by
Los Santos County Correctional Facility
Block C, Cell 27
May 30, 2025
To my ride-or-die, Sandy,
Damn girl, it’s only been 5 years since they threw me in this cement shoebox. I been thinking ’bout you a lot. Mostly at chow time when I’m chewing on what might be a meatloaf or cardboard. Prison food makes me miss your cooking—even that one time you set the microwave on fire trying to “grill cheese in under 10 seconds.”
Tell the crew I’m holding it down for Punks behind bars. Big Tank in here asked if we were a real club or a group of cosplayers who got lost on the way to Comic-Con. I had to remind him – with the back of my hand —that our kuts are real and our engines are louder than his mama’s snoring. Tank and I are cool now. He gave me his pudding cup yesterday. It’s the little things.
Please check on my bike, Lucifer’s Guts. I left it behind the Liquor Ace in Sandy Shores—right next to that place where you got in a fight with Brenda back in the day. If Mad Dog tries to “borrow” it again, you got my blessing to run him over with it. Twice. That bike’s my second love after you. Third if I count my chrome-plated Desert Eagle (I miss her too).
Also, I had a dream last night where we got married under the Vinewood sign with the whole gang watching, drunk on Sprunk and whiskey. You wore that leather corset with the flaming skull pasties. Reverend Destro presided over the ceremony with a sawed-off shotgun. It was beautiful. I woke up crying and punching my bunkmate. He forgave me. Probably ’cause he’s scared I’m crazier than him. He’s not wrong. I’m fuckin’ nuts.
Anyways, I should wrap this up. Commissary’s low, and I traded my last pencil for a tattoo of a flaming skull giving the finger. It’s on my thigh. It’s…badass.
Hold it down for me out there, Sandy. Keep your boot on the gas and your middle finger in the air.
– E Rock
