Hunger games, prepare!

Jills, Jacob



"Hunger Games, Prepare!" by Jacob Jills When I first came to prison I lasted only six weeks in general population (GP). No! I was not a "catch-out." In the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ - or Texas State Prison) "catch-out," as coined by offenders, means you "caught that pussy," pushed the officer call button and reported to the guards you were in some kind of danger and needed to be moved for your own safety. In prison the stigma of being labeled a catch-out has the potential to be more hazardous to your health than the original source of the threat that had you catch that pussy in the first place. It is advisable to engage in fisticuffs and "earn your papers," or simply put - fight! Usually once you stand your ground - win or lose - that's all it takes to earn the respect of your peers and be left alone. Of course there are exceptions to every "rule": snitching, sex offenses, crimes against the elderly... et cetera, if discovered by other inmates, it's in your best interest to push that button and catch-out. Otherwise you will be brawling every day! (I will write a future essay titled "Catch-Out, TDCJ," to explain this subject in detail.) Anyway, upon my unit classification (UCC) interview I was asked certain questions by a classification specialist. These questions, or rather the answers to these questions, assist TDCJ in determining the safest "farm" to ship you to. Texas has over one hundred prisons that range from Cadillac trustee units to gladiatorial maximum security arenas. If I can offer any advice to potential readers out there who may have a loved one headed to prison, it is to inform your convict to answer all UCC questions truthfully - no matter how embarrassing or "shameful!" Trust me, it's in their best interests. The following are some of the UCC questions asked of me and my responses. Have you ever been a victim of a violent crime inside a correctional facility? No. If you have, however, answer yes. For this will help send you to a safer farm. Do not lie! These UC specialists are experts at knowing when an offender is not being honest out of fear to where he/she may be sent. You do not want to be caught lying! What is your sexual preference? Homosexual. If you are gay or bi say so! There are places very hostile towards homosexuals. A gay man will not be sent to farms that target gays. What was your last residence before prison? I was arrested in a Middle Eastern country and extradited to the U.S. This caused the UCC specialist to look up at me. (For matters of personal security I am not mentioning the country. However, I will write an essay titled "American Standards of Incarceration" contrasting my time spent in a third world prison to my time here in America.) How much was the bail for the crime you were sentenced? Two million dollars. This high amount piqued the interest of the examiner. I explained it was falsely alleged I held multiple passports and therefore posed an extreme flight/escape risk. It was feared by the government I would "jump" my original $75,000 bail and vanish abroad using black-market identity documents. Have you or anyone in your immediate family circle ever worked in law enforcement? Yes. I was employed for three years as a deputy for a large Texas sheriff's office after honorably separating from Naval Service. This answer caused the UCC specialist once again to sharply look up at me, and in confusion asked, "Why haven't you been locked up yet?" Being new to state confinement I was unfamiliar with the vernacular of prison language. I replied, "I'm sorry ma'am, but I do not understand the question. I am locked up!" What she meant was why haven't I been placed in administrative segregation (ad-seg) or protective custody (PC). Apparently you could be locked up while locked up... With a brow of concern the examiner picked up a land-line on her desk and poked a button I could not see... "Sir," she spoke into the receiver, "I need your assistance, please." Then hung up the phone. Nothing further was spoken between us until a giant of a sergeant walked into the small, closed office unannounced. I sat there enjoying the quiet. The chair I was in was padded! After two years in County sitting on stainless steel, that chair felt real good... "Well, for your own safety," the sergeant said after reviewing my answers on the examiner's computer, "We are going to place you in PC pending investigation of your past employment. You should have been locked up straight off the bus. I'm not sure how you slipped through the cracks, but I will look into the matter." I protested! "Sergeant," I pleaded, "May I respectfully sign a waiver and remain in population? I just spent the last two years in ad-seg and I'm not really wanting to be housed in isolation again. I've made it six weeks without any problems. My stint in law enforcement lasted only three years which was 15 years ago. I have been overseas ever since. I think I'll be O.K., sergeant." "Mr. Jills, there is no debate here. Trust me when I tell you that if it gets out among population you worked for XXX, you will be targeted at this particular unit." I was inside an old, red-brick farm called Byrd. "Now, follow me - " "Sergeant," I interrupted, "Will you please handcuff me then?" I stood, faced the wall, and placed my hands behind my back... I may have been new to prison argot, but the two years I spent in jail were an education. I know I was headed to prison the day I surrendered. I was isolated but I purposely "be-friended" those housed around me who were TOCJ vets. I picked their brains! One of the things I learned was NEVER walk into ad-seg without being cuffed carrying your own property. Doing so is a telltale sign of a catch-out. Everyone except PC classified offenders in ad-seg are escorted in, hands cuffed behind their backs. Certain confirmed gang members, security threats, violent inmates... et cetera, are all cuffed with their property brought in later. "You are not as dumb as you're acting, then." The sergeant said as he chuckled a bit. He proceeded to handcuff me and escorted to "Charlie"-Wing. My property would arrive five hours later. Surprisingly it was all there, mostly commissary and stationary. The next two months were pure mental HELL on earth! Closed-custody, high-security - aka ad-seg - warehouses confirmed members of the Mexican Mafia, Texas syndicate, Aryan Brotherhood, to name but a few, in an attempt to reduce gang violence , extortion, and organized crime inside Texas prisons. For the most part these affiliated prisoners are "professional" convicts. Amongst us offenders you have convicts and inmates; the former a term of endearment, the latter an insult. Convicts know how to do time. Inmates, let time do them. Charlie-Wing was mostly full of inmates of the "G-5" variety... "G-5" is the worst disciplinary classification imposed upon offenders in Texas and is reserved for those inmates who assault staff, inflict serious bodily injury upon other inmates, are caught with edged weapons, et cetera, et cetera. Nearly all G-5 offenders are young, dumb, extremely selfish, excessively violent, reckless, apathetic, immature, stupid as hell, spoiled uneducated high school drop out street urchin hood-rats! I should throw in a few more adjectives - but I think you get the gist of it! "Crash-Dummy," in offender parlance, is a fitting nomenclature because they do their time in a perpetual "wreck." If it's possible - and at all credible - to compare Mad-Max's post apocalyptic cast of obnoxious characters and anarchic environment to modern prison, then TDCJ's closed-custody in Charlie-Wing of the Byrd unit is a good start. I swear on everything I know to be true and holy, if I had to spend any amount of significant time under similar conditions I would kill myself! I would opt out of this life. My hell in the afterlife is eternity in such a domain. Lucky I'm a non-"believing" agnostic... I had a sense something bad was coming when two guards in riot gear flanked me, taking over for the towering sergeant as we approached the entrance to high-security... "Good luck, Mr. Jills," the sergeant said in a sincere tone of professional courtesy. I met his gaze, laughed nervously, and nodded in understanding. The two ninja-turtles firmly grasped my biceps, the one to my left bellowed sharply, "Charlie-Wing!" and the heavy, beige paint chipped, iron-barred door began to screech on its track. I followed the slow, jerky movement with my eyes... and at that instant I was gone! Across the pond - another sand-box flashback... Fear is relative. One's ability to coherently process fear into something other than panic lies in experience mixed with a natural ability to think clearly during times of great stress. The most scared I've ever been was in the bathtub with my little brother. I was eight, he six. Our teenage babysitter left the bathroom after preparing the water. Seconds later she began to scream bloody-murder! Loud crashing noises followed. Banging on the walls and door followed that. More screams! Then a voice in demonic tone spewed from under the door threatening my brother and me with death. Both of us were crying out for help. I was in a state of mental panic. Fear had literally become a living, physical entity that consumed me whole. And it was all a joke! "Look at the crying babies! Ha, ha, ha," were the words of our babysitter after she threw open the door and rushed in pretending to be a monster looking to slaughter the two little boys in a bathtub. I remember clinging tightly to my brother. I could feel his tiny heart attempting to beat out of his skinny chest. I've always promised myself if I ever met this babysitter as an adult I would flatten her face with my fists - consequences be damned! The unmistakable din of metal being dragged over metal is Charlie-Wing opened sent me instantly back to the second most fearful I've ever been. Being pushed into a dirty, dark, sweltering, inhumanely overcrowded cell block in the Middle East. My surroundings faded away and all I could see were the Islamic garbed inmates eagerly awaiting a small, white American infidel! I must have really been out of it, for I was literally pulled back to the present as my two "S.W.A.T." clad escorts forcefully yanked me along. But I was no longer scared. I was not anxious or fretful, but rather instantly hyper alert. My only concern was observation... I was walked up a flight of stairs to