JAILBREAK!   Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE 	      The Hare           				2
CHAPTER TWO          The Dogpack                                          15
CHAPTER THREE        The labor exploiters                                     24
CHAPTER FOUR          Women learn genetics                                 26
CHAPTER FIVE             A Narrow escape                                        30
CHAPTER SIX               Hustlers Hustling                                        39
CHAPTER SEVEN         Fighting GovCriminals                                51
CHAPTER EIGHT          Flying Crap!                                                54
CHAPTER NINE            California Scheming                                     59
CHAPTER TEN              Crime minus Bullshit                                   65 
CHAPTER ELEVEN       Idiot-proofing and fool-dampers                   70
CHAPTER TWELVE     Chain of thieves				85
CHAPTER THIRTEEN   Slow Graves                                               91
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Missed Opportunity                                   100    
CHAPTER FIFTEEN      Battle of Snitches                                      103
CHAPTER SIXTEEN      Breakthrough, sort of                                 109
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Rent barons, CopCulture                          113
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN   Truck-shot and Jogging Swede                  120

  © 2003 James Bauhaus

JAILBREAK!

CHAPTER ONE

THE HARE
Courage is doing what you are afraid to do. There is no courage unless you are scared.
									Eddie Rickenbacker

After suffering six years of massive judicial corruption and torture it became obvious that the cops, media, lawyers, prosecutors, judges and witnesses were all crooks. The thing that made this fact crystal clear was What occurred when I found the actual killer of the porn merchant for the cops. The cops responded by hiring his murder by another lifer. At that moment I realized that the scum in positions of authority care more about concealing the corruptions of their predecessors than jailing the actual killer and safeguarding the public from a known threat.
More specifically, I'd found that this killer whose crime the Tulsa cops lied onto me looks somewhat like me except for three things: his hair is light brown and was short and neat while mine was long, bushy‑black and that I always wear glasses; he doesn't. A checker at a grocery store saw him and noticed his resemblance to me. He mispronounced my surname as he claimed to her to know me personally. The checker rightly became suspicious and asked his name. Like a fool, he gave his name; John Shelton.
Some of the help I got came from a colorful stranger with his own claims to notoriety: Ken Ruth. He was instrumental in staving off other official corruption in Tulsa. (See: Ruth,Ward and Derryberry in other of my writings.) He did more for me than five court‑appointed lawyers by simply searching out some courthouse and newspaper history on Shelton. While Ruth was researching Shelton's paper trail with other altruists, an acquaintance of mine returned to McAlester's prison from its trustee building. Qunion Leigh ran a sports gambling operation as a successful prison businessman. He is no informer for the police or the prisoners, but he is gregarious, and thus enjoyed taunting me with his experience of having met a trustee who looks "exactly like" me.

There is no way Qunion could know I had been framed by the police except by having been told by the killer himself. I'd never told any inmates due to having to use the killer persona as protective camoflage. The crooked cops wouldn't brag of their corruption outside of cop‑circles. Plus, it is natural for killers and other criminals to confess, especially to friends. (See: The compulsion to confess, by Conrad Lorenz, a famed behaviorist.) Qunion delighted in taunting me with more and more sly innuendo about this new doppleganger friend of his, and refused to tell me his name. I delighted in the thought that I already knew this killer's name and the fact that Leigh had at least given me his location. In court, under oath, the cops admitted to having collected fingerprints from this killer at the crime scene. They escaped having to produce this evidence by simply claiming that they were "not identifiable" as mine. The judge then forbade any further inquiry about the cop's prints. Since the killer was quite young (high‑school age) and 'neat and proper' looking, I assumed he had never been fingerprinted before and that this was why none of the cops' crime scene prints were matchable to him. He simply was not in the cops' database. (At this point I had no reason to believe that the cops were deliberately framing me: lawyers, prosecutors and cops are such skillful liars that Sherlock Holmes would be hard‑pressed to detect their courtroom skillduggery, much less an 18 year old kid.) Throughout the farce that they call a 'fair trial'  I was duped into thinking that they all had simply made an honest mistake.  It only came clear years later that these crooked sons of bitches chose me for conviction for two, maybe three reasons: they couldn't find the actual killer; they wanted to convict me so they could dodge my lawsuit for their torture‑beating of me at the suggestion of their drugsnitch, Raymond Lewis, and;... But I get ahead of myself here. I'll return to this third reason when it becomes relevant. The facts are complex enough without adding this latest monsterous revelation yet.
Crooked Tulsa cops Larry Francis Johnson, Don Bell, Jessie McCullough, Jerry McMillan and Billy McDonald orchestrated their frame job of me with help from Judge Raymond Percy Graham and Prosecutor Jerry Leslie Truster. They began by having police 'officer' Don Peyton conceal, then later probably destroy, the killer's prints and blood the cops had collected at the crime scene. The FBI lab in Washington helped him in this. They are all very sneaky at stealing evidence while they feign the preservation of evidence. This is one reason why they are so seldom caught at these routine, standard acts of corruption and crime. The easy part was forcing two gullible, timid women to lie on the bible and to conceal a third woman who refused to lie for them.
I can name all these official criminals and call them all the lying, crooked, evidence‑stealing societal parasites that they are for two reasons: it is all true, and I can prove it with their own signed police reports. They all lied their teeth black and stole evidence, and I hope any or all of them have the gall to try and sue me for libel! But I found the killer despite them. And, in the intervening eight years all these crooked cops and some of the crooked lawyers, judges and prosecutors who framed me got caught at other crimes, got kicked out to resume their professional criminal careers at other courthouses and pigpens across the next few political boundaries or otherwise moved on. All except McDonald, who created this Alp of perfidy.		
With all crooked cops gone except him and maybe Peyton, I figured that Official Corruption would not extend to concealing the crimes of their predecessors. I wrote the warden and the cops' bureaucracy, telling them that they could now catch the actual killer by simply re‑running their stockpile of crime scene prints through their computer database. Qunion Leigh had seen the killer in prison, therefore he had finally been fingerprinted and his prints had been added to the cops' national, state and local criminal databases. All that remained was to find some honest cops and have them match their ‑ crime scene prints to their people‑print files.
The cops and warden ignored me, not caring a whit about public safety and killers running loose. (To be at this trustee building, he had to be very near discharging a very short sentence for a petty crime, such as another daylight burglary! How ironic!) The warden, an alcoholic named 'Crisp', told his flunky to find out what, exactly, I was talking about.

Associate warden Les Easley permitted me an interview in his office. I told him everything: too much, in fact. It turned out that he was another slippery‑talking fascist crook hiding behind a mask of helpfulness and sincerity. He told me he would help, then vanished. Almost immediately after this interview, Steve Neko Stewart murdered John Frederick Shelton "for a cigarette". Or so said the official version given out by anonymous prison bureaucrats. (The Tulsa newspapers were fed two conflicting stories. One was printed in the Tribune, circa 5‑10‑79, another in the World, 5‑10‑79.) In reality, Stewart was paid several cartons of Kools for the murder of Shelton, given him by Captain Rodgers. (Rodgers got caught himself, stealing 120 pounds of sausage out of the prison walk‑ins while I was cook.)  I wrote many politicians and other supposed guardians of the commonwealth, and every one ignored me, pretending not to have received my letters.
This was the final blow; realizing that the entrenched power‑elite would purchase murder to keep their professional corruption secret. This bone‑chilling development made it plain that the gluttons‑of‑privilege would just as nonchalantly purchase my murder if I didn't take their lesson and learn to shut up and accept this life sentence that they know belongs to another person. Thinking that they had blithly killed the killer, I knew that now there was no incentive at all for them to correct their predecessors' frame‑job even if I could find an honest govcrat, should one even exist!
I wrote both the women who constituted 100% of the convicting evidence against me, explaining in minute detail what I had found. Both of them refused to reply. They too preferred that an innocent teenager pay instead of the killer.
Looking at life being tortured, harassed and forced to labor for sadistic guards and a corrupt aristocracy, I felt like killing myself in the messiest way possible: bleeding to death while slinging my blood far as possible after using some of it to write all the circumstances to as many of the media I had stamps and addresses for. I wanted to send lawyers, judges and prosecutors my ears and appendages. My preparations for doing this were almost complete. Then I got some great news! Paul Preston, a civilian baker I worked for within the prison managed to tap into a network of honest bureaucrats and obtain a picture of John Shelton! The great news was that he was too old to be the teenaged killer, plus, he didn't look anything like me: The killer had given my grocery clerk an alias! The stupid pigs had had the wrong guy murdered!	
The killer was still alive!	I might still catch him! Of course the crooked officials were still there to roadblock all my attempts to catch him. Judging by newspaper clippings and other information Ruth sent me, (none of which were pictures), I'd assumed the warden had had Shelton snatched out of the trustee building on a pretext and put in the East Cellhouse where he could easily be murdered. Fact was that by coincidence Shelton was already there while the killer was still a trustee.	(Or maybe the coincidence was that they were co‑criminals, working together to serve sentences related to the same criminal activity.) There was no way I could go get him myself, and the guards and inmates were not going to help, either. Worse, Ruth got jailed for trespass, so I lost his help. I was still screwed, just not quite as badly as before.	
My options were limited.	I must avoid their murderous attentions by pretending to be what they desired; a stupid, subservient, unimaginative, hard‑working slave who enjoyed the company of grinning, uniformed sadists who had no more morals than scorpions.
I began to wrack my brain in a different direction, preparing the perfect escape plan: One that had to succeed the first time. There would be no second chance given. If I failed, they would bury me so deep in their scurvy dungeons that they'd have to feed me with a slingshot.

After nine years (two after their murder of Shelton) they'd accumulated enough really vicious younger criminals at OSP‑‑'McAuschwitz', we called it‑‑to push me out to their second‑worse slow‑death‑trap; Stringtown prison, thirty minutes south. This is where the guards tried and failed twice to frame me for dope. (The guards were given cash bonuses for nailing prisoners for dope or weapons.)   The first time they tried this, I was too naive to realize what had just occurred. I had finished a visit with my mother and was preparing for the disgusting, degrading guard‑grope that always follows visits. some Mexican prisoner whom I didn't know tried to hand me a balloon of weed, claiming that he couldn't jam it up his ass. I wouldn't touch it. He persisted, so I told him to swallow it. He got angry and flushed it without even asking the other two or three guys in our group. Clearly I was his target, though I didn't see this at the time. In confirmation of this, the guards, for the first time and last time I ever saw, chose not to grope the Mexican or me. I only thought this was usual guard incompetence and/or laziness.
The second time the prison 'kops' tried to frame me they sicced a red‑haired guy on me. No one told me he worked for the kops: maybe no one knew this at the time. His game was "Hold these five toothpick‑joints for me while I sell them. I'm too hot to carry them around, and you're new and cool. The guards will never suspect you!"
Red wouldn't leave without putting his joints in my shirt pocket, so I let him. A few hours later four guys trouped into the restroom to do a dope deal while I was whizzing. Two scummy guards came in; Woodrum and Whorath. They watched the four dopers leave, then told me to empty my pockets. I slow‑played them, then faked to the left and bailed to the right. Woodrum lunged for me and fell on his fat face. Whorath gave chase. I ran out so fast that some of the sheep watching TV fell out of their chairs backward for fear that I would run them over. I leaped over one, then ran down the stairs, sprained my ankle, but kept running. (A month or so earlier the prison scum had given a friend of mine, Rodney Wooten, twenty years extra for a toothpick joint. They were not going to do this to me!) I burst outside. It was dark, and they'd stupidly left the doors to this former WWII army barracks unlocked.	I ran down the sidewalks and around a corner, pitching Red‑rat's joints out on the ground. Then I returned to the kops for whatever they wanted to do. Whorath was gasping like an asthmatic whale, leaning upon the fence, sweat dripping off his red neck.  He sounded like he had one foot in the grave.
They put me in their underground dungeon. The next day one maggot with a badge sneaked in and hid at one end of the row of cages to listen. Then his boss, an administrative shitbird showed himself and began asking me "Why'd you run?" and other entrappingtype questions. These weasels‑of‑the‑law wouldn't simply lie me into conviction like the real cops did. For some unknown reason they (the security major and assistant warden), actually required me to incriminate myself in front of two witnesses; one hiding, one in view. I'd expect such dirt are by now planting video cameras in bathrooms, but then they didn't simply lie me into another twenty years. They didn't even appear angry when I wouldn't fall into their clever trap! Even so,  just like real cops, their huge, bloated egos would not let me stay in ignorance. The hiding kop got tired of skulking and listening to his crony's failure to entrap me and revealed his lurking presence. They gloated sneeringly briefly and left, laughing heartily at my misery.

The next day the 'doctor' gave me one crutch. This type of deliberate sadism is the rule in Okie prisons, even among they who feign the Hippocratic Oath. The kops stole it from me two hours later the second time I used it, just before they drove me to their worst, deepest Hellhole; the 'rock' at McAuschwitz.
Just before they dragged me off to that concrete coffin another phony 'doctor'(physician's assistant) took an x‑ray of my ankle and rendered his 'diagnosis' of it by viewing it concealed from my sight below the edge of his desk, pointed at his lap. (We all know that real doctors who are not closet sadists hold x‑rays up to the light.)
They tortured me on the rock for ninety days because Woodrum and Whorath had concocted a story of me hitting him before I ducked and ran. Instead of framing me for dope, they decided to lie‑up a non‑existent assault. Woodrum also connived the state out of some workman's compensation for bumping his elbow on the crapper as he fell on his face. grabbing for me. His buddie, Whorath, gloated to me about this before they dragged me off to McAuschwitz. Seems like all the kops are so mentally warped by their jobs that they have to snicker at their victims even after having lied, cheated and stolen them into misery. If I was such a twisted pile of human garbage as they, I'd have to hang myself!
We played basketball while forced to wear wrist shackles.	The kops were so sadistic that they even wasted your taxcash and their effort taking out the one stainless steel middle link and re‑connecting the things! It's as if standard factory‑made torture devices weren't bad enough for us. They had to customize them, to squeeze that last halfinch of misery out of us. The demonspawn at McAuschwitz had to twist the knife just a little harder, just to make absolutely certain that we knew they were lower than whale feces and proud to be so'. A few years ago six of them escaped punishment for teargassing a guy named Forsythe to death. This happened only one cage down from the one they put me in. They couldn't gas us now without first going to the warden and asking "Prettyplease and mother‑may‑I?" In retaliation they hooked up a 120 volt source of electricity to the one showerhead. Try and clean yourself in a slippery, soapy shower while in shacles and legirons while two guards watch. Now imagine how hilarious it is to watch a prisoner slip and grab the showerhead.   Burr‑Zapp!	Yep. Demons spawn!
This little detour in my road to escape occurred in 1982. After ninety days of daily torture on the rock, where I missed the Falklands war, they made us go out and chop weeds in the summer without hats or sunblock. Many of us will have skin cancer from this bit of routine prison sadism. Our foreheads and noses were burned so thoroughly that they turned deep, dark blue and black. Again the Mengeles at the clinic were worse than no help at all. The same rotten P.A. who'd juked me on my ankle x‑ray told me that chiggers die soon after they eat their burrows underneath our flesh: Apparently he has never seen a bottle of 'Chigger‑Rid', which is nothing more complicated than varnish. (For more in this vein, see my essay, Malpractice as a goal.)
I'm certain that many will refuse to believe this and try to spread their disbelief to people who do not have an automatic pro‑cop bias. To them I recommend a career in politics or lawyerdom, where most apologists thrive.

By about 1983 the OSP human sewer vomited me into their brand‑new $90 million hell‑hole in Hominy, 0K. Built by Brother‑in‑law construction, its sewers worked in reverse! The taxpayers were paying a second time to put them in correctly. The whole place was backhoes and trenches for the first eight months I was stuck there. They poisoned us and themselves with their unwillingness to throw out tainted rice soup. The skinflints ruling the kitchen kept making their inmate‑slaves add more food to the left‑over soup that they'd let ferment at room temperature between days of serving it to the unsuspecting. The resulting salmonella poisoning even sickened some guards and visiting 'inspectors' who were foolish enough to actually eat this prison garbage disguised as nutritious inmate food. Previously it had been only prisoners and guards poisoned, otherwise they could have hidden this outbreak too. But visitors can not be silenced with punishment or threats of losing their jobs, as can inmates and guards.
The clever prison administrators blamed their malicious incompetence and deliberate negligence on 'inmate sabotage', even going so far as to concoct a lie that was greedily snapped up by all four of Oklahoma's main newspapers, as did most of the gullible lack‑wits who read them. A week later the Health Department uncovered the truth, stated above, but only the tiny Hominy paper published it. None of the mainstream, domesticated papers deigned to print the truth or retract the original lie. The kops kept burning us on the food until their actions caused the riot that burned that defect‑ridden shithole to the ground in '83, costing taxpayers another $100 million or so. To this day the actual cause of this riot has been successfully concealed. There is a full account of this in other of my writings that is very popular and well worth reading.
My friends and I were determined to make sure that the kops filled up McAuschwitz before they dragged us off to another of their slow‑death traps. We stayed at the back of the line for hours and hours while the scum tortured us with plastic manacles wrenched so tightly that they cut off circulation to our hands and pulled our arms loose from our shoulders. That wasn't enough torture and maiming, though. They also stole our shirts so that we'd suffer second and third degree sunburn while awaiting abduction to other Okie pestholes. Their well‑planned, deliberate, premeditated sadism in this regard is well documented, though unpunished. They actually murdered a guy for it. He was just standing at the rail of the top floor of unit 'N and Q' (building 'N') watching the idiots when a sniper got him in the chest. He died instantly. The two conflicting stories claimed that a guard or a highway trooper did it. He was able to maintain his anonymity. He was never punished a bit for his first‑degree murder. The bullet hole stayed in the glass to this day, far as I know.
This latest delay of my escape was not nearly as long as it could have been, due to our foresight in avoiding McAuschwitz. They took us to the Joe Harp prison instead. Because the McAuschwitz demonspawn had no say in where Harp prisoners were sent, in mere weeks instead of years I was disgorged at the highest‑security McAuschwitz trustee building, which was an easy deathtrap to escape from!  It had 'only' taken me six years from Shelton's murder to get there. Of course Qunion Leigh's pal was not in evidence there and no one remembered a guy there who looked like me.

The place is an ancient pigsty. The good part is that they made everyone work outside. Most hours were about 8AM to 3PM. They had horses, hogbarns, a dairy, a chicken/ egg plant, laundry and a beef‑cattle herd, plus odd jobs like picking up pecans, calves and trash. My job was at the feed mill unloading heavy trucks and re‑distributing feed sacks to the various husbandry locations. Fellow chessmaster and friend Dwight Manly got me a job there. He was a man of much integrity, though a bit misguided, yet very intelligent. He supplied me with endless debate on how easy it would be to get caught escaping from there. His hypothetical plans always involved conniving someone into smuggling him a gun and hijacking transportation, even taking hostages, if need came to that. He sounded a lot like that maniac, Claude Dennis, another friend of mine who escaped from the Big Crack part of McAuschwitz and slaughtered enough cops to cause Governor Boring to call his escape "...the blackest month in Oklahoma history!" right after Dennis was himself slaughtered by gangs of cops in Wilburton. Cops came from all over the state to riddle his dead corpse with bullets long after his flesh had been turned into bloody rags, such was their rampaging hatred for the guy who had shot his way through two or more of their roadblocks. Dwight simply could not believe escape could be easy. It was as if he was too lazy and too comfort‑oriented to simply pick a direction and walk away. Beasley and Dangerfield, two other prisoners I liked seemed to always be enticing me to escape with them. I never took them seriously because their plans always involved me stepping off state property first while they hung back a safe distance. To be fair, every prison has its kaffe‑klatch of inmate buffoons trying to instigate others into providing excitement and cheap thrills for them to enjoy. Everywhere I went the inmates just assumed I was wanting to escape and that I'd appreciate hearing their thoughts and plans on this subject. Since it was the normal pastime in prison, I participated in the debates, but never revealed my own desire to escape. I'd instead tell almost all of them that I'd get out on appeal and that escape would void my actions in court. Also, we were always hearing of escapees coming back with long sentences after going on crime sprees during their runs. This fact tended to quiet the debates somewhat.
While I was there, one acquaintance did escape with a Mexican whom I did not know. They were trapped in a dorm full of snitches who watched them go out the window, yet they planned for this and actually succeeded. They lasted two years, then Scott got nailed in Texas for ten years, then the Mexican went home and got nailed across the border. I was invited into an escape plan from McAuschwitz that was so outrageous and loony that it could not possibly have worked. I told them thanks, but no thanks and good luck. It worked like magic. Twice I'd missed out this way: all because I see snitches and loud‑gossiping buffoons everywhere.

My own plan began with exercise beyond what I was getting at the feed mill. Also I'd jog many miles per week. Gary, a very intelligent psychology major and good friend who had no interest in escaping got me a part‑time job teaching school with him. Later he approached me with a copy of the Galaxy Jaycees' charter and a plan to take over the organization from its president, an aborigine named 'Starr'. We succeeded in this though all I did was vote the way Gary directed. I was drafted as 'Internal Vice‑President' in charge of programs. He gave me some apparently worthless, indecipherable pamphlets that proported to be program guides, but their concepts and wording were too nebulous for me to find much use of them. I taught myself public speaking and held classes teaching ‑this and other subjects such as 'self‑actualization' to others. I became so successful at this that during one class on the stock market the members boo'd the president taking over when we ran out of time. They made him promise to let me continue first next time. Plying crowds with speeches taught me a lot about group dynamics. Now I can manipulate them as easily as many politicians and lawyers. As for Gary, he got us sponsorship for Scared Straight programs, Marathons for Crippled Children, Sales‑Clinics and Recycling drives. He also did all the fund‑raising and got us trips where we'd sell our own stuff such as tee‑shirts advertising our own products.
The Run for Crippled Children paid $20 and had prizes for second and third places. We held it on a dirt road encompassing two miles around the prison commons. A wild Indian named Sidney and I were rivaling for first place, or at least about who would do best. It was a chilly and rainy day. Sidney, much younger than I, wore a hooded sweat shirt. He took off like a shot. I ran thirteen miles before they called the race on account of the mud and rain. Each of those two mile laps I slowly gained ever so slightly on the hooded sweatshirt. Finally, near the last few minutes I sneaked up on him, knowing that if he heard me and looked, he'd speed off again and lose me for good. When he finally heard me slogging up on him, it was too late for him to at least keep me from passing him. I poured on my best effort. As I passed, I mocked him, shouting hoarsely, "Gimme that $20, sucker!"
It turned out to be someone else. I found out later that Sidney had quit after only five miles; just far enough to qualify for our black tee shirt with the logo of the race printed on it in gold. First place was won by a skinny black guy. Second was an Indian. Third was Gary, and fourth was me. The winners had all gone fifteen miles before the race was called.
I got the exercise, the training, the reputation as a long distance runner, and most important, the black tee shirt with no prison scrawling on it identifying the wearer as a prisoner.
Gary also got me a slot on a road trip to Lake Texoma. The state Jaycee convention was being held there and we were to fundraise, sell tee shirts for our Saint Patrick's day run, promote our programs and make friends. They also had boat races, a Beauty Pageant and other attractions. At one time I had over $100 from sales in my pocket and Texoma was many miles the same direction I was headed when I finally, finally made my escape. The crowd was easy to get lost in, and we only had one kop watching us, but I'd promised Gary I'd not destroy our Jaycee Chapter for everyone just so I could escape.
In the end it didn't matter. The Guards, headed by the reptilian Captain B. G. Smith, were planning to screw us out of Jaycees anyway merely due to their overweaning sense of jealousy. Guards are extremely jealous of anything prisoners may have. It's part of the lynchmob mentality of all people who buy into the usual hysterical anticrime posse programing the gov/media alliance plies citizens with in order to distract the taxherd from real crime; government corruption that screws millions of people wholesale, outstripping all other types of crime combined, including (non‑govt) 'organized' crime.

I collected a white logo'd tee shirt commemorating our Saint Patrick's day run. We were allowed to have actual running shoes. I got some courtesy of a very nice young lady who volunteered her time in the school. She also did free fundraising for us. She got some McAlester businesses to donate shoes for our entire running team. I got some pillow‑soft Etonics. They were fabulous, making the standard, old‑timey basketball hi‑tops feel like cactus pads with barbed‑wire lacing. Thirteen and a half years of being screwed out of most of the fruits of technology was going to provide me with a lot of similar 'future shocks. When Lisa gave me these high‑tech running shoes, Gary introduced us. She recognized my name, laughed, and told me "You're the guy who wrote that letter!" I asked, "What letter?" She told me that I was famous among the Big Crack administration. The warden had shown to everyone a letter I'd written in response to his proclaimation. They'd been snooping into my correspondence with Ken Ruth six years previously. He sent me a memo which said, in part, that I could not write Ruth any longer because the letters contained mention of "...subversion, explosions and civil disoder (sic)." It made me so angry that I sent him a very long reply, very sarcastic, that included., "...not only do I indeed advocate subversion, explosions and civil disoder (sic) but also I kick dogs, slap babies and vote republican!" It was gratifying to learn that they had a sense of humor, and it was amazing to learn that I'd made such a lasting impression on them.
Other supplies that I got were sunglasses and a visor'd hat. I let my hair grow excessively long. I obtained $20 in currency, which was illegal for us to possess, in exchange for ghostwriting schoolwork for the tight‑knit community of Vietnam veterans I was close to. From the butcher shop I appropriated a mesh bag that they use to hold roasts together. This I stuffed full of snickers bars and beef jerky. All this I smuggled out and hid in a culvert between the trustee building and the school along with a small bag of shelled pecans. Last of my acquisitions was a 16 ounce Pepsi bottle for a canteen and a smaller bottle of bleach for water purification. A lot of the inmate lore recommended that refugees should take cans of pepper, chili powder or other such substances to foul dogs' noses. Very few accepted the cleverly‑planted cop/media disinformation trying to sell the erroneous notion that the best time to escape 'bloodhounds' is right after a rain. Dogs have never worried me: I know how to beat their teeth, their barking and their noses, all of which I've revealed elsewhere in my writings. My escape would involve neutralizing the dog handlers at the outset. The worst thing about dogs is their bark, and I wasn't going to give them a chance. Even if they did luck onto my trail, the noise they make would alert me in plenty of time to use easy techniques to lose them. (See; Beating Bloodhounds and Beating Police Dogs.)
The actual limiting factors are night time temperatures and insects, but mostly beating other escape‑minded inmates to the punch. Every time a fool escapes, even if it is at another building and only to get drunk, sniff glue and get caught passed out by the dumpsters, the kops go nuts and make it harder for serious, purposeful attempts like mine. Worse, periodically some maniac escapes and creates a wave of murder, rape, robbery, etc, like Claude did. It took years for the worst trustee camps to open back up to lifers after his rampage. If some sex‑crazed youngster ran off before I did and created a senseless crime spree, I'd be screwed out of my only chance. The kops would respond by simply snatching up all time‑buried convicts and shuffling us off to top‑security prisons. My plan was to begin as early in the spring as possible. That meant the last week of April of 1985. It meant leaving on a friday to take advantage of the guards being tired from 'work' and grumpy from being juked out of their fishing weekend.
One sleazy little secret the authorities and their media tools keep concealed from we citizens is that prison guards are given three days to search for escaping refugees before their bosses give up and tell the cops. The fools who live near prisons aren't told this either. They learn only through the informal grapevine, if at all. I took full advantage of this and their battle plan, the details of which I obtained from many different sources over the years of preparation. Guards and cops are all egomaniacs, and if petted skillfully will reveal all and often not even realize that they are doing so. The essential part of it can be deduced from first principles. I.e. simply pretending you are the masses of authority and planning what you would do with their resources to prevent escapes and capture refugees.

Their contingency plan is simple. I've watched much of it played out several times. Soon as they discover someone is missing, they count again to make sure it's not just them making another of their many clerical errors. Next, they gather at the empty rack to make sure that it is really empty. Then they check every place he might be instead, such as on the crapper, in the dining hall, at a new work assignment, school or visit. Then they begin searching all the usual hiding places of the dopers and sex maniacs.  Eventually they call a dog truck and send all their available guards out in their vehicles to race madly up and down the roads in a panic. They set guards in all the high places with binoculars. They call the cops for unofficial help. The media is not told, and if they deduce an escape from snooping on the cop and guard radio‑blather with their band‑scanners, they keep quiet about it. So do others in the cop grapevine such as judges, prosecutors and lawyers. The cult of government employees knows how to keep secrets from citizens.
Their search logically expands as the hours pass. At first they are confident of quickly catching the loose inmates because most escapers are idiots; following their Instinctual Drives to satisfy urges for alcohol, sex or drugs, etc. They get caught quickly, often as they thumb for rides mere klicks from the prison. As more time passes with no success, they settle in for the long haul, sending guards to sit in cars concealed over sight‑lines of crossroads and open pastures. They send people to stake out rest stops and rail passages and rail yards. They watch the lake roads and cabins. They are alert to pool information on stolen boats, cars and burglaries, robberies, etc. One thing they didn't have is infrared helicopters and planes. Many do, now. Even this doesn't matter much because an intelligent man with a moment's thought and planning can thwart this too. (See: Beating Sky Snoops, another of my many essays to counter the police state.) The kops' first stops are the obvious bus stations, airports and taxi services. Mailmen, truckers and merchants have long been spies for the cops. Refugees can not let these people or ordinary citizens with CB radios and car phones snitch them off to 'The Man'.
I had them dicked. My only real worry was drinkable water. I could not afford to get dysentery out in the bush; Not with as far as I had to travel. My most valuable possession was my education and scientific knowhow.
The weather delayed me a week, until friday, may third, 1985. It was a drenching storm that lasted a week. It was still sloppy‑wet that day at noon when I laughed my way past the grinning fascist‑buffoon at the gate. His futile search turned up nothing.
There was nothing for him to find and no difference for him to notice. All .my supplies were already stashed where I needed them. There was a snag, though. The kops had gotten their backs up at me and chose that day to switch my job assignment to the chicken barns. Worse, they had forbidden me from teaching school too.
Their plans didn't change my plans. It was essential that I reach the school, as that building had the only privacy. Taking advantage of their usual incompetence and lack of follow‑through, I kept to my same routine. I walked the quarter‑mile to the schoolhouse, told them I was sorry to be transferred to the chicken barns, and left. Around the corner I ducked into the one‑hole restroom in trustee building #2 and locked myself in. Working quickly as possible, I stuffed my hair under my hat and shaved my beard, mustache and sideburns off.  I put on a pair of sunglasses on top of my glasses .

It looked pretty stupid to wear one set of glasses on top of another pair, but being half blind was not an option. While I shaved, the usual group of inmate whiners formed at the door. They were mostly dopers looking for a place to smoke and hack their guts out with the paraquat‑laced weed certain guards supplied them at high cost. Their griping, banging on the door and angry knob‑jiggling got more insistent.	I had a plan for them too.
I yelled at them, "You don't want in here while I'm dumping last night's gut‑dogs!" Then I'd flush the crapper every minute after making loud farting noises, signifying bad diarrhea. The most convincing part of the show was the rotten egg near the bottom of the door. The smell was so overpowering that I almost ran myself outE The whiners outside shrieked as if they were in physical pain. They screeched like young girls, "Aw dood! That's rankl" and backed off a few feet. I knew it would be bad and well worth the two months it took to make it. I swiped it up with toilet paper and, instead of flushing it down the toilet, I stuffed it under the white trash receptacle. It would thus take them longer to realize why the trash kept stinking even after they emptied it. Nothing distracts small minds from important events better than hydrogen sulphide! They would enjoy cocking their noses at this smell, trying to track it down, a long time! None of those sissies recognized me as I left.
From there I had to retrace my path and either turn left to the chicken barns and the unknown contingency, or right, past the butcher shop to the feedmill. On my way I picked up my mesh bag of supplies and slung it over my shoulder. My choice was my original plan.
The kops keep an inmate snitch at the butcher shop. His job is to stand out on the back door landing and make sure that only a few steaks get ripped off by his own friends, who are mostly guards. My path crossed within thirty feet of him. He's seen me every day, four times per day, for eight months excluding weekends. As I passed by as far away from him as I could possibly get he shouted for my attention several times, saying, "Skinner! Hey, Skinner: Come here, man!" I ignored him and got past.	'Skinner' means 'new guy'. His rat's sense tingled, telling him there was something wrong going on about me that he should investigate further. He couldn't figure out what, and he couldn't make me come closer for study. He was torn between leaving his post or satisfy his jangling ratsense. Lucky for me his job won out. My disguise had barely passed its most stringent test.
The next step was managing to duck out of sight unnoticed by all the other inmates walking to jobs along the same dirt road. One thing that all escapers should realize is that all inmates are potential rats. Some are direct rats that snitch to the kops regularly and at every occasion. Some are indirect rats. This means that they gossip to friends, which means that the rats quickly learn everything simply because inmates are extremely bored, lonely and nosey and thus simply can not keep their blab‑holes from constantly flapping. In my seventeen years of dealing with these imbeciles I've found very few who had the wherewithal to keep a secret.
Positioning myself not too near an inmate group in front of me and as far ahead as possible of the group following behind me, I got to the crucial path. It cut 90º off the road between some chest‑high ruins of an old horse stable. For a bare few seconds I'd

be out of sight of the inmates behind me, and hopefully no one would be loitering at the back side of the feedmill. (Inmates are champion loiterers.) No one watched as I turned the corner. Quickly I cut 90º off that path, ran thirty feet while hopping high so as to disturb as few weeds as possible and leave minimal smell with long, high strides. As I hopped, I also crouched low, nearly kneeing myself in the chin several times because the sightlines were only blocked by four‑foot high vine‑fouled fences. Within seconds
I dove into the weeds and lay still. It was only about 1:30PM. True darkness would not fall until about 8:30PM. I had a long wait. I began it by carefully pulling the weeds closer around me.
The inmates behind me passed by no wiser. The insects began to move into my clothes. More inmates passed by, going the opposite direction. At last it was still. The sun crept slowly westward as I sweated and jittered. Sparrows hunting for grass seeds blundered across me and flicked away in a hurry. Two hours later a bluejay almost landed on my chest. He shrieked in alarm and took to a pole nearby to eye this strange sight. He gave alarm twice more, then lost interest and flew off. Several spiders crawled across me, leaving shiny silver threads. Swarms of pigeons and starlings swooped and whirled in flight overhead. A butterfly stopped to drink from a droplet of my sweat. Bees buzzed. Finally inmate foot traffic resumed. They were the day shift leaving. They would return to their dorms and be locked inside the fence. They'd be counted, then let to vegetate in their own personal ways. A few night shift inmates replaced them, going in the opposite direction.
Not much later I heard the kops shouting my name on the loudspeaker system, demanding that I show myself at the captain's desk. I thought to myself: Fat chance, dirtbags! Another group of dairy workers walked by, going toward the prison. They'd been called back from work on account of me. They were gossipping about the guards looking for me. Half an hour later the guards swarmed the feedmill. I heard their vehicles crunching around the gravel that surrounded it.
They'd split their forces between the chicken barns and the feedmill, not knowing which one I would be at, if either. This cost them daylight, which was crucial to me. Since the guards and rats knew me to be a strong marathoner, they'd also split their manpower a third way; to the heights with binoculars, looking for movement across pastures, treelines and crossroads, etc. They kept their dogtruck occupied with the usual false sightings. The authorities habitually set their scouts out too wide, just to make sure.  This tactic brings in more false alarms of innocent hikers and walkers. They had to assume, after gathering their lintel' that I'd been running for five hours. Thus they had to set a gargantuan perimeter at least twenty miles in radius. They were boned. Dick Tracy couldn't cover that area in his space coup.
Another thing that favored me is the cops' fear and their laziness that keeps them from dragging their big donut‑asses out of their cars to see for themselves. They didn't set any dogs loose along the path they knew I'd taken many times per day for months.

Kops don't think very far outside the instruction manual they are given. Real cops don't either. Fact is, they think hardly at all beyond their own personal, immediate benefit. On TV they all like to claim to put themselves 'into the mind' of thier criminal. Media whores and Hollywood scriptwriters especially like to play this game because it draws the rubes to their products, but it is mostly pure nonsense. They especially can't figure much about prisoners with a modicum of pseudo‑intelligence like me. Their minds simply couldn't independently conceive that a marathoner would go to ground even before the staging point. Cop minds work primarily through a study of what happened the last time. Since this had never been revealed to them through other escapes, they were unable to conceive of it the first time it occurred. Consequently their dogs and most of their workforce were far, far away instead of beating the path I lay near, as they should have. Instead, they brought one dog; a small beagle they could easily lift out of each of the grain bins inside the feedmill.
The little dog they were using saved them a lot of trouble. Without her, they'd have to dig through more pigeon shit than was healthy. The back third of the feedmill is layers of ancient farm junk alternating with thick layers of bird shit, grain dust and rodent feces. They'd make inmates dig through it without safety masks, and several almost died of toxoplasmosis. Even with 'Bitee' helping, they'd still have to wade through sodden tunnels, climb the filth‑encrusted catwalks and search through cracks in stacks of ceiling‑high feedbags. The building also had a vertical conveyor belt sticking up out of the roof that made a rickety spire eighty feet high. Sixteen pipes led from it to re‑enter the roof. It looked like a colossal tin spider with a crow's nest attached. Through the weeds I saw one guard on its ladder, halfway up, asking someone on the roof below, "Has anyone been up here lately? It doesn't seem safe!" Whatever the reply was, the response was this young guard resuming his slow, careful climb to the top. The wind makes it creak, groan and sway. Only the bravest and lightest of men dare to climb it. At the top, he quickly pronounced it clear and came down.
They moved on before dark. There simply were not enough guards and too many places to be searched. Even if butehershop‑snitch did finally add two and two and tell the kops that he might have seen me go down that road, there was still the dairy, hogbarns and beef cattle pens along the same route. Even so, they thought so immovably that I was in there that they locked it back up and set a kop to sit in his car and stare fixedly at the only door they couldn't lock. The only other way out was to break a window, making noise he was no doubt listening for. Thirty feet up a ladder at the back of the feedmill is a hatch. After hearing their vehicles race off to search elsewhere, I waited til dusk was far advanced. Then I raised carefully up into sitting position. I saw the assend of this kop's car. He was called the 'night rider'. I laid back down among the grasshoppers and arachnids. About twenty minutes later full darkness fell. The night rider finally drove off to perform his usual patrol, his tires crunching mightily on the gravel.
Fifteen minutes after this, I cautiously got up, shook out my insect buddies and changed from my green and white Saint Patrick's day tee shirt to my Run for Crippled Children black tee shirt. Next I wiped mud down my arms and face, then snagged my pack and began sneaking quietly around the feedmill to the endless‑seeming pastures. The place seemed empty except for the night rider cruising the lanes in his well‑lit and easilyavoided car. Occasionally he'd stop and run his powerful halogen spotlight around places his headlights couldn't point. It looks like the sun in a bucket sweeping to and fro. His antics kept the cows awake.

My way west was uneven, full of cowshit piles and pools of stagnant water almost big enough to drown in, or so it seemed. They'd certainly turn your ankle and fill your socks and shoes. The starlight was plenty to see by, but not too good at helping me see these holes. The going was slow, but I had all the time in the world. Crossing two fences put me half a mile out, yet still on prison property. The dairy cows saw me blundering about amongst them. Apparently they'd never seen a man among them in the pastures at night. The novelty of it drastically affected their behavior.	Instead of their daytime stuporific wariness and fear, they'd become curious, animated, almost fearless! They circled me. They followed me like dogs, leaping and starting like three‑quarter ton puppies. They wouldn't scare off. They escorted me for hundreds of yards. When I ran, they chased me. When I stopped, they stopped, all the while facing me in a circle and staring at this odd biped invading their home.
The night rider drove nearer.  I had to drop and wait for him to go away. He saw the cow‑party and stopped. He raked his spotlight over them and me with mild curiosity. It slid away, then raked over us again and stopped right on me. He was at the road, 25 yards away. The light stayed on me, as if he saw me through the forest of cow‑legs. I began to prepare, to hyperventilate, perfusing my tissues with oxygen in case he got out of his copcar and came over. If this happened, signaled by the sound of his car door slamming, I'd let him approach to just inside pistol range, then burst out running. I'd gamble he coundn't hit a moving target in the dark, especially a zig‑zagging one, and he certainly couldn't catch me, and his radio was in his car. Suddenly the light clicked off. Night rider drove slowly on. His big, fluffy ass never left the comfy foam seat of his luxurious copcar. Did he deduce what this circle of thirty cows were staring at and why they were capering about? It looked like I should speed it up a bit, just in case. Usually you can hear his radio blathering back at him when he calls. I didn't hear it, but I'd pretend I had.
Proceeding west, another fence separated the cows from me, and this time the pasture was empty of cows. If it had a bull in it, he never found me. I'm sure he wouldn't have been so playful. I was also angling slightly south to cross a lesser road (hwy 270) that ran east‑west between McAlester city and the north‑south road (hwy 69/75). This road I crossed, and as I did so a pair of headlights appeared from the direction of McAuschwitz. I had plenty of time to find cover, but for some reason I thought it was better not to silhouette myself against the horizon. Instead, I decided to take a place lying flat on the raised berm rather than climb it. This was a bad, amateurish mistake. The oncoming headlights were, of course, a kop, in a small jeep ragtop with a radio. His headlights raked me as he abruptly turned down a secondary road I had not seen. My eyes must have reflected his headlights right back to him, same as any other animal staring into the hunter's light.
He signalled that he'd seen me by immediately pulling to a stop. He got out, squinted in my direction and called his buddies on his radio. The chase was on. The road was dark and deserted except for him and his lights now pointed away from me. He had no . night vision, and mine had been temporarily wiped out by being raked by his lights. My night vision would come back quickly; his would come in another thirty minutes or so. I used this situation to full advantage. They were bringing their dogs and every other kop and brother‑in‑law vigilante, all zeroing in on the spot where I lay. Dogs can not track you on blacktop, so that is where I put my best pace for as long as possible. I leaped up and began sprinting like a gazelle with a pack of hyenas on its ass.

JAILBREAK!

CHAPTER TWO 
THE DOGPACK
Everything the enemy least expects will succeed the best. 
       Frederick the Great

The kops must have set their perimeter very wide, because I made it all the way to the expressway without any vehicles racing up behind me or from the front. (Later I found that the scum had branded me 'ARMED AND DANGEROUS!', even putting out a lying 'Snitches Wanted!' poster to this effect in post offices and other government agencies. Dwight and I had discussed this issue and I'd spread my view to all the kops' snitches that the stupidest thing any refugee could do is begin a crime wave and pile up extra accusations that the lawyer establishment could profit from. It turns out that standard cop‑think and training is to automatically brand everyone 'Armed and Dangerous!' without any evidence merely from a safety standpoint. It scares the gullible citizens away and makes them automatically agree to whatever the cops want. This is why jeep‑kop didn't simply grab his shotgun or pistol, cross the thirty yards that separated us and abduct me or murder me. The boss‑kops pump fear into their hearts so well that none of them can make an independent or innovative move. Drilled into their tiny, bullet‑shaped brains from all directions is the policy, "Call the swarm first, then just follow the target until the overwhelming army of armor‑plated, over‑beweaponed cowards arrive en masse." This cop‑policy lets many criminals escape, but it makes sure that the fewest badged fools get their heads blasted off while sticking their fat noses where they don't belong. You'll never see the ones on TV that the cops lost through their "wait for the swarm" policy. And, the cop/media alliance will never let on that any citizens die as a result of their excessive‑caution‑for‑their‑own‑safety policy, but both numbers are substantial, and I am one who benefited from it.)
The expressway was well lit. Long before I got to it I turned south into the bush about 100 meters east of it. Since no dogs or dog handlers were going to pick up my scent, I paused to catch‑my breath and slough the hot sweat off me. The slight breeze was with me, blowing south. I climbed a tree to get more of it. The sweat and smell quickly evaporated off me. After a full 15 more minutes three kopcars, separated by  mere seconds, roared up the road and shot north in a great, reckless hurry. McAlester city is only three minutes away down that road at low speed. What took them so long to respond? Besides having set a vast perimeter, officials have a mindset that pulls them away from what I'm thinking. Consider: experience with past escapers tells them that they usually head straight for town so they can steal a car and ride away effortlessly and in style. Inmates and criminals are very lazy; one of the character flaws that caused them to land in prison. I am not lazy. Neither am I a criminal. I actually had a job when the varlots abducted me, plus I've worked since I was 14 years old.

Another reason for the kops' delay is their policy. The kops' primary concern is for the safety of their merchants first, and citizens second. The cops don't know me despite all the TV balderdash spewed to the taxherd about their not‑so‑clever ruse of 'profiling'. Police profiling is mostly a scam to conceal the fact that the cops have compiled files on pretty much everyone, their families, relatives, co‑workers, acquaintences and even their pets, in some cases. I've written extensively of the coptrick of profiling elsewhere, but in this instance the short answer is thus: The kops pooled all the records they had on me and quickly reviewed them. The records most trusted by kops were written by kops. They are interpreted by still more kops, and the final action plan is determined by senior kops. Cop‑thinkers perusing copthink exude copthink. Most of anything in those reports that may have had any insight into my character is completely overwhelmed by copthink. Consequently the kops read more about themselves in their reports about me than anything about me., They read a long list of crimes and prison rule violations (guards' revenge on me for putting them in their place verbally) that they've often lied onto me and immediately came to the standard cop‑conclusion that my 'profile' indicates without a doubt that I'm a murderous, assaultive career criminal who is desparate and who will go straight to town, steal a car, grab a gun, rob a farmhouse or business, get drunk and go on a crime spree all the way to my first stop, my mother's house,º ex‑wife's home, etc and into the waiting arms of the kops who have been keeping daily note of who writes me, who sends me money and where they live. The cops can't be blamed that their profile doesn't fit me because it does fit, 90% of the time, whichever imbecile they happen to be howling after like a pack of rabid dogs at the time. I, for one, do not want any kops running loose who can expound an innovative, non‑textbook, creative thought. If they could think instead of chug beer and watch football, they'd not be kops, they'd be real people. As I've proven many times elsewhere (see; Copculture) cops are a completely different and separate social species of Homo Sapiens. Think of how much more dangerous they would be if they could think!
So, while the kops swarmed town frantically protecting their unsuspecting tax base and voter resources, I was dancing happily away south just off the biggest, fastest superhighway out of the backward state of Okracoma.	
It was light enough to read my cheap, digital watch by moonlight alone: amazingly, it was still very early. Progress was very slow. The forest was a thicket of barbs and pointy twigs. It got even worse when I got to the next spot of certain kop‑surveillance: the rest stop. The growth behind the fence was nigh‑on to impassable, but I continued working my way through it. Sure enough, it was there, exactly as master escape‑artist Ron Koonce advised me it would be: a white, luxury stationwagon from McAuschwitz was arrogantly parked on the sidewalk, facing the wrong direction. The guard inside afforded himself the most comfortable possible view of any possible foot traffic from the north.
By 2AM I was safely past that fat bulge in the road. Traffic had thinned to almost nothing. I began to contemplate the risk of hopping the fence and jogging down the mowed side. By 4AM this is what I did. In 1985 infrared technology was still too expensive for dirt‑town cops to want even when their primary reason for existing was a major dungeon with constant summertime leaks. No cop‑boss is going to deprive his police slushfunds of thousands of dollars that could be used on cop 'training' junkets and toys by purchasing extremely expensive infrared cameras. Now the technology is so cheap that rich people can get a version of infrared sensors as an option on cadillacs and certain german vehicles. Ordinary cars can be seen coming in plenty of time to find a place of concealment and get in it. Infrared on today's cars operates with the headlights, but can detect large mammals 500 yards away, in some instances. Quality varies and is generally less than advertised. Today it is very risky for escapers to jog along the side of the road in darkness.	.

The birds squawked and sang all night long as I loped ever southward. Traffic stayed thin. False dawn found me tired, dirty and looking for a safe place with water to sleep out the day. I cut off into the bush again and found a tree, made a nest and slept a short time. The day was long compared to my need for sleep. Water was easy to find. By noon I was moving south again, careful to stay out of eyeshot from the highway. Rain had delayed my ditching of the Okie slow‑death trap, but now it aided me with many clear pools in small puddles on the highway and in streambeds along the way. My plastic pepsi jug made it easy to mix the proper amount of bleach to purify it.	It tasted great, especially when shaken. The oxygen perfused into it this way purifies it more thoroughly,plus it helps get rid of the bleach. The stuff evaporates out quickly if you squeeze the air out, let new air in the 3/4ths full bottle, shake it again and repeat twice after giving the bleach five minutes to work by itself.
Hunger didn't find me though I was not fat, had expended tremendous energy and had eaten almost nothing. Stretching my food was the plan, as I certainly didn't relish eating dandilions and turning vegetarian, as would be required of me even before I crossed the border into freethinking Tejas. There would be no stopping to hunt, though I did carry a couple of ounce‑size streambed pebbles for any opportunity along the way. Rabbits are known for letting you get very close before they flush. Birds' eggs are everywhere in the spring and easy to find and obtain, but not good to eat raw if this can be avoided. A small dose of salmonella is a small price to pay for the rich source of protein they provide. An adult is hardly affected, but many eggs at once should be cooked. Wrap them in leaves and bury them in campfire coals for ten minutes, or fry them on a ‑ piece of shale, in an aluminum can, etc. There are plenty of raw materials and food sources even in early spring for anyone who prepares beforehand. The limiting factor is how much time you have to waste searching for them. My plan was to waste very little time doing the Field and Stream or Survivalist schticks. I had to get my life back, fast! I slept again, but by dusk was traveling once again. By true night, saturday, my path was again just outside the fence that delineated the sculpted grounds of the expressway proper. Again by 3AM or so the traffic thinned considerably, allowing me to once more jog on the mowed side. Insects, particularly mosquitoes and chiggers, didn't bother me. One of my biggest concerns had been being able to leave before the insect population exploded.
My 15 snickers and 20 strips of beef jerky seemed to last forever. The pecan meats fouled my teeth so badly that I didn't eat them without a water chaser. I just didn't get hungry for some reason. It was as if my body had just naturally sensed my environ, ment and shifted from luxury‑mode to efficiency‑mode without any transition period. I just didn't get hungry. My pack didn't get noticeably smaller for a long time. Sunday morning, just past midnight, it began to bite into my shoulder. Periodically I'd shift it from either shoulder to either hip. Then I began to get sharp pains in my feet, knees and ankles. I had to slow down. They got worse. The trick here that you'll seldom if ever learn from any competitive marathoner or the literature is this: When a pain due to motion begins to make itself known, adjust your gait. Try walking on a different part of your foot when you can't stop. If it doesn't go away in minutes of favoring it this way, stop and rest it by sitting down and remaining motionless. Do not try to scrub away the pain. This does not increase circulation, it slows and inhibits blood flow, plus it may damage cells. The pain will go away completely within a remarkably short time measured in seconds or minutes if it is not seriously damaged. Then you can get up and run again. If you don't adjust your gait, change the impact surface or remove all stress from the joint, the damage will get worse until it is incapacitating. You've got to baby these twinges or lose even more time and distance. Anyone who tells you that you must 'work the pain out' is a fool who needs to be ignored.

Traffic was so thin sunday morning that I was able to begin jogging on the mowed side of the grass by 2AM. The highway itself had plenty of water captured in puddles to supply all my needs. The birds chirped, whistled, shrieked and cawed musically all night from the forest on both sides of the road. Bullfrogs, leopard frogs, peepers and unidentifiable other species added their choruses. The amphibians seemed plentiful, but only one year later the scientific community found evidence of their coming extinction, most likely due to our toxic pollution absorbed through their porous skins. Thanks to the greed and short‑sightedness of the corporate and privileged political classes, we will have no frogs in a scant few more decades. But this night they and the birds were a comforting and melodious symphony of life happily heard. The fact that I was finally free after 13 years of the most malicious, gratuitous, bi‑hourly torture from the sickest, slimiest, most vicious scum I'd ever met personally had a lot to do with it. I was euphoric to be at last free of such flesh‑eating maggots.
A blight appeared ahead on the opposite side of the highway. It was thousands of bright lights on tail poles and in buildings sprawled over many acres. This was their Stringtown slow‑death trap, where about 800 people were held against their wills. It signified that I had made good time. It was about 30 miles south of McAuschwitz. It was easy to sneak past, though slow. The guards blind themselves looking at their expensive, metal‑halide lights. If the ones sleeping in the towers did turn around and gaze toward me in the forest, they'd see only bright yellow spots before their eyes. As I passed by I thought of their elite 'Parole Absconder/fugitive Retrieval Teams' sitting uselessly behind the illegally‑dark tinted windows of their new vans while watching the homes of my relatives and friends. They had a very long wait, 100 miles north of my true position. While they were spreading their huge, fat asses over the bucket seats of their vans, sucking up Dr. Peppers and stuffing their faces with Funyons, I slipped quietly away in the opposite direction.
Again false dawn told me to find cover in the bush and rest. No sane person hunted by the grinning fascists of law travels exposed by daylight; not near any of their thoroughfares, that is. Back in the forest, I slept, ate, rested, moved farther south, avoided some noisy Okies on horseback and rested again.
The next night's trek was much like the previous ones, but with more ankle, knee and toe pains, more frequent stops to allay them and the begining of boredom. Travel through the wood was taking too long, and rough ground wasn't amenable to distance calculations.
It was doubtful that I was covering 20 miles per night. I didn't care enough to check the mile markers or exit signs. The geography of the roads didn't tell me much. The prohibition of maps in prison kept me from knowing much about the precise location of roads and cities.
The heavens worried me, though. I wasn't going the proper direction. The stars said I was off a few degrees from the direction the road was supposed to go. My watch and the sun told me the same: the highway was going about three degrees east of south instead of three degrees west of south it should have gone to take me to Dallas/Fort Worth. DFW was my target, and I was apparently on the wrong road. If you imagine you have an ordinary analog timepiece and point the hour hand at the sun, the mid distance between it and twelve is a line that points the north‑south direction. From here it is easy to deduce south. I was going to miss DFW by hundreds of miles if I didn't correct my course.,by finding the right road.

The guards gave up their search monday, an entire day sooner than I expected. Of course, I chose to err on the side of caution. Monday at 3PM they gave over their search to the real cops, and at 5PM they had their media tools announce my escape to the public, almost exactly 3 days after my disappearance. They hated to give up their unlimited double‑pay overtime. The McAuschwitz prosecutor filed his accusations of escape with º the judge. The cops were officially given photographs and photocopies of me. They looked at them along with the other war‑room trash they were given and shoved them in their ticket‑boards. They gaze out their copcruiser windows more intently when someone escapes but otherwise change their behavior little if at all. Cops are already doing what they are programed to do; search endlessly for people they can fine, tax or abduct. My escape did nothing to alter their behavior except perhaps to make them drive faster and squint harder. Like a colony of fire ants, cops are always swarming, and if you disturb them, they just swarm more angrily.
Tuesday morning I celebrated having outmaneuvered the active search. Also I celebrated my first birthday outside vicious Okie oppression since I was seventeen. I laughed at the lying, scummy officials whose corruption and laziness caused them to kidnap me and protect the actual killer of the porn merchant. Their time would come when I found the killer and ground their noses in his guilt.
That morning I was so tired by false dawn that I took my rest directly underneath the highway itself; in a large concrete culvert emplaced to let a small stream pass. There was a large pool of clear water adjacent to it. I drank from it in the semi‑dark and crawled off to sleep. Upon awakening at about noon, I crawled back and drank again from this puddle. Then I noticed, only ten inches away, a dead, submerged crafish! Worse, the crayfish had transparent pseudopodia waving from it! The thing was covered with worms! I'd made another amateurish mistake. It was too late to do anything about this. It would serve me right if the thing was also covered with cholera or typhoid bacteria. Instead of throwing the stuff up I trusted my stomach acids. They were churning at the thought of what I'd drunk and should kill it.
The next obstacle was a toll plaza. It was very well lighted and had two Okie hiway patrol copcars skulking in the lanes in case some fool was dumb enough to drive through without paying. Their luxury crown Victoria bigblock engines would chug $5 worth of gasoline to make certain that everyone paid the 60¢ toll. They must have been asleep. I got past them easily, squeezing between a fence and a 'No Hitch‑hikers!' sign. Soon as I managed to get down the road enough to be wreathed in darkness again I decided that it was time to move. About 3AM I began to carefully scrutinize the cars as they came up behind me and to time their arrival relative to each other. Copcars have distinctive, large‑car grills. No self‑respecting cop would be caught dead driving a small, junk‑car that most human beings in the real work force afford. As I did this, I kept an escape route open at all times just in case, preparing to meld back into the forest if anything went wrong.

Half an hour later a car stopped. It was a tiny Toyota Carolla. I ran up and jumped in. Usually it is Christians or gay men who stop to offer strange men in the dark free rides. I'd chosen well. He was a working man, near my age, neither interested in converting me or copulation. He had hair on his face, indicating a non‑conformist. His car was packed full of crap as if he was moving to another area. He wanted someone to keep him awake as he drove and was part of the marginalized class of single white males too proud for welfare (or inelgible) victimized by bad politicians creating a shrinking economy. He didn't tell me he was coming down off a speed trip, and I didn't tell him I was a refugee from an Okie slow‑death trap. The expressway ended quickly and suddenly we were in Texas. He was traveling backroads for unstated reasons while I read the map for him. By the time we made Mount Pleasant he'd decided the backroads were too slow. He'd also wondered aloud how I'd gotten to be afoot on the expressway. He didn't believe my answer, but was polite enough to keep this to himself. He remembered that miles before he might have passed a sign saying 'Hitch‑hikers may be Escaping Prosoners!' He was surprised to learn that my bag contained snickers and jerky. He declined my offer of food and offered me some KFC he hadn't been able to eat, probably due to drymouth.
He also offered me advice on getting jobs when he was doubtful of my story of being a handy‑man who got work by asking door to door. He seemed to think I'd be better off working for the labor‑exploiters for a daily check. He decided to take the expressway and dropped me off at Mesquite, saving me days of unnecessary effort. He was a pretty nice guy and probably was dodging the cops himself, as so many people are these days.
It is a criminal shame that the gluttons of privilege have to rope in so many people with legislation making everything a crime so they can live fat.
It was full daylight when I left the Toyota. After quickly checking all directions for nosy cops and bystanders I sprinted up the side of an overpass and slept between the support beams with the pigeons for a few hours. My knowledge of Dallas was pretty‑much nil: in 1969 I'd asked my grandmother to stop so I could buy a bolt for my Yamaha unavailable in Okieland. She was terrified of getting lost and blazed right through, sometimes missing oncoming traffic by inches. That harrowing ride is all I'd ever seen of DFW. 
Cautiously checking for cops again before scrambling down and trying to blend in with the street traffic, I reconnoitered and briskly moved west in the vicinity of highway 30. Persons I asked along the way pointed to a distant, smog‑shrouded clump of skyscrapers and assurred me that was Dallas. One of my most clear memories of Mesquite is the many scowling men and women in their slick, new air‑conditioned copcars charging around like sharks after minnows. They were slinking everywhere and always on some grim mission quickly to elsewhere with their empty, caged‑in back seats. Some carried vicious‑looking Shepard dogs. Everything about them said taxgrabber, enslaver and eager murderer of the fleeing, sicker‑of‑dogs‑upon‑the‑homeless.
One of the surprising things I ran into while traveling afoot long distances is how valuable correct directions are. Thanks to Gary and the Galaxy Jaycees I was wearing the softest, most shock‑absorbing shoes that Chinese prisoners could make, yet still I grew very annoyed at every dead end, back‑track and side trip I didn't have to make. Asking persons for directions was little help until I learned a few tricks. Most people will tell you directions even when they have no clear idea of geography themselves. Women in DFW are very frightened and full of tension. Many will mumble anything and scurry off to safety while fondling the mace in their purses. Mexicans don't often know, but will admit they don't know rather than send you off after their best guess. Asians will try to find you someone who does know. Africans often intentionally gave me wrong directions, and now, 17 years later, they wonder why no cabbies will stop for them. Hey! Black people'. Learn that when you shit on people that they tend to leave you alone to play in your shit: Get over your prejudice and then people will treat you like people!

The hard, fast general rules of getting good directions are: don't ask Africans; pay no attention to females who edge away as they speak; don't bother people driving in traffic, and don't head out until you've found three people who separately and independently say the same thing. Get a map at the first opportunity. The most important part is getting a consensus.
Fortunately for me I could see Dallas. The few things that can block a person afoot include expressways, and Mesquite was full of them. I turned to a convenience store and asked a pimply‑faced clerk for the restroom. He refused, saying that there was no public‑ restroom. There was an alcove with a large map of DFW under glass on the wall near the door to where the store's private restroom would be. When I went to scrutinize it, the kid got as belligerent as a little twerp can, shrieking, "Can't you read?! (the 'no public restroom sign)." It would have been satisfying to leap over the counter and slap his audacious face off, but I only fantasized this. He came halfway toward me, close enough to see that I was only reading the map, not invading his restroom around this blind corner. He said, "Oh!" and backed off to his fortress behind the counter.
The whole city seemed to be in the grip of fear and wariness. Women would cross the street to avoid me and lock their car doors upon seeing me approach.	No doubt this was caused by the constant shrieking of the TV, radio and newspapers about crime, magnifying it into an almost palpable force in everyone's life. They seemed to see me as a starving wolf among arthritic mice. While I'd been in prison an explosion of cops and cameras had occurred, but no extra burden of crime to justify it. At least none that I could detect. Maybe the crime they sought to conquer was to prevent the homeless from whizzing in semi‑secluded areas. I knew that they'd go nuts if I whizzed outside, yet there are almost no opportunities for the dirty and smelly to do otherwise. Finally I found a Hilton hotel, and using its restroom was no picnic. First I had to run a guantlet of six prying female desk clerk eyes. There was no clue as to why it took three young women to do no apparent business at a deserted counter. Perhaps two were to provide courage to the third. One could scream, another could dial the cops and the third could escape. The Hilton itself looked like a cheap single‑story motel that had stolen a Hilton sign off a real hotel.
The restroom wasn't hard to find, and I wasn't in there five minutes before the fems sent a Mexican in to see what horrors I was performing. The thing had an airlock‑type set of doors opening to it. I could hear the first door squeak before he got to the second door. He did not catch me hacking at my hair with a razor blade in front of the huge, well‑lit mirror. I grunted at him. He shrugged and left without a word. I continued hacking, only faster, and raked the hair into the trash with wet paper towels more often. My beard was coming back, but this was planned. The prison kops would investigate and discover through their rats that I had shaved. Their last prison picture of me showed me clean‑shaven, as did the only two other previous ones. As for short hair, it is the style of people who work for a living and who want to get along and follow the rules of civilization. Since I am one of these type of people, and have been all my life, I had no pesky tattoos to cover up. Also, any 'Snitches Wanted!' posters they put out would have long hair on its picture of me.

Mex reported to the three frightened fems as I continued to chop away mounds of hair. My mind could see them all staring fixedly at the men's room door as their tiny minds manufactured ever more hideous scenarios of personal danger. Mex held them off a full five minutes before succumbing to their frantic demands that he check again. He was quieter this time and suprized me. He may have noticed that a trail of hair‑sprigs was strung across the counter toward the trash, or he could have noticed my shortening hair by now. Again he pretended to be at other business and left wordlessly. Undoubtedly they all thought as the hysterical anti‑crime TV posse had programed them: He's Got Drugs! He's shooting them in his jugular with a basketball‑pump needle! He'll become drugcrazed and run out here and rape us and kill us all!
My hair got finished and the counter, sink and floor wiped clean at about the time they sent him on their third restroom recon mission. I said "Thanks". He said "Sure". On my way out past the three women I heard the popping sounds of their relaxing sphincters. Fortunately for me, Mex had provided them with soothing gossip that forestalled their urge to call the cops.
Now I felt much safer. My disguise was pretty much complete and would survive the random curiosity‑stops that the real cops depend on to sift through the taxherd despite the Constitutional provisions that outlaw this tactic. Too bad the herd has given away its right to privacy and the right to live un‑harassed by government, but that is what happens in every state eventually. The Gluttons Of Privilege must always employ an army of thugs to ensure their continued theft of more than their fair share of the commonwealth.

JAILBREAK!

CHAPTER THREE

THE LABOR EXPLOITERS

The patriotism that poverty produces is as yellow as the gold that buys it.
									       Daniel De Leon

The next day I made it into downtown Dallas. The thing I remember most vividly  about that day was standing next to a torturous knot of expressway routes with my map unfolded as the cars and trucks streaked by. While intently trying to find a day labor
place on Jones street, something crawled up my leg and began eating me. I'd been standing on a hole in the asphalt erupting fire ants! They were gnawing me up both legs! The pain was so great that I danced away slapping, pulling, pinching and rubbing, even having to partially disrobe in front of morning rushhour traffic to get them off me! Eventually I got the better of them, but this memory sticks in my mind above many as my formal welcome to Texas!
Similarly unpleasant was the daywork place, 'LaborForced'. These types of places greedily exploit the down‑and‑out, much like robber‑barons would exploit serfs, travelers and draft animals in earlier days.	You work all day, much of it sitting, waiting to be selected for a job, then being transported to and from the job. You get paid minimum wage for eight of these nine or so hours, minus Uncle Sam's taxes, boot or other equipment rental, and $5 a night for a rack to sleep in and a brief shower. Food and cleanliness products can be had at double price from vending machines. Don't look for a wash. er or dryer.
Soon as I found this place I also found an African entrepreneur selling toothpick joints at the door. Spending five minutes inside showed me how much I would prefer being outside. I still had 'food' and money. They all wanted to know what I had in the bag. Instead of telling them, I made my way to the library. It was not a good day to work
for a pittance. The labor exploiters and their media tools put a pretty face on this type of slavery for the dolts by telling them that their 100% surcharge provides 'insurance' and 'medical'. The construction and other purchasors of intermittant, short‑term labor accept this economic banditry because it is the only game in town. They don't like paying double for people who make half a subsistence wage just because some rich parasites set up a storefront and put out an ad, but they don't care. They just add twice the cost to the price of their product, increasing the cost of business to everyone. As for the supposed benefit of 'insurance' and 'medical', I'm still waiting for citizens to wake up. The cost of the insurance is far more than any and all benefit derived from it. This is why insurance companies are always drowning in money. This is why insurance companies were all left standing to buy up all the banks during Reagan's half‑a‑trillion‑dollar savings and loan theft‑a‑thon for the Gluttons Of Privlege and political influencepeddlers. I've written extensively on this phenomenon elsewhere and thus won't reiterate it here except to say that the mere threat of huge lawyer‑suits and medical bills suffice to triple the actual cost of medical care. It is a tragedy that we are disorganized and gullible enough to let the politicians, lawyers and other societal parasites suck us dry and white for such nonsense.

The main Dallas library was just across the street. It is a huge building, modern and on par with the many fine government bureaucrats' buildings scattered all over the place. It contained maps and information on all aspects of the city and job market. The library, the job listings in a newspaper and a phone take you about as far as you can go. Unfortunately the library was swarming with private cops. While studying the city and its opportunities I accidently fell asleep. A fat, food‑addicted bitch with a badge and a power fetish shouted me awake. She threatened me with a fine to make me leave even faster than I already was. Everywhere I went there were scowling, arrogant, badged scum like her robbing me of my peace and quiet. Others like me were forced to pay fines or lay in jail in lieu of money. They are jealous of you even finding a place to sit. Don't even try to lean back too far or‑gasp!‑lie down in a public place. You will regret it:
It was a long walk to find a safe‑seeming place to sleep, and in doing so a pudgy male goof with red hair and pale, freckled skin began following me. He wanted to know if I was lost. Everywhere you go there are people trying to shove their faces into your affairs. It is like none of them have lives of their own and want to feed on yours. I got him off my trail easily enough, (he had come, I found out later, from a freaking halfway house!), but it would be nice if people could learn to occupy themselves profitably. For three days the only good place I'd found to sleep required this arduous journey to a park each night to prop up against a toy‑sized tree. Previously I'd slept on a grate that periodically gushed semi‑warm utility exhaust behind bushes abutting the Scottish Rites Temple. That place had been comparative Heaven. Though it was early May, global warming had not set in as solidly as it is now and the nights were very cold for an inactive man not running for his life. My two shirts were not enough for warmth. The Scottish Rites place was in an affluent neighborhood that assurred that cops and other intruders were unlikely, as long as I was able to remain unseen. In the morning there appeared on the front lawn a flock of grackles in a comical mating frenzy. They are large, blue‑black, long‑legged, curve‑billed birds of the crow family. The females have red breasts. The males puff up their feathers, swirl, rustle, stamp and dance like prairie chickens, chasing the eye of the females. Then they spread their wings a bit, push them forward vertically while making a long swishing sound like a wheezing washing machine. Last, they emit an ear‑piercing squeal and repeat the process until they consumate or the female flies away. Much as I enjoyed the warmth, peace and avian floor show, it was too far away from work to stay but one night in passing. At LaborForced I was given Jobs right away and met some nice co‑workers. After filling a questionnaire full of lies and getting a picture identification card made on the spot, they sent me with a pack of others out to Plano to clean up trash around a new Frito‑Lay headquarters they were building. Having been robbed of my freedom and enslaved by the cop and lawyer system too early in life to have any real job experience, I was expecting to be stuck with dirt jobs for a long time.
They issued us our tiny little $20 wage checks each evening after work. A tall, easygoing guy was the experienced leader. I can't remember his name, but he was always happy and enthusiastic with his lot and a good worker as well as competent, so I'll call him

'Rich' because of his attitude. lie had nothing, he wanted little, and he was glad to get it and share it with you. He said, "Follow me if you want your checks cashed:" A string of about ten of us followed his fast clip to, guess what, a bar: Not five blocks from one place of exploitation was another, related lair of exploitation. Each in turn paid to have our checks cashed by a senior lady. They bought their liquor and cigarettes, then gathered outside to plan their 'party'. She automatically asked me what I'd have to drink or smoke, as if it was standard practice. I didn't even buy candy.
Rich and the guys were suprised to find that I wouldn't be getting drunk with them. They shot off to a hobo nexus under a massive set of overpasses. I went to McDonald's across the street from the library and had my first taste of real food in over thirteen years. It was fish, fries, slaw, ketchup, tartar sauce and a malt. It was ecstacy. Do not turn your nose up at fast food until you've been forced to eat prison garbage. Guards eat it for one meal a day, but not for long. The fat cat who gets the kickback off buying food for prisoners buys poison crap that would make a buzzard wretch. A few years prior to this, the buyer for Okra‑Coma got caught buying poisonous beef and pork for elementary school kids. They got sick and the sleazy politicians were forced by parent outcry to run two mystery‑meat corporations out of this state. Texas taxpayers were forced to buy $10 million worth of Canadian garbage called 'Vita‑Pro' for their prisoners. That shit would make your guts start churning after only five minutes of having eaten it. No prisoner would eat it a second time. It rotted in Texas warehouses until they sold a couple million dollars worth of it to the Okie purchasing agent. After three years of trying to make prisoners eat it, he sneaked off with it to California and New York. It is still being pawned off on the unsuspection instead of being buried as toxic waste.

JAILBREAK! 

CHAPTER FOUR

WOMEN LEARN GENETICS
...a big, fat hog to have a kid on!
								A song by Judy Tenuda
Over the course of my great refugee adventure I'd been washing my socks and shirts periodically in puddles in the road and in culverts. My prison jeans took too long to dry and were constantly needed, so they stayed pretty stiff and filthy. Each of the hair follicles on my thighs had turned black, as if fighting a pitched battle with infection. It looked hideous, but so far no pustules or lesions had erupted. None of my washing had been with soap, and I hadn't even stopped to build any fires and so hadn't even used ashes as a substitute for soap. I'd just scrubbed as best I could and let the stuff dry as I slept. I hadn't bought deodorant either, since my own nostrils are not delicate as the TV programs others' to be. LaborForced afforded no place to sleep, and many of us took advantage of the water, sinks and mirrors in the library. This much chagrinned the security kops who, being female, had a harder time detecting us and chasing us out of the men's rooms. The library staff, being nothing but helpful liberals, couldn't have cared less and saw nothing wrong with us brushing our teeth and shaving, etc, long as we didn't leave a mess. Even so, I never felt very clean and always imagined that I stank mightily, though no one ever said a word.

It was with this frame of mind and state of body I was in on saturday, May 11, 1985 After two days of laborForced, I was taking advantage of the job market lull to try and find a real '.job that paid more than subsistence. Also I was researching thermo‑chromic plastics in case I could sell an idea or business plan to a venture capitalist, should I meet one or‑‑Heavenst‑‑become one. i had a germ of an idea that wouldn't become viable until just prior to Halloween. I was sitting in the library's vending room eating some toxin‑laced, mass‑produced pastry while surrounded by chemistry books when my attention was captured by a thin, well‑dressed lady who had entered and sat at a nearby table minutes before. She was drumming her fingers and looking distractedly at me. I noted that she bore a superficial resemblance to a Joyce I'd dated during my days as a cook and a shift manager at a popular restaurant years ago.
Joyce had been a hard‑working, good‑looking waitress, but had shown up my naivete and gullibility once in a most unpleasant fashion. She had connived me into giving her and her new boyfriend a ride to the grocery store and then to park by a tall hedge while they took their purchases into a home nearby. It was dark, and I was asked to wait until they returned, whereupon I was to take them to her apartment. They returned shortly, laughing and snickering and in a rush form to drive away quickly. As we passed the hedge hedge, I saw her previous boyfriend's Lincoln. It had black shoepolish dribbled down its white sides, a carton of eggs broken on its hood and, Joyce boasted, sugar in its tank and pancake syrup on its seats? Up until this time I couldn't picture any woman being such a vicious bitch. Though the woman across the room from me was not Joyce, it was her memory she invoked. This, and the fact that she could not possibly be interested in a filthy tramp like me led me quickly back to my studies.
She did it again, and the third time I looked, she made an unmistakable face of offense at my inaction. Finally grasping that she did indeed see something in me, I went over and tried to discover what she wanted. This turned out to be harder to deduce than I imagined. I introduced myself to her, apologizing for my inattention while I gave her my alias of that period. Her offense melted more quickly than it had arisen. Incredibly, she asked my assistance on a crossword she was working. My own offense rose at her having disturbed my work for such utter nonsense, but it is ever the man's burden to indulge the main sex, since we are but their experiment on how to build the better female. This so, I resolved to be patient and endeavored to vend the required flirtations. Some light conversation ensued, some of it tangent upon my chemistry books. We spoke of school and colleges. She was a salesperson for Mary Kay Cosmetics, and quite good at it, apparently. The more we talked, the more animated she, and thus I, became. She seemed immune to any odors emitted by me and seemed oblivious to how hacked‑at my hair was. She was not put off by my story of being between jobs and home being far away.	In hindsight it seems she preferred these qualities in me.
We toured the library displays for a while, then she suggested that we see the museum a few blocks away. We toured the fountains and pools across the way at the bureaucrat center instead because the museum was farther away than she wanted to walk in heels. After so much time together it became late enough to eat. She suggested Bennigan's and drove us there in a shiny red Chrysler. We ate less than they brought, had a few genuine laughs, then a friend of her's arrived as if by coincidence. (I was completely fooled. I didn't know that the ladies room contained a lounge, phone, a virtual office and command center from which such coincidences can be arranged.) The three of us talked

for about another thirty minutes, more than a little of it them whispering together. Abruptly her friend left. We strolled the mall for a while. She invited me to her place, which turned out to be a room at the Sheridan her friend had just rented. Her room‑mate left through a connecting door as we entered. I had the best time of my life most of the night, which ended at 4AM when I awoke just in time to catch her sneaking out. She said I could have the room, that I was sweet, then drove away with a wave.
This rise in feminine independence and boldness is the change I find most refreshing and suprizing after my decade or so in Okie death‑traps. In 1971 you would find few women actually staking out public places and stalking selected men for sperm acquisitions based on scientific principles, but I've found this practice quite common and observed it many times. Their science is sociological in nature, derived more from that geneticly hard‑wired bump on their brains characteristic of females alone, but is no less valid for its lack of textbook expertise to guide it. This same basic scenario has been offered me several times over the past decade or so. Particularly determined women found me at Six Flags, convenience stores, supermarkets, the petrified forest national park, an art gallery, book store, apartment complexes, the Fort Worth Library and an housing edition we put up in Branson, among other places. To this day I'm astounded at this phenomenon and enthusiastically applaud all women who practice it. Many of the husbands I've met were real swine barely disguised with a veneer of civility. A startling number of women have used their superior sociological skills to break their cultural and religious chains and learn genetics the hard way. It appears to have begun with their natural, Darwinian, selection of the biggest, hairiest ape for personal protection against the other apes. These apes looked pretty good in the past and when picked fresh out of their youth from high school and college. The good life quickly causes their chins, jowls, necks and guts to suddenly poof out and droop obscenely, particularly the part that flops out over their belt buckles. Also their backs grow attached to the chair from which they watch sports and suck down endless cans of cheap beer. This too is an advantage to the wife, who is assurred that even if their spouse could lever himself out of the easy chair and escape her sight that no other women would have him.
Fat‑induced fidelity was thought acceptable despite the fact that it selected for fat sons. Then, over the scant few decades of the US Obesity Pandemic it slowly became clear to women that the fat genes they'd been inadvertently selecting for also caused fat daughters who had to lower their standards to accept less desireabie men. This process became obvious after the US Govecrats began to outlaw the cure for obesity, called 'speed' by the hysterical anti‑drug cops and politicians. The resulting tidal wave of plumpedout daughters grew up with the curse of nutritinal affluence and vowed tearfully that they would combat it for their daughters. The Sisterhood culture devised a strategy of continuing to marry proto‑hogs for protection and financial advantage, but began to shop outside the home for a better genetic endowment. My studies indicate that many progressive women are availing themselves of tall, skinny men to counteract the fat genes they suffer from their parents. Some who are ahead of the learning curve are even selecting for intelligence as a secondary trait behind thin‑ness. (For a more detailed analysis of the genetic trade‑offs involved ask for: Modern Human Sexual Selection.)

I am ecstatic to have been selected so many times to cuckold such men and pray the process proceeds apace because this is one of the few ways genetic superiority triumphs over inherited wealth and power. Every day I thank God Himself for making wealth and power cause decadence and degeneracy. As is well known, society is like making a good stew; you must keep it stirred up to keep the scum off the top. I have nothing but praise for every woman who breaks from subservience and tradition, discovers what is best for her offspring and goes to get it. Hereditarily rich men have viciously plundered this planet and twisted society too much with their self‑aggrandizing ways. It's long past time for intelligent women to rule and create a peace where each country's politicians no longer have their warmongers' knives poised at every citizen's throat.
It was very nice to have a room til noon and to be really clean for a change. The spots on my thighs wouldn't go away so easily, so I gave them extra attention by filling the tub very full and washing my jeans as I sat in the suds. While I was pondering the inefficiency of feminine schemes I noticed someone's hair and her eye watching me from the door. It was 'Joyce's' friend, Tish. She'd sneaked quietly through the connecting door that I'd forgotten about. Tish was big, with a wide, pale, open face wreathed in red, curly hair. She's the kind of woman you'd expect to find on a farm doing hard work alongside many brothers. She kind of startled me.
"Damn!"
"I brought you some more soap. It looked like you were running out. Do you always mumble to yourself?" She sat on the side of the tub and squirted soap in the water. "When I'm alone, I do." I said testily, "I thought you were gone."
"I need to speak to you privately. You mind?" "I'll be out in a minute."
"Are you sick?"
"No, I'm not sick. Do I look sick?"
"You look raggedy for a reason. You shoot? Smoke crack?"
 "No, I don't shoot. What's 'crack'?"
"Freebase. You know; Richard Pryor." 
"No. You?"
"Not any more. You anemic?"
"I answered that; now it's your turn. What do you and your girlfriend do in the privacy of your bedroom?"
"Don't get nasty. I'm just curious; for good reason. You're just being nosy. Let me help you wash some of that stuff. What's that on your legs?"
"They're freckles, like those on you, except black, like dirt; ground‑in dirt and sweat like people get from having no chance to wash."
"I just had to ask." Tish paused for a minute, concentrating on wringing my shirt out, then continued without making eye contact.  "Look. We appreciate what you did for us. We've been working on this project too long. I don't want to go through this again. So; I want you to do it for me too."
"We can try, but it probably won't work for you."
 "I can get you up."
"I mean, uh, the voltage is there, but no amps."
"You've had eight hours; that's plenty. We've got five more hours to go before  noon." 
"Sounds like it might hurt."
Tish smirked. "Oh, it will, but you'll get over it."

We rinsed my clothes in the sink and tub, then set them to dry over the air conditioner at full blast. Tish raided the maid's cart for me and brought back a newspaper. She told me of being an exotic dancer for several years before meeting 'Joyce'. They pooled their money and efforts to afford a place near Turtle Creek where they still live with three teenagers hot to get to college. Two are fraternal twins due to Joyce's having taken fertility drugs. They have it all and no man to trip over, support or be beaten by.

CHAPTER FIVE

Employment, sleep, and a narrow escape
Moral indignation permits envy and hate to be acted out under the guise of virtue.
									Ericha Fromm
Checking the ads for a job, I found one nearby and hiked over to it. A young suited guy hired me right away to work in the mail room of an office tower near the YMCA. That day and the next they had me stuffing manilla envelopes from four different stacks of sales literature. The job only lasted three days. The third day I discovered I'd opened a wrong box and stuffed a half‑day's work for nothing. I fixed my mistake the rest of the day and still had stacks to undo. When I returned the next morning, the place was over‑run with kids being taught my job by a gruff stranger. I was so embarassed at having made such an amateurish mistake that I didn't try to collect any pay for any of it. On the way back 'home' to the library I passed the YMCA. On the steps sat a guy who could only be my old high school friend from Owasso, Karl Shivel. He'd never seen me with a beard and mustache. I was confident that he couldn't possibly recognize me. We'd not seen each other since his furlough from Germany in '71, fourteen years earlier. He had probably learned that the cops and lawyers had juked me out of my life and that there was only one way I could be running loose. (He also knew from personal experience that the cop and lawyer systems are nothing but sewers of corruption.) He was one of the best friends I ever had, but I couldn't afford to be sidetracked. Also, I would not cause his temptation by the supposed $1,000 reward the cops feigned to offer for snitchery about me. Karl would not have sold me out, but eventually word would slip to friends or others who would. The cops know how cheaply snitches work and how quickly gossip spreads to scurrilous ears. They depend on if, to do most of their work for them. Knowing this, I'm astonished that they offer such relative much. Most rats are eager to snitch for free, merely to obtain the cheap thrill of power to spread misery to others. Other rats would do it for the tale to tell. Souls are just as cheap. Cops easily dupe most family members to snitch on each other with their phony moralizing and the promise of anonymity. Only after it is too late do the rats discover that the anonymity is leaky as a sieve to anyone intelligent enough to access public records and that their Judas‑money is far less than the cops promised. Karl and I gaped at each other and at the impossibility of our meeting this far from that time and place of our past. Behind me I heard him call my name twice. I apologize for not stopping, and I know Karl understands. No sane person puts his fate in anyone else's hands. The stakes are life itself, and I'll keep mine. The cops will not get another free chance to steal my remaining life by default. They can fry in Hell first, which is exactly what many of them deserve.

