Statement of Prisoner # 243243

Statement of Prisoner # 243243

         This is not a confession. That would imply that I am guilty or remorseful. I am neither. I am writing this so that the truth can be told some day. I am also writing it because this thug across the table says that I have to. What follows is my account of the events which transpired on August 3rd, 1990.

         First of all, you should know who I am. I’m homeless and what you would call a bum. I admit to this - I am indeed a bum. However, it was not always so; I was educated at one point as you can hopefully see. I became a derelict and wanderer by choice. That doesn’t make me any less homeless or smelly, it just means I am not like this guy I once met who ate his shoes and then lost his toes to frostbite. I live pretty well for one who is homeless. In your head you’re thinking of boxes, but I have found that dumpsters are much warmer, offer more food choices and have one hell of an alarm clock. When you hear that truck backing up, you move your ass. I have lived in dumpsters all across the country and let me give you one piece of advice: follow the rats because they know where the good food is. Restaurants are an obvious choice, Chinese being the best, but I usually look for grocery stores. They throw out lots of expired food every day. Expired doesn’t mean a whole lot to me. Soggy chips and stiff bread are the most common items, and my favorites.

         Anyway, now you know a little about me I guess. I don’t know if knowledge of my eating habits will lead to any insight on the following events, but it just might. I came to the city of Mansworth after a lifetime of wandering. You see, some cities are friendlier to the homeless than others. The larger cities have these idiotic vagrancy laws, which mean that they’ll lock you up until you can prove you have an address to live at. That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. They have this law because they don’t want to release you, and prison can be a better life for some. Not for me. I demand and require my freedom at all times. Authority figures just assume that the homeless are either insane or criminals on the run. I maintain that I am neither, but that may be debateable. So, to avoid the hassles of big city living, I came to Mansworth. The cops were always apathetic towards me here.

         The sole purpose of this town is as a port. If it weren’t for its strategic geography, I doubt it would exist at all. Mansworth, like any port town, is slimy, smelly and old, just look at the black sidewalks. The wharf is the main center of activity and also where I made my home for over three years. There were multiple advantages to living here that more than made up for the smell and noise. The first advantage is that I was able to take advantage of the silly foreigners who came ambling off the boats. These are guys who work and live on the boats and come into port towns with loads of cash to burn. I was good. The whole time I seemed to be begging them for food, I had my hands in their pockets. I probably netted more than the dock workers at one point. These workers knew my trade and would joke to each other about it. The great thing was that I would more than likely never see these same saps again, so I would never get a reputation or run out of scores.

         Another benefit to living at the docks is the solitude at night. During the day, the place is noisy, congested, and smells horrible. The sun bakes the fish guts and slime to a point where it smells like a city dump for miles around. If you have ever been to a dump you know about the rotten broccoli smell I’m talking about. You can taste it when you breathe. For this reason, I spent most of my days in the park or behind grocery stores. In the park, I would idly pass my time watching people shuffle past, trying not to notice me. These people would actually be offended by my presence. I could see if I was hounding them for money they might rankle, but I would just be enjoying the park quietly, when some macho guy would knock me down to impress his female. That always seemed so primal to me. At night though, the docks were mine. No one works there overnight and the boat workers are usually in town getting laid or drunk or both. So, it became my nocturnal kingdom. Sometimes I would amuse myself with random vandalism, and other times I would roam around on the ships and look for stuff. It was on one of these ships that I found my first friend. It would be one hell of a first meeting.

         I picked the ship because of its size. I had never seen one so huge, and the gangplank was left down overnight which made getting onboard a cinch. The minute my foot touched metal grating, however, I heard him. It was a deep, low rumbling that made my hair stand on end. I peered through the darkness and saw a gargantuan mongrel of a dog slowly walking towards me. I could see that his hair was also standing on end, but for a different reason. I bolted back down the plank. At first, I thought that he would only chase me off the boat, but as I reached the end of the pier, I could hear that he was still following. I was too scared to look. I just ran and ran and ran. I was not in great shape, but fear and adrenaline can do amazing things. This mutt was taking my trespass personally. He chased me all the way across town until I decided I’d have to get inside something to get away from him. Running wildly and running out of breath, my eyes fixed in on a dumpster. I had spent the night in it before, but I wasn’t sure if I could lift the lid and scoot inside before the beast took a chunk out of me. Also, there was the risk that he would jump in behind me and eat me alive. I decided to risk it, opened that dumpster lid, and jumped in faster that you would believe possible. Even inside, I could hear him scratching at the metal, wishing it was me beneath his claws and in his teeth. I spent one hell of a restless night in that dumpster. When I did sleep, I had nightmares of the dog tearing out my throat. I’m not sure how long the it stayed there, but I think it was most of the night. To my great relief, he was gone in the morning.

