Tiger King: The Official Tell-All Memoir

CHAPTER 1

The youngest I can remember, I was already a cowboy.

There was no age requirement to hack weeds out of the milo fields with a machete; that was something we all had to do. It was considered a neighborhood curse if there were weeds in your cornfield, so all the kids had to walk the fields pulling weeds out of crops. I had a brother and a sister that were much older than me, Yarri and Tammy, and a baby sister, Pamela. And then there was Garold Wayne, also known as GW. He was three years older than me, and he was my best friend.

We lived south of Garden City, Kansas, on a cattle farm in a community called Plymell. Our farm had large herds of cattle on wheat fields, fenced in with a hot wire. When it stormed, and wet or frozen tumbleweeds grounded the electric fence, GW and I would walk around and pull them off so the electric circuit would continue. All of us worked on the farm, including my father and mother. Neither of my parents did much else other than work.

Across a two-lane road from our house and farm were three labor houses, where Hispanic workers lived during the harvest season. They would come help with the sugar beets and chop weeds from the fields with a Rogan knife so they didn’t smother good crops out. During corn, milo, and wheat harvest, us kids would stand out on the main highway with signs that said we were hiring combines to harvest the crops.

When I was five, Dad decided I was old enough to start driving. That sounded good to me; it was basically a promotion. Dad would put a pickup in gear, with a hammer on the gas pedal, and I’d steer the truck while Yarri and GW loaded irrigation pipe on the trailer. I kept falling asleep in the seat, so that promotion didn’t last long.

One day in the field, we were using an irrigation ditch to water the corn and Yarri done something wrong, causing the ditch to wash out. Dad was so mad, he held Yarri under the ditch water for a long time, nearly drowning him. My father was a mean man. Anytime we did something wrong Dad took it out on us. If Dad ever did something wrong he took it out on us too, with whatever was in reach.

At the house we had a feedlot, for those to be fattened up for slaughter sales. They ate a special mix called silage, which was ground-up corn stalks with the ears of corn in it. When silage got all packed together you could see steam come off it—that is how hot it got—and over time the corn became sour and had a really pleasant but deadly smell to it. One of our neighbors was inside one of the corn bins one day and the fumes from the fermenting corn overpowered him and killed him.

There was also a rodeo arena right there on the farm, and on Sundays we would have a community rodeo after church. The nuns would cook and serve food, and all the neighbors would rope, ride bulls, and barrel race. So between that and the feedlot, GW and I spent most our lives with animals.

It’s crazy what I can and can’t remember from my childhood. I often say I have a photographic memory, and I do indeed remember so much about working on the farm, but I can’t really picture what Mom and Dad looked like back then. It’s like their faces have been erased from my memory.

Dad was a thin man. The only clothes he had were work clothes because he was always working, either in the fields or with the cattle and horses. We were born to work the farm for him as free labor, just as he and his twelve brothers and sisters all worked in the fields. It was tradition. He had us kids drinking hard liquor at very young ages, which was apparently a German tradition.

Mom… when I picture Mom at her youngest, I see a thin lady with a beehive hairdo. But I can’t remember much else. Mom was a good cook; made a lot of German dishes. She was always canning things like pickles, okra, and peaches and stuff. When Dad was not around she took us to the fields and worked just as hard as anyone did. One time she got kicked in the back by one of Dad’s horses. It gave her problems her whole life, but it never stopped her from working.

Mom tried to make time for us to be kids, watching cartoons and eating breakfast before all the chores started. We never listened to music much, just some German stuff my dad liked. None of us watched much television, but Mom and Dad both liked westerns like Bonanza, and GW and I would watch Mom watch her stories, Days of Our Lives and As the World Turns.

There weren’t many times we ever went to town, other than to go to the dentist, the doctor, or to Mom’s hair parlor. We’d go to the drive-in movies once in a while and Dad would make us lie down in the back under blankets so we could get in for free. My parents never talked about money and hardly ever spent any. Throughout my childhood and even into adulthood, I never saw my parents buy new clothes; they shopped at garage sales and bought everything on sale. Mom would give her last dime to someone else before she spent it on herself. She wore the same blue coat for twenty years.

My favorite memory of my mother is from when I was ten years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. There was a light summer rain, and Mom and I were out in the wheat field, alone, pulling a calf from a young cow that could not give birth on her own. To help her out, we tied one end of a rope to the baby’s legs and the other to the bumper of our green pickup truck.

When it was all over, the mama cow ran off and never looked back. My mom and I wiped off the calf, then Mom gave me a piece of straw and showed me how to stick it in the calf’s nose to make it sneeze and shake the mucus out.

In my mind I can see that calf, I can feel the rain, I can smell the wet mud. And for sure I can remember our shared feeling of having accomplished something powerful, and good. But for the life of me I cannot remember Mom’s smile.

