TOTW: Prison Break!

Let us break the illusion that prisons are impenetrable fortresses, insurmountable barriers and airtight containers. There's a long list of prison escapes, and many more who went unrecorded. We know of historical prison riots, as well as recent prisoner unrest across U.S.A. and Canada, and even mass prison escapes throughout the world, for example in places like Haiti, West Papua, Italy and many more. Real stories of prison breaks have liberated popular imagination since the invention of prisons. You can find many different "Top 10" lists of prison escapes on the Internet, and it's often featured as the main plot of popular movies and T.V. series. As anarchists we a have special vested interest in this topic.

Tell us all your favorite stories of escapes from prisons!

Including: factories, schools, psych wards, farms and cages, all the way to the personal prisons of abusive relationships, addictions, bad habits, the digital prisons of social media and the cities with strictly enforced quarantines and curfews.

Recently anarchist prisoner Sean Swain spoke about this:

"Don’t forget, however bad you’ve got it, others less capable than you have gotten through longer chunks of time in far worse conditions. I did a year with virtually nothing, on starvation rations, with very little soap, locked in a space the size of a bathroom with another poor bastard. We were both idiots, and yet we both survived. You will too. Resolve to survive this. Walk around your living space. Tell the walls: “You won’t defeat me.” Tell your couch: “You won’t defeat me.” Tell all your furnishings: “You won’t defeat me.” Then look in the mirror and tell yourself: “This won’t defeat me.” And mean it. You have two choices, flat-out. You can survive this, or you can sit down on the curb, and sooner or later the dogs and the birds will eat you. It’s your choice. I’ve made my choice. Hope I see you on the other side of this shit. This is anarchist prisoner Sean Swain in exile from Ohio at Buckingham Correctional in Dillwyn, Virginia. If you’re surviving, you are the resistance."

He's also spoken about how one could imagine taking it all down:

See, a long time ago, I finished a three-part zine, Ohio. I intended it to be three parts, each part presenting an argument for the illegitimacy not just of Ohio, but of the whole hierarch delusion. I had no intention of re-visiting that zine…until this latest round of state terror that convinced me that I should write Ohio, Part IV, which would essentially address the question of what we ought to do about it. I wrote that. Got it out. Friends are presenting Ohio to Little Black Cart for publication. So, if I’m dead – and I hope I’m not – get Ohio, read it, and gather a few thousand friends and do it.

[...] First, we need the development of a statewide database much like – a blastblog 2.0, maybe – where all Ohio officials’ home addresses are posted…from county judges and prosecutors to the governor and all of the legislators…along with courts, courthouses, prisons, colleges, and anything essential to the operation of the hierarch program.

Second, we need folks transmitting 12 Monkey materials into every single Ohio prison. Those materials can be found at:

[...] So, Ohio is like my single-most ambitious effort, my contribution to the ongoing and evolving dialogue on how to most effectively bring the inimical system down, my vision of resistance.

During this International Week of Solidarity with Anarchist Prisoners we focus our attention and our solidarity towards anarchist prisoners. Neither innocent, nor guilty; simply anarchists.

As Gustavo Rodríguez has recently spoken on this matter here:

Let us be in solidarity with OUR prisoners and fugitives in all latitudes, with which we share affinity. Let us abandon the charitable missions and the role of chaplains -the time has come to leave the "volunteer work" to the Church and to the abolitionist liberals - let us stop wasting time and resources in prisoners that are not our own. We have to demonstrate, once again, that solidarity with OUR prisoners is not a dead letter. Direct solidarity, here and now, with the beloved Alfredo Cospito and all the anarchists incarcerated around the world. Direct solidarity with the Greek comrades of the Cell of Fire Conspiracy (CCF). Direct solidarity, with our fellow fugitives Gabriel Pombo Da Silva and Elisa Di Bernardo (free and dangerous!), stalked again by the State (Spanish and Italian).

And here:

That is why, when we declare that anarchic solidarity is more than words, we not only refer to our accomplices in their struggles and, to the economic and emotional support of our prisoners, but we also ratify the foundations of our struggle. Of course, there is no more appropriate support for our imprisoned comrades than to coordinate their escape or to blow up the bus that transports their jailers, but we don’t always have the means for these spectacular actions; nevertheless, there are many ways to show our support and to concretize solidarity with imagination. There are an infinite number of actions capable of obstructing the prison complex and these only require a little prior investigation in order to be carried out. Of course, any attack on the system of domination beyond the symbols will always bring them joy by evoking the smell of gunpowder and its implications.

