Tuesday, November 15, 2016

"The Pink Princess" (Part III)

The Pink Princess

Part III

Starting to trip... I can feel the surge of adrenaline go through my body as my heart beats faster and faster in turn pumping even more adrenaline into my system and the cycle continues to repeat it self. Damn, who , besides me is up this time of night , bumping they radio loud enough for me to hear it? I don't recognize the song, but the "beat" sounds familiar? Oh shit! Is that my heart beat? I look down and see my "shirt jumping", like there's a cricket trying to jump off my chest and through the left center part of my shirt in an attempt to escape. It is my heart!

My chest is gonna hurt/be sore in the morning from beating so hard, but as long as it doesn't jump out and hit the floor right now, it won't blow my high. No time for this useless inner self dialog, I need to do something with all this energy I got. I don't know "what" I'm gonna do, but it's gonna be Great, Legendary, Spectacular all that, but it's gonna start with the 1st most important step of any of my ingenious plans... "I need to smoke a cigarette!" "I'm freaking Awesome!", I think to myself on the way to my bunk to get a square. I already know there are no more cigarettes in my left sock where I usually keep 1 or 2, but at the same time I was thinking "how freaking awesome I am", I had lifted my leg, knee to chest like a flamingo, placing my ankle within reach of my hands, and did a quick check.

I imagine if someone had seen me standing there on one leg like a flamingo it would have looked cray cray, but fortunately my imagination was somewhere in oblivion. Off to my bunk to re up on a smoke. I'm moving so fast, I feel like I've only taken one step and I'm already in the dorm area bypassing the normal 10 to 15 steps necessary to travel from the back stall, pass the officer station and water fountain again. "Rizm, slow down! Your'e gonna miss your turn", I hear a little voice in my head say. I don't recognize the voice as friend or foe, it's unidentified, but I listen cause I figured if the voice is in "my head" then it must be one of the "good guys", right? I'm make a quick right turn with my body as if I'm whipping my rydye on the street. Ironically, once again the normal amount of steps it takes to cover the distance to my bunk have been by passed.

I've arrived! Already, I can taste the cigarette in my mouth and feel smoke caressing my lungs, even though I have neither retrieved nor lit my square. Getting anxious....I think to myself, "Dude, you standing up here fantasizing about smoking, when you could actually be puffin on a square in reality, right now time!" "Tighten up going in ya "house", get what you need to light the fireplace and get to smoking like a chimney." I ready my body to do a squat down to where my house/footlocker is located on the floor. [Yeah, a squat. I don't do no "bending straight over like a toe-touch" in prison, feel me. If You've been, then you understand.]

Upon reaching ground level 19.......7.......17.......Nothing?! 19.......7.......17....... Still nothing?! With
my heart beat still racing so fast I can feel it pounding in my chest, I focus in on slowing the pace at which I enter the numbers on my combination lock. This lock been wit me and served me well for the last 7 years and some change. Would've been longer but Lock #1 was compromised in earlier days when I went to the box. It was either give up the digits or the PoPo was gonna cut it off my footlocker, so I gave them the combo, but I can't trust a lock somebody else has combination to. He served his purpose for the time allotted and I learned my lesson. Now I keep 2 locks, one for daytime cause I'm more likely to go to the box/jail over some stupid shit and If I gotta give the number up to PoPo "this" is the one I'm willing to sacrifice for the sake of preserving the integrity of #2, Ole Red. I call him "Ole Red" cause he's been with me the longest, securing and holding it down for me, thus, the first name being "Old", and "Red" cause.......I know the color is metallic and the dial has black paint with white numbers and marks painted overlaying. "Ole Red" has put in some work for me outside of keeping things locked down and secure.

