username

password

| Register

True Prison Stories |

Share an Experience...

Name
To post as yourself, log-in first

40 posts on this prison. Showing page 1 of 4. next >

Tuesday, December 09, 2014
jswqeklbgr;rhkgokef'p

dfoe7irghyfyheruafhleuytbriupdfhlszbcSudgstwyhlku.dfabsjr,hegkqluefb.c/i;q
[Reply]
2 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Monday, December 08, 2014
(You must be logged in to follow other users)

I have a question. My husband is currently in the Ouachita Co Detention Center in Camden, AR. He is waiting to be sent to the diagnostic unit for processing. We don't know when he will be moved or where he will be sent. I have been told there is some type of web site where I can register and they will send me a text when he is moved and where he is being sent.



Does anyone know anything about this? He is a first time offender and we have no knowledge of the system or how anything works. Any help would be greatly appreciated.
[Reply]
0 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Wednesday, December 03, 2014
(You must be logged in to follow other users)

I just have a question?? My boyfriend got transferred Monday afternoon to headingley and hasn't called me yet, and I have a cousin that just got transferred yesterday to headingley and I already received a phone call from headingley that my cousin can call me and already has a pin, like what's up with that, can someone let me how it works in guys headingley jail please and thank you...
[Reply]
0 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Friday, November 14, 2014
(You must be logged in to follow other users)

I read lots stories i only been in a county Jail but that was enough for me my is HVF and she does desevre to be there but she wasa kid when this happened and hanging with bad ppl but the stories I have heard today on break my heart and scare me i dont care what she did she needs as do all women in there I wont ever give up on her never no matter This 6 yrs of her 3 yrs put us throw am Angel mom of nikki and I love and will be here for her to pick the broken pieces and mend her broken heart I love you Nikki and am right here waiting for whe n do girls day out and have a girls day and our partys for anything we choose
[Reply]
0 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Sunday, October 26, 2014
Peter Fryer Author of The Demon Inside

My name is Peter Fryer Author of The Demon Inside im writing my new book about my life growing up in Point Saint Charles in Montreal Quebec. The story will include all the facts concerning the Supposed Irish mob in Montreal not their police reports. I did time in Saint Anne DE Paine...,Le Claire prison and CDC The Sho. Which is by far as bad as or worst than any Prison in the western World. Most prisons in Third World Countries make ours look like Sunday school. How do I know anything about them check out my V.S.A. licence request on Google and and if you have half a brain you can figure out the rest I was born into the so call group and Am proud to know 99% of the guys I grew up under and am related by blood to most.Here is chapter one

My Family. Is the book title

1 WHAT ONCE WAS

It is at this point in my life that I no longer have any doubt some sort of a reality check is in order.

Looking at my computer like it holds the secrets I want to understand about life. I cannot help but wonder what happened to mine. How did I manage to reach this age and still become such a screw-up? Well, it was simple. Sit back and Ill tell you all about it.

My first memories I will talk about begin with me sitting in my dad’s car on a warm summer day outside the Condi Tavern. Even though there was a separate door which had an overhead sign which read. {Ladies Entrance.} To me, it was always a male-only Tavern. It was situated in Point Saint Charles, a district of Montreal Quebec, for all you outsiders. Naturally, almost everyone on earth has never heard of the place. There are a few people, who like me, know more about that place than just the retold stories of how its patrons made it infamous.

The Condi was on our route to my aunt’s place where we were supposed to be going. It did not take long for my mother to find out about dads little side trips to the Tavern. When mom explained to dad how bad that looked, he saw the light in his own warped way, and he was smiling when he agreed with her.

Again, life is always a compromise. If mom had not mentioned to him what people were talking about. Dad would have continued leaving me in the vehicle while he slipped in for a quick beer. Maybe, we would have been home in two hours instead of the six or seven hours we stayed there ever since their little talk. I would not have met any of the people who made the Tavern famous, and I may not have become an Alcoholic, by the time I was fifteen.

My dad loved the fact that he no longer had to have just one beer because I was sitting in the car. I now sat right beside him in my chair at the round bar table, where we would stay for two or three hours in the early years.

Time moves forward for most of us, but not those men. Except for my dad, the odd one still living, drank there until it was demolished. Every one of them were loyal patrons, drinking their beer at the Condi tavern with their friends until they passed away.

People became more comfortable with me being there in their tavern after they realized my mother was not going to be barging through its door, screaming about me sitting among them.

Thank god, she never found out that I drank at least two beers every time I was there with my dad.

Obviously, that is where I had my first beer. I still remember the names of dad's friends. They all had a habit of sitting in the same spot at their designated tables every time we went there.

Eight years later, I went to prison. I understood what it meant when a person said. Move your ass out of my chair, that seat is mine.

I understood how they earned their seats at the Tavern, and prison, before my eleventh birthday.

I, being retired did not change my opinion of these men. Until the moment when I have taken my last breath, The Condi Tavern and its patrons will always be a part of me, and I smile picturing them sitting there having a beer, at the corner of Wellington Street, and Condi Ave.

