So, there's this old crazy guy in our house. I call him "Preacher" because he reads the bible all the time and sings churchy songs at the top of his lungs and speaks gibberish that I suspect is his version of speaking in tongues.
He looks like a down at the heels minister or used car salesman. And his brother (who hates him) is three cells down on the same walk. They both look like unused extras from a movie on Virginia coal mines in the 1920's. Both crazy as a box of leaky doorknobs. His brother has been actively trying to starve himself to death for the past couple of weeks and he hasn't been taking his meds either. He'll be up in medical soon with a tube down his throat.
What a pair.
The preacher hasn't been taking his meds for the last few days. He's torn everything in his cell except for the pair of boxers he's wearing to shreds and shoved most of it out under the door. He's been drinking out of the toilet whether it has been recently flushed or not.
He has taken a food tray hostage and won't give it up.
Oh, and he's on court ordered medication that he cannot refuse.
Send a team in, right?
That's what I thought, too.
But they want us to go try to talk him in to giving it up first. So we did.
So they send a Lieutenant down to try and talk him into giving it up.
Then they want me and the Lieutenant to try and talk him into giving it up.
Then they send down the Pshrink lady and the Captain to try and talk to him.
Coulda told ya that wasn't going to work, either!
So they finally send the team down and they go in and jump on him and cuff him up and he gets his butt full of haldol and they strip him out and get the tray back and put him on suicide watch.
Nice..... Actually three hours earlier when this all first happened would have been nicer. Threw our whole night off.
Personally, I'm blaming Chuck for all of this.
Not that it's any of his fault, but he won't be there tomorrow to defend himself when I gotta tell BG why we didn't get any rec done.
He's handy like that.
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