By this time I'd reconnoitered the area well enough to become part of my surroundings. Transients and homeless were everywhere, even sleeping in the foliage about the library. There were cliche‑rock islands with trees and bushes growing out of the top, with concrete slabs for seats circling them. Don't fall asleep on one by accident! The Texas sun will quickly fry you. And the badged bitches actually ticketed a friend of mine there from Ohio for napping on one after a hard day humping flyers all over the endless Dallas neighborhoods. Being tired cost him two days work, snatched away by the rich city 'crats.
Rich also succumbed to bad Karma in having the misfortune to pass out in an alcoholic stupor too near a nest of fire ants. He still showed up at work, though eaten up his arm to the shoulder and on that side of his face, still in good humor. He looked like a leper with all the bites on him. It takes a lot of work to stay drunk, sometimes.
Myself, I found the perfect place to sleep. My routine of returning to the library after work paid off in an unexpected way. Every evening while checking the newspapers for jobs, I came to notice a cop's routine. At dusk each day a fat, arrogant female with a badge would noisily clatter up in an unmufflered Cushman three‑wheeled box. She would stop and lean over the railing, looking for hoboes attempting to sleep in a large arboretum designed to allow natural light access to a subfloor of the library. At the opposite end were stairs that led down into the thing, but there was no place to sit, and thus few people visited it. Several immature sprigs of trees and a few low shrubs provided no cover from snooping cops' eyes. Thus the woman would briefly scowl into this pit each evening and quickly putter off to search out other fine and penalty revenue for her employer, the city of Dallas.
After a few evenings of observing her ritual, I noted three things: she never came back later to check again; everyone else avoided the place; the ledge of the farthest picture window was both wide enough to sleep on and outside her sightline if a clever, tired individual positioned himself correctly. I did, and it worked. She never snapped to me sleeping there under her snout. It saved me many thousands of steps. Many mornings I remember being awakened at daybreak in my own garden by the melodies of Texas bullfinches. But it was still quite cold at night for a man as thin as me. It was here that I learned how well a single page of newspaper can make a good substitute for a blanket if simply draped over a man's torso.
Convenient as this place was for me, others were still struggling. One kid was so driven by the nightly drop in air temperature that he crawled in one of the trucks that LaborForced unlawfully transported us in like cattle.	They had no seats, belts, or fire extinguishers, nor were they driven by commercially licensed drivers as required by state and federal laws. They cleverly escaped these safety regulations two ways: they did not tag or mark their trucks properly, concealing their function, and the entire business chain was owned by a limited liability corporation composed solely of judges, prosecutors, lawyers, cops and few undistinguished‑and unnamed‑‑business partners. The driver had forgotten to lock one truck. The kid crawled in and overslept, they found him snoring, called the cops and hauled him off to languish in a cage at the expense of taxpayers to the profit of judges, prosecutors and lawyers. City 'fathers' make sleepinga very profitable venture for themselves.:

Things screwed up for me too, though not as badly as it had for the kid. I didn't get caught sleeping. People again began to poke too far into my business with their incessant curiosity. It made me very nervous to have a bunch of busy minds grinding away trying to solve the puzzle they made of me. The exploiters at LaborForced brought it to a crisis themselves one evening when they said that there was a problem with my check. I'd been using a simple name to throw off the curious. I borrowed a name shared by a black singer and a black football player. Black people would hear me use this name and automatically chase off the wrong trail and ask me if I was related to the famous people. I'd admit to being a cousin or other, then smile and no one would think twice about the fake social security number I gave. My thought was that LaborForced and other businesses would take my taxcash as their own for three months, gaining investment revenue from it before having to turn it in to our many greedy politicians to spend, leaving us with a worthless checkmark in an accounting book somewhere.	It didn't work this way. They took the money all right, but they did not give me three months before questioning my fake labortax number. While standing in line to get my daily check, a clerk had me stand aside. Usually they print out the checks as soon as you turn in your signed worksheet.
"There's a problem with your check," she said. 
""What kind of problem?"
"What's your labor number?"
"Same as it's always been, of course." 
"Tell me."
Prison is great practice for learning to plan ahead. The guards force you to come up with many justifications, explainations and reasons for every act, since every act ' you perform is suspicious to them. Having to constantly have a plausible 'story' already together to explain my every act for over a decade, I was ready for this intrusion. Instead of answering her question, I gave her yesterday's checkstub with the labortax number already printed on it; printed by her yesterday. She looked at it doubtfully. "Is this correct?"
"What is the problem? You forget me from yesterday? Don't remember me for the past three weeks? Did I stop looking like this picture?"
"I need to verify your labor tax number."
"I just did that for you. Smitty! Why won't this woman give me my check? Do I have to call the labor board to get my lousy $20?"
They didn't make me raise my voice any louder, nor did I have to make any remarks about the way they transported us in an unlawful manner. Nor did they give me my check. They handed me a piece of crap that had 'Jim Brave' on it, an approximation of the alias I'd been using. I got angry, and Smitty offered to print out a new one. To do so would take too long. I took the crap‑check. One thing is fellow victims prying into your business; quite another is the FatCats of management putting their crosshairs on you. It was time to take cover, fast, and thanks for the warning!
They never saw me again. The liquor store people cashed this phony check as easily as the ones with my properly‑spelled phony name on it. From there I went to Greene's department store to buy some clothes and change my disguise. While I was there the store employees found a poor slob shoplifting some food. A rabid pack of them beat him and threw him through a plate glass window. It was pretty sickening to see the falling glass chop him almost to death.	I called for an ambulance and the cops came instead.  It is a sad day in Hell when you need a tourniquet and they give you shackles.

Another thing creeped me out. Passing a bistro, I saw a tiny Honda Spree with the keys in it. It's like a motorized skateboard. It had emblazoned on its sides as part of its paint job my own surname with an approximation of the family crest! It seemed like it was put there to make me know I was being observed. It was like an invitation for me to take it and hurry up and do whatever it was that I planned to do. I could imagine the extreme frustration cops would have sitting in their 400 horsepower unmarked cars following a person who was always traveling afoot at four miles an hour, maximum. I left, quickly, my thoughts churning, my eyes working overtime too, trying to find my hidden observers. It was like I was their experiment. They were studying me, lettingme make data points for them for use in the future against other innocent people who eventually escape.
By this time my savings was substantial by hobo standards. My small bits of cash were all my possessions that I didn't wear. With nothing to drag me down, I set out to elude my followers again. It was a long walk west again, down by highway 30. Night began falling about the time I got to Arlington. The whole way had been metropolis and concrete. It didn't matter how tired I was. There was no place to sleep. I kept walking. My map suggested Arlington lake as a potential place to sleep.
About the time it became obvious I wasn't going to make it, a car pulled up with a friendly face offering a ride. I was glad to have it and wasted no time getting in. The guy told me he'd seen me walking for hours, having cruised by several times. He was only curious and friendly. I told him a bland story of divorce and jobless migrancy that fit with the times. Nixon/Ford had handed the hyperinflation of the Vietnam war to Carter, who had handed it off to Regan, who was curing it by throwing everyone out of work. Prices were slowing their upward spiral since no one had money to buy anything with. My new friend suggested he leave me at a Church mission to eat and sleep. I'm sure it was
a good idea altruistically given, but I wasn't in a state of mind that would let me do so. I've suffered from social phobia all my life. I'm perhaps a victim of a slight case of Aspberger's syndrome. I can force myself to deal with it, but I still would rather be alone much of the time. I could not steel myself to praising the Lord with a bunch of strangers just to get entry into a shelter, not even for a break from snickers and jerky. (Yep, I still had about five each left, and it hadn't been three weeks like I'd told the LaborForced woman. That was a subterfuge.) He nigh‑on insisted. I told him I was staying at the lake. He advised me that the lake was fenced in, but he dropped me off there anyway. He was a nice, caring person, and I appreciated the miles he saved me.
Sure enough, the lake was fenced in. I hopped it and climbed a massive earthen dike. As I crawled under a concrete joke of a picnic table, the wind began blowing. It was cold and wet. I had no newspaper. It was just too uncomfortable. I abandoned it and scrabbled back down to a copse of trees at the base of the dike where I'd seen a car hood trying to bury itself in the ground. Not giving a damn about spiders and snakes that I could not see anyway, I crawled under it to get out of the rain and slept like a corpse.
Fort Worth was next on my list, and about twenty miles away. It took all next day to get there. My first stop was a newspaper box and a telephone book. Both items were at the main library, of course. Fort Worth‑the‑city is considerably smaller than 'Big D' but its political boundary spreads farther. In large places it looks old and decrepit, as it is. Fort Worth was here long before tall, shiny Dallas. It really is still a cowtown, with huge, not‑really‑all‑that‑smelly stockyards. It's got an interesting 'Old Town' tourist trap with fake gunfights and other attractions well worth seeing. But the library was a bit on the puny side, compared to the magnificence of Dallas, that is. It beat the hell out of anything you'll find in Okiehoma.

Right now all the Boss Hogs researching this treatise have begun to scratch their thick, football‑shaped craniums (Means 'heads' you fools!) and thinking, "Duh, we need to put in the manual to set some of our citizen‑snitches at libraries:" To this I say, "Good thinking, genius! Maybe you should also have your boss try and get a copy ®f the CIA manual, which will tell you a trick they've been using for decades; turning the thousands of convenience stores into full‑scale domestic spying apparatchiks."
From there I went to the local SlaveLaborHaus and bought a ticket for a shower and a flop. It killed my soul to have to patronize these places and the privileged political scum who own them, but I needed the money and there was no other option at this time. Clean and tired, I slept until a fight woke me in the morning. The exploiters in this place used a sadistic African to 'run' the place, and he was busy beating on a skinny Caucasian who had wet his flop‑pad. Next, this power‑mad flunky went down the line throwing everyone out at 6:30AM They too never saw me again, and later it was told that this African was found dead behind the dumpster with a needle full of battery acid in his arm. This scenario isn't likely, but the tale had a soothing effect on all his victims who heard and repeated it to others.
Lancaster and Rosedale streets were the places for hoboes to be in Fort Worth. This is where the horndogs brought their cash to the hookers and the hookers bought their dope. I learned a lot about the underground economy by observing here. It fueled many an entreprene ur. Many of the tricks here, as in any nest of hookers, are cops posing as tricks solely to coerce the hookers into giving up their dope‑connections. Contrary to the pabulum spoon‑fed the TV addicts, cops prey on hookers viciously and without any regard for their safety. (I've detailed this relationship better in: San Francisco Cops Dupe an Infotainist.) The short story here is that cops' threats and attacks upon hookers make up most of their 'street intel', to use the copspeak term, which they took from milspeak.
I was between jobs once when a feminine entrepreneur asked me to pose as her husband at a family planning clinic so she could get a fistfull of condoms. It appalled me that disease prevention supplies were made so hard for them to obtain. I decided to help. My job became to help prevent some disease within the community. I did this in my small way by riding the bus all the way out to J&J and back bringing two cases of condoms. The AIDS epidemic had been discovered only four years previously and they all were very frightened of it, though not so scared as to give up their lazy lives of fast cash, plenty of dope and 24/7 partying. Some of them chipped in to buy the things; others bought them from us at a price that gave us (mostly me) a profit.

Young females are very bad businesspersons. They knew all the usual secret police who preyed on them, and could perform astonishing feats of social computation in their heads with dumbfounding speed, but could not take advantage of the fact that condoms are cheaper paid for in bulk than one at a time. The first thing they do is spend all their money on cocaine, and when it's all gone, they try to beg condoms, which none of them have. When they can't find any, they do without and possibly spread disease. The cocaine drives them, though it's only a psychological addiction. They'd try to give me head for condoms, but I'd never go for this. Instead, I would give them a long lecture and a condom on credit. They all liked me because I was a prude and because I wouldn't try to take advantage of them like everyone else. They could be worked with. We helped each other. They'd let me have their motel rooms when they were not in use. They mostly went to waste half an hour after the tricks paid for them. I helped them maximize the use of these rooms by posing as the clerk and selling them again to other tricks they brought by. They would throw other things my way too, like food, transportation, even clothes, all paid for by their tricks.
All this was intermittent and a poor substitute for a real job despite what millions of male Blacks and Hollywood/TV/cop‑propagandists try to sell the rubes about 'pimps'. What a bunch of childish ghetto 'bangers' think is a lot of money is really just pocket change to a man with a job. I had to get a real job, fast, and it was the change I made from my female friends that gave me the time and expenses needed to look for one.
In pursuit of this endeavor I was out by the railyards one sunday morning from having unloaded cars the previous day. It was here that I met 'steel' Bill. He's a whitehaired older guy who had migrated here from Pittsburg. He spoke of having been laid off from a fabulously paying job in the mills there. During this time of Reaganistic 'trickledown' there was a mass migration of overpaid unionists out of the rust belt trying to find employment before they froze or starved to death in the dark. Judging from how many people I met from Ohio, Illinois and Michigan, it seemed that these states dumped a lot of their mismanagement problems out into Texas and elsewhere in the sunbelt. It was a lot like the dust bowl and depression, except without much media coverage except to ridicule it. The politician's 'news' stalkers vended many lying stories of following beggars from street corners to their luxury cars. "Will Work For Food" signs became common because good men who would not steal were hungry and could not get a job. Instead of helping them, millionaire news‑whores prostituted themselves as usual to the politicians and used their national and local TV time to connive the gullible public into thinking that everything was humming along just fine. Like dogs on a leash, the employed took direction from their masters, just as we, like cattle running from the electric prod, took direction from our own masters.
Steel Bill had been a transient for quite some time and thus he knew many more tricks than I. He told me, "Let's get breakfast!" We were deep in an industrial center. The farther he led me into it, the more deserted it became. He swore that a bunch of religious people drove up here‑abouts every sunday and made a great breakfast for everyone. Gradually we passed a few and more loitering hoboes. I had to believe that something was poised to happen. At last we stopped and sat in the middle of docks and warehouses. After about an hour a colossal roach‑coach drove up with a few cars and pickups. Well‑dressed people piled out and into the coach. After another 45 minutes the smell of coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon began to make our stomachs growl and our mouths to water. At this smell a phenomenal sight ensued. A throng of disheveled humanity began to shuffle in from nowhere to surround the food wagon. I'd only seen but 20 or fewer tramps on our long way in, but the concrete and tin 'neighborhood' somehow disgorged at least 200 people before the stuff was ready!
Even after it was ready, it was not just rush‑in‑and‑eat. There was a ritual to unfold and play out first. The food was signalled ready when the crowd could see buckets of eggs and potatoes dumped into the steam table along the side of the coach and wives and helpers take up places and spoons to serve the stuff.

The leader's truck was in front. He leaped into its bed and used the cab as his speaker's platform‑ He was young and personable. He gave a remarkably short speech and sermon plus prayer, then exhorted us to praise Jesus or otherwise testify or pray to His glory.
Remarkably, the crowd languished, sullen and quiet. The leader exhorted us again and paused. No takers. He did so again until it became clear that no food was forthcoming lest someone convert on the spot or at least offer faint praise of the Lord. I found it unbelievable that these freeloaders, who obviously came here every sunday, would apparently rather not pay even a few words of praise to persons who had gone to tremendous trouble and expense for them. It actually became a contest of wills. As a student of amateur psychology I found it very telling the lengths to which both sides would go, in the coin of wasted time, to defeat the other. The hungry apparently were not all that hungry, plus had all the time in the world to waste. The Church people had the patience of anglers, plus the need for validation along with the certainty of Christ of getting it eventually.
This went on and on, longer than I cared to observe. I had shit to do. Finally I stood up, causing hobo pride to win when I performed the required praise, testimonial and thanks. It was a pretty poor performance, but it sufficed. The leader gave the nod. An orderly progression of the unemployed formed up to partake of free food. To this day I sometimes wonder what occurred before my witness of this weekly struggle. My guess is that the tramps' strategy of sullen apathy wins for no other reason than the fact that they have infinite time to waste. Also, the Christian ethic prevents them from wasting food.
The food was good and plentiful, and of course worth our effort and wait.	I applaud the people who organize and provide this service, especially since they do it despite being begrudged even the mere voice of praise they seek in payment.
Steel Bill said he could get me a good job alongside him at the precast stone company he worked at, run by the mother of a nice family. On occasion Bill would let alcoholism take him away from the job for a weekday or so, but supposedly the job was still open.
He claimed to have a motel room to flop in, too. We hiked into Haltom city and they put me to work the same day we arrived. I got the shit‑job of mixing cement. Bill moved up to filling and tending the fiberglass molds. The work wasn't too steady at first, but paid 60% more than SlaveLaborForced. Also we weren't treated like swine or cattle, which was nice for a change.
The motel was a couple miles from the jobsite, but a really nice member of the family would pick us up every morning in his tiny blue Mazda pickup truck. His name was Gary; he was 24. He'd sandblast, which he hated to do, and deliver the stone, which he didn't mind so much. A young lady named Sarah made the molds and supervised the work. An older brother, Bill, ran a bricklaying/construction operation. A garrulous older guy, Tiny, did odd jobs, maintenance and trouble‑shooting. We all got along well, and for several weeks we made a weekly check of moderate size; about $200, including overtime of 15 to 25 hours per week, minus Uncle Snatchy's labortax grab.

There came a break in the work, though, and Bill took me to the Texas Employment Commission of the state labor exploiters. They were much better than the SlaverForces since they paid $5.5 instead of $3.35 per hour. By the time we found that we were laid off and hiked up there, almost all the jobs were gone. A guy came in looking for a couple of people. Nobody wanted it, which was strange. Bill and I volunteered. We would rather work than wait. We don't mind hard work. It's in our nature.  It's good exercize and it makes the time go quickly. We tried to take it. The guy looked at Bill and callously told him, "You're too old." He looked at me and said that I barely would qualify. We drove off. They put me on a trash truck with a couple of Black guys. At first the work didn't seem too hard, but as the sun rose and the route didn't end, a toll was exacted. It was high summer, almost, and the temperature was nearing 100. Our driver was an expert. He regularly stuffed the butt of that monster truck so close with so little effort that often we could just hang off the stantions and pull a flying grab to sling in the plastic bags backhanded. Also, he was a good judge on deducing which bags had been stuffed too heavily to permit this and required a stop.
My partner was a young guy and in good shape phisically from doing this type of demanding work for so long. Keeping up with him wore me out very quickly. He and the driver saw my endurance was flagging and compensated by taking in more furniture than usual. Chairs and couches don't crunch well, filling the truck up quickly and necessitating more (restful) trips to the dump. Though we made 3 or 4 trips, the heat and exertion got so bad for me that several times I experienced a phenomenon completely new to me: my sight would lose all its color vision! Also I began to feel odd when this occurred.	Instinctively I'd squat down on the rungs of the moving truck. This would keep me from passing out and falling off. It raised my blood pressure sufficiently to recover. Weeks afterward I read in the newspaper that a garbage truck backed over a temporary worker and drove off to the next stop before learning they'd lost him. My own experience told me how this happens. It could have happened to me several times.
Finally we got finished. They left me at the garage and cut me a check from their own Office of Sanitation. This was great, because otherwise I'd have to hike all the way back to Fort Worth to get paid. The motel was farther away than I wanted to walk, and
I took the wrong direction when estimating how far along I was on 'Old Haltom Road'. I wound up having to retrace my steps for over a mile. By the time I got back to the motel I was more than just fatigued. I was sick, almost sick enough to puke from heat prostration. Garbage truck work is not what many people can do, and I have the utmost respect for those who do it every day, Soon as I got there, Bill wanted to fight, ostensibly because I changed the radio station in the motel before leaving that morning. The real reason was drunkenness, his chagrin of having been told he was too old for the job and his seeing I was too sick to beat his ass for being an ass.
This bad blood didn't last long. A couple of days later Bill was introducing me to 'Pops', who was an old man who lived directly across from the precast company. He was a fellow alcoholic like Bill and often drove us around to various purposes. They were drinking and talking while listening to country music. They also had with them a nice‑looking neighborhood woman I'd been introduced to earlier.	It had been another hard day on the trash truck, and though I was not sick, I was deathly tired. I greeted them all and tried to flop on my usual place on the floor with a sleeping bag as a pad until I felt better. These schemers had other plans for me. They insisted I flop on the bed, which Bill was sitting on and the woman appeared to be beginning to pass out on. Anything to shut their slobbering jowls, I crawled into the tiny space between the woman and the wall, promptly falling deeply aslumber.

My experiences with alcoholics have always been negative. Only one in the thousands I've had to deal with knew how to slow or quit drinking when they get 'high' as they need to be. Each one but him invariably turn stupid and mean before their brains short out. These two buffoons couldn't figure out why I'd never go running around drinking, bar‑hopping and chasing female alcoholics with them. They knew it couldn't be because I had bigger plans than to wake up from a stupor in jail or to die horribly in a drunken pickup truck crash. Certainly they'd never met anyone who didn't drink, did save money and had no interest in the fair sex that they could deduce. So their minds churned out an answer to this perplexing puzzle that was me, and a solution: I must be a person who had never. enjoyed sex; they brought me a barfly to cure me of this horrid affliction.
Probably part of the problem was that this woman had told them that she liked me. Too bad she hadn't told me instead, but such appears to the the way of adolescents, the coy and juicers. Anyway, these sots took offense at my sleeping instead of following their plan. Their plan seemed to be to giggle and watch as we copulated like barnyard animals. They were astonished at my lack of sex drive, but let me sleep. They were all gone when I awoke. When Pop and Bill returned, though, they were rude and rustic enough to ask me why didn't I fornicate with the woman. This was when I first learned of their clever plan, and it was my turn to be astonished by their thought processes. Other questions flooded at me. They, like the others, became obsessed with how they could fit my abberant behavior within the framework of their apparently very limited minds.
These geniuses, having killed off major sections of their brains with age, nicotine and liquor, were easier to put off than younger prymeisters I'd left in Dallas, yet much more persistent. A few tales told sparingly into a fabric of plausibilities over the course of weeks staved them off but did not sate their starving curiosity. Meanwhile I worked long and hard, saving money and biding my time. Before long Bill shot himself in the foot, as expected. He went off drinking and vanished, probably to some jail for car burglary. Such often occurs to alcoholics. They get plastered on whiskey. Their thinker cuts out but the body idles on, guided by the ID, which remembers where valuables belonging to others reside for the taking. Next thing they know, they wake up in jail covered with someone else's blood. They think it's the usual drunk until the judge takes decades from their worthless lives instead of the usual days or weeks. All this for something they can't even remember.
Bill's absence came as a welcome surprize, though not at first. I really did like the guy despite his insane curiosity and toxic drunkenness. The motel guy sent his wife over to get the rent. Without Bill, I wasn't paying a nickle of that $80/week. To do so would be to only have $80 left to pay for other monthly expenses, like food. There's no motel on the planet worth this much to me. Besides, this flop had an un‑disconnectable smoke alarm that liked to go off in the absence of smoke while we slept. The thing was a mind‑scramblingly loud nusiance that went off one time too many. I unscrewed it from its socket and twisted til its wires shorted against each other in a spray of sparks, molten copper and ultraviolet rays. The thing was so sinister in its choice of moments to shriek that I thought it was the old woman doing it to us herself. She was a snippy old bat who could get pleasure off pulling such a stunt, it seemed. The only other way to turn it off was to go to the office and beg one of the 'lords to flip the breaker. I wasn't sorry to leave that place.

Pop was there looking for Bill at the time they decided to evict me. Bill apparently owed him and another drinking buddy money along with the 'lords. This search party cinched my eviction. I'd recently bought a bicycle from the Goodwill store. Pop saw me as Bill's replacement, so I threw it in his truck and we drove off.
Pop lived with his wife, who worked as a nurse. He was retired. His wife abhorred his drinking and would not subsidize it in any way. His scam for drinking money was clever and it suited his physique. He was old, paunchy, weak and suffering from a variety of age‑ and dissapation‑related illnesses. We went immediately to a cotton gin he frequented. Out back of it was a huge pile of extremely dusty, fluffy fibers, seed and hulls. It made good fill for allowing air into garden soil when mixed properly. It held moisture too. Pop had a board blocking off half of the bed of his decrepit old truck.
He kept a scoop shovel to load the stuff with. It was so light and airy that anyone could load it. Pop drove extremely slowly, and even at these speeds it would blow out. He had an answer for this too. There was a gas station along the way out that had a free water hose. I'd use it to wet the stuff down enough to put a heavy crust on top. All of his tires had slow leaks too, so I'd put air in them while we were stopped. The place was called 'Raceway'. Luckily the free air and water island was separated from the more energetic drivers.
From there we'd cruise the neighborhoods, searching particularly for the homeowners out watering their lawns and flower beds in the evening cool. These he'd shout at, hawking fertilizer with "...no nutgrass, no crab grass or burrs, guaranteed!" Every night we'd sell at least one of these half‑loads of the stuff. Sometines he'd get $25; other times he'd let them talk him down on price, once as low as $10, but usually $15 was rock bottom. Soon as we sold one, it was straight to the liquor store at a slightly lessslow pace.
Pop had been at this business for so long that he had a number of persons who bought from him on a semi‑regular basis. The business arrangement we had he liked to describe each time we got paid; "One for me, one for you, and one for the truck:" After he got his bottle open and a few healthy slugs of Ten‑high down him, he'd shove it under his seat and get mellow. In the back window of his truck he had a silkscreened cowboy/desert scene that looked very nice. He confided that it helped keep the cops from seeing him drink while driving.

JAILBREAK!

CHAPTER SIX

Hustlers hustling, and transportation!
When you ain't got no education, you Just got to use your brain!
 Kemmons Wilson

When I first began seriously helping Pop out with his enterprise after Bill vanished, I noticed that the passenger side window of his truck wouldn't roll up. Or, if it did, it would only do so with much difficulty. I never really gave it a serious try because
it was always hot, it never rained, and Pop never wasted good drinking money on his truck. Much of the time was spent sitting in that passenger seat while parked at curbs waiting as Pop negotiated a sale. One particular time doing this I remember well. My hands were aching from carrying around heavy stones all day. This work was so taxing on the fingers that I'd actually wake up in the mornings with my hands frozen into claws. It would take several minutes for me to work the stiffness out. Gary would laugh and tell me, "That will stop happening after you've done it enough." I did their work for months and it never failed to draw my hands into claws as I slept.

Distracting me from my aching fingers was a huge truck that turned onto the street and began slowly trundling toward me. Like most people, my eyes fixed upon what moved. This truck had a huge cylinder on its back, but was not a garbage truck. In this neardusk, it was too late for trash trucks to be out. It had a big sign on its front bumper I assumed it said "Wide Load" or something similar. As it came closer I became aware of a loud hissing sound, as if it was a street sweeper. It didn't seem to have any brushes on its undercarriage that rotated or see‑sawed. Nor did it seem to be leaving a trail of wet pavement behind. Eventually it pulled up beside me. A sign on the driver's side door said, "Fort Worth Mosquito Control Protection District Number Ten". About the time I finished reading this and thought about what it meant, the rear of the truck approached. Finally I snapped to its meaning and the reason for the loud hissing noise. I lunged to roll up the window. At the same time the truck shot a spray of bug juice full in my face! This was like my official welcome to Texas. I had just been baptized in the name of the state's insect.
Pop was a good hustler, and a very resourceful man. He once spotted an ad in the paper selling goats for $25 each. He involved me in a plan to made a quick, effortless profit if I'd finance the purchase. People like him and Bill were always noticing how little I spent and came to think of me as their bank, or as a supermarket. I went for this scheme. He drove over and we bought a pair of nannies and a kid. A woman was selling them, and Pop managed to talk the price down more by promising her and her son that they'd have a good home with his young grandkids that was very similar to goat‑paradise, by the way he described it. They also gave us a dog they could no longer afford to feed. It was a "Blue Heeler mix" that Pop planned to sell for another $25. We paid and thanked the nice people, then he drove us directly to Old Town Fort Worth and a Mexican restaurant. They had a ten‑foot high board fence spanning a large goat yard. When they opened it up for us to throw ours in, I saw at least 30 more inside. Alfredo and I wrestled them out and talked animatedly about the coarser aspects of such husbandry for quite a while before Pop and the owner returned with the cash. I was disappointed with the little I'd made, but glad to have met Don Pablo and Alfredo. Having them as friends came in very handy later, though I had no inkling at the time.
Another friend I met through Pop was even more useful. It began with him asking me if I could drive a tractor; a front‑end loader, it turned out to be. Pop knew a rancher in Watauga who had a mountain of horse manure we could sell for free. Pop and I got rid of several loads of this for $25 each. Better, I would see this rancher years later for a very profitable short‑term enterprize.
The dog died of distemper before we even knew he was sick. He just crawled under a bush and languished. Having worked for a vet, I should have noticed the signs, but did not. It was a tragic end to a nice animal who deserved better.

Work picked up at the stone place and Sarah began taking me to lunch. She had a fabulous Isuzu sportscar I'd never heard of before. She was nice to be around, but tended to irk me with some of her personal problems, none of which amounted to much that I could see. I fell into a routine of working with her at the stone place and selling fertilizer with Pop while researching my next move. For a long time I made and saved money until the bundles of currency were fat around my waist. I folded twenties, fifties and hundreds into the band around the top of my jeans and kept a token amount in my pockets. Rent was free. Pop let me sleep on a picnic table under a tree in his back yard. The Texas heat was bad. There was no sleeping until after midnight, when the temperature dropped to the mid 80s. Also, the mosquitoes were both numerous and ferocious. They ate me alive despite my having strung a sheet over me on a line to act as a crude tent. They still got to the tops of my forearms so badly that I had to take an early morning trip to the Belknap street Safeway for calomine lotion and repellant. On the way back, at I AM an arrogant cop drove up and bawled at me from his window, demanding to know where I lived, where was I going, etc. I told the lazy buffoon that I was staying at the motel and was returning there now. He didn't see me carrying anything, so his nosy, butt‑in reflex wasn't kicked in completely. Nor could he find anything about me that he could plausibly fear.‑‑ My simple story was enough, ‑His donut‑craving made him hot‑rod away abruptly with no apology for his unnecessary harassment of me. I passed him again at the local Donut Palace and snickered as he stuffed his snout with greasy flour and dyed sugar. He'd missed the abduction of his career. I was glad I didn't 'fit the description' of anyone he wanted to kidnap. Too bad it is a crime to be homeless.
Pop also had a rickety, thrown‑together shack behind his home. Inside were filthy makeshift beds; mere blankets tossed on mounds of grass clippings and probably infested with lice and mites. Looked like he often succorred transients. I was amazed his wife permitted it. She never allowed any in her home, but would, apparently, allow her garden hose to substitute for a shower at night.
When Bill vanished, I moved up at work. Gary and I became good friends. He hired a Mexican to mix cement and taught me to cover his job of sandblasting. Also, sometimes he'd load a bunch of stone onto a long trailer with a forklift, after similarly loading the bed of his tiny truck. Then he'd have me along on the delivery to help unload it or do odd jobs at construction sites. He's a good‑natured and fairly competent young man, but competence comes from experience. The trailer was loaded incorrectly, as was the truck. We did not notice this until we were speeding down the superhighway toward Waxahatchie. We were laughing and joking, having a great time at 65 miles/hour when we hit a bump and the front wheels lifted two feet off the road. We couldn't steer and the hood blocked sight of the road ahead. Fortunately Gary had the presence of mind not to panic and slam on the brakes. He let off the gas and the wheels gently bounced back down onto the pavement. We stopped and giddily re‑distributed the load, happy to have survived!

Another time on the expressway a loading pallet blew off and disintegrated all over the road behind us. Luckily no one was behind us to get wiped out by it. Once after this we (Gary) ran out of gas. The engine began coughing when there was no exit formiles. Gary babied the little truck along, found an exit, sputtered down the service road an improbable distance, found a service station and had just enough momentum to coast up to the nearest pump. Gary is the luckiest, greasiest guy I've ever known. He could fall backward into a river of turds and climb out with an orchid between his teeth. He was always getting stopped by the cops, but never got tickets, and this was not entirely due to being the son of a merchant. He finally told me that this at least was not luck. Turns out he learned that you could get out of any ticket by casually mentioning to the offending cop that some relative of yours is a cop. This stops them cold: cops have a secret policy of never shitting on each other like they do daily to every other citizen. Gary was always hot‑rodding around and getting caught, but thanks to knowing this bit of secret cop‑lore, got away with it every time.
Gary was very nice and personable. Instead of sticking his nose in my business, he only wanted to borrow money. His brother, Bill; Was a great guy too, giving me a raise once without my asking for it and teaching me a lot about heavy equipment operation, general construction and payroll cost‑estimation tricks. All the guys there liked working with me because I worked hard and smart.
One of the things that I did that wasn't very smart was to bike to the Haltom city library. It was right next to the PigPen and an elementary school, a bad combination. Instead of turning away, I went ahead and did my research. When I finished and was leaving, I saw a grackle chick at the school, on the ground and being stalked by one of the thousands of house cats that ran loose. I chased the cat away, but it wouldn't go far. It looked like it would be a good idea to catch the bird and throw it into its tree.
Its parents were squawking and flapping around ineffectively. Catching the chick wasn't easy. Even young grackles have long legs and can run like chickens. Worse, this one was amongst some very smooth, slippery concrete sidewalks. What at first looked like an easy task turned into a 15 minute nightmare of me falling on my ass and slipping in dog crap before I caught the little squawker. He was so contrary that he wouldn't even land in the tree I threw him at. He flapped awkwardly onto the roof of the school. All this time it was not just the cat and the bird's parents watching my antics. Some cops had come out and were chortling. I bowed as they clapped and then got out of there as quickly as possible.
One day while checking the papers I found a Kawasaki for sale. It was only 100 ccs and a dirtbike, but the price wasn't too outrageous; only $250. My bicycle and I took a sunday to go get it. The thing was 30 miles away, far to the other side of Fort Worth, in White Settlement. Everything turned out right when I got there. My bicycle went to a neighborhood kid for free. I took the Kawasaki on a long, scenic route back. It felt fabulous to have a motorbike again; real transportationi Mobility! The thing was very quick and agile, though not too fast.
It was about this time that I was introduced to Gary and Bill's little brother. He was 15, and a real twerp. Like most affluent families, the pampered offspring they spawn don't appreciate how well they have it. Many actually turn on their families, taking advantage of them like some parasitic monster. Often they have no fathers to spank them, and their moms call them 'troubled'. Their older brothers are too distracted with their own pursuits to discipline and guide them.
I can't even remember the kid's name, so I'll call him one that fits his personality: Dip. Dip had a superiority complex. He thought he was so adept at manipulating and lying to everyone. He'd bragged to me about being a specialist at ripping off electronics from Mall‑parked cars. He told me to just name what I wanted and he'd go steal it and sell it to me for a cheap price.
Dip had already been to juvenile wrist‑slapping academy a couple of times and learned nothing beyond the fact that mommie would buy and beg his way out. The rapidly spinning door of juvenile justice has always been a joke, even for not‑so‑rich kids.

One example of Dip's perfidy occurred at work. Dip didn't like to work. He and Gary got into a tiff about this and Dip stalked off and hid. The workday ended. Gary waited a long time to give Dip a ride back to his mother's home. Soon as Dip saw Gary's truck go by, Dip came back begging me for a ride home.
Like a fool, I felt sorry for him and nearly burned up my bike riding double in rush hour dragging the petulant ass to Richland Hills. As we pulled up in his mom's driveway he told me, "If mom asks you, tell her you charged me $5 to bring me home." This sorry little twerp had no conscience, and to this day, if he survives, is probably still playing everyone against each other.
Down the road from work was a little store that made great chilidogs that Gary loved. The routine for lunch was for someone to make a run to this store. Gary used to take everyone's order and drive down there, but when I got my bicycle and bike, the task fell to me. It was like an extra 20 minutes of lunch, and I was glad of the break from eating cement or carrying stone.
This worked well for quite some time, but finally a cop got me. Driving without a license and without insurance added up to a $250 windfall for the cops despite the fact that I drove a bike better than any of them and that the car drivers needed the insurance for when they negligently drove over me. But the ones with the gold make the rules... Worse, soon as the cops had my fake name and tag number, everything rapidly turned to feces. The 'good' times were over, and it was about time for me to sprint for the ribbon.
From that point on I went back to spending even less than before, which meant not passing out free 'loans' to friends who should learn to spend their own money. I let Gary take my bike for lunch. The cops never bothered him. But they were hot after me. Once the cops get to recognizing you, it is time to get out of their jurisdiction.
Work fell off again at the precast place, but still I lived on Pop's picnic table for a long time. The cops had my date to pay their road‑ransom a month in the future.
I got attacked by the same cop again while heading out to find a new job. The newspaper said that Sugart Construction needed cement workers. That meant me. The place was half an expressway loop away into Fort Worth. While pulled over in a residential area consulting a map and trying to find the place, a truck full of Mexicans pull up and ask me where this same address was. I told them I didn't know, but I had a better idea than they did. They rushed off in the wrong direction. I got there first, was hired and left just as they were pulling up. They got hired too, but on a different crew.

The job site was by the Fort Worth Zoo. They had us putting in a driveway for a dentist's office. The foreman struggled with an all new crew. It was a clusterfaux. They had all claimed to be concrete finishers, form‑men, surfacers and other kinds of professional construction‑artists, but none of them were anything but bumblers. That is, all but one, a Vietnam veteran who seemed to know everything. The trucks poured cement, we stumbled in the mud and rebar, spreading the crap out as best we knew. The smoothers did their thing. The curb people knew how to run their machine. Somehow the sections got harder to do each day instead of easier. On the 5th day we just barely got the last section in before it set up full of dips, bumps and waves. Old codger Sugart himself went nuts. He was livid, shouting and stomping loudly and at length how narrowly we'd missed costing him $80,000 to jackhammer the stuff out and start over again. After raving for 10 minutes, he fired us all except for 'Nam‑vet. Foreman tried to save me, telling Sugart that I'd only claimed to be a laborer, and was a good one. It made no difference. I was gone too, and I kind of preferred it this way. The commute was too far and it would only be a matter of time before the Haltom cops found out where I was going and sicced the Fort Worth cops on me. Also, the boss was such a nut that he insisted I polish the curb the hard, inefficient way; by crawling along on all four, instead of the nonbackbreaking way of sitting on the curb and scooting down as I worked. Boss didn't like to see people sitting while he worked. Boss also didn't like to buy knee pads, either, or dust masks.
The good thing about being fired after 5 days is that Sugart had not bothered to take my fake labortax number. Thus Unka Snatcher didn't get to drain his usual quart of blood out of me that I would never get back.
Another job was in the opposite direction, out by the Motorola plant. The little Kawasaki, geared too low and underpowered, did its best on highways, but wasn't good enough. It would top out at an amazing 60 miles/hour, but I'd stay on the shoulder and do 50 or 55. The speed limit was 55, but Texas traffic whizzed by at 65 and more. Even this was too much for the bike. While trying to make it out to a business that made graphite and epoxy fishing poles and other products, the engine suddenly lost power and made a loud whanging sound every time the piston cycled. One of my Yamahas had blown up the same way, by the spark plug melting a hole in one of its pistons. The metal re‑froze at shut‑down and tried to knock the cylinderhead off each time it went around. Quickly shutting off the gas and hauling in the clutch, I coasted to a stop, pulling far off into the grass.
This was really great, miles from nowhere, noplace to hide the bike, and plenty of time for any of thousands of people to toss it in a truck or trunk before I could get back! For at least ten minutes I studied the problem, trying to come up with a better solution. I could hide it or push it twelve miles back the way I'd come. I had to hide it, jog off to the job interview, arriving sweaty and dirty, and try and get back before the thieves found it. Knowing it was a lost cause, but trying the impossible anyway, I kicked the engine over one time, more out of frustration than anything else.
VROOM! The damned thing started! It had cooled down, the hot metal had contracted, the engine sounded throaty and good as before. Somehow it had repaired itself. We roared off to the interview, getting there on time. I didn't get the job, but I wasn't stranded and could continue down the road to the others on my list. From then on I kept the speed down to 45 mph and the problem never recurred.
The cops got me again, the third time, after I'd stopped at a graveyard trying to find some good candidates for new names. They had no legal reason to stop me, only the outlawed one of, "Hey! I recognize that guy from before" or "Let's see if that guy has any road tax he can pay us. I bet we get lucky!" Two of these young, power‑addicted shitbags stepped out. Like anyone experienced with arrogant cops and the law should do, I made them invent a lie for harassing me. They were so cocky and inexperienced, yet sure of their untouchability and their height above the law that they said, "Your brake light is out." I quickly tapped the brake, proving that they were liars. By the law, they should have left me alone that second. They didn't go away. They're pigs. Pigs are taught never to back up no matter how wrong they are or how corrupt and illegal their intrusions. One lamely reiterated his lie, "Duh, it was out when we first decided to snoop into your business."

Dealing with badged maggots is one thing I'm expert at. I handed them an excellent pack of lies that made them think I was their bank. They wrote me a withdrawal slip for $250, then burned rubber for the donut shop.
One of the most disgusting things I noticed after escaping from decades of Okie‑coma oppression was the tremendous growth of pigdom. Prior to 1972 you could go for miles without seeing a single pig. In 1985 you couldn't go a few blocks without seeing several. Crime was the same, but pigs swarmed everywhere. Fear of crime is constantly created by the TV and radio and newspaper merchants constantly squawking about crime. They repeat each crime many times on all their crime‑squawking programs for days, making everyone think that crime is 100 times what it actually is. This magnification of crime seems to have spawned the explosive growth of knob‑jiggler cops paid by merchants to patrol their businesses. Most of these are overpaid real cops moonlighting from their excessively paid day jobs. When you fall into a gold mine, you keep mining. The government is using phony crime wave statistics and the constant magnification of crime to create in the public an hysterical obsession with crime. By creating this phony crime wave, the government and its eager media tools program the tax‑herd to hand over without protest its affluence to the multi‑chinned wonders in government and their ever‑bloating army of badged thugs same as to a New York City street mugger. As this trend continues, it will not be long before intelligent citizens begin carrying around their own shackles just in case the bloodthirsty pigs attack in the same kind of mob that pumped 41 or more large‑caliber, high‑power police slugs into the innocent, unarmed man on his New York doorstep in 1998.   Pigs have gotten away with cold‑blooded, pre‑meditated serial‑ and mass‑murder for so many decades that they have become rabid with their addiction to unchecked power. Police rabidity is so common and intense that even flagrant, irrefutable instances of their corruption are passed over without any type of real quality control even suggested. Witness the glove‑planting cop and is partner, the blood‑spraying cop. Their efforts to frame
0. J. Simpson sickened a jury so much that they acquitted him. The citizenry is so programmed to be knee‑jerk cop‑coddlers that most refused to see the obvious, photographedand‑played‑on‑TV frame job the cops pulled. Then the public went blind to irrefutable videotaped proof of 30 or so rabid pigs shocking, hammering, kicking and bludgeoning Rodney King in an orgy of police violence. The cop‑suckers that make up most of the ignorant public even passively accept cop‑created atrocities like four of these vicious, badged maggots dragging off their screaming victim into a police restroom and torturing him for at least fifty minutes by raping him with their truncheons until they ripped his intestines up, then broke his teeth with it, making him eat his own feces.

This unexcusable, insufferable police sadism and mental sickness is unspeakable behavior that all of us will see more and worse of because women and affluent white men secretly say to themselves, "Cops won't do that to us." This is exactly what each Jew said to himself as he watched Hitler's police drag off their friends and relatives. Now the pigs wear masks, hiding their faces, just as the other, ordinary criminals do. They wear masks because they are worse than criminals, as was plainly demonstrated when we ‑watched them murder at Ruby Ridge and we saw them burn down 80 innocent Church women, men and children in Waco, Texas. This should alert intelligent people to the fact that police atrocities are occurring and getting rapidly more flagrant as they go unpunished. They are not police anymore. They're an occupying army of bandits disguised as tax‑collectors. They are packs of shrieking monsters with government licenses to murder at whim.
Pop suggested an idea that delayed my departure for another month.  I'd planned to skip out of their political territory the day the cops and judge expected to get their first $250. Pop advised me to call the slime and ask for an extension, since all they wanted so far was the ransoms they'd levied. This I did on a trip to the library. When finished there, I went to the pigpen and told them there was no job and thus no money. They had no desire that I clog up their jail, costing them the slop they'd have to feed me. They'd rather wait for me to bring them what cash I could when I could. Also, the desk cop recognized me, laughed and called me the 'Bird Man'.
He set the ransom off 30 days into the future. "Thanks a lot,," I said while thinking, "Fat chance, robbers?" I'd done nothing to warrant giving them $750. One of their arrests of me we all knew was illegal. The second was probably illegal, and the first paid the wrong people too much for nothing. I'd harmed no one, and harming no one is no reason to award any pack of thugs and armed robbers any of my money. Pigs like them helped a killer escape and lied me into prison instead so they could dodge a civil suit for torturing me due to a lie from their drugsnitch who thus dodged having them torture him for a murder he'd committed. They owe me more than they can ever pay. They'll wait forever for my money.
Shortly after this occurred Sarah and I were having lunch together and she told me something very interesting. Her good friend was the boss' secretary, who had overheard Sophie (the boss) on the phone with the social security cops talking about me. Thanks to her I had advance warning that they were coming. She told me that usually it was the border cops who came to kidnap people found using non‑existent labortax numbers. She invited me to go to Arkansas with her, but I declined. I told her thanks, but that she'd be better off without me, a guy with a pack of pigs howling after him. I'm sure the bastards of law enforcement would put a crime on her just for passing on her friend's gossip. Sarah didn't need to suffer a worse pig‑attack for helping me escape. She is a great woman, and she understood my logic. She decided to get far away before the pigs sprang their clever plan. We knew their power was too great to even split up and meet later. They knew to put Sarah in their spying crosshairs because we'd been to lunch together so often. Best for both of us was to let her escape first. I couldn't let the pigs nail someone I cared about for a non‑crime of caring about me. She did escape, and the pigs only spied on her and her family for a few months before giving up. She met a guy better than me and they are prospering with a large, happy family.
This knowledge let me see people more like they were behind their masks. Bill treated me the same, which was like a valued, competent employee. Gary and Dip turned into piranhas, trying to 'borrow' more money and assets from me faster, before the cops came and tore their suckers off me to apply their own. Tiny and the others were never told. The secretary pretended to know nothing.

Though it seemed like I stayed in Fort Worth a very long time, it was only about 12 to 14 weeks. When it neared time to clear out I only had a little, bitty $800 saved despite never buying cigarettes, alcohol, dope or (almost) rent. If I'd paid the pigs their greedily anticipated ransom, S would have worked all spring and most of the summer for only $50. Sorry, pigs, judge. You get nothing and I'll keep my little dab of cash for all my sweat. You all have too much already and do virtually nothing for it. Keep your avaricious eyes off mine. Motorcyclists do not need insurance. The truck and car people who kill us do. Also, I already know how to drive a bike and dodge cars and trucks. Idon't need any pigs who know little about this skill to give me their worthless approval for a fee.
 Sophie pulled her and the cops' clever trick not much later. The cops did not have enough cops to spare to personally check out every homeless person using fake labortax numbers. Instead of sending a Social Security 'compliance' person with arrest powers, just like real cops, they made the employer do their dirty work. Sophie showed up with a bullshit story about making a brochure to help sell her bricks. This somehow entailed her taking a picture of me holding a brick. This she sent to the labortax number cops. My days there were frittering away faster than baloney on a slicer.
Sophie had another trick to pull that friday. It's a standard screwjob most fly‑bynight construction firms pull on disposable employees like minorities and other gullible, powerless wage slaves. This scurrilous trick should be exposed, and I explain the scam here to forewarn others.
Upon being hired by this thief, I worked all week and expected a check friday. I did not get it. She and other employers say they keep the first week's check for 'insurance' against 'equipment damage' or theft, and for 'severance pay'. (She actually did say this, though it may have been through one of her minions.) She had other glib excuses too, but I don't remember them all. When faced with this nonsense, the victim should probably quit immediately, demand payment and call the labor cops, etc. You will never see this money. Keep your pay stubs and study up on small claims court, because when it comes time for them to throw you away, the dates on the check will advance one week.
They just pocketed your entire paycheck. The same day the date on my paycheck switched to skip a week, I went straight to Sophie's office and complained. She and her secretary, hiding behind thick plate glass because they regularly steal from Mexicans using this same, exact scam, pretended the check they'd just given me was for the current week's work and that the paystub from last week was two weeks old. Thus by simply scamming the dates they cleverly stole 50 to 60 hours of my work. There was nothing I could do about it. I worked there one more day, (monday) and left them thinking I was coming back for more screwing.
Even Pop began getting greedier that usual. He was probably tipping the cops off when I left on the bike; either him or Sophie or the secretary. When I told Pop I was selling my bike because I couldn't afford it, he got one of his sleazy friends to buy it from me for only $80. Motorized transportation attracts cops like offal attracts sharks. It would have been nice to take it with me, but motorcycles are cop‑magnets even worse than junk cars driven by minorities. The pawn shops wanted it for nothing. On the day I was to leave, I let Pop and his pal screw me out of it for almost nothing. Pop unabashedly told me he'd have to make something off the sale. At first I was going to tell him that his end would have to come from his pal who was making such a steal. I didn't doubt he was making $20 or so from him anyway. Then, because I had lived among shitty

sharks for so long, I began to be able to think like a shitty shark. I told that greedy bastard a line of crap that caused him to drive me to the main post office in downtown Fort Worth. I left him there, parked illegally, waiting for his money. I slipped out the other end. To him I say, "Thanks for everything, pal. You were well paid by me every day I was with you. Remember, greed is its own reward."
Thanks to Pop I was far from the Haltom city cops when I resumed my journey west, and there was no Pop to call them about my absence until too late. As I planned, I took nothing with me but my empty hands. No bags, no sacks, no packs, only my pockets filled with essentials and the little dab of cash I'd managed to save by shorting myself on everything. Gary owes me $10, but I didn't even bother to ask him for it that day. He'd have only vended an excuse and a smile. He never screwed me on any goats, never got too greedy, didn't poke into my affairs and was nothing but a friend, like his brother, Bill. I'd learned important skills while with them. I'm sorry to have had to leave.
In another respect, I was glad to be going. There could be no more progress here, and it was high time I made the next step toward getting the lying, corrupt, killerprotecting Oklahoma pigs and robed lawyer's sentence off me.
This hike would be short; only 20 or so miles; a lot of it through the many political boundries that supported such an excess of worthless politicianal and bureaucratic parasites. Just before I left the city behind there were three things I needed. At the Clothworld I bought a few yards of mosquito‑net substitute and some nylon to sleep on that would keep the sand and dirt off me. The whole bundle folded up into a thin package that was easy to conceal. Last, I bought some cord with which I planned to suspend the mosquito net. That morning I got sidetracked by thirst. The closest place was an oriental place at which I ordered some tea. The proprietor looked at me askance. I must have worn my idiot's expression, because then he informed me that the restaurant was in through a door behind me. By the time it dawned on me that I was sitting at a bar instead of a lunch counter, he'd already gotten me some tea. Asians are so efficient and polite!

Farther down the road was nightfall and my last chance to pick up a canteen. No more drinking from puddles for me: Last chance was a convenience store run by a black girl. Past this there was nothing but darkness and super highway number 20. Inside, I chose a two‑liter coke bottle. The flange on its neck would make it easy to sling around my neck and rest on my bedpack by the cord. The sticker on the cap said '$1.49'. The girl boldly charged me an extra dime for her own personal trouble at having to deal with me. She probably needed my dime more than I did, so I pretended not to notice her theft. Blacks are just like that. It's in their culture, and they are good at it because Whitey can afford it and empathizes with the 'curse' of being born Black in America Previously in Dallas I'd been walking across a busy business plaza at lunch rush. Out of 40 or 50 potential suits to beg, this one African spotted me as a mark from over 50 yards away! He trotted a bee‑line straight toward me, lest I escape. I was probably more homeless than him‑‑he was certainly better dressed and cleaner than I‑he definitely had more friends and support. He dashed past all the relatively rich business people and put his mooch‑game directly on raggedy, dirty old me. Without any preamble he threw out his upturned palm in the universal gesture of beggars and demanded, "Gimme quarter!" The only reason I decided to give him anything was because all the way over he had a big, toothy, shuck 'n jive grin plastered on his face that would have made aunt Jemima run and hide for envy of it. Also, no educated Caucasian expects them to have correct diction or any White cultural sensibilities. He was attracted to me by my long stride and fast pace. Beggars are especially attuned to detecting people who are too busy to laugh at them and argue. They've learned to live and profit by creating hassles and picking victims who would rather throw out some change and proceed than be followed and cursed for telling such parasites to go work for a living.  I just call this the slave tax we Caucasians are required to pay people who can't help themselves.
This is me, and he knew it. I dug out some change, and soon as he saw the jingle, he quickly upped the mooch, automatically and professionally, "Make it fifty cent!" Like he expected, I poured it all into his hand. There was no thanks. Negroes do not say thanks. This is a Caucasian trait. Negroes just leave or demand more. It's just how many of them are raised. They can't help it. They've been culturally conditioned by their forebears to be so.
Years later at a long breakfast line at McDonalds I saw one who was even a better professional at power‑mooching than the change‑begger. This Negro was even pulling this sophisticated hassle‑beg on a Black manager who knew the trick well. He only had to hold up the line a few minutes with nonsense before the manager gave him a free sandwich and told him to leave without paying. Sucking up freebies isn't rocket science to Blacks. It's natural. You can't make them learn the White man's magic of reading, writing and arithmetic, but they are geniuses at petty social predation acted out many times per day.
That night hike lasted til about 3AM. I pitched my bed just inside some farmer's fence. At daybreak my journey continued until long after the heat of the day began blasting down on my head. My hair got too hot to run my fingers through! To do so was like setting my fingers on fire! Some cyclists came up behind me and talked for a while.	 They couldn't understand why a man would willingly undertake such a hike. I almost began to wonder myself. Next, a pickup full of Mexicans come rumbling up. They knew less english than I knew spanish, but their offer was clear. We wedged in together and drove off. Even before their truck reached cruising speed they broke out a cooler and offered me a budweiser. I've been programed against beer and alcohol in general by having tasted the crap at a very young age, but it was not polite to refuse. They were a happy bunch.
We pantomimed, laughed and shrugged incomprehensibly together all the way to Weatherford. We stopped in the middle of town. They would take no money. We shook hands all around and went our merry ways, especially them. It's always amazing to me how people with so little can be so happy all the time. Mexicans are happy to do back‑killing stoop and shovel work; Africans sing and laugh every day in prisons. It's like their endorphin levels are abnormally high because hardship is best survived with humor. Seems all their cynicism genes died off or were thrown overboard along their journey here.

Being far from the DFW cops sure shot my endorphin level through the roof, relative to a Caucasian cynic, that is. I felt so uninhibited and free that I bought my first pack of cigarettes since leaving the Okie dungeons. While asking directions of the store clerk, I lit one up. It tasted like inhaling dried sewer dust. It was like coating my throat and lungs with sticky filth, like swamp‑muck. But I didn't throw it away. Instead I turned to face an open, though dark, mechanic's den and asked a guy inside for directions. He began to answer, then saw my cigarette. He began screetching about it and the smell of gasoline in his lair. He went completely hysterical as we stood by the huge open face of his shop, but not so nuts as to try and push me from its threshhold. Even a match could not have burned that tiny whiff of gasoline in the air, and certainly not a smoldering cigarette, but it wasn't my job to teach the ignorant what they missed by skipping school and their education.
Even a shrieking buffoon wasn't enough to bring me down, but I did ditch all the cigarettes. They tasted foul, and there was no better sign to toss them than the one I'd just experienced.
Next on my agenda was to call the bus station. They said none went west until tomorrow. In the middle of the city there didn't seem any place to hide and sleep. Instead I got a motel room, some fish and chips from Long John Silver's and spent the rest of the day and night studying the newspapers and watching current events on TV. Television was bad or worse than the propaganda filling the papers. Worse even than them was the phone! When the cops had snatched me up so long ago, the phones would work every time. Now they were full of frustrating bullshit that kept you from getting what you wanted. Every time I dialed or punched a number I got a bunch of musical nonsense and a scratchy recorded, voice that told me I can't get there from here; please try again! It wouldn't give me enough time to dial the numbers before giving a busy signal. The pay phones outside the motel were even worse, and demanded money too! Then they'd take the money and not deliver, then cut you off if you let it ring too long. Six lousy rings seemed to be max, sometimes. Not enough time to get off the crapper. The operators would be pretty much worthless and wanted money just to get a number that turns out to be bogus. They'd act like they were sorry their phone took your money, and pretend to you that they'd send you a check for it, but this was just a PR‑lie. The phone companies never gave you your money back. I hope the stinking judge who got tired of taking their campaign cash/bribery and broke up AT&T into the regional bells, creating this mess, falls into a black hole. He screwed us all, meddling with his bright‑red lawyer's nose in something he knew nothing about! It took me about two hours to find the partial answer. That is to demand to speak to AT&T operator. Even then, you're still screwed half the time and you've got that mocking recorded voice, "Thank you for using AT&T!" I resigned to write letters to the two women who constituted 100% 6f the cops' evidence against me, explaining how I'd found the man they saw. This I did, hoping they were capable of following the logic; not a good bet with women who have already been steered by cops into a dark alley and mugged of their reason.  (See: Dear Mrs Hunt and: Dear Mrs Baker)
The phones weren't completely worthless, though. I did manage to rest a mailbox‑in a city farther west and arrange to have the two letters mailed from a city north of DFW. The U.S. Secret Police have for decades been able to trace every piece of mail to its source, necessitating my drawing Chuck into my crime wave of conspiracy and anti‑cop thoughts. No doubt, if we were caught, a slavering attorney general would relish putting some type of thought crime onto whoever helped me. Thus Chuck's precise identity must remain obscure until I get the killer and his protecting cops and lawyers brought to justice.
 Stepping out in the morning for breakfast, I made a short walking tour of the Envi‑	The courthouse and bureaucrat center is interesting.   It's a very old cut‑rock domed building that must date from before electricity. Like all seats of government power, it was opulently furnished throughout its lifetime, inside and out. Its inside furnishings are marble and expensive tropical woods, mostly mahogany. The sun beat down on its granite, making the crystals in its uncut faces sparkle like diamonds.

It was royally hot by the time I got back. I ate a real lunch at the motel restaurant, read the paper and told them I'd be checking out. They said leave the key inside. Going back for my things, I found a little baby girl playing with a single toy on the adjacent doorstep. The sun was blazing so brightly that sunglasses were required for blueeyed people. Her skin was so white that it was plausible she'd never been out in such sun as this latitude provides. She greeted me, saying, "Hello", clearly, with no slur‑ring babytalk inflection. I asked her what she was doing out here.	"Playing" was her literal, answer. I should have asked "why?" she was out here being flayed by the sun. With great presence of mind for someone barely past knee height, she asked her own question while I fumbled with my key at the door, "What does it look like in your room?" There was a car in the adjacent space that hadn't been there previously. The most plausible deduction was that her mother had set her out on the doorstep while she quickly boffed‑up some cash from a boyfriend or trick.
The temperature was already 95 degrees, there was zero shade and no grass. The concrete was so hot that the child was limited to the doormat. Every option I had involved nothing good for me. Merely continuing to give her the benefit of my shadow would be construed as stalking or contemplated abduction. Taking her the 75 feet to the restaurant lady would provoke the ire of everyone. I felt like banging on the door and making her mother take her inside, but that wouldn't be neighborly, nor would calling her while she was busy, as she most assurredly was.  I'd seen ‑hookers do this to their toddlers regularly and knew that it wouldn't take long for her to finish the guy off. Even so, that is 15 to 20 minutes, and there was no need for it. Toddlers are too young to remember or understand, and the trick certainly doesn't mind leaving kids un‑neglected. In every case I witnessed it was the mother's vanity and embarassment at stake, taking precedence over the child's welfare. They need to get over this, or at least remember that the child can play in the bathroom rather than be left alone outside. There was certainly nothing good about abandoning an infant girl in the heat and bright ultraviolet of a motel parking lot even if she was obedient enough to stay there on a black doormat. Worse, she stood up and displayed every intention of following me into my room and getting her nose or fingers hurt as I closed her out.
I told her, "My room is just a mirror image of yours." She reached for the knob, asking, "Can I see?" The situation was getting worse the longer I debated what to do. Her mother couldn't appear fast enough for me. The last thing I needed was to get into a pre‑emptive morality argument with an estrogen‑crazed female, but it was preferable to a fried infant. Finally I said, "Yes. Come in out of the sun, but stay near the door so your mom won't miss you." I grabbed my stuff quickly, gave her some water in a plastic cup, dragged a heavy table over so she couldn't shut the door and fled. That's the best solution I could come up with.

JAILBREAK!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fighting govcriminals with petty criminality
The trouble with conspiracies is that they rot internally. When the number of conspirators is as high as four, chances are even that one is a spy.  
									     Robert Heinlein

The bus left west with me on it.	A long, boring ride later across parched prairie and desert I got off in a city noted for its monopoly on dirt, wind, cowshit and bureaucratic corruption: Amarillo. Several good friends and acquaintances of mine confirmed this to be true, one even supplying me with a name. The person attached to that name was still a lord of city bureaucracy, but he wanted too much money for his service. I was obliged to perform some acts for him that were frowned upon by most citizens but made him the fat profits he craved without him having to he seen by persons selling the product he wanted. Politicians and lawyers employing such 'bag' men call this 'keeping our skirts clean'.
Even after having to do his criminal activity for him, it wasn't easy or cheap for me. Another motel room was required; one with a kitchen. In it I practiced my artistic and chemical talents to forge a birth certificate from one of the more backward, impoverished states. The good part was that Barry let me use his photography equipment. The process didn’t take long or cost many dollars relative to the worth of the document. The clerk accepted it as real and issued me identification papers. At last I was safe from cursory snooping by the cops. In about eight weeks I'd be even safer from their intrusions. Things were looking up; much better than I had expected, since most inmates are persons known for blowing smoke up each other's asses instead of for knowing anything worthwhile.
Soon as I obtained the cop repellant, it was back to the buses and farther west for me. Amarillo had grown prodigiously since the last time I'd blazed through there in 1971, but it was still too small for me to make a living there. Also, It's not a place anyone would willingly live except out of having been born there. My next stop was Santa Rosa, then Albuquerque, a great city; big enough to melt into and provide the needs of sophisticated entrepreneaurs, but small enough to maintain a friendly attitude toward strangers. No one was tense and pre‑occupied with crime here except the ones well paid to do so. People here said hello and smiled instead of running away in fear or ducking quickly into their homes and cars and locking the door.  They took you at face value; human value. They have bicycle trails and lanes all over the city, a lot of young people who are liberal and educated, and everyone is healthy and happy. The best part is that they don't have pigs, they have police and cops, and the cops don't try to get rich off transients trying to sleep in the parks.
Yes, in Albuquerque the cops have much more important tasks than collecting loitering revenue and making sure that the unemployed and homeless have no place to alight. I stayed here a long time on several occasions and never got noticed or hassled. The place is like paradise and I never should have left. In New Mexico they even have phone books still attached to outside phones that are not ripped up. You never saw this in DFW. The vandals got them destroyed quickly, so now they're not even put out. The corporations prefer to sell information at fifty cents per number anyway.

My first order of business was to visit the University and line up some tutoring jobs, mostly of the ghostwriting variety. Thanks to my skill at getting educating materials past the Okracoma prisoncrat mail guards, I have the equivalent of several degrees in a variety of subjects. The students have other things they would rather do than produce lengthy book reviews, english treatises and scientific term papers, etc, even when they have the most modern writing technology at their disposal. They knew the material frontwards and backwards, but they're just a little recalcitrant about fumbling through dictionaries and thesaruses to compose their own proof of mastery pieces. Plus, many didn't have the foresight to learn typing. Some just have too many cramps in their pen‑holding fingers already. This is where I shine. I spell well without looking it up, I keep plenty of words on the tip of my tongue, I can compose faster than I can type, and my fingers are quite limber. Further, I've read tons of consequential tomes and can blaze through those I haven't and retain the salient information. It didn't take long to line up plenty of business.
Almost as I did this, I purchased more transportation. A bike shop was directly across the street called 'Wheel World'. It was even run by a student instead of a sales person. He made me a great deal on a Bugatti bicycle. Ten‑speeds were not the type of bicycle I liked, but they were the only type he had. They are ill‑designed, putting your center of gravity too high. Also bad is that you can't lean around a corner under power without the pedals scraping the street. Worse, they make you ride on your toes, else they get scraped by the front wheel when you pedal and turn simultaneously. Lastly, the seat is hard and the handle bars drag you foreward so you are not sitting on your seat, but instead wrecking your urethra and killing your back.
Despite the design flaws, everyone else was riding them. I needed transportation, and this was all they had: hundreds of slight variations on this same bad design. The clerk was very friendly and didn't even flinch when I asked to take it around the block,
No one in Texas was going to let a stranger ride out of sight with an $80 bike, but they will in New Mexico.  
The thing had bald tires and no chain guard. It's sprocket did not eat my pants cuff then, but it would. I asked Rocky for a model with a chain guard. He gave me a free velcro ankle band complete with reflective safety tape. I liked the bike better than I liked walking, so I bought it. Most of all I liked the name: Bugatti; same company that made the famous roadsters, apparently.
Checking for jobs, I applied at various places, most hopefully at a medical supply house. No luck. At this time I didn't realize that the cops would not harass sleepers in the parks, nor did I know that sleeping there was relatively safe. Consequently, for three days I rode far out of town, almost to Rio Rancho, before finding an isolated, ‑ safe‑seeming place to sleep.
One of the closer places I found was in a sandy field outside a Sam's Discount Club. The one night I spent there could easily have gotten me killed. In the early morning some youngsters in a car were getting their cheap thrills practicing donuts, skids and burnouts in the dark. I wouldn't be bringing any crooked cops and lawyers to justice if I let some young buffoons put tire tracks across my chest.

There was a construction site in the middle of town; a parking garage and office tower on Tejeras street. They hired me on the spot to do something I'd never done before. The company made huge, thick slabs of precast concrete for use as exterior wails. The stuff was hoisted by crane and attached to the building with welds and bolts. My job was to take a dolly holding a cutting torch rig around and sever all the handles the crane had used to haul them up. Then I was to grout over the holes to prevent water and air from entering and rusting the roots of the handles out. Another thing we did was to operate a boom truck up to three stories high to acid wash all the excess cement from around the decorative pebbles on the outside walls. The thing was pretty scary to operate. It was a box on tractor tires containing a colossal diesel engine that pumped hydraulic fluid to operate the two‑basket boom as well as creep along the outside on its wheels. The way the thing shook and swayed every time you moved the boom, you'd think it was electric rather than hydraulic. Doing the stuff at night didn't make it seem any safer. It wasn't for sissies. It wasn't until months later that I found that we weren't using it correctly. The Mexican showing me how to do it hadn't been taught that there were outriggers that should have been set out to steady the thing and keep it from bouncing around on its wheels. We could easily have tipped the thing over and killed ourselves due to improper (or no) training.
Another job they had me doing was leaning backward out a seven story drop grinding out a portion of a picture window opening that had been cast too small for the glass. It took three days with a hand grinder and was one of the most unpleasant jobs of eating sand and dust I'd ever had.
This job didn't last long; only a few weeks. It didn't pay much or lead to further employment, but it was fun, I met a lot of nice people and gained valuable experience. Every day for lunch we'd all troupe over to a bank's cafeteria to eat. It was here that I met Cindy.
That day I'd been using the cutting torch severing crane‑handles. One was above our own crew's toolchest. I melted it off and moved on to the next and the next. Then Gilbert came up to get a tool and began shouting 'fire!' Some of the molten metal had fallen behind the toolbox and some fools had thrown their jackets behind it. This is what had caught fire.
Of course I had gloves on and jerked all the flaming crap from behind it. Soon I had it all stomped down to smoldering rags. Fortunately for me the only one destroyed was my own jacket. It had sent gouts of fine nylon soot everywhere.
Right after this was lunch. Word of my stupidity must have spread quickly because as I punched out for lunch all the others looked crazy at me and snickered; some made reference to the fire. The guy at the gate gave me a crazy look and chortled too. He worked for a different crew and should not have been privy to the gossip so quickly. Little fairies must be flying ahead of me to give out the news. The people in line at the lunch counter were acting strange too, but I just smiled and ignored their looks. Pretty much everyone likes to gossip, but this is the fastest I'd seen it travel. I ate and left. Finally, as I was leaving, one of the girls came from amongst a group of tittering friends with a wet towel. "You might want to look in the mirror before you use this," she said while offering the towel. She handed me her makeup mirror. My face was black with nylon soot; so badly that I looked like an African; something we don't see much of in Albuquerque.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Flying Crap!
It's not that the world is full of fools, it's just that lightning isn't distributed correctly.
										Mark Twain

One of the most unpleasant things about commercial construction jobs is that eventually you're forced to use one of the portable restrooms. Invariably the things have an aura of filth hovering about them along with clouds of gnats, whigs, mosquitoes and flies that are ever present. You don't want to touch anything, though the surfaces generally appear clean. Usually there's a newspaper inside too, good for both reading and swishing at insects. But mostly you want to seek out the one with the least traffic and the fewest people loitering nearby. If possible, you try to slip inside without anyone noticing, because a major source of hard‑hat mirth derives from simple juvenile hijinks such as making the box ring and thump with thrown construction site trash while you're inside. Also, they like to wrench mightily on the locked door, rocking the entire box while saying stupidly, "This door must be stuck! I got to go! Get my crowbar:  Is anybody in there?" They know you're in there because the door is locked from the inside. If the supplier leaves a loop‑and‑hasp for a lock attached to the outside, construction workers promptly rip it off and throw it away because it is always used by some joker to lock someone inside. This only happens once; then the hasp is torn off.
The day came when I had to use one of these germ factories for more than just to whiz and run. The one on the roof was the most lonely. No one saw me enter it, too, which was a great plus. The things are made of indestructible plastic. This one had a four inch diameter PVC pipe as a crap‑fume vent running from the tank through the roof. Some wag had written on it in magic marker 'Yanqui Soda Straw'. I snapped the locking bolt shut and took a seat.
The day I had to go was the same day the shit‑sucker truck crew came to service them. Soon as my bare ass touched the seat, a silly female and her partner came around banging and heaving on the door and walls of the thing, causing the disinfectant liquid in it to slosh around. They also began uttering the same types of juvenile nonesense I just described. Her uproarious schtick was to pretend the door must be stuck and to holler for the crane. We were thirty floors up. They knew S was in there because the door was locked from the inside. I ignored them, relying on their good sense and thinking that they would soon tire of their game and go away. The girl thought it was hilarious to catch an apparently shy man on the crapper and simply refused to grow up or end her silly charade. Worse, she was the man's supervisor, so his good sense was submerged by her giddiness. Finally it was too much. I didn't give a rat's ass what they did, since it was highly unlikely they'd hook me up to the crane due to safety regulations I supposed existed. So I shouted hotly, "Shut up and do it, you silly broad! I can shit on the fly! Hook me up, damn you! Anything's better than hearing your gasping blowhole!"
She called my bluff. I could hear them snickering about it. "You heard him," she said.	"He wants a ride.;" There was a brief clang and clatter as they clipped on the hook, then she called the crane operator on her radio. "Sky pilot! I got one cheap thrill. Yank him!"

There was a slight pause while I panicked, wondering just how hard an electric motor the size of a boxcar could 'Yank'.	Then I was thrown straight up, many yards, in a furious hurry. My weight suddenly doubled. My guts tried to squirt into the antiseptic liquid and sewage sloshing violently around in the tank beneath me. The cable hissed and sang over the pulleys, fast approaching my windowless, flying box. Soon as I was certain a crash was imminent, my stomach leaped into my chest and a cold bath of sewage splashed across my bare buttocks. There was a brief pause; enough time to gasp and curse, then the box sped leftways at high speed and began dropping fast with a slight spin. If the box had been a few inches wider, I'd been thrown off the seat. As it was, I only busted my knuckles throwing my arms out to brace myself against the walls. The downward plunge threw me to my feet. During this relative stability I got the lid to the crapper shut before it splashed me again. Through the whole ordeal I could hear the liquid filth roiling and geysering noisily, trying to escape the tank. The leftward motion abruptly changed to rightward swing that pressed me to the wall for a long time. During this relative peaceful descent I managed to fish a shop rag out of my toolbelt and used it to wipe some of the sewage off my ass and legs. The rag was pretty dirty itself, and it : was a moot point as to whether I was wiping more filth on than off. It didn't matter; long as I exchanged wet filth for dry filth, I felt like a winner, relatively speaking, that is. There was the catcher down below, plus I could hear the crowd of rowdies the girl had called. I'd be very happy if my pants only seemed dry as I made my escape.
The box and I swung and twisted in two more arcs as I hurridly got my pants up, shirts tucked in and belt buckled. By bracing one foot against the wall I got my toolbelt on just as the crowd caught the box and began their childish routines of bangingon its sides, laughing and making inane remarks as they wrestled it to the ground. "What the hail is that smail?!"
"Anybody home?"
''Bet he's drenched! Hyuck‑hyuck!" "Still alive in there, boy?" "Probably fainted dead out! Maybe croaked!!" "Unlock the door! Jay! Get me a crowbar'." "You holding up progress, boy!"
It sounded like about fifty of them out there with nothing better to do than makea party out of nothing. They shouted this and more while violently heaving and jiggling on the door handle before I'd even touched the ground. Soon as I snapped the locking bolt over, the door flew open. Only twelve or fifteen grinning hyenas peered in expectantly and clapped and cheered. I pretended not to notice while pretending to adjust my toolbelt. Finally I looked up and cocked an eyebrow at them like John Belushi would have, as if to ask, "What's so exciting?" I stepped out, turned in a circle, giving each one the questioning eye and deadpan look. Then, to assure them that I was indeed completely unhinged and discombobulated I staggered clumsily away, feigning a swoon and dizziness as I fled. They loved it, bellowing with laughter like hooligans as I found the shortest path out of their sight.

There wasn't much work in Albuquerque, and all of it was low pay. The capitol was Santa fe, and there was another college in Las Vegas, New Mexico. I made both places before leaving that state. The best part of running from crooked cops and a corrupt judge‑system besides the people I met is the solitude of bicycle travel and the time it gave me to think while I gained strength and stamina. Though I deplore ten‑speeds for their design flaws, it was astonishing how far they'd take me in so little time. I was making 160 miles/day without even trying Trouble is, though, it's easy to get run over. To avoid this, I'd cycle on the opposite shoulder, facing oncoming traffic. This way I'd have a better chance of seeing death come streaking at me and might leap from its path a few milliseconds before it could mash me and continue on in a cloud of spraying blood and crunching bone. The highway and county cops didn't like this. Three times they made curiosity stops to snoop into my business and tell me that the legislative millionaires decreed that I must pretend I was a vehicle and take my chances on the other side. It didn't matter that the law they said existed on this was idiotic (if true) and caused deaths; they couldn't be bothered with logic or safety. They would follow orders and indulge their addiction to power. This was their legal cover for exploiting it. Hookers call these 'flip‑flop laws' because whichever side of the road you're on, it's the wrong side when the cop decides to use this as his excuse to pull a crimesearch on people that they've become curious about. I'd comply and move over to the wrong side, risking sudden death from behind until I got out of their political boundaries, then resume traveling intelligently. In some cases the cops would call the next politician's territory . and have their cops harass me too. Their twitchy little ferret minds knew there was something they wanted to learn about me, but thanks to the tattered rags of Constitution that remained and the possibility that I was a rich man's kin, they didn't feel that they could go too nutty on me. I didn't have any guns, knives or anything else that they could plausibly fear as a weapon; had no dope or paraphernalia, wasn't drunk and nobody had complained of crime. They couldn't say I 'fit the decsription', so they called ahead and told the next nosy cop to see if my 'story' would change. This was at the time the cops and legislators were combining the social security database into their driver's license/tag/safety sticker/title, etc databases. They hadn't yet forced this transition upon their New Mexico taxherd, which would let snooping cops instantly access your financial, credit, tax, housing and other databases. The Coplobby and the slippery legisla‑ tive lawyers eased this rape in on New Mexico citizens in two sneaky, sleazy stages to conceal their intent and the vast new snooping possibilities it provided cops. They said at first that motorists must reveal their labortax numbers to the license bureaucrats and assurred them that it would not appear on their driver's licenses. Soon as they got these numbers captured‑‑it took less than a year‑they immediately switched the rule to make your SSN # appear on the license itself.	Now the cop didn't even have to call his DMV bureaucrats to run your SSN#  history; he had it in his hand with your license. This was their major malfunction with me: they were so frustrated that they could eat nails; I had no legal requirement to give them a driver's license or a labortax number, and it burned them up! I showed them an out‑of‑state identity card and they Hated it! But there was not one thing they could do about it until they got their cop union to go whining to their legislative lickspittals and bought more anti‑privacy laws. Traveling in society had changed: it was just like traveling in prison. Everyone must beforehand think up a batch of plausible stories to cover every action we plan to take, anticipating cop‑curiosity and assuaging it with pabulum specifically designed to make us appear as unappetizing as the insect that camoflages itself as a bird dropping. (See: Verbal, Visual and Sociological Stealth for Negotiating the new Anti‑privacy Societies.) Such serial harassment became very taxing. It caused me to cycle primarily in the night's cool and to hide when headlights approached, even though my bureaucratic right‑to‑exist papers were good enough to pass inspection! Living in a police state is hard to accept even for a prisoner who just left a worse police state environment. Or perhaps, since prisoners are deprived of TV, we are not as easily programmed to accept cop attacks as normal than ordinary citizens are.

The night isn't long enough to cover the time I had to ride, and I'd often be stuck in the morning daylight long past coffee and donut time ended. It was during one of these times that I was wary for cops when I thought I heard a far‑off siren wail. This occurred halfway between Albuquerque and Santa fe at about dawn. The sun was low and to the right, blindingly bright.. Diagonally behind me something big was tramping up fast. An elk burst upon the scene, big as a rhino from my perspective; twin thickets of spines growing out of its head and hot steam wheezing shrilly from its foaming, gaping mouth. Its eyes were white with fear, ogling me as it cantered past on thumping hooves. It had been running too long and could not manage a gallop anymore. This magnificent animal dashed across the road in front of me, not fifty yards away. He should have had a harum with him, but it looked like he was being chased by a bear. Whatever the problem, it meant that I should dodge being trampled, mauled or eaten. Seconds after I began standing on the pedals I heard an engine and shouts. Barely perceptible in the square of my helmut mirror was a huge truck with oversize tires and extra racks of headlights on it. The thing was jouncing violently across the prairie, mowing down brush, dodging mesquite trees and collecting tumbleweeds in its grinning chrome maw. Two affluent‑looking cityslicker type 'sportsmen' stood in the bed. One had his left arm wrapped around the top of the rollbar while trying to sight and fire an expensive new, lavishly‑scoped rifle with one hand. Exchange his bright gaming ensemble for a three‑piece silk suit and he could pass for a lawyer or judge, right down to his horn‑rimmed glasses and red‑tinged alcoholic nose. The other was a bit smarter, but not by much. He'd snaked his arm under the bar and had a two‑handed grip on his shiny new rifle, also trying to sight and fire. The driver careened through the ditch in front of me so violently that a spray of dirt shot up from a corner of the bumper. One‑handed sniper‑guy lost his rifle, but the mirror‑shaded driver didn't notice. He was busy bashing his head into the cab ceiling while trying not to roll his Powerwagon. The rifle did a spinning bank off the roof, landed on the pavement with a crack and clattered across two lanes and the shoulder. Sniperguy bellowed for it while his comrade guffawed. The driver got straightened up on the highway and accelerated with a bass roar of a barely muffled engine for 200 yards befor racing offroad again on the opposite side after the elk. The rifle was a monster; it looked like a .500 Weatherby, sufficient for elephant. I detoured over to run over its scope and receiver, just in case the throw hadn't de‑sighted it enough. I was about to pass by when it dawned on me that I should stop and pick it up. The highway was completely empty except forthem and I. Speeding traffic wouldn't see it stuck in the grass at the shoulder, but if they thought I was going to steal it, the elk may get away.
One‑arm must have been watching me and thinking this, because when he saw me slow . and U‑turn, his shouts to the driver became more shrill and insistent, as did his pounding on the cab roof. The truck halted abruptly to let the second guy get off three desperation shots. Then, amid shouted curses and recriminations the driver got it pointed back the way they'd come. I U‑turned once again and watched them in my rearview mirror spend a full ten minutes looking for it. None of them seemed to have much trail sense. They were still searching after I was too far away to see them anymore. The elk escaped.
When I got to Santa fe, I found more schoolwork than I could handle in the alotted time. People seemed to have the most dislike of English Comp. and other writing endeavors. They had plenty of time to party, but only a few days to come up with long essays that they'd been assigned months before. Here too, the construction jobs dried up quickly or were short in duration. The labor market in New Mexico was so overstocked that few could make a living wage. With everyone undercutting everyone else for scarce menial jobs, everyone without technical skills lost. This is why you have ten people living in one shack and crowding into one junk truck. What you can't make in wages you can't spend on quality of life.
Las Vegas was a lot like Santa fe: too much schoolwork; too little time to do it. The students had plenty of money and the best equipment to work with. Though there was no construction jobs there, I still made a lot of money, relatively speaking. By the time I made it back to Albuquerque I was prosperous enough to buy a junk van. It made a pretty safe place to sleep and held my bike strapped to the inside wall real well. My new driver's license, insurance, tag, title and safety sticker made me feel like a regular member of the taxherd. It cost an awful lot to let the government parasites suck mewhite so they could live in opulent splendor, but there is no other way.

CHAPTER NINE

California Scheming

When great wealth is used to extort property from others, it ought to be taken away from its possessor, as would a pistol from a robber bent on the same effect through a different manner.
									Thomas Skidmore

It was just too dangerous to ride a bicycle, even in cities as laid‑back as Albuquerque, Santa fe, Soccoro or Las Vegas. The danger of being run over was still great. The affluent of New Mexico drive fast little wedge‑shaped cars very quickly. They race up to each stop sign, brake intensely, then speed away to the next. The result of this behavior is seen at the threshhold of each stop sign; the pavement rolls up into a bump just in front of the wheels. Two tons of car stopping quickly stretches the hot asphalt the same way a rug will bunch up in doorways.
These hazards are enough, but there are more. A ten‑speed's tires are so narrow that you can have your front wheel suddenly slip through a storm grate up to the axle and pitch you off headfirst. Worse, I was once in an alleyway behind a row of businesses and didn't see a speedbump. it pitched me off so hard that it must have dimmed my wits. I cursed, got up, got back on and rode away, embarassed because two young kids had watched me wipe out. Instead of laughing, they hollered at me before I could get away, "Hey mister! You forgot your glasses:"my brains had indeed been scrambled to ride away practically blind and not notice it. That same day I bought a helmet and rearview mirror.
The van didn't seem much safer, since you're sitting far out in front, but it had seatbelts and steel. My path was farther west. Along the way was the Petrified Forest; a national park my geology teacher had rhapsodized about. Being an amateur in most of the sciences, there was no way I was going to pass by this place. It only cost about $10 to get in. It consisted of a dozen‑mile road with many points of interest; various sites of petrified trees, pteroglyphs and Indian ruins. The parts that were restored were easily seen so they wouldn't be confused with the ancient, authentic parts. Also the documentation was above par. Best, this is where Ruth found me. We spent much of the day there. She was particularly interested in the archeology of the place, and showed me areas of ruins most tourists never see. At every stop the park people had erected signs admonishing visitors not to try absconding with any of the rocks. We visited every site and more. At the end was a ranger station. A cute young woman came out and asked us if we had snagged any rocks. We told her 'no'. She didn't bother to search. Then Ruth showed me the town. In it they sawed the stuff into thin sections and polished them. The best are made into beautiful, color‑filled tree‑ring tables and lamps. The translucent crystals can't be adequately described by mere words; they must be seen. I'm surprised that the stuff isn't found in businesses and homes everywhere in America.

Ruth hailed from Winslow, and I followed her there and spent the night. I also had a cousin there, but didn't call. It was almost certain that the cop‑'crats' "Criminal Association" software didn't contain her as someone they could coerce and turn against me, but I try never to underestimate government's power to track down and threaten every relative. After all, the thugs behind the badges have access to every government file and all merchant's files too whenever they desire. One cop's call to a judge will make any file be promptly fed into the cops' database, secretly and with no questions asked. Right now, copfiles delineating family trees are so very extensive that they can pull up whole dynasties on the basis of a single name almost instantly. People who marvel at the Mormon's records would faint if given a peek of how extensive, collated and multiplyindexed today's copfiles are because of their constant whining for money to 'improve' their 'obsolete' computers, etc. It used to be that the cops had every one of their tax herd tagged, bagged and sometimes even scragged solely on basis of our birthdate, name, social security number, driver's license number or identity card number. Now they can cross‑reference all this with medical records, credit and employment histories, school records, utility bills and military records. Some of the information databases the coplobby is still in the process of capturing are those on mortgages, rent records, hotel and motel occupancy, insurance records, RV, motorhome and trailer sales, the lots and parking places purchased for them and every other record government tax‑scientists and cop‑thinktanks can devise to pin onto everyone an identity, location, cash‑flow, taxratio, loyalty index, criminal history and 'usual suspect' label. Your picture, prints, DNA and photometrics are just the visible tip of the Alp of‑information the Gluttons Of Privilege have compiled on everyone who works for a living.
These techniques cut down police work to almost nil. When someone points police at a crime, they can just type into their computer a few parameters and 'ka‑ching!' it spits out a list of locals onto whom the crime can potentially be pinned on solely on the basis of previous police attacks upon their lives. (Recycling old criminals is so much easier and restful than finding new ones.) The only thing the cops need do is go down this list looking for persons who can't say where they were any time one night a month ago. This is the guy the cops can sell to the witnesses, prosecutor and jurors merely by lying‑up a couple of suspicious circumstances. Most anyone will believe most anything the cops say, so usually witnesses are just parroting what the cops put into their minds. The cops are extremely clever at implanting their views into the minds of citizens and making them believe they thought of it themselves. Anyone who thinks that cops and lawcrats need proof to trick a bunch of cop‑coddler citizens into slapping the judge/DAs guilty buttons is prime fodder for instant convictions of this type. Legal 'proof' has almost nothing to do with scientific proof, and blood‑spraying and glove‑planting cops routinely create legal 'proof' to order with extreme ease. The supposed 'watchdog' media is really the 'lapdog' media and actually cheer‑lead for the cops and lawcrats in every one of their endeavors. When the media promotes some slick‑lipped mouthpiece‑cop by bathing him or her in the warm glow of their camera lights, they always mention some utter nonsense like 'good, ole‑fashioned police work'. This is code for simply fishing for snitches and tickling their colossal databases for lists of easily convictable 'usual suspects' that they can create target/victims from with their usual methods of 'ditch the physical evidence and create fingerpointers' who will swear dramatically in court *He did it! I'm positive'! As I said: recycling previous criminals is much easier than getting out and finding the new criminals.

