IBO, Brian R. Lundin [the ebook reader .txt] 📗

her husband had been torn in half from his chest down.
She put two slugs into the bear as he ran off with the upper part of her husband in his mouth. She was able to call the forest rangers that came and tracked the bear by his scud, which is another name for shit. Later analysis of the scud revealed evidence of the husband. Two days later they found the bear high in the mountains, he was wounded but still alive and they way I hear it, them rangers had to shoot the bear four more times with 30.06 to kill him. An autopsy of the bear found the remnants of the husband.
It was 2:00 pm when Walsh pulled into the parking lot at the Wyoming Re-Indoctrination Camp. The camp was actually a large farm that resembled a big plantation. William took shots of the rows of beans and other vegetables attended by young men. He also took shots of a herd of cattle grazing in a far distant field. As William was unloading his camera and equipment from the vehicle, Walsh asked,
”What time you want me to come back and pick you guys up.
“About four will be fine,” Chris said.
“Ok, I’ll see you then, have fun,” Walsh said driving off.
Chris and William entered the building and stopped at the receptionist desk.
“Hi, I’m Chris Tolver from CNN Television; we have been invited to do a story on your camp.”
The receptionist an attractive armed and uniformed young redhead said, “Just a minute,” as she looked at some papers on her desk.
“Here we are,” she said, “just a minute,” she said as she picked up the telephone.
Shortly, a tall good looking uniformed young white man came to the desk.
“Hi, I’m Ronald Salter and I will be your guide. Our commissioner asked me to show you around and give you a broad overview of what we do here; I’ve got a vehicle that will take us to the camp which is about a mile away.”
“Ready when you are,” Chris said.
As they approached the camp, Ronald stopped at a gate manned by two uniformed-armed officers and they were waived through. Chris immediately noticed the differences between the Re-Education camp and this one. There was a double-fence surrounded the camp that had a large white sign that read “DANGER ELECTRIFIED FENCE.”
“Is the fence really electrified?” Chris asked. “Oh yeah, and it’s got quite a punch too,” Ronald said smiling.
“Will it kill you?” William asked.
“It don’t suppose to” Ronald answered, “but I wouldn’t want to take the chance. The fence is ten feet tall and topped off with barbwire, so far so good, no escapes.”
William took shots of the fence and panned his camera around the camp.
“I will give you a little history of this place, years ago during the Iraqi war it was a prisoner of war camp. It sat idle for years after the war ended but then some big wigs in D.C. decided it could house the young people affected by the new law. They cleaned the place up, started hiring people and here we are. We produce our own vegetables, chickens and beef used to feed the students, staff and other institutions statewide. The students are paid twenty-five cents an hour for their labor the wages are recorded in their account. The best jobs are in the kitchen, the library and the medical office. Most of the new students are assigned to the pickin’ gang that works outside. They pick and harvest the vegetables, feed the livestock, and tend the fields. They are eventually replaced by the newer people we call students.”
As Ronald drove through the camp Chris noticed a group of blacks and Hispanics on their knees picking the peas in the sweltering heat. Two white officers on horseback holding rifles watched. Chris couldn’t help wondering what it must have been like for his ancestors who were forced to work from sunup to sundown for no pay and no hope of being freed, he shuddered at the thought.
“This place is a lot more secure than the Re-education camp we visited, there were no guards there or fences, reminded me of my college campus,” Chris said.
“Here we have a different clientele then they do at those camps.”
“How so” Chris asked,
“Well for one, most of our people are known gang-bangers who have served time either in a state prison or a juvenile home, some of these guys are downright scary. Most of our problems come from the young guys trying to make a rep. One of our students had a hard adjusting so he tried fighting it by keeping busy. In this, crude environment cigarettes replace money as the medium of exchange and the student used his drug dealing skills he learned on the streets in El Paso to exploit the camp economy. Every week he would receive twenty cartons of Winston cigarettes. He would trade a pack of cigarettes for another pork chop or some other item of food, for two packs he could a new pair of camp gym shoes from one of the brothers working in the shoe-shop. Well, this bad ass from New Orleans had bribed one of the guards and got hold to some pot. He gave the student two joints for a carton of smokes, but the student reneged on the deal and didn’t pay for the joints. The next evening at bed check the student was in his bunk covered with blood. They rushed him to the hospital but he was DOA.”
