--- EL BLOGGO ON OBAMA, TRUMP AND EL CHAPO ---
22nd July 2015

What a week this has been. At about the same time that El Chapo was breaking out of a prison, President Obama was breaking into one. For a convicted Bank Blogger who's blogging from the clink, it doesn't get much better than this.

Part of my morning ritual includes having a strong cup of coffee as I strap on my radio and watch CNN while I clear the dye packs from the night before out of my head. I've seen the picture of the tunnel on CNN that came up underneath Chapo's shower about 100 times now, but I'm still amazed every time that I see it. Apparently, Chapo found a contractor who was not only sober, but who was also willing to work weekends. I'll bet that he brought the job in under cost too, and turned all of his receipts from Casa Depot too. He probably didn't think it would be too healthy to get caught padding Senor Sinaloa's bill.

Then in a 2015 twist, El Chapo took time out of his busy kilo-selling day to threaten Donald Trump on Twitter. With everybody from Ted Cruz to Selena Gomez hating on him for his recent comments on immigration though, Trump probably thought to himself, "Choo wanna keel me, Shorty? Well geet in line!!!"

Then later in the week after all this spitter on Twitter, President Obama visited a federal prison. It is the first time that a sitting President has ever visited a prison, and to be honest, I still can't believe that he did it. Ever since July of 1973 when President Richard Nixon established the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) and began The War on Drugs with the stroke of his pen, the cycle of punishment in America has gotten harsher and harsher. Politicians have made being "Tough on crime" part of their political platform and played a game of political one-upmanship, creating stricter and stickter drug and gun laws. The result is that the American federal prison population has exploded from 24,000 in 1984 to 220,000 in 2015. America now accounts for 25% of the entire world's prison population. And minorities have been the ones most affected by these laws.

I live in a subculture that's predominately made up of minorities. We are the world's disenfranchised, and no politician is going to champion our cause because it goes against their political self-interest to do so. But President Obama is a lame duck with no more offices to run for. I'm no big Obama fan, but I will give it to him on this. He saw what he feels in an injustice and he has set about to use his power to break the cycle. What he has done more than anything though (in my opinion), is to create a national conversation on this subject and create a dynamic for politicians to run on a Justice Reform platform and look altruistic doing so.

President Obama visited a medium custody Federal Correctional Institution (FCI) in El Reno, Oklahoma, met with six inmates with sentences for drugs, and said, "I could've been one of you guys." And he could've. I'm also told that he toured a cell block, but that it was empty at the time because the prison administrators ran the inmates out to the rec yard. Apparently, they didn't want them yelling obscenities like "Michelle has a nice ass!!!" Or even worse, "I voted for Romney!!!"

It is commonly mistaken that in American politics, Democrats are for the poor and/or Common Man, while Republicans are for the rich. But I can tell you that next to Ronald Regan, no President in history has done more to incarcerate people, especially black people, than Bill Clinton did. As Obama toured FCI El Reno, former President Clinton admitted "I made mistakes." 120 federal prisons and 2 million people later, Slick Willy finally says, "My bad. I was the problem." Now his wife's supposed to be the solution. That's politics though. By comparison, Bank robbery is a downright honest vocation. And where am I through it all? Still doing time in this honky tonk prison.

Before I take off my El Bloggo hat and retreat from my Penal Pulpit, I'd like to tell you about some cool things going on with some fellow writers. One of the great dark gods of international underground literature is my fellow MSP author u.v. ray. His novella THE MIGRANT was recently nominated for a Sabetour Literary Award for Best Novella of 2015. The bad news is that he came in second. But the good news is that you can pick up a copy of THE MIGRANT in the Murder Slim Press Shop (or on Amazon) for just a few quid. While you're there, also put in your cart the latest book by fellow MSP writer Mark SaFranko. Mark's a great writer with a great voice. And although they're not in the MSP stable, a couple of friends of mine are near completion on a really cool historical fiction novel about a gold coin that was found aboard the first Confederate submarine of the American Civil War, the C.S.S. Hunley. You can read about it and surf the cool picture gallery for Sammy Garwood and Dr. Jonathan Jackson's forthcoming book THE LAST CONFEDERATE COIN at thelastcharlestonconfederate.weebly.com. That is if you can manage typing a web address that long.

