around.
I yelled, “What makes any of you ugly motherfuckers think I’m
anyone’s bitch? I sure as shit ain’t! The only thing you’re going to be
fucking is my lifeless corpse, because I’ll fight you all to the death.
You might get me, but I’m going to kill at least one or two of you
before you do! So, who wants to die today?”
They didn’t make a move. They didn’t know what they were
getting themselves into. I stood with my fists clenched, waiting
for them to step up. But they never did.
I was a cocky twenty-four-year-old biker who thought he had all
the answers. Everything I did, I did the hard way. I had no idea what
the easy way meant. I was now six months into my sentence, and I
still hadn’t learned to pick my battles.
One day in the cafeteria, I heard a Muslim prisoner talking
about how he didn’t eat pork because it wasn’t clean.
I told him. “Listen, man, anything that is blessed can be eaten.
And it isn’t worse than any other kinds of food.”
To prove me wrong, he took a piece of bacon and sealed it in a
jar. A couple days later, the Muslims shoved the jar in my face. One
of them said, “What’s this look like to you. You see the worms?”
I pushed it away. I was unimpressed by their demonstration.
“That don’t mean crap,” I told him. “You put any kind of meat in a
jar and it’s gonna do the same thing.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was seriously pushing my luck.
What seemed like minor disagreements were of major importance
in the joint, because that was all you had on the inside—right and
wrong. Everything else was stripped away from you.
A few days passed, and the same Muslim came walking back up
to me with another little jar. It had a piece of beef in it, and there
weren’t any worms.
“Looks like I proved you wrong,” he said, smiling.
I should’ve been smart and told him he was right, but I couldn’t
help myself. I said, “Well, could be, but your Allah ain’t nothin’
compared to my almighty God, so go fuck yourself.”
By the look on his face, I don’t think it was the answer he ex-
pected to hear.
L i g h t i n t h e Da r k n e s s
71
Later that day, the Muslims sent a guy named Whitaker after
me. I felt confident going up against him, because we were about
the same size. We stared each other down. I always talked all kinds
of bull before my fights to try to psych out my opponent.
I’d yell, “I’m gonna throw a stiff left cross into your nose and a
straight jab to your right eye.” As they thought about what I was
telling ’em, I’d connect with a flurry of four or five quick punches.
Most of my fights stopped right there. Before I made my move,
Whitaker started doing the same thing to me. He told me, “Your
jaw’s gonna get smashed with an uppercut, then a left to your nose,
a big right to your eye.” All of a sudden blam, blam, blam, he landed
a few on me, but I never went down. I’ve taken a lot of punches, but
I’ve never felt anything like Whitaker’s when he connected. He was
the strongest man to ever hit me.
The few punches I landed had no effect on the guy. It was a one-
sided fight.
The typical scrap in the joint would go for a minute or two, but
the ass-whooping Whitaker put on me seemed to take forever. If
any of the guards saw you fighting, you got thrown into the shitter.
But this time the lieutenant of our cellblock, Boss Horn, stood off
to the side smiling as he watched it all go down.
Whitaker was kicking my ass, but I had to hang in for as long as
I could, because all the convicts considered him to be the best
fighter in the joint.
Because I didn’t back down, I earned the respect of the other in-
mates. Whitaker and I emerged as friends. I was so impressed by his
technique that I asked him to teach me how to be a better fighter.
Whenever inmates saw us walking together, they’d shout out, “There
goes Salt and Pepper.”
I had finally adjusted to prison
I yelled, “What makes any of you ugly motherfuckers think I’m
anyone’s bitch? I sure as shit ain’t! The only thing you’re going to be
fucking is my lifeless corpse, because I’ll fight you all to the death.
You might get me, but I’m going to kill at least one or two of you
before you do! So, who wants to die today?”
They didn’t make a move. They didn’t know what they were
getting themselves into. I stood with my fists clenched, waiting
for them to step up. But they never did.
I was a cocky twenty-four-year-old biker who thought he had all
the answers. Everything I did, I did the hard way. I had no idea what
the easy way meant. I was now six months into my sentence, and I
still hadn’t learned to pick my battles.
One day in the cafeteria, I heard a Muslim prisoner talking
about how he didn’t eat pork because it wasn’t clean.
I told him. “Listen, man, anything that is blessed can be eaten.
And it isn’t worse than any other kinds of food.”
To prove me wrong, he took a piece of bacon and sealed it in a
jar. A couple days later, the Muslims shoved the jar in my face. One
of them said, “What’s this look like to you. You see the worms?”
I pushed it away. I was unimpressed by their demonstration.
“That don’t mean crap,” I told him. “You put any kind of meat in a
jar and it’s gonna do the same thing.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was seriously pushing my luck.
What seemed like minor disagreements were of major importance
in the joint, because that was all you had on the inside—right and
wrong. Everything else was stripped away from you.
A few days passed, and the same Muslim came walking back up
to me with another little jar. It had a piece of beef in it, and there
weren’t any worms.
“Looks like I proved you wrong,” he said, smiling.
I should’ve been smart and told him he was right, but I couldn’t
help myself. I said, “Well, could be, but your Allah ain’t nothin’
compared to my almighty God, so go fuck yourself.”
By the look on his face, I don’t think it was the answer he ex-
pected to hear.
L i g h t i n t h e Da r k n e s s
71
Later that day, the Muslims sent a guy named Whitaker after
me. I felt confident going up against him, because we were about
the same size. We stared each other down. I always talked all kinds
of bull before my fights to try to psych out my opponent.
I’d yell, “I’m gonna throw a stiff left cross into your nose and a
straight jab to your right eye.” As they thought about what I was
telling ’em, I’d connect with a flurry of four or five quick punches.
Most of my fights stopped right there. Before I made my move,
Whitaker started doing the same thing to me. He told me, “Your
jaw’s gonna get smashed with an uppercut, then a left to your nose,
a big right to your eye.” All of a sudden blam, blam, blam, he landed
a few on me, but I never went down. I’ve taken a lot of punches, but
I’ve never felt anything like Whitaker’s when he connected. He was
the strongest man to ever hit me.
The few punches I landed had no effect on the guy. It was a one-
sided fight.
The typical scrap in the joint would go for a minute or two, but
the ass-whooping Whitaker put on me seemed to take forever. If
any of the guards saw you fighting, you got thrown into the shitter.
But this time the lieutenant of our cellblock, Boss Horn, stood off
to the side smiling as he watched it all go down.
Whitaker was kicking my ass, but I had to hang in for as long as
I could, because all the convicts considered him to be the best
fighter in the joint.
Because I didn’t back down, I earned the respect of the other in-
mates. Whitaker and I emerged as friends. I was so impressed by his
technique that I asked him to teach me how to be a better fighter.
Whenever inmates saw us walking together, they’d shout out, “There
goes Salt and Pepper.”
I had finally adjusted to prison
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