Continuance Drama: An Autobiography by the Most Infamous Blood in the California State Prison System

By Michael Sims

The book is a compelling story of how Michael Sims reformed and redeemed himself from the violent life as a notorious gang member. He turned his life around and has become a passionate activist against violence. This book is his way of reaching out to the younger generation, to transform their anger and aggression into positive energy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662445750

Michael Sims

Michael Sims's six acclaimed non-fiction books include The Adventures of Henry Thoreau, The Story of Charlotte's Web, and Adam's Navel, and he edits the Connoisseur's Collection anthology series, which includes Dracula's Guest, The Dead Witness, The Phantom Coach, and the forthcoming Frankenstein Dreams. His writing has appeared in New Statesman, New York Times, Washington Post, and many other periodicals. He appears often on NPR, BBC, and other networks. He lives in Pennsylvania. michaelsimsbooks.com

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Part 1

The Investigation

During this period in my life (2003), I had been under the California State Prison System for twenty-four years at CCI (California Correctional Institution) located in Tehachapi, California.

My cellmate was a twenty-seven-year-old Blood homie named Lunatic, from Neighborhood Piru in Inglewood, California. Lunatic (Tic) was a very valiant homie, brown-skinned, six feet, and perhaps 170 pounds. But in contrary to his pugnacious courage and attributes, he succumbed to the lecherous desire of his inner being.

He had this illusion that he was appealing to the female correctional officers (COs) who worked in the unit’s control booth (gun tower). This was stationed directly in front of the cells on a two-story platform with a clear Plexiglas fronting that enables the controlling officers to look into the three-foot-long-by-half-foot-wide cell door window.

Tic would divest himself completely and start playing with his person and having the illusion that he was arousing the female COs who were working in the control booth. All this would occur behind the large sheet curtain that we used for privacy to separate the bathroom portion of the cell from the other areas when we were using the bathroom.

Tic would carry on with his inappropriate behavior for hours at times. I condemned his comportment severely many times, but not to the point that I was going to physically chastise him. I moved into his cell upon my arrival, and as I stood at the cell door, he clearly told me that he does his own thing in the cell, perspicuously giving me an indication that he had some kind of mysterious issues.

However, once I settled in and got to know him a little better, I made attempts to deter him from his foul conduct by telling him about the consequences of other guys whom I knew personally. They were charged and punished for this same kind of vulgarity.

I would blurt to him, Blood! You are stupid as a muthaf——ka! You only got two more years to serve before you go home, and you can’t keep your perverted ways to yourself? One day one of these females is going to give your ass a 115 RVR [Rules Violation Report], and you’re going to lose your release date, then you are going to be looking stupid!

He’d say, They like this, as he simpered his plausible explanation, which, in many cases, were totally specious.

One morning, he was carrying on with his actions for a couple of hours, and a Hispanic CO was working in the control booth. She stormed down from the booth in a furious rage and accosted our cell door and loudly blurted to front Tic off (expose him) to the entire section (prisoners), Richmond! You need to keep your business to yourself. What are you, stupid? I don’t want to see you, and I am going to give you a 115 for obscenity!

He was standing there in front of the cell naked, looking at her through the window scolding him, and he was feeling stupid and embarrassed. Now he realized the wisdom that I was trying to instill into him had come to pass.

I said to him, I told your ass!

Our neighbors were two Crip homies from Harlem 30s, Kiip and Al C. Kiip walked by our cell perhaps ten minutes later after the CO had egressed the section and said in a discontenting voice, Tic, Tic, Tic, keep it in your pants, man!

About a week after this unbefitting conduct of Tic, the prison officials needed our cell, which was in block 3, for medical purposes. They were transforming this section into a section for prisoners who were on medication. I believe they decided to make this sudden arrangement so that it would be convenient for the medical staff to make their rounds in distributing the medication to prisoners, being that all the patients would be in one section or building, as opposed to the many other blocks they would usually have to make their rounds to.

Tic refused to go to the scheduled block 2 that we were assigned to. They gave him an option to pack up his property and leave to the new block with me or to go to the hole (confinement).

He chose to go to the hole. I went to the new block as was intended alone.

