FLORIDA PRISON SYSTEM: I spent almost six years in Florida prisons. Murder, rape, torture, (both physical and mental), riots, drug use and corruption surrounded me for those six years. On a good day, there was no rape.
The flea was a black, state raised prison hustler. His real name was Robert Wright. He resembled a bug, a roach, a fly… whatever. Everyone felt “The Flea” was most appropriate.
We all slept in two man bunks, one atop the other. Two hundred men occupied the dorm I was in. There were only about two feet separating the bunks. You could easily reach out and touch the man next to you while lying in your own bed. I slept on a bottom bed. “Flea” lived in the bunk next to me, top bed.
Fierce animal like screams broke the relative silence one night. Jerking awake to enter a surreal nightmare, I followed the dripping flames, looked up to see “The Flea” engulfed in a blazing fire. He was on the edge of his bed, his facial expression frozen in disbelief, fear and pain. A combination of gasoline and honey dripping from his quickly roasting body. It had finally happened. “The Flea” had pissed off the wrong person with one of his many hustles. I could do nothing for him.
Next to me, and directly below the burning hustler, lay my friend Silvio. The deadly flaming combination was dripping on his legs. He was now ignited and smoking from the waist down. Silvio might quickly become Silvia if this continued. Grabbing my blanket, I smothered the inferno destroying the bottom half of Silvio.
The burning, smoldering “Flea” was no longer black. He was now ashen gray. Managing to jump from his bed, he now stood arms outstretched, body parts, hair, ears, nose, lips seemingly melting away. The smell was putrid. I vividly remember his bulging eyes glaring out through the flames and smoke encircling his insect like head. He was looking for something that would never come; relief from unbearable pain and continued life.
It was obvious that “The Flea,” who was now surrounded by at least 100 men, would soon be dead if no one put him out… no one did.
Silvio survived, private parts still functional. That’s what he told me anyway. I did no investigation of my own. But he did have one hell of a limp for a while.
“The Flea” died five days later at Tampa General Hospital’s burn center. There was much media coverage. There was a huge investigation. Finally, there was a highly publicized trial in West Palm Beach, Florida. No one was convicted. It seems that no one cares about fleas!
Tags: murder, my life, prison, prison justice, prisoner, the flea
Wow, Georgie! What a story…