by Pervert Savant

Read Chapter 1

The Heart-Rending Story of an Innocent Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced to Confront Brutality and Recidivism in the Dank Cells of the Toughest Prison in Texas.

CHAPTER II: An Audience with “The Warden.”

Warden W. Lester McCobb leaned back in his chair squinting at the correspondence he held in his pudgy hands with obvious irritation. The object of his attention was another letter from Purvis McCutcheon, the Assistant Superintendent of Prisons of the State of Texas. McCobb hated McCutcheon, hated receiving correspondence from McCutcheon, and hated even more responding to correspondence from McCutcheon.

“What’s that little pissant want me to do now?” McCobb growled. “Institute macramé workshops for rapists?”

McCobb and McCutcheon had philosophical differences about the proper direction of Texas penology.

“The trouble with McCutcheon is he’s crock full of that Austin liberal reform shit,” McCobb muttered. “He’s got about as much sense as an armadillo in heat. It’s pansy-assed little shit wads like McCutcheon that are responsible for the screwed up state of the prisons in this here country!”

McCobb had his own ideas about running prisons. He came from a long line of prison wardens – four generations of them, in fact. Grainy pictures of his clone-like ancestors proudly graced the walls of McCobb’s office. Prison management was in McCobb’s blood – literally. Indeed, the initial “W” in McCobb’s first name actually stood for “Warden.” McCobb seldom told people that “Warden” was his first name. The appellation had been conferred by a doting father at birth. But to McCobb’s sensitive ear, and given his present station at West Texas Correctional, it sounded a bit redundant. At West Texas Correctional all personnel and convicts knew McCobb simply as “The Warden.” Only McCobb’s close relatives, in moments of rare intimacy, called him “Warden Warden.”

McCobb shifted uneasily in his chair, pushed his black-framed glasses back from their customary perch at the bottom of his flared nostrils, and disgustedly tossed McCutcheon’s partially read letter onto his desk. He reached into his jacket pocket, removed a previously opened package of “Mail Pouch,” and placed a three-fingered wad of the tobacco carefully into his mouth. McCobb had indulged in this noble pleasure since age 14 and a discerning viewer could read his emotional moods by the position of the plug of tobacco beneath his pinkish jowls. Today’s telltale positioning indicated that McCobb was having an unusually bad morning.

“Where the hell’s Biff?” McCloud growled. “What’s this shit about another knifing? The last goddamned thing I want to do today is send another knifing report to Austin. That’s the fourth one this month! They’re gonna have my ass.”

McCobb shifted his plug to a position reflecting greater irritation and stabbed an intercom button on his phone system. “Tansy, you tell Biff to get her ass in here right now. I go away to Waco for three days and this place turns to turds!”

A disembodied Latina voice on the other end of the intercom responded: “Sheez onna her way een right now, Warden. I tole heer you want to see heer.”

“And where’s Cherie? I heard she patched the Mexican up.”

“Sheez eena the commissary. You wan me to tell heer you wanna to see her too?”

“Damn straight I want to see her. These goddamned reports don’t get written out of thin air. I need facts! Get her in here right now.”

“Hokay, right away, Warden,” Tansy’s invisible voice responded.

McCobb adjusted his plug to a more pensive position on the right side of his mouth and began filling out the all-too familiar multi-plied yellow, green, white and pink form that was appropriately labeled “Texas State Penitentiary Standard Accident Report No. 7 (Knifings).” McCobb had successfully negotiated the “Prisoner Name” and “Date” blanks on the form and was trying to cope with the one marked “Applicable Aliases” when Biff finally made her appearance in The Warden’s office.

Silently noting the burly lesbian’s arrival, McCobb shifted his plug back to its standard “very irritated” position, grunted, and then neatly expectorated a brownish jet of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon strategically located at the side of his chair. An answering ping, emanating from the depths of the spittoon, welcomed Biff into the Warden’s presence.

“Tansy said you wanted to see me,” Biff opened nonchalantly, trying her best to ignore both the neatly aimed jet and the resounding ping.

“Damn right I do, Biff,” McCobb growled. “What’s this shit about another knifing?”

“Oh that. Well, Warden, y’see, while you were away in Waco the Acevedo boys got into it. Things got a little ugly, and Chuey wound up sticking a blade in Alejandro.”

“Goddamit!” cursed McCobb. “I put those two in the same cell because I wanted to avoid crap like this. Hell, they’re brothers, ain’t they? Why’d Chuey wanta go and knife his own brother?”

“Well, they ain’t really brothers, exactly, Warden. They got the same mother but. different fathers,” Biff corrected. Biff had learned the importance of precision in her criminology class at Amarillo State Junior College. Precision was one of the qualities that made Biff an outstanding alumnus of ASJC as well as one of the more promising guards at West Texas Correctional.

McCobb tongued his plug rapidly to the other side of his mouth – a sure sign of rising anger that was not lost on the always-perceptive Biff.