However, a couple months thereafter, I saw Tic back on the yard, and he enlightened me that the prison was taking judicial action against him for his conduct concerning the female CO. He said he pleaded with the DA for five-year plea bargains for obscenity. The prison also has some kind of legal term where they can charge inmates who do such things as this with sexual assault that I believe is tantamount to rape. I didn’t feel any sympathy for him in no way whatsoever.

After a couple of days being in the new cell alone, a light-skinned brother came to my cell door window to speak to me about being my cellmate. He said his name was Muhammad, and he was a Muslim. He explained that he was in the cell with a Crip, and they weren’t getting along with each other. He would like to cell with me until he found someone that he was compatible to cell with.

I explained to him that I was a Blood and that I preferred to be celled with Bloods, but he could move in with me temporarily. Muhammad was a thirty-seven-year-old devoted Muslim. But these Muslims in the prison system be gangbanging with religion just as hard as the street gangs as seen in my many years of observation.

Muhammad told me that the Muslims on the yard didn’t like him and that they might be plotting to harm him, but if they do come at him, he was going to hurt one of them.

Muhammad was from Oakland, California. There are Bloods and Crips who are Muslims and that they be power trippin’ over who’s going to be the imam. Some of them be trying to claim Islam and their street gang at the same time and would try to utilize their hood ties to further their Islamic cause, and some of these doltish gang dudes are so ignorant they allow themselves to be used and manipulated.

I told Muhammad that I wouldn’t allow the Muslims to jump him in my presence, but one-on-one, he was on his own. I grew to really like Muhammad during our couple of months of being cellmates, and I sensed that the feeling was mutual.

One night, we were watching the late-night news, and the anchorwoman was reporting a domestic crime that turned fatal (crime of passion). Some guy had killed his girlfriend, and I was outraged as I blurted to Muhammad, Man, we need to start killing these weak-ass dudes who be coming to prison for killing women on love crimes, old weak-ass muthaf——kas!

Ooh no, I can’t roll with you [support] on that one, Ramani [calling me by my Swahili name] because I’m in here for killing my wife on a crime of passion.

Suddenly, I laughed without intention because I was astounded that he was in prison for such a crime, and I was dead serious when I blurted the comment.

After Muhammad and I separated, I had a couple of other homies (Bloods) for cellmates, but my final cellmate at Tehachapi was a twenty-one-year-old Blood named D. Tone from Liggett Street Bloods in the valley. D. Tone’s temperament would be considered a square by the standard of most hardened gang members. But yet still, D. Tone had the propensity to think that everyone was underestimating him. Perhaps they were in some ways or the other.

Above D. Tone and me were the two homies G. Winn and J. Stone, both of them from Neighborhood Piru in Inglewood, California. They were stationed on the second tier as we were on the first tier.

I tell you the unequivocal truth. D. Tone could sing beyond the ability of every one of the young singers who are famous today. He would be on the yard singing as younger dudes were rapping, and anyone couldn’t impugn his talent.

I recall J. Stone once telling me, You should tell your cellie to start charging those dudes who ask him to sing for them. He was serious, but I thought that was a bit too petty, so I never suggested that he do such a thing.

We used to have some jovial conversations through the vent, by which we utilized for clear communication. One afternoon, G. Winn and I were clowning around in the vent, bantering at D. Tone’s expense. At this point on the prison yard, D. Tone was among our immediate group of homies (Bloods) on the yard who we embraced wholeheartedly. Therefore, we knew he was a valorous young homie.

As G. Winn and I stood upon the toilet seat bantering D. Tone, he became very irritated. I told him to loosen up a bit, that he knew we were playing with him. His spoilsport attitude compelled me to descend from the vent and lie on my bottom bunk.

I said to him, Damn, D. Tone, you need to stop being so sensitive toward us. You know that we are with you. I had just given him a black-and-white TV that I had just bought from the young homie Nut from San Diego 91 Street Castle Bloods. I blurted to him, I’m taking the TV back. (Why I say that?) I was only speaking out of rage and didn’t mean it at all.