Tell us how would you help break out others from the outside of these prisons!

Remind us of recent actions in solidarity, like those against ICE detention facilities, and of historical accounts, like the extortion of a banker to call attention to political prisoners under Franco.

Tell us of your favorite accounts of anarchists' defiance in the face of examiners, juries, judges and executioners. Of the defiance of anarchist within prisons; like hunger strikes; letters from prisoners, to people outside and even with people inside other prisons (or even podcasts with each other!!!) that show us that even within those walls they are fighting for freedom, evolving their ideas, paying attention to the outside world, and engaging in conversation with us.

Let’s retell the stories of anarchists burning down precincts, shooting up courthouses, burning down prisons, escaping prison, and stories of anarchists that survived prison and have since been released.

Until we can finally say goodbye to prisons!

There are 17 Comments

A couple of stories for ya's, somebody pass that jug of wine.

Not strictly an escape story, but a friend of mine gave me a little book his father printed about his experiences in prison as a conscientious objector in Canada during world war two. He was in a low security prison, if I recall correctly, full of other men who refused to fight for one reason or another.

My friend's father was something of a mechanical genius, and after some time being bored, as one is in confinement, he made himself a set of calipers out of some parts broken off his bed frame by rubbing them against the wall. Using these calipers, he measured the pins in the lock on his door and made himself a key, again out of a piece of his bed and a lengthy period of manual grinding. He wasn't actually interested in escaping the prison, but he wanted to be able to come and go from his cell as he pleased. Once he had a key to his door, he'd go visit other prisoners.

At the end of his cell block was the meal room, he noticed that the door to said room wasn't pinned to its hinges, so in the middle of the night he and some other prisoners (I think he picked the locks on their cells as well) lifted the huge door of its hinges and hid it under a mattress in an empty cell. They also opened another empty cell and moved a bed to the meal room so they would have a sort of couch to lounge on. The door was eventually found and replaced, if I recall correctly the bed stayed in the meal room for a while longer.

When the war ended, he and the other conscientious objectors were released. He left his key behind a broken brick in his cell, hoping that someone else would eventually find it.

Such is the story of old man Michael's time in prison. One of the lessons here is that it's sometimes easier to attack things than defend them. Obviously security in prisons varies from place to place, and things have changed a lot since the 1940s. I still hope that people can leverage weak spots and design flaws.

Got some more for ya's, can somebody roll me one of those butts?

This is the story of my first night in a particular psych ward. Once again, this is a failed escape attempt, but it did set the tone for my time on the sixth floor of the Civic Hospital.

The cops brought me in around two o'clock in the afternoon. I'll spare you the details of how I came to be there for the sake of privacy, but I was pretty happy to socialize with the people in this particular loony bin, as I'd been hitching around the east side of the country for the previous couple months and hadn't been in a big group for a while.

The main character in this story isn't me, it's my roommate-to-be, who we'll call Chunky. Chunky was brought up in a cult, he told me, and they had decided he was bipolar. We were getting on fine, trying to touch our toes with our butts against the wall, as instructed by a pretty native girl who had realized the Catholic Church was a cult a bit too loudly while in attendance at the aforementioned church. Having failed at this, I started to dance around and shadow box, being fairly stimulated. Chunky, too, began to shadow box.

Unfortunately, Chunky became very excited by this jumping around and punching the air, and in his excitement, he grabbed Terry, a deaf white guy who had been put in the psych ward for shoplifting from the hospital's gift shop. Chunky threw Terry against the wall pretty hard. The staff started rounding each other up, as they'd always use at least four people to subdue a resident in case of a Code White. Chunky knew he was gonna get a needle in the butt, and wasn't gonna have it. He ran into one of the bathrooms and locked the door.

Now, obviously the bathrooms in a psych ward can be opened from the outside pretty easily, but they still need a key to keep us pervy inmates from barging in on each other. The key was eventually found and the door was opened to find Chunky had climbed onto the sink and ripped the flourescent lighting fixture out of the ceiling, and had proceeded to climb into the ceiling. His plan, he later told me, was to make for the stairwell through the ceiling, jump out, and escape the hospital. Unfortunately, the concrete walls of that particular hospital extend through the visible ceiling, past all the electrical, and up to the concrete floor above. Chunky was stuck above the bathroom.

Chunky was tenacious. Just because he couldn't escape from the ceiling of the bathroom didn't mean he was going to come down and accept a high dose of some sedative. He ignored the coaxing of the staff and stayed up there until some fire department guys arrived with a ladder, climbed up, and hauled his ass down.

