Memoirs, Mobster
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (US New York, New Jersey, Bronx, Brooklyn)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
sometimes at night, I lay on my bunk staring at the flies in the mosquitoes splattered on the ceiling, reminiscing about the pieces of **** I wacked, which gives me weird thoughts. Probably not weird in the way you're imagining. If you're thinking that any of my victims might have been the next Bill Gates or might have discovered a cure for cancer or might have been the first person to walk on Mars, No, let's be, really they were that kind of might have blown your face off during an armed robbery or sold heroin to your kids. For almost two decades, I got away with putting schmucks to sleep. It all ended after my arrest in the early nineties. So before I said that table from my story, let's take a peek there. In 1994 I was reading the bonfire that vanities in my cell books keep me alive. They keep me from ******* dementia. When the peeps lot of my door slammed open in a pair of eyes, gazed in. You've got a legal visit back up to the door and don't try anything stupid. A key rattled. A latch clicked in a hatch, unfastened glad to get out of my **** Hole arrested my book, got up from the metal bunk, put my hands behind my back and fed them through the latch. Handcuffs. Click Don tight two pairs, a practice reserved for dangerous motherfuckers like the big dudes in here who work out all day and are in the cage fighting or are ex Marines and had the strength and knowledge to get out of the cuffs. I ain't in that group, but there is another group of guys who ain't physically intimidating. But their files say that based on their criminal in prison history, they'll kill you in a heartbeat with a weapon that's more like me. But if I got free, I ain't gonna whack a guard. I'd stab a child molester at a kid's playground, lusting over a six year old girl on a swing or a politician trying to poke a page boy slime balls like that. Step away from the door, the metal door screeched open. Come out with your back to us any sudden moves and we will face plant you into the concrete. I ended up between two overgrown hillbillies trained to remain aloof, probably told if you slip and fall, don't think a prisoner won't grab your gun and kill you. They were not going to talk about who won the ballgame or where the nearest pizzeria is. Change jangle around my belly and ankles. The door clangs shut and was locked down the corridor go. Curses and dank smells wafted from the cells as the guards march forward. When they got to me past visitation, I knew something was up. Where we going? We can't tell you for security reasons. That brought me to a small room in open the door. Can we bring him in, Lieutenant? Yep. Go. I shuffled inside beige walls, a fluorescent strip light, no windows, a creaky fair. Three homicide detectives and a county attorney from Anchorage. Want to talk to you? Said another fat redneck who stood sweating through a tan. Uniforms have a seat. He slid a plastic chair my way, which scraped the concrete restricted by chains, a set slowly relishing the better air. Do I have to talk to them, Lieutenant? I asked, playing dumb? No, that I don't want to talk to him.