My face brightens up when I remember all those names and their different personalities.

I am sure some of them are still sitting there even after their deaths.

Speaking of the dead and the Condi I have a good story to tell.

Up until the fifties, it was not abnormal in our community to have an old-fashioned Irish wake, and families continued to hold deceased family members viewing at their home.

I’ve never personally attended that type of wake, but my father on several occasions told me about one time they took the body of his dead uncle out of his casket and brought him down to the Condi Tavern for one last pint. Quincy the bartender, slash waiter, slash drunk, more often than sober…, confirmed what my dad told me. He unfortunately was their waiter tn that particular day when about fifteen men who all were involved in this stunt, entered the tavern.

They all came to the Condi together because of a death in our family. As a group they sat in the corner where no windows and very little light helped hide patrons who did not want to be seen.

Quincy, who was himself half-drunk while working, failed to notice one of his new customer's was already passed out. His head resting on a corner of their bar table and he wasnt passed out, like every one said to Quincy. After asuring him this guy wasnt going to wake up and start any problems Quincy started a bar tab for them. Round after round no one reached into their pocket to help pay for their beer. I'm not being cruel but luckily for them. Quincy was not a very smart person, which also gave me a an acceptable reason to believe my dad's story.

I asked around and found out dad and Quincy were not just pulling my leg. Several family members, including my mother, confirmed his tale. Anyone who knows how families in this type of district operate, know that if mom said it was tr the e, then it you could be sure was.

Slowly one by one everyone left the table, and as they did say to Quincy. Hey Jimmy, is picking up my end of the bar-tab. He never lifted his head from the table to object. That is how the afternoon went until by suppertime; there was only my dad, my uncle Kenny “Mann” Uncle Keith and Donnie “Waite, and Jimmy O'Toole remaining at the table.

Quincy was drunk by then himself so when he went to the washroom everyone with a pulse sitting at the table left the Tavern.

Well, Quincy went over to the table and shook his shoulder because he did not respond when Quincy told him it was time to pay up and go home?

Apparently, Quincy almost had a heart attack when Uncle Jimmy fell off chair and hit his head on the hard ceramic floor. He thought he had just killed my dead drunk uncle.

Quincy never could shake that story from his name. Now thirty years after his death the story proves what you do in life, affects how people remember you, and treat your family after your gone.

I believe with all my heart, that you truly do only have one thing you should never tarnish while you are alive, and that is your family’s name. It is what people where I am from use to introduce you or describe to others your children. Think about it how many times you have heard that someone said this is Peter or Paul. He is the son of Joe Blow. They would end their sentence saying. He is the offspring of that no-good rat, or they could say. He is the son of a friend of mine.

It is sad how many people have chosen a couple of dollars over protecting something it took their family generations to earn?

A funnier story to me was the incident that took place during one of the last funerals held at my grandparent’s house.

“The Fryers” According to my aunt, desecrated my dead uncle’s body.

My great uncle laid in a coffin on a four-foot high stand to be viewed by his family and friends. The viewing was in the so-called sitting, or tea parlor, which was a social room in my grandparent’s house.

You must appreciate my grandfather; Albert Fryer at the time was the President of The Heat and Rock Workers Union for Canada. He was a proud man who managed to hold that post until he retired in 1978. Even now people remember his name and how for the 35 years he held the hammer the members never had to strike. My grandmother was very conscious of his position, and their house reflected their social status. In other words, it was a fucking big house.

Everyone except for a couple of his own brothers left the room. They decided it would be funny to remove their dead brother from the table, and one of my great uncles would take his place in the coffin. What happened next is something out of a movie.

Well, one of his sisters was married to a powerful Irish mobster, “Gatley,” for a surname is close enough. She was a woman who despite her medical condition, ie: "Heart Condition" came from Boston for the funeral. It was one thing after the other is how my mom put it. First off, she was pissed that two of her brothers had apparently just left to go somewhere even though both knew she was already in the City and close to gramps place. Her two sons, my great cousins I guess you could call them were also in bad moods. They came to make sure their mom would be Ok more than as a sign of respect for their uncle.

After saying hello to most of her relatives, she shooed her boys from her side and went into the viewing room to pay her respects.

While standing in front of what was supposedly her dead brother, she made the sign of the cross and then bent down to kiss her brother on the lips.

That was when the supposed corpse, first smiled at her, and then winked asking his sister, “how thing's in Boston Inna? Has life been treating you and that fat prick husband of yours well?”

She no shit, fainted and then ended up in the hospital where Inna almost died herself from the brother’s prank gone bad. She had a minor stroke.

Her madin name was Inna Sullivan, I’m told she was a great aunt of mine who spent most of her life in Boston.

Anyways things took a bad turn for everyone after that stunt. Let us just say that because of that incident, there are members of my family in both Countries whose descendants to this day hold a grudge against other family member’s descendants.

“See what I mean about the name thing?”

I was not born yet but according to several of my family members. A very bloody fistfight broke out because of their little prank. It resulted in half the males at the wake, spending the rest of that night in jail and several family members not talking to each other for years.