         They’ve given me more paper, and joked that I was writing my autobiography. I would need much more paper to do that. My police friends would like me to just confess to murder, but it won’t be that easy I’m afraid.

         Anyway, four days passed after that horrible night, and I was wandering the wharf area looking for an easy target when I saw him. It was the dog who had very nearly got me. I looked and saw that the boat he was on had left. Because of me he was abandoned, and by his looks hadn’t eaten in days. It took me a long time, but eventually I screwed up the courage to approach him. I could tell by his instant mood change that he remembered me. At first, I thought that we would embark on another chase across the city, but I then saw that he was hurt. His front paw was just dangling. Even though he got angrier as I got closer, I could see how much pain he was in and that he really wanted my help. Still, I couldn’t touch him. He snapped when I reached out my hand. I left, but soon returned with a box of old crackers. This warmed him up a little and I was able to put his wounded paw in my palm as he ate. It was his hunger that overcame his fear of me. I looked underneath his paw, and in that space between the pads of his foot, I found a shard from some aluminum can. It had gotten lodged into the soft part where it was digging into his flesh. It was really easy to take it out and when I did, he was instantly better. I was reminded of that fairy tale of the mouse that helps the lion. The unexpected result of this exchange was that he now followed me everywhere. I didn’t really mind. It made me less lonesome and it also made me feel useful. I had helped someone. Okay, it was only a dog, but it still made me feel great. We became companions. He jumped into dumpsters with me, and we spilt whatever we found. I named him Polly. Don’t ask me why.

         Flash forward a few months and you couldn’t tell us apart. We reacted the same way to the same things and ate together from the bags of trash. In your head, you’re thinking gross, but it was really wonderful. I think that I was happy then. We chased cats around the city, and sometimes caught them. We always let them go, but the chase was very thrilling. Also, we would harass rats and squirrels, and just about anything that ran from us. The one thing we would try to avoid was children. They are very cruel. A stray dog and a homeless man may evoke sympathy in a charitable adult, but to children they are objects to torment. Parents usually wouldn’t scold a child for throwing a rock at me or Polly, because they would much prefer to ignore my existence. If you think back, chances are good that you saw us roaming the city. The funny thing was that usually you see a person leading or walking in front of his or her dog, but with us, we were always side by side. I was not in any way the master or guardian; we were pals. I stress this point because it is essential for understanding my innocence and for making sense of what happened.

         I don’t expect you to understand our relationship, but I have to try to explain it. Being together all the time, Polly and I were never alone. Very soon however, we had more company. I don’t know where she came from, but I woke up one morning and Polly was keeping company with a female dog. When I say that Polly was keeping her company, I mean he was on top of her. Horrified as I was upon waking up to this sight, I noticed that she had a collar on. In fact, she seemed well groomed and fed, a well cared for Dalmatian. I assumed that she would leave after Polly had finished his business, but she hung around. She kind of broke into the bond that Polly and I had formed, but I was willing to accept her if he was. I removed her diamond-studded collar which said “Sweetheart”, and I renamed her Elvira. I admit to some feelings of jealousy as the two of them started to keep exclusive company. They still hung around me though, and we always ate together, but everything had changed with her arrival, even I could see that. We became a trio, which meant we had to find more food each night, and that we were starting to be noticed by people. I didn’t really like this. I prefer to be unseen. It was hard to miss us now, a mangy mutt, a gorgeous Dalmatian, and a hairy guy with bags.

         Two weeks later, the trio was quintuplet. We picked up two strays that always seemed to be fighting each other. They were both deathly afraid of Polly though, sometimes he seemed to tire of their fighting and would just light into them with much ferocity. I named these two Ziggurat and Grant. I admit to having fun while thinking of names for them. It gave me a sense of power to know I had changed their existence in a way. So now we were a kind of gang that consumed huge amounts of food and that could hold its own if attacked. Once, while walking in the park, some guard dogs confronted us. Big mistake. It was three Doberman Pinchers that looked to be owned by someone and just on the loose. After an obligatory standoff with much growling and bristling, Polly and Elvira lit into them with a fury that scared me. Ziggurat and Grant just went at each other like always. I think that Polly could have handled them single-handedly anyway. It wasn’t his size or skill; he was just brutal. Most dog fights end with neither dog being hurt badly. Polly was different, he played for keeps. When the dust settled, the three dogs were crouched down in front of Polly, while Elvira stalked behind them. I was impressed. It seems that the three Dobermans were too because they joined us. I removed their collars and named these Prince, Helios, and Rasta. As time wore on, we attracted more and more followers. Some were strays, but most were pampered dogs that just came to run with us and never left. Our little gang was quite a sight. If you had seen us running across the street, you would remember the sight. A few other names I can think of are Yulee, Cinch, Snaky, Toms, Barrio, Idiot, and Mia.

