Look At Our Facebook Page Look At Our Twitter Page Buy Our Books On Amazon Buy Our Books On Our Paypal Shop

THE BANK ROBBER'S BLOG
JUNE 2013

The Bank Robber's Blog: 2012-2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: 2014 The Bank Robber's Blog: 2015 The Bank Robber's Blog: 2016 The Bank Robber's Blog: 2017 The Bank Robber's Blog: Oct 2012 The Bank Robber's Blog: Nov 2012 The Bank Robber's Blog: Dec 2012
The Bank Robber's Blog: Jan 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Feb 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Mar 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Apr 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: May 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Jun 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Jul 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Aug 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Sep 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Oct 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Nov 2013 The Bank Robber's Blog: Dec 2013
Jeffrey P Frye Buy Jeffrey P Frye's Books in the MSP Shop Bank Blogger One Crazy Day Buy Jeffrey P Frye's Books on Amazon The Bank Robber's Blog The Free Frye Fund Return to MurderSlim.com

--- RUNNING WITH THE BULLS ---
30th June 2013

After coming to the self-realization that I am statutorily challenged, I discovered a couple of things. The first thing that I discovered is that the world tends to herd statutorily- challenged people into pens just like cattle. The second thing I discovered is that the average person in these pens has breath that could peel paint. This Bank Robber isn't one of them though. One of the reasons for this is because anytime I have to take a trip or fly Con Air I usually stash a peppermint in my sock for the ride. So it was this morning when two tobacco- lipped, bubbafied looking cops came to my cell and rapped on the window of my door with a set of handcuffs and told me to stick my hands out of the food slot and to "Cuff up" because I was being transferred.

As they each held an arm, they walked me down the stairwell and through the grill of G Block and into the main corridor that runs through the middle of the prison. As we were walking, we passed a well-coifed, chunky blonde woman who was wearing a low-cut red silk blouse that accented a pair of mastodon mammaries. As soon as she was out of earshot Officers Skoal and Copenhagen started panting like two yard dogs and one of them said to the other, "Damn boy! Did you see her look at me?" The other one said, "Nuh uh, she wasn't looking at you, she was looking at me." Not wanting to be left out, I said, "Maybe she was into bondage and she was looking at ME." One of the cops snickered and said, "Sheeet, boy, when's the last time you seen two boobs that big?" I responded, "When you guys came to pick me up." That was the end of that conversation.

When we came to the end of the corridor we hung a right and then passed through a thick steel door and they hustled me down two flights of stairs to the Receiving and Discharge area in the basement. They deposited me into a free-standing, one person cell and left without a word. The cell was one of many that were in a row and resembled dog pens in a kennel. As I stood there waiting, I heard the song Blowing Smoke by Kasey Musgrave playing on a country station somewhere in another room. After a minute I heard, "Where you headed to, sugar?" I looked to my right and standing several cages down was a punk named Tharpey. He's fairly ugly and has a bulldog face and wears a flat top haircut. He also has ears that stick off his head and resemble the doors on a Volkswagen Bug when they're open. I replied, "I'm going on a car ride, Tharpey. Where are you headed to, the spa?" In his typical feminine voice he replied, "I'm going to get re-sleeved." Not sure what he meant, I asked, "What do you mean?" "I'm going to get a new pooper, baby."

Extreme Makeover: Sphincter Edition? Welcome to my world.

But being a man that continues to strive for knowledge, even in dark places, I asked, "How do they do that?" "They shove a brand new honey ham up my butt and pull out the bone and I'm good as new." I had to ask.

A cop finally showed up and saved me from further discourse on this subject by opening the padlocked flap of the cage and shoving in a pair of tan pants, a pair of blue canvas slip-on shoes, and a thin white tee shirt that had a hole in it. I held it up to the light and thought to myself, I came to the infamous USP Lewisburg and all I got was this lousy tee shirt. I got dressed and was cuffed, chained, and leg-ironed and brought up a short set of stone stairs to the bus. The sun was bright as we came outside and I squinted and looked up at the gun tower and saw a cop with a toothpick in his mouth that was cradling an AR-15 machine gun look down at me. I stopped and looked up and locked eyes with him and gave him the medium-eye until I felt a hand in the middle of my back shove me towards the bus. The bus already had people on it and as I shuffled down the isle with my hands cuffed in front of me Beanie Sigel was spitting 25 To Life through the bus's sound system. I passed guys with iced-out grills and face tattoos until I saw a guy waving for me to sit down next to him.