I'm almost finished with my novel THE LIFE OF RILEY. You can follow me on Twitter for updates at @bankblogger2. I used my "Crimestoppers Pose" for my graphic. I can't promise you that I'll do anything as fun as threaten Donald Trump though. The last threatening thing I wrote that was under 140 characters got me an indictment.

See you guys next week.

Jeffrey P. Frye
A.K.A. El Bloggo
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- IN THE WIND ---
17th July 2015

This morning when I walked out of my cell, I noticed a silent herd of hombres all standing underneath one of the Spanish TVs. Their heads were craned back, and they had ear buds jammed down into their ears as they paid rapt attention to the TV screen. I walked up and spoke to a guy that I call Conejo ("Rabbit" in Spanish) to try and figure out what all of the fuss was about. I figured that either J-Lo had gotten a new thong or the Pope had gone to Mexico City. I asked Conejo, "Que pasa?" He shushed me by putting a crooked brown finger to his lips, and whispering, "Shhh, Meester Yeff! Eees Chapo! He escabe!"

For all of you out there in the blogosphere not in the criminal know, Chapo is the nickname of Joaquin "El Chapo" Guzman, the head of the largest and most powerful drug cartel in Mexico, the Sinaloa cartel. After escaping from jail in 2003 and building his empire over the next 14 years, he was captured last year at a beach resort in Mexico. Until a couple of days ago, he was being held in a maximum security prison in a suburb of Mexico City called Toluca. That is until he escaped from solitary confinement via a tunnel that had been dug into the prison from more than a mile out that led to directly underneath his shower. He is now the subject of a global manhunt. Chapo Guzman was already a legend in the criminal world and subculture. Mexicans mention him in ballads and he's revered as something of a folk hero; his legend is romanticized and he's considered something of a cross between Robin Hood and Lucky Luciano. Or to use a criminal comparison, Chapo Guzman is to Mexico what Al Capone or John Gotti were to America. The fact that he escaped is a pretty huge deal.

The Bank Robber's Blog has been in existence now since October of 2012. It is unique, in that I blog from behind the walls of an American federal prison and have built up an international following. A following that's comprised of some of the best readers in the world. And I'm not blowing smoke up your Kindle when I say that. It's true. I have readers from Wiesbaden to Winnipeg, Munich to Mississippi, New York to County Cork, and Pamplona to Arizona (that shout-out was for you Lilly). Hell, even my tree frog Shorty Morgan has a fan-base.

One of the reasons that this blog has enjoyed some success, and one of the reasons why I've been allowed to continue blog without the prison officials locking me up and sewing my hands together, is because I don't use people's names and/or blog about matters that are related to the security and operation of the prisons that I'm held captive in. And while I have no intention of changing this matrix now, escaped convicts have been in the news quite a bit lately so I thought I'd weigh-in on the subject. But before I do, let me go ahead and answer a question that you'll probably ask yourself after reading this blog.

Have I escaped before? Yes. And it was the one crime that has effected me more than all of my other crimes put together. That's because this particular offense increased my security level and made my keepers view me differently...forever. Subsequently, I have served time in some of the toughest maximum security prisons in the country. I've done a stretch in a state joint in Illinois called Joliet that's about 35 miles South of Chicago and that was built in 1899; I've pulled time in South Carolina's maximum security prison between Columbia and Charleston, Lieber; and I've built years upon years for the feds in their United States Penitentiaries at Atlanta, Lewisburg, Victorville, and more...as well as in their lockups. My "High Security" status as a prisoner has been reflected in not only my prison classification, but also in the black box they place over my handcuffs on Con Air, and the number of Marshals that accompany me to outside court or hospital trips (5).

My escape was very unChapo-like. It was from a hospital. If you'd like to read the story that I recently wrote about it, it will be available in my forthcoming book STORIES FROM THE LIFE that will be released by Murder Slim Press this fall. The story is entertaining, but there's a few details that I left out. Like what happened after I was caught.

Like all of the crimes that I ever committed, escaping was based on impulse and not intellect. Yes, I got away, and yes, I robbed a bank after I got away. But when the FBI finally came for me (complete with a helicopter) and finally got a hold of me, they beat the living shit out of me. They beat me in my head and body, and when I fell to the ground they kicked me in the kidneys so hard that I ended up shitting myself. They did this because I got their friend fired. The one who was supposed to be watching me when I left.

