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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

An Viet Nam vet, haunted by nightmares from the war, tries to self medicate his demons with booze and drugs. Which leads him down a path of petty crime, mental wards, drugs, murder, and prison.



No one had ever escaped from this prison. It was the Alcatraz of the Great White North. The closest attempt had been when a con had somehow fashioned some sort of file and had eventually…and it took months (maybe years)…sawed halfway through ONE bar in his cell only to find that the bar was hollow and filled with concrete and there was another bar inside the concrete that rotated with the file, making it impossible to saw through.


He really didn’t belong in this joint. Oh, he belonged in prison! There was no doubt about that. He just should have been back in Stillwater Penitentiary considering the nature of his crime. Sure it had been murder but not the kind of murder that lands you in Super-Max. This joint held the worst of the worst in the State. Cop killers, gang leaders, dangerous multiple offenders, inmates deemed too dangerous for other inmates and staff, and cell space was even rented out to the Feds where they could house inmates that were a world class pain in the ass - even to them - and they had prisons where guys went fucking nuts they were locked down for so long. The guy who they made the movie Falcon and The Snowman about had been locked down here.


In fact, he was sitting in the former cell of Crazy Earl Karr, the Midwest pipe bomber, who had tried to ice the Falcon by covering the floor of his cell with Vaseline, throwing homemade mace in his face, and then electrocuting him with a stun gun he had somehow fashioned out of spare parts he found laying around the unit. The attempt had gone horribly wrong, Earl who weighed about a hundred pounds, had not only gotten the holy shit beaten out of him, but was transferred to the Security Hospital where he and Billy had passed by each other on occasion at the canteen.


And there had been that nasty business during his previous stint in Stillwater, where he had burned a biker with connections to the Hell’s Angels over some Horse that he had cut a little too heavily...and stupidly…with foot powder a month before he was to be released. The biker was definitely within his rights to be enraged and homicidal so he had quickly “checked in” to segregation to spend his last month in lockdown rather that get shanked in the shower. He had told the prison cops he felt his left was in danger - which it was.


So on this bit the State thought it prudent to lock him down in Super-Max where his chances of getting killed or at least getting beaten into a coma were slightly less…not that they really gave a shit..and the State wouldn’t have to deal with some bullshit civil lawsuit.


Most likely you’ve see the Shawshank Redemption. If you have, I imagine you remember the scene where Fat Ass and the other “Fresh Fish” get hassled by the other convicts after lights out on the block until the Captain storms in all pissed off and beats the ever living shit out of poor Fat Ass - who has now broken down in tears and is crying for his Mommy - with his nightstick and a few well placed kicks to the head. Fat Ass eventually winds up getting transferred to the Shawshank cemetery.


That’s what Billy Underwood was going through right now.


Billy had been locked down in the Oak Park Heights maximum security prison for four days now. Tomorrow was his last day on new inmate mandatory lockdown. It was lights out and it was already starting, just like it had all the other nights. Just like it had with Fat Ass. There were two rookies on duty and those bastards weren’t doing jackshit about it.


But this wasn’t his first time at the rodeo. Not by a long shot. He’d been doing time since he was about thirteen. He’d never even finished junior high and would be considered a dumb shit by the average person, but Billy was street and institutional smart and knew that it was better to keep his cock holster shut and just take it considering the ramifications (a horrible beating and/or death) if he didn’t.  


“Goat fucker!” An inmate shrieked out.


“He’s a goat fucking woman killer!”


“Billy you should study to be a veterinarian. You’d get all the free pussy you could handle!”


“Goats! Pigs! Cows! Dogs! Cats! Sheep!” Another dickweed shrieked out. Fucking brain surgeon!


“Was it a man or a lady goat?” That came from his next door neighbor who had to be partially retarded. He was in the slammer for flashing his dick at and molesting practically a small town full of kids…and had killed at least two of them...stuffing one down the hole of an outhouse. He was on permanent lockdown due to his poor social prison status and once his sentence ran out he’d get shipped off to the Security Hospital where he’d be declared mentally ill and dangerous and would never see the light of day again.