         There were now so many of us, that the dumpsters could not fully sustain us anymore. We would clean them out of food in a matter of minutes. You would hear and see such a commotion, it made you cringe. Ten or more dogs would be rooting in the trash, all jockeying for position like they do in the wild over an animal carcass. Except that I was in it with them, and by far the most ferocious. So, in order to survive we supplemented our diet. We did this by stealing. I went back to my pick pocketing practice with gusto, with Polly helping me, and the dogs would come back with lunch boxes and torn grocery bags. What money I stole, I spent solely on food. I would go into to stores and buy junk food in bulk. You would not believe how many donuts dogs can go through. Still, with me buying the food for them to eat, I didn’t consider myself the master. It felt like a sort of community where I was just doing my share. You might laugh at that thought, but you didn’t witness the love that was shared between us. They had ferocity, but I had the can opener. Once, I was seen by a fellow homeless person, whom I shall leave nameless, that told me that I had lost my mind. I looked at her and growled. It didn’t help my case for sanity much.

         It wasn’t long before I started seeing what I expected. Lost dog posters started showing up on telephone poles and mailboxes. With these weepy descriptions, the dog’s name, and of course a blurry black and white photograph, they didn’t invoke sympathy in me. I laughed at them because the dogs with me didn’t even answer to their silly former names like Ace or Bandit. So I told myself that it wasn’t even the same dog they were looking for. Even if the little girl or old man had found his dog, I bet the animal would not have even been recognized. We were all living a free life now. No dog in his right mind would want to go back to leashes and horseflesh. Sure, that life was more assured and safe, but we were living on the edge, and that is where you really live. I could tell you about some of the hardships like our flea epidemic, or the fights that broke out, but in the end we were a family. Not like a suburban family, but more like a pack of wolves that would kill for each other. It was because of this that all the trouble started. Maybe we were too loyal.

         It wasn’t too long after the posters that Mansworth Animal Control started a war. It seems that they had gotten complaints about packs of wild dogs that were terrorizing anything with food. Pizza guys got mauled. Chinese delivery guys were chased on top of cars. I even heard a story where they had literally taken candy from a baby. I don’t feel remorse or guilt about these things at all. I didn’t tell the dogs to do these things. It wasn’t like I could order them around. If they came back with pizza, I ate it. A homeless man doesn’t ask where fresh pizza comes from, or even care. If they gave me things, I assumed it was because they loved me as I loved them. I never thought of them as a “social menace” as they were later called. Packs of wild dogs are common in large cities, but Mansworth had never seen anything like it before. When I say there was no leader to this group, I mean that no one gave orders or laid out a plan of any kind. Still, no one messed with Polly when he got angry, and so you could describe him as the alpha male. It stands to reason that puppies weren’t far behind for him.

         I didn’t see the birth or even know that Elvira was pregnant. I guess it was because there were so many dogs and the fact that we didn’t have a base or anything. It was obvious whose puppies they were because of Polly and Elvira’s overprotection of them. Even I couldn’t touch them. I did name them though; there were five, Wallis, George, Kip, Ogre, and Quark. Anyone who has seen newborn puppies knows how hard they are to resist. I remember them all curled up together, eyes closed, making tiny whimpering sounds. Being that they were half Dalmatian, half mutt, I can’t say that they would win any dog shows, but we were proud of them. They were part of us. A new generation was born and it seemed like it gave us a sense of purpose. The puppies were the beginning of the end it seems.

         When they were about a month old, legs still shaky, Mansworth Animal Services, in other words the dog catcher, picked all five of them up in nets. I know this because I saw it with my own eyes. They put a rope thing around Elvira while they did it because she was ready to kill someone. Mother and pups were gone in a truck and there was nothing that I could do about it. Or so I thought. I reflected on it very sadly but my feelings changed when I saw how it affected Polly. He must have looked for them for a week. I wanted to tell him where they went, but couldn’t. Once he gave up, Polly was a shell of his former self. He wouldn’t follow me anywhere or even eat. He was dying. This enraged me. Why did Animal Services have to do this to us? We had been happy. I have been told later that there was a new policy in effect where any dog without a collar would be picked up and thrown in the pound. Excuse me, Mansworth Animal Facility. It’s funny how they give such long names to a prison. That’s what it was and soon it would be infamous.

