Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The prison bus, powered by a roaring diesel engine, labors hard as it crests the Blue Mountains. From there the small community of Walla Walla can be seen sleeping in the valley below. For Joshua, anxiety mounts after each passing mile; his thoughts are overrun by what lurks behind those walls. Soon the vehicle turns off the highway, then slows to a crawl, and cautiously begins navigating through a series of guarded gates. Its passengers, who are growing restless, are those who have affronted or injured humanity so much so that they’ve been elected to be removed from the world for lengthy periods of time, if not for the rest of their lives. For most it is their deserved consequence. And their journey to this place is nearing its end.

  Final destination.

  Sitting on the cramped metal seat, Joshua peeks out the slated window at the massive size of the old, brick building that supports lofty gun towers at every corner. Anticipation and fear swirls in his stomach as glimpses of being stabbed or being forced to stab others race through his thoughts. Trying not to think of such things, he averts his attention to the shackles that are cutting into his wrists and ankles, wondering of the man who bled on them beforehand and listening to conversations relating to the history of the penal complex itself.

  Three seats back, an African American (a Crip) shares everything he knows for all to hear. Joshua turns briefly to catch a look. He’s in his midfifties, with leathery skin covered in facial tattoos. However, his eyes hold truth, knowledge, and the fact that this isn’t his first visit here. And seated next to him is a younger recruit, who will in short manner also grow to become a Crip and wear the same symbolic artwork.

  The prison’s history is told.

  “Washington State Penitentiary used to be the old territorial prison, set here because of its geographical location. Basically we’re in the middle of a desert. This place is known for two things: its famous Walla Walla sweet onions and the endgame for some of the most notorious criminals in the country. You’ll see many walking the yard that you’ve heard of or read about previously. It originally opened for business shortly after the Civil War. Then in the 1920s, they built a license plate factory, which continues to operate to this day, producing more than two and a half million plates each year.” The articulate and seemingly friendly black man pats his apprentice on the leg. “WSP is also known as the Walls, the very location where the executions of death-row inmates are carried out. Two methods are offered. The newest, and the one typically requested, is lethal injection, but still the option of hanging exists. One interesting case was that of Mitchell Rupe who, at the time in 1994, only had the choice of hanging and had his death-penalty overturned on the grounds that it was considered inhumane to hang him due to his obesity, since, being over four hundred pounds, he would’ve been decapitated during implementation.”

  The youth listens intently as his teacher raises his voice.

  “Pay close attention to my words! Most men will die here, either by the hands of another inmate or the gunfire from the guards’ M-16 assault rifles. In many cases, men with relatively short sentences, five to ten years, will end up with more charges during their stay—this is the personification of the Walls. Reality is what it is, my brother. Even the address itself leaves all black men who enter without hope: 1313 N. 13th Ave., Walla Walla, WA. This is the white man’s ultimate oppression.”

  “Hey! Watch your mouth, nigger!” A snarling white guy from the rear yells. Right away the back and forth erupts, rage mounting with each bigoted phrase.

  “Fuck you, cracker!”

  “You’re dead, nigger!”

  “Home sweet home, huh, ese?” says a Latino a few rows ahead, as many stretch to the end of their chains to get to each other.

  “I’ll make you my bitch!”

  “I’m going to cut you!”

  “See you in the yard, punk!”

  Joshua joins in, defending his kind. And although it’s somewhat feeble, he’s noticed by others—including the skinny man he’s shackled to.

  Then the armed guard, standing behind the protective barrier at the front of the bus, hammers the butt of his shotgun on the sheet-metal-lined cab. The sound rings throughout the fuselage. “Settle down, savages, or I will use the other end of my weapon! Settle down now!”

  His threat brings an unexpected obedience, and the chaos slows to a halt as quickly as it began. At this very instant, Joshua realizes he might have more to fear from the guards than the inmates.

  The bus pulls through the final gateway with only muted mumblings. And then the hard-edged, bony man that Joshua is chained to studies him through narrowing eyes and asks, “Is this your first time?”

