Do you have any suggested improvements for this back-cover blurb:
Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar was a devoted family man and a psychopathic killer; a terrible enemy, yet a wonderful friend. While donating millions to the poor, he bombed and tortured his enemies, some of whom had their eyeballs removed with hot spoons. Through ruthless cunning and America’s insatiable appetite for cocaine, he became a multi-billionaire, who lived in a $100-million house with its own zoo.
T-Bone is a massively-built spiritual ex-Marine, who uses fighting skills to stop prison rape. T-Bone’s latest letter from Arizona prison:
So, the other day, I witnessed a guy walk up to another, and tell him to give him his store. I intervened, of course, and the guy threatened me. I started to pray. And I prayed and prayed.
The guy came back with two of his buddies. I just stood from a distance and watched them. After twenty minutes of them thinking about what they were going to do, one approached me.
“Who do you think you are?”
“There’s no need for talking,” I said. “Just stop bulldogging people.”
“Mind your own business. You’re nobody.” Being a Crip gang member made him think that he was immune to the rules that govern our behaviour in this type of place.
“Just leave the little crazy dude alone.”
“I’ll make the crazy dude suck my dick if I want to.”
There aren’t many blind spots in here, but I was looking around trying to find a place to take him. I realised I could take him to his cell when he went to his building. In his eyes, I saw evil and hate.
“I hear you, man,” I said. “I’ll catch you later.” I turned my back, and went on my way.
He went to give his buddies high-fives and claps.
Two hours passed. I watched him walk across the yard by himself with a bag of store [snacks purchased from the prison]. So, this guy hadn’t been on the yard two days, and he was already set in thinking that he was going to push people around.
Walking real slow, I followed him to his building and watched him walk to his cell. When the officer was looking the other way, I walked over there without drawing attention to myself.
As I pushed his door open, his eyes popped out of his head. I closed the door. With my foot, I stuck a shoe under his door, so it wouldn’t lock. All his toughness left him.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said three times.
“So you’re gonna make somebody suck your thang?”
“He’s gay, OG [Original Gangster]. He’s already gay.”
“But you made him suck your thang, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but–”
“I’m gonna teach you about being a man.”
“What you gonna do?”
“Stand up,” I said, looking him in the eyes. “You’re gonna take all that store you got, and put it in that box, and you’re gonna give it to the three openly gay men on this yard.”
Turning around, he started to do what I told him. Then, he mumbled something under his breath.
“What did you say?”
“You’re lying.” I saw the hate in his eyes, and noticed that he had picked up a pen real smoothly. With my left hand, I knocked it out of his hand. I smacked him and took all of the fight out of him.
Unbeknown to me, a transgender queen was about fifteen feet outside the door, watching and trying to listen to everything that was taking place. Upon sensing her presence, I waved her in. The guy gave her back the $40 worth of store he’d taken, and apologised.
We all prayed in that room together. We all shook hands, and the bully even admitted that he needed to change. He sat back, put his head down and thanked me, saying that he needed discipline. I said that we all need help. I told him that I had to go and left.
He left the yard that night, hopefully a changed man because I know his pride was hurt. No one wants to be humiliated like that, but it felt good to help the weak.
Now things are back to the way they always are. I’ve stopped a few incidents by the grace of God. I hope that I can maintain the same level of caring that I possess today.
L&R from Arizona to the T-BoneAppreciation Society
T-Bone is a massively-built spiritual ex-Marine, who uses fighting skills to stop prison rape. T-Bone’s latest letter from Arizona prison:
The Mexicans and the Mexican Americans had a riot today. I was about to go out of the cell door, when I saw a tall Mexican stab the leader of the Mexican-Americans in the face and eyeball. Everybody started fighting.
What’s sad is that the guards knew it was going to happen. To prevent riots, they usually call in the heads of the gangs, and talk to them to stop the whole mess.
To stop the riot, they brought a guard with a dog and chemical-sprayed a bunch of people. God knows how many. Can you believe these guards? The spray got all over me. It was extremely nasty. It will take you to your knees and take all of the fight out of you.
Now we’re locked down. All of the guards are stood around talking and laughing.
When you think about stuff like this, you see the waste. The prisoners could be doing something to help society, like working or getting educations. Instead, they have grown men sitting around each and every day, doing nothing except drugs like heroin, meth and spice, and scheming against each other, and then they wonder why things like riots happen!