the second tier. In front of the first cell was a large plexiglass shield mounted onto a wheeled track affixed above the cells. The shield was a protective barrier between inmates and guards. The lower left corner was deformed - smoke and ash residue snaked upwards. The original cell doors were open bars. However, black metal wire mesh had been welded over these bars to prevent offenders from throwing larger objects at guards. The wounded shield stopped liquids: spit, shit, boiling water, molten plastic! The guard on my left grabbed the shield's handle and pushed it down the "run" (walkway directly in front of cells). I was jolted by a loud bang! as the inmate in the second cell kicked his door. The noise was intolerable. Banging! kicking! screaming! Each decibel magnified thrice over in the echoing effect that seemed to directly target my tinnitus infested ear canals. It is an indictment against evolution we humans cannot control our hearing. We should already have a volume control and mute gene built in. I've heard the sound of silence - it's bliss! The cells were dark. Light bulbs had to be bought off Commissary. I tried to make eye contact with each inmate standing at his door as I passed. The shield was so dirty and warped I could only make out skin tone. The guards were pulling me along at a brisk clip. It was difficult for me to keep up in my flip-flop shower shoes without losing one here and there. I could tell the guards wanted to deposit me and exit the wing as quickly as possible. As we approached my cell the door was open. I hobbled inside only an inch or two, I knew what was required of me next. My door began to close - that pestilential metal on metal gnash that defines prison - until it completely shut with a crack!! My bean-chute, the mini door built into the door to pass food trays through, was opened and I bent slightly at the knees placing my cuffed hands in the chute as the guard removed his bracelets. I just stood there rubbing my wrists as my eyes adjusted to the darkness... I could hear the tumultuous shield fade away until it was engulfed by the cacophony of crash-dummy nonsense. For the next 60 days (I had no way of knowing how long at the time), 24 hours a day, this was my home. No TV. No books. No recreation. No leaving your cell for any reason. "Bird-baths" out of your sink was the shower. One of the things I learned in jail was to conduct a thorough search of your cell upon entering. Segregation and isolation are the seeds of necessity in prison. Necessity, as the saying goes, is the mother of invention - or rather ingenuity, creativity, and improvisation. You never know what the previous inmate cached away that you may need or gain barter for with other offenders. As I was searching I couldn't help but admire the artwork adorning the cinder block walls. The entire cell was a scene of some Latino gang related backpiece tattoo: naked senoritas, low riders, smoking pistols, marijuana leaves next to smoldering joints next to hundred dollar bills: all in a panoramic setting of thuggish "gangsta" street hustling. A photographer should look into being allowed to document such skill with pencil and ash. I passed one cell that had been transformed into a tropical island paradise complete with palm trees, a setting sun and even Coronas sweating in a pail of ice cooly nestled into sand. My search was fruitful. I had a couple razor blades from the cheap shaving razors TDCJ issues once a week, a six foot long "spear" (more likely a tool for passing and receiving contraband rather than a weapon) made out of very tightly rolled magazines taped together. I also found a three foot piece of electric cord and, believe it or not, six pills (medication) under the toilet. "Look out 14-cell!" The natives called. I ignored the inquiry, symbolically moving a pawn... "Look out, wood!" The news had already spread that a new white-boy had entered the wing. "Wood" refers to white inmates who are not members of an actual Aryan gang, but rather the "wood-pile": white offenders who wish to remain solo (no gang affiliation) that have bonded together for their own protection against brown and black gangs. I was being asked if I was a wood. It is customary for the "speaker" of one's race to call out to the newbie and ask them questions. Your race wants to know who you are: gang affiliation, your crime and sentence, and most importantly why you were seg'd-up. This "survey" is designed to expose snitches and sex offenders... From the second you enter high-security you're under constant, intense surveillance by every inmate inside your wing. Most of those around you are true predators sniffing for the slightest drop of weakness. These fools deserve and should be locked away and removed from society for as long as possible. Individually they are cowards in the purest sense of the word. Together they are links in the chain of extortion, seeming and scheming - all in the hunt for whatever comfort they can leech off their weaker victims. The ungodly racket and rattle had died down as the other inmates anticipated my response... "I'm not a wood. I am solo," was my response. I had to yell loudly. When two or more cells communicate with each other bellowing is required. In