Farm kids are exposed to a lot growing up. We bottle-fed baby calves, we raised goats, sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks, turkeys—you name it, we had it. I witnessed the miracle of life many times, but I also witnessed the most awful of deaths—of animals, sure, but also of friends and neighbors, in car- and farm-related accidents. The two-lane road in front of our farm connected to a major highway through Kansas. There was no light at that intersection, and on too many nights, there were horrible car wrecks. We were nearly thirty miles from town, so every time we heard an accident, my family ran out and stayed with the injured people waiting for an ambulance. Back then, the ambulance was from the funeral home and had only one person in it, and that was the driver. You were pretty much shit out of luck once they loaded you in it.

Right across the main road was the school that served kindergarten to sixth grade. Before I was old enough to start, I would dig a hole under our yard fence and run across that dangerous highway so I could hang out with all the kids on the playground. The principal would always take me in his office and call Mom and say, Joe is back at school today; would you like to come get him?

Mom would come get me and take me home and pile bricks and dirt in the hole under the fence. I remember so badly wanting to go to school, and I remember everything about kindergarten, including the bright orange rug I took naps on. I especially remember standing in line waiting to pee. Some kids never made it to the bathroom.

We were surrounded by animals all the time, but a lot of farm kids are. The first dog I had was a toy Manchester named Frisky. Me and that dog was best friends. When I was in kindergarten, Dad got a Saint Bernard. I was in school when Dad went to the train to pick him up. We were having show-and-tell day, and Dad brought him in to surprise me. I can vividly see Dad walking down the sidewalk with that big white, brown, and black dog on a leash. I was so excited to meet that dog!

My true animal hobby began in earnest once I started grade school. Over summer break, I brought home the school’s white mice and by summer’s end, I ended up with hundreds of mice. After that, GW and I were in 4-H and FFA, and we spent our nights going around to different barns, catching pigeons and barn owls. At one point we had over five hundred pigeons. GW and I would show our pigeons, and take chickens and different animals to the local fair. You bet it was hard to raise something, show it, and know it might go to slaughter. Some people just bought them as pets to give the kids money for their projects.

The entire time I was growing up in Kansas until the age of thirteen, I used to bring home every stray dog there was. People from town made a habit of dumping off dogs at the farm, so I always had a steady stream of dogs to claim as mine. I guess they thought they’d be giving their dogs a better life, out on a farm. It never lasted long. Any adult dog I brought home, Dad would take it out and shoot it.

I told you my father was a mean man, and I meant it. It was devastating to me. If a litter of puppies was dropped off at the farm, which happened more than once, Dad would put them in a gunny sack and hold them underwater with a shovel until air bubbles quit coming up. He saw it as a practical matter; better they die now than slowly starve to death. Every time it happened, a part of my childhood was ripped from me.

When I was in sixth grade, Dad won some contest for selling corn, which came with a trip for two to Honolulu, Hawaii. There was no way he could take it because of work, but he let Mom go. GW and I both wanted to go real bad, because we wanted to see all the exotic jungle animals. In the end, GW got the plus-one. I understood; GW was the good kid. I was the one who accidentally burned down a field one time.

GW called when they got there and was all upset. Honolulu has no jungle, he said. It’s just a big, hot city. That was a real letdown to him and he’d spend the rest of his life talking about his wish to see the real jungles, with real animals, and the real indigenous people who lived among them.

While Mom and GW were gone, I fell on the sidewalk in front of the house and broke my arm. Dad didn’t care; he made me go to school with a broken arm for three days before Mom came home and took me to the doctor. This was the first of many casts and injuries I would deal with in my life.

What I’m about to tell you I’ve never told anyone in my life, and I can only say it now because my dad is no longer here to deal with the shame and all his brothers and sisters are gone as well.

My father abused me, in every possible way a child can be abused. I remember sitting in his pickup truck out in the field, with no one around to help me, and he’d make me touch his penis. This happened many times. I’m sure you don’t want to let your mind go there any more than I do. I felt completely helpless, nowhere to run and no one to help me.

I don’t know if my siblings endured what I did. I don’t know if Mom knew or not. However, soon after my dad started in on me, my brother Yarri began sexually abusing me as well. Yarri used to take me in the bathroom, pull a bottom drawer out to block the door, and make me have sex with him. Yarri kept on abusing me, for several years, until we left Kansas.

Since I have been imprisoned, a BBC documentarian named Louis Theroux sat down with my brother Yarri and asked him about whether he’d sexually abused me. Yarri denied it, but my memories are my memories. I have memories burned into my head that most people will never have to endure. For someone who’s seen the things I’ve seen, having a photographic memory is less a blessing than a curse.

The sexual abuse Dad put me through ended around the time I was eight, but he continued to beat on me. Dad’s rages always came with a high quantity of spit running out of his mouth and into your face. Him and Mom fought every day, and Yarri would often get into the mix, too. If Dad and Yarri were going at it, there was a good chance they’d start swinging at each other. GW was good at staying out of Dad’s way, but I was always pissing Dad off.

One night, Dad was mad at me about something I’d done (I’m not blameless, I’m sure it was something stupid), and he held me down on the couch, choking me.

GW walked in right as Dad was wringing my neck. It was clear on his face that GW had had enough; he screamed as loud as he could for Dad to stop. I swear I will never hit my kids—I’m going to break this abusive cycle! he cried out.

