Drug War Prisoners

Hostage # 420: Limerick by Stoney

I'm now a ward of the state
For some reason they won't let me skate
So instead I just read
And I always smoke weed
And sometimes I just sit and wait

Stoney (Joseph Rufra) is 6½ years into a 35 year sentence in Smithfield, North Carolina. He writes:

After a month long trip following an obscure band called the Grateful Dead on their east coast spring tour (1994) we, who were three, arrived in Raleigh, NC from Orlando, FL. My two friends Kitty and Joe and I are avid fans of the Dead, and have been at many shows together. Low on gas, we stopped at the local "Stop & Rob" convenience mart for Camels, junk food, and premium unleaded. Alas, we did not make it out of our van. Upon pulling into the parking lot, we were surrounded by individuals bearing the title of "Peace Officers" yet brandishing semi-automatic weapons at the pacifists in Joe's van.

Yes, the jack-booted gestapo agents were pointing pistols at us. Six officers and an individual whose moniker, I'm sure, was "the suit and grey tie guy" were menacing us. Holy hempsmoke! Batman! I was petrified.

I overcame this fear when I realized that these peace officers, surely, were rational, peaceful, and level-headed.

"Step out of the van, and make no sudden moves," said Agent Black, who appeared to idolize either James Bond or Bill Gannon. "You guys look like you follow the Grateful Dead. Do you hippies have any LSD?"

"Sir," said I, "I do not know who the Grateful Dead are. We, sir, are 21, 20, and 19 years old. None of us were alive prior to 1967, when the death of the hippie was declared. The only time I saw any LSD was when Officer Friendly came to our school to tell us about the perils of illicit drug use."

"We would like to search this van," said Agent Black, "with your consent of course. We are looking for various schedule one controlled substances."

"With all due respect, sir, that would be a blatant violation of my Fourth Amendment rights. Therefore, sir, I assert my right to freedom from unreasonable search and seizure, as guaranteed by the Constitution of our great country," explained Joe, who was winded after such an eloquent speech.

"Ha! I shall violate your rights! Lickencock! Klownovich! Get over here and search this vehicle," said Agent Black. "And you scumbags just sit there and be quiet."

"Black," said the officer to the SBI Agent, emerging from the van with a backpack, "we hit the jackpot. We found money, scales, a colorful glass pipe, and what appears to be LSD and cannabis seeds."

"Goddam patchouli wearing dope addict hippie communists," muttered the older officer.

"Communists," said I, I know nothing of Communism, Comrade Klownovich.

"You, you, and you," said Agent Black, pointing with his big cartoon-looking finger, "are going to grow old in prison."

I guess the term "captive audience" (Ha! Ha!) came to mind.

"Sir, it was I that had that backpack. These kind people had no knowledge of the facts."

Frozen by my candor and honesty, the government automaton made the stipulation that, if no other contraband was found in the van, then Kitty and Joe would be free to leave. As none was found, they did indeed leave free.




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