The Skinwalker | Letter #5: Notes From The Inside

Notes from the inside, the skin walker. Samurai wall developer Keone Rodriguez is serving a five year prison sentence for building non custodial Bitcoin privacy software. Here, he shares his life on the inside.

Dear reader, it has been a while since we last spoke. My last letter was written on the anniversary of my first month of incarceration at FPC Morgantown. The second month of being here has now come and gone.

Truth be told, I have struggled to think of what I could write to you all. To be sure, there are some things and topics I would like to explore, but I simply cannot without breaking rules or getting myself or someone else into trouble.

So these stories will have to wait, I am afraid. My wife suggests that I should tell you all about some of various characters I've had the pleasure and displeasure of encountering here. I am not sure it would make for a good letter, but she certainly seems to enjoy the stories I tell when we meet each weekend.

Someone else I respect suggested I write about my feelings, which is a mortifying proposition. Feelings, as far as I'm concerned, are like recounting the previous night's dreams or sharing holiday photos best kept to yourself.

I have also had feedback that these letters have been helpful for those who have loved ones incarcerated in federal custody to help them understand what it is that they are going through. So what will this letter be? I am still unsure.

I'm going to write and see what comes out. Let us begin with an update since I last wrote. On February 18, the day before the two month anniversary of my stay here at FPC Morgantown, I was woken up for the final time that night at 03:30AM.

The first time I was woken up was at the 12AM count by the prick guard that insists on shining his flashlight directly into your sleeping face, letting it linger there until your sleep is disturbed.

This repeated at the 3AM count and woke me up for the second time that night. Against all odds, I managed to fall back asleep, though that mercy was to be short lived. At 03:30AM, I was woken up by the only thing more grating than the prick guard in his flashlight, the sound of slides, a type of sandal that you slide onto your feet,

lazily shuffing down the concrete floor of the open dormitory. Swish, Swoosh. Swish. Swoosh. The sound provokes a visceral response deep in my psyche that makes me want to shout, pick up your damn feet when you walk.

Instead, I sigh and think to myself, the skin walker is off to bed finally. Now I owe you an explanation, of course. The skin walker is not his Christian name. Rather, that is what I've named him since I first got here and noticed his downright odd appearance.

The only way I can really explain his appearance to myself is by imagining a race of hostile reptilian aliens who upon arrival to Earth abducted and gutted several humans and are using their bodies as some sort of skin suit.

His skin is so tight and taut across his face, it truly appears that there is an eight foot tall alien body tightly confined inside of a six foot tall human frame. Combined with his apparent case of alopecia, not a single strand of hair on him, head, eyebrows, arms, legs, nothing,

and a red large birthmark on the back of his skull where I presume the alien inserted the vacuum tube that sucked his innards out leaving nothing but an empty husk of a skin. His appearance is downright unsettling.

While his off putting appearance was the initial inspiration for the moniker, his off kilter behavior seemed to play right into the back story I created for him. Basic human courtesy and respect is something the skinwalker never mastered.

Shouting across the open dormitory in the middle of the night, standing at the foot of your bunk having full volume conversations past midnight, very strangely prowling the hallways of the housing unit at 4AM, slightly changing every TV to the same ESPN channel using a remote control that he stole and now considers his own property,

but his most egregiously odd behavior is certainly his bathroom habits. If you read my last letter, you know I am a bathroom janitor. As such, I take a keen interest in the habits of the people who use the bathroom I clean. I know who is a disgusting dirty pig and who has basic life skills and can manage to clean up after themselves.

Let me say, I could write a book on the downright baffling bathroom habits of purportedly adult men. I have seen shocking things that I am still trying to come to terms with. The skin walker, however, while not disgusting, perfectly illustrates his lack of basic human cognition.

Around midnight or so, the skin walker will shuffle slowly and loudly to the bathroom. He will turn on every single shower on full blast as hot as possible to create some sort of steam room effect.

He then shuffles back out of the bathroom for about half an hour, really letting the steam build up. By the way, there is no ventilation at all in these bathrooms. So yes, mold is a problem and yes, this behavior certainly doesn't help things.

When he finally shuffles back to the steam room, he spends well over an hour in there. What he does for an hour in there, I am unsure. Regenerating his skin suit? Communicating with the mothership?

Who knows? The most baffling part of this whole ritual, the most inhumane part, he finishes whatever it is he's doing in there and he just shuffles out without turning any of the showers off.

When I wake up around 4AM and use the toilet, I am often the one who shuts the showers off hours after he has shuffled himself back down the hallway to sleep. Some may say he clearly suffers from some sort of narcissistic personality disorder of some kind, but I am pretty sure he is just an alien in an ill fitting skin suit.

Now, I anticipate many of you will wonder why I don't just say something to the guy. Speak to him man to man or man to skinwalker. Under normal circumstances, that certainly would be appropriate, but in here, that could be interpreted as the opening salvo and what could turn into a physical altercation.

At the camp level, minimum security. Disrespect is rampant because no one wants to say anything that puts them at risk of having to fight, which has serious knock on effects such as losing good time credit, which extends your stay here, and two, being classified as higher risk needing to be moved to a higher security institution.

So you just grit your teeth and bear the disrespect. So as I lay there silently seething, I told myself I needed to get moved. I couldn't live next to the skin walker anymore, couldn't live in the same dormitory as the guy. I needed to be moved and it needed to happen today.

In truth, I knew I needed to move from the moment I got here. I think in my first letter, I mentioned the B Wing where I was put as being filled with young rowdy reprobates and turned out to be a pretty apt description.

Many of these guys in B Wing are young, rowdy, and seemingly quite happy to be in prison. The A Wing, on the other hand, is much quieter, filled with older and more mature residents, men who wanted to get home back to their lives and their families.

