Photos by Janicza Bravo
They took my toupee. Wouldn’t give it back. Pigs never let you have anything you want. That’s part of the fun of being a pig. You can take anything you want, and no one can do shit about it. Except richies, but who’s rich in the fucking desert? If you were living in the desert and suddenly became rich, the first thing you’d spend money on would be getting the fuck out of there. Desert pigs are the worst, though. They hate the fact that they live in the land of sand and would rather be in the city acting like some big shot on Law & Order. And who do they take their frustration out on? People like me who are just trying to make a few bucks to keep ourselves juiced up. They took my fucking toupee! They want to see a little light go out of my eyes and die a little in this slop hole. That makes a pig’s dick harder than a shaven porn puss. My cellmate isn’t exactly a class fucking act either. He’s a serial rapist named Herbert, but for whatever reason I’m supposed to call him Grunt. He’s says that if I use his real name he’ll kill me. What is this, fucking Stripes? Grunt is a 300-pound hulk mountain. It’s hard to tell what percentage of his body is muscle and what is fat. If I was sure it was mostly fat, I’d slug his weak ass to sleep if he said more than four words to me. But he’s got one of those bodies where you just can’t tell. So I can’t do shit, except sit here and listen to his boring fucking rape stories. “Oh boy, you should have seen me. I was the best. I was the king. I used to call myself King Rape. I could rape in less than five minutes. I had a whole system. Knew all the best spots. I’d find the spot and say, ‘This is my spot.’ And then I’d wait in that spot. Then I’d do it in that spot, and next time I’d find another best spot. Never the same spot, that’s my motto.” Guy won’t shut his dumb fucking mouth. I hate rapists. It’s a coward’s crime. The yard’s no fun either. It’s neo-Nazi methhead central. They’re your best bet if you want to get high, but the tradeoff is that you gotta listen and nod your head to all their Hitler bullshit. “If Hitler was alive today he’d be doing meth just like us.” “Yeah, he’d get the best meth too.” “He’d get the best meth because if he was alive when meth was invented, he would have been the one who invented it.” “Yeah, and he would have a shaved head just like us too.” “How amazing would it be to lift weights with Hitler on meth?” “Yeah that would be really cool. He’d spot us and everything. And after we were done, we’d all hit the showers and give each other rat tails with our towels.” Rat tails in the shower? I tell you, if Hitler was reincarnated, came to America, and saw that these were the people “carrying on his legacy,” he’d shoot ’em all in their dumb cue-ball heads and call it a shitty day. Nobody even knows how to be a fucking skinhead anymore. Also, the torture’s a real whack to my dick’s hairy friends. Three times a week the pigs bring me and a few other zoo animals into the basement. They strip us down and start asking us trivia about their own dead fucking lives. “What’s my favorite red-meat food?” “What’s my wife’s favorite color?” “How much do I wish I weighed?” Of course, me and the other fuck ’n’ sucks get every answer wrong. And every time we give them an incorrect answer the torture buffet is served. For an appetizer they shit and piss on our naked backs. The main course consists of spraying us with a fire hose point blank. And for dessert, electric wires hooked to our ballsacks. It’s not original, but it hits home. Makes us chatter our fucking teeth like we’re in an ice factory. Then, when it’s all over and done, we go back to our cells, cry, and shut the fuck up. Can’t believe they took my toupee.