Prison Story How Peter wound up in prison I'm not sure.

I mean, sure, he'd been in trouble with the law before, so it didn't surprise me that he would've got caught doing some stupid shit. Picking up some cop he thought was a whore, trying to hustle some poor fucker with baking powder in the dark, counterfeit-counterfeiting. Who knows what he did. All I know is he ended up in there, and his sister was the one pushing me, telling me to get him out. Didn't even really tell me what it was he got caught for, neither. Just said he was messing around with the wrong folks. Some typical bullshit. But like I'm supposed to be the one to help him get out on parole or something. Like I'm some genius. Like I've got a plan. Like I've got connections to get him out of there. Mostly, though, Peter's sister's got this fine, apple ass that I've been trying to get mine for as long as her brother's lard-ass has been cramming Oreo's down his throat. I figured that, yeah, I get her brother out, I'm sure to get some head out of her, maybe even get her to to bend over Peter's bed the night before he comes home. Hero always gets to fuck the hottest girl, and I figured it was time to get mine. Of course she's cold and don't want to hear it when I try to play her up after that. Bitch won't give me no time. Some kind of shit about being too scared about her brother, about What the fuck am I thinking trying to get with her when she's grieving her brother. (Like he's dead? I thought, but another part of me's like, Don't say that, cause then you ain't never going to get that tight ass). So what do I do? I call up to visit him and bring some fake lawyer-looking papers (they all said “Parole” and “Probation” and “Document” at the top in big bold letters, all mixed up with themselves and other words, really transparently fake, but nobody stopped me) in a folder. Thing is, the folder was lined with this hardas-diamonds piano wire shit. It took a few days to find a guy who knew what I was talking about when I was looking for it in the barrio. I said, You know, that wire shit, cuts through prison bars that can get sewn into your clothes and shit. He said Dimewire? You sure you want that? I said, sure. Homes scratched his nose, nervous. You know what they do to you, you get caught with this shit? I said, Who gives a fuck? He sighed. They find this, you don't know me. You tell them you got it from me (he pulled out three feet of the stuff), then this is for your moms, (three more feet) this is for your sister, (three more) and this is for your fly ass cousin. See if they tell 'em who gave it to 'em. Dead bodies're always loyal, he said. Whatever, man, I told him. Gotta keep it up, I kept thinking. Gotta get it and get out and in there. So of course the metal detector at the prison, the big seven-footer at the door, beeped when I came through. They checked my jacket, shirt, pants, shoes, socks (Really, man? I asked them. They just repeated, Your socks, sir.), and even my underwear―but that was the easiest one, 'cause they can feel hard stuff in your underwear if it's there. They ran my folder through, too, and it beeped, but they looked it over without ripping it up. They saw the staples and silently waved their hands crisscross over

it like well-armed umpires. Safe. They let me redress back behind a fold-up wall made out of cardboard and carpet and plastic and metal, and I nodded. Damn right you motherfuckers gonna let me through, I said with my face, with my lips and my eyes. Looked like I had cotton stuffed in my cheeks. I ain't gonna pretend I never practiced it in the mirror, now, though. I know I did. Started when I was eight. Mastered that shit, but still, I think folks get this feeling where they know, you know? Like they can feel your undercurrent. They see you, look you up, see you putting up a front, and they know, Young buck's running under; he's shaking and shitting underneath, know what I'm saying? So I got to the cafeteria, and there's Peter, fucking Lardass, waiting at the table. That's the only place you could meet with inmates is there, where there's a security guard waiting and watching everyone make pathetic optimistic remarks. It's okay. I'll pray for you. We're doing everything we can. We love you so much. It's been so long. This'll work out. Fucking shitheads. I shook my head when he saw me. He smiled. Last thing you probably want to do in a place like that is smile. I barked at him: Lardass, what the fuck you do this time? He babbled, Man, thanks for coming to help me, man. My sister, she's worried and calling every day and wants to make sure I'm okay and getting helped and― I slapped the folder on the table and tell him to shut up. The people next to us, it was some chick that came to visit her boyfriend. Telling him their kid's doing fine. She's crying, and he's looking hard, keeping his chin up, his lip out, his cheeks up tight in a sneer. She says to her man, How about I go get us a Snickers. He says, yeah, whatever. For half a second, I'm thinking, Why couldn't Peter've been more like that: Calm and cool and hard? I looked back over at the fat cocksucker and held my finger down on the red folder. Peter, I told him, What the fuck. Did you do. Some kinda shit, man, he said. Nothin' that they said I did. Just with the wrong people, man. You know how it is. I breathed in and licked my lips. Hissed. Bit my lip. What, I asked him, specifically, did you do? Who were you with? What did you do? What were they doing that you shouldn't've been doing? Man, I can't talk about that shit here, man. Just, come on. You gotta help me out. And then, this shit with his sister, with him, with not knowing why I was putting my balls on the line for this dumb fatass motherfucker, it all just came down. I just didn't give a fuck. I told him, I got everything you need in there. It's in the fine print. In the fine lines. Make sure you read every corner and nook and cranny, Lardass. He said, Come on, man, don't say that kind of stuff to me. I got family to think about. I don't know nothing about no paperwork, man, can't you just do it for me? The guy next to us, the one whose girl just got back with their Snickers bar, was watching us in his periphery. I could see it. You can tell; it's like he was listening while he was holding his half of that candy bar in his hand, chewing on it like it was the only thing in the world. So obvious. Shit, I thought, I could last a hundred years in there if that's all I had to do to survive. So he's listening in, and I realized, He knows what the deal is. He knows there's more than meets the eye

