NWSCF

High Friction Non-Fiction

by Christopher Hayden

2019 ad

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“I usually solve my problems by letting them devour me.”

- FRANZ KAFKA

The letters NWSCF stand for Northwest State Correctional Facility. It is a filthy, run down
jail/prison run by the Vermont Department of Corrections and located in Swanton Vermont. For
some reason which I have never quite understood, it is commonly referred to as The St. Albans
Prison - but it is actually in Swanton, in a completely different county than St. Albans. Go figure.
(I suppose this is just one more proof that the Vermont Department of Corrections, like the rest of
this hapless and Jew-controlled state government, can't manage to accurately tell the truth about
anything.)

VERMONT - where they give you a patch and

a badge with a goddamned brown cow on it.
HOW NOW BROWN COW? For fuck's sake....

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I just recently spent 7 weeks there, from Tuesday February 12, 2019 until Monday April 1st,
2019. I can still remember the complete lack of belief that swarmed over me when the housing
unit officer stormed into my shared two man cell and told me, "Mr. Hayden. I need you to get up.
You made bail. Bag up your stuff." I'd been sleeping and I didn't actually get up but I sat up, if
only to hear him add, "April Fool's" as he made a retreat out of the doorway belly-laughing. But
no. I really was being released. I can remember thinking dourly, "Yippee. Big fucking whoop." I
think my obvious lack of enthusiasm really irritated my cell mate who commented, "If I was
getting out I'd be happy." I felt bad for that and I still do. It was just that I'd been blocked and
neglected and abused in an arbitrary and capricious fashion for nearly two months by my own
state government and I knew perfectly well that no one would ever be called to task for any of it.

NWSCF- Swanton, Vermont

On Tuesday February 12, 2019 I appeared in court to be arraigned on a charge of 'violation of

conditions of release' before Judge Kevin Griffin. Judge Griffin has been terrorizing and
tyrannizing me for years by this point. The prior weekend I had been arrested after dark on Friday
night and held until the following Monday morning on a criminal charge that a different Judge
then refused to find probable cause for. For the fourth or fifth time in as many months the
Burlington Police had seized my computer and smartphone and so, for the fourth or fifth time in
as many months I had, upon my release, bought another cheap burner Android phone and
restarted my 1st Amendment protected email activism. Because FUCK THEM. But the new
phone was awkward and unfamiliar to me and I inadvertently CC'd a African Moslem scumbag
and race-hustler on the Burlington City Council named Ali Dieng, whom my conditions of release
prohibited my contacting. It was an honest but stupid mistake and really had me doubting my
fitness to purpose. I tend to be a bit of a psychiatric hypochondriac and I frequently fear that I am
experiencing early-onset dementia due to drugs I abused in my misspent youth or whatever.

While I was at court that Tuesday morning the Champlain Housing Trust in the person of Dan
Mendl (more on him soon. Much more.) and the Chittenden County Sheriff's Office had swooped
in and evicted me from my apartment. I got back from court to find them smiling like Satanists on
the sidewalk outside and telling me I could not go back in my house. I walked directly to the
Burlington Police Department, where I am actually forbidden to go per my conditions of release,
and I entered the lobby of the Administration Services side of the building. I spotted a cheap foam
rendering of the BPD shoulder patch emblem stuck to the wall. I pulled that goddamned thing off
there and threw it on the floor. Two young thug cops stormed in instantly and arrested me for yet

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another violation of conditions of release. I was dragged in front of the drooling, black eyed
demoniac Kevin Griffin again. This time, in contravention of the United States Constitution, the
Vermont State Constitution and centuries worth of prodigy case-law thereof, Judge Griffin
announced that "To prevent me from collecting more violations of conditions of release he would
set my bail at $1,000." This is a patent abuse of power. The only legal use of bail is to ensure a
defendant's appearance at his next hearing, not to prevent future crimes that haven't happened yet.
This isn't Tom Cruise's MINORITY REPORT but it is Vermont. (They do what they want.) This
was what the lawyers call ILLEGAL. But he did it. With impunity. That sick sadistic bastard. And
it is on the record.

