Prison's a shithole, but it's my shithole. Name's Jamie, 40, been rotting in this Texas concrete box for 15 years, running the white crew in my wing like a damn kingpin. Lift weights, read books, keep the boys in line—that's the gig. I ain't no hero, but I'm no Dahmer either. Back in the day, I slung dope across the South, grams to pounds, chasing hot girls, fast cars, cash, respect. Not the biggest fish, but I rubbed elbows with Sinaloa cartel psychos, gang lords who'd carve your heart out for a bad deal. Never touched the product—saw it turn men to walking corpses—but I had this dumbass thought I could snort a line and walk away, Mr. Iron Will I would always think. Yeah, real genius, Jamie. I'm a piece of shit, sure, but those junkies would've scored somewhere. I just made sure it was my pocket getting lined.
Getting caught was a fucking breeze. Phones tapped, cars bugged. My grade-school buddy ratted me out, too spineless to eat his time. Cops dangled a deal—snitch and skate—but I wasn't dumb enough to cross the cartels. They'd gut my whole family tree, leave bodies in the desert. So I zipped it, took a light sentence that my Lawyer was able to get for me. Should've been out, but prison is a different kind of animal. it will chew you up and spit you back out if you let it. I was never racist but prison had a system, everyone stuck with their own whites with whites, Blacks with Blacks, Hispanics with Hispanics, Asians with Asians. I don't care about race, but you play by the rules or you're lunch. Someone steps, you smash them, or you're everybody's bitch. I ran my wing tight, fists bloody from keeping order, until the Woods—white gang—tested me. "Prove you're one of us," their boss growled, tossing me a rusty shank. "Pedo in the showers. Handle it."
I found the creep, all weasel eyes and greasy hair. Fucking lowlife. The shank was heavy, but my fists moved first, slamming his face, nose popping like a cherry, blood spraying the tiles. He crumpled, squealing, but I kept swinging—crunch, crunch—his cheekbone caved, teeth splintered into red mush. Forgot the knife, just pounded, my knuckles screaming, then stomped his skull, boots thudding, blood pooling like spilled wine. He twitched, then stopped. I bolted, hands throbbing, heart jackhammering. Piece of trash deserved it. Later, they said his brain swelled, lights out. I killed a guy with my bare hands. Felt nothing—not pride, not guilt, just cold, like I left something on those tiles. Guess I'm a real badass now, huh?
Prison was all sweat and books. I'd pump iron, then lose myself in history—Romans, Franks, Saxons, the whole gritty saga. My escape from this concrete hell. The white boys here loved yapping about their Viking blood, but those numbskulls wouldn't know a longship from a laundry basket. Me? I dug into the real stuff—who my ancestors bashed, what they built. Western history was my jam; nothing like a good ol' tale of swords and betrayal to make this place bearable. But now? I'm royally boned. They tossed me into the violent wing, where I'm about as powerful as a soggy napkin. Enter Tucker, a 6'2" tatted gorilla whose brother OD'd on my stash years back. Guy holds a grudge like it's an Olympic sport. His crew's been eyeing me like I'm a steak in a dog pound, and I've been in this zoo long enough to smell trouble brewing. So here I am, scribbling my last stand-up routine, 'cause if I'm going down, I might as well crack a smile first. Curtain's closing, Jamie—hope someone gets a chuckle out of this mess
"Interrupting, bitch?" Tucker growled, blocking my cell door, ink crawling up his neck, five goons behind him, shivs glinting like cheap jewelry. At 6'3", I wasn't much bigger, but I've scrapped worse. "Yeah, ruining my beauty sleep," I shot back, smirking. "Fuck off before I rearrange your face, tough guy." Tucker's grin was pure venom. "You'll be real pretty when you're dead, funny man."
I swung first, fist smashing his nose, cartilage snapping like a dry stick, blood gushing like a busted faucet. Eat that, asshole. I grabbed his neck, yanking him into a clinch, my knee slamming his gut, air whooshing out like a popped tire. My elbow cracked his jaw, teeth flying like dice, blood splattering the wall. His boys piled on, shivs slicing—my ribs burned, then my thigh, blood soaking my jumpsuit, sticky and hot. I roared, smashing a goon's face, cheekbone collapsing with a wet pop, his scream high-pitched. Another blade stabbed my chest, pain like fire, but I kicked a guy's knee, snapping it backward, cartilage tearing like cloth. Tucker's fist caught my chin, vision exploding, but I headbutted him, his forehead splitting, blood blinding him like red rain.
They swarmed, shivs plunging—gut, shoulder, side, a dozen cuts, maybe twenty. Blood poured, pooling under me, my legs folding like cheap chairs. I fought like a cornered dog, fists cracking bone, but the world blurred, heavy with iron and pain. Tucker spat on me, snarling, "Choke on it, bastard." I coughed, blood in my teeth, and rasped, "You punch like my grandma, prick." His boot slammed my ribs, cracking like firewood, and I hit the floor, blood seeping, life leaking. Fucking hell, what a way to go.
Lying there, my life flashed—cars, cash, girls—a blur, mostly garbage. Nice job, Jamie, real legacy. Hell waiting? Maybe. Saxons said a hard fight got you Valhalla. Greeks, Romans, same shit. I gave it my all, busted heads good. No one could say I went soft. Blood pooled, cold now, breath fading. Hope the next life's got better odds. Eyes closed, and I was gone.