The prison guard stands at his white van, decked out with handcuffs, mace, walkie talkie and other gear, looking as tough as Techno Viking. Seems like everyone over there at San Quentin Prison shaves their head. He's waiting for the six skinheads in gray sweats, that he just dropped off, to get on a bus or a taxi out of here. Then his responsibility for them would be complete till the next van full he brings to the San Rafael Depot. Despite the racist slogans peaking above the collar and the tattooed tears at the corner of the eye, these parolees seem harmless enough…intelligent, even. I figure they were in for dealing meth or gang violence. One guy asks me for the price for a trip to the Greyhound Terminal in Richmond. "I'm not cool with that", he says. Why don’t these 3 guys I’d drive over each have the $15 it would take but I know they only get a few bucks from the Department of Corrections on their release. Skinhead One leans further into the car window and adds, "Do you know where we can buy some beer and smokes," "Not at 8 in the morning," I answer. I'm beginning to feel one of these guys would easily like to slice me, fellow white guy or not. Just like Techno Cowboy Guard, I want these lads to get on the bus and off to their White Christmas Homecoming or whatever.