Over my 30 plus years of incarceration, I've crossed paths with a staggering variety of convicts. By majority opinion most would, at best, be rated "unsavory" characters. Others, were simply hopelessly pathetic, lost souls lurking on the fuzzy, dark, fringes of insanity. A grim few were so evil, so vile, that their very existence conjures up, in the average minds, nightmares of coiled demons slavering to spring and devour. But, who's to judge such wretchedly wayward souls? Me, who dwells among them? Surely not! You, the reader, who lives in fear of them? Perhaps. But, Fair Warning! before venturing into the realm of self-appointed judge, jury and executioner, I direct your attention to an age-old Tibetan proverb, "Goodness speaks in a whisper...Evil shouts;" an ancient proverb that, in my opinion, leads one to believe evil is more readily recognizable than goodness. That said, I introduce to you a few of my real-life most bizarre companions in prison. A real pip was Benjamin "Ben" Porta who, before his death, crossed my path numerous times at various institutions throughout the state of Pennsylvania. Without question, Ben is (or rather, was) one of (if not the) most ruthless, feared and dangerous "con" ever to stalk the inside of Pennsylvania prison walls. The last time I saw him was in the Hole at the State Correctional Institution at Smithfield. Though bald and toothless, he was screaming insults at a known informant three cells down from his. Shortly after being released from prison in the Fall of 1953, Mr. Porta was convicted of double homicide. Before his death at Dallas state prison, 2001, Ben had served over fifty years behind prison walls, the first fifteen in handcuffs at the than notorious Farview State Mental Facility. Another twenty of the remaining thirty years he spent in some of the most dehumanizing prison holes that the Pennsylvania Bureau of Corrections had to offer. Even in the latter days of prison reform when a new, liberal thinking generation of administrators came aboard, Mr. Porta, from "the old school," never once swayed from his beliefs: keep your mouth shut, keep your word, pay your debts, never inform on anyone and respect yourself. If he had something to say, Ben said it. He didn't care if you were a 6 foot, 7 inch power lifter, a Jersey hit man, a cripple in a wheelchair, a cop, or the Warden. Benjamin Porta feared nothing and no one! And he was psychotically insane. If you did Ben wrong (or, more likely, if he thought you had), you might as well bend over and kiss your ass good-bye, because, sooner or later, somewhere down the line, Ben was gonna dust you off good and proper! Mr. Porta's assaults on prison snitches, sex offenders, child molester, killers, homosexuals, guards, counselors, prisoners and even priests are w-a-y too numerous to recite. There is, however, one particular incident that comes to mind as I write. At Pittsburgh state prison, March 3rd, 1972, after completing a lengthy stint in "Home Block" (as that Hole was called), Ben was enroute to a general population block. Crossing the excise yard, he spotted a prisoner who was, prior to murdering his wife, a Pittsburgh police officer. Big Jake Papalopanus was approaching the ramp to South Block. Mr. Porta mumbled to himself, "Stinkin', fuckin' cop!" then headed directly toward an equipment tool shed situated near the ramp. By the time Big Jake was halfway up the ramp, Ben had a determined grip on a long-handled, steel shovel he'd snatched from the tool shed and was quick-steppin' it toward Big Jake. The first (of many) swift and powerful blows to Big Jake Papalopanus' head only staggered him. Though dazed and disoriented, Jake, teetering back-and-forth like a hard tagged fighter, knew he was in BAD, SERIOUS trouble. Thus, in a brief moment of clarity, Jake placed one unsteady foot in front of another and attempted to flee. "Oh, no, ya don't!" said Ben drawing the shovel back and taking aim. An inmate witnessing the event, yelled, "Ben, stop it! The guards have peeped ya. You're gonna get in trouble." "I'm all ready in trouble," replied Ben aS he delivered the final, deadly blow. The ex-cop died on the spot! Porta "took him off the count," as the cons say. Somewhat less violent, at least in prison was Cecil "Bingo" Champion, a young, meek mannered, roly-poly lad who, as the story goes, killed both grandparents in an insane fit of rage when they refused to let him borrow their car. Compounding the tragedy, his doting mother, distraught over the death or her beloved parents, but blindly in love with her son, attempted to save him from execution by writing a suicide note claiming responsibility for her parents' death before taking her own life. Cecil Champion carried a burden not many men could, or would. Added to his misery, his cherished mother's death was in