I was brought to the Chittenden Regional Correctional Facility booking area and from there
transported to NWSCF.

I knew I had about $200 in my bank account but even so I did not attempt to contact a bail
bondsman. With $1,000 bail I could have used a bondsman and paid him a non-refundable fee of
$150 or $200 and bailed out but for the fact that, as of that very same day, I no longer had a
permanent residence. Without bothering to check, I knew this would be a deal-breaker so I didn't
waste my breath. I spent one night in the booking cells and was sent to a two man cell in a
housing unit. I honestly did not give one single red fuck. I was withdrawing from alcohol and they
were providing me with Librium to prevent a heart attack or stroke or death and I like Librium
even more than booze so, you know, fuck it.

My first roommate was an interesting fellow with tattoos all over his body and the margins of his
forehead and face. He looked and sounded, to me at least, like he must be Hispanic. He was cool.
Very chill. Agreeable. Our cell had two bunks, a tiny desk and stool which were bolted to the wall
and floor, a window in the back wall and - GET THIS SHIT - a 24" flat screen TV on the wall
beside the door. Bucket-load of cable channels plus two prison channels playing movies around
the clock. On weekends you could keep the TV on all night and weeknights you were supposed
to shut it off at 1pm until 6am but they almost never made you. I can remember assuring my
roommate, "The fucking taxpayers would have a goddamned fit if they could see this shit." He
agreed. Like I said. He was agreeable.

When we had shared that small cell for several days I got around to it and asked him his name.
When he told me, I was surprised and informed him, "I know another guy with that same name. I
was in jail with him years ago in 2003." He told me, "It was probably me." And you know what?
He was right. Let's just say that he has mellowed out. A lot. I have been in and out jail in bits and
pieces over the years and his name has been mentioned by random prisoners in relation to his
notoriety for being violent and unpredictable. But I always got along with him just fine all those
years ago and also this time. Good guy. I really like him. The other odd revelation we discovered
in talking is that he lives in the city of St. Albans. I asked him if he happened to know a married
couple, friends of mine, who are literally the only people I know who live in St. Albans. Turns out
he is their downstairs neighbor. Big world - small state. Crazy, man. Crazy. And weird.

That first roommate of mine was simply serving some kind of minor sanction for a probation or
furlough violation. After a few days they bagged him up and let him go. God bless him. (I will
admit wondering if the DOC had put me in his room in the hopes he would lash out at me in
violence. He's known for it, as I already indicated. Better luck next time, guys.)
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I had that two man cell to myself for a day or so and then I got a new roommate. I am positive he
was, in fact, put in my cell to mess with me. He was a young guy, maybe 23 or 24. A good 6'4"
tall. And psychotic as all fuck. Clinically speaking. I don't know if he was schizophrenic or manic-
depressive or both but I have spent much more time in locked psychiatric units that I ever have in
jail and I know when someone is decompensating. This poor kid was for sure. He belonged in the
forensic ward of a psychiatric hospital. In less than an hour of listening to his psychobabble and
observing him, I knew I had a real problem on my hands. He was in jail for attacking his own
mother. He was a rich kid from a fairly prominent family here in northwest Vermont and I felt a
mix of pity and healthy fear. He thought a car with its lights on way out in the parking lot on the
other side of multiple security fences was spying on us. He thought the TV was communicating
with him. I've been there myself. I'm not judging. He told me he might be Jesus Christ and he
asked me with all seriousness clenched in his face if I am Satan.

I walked out to the unit officer's desk and told a bombastic old bastard of a guard named
Mahoney that he was in need of acute psychiatric treatment. Mahoney laughed at me. He already
knew. I told Mahoney there was no way I was locking in with this kid. Mahoney told me I was
gonna lock in or I was gonna go to 'the hole.' I went to the hole. Fuck that nut-nut. Not my
problem.

So they marched me down to the segregation unit, changed me out of my green uniform of
hospital scrubs and into a red one and locked me in a solitary confinement cell with a mattress,
blanket, pillow and a softcover copy of the The New King James Bible I had acquired back in the
unit. I was fine with it. No TV. No roommate. And they bring you your food and your medication
right to the door of your cell. No walking up and down the long grimy hallways to and from the
chow hall. No standing in line forever at the medical unit. They call it segregation. I call it
breakfast in bed. I am usually a strict King James Version only subscriber but The New King
James was better than the other even more Satan-polluted versions they had lying around so I was
grateful to have it.

