You had nothing else to do but imagine it in all the worst ways that going back and forth between hope and no hope can do to you. The will to "Fuck you" replaces the might to live. He ends up in a cage comparable to that one, although Bronson hates the comparison (he makes it anyway). All Hannibal Lector ever wanted was a view. You can tell a solitary by how they blink in the sun. The kind of recognition like seeing your own face after decades under a single 20 watt bulb hanging from a cement coffin that's the roof over your head. A mind that doesn't shatter with no hope for other reflections, no matter how far past the welcome dirt mat of hell it goes. This stone cold womb is giving birth to a still born.Īt the mercy of his low threshold for pain sanity, one fist punching the system and the other beating his face beyond recognition. He doesn't think of doing something else. I can't tell you how sad it made me that Bronson imagines making the trip from his prison to his other prisons as a free man. No matter how much he loses he's still Charlie from the cell block.
Home is where your number is on the wall. He only ever really had himself in twenty-eight years of confinement. You can tell a solitary by their fetal position. You can tell an inmate by the way they walk as if lining up.
A villain's mustache as biting at the bit and shackles on the feet. Charles Bronson means convict, artist, poet, fighter, son, friend. Lethal and two steps back in a duck and fight. He wears it like he wears his mustache, or his prison uniform. I can't tell you how sad it made me that he thought the officers who charged him under this adopted name did him a favor. They had charged me under my fighting name, not under the name I was born with, Michael Gordon Peterson. A villain's mustache as biting at Charles Bronson was born.
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