Coincidentally, I knew the guy. His name is Tony Cigars and he's from NYC and again, coincidentally, he looks like the deceased actor James Gandolfini that played Tony Soprano. He's a big guy with a receding hairline who talks a little too loud sometimes and is a bit of a racist, but is a fairly decent poker player. Back in the day he used to keep a cigar in the corner of his mouth and two fresh ones in his top shirt pocket, hence the nickname. Tony was part of a multi-level marketing group of Italian men that had a national sales force where team leaders profited from the performance of the salespeople on their team. Or as the U.S. Attorney at his trial said, "It was like Amway with guns." Tony Cigars was a Team Leader. He was finally recognized for his leadership skills by a prosecutor in the Southern District of New York and convicted of conspiracy by a jury and given a LIFE sentence. But he doesn't cry about it. It's one of the things that I like about him. Another thing I like is that he feels completely comfortable in his own skin. He's not back here taking college courses or trying to learn a trade. He has a trade. He's a gangster.

When I sat down we tried to shake hands but couldn't because our hands were chained to our waist. When I asked him how he'd been he got a somber look and said, "I just came from the medical center in Springfield to get my piles redriven and the doc gave me some bad news." I said, "Damn, I'm sorry, Tony." With a straight face he said, "Yeah, that cocksucker told me I'm healthy as a horse and that I'll probably live to be a hundred." As the bus ambled through the mountains and left Pennsylvania and passed into Maryland on the way to West Virginia, we talked and spent some time catching up and talking about guys we knew and what they were doing or what joint they were now in.

As we were talking, the song Crazy Girl by Rihanna started flowing through the speakers and I looked up and saw this girl with golden hair come switching down the aisle. She had her hands cuffed in front of her and her hair was twisted into a French braid that hung down over one shoulder and she had light green eyes that were the color of The Gulf of Aden and that looked happy, but had a slightly hard edge. She had light freckles sprinkled across her nose. She carried some extra weight like most girls in prison do, but it was spread out in all the right places. Subsequently, her pants were tight and she sported a camel toe that looked like the hood ornament on a Dodge Ram truck.

She eased down into the seat directly in front of me and because in addition to being statutorily-challenged I'm also serotonin-deficient, and because it's been a while since I've smelled the scent of a woman, I leaned forward and stuck my nose into her French braid and closed my eyes and inhaled. Her hair was softer than a basket of puppies and smelled like Magnolias on a warm summer breeze. Suspecting that she'd been sniffed, she turned around and looked me in the eyes and asked, "Did one of you just smell my hair?" Tony put his serious face on and replied, "Whadda we look like, a coupla canaries?" then he said to me, "Don't tell her nothing, kid." Stone-faced, I said, "I want a lawyer." She laughed and showed us a beautiful set of pearly whites and said, "What are you guys up to back here?" We just stared at her like we were stupid.

After a few seconds she said to me, "My name is Lola." I responded, "I'm Jeffrey Patrick Frye. I use all three of my names because it makes me sound hard like one of those guys on death row." She laughed again and asked, "You're not hard?" "Nah, I'm a cream puff." "What are you down for?" I answered, "For shoplifting from a few places." She seemed to consider this for a minute then asked, "And they put you in the feds for that?" I said, "They were big shops." Tony Cigars started rattling his chains and said, "Hel-lo! What am I, the invisible man?" Lola said, "I am so sorry, my name is Lola." Tony responded, "It's night to meet you Lola; my name is Anthony and my cock is bigger than his." I said, "He's doing time for perjury, Lola."

