I’m fucking famous.
You’ll have definitely heard of the other guy: Cole Tenner. Cage fighting champion, king of the ring in Vegas and a fucking action hero at the movies. He did great. But you only might have heard of me.
I’m here in High Desert State Prison doing time. Hard time. And, let me tell you, it is really fucking hard time when you’re famous. Yes, I have been in prison before, but back then I was a nobody, a no mark. Now I’m fucking famous. Everybody wants a piece of you when you’re famous, and a fair few guys have had a piece of me since I got myself back in here.
Bitch Tits. Bettini is his real name, but everyone calls him Bitch Tits. Not to his face. He’s a big, fat Italian fuck who is a big thing in organised crime – and not just physically. You work out the rest. Anyway, Bitch Tits thinks it’s funny to re-enact ‘Punk Gets Pummelled’ pretty much every time that I pass him in the yard. My nose barely gets a chance to heal between fractures. Once I tried to fight back, but that time this punk really got pummelled. Broken ribs, the lot. Now I just settle for the nose.
I wouldn’t care, but hardly anybody knew who I was before Bitch Tits did that, and then encouraged everyone to look it up on the Internet. I mean, the Internet in prison! What the fuck is the world coming too? We’re supposed to be being punished and rehabilitated. For Christ’s sake, some of these dumb fucks are in here because of shit they did on the Internet. There’s even guys with Smart Phones in here. I reckon it took about six minutes for every lag in High Desert to see that YouTube clip, and now they all want a piece of me. Why? Because I’m fucking famous.
And it’s not just beatings. I’ve been raped by at least three guys. I say at least three, because it may have been the same guy more than once. They don’t do it because they’re gay, they just do it for the hell of it, or because they’re bored, or just for fun, or whatever other fucked-up reason that unstable, violent, locked-up guys might have for doing anything. There’s a lot of that sort of thing goes on in here – forced and consensual – and it’s hardly ever because they are gay. On the outside they’d be dead against it, homophobic even. Big, tough, heterosexual men who hate fags. Not Samuel ‘Two-Bricks’ Flores, of course, he’s just right out there, queen of all he surveys. Funny, he doesn’t get any hassle about it from the other guys, but if a perfectly straight guy so much as gives a preference for a brand of shower gel then the others rip him apart. Even the ones who have relations in the cells. Weird that. I’ve never really understood it. I mean, if a guy prefers a guy, then what the hell? Live and let love, that’s what I say. And those that say it’s not natural, how? We’re all animals; we’re all natural: so if some of us fancy the same sex as us, then that’s got to be natural, hasn’t it? I’m not into it, and I haven’t enjoyed being on the receiving end, but I’m not against it.
Even the guards are bastards when you’re fucking famous. They treat you like mock royalty, sarcastic bastards. Ask them for anything and it’s, “oh, can’t you sort that out with your friends in Tinsel Town?” Or they’ll take shit out of your cell saying, “it’s a souvenir to prove that I knew the great Punk who got Pummelled.” Right funny fucks those Bugs are.
So, yes. I’m fucking famous. Famous, and four weeks short of my next parole hearing. I’ve been good. Ridiculously good. Even my spat with Bitch Tits didn’t get written up, so I’m bound to get out. Bound to – I’m fucking famous so they wouldn’t dream of keeping me in.
They should keep me in of course, and would do if they knew what I was thinking. But they don’t. You see, I’ve been considering what got me back in here. I know what you’re thinking: “oh, he blames Aiden Cole and he’s going to go after him.” Well, you’re wrong. I don’t blame Cole Tanner. I don’t even blame StrawDolli44 who posted the YouTube clip. I blame myself. Why the fuck did I’d choose the biggest, fittest bastard on that bus to mug? I know why. Pride. I was trying to prove something. And I did prove something. I proved that I’m a nobody and a no mark. But I had already known that, deep down inside. Maybe that’s why I chose the big bastard, because I wanted to be proven right.
Well, I’ve had a taste of fame now, and I like it. So when I get out I’ve thought of a new way to be famous. I’m going to kill nobodies and no marks like me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a big idea to become a serial killer, with intricate plans and subtle leads to frame other people, or some sort of motif to keep the police interested. No. I’m just going to kill people.
The thing is, I know I’m going to get caught. They always do. But when I get caught, I’ll be famous again – on my own terms. Famous as the aggressor, not the victim. So I’m going to plan nothing. Every day I’m just going to wake up and get on with my own shit. And if I feel like killing somebody that day, I’ll just do it. No planning, no messing, no signature or trail. Just go to a shop, buy a knife, walk out onto the street and stick it in some pathetic looking fucker eighteen or twenty times. Nothing fancy. Either that or strangle a valet in a dark car park. Or pretend to be testing a gun for purchase and blow the shopkeeper’s brains all over the wall. Or any number of simple shit like that.
I’ll get away with it for a while, because they are the sort of random, one-off crimes that the cops struggle with. Yes, they’ll get me eventually, but by then I’ll have racked up enough to be famous again. And every single one that I’ve done will be famous with me.
Four weeks. That’s all. Who knows, after four weeks maybe I’ll bump into you just after I’ve bought my KitchenGuru utility knife and, just like Billy the Kid, I’ll make you fucking famous, too.