Young Terry Forestal was viciously raped by three notorious homosexual prisoners in the basement of the hospital of a western Pennsylvania prison. The young man survived the brutal violation. Although it's been a while ago now, this is more or less how the assault occurred. There's an evil trait in human genetics which can sometimes make a person a violently dangerous sexual predator. Thankfully, the anomaly is extremely rare, less than one in two million. It occurs almost exclusively in males and in almost all cases, it's a murderous sexual appetite for other males. It's much rarer (but certainly nor unheard of) for women to be the object of the madness. Nowadays the term sexual predator is applied to just about any sexual "criminals," especially child molesters. But real sexual predators are like the rare but deadly rabid animal. They are frequently called "wolves." Typically such predators manifest their abrasion while they are still young children. If they aren't killed or they don't commit suicide, almost all of them are imprisoned by their teens or twenties at the latest. As V.L. Richfield realized during his very first "bit," prison is an ideal hunting ground for wolves. He was one of the most crafty sexual predators in Pennsylvania history. In prison he repeatedly raped and ravished unwary victims. Sometimes he was caught, mostly, he got away with it. Seldom was he punished and when he was, it was a slap on the wrist. In those days, Pennsylvania prison administrators didn't care much what happened to prisoners. They don't care much more today. Some victims were/are regularly exploited by both prisoners and staff. Perhaps some of the prisoners had an excuse. One of the worst evils of Pennsylvania prisons is the endless forced separation from normal sexual associations and the gnawing frustration it produces. What prison administrators often did try to do was to put all or most of their real sexual predators in one place. That's how it happened that when Terry Forestal, the victim, arrived in the "joint," three of the worst "boody-bandits" in the state were on the prowl. Although the young victim was exhausted from the stressful ordeal of being transported from the county jail, he couldn't relax. He was required to stripped naked and expose body parts that would have humiliated a veteran Tijuana hooker. Like every other "fish" (or new arrival), he was fingerprinted, photographed and inspected for identifying marks. He was given his prison number. It would be his official identity for the next fifteen years of his existence. Number 23-236 realized that his fatigue wasn't caused by the nightmare of his ordeal. It was, pure and simple, fear! He was so goddamn scared that the muscles of his right eye twitched into National Spastic Paralysis champions. Terry had heard what happens to handsome young men like him in state prison. His best friend, Stanley Kipfer, who'd done a "skid-bit" at "The Wall" back in '83, graphically cleared up any nonsense about rehabilitation. And Stan, who was never the same after being released, spoke from horrifying personal experience about prison predators. After processing, the young man was unceremoniously escorted to a tiny, dank two-man cell on the fifth tier of the filthy cellblock. Nothing he saw did anything to allay his fear. What paint there was on the walls, was curled and peeling. The color he couldn't quite decipher; snot-green would have been his best guess. A grimy sink teetered dangerously from its brackets. A seat-less toilet, like a rickety stool, sat slightly ajar from the moldering brick wall. There was a rank semicircular piss stain in the center of the thin, striped cotton mattress on the rusted bottom bunk. Too dejected to care about the offensive stain, Terry tossed a towel over it and flopped down hoping to sleep. Before sleep arrived, he reflected on recent events. He just didn't get it. Prior to this time, he'd had only a couple minor run-ins with the authorities. The worst was thirty days county time for making road-pie of old man Lippmann's Chihuahua while he was skunk-drunk last New Years Eve. Sure, he'd been fined a couple times for disorderly conduct and trespassing, but nothing serious. For five years, since he was nineteen, he'd been steadily employed, an excellent provider for his wife and new baby daughter. His attorney, Mr. Orr, one of those greasy, long-haired defense lawyers, had confidently assured him, "Don't worry about a thing. I've had your case transferred to Judge Rambo's calendar. He's my first cousin." Being a fish, Terry actually trusted the lawyer, something no sane person should ever do. He figured that his life-savings, seven grand, had been well spent. In