vain. Bingo is currently serving two life sentences for the murder of his grandparents. Perhaps that's why Cecil was so withdrawn. He very seldom spoke. When he did, it was always about his best friend, Mr. Churrpy, a featherless baby sparrow that, apparently, had fallen from its nest. Bingo had found the chick near death one day while plodding around in the exerise yard. Cuddling the little bird to his chest, Cecil smuggled it back to his cell and nurtured the fledgling back to health. Under Bingo's loving care, Mr. Churrpy lived better than most prisoners. The bird ate fresh lettuce, apples and raisins pilfered from the mess hall. On his birthday, Bingo treated Mr. Churrpy to a Little Debbie cherry pie from the commissary. Bingo built Mr. Churrpy an elaborate three-story cage from tens of thousands of disgarded matchsticks. It had three bed rooms, a living room, four bath rooms, a dining area and a garage for the miniature car Bingo made for Mr. Churrpy. The goddamn thing was the size of a fifty-five gallon drum! From my recollection, it took Bingo five years to complete his project! Mr. Churrpy could do tricks. Lots of them! Over the years Bingo not only taught his friend easy stuff like, lie down, rollover and play dead, but the difficult tricks too like stand on one foot, shake hands and, believe it or not, Mr. Churrpy could fetch things. Bingo would say, "Churrpy, go get my pencil." Honest to God! the bird would hop off 8ingo's shoulder, fly to his desk and return to Bingo with the pencil. Damndest thing I ever saw! To Bingo, Churrpy wasn't a bird at all. Rather, as I'd heard him proclaim many times, "He's my best and only friend dressed in a feather suit." When Bingo killed Mr. Currpy, I actually thought Bingo was going to take his own life. Y'see, what happened was this. When Bingo wasn't in his cell, he'd leave the birdcage door open so Mr. Churrpy could exercise his wings. Stepping into his dark cell one evening, thinking Mr. Churrpy was fast asleep in his cage, the gruesome sounds of bones crushing under his heavy foot, brought a shrill scream from Bingo. Lifting his foot, poor Cecil went into cardiac arrest. Though the prisoner survived, he never spoke again. That is, unless the haunting, terrifying wails echoing from his cell at night can be considered a form or speech. For contrast, consider the madman Albert "Spaghetti Man" Davenport. Though murder isn't the accepted remedy to resolve a domestic dispute, Albert didn't have the time or patience to go the rational route. Beside, if she just "came up missing" his wife's insurance would eventually be paid. "I'll just bash the bitch in the head," decided Albert. "Then dispose of her body." Crowbar in hand, Albert lurked behind the bedroom door and cooed, "Dear, may I see you in here a minute?" Laying her knitting atop the colorful sweater she was making for Albert, Martha Davenport arose from her cushioned rocker. Though it was noon, she was thinking (no, hoping) Albert was feeling a bit frisky. It had been, after all, quite some time since he'd expressed his affection by making love. Martha, giggling sheepishly to herself, replied, "be right there, Sweetie." As Martha cleared the doorway. ..WHACK! One perfectly aimed vicious blow to the back her head and it was all over. Martha was dead. "Gee-whiz! that wasn't so difficult," thought Albert wiping Martha's scalp from the crowbar with the neatly folded, white handkerchief from his breast pocket, "If I had realized it was goona be this easy, I'd have dusted the bitch years ago!" To Albert's surprise, knocking off Martha wasn't the hardest part of his nefarious scheme. For the life of him, he couldn't decided on how to dispose of her body. Nothing seemed satisfactory to him. So he stored the corpse in the frige. A fortnight later, while relaxing in bed reading his newspaper, he suddenly remembered the upcoming annual Davenport Dinner and Family Reunion. What exactly made Albert decide to cut, chop, dice and mince Martha's body into a rich spaghetti sauce and serve it to his inlaws over heaping piles of Pappa John's Original Thin Italian Spaghetti is anyone's guess. The only thing known for sure is, there were empty plates all around at the Davenport Dinner and Family Reunion that year. Everyone praised the meaty treat. Though Albert maintained that the spaghetti sauce was his "secret family recipe" and flatly refused to disclose its tangy ingredients, he was amused by the praise of the Davenport family, especially Martha's worried mom and pop. Albert held fast that he knew nothing (absolutely nothing!) about Martha's mysterious disappearance or whereabouts. The jury didn't buy it. Albert is currently serving a life senetence at the State Correctional Institution at Pittsburgh. He's a cook. Let me tell you about Steve "The Grip" Saleno whom I