  “Yeah, it is,” he replies, welcoming the conversation and wanting of some experienced advice.

  The man says nothing for ten seconds or so. He just stares, reading his face. Then he asks, “You’re Joshua…something—the Sickness, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he answers, amid disapproval for the label, adding, “but I didn’t do it. I’m working on my appeal.”

  “No one cares whether you did or not, so if I were you, I’d just keep that to yourself.” Then he leans in closer, locks eyes, and embarks on a series of questions.

  “Will you be having money sent in?”

  “Well, yeah…. of course, my family is wealthy.”

  “Good…that’s real good.” Joshua can see his stock go up in his questioner’s gaze. “Are you a snitch?”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “Good…and it better be true. And what if someone disrespects you—will you fight?”

  “If I have to, I will.”

  “You always have to,” the man counters. He allows the statement to sink in and then asks ever so bluntly, “And do you hate niggers, Jews, and spics?”

  Joshua, knowing that this was going to come up sooner or later, responds without delay and convincingly, “Yeah, can’t fucking stand any of them.”

  His response is scrutinized for a long moment. “You…” The man shakes his head. “You don’t seem to me to be the maniac they say you are.”

  “Uh…well,” he stutters, void of any real answer, also realizing others are listening in on their little chat and that his reputation is at stake.

  Then suddenly the bus comes to its final stop, diverting the attention of everyone on the bus—all except his strange inquisitor, who coarsely states his rules. “My name is Spider,” he says, “and I will tell you this one time, and one time only. If everything you just told me is one hundred percent on the money, I can help you on the inside.” Spider shakes his head with cutting eyes. “But if you’re not one hundred percent on the money, then you would do best to never speak to me or even glance in my direction. Understand?”

  “I’m sure we will speak again,” Joshua replies shortly. Then his gut wrenches from the screech of the locks as they are taken off of the metal doors. There’s no escape; this is the moment of entrance into a new world, where survival through violence and constant warfare is commonplace. He is about to enter one of the most dangerous prisons in North America.

  The Walls. The Walls of Hell.

  “Okay, listen up, convicts! You will exit this transport as instructed. You will follow our orders without question. If we have any problems, you will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. If you do not understand this, you’re going to have a hard time here. I am not here to teach you. I am here to control you. So get off my transport, convicts, and try not to get yourselves shot.”

  Shackled in twos they exit the bus. Joshua and Spider work well as a team, stepping carefully so as not to pull on each other’s chains. And soon they’re standing out in the open, where instantly the hot desert heat hits them. They stand still, watching the others. Angry black men, ugly white guys, tattooed Hispanics—hard-broiled creatures from every ethnicity, all with one thing in common: a diminished value of life. A quick look at the horde tells Joshua to wear an agitated, pissed-off face—an appearance he finds easy to emul
ate, since this is how he has felt most of his life. All he really needs to do now is concentrate on shrouding his sheer terror.

  They’re corralled through the thick metal doors of the west wall that has a rusted “Inmate Entry” sign hanging above. Joshua turns against his restraints to catch one last glimpse of what is being left behind. A parking lot full of cars, sparse trees in the desert landscape, a woman wearing a dress, homes and businesses in the valley below—all sights he may never see again.

  As he crosses the threshold, a guard whispers, “The Sickness, huh?” It’s beginning to be clear; this is going to be his new name.

  Then another guard, with red hair and a beer belly, yells, “You two, stand against the wall and face forward!” He and Spider comply, and before long, their cuffs and shackles are removed. It is a relief to have them off, like when blistered feet are slipped out of sweaty roller skates. But their moment of ease is shortlived since they are next instructed to strip for search.

  “Lift your ball sack.”

  “Separate your penis from your scrotum.”

  “Bend and spread your cheeks.”

  And so on. All with the prying eyes of creepy prisoners suspiciously watching. Joshua tries not to link himself to their conduct, but human nature is curious. He catches sight of Spider’s tattoo. His entire back and shoulder blades depict one giant spiderweb. And when he turns, Joshua sees that he has two lightning bolts down his chest and “White Power” across his abdomen. Spider catches him observing his art and states, “The Aryan Brotherhood will be your only salvation, Sickness.”