There are obvious reasons many last names cannot be put in this story, or a few of the family names may be misspelled. I agree what my dad always said before he passed away. Nobody including the cops likes a snitch.

Well, back to the tavern. In among all these guys was this Frenchman named Marcel.

He was one of the few non-related to any other member, member of the gang.

is son Claude Rideau was someone I never met until thirty-five years later. Our introduction was through Donny. That should have been a big enough red flag knowing he was associated to that snake.



The Tavern sat about thirty patrons in all, and most of the time you never saw anyone there who was not a regular. These people were a very sociable group compared to mimes.



It is funny how time changes things. A family name could open so many doors within the group at one time. Now every new person, even direct blood has the respect of no one until he earns it. A man named Marcel sat with my uncle’s Keith and Donny Weight most of the time. The rest of the bar was full of the Irish mobs who’s who in Montreal.



The reason I have been able to stay in the know on what everyone’s up to six thousand kilometers away from my home in the West Coast, is have many female cousins. They all had very strong opinions on everyone and everything to do with the old families from the district.



It is amazing how such a small place had so many of the city’s top crime figures as its loyal patrons. They are almost all gone now but what a story they left behind.

I am not like that person in Good fellows who decided to turn on my friends and family. I am not in his shoes.

In fact, these people are still my friends, but to be honest with you. I defiantly consider most of them like family. Now since that is out in the open. Where should I start? I guess my perception as to why I consider myself a screw-up would be a good start.



Being a criminal with principals is the only reason I believe I am entitled to write this story and do this without concern as to what people think of me. My screw-up was not so much being a criminal. It is being someone who thought that there would always be time tomorrow to do the things I should have done today.



Then again, it is logic that tells me if I had not experienced the things I did I would not have the knowledge to understand what I did wrong. How is that for a mind twister?



People say the mindset of the gangs, and criminals have changed over the years. Well, that is what I call a half-truth. My father and his friends and I all grew up in areas where families knew each other and their neighbors as well for generations. That was because my parents and theirs all had jobs for companies that were stable.

We still live in an era where almost everyone remembers that there was a time when you started working for a company like GM, for instance, you were there for life.

Therefore, people lstill had to live in the district where if they messed up, it reflected on not just them but their family as well. Moving usually was not an option because all your relatives lived in that district.



Older leaders were lucky enough to live in a stable community that had family values, and if you messed up bad, they would kill you. That was a fact that no one will dispute.



I have been saying this for every situation in life, there is always a good and bad side to everything. I had the advantage of living amongst people with principles. Whom I respected so much that all I wanted to do was be like them.



Some people say the only reason I conduct myself on those principals was that my values conceived in the mind of a lonely kid. One who wanted to be accepted by a group of men, who did live by the so called "old-school code of honor”.



At a young age, and to this day, believe that you do not steal from a working stiff. Another no... no... Was "Don't take any problems you have with someone to their home, or start fighting with that person in front of their family? For the last two big do not's, they are punishable by death most of the time. "Do not mess with a friend’s wife, or his girlfriend or his x-girlfriend, or x-wife? Never, and I mean never, snitch. Not even on yourself."



There are a few more rules; most of them are to do with you as a person having morals.

I have heard people say lots of bad shit about today’s gang leaders and members. They compare them to what their impression of how the old school gangsters conducted themselves. Most are ignorant and believe these new people have no morals, and will do anything for a dollar. People believe that when these new people get caught doing something, they almost all fold under police pressure,

and then some go as far as to turn rat their best friends, and in some cases even family members in order to save their own skin.

Well, I have some bad news for people who think these people are any different from what they say are the so-called old-school gangsters.

Let me tell you something that is a fact. The only reason most of the so-called old-school people followed what everyone believes is the laws set in the gangster’s code of conduct. Had more to do with fear than honor or morals.

What makes things different now is that the district in the city we chose to live in is no longer a place where four or five generations of your family lives.

Now days, it is more likely you do not know your neighbor, that when not so long ago you knew everyone in the neighborhood.



People moved out, and strangers moved in. The days of worrying about if you got caught committing some sort of bad action, it would be reflected by your peers on your family name no longer existed.

That type of punishment went out the window when the Major Companies that had provided to the last four generations of your family, jobs. Left Town. They could no longer be taken for granted.

Jobs disappeared, so people had to move in order to find new employment. That can takethem as far away as a different part of the Country. This is what caused the collapse of our families and their pride in the district they lived in. The social structure, which gives people faith, has been destroyed in every District, in every city, all around the world.

Leaders of gangs are still, mostly the same type people their predecessors were. Do you honestly believe the media when they say that it is the gang’s leaders who are responsible for sanctioning all the murders, and other acts of crime committed by its gang members?

I will give you an example. Screw what any Police report says about this event, I know the who, what, when, where, and why concerning this murder.

It was a member of the west end gang and his friend who murdered my cousin James Alexander Fryer.

