Noble Warrior by Alan Lawrence Sitomer Page A

inmates awaiting processing into the facility eyed the new fish in the tank. The fourth, bound in a restraining jacket made of
unchewable cloth and fitted with leg irons and a waist chain, gazed at the walls as if there was an animated cartoon playing on them. M.D. noted a hint of drool dribbling from the guy’s
bottom lip, and a zoned-out daze in his eyes. Behind this prisoner’s head, McCutcheon spied some graffiti scribbled on the wall.
    WELCOME TO THE DEVIL’S TOILET, A POEM
    WELCOME 2 THE DEVIL’S TOILET
    KILL URSELF NOW
    IF U HAV THE CHANCE.
    AND NO DIS DON’T FUCKING RHYME
    Really inspirational, M.D. thought.
    “Y’all know we’re fucked, right?” said a skinny guy with big teeth making herky-jerky twitches. “Fucked like rabbits about to be stew. Screwed like turkeys about to
be dumplings. Cooked like cows about to be hamburger pie.”
    “I ain’t fucked,” came the booming voice of the bald-headed convict sitting next to the motor mouth. “Night Train is the guy who does the fucking. The fuckin’ up of
people that is.” Night Train kissed his left bicep then his right, each arm a boulder. “Ain’t nobody want a piece of Smith and Wesson.”
    “Too true,” Motor Mouth said. “Ain’t no one want a piece of Night Train.”
    Suddenly the eyes of the restrained prisoner turned wide and crazy and he began smashing his head against the wall and screaming.
    “Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
    “Aw, shit, we gotta a banger,” Motor Mouth said. “Yo, guard! Get this boy some meds.”
    “Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
    No one came.
    Then as abruptly as he started, Banger stopped. No rhyme, no reason, no explanation. He simply returned to staring at the walls.
    “Just a damn shame how there be so many peoples with mental unhealthiness in our prisons,” Motor Mouth said. “A damn shame.” Motor Mouth twitched two more times and then
turned his attention to the guy on his left. “Hey, Timmy, what you in for?”
    A twenty-three-year-old white kid, no tattoos, no facial hair, looked up with a
Who me?
expression.
    “Yeah you,” Motor Mouth said. “What you done?”
    “My name’s not Timmy.”
    “Well, you look like a Timmy to me. Lemme guess. Drugs?”
    The guy not named Timmy didn’t answer.
    “I knew it!” Motor Mouth exclaimed. “What you slangin’, X? Shrooms? Young fella like you might be pushing a little blow but definitely not the Big H.”
    The guy not named Timmy kept his mouth shut. He’d taken a course on
How to Survive in Prison
paid for by his father before heading out to the D.T., so he’d been coached on
all the rules of how to act in order to make it through his bid.
    Keep your eyes in your own head. Don’t take any favors from anyone cause nothing is free in lockup. Since many attacks happen when you are using the toilet, always piss while sitting on
the shitter with your pants all the way off, so in case you’re targeted, you can defend yourself without having your prison chinos trip you up at the ankles while you fight.
    “And remember,” his coach told him. “One rule trumps all others: Show no fear. Poop your pants on the inside but on the outside you gotta wear the mask of a stone cold
killer.” Weak prisoners would be exploited.
    The guy not named Timmy practiced his cold, dispassionate, “Don’t mess with me” face for two solid weeks before entering the D.T., yet less than three hours into a
twenty-two-month sentence, his hands trembled, his mouth dried, and his eyes blinked at more than twice the normal rate.
    “Aw, wouldya look at this,” Motor Mouth said. “Young buck here about to dookie in his pants. Just please don’t tell me you in for
mareee-juana
? A damn shame the
way society’ll take minor little trafficker like you and toss ’em in a place like this. Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Motor Mouth said, smacking his lips. “The D.T. ain’t no place
for a dude like