Because it is so easy and routine for the cops to turn anyone's family against anyone with their bullshit line of "Help us 'help' him (into slavery)!" there is no way or chance that I'd be seeing any of my relatives, no matter how distant. When the cops attack, they are extremely efficient at turning even parents against their own offspring. Your family can't help it. They've been carefully programed from birth by government to do as the cops desire above all else. The only ones the cops have even a little trouble coercing into rat‑dom is turning teenagers against their mothers. All others quickly submit to cop desires despite all familial associations. This is what I find so tragic about the subtle American Police State: you can have grown up with your family and raised one of your own over decades of your life, yet a total stranger with a tin badge can overcome everything they know about you in less than half an hour.
From Winslow I went farther west and found an excellent place to stay off Santa Monica. There was a small parking lot near the ocean and a bath house with a sign on its side saying '$2/night'. The thing had an outdoor shower for bathers to wash the salt
water off, and toilets, sinks and even fairly functional polished‑metal mirrors. No one ever came to collect the fee at the collection blockhouse, and no one tried to lock us in with the chain across the entrance. I never had to use my boards for reversing over their tire spikes.
The mornings there were fabulous! While searching the papers for work, the shorebirds would waltz in and out of the waves and foam. Some bulbous seaweed would wash up‑interesting because of its built‑in floatation devices along its stems. Joggers would bounce by. You could see fish in the waves as they rolled in. Soon as I got my list made up and my itinerary figured out, I'd go try and find the places, put in applica‑
tions and try to get interviews. Every weekday til 5PM I'd try to find work. Every time it would be the same snaggs. They'd want an address, phone and references. The rents were even higher than the usual robber‑baron rates found everywhere else. Every place was sky‑high, as if everyone was trying to get rich off the fewest customers. The expense of living there was too high to stay long. My choice was not to invest any of my money in their too‑high rents until I got a job first. To do so would have invited another financial disaster.
During my search for employment I ran across some people on Sunset Blvd. whom snooty cop/media types like to sell to the gullible citizens as the 'mentally ill', 'criminal element','vagrants' and 'prostitutes'. These people were almost too busy to bother with a destitute, penny‑pinching male outsider like me except for one thing: I had transportation; a thing that mobs of them needed badly.
We didn't figure out what was really going on until much, much later. What we did know was that suddenly hordes and hordes of young girls were migrating out of small towns and cities all over the U. S. to become whores in large cities like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, DFW, Houston, New York, Atlanta, Chicago, etc. The cause of this overheated underground economy was the influx of extra tons of cocaine and heroin courtesy of the U.S. CIA and other secret cop agencies.
For years prior to 1985 the American secret police and military establishments had been engaged in various clandestine wars, the primary one being the LT.S. attacks upon	Nicaragua via the mercenaries they'd hired and labeled 'contras'. Congress wasn't funnelling enough of our taxcash at the perpetrators of these attacks, so the elite warmongers chose, along with German and Israeli secret police agencies, to finance their murderous pogroms by smuggling tons of narcotics into North America, Europe and Asia, particularly Russia.

Like the slavers of old, the CIA, DEA and US military flew in planeloads of weapons, flew out with planeloads of heroin and cocaine, sold the dope to US addicts. The actual process far creating smokeable cocaine was synthesized by chemists working for the CIA who wanted a highly addictive form of cocaine that didn't involve needles. Heroin didn't attract new addicts quickly enough, and people are squeamish about injecting drugs through their skin. Smokeable cocaine was perfect for the mass production of addicts because cigarette corporations had long ago broken down people's inhibitions about inhaling smoke and soot. By contrast, cocaine smoke is very clean and provides a faint headrush similar to injecting stimulants. Thus the bastards of government could buy more mass‑murder machines from their corporate brethren and sell them for ever more tons of narcotics to buy more mercenary armies, equipment and banana republic politicians, etc. US Govt efforts to overthrow other citizens' legitimate foreign govts are an extremely convoluted process detailed elsewhere in my writings and the non‑mainstream press.	(See: Covert Action Quarterly.) The end result I saw and experienced was the creation of thousands and thousands of extra addicts, wrecked American lives and the crime waves such criminality causes.
The German and Israeli secret police got caught at this at about the same time as our govt did. The American secret police got caught and exposed (but not punished) at this enterprize in and after 1986 when Daniel Ortega's govt shot down a drug smuggling cargo plane piloted by Eugene Hasenfus, which forced the secrecy off Reagan's Dope‑forarms‑and‑hostages‑and‑weapons‑parts‑for‑Iran‑via‑Israel pogrom run by General Secord and Ollie North. Everyone escaped punishment, including North.
The state‑run American media concealed almost every detail, but some primary facts could not be hidden. One fact was that a minimum of $500 million worth of cocaine and heroin narcotics were pumped into the American economy by the CIA/military pigs in each single US Govt cargoplaneload of dope alone. Since we are not stupid enough to believe that they got caught with the first load of narcotics they chose to peddle on American streets, it is obvious to us that they have flown many planeloads of narcotics out of south America for many years before the sheer repitition of these crimes against humanity caused the odds to finally favor them getting caught in the act.
When you go to the source of the dope, set up your own secret drug‑processing plants in the jungle, force the peasants to sell to you while you murder‑off all the indiginous narco‑trafficers or force them to work for you, you can make your own dope dirt cheap.
This savings was not passed on to the US Govt's customers. The price of cocaine and heroin has never dropped below the one basic price established for it since the trade bagan. Forget every cop‑generated analysis ever made no matter how fancy, that pretends to depict their excellent efforts as having caused the price of dope to rise sky‑high. Merely outlawing the dope scared off the competition and thus allowed the remaining brave souls to charge almost any price they wish. Also forget all the cop‑generated analyses that proport to depict that dope prices have fallen because cops need more, newer equipment, more dopechaser‑cops and money to buy snitchery with, etc. These are simply lies cops use to stampede the inexperienced citizens down the proper chute like cattle for branding and slaughter. Actual dope prices of really addictive substances such as these are not even based on money. Money is secondary, and so far no cops or media infotainmentartists have deduced this fact.
The basic unit of value is a single 'high'. Not any addicts will buy a fraction of a high. An addict either buys a high or she gets ripped off. There in no inbetween.

If she gets high, she comes back. If she gets ripped off, she spreads the word that Mumbutu is a thief. Mumbutu goes out of business and fairer dealers take his place. This process occurs at blinding speed relative to the legitimate retail economy. A cocaine high only lasts a bare few minutes. Then the addict has to go out and get more. Hence ripoffs lose business quickly, get right or go to where they are not yet known as thiefs. Customers flock to the best deal with astonishing speed considering that their main communications links are payphones and personal gossip.
The single high is one unit of illicit commerce that is never set by cops or legislators and can never be set by cops, their snitches or anyone else involved in claiming excessive purity while maximizing the dilution of the dope they are peddling.
The other, complementary unit of value that sets the minimum price of cocaine or heroin is the male orgasm. Here too police efforts have virtually zero effect on setting the price. There are not yet enough cops to snoop constantly into every dark, private cranny to prevent hookers from giving head, and hopefully there never will he. Only when there is a cop‑clone growing out of every citizen's asshole will cops affect the basic price set for addictive dopes. The hookers set the actual price of dope by their reasonable expectation of obtaining at least one high every time one brings a man to orgasm in any fashion.
Cops like to tapdance around with plenty of phony, non‑scientific, cooked‑up 'statistics' on dope price and purity in attempts to dupe the taxherd, but the fact remains that the cops do not set price. This is illustrated by the cops' own 'statistics'. The cops themselves claim that they detect and steal only 5 to 10 percent of all dope crossing their political territories. This is nothing but a pseudo‑scientific guess, much like guessing that one shovelful of dirt contains a known percentage of all earthworms crossing the equator every year. Accepting that they do catch 7% that means that 93% gets past them. If you're at a convenience store counter and the clerk accidentally gives you only 93% of your change, you're not even going to notice unless you're a skinflint, exceptionally poor or very good at trivial arithmetic. If some burglar sneaks in and rifles your pants out of 7% of your pocket change while you're asleep, you're never going to even notice. If you do notice, you're not going to forgo any future spending, You're not going to ask the boss for a raise and you're not going to raise the price of any services or products you sell simply because 7% of your pocket change vanished out a hole unnoticed. A 7% fluctuation has to be noticed before any compensating greed reflex can kick in. Addicts don't have armies of accountants to tell them that 7% of their dope is missing. They don't watch Damn Rather drone on about cop statistics that make grandiose claims of self‑efficacy. Addicts do not notice that 7% of their dope is missing, don't believe it when they see cops spew thison TV, and don't give a rat's ass even if it ever comes true. In all cases they are completely content to continue to purchase their dope from the vast, unnumbered stockpiles that always do elude police theft‑efforts. In all cases addicts are completely oblivious to police dopethefts because there is always, by the cops' own admissions, plenty more.

Like moths blundering around a candle, cops and their news‑whores are seeking a balance. The cops want to put the lie out that they are winning their drug 'war', but they want secretly never to be able to declare victory, else they will be kicked off ' this gravytrain and be forced to develop and sell to the public another war. The cops sell their product through their media tools two ways, and and reap unending growth for themselves this way: they sell the perception of losing their war when they want more taxes, manpower, training and equipment, etc. They sell the perception of winning their war when they want re‑election, promotions, raises, bonuses and other perks.
This glut of expensive CIA cocaine and heroin caused a glut of addiction as well as a glut of cops. Just like monkeys will forsake food for brain‑injected doses of cocaine, so will human addicts behave somewhat similarly,	Human addicts develop more complex strategies for obtaining pleasure‑inducing substances in that they will enlist the aid of others. One standard tactic is that the hookers will spread their addiction far and wide among the sisterhood. Older, more experienced hookers will connive younger, inexperienced women and girls into lesbian and mutual‑help relationships and turn them onto a cocaine high. They enjoy the friendship and the waves of pleasure crashing into their brains. Twenty minutes later they want more, and their teacher instructs them on how to obtain more. They enthusiastically sell their services to men, take their wages to their friend and she converts it into cocaine. The more cunning hooker does so secretly and takes a 50% commission, then takes another 50% cut of the remaining dope when they share it in the privacy of their current domicile.
Police and news‑artists think that most 'pimps' are African males. They and Hollywood sell this misperception to the public. Fact is, women connive other women and girls into this type of pseudo‑sexual slavery/friendship/mutual addiction relationship. African males like to think they are controling women and living off their efforts like intestinal parasites, but this is seldom the case. In actual fact, African males are more narcotic dealer‑addicts then pimps, and soon as their 'whores' find better dope connections, these 'pimps' are left in the dirt. Their stable of whores is merely a collection of young girls that they have managed to addict. They will only allow themselves to be exploited for a short time before they realize they need a Black male drug addict like they need a case of the Black Plague.
This is why you see major bus terminals packed with loitering Africans. They are searching for young, ignorant females to victimize to replace the ones who have grown wise enough to leave. In 1985 there were many runaway girls buying bus tickets for Los Angeles, New York, Chicago and other large cities trying to find better lives than the boring, stress‑filled ones at home with their moms and siblings.
Hookers also connive their tricks into doing drugs with them. Their lives become much more pleasure‑filled when they can get their 'dates' interested in smoking cocaine as well as in sex. Though women are particularly suited to maintaining expensive addictions, the craving is probably Just as powerful in men.

Cocaine addiction in men causes an increase in homosexual activity, though not necessarily an increase in homosexuality itself. Because the market for homosexual sex is small, (only about 10% of the population) this market is quickly saturated. Since men can not simply throw their legs open and obtain quick, easy money, they tend to steal, rob and even sometimes injure or kill to obtain their narcotic pleasure. The injury and death associated with drugs such as cocaine and heroin usually comes from fights to sell the drugs and fights over theft of property. Very few deaths result from the drugs themselves; it only seems as if this is the case because the media trumpets it loud and long every time some sports‑buffoon blows his heart out by mixing stimulants with excessive exertion. The government pays the media whores to do this as part of their anti‑drug programing of citizens. So far the trick is working against a gullible public that can't tell the difference between an overdose of stupidity and stimulant drugs. Now the cop/ media alliance is again working to outlaw even trash 'drugs' like the ephedra plant, which requires idiots to eat massive amounts and exercise like crazy before they can arrange to rupture a blood vessel or create a heart attack. Each time some famous ballplayer does this, the cop/media alliance cackles like a hen with a new egg, using the opportunity to obtain massive payments of your taxcash every time this secret antidrug 'message' is aired. With our govcrats passing out royalties like these, editors may soon became as rich as rock stars.
For these reasons the massive influx of US govt cocaine and heroin caused a nationwide explosion of whoring and crime that is easily seen in the police's own records.
They and their TV newswhores constantly lament their Simplistic view of a 'crack epidemic' begining in the early 80s. These same two special interest groups of cops and newshawkers will never admit the actual cause of this mass migration and crime wave despite its being well‑documented in the non‑corporate, non‑mainstream media. Portions of the corporate media have actually reported much of this, but have since 'self‑censored' themselves at the direct request of our govcrats. Unpleasant facets of history are routinely and regularly erased from reality in this way, exactly as described in Orwell's 1984.
The cop/media agenda is thus to ignore causes and to Simply ride the crest of this crimestorm they have created into continuing prosperity and growth for themselves.

CHAPTER TEN

Real crime minus cop/media bulshit

When you look long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you.
 unknown 

This being so, I met many young women and men eager for rides to dope connects, motel rooms, pawnshops and friends' homes. Almost all of them were recent arrivals, many the victims of fatherless homes, particularly Black ones. The business was so brisk that one of the girls gave me a beeper she'd taken from one of her tricks. She was a very attractive Spanish and African girl named Jackie. She lived with her mother in El Monte. Few people were ever trusted with knowledge of where they lived, especially not men, but she often wanted me to pick her up at appropriate times and drop her off at favored locations along the strip or Hollywood blvd. From there she would solicit temporary boyfriends, party constantly for days, then call for a ride home.
Jackie had many girlfriends and shared my beeper number with too many of them. Fortunately they worked in pairs or small groups that gravitated to the closest motel rooms. Since I'd been inducted into the underground again I began brokering condoms again too.
All these women and girls tend to be hyperactive even without cocaine. Another good thing about them is that they shun all types of alcohol, the worst drug ever except for tobacco. The cocaine keeps even naturally fat women slim and active. It elevates their personalities, and no alcohol rots their brains or slows their wits. They usually duck alcohol because the cops can smell its breakdown products on their breath when they're 'working', giving them an excuse to call them 'public drunk' and thus coerce them with threats of jail. Hookers can't afford to be dull‑witted and smelling of aldehydes when out‑witting cops and tricks.

Usually they would get their dates to haul them near their connect's location, then ditch them. After buying their dope they'd find a way to their safe place to smoke. Often they'd call for me at this stage, especially when I occupied the central motel room. On the way back they'd have me stop at a store where they'd pick up whatever they needed in addition to their dope. This would be baking soda, cotton, glass tubes, copper scrubpads, some kind of cooking glass similar to a test tube, plenty of butane lighters rubbing alcohol and plenty of cigarettes and Dr. Pepper.
These young girls and women are at various stages of the coke‑smoking learning curve. At the bottom are the ones being taught how to choose the best dates with the most money. When she's been approached by a motorist and is talking to him through his window, she is not just sizing him up in terms of her own personal safety prior to entering his vehicle. She's also discovering if the guy is a secret cop. TV infotainists and newsstalkers who ride with cops love to portray only one side of the sexual equasion; that of men being trapped by female cops enticing them with implied promises of sex for money. This type of cop‑operation seldom occur s, and usually only in response to Church, merchant and/or media complaints. By far the most common sneak attack cops pull is for male cops to entice hookers with promises of cash for sex. This type of entrapment doesn't play well on TV or Hollywood, so it simply is not filmed or depicted. You just can't sell a law enforcement product, or any other product, by taking advantage of young female drug addicts. Also, both types of trapping operations are strictly illegal and outlawed by the bill of rights. Doing so is the cops creating crime. Cops do this anyway because they can get away with it. Citizens are programed to think that only the cops and the lawyers can understand the law. Fact is, the law is what the cops tell you it is, and  since the cops and lawyers own the law, they make exceptions for themselves as needed. What law is written down looks good, but means nothing to the common citizen. Judges, prosecutors and cops overthrow the law daily with their opinions. The purpose of cops posing as tricks and enticing hookers with money is not exactly to get the money taxpayers are forced to pay on them once they're caged. The usual purpose is for cops to find young dumb girls who will, after a few threats, give the cops the 'street intel' cops lust after so much.

The next step up the learning curve is when the girls learn how to dupe the cops into thinking they don't know any street intelligence the cops can use. Cops depend upon hookers for snitchery concerning who has the dope, where they keep it and where do they hide the cash. Drugchaser cops are particularly interested in cash because it is untraceable. Next they want assets like cars, homes and realestate. Their last concern is drugs; long as there is a trace of a drug on a pipe or in a baggie, that's enough to snatch every valuable and person nearby. These women quickly learn how to minimize exploitation by police and when to snitch off others to lighten their own sentences. In all instances the cops win because it costs them nothing to keep pulling additional crime out of the air and piling it onto their chosen targets. If the cop decides the girl should be hit with at least ten years, and he still wants to connive her into giving him her dope connection, he pulls out a hundred years worth of crimes to bash her with, then 'trades' away 90 years for her 'street intel' and secret testimony. It is the same as if you or I could simply manufacture on the spot, instantly, however much money we need to buy anything. Often the women can avoid the worst crush of oppression by these badges Gluttons Of Privilege through many means. Mostly they become expert at feigning friendship, even love, for them and by keeping their lives as secret as possible. Also, the cops don't exploit them too massively, else they would have to go out and find the cash, assets, dope and dealers the hard,.dangerous way; by bashing in doors personally, by trial and error, without street intelligence to guide them. Instead of recycling old criminals, they'd have to get off their gold bricks and find the new crooks. Cops don't exploit these women too heavily for another reason; it is too easy for them to get vengeance. For example, a girl in New York finally got fed up with the cops' constant exploitation and infected 22 members of their elite vice squad with gonorrhea. Such feminine counterattacks are not publicized but are so common that all 18,000 US police stations warn their cops against becoming too friendly with hookers. This is in all their vice text books. Most recently it escaped into public knowledge that four Tulsa, OK firecops got caught at it and were told to resign their fat, lazy, lucrative jobs, grab their pensions and duck for cover before finding other fatcat firecop jobs over the next political boundary.
Another important step up the learning curve that hookers quickly master is how to change powdered cocaine into smokeable 'rock' cocaine. People who know how to perform this simple chemical reaction save themselves considerable time, effort and money over those who don't. Contrary to police, newspaper and broadcast media propaganda, who still report their simplistic view "the crime wave of the 80s was caused by the availability of a cheap form of cocaine called 'crack"', this cocaine is not cheap in any sense of the word. This idea was complete nonsense fed them by a govt seeking to stampede voters into shoveling police even more boxcar‑loads of unnecessary taxcash. It was also designed by and for rich politicians to facilitate their getting even more obscenely wealthy by profiting off the prison building binge they created.
The fact is that the absolute most expensive cocaine is 'rock' cocaine that the media whores call 'crack'. For $20 a user may get just four lungfulls of smoke. This is the best case scenario. Usually she only gets two, and people regularly pay 520 for just a single lungful, depending on who is selling it and haw many hands it goes through before it gets to the end user. At every stage someone usually takes a half just for knowing the connect and going to buy it. This half‑piece 'commission' is smoked at the connect's domicile, unbeknownst to the owner of the money. The remaining piece is brought to the girl who supplied the money and us usually shared with the person who went and got it from the dealer.

To dodge these customary ripoffs the girls quickly learn to make their way up the secrecy pipeline and buy directly from the dealer himself, who is usually an Hispanic. Anyone lower than him is generally a parasite upon the hookers. Buying rock is what fools do. Usually it is the Africans who sell rock to the hookers. Cheaper by half is to buy powder. This the girls learn to rock themselves and save considerable money, time and effort. This is done by merely adding an equal volume of baking soda, water sufficient to dissolve both solids, boil and shake. A layer of oil will separate and float atop the water. Spill it onto a cool surface such as a countertop and instantly the oil will turn into a white crust that clings to the cool surface. Blow the water away, scrape up the white crust and smoke on copper in a glass tube. If the water tastes salty and won't numb your tongue, your measurements were correct. The salt is formed when the sodium in the baking soda combines with the chlorine in the cocaine. The cocaine oil turns white because it combines with the carbonate in the baking soda. Yellow means impurities.
Learning how to sell fake rock to fools is another part of being a coke addict. By taking advantage of darkness, ignorance and fear of police spying, hookers will take payment and deliver pieces of soap, wax, latex paint, anything that can be mistaken for rock during hurried circumstances. If a hustler brings you something wrapped in tissue, you're swindled. Some cheaters even dry out and mold lumps of Orajel to sell as 'rock'. This stuff is to dupe semi‑experienced addicts who nibble the wares before surrendering their money. Orajel contains lidocaine and thus also numbs tongue and lips as if it were real cocaine. African males are the ones most often selling this trash.
Trash that looks like rock is extremely varied, as is its uses in ripping people off. If a girl has a good, steady 'date' that she doesn't want to lose but will rip off, she does so by substituting half the good rock she buys with trash rock. This way she can claim she got ripped off too. She makes it up to him with more or better sex, which is free to her and smokes what she has stolen from her date. The number and types of ways addicts have invented to rip off dates, dealers, cops and each other are more than would fill several chapters. Suffice to say that if there is a way to lie, cheat, and steal, they will find and use it.
Jacky was young, but experienced and at the top of the cocaine addict food chain. Africans are particularly motivated to scheme obsessively from youth upon many small cheats, thefts and cons, thus she had excellent teachers early in life. She was well liked because of her upbeat personality and because she knew all these cons and would  not pull them on anyone except perhaps deserving tricks. Better, she would warn others of ripoffs perpetrated by dealers and teach friends how best to avoid exploitation by the cops. Everyone liked her and many of the younger girls who were suckered into the profession by unscrupulous 'friends' came to depend an her for advice.
The whole time I knew Jackie, she never went to jail. Most of the others cycled in and out, but not Jackie. She was smart and careful. She would take pains to minimize risk by keeping paraphernalia to quickly flushable dimensions. Jackie kept stuff clean and kept incriminating trash burned or flushed when other girls would be slobs, saving dust‑coated baggies and leaving other convicting evidence in a trail that any cop could follow to everyone. Jackie would rail at the slobs, teaching them how the cops routinely expand one loose baggie into crimes for everyone who had visited the suite however briefly.
Jackie could sniff out money like a lawyer. She found more than her share of males willing and eager to hock large portions of their lives shoplifting, writing hot checks or otherwise obtaining fast cash for her. Most hookers specifically contrive to point out to young sex addicts the many sources of ready cash that they don't realize they can tap, such as their mom's purse, dad's lawnmower, brother's CD player or sister's credit cards. A good sign that someone just discovered sex, cocaine or both is the sudden disappearance of valuables.
The most fantastic thing I ever saw Jackie do was steer a couple of 'brothers' to a credit union. She got them hooked on her and rock cocaine, made them get a gun and told them to go get money. They were proud that she called them 'gangsters'. They followed her orders. The first I found out about it was a day and a half after the fact. Jackie had me call her and she gave me detailed instructions. I was to come to her motel room, pick up one of her 'soldiers' and ditch him a couple of miles away as he bought her cigarettes and tampons.

This was very strange. It wasn't normal. But I ditched the guy and returned. Soon as I gave my knock Jackie burst through the door, all smiles and in a big hurry to drive away. She shut the door quickly, .but not too quickly for me to miss seeing the other African, naked and dead drunk, snoring and drooling on the bed. In Jackie's left hand was a bag with his clothes in it. In Jackie's other hand was a trash sack stuffed with cash and the gun. She threw the guy's clothes in a dumpster behind 7‑eleven. She gave the gun to one of her friends. She subsequently sold it to a cop along with the names of the robbers. Prior to this, though, Jackie threw a party for her friends. Then she vanished with her mother and the money. The cops paid $1000 for the gun and the names, which caused another dope party. The money really wasn't much; only 76 hundred dollars plus the few hundred it took her to get them too exhausted and stiff to move. Even so, it was enough for Jackie and her mom to disappear to a new location.
Lest anyone get the wrong impression, cops do not pass out anonymous rewards like they trick people into believing through the spewings of John Walsh and other pro‑cop PR merchants. The first thing the cops do is nail down your identity and location. Second the cops try to nail the crime on you, or they try to make you an accessory to the crime. Only fifth or sixth they may decide to shit some taxpayer cash for you, but not until steps one through four are complied with in triplicate. The promise of anonymity is just to sucker in the fools. At some point in the process of collecting the reward for information you already gave, you will be forced to reveal your identity before you get a : cent, be it from the bank's camera, your signature on the draft, but mostly from you telling the cop on the other end of their snitchline. Exactly zero amount of anonymous taxcash is given out despite all the platitudes of the cops' public mouthpiece or their media tools on the news or in the papers. Also, the govt takes back 40% of every reward, same as it takes 40% of all Las Vegas winnings and 40% of all game show or lottery prizes. In this case, though, the girl, Tish, had a special relationship with the cop she always dealt with. Even so, they dragged her off into their cop‑lair and forced her to answer the same questions from each of at least six cops for eight hours. They made her snitch off Jackie, too, but the badged thugs were too late. The neighbors never learned why the pigs were so desperate to obtain any information at all on the Diaz's, but they could tell by the cops' anger that they were completely stumped and baffled. They had no pictures, no numbers, no tags, no car, no job, nothing to trace but a surname borne by thousands of persons.
Eventually the cops accepted that they could squeeze no more out of Tish and the person who had rented to Jackie's mom. They grudgingly coughed up the full amount, (upon which Tish paid no taxes) which was surprizing. Usually cops are very stingy with the loot they get from taxpayers for this purpose, taking larger portions for themselves; (through forced signatures on blank receipts) than the rat. Any male rat the cops would have jacked royally, paying him $50 to $100 and taking many hundreds of dollars for themselves. (Every major city has had cops caught stealing federal drugcrime reward grant money using this blank‑receipt technique. It was their private goldmine, same as their drug‑asset‑theft‑laws have been for the past 20‑plus years. Just plant a crumb of dope in the back forty and the cops get the whole ranchi)	Since Tish is a fem‑fatale who regularly tossed them victims, she was afforded the maximum promised and was not forced to kick back any to her cop 'boyfriend' (trick).

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Idiot‑proofing and Fooldampers
The fast and efficient are rewarded by having to assist the slow and incompetent
									   Burin Singletree

I even tried to buy a job: a thing abhorrent to every person who takes pride in his work. The employment agencies would not even consider me because I had no local references. I do have distant relatives in California, but was unwilling to ask them for help, or even reveal my presence to them, lest the jackals‑of‑law‑and‑judging eat them alive like they did me. Every legitimate avenue was roadblocked by govt and business operating hand‑in‑pocket.
Much as I enjoyed my time with the women and girls of the night, there was not enough money in it to hang long enough to get a job even if such were possible. Certainly it couldn't take the place of a job. California is just too expensive for me to live in. Also, it was too far from the crooked Okie govcrats who had stolen my life and were protecting the killer. It would have been nice to have made a fabulous wage in California and come back to Okracoma able to do research into the crime without having to continue working while doing so. But they wouldn't let me on their high‑pay gravytrain, and Okracoma is well known for being a poverty‑wage state. I had to find a living wage somewhere and prepare. The money I made in California was not even enough to cover expenses.
Before leaving California one of my friends helped me check the mail for an answer from the two women who thought they'd seen me kill the porn merchant and run away. I'd rented a mailbox at a copyshop in Los Angeles proper. The place had a glass front from which the counter could be seen. Becka went in with the key and disappeared toward the back as I watched from across the busy street through a cheap telescope. It seemed to take her twice as long as necessary to find the box, open it and retrieve its contents. At last she reappeared but did not exit immediately. There had, of course, been a snag of some sort. She paused at the counter and obtained the attention of the clerk. He was a pizza‑faced youngster, just coming on shift to meet the after‑work rush. Becka showed him something. He took it and vanished toward the back. Two long minutes passed as nothing happened. Finally Becka began slapping the service bell and yelling for assistance. Again no one came. She turned to leave, making it all the way outside before an older woman, presumably the manager, coaxed her back inside. Even more time passed very slowly as they confabbed together. At last Aecka made a throwaway gesture of disgust with both hands and turned to leave. The manager followed her out, still talking, and watched her turn left, walking swiftly away. At the very next side street Becka turned left again. Out of sight of the manager, she began to jog, then I lost sight of her.

While I was reaching for the ignition, a cop drove recklessly into the parking lot, stopped his car slomperjawed in front of the entrance and rushed inside the copyshop. He and the manager conversed briefly at the counter as I waited with my engine gently idling. The cop rushed back to his vehicle and cut a chogie down the same street and way Becka had gone. I followed at a more sedate pace. By the time I got to the side street Becka had taken, the cop was two blocks farther down and pulling an illegal U‑turn to shoot back towards me. Becka was not in his car, nor anywhere along the street. The cop roared up one block then suddenly made a hard right with much squealing of tires. As I waited at the stop sign I watched him pull another illegal, high‑G U‑turn. My passenger door opened and slammed. Becka ducked behind my seat. The cop flashed by 'way faster then the limit allowed. We went the way he had come and motored off in a zig‑zag pattern.
"Don't think I want to do that again!" exclaimed Becka, sitting out of sight on the floor.
"Where's the mail?"
"Wudn't any; just a slip telling me to go see the clerk."
 "For a package?"
"For your signature or something: wifey's signature wudn't good enough." 
"You see it? Where'd it come from?"
"She's lying. There's nothing to see. She just wanted to find you and sucker me into staying til the cops could arrive."
"How could you tell?"
'*They were both acting sneaky. Didn't you see the cop, James?"
Becka was right, of course. And in all my life I've never been very successful at getting women to reveal the source of their intuition, much less translate it into logic a man can understand.  It didn't matter. The fact was clear. Hunt and/or Baker had called the cops upon receiving my letter. This meant that they were not interested in what I had discovered about the killer. To Hell with them, I remember having thought at the time. It's not as if I had really expected any help or open mind from them. It's just that I had to give them the chance to realize their mistake. In my research into the court system, I'd learned that all the texts agree on one thing; that the most unreliable form of courtroom 'proof' is eyewitness testimony (see: Creating Memories by Elizabeth Loftus) It is also the easiest to obtain and the easiest to believe All these reasons are why cops and their prosecuting lawyers prefer the pointing finger above every kind of scientific proof. It was depressing that these two women were living up to the lawyersystem's gold standard.
Another thing that happened illustrated my run of luck. On the long drive back east I stopped in the middle of nowhere, needing to find some cover behind which to water the grass. There wasn't any grass, and I had to go far afield in the Arizona desert to find enough cover to hide behind. While I was applying liquid fertilizer some twerp in a newer van than mine stopped to see what he could steal. Anything that even looks abandoned attracts thieves like a magnet, which is why the cops so love to.photograph their socalled 'sting' operations. They are actually baiting‑and‑trapping operations that create crime instead of solve crime. Properly edited by professional dramaticists for TV, they make the cops look very busy and successful fighting a neverending tidal wave of crime. The public eats this up. Fact is, though, opportunistic thievery is a poor substitute for real crime. Soon as he saw me coming, the twerp jumped back into his van and sped away in a panic; didn't need a horde of cops and a TV production crew. Save them for real crime, like CIA cops creating a massive epidemic of cocaine smoking and the whoring that is required to pay for it.

Once back in Albuquerque I easily found a steady job; it was a backbreaking job of low pay with a landscaping company. They were very busy putting in rock 'gardens' and drought tolerant shrubs, bushes and trees. Almost everyone there was Hispanic or Indian. Their primary vehicles were twin‑cab dual‑wheel pickups with trailers. We'd be stuffed in, front and back, eight or nine to a truck. In back we hauled shovels, picks, rakes, stomping machines, a ditcher and plenty of plastic irrigation pipe, sprinklers and plumbing fittings. On one scary occasion we even had a huge backhoe on the trailer. I'll never forget flying down the expressway at high speed on a windy day and watching the truck gyrate and buck, groaning under the strain of excessive weight. No one seemed to realize the danger but me. They were so resigned to it that they just laughed.
On this same occasion it came to be my job to chain this backhoe down on its trailer for transport back to the shop. There was nothing to it but stringing the chain and fastening it tight with a tensioner. Most people call this a 'boomer' and it's nothing buta lever with a hook at each end. You hook both ends of the chain, flip the lever and the chain is pulled tight.	.
This is what I was doing, but I was doing it too well. Twice I'd undone the thing to snatch up an extra link or slack I'd Jiggled out of the far twists of chain. One of the Mexicans saw me doing this and misunderstood what was going on.
"Having trouble, Chok?" he said. "Here, I show you how to do it!" With this, he leaps up onto the trailer and takes over. He struggles with it for a very few seconds before another Mexican notices and butts in.
"Having trouble, Sanchez?" he says. "I show you how to do it!"
He takes over while Sanchez scratches his head and ineffectually rattles the chain and tensioner, trying to figure out how it works. A few more seconds pass and Pedro shows up. He pushes Garcia away, Alfredo takes over when Pedro is too slow, and so on. Before this process concludes there are exactly six of us standing around watching number seven struggle to figure out this simple lever contraption. I simply could not believe this was happening. It was just too bizarre. Finally the boss chases everyone off to other jobs and does it himself. This is one of my first lessons on the vast cultural and environmental differences between Caucasians, Hispanics and Indigenous societies.
We all work hard and they accept me after seeing how hard I work They think Americans are soft. They are even secretly gratified and pleased to see a Caucasion doing dirtwork alongside them. One big, strong youngster who fled Reagan's pogroms in El Salvadore is 'Oscar'. He is the only one with guts enough to ask to see my paycheck. I show him how I am being paid the same or less than they. As a result they become even friendlier.
One of the most amusing things to occur every morning at that place involved our lining up and waiting for selected non‑thieves to load the trucks. As we waited, their two lot‑dogs would bring sticks and practically force us to throw them for fetching. Every morning the big German shepard would go down the line dropping his stick at the feet of each man until one would consent to throw it. Both dogs would tear off after it, return and repeat this process. They never tired of this game and would insist by incessantly barking and excitedly hopping around until the stick was thrown again. The colder the morning, the more they wanted to play.
By this time winter was setting in. It became too cold to sleep in the van. Cindyfrom‑the‑bank offered to let me stay with her and her little girl, Laci. Her man had vanished shortly after she had delivered. That had been about five years previously. I felt pretty privileged and was glad to be included. Cindy seemed to enjoy my company.
Her father worked on the Air Force Base.  She was very straight‑laced and religious, but it didn't keep her from holding strong opinions on a variety of subjects. She and her dad were well‑educated and well‑informed. We got along for a long time very well indeed.

One sticking point came up quickly. It involved her father, Mike, who is a heavily programed govt robot. The guy had gotten in on the ground floor of radar technology in the forties. The service took him out of grinding Appalachian poverty and fed him well for many years. His fanatical loyalty toward the govt was rewarded with a research and development post in a corporation that contracts for the govt. Though he slammed the book shut on radio technology decades ago he rides herd on over 30 technicians and electronics experts who know more about the field than he ever did. Despite his knowledge being decades obsolete, he tells them what to do. Illustrative of his personality is an incident that occurred one night while we watched Reagan an the news. Reagan and his cronies had just chased off all the reporters, or thought they had. One TV camera and microphone remained when Reagan clearly and unmistakably called them all 'sons of bitches': on national television. I chuckled a little and was mildly amused. Sitting right next to me was Cindy and Military Mike. Cindy asked, "What did he just say?" Mike was speechless, so I told her. Then Mike said with an indignant and straight face, "He didn't say any such thing!"
It takes a humongously arrogant and foolish man to think he can convince people that their eyes and ears just lied to them. They replayed it several times during the next few hours. Amazingly, I would find years later that the Rodney King lawcrats and cops would manage to dupe an entire nation of idiots that what they saw didn't happen.
Other than this huge, glowing, gov‑sucking blindspot, Mike is a great guy. Though extremely religious, he didn't let morality interfere with his business dealings. He described in minute detail how he and his company would screw the govt raw and bleeding on telemetry products Uncle Shady could only get from them. Mike justified this by saying that all defense contractors apply these same rules. They first figure a generous allowance for cost, then double it. This is the figure they put in their bookkeeping as 'costs'. Next they double this figure again and offer it as the selling price. Other times they deliberately underbid to suck the contract away from competitors. Then, after Uncle Sam has sunk too many millions of our taxcash into the project, they demand more millions. This leaves the pentagon fatcrats with two bad choices: fork over the extra millions and call them 'cost overruns' or contract with the competing ripoff firm and get even costlier screwjobs via the same technique: Since Mike and company have a virtual monopoly, the govcrats generally consent to the first screwjab, especially since the lawcrat branch of govt is so extremely inefficient and corrupt itself. It's a pretty sad era when one branch of govt can't make its judicial branch of govt make a more electronics contractor get right. At every step there are too many parasites blocking the road to justice, taking their toll. Trying to get past all the lawyers, judges, politicians and prosecutors is like trying to swim across a leech infested ocean. All you accomplish in trying is to feed yourself to the worms.
Another ripoff occurred at the Air Force Base and involved us. We were hired to plant four trees, a few bushes and put in a small irrigation system in a 100 foot by 30 foot traffic island. Instead of subsistence wages ($3.35/hour) we were to be paid over three times as much merely because of a trick law said to ensure that the govt got topnotch work and the biggest bang for our taxbucks. This politician's special is called a 'prevailing wage' law. It probably should be called the 'Brother‑in‑law Construction Firm Law' or the 'Senator's Son's Employment Act'.

When we drove up we dug a monster hole to expose a 22 inch diameter water main supply line. For some silly reason we were not allowed to attach a standard plumbing tap to this line and hook our one‑inch pipe to it. Instead, a professional plumbing company was called in. They promptly filled the huge hole with water and spent the whole day pretending that their gas engine water pump wouldn't start. No work could proceed while the hole was functioning as a lake. Eventually some Airmen got tired of watching this scam and sent some men over with a colossal suckertruck and equally humongous trailertank. To the two plumbers perched atop the main pipe one asked politely, "You men need some help getting the water out of that hole?"
"No thanks," the lead plumber replied nervously. "We've got it under control."  The very next yank of the starter cord brought their tiny little pump purring to life and the water began gushing out of the hole. Everyone smiled and waved as the Airmen drive off. The plumbers had still managed to stretch a ten‑minute task into a six‑hour day for two plumbers at three times their usual wage.
The next scam involved our foreman telling us to dig extremely large holes for the four huge trees that were to be delivered from the nursery. Each hole was 5.5 feet deep and seven feet across. The trees arrived late, and when they did arrive, their rootballs were no more than two feet tall and three feet in diameter.
We dug all the pipe trenches with shovels instead of the trenching machine. The  soil was soft sand with a few flint nodules scattered through it. Six of us dug them all in two days. Then we wasted three days with makework: This involved the foreman sneaking around and caving in trenches and chopping up newly‑laid plastic pipe with his shovel. Even with his purposeful destruction and our repair of it, we easily finished by friday. A two‑day job had been stretched into a five‑day marathon of numbskullitry. This is what the taxherd gets with idiotic laws designed by professional slackers and wordsmiths to ensure quality workmanship. A week of fatcrat wages was nice, but doesn't make up for lifelong poverty wages. Also, the quality of the workmanship was no better, it only cost about ten times more than usual. But what do a pack of govt lawyers care?  It's not their money that they flush down the crapper at supersonic speeds.
My ability to remain an anonymous face in the crowd became compromised one day when we were riding back to the shop after work. The driver almost wiped out a line of cars at a stoplight. He careened to the side of the road, narrowly missing putting us in a big drainage ditch before finally managing to stop just five feet into the busy intersection. Somehow the other drivers managed to dodge knocking into the nose of our truck and each other. The next morning the boss began asking who had a license to drive. Out of eight Mexicans and me, I was the only one. I was drafted, like it or not.
The junker‑truck we'd been saddled with went to the shop for brakes. In its place I was given to drive the standard dual‑cab, six‑tired pickup with the same trailer as before. The Mexicans all jammed themselves in tightly and began smoking. Boon as I opened the door to get in, I knew this was going to be an even shitier job than I expected. A twin‑cab pickup is really a 1.5 cab pickup if you ferry people with feet and ankles. Having the luxury of a five‑foot tall driver had given us in the back seat a full eight inches of floorspace to wedge our number ten feet. Now we had a six‑foot driver, which necessitated amputating eight feet.

"This seat has to go back", I told everyone in the rear seat. Soon as they heard this, eight feet braced against the back of the front seat so that even Magilla‑Gorilla couldn't move it backward.
"The seat! She is broken, Chok! Its always been stuck!"
I couldn't blame them, except from the standpoint of safety; a concept almost inconceivable to machismo culture in which even how loudly you fart is a challenge for other Mexicans to fart even louder to prove their extreme manliness. Better to die with pride in a magnificent flaming wreck than to disgrace oneself by giving up three inches of foot room.
My elbow knocked the back of the seat every time I shifted gears, and my knees knocked against the underside of the dash every time I used the clutch. The wheel itself was in my chest. The front seat was so jam‑packed that one guy was squeezed into the driver's domain. Fortunately for me he was a half‑size African and a good kid. He helped me by doing the shifting as we drove. It was a great help.
The way to the jobsite was made longer by all the backseat drivers. They'd all dodged the job, but now they were all glib, expert drivers full of advice and criticism. A typical exchange would begin thus: "Chok! You don't have to put the blinker on until
you need to turn:" or "You can use the brake without using the clutch!" or the usual, "Who taught you how to drive?", "Park over there!", "Turn here!", "Go faster!" and "You ran over that curb:"
Never one to suffer fools quietly, I'd rail at them long and loudly thus: "We're not in Mexico and this is not a donkey cart: If you're scared, close your eyes! We gringos invented trucks and cars: I used to be a truck! You want out so you can take the curb to the hospital?" Before long they'd slow their nonsense‑holes to a crawl, but nothing could make them shut completely up. Strangely, this type of pointless, timewasting, disruptive chin‑music garners their respect.
One time I was invited to ride with them in one of their own cars. Six of us crammed ourselves into a toyota carolla with no seats. The driver sat on a tin can. Grinding poverty had had these hardworking Mexicans driving the most incredible deathtraps. Assisting in this is their ignorance of all things mechanical and their 'The Holy Mother will save us' attitude. Fortunately for me they didn't start drinking until after work. Cars left out on the street had a way of having parts vanish off them at night. Mirrors, headlights, tail‑lights and their lenses seemed to be preferred, but anything could occur. My impression is that these poor people could not afford the parts demanded of them by
the cops and they got them the best way then could think of, not for profit, but from necessity. Most of the parts they needed were those most easily broken in low‑speed crashes. One thing I'm glad to say about the New Mexico Police departments is that they are concerned with crime, not collecting road‑tax revenue like most other state's cops. They don't obsess over ticket revenue and radar traps, etc. The crime rate is quite low compared to every other state I've lived in. The Albuquerque, Santa fe, Las Vegas and other New Mexico Police departments seemed to have very many Hispanic officers and few Caucasians. This leads to the impression that crime is low when it should be high due to low wages and widespread poverty. Hispanic officers are laid‑back, forgiving and non‑petty where Caucasian cops are driven, profit‑oriented, petty, touchy, arrogant and quick to find offense, issue threats and escalate any situation due to having been trained to be drunk with the power to which they are addicted.

Another occasion they suckered me into driving turned into a fiasco. This time it was only to back up a huge truck with the mirrors blocked by overflowing shrubs and trees we were storing in our mulch‑yard for the winter. Again all the Latinos dodged the chore and I was elected to do it. There was no way to see behind me, so I backed slowly and blindly a distance I'd calculated to be sufficient. BAM! I hit the foreman's pickup with my five‑ton monster. The Mexicans all claimed to have shouted a warning, but none of their chirpings made it to me over the din of the poorly muffled engine. I put a small dent in his open tailgate, causing it to be hard to make one side latch. It was totally my fault; I felt very bad and offered to fix it. He graciously absolved me of my obligation, fixed what damage he could and accepted the rest.
On another job we were to put in a soccer field for a school along with a sprinkler system. Being a state job, we were paid more than double our usual wages because of some local politicians mimicing the federal prevailing wage law. We were sure glad to get some of the gravytrain elected politicians enjoy every day, but they no more got their money's worth or extra quality than the feds. They got the same quality, slower work and paid about triple for it, all things considered.
By this time winter was setting in hard. On one memorable morning it snowed about ten inches. There was no chance of any crews going out in this mess, but the company had a policy of paying four hours wages to any who showed up on bad weather days. My truck was perfect for this. It had new 16.5 inch tires, and traffic in the pre‑dawn blizzard was practically nil. I determined to partake of this offer and attempt to obtain in‑yard work if possible.
The drive was very enjoyable despite the bitter cold. The unusual silence caused by the early hour and the muffling snow was eerie and consoling. The crunch and shush of snow plowed past my tires was all the music I needed. The drive through the pristine and sparkling city took only 45 minutes, but three‑fourtlts of the way there I saw a bundled figure trudging ponderously and heartily along the same direction. He seemed to wave frantically as I drove past, but my main mirrors were too frosted for me to tell for sure. I was well past by the time I realized that the only kind of nut who would be out in the drifts today is the same kind of nut I was. I don't think fast and not often deep, but eventually it dawned on me that the guy was on the same mission as myself; a coworker tnying to get the half‑day wage.
I braked and whipped the wheel over, skidding to a gas station parking lot. The figure saw me and commenced to run with vigor. Turned out it was Gary, the only other Caucasian grunt employed by the shop. He ran full tilt for 150 yards, finally to hop in gasping, "I didn't think you were going to stop!" He made a desolate figure trudging along and would not have made it on time if I'd missed him. As it was, we barely made it in the truck.
Already at the shop was Indio. We three were the only ones to show up. The boss, who lived there, was suprised to see us and of course had no work. Gary and Indio had no ride either. Both had trudged through fantastic lengths and depths of snow to get there. We clocked in and out to claim our four hours and left together in high spirits. We'd just made some 'money for nothing' and were happy about it. Gary bought some beer and invited us over to his place for some chips and dip. None of us had wasted time on breakfast.

Gary shared a modern apartment with a friend. Indio was from a reservation nearby and apparently had little experience with the newest faucets. While the four of us were sitting around a dining room table laughing at each other's anecdotes, Indio went into the kitchen to get some tap water. I noticed he was not figuring out how to pull the stick forward and to the right for cold water. Years earlier I'd faced the same dilemma. A lot of subtle changes had occurred over the past decade or so.
While there, the talk inevitably turned to skiing. Months previously I'd seen evidence of this craze when I watched them erect a huge circus tent on the parking lot of Winroc mall. Many thousands of enthusiasts came from miles away to see it. Gary wanted to ski.  Indio and I were not interested. Skiing it for yuppies: it costs too much, is dangerous and seemed to me more of a hassle than fun. I had better things I could be doing, but Indio lived out that way and needed a ride home. Also, Cindy and Mike wanted to initiate me into the art.
Mike, Cindy and little Laci were already packed and were warming up the car when I drove up with Gary and Indio. We followed them til we had to turn and drop off Indio. Skiing seemed to be a fetish amongst most Caucasians I met. Each was eager to give me advice and instruction since I was the novice. They seemed to think that there was something vastly complex about sliding down a hill. Gary told me all about it on the arduous twenty mile drive up the mountain. Fortunately the blizzard had stopped and the snowplows had cleared most of the mountain roads. Gary's instruction had been that it is essential to learn the snowplow technique with the skis. This is a method of braking. Also he recommended I attend ski school with all the other beginners. Next was how to ride a pommel lift and how essential it was to be quick so as not to be knocked over by the chair lift.
All this I'd heard from Cindy previously, and also from Mike. Soon as we met them at Sandia Crest, they told me again. Even as early as we were, the line ahead of us was long. Cindy and Mike had brought their own equipment and were quickly on the slopes with Laci. Gary and I finally got our stuff. He mumbled a quick "Good luck!" and sped off to the chair lift.
Toward the right was ski school. Cindy and Laci were waiting for me. Laci was only five and already an expert. They demonstrated the snowplow technique for me. About 25 others were practicing it too, here on the 'bunny slope'. Their favorite adage was "A skier who can't snowplow is like a truck without brakes." No doubt this is true. I practiced enough to know that my knees and hips would thank me for keeping the snowplowing to a minimum. Besides, I'd watched Jean Claude Killy and other Olympians enough on TV to know that if I needed to stop, I'd Christi instead. (A Christi, I'd read, is to leap up, twist the skis and body sideways and skid to a quick halt by digging the edges in and sending a spray of shaved‑off snow flying, usually into a camera lens or someone's face.)

Another plus for me is that I know a bit about physics thanks to many years of forced idleness courtesy of Okracoma's slow death traps. Instead of watching the paint flake, I studied some motion mechanics: Previously I'd made Mike and other ski‑purists angry by suggesting that skis need not be so long and thin, and that perhaps the same or a smaller coefficient of friction can be had with shorter and slightly fatter skis. The advantage here would appear to be the same slipperiness of long, skinny skis in short, fat ones that would not require such knee stress and damage in persons overcoming the huge moment of inertia of long skis trying to Christi. Shorter skis would be more maneuverable yet still retain enough edge to take curves at speed. Fewer knee injuries would result and the same or better performance had. The cutting edges of long skis appear to be more than enough for turns. They all scoffed at my reasoning and ideas then, and years later what do we find? We find many professional skiers using abombinably short skis!
Trying to explain this to skiers only got me looks of outrage that I should even suggest that the present ski design could be improved. When asked what was wrong with my idea, even well‑educated skiers would only huff and puff out the same thing they'd been taught by the ski‑clerk who demands your height (but not your weight!) before he selects your skis for you, "Everybody's skis need to be about as long as you are tall." Also the ski‑purists would say something like, "The ski‑clerk knows what he's doing, and if there was a way to improve skis, somebody would have already done it!" Mike would say this despite knowing calculus. The fact that even otherwise fairly intelligent people almost always choose to let their own brains atrophy as they depend on some stranger's brain to do their thinking for them is one of the reasons we have been governed by hereditary rich pinheads throughout history.
Using the ski‑clerk's formula that neglects weight while relying solely on height, I conclude the opposite of fact; that the taller the person, the stronger his knees. If there is any real logic behind this, I must be blind to it, but would like to hear it. Needless to say, I dodged ski‑school and went straight to the tyro slope, slipping, falling and skidding all the way.
The way up was the pommel lift. This is simply a spring‑loaded stick with a disc at the end. You snatch it as it goes by, stuff it between your legs and let it drag you up the slope via a circulating cable on pylons. The first thing they tell you about this device is, "If you fall off, don't try to get back on! Ski back down to the staging area and get in line again."
At first I agreed because it apparently is tradition and protocol. When I saw all the empty poles go by, I began to ask: Why not grab an empty pole? Each of many skipurists I asked had no real answer. Often they'd go glassey‑eyed and mumble semi‑coherently about custom and tradition. The fleetest of wit would tack on, "Oh, yeah; and safety tool"
Snow is more slippery than it seems when you're standing on waxed skis, and I fell off and crashed several times, skidding down the slope on my ass while flailing desperately after one ski. The skis are cleverly designed to detach before they rip your knee cartilidge.  They used to rip your ankles until they improved the design of ski boots.	Now they prevent this by freezing your ankles into a crouched‑forward position in which they can't twist.  The thick plastic hoot would have to break first, and that's not going to happen. The boots could withstand a mortar attack. The crouched‑forward position is perfect when you're leaning forward and flying down‑slope at high speed. It's very awkward for merely standing and almost impossible to walk.
When I fell off, I'd only made it about 150 yards up the hill. There were more empty poles passing by than occupied ones. I saw no real reason why I shouldn't snag one ‑ and have it drag me the other 500 yards upslope. While getting into position and waiting for an empty stick to arrive, a rider passed by, shouting, "No! Go back down and get in line!"

Hell with that. I'd paid my money and I was going to learn this crap as quickly and as efficiently as possible. That involved getting the lifts down and skiing. I snagged the next empty pole and shoved the disc under my ass. The spring inside the pole extended, pulling harder as it stretched. This is why you can't sit on the disc of a pommel lift. The slack in the cable and the spring will let you drag the ground and plow a furrow. The spring helps to overcome your inertia more gradually than a stiff yank would allow. After about three feet of play, the spring hits a stop and it does yank you forward if you let it. This is what happened to me the first time, before I figured out how it was supposed to work. I snatched the pole, the spring played out, then it yanked me forward abruptly. Barely maintaining control, I managed to stay on. Ahead of me one guy fell off. Making it to the top, my next move was to slalom down at as shallow an angle as possible so as to maximize the distance and time spent exploring the characteristics of skiing.
Back on the pommel lift your skis get trapped in the narrow ruts of more experienced skiers who can keep their balance with their ankles only an inch or so apart. Novices fall off as a result and so did I, again, for the same reason. If you spread your ankles for better balance, the ruts eventually catch your ski or the soft, uncompacted snow bogs you down and you fall off.
Once again I attempted to snag an empty stick. Again at least one rider told me to start over at the back of the line at the bottom. This time I knew better how to do it, having worked out a good technique during the first long slow ride to the top. The trick to a smooth mount is to snag the stick in two widly‑separated places, like high and higher. High so you have enough room to throw the disc under your seat without changing your handhold, and higher with the other hand so you can use both grips to form a 2nd or 3rd class lever (I forgot which, precisely). Your bottom grip you push away from you, forward and upslope, the same direction the cable drags the pommel. Your higher grip you pull toward you, as if you are trying to force the stick back into the vertical position. This combination of push and pull forces the stick toward the vertical and tends to drag you forward. Your muscle power pulls you faster than the cable, the stick comes close to vertical and thus you have slack to throw the disc under your seat. Then you relax and let the cable pull you without any jerks. This method works so well that quickly you can get good enough at it that you don't even need the spring or the three feet of travel itprovides. You just let it gradually pay out and let the system reach equilibrium.
During the 2nd slow, boring ride to the top I began wondering about the slack in the cable overhead and how loose it really was. As an experiment during this 2nd ride I again grabbed the stick high and low and levered the stick as vertical as possible. This took all the tension off the spring. This shortened the pole, which telescopes, removing all its slack. Then I simply let go with both hands. I slowed, the pole lengthened, the spring stretched, the stops met and I was yanked gently forward to cable‑speed once more. This caused a shockwave to travel up the cable. The two nearest riders ahead of me flopped off into the snow. Now I knew why novices should not try to snag an empty stick: What nobody could tell me I figured out myself on my 2nd ride. It may have been the shockwave of people getting on or falling off behind me that knocked me off. The important thing is to be taught how to mount with the smallest possible shockwave. And how to snowplow. And how to Christi. But to minimize the number of people you knock off by getting on the pommel from the side you must especially be careful not to generate any lateral shockwaves. Do this by being directly under the cable and in the ruts when the thing brings you up to speed. Perhaps best would be if they just removed the pommel and let riders hold the pole in one hand. This way the shocks would not be so easily transmitted to your center of gravity.

After my 3rd trip down the novice slope I was good enough to hit the chair lift and do some real skiing. Cindy was stuck with Laci near the lodge, but she was working on getting Mike to watch her, soon as he decided to give her a break. I didn't stick around to see how long this was going to take.
It turns out that there is no trick to the chair lift. You have plenty of time to get before it and it just scoops you up. All along the lift there are signs on the pylons for the buffoons and the distracted that say, more or less, "Keep your ski‑tips up so you don't get one pulled off on the ground while you're riding up. It's a long way down with no skis"." and "Don't swing in the chairs! The cable might flip off the pulley and kill everyone in the fall:" Your height above ground can vary as much as 40 feet. It's a long, boring ride up the mountain, but people are very friendly and in good moods. Just being around them gives my normally pragmatic and cynical psyche a boost of humor and giddiness. The slight altitude probably helps too, along with the alcohol and pot some bring.	
The single most important bit of real information people gave me was how to avoid the most dangerous slopes. I don't remember for sure, but the real suicide trails are marked with black diamonds, double diamonds, purple stars, yellow moons, green clovers; or something like that. The first trip down I began as another slow slalom, but leaping up and twisting 50 pounds of ski equipment just to reverse direction gets tiresome quickly. Before long I was going faster and turning less. This was a mistake. My speed increased in direct proportion to my illusion of competence until I crashed so hard into mere snow that I almost gave myself a concussion. Also, as I crashed, my braking hands spewed up a spray of snow so forcefully that it seemed to dig its way under my eyelids. This made me slow down considerably.
While I was practicing more, Bob appeared. He is an acquaintance I've known many years, very immature, whose idea of humor is to ski up to people such as me at high speed, then narrowly avoid a crash by stopping the fewest inches away as possible. He's a traveling hazard to everyone near. One of the most galling things about being a refugee from corrupt cop and lawyer systems is the fact that I had to feign likeability to even dangerous fools. People don't like it when you tell them that their careless, infantile antics are not appreciated. Immature people find some skulking way to retaliate when their feelings are hurt. When an ecstatic dog is deliriously happy to see you and wipes his muddy feet on your chest proving it, you can't just slap him down. The same is true for human youngsters. Neither will a dog quit trying to slobber its tongue all over your face if you only tell him to quit. Consequently, Bob was similarly immune to gentle reasoning. I'd always be safer around happy buffoons than disgruntled 'friends' dodging good advice, so I endured his foolishness as I would for any other pup. I just took extra, subtle care to make sure he was more a danger to himself or others than to me, whenever possible.
Bob, while a good kid in a man's body, was a doper‑lite, and of course his first act upon seeing me after the greeting ritual was to disclose his dopes; alcohol and marijuana. "Let's get high'." he said enthusiastically. "Here's a bud!"
The thing about dopers like Bob, who get half their high just from the social ritual of dopesharing, is that you can't refuse and still remain 'friends'. Also, many willspread lies about you if you incur their dislike through simple means, such as permitting them to perceive your disdain for their brain cell and lung killing hobbies.

I stuffed his proffered beer in my coat before he could open his and said quickly, "Let's find some cover or some of these straights are going to snitch on us." (For all I knew about the current police state it probably was outlawed to drink in that forest. Additionally, invariably the sight of beer outside causes many busybodies to ask the skiclerks, "Isn't drunk‑skiing against the law?") The last thing I needed was to get surrounded by the ski‑cops and be discovered associating with a jerk with dope and paraphernalia in his pockets. Attempting to forestall this, I added, "Gary's here, and he's got some good green: Let's find him first and get really blastedl"	
A doper's whole life is centered on getting highest for the longest time for the least cost. Thus they can often be sidetracked through this means. Diverting Bob's attention to Gary did two things: it stopped Bob from performing his heat‑generating arts then and there right in front of health‑nuts‑on‑skis, and it gained me an hour to plan how not to get narked on after we found Gary.
My own strategy was to continue practicing my skiing while pretending to help Bob find Gary. I saw Gary pass below us while we were riding back up the mountain but said nothing. My interests would not be served except by finding Cindy and Mike. Bob knew they are Christians of the most staid type‑people who found evil in merely dancing, so, to Bob, they were thus cop‑kissing anti‑dope fanatics duty‑bound to send anyone to the cop's hell‑on‑earth for life for any moral or legislated crime. Bob and Gary would flee if Mike joined me and would keep their vices concealed if Cindy joined us.
In considerably less than an hour Bob saw Gary on the lift and attracted his attention. A few minutes later he slid down to us. Both were smoking cigarettes when he arrived, and as soon as his motion stopped, out came the Budweisers. I don't really like the stuff, but it has water in it and I was parched from the exertion. The only other source of moisture involved the super‑hassle of skiing to the lodge, doffing much ski equipment, trundling awkwardly 100 feet in ski boots to the restaurant and paying $2 for a few ounces of sticky, caffeine‑laced dyed sugar‑water. Asking for plain water gets you a cup of wet ice, same as you could have gotten outside by simply squeezing snow. You also have to repeat your request three times because the girl behind the counter can not believe her ears. (What kind of nut passes up cola for plain water!?	When you ask for another water (with no ice, please!) this time, she gives you a hatefull look and tells you it will cost fifty cents.)
The bud tasted good, but was hard to hold with two ski poles and while trying to find cover from prying eyes and noses to smoke dope. Also, the trees had little foliage at ground level. We had to go deep into the forest because they could see us under it, and thus it was obvious that we were up to something. Thankfully all the others were intent on skiing. The whole time I expected some straight‑laced helpful‑Henry type to follow our ruts, burst in on us as we toked and ask, "You guys lost or something? Why the red faces? You guys aren't breathing! Medic!"

Gary rolled a joint while Bob brought out some standard paraphernalia‑ flat wooden box with a stash and a fake marlboro‑looking cigarette‑shaped 'pipe' called a 'pinchhitter'. It was for lightweights. They get more high on the social ritual of getting high than on the 'drug' itself. It didn't even hold a pinch and required numerous repe‑ titions of its particular ritual of dig, cram, light, suck and repeat. You get to suck in plenty of butane along with other poisons, and in the case of Bob., a self‑styled connoiseur of lung damage, zippo fumes. The two good things about Bob's method is that you could claim you got high without hacking your lungs out, and the smooth ceramic tip took a good clean wipe so you didn't have to share much chance of swapping oral diseases with all the others slobbering onto and in the utensil to get high.
Gary's joint was just the opposite. Bucking hot, corrosive gases over a thinly‑protected epithelium causes your body to react with protective behaviors.	Your mucus membranes and salivary glands try to wash these acids and free radicals away, causing ': the sucking end of the joint to become soggy with snot and spit from each pleasure seeker. Gary and Bob were not likely to harbor aids‑causing retroviruses, but either could be spreading herpes simplex types I and II, tuberculosis, flu, human papilloma viruses 1 through 22 or any of many other afflictions, including mutated rhinoviruses. Also, the paper carries numerous poisons and carcinogens in minute amounts. All you can do is try and minimize your contact with such disgusting items, spit a lot and save beer for swishing in your mouth, hoping the alcohol and carbonic acids in it will save you.
Bob wasn't used to the altitude, so it didn't take much sucking, hacking and gasping for him to get his head swimming. Gary didn't joke around about smoking: He took big hits, held them, got high, then did his hacking and spitting. Myself, I'm immune to THC. It never did much for me, and now it does pretty much nothing. Your body adjusts to it and eventually you get no real high off marijuana. This is why most smokers quit after they reach about 35 years of age and others switch to stronger tranquilizers, such as valium. I just faked it until they'd had enough.
Cindy never got Mike to take care of Laci, and thus didn't make it up the mountain by herself. Bob, Gary and I skipped lunch or rather drank it, and stayed on the mountain until dark. We stayed so late and came down so slowly from the last run that they sent the ski‑cops after us. By then I was so tired that I'd merely crash instead of trying to turn. Then I'd lever myself up with the poles and go again. Bob and Gary split at top speed, but I wasn't going to take the risk.
Only Gary was waiting by my truck when I finally got my shoes back and their equipment checked in. Bob had left us two buds and Gary had another joint to fire up soon as I got to the truck. We smoked, joked and slurped up the suds, then we went back to Albuquerque. Everyone of them had told me more than once how extremely sore I'd be tomorrow. I used this and tiredness to hide my beer‑breath from Mike and even Cindy. They were of a denomination that viewed all vice and some non‑vices as accursed, so it was virtually never a good idea to act normal around them. Cindy got high by singing in Church; Mike got high by screwing the government and others on business deals. It was curious how he could divorce his Church's moral and ethical teachings by invoking 'bid‑‑ness'.
The three of us were to have another go at the slopes in the morning, but no one thought I'd make it. Apparently they'd only dealt with sissies before or were judging me on the basis of their own stamina. I work hard on the job to stay in shape and do aerobics too, so I wasn't too sore to get out of bed. Only two muscles were sore; the inside of my thighs, and neither was sore enough to keep me off the slopes. It turned out that I like skiing, and since there was snow and no work, I was taking time out to learn it.

Gary was still in bed when I arrived, but he got his stuff and was ready quickly. Bob showed up fairly early too, but was in bed when I called from Gary's place. Again we skied all day, but this time we did stop for some $4 burgers. By midafternoon it began to snow again. It was really trippy getting covered with snow on the lift, then racing down through the blizzard to do it again. We were too active to get cold except temporarily while riding up.
Bob brought more bud and dope. Gary had brought more dope too, and we'd stopped and split the cost of a suitcase of bud to help offset the contributions of Bob the day before. Also I bought some beer‑stretcher (ethanol) which I doled out sparingly all day long. Since none of us were professional alcoholics, the half‑pint lasted all day with some left over. We had a great time that day and the next, which was sunday. In three days of practice I can say I know how to ski, though I never went off suicide slope or dead man's cliff. Whatever it was called, none of us had the desire to risk permanent injury or death on the most wicked trails.
That's all the snow skiing I've done despite the news‑hack's assertion that I taught skiing as a member of the ski‑patrol. I told that silly fem that I'd helped clear and mark ski trails briefly during the fall before ski season, but evidently she heard something I never said. Also she wrote that I'd been in Las Vegas casinos instead of the University of Las Vegas, New Mexico. She wrote a lot of nonsense that she didn't hear from me, proving that newspaper‑artists spew more fiction than fact. The truth just does not sell enough paper, so they lie‑up stuff that will. Persons who say the truth is stranger than fiction are sadly lacking in creativity and imagination.
I worked for the landscaping people long enough to earn profitsharing under that identity. Then I had to cut and run again because the Church people I'd been staying with betrayed me. They were so overcome with guilt at harboring a person criminalized by the Okie crooks that they sought advice from their reverend without bothering to tell me. Word leaked throughout the congregation and beyond. Eventually this exciting gossip looped back around to the Mexican ditchwitch driver on my crew. He began brandishing his new‑found knowledge about me at lunch and I was gone by dark. I'm sure glad that people can't keep their blab‑holes shut. Even the best of people simply can not be trusted. It is not in their nature to be able to oppose ;heir pro‑govt programing, especially timid women and people who have lived subsidized by the govt's war branch. They will always believe a govt'employed stranger, even over their own relations and friends, because basically no or few persons have the courage it takes to stand upon their own convictions. This is why humanity is a herd animal and why they abhore people who can stand up without the assistance of others, branding us 'loners' as if it's a disease to have a mind of our own.
It was a good thing for me to be run out of New Mexico by insecure Christians and motormouthed Mexicans. The place was too comfortable. I was getting soft. Also, the Mexicans had bid wages down so low that no one could make a living from non‑professional work. The only way we unskilled could live was by eating only beans and corn, scrimping on transportation costs and by sleeping ten to a domicile. Wages started a dollar higher in Texas, and that is where I'd return.

Before leaving, though, a German contractor gave me and another guy a good job.  We rented two of the largest U‑hauls and trailers they had, then set us to driving to Soccorro. Kurt rode with me, Alfredo followed. After several hours we arrived at a junkyard that Southwestern Bell executives used as a toxic waste dumping site. Every seven years, Kurt said, they'd toss out throngs of colossal lead‑acid batteries that they used as backup power sources. The large ones weighed 300 pounds and were as big as army footlockers. Some were half that size, and small ones were still big enough to make good fish aquariums out of. All were made of glass and had to be handled with extreme care.
The first thing Kurt did upon our arrival was mix up a batch of baking soda and water. Then he instructed us on how we should use the solution in these buckets to neutralize any acid we might accidentally splash onto us. We let the ramps down, took our dollies and followed him with his testing meter. The large batteries were so heavy that it took two of us to tilt each one onto the dolly. We worked all day loading the trucks and trailers. Kurt tried to make the work easier and faster by driving the trucks closer to the groups of batteries. The lanes inside the dump were so narrow that he wound up slashing four tires on crap sticking out into the road.
We had lunch while the U‑haul guy changed the tires, then continued loading. Kurt was careful not to overload the vehicles, having suffered 14 flats last trip before seeing what was wrong and fixing it. The trucks and trailers looked practically empty as far as size went, but they were groaning from the weight.
On the road back Kurt again rode with me. It was taking me a lot of time to get used to the ultra‑sensitive brakes, but by this time I was becoming able to use them without throwing our cargo through the back at as. Alfredo was leading the way to Santa fe. Kurt had us separate by a couple of klicks to sneak past a highway patrol weigh station. He was afraid that they'd note us as a commercial enterprize and give chase to harvest more revenue. (We were already making the fatcrats rich with gas taxes, license fees, sticker fees and anything else govt tax‑scientists could think up and slam us with.) At another town we stopped for gas. Alfredo was about out and pulled up to the pumps. His length blocked them all. If I'd waited behind him, my rig would be blocking traffic for a long time. Without hesitation I pulled up to the other side of the pumps, parallel with Alfredo; the 'wrong' side to get gas. Kurt noted aloud that I would have to circle around and take Alfredo's place to get gas when he was finished. Then he watched me throw the nozzle under the truck and begin pumping.
Then Kurt noted that I'd have to back up a few feet to get enough swing‑room to get out of there; a consequence of having had to pull so close to the pumps to get the nozzle to reach.  He had me there, and we were already in the truck and Alfredo was about to pull out. Instead of doing the right thing and getting out, going back and warning those behind me, I did the exact wrong thing: I shifted into reverse while honking the horn a good, long blast or few. This should have alerted anyone back there to my backup lights. After a slight pause, I began backing, slowly but relentlessly so that any bumperhuggers there might be would get the idea and have plenty of time to back up themselves. No cars were visible in my mirrors. No one could reach the pump even if they were hiding in my blind spot, so they had to still be in their car. I only needed ten feet anyway. It seems that I heard a honk from somewhere, but by that time I almost had all the room I needed. Also, a friend told me long ago, "If they have time to honk, they have time to get out of the way!"
We pulled out, finding our way back to the highway. About fifteen minutes later a scowling youngster in a compact car flew past, leaning on his horn and giving me the bird. Honk if you hug bumpers, kid!

Kurt had been telling us all day about a famous hill that we'd have to climb near Santa fe. He called it 'Kill‑Devil Hill' and said we'd be grinding up it in first gear for a very long time before we crested it. Thanks for the warning! After a long drive I saw it and determined to minimize the first gear part. I'd been maintaining about a quarter‑mile distance behind Alfredo, who apparently had no strategy for climbing it. He kept to the same speed limit while I goosed my rig up to ten miles over or a bit more. This hill was very steep and long, but had two lanes and a wide shoulder. These trucks had a light that would come on when you pressed the throttle too hard and wasted gas. I'd been using this since the first stop when I was finally able to bend down by my left knee and read the words on it that described its function. On Kill‑Devil Hill it became a real balancing act to keep this light off and the throttle pressed to the maximum.
The trucks began slowing, but my momentum brought me past Alfredo. Our transmissions ground lower and lower until finally we pulled over onto the shoulder, groaning away in first gear, not even halfway to the top. After an exceptionally long and boring time we finally crested the top and resumed our trek.
Kurt showed me out into the countryside until we came to a home that was our destination. The guy who lived there helped us unload a bit, fed us and showed us his solar home, which was very interesting. He had a windmill on his waterwell too; a thing I'd never seen up close either.
Before leaving, Kurt checked the gas levels on both trucks. Alfredo's was again less than a quarter; mine almost a half. Kurt seemed surprized when I showed him the light‑that‑saves‑gas. I'd assumed that he knew of this from his previous trips, but evidently had not. It was in the manual, and the driver can't miss it when it lights up, though he can't read the words 'gas saver' on it while driving. Kurt explained its workings to Alfredo, whom I had assumed could read English. As a general rule I discovered that those of us with knowledge automatically assume that others possess this same knowledge, while those without it often pretend that they do. I've pretended this myself, on occasion.
The trip back was quicker and easy. Kurt dropped off Alfredo and paid me extra to follow him to a carwash to clean the mud off the vehicles. We took the trucks and trailers back and were picked up by his wife. She dropped me off at my truck with a wad of cash.
One of the most competent things about Kurt is how he could drive his own rig. He had an old, little ragtop jeep with a two‑wheel trailer full of crap attached. He could talk with his wife, drink coffee, shift, steer and dig for stuff under the seats and in the glovebox while driving, backing and turning with machine precision. It was a great pleasure working for him and with him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Chain of Thieves

Sincerity is the key: You've got it made when you can fake that! 
       George Burns

By this time the seasons had almost changed. Spring was on the way. Dallas was calling me, and this time I had a few bucks saved up. Not that I was going to waste a lot of it on rent. The politicians and insurance corporations were raping me too badly just with their fees to drive. Housing had to wait; instead, I let most of my surplus money rot in a safe place in portable assets. Very little ever found its way into any bank account. This was during the time when Reagan and his cronies managed to pry the safeguards off the Savings and Loan industry that had been emplaced to prevent another mass‑theft by politicians and financial experts such as occurred to cause the great depression. The elite don't police themselves, but they do the little people. The cops are very skillful at stealing bank accounts and other assets of people they target. Banks and phone companies actually work for the cops on demand, as do all businesses. If my cover got blown again, they wouldn't get much and they could send their secret, official kidnapping teams to watch the bank forever before I'd show up to try and get my money out of their clutches.
My first stop in DFW was a sleazy motel owned by brown Indians on Jacksboro highway, Fort Worth. This part of town is full of hard‑drinking, red‑necked ranchers and their cowboy laborers. Cops don't patrol this area; they just drive by and hope nobody shoots at them. They'll come, but only when called, and only then in a herd, never alone. I paid for a week and was told that there would be an extra $5 charge for the key. The normal key deposit is $1; $2 if you're dealing with thieves who want to make a profit off everything. I told her the usual key deposit is this much. She, in native Bangladeshi dress, gave me the standard line in singsong English: "You get it back when you leave key!"
I spent days looking for work and finally found a job in Euless‑Bedford, a 20‑mile trip, one way, from that motel. I checked out early and the Indian woman screwed me out of the refund for not staying the entire week. I had suspected she was a no good upon seeing that she hid behind bulletproof glass. Even so, I like to study diverse cultures, as I am a scientist‑generalist, like Da Vinci. Though India is famous for its mathematicians, if she says 7 days equals 5 days, it is a moot point that we are in America where a week is 7 days because of her being behind the glass. She beat me out of $32 and I accepted that. Next she flat‑out lied, claiming that I'd only given her $2 for the key instead of the $5 I'd paid in reality. I'd only been there three days and got doubly screwed, if not triple. Justice and the common good required that I make some type of protest that would serve to alleviate the predatory practice I'd found here. Her thefts would only get worse if everyone simply accepted them. The better business bureau is a farce, as I demonstrate in other of my writings. This is also how cops became so murderous and corrupt: lack of quality control. Lack of accountability encourages and rewards such official and mercantile criminality. Anyone who allows these criminals to slip their feedback loops is part of the problem.
My contribution to teaching these merchant‑class thieves sound business practices was to grate the key on the curb until it didn't work in the lock anymore before turning it in. This sounds petty, and it is. Shallow thinkers will claim that this type of behavior is what caused her to employ the $5 to $2 switcheroo trick. To them I say; think harder, to greater depth and more logically. Next I left a hobo mark in her entranceway warning others to beware or avoid the place entirely, if possible. The one thing I did that was probably totally inefective and useless was to file a claim with the Better Business Bureaucracy. The BBB is set up by business, for business and is more of a public relations outfit than any type of quality control on business. The people to complain to are in the District Attorny's office, or the cops. They are slightly less worthless in reining in crooked businesses than the BBB and they do nothing at all until many, many people complain about the same business at about the same time, so get your family and friends to complain too. I did, and months later I passed by and noticed the place was boarded up and for sale.

My next residence was Lake Worth, North Lake, the shoulders of various and many hiways, parking lots, construction sites and Grapevine Lake; just about anywhere a car can park camouflaged by other cars is a place where the ever‑more‑nosy‑cops can be foiled in their ceaseless search for fine, fee, penalty and other types of tax revenue. By dividing my time between these and other types of places I dodged the rent‑barons for a very long time. This practice of homeless living made even the below‑subsistence wage available at the time add up to eventual savings.
The first job I landed was with a group of carpet cleaners. Some California kids had their dads rent a warehouse for‑them in Arlington, a mid‑city in DFW. The leader drove a Lotus, the other a brand new luxury‑edition Blazer with all the buttons and chimes. Theycalled themselves 'Carpet Double Plus'. They sent out fliers by the millions in several cities nationwide and exploited their workers like slaves.	(see: Imperial Imports scams.) They'd promise on a coupon that we'd do much work for practically nothing, and when we did it, the jerks from California would take almost all of it, leaving us with  just enough money to get us a sandwich and gas to the next job.
They let me rent a wetvac and sold me some high‑priced soaps and fragrances, then set one of their crew to teach me the business. They kept a chalkboard marked with who was their top wage‑earner. Their incentive plan was a monthly cash prize to the top salesman.
The first day my trainer was a good-natured fat guy nicnamed 'hampster' because of his frequent stops for candy, ice cream, dogs, milk or other stuff to gobble while driving. He told me that the way we were expected to make our money was to sell extras to
the coupon‑holders. One trick was to ask if they had pets as soon as we got in the door, preferably in conjunction with a loud sniff followed by a grimace, if not a hearty 'Pfewee!' Cops concoct nasal hallucinations this same way, usually to collect for alcohol and marihuana, and their technique worked for us Carpet‑Charlatans just as effectively. This one line after a disgusted sniff guaranteed a sale of disinfect and fragrance almost every time, pet or not.
Another thing we'd sell is teflon, which was in a form similar to scotchguard. We made a fabulous markup by spraying a bit of this stuff around, though it wasn't cheap. A gallon was $30, but we could legitimately dilute it 5 volumes. Most of the guys sold dilution. They'd put a smell of teflon in a sprayer, add water and give the customer two coats, because they liked her. Women are the easiest prey. They're far too trusting and not too knowledgeable about chemistry, mechanical things or sales people, etc. The guys fought over who got the Rich City calls first, and who got the female calls second.
If the chalkboard could be believed, Hampster made a lot of money. It seemed that the California kids played favorites and had some games going on with some of their more 'in' workers. Part of‑the farce could easily be a rigged and inflated incentive plan. Thanks to the cops, I've had a lot of time to study criminal personalities. Our carpet shop was thick with criminal traits. The ones who didn't display criminal traits displayed signs of ignorance and gullibity. I began noticing the unmistakable stench of both after about three days. The insiders began to act like carnival shills and we dupes began looking like suckers.

Next they had me taught by an intelligent gay guy ironically named 'Darwin'. I call this ironic because we were in a nest of chicanery and gay genes are thought to spread largely through siblings, primarily due to altruistic genes, upon which they piggyback a ride. Darwin worked slow, but long hours, never letting on that speed meant money, as had most of the others. He worked intelligently,carefully sizing up each customer as I worked. He would quickly determine the maximum possible payment and leave fast, soon as this limit was obtained. One sorry old biddy flat refused to pay us after we (mostly I) had done her carpets. I told her we'd sue. Darwin had me give up and hit the next job. When we got back to the warehouse, the Lotus‑kid laughed and told me seriously not to mention suing customers again. I later guessed why this was when I saw more of the kid's business practices.
My third teacher was one of the many rustbelt migrants I mentioned earlier. He was a railroad brat who was used to getting a fat union wage for doing mostly nothing but being his father's kid. Between nepotism, their laziness and the union's greed, the whole northeast business structure caved, causing thousands of 'workers' to migrate south in search of real jobs when they ran out of heating oil and taxpayer subsidies. They knew from the oil embargo of the previous decade that Unka Scam definitely would let them freeze and starve in the dark; the men, that is. Kenny would brag about how they'd pay him $18 per hour to wag a lamp out of a caboose. It was largely a symbolic post by then. Maybe he was speaking of his father, instead.
The next day I got Darwin again. We got along well. He had a philosophy of life that was pretty much worthless and self‑defeating, though. He would complain a lot and boast of (merely) being a 'survivor'.	He'd complain that I was working too hard, was too eager to move furniture, and did too‑good a job. Often our female customers would hear him and pull me aside. They were usually older women, with the '50's work ethic still strong within them. They'd whisper, "Don't listen to him: you're doing great, and people appreciate that." I'd tell Darwin, "Survival is not enough; we need to prosper!"
He never changed, and he tried more than once to convince me to be gay with him. That's not happening, but he did crack me up regularly while trying to goad some extras out of customers. Once we were in a poor family's living room and Darwin was dickering with a man who simply could not afford but the standard coupon‑job. It was dark. We were tired. We wanted some money. Darwin began pulling his 'carpet expert' routine and it wasn't working. He played the smelly pet trick and was moving on to the rugrat grossout trick, telling the mother and spouse on and on about tracking in filth from outside, onto the rug and thus into the infant's mouth. When he got to a particularly disgusting part about tracking in dead rats from parking lots, I couldn't keep a straight face any longer.  I left abruptly, snickering and choking toward the door and barely getting out before braying with laughter. The customer wouldn't budge, though I could tell his wife was begging with her eyes, and we left without any profit. We actually took a loss; Darwin left her a bottle of disinfectant before we went away. It was consoling to find some heart in one of the people I'd begun to think of as Carpet Thieves.

Every morning I'd show up and find most of the elite squad of carpet cleaners in a meeting to which we outsiders were never invited. Also there surfaced complaints about some of us not getting paid the small bit we were owed. One creative‑disgruntled outsider got caught soliciting his own jobs at an apartment complex which he had only one official call. The California Kids were enraged to find this. They called a meeting and told us not to dare go solo.  They said we'd be caught.  They'd set a trap, !like having one of the beautiful young secretary's friends pose as a customer's friend and try to entice us to do her carpets on the sly. It was a pitiful harangue.
Another guy was a football fanatic. He was thrilled to have cleaned some Dallas Cowboy's mansion's carpets and to have met the famous man and his trophies. Derek was not quite his own man, and bragged of having helped the kids recover a stolen wetvac. The three of them chased the former employee all over various roads in three vehicles before Derek finally managed to destroy his own truck by ramming it into the thief's vehicle, reportedly a BMW. (Also improbably, since the least of us had to have a station wagon to haul all of our paraphernalia.) The machine was recovered and the kids paid to fix Derek's truck. Thus he idolized them, defending them to the grumblers and the short‑changed of us. The kids were glad to have a muscular young automaton like Derek on their side no matter what.
A smallish kid they'd screwed kicked ass on their large Latino dispatcher/enforcer; a fight I never expected he'd attempt, much less win. Begining as a shouting match every morning, McKinzie boxed the guy's jaw, they traded a few blows to the body, clinched and grunted trying to throw each other. McKinzie was strong and agile; he wouldn't lose his footing. The Mexican was too big for him to throw. Finally McKinzie peeled the guy's shirt over his head, blinding him, landed a tremendous knee to his face and broke. Instead of being paid, he got satisfaction, but from the wrong guy. The kids owed the wage to him, not their floor man.
Kenny didn't have a vehicle, so they sent him with me again, several times. It was here that I gradually learned what must occur at the secret meetings every morning. After I'd load my truck, he'd join me with the days calls. We'd be on the road about ten minutes, and, like clockwork, he'd reach back suddenly, snatch up a plastic bucket and discreetly earp into it. I didn't even realize he was barfing, at first. He mumbled something about being sick with 'stomach flu'. I didn't think anything of this until the third morning he did this at the same time. When I confronted him on it, he admitted shooting heroin and offered to sell me some. He was smart enough not to carry any of thecrap with him. Of course, it's not like I emptied his pockets. I simply threatened him and took his word.
Being of the inner sanctum, Kenny got a share of the best, most lucrative jobs. One was in Westover Hills, where all the rich, gov‑sucking elite lived. It's a suburb of Fort Worth, full of the old, nepotistic, hereditary rich. It had rained like a river all night and was still pounding when we pulled up at the newly‑constructed mansion of a sleazy judge named Cave. He had a sunken livingroom four‑inches deep in water. the contractors had built it in a drainage pit, then raised pretty little landscaping berms in a ring around it. It was so stupid that it had to be to the buyer's specifications or due to a disgruntled architect. This proud hanging judge was frantic to save his expensive TV and stereo systems from the rising deluge. He juked and jittered from foot to foot like a parakeet on a hot griddle, exhorting us to work now, make terms later, just like any arrognat scum of a professional lawyer. Kenny didn't budge. Instead, he informed judge Glutton‑ofPrivilege that the $50 emergency fee had to be in cash. Cave quickly agreed. Then Kenny hit him with the step fee.	"There's a dollar fee for every step we have to carry our machine over."
Cave agreed to this too, and reminded us that the water level was rising toward his electronic systems very quickly.
Kenny counted the steps and pronounced our fee. Like a fool, judge Cave disputed the call that a two‑inch threshhold rise in the front doorway constituted a step.

