Matt (Part 3 by Warrior)

Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
Click here for Matt Part 2.

As Matt and I headed back down the linoleum hall to the transportion area to retrieve our ID’s, we passed a masonite desk and dry erase board. The escorting officer was a female, fiftyish, short, stout, with graying blond hair. Her reading glasses resting on the edge of her nose made her seem grandmotherly as she peered over them. She gave us our ID’s, careful not to let our fingers touch – most female staff are cautious about the smallest contact.
We walked the 50-yard hall, passing each holding cell. Some prisoners were at the windows, wondering who they’d see go by. Others were caught up in conversations that echoed down the corridor. The topics ranged from wives and family to first-crime stories and gossip about other convicts throughout the system.
As we approached the last holding cell to the right, there was a corridor a few paces in front. Another female officer was stood at attention, telling the inmate behind her to halt as we were to pass by.

Prison instinct dictates, know ones surroundings, recognize frames, postures and faces immediately. Every inmate has a list of rivals, hostile parties, or arch enemies he has to watch out for. Personalities clash moreover in prison.

The female guard that intersected us was sickly thin, about 5’ 2”, with black hair. Her premature frame exaggerated her radio and cuff belt. She looked like a young girl costumed up for Halloween.

I immediately recognized the inmate behind the young guard. He was short, but bull-like in frame. He had a pointed nose like a hawk, razor-shaved head, and close set eyes that appeared to be crossed. He was sleeved in ink from neck to wrists. Swastikas. Iron crosses. The traditional white prison tattoos. It was Midget.

My first thought was, What are the chances of this? Life’s coincidences are ironic like that: talk smack about someone and the next thing you know they’re standing right behind you. My next thought was, This isn’t good.

Midget in turn recognized me. The largest figure is always sized up first, and I was the largest out of Matt and me. Midget said nothing to me as his eyes moved over to Matt. Their eyes met. A feeling rose from the pit of my stomach, the hairs on the back of my head stood on end. After so many years, a sixth sense for violence becomes second nature, as automatic as breathing. Something was about to happen, but I didn’t know how severe it would be. I braced myself.
The hostility between Matt and Midget was apparent. The tension in the air between them suffocated me as well. Midget, Matt and I were tensed up as though waiting to hear the starting gun of a race. Then – bang! – the gun sounded.
Midget scowled at Matt, and called him a “Fuckin’ punk” with a tone of discontent.
What happened next caught me by total surprise…

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

The final part of this story will be posted next week.

Links to more prison stories by Warrior:
Warrior v Big E.
Rapist on the Yard
Bucket of Blood
Central Unit

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Shaun Attwood