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I have joined your boy Michael here in Kentucky. He seems right at home in prison and has been showing me the ropes — he only got six months in minimum security but he is really leaning into the “thug life.”
Hot tip: He discovered our county P-Cards still work at the commissary, so not only can we continue to collect our pensions, but our stay can be all expenses paid.
Life here is deeply and specifically segregated. He was trying to get me to join his gang, the Ponzi Lowriders, but I have opted to join my own people in the Lip-hairy-an Brotherhood. God bless the ‘stache.
Although I am missing the comforts of home, and my beloved Tourists most of all, I have been able to enjoy some rollicking games in the yard. A guy asked me to sell “tickets” to the softball games, which I did, only to find out later that I had inadvertently become part of a bookmaking operation. I thought it was strange that people kept giving me different amounts of cigarettes when the games are free to attend.
I have enclosed a picture of Michael for you, at his request.
Jon “Hatin’” Creighton
USP McCreary, Ky.
I’m so proud of my little Michael! All grown up with prison tats, just like his momma. You two can join all the gangs you want — just remember, in the end, you report to me.
Gangs aren’t really a thing in women’s facilities, but I’m getting together what I like to call my Sewing Circle. They all call me Doctor Greene, and I am quickly becoming the most respected (feared) woman here. Unfortunately, that also means they want to show me their foot fungus.
The P-Cards don’t work here; I tried that first thing. But I was able to secure a work assignment doing the prison’s bookkeeping. The warden says even though I was stripped of my CPA license, he’s happy to have me. After all, he’d let a disgraced electrician work with wires, so why not let me work with QuickBooks? He’s excited that he won’t have to pay taxes anymore.
I’m also renovating my cell and entertaining bids from fellow inmates. They are bringing lots of offerings from commissary to encourage me to make the best decision. I’m practically swimming in eyedrops, Colgate and Lubriderm — reminds me of good old Joey Junior!
Yes, it’s shaping up to be a cozy seven years. I might even get to work on my tan. If only there was decent wine in here.
Dr. Wanda “The Skillington” Greene
Carswell FMC, Fort Worth, Texas
Dear Wanda and John,
I’m also adjusting to incarcerated life. I coldcocked the biggest, meanest girl I could find with a chair during my first group therapy session, so now they call me Stone Cold.
I know we’re all great lovers of wine, so I wanted to share my recipe for top-notch toilet vino to make life easier here in the big house. [Ingredients list redacted for safety.]
Put all the soft, sweet ingredients in a bag, squeeze out the air and mash without breaking the bag. I find this works best in my armpit — no risk of my fingernails poking a hole. Then add the liquids and mix. (My favorite flavor is purple.)
Run the bag under very hot water, wrap it in an extra pair of government-issue skivvies and store for 48 hours. Add a dinner roll for yeast, store the bag in a cool, dark place and burp the gas out every hour or so for the next day. About four days later, you can strain off the chunks and gloopy bits through the skivvies.
It’s no Sonoma County, but you’ll have yourself a beverage not unlike Two-Buck-Chuck pinot. Put it in containers with green apple Jolly Ranchers and Atomic Fireballs until the candy dissolves, and it’s practically cinnamon-apple brandy. It pairs nicely with Slim Jims and Velveeta.
One word of caution: Make sure the dinner roll is fresh and clean. My cellie stole my first batch while I was sleeping and she got botulism. Pour one out for her.
Prison buds 4 life!
Mandy “Stone Cold” Stone
Alderson FPC, Alderson, W.Va.
Welcome to the hoosegow. I always knew you were a worse crook than me, Wanda. You just hated my style because I didn’t try to cover my gambling up, and it made people sniff around.
Well, you finally got yours. And meanwhile, I get out next October. I paid my debt to society and I’m headed back to Bunkum to show ’em they can’t keep ole Bobby Lee down.
Your old pal,
Butner Low FCI, Butner, N.C.