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Toker Goes to Prison
A Crash Course in Poor Leverage Negotiation

The story below is true, told to me when Toker was drunk in deep honesty and I was keeping him from butchering the two hoodrats who appeared, at a glance, to be robbing the bar maid, but who were merely asking for directions to the nearest carryout joint. I have resisted the temptation to relate it in print until both Toker and I were well clear of the linguine arm of Harm City law enforcement. All names have been altered to protect the guilty and indict the innocent…

Toker was and is a Bad Dude, an unrepentant white boy who knows that the System hates him for the very condition he was born into and has returned the malice, spitting often in the face of the Devil. Being a man of the Ghost Race, born without actual privilege, such defiance of evil has earned him a number of stays in prison. While residing in one such institution, the loan shark and pawn shop operator who he entrusted his house to, sold it.

Upon release, as soon as he had hunted down and tortured the Mexicans who had gotten him locked up in the first place, Toker—who needs to toke some weed to remain non-violent in such a deserving of violence world—confronted the narrow-faced shylock, too smart by half, and punched him out.

That debt payed, Toker soon found himself arguing with some dumbass clerk at United Optical over the fact that he could not return Mister Shylock’s glasses for a full refund without proper I.D. when a squad of U.S. Marshals entered the establishment and informed them that since the local police were “scared shitless” of him, that they were “doing a favor for local Five-O” by “picking my ass up for the gay fucking local pigs,” and Toker took the bump in the road in stride, fast-forwarded, in his mind, to his release in 18 months, as he began plotting vengeance and went cooperatively along with, “the real fucking pigs.”

Toker was soon zip-tied—not cuffed—and placed in the back of a paddy wagon piloted by a gay cop who had once blown Toker’s biker buddy at a Jersey strip club. Unrestrained and zip tied, alone in the paddy wagon, Toker could not help himself, “You fucking cops are all cocksuckers. I was there when you blew Waxy Joe at the Pink Horizon!”

What followed was a virtual carnival ride through Shithole Citay U.S.A. as the paddy wagon driver screamed over his shoulder, “You slope-headed, mick piece-of-shit,” and hopped the wagon over median strips, scraped jersey walls and slammed the brakes on doing thirty, and Toker screamed through frothing lips, “Is that all you got you kike piece-of-shit—I’m not Freddie Grey. I’ve got a twenty-inch neck, mutherfucker!” and bounced from all six walls of the cubed torture device…

Toker only had to beat-the-shit out of one negro in general lockup to achieve serenity and was, some weeks later, hauled before the judge, who, in response to Toker’s factual indictment of Mister Shylock, somewhat sympathetically asked, “Mister Toker, I understand you being upset over your associate’s mishandling of your property. But why did you see fit to break his jaw?”

Toker, cuffed and chained and wearing a corrections orange jumpsuit snarled, Conan-like in his conviction, “Because he’s a fucking double-dealing, kike prick!”

Judge Silverstein then scrunched his heavy brows and slammed the gavel down, “Mister Stoker, the court benevolently grants you six months to consider your actions and your choice or words—dismissed.”

A week later, in the Fuck You Whitey Minimum Security Negrotentiary, Stoker was feeling pretty good. After putting that big negro’s head through the supposedly bullet proof glass on his first day in “The Shit House,” no one had bothered him—because they fucking new, this was a real white boy.

The guards—who all looked like relatives of the inmates—were not particularly grateful for his gelding of that prime buck…

One day, as Toker enjoyed his “lone white boy shower privileges” a very large, very stupid, black inmate, wearing his orange coveralls, walked into the shower with screwdriver hammer-fisted in his giant hand, a blank look on his face, apparently let in by the guard on duty, as this fool could not possibly have snuck in.

While still soaping his chest and absently overcome by the notion of how difficult it was going to be to rip “this spook’s” eyes out with soapy hands, Toker took charge in typical style, mindful of the screwdriver in the giant’s hands and said, “What are you doing in here, Slinky?”

Slinky: “I gotz ta check up yo ass.”

Toker: “No you don’t, Slinky.”

The sublime dialogue continued with Toker never abandoning the soaping process, which he figured would make him harder to grab and stab, and Slinky holding his screwdriver to the side and flexing his mighty arm for emphasis.

Slinky: “Dey say I gotz ta check up yo ass!”

Stoker: “No you don’t!”

Slinky: “But I gotz ta check up yo ass!”

Stoker: “No you don’t!!”

Slinky: “Fo real—I gotz ta check up yo ass!”

Stoker: “No you don’t!!!

Slinky: “Yes I do!”

Stoker: “No you don’t!!”

Slinky: “I do!!”

Stoker: “You don’t!!”

Slinky: “Do!!!”

Stoker: “Don’t!!!!”

Slinky: “But what I say when dey aks if I checkadid up yo ass?”

Stoker: “It’s not your job, Slinky, okay.”

Slinky: “It not?”

Stoker: “No, Slinky, its not.”

Slinky: “Yo sure?”

Stoker: “I’m sure, Slinky.”

Slinky: “Fo real?”

Stoker: “Fo real, Slinky.”

Slinky: “Aright den.”

Stoker: “Have a nice day, Slinky.”

Slinky: “Tank ya.”

Stoker: “You’re welcome, Slinky.”

There you go, an unrepentant Aryan hero in action.

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Add Comment
ShepSeptember 9, 2018 2:30 AM UTC

BobSeptember 8, 2018 2:45 AM UTC

I hope that de-escalation episode goes into the FBI curriculum.