hindsight, he realized that he should have worried. Perhaps he wouldn't have been sentenced to fifteen years for possession of a measly five grams of marijuana. After the sentencing, Attorney Orr had again assured Terry. "Don't worry about a thing. I can easily get this injustice reversed on appeal. My brother-in-law's a Superior Court Judge. I'll need another three thousand to start the appeal." V.L. Richfied, the crackerjack "Beef Rustler," had been the first to spot the young, fair-skinned, blue-eyed fish. VL worked in the prison Receiving Room. Instantly, the predator wanted boy; wanted him badly! Wanted him in only the way a homosexual predator can "want." VL was cunning. He'd spent two years killing and raping as a military policeman for Uncle Sam at a base in West Germany. He also had eleven years of gritty jailhouse experience. He was sure he'd work out a scheme to get the boy. He'd raped or seduced dozens before him. VL recruited one of his long-time cronies and fellow predator, James "Nasty" Nugat, to join his conspiracy. Wolves often prey in packs. It's much easier to overpower the victim where there's a gang of rapists. Nasty, a skinny, wiry man, barely five feet two, might have tipped the scales at 105 pounds, but only if his pockets were crammed full of Baby Ruths, his second favorite treat after white-boy tail. Even for a prisoner, he was an ugly man, possessed of almond shaped eyes punctuated with hard b-b sized pupils ringed with sky-blue irises; bizarre for a blackman. Nasty admitted (at least to the grapevine) that during his twenty-seven years at "The Wall," he'd sexually assaulted not fewer than thirty seven unwilling rumps, two of which had supposedly been guards. Together, the wolves perfected a trap. They would bring a third predator, a brute nicknamed "Rasputin," in deference to the mammoth dimensions of his "wood" into their plan. V.L. Richfied sort of admired the man as only one animal can admire a peer. He was described as a Neanderthal with the sexual appetite of an Arkansas preacher on amphetamines and the ethics of a shyster Philadelphia lawyer. He was well over three hundred pounds and butt-ugly. After killing a family in Georgia, he was reputed to have cornholed everyone in the house, including the tabby. Of course, that was when he was only a tyke. Now he was much worse. Rasputin, whose real name was Jon Keane, lacked VL's cunning. When he wanted a boy, which was remarkably often, he'd just punch the kid with a straight right, drag him into his cell, bar the door and keep him there until he was finished ... sometimes for days! What he offered to the conspiracy was that, as the hospital janitor, he had access to medical uniforms and he had a purloined pad of prison passes. The plotters decided that they'd keep Rasputin hidden in the hospital basement until the fish had been lured into the trap. They would make him go last, "dirty-thirds," as they say. Otherwise, he'd ruin the boy before the others could have their way with him. The plan was blooper-proof. Nasty would forge a prison pass directing the gullible Terry to report to the hospital the following day at noon for a supposed "admission physical." The pass would be slipped under the unsuspecting blond boy's cell door. When their victim appeared, the suave VL Richfied, whom the kid had never seen, would be waiting just inside the hospital entryway clad in a blue doctor's smock. In his most unthreatening baritone he would introduce himself as a member of the staff and politely ask to see the young man's pass. "Oh, how fortunate! Today must be your lucky day. I see you're scheduled for an admission physical. A few more moments and I'd have been on my way to lunch. Please follow me down these steps." As Terry reluctantly dragged himself from sleep, he was disoriented. Where was he? He had a splitting headache. It took him many seconds to realize his hapless fate. It all flooded back: the stench of the urine soaked mattress, Orr, Rambo, the fifteen year sentence, the family he'd lost. Noticing the pass on the cell floor, he dizzily picked it up. "Good," he thought. "While I'm at the hospital, I'll get something for this headache and see the psychiatrist." Suffice it to say that the young prisoner needed surgical repair, facial reconstruction, treatment for a fractured skull and a lengthy convalescence followed by endless years of jeers from cruel prisoners and staff that he was no better than a girl. The wolves were quickly caught. They hadn't really expected to get away. They raped their victim in the hospital elevator and were each taking a second helping when it creaked up to a startled nurse on the second floor. They each spent sixty days in the prison hole.