent of the total population in our federal, state and local prisons.

  19.The average ‘minimum security’ inmate in federal prison costs U.S. taxpayers $21,000 a year.

  20.The average ‘maximum security’ inmate in federal prison costs U.S. taxpayers $33,000 a year.

  21.Overall, it costs more than 60 billion dollars a year to keep all of these people locked up.

  It certainly does not help that society at every level treats ex-cons as pariahs once they leave prison.

  They cannot sign a lease or rent an apartment, with credit ruined for life, they cannot purchase a house. Few employers will hire them, and even then only at low paying jobs. In most cases any form of public assistance is not available. Usually, their wives and families have long before abandoned them, and they have no roots in their communities after being away for so long. Without any options, no choice exists but for many of them to fall back into crime. And that is exactly what the prison industrial system wants to see happen.

  Society totally gives up on a person once convicted of a felony. People want criminals locked up for as long as possible, and then once they get out they make it extremely difficult for ex-cons to reintegrate into society.

  No doubt a lot of really bad criminals are locked up in prison. Furthe
r, criminals should be punished for their crimes. But prisons are full of a whole lot of people who made one stupid mistake when they were young, and many who are innocent or otherwise do not deserve to be there at all.

  Perhaps instead of totally rejecting our ex-convict population, society should have a little bit more love and compassion for them.

  Perhaps instead of treating them as worthless pariahs, people should do more to change their hearts and help them reintegrate into society.

  In the end, the truth is that none of us are perfect.

  We all need grace and we all need forgiveness.

  Perhaps you should remember that.

  Prison Slut

  By Lily Weidner

  Sitting in her car, Anne debated what to take with her. She had never been to a prison before, and the thought she had to now, disturbed her. A recent paralegal graduate, Anne still didn’t know what a prison was like. There was never a class on how to handle clients in the prison system, especially when that client was also a family member. Anne had gotten a legal career because she believed in justice and equality. Today, the legal system seemed less and less about justice. The inner conflict left Anne confused, especially while helping the public defender’s office. When the client had called the law firm needing help, Anne had been happy for the chance to help.

  Sighing, Anne opened her car door. Her mind was made up, and she knew better than to keep clients waiting. Taking a moment, she grabbed her laptop, briefcase, and put on her suit coat. A little bit traditional, Anne preferred to wear skirts rather than dress pants. The prison guidelines however didn’t allow for women to wear skirts, especially while visiting inmates. Apparently there were still rules for lawyers and their staff. Anne had heard once that officers hated public defenders and their paralegals, and now she was starting to believe that to be true.

  Before she could change her mind, Anne managed to open the door and walk into the prison. Surprisingly there was a lack of officers which didn’t make her feel uneasy, but at the same time it didn’t make her feel any safer either. She had always imagined prisons running crazy with guards, but it was drearily quite. Walking up to the window, Anne waited for the guard to realize she was there. “Can I help you?” Anne smiled warmly, probably an odd sight under such circumstances. “I’m here to see a client.” The guard grabbed a clipboard, and then looked up from it again. “Name of the inmate and relation please.”

  Looking down, Anne blushed from the question. Had it been any other inmate, she probably wouldn’t have blushed. There was a bit of embarrassment, simply because she was visiting a prisoner. “The name is Marcello Cahlo. Under relation put client, but I’m not the main attorney. I’m only the paralegal.” The guard shook his head, and then hit a button that made the whole room buzz. Everyone seemed to turn and look at her, but in reality it was nothing more than the occasional glance at the desk. The door unlocked, and Anne found herself faced with a maze of guards. Each seemed far too serious for any questions, and for once Anne was actually nervous at having to ask.

  Going through the security was a hassle, and Anne was beginning to see why. “Ma’am can you hand me the bag please?” Reluctantly, Anne handed over her briefcase. The guard proceeded to go through it in front of her, while another guard searched her. Luckily, she hadn’t been reluctant to the search and the guard was more agreeable. The guard searching her briefcase, however, wasn’t too happy with her. “Ma’am do you have permission to use a laptop?” Anne just shook her head, regretting the decision of bringing the laptop in. “You can’t have a laptop without the Warden’s permission. Did you bring a legal pad?” Anne nodded, and the guard allowed her to remove the laptop and replace it with a legal pad and a pencil.

  As if to make matters worse, the guard continued to go through her bag. “Ma’am just to let you know, there are no phones allowed in the prison. I’ll put yours with the laptop, and you can collect them on the way out. In fact, you probably should just bring the legal pads and the pencils with you.” Anne sighed, but nodded trying to comply the best she could. “That’ll be fine, I can make do with just that.” The guard let her collect the legal pad and pencils, and then eyed her again. He seemed to be patient enough with her, but even Anne was getting tired of having to comply with the rules. “That’ll do now; all I need now is your suit coat.” Anne handed over her suit coat, and then heard the buzzer announce yet another door was opening.