Again Kenny prevailed, through use of the most common lawyer's swindle: filibuster. Quickly seeing his error, judge high‑and‑mighty whipped out his wallet and again paid in cash. Since Cave didn't have a coupon, Kenny did to him as Cave had done to thousands of others: he raped the judge hard and fast, sans lubricant, charging him $1500 to suck up the water and promise to save his carpet from mildew.
While I did the work, Kenny and Cave debated whether buying a new carpet was cheaper than Kenny's plan to save the lawcrat's plush shag. The judge got hotter and sassier, especially during times when he had to move his furniture out of the way for me, and it looked like he secretly planned to screw us out of our pay after we saved his bacon. At least this was what Kenny fathomed. A stop payment order on the judge's check would only cost $50. Kenny had the answer to this too. He explained to Cave that special, tradesecret drying methods must be used to prevent damage and avoid voiding the warranty. These complex procedures and substances were only available at our shop and inside our carpet kiln. (None of our fliers or phonebook ads revealed where our business was located; a fact Cave should have learned or at least noted.) Basically we simply stole his carpet and held it for ransom, a practice lawyers perpetrate thousands of times daily and which was probably invented by lawyers when they were mere footmen to the less‑brainy, armored bandits and highwaymen who collected tolls and taxes to share with the king in medieval Europe. This is why, even today, that lawyers call themselves 'esquire'. They were a combination of butler, maid, secretary and referee for Knights.
We peeled up most of the carpet easily enough, but a three foot section was stuck for good under a mahogany cabinet. We hacked and sawed this last bit out with a survival knife I had. The thing was so soggy we had to call Hampster and two other guys to wrestle it out and into Hampster's little toy pickup. For two weeks I saw this carpet spread out on our warehouse floor with one lonely fan blowing air under its corner. So much for our much‑hyped and expensive 'carpet kiln'. The heroin club socked the judge with additional fees for preservatives, fungicide, teflon and anything else they could dream up, all as bogus and fraudulent as lawyer's ethics. I found that their business practices were quite different from the normal 'please the customer for repeat business' concept taught in so many schools. These freaks couldn't care less about repeat business. Their standard ‑ strategy was to pile on fee after fee until the customer blew her stack, then offer slight discounts and givebacks until the signature was obtained, all the time reminding the victim that all carpet servicing businesses operate this same way.

Judge Dewlap probably passed out gobs of extra fines, fees and penalties to his own victims during the three or four weeks he kept not paying to get his carpet back. Eventually he did pay almost double Kenny's first extremely inflated charge. Plus he had to hire another group of people to re‑install and repair the ragged edge we'd hacked out with my dull knife. Upon hearing this, Cave's face grew so red with blood pressure and hatred that it almost blotted out the rum‑blossom varicose veins on his nose and earlobes that signify his alcohol addiction. We thought he was going to give himself a heart attack. He was getting our tag numbers and preparing to call the cops after we dumped his carpet on his front lawn. He was screwed as thoroughly as any defendant. His checks had longsince cleared, and, knowing the legal system as one of the vermin who concocts it, he knew he would only screw himself more trying to screw legally with us. Shortly afterward, sleazy judge Cave got caught sentencing young prostitutes to his bed and under his robe. He received zero punishment for these many rapes over a number of years. His fellow varlots‑of‑the‑bench allowed him to keep his fat govt pension by simply resigning. Judge Cave moved to another political territory where his brand of judicial terrorism is still a secret. This shameless opportunist still practices law for his betters, or against them, depending upon who pays the most. His cronies never even thought to take away decades of his life and brand him the sex criminal he is, much less suspend his license. His victims were discouraged from stepping forward to denounce him in public; discouraged by threats from the judges and police. The tame local media barely mentioned his antics; only a few short paragraphs in a back‑section, then on to the usual human interest tripe, plane crash or car wreck. Two of the girls who serviced him said he paid big money to tie them up and smoke crack while they begged for a hit off his silver pipe. They hated him for this‑and stole many things from his mansion and chambers to pawn, as well as took his payments. They called him Judge Perv and usually avoided him after two or three sessions with him. They who stole from him moved to other cities to dodge being dragged to his courtroom.
He could pile on the punishment and enjoyed taking away people's lives. He liked to tour the cages, too, laughing at his victim's misery; the women's cages, that is.
The whole time I worked at the carpet place I never made a dime of profit. Then Kenney objected to having to pay me mileage. I said to Hell with the carpet thieves. I can't make a living screwing honest folks or even crooked power‑addicts. I unloaded their equipment and drove off to find a real job.
I spent days looking for work and finally found some at a nursing home. While I was illegally abducted and enslaved by the Okie cops and lawcrats working their frauds, I'd taken a gerontology course with my psychology‑major friend. It was one of the hardest classes we'd ever taken, but we learned a lot. I impressed the home's administrator and was anxious to practice my craft, even if it was for less than subsistence wages.
She put me in charge of the men's ward, which included all the male patients, but was mostly comprised of women. The men were, in general, physically crippled from working too hard, too long, and probably carelessly. The women were generally physically fit, but their minds were slipping badly, apparently from living too long. Now it is known that two main causes of these types of mental deficiencies are Alzheimer's disease and lack of estrogen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Slow Graves

The greatest sedition is our silence
										  Bill Moyers
Everyone knows the worst problem concerning a nurse's job. This is doubly true of the nurse's aide's job: there is never any time left to address our patient's higher functions. All our time was eaten away by our having to change sheets that they'd constantly crap on, feeding many of them, watching them eat so as to catch them when they choke, assisting them into and out of wheelchairs, bathing them and helping them use the facilities. We almost never had time to exercise them or even brush their teeth.

This lack of sufficient exercise was the worst problem. It caused their joints to slowly freeze up. If you observed long enough, you could see them slowly degenerate from ambulatory, to chair‑bound, to bedridden, to death. Many of the patient's toes were so frozen solid that I could not jam my finger between them to clean, if you can imagine that. I couldn't, til I saw it, and it's not arthritis. The foot looks normal, it's just frozen and numb from disuse.
One stroke victim took a lot of care: she was so fat from overeating that I had to use a crane to lift her, like the ones used to haul engine blocks from vehicles. Just getting her from her bed to the whirlpool and back was a major undertaking, requiring two aides.
Another woman was almost completely gone, mentally, yet very active.  At least once  per week she'd be found wandering around covered in her own feces. When we caught her,  it would be dried out from having been applied hours previously. She would dig in her rear while under the covers of her bed and wipe it all over herself, the bed, the walls, her hair, everywhere. Most of the time she would appear rational to any casual, shortterm observer. She looked and seemed to be the typical grandmother type in outward appearance, and always spoke in terms of other people's well being. For example, she was very touchy‑feelie. Her trembling hands would feel like spiders dancing on your skin as she grasped your arm, hand or shoulder very lightly while she said things like, "Are you cold, Honey? Oh! Be careful! Can I get you something? Do you have a warm enough coat? Are you hungry? Let me help you there." She could keep this type of verbal patter going ceaselessly, and after about ten minutes she'd begin repeating random variations of the loop. All her answers to questions would be nonsensical repetitions of the loop. Except for one instance: whenever the shower water would touch her, (or any of the other women‑,she'd jump and bitterly complain, "That water is freezing! Why does it have to be so co‑cold!? Can't you make them heat it up?"	I'd tell the administrator.	The water was excessively cold, even to me.	She would	, give the standard bizcrat's nonanswers such as: We don't want to take any chance of scalding the patients; they are very frail and we don't want any lawsuits; the temperature of their water is the same here as in any other nursing home.	
So, did they wash the linens and smocks in eighty degree water? I was no plumber at this time, but I endeavored to find out. Searching for the water heater, I found it behind locked doors. Their maintenance man wouldn't turn up the heat for fear of his job.   He did disclose that they had a separate boiler for the laundry side of the operation.
He would not help me with my scheme to gradually outwit the profiteers who put sharehold greed ahead of patient's comfort. I made up a list of everyone to complain to about this problem, begining with the corporate offices of Beverly Enterprises, the conglomerate of rich parasites who make their living sucking up medieaid and medicare bucks while sticking it to the old and helpless. I'd suggest this problem should be taken up by their sons, daughters and grandchildren whenever they visited. Few visited. Fewer complained. The whole time I worked there they suffered cold showers.
Some of the most tragic cases involved the men. One was a guy who had been bumped off an oil derrick and broke his back. He's spent almost 50 years frozen on his back with his legs twisted to one side. He had to eat lying down. He could manage to feed himself, but much of his food fell down his neck. It was a pitiful sight to watch him eat. Somehow he was always able to take his lot in stride and with patience. He was truly the most stoic person I've ever known.

Not quite as bad a case was a huge, happy Frenchman nearly 100 years old. Mr Theriot wasn't ambulatory, and every day I'd come near to breaking my own back lifting him in and out of his wheelchair. He was lucid and told me some of his adventures as a commercial fisherman. I'd tie him into his chair and push him out in front of the communal TV in the dayroom with all the others. Much of our time was spent re‑tying them into their chairs. The system of 'restraints' used to do this was not good, and the women I worked with had a hard time learning for themselves how best to string them up and tie knots that stayed tight or couldn't be undone by the patients. We were not trained, and none remembered any Girlscout training they may have had on the difference between a square knot and a granny knot. Granny can escape a bow knot, but not a square knot, and it is easy enough for us to untie, though not so easy with long nails on our fingers that might break in the trying. Most of the patients would gradually droop lower and lower in their seats, bring‑ing their chins closer to strangling on the ties, much like infants droop out of their high chairs. The distress on their faces when this occurred was comical as their shouts were weak. Most would just sink silently or with only a few feeble grunts of dispair. Mr. Theriot would see one of them in this type of drooping distress and begin slamming his palm on his service table. He wore a huge gold ring with a sapphire that made un‑ignorable racket when he banged it. He'd slam, bang and shout until somebody noticed, and fixed the problem. He was just as enthusiastic about his own problems, too. His speech was kind of slurred, especially when he was missing his teeth, but he wouldn't let this stop him from slamming, banging his ring and shouting lustily, "Gotta schlit! Gotta Schlit!" whenever he wanted someone to take him to the toilet. He died one day in his sleep. I came into his room and just found him cold, like his light had just dimmed and went out. He was 98 years old. I couldn't find any breath or heartbeat and ran to get the nurse.  Jana came and checked him. "Should we do CPR?" I asked nervously. Jana was a very attractive honey blond with an adorable west Texas accent. She nixed the idea as fruitless and untenable. We weren't going to pound on an old man's chest. We were too late by far. She had me put in his false teeth, comb his hair, shave him and dress him. She'd call his son. It was a sad day for me despite him having been one of my most burdensome patients. His son, was more pragmatic about his father's death. He'd expected it to happen for many years, no doubt.
Jana was a very nice young woman; competent, never flustered, intelligent and always in a good mood. Sometimes she would call me to assist her in her rounds dispensing medicine, dressing bedsores and generally checking every patient's welfare, making certain it was up to par. There was no fault in her, and she taught me a lot.
Another of my patients was a tiny, very spry, semi‑lucid great grandmother named Nell. She could escape from all our restraints without too much trouble and go setting off alarms on the exit doors to dash out to freedom, usually naked.	She was always laughing, smiling and talking irrational nonsense with a lilt in her voice and a mischievous glint in her eye. We couldn't lock the doors, and when she couldn't sneak past us to duck out one of the two exits with alarms on them, she would vanish out through the front door past the administrator's office.

We had another escape artist like Nell. She couldn't usually get herself untied, and she kept her clothes on, but every two weeks or so she'd manage to sneak off. One time she made it to the construction site next door, probably attracted by the hammering and human bustle. She fell down on some sharp construction trash before they found her and deduced that she'd escaped from us. We would get calls asking if we were minus a patient two or three times per year. Usually we prevented escapes or found them before anyone else did.
One of my favorite patients was Eppie. Her legs were frozen in sitting position, she smoked nonfilter Pall Mall nonstop, hacked like an asthmatic whale and sounded like she was gargling mucus and gravel when she talked. She still had all of her wits and only required a little help. She was small, but heavy and compact. She liked to talk, and conversing with her was enjoyable.  She would cruise around in her wheelchair like Mae West in her caddy, visiting some of her friends on the ward. She had strong arms for an eighty year old woman. One time I let it slip that my back was breaking lifting her in and out of her wheelchair.  In reality it was me breaking it by not calling any other aides for help. Eppie got angry but didn't let on. The thing about her was that I'd have to lift her at arms length because her knees were aimed at my groin. She stopped asking me to lift her onto the toilet, then told me off, saying she didn't need my help any more: she could go to the toilet all by herself. I was appalled. She could have slipped and broken her hip or jaw. I told her this and that she shouldn't try to walk on. those frozen legs. She said nothing, then Jana caught her doing it again and called me: between us we got her to start asking for assistance again.
Abby was another old and frail woman in her late eighties. She was lucky enough to have both her mind and body in good working order. Plus she had her own little black and white television in her room. She was friendly and liked to talk. She needed minimal assistance, and then only to safeguard her from slipping in the shower. She was very stoic about her situation and the indignities the aged had to endure, such as sitting in a seatless commode‑chair to shower as a man watched and sprayed her with cold rinsewater.	
I came to her room and found her TV loosely tied to her serving table with strips of cloth, one running down the middle of the screen as she watched her soap operas. When I asked her why, she said she was afraid her son was going to steal her set. We talked a bit, then she asked me if I would tie it down tighter, which I did. Later I found that one of the night‑aides had stolen Mr. Peck's new clock radio the same day he had received it. (He's the one frozen and twisted on his back for 50 years.) Abby was reacting to this theft, and was too polite to accuse one of my co‑workers. I commiserated with her and promised to buy her a new set if hers got stolen.  Small TVs are practically free.	This lifted her depression a little. She asked if she could hug me. There was probably some corporate policy against this, but we embraced anyway. While I held her she said she wished she was younger. I asked her how young she wanted to be; eighteen? Twenty‑one? She answered, "Oh no: I just want to be seventy again!" She didn't want much, just to lose ten or' twenty years, keep her TV and have warm showers.

The patients were stolen from weekly, to hear them tell it. We on the day and evening shifts discovered it, got accused of it or tried to catch‑‑: the night shift workers doing it. Many times per month their loose change or other small items would vanish while they slept. It reached a peak when a huge piece of antique furniture, a closet with a cabinet of drawers attached, disappeared out of the front hallway one night. That monstrosity belonged to the company, so no one shed any tears over that theft, but it was pathetic how these people with nothing would lose the little they had and that people could drive a truck up to the front door and haul away stuff en masse without getting caught. The stroke victim that I had to crane into the whirlpool said she'd been robbed of her candy bar money by a black man. We had no black orderlies on the ward. She didn't see very well so the charge nurse briefly entertained the notion that she may have mistaken a beard and mustache for a black face. Naturally that meant me, and I had to endure an impromptu lineup. At stake was less than a handful of change that the woman slept on. Nothing came of it except my anger and embarrassment, but it shows how that everywhere you go, we have to prove ourselves.
Working the medical field, even on its periphery, had one advantage many of us coveted; if we worked past eight hours we got double pay for the overage. Sixteen hour days made the job pay almost a living wage. Two of us particularly chose to work doubles. The other was Joyce, a full‑size woman of Irish ancestry, post‑menopausal, but still well curved and very attractive. She was strong and well respected for her work, especially when she had to help take care of Mrs. Avery. Her first name was 'Ivey', and she definitely was poison.
Ivey was not just off her rocker, she was intentionally mean and nasty too. She was a shriveled‑up old hag with sharp teeth and claws which she used effectively to fight off attempts to feed her. You could not let her have her own tray or let her in reach of it. She'd throw it on you, the walls and floor every time. When we tried to feed her, she'd claw at our hands and arms, inflicting nasty cuts on the unwary. Thankfully I never had to be responsible for her, but many times the female aides would ask for my help in feeding her or cleaning up the mess or wounds she caused. In all my months there only one ‑ aide was ever able to make this old harridan eat like a sane person, but this didn't last long. Whatever it was that was making the old bat go nuts, it resumed as soon as Debra left.
Joyce and I became good friends. Eventually I sold her my Bugatti tenspeed for only $20 because I liked her so much. Her son got it for a birthday present and was very pleased. Some time after I left, the administrator fired Joyce for leaving bruises on
Ivey's arms. (The lesions are unavoidable. Simply a strong grip on the elderly can leave bruises and tear their skin. Jana once tore a patient's skin off just by peeling back a bandage.) Joyce would be the one to hold her claws immobile while someone else tried to feed her.	Ivey never ate enough to be as strong or as quick as she was, and must have drawn her strength directly from Satan, judging from her piercing, hate‑filled eyes set deeply within that gargoyle skull.
Twice a day we'd get ten minute breaks. We'd rotate through and also eat lunch ` there. It was here I got to meet a very comely foreign woman. She was stocky and swarthy, wore no makeup or hair color, and had an accent akin to french, but only a hint.
She was a nurse studying to be a doctor, wore no ring or other jewelry I can remember.  She resembled very much the women you see sculpted near Hindu temples or on Indian friezes. I asked her where she was from.	She answered in one word, by rolling her tongue ‑' around "Per‑r‑rsia." At that time most of the lackwits and media hacks were still not over their successful counterattack of the US embassy in retaliation for our politicians having stolen their government and oil by setting up a puppet dictatorship. Since we were all friends, I laughed and asked, in my thickest redneck accent, "Is that like Eye‑ran?" Nashi didn't laugh, but neither did she appear to take offense. We talked for a while on several occasions. She was married, had waited for two years trying to emmigrate to America. The Muslims certainly would kill you for drinking alcohol, yet tiny groups

of them would occasionally gather in secret and risk death this way together. She'd never smoked a hookah full of hash, but many Arabic men used it as their vice. She wished she could forstall the tightening of the fundamentalist regime that had taken over from the Shah, but Nashi was no social activist, merely a competent nurse with all her time taken up with making a ‑living and going to school.	I never met her husband, but a computer science instructor I'd had was an Iranian with an almost indecipherable thick accent. The male lackwits made a laughing stock of the Iranians, and though I laughed with them, I could tell that these people were hungry for prosperity and knew exactly how to work to obtain it.
Our elite class of the hereditary rich are soft, inbred and too soaked in self‑privilege to compete on a level field against oppressed people who are hot for a slice of the pie. This is why our rulers slant the system against motivated, non‑decadent foreigners; so they don't have to compete fairly. This is why we have grinning slime like our worthless politicians rule us and why the real brains are the ones they hire with our tax cash to tell them what can be done. This is also why they mostly ignore what should be done and simply continue to enrich themselves at our expense as they further consolidate their power. Fortunately for the US hereditary rich, their inertia will be enough to keep them abusing power over us for decades to come with no end in sight.

While I was doing all this, I learned later, the Okie pigs were secretly lurking and slinking about near my poor mother's home and trying to lie‑up enough fear in her and my family for them to snitch me off. This is what they mean when the slick‑talking copcrat and newspuker team get on the television and propound pendantically upon "Good, ole fashioned police work". Their vomitus is not much more than fishing for snitches and harassing and tricking their target's family. No family is strong enough to withstand concentrated attacks from govsucking maggots who harass, threaten, lie, bribe, extort, abduct, enslave, torture and kill for a fat pig's paycheck and immunity from the legal aspects of their criminality. This being so, I prudently avoided my family and friends so the badged scum totally wasted their time. My family didn't know anything to snitch about, but the Okie kidnap teams could not believe this. They had little or no experience with refugees from Okie cop and lawcrat corruption who did not either leave a string of crimes for them to follow or didn't go straight home to mama. I learned later that these goat‑roping rubes had even sent me a piece of lying trash in her mail pretending to be lawyers passing out free money due me from the Okie prison (Bobby) Battle class action lawsuit. (This was a prisoner lawsuit against injuman treatment that was taken over by the lawyers and converted into a 25 year long feeding frenzy costing taxpayers hundreds of millions of dollars and benefiting no one but the lawcrats and their cronies.) Clearly the snatch teams' usual quarry is only slightly more stupid than their own, since everyone knows that prisoners do not get money damages from class actions. One of my relatives thought that I'd vanished to an offshore oil rig. The cops never told them or their newswhores of my escape until the third day after I'd been gone. The news artists reported it monday, the sixth, which was near my birthday. Thus my family thought I'd escaped as a present to myself. My brother Dan was accosted and threatened by a little scar‑faced runt who led one of the Okie kidnap teams. He'd noticed a van parked in a lot across the street early in the morning three days in a row. It had illegally dark windows and positioned itself in such a way that the driver and any other occupants who may be hiding inside had a good view of the house without straining their necks. Nobody got out after parking, but at about lunch time it would drive one block to the convenience store where scarface would buy funyons and Dr. Pepper for himself and miscelaneous junk food for three others. Upon being asked, the store's shift manager mentioned to Dan that the same van and runt had come in to buy coffee, gum, donuts and cigarettes for four for three days, paying for gas with a state govt credit card. After the lunch trip, they'd resume their place in the lot across the street, and again no one would get out.
Soon as Dan learned this routine, he parked his big, black monte carlo in their spot, sideways. When scarface and his thug triplets returned from lunch, they had nowhere to park. Runt blocked the alley with his van and sent a fat, red‑haired youngster into the Doctor's office who provided the parking lot. Fat‑Red came back with a receptionist to see whose car was in their slot.  (Dan's car was also darkly tinted on its windows and  they had assumed it was empty.) The receptionist found Dan in his car watching what the Okie kidnap team would do. A three‑way shouting match erupted over parking rights and civil rights that the thugs eventually won after much effort.	(Dan can shout like a bull, non‑stop, preventing others from being heard and in some cases even preventing his opponent's thought processes.) At the end, when the Tulsa police arrived, courtesy of the receptionist, the abduction team was forced to reveal their identities and purpose. Dan then acted frightened and sent them chasing off after me as a truck driver named Mike Johnson working for Fraunhof in Montana. They tried to verify this by harassing others of my family who were not so creative under pressure. They just repeated that they knew nothing, which was true.
My routine of sleeping inside my vehicle began to wear thin eventually even though it was a carefully constructed stealth RV disguised to look like a mere empty cargo‑haul‑ er. Knowing how snoopy the cops are, the first thing I did was block off the windows. Most of the cops' method of crowbaring their way into your life is based upon their ability to hallucinate suspiciousness into your vehicle. This prime cop tactic is slightly harder for them to do when they can't see in. (In this case they have to hallucinate suspicious smells as their excuse to get in. Often they just call a dogcop and claim the : dog told them there was a smell inside. This saves time on the witness stand, since the dog can't be cross‑examined by lawyers and asked why he squatted.) Cops can't lie‑up a vision of a crackpipe‑looking object on the seat if they can't see the seat. Toward this end, I put a curtain over the back windows and contrived that they could be opened or closed by pulling a line available to the driver. This way the van could look virtually empty for the benefit of the cops and thieves, but could quickly be converted to camp‑mode before the wheels stopped turning. To keep cops, thieves and nosy citizens from snooping into the front, I walled off the two seats from the cargo box with sheet steel that didn't look like the middle section could be quickly used as a secret access panel.

The inside had mosquito netting, an accumulation of tools, a cloth to lay on and a construction helmet for a pillow. The passenger footwell held an extra lead‑acid battery from the alternator. It was used to power a tiny, low‑watt lamp that could not be detected at night from outside the van when used carefully. It could be moved where it was needed. The dome light was removed and its circuit used to power a band scanner that no cops ever found. Mobile band scanners are outlawed precisely because they snitch off the cops. Mostly I used a fleshtone earphone that came with it. It used the same antennae that the radio did. It was very useful in telling me when the cops planned to attack. This extra time for preparing and concocting a plausible story helped considerably in tricking them off me. Cops always read off your tag number and describe your vehicle and _ occupants to their safety prior to attacking. Mostly these taxgrubbers would pound on the side and lie, "I know you're in there'." I'd never answer or show, and they'd be reduced to pasteing one of their orange stickers on the windshield that boasted that they steal and ransom vehicles that they declare 'abandoned' after three to ten days. I'd help the illusion along by taping my own sign on the inside where they couldn't get to it. It usually said, "Please don't tow: back asap", giving no time or date, of course. More than half of these frustrated cops would try to break in, often by inserting their fingers atop the cracked‑for‑ventilation windows and wrenching down, hoping, like thieves do, that they can break the mechanism keeping them out. They never succeeded, but not for lack of trying.
Citizen‑thieves were more canny. One time I was trying to rest at Lake Worth when some of the local rednecks spotted my bicycle inside, but not me sleeping. They tried to open each door, one after the other, then got to prying and fishing around with a coat hanger. I'd been so tired that day that I'd not noticed that the back curtain hadn't shut properly. I caught them in the act. They were so suprised when I burst through the metal partition that they left their coathanger stuck in the window. I merely berated them and drove off to another site.
I varied my sleeping spots as much as possible because the cops are very good at noting individual vehicles that they've tagged. Their orange stickers tear off, but not the flags that their underlings place in their computers next to your tag number. The cops and their armies of support personnel were only half my worries. Many jealous, Vindicdictive citizens unconnected with the many cop agencies began scheming on me too. Another time at Lake Worth I saw the begining of this. I'd hack up to the water, open the rear doors and hope they'd think I was fishing. In most cases I'd be studying books or job listings, trying to work my way up faster. Suddenly some four or five year old girl showed up and began questioning me. She was just friendly and curious, but I couldn't afford to act human. Nothing sets the howling pack onto a lone male faster than visions of touchcrime that pop into their heads as soon as they realize a baby has escaped their negligence.
The kid was like a forward scout for them. She wanted my name, what I was doing, where I came from and why, same as if she was reading it from a cop manual. Immediately I sprang into action, well aware that the lynchmob would be right behind her. I gave her some sunflower seeds I'd been snacking on and was polite and friendly as I tried to trick her into thinking that her parents were calling her name. She was much too smart for this: she just smiled and laughed while telling me how silly I was. She had found a strange man and was not going to miss an opportunity to sate her curiosity about outsiders that dwelt amid her family.

Chagrinned that I had not even the wit to rid myself of an inquisitive child, I simply packed up and left. Two weeks later I returned and wish I hadn't. While sleeping, some two‑legged bacteria sneaked up and put loops of barbed wire around my front tires,the idea being that massive vandalism would occur when I drove away in the morning for work. Also, I think they loosened the lugnuts on the right front tire, though I can't see how they did this without waking me. Thankfully I caught their lugnut trick before it caused a pileup that could have killed many innocents. Now it is my practice to walk an inspection circle around my vehicle after each prolonged stop. Human nature had turned very vicious while I was trapped by the silk‑suit mob. These scum at the lake seemed to think that it belonged to them. I loaded this thirty feet of vandaltool into my truck for disposal and stayed gone a long time.
Because of this close call that I foiled only by accident, I devised an impedance detector that would set up and monitor a charge between my truck and the ground. When a person came too close or touched my truck, the charge would change enough to set off a vibrating pager. This device saved my tires more than once. Sometimes dogs, coyotes, coons or cats would set it off, but eventually I got it adjusted correctly.
It didn't matter where I parked to sleep.	In the malls it was the juveniles in pilphering herds or the mall cops. Everywhere else it was some other type of human animal. One in ten times or so some thief, vandal, cop or jealous person would decide to test my vehicle. Having no defense against them, I was too vulnerable. Also I was angry that mere peace for eight hours was so hard to come by. In retaliation I made fat, powerful capacitors out of many rolls of aluminum foil and paper. These I distributed amid the undercarriage where they could not be seen. They charged from the batteries when I flipped a toggle. They were my watchdogs when I slept.
It was at Grapevine Lake when they first became needed. I was parked far from the fishermen and was dead tired from working two shifts. It was black and dark under thick, tall trees with no moon. I'd slept til three AM, then was awakened by a loud voice cursing at someone. It turned out that two slimy‑looking Harley drivers had camped in the direction of the cursing voice. They were up to something. Their tiny little ferret‑like 'minds' had been emboldened by the pitch black and too much alcohol. They were getting set for a little vehicular burglary. They didn't know if I was in the van or quietly fishing in the dark with a gun a. short distance away. This was the point of their loud insults, to discover my whereabouts or conclude that the truck was unprotected. This is a common tactic of persons wearing permanent graffiti on their skins. They simply have too much time on their hands and little notion of how to profitably use it.
My thought was that they hadn't between them enough guts to attack, since they stupidly revealed their presence and demeanor beforehand. Also, I stupidly assigned to them enough brains to realize that there obviously was nothing of value inside; a perception that I took pains to make plain to even the stupidest or most inexperienced of criminals. They were no doubt pretty broke, plus starving from coming off a long drunk and speed run, but I was too sleepy to envision this probability until afterward. They were out for anything, especially something as easy and risk‑free as a van in the black, no ' cops, no witnesses and no owner in evidence. Such walking garbage as they can make a mere stolen battery into a feast at McDonald's without much effort.
But I didn't think about this. I tried to go back to sleep, thinking that soon their little one‑watt minds would pass out in an alcoholic stupor. Not so. These road‑rodents persisted in hurling loud insults in my direction for a good half hour before their cowardice alleviated due to my lack of response. They thought the van was surely empty and thus safe for them to vandalize and pilpher.

Jackie's pager woke me up as the braver of the two tried to open each of my four doors in turn. By some quirk I had forgotten to charge my capacitors that night. If I tried to charge them now, I thought they'd drain the batteries.  Simpler would he to just drive off.  I silently fished out my key and began removing the center section for access to the driver's seat. About this time the idiot must have gotten a vault from his pal because somehow he leaped onto the roof and began ripping away my ventahood. He kicked in the screen and must have thought he could squeeze through the hole.
By this time I was boiling mad. A new vent is $35! I locked my arm around the punk's leg and yanked with all my weight, hoping to tear it off. With my other hand I fished around for my stick and found a nut driver instead. Jabbing him in the crotch with it didn't puncture his filthy denims, but it did make him squeal like the swine he was. His struggles to break free became intense. He managed to rip his leg out of my grasp, leaving his boot behind.
My peace was over. I was out‑numbered. I wasn't going to stick around for them to slash my tires or begin throwing rocks. While the one scrambled or fell off my roof, I got in the driver's seat. Knowing that the cops were skillful at attacking the wrongedand letting the perpetrators slip through their fingers, I sedately motored off, carefully obeying the speed limits and scrutinizing my rear‑view mirrors. Astonishingly, the pinheads pulled in behind me after a few minutes, then came around to pass. We eyed each other coldly as they pulled even with my window. One told me to throw out his boot. I told him to fix my ventahood. They growled. I feinted with the wheel as if I was going to wipe them off the road. The nearest one yelped. They got safely past me, flipped me the finger and drove away. One jerk of the wheel and they and their Harleys would be bleeding, smoking trash burning in the ditch, unlikely to be found for hours.	I resisted the impulse and had let them pass. Much as I wanted to teach them a lesson, it wasn't my business to cleanse the earth of parasites. People as arrogant as they, arrogant enough to think no one of their victims would run them off into the ditch, would be emboldened by my inaction to sooner find the one who would leave them a smoking pile of wreckage. At least this is how I justify my passivity. Vermin like them should thank the cops for their continuing ability to prey upon decent people because most people take seriously their media‑programing that insists we waste out efforts and time calling the mostly worthless cops instead of dispensing just deserts as opportunity permits. The cops dodge out of a lot of work by attacking the victim who calls for assistance against a thug. I'd never bother to call one.  It's a complete waste of effort unless you're a female or homeowner, etc.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Missed opportunity

Well‑behaved women rarely make history.
										Anita Borg
It was this incident that caused me to stay at a much more peaceful and civilized place. This was North Lake. An electrical power plant is situated there. It was more convenient for me because it was closer to work, more secluded and wasn't full of nosy rednecks.

Even so, it didn't take long for people to notice me and start butting into my business again. Unlike the people at Lake Worth, these people didn't simply attack an interloper without even finding out who he was or determining a real reason to attack. The recreators of North Lake made an effort to be friendly. A Mexican airport shuttle driver came up to me while I read the newspaper in the cargo box of my truck. I was cutting out job listings with my survival knife. He saw this huge, wicked‑looking multi‑purpose tool lying next to me but was undaunted. We talked for ten minutes or so before he left. I assurred him that I was a harmless homeless nobody trying to work my way back up to prosperity instead of a dangerous criminal with a big knife. He told me that if I wasn't gay, I should camp out on the other side of the Lake. He said also that he and his pals were particularly annoyed by people in vans at this time because they had caught the Dallas metro task force up here filming and trying to infiltrate their ranks in order to solicit, tape and edit sex acts for some secret 'stings' they were told to engineer.
He could see the entire interior of my van was not filled with cops, communications and videotaping equipmemt or telescopes positioned at sloppily‑disguised peepholes like the cops' vans are. Also, he knew that the cops never drive junkers like mine, always instead sticking the taxherd for the cost of only the newest, most expensive and luxurious vehicles and equipment, same as the military cops do.
I told him that though I was not myself gay, I had known many gay men and some gay women and found them to be, in general, more honorable and intelligent than most of the people I've had to deal with. Also I told him that it was too bad that the pigs were targeting them; thanks for the information; I'll try to respect their territory the next time I came.
He left, and I stayed on the straight side of the Lake most of the time thereafter. A few weeks later the pigs got their man. Their target had been the top bureaucrat at the fish and wildlife department. He was forced to quit after the cop/media alliance whipped up the usual lynchmob by confusing the herd into believing gay means child molester. At about this time I also was accosted by the cops, again. I'd pulled into an empty public park during the day in Bedford for a nap. Bedford is a political boundary enclosing an affluent bunch of snooty people bent on emulating places like Palm Springs or Carmel. While napping in the driver's seat with the job listings in my lap a micro‑league ball game had moved in. A nervous mother took exception to my presence in a horror‑filled maternal nightmare she was acting out. A cop arrived at her request and asked me if I'd seen a missing boy. He didn't even try to see inside the van. This was my cue to leave and never come back if I knew what was good for me. Apparently the entire world revolves around neurotic women with binoculars who can't keep track of their children as well as they can spot  male‑driven vans parked in public recreation areas.
The nursing home job lasted quite a while, and I met a mother and son who began working there. They were homeless too, as were many of us in 1986; victims of Reaganomics and a republican administration that let megacriminals loot at will. They stayed in a pickup camper rig and had worked out a deal with the administrator to stay at the far end of the parking lot. They were from Bridgeport. Their breadwinner had died, they suffered expensive medical problems and had lost their home to the lawyers. They were very good people and hard workers: they just couldn't make a living wage on 'trickle‑down' economic policies.
I got the same deal from the administrator, plus she let me use the home's facilities to shower, long as I waited until after ten, when the residents were put to bed. I began parking in the safety of our lot next to Meg and Rob. Things worked out well for some time until a fat, ugly woman on the night shift got jealous and called the cops.

Since the home was on the Bedford side of the street, a snooty Bedford cop accosted me. He tried his best to find a crime but could not, so he just lied one up to fit his need. "Bedford city ordinance says you can't live in your van. Get out!" dust because the Cop is a liar didn't make it safe to stick around, so Meg and I found other arrangements. (The administrator pretended to have revoked her temporary permission for us to park on the premises, of course. If they can't find a reason to abduct you or harvest money or assets from you, the cops will get you run off or fired.)
One of the most pleasant things to happen to me was meeting the manager of a Carl's Jr. restaurant just around the block from the home. She was very young; so much so that at first I could not believe she was indeed the manager. Marie was supremely competent in everything I saw her do, especially in employee and public relations. All her workers adored her, as did I and many of her customers. A lot of the aides would have me pick up orders for lunch there often. It was convenient and the food was very good.
So absorbed was I in my own problems and strategies that at first I didn't think anything unusual when I came by. In hindsight, I had plenty of clues. Once, when I was ordering, Marie took over the cash register just as it was my turn and began beaming enthusiasm and humor at me so intensely as to raise the dead. Marie has the cutest face and a thin, boyish figure, but her effervescent personality was what made her extra attractive. I didn't notice then that the show was for me. Like an idiot, I just laughed and played along but thought nothing of it beyond ordinary playfulness.
Another time I was sitting in her restaurant, eating and reading. One of her employees was sweeping toward me.. The next time I looked up, Marie was taking the broom from him and began sweeping in my direction. Again we exchanged a few innocent, innocuous sentences as she swept by. Again I was engulfed in my own situation and failed to realize on a conscious level that managers don't sweep floors because they like to.
By the third time she engaged me in conversation I finally did have an inkling of why and the possibilities that engendered. I loved her competence and boldness, and was very flattered that she wanted, apparently, to know me better. If it had been under any other circumstances I would have asked her out. I almost did try to get to know her better the last time I saw her. I exited the store and found her loading her car. She told me that the restaurant was closing and she was being transferred to manage elsewhere. It was clear that this was my last chance to see if we could be the perfect match for each other. The odds looked really good, and to this day I kick myself for not trying.	Instead, all I could think about was her youth and the fact that there was a very good chance that I'd be shot to death by the pigs within too many years. It wasn't fair to her for me to drag her down with me. She deserved better and probably found more happiness elsewhere than she would have had with me. I wished her well and left.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Battle of the Snitches
If it is so great to have nothing to hide, then why do the cops and politicians require so much secrecy?
									         Sam Kinnison
One of the more colorful persons I met was a guy who liked to be called 'Caspar' because he was so adept at becoming invisible when the police arrived. He had an old, dilapidated pickup truck with a toolbox and played the role of handyman when he could, fixing gutters, steps, roofs, etc, but mostly painting and simple car repairs.	Caspar was well‑liked by everyone who knew him because of his upbeat personality and good humor. Though he always looked unkempt, even disheveled, from sleeping in his truck and from infrequent hygiene, he was always loading on the jokes, winks and minor mischief to everyone nearby. He'd even have strangers laughing when we stood in line, which was where I met him.  Caspar never advertised for business; his clients, friends and acquaintances directed him to more work that he could do, and if he ran out, he had a cardboard sign to flash at busy intersections that said, "Will Work For Food".
Industrious as he was, Caspar had two profound weaknesses: he liked women too much, and he liked to smoke cocaine. What money he didn't spend on food, gas and supplies he spent on sex and coke. Caspar was well known by the sisterhood and all the girls loved dating him because he was generous with his money, was good, safe company and was never too demanding. They always had good things to say about him, usually having to do with his clownish ways in the check‑cashing line, McDonald's breakfast line, or the gas station line. He would pull outrageous stunts. Once he put his wallet on a length of fishing line and tossed it ahead of the line, trying to lure someone out so he could step into their space. The trick was so ludicrous that you had to laugh, especially when the ones in front of the line would squint, trace the string to him and give queer looks. Caspar would put on his innocent act, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling or he'd join the crowd in passing accusing looks farther up the line behind him to land on his girlfriend for the evening. Whoever was with him would begin giggling and add to his act, whether it was the wallet trick, silly string, the concealed clicking noisemaker or any of a dozen other types of simple humor.
I didn't know Caspar long, and I heard more about him after he was gone than during the few tires our paths crossed in Dallas. It turns out that there was a dark side to Caspar. My hooker friends seemed to take extra care not to let him meet their dope connects, even going so far as to make certain he couldn't memorize the phone numbers they dialed. This was nigh‑on to impossible, as the women punched the buttons with blinding speed anyway, but evidently they thought him capable of it.

At this time the cops had been given boxcar loads of federally supplied taxpayercash, much of which was supposed to be used for the purchase of snitches to provide cops with 'street intelligence'. It was the golden age of secret, creative accounting, too, because later it would be found that the snitches would be paid from nothing to about $50 for handing the cops dope busts. The cops would then charge Uncle Sugar between $200 and $1000 and pocket the difference. They got caught at this thievery often, and the new, improved accounting procedures didn't help, since the rats were easily made to sigh blank forms in the dark inside a squad car surrounded by cops telling them to hurry up. More often than not, the snitches were working to avoid jail, not make money. If they managed to get high off the cops marked buy‑cash, so much the better. Cops were easily tricked into paying $100 for $10 worth of coke, and their “intel' man would inhale the difference. (Most rats are male because they are easier to convict.) Few cops were intelligent enough to know that they'd been royally screwed unless they smoked dope themselves, which is a common occurrance, and they were always charged at least double anyway, just because they were cops. Cops didn't mind being overcharged anyway for at least two reasons: it wasn't their money that they were spending; it gave them more room to skim money off the top for themselves to divert into their pockets. The cops also preferred being ripped off because it made it seem that they were doing a fabulous job when their drug busts were measured in thousands of dollars instead of in milligrams of dope. If any of the cops had wit enough to complain about the miniscule size of their purchase, their intel man would give a standard spiel to boast of its extreme purity and strength, even if is was diesel‑fuel laden trashrock that only the heroin‑addicted needle‑freak hookers would buy.
Caspar was one of these intel persons. The cops had gotten him years previously for dope and sent him to prison. He'd finally made parole and the cops found him in an act of public fornication with a girl. They ran his name through their database and found they had someone that they could force to work for them. They told Caspar that he could finish his parole in prison or be their dopedog. He took the obvious choice and had been useful to the cops for so long that the girls became suspicious.
None of this came clear to me until much later.	I knew nothing of Caspar and my hooker friends knew little beyond suspicion and were telling even less. There was, though, another guy about whom there was no doubt. They called him 'Pit', which was apparently a contraction of his surname. He was an oily little pizza‑faced guy who really enjoyed working for the cops. It gave him a sense of power. Or so the women said. They'd even accuse him to his face if he made them angry enough and if there weren't any straight people nearby. Mostly they'd just take his money, which was sometimes plentiful, and whisper vague, non‑specific warnings about him to friends. With so many predators out trying to ambush dopesellers, the sisterhood was careful to protect their connections from everyone. They really had to know you well before they'd even let you see the dealer's car drive by or which apartment complex he lived in.

About the third time I saw Gaspar there were four of us in a trailer park driveway late at night. The girls went back to work and I was thinking about where a safe place to park and sleep was; a place safe from being molested by the cops or nosy straight people. Caspar had the same lack of housing problem too, and had been solving it much longer than I had. He said he knew a good, safe place nearby and invited me to follow him to it. He lit out in his truck of the loud muffler. I followed him from far enough behind so as not to look like I was following him. After a few blocks of twists and turns he pulled into the parking lot of a popular nightspot. It was winding down, but still full, which turned out to be very fortunate for me. The closest spot to Caspar I could get left a generous space between us. While I sat idling, letting the capacitors of my shocker pump up to high voltage I noticed Caspar pull a blanket roll out of his truckbox and prepare to flop in the open bed of his pickup. It seemed mighty unsafe to me for him to sleep in the open like this, but I could only assume that he knew what he was doing. Caspar pitched his empty bottles into the dumpster, waved good night and passed out. Ten minutes later I'd done my preparations and slipped under the mosquito net, doors locked, sightlines blocked and safe behind Reddy Kilowatt.
At about midnight I was awakened by an argument. Because it sounded like Caspar,  I quietly got up and took a stealthy look at what was happening. Pit was standing at the back of Caspar's truck, angrily yelling at Caspar and rubbing his jaw. Caspar was shaking his fist at Pit, challenging him to come get some more or go away. Pit began searching around, apparently looking for rocks to throw. Caspar realized this and leaped out of his truck to bring the battle to Pit. Pit saw this and ran away. Caspar, grumbling to himself, returned to his bedroll and wearily set out to sleep again.
At two AM I woke again as all the patrons noisily exited, gunning their many engines and driving off with an occasional screech of tire and loud backfire of exhaust. It seemed like I dozed off again for a short while when more noise awoke me along with the vibration of Jackie's pager. This time it was more cars, but they were driving into the lot rather than out. Then I heard many car doors open but not slam shut, then many shuffling feet trying to be stealthy, indecipherable clicking and rattling of equipment and a low pitched hiss of voices giving urgent commands.
The hissing and clicking is what finally brought me fully awake. These were sounds of skullduggery in progress. In absolute silence and being careful not to shake my truck on its shocks, I slipped over to a chink and looked out. The view was terrifying. The lot was swarming with cops, all sneaking around to no clear purpose that I could see.  
Their eyes sparkled with malice, as did their teeth under the relatively bright, bluetinged lights of the parking lot. The formed a fluid mass, like an octopus with its arms searching cracks with its suckers. Its head was a knot of cops gathered around a copcar with its door hanging open. Skulking in its threshold was a cop with shinier buttons and more gimcracks bulging out over a big pus‑gut that spilled over his beltbuckles. He was giving orders to a pack of glint‑eyed, grinning weasel‑faced youngsters. Quick as the handslap at the end of a football huddle they brandished their shotguns and many largecaliber automatic pistols and rushed to surround Caspar's truck in a semicircle of straining, eager death.
Soon as they got their positions sorted out a sightline opened and I saw Pit off in the middle of them, confabbing with their leader. Then the yelling started. They didn't use any bullhorns, but at this distance it sounded like they did. Their bellowing and	bawling of commands was loud enough to wake Satan. "You in the truck!" one shrieked, "Stand up! Now!	Show your hands!	Now!"
Every one of these shitbags had their murder machines leveled at Caspar as he drunkenly reeled to his feet from a sound sleep, rubbing his eyes. About that time there was a brief pause in the cops' screaming as they obtained compliance. That was when that sleazy little twerp Pit tricked the bloodthirsty mob of pigs into doing his dirtywork for him.  He shouted four masterful words.  That was all it took to set the cops' killing machines to work. "He's got a gun!"

The pigs emptied their clips into Caspar.  It took a long time. Caspar was thrown backward by the impact of dozens of police slugs in his face and chest. He slid down the cab of his truck and collapsed in its bed like a pile of bloody rags. The cops pumped even more lead and steel‑jacketed slugs into his corpse. Gradually the fusillade decreased and finally abated. A moment of silence ensued as the cops savored a Job well done. They stood stiffly and seemed to sway backward slightly like heroin addicts tend to do after emptying a big syringe of powerful dope into their veins. When the silence did break, it was a macabre comment from the cop who had reloaded the fastest. He performed the standard Hollywood cop's duckwalk with his massive automatic pistol jammed out in front of him in both fists. By the time he got close enough to see over his gunsight into Caspar's truckbed, the other cops had managed to reload too, and thus were feeling more secure again. The Hollywood cop looked uncertainly at what was left of Caspar, then to his packmates and asked, "Should I cuff him?"
Two answered in unison, "Cuff him!" Most of the others laughed in short, cruel barks. One sidled up to the back of the pack, opened his armored vest and began mopping sweat off his neck and brow. His shirt underneath was soaked. He looked sick at his stomach, but it was probably the lights. There began a chorus of radio chatter and static as several began muttering into various microphones. They didn't search for evidence, just verified their kill to their masters. Many of them backslapped each other, high‑fived or danced a short jig, congratulating each other on a job well done. After these rituals were performed the main body of them jumped into copcars and roared off to other important business elsewhere. A small force remained. Judging by their actions, their job was to block traffic and chase off any witnesses who were attracted by the noise and activity. More copcars sped by with lights flashing, as if in a panic. Soon as they saw the remaining cops, they appeared reassured. In response to being confronted with the newly arriving copcars, the original copcars also burst into flames of epileptic red flashing lights.
Watching their antics was hypnotizing, like watching the water boil over a school of piranha tearing chunks out of baitfish, except this time the bait was someone I'd known as a living person scant hours previously. It was so ghastly a scene that the next logical step didn't occur to me until it was too late. Abruptly I felt the whole truck jerked sideways by a beefy hand yanking on the driver's side door handle. I heard a cop grunt in pain and exertion, as you would if a big bag of cement was suddenly dropped unexpectedly on your shoulders. A tiny red light winked on, signifying that my capacitors had just nailed an intruder. The batteries began draining into the capacitors again, the tiny red light gradually getting brighter as they filled up to ready another discharge: The cop staggered backward, shaking his leather‑gloved hand, crying, "God damn! That ford just shocked the shit out of meI"

This attracted the attention of two other cops and snapped me out of my trance. I flipped the cutoff switch to stop the charging of the capacitors and pushed the bleed‑off button. The red light winked out, and not a second too soon. The caps yanked and rattled each of my doorhandles, hoping to break the locks and get inside. Next they tried to drag down the two windows by shoving their fat fingers in the crack I'd left for ventilation. Finally they bashed at the triangular vent windows, trying to break their locks. The only thing they didn't try was to leap onto the roof and begin ripping out the vent there like the other would‑be thieves had. Instead they pounded the sheet metal sides and screamed, "Come on out, now! We know you're in there!" They paused for a second, beat on the sides again and repeated their demands and certain knowledge of my presence. Then they scuffled around one more time, jerking on every doorhandle, trying to peel the windows down, break the wing vents and peer through each window. The repeated their slamming, banging and demands a third time, but not quite so belligerently as the first two times. My heart slowed as I realized that they were finally convinced that no citizen could possibly be brave enough to defy such an authoritative onslaught as theirs.. Since no one leaped out to grovel on his belly to kiss their toes, their little ferret minds gradually concluded that my van must indeed be empty. They had their inevitable conversation just then. The important parts went like this:
"Damned thing shocked the piss out of me, I'm telling you!"
"Didn't shock me."	"Me neither. It can't shock you through your glove anyway."
"Static electricity."
"That was real voltage, Dude!" "You see a spark?"
"I didn't have to see it, I felt it!"
"You felt a tendon snap over a knuckle. We want this truck too? Those plates say doperunner."
"The sticker says dirtbag looking for work. If it had California plates I'd say call another wrecker. This junker's got nothing in it but dried paint brushes and taco crumbs."
"And cat hair." "Yeah, right."
"Cappy finished with Pit yet? That's one gold‑star maggot if he don't turn up a  cake this time. I'm gitting tired of this nothing shit twice in a row."
"You got the kill."
"Kills don't pay the mortgage; without cash or dope, that's just paperwork." "Sh‑h! Cappy's coming!"
"Fuck Cappy in his ass!"
"He'll fuck you if he hears you."  He's white."
"Who?"
"The driver of this van. Here's his dee‑ell info." ''Could be Mex."
"His hair's too thick. They got scraggly beards; it's the Injun in 'em." "He works; record goes back four years, then says 'student'."
"Fuck him; he's nobody. Pit know him?" "Knows the van; says he's a trick."
"Probably caught a dancer. If he shows before the mess is cleaned up, grab him and everyone with him. What about that car over there?"
They trouped over en masse to investigate elsewhere. The wrecker arrived first and had to wait. The driver smoked cigarettes and joked with the pigs for an hour while the paramedics loaded Caspar's corpse into their vehicle. They stole his truck, dragging it off into a secret copcave somewhere instead of their usual lots where Caspar's family could find it. No doubt they were working their forensic magic on it safe from non‑cop eyes: the kind that never fails to find themselves blameless. Thus all traces of Caspar and his life vanished into the hyena's maw like countless others before him.

Their murder of Caspar angered me no end after I recovered from my terror of nearly sharing his fate. This was no isolated incident, either. This was one routine murder on top of a series of vile, deliberate murders‑by‑cops extending over decades. Blacks and Hispanics had been targeted so intensely that even one of the mainstream newspapers was semi‑decrying their casual killing and maiming in a half‑hearted way. It's defunct now, but would often list a sample of police crimes when they were particularly fiendish. The most famous was Etta Mae Collins, a grandmother whom the cops blew away on her own balcony after calling in a prowler. This crippled old Black woman had the audacity to watch the cops beat the bushes around her apartment. A young, bloodlusting cop took offense and bellowed at her to get inside. She said something about her right to use her balcony. The cop simply murdered her for it. (Some cops or cop‑coddlers set forth the rumor that she'd given her killer the finger, as if this justifies their murder.)
Another time a pair of cops chased a black guy onto an expressway island and strangled him to death in full daylight at rush hour just to see if he had anything in his briefcase. They shipped his corpse to three different hospitals, trying to find an emergency room nurse who would lie for them by claiming the corpse was alive when they brought it in. They finally gave up on this bit of sick criminality. Next they claimed that the briefcase was empty, but three witnesses saw them make a quick side‑trip to one cop's house as they were shopping the corpse around to different emergency rooms. No cash or drugs were ever located, but six months later one of the cops slipped away to drug rehab as the other was investigated for tax evasion.
Another incident involved one cop seen running out of a crackhouse with a tacklebox full of cash he was trying to stuff down his flack jacket. A pack of cops had crashed in to abduct everyone inside. Five cops rushed out, chasing their leader to safeguard their shares of the loot, leaving one dumb rookie to hogtie all the crackheads caught inside.
A few days later they gave the rookie $1500 as his cut. He thought about it for 30 days, then concluded that he'd better snitch on his greedy swat‑team mates, not because of his conscience, but because his wife suggested to him that it might be an Internal Affairs ethics 'sting' operation. (Fat chance of that:)
Another cop was caught in a string of senseless murders and managed to lie‑up justification for five of them with the help of his cop‑cronies and the media copcoddlers. Then he was caught keeping track of his serial murders with seven notches on his police gun butt. They switched him to "less confrontational" duties and he swiftly murdered again. The cops' media hacks spread a ludicrous story claiming that he was quitting the cop business to be a nurse in an undisclosed state far away. One reporter they asked to anonymously spread this lie for them was so disgusted by police arrogance that he made the lie even more ridiculous by saying in his paper that this vicious cop was going to be a nurse's aide. This serial‑killer psychopath‑cop turned up two months later in Michigan, with two more murders on his hands.  These were just the  most recent, most flagrant examples   The list of virtually unpublicized murders‑b y‑cops is much longer.  Even after all this obvious, undeniable mayhem the cops were able to duck and dodge around all accountability. They did this by putting up a fraudulent 'Civilian Review Board' staffed with copcoddlers and which was made doubly ineffective by giving the police chief veto power over all its functions.

The more I learned about Caspar, the more determined I was that the cops not be allowed to dodge all the heat from their murder of him. But I was hampered by the ease with which the cops could trace the forbidden information back to me. One does not lightly set out to twist the dragon's tail. It took me several hours to devise a plan that would prevent them from tracing it back to me. Anonymous calls to the less conservative newspapers and broadcast media are pretty much useless. They always require an exact identity and confirming source with another exact identity before they will even consider disseminating your information; unless you're a cop, that is. They'll parrot verbatim anything an anonymous cop wants shouted into the public ear and thank him for the privilege!
 Since there weren't any confirming sources that could brave retaliation from the cops, I had to make some. I began this by running down one of my most trusted hooker friends. Gina was also a friend to Caspar, She was as angry as I was to hear how the cops
had killed him for no reason. She also wanted something done to Pit for precipitating Caspar's death. She agreed to spread my information among the sisterhood in several slightly different versions attributed to different persons, none of them me. Then we spent some time at a couple of phone banks expressing our anonymous rage to whoever answered at the various media outlets. The strategy worked. The Dallas Times‑Herald and some radio talk show hosts roasted the pigs over this so badly that the cops came questing up through the sisterhood trying to force my name out of them. None of them knew my name except Gina, and she sent them howling off after a car tag number that led them straight to Pit. The cops that were intent upon coercing names out of the sisterhood were the same cops that had murdered Caspar. Consequently the sisterhood uncovered the cops' names and relayed them to the Herald and elsewhere, using Pit's name as the source. The media blasted the cops again, this time by by name. A year later the cops were still cops, but a mangled skeleton was found on a remote floodplain of the Trinity river. Its neck and face bones were broken and it was shot in the back of its head, 'execution style', so said the papers. It was Pit.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Breakthrough, sort of.
Conversation ...is a competitive exercise in which the first person to draw a breath is declared the listener.
									                   Nathan Miller
Back at work, I began spending more time with Carol, an African nurse who is very intelligent, competent and has a very good outlook on life. She's tall and thin, very  attractive when she's being kidded about something, having a way of smirking and rolling her eyes when she realizes you're not serious. I kidded with her a lot. Her personality made her most attractive and likeable. She had me help her on her rounds, as Jana had, and we hit it off immediately. She brought out the best in me. We had a lot of fun together, engaging in some deep conversations about her profession, current affairs, modern sociology and technology, etc. One particular conversation we had that I remember now involved the emerging science of egg transplanting in humans. In 1986 this was great stuff just coming into practicality for people with thousands of dollars to throw around. The term 'surrogate mother' was just coming into use and even the price for such service was being set at about $10,000
Carol and I discussed this subject along with many others at great length. Toward the end of the conversation I asked her if she would sell me one of her eggs. She smirked and rolled her eyes up to the Heavens in that oh‑so‑cute way she had of doing. She laughed and said, "Lord no:" as if she was shocked by the idea itself. I asked her, "Why not?" I was wondering why a nurse would object to such a thing and also wanted a woman's perspective on this. We'd already covered genetics and history, but not religion, and Carol seemed quite progressive in all ways. Carol gave me no real answer, saying only that such a thing was wrong and that she wouldn't do it.

A few days passed. I forgot about this conversation in the midst of so many other things I was trying to accomplish. Not so her; Carol must have ruminated about it considerably during those days and changed her view on the matter. Perhaps in the meantime she had met me by accident at the Fort Worth zoo. (Sometimes I get the sequence of events mixed up.) Carol was a single mother with two sons, aged two and four. I was just leaving, having spent about an hour and a half in an efficient tour of the whole place.	It
was very large and interesting. At the time of my solo visit, I don't recall any feeling of being followed or watched.  I seldom do. But Dallas‑Fort Worth is a very large place for there to be an 'accidental' meeting of two coworkers, especially one who has as few coworkers as I. Looking back on this chance encounter, in hindsight the odds against it seem quite high. Also, little things like this keep adding up until it becomes likely that they had found me again. My latest form of 'identification was hardly bulletproof to a mammoth fascist state with infinite tax‑resources. Anyway, you can make your own conclusions with the few I'm able to remember, bearing in mind that I recount only the most memorable such 'coincidences'. I'd mentioned my trip to no one and been there less than two hours. Just as I was exiting Carol was entering with her two sons. Thinking nothing of it at the time, I spent maybe five minutes saying hello and meeting her kids before going on my way to whatever else I was to do.
Back at work, either before or after this occurrence, Carol came out of the blue to me with this statement: "Remember what we were talking about the other day? (I didn't, but the automatic answer to such a question is to speed up the process by claiming to know even when I don't). Well, I changed my mind." I scratched my head and asked, "What had we been talking about?" (We'd been talking about everything.) She would not tell me: Instead, she'd say, "You would remember if you were serious." I wracked my brain, but it just wouldn't work, so I told her, "Of course I'm serious, it's just that we discussed so many things.   I can't be expected to remember them all, can I?" Carol would smirk so endearingly, roll her eyes to the Heavens and laugh, "You'd remember this, if you were serious."

It seems like I tried to weasel this secret out of her for weeks. At the same time I wracked my brain trying to review. every conversation we'd had. Carol would never tell me, and seemed to enjoy every time I guessed wrongly what it was. I could not tease the secret out of my brain or from her lips. She gave me a big hint one day after work when she announced that she was apprehensive about the recent burglarization of the furniture out of the front reception area. The only ones present at this time were her relief and I. We were both getting off shift at the same time. It was dark outside. She said that she'd like some company for protection on the way out to her car that night. Again, like a fool, I was too dense to realize that what a woman was saying was perhaps not what she really meant. This is what I mean about Social Calculus: a man thinks that the woman is wanting mere safe passage to her vehicle. The woman thinks that he'll realize immediately that the burglary happened over a week ago and that I wasn't asking for an escort for the previous seven days, so he'll know what I really mean so I don't really have to say it in actual words. Women can do this at blinding speed despite multiple complications involving time, place, persons and their relationship to each other whereas a man would merely notice, (often wrongly), the vast number of various factors and simply say "to hell with this; I'm taking things at face value." A man doesn't even trust himself to know the relationship between any of his friends or acquaintances to any degree of accuracy. Just decoding what family members are saying is an exercise in futility. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm borderline autistic or suffer Asperger's syndrome: I can do math and play chess like a master; card games are trivial to me; I have little trouble mastering any skill involving mechanics, electricity, fluid dynamics, chemistry and many others, but I simply can not devine the subtlety of a woman, any woman, in real time. I have to take it home, think about it for days, slowly puzzle out every detail, real or imagined, and eventually come up with a useless result because I'm time‑barred! She's waved the checkered flag and I still have five laps to complete! I thought nothing more than that she indeed was afraid of what may well lurk in our parking lot! I missed my chance. Carol drove away, and only fourteen years later do I remember the question I'd asked her so long ago.
Another bright light I met at the nursing home was Betsy Bombshell. She's a very beautiful natural blue‑eyed blond from Ithica, New York. The best thing about her was her incredibly optimistic personality, and her large size; nearly six feet tall. Full‑size women are often self‑conscious of being so because the media hacks, Madison avenue advertizers and Hollywood all like to portray small women as normal. Betsy didn't have this flaw in her thinking. Plus, when she dressed casually, she didn't flaunt her good looks. Betsy was hired to do laundry at the home when I first met her. She was only twenty years old and married to a young ex‑Air Force kid who worked maintenance for Terry's Tuxedos or some similar‑sounding place
Betsy seemed to be thrilled to be working, and really loved her job and to be among new people. I suspected that her husband was some type of over‑controling monster. Betsy would wheel us neatly folded clean linens and smocks; we'd wheel her carts full of dirty laundry. We hit it off very well the first day. She enthusiastically told me all about her job and thoughts; I just as enthusiastically listened. We shared many of the same empathies, values and philosophies. Betsy's first duty was to cull the worn‑out blankets from the passable ones, and it was from her I'd obtained the curtains for my van.
Betsy is a liberal and open‑minded, and had no automatic suspicion of me when she learned that I lived in my van. The other, older, women I worked with were instantly leery, especially when I wouldn't volunteer any elaborate cover story. They usually did not ask and drew their own conclusions. Instead of being leery of me, Betsy invited me into her home. When I asked if this might be unseemly in view of her husband's absence, she told me, "Oh it's all right! Craig lets me have friends!" She was such an unprepossesing and delightful person, I could not refuse even had she been married to a wolverine!

Of course the context in which I'd been invited into her home didn't involve drink, only nearly so. Both of our sets of parents had suffered alcohol addiction and thus we did not drink. I used to smoke marijuana, but with the govt trying to kill us by spraying it with paraquat and the decline in potency over the decades together with the fact that your body becomes immune to its effects over time, I don't bother with it anymore. Betsy did occasionally like to try different flavors of wine coolers and beers, but only for the taste. She'd never drink enough to feel it. Myself, I did not like beer or flavored beers of any type, but I could enjoy pretending to get high on marijuana with a beautiful young woman even if her husband was due home in an hour or so. Betsy had the weed. In fact, Craig sold it to suppliment their incomes. She had been authorized by our wise legislators for a year to drink, but they had quickly yanked away their law permitting this at the  suggestion of MADD, a group of mothers who'd bred a bunch of children who couldn't drive, drink or dodge others who couldn't handle this most dangerous of drugs. Betsy would have to wait another year to enjoy this vice, except for me and her husband.  I was glad to help her break this law.
Some of the best times S spent in the mid‑cities of DFW were working with Betsy or idling away time with her and Craig. Craig was an intelligent and playful person too, blond, but a bit short in stature and snotty‑superior for one so young. This aspect of his personality didn't reveal itself for a long time, or I didn't realize it at first. Also, his character flaws were masked by those of Betsy's brother, Frank, who was nigh‑on to intolerable. Fortunately for me, I seldom saw either of them compared to how often I saw Betsy.
Betsy quickly tired of the relatively lonesome job of laundress. Also, her good work habits and optimistic disposition attracted the attention of the administrator. She quickly realized that Betsy's talents would be better utilized as a nurse's aide with a raise in pay. Between Betsy, Joyce, Jana, Carol, Suzy, Jaime, myself and several others, the residents of this nursing home got a higher level of care than when we'd arrived. Jaime was another bombshell who, while not blond, had another intriguing characteristic I'd only seen once before: calico eyes! This is a genetic condition, (I'm told) . that makes one or both pupils droop down into a triangular shape. This makes the eyes	sparkle more, perhaps because they're larger. The effect is a conversation‑stopper. The eyes look shiny and dialated, same as you'd expect in a person who has just done a goodsize dose of DMT or mescaline. Jaime was another person whose demeanor, personality and beauty made them exceptionally attractive. As are most gorgeous women, Jaime was already married.
Suzy was in her early twenties and did good quality, fast work. Though she was a bit chubby and not so pretty as some, she was a lot of fun to be around and to work with. She knew how to work smart instead of long and hard. We all depended on each other when we needed help with patients.
Many of our patients were pretty much catatonic: accepting care, but neither speaking, making eye contact or otherwise acknowledging the outside world. Most of us on the first two shifts shared the philosophy of stimulating our patients with ongoing patter about the weather, questions about their health, preferences, wants, etc; anything to draw them out. Every time we entered a patient's room to feed, clothe, bathe, change the linens or anything else, we'd go on and on about events of outside reality and quested for any type of response.
One of the most pathetic of these catatonia cases was Bill. He was a thin, emaciated man in his late seventies. He eternally slept, or, when awake, feigned sleep, his eyes never more open than a crack. His only response to outside influence was to take food from a spoon when he felt it touch his lips, chew slowly and swallow.
Every tuesday it was my job to shave and comb Bill for the impending visit of his younger sister. She would come once every week for an hour or so of silent vigil. None of us could discern any cause for Bill's catatonia, and all of us felt it was a tragedy born of apathy rather than any physical cause such as a stroke or age‑related dementia. This turned out to be true. One day I was feeding him his lunch. I'd been talking to him for so long with no response that my light‑hearted chatter was becoming stale arid repetitious, almost reflexive and monotonic. I asked Bill one of the same questions I always asked him: "If you could have anything you wanted right now, what would it be?" While I paused to let him finish chewing and swallow, he croaked two words, barely heard: "A beer."

I nearly laughed with delight from hearing this man's first words in years, if not decades. Immediately I told Bill that I'd go ask the nurse if this was okay. Sadly, both Jana and Carol said this was not something they could condone. I told Bill's sister about this breakthrough, and she seemed unimpressed. I doubt Bill ever got a sip of beer.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rent Barons, Copculture and Citizen‑Sociology
What are we going to do tomorrow...? Same thing we do every day; try and take over the world!
									           Pinky and the Brain
This job was so low‑wage that I could not stay. Working sixteen hours per day was simply taking up too much of my time. I had to have a living wage and time to myself in order to make progress in getting the lawcrats' lies off me. One job I made time to apply for was a landscaping crew. The ad claimed to pay $5.50/hour and work a 40 hour week.
I had to drive all the way to Garland to see the guy. It turned but to be a lying ad by a rich retiree who exploited children while cheating the govt. He advised me to keep my steady job. His 'work' was taking a bunch of children on weekends or evenings when he felt like it and matching them up with his trailer full of lawn mowers and edgers. It was a complete waste of my time, mileage and effort.
The one thing I didn't plan on doing was to leave an affluent enclave empty‑handed. Instead my plan was to buy a limb saw and solicit some tree‑trimming work. The neighborhood was full of shaggy trees hanging low over the street. After ten minutes of knocking on doors, a Texas Instruments employee hired me to trim two of his trees for forty dollars. Though it was ten AM, he had to rush off to work. He wrote out the check and gave it to his eleven year old son to present to me after satisfactory completion of the work. The work only took two hours. His kid left early to go play with his friend, leaving me with the check.  I'd just made $20/hour, the highest wage I'd ever made; more than double the highest wage I'd ever enjoyed, and almost four times my usual wage. I was very proud of myself for a while. Then I found that no one wanted to cash his check. Three places turned up their noses at it. Then I went to Texas Instruments to find the guy. The guard at the gate told me I was five minutes too late to get past him. It took me eight hours and thirty miles plus another meeting with the guy at a grocery store to get the thing cashed. On top of this, the guy complained a bit that I'd taken too much off his front tree!
Another job I landed was remodeling business offices, but it turned out that they were just a bunch of entrepreneurs with no work. They wanted me ready to go to work when work materialized, but in six months no work materialized. On top of this, the woman acted annoyed that I'd found a real job in the interim.
Finally I got a real job as a laboratory technician in a place on research row. At first, they only wanted me for cleaning and sterilizing instruments, mixing growth mediums and processing kits from hospital diagnostic labs. Slowly they realized that my education and intellect suited me for more complicated duties than disinfecting, autoclaving and noting results of tests.

This job paid enough to make me want to get steady housing of my own. It was getting very tiresome being continually harassed by nosy cops wanting to tow off my van for ransom, being run out of motel rooms by eager maids and having to be a taxi service for drug‑addicted females.
The first place I tried was a run‑down apartment complex nearby called 'Bridgeport', so named, I guessed, by the fact that it was encircled by a deep ditch and had several thick slabs of concrete across it for vehicles to enter and exit. Many termed this ditch an open sewer. It bred thousands of mosquitoes. It suited me because it had many exits. The newer complexes are purposely designed to hinder access and egress, limiting their victims to one road, and it stuffed full of speedbumps. They sell this pinchpoint as a benefit called 'security' and fools into gladly paying extra for it by claiming that otherwise they'd suffer hordes of thieves, vandals, robbers and rapists. The real function of the rent‑barons' access control is less about keeping criminals out and more about monitoring the routines of the inhabitants within so they can't sneak in freeboarders, pets or sublet to others.
Below the surface, persons who run apartment houses are a lot like secret police. They make fabulous profits and work closely with the police or for the cops when not acting as cops. A few basic things everyone should realize about these people and their lackeys are:  they have pacts with the cops. No one will ever tell their victims this, but every month they send their maintenance men around to check every vehicle in their lot. They are, by city ordinance, required to snitch off to the cops each and every expired tag, out‑of‑state tag, expired safety stickers, ete, so the cops can appear and force payment of all known fees, fines, taxes, penalties and 'service' charges. While the cops are there collecting these revenues, they always root around for more, such as expired insurance, invalid driver's licenses, improper titles and anything else they can profit from or steal for ransom or sale. Cops and the city officials they work for are famous for having many secret sources of income and slush finds the public has no knowledge of. It was found that the Kansas City cops wanted to stick the taxpayers for a new gymnasium complex to the tune of about $2 million. They claimed to be broke and spent thousands on a PR firm to trick the taxherd into coughing up the money in new tax levys. Then it was found that the police chief had a secret slush fund that not even the police commissioner knew about'. This somehow leaked out and the Kansas City Star uncovered about $5 million the cops had stashed and revealed about seven sources of income that no one seemed to have noticed, ranging from stolen property auctions they'd skimmed to schoolkids' bike tag fees. The KC cops grudgingly decided to buytheir own sports/gymnasium complex after being	. caught red‑handed in the act of picking the taxherd's pockets. (See: Kansas City Star, circa 1994)
Also about once a month the rent barons' lackeys are sent to burglarize everyone's apartment under the guise of various ruses, usually having to do with phony maintenance calls, bug spraying expeditions, AC/heating tests, etc. These are forays into your life to search out violations like unpaid‑for pets, criminal activity such as dope‑growing, prohibited changes of locks, vandalism, fire hazards, unsanitary conditions and anything else they can think of to charge extra for or use as a crowbar to jack up the rent.

You get zero privacy in these places. In every one that I've rented, I can't think of a single one that didn't have someone secretly search through my effects regularly. No renter can keep these voyeuristic, cop‑sucking, money‑grubbing clowns out of our business, but a locking chest can sometimes section off a small, critical portion from their bulging eyes and probing fingers.
One trick I always use is to change the locks. Denying them access infuriates them, but it provides a good measure of your relative privacy. They always tell you to change the locks back the same day they tried to burglarize your domicile. This tells you roughly how often you're targeted for routine searches.
Sometimes, though, they make special, impromptu searches of everyone's domicile, : such as when police and management team up to search for real criminals who have somehow disappeared within the complex or when they are searching your residence due to your neighbors siccing them on you for spite or 'suspicious activity'. Spite and suspicion are easily brought on by not being friendly enough or by not stopping to bump gums with the idlers in a complex often enough. In some of the sleazier places ruthless or trusting people will let even more ruthless friends sleep over while they work. Often these shiftless people study the habits of the neighbors and commit balcony‑thefts, etc, using their unsuspecting friends' apartment as cover. Corruption is human nature, and its prevalence is inversely related to wealth. The magnitude of corruption is directly related to wealth.
The woman who managed Bridgeport wanted $25 just to see if I made enough money to afford the place. Having no idea of what it took to qualify for the place, and being dimwitted and slow, I didn't ask her for specifics and settled for the vague answers she gave that were calculated to separate a fool from his money. Since I had no credit rating, she simply stole my money and refused to rent to me. Credit reports, I discovered too late, then cost $7, giving her an $18 profit for doing nothing. Instead of Bridgeport, whose carpets were the same color as the cockroaches that infested the place, I found a better, cheaper, closer place in the Thrifty Nickle called "Evergreen Park". This place had a side for people who had young children to run amok, and a side for people who did not want children climbing all over the staircases and running into traffic.
About a month after I moved in I was forced to buy a television. The geniuses who sell video‑vomit had found a cur who didn't have brains enough to keep an eye on a young child he should never have been permitted to spawn. He'd stupidly neglected his child until the kid vanished. He dreamed up colorful visions of cunning pedophiles to cover his incompetence and to duck well‑deserved prison time for child neglect/endangerment. His stories were so good that a cheezy network gave him a weekly broadcast show where he could atone for his own crimes by rabidly attacking others. The phantom pedophile John Walsh had conjured in his mind never appeared in reality, nor has any corpse of the child he neglected watching, but of course none of his cop‑pals have ever dug up any of this guy's basement, either. Meanwhile I was forced to watch this charlatan's self‑aggrandizing antics every week. The guy built a lucrative life out of his inability to protect hisown child and I had to watch the self‑righteous buffoon spew his hatred and bilge for over a decade: no intelligent person should have to suffer such insults to our psyches. Watching this fool froth and posture was the most wretched thing I had to do.  

Also about this time I'd become prosperous enough to begin my search for the killer, finally. Qunion Leigh was still in prison, but I still wanted to search the neighborhood in which he lived for connections to John Frederick Shelton, the guy the prisoncrats had hired murdered, thinking he was the killer.	Leigh knew who this killer was, and I assumed that he'd finished his little sentence at the McAuschwitz trustee building and returned home. I knew that this killer had used John Shelton as an alias and thereby concluded : that they had been friends or at least acquainances at one time. This made it seem likely that Shelton's family knew the killer too. It seemed that if they could be tracked down and shown a picture of me, they may confuse me with the killer and call me by his name. They may even tell me, if they know; if they still reside in Tulsa. Easier said than done. I went through incredible hassle to do the following and spare you the details.
The phone book didn't have near as many Sheltons in it than I'd expected for so common a name. I sent them all a letter of explaination and a picture of me from 1972. Not any of them answered. (So much for the cop/media/politician alliance's hype about citizens being eager to get those criminals into prison at breakneck speed. Apparently the hysterical anti‑crime posse consists primarily of those who profit off crime: cops, lawyers, politicians and media whores.)
Calling them had the same effect, except worse: each and every one of them were immediately suspicious of me and my motives; not one of them were able to take my situation at face value; not one of them gave a rat's ass about finding the porn‑merchant's killer; not one would admit to having a relative slain in prison; the majority of them wanted to sic the cops on me despite my information that their relative was murdered by the prisoncrats. Obviously the proud citizens of Tulsa were going to make me come there in person to make any progress at all. Just as obviously I'd alerted the Tulsa cops to my plan to sneak into their city and dig up that which they had buried and did not wish found. There is no doubt that the Tulsa cops got a lot of calls about my calls and letters to all the Shelton households.
After waiting several weeks and learning that the cops had given up staking out my mail box and pay phones, I did make several short trips to Tulsa to do this type of research. I spent many weekends searching the microfilm files, old phone books and city ‑ maps plotting places, paths and distances. All my vague theories and postulates about the killer and Shelton living near the porn merchant's home remained nothing but theories and postulates. Many weekends of combing the neighborhoods didn't get me any closer to actually finding the guy himself or anyone who remembered him. All I could find was that no Sheltons lived within running distance of the Hunt home. Other than this, the passage of time was too great, obscuring everything.
Another roadblock was my family. I could not endanger them by contacting Leigh or his relatives. All but one or two of my relatives are too innocent and unknowing of crim‑
inal reality to stand any chance of surviving a sneak attack from the cops or Leigh's cronies. They would be as defenseless as lambs in a slaughterhouse if the cops or Leigh's associates determined to collect the $1000 reward promised for my corpse. Leigh's snitching me to the cops wouldn't necessarily get me caught, but it would lead to yet another round of secret and overt cop‑attacks upon my family and all known relatives. The cops would harass and wreck their lives, using me as their excuse. They had had enough of this already and deserved peace. Because of this, no one could know of my research or presence. The cops are expert at mauling the innocent for their own purposes and no doubt had their state kidnapping team snooping around and skulking quietly in the shadows, ready to strike.

Since this treatise is going to become a chapter in the pigs' Bible about how intelligent persons elude the fascist state, I can't say here but the most obvious techniques for thwarting them. The advanced version is available elsewhere under the titles THINC and MINDFOOD. Here I can only say that persons afoot are virtually invisible to the cops during daylight hours among city streets. This is partly because they are so intent upon snatching up the rich motherlode of vehicular revenue that their lawyer system pals have legislated for them. When forced to use vehicles, public transportation is less monitored by the ruling elite's lackeys than their badged thugs want fools to imagine. Also, bicyclists are almost as invisible to the cops as foot traffic. Cops will seldom alight from the air conditioned comfort of their luxury patrol cars to harass cyclists or pedestrians, especially if we smile and wave at the cops. There is just not enough profit in it for them to bother. They will chase cars and trucks every time unless specifically aroused. Being driven is safer from cop. attacks than driving, especially when the victims are well schooled in the techniques on how to prevent and minimize police interrogations perpetrated as curiosity stops in traffic. (See: How to Survive Police Curiosity Stops, which I wrote, and How to Survive a Traffic Stop, by F. Lee Bailey.) These same techniques work almost as well for the driver, and all citizens who enjoy privacy and living our own lives without police intrusions should study them.
Motorcyclists are fairly safe from snooping cops simply because there is no way to conceal stuff on a bike. One who dresses the part of a youngster with no money who obeys the traffic laws will only be harassed by bored cops and cops taking their usual shotgun approach in response to any call about any motorcycle. A simple technique can be employed by bikers that virtually guarantees your escape from all but the greasiest, luckiest car‑driving cops. I invented and refined this technique, have successfully used it at least four times to ditch nosy cops bent upon attacking me and never had to ditch the bike itself. Best, this technique does not appear in any cop manual and the current crop of brainless criminals show no more likelihood of discovering it now than they did thirtyfive years ago.	(See: Bike Beats Car Every Time.) The trouble with bikes, though, is that the car‑driving lackwits may drive over you through pure idiotic inattention and continue on completely unaware of what that thump and crunching noise was.
One thing that is guaranteed to attract cops like flies to feces is travel with Black friends. White‑with‑Black‑Friends makes the tiny cop‑brains shriek 'Dopedeal!' This alone is enough excuse; cops will always pull a curiosity stop and snoop into your business when they see White and Black travel together in privately owned vehicles. Their secret cop manuals teach them to do this and that they will always escape personal liability when they pull this illegal stunt. They do it, and all the civil rights laws a . planetful of lawcrats can vomit will not stop them or even slow their depredations one iota. When dodging the pigs, never mix races. White‑with‑Black makes a cop‑magnet:

One memorable time I sneaked back to Tulsa one of their badged reptiles missed the bust of her career. Physically, it was a she, but mentally she was a barely disguised dyke. Rhonda Rodentia carried a .40 caliber automatic almost as big as her head and she hid behind cheap‑looking plastic mirror sunglasses. My researches had required me to stay in town a long time and to work a shitjob. I was working for a Black woman who worked for the Tulsa cops as a low‑level bureaucrat. She was helping me dig into their secret files and I was helping her son learn the work ethic without his realizing it. Part of this ` task entailed he and I working together at a plastics factory for one of the labor halls. Since I was the only one with a vehicle, I would drive several other workers to and from this factory. Only one was Hispanic, the rest Black. One hot days' end we all had our signed receipts and were heading to the labor hall to trade them for our checks. This is when I saw this pig‑bitch slowly coming at us in her copcar. She gawked hard at us as she passed, as if she could taste crime on us.
Nobody panicked. Everyone thought there was nothing that this sorry maggot could get us for. Also, I watched the megalomaniac cur drive completely out of sight in my mirrors. Most pigs are too arrogant to bother being sneaky. At least this was the case before they let females be pigs. I'd never met any female pigs and didn't realize that this bitch was going to go half a mile to get out of sight before skulking back to shit on us. When she did come slithering back toward us in my mirrors, I thought it was a different pig. Like some kind of wild‑eyed idiot, she passed us again, gawking hard at us as if she was after a particular African and couldn't decide if she saw him or not.
By this time we all knew that this scummy bitch was going to harass us, so I decided to return the favor. Being a master of pig psychology, their motivation and textbooks, I knew that her training required her to weasel herself and her copcar behind us before
she would trigger her strobe lights. With this fact in mind, I pulled in behind her.	' Only her tiny, tortured, sadistic mind knew why she'd passed us in the first place. We all knew she was going to harass us in person soon as we saw her sneaking up behind us. Anyway, the purpose of this exercise is to make her theft of our freedom as unpleasant as possible so as to discourage such harassing attacks in the future.
The traffic was not with me, and the drivers were fast to react to her frantic waving and pointing. For almost five minutes I was able to thwart her, then the sheeple in the other vehicles realized that the pig wanted in the lane I wasn't in. This bitch was eventually able to squirrel herself and her copcar into the other lane without me following her. Then, like the arrogant cop she was, she stopped in the middle of the lane,	> blocking everyone behind her. I wasn't about to be such a maggot and inconvenience everyone behind me, so I passed. Immediately the bitch swooped in behind me like a rabid dog chasing a fox. The swarm of cops would arrive to watch her pull her harassments. Even if there is only one defenseless person in the cop's crosshairs, they call the swarm first. Their massive firepower, excessive armor and hordes of citizen henchmen are not enough. Cops are thorough cowards until their swarm arrives.
Soon as this badged maggot got assurance that the swarm was on the way, she turned on her strobes and I stopped. As usual, I always assume that the pig is attacking me so they can satisfy their overweaning curiosity and pickpocket me out of any petty fees and fines they can dream up. Since they can't penetrate my identity through this type of revenue‑sucking behavior, I am fairly safe from them simply murdering me on the street‑as if I was an African or Hispanic. For all the pigs know, I may be a judge's brat or a cop's cousin. They must first determine that I am fair game before they go too insane with their unchecked addiction to power.

