10/27/2024
I MUST LOVE PRISON. Over the past twenty-one years, I’ve been free on the streets for just six years total. And that’s not six years straight either. I did a six-year stint in my home state of Ohio, got out, ran a multi-million dollar ma*****na operation, lived well, made more children, then went back to prison.
I was sentenced to 140 months for my role in that ma*****na conspiracy! When I got home in 2016 after my second time in prison—my first federal term—I didn’t receive any welcome home party. (I guess after going to prison once, the second isn’t worth celebrating.) My family was definitely happy that I was home and able to touch me. But the question was: for how long? How long would I stay home this time before the temptations of women, the lifestyle, or my insatiable desire for chasing the bag take control?
As if two prison terms weren’t enough, just 18 days after my precious baby boy was born, I got busted by the feds again. They say you find out who your true friends are when you go to the hospital or prison. I can’t stand hospitals. Maybe that’s why I’ve always chosen the latter.
They also say the third time’s a charm. Maybe after this time is up, I’ll finally give up this criminal lifestyle. (Or, if enough people buy my books, I might make a decent living off my writing.) Obviously, I’m not that good at being a criminal anyway.
Every time I get somewhat ahead in the game, I get busted. I end up paying astronomical lawyer fees, people owe me money, and properties and material things get seized. I’m broke before I even hit the yard, left with just a lot of pictures to send in to glorify my short-lived career until the next time, when I think I can pick back up where I left off years later. Only to find out that technology and informants are more advanced and accepted now. The federal government doesn’t have to do much of anything anymore. It’s as simple as making an arrest for domestic violence, and the guy turns on his buddies, starting a federal conspiracy. The rats have a motto: “Why do ten when I can tell on a friend?”
Nine times out of ten, that’s just what they do. Federal prison is so overrated. People tend to think that if you go to federal prison, you’re big time. Maybe that used to be the case, but now it’s just human warehousing—filled with low-level drug dealers, Mexican mules, trailer trash white m**h addicts, and young black men with gun cases, who’ve never seen more than $3,000 at one time. Just a building filled with lost souls and petty criminals from all over the world.
The United States government should be ashamed of themselves for taking these not-even-good state cases federal for job security purposes.
I can’t understand why I keep putting myself through this. They give us negative three-star hospitality, and the medical treatment is that of a third-world country. I didn’t start coming to prison until I was thirty years old. (I know, what a cold du***ss, right?) Not that there’s a good age to start doing time.
By thirty, I should’ve had my own home, been married with children, and had ten years left to retire from a well-paying job. But not me. I’m a hustler, a bluffer, and an international customer. I would get money in my sleep, like you’ve never seen. Then I would spend it before I woke up. The whole world is my canvas. I paint the picture of me that I want you to see. My connections would give me whatever I asked for, because I kept my face clean and their money was always right. Let’s not kid ourselves—selling drugs on any level isn’t a walk in the park. It’s guys like me who make it look easy.
We hustlers are the geniuses of our families. We take all the risks and reap most of the rewards. Of course, we drag along some disloyal friends who tell on us when we get caught—the ones who don’t deserve to go to that special place, “The World’s Fair,” where nobody but true players and real hustlers be there. It’s not a place you can Google or GPS.
When the feds come, the marquees go dark, the carousel and the Ferris wheel stop, the cotton candy turns bitter, and the clowns with bad jewelry and the showgirls are gone. It’s over!
We become the ones who call our relatives, who’ve never seen the inside of a jail cell. We tell them what they’re doing wrong in their “boring-ass lives.” (Some nerve, huh?) So you can say we’re therapists too! When a family member tells us how they’re struggling with bills or life as a whole, we listen. Although we didn’t leave any financial support for them, they still love us.
Instead, we leave everything to that sack-chasing female who took even the salt off the crackers we left in the cupboard, using it as bait for her next man. But we’re quick to tell our family, who are drowning in debt that we left them with, “Hey, it could be worse. I realize your struggle, and I whole-heartedly empathize with the magnitude of your situation.” (Using unnecessary words adds to the smoke screen of bu****it sincerity.) “But since you’re short on bill money anyway, do you think you could squeeze me a fifty so I can go to Con-Mart this week?”
Oftentimes, I step outside of myself and take a deep moral inventory. Why? I mostly ask myself. Why do I continue to dismantle the relationships with family, friends, and people I care about by coming back and forth to prison? When the risk doesn’t equal the rewards, the answer is as simple as it is complex: if I keep doing what I’ve been doing, I’m going to keep getting what I’ve got—time.
“Welcome to Prison: During the Pandemic“