The unfortunate ending to this story is that he did, in the end, get stabbed in the ass with a needle that put him to sleep for a day or so. I ended up being roommates with Terry.

Now, one last story and we're gonna put this fire out and go to sleep.

These last stories are about me, and also some nurses, and also some people who helped me, and also some people who tried to stop me.

The experience with Chunky was the beginning of three months in two psych wards. I tried to escape from the first one twice and the second one once, with varying levels of success before failure.

The first time was the most confrontational. I asked my mama, who was visiting regularly, to bring me a pair of red plastic chopsticks from my backpack so that I could improve my dexterity while eating. She brought 'em in for me, and I waited for the weekly arts and crafts day (we were assigned crafts and did them to demonstrate that we could follow instructions) to sharpen the ends of these chunky chop sticks with a pencil sharpener.

Once I had these sharpened chop sticks... Wait, right, it's important for you to know that I had my clothes back at this point. It's gonna be easier to escape a psych ward if you have street clothes. If you behave well for a week or so they'll probably give them to you, at least where I'm from. Sorry. Right, once I had these sharpened chop sticks I waited by the entrance until the custodial staff opened the door to bring out the cleaning cart. I followed them out and got into the elevator. The nurses noticed immediately and came to block the elevator door from closing. My heart was pounding like your upstairs neighbors on wine night. I took out a sharp chopstick and made like I was going to stab the guy holding the door open in the hand. I also yelled something along the lines of "Don't fuck with me man! I'm crazy!" which is kind of funny in hind site. This actually worked, and the guy took his hand off the elevator door and I started to descend. I hopped off the elevator on a floor chosen at random and wandered through the hospital looking for an exit. Nobody said anything to me, I found some stairs, and got out of the hospital.

I went to a friend's place to borrow twenty bucks, intending to use that money to travel three thousand kilometers to the west coast, where I figured I could use whatever was left of the twenty dollars to buy a sail boat and leave this godforsaken country behind. Unfortunately, I agreed to stay for dinner, this friend's mum called my mama and she called the cops.

The last part of this attempt, perhaps the most dramatic, was when the cops came in to the house to bring me to their car and back to the hospital. I had a glass of wine in my hand and politely asked if I could finish my glass of wine. They said yes (the fools!) and I downed the wine and smashed the glass on the table, thinking I could get to the back door if the cops were afraid of me. The cops, quicker on the draw than I had anticipated, pulled out their tasers and yelled "TASER! TASER!". I really didn't want to get tased, because I'm pretty sure it sucks. I don't think anybody really disagrees with me on that one. I dropped the wine glass, they angrily hauled my ass to the car, and we rode back to the hospital.
So much for that attempt.

Lessons here: Civilians are afraid enough of getting stabbed to back off. Cops have weapons and bullet proof vests, and as such tend to escalate rather than back down.

I know I said one more story, but I hadn't anticipated how long each escape attempt story would be. I'm gonna take a leak, somebody roll me another dart.

Alright folks. Now that the piss-sack is a bit less bloated, where was I?

Right, attempt two. I'll see if I can't keep this one shorter, as it's the one I'm least proud of.

So, this time, I decided to be patient. A patient patient, if you will. I hung around on my best behaviour, playing count down crazy eights with Chunky, doing arts and crafts once a week, vandalizing the bathrooms with some pastels somebody brought me, and generally being an upstanding citizen in the little regime of the Civic Hospital.

If you behave long enough, you start to get priviliges. First you get to wear your own clothes, then you get to leave the ward to go outside and smoke cigarettes, then you get to go out for a whole day once a week. I waited until I could go out once a week, borrowed sixty dollars from a friend, and found a rideshare going west. The big mistake here, to be ignored and made again later, was going west deeper into the province in pursuit of some golden sunset on the ocean surrounded by women, weed, and good weather. If I had gone east I could have been out of the province in less than a day, and (I learned later) outside of the jurisdiction of the province's health care.

I got in the ride share, tried not to be too weird, and told the guy driving that I was going north to be the cook at a fishing camp. An hour into the ride, my parents, who at this point had noticed my conspicuous absence, called the guy, having checked local rideshares and found one that matched my foolishly articulated desires.

The guy driving stops the car at a truck stop, and my dad and brother come and get me. They bring me back to the psych ward, and I'm back to a hospital gown and tobacco withdrawal.

