This Again?


Damn this shit again… I used to have the belief that if I was arrested wearing a certain article of clothing it forever after that point is to be deemed cursed.

When arrested inside the boundaries of Denver County, Colorado you are swept away to a magical building in the heart of the city called Denver City Jail. The exterior is that of grey concrete, save or eight stories of building that looks as if it is still under construction in some way. The approach to the building via the plastic back seat, with your hands undoubtby throbbing because of the newly acquired steel wrist wear, is an underground entrance. The sign at the entrance reads that no one but law enforcement should enter… It’s an odd feeling to enter an area behind such a sign, knowing god damn well you’re not any form of copper. The feeling is one of relinquishing hope of possible control. Nope, that’s a wrap; you’re not running shit any longer. The drive down the ramp is always a dark one. I guess the designer of this area figured dark is better. I mean come on, this is the basement parking area of the DPD, it’s either cops or dirt bags frequenting this parking area. This spot is the holy of holies for any arresting officer that feels it is his or her duty to offer up a little get back for any transgressions committed by the shit bird, I mean suspect, upon initial contact prior to being fitted with cuffs. It’s a cold place my friends, its dark, somehow damp (unless those were my tears) with no flashing red LED lights coming from any corner. Nothing will record your scream. I mean this isn’t back in the day any longer. There is no option given to weather you receive a ride to the station or the alley. Everyone and their Mother’s brother neighbor’s half retarded baby sister have a cell phone and know how to use it. Poor cops nowadays can’t sprinkle a little pepper on a nigga without seeing themselves on Youtube a hour later with “overzealous” written on top. Nope, this is there refuge, and in turn, your warm place. Find your power animal my homie your going to need it.

If you’re lucky enough to still be walking on your own will to the elevator I would count my lucky stars. It would just be plain silly to waist energy when you may very well need up where that lift is about to spit you out…Save your energy!

Alright here now we’re are those little cubby holes that are outside of every correctional facility, you know the ones, the cop takes his gun out of the holster and puts it behind the little door which has no lock. Maybe it’s my affection towards weapons, but I have pondered this area many a minute. When they go back to retrieve the gun do they always guess the correct door the first time? Has anyone ever grabbed the wrong gun? Maybe even upgraded at this juncture?

Back to the topic at hand, you shouldn’t be worrying about that shit right now, focus…

The elevator spits you out to the fish tanks. Your greeting and possible released to the press photo is taken. Damn right there getting the picture now because lord knows it may be a new you after they throw you in the tank with the rest of the jackals. It’s like some kind of fucked up class reunion mixed with the cheeriness of the DMV. An odd confusing type aggression of an angry drunk who can’t except that it really is last call is the mood expelled. The smell is that of, well… Every smell that you may find in a Chinese restaurant dumpster mixed with the remains of any combination of upsetting meals that came back up mixed with whatever fine wine of the passed out hobos choosing.

“Ahhh, it was all good just a week ago.”

The fish tanks are just that, minus the water. A series of plexy glass boxes stuffed with 10 to 50men whom which you will spend quite possibly the next six to eight hours with. And believe me they are charmers everyone. You know that one guy who can’t have a beer without beating his wife in a screaming rage? He’s here. As a matter of fact, they seemed to have multiplied here in the tank. The one wearing the jump suit must have killed his lady, they have kept his clothes for evidence, but don’t trip, and he’s no doubt, the calm one in the gaggle. Keep sizing your current company. Sure, there are the obvious bars fighters, whoopty do. There is a pimp or two, dressed in some silly shit you would find at your local swap meet. (Pieces of shit that they are)There are a couple of johns crying about how they were set up on East Colfax. These guys aren’t anything like how they depict prostitution stings on your favorite cop show. These guys are flippen creeps. Sexual deviants. They’re not that business guy with the nice ride venturing to the wrong side of town for a little nookie before he goes home to his loving wife. Nope, that shit I’ve never seen in the tank. These guys are on the prowl nightly hoping for a man in drag, or praying for a mother selling her 12 year old daughter so they can both get a couple of blasts for the night. These are ugly people, they didn’t venture to the bad side of town, and they ARE the bad side of town…. I hope you’re not too cute and or feminine, they would settle for ugly and feminine right now… And oh boy, if you’ve have been evolved in what people who build their image around what they heard in a rap song refer to as “The Game”, it’s about to be played. That one smoker you were being an ass to while trying to impress some skank. He’s here. That guy that hangs out asking for change outside the liquor store you told to get a job you piece of shit! He’s here. And if you ever fancied yourself a gangster, wore a color, got a super tuff tattoo to represent how down you are, guess who’s here? Yep, the other guys. Good times, you’re on your own. I told you to save your energy.

After the gauntlet of tanks, the finger printing it’s time to hop yet again into the elevator. The next stop is where you will ferment in your own and others foulness. A 6’x9’ cell with yourself and two others, comfy. Until the transport comes from you in five to ten days this is where you and your new best friends will fester. No showers, no toothbrush, and no private potty with the magazine you flip through while at the throne at your currently unattainable home. Your socks are black in a matter of hours from the filthy crust posing as a floor. Your shirt in paints a permanently crises crossed creased from having been slept in. This is where the curse I began with comes in… Just try to put on any article of clothing that accompanied you throughout this ordeal and not receive an immediate flash back… Cursed.

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