fact, most of the noise pollution in seg most of the time is 10 cells raging back and forth as loud as possible at the same time. Maddening! "Why they lock you up?" The white speaker screamed back. I later learned he was ABT, a member of the Texas branch of the Aryan Brotherhood. My interrogation had begun. I knew if I didn't sell my cover story to all these clowns I'd have hell to pay in the form of 24-7 harassment by every inmate in Charlie-Wing. I've seen it so many times. Some callow faced youngster fresh in the system betraying the true reason he was "locked up." His first blunder walking into closed-custody uncuffed carrying his own property... Once the first hairline fracture of a cover story is detected the others (all races) ally in tyrannical, despotic vulgarity and threats against the wounded fish. Their ultimate goal to instill a fear of bodily harm so intense the victim catches-out of the wing. They become the sharks that can clean their gills only by ravaging more... "The UCC bitch had me locked up! I was arrested overseas and extradited to Texas. My bond was two million. I am being investigated as an escape risk after they learned I had multiple passports." All true, minus the passports, so it was easy to fake. I have spent so much time abroad (I'm tri-lingual) I have developed an accent. I was asked by the ABT speaker if I was white and American. I am both. However, I was raised in South Texas as the only "bolillo" amongst all Latino, Hispanic kids. I've visited Mexico often and more more comfortable among the browns (even the blacks) than the racist whites. The Aryans do not like this - but it is what it is! There were two more questions. I was ready for them: my crime? my sentence? Your crime and sentence must corroborate your backstory. Prison is a never ending indefatigable human chess game. Everyone relentlessly attempting to outmaneuver your moves with their own. Many of these crash-dummy tools have been locked up most of the their lives, know the system inside and out, and possess an uncanny ability to force the thinnest of cracks in a cover story into a gaping valley filled with obvious bullshit. I lied about both: Thirty five years for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon after permanently crippling a man by shooting him in the hand during a drunken brawl while home on leave visiting family. I was asked to speak some Arabic. I did... "Sounds good, let us know if you need anything. They call me Roach." Roach moved a pawn of his own. Nothing in prison is free... and "us" meant the whites only. I recalled an old-school Texas syndicate lieutenant who told me never trust anyone in prison who calls himself any kind of critter. A personal rule I follow to this day. I replied to "Roach" in thanks and was relieved to have passed the interrogation. It wasn't five seconds later the insufferable tumult kicked into high gear. I eagerly awaited my property and earplugs craving insertion (probably not the best choice of words this being prison and all - but that's how I felt). Then it came! The burning... literally flames, smoke, and ash. Some dumbass G-5 started a fire in his cell using the graphite in a No. 2 pencil and his power outlet to ignite the mattress. The wing quickly filled with toxic, thick black smoke. Every inmate began screaming for the windows to be opened as they kicked and attempted to rattle their doors of its track. My cell began filling with the noxious, billowing black cloud... This was the first of many fires in my 60 days there. I didn't know the source or what was really going on. When I was in county I had a recurring dream of burning alive trapped in my cell after the jail caught fire. I knew the guards were not going to roll our doors. They would allow us to die first. To let these impetuous dolts out all at once would be the equivalent of some mad scientist negligently mixing volatile chemicals. These raptorials would literally attempt to kill other offenders in an attempt to steal their commissary and electronic property undercover of all the fluster and confusion caused by the fire. In haste I took off my shirt, dunked it in the stainless steel toilet and wrapped it around my head. I then prostrated myself as flat as I could on the floor as far from the door as possible (only five paces) and began to concentrate on slowing my heart and breathing... And I was gone! I was back in Kandahar laying prone in the moon-dust of Forward Operating Base (FOB) Pasab under heavy mortar fire - detonations all around me - when a tinge of panic began to seep in. I couldn't get the thought of a round landing on top of me tearing me to pieces. I had to force this dread back deeply into some primordial survival game as I concentrated on slowing my breathing and heart rates. A plea for help over the radio by wounded fellow contractors took over and I was recklessly sprinting to their location... A bloodcurdling wail brought me back to the present. Picture if you can the modern Planet of the Apes: you know the scene where all the primates in their cages begin to hoop and holler and bang and rattle? How camera angles show every cell-wall, insert men into those same cages. Pour in bouts of virulent smoke and oppressive