Less than twelve hours after being sent to the hole, I was once again moved to a different housing
unit and put in yet another two man cell. For two or three days I didn't even have a roommate.
And then I got one. What a walking pile of shit he turned out to be. Strange guy. Dope fiend.
Tattoo artist on the streets. He explained to me as if it was the most normal thing in the world,
without a hint of self-shame, that his junkie bitch girlfriend was currently hiding out from an arrest
warrant for a retail theft but it was 'all cool' because he was only serving a 7 or 10 day sanction
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for a furlough violation - probably a dirty piss test - and if she could just lay low until he got out
he was going to set up a crack dealer and make a drug buy for the cops in exchange for her
freedom. In any other state in this great country he would be marking himself for death to admit
this out loud in jail or prison but here, in Vermont, it's just business as usual. I know this is how
things work around here but it still made the hair stand up on the back of my neck when he was
explaining it to me as if he was talking about shopping for groceries. To my way of thinking, this
goes a long way to explaining why Vermont is so awash in drugs and drug overdoses. Instead of
doing their jobs and relying on sleuthing, the fucking cops rest on stool pigeons to get their
conviction rates and hit their quotas. The fact that this often means the worst, most predatory
criminals go free while the dumber, slower ones go to prison is an outrage to justice and
jurisprudence. It's disgusting. It's Vermont.

So that dirty rat scumbag served his sanction and danced out the door. Again I had the room to
myself for a day or two and then they brought in a guy I will call Derrrrillo. White. Lifelong
Vermonter. Mid 20s. Tattoos on his neck and both sides of his skull, which was shaved to the
scalp save for a 'man-bun' he had spun up in a knot on the top of his head. Kids these days. I
swear.

In one of our earliest get-to-know-you conversations I remarked that he looked like he was
straight out of a "Mad Max" movie. His response, "It's funny you'd say that. I've heard it before."
Good guy, that Derrrillo. I liked him. Turned out he was a Federal prisoner detainee who has
already served something like 6 years in the Federal prison system, beginning at age 19 for fuck's
sake; he was waiting to be sentenced for a new violation that he feared might land him back in
Federal prison for 24 months. He was a fun guy to know and we had a lot of laughs but it really
made me very sad to meet such a singularly brilliant young guy who was slowly having the best
years of his life leeched away for what amounted to bad decisions related to drug abuse. We
shared that cell and that stupid TV for weeks; the bulk of my jail time, in fact. We watched a lot of
SOUTHPARK episodes all night on many nights. He had an amazing and scholarly knowledge of
many subjects including the hard sciences that would impress anyone. Smart. Funny. Good kid.
God bless him.

Derrrillo gave me the straight dope on life inside the Federal prison system. He explained in
excruciating detail what it took to be able to 'walk the yard' like a man and not be punked out or
terrorized into 'checking in' and asking for protective custody. In addition to describing the ways
and means of weapons manufacturing, liquor brewing and other prison craft, he confirmed for me
what I have always pretty much understood - "diversity" might be hip and cool outside prison
walls but inside, you hang with your own race or, as a white boy, you get passed around and
fucked in the ass by the rape-ape Negroes who invariably outnumber you on a massive scale. All
these neo-Marxist ANTIFA race-traitor little snowflakes floating around here should pay attention
because when the day comes that they get swept up and locked up and the boys inside find out
they are self-loathing neo-Communists, the sex-addicted ass-fucking cell block niggers will be the
least of their worries. Anyone who thinks ethno-nationalism 'will never work' has obviously never
been to a real prison. In a time and place of crisis, everyone reverts back to tribalism. That's called
the human condition folks. Like it. Hate it. IT IS WHAT IT IS.

They ended up yanking Derrrillo out of my cell for some disciplinary infraction and off to the hole
he went. Breakfast in bed. Big whoop. I understand he was sentenced to 11 months instead of the
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24 he was worried about and I like to think my prayers to God and Jesus Christ on his behalf
played a part in that.