knew at the State Correctional Institution at Dallas. Down on his luck, with prison loan sharks nipping his heels threatening to collect overdue usury, he decided that the quickest, best (and perhaps, only) way out of his life-threatening dilemma was to rob a fellow inmate. His plan was simple. He'd select a con that he knew kept a stash of cash (in those days, currency was common inside the prisons), wait until the intended victim was asleep, slip into his cell and rob him. "But," thought Steve, 'what if he wakes up and recognizes me?" He saw his options as limited to either snuffin' out his victim while he slept or wearing a disguise. Steve elected the non-homicidal option and donned a paper bag mask for his burglary. "This way," the predator reasoned, "if the asshole wakes up, I'll just dash outta his cell, toss the bag and mingle in with the rest of the guys." Though the ragged eye holes torn haphazardly in the brown paper bag narrowed Steve's field of vision, it was, he reasoned, the perfect disguise: light, roomy, portable and quickly disposable! Standing nervously outside his victim's cell door, Grip rubbernecked up and down the tier making sure there'd be no witnesses to his evil deed before slipping the paper bag over his bulbous head. He made his move! "I'll leave the door open," thought the robber creeping silently across the threshold, "Y'know, just in case." Giovani "Rackets" Castabino wasn't sure, but he thought he heard something. Not moving, Rackets cautiously lifted a sleepy eyelid. He was right! He had heard something. Tinkering with his footlocker was one of those goddamn, good- for-nothing, low-life sneak-thiefs! Furious, Rackets sprang from his bunk and confronted the would-be robber. Hearing Rackets' feet hit the floor, Steve spun around prepared himself for flight or fight. "Ya no-good, worthless son-of-a-bitch!" yelled Rackets as he blocked Steve's escape path. Then an eerie calmness fell over Rackets. He grined exposing enough large, white teeth to tile a kitchen counter as he pulled his cell door shut. "I'm gonna bust ya up!" he growled. With flight no longer an options, Grip bravely poised himself for battle. Hunching his thin shoulders, balling boney hands into fist, he threw his puny arms up assuming the classic "fighter's stance." Bobbin', weavin', throwing air hooks, jabs and upper cuts in all directions, terrified eyes peering wildly through the bag's eyeholes, Grip stammered, "Come on with it, grease-ball!" Lightening-swift, Rackets' large, hairy hands flashed toward the paper bag and twisted it 90 degrees. The Grip, now sight-challenged, was heard (if you can believe the Narducci brothers seven cells away) expressing his blinded astonishment and disbelief, "Oh, shit!" exclaimed The Grip. The first meaty blow produced a blood stain in the center of Grip's paper disguise the size of a small kitten. From there, it only got worse. Rackets whooped The Grip's ass like a southern plantation's overseer whipped a run-a-way slave! The Grip doesn't rob cells any more. Then there's Edward Tisher who's called "One- Man-Gang." He stands a mere five foot, six inches, tips the scale (on a good day) at about 145 pounds and carries more battle scars than an unsuccessful World War II Japanese Kamikaze pilot. So the shotgun blast to his left forearm in '78 was, to him, nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Though most of the muscles in his forearm had been blown away, Edward could still make a fist. In fact, he couldn't NOT make a fist: his left hand is permanently frozen into a cold, hard claw. Rumor had it, Ed's debilitating injury occurred while defending the honor of a loved one, his mother. As the story goes, a gang of young blacks beat his aging mom to the ground, kicked and pummeled her before stealing her purse. Outraged, Ed tracked the assailants to a crackhouse, busted the door off its hinges and "went to work" with a tire iron in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. Unfortunately, after inflicting massive damage to ten of the crackhouse occupants, the eleventh found a 12 gauge, double-barrel Savage and blasted Ed out through the shack's wall, sprawling him on the front porch. Three years after being discharged from the hospital and not at all satisfied with the retribution that he'd extracted, Ed, while waving his way home from a local topless bar spotted a crowd of young, hip-hop blacks gathered in front of a roller skating rink. "Hah, haaaa!" the cripple exclaimed steering his heavy Buick toward the crowd. Straight-leggin' the gas pedal to the floor, he smashed into the knot of would-be roller skaters. In the courtroom, charged with the attempted murder by vehicle of twenty-six young African Americans, Ed listened intently as the district attorney, trying to establish premeditation, questioned