Rey

What a man, 1946 by Joe Massey

Rey, your story is not mine to tell, but when you get out (which I doubt will happen soon) and you get the chance to tell your story to everybody, please do so. Kids these days are so strangely fascinated with stories similar to yours—stories disguised as fiction, pulled out from local news because it's too bloody heinous.

If you're out and about, I wonder, would you brag about the atrocities you've committed? Where you are now, I'm sure you often do. Last I heard from you, you said, "My crime is my status, my crime is my protection. The more one's feared, the higher one's chance of survival." But they break you there, right? They crush your bones, your skull, your senses, your sanity, your spirit? All traces left of your humanity? So why would you still choose to survive if there's no longer anything to live for? Is survival a game? And your only motivation to live is to see or to be the last man standing? A proof of strength or stupidity? Or are you simply testing your threshold? Testing how long you can live? How many lives you can outlive? How much soiled food you can digest? How much blows you can take? How many asses you can rape? How many nights you can sleep?

I'm sure, despite the circumstances you're in, you'd still prefer in than out. You found your niche and your people there. You know the ins and outs—an undisputed kingpin of the underworld. Nevertheless, there is little for you on the outside, unless the bigwigs offer you substantial sums to carry out their nefarious deeds. That's how it works, right? They are too cowardly to pull the trigger themselves, so they hire individuals with bloodstained hands to do their bidding. They are the most damned criminals on this earth. If I were in your position, seeking redemption for my sins, I would take it upon myself to eliminate the masterminds. By doing so, you would save lives and perform a service for the world.