“Hey, goat fucker! Which is better? Fucking a goat or banging a woman in a wheelchair?”


“He fucked her dead body after he killed her! Nailed her right in the wheelchair. Poor Tina!”


“Crippled goat fucking woman killer!” Screamed out a Vice Lord from Gary, Indiana.


That second to last comment had came from Pedro “Tuco” Cardona. Cardona had been locked down with Billy a few years back at the Security Hospital in St. Peter while Billy was undergoing evaluation after the goat incident.


And to set the record straight. Billy never had screwed Tina. Dead or alive.


Cardona had also been doing time in Stillwater - although their paths never crossed - when Billy was doing his first adult jolt after robbing a porno and peep show joint in Duluth with a pellet gun that looked slightly like a Luger. (Billy had been on a three day bender and had no fucking idea how he had wound up in Duluth other than the old Greyhound ticket in his pocket). After grabbing all of a couple hundred of bucks and a bag of stroke magazines, he had slipped on a patch of ice on the sidewalk, smashed his head on the curb, and wound up knocking his own ass out.


Lucky for Billy, a hobo had witnessed the whole dumpster fire robbery and had quickly jumped into action: stealing Billy’s fuck books, cash, and pellet gun. When the cops had showed up there was little to no evidence other than a grainy video recording of the robbery and unconscious Billy. The recording was so bad and grainy it could have been Billy Idol committing the robbery.


But the judge, after considering Billy’s sterling juvenile jacket, had sentenced him to a deuce in the Stillwater Penitentiary anyway, which his court appointed attorney pointed out was a moral victory.


When he had come to in the hospital he had absolutely no fucking idea where he was or what had just transpired. The ten bottles of Right Time malt liquor and handful of Reds he had consumed prior to the prior robbery hadn’t helped the situation. The malt liquor was strawberry flavored and when he projectile puked it across the emergency room the nurses thought his stomach was hemorrhaging.


Tuco Cardona was a bad fucking dude. A Sicario and a high ranking member of a Latina prison gang who had shanked multiple inmates while inside the joint, shot and killed dozens of rival gangsters and stray civilians in drive-by shootings on the outside, and enjoyed kidnapping, raping and killing women and tossing their bodies in the Mississippi in his leisure time. He’d been sent to the Security Hospital for evaluation after he had turned out a young white inmate who had tried to fight back. Cardona had beaten him into a coma, ass raped him, and drowned him in the toilet. Even though Tuco was a rapist, frowned at in prison circles, he was so goddamn mean, connected, and off the chain the other convicts gave him a pass. Like they had any choice with the crazy motherfucker.


Somehow he was found sane enough to go before a jury and he was now doing life in max. In reality, the Security Hospital didn’t want Pedro as a permanent guest and had pulled every legal option to get the crazy son of a bitch out of their facility before he convinced the asylum lunatics to riot and burn the fucking place down. The final straw was when he had taken on four guards at once and at one time in the brawl looked to be winning! Bastard was as dangerous as a water moccasin that just gotten pissed on, let the prison system deal with him.


One of the loudmouth guards on the observation at the Security Hospital must have shot off his mouth to Cardona about the goat. Guards who aren’t packing any balls will sometimes do that to curry favor with an inmate they consider dangerous or one they’re just flatass fucking scared of - hoping the inmate won’t cut off his balls or buttfuck him if a riot goes down.


Then again, he may have read it in the newspaper. After he had bludgeoned Tina to death, a rookie reporter had written a rather lurid story about Billy’s previous criminal misdoings, including the goat incident. Somehow, the story slipped by the editor and the whole sordid incident came out in all its glory with every fucking sordid detail.





Billy had been cruising around town that night, fruitlessly looking for a local hooker/stripper he knew who would trade a piece of ass for an ounce of weed. He had been doing lines of peanut butter crank and slurping from a bottle of rotgut whiskey and had gotten fucked up enough that he eventually decided to call it a night and head back to the trailer and Tina.


