It's very difficult to describe the level of crazy. He was one bunk over from mine. He was on the top bunk.

The stinky dude would trade a full meal for a root beer barrel. I had a bag of root beer barrels. I would give them out for reasonable smiles and nods or occasionally favors or I would trade them.

But he would trade his entire tray for a single root beer barrel. He was constantly asking me for them and I toss him one occasionally. But I had a limited supply, and you never know if the commissary has them the next week and I only get to order once a week.

He would gladly starve himself and waste away into his insanity. I tried to make a deal with him that he would not trade his tray to anybody else for root beer barrel, and I would give him a root beer barrel for free. I told him to eat his food. I did not want to see him starve himself and that's where he was going.

He agreed but then he couldn't handle the impulse and would then trade away his food anyway. And then after he did that he would ask me for a root beer bottle and I refused. I could not fall into his madness, at least I was not going to reward it. This was occasionally a loud argument.

The bottom bunk had this Hispanic dude who spent the first week going through heroin withdrawal. He was an older dude. Seriously respected. He had a huge group of people surrounding his bed at all times to perform whatever service he needed. And everyone was kind and polite about it.

The dudes performing the service were serious hardcore gang bangers. This particular cell block was the low end medical unit. We had the crazies in here. We had the people dying of cancer in here. And we had whatever random person they couldn't figure out where to put somewhere else. We had a lot of people right after they got pulled apart from a fight and needed some medical attention and then they landed here before they put them wherever they were really supposed to be. So we had both crips and bloods showing up at this guy's bed.

After a couple of weeks the Hispanic dude came out of his dazed and confused moments and realized the guy above him smelled like shit. And after a week of arguing about it they agreed for a fight.

The stinky dude was about 6'5 but rail thin. He danced around and pretended to know how to fight. He did not know. The Hispanic OG simply sat there calmly and tore up a sheet and wrapped it around his closed fists.

This is a jailhouse move, but it's also useful on the street. The point of this is to protect your knuckles so you don't scrape them up and get them bloody. You do not want to have any evidence of a fight on your knuckles on the inside of jail, and on the outside you would not want to leave any of your blood at the scene if you've got to punch and run.

After a fight the cell block immediately goes into lockdown and everybody has to line up by the bed and the guards and the warden come in and examine everybody's knuckles. If you have any damage on them you were part of the fight and into the hole you go.

When stinky guy saw Hispanic dude wrapping his knuckles he knew he was doomed. He didn't stand a chance against this guy. He was going to get killed.

Sticky guy backed down. He wasn't that crazy. There was a spark of some some self-preservation. Just not when it comes to his food. Or personal hygiene.