  “Keep quiet, convict!”

  Then the guard shoves Joshua into an adjoining room, where he’s given clothes, bedding, the official rules, and taken inside the prison. It’s bigger than he’d imagined it to be. The cellblocks ascend four stories high, containing seventeen iron-barred cells on each level, the openness of which presents the sounds of loud radios, fighting, and the deafening screaming of bored and caged testosterone. Soon he will learn the noise is never ending. What’s more, the air is filled with the smoke of contraband—cigarettes, marijuana, even the burnt plastic of soda bottles as they are melted and reshaped into weapons that can pass through the metal detectors, Wall shanks.

  Then they stop in front of his cell. It’s smaller than he imagined it to be. It is eight feet by ten feet, the minimum required by law to accommodate four men to live out their lives, furnished with nothing more than a toilet, a sink, one small writing table, two sets of bunk beds, and three curious-looking strangers.

  Into the late hours, he gets to know a little of his new cellmates and is made aware of the real rules. Then he lies on the top bunk, thinking to himself that he must either become accustomed to this anxiety-fed environment or find a way to break out of it.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It’s after four in the morning at the Shelter; the waitress and bartender left over two hours ago. But due to the fact that Cools had his gun on the table, simply staring at it through wary eyes, no one asked him to leave. Now he is hidden within the darkness, sitting alone in front of a pile of cocaine, snorting, drinking, smoking, plotting. He pictures himself storming into William’s home, 21550 Kingsway Drive, gun drawn, crying his name, emptying the clip, calling 911, getting arrested, confessing, arraigned, pleading guilty, sentenced, shipped to WSP, finding Joshua, and choking his fucking life from him. This drug, alcohol-, and rage-induced scenario plays over and over. And although it involves many dramatic variations, the outcome remains the same.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Over the first week or so, no one approaches or messes with Joshua in the least, but they examine his every move. His cellmates represent a diverse mix: Davidson (the lying loudmouth), Borost (the Russian), and Junkie (the junkie). They are fair with him, even though they ask a lot of questions, never tiring of bringing up many differing situations.

  “What would you do if this happened?”

  “How do you think we should handle some of our current problems?”

  “What are solid codes of ethics a white man should live by?”

  It soon becomes crystal clear that all is a test. And he knows it won’t be long before they’ll want to see if he will stand up for himself and fight. When it’s time, I hope its Davidson (the lying loudmouth), the asshole who sleeps below me and never shuts the fuck up. Not even for a minute—always going on and on about nothing and everything. Fucking lying dumbass!

  Suddenly it dawns on him that he should initiate the fight. Yeah, I’m getting tired of all this being tested bullshit anyway; it’s going to happen sooner or later, besides, I’m dying for some action.

  So atop his bunk, he begins stretching and working on his strategy, taking in consideration Davidson’s shorter but bulky size. Be quick and wiry, enough to stay free from his grip. Throw many blows, fast and hard, keeping him busy until his fat ass is winded; then when he’s lost his energies, move in for the blood and the respect.

  It isn’t long, just as he expected, for an opportunity to arise. A guard passes by on his hourly rounds. And sure enough, not twenty minutes later, Davidson is disgorging one tall tale about the time he got into a bar fight with five Italian guys. Joshua waits until he reaches a point in the story where he’d cleanly taken out the second guy using a kung-fu move, then breathes out a loud and skeptical, “Hmm!”

  Davidson pauses for a second, but says nothing, before continuing, “Okay, so now I’m down to three, right…except this lanky guy to my left has a knife. I take it away from him and—”

  “Uh-huh. Whatever, man.”

  “No, it’s true; I’m telling you exactly how it all went down!” Davidson replies, defending himself. Then he steps out of his bunk to reenact the situation.

  Joshua let’s out an exaggerated sigh, saying, “Okay, let’s hear the rest.”

