DALE FLANAGAN

 

 
 

PENPALSYOUR JOB OFFERCONTACT   english  german 



Dale Flanagan
        Dale Flanagan #0021853

It isn’t true that prisoners […in America] live like animals. Animals are treated better.
                                                                                                                       M. Llosa


My first day, wearing more chains like Prometheus I’m roughly dragged, stumbling, missing steps off of prison transport. The cold of mid-December hits. You begin to shiver in the cold. Huge rough-hewn construction like something you’d see on a documentary on ancient civilisations stands before you. An old 1800s American Wild West territorial prison. Want to see it? Search for the movie “An innocent man” (1989).

Before you can take it all in the attack all teeth barking snarling rocks you. You fall back. The guard had set the dog on you just holding the leash, so it cannot bite. The barking flashing of teeth an inch from your genitals, saliva flies coating your neon orange prison jumpsuit quickly freezing…

By the time the guard pulls the dog from you, your crotch looks like someone sprayed it with “Silly String”. Before relief, the dog is replaced by a huge man ramming a Taser into your stomach, punching you, yelling profanities “Did you just attack my dog? You filthy piece of shit! You motherfucking…” grinding the handgun shaped Taser into your ribs he hauls you to your feet. The yelling does not stop. “Move, give me an excuse, I’ll light you up, motherfucker…!” Pushing, pulling, forcing you to walk stumble slip in the snow, taser muzzle hard painful ramming again and again into your ribs.

Disoriented in pain you don’t realize the man, the guard with the Sgt stripes is suddenly a pave or two behind.
Later you’ll realize this is all a game to them, but in this next moment a man has jacked a shell into a shot gun, standing two stories above between crenellations.

“Get down! Get down! I’ll kill you were you stand!” You were purposefully guided into a no man’s land over a red line painted on cement buried under snow. The Sgt behind you through a vicious smile, says: “You better get down. He is serious. He will shoot you.”

You’re a 19 year old kid. You’ll get down, more fall down due to the chains into the snow.

This goes on till finally you are led underground, pushed into a filthy dimly lit cell, chains removed, thick metal bar door clangs closed.

It’s almost relief when you are finally alone, maybe more shellshock, PTSD*.

My first, not my worst day.

That day, when my Grandmother was discovered. Thrown away in a Zombie House by her husband. A home for Alzheimer patients, in which they drug you into a stupor and do not care for you at all. Unwashed, barely fed, unvisited, unwanted… some husband.

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*Posttraumatic Stress Disorder

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