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CE- Meanie Babies

"Meanie Babies"

Psychotic murderers are funny. Not in a ha-ha type way, but in an unpredictably incongruent eccentric way. Correction... some of them are also funny in a ha-ha sense of humor way too. The point I'm trying to make is, they don't act all sinister movie villain like you would expect.

My next cell neighbor, a high level martial artist and psychotic murderer (who could take a shit in the middle of the day room floor and no one would say a damn thing about it) has a platoon sized element of painstakingly handcrafted stuffed animals on his bed. A cat. An octopus. A dog. A bear. A shark. A badger. Some other shit I haven't identified yet. There's even an incredibly detailed bat hanging from the ceiling. A veritable menagerie of stuffed animals. They're cute as all get out. Besides the cat (who just has the sangfroid nut-job cat stare), they all have little sewn on facial expressions and everything. They remind me of the old Beanie Baby stuffed animals.

Psychotic Murderer Number One (parent of the stuffed animals) didn't make them. He is incapable of anything creative besides long chains of scary-as-hell swish the air like a kung-fu movie strikes. Enter Psychotic Murderer Number TWO. (another high level martial artist- Brazilian jiujitsu this time- who just happens to have strangled his last victim to death). Number Two is the one who sat for hours and handcrafted these things. Two makes them. One buys them.

An unwritten rule (actually not unwritten, because I wrote it on this blog as a prison rule quite some time ago) is to never sleep past the time the cell doors open in the morning. Be up and ready for anything. That would be a time you could get attacked and taken right out. Who's easier to assault or kill than a sleeping idiot? Nobody, that's who. Anyway... Psychotic Murderer Numero Uno doesn't follow any prison rules. He walks around barefoot. He sleeps like the dead and gets up whenever the fuck he wants. He takes a shit without putting the flap for privacy up. Whatever. Anyone who is socially and psychologically perceptive enough can intuit clearly that we are living in his world and not the other way around. He is above any rules and does just whatever the fuck he wants (almost as if, in his view, no one else is actually here). So if you go and look in his cell whenever he's sleeping in the morning, you'll see him cuddled up with the what we've begin calling the "Meanie Babies" stuffed animals, especially the damn cat, who he named "C.C." for "Cuddle Cat". Seriously. This is actually happening.

So the capital B "Bad Guys" aren't all what you think. And most of them you couldn't pick out of a crowd (unless you have a highly evolved survival instinct-" I don't feel right. My stomach feels weird... something is silly bad wrong! I'm outta here!"). The truth is, for the most part people are people, with all the need for simple comfort, with all the funny eccentricities, and all the seeming personal contradictions that go against what other people think they know about them.

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