After they beat me, they took me to the old Charleston County Jail and threw me into a solitary cell that was pitch-black. I was naked and without a mattress or sheets or blankets. The floor was damp, and it pitched to a hole in the center of the floor that was filled with water and served as the toilet. They flushed it whenever they felt like it by pressing a silver button on the wall outside of the cell. The cell was filthy and I remember sleeping while I sat on the floor and waking up with cockroaches crawling on my face. I kept track, and I killed 113 of them in a single day. The food came through a flap in the bottom of the cell door, and if i wasn't right there when the food came, the C.O. would kick the tray into my cell and it would fly in and hit the back wall with the food going all over the floor. I spent 54 days naked and in the dark in that cell. The only way that I got out was when my attorney asked a federal judge to have me transferred to another jail (Georgetown County, South Carolina).

If you think that what you just read is harsh, you're probably right. But this has been my normal for years. This is a part of being a criminal that is a reality and just part of the deal. Do I think it's wrong for the cops to beat criminals? You're fucking right I do. But the way I look at it is that you gotta take the chaff with the wheat. It's a push. The Sympathy Factor is pretty low for beaten Bank Robbers. And once again, there's the everlasting truth that, Nobody likes a whiny Bank Robber.

Chapo got loose through a tunnel underneath the shower in his solitary cell that led to a small house more that a mile away from the prison. I saw a picture of the tunnel on CNN and it was lighted, had air, and even had a motorcycle just in case old Chapo got a little winded from all of that crawling and running. The contractor who built it should get a bonus. But let's keep it real here. Chapo Guzman is a billionaire that made the Forbes list of the world's richest people. He has an inner protection circle of some 300 or so men whose sole responsibility is to cover Chapo's ass. What I'm getting at is that people like Chapo Guzman don't need to break out of prison by climbing through tunnels. People like him can walk out through the front door. This is how I have his escape going down.

The Warden of the joint that he was in probably has a wife and a few kids. Chapo has his people kill one of them. Then he looks the Warden in the eye and says, "Either I go free or you lose another child. But I'm feeling generous so I'm going to let you pick which one you want to lose." So the Warden is faced with losing another child or losing his job. Which would you pick?

With the recent news coverage of the guys in New York who broke out of a maximum security joint, and now with Chapo in the wind, there's been a lot of talk around here about this issue. I do not join in these conversations, because experience has taught me that there's somebody around me who might take my words and twist them before telling them to the police. So I just listen...and blog. But I can honestly say that, given the chance, there's no way I would do what Chapo did again. No way, Jose.

But just in case I'm in transit one day on one of the BOP's Gangster Greyhounds as it rides through Texas, and just in case crashes and I wind up on the side of the road free, I've learned some rudimentary Spanish from Conejo that might come in handy. "En que derecion es la frontera, vato?" (Which way is the border, dude?) Or the possibly needed- "40 necesito dos porciones de chiva, pero solo tengo quince dolares." (I need two bags of dope but I'm five dollars short). Or if it all goes to hell again, "Sabes usted si aquetla banco tiene un seguridad???" (Does that bank over there have a guard in it?)

Hopefully, Wal Mart will hire me as a Greeter one day, but it never hurts to be prepared, huh?

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- MAKING EGG SALAD w/ JOHNSON & TAYLOR ---
10th July 2015

I was sitting at my desk in a pair of gray sweats and a white wife-beater, listening to Taylor Swift "Shake It Off" as I diced onions with the corner of my ID card. Much to the disappointment of my cell mate, I was making my prison-famous egg salad. I'd just purchased 10 boiled eggs from a dishonest kitchen worker for .15 cents a piece. I had them sitting in a clear, plastic, microwave bowl with some spices next to them, and a big fat green bell pepper that I was chopping my way towards, when I sensed that I had company.

My next door neighbor is a retired crack dealer named Slab. He's 25 doing 30, and blacker than a Tyler Perry film. His hair is done in twists with rubber bands tied to the end of each one, and they stick straight up off his head in all directions. He looks like a cross between a porcupine and Hellboy. His bottom lip is so big that he has a hard time keeping his mouth closed. When I sensed somebody in my door way, I looked up, and there was slab standing there staring at me looking like a large-mouth bass. I took out on of my earbuds and strung it behind my ear, and said, "Sup, Slab?"