He's been hanging off the end of a belt busting a head to the white meat before [Another reason I don't want him confiscated or compromised by the Police, at the time] and although I've washed him more times than I can count and it's been a minute since I've put him to work, whenever I look at him, I swear he has a "red tint" to it's metallic color. I still don't know if what I see is real or just my mind playing tricks on me. Sometimes I get a lil paranoid and wonder if I'm the only one that sees blood residue or is it apparent to others as well. I've entered these numbers at least a million times over the years so why my trusted lock is identifying the code as foreign and unfamiliar, refusing to grant me access into my own house is simultaneously puzzling and frustrating me. My anxiousness is increasing by the second...19.......7.......17....... Ugh!

Ok, 19.......7.......17.......19.......7.......17.......19.......7.......17...... Ugh! What the f**k! I can't believe this sh**! I grunt scream, not knowing whether or not I just said it to myself or out loud in an audible voice for others to hear, as I give the lock a good hard quick yank as if I have super powers that will enable me to just rip it off with my bare hand. Surprise! Yeah, unexpected to me, it's still locked. Baffled by this, but not having the time to be, due to interruption of Plan B being inserted into my brain. [I keep a "Plan B" in my back pocket, and my backup plan has a backup plan. Surviving in this jungle has taught me among other things to be over rather than under prepared.] I keep a razor broken down to just the blade, under the top corner of my mattress. Over the years, I've learned how to use the small piece of metal as a key of sorts, in an emergency such as this one. I know what you're thinking. You wondering if breaking in lockers is my thing? "Nah, that ain't my MO". Although, I have come out my bag a number of times, only when necessary, [Hunger will make you do some things. My philosophy being, "I may die, but I ain't gone just sit here and starve to death."]

If it comes down to it, I don't steal, I "take" up front in ya face, feel me. So I only use this skill on my own property. Before I can think to spring up, like a Jack in the box, I've done it. Going to reach for my lil home made key.......Skiiiiiiiirt....... I slam on the breaks.......What in the FUCK!........There is a suicidal nigga in my bed! WTF! I say this nigga is suicidal, because he gotta be! That's the only logical reason I can think of why this Fuck Nigga is on my rack. It's obvious to me, dis Fuck nigga wanna die and his pussy ass ain't got the guts to kill himself! Pussy Bitch! I betcha Rizm got the remedy! For the most part I stay wit that "Woo"! I keep a shank on me from Sun up to Sun down and a lil bit after. I normally be Strapped up until bout 10 p.m. when the dorm has settled down for the night. [again, for the most part] I figured between around 11 p. m.- 4:30 a.m. I'm less likely to have to stab a nigga up. Guess I figured wrong tonight.

On the opposite side of my mattress, opposite side where I keep the "key", there's a thread loose where the seams meet and the mattress is sown together. Well, at least it's supposed to be completely sown up, but mine has been altered. It's been purposely altered so that upon pulling on the one loose thread, it opens up a small hole just large enough to slip a finger in, then a second finger, then a 3rd, 4th, until finally my whole hand is in. The mattress continues to swallow my whole arm, going past my elbow and up my bicep before being halted by my shoulder. My exploratory hand would retrieve my knife upon arrival to the marked destination in the stomach of my mattress. Once again, before I can finish "thinking" move to the other side of the bunk, I'm, there, like I'm the Flash or have Teleportation capabilities.

On the other side of my bunk, there's no loose thread. Am I so high I can't find my thread? Hell nah!, but the fact is , There is no thread! With this new info saturating and Boggling my brain, The only scenario that I can logically come up with at this point is that whatever dude that had the nerve to lay down in my rack, not only somehow knew where my secret spot for hiding my shank was, but had the balls to steal my Woo from its spot, as well. If this nigga got my knife in addition to whatever he had before he stole mine, [ I won't even be dumb enough to think or assume he came to the party empty handed.] this could prove to be a serious problem. Ok, "This nigga's waking up!