Dad let me go and sulked his way outside, his pride hurt. GW had never stood up to him before. That was the last time Dad ever laid hands on me. GW was my hero.

CHAPTER 2

Mom and Dad bought Yarri a bright yellow Ford Mustang Mach 1 for his graduation. Tammy got a small orange car, and took off to live with her boyfriend. When it was GW’s turn to get a vehicle, we drove out to Dodge City with Dad to pick it up. It was a brand-new white Chevy pickup with a camper shell. GW was happier than Christmas morning.

On the way out of town, GW and I were sitting at a red light in the new truck, the radio blasting some old country song. To our right was a cattle semitrailer. I remember thinking, Wouldn’t it be funny if one of those cows shit on our car? Then it happened. Splat. A cow just shit green diarrhea from out the side of the semi, all across the hood of GW’s brand-new white truck.

GW was a softhearted guy, and this was enough to make him cry. But he didn’t scream or get overly upset.

Doesn’t that just make you nuts? I said. It’s like God’s out to get us!

God’s not so petty, GW said. No use being mad at life.

When we finally got to wash it off, the cow shit had left a permanent green stain on the white paint. Surely it would have driven a lesser man absolutely apeshit.

GW could keep his cool, but working on the farm was hard on all of us. Then one year Dad went to a big horse sale in Denver, Colorado, and bought a stud named Market Price and hired a trainer.

In Market Price’s first race, the odds were ninety-nine to one. I bought a three-dollar ticket for Market Price to come in third, and Dad bought a ten-dollar one for him to win. Market Price won his first race by almost two horse lengths; then he won nearly every race he ran in Denver and Ruidoso down in New Mexico.

Dad was hooked. With his newfound earnings, he bought a cattle ranch in the mountains of Centennial, Wyoming.

Wyoming gave me the best childhood memories. Our ranch lay at the foot of Centennial Ridge, and we had our own mountain, which we called Hogback Mountain, because of its shape. GW and myself spent nearly every waking hour on horseback, checking on cows and riding in the mountains. There were two horses: a big blue roan gelding named Smoky and a paint mare named Babe. Smoky I’d ride the most; Babe would lie down in the water every time we crossed a river.

One night right at dusk on the new property, GW let out a scream. I rushed outside and he ran up to me, saying, I just saw Bigfoot, on the top of the hill, walking toward the mountain!

GW never lied about anything, so if he said he saw something I never doubted him. From then on we kept one eye open at all times for Bigfoot. Some people might think that’s crazy, but a few other townspeople said they saw Bigfoot the same night. It was a phenomenon people in that area claimed to see often.

You want to talk about the Wild West? At the age of thirteen I went on my first real cattle drive in Wyoming, driving two hundred cows around the mountains, from one ranch to another. It would take a couple days at a time. If it rained we’d have to plug holes in our tents with socks just to stay dry. Real Grizzly Adams kind of living. Life was good.

At our ranch, when calves were born, we’d have to work the herd so they could graze up the mountain on BLM land. That is Bureau of Land Management, not Black Lives Matter. BLM assigns you a certain amount of government land each year for your cattle to graze on. We would have to brand them so people knew they were our cattle, and we would cut the male calves to make them steers, so they didn’t inbreed and would gain weight better. This was all done Old West style: the older guys would rope them on horseback and stretch them out. GW and I would castrate the bull calves and throw their testicles right on the open fire. Put a little salt on them and eat them right there. Mountain oysters, they’re called. The texture could be like chicken or fish, depending on how well you cooked them. I couldn’t eat them if they were mushy, so I always had to cook them well-done.

In the winter all the roads would close, so we had to ride a snowmobile to school. After classes, we’d go skiing at the resort just up the road. I did a lot of drinking back then. When you live in the mountains and the roads are closed with twenty-foot snowdrifts, all there is to do is play pool and drink. It can lead to trouble. I was an alcoholic when I was fourteen.

In the summer we’d ride horses or dirt bikes up on the mountain, on deer and elk trails under the aspen trees, across small creeks loaded with beaver dams. The best drinking water in the world was from a creek that came down the mountain—that taste you could never experience anywhere else. Sometimes me and GW would take the dams apart so the creeks would run better, and those damn beavers would work all night, chopping trees down and moving them into place. They’d have everything built and put back together the very next day.

Prairie dogs were everywhere too; they tore up the pasture and dug holes that cows and horses would trip in and break legs. Dad had Yarri shooting any prairie dog he saw, so me and GW came up with a plan to save them. There were three large trout lakes that flooded into each other and the middle one had an island in it. We made a raft just like on Gilligan’s Island and set sail for Prairie Dog Island, where we kept and fed all the ones we could catch. At one time we had over two hundred prairie dogs there.

I always loved animals, and continued bringing home every weird animal I could find. Caught my first porcupine, and a raccoon, which I bottle-raised and named Curiosity. Dad was deathly afraid of him and Curiosity knew it; he’d chase Dad all over the place. My little sister