He said, "You done heard what the Spreme Cote done pass?" (He's from deep in Georgia.)
I figured that he was talking about gay marriage now being legal in all 50 states, so I said, "Yeah, I think it's wonderful. Now you and your cellie's union will be officially recognized and you can put him on your health insurance plan."
I'd just lobbed a 6'2 joke at a six foot tall retired crack dealer, and he turned his head sideways, and said, "Huh? What choo talking 'bout, nigguh? I talking 'bout Johnson. You done hear 'bout Johnson?"
I replied, "There's only one Johnson around here that I'm worried about, Slab; and I'm toting it."
He got that one, and he broke out in a big smile. He has gold caps on his eye teeth and when he smiles it has the effect of making him look like Dracula In The Hood.
"No, nigguh, the Johnson case 'bout career and armed career criminals. The Spreme Cote finna cut 'bout 40,000-head loose." That got my attention, being that one of the names that the U.S. Attorney labeled me with at sentencing was that of "Career Offender" or career criminal. Slab looked at the boiled eggs in the bowl and the spices and veggies sitting on my desk, and he said, "You makin' egg salad nigguh, unnit?"
I shoved my earbud back in my ear, and said, "Not much gets by you, Slab." He scooped up his lip and headed on down the tier.

The federal court (cote) system sentences defendants based on their crime, but they also factor in their criminal history, or prior record. The United States Sentencing Commission, which is made up of retired judges, lawyers, and other people with over-inflated salaries, have created a matrix for federal judges to go by that takes into account these two factors. On the left side of the graph is a number (1-43) that represents your crime, and on the top is the numbers 1 through 6 that represents your criminal history. You take one finger and put it where your Offense Level is (mine for unarmed bank robbery was 27) and then take another finger and put it at the top where your criminal history is (I was a 6), then run them down until them touch each other. The month range that they stop on is the recommended sentence for the judge. Mine was 151-188 months, or 12-15 years, but unfortunately, the U.S. Attorney though that that wasn't enough time. At my sentencing hearing he paced back and forth and gesticulated wildly, as he ranted and yelled "LIFE!!!" so many times, that I leaned over and told the marshal sitting next to me, "It sounds like he has Tourette's."

You would think that punishing somebody again for a crime that they already committed and served time for would be considered double-jeopardy. It's not. That's just the way that the game is played. If you don't want to face the consequences...don't play the game. I am serving 7 concurrent 20 year sentences for the liberation of funds from 7 different banks (w/out a weapon). Had I been a first offender, I would have received a sentence of no more than 8 years for this, but due to my serial tomfoolery the government labeled me a Career Offender. A Career Offender is somebody who has two prior crimes of violence or serious drug felonies. An Armed Career Criminal is somebody who gets caught with a gun and has three prior serious drug crimes or crimes of violence. When they're deemed to be an Armed Career Criminal, their guideline range is 15 years to life, with the 15 years being the absolute least amount of time that they can receive.

When a new case comes down from the courts that has the potential to send people home, news of it spreads like a wildfire throughout the prison. So it was with the Johnson case this week when the U.S. Supreme Court redefined what constitutes a prior for enhancement purposes when determining what is a "Career Offender." When major cases indicate that an individual has the potential to get resentenced, you have to file a new appeal to seek relief. The relief doesn't come to you. Years ago, I filed an appeal on my enhanced sentence, but I've never challenged the substantive conduct that got me kidnapped and dragged into federal court. If I had, this would be called The Alleged Bank Robber's Blog instead of The Bank Robber's Blog. That doesn't sound very gangsta though, does it?

So now, thanks to one anonymous Johnson, the prison is abuzz with new hope. When I went to the chow hall last night to emancipate some wholewheat bread for my sandwiches, it's all that everybody was talking about. People are calling their lawyers and their family, the jailhouse lawyers are drafting template Johnson arguments, and people are now walking the yard together as they talk about the things that they're going to do when they're released. Whereas yesterday, they were talking about the NBA Draft or how bad the food in the chow hall sucks.

Hope has an energy all its own. It's infectious and has the ability to transform your physical environment, much in the same way that love does. Hope is a double-edged sword though; at least for me.