“Okay, dammit, so they’re half-brothers.” McCobb growled. Same goddamned question. Why’d Chuey go and cut up his half-brother?”

“Well, I ain’t exactly sure, Warden,” replied Biff. “One of the cons that supposedly saw it tole me that Alejandro called Chuey’s mother a whore. You know Mexicans. They don’t like that. They love their mothers. I guess Chuey overreacted.”

McCobb’s jowls began quivering as the plug underneath began shifting to alternatingly starboard, and then port, positions.

“But they have the SAME mother, dumbass. Why would Alejandro call Chuey’s mother a whore if the woman he’s calling a whore is his own mother too? You expect me to put crap like that in my report to the Superintendent in Austin?”

Biff nervously fingered her badge, the pin of which, for some reason, she had accidentally and irritatingly placed directly over her left nipple. The pin’s location added to Biff’s growing sense of unease as she continued relating what she knew of the knifing to McCobb.

“Well, Warden, I’m just telling you the same thing that the con tole me. Maybe I got it wrong. Or maybe their mother really IS a whore. I don’t know. It’s possible. I don’t speak much Mexican.”

“Well, where’d Chuey get the goddamned knife?” McCobb asked, increasingly angered at Biff’s diffidence.

“It was a piece of metal, Warden. Remember when you had Chuey wax your car last week? I think he broke off a piece of your license plate. You sharpen a piece of metal like that up enough on a concrete floor and you get a pretty good prison blade.”

Biff paused in her narrative to pop a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint (her favorite!) in her mouth. “Hell,” thought Biff, “if he can chew, so can I.”

“Anyway, Warden,” Biff continued, “that probably explains why the number ‘7’ went missing from the ass end of your car’s license plate.”

McCobb paused, placed his head in his hands for a few moments, and then lifted his eyes. Biff noted warily that those same eyes now seemed redder and buggier than they had immediately before the pause. Biff also noted that McCobb’s tobacco wad had shifted to a new “near-homicidal” position.

“Oh, fine. Just great,” McCobb yowled. “McCutcheon’s gonna have my ass for this. A Mexie stabs his own brother in a high-security cell block and he uses a piece of metal from my own car’s license plate to do it. And where am I when all this is happening? Yeah. Right. Away at some dipshit conference in Waco.”

“Well, shit happens, Warden,” said Biff, inadvertently popping her gum but trying to sound sympathetic. “I guess this means no more cons waxing your car, huh?”

McCobb rolled his eyes and moved his plug into its angriest position. “Biff, you keep your yap shut about that license plate, y’hear? I’ll figure out somethin’ to tell McCutcheon, but you better remember that I left you in charge here while I was away. If my ass gets in a sling for this, that fat ass of yours does too.”

“Er, yeah, sure thing, Warden,” Biff replied uncomfortably, once more feeling the pin-end of her badge biting into her nipple. “You know me. Mum’s the word.”

Not liking the new position of the Warden’s wad, Biff concluded it was probably time to leave his presence. As she closed the door behind her, Biff could hear McCobb cursing alone in his office, loudly and creatively.

***

Well it looks like Pervert Savant is cooking now, eh? Chapter 3 (the final chapter) is just around the corner so persevere, beloved Smut Mongers. It won’t be long now.

xo, Angela

…which is kinda-sorta what I’ve been up to today.

On the mend, but feeling still delicate — I am taking calls by arrangement only and only if I can. Which means that if I wear out, I will bail.

Believe it or not, some calls are easier than others and require less intense effort on my part. Those I can handle. The guy on coke who wants to talk about how wonderful his own personal penis is for twelve to eighteen or even more hours — I cannot handle. Not even on a good day.

My advice to you, mister, is to get off the coke, then find a vagina (or even another penis) that you love more than your own equipment.

So I am getting my appetite back which is a very good thing. Just finished a bowl of mixed vegetables…so yummy!

Heeding a beloved friend’s counsel to “take it easy,” I’ve started on my Christmas cards while making lists: Online Holiday Shopping, Mall Shopping, Grocery Shopping, Holiday Tasks, Website Tasks, Professional Commitments. And I’ve been doing sundry other little things in between. With (guilt-free) naps as needed. Because I have a lot to do this month and need to continue getting better.

I’ve decided to feature a different charity each day through Christmas (via a button at the end of each day’s blog entry) and today’s is extra special. Do you know what today is? Because I sure didn’t. But thanks to Dear Madame (known as “Madame Dearest” amongst more submissive types, I do believe) I’ve been enlightened. Today is World Aids Day and what better way to start a season of giving than to contribute to such a worthy cause?

The easiest thing to do? Light a Candle. And please pass along that link. Every time the candle is lit, Bristol-Myers Squibb will donate a dollar to the National Aids Fund.

And a very cool list: 12 Ways to Join the Fight Against Aids.

Thanks. Kisses & Hugs. I’ve got to get back to nailing that jelly. Anybody got a hammer?

Angela

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