Ed's only alibi witness, his mother. DA: "Isn't it true, Mrs. Tisher, that Edward has always had a dislike for blacks?" Mrs. Tisher: "No, that's not true at all. Ed has many black friends. He's always bringing them home to watch TV or play cards." DA: "Yeah, sure, right! How? Embedded in the grill of the car!" Public Defender: "Objection, Your Honor! Mr. Tisher's car doesn't have a grill. I move to strike the question." Thanks, in part, to his "defense team" (one incompetent public defender), Edward was found guilty of attempted murder and sentenced to 5 to 10 years. Attending the celebration party upon his parole, Ed, allegedly, knifed to death his soon-to-be brother-in-law three days prior to the wedding, over an unfortunate exchanged regarding his sister's pending honeymoon night activities. Hence, Edward finds himself, again, in the embrace of penitentiary life. Last, but never least is little Tony "Psycho" Bickerson whose one of many claims to fame is a bold and daring leap out of a seven story Philadelphia courtroom window. I first met Tony way-back-when at Holmesburg Prison in the city or brotherly love. I was recently arrested and imprisoned there, I was out in the exercise yard one day when I heard a fellow prisoner shout, "Hey, look at that!" Glancing up in the direction the prisoner was pointing I saw, standing atop a hundred and fifty foot water tower, little Tony "Psycho" Bickerson. He had scaled the tower, I discovered later, in protest of the bland chicken gravy that was served to us the night before. Tony camped-out atop that water tower for seven and a half days! The only reason Tony came down, he said, was, because the Lord spoke to me. My next encounter with Mr. Bickerson came a few years later. I was, by then, incarcerated at the State Correctional Institution in Huntingdon, Pennsylvania. On my way to the messhall, I heard a loud commotion. Turning, I saw three huge guards had a fellow prisoner gripped-up and was dragging him off to the Hole. It was Tony. His face and hands covered in black shoe polish! Turns out Tony, hearing the parole board was only granting parole to blacks, smeared himself with shoe polish, sashayed into the parole hearing and announced, "I bees rez-bilitated." The ploy didn't work. Little Tony Bickerson spent the next couple of years in the Hole. But, back to the courtroom window incident. Standing nervously, Tony listened impatiently as the Judge proclaims, "Mr. Bickerson, I'm of the firm belief that you possess no redeeming value as a productive citizen. Furthermore, I'm convinced you're a menace to this great society of ours. Therefore, in the name of justice, and for the good of all mankind, I sentence you to..." Tony didn't want to hear anything else! In fact, he didn't hear anything else. Going to prison wasn't something he wished to do again. Eyeing the open window on the other side of the courtroom, he thought, "Maybe if I pretend I'm gonna commit suicide, the Judge will reconsider his vengeance." Ignoring the six sheriffs guarding him, Psycho dashed thirty feet to the window. He was moving so fast, his windshear fluttered papers on the prosecutor's desk! From behind him, Tony heard someone shrill, "Jesus Christ! He's goin' for the window. Stop him!" Too late! Tony didn't even bother to put on the breaks. "Fuck it!" he thought. "I've come this far, might as well shoot the works!" Tony leaped! He cleared that window as a nothing-but-net basketball clears the hoop. It wasn't until he was two feet on the other side of the window and a hundred and fifty feet above the busy Philadelphia traffic that he decided "this wasn't such a good idea after all!" Unbelievably, Tony didn't die. Being a long-time drug user (methamphetamines, a.k.a. speed) he only weighed enough to keep his scrawny frame alive. The Good Lord saw fit to whip up a fifty mile an hour wind as Psycho leaped. Believe it or not, the wind blew Tony back enough to where he landed on a narrow ledge that ran around the courthouse. He clung there for twenty-eight minutes until he was fished back in by the amused fire department. Amazingly, the ploy worked! The Judge, instead of sentencing Tony to an ass full of time, and convinced Tony had some serious mental issues (which was no doubt true), sent him to a mental health hospital for observation and treatment. Tony escaped three days after his arrival at the hospital, was captured in California seven weeks later and is now in prison.. .again awaiting parole! Should you, the reader, appoint yourself judge, jury and executioner of these men's deeds. Let me, once again, draw your attention to, yet another, age old "opposed" Balinese proverb: "Evil whispers...Goodness shouts;"...a proverb, in my opinion, that leads one to believe that goodness is more readily recognizable than evil. View a related story.