I knew I needed to get myself back to a wing somehow, and the above described shuffling incident on February 18 was the straw that broke the camel's back. You all know that I'm a bathroom janitor in B Wing. I didn't take that job for my health.

I knew quite early on I need to get out of B Wing and I deduced from conversations with prisoners who seemed in the know that taking a less desirable job within the housing unit, a job that required actual work and effort, as opposed to a paper job, a job that only exists on paper,

like vacuuming a carpet once a month, was the best way to demonstrate to your counselor that you were a serious person worthy of moving bunks. After a month of faithful and grimy work, I made my request to move in writing. In BOP parlance, this is called a cop out.

In response, I received no response. Radio silence. I figured maybe it was too early to ask. Maybe I had not yet proven myself as a wing material. I continued the gritty and grimy work for another month, not receiving a restful night of sleep once since arriving here. I was reaching my wit's end.

On February 18, I told myself I would submit another cop out asking once again to be moved. If this request was denied or ignored, I resolved to quit the bathroom job and give up trying. I must have caught my counselor on a good day, or maybe my desperation was readily apparent,

and he took pity on me. Whatever the reason, within the hour of making my request, I was called to his office and told my request was approved. I was to move out of B Wing immediately.

I did not need to be told twice. I thanked him, grabbed a handcart, and began the process of moving out. My neighbors were curious as to where I was going. When I told them I had been moved to a wing, there was plenty of good natured cheering and ribbing.

Oh, you're too good for us over here in the hood, one neighbor said with mock indignation and a mischievous smile on his face. Oh, you're moving to the suburbs, Mostly,

my neighbors were happy for me. They recognized that I was in bed every night at 9PM trying to sleep and that my new home was more appropriate for me. My immediate neighbor, the skin walker, said nothing and made no further acknowledgment of my existence.

With some help from a friend, my belongings were packed, my mattress and pillow secured, and I was finally out of the B Wing. I had carefully chosen the cell I wanted in a wing. Before submitting my cop out, I had walked the halls inspecting the different empty spaces like I was an annoyingly picky house hunter on an HGTV

show trying to choose a new apartment. I finally settled on a space that was slightly larger than normal and importantly had a window with a view. In B Wing, my cell was in the center of the dormitory, so there was no window.

Even better, this window was facing east, so I would be able to catch the sunrise as it peaks over the mountain top. I specifically requested this cell in my cop out and it was granted. After moving in, I cleaned every surface thoroughly.

Prison is dirty. Swept and mopped the floor several times, laundered my sheets, and finally made the bed. The difference in a wing was stark and immediately apparent. My new neighbors all came to welcome me. Everyone spoke in hushed tones as to not disturb anyone else.

One man came by with the welcome gift of a zinger, a sort of chocolate cake Twinkie, which was happily accepted. It truly was the suburbs, and no, I did not miss the inner city.

The real test, of course, was the night. Would I finally get some restful sleep? The evening came. The 9PM count was concluded. The lights were shut off. The silence was deafening and glorious.

In the B Wing, when the lights went out, the party began. The skinwalker and his crew would play their crappy mumble rap on a jury rigged speaker as loudly as possible so that the already mumbled lyrics were further distorted and sounded as if it was recorded in a tin can.

In response to this cultural onslaught, the neighboring Puerto Ricans would play their crappy mumble rap on an equally tinny speaker system as loudly as they could. Because two different speaker systems were playing two different musical arrangements as loudly as possible, anyone around would have to shout even more loudly to be heard.

It was a perfect storm of noise. In the a wing, the only noise was the pleasant of a nearby industrial fan blowing. I was told later the fan was brought in because it was too quiet at night and some white noise was needed.

I was worried that perhaps it would be too quiet and I wouldn't be able to sleep without the cacophony of chaos that had inundated my senses every night for two months. That worry was quickly settled. I fell asleep within minutes. I slept the whole night without interruption.

I awoke at my usual and preferred time of 4AM. I made my prison latte, and I sat at my desk looking out of my window. I watched a family of deer foraging peacefully around babbling stream.

I know I don't belong here. I know I shouldn't be here, and I need to keep fighting to get out of here. I need to get back home and restart my life, but at least now I am more comfortable. I will now be able to get decent sleep surrounded by people who understand basic human courtesy.

This is now a much different way to serve my time, a small victory. Everything here is about securing small victories, recognizing them, and celebrating them. Thank you for reading. Q and A Rodriguez.

Write to Q and A. Q and A Rodriguez. 11404 Dash 511 F P C Morgantown Federal Prison Camp PO Box 1000 Morgantown, West Virginia 26507. Mailing guidelines.

Please note, you can only send letters no more than three pages long. No packages or other items are allowed. Books, magazines, and newspapers must be sent directly from the publisher or an online retailer like Amazon.

All letters must include a full return address and sender name to be delivered. Thank you to The Rage for republishing this letter. Independent journalism does not finance itself. If you enjoyed this article, please consider making a donation.

If you would like to note a correction in this article, please email corrections@therage.co. And if there's any problems in this recording, take it up with Max. Boost this podcast. Support Max. Support on goes fucked that up.

Alright. Whatever. I'm done. Hope this is good. Appreciate you, Max. Thanks for listening, and a huge thank you to late stage huddle for taking the time to read through that last letter. Thank you also to John and John McAfee for the ones before.

And if you're listening to this and you enjoy listening and you're not a dyslexic fuck like me, consider reading one. Send me the audio. I don't mind sitting and editing it. Let's do everything that we can to get these good men out of prison.

They do not belong there. Thanks again. Please boost these shows. Remember, a 100% goes through to help free them minus any fees like fountain fees and stuff, but anything that comes to us goes directly to them. Let's keep fighting and stay ungovernable.