When I had been there for some number of days they cut off my Librium doses. My frazzled and
overwhelmed little brain started to recover from the general disarray. I became aware of the
startling and alarming fact that something like 80% of the people I was locked up with who were
still pending their charges, and not sentenced yet, were all being ostensibly represented by the
same attorney the courts had shafted me with - Robert Katims of the Hoff Curtis law firm. No one
was happy about it. Katims was juggling a massive caseload and spending just about exactly zero
time on any one case. He and his wife Emily Bayer-Pacht were double-dipping on the court-
appointed attorney list so as to max out their cash flow and then all cases were being quietly and
sneakily transferred to Bob while Emily was actually on 'family leave' and had been for months
even as the court continued to assign cases to her as per the 'conflict-counsel' contract system. He
didn't answer letters. He didn't call. No one even saw him until they had been dragged in chains to
court for a hearing and even then only for about 30 seconds. That scumbag was just winging it.
You don't get a defense from that asshole. You get a pretense. And the judges couldn't give a shit
less. It's a disgrace. Par for the course in this state. Pathetic. Wrong. Evil.

I knew I had a hearing at which two motions to dismiss were going to be heard on March 1. I also
knew that on that same date my bank account was going to swell from $200 to about $1,000. I
wanted to talk to Katims about filing a bail reduction motion that could be heard on the same day.
But like everyone else, he ignored me. I had a jail 'caseworker' named Jon Turek who's whole job
seemed to be to try to figure out what you needed to do to advance your cause and then block
you from doing it. Even so, on the afternoon of the day before my March 1 hearing, he called me
to his office and called Robert Katims. He left a voicemail asking Katims to call him back. Wonder
of wonders, mere minutes later, while I was still sitting in Turek's office Katims actually did call.
He had the guy live on the phone. But he wouldn't let me talk to him. Instead he told Katims who
I was and what I wanted and Katims agreed to call me right back on the 'lawyer phone' in the day
room of my housing unit. I was excited. I had been growing increasingly desperate to talk to him
before my hearing and now it was less than 24 hours away. So I rushed out of Turek's office and
wound up sitting on a stool looking at that lawyer phone and waiting for it to ring. It never did.
That motherfucker. That goddamned bastard.

Robert Katims - fuckhead

When I got to see him for my obligatory 30 seconds before my hearing I told him I needed to bail
out and I had wanted him to file a bail reduction hearing. He laughed in my face. Literally. He
then went on to ham-handedly fumble through the hearing and fuck my whole shit up.

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 FUCK YOU BOB KATIMS. FUCK YOU EMILY BAYER-PACHT.
Mark my words. I'm the WRONG ONE.

Going to court that day meant being chained up and driven to the Chittenden booking unit the
night before and then chained up and driven to court the next morning and then sitting in the cells
in the basement of the courthouse for hours. It was awesome. Really great. Katims also failed to
warn me that SEVENDAYSVT had a photographer in the peanut gallery who took my picture for
that dirty Jewish media-bully fish wrapper.

ME, in chains for YOUR human and civil rights

After court I was dragged back to Chittenden and finally trucked back to NWSCF. I got back to
my cell exhausted and infuriated. But I knew I now had my bail money in the bank so I imagined I
would be free in a day or two. Wrong.

From March 1, 2019 until April 1, 2019 I was held in jail for lack of bail while my bail money sat
in my bank account and the DOC in the person of Jon Turek blocked me from accessing it so I
could bail out. It was literally as if I had my bail money in a front pants pocket but the DOC had
my hands cuffed behind my back. If I said, "Take these cuffs off so I can pay my bail." Turek
would effectively smile in my face and say, "Pay your bail and I will take the cuffs off." It was
outrageous. I don't mind admitting that I want payback for that shit. And one way or another I
will have it. So help me God.