I live my life with nothing much to look forward to. I'm not whining about it, I'm simply conveying my reality to you. My present release date is 2025 and I know that because of this, tomorrow is going to be exactly like today was. And next month will feel exactly like this month did. And next year will be a lot like this one was. I'll spend my days sitting in my tiny 10 x 6 cell and drink coffee and write while I worry about whether or not I'm going to have enough money to keep writing and whether or not there'll be enough extra bus fare for a couple of phone calls and some munchies from the store. Because just like hope and love, money transforms my physical environment and makes it better. The fact that I have nothing to look forward to is just another one of the consequences of my actions from years ago that I still have to pick up the tab for every day. I accept this; and it's doable because I've fixed my mind for it. I have to be like Nike and just do it.

But hope can throw a monkey wrench into my convict state of Zen if I allow it to. I'm careful not to jump on bandwagons like Johnson every time that they roll into town. Because experience has taught me to lay back and watch first before I make any kind of move. This is because I've seen too many bandwagons break down and eventually leave town with no one aboard. Yes, I've watched the court change the laws in the last few years and watched people go home. But they were drug offenders. I'm a convicted bank robber whose guiltier than sin, and there is nobody in Washington, DC lining up to cut me a break. Whether it be legislators or jurists, it goes against their self-interest to do so. But I'm not back here trying to help them get a pay raise either...so I get it.

For now, I'll sit back and watch people seek relief in the courts under Johnson and I'll pay special attention and study the arguments of the ones who fail, because in their failures most likely lies my success. Then when the time is right, I'll take their broken eggs and remix them into a beautiful egg salad. I'll submit my brief to the court and roll the dice. Maybe I'll roll a 7 and make my point...or maybe I'll crap out. But I have two things that on my side right now. Time is one of them. The other one is that I know how to make half-way decent egg salad. If the court denies me, I'll keep my chest stuck out and do what Taylor Swift is presently doing through my Skull Candy earbuds: Shake It Off.

I'll keep you posted on how things go.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- TUFF LOVE ---
1st July 2015

I miss being able to have a dog. Sure, I have a cellmate, but it's just not the same. Last night, I had trouble sleeping and I laid on my back in my bunk and listened to the hissing of the air as it came out of the vent at the top of the cell wall. There's nothing as quiet as a cell house at night after lockdown. And there's nothing quite as cold as a cell in the middle of the night. I laid there last night in a long-sleeved White tee shirt, Gray knit cap, underneath three cream-colored cotton blankets, and I thought about the favorite dog that I ever had. I've written about him before. His name was Tuffy.

I've had a few dogs throughout my life, but Tuffy was my favorite. He was a West Highland White Terrier, sometimes referred to as a "Westie" or "Whiskey Dog" because its image appears on a bottle of scotch along with a picture of a Black Scottish Terrier, or a Scotty. Tuffy came into my life on a warm Spring day several years before I came to prison. I was playing golf one day in a suburb of Chicago when I accidentally hit my ball onto the edge of a parking lot that belonged to a veterinarian's office. When I walked over to retrieve it, a lady who was walking into the vet's office bent down and picked it up for me. She was carrying a tan-colored car carrier for a dog and, as she bent down to get the ball, she set it down on the ground. I thanked her, then I asked her about the dog she had in the carrier.

She sighed and seemed to consider something for a minute, then she said, "I'm bringing this dog inside to have him put down. He won't stop killing the puppies in my other litters and all he wants to do is chase my cat around and try and kill it. I'm a breeder, and so far this year, he's already cost me about five thousand dollars. I'm over it. I'm done!"
I asked her, "What's the dog's name?"
She replied, "His name is Tuffy and he's AKC registered and has a decent pedigree, but he's just too mean. I can't control him."
I squatted down and looked into the cage and looked at Tuffy and said, "You don't look so mean to me." He squinted his eyes and gave me a low, menacing growl. He definitely looked like he had the potential to be a hooligan, but I decided right then and there that I was not going to let this woman kill him. Fifteen minutes after this encounter, I was driving home with him in the backseat. He was still in his car carrier, and he was still growling.

It took several days and several bites for Tuffy and I to bond. He finally stopped acting like an ass after he bit me one day...and I bit him back. He had broken the skin on my wrist when he'd bitten me, so I grabbed him by his head and held his mouth shut and bit him hard on his ear. He yelled and took off running. When he got to the other side of the room, he turned around and looked at me like, "You crazy bastard!" After that incident, he never bit me again. And, eventually, I even stopped biting him.

