The Jailhouse Diaries: Part 666

Armando "El Diablo" Herrera was processed into general population on Wednesday, just like Trey Dog had said. I got my cell back after the guards had cleaned up the mess that Chad Van Hertzwelder's carcass had left. Lo and behold, Armando was going to be my cell mate. It started to make sense now why Trey Dog would choose me to do his dirty work.

Though it would be easier for me to slit Armando's throat in the middle of the night with him in my cell, this was definetely a mixed blessing. Trey Dog had forgotten to mention one important fact: that Armando was quite possibly the biggest fucking Mexican I'd ever seen.

This was definetely not Armando's first time in jail. He looked like he'd worked out for years in a prison weight yard. His biceps were bigger than my head. His neck was non-existant. His face was pitted with pockmarks, cris-crossed with scars, and he had three teardrops tattooed under his right eye (that's a prison code that means he'd killed three prisoners while inside.)

I was fucked. I was so fucked.

He didn't talk to me while we were in the cell. When he ran off to talk to his Mexican Mafia buddies, I quickly tried to figure out how to make a shank.

Ironically, it was Bug-Eye Blacky who saved my ass on this one. He told me to unlatch one of the springs under my mattress, then straighten one of the metal ends out and sharpen the end against the concrete wall behind the toilet, making sure to clean away any metal or dust that accumulated (the guards look for signs of sharpening when they inspect the cells.) Then wrap the coiled end in tape to help with the grip.

"That'll done make a good shank for stabbin' niggas good," Bug-Eye told me. "Takes longer to make a shank that'll done cut a nigga good."

It took me a couple of days to make my shank, following Bug-Eye's instructions. It hardly looked like a work of art when I was finished with it, but I figured if I got the drop on Armando, I might be able to jam it in his jugular good enough so he'd bleed to death before he could retaliate. I kept it hidden in my pillowcase and prayed that the guards wouldn't toss the cells in the next few days.

In the meantime, Armando pretty much hung out with the rest of the Mexicans, lifting weights, playing poker, and watching Sesame Street and soap operas in the day room. The vatos treated him like a rock star from the first day, and it dawned on me that after I killed him, they would likely seek retaliation.

Somehow I doubted that Trey Dog and the homeboys would be offering me much protection after the deed was done.

During lights out, I tried to make small talk with Armando. Better to act friendly so he didn't suspect I was out assassinate him. Armando never responded until he yelled at me one night to "Shut the fuck up gringo, before I tear your head off and shove it up your ass." Armando was not the friendly type.

I decided I would kill him on Sunday night. He was on the top bunk and I'd wait until I heard him snoring for a couple of hours before doing it. My hand was clammy with sweat as I held the shank under my pillow, waiting for him to nod off into what would hopefully be a permenant sleep.

Unfortunately, I nodded off waiting for him to sleep. I woke up abruptly in the middle of the night with Armando on top of me with both his hands around my throat.

"Make a sound and you're dead, pendejo," he hissed.

Fuuuuuck. How did he find out I was planning on killing him? Did one of the homeboys tip him off? Did he find my shank? Dammit! I didn't want to die in this shit hole.

Armando leaned over silently, stuck his tongue out and licked my cheek, slowly, leaving a slime of tobacco flavored saliva over my face.

"Yeah, that tastes goooood," he said. "Don't say shit, puta. Just pull down those panties and flip over real quiet like a good white bitch."

And then I knew, I was REALLY fucked.