His death is proof that member without any other member’s knowledge committed when I tell you individuals act without any of the other member’s prior knowledge, or permission and almost all the crimes that have been committed by gang members. Greed has in the past, and will always be a very powerful influence, when it comes to the decision making of any criminal.

The reason my cousin was murdered had to do with a few things. The first being his killers were terrified of him. What happened is my cousin had a partner who sold information that included the route and times for a brinks truck robbery to two separate crews. It is a fact that my cousin did not know his partner double-crossed the two crews. Not that he would not have gone along with his partner’s double cross.

This time Jimmy did not know about the double cross sale because he was not getting a cut from his so-called partner on the Boston crew's cash. His partner believed the Montreal people would do the job first, and because he believed, the Boston boys were pussy and afraid of Jimmy. His rep of being a cold-blooded killer was true.

By the age of twenty had killed as many people as he had spent celebrating birthdays. I remember my dad was the only person Jimmy himself feared. Why he feared my dad, I do not know, and anyone who might have known has died of old age? Jimmy never came to our home no matter what the occasion was.

He and my cousin were idiots who believed they were untouchable. One crew was from Boston and the other from Montreal. Well, the Boston boys beat the Montreal people to the punch proving they were not as afraid as bozo though. Russell and his partner had to save face.

Within our group, normally a very bad beating would have been their punishment at worse. However, they did know Jimmy personally, not just by reputation. They feared revenge by Jimmy himself if they did catch him off-guard and then with the help of a few people managed to beat him up. To Russell, there was only one way to prove they were not cowards and not have to worry about when Jimmy would exact his revenge.

Jimmy was a monster, and I am not joking. He would kill someone while eating a sandwich. My cousin was a psychopath.

Just hearing he might be mad at someone could cause some people to literally crap in their pants. Therefore, with that in mind, they made a bad choice. Russell lured Jimmy to a meeting, which he had no reason to question because he knew nothing about the double-cross.

What my uncle did during this person’s execution and what happened next is something very few people really know anything about? My uncle Kenny and I were very close, and he told me what he did to the person who pulled Jimmy’s fingernails out while he was still alive and then machine-gunned his tied-up body in the trunk of a car before he burnt my cousin’s body beyond recognition.

My uncle Kenny was the one who nailed his balls, and then his head to a warehouse floor with ten-inch spikes while he was still alive. The other person involved with Jimmy’s death died in the Black Cat lounge. A five-foot five-inch one hundred and thirty-pound Irishman with a Thompson machine gun made certain he was dead. His name deserves respect. R.I,P. Johnny O’Neil.



Every one of these people involved in that incident are dead now. So mentioning them by name will not put anyone behind bars. This will be my guideline throughout my story when it comes to certain events. I’m tired of reading the lies some genius copied from a dated police file, to record by more often than not, a corrupt officer on my family’s or one of their friend's payroll.



The whole story will only have names of people who I cannot affect by me mentioning their names. Oh and for those who do not like me telling any of this. I have one thing to say. Go fuck yourself.



Russell felt they had justified to themselves what they were planning to do to Jimmy because many people were afraid of Jimmy and would be happy that he had killed Jimmy. Only Russell was wrong. Shit like what Russell did will always get you killed in our district.



Therefore, as I said the top people do not often get a piece of most of the funds taken in by gang members. Hell their homes would have men lined up around the block looking worse than the line-ups at Wal-Mart if that were true.



It is mostly propaganda by crime reporters and authors that try their best.

In reality, their stories are tainted because they rely on mostly lies for their information unless you were born in one of these families, you will never be able to believe what you have read. People with more morals than you would ever believe after reading the lies told about them are the ones at or near the top of any organization.

If they led and controlled their people by using only the threat of fear or torture, they would not last at the top for a week. These day's leaders are exactly that. My understanding how things work is the result of living the way I have for fifty-seven years. It has taken living this way in order to be able to understand how things work, and I am still learning.



I sleep with a clear conscience. I do realize that if I had applied myself with as much zeal selling cars as I did selling drugs and robbing banks, etc. I would not be sitting here.



Well, I am sitting here so let us get on with my story. The people I have met during my life are not the top leaders when it comes to how many names I sometimes think about the past I almost do not want to tell this story. Alternatively, leave out many of the events that have taken place in my life. I too would instinctively question its validity.



You will ask yourselves how one person possibly manages to meet or know so many people from so many different places and groups of criminals from all across the world. It seems impossible.



To some, the probability of someone being involved in so much makes this story you're about to read sound unlikely. I can only say this to any skeptic ask any of the people who do know me, and you will hear them confirm my story. Some can either contact law enforcement officials and view their records, or confirm things the old fashion way by talking to my friends and family. Many of the people who do know me for more than just a year or two will tell you I’ve done things and gotten away with many of them by not being a skillful guy, but by shear bullshit luck.



Now that you have started reading, I know you will read cover to cover, and then you will walk away from this crazy story shaking your head.

So here it is.



I guess the first crime I committed in my life was drinking under age. The second and the most memorable thing I have done in those years was more of an incident perpetrated by a ten-year-old rather than a crime.



