ONE SECOND FROM RAIFORD PRISON

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Little did the asshole standing in front of me know how close he was about to be laid out on a chrome bed with a drain at the bottom downtown at the coroner’s office.

 

 

ONE SECOND FROM RAIFORD PRISON

 

 

 

Well them four walls of Raiford, closing in on me
Doin’ three to five hard labor, for armed robbery
I had two years behind me, but I could not wait the time
Everytime I thought about it, well I died some more inside

And I had stripes on my back, memories that hurt
For the only time I seen sunshine is when I went to work
Diggin’ ditches for the chain gang, sleepin’ in the “hole”
Oh Lord please forgive me for I could not wait parole
- Ronnie Van Zant

 

Little did the asshole standing in front of me know how close he was about to be laid out on a chrome bed with a drain at the bottom downtown at the coroner’s office.

 

He was as close to death as I was to be sitting in Escambia County awaiting trial for murder and to be eventually cuffed up and shipped off to Raiford State Prison to either death row or life in the joint. You kill a tourist in Florida you’re going down hard!

 

He just didn’t know it yet.

 

We were squared off in a fucking dog park of all places. His monster pit bull…a big black son of a bitch…had just jumped on and badly mauled my Italian Chihuahua the minute we walked in the gate.

 

The pit had Tuco by the neck and was just starting to shake him to break his neck when I charged him…pulling my knife out at the same time…and hit the bastard with a shoulder block that knocked him off his feet. I pinned his bowling ball sized head down in the disgusting shit and piss filled sand with my knee.

 

The knife was at his throat and I was ready to jam it in and slit it!

 

“Get your fucking dog to break or he’s fucking dead!”

 

Shit for brains stood there stunned by this seemingly unprecedented turn of events…and by the Natty Lights he already had pounded down at ten in the morning…as I would soon find out.

 

“I’m gonna kill the motherfucker, asshole!”

 

Suddenly the pit bull released his vice like grip and I quickly picked up Tuco. Surprisingly for the ass-kicking he had just taken there was little blood but he had a three inch slit…almost like he had been sliced with a straight razor…on his shoulder and the shoulder blade was exposed. I put him down on the ground to see if he could walk and wasn’t paralyzed.

 

A shadow popped up in the white sand next to me. I quickly stood up and turned.

 

I could smell the rotgut beer on his shit sandwich eating breath when he slurred his challenge to me.

 

“You shouldn’t have pulled that knife on my dog!” His fists were clenched. He was ready to throw down.

 

The knife in question was still in my hand. It was a knife manufactured purely for the purpose of killing someone. Illegal as Matt Gaetz banging high school cheerleaders. It was a vicious looking push dagger made in Pakistan that I had bought for five bucks at a local flea market up on W street where you could purchase illegal knives, brass knuckles, generic Viagra, guns (those would be under the counter), synthetic marijuana, bath salts, and bootleg sports jerseys.

 

 

The PTSD had kicked in. I was as locked and loaded heavy on the fight in the fight or flight syndrome as I had ever been.

 

This piece of tourist trash shit had hurt my dog…my partner…badly and now the asshole was about to pay up! In fucking spades!

 

There was no sound. It felt like we were both enclosed in a crystal ball. Time seemed to move in slow motion. I felt no emotion of any kind at all! He was taller and weighed more than me but he was an out shape, drunk, fat, stumblebum motherfucker. I would have fought him straight up…fists only.

 

But I was the one holding the knife so there was no need for that. We had long passed the point of beating on each other with our hands and feet. My vision focused on the lower part of his throat. That’s where I was going to drive the knife if he took one…just fucking one…step towards me. I could already see the bright arterial blood flowing down the front of his Dale Earnhardt T-shirt.

 

But my PTSD already decided I wasn’t going to wait for him to take a step! I didn’t give a fuck. To me he was already a dead man walking. The demons of the disease were in full control of the wheelhouse.

 

His attitude suddenly changed. I don’t know if it was the dead look in my eyes or what I quietly said.

 

“Is this how you want to do it? Is this how you want it to end?”

 

Suddenly I saw the fear in his eyes. He took a step or two backwards and tripped on a root and wound up falling on his porcine ass.

 

Luckily for him, that…and that alone…broke the spell. I didn’t want to kill the douche bag…right then. Tuco needed me to get him to the hospital more than I needed to off the cocksucker.

 

There are priorities in life and at that moment his worthless redneck swamp smelling ass was at the bottom of the list. I picked Tuco up and headed out the gate…burning the memory of his piece of shit truck with Tennessee plates into my brain for future reference.

 

“I’m sorry!” He called out pathetically

 

That was over two years ago. After two surgeries and six weeks of recovery, Tuco is fine. He goes daily to the dog park to play with his buddies…some who are pit bulls. He’s a happy dude and seems to have totally blanked out the entire episode.

 

But I haven’t.

 

In Tennessee, there’s a fat alcoholic fuck with a manbun that should pray to his invisible man in the sky every goddamn day that he’s lucky enough to still be around to snort meth, drink bum beer, and piss and moan how fucking Trump had the election stolen. All because he tripped on that fucking root.

 

Because a day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t scanned that parking lot for that shitbox white truck with Tennessee plates. I hope he comes back sometime for another visit to Pensacola.

 

We need to have a talk!

 


Submitted: October 16, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Scott.Anderson. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Serge Wlodarski

During a lifetime in Alabama, I crossed paths with redneck trash like that many times. You made the right decision, they aren't worth the trouble even when they are asking for it. Good story.

Sat, October 16th, 2021 10:26pm

Leslie P. Garcia

Gripping.

Mon, October 25th, 2021 6:28pm

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