They would not let me have a debit Mastercard mailed from my bank to the jail, if only to write
down the numbers and call the court so as to pay the bail that way. They would not let me call the
court at all, in fact. I filed formal grievances. I wrote to chucklin' and grinnin' jackhole Governor
Phil 'gun grabbin' Scott. I wrote to the Vermont Defender General's Office. I wrote to the
American Civil Liberties Union. The grievance went nowhere. Filthy Phil - that dirty RINO
bastard - ignored my letter. The Defender General sent a lawyer from the so-called 'Prisoner's
Rights' office. He was a black guy named Reuben who told me they were looking into acting on
my behalf. Never saw him again. Never heard from him again. The ACLU sent me a letter
advising me they were considering the possibility of considering representing me. Never heard
from them again. The days and weeks dragged by and no one did a fucking thing. I sat there.
Have I mentioned I want payback for this shit? Good. Now I've said it twice. Do you believe me
yet?

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Meanwhile, the prison medical services would not treat me for my diabetes. For weeks I was held
in jail for lack of bail while my bail money sat in my bank account and all the while I was being fed
nothing but processed carbohydrates and given no insulin nor even Metformin. Sure, they called
me down for finger-sticks up to 4 times a day. My blood sugar readings were all over the map.
But week after week they refused to start me on medical therapy. Two holiday seasons ago I
underwent twin emergency surgeries for diabetes-related infections. At that time I didn't know I
had diabetes. But now I knew. Sitting in jail for lack of bail that I actually had in the bank but was
not being allowed to access, untreated for this life-threatening illness, my surgical scars both
started to itch and inflame. My frustration slowly fermented into low boiling anger and terror. My
own government was doing this to me AND I HADN'T BEEN CONVICTED OF ANYTHING.

One day I was informed by Jon Turek that a 'reporter' for SEVENDAYSVT wanted to come to
the jail on visiting day to interview me for a story he was writing about my cases. I knew who
Derek Brouwer was as I had been communicating with him via email in the weeks leading up to
my incarceration. I kept provoking Derek and that dirty rat Jew media-bully Sasha Goldstein at
SEVENDAYSVT to do a story about me. And now he actually wanted to. I agreed. Of course.
This was bound to be good.

NWSCF - visiting room

So one Saturday I was called to the bustling visiting room and I sat across a table from Derek
Brouwer. Like practically every 'news reporter' based in Chittenden County, the guy is obviously
a fag, you know? An uppity little geeky queer. He describes this meeting briefly in the lie-riddled
ugly smear and hit piece he published about me but I will tell you what really happened.

Derek Brouwer, SEVENDAYSVT

Lying rat media-bully & pole smoker

I sat down across the table from him. He politely thanked me for meeting with him. He explained
that he was writing a story about my cases and "wanted to give me a chance to tell my side of the
story." I nodded and told him, as politely as I could, "Before we get started I just want to tell you
8
a few things about myself." He had a pen and notebook so I told him, "Write this down. I am an
artist. A scholar. And a patriot." I paused to let him scribble it on the paper. I went on, "I am a
poet. A satirist. And a contrarian social critic." By now he was nervously flicking his eyes at me
and then back at his notebook. He scanned my visage, looking for mirth or madness, I don't
know. I kept a poker face and said, "There are two things I need you to do when you write your
story. Spell my name right and really give me the boots." I then reverted to my best Ralph-
Fiennes-as-Amon-Goeth-voice; smug, clipped; German accent and everything. I told him, "Look
at me-" as I slowly rose to my feet. I pointed an index finger at my own face even as I watched his
expression devolve into sheer and utter disappointment. "Don't forget who you are fucking with
now." And with that I walked away and did not look back.

I don't mind admitting I had planned and practiced all of this in my cell all morning before this
visit from this fruitcake. I certainly wasn't going to discuss pending criminal cases with a hostile
scumfuck media-bully like this asshole. I had also asked a guard, "Hey man. I've never had a visit
before and I'm expecting one. Can I get up and leave if I want or do I have to sit there for some
specific period of time?" The housing unit guard had inaccurately assured me, "You can just leave.
Any time you want." But when I did just that the guards running the visiting room were surprised
and told me that when a visit ends the visitor has to get up and leave first. So there was some
confusion all around. Brouwer claims I looked "Dazed." But Brouwer makes numerous
inaccurate and insulting claims in his vicious smear and hit piece on me. That is probably the least
weighty of the myriad lot of them.

