Skip to main content

Did I Ever Tell You by Mark Anthony Given

Anger cannot be dishonest. -Marcus Aurelius

       DID I EVER TELL YOU I attacked five grown black men while in prison with my bare hands at the same time? I try and tell people soon after I meet them, I'm the nicest guy you ever want to meet and I always try and nearly always do the right thing, but don't piss me off. I got in an argument last summer with a few of my neighbors about a water hose; two of them have since moved and the third left immediately leaving all their property, and never came back. I got a bad temper.
            I BEGGED THESE idiots to stop slamming Domino's and cards on these stainless steel tables bolted to concrete bare floors, cinder block walls was like an echo chamber. I was sitting in the Mobile Metro Jail waiting for the feds to come get me for a parole violation for a dirty UA for smoking pot. It takes about 60-90 days of the longest days of your life surrounded by barely literate criminals and mentally disturbed people. And idiots like me who liked to smoke pot more than I liked their freedom... I watered them down for over a year until they got hip and started to the PH Level test on the spot.

"Fuck you! Make Bond! Go home if you want to sleep!"

            I had helped some of them decipher routine legal documents and they knew me. This was Day 64 and I was getting madder by the moment. I could literally feel my body swelling up with anger and I knew I couldn't stop it this time...
            I KNEW I WAS GOING TO THE HOLE.  Doing time I always kept a few unread copies of Vanity Fair, an Economist, and a Wall Street Journal Special Report on something or another on hand for just such occasion.
             "Don't make me have to come out there!" I hollered like I meant it.  Dead silence for about two seconds they all simultaneously busted out laughing and slamming on that damn table like that was the just the funniest thing they ever heard.
           I FELT LIKE I WAS about ten feet tall my anger rising, steam coming off the top of my head and my vision got really clear before getting fogged up with Red mist and I set up on that metal bunk with a two-inch green plastic mattress, my one cell had gone to court.   I tried to stop myself and had been successful many times but somewhere around day 60 something was fixing to snap and now past the point of no return.  The very last thing I remember thinking was I knew I would never see that cell again and "Who in their right mind physically attacks five grown ass men. They were all under 30 and a couple late teens, 'for making too much noise in jail?"  me and my old buddy Donald Duck;  we both just don't give a fuck.
            THE UNDERTAKER HAS a trademark move where he throws you into the ropes and you sling shot off and before you can slow down he lifts his leg you run face first into his giant boot.  I don't remember the instant before leaving the bunk for the last time, but I suspect it sounded like something snapped.  I sprung to the door like a spring on an old watched sprung and Time ran out.  I grabbed the metal door frame with both hands right at chest level and launched myself out the cell door into the day area and that half second jump on them was all I needed.
           ONE OF THEM KEPT glancing back over his shoulder like there was an off chance this Cracker might just do what he says gonna do.... Four were sitting at the table with their feet under the table like on a picnic bench and kind of trapped if someone gets behind you.  The biggest one was standing at the end of the table and was the oldest at probably thirty.  The one that kept looking over his shoulder I suspected was the one with the biggest mouth and was ready to dance.  He had one leg almost over the bench seat having seen me coming out of the corner of his eye, and that's why I need just that half second jump on them.   I plowed right into him like I was trying to knock him over as hard as I could jamming him into that stainless steel that was pissing me off.   he was hurt bad too I pummeled him a few times for good measure and turned to the biggest one who jumped back but didn't run off like the other two were trying to get somewhere. 
            ANYONE WHO HAS ever been in a fist fight with a black man knows you never hit them in the head or face unless you want to break your hand.  He still had cards in his hand he stepped back like he was ready to square up giving the second one on the other side of the table time to run around the back of him and up the stairs to the second landing and another five or six identical jail cells.

            The loudest damn noise from the electronic metal locking mechanism makes if someone is leaning on it when released.   Usually overweight under worked jail guards ready to rush in and break up a fight,  do several times a week if not a day. 
             THE BIGGEST ONE OF THE BUNCH didn't look like he was anxious to fight anyway, turned his head right after the "Pop," and knowing better to punch him in the face from plenty of experience I charged him with everything I had and speared him right into the oncoming Fat Brigade masquerading as a Goon Squad or legitimate SORT Team like the Fed's have..
            I jumped to my feet and ran to my cell and spread eagle on my door to let them know I wasn't going to resist them.
             I never did fight the Goon Squad or seen anyone defeat them....  I knew I was going to the Hole.  They handcuffed me and
took me to the Hole, which was just another part of the jail with no Day Area and just a blue box and black phone and full of all the Management Problems. 
               I KNEW I HAD probably had another week for the fed's would come get me and tried to expedite the process by going on a Humanitarian Hunger Strike: 
"Until the Fed's come get me!"  
One phone call to the head marshal and your ass would be bundled up with a black hood on your head and be in front of a US Magistrate in Seattle before lunch tomorrow. 

