Metal Fatigue

By William Earl

Metal Fatigue is an anthology of stories relating to prison, incarceration, hopelessness and hope. These are largely first person accounts of survival behind bars and give a visceral look at what it means to do time. The stories present a critical look at the prison system and the stats for those held behind bars. A child lost to the system, a father’s plea for reconnection.

EXCERPT:
Jimmy passed his eighteenth birthday locked inside a cold, stinky cell in the obsolete old city jail. The toilet obviously didn’t work, an issue probably for several years... running.

He thoughtfully reflected on his dry-humor pun. Besides, no one locked up ever flushes the motherfucking john. Never. Revoltingly putrid fecal matter, left in desperation by prisoners with nowhere else to go, overflowed and formed a vile puddle at a low spot in the frigid concrete floor. The prison smelled like shit. Smelled worse than shit. His own more recent addition was beginning to decay.

If Jimmy had been home for his birthday, no doubt his father would’ve treated him to a steak dinner at The Outback; and perhaps a ballgame at the stadium afterword. Instead, Jimmy celebrated with foul-tasting water—grey water reprocessed from sewer waste—and several slices of stale bread upon which a near-microscopic dab of something resembling peanut-butter could be found sticking near the center—if one studied it closely, of course. The rancid bread was always stale in this place, just like the air, thick with mildew and the smell of unwashed bodies. It all mixed with the reeking toilet to produce an odor more disgusting than sweaty armpit pubes set on a smoldering fire.

Tonight, for the most part, a stifling quiet lingered throughout the cellblock. The only sounds being the incidental shout of a guard, the muffled moan from a prisoner, or the occasional fart from either. Every so often, a cell door clanked open, followed by scuffling noises signaling a new prisoner’s arrival.

Two weeks forever, he’d sat there in solitary now. But he still wasn’t so desperate as other prisoners on the cellblock who would actually shit themselves just for a laugh. Two weeks plus three lonely days, he reminded himself, marking off another day on the wall with the sharp edge of a small stone, chipped away from a section of rotting-old concrete. He made the mark with an awkward jab of his left hand. His right arm hung broken, suspended in a dirty sling he’d torn from an old rag.

Sinking down onto the cold concrete slab that served as a bed, Jimmy leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes. He figured it might be nine o’clock... or thereabout, although he really couldn’t be sure. Maybe ten. His watch had disappeared on intake at R&D receiving the first day, along with all his other personal effects... confiscated for “purposes of security” by the prison R&D guards. Problem was, they’d never listed his expensive Rolex watch on that property receipt they’d forced him to sign under the threat of tossing him in solitary stripped naked.

Any questions about time, or anything, for that matter, brought only taunts and trouble from the guards. Especially the big one called ‘Boiler Bob’—so named by the prisoners for those angry-looking boils in evidence on the back and both sides of his incredibly thick neck.

“What’s time to a prison roach?” Boiler Bob would mock, his furry broken teeth bared in a cruel laugh. “Hah, I know! I bet you’re impatient for your next fine meal... is that it?” Invariably he and the other guards goaded the prisoners about the food: food so foul even the cockroaches all passed around it in wide arcs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lot's Cave, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310988974

William Earl

A wrongly punished man feels what he is accused of does not deserve punishment. There is no way society can enforce discipline on a man who feels he is being unjustly treated. For some, any attempted unjust discipline triggers the "Law Of Necessity", which means that to him "No Law" exists whatsoever. You see, necessity knows no law! For instance, any law forbidding one to kill is voided when done on self-defense. Moreover, during times of war, all laws are silent. Didn’t Congress declare war on crime? Thus a wrongly punished man finds himself in a state of war he did not declare. By his right of survival, does any law exist now that binds him? For YOU, no intelligent person should respect an unjust law. Nor should YOU feel any guilt over breaking it. YOU should simply follow the Eleventh Commandment: "Don't Get Caught". But for everyone, tougher criminal laws will never work. People do not plan to get angry or go out of control any more than they plan to behave predictably. Considered on a macro level, society cannot adequately change human nature by criminalizing it. Criminal incidents reflect the foreseeable if not predictable responses of humans under great stress. Pack overheated people onto roads and in cities, treat them like dirt, lie to them, manipulate them, price-gouge them; and you will see the numbers of rage incidents and criminality, by definition, increase. This is a ticking bomb.

Book preview

CONTENTS

Sons

Dear God, Please?

