top of page

Chapter 12: Between Two Cells

I was in handcuffs, sitting in the back of a patrol car. Two officers sat in the front seat, and I was on my way to a place I had never been. It was a sunny day in Kentucky. I was unfamiliar with this state in most every possible way. The most I knew about it was that a lot of sorted types lived there, and they were probably the birthplace of KFC. Just a guess.


I was slowly accepting the weight of the situation I was in. I was going through the typical human phases in dealing with grief, loss, trauma, whatever you want to call it. The back of the patrol car had no padding, no seat cushions and it looked like it was designed for drunk people to piss in, which is likely what happened all the time. In front of me stood a metal wall with little holes in it to speak to the officers, with a shotgun mounted on their side.


Obviously, the doors were not openable from the inside, no handles at all. To society, at that point, I was essentially a stray, problematic dog that was collected by animal control, on his way to the pound.


Once we arrived, an officer went to take off my cuffs and said, “Now when I take off your cuffs, you’re not going to try and fight me are you?” I calmly replied “No, that would be stupid.” The officer agreed “Yes, that would be.”


The same officer walked me up to a finger printing station, they put my finger on a pad, then on a piece of paper, over and over. Right after I had to stand in front of a wall, and they took my mug shot. A 15-year-old boy was getting locked away for defending himself. “True justice.”


I was instructed to change into an orange outfit which felt like it made things official. No one watched me change, I actually felt like I had a bit of privacy, it was nice. Just before that I was required to shower a bit, I don’t recall anyone watching me then either, but I do recall seeing my dad’s dried blood, slowly being washed away by the warm shower water. His blood was painted on my chest one moment, then it was circling the drain another.


I was sent to a temporary holding cell where I felt an overwhelming sense of constipation. As a result, I sat on the metal toilet (with no seat lid, just the toilet itself, typical prison stuff) and became increasingly frustrated that I could not get my body waste out… was body waste the best words for describing that? *laughs* Whatever.


Eventually, because I was so frustrated that I could not get my bowels to work, probably from the stress, I just put my finger up there, and pulled it out manually… see? Honest. Painfully, self-depreciatingly, honest. I will get made fun of, forever, for admitting this, but I don’t care.

Human after all.


Even better, shortly after this situation, there was a knock at my temporary holding cell door. They continued to respect people’s privacy, weird. I had washed my hands the best I could with the limited resources I had. The real issue was, the room I was in, was extremely isolated. It wasn’t just isolated in that I was alone and that it was a prison cell… but it didn’t have good ventilation. As a result of my activities in attempting to vacate by bowels, a wafting shit smell exploded out of my cell door once it was opened. The funny thing was, everyone in my… cell block? Was standing in line outside my cell. This line of inmates was full of hungry bellies as they were about to eat. In reaction to the shit smell, they audibly made groaning and “Oh my god!” sounds as my shit cloud invaded their senses.


I was amused. I already felt better in this detention center than I had back at home with my dad.


I joined the line, we ate, and not long after I was put in a new cell. Cell D-210. It was on the second floor of the facility, and again, to my relief, was a solo cell. No other people, just me, alone in a very quiet, very secure tiny room.


In that cell I took part in a number of activities. The first activity was pushups, then sit ups, then squats, then dancing which eventually became laughing and singing. There was no religion here. There was no parental judgment here. I was free, and I felt, surprising very happy.


I no longer was living in an oppressive home with a total douchebag and his fat stupid wife. I was in my own world now, where everyone could just, leave me alone. My juvey cell gave me a greater sense of freedom than my entire time living with my dad. Why? Because I was living in his house, with his rules. Meanwhile this cell? This was not my fathers. My father had no power here.


I had a good time hanging out with the other displaced kids like me. I was playing poker with one kid, and I asked him how long he was in for… he said he was there for three years, and I was like, “Oh man, that sucks!” he replied “Yeah, it’s going to be a long 18 months.” (I’m paraphrasing the conversation). When he said that, I was confused, and then amused. I was happy to inform him he would only be in there for a year and a half, not three years. The guy began debating me about how many months are in a year, and in that moment, I said to myself “God damn, I really am in Kentucky.”


I remember there being books to read, a common area for us all to shoot the shit, and I remember us being divided up between blue outfits and orange outfits. The blue outfits were for folks who had committed low-level crimes, and the orange outfits were for the real bad boys who might in fact be psychos. I, being an idiot, felt pride in the fact that my outfit basically screamed “Don’t mess with me.” But the outfit didn’t really help me not get bullied as there was one dude who called me a “Dumbass” under his breath for not moving forward in line fast enough.