What's it gone be, Bru?", I question myself. I'm feeling mixed emotions of #1) panic attached to fear due to the knowledge of meeting this potential enemy tryna set me up to be in a knife fight with no knife. [Don't like how these odds are stacking up against me.] and #2) Matched with adrenaline fuel by anger due to this bozo ass nigga tryin me. Never the less, I have a back up plan. [My backup plans have backup plans, remember.] I feel I'll have a better chance to get my point across if I'm armed with the proper tool. Back in the bathroom, up in the ceiling, the last light over the row of sinks, on the inner side panel, if I pop the cover off exposing the bulbs, I gotta shank duck tapped to the inside. About to take off in that direction......I feel a sturdy hand on my shoulder.


Disclaimer: (*Based on a True Story. Names, locations, dates, times, details, etc. have been altered with respect to the sensitivity of the graphic nature of contents.) [*For Entertainment purposes Only.]

Monday, November 7, 2016

The Pink Princess Part 2

The Pink Princess 

Part 2

I take my seated position on the galvanized steal clone, leaving my pants up and in their original position around my waist because the business I'm about to handle doesn't require me to remove my garments. The Pink Princess and I can have intimacy and sex without me ever taking off one article of clothing. I retrieve a bald up piece of toilet paper from my pants pocket and began unwrapping the Pink Princess.  As soon as she catches my gaze, I'm instantly hypnotized.  She loosens the shackles of her trance allowing me just enough of the illusion of freedom to fulfill the given assignment in front of me.  

She's getting lonely there in my system all by herself. When just a short time ago she ran rampant all through my blood stream there are now only traces of where she once was.  She's dying.  Her powers are fading and my high escape plan along with them.  "Can't let her die," I think as I unwrap the present's presents, unraveling the wet toilet paper wrapping paper I began to remove the "Pink Princess."  Just 3 pills... I mean I'm not trying to overdue it, right?

Push it to the limit, of course, overdue it, no thanks.  Plus I ain't trying to get high evidence of my earlier intoxication still lingering.  I realize the pills have slightly melted and have little pieces of toilet paper stuck to them.  "Oh well, a little pieces of toilet paper never hurt or killed nobody?  Down the hatch they go.  I finally swallowed the mouth full of water I was holding along with "Pink Princess."  I decide to sit and wait for her to arrive in the pit of my stomach, multiply in my blood and take control.  

As I sit there like a statue stuck on stupid, minutes turn to hours and hours turn into more hours.  I don't know where I've been, I just know I haven't been "here". A flash-flood of murky memories from a journey I don't remember has led me on travels transcending galaxies, time zones and even the impenetrable shackles of the "modern day mind slavery" that have not only my ankles and wrist bound but with efficient precision have imprisoned my mind(Where the head goes the body follows.). The Pink Princess is dominant in every ring, in any arena she holds the title with a vice grip. Suddenly, like lightening striking, it dawns on me. "I've been sitting here too long." I get up and calmly began to walk out the bathroom and make it half way before I realize that this is not really happening, except in my minds eye and the actual scenario that is transpiring is me in an "attempt" to get up and walk out the bathroom, starting to slide off and down the toilet onto the floor, now observing that I've been sitting here so long the rim of the toilet has cut the circulation of blood flow to my legs.

They have fallen asleep on me. I can't feel them at all below the knees. I can't feel my feet. Are my ankles there? Anybody seen my ankles? I try to grab a hold of the stall wall for support using my left hand, but somehow manage to miss a big ass wall and just end up bumping my head on it. I don't know how hard, cause I only "heard" it, I didn't feel it and have already forgotten it as I prepare to try to brace for the half fall with my right arm. My right hand and the floor connect slowing down the next meeting scheduled to introduce my face to the floor. I quickly bring in "Lefty" that previously made a failed attempt, in to support "Righty". Face to Floor meeting, CANCELED.