We talked for a while and I learned that Lola was from the Bayridge section of Brooklyn and after a bad marriage and what she termed as a "A prolonged identity crisis" she was indicted for identity theft and given 24 months. As we were talking we kept locking eyes until like a good wingman, Tony finally said, "I'm going to the can so you two lovebirds can be alone" and got up and shuffled to the bathroom in the back of the bus.

When he'd left, without saying anything I leaned forward and stole a kiss from Lola. Her lips were soft and her tongue was warm and soft and felt better than cotton sheets that have just came out of the dryer. She closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss and for a moment the world seemed to stand still. When I finally pulled back she giggled and said, "I can't believe that you just stole a kiss from me." I shrugged and said, "I've got priors." She said, "Me too" and leaned forward and kissed me." The marshal in the front of the bus yelled back, "Keep it up Frye and I'm gonna spray ya." I yelled back, "She's worth a little gas, Captain." Lola said, "That is SO sweet." As soon as Lola'd said it this stringy-haired, .org-looking chick who was sitting next to Lola groaned and rolled her eyes and said, "Could somebody please get me a barf bag because I think I'm gonna puke." Hater.

Three and a half hours later, the bus came around a foothill and at the top of a mountain stood United States Penitentiary Hazelton. Tony and I stared out at the window at the compound that was spread out like Kim Kardashian's pre-natal ass and all we saw were fences, razor wire, big concrete cell blocks, and a multitude of gun towers. While still staring out the window, Tony asked me, "You ever rob anybody in West Virginia? I replied, "No." He said, "Me either, but I'll be goddamned if we're not here."

We pulled to a satellite woman's facility that kinda reminded me of how an ATM sits outside of a Bank. I got one more kiss in and then Lola disappeared just like all of the other in women in my life have.

After we were inside and they'd unchained us, they took Tony to one cell and herded me into a noisy holding pen that was packed full of people waiting to be processed and vetted to see if they could actually go out onto the yard without being killed. There was only one seat open and it was next to a nerdy looking white guy with thick Coke-bottle glasses set in brown prison frames. He had greasy brown hair and a neck that craned like a vulture. He reeked of fear and reminded me of a gazelle on the Serengeti plain that senses a pride of lions nearby. I reached into my sock and wrapped my peppermint and popped it into my mouth and sat down next to him. He said, "HHHHiiiiiii, my name is Gary" and as he said it his breath seeped over me like Saran gas. Gary The Gazelle. Pulling one my favorite pages out of my anti-social playbook that I use when I don't want to talk to somebody, I said, "No hable English, senor." He gave a nervous laugh and said, "Oh, okay. I'm sorry" and he proceeded to ignore me. I scanned the faces in the cell and I noticed this big-ass guy sitting directly across from me with his hands on his knees and he was staring at me; possibly even mean-mugging me. He was obviously a biker and he looked to be about 6'8 and was built like a Bank vault door. He had long brown hair and a bushy goatee that hung down and had plethora of tattoos, one of which was one on his neck and resembled a crop circle. I kept scanning the room and didn't acknowledge his mug, but when my eyes travelled back by him he was still staring at me. He finally stood up and walked straight towards me. I thought to myself, oh boy, here we go. As I was trying to decided whether kicking him in the knees or balls would bring him down quicker, he stopped in front of me and looked at Gary The Gazelle and said, "Move over, cock holster; you're in my seat." I think I might've heard Gary break wind and then in a terrified voice he said, "Excuse me, sir?" The Biker wasn't repeating himself and just stuck his arm out between Gary and I and moved it to the right and slid him (and a couple of other people) down the bench and sat down in the seat that he'd created for himself. As he replaced his hands on his knees I looked at them and they looked like the size of two pot roasts. On one set of knuckles were the letters I-T-S-U and on the other four knuckles were the letters R-A-S-S and I imagined that if you ever did see those pot roasts swinging at you it would definitely be your ass.

