As an Englishman,
especially one being held against his will in an American prison,
surrounded by such breathtakingly intelligent, culturally diverse, open minded clientelle,
this has about as much meaning and emotional value as a tissue
full of freshly shot semen.
To celebrate this day,
the inmates have arrange a chess tournament.
At this very moment,
i'm watching a stick-up kid from Philly locking horns
with a Columbian Coccaine smuggler.
As you do.
Sitting next to them is a Nigerian gentleman know as either
'The Black Cat' or 'Vibes Killer'.
He's known for suddenly appearing behind people
while they are playing cards, chess, checkers, dominoes,
then they lose.
Despite correcting him every day for the last two months,
he calls me Jimmy.
"Hey Jimmy woz good"
When he thinks he is winning an any chosen sport,
everytime he moves a piece he mutters to himself
"moose on tha loose"
He's a weird guy.
Blatantly the type of guy that would arrange to
do a drug deal on a pier at 2am, have you robbed at gunpoint,
then chopped into pieces.
It's safe to say i don't trust him.
He just won,
and is now laughing like a maniac.
As i finished my workout earlier,
they gave out ice cream.
What a sight.
90 'fully grown men' scrambling to the kitchen
just for a pathetically undersized pot of boiled
puss flavoured sludge.
The hero of the hour?
One of my partners.
He managed to bum-rush the kitchen,
and returned to our tier with a whole box,
we got like four joints each,
it was jokes!
People where chanting..
"S** for president! S** for president!"
In one of the first cells on my tier,
is a dude known as Big B.
He's a super morbidly obese gang banger.
We get on very well.
He's a good guy,
a stereotypically jolly fat kid.
Last night before we got locked in,
he came to my cell looking for my cellie.
He was elsewhere.
I on the other than was putting together a very crude
sandwhich.
Two slices of bread,
on one a slab of peanut butter,
the other a unhealthy dose of Nutella,
whack em together,
Voila!
Tramp sandwhich!
Big B felt the presence of food.
"Whatcha makin!?"
I told him,
and he just got uncontrollably excited.
I offered to make him a sandwhich of his own,
but before i could get my Ramsey on and put his
joint together the guard appeared to lock us in..
As my door was closing,
i dashed my own sandwhich out like a frisbee..
Of course he caught it.
In his eyes,
his life depended on it.
If women and children were in the way,
they would've got stomped for that sandwhich.
"THANKS TIMMBOY!!"
Off he waddled to his cell,
licking his lips, holding that shitty sandwhich
like it was his best freind in the whole world.
About an hour ago he asked me
"Hey Timmy, can you make me another one of
them Legendary peanut butter joints?"
Either he genuinely thought a dollop of Nutella
and peanut butter wedged between two slices of
bread that are teetering on the brink of being
stale is a legendary sandwhich,
or he's just ultra hungry and is gassing me up
so i'll make him some food..
I have nothing else to do.
He's clearly hungry.
Why not.
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