Last Burn in Hell

Part One:-2

Got wankstas exposed like Paris Hilton, serving b***h slaps by the muthafuckin’ billions, call me Papa Insein cause you's All My Children, and As The World Turns ya get fuckin’ burned, ‘cause our mob rolls like Sopranos, so let go, you suckas can only flow ... like a period, my skills are myriad, maddening, ill for your health like fattening, for the slaughter, b***h, and I'll take your muthafuckin’ daughter, b***h, I already bought her, switch, I'm a hip hop marauder, rich, makin’ suckas disappear like my name's Harry Potter, only it ain't magic—it's tragic when s**t gets hairy and you're buried, in potter's field dead with your d**k in the dirt, wearin’ a damn skirt, tore your ass open with the Kobe Bryant hurt, ‘cause I bust it out like underage cherry, got other MCs committin’ hari-kari, look around and it's god damn scary, how many halfway muthafuckas I gotta bury, afraid to take the plunge, they just get the plunger, but son if s**t floats you still goin’ under

Rolli leans in and whispers in my ear, “What this means: harry-Carrie? Like unshaven woman?"

"Yo!” Satan barks. His eyes are like embers in a funeral pyre. “Shut it or get shut down, you fat b***h!"

Rolli starts to say something but I hold him back. This sound engineer may be trouble but he's got the state's seal of approval. Anybody spending thousands of dollars to rent a studio created as part of the inmate's vocational skills program, they bear the mark Do Not f**k With Us. As for the vocational skills of the offenders, well, those can wait a month or two while this record gets made.

From the background one of the inmates adds, “Word, straight up representin’ da X3 clica, an’ if you's a fuckin’ weezo we gonna split yo muddafuggin’ wig!"

A member of the executive committee orders the recording to stop. There's a murmur among the other execs. “Does weezo imply something negative about cigarettes?” he wants to know. “As in one who smokes too much and is short of breath? If so, our sister company, Smoke Me Fags, will not be pleased.” While the objecting exec mops his pink scalp I explain that weezo means informant.

The head lady seems satisfied with my translation and nods to the other five women and two men, all in power suits. “Keep the tapes rolling,” the head honcho says. “We've got a deadline."

The verdict: it's okay to endorse shooting people in the head for disclosing crimes, so long as you're not badmouthing companies that spread lung cancer.

Rolli gives me a look. While this beats regular duty, it's boring as hell to sit through fifty takes of the vocals with a committee rewriting every line. Sodamn clears his throat and is ready to deliver the chorus:

Turnin’ 8-Mile into 8-Mile Island Blowin’ s**t up wit mad freestylin’ It's da Taliban—we don't give a damn Bombin’ muthafuckas from here to Afghanistan

One of the men gushes, “Ooh, this is gonna piss so many people off. We'll have race riots and political riots in every city we tour!"

"And just think,” another adds. “Recording in an actual prison is going to make it all so authentic, all just that much more controversial."

One of the women, the least enthusiastic, chimes in with, “Instant gold. Or platinum. Or whatever. Problem is, how do you top masquerading as our nation's war enemies, screaming the most degrading slurs possible?” The execs look at each other. She adds, “Plus, where do you go artistically if you're a gimmick? We'll go gold on the first day of sales, sure, but it will just be a cage made with golden bars.” The others, they stare like funeral attendees who are only there because they married into the family. “You know, a cage of golden bars? It's a common phrase."

The chief writes out a check and hands it to this upstart. “Ten million for your severance package,” she says. “You're no longer needed, starting immediately."

Recording continues, and as the fired exec passes us we listen to her landing a job with another label via cell phone. We give each other “the look” yet again. Wonder if she'll keep all this under her hat, or tell the new label about a great idea like signing Osama Bin Laden to front some death metal band. Thinking about her keeping her mouth shut reminds me of something I'd rather not bring up to Rolli. The other day I had an anonymous note waiting in my locker. It read: Leaks can spill both ways. I'm not sure who left it but I've got a good idea. If they think stuff like that can shake me then they just don't know how many threats I've gotten in my life.

Meanwhile, one of the prison's money makers keeps on shaking:

We'll drive up Eminem's Hershey highway, y'all take it up the ass like a five cent lay, fuckin’ America the beautiful with amber waves of pain, rammin’ straight through like a fuckin’ Soul Train, from coast to coast we're leavin’ s**t stains, step to Taliban your ass is profaned, f**k with Islam you catch two in da brain, leavin’ wankstas burnin’ like the world ... trade ... center—we'll forcefully enter, your hood and your ho and blow up your fuckin’ show, shut the s**t down, drag your ass to Mecca and sell you by the pound, turnin’ hip-hop hatery into white slavery, and right now I'm startin’ with your fuckin’ family, there ain't no escapin’ see, ‘cause I'm Sodamn Insein and I don't just hate you, I'll f**k your s**t up like Saddam's r**e room, represent Islam, I'll take your sister and mom, add ‘em to my harem and straight up fuckin’ TEAR ‘EM

While everybody takes five to plan the radio edit—as if—Rolli and I step into the studio lobby to keep an eye on the inmates. Carleetha grunts at us and we nod in return. Meanwhile Sodamn pulls out rolling paper, eyes us, then stuffs it back in his pocket. We hang in the corner, keeping our conversation to ourselves.