But he was running low on crystal, so he needed to to make a quick pit stop first. He pulled in front of the white trash ramshackle house and could see light coming through the Confederate flag that his dealer, Ragweed, used as a curtain. The yard was littered with trash, a couple of junked cars and motorcycles, used washing machines, and other treasures that Ragweed just couldn’t seem to part with. The music was so goddamn loud coming out of the house that Billy was surprised that the cops hadn’t been called although this was the seediest part of town.


Ragweed had dropped out of school to launch a pathetic career attempt in marijuana smuggling and dealing. At first he dealt in small amounts, a pound or less, and he was Billy’s main source for weed and speed. But then he had been busted with his first big load (ten pounds of what could be now considered hemp the THC content was so low) and he had partnered up with Billy again when they were both doing state juvie time in Red Wing.


He only dealt now to known and trusted customers (Proven Fact: You can never trust a junkie) to supplement his own habit and make a little extra jack since stocking shelves at the Dollar General didn’t exactly pay liveable wages.


As Billy gingerly stepped up on to rotting floorboards of the porch, a greasy looking possum reared up from the battered couch and hissed at Billy like a demented giant rat.


“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Billy grabbed the door knob and charged into the house without knocking. Led Zeppelin was rocking out on Houses of the Holy at a ear bleeding inducing level and Ragweed and a woman who might have outweighed George Foreman were 69ing furiously on his dogshit and pissed stained carpet.


Ragweed had once owned a Doberman. Ventura, named after the wrestler. He thought it would give him both added security and the cred of a dope dealer owning an attack dog. Unfortunately, the mutt ate about a quarter sheet of Mr. Natural blotter acid and totally came unglued, mangled two cats to shreds, tore a hunk out of Ragweed’s ass as big as a silver dollar, ripped a hole in the screen door, bolted down the road, never to be seen nor heard from again.


An ancient rerun of Lawrence Welk was playing on the television. Some black guy was tap dancing his fucking ass off like it was nobody’s goddamn business.


Ignoring them, Billy ran over to the stereo and turned the volume down. The couple came going at it like Billy wasn’t even there, Ragweed on the bottom, Tubby on top. From Billy’s view he could see the broad had a really bad Mickey Mouse tattoo of the rodent shooting the middle finger that almost covered one giant ass cheek. The bitch must have done some sort of time, probably juvie. That was one shit jailhouse tat.




“Rag!” Billy shouted out again. Ragweed stopped with the carpet munching, rolled over on to his stomach, his dick making a loud popping noise like opening a bottle of cheap Cold Duck when it came out of his porcine lover’s mouth.


She rolled over on to her back and laid there looking up at the water stained ceiling while jabbering in tongues or what sounded to be some foreign language Billy had never heard before. Her makeup had smeared all over her face giving her the look of a crazed circus clown. Billy now recognized her as one of the shift managers at one of the local burger joints.


Rag had a wild…scratch that…Rag had an insane look in his eyes and was breathing like he had just finished a marathon. “Billy! Long time no see. Have you ever met Sheila?”


Sheila didn’t respond. Just continued to jabber like an inbred and scratch her snatch like she had the crabs from an aircraft carriers crew. Ragweed moaned, rolled over so that the couple were head to toe, and covered his eyes with his hands.


“Fuck, Rag, you had the music so fucking loud you’re goddamn lucky no one called the Heat.”


“I don’t know what this shit is but it sure as fuck isn’t coke.”


“I don’t want some stepped on coke, I need some more of that crank.”


“It’s not crank! It isn’t coke! I told you that! I don’t know what this shit is but I’m seeing fucking things that I’ve never seen before!” He curled into the fetal position next to Sheila and whimpered like an infant. “I think I may be possessed! Please help me Jesus!”


“Do you want me to call a priest?” Billy snickered.


“Fuck you, you prick! I’m think I’m losing my mind here and you’re making goddamn jokes!”