D. Tone stormed down from his top bunk and got on top of me as I was lying on my stomach. He put me in a headlock while he was simultaneously trying to twist my head around with force. I assumed he was just playing rough with me and not serious at all due to the situation being far from being grave.

I blurted as I struggled to free my neck from his choke hold, Man, are you serious? He didn’t answer and continued to roughly handle me in our interlocking struggle where he was prevailing. I had no alternative but to muster up my virility to coerce him off me. I forced myself up to my feet. Now we were struggling on our feet. But still I wasn’t sure if he was serious. He socked me hard on the right side of my eye. I knew immediately then it was no playing matter for him.

I quickly socked him back with a right cross to his jaw as he grabbed me into another interlocking struggle. I started shoving him with my unfailing force against the long metal shelves. I busted his head on the shelf and started slamming him against the walls and bunks. Blood started to flow down the side of his head onto the side of his face. As we continued to scuffle, he inexplicably went head beneath my lower chest area with some kind of dipping movement, and the next thing I knew, I was on my back in another headlock. It appeared that this headlock was a bit more stringent than the first one. There I was in a defenseless position again. I was on my back twisted to my side, looking up to his face as he restrained me defenselessly.

I was innocuous in every way and of no threat to him whatsoever, but on the contrary, I thought he was getting ready to try to transform my face with a flurry of blows. But I also knew that for him to do that, he would have to release his arm from around my neck. I then would have reached up to him immediately to grab him before he started hitting me. But he just kept me in the subdued position for about five minutes. Finally, he looked down at me with an aplomb grin and softly stated, Do you wanna quit?

I was relieved, but I didn’t answer immediately to conceal my pride of submitting to a young dude who had complete control over my physical being. But my inner thought was, Hell yeah! I wanna quit. I wasn’t in any position to be having an uncompromising attitude. As far as I was concerned, this tussle was over.

Within a minute or two, I said, Yeah.

Then he freed his arm from around my neck in a slightly discomfort manner that indicated if he were doing the right thing by letting me off. He let me go and walked over to the sink and mirror to examine his injury. As he fuddled around his head area of the wound, he became irate and said, Man, I have to cut my hair. He appeared that he was more concerned about his hair than the injury itself. His hair was only about two or three inches that appeared to be struggling to grow with many small braids in his head.

We settled down, and D. Tone made a few remarks that I believe was exacerbating the situation that had been appeased. You are not even hitting hard. I didn’t even feel that shit, he said with a little grin.

I sternly replied, Leave it alone, D. Tone! And he complied.

I got up off my bunk to walk over to help him find the wound he was fuddling for through his hair. He fluttered a bit and said, Naw, gesturing that I stay aloof.

I said, Blood, I’m not going to do anything to you. It’s over. My word allowed him the unequivocal relief that I was veracious and sincere.

So I went over to him and started ruffling my fingers through his hair in search for his injury. I located it, and it wasn’t as nearly serious as the blood flow had first appeared to have been. It didn’t even require medical treatment, and he didn’t have to cut his hair.

Before our little struggle, D. Tone used to tell me that he took up jujitsu when he was younger, and I thought then the only way on God’s earth that he could whip me in any kind of physical, hostile, combative confrontation would be with an Uzi (small submachine gun), because I’ve been incarcerated for so long that I don’t even know how to shoot one. D. Tone, being twenty-one, was 5 feet, 11 inches and 190 pounds, and I, forty-three, was 5 feet, 9½ inches and 200 pounds. He felt that there was no way an old dude like me could whip him, and I surely felt the same way on the reverse side of me being too old to let a young dude like him defeat me.

I asked him what he was trying to do when he first jumped down on me and that I thought he was playing. He said he was trying to break my neck. Then I asked him what he think would have happened if we were to go all out on each other in this cell. He made a sighing gesture of ambiguity and said, It would be a mess in here.

Thereafter, I still believe I was hitting a bit too hard for him to stand toe to toe with me, but on the other hand of cell fighting where we had to be in a constant interlocking struggle, that’s another story, and I believe that would be an Armageddon for both of us. I always had the attitude of slanging ’em (fighting) blow for blow with the notion of whoever hits the hardest or can take a harder hit