Spitfire! The Makings of a Revolutionary-True Life Story of Ashanti Ali

Excerpt from Ch.1 of Spitfire

The Nazis, in posthaste, mistook my celly, Charles Captain, for me. A true case of mistaken identity for real and for sure. The price tag was enormous. San Quentin would be locked down for more than a year. A war was brewing. I was young, fresh to the line, and inexperienced in how they get down in prison minus the hearsay bequeathed unto me in the county jail. But, the one thing I wasn’t was a coward.

I was fortunate enough to have been in the company of true to form revolutionaries prior to my capture. I was well drilled in numerous forms of combat, notwithstanding I am an Army veteran. I had escaped being so-called executed on death row only to descend into an environment of puritanical racism. I entertained “fish lines” galore each day, every day, all day from the radical “BDF” there in East Block with me, telling me I “had to take a military course of action” for what the “White boys” did to my celly. Bottom line. I let it be known in no uncertain terms, oh, it’s going down on sight. I actually would stab an individual, Peacock—he had a giant peacock tatted on his back and that’s exactly where I left my knife. I left it stuck in a protruding from his back. It should be known that it was much more to all this targeting that met the eye. And, perhaps it would be a wise man’s move to freeze, back up, and highlight just what ushered all this madness in.