"Harrison, Harry- A Stainless Steel Rat is Born" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

This was more like it. I struggled against my cuffs and spat curses at him so he wouldn't show any last moment weaknesses. He didn't. Two burly policemen grabbed me and hauled me bodily out of the courtroom and jammed

me, not too gently, into the back of the black Maria. Only after the door had been slammed and sealed did I sit back and relaxЧand allow myself a smile of victory.
Yes, victory, I mean that. The whole point of the operation was to get arrested and sent to prison. I needed some on-the-job training.
There is method in my madness. Very early in life, probably about the time of my Get-Stuffed successes, I began to seriously consider a life of crime. For a lot of reasonsЧnot the least of which was that I enjoyed being a criminal. The financial awards were great; no other job paid more for less work. And, I must be truthful, I enjoyed the feeling of superiority when I made the rest of the world look like chumps. Some may say that is a

A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN

juvenile emotion. PerhapsЧbut it sure is a pleasurable

one.
About this same time I was faced with a serious problem. How was I to prepare myself for the future? There had to be more to crime than lifting Get-Stuffed bars. Some of the answers I saw clearly. Money was what I wanted. Other people's money. Money is locked away, so the more I knew about locks the more I would be able to get this money. For the first time in school I buckled down to work. My grades soared so high that my teachers began to feel there might be. hope for me yet. I did so well that when I elected to study, the trade of locksmith they

were only too eager to oblige. It was supposed to be a three-year course, but I learned all there was to know in three months. I asked permission to take the final examination. And was reftised.
Things were just not done that way, they told me. I would proceed at the same stately pace as the others and in two years and nine months I would get my diploma, leave the schoolЧand enter the ranks of the wage slaves.
Not very likely. I tried to change my course of study and was informed that this was impossible. I had locksmith stamped on my forehead, metaphorically speaking of course, and it would remain there for life. They thought.
I began to cut classes and avoid the school for days at a time. There was little they could do about this, other than administer stern lectures, because I showed up for all the examinations and always scored the highest grades. I ought to, since I was making the most of my training in the field. I carefully spread my attentions around so the complacent citizens of the city had no idea they were being taken. A vending machine would yield a few bucks in silver one day, a till at the parking lot the next. Not only did this field work perfect my talents but it paid for my education. Not my school education of courseЧby law I had to remain there until the age of seventeenЧbut in my free time.
Since I could find no guidelines to prepare myself for a life of crime, I studied all of the skills that might be of

A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN 13

service. I found thewordforgery in the dictionary, which encouraged me to learn photography and printing. Since unarmed combat had already stood me in good stead, I continued my studies until I earned a Black Belt. Nor was I ignoring the technical side of my chosen career. Before I was sixteen I knew just about all there was to know about computersЧwhile at the same time I had become a skilled microelectronic technician.
All of these were satisfying enough in themselvesЧbut where did I go from there? I really didn't know. That was when I decided to give myself a coming-of-age birthday present. A term in jail.
Crazy? Like a fox! I had to find some criminalsЧand where better than in jail? A keen line of reasoning, one has to admit. Going to jail would be like coming home, meeting my chosen peer group at last. I would listen and learn and when I felt I had learned enough the lockpick in the sole of my shoe would help me to make my exit. How I smiled and chortled with glee.
More the foolЧfor it was not to be this way at all.
My hair was shorn, I was bathed in an antiseptic spray, prison clothes and boots were issuedЧso unprofessionally that I had ample time to transfer the lockpick and my stock of coinsЧ1 was thumbprinted and retinapixed, then led to my cell. To behold, to my great joy, that I had a cellmate. My education would begin at last. This was the first day of the rest of my criminal life.
"Good afternoon, sir," I said. "My name is Jim diGriz." He looked at me and snarled. "Get knotted, kid." He went back to picking his toes, an operation which my entrance had interrupted.
That was my first lesson. The polite linguistic exchanges of life outside were not honored behind these walls. Life was toughЧand so was language, I twisted my lips into a sneer and spoke again. In far harsher tones this time.
"Get knotted yourself, toe-cheese. My monicker is Jim. What's yours?"
I wasn't sure about the slang, I had picked it up from

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old videos, but I surely had the tone of voice right because I had succeeded in capturing his attention this time. He looked up slowly and there was the glare of cold hatred in his eyes.
"NobodyЧand I mean nobodyЧtalks to Willy the Blade that way. I'm going to cut you, kid, cut you bad. I'm going to cut my initial into your face. A 'V for Willy. " "A 'W'," I said. "Willy is spelled with a 'W'."

- This upset him even more. "I know how to spell, I ain't no moron!" He was blazing with rage now, digging furiously under the mattress on his bed. He produced a hacksaw blade that I could~see had the back edge well sharpened. A deadly little weapon. He bounced it in his hand, sneered one last sneerЧthen lunged at me.
Well, needless to say, that is not the recommended way to approach a Black Belt. I moved aside, chopped his wrist as he went by--then kicked the back of his ankle so that he ran headfirst into the wall.
He was knocked cold. When he came to I was sitting on

my bunk and doing my nails with his knife. "The name is Jim," I said, lip-curled and nasty. "Now you try saying it. J Х n
im.
He stared at me, his face twistedЧthen began to cry! I was horrified. Could this really be happening?
"They always pick on me. You're no better. Make fun of

me. And you took my knife away. I worked a month making that knife, had to pay ten bucks for the broken blade...."
The thought of all of the troubles had started him blubbering again. I saw then that he was only a year or two older than meЧand a lot more insecure. So my first introduction to criminal life found me cheering him up, getting a wet towel to wipe his face, giving him back his knifeЧand even giving him a five-buck goidpiece to stop his crying. I was beginning to feel that a life of crime was not quite what I thought it would be.
It was easy enough to get the story of his lifeЧin fact it

was hard to shut him up once he got in full spate. He was