I hear people complain about the food they get when they’re locked up. I personally don’t get it. I enjoyed the food just fine. I was eating brownies, mashed potatoes… what more could I ask for? My brownies even had sprinkles on them, are you kidding? But all the good times I had in there, don’t really make up for the bad time.


One night, I heard a female guard yelling at what I thought was an inmate… it was a little boy, he was screaming at this lady, saying he hated her, that he was miserable and so on. He had to be, maybe 9 years old. This kid had short dark hair, was white and had a little extra fat on him. They were on the first floor, and I could see them from my cell on the second floor through the small, vertical rectangle window I had.


The boy was screaming non-stop, so the mom/guard felt like it was appropriate to put this kid in what looked like a modern electric chair (only without the electricity). She restrained his arms, his legs, and his head in this chair. My heart broke a little, because all I could think is “Kids aren’t born this way, you taught him to act this way through awful parenting.” And I know this is true because even if the kid were a monster, no half-decent human being would strap their own kid to a torture chair like that. She was the type of idiot parent who felt might = right, and that she should try to solve her issues with her kid using violence while acting like violence was wrong.


The woman threatened to throw her son in a cell, which indicated this kid might not even be an inmate, and instead, was just with her while she was working. That or she may have brought her kid in for acting up at home, knowing there was a torture chair she could throw him in there. I don’t remember if I could see him wearing an inmate outfit, but from this kid’s cries, I could tell he felt what I felt about my own dad: We both felt that our own parent, didn’t love us. My whole chest hurt as I heard that boy hurt. The hatred for his mother grew in him, and in me with every additional oink that came out of her snout. She acted like her son was just a problem to her, and didn’t see, the kid just wanted to know his own mom loved him. He was lashing out to say “This is how your lack of love has made me behave. This is the result of the ugliness you show me every day.”


After the kid finally stopped rebelling and was defeated emotionally to the point of quietly sobbing, he eventually was released from the chair, no doubt, scarred for life. If it haunted me that much, I assume it hurt him infinitely more.


It reminded me of being back in elementary school, back in Auburn. One day a boy was kicking and screaming as two teachers restrained him physically. They hauled him down the hallways as he sobbed in agony. Looking back, both those boys were around people who were too damn stupid to know how to be the adult in the situation. They responded to children like children would. They didn’t know how to get to the root of the issue and find out what was really going wrong. These weren’t psycho children; these were just kids who didn’t have the right guidance and were plunged into the absolute wrong environment.


I went back to sleep, and the next day I was notified I had a visitor. I talked to my mom a few days ago (like literally a few days ago from today) about this moment. Was I trying to get information from her to add to this book? Absolutely, of course. My mom said back then she flew across the country and as she arrived with my aunt at the detention center she was told she could not see me. Apparently because my mom did not have custody, she was not allowed to visit. My mom broke down crying as my aunt consoled her, and the guard let my mom in as a result. I didn’t hear about this till decades later. I just assumed they were let in right away due to common sense.


Once I was informed that I was expected to leave my cell and go to visitation, I happily walked out and saw my aunt and my mom waiting for me. In my head I was thinking “Oh my god, my mom and aunt must love me a lot to drop everything and fly out to see me on such short notice.” But apparently my mom remembers me saying “Why are you here?” as if I didn’t even care that they were there. I’m not sure if my mom just heard me wrong or if I was bad at communicating, but I remember feeling grateful and happy they were there.


My mom and my aunt seemed to be rather content with the fact I had beaten the living shit out of my dad. My uncle, who had personally told my dad on the phone “If I ever see you again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Was apparently also very satisfied with my choice to defend myself against my father. I basically had done to my dad what my entire family wanted to do to him. If you’re not on bored with what I did decades ago, you know, defending myself against him: You should know that what my father said back to my uncle, when my uncle threatened him was “Yeah, I would feel the same way if I were you.” Passively confirming that he did in fact, molest my family members, as that is what my uncle was reacting to when he threatened him. Why else would you tell someone you understand them wanting to kill you for what they accuse you of? If you were not guilty, wouldn’t you say “I didn’t do what you think I did, so your threat is unfair.”? Not “Yeah, I get it bro! I agree! You’re right! You should hate me! Yay agreements!” Hello?