Second lesson here, also to be repeated later; one's will is possibly the most important part of escaping from a psych ward. I could have told the guy to let me out of the car and hid in the woods, then hitched a ride after the heat had died down. If you feel like the jig's up and give up, you're definitely caught. If I had kept resisting, I probably could have had a longer run on this one.

"Holy shit, does this guy ever stop talking?"
Shut the fuck up Dakota, the guy asked for stories. We're out of rolling tobacco, eh? Alright, well, I'm almost done anyway.

Okay, so, this last failure was the closest to success, though still horribly misguided by the glorious whimsy and folly of desire.

Attempt three! So, it's been about a month since attempt two. It's now the beginning of august, and I've been transferred to another psych ward. This one is fuckin' classy, for proper schizos only. We got ping-pong and foosball, CBT discussion groups, a room to ourselves, and an accompanied walk around the perimeter of the hospital every day. It sucked.

Obviously if you want someone to reintegrate into society it's easier to do it with a gentle hand. I didn't like it, mostly for that reason. The standard of living was clearly better, but it was the same authoritarian bullshit, just with a bit of lube this time.

Regardless, I was patient. I applied for a review of my internment, basically asserting legally that I had the capacity to make my own decisions. What's kinda weird, where I am, is that if they determine you a threat to yourself or others you can lose the right to opt into treatment. Obviously you can't turn down the meds, but you actually can't legally accept them either. You have to take the treatment set out for you by a psychiatrist, and if you don't they'll keep your ass locked up. Probably nothing too surprising for you here. I'll move on.

I applied for a review and represented myself, as I'd already had a state provided lawyer half-ass it with no visible results. The lawyers in attendance thought I was the doctor until the doctor walked in, which was kinda funny. Anyway, long story which mostly involves waiting and listening short, they denied my claim to agency the next day. I put on two pairs of underwear and socks, stuck my rolling papers and lighter in my pocket, went for my daily walk.

Oh, other relevant thing, they put me on welfare, so I suddenly had $500. Straight ballin'.

We circle the perimeter, and as we get close to my planned route I take off running. I ran until I couldn't anymore, then walked up to some lady getting her into her car and told her I was late for a doctor's appointment, and could she please drop me off at the bus stop. She brought me most of the way before, presumably, realizing I was some kind of escaped psychiatric patient and might stab her with a chopstick or something crazy like that. I thanked her for the ride, hopped out, bought a Dr. Pepper so I would have change for the bus, and walked to the bus station. After a mid-length bus ride, I got out at the place I hitch hike west from, and stuck my thumb out.

I was heading west for a week and made it around 800 kilometers. There's a lot of details to that week. I got picked up by a military cop who drove forty kilometers over the speed limit and had the nastiest hands, a lady pulled over because she could feel the amber necklace in my pocket and trusted anybody who would be carrying amber, I got laid on my third day sleeping at the farm of a lady who picked me up.

Anyway, I made it to the western edge of Lake Superior, to a town that's kind of a pain to hitch out of. A friend of mine was driving west all the way to the coast, and the day I was going to meet up with them I got picked up by the cops. I got IDed buying cigars at some gas station, and I guess there had been an article about me in a local paper. They called the cops, and I pretty much complied when the cop pulled over and called me by name.

Summary of the lessons learned:
Patience is important. In psych wards you can feign compliance for a while and they'll let you start walking around on the outside.

Take the shortest route out of the province (maybe state too, I don't know the laws down south) available to you, the paperwork that's going to keep you in the hospital doesn't mean shit outside of the province it's issued in.

Don't show your ID, and maybe shave that beard off, you look like an asshole.

Don't give up, you aren't caught until you're behind a locked door.

Anyway, fuck you guys, I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me up unless there's a fire or cops or you've found more cigarette butts. Thanks for listening.

Thank you for the stories! These are valuable lessons that might come in handy!

Stay sane dude, whatever that is, life is a wall to be climbed or a challenged to be tunnelled through. You should try the tunnelling method sooo popular when surface surveilance was intense.

I caught on to this vibe and tried to post my true true story of going to a psyche watch, which began with the police pointing a weapon at me.

But that's a very long story overall when you bring the police, my family, and my history, into the matter. I can only end it by being normal and listening to the beautiful sounds of nature.

I've never gone to prison and I'm gonna try as hard as I can not to end up there. Stay sane my friends. If you dont respect existing, then expect resisting.