The best thing about being in jail this time around was the church services and Bible studies run
by Pastor Pete and his wife Jo and a younger fellow named Pastor Josh from the famous 'Church
at Prison' ministry. These people are the salt of the Earth. I absolutely love them. In addition to
boosting our spirits and providing sound Christian instruction to a group of hardcore criminals
and reprobate sinners, they also provided me, on request, with a brand new softcover King James
Version of the Holy Bible. I can remember sitting in my cell holding that book and just glowing in
the dark with gratitude and ecstasy. Praying silently in my mind, "Thank you so much God. What
a privilege to be here in this warm and quiet little cell with Your Word." I resolved to read the
entire 66 books of the Old and New Testaments. I started with the New Testament and read it
straight through from Matthew to Revelation. Some days I only pushed through a few chapters. I
was in no hurry and I savored every minute of it. I got part way into the Old Testament before
being sprung. I hope to finish the whole book soon. I also gave Pastor Josh three hand-written
poems of mine which I re-drafted with a golf pencil from memory. I hope he liked them. (See
below.)

Though I am not Catholic I attended a Rosary lesson and received a white plastic loop of prayer
beads with a white plastic crucifix which I would put in my prison uniform breast pocket and wear
with just the cross hanging out like a badge over my heart. When I was able to have a private
meeting with Pastor Pete and Pastor Josh one evening I explained that I wore the cross with the
dead body facing in against my chest, "because I worship a Risen Christ." I think they liked that. I
wore it just about every time I left my room and absolutely every time I left the unit for meals or
meds or whatever.

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Next to being terrified that I was being left to die or go blind or lose my feet to untreated diabetes
by my own state government, the worst thing about being in jail was being deliberately agitated
and provoked by the sons of bitches guards, for no reason other than to satisfy their own sick,
sadistic natures. I took great pains to avoid rocking the boat or being problematic in any way.
What was my reward? Being bullied and taunted and disrespected on an almost daily basis. Just
because. The worst offenders included a deranged hillbilly scumfuck named Christopher Kelsh
and two other 'officers' named Gabree and Trombley. (There are two Trombley's who work as
guards at NWSCF. The older one I have known for almost 20 years, very nice guy. The younger
one is a little bitch-ass motherfucker, the type you can tell was bullied his whole life and now he's
getting his payback. I would try not to but sometimes I would find myself involuntarily hoping all
three of those motherfuckers go to work on the wrong 'helpless' inmate someday and get shanked
in the neck and die slowly, gurgling and choking on their own blood. The way they go after some
inmates without cause or reason, it's almost a certainty it will happen sooner or later. You better
think about what you are doing, boys. Some people do not give a fuck. You should know this.
Keep it professional and just maybe your kids won't grow up calling some other man 'daddy.')

Once I had confirmed I actually had my bail money in the bank, and while I was being deliberately
and unaccountably blocked from simply transferring those funds to the court clerk, I frequently
prayed directly to God and Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit to "Send me an angel to break by
bonds and set me free." What else could I do? And so it was that the very next Saturday after my
'visit' with that dick-sucker Derek Brouwer, I was notified by the housing unit guard that I had yet
another visit. I was perplexed and could not imagine anything but that Brouwer was back for
another bite at the apple. I can remember thinking, "This fucking fruitcake gets good grades for
persistence." I gathered my thoughts, said a quick prayer to God for wisdom, and resolved that
this time I would go out, sit down across from this lemon-pussed sissyboy and say NOTHING.
No "hello." No "How ya doing." No Amon-Goeth-from-Schindler's-List quotes. Just stone cold
dispassionate silence, no matter what he might do or say, until he got up and left so I could.