In the beginning, I wanted to prove mainly to the adults, but also my peers, that I had a pair of big balls. I was at ten years old the talk of both the English and French members of our district back in Point Saint Charles.



The FLQ had just kidnapped two important people in 1967, and a couple of idiots during that same year murdered my older cousin James Alexander Fryer.



The kidnapping of Mr. La Porte and Mr. Cross, along with Expo 67 and I the Prime Minister Enforcing Martial Law in Montreal, Quebec was the events that most anyone who is asked can remember about the year of 1967.



I am not going to go back to any news archives and research any of what I am telling you for precise dates because this story is about my memories and may not sometimes be the exact day it happened, but it did happen.



Well, I remember this Politian. I am not sure if he was the Mayor or MLA in Point Saint Charles, a district in Montreal, Quebec where we lived. He, unlike us lived in one of the few bungalow style houses at one end of Ash Ave Park. At the other, end was The Boys and Girls Club, and the Rail yard. We lived in the three-story tenements that surrounded his house.



Ash Ave ran along the side the Park and Billy’s brother Tommy Burton lived there along with my uncle Ronnie and Aunt Bev plus their four children.



My aunt Beverly’s Brother Donnie Waite lived halfway up to the block. I knew at least twenty families on Ash Ave alone. This person’s house had soldiers taking cover with their fifty caliber machine guns for protection, behind four feet stacked high sand bags.



My uncle Billy Burton lived on that street with his wife and four kids. We called two of the kids by the name of, The Twins. They had some strange problem, and it would not live past their tenth birthday.



It was shortly after their eleventh birthday while the brothers were walking home from the corner store that one of them collapsed. The other tried to rush home to tell his mom what just happened. Only he collapsed and died fifteen feet away from his dead brother. They were not very happy days back then.



Any ways the streets had three-story tenements on both sides, except for this person’s house. It was a bungalow which sat on a cross corner of Ash Street and some Ave.



One side of each street there was a row of wooden light poles that often blew leaving three streets in total darkness. They went out for no apparent reason, or so we thought.



One day while the hydro person was checking on the problem, we happened to be playing street hockey right in front of the pole he was checking. We asked and learnt about this one pole, which had a short in its wiring. If you knocked anything against it, the lights would go out for the two or three blocks that pole's power was in series with.



At a young age, I learnt that even a little information in the wrong hands could be a dangerous thing. While walking to the park one day we passed in front of the soldiers and tried to peak at the fifty-caliber machine gun, hidden behind the sand bags.



Well, this prick separatist frog gave us hell and motioned as he was going to jump over the sandbags and kick our smart asses. We looked, laughed, and told him to come try it. We tried to project ourselves as brave ten-year olds. He jumped over and if it was not for his superior screaming at him; he would have hit at least one of us.



What his boss knew but both us children and their soldier did not know an important rule to remember if you valued your life. You see most of the families in this district had a big problem with soldiers embedded within their neighborhood. I was not dumb, but I was only ten years old and knew nothing about the IRA, or my ancestors back then. If he had laid a hand on any of us kids, his chances of making it to his next birthday would have been very slim.



With my pride being hurt because he scared me a little when he first was going to come after us, I decided to get a little payback. It was not hard to sneak out at night because dad was at the pub, and mom was sitting on the front stairs talking to all the other gossipers.



At the age of ten forgiveness was not in my vocabulary. I will explain why soon. I snuck out of our back door on Ride Street and walked five cross blocks over to where these tough guys were. At night, they were not as brave sitting outside like that even though they had enough firepower to take on a small army.



As I walked on to the street where my weapon of mass pandemonium stood. The street traffic was nil and my heart was pounding loud, but I could still hear the soldiers whispering to each other. My legs felt like jelly when I kicked the pole. Every streetlight for three blocks went out. I am certain at least one of them army person’s crap their pants. Large spotlights came on turning the darkness into day. That was also when I almost crapped my pants. I was too far away for any of them to recognize me, but the foot chase was on.



Running through a few open front door's after pushing my way past mothers who sat on their stairs gossiping with neighbors up and down the street block. Their telling stares of your going to get it young man, made me run even faster. Now I was dodging through the lane ways until I finally made it home. Point Saint Charles being the Point, resulted in no one recognized me, to the authorities at is. Sadly, after I was lying in bed for about ten minutes, things took a turn for the worst.

The phone rang. All I could make out was the couple of times when I could hear my mom who said in a loud voice, really, is that right? After she hung up the phone, I got the belt from mom that night. The next-day mom's beating was overshadowed when I walked down to my friend’s house and got a pat on the head from almost all the dads in the district who saw me, except mine.



That was in my mind a silent approval, and I was the talk of the town. Being ten I decided this was fun and the same night, I did it again. Only this time three soldiers were waiting for me. Three soldiers who were hiding at the ends of the three blocks and they were not wearing heavy gear. They were in tracksuits and wearing running shoes in place of their heavy army boots. I made it home only because I was lucky in knowing both the allies behind the houses in our district so well.