The names used in this story have been changed to protect the condemned, viewer discretion advised

I met a lot of disturbed and interesting individuals at the behavioral health unit at the martinsburg hospital. Most of them were also there for suicide attempts.
One of the first people I met there was Paula. She was a chubby lady with short, curly hair, probably in her 30's but I didn't ask. The first day, I was trying to figure out how I was gonna get out, and it seemed like she had a pretty good relationship to the staff, so I asked her if she knew of any chores to keep my mind occupied and look good to the staff. She said “Chores? Hmmm...I'll see what I can find for you...” and so she led me to walk with her down the hallways, and I wasn't sure if she was actually trying to show me to anything that I could do. Finally, we stopped at a window at the end of one of the hallways. She told me to look.
“Now what do you see?”
I was confused and said “Uhh...the rooftop to the other buildings in the hospital.”
“Okay, okay, you see rooftops. Now, use your imagination, what see now?”
My imagination went completely blank, I still just saw the rooftop. She got impatient. “What do you want to see?”
Still, nothing had come to my mind, but to make the situation a little less uncomfortable I said “I see a girlfriend”.
“There you go!” she said excitedly. “The imagination is a very powerful thing! The world can be anything that you want it to be.
We broke off, and we didn't speak again until the night before I was discharged. I went out to the lounge and started drawing a picture of a bullhead in order to occupy my mind. I saw Paulette in there. I decided to ask her how she ended up in the behavioral health unit.
“I'm getting out soon, it's part of my job.”
“Oh, doing what?
“I'm a CI.”
I knew what that acronym meant, but it didn't come to my mind right away.
“A confidential informant?”
She sounded very serious, but I knew that I was in a mental health institution so I didn't believe it. I decided to play along for fun, it probably wasn't a good idea for me to say that aloud.
She started talking again, “Let's break out of here!”
“...but I thought you were getting out of here soon?”
“I'm tired of this place, the staff here are all bad people.”
“How would you break out of here?!” I was pretty sure that this was an impossible task, we were always being watched and there were no exits except the front door, which was right next to the nurse's station.
“I beat up a nurse last week! Were gonna kill the gaurds!”.
I explained that I was probably getting out tomorrow and so I expressed my disinterest. She was upset.
“I thought that you said you were my friend?! I thought that you said you were my friend?!”
“I never said that.”
A nurse came over to us, he asked me if she was bothering me, if I was okay with her talking to me.
“I'm fine with her talking to me...the problem is that she is having delusions.”
The nurse looked at me with a really large grin on his face. Okay, well leave him alone he doesn't really want you to be talking to him.
Paula lost faith in me...

Another person that I met named Joseph couldn't stop telling outlandish stories about himself, it was as if he was in an action movie. The first day that I met him he said that he was a hacker for the CIA, MS-13, and The Mafia. I knew that he was full of shit after he said this, but what would be the fun in calling him out? His reason for being in the behavioral health unit was that he was hiding after paying off $25,000 dollars worth of drug debts that that his sister and her boyfriend accumulated. He was also really into rock music and conspiracy theories. He told me that it was not Harvey Oswald that shot JFK, but it was Jacky from Guns'n Roses...When he got going with these yarns, he got completely entranced by them, and it kinda seemed like he was always going in a circle.

Overall, my vacation to the psyche ward was ultimately beneficial, it snapped me out of a lot of my thinking habits, and it gave me a new direction for moving forward...If I can be seen as moving forward at all. The way I escaped is I told the actual psychiatrist, who seemed to have a thing for anti-depressants, that I had credit card bills to pay, and I saw the sad careerist anxiety fill his heart as he made the made the call.