So, my mom left with my aunt, knowing they had no power to take me back with them. But they promised before they left that they would get me out of there and away from my father.

Later that day, almost as if my dad had been informed of my mom visiting, my father showed up. He and “Aunty” (his wife’s preferred title) decided to show their defeated mugs. My father, looked like a cowardly, pathetic, boneless ass-whooped version of the man I knew before. He looked like a beat dog, quite literally, like a prison bitch. I’m not trying to be mean; I’m not feeling malicious either. Malicious would mean that I wished him unwell, which I don’t. I wish him a normal, boring life, and to stay out of my life. That’s all. Wishing evil on others only hurts me, and I have no interest in putting that toxic thought process anywhere near my life. I’m just telling you what I observed. This man was not what I thought he was. It was clear my father had never had someone truly put him in his place before, and now he was overwhelmingly terrified of me. Unfortunately, when I later got an ankle bracelet put on my leg, the power struggle flipped again. I know… shit.


At that meeting, he mentioned that I nearly broke his collar bone. He had a black eye, and half his nose was bruised as well. My response was generally “Well, it is what it is.” No apology, the man attacked me, I defended myself, it really was, what it was.


I had been put in the center Friday night, so the judge was out. Come Monday morning, I was set to be put before a judge, where I informed the judge I was not read my rights when I was arrested (I assumed from a law TV show I saw, that if you were not read your rights, you could walk away free). The judge assigned, rolled her eyes, and said I would be on house arrest for about a month. So now, I was going from the freedom cell I was used to, to the hell house I hated. The hell house run by, of course, the 7th Day Adventist Pastor Satan and his fat albino henchman wife.


Being back at “Home” was pretty much what you could expect, awful. My father was stricter than ever before. The power shift I mentioned earlier was in full swing. He made new rules, and if I didn’t follow them, he’d threaten to call the cops. A clear example of this is when I was upstairs at night. The stepmom yelled to the upstairs, “Dinner is ready!” in a perfectly normal tone, and I replied with “I’m not hungry!” also in a normal tone. My father butted in and said, “Get down here right now!” in an agitated tone. So, I proceeded to the dining room, and again said “I’m not hungry.” My father followed my statement with “You will eat.” And I replied “No, I’m not hungry. I can’t eat if I’m not hungry.” My father, I shit you not, immediately told his wife to “call the police” I was blown away… I was speechless… I, was astonished.


My father was going to call the police on me for not eating dinner. His wife actually did pick up the phone and call. I thought to myself “No way the cops take this seriously.” I assumed they wouldn’t send anyone out because of how ridiculous the issue was, but, the 9-1-1 operator did. Before long, there was a knock at the door, the police had in fact showed up and yes, I had a little smirk on my face because I still thought this was a joke. What kind of idiot father calls the cops on his son for not wanting to eat dinner?


Unfortunately for me, the police saw that I was amused by this as I explained it, and didn’t like me being amused. One of the officers said “If you think this is a joke, we can put you and cuffs and take you in.” The situation was, suddenly, no longer funny to me. I realized in that moment, there was no law, there was no order, there was just a bunch of idiot men who felt that because they weren’t being treated with absolute respect, that they could just throw your life away and the key to your cell with it.


I didn’t want to go to another facility if it was full of men who would punish you the moment they felt like you didn’t respect them. Walking egos like that are toxic and stupid as hell.

I kept thinking: “What kind of batshit crazy world am I having to live in?”


After the cop threatened to throw me in Juvenal Hall for literally finding it funny that my dad was trying to get me arrested for not eating my dinner, I went dead silent. No more smile, no more eye contact, just me looking at the floor, trying to survive the moment.


The cops left, leaving me in the house. Mr. and Ms. Fuckface went into the other room to eat their dinner, and I went upstairs to my room, without dinner. All that bullshit just so I could wind up winning anyway, and yet, I was once again scarred for life. I now knew my father was not a father at all. He was just another prison guard.


Another incident occurred where my father and I were arguing over chores. I agreed to do a chore after some bickering, and my father decided to follow me downstairs as I attempted to do the laundry. I went to turn on the laundry and he yelled at me while grabbing my wrist which pulled my hand away from the laundry dial. He then slammed my hand against the metal washing machine. I froze up, bracing for more physical abuse, and after freezing for long enough, he stopped screaming about how he wanted respect. He left the room, I started the laundry, and cried.


