Chapter 29: Curly’s Trouble

The library on the unit was equivalent to that of a moderately funded high school. The main difference was that the books, whenever deemed necessary were censored heavily with sharpie or had entire pages removed. I mostly read science fiction or Vonnegut novels. For non- fiction my tastes usually leaned towards architecture and military history. I was one of the regulars in the library, in there whenever I could get the opportunity. The library was also one of the few places inmates from other dorms were allowed to be in the same place. One of the people I had become friends with was a Wood named Curly.

Curly was a hot check writer from C Dorm and spokesman for the Woods. We would meet up in the library to discuss the issues on the unit and general bs. He was one of those little twitchy guys, always paranoid that someone was eavesdropping.

Today Curly seemed particularly agitated.

I sat down with him at the table and he leaned in close.

“Dude, the fucking Tangos are driving me crazy,” he whispered.

I asked for clarification, he went on.

“This guy got rolled a few months ago for masturbating and I have been afraid to since. The Tangos are on bed watch. Any time they see anyone trying to “tent up” they rip off the blanket and roll him. Its been six months.”

“Fuck.” I said.

“You got that right. I don’t know what to do.”

I advised Curly to get a medical pass, then to lock himself into the bathroom to take care of it. He readily accepted my advice and left.

I did not see him again for a week.

Curly came into the library limping severely. At first I thought he had gotten dropped, but there were no bruises. He hobbled to my side of the table and sat down slowly, sucking the breath through his teeth in pain.

“What in the name of Fabian Dominguez happened to you?” I had asked.

“I went to medical to kill, like you said right?” he began.

“When I got there everything was cool. I waited my turn for the bathroom, went in and locked the door. I had a Penthouse magazine page folded up in my sock. I stuck it up on the mirror and began doing my thing.” With that, he began miming “his thing” with his hand.

“When I got close, I became aware of this burning sensation, then I jizzed blood across the bathroom. It felt like I was mule kicked In the balls. I collapsed into a fetal position and passed out. I woke up in an infirmary bed.”

Curly had a testicular hernia, the time spent without using his equipment, so to speak, caused a rupture.

Curly dropped his pants and showed me what he had to wear. It looked like a bra but smaller. It held his swollen grapefruit sized balls away from his thighs.

“I have to wear this until the swelling goes down.”

“That was too much,” I said while averting my eyes.

Since there was no new dorm drama, Curly eased into a standing position and like a cowboy with severe saddle soreness, he ambled away. I finished picking over the Heinlein and went back to the dorm.

As I walked into the dorm, as always, I took stock of my surroundings. The local cable movie was on, so most of the dorm was engaged on the benches; there was a group of inmates at a table making a spread, a domino game going full swing, and a small group of people having a push-up competition.

I went to my bunk and laid down to become lost in the story of “Farnham’s Freehold.”

A few pages in, I became aware that I wasn’t alone. My bunk mate, a mechanic from Brownsville, was preparing a Ramen on his bunk. I leaned down, “Say, cellie, you wouldn’t believe what just happened to this white guy on C.”

I told him what had happened to Curly. He winced in pain as I described the jet of blood, then laughed. He told me that that sort of injury was common, and that he did not mind me rocking him to sleep as long as I did not mind when he did. We shook hands in agreement, he returned to the soup and I returned to the book.

Absorbed in the novel, I did not hear him calling my name until he yelled.

“Hey Guerro!” I looked down. He was leaning on the wall, eating the soup.

“You want to hear something fucked up?”

I put down the novel and dropped down into his bunk.

“Spill.” I said.

“When I was locked up last, they had me on this farm unit that raised chickens. There were about thirty of us who would go into the big assed chicken coop to feed them and to carry out the ones that died. We were in there without supervision, I was concentrating on clearing the dead chickens out of the coop and making my count. I noticed this guy off in a corner doing something with a large broiler. I quietly sneaked up and squatted, watching him from the shadows. He had the chicken by the wings and was roughly having sex with it. ”

In shock I asked, “How do you fuck a chicken?”

He then described in detail what it was like to fuck a chicken. He said that the chicken made a loud “BWAHH!” when penetration was made. The process would kill the chicken, so one would have to use three or four of them before he would get off.

“Did you have sex with the chickens too?” I asked horrified.

“Of course. I’d rather fuck a chicken than another man.” he said simply.

“Did any of ya’ll get caught?” I asked.

“Once. When the guards noticed that there were mysterious deaths of chickens, they examined them and found out what had happened. The guards snuck into the coop and hid out in the shadows. A few of us had heard about it and did not report to work that day. The group of inmates went ino the coop, and one guy began having intercourse with a chicken. They flipped on the lights with shotguns drawn. He was caught with his pants around his ankles inside a dead chicken. They stripped him, sprayed the blood off of him and hauled him out with the dead chicken. Later on the way to chow hall, I saw him standing out on the bowling alley with two guards. He was utterly naked with the bloody chicken and a cardboard sign hanging from his neck. The sign read, “I fucked this chicken to death, I am a chicken fucker.” I asked the guard how long he was going to stand there.

“Until he is gone,” was the reply. I saw him there for three days before he was shipped to another unit.” Finished with his story, my cellie went to the bathroom to clean out his bowl.

I related this tale to Evil Billy and Gary as soon as they came into the dorm. They laughed. From that point on if we thought anyone was a person of dubious character, one of us would go “BWAHH!” to insult them as a chicken fucker. It was even better that nobody caught on; all we would get were confused looks.

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