My situation was more concerned with the legalities of confinement, because I would rather pursue an escape from the labyrinth of the machine's prison system using the legislative path before risking death to pierce the fatal enclosure of razor wire, 25ft walls, electric fences and highpowered automatic weapons firing hollow-points.
I was no longer able to get the thought of the trial out of my head. I had often wondered whether it might not be a good idea to work out a written defence and hand it in to the court. It would contain a short description of my life and explain why I had acted the way I had at each event that was in any way important, whether I now considered I had acted well or ill when I masturbated at peakhour on the subway and my reasons for each breaking of moral borders. There was no doubt of the advantages a written defence of this sort would have over relying on the lawyer, who was anyway not without his shortcomings. I had no idea what actions the lawyer was taking; it was certainly not a lot, it was more than a month since the lawyer had summoned me and none of the previous discussions had given me the impression that this man would be able to do much for me. Most importantly, I had asked him hardly any questions. And there were so many questions here to be asked. Asking questions were the most important thing. I had the feeling that he would be able to ask all the questions needed here himself. The lawyer, in contrast, did not ask questions but did all the talking himself or sat silently facing me, and leant forward slightly over the desk, probably because he was hard of hearing, pulled on a strand of hair in the middle of his beard and looked down at the carpet, perhaps at the very spot where I had lain with my cellmate. Now and then he would give me some vague warning of the sort you give to children. His speeches were as pointless as they were boring, and I decided that when the final bill came he would charge the maximum fee. The bastard! Once the lawyer thought he had humiliated me sufficiently by constantly reminding me to stop jerking off. He had already, he would then say, won many such cases, partly or in whole, cases which may not really have been as difficult as this one but which, on the face of it, had even less hope of success. He had a list of these cases here in the drawer - here he would tap on one or other of the drawers in his desk - but could, unfortunately, not show them to me as they dealt with official secrets. Nonetheless, the great experience he had acquired through all these cases would, of course, be of benefit to me. He had, of course, begun work straight away and was nearly ready to submit the first documents. They would be very important because the first impression made by the defence will often determine the whole course of the proceedings. Unfortunately, though, he would still have to make it clear to me that the first documents submitted are sometimes not even read by the court. They simply put them with the other documents and point out that, for the time being, questioning and observing the accused are much more important than anything written. If the applicant becomes insistent, then they add that before they come to any decision, as soon as all the material has been brought together, with due regard, of course, to all the documents, then these first documents to have been submitted will also be checked over. But unfortunately, even this is not usually true, the first documents submitted are usually mislaid or lost completely, and even if they do keep them right to the end they are hardly read, although the lawyer only knew about this from rumour. This is all very regrettable, but not entirely without its justifications. But I should not forget that the trial would not be public, if the court deems it necessary it can be made public but there is no law that says it has to be. As a result, the accused and his defence don't have any transparency with the media, and ,,,

My personal favorite in prison escapes comes from the outside in a full-on insurgency. During the war in El Salvador there were reportedly incidents where the FMLN stormed prisons, freeing and arming every inmate. This sort of thing produces a major headache for the Enemy, as trying to take thousands of armed people who just busted out or were busted out of prison back to a cage is a good way to get a lot of your goons shot. A thousand escaped and armed inmates is numerically equivalent to over a battalion of infantry, though not as well trained and lacking mortar/machine gun fire support unless the insurgents stay close.

Daesh later copied the basic idea of storming prisons, because the government of Iraq had made the mistake of holding most of their Daesh prisoners in just a few prisons. Thus a small number of prison stormings recovered essentailly all of their once-former leadership. The results were an absolute catastrophe for both Iraq and Syria, but let's remember here that tools are tools and work for whoever uses them. The same could have been done to Daesh to jump-start an insurgency against them if the YPG, YPJ, and seemingly half the Middle East hadn't kicked their asses and removed most of the need.

Now consider the results inside the US if ALF and ELF in say, 2010 had simultaniously recovered ALL of their POW's in a series of raids, while leaving the government too busy worrying about 5,000 or more newly armed escapees to do anything about it. Not cheap unless you raid an armory first though: we are talking 5,000 rifles and possibly five MILLION rounds of ammo needed for this. Daesh had stolen hardware up to M1 Abrams tanks when cowards in the Iraqi Army cut and run at the first sign of their advance. The FMLN fighters in El Salvador they stole the idea from supposely were being shipped some of the weapons the United Snakes abandoned in Vietnam (I still remember the TV news report on that one in 1981 or 1982).

Lastly there is the small-scale version of this, involving one person and a small insurgent group. Every prison makes mistakes, and inmates have 24 hours a day to find them. Let's consider how the Weather Underground got Timothy Leary out. In the prison courtyard, the fools running the place allowed a tree to grow until a branch overhung the wall. Leary and the Weather Underground were in comms with each other, and this escape was incredibly simple: the Weather Underground parked a car on the outside near the overhanging branch at a prechosen time, and Leary just climbed the tree, jumped down on the other side, and drove away. Next time the United Snakes heard from him it was from someplace that did not extradict to them.

All of these are simple and direct: all-out, direct force straight up the middle in the first two cases, and simple observation for an utterly stupid prison mistake in the third case.

I heard somewhere the report of the FMLN storming prisons many years ago, but cannot find confirmation of it now on the Internet. None the less, this sort of tactic goes back to the storming of the Bastille, and THAT ended with rich people going to the guillotine.

That's a damn infantile methodology, before walls are breached, the the Cartesian foundations to collective consciousness must be altered. S'm'work yet to be done bringing this mass perception to fruition.

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