"Don't ask me, I'm just improvising."

Today was my Friday, the 4th day of our semi-annual shakedown, as well as our fire safety/risk management audit. The offenders had all been receiving their meals in their cells, sack lunches called "johnnies" as I may have mentioned previously.

It was,oh I don't know...close to noon. We had fed most of the offenders in our building. Most rather than all because the FSM (food service manager) can't count. My desk boss Murray had a really funny argument over the extra needed johnnies with the FSM over which may later get its own post.

Sidetracked...

So anyway, I headed to the kitchen, grabbed the food and left before anyone could launch a lecture my way.

We handed out the normal meals, and I then stayed behind alone to distribute the "diet" meals to those offenders with sensitive dietary needs. What-fucking-ever. I got to the last cell with an open tray-slot and dropped the sack into the cell. It was promptly snatched up and was replaced by two arms as one of the offenders jacked the tray slot, insisting he needed a diet meal as well. I glanced past him at the wax paper bags that had previously held his dinner.


"Yeah, that's not gonna happen. You've already eaten and I'm done with the kitchen for now."

"Fuck you boss man. Call the sergeant."

"Yeah, that's not happening either. He's busy being not here."


At that point the newboot came back into the pod at a brisk pace, telling me the RM (risk management) auditor was on the way over.

I turned back to the source of my vexation. "Look Mr. Hubbard, you're wearing on my last nerve and I'm about out of time so here's what we're doing." Looking around the day-room I spotted a blade from one of their disposable razors.

I picked it up, pulled out my OC (chemical agent), and holding the blade where the offender could clearly see it, stated firmly in my best boss-man voice, "Mr. Hubbard remove that razor blade from your wrist".

I then placed the nozzle of the OC canister up against the open grate of their cell door. "Mr. Hubbard", if you continue, I'm going to gas you!"

Well...that did get a reaction. With his celly (cell-mate) screaming at the top of his lungs to get away from the door, Mr. Hubbard relinquished the tray slot post-haste. I dropped the razor, closed the tray slot, and walked out of the day-room. The other officer asked me as we entered the sally-port, "Where the hell did that come from?"

To which I replied...


Out,
B.