Ringtown Mike liked shit. Its point of fact, he was obsessed with it. There was no accounting for it. He liked dog droppings and litter boxes, but his favorite, by far, was the human turd, steaming and odoriferous. Like a cur, Ringtown Mike identified people by their "shit-turds" as he calls them (both product and producer). Mike could sniff out a trace of turd like a drooling toddler can sniff out a scrap of Hershey bar. He could have been cousin to the dung beetle. Ringtown Mike's strange fixation with all things anal and scatological made him a tad peculiar even for a Pennsylvania prison guard. His hissing conversation was florid with references to "shit-balls" and "shit-turds" and similar defecational epithets. He couldn't help himself. The thought of a soiled anal ring made him salivate. And if a prisoner ate sauerkraut, the idea of his bowel log, was truly mouthwatering. Besides his brown addiction, Ringtown Mike suffered from impotence. He often couldn't get it up. Even drugs and liquor failed to rouse the man in him. Some nights he dreamed that he was a woman. In his dream he used mirrors to admire the contents of his remarkably distended colon. Even that didn't arouse him enough to achieve anything like a hard-on. It persisted as a astheticly flacid flop. At the pyramidical tit on the top of the county was the village Ringtown. Mike moved there. He though it referred to an anus. That was one of his favorite confections. Ringtown was a appointment, just a hick hamlet. Even most of the outhouses were gone. Mike liked outhouses. He liked their earthy aroma, especially in summer after they had been freshly visited. He couldn't help himself. Ringtown Mike had thought that being a Pennsylvania prison would be ideally satisfying. He could call the prisoners fecal names and inspect their buttholes. On good days, he might be able to look at shit-turds of shit-balls, or secretly watch a prisoner taking a dump. The fantasy almost chubbed up his reluctant dangley. McConnley was also a prison guard. He smelled bad. Ringtown Mike liked that. He got close to McConnley when even he could manage it. McConnley smelled like a warm outhouse. McConnley liked to call himself "officer" McConnley. It made him feel almost normal. He was big. He was as dumb as a broomstick. He was also scared, always scared. What if a prisoner should chase him with a pencil! McConnley had a compulsion to assert himself. Then he didn't feel quite so vulnerable. The prison had found an ideal job for the big dummy. McConnley was in charge of the Strategic Chicken Egg Interdiction Project of "SCEIP." Occasionally hard-boiled eggs were breakfast fare at the prison. Officer McConnley searched prisoners as they left the messhall. He bravely made sure that all the hard-boiled eggs that left the messhall were inside the prisoners or were stolen by guards. It would be very dangerous, maybe tragic, if a prisoner carried out a hard-boiled egg. Nobody knew why it was so important to interdict hard-boiled eggs. Officer McConnley didn't need to know. He knew his duty. He ferreted out hard-boiled eggs. The world was a safer place thanks to big dummy. Best of all, it prevented a prisoner from enjoying the egg that the taxpayers had bought for him. Better yet, the silly taxpayers paid SCEIP over $600 a week to interdict dime eggs. Sometimes the chief of SCEIP discarded the eggs his careful searches produced. It was better to waste them than to allow prisoners to enjoy them. Other times, SCEIP McConnley ate the eggs himself. They gave him sulfurous gas. Ringtown Mike loved it! McConnley was one of Ringtown's heros. He liked to stand behind him especially on pinto bean days. Ringtown Mike also favored some of the prisoners. Those who stunk or who failed to flush were a consistent turn-on. But, Mike's hidden life focused on whispering to prisoners. Skulking close to a cell door, Mike whispered toilet fantasies. "You're a shit-turd," he'd hiss. "You've got shit-balls." Just saying the words roused his recalcitrant root ... or almost roused it. Mike spoke very quietly. He didn't want anyone to hear what he was whispering. If the prisoner complained he didn't want any witnesses to confirm the report. Some self-respecting prisoners objected to being called shitty names. They didn't appreciate that shit was wonderful, beautiful, addicting. The lowly bastards thought they merited a little respect. Ringtown Mike had to be especially sneaky not to give them evidence to use against him in formal complaints. Nobody could hear his taunting. That was okay. Mike was a natural sneak. He was devious and sly, slippery as a suppository. Mike hid (or tried to hide) what he really was. He'd been doing it his whole life. He was ashamed. He didn't like what he was. Being dishonest fit right in with employment as a Pennsylvania prison guard. Dishonesty and pretense are their way of life. Who would want to be a prison guard? Freaks, misfits and defects filled the ranks. It's an occupation for the outcast and the thug. Mike knew that a few prisoners could be exploited for their bowel contents. The prisoners who lived alone were easy prey. When they left their cells, Mike spiked their food with a strong laxative. As they suffered the runs, he'd creep back to enjoy the sights and sounds and smells. Just knowing that prisoners were cramped on their ceramic bowls pleased his inner demon. He especially liked the fact that they were suffering. It wasn't really so much malicious as it was insane. Ringtown Mike was not a normal person. In moments of special madness, Mike even used the laxative on himself. Groaning, he'd fill the toilet with his slimy diarrhea. Then he'd crouch over the bowl inhaling the stench. Somehow that satisfied him. It was his hidden shame. Ringtown Mike liked shit. It was his special madness. Sadly, it didn't really relieve his impotence. Impotence makes men nasty. Sliding into his wretched middle age, Ringtown Mike became progressively more nasty. He resented his own abnormalities. He resented the abnormalities in others. He feared that they would discover about his madness. He still craved attention. Oddly, he needed people to notice him. It was as if he were an anal accident dropped on a sidewalk. Over time Mike's fixation on shit became less arousing and less satisfying. It became more a habit like his drunkenness. He became even more sneaky and bitter. It didn't help, however. A guard captain made an unexpected stroll down the depressing rows of dank cells. Mike happened to have his head deep down in a prisoner's toilet. He was admiring a python of a turd. It was all very difficult to explain to the captain. From that time one, he was watched. He couldn't even safely call the prisoners shitty names. All he could do was stand close to gassy McConnely and hope he'd been eating cabbage. There's one outhouse in Ringtown. Its name is Mike. Rebecca's Bargain Antiques Collectible Vintage Photos Fine Prints - Old Maps Sheet Music - Old Books Elegant Antiques and Collectibles "A boy's best friend is his mother," Anthony Perkins in Psycho, 1960 You are welcome to use or republish any of our material. Please give www.prisoners.com credit as the source. Return to the Works by Prisoner Authors and Others Menu. Return to the Main Menu. Go to our site's Search Engine. Send us Your Comments, Questions or Input.