“Bullshit! You just took too much. What is the shit? Where did you get it?” No answer. Just moaning from Rag and Sheila babbling, now with foam streaming out of her mouth and down the sides of her face. For some insane reason, Billy wanted to try the shit. Just cut back on the dosage a cunt hair.


“Rag! Where the fuck did you get it?”


Ragweed suddenly sat straight up and barfed a geyser all over Sheila. She didn’t seem to notice. Billy took about a dozen steps back so he didn’t get hit by spray or the stomach churning smell of recycled Big Macs and fries. Sheila must have brought over supper.


“Feel better?”


He wiped the puke off his mouth with the back of his hand while trying to get his bearings. Vomit was hanging in his long ragweed colored hair hence his nickname. “Some little high school shit was hanging out in front of Harley’s Liquor and asked me to buy him a twelve pack. When I gave him the beer he asked if I wanted to buy some coke so I thought I’d give Sheila a birthday treat. She loves marching powder but I think the shit is some kind of fucking Angel Dust.”


The birthday girl was busy pissing herself a big pool all over Ragweed’s carpet so she didn’t hear Billy wish her a Happy Birthday.


“Any cocaine being sold in this town is half baby laxative if not more.”


Ragweed laid back down and threw one arm over his eyes and pointed at the coffee table with the other. “Take the shit. You can fucking have it. There must be over half a gram left. Get the shit out of here!When I find that little bastard that sold that shit to me I’m going to kill him!”


Billy ratted through the stereotypical junkie debris on the coffee table: A dildo (wet), syringes, lubricant that warms up (he slipped that in his pocket), a cheap .22 pistol, porn tapes, whiskey bottles, food wrappers, beer cans, pipes, Little Debbie snack cake wrappers, a cheap Mexican switchblade, dirty socks, at least thirty unused condoms, a huge chunk of Afghan black hash, Sheila’s disgusting panties…and then finally the mystery drug in a glassine packet.


He dropped the packet in his pocket along with the lubricant and cut off a chunk of the hash and fired up a bowl. One thing you could say about Rash was that he may have lived like a fucking bum but he always scored dynamite drugs.


Suddenly, Sheila lumbered to her feet and started screaming hysterically to “STOP THAT FUCKING TAPPING” at the tap dancing moron on the tube as if he were Beelzebub himself.


“Baby, Honey, Ssshhh, it’s OK!”


Rag tried to get to his feet to try to calm her the fuck down but his legs were like rubber and he wound up staggering across the room and crashing headfirst into a moth ridden couch where about five cats were sleeping. Sheila dropped to all fours and started howling like a wounded coyote. Billy decided to take the opportunity to make his departure. But before leaving he had a tremendous urge to kick Sheila right on Mickey Mouse. Which he did, HARD, sending her sprawling. She laid there on that filthy rug like she was dead. He took one more long hit and set the pipe down.


“Thanks, Rag. Let me know when you get some crystal.”


“Don’t shoot that shit!” Rag screamed out as the door closed.


“Fucking idiots.” Billy jumped at the sound of the voice. Ragweed’s brother, Nubs, was sitting on the far end of the couch smoking a fat joint. His real name was Harrison but a tour and a tripwire in Vietnam had removed both his legs above the knee, given him a freaky looking prosthetic left arm, left his right arm intact, and unofficially changed his name from Harrison to Nubs. He lived in the garage around back which had been modified for his needs.


“Have a seat, Billy. I’ve gotten some dynamite shit here. Thai stick.” The cigarette sized joint was being handed to him by the claw on the fake arm.


He took the joint and sat on the couch, but not before giving it a quick eyeball to see if that goddamn possum was still hanging around.


The two sat there quietly smoking the joint and passing a bottle of rotgut tequila back and forth. Rag and Sheila were going at it again by the sound of things. Billy turned and looked through a small opening where the rebel flag didn’t quite cover the window. They were on their knees and Billy was nailing her from behind like he was a human piston. Snot and drool was hanging from Sheila’s nose and mouth and was practically touching the floor.