in what I'm giving Peter, and I realize, fuck. Peter's fucked. Peter's fault. He should've just shut his fat, goatee covered, double-chin having, cocksucking mouth every few minutes and told me what I want to know, listened to what I had to say, then I wouldn't have to yell that kind of out-in-the-open kind of code shit. So I told Peter, Just read it, okay? I'll have your sister call you, man. He started blubbering. Don't leave me here, man. Come on, I'm begging you. He leaned over the table and three hundred pounds of Lardass' gut poured out on the table from under his jumpsuit, pinching out like fucking dough coming out of a cut roll. He reached his hands out trying to grab me with his fat sausage fingers, his thick palms pouring sweat. He heaved his cries out, trying to whisper while his ignorant ass knocked the folder (I thought of everything I put on the line to get him out of there) onto the floor, totally ignoring my sacrifice, my risk, my hots for his sister that made me want to do this in the first place. I said to myself, Fuck it. No pussy ain't worth this shit. Get your motherfucking hands off me, man. Come on man, I'm beggin'. You know, why don't you shut the fuck up and get the fuck away from me? Don't do this! Just, come on, man. I can't sleep. They do shit in here, man. This guy here, man, he's followin' me. He's laughin' at me every day. I don't know why, man. I can't remember shit, man. I don't know what they're doing to me in here. I don't even really― The guy, who was eating his candy bar next to us, pulled Peter back by his shirt. He said, Sit down, man. Nigga, fuck you, Peter squealed back. Peter started jumping over the table at me, stumbling and slipping and tripping, his feet getting caught on the edge of the table. Dude grabbed his shoe and yanked, and I was like, What the fuck, motherfucker? and jumped over the table at him. We rolled across the floor and into the vending machine, but I was back on my feet while he was still getting his balance back. Yeah, he was, like, probably two-fifty, maybe, and ripped as all fuck, but I figured he looked like he was maybe forty, so I had decades on his old ass. I hit his jaw with my right, but missed him with my left; he slipped back and down, around my arm faster than I could see, and by then he was already in my face, his hands open and ready to come down on my eyes or my throat or whatever. I crunched back an inch, like I'd always learned, and put my hands up flat, then turned my shoulders up and in, quick and without thinking. My hands were up by my eyes before he could do anything with his hands, and my reflexes kicked in. My feet were already set and I was just lifting my right elbow like it was air, like it was a thought. Heard a crack in his head and thought it was his jaw. It was the crunch of his teeth going through his lip, cause he wasn't keeping his mouth shut during a fight. Bad idea. Dude doubled over, falling but trying to keep moving. So he bullcharged forward into my gut (like a high school wrestler or some shit) and ran forward. Wasn't hard to wrap my arm under and around his neck and pull up and start throwing my knees into his face. My legs felt wet, and I thought maybe he was puking on my leg.

But I felt hot. Two hot pangs in my arm and one in my ass. The grip I had on the guy went loose and I my whole body felt tense, but tired and fatigued. Then I gagged and couldn't breath. Couldn't breath. Like I was paralyzed and drowning. Like I was trapped inside myself, dying. I thought, I'm dying now. I'm dying now. No time to think. No time to be sorry. I'm dying. The guards rushed around me and kneeled on my back, right when I was able to breath again. Good timing, too, because they shoved all the air out of my lungs and smeared my piss-soaked pants on the floor. They wrapped those plasticuffs on me and started shouting at me. Relax! one of them yelled. When I wouldn't, since I couldn't breath, I heard another guy say, Get off 'im. Then they shocked me again. And again. Until I didn't have anything left in me to give. I just laid there. They pulled me up by the cuffs, the sharp plastic edges cutting through my skin (I was so fucked up and out of it that all I could think was, My good ink! My good ink!) and dragged me, bleeding and dizzy and soaked in piss, back to some room. I don't really remember where. How the fuck should I remember anything after that kind of shit? That's when they called the real cops. That's when I said, Finally, some motherfuckers with some motherfucking balls. Yeah. I don't really remember much of anything from after that till my court date. I don't even want to talk about that. I try not to remember it. But there's some things that you can't forget, but sometimes you ain't in control of what you remember and what you forget.

### Motherfucker, he said, I always get my pussy ate. Hear me? Always. I tell you to do it, and you do it. Don't care if you like it or hate it or love it. It's what you fucking do, you fucking pussy-eating cocksucker motherfucker. She looked out at her boys in the pen. You hear what I said? Yes sir! they yelled back. Always. I always get my pussy ate. You gonna eat it today. You gonna eat it tomorrow.

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