Where Do I Belong?

Is It Real?

Does Freedom Exist?

My Homework Assignment

I Want To Be Free

Does Liberty Exist?

Innocent With Impossible Bail

The Man’s Story

Three Deer

Jury Duty

Doin’ Time

Two Words

Survival

Waiting For The Word

Silent Voices

In Hell Without A Roadmap

Liberty Denied

Metal Fatigue

Mass Incarceration

Prison Slut

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Revenge

Family Exotica

Taboo Erotica

Other Novels

Sons

The prisoners scrambled from their cells as lockdown period ended, fighting for an available telephone; grabbing a table on which to play cards; and arguing over which cartoon character, Batman or Superman, is the most powerful, all the while watching another slow day pass. The noise, awful, ear shattering... re-echoing throughout the concrete bunker causing slow, but permanent ear damage! The smell of unwashed bodies and decaying food from personal stashes... like a slaughterhouse dumpster filled with old sneakers.

One prisoner, taking the last seat, thanked the others who had moved over to make room for his cellmate a moment earlier, then turned to his cellmate, and asked, You stressed?

The cellmate, instead of answering, turned slightly, grabbed the deck of cards, and began shuffling, so as to hide his face.

Disrespectin’ world, muttered the first prisoner with a sad smile. He felt it his duty to explain to the others the necessity of cut’n some slack to his cellmate. His cellmate had just learned that the judge decided to take from him his only son, a boy of eight years, to whom he devoted his entire life. His only son... who idolized his father with all his heart. He would never see his son... ever again.

The cellmate, twisting and wriggling, and at times growling like a wild animal, felt certain all these explanations would not arouse even a shadow of fake-ass sympathy from the other prisoners, who—most likely—were all in the same plight as himself.

One of the others, listening with particular attention, said, Yo man, ya should be thankin’ God ya got eight years with yer son. Dat same judge—he stole my son when he was sixteen months old by puttin’ me away fer dis crime I never done. Ya know what I mean? My son’s mom, she came down twice fer visits, and I sawed him, but she moved now—went to another state somewhere—I’ll never find ‘em or ever see my son again. No suh, man!

Yo man, yo! I feel ya, but lookit me! I gots me two sons and three girls outsides on the streets, said another prisoner.

I ain’t mad at you, but my cellmate, yo, it’s the only son he gots, ventured the first prisoner in defense.

What difference that makes, yo? Ya spoils yer son with attentions and stuffs ya buys, but ya can’t love him more than ya would all yer other kids if ya had any. It’s not like bread, man, that ya rips into pieces and give out to the childrens in small bits, each the same size. I loves my childrens with no discrimination. It don’t matter if it’s one son or two. If I be sufferin’ now fer my two sons, I ain’t sufferin’ half fer each son, but double…

Yeh… Yeh… sighed the embarrassed prisoner, but what if this father, he gots two sons outside, and loses one that dies in a car wreck, there’s still one left to make him happy… help forget… while…

Lookit man, bellowed the other prisoner, getting angry, a son left ta make him feels happy and forget the other, but also a son left he must stay alive fer, ya know what I mean? But ya knows the father with one son can put a shoe string around his neck and end his life and everything, ya know what I mean, man? Which is the bad, man? I think mines the bad, Yo!

Frontin’ man, interrupted another prisoner, a fat, red-faced man with bloodshot eyes of the palest grey. He was panting. From his bulging eyes seemed to spurt the inner violence of an uncontrolled vitality his weakened body could hardly contain. Frontin’, he repeated, trying to cover his mouth with his hand, hiding two missing front teeth. Frontin’, Yo. Did ya make yer childrens so they could make ya happy and forget all yer troubles?

The other prisoners each stared at him in distress. The prisoner who lost his son at sixteen months sighed. Yeh man, our sons don’t belong to us; they belongs to da womens… Ya don’t think of yer son when ya make him, do ya? Sons are born, ’cause… well,... ’cause they have ta be; and when they begin ta live, they takes our own life with them. This da truth—we’s belong ta dem, but deys never belongs ta us. And when they gits ta be eighteen years old, they goes ta their girlfriends and wives. Jist like we did, know what I mean, when we was that age. Yah... sons belong ta da womens.

In silence, the prisoners all nodded their approval. Until finally, the first prisoner could no longer remain silent and slowly began to speak.

"Let’s keep it real, man. Sons belongs ta da Country… Us too, had a father and mother, and other stuff