He offered me the knuckles of his right hand in the universal prison handshake and said, "I'm Stinky, bro." I dapped his knuckles and said, "Yeah, me too, but I'm hoping that I can take a shower when I get to my cell block." He laughed and said, "No, bro, that's my name." Then he threw one of his thumbs next to him and said, "I just saw you tell that meat mitten that you don't speak English. I was staring at you because I knew that was bullshit, because I know who you are. I had your picture in my cell at USP Florence. You're Jeffrey Frye, the Bank Robber with the blog."

Stinky. My first West Virginia fan.

He wasn't done though. He said, "My wife downloaded some of your blogs and sent them to me and my boys. She loves you." She said your blogs make her laugh and sometimes make her cry. She thinks you should write romance novels." Wanting to please Mrs. Stinky I said, "Tell her I'm writing a criminal erotica novel and calling it FIFTY SHADES OF FRYE." He let out a deep laugh that sounded like a bear growling and as he did I read his tattoos to see who he rode with. After looking up one arm and halfway down the other I determined it was the Outlaws motorcycle club. I said, "You're an Outlaw, huh?"

He got up off of the steel bench and pulled his shit off and turned around. He had the patch of his club tattooed on his back. I'd guessed right. Bannered across the top of his back it said OUTLAWS and the rocker across the bottom said ILLINOIS. I told him that I was from Chicago and we talked about different spots up there that we both know and I finally asked him, "What are you doing time for, Stinky?" He replied, "I blew two people up from a rival club with a remote control device in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart." I replied, "It happens."

He put his hands on his knees and stared at the floor and let out a long breath and said, "Yeah." Then he snapped out of his explosive reverie and said, "Man, I love the way you write. How'd you become a writer?" I said, "Well, I used to work for lawyers writing briefs, but lawyers are a bunch of crooks. So I decided to become a Bank Robber. Unlike lawyering, at least when it comes to stealing it's an honest day's work. And I was doing pretty well at the whole robbing banks thing until the FBI treed me like a coon. So I took a look at my life and thought about what I liked to do. I was basically a socially-maladjusted fuck-up who liked to drink. "So I decided to become a writer."

He said, "I always wanted to be a writer, but I don't think I could do it." I replied, "It's not that hard. If you can blow people up with remote control devices, you can write a book." His face ignited into a smile and he said, "I just may try it, bro."

We were finally processed and I had my property pushed across a counter to me by a cop who then tossed me a green canvas Army duffel bag. I packed up and made my way through a sterile corridor with concrete floors that had been waxed, as gates magically opened in front of me before I got to them and then closed after I'd passed. I finally passed through a metal detector and pushed a thick steel door that led out onto the compound and I felt the heat blow against my face the way that it does in the summer when you go from the air conditioning to outside. I hadn't been outside for a full minute when I heard the unmistakable sound of somebody running really fast towards me. Whenever you hear that sound in prison, you'd best pay attention because people back here only run if they're being chased or doing the chasing. And sure enough, in a couple of seconds a guy came running towards me with an abject look of terror on his face. He blew by me and it wasn't three seconds later that the emergency air raid siren went off over the PA system on the yard and then about 10 guys with knives ran by me chasing the one guy.

Now, when you people out there in the robbersphere see ten people with knives chasing somebody, you think, "OMG!" When I see it, I think, Well there goes Tyrone. He's running with the bulls again.

The gun tower in the middle of the yard tossed a grenade and I squatted down and got low. All hell broke loose for several minutes and I took the opportunity to dig my sunglasses and my MP out of my duffel bag and put them on. I then took out the gold necklace and crucifix that I wear around my neck and tucked it into my shirt so I wouldn't hit my cell block sporting bling. When it had, all died down I clicked through songs on my player until I found Run Through The Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival and I clicked it on then slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and headed down onto the yard for this next stop on the journey.