"Guess it,” Rolli says. What an annoying turn of words, but it won't help to tell him. Two years ago his brother overdosed and he's still a little touchy about things. “Guess it my crewby. Tell ya what. USA, 1977, the laws G, this what I'm talkin', in the one nine double-seven dig it—prison sentence is fifteen years longer for smuggle of coffee than for smuggle of m*******a. Oh yeah, baby! Making sense?"

"Rolli ... who taught you English?"

"Making sense?"

"Yes, Rolli, think about it. They use coffee to mask drugs from police dogs. On top of that, the penalties for smuggling something corporations profit from are going to be much more stiff because they have more influence over the government than some pot farmers out in the middle of Bumfuck, Ohio."

It wouldn't be too far off to guess the inmates have been teaching Rolli to talk like this. Can't blame them for wanting to make a joke out of the guards. Thankfully, the signal arrives—we are ready to proceed. Rolli has to watch over the recording sessions solo from here on out.

* * * *

Leena's voice sounds like it's being strained through a little kid's megaphone, or that's how it comes across on this line. “Still giving that Olympic pool a workout, huh?"

"Yeah.” It's surprising that even after all this time she keeps up with the compliments. Avoiding her smile I ask the receiver, “Listen, what was that book you were reading? You know, last time I was ... over at your place?"

Her blue jean eyes examine those hard, short nails of hers. “Why do you want to know?"

"Well, was it any good?” Her laugh is as infuriating as it is heartwarming. “Come on. I'm serious. I want to read it."

"The only way you're going to find out is by coming to ‘my place’ and seeing for yourself."

"God, I hope not.” Then, “You still have it?"

"So hopeful, huh? You'd trade my life for a book? You're one sick man."

"No, that's not what I meant—"

"Like you would even crack the pages.” She laughs again, playfully, and the short black locks of her hair call out to my hands, pleading for a caress. “If you keep acting this goofy I might actually start missing you."

"I think about you too.” That yellowing bruise around her neck, the size and shape of an improvised noose. That's probably not something we'll talk about any time soon. “So, nice weather today huh?"

We share a laugh before nervous silence seeps in, threatening to thwart another conversation.

"I heard you got another job. Good for you."

"Uh, I hope you don't take offense or anything ... you know, like that. Offense I mean."

"No, no, the more the merrier I say. What the heck, you only live once right?"

"Leena, it's not like I'm some swinging dude or something, I'm just ... I don't know, you know? Just doing my job. You know that."

She chuckles. “Can't you tell when a body's teasing you?"

"No, not usually."

"Listen, don't worry about it. She's a decent enough person."

It's good to hear her being so upbeat for once. “Cool, that's cool."

"Time's up,” a voice says on the other side of the glass. Some new guard—or new boot, if you're up on the prison lingo—a woman, steps forward. Leena hesitates, says her goodbyes, then puts the phone back in its cradle. In her standard issue white jumpsuit my lady sits intently watching me, memorizing me, her domineering jaw set like that of a dog guarding its bone. Eventually this new boot grabs her by the shoulder and attempts to yank her to her feet. Leena rips her arm away and the two women stare each other down briefly, mad-dogging it with nobody to witness except me. For a second it seems like hoe check time, and sure Leena could take a new prisoner to the square and see what they're made of, but no way in hell can she go around doing that with the guards.

"Hey,” I say loudly. “You know who I am? What's your name?"

The new boot backs off but her attitude has plain irked my nerves. Her last name's Kirk-something ... shoot, she turned before I could read it. “I'm coming back there."

Leena motions to me to stop, that it's okay, but it sure doesn't feel okay. They shuffle away, a bright white suit towering over a dark blue one, one wearing shackles and one carrying an extra set—just in case. They're both shapely enough, in their own ways, but really that's not what makes my eyes linger.

Leena steps through the door without looking back, followed by the guard. This new woman pauses to turn and size me up with glowering intensity. Who knows what she's thinking exactly—whatever it is, it doesn't seem pleasant. Maybe I'm the one that's going to get taken to the square?

* * * *

Chauntelle is superheated, almost uncomfortably warm against my arm, my ribs, my hip and thigh. Laying here like this, looking up at the ceiling of this conjugal cell—or this canton as most prisoners here call them—it's not too hard to imagine what restless nights in prison are like. Wondering if they remember you out there in the world, hoping those people in the other cells don't remember that remark you made the other day, hoping that the governor remembers you're one of his citizens. Hey, I have to remind myself, this cell is a step up for a lot of the women; they're used to spending time in meditation or in suicide watch cantons, or at the very least they grew up in the projects. Even though it's still public housing you don't hear insects crawling around in the darkness of this room, in this bed, and there's no mice scampering across your chest waking you at three in the morning. The women tell me about these things when we're alone.