But when I got to the visiting room I was stunned to see my friend Kathy sitting there smiling
from ear to ear. Kathy is an older woman, the mother of one of my oldest and best friends. At this
point I also consider her a highly valued friend in her own right and I am very proud to be able to
say that. She is, in a word, an angel. Over the six or nine months prior to going jail, she and I had
talked on the phone a lot with regards to her ne'er-do-well son, who keeps getting into legal
scrapes out in California where he has lived the past several years. (They are Jewish and we both
10
jokingly refer to her son as 'Jewboy.') In the first few days I was at NWSCF, I was allowed to call
her from a caseworker's phone. I did this simply to let her know I was in jail so that she would
not worry or wonder where I was nor think I was ignoring her on her purpose. I remembered
clearly that the caseworker had kindly added her phone number to my approved phone list so I
could call her collect from the unit phones (I never did, out of respect.) but what I did not realize
nor recall was that the caseworker in question - NOT JON TUREK - had also placed her on my
approved visiting list.

Kathy is an older woman with myriad health problems. It must have been massively difficult for
her to get to the prison just to visit me. God bless her. God bless her all day and all night. Some
number of days prior to her unexpected in-person appearance, I had sent her a letter describing
my outrageous folly but as I never heard back from her I wondered if my mail was even leaving
the building. It turns out it was. In the course of that Saturday afternoon visit she agreed to allow
me to have my bank send a new debit/credit card to her house. She would withdraw the $1,000
for my bail in two $500 ATM transactions on subsequent days and she would pay my bail.
Hallelujah!

Of course, that rat-dick motherfucker Jon Turek dragged his feet as long as possible to delay this
process. He would not even call me to his office to let me call the bank and get the card going in
the mail until the following Wednesday or Thursday. This is the same guy who I once asked,
directly, "That doesn't bother you? That we are in the nation that countless young men have died
face down in the mud to defend and secure our liberty and you won't let me access my own
money to bail of out of here?" No answer. Deadpan. In the same conversation I asked him, "When
you were hired originally as a correctional officer, were you required to swear an oath to uphold
and defend the Constitution?" He had no compunction in answering, "No." he shrugged. To which
I replied, "I'm not surprised."

This is what happens when you allow a tiny minority of radical-subversive Jews to run your state.

THANKS BERNIE. 'preciate it.

- CHRISTOPHER HAYDEN

“Don’t wait for the Last Judgment. It happens every day.”

- ALBERT CAMUS

M ODUS ARTS GROUP

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All rights reserved.

The World is Watching

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 THREE POEMS

MY HEART WAS ICED

Lord Jesus Christ

My heart was iced
And only you could thaw it

You changed my life

Cut like a knife
And all your Angels saw it

Dear Precious Lord

Please grab your sword
And swing on down to Save us

In these Last Days

I'll sing your praise
Warmed by the Hope You gave us

- CHRISTOPHER HAYDEN

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THE ANGELS WERE IN THE CEMETERY

The Angels were in the cemetery, walking amongst the tombs.

The Angels found some small sad bones and sat down in those rooms.
Three Angels came from Michael's Brigade.
Three more from Gabriel.
Three Angels from Red Lucifer were absent, locked in Hell.

Michael's dressed like Roman Lords.

It was a choice they liked.
Gabriel's wore turbans blue; beneath their hair was spiked.
Six Angels in a cemetery, gathered now to boast.
Of how the Devil had been beat and how his brood did roast.

A trumpet blast was heard to ring.

It sounded with great clatter.
The graves all opened at its shriek,
The dead rose, "What's the matter?"

- CHRISTOPHER HAYDEN

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THE BOOK IS ON THE TABLE

God says, "Let's be careful.

Let's not hurt anyone today."
I say, "That's just fine with me.
As is everything You say."
God says, "Let's be patient.
Let everyone have Free Will."
I say, "Sure. It's Your call.
I'll sit right here and chill."
God says, "I can't believe it.
Look at these dumb apes."
As we sit in His Heavenly studio
And glumly roll the tapes.
God says, "Now I'm angry.
I have a job for you."
I say, "Fine. I'm ready now.
What do You want me to do?"
God says, "Sound the trumpets!
The time is finally right!"
I give the nod in the Name of God
And on my wings take flight.
The Book is on the Table.
The Blood is in the Grail.
The Jews are in Jerusalem.
His Judgment Day won't fail....

- CHRISTOPHER HAYDEN

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