To my surprise when mom came in the bedroom, and I did not get the belt. She was worried and tried explaining how I am lucky they did not shoot me. I listened and apologized. When my dad saw me the next day, he also surprised me. He was more than a little drunk when he did something he never should have done. Smiling he looked me straight in the eyes and said your little game has got people saying you got balls but you and I know better. You suck your thumb, and that makes you a sissy. He was right I did suck my finger, not my thumb, but I was no sissy.



It was one-thirty or so by the time I made it across the park and came up to the pole from the opposite end of the street. I slipped into the ally and snuck through my Uncle Billy’s back door to the front and out to where the pole was. Thank god, they did not have night vision back then.



They were trying to hide everywhere, but their problem was not their skill at hiding. It was the fact that I knew every car, every crack in the sidewalk and pothole in the street for blocks, and they took it a little too personal. They were redwoods trying to hide in an acre of dessert.



I was not going to let my dad get away with what he said so I came up with a plan that still makes me shake my head even as I tell you how I became the most famous ten years old in the history of Point Saint Charles.



Right after the lights went out, and the screaming started. I slid underneath the car parked right beside the pole. There were so many of them, and they were so frustrated people were calling out I see him. He just went into the house over here.



After hearing my family's friends and neighbors all repeat the same story to the soldiers a few more times, I again could breathe properly. Being scared and breathing so heavy showed me that fear was a powerful force. It was fear that had caused my gums to hurt that night.



Everyone was outside standing on either the sidewalk or street, including my uncle Billy Burton. The soldiers might have missed seeing my hiding spot or me but Uncle Billy did not. He knew what I did not. I was in deep crap if they ever got their hands on me. Soldiers with the help of my family and neighbors were now mistaken every curious person who peaked out their door or window, for me.



He went inside and got all the kids out of bed so that everyone came outside with him. They all walked over to a car that I was underneath hiding. These soldiers were pissed off. Uncle Billy then did like everyone else. He pointed. They looked, and I rolled out from under the car and mixed in with my cousins.



No one ever told the cops or the army investigators who I was. Hating there was a military presence in the community was in our blood. For the longest time, I could not get a good night’s sleep. Now for over a year after this happened, I would wake up at the slightest sound. I felt guilty and yes, I was worried that one day they were going to return and put me in reform school. However, I had no doubt about one thing; I was the most famous ten year old I knew.



Sadly, dad still called me a sissy, and I continued to suck my finger until I was twelve years old. Everyone in the city talked about how when the army left Montreal there was only one casualty.



Sadly, a young soldier killed himself when he jumped from the back of a troop carrier. He shot himself in the head. His rifle apparently slipped out of his grip and hit the ground as he was jumping down. He disobeyed orders and had chambered a round, which discharged because of the rifle hitting the cement sidewalk.



The Liberals did manage to stir things up a little when their members blamed his death indirectly to the FLQ. History paints them as terrorists. I know some of them so called honest Politian’s and if anyone is a terrorist it is them.



People involved with the FLQ that I met on a personal level, I have to say the most dangerous thing about them was their breath. What a bunch of morons.



Let me tell you about my one friend named Evan LeBlanc. He was a member and did so much angel dust back then that his brain was mush. He actually thought Ontario was a part of the USA. I am dead serious; most of those people were dope heads and did not have any training in terrorism, or politics or anything else other than shooting off their mouths. Not all, but most of the group would be out of breathe running up a flight of stairs. None of these idiots knew that France’s President De-gull was a stool pigeon.



He while leaving his visit to this Country said as he boarded the airplane. Vive le Quebec. That was all it took to set those idiots off. The beef was on. That prick was a traitor who sold out his own compatriots to the Germans.



I remember the time when they found one of those Nazis hiding in Brazil and the prick was so arrogant his response was not an apology for what he took part of while serving as a SS officer in France during the Second World War. It was go ahead and extradite me to France and at my trial; you will see whom I expose as a collaborator. The President of France did not pursue his extradition after hearing how he was going to expose this man as a traitor, rather than a hero of the Second World War.



Pierre Trudeau did not help things when he told the people on strike in Quebec if they were hungry to do one of two things. Go back to work or “Mange la Madre” In English, it means. Go eat shit.



To this day, the main reason, the Province did not choose separation is the government warned them, all benefits, including Welfare, and Old-Age Pensions. They would no longer be available to them as X patriots they would not be Canadian Citizens any longer. That is the real reason they chose to remain Canadians.



Between the ages of ten to fourteen, I saw little of my dad. He spent less time at home and paid no child support. My mom worked two jobs to support us. What people know but seldom admit is a good-looking woman can get the most arrogant male in the world to open a door for her, unless he was gay.



My mom looked like Elisabeth Taylor, only if possible, she was prettier. She worked as the secretary of the CEO of Federal commerce and Navigation. In addition, my Aunt Kathy Weight, Keith’s wife, she got mom a job as Sam Burgers Secretary.



Sam owned the Montreal Alouette’s Football Club. The fact that mom worked there drove my dad crazy. He accused mom of banging all these football players but I can tell you one thing for sure. Whenever a player went to the office where mom worked, they left the office as quickly as possible. Believe this as gospel. They were terrified of their head coach who was the toughest homosexual man on the planet.