“Like any jail or prison the manner in which a person enters provides some clues to those already there. The guys who have been here a while can tell a lot about a new guy just by how he acts and what he does when he first walks in. They can tell if he is a stand up guy or a wimp, if he scared to death or fearless and they will exploit this knowledge. The way the new guy carries; himself determines who approaches him, when and why.
“Wow, ever have any other problems,” Chris asked.
“Not really, but a couple of years ago one of the hard asses knifed and killed one of our headmasters, he was a nice older guy.”
“What happened,” Chris asked.
“Well at his trial the killer said that he just protecting himself, that the officer was always on his case and dissing him, so he got tired of it and made a shiv from a plastic fork. While escorting the students back to their dorms after supper, the guy sneaked up behind the officer and stabbed him in the neck, the guy tried to escape, but in the darkness he ran right into the electrified fence, that didn’t kill him but knocked him out.
The Rapid Response guys got him and after a good old-fashioned ass whipping, he was turned over to the FBI and was found guilty and sentenced to death, he on death row in one the federal prisons.”
Ronald parked the car in front of one of Quonset hut. A sign planted into the green well kept lawn read “Blood’s House.”
“Blood House,” that’s a hell of a name, what does it mean?” Chris asked.
“That’s the name for a street gang in California. When the camp first opened, we tried to segregate the gang’s members. We housed members of say the Bloods and the State Street Boys together. The thinking was the Bloods who are from California and the State Street Boys who are from Chicago probably didn’t have any beefs with each so they could get along and we didn’t want to let these guys get organized.”
“What happened,” Chris asked.
“It didn’t work, we found out that this gang thing is nationwide, gang-bangers from Chicago know gang-bangers from California and they don’t like each other. There were fights and arguments all the time. So Commissioner Deon, after conferring with gang experts decided to house them together.”
“Has it worked,” Chris asked.
“Surprisingly yes” Ronald continued, “the guys take pride in their house and it gives them a sense of pride and identity.”
As they entered the building, another uniformed but unarmed officer was supervising a group of young blacks and Hispanics filling buckets with water and gathering rags. Another group was mopping the floors with cleaning detergent that smelled like ammonia.
“John I want you to meet Chris and William, they’re from CNN and are doing a story on the camp.”
John was a large white man and his bulky arms were putting a strain on his uniform shirt.
“Nice meeting you John, what do you here? Chris asked.
“I am the headmaster of the house; I watch over about thirty-five guys and make sure everything is running smooth.
“I understand the students here are all from one California gang, do you have any problems with that?” Chris asked.
“No, not really, it’s better than what is was before. Every now and then there might be a shuffle or an argument but that is settled usually by the gang leader who lives in the house. The camp is broken down into gang areas and this is the Blood’s area, other gang areas are spread all over the camp.”
While they were talking a tall, muscular very dark skinned young man entered.
“This is Willie Bobo, he’s the house super’,” John said.
Bobo looked at Chris rolled his eyes and walked away.
“Friendly type,” William joked.
“He’s an asshole, but he keeps order in the house. He calls himself and his gang revolutionaries and they are political prisoners. He believes that selling drugs and gangbangin’ financed the “Cause.” However, really he is just a dope dealing gangbanger. When he talks everybody, keep quiet from the hard-nosed thugs to most burned out crack heads. But, I will give him credit he knows his shit, he can spout philosophy bullshit, politics and law, but he’s still an asshole
“Can you take us on a quick tour?” Chris asked.
“Sure, come on, the students are out working,” John said leading them down the hall.
They stopped in front of one of the rooms. It had a bunk bed, a toilet, and a sink.
“Pretty bare,” Chris said.
“They mainly are here to sleep, most of the other times they are off working, in the television room or in the gym working out.”
William continued recording; he took shots of the rooms and the long hallway.
“Thanks John,” Chris said as Ronald led them out.
The day room had five rows of concrete picnic tables. At eye level in front of the tables, an old black and white television sat mounted on a concrete stand.
“Ready to see the Commissioner, Ronald said.
“Ready,” Chris responded.
Ronald drove back to the Administration building and after introducing them to the Commissioner Secretary; they were led into Commissioner Deon office.
Deon was a big white man with high cheekbones, straight black hair, and a reddish skin undertone.