Tuffy and I became inseparable. Wherever you saw me, you saw him. We were down like two flat tires. One time, I'd developed an allergy to handcuffs at the exact same time that the cops were prowling around town looking for me. So I took my dog and went on the lam. I was seeing this black-headed, blue-eyed, Irish girl named Kim and the three of us headed to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. We went camping and hiked as Tuffy explored the mountain trails. Kim liked to have sex in the water and I remember having her pushed against a rock in the pool at the foot of a waterfall, and looking over and seeing Tuffy paddling around looking happy as a clam.

Tuffy was the last person that I talked to on the day that I robbed my first bank. I owned a screen printing business and a couple of retail stores at that time. All of that prosperity was killing me though, and I eventually got mad at my money and started using drugs again. In a very short period of time I depleted my entire savings and did my best to buy all of the drug dealers in Charleston at least one gold tooth.

The morning that I decided to finally put on my Big Boy Boxers and visit a Nation's Bank, I sat down on the kitchen floor and had a pow wow with Tuffy. I explained to him that I was crazy, that it consumed most of my time, what I was going to do, and then I told him about a large 25 lb bag of dog food that I'd left open and sitting on the kitchen floor in case I ended up getting caught or killed. I'd also walked through the house and lifted the lids of all of the toilet seats, because Tuffy looked at a fresh bowl of toilet water like it was a bottle of Dom Perignon.

After getting away that day, my mental illness climbed to new heights and I actually brought Tuffy on the next bank job with me. No kidding. I remember sitting in the car by the bank beforehand and going through my pre-flight ritual before stepping out of the car. Tuffy was standing in my lap all excited, and licking my face because he thought that he was going inside with me. I gave him a good two-handed scratch behind his ears, and told him, "You gotta wait out here, boy. You'd be too easy to pick out of a lineup." Four minutes later when I came running out of the bank with a sack in my hands, Tuffy was standing in my seat with his paws against the window and his little tail was going a hundred miles an hour. That night we celebrated with Milk bones and Oxycontin.

Tuffy and I had a good run. For more than five years, he was my best friend. A lot of times, he was my only friend. He never judged me or got mad at me and he always seemed the happiest when I was happy. He truly showed me unconditional love. Even after I'd done a bunch of insane, selfish, criminal stuff and alienated everybody else in my life, Tuffy never even growled at me.

One day I noticed that he wasn't his normal chipper self, and when he got up, I noticed blood coming out of his rectum. His vet was a guy named Dr. Beck who was located in a part of Charleston known as James Island, and I immediately took him to his office. Dr. Beck did bloodwork and a bunch of tests. I was sitting in the waiting room at his office when he came out and sat down next to me and told me that his insides were infested with intestinal parasites and that there was no way he could save him. I asked him how long he had left to live, and he told me, "Maybe a couple of days." So I took him home.

I knew that bringing him back to Dr. Beck's office and having him put to sleep was the right thing to do, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Finally, seven days after receiving Dr. Beck's prognosis, I took the big fluffy blue blanket that he slept on, and I wrapped him inside of it and carried him out to the car. He loved car rides with the window down, so I lowered the window the entire way and drove him to James Island one last time.

Dr. Beck's back room had a row of individual kennel cages that were against the back wall, and located about four feet off the floor. I was completely despondent as I set Tuffy inside of one of them. Dr. Beck told me, "I'll take it from here." I was walking out of the door, and for some reason, I turned around. Tuffy was just staring at me. He knew. So I walked back over to him and grabbed his paw, and told Dr. Beck, "Just do what you gotta do. I'm staying with him." He hooked an IV up to him and as he put him to sleep, Tuffy was resting his head on my hand and looking into my eyes. I walked outside afterwards, and sat down in the grass and sobbed.

It's been years since the end of the last paragraph and everything's different in my life now. Tuffy and my freedom are both long-gone. I don't know where Tuffy is these days, but I hope he's up there in Doggy Valhalla chasing cats around and drinking out of God's toilet. I also hope he's got some little Scotty hottie and he's paddling underneath his own waterfall. But more than anything, I hope to see him again someday. I still miss him.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2