Inside, it's not space that's the biggest problem; it's privacy. The hacks - that's what we called them in New York, back when I was locked up; they call them "cops" in Jersey, "screws" in Massachusetts - who knows what they called them where the cancer-ridden man had done his time - could turn your house upside down just for the fun of it. They liked doing things like that, but they were always careful who they did it to.
If you were someone they hated - and it never took a lot to get on that list - they didn't just search, they destroyed. Tore up precious photographs, letters you would never see again, an art project you'd been working on. Just because they could. Those "soldiers" who played torture-power games with Iraqi prisoners, you think they were from one of the elite fighting forces, like the Rangers, or the Green Berets? Forget that: former prison guards is what they were. They'd had their own off-the-books training, spent their days in a subculture the World never sees. They're not allowed to bullwhip prisoners anymore, so they learned new tricks.
All the power-boys do it. They don't change their attitudes, they just adapt them to fit the times. Ever notice how the cops always scream "Stop resisting!" while they're gang-beating some poor bastard into permanent paralysis, just in case there's some good citizen with a videocam lurking nearby?
Officer Lockstock: Well there are those who think our methods vicious- Officer Barrel: Overly malicious- Lockstock: A bunch of brutes, but it's we who gather for the people- Barrel: Tavern to the steeple- Lockstock: Lawful fruits! Our task: Bring a little order- Barrel: Swindle out a hoarder- Lockstock: From what he loots, as the book says, "certainly a season"- Barrel: Trample out a treason- All: With hobnail boots!
Pull down your dress, here's a kick in the ass Let's beat you blue until you shit in your pants Don't move, child, got a big black stick There's six of us babe, so suck on my dick
