This is continued from Part One: A Day in the Life of Martin Shkreli
Martin Shkreli sits alone on the cold cement floor of his cell, bouncing a ball against the wall. Bouncing. Bouncing. Bouncing. In between each bounce, a thought, an idea, a scheme.
The guard taps on the steel bars separating him from the world like a caged animal. “Shkreli! Yard time, on your feet.”
Martin Shkreli steps into the bright, outdoor yard, populated by hardened criminals, thugs, and cold-blooded killers. He walks directly to the bench press, sits down, and puffs up his chest. “Gotta throw up a flag,” he thinks. “Hope this works.” He takes off his shirt, exposing his pale, boyish upper body, and flexes to accentuate the large Thursday dove tattoo on his left pectoral. The gangs take notice instantly and become enraged. He lays back under the bar and starts his set. After a wobbly, but impressive two reps, he rises to find himself surrounded by four Latin Kings.
“What the fuck you think you doin’, you Tobey Maguire-in-Spiderman-3-when-he-does-his-hair-like-Bright-Eyes-lookin’ motha fucka?” one barks.
“Oh hello, boys,” says Martin. “No problems here. Just enjoying some early morning calisthenics. It’s no David Barton Gym, where I can listen to Alexisonfire’s self-titled album through my Bluetooth Bose headphones. But it will have to do, eh?” The Kings do not take kindly to this and start moving in.
Just as things are getting heated, Martin is saved. The Emos have stepped in. Five members of the Emo gang step up, flexing their Underoath tattoos and pushing the strands of stringy hair out of their eyes. “He’s one of ours, Rico,” one says. “Back off.”
“You gonna risk it for this Alternative Press-circa-2003-cover-boy little bitch?”
“You been on the inside too long, Rico. You ain’t heard,” says an Emo. “This ain’t no normal Emo. This is Martin Shkreli.” The Kings recognize the name. It has echoed through the halls only in whispers. The Kings recoil in fear.
“Thanks, boys,” Shkreli tells the Emos, patting them on the backs and shoulders like he has seen friends do on TV. “Now I need your help with something else. I’m looking for an inmate in here. Maybe you know where I can find him.” He wrings his hands and his lips form a sinister, Grinch-like grin. The sky suddenly turns grey above him and the yard becomes dark. “His name is Bobby Shmurda.”
Bobby Shmurda is doing the Shmoney dance with another inmate when Martin Shkreli sheepishly approaches. Bobby had a reputation around the yard of being able to procure things from the outside. And Bobby had heard of Martin's reputation as being the guy who once told the press he planned to bail Bobby out, but somehow ended up in prison himself.
“I understand you’re a man who knows how to get things,” Martin says, making loose attempts at dabbing.
Bobby looks intrigued. “I’ve been known to locate certain things from time to time.”
“Good, then we are both businessmen. I owned a very cool indie record label on the outside which made me very, very popular on Tinder. With women. Anyway, what I need from you is a Clearaudio Goldfinger,” Martin says.
“A what?” asks Bobby.
“It’s a 16-karat gold needle for a turntable. Sharp as hell. The best there is. The only thing I’ll listen to Brand New’s Deja Entendu with,” Martin explains.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Oh and one more thing,” Martin says. “I need a poster…”
Bobby Shmurda woke up to the sound of the prison alarm ringing through the halls.
“What do you mean he just wasn’t here?” the prison warden shouts furiously, standing in Martin’s empty cell, its walls covered in silkscreened posters from The Starting Line tours and photos of Martin with various celebrities at charity events. Martin had become the warden’s prized inmate over the years, helping him cook the prison’s books by raising the price of the infirmary’s drugs by 4,000 percent. And, save for the time Martin locked himself in his office and played his rare, $2 million Wu-Tang record over the prison’s speakers, he had been a model prisoner. “Go get that friend of his.”
A guard returns, shoving Bobby in by the collar. “I see you two together all the time, Shkreli and Shmurda,” the warden says to Bobby. “You’re as thick as thieves, you are. He must’ve said something. So where is he?”
“I have no idea,” Bobby says.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Bout a week agooooooo.”
“This is a damn conspiracy!” says the warden, rifling through the contraband around Martin’s cell: a Pono player full of high-quality Finch songs, hooch he’d made out of rare flavors of Mountain Dew, a one-of-a-kind Gucci Mane bobblehead, and a some rare Drive-Thru Records LPs. “And you’re all in on it!” He throws a personalized Taking Back Sunday guitar pick at Bobby. “You are!” He throws another at a guard. “And you! ...And her.” He gestures to the poster of Taylor Swift hanging on the cell wall. “How about you, girlie? You know where lil Marty went?” He throws a pick at her and it goes straight through to the other side. He rips down the poster revealing a tunnel, only two feet high but 100 feet long.
“Oh my god.”
In 2015, Martin Shkreli escaped from prison. All they found of him was a youth large-sized navy blazer, some Bed Head sculpting cream, and his Clearaudio needle, worn down to the nub. Martin dug himself out and hoverboarded to freedom through 500 miles of shit-smelling foulness to freedom. Five hundred yards. That’s the length of ten bars hosting emo nights.
“Get busy Shkrelin’ or get busy dyin’.” That’s goddamn right.
Dan Ozzi is a Noisey editor and fan fiction enthusiast. Follow him on Twitter - @danozzi