  One of the guards stepped forward, and began to accompany Anne to Marcello’s cell. The walk down to the cell seemed to take forever. Prisoners went crazy at the sight of a female, and Anne kept her eyes forward. She figured if she didn’t feed into their actions that eventually they’d get the hint. She could still hear the prisoners whistling at her through the bars, and then she noticed the officer’s key in the lock. “What are you doing?” The officer laughed, looking her up and down. “You want to meet with your client don’t you?” She couldn’t believe he’d ask her such a question. “Don’t you have rooms for this kind of thing?” The officer just shook his head unlocking the cell door.

  “Honey, we haven’t since the state cut our funding.” Going against her instinct, she entered the cell of her latest client. Once inside, she heard the door slam shut, and then the silence of it locking. Anne felt nervous, yet tried not to let it show. She had never actually met her client before now which was actually the norm, as he had lived too far away. When her attorney had called with the request though, the law firm had happily done her a favor in letting her handle the communication work. All lawyers assumed their client innocent until proven guilty, but her attorney had assured her on a personal level that Marcello truly was innocent. Now it was just up to the firm to prove such a thing.

  A part of her cursed herself for wearing a business suit. No one told her she would be alone in a prison cell with her client. The suit she wore felt inadequate, and she crossed her legs, nervously sitting down. “I’m here to represent your new attorney. I’m here to advise you of the process and represent your wishes in communication with the attorney.” Hearing her client laugh, she studied his features. His dark hair and eyes appealed to her, and she found herself shifting slightly. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it?” The question annoyed her, and she didn’t answer.

  “What got you sent here anyway? I bet you screwed your boss, huh? A pretty girl like you…” His words should have offended her, but they only aroused her. Anne had always had the fantasy of being taken in a prison cell. There was just something appealing about a man taking control of her. Even though the fantasy excited her, she had never slept with a man. Now unexpectedly here this man was taking control of the entire situation and exciting her. The fact he was her client made her colder towards him, hoping that he would get the message. “Let’s just start with a name. I’m Anne.”

  Anne watched her client laugh, but then watched as he began to study her. “Marcello, my name is Marcello… but you knew that already.” She looked down at the file on her lap, and then back up at him. “It says you’re facing two counts of robbery.” His voice grew louder, obviously upset at the charges. “It was my friend’s house and his wife was just upset! He gave me that property!” There was a temptation for Anne to tell him she knew better, but that didn’t matter. Prisons were filled with men who claimed their innocence, even after they had been convicted by a jury of their peers.

  At first she didn’t know what to do, but then she simply ran her fingers through her hair. Anne decided to avoid the issue completely. “Look, we need to come up with a plausible defense.” Marcello just stared at her, studying her body. “You think I’m guilty, and that turns you on.” His words stung her, and she found herself at a loss for words. “I…I…I don’t—” Fed up with her, he grabbed the file off her lap. “Your face is flushed, you’re leaning towards me, and your legs are crossed yet you can’t sit still. You think I’m going to buy you don’t want me to fuck you here and now?” Anne found herself unable to move or speak, and when she didn�
��t object she lost her chance to do so.

  Marcello pulled her up from her seat, and pressed her back to the wall. There wasn’t much space in the prison cell, but there was enough for what he wanted to do. His mouth began to violate hers, forcing her lips apart with his tongue. He felt her hands against his chest trying to push him back, but then they moved up to his shoulders. She sucked on his tongue, and instinctually her legs parted slightly for him. His hand slid up inside her pants, only to feel her panties soaked by her excitement. When he needed to breathe, he broke the kiss. “You’re a fucking slut. Now, I’m going to make you my fuck slut.”

  His words made her wet, and she could feel him tearing her panties off her. She could have screamed for a guard, but his hand covered her mouth as if reading her mind. Trying to protest, she closed her legs to him. His hand pressed roughly against her, and it only furthered the intensity. “You’re going to be a good little girl if you know what’s good for you.” His words were soft, surprisingly gentle considering their threat. Slowly, he took off her pants and she opened her legs back up for him. Sensing her compliance, his hand uncovered her mouth. Gently, he began kissing around her ear, and then made his way down below her neck.

  Soon, Marcello was roughly ripping off her clothing. Anne tried to protest, especially since her clothing was so expensive. As an assistant she could barely afford the clothing, and now it was being ripped from her body. She knew she would never be able to wear it again, and she looked away embarrassed. Turning her head, she could see some of the prisoners watching them. Her blush deepened, and she didn’t want to think about what the other men must think of her. For all she knew, they, too, fucked their legal staff like this. What really got to her though, was what her body was doing to her.

  Anne felt her body betraying her; she knew this man would not be gentle to her. Her breathing, though, became heavy, and her voice filled with lust. “Please….please don’t….” His eyes met hers, and it stopped her statement. He looked serious, threatening, but she also noticed his need for her. She began to want him inside her, and she felt her grip tighten on his shoulders. Her body began to grind against his, and he rewarded her by sucking her nipples. He felt them hardening as his tongue ran across their surface, and only then did he bite down. Her gasps were filled with pleasure, even as he tugged on her nipples making them extra sensitive.