Since the pigs fake‑up a friendly face to push themselves onto the unsuspecting public, I always act friendly too, because my job also is, ostensibly, to protect (the pigs) and serve (the pigs), same as it is with any other cop‑fearing citizen trapped in a police state. Thus I always paste a huge smile on my face, get out, wave and say hello while I politely see how much of my money, property and life the pigs want to steal from me this time.
This is where the fraud of the pigs' happy‑face‑to‑the‑public ends. The pigs' happyface is merely a marketing device, not to be confused with their real face, which is many cocked gunbarrels pointed at your brains. The bitch, still in her copcar, emits terrified shrieks at me, meant to sound like the threats they are.
"Go sit in your car! Go back to your car!" and on and on. Cops are trained to shriek this at you and to ignore all reasonable questions until you give up and follow their commands.
Since the pigs can and do use any excuse to murder, and always escape the consequences of their crimes, I always keep my license in a very accessible place. This way the pigs can't claim to he frightened into murdering you so easily as normal by imagining that you are 'digging for a gun' as their manual tells them to pretend. I exit with my palms open, flat and fingers spread; obviously empty to all, especially the new dashcams these shitbags are forced to use. The license is held edge‑on so that the pig can only see a thin line, if that, sandwiched between my foremost and index fingers. I also take care to attract as many onlookers (witnesses) as possible. This makes it less likely that the pigs will murder you, though collecting witnesses infuriates the pigs if they catch you doing this. Also, if they do murder, there is the increased likelihood that one witness may possess his own mind and have spine enough to tell the actual facts despite the subsequent massive efforts of the cop/media alliance to convert reality into blameshifting lies. They always succeed in blaming their victim for their murder of him, but we should not make it to easy for them to do so, else they will murder us all the faster.
Without passengers, I always 'accidently' lock myself out of my vehicle. Then I hope the curious pig doesn't have their standard burglar tool that unlocks almost all cars. With passengers, it depends, but usually this is a good way to dupe the pigs out of pulling their illegal searches of your vehicle. This time I left the car open because my passengers were too cowed to leave.
The bitch wouldn't stop screaming to tell me why she had targeted me for her attack. It was an illegal abduction. I'd violated no laws, all my lights were working and all the govt‑required stickers, tags, taxes, fees, fines, charges and other cashgrabs were up to date and paid. She had no reason to attack me other than having remembered my face and wanted to snoop for reasons I can't divulge here without endangering some friends. Private Rodentia would not leave the safety of her copcar until two other youngstercops showed up. Then she ran off my passengers with threats so as to have no troublesome witnesses to see her crimes. Then she stole my car, kidnapped me and tried to trick me into giving her some free information on another person she was hell‑bent on finding.
She got nothing from me but my car and me. Since it was a fraudulent attack, her cronies threw me out of their cage after a couple of hours or more. Ransoming my car from them cost $60. They are truly scum of the earth and the largest, most vile gang of crooks since Hitler's stormtroopers, if not nearly as intelligent.

One other shit‑eating Tulsa pig missed his chance to make the arrest of his career but he couldn't penetrate my identity from a mere harassment‑abduction curiosity‑stop either. This is the pigs' primary center of research now. They know that this is their weak spot and are frantically working on how to connect your person to their records against you from the dashboards of their copcars. Within twenty years the pigs will be able to steal your DNA directly from your body and use it from their copcars to connect you to their records against you within half an hour. This universal theft of every citizen's freedom will occur even sooner if a few more semi‑intelligent mad‑bomber types like Kaczynski and McVeigh manage to fuck‑off the few remaining tatters of our freedom through their inability to see the big picture. The pigs view such bombings as golden opportunities to strangle us even worse as they get billions in extra money shoved at them for doing a very bad job. If the ruling class had any intelligence and a long, non‑selfishview, it would stop its injustice factories and fix the problems instead of arrogantly adding to them.
These trips to Tulsa trying to sneak evidence out of the cops' lair didn't amount to much besides a huge expense. I did manage to successfully invade their courthouse records warehouse a few times, but these are bullshit records specifically pabulumized for the scrutiny of lawcrats, exceptionally resourceful citizens and the occasional media hack.
I found a history of Shelton, some of the circumstances of his arrests, that he was a dope addict, police snitch and jail trustee. The fact that he spent so much time as their jail trustee and testifying for the cops against others tended to imply that there were many people in blue uniform using him to advance their careers. His pal, the killer, by inferance, was probably performing the same types of services for the cops to escape prison time. Both were in the McAlester prisons at the same time, and thus it seemed likely that the killer, as well as Shelton, enjoyed long careers dodging prison by working for the cops, supplying them testimonial lies in return for county and city jail time. No doubt the judges knew Shelton as a steady customer for their leniency; probably this held true for the killer as well.	If this were true, it certainly would give the lawcrats incentive to keep the facts from escaping their lairs. My main problem was that the court records had no pictures, only names. I'd have to get to their real records; the ones the cops made and used for themselves, not the revisionist bullshit records of the judges and prosecutors that had no function beyond justifying the sentences they were about to blast their targets with.
My path led back to DFW each time. Only there was I able to stay unsoiled by the Okie‑crooks' jurisdiction yet be near enough to make forays attempting to rip the truth from their secret files. Also, Texas paid a living wage.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Truck‑shot and the Jogging Swede
Prohibition made the most vicious people on earth the richest people on earth.
										      Bob Newland

While making slight progress in Tulsa, I suffered a setback in Texas. Living in the mid‑cities between Dallas and Fort Worth was nice even though it was dry in the alcoholic sense. For most of my life I wouldn't touch alcohol, but this is something you just can not seem to avoid if you don't live and breathe Church and temperance. All the people at work drank and many smoked dope. In these modern times it seemed that the dividing line between juicers and dopers had blurred even more, leaving many people with double the number of vices. Thanks to the cops' efforts, the second‑worst drug of all time became the drug of choice simply because it is 'legal'. Because I had become immune to the weakkneed version of THC available today, and because of the overwhelming prevalence of alcohol, I was finally taught a taste for beer. The corporate invention of 'total Quality' helped too as it trickled down to us in the franchises. In order to help sell this 'total quality' nonsense, the bosses would dream up outings and diversions to help socially weld us independent contractors into a well‑oiled, efficient, total quality machine.
The first of these attempts was a practically mandatory 'bonus' consisting of an $8 ticket to the 'Sportatorium' to watch championship wrestling (for God's sake!) Since the age of twelve I've called this stuff 'championship acrobats' or worse. How anyone could be entertained by this was a mystery to me; I can't even sit still for five minutes watching women's pudding wrestling. I certainly am not watching any minutes of fat guys feigning a fight. The secretary wouldn't take the ticket back, nor could she accept the fact that I didn't have a saturday to blow on nonsense. My philosophy is that business and work should stay business and work instead of trying to turn into a social club.
When I first got this job almost all of the workers smoked weed and snorted speed, or at least the trash that had traces of speed in it and thus was thought of as speed by the youngsters who knew no better. This is before they made us wear name tags and uniforms and give them piss to test. Joe and his pretty wife were the main party‑pair in the work bunch. They went to the wrestling matches, as did everyone but me, and told me about it later. Joe took particular delight in sending the boss up to the concessionaire to bring everyone back expensive cups of beer every five minutes. This he related to me while we watched a new show at his home: Pee Wee's Playhouse. We laughed for hours.
The second after‑work mandatory party was a fish‑fry and beer‑bust at the secretary's home. No one was allowed in her home except the boss and other management persons.
About twelve of us sat in chairs in her back yard. The only thing to drink was beer or the garden hose, and there was no telling where that had been, so I reluctantly began to carefully drink beer. I say carefully because my plan was to stay only until I needed to whiz badly. They had a brand of beer that was very good because it tasted a 1©t like plain water. If you have to drink beer, I recommend it. It's called Olympia. The fish were good and plentiful as the beer, and were served with fries and catsup. One of our corporate salespeople came by with a safety man. It turned out to be more enjoyable than I thought it would be, especially when it degenerated into a coin‑toss game (lagging) that a Black employee suggested. He won a substantial amount of money, most of it coming from management pockets. I developed a taste for beer somehow and even began purchasing the crap for my own use occasionally.
Alcohol kills brain cells and is the only drug with which it is possible to wake up covered in someone else's blood and have no idea how it occurred. These facts helped me dodge this bullet all my life up to this time. Despite this knowledge I decided one saturday morning to get my exercise by riding my Bugatti the six or seven miles to the political beer‑boundry and making a purchase.

Taking my tie‑downs and a few plastic bags I headed north for a quick ride.	Because the car‑drivers will kill bicyclists, I stayed off the major thoroughfares. While riding through richer and more affluent neighborhoods I became intrigued by an alley that had a sign prohibiting casual traffic. It was high time I made a right turn, too, and being curious as to what surprises lay in store for trespassers, I turned up this alley for a look. It was Hubris for the homeowners to think they could close off an alley merely by trying to dupe people into thinking, wrongly, that they owned it. There was, of course, nothing to see but the back doors and garages. At the end of the alley was another and another, each of which had the prohibition signs, and each of which I traversed.
Just before reaching the end of the third alley I saw a couple of football lovers in their driveway, sitting on the sidewalls of a blue mini‑pickup with Dallas Cowboy crapola stuck to its bumpers and windows. They looked at me. I smiled and waved. These two young goofs must have thought I was a Mexican looking for a daylight burglary to perform, because I saw them later on McArthur street. They sped by and shot me in the head with a wristrocket while screaming, "...uckin' greaser!" Then a careless female shot by, almost driving over me too as I sprawled against the curb, trying to pull my bike up onto the sidewalk and safety. A couple of older folks saw what happened and stopped to assist, but they couldn't help. The football kids were long gone, and I was only bleeding a bit from my ear; not enough damage to justify a trip to the hospital. My helmet had stopped most of their mischief. Instead, I thanked the old couple, cursed the football kids for their cowardly sneak attack and, insanely, decided that this would be a good time to call the cops. (Boy were my brains addled!)
It wasn't a good time to call the cops. A pair of young, snot‑nosed cops came to my apartment. They'd come as a pair because they were afraid to come alone. They know what kind of people they are. You could tell by their demeanor that they had an agenda. Their plan was to minimize their workload. They were determined to make me accept their story instead of what happened. They wanted me to accept their conjecture that somehow a rock flew up from a tire, turned 90 degrees in mid air to slam into the side of my head. I told these lazy bags of shit to get the hell out of my home. Worthless Bastards! I'm certain they returned to the donut palace form whence they'd come. The one time I decide to call the pigs and give them everything they need to put two assaultive scumbags in jail is the one time I need to re‑affirm my knowledge of how self‑serving and pompous the pigs are. Their techniques for dodging work are much more complex and efficient than I'd ever imagined! Already knowing from long experience how completely worthless and actually harmful the courts are, I instead decided to give up riding a bicycle amongst such vicious scum.

But I didn't come to this decision all of a sudden. First I began jogging through that neighborhood and those particular alleyways just before dusk in hopes of meeting one or both of those twerps one more time.	I didn't know exactly which of those rowhouses they'd come from, but I'd know the truck if they ever stopped parking it hidden in their garage. The more I couldn't find them, the less angry I got. After a few trips with no success, I returned to :jogging for its own sake. Fact is, there are a lot more scum out there running loose than there ever used to be. After being shot by the kids, a nigger in a two‑ton truck tried to edge me over so he could spit on me as I rode my motorcycle by. A white piece of dogshit tried to lob an open can of soda at me; a silly broad did get me to break my fork‑tubes on the ass‑end of her car; a second silly broad, this one only careless and stupid instead of racist and prejudiced, made me wipe out in the rain; another, merely a stupid nigger, tried to drive over me as he yakked on his truck's CB, and a Mexican thought he was going to run me off the road. Only the football kids really scored; them and the Black bitch who got my forks. All the others missed completely. All this crap happened in a short span in DFW. Years ago, people were not purposely mean and they didn't try to kill motorcyclists just for fun or because they were white. Some people are just undercover psychopaths. They must hate their lives so much that they get cheap titillation from trying to kill or maim strangers if they think there is no chance of them getting caught at it. These types of people should be sought out. Instead of the cops enticing youngsters to buy dope, steal cars or burglarize buildings, they should try their precious 'sting' (baiting) technology to uncover these secret psychopaths. They need to be labeled, and they need therapy, and they need to be prevented from spreading their misanthropy elsewhere. But this will never happen: such stings would catch too many cops, guards, judges and prosecutors. These professions attract sadists, and once they are uncovered, it is too easy for them to feign being cured.
While engineering another encounter with the football kids one evening I saw a very old man jog past perpendicular to my course half a block ahead of me just before I was to cut right into no‑tresspasser‑alley. This put me parallel to the old man's course and we were both heading east. Due to his extreme age and my relative youth, it seemed certain that I'd pass the guy somewhere in the next three blocks I'd be traversing and thus I'd probably never see him again. On the far side of the third alley I hadn't seen the twerps or their truck, but upon exiting and turning south for home, I found the old man many yards ahead of me and still running at a fast pace! This old codger was so shriveled up that he couldn't be less than sixty‑five, and his usual pace was faster than my own!
This embarrassed me no end! I had to catch this guy and try and learn the secret of his health. Increasing the length and frequency of my pace, I pulled up beside him and said hello. He reciprocated. We jogged side by side for a full twenty minutes at his pace. We conversed throughout. He said that this was his natural pace and that he jogged every evening, pretty much. His accent was Scandinavian. He was an electronics executive for a firm that sounded like 'Vappenfabrik'. He was tall and thin like me and had thick, reddish‑blond hair shot through with very little grey. He admitted to being a whopping seventy‑four years old!  He'd never smoked, which made me feel better because at least I had this excuse. He had just started out healthy and stayed healthy and was now enjoying the benefits of his lifestyle. He was retired, thus he had more time to devote to fitness, which was one reason why his workout was more exhaustive than mine. I determined that I'd gotten lax by jogging by myself or with women who were not really competitive. (Suprizingly, it seems that men jog less than women, and that women like to jog at dawn.) This was my cue to try harder.	Instead of jogging three times per week for an hour or so at an evidently slow pace, I switched to a faster pace, began taking more time and did my jogging more frequently. Thanks to Mr. Anderssen I was in better shape and more able to cope when I really need to. I keep up as rigorous a fitness regimen as I can, and hope it will be enough to keep me as fit at seventy‑four as he.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Betsy bombed, Craig cracked, Media miffed, Pigs Plundered
Never argue with idiots: it's like wrestling with a pig: you both get dirty, and the pig loves it.
										                Unknown

Though I'd moved farther away and changed jobs, I still saw Betsy and Craig occasionally. Betsy switched to a better paying job delivering pizza for Dominoes. She was so very good‑looking that she made excellent tips. Occasionally she'd drop by my apartment
and we'd smoke, drink and talk. Betsy brightens everyone's day and is a lot like the proverbial 'Wendy' of the song of the same name. Betsy always smiled and only saw life in its best light: Also, she'd wear a bare midriff in summer and a top that would show underneath the fine curve of her breasts.
She loved Craig, though, and I never treated her anything but proper. Craig was also my friend for a long time. The relationship began to suffer after a couple of years. Betsy and I were simply talking and having a great time when out of the blue she remarked to me, "Nobody can come between me and Craig." Another time she went south on me too, but at least this time I could deduce why. She asked me to see if I could get her battery terminal off so she could scrape the corrosion off and maybe get her Datsun running again and go back to work. You could tell by the date on it and its condition that the battery was shot after having worked almost twice its design lifetime. The terminal post flexed alarmingly as I pried on it with a large screwdriver. Betsy told me to quit in her polite way of speaking. I told her I had a spare battery in my truck that she could have and that her's was shot anyway. I kept on prying and she got really angry, though I could hardly tell it. I should have listened to her instead of taking it for granted that she really wanted her car fixed right then. She wanted her pride more, and I had taken it from her in my zeal to achieve the goal she'd set me.
Later, Craig and I returned from somewhere and found her in her Datsun, arriving home from work. Craig accosted her about some money and viciously slapped her. Then he escaped quickly into their apartment. He'd made Betsy cry; assaulted her over a paltry sum; less than ten dollars. When I tried to see if she was all right, she told me, "I'm sorry you had to see that." I told her that I was appalled that it happened and asked her if she wanted me to go in there and slap him around some. She didn't want that, so I told her that she should not allow such behavior. Also, I offered to teach her a few tricks on how to defend herself. Betsy is a big, stout young woman nearly my size and she had married a bit of a runt. It would take a little time and training to get the respect she deserved from him, but not much.
Betsy didn't want this either. Another time she came over. This time she complained about Craig having called her 'dumb' and "...the 'C' word". I tried to make her feel better and suggested coping strategies, just being a friend. Her marriage was slowly disintegrating, apparently because Craig was taking her for granted. She deserved better, and said so herself, but the only part that stuck in my mind was her preface, "I could have anyone I want..."

Soon as she said this, it became untrue: she couldn't have me. I became, in that instant, too tired to care. She and her snotty husband could go to Hell. I never saw either one of them after that. They did manage to afford a house and struggle on, but I'm sure they divorced shortly thereafter; all because of simple immaturity. Even so, I'm a richer person for having known them, and I especially enjoyed the time I spent with Betsy. She is one of a kind, and I'd sure like to see how she's grown now that she's more adept at life. She has great promise, and I'm sure happiness will follow her where ever she goes. It's all in her attitude. She reaps the good that she sows. I admire her ability to see only the best in everyone. Even knowing the psychology that causes this effect, I can't duplicate it in myself but for brief periods. This effect is why I'm so attracted to women who have this bubbly personality: I can't duplicate it for myself, and the best way for me to become happy is through contact with such people who are thus blessed. She just picked a guy who was not quite right for her.
Just to show you how immature Craig was, I relate this incident: I was driving him back along the expressway from getting car parts when he got spooked by another truck traveling next to us on his side. At about this time the car‑to‑car shootings had begun in California and spread to Texas, so said the news‑artists. Also some media hack coined  the term 'road rage'. Craig is a snotty, smart‑alec type of person, but he does it in a humorous way and is good at being humorous. Persons like him who are habitually on the verbal attack know that occasionally some of their victims see beyond their 'humor' and detect the true malice they often bear toward their fellow man. When this happens, they get slapped down. Also they develop a kind of paranoia that manifests itself as a flinching at quick, unexpected movements, as if they are always expecting what they know they deserve: payback.
Evidently Craig expected someone to give him some well‑deserved payback when he no‑ticed another van in the next lane‑apparently keeping station with his window. Perhaps he even recognized the guy driving it as an enemy he'd ripped off in a dope deal. (Craig sold weed at excessive prices as a low‑level dealer to the many friends his wife attractea.) Maybe he was so doped‑up that he hallucinated a shotgun coming up at him. Whatever it was, suddenly he ducked below the level of the window, cursed, commented on the new car‑to‑car shooting phenomenon, the van next to his window and how he could get shot. Also he demanded that I speed up or slow down to get away from the guy. Plainly he was very frightened or anxious about nothing I could discern but his own paranoia.
I didn't exactly make light of his fear, but I did smile a hit as I asked him if he was serious. He was always making some kind of mischief or pulling pranks. He got annoyed at my not taking him seriously. Whatever his real problem was, he extended it to me by childishly slamming the Hell out of my truck door in an adolescent tantrum, then fled into his domicile. Later this little twerp even pretended that this whole incident never happened. Like I said, Betsy goofed in chosing him.
My next trip to Tulsa occurred during my vacation from research row. I disguised my RV as an electrician's truck and went to work. The lady whose son I was working with previously was not sufficiently close to the right department of the Tulsa Police to benefit me much more. She introduced me to another police bureaucrat who was more closely connected to the records department (they had two) I needed. She also had a trouble‑seeking son, younger this time, who needed the same type of help. He was Black, suffered from  the same 'hate Whitey' culture, and had no father to teach him to respect his mother. Potential employers would see his hate and refuse to hire him. He would take this refusal as more reason to hate Whitey. This feedback loop had warped his young mind. My task was to make him more employable.
The problem went beyond having no father to discipline him. The kid already had the standard young, Black male problems of anti‑Whiteism, near total functional illiteracy, street miseducation and a slowness in understanding mechanical abstractions. He couldn't wait for honest work to pay off. He wasn't thrifty, didn't know how to intelligently use his time and simply would not learn what White culture taught was success. He'd realized he wasn't going to be a basketball star, but was stuck thinking he was going to get rich being a pimp drugdealer. I had thirty days to teach him basic residential electrification, wean him away from drugs and show him how his philosophy of hate and exploitation of others leads to personal disaster.

The work ethic came first, begining with an explaination of how to work electricity safely. Next was learning wiring diagrams, then an actual job. As karma would have it, I was working downtown Tulsa trying to fit a new diffusion globe on a short, old‑timey lamp post when a young girl came by. She was working for the Tulsa World newspaper; the same yellow rag that had printed all the anonymous cop‑lies about me. Her assignment was simple; to get a picture of some workman doing his job on a fine spring morning for the front page: This type of human interest pap is nothing I wanted. I tried to politely dissuade her from bothering me, saying that I wouldn't let her photograph the company logo on my hat. Like most females would, she decided I could not possible be serious. In her newspaper‑photographer mind she thought everyone would love to have her put their face on the paper. She started poking her camera at me anyway. I ducked beneath the brim of my hat and tried to affix the globe as she chased my face around the lamp post looking for the perfect shot. Knowing that she might already have stolen a picture of my face, this was not a time to further imprint her memory of me by being rude and telling her to beat it. Even so, her persistence was making it obvious that she didn't plan on walking any farther to complete her assignment. Finally I gave up trying to work and leaped down. Since she was immune to my obvious desire to avoid her camera, I told her, "I've got a good picture for you; just one block over I saw a fireman crawling under a building trying to rescue a litter of cats. That's just the type of 'news' the Tulsa World would like you to cover. Why don't you go get it?"
She finally got the picture. She spun on her heel and sped off, talking to herself. The very next day the rag she worked for had on its front page a young city worker fixing a traffic light. He looked like he enjoyed it more than I did. I could not believe that the exact last thing I wanted would be offered me. The Tulsa World is the same scummy rag that had helped the vicious Tulsa pigs conceal their torture of me by using trick photography to make my blood‑soaked handkerchief appear sparkling white in the publicity photos they took of me on 10‑22‑72. 1 was not going to let another of their cheezy photographers ruin my life this time.
At the end of my vacation I was moderately successful at teaching the bureaucrat's kid how to install minor electrical devices such as outlets, switches, lights and, of course, audio speakers. I say only moderately successful because he bought my tools, stock and van with drug money he and his older brother had made during weekends. In return, I was given a box of photocopies of records pertairiing to Shelton. None of it gave me much help in finding out who his killer/student was, but a lot of it was good for finding some of the various places he'd lived. The more interesting and useful stuff came from old newspaper files about the porn merchants. Reading the crap made a lot of it come back to me because I'd read most of it before when I was going to school and working for a veterinarian and only had time to read the paper and sleep. At the time there was a battle of

the big‑city prosecutors going on as Andy Coats (of Oklahoma City) and Buddy Fallis (Tulsa) were fighting to see which one would get to plant their big, fat lawyer‑asses in the governor's seat. Both had the same strategy of sucking out voters. They were both "cleaning up" the porn industry to impress the Church folk. First Fallis sent his police thugs to crash in the doors of a porn‑merchant and have his media‑whores not‑describe the hideous perversions they had hauled away. Then Andy Coats would do the same with his police stormtoopers and media whores. They would take turns conniving jurors into agreeing with these prosecutors on awarding hugely‑inflated sentences and fines to these perversionsellers. This game lasted two years, and the interesting part is that the Hunts were the last ones to get busted for it. Why? Because Mr. Hunt was working for the pigs! He'd made a sweet deal with the pigs to snitch off whoever of his porn‑merchant pals had the most obscene inventory and show the cops how to snatch it. Unfortunately for Mr. Hunt, his porn‑pals figured out he was snitching on them.	So they hired a young punk to kill him: Hunt knew he deserved to be paid back for what he was doing and would search under his car for bombs before driving it. They got him anyway, then the cops renegged on the deal to let his wife continue to sell filth after the cops had caused her husband's murder! They busted her and cost her their entire estate and porn business to eventually get a special deal on appeal that cut her tiny sentence and fine in half. Today a cop and his family live in their home and the lawyers got their porn business. Both Fallis and Coats shot themselves in their feet and had to return to private practice instead of practicing politics. Fallis was very clever in busting a number of the elite influence‑peddlers in Tulsa for playing poker in the Petroleum Club building. He shook them down for political favors, trying to get a federal judge's seat, in return for keeping their identities a secret and dropping charges because a 't' hadn't been crossed in their indictment. A more detailed account of this whole sordid affair appears elsewhere in my writings and is well worth reading just to see how scurvy politicians are. Now it looked like Mrs. Hunt was too afraid of the cops and prosecutors to try and nail her husband's killer instead of her just being duped by the cops into pointing at me. I still had no idea of why the other woman would point at me, except being also duped by the cops. The lawbooks are full of cases where the witnesses were only repeating words that the cops and prosecutors put in their mouths. Most of court testimony falls into this category. (See: Innocent's guide to avoiding false conviction.) What I reallyneeded was someone to look through the cops' previously‑convicted picture file to search out who looks like me and was a Tulsa jail trustee and was at the McAlester trustee building with Qunion Leigh.
This simple, expedient option was not available to me because I'd have to trust someone with the facts. Divulging the facts to anyone would quickly lead them to snitch me off to the pigs. The Tulsa pigs and crooked lawcrat class would either murder me off like they had Shelton, using an 'attempted escape' standard lie or say I hung myself in their jail, another standard lie. No. The criminals hiding behind the badges and under the silk robes and suits were not going to permit use of their secret files to catch the actual killer. This is why they'd ditched his blood and fingerprints before trial. The easy way was not going to happen.
Obviously the way to fight the elite, privileged class of Tulsa and McAlester is to enlist the aid of even worse criminals.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Tamara Widetrack and the Tittiebar Mob
If you don't visit a bad neighborhood, it will come visit you.  
     unknown

I knew from qunion Leigh that this killer had been at the McAlester trustee building in 1979.   He had made coy references of him after having seen him there himself, but would not reveal to me his name. Thus the prisoncrats undoubtedly have this killer's picture in their records from that period, but like the criminal cops, these prisoncrat criminals were likewise not going to permit me to uncover this killer either. Their records would remain secret from me and the public.
But there was a small chink in their armor. The prisoncrats have a photography station right out on prison grounds at McAlester. They let one of their trusted prisoners run it, and it is for keeping pictures of the prisoners in case one runs off. Also they make photo IDs to help keep track of them. This is their 'old', secondary stockpile of pictures. Their newer, primary stockpile is kept in the offices inside the administration building within the main prison complex, of course.
This place is situated in the middle of the trustee prison, with no fences to climb or dogs to keep quiet or fight off. It is empty except for the trustee who sleeps there at night, and the place has a glass door. The only trouble was the fact of a night guard andthe surrounding countryside.	The whole place was also fairly well lighted, which was scary, but not insurmountable. Since I had only just escaped from this place, it was not my desire to break back into the same slow death camp I abhorred so much. Better would be for me to find some unscrupulous individuals who would do so for pay.
With this in mind, I went to the most likely places to find such opportunists. Such opportunists are often alcoholics. The highest concentration of the lowest of the low tend to drink much alcohol. Despite what TV talking heads Dash Baritone and Perky Coiffure spew about junkies and crackheads, they know very little but the govt's anit‑drug 'war' nonsense that they are so lucratively paid to read on the air. I've observed and studied it all, point blank, in person for years and know: alcoholics are the absolute worst drug addicts ever. Not even barbiturates are as bad as alcohol because alcohol is everywhere and anyone who can let fruit rot can get some. (Even nature photographers will inject pure alcohol into ripe fruit just to get a few feet of videotape of drunken elephants, monkeys, horses, deer or other animals to sell the gullible public who readily believe that this is natural. It isn't. Think!) Alcohol makes people black out while their tiny little reptilian brains continue to function. They then can, and often do, murder, maim, torture, steal, vandalize, etc, with no moral or ethical care whatever. For another drink they will gladly sell their mothers to the devil. Then they fall out, sleep, wake and appear normal again, with no memory of any of the atrocities they perpetrated mere hours before.
Somehow the govt's TV anti‑drug slop misses completely this worst drug of all.	(Nicotine and tar are toxins, not drugs.) But I can sum up much of the problem with a onesentence quote from many of my redneck and cowboy acquaintances: "I like speed 'cuz it lets me drink more without passing out:"

Knowing which type of people I needed, it didn't take a great leap of insight to deduce where the most motivated and intelligent of them could be found. There is nothing like alcohol and nearly naked, jiggling females to attract hordes of ruthless, unscrupulous opportunists to one place where they can be accessed. The criminality attracted to these places of vice is so well known that cops routinely infiltrate the clientele and use these businesses as intelligence‑gathering apparatchiks. Many of them are owned by limited partnerships of cops, judges, prosecutors and bailbondsmenfor the simple reason that the prior owners had them stolen from them by the lawcrats for legal reasons. Big fish eat little fish. Police fish through these places for tag and driver's license and social security numbers every day in search of parole violators, targeted persons and likely suspects. The cops' closing‑time roadblocks seeking drunk‑driver revenue and assets are mere gravy ancilliary to their main function. The asset‑forfeiture/legal‑theft laws they bought makes these elite criminals very rich; much richer than your average drug dealer, no matter how high up and 'lord'ish these kings of criminality term them.
For simplicity, I merely call such places slutbars. Boozers can get alcohol anywhere and no one would drive two blocks to pay $3.50 for a 35 cent beer. Hence women and the implied promise of sex are used to entice fools from all around to willingly permit themselves to be exploited out of their time and money.
The first of these places I tried was Caligula's on Northwest highway. It seemed to swing. I'd driven into their parking lot and vicinity several times to sleep til closing time and only once had my shocker gone off (Yeouch!). It cost a couple of dollars to get= in, and once in, it was dark, but not too dark, and loud, but not ear‑killingly loud. They make you drink even though you paid to get in. Waitresses circle like piranha inducing you to imbibe. They get a dollar for each beer they can convince you to buy.
The music was not good‑too mellow for my tastes. If I'm going to be blasted by music, it needs to be stuff that moves, like "Fool for the City", "She's Falling Apart", "Slow Ride" or "Baby Please Don't Go!" The clientele was too upscale for my purposes. These people had too much money and good sense. My attraction to the place had been having seen some young servicemen running loose here on two occasions. Youngsters in uniform with special force insignia would be ideal for my plans, (though all of them are told they are Special Forces and are given shiny pins and colorful ribbons to prove this.) Many times the training Uncle Scam pours into their tender heads makes them think they can perform feats of superhuman proportions. (The dirt that recruits them now use videogame motifs to dupe them into this type of slavery. It's like using Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner cartoons to sucker my generation into the military trap.) They also know that Uncle Scam will save them from the state cops' accusations of petty criminality if they show enough killer aptitude. One statistic you will never hear on the TV 'news' is the number of times servicemen of some merit are whisked out of state cop and prosecutor hands for various crimes. Often these kids are told to repay this debt by doing dirtwork in South American countries like El Salvador, Guatamala, Panama, Chile, etc, killing their politicians and participating in wars or creating right‑wing death squads to keep the populace out of govt. It was one or two of these special forces brats I was looking for. Unfortunately, when I began looking for them, there were no more of them to be found.
Even so, I did meet an interesting young woman or two. One had had a shotgun attached to the steering column of her Jag while it was parked in Caligula's lot. Somehow she survived the blast and was not noticeably disfigured. She was very beautiful, married and had no idea why anyone would try to kill her, a mere occasional patron of the place. She invited me into her home, but I declined. Something about her husband gave me pause. Another woman, one of the drink‑hustlers of the place insisted on screaming something over and over into my ear, trying to communicate something over the blast of music. It eventually sounded like she wanted to play pool with me. I told her I don't play pool, but she wouldn't give up. Thinking nothing of it, I acceded to her desire that 1 play pool with her and drink a 'kamikaze'.  I promptly lost, thanked her for the attention and sat down. Thereafter through a mental haze I perceived some coldness toward me from her. It was only days later that I guessed that she had probably thought that I'd agreed to some wager and failed to pay.

Eventually I deduced that I'd have to find a sleezier place that attracted a more money‑hungry crowd of brash youngsters. The ideal place turned out to be on Industrial street in Arlington called 'Babydolls'. It was a rock and roll place next to a redneck place a fair distance out by themselves in a rural setting.
In general, rockers are a bit better educated than rednecks, if not more intelligent, mostly because they have not yet suffocated as many of their brain cells as the harddrinking, dope‑hating rednecks have. This is why I chose the rock and roll place to hunt, and the redneck place to hide my vehicle.
Concealing my own identity was very important because of the ease with which the police are able to make even the toughest‑seeming criminal squeal like a piglet and tattle on everyone he knows. I've known thousands of so‑called tough criminals and found that all but a very few more blowhard than standup. Asians and Hispanics have the most success in avoiding telling the cops too much, though no one can withstand the rubber hose or their choking and smothering tricks. Asians and Hispanics only stand up for their own kind, and have no loyalty towards Caucasians, so I was out in the cold no matter what. Pulling into the redneck place, I parked next to the weeds in the farthest reaches of the lot and waited in the dark. Soon a group of people arrived and distracted the doorguards' attention. I slipped out the back, plowed 300 yards through tall weeds to enter the rock and roll place's lot. Using specially‑made picture ID, I paid the entry fee and sought out a place behind some speakers to sit. Even this small antinode crashed and slammed with music at painful levels. The earplugs I had brought made little difference. Worse, they were bright orange and seemed to attract the fingers of the waitresses and dancers.
The place was a bit too dark. The music was very good, though too loud by far. My seat was away from the stage and bar, yet immediately and often I was accosted to buy beer or drinks. My first task was to merely observe and try to discover who were the hustlers. They usually cluster around the pool tables, though others often stake out pervert row, which is adjacent to the stage, and the restrooms. Fewest are found at the bar. Pervert row is what the boyfriends watch for opportunity, and security kept these exploiters to a minimum. The restrooms were used for dope deals, and it didn't take too long to discover who was making too many trips, always with others as company. Sometimes they get paranoid and try to arrive and/or leave separately, but they're never separated by more than a few steps or seconds. Dark as the place was, there undoubtedly was plenty of under the table action, but there are only so many times you can flip your zippo for illumination before the onlookers get suspicious and the perpetrators get paranoid. This is why the dope ._ fiends gravitate eventually and often to the restrooms. The bar is where the bosses or owners watch their underlings and investments or assets. Often it is usual for the owners or partners themselves to be in this group when they are not in their offices watching their monitors or counting their cash. The skim is big in these places and so partners seldom trust one another. Cash and no receipts keep owners near. Also within the bar group are often the pool hustlers who are not actively seeking victims.

It was the pool hustlers and the drug seeking clientele I was after, but while I was attempting to sort through them the drink hustlers plied me. Since I was never on pervert row, few of the boyfriends had an 'in' to engage me with. Their girlfriends and the waitresses had to accost me where I sat. I'd hold onto a beer as long as possible and build a fortress around me with chairs, using them as footstools and armrests. Even this tactic was not long effective. The women would quickly tire of me politely refusing more drink. They'd be especially irritating by swooping in, snatching my budweiser and shaking it to see if it was empty enough to sell another. They probably thought I cared if they made it flat with all their shaking. I know a lot of beer purists turn their noses up at losing the carbonation. To counter the shake, I began holding the crap in my crotch. None of them were brave enough to snatch up any beer bottles I kept between my thighs. This held the rude little vultures off my beer, but they began dismantling my fortress a piece at a time. They began insisting to sit by me and to want to shriek in my ear. I could hardly ever make out what they were saying, even after they'd picked out my earplugs. Inane small talk required not much more than grunts and smiles in response, thankfully. Don't try to run them off or ignore them or they'll sic any of many of their Bubba Lackwits on you.
The one who seemed to have the most information about the regulars was one who called herself Tamara. She was a cute‑faced blond; a wide‑tracked mother of one who had been through two husbands before age thirty yet had only an old Z‑car and a five year old boy to show for it, besides forty extra pounds. She was also a pool hustler as well as a drink hustler‑ She got me introduced to a large set of scofflaws and petty thieves who had built‑ ‑ a lot of their lives around bilking drunks at pool. For only a dollar per game I was able to sound out and select the most promising ones. They'd whine about being unable to raise the stakes, but they'd play for a quarter per game if no one offered a dollar.
Most of them were obvious ex‑convicts or paroled loser‑addicts with raggedy prison made tattoos of skulls and spiderwebs, etc, up and down their arms. Their off‑table vocations were mostly geared to finding valuable, portable things unwatched in the dark to steal and sell to unsuspecting friends. Cars and car parts were very attractive to them. After some weekends engaged in this work I decided on a couple of brothers who seemed to be alert and clever. They owned vehicles, had no credit, were young and suffered minimal criminal records. Barry and Larry were minimally qualified, capable and had drug habits that they wished to afford more fully.
We talked seriously in the parking lot one evening, in very general terms, never revealing exactly the place or the situation. I told them what 1 wanted and what I'd pay and supply. Basically it was just a night raid. I would drop them off by the highway. They'd hike in, following a map for a klick, careful to avoid the roving 'security guard'. They'd break in, proceed to the storeage area, find the boxes labeled 1976 through 1980, dump ' them in their bags, retrace their steps and signal for a pick‑up.
Barry and Larry liked the money and the ease of the job. Both admitted to having perpetrated harder burglaries, one of which involved hacking their way through a warehouse roof. Trouble was, they'd watched too many Hollywood movies and knew nothing to trust about escrow agreements. They wanted to be paid in advance, which was not going to happen. Then they wanted half in advance. My part was to supply transportation, financing, equipment and coordination for the raid, but no advance. They were not going anywhere when they could get drunk first, then work. They couldn't believe an escrow agreement would get them paid, and I couldn't believe they'd work after being paid. Impasse.

Next weekend I came back. Barry and Larry had emptied their minds to many of their bar pals. Soon as I sat down behind the speakers, the buzz started. Tamara was right by with a beer and many questions about what I'd really said to Barry and Larry and Gary? Soon as I got rid of her, one who called herself "Sweet Georgia Brown" came over and warned me that three of them were scheming on how to get something out of me.
That night and over the next two weekends they spread the story farther and farther about the shady guy who wanted to give out too much money for a rural burglary. People
I didn't know came crawling up from all directions to ask questions, badmouth Barry, Larry and Gary and the last visitor and try to grab the brass ring for themselves. These curious buffoons tried every thin ruse they knew to worm or weasel specifics from me. They thought the crap to be stolen was anything from liquid mercury to dynamite to drug chemicals. It wasn't hard to see that none of them could be trusted as far as I could throw an elephant. They were all nincompoops standing in line to be jailed for working their mouths overtime and at high speed in efforts to be seen by their peers as Big Time Gangsters.
The operation at this particular bar could proceed no farther. This fact became most obvious when word spread to a supposedly 'undercover' cop. He evidently fooled someone, since he was permitted to operate among the petty hoods at the bar, but his tag revealed him to be a Fort Worth cop. Usually such cops are harder to spot in such circumstances, but my scanner picked him up as he broadcast from the parking lot one night. They are all supremely confident because they are always well armed and armored, plus they always work in pairs or more. Their eyes sear your hands, getting particularly squinty when they move quickly or go out of their sight. Other aspects of their training also gives them away as well. I satisfied him and his unwitting hoodlum informers that I was just another loudmouthed, dull‑witted alcoholic trying to impress the 'ladies'. He issued a warning and the standard threat, then moved on with his sycophants in tow.
Not so oddly, this 'secret' cop ruled this bar, and when he left and disparaged me to his adoring cotillion of thugs, thieves and dopeheads, I received another signal or two to wind up operations immediately.
It came in the form of a worried, low‑status waitress, and I foolishly didn't pick up on its significance until almost too late. She came bearing a drink I had not ordered. She tried to put it on my table and leave with an harried smile, but I caught her first.
It was a bottle of budweiser, same as I usually bought. The cap was off, as is the standard practice at that bar, and, far as I know, many others. She claimed I'd paid for it. I knew I hadn't. Being honest and thinking she'd made a mistake, I did the opposite of what a group of poor, seedy, unscrupulous, conniving, alcoholic thugs thought was standard behavior. I refused a free drink supposedly at her expense. I told her that she was trying to give it to the wrong guy. She continued to try and give it to me. Finally she took it and darted nervously into the dark, crowded bar.
Later that same night Tamara Widetrack brought me a drink I had ordered. It tasted sour when it shouldn't have. It took me a couple of swigs to realize that it was eating away at the insides of my mouth and throat. It had to be battery acid, a common trick bar‑scum pull. Tamara had a son named, ironically, Josua, to raise, yet she had decided quite casually to help her ruthless male pool‑hustler pals murder me.

I ordered another Maguerity. It took a long time coming, as if they were having a bit of trouble preparing it. When it came, I spilled it and the remains of the first one on the rug. Next I moved close to the pool tables and fat, red‑headed clown who'd probably instigated the attempted murder. We scowled at each other, he with his protective pool cue never leaving his hands, and me burning his face into my memory so I could spot him in any setting. He and his pals were maggots.
Since it appears that bar scum commonly use this sneaky, cowardly method of poison to murder persons who vex them, I here render the signs that indicate when bags of walking dogshit have poisoned you with acids.
Acids all taste sour, and strong acids burn your tongue and throat, though you may not know it at first. This is because alcohol numbs your tongue, making it harder to detect the effects of acids. Seeing how low and slimey humanity has gotten during the past thirty or forty years, only fools would drink from opened containers prepared in the dark and handed you by bar employees. Any drinks that taste different than they should, pour them out. After acid has been absorbed into your bloodstream, it causes transient tingling sensations across the brain just beneath the scalp. Some victims might characterize them as 'chills'. Stop drinking immediately and take the antidote. The antidote to all acids is a weak alkali such as baking soda. Mix a couple of spoonfulls in a glass of water and drink it. Don't panic and overdo it, but drink a glass or two over a ten minute period. Repeat if the tingles persist. The body has a lot of buffers in it, so it generally takes a lot of acid to kill you outright. Most people poisoned this way are most severely burned in the mouth and esophagus, so it is important to notice right away if something tastes wrong.
Another chemical that barscum secretly use to injure or kill selected targets from behind their phony smiles is to dump a bit of formalin into a person's drink. It doesn't take much and it is deadly. Often it can be smelled by an astute victim, but astute victims are not often found in bars deadening their wits with alcohol. The newsartists have not been informed of this type of depredation like they have of gamma hydroxy butyrate because the usual victims are not female and die quietly of unknown causes instead of getting raped and living to complain about it. This type of poisoning is usually not detected, despite the hundreds of TV programs that portray forensic 'scientists' as infallible. Almost none of them are real scientists and almost all of them are cops who got free schooling to learn the very basic techniques of forensics, and how to use the kits provided by corporations. Most forensic 'experts' are expert at lying to jurors, parroting phrases taught them by cops and prosecutors, and at signing their grossly bloated paychecks. Most of them would have trouble finding their asses even if their hands were shackled behind their backs. Eventually the victims of this and other types of poisoning will become numerous and vocal enough to move the elected crats to perpetrate their standard legislative 'fix'; to outlaw public access to formalin and other abusable chemicals. There is no easy way to obtain an antidote to formalin, only hospitalization.
By this time I'd acquired a motorcycle. It took me to an all‑night Wal‑Mart before giving out. It turned out that the bar scum had tainted my gasoline with naphthalene, which fouls the plugs. I bought a gallon of water and a box of soda and began drinking. Thinking that professionals might know more, I called a poison control hotline.

Poison control, the bureaucracy, was worthless. Worse than worthless, they were a hinderance. Poison control is not a group of doctors or nurses solely concerned with saving lives as their propaganda implies. No: poison control is a group of cops and/or copsuckers and petty bureaucrats primarily concerned with discovering the caller's identity, location, home address, social security number and any possible criminal association.  Like any other group of arrogant scoundrels given govt sanction, they refused to render any type of assistance while insisting that you step into their crosshairs to be bagged, tagged and scragged. They will let you die an agonizing death rather than allow any blanks in their standardized forms go unfilled. Like all bureaucracies, the 'work' expands to fill the time available. Their primary concern is to obtain the paperwork that justifies their bloated, fatcrat paychecks.
Realizing that they were cops, not just medical personel, I called a trusted individual in another state. She called poison control and relayed the information to me. Their antidote was exactly the same as what I'd already done.
While I was performing these phone tricks, another young female appeared out of the darkness from nowhere and offered me a single bottle of budweiser. She even told me "It still has the cap on." The sensational movie, "Natural Born Killers" was not even a director's faintest idea yet, but such vicious slime seemed to be everywhere acrawl that night. Whoever had sent her had hid their vehicle well, but not well enough.	I'd seen a yellow chrysler cruise slowly by while I was on the phone, next to my bike, just before she'd shown up. When I declined more poison, she slithered back around the corner of the building that this car had traversed. By this time I'd changed the spark plugs. (Twostroke owners keep a second set handy at all times.) While I'd talked and changed plugs, I'd also drained the gas tank. I slipped the tubes back on the nipples and roared off to a gas station across the street and filled up. The reserve gas was only a pint and should have diluted into the new gas enough to get me home. At least I hoped so; I certainly did not want to have to take any side trips dodging the yellow chrysler; not with a sick bike. I'd never seen the naphthalene trick pulled before, but had heard a lot of goofs talk about it: all from the perspective of doing it to someone else, not having to clean up the aftermath. The plugs I took out had weird white balls of some hard, probably semi‑conducting substance spanning the gaps of the electrodes. The stuff chipped off easily enough. In any vehicle without easily‑accessible spark plugs, this trick would have been a costly disaster. A car or truck mechanic could charge $200 for a set of clean plugs installed.
I tried to save some of the stuff for analysis later, just to be sure of what it was, but the balls were so tiny that one skittered off into the darkness and the other I lost in my clothing somewhere. For all I know, they could well have been balls of sugar, another coward's skullduggery altogether.

CHAPTER TWEINTY‑ONE

Cephalosporin shuffle and a couple of cute kids
You wear a mask, then your face grows to fit it.
										      George Orwell

Texas is a great place, particularly DFW, and I don't want anyone to get their opinion of Texas from some natural cynic and sarcasm master like me who holds a peculiar philosophy of "Expect the worst so as to be pleasantly surprised when the not‑so‑bad occurs." Texas probably sounds like a pretty hideous place when I describe it because I remember the bad while the good tends to slowly fade from memory. Texas is not all crime, fear and people locking their doors or crossing the street when they see you approaching. Sometimes a shining ray of empathy hits you from a total stranger and it makes the previous muck through Hell worth the trip. This particular instance began in Waco. I'd been given a small crew and two trucks to service an area in which the TV talking heads had named the •Tri‑Cities'. This meant Waco, Temple and Killeen, Texas. The date is fixed in my mind by the horrendous attack upon a Luby's cafeteria. A man drove into the glass‑fronted building and began killing people, starting with his wife.
We were in Waco when that Hell occurred and we were finished and left before the cause could be determined or many facts escaped the police cordon. It had been a hard, sweaty week and I'd just been introduced to heavy, thick, steel‑toed shoes‑a requirement for the job. My feet hurt. My socks were thin. A thick nylon thread in the tongue had cut into the top of my foot and gotten infected. Before I knew it, the skin was cut and I found a puffy red spot seeping lymph and a line of blue signifying blood poisoning two inches long creeping toward my heart. Work had been so intense that I discovered this only only after returning home.
Normally my athletic lifestyle protects me from such things, but not when I neglect hygiene and deign not to take proper notice of slight pains and aches. This had become serious and the time to attend to it was now. My funds were low because as soon as I'd hit town on friday and collected my check, it went to various enterprises and to a discount broker. Today was Sunday. Everything I'd need to last the week had been stocked and I only had about $20 to last the week. Now I needed about $30 worth of antibiotics.
Saturday I'd been in Tulsa, again scheming with others on how to get more police files out of their lair. The wife of the person helping me accomplish this had a brother who was an intern. She had him make me a prescription for tetracycline, saving me $50 on a doctor visit. It was late, and I arrived back in Dallas just as the stores were opening again.
To save gas, and because it was a fine day without too many car‑drivers on the road, I struck off on my Yamaha. Determined not to go to the bank this week, 1 brought a list of drug stores to visit. Nearest and first was a Getman drug store in Euless. It was a mom and pop operation. They were old and friendly. They heard me roar up and watched me rack the bike and enter their glass‑fronted store. A bell jangled musically as I opened the door. It was dim inside as the outside was hot and bright. The drug counter was in the rear. Pop began reading my prescription. Grandmother quoted the price. It was near $20. I was appalled, because it seemed to me that tetracycline was extremely cheap if you were buying it for cows; same for the beta‑lactams and the cephalosporins.
"That's higher than a cat's back!" I remember saying. "I can't afford that!" I went on and on, whining sarcastically about my foot rotting off as I went about looking for a lower price. There were things I needed to be accomplishing besides providing the cage‑drivers a target while I sought cheap drugs: Grandmother gave back my prescription and apologetically mentioned that I'd find no better price than theirs.
A couple of other things had occurred that annoyed me too. One was having called work and finding that they wouldn't buy me any antibiotics. Their insurance plan would only reimburse me weeks later. The second was that Maggie had not told her Doctor‑brother the current alias I was using. Thus the prescription was in a name that would not be easy to get reimbursed.

Little things can add up and bring me down, but it was a nice day and I enjoyed riding despite the danger of being run over by cars or hit by missles. Most people who try to throw stuff at motorcyclists from a moving car or truck have no chance of actually hitting you. Casual assaults such as these were common in Texas long before the news‑pabulum artists discovered them and began using them to sell their pro‑Cop propaganda.
This time I made it all over Hurst‑Euless‑Bedford without anyone seriously compromising my space or health. Each drug store I visited had a price that hardly varied. It was always higher. While I was at this task, it gradually became clear that Grandmother Get‑man was right. There was not going to be a price lower than they who were not a mile from my apartmenthouse. After 8 to 10 tries and about three hours wasted, I returned to Getman drug. Once again they watched me through their tinted glass frontage as I noisily drove up, racked the bike and entered their dinging doorway.
"You were absolutely right," I loudly admitted.	"I've been all over, from Richland Hills, H‑E‑B, almost to Arlington and NObody had a price lower than yours! I sure should have listened to you; it would have saved me 100 miles, two gallons of gas and three hours:"
They were pleased to hear me say this, or somehow I must have struck a good chord in these very nice people. Pop filled my prescription while Grandmother took my money. She said something caring before handing me back too much change. I almost didn't notice until I was out the door again. I stopped and turned around to go give it back and explain to them that I'm not poor, only chintzy. Then I thought better of it and just told them thanks again before leaving. I'm sure that Grandmother wouldn't accept it anyway. This time I let someone give me something and we all felt better for it!
On the way home from this trip my jeans rode down the seat of my motorcycle and wadded themselves around my hips, as they had been doing periodically a11 day long. Several times I'd stand on the pegs and perform various writhings and pulls to work them back up to my waist. The sun was hot, I was sweaty, I'd just spent too much money on antibiotics and my mood had returned to the usual unpleasant. Also, the jeans I wore were the very pair that I'd made myself some years ago in prison. They were wearing thin. When I worked the standard writhe to get them back up to my waist, my bare ass exploded out of them through a ten‑inch rip. The springtime draft wafted cool and sharp down my leg as I quick1y sat. The man in the RV behind me honked. In my mirrors I could see him and his wife laughing and pointing me out to their kids.	By rolling my hips and pulling out my shirttail, I minimized the draft I felt and the amount of ass the drivers behind me could see. At my parking slot at the apartment house was a kid wanting me to buy popsicles at 50 cents each. My purchase of one didn't get rid of him, it made him more talkative. As an added bonus, it drew his mother to me. This was one day I was not going to be let to dodge pointless neighborly chatter with a grunt, smile and fast footwork.

His mother was young enough and fairly good‑looking despite the way overconsumption of cigarettes and alcohol had lined the skin around her eyes.	The way her eyes occasionally tensed into slits gave me the impression that she was a bitch and another opportunist despite her attempts to become friends with me for whatever purpose. I was trapped into talking to her for five or ten minutes before she finally went away. She lived across the narrow parking lot and down two or three apartments.  She was an aging barfly attempting to expand her social resources. It was easy to see from the cut of her face that she was ugly inside and that it was gradually forcing its way to the surface. After what seemed like half an hour I was finally able to get off the bike and make my way to my upstairs apartment. If anyone saw my ass hanging out, they had the good graces to keep quiet about it.
Lest the reader believe I remember only the bad things that happen to me, here's something cute and good. While jogging around the neighborhood, I entered the complex via the family‑side's road. While I was there I was stopped by a group of young children who asked me if I would untangle the swings on their playground. Vandals had tied their chains in knots. None of they in the group appeared to be older than eight or nine, if that, so I was very wary. Where there are young children, not far are estrogen‑crazed mothers and other females ready to hallucinate all kinds of imaginary evil such as is portrayed to them every day on the news.
Since the crowd of children was relatively large and their homes relatively distant, I chose to help rather than follow my more intelligent instinct to flee. The swings were knotted pretty badly and it took some time to get the chains undone. Before managing to do so I noticed a curious phenomenon. Inside the group was a very pretty, tall, thin blond girl maybe seven years old. She would watch me with large blue eyes, then whisper something into the ear of the slightly older boy who had first asked for my assistance. Then he'd ask me a question. She would watch.  
Eventually it came clear to me and my slow wits that he was doing her talking for her, so I asked her directly what she wanted. Her response was to again whisper in his ear, then watch me for my reaction while he relayed her words. Unable to yet determine the reason for this, I asked the boy himself for the cause of her curious behavior. He said simply that she was "a dummy". I interpreted this to mean that she had a speech impediment that she was embarassed to reveal. I was certain that she was not retarded, and that she lacked any sign of other afflictions such as William's syndrome, etc.
This answer intrigued me; I questioned her some more in my most non‑threatening, empathic way, even squatting down tobe on her level. Each time she understood perfectly, yet continued to answer by whispering into the little boy's ear and having him relay it to me. After a while he and others in their group got tired of relaying for her and piled into the swings as I freed them. Finally the little girl, deprived of her friend's translating services, addressed me directly after nervously positioning her back to the apartment her mother was probably spying from. She said quietly at the ground between us, barely audible, "I'm not allowed to talk to strangers. Could You put our rope swing back up?" Mystery solved.

That same day I got some spare rope out and fashioned a swing out of it. The tire that had previously been their tree swing had disappeared along with its rope. In its place I substituted a board to sit on. Before a week passed I noticed it was down again and vanished. It turns out that it and the one before it were victims of the maintenance man and the insurance company. There was a Kroger supermarket I'd walk to and from occasionally. In it was a cute young checker who had somehow been attracted to me. I never encouraged such happenings, being careful to keep my demeanor serious and unsmiling while I waited in line. Even so, this girl, who must still have been a teenager, embarassed and startled me badly once when I bought a gallon jug of fruit juice. She was checking ‑ and sacking all by herself while I was anxious to get out of there and on to my current tasks. She knew from all of my previous visits that I always bolted soon as I paid, so this time she was ready for me. She made some very suggestive movements with her hands on the neck of the bottle and told me several times, "Let me wrap it for you'."
She was a very nice person; intelligent, industrious, forthright and confident, but almost half my age. I had no desire to be distracted from getting the corrupt Okie cops and lawcrat's lies off me. She was certainly a person who could make me forget what my goal was. I mumbled polite excuses, smiled and broke for the door.
A few days later I was faced with her again and tried to apologize. She was very angry and wouldn't hear it; and justifiably so.
Shortly after that the bar scum who had tried to poison me and who had tainted my gasoline discovered where I lived. The yellow chrysler was parked nearby, and the sliteyed barfly began screaming incoherently at me from across the way. A little twerp began carrying a ball bat and repeatedly passing in front of my apartment while talking vague threats to no one in view. The mob of vicious alcoholics had found a target, and it was me. By dusk I decided that it was prudent to leave, since such two‑legged trash tend to get more brave as darkness falls.
The barfly shrieked at me again from afar as I drove off on my motorcycle. It was a favorite target of such cowards. I'd noticed before that someone had twice managed to flood it out by kicking over the engine while I was at work, making it hard to start. My first stop was at the Kroger; incredibly, the checkout girl that I'd made so angry before told me cryptically, "Be very careful" in a way that told me she really meant it and had good reason to think I should be careful: It always amazes me how gossip can travel‑so ‑fast and far. It's like the smaller the idea the more engrossing it is to idlers.
My path led to the airport to think and plan in relative peace. It wasn't far away. Some of the wooded spots around it were my favorite places to dirt‑track and slow‑ride on the bike, halfway to nature. It was deep dusk when I got there. I buzzed down a restricted service road and parked. A huge airliner screamed in very close and low. The windows in it were well lighted compared to the night, making individual passengers stand out in great detail. The sight made me wish I had brought a camera.
Evidently the tower had seen my headlamp as I deviated from the proper road. Ten minutes of peace were shattered when the pair of aircops pointed their car at me and roared down the road toward me at excessive speed. It looked like they might drive over me, so
I snapped on the bike's headlamp briefly before leaping for safety. The bike was already pointed at the intrance for a quick exit. They had been trained to be fearful of revengeartists from the many countries our politicians have attacked over the decades. American govcrats and our powerful hereditary rich were learning that massive export of arms, cash, terrorist training and secret warmongering has a cast that eventually reaches into their gated communities, past their armies of cops and soldiers that protect them at work, and even into their armored cars. The two aircops were relieved to find I was not a mujahedin from Afghanistan with an American stinger missile trying to get a counter‑attack in on one of our civilian airliners. They checked my fake ID and were satisfied. They had me go elsewhere without any harassment, suprizingly.

Even before the bar scum got their backs up at me for not paying them in advance for something they had no intention of doing, I'd been planning to move closer to work. Research row was not far from Euless, but the morning jam to work made it an half‑hour ordeal to drive, and the after‑work jam was even worse. It didn't take me two days to find another place closer and move into it.
Closer was Irving, Texas, home to, ironically, Lee Harvey Oswald, the famous govt dupe. Both he and I were screwed by corrupt govt employees, but I'd never killed anyone. Irving was a nice enough suburb of Dallas „ and the part I was in had an excess of Hispanics. They are not always trying to pry into your business like Africans and Caucasians like to do. They are not burning up with curiosity, trying to 'figure out' people or count coup or simply obtain some benefit from you. Hispanics are too deeply absorbed in living their own lives to waste their time and effort on gringos.
Despite this, neighbors do tend to creep closer and closer at every opportunity, no matter what culture they are. It is like they're always peeking out their windows and keyholes, looking for something to pep up their shallow, drab, boring lives. An astute person with no time to spare on social nonsense can stave them off for months with nods, ‑ smiles, waves and quickly muttered excuses, but eventually they either force their way into your life or attack you en mob. Knowing this, I determined to make the most of the first few months of undisturbed anonymity I would have.
By this time I was prosperous enough to throw away some money, so the first thing I did was try and get a polygraph test. This was in response to John Walsh getting his whining, fascist puss on TV every week to cry about people he doesn't know and attack them like a vicious dog who is all teeth and no brain. I've detailed this elsewhere in my writings. (See; Police Lie Detectors and Confessions.) Suffice to say it was a harrowing fiasco that could have gotten me shotgunned to death by a defrocked pig gone suspicious and trying to make a 'citizen's arrest'. It turns out that the cops have a monopoly on polygraphy and they determine only to use it to convict people, not exonorate them.
Forget looking up that essay; I'm able to put the essentials of it in here as an insertion between chapters because it made it past the prison mail guards in time.

CHAPTER ZUGZWANG

The Police Lie Detection Monopoly and Confession Extraction Machine
The most clever and effective of lies are ones tailored to that which citizens wish to believe.
										     Burin Singletree

One of my first goals upon relieving myself of Oklahoma's official torture camps was to find a poligrapher. I had to have this quickly in order to have something in case the ruling fascists or their gullible citizenal helpers blundered onto me before I could find the actual killer of the porn merchant or uncover proof of the crimes the cops and lawcrats have perpetrated against me. When the Fox network gave that posturing charlatan, John Walsh, his own tabloid TV show, I knew I'd best quit putting off this unpleasant, expensive, disagreeable task. I had to have something to show the judge, jurors and mediawhores before I took a chance on letting them catch me in Oklahoma snooping through their old records and files. This would be for the eventual escape trial, of course, since they would prevent retrial on the fraudulent conviction they'd already slammed me with so long ago. If they caught me in another state a polygraph record would generate controversy during my attempt to dodge extradition to Okracoma. This is a fight that is always lost, but it can sometimes be made to yield good theatre and it makes the cops and prosecutors vend their excuses to the TV and other newsartists instead of their usual tamed, domesticated, carefully selected jurors. This sometimes causes them to reveal useful information by mistake.
I had tried to obtain a polygraph test prior to trial and afterward in prison. The warden, an alcohol addict with proof of his vice written on his face in varicose veins, liked to be called Colonel Crisp. He refused my request despite the fact that I'd be paying for it and for two of his guards to provide un‑needed 'security'. His formal reply was that he would require a judge to order him to allow this. Since no judges were going to help point out their own 'errors' (frauds), it was impossible to get this done. Judges hate polygraphs when they are sought by defendants (targets) and will refuse to allow them even for appeal purposes. The mounds of caselaw I've read on polygraphs indicate that cops and prosecutors love them for use as a threat to bludgeon confessions and plea 'bargains' out of their accusees. Polygraphs are useful for obtaining confessions from the gullible and conviction of the ignorant. Slick polygraph experts interpret random twitches to create an illusion of guilt, too. Polygraphs are pretty‑much worthless in getting cops, prosecutors and media hacks to stop attacking you. The whole process relies upon your belief in the process. This is why the first thing the cops and persons selling poli‑ graphy do is try valiantly to get you to believe that their machine in nigh‑on to infallible. If you believe it works, your reactions will be heightened. These higher spikes are easier for the operator to call 'deceptions'. If you possess sufficient education
and experience to recognize polygraphy as the quackery it is, then you also find, too late, that to submit to poligraphy is equivalent to sticking your head into the crocodile's mouth. Refusing a polygraph test is interpreted as guilt instead of caution or the answer to corruption in the process, and the fact that you refused is routinely told to the media by 'anonymous police sources', 'sources close to the investigation' or simply 'informed sources'. You know their techniques. Using the tame, mainstream media to convict people is nothing you haven't seen many times. When media hacks get too frisky at poisoning the juror‑pool this way for their cop‑pals, a judge will have his media pals publicize his gag order. This is done too late to do any good. Cops laugh when it is done because they know it does not pertain to them, since they do it anonymously anyway. The judge's purpose in gagging is more to lend credence to the judicial process in the minds of the citizenry than to hinder prosecution by the modern town crier.
I called just about every polygraph artist in Dallas/Fort Worth. Each and every one of them who answered my call were either cops or ex‑cops. Not a single one was free of cop‑bias/taint. It's like you can't get a machine or testing without also purchasing a cop's 'expertise' along with it. This is a major reason why polygraphs are useless or harmful and why judges have promulgated special rules just for polygraph 'evidence'.

First, ho polygraph evidence is allowed in court without prior consent of both lawyers (prosecutor and defense) and they must then beg the third lawyer (the judge) to allow it. None of these lawcrats want to see a polygraph machine (or any other science) usurp their privilege of twisting the facts to suit their agenda. (Astoundingly, Scientific American recently published an article giving some credence to poligraphy!) When the targeted person demands this test loudly and persistently enough, these three lawyers will be forced to get their plans together, find a polygraph artist that they all can agree on and allow the test. (The whole process is geared to allow the prosecutor to get his way in just about everything.) Since the P‑artist is almost always a cop or an ex‑cop, the deck is stacked in favor of the cops, prosecutors and judges.
This is why, when the ignorant accusee asks the public defender, "Why can't I get a polygraph?" he never gets a straight or complete answer. If the PD knows the answer, he's not going to say it. What he says instead is the same type of doublespeak my state‑paid lawyers told me: "We don't have funds budgeted for polygraph tests." If the target persists, offering to pay all costs, the lawcrat mumbles a standard speech calculated to connive the target out of wanting the test. I've heard this spiel from three different PDs. They say: "Lie detector evidence doesn't go over good with juries" and "Polygraph evidence is not admissible in court..." and "...it can do more harm than good." What he will not say is the fact that the entire polygraph industry is a farce and a cop‑monopoly not to be used to prove innocence, only to convict.
The least biased‑sounding polygraph artist I found was also probably the sneakiest. On the phone he failed to boast of his cop afilliations like a11 or most of the others did. The first thing I noticed upon entering the office building on Josey lane at Web Chapel was a large, scroungy‑looking old fat man smacking around on a pop machine as if it hadn't given him proper change. He glared at me as if I'd interrupted his attempt to violate its changebox. The office I wanted was immediately to the left. I went inside. It was a large and luxurious place, but devoid of a receptionist or any other occupant. Behind the desk was a shotgun, a twelve gauge pump model, negligently propped up against the wall. Seeing this should have been enough warning for me to turn around and leave quickly and quietly. There was only one reason for him to feel the need for such massive firepower: he had made many enemies by being a scurrilous piece of shit and expected what he thought he deserved. The shotgun was to stave off the arrival of his karma.
Of course it was him abusing the pop machine in the corridor: he waddled in with a twinkie and a mountain dew in his mit. Like an idiot I introduced myself using my best alias. If he had had his wits about him, he could have juked my life around very badly. I found his price was $90 He was surprised to find me here alone, without even a witness, much less a lawyer, which is standard. Even so, he agreed that we could begin immediately. The machine was in the next room. He began setting it up.
The previous day I had prepared a list of twenty or so questions that I wanted him to ask me. They were calculated to prove my innocence but not to provide the examiner . with too much information about my situation. These I gave him, expecting him to insert them within any of his own questions.

One thing that makes me want to slap bureaucrats and others who are trying to sell me some service is their behavior after you ask them what their procedure is. These types of persons spend large fractions of their lives performing their same procedure over and over, time and again, yet when you ask them to describe their procedure, they invariable tell you only the first step, then stop until you complete their desire, etc. Not one of these Bozos will describe their requirements or procedures in total: they only reveal it one step at a time, then require compliance. No matter how hard you try, you will get no further. Refusing compliance and insisting that they reveal their entire scam only makes the process stop. You see this in every govt bureaucracy, particularly the agonies of obtaining driver's licenses, tags, mortgages, etc. They have you screwed in requiring their service, and they make absolutely certain that you don't manage to dodge even a little bit of their tortures.
Soon as I showed this first polygraph artist my list of questions, he stopped. Immediately he sensed non‑compliance on my part. Instantly his sense of curiosity peaked as he deduced that I was not part of the ordinary herd such as everyone else he'd had as a client. His cop‑sense jangled as he read the questions I'd presented him with. I could see the wheels in his mind turn as his lips mumbled the phrases I'd written. He correctly deduced that he and his machine were about to be used to prevent conviction or to (gasp!) Un‑convict me. He thought fast. He formulated a plan. He wondered why I could be running loose yet be already convicted of some crime serious enough to require his service. Probation? Parole? Pardon? Surely I could not be so brazen as to walk in while on an escape!
His little pig eyes sat upon mine, looking for a flinch that he could equate with guilt and fear and that he could use as his excuse to pounce upon me. He outweighed me by more than a hundred pounds. He didn't see the signal he wanted. My eyes returned to his a confidence that told him; don't even think it: It kept him off me. He decided to try and cheat me instead. Following this safer course against his enemy, he began to spew a tale that no intelligent person would accept as true. He spoke at length trying to convince me that "A good poligrapher only needs to ask three questions to complete the test and find the truth." His secondary ploy was to pique my curiosity with this nonsense. If I asked what these three unbeatable questions were, he would have expanded his pedantry in an effort to learn key bits of information from me that he could use against me. When I didn't take the bait, he asked point blank what was this pursuant to and other questions that were none of his concern. I imagined he sought to run with it to the cops or a prosecutor if he could just wrangle a case number or other identifying information from me. When I wouldn't go for it, and we'd reached the inevitable impasse, he refused to give me the test. Before I could get my money back from this scoundrel, his tiny mind hatched a desperate plan to uncover who I was. He actually had the gall to ask to see my driver's license
He didn't get it, and I was certain that the arrogant cur was within a hair's breath of snatching up his shotgun before I could get around a corner. Cops are taught that they can get away with any type of outrageous behavior including maiming, kidnapping, and even murder when their motive is 'pure' or they are just 'mistaken', but fortunately for me this dirtbag was an ex‑cop who didn't quite have the courage to chase what didn't run. Probably he enjoyed less encouragement to attack due to his being a cop caught in abusing his office once too often, else he'd still be a cop instead of a flunky sucking up pocket change under the name of some more respectable person whose name was on the door.
He couldn't remember my name, apparently, because he asked for it again. I ignored this, thanked him and left. He locked his door and followed me to the parking lot. Fortunately the enterprise itself terrified me so much that I had parked elsewhere. He did not follow me far before realizing he would not get a look at my tag either.

No fewer than three other poligraphers gave me similar harrowing treatment and refusals before I finally gave up. The last one asked me if I was "that same guy", letting me know that word of me had probably spread throughout the poligrapher community. In desperation, I tried to buy a lawyer as an escort and protector, but they wanted a thousand dollars first and required too much information that was none of their business. They were just too oily and avaricious. Each poligrapher and lawyer tried to obtain verification of my identity. Each one was determined to become a bit too involved in my situation before rendering any service.
This occurrence illustrates the difference between police and lawyer 'science' and real science. Police will always insert themselves into positions where they control the outcome. Real scientists use the scientific method, are unbiased and do not stare stupidly at you and ask "duh?" when you ask for double‑blind testing. The only way for poligraphy to even begin to be taken seriously as a science is to remove the operator and evaluator from the scene so that they can not be certain that they are not being influenced by a machine. This is how objectivity is brought in and bias is thrown out. The lawyers will never allow this, so the process remains little more that witchcraft or the flagrant chicanery it is. The sad fact is that lie detector artists, being cops with agendas, have pretty‑much made any capability that their machines have a complete farce. Their monopoly on this industry has switched the function from lie detection to conviction manufacture.
This being so, everyone should be warned of this trap that police and prosecutors have devised and notified of the methods the cops themselves use to beat the machine when the internal affairs cops come after them. Cops beat the machine by gulping valium or other tranquilizers prior to testing. This smooths out their responses. Also, it is one of their own kind operating and evaluating the machine and responses, so they will always err in favor of other cops. With ordinary targets the test is often prolonged until a squiggle appears that can plausibly be called deception. This FBI technique didn't work on the Olympic Park Hero, Richard Jewel, whom the cops decided to turn into the Olympic Park bomber. Jewel was innocent and a trained cop himself, so they had to lie to him instead, telling him "Hey, let's you just pretend to confess so we can make a training video out of it! Good idea, huh?" Jewel didn't go for it and the cops' newest invention in crimefighting cost us taxpayers millions of dollars to Jewel. When they begin eating each other, some justice often results that can benefit ordinary folk.
Another factor that helps cops defeat lie detectors is the fact that they are accomplished liars and are schooled in the art of detecting the body language of liars. They use these techniques to conceal their own lies. It only takes the knowledge and minor amounts of self control. Also very helpful to lying cops is their amazing ability to possess no end of self‑righteous justifications for their lies. This keeps them from feeling stress at lying and is the same facility that makes it so extremely difficult to detect the lies of psychopaths. The machine measures stress, not lies, and cops have less reason to stress over lying than any psychopath, principally because they have less likelihood of being punished if or when they are caught.

Cops and poligraphers also spread myths and halftruths about their craft to facilitate their ends. One of the most ludicrous myths is that the machine can be beaten by mentally rephrasing the question so that answering this question truthfully yields the answer that will satisfy the poligrapher. Recently John and Patsy Ramsey managed to use their great wealth to entice a 'renegade' poligrapher to work for the 'Bad Guys' (cops really do think this way!) The Ramseys were trying to get the cops to stop fixating on them and make the cops go out and look for the actual killer of their beloved daughter, Jonbenet.	In response, the many 'good guy' poligraphers (cops) were disgruntled. They were trotted in front of the TV cameras to bemoan this 'disturbing' development. One in Colorado then said the stupidest thing I've ever heard issue from one of their mouths. He was telling the talking head how he would get the real truth out of them with his special techniques. The media instigator asked how repeated polygraph tests may affect the outcome. Mister expert quickly puked a load of slick‑lipped drivel ending with, "The clean get cleaner and the dirty get dirtier." The logic of this little gem of wisdom is inescapable: obviously the more I practice riding my bicycle, the more it throws me. As is easily seen if one merely looks, you can not win with a bunch of lie‑hard cops, and this is what decades of extreme cop‑coddling produces; a lawless, arrogant, aggravating copklan.
Thwarted in this endeavor for a while, I acquiesced to the fact that I would probably have to do the more drastic task of stealing the Okie prison picture files at McAuschwitz myself. I still cast about for persons to hire for the job, but no longer in bars full of alcoholics, addicts, perverts, lechers and opportunists. Instead, I visited VFW posts, job fairs, gun shows, military base hangouts and similar places.
While searching for suitable persons, I also prepared what I'd need to conduct my own foray. First on the list was photographs depicting the target and its environs, particularly the pastures and countryside around it. The way to prevent the pigs from catching you is the use of intense, complete planning. This required that I build a rack of kites to loft a good camera. It took only three kites to get enough altitude. Then it took two months of weekends testing, tinkering with them and flying them in different places before I had enough to build a mosaic sufficient for the task.

CHAPTERT TWENTY‑TWO

The War On Injustice
"...secrecy is the keystone of all tyranny.
										     Robert Heinlein
One thing that helped me immensely was that I'd become friends with a part‑time crack dealer who worked in Kodak's silver reclaimation plant. Within this facility was a storeage shack he'd been pilphering from. It contained obsolete equipment sufficient to set
up a redroom for prints and enlargements. For helping him set up this and a darkroom, he let me use his free supplies and equipment to cobble together the aerial mosaic of the prison and surround.

While doing this, I also spent far too much money on band scanners, crystals, coils, antennas, marine and other batteries, power supplies and other electronic equipment. The Okie prison kops had not yet gone digital, so the task was relatively easy, though tedious, as is all electronics work. It only took me about six months of research and tinkering to uncover the relevant state and local copnet frequencies and learn other stuff I needed. Betting the band scanners to snoop on them all was no real trouble. Also during these months I built a relay that fed off the scanners and into a home‑made, 2800 watt static generator. (Military Mike had said it was impossible to cobble separate circuits onto dissimilar electronic gear, saying that they would interfere with each other. I didn't have this problem because there were no feedback loops. He also shot down my idea of a TV commercial bypass circuit based on how advertisers up the sound level on their commercials; (shave the spikes, that is). Ten months later we have 'Surround Sound', which incorporates this same exact method as I proposed.) It looked like crap a ten year old child would build out of tinker toys and baling wire, but it worked great, was quite small relative to its functional ability and weighed nothing compared to the huge lead‑acid batteries it was powered from. My tests of it on various sized Texas cop departments came dangerously close to getting me caught, so quickly did they have their many triangulation units streaking toward my emmisions. In Harlingen they were so fast that I barely had time to stow the array, change direction and stop for surveillance before a radio snooper‑pig blasted by me, racing at top speed for the rise I'd ever‑so‑briefly transmitted from only seven minutes previously. Within three more minutes another snooper‑pig joined him at the same spot, screaming in from the opposite direction. Another test in El Paso confirmed that the device worked splendidly and that the Texas cops' efficiency in attacking the emitters of radio pollution was no fluke.  I had plenty of power and plenty of range. The scanners would lock onto the cops' signals within milliseconds of his engaging the frequency.  Immediately this information was fed to the static generater and within 500 milliseconds it would blast out a blanket of jam that would blot out the cops' transmissions for as long as he or they stayed on the air. All this cost me less than $300 in parts. Another device I perfected was a thermal umbrella. It is not much more than a thin, insulated space blanket contrived to efficiently conceal my body heat from any military choppers that might happen to carry infrared detection equipment. Much of my course to	and from the target was open sky instead of thick temperate forest. With nowhere to hide from IR sensors, it was prudent of me to develop this simple means of masking and concealing my radiant heat and of dissipating my convective heat, just in case the cops spent some of their near‑infinite taxpayer bounty on useful IR technology instead of more of their usual toys. I was justifiably frightened of this possibility because a military base was near the target; I'd seen the military cops work for the prison kops at the Hominy prison riot in 1983, and the cost of IR technology had recently fallen drastically due to increased demand for anti‑drug and anti‑guerrilla exports. (Uncle Scam would pass out billion$ in 'aid' and demand that they buy our weapons with it.) Also, at about this time occurred a slight breakthrough in the technology that permitted the development of the now‑famous pigtoy called 'FLIR', (forward looking infra red). It was still early for this stuff to be widely available, but S knew that if anyone had one nearby, it would be the milcops at the McAmmo base six miles away from McAuschwitz.
There was no way to test the insulating parasol. I could do the math and make sure it stayed at near ambient temperature prior to use. I could hope it didn't show up on the screen as a warm, ragged‑looking starfish‑shaped blob bounding toward the forest amid the relatively cool grass and weeds. Testing it more rigorously would have been far more costly than efficatious.	My knowledge of science and human nature told me it would work fine for my particular needs.

The search for mercenaries at VFW halls and Legion bars only turned up old blowhards living in the past and willing to say anything for attention. Soldier of Fortune and its remnants were more full of cops trying to entrap people than pros looking for tiny, one‑shot domestic jobs like mine. The gun shows were equally dangerous for this same reason. They were full of cops too. One thing all this searching did do for me was to ring a bell in my head, causing me to remember a bit of information that I'd first dismissed a hogwash, then accepted as true after hearing it from widely disparate sources without undue prompting on my part. It went like this:
Many of my friends are Viet Nam veterans, and in this particular bit of Uncle Skullduggery's shenanigans were drafted a few too many freethinkers. Proof of this is in the fact that more than one elite military school graduate officer fascist dumbass got fragged by people too smart to continue taking stupid orders that got them needlessly killed. Though these instances of natural selection are largely concealed and suppressed by the gov/media alliance for fear of contaminating other soldierboys with actual thought, they were prevalent enough to take root and grow, Disgruntled Viet Nam vets formed a loose affiliation of thinking soldiers who do not mindlessly obey orders from persons who may or may not know what is prudent. They still exist and have grown in number with each war our bloodthirsty politicians have started. I call them the Xenophon Society. They have no formal name, and are only a collection of like‑minded individuals who have been lied to, maimed or otherwise tragically screwed by a rabid govt.
Through friends and their friends I eventually found a person in Michigan who had me send my proposal, plan and situation. If he liked it, and was convinced that I was no govt snake trying to weasel into his business, I would be in. He, whose real name I never learned, would do what he could to find a qualified person interested in doing as I asked for a reasonable fee.
They did not waste any time. Within a month of receiving my proposal and goodwill fee, they sent me a list of questions and asked for a phone number along with a time of my availability.	'Xeno' called from very far away the following week. He'd liked my answers and told me where to send more money to make certain he stopped to help me that summer. I sent it almost immediately and obtained geographic maps that covered the target
and the areas farther out from it. Xeno agreed with my basic plan with almost no changes. Two week after the last change we met at a rest area along the highway near the target. My first impression was that he was far too young to be competent. He didn't look like much more than a muscled‑up kid of twenty‑three or so. The best I could say about just looking at him was that he did move well, like a cat, and he wasn't covered in tattoos or sport a busted nose, missing teeth or signs of alcohol abuse. He'd parked across the highway at the other rest stop. It was far into darkness, as if he'd hoped to conceal its characteristics from me. I didn't care what he drove, but though the moon was not yet out, I could tell it was a new black jeep and that something huge and dark passed within it from front to back, staring out various windows.
Traffic was sparse this lonesome Monday morning. Between the occasional speeding vehicles Xeno made his way across the highway unseen and with all his equipment on him. I assumed he had a gun; hoped he had one, but never saw it or asked about it. He did ask me, and was surprised to find that I had none. He did have a pair of very small transceivers and handed me one, explaining how to use the clicker button and which signals meant what. I was wearing a scanner and listening to desultory cop‑ and guard‑chatter through an ear plug. The jammer was in a rancher's pasture far to the southeast of our position, waiting for my signal. We went over the compass course that we'd be following and Xeno showed me his very expensive positioning unit and how it worked. This was relatively new technology. Even more interesting was his electric image intensifier. It was much smaller than any I had seen or heard of and indeed turned the night into day. The thing was made in Germany.

We set off hiking South along the fence row paralleling the highway. The night air was cool coming off the thick forest on the other side. Stars shined mightily through no clouds, providing plenty of light. An unceasing mix of melodious chirps, shrieks, quacks and trills accompanied us from the forest side. The birds and animals knew exactly where we were at all times, judging by how they paused and resumed their songs as we passed. The night was still young and our wind good when we reached the point where we were to jog west into the forest. It quickly opened into pastures. We kept to the forest perimeter for cover until it gave out. Then we sat on the edge until we spotted the ‑ single guard cruising the dirt roads. He made his circuit and returned to the east gate guardshack and sucked up coffee with his bored buddies.
This was our opportunity to advance through the first open space. We jogged quickly across it and into a shallow creekbed which provided a forested, depressed road that brought us to within nearly a klick of the building we sought. This brought us to the next and last open space. from here I was to crawl up a grassy rise that overlooked the door of our target, the access roads and the surrounding countryside. From there I could see everything but what was going on behind the photo‑building. The walls of the prison rose high behind it like a guarding citadel, glistening in white under yellow and blue arc lights. Between it and the photo‑building was a locked dormatory full of inmates and perhaps two more guards.
Xeno made sure I understood that I shouldn't signal unless there was a true danger of discovery. Also he said that I should not reply to any signal he may give. Then he took off, bearing straight for the target while I began crawling up the rise.
Soon as I attained my position I turned on the nightscope, pointing it at Xeno. It was scary how bright it made things seem. He was already at the door before my ass found a comfortable patch of ground. He quickly spread a thick layer of black asphalt tar over the bottom pane of glass and bashed it in. It made no noise that I could hear. He was through the opening faster than I could have pushed the glass splinters out of the way, then he rushed up the corridor and cut left and out of sight. My imagination followed him subduing the single sleeping prisoner in his bed. While I was mentally timing knocking him out and taping him up, Xeno ducked across the corridor and went into the photography area. Xeno was so fast that I couldn't believe he'd not simply killed the guy instead of wrapping him up as we had planned. Xeno didn't seem to be an undercover maniac, but no one could really have known. I was glad it was not the friend of mine who had given me the information on the photographs. He had been transferred to the stringtown prison long before our foray.
While I was imagining step‑by‑‑step Xeno's flashlight search amongst the racks of prisoner photos, the guard made another round. He drove slowly, as if he was asleep and never used his spotlight. Their chatter was infrequent and insignificant. Gradually a pile of black trash bags formed in the corridor. The night guard was still on the back forty when the pile of bags squeezed out the door and broke across the street, down the ditch and into the trees and bushes of the creekbed. When I joined him there in the deepest shadow, Xeno was still wiping sweat off his face and gasping for air from the exertion. He had with him six huge bags full of nothing but prints of prisoner photos.

We'd not said much the whole time spent sneaking in, and then only about important matters, but this time I had to ask what he'd done with the prisoner, just in case there was time for first aid or something similar. Xeno said he'd made the guy show him where the pertinent years of photos were stored and stack them on the floor in a pile. Then he had taped the guy face down in his bed, gagged loosely with tape and a sock so he could still breathe easily. Xeno had disabled the guy's 'phone', which only led to the guards and was more like an intercom than anything else: He assurred me that the guy would be able to free himself eventually. While Xeno spoke, he retied the bags so that they would be easier to carry. Since Xeno was young and beefy, he slung two bags over each shoulder, leaving me two to carry pretty much the same way. While we were tying the bags together I heard a single click from the transeiver he'd given me. The click had emanated from his unit and meant 'clear'. Soon as he saw me look at him he murmured 'loops" as if he didn't really mean it, and said, "Let's roll."	Xeno suddenly darted down the creekbed at a fast clip, continuing south. The click hadn't elicited any comment on the copnet that I picked up, but you can never be certain that they aren't using a frequency you've overlooked. Not that this was likely. People spend a lot of time overestimating the cops, and the cops are carefully cultivating this behavior in their taxherd as a means of making their :jobs easier. When everyone thinks the cops are omnipotent, few have the courage to stand up. The cops and politicians pretty much have everyone living on their knees via this strategy.
Even with only two bags I was having a hard time keeping Xeno in sight. He'd only get so far ahead before he'd stop and wait for me. He used these occasions to scope the azimuth for threats. Retreat was hot, sweaty, gasping work. Age had crept up on me extra quickly while I'd been forced to rot in a tiny cage for thirteen years deprived of exercize. I'd only fooled myself with all the hours I'd spent :jogging through Texas neighnorhoods thinking I was keeping in good shape.	No one trains hard enough by himself, and the bags of prints were heavy.
The worst part was that our way out was through more forest and was slightly longer than our way in. Before we got to the forest, though, we had a considerable distance to traverse with little cover where the stream meandered through tall weeds. Fortunately the summer was dry and thus the splashing and mud were minimal. I had not wanted to use this part of the creek because it was a favorite highway used by prisoners with guts enough to escape from the 'chicken ranch'. A friend of mine called 'Big Ed' and an African had used this creek as their escape route; so had Ronnie and Mandals, and Scott and a Mexican in years past. Given that I personally knew four friends who had used it, I felt that by now some guard would have realized this was a good place to put up a motion sensor or an impedance meter set to detect human‑sized prey. This creek led quickly to the main road connecting McAlester with the superhighway and thus was not a good choice.
Xeno had insisted that it was perfect for an undetected retreat, which we were at at that moment. The only cop‑chatter on the scanner of any proximity was about a dumpster fire behind a supermarket in town. Xeno had trumped my presumption of motion detectors with his assurance that he would have a device that detects radio waves of those frequencies. He also noted that impedance detectors were unlikely to be used in places where cattle can trample them.

