Nope, I’m not He-Man. I’m just an inmate who has fresh batteries for his radio. I can’t put into words how miserable I’ve been for the past three weeks with a dead Walkman.
So how did I get fresh batteries while on commissary restrictions? Easy. My new cellmate bought them for me, and I gave him a few postage stamps in return. You gotta be clever if you want to survive in federal prison.
My new celly, strangely, is not an s.o., but he’s not a gremlin either. (Lucky me.) He’s a crack dealer who got snitched on when the feds busted one of his associates. He got sent to the hole for gambling.
Living with this guy has been pretty good so far. He talks too much sometimes, and he has DESTROYED me in the last seven games of Rummy in a row, but I’ll forgive him for his few faults. He knows the rules for close quarters incarceration, and he does not pry too hard when he asks how I came to be in prison, so I think that we can get along indefinitely.
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