Please say hi to the students at the T-BoneAppreciation Society, and let them know I do think about them and they are in my prayers.
I’m trying to get my book Pablo Escobar: Beyond Narcos published in time for the second Narcos’ season. Any feedback you can provide in the comments would be appreciated on chapter 1 below:
Pablo Escobar was born on a cattle ranch in 1949, the second year of The Violence, a ten-year civil war that saw millions of Colombians flee their homes and left hundreds of thousands dead. Slicing people up with machetes was popular, and led to a new genre of slaughter methods with ornate names. The Flower Vase Cut involved the severing of the head, arms and legs, followed by the liberated appendages getting stuffed down the neck of the deceased, turning the headless torso into a vase of body parts. A victim stabbed in the neck, who had his tongue pulled out through the gap and hung down his chest was wearing a Columbian Necktie.
Pablo’s parents were Abel de Jesús Dari Escobar, a hard-working farmer who traded cows and horses, and Hermilda Gaviria, an elementary school teacher. Pablo was the third of seven children. Hermilda often complained about their lack of money, and Pablo, at five years old, said, “Mom, wait until I grow up. I’ll give you everything.”
As The Violence escalated, the family was warned to leave or else risk having their body parts re-assembled into art. But having no safe place to go, and loving the animals, the beautiful countryside adorned with wildflowers, and air that carried a taste of pine and resin from the forest, they chose to stay. Pablo was seven when the guerrillas started getting blood on their machetes in his tiny town, Titiribu, near the town of Rionegro, the Black River. Trembling, he heard machetes hacking the front door and threats of murder. He clung to his mother, who was crying and praying.
“They’re going to kill us, but we can save the kids,” the father said. They hid the children under mattresses and blankets.
The front door was so strong that the guerrillas eventually gave up trying to break in. Instead, they set fire to it. Wincing and coughing in a house filling with smoke, Pablo’s parents braced to die. But soldiers arrived, and the guerrillas disappeared.
With the sun rising over immense green mountains, the town’s survivors were escorted to a schoolhouse. Pablo would never forget the burning bodies and corpses hanging from lampposts.
A year later, Pablo and his brother were sent from the family’s ranch to live with their grandmother in the safety of Medellín, known as the City of the Eternal Spring due to its steady warm climate. Their grandmother was an astute businesswoman who bottled sauces and spices, and sold them to supermarkets. Under her loving but stern hand, they had to go to church and pray every morning.
Although they loved the weather, the mountainous landscape and the surrounding pine forests, the second largest city in Colombia with all of its fast cars and over one million people frightened the brothers, who were accustomed to the tempo of ranch life. They were delighted when their parents eventually joined them. Their father disliked living in a city, so he returned to the countryside to work on other people’s farms. Eventually, the brothers fell in love with Medellín.
Growing up with little money, the kids built carts from wood, and raced down hills. They made soccer balls from old clothes wrapped inside of plastic bags. They had egg fights. A favourite prank was to stick chewing gum on a doorbell, so that it rang continuously.
On the streets of Medellín, some of Pablo’s leadership and criminal traits started to emerge. Although the youngest in his group, he’d take the lead. When the police confiscated their soccer ball, he encouraged the group to throw rocks at the patrol car. The police rounded up several of the group, and threatened to keep them in jail all day.
Only Pablo spoke up to the commander: “We didn’t do anything bad. We’re tired of these guys taking our ball. Please, we’ll pay you back.”
Some of the kids in the group ended up in business with Pablo later on.
As a teenager, Pablo aspired to be a millionaire. According to his brother, Roberto Escobar, in his book, Escobar, Pablo developed an interest in history, world politics and poetry. At the public library, he read law books. In 1974, he studied political science at the University of Antioquia. He practised public speaking on student audiences at lunchtime or on the soccer field. There is a quote Roberto remembers him speaking passionately: “I want to be president of Columbia, and when I am, I’ll take ten percent of the earnings of the richest people to help the poor. With those funds, we’ll build schools and roads.” His idea to create local jobs was to encourage Asian manufacturers to move their plants to Colombia. But unable to pay the university fees, Pablo was forced to drop out.