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

--- THE HAZE OF HAZELTON ---
27th June 2013

Gee-sus, I'm finally here. Greetings from USP Hazelton in the mountains of West Virginia. Two days ago the warden walked by my cell in lockup and I knocked on the window and said, Excuse me, Warden, but was some of your money in one of those banks I hit because I sure can't seem to get out of this joint? I feel like I'm in Gitmo w/out the feeding tube." He looked at the name card on the outside of my door and got this "Oh Jesus it's him" look, and then he cleared his throat and said, "Oh, yes...you. Yes, I'm not sure what the hold up is because you should've been long gone. I am going to make it my mission to make you disappear." I replied, "Like Jimmy Hoffa?" and he gave me a smirk and said, "No, but it's only b/c they won't let me. Good luck w/ your writing, Mr. Frye" and he slithered off. When he was gone I told my cellie Rick (the whiny Aryan Barbie), "I can't believe he makes all of that money and wears that cheap cologne and off-the-rack suits." But good to his word, I was "packing out" my property an hour later and on the bus yesterday morning. What an adventure that was!!! Look for the forthcoming blog about it.

This place seems okay. It's chaotic, but that's my life these days. I live in a cell block with some guys who seem okay (so far). We'll see how they act when they're liquored-up. They put me in a cell with a nice, docile, white guy from Michigan who robbed two banks. I try not to hold that against him though (they he only robbed two). So far so good. I'll keep you posted.

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

--- LOVE HAS VALUE ---
25th June 2013

I recently broke up with my girlfriend. I did this because she has issues that make her self-absorbed and these issues make her incapable of showing me love, and because I was sick of her bullshit. I'm locked up, not hard up; and while I may be lonely, I have no desire to feel pathetic or stupid for loving somebody. Love has value.

Having a girlfriend when you're in prison is a tricky thing. I see guys on the phone screaming at their girl for not doing something they asked them to do or because they're accusing them of fucking somebody. When I see this I think to myself two things. I think, 1) Why would anyone accept a call to get yelled at?, and, 2) "I don't even know who you're talking to, but you can bet your last dollar that they are definitely fucking somebody and that somebody is not you." My theory to on the whole "Girlfriend thing" from back here is the polar opposite of the phone screamers. I try to make myself a "Go to" person and not a "Run away" from person. I try to be part of their solution instead of part of their problem. I'm kind and supportive, have nothing but time to listen to their problems, and I show my girlfriend lots of attention. Have there been times when I was talking to my girlfriend and she started carrying on about some guy who was "Just a friend" that I wanted to scream "SLUT!!!" at the top of my lungs? You betcha. But I didn't. I just swallowed it the same way I swallow a thousand other "Fuck yous" throughout the day back here.

I've got some ground rules for the female in my life who wears the title of Girlfriend. They're pretty simple and I've designed them to ensure my sanity. I accept the fact that my girlfriend is going to have sex with other people. As men, I think that we tend to revirginize our women after we get with them, and while I'm certainly not above doing that, I try to keep it real with myself and with my girlfriend and I don't expect her to be The Virgin Mary (although I wouldn't be opposed to her entering a convent until I'm released from prison). I operate under a "Don't ask/Don't tell" policy. Okay, you're getting busy with somebody...I don't want to hear about it. I'd rather be waterboarded for an afternoon in Gitmo than spend a long night in my cell in Lewisburg thinking about my Venus with some strange penis. Please don't give me that visual. That's rule number one. Rule number two is "Don't fuck any of my friends." That is unless you'd like to be buried next to or on top of them. Rule number three is "Don't answer the phone if you can't say "I love you" back. There's nothing that pisses me off more than hearing "The Buddy Voice" instead of the "Lovey Dovey Voice." If I want a buddy I'll get a goddamn dog. If I'm spending the money to call you, I'm calling you for love...so give it up. Don't make me strong-arm you for it. Another request I have (not a rule) is that my girlfriend occasionally write and send pictures.

But the number one rule I have for someone who wants to be my girlfriend is this: Be my friend. Life is lonely no matter where you are, but it's REALLY lonely from back here and I expect my girlfriend to show me love. This is the feds and we have email, so email me and make me part of your life; part of your day. Keep me as a forethought and not as an afterthought. Show me love and attention and I will return it in spades.

