SKILLS GAINED:

CONCEALMENT FROM 3 TO 4

An astute observation of somebody notable was the seed for my insight. It only bloomed when I had to watch my back. I'm not on trial yet, but I know you have to carry yourself different in prison. They don't have to know I have a knife. For all intents and purposes, it doesn't exist.

The following is not written physically. Unfortunately, it's hard to write a journal in this situation.

It was a blur, and it was all going so well.

I had the opportunity to express my skills, and I whiffed it. Incompetence is a slow and insidious killer.

I got rammed off the side of the road. Tired, exhausted - watched a coworker get filled with lead.

Next thing I know I'm in the back of a cop-car.

After that, I'm booked, my mugshot's taken - all my stuff's gone, and I'm being questioned.

I'm just the getaway driver. I don't eat meat, I'm herbivore - no more answers. After a few hours, no more questions either.

After a few days - I managed to slip past the system before - I have to take a shower. It only takes a few seconds for my mouth and nostrils to catch a good amount of water, and next I'm being restrained as I cough out the liquid - throughout all of that, I only heard a horse whinnying throughout the drain pipes. I had no control over this fact. God-DAMN this curse.

Guess what? Suicide watch. I wonder if people think I'm a coward for doing that? I wonder if ANYONE has tried to kill themselves like that?

Do those pigs seriously believe this shit? Then again, I haven't said anything to 'em.

Probably not going to look good in court.

Shit, can felons still work Postal?

Oh, god. I left the fucking faucet on, too...

SKILLS GAINED:

Thievery 0 to 3

Plea deal. I got a plea deal to avoid getting my head cut off.

So much for the expedience of the justice system.

A. Fucking. Plea-deal.

Do you think I can afford a good lawyer on my salary? Because I sure can't!

Miss the bonuses, though. I got dental coverage.

Technically, I still do, but..

Everything is rough, everybody sucks. Everybody thinks they're 'hot-shit'. Pfah! Dumb-fucks!

I'll tell you what I see. You know what I see? A bunch of losers with a spare few assholes preforming hits for some dipshit who acted out of line.

What'm I doing? Well, shit. I ain't got any contacts outside of this joint barring me' dad, but I'm a damn-fine pickpocket.

Someone needs cutlery from the kitchen?

I'm already gone.

Somebody needs a battery?

Looks like one of the guards left a flashlight somewhere.

Can you get these keys to Larry without anybody noticing?

Buddy, I gave him those a week ago.

Did you repent before the eyes of the lord?

Buddy, I 'AM' him.

I keep getting screwed over by these circumstances, though. Can't shower directly under the faucet-head, or my lungs get filled with water. God, I can hear those fucking demon-horses screaming and whinny-ing down the drain, trying to DROWN me. Even in prison those fucking Kelpies are after me.

They got me off suicide-watch initially when I transferred over here, probably assumed it was because of the sentencing, and I avoided kicking the bucket by taking a shower - avoided drowning in my own cell by using my spare socks as washcloths if I gotta' wash my hands.

I'm going to drown in this fucking place before-long.

Wait, shit. I've got a tattoo now too. It's an Evil Eye.

Doesn't look half-bad, too... Especially since a coke-head murderer inked it for me.

Well, after staying up all night cutting a fucking jacket into tiny, tiny pieces with a sharpened screwdriver, I got it all flushed down the toilet, and carefully washed the blood off of my outfit in the sink - carefully.

So, me and my cellmate - Tobias Ivor - are up all night. The old guy, some ultra-American with one of those Hogan-stashes, some self-conscious bald shithead, some big-nosed fuck who got in a stand-off with the cops over evading taxes, is freaking out over this, not raising his voice, just saying "WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK MAN? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO DID YOU GET OUT?" And when I flashed the locked cellphone he shut the fuck up.

So we're both tired, and I've still got this injury that I'm not going to be able to like, fucking live with and shit, because I both don't want to die of gangrene and I lost sensation in my hand. So I'm just waiting around for the entire day feeling like shit and waiting halfway through yard-time to ask for a guard and say some freak jumped up and stabbed me.

Wonder if I can send a note to that doctor and find a way to thank him. Then again, he seems too stupid to figure out simple instructions.