         AFTER I TRIED to beat up half the black people in the POD for making too much noise in jail, I was ushered out into the small hall in front of Control and from there into a big hall leading to the "Hole."  I have never been to this one but I been in a bunch of them and they're all pretty much the same.  I didn't get to pack my stuff but it didn't matter because I didn't have anything.  I didn't get in the door good and one of them good begging bastards ask me for the tray or if I ate breakfast and started a bidding war behind doors and all I could see was skinny black kids trying to hang out the food shoot.  I told them I was trading everything for peace and quiet. Each of them could have the tray if they would be quite...  That lasted about a day..... and it noisier back there because that is where all the "Management Problems."  I remember the look in the fat cops face after they hustled me into the hall to settle me down after just physically assaulting five grown big ass black men like I was a crazed animal.  It was strangely liberating being crazy and I thought I saw a measure of respect...
          WHEN I LEFT there I was sent to FCI Seagoville where these series of stories happened...

 Copyright 2015 by Mark Anthony Given 
All Rights Reserved 28 USC 1746, Invoking 90 Stat. 2541 
and Article 2(4) of the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works
Originally published a couple years ago.  I couldn't change the Font and had to start over.  

6:19 PM 3/28/2016

Popular posts from this blog

My Appointment With the Devil by Mark Anthony Given


We may not pay Satan reverence, for that would be indiscreet,  but we can at least respect his talents. -Mark Twain
  MID-THIRTIES I found myself alone at a lonely interstate rest area in Florida in the middle of the night, having driven from  New Orleans for the last several days, I went from rest area to rest area withdrawing from Methadone, starving but couldn't eat.  Dying of thirst, but couldn't drink.  Throwing up, diarrhea, high temperature and worst of all, I couldn't sleep.  Beg for sleep for three or four hours and sleep for ten minutes and start all over again.  I was at probably the lowest point of my life.  And I still had an appointment with the devil.    And he's going to be here in a minute.....          THE DEVIL IS REAL.  I met him.  Twice.  I know you're not going to believe this but I don't care.  I ain't got a reason to lie to y…

Circle Jerk City by Mark Anthony Given

 My father carries around the picture of the kid who came with his wallet. -Rodney Dangerfield

I BUSTED OUT OF every juvenile home they placed me in when I was a kid.  Industry, The New York State School for Boys, fifteen miles south of Rochester, New York where my parents were, was the largest juvenile reformatory in the Empire State. I thought of this escape hundreds of times throughout the years as the seminal moment I became bad. Not real bad mind you, but bad none the less. Still thinking I was Matt Helm or James Bond, I plotted my daring escape from the moment they brought me there from a local juvenile detention facility which I also broke out of. To be honest with you I thought it was my duty to escape. I don’t know really why like I said I was a bad kid. Rolling thru the beautiful upstate New York countryside in the back of state car in the early morning hours to the famous “Industry,” the place you didn’t want to be, I considered for a few minutes the possibilit…

ONE RAT AT A TIME by Mark Anthony Given

 Information is the currency of democracy. — Thomas Jefferson
              THE FEDERAL REPORTER’S come out every few weeks in paperback. The latest United States Court of Appeals decisions, and the Federal Supplement’s containing every case worthy of publication from the lower or United States District Court’s. This is where the Rubber Meets the Road when determining WHO’S A RAT or who isn’t. If you are named in a Case as a Confidential Informant or Cooperating Witness; it’s written in stone. When I was the Head of the Inmate Law Library at the Federal Correctional Facility at Seagoville, Texas, just minutes from Dallas-Ft. Worth, in the early 1990’s, we had a file called “The Cut Case’s.” Guy’s would literally run from the Bus that brought them there, many Self-Surrender, to the Inmate Law Library and surgically cut their Cases right out of the Law Books. Or make the book disappear.              NEARLY ALL the cases brought to me involved Ra…