King of Seg

Hobbled by leg irons, cuffs and belly chains, these orange-clad criminals are loaded into the back of a transport van. As you can see the rear cage is very small and almost completely dark. Their feet must get sweaty in those cheap sandals and, with several men in such cramped confinement, it must get quite smelly on the ride.

When You’re First Put in Your Cage

You may get weird. Suddenly, the preliminaries are over. The bars slam, the lock clunks, the officer walks away, you’re alone in your cell.  If you’re a drama queen, the drama is over.  For good.

You are no longer the focus of attention.  You are one of a thousand identical objects locked in one of a thousand identical cages. To find where you’re at, they use a computer to look up your number and the number of your cage.  But nobody wants to find you. They just want to keep you locked up in the warehouse for the rest of your life.

You’re starting to understand the significance of a number of things you didn’t worry about before. That suit you’re wearing—it isn’t just something to cover your body.  IT’S YOU, DUDE.  It’s all that anybody who isn’t sporting the same five-dollar inmate body-cover will notice about you, from now on, forever. You’re in uniform–end of story.

You may be used to seeing “prison cells” in the movies.  Maybe on those phony TV shows.  Now you’ve got a cell of your own.  Bars on the front, so you can be observed whenever any real man wants to observe you. Little tiny narrow bunk.  Sink-toilet combo: steel toilet—no seat.  Maybe a hook to hang that jumpsuit on.  Greenish paint complements your orange suit.