We ran on, staying for the most part on the firm, grassy periphery of the creek to avoid leaving footprints. Xeno was sweating badly now, and he wasn't staying quite as far ahead of me now that we had been 'rolling' for fifteen or twenty minutes. We crossed a barbed wire fence without being seen. I began having nightmares about the guards or cops springing up out of nowhere unexpectedly, as they had done to me when I'd sneaked down that service road at Dallas International Airport. The thought gave me chills, and I have since wondered if they'd set an electric eye across the road or had simply seen me and my motercycle from the tower. I took solace in the notion that the prison administrators would not want to lay so much wire so far out past their usual perimeter. They'd rather employ their relatives and offspring as guards and buy more guns, bullets, vehicles and other toys than buy an unblinking robot eye and point it at the escape route expressway. Bureaucracies tend to expand their dominion, not perform their functions efficiently and at low cost.
We ran on a westerly heading, else we'd cross the main road from town. While I thought this, I heard some more cop‑chatter about a fire somewhere else in town. A few hundred paces farther I heard another click, again from Xeno's unit. This click meant "Go!" or "hurry!" This time Xeno didn't bother to say "Oops!" Instead, he took the lead again, staying too far ahead for me to query him on the change of plan.
 I chased the bastard until my legs felt like rubber but I could not close the distance an inch. He was just too fast. Quickly we reached the point where we were to turn west and parallel the main road for a bit. While I chased him down this leg the copchatter became more intense. A third dumpster fire had erupted behind some businesses and the cops were begining to swarm, looking hot and hard for some teenage pranksters on the far east side of the town. They began describing and targeting 'suspicious' vehicles, all of them pickups or sedans. They also feared for their banks, convenience stores and car lots, opining that the fires might be a diversion for criminal activity of some type more serious than arson of garbage.
Halfway down our westerly course Xeno sat in deep cover with a good view east and waited for me to catch up. When I finally did join him we were gasping like asthmatic whales after a particularly deep dive, especially me. Before I could say anything intelligible he pointed east where a lone set of headlights could be seen moving toward us‑from far down the highway and at a leisurely pace.
"That's for us," he wheezed.

We only had to climb a fence and an embankment with our stuff and be hauled away speedily to our base. The cops were busy, the highway was empty except for us, and the Jeep with the huge black Newfoundland dog in it did stop. We chucked our stuff into the thing and were off speeding to the expressway and north after this brief stop. Besides the dog there was a good‑looking woman driving and a baby in a car seat beside me in back. The baby was quiet, the dog well‑trained and the Jeep very powerful. The tires chirped quietly for a few seconds, trying to break traction as the acceleration threw us back into our seats. The welcome wind blew my sweat off as we sped past the rest stop where my truck was parked. It was still there and by itself. No nosy cops were snooping around it. Two miles past it Xeno's partner pulled a 'U' and took us back south. The opposite rest stop was empty too, this early in the morning. She stopped long enough for me to get out, he fence we'd just crossed marked a position where we would soon take a then sped off toward Dallas. The only piece of equipment I kept was the scanner, and only that to make sure it was safe to retrieve the jammer. Same as you leave nothing in the forest but your tracks, we left‑little or no evidence behind for the cops to pin on anyone. Since we left the prisoner $50 in street money, there was little chance that the cops would get any real story from him. He had plenty of incentive to clean up the glass and make an excuse for how it got broke. Same for the phone, The guards could only discover anything happened that a stray basketball couldn't explain if he was unable to free himself before 8AM, which is the earliest time he 1s required to show himself. The missing photos would not be missed by the prison guards. They are an old, obsolete set. The main set is located deep within the administration building. If the guards ask him to print a missing negative or photo, he simply admits that they are missing in this particular case only and the guards bring him one from their own files. His function is to make copies for the guards and cops to distribute whenever any prisoner escapes. No one escaped, so they had no reason to ask him anything.
In fact, Floyd did get free before count and did fix the phone and hide the broken glass. He was glad to help and make $50. He never told, and to this day the guards still do not realize that years of their mugshot prints are missing.
Soon as it was safe, I ran across the expressway, stashed the scanner in its hiding place and drove off to get the jammer/ By this time the cops and firecops had gotten control of the three dumpster fires and were investigating the ashes for clues. While they were all scratching their heads in town, retrieving the jammer was no problem.  I got it dismantled and concealed, loaded its many heavy batteries properly and shot off for Dallas less than an hour behind Xeno and company.
During the drive back I ceased to be angry over Xeno's secret and sudden change of plan. People who don't completely trust one another tend to do that. Were I him, he'd not have discovered the full extent of my resources until the last second either. As it was, he'd saved us almost half the hiking, making our retreat quicker and more secure while providing an unnecessary diversion. Also, he wanted to buy the jammer we hadn't used, so I was a very happy man for reasons beyond our success.
Fact is, I was the happiest man on the planet during that drive back to DFW. Finally, after years and years of enslavery, insidious and constant bi‑hourly torture both physical and mental, from master, career sadists and the threat of being murdered upon discovery,
I was finally going to be able to rip the pigs' lies off my shoulders and make them and the lawcrats stuff them where the sun doesn't shine. During that long trip back it took all my control to keep myself properly concealed within the sparse early morning trafficcop targets. The exact last thing I wanted was some nosy revenue‑hound to poke his rodent‑like suspicious nature into my truck to dream up crime‑fantasies over my load of batteries.  
Cops get pretty lazy by 5:30AM, when they become primarily concerned with the end of their shifts and how to sneak closer to home without appearing to do so. This is exactly what was happening when I rolled into my apartment house parking space and found out that the cops had kidnapped one of my common‑law wives. (The Okie state lawcrats make it insanely easy for women to claim wifehood. This way the lawyerclass drums up plenty more court actions for themselves. In one of the most backward and malicious states, (Oklahoma) all she has to do is spend one night in your domicile and call you 'husband' to any third party. If you don't immediately object, you're hitched to every woman who cares to pull this trick.)

The note on the door said simply, "Visit Annette," but it meant that she was in some jail, usually 'Lou Sterret Justice Center'. Gina wasn't home. She often stayed out partying and ripping off tricks until exhaustion brought her back for a safe place to sleep. I wasn't home more than fifteen minutes before Nancy discovered my presence and came over asking for a ride to Fort Worth. She and her mother worked for the post office and made fabulous wages. Both blew their money on smokeable coke as quickly as they made it.  Worse, Nancy had a big, ugly, crater‑faced African boyfriend who always followed her around fifteen minutes later. Nancy is a very attractive nymph, and he was understandably insanely jealous. He is a worthless stack of walking waste, and I avoided him whenever possible. Not having the time or inclination to put up with any feminine drug‑addict nonsense, and even less for jealous boyfriend nonsense, I finished my unloading and reloading and drove off with Nancy before he caught up with her. I had to go almost to Fort Worth anyway and she would provide excellent cover. Nancy was so light‑skinned that from a cop's car she would easily pass for White or Hispanic, plus she was a nonentity to police computers, never having been arrested for anything. The to‑work traffic was getting thick enough for us to hide in, and she was too self‑centered to be curious about anything she saw me do today.
Thanks to Reagan's 'deregulation' scam for ripping off the savings and loan industry and the banks and insurance companies that serviced them, there were plenty of places where Brother‑in‑Law Construction companies feigned bankruptcies after putting in token 'improvements' such as streets and curbs. It was toward one of these that we were headed. This particular one is off the famous I‑30 corridor near Arlington where many of the 'land flips' occurred that jacked up their prices for fraudulent profits of loans that would never be repaid. This one was off a service road; a side street that abruptly curved between forest and hillside before ending just out of sight from the service road. Consequently, many people used this secluded location for a garbage dump.	(Texas tax‑ticians stupidly encourage this practice by charging $10 as a minimum fee just to enter a dump.)
Everyone on the road was intent on getting to work. The traffic was too thick for the cops to be targeting drivers efficiently. Also they pretty‑much stop patrolling at this hour anyway in their haste to get home or to the coplair. Even so, I set Nancy at the entrance as a lookout and as a distraction before driving in and down to where "he trash was. The six hefty bags were right where Xeno was supposed to leave them; scattered among the real trash bags, yard waste, tree limbs and junk furniture and appliances. In less than five minutes I had them loaded among the real garbage I'd brought as a disguise and drove out to pick up Nancy. She crooked a questioning eyebrow upon seeing more trash instead of no trash, but said nothing. She looked at me and smiled broadly the silent question, "Is that dope?" S laughed and simply shook my head "No." Nancy was good about minding her own business. If it wasn't dope or money, she didn't care what it was. She just wanted me to hurry up and drop her off at her friend's hangouts in Fort Worth.
This I did and quickly returned to my place in Irving. The trash went into the dumpster and the six bags of photos went into the bedroom. While I'd been gone, Nancy's hot‑head boyfriend had dropkicked my door and scratched in it, "I kill you, M'F'!" The lock was almost bashed out. There was a huge crack where the tongue protruded from the wood. It wouldn't take another hit.
Because all the apartment personnel are unpaid, volunteer cops, I hid all the stuff under the bed, chair and in the closet. Then I put a locking doorknob on the bedroom door, snatched up my oak cane for protection and went to find Tommy, the head maintenance man.
He was busy, so I spoke with Susan, the manager, instead.

Susan is a very impressive character who bears mention for her courage, competence and self‑confidence. She's about thirty‑five years old and had five children, the youngest ‑ only a few months old. I'd only lived there a few months when she cornered me into a conversation. I'd wanted to pay the rent and get out, but she got between me and the door to her office. She mentioned "Some people don't approve of what I'm doing..." I hadn't noticed her doing anything much beyond completely managing the place and her crew of maintenance men, housekeepers and vendors, etc. I had noticed a pack of wild young children amok in her office on occasion, but assumed she was doing a day‑care thing on the side or rotating sitting duties with other mothers. In general, they were black‑haired boys who, didn't look obviously Hispanic. Susan was short, stocky and blond; it never occurred to me that she was Latino because I assumed she went by a husband's surname. It never occurred to me that her hair could have been dyed.
l told her, "I don't know what you're doing, but it is your choice and I'm sure you are doing it for very good reasons." She knew I was impressed with her competence and bravery. I'd seen her track down a crazy Mexican tenant and shame him into not 'celebrating' by shooting his pistola in the air at night while drunk.  She would do this every holiday, and did it well, often by shouting up to them as they drank on their balconies. I eventually surmised that she was raising five children by herself and carefully choosing a different father for each one. The longer I lived free the more I was astounded by the number of women who chose to be their own person without the assistance or support of men. Susan was the most extreme example of this phenomenon, and the one most unabashedly competent at it.

Susan said she would have Tommy fix my door right away, but wouldn't tell me where that Black piece of shit lived. She wasn't fooled by my story of having a trick knee and said she'd fix this nig herself. Unable to deal with him myself, I called the pigs just for show; for the gossip value their presence would cause. They sent me two strutting, beer‑belly peacocks who seemed to spend more time polishing their buttons, shoes and gunbelts than 'fighting' crime. Neither one of them could recall that it was a felony to make terroristic threats, and both went blind when shown the words scratched in my door. They were worthless to anyone who didn't have big tits and a caddilac, but at least they didn't insult me like the last two by suggesting I'd scratched that crap in my own door. The usual coptrick is to accuse the victim or dream up their own scenario of nonsense to escape the paperwork. They proved themselves to be even more worthless than most cops by refusing to use their radios to check the jails for Annette.	I was pretty certain she was in Dallas anyway. The only thing I could do was find out how long they planned to shit on her. Since these pig's plan was to dodge doing their job, I got rid of them the quickest way possible: I ducked around the corner and escaped while they were preoccupied with themselves. They looked up from their whispered conference with each other and were chagrinned to find me gone before they could con their way into my apartment or discover which vehicles were mine, if any. They stupidly stuck around, thinking I would come back. I caught Tommy before he blundered into them on his way to fix my door. We killed time in the storeroom until the cops finally drove off without enough information to fill all the blanks in their incident reports. I'm sure that they simply made up stuff to fill in the blanks, because they never got any tag, social security, driver's license or other ID numbers from me. Worthless Bastards! I was pretty stupid to bother calling them, but wanted to make damned sure that the gossip‑mongers got word back to that Black shitwad that the pigs were apparently on my side. He was too big to let sneak up behind me, and this would maybe stifle him a bit.
Instead of replacing the door, Tommy sold me a line of crap about how he could glue it back so that it would be stranger than it had been when new. It looked to me like he had put caulk in the crack and two screws, but it did slam pretty solid when he got finished. I figure he had fixed it well enough though I'd never trust it. I set my survival knife on the table next to the door and began taking my cane everywnere I went.
There was too much material to go through in the time available. The first few hours were spent setting ‑the photographs back into chronological order, scanning through them quickly, sorting, bundling them up and answering the damned door. It seemed like everyone and their parrot came pecking on my door wanting something. I got rid of them all as quickly as possible and returned to work. By 4 PM was too tired to make objective assessments of the faces. I put the stuff away,* set the alarm for 6PM and slept.
Those two little hours of sleep didn't seem to do much goad while I was awakening, but once my blood got flowing, it was plenty good enough. After barring the sliding glass doors and locking both the front and bedroom doors, I hit the payphone to try and find out which jail they had Annette in. The cops have a 'jail information' line with a recording on it that endlessly claims that they are all 'busy' and asks that we 'please wait’ apparently forever. It seems like they lock this phone up in a soundproof room, because it will ring forever, then ask you to wait forever. Very few times has it ever wasted less than ten full minutes of my time, and I've watched it screw my friends out of 15 to 20 minutes of their lives regularly before a live copcrat gets on the line. My time is much too valuable to waste on this type of laziness and neglect of the job these hatefilled fascists are too‑well paid to half‑ass do. I can just imagine a control center filled with these broad‑assed dips smoking and drinking coffee, reading romance novels or Field and Stream while they are supposed to be watching twenty monitors focussed upon empty corridors and cages. Their asses are fluffy and calloused from a lifetime of sitting and ignoring the phone ringing on the next desk. Just to climb out of their heavily cushioned chairs is enough effort to make them gasp for air. This isn't just a fantasy: I've seen it many times. They're not all like this, just the majority who have seniority.
My time is not to he wasted this way:, so I sparingly use another technique that I tell no one, until now. It's simple. Everyone should have thought of it and thus ruined it for everyone else, but somehow they haven't yet. It relies on the fact that phones are installed in sequence: just add or subtract one from the cops' sucker‑phone number and you will quickly reach the phone that sits on the desk of one of the lazy bastards whose job it is to ignore the sucker‑phone. He can't ignore this other phone. It may be his boss calling. When he finds out that it's you, he'll try and trick you into hanging up and calling their suckerphone number. Don't go for it. Instead, give him your own standard sob story; it's your last quarter; you just got in from Alaska; your daughter will die without her medicine; your brother‑in‑law's wife is a cop: anything that will make that worthless blob of butter tap the keys on his computer. Unless he's a complete reptile, he'll give you thirty seconds of his time; the time it takes for him to find the information just to get rid of you. Soon as too many people do this too often with the same excuses, the 'crats will realize what is happening and move to prevent it. Since I never used it much, it always worked.

The guard told me that Annette was in some county jail and that visiting hours ended at 9PM. It wasn't hard to find, but it was stuffed full of visitors of every stripe and many children. It was a sad process standing in that barren set of cages and waiting in line with a crowd of other supplicants for our turn to be metal‑detected, harassed, intimidated and degraded. After wasting a good half‑hour being hasseled by three guards, they let me off into a blind corridor. It had a row of tiny, thick windows set into the wall, barely large enough to put your face in. Next to each one was a non‑working phone, or one that partially‑worked as an excuse for a phone.
Feeling like a voyeur, I poked my face into a window plate and tried to make out the dim, dingy interior. Inside, sitting on tables fifteen feet away were twenty or thirty young women in raggedy coveralls. None of them were familiar to me. They seemed timid and dejected. There was no evidence of anything to distract their minds from their misery: no books, no cards, no games, no radio, no TV, no nothing, not even a Bible! Evidently the demonspawn who 'cared' for these waifs intended that they spend every waking hour staring at their dirty, yelloish‑green steel walls. Being forced to endure such tedium and cruelty for long months while awaiting the leisure of the lawcrats, it is no wonder to me who causes much of the rampant spread of feminine homosexuality and thus a major portion of the spread of venereal disease among their victims: lawcrats. Monkeys in a zoo are not so thoroughly tortured as the people who suffer cop and lawcrat depredations. If you ever speak to any of the lowlifes in charge of warehousing men and women, ask them why they forbid all types of diversions, especially educational materials. Invariable they will snootily proclaim, "They're criminals! They don't deserve any thing! They lost their right to be treated humanely when they turned criminal!"
Scum such of these who have last all sense of compassion do not belong in charge of insects, much less mammals or primates. Most persons who have worn the badge or robe (or the silk suit) more than ten years are more fit for dealing with shovels, rakes, brooms and picks than human beings. Ordinary, standard cop‑indoctrination is specially designed to subtract a person's humanity to begin with. Persons who seek such power over others are likely the persons who secretly enjoy torturing animals. Power is a magnet for sadists and misanthropes.
The women looked at me with mild curiosity, then at each other questioningly. Catching the eye of the most alert one, I motioned with the phone. She came over and we talked. No one named Annette was in their cage, not even behind the forest of sleeping racks.
So long as I was there, I was going to take a few minutes to poll this bored, captive audience. Everyone in this cage spoke to me briefly. I asked about the cause of their arrest, status of case, length of sentence, access to medical care, family status, etc: general sociological questions. Annette was not in any of the other cages either, and no one admitted to knowing her by her street name/alias of 'Skeeter‑boy‑pimp', which was on par; they don't inform on each other to men. This is what makes them the Sisterhood.

The informal polls I took held no suprizes. They confirmed my other demographic findings. Almost every one of them was enslaved for only about two reasons. The primary reason for their being jailed is so the govcrats can reap the tax‑profit off them. The second reason, and the one used as the publicized excuse for enslaving them, is related to selling sex; moral 'crimb' (as I term it). The govcrats succeed in selling the idea that whoring spreads disease, but this is not nearly as true as they want their taxherds to believe. Hookers have a very real interest in avoiding and preventing disease. In fact, most hookers go to distant lengths to remain uninfected. One of the primary ways they spread disease through whoring is when they are opiate‑addicted, entering withdrawals and meet a trick who won't give up his money except for unprotected sex.
By far the way a major fraction of venereal disease is spread is by hookers among themselves, in jails, while prevented by the cops and lawcrats from obtaining the means to prevent infection. The disease they spread the farthest while practicing homosexualitydue‑to‑extreme‑boredom‑in‑jail is herpes. The largest majority of young women I spoke to there and in other jails spread out across the southwest exhibited herpes lesions on their cheeks and chins, readily visible when they are deprived of makeup. Most straight persons think that herpes lesions are relatively large sores with red scabs. This is the case only when they are scratched or clawed‑at. Hookers have an astounding amount of self‑control, some of which is directed at not molesting the itchy lesions. When left completely alone, herpes lesions are hardly noticeable. They are tiny eruptions of lymph. The lymph dries to form a small, yellow‑tinged crust barely a millimeter across and it is easily missed by the unknowing. A little paste of makeup over it makes it impossible for anyone to detect. In a few days or a couple of weeks they stop itching and heal, but while present, they shed the virus. If these geniuses who dream‑up and make their badged thugs enforce their morality laws would merely deign to allow their victims access to simple disinfectants such as hydrogen peroxide, vinegar, even weak solutions of ammonia or bleach, the . main cause of disease‑spread would be almost entirely quenched. Instead, they take our tax cash and use it to spread the half‑truth that most sexually transmitted disease is spread by prostitutes to street‑tricks. Probably this is true in the sense of total mass of infection, due to the fact that most hookers are not in jails at any given moment. Even so, the second most prevalent cause of infection occurs inside their jails and prisons. To neglect, ignore and actively conceal this fact is criminal on the parts of the cops and lawcrats.
I wasn't in a very good mood on my way out of that misery‑bin and offended a youngster cop who had just recently obtained his first taste of unbridled power. He was loving it, but didn't yet know the best way to oblige his burgeoning addiction. He didn't like the way I'd commented on one of his pals who was telling a mother to make her kid shut up. In retaliation he snapped at me an accusation of possible public drunken‑ness. This is the cops' most common 'answer' to persons who stand up and face them, and it is code for, "You exhibit far too much courage in the face of my awesome power to kill or maim you. Citizens should be silent and pay taxes. In order to train you to be timid in our presence, I will accuse you of crime and threaten you financially, physically and even mentally."

In a normal society this young twerp would be the pimply‑faced butt of jokes and he would not be addressing me but in the most civil of terms. Somehow society has allowed the scum to reach the top. Since he had a badge and a clique of thugs, plus the cage was locked, he could indulge his addiction under the protection of his older supervisors. Human dogpacks consider an attack against any one of their members, however justified, as an attack against all members of their dogpack. Outside and alone, even his many cop wea‑ pons and training would not suffice to make me suffer his insolence. This is exactly what he saw in my eyes as I laughed in his face and demanded he make haste in unlocking the door for my exit. We would see who was drunk if he wished, then he would regret his false accusations. Pigs do not enjoy it when citizens force them to dig out their breathalyzers. They prefer sheep and fools who are weak enough to perform the pigs' alcohol dance so the pigs can pretend to be doctors and diagnose inebriation. They could tell I was neither drunk, a fool, a sheep or weak. They decided my generous offer should be declined and pulled out an excuse instead of their breathalyzer. Pimples kept his nonsense‑hole clamped tightly shut as he opened the iron door for me.
Prior to this, one of the more humane guards was kind enough to tell me that Annette was in yet another jail nearby: a puke‑colored dungeon much like the first, but here they had a woman in charge, which made it more friendly. It was also less crowded with visit tors. Within fifteen minutes of having arrived, she showed me to a cage to wait. Five minutes later, Annette appeared eight feet away behind two sets of thick bars. She wore raggedy coveralls too, and beside me was another thick glass plate that looked into the cage she had come from. Even the standard dim lights were off, but I could still make out the squalor and five young women sitting in the dark. This scene was even more pathetic than the previous dungeon for its reek of despair.
Annette was a beacon of humor in that ugly place. Her eyes sparkled as she bounced happily up to the bars toward me in floppy coveralls big enough to fit a gorilla. She has that bubbly, ever‑optimistic personality that I value so much. Just being near her elevates people's moods. She appears equally happy in cages as she does free. She doesn't reveal her past to many persons, but I've been able to uncover a few facts and guess some of the rest. Annette is a natural blond of Russian heritage who was orphaned very early in life. Somehow she was raised by Hispanics near the southern border of Texas. She dropped out of school due to pregnancy and a Viet Nam veteran boyfriend who shared certain mild drugs with her. The cops found out and locked away her sole means of support. She fell in with an older woman who turned her toward smokeable cocaine and told her of the fabulous riches she could earn in the sex trade. This young woman took Annette to Dallas and mentored her on how to trick most cost‑effectively.
Annette had been in Dallas about four years when I met her. She and her mentor had fallen out and she was recovering from a love affair just ended with a younger girl she had mentored who called herself 'Little‑bit'. I was having lunch in my car in a park near Parkland hospital. Annette came up to me and asked for a ride. She wanted to go to an apartment she shared with some other women just off Northwest highway. She invited me in and we all became friends. Eventually their landlord chased them all out, and Annette would come visit me when she needed a safe place to sleep. She liked my non‑exploitationist personality and liberal philosophy, and I liked her gaiety, loyalty, mental toughness, beauty and genetic endowment. It was too bad that she couldn't resist cocaine, but this was her only vice and she had a ready means of obtaining it without draining my resources. Annette is as independent as a cat and able to thrive in any environment. She doesn't need periodic reassurance, nor does she require anyone to deduce her needs. When Annette wants you to know or do something, she says so or asks in a straightforward manner. She seldom wants much beyond transportation, and she has a well‑developed sense of right and reciprocation.
She told me the bad news: the cops planned to take many days of her life. She had instantly acceded to whatever accusations and sentence the lawcrats chose and had reverted back to the exclusive feminine family traditions found only in such caged societies. The only thing I could do for her was leave money and write her letters to share with her new 'family' of victims.

Here I hit another snag. The jailer said I could only leave money with a bureaucrat far away whose office was closed. Most or all lawcrats have many such catch‑22 rules that are designed to make it as hard as possible to do simple things. I would have to drive all the way down here during working hours and try to leave her a few bucks and get slammed with the next catch‑22: except for the fact that Annette is one of the most resourceful persons I ever met plus a sociological genius. Somehow she had anticipated this impasse and expanded her cult of the Sisterhood to include this guard who periodically checked on me. I gave this guard $20 and she took on the task of getting change and relaying candy, pop, cigarettes, stamps, etc to Annette and her clan.
That's all she wanted. I didn't really need to have come up to see her. She knows I hate jails. She knows I wouldn't be back unless she requested or it was time to pick her up when it was over. All she wanted was a few dollars every so often, and she would make sure I was glad to have provided them. Tragic as it was to leave her there, I could do nothing more and left. Skeeter‑boy Pimp had made her bed and now, like Procrustes, she had to lie in it herself. The cops and lawcrats would extract another few pounds of her flesh.
Tuesday found me back at work on research row. More bad news was in the works. Many months previously my boss' boss had set us to working up	recombinant bacterial cultures that were a lot more secret than was called for to combat mere patent infringement or medical espionage. Just prior to our being given the culture and growth media, all the technician's microscopes had been spirited off in the early hours before the first shift. Now we had to go to the supervisor's office when we needed a 'scope or go upstairs and ask to use the electron microscope in research. When we asked why, we got two answers: boss said that they'd been junked and that new ones would arrive soon; boss's‑boss said that they went‑out for "refurbishing". Besides this, they instituted more security and higher containment procedures. Lastly, we were required to take an unspecified 'booster' shot that made us break out in a rash.
For weeks we techs would speculate and theorize about what, exactly, we were culturing.  Also we'd wheedle the boss about it and occasionally see him snap manuals shut when our eyes wandered too far across his desk. They later posted a grim young man with us who had too‑short hair and who seemed more adept at military speech than medical science. His undefined job appeared to be to watch us rather than assist us. His reluctance to help out and his lack of technical knowledge fed our curiosity. Upon learning that our work was due to a 'government contract', we all became more curious and determined to uncover secrets. They tore the tags off the culture media before we were permitted to prepare it, thus we were left with only one way to identify the organism we were culturing. Carl 'accidently' contaminated a specimen and innocently tried to 'scope it in the boss' office to determine the source for a quick fix. Boss caught him and thwarted us. He knew this was a ruse and threatened us all with termination. We'd be fired immediately if we tried again.

After that, no one had the courage to be curious. The job was high pay and low work; much too valuable to lose for no real reason. We worked on for a few weeks with little care for what we were doing; except me. Persons who trust the government with their welfare don't manage to live long lives in this setting. Also, Milspeak's presence goaded me every time I saw him. Milspeak proved that the worst part of govt was sponsoring ths work, and they'd proved their viciousness and carelessness multiple times. The young men and women I worked with didn't have enough experience to realize that our work could be just as deadly to us as it had been to the atomic veterans, agent orange dupes, CIA LSD victims, Navy nervegas fools and Tuskeegee syphilis Negroes, etc. The last thing I wanted was for some military moron to negligently murder me with a new strain of Hemorrhagic fever they'd collected in Monkeybhang, Nigeria.
Govcrats, as a rule, are their own worst nemesis. Their own blundering quest for secrecy caused their secret to escape. I easily killed some of their innoculate and ‑ sneaked it past Milspeak undetected. Once outside, I eventually took it to a fellow labtech's facilities at Baylor. There we prepared several slides with the gamut of stains and 'scoped them onto color Photo‑emulsions. My friend was not told enough to he very interested in my work. My goal was merely to get identifiable prints without arousing curiosity. In this I succeeded.
Soon as the prints came out, I took them and the negatives to the University library and began comparing them to plates of disease‑causing organisms on file. My first thought was that the pentagon mass‑murder merchants would go straight for the easiest, deadliest microbe to manufacture and cowardly sneak into their target's air. They'd been practicing mock mass‑murder on unsuspecting US cities for decades. Only long after all the govt‑paid criminals had escaped did the American 'watchdog' (lapdog) media reveal that CIA/army teams had attacked various US cities such as San Francisco and Minneapolis by secretly spraying the occupants with zinc‑cadmium sulphate 'dust' that mimics the way anthrax and other spores waft down from planes or spew from bombs, missiles, etc. The only way they got‑caught at it was because their test substance made various school children and other citizens sicken and die. The CDC scientists zero'd in on these CIA/army plagues and told the 'why'. Years later the 'how' was leaked out when too many parents of the victims learned of too many victims in other cities and made enough noise to make one branch of govt snitch on the culprit branch of govt.

Because any fool who can read and do simple algebra can create a deadly weapon from anthrax in a relatively short time, this is the first plate I checked. It didn't match. They weren't using their favorite germ this time. But I didn't really expect the bulletheads of the military to still be enamored of killer germs they'd been perfecting since the last world war. By now they should be long tired of improving upon biowar technology they'd stolen from bombed‑out Germany. Eighties‑era military mass‑murders had been told of the riches of virulence being uncovered in Africa such as Human T‑cell Leukemia Viruses I, II, III and IV, and various strains of very‑fast killing Hemorrhagic fever, which were later to be called LAV, HIV and Ebola. Top military 'brains' don't know that there is any real difference between viruses and bacteria, but they know what they'd love to see their targets die hideous deaths from reading lists of symptoms. This is why I was so much more afraid of the innoculate they were having us adulterate the bacterial cultures with than the bacteria itself. The bacteria were nothing special to think of, nor was it hard to identify.	It wasn't the second most popular warmonger's biological playtoy either; Clostridium Botulism. The soil if full of microbial crap that can be turned deadly by using the right techniques. What made my search list shortest was the fact that gov'tal massmurderers require a type of death that they can sneak into their target‑population's air, then sneak away like cowards, undetected. Additionally, they need something that appears to be something innocuous or nothing at all.  This way they can pull their most used stunt of hiding behind a dupe. E.g. American secret police want to murder‑off someone who has outlived their usefulness and has too many secrets of the Reagan and other presidencies, like William Casey, the fossil who was head of the CIA for a while. Or maybe they just want to kill‑off their long‑term puppet, like the Shah of Iran, who no longer can give away to US oil companies and politicians his people's natural resources. What to do? They buy a maid, cook, butler, aide, guard or Doctor. They say, "We need you to see if some person of a certain foreign‑enemy persuasion is somehow taking advantage of poor Mr. Caaey/Palavi. Just put this device in their environment somewhere and we'll know."
The dupe is connived into thinking he is helping to protect the person he loves or admires, but in reality he is unwittingly killing him because what he thinks is a camera or microphone or bug‑detector is really a death machine that spews undetected contaminants into a specific area. Inside a few weeks, national security problem solved when Casey/ Palavi suddenly dies of cancer. The secret police slither back into their hidey‑holes and nobody ever guesses the truth: un‑natural death!
Cowardly, sneak‑thief attacks such as these that requite bacteria require a variety of bacteria that produce spores. Only spore‑eating bacteria are favored because the spores can be stored for years, then look like nothing when 10,000 of them find a cozy, warm place to nest in a lung or nasal cavity before reproducing in the millions, complete with deadly toxins added that conceal the vehicle of death.
My search space so reduced, it took less than an hour to identify Uncle Sleazy's latest pathogen. It was another soil microbe. It can switch from aerobe to anaerobe, it spores and it's not widely known to most labtechs, much less 'investigative reporters'.
It is very primitive and thus easy to grow, and it's rarely toxic (there are over 175 different strains). Undoubtedly the innoculate was to supply one or both of two things; It would move the genetic switch that caused the organism to become deadly on its own; it would supply its own, additional, killing mechanism.
US biowar techniques of the eighties were moving toward inserting the genes of deadly microbes into their pet bugs. Shitbirds who run the US KGB have recently bought scientists who separated the genes that make the two deadliest organic poisons known to man: Botulism toxin and Diptheria toxin. By 1987 they were inserting these genes into common bacteria that every human being carries around in our naso‑pharnageal and digestive tracts. This made it very easy for the US secret police to dupe fools into unwittingly performing their political murders. They simply infected their dupe, the dupe infected their target, their target contacted a pre‑selected environmental trigger, such as a country‑club men's room air freshener. The bacterial switch is thrown and their target suddenly dies of 'natural' causes, such as food poisoning.

We didn't have the technology to uncover exactly what kind of genetic monster they were concocting out of 'halotrope 57'. (I call it this to protect my friends and to confuse the govcops who will be directed to read this. Research row is a long street full of labs and govt contracts; too long and full for them to single out this one from the many of that time.) We did have the means to detect DNA in the innoculate, though, and its presence told us that the secret pigs were indeed using ?t to make a vaccine that they could use to protect themselves and their cronies from a hideous microbial Frankenstein they'd concocted. H‑57 needs very little to grow, and thus it grows prolifically in almost any environment. Plus, it carries a common bacterial virus everywhere it lives. Thus it can much more easily infect other bacteria and human cells with its cargo of suffering and death. This is the last thing our US Psychopathic Govcops need to be spreading around, to anyone.
They were violating their own law by creating this monster. The 1972 treaty with Russia and others specifically forbade creation of offensive bioweapons. But, by using standard, oily, slick‑lipped lawyerspeak they slithered around the treaty, at least in the eyes of other sleazy, lawyer‑talking slime like themselves. They do this by first creating in their minds the idea that Iraq, Iran, Libya or the Russians have already created this monster. They do this by merely having one of their anonymous, no‑name secret intelligence analysts claim so to a gang of sleazy intelligence committee elect‑o‑crats. By concocting this lie and acting as if it were true, the US secret govcops cover their asses and begin grabbing millions of dollars in taxcash to 'counter' this 'threat' by creating a vaccine for it. Trouble is, the only way to make a vaccine for the threat is to first manufacture the threat itself, then inject it into horses. The ones that don't die, they steal blood from. Then they purify out the vaccine the horse made for them. At least this is the way we first made vaccines. Modern vaccines? No animal is safe, but we mainly use rodents, eggs and bacteria today, at least in the preliminary stages. Nothing in the treaty forbade creation of these 'defensive' bioweapons, but making them guarantees a large supply of the monster itself is always around and ready to use in some capacity or another, either to make vaccine or to make murder.
I'd uncovered this long before my kite‑flying expeditions and had made plans to make the world a safer place despite Uncle Scam's mad brother's antics. To this end I'd devised many different ways to slow‑up and/or temporarily stop the work on this vaccine. The thing about creating bioweapons is that it is extremely dangerous to sic your monster on people before you have developed your own antidote to it. By trying to kill with it, you give your enemy a sample of it that can be turned back on you a lot quicker than it took you to invent it. Thus even the sneakiest, most cowardly bioattacks by govcops are held in abeyance until after plenty of vaccine is made and stored away for use by the privileged elite and their armies of dupes.	

This was the source of my bad news. They'd gradually manaaged to add up the subtle clues and wanted me to assure them that a whole string of accidents and misfortunes were just that, not sabotage. Once again it was time for me to make my exit. They were begining to suspect the conspiracy. Thus it was my task to allay fears, assure their minds, take the heat and admit to certain blunders of the idiotic variety. I took all the fault and responsibility, acted ashamed to have been so inept and offered to quit. They were relieved at the plausible explainations I gave them and wouldn't hear of my leaving. But I had cost them tons of money and months of effort. My own integrity would not permit me to stay, I told them. They told me, "Sure it would! We will even give you a raise to stay. You just won't be working on the H‑57 project anymore." "Sorry," I said, "It just would not be right." I didn't tell them that I had to leave because my integrity would force me to keep sabotaging their biowar work as long as I was able. I didn't tell them that I had to take all thoughts of conspiracy with me when I left. Nor did I tell them that their efforts would continue to suffer inexplicable cross‑contamination, misfortune and accidents long after my having quit. Several of my co‑workers were adamant about this. Having learned what Milspeak and his superiors planned, they counter‑planned that their plan would take millions more dollars and months more time and effort that is usual. I would finish out the fortnight, get my paycheck and never see them again.

CHAPTER TWENTY‑THREE,

Cop Slickery and Coke Whores
Those who can not remember the past are condemned to repeat it 
           George Santayana
This particular paycheck was much fatter than the others, as it included all the sick and vacation time I'd accrued. Every bit of it would be needed and more. While I was looking for another job that fit my needs, the stock market crashed so hard that it left a crater, virtually wiping out everything I'd saved and profited to that time. Once again, the heat was on. For me, that meant grazing the edges of legality again. My bills were due, and this time I was determined to stay solvent enough to keep home and transportation from becoming one again.
While I was ever‑more desperately seeking another place to work, Annette relayed word to me as to when I should pick her up from jail. The cops were going to open their dungeon for her at midnight. Tired from job‑hunting on my motorcycle, I set the alarm and caught a nap before heading out. They'd transferred her to the main jail called 'Lou Sterret'. Getting to it was extra hard because it was stuck inside a maze of twisting freeways, one‑ways and indecipherable on‑ and off‑ramps. Darkness made it even more difficult. While I was borrowing the light off a business to read a streetmap by, a nosy cop butted in, looking for crime revenue. He was easily diverted to giving me directions and gotten rid of, so my 'Luck wasn't all bad. Best, his directions were easy for me to follow (I'm topologically challenged). I arrived only a few minutes 'Late.  
Inside their 'Justice Center' all the copcrats hide behind bulletproof glass. Their victims are robbed for a parking fee even at midnight when their lots are empty. If you are there to try and ransom someone out of their clutches, you get a big suprize: there is a big, red sign that tells everyone that they will be raped for an extra $30 above and beyond the ransom that they told you over the phone. Plus, it must be paid in cash, because such illegal, last‑second robbery‑by‑copcrat‑edict must leave no trace behind to possibly haunt the specific official bandit who collects it. Don't try a check, and don't expect a receipt; you will not get one. This flagrant theft is called a 'service' fee. This is what they charge you for a fat 'crat to put down his coffee, swivel his chair around and attend his 'service' window.
Behind the glass on the left is a pack of crats who can't hear you even if you have fists full of money to poke through their little, blockaded cash‑holes; blockaded not to keep your arm out from trying to strangle them, but to keep their air‑conditioning in. To the right is another, smaller lair for senior bureaucrats. Against the opposite wall is a tiny, ridiculous, bulletproof kiosk with an information cop wedged inside. This must be their punishment booth. The drudgery of his job affected the quality of his information. It takes a special kind of man to be locked into a closet‑sized space for hours at a time, even when being paid a fancy wage of $17/hour. He appeared to phone up to the jail and told me that Annette was still on the ninth floor of their torture‑tower and would be released shortly after 'processing' (as in 'meat'.)

While I awaited her, Steve Rollerskate came down; an African acquaintance I'd met at Bachman Lake, a popular hangout for Blacks in Dallas. He was deliriously happy to have finally finished his time for stealing a pair of jeans from a merchant. We worked toge‑ther before too, and I've found him to be fearless in one respect. Three of us had been working a building as maintenance and had to clean a window over a stairwell that was unreachable. It looked like we'd have to delay until tomorrow and set up a scaffold to do this one window. None of us wanted to do this, but we couldn't skip it. If we did, they' would just make us come back and clean it later. While Joe and I were racking our brains on how to open this window and clean it by using ladders and equipment we'd brought, Steve suggested we teeter a ladder horizontally over the precipice and he would walk out over the abyss on it and clean the window while Toe and I stood on the other end. We let him trust us not to let him fall twenty feet and die trying to clean a window.
While we waited, Steve told me a long story about how the biggest African in the cage had attacked him shortly after they'd tossed him in. Then he told me in minute detail how he'd finally managed to kick the,guy's ass. In between times I asked the info‑cop again and again about Annette. Each time this badged grinner would perform the same act and . tell me the same line. Finally I thought I'd get slick and use the payphone to call the upstairs infocops. The phone in the lobby responded with a recording, cheerfully telling me that the number was "...not in service." Like an idiot, I thought the phone in the lobby wouldn't connect to any of the pig‑phones upstairs. Evidently many people had found the kiosk infopig to be a liar and tried to thwart him this same way. Too many of their smarter victims had disturbed the upstairs pigs, so the pigs had thwarted them by having the phone company block all calls from this building's lobby to its other phones. I did not think of it at the time, but I may have been able to just get the operator and have her dial the number for me, but she may have had a note taped up on her board to be wary of people asking to be connected manually to this pigpen. It may have worked.
Steve followed me outside and down the walk, telling me how great it would be when his beautiful girlfriend came to pick him up. While I took a quick look up and down bailbond street for payphones that might not have been screwed by the pigs, Steve told me how much respect the inmates in that cage had given him once he'd beaten the shit out of their champion. There were no payphones anywhere. The coincidences were too great. I'd waited too long. The badged maggot in the kiosk had stolen over an hour of my time with his lies, and I wasn't going to be suckered any longer. I didn't even waste any more time calling the operator for a connection to the other infopig when I did think of this. Women can catch rides faster than a man can figure out they are missing, and Annette was the best at catching free rides and getting to her destination. I didn't want to miss her, but subliminally knew that I already had. Even so, there was a chance I could get back to the Casa before she got bored and left for 'work'.
For politeness, I asked Steve if he wanted a ride, because I was leaving. He declined, saying that his girlfriend was due any minute from Oak Cliff. "Later!" I said, and sprinted for my truck. On the way out his mother waved to me on her way in.  She was the only occupant of her caddy.
My path home was unobstructed and quick, but no Annette. Instead, Nancy was waiting for me. She said Annette had waited for a while but had quickly tired and left. Meanwhile Nancy wanted another ride to her friends in Fort Worth. She followed me in though

I told her it was too far to drive. "I don't want to miss her twice in one night," I told her. Annette was very efficient at getting her trick separated from his money, converting it into coke and returning home in record time. The only one I knew who was faster at it than Annette was Gina, and she'd flat‑out steal it from them.
Nancy would not give up. She was planning on a day of swimming in her friend's apartment pool and was determined that I take her. She said, "Look! I've already got my swimsuit on under here!" When I looked, she had more than her swimsuit showing, and they were very shapely indeed. She smiled sweetly at me, with bright‑white, perfect teeth, knowing that this would make me weak.  I smiled back, knowing that her big, crater‑faced, shitbrained boyfriend, Damien, would be here after her in about ten more minutes. My oak cane was by the door, waiting for him. Nancy was one of my favorite women because she was so audacious. Annette had found her living somewhere in this apartment complex and brought her over for a party‑in some sort of payback deal. This was only about the forth time or so that I'd dealt with her. The second time she'd brought over a taller, darker friend of her's named Margie and wanted a ride to Fort Worth. I'd told them "No. That's too far." Between the two of them it seemed to me that they'd accepted this and decided to try for a motel that was just a couple of exits in the wrong direction up the expressway. I'd agreed to this and the three of us had piled into my tiny sportscar. Somehow Nancy had thought she'd gotten her way and that we were going to Fort Worth, because when we got to the U‑turn under the freeway she grabbed my thigh and said excitedly, "No: Go straight! Straight ahead!" She could not believe I was only going to drop them off at the motel and leave. Nancy wasn't used to any man saying no to her. A few days later Margie came by and told me how impressed she was that I'd not done exactly as Nancy had asked. This was why Nancy was giving me a good, close look at her breasts now. She really wanted to get to Fort Worth and she was ready to pay in the best coin she had.
They were pretty fabulous, too; large and bulbous, yet sticking almost straight out, young and taut, with nipples smooth and un‑gnawed by any infant. Nancy usually dressed conservatively, and I'd never seen her show any cleavage. This was very impressive, and it was all I could do to resist the temptation to take her back to my bedroom Instead, I decided that the best thing to do was to get her to Fort Worth. She wasn't going ‑to be gotten rid of any other way, and Damien was getting closer every minute. Without revealing my decision yet, I held her warm, curvacious body close for a minute and whined some more about how far it was to Fort Worth. Nancy thrust her breasts up higher and giggled sweetly, "Please?" Her nipples were so shiny I could, not resist. She and her twins were asking for my hands. I helped put them back into her swimsuit and was amazed to find that her nipples were quite hard, All this time I had discounted her actions as merely a standard cutipie act. Now I find that she is really turned on by me! Physiology doesn't lie, but then, she was a nymph: or so I'd theorized. I could be wrong again. But it didn't matter. Anyone who feels that way about me makes me feel closer to them. I gave them a gentle pinch and murmured incredulously, "Damn, Nancy! I thought you were just playing me." Nancy looked down demurely into my chest and replied, "That too," as if embarassed. I pulled her to me tightly and pressed her up against the wall. Our lips met while I ran my right hand around the curve of her butt and the thigh that she lifted so I could cup the underside of her knee. When we broke, I said, "Let's get you down the highway."

During the weeks between leaving research row and finding a job at TPC, a phone company, I'd managed to sort out all the photographs Xeno and I had obtained. Only a very few were similar enough to photos of me taken in 1972 to be worth further scrutiny. Knowing how well women are with faces, I doubted my own judgement. For example, at about the time of the Hominy prison riot over them giving us food poisoning in 1983, my mother had sent me a picture of her new beau. Dad had died recently and this new man bore a remarkable resemblance to my father. He was a locally well‑known man, and it turned out that he got his picture in Who's Who at about the same time I was involved with Craig and Betsy Bombshell. I showed Craig the picture and told him that this was my father. He instantly accepted this notion. I showed it to Betsy, who was only nineteen and not particularly noted for her intellect, and made the same claim: She instantly and vehemently said, "No' No way!" I tried to get her to explain why she was so certain, but she couldn't or would not elaborate, but she knew. Rodents have been proven to have the ability to detect consanguinity by smell alone. No doubt there are similar processes in human females. I know I'm good at detecting ethnic mixes and heritage, but consanguity pretty much eludes my perception compared to Betsy's ability. I performed this same and other tests on other persons. No females were fooled by this picture, and few were mistaken on others.
None said I could be mistaken for any of the photos I cropped and made special. for these "brother" tests.  So much for all my trouble and expense in obtaining them.	Damn it!	The bulk of these pictures I sealed and buried in sandy, well‑drained soil where only I can find them again. The idea behind this was two‑fold. Merely throwing them away would guarantee that some nosy faux would find them and attract the cops' attention. Each one was labeled "Ok State Prison". At the very least, any good Texan would question Just how Oklahoma's trash had made it all the way to Dallas. Secondly, I'd paid a pile of cash and wasted a lot of time and effort to obtain this stuff, plus taken a lot of risk. The crap was valuable to me in this respect, so I determined to maintain potential access to it as it slowly rots into the ground. Also, it's been my experience that every time I throw shit away, I need it shortly thereafter.
The only ones I kept handy were the cropped ones. I put them in a deck and fitted them tightly into a space where no one would deduce its presence. Then I attended other matters more pressing, such as rescuing my stocks, finding a job and planning my next foray into Oklahoma.
Damien never showed that night, and Annette gave her special, rapid, excited knock that woke me about 4AM that morning. In addition to that noise, I heard brash Gina demanding that I open the door. Since they were both technically my wives, and because they would wake the neighbors if I didn't hurry, 'I lept up naked and rushed to let them in, as is usual for me.‑ Annette ran in and climbed me like a monkey, wrapping herself tightly around me: We hugged and kissed as Gina rushed in, locking the door behind her. Annette's eyes sparkled with delight. She kept saying, "Did you miss me? Did you miss me!" I assurred her that I had indeed missed her very much. After a while I let her down so Gina and I could begin our slightly more subdued ritual of greeting. She'd been gone two or three days. Her eyes sparkled the same way as we embraced, kissed and enjoyed the feel of our bodies. Gina broke away sooner than I liked, murmuring in my ear, "Let me get started, James."

She pulled away and began gathering up stuff from the kitchen, saying that she'd meet us in the bedroom. Annette was already in the bedroom, sitting crosslegged on the rug as she dug around in their 'toolkit'; an old briefcase I'd given them from the stripped‑down shell of a stolen camaro I'd found while trailriding in Euless. In it was everything they needed to practice their favorite vice.	I put 'on cut‑off jeans and a shirt, then slid in behind Annette and enfolded her in my arms and legs while we got re‑acquainted. The cops had hacked off most of her beautiful, sandy‑blond hair and only half of it had grown back. This is a standard sadistic govt harassment perpetrated upon a11 women they abduct into their filthy, dim, tortureholes. But there was a plus side, at least where Annette was concerned: a jail stay makes them gain weight. Annette never gets fat, but Gina gets chubby. The TV cops like to claim that this is good for them and take credit for it, conniving the ignorant viewers into believing the cops 'save' these women from themselves. The cops are full of crap, as are the media‑artists who allow the cops to spew such nonsense. Fact is, long life is proven to be facilitated by a calorie‑restricted diet. Also, any weight gain or obesity caused by forced idleness in a dim cage is vastly overbalanced by the way the cops' kidnappings force the spread of disease, promote homosexuality, prevent intellectual and educational growth, and actually kills their brain cells, shrinking their minds from the extreme lack of stimulation. One day in more enlightened times pigs will be forced to actually care for their victims' well‑being instead of merely cash in on the tax‑profits on them while maintaining the lowest flicker of life and consciousness, as is their only requirement now.

Annette'a weight was one of my concerns, though. She should weigh about 109 to 112 pounds, though her menses continue even as far down as $9 pounds, which is the lightest I've ever seen her. Cocaine stimulates their metabolisms and quenches any hunger pangs they may have, making them lose weight in direct proportion to how successful they are at their 'work' of separating men from their money as quickly a8 possible. Not long after Annette had chosen to stay with me full time, I became alarmed at how thin she became. My control over her is very nebulous indeed, but we talked about this and she agreed with me: We picked out some bathroom scales to weigh her with, and when or if she dips below 100 pounds, she stops tricking until she weighs more. One of my favorite pastimes is enjoying how demure, trusting and loving she becomes when I weigh her and check her lymph nodes for swellings. The weight loss turns out to be self‑limiting, as she probably know all along. At a certain point fatigue takes over, forcing her to take days off for eat ing and recovery. Both she and Gina are remarkable healthy, considering what they do, and I make certain that they have no lack of condoms. Ironically, the cops cause them t® avoid carrying condoms because they use condoms as evidence of soliciting sex. The TV cops never mention this routine way cops contribute to the wider spread of disease through this standard practice of theirs. The media whores over mention this either. Thus these women sometimes bring stuff home from the street as well as jails and prisons. Some of the` stuff includes pyorrhea, strep throat, flue, colds, inexplicable spots of darker coloration on the skin of their legs and lice in addition to herpes, warts and other diseases previously mentioned. For this reason I keep beer and ethanol in constant supply. Mix a few milliliters of this alcohol in with the carbonic acid of a good, sudsy beer and you have a fairly good disinfectant to swish around inside your mouth, gargle and squirt between your teeth and over gums. Always before or quickly after I kiss one of my hooker friends we disinfect ourselves this way. Also I insist they do this or use listerine or peroxide for the same reason when they come home to me and there is any chance I'll be kissing them. They are happy to do this though they generally despise alcohol because the cops can accuse them of drunkeness when they smell it on them at 'work'. They realize the importance of antiseptic procedures when it is explained to them or asked of them. Most will gladly do a thorough job of so protecting me, themselves and others when given the chance. They usually don't drink it, but prefer the alcohol and beer to commercial mouth washes.
Annette hummed a little tune to herself as She set out the mirror, razor blades, lighters, pipes and pushrods. She proudly tossed down the coke she had scored. "Pretty big rocks, huh!" She beamed.	"And it didn't take me long either, did it? Cut it for me please !"
I cut one of her rocks in half. Annette quickly snatched up the biggest one, deftly stuffed it in her pipe, threw her pretty head back and drew in a huge lungful of smoke. Oh how she loves that stuff! Annette, like all female cokesmokers, was deliriously happy when she's hurrying frantically to get home and inhale that first big hit down her lungs. It gets me excited to see their excitement. I immediately wrapped myself around her a little tighter and felt under her blouse to cup one of her fine, soft breasts and to slide two fingers beneath her left one so I could feel her heart beating. Annette's breasts are perfect, no matter what she weighs. They are relatively large, yet do not sag even a tiny bit. They stick straight out, and she always goes loose unless she's jogging through the neighborhoods with me. She was nice and plump this time after eating the grease‑ and starch‑laden jail‑chow for so long. She had a thicker layer of fat beneath her skin, but not so much that I ‑couldn't feel her heart hammering away from beneath her ribs.	She held her breath, savoring the smoke momentarily before turning it loose with an audible sigh of pleasure. Annette pushed back against me lightly and relaxed. Her eyes closed to slits, her heart seemed to slow and beat more faintly as she melted against me. Its hammering lessened noticeably as a wave of calmness spread over her.
While she lay limp and warm against me, I smoked the other half of the rock and felt the same wave of pleasure she had. It's my experience that women (and possibly Black males) get a bigger and better blast out of smoking a little crumb of cocaine than men do, and not just because their bodies are correspondingly smaller.  (The effect is like standing up too fast, but you don't get quite as dizzy.)  I outweighed her by 60 pounds but she and Gina (and others) got more than that difference of pleasure out of it than T. I'd even built myself a correspondingly larger pipe and smoked a " larger piece, yet the  (subjective) difference remains. My theory is that part of the reason that women (and Blacks) are so easily addicted to this substance is because they lack motivation and incentive. Most of the women are sterile from pelvic inflammatory disease (PID) and the Black males can't get a decent job for various reasons, thus both groups suffer an inability to fulfill their dreams and fall back into hopelessness and drugs. The addiction to cocaine is merely psychological, but it is quite strong enough to capture weak minds. Another factor is that women can get men to buy them coke any time, thus it actually costs them nothing but a few minutes of their time, whereas Black males must steal for it.
"Bring me a hit," Gina called from the kitchen. Annette heard and had me cut her second rock in half. She told me that half was for Gina as she snatched up the other half, loaded, threw her head back and inhaled deeply.

Gina had brought two $50 bags of powered cocaine and was rapidly processing it. I slid in behind her and put a loaded pipe in her left hand and a lighter in her right. She too threw her pretty head back and pulled gracefully on the pipe as I held her and nuzzled her neck. As with Annette, Gina permitted me to go under her blouse and monitor her heartbeat. They both knew I enjoyed feeling the change in rhythm almost as much as I enjoyed stroking their flesh.
Gina is a much more forthright and demanding person than Annette. She likes to control events and steer conversations. She is very intelligent in social matters and loves to express strong opinions and argue about them. Her boisterousness is one of the things I find most attractive about her.
Another thing Gina and many other feminine cokesmokers like to do sometimes is to blow their hit into the lungs of their male or other friends in a sort of forceful kiss. Often this practice is a ruse to keep from sharing a crumb of cocaine with another. Persons who are ignorant of this ritual of smoking coke, but who have paid or performed sex acts to obtain the substance are told that they can get high off this secondhand smoke. Males go for this on the hope that sex may follow. Young, ignorant women are duped this way only once: they quickly realize that there is no way to get high from smoke that has already been stripped of its coke by anothers' lungs.
Gina obtained a sense of power out of this, as do many other women and girls of her stripe. (Very many feminine opportunists who love stimulants and follow the path of least resistance to obtain them are, or become, manhaters, lesbians or bisexuals. Many others practice self‑mutilation in the form of tattooing, body piercing or wrist or forearm slashing. Gina seemed to prefer women, (she and Annette were intimate friends) but if a man could chase her down and convince her to love him, the result would be indescribably joyful. Gina is an expert, but primarily enjoys teasing men and ripping them off. Her own desires only seem to occur once a month. She teased me by blowing her smoke down into my lungs with a leisurely sigh.
Immediately she shook me loose and returned to business.	Gina didn't really care for We snooping on her heart and only acceded to it out of deference to me and the liberties I allowed her. Often she brought interesting or profitable persons home with her.
Business was heating a tube full of chemicals and water with a lighter until it boiled. Then she quickly cooled it and shook out a white marble of cocaine carbonate that ‑ clattered solidly on the counter with her florish. Gina took a lot of pride in her skill at creating hard, quality rocks of cocaine quickly and with a minimum of equipment.
Gina snatched up the alabaster marble and we moved into the bedroom to sit in a circle on the rug around the mirror. Annette was cleaning her pipe and was about to load some dust when we came in. She beamed as Gina cut a big piece off her marble and began dividing it into pipe‑sized portions. Once again they threw their heads back, inhaled smoke and sighed with pleasure. They continued smoking while I got ready for work. Regretably I would be out of town the entire week doing jobs for TPC.

Rock cocaine, like ordinary cocaine, is another trashdope that is not cheap despite what the news‑pabulum‑artists love to say. They are confusing a tiny quantity with low cost, same as saying gold is cheap when you buy it by the microgram. The fact is that rock cocaine is the most expensive dope you can buy that is not a narcotic. A single, twenty‑second high costs a minimum of $5.  If it couldn't be paid for with sex, nobody but the rich could afford it. I wouldn't buy the stuff. The stuff is a fabulous treasure trove for the cops, lawcrats and politicians, though. When Reagan's CIA dumped tons of it into US markets to fund their congressionally outlawed attacks upon South American ‑ govts, they harvested astronomic profits. Also they bumped into Israeli and German secret pigs doing the same thing to Europeans, Africans and Asians. Creating hordes of young female addicts to stimulate the resulting explosion of crime and prison building was just a lucky side effect of bringing 'freedom' and 'democracy' to the third world. Cocaine‑outand‑weapons‑in continued for decades until finally Hasenfus got shot down and Reagan got exposed. Every one of the govcrooks escaped, including Hasenfus, who was not forced to do the ten years in Nicaragua for a crime he would have gotten life for in America.
The copklan profits so greatly off the coke epidemic they caused that it is criminal. The coplobby was given laws that enabled them to buy, sell or plant dope anywhere, then abduct anyone or steal everything in the vicinity and turn it to their own uses. They're still getting filthy rich by branding anything they covet as 'dope proceeds' and funneling it into their estates after the judges, prosecutors and politicians take their cut.
 The number of cop millionaires increased 35‑fold in 30 years and is still rapidly climbing. Locally, in Dallas, the cops and lawcrats stole a whopping 1500 homes and estates by branding them 'crackhouses'. The newly‑formed corporation Prudential‑Bache bought 500  of them for practically nothing but a promise to employ cheap Hispanic labor to restore their cop‑caved‑in doors and repaint them. They looked pretty good when they finished, and they sold for fat profits to people with more credit than brains. Other corporations that were swimming in money got even batter deals. At least one was a limited partnership made up of insider judges, lawyers and rich cops who had their hands in the thefts of such properties. This same type of theft occurred with an Oklahoma university president whose LLC took advantage of buying land cheap before he disclosed which direction the university was going to expand next. This is just one way the rich get richer by possessing venture capital and information no one else has; plus too much power over others.

CHAPTER TWENTY‑FOUR

Misty's Game
A good plan today beats the perfect plan tomorrow
										              Xanophon
Some people are rich in money and power, others are rich in luck, daring and fearlessness. Misty is just such a parson. Misty is a young woman I met through Annette.
She is another beautiful blond, except taller, better educated and more reserved. She had taken up with a large Black guy who liked to be called Dirk. They were paying enormous motel bills and were looking for a cheaper place to stay. Annatte suggested that we had room to spare and that it would be a temporary arrangement. I was attracted to Misty, and Dirk was 'a nice enough guy.	Z was on the road much of the time.  Also they didn't mind sleeping in the front room on a small matress Betsy had given me from the old folks,home.

It turned out that Misty was a California girl and knew Albuquerque wall too, which gave us common experiences to relate. She was 24 years old than, well‑traveled, fashionably thin, had deep, dark blue eyes, was honey‑blond and would cook for us. Annette and Gina would not, so the kitchen was usually pretty bare. Coke fiends eat very little. Usually they make their tricks feed them: that is, when they do eat. Usually they slept by day while I worked and were gone soon as night fell. Misty really impressed me with how she could make a good, hot supper out of the nothing I'd stock my cabinets with. She could be very industrious and resourceful; never buying any food, only creating a way around what was missing.
It was nice having them stay. Like Annette and Gina, they didn't need but the barest minimum. A matress, roof and bathroom seemed to suffice, and they'd originally planned to flop on the floor, asking for only a blanket or sheet. I felt sorry for them, particularly Misty because she seemed to be their sole means of support. This was no life for either one of them, and I was curious as to why Dirk wouldn't get a job and why Misty consented to support him. Misty was also providing Annette with cocaine as 'rent'. Gina was seldom home. She'd come back to recouperate about once every two or three days. Dirk had a yellow caddy and would drive them to 'work', which was nice. To escape having to pick them up every couple of hours I would never have a phone in any place I lived. Dirk and his caddy relieved me of having to drive them back. This gave me more time to work on my own projects of getting prosperous enough to take weeks off work to search Okie police files far the actual killer of the porn merchant.
One morning they left before I did. A few minutes later Annette came running back, afoot and breathless, saying that Dirk had smashed his caddy into someone's vehicle nearby. The guy had called the cops. Dirk wanted me to come by and pick up a briefcase before the cops came and searched his car. It was right on my way to work, so Annette and I stopped at the scene. The guy who had called the cops was still gone.	(Annette is fast!)
The yellow caddy lay sprawled across the road, its fender squashed up against the front wheel, making it driveable only in circles. Misty had told him he shouldn't be driving the thing except when absolutely necessary, leading me to believe that he'd probably scammed it from an independant seller he'd duped on the pretext of test‑driving it before purchase. (Cops and prosecutors don't waste a lot of effort on cases like these where the seller unwittingly assists the theft of his vehicle.)
Instead of all of them suddenly piling into my car and yelling, "Step on it:" like I had feared, Misty really did pass me a valise, whispered briefly to Dirk, then left with Annette and I.	Before I ‑got out of sight the cop drove up with the cop‑caller.  He wanted badly to chase me, but Dirk stood in front of his vehicle, preventing him from charging after me by pretending to flag him down. He seemed angry enough to gnaw his steering wheel off to be victimized by a dispised minority pulling this common cop‑trick of daring you to run over him. His horn and siren did no good at dislodging Dirk from his copcar bumper‑as‑the three of us sped away in a series of zigs and zags.
Misty assurred me that Dirk would not give the cops my name or address, but I wasn't taking any chances. The cops have infinite resources and an army of eager sycophants, and Just seeing my car was perhaps enough for them to narrow it down to me merely by make,

model, color and vicinity. The apartmenthouse people act as the cops' eyes and spies, submitting to them monthly lists of who lives where, drives what and which tags, stickers, titles and driver's licenses have expired, etc. They even help the cops snoop in your domicile and steal or plant evidence as they desire. I'd have to send in a cleaning service after I cleaned out everything that night interest the cops first. (Susan's maintenance man, Tommy, had found a corpse in the apartment next to mine, then Susan had found a packet of drugs and money in the freezer after the cops left. She called them back and tried to award them the drugs and cash. They told her to bring it to them: Tommy told me and we called and found out that the cash had not even been noted and the drugs (it looked like heroin) had shrunk to only a gram, from a tennis‑ball‑sized bagt) This really pissed me off. Their silly car‑ding destroying my plans for a while. I'd have to be very stealthy coming home tonight and really needed to clean the place out now instead of going to work. I hoped Dirk would get dragged off, but this wasn't likely since he'd been brave enough to stay behind and face down a growing swam of angry cops. Annette and Misty did not see how angry I was, or, if they did, they hid it well. They directed me to a private residential corner. Annette leaped out after giving me a quick peck on the lips. Misty took my head in both hands, pulled me close, kissed me slowly with much feeling, then pulled back a few inches and looked seriously into my eyes.
"Thanks, James," she murmured, "I'll see you tonight." "Baby," I told her, "You're too hot for me."
"I'll show you hot. Don't let my case get away from you, or else!" She yanked my head back and kissed me like a cannibal subduing a meal.
"I mean the cops."
"Don't worry! Be at the car‑wash at 4:30 tomorrow morning." "Just Black with White is too much heat."
"Dirk is out; he won't be there. After tonight it's me and you. And Skeeter too. You want to learn what I teach you."
"Z don't need trouble with Dirk."
"Dirk doesn't have a choice, and neither do you!" Misty winked saucily, threw her pert nose in the air and slipped away without even closing the door. She was mighty sure of herself for a woman so young and with such small breasts, but she knew I'd be there.
Her valise scared me so much that I stealthily tossed it between the weed‑encrusted fences at the parking lot at work. The apartment people probably knew where I worked, and my employers would swiftly direct the cops to my car while I was on assignment. You can not be too careful or clean when everyone was searching for dirt. The dispatcher gave me a good assistant who wouldn't snitch on me, so we loaded our truck and went straight back to my place. In five minutes I'd gathered a big sack of crap and fled. Dirk was with the caddy and a wrecker going the opposite direction as we sped to Fort Worth. Randy pitched the sack into the Trinity River as we crossed the bridge. Along with the paraphernalia the girls had brought into the home was a $50 bottle of photocatalyst the cops could lawfully call 'drug‑precursor' and dupe a jury of nitwits into believing it. You won't believe this, but it's a fact you can look up that the coplobby has purchased laws that make amateur dabbling in plastics a felony worth a life sentence. This is how nutty the law is and how hysterical the Gluttons‑Of‑Privilege get over chemicals that are fractional pieces of molecules that can be fitted together with other pieces of molecules to form outlawed drugs. It's like outlawing the screws that can hold a gun together, even when they hold together a sewing machine.
Crack fiends somehow manage to strew coke crumbs everywhere, so I was adamant that Susan let the Carpet‑Thieves in to watervac the rugs. I had to promise Kenny an extra $50 for an 'emergency', same as he'd screwed the judge with the flooded living room, else they would wait until tomorrow: nobody got favors from them.

Work seemed to last forever, but finally it was over. Gina got slick on me, finding a way around my no‑phone trick by calling the office at work. She left a note for me to meet her at the red roof inn. She knew Misty and didn't like her. A simplistic view is that Gina envied Misty's blue eyes, blond hair, height and elegance. It wasn't that. Gina is totally secure in her looks, brown eyes and auburn hair. Misty is competition. Gina told me Misty's 'work' was luring affluent men into the dark for embraces that ended with Dirk dragging them out of their cars and off of his 'wife'. A deal would be made and off they would go to find another foolish victim. The cops seldom were called, and wouldn't do anything even if they did show up.
Gina warned me against both of them, but that didn't stop her from driving me in her (boyfriend's) silver thunderbird to the carwash to pick up Misty. After all, they were both of the Sisterhood. I had just put a quarter in and began spraying when Misty bolted out of the shadows and leapt into the car, shouting, "Let's go! Let's go:"
Leaving the wand skittering around in the stall, I jumped in just as Gina began driving off sedately despite Misty's frantic orders to hurry up. Misty was disheveled and had spots and streaks of some dark substance on her fingers and face. Half a block from the carwash is a bingo hall and a dark street famous for trick‑traffic. It was a good place to park for oral sex. This time it was bathed in the garish red and blue lights of many police strobes. Misty ducked down below the level of the window as one, then another copcar sped recklessly by to join their brothers in blue.
Gina swore, "Damn you, Misty! Don't get blood on my car! What's that smell? Open a window back there! You're choking me out!"
"Z need a room to clean up in."
"You sure do, Babe," Gina continued. "We'll be there in a jif. You left Dirk back there, didn't you!"
"I think he's dead." "What!?"
"See what's in this." Misty shoved a man's wallet into my hands and took the wetnaps I'd been smudging her face with.
"Who's dead? Dirk?"
"Probably, and the trick. He pulled a gun out of nowhere and shot Dirk twice before he twisted it back and shot him in the face."
"That smell is mace," Gina growled. "Nothing says narc louder than a gun and mace!" "Yep," I confirmed, "Dick Tracy, right here."
"Throw that out! Right now! You bitch! How could you let a dick sneak up on you like that?"
"We were in his car, Gina! I can't check everything in the darkt" "You found his mace!"
"Not soon enough for Dirk!" Misty sobbed, "Just let's get off the street, okay?" Gina took us to her room where Misty quickly bathed without shutting the door. This was not immodesty, but a desire to know immediately who enters, leaves, gets on the phone and what's said. Many motels arrange mirrors to provide suprizingly wide and long views into and out of the bathroom. On the sink counter she'd laid a wad of cash, a man's gold watch, chain and six‑diamond pinky ring of mashed 'nugget' gold to match the watch and chain. Next to them were a copcard, badge, driver's license and four credit cards; one for gas, one for food, one American Express Platinum and one that said 'City Of Dallas'. "With just a little effort, James, you could pass for him."

"I'm not a trick, Misty."	,
"S know you're not, James." Misty came up out of the mounds of bubbles and fragrant oils. "Dry me off."
"My favorite task," I told her. She had sleek lines, like a greyhound. I could see a hint of her ribs just below the firm curve of her breast.
"You don't want to run his cards, Baby."
"I know people who do. They can change the picture: I know some Jews in Chicago who will want the diamonds. Want to come?" Misty smiled wickedly at me through the mirror at her double meaning as she brushed up her golden hair. Her eyes sparkled with promise.
"I'd love to come with you, Misty, but not to Chicago." "Another time then," she shrugged. "My case in your car?" "We'll get it on the way out."
Leaving Misty at the airport was the hardest thing I've ever done. She looked like a million dollars in a new blue suit. I waved goodbye and watched her walk jauntily down the long concourse toward United. Even before she reached the counter she'd hooked another trick. Misty was very resourceful: still is.

CHAPTER TWENTY‑FIVE

Fun With Bob And Jeb
The passion for‑truth is silenced by answers that have the weight of undisputed authority.
											Paul Tillich
One of the more enjoyable jobs I had was with an electrical contractor. They sent me to the mall with two kids. Bob was the dispatcher's son. He was 19 years old and a nice, amiable guy, but suffered just a bit of slowness. There's a syndrome he has that I forgot the name of, but it manifests itself in a lantern jaw and a thick tongue, among other, more subtle traits. He has trouble planning ahead. For instance, I saw him pull several boners, one of which was amazing and pointed out how snakebit he is. Once he was being helpful in showing us how he could use one bottle of soda to rip the cap off another bottle of soda, since we had no opener. He tipped the cap off, managed to spray himself with half a bottle of root beer plus scrape a long, bloody gash down his thumb. Another time he burned himself striking a road flare. Once he tried to push a grocery shopping cart with his car and it lifted his front wheels off the parking lot: You couldn't tell he wasn't just as intelligent and quick as anyone else; he just seemed to have difficulty seeing what type of misfortune usually followed his rash acts.

His best friend, Jeb, also 19, was a nice guy too and the son of the Grand Prairie police chief. He's a little overweight and wears thick magnifying glasses; attributes that get you picked on at school. Jeb gave no indication of being lazy except for an annoying habit of sitting down when he had to gas up a vehicle. Brilliant merchants all over America have taken the stay off almost every gas pump handle, apparently to force customers to hold the trigger down manually and enjoy a crick in our backs as we freeze in the wind and rain. I kept a wire in my truck's gascap compartment to defeat this nonsense.	I'd seen the secret police use their wrist shackles to juke the trigger. Jeb would just hold the trigger with his hand, but he'd plop his big, fluffy butt down on the greasy, spat‑upon cement, then act like normal people do this too. He'd look around and seem puzzled that no one else sat as they pumped gas. Jeb was luck as Hob was snakebit. I once stupidly asked Jeb to back our stepvan, a huge vehicle, up to the loading dock as I tended other matters. Jeb dove in, raced its monster‑sized engine and took off full throttle in reverse straight for the store supervisor's new Le Baron, which he didn't see. I bellowed at him to stop, knowing he wouldn't. The foot‑deep bumper on the stepvan smashed under the nose of her car, jacking it up to cave in on our aluminum rear doors. I heard the crunch, then went to curse Jeb about the damage. Soon as I got started, Jeb pointed out that nothing was bashed in. A miracle had occurred. Instead of crunching two vehicles up against a loading dock, He'd stopped just in time to make them groan under = the pressure. When released, her car scraped off my bumper. The only damage was beneath her bumper, unnoticeable to anyone standing upright. Nobody saw what happened but us. Undeserved luck is called 'grease', and Jeb is one of the greasiest persons I know.
Boss sent me to a colossal Texas mall with Bob and Jeb as helpers. Bob and I brought tools and stepladders. Jeb brought a case of eight‑foot fluorescent lamps. The place was full of good‑looking women, loud, fast‑moving children and bustling with other activity as we stepped onto an escalator to ride up to the next level. Bob and Jeb set their burdens vertically on the step and gawked at the women and girls. I studied the work order to see how to get stuff done the fastest. While we went about our business, a most curious thing occurred: the escalator ground to a halt. You could hear it. The thing started growling, slowed, then stopped. Soon as I noticed this, I had time to look around like an idiot and wonder what caused it. Then something behind my head went Ka‑Boom! While I was jumping out of my skin and almost dropping my ladder, the escalator moved again slightly.
Then it began raining pieces of sheetrock. Wedged between the escalator step and the ceiling was Jeb's case of lamps. Six of them had imploded You could hear the rattle of shattered glass falling inside the box. There was a jagged rip in the overhead, which was stove‑in half a foot. The escalator growled and halted again. The box of lamps wedged in even tighter. One joker began rubbernecking. He shouted, "Hey Martha! Come see what the these idiots did! Jhuck‑hyuck! Aint that the stupidest thing ya ever saw?"
A large crowd of laughing adults and children gathered at the second floor railing. More rushed over to gape at us from below, howling with mirth. I was ashamed to have let this happen, amd more ashamed of what I did next. Instead of helping, I just told Hob and Jeb to clean that stuff up. Then I made my escape. It was disgusting at the time that it happened, but later it was funny. They did a good job of cleaning up the wreckage, and none of us got fired, though Boss said that the fix cost him $1500.

When we went out of town to work, Bob and Jeb would sometimes bring Bob's car. They liked to go drunk‑driving around after work, but always got away with it. They were underage, of course, and had to stalk liquor‑store customers to get their alcohol.	(See: Dodging the Cops' Liquor Store Entrapment Operations.) The way they finally got fired was harrowing for me. Boss had sent four of us to Albuquerque for a three‑week job. They gave me $1520 for a motel and emergency cash, telling ma to use a bank and the ATM machines. Bob and Jeb got $32/day for a motel. We got adjacent rooms in a place crawling with hookers and addicts. The money took control of their inexperienced little minds. They asked a stranger for cocaine and got ripped off. Then they hatched a plan to send a pal is Dallas a pile of money so he'd send them a few grams of coke. He ripped them off too. Being a cop's kid, Jeb thought the Albuquerque cops would be glad to cave in the guy's door for them, kick his ass and get their dope‑money back. The cops invaded the kids' motel room instead and found that the idiots had built a five‑foot pyramid of empty beer cans. They couldn't find the guy or their money, and the only thing that saved them from jail and prison was having a cop for a Dad. I watched from my window‑chink for two hours while the cops interrogated every fool who came out to see their pretty flashing lights and wonder what the cops were up to. I could hear them through the wall in the next room and knew they would be over here next. Somehow that didn't happen. Daddy‑cop sent Jeb an extra $200 to pay for the room rent. Daddy‑dispatcher sent Hob an extra $200 for his room rent. No boss ever said a word of this to me, but did mention that Bob had run up a $600 phone bill talking to his girlfriend! The kids told me most of what they'd done and bragged .. that they'd get no real punishment for it. (Worse, Bigboss had a teenage daughter in Plano who wiped out a camaro, a porsche and a corvette while I worked there. She was rewarded each time with an even more expensive car!) The last ball of shit to fall was when I went to the bank to retrieve the remaining cash. A sleazy little Hispanic girl juked me out of twenty bucks merely by inking in the proper amount and letting me believe for three weeks that this passbook was my receipt. Then she smirked at me. This made me so angry that I went nuts, saying loudly to everyone in the bank, "Hey! Look here, please. See this young woman? Don't do business with her. She's a thief. She just stole twenty dollars from me because I assumed that she was honest. Don't trust her. She's a sneakthief."
Her supervisor rushed over to get the story, followed closely by the rent‑a‑cop. The customers edged timidly closer to hear without really seeming too curious. The supervisor and cop noticed and tried to shuffle me into a private office away from the gathering spectators. I told them to keep the money and I proseletized all the way out to my truck. Three customers followed me out to hear details. The knob‑jiggler cop followed me out and tried to rush me away with threats of trespassing.
I should have made a sign and picketed the place, but the bitch probably cut down on her thef ts anyway now that she'd met a victim who stood up and howled instead of whimpered away quietly. My personality makes people think they can get away with stuff on me. If
it is nothing big, I don't even act like I've noticed, because I've always got better things to accomplish than arguing with thieves over pennies. In Dallas I let an Hispanic convenience store flunky overcharge me a dollar because I was too busy to stop and breach his "No comprendi!" wall, and because he probably needed the dollar. A Burger King drivethru manager took my $20 and tried to give me change for a ten. He was White, so I protested. He asked, "Didn't you give me a ten?" I said, "No, jerk! I gave you a fifty!" White people rule this planet, so I'm always particularly pissed when one of these Bastards defies his memes; the behavior that put us where we are. We are obligated by our own position to act nobly toward each other and especially so toward people who maintain lower positions in the social hierarchy.
"There's no fifties in this whole building," he answered. "Pull around to the front and come inside."
(Always they try to put you off til you give up.)	
"you un‑ass correct change now," I told him, "or I'm blocking your window all night!" "You can't do that; I've got a business to run. Pull out of the way or I'll call the police!"

"Let me get them for you," I retorted with an evil sneer.  "I'll bet you've pulled this scam on many others. Let's try and find them too."
I rolled up my window and laid on the horn. My Buick had two of them, and they were not for sissies. They filled the place up, echoing off the cement, the brick walls and  the aluminum roof. The thief tried yelling over them at me but quickly gave up. After about twenty long seconds of blaring horns he waved the bills at me. I took them without undo crowing and left. The more you lay down, the more you get kicked around. I only take so much kicking.
Even machines don't get a bye from me too often. They are supposed to work or have an out of order sign on them. A paperbox outside a 7‑11 didn't work one Sunday, screwing me out of my last handful of change. A curious guy drove up while I was waiting for the lot to empty.  I knew him; I had worked for a person who had worked for him, and he had tried to find out why I worked for him for no apparent wage; at least no wage he could detect. While we conversed, the lot became deserted again except for he and Z. He knew the box had ripped me off, but was still very suprised when I took out my cane, bashed in the thin sheet of pleziglass and snatched out the display paper. We both left quickly, but prior to bashing it in, I'd wrote on it in magic marker 'out of order'. This is my obligation. This is my required contribution to the common good. People should be warned, same as we put fences around open manholes. The greater good comes first!

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Good Judgement comes from experience; experience comes from bad judgement.
											Will Rogers
A phenomenon that struck me as very different from my day was the children: they seemed to get very smart while still very young. When I was a kid, we were, by comparison, idiots. For instance, in the Irving apartment complex where I lived was a very short, young kid named Andy. My guess is that he was about eleven or possibly twelve, though it is hard to say. He looked much younger due to his severe lack of height, but he was part Hispanic and thus was destined to be short even as an adult.
Andy accosted me almost as soon as I moved in. I'd bought a junk motorcycle in San Angelo and was rigging a gastank onto it from a plastic milk jug and uphostering together its rusted and rotted seat. I'd just got the thing running and had come back from a test drive.	It was hot, I was sweaty and was charging into my cockroach‑infested apartment for a shot of water and to stand in front of the fan on 'high'.
Enterprizing‑Andy caught me and asked if he could watch my motorcycle for me. He was much too small to be an extortionist, and he did have a rudimentary sales pitch, so I said "Sure, go ahead." I thought it was cute of him to ask, especially since my first guess was that he was only eight or nine years old. He was quite the businessman, asking for fifty cents per week for his service. Of course he asked to be paid in advance.  I obliged. Unlike most kids, he never asked me for a ride on my bike.  Instead, he turned immediately to plug that fifty cents into the pop machine a few feet from my door.

Andy turned out to be very helpful. What none of my hooker friends would tell me, not even my 'wives', Andy did: he pointed out where Nancy and her boyfriend lived; Damien of the big, door‑crunching foot. He was sponging off her and her man, and drove her mom's car; a little forgetable station wagon. Andy also introduced me to an older boy who sold me his used helmet for only ten dollars. Andy wasn't too insistent or regular in collecting his fee for watching the bike, which was nice.	It seemed that we both knew it wasn't a very serious arrangement. I seldom saw the guy and didn't know which apartment he lived in, never knowingly met his parents and he didn't seem to spend much time watching the bike. When he did watch it, it seemed to coincide with the times he had fifty cents to plug into the pop machine. Had the pop machine been elsewhere, I'd have seen Andy very little. I'd wave if I saw him. Sometimes he'd even mention how good a job he was doing watching my bike and how no one had touched it. No one did juke with it. I'd give him a handful of change; he'd buy a pop. He was a nice, helpful little guy who didn't get in the way and had his own things to do.
Also in the complex was a very skinny, tall young blond girl with large breasts. In profile she looked like a rail wearing a speedbump. She was anywhere between forteen to sixteen and was, oddly, Andy's Caucasian sister! She could easily have passed for an  adult if she'd had any meat on her bones. I ignored all the young girls around there as much as possible and hoped none would bother me.
One good‑looking but very young Hispanic girl took an interest in me. She was perhaps fifteen. The danger sign was lost on me, but in hindsight it was clear, or should have been. I was in the parking lot working on my bike when she and her boyfriend came walking by on their way home from school. She began treating him badly as they passed me. A week later she was at the poolside, hopped over my veranda fence, knocked on my glass sliding door and asked to borrow my wicker chair for sunbathing. Acting quickly, I said "Surel" and snatched it up before she could sit in it. I passed it over the rail and asked her to put it back when she was finished. I tried always to be polite and accomodating, but I wasn't going to be seen by my fellow apes to be a lecher flirting with any teenage girls. She caught me in the Church parking lot next door as I practiced with my kites. She was curious about what I planned to photograph and was not easily misled. She invited me to a play they were doing. I declined politely and made my escape. A week later she was back on my veranda in her bikini, banging on the glass, this time wanting to borrow my air mattress. Little girls should not look so beautiful and vivaceous. I escaped again, and this time she accepted my message. To show her displeasure with me she took an enormous amount of time to blow lots of pool water into my air mattress. My wicker chair kept getting farther away from my veranda until it finally vanished. A charcoal grill I was given for helping a friend and his wife move also disappeared. This I hadn't minded, having no use for it anyway. It was clutter. But I'd liked that chair.
Worse than this, though, was Andy's sister came knocking on my front door. We had never spoken, but she wanted a ride to some friend's home somewhere "Not far." (Save me from women and their concept of what is "not far". It is as if actual measurements such as miles and minutes are beyond their understandingI) I wanted nothing to do with this or her, but I could tell by her attitude that she was another Joyce‑like creature in the making: anything could happen to you if she decided to hate you. And a troupe of monkeys all group up when a baby shrieks. She said her mother said it was okay, and she said it without displaying any of the usual signs of lying. She said she'd be back in ten minutes, ready to go. When she returned, another girl was with her. She was dark‑haired, beautiful, the same age, but polite and lacking the attitude Andy's sister possessed. (I made it a point never to introduce myself to any of these kids or learn their names. All children other than mine are poison.)

