By felon

The cell rings, I can’t hear much of the conversation as the radio is blasting country music. We are speeding down I-79 getting deeper into West Virginia. The skinhead prisoner seated next to me starts to struggle in his restraints. From up front: “Do the fags need to take a piss?”

He yells f–k yes. I can only grunt.

We stop about 30 miles down the road at an old fashioned gas station with the outside doors to the restrooms.

The driver says, “I know the guy that owns this place — one at a time gentlemen.” He gets the skin out of the van, and finds he can’t get the restroom door open. So he rips open the jumpsuit and pulls out the guy’s monster dick and says, “Just piss against the wall.” He leads him back to the truck and re-chains his feet to the floor.

“Ok fag, same for you,” and he leads me out and repeats the action. Back to the truck and we take off down the road. After driving about an hour — his cell phone rings — words are exchanged. It seems there is another officer meeting to pick one of us up at the exit for Route 19 and I-79. Words are exchanged — nothing said to either of us in the back. At the interchange we pull off the road into an empty lot — here Mr. Skin is the one being removed — his folder is taken from the holder and a black marquis pulls in next to us. Our driver gets out and there is some discussion, and eventually Mr. Skin is removed and placed in the marquis.

Both cars leave the lot and we continue down Route 19 deeper into West Virginia. At a CVS the guard pulls off, leans over and says, “Don’t fuckin’ go anywhere,” and locks the car and head into CVS. A few minutes later he returns with a small bag and a couple bottles of gatorade. He opens both bottles, gives me one and keeps the other for himself. Then he rustles through the bag and opens an unknown package. He fiddles for a few minutes, gets out of the car and opens the side door where I am seated. He has soft wax earplugs which he inserts in my ears, also loosens the mouth gag and proceeds to pour the gatorade down my parched throat.

So now I am cuffed, re-gagged, ears plugged in the back of the truck. Just before he shuts the door he says (barely audible) to relax it will be over soon. And then we take off again down the road.

At the New River Gorge Bridge, I see him pick up his cellphone and make a call. I think by now the battery on my leg device is probably dead but don’t really know. I don’t know if the pickup truck is following as it was earlier in Pennsylvania. And guess what? I think he put something in the gatorade.

Obviously this is a well-planned trip, and right now all feels great — hmmm.

I appreciate all the messages and comments, keep them coming, and I seek real-time action if you have something in mind. — Felon