The below is satire. I would hope our prison system is better. But private prisons are un-fucking acceptable in a “civilized” society. Martin is a greedy piece of shit, and they are in no short supply. I say send a lot more of his type of people to prison, until America is a better place to live.


Martin Shkreli was arriving at the big house. His shirt was wet because he had continued crying all the way there. He was taken in a room to be strip-searched. The officer was just stretching the gloves on his giant hands. The officer was telling Martin how his mother needs to take the drug Dapaprim. That of course is the drug that Martins company jacked the price up, so they could financially screw their customers. The officer’s cavity search of Martin was thorough to be sure.

Next Martin was given some clothes to wear. The pants were to small, and the top was three times too big. He was assured that’s all they had right now. Next, he was shown to his cell. It was small and bare and more than he deserved. The toilet had not been cleaned, maybe ever. The toilet paper that was there was wet. When he turned the bloody mattress over, it was cleaner on the other side.

At meal time, apparently people in the kitchen also had family who needed Daraprim. He was given a piece of liver, some liver fries, and a liver cupcake. The juice was liver flavored, with a hint of mullet.


Martin’s first night in the big house was long. The other guests took turns all night calling, Martin, Maaarrtiiinnnnn.” He had barely eaten any of the liver, but what he did eat was not going over well with his hoity stomach. He spent most of the night crying.

But then the sun came out. He was hoping breakfast was better. It was not. The eggs were clearly powdered as they had not been mixed with water or cooked. Had the bread been toasted, in might have cooked off some of the green off. He cried some more.

Now it was time to go out in to the yard. The yard he was going in was a 20 by 20 cage, next to several other 20 by 20 cages. The other inmates couldn’t touch him, at least with their body. Their aim with spitting however, was astonishingly accurate. When Martin was done in the yard, he looked like he had starred in a Bukkake movie. He washed his hair I the toilet. Then he cried. He thought about his Wu Tang album. He cried some more. He wasn’t going to take this shit. He got down to do pushup’s. He could barely do one. He was fucked.


Martin's Tale, continued. 

Martin was losing weight. He had money in his commissary, but his things usually showed up damaged. He took a towel with him now when he went out into the yard. “I will be out of here before you fuckers”, Martin would scream at them. They would laugh and spit harder and more often into his cage, Humming songs from Wu Tang’s album, the Verge.

When he got back to his cell, his supper was waiting for him. It appeared to be ok. A hamburger, fries and chocolate milk. He ate like he was free again. He dreamed of when he would get out and be a real financial bully. He would squeeze people even harder for this. He would make them pay. He dreamed of being on a yacht.  Beautiful women were squirting something into his mouth. It was salty, but he was on a yacht and didn’t care. They squirted stuff onto his face and laughed and laughed. He laughed with them. He was having a great time. Now they were spanking him. Kind of hard, but he was free, and he was alive.

Martin woke up and realized he hadn’t been dreaming. He had been drugged. Then he had been defiled. They had at least fixed the sink now, so he could use that. He sat on his bed eating broken cookies and smashed chips. Something wasn’t agreeing with his stomach.




Martin's saga continues.

Martin was not to be fooled again. He would trust his prepackaged broken snacks for now. His meals started to arrive normal looking. He wasn’t taking the bait again, as far as he knew. He was having a dream again. He was at Cony Island with his brother and two sisters. He loved Cony Island. He was born in Cony Island Hospital. There were a lot of birds this time. It felt like they were crapping all over him.

Now he was a monkey. He had an unusual feeling of freedom. He climbed and climbed. He let out some loudass monkey noises. He climbed some more. He screeched some more. He was the king. Then lightning hit him. He dropped like a rock. A rock that had been hit by lightning. When he woke, he was in the infirmary at the prison. Shit he thought. It was a dream. He was really sore and chained to the bed.

Nurse, he said. The nurse came in and said, “oh you are finally awake”. “What happened to me”, said Martin.  “Well first you took some drugs”, “No I didn’t” interrupted Martin. “Well they got in your body somehow, she said, then you started climbing around the cage outside like you were some kind of Tarzan or something. They had to tazze you to get you down. We drew some blood and there were drugs in your body. That will probably add some years to your sentence”, she finished. She turned to leave, and Martin started to scream. She shut the sound proof door and went back to her duties.

How has Martin been?

  Martin was returned to his cell. But not before a thorough cavity search was done to find the drugs.  His cell had also been searched. Everything but clothes and linen had been thrown away. “My lawyer will here about this!”, he shouted at the guard. “Duly noted”, said the guard quietly. While making his bed, he found a note. $1000 deposited in this account, will make you safe.

  These fuckers he thought! He wanted to turn the note in. But to who? That could bring more unpleasantness. He had money, and wasn’t this what money was for? To enjoy more things then the next person?  The next day, a friend came to see him. He told him about all the fun he was having. He showed him the note, and the friend copied down the account number and agreed to make the deposit for him. 

  The next day, his breakfast came, and it was real food. It tasted all right compared to what he had been eating. That morning, he went out to his cage, and it was like he wasn’t even there. No one looked at him, or covered him in loogies. Lunch was a cheeseburger with all the fixings. The fries were pretty good too. “I could do this for a bit”, he thought. Dinner came with mash potatoes, gravy and apple pie, and another note.  “That’s $1000 a day.”   FFFFffffuuuuuccccckkkkkkk! He yelled.