To give you an idea about my father’s controlling nature, he once demanded she take off her rings in the name of being a Seventh Day Adventist. I have no clue how this applies to being a Seventh Day Adventist, but you’re talking about a situation where an overly religious brother in-law is telling his sister-in-law what she is and is not allowed to wear. What a creep.


While still living with him I later broke down crying because he took away something that was mine. Something I had earned with my own hard, extensive, physical labor. I had worked all summer to buy a PlayStation, and he stole it from me because he once again was not getting the respect he felt he was entitled to. Last I checked, if you treat people like human beings and lead by example, you don’t have to ask for respect, you just get it. This man had no leadership or parenting skills. And once again, he left me in a pool of my own tears as I watched him stomp off with my now stolen PlayStation.


Some parents treat their kids like property. They think “Oh, maybe if I’m a huge asshole to my kid, they’ll magically fall in line and be exactly what I want them to be!” Wrong, idiot. You need to operate in a way that allows your kids to see you (1) Give a shit about them (2) Want what is best for them (3) Are fair and reasonable (4) Have your own life together and therefore should be a natural example to follow.


Kids that run around yelling at other kids? Kids that go hitting other kids? Kids that are nuts? It isn’t hard to figure out why. Their parents suck ass. It’s almost always the case. If you want to find out why a kid is being shitty, look no further than the place they came from. Parents should always take the blame. This is why I was shocked to see one of the moms of the Columbine shooters going on a book tour, acting like she was a victim in the whole situation. Literally making money off her dead son’s mass murder. That’s like a terrorist group acting shocked when one of their members blows something up. YOU LITERALLY MADE THEM! Only in the terrorist group’s case, they rarely actually raised the person in question from birth. Parents are more to blame than anyone on Earth.


Part of me losing respect for my father involved him lying to my face. Not for the first time, he had done that before, but this time the lie he told was so stupid, I was in a state of disbelief. When I first got home from Juvenal Hall, I noticed that my computer had been accessed during the time I was away. There were “Date Last Opened” logs I saw in plain sight, so I figured I’d inquire with my father as to “What the fuck?”


I asked him, rather politely, if he had accessed my computer. He replied “No.” I informed him that I knew for a fact someone in the house had accessed my computer, and that it was time to fess up. My father then changed his story. He said “Yes, I did access your computer, but I didn’t look at anything.” I then informed him that I had a list of files that he had in fact access, which meant he was again, lying to me. The man, caught in a lie while staring me dead in the eyes, pivoted to explaining how he was just trying to figure out what was going through my head around the time I beat the crap out of him.


What was going through my head? No matter what my state of mind was in general, I was a human being, being choked. So, when he was choking me? What was I supposed to do? Just die? Let him choke me to death?


My father may have gotten a black eye and a nearly broken collar bone, but it’s a small price to pay for someone preventing him from becoming a murderer. Not that he would have a problem with that as he loves the Bible and there’s a very popular story about a father plotting to kill his own son. My father loved that story and tried to explain why it would be ok to kill your son in the name of God… literally tried to justify it to me, his son, why murdering your son is just dandy in God’s eyes. Religion = cult.


Unfortunately… I don’t recall being allowed to see my girlfriend ever again. Add salt to that wound why don’t you? I was in a hurry to get out of there, and I did. My mom fought for custody and without much of a fight, my father gave it up.


When I was speaking to my mom the other day, she said that when my father and her were at the courthouse for my final custody battle, he was giving my mom flirtatious looks. I asked what my mom meant by that and she demonstrated a weird, overly expressive “Hey good-looking” reenactment of what he supposedly did to her. Thing is, I don’t find it hard to believe. My mom is the one who left him, my father was such a pervert that he decided to assault multiple family members, he allegedly slept with his own cousin, and got another woman pregnant without telling my mom anything about it, right around the time they were in a relationship. The list goes on. Plus? When you’re married to an albino troll? No surprise you’re flirting with other women.


But I digress.


Ultimately, my father would be the last ass I ever kicked. I never lifted a hand (or foot in this case) to strike anyone again, yes, to this very day (other than for training purposes when I was later the military).


Years later, my father did meet up with me when I was stationed at Tinker Air Force Base. I was married by then and the spot we met up at was located in Midwest City. After seeing my dad something didn’t sit right with me. I called up the person who was allegedly molested as a child by my father and asked them if my dad really did that to them. They said, in response, the most haunting thing to me I’ve ever heard: ……


Nothing. Absolute silence.


