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So it's been a little bit since I posted. Had a few weeks off post-surgery, and there isn't much to work with when you are stuck in a Control Room for 4 weeks on light duty. Fortunately, the drought is over and I have plenty of new (and a few from a month or to before I was out of commission) tales of humanity's slow and steady decline to share.
Remember, before they landed in prison they were customers. There are those who must continue to deal with them when they are no longer able to torment you. They are Corrections Officers. These are their stories.
IM: Inmate
CW: Coworker
ME: Me (duh)
Prison Chessmaster 9000
In Segregation ("the hole"), inmates spend a lot of time playing chess. All they have to do is number the squares on the board and find someone else with a chess set within shouting distance. Cries of "My Knight moves to 22" and "My Bishop takes that" can be heard every day. Then there are guys who know nothing of the game and just make up the rules. For Instance:
IM1: Hold up, hold up. I want to trade those two pieces to get my Knight back.
IM2: Alright.
IM: What the hell are you doing? It's like I'm playing this game, and you off playing something else entirely.
IM1: Okay, I move my Horse to 14.
IM2: I move my Hooker to 43.
IM1: My Bitch takes that.
I'm guessing the Bitch is the Queen, so would that mean the King is a Pimp?
Ewwww
*Ring*
ME: (Cellhouse) Control, Kara.
CW: So check this out. We opened to cooler to put ice in the tea and there was a cockroach swimming in it.
ME: Nasty.
CW: So, then, like, we just left it in there and started passing out tea.
ME: That's just twisted I like it.
CW: When we were at (Cell #), it went through the spout and was like, swimming in (Inmate)'s cup.
ME: Was he pissed?
CW: Actually he didn't complain, so we were just like, 'fuck it' and moved on with passing drinks.
ME: I guess the extra protein is good for him.
That's just so deliciously horrible. Does that make me a horrible person to find amusement in this? Do I care? Anyway, that was the day I decided I would never drink the tea again. Not that it was that great or anything to begin with.
Sucks to Be You
I escorted an inmate to the shower, then closed and locked the door. As I was uncuffing him through the "bean hole" (a small locking door on the door for cuffing and uncuffing) the following occurred:
IM: Hey, CO, there's a big fucking wasp on the floor.
ME: Dead?
IM: Nuh-uh, it's alive.
ME *looks in through the mesh of the upper part of the door. Yep, it's a big freakin wasp sitting there moving his antennae*: Hmm, so it is. *closes bean hole and locks it.*
Yes, I am evil. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Maybe No One Will Notice...
You not only thought it was a good idea to get a tattoo, but you thought it would be bloody fucking sweet to get one on your face. You've been in prison since you turned 18, everyone (inmates and officers alike) knows you, and prison tattoos are a big no-no. But at least when you get out of the hole you can show it off like it's brand-new again. That is, unless you get some kind of horrific bacterial infection and die.
I asked him today what in the hell he was thinking, and he said "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Fishing Fail
I happened to be making a round of the cellhouse and saw a fishing line running down from a cell upstairs to his neighbor right below him. Now, I don't usually chase fishing lines, but if I happen to come across one, it's mine. Without stopping, I reached out and grabbed the line and kept right on walking.
IM: Hey! Hold up! Don't pull it in yet! Hold up! Hey! Hold up! *snap* FUUUUUCK!
Sure, they'll just tear up another bedsheet to make a new line, but it never stops being fun.
Another Favorite Inmate Passtime
I was listening in via in-cell intercoms in Control the other day. I just pop in and out of cells at random because sometimes I come across information about who owes money to who, who's going to get their ass kicked, and who is selling what. The inmates can talk to each other from cell-to-cell by talking through their vents, as every 4 cells (2 up and 2 down) share the same ventilation shaft.
IM1: Hey, what are you doing?
IM2: Jacking off.
IM1: Oh. Now?
IM2: Trying to.
IM1: Oh, okay. Well I'll let you go ahead and get down with yourself, and I'll holler at you later.
I mean, I guess there really isn't much to do if they don't have a TV.
Behold the Antichrist. Could Someone Lend Him a Hand?