In one quick motion I somehow manage to push myself up off the floor and onto the toilet. I have the "bright idea" that if I just continue to sit here doing the exact same thing I did before that will give my sleeping legs time to wake up, problem solved. Brilliant, right? I have patience ... as long as I have the Pink Princess. Then I have my second "bright idea", cigarettes. I need a cigarette. That would feel so good right now, never mind the fact I can't feel my legs. Pink Princess seems to make everything better including cigarettes! My next thought, socks. I keep cigarettes in my socks!

I reach down to get a cigarette from my left sock and almost fall completely off the toilet again. "Hey, why can't I feel anything from the knee down?!" Why can't I feel my legs? [Having already forgotten the experience I had less than 5 minutes ago that ended me up back on the toilet.] Anyway, who has time to spend trying to figure that out, when I'm immersed in recovering my cigarette from my sock, which is near the floor that my 2 feet are touching but I can't feel them and without the support of my legs balancing myself on this toilet seat is proving to be challenging, but I'm up for it. I complete my mission without busting my ass again and retrieve my wet cigarette.

I have a wet piece of pink tissue paper neatly folded into a perfect square about the size of a quarter but thicker. Wait a minute, "why is everything coming out of my sock, wet"?  Oh yeah, Pink Princess makes me sweat a lot and everywhere, apparently even my ankles.  No problem, "Pink Princess" is always there to offer me helpful solutions in situations of crisis like this one.  I pull out my fire or lighter from the right sock where I normally keep it.  I flick it flame on and began to use the heat source to dry my cancer stick being careful to only dry it, not burn it.

Satisfied with my work I use the same flame thrower to light my cigarette.  I take the first of two long drags from my cancer stick, exhale and repeat.  "Pink Princess" does make cigarettes better, I think, as I exhale the 2nd drag.

The wet piece of folded pink toilet paper runs across the screen of my mind, and I simultaneously examine the way my lungs react to the caress of the smoke from drag number three.  I was already blankly staring at the wet pink squares but now I focus in.  Usain Bolt ain't got nothing on my brains train of thought running a mile a minute.  Immediately, I recognize what it is.  The wet tissue is unable to be unfolded.  The thought crosses my mind to try the same trick I used to dry my cigarette.  I let it pass.  I now know what's inside and I can't risk damaging the precious cargo inside.  I gently tear open the sweat soaked tissue paper to discover the melted pink princesses fragile capsule covering fused into the wet toilet paper exposing the white powdery substance inside her.

Having forgotten that I just came back here to "pop-off" I "remember" that I came back here to "pop-off."  There's about 5 or 6 pills here that I had hidden in my sock from earlier and forgot I hid them there.  So of course, I think I just placed it there before coming into the bathroom to "pop-off this first time as I stare at the glob of grayish white melted gel capsules. White powdery substances and wet tissue paper pink from all the bleeding dye no longer on the capsules' coverings.  "Can't let this go to waste."

"Only one choice I see"...before I can finish my thought of figuring out what the "one" choice I see is, I feel myself swallow.  I didn't even realize I'd moved an inch.  I just felt myself swallow, looking at my hand as if I'd never stopped looking at it in the first place, the messy glob is gone, and a quick glance around the floor shows I didn't drop it, only a slight pink stain in my hand where I once held her so I guess my only option was "down the hatch.

Normally, it takes at least a few minutes for her to go to work, having to fight through the capsule's material acting as a barricade to the entrance of her freedom.  With no "barrier", like a line of that good coke straight to the head she is immediately granted her "All Access" backstage pass to the inner workings of my circulatory system.  I simultaneously began to feel her effects.

Wait a minute this is different.  I feel "super crunk" like never before.  I feel awesome!  Even though it has yet to register that the reason I feel so "extra" awesome is cause I took an extra overdose.  My high is high and my "out of control" is "OUT OF CONTROL."