Andy's sis got in back, probably knowing I didn't like her, or more likely, because she disliked me. She was very self‑centered. She gave directions as I drove. Long as I was stuck with them I was going to try and see what they were learning in school these days and what thoughts they may have on various subjects. Auburn was friendly enough, and polite.  She seemed to keep up with current events well for her age too.	Blondie was sullen, but fairly knowledgeable too. While I was conversing with Auburn, Blondie noticed my gas guage showed low and told me I'd better stop for fuel. She was right, but I didn't like snooty little girls telling me what I needed to do. Also, I had a vision of at least one set of hands digging around in my consol, glovebox and under the seats and visors as I paid for gas. I could get gas after I got rid of them.
Of course 'not far' turned out to really be 'too far'. The little sportscar sputtered and died suddenly while racing up and down the twists of Irving, not even giving me time to find a place to park it. Blondie took the wheel and steered while Auburn and I pushed. Auburn was happy to oblige, and Blondie could barely conceal her contempt. We walked together two blocks more and they vanished inside their friend's apartment without even a thanks or goodbye. Hlondie slammed the door hard to show her displeasure. Another two blocks away was a gas station. In half an hour I was back on the road home. The good part was that Andy's sister never asked me for anything again.
Andy did, though. He wanted a trash bag or grocery sack. He also asked if I wanted some pop. I declined the pop and gave him a few bags. Then I went back to my business, not noticing a thing. A few minutes later I went to get something out of the car. I saw Andy staggering off with a huge bag of sodapop. He came back with another kid pulling a wagon. The pop machine's door was crunched and open. He said a car had hit it.	(The change box had crowbar marks on it.)	It hadn't taken him long to swoop. No one even bothered to knock on my door and ask me if I'd seen any 'suspicious activity'. I didn't spend a quarter to have the cops come and accuse me of it. Apparently nobody called. They just hauled it away and replaced it with a tougher machine, hardened for ghetto use.
Another kid accosted me as I got home from work. He was a fat, freckled Celtic brat, older than Andy; maybe twelve or thirteen. He was holding the paperbox open. As I exited my vehicle he said, "Hey mister: You want a newspaper?" I'd never seen the kid before, but he'd perhaps noted my routine often enough. The first thing I do from work to home is get a paper out of that box. I moved to get my paper, and just before I got within grabbing range he let the door slam shut and fled, without laughing. Makes me wonder where the little misfits pick up their mean‑ness, or why they try to bait adults. I'd never done such things when I was young. I had stuff to do. These little turds now have nothing better to do than annoy people. This is what occurs when the little darlings can not get spanked at school or at home.

Another sign of the deterioration of kids' moral fiber today,occurred while Joe and I were at Irving mall doing electrical work.   We were standing in line to order lunch when he nudged me and said, smirking, "Look at this." He indicated the down escalator. On it was the usual crowd, plus two young girls. Both were smiling and looking our direction, as if waiting for some cue. The odd thing was that one was sitting down on the step as she descended.	Soon as I noticed this, she spread her knees, revealing nothing under her long skirt but a large, fluffy, black bush. Joe laughed. I was appalled. They got off and joined us in line. She made certain that I knew her display was for me by stepping on the heels of my shoes. (Joe was married to a fabulously beautiful California girl.  Also he had ugly, rotting teeth.) She was only seventeen, tall, thin, of Italian descent and full of curiosity for new experiences. Her companion was sixteen, sandy‑blond and a willing accomplice. When it became obvious to them that I had no interest in taking them home with me, they quickly lost interest in me and went off to find other prey.
This same type of thing happened to me many times in supermarkets and elsewhere. There are so many pairs of adolescent and teenage, girls prowling for sex that the phenomenon needs to be exposed and the cop and lawyer system forceably adjusted to account for such predation.
One of the times I was coming back from Dallas I did something that might be considered ornery. My truck was overheating on the expressway. I didn't feel that it would make it all the way home without damage. There was a convenient place to stop by the airport.
A crew had blocked off a lane, as usual, and I pulled through the cones and shut it off to cool for half an hour. I pulled out a newspaper and began reading for about twenty minutes only a few feet from the traffic whizzing by. Then a city truck pulled alongside and a man told me I'd have to leave. By amazing coincidence, they were picking up the cones and actually opening a lane instead of closing off another one.
The solenoid was out of my starter. It wouldn't start working again until the truck cooled off, if then. The guy had a truck and a crew with him. I told him I'd be glad to leave, but I'd need a push. He refused a push to get me started, but told his crew to push me farther to the side, onto the shoulder even more. To myself I thought, "To Hell with that!" The truck was cool enough and I had a push coming. I'm not staying. I put the thing in gear and kept the clutch depressed. The crew hopped off Crabby's truck and threw their shoulders to mine, thinking I'11 meekly accept his decree. They groan, then one appears in my window, "You got the brake on?" he accuses. I show him that the brake is off. He doesn't realize the significance of my foot on the clutch. He goes back and they try again. Their heave is so weak and slow that I fear that there are only a couple of sissies pushing. (I've started the truck myself on the flat of the street before.) But finally they get me moving barely fast enough. I pop the clutch. The truck stutters and shudders. Then it catches. I wave to them as I drive off, thinking, "Thanks a lot, suckers!"

CHAPTER TWENTY‑SEVEN

If you can't run with the big dogs, stay under the porch. 
    Unknown

One of the more clever things I did while eluding the cops and their lawyersystem had to do with one of Gina's crackdealer friends. Mostly she got all her cocaine in powder form from Hispanics in the area. Purchase from them entailed a small hassel and a 15 to 20 minute wait as she'd find a payphone that wasn't police‑juked against callbacks, call several of her dealer‑friends' beepers, wait for their callback, make a deal with the first one to respond, make excuses to the late‑responding ones, go to a mid‑way meeting point . and await their arrival or a call providing further instructions. Many times the girls had only $20, which really was not enough to justify all this calling, driving and waiting, especially when she was jittering to get her little four‑lungful high and get back to work before the tricks dried up or the cops got worse. To deal with the powder suppliers costeffectively really required a minimum purchase of at least fifty dollars.
Since most hookers tend to specialize in selling head jobs for their quick, low‑risk, low hassel return, they often have only $20 at a time. They're faced with standing around and braving the odds that another trick will drive by before the cops do, or they can go find a rock and get high. Since cops are almost as thick as tricks at prime whoring hours, most hookers in this situation elect to try and spend their money first. This is where the African, small‑time crackdealers take advantage. Africans, like women, appear to be particularly predisposed to cocaine addiction. This 'fact' has even been documented in Scientific American and other scientific press of circa 1890 to 1930. Male African crack sellers are more accurately described as "opportunistic addicts" than actual drug dealers. Police and economic pressure pushes whoring into the poorer sections of the city, and the Africans who follow the sex trade primarily do so to assuage their usual dual addictions to sex and cocaine. Unable to support their own habits but by theft or trickery, African males have learned how to take advantage of the women's addiction to support their own. They do so by inserting themselves between the $50 minimum Hispanic coke market and the $20 per head hooker coke‑buying market.
African males do this by loitering near convenience stores, phone banks, motels; anyplace in between where a hooker snags her tricks and is dropped off and moves to contact her dope connection. He has learned to be too convenient to they who have too‑easy access to money. While she is trying to find her main, non‑ripoff connection, these Africans chase her down, surround her, wave their little crack‑crumbs and chant salaciously about how big and good it is. Fact is, it's not big, but it's often good enough. What these Africans do is one of a couple or so things. Often, to start their day broke, with nothing, they will make up something that looks like a crackrock, such as a carved piece of ivory soap, a blob of white latex paint, wax, etc. Then they join their brothers in the crowd chasing the hooker who has just been dropped off by her latest trick. They know that she has $2© and they all work together to get it from her by generating mass confusion. Most of their tricks work best in the dark, and if there is a chance for them to appear to sell her an actual rock while really handing her their bogus rock, they will.
If she happens to have pulled a double‑header and has two twenties, they will try and make sure the second rock is bogus. African crack addicts have hundreds of ways to cheat her, their brothers and others. Hookers know this, and usually will gnaw off a corner from whatever they're trying to pawn off. If it doesn't taste like coke and numb your tongue, they pass it back to the thief, memorize his face and try the next African's wares. In response, the Africans have developed innovative ways to get around even the cursory taste test. They do this by purchasing un‑outlawed varieties of cocaine in over‑the‑counter products that containe traces of lidocaine, procaine, xylocaine, etc. With the skill of trial and error they experiment on various concoctions they create, trying to blend the perfect amount of whiteness, texture and numbing that will enable them to dupe the unwary out of their $20. Success never lasts long because women are generally at least marginally more intelligent and experienced than the majority of male Africans. She is usually only burned by this trick once and spreads the word among the Sisterhood that "Leatherlips' gang is selling 'orajel' rocks."

The sisterhood dodges around these and other ripoffs on a routine basis and has a very quick response time because hookers range far and wide, move fast and constantly, and have their mental facilities in high gear most of the time due to cocaine's stimulant‑like properties. If the anti‑drug fanatics really wanted to slow this type of whoring to a bare minimum, they could replace the mere thirty‑second cocaine 'high' with the eight‑hour amphetamine high and put their so‑called 'South American Drug Cartels' out of business at the same time. Such a plan would substitute a clinical stimulant for the bug‑poison plants plants make called caffeine.
Faced with the task of making their living off such an intelligent, alert and wellorganized quarry, African crack addicts generally fall back on the usual method of dope parasitism.	They somehow obtain a genuine crackrock for $20, smoke half of it, then find a hooker who wants to get high now and sells it to her for her $20. Some beginner or too successful hookers will often pay $20 for a chip of cocaine normally worth only $5.   I've even seen women pay an African $2 just to get inside the apartment complex to pay $20 for a $5 chip of cocaine.
Of course, these are common street‑loiterer drug and sex addicted Africans. There are a few who comprize a level higher up. One of these is Al, who worked during the week and sold crack rocks friday night through monday morning. Unlike most crack sellers, Al did not smoke the stuff himself. He instead would double his money and also indulge his massive desire for head and sex.
Al is a huge, jovial guy of good nature. He developed an arrangement with a swarthy middle‑eastern immigrant who owned, or at least operated, a sleazy motel right in the largest infestation of prostitution in DFW: one block east of Harry Hines Blvd, just off from a popular bingo place. Al would pay Ibrahim a weekly rate for his weekend stays, and Ibra him would warn Al when the cops came by snooping for information or wanting free favors detrimental to his guests and business partners.
Gina used to take Annette there. She would take her money, put it with her's, leave Annette safely hidden somewhere nearby but off the premises, and go see A1. Once inside Al's room, she'd get the best deal available from any of the Africans in the area. She'd smoke or hide about half of it, then exit. Annette would be told that the remaining half was the total amount. They'd then walk two blocks to a set of burned‑out apartments and share the rest. This is pretty much the standard procedure. It's not said aloud, but the person with the connection takes the liberty of benefiting thereby, and such has been the unspoken rule of dope transactions since they began long before Christ was born.
Gina is a no‑nonsense type of person and not so much a hooker as a ripoff‑artist. Al would see her with the beautiful, blond, blue‑eyed Skeeterboy‑pimp and had Gina introduce them. Whereas Gina would only buy from Al during the rare times that she bothered with such small scores, Annette would come constantly to A1 with $20 scores almost hourly. On top of being a convenient source of rock, Al would also drive Annette home to me, about eight miles distant. He'd even deliver $20 rocks this far when she found tricks in my apartment complex.

It was through the many times that he drove Annette home that I met Al and developed a friendship with him. It was also through him that I heard of his problem of having too many unwanted visitors at his door at all hours. The hookers with cash he loved, but the hangers‑on would follow the hookers. Ibrahim insisted that A1 keep the parking lot and bushes clear of such beggars, parasites, loiterers and skulkers. (More than onec drag queens and unpopular hookers would hide in the foliage at the end of the building, accosting late‑night male drug traffic, offering discount head or sex for money or a piece of what the guy had just purchased.) Such persons sometimes accidently accosted the occassional prude who rented there. They'd complain to Ibrahim, or worse, call the cops. No one wanted the cops skulking around, and Al was searching for a way to politely prevent these people from drawing cops.
We were just laughing and joking one day about creative ways to make it clear to certain persons who just couldn't seem to realize the seriousness of Al and Ibrahim. After A1 left, I began seriously considering just how easy it would be to implement one of the schemes we'd found so hilarious a few minutes before.
This screwy idea kept rattling around to the surface of my thoughts for a few days. Each time it did, I'd solve one problem and another would move to the forefront. I'd remember something pertinent, a relationship would jog my logic a bit and inside of two we weeks I couldn't see anything in the way of implementing this crazy plan but a little labor, legwork and minor amounts of cheap material.  
I outlined the plan to A1 and he loved it. He'd do the essential part himself, plus give me $50 in rock to do the rest. The first part involved him running a very‑hard‑to-see polyester thread under tiny staples concealed along the woodwork outside his door to the inside. His handiwork was absolutely invisible except for the run across the jamb, and then it looked like a stray spiderweb instead of the sinister device it would soon become. My part was to get a big, black trashbag and blow it full of carbon dioxide from one of TPC's fire extinguishers while I was at work. The pressure guage didn't even register the loss of such a small amount. I tied the bag shut, got an extension ladder on the truck and took both with me. I already had duct tape and superglue left over from another project, so all I had to do now was drive. Not too far from Al's motel room was an Hispanic supermarket called Fazio's with huge, smelly dumpsters full of rotting fruit, produce and other garbage around the back. Birds and certain insects are attracted to such places, as well as the usual rodentia. My interest was far above the dumpsters and under the eave where a very good‑sized nest of Texas hornets thrived.
The task was easier than I'd imagined despite an audience of curious and boisterous Hispanics enjoying the show. They're very friendly and social people, and they spend a lot of time at this store drinking in their cars and trucks and cavorting about in the parking lot while waiting for their women to finish shopping. Simply unshipping my ladder and easing it into position beneath the eave was enough to cause in them nervous anticipation. The nearest ones began instructing their children and each other that they might should roll up their windows soon. Another grabbed his beer and hat and moved farther away, laughing and shouting, "Muchachost Vamous! El gringo lock!"
By this time they'd seen me suiting up out of the back of my truck; gloves, a thick, long‑sleeved army shirt, the collar buttoned up, a tool pouch and the big black balloon of gas dangling from my belt. Obviously the trick is to avoid scaring the insects, so I had the foresight to begin after dusk, when they see less well and are calming down for the night. I moved slowly up the ladder, sweating and thinking about how many stings I would endure to get Annette and Gina a fairly big rock. The closer I got, the more concerned I became. Other times, as a kid, I'd been within arm's length of a nest of hornets. While sneaking up on these with ill intent I remembered those prior times. In daylight you can see them crane their heads around to stare evilly at you, within a hair's breath of springing on you like a ‑hot cloud of pain:	‑	‑

At night is different. You think that they are about to attack, but they don't, unleas you bump their nest, that is.‑They watched me sneak up and put the bag over them and their nest. I taped the mouth to the wall, raised the hanging part so that the carbon dioxide would submerge the nest. The buzzing began, then I could feel some of them bouncing against the sides of the bag. For a long few seconds they struggled to find their way out before finally succumbing to the lack of air. I tapped the nest with my finger and heard some fall to the bottom of the bag, joining the others that were already there. They were a11 overcome. The bag came off the wall with their inert bodies rolling around in the bottom. I squeezed out the carbon dioxide and waved in fresh air, then tied the bag shut again. I chiseled the nest off the building, laid it in the front seat with me, shipped all my equipment and drove off amid cheers and applause from my Latino audience.
At Al's I tied his polyester thread an inch above the base‑stalk of the nest, then glued it a few feet above the door, just under the eave. A1 practiced jerking the line very gently a few times so he'd know just how much was enough to flick the hornets off but not enough twitch to tear the nest loose. We boiled some sugar and vanilla into a paste and wiped it onto the back of their nest as an incentive not to abandon it. By this time the hornets were awake and buzzing angrily at being manhandled, trying to find a way to fly or crawl out. I taped the bag on the wall just below their nest and cut a long, horizontal slit in its top edge. It fell open as I shipped the ladder. We ran inside just ahead of the first ones flying out to attack.
Al and I snickered and chortled as we waited for the main body of insects to follow their natural instinct to climb or fly up to get out and find their nest. A1 handed me his film case of rocks. The ritual is for the buyer to select the largest out of eight or ten virtually identical rocks. One of the best things about rock cocaine is that it's small, does not melt in your mouth and is easy to swallow. Dope‑chaser cops hate this.	I've seen them on TV so frustrated at being thwarted due to swallowed rock that they choke their victim and rip at his jaw and lips mercilessly before finally giving up, realizing that they are beaten. This particular time the cops were performing for the cameras of 'Cops', a voyeuristic pro‑cop propaganda show served up on the Fox network. These cops decided to lie‑up a fraud for the arm‑chair sadists who get pleasure watching people get tortured and caged. The cops began claiming that their target was chewing his tiny little rock and instead of swallowing it, somehow got mixed up and spit some out onto his lip. Two pigs and a cameraman twisted, wrestled, jerked and swayed around on their already shackled black victim for a full minute but somehow just could not get a shot of his lips or the white rock crumbs they swore they saw. By pretending this was true, they tricked probably 75% of their cop‑sucker audience into believing their lie was true. All the cokerock addicts carry their cocaine crumbs in their mouths, and when the cops swarm, there is virtually zero chance of the cops being able to beat a man or woman unconscious before she can swallow. 
I suggested to Al that he should probably let his stinging buddies get used to their new surroundings before he sprang them on someone who just would not get off his doorstep. We gave the hornets fifteen minutes before inspecting them. They all seemed to be back on the nest, snoozing calmly in the lark. Nothing remained in the bag when I pulled it down. I drove on home and got involved in other things, never telling anyone what we had done, until now.

 Al, on the other hand, told all his customers, it seemed, and demonstrated to many of them how it worked. Al has been in business for years and years. He has never been accused or convicted by the cops and lawyers. He continues to sell rock cocaine from the same motel room to this day. He may even be looking forward to a visit by the cops, because he hasn't got the heart to turn his insect pit bulls on any human pests. The mere possibility was enough to make everyone behave. Even so, he gleefully waits, eye behind his peekhole and finger wound around that polyester thread, hoping that a pair of arrogant cops will come shove their snouts into his business. In his mind he has seen them many times slapping, dancing and cursing as they scurry back to the safety of their copcar.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Small Progress
We don't give information! We take it!
										    Mark Fuhrman
TPC was good to me. They found that I learned fast and worked hard with a minimum of incompetence. I soon began making a living wage again. Finally I had time to research the last group of convicts in the deck of pictures Yeno had obtained for me. It was not an easy task, and it took a lot of time despite the public's interest in geneology causing new databases to come available. Of the twenty‑one pictures in the final deck, all but nine were found to be dead ends in one way or another. This took me many weekends of driving back and forth between Dallas and Tulsa. I knew every stopsign, stoplight and bump along that road. By this time it was getting pretty tiresome dealing with the janitors, cleaning crew and low‑level bureaucrats at the Tulsa city govt complex: Also it had become more dangerous.  At first ‑I approached them through the mothers of Black friends. The Black community has extensive, widespread ties and no love for their White overlords and bosses. The last folder of records I'd gotten from them had only been marginally useful, and I'd paid far too much for it. I complained profusely at this prior to asking for more service:‑They agreed to help me for less money. Then I whipped out the last nine pictures along with what case numbers and other useful information I had earlier gleaned on them.	(The geneology records are of very limited use because most of them an almost illegible, hand‑written and are never typed into any modern (digital) database.
Other records are also relatively useless for this reason and because government bureaucrats jealously guard them from the public and each other.)
My friends had some trouble in photocopying the records I needed this time. Evidently some suspicion had been aroused within the police bureaucracy, causing them to ask questions and decide to disable the photocopier before leaving at night. This caused a big

scare and considerable loss of time while we tried to figure out what the cops had done to disable it: quite a task to do at long distance and by proxy. By chance a friend of Tommy's made his living servicing photocopiers, though they were a different brand than the one the cops used. He was instrumental in showing me how the cops would easily disable their copier (removing the fuse, it turned out). He showed me how to disable the copycounter (Simply pull it out and use a paper clip) so the cops would have a harder time detecting its use. We wasted a lot of weeks on this and on waiting for the cops to get lax on security and their suspicions to die down. It cost me a lot of money, too. Even with these resources all I could do was eliminate two more prospects; the other seven could not be eliminated by having been in jail or prison at the time of Hunt's murder. All bore a passing resemblance to me, lived in the vicinity at the time, and were approximately the same age. The hardest part was tracing the cops' and lawyers' recent records back to their warehoused old records. These mounds of ancient crap and drivel were often in no particular order. They have been pilfered through by hordes of cops, lawyers and media hacks. They'd been stacked, moved and restacked many times. Some had been set afire and hosed or otherwise deliberately vandalized just to get rid of them. (Speaking of deliberate vandalism, the Okie National Guard had went nuts machine‑gunning windows at the Hominy prison after the guards had emptied it out after the riot they'd caused by serving up ptomaine on a regular basis. The taxpayers never found out about this, but the evidence is there in at least fifty bulletholes. Each one signifies your tax dollars at work. Details of the riot and its cause can be had in other of my writings.) Anonymous judges and bureaucrats had issued orders that allowed most of the oldest records to be deliberately destroyed before letting them be hauled off to the govt's private dumps.
One bit of luck I had was in searching the main Tulsa library microfilm bank of old newspaper stories. It was a very tedious and inefficient way to find information buried under and within many layers of propaganda and other garbage. Over the course of many 
weekends I was able to eventually reconstruct part of the police and prosecutor skullduggery that had slopped over onto me and my family.	‑ This entire mountain of concealed corruption began with a couple of sleazy prosecutors competing to insert themselves into the Oklahoma governor's mansion in the late sixties. Buddy Fallis jr. was the primary prosecutor of Tulsa county. His competitor was Andy Coats, the headline‑grabber for the courtrooms of Oklahoma City. Their media tools happily publicized the Courtroom antics of Fallis and Coats. Both were very flamboyant and eager to thrust themselvs into cameraview for everyone to see and hear their pious pronouncements on sensationalized cases. The lawbooks are bursting‑full of these two clowns' success at stampeding jurors into conviction mode during closing arguments in hundreds of court cases. Fallis is famous for threatening to leap out of the seventh floor window if the jurors did not convict his target of his accusations. Andy Coats pulled the same emotion‑sucking  tricks with only slight variations. Fallis, Coats and their hordes of assistant prosecutors would say or do anything to obtain convictions, and their judge‑lackies would permit such flagrantly illegal verbal gymnastics without even raising an eyebrow or uttering a sadistic guffaw. The worse‑than‑useless Public Defenders would mumble faint, cursory objection, then quickly shut up when the judges automatically ruled to allow the prosecutors to spew whatever myth or speculation they needed to concoct to guarantee conviction of their targets. In several appeals by the convicted the state judges mildly reproved the offending prosecutors, but this did nothing to stop their illegal practice of using emotion to bludgeon eager jurors into convicting everyone the officials chose to target with their accusations of criminality.
Fallis and Coats tried to out‑do each other in duping jurors into agreeing with prosecutors wanting to slam their targets with insane, then inane, sentences. They asked for and got sentences of hundreds, then thousands of years. I think Coats finally won their battle of who could award the most extreme 'justice' by sentencing a man to 35,000 years! The news‑stalkers sold this and other courtroom carnivale down the throats of citizens all over Oklahoma on a daily basis.

One of their 'elect me!' horrors involved a team effort with the Churches, media and their copklans against pornography dealers. Through various sources I found that the Hunts were working with the cops and prosecutors to get their rival filth perveyors convicted for obscenity. In exchange for their snitchery, the Hunts were permitted to continue to sell their own obscene products. After a time the word spread that it was not a good idea to show their most wicked inventory to persons sent to them by the Hunts. It became common knowledge that the Hunts were responsible for the convicted porn dealers' loss of their businesses, assets and freedom to the lawyersystem. The Hunts found out that their treachery had been revealed to their victims.	(Cops routinely snitch off their snitches to their victims as their last step in rewarding lawbreakers who assist them in jailing people. They hope the victims will kill or maim the snitches: Cops snicker and call this 'convict justice'. It is how the cops clean up after themselves. The wreckage they create is never accounted, but it is huge and costly, and prevents the cops from getting caught in these sadistic and outlawed acts.) One police report I received noted that Mr. Hunt began checking his car for bombs during this battle of the prosecutors. No doubt he expected his porn buddies to kill him, and they probably did. Fallis and Coats both lost in their schemes to occupy the governor's mansion. Fallis' Plan 'B' was to bust a bunch of rich gamblers in the Petroleum Club building. This was a shakedown for political favors‑ Fallis trying to wedge himself into a federal judges' seat. These thirty or so rich local gamblers agreed to help Fallis' political career in exchange for Fallis letting them escape the TV cameras and court records with their identities still secret. An assistant prosecutor was told to find that a 't' hadn't been crossed nor an 'i' dotted on the indictment, necessitating that the influential criminals must not be prosecuted for their crimes nor re‑accused in a properly spelled indictment as ordinary targets would have been. Thankfully all the rich, influential criminals reneged on their promises, perhaps because Fallis was too obviously a scoundrel: no sane person would let loose a poisonous snake in their livingroom with the children. Fallis was not given a federal judge's seat or power. He (and Coats) went back to the obscurity of private practice where they still feed off the unwary and the ill‑informed.	(A more detailed account of this debacle appears elsewhere in my writings.)
Cops are required by law to reveal any favorable evidence they find to the person they are trying to pin their crimes onto. In actual fact, this almost never occurs, and if it does occur, it is usually by mistake. The cops chose to keep the fact that Hunt's porn store employee had told them that Hunt expected his fellow smut merchants would try to kill him. The cops kept this fact concealed, and told Hunt's employee to keep shut about this because it would distract jurors from their simple, neat, 'daylight burglary' story they planned to vend to them.
At about the same time this police report was pried out of police hands I found an interesting item buried in the old newspaper files about Mrs. Hunt: almost as soon as the cops finished using her to convict me and got their sentence finalized by their Okie appeals

judges (both state and 'federal') the cops nailed her for selling obscene pornography. She was the last filth perveyor in Tulsa, not counting the ones re‑opened by bondsmen and a consortium of prosecutors, judges,cops and lawyers in silent partnerships together. (Same as happened earlier with the dancehall‑alcohol license wars and after with the tittiebar wars after Fallis: all the vice establishments in Tulsa gradually turned over from private ownership to limited liability partnerships owned by the various members of the local law industry. Clever, huh?) She fed the bondsmen,and lawyers her porn business and got convicted anyway. Then she fed the lawyer community her home and assets and was awarded a two‑thirds reduction in her sentence and fine solely on the basis of a most farcical technicality: the Okie appeals judges, in Hunt v OK cr ap 601 P.2d 470 1979, said "...such is like mentioning the crime rate during a robbery trial and this can not be allowed." This sentence is important in my case for two reasons: the U5 Constitution supposedly gives us 'equal protection under the law' and; in my case the prosecutor did pop off and mention the burglary rate during my public defender's spiel at my murder trial. Thus if the Constitution really meant anything, and the Okie appeals judges deigned to follow the law that just issued out of their own throats, I'm entitled to two‑thirds off my sentence, same as they did for the Hunt woman. Unfortunately for me, the law does not apply to everyone equally. The Constitution, fat as it is with 'guarantees', is over‑ruled daily on a caseby‑case basis by judges who make up exceptions to the law for people who have the assets t® pay for them. These same loopholes are slammed shut to exclude people like me who merely want justice from being fraudulently convicted by corrupt cops and lawcrats.
If I thought the law was worth the toilet tissue it should be written an, I would have returned to prison to shove this ruling and evidence up the lawcrats' blue‑veined noses. They'd already forced me to do more than a third of this fraudulent sentence before I managed to escape their bloody fangs and claws. Life dodging the pigs is not like a real life where a man can act normally. You can't be honest with anyone or have real friends or normal relationships while the cops have everyone convinced that they'll pay a reward for anyone finding you. They have everyone suckered with the wall‑to‑wall Hollywood and TV anti‑crime hysteria. One purpose of the cop‑media's constant blathering about crime is to chase away your family and friends and make them turn on you. This tactic works fabulously well in isolating the state's targets and making our lives as hard as possible. Criminalizing your family and friends for associating with you was a masterstroke learned from fascists. When they can no longer torture you daily in their politician‑made Hellholes and scab votes by demonizing you to the citizens, they make living as a refugee as torturous as possible. They are very good at their sadistic craft, having had many decades to perfect their techniques.
Another stray fact that escaped the cops' evidence vault was that they had concealed a witness. My friend's mother said that I should look for a woman named Candice Connors because a cop's report said she had seen the killer snooping around the Hunt's home one day prior to the murder. I didn't get to see the cop's report on this because this was the time when the cops began juking their copier around to prevent after‑hours use. This forced me to settle for verbal reports for a long while.

Women are very hard to trace. They often are not known by their original surname, and every time they divorce and remarry, it changes again. I tried the old and new phone records; I tried canvassing that neighborhood again; (not suprizingly, the Hunt home was now owned by a cop). I tried the geneology tricks and the state's records on births, deaths, marriages and real estate. The record that would have helped the most was far too expensive: $50,000 for the Okie driver's license list. No one in the neighborhood remembered her, plus they called the cops on me for asking. I couldn't find any other surnames for her in the geneology or other databases. The state bureaucrats maintain a very tight grip on all their so‑called 'public' records. The bureaucrats refuse to let ordinary citizens access them. They require you to answer many questions, and if you are not media‑connected or a lawcrat of some stripe or of the copklan, you get nothing. Even many lawyers get	. the endless runaround. As a result, finding Candice Connors was impossible after all the years that had passed, at least for me. My resources were not great enough to get past the many bureaucratic roadblocks put in my way.
In view of these facts I began to see how the cops had gotten Mrs. Hunt to salivate at me in court: she was a very sleazy, amoral character to begin with, she was probably tired of the cops coming over every few days with more boxes of high school yearbooks and insisting that she pick some body. She was simply working for the police again, doing whatever they said and hoping that they would finally go away and leave her to grieve in peace. When the cops finally had their way with her, and had no further use for her, they turned on her like the pack of rats they are(that is, the detective division, at least; low‑level cops are not required to 'get their man whatever the cost' and thus honesty prevents them from becoming detective cops. Cops who won't fudge their results don't get promoted). The cops had concealed Ms Connors from me because she would not agree with their demands that she identify me instead of the actual killer. I know now, from reading mountains of lawdrivel in lawbooks, that cops routinely get caught hiding and destroying evidence that conflicts with their plans to convict the nearest, easiest target. What I couldn't figure out is how the cops had gotten Mrs. Jack (Michelle) Baker to lie on me for them. The last of three almost completely worthless public defenders had called Baker the saturday before trial. Baker told him that she had never identified anyone for the cops. Two days later, at trial, she suddenly flipped 180 degrees to salivate at me. The worthless public defender rolls over and plays dead upon hearing her lie about what she told him on the phone two days previously. He refuses to testify as to what she told him over the phone. Some how the cops and prosecutors had bludgeoned her into lying on me for them. And neither one of these women would tell me why. Whatever job the cops and lawcrats had done on these women was still working on them even after all these years.	This was normal, though; from a psychological standpoint: most people, when told a lie by authority figures, will cling to that lie even faced with proof that it is a lie, so long as the authority figures continue to stand behind the lie as if it were true.
Other things that I got from the cops' evidence vaults were records of the lineups the cops pulled trying to get Mrs. Hunt to point at someone. They had suckered in many jail prisoners to star in them who supposedly had similar faces, along with previouslyJailed persons and young schoolboys that she had culled from the thousands of pictures the cops brought her. She supplied the cops with lists of people for them to abduct for her to view in person from behind the safety and anonymity of thick, one‑way glass. (See: Copcrime: Creating Lineup Fraud.)

All this stuff did me no good. It began to look like all the money I'd spent and effort I'd put into this had been wasted. I'd be better off leaving these crooks behind and trying to make another life in a less corrupt society, if one could be found. I love America, but the crooks who run it won't let me alone. It would be nice to get these crooked cops caught and punished for their crimes, but they had all perpetrated similar crimes throughout their lengthy careers and never came close to being caught.  Probably it was not possible for them to get punished even if they were caught.	In real life they are encouraged to help see 'justice' got done despite little technicalities such as pesky evidence that pointed the 'wrong' way. They had managed to hide all the blood and fingerprints, and no citizen, media hack, juror, cop, judge, prosecutor or lawyer seemed to think anything was odd about this. Thus it must happen pretty much all the time.
After a lot of wasted time and effort we finally obtained a couple of copies of signed police reports that showed that at least two cops calling themselves 'forensic experts' had taken at least a sample each of the killer's blood and given them to at least two  'labs'. These two cops had said at trial that they didn't know who had collected this blood. These two police reports pointed out the fact that these two cops were a couple of sworn‑to‑God liars. Apologists for cops will claim that these cops were just 'forgetful'. They had lied to three different public defender lawyers at three different times before trial, claiming that they had no samples of the killer's blood. Each public defender lawyer accepted this idea that the cops had 'forgotten' to collect samples of the killer's blood. These lawyers were worse than worthless, they were actually harmful, helping to protect the killer. They each advised me to be quiet and let them do their job, then they assisted the law machine in convicting a boy they had excellent reasons to believe was innocent. Why else would concrete evidence such as blood and fingerprints vanish along with a witness and another witness suddenly about‑face and begin marching to the rear?	(For an analysis on how fiendishly the lawyersystem really works, see: The Innocent's Guide to Avoiding False Convictions.) Each of these lawyers worked for the go‑along‑to‑get‑along system that signs their paychecks, not any justice system, which is only a Public Relations facade behind which their shenanigans are concealed. Their so‑called 'adversarial' system does not exist except as a public relations gimmick. They all went to the same schools together, they are all in the same club and they are all paid by the state except for the unlucky few who have to practice criminal law as private lawyers. This field is saturated with too many lawyers chasing too few clients. Criminals are notorious for having no money or assets to begin with. The few who do have a few bucks saved or a mother's home to hock are quickly stripped of them by the bondsmen, leaving little or nothing for the cops, lawyers and judges to snatch away through fines, fees and penalties. This is why most new criminal lawyers immediately try to wedge themselves into state‑paid jobs such as public defender, distriict attorney, judge or other sinecure connected to the public tax‑trough.

CHAPTER TWENTY‑NINE

The Sick System Wins Again
"...trial by jury (is) the only anchor...by which government is held to its Constitution."   									   	Thomas Jefferson
At about this time I met misfortune again and had to go back three spaces in the game of life. I didn't know it at this time, but a nut had rattled loose in my little sportscar and was destroying the clutch.  (Thanks a lot, Mr. Goodwrench!) A traffic light turned green and I was struggling to put it in first gear. A Black guy in a tall, twenty‑ton truck was behind me yakking on his CB radio. He forgot I was below him. He bashed me into the intersection, crunching my hatchback lid so badly that it sprang open and had to be tied shut with rope. His company, ANR Freight, refused to pay, forcing me to sue him and them in small claims court.

The first judge I had seemed to be honest enough, so I allowed him to talk me out of requiring a jury. (Judges hate juries the way rotten teenagers hate their parents. Every few years judges come out with books full of reasons why we should lift the constraints of jurors off their backs and let them have their way with us. For citizens to allow judges to escape juror oversight would be like giving a box of viagra to a rapist and setting him loose in an elementary school. Judges and prosecutors have managed to cut the number of civil jurors down to six, and have made criminal juries little more than the prosecutor's rubberstamp. Within forty years I expect judges to have made juries completely extinct in respect to exercizing any quality control on our lawyer's system, civil or criminal.) I showed the judge the pictures of the damage, the witnesses' statements, the cops' report and the three mechanic's estimates. He declared a $300 judgement for me* Then he asked me how I'd learned so much about law. I immediately thought of the truth‑‑by having to fight the lawdozer barehanded for decades‑and froze in terror. The truth couldn't be told. Eventually my poor brain cranked out what appeared, at first, to be a plausible notion.
"I watch a lot of television," I said.
Then I thought of how sarcastic this sounded. Then I noticed that he was actually pleased by my answer.  It was very puzzling why he would be pleased by sarcasm. Then I realized that this was the perfect answer with which to reinforce his conception of the media. He and his kind have always had the very best possible relationship with the media, like that of a dog licking its master's hand, so it was only natural for him to believe that cheap TV drama about his craft is instructive. For all I know, maybe it is: whenever I run into a cop or lawyer show, I turn the shit off.
Since $300 would pay only half the damage, leaving my car unfixed, I paid the $10 it took to appeal to another judge. Judges claim that their rules prevent them from giving you advice, but when it serves their purpose they do give you advice whether you want it or not. He advised me not to appeal, saying I would not get any more money. He also issued the usual threat that I could easily wind up with nothing. Did he have precognition? Or did he just call up his buddie‑judge and say, "Screw this guy extra hard"? Just trying to get the damage paid for cost me two more days off work; one to get a court date and one to actually see another judge. It's no mystery to me why so many people feign injury in these cases: to get anything done costs so much in feeding the lawcrats that to break even you have to fall out onto the street, scream "My back! It's broken!" and demand they get am ambulance and hospital.

After a month of awaiting the lawcrat's leisure, I got another judge. She is an extremely fat food‑addict who had to weigh nearly three hundred pounds. She was Black, but not nearly so flighty and power‑mad as the media‑darling 'Judge Judy'. The Black guy and his company brought a tiny, slick‑looking Hispanic girl as a lawyer. Since I had already won, I began proving that $300 wouldn't even buy them beam and hatchback cover his truck had caved in. Judge Vikki interrupted and said my previous win didn't mean a thing to her and that I'd have to prove the whole thing all over again from the first moment.	I did, then she dismissed everything the mechanics and car‑parts sellers had specified. She inserted her own guesses instead and declared the exact, same figure that the first judge had, only she worded it slightly differently to give it her own personal flavor‑‑or smell. It both tasted and smelled like crap, and I said I'd appeal again. Judge Vikki declared a recess and told me to work out a deal with the lawyer‑girl. She told me that I'd better go for Judge Yikki's deal or I'd wind up with nothing. I told her that the car‑fix would cost at least $450 even if I used my own labor. Nobody budged. Judge Vikki again advised me to take the $300. I said I'd appeal. Judge Vikki declared that I'd have to give her a $300 'appeal bond' to 'assure my presence in court' as if I'd run away. Like a grade 'A' moron, I paid it. Judges are very tricky at making robbery via legalese sound reasonable.
Trying to minimize the number of workdays lost in dealing with these black‑robed banditos, I petitioned the next‑highest judge via ink and paper and stamp. His clerk intercepted it and refused to file it, claiming that there was no 'action' under which it could be filed. This is law‑gibberish for "You're screwed, Jack!" He was just going to ignore the tort claims act, which is the reason for about 50% of his being in that luxurious sinicure, and pretend that the "redress of grievances" clause of the first amendment of the US Constitution did not exist. He intercepted and refused three times all the various laws I quoted. (I assumed it was a 'he'. The only evidence of its identity was an indecypherable scribble that may have been the letter 'k' or 'r' beneath the rubberstamped name of the elected clerk behind whom the rest of them hid.) I had to take another day off work to argue with these weasels in person. The clerk's bulpen is blocked by a long counter where citizens are ignored if the ey wait quietly and threatened when our patience in waiting politely runs out. About 20 women blocked access to the offices of the people in actual power. Most of them were empty of people, probably due to vacations that seemed to never end.	(State govt workers get a minimum of 30 days of vacation the first year, plus sick days, a fabulous wage and no state taxes along with other gravy aplenty.) After considerable hassel I was able to attract the attention of one of these busy people whose jobs seem to be mostly to laugh and joke to someone over the phone. Eventually I wrangled a court date out of her. When I opened the sheet of paper she had given me, it revealed that the judge would be this Vikki person again. This was a direct violation of their own court rules.	Instead of losing another day of wages, I tried to trick the clerk into giving me back my $300. She took my receipt to another clerk, he took it to a higher clerk, then she ran into an office and got that clerk to call judge Vikki herself. They were not going to get off my money. When the court date came around, I said to hell with all those worthless scoundrels and legal bloodsuckers. I went to work instead. Such nonsense was not to be endured. It's like getting trapped in the Twilight Zone. It was too disgusting to watch these social parasites twist a good system into a harmful, toxic, selfserving mess right before your eyes.
The morning I decided to toss that court crap into the sewer where it belonged is the morning a most extraordinary thing happened to lift my spirits. It was about 7AM, : cold, but not too windy. My routine was to get a breakfast McBiscuit and eat it in my truck while parked in their lot.  I'd read the latest political chicanery in the paper and toss out crumbs for the sparrows. A group of males would immediately snatch the bigger pieces, elbowing the females out. One hen got tired of this and decided to attack the problem at the source. She fluttered up to my window, perched on my mirror and looked me over casually. She was very brave; only inches away from my open window. Never had I seen any bird come this close, then coolly eye me for a long moment. Soon as I got over my amazement, I pulled off a pinch of cheese and offered it to her. Instead of fluttering off in a panic, she nibbled it delicately from between my thumb and forefinger! The mob of males on the ground saw me reach out to feed her and fled. A crumb dropped to the asphalt. She flew down to retrieve it. She flew back to me, this time landing on the threshold of the window itself. I fed her by hand til the buscuit ran out, then she fluttered off. I went to work in a lot better mood than if I'd fed myself to the courthouse jackals that day as I'd originally planned.

They gave me a good crew at work that day too. Five of us were to run two scaffolds at a Handy Dan, a place where they sell home improvement materials to small‑time construction contractors and homeowners. The store was huge and full of customers. Men, women and children were everywhere underfoot.  If you were on a ladder and struggling to pull an anvil up to the ceiling, they would walk right under you. If you were atop a 30 foot scaffold and between them and a shelf they wanted to pilpher, they'd push you out of the way without even wondering if you were up there or if an unexpected shove would knock you off.
Most of my time was spent dickering with the store managers; telling my crews how serious it was for them to always set all four wheel‑brakes, outriggers and cones; wear their hardhats and not drop tools or materials. The hardhats were made so that when you looked up they flew backwards off your head and bounced noisily around the floor as unpredictably as a greasy football. The guy on the ground was responsible for passing materials up and down and making sure customers didn't trip over the outriggers. It was boring work for him and he usually gravitated closer and closer until he was directly beneath the guy on top, to lean on the scaffold itself. This seemed to be one of the laws of nature, like the one that draws arms and legs inexplicably closer, then into, quickly rotating farm machinery. Twice I've been the high man and lost my grip on a two‑by‑four‑foot ceiling tile and shouted "Heads up!" (A stupid thing to say, but custom.) This gives the ground man just enough time to look up and ask, "Huh?" just before it breaks in half over his nose. Thankfully I've never hit anyone with heavier stuff. I've had guys work with me who had work strategies that I'd never experienced before. One Black kid from Laborhorde was a genius: he could take a quick look at the fire exit floor plan map of any building we were at and memorize it. No matter how complicated it was, he could always find an escape route when I came looking for him. Much of the time at work I'd see little more of him than his eye peeking around a corner or his shoe‑sole disappearing around one. He loved to multiply trips to the truck by 'forgetting' things. He liked to sneak essential things off the truck as you were loading it. He liked to stretch lunch and breaks through use of various clever ruses. All the while that he was secretly making everyone else's work harder and more time‑consuming, he managed to appear to be industriously working to the undiscerning eye. Due to this genius of his, boss gave him a truck and another Black kid as his crew. That first day was a fiasco, and at the end of it, Russel and Yince went exactly opposite the way back to the shop, making us chase him down. At rush hour's 5PM clog at US 75 at Coit road we caught him at two stoplights, telling him what he already knew‑‑that the shop and clock‑out were behind us. He and Vince just laughed like hyenas and shouted, "Follow Us!" as Russel raced off a third time. Mike, my supervisor and the driver said, "To Hell with them; I'll just tell Larry where they went when we get to the shop." Russel and Vince must have had Moses' knack of parting things because they needed Divine intervention to get back before we did. They were already drinking coffee with Larry and laughing their heads off when we drove up.

One of the Caucasians we had was competing with Russel for the title of most worthless worker. We got to calling him 'Ricky‑in‑the‑way' for his uncanny knack of managing to insert himself, apparently unconsciously, between the crew and work at every break, blocking the aisle with his body. He wasn't big or fat, but he would laugh stupidly at whatever you said and just not move out of the way. He wasn't stupid, either; he'd just act stupidly. For example I once saw this guy standing next to a scaffold with a pile of four‑foot fluorescent lamps stacked on it that he'd been handed by the guy above. The scaffold shook, his poor excuse for a chock fell out and one by one these lamps went roll, crash! Roll, crash! Roll, crash! Each one splintered into a thousand shards of glass on the floor. All this buffoon had to do was take one half‑step and stretch out his hand to stop them. What did he do instead? He started laughing: He thought this was the funniest thing he'd seen all morning! We tried shouting to him over the din of the smashing lamps, but he would not hear or see us. Finally I climbed over a row of shopping carts and stopped them from falling myself. Ricky‑in‑the‑way lasted a long time at work considering how harmful he was to getting the job done. Boss and Larry loved the guy because he was a champion coffee‑drinking asskisser. Boss could not believe that nobody wanted to work with him. After he was pushed off every crew but mine, and I tried to get him off my crew, Boss finally had Larry see for himself how the guy worked. He told Ricky to stay at the shop and clean up the warehouse instead of going out on calls with the rest of us. When we came in at five it was like Ricky hadn't moved since seven. He bragged about how easy his day had been as we unloaded our trucks. Back in the office, while we were doing our paperwork, Larry said he couldn't believe having watched the guy lean on a broom all day! They cut him a check that moment and told him he was fired. Ricky‑in‑the‑way didn't think that was too funny, but a few of the employees had a laugh or two about it.
Vince got fired when the owner saw him work. We were installing electricity‑saving devices in each of hundreds of lighting fixtures. In the offices of an aircraft design place he fell off his ladder and dragged the false ceiling down with him. That repair job took extra hours to fix. The same day he managed to break the top ten inches off a secretary's three‑foot rubber plant. He sneaked off without telling anyone. The woman discovered it when we had finished the offices and moved into the warehouse. She was so angry that she raced her car into the warehouse, coming within two feet of wiping out at least two of us on our 25 foot scaffold. She shrieked and screamed so far and wide about her spindly little rubber plant that the owner of our franchise came down to placate her in person. That's when he began railing up at Vince causing him to fall off the scaffold. This time he clamped onto a string of eight‑foot light fixtures, ripping down a whole row of them from the middle as he fell; more than one for each foot he fell. It was a miracle that he survived, and a bigger miracle that he jumped back up onto his feet still wanting his job. But Boss was in a foul mood. (His teenage daughter had destroyed her third luxury sportscar the previous day.) Vince crapped out, same as had Ashley's camaro, porsche and BMW.

I met the laziest man alive while working there too. He is a Mexican named Mitch who warned me about himself twice. First he told me how he had managed to get fired from the easiest job in construction that is usually reserved for any women who may work in this trade‑running the elevator. A friend of his came by with a joint to smoke. Mitch asked a coworker from Laborhorde to push the elevator's buttons while he and Cholo found a place to hide and get high.	"Only take one minute!" he swore. His pal ran the elevator for almost an hour before having to go back to doing his own job. Without the elevator, everything in construction stops. A large crowd of angry construction workers found Mitch in the attic, snoring loudly. They smacked him around pretty good before letting him escape. The second warning Mitch gave me about how extremely lazy he is involved his statement on why he wouldn't use the $12 automatic wirestrippers Boss had bought each of us to replace the cheap, dangerous, toy‑like manual strippers we were using before OSHA showed up. Mitch whined, "These things are heavy, man! You lift this thing over your head a few times and you've done some work!" Nobody wanted to work with Mitch either, after having seen how he "works", so Pat got stuck with him.
Pat is a great guy‑‑a Dilbert‑style white‑collar guy fallen on bad times. He was smart, overqualified and did things the right way the first time he was shown or told. He was a great Public Relations man. He dressed snappy, stayed clean, was too old to act like a juvenile and too young to be lazy. He could talk to any stranger and make him feel relaxed and valued. I'd use Pat to keep the clients occupied while I did the work. He'd keep them from chasing me around their stores asking for extras and free service that we were not allowed to give. Pat would answer all their questions in a way that both satisfied them and kept me from having to make long, detailed explainations as to why we could not help them. He never made promises to them, he always looked happy, smelled good and would never sweat. Even 35 feet up a scaffold and inches below a tin roof on a 100 degree day, Pat would not sweat. Once we were in a locked‑tight clothing store all night, sweat pouring off us because the tightwads (T.J. Max) would shut off the air conditioning each night. The ventilation was zero and none of us could figure a way to get it back on. I thought I was going to actually die of overheating after overexerting myself in a storefront display hotspot near the ceiling. I said to Hell with the store owners and ran out of the place gasping for air and blind from sweat stinging my eyes. While I was wringing the sweat out of the rag I wore around my head the alarm started shrieking. Bat came out with the others to escape the infernal noise. He was dry as we were soaked. Some days later Pat and Mitch were working the other side of a mall that Randy and I were working when Pat came over asking for help.  Some of the display lights they were doing were shorting out a few minutes after being refurbished. Randy and I took some of them apart and found that the laziest man alive was responsible. Mitch simply could not find the energy to screw on a wire cap properly. The wires were popping out and shorting against the metal because he couldn't manage to give them a full twist. Mitch lost his job and his pretty blond wife with her child when he pulled out a joint and smoked it in front of Pat on the way back.  Pat asked Boss if we were allowed to smoke dope on the job. Mitch broke Pat's nose while Boss and Larry squealed for help. Our ladder truck guy heard their girlish screams, rushed in and dropped Mitch with one punch, John Wayne style. Pat sued, and Mitch's wife finally realized for sure that he was worthless, not that every Boss fired him for no reason. She kicked Mitch out of her home and even laborhorde wouldn't take him.
But this particular day was going great. Everything went fine and on time. Then we got a good chuckle just before leaving. Bruce stopped me on his way back from a break and asked me to look down the adjacent aisle to see if anything looked strange. It looked fine to me and I said so. Bruce said, "You sure? Look over at that plumbing display."   He took me over to it. On one side was a confusing array of bright, shiny sink and mirror combinations made to look like they would in your bathroom, all in a row.
"Looks good to me," I reiterated, puzzled.
"The other side too?" Bruce asked, smiling broadly. "Turn around."
The other side was a raised platform with a forest of toilets in four rows, also set up to look as if they were installed bathrooms.

"See it?" he goaded, then burst out laughing when I finally saw. At first it just looked like a young kid, maybe six years old standing at the end of a row of toilets among other customers. Then I looked closer and noticed that he was actually sitting on one, taking a dump as if he were in a real bathroom. Evidently home improvement stores are very good at putting up realistic bathroom displays, because I saw this occurring two other times.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Car Wreck Two
Get your facts straight first, then you can distort them as much as you please.
											Mark Twain
Things began turning to crap again. A long string of bad luck occurred in addition to the copier trouble, the lack of being able to find the killer trouble and the trouble with finding new leads as to what, exactly, those crooked cops did with the killer's blood and fingerprints. The newest trouble began when we were going out of town shortly after Bob and Jeb pulled that silly stunt in New Mexico. I was taking my own truck this time because the jobsite was two hours closer to Tulsa, the seat of corruption. I could go straight north after work and get a head start on another weekend of researching the new information I'd pried out of the cops' evidence vaults. But Larry cornered me, asking a favor. He wanted me to let the kids drive my truck, just far enough to get outside the lot, down the street and beyond the Boss' line of sight. He didn't want Boss to see the kids driving the huge, six‑wheel, 454 cubic‑inch stepvan. I certainly didn't like the kids driving my truck, but it was one of those situations where I pretty much had to agree.
I told the kids. They drove my poor old Junker ahead of me as I followed closely in the stepvan. Watching the clouds of blue smoke shoot out of its tailpipe that cold morning told me that the twerp was rodding the Hell out of it all the way to the stopping place, a gas station only five blocks away. We traded trucks. I let them lead the way on the interstate. My truck gave out just past Plano, the end of civilization for miles. The kids flew on to Denison and never stopped. They probably did not even notice that I wasn't behind them anymore. They probably wouldn't have stopped if they had noticed. Their thought was probably that they'd hit the jackpot by losing me because they could drive in circles, drink soda pop and get paid for waiting for someone to show up and tell them what to do. Their little hotrod thrill cost me my truck and three weekends.
I bought another truck just like the one that they blew up. (My strategy was to always buy cheap junkers that would be the smallest loss should the cops blunder across me. They could steal my vehicles, but they would have to chase me down and kill me to keep me from running away from them.) The guy who sold it to me had his neighbor steal my bike's tag while we were switching the title over. This truck blew up after a few miles. I bought a chevette at a garage sale. It lasted about two months before it blew up. (A shitbird at work sneaked off the radiator cap while I was out of town. The water boiled out and the idiot light said 'hot' about thirty seconds before it blew.) Chuck let me buy the chevette station wagon he had saddled his wife with. It leaked fluids from every reservoir almost as quickly as you could pour them in.	It couldn't even manage to make a single trip to Tulsa. It got me as far as Richardson, then limped back to die in the Church parking lot. Each one of these vehicles meant the same as flushing at least $500 down the crapper. The only winner was the state with their huge fees for titles, tags, stickers and other regulatory crap.

It was a bad time for dogs, too. I was in the stepvan, rushing home from San Angelo at high speed on the freeway at night when a big, ugly chow came into view. He looked like a bear at first. He was running straight down the middle of my lane, practicing his technique for chasing really fast cars. His head was twisted behind him. His big, ivory teeth glinted briefly in the moonlight as he tried to get a few barks in before I flashed on by. This big, stupid mutt had no doubt been emboldened by the way the car‑driving public tended to swerve out of his way soon as they saw him at the end of their headlights. How many crashes and near‑misses had this brute caused in his life? He probably had caused a few, since most ear‑chasing dogs I've seen stay near the edge of the road. He probably
thought that my big, top‑heavy, lightweight aluminum windcatcher would politely swerve out of his way too, so he could chase it across another lane or two, like the cars must have done. He was wrong. I had just enough time to think "WHAT THE...!" and visualize my
truck flipping over sideways if I tried to change lanes. There was no chance of stopping, and he would have changed lanes with me to stay directly in front. So I saved him the trouble. Crunch‑crunch! He hit both axles, making the truck ring like a bell.
Then a great guy fixed me up with a great car; a little blue sportscar with only six inches of ground clearance. The same week I got it a tall, spitz‑looking pooch challenged me. While I was racking through the gears from a residential stopsign I saw him and his pack of loud runts and misfits running toward me, but I never thought that they would be stupid enough to commit mass‑suicide. At about twelve miles an hour and climbing, I saw his head pop up in the middle of the hood to bark at me. He only got one bark, and it sounded like "Bow‑whoops.'" Then my grill threw him down, tucked him in and I ran over him. I had time to wonder how he had managed to stay alive long enough to get killed by me. Then I saw him in the mirror, limping away on three legs. He still looked a lot thicker than six inches.
A month later I was driving with Gina in the misting rain around White Settlement, a suburb of Fort Worth. She suddenly snatched my arm and shouted, "Hey‑stop!" We saw something short, long and red shoot under the car. This time I was quick enough to stomp the brake, but I still ran over him. The mirror showed a miniature Dachshund racing back the way he'd come, deciding he only wanted to cross half the road.
It seemed that pets had become retarded since I'd managed to get shut of the crooked Okie abduction machine. Even wild birds were going nuts and flying into my stepvan's prow. A pigeon thought he'd just swoop into his nest under an overpass as I came through. He smacked into the front, rolled down the window and off the hood, While l was whipping down highways near Abilene my grill ate two chimney swifts chasing a female. Up until this string of doggiecides, pet‑maimings, bird‑smackings and near misses I'd driven for years and never run over any animal, not even a cat.	It was the prelude to a climax.  It came shortly after two in the morning, when they let the drunks out. I'd just put up the company's stepvan and was in my little sportscar heading home. At my exit I saw a cop in his car with his lights off, inching quietly down the service road (speed limit 45 mph) trying to sneak into the Mexican ghetto apartment complex, just before my ghetto apartments were situated. I slowed down too, trying not to pass this badged imbecile before he was committed to entering their lot.

While I was thinking I'd easily get past without him seeing me and without having to slow very much at all to do so, a drunk in a fury III plowed into me from behind doing at least fifty. My car was thrown out onto the grass between the freeway and the service road; spun completely around 360 degrees. My toolbox exploded out the hatchback window to land fifty feet away.  My glasses flew off, and I would have eaten a big chunk of steering wheel plastic if I hadn't been wearing my seat belt. While I'm searching in the dark for my glasses, the silly cop runs up, all excited, and gibbers, "I saw the whole thing! What lane were you in?" Maybe it's not just the animals who have become retarded, because it's obvious to anyone who didn't see 'the whole thing' that I must have been in the fast lane to be knocked toward the freeway. Just before he hit me I saw one huge headlight in the center of my mirror.  The vee‑shape of my caved‑in rear end should have given officer Eye‑balls a clue. But it is very dangerous to give a kid with a gun and license to kill any clues, especially one who caused 'the whole thing' with his innovative approach of sneaking up on people.
It's all I can do to keep myself from yelling the facts at this highly‑trained, expert nincompoop. I ignore his question three times before he gives up and switches gears. Now he begins shrieking, "Gas is leaking! It's gonna blow! Get away! Get away!" I told him to save himself because I'm not leaving without my glasses. The ignition was the first thing I turned off, since this was the only way to get my keys out of it and since it was obvious that the car wasn't going anywhere after a bash like that. He gives up on trying to sucker me out of my car, but his sharp eyes saw me pocket my keys, which shifts his mouth into yet another gear just before he runs for safety. "Do NOT lock your car!" he tells me three times, as if this is the magic number.
I know what his plan is. It is to make it easy for his wrecker‑driving accomplices to steal my car before I can get it home. He is crazier than a shitfly if he thinks I'm going to aid him and them in their theft of my car. I lock my car. He's called his wrecker pals, a firetruck and an ambulance. The drunk walks over and apologizes. He hasn't got a scratch, and his car looks like it might not even need a radiator. The cop asks me if I'm drunk and what lane was I in.	I tell him to go get his breathalizer (they hate that). He says, of course, that he hasn't got one. Then he thinks he's going to make me do his drunk dance so he can make a diagnosis of drunkeness as if he were a Doctor. I tell him that this is not going to happen. I gather up my tools, toss the box on my shoulder and begin jogging the Hell away from them, trying to get home to my wife only one‑half of a block away. The cop sees me and begins screaming, "You can't leave! I called an ambulance for you!"	.
"I never asked for an ambulance!" I shout back.  "Cancel it!"
"You've got to let the medics check you out! You could be hurt and not know it!" "I'm not hurt and I know it:"
I never stopped jogging away. The cop screams for me to stop several times, but he doesn't threaten to kill me for leaving, which is nice of him. If I'd been in some lawless city like New York, he'd have emptied a magazine into my back, reloaded and emptied a second one in me, then claimed 'self‑defense' and gotten away with it. Apparently we in Texas still had some freedom left, which is why I like the place so much.

I jog home, drop the toolbox, snatch up a mound of 'silver', run to the payphone and begin calling wreckers. Nobody answers and I can see the pack of firecops arrive to stand around and watch my non‑exploding car from a safe distance. Gina catches up with me, barly dressed, wanting answers. While I clarify things for her, the ambulance people arrive to stand around and joke with their cop and firecop pals. (More cops have arrived to help with the standing around.) I get the local wrecker on the phone just as the cops' wrecker buddies arrive. Gina tells me I should get in the ambulance. I run down there to try and shoo away the cops' wrecker pals to give my wrecker guy a chance to get here even though I know it's hopeless. No ordinary, non‑city contract wrecker guy is going to have guts enough to take a kill away from the cops' hyenas, especially not while the head hyena is watching. Soon as I arrive, the cops' guys drag out their 'Jaws o' Life' (that we paid for and the cops bought them) and start slicing up my car with them.	(They were not about to crawl through the hatchback window and lift the button. The cop had tried to bash out the driver's side window, but old cars don't have Cops Choice brand E‑Z Bash glass like the new cars are required to have. Wreckerman had a sledgehammer, but Jaws o' Life entitles him to assess a minimum $50 fee for their use.)
Gina catches up with me and joins the crowd loitering about the mass of city vehicles. They lie to her, saying that she can ride with me in the ambulance. I let them tape me to a board and shove me in. They kick Gina out, drive around three corners to the hospital that I could have hit with a rock from the accident scene. (It's just across the expressway.) They haul me in, lay me on a table and promptly vanish. I am ignored while laying quietly for fifteen minutes. Five more minutes pass; still nobody shows. I shout for a urinal, now that the excitement has died away. No one answers. It's like the whole hospital is empty except for me. Finally I give up. A man can only stand so much TLC.	I tear off all the tape they wrapped around my head and neck, undo the straps and peel off their worthless foam rubber neck ring. While searching for the exit down long, vacant corridors a nurse with a clipboard and a fat, male orderly come up demanding my signature. I ask them, "Where is the exit?" The ignore me and demand I sign to get out.
"I didn't sign to get in here," I tell them, I'm not signing to get out."
They follow me and keep demanding my signature. I take the clipboard and pen. Nurse Rachet is suddenly all smiles, thinking she's won. I skitter them both fifty feet down the corridor behind them. The orderly outweighs me by almost 100 pounds, but he decides to look angry instead of attack me. Gina finds me and we leave the way she came. The hospital sends me a bill for $380 every two weeks for a solid year.	I never pay it. Really I only wish I'd never paid it. After they demand payment for that long, even Jack Benny's head would get numb and he'd pay it.
At least twenty ambulance‑chaser lawyers write me wanting to sue the drunk and his insurance company for me. I find out that somehow the cops got my address and are passing it out to everyone and his dog.  They didn't get it from me or Gina, so the cops must have gotten it out of Susan, the apartmenthouse manager. I picked one of these oily lawyerbastards, whom I don't think I ever even talked to on the phone. He sets me up with a good‑natured middle‑eastern quack who practices medicine not 200 yards from my apartmentf My neck is slightly wrenched, but he has me come over and let a pretty assistant tape an electric shocker‑dealie onto my lower back three times a week for twenty minutes. This is pure snakeoil, but Randy and Cathy, my insurance‑scam artist friends tell me to go for it. They show me three of these highly‑expensive medical shockerboxes that they own as a result of their exploits. They are experts who somehow were able to get lawyers to give them loans against their lawsuits prior to their wins.

While this is occurring I fight the insurance company to pay for my car. Their office is twenty miles down the superhighway in Fort Worth. It's raining, but I need money to live on. Risking life and limb, I drive my little 200 cc Yamaha among the screaming steel for twenty miles. Once there, a woman tells me my title is deficient. I ride forty more miles in the rain, up and back. Still it's not enough, but she pretends it is until I sign away the car. She's trying to screw me on the cops' impound bill and wrecker fees, which I'm not paying a nickle on, no matter what. I demand the paper back. She refuses and then says she will give it back "in a minute". She edges away. (We 're in a huge bullpen with offices around the perimeter.) I finally realize that she's trying to sneak off to the copier. She runs; I chase; I get the original back, but she has gotten away with a copy. I get so irate that two youngster office punks take up positions near me as if I'm going to slap this sneaky, conniving bitch. I get in both of their faces and tell them that I hope they try to attack me. Then I go down the line of offices trying to find this woman's boss. Finally I find him and tell him what this woman has done and how she is trying to make me ride another forty miles in the rain for a worthless piece of paper having to do with the car. He accepts my papers and makes Ms Tricky cut me a check for my price.
I waste months off work following the advice of a sleazy lawyer, broke and with no real transportation. I lose Gina to the cops for a parole violation, and I never do meet this lawyer. He will not go to court in a trial; he's just a shill for the insurance companies, taking kickbacks. He, them and his secretary wear me out with their nonsense. He  lines his pockets with 40% of the above‑the‑table settlement, which makes him nothing more than a bag‑man for the insurance companies. My cut is $4700; I'd have been better off just going back to work. My neck wouldn't creak, pop or crik any more if I had. The doctor had an extra trick up his sleeve too; he sends me another bill, for $300 of so, after everything is paid off, claiming that the "joint measurement doctor", so essential for testimony in court about lost function, is a separate deal and was not covered in the settlement.	(This is the exact opposite of their previous stories of "Oh yes: The insurance covers everything!") I pay the guy anyway, and wish I hadn't. The following Christmas the lawyer sends me a 'cute' card showing Santa Claus winning his case before a jury of reindeer. I send this bastard a letter telling him never to write me again and how certain I am that he couldn't be dragged into a trial by Magilla Gorilla.

CHAPTER THIRTY‑ONE

Damn Gina!
The strongest bulwark of authority is uniformity: the least divergence from it is the greatest crime.
										     Emma Goldman

I'm a workaholic.  I'd rather work than stand around wasting time with small talk. Maybe I have a bit of Asperger's syndrome. It's a character flaw I've suffered all my life. My parents wouldn't let me go anywhere or do anything until I did work first. This and my character flaw conditioned me to jump in, do as they asked as efficiently and as quickly as possible so I could get on with my own projects. They saw how good I was at it and expanded my workload to include that of others. I did this too, because it was too stressful to try and get out of it by arguing for fair treatment. But it left me with a bad attitude. My Dad used to tell me this often. Same way a horse has a bad attitude toward the plow. More precisely, I'm a cynic. And I'm impatient. I expect people to be as capable as I am, and only recently have I realized the depth of the term 'differently abled'. It stretches to cover 'differently cultured', as is apparent in Jimi Hendrix' . song, "If Six Was Nine". I don't praise people for doing their job or duty. These are supposed to be givens in the cultural mix. I expect people to carry their own weight and look after themselves. Suddenly I wasn't able to do this. Laying around after the car wreck began to eat on me quickly. I'd planned all I could. I'd wasted a lot of time calling lawyers, trying to get free advice on how to pry the killer's blood and prints out of the cops without them being able to destroy it first. This seemed impossible, but I spent a lot of time at the University studying newly‑minted caselaw. It all stank mightily, . just like the old law, except worse. The Gluttons Of Privilege were stealing our few remaining freedoms faster than ever. The cops won case after case. The Supremes steadily approved their ripping away our Constitutional right to live in peace and privacy. They let the cops use anonymous snitches as their proof of crime. They let the cops kick down our doors, kill us in our beds, kidnap us from our homes and cars, steal our possessions, search us as if we were prisoners in our own country and generally turn us into slaves. Cops were given praise for pulling random crime searches and for making curiosity‑stops of citizens in our vehicles. The cops wouldn't even look at me when I drove plainly marked merchant's vehicles, but driving my own vehicle was like dodging leeches in an infested river.
One good thing about being stuck penniless, at home and with only a motorcycle as transportation was that all my feminine friends quit asking me for rides back to Dallas. It didn't stop them from coming by; young women can catch rides anywhere that there are men with cars. It takes them about one minute or less. The way I met Gina illustrates this phenomenon quite nicely.
Gina is one of the most colorful and amusing persons I've ever met. She found me at a 7‑11 on Harry Hines in Dallas. I'd just paid for gas. She appeared as I was leaving, wearing a blue and white floral print sun‑dress. It was short as a miniskirt and showed her anorexic‑looking legs and arms. It was a bright day. At the time I didn't notice that she was very white‑skinned for summer in Texas. Still, she had a certain attractiveness in her demeanor, long brown hair, big eyes, no makeup and a quick smile. She asked me for a ride somewhere, which turned out to be a vague place "not far" that she'd point out directions to as I drove.
I'm always a little slow to understand what is really going on, especially when it comes to women. The shiftiest or youngest women can tell me anything and I'll assume it to be the truth and without ulterior motive long after most other people would have deduced otherwise. Also, I'm always willing to help a person in need, especially if it's merely a sweet young woman like Gina who tells me she's an orphan looking for a friend who lives nearby. I'm naturally un‑inquisative about other people's affairs too. I don't like people to pry into my affairs, and view this a rude. Hence I don't pry into other people's business.
Right across the street from this 7‑11 is a boat‑selling place and a stop sign I'd pass every morning and evening. At this side street marker is a group of mostly African women soliciting sex. This was after work; I was heading home.	It never crossed my mind that she could have been one of these women. Maybe she wasn't. White women usually get run off from this spot. Daylight soliciting at this time was minimal. The stop sign corner had been 'unmanned' when I drove up. All I saw was a woman in need, and it didn't really matter who she was or where she came from.  I invited her in and she directed me to cruise the neighborhood as she pretended to have a destination.

As we drove I noticed she had a huge red swelling on the back of her left hand. I could almost see it throbbing. From this and her thinness I should have guessed that it was from shooting drugs, but I didn't until months afterward. We talked for a while, pretty much her trying to draw me out and me trying to find out exactly where she wanted to be dropped off. As she sensed my growing frustration and desire to be rid of her, she became more animated and to the point. She adroitly steered the conversation toward her real goal, which was drugs. At first she'd taken me for Joe Prude because I no longer kept up with the current slang, but she swiftly learned that I was quite liberal. From there she quickly progressed to specifics, such as offering to teach me how to smoke cocaine. I said "Sure',though I viewed coke as a ripoff and a waste of time and money. In the sixties I used to buy weed occasionally, when it was $10/oz and before I became immune to its effects. A guy once showed me a $40 bag of coke: it was just a little dust in a baggie. No drug is worth that to me. I'd never tried it and was not tempted. My friends at the time, mostly weed‑smokers who were really boozers underneath all said they'd tried it and hadn't gotten off, held the same low opinion of coke. I told her this.
"No!" she said, with growing enthusiasm. "It's no ripoff. I can get you the best powder in town. I'll rock it up for you and I guarantee you'll have the best time of your life! You like to party, don't you?"
"I guess so," I said uncertainly, not really grasping her meaning and certain it was indeed a waste of money.
"How much do you want?" she asked.
"I'm sure I won't like it," I said. "When I was young we all liked speed better. Know where any of that's at?" I knew those days were long gone because of the idiot drugstore robbers and burglars. Also, the hysterical anti‑drug posse stopped that action by 1972.
"Oh baby, you'll like rock cocaine a lot better than any lousy old crank you'll find around here. Give me $200 and I'll get us enough powder to last all weekend."
"Are you talking about freebasing, like how Richard Pryor burnt himself up, or this new stuff the journalists are all squawking about?" (My chemistry was rusty, and at this time in Dallas, New York and other large cities the anti‑drug lords were all on a crying jag to the public about vicious Jamaican drug gangs who were displacing the usual Africans who handled the low end of the drug trade, meaning opiates and to which they were trying to add cocaine.	"This stuff they call 'crack' is f reebasing or what?	Also, $200 is 'way too much for something I don't know anything about. How about this 'XTC' stuff? I've never tried any of that either, and it seems that we can drive over to Greenville Avenue and get it while it is not yet outlawed. Why do they call it 'crack' anyway?" I teased. "If you want to stay high a long time, a psychedelic is a good way to go."
"Ecstacy is a ripoff," she said flatly.  "That flower shop sells it for $20 a pill and it takes five pills to get off, so you're still talking $200 to get us high for only eight hours. I don't know anything about any freebasirig or crack; I'm talking about pure, smokeable rock cocaine. Pull over to this phone and I'll get us a fifty ($) so you can see how it is. With a fifty we can party for a few hours and have a good, fun time."

Instead of pulling over, we agreed that I'd risk $20 and she'd show me where she could walk in and get a 'rock'. She did, and came back too, certain in the knowledge that I was worth more effort on her part. She accompanied me to my apartment. I still hadn't even asked her her name. She called me 'Baby' and I called her 'Orphan' in my mind, but didn't call her anything.
Once inside, she produced a snap‑together glass pipe from, apparently, thin air. She had no place to hide it that I could see and carried nothing with her. The rock was in her teeth. She let me examine it briefly before sending me to get a razor blade with which to cut it. Then she pulled out a bic lighter from nowhere too. Her dress was cut low and was of thin material: I could see she went loose and that her breasts were as seriously depleted as her body.	She had no sign of disease or lesions other than the angry one on the middle knuckle of her hand.	I wanted to weigh her, but had no scales.  My guess was a paltry 100 pounds on a good‑sized woman, 5' 7" or 8", Cajun or Creole, brown eyes, 26 years old.
We sat across the corner of a low, black table in short, leaned‑back camp chairs. She cut the rock, hardly a cubic centimeter in volume, into four pieces. She took one up onto her pipe, lit it and inhaled deeply. While holding the smoke in her lungs, she motioned me forward with cryptic gestures like "Hurry up!" and "Come here!" When I leaned over to see if she was choking or had dropped hot ash down her f ront she grabbed my head, planted her lips on mine forcefully and blew her breath deep inside my lungs. It seemed like being raped, in a manner of speaking. This caught me entirely by suprize. We both laughed. She caught me wiping her off my lips but didn't say anything.
Now it was my turn. She began telling me, unnecessarily, how to do it. I'd just seen her do it, and this was enough, but she did it in such a cute and captivating way that I was glad to be so instructed.
"You can't let the rock get too hot or it will just burn and you won't get anything", she advised. "You can't let the flame get too close to the rock, either. You better let me light it for you, and let me show you just how to suck on the pipe. Here: give me your hand and let me show you."
She took my right hand in both of hers, dialed out my index finger and put the very tip of it into her mouth. She puffed delicately on it as if it were the pipe and she was the Queen of England. "See?" she asked. "Like this." She repeated the procedure, seeing how I liked it. She put one of the pieces on the pipe, melted it on for me so it wouldn't fall out, then gave me the pipe. "Remember; don'.t pull too strongly'." she reminded as she flicked a light for me.
In her favor is the fact that crackpipes are so short that you can only see the tip while it is in your mouth, not the barrel. Watching her take a hit, I'd seen clouds of white smoke erupt from the heated copper shreds in the tip and zip down the barrel between her lips. While I hit, I could only see the tip and her holding the flame just out of reach. She made sure I got only a taste and nothing more.
While holding my air‑hit in my lungs, Orphan briefly pretended to cool the pipe by rolling it briskly between her hands. Then she added her second piece of rock and swiftly sucked it down. Again I watched clouds of thick, white smoke shoot down between her lips as she inhaled deeply. This time she didn't offer to blow it down my throat and simply exhaled luxuriantly with a sigh. She correctly realized that I might have a germ phobia of some kind.

This time I took the pipe, cooled it as she had and fitted the last piece onto it. She hogged the lighter. I let her apply the flame as I poocbed my lips and eyes out as far as they would go to stare with crossed eyes at the barrel to monitor output. She again pulled the same trick. I chased the flame; she pulled it away.	I grabbed her hand and forced it closer to the pipe. She retaliated without hesitation by shutting off the flame, then pretending to try and spark a new flame by ineffectually flicking away with her thumb. I took the lighter away from her and took my own hit, but still got nothing.
"Still don't feel anything?" she asked in a concerned tone, as if neither of us knew what she'd done. "Sometimes people don't get high the first time."
As she continued her spiel of excuses she snatched up her pipe and produced a short length of stout wire, again from nowhere. With this she pushed the compacted, charred cylinder of shredded copper from one end to the other of the tube several times. The	 clouds of white smoke had left a thick white residue on the. inside of the glass, and this action scraped it off. She added the left over crumbs to this and hit it too. Then she gave me a hit of metalic fumes, saying that there was coke still in it too. The traces that had been there she'd already taken.
We talked for a while longer. She seemed relaxed instead of stimulated, which was puzzling. Cocaine is supposed to be a stimulant, and the forces of govt wanted everyone to think of it as very similar to speed. She let me take her pulse right afterward, and it was only slightly elevated, if elevated at all. Her heart wasn't beating noticeably stronger either, as would have been obvious with speed. A few minutes later she wanted a cigarette. We had a good time walking to the store and back where I bought her a pack of marlboro light 100s. She was wearing some clunky shoes that seemed heavy as Dutch sabots and sounded like the clip‑clop of a horse with peg legs. As for the cocaine, I wasn't disappointed: I'd expected nothing and got nothing. I learned something for only $80 and had a pretty young woman amuse me with her style. It hadn't overly peeved me to have been , screwed, and I honestly enjoyed her company and the way she kept the conversation going, steered it her way and listened without interrupting at appropriate moments; something most youths can't or won't do. She was a marvel of psychology in action.
After a short time Orphan began to get restless. She got up and began pacing before me. I remained seated. She began speaking of 'party‑ing' again. I wasn't clear on her concept of the word, but her meaning finally became clear when she emphasized it with a kick to my foot, stood before me and beamed to me a bright, suggestive smile. Finally I realized that I had only to draw her into my lap and invite her into my bedroom. Without saying anything overt she made it clear that she would make me very happy I'd met her and indulged her so slightly.
I hesitated. She was so very thin and pale! Malnourished as she looked, there had to be something wrong with her despite her having no detectable fever. I decided against the idea, and though I didn't realise it at the time, it was a bad mistake. Instead, I suggested we go out and eat and offered to have a nurse look at her hand.
Orphan saw this as rejection and took it personally. She was subtle, she had her pride, and she could always find a man she could bend to her will. Rejection hurts, and she would make certain I would feel her rejection too. But she didn't let on at the time. She declined all my suggestions but one: that we get another rock and try again.

Before going back to her connection's apartment she flat out asked me what it was of her technique for catching men had gotten me on her hook. Of course she phrased it much more delicately than I had above, but that's what she meant. Her effrontery in asking me to help her polish her man‑eating skills vexed me a little. It was amusing that she was searching for a formula that would permit her to manipulate and exploit people for her benefit. She was a little old to still be thinking like adolescents do when they try to use magic, hypnotism or similar arts for the same purpose.	It was just her, in general, who attracted me. She wouldn't believe this when I told her. She wanted to believe that there must be a button somewhere that would yield the desired result automatically.
"It was the part about being an orphan," she demanded, "wasn't it?"
"Yes!' I told her, giving up, but reiterating, "The orphan part was very good, but it was that and many other things. That dress is very appealing, but not without you in it. You have an attractive outlook. You're pretty and to the point. You are intelligent, you smile a lot, you laugh, listen and don't get offended by straight talk. You didn't waste too much of my time with nonsense before you efficiently felt me out and found common ground. It's just you, altogether."
The drive back was mere small talk. She showed me where to park, took my $20 and vanished around the corner. She didn't come back. By the way she had interrogated me at the last I should have guessed this, but I'm thick and I have a lot going around in my ‑` head. I really did want to see this interesting, playful woman again and hadn't realized it until she left unexpectedly. While I thought she'd come back and let me share a rock with her and get high, Orphan had judged me too chintcy for her to bother with, plus I had rejected her. All the empathy in the world won't take back a rejection. Also, where I was thinking, "You're so thin and pale, you've got to be sick," she was thinking, "Thin is gorgeous: what's wrong with this guy?"
Orphan ditched me to find a more freely spending guy.  I didn't see her for a year or more, and when I did, it was as if she was a totally different person, almost unrecognizable.
By this time I'd met Annette, who liked to be called 'Skeeterboy‑pimp' She's very beautiful, blond, blue eyes, bubbly, happy disposition, breasts that are just the right size, plump and sticking straight out with no sag at all. She's 5'6", curvatious, strong, healthy, in good shape, not thin or fat, just right. Where Orphan/Gina will rip you off and have you laughing about it, Skeeterboy‑pimp will make sure you're happy and satisfied. She likes to wear jeans from the little boy's section and tee shirts with the midriff cut out. When she jiggles loosely down the street she causes car wrecks by men hypnotized by her swinging chest. Even other women wish they had her chest, but don't try to put her in any dress. She hates that. It took me years of trying to get her into a dress before she finally consented. For me she put one on. She looked fabulous, but only for two minutes before she took it off again. For the record, don't let her street name fool you. She's not gay, at least not for me. She likes her feminine friends to think she's gay, but she's heterosexual too, for the right person.
But this is about Gina...
Annette and I had been dating for about a year and she had just begun to stay with me regularly when she called me over to meet a friend of her's who had recently gotten out of jail. We were at a car‑painting place run by some connected Hispanics. A very wide and thick brown‑haired girl came over to Annette.	They rushed together with wide smiles, squealing, "Skeeter‑Skeeter‑Skeeter!" and "Gina! Gina!" at each other, embraced gleefully, leaped up and down together a few times, then danced over to me.

"This is my home girl!" Annette shouted at me. "I haven't seen her in a long time, huh Baby‑girl? Me and Gina go 'way back! She's the one who got me started in Dallas and we been through a lot of good times, huh?"
I'm sure Gina recognized me instantly, but I wasn't wanting to believe she was Orphan. She had a missing bicuspid like Orphan, but Gina was fat, fat‑ and fat, though she carried it well. She had to weigh 150 or 160 pounds now.
They giggled and shrieked and danced around together for a few more minutes, then the mechanics said her car was ready. She invited us over to her place.  She pulled out in a silver‑grey late‑model thunderbird; one with the slick lines and shiny chrome. Skeet got in. I followed in my car. The way was far up Northwest highway deep into Dallas proper to a large complex of run‑down old wooden structures. Inside was a one‑room, one bath seedylooking dump that looked like trolls lived in. The bed was made, but piled high with clothes strung everywhere. Gina cleared a spot for us on the floor and began rocking up some powder as they relived old times.
It was invigorating to see these old friends get so much enjoyment from each other. I mostly just listened and tried to make appropriate comments where needed. At one point I asked Gina if she was Orphan. She admitted nothing and adroitly changed the subject.
She probably thought I was pretty dumb to ask. 2'm sure she's ripped off so many men in her life that she automatically feigns ignorance of such brief encounters as a safety mechanism. Nevertheless, I told her she looked good and healthy and that I was glad to see her again.
She made a big alabaster marble that was several times bigger than what I'd shared with her that time. She passed around big chunks of it freely. By this time I'd actually gotten high off the stuff thanks to Annette, who would bring some home to share with me often.
Gradually I learned some things about Gina's life from pieces told here and there. She'd been born in Louisiana and her real name is Shelly, though she never uses it and tells few people of it. She has sisters back there whom she doesn't appear to care for much and vice‑versa. She came to Dallas in 1984 with 'Mucker‑Diane' near the time of the journalists' "Great Crack Epidemic" news‑push first began. She got ten years in prison that she's been doing on and off for years and years. She and a male friend were in a motel when they decided to steal the TV. Her pal wouldn't figure a way to break it off the table it was bolted to, so she had him back his pickup truck up to the door. They were manhandling it and its 8' cabinet/table into his truck when the cops drove up. Men's minds don't function too well on 'Gina'.
Women make parole fairly often in Texas, and when she got out, she quickly caught another man. This guy was very shy, quiet and straight‑laced; an Hispanic, very tall, named Bin. He drove his thunderbird down the street, gawked and waved at her. Gina expected  him to pull over and let her discreetly get in. She crossed the street to facilitate this maneuver upon seeing him U‑turn. Once again he smiled and waved as he passed by, but didn't stop. He U‑turned again for another pass and Gina crossed the street again to get into position for a pickup. Cops are thick and sneaky on that street, plus they like to hide and watch. There was a very real danger of them dragging her off for merely walking along the wrong side of the street. She was on parole and they could use any of numerous petty excuses to send her back to prison. 

