SEASON : WINTER / YEAR : 2021 / PHOTOS : @tomhgn_ / VIDEO : @23_productionss
CHAPTER 1 - BUSTED!
The cold, wet hood makes my face tense, the forearm of this Sunday cowboy crushes the back of my neck, I manage to utter a few insults despite my cheek being pressed against the bodywork. I can hardly breathe. Another guy who was bullied at school and needs to get even, transcended by his numerical superiority and the well-pressed navy blue uniform he proudly wears. I’m getting angry, and the splutter this cop spits in my face doesn’t help. In a burst of bravery, I extricate myself from his dirty paws, struggling like a rabid dog, with blood-red eyes, my lips drooling, while his three companions struggle to contain my rage. My run hadn’t even begun when it ended, fucked by a roadblock surely erected for myself. Let’s face it, no matter how hard I fight, I’ll never be able to get out of the clutches of a bunch of guys pumped up on daily workouts and cups of protein ingested from the latest shitty radio hits. I’m saving my energy for later, I have a feeling I’ll need it.
CHAPTER 2 - HANDCUFFS
Fucking handcuffs! Too tight of course. Every movement, every jerk, makes my wrist bones break a little more. Sitting in the middle of these two big pigs in the back of the car, the unofficial interrogation begins: «What were you doing last night?». I calmly answer that I don’t understand what they’re talking about, but I’m interrupted by a huge slap, expertly applied with the palm of the hand to my temple. They love it when they beat up guys in handcuffs, it must remind them of the gay S&M porn they watch in secret while their wives are being fucked by the neighbor. After a few slaps and a good half hour drive, I get out of the car, to find myself in front of this good old police chief. I know this guy, his reputation as a dirty cop precedes him. Sitting behind his desk, surrounded by his two dogs, he starts again: «What were you doing last night? ». This time, the slap knocks me of the chair, my skull hits the floor, I’m a bit stunned but I’ve seen it all before. I won’t talk, I didn’t see or hear anything.
CHAPTER 3 - NO JUSTICE
The clean, perfumed cell of the courthouse is a change from the smell of piss from the 48-hour custody I’ve just endured. I engrave in my memory the sexy sound of my public defender’s high heels echoing in the corridor. Something tells me I won’t be hearing it again soon... Locked up like a caged feline, burning in the flames of hell, I can already imagine the outcome of my trial. How to make them understand that the pile of corpses scattered in this villa rented in my name was not the result of my work. I was the victim, some guys had come to put holes in me, and I was the one sitting there. I hadn’t spoken, I took the first place like a man. According to the lawyer, I was safe. But I had learned to distrust the justice system, the police, who hunt down pot smokers and let killers go free. My fingerprints on that gun with the erased serial number, the impact of the bloody images of the crime scene... There is no justice, there is only a defendant and raw, unbearable pictures under the jurors’ noses. The prosecutor says ten years, the judge says five, I’ll probably only do half that. It doesn’t matter. In the cell truck that takes me to the prison, I think about Sarah. It wasn’t fair, I had a few years to prepare my revenge. No justice, no peace.
CHAPTER 4 - ALCATRAZ
The individual cell in the truck that takes me to the prison is clearly less than 1 square meter. It’s stiflingly hot, and only a small grill about twenty centimeters wide allows me to get some air and light. I get tossed around for thirty long minutes, and then I arrive in front of the hotel that I will occupy at taxpayers’ expense for the next few years. After going through fingerprints, and showing my sweaty asshole to an asshole supervisor, I exchange my personal belongings for a kind of big bundle, which was to be my future blanket. Inside: a towel, a single-blade Bic razor, toilet paper, a cheap toothbrush, and toothpaste. The corridors are just like in my imagination, I feel like I’m in Alcatraz, my gait is confident, my head is up, I’m in a fucking movie. The airlocks follow each other, here I am at the arrivals. The door opens on a rather tidy cell, with a shower and a TV, but this is only temporary. In a week’s time, I will leave the arrivals for my permanent cell, and the comfort will be less. I look at the sun shining behind the bars, the sky is azure blue. How long would I last here?