helplessness... Panic is a motherfucker! It was pure pandemonium as the inmates continued their desperate shrieking, banging, kicking; all in a collective effort to get the guard in the picket (control room) to open the mechanically controlled panes by a flip of a switch in less than a second... It took over a minute for that finger to move. In their hysteria the inmates were doing more harm than good. Elevated heartbeats and increased breathing meant they ingested more smoke than if they had remained calm. Once the windows began slowly creaking the majority of the desperate pleas were replaced by coughing and spitting. It took a good ten minutes for all the fumes to clear out. You knew the guards had entered the wing when the wheels on the shield began to sound. Two guards flanking a civilian attired medical professional glanced inside each cell. The only real casualty was the idiot who started the fire. He was rolled out unconscious on a stretcher as a nurse conducted violent chest compressions. I have no idea what happened to him - frankly I do not care, as coarse as insensitive as that may sound. Ash residue was everywhere. A few days later I was writing a letter to my mother when another fire was set. After it was out and I cleaned up I noticed the letter dotted with ash. I tried to wipe the paper clean but only smeared the ash. I mailed it as is with the story of the fire, not dissimilar than the one above. I was exhausted! But I forced myself to make a "fishing" line. There was a four inch gap between the floor and bottom of the door to "cast" lines under to pass or retrieve contraband. I learned to spin line out of the elastic waistband of my boxers in jail. The longer the line the better. Using one of the blades I found earlier I removed the elastic and then unraveled the cotton sewn around individual rubber strings. (You can braid these strings into rubber bands or slingshots to barter for soups and coffee.) My property had arrived and my earplugs were in place. But the noise was just too great! The echoing of fifty something people in a confined space is un-defeatable. My line was completed, wrapped around a toothpaste tube, so I laid down and stared at the ceiling trying to make sense out of all the jibberish written there. One clear sentence stood out: "Success is the best revenge!" I sincerely considered suicide... I had the blades to force my veins open. But I thought of my mother and recalled the words of my Syrian "friend" upon my extradition: "Don't ever give up! They will win if you do." I abhor them... Revenge was all I cared about for five years. Ruminating vengeance kept me going when time attempted to do me. But that "message" on the ceiling of my cell, in my mentally bent state, seemed to fall off and slap me across the face... success is the best revenge! I don't know how, but this simple phrase had a profound effect upon me. I literally fought off tears... (everyone, no matter how big, bad and tough, has cried in prison). I made a promise to myself that very moment to never give up and to become as successful as humanly possible in everything I do. My success is the best revenge! Against them... I finally managed to doze off... "Hunger games, prepare!!" screamed louder than any human should be capable of jostled me awake. An excited, jubilant roar erupted out of every cell - every door quaking ferociously. Holy Jesus Christ, I said to myself. What the fuck now? Don't these people ever rest? My heart was bruising my chest cavity as I jumped up, stood at my door, and used this shiny black data strip on the back of my offender ID card and as a mirror to peer left, then right... "Huuungeeer gaaames, preeepaaare!!" Followed by an increase of the anticipatory clamor decimated my earplugs. I swear they shredded and fell out! Every cell had their fishing lines out practicing the perfect "cast." Thick lines, skinny lines, spun "professional" lines, lines ripped out of sheets and tied in knots - all were darting here and there in a flurry of dirty white flashes. Occasionally two or three would entangle with a tug-of-war playing out sending weighted ends (bars of soap, toothpaste tubes, squeeze cheese bottles off commissary filled with water, et cetera) flying like shrapnel upon snapping; the wounded strings slithering back into their cells to be rearmed. Then the Hunger Games began! Commissary items began flying from beneath the door the call to prepare blared from: bags of instant coffee, meat packs (tuna, mackerel, sardines), ramen noodle soups, pieces of candy, even 12 ounce cans of pop were rolled out... Now you have to remember most of the G-5 offenders (two to a cell) were under disciplinary sanctions denying them commissary privileges. The three measly meals offered by the state is enough to stave off scurvy. However, the calorie intake is not enough to keep you from being hungry most of the time. You're in your cell 24-7 with nothing! Those angling during the "Hunger Games" were doing so in great desperation - every single cell battling it out with lines, "spears," even crutches! The dialogue during actual hostilities is heated, thugishly threatening and outrageously stentorian. A bag of coffee landed only inches from my foot. I