                       *****TO BE CONTINUED****

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

The Pink Princess Part 1

"The Pink Princess"

By Rizm

The Pink Princess is a true story based on one of my many countless escapades detailing just one of my multiple addictions.  This one in particular was a pill I nicknamed "Pink Princess", obviously.  One for her pink color and two because it had me feeling like it was more of a person than a pill.  We had an abusive relationship to which I found myself to be an even more torturous form of slavery, than the pain I experience in the belly of the physical prison I was residing.  Until late one night when He found me in the darkness, lifted me up out the pig pen like the Prodigal Son, and brought me back home to the remembrance that He's Bigger Than any giant I face. 


"I'm going through so many things
don't know what to do
My head is spinning 
tryna figure out what to do
Thought I had a grip on life
In spite of it
On the real God
I can't handle it
I'm grown up, so I ain't a little boy no more
Won a few battles, but I'm so tired of loosing this war
I ain't big enough, for the biggest One I wrote this song
Run to throne, not the phone"

It's ironic how different the circumstances of my life are right now, as I listen to these words, in comparison to where I was physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually when the words were first written on paper.

Amazement of another form begins to cover me.  How unfamiliar the voice of the artist sounds, even though, because I know the heart of the source from which the words flow, I know the voice is my own.  The man who wrote the words was a prisoner, but the man singing the words is free, yet they are one in the same.  That God could find some good use for a dirty, broken and worn out vessel like me.  Yeah! You got it.  Amazing!

I wrote "Bigger Than" at three something in the morning sitting on the cold back stall of the prison bathroom.  A place where birthday's, Thanksgiving and even Christmas do not serve as celebratory markers in time.  I'm sitting on a galvanized steel clone toilet in the back stall of the institutions dorm C.  The cold steel has no respect for the material of my government issued pants and shows it by stretching its reach all the way to the marrow of my femur (ya'll know that big bone in ya thigh).
I tolerate the uncomfortable feeling because it's not life threatening and there is a "Bigger" giant that needs to be slayed.

As I sit, I'm staring not at, but into the small pink pill, being embraced by my thumb and pointer finger.  The pill should have been in my mouth swallowed, partially digested and beginning to enter my blood stream and do it's cause and effect thing to my bodily functions, but instead it's between my fingers.  Not even in my hand, because the outer capsule is so sensitive that the heat my own body generated would melt it.

Normally, I don't take the time to look at it before I "pop off".  The pill that is, but this time I did stop to glance at it and the glance turned into a gaze and the gaze turned into a "moment of reflection". I stared into this little pink pill, that under normal circumstances I consume. It sucked me in and consumed me.  Predator has just become prey.  I saw myself.  Not the dude sitting on the toilet in the back stall holding the little pink pill.  Not even who I could be, but who I really am without the pill in my hand.

I see myself before I ever met the "Pink Princess."  Her elegance and beauty are mere deceptions to blind me of the fact that she's killing me from the inside out, spiritually, physically, mentally, and emotionally.  But before I die, she has predestined me to be her slave for what remains of my life.  I'm lost in the abyss of my thoughts and drowning in the memories of my true self like quick sand.  I remember that it's going on year number eight and some change for me in this hell hole.

These last eight years, I've earned my respect in this place but "The Pink Princess" has no respect for me.  She's made me lose respect for myself and it's blatant.  Everyone get respect just on GP until you give me a reason not to respect you and then it might take you a lifetime to earn it back.  I originally thought this was the experience of my scenario with the "pink princess."  I thought she would respect me, who I was, what I had been through, my strength, reputation, and the stripes I've earned.  I thought wrong.  She ain't see none of that.  She never respected me.  Not even at the beginning.  Here mere introduction into my life directly disrespected and violated the very core of who I am and my character.

I recall being up late one night, which isn't out of the ordinary for me.  I'm on the top bunk, headphones on riding out.  It's about 2 something in the morning.  Me and the "pink princess" have been dancing all night, but we so caught up in the extra additional experience of the feelings music brings into our already highly intoxicating situation, that we have cease to care about the pain of our feet hurting.  Her presence numbs me to the pain, but the fact that for even one second I took my focus off the music and payed attention to the thought of feeling the pain was a reminder to me that slowly but surely we were descending from the clouds, our high coming down with us and by the time we've hit the ground it won't be "we" it'll be just "me."  Me in the lonely bottomless pit that is myself.