“You think much about Nam, Billy?” Nubs broke the silence.


“Not much to think about. When I do I try blanking it out. I was only in country for a month or so until the dinks overran the post. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital in Saigon. I don’t remember much about any of it there either. My mind is total darkness for most of it out but I still have those fucking nightmares. Nothing helps. How about you?”


“I think about it every fucking waking moment of my life.”


“Sorry! That was a dumb fuck thing to say.”


He passed the joint to Billy. “Ever thought who was the lucky one between you and Rag? The Army got you out of the reformatory and you came home in one piece. My dumb fuck brother goes to the can, does his bit, and now works as a stock boy at Dollar General, deals shit biker crank, and spends his Saturday nights shooting mystery dope and banging obese glorified McDonald’s fry cooks. Next stop for him is prison or the cemetery. It would have been better if he’d just bought it over in Nam than the slow suicide slide that his ass is on.”


Billy leaned back and blew smoke rings after taking a hit on the joint. Looking up at the stars, he was quiet for several minutes. “I don’t know, Harrison. Maybe I should have just done my time in the joint and come home. Fucking Army, man! Something happened over there. Something fucking bad. I know it! I just can’t remember a fucking thing. I’m all fucked up in the head. Nightmares every night where I’m inside the post laundry and I’m stabbing all these gook women who worked there! I keep writing the VA telling them I need help with the nightmares and the headaches but the son of a bitches hardly ever answer me. When they do answer they say my files are still redacted or classified or some other happy horseshit. And look how goddamn long it’s been since the war ended. Something’s just not fucking right here. Did I ever tell you when I first got locked down in Stillwater that some Fed came to visit me and asked a shitload of questions about my time in the Army and how I was handling fucking civilian life? Now what the shit is that all about?”


“It means you might want not to dig too deep into what happened back in the Nam.”


“Huh? What do you mean?”


Nubs pulled his wheelchair over to the couch and hopped in it. “Take care, Billy. You can keep the bottle. You should crash on the couch. You’re pretty fucking wasted.” Nubs wheeled away into the shadows.


“It was called MKULTRA!” Nubs shouted out from the darkness. "Read. Learn."


MKULTRA? What the hell was he talking about? Nubs was a weird dude. Holed up in that garage, reading all this conspiracy shit. His walls were covered with books on video tapes.  Who really killed Kennedy? CIA. Mind Control. Oswald. Area 51. UFOs. Roswell. That kind of tin foil hat shit.


One thing was for sure, the fuck if he was gonna sleep on that couch with that gnarly ass possum hanging around. Billy stood up and took a step off the porch and went face down into the dirt. He couldn’t believe how wasted he was! The hashish and Thai stick had really packed a punch after all the booze and crank he had put away earlier.


And he couldn’t get that image of Billy and Sheila out of his mind. Yes, it had been a disgusting sight, but for some reason it had regenerated Billy a with stiff dick that was going to have to be dealt with.


Performing a live sex show for Tina or even one of her pathetic attempts at a blowjob just wasn’t going to cover it!


Turning down the gravel road that was just out of the city limits and dead ended a few miles at the trailer park, Billy noticed that a farmer who lived on the road must have hit the sack early as all his vehicles were there but  the lights were off. He passed the farm and pulled over about a quarter mile down the road.


Draining the bottle of tequila, he tossed the empty over his shoulder into the backseat. One of the group homes Billy had been at was on a a farm and since it was an all boys home, at times the sheep filled in as sex surrogates for the older boys. Billy knew this farmer had goats, he had seen them in the pasture, but had never seen any sheep. But what could be the difference? He reached into his pocket and pulled out the lubricant he had taken off of Ragweed’s coffee table. The mystery dope packet dropped down on the floorboard and Billy picked it up and placed it in his hiding stash under the dashboard.


