Jimka Stories

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Jimka Stories
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COPYWRITE 1998. DUPLICATION BY PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR ONLY. The
following story is a work of fiction. All characters and locations are
fictional, and not based on any real person or law enforcement or
government agency. Additionally, as fiction, this is not meant to
imply that any incidents such as this have occured, or will occur in
any real organization
Previously: Instead of taking a nasty
sentence from a judge for a bad speeding ticket, I'd agreed to spend
the weekend in a motivational program at the parish jail. It turned
out to be worse than I expected... brutal strap discipline, and
sadistic guards. Read The Local Jail (Part I) for more detail.
I don't know how long they left me strapped
onto the rack. The room was quiet, and they never turned the lights
off. Almost immediately, my muscles began to ache and cramp up from
being in the uncomfortable position. And my butt was burning: it felt
like someone was constantly pouring boiling water on it. Somehow
during the night, I managed to fall asleep.
I came awake after
what seemed like no time at all. There was movement in the room. I
could hear bootheels on the floor.
I managed to raise my head to see a new guard standing
in front of me. This one was only a few years older than me... maybe
25 or 26. He was dressed in the same uniform as the others: black
shirt and black breeches; black highboots coming up to his knees;
thick, black, leather duty belt with a shoulder strap. I noticed what
looked like a .357 on his hip. He was clean-shaven, and had rough,
chiseled features. His dark hair was shaved into a mean looking high
and tight. The sides of his scalp were totally smooth, and the light
almost seemed to reflect off his scalp. I could see part of a tattoo
on his right bicep... it looked like a bulldog, with the letters
USMC.
He stood with his arms crossed on his chest and glared at
me. "I hope you slept well, buddy," he said, "because you got a long
hard day ahead of you." He had the same slow, north Louisiana redneck
accent, and a deep, gruff voice.
He walked over to his side and
pick up the prison strap that the other guard had used to tear my butt
up the night before. He grinned, and sort of slapped it on his hand.

"By the color of your ass," he said, walking around behind me,
"You've already had a little introduction to the strap."
Suddenly, I heard the leather cutting through the air again. The strap
came down on my butt full force. This guy obviously put a lot more
muscle into it than the guard from the night before. I thought I was
going to come right off the rack and go through the wall.
He
chuckled. "Today, you're gonna learn what work is. You're gonna take a
little trip outside, and you'll meet some new friends on the chain
gang."
SLAP! He brought the strap down hard again. I struggled in
the restraints, and tried not to cry. I could feel my eyes beginning
to water.
Fortunately, he seemed to be on a schedule. He
obviously wanted to work me over more, but suddenly, he was undoing
the straps. I tried not to move from the position I was in- I figured
if I'd be ordered if he wanted me to move. I was right.
"Get off
the _f_u_c_k_ing rack! Turn around!" he barked out the commands like a
drill sergeant.
I managed to obey, and as soon as I was facing
him, he threw a pair of bright orange trousers into my face.
I fumbled, and pulled the pants on. They were too big
in the waist, but had a drawstring. I pulled it as tight as I could
and tied it off. The pants were very thin, and worn. They were going
bare in the knees. He also gave me a pair of dirty sneakers... I
couldn't call them tennis shoes. They were really just something to
cover the foot. Then he put me "on the wall," and before I knew it,
he had heavy shackles clamped onto each of my legs.
"You're gonna
have fun today, boy," he growled in my ear.
In a matter of minutes, we were outside. It was
morning, and the sun was already pounding down on us. There was a row
of four other prisoners, all in chains, and on their knees. All were
like me, wearing the orange trousers, and shirtless. The guard pushed
me forward, and then I was on my knees, at the end of the row of
prisoners.
There were four guards all standing facing the
kneeling prisoners. The new guards were all dressed alike: black
high-boots (as usual, shined to a high sheen); black trousers, with a
wide white stripe down the side; black gun-leather, with a .357 slung
low on their side; white uniform shirts, with the gold badge; and
black hats that were almost like cowboy hats.
The lead guard,
with gold sergeant stripes on his sleeves stepped forward. He had a
thick black mustache, and his eyes were hidden by mirrored
sunglasses. He was slowly chewing a wad of tobacco, and he spit from
time to time.
"Boys," he said slowly, "Some of you have been with
me before. Some of you are new. But today, you're all gonna earn your
keep. You're on the chain gang, boys. And today, you're gonna be
digging ditches. Now you'll notice that every one of my men have a
leather strap hitched to their belts."
He undid the strap from
his own belt, and held it in his hands.
"You'll note that the
straps we use out here on the gang are a little different." He spit
out another stream of tobacco juice and continued, "Each strap is
studded; there are a half dozen or so steel studs in the leather."

He slapped the strap slowly across the palm of his hand.
"Boys," he continued, "I'm gonna work your asses off."
By noon, I
thought I was going to die. The other prisoners and I all wore
leg-irons, and we were connected to each other by a heavy chain. As
promised, we were getting our asses worked off. The guards had us
digging a long drainage canal. When finished, it was to be about eight
feet deep, and several miles long. While we shovelled, the guards
stood over us, each with the menacing strap in hand. They all wore
mirrored sunglasses, so I couldn't see their eyes, and the rest of
their expressions were always stern. But I could tell that they were
enjoying themselves.
If any of us slowed down, even in the
slightest, we got the strap cracked across our back. By noon, my back
was throbbing with severe pain. They were all obviously experts at
swinging the strap, and the steel studs felt like they were ripping my
back apart.
We broke for lunch, which turned out to be stale
bread, water, and cold white-beans. I was starving, so I ate my share
immediately. Good thing. Within fifteen minutes, we were back
shovelling, and the sttraps were swinging.
Sometime in the early
afternoon, the prisoner next to me dropped his shovel, and fell to the
ground. The guards were on him in an instant, and they were merciless
with the straps. The guy was screaming in agony, but the guards kept
right on, yelling obscenities at him, and telling him to get up. The
sound of the straps hitting his skin was almost unbearable. The only
thing that made it any better was that I knew it wasn't me.
The
big Sergeant with the mustache approached, and ordered the guards to
stop. They did immediately, and the prisoner was hauled to his feet.

The Sergeant noticed me watching, and growled in a low threatening
voice, "Get to work, boy." I didn't have to be told twice. I was
shovelling like a maniac, but still watching out of the corner of my
eye.
"Gentlemen," the Sergeant said, "Apparently this boy needs a
break. String him up, take his back off, and give him one."
The
prisoner was dragged away, groaning and crying. All the guards had
their attention on him, including the Sergeant, so I was able to watch
a little better. I kept shovelling though.
They took the
prisoner, and handcuffed his hands in front of him. Then they hooked
the cuffs onto a piece of steel high on the back of the truck we'd
come in. The prisoner was now standing on his toes, with his arms
above his head. As I watached, two guards went to work with their
straps. The sound of his screams didn't cover the sound of the leather
striking his skin. Over and over, I heard the crack of strap leather.

Finally, I heard the Sergeant say something about "too much
blood," and it stopped. I kept shovelling.
By the time the sun
began to set, my back was on fire. I was exhausted, but had been
absolutely too terrified to even consider stopping. And every time I'd
slowed down, a guard would swing the strap, lighting a new fire on my
back.
Every muscle in my body was aching when we were put back in
the truck and driven back to the prison.
I'd made it through the
day, but I knew I'd be sleeping on my belly that night.



Archive of stories published by author’s retirement
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