This also reminds me that if I don't want to crash, I need to refuel my jet and pop a couple few more pills.  After grabbing the pink princess from her designated hiding spot in the crease cuffed fold of my military style bed make up. I could just "pop-off" and take the pills right here without ever leaving the bunk.  It's as dark as its gonna get and "almost" everyone is sleeping aside from the true Night Owls like myself scattered throughout the dorm.  None close enough to be able to detect what I'm doing through the shadows of darkness and I can swallow the pills without water no problem, but popping the "pink princess" always makes me extra paranoid.

The paranoia she brings is an animal of a different breed.  I feel intense shame when I pop off in front of people.  When I first started, like almost everything else I did, I was shamefully unashamed.  "You do you, cause fa sho I'ma do me, close your eyes, is all I can tell ya, if you don't like what you see," is the line I would spit expressing how I felt, but I had a couple of my close homies tell me how I changed and transformed into someone they've never met or seen, when I pop off and not in a good way.  But like the way a crack-head transforms after he's hit the pipe.  There are two types of crackheads: functional and dysfunctional.  A functional crackhead is somebody that do they "thing" but they're still somehow able to live a "normal" life, even being capable of having a successful career.

Indulgence in the "pink princess" leads me to fall in the latter of the two crackhead categories causing me to display the character of one who is utterly controlled, ruled by and enslaved to "junkie behavior."  I felt unimaginably good feelings with her, but she had me acting all out my character. When I found the "pink princess" I lost respect for myself.

After grabbing my date I began to slowly climb down from off top of the off balanced bunk showing
as much respect for my sleeping bunkie below as possible.  I began to make my way to the bathroom, but on the way I stop off to the water fountain next to the officer station.  Yep, asleep as usual.  I take big gulps of water.  Normally I don't drink this much water, but because I haven't eaten in a few days, not because I couldn't, my locker filled, but I don't like nothing else being in my system, when "pink princess" is in my system.  She's jealous, demanding to have me all to herself, so inspite of hunger pains and feeling the direct effects of the physical damage being done to my body by her cause and effect of ignored warnings against taking her without food on the stomach, I take off.  I'm caught in her web like prey in the silky chains of a black widow.  Her venom numbs me to the pain her poison is inflicting on me.

In true junkie fashion I'd rather get high than eat and float away to my demise on a ignorant cloud of bliss.  Maybe I ignore it because the pain I was trying to escape seemed so much bigger than any pain I thought she could ever cause me.  A lot of times, I don't even drink water because I don't want to dilute her before she enters my blood stream.  Like I said its been awhile since I've eaten or drank anything, so I drink water so I don't go into dehydration not cause I'm so concerned about my own health but because if I get sick or pass out from dehydration it'll blow my high.  Simple logic people.  I don't want to get fucked up and die not cause I'm worried about dying, but I seriously feel like dying would put obstacles in the way of me continuing to get high, that to say the least present themselves as challenging.  "I don't want to get that high, it kinda defeats the whole purpose, don't you think?"  Is what I used to say.  Looking back in hindsight  I realize how retarded my mind frame was at the time.
I had the 3rd gulp from the water fountain in my mouth without swallowing and continuing making my way to the bathroom. I pass all of the front stalls and straight to the back I go and plant my "flag" which is a role of toilet paper with about 6 or 7 squares unrolled signaling to any travelers starting to wonder far back here in this kut, not to.  Anybody see it knows that it's somebody already back here handling some business that's none of their own.

Edited by Candace Smith

 *******TO BE CONTINUED*******



*Disclaimer- Due to the nature of this story some events, names, locations, dates, and details have been altered.  This story is for entertainment purposes only.