  Her pussy was dripping with need, and she felt him pull away from her. She was filled with a stronger need, and she heard him laugh. “You really do want my hard cock. Girl, you have no idea about the fucking I’m going to give you.” With that he forced her against the bars, her hands instinctually gripping onto them. She whimpered as she felt his cock against her pussy, but then moaned the loudest she ever had. His cock was inside her, and she could feel her pussy tightening around him. “Oh God, fuck me!” Her request fueled his desire, and his thrusts quickened.

  Anne felt her head hit his shoulder, and she was suddenly aware of what it must look like. Here her body was on display, and the other prisoners could watch her getting fucked. Surprisingly she tightened even more, pressing her body back against his. “Mmm, yeah you’re a filthy slut! You’re my personal cum slut now aren’t you bitch!” Surprisingly his hands made their way up to her breasts, and she cried out louder. “Yes! I’m your bitch! Your slut! Fuck me! Fill me with your cum!” Her breathing was getting heavier with each thrust, and then she felt it. Pure pleasure filled her, and she heard herself screaming. “Marcello!” His body held hers against the bars, but he allowed her to catch her breath slightly.

  Roughly she was forced down onto her hands and knees. Her whole body went still, and then she felt his dick against her ass. Fear of him violating her like that filled her, and she began to struggle. “No! Please no! Don’t!” His grip tightened on her waist, and she could feel him rubbing his cock up and down against her hole. Surprisingly she began to relax, only whimpering when he stopped his motion. She loved how he overpowered her, and he began forcing himself inside her ass. Her head tilted down against the floor, fighting the pain of stretching to accommodate him.

  After the first initial thrust inside her, she found herself moaning like a whore for him. She couldn’t believe the sounds she had to give him, or that it could feel this good. Anne began to feel like she really was his slut, especially since she was taking it up the ass for him. His fingers moved down to her pussy, and he began playing with her clit. She shook her head for him to stop, but he wouldn’t. A part of her knew that he knew what she needed more than she did. Deep down she knew he wanted her to cum like this. All his efforts had been for her own pleasure as well as his, and he wasn’t going to let her have any excuse to deny such a thing.

  Marcello began to thrust all the way inside her, and she screamed out for him. Her moans only made his thrusts quicken, and soon his hand was covered in her cum. He licked her cum off his fingers, while he was still buried inside her ass. She squirmed knowing this, and he was closer and closer to his own climax. His climax built up inside him, and then he thrust his dick inside her pussy in one rough thrust. She cried out as he began to climax, filling her pussy with his seed. Nothing aroused her more than having his cum buried deep inside her, especially with his cock throbbing inside her pussy.

  His cock dripped with a mix of her own cum and his and she looked up into his eyes. “Can I… can I taste it?” He roughly grabbed the back of her head, and rubbed the tip of his dick across her soft lips. Her mouth opened to accept him, and she began tasting their fluids. His dick slid deep into her mouth, making sure she got a good taste. Anne could tell that Marcello liked getting his dick sucked, and she did the best she could. She took him inch by inch into her mouth, even enjoying the gagging sensation for him.

  It didn’t take long before he was force fucking her mouth. It got her hot, and she felt her wetness running down her thighs. By the time he finally shot his load down the back of her throat, she hungrily swallowed it all. Having finished with her client, she tried to make her clothing salvageable. There wasn’t much to be done, and she tried to hold the clothing together with as many buttons as possible. The truth was her clothing had been spread all over the cell, and finding all her clothing was nearly impossible. Not only that, but her panties had been ripped from her body. It was impossible to put them on again, and so Anne was forced to make do with what she had.

  The guard showed up shortly after Marcello had finished with her, and released her from the cell. She smelled of sex, and it was clear by the stain on her pants that she no longer had any panties on. Going back to her law firm was impossible, and she managed to run to her apartment first. When she couldn’t find anything worthy to wear back to work, she simply called in sick. Her attorney had been willing to give her the day off, taking into account she had gone to the prison. The attorney had hinted she take as much time as she need, even if that meant not coming back to the firm.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Marcello however, and she realized she’d have to get his case ready. Preparing the paperwork, she submitted it to her attorney before going to bed. Still even with all the paperwork done for him and filed, she could stop thinking about him. Weeks went by without updates, but she soon discovered he had indeed been found innocent of all charges. In the end, she had done enough with her statement to provide a good defense. Her attorney must have gone with the same defense as now Marcello was a free man. A part of Anne was sad she wouldn’t be seeing him again.

  Her family reunion came before she knew it, and she found herself looking forward to it. For once everyone was able to be there, and she looked forward to meeting her relatives. Nervous, she walked around the room, and slowly sipped from her drink. Glancing towards the door, she recognized one of her relatives, and she filled with shock and desire. “Mar…Marcello?” He looked at her, almost as shocked as she was. “What are you doing here?” She could barely hear one of her relatives in the background. “I didn’t know you knew your uncle.” Her face turned deep red as her body filled
with lust; she had fucked her uncle and enjoyed every single minute of it.

  The End

  Author’s Revenge