"she'd" been a bad girl, but now all she wanted was a good man. Between the losers with handjob habits who asked for letters about lesbian sex behind bars, and the deep-dish dimwits who sent money for the "correspondence courses" their little darlings needed to take to please the parole board, you could make a nice living.
It got so bad that suckers were showing up at the gates, demanding a visit with their soon-to-be-released sweethearts. That's when they would discover that the "D. Jones #C-77-448109" they'd been sending money orders to was in there all right . . . but the first name was Demetrius, not Darlene.
Eventually, the authorities got wise. Now they stamp outgoing envelopes with bold notices that the letters inside are from a "Correctional Institution for Men."
Every move has a counter, and it's never been real difficult to defeat the great minds who cage humans for a living. The letters started going out to the marks from an outside PO box. Little Darlene's in solitary, and she can't get mail "direct" anymore. But, don't worry, Darlene's sister (who's also real cute, but only sixteen, so she shouldn't be getting too involved with a grown man and all) can handle the forwarding. Fortunately, her name's Désirée, so "D. Jones" would work just as well on the money orders.
And then there's the poor tormented transsexual, who describes her absolute horror at being locked up in a men's prison. She has to stay in close confinement twenty-four/seven, or she'd be set upon instantly by rabid packs of rapists. All she has to sustain herself are the chump's love letters, the money he sends for things like shampoo— so expensive in a men's prison, you know— and the knowledge that, the minute she's paroled, she could finish the sex-change surgery she'd already started before she'd been arrested (which is why she already had such nice big breasts). And they'd live happily ever after.
But that scam plays different today. Now it's a beautiful teenager prowling the chat rooms, crying out in her desperate need to get away from her horrible home life . . . until a "connection" is made and her shined-on knight sends her the money for a bus ticket. And some decent clothes, maybe some luggage . . . you know.
It'll be a long wait at that depot.
But I don't like working in public. And, anyway, that ground's already been strip-mined down to the bare rock.
As long as there's contraband, there's money to be made. Sometimes, you traffic in things— like no-tax Southern cigarettes or no-questions-asked shipments of computer chips. Sometimes, the product's a lot less tangible. Like jail-phone relay systems. No matter what the level of security a prisoner's held in, he'll have the right to call somebody, even if it's only his lawyer, and only collect. With three-way calling, it's no trick to put a gangster in direct touch with the people waiting for his orders. The guards can open mail, but there's way too much volume for them to monitor all the outgoing calls. More gangland hits get ordered from jail now than from outside. All you need is a live person to play switchman, and decent timing.
A nice hustle . . . but not for me. Too close to home.
Drugs have ruined the game for a lot of us good thieves. Dope fiends are the illegal immigrants of crime— a cheap, undocumented labor force that will take any job, even the dangerous ones, for garbage money. Years ago, we'd hijacked a load of H and tried to sell it back to the mob. But when I mentioned that caper to the Prof this time, he sneered it away.
"Not much chance of finding a decent-sized shipment you could take off with anything less than an army, not today. And when it gets down to the street dealers we could jack, it's not worth it. You can't deal with these punks. The drug boys, all they know is rock and Glock, honeyboy. You steal from a professional, he knows he's got to buy his stuff back— cost of doing business. These boys out there now, they're all
It got so bad that suckers were showing up at the gates, demanding a visit with their soon-to-be-released sweethearts. That's when they would discover that the "D. Jones #C-77-448109" they'd been sending money orders to was in there all right . . . but the first name was Demetrius, not Darlene.
Eventually, the authorities got wise. Now they stamp outgoing envelopes with bold notices that the letters inside are from a "Correctional Institution for Men."
Every move has a counter, and it's never been real difficult to defeat the great minds who cage humans for a living. The letters started going out to the marks from an outside PO box. Little Darlene's in solitary, and she can't get mail "direct" anymore. But, don't worry, Darlene's sister (who's also real cute, but only sixteen, so she shouldn't be getting too involved with a grown man and all) can handle the forwarding. Fortunately, her name's Désirée, so "D. Jones" would work just as well on the money orders.
And then there's the poor tormented transsexual, who describes her absolute horror at being locked up in a men's prison. She has to stay in close confinement twenty-four/seven, or she'd be set upon instantly by rabid packs of rapists. All she has to sustain herself are the chump's love letters, the money he sends for things like shampoo— so expensive in a men's prison, you know— and the knowledge that, the minute she's paroled, she could finish the sex-change surgery she'd already started before she'd been arrested (which is why she already had such nice big breasts). And they'd live happily ever after.
But that scam plays different today. Now it's a beautiful teenager prowling the chat rooms, crying out in her desperate need to get away from her horrible home life . . . until a "connection" is made and her shined-on knight sends her the money for a bus ticket. And some decent clothes, maybe some luggage . . . you know.
It'll be a long wait at that depot.
But I don't like working in public. And, anyway, that ground's already been strip-mined down to the bare rock.
As long as there's contraband, there's money to be made. Sometimes, you traffic in things— like no-tax Southern cigarettes or no-questions-asked shipments of computer chips. Sometimes, the product's a lot less tangible. Like jail-phone relay systems. No matter what the level of security a prisoner's held in, he'll have the right to call somebody, even if it's only his lawyer, and only collect. With three-way calling, it's no trick to put a gangster in direct touch with the people waiting for his orders. The guards can open mail, but there's way too much volume for them to monitor all the outgoing calls. More gangland hits get ordered from jail now than from outside. All you need is a live person to play switchman, and decent timing.
A nice hustle . . . but not for me. Too close to home.
Drugs have ruined the game for a lot of us good thieves. Dope fiends are the illegal immigrants of crime— a cheap, undocumented labor force that will take any job, even the dangerous ones, for garbage money. Years ago, we'd hijacked a load of H and tried to sell it back to the mob. But when I mentioned that caper to the Prof this time, he sneered it away.
"Not much chance of finding a decent-sized shipment you could take off with anything less than an army, not today. And when it gets down to the street dealers we could jack, it's not worth it. You can't deal with these punks. The drug boys, all they know is rock and Glock, honeyboy. You steal from a professional, he knows he's got to buy his stuff back— cost of doing business. These boys out there now, they're all
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