  “Yeah, you’re going to hear the rest!” Davidson blurts out, noticeably agitated.

  Borost and Junkie sense an imminent altercation and pay closer attention, given that this is the exact sort of conflict they thrive on. And Davidson, now with their undivided attention, begins to put on a show. He swoops his leg out quick and low, demonstrating how he kicked the feet out from underneath guy number three (the one he took the knife from); then he stomps hard on the floor, showing the way in which he’d incapacitated number four; followed by a foot chase of the fifth guy, who was by this time running for his life.

  “Yeah…I…uh…I think I’ve seen this movie,” Joshua wisecracks, setting Borost and Junkie into sharp laughter.

  Davidson becomes instantly enraged. “What’re you saying? You calling me a liar?” he yells, flailing his arms around.

  Joshua constricts his eyes and raises his voice. “I’m saying I’m getting real fucking tired of hearing your bullshit fucking stories all damn day and night!”

  “Well, maybe you feel like you need to do something about it,” Davidson challenges.

  Borost and Junkie shift quietly to the toilet, giving them room.

  “All right, bad ass, stand over by the bars. Let me get down and put my shoes on.”

  “Fuck you!” Davidson yells, grabbing at Joshua’s legs and trying to pull him off the top bunk.

  Joshua kicks at him barely missing his head as Borost lays down the rules. “No! You let him put shoes on!”

  Davidson turns to see that even Junkie agrees. “Okay, put your shoes on, punk! I’m going to destroy your rich pampered ass. And that might not be all I do to your ass, you yuppie bitch. I’m going to make you my bitch. I’m going to butt-fuck your face.”

  Joshua keeps his cool, saying nothing. He simply laces up tight and gets into position. And as soon as Davidson starts to say something, he jabs one in flattening his nose. Crunch! Blood spurts out.

  Davidson reacts by charging with a deadly haymaker swing. It grazes Joshua’s cheek, knocking him back into the toilet, where he falls into the wall. Borost and Junkie jump out of the way, observing every detail. Davidson rushes in. Joshua, off
balance, swings, misses, and gets crushed into the wall. They lock horns and thrash around, knocking books and papers off the writing table. Joshua is cornered, and Davidson smashes him again and again against the concrete. Joshua goes wild, trying to break free. He manages to briefly push Davidson away, then as he lunges in again, Joshua impels a fierce uppercut, catching him under the chin. It hits, fracturing his jaw. Davidson lets out a guttural groan. He staggers backward, trying to catch the edge of the bunk to break his fall. Joshua charges forward, over him, heaving another heavy fist keen on his eye socket. Crack! And Davidson drops to the cement like a weighted tree branch in a windstorm.

  “Yeah! Fuck yeah!” Junkie shrieks in a tenor of nervous excitement. Joshua slants a scorching eye at him, and he quiets himself at once. Borost is left thunderstruck.

  Then Joshua seizes a moment, inspecting Davidson’s lifeless body carpeting the floor. He hovers above him, mumbling incoherently.

  Borost yells, concerned, “Let’s get him up!”

  “No!” Joshua snaps. “I’m not finished with this story-telling piece of shit!”

  “You fucked him up!” Borost replies. Junkie’s expression agrees.

  Joshua ignores their distress. He kneels down and cinches his arm tight around Davidson’s neck, making clear his intentions. “Yeah, but he called me a punk and a bitch, and I’m not giving anyone a chance to do it twice!” Then he begins squeezing just as Davidson regains consciousness and starts to squirm.

  “Don’t! No!” Borost and Junkie screech. “He’s one of us!”

  Joshua disregards their mercy, wrenching even tighter. Davidson’s legs flail, kicking the air; his face transforms to red, to purple, to fear. “Die…you…motherfucker… die!” Joshua’s own face turns colors under the strain. Davidson’s bulging, bloodshot eyes scream for help before his body goes into a brief seizure. “Die, you fuck.” Then the writhing decreases. “Die!” He slumps. He stops.