And right after that? They changed the subject.


Imagine being so damaged, that you have packed away an atrocious act against you down so deep, that you can’t even acknowledge inquiries about said incident(s)? My father later appeared on a documentary designed to milk my online username for everything it was worth and demonize me to the greatest extent possible. Those guests were asked to sign NDA’s and aren’t allowed to disclose how much they were paid. One person I spoke to one the phone made it clear she had to sign an NDA to be on that show and then she openly admitted she had “Enough to make a down payment on a house” after being on the show, which comes out to about $40,000 if you’re paying 10% in many areas.


So there my father and stepmom were, on this documentary, paid very well, no doubt. In the documentary one of the guests even admitted that everyone was making money off my name, then proceeded to roll the other guests who were also making money to be there. It was insane. Then my father stated in the show that the person I called on the phone was not molested. He used her going to therapy, and no legal action being taken against him as if it was conclusive all while acting like he wasn’t talking about a 7-year-old girl.


What?


A 7-year-old little girl didn’t try to take you to court, so you’re innocent? A girl who refuses to speak to you to this day, who still can’t even talk about you when you’re brought up… her not wanting to relive what you did to her in a courtroom, at age 7, means you never did anything?


Literally no one in my family talks to my dad, to this day. Not my mom, my sisters or me. His three kids, hate him, deeply, and sincerely. That doesn’t just happen from rumors. We all have personal experience that has taught us and important lesson: This man, your dad, is what evil looks like.


So yeah, when I saw him, in Oklahoma? Shortly after I called his victim, asked her what happened, and after I got off the call, I called my dad. He didn’t answer, so I left a voice message that sounded something like “Hey, it’s Greg. I don’t want to talk to you or see you. If I ever want to talk to you, I’ll call. Please do not ever attempt to contact me again.” And that was it.


Years later my dad tried to contact me on LinkedIn, I ignored it. He tried to email me, I ignored it. Then, boom, he’s in a newspaper article admitting he tried to sue me, got a lawyer and everything. I had openly stated what my father was accused of for over a decade. In fact you can compare all the videos I ever made to this book. You’ll find it doesn’t shift dramatically like his story did.


Apparently, the lawyer told my dad that because I didn’t say his name, he couldn’t sue me. So, then he goes on the documentary, his full updated face & his wife’s face in plain view, sending out a loud and clear “Hey everyone! You know the guy who says his mom and family members accused me of sexually violating multiple people? Well, I’m the accused guy and this is my wife! Look at us!”


What kind of moron tries to sue his son for giving his “unknown” father bad PR, and after he realizes he can’t successfully sue him, instead exposes his own identity to the world, not only losing certain rights because they’re now public figures, but also attaches their literal faces to the accusations?


You were going to sue me for passing on what my family members told me about you to the public, and when you realized you couldn’t claim damages because according to your lawyer, I didn’t expose your personal information, you… went on national television and exposed your own personal information to the world?


It’s like Robert Downey Jr. said in one of the greatest films of all time: “Are you serious, you don't know? Man, everyone knows you never go full retard.”


And who, the fuck, tries to sue their own son?


Being a parent? I would sooner cut my own foot off over suing my son.


How demented are you?

Recent Posts

See All

6 Comments


Unknown member
Jul 16, 2022

LOL @ “I’m here 3 years. It’s going to be a long 18 months…” hahah.

Like

Unknown member
Jul 16, 2022

This was another really good chapter! It was interesting reading about your time in that place. I know you don't like your chapters to be too long, but it's definitely worth the read 🙂

Like
Unknown member
Jul 17, 2022
Replying to

Great to know!

Like

Unknown member
Jul 16, 2022

To say this was riveting and undeniably tragic would be an understatement. Extremely well written and colorful in it's content. I especially loved the part about the debate with the other inmate concerning how many months were in a year. Your thought to yourself, "God damn I really am in Kentucky," was quite simply, a classic realization if I ever heard one. My other favorite is your description of your Father and his wife. Calling them a "7th Day Adventist Pastor Satan and his fat albino henchman wife," seemed to me to be borderline cruel, but also thinking, creatively accurate. Very nice job. You are definitely putting it together so well. I applaud your work so far, look forward to…

Like
Unknown member
Jul 16, 2022
Replying to

That's why I said, "Borderline cruel, but also thinking, creatively accurate." Great word usage on your part.

Like
bottom of page