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Instagram Teaser #3a

He’d move around the bonfire like a boxer who’d just parted the ropes and was circling the ring waiting for the challenger. Then, like a bell had rung, he’d begin the battle, hopping up and down, thrashing about, grappling with the massive phone book, struggling to get the right grip. Once the pages started to tear, he’d stop and slump over, like a wrestler with a death grip on his opponent. His back muscles swelled through his T-shirt, his whole body shaking.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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Weight Pit #4

The “Weight Pit” is an area behind the kitchen dock where free weights are strewn around under a small outdoor shelter with a slanted roof. There were 20 to 30 guys pumping iron. Most were shirtless, wearing just khaki pants and black army boots. Some wore gray sweat pants and gym shoes. A lot of the black guys were wearing do-rags or versions of Arabian head scarfs.

I have never seen so many tattoos; some were covered from head to ankles. Most everyone had at least a couple, and now I was wishing that I had even just one. Unlike in the dormitory where nobody seemed to notice my arrival, it was like I’d walked into an exclusive club without membership. The stares were direct and arrogant, and with complete intention. This was the inmate’s house. This would be a different game with different rules.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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“Michael’s descriptions of his time in prison are so vivid that I felt like I was right there with him experiencing it, too. This book is inspiring with how he came through the devastating years of hard times with such a positive outlook in life. His writing touched my heart as well as the friends and family that I have shared his story with. I truly believe that God will use his story to encourage others. Great work!” AMAZON Customer. See all reviews at http://www.amazon.com/dp/1539872718 #bookreviews #onlyinchicago #goodreads #pageturner #amazonbooks

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“Lowecki,” Vic said reading my name off the tag on the upper breast pocket of my shirt, just under the federal ID number, 18099-424.

“What’s that Polish! or something like dadt?” The Kramer-looking guy, Nicki, asked, and I wanted to punch him.

“No, it’s Russian… the name was shortened when my grandfather came over from Kiev and went through Ellis Island,” I snapped back.

I felt a gust of confidence come over me, and there was this brief awkward moment when the group silently agreed with each other, by nods of skepticism, that maybe they didn’t know as much about me as they originally thought.

“Well… we know you ain’t a ‘Rat’…, cause you didn’t cooperate wit the feds. Ain’t that right, Vic?” said the patsy Nicki, asking the “Don” for approval. There were nods of approval around the small posse and my admission was confirmed.

“Just do your time, don’t talk too much, and make sure you’re always at your bunk for count,” Vic explained. “The COs count all the inmates at 4:00 o’clock, 9:00 o’clock, midnight, 3:00 AM and again at 5:00 AM. There’s also an additional count on Saturday and Sunday at 10:00 AM. Be standing at your bunk when they file through or its to the Hole. Chow is served at 6:00 AM, 11:00 AM, and 4:30 PM.” Vic finished up and looked at his watch. Our little get-together was about to adjourn.

“Three o’clock… take a walk, kid. Look around. Go out in the rec yard and get some air. But be sure to be at your bunk before four.” Vic gave his final instructions, got up and his crew and I followed him back up the stairs and out of the basement.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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The camp clerk was a real flamer named Hector, better known in prison as a “bone smuggler”, or the submissive one in a homosexual act. He was the bitchy inmate who gave the orientation in the clothing area that afternoon. The camp clerk was privy to much of the operations inside the prison, including: the timing of when goods were coming into the kitchen and commissary, who was going home, who was being released to the US Marshal for testimony in upcoming trials, and who was on their way to Leavenworth. Well, Hector was on the Chicago crew’s payroll so to speak. He gave them information so they got first dibs on food items and other condiments hitting the prison black market. They also knew who was coming and going before anyone else in the camp, which reinforced their rank. In turn I’m sure Hector was getting duked – oh, excuse the pun − no way were Vic and Rocco “light in the loafers”, but little Nicki, you never know.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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Tatted Latino

I was putting a sheet around the lower mattress when I felt the presence of someone who had come up from behind me. From the corner of my eye I observed a Latino dude, bare chested with numerous tattoos, and a shaved head standing next to the lockers. Without looking up at him, I noticed he had something in his hand.

“Hey bro… wipe that mattress off before you roll out. You don’t want no bullshit. Staph is really bad here, brother.” The inmate took a step closer and handed me a plastic spray bottle.

“Oh yeah, thanks a lot,” I said, feeling ignorant.

“That shit kills anything, spray it on a fuckin’ cockroach… and the motherfucker will flip on his fuckin’ back and go to sleep,” he said with a heavy ghetto Hispanic accent.

“There are towels in the locker, inside the shitter, bro,” and the inmate walked away.

“You got it, man. Where is the shitter?” I called after him.

“I got it bro… whaz yur name?” he yelled back.

“Mike!” I hollered, then felt embarrassed for raising my voice.

“Okay, Mikey… pull that fuckin’ mattress off your rack,” he shouted a distance farther down the dorm, then disappeared into a room off to the right.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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Several inmates eyed our entourage through open windows before we entered into the control center of the prison. Inside the control center a guard sitting behind several TV monitors removed the cap from a Mountain Dew bottle and took a big gulp. He slowly screwed the cap back on and belched loudly; leaned forward and gazed intently at the screen to his left.

Boss Hog 

“Motherfuckers, I’m gonna lock someone up tonight,” he said, turning in his chair toward us. 

He stood up and pulled the back of his pants up with one hand, tucking in the front of his shirt with the other hand behind a hidden belt buckle under his protruding gut. He grabbed a clipboard from the top of the desk and flipped over the top page.  

“Who’s Lawiski?” he growled.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play  http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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I suspected he was not new to the system by the way he was dressed. His garments were identical to mine, right down to those dreadful shoes. But the way he looked told a different story than mine. 

Prison Ink

He was wearing a plain gray stocking cap pulled down below his eyebrows. His shirt sleeves were neatly rolled up to just below his elbows exposing monstrous forearms. The veins in his arms rose up sharply, similar to a mountain range on a topography map, and were black compared to his already dark skin. Only the top button on his shirt was secured and I could see the green ink of a tattoo under the shadowy skin on his neck slipping out above the collar. The rest of his shirt lay open exposing a massive chest under a plain white undershirt. His waist appeared slender and his pants were only partially covering his behind.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play  http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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Prison Van

The prison van made a right turn from the main drive along the front of the USP onto a narrow strip of blacktop that ran the length of the prison. More fencing, razor wire and that giant concrete wall stretched out into the Kansas prairie. The open plain beyond the thin strip of blacktop we were driving down put the immensity of the penitentiary into perspective. A grassland field disappeared over a ridge at the far left rear corner of the prison, dropping off toward the Missouri River Valley below.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play  http://www.paytoplaythebook.com