Johnny was standing beside his coach and winked at my aunt Kathy when he was in the office picking up a paycheck. Mom watched as Bob with one hand held Johnny Rodgers two inches off the ground by his throat. It was in the basement office of the Alouette’s in their new stadium. The Big O back then.



No one ever made that mistake again while Bob Geary was head coach. He also lived in Point Saint Charles a district where you did not want people there knowing you were gay.



Bob was probably one of the toughest men in the Country in his day, never mind the district. Therefore, when the odd person made the mistake and gay bashed the man he in turn bashed them in the head with a right hook that could knock out a horse.



Where I am going with this is everyone loved mom, including Bob, and she loved my dad. Very important people respected her loyalty to a man, who at times beat her. I have meet these people through my mom’s connections and I meet the gangsters through my dad.



This type of behavior was common in our district. When the cops would question mom about dad and his friends, she did not say I do not know what my husband does outside our home. She told them to go fuck themselves and slammed the door in their faces.



I cannot say that the men did beat their women back in our district. Back then, they were not punished for beating their wife because it was something that had been happening for generations. However, things have changed and people like me not only look down on women beaters but also have no respect for any man who lives off the avails of women.



Even back then the one thing Irish gangsters from our district did not do was pimp women. That was something my dad taught me was a profession real men with pride did not do. The gangsters from our district left that up to a gang of Frenchmen called The Dubois brothers and a few Italians, and of course the blacks.

No offence against the average black criminal or citizen but let us face facts. When you say the word pimp, whom do you picture in your mind?



Pimps I knew when I was in my late teens and early twenties were people like Howie Jones and Francis Desmond along with his brother Ronnie Desmond a person who by the way was a creep that went to prison for raping a nun. Along with their white token brother Ronnie Walker were the pimps I knew in prison that were from Griffin Town.



The year was 1978 and I was sent to Le'clair Prison.

Prison since we got along, they got away with lots of questionable stuff when it came to the where and when they were allowed to do their thing.



Lesson learnt from those experiences that it is good for business to have someone, preferably a relative, from the other gang family as a friend. Few things are worse than a rat and one of them never fool around with any friend’s x wife or wife. If you did as far as he was concerned, you were a walking dead man.



Never become a victim of "medusa" is somewhat how he put it. Pierre looked more like a retired athlete than a Politian. Jackie told the person who was bout fifty at the time marring her would not affect his reputation any worse than what he had already done without her. Everyone in the group knew about Pierre and his taste in younger women.



He was partially right, only Margret used the marriage as a means of turning her RCMP bodyguards into drug dealers for her and her friends. She smoked pot so do not let your imagination run away on you.

Funny thing about Pierre that every Political candidate should take a lesson from his handling the stories about his child bride. Outwardly, he didn’t give a damn about what you said. He had one agenda that was running a Country. I saw him four times in all while riding with Jackie. Twice while he stood in his driveway and twice at Beaver lake. To this day, I have to say he was the type of person everyone should strive to be, and I say his name with respect.

His and Margret’s personal life was overlooked by the fact he really was a smart great leader. Jackie said like every leader, he answers to more people than just his voters.

Jackie told me smart people who want to survive have a boss, or at the least, a partner. If people know you are the one who is that final say, you are doomed. Why, well, it is because there is only one way to go from the top, and it is never a pleasant ride. Just ask Omar Kaddafi or Hussain.



Chapter 2



That was when I learnt that the people he always meets in Old Montreal were not just the men from the hood, and the first time I heard the expression The west End Gang.

wrote on Sunday, October 26, 2014

    Dont mind the grammar it is just the rough draft of the first chapter
[Reply]
0 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Tuesday, September 23, 2014
(You must be logged in to follow other users)

I was an inmate of sing sing prison back in 1964 ,,spent 2 years there then was transferred up to auburn prison,,spent another couple of years there on the 15 year sentence i was serving, then was returned to court on a writ ,, as i studied law while serving my sentenced and legally proved that one of my previous convictions within another state that was used to make me a mulitple felony offender would not legally consitute a felony in New york state,,,any way after 7 months back in the county jail they did then resentence me to 10 years and i was then sent back to sing sing. i later learned that the county jail had been condemned by the state of New York and no one could legally be sentenced there for more then 6 months,, well even thought i wasn't legally senteced there ,they had held me there for 7 months rewaiting sentence so i sued them in the federal courts and evevtually did win my freedom after serving a total of 6 1/2 years. Yes prison is hell theres no getting away from that,,but what we as indiviuals make of it has a bearing on our lives,, i choose to benefit from it and learn that of criminal law and i did just that. Along the way i helped others that were worthy of help and set case law in the freeing of others. It was an experience i shall never forget,,but one that helped me become a better man, i,m 81 years of age now and i was legally released over 44 years ago,, i,ve read a few books about sing sing written by some that served time there plus that guard,,but in my opinion none really tell it as it truly is cause in all realality its a world within its own,differed only by the fact that certain freedoms and luxuarys are denied you. As in all aspects of life its what you yourself choose to make of it.
[Reply]
6 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Wednesday, August 13, 2014
(You must be logged in to follow other users)