         In my anger I decided to do something about Polly’s puppies. I would just march right in there and demand my animals. Looking back, this was a grave mistake. At ten o’clock on June 30th, Prince, Helios, Rasta and I walked into the lobby of the pound. I had hoped to reason and talk with someone, but they refused to treat me like a normal person. They spoke to me like I was a little kid and called the cops. I was arrested for animal cruelty and vagrancy. The dogs were roped and thrown in cages. Injustice was like fire in my belly. I was thrown into a hole until my trial. I was kept for a month with criminals who abused me. They said that I smelled worse than my dogs and that I was lower than a dog. I was assigned a public attorney, who seemed nice enough, but when I tried to explain the situation to her, she just cut me off and said that she would “handle it”. At the trial, I received condescending stares from everyone there, including my own attorney. Of course, the verdict came back guilty. My sentence was to pay a fine of 500 dollars for the Animal Cruelty charge and perform 200 community service hours for the vagrancy charge. They may as well have sentenced me to life. I had no money, and I had vowed to never work for another man ever again, much less the government. So, I went back to my dogs and my old life. This was not to be.

         Our old group had been cut in half. Animal Control had been busy in my absence. I learned from an old newspaper that they knew that the dock was where where the dogs were most concentrated. Many had been picked up. The dogs that belonged to people and the lost dog posters were returned home. I later learned that this did not work because as I suspected they were not the same dogs anymore. They didn’t answer to their former names and ran away at the earliest chance. They came back to the docks and back to me. At this point, I admit that I was not thinking clearly. My deadline for paying the 500 dollars was nearing and I had not even attempted to get a job or even pickpocket the money. As for the community service, that was out of the question. Because of this, I knew that the cops would be on me soon. I was now a celebrity in Mansworth. Everyone knew where I hung out and all about my dogs. I hated this. I was jeered and harassed by everyone. For this reason, I hid during the day, and avoided streetlights at night. My dogs weren’t as stealthy however, and were being picked off one by one. It was for their sakes that I returned to the Animal Facility.

         The clerk saw me coming. Luckily he was working by himself at the time, all the other employees no doubt busy catching my friends. Twenty dogs and I pushed through the front door and invaded the place. The scared clerk was content just not to be eaten, and was pinned against the wall by Polly and Ziggurat. I had no problem finding the holding pens, but I was surprised by just how many animals there were. I had planned on freeing only my friends, but I was moved to pity as I saw so many faces staring at me, eyes pleading. I went to work and freed everything there. Most were dogs, some were cats, and I even freed a raccoon. He was very wild. We all exited that place en masse, leaving the clerk to explain things. In hindsight, I should have done something about that guy. Perhaps let that fierce raccoon handle him. This prison break of sorts was bittersweet. Elvira and the puppies were not there. I can only assume that they were killed. Everyone I ask says that they don’t remember her or any puppies. Still, nothing like what we did had ever even been attempted before. Animals freeing animals is a concept that I thoroughly enjoy to this day. We were a huge group again and powerful. The breakout was our biggest triumph and our destruction.

         I have been told by a moron in blue that I only have twenty minutes left. He says that I have to be in my cell for lockdown. I am almost done; I have up to this point recapped the events leading up to August 3rd, 1990, when it all happened.

         Mansworth Animal Control recruited an army of police. They needed every one of them. Our group had taken over complete control of the docks and had become very fierce. The mayor of Mansworth demanded that I be brought to justice and all of my animals be put to sleep. It was all over the papers. So when I saw those uniforms approaching, crouched low with nets, what was I supposed to do? This was our last stand at the O.K. Corral. However, I did try to avoid it. The police argue with me about this, but I did give myself up at the very start of the situation. I put my hands up and approached the police, but once they put their hands on me, Polly reacted. He jumped in between myself and two policemen and started tearing at them. One man yelled and pulled his gun; I reacted quickly and knocked it from his hand. I picked it up and ran for cover. As I did so, fifty or more dogs attacked the uniforms. When it was all over, two policemen were dead, six more were in the hospital, and a few Animal Control workers had been bitten. On the animal side, ten of my dogs had been shot dead, including Polly. Many more where yelping and limping. All of them were put into trucks and driven away. I can only assume the rest were killed as well. As for myself, I am charged with manslaughter, animal cruelty, assault, theft, and of course vagrancy. I am sure that I will be convicted, regardless of this statement, and be sentenced to many years. I maintain however, that I did not attack a single person, nor order any animal to kill. This hardly matters though as my case has become national news and I am to be made an example of. I don’t want anyone’s pity or sympathy, just understanding. In my struggle to keep my freedom, and at the same time, help animals achieve theirs, I lost everything. I’m off to my cell now to await trial. I hope it never comes.

MANSWORTH CORRECTIONAL: 08.10.90
CASE NUMBER: 5676432
STATUS: CONFIDENTIAL

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