Grabbing a flashlight, he shut the car door quietly and walked down the deserted road. Stepping over the waist high fence, Billy walked across the pasture and opened the back door to the barn and flicked the flashlight on.


What happened afterward was almost gleefully re-reported in the local newspaper after the Tina incident went down. Although by the time he had walked across the pasture, Billy had pretty much been in total blackout mode through it all, so the prick cub reporter had refreshed his memory:


After Billy had broken into the barn he had cornered a goat, dropped trou, lubed up with the shit he had stolen from Rag, and shit hammered the bleating, confused, and enraged creature which proceeded to unload a geyser of shit all over Billy. (Billy was blackout wasted at this juncture and didn’t remember this)


Upon consummation, Billy had staggered back and wound up vomiting all over himself while trying to wipe the goat shit off of himself with his hands. The goat had taken the opportunity to get some space between himself and Billy and proceeded to launch his concrete block like head straight into his rapist’s stomach. Billy had dropped to all fours and the goat had decided to get one more payback shot in - this time to Billy’s right kidney. He’d piss blood for weeks and had a broken short rib. (Still in blackout mode but coming around)


Billy didn’t know how long he lay there groaning in agony but the sound of the enraged goat ramming his head against the door had finally brought him around just as the goat busted the door off the hinges. (More of a gray out mode)


He had rolled to his feet, pulled up his pants, and followed his victim out the door only to be greeted by a irate farmer wearing only his Fruit of the Looms and cowboy boots and who was also brandishing a deer rifle that was aimed at Billy’s head. (Billy was out on his feet but does remember most of this part of the affair)


The reporter had left out the part where the farmer was in his underwear but hadn’t left out Billy being covered in goat shit and sex lube and had taken an royal ass kicking from the raped goat.


Luckily, the farmer didn’t want to press charges. He just wanted his barn door fixed so no other junkies could come in and fuck his livestock. But the the county prosecutor still thought it was in everybody’s best interest if Billy do a tour up at the local madhouse to get Billy’s mind right. It had happened on a weekend, Billy got transported to the Security Hospital, the report got buried on cop’s desk, and the local paper missed picking up on the seedy event until later down the road.


And strangely, several weeks after Billy was locked up for observation, he was visited by the same man with Federal credentials….just to see how Billy was handling the transition from Army to civilian.





Tina would still be alive if it hadn’t been for that goddamn Angel Dust! That and her inability to shut her fucking crippled mouth!


“Sugar Pie! Could you run down and get Mommy two of those big jugs of Mountain Dew and a couple packs of my smoking sticks?” Tina had called out in her fucking irritating baby talk voice while Billy was jerking off to a battered copy of Hustler in their trailer’s closet sized bathroom.


Crystal meth made Billy as sexually charged as goddamn rabbit. His dick was raw and sore from the pounding and abuse. Now he had developed crystal dick - he could beat it and beat it and still couldn’t shoot his wad.


“Honey Bunch!” The irritating bitch sang out again.


“Jesus Christ! Give me a fucking break, will ya? I’m trying to take a crap here.”


It was no use. His crank was as hard as a Louisville Slugger but it wasn’t going to produce. He stood and pulled up his filthy underwear and bib overalls.


Looking into the cracked and hair sprayed covered mirror (Tina wore her hair like a 1960s Mafia member’s mistress), Billy didn’t like what was looking back at him. Greasy reddish shoulder length hair, haunted dead eyes, meth scabs, zits, and a scraggly goatee that looked like it had been grown from the pubic hair of an Asian woman.


It didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to figure out that Billy’s life had taken a turn down shit road. After he had gotten out of the nuthouse he had moved in back in with Tina. He couldn’t believe that she had taken him back after he gotten busted for screwing that goat.