Really getting tired of Officer Pease at Western Reception and Diagnostic Correctional Center torturing and abusing the inmates . My son is a inmate there and this said officer has made numerous threat's towards my son and has slapped offender Mitchell Montgomery inmate number #1253412 and has been abusing other inmates for past couple of years . This abuse must come to a end before the Dept of Justice ,Bureau of Prisons and other agencies are involved . This officer should not be allowed to interact with inmates and should be fired . My son has many health issues ,needs surgery for strangulation hernia ,blown out right knee and also herniated disc in his lower back . He suffers from ptsd and other health problems.

greggohara wrote on Friday, August 22, 2014

    What if anything can parents do to protect their children in custody?
Rhonda wrote on Wednesday, October 15, 2014

    Pray for your child and get you a good lawyer before it is too late. This abuse has got to stop now!!

Rhonda wrote on Friday, October 17, 2014

    Need a number or Facebook please
[Reply]
8 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Saturday, July 12, 2014
(You must be logged in to follow other users)

Sorry, but I accidentally hit the post button here on my phone. I don't have much room to do anything. I'll try to complete this story quickly.

Anyway they roll of toilet paper in too long ropes sometimes 20 to 30 feet long and light one end. If you roll them tight enough the rope will smolder for hours on end giving you something to lite your cigarettes with. The whole place was full of smoke. Almost everyone was doing this.

Some of them also scrape the paint off of their bunk and would lite toilet paper in a butt cans so they could cook on it like a grill! They would put their desserts together and bread and one guy would cook like fruit pies are chocolate pies or whatever using the pudding and bread. He would match the bread up and add a little water to it and make it like dough, then fold it over with the desert inside and grill it up. I think they mainly did it just to pass the time but I always donated my dessert just to be on the good side of things you know? I saw two stabbings down there. In the beginning they didn't like me very much until they found out I could draw. Then I ended up making cards for all their families and everything and became friendly with almost everybody down there.

Luckily the sergeants and the court believed my story about being set up with the shank and gave me only 15 days. I convince them that I had no enemies and I only had a few months left to go and had no use for a weapon. Also the bruises showed I was beat pretty good for punishment.

But those two guards were finished with me yet. They hired an inmate to mess me up or kill me or something right before I got out. Luckily two other friends

of mine from a Puerto Rican gangs that I was drawing on t-shirts for beat the guy up for me before I even knew what was going on. I'm sure if it hadn't been for my ability to draw I would have died at Attica. That place needs to be shut down! Inmates are treated so badly there & often beaten late at night just for the hell of it.! You can get beat down just for turning your head while walking down the hall. Or worse! I saw a tear gassed yard full of inmates get attacked by about two dozen guards it look like gladiator time out there! I saw the whole thing from the top floor of the block. Guards an inmate's laying everywhere and not a word on the news about it. Its like the warden said "what happens in Attica stays in Attica!".

They tell you if you tell anyone what goes on in there not only will you pay but your family will pay. Those people are family and their family has worked there their grandparents and everyone the whole town of Attica is working there. It's their way of life they'll do anything to keep it. ANYTHING!!!

I've got hundreds of stories but none compare to what happened to me at Attic

a.



[Reply]
6 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Friday, July 11, 2014
(You must be logged in to follow other users)

I was in prison in the state of Oklahoma for burglary, concealing stolen property, and receiving stolen property for approximately 17 years back in my younger alcoholic days.

When I finally got out of prison in 94 I ran into an old friend of mine did I had met in prison and went to New York with him where we burglarized a closed down liquor store where I got another 4 years.

No prison is a good present of course but the worst place I have ever been was Attica where there is continuous ongoing war between the inmates and the guards.

I had my clothes burned, buckets of water thrown on me in the middle of the night, & clubbed senceless after they found a shank in my cell which they had planted in there themselves during a fire drill earlier that day. Luckily it was broken up by a sergeant that happened to walk upon us it took me into his custody.

I was charged with possession of a deadly weapon and taken to what they called the "Snake Pit".

The snake pit is their displinary unit. It is a smoke-filled hell full of the most violent inmates in the prison.

They allow you to buy tobacco but you're not allowed to have a cigarette lighter so what they do is roll long rolls of toilet paper into long fuse like things
[Reply]
6 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


Wednesday, July 09, 2014
Sharon Sharon

Corrections officers stealing the last of the food I struggle to bring my man, it's sickening. I have written Cuomo and his office is now aware. We are tried of being personal shoppers for Corrections Officers.
[Reply]
0 Thanks prison story needs to be heard


40 posts on this prison. Showing page 1 of 4. next >


Gangs

Do you know of any problems with gangs at this prison?

(No gangs reported yet)



* Gang not listed?





Creative Commons License
site design, code, and logo © insideprison.com; user contributions and articles licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

home | terms | contact | site map |