laid down and quickly pulled it in - a bar of soap ricocheted off my wrist from the cell to my left... "Bitch ass hoe! That shit was mine!" No words spewed from the cell to my right who was using an old wooden crutch; I hooked the coffee into his cell. I didn't need it as I had plenty of commissary to get by. I retrieved my line and joined in on the "fun." Relatively speaking, although I was in hell, it was fun. I snagged a few pieces of candy, a couple soups, and one Mountain Dew. It all went to the guy with the crutch, desperately wielded, but not very proficient. One could clearly sense his frustration through the jerky, uncoordinated movements of the walking stick. About this time a Nigerian guard stormed into the wing. TDCJ has hired numerous Africans to work as corrections officers due to massive staff shortages. Their thick English accents and cultural differences make it damn near impossible to effectively communicate with them... "Shut fuck up!" The Nigerian yelped. "Got dam hunger gane!" He briskly walked down the run retrieving commissary items for himself. I watched his reflection off the windows as he thrust coffee into his shirt... lines were bouncing off his ankles as he awkwardly attempted to kick them away. A spear narrowly missed him... "Dis shit my now, mower fukus!" The guard mockingly taunted us inmates. In response offenders began singing the theme song to the Lion King, Akuna Matata, poking fun at the officer's Africanness. Another convict blared out, "Bumble bee tuna, bitch!" from Pet Detective's Ace Ventura in tribal Africa greeting village elders... The African guards take great offense to these cultural degradings. It was not a racial thing. Black inmates were often the first to initiate these verbal onslaughts. I burst out laughing! I laughed so hard at the degenerate circus I was thrown into tears fell from my eyes. And I was gone! Across the drink in that goddamn war that comes and goes at will... I was in the Helmand Province preparing the rope for my suicide. But I was running late for a company safety and security briefing after one of our FOBs suffered infiltration and attack by the Taliban. I was the senior security advisory in the area so my boss directed me to fly or convoy in and ensure the FOB and our company security personnel were good to go. We had taken casualties and morale was low... With my mind set to enter the afterlife I was rushing to the tent where the meeting was. As I reached the entrance with only seconds to spare - I hate being late for meetings, one of my pet peeves! - it kicked me in the groin and I burst out laughing! The same crying laugh out loud I experienced during the "Hunger Games." There I was, about to hang from the neck and I'm worried about being late for a meeting... I just stood there laughing at the absurdness of it all and thought to myself, Well, if I can still laugh things must not be so bad! That night I threw my gibbat into a flaming burn pit... Back in cell 14 of Charlie-Wing inside TDCJ's Byrd unit laughing my eyes dry I once again thought to myself, Well, if I can still laugh things must not be so bad! as I sat in a corner of my cell, looked up and nodded at my new inspiration written in sloppy letters above me... Afterword: The "Hunger Games" was a weekly event. The creator being a prison-rich, ranking ABT member. The only "rule" that the games begin within 24 hours after commissary was delivered to the wing. One week the games started the moment the commissary lady left the wing at 7am. The idea for the games came to the creator after reading the book with the same title. I became "friends" with the guy using his crutch. He shot me a "kite" (small written message) thanking me for the items I threw into his cell. Turns out he was an old-school African American down (in prison) for intoxication manslaughter. In gratitude he passed me the most excellent science fiction novel, Ender's Game. He fine tuned my hooch brewing skills and one night we sat drinking and talking. His name was Gilbert and he was disgruntled because he wanted to convert to Judaism but couldn't because he was black. When I explained that Jew is not a race he was skeptical. I told him about the secret Israeli Mossad operation that rescued hundreds of native Jews from Somalia, who were black, smuggling them into the Jewish State to become full citizens. Gilbert grew very excited and thanked me for this story promising to contact the prison Rabbi... Why was I going to hang myself? I knew I was headed to prison months before my self surrender. I had three options, as I saw it now: I could run and hide in a number of countries, I could fight until eventual suicide-by-cop, or I could give up and do my time... but I was done wrong! Which brings me to "them!" My public-"defenders," prosecutors, judges... et cetera. There are times I wish I would have chosen to fight until eventual suicide by cop. Not unlike Christopher Dorner... Now, however, I'm thankful I had the wherewithal to keep sane and do the right thing. Success is the best revenge! Jacob Jills May 30, 2018

Author: Jills, Jacob

Author Location: Texas

Date: May 30, 2018

Genre: Essay

Extent: 18 pages

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