We had an inmate set his cell on fire, screaming that he was going to "burn this motherfucker down." Of course, since the buildings and pretty much everything in them are made of concrete, all he really did was almost die of smoke inhalation. So he wound up in the infirmary on a Mental Health watch, meaning we have to monitor him and log his activity ever 15 minutes. One day I was the lucky officer for that post.
Oh yeah, and they call the guy "2012" because he's always going on about how that's when the world will end. Oh, and he's also the Antichrist. So he was talking under his door to his neighbor.
IM2: So, the world is going to end?
IM1: See, it's like this. The Book of the Antichrist already predicted all this. I'm just stirring shit up now, sending a message. Pretty soon, they won't have any choice but to tear down these walls and let all us motherfuckers go because they'll be fighting The War.
IM2: Right.
IM1: But here's the thing. See, I'm going to cut off all of my fingers on one hand, and send each one of them to one of the 6 churches of the Antichrist. Then I'm going to cut off my hand and send it to the sixth church of the Antichrist, along with the Book of the Antichrist that I'm writing. That way they know it's for real and that I'm serious. That's going to stir shit up. It will make them understand, make them realize I ain't playing.
I can't help but point out the obvious flaws in this grand Apocalyptic Scheme:
1. You are retarded.
2. The Book of the Antichrist, if such a thing even exists (and I'm pretty sure it doesn't) has nothing to do with the belief that the world will end in 2012. That actually comes from the Mayans, who knew nothing of Christian beliefs.
3. If, for whatever reason, Martial Law were declared and we (as a para-military unit) had to fight a war, the prisons would not be torn down. In fact, in the event of this, control over the prison system falls into the hands of FEMA. And I believe their operational model is to just go cell-to-cell with shotguns. No, I'm not even joking about that.
4. How the hell are you going to tape up the boxes with only one hand? Also, who 's going to respect, let alone follow, a guy who can only count to 5?
5. I wasn't aware that there were any churches of the Antichrist, let alone 6 of them. I'd love to see their bake sales.
7. Oh, you're writing the Book of the Antichrist. The one that that foretold your entire master plan. You'd better finish writing the damn thing before you do the whole hand-choppy-thing.
8. Yes, everyone will know you are serious. A serious asstard.
Thus ends another exciting chapter. Will the world be destroyed? Will he remember to put correct postage for shipping body parts to non-existent churches? Tune in next time and find out...
Remember, before they landed in prison they were customers. There are those who must continue to deal with them when they are no longer able to torment you. They are Corrections Officers. These are their stories.
IM: Inmate
CW: Coworker
ME: Me (duh)
Prison Chessmaster 9000
In Segregation ("the hole"), inmates spend a lot of time playing chess. All they have to do is number the squares on the board and find someone else with a chess set within shouting distance. Cries of "My Knight moves to 22" and "My Bishop takes that" can be heard every day. Then there are guys who know nothing of the game and just make up the rules. For Instance:
IM1: Hold up, hold up. I want to trade those two pieces to get my Knight back.
IM2: Alright.
IM: What the hell are you doing? It's like I'm playing this game, and you off playing something else entirely.
IM1: Okay, I move my Horse to 14.
IM2: I move my Hooker to 43.
IM1: My Bitch takes that.
I'm guessing the Bitch is the Queen, so would that mean the King is a Pimp?
Ewwww
*Ring*
ME: (Cellhouse) Control, Kara.
CW: So check this out. We opened to cooler to put ice in the tea and there was a cockroach swimming in it.
ME: Nasty.
CW: So, then, like, we just left it in there and started passing out tea.
ME: That's just twisted I like it.
CW: When we were at (Cell #), it went through the spout and was like, swimming in (Inmate)'s cup.
ME: Was he pissed?
CW: Actually he didn't complain, so we were just like, 'fuck it' and moved on with passing drinks.
ME: I guess the extra protein is good for him.
That's just so deliciously horrible. Does that make me a horrible person to find amusement in this? Do I care? Anyway, that was the day I decided I would never drink the tea again. Not that it was that great or anything to begin with.
Sucks to Be You
I escorted an inmate to the shower, then closed and locked the door. As I was uncuffing him through the "bean hole" (a small locking door on the door for cuffing and uncuffing) the following occurred:
IM: Hey, CO, there's a big fucking wasp on the floor.
ME: Dead?
