Autobiography of a Recovering Skinhead by Frank Meeink

Author:Frank Meeink [Meeink, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
Publisher: Hawthorne Books
Published: 2010-09-19T14:00:00+00:00

A FEW DAYS later, I was transferred to Big Muddy State Penitentiary, the prison the Spades players in Springfield had made such a big deal about because of it being air-conditioned. When the bus stopped and the doors opened, I understood why: southern Illinois is a lot farther south than it looks on a map. It was July and I swear I thought my brain was going to melt walking from the bus into the building.

From what I’ve heard, Big Muddy is where Illinois warehouses sex offenders these days, but in the early 1990s, it was a regular maximum-security prison. At Graham, it had seemed like half the dudes I met were either on their way into the system or on their way out. Big Muddy inmates were just there: most had already been locked up for years; some would be locked up for life. Guys who count down by decades instead of days don’t tend to worry about getting into more trouble.

In a twisted way, that made life pretty bearable inside Big Muddy. If the black market at Graham had impressed me, what I encountered at Big Muddy blew my fucking mind. Full-size joints replaced pinners. Instant soup took a backseat to hooch. If I’d wanted it, cocaine and heroin were there for the buying. So was porn. So were pretty-boy whores.

My first trip out to the yard at Big Muddy, I had my eyes peeled for Aryans of any stripe. There were little packs of white inmates lolling around in different areas, but I knew not all of them could be trusted. Some would be Simon City Royals. The last thing I needed was to have the Aryan Brotherhood’s first impression being me talking to a Folk gang. I scanned ink to get my bearings, looking for the blood-drop cross of the Klan, the shamrock brand of the Brotherhood, or at the very least, Harley Davidson logos.

The Aryan Nationalists and the bikers were so tight inside Big Muddy that I don’t think they even knew who was who for certain. They were like an old married couple that’s been together so long they start looking alike. The head of the bikers was a rabid but unaffiliated racist who went by the nickname Peaches, and the boss of the Aryan Nationalists was a biker named Digger.

When it came to black market business, Peaches called the shots because he had unbelievable connections on the outside and the highest tolerance for pain of any human I’ve ever met. Peaches was one of those dudes like my dad whose attitude made his body seem a lot bigger than it was. But his attitude hadn’t helped much when he took a bad tackle playing football in the yard. His shoulder snapped. From what I heard, he didn’t even flinch. Then he turned the injury into the asset that let him corner the market at Big Muddy. Every week, when his old lady came to visit, she tucked drug orders into his cast. And

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