I’m far from perfect. I’ve made grave mistakes in my life and I readily admit to my faults. We all make mistakes, but it’s what we learn from the mistakes that defines us. Not long after I arrived in A-1 cell-3, I started using drugs again. For a while I stayed away from the heavier stuff and just smoked pot, but as the guy “on the broom” each day, the amount of drugs that passed through my hands was incredible. Every day I handled heroin, coke, pot, LSD, crystal, and everything in between. I was trusted, and although I was not a gang member, everyone knew who I associated with and what I was capable of.
At first I took LSD and snorted coke, then heroin. I trusted my cellies enough to let my guard down around them, so I got high and partied.
Most of the men in the unit got high, but I didn’t do it because everyone did. I did it because I wanted to, because I found pleasure in my senses going into overdrive, and because it allowed me to escape. I became more aggressive, difficult, restless, and irritable because of the drug use. It muddled my thinking and drowned out my pain, making my situation seem less real and not as serious. It was a dangerous mindset to have in a place where life and death decisions were made by men who constantly preyed on any weakness they could find.
For the next few months, I continued my job as “sweeper.” I passed drugs, money, shanks, and kites, which are notes with instructions about the most sensitive matters that occur behind prison walls.
On a number of occasions, I dealt out serious beatings to those who challenged me or attempted to disrespect me. The truth is, I became as unstable as I had been on the outside. Drugs, power, and my temper controlled me. I wasn’t thinking. I acted without thought.
Looking back, I’m ashamed I allowed myself to sink to that level. I was young and I didn’t understand the consequences of my actions. How could I, when the men who made the rules respected me based upon my ability to take care of business?
Another encounter with Chili Red enhanced and elevated my status even more.
The unit went to dinner as it normally did. We entered the chow hall, walked in a straight line to a small port in the wall, and one by one received a tray passed to us through the port.
I was halfway to the port when I looked at the far wall of the chow hall and saw him. He sat among a score of his warriors and stared at me openly. I glared back and continued on my way to pick up my tray.
Huero touched my arm and said, “You see Chili?”
“Simón, ese, I got him,” I said.
“He won’t be coming alone. That puto has his guerrillas with him. I know some of them,” he said.
At that moment Richard, who was about six feet tall and 210 pounds of muscle, cut in line along with Monster and said, “Watcha, get your tray and sit down and let’s see what this bitch wants to do.”
Chili could summon more than thirty Africans to his side. It was the first time I had seen him since our dance in the shower. He was in F-unit on the fourth floor and I was in A-unit on the third floor. Normally, we would never cross paths. They ate in one chow hall on the fourth floor, and we ate in the one on the third floor.
Later, I learned repairs to their chow hall was the reason our paths crossed and they had advance notice of the possibility, which gave them time to prepare.
I picked up my tray, walked over to a table, and sat down along with Monster, Richard, and Huero. No one ate. We waited. The tables surrounding us were full of seasoned gladiators including Roy-Boy from San Diego, Shark, Midnight, and Jack from Whittier, Sporty, and Chente. There were at least forty Southern Mexican soldiers and Mexican Mafia associates with us. But none of that mattered to me. My eyes focused on Chili. There was no pretense here, no shield to drop at the last possible moment. I freely allowed my intent, my desires, and my hatred to show. This piece of shit was a rapist and I would gladly finish what I started. There was unfinished business between us, and as far as I was concerned, it was just him and me.
“Watcha, Monster, let me handle this. This punk motherfucker is scared. I’ll walk through him,” I said.
“He ain’t coming alone, ese,” Monster responded.
I continued to watch him as word spread among us that the shit might hit the fan, but everyone was to wait to see how things went.
Chili got up with six Guerrillas following close behind. They all left their trays on the table. The cops told him and his crew to sit down, but they ignored the cops.