IM: Nuh-uh, it's alive.
ME *looks in through the mesh of the upper part of the door. Yep, it's a big freakin wasp sitting there moving his antennae*: Hmm, so it is. *closes bean hole and locks it.*
Yes, I am evil. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Maybe No One Will Notice...
You not only thought it was a good idea to get a tattoo, but you thought it would be bloody fucking sweet to get one on your face. You've been in prison since you turned 18, everyone (inmates and officers alike) knows you, and prison tattoos are a big no-no. But at least when you get out of the hole you can show it off like it's brand-new again. That is, unless you get some kind of horrific bacterial infection and die.
I asked him today what in the hell he was thinking, and he said "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Fishing Fail
I happened to be making a round of the cellhouse and saw a fishing line running down from a cell upstairs to his neighbor right below him. Now, I don't usually chase fishing lines, but if I happen to come across one, it's mine. Without stopping, I reached out and grabbed the line and kept right on walking.
IM: Hey! Hold up! Don't pull it in yet! Hold up! Hey! Hold up! *snap* FUUUUUCK!
Sure, they'll just tear up another bedsheet to make a new line, but it never stops being fun.
Another Favorite Inmate Passtime
I was listening in via in-cell intercoms in Control the other day. I just pop in and out of cells at random because sometimes I come across information about who owes money to who, who's going to get their ass kicked, and who is selling what. The inmates can talk to each other from cell-to-cell by talking through their vents, as every 4 cells (2 up and 2 down) share the same ventilation shaft.
IM1: Hey, what are you doing?
IM2: Jacking off.
IM1: Oh. Now?
IM2: Trying to.
IM1: Oh, okay. Well I'll let you go ahead and get down with yourself, and I'll holler at you later.
I mean, I guess there really isn't much to do if they don't have a TV.
Behold the Antichrist. Could Someone Lend Him a Hand?
We had an inmate set his cell on fire, screaming that he was going to "burn this motherfucker down." Of course, since the buildings and pretty much everything in them are made of concrete, all he really did was almost die of smoke inhalation. So he wound up in the infirmary on a Mental Health watch, meaning we have to monitor him and log his activity ever 15 minutes. One day I was the lucky officer for that post.
Oh yeah, and they call the guy "2012" because he's always going on about how that's when the world will end. Oh, and he's also the Antichrist. So he was talking under his door to his neighbor.
IM2: So, the world is going to end?
IM1: See, it's like this. The Book of the Antichrist already predicted all this. I'm just stirring shit up now, sending a message. Pretty soon, they won't have any choice but to tear down these walls and let all us motherfuckers go because they'll be fighting The War.
IM2: Right.
IM1: But here's the thing. See, I'm going to cut off all of my fingers on one hand, and send each one of them to one of the 6 churches of the Antichrist. Then I'm going to cut off my hand and send it to the sixth church of the Antichrist, along with the Book of the Antichrist that I'm writing. That way they know it's for real and that I'm serious. That's going to stir shit up. It will make them understand, make them realize I ain't playing.
I can't help but point out the obvious flaws in this grand Apocalyptic Scheme:
1. You are retarded.
2. The Book of the Antichrist, if such a thing even exists (and I'm pretty sure it doesn't) has nothing to do with the belief that the world will end in 2012. That actually comes from the Mayans, who knew nothing of Christian beliefs.
3. If, for whatever reason, Martial Law were declared and we (as a para-military unit) had to fight a war, the prisons would not be torn down. In fact, in the event of this, control over the prison system falls into the hands of FEMA. And I believe their operational model is to just go cell-to-cell with shotguns. No, I'm not even joking about that.
4. How the hell are you going to tape up the boxes with only one hand? Also, who 's going to respect, let alone follow, a guy who can only count to 5?
5. I wasn't aware that there were any churches of the Antichrist, let alone 6 of them. I'd love to see their bake sales.
7. Oh, you're writing the Book of the Antichrist. The one that that foretold your entire master plan. You'd better finish writing the damn thing before you do the whole hand-choppy-thing.
8. Yes, everyone will know you are serious. A serious asstard.
Thus ends another exciting chapter. Will the world be destroyed? Will he remember to put correct postage for shipping body parts to non-existent churches? Tune in next time and find out...
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