In Killing Pablo, author Mark Bowden described Pablo as an accomplished car thief by age twenty. Drivers were forced out of their cars by his gang, and the cars dismantled at chop shops. When Pablo had enough money from selling car parts, he used it to bribe officials to issue car certificates, so that stolen cars could be resold without having to be chopped. He started a protection racket whereby people paid him to prevent their cars from being stolen. Always generous with his friends, he gave them stolen cars with clean papers. Pablo and his cousin, Gustavo, built race cars from stolen parts, and entered rallies.
In his late teens, Pablo was incarcerated for several months in Medellín, where he made business connections. Records of his early arrests were destroyed.
Some of the people who owed Pablo money were kidnapped. If the debt wasn’t paid by family members or friends, the victim was killed. Through this means, he gained a reputation as a person not to be trifled with, which helped his business interests grow in a world of opportunists and cutthroats.
He also kidnapped people and held them for ransom. Diego Echavarría Misas was a prominent factory owner and philanthropist who lived in a remake of a mediaeval castle. He became increasingly disliked by the poor, many of whom had lost their jobs at textile mills. Pablo had Echavarría kidnapped and demanded a ransom of $50,000. After the family paid, Echavarría was beaten and strangled to death. With no chain of evidence linking Pablo to the crime, he wasn’t charged. In the eyes of the poor, he’d done them a favour. After that, they gave Pablo the names Dr Echavarría and El Doctor.
Moving on from stealing cars, he started to apply his organisational skills to contraband, a thriving business in Colombia, a country steeped in corruption. Medellin was known as a hub for smugglers. Those who got caught typically bribed their way free. If they were unable to pay a bribe, the police would usually confiscate their contraband, rather than jail them. It was the cost of doing business.
Early on, Narcos presented Pablo as a boss in the contraband smuggling business, but that wasn’t the case. He was an underling of the powerful mob boss, Rafael Puente, a contraband kingpin who specialised in transporting cigarettes, electronics, jewellery and clothing in shipping containers from America, England and Japan. The goods were shipped to Colombia via Panama.
Having met Pablo at a soccer match, Rafael asked him to be a bodyguard, in the hope of reducing worker theft. “The way to make money,” Rafael told Pablo, “is to protect the merchandise for the guy who has the money, and that’s who I am.”
Pablo brought the poorly-paid workers seafood and wine. “I’m going to give you half of my salary forever if you work with me. But this time if we show the boss that you don’t take anything, I promise when I come back in two weeks to take care of you guys.” The workers agreed, and returned the stolen goods they still had.
Specialising in cigarettes, Pablo drove across Colombia in a jeep ahead of half a dozen trucks, transporting contraband. Along the way, he paid the necessary bribes to the police. Delighted with Pablo’s performance, Rafael offered him ten percent of the business, but Pablo demanded fifty.
“Are you crazy?” Rafael said.
“I think it’s fair. Sometimes you’ve been losing more than half the products. This way you’ll be getting it all, and even by giving me fifty percent, you’ll be making more money because nobody will be stealing anything.” Rafael agreed to forty percent.
Through the contraband business, Pablo became adept at smuggling goods across the country, without paying government taxes and fees. Supervising two convoys a month earned him up to $200,000. He stashed his profits in hiding places he’d built in the walls of his home. He installed special electronic doors that only he could open. He recruited his brother, Roberto, as an accountant, in charge of handling the payroll, making investments and depositing money into bank accounts with fake names. Over the years, money was invested in real estate, construction businesses and farms. As Roberto was handling so much money, Pablo gave him a gun.
Giving half of his salary to the workers earned their respect, and the name El Patrón or the Boss. He bought his mother a house, a taxicab for his cousin, Gustavo, and an Italian bicycle for his brother. He donated truckloads of food to the poor who scavenged at a garbage dump. He took about twenty members of his family to Disney World in Florida, where he went on all of the rides with his son.
When a policeman on Pablo’s payroll was moved to another district, he snitched out the operation. The police waited to ambush a convoy of trucks. They would all get rich confiscating so many goods. Pablo had stopped for lunch, and told the convoy to continue without him. Thirty-seven trucks were seized. A driver called Pablo, who said to tell the other drivers not to speak to the police. With police after him, he took a bus back to Medellín. Lawyers got the drivers released, but were unable to retrieve the merchandise. Pablo’s contraband partnership with Rafael was over.