I stood up and tipped my tray over to empty the food. The trays were made of metal, and even if he had a shank he no longer had an advantage. Huero, Monster, Shark, Chente, Richard, and Roy-Boy stood with me and advanced on Chili. I knew from the sound that some of them followed suit and carried their trays.
As we approached them, he and some of his crew pulled out shanks. Until that moment, I hadn’t fully understood their intentions. They didn’t want to simply fight and beat me up. Their intent all along was to kill me.
They kept coming, and at the last possible second I flipped my tray sideways and threw it like a boomerang, hitting Chili across the face. The edge of the tray opened up a gash on his cheekbone and staggered him. In his wildest nightmare, he never expected that. He made a mistake of epic proportions in underestimating me. He believed, since he had a piece and position, he had the advantage, and normally he would. However, battle is a moving, breathing element that changes. Unorthodox fighters will always surprise those who can’t adapt to change.
As he began to recover, I kicked him, and my right foot connected with his stomach, which knocked the wind out of him. He looked at me, and just as he reached out to steady himself on a table, I grabbed the hand that held the shank and twisted it to the side and toward me, breaking the wrist. He screamed, the shank fell to the ground, and I pounded him. The entire chow hall erupted into a fighting frenzy. All around me, men fought, and the cops ran out of the chow hall in fear for their lives.
After leaving Chili broken and bloodied on the floor, I turned and engaged another African, but, realizing their advantage was gone, he turned and ran. Huero pounded another into the ground, and as I looked around, most of the fighting had stopped, except Monster, who was in a frenzy.
One African lay at his feet and he had another one by the throat and was stabbing him repeatedly. He had taken the piece from one of them and was making them pay for their mistake of following a flawed leader into battle. The viciousness of his movements was incredible to watch. He reminded me of a dancer, and my admiration for him grew. He was a gladiator, a warrior, a man who backed up his words with action.
When it was all over, which took less than a minute, more than thirteen of their ranks were taken to the hospital with serious wounds. Only three of us had fallen, and of those, only one was serious. Chango, from Los Angeles, soon recovered from the many stab wounds he received during the fight.
The bulls took a number of us to the hole, but somehow Huero, Monster, Richard, and I escaped that fate. We returned to the unit and then to our cell. We were quiet until Monster and Huero smiled and nodded at me.
“Carnal, that’s what I’m talking about. The way you took care of your business is the way it’s supposed to be done,” Monster told me.
“Órale, what’s up with the boomerang? That fuckin’ tray hit that fuckin’ nigger and opened him up. That puto never expected that,” Huero said, and laughed.
They continued to talk about what had happened and I mostly listened. When everyone was getting ready for bed, I went to Monster, who was sitting in the dayroom drinking a cup of coffee, and sat down.
“You did good, ese,” Monster said to me.
I nodded. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I asked Monster.
“You noticed, huh? Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s trained in the arts. I never competed like you, but I took lessons for about two years, and what I learned I practiced every day until I mastered it. I had to quit the lessons because we couldn’t afford it, but I had plenty of crash dummies to practice on,” Monster responded.
“Yeah, but what I saw in that chow hall was poetry and destruction rolled into one,” I said.
He studied me for a moment.
Only you noticed that. In all my years of war, only you have seen it for more than just me being a good fighter,” Monster responded.
“I recognize in you something that lives inside of me as well—rage.”
Monster again looked at me for a long moment. “I can’t help it. I hate niggers. When I was coming up in the system, one of them fuckin’ Africans always tried to take what was mine. So my hatred has grown and I love it. I love the fear in their eyes when they see this Mexican coming to get them. I want to be their boogey man.”
He was solid. He knew who he was and, more importantly, he accepted himself.
“Gracias for having my back,” I said.
“I would follow you into any battle, ese,” Monster replied and shook my hand. He looked at me with those eyes, his gaze met mine, and he said, “I knew I was right about you. Ever wonder who would win between us?”
I stared at him and then we both started laughing.
He was right. I asked myself that same question after seeing him destroy those two men.