But since was she a wheelchair bound, baby talking, obese, diabetic, game show addicted cunt, who guzzled Mountain Dew and chain smoked cigarettes, it wasn’t like Brad Pitt was going to be knocking on her trailer door and sweep her off her wheelchair. So she was glad to welcome him back with flabby arms and a strong smell of piss. Tina also sported a glass eye that came from her father throwing a pool cue at her like a javelin when he missed the eight ball shot when he was shooting stick and getting shitfaced at a bar when he was supposed to be babysitting Tina -who was all of ten at the time - and who was actually sitting at the bar next to a drunk with shit in his pants when she was speared.


Her constant odor of urine didn’t bother Billy much since he himself didn’t own stock in Right Guard and the shake and bake meth he cooked up smelled worse than cat piss. But it was the baby talk! Holy fuck, he hated baby talk. And it seemed like every two hours he was running down to the Pump & Munch to get her more Dew, smokes, and her candy of the week. Thank Christ, Tina hated sex. All she wanted to do was watch Billy pound his meat while she clapped her hands like a retarded child. Every once in a while she’d pop her teeth out and Billy would….well, you know  


“Sweetie Pie? Mommy’s thirsty!”


“I said in a fucking minute!”





When he was sixteen he had gotten sent up to the Red Wing Reformatory on a two year jolt for selling dime bags of Mexican ditch weed and white cross speeders. His previous stints had been mainly in state group homes for petty crimes like shoplifting, B & E, and vandalism. Red Wing was his first time in a real prison.  


Strangely, just after he turned seventeen he was released on a special experimental program that was offered to inmates with semi-decent behavioral records - to volunteer to enlist in the Army! The military had obviously underestimated the resistance the Viet Cong had surprisingly put up and Uncle Sam needed more bodies for the meat grinder.


A handful of inmates had been ushered into a classroom on a Saturday to find a Army recruiter who gave them a series to tests and a rundown on the program and weeks later, Billy had almost crapped his pants with joy to find he was a selectee.


Billy had jumped at the chance. Not only would he get a year cut off his sentence but he’d get away from Big G, a hulking black street gangster who had immediately taken a shine to Billy and turned him into his punk. It would be better to get shot in Vietnam than worry about that monster dick getting shoved up his ass every night.


Before Big G could corner him and give his squeeze a going away cornholing, Billy was thrown in a van with a couple of other inmates, driven up to Minneapolis to the AFEES station, prodded and poked by low rent physicians, sworn into the Army, and shipped off to Texas for boot camp.


Boot camp had been weird! For one thing, his group was housed in totally different barracks than the other recruits on a different side of the base. They rarely interacted with the other companies and after basic they were all shipped off to Infantry school where it was the same thing. Some of his fellow recruits washed out and were sent back to whatever juvie facility or prison they came from. Billy was just goddamn glad to be away from Big G…his asshole was finally starting to feel normal…so he tried to be a good soldier and do whatever he was told. No matter how stupid the order.


After completion of Infantry training, his group was flown days later to Vietnam and upon arrival they were all immediately loaded up and choppered to a remote jungle outpost.


Billy spent his days digging latrines and fox holes, painting, and sweeping - typical Army shit work - and every other night was sent out into the jungle to set up and sit in a listening post. The routine was the same - day after motherfucking day - for about a month. Listening post duty was the shits! They never had any contact with the enemy but fucking snakes were everywhere and a tiger had actually walked past them on the trail.


“Gooks are inside the fucking wire!” Someone had screamed out and a massive explosion had followed out in the jungle that had lit up the night sky.


It had been Billy’s off night and he had been laying frozen in his bunk wondering why the cockroaches and rats that inhabited his bunker were turning different shades of psychedelic color and what was causing the funky taste in his mouth. The food was at the chow hall was always shitty but tonight had been the worst. Several of his bunker mates were starting to act really fucking weird, too. A couple of soldiers simply stared at the walls either blankly like they were looking into the abyss or laughing hysterically, while another wandered around aimlessly after stripping down to his short hairs.


Billy had been dosed before - he was no amateur when it came to dope - so he recognized the feeling. He was tripping balls at a level he had never experienced before. But how? Why? Who the fuck did this? The gooks working in the camp must have set them up. Put shit in their food knowing there was going to be an assault on the the post. All he knew was that he had to get the hell out of that bunker before they were overrun by the dinks.


