I, Kay, am no...ahem...fool.  Stuffed into that groovy little packet of email you and Paul sent was a for sure attention getter, wasn't there?  A little herald trumpet of a note from that PO'd CO named "John."  It was the epistolary equivalent of, say, Donald Duck's famous rages on the old Mickey Mouse Club show, Kay, and almost as unintelligible. Needless to say, the hack who wrote it may not have been thinking clearly.  You inserted that little number because you knew it would get my engine going.  You KNEW!

Very funny, Kay. And sneaky.

The DOC E-mailer named "Hamilton CO" was right, by the way.  You should always consider the source, the mental state, the criminal record, from inmates and guards.  And the comments from around the country and the world were great [in the guestbook], especially the lady from Bend, Oregon (Carol), who said, "O'siyo," and wished me well "in the spirit of Crazy Horse," which was about the coolest thing anyone's ever said to me.

"John", however, has a problem.  His letter reads like a note from a serial killer.  He should have signed it Son of Sam.  Boy, was he mad!

Not that John/Son of Sam was referring to me or my stuff.  He was probably talking about all those other dirty cons.  But for the record and as an exercise in control, I will respond to his letter here, Kay, the best I can.  There's a Chicken and Egg thing that only I can explain.

O'siyo.

So, what came first, John/Sam? The abuse or the whining? And who has the most credibility, me or you?

It's true that inmates in boxes, like monkeys in cages, throw things.  Hell, I myself have been known to scatter sputum from time to time; witness this website* and the carnival admissions I make. But I wasn't always shooting sheet in your playpen, Samson John.  Before I was illegally chosen to participate in the Federal to State, 30 for 30 trade of inmates, I was the dumbest and quietest federal neophyte in the South.  At FCI Texarkana I was once rousted and searched by my range officer because he thought I was sneaking around in the wrong building.  He thought I was trespassing, but I'd been living on that range for over two years, quietly doing my time, doing what was asked of me, anticipating what was promised to me.  My behavior record was unblemished, Sonny.

Then one day I was chained up and lied to, sent off to Florida, in secret, in ignorance, and given as a present to the Florida DOC.  My vested rights were stripped away, my right to seek programs was abrogated by bureaucrats, my property was taken and sent away, and I was told what a piece of shit I was.  The DOC and the BOP, the Governor of Florida and the US Justice Department, all deluged me with their bodily fluids, John Boy, and it was all against the law {see F.S. 944.091 (1997), The Privacy Act, The Administrative Procedures Act, and 18 USC 3621(e)}.

O'siyo, Johnny. If they'll do it to me, they'll do it to you, too.  Which might be part of the reason you're so mad.

There were fifteen of us in that first bus (See "The Lake Butler Nightmare"), and when we took our seats in the Lake Butler Bullpen, we were forced to endure the greenhorn Introduction/Indoctrination that some long-ago DOC moron decided was the way to treat first-time inductees.  We'd all been down for a number of years, Samson, but it was our first experience at hate for it's own sake.  We were called "fuckboys" and worse, threatened, some were made to do funny tricks, and I myself was designated as playtoy for some orangutan who couldn't spell cat if you spotted him the t.  As I sat nearly naked and sheared hairless, he stood over me and said approximately: "You!  Douchebag!  You're the goddamn reason I ain't home tonight!"  He went on at length about what scum I was.  He was on top of me, daring me to breathe.  He wanted me to say something.  He wanted to beat on me.

So no offense, Samuel-John, but you started this.  And the Spirit of Crazy Horse dies hard.  O'siyo.  If I could have, I'd have expectorated all over that guy - jizzed in his watch pocket or something.  Murder was in my heart, John.  Murder in my soul!

Do you think that you yourself might have wanted to sling a bucket or two of bodily you-know-what had you been subjected to such shit?

But Dude, like man, they were just doing their jobs!

No, son, they were not.  And things only got worse when I got to Florida State Prison Work Camp.

In the shadow of the Big Green, I was for the first time in my life afraid to even speak to an officer.  At the induction lecture a lady Sgt. told me that if I didn't behave I'd likely be taken across the street and beaten.  "They don't play over there," she said.  Later, out on the yard, I saw a man pulled out of the canteen line and clobbered for no reason I could fathom.  One morning I watched an FSP bullyboy sit on the bunk of my neighbor and whisper in his ear, secret whispers, sotto voce, stage whispers, grinning like an ape, like a crazy man, sandblasted brain pan, face rouged with fervor shine, completely around the bend, explaining what he was going to do to the man, the "nigger", how he hated "you boys", how he loved to fuck with niggers, how he was going to take special, proprietary (my word) care to see that this inmate asshole gets the full treatment.  And later the inmate was gone.  You and I, John, can assume that when that inmate hits the street someday, he will be angry.  We can also assume that the DOC will accept no responsibility for such monstrous behavior by one of theirs.

Have you ever sat on an inmate's bunk, Johnny?  Just who trained this idiot?

But I saw it, Buddy; I was there; two bunks over, watching him have his fun.  From that day forward I was confronted at least weekly with the specter of out-of-control guards.  At one point I was escorted out into the yard at midnight, and there rousted by a pair of DOC thugs named Zook and Anderson, two buttheads later implicated in atrocities performed on inmates.  They wanted to beat me, SoJo, for writing something.  Zook called me a smartass, over and over.  My federal status saved me that night, but later, after Valdes was murdered, when I ratted the joint out (with Kay's help), sending affidavits from beaten inmates to a federal judge and to the Miami Herald, I was again stood up by Lt. Anderson.  I'll never forget his words:

"If I ever see my name on your crap, you're through, Waid.  When you fuck with me, you fuck with my job.  When you fuck with my job, you're fucking with my family.  And I deal with people who fuck with my family.

Standing flush against the bulkhead in the wicker*, I performed admirably.  In no time at all I was shaking my hinie off.  My bowels went liquid and I almost had the squitters right there.  Too bad I hadn't the courage to let loose.  I was thrown in the hole, G-wing/death row, for writing the Miami Herald.  I spent five days and six nights there, while across the road at the camp, a staff of liars busily tried to cover their asses.  When I was let out (with Kay's help and the assistance of the Miami Herald), Lt. Anderson gave me a lying DR in which he ignored my paperwork and lied.  He's a liar, Sambo, whose best feature is lying.  I had to be removed from FSP W/C the next morning for my own protection.  Later, after a cursory investigation, Major Tison was demoted and transferred.  He wasn't busted to Sergeant for saying "nigger", by the way.  That's just what the Gainesville Sun was told.  He was busted down and had to leave because he couldn't control his men.

* A wicker is an officer's station.