My now ex-girlfriend could do all of the former rules I listed, but she was incapable of being my friend and she was aggravating, so she had to go. I can be aggravated all on my own...I don't need help. But all love has value, and I determined the value of hers in the pictures she sent me throughout our relationship. This is the value of her love: Five Honey Buns. That's what I get for one of her swimsuit pictures when I rent it out for an hour to the sex offenders. Yes, all love has value indeed.

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

--- MY APPEAL ---
21st June 2013

If there's been one positive side to Jeff being placed in solitary (which was mostly due to the Bank Robber's Blog) it's that he's at least been transferred to another prison. Here's a blog post he sent me in June of 2012 that I never got chance to post back then...

You just can't get this kinda material even on reality tv. Me and this guy could give Mob Wives a run for their money. This guy was a blast. I hope they let me go back and see him.

I filed an appeal to my sentence in federal court in Charleston. This is my second appeal; my first was a direct appeal to the appeals court in Richmond, Virginia and it was denied. It felt more like a pimp slap though. But When the horse throws you off it's time to go steal a new horse...and then get back on. So I filed a challenge to my lawyer's effectiveness in handling my case. Under the Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution (blah, blah, blah) I am guaranteed an "effective" lawyer. This doesn't mean that he has to be smart, competent, sober, or in Texas even awake (a lawyer slept through his client's death penalty trial and was found effective), but he does have to be effective within the confines of existing U.S. Supreme Court case law.

I am appealing my sentence and not the substantive conduct of what I did. I was enhanced for things I've served time for and even things I did back in the navy in the eighties. Do I deserve it? Probably, but I still have a hard time accepting more time for something I served time for and made financial restitution for. So I'm appealing. If I am successful I will cut my sentence down to about 5 years left to serve. That's more psychologically manageable to me than 13 more years. Is it a long shot? Yes and no. My lawyer made errors that render him effective and I can constitutionally connect the dots, but it's ultimately up to the judge whether he goes for it.

I know the law. And I use this knowledge to help people back here occasionally and I have seen my knowledge bear fruit for others. But never for me. My appeal brief is due in a few days and I haven't even picked it up because it depresses me. I feel like someone's thrown a tarp over me and I can't see for some reason. But yesterday a little voice said, "Hey, Schmucko, the one thing you have going for you in this world is that you can write a little. Not much, but a little. And you're not going to get out of prison reading that Tom Clancy book so pick up your pen and write. I listened to that little voice and I'm on page six of my appeal brief. It reads like my emails on Whitey, Workie Workie, and Fat Louie...with case law and constitutional citations. So we'll see what happens. If you pray, pray for me and this superb piece of fiction that I'm churning out. I want out of here. Hopefully they won't try to release me on Cheeseburger Day though. I'm not going for that.

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

--- ROOTS, THE SEQUEL ---
18th June 2013

As I fed Whitey some kippers through the fence earlier, it occurred to me that Al Capone very well may have fed Whitey's great, great, great, great grandpa Bugsy from the exact same spot. Out of 18 pens, USP Lewisburg is one of only three United States Penitentiaries in the federal system that still have a wall around it. The other two are USP Leavenworth in Leavenworth, Kansas, and USP Atlanta (now supposedly a medium custody facility...but having been in that dungeon, I can't see that). These are old school joints that are like castles and that were built between 1908-1931 to house the men transferred from USP Alcatraz when it closed and to house gangsters from cities and major metropolitan areas on the East Coast and the Midwest. There's been cats behind these walls since they were built. Al Capone was here at USP Lewisburg and actually lived in the cell block that I do so it's conceivable that he could of fed Whitey's great great grand pappy, the infamous Bugsy Feline. They still talk about Bugsy back here; one mention of his name and the mice still scatter.

I wonder if there's a felineancestry.com?

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

--- BANK BLOGGER OUTTA THE CAN ---
14th June 2013

Our man is being moved from solitary to a new prison in the next couple of weeks. And he'll be resuming normal blogging service from there.

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

--- 'BANK BLOGGER' COVER ---
3rd June 2013

Well, dang, haven't I uploaded this already?

Bank Blogger Cover

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