The last thing that Billy even vaguely remembered was putting on his boots, his helmet, and grabbing his M16 before charging out of the bunker. Within seconds he had gone from tripping like Jerry Garcia to insane war child.


Re-played in his post-Vietnam nightmares, there had been a married Vietnamese couple who worked on the base running by his bunker in a panic. Billy had unloaded a full clip on full auto into the man - shredding him - and then chased down the hysterical woman, beating her to the ground with his fists and then gutting her like a deer with his K-Bar. He then ran into the laundry and slit the throat of any freaking out laundry worker he could chase down.


The next thing he remembered was waking up strapped to a hospital bed in the high security mental ward in the military hospital in Saigon where he spent months, heavily medicated, before being processed out of the Army and shipped home with a general discharge.







Standing on the toilet, Billy reached up on moved his hand around the top of the cabinet until he found what he stashed there just after he had been released from the nuthouse. The battered old Mustang that Billy had been driving the night he was arrested was registered in Tina’s name so the cops had towed it back to the trailer after giving it a cursory search, totally missing Billy’s dope  hidey hole and the mystery drug that Ragweed had given him.


Which was one of the first things Billy had checked when he got home, and now he stood there in the trailer crapper debating whether to take a little taste.


Tina’s whiny call of “Sugar Bunny!” made the decision.


Rubbing a hairspray covered hand mirror clean with a filthy washrag, Billy cut two long lines and snorted ‘em up. Holy Shit! It was like snorting Drano and he was almost instantly as fucked up as he had ever been in his life!


“Honey bunch! What are you doing?”


The walls were closing in on Billy and panic set in. He ripped down the shower curtain and used it to knock the glass out of the windows. Attempting to crawl out, the remaining jagged edges of the glasses cut deep gashes in Billy’s chest and he screamed in agony when he pulled himself back into the bathroom.


“What’s going on in there?”


“Shut up, bitch!” Billy screamed.


“What did you say to me? Did you call me a bitch? If it wasn’t for me you’d be on the fucking streets. Let me remind me you, Mr. Big Asshole, I hold the paper on this trailer and that car and I can kick your ass out any…..”


Before Tina had finished her sentence Billy had fished  around in his tool box under the bathroom sink and grabbed a rusty ball peen hammer. He came charging out of the bathroom and literally beat poor Tina’s head to a bloody pulp.


Just like that! No thoughts given! No fucks given!


Until later.


The coroner had staggered out of the trailer and barfed for the first time in his professional career after he saw the carnage propped up in it’s wheel chair. Tina’s glass eye had flown out and was recovered in the kitchen sink and false teeth were scattered about the floor.


Billy had pounded her head with that hammer like it was a ripe pumpkin and the results looked liked it. An old timer with a bad prostate who lived next door, was up taking his fifth piss of the night, and had witnessed the entire incident since Tina’s trailer didn’t have any curtains in the kitchen. He called 911. When the cops busted in they found Bill





“Man, fucking a goat and killing a cripple! You hardcore man!”


Life in prison. No chance of parole this time around. Could he handle it? Billy already knew the answer. Some men are born for the prison yard. And he wasn’t one of them. Billy knew there was only one way out for him. He just didn’t have the guts to do it himself.


He sat up on his bunk and took a series of deep breaths to garner up the courage for what he was about to do. He was practically hyperventilating when he finally was able to yell it out! 


“Hey Tuco, you fucking punk bitch!”


Like a switch turned off, the cell block went instantly and deathly silent.




“What did you just say to me you goat fucking piece of shit?”


“I heard that you’re nothing but a punk hiding behind that badass routine of yours. That you’ve been taking it up the ass since your started jailing and you like it!”


There wasn't a word spoken on the block again that night. Total silence.


Deathly silence.




Submitted: May 04, 2020

© Copyright 2023 Scott.Anderson. All rights reserved.

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