I was rested and ready for more waiting and the Mexican kid with a shaved head, a slash shaved into his eyebrow, and expensive gangster clothing asked me, much like a cliche,
"What are you in for?", as if we were sharing a cell block in OZ.
"I stabbed someone at school."
I lied right to his face. What else? From watching all those t.v. shows and movies about prison, I learned one thing: always lie about what you did if it means you'll get respect. If he believes what I tell him about my stabbing someone, he'll register that in his stupid fucking gangster mentality as 'strength' and 'courage', but if I tell him that I planned on killing, torturing, preserving, and maiming ten people, he may not be comfortable enough to be in the same room as me. This wouldn't immediately put me at risk, but in the event that I end up in a prison block with the apish rejects of society, I may want that silly Mexi-gangster on my side.
"What did you do?", I asked in return.
"Me and my boys beat the shit out of this nigga at school who was talkin' shit," he said with pride.
Typical. Someone "talks shit" and you get your chimps to demonstrate their retard strength. The only problem with this approach is that no one gains anything. The victims heal and they learn nothing from the experience, except to maybe carry a weapon they don't know how to use. And if the victim doesn't change under the pressure of his attackers, then what is the point of attacking? He will remain the same and continue "talking shit", he just won't let you hear it. As if talking shit were any kind of offense anyway, but I guess I can't say much about it considering my thoughts of mass-murder prompted by jealousy and humiliation.
We sat in the holding cell for an hour or two before he was released to his cellphone-toting father in a business suit. I sat and waited. I got bored and jacked off, watching the tiny window to make sure no one was looking. And I sat and waited some more. Eventually the door opened slowly to reveal the old black police officer lady, she brought in a bag of Chik-Fil-A that my mom had brought for me to eat. I thoroughly enjoyed a chicken sandwich and waffle fries in complete bliss while I waited for my court appearance for "Terroristic Threats." In these ten few minutes of unrivaled harmony, I even felt smug that I was sitting here eating this chicken sandwich and that back at school, other kids were eating dog food for lunch. I was the winner.
"What are you in for?", as if we were sharing a cell block in OZ.
"I stabbed someone at school."
I lied right to his face. What else? From watching all those t.v. shows and movies about prison, I learned one thing: always lie about what you did if it means you'll get respect. If he believes what I tell him about my stabbing someone, he'll register that in his stupid fucking gangster mentality as 'strength' and 'courage', but if I tell him that I planned on killing, torturing, preserving, and maiming ten people, he may not be comfortable enough to be in the same room as me. This wouldn't immediately put me at risk, but in the event that I end up in a prison block with the apish rejects of society, I may want that silly Mexi-gangster on my side.
"What did you do?", I asked in return.
"Me and my boys beat the shit out of this nigga at school who was talkin' shit," he said with pride.
Typical. Someone "talks shit" and you get your chimps to demonstrate their retard strength. The only problem with this approach is that no one gains anything. The victims heal and they learn nothing from the experience, except to maybe carry a weapon they don't know how to use. And if the victim doesn't change under the pressure of his attackers, then what is the point of attacking? He will remain the same and continue "talking shit", he just won't let you hear it. As if talking shit were any kind of offense anyway, but I guess I can't say much about it considering my thoughts of mass-murder prompted by jealousy and humiliation.
We sat in the holding cell for an hour or two before he was released to his cellphone-toting father in a business suit. I sat and waited. I got bored and jacked off, watching the tiny window to make sure no one was looking. And I sat and waited some more. Eventually the door opened slowly to reveal the old black police officer lady, she brought in a bag of Chik-Fil-A that my mom had brought for me to eat. I thoroughly enjoyed a chicken sandwich and waffle fries in complete bliss while I waited for my court appearance for "Terroristic Threats." In these ten few minutes of unrivaled harmony, I even felt smug that I was sitting here eating this chicken sandwich and that back at school, other kids were eating dog food for lunch. I was the winner.