Ben drove by one more time, grinning like an idiot, grooving to his CD player, cool in his factory air conditioning and drove right by again! This made Gina boiling mad. She shouted at the top of her lungs, ordering him to STOP! He hit the brakes. Gina got in. The cops didn't see. They drove off. Thus began one of the most curious love relationships I've ever encountered.
Ben was very industrious and prosperous for a long time. He worked by day at a glass plant. By night he was a security guard for a bottling company. He came to love Gina very much, and in her own way Gina came to love Ben too. Gina had him buy her mounds of cocaine, and every so often, when he became very angry, Gina would permit him to make lave to her. Ben once confided to me that getting Gina into the sack was similar to rape: he had to beg and plead, chase her around, grab her, throw her on the bed, wrestle her into position and simply keep her pinned under him until she finally relented and let him inside.
Ben would give her his fine car while he worked though she had no license. Gina would run wild with it, always with the fuel guage on empty. She'd find other men to manipulate out of their money, and the coke would make her thinner and thinner as she kept being too efficient and successful at her craft.
She frittered away his money. He began pawning his possessions. Ben had managed to keep most of them because the cops had put Gina away for that year. It helped that he moved from an expensive high‑rise to the dump I just described. The TV, huge stereo and other expensive appliances were littered about the place in little or no order. Gina was not much of an housekeeper but she would wash mounds of their clothes occasionally. Mostly she would pick him up and drop him off at his jobs on time with his own car.
Gina introduced Ben to cocaine and eventually had taught him how great it was to put it into his system with a needle. He was the most unlikely needlefreak I'd ever seen. Ben would many times hear Gina tell him how she would make vast amounts of money if he'd set her up in a motel room of her own to turn tricks or sell powder. Many times I saw him pay a week's rent on a good motel for her, but I never saw her turn a single trick.
One day the CD player in his thunderbird got stolen. She told him that somebody must have gotten it when she accidentally left the car unlocked and unattended. Later I heard her admit to Annette to having one of her male friends rip it out and sell it. She'd pawn Ben's possessions. Ben would buy them back. Another time Gina picked me up and we went to their apartment. The door had been broken open, as if in a burglary, but it gradually came out that Ben had locked her out and some dope in. She'd gotten some man to break the door open for her on the pretext of having lost her key. Then she got me, wanting my assisance in helping her find what Ben had hidden I told her that she had it bad and needed to kick. She admitted this, then asked me to buy her some. She'd already found Ben's stash and her story to me had been only a ruse to get me to buy her some. I hated to see her 'pheening' this way, and I owed 

 her some consideration not only as a friend and someone whom she shared regularly with. She never mentioned how often she'd just appear with lots of coke and a smile. She was very generous all the time. I bought her some, as she knew I would.
Another of her ruses was to come and see me with the last few hits of her dope. With her, this was usually a substantial quantity, relatively speaking; enough to prime the pump and cause me to spring for a 20 or a 50. More than a few times Gina would bring her last
few grams over to me after she'd been partying for days. Probably she'd be afraid to go back to Ben. She knew she was safe at my place. She'd be bubbly and boisterous; a treat to be with, telling me her latest exploits as she broke out her powder and began cooking. We'd begin smoking, sitting close on the rug. She'd begin to sway and nod as she wound do down. I'd nestle a little closer to hold her up. The pipe would fall from her hand. She would fall asleep in my arms, too fatigued to be affected by the coke.	I'd gather her up and take her to bed. I'd take her shoes off and cover her up. She'd sleep straight through a very few hours, then come awake again good as new, looking to resume smoking or ravenous for food.
The reason I say she loved Ben in her own way was because of what happened one snowy winter saturday Once again Ben had bought her a motel room and instead of tricking out of it or retailing powder she was having a party with most of the Sisterhood of Dallas.  (Dallas is always full of conventions or sports gatherings of one sort or another, and these girls gave the many escort services stiff competition. Another plus is that Fort Worth is the same way and just next door.) There seemed to be at least two other similar parties in the same complex. She and I went to see another girl when Ben showed up in a cab. He got angry, had some words for her, took his car and drove off into the storm. Gina began crying, which was very unusual, considering how headstrong and independent she is. I tried to console her. She wasn't having any of it. She began walking back to her room which was around a few corners. I followed her in my car. The snow fell thickly and she kept crying so inconsolably. She wouldn't get back in, and when I asked why she wouldn't let me help her she moistly yelled back, "Because you're a man!"  Seeing that her mind was set, I prepared to go, but couldn't. Somehow during the switches and confusion I'd wound up with her key. She wouldn't come back and get it even after I told her twice. Finally I stopped, got out and stuffed it in her coat pocket. Then I left, as she wished. I'd never seen her cry before or since, but she got over it, as did Ben apparently. They were back together the next week or so.
Another time Gina came to my place and visited Annette and I, bringing Ben's car and a lot of powder. She stayed late into the night. Usually she's so very competent, but this time she lost the keys to his car somewhere. She noticed just as it was getting close to time to pick him up from work. This particular time my car was disabled and I had no cabfare to give her. It turned out that Gina had left them locked inside, dangling from the ignition.
Oh how she was nervous and upset! "Ben will kill me if I'm late again! What should I do? Jim! Get me a coathanger, quick:"

That thunderbird was too tight for any coathanger trick. The windows wouldn't pull down, the Jimmy‑man wanted cash, and she was too hot to ask the cops to spring it. Nothing worked. She tried to bash in the window with a rock from the parking lot. Even more frantic, she begged me to get my tools and bash in one of the tiny side windows with a hammer. When I wouldn't, she had Annette try. She wasn't strong enough. The hammer bounced right off. I gave in and hit it three times with all my speed and power. It just bounced off. instead of bashing in a bigger, door window, I got two screw drivers and gently pried out the lock on the passenger‑side door. A push and a dig with my finger caused the lock to fall in and the button to pop up. Gina thanked me profusely, leaped in and sped off to get Ben.
"Good thing that window wouldn't break," Annette remarked. "Broken window is a copmagnet!"
When she brought Ben back an hour later I apologized for the destruction.	He took it well, but mentioned that he'd have preferred the broken window. He could have gotten one free from the glass plant, or nearly free. Too bad I had not had a chisel, apparently. (The cost of installation would have been worse than repairing the lock.)
Another time Gina picked us up in Ben's car. Annette had her bare feet kicking outside the passenger window in front. The fuel gauge sat on empty as Gina drove aggressively through rush hour traffic with a long way to get to her apartment. She had just bought a
few grams and they were tickled pink about it. I couldn't stand it, knowing we were headed for disaster. "Slow down: $e careful! Watch the road!" I told her. "Annette! Stop drawing attention to us with your legs like that! Let me buy some gas before we run out!"
They laughed at me. "That's more money for dope!" Gina chided. "We've got plenty of gas. I know what I'm doing. We'll get there. I drive this car everywhere on empty. Never put dope money in the tank!"
She really had me worried, but all I could do from the back seat was buckle up, pray we didn't wreck or get snatched up by the cops. Gina was phenomenally lucky in this respect. She drove that car everywhere with no license, full of dope and paraphernalia and empty, but never got caught or ran out of gas. She'd look where she drove one second out of six, yet never hit anyone though riding with her was up and down and around like a rollercoaster.
When she finally got us there they piled out without a backward glance swiftly as Whippets after a hare. They disappeared into the house while I was still trying to get the belt off me. It wouldn't release! It wouldn't give up any slack, either, and it was almost too tight for me to get into my pockets!	Struggling with it for five full minutes got me nowhere. I didn't want to do any more damage to Ben's car, but those silly women had forgotten all about me. They were inside laughing their brains out while I was conspicuously trapped in a car with it's door hanging open and chiming like mad. By straining mightily, I finally got my nail clippers out and began using them to nip at Ben's seatbelt. It was taking forever. The longer it took, the madder I got. About an inch through the tough fabric Annette came out to see what I was doing. Soon as she saw me sweating and nipping she began laughing like a fool, then ran back in to tell Gina. I half expected her to bring Gina out to see, but another agonizingly long time passed, then Annette returned, still shrieking with glee, but with a paring knife from the kitchen. She cut me out of that trap and rushed back inside, still howling with laughter. Gina was just finishing her cooking job and rolled a big, hard marble of coke onto the mirror.

Gina is very intelligent and somehow kept up with current events though I never saw her read a newspaper, watch Td or even listen to the radio. She could debate anything that was happening, from Reagan and Bush's polices, foreign or domestic, to how badly that judge had screwed up phone service by breaking up Ma Bell and even the nuances of war on Iraq! She somehow knew most of who was involved, what was likely happening behind the politician's curtain of intrigue and had a better than average notion of what was coming next. Gina particularly knew about and had strong opinions of the millionaire judges who liked to pawn themselves off as common, earthy men every election year. She knew some of them by sight, like judge Cave, and knew personally some of the women and girls he'd taken advantage of and abused.
Many of these women show signs of abuse. Few of them will willingly speak of their past no matter how close you come with them. But there are hints and slips that indicate it was more than loose morals and the lure of the drug that brought them to their present situation and outlook on life. Also, once the drug has them, it is very hard for them to pull up, even if they want to. Annette tried very hard to kick for me twice, but just ~. could not succeed long enough. A lifetime is a long time to dodge the drug. She courageously lasted five days once. Gina, three years younger, would not even think of quitting. She was rushing around having the time of her life and wasn't about to stop, for anyone or even slow down.
One of the times I was with Gina in her neighborhood she had a little powder to share but didn't want to go all the way over to my place just to have to come back. She told me, "I know a place" and gave me directions as she proceeded to cook the stuff up in the car.
The place was a nearby alley. The thing was very long, with deep ruts that caused my crankcase to drag every so often. Where possible I'd ride the ridges, but it was slow going the whole way. On one side was a sparse wood of young saplings and a few weeds and bushes.
The other side was a curving row of homes, many with 6' board fences around their back yards.
We stopped behind one of these tall plank fences. Gina finished boiling the stuff, cooled it, cut herself a piece and smoked it. Then she prepared one for me and handed over her pipe. She was lighting it for me and then said, "I think I saw a head pop up over the fence. We better go." I thought to myself that if she just thought she saw something, she probably didn't. Because I foolishly discounted Gina's superior abilities, I was a bit slow to fire up the car and go. The ruts were muddy and slippery in a few places.	It was slow going due to a recent fall rain. As we drove away Gina took a second hit and prepared one for me. I stopped and inhaled it as she lit it for me. I was filled to the top and holding it when Gina said urgently, "Lock your door. There he is."
He came rushing up, bellowing and gesturing at me from just outside my door. He was a huge, bloated, red‑faced oaf, freckled, either Irish or Scot. He had an unseen partner in a van who was blocking the street and our exit from the alley. It was amazing that they would block a lane of Northwest highway even if it was a peaceful morning with little traffic.

We were trapped. Backing up 300 yards or more at slow speed was no answer. They'd just block us off there too. There was no way around the partner's van, and even if I did run up the grass at high speed, leap off a tall curb with an intact oil pan into traffic I didn't relish a chase by a couple of irate morons in a heavy van. Gina was on parole, I was on escape, and she'd brought a briefcase full of residue‑laden paraphernalia. The oaf was blowing like an asthmatic whale, demanding to see my driver's license and spoiling my high. The cops were due any second. My head was thumping in rhythm with my pounding heart from holding my breath. This guy was not going to see me exhale coke smoke. He would get no free hints as to what we were doing. Since Gina had brought me to this place, I assumed that it was a common place for couples to be found performing tender aerobics. Thus, if this oaf had a single wit left behind his slavering exterior, perhaps he could be given the hint that an illicit affair was occurring without alerting Gina. With some luck he might understand and do the gentlemanly thing and let us alone with some dignity remaining.
With this in mind, I smiled at the guy and made the appropriate subtle eyeroll ing and head‑twitching that would convey to him the idea just posited. Allowing for his overbearing thickness, I repeated these universal gestures entreating for discreetness several ‑.times. The guy was simply not going for it. He was like a mindless barking dog. Buffoons are dealt with differently than gentlemen, and time was flying. I turned from him to Gina so he wouldn't see. She seemed neither frightened nor anxious. I let out an explosive breath and wheezed in some fresh air in what seemed my first inhalation of the day. I gasped a few more times as the barking continued in ascending volume and pitch. It was time.
Turning back to the oaf, I put on a seething face complete with bared fangs and wild eyes. I exploded out of the car and pushed into the oaf's face, fairly climbing his chest.
"See here!" I bellowed in my most razor‑edged voice. "I asked you politely not to use such language around my wife! If you can't speak civilly, then you need not speak to me at all! I am no one to take verbal harassment from anyone, and you would do well to come to your senses quickly. Meanwhile I have business with your associate!"
Out of my peripheral vision I'd seen the van‑guy coming to the oaf's assistance. I moved swiftly to cut him off, charging actually, to keep him nearest the street and his van. "You! Move this vehicle onto the grass so people can get by. You have no right to block the highway or the alleyway. Do you wish to cause an accident?"	
From him I darted out into the street and began directing Saturday morning traffic safely around his obstructing van. Oaf had caught up and was confabbing with his son, it seemed. They looked much alike. They chose to move the van when a motorist stopped to ask what was wrong. After I explained, he shouted to them, "Get it outta the road, ya ijits!" As the son pulled onto the grass, I saw Gina climbing over to the driver's seat. The engine was still running. She was typically alert and ready. I knew she wouldn't move too soon and spook the red men. Knowing that it was essential to wrap this up quickly, I introduced myself to the oaf, using the name that actually appeared on my driver's license, while the other was exiting his van.
"Satyrfeld," I said, extending my hand. "James Satyrfeld. I understand that homeowners along this sectionline have had problems with burglaries and thefts, but that's no reason to accost persons on a public throughway. We plan to install streetlights and pave the road before developing the other side with freestanding domiciles. This should alleviate your crime problem somewhat."
This unexpected good news hit Oaf and son as subtly as a caber to their heads. It took a few breaths for them to recover. Sternfaced, I waited for their brains to click in, offering no help. After an inordinate pause the younger one took my hand and shook it, introducing himself. Oaf was thereby stimulated to action and introduced himself as well. "You're a developer?" he asked.
"Subcontractor. Southern Construction. We're in the book. Park Cities." (The richest place in Dallas.)

"Wow," exclaimed the son. "What price range will they be?"
"Proportional, mildly upscale for this area. I can't disclose any numbers, but not slapjacks. Your property values will increase substantially."
"How soon will this happen?"
Gina picked up on my hand signal. She got in gear and pulled alongside.
"We'll be moving the heavy equipment in here next month. The city has already approved the drainage, septic, freshwater and electric plans."
"Honey," Gina interrupts. "Yes, dear?"
"We don't want to be late." "Yes, dear."
The rest was too easy. The whole scam was too easy. Then the cops drove up. Two of the nosy sons of bitches rounded the corner ahead of us, turning our direction. I elicited a round of concluding handshakes solely for the benefit of the cops and prepared our exit just as they pulled in, blocking the alleyway. Gina switched seats, jerked the visor down and pretended to put on makeup.
"If you have further questions you can contact me at the office, extension triple five. My wife's appointment won't wait and we'd hate to reschedule. Oh, yes, we're hoping to get permission to replace the backmost fences on your side, just to spruce up a bit.
Could you have these policemen let us by? We really mustn't be delayed any longer." "Sure, Mr. Saterfield," mistook the son.
"Southern Construction?" asked the father:
"Yes, extension five‑five‑five. Call me monday and we'll discuss the fencing on your side. Pleasure meeting you."
'Same here, Mr. Saterfield."
Gaining my car just before the cops managed to intrude, I smiled and waved hello from my window just as the lead cop demanded, "What's the problem here?" Oaf and son were moving to intercept them when I had a desperate idea. I shouted to them from the window, all smiles.
"We've just concluded business here, Officers." (They love to be called 'Officers'.) "We'll not be blocking the highway any longer. Next time we'll bring orange safety cones with us."
Oaf and son swiftly realised that I was covering for them and their van, not myself and Gina. They moved quickly to cover their asses from the cops' burgeoning suspicions. It also gave the cops a crime to latch onto to distract their focus from us. Meanwhile Gina had thrown her fine brown hair in front of her face and was coolly brushing and parting it just right.
"Everything's fine here, Officers. We were just discussing the construction project with Mr. Saterfield. We didn't mean to block traffic, if that's what you're here for. Son: Go take the van back home so we don't get a parking ticket!"
The rest was out of my earshot but it continued seemingly forever that Oaf explained in minute detail to the cops' satisfaction that nothing at all was afoot. Meanwhile the other cop seemed intensely interested in interrogating the son before letting him move the van.
"The fat cop knows me," Cina murmured. "I can't be screwing with my hair and the mirror for two hours while they make up their minds to come over here. Take all your shit and go talk to them! Where are your damn sunglasses?"

"You're doing great; here they are. Please don't light a cigarette because you know how that sets them off."
"I know that:" she snapped. "Don't you spook them with your hands. Now get out there and make them move their car:"
She was right, of course. These cops wouldn't be satisfied until they'd thoroughly lorded it over everyone. My job was to go over and lick their big, black jackboots til they condescended to permit our egress. Best I head them off before they came my direction. This I did.
The bastards pulled their full inspection routine, demanding everyone's papers, same as if we were in Nazi Germany accosted by the gestapo. I always stay ready for these constitutionally outlawed, Bill‑of‑Rights‑stealing curiosity stops that the cops swear they never pull. Every paper they could lawfully demand was in my pocket. I flipped them out one by one as they were demanded: license, insurance, title registration, etc. The tag and sticker were visible from the front and were obviously current and fully paid. If these goosestepping uberfascists chose to be suspicious of my serial number, that would bring both of these turds right to Gina to read it off the dash.
Fortunately Oaf and son saved us from this possibility. The cops could uncover no crimes though they dug and dug. Finally Oaf became irritated and let it show. The cops don't screw with homeowners (or construction contractors) as much as they do to others. Finding nothing, he and his flunky backup told us how lucky we were that they had chosen to graciously overlook the letter of the law and not violate us for blocking the alleyway or parking on his City's grass. They sniffed in unison like twin Barney Fife's, adjusted their fat, shiny, black gunbelts, then strutted off to their copcar with their tails high in the air like peacocks.
Back in my car, Gina asked, "Are they moving, or what?"
The cops still had to do their radio‑routine and continued to block us as they did so. I'd liked to have listened, but my scanners are secret to everyone, even Gina and Annette. "Let's do some kissie‑face," I suggested. "Cops hate to have to watch cutesie‑pie stuff. It might run them out of here faster, plus make you harder to see;' I teased. "I'm good," Gina answered seriously. "They got half a front: no profiles."
"Good idea. Thanks for pulling the car up. I was running out of material. Your lips are thin."
"Cops know my lips. I still look natural, don't I?"
"You look fine. There. Finally. They give us one last squinty‑eyed look and start backing up. Good riddance, you shitbirds; missed the bust of your careers, but keep going." I smiled and waved as they drove away.
"Burr:" Gina shivered in revulsion. "That's twice in thirty minutes I thought we were had, Babe. Three times really, when you wouldn't move when I saw his head pop up. These cops are going to circle back on us, so go left and hit it when we're out of their sight. If they hadn't been facing us they'd have pulled in behind and followed; the tricks!" Gina watched the cops in the visor mirror as we drove away. "Yep. They're pulling a U turn, James."
In a minute or two we were unfindable to them. Gina knew this Forest Lane neighborhood better than they could have. Only after we were safe did Gina fully relax and laugh. She took my hand and squeezed it.

"Oo‑wee, Baby, you sure suprised us leaping out like that. Red almost fell back on his ass. And the way you defended my honor. That was classic!"
"Looked like you were going to make a break for it when that van moved. You were going to fly by and I was getting out of your way:"
"I was! But then I thought this window was too small for you to dive through, so I waited."
"Wait Hell!	I was clearing you a path. Just planned to snag the bumper as you flew
by!"
"You were going to kick their asses. I had to see that."
"That would have been too brutal for a Southern Belle like you to see.  It would have offended your sensibilities."
"We need to get a fifty and go back to your place," Gina told me. "You and I have some business we need to get straight between us."
"My business is always straight when I'm with you."
"We're fixing that tonight, Babe, over and over til you're too sore to walk! That sound good?"
"That sounds great, but you've changed your mind before." I squeezed her hand back. "Let's forget the fifty and just go back to my place."
"No‑no‑nol" she replied. "Fifty first, then you later."
"I got a surprise for you, but I don't want you to have it. I hate myself for it, but I know it's what you like most in the whole world. All we need is the powder to fill them." I spoke, of course, of two 10‑cent syringes.
"Really?" Gina went almost ballistic with happiness. "Oh Baby, it's on now!" "You and me first?" I negotiated.
"After," she answered, not budging.
"The backbreaker?" I snickered. It was Gina's mythical technique she promised all of us suckers yet no one had ever experienced.
"The backbreaker," Gina confirmed. "After I put it on you I'm going to teach it to Skeet. She'll keep you limping around so badly you'll need a glucose bottle and a wheelchair! When we get finished with you, you'll look like you were hit by a car! Feel like it to! Then guess what?"
"What?"
"We'll do it again!"
"A guy can only stand so much," I laughed.
"Well," Gina replied, "You stand as much as you can, then holler 'Uncle'. I'll ease off the gas, but we ain't stopping!"
Annette was up already when she heard us drive in. She'd been sleeping off a lot of fatigue. When Gina and I got inside we saw her standing naked in a11 her glory in front of an angrily sizzling and spattering pan of frying hamburger patties; no apron, nothing between that lovely skin and that hot grease trying to fly onto it. Turning the heat down a notch, I hugged her sweetly from behind and pulled her back a bit.	"Gina's going to fix you up a shot and hit you soon as she gets hers," I murmured in her ear. Gina had already greeted her and rushed into the bedroom to prepare everything.	"Let me help you eat before you get started. Did you weigh?"

"I'm a hundred and eleven pounds!" she told me loudly and proudly. "How much did you get?" She twisted around and gave me a bear hug, lifting me off the floor to show me how strong she was. For a petite woman she was very strong. Annette stayed active when not exhausted.
Gina bought two grams and I matched her. What can I put on your food? This is going to last a long time, so I want you to eat as much as possible. Also I want to tell you something and ask you what you think." Together we rushed to make her sandwiches up. "Like what?"
"Gina and me. Tonight. Maybe. She might change her mind. Would this be all right with you? Tell me if you don't like it. Also, she might come to stay with us for good, with her own key and everything. If it's all right with you."
Annette loved the idea that Gina was moving in, of course. Annette had never said anything overt as to their being romantically inclined, but Gina had mentioned to me twice about Annette hitting on her, so I knew their friendship was deep. Annette knew I lusted after Gina, especially when Annette was gone to jail. They were often together though they had different styles of working. My view was that they'd be safer together. There was, according to the newspeddlers and cops, a psychotic trick in the area at this time who had killed three girls that they knew of. There was much speculation among the Sisterhood as to who he was, and most of the girls were sticking close to their regular customers rather than take chances with new faces.
Far as the sex part went, this was just a courtesy to Annette. Truth be told, Annette loved me, but would welcome a few days off, so to speak. I knew Gina would be her favorite choice to fill in the gap.
"The key tonight?" Annette asked, speaking around her burger.
"Just sex," I answered. "She's going to give me the backbreaker and teach you how to do it too, just for emergencies. You're going to take notes, aren't you?"
"That's between you and Gina! I got my own style, thank you very much!"
"We need a referee to call the fouls. Besides, I want to see how you‑handle Gina yourself. You need to show me how you bend her to your will. Show me your tiger‑training act?"
"No! I do one or the other, not both at once. You know how I am!"
"You're my little prude, all right, and that's why I love you along with this sweet little curve and these soft white mountains. How about if you and I do it while Gina watches?"
"You sure are dreaming now. I'm getting high. You want me to eat first, don't you?" She was eating as quickly as she could, and I knew I had better get my gropes in now. t3ina had moved to the bathroom, trying to find her vein. She would have it soon and then would call for Annette. With them, there was no sex while they were high. Or at least with Annette. I assumed Gina was the same way. There was especially no sex while they were shooting. While their heads were thumping to the tune of the needle, they really did not even want to be touched. We knew not to bother Gina when she was trying to hit, too. Women have small veins, and the layer of soft fat they have under their skin makes them even harder to find. I abhor needles. It's sickening for me to watch myself get a vaccination. I have to turn my head.
"Skeeter!" Gina yelled. "You're up!"

Annette shook me loose and dashed for the bathroom, leaving half her second burger lying on the counter.. Tossing it in the disposal, I moved into the bedroom where Gina had left the paraphernalia. Gina's voice followed me in there, followed by Annette's.
"Don't rock up that second bag, James:"
"Is the door locked? Check it for me please!"
"Yes, dear," I answered. "I'm sure the door is locked, but I'll make sure."
Both bags were staying with me, along with the rest of the unlawful or incriminating stuff. There wasn't much, and it all came to the kitchen counter with me where I rocked up the open bag. If the door suddenly began to cave in, the stuff would be down the disposal in a flash. By the time I was finished cooking, they emerged from the bathroom. Gina was quiet and subdued instead of boisterous, which was normal for her after a shot. Annette was smiling so hard that she might have been in pain, but that was normal for her too.
The next few hours were mostly desultory conversation. It wasn't until early Sunday morning when things got back to normal. Coke fiends exhibit some strange behavior. Shooting it seems to make them timid, withdrawn and paranoid. They spend much of their time ditzing back and ‑forth, looking outside through a chink in the curtains and wondering aloud what every noise in. The ones that smoke it seem to do pretty much the same, plus they often tend to crawl around on the floor picking up bits of trash and anything white small.  They set these things in a pile on the table, except for the white stuff . These they teat immediately with their Bic lighters to see if they'll malt. If they do, (and sometimes if they don't) they smoke them, or try to. Overall, cocaine is a bullshit drug, like nicotine, alcohol and caffeine. They should all be replaced with minute quantities of a much better substance that makes people alert, more intelligent and industrious. That would be a variation of amphetamine.
My girls are not an bad as some, better than most when it comes to cocaine. The sym‑toms they exhibit are not too neurotic.  Plus they keep their weights up and don't shoot often. Annette hardly at all, since she has no help at it, and Gina very little. They know it's bad and that I don't like it, so they keep it to a minimum. They amok a lot, but they have plenty of men to pay for their habits.  Not long after this Giza confided to me privately and seriously about the coat of too much sex. She related a story to me about her mentor, Mucker‑Diane, who found a man with too much money to spend on his twin vices of coke and sex. She took his money and bought condoms and cake. To hear Gina tell it, Diane almost literally gave him head til he was dead. About the same time he ran out of money and coke, which is also a painkiller, his testicles were throbbing in so much pain that he had her pack his crotch in ice before leaving.  Besides Mucker‑Diane, Gina brought home a couple of hot check artists. They were a pair of young males in their teens or twenties overawed by the fact that people would give them merchandise far only a signature! I didn't find out until too late what exactly they were doing. Sometimes it's better not to be too nosy,	But Gina had them doing all the work of cashing the checks and pawning the merchandise. They'd give her the money. She had them buy me socks, shirts and a great winter coat. Then she brought them and their coke over to me at my place far a smoke‑a‑than. Gins didn't let the truth out until it was all over. The kids lasted about two weeks, then vanished, probably to some relative's home in another state. One of the kids got testy toward the end. He seemed to think that Gina owed him some sex. She put him in his place quickly. While she was out, he told me that she owed to for some reason and that sex was her 'job'. I threw them both out.	I'm pretty sure both of them got jobs in prison.

Gina took me once to the Sheraton Inn to meet a couple professional shoplifters. She knew I was e writer and would enjoy the experience. She and Mucker‑Diane were working with them for as long as they stayed in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. They were a pair of dapper gay men in their late thirties. She and Diane would do nothing more than distract the clerks. I would never have thought anyone could make even a poor living off shoplifting, but they appeared to be successful. They did so by traveling between large cities and by knowing a lot of people who buy upscale clothing at below retail.  They went down the tubes quickly once Gina and Diane introduced them to rock cocaine.	They were broke and out an the street in two weeks, arguing hotly between themselves. As she and Diane and I drove away back to my house, I’m sure they were saying one thing that I used to say a lot, but no more: Damn Gina!
While writing this just now, and remembering, two more pieces of the puzzle that is Gina just fell into place. Everyone has their foibles, and I just figured out one of her's. It began with a couple of my friends visiting me. Handy and Cathy were young and very much attached to each other. Randy was about 25, quick‑witted, intelligent, industrious and a good man to have at work. He was from Ohio, thin, good‑natured, a little short, but blessed like many short men with an outlook and demeanor that was optimistic, happy and compelling to all, much like Napoleon must have been.
Cathy was much the same, but not short and a drop‑dead gorgeous natural honey‑blond. Tall as Randy, Cathy has a very appealing voice, too. It is like it is on the verge of cracking every time she spoke, as if undecided as to whether to be husky‑sweet or melodious and high.  Thus she had both at once, which appealed to me greatly. Her eyes were the bluest, her physique just a shade muscular and stocky, exactly as I like, with a thin waist, dancer's legs and flaired hips matching broad shoulders. When Cathy stepped into a room, everyone stopped to look.
Then Gina arrived. This was long before I'd ever convinced her to come live with us. I was still chasing her relentlessly and having no luck. Introductions were made all around. We began conversing amicably on this cold winter day. Annette was in jail, and
I didn't hide the fact when Randy or Cathy asked after her absence. Annette had not hidden her profession. We were all adults and accepted the fact that some people preferred lifestyles we would not ourselves chosen. In fact, in speaking to A.nnete, both Handy and Cathy had been intrigued, and Annette had enjoyed their attention. It pleased me to see how well they got on together.
Anyway, upon introducing Gina, Cathy innocently said, "Yes, Skeeter mentioned you. You're a friend of her's" (I take pains to introduce Annette by her given name, but she is proud of her street name and had become quite animated while telling Randy and Cathy of her exploits.) Cathy's mention of her street name jogged Randy's memory. He blurted it out and they both laughed.
"Skeeterboy‑Pimp! That's what she told us!"
It was innocent, good‑natured laughter, and Gina didn't stem to notice the implication that suggested Annette was Gina's 'pimp'. Perhaps only I had noticed, but the knowledge that Annette had already spoken of her in the only context available may have begun the process that set Gina off. Cathy was the first one to try and broach the subject, but Randy was afire with curiosity as well.

"Are you, uh, do you, uh..." stumbled Cathy.
"What she's trying to say," interjected Randy, "Are you a hooker too?"
"Randy:" Cathy was aghast, but hid it well behind her mirthful smile. "He didn't mean that."
"Well, there's no other way to ask," he replied. "You sure weren't going to say it'." They both smirked at each other, and it was contagious. Finally Gina chose to help their discomfort, seeing that there was no malice or judgement in them, only curiosity toward a phenomenon that was new to them.
"Oh, no, Babe," Gina addressed them loudly, as is how she gets when she is enjoying herself. "I'm a mucker, not a fucker," she explained. "In Louisiana, where I come from, when you rob someone, you muck 'em: push them off into the bayou muck. That's what I do."
Gina came off her leash, so to speak, and went on to regale them with stories, one after another, on the art of mucking. One of the central characters in many of these stories is the person Gina speaks reverently of who taught her most of what she knows of this black art. This person is appropriately named 'Mucker‑Diane'. Her tales are like an adult version of Uncle Remus: she and Mucker‑Diane found this trick with a stack of money and took it while he thought we were getting a room. Me and Mucker‑Diane took this trick's money, dope and clothes... Mucker‑Diane and I almost didn't make it over this fence before the trick came out 'Looking for his money..."
When Gina was wound up and appropriately stimulated she could go on like this for hours. Each story is different and I suspect each one is true. Each certainly has a basis in fact because Gina has led a colorful life and seldom desires attention this way.
There was just some combination of things that set her off just right, because I'd never seen her quite this animated before. I began to wonder, and it came to me that possibly she felt herself in some way in competition with Cathy. It crossed my mind that she may even be aroused by Cathy. Most women of the Sisterhood seem to be bisexual or become that
way over time, if only out of necessity due to shared danger. Most likely, I felt, she was feeling a need to prove herself as at least as good as Randy and Cathy, in her own fashion. She seemed to direct her words at Cathy more than Randy or T, and this led me to my speculations.
Months pass.  Things change.  Gina happens to he visiting me when Randy arrives, ` alone. He and Cathy have married, produced a child, fought and split. I'm still unsuccessfully chasing Gina.  Randy needs a place to stay for the night or so, and it's here. I even give him a key, because he will need it while I'm at work. Suddenly Gina becomes very animated, making a spectacle of herself and me. We're fully clothed, yet she climbs on my back and I give her rides through the house as we're speaking to Randy. Before long, I put Gina on my shoulders and ride her back and forth through the front room, kitchen and dining room. She's loving it, and Handy is laughing too. All the while we are doing this, Gina is speaking about how I want her so badly and how she has never let me catch her. At the time, I'd given her behavior no thought, but now, years later, I realize that Gina must have been saying this for Randy's benefit. Gina had been palpitating for Handy! Yes! The hardest hearted woman this side of Mucker‑Diane had been secretly melted by one of my best friends, and neither one of us realized it til now!

Another time, just before Gina moved in with us, I was gasing up the company truck, preparing for my rounds on behalf of TPC when Gina drove up in the thunderbird. She stepped out, looking radient in heels, a law‑cut ballroom dress and her hair bouncing about on her shoulders. The swishing noise that she make when she daintily make her way over to me was as sensual as she was herself.
"My don't you look grand this morning!" I began.
"Can't smear my lipstick, Hon. Do you like it? My rich beau bought it for me. It's real silk."
"You look fabulous! Nylons'. A brat You have panties, a girdle and other stuff an under there too? You must feel so confined!"
"I do, and I do, but the heels are the worst!"
"You're really special, Gina. I've got the company's Polaroid; sure would like to take a few shots for us. Would you mind? You look so gorgeous, we need something for posterity. Is this place too public to give your posterity a twirl for the camera?"
"You know I'm not shy, James. Go get it."
I took three shots of her gracefully executing a flowing dance step. When some guys who'd been watching started clapping and whistling, I took another of her acknowledging her audience. All four were so great that I didn't want to give her any, but she insisted on one, and I'd make copies of the others. She promised to bring that one back after showing 'Brent', her latest patron. Then she got to her reason for trailing me here.  "James, we need to go for a short ride. I want to show you something before it's over. You have your eyepiece?  Bring it."
"I can't leave the truck, Gina." "We'll take the truck. Is it clean?" "You'll be all right."
She got in; we drove off. She told me exactly where to go, and it wasn't far. She directed me to a place overlooking a favored parking spot for on‑the‑sly lovers. It was a fairly lonely place of fields in an industrial area. There were good lines of sight ‑ where an alert trick or escort could see the cops coming from far enough away to make their escape, plus there was a hiding place to conceal the car. Head‑specialists found it was an ideal place to elude busts while making their money.
The sun was low behind us, affording us an excellent view. Some small activity could be seen.  "You see it? Give me your scope." I handed it over to her.
"I see a copcar, and two cops squirreling around in a ditch. They're wearing white gloves. Have they found a corpse in there? Who knows what cops are up to, but it must be important to have gotten them out of their car and into a ditch."
"That's what I thought, but they never brought any ambulance or coroner, and they're in there every morning since last tuesday. This thing goes up how?"
"Twist the black jobber and it will go up to forty power, but you'll have to lay it on the dash to stop it jiggling too much to see anything." The girls would have their tricks park in the driveway straddling that culvert. It looked like one of the cops picked up a bag, the other dumped some small things into it. The first one tied the bag shut and made for the copcar. The other followed, but paused, backed up, picked up something from the ground and played with it deftly with both hands, like he was wringing a chicken's neck. Then he gave it to the other cop, who put it in his bag. Then one looked right at us, staring. Shading his eyes from the sun, trying to squint through it at us. He called to the other one and pointed at us.

"Time to go, Gina. They spotted us. One's getting his binoculars for my tag, the other's going for his radio.
The phone company gave us good, tight, powerful trucks. We reversed swiftly for fifty feet before I could safely J‑turn without them seeing the logos on the side of my truck. Gina let out a whoop as the inside front wheel came off the street. Tools and equipment slapped and banged inside. The ladder rack creaked. The transmission clanked as I shifted into forward. The big engine growled as we whipped away at top legal speed back to the gas station.
"Some kind of crime scene," I ventured. "Is anyone missing?? Those were shell casings?"
"They were picking up used condoms, James. That last one, he tied it in a knot and saved it. They probably have all night's work in their bags."
"Means they may have a sample to compare them to. That's a good sign. They'll get him eventually. Maybe even soon."
"Not 'soon'," Gina stated. "'Soon' was months ago. Now there is only 'too late' and 'never':"
"You lose someone, Darling?"
"Not yet. Only an acquaintance. It's just that strange things have been happening: friends moving out; strange people moving in... I'll let you know when I figure it out." We pulled up next to her silver 'bird. She took my chin in her hand and gave me a careful peck on my lips.
"Thanks for the ride, Babe."
"M‑mm! Raspberry?"
"Yes. Brent's fantasies are very detailed." "Be careful."
Gina got out, turned, raised her leg to place her heel high up on the running board of my truck. She pulled mounds of her dress ‑far up her thigh and pretended to adjust the pulls on her hose. The creamy white inside of her thigh lay exposed along with her lacy girdle and white silk panties: Behind the whiteness of her panties I could see the darkness that signified her fluffy brown bush. Gina loves to watch me watch as much as I love to watch. She was grinning broadly at me when I'd seen enough. She winked pertly, then flounced to her 'bird and drove away, waving and laughing.
Damn, Gina!
Gina was very much the tease, and did it with such flair and grace that when she mucked you, you really didn't mind too much. Like one time, perhaps six months before she finally let me catch her, Gina was over at my place. I'd paid for a few grams, but before
I would let go of the money, I told her that this had to include her consenting to take a shower with me afterward. Prior to this, I'd bought her coke and just assumed, from our first meeting, and custom, that sex is included. Normally and by custom, it is included, but though she never let on or said anything, I knew she was punishing me for rejecting her passes 'Orphan'. We'd get off, and when came the time for her to reciprocate, she'd say, "Oh no: You paid for rock, Babe. If you wanted sex, you should have told me! Rock or sex, not both:"

T had her this time, and she was true to her word and then some. The time was now, and I was getting exquisite pleasure from undressing her. Gina was helping me out of my clothes as well. She'd adjusted the water: it was hissing loudly and steaming. We stood before the mirror as it fogged; her nestled in front of me as we contemplated our reflection. I nezzled her neck; stroked the flat of her stomach. She smiled.
"Let me show you something new," Gina murmured. "It's dexterity practice. It proves women are superior to men, as you may well have noticed. We'll need another bar of soap." She bumped me mischieviously as she bent over the cabinet and got one out. "Now," she continued, "We choose up teams. Since I'm the best, I'll choose first, then I'll choose for you."
"Sounds fair, I guess."
"My right hand chooses your left hand, and your right hand chooses my left hand. Now, each team takes a bar of soap and washes their hands with it. Since we don't have two faucets, we better step into the shower." We took our bars of soap into the shower, faced the spraying water and drew the curtain.	"Now," Gina went on, "You can't drop the soap, or you lose. Whichever team finishes first with the cleanest hands is the winner, unless the fingernails are dirty, in which case you forfeit. Begin." 
The game is harder than it sounds, and more fun too. We dropped the soap twice, but that was during 'practice'. It's very sensuous washing two smaller 'sized, cooperating hands that belong to a vivacious and beautiful young woman who is standing naked and warm in front of you, occasionally rubbing up against you. Before the game got boring, Gina called a winner.
"My right hand beat your right hand. This means that your masculine side is very weak. The next time I come over to see you I'll bring my set of strap‑ons: they're very realistic. We'll test each one until we find the one with the swing and breath that suits you."
"Doesn't that mean that my left hand beat your left?"
"Yes. That means you have a stronger feminine side. I'll be putting you in touch < with it through therapy with the dildoes. There's one with a weed‑eater engine..."
"I'll pass on that."
"I could shave you.	It takes years off your age. You'd look like a little boy." "Tempting, but only if I shaved you first."
"Scrub my back. Don't get my hair wet."
Gina had me scrub her well all over, but would permit no funny stuff: "This shower is too slippery for gymnastics." Soon as I finished with her, she turned around, hugged me tight for the briefest interval, wrinkled her nose and said, "You stinky! Get clean before
you come out." With that said, Gina darted out, leaving me hard and dry‑gulched again. Gina was dressed and drying the ends of her long hair when I emerged. She helped me dry off and set out clean clothes for me.
"You enjoy our shower?"
"Very much, but you know what I want."
"So many want; so little Gina. Keep trying. You'll get there when the time is right. Now hurry. I need to get back. You ready?"
"One more thing," I told her as she make her break for the door. Catching her wrist, I drew her close and crushed her to me, bent her backward and planted a hard kiss on her soft, full lips. Gina responded, rubbing the back of my neck gently as she worked her
neck, jaw and lips in concert with mine. She seemed content to continue as long as I wished. I pulled away only enough to see deeply into her eyes without letting her up. "Am I any closer than before?"
"You're very close, James; believe me. Not much longer."

"Gina always knew just what to say. We drove back to Dallas where she wanted to go; a quick peck on my lips, a squeeze to my hand and a sparkling smile. She was gone again.

CHAPTER THIRTY‑TWO

Lawyer Games
To tell the truth is dangerous; to listen to it is annoying.
											Unknown
My life kept frittering away despite my having a bit of happiness with a few friends. I wanted desperately to return to being me, studious Jim, destined for honors and acclaim in the fields of hard science. All my life I'd been at or near the top of my class in most
everything, often without really trying very hard. I was above average in all the intelligence tests I ever took. Teachers held my work up as examples for others; bosses praised my ingenuity; relatives and family thought I'd succeed where ever I chose to apply myself. It galled me no end to be stuck in the fringes of society and bent into a shape not my own by persons whose only achievement was wordsmithy. This life of almost constant underachievement and crushing frustration was warping my personality almost as badly as prison. With
no mentor, no one to trust and no one to tell me how screwy I was getting, I hit upon a screwy plan; a plan to screw lawyers out of the information I needed.
The information I managed to squeeze out of unwary lawyers was scanty at best. They are a slick‑witted lot, some rivaling women in their ability to solve social equations and force the hypothesizor to answer pertinant questions out of the desired sequence. They are supremely suspicious and self‑oriented. They often require that every pointless detail be nailed down three times from all angles before they cease interrupting and allow you to proceed to the next fact.	They ever seek to devine the limit of your finances and the level of your gullibility. They refuse to answer most hypothetical questions, fearing that they may waste a few precious seconds of their time letting useful information escape without payment. Dumb and slow‑witted as I am, it was a good thing that the phone books were crammed full of eager lawyers for me to practice on. By trial and error I sprang my laughable traps on them one by one and got roadblocked. They'd sense that I was not worth a nickel and hang up. I took notes, constructed a better line of attack toward what I needed and tried another lawyer. By agonizingly slow degrees I got by one impasse after another, managing to trick more information out of the next lawyer than I'd gotten from the previous one. After many weeks of meeting superior cunning with brute force calculation I obtained a consensus for each of the questions I'd outlined. If I'd asked the lawyers directly, they'd have painted a rosy scenario where their vaunted system would have corrected itself in my case with expedience, soon as I climbed back inside the hyena's maw. The answers I got this way stank mightily, and there was little or no good news. The trend in law is always toward further repression despite any short‑term loosening of govt's iron grip on its taxherds and labor sources.
Trying not to insult anyone's intelligence, I mention that it is often not known by younger or less experienced citizens that lawyers are "Officers of the Court". This means that they act as cops and are duty‑bound to maneuver escapees into jail any way they can,

as soon as they deduce our status. On top of this problem was a worse one: police records are illegal to obtain and they are specifically exempt from the Freedom of Information and Privacy Acts. Possession of them can cost ordinary citizens large fines and years of their lives. Judges routinely ignore the contents of police records that detail rampant official corruption in favor of slamming the bringer of such bad news. Worse still, judges require that escapees return to their cages before any appeal is considered. Also, if the killer's blood still existed after all these years, it was still securely in cop hands. Nobody could get it except cops. Merely asking for it to be tested would cause it to vanish even deeper within the cops' lair or be destroyed by the cops or prosecutors. If I could get it stolen out of cop custody to prevent them from destroying it, the lawyers would throw up their noses, proclaim it 'tainted' evidence and refuse to accept any findings from it no matter how scientifically derived. The courthouse crew gets away with pretending that they and their cops can be universally trusted while all citizens are inherently dishonest.
Though this problem was unsolvable, there were things that might be accomplished. Part of my reason for practicing the art of speaking to lawyers was my need to obtain evidence from the lawyers who acted as public defenders for me. The first was Howard Kaddux, my brother's divorce lawyer and the only lawyer's name I knew when Johnson, Bell, McDonald and McMillan finished torturing me and let me use their phone. Maddux made a better criminal lawyer than all three of the others combined BECAUSE he was not trained to be one. That is, he didn't have to sell his soul to the judge/DA for want of being allowed to progress to the logical next step in a criminal lawyer's life cycle and career; to morph into a prosecutor. Maddux already was a successful divorce lawyer and thus followed the law, not his aspirations. He came to see me in jail because he could tell from my voice that sadism and corruption was occurring. He noted my injuries and my blood splashed upon me. He found the room deep within the cops' lair that they'd splattered with my blood. He testified in court that the‑cop there threatened to beat his brains out if he tried to leave that room with a sample of my blood. (It was the sickening regularity that black janitors and cleaning personel had to mop up blood cruely beaten out of hogtied victims that predisposed them to lend their assistance to persons like me. Usually it's Black blood they had to remove, but they play no favorites. They know oppression and class warfare occasionally slops over from cops onto White targets too. The Tulsa cops finally realized this and fired all the minority service personel for just this reason.) Maddux's testimony proved that the Tulsa cops were vicious and had run amok. My paper copy of his testimony was buried within 1200 pages of courtroom yikyak. I'd lugged that worthless pile of termite food with me to dozens of cages for 13 years only to lose it when I escaped. No copies were known to exist, thus I was forced to call Maddux and get him to repeat it. He guessed who I was almost immediately. He refused to cooperate, then called the cops. The cops had the phone company trace the number to a Tulsa payphone located in the Central Library only a can‑kick from the main cop complex.' They had no chance of finding me still standing there. With no one to visit their fury on, the cops instead attacked my poor, old Mother, ransacking her home in a futile attempt to find me.
Thanks a million, Howard Maddux.

William Mattingly was next. Years ago he had called the Tulsa cops for me, asking ‑ about the killer's blood. The cop in charge of the Hunt murder, Jessie McCullough, (descendant of the same cop McCullough who had caused the famous Tulsa riot in Greenwood in 1921 and the subsequent slaughter of Blacks and the arson of their district.) lied to him, claiming that no blood had been collected, exactly opposite of what they'd puked into the newspapers, radio and TV. Now I called Mattingly, trying to get him to repeat it. It is by lawyers and for cops and lawyers that laws are made against recording phone conversations. They don't need them.	Every lawyer appears to be particularly wary that his words might be recorded, thus they never say anything worth recording, such as the facts from the past.
He immediately put on his amnesia act, deduced my identity, refused to cooperate by telling the truth or putting it in writing, then he called the cops. This time my payphone was traced to Branson, Missouri. I assume that this time the cops left my Mother alone. James Wallace was in Jay, Oklahoma. I needed him to repeat on paper how the cops lied to him about the killer's blood too. Also, I'd lost the paper he'd given me detailing how Mrs. Michelle (Jack) Baker had told him just prior to the trial that she had denounced no one as the culprit for the cops. He hadn't managed to say this in court, but had told me this privately before court. He'd tried to get this into the court record but had been browbeaten out of doing so by Baker herself, shouting over him.	(He was young, inexperienced, and liked to take some sort of tranquilizing drugs that made him slow ‑witted sleepy‑looking and quiet. I'd asked him, after two days of trial, if he would perhaps try some speed for the remainder of the trial. He told me, "Oh no, speed messes me up!" He appeared sober the next day, but was back in a stupor again for closing arguments.) After it was too late, he put this fact and others in a signed paper that I could show the appeals judges and parole board. He too quickly realized my probable identity, refused to tell the truth, same as the others and called the cops. It became obvious (again) that lawyers have the type of ethics and morals that can be flicked on and off as convenience warrants.
George Briggs had also been lied to by the cops about the killer's blood. He could not be found, but no doubt his response would have been identical. This is how lawyers lie; they simply omit the truth. I was getting tired of it. Every authority figure was Hell‑bent on helping the killer escape forever. Since cops and lawyers, as a separate social specie of 'man'‑kind enjoyed massive nepotism, it was only logical to assume that the sons and daughters were covering for the crimes of the fathers and mothers.
For lack of any better ideas, I wrote the American Civil Liberties Union. Military Mike had disparaged these people to me, and I had defended them. I shouldn't have bothered. They ignored my letter except to try and mooch‑up some money from me. Imagine the aggravated gall of rich lawyers asking a peon for spare change: Then watch them use it for no bigger purpose than to provide a clear path for neo‑Nazis to prance and bootclick  through Jewish neighborhoods

I also wrote Amnesty International, a rik of Bar Associations, the Trial Lawyer's association‑, the‑Coalition of Concerned Legal Professionals, Dear Abby and many other columnists who seemed to lean toward progressivism. Amnesty International wanted my money and help writing letters for people much worse off than myself. I gave them a little of both more than three times. Dear Abby and her crowd ignored me; or maybe not‑‑I got mooch letters from a variety of political action committees and non‑profit corporations. I sent a little money to the World Wildlife Fund, the Nature Conservancy, Audubon Society and Sierra Club. Suddenly I became very popular with strangers begging through the mail. Usually I dodge turning my mailboxes into garbage pails for merchants by forgoing credit cards, not even using them as pocket litter to de‑arouse too‑nosy cops. Posing as a middle class 'droid sometimes has advantages, especially when one is forced to deal with them or gov/ biz intrusions, but the working class is more numerous, easier to deal with, has tighter friendship bonds and we help each other more. Chuck used to fault me for refusing to purchase respectability through use of new or late‑model mass‑appeal vehicles. His opinion was that part of their worth was that cops tended to leave them alone, preferring to profile and curiosity‑stop junkers for road‑revenue and random, illegal crimesearches instead. He was a generation smarter than they who had accepted the nonsense of a vehicle being a good investment, but believed the high cost was worth having almost no cop‑mugs pressed into his face and affairs. He was right, for his lifestyle. They'd only rip him off for money. My lifestyle didn't require me to feed the sharks of industry nearly as much. I had to buy throw‑away vehicles because there was always the possibility I'd have to crash it into the woods to escape the cops' attempts to abduct me back into their slave‑and‑taxpayer‑subsidy system. One of the most odious chores I had to perform was to pay the insurance cartels, car‑lords and govcrat piranhas. Feeding my livelyhood to the brokers was similarly nauseating, especially when I'd get eaten alive by the periodic crashes, megathefts and bankruptcies, but it beats the banks in the long run.

While the lawyers and the law stymied my efforts to obtain or uncover what evidence the cops had not stolen or destroyed, my source of police reports dried up. With no ideas and no other way to go, I began studying caselaw. This is the disorganized mountain of law drivel where judges actively gnaw out the roots of the US Constitution in their efforts to maintain the status quo and continue to make fast bucks the easy way. They actually change the law here through their creative interpretation of statutes. They also create or acknowledge social trends, such as the local taste in obscenity, for one. What is obscene in a large, progressive city such as San Francisco, for example, is not necessarily obscene pornography in the Bible Belt. Judges get to set the obscenity‑meter from their observations of how easily the prosecutors manage to convince jurors to agree with their convictions. This is applicable to other social trends too. When enough judges (or jurors) rule the same way, they make 'controlling caselaw' which replaces the previous standard. One fairly well known example is the Miranda ruling. Establishment mouthpieces usually portray it as ridiculous, timewasting, criminal‑protecting, cop‑handcuffing nonsensical trivia that forces cops to recite a meaningless paragraph to their targets concerning their lawful rights, then demand of them acknowledgement	‑ . that they understand the rights just described. The Miranda ruling resulted from decades of cops and prosecu‑tors getting far too slick in abusing the laws, particularly the ones regarding how much trickery they can use and still appear to have achieved their conviction goals fairly. Soon as Miranda was created, the mass of cops, prosecutors, judges .legislators and politicians set about defeating it. Most of the holes in it were created by subsequent judges' decisions in special cases. Miranda looks fabulous when flag‑waving vote‑snatchers laud our fine law system, proclaiming it to be the best ever despite their ignorance of other law systems. Not so great is the way judges revoke Miranda rights by making back doors and trapdoors in the form of 'special' cases in which Miranda is gutted like a fish. Blackstone's Best is on the label, but the can is still full of worms.  'Controlling' caselaw is what expensive lawyers can get their affluent clients. Public defenders get you 'special' cases that lose at trial and look good for appeal but have a 99%‑plus chance of being derailed. Special cases can be bought, too, to dodge controlling caselaw and established law. It just depends upon how much money and/or influence you have or can command.
One such case I found, other than Dorothy Hunt v OK that I've previously described involved a famous drug case that caused the crooked cop Larry Johnson to fall backward into the cushiest job he ever attained. Truman Trobridge answered an attack on his domicile by cops with his own gunfire, killing a cop named, ironically, Spybuck, and Johnson inherited his job as sargeant over about five out‑of‑control secret dicks. Judge Truesdale ruled that Trobridge was now, (years too late, of course) entitled to secret police reports concealed from him at trial. This ruling defied all law up to this point, and when I tried to get the same deal, the judges again slammed their loophole shut in my face, same as they'd done in my trying to get legal treatment equal with Dorothy Hunt. You just can not win against people who have all the gold and who make up all the rules as they go. The answer seemed to be to get enough gold to buy my life back. A prison acquaintance of mine had proven that this was possible and done so the hard way: from within prison. He got to hating his wife for reasons never disclosed. Then he appeared to have devised a plan to feign insanity prior to killing her. (I say 'appeared' because he never mentioned it as a plan and because I can only theorize what thoughts ran through his head.) The nuthouse Doctors refused to admit him to their hospital. This gave him tacit permission to act. He killed her with a claw hammer, appearing to enjoy describing his act, in front of many of her kin. The lawyers took his construction business and realestate holdings as a light snack, leaving him a pauper, but allowing him to dodge the death penalty for pre‑meditated murder. He felt he had paid for even more leniency and refused to admit guilt. The lawyers concocted another plea bargain for him. His lawyer simply LIED to him, claiming that the robed lawyer had made a secret deal to only slam him with 15 years if he admitted guilt. He fell for it. The judge took him for 100 years. It took him about 16 years to get out of prison. He began by placing ads to attract lonely homosexual.men to correspond. They sent him money for little things like stamps while he gained their confidence. (He used to brag about how much he would screw people at Estate sales as a 'businessman'.) Then he ripped them off for busfare to their homes. During this, he confided to me how he was going to rip one guy in particular very hard and well twice.  This was James, a particularly innocent and gullible gay man who was a schoolteacher and amateur horticulturist in California. This man he wrote back, apologizing for the theft. Over years James bought him a time cut to 45 years, costing $5,000. James paid $1500 to get him moved down through each succeeding ring of prisons until he landed in a motel with a minimum wage job among free people. James bought him appearances before the parole board too, costing from $500 to $1000 each. The board, made up of ex‑cops, exprosecutors and other political patronage parasites and law and order extremists gladly took his money through a lawyer acting as the bag man, but never gave him a parole. Eventually he realized this and simply walked away. He lasted only two years, got caught, fed yet another business to the sharks, was forced to finish his 45 years at maximum goodtime and is free today.

But wait! There's more! This guy gets 100% disability, paid by Uncle Sugar out of your pocket. Why? Because he slopped through a couple of jungles in Viet Nam as a kid and it warped his mind. Or, more likely, his mind got warped with all that killer nonsense they pumped into his skull prior to siccing him on the 'Gooks' and 'Slopes'. Expert brainwashers much more cunning than he told him he was a lean, mean killing machine. (He was a Medic) He believed it, especially when they gave him a pile of mass‑murder weapons and license to kill. Being a medic, he didn't manage to kill anyone during his' year in 'Nam, so maybe he felt cheated or that they owed him one. He dodged the usual drug addictions, returned, got married, had a kid, grew a business and suddenly contracted 'delayed onset post tramatic stress syndrome:	(See: Lawyer Frauds; Legal Defen‑ ses'.) The judge didn't buy it, but the Veteran's Administration bureaucrats did, decades later when the coast was clear. He's a forerunner in that elite club of soldierboys who have killed their wives and blamed it on their standard govt military training. While he didn't exactly get away with it like the others did, he did manage to join in at the last step and get a pension for life. He waves the flag and his TV remote with one hand and pets his dogs and slurps alcohol with the other as he cheers right‑wing fascist‑fanatics like (God save us!) Rush Limbaugh and that 0'Reilly knucklehead, who are also too‑well paid to hew the uberpatriot line. Hope he doesn't black out and show up on your doorstep. It's not very likely that he's going to wake up in his rural trailerhouse and can't remember how he got covered with someone else's blood, but not impossible. One of the most surprizing things he'd do was apparently see through my prisoner camouflage and say, "You aint no killer:" Now I can answer him: "You were right, Bozo: Have a cigar: Now which of us is supposed to be more proud?"
His lawyer is worth a few paragraphs too. This was George Miscovski, who is famous in Okie political history for his run at the governor's mansion with the unique slogan: "(vote for me because) Governor Boren is a queer!" My prison pal was well on his way out when this occurred, so I did not get to see his reaction to this. FIe hated Miscovski with such an unquenchable passion that he'd tell me his hate fantasies of torturing the guy to death very slowly and elaborately. Him hearing Miscovski's comment would provoke in him the classic dilemma of a guy not knowing whether to shit or go blind!
More important, though, was the legal case I saw concerning Miscovski fighting a judge's contempt citation. Miscovski had had the gall to save a female shoplifter by using a defense lawyer tactic that is almost never employed but almost always works. The reason it is seldom employed is that it has the unpleasant side effect of making monkeys out of the judge/prosecutor/bailiff team, exposing them and their courtroom rituals as  the utter farces they are. Hence judge Hogjowls' citing Miscovski for contempt. He had pulled a stunt called 'defendant switching'. That is, allowing the judge, prosecutor, bailiff, cops and witnesses (in this case a mall security guard, whose specie is said to be highly trained experts in the field of positive identification) to assume that Miscovski brought the actual target of their shoplifting accusations and not come innocent, uninvolved female. They all fell for it and would have run yet another entirely innocent person through their professional shredding machine except that Miscovski pulled the plug before their fangs and claws could get really bloody. The judge exploded with rage, shrieked "Contempt of Courti" and fined Miscovski for not telling the judge/prosecutor team prior to his defendant switching as his unwritten court rules dictated. Obviously defendant switching never works when you tell the attackers. Miscovski appealed to a higher judge and thus this almost unknown defense strategy is buried within the mountain of legal pantings for all to see, provided they have enough time, a large enough shovel and a taste for manure.

Far as using my prison pal's tactic for leaving prison, it wouldn't work for me. I have never learned how to change into something I'm not and lie to people on an assemblyline basis. I don't want to learn it. I'm not oily. I don't sell snake oil. It would surely make me wretch to try and connive people out of their money, possessions and efforts. I wasn't going to make enough money to feed the law sharks by stringing telephone wire: They are a hungry bunch of gluttons and only take cash, paid in full before the first syllable is uttered. The price of the first step is $25,000. Anything less than this they simply take and mumble excuses after the fore‑ordained failure, "We tried, but lost. The next appeal will cost an additional $25,000. You don't have this cash? Too bad: so sad! NEXT!"
Talking to lawyers and reading the law‑droppings of caselaw reminded me of how thoroughly unprincipled these maggots are. It also showed me that my only two options were to return to prison with what 1 had and pray for an honest judge at my escape trial and appeals, or continue looking for the killer through the one avenue I had left; Qunion Leigh. He was caged again by this time, so I devised a plan to send him a letter, offering a thousand dollars for his help in finding the killer he'd met at the OSP trustee building back in 1978 or so. I had posed as a lawyer; a real one, using a version of her stationery with a different street address, working for the 'family' instead of for me personally. Qunion replied promptly, supplying a name and requesting the money poste haste. The name did not match anyone who had passed through the Okie prison machine and later was found
to be entirely bogus. I decided to Hell with it, him and pretty much everyone else for a while.

CHAPTER THIRTY‑THREE
Car Wreck Three

The more you lay down, the more you get kicked around.
										James Bauhaus
My car had self‑destructed again: the team of certified Mr. Goodwrenches hadn't even replaced the missing nuts on the bellhousing. I caught them at it. The mechanic, whose bay had the sign "Jeremy: 14 years of excellence" said it didn't need all 5 nuts, and besides, they didn't have any. He could order some, but it would take more days  and money. A nut had rattled off the clutch plate, destroying the clutch. I'd heard a lot of people who didn't seem very intelligent tell me how easily they'd replaced clutches in record time at little cost. Like an imbecile, I believed them. The thing came apart easily enough. It was winter and had rained a lot during the 3‑day weekend. The transmission lay on my stomach as I tried to stuff it back into the engine. I lay in a puddle of transmission fluid, freezing and exhausted. Everything was fixed, but the bastard wouldn't go back in the hole it came out of. On the 3rd day of struggle, I called Art, a Ft. Worth mechanic who had installed the transmission in my van that caused the speedometer and odometer to run backward. He wouldn't let me borrow his jack because the superbowl had Just started. I gave up, threw the crap in the trunk and paid a wrecker $30 to haul it half a mile down hiway 183 to the Goodwrenches: they sat on it past friday, then poked it in the hole, tightened 3 of the 5 nuts and made a fast $350. No discounts for me doing 80% of the work first.

Before I paid them, I was going to make sure it worked. There's just something about car‑hacks ignoring you in their shop that really pisses me off. (That is, in addition to the number of times they've ripped me off.) They had my key, but I always keep a spare. Instead of continuing to be ignored, I infiltrated their lot and drove it out to the front. A pimply‑faced kid growled something at me, assuming that I was ripping them off! I wanted to take time out to bitchslap him around, or at least yell at him, but I just sneered at him as I went by. The clutch worked great; I paid them.
Six months later a clutch plate nut rattled loose again, destroying the clutch. This was about the same time that Sears got caught ripping off thousands of customers for millions in car repair scams.	(A sleazy Sears salesliar had told me that a steering gearbox job would cost $800:	I put one on myself for $10 at a salvage.) Then Hertz got caught double‑billing thousands of people on car repairs. Car‑repair people work very hard trying to claw their way to the top of my shit list, but still the lawyers have them beat by a mile. Not even the kid‑mechanic who punctured my gasoline out of sheer meanness, hoping to start a fire under my hood someday in traffic can beat the cops and lawyers out of first place. I wish they'd stop trying.
This third clutch left me without a vehicle for over a week. The sturdy Yamaha 200 took me to and from work, but it was scary. People deliberately try to kill us bikers. Evolution, no, society had spawned a colossal crop of grinning misfits and secret sociopaths in the past thirty years. People never used to throw crap at motorcyclists, trying to make us die in fiery, Hollywood fantasy crashes. Now they do. One dusk in spring I was trying to get home from work across eight miles of expressway. I was paranoid; rush hour traffic makes you this way. You have to watch them all, ail the time. They can swerve into us from both sides. They can stop and try to make us backsmash them and fly over their vehicles from behind. They tailgate us a 70 miles/hour. It started raining; not pouring, but enough to raise the grease slick on the roads. Crankcase oil and rainmust mixed is the smell of death to motorcyclists. I got the premonition of several cars driving over my crushed and bleeding body in the twilight and rain. The car‑drivers would dodge running over my bike as it skittered across the lanes on its side. It could damage their tires: better to hit the soft, squishy carcass instead.
I'd almost made it home, too. Only one more exit and I'd be safe, but that was the same exit that the drunk driver had bashed me off onto the grass with his Fury III. Soon as the rain began falling I knew that they would not let me make it home alive if I stayed on the expressway. I was already in the slow lane, ready to duck over onto the shoulder if need be. I took the exit ramp just in front of my usual exit. The more I slowed, the safer I felt.
It was dark enough for lights, and all mine were on and working; had been the whole way. The service road felt good and relatively sticky, though I'm sure that traction was only negligibly better than the highway. Forty‑five miles/hour felt better than seventyfive. Then a stupid, uncaring, negligent, rich bitch in a new cadillac pulled out of the Walmart parking lot right in front of me. I clamped on both brakes with all the strength that fear of sudden, hideous death gave me. It wasn't going to be enough. I'd aimed myself at the crack between her caddy and the curb. It was so oily and slick that my tires locked up immediately. While I was adjusting the traction for maximum stopping power,

the bike swapped ends. I was skidding backwards up the side of her car as she dawdled along to the stoplight a few yards further ahead. My head came even with her driver"s side window. She gaped at me, but didn't hit the brake. It looked like I was going to fall over sideways so I would have a splendid view of her firestone bumping over my face and head before I went to Hell. At the absolute last second I abandoned the handlebars, pushed desperately off the side of her car, managing to throw myself toward the curb. A silver signpost rushed up as I was flying backward. Something went "TOK!" very loudly, then the lights went out for me.
Over the years I managed to gradually piece together most of what occurred shortly thereafter. The TokS was the sound of my helmet hitting a signpole. Its sign read "Don't Mess With Texas". Its pole was the breakaway type, but breakaway only works for cars, not heads. It really rang my bell and was quietly awaiting the next victim. I woke up while I was standing in the dark and rain talking to a pair of cops who would not get out of their copcar. My head hurt like blazes. I could see my bike all scraped up and lying on its side in the street, facing backward, just past the sign. My shin was throbbing, but I didn't have brains enough left to check for excessive bleeding. Besides, I had important business getting away from these cops. All cops are dangerous.
T woke up again. This time one cop was interrogating the bitch while I examined the damage to my bike.	It wasn't driveable.	The chain had skipped off the sprocket and its poor little two‑stroke powerplant was seized. It would be a long push home with a bum shin. Gawkers streamed past slowly in their trucks and cars.
The third time I woke up, the bike was on its center stand on the shoulder of the service road. Its friendly green neutral light gleamed in the corner of my eye while I was telling the cop, No; the woman can't leave until I get her name and address. Somehow her tag number had gotten written in ink on my sleeve. My pen was still in my hand, though I could not remember getting it. The bitch had refused to give me her information, but apparently had not driven off before the cops had happened by. (In the Walmart parking lot was a Dunkin' Donut shop, thank God!) The cops lied to me, saying "We have all that in the police report. If you let her leave, you can get a copy from us."
Since I'm a moron, I fell for it and agreed. The negligent, haughtly bitch drove off to her next maiming without a care in the world. The cops slowly finished their report as I stood in the rain at their window, waiting. They took their sweet time, plus blocked one and a half lanes of the service road as they did.  Citizens meekly drove past them on the shoulder after having been in a mile‑long line for half an hour. I asked for my copy. The dirty, yet dry sons of bitches told me "You'll have to come down to the station to get a copy. Have a nice night!" The dirty piece of dogshit rolled up his window and the twin turds drove, smirking like rotten children, into the night. It's no mystery to me why these arrogant scum have to ride two to a car.
The fourth time I awoke was the last time. The scene had changed completely. Somehow I'd gotten the bike and I safely home.  I was flaking dried blood off my calf and shin while telling Annette how clever and shitty the cops and that bitch were to me. She acted as if I'd been behaving normally. The most perplexing part is that I just told these events in reverse of the order in which I experienced them. The first time I remembered waking up was in my home with Annette. My head was thumping and leg bleeding; my clothes were torn. I saw this number and letters inked onto my sleeve and simply deduced that I'd been in a wreck. But I did not remember where. I asked Annette, not really thinking that she would know, but had no one else to ask: "Where did I wreck?"
She said, "Baby, you done asked me that a hundred times!"

That answer was pretty scary, but I didn't let on.  I'm a realist, and all the fretting in the world wouldn't unscramble my brains. I'd just live with it and do the best I could. The other memories of waking up I described gradually returned, one at a time, most recent first, then the others, each deeper into the past until I hit ground zero. It took a week or so before most of them came back pseudo‑clearly.
The very next day I took my cane and hiked to the pigpen. One of them hid behind bulletproof glass just inside the door. It was the first time I'd ever been in the public side of an Oinker lair. In a dim 20 by 12 room where two of those cheap, slippery, fiberglass chairs and a plastic table; nothing else. You'd think they'd have a plastic vase with a plastic flower (yellow) in it. Then you'd think again: there was no door to enter the glass‑enclosed room, locked or otherwise. Then I thought once more: the minimalist furniture is there because they probably tend to get thrown at the pig‑under‑glass. The vase with its plastic flower was undoubtedly the first to go. Then the real furniture got smashed; now we're down to flimsy yet nearly indestructible chairs that can bounce off walls and perhaps land upright, ready for another throw. There was a shallow, stainless steel pan curving underneath the bottom edge of the thick glass. It was especially made so no one could poke a gun muzzle through it. The pan did look substantial enough to skip a few bullets through it. Time will tell. Someone Somewhere has probably tried it. I tried to be civil. I politely asked for the accident report.
"That'll be ten cents," he said.
I thought immediately: What Bustards! First they pretend that they'll give me a copy from their form at the scene, now it's not even 'give', it's 'buy', after a 20 block hobble one way.
"The Officers said it would be free." (I actually did say 'Officer' and it didn't break my jaw. It's not so much that I hate cops, it's that I really enjoy yelling at them.) "That'll be ten cents." He could easily have passed for a defective automaton for all the human‑ness he displayed. A wax figure that had a speaker for a mouth would have looked more alive.
"One also said he'd give me a copy at the scene," I grated through clenched teeth. No response; only a blank stare; vacant.
"Is that a standard lie that all of you pull?"
He blinked once, but otherwise remained frozen, like a rat facing a hawk.
"Take it out of this twenty." I'll fry in Hell forever before I let them lie to me twice without some kind of protest, however symbolic.
"We don't make change."
"Then I guess it costs twenty dollars, doesn't it!" The lamb of God Himself couldnot fly down from Heaven with a flock of ArchAngels and convince me to reach into my pocket and draw forth two nickles. Instead, another cop simply appeared out of the shadows. It seemed that this new cop was the first cop's 'safety backup'. "I'll pay for him," the new cop said.
"Keep your dime: I'm not looking for favors from you people. I just want you to do your job! You sell copies every day; you need to stock change."

The backup cop paid the cashier cop. He slid the copy into the shiny steel pan, careful not to let his fingers get within striking distance. I fantasized hurling the chair at them. Even when you win one from them they have a way of making you lose. I couldn't empty their cash drawer; I did beat them out of a dime, but not really because they passed the hat for poor old Jim, the chronic loser who could fall backward into a barrel of feminine genitalia and come up with an asshole every time. I had to get away from those maggots. I was getting too callous. Turds like in Officialdom will turn me against the entire Human race if I let them. It was time to do something different; a vacation, perhaps.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Whorer Stories
We're going to have so much fucking fun that we're going to need plastic surgery to remove the smiles from our faces:
											Chevy Chase
Skeeterboy Pimp is my common‑law wife. This is Annette. She had been given this appellation by a good friend of her's, and she liked it more than her own name. Skeeterboy Pimp is my favorite, and we've been together many years. She is a bright‑smiling, bubbly blond; always happy and enthusiastic. She's about 5' 5" and 110 to 112 pounds, blue eyes with perfect proportions. She is descended from Russian ancestors, but far back; farther than her family history can say. Also, she has probably the finest set of breasts on the planet and uses them to good effect to catch her men. Skeeterboy Pimp has a countryfied way of speaking that reminded me of someone familiar. Years later I realize that she sounds like an indelicate version of Elly Mae Clampett. She's a country girl, grown up in a Texas/Mexico border town. She was adopted by some Hispanics, moved farther north, near San Angelo, hooked up with a Viet Nam veteran while she was still in school, dropped out, then somehow found her way to Dallas where she was taught the wonders of rock cocaine by a mentor in the Sisterhood.
The Viet Nam vet and childbirth may have been what turned her gay or bisexual, along with plenty of help from the Sisterhood and the govt's scummy jails. Birthing at so young an age was tramatic, requiring a C‑section.	The state took her baby and her husband. Eventually she got caught up in the CIA's method of funding their war on Nicaragua by becoming a crack addict in Dallas, at about age 2$. She fell in love with a younger girl calling herself "Lil Bit".	She used to keep a picture of this girl in her wallet and liked to show around her 'Baby Girl'. Skeet was smitten by this girl in a bad way. I'd never met her, but one time in the dark Annette found her amongst a knot to other girls while I was dropping her off at 'work'. She had me circle around and wait while she went off to speak with her. They'd been separated by jail, then Lil Bit apparently found an‑other, or something had happened. Annette returned downhearted and blue, saying, "It's over: let's go." Glad as I was to hear this, I couldn't help but empathize. No one likes to lose a loved one.
Skeeterboy Pimp dressed in little boy jeans and a raggedy cropped tee shirt that she would cut down the neck so you could see cleavage; her nipples straining against the cloth. She would only wear men's watches, and I couldn't keep her in them except with difficulty.
All these women and girls; you couldn't buy them nice things. Soon as the rock ran out, they'd deal away their possessions for a whiff of smoke.
The first day I met her was unforgetable. She was so adorable when she stepped up to my tall, company van. All I could see was her bright, happy face and neck in the passenger side window. Before I knew it, she'd yanked the door wide, climbed into the bucket seat beside me with a loud plop and said, Whatcha doing?" A beautiful little blond girl, dressed like a man but obviously oh so feminine in chest and long, sandy, well‑brushed hair. "A little lunch; a little paperwork," I answered. "You hungry?"

"Nah." She replied. "What is that?" (indicating my lunch) "Braunsweiger." what? What is it in American?"
"Goose liver. Very nutritious." "Yuk!" "
"So; uh, what can I do for you?"
"I'm just being neighborly. What are you doing at Parkland?"
"Fire safety; this trip. Checking the tags on extinguishers. You?" "I'm a rockstar."
At this time, I had no idea what 'rockstar' meant beyond the obvious connotation. ‑ Since she was not likely even of the same generation as Pat Benatar or Janis Joplin, I concluded that it would be polite to let this go over my head.  She wouldn't leave me in too much ignorance, though, and asked me if I needed a date.
"That would be great," I replied, "But I've got to get back to work. I could be back by six, though. Where can I find you?"
"You'll see me around," she said simply. Then she left as quickly as she'd appeared. My eyesight is worse than my powers of observation, thus I thought I'd seen the last of her. She wouldn't even know what type of vehicle I'd be driving if I decided to come back and look for her. I thought about her the rest of the day at work, then knocked off earlier than usual. While driving past the shady little park I'd had lunch in, some faroff figure waved. It was her. She asked me if I was a cop, then she told me that my place would be fine, but I'd have to bring her back. I said "Certainly" and off to Irving we went. The ride was long and involved an intermediate step of switching trucks at the shop without any of my nosy, adolescent‑minded coworkers seeing her. None saw: she was very good at avoiding notice. On the way home, on the second leg, I was naturally curious about why she had chosen this profession. She wouldn't say much, and immediately got the impression that I was an overly religious person.
She introduced herself as Skeeter, and didn't tell me the rest of it until we got to know one another better. She expertly steered the conversation to drugs, dope, then to cocaine, thereby uncovering my liberal tendencies quickly. At my home, she was all business, going straight for the bedroom. She had her clothes off before I knew it and eyed me patiently from the bed as I disrobed slowly, drinking in her beauty. She had fabulous, golden‑tan skin from the hot Texas sun. Everywhere her clothes covered she was alabaster white. She lay there, watching me undress, propped up on one arm, one leg crooked flat, the other crooked vertical, her wrist balanced on that knee. Her posture was classic; that of Michaelangelo's painting on the ceiling of the Cistine Chapel where the hand of Adam nonchalantly reaches out and almost touches the finger of God.
Eventually I climbed into bed with her. She took to her teeth a condom and tore it open. She put it on my member, rolled it down the shaft, then gave it a final tug. She was so cute sitting before me on her heels as she did this!	I stroked her hair and arms, but she was so businesslike: she did not acknowledge my touch. Instead, she raised up enough to kick each leg straight one at a time, then rolled onto her back, waiting patiently, passively, in silence. She was so serious!
Z had to make her laugh, and devised a plan.
"You'll need to scoot towards me, sweetie," I said, "Else I'll be bumping myself silly on the headboard."

Skeeter complied without answering or smiling and stretched her hands and heels out to lever herself towards me. I leaned forward and down quickly, planted my lips upon her fine, chiseled stomach and blew a loud raspberry that makes small infants giggle to brightly. Skeeter showed no reaction beyond mild curiosity.
She was having none of it, so I extended myself over her and stretched out on top of her. She opened up like a flower to embrace me. We squirmed around a bit together, then she had me in her hands and guided me in. Skeeter was very warm inside, and very snug.
The condom cut off most of the feeling with its own tightness, but in addition to it I ‑ could feel Skeeter's grip like a too‑small glove. I complimented her on her making me feel welcomed. Skeeter made no response. Soon as she had me a11 the way inside her, Skeeter placed her hands to the sides of my chest, under my arms, and used this leverage and a squirming motion to inch herself far under me until I couldn't even see the top of her head. At this time I had no idea she was gay. Her behavior here was so curious! "Skeeter?"
"Go ahead," came her muffled voice in my chest.
Simultaneously she'd brought her legs up and gripped them under her knees, one in each hand. With her thus splayed I made a very few strokes, then exploded in ecstacy. Yet I didn't let on. Instead, I suppressed it and continued pumping. Skeeter's back had to be coiled so tightly as to hurt with each thrust, but she never mentioned it. Apparently this was her standard method. My impression was that 'she'd adopted this technique out of either embarassment at her profession and a natural slight shyness, or an attempt to increase clitoral stimulation. Only much later it appeared that this might be out of distaste a gay woman must have for servicing men. (Skeeter is not a manhater, as many hookers are.)  My swelling was not going down though we continued this way for quite some time. Skeeter agreed to try another position.
	Skeeter suggested 'doggie style' and got up on hands and knees for me. It was my obscene pleasure to observe her tiny little toes curled beneath her diminutive, white‑soled feet. Her calves were round and comparatively large and firm for her body type. They were so beautiful that I had to stroke them. Her hamstring muscles were similarly engaging, as was the fine swell of her hips. "You are so beautiful, Sweetie!" I told her.
She didn't back up to meet me, so I bent over her and formed myself to her shape. My full weight was upon her because she kept her thighs so vertical that my knees barely touched the bed. My hand slid up and down her thin, yet very strong arms. She seemed to be under no stress bearing my full 180 pounds. She tucked me in with one hand. I began my rhythm, gently caressing Skeeter's remarkable breasts and nuzzling her petite little shoulder as I did so. Awkward as it was, she was Heaven for me. I didn't ask her about her techniques, but only enjoyed enormously what she gave as I explored her hard, tough, yet soft little body.
After a long stint of this, she agreed to another position. This time she climbed atop me, put me inside her, then let me pull her forward to lay upon my chest. This way I got to play my hands across her back, feel down the curve of her buttocks and thighs.  She turned her head away from me. She wouldn't look at me. She was just tightly perched atop me, enduring my attention.

"Sweetie? Could you straighten your legs out? You might be more comfortable." Skeeter stretched out the full length of me without comment, only compliance. The ` feel of her warmth and curves upon me and under my hands was a glorious sensation. Holding her hips as I thrust, I came a second time, this one so hard that my legs curled up and clamped my knees over her hips.
Skeeter waited politely until I stopped twitching, then released her hips from my lock. She got up, removed the condom and took over the bathroom briefly. Then she was dressed before I knew it and thrust her hand out silently for payment. Even this gesture was adorable. A11 the time that I dressed I sang her praises. While I fished out fifty dollars and placed it in her cute little outstretched palm, I told her, "Baby, you are great! When can I see you again? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you need a place to stay? How can I get in touch with you?" I drew her to me and hugged her tight as I kissed her forhead. She endured this too.
"You'll see me around," she said simply. "I'll be at the boat place. Get your keys and I'll show you where to drop me off."
It was a week or so later that I drove by the boat place.  She was there amongst a gaggle of other girls and women, mostly Black. She pushed her way through them and poked her bright, smiling face in the passenger side window and asked, "You're looking for me, right?"
"I sure am! "
"Let's ride!" Skeeter jumped in and we were off again. while."
"They had me working out of town," I explained. "0‑oh‑h." She made this syllable into a musical sound. "You been okay?" I ventured.
"One of my dates asked me to marry him: a Japanese man." "You're going to do it? Would it be good for you?"
"N‑nyeah," she shrugged. "We going to Parkland?" (Near the hospital of Parkland is her dope connection.)
"If you want."
"Turn around." Her bright smile reappeared full blast.
I bought her a few rocks, or, more precisely, she bought us a few rocks with my money. Then we went to my place. Skeeter was much more animated this time. She proudly told me of her buddy "David" the lawyer and showed me a picture of her he had taken. It was dark, and showed her in her tiger shirt crop‑top and jeans, holding a small rifle in one hand and a fan of hundred dollar bills in the other. We smoked and talked, mostly her telling' me of times she's run from the cops, gotten into fights with other women, and Lil Bit. For a11 the talking, Skeeter didn't reveal much. Mostly she loved Lil Bit and showed me her picture. She would boast of how much the cops would love to know what she knew. I thought it more polite of me to be impressed by this rather than too curious. When the rock was gone she would continue to push the shredded, charred metal cylinder back and ‑ forth and take hits off the residue. After there was no more we'd get undressed and get in bed. One of the things she would like to do during these early days of our budding friendship was to point out to me each little scar on her athletic body and tell me the story of violence behind it. They all were almost unseeable blemishes along her arms, legs, side and stomach, but Skeeter would become very enthusiastic in the telling of each fight's knife, bottle or other type wound. I loved to ogle her trim, naked body and feel each scar as she exhibited it to me, plus, her obvious enjoyment in the telling was enjoyable for me to see too. She liked my attention, and I liked anything she cared to say or do. But before long she would hear the call of the coke and would dutifully ask, "Want to have some fun?"

This was Skeeter's term for sex. She was, deep down, a very conservative and diplomatic woman. She would never curse. She called me down more than once, advising me that she didn't like me using certain sex words such as "boff"; that she calls her assignations 'dates'  not 'tricks' and desired me to do the same. As for whenever she asked me if I wanted to have some fun with her, I was always delighted.
Once again she knelt before me on the bed, cute and adorably sensuous. I got to hold her shoulders in my hands as she fitted me with a condom. This done, Skeeter lifted up enough to kick her legs forward, rolled backward, tucked the pillow under her head and waited patiently for me to mount her exquisite form. Her knees were straight up and cocked open slightly. I leaned forward. They parted to admit me. My hands caught her around her sweet hips, just below her waist.
"Scoot down to me a bit, sweetie, so I won't bump my head."
Skeeter performed her cute little maneuver, elevating her hips as I pulled her fabulous little bottom toward me. She tugged the pillow under her head again and waited patiently for me to quit admiring her and mount. My strategy was to stretch this part out as much as possible. Her strategy was to get it over as quickly as possible so she could go back to work and get more rock. Skeeter didn't like foreplay and she didn't like my hairy face rubbing on her either. She would let me luxuriate in the feel of her breasts, though not much on this second date.
Extending myself over her, she took my member to hand and guided me in, using hands and knees. Entering her was such a sensuous thrill and very exciting for me, enjoying her superb warmth and snugness. Again she caught me under my arms and began squirming far beneath me.
"Annette?" " "What?"
"Can I have you up here? I love to see you." "This is the way I do it."
"Are you embarassed at what we're doing?" (Weakly) "N‑no‑o."
"Then come up here where we can have fun together." (Weakly) "N‑no‑o!"
"It's no fun without you." "I'm here. Just go‑o!" "Please, Annette." (Pause) "Let's just talk instead, and be friends."
When she saw that I was serious, she huffed, "Oh all right!" and pulled herself up by my shoulders. "There. Is this good enough?"
Her head was under my shoulder, turned away from me. This was a vast improvement. I dared not ask for more. Annette was granting a major concession to me, mostly because she was so anxious to get beck to work, I suspected. It seemed very incongruous that she should be thirty years old, in the sex trade three years, yet be so embarassed to lie head to head with her client.
"Thank you, Skeeter; this is much better." "Can we have fun now?"
There was nothing for it. In her sense of right (I assumed), it was her duty to see that I obtained an orgasm for getting her high, however distasteful the process was for her. Apparently it was very distasteful, judging by her position under my shoulder, looking away and grasping not me, but her own legs under her knees, patiently awaiting my climax. Rather than stress her more, I did as she wished and came quickly. Soon as I released her, she took the condom and rushed to the bathroom. Very quickly she was out and dressed again. She was anxiously waiting by the door when I finished dressing and opened it when she saw me enter the room.

"Wait," I asked.  "I want to give you this." I gave her a twenty. "We want some more rock?" she asked.
"No; I just want you to have it. You did something special for me, and I want to do something special for you. I don't know enough about you to know what you'd like, so I want you to have something for yourself from me. I just want you to know I appreciate. very much what you do for me. And that I want very much to be your friend, too." They had me working out of town again, and I didn't see Skeeter for another week or two. Each saturday I'd go look for her, and eventually found her. About the time of our third date she had been thinking a little about us. She told me she lived with some girls at an apartment and that wednesday and thursday were slow nights for her. Pretty as she is, she can get dates almost any time, would work to exhaustion, then sleep for hours and hours. She told me the "‑boy Pimp" part of her name, and we'd smoke tiny rocks while lying naked in bed as she told me with great enthusiasm of her friends, their exploits and how she'd mentor some new girls or women into doing all the "work". I gradually realized that "rockstar" only meant "addict". This she certainly was, and I set out to wean her away from this by showing her other fun things to do.
Even so, she would permit no date without rock first. Sadly, her dope connects were ripping her off badly, though we didn't know enough about it to realize it at the time. Maybe she did, but I didn't. I hadn't yet begun to pay much attention to weights and
sizes since I'd planned never to waste money on it. Skeeter changed my mind on this, but I never bought much. Sometimes We'd pay her connects $20 for rocks worth only half or a quarter as much. I didn't have any connects and didn't want to meet any, what with the way cops were so rabid about it. (One pair of cops and a Mexican snitch framed at least 79 innocent people for drugs in a crime spree found to have lasted about two years. Finally they got caught when one of their targets payed a non‑cop chemist to test their cocaine. It turned out that these Dallas secret pigs were lying people into prison with sheetrock dust:) Getting ripped off by Negroes for chips of dope got old fast. I managed to divert her into a mall after one bout of frustratingly tiny rocks and bad, but steadily improving sex.
At this mall she got so excited that she was talking quite loudly; fairly shouting her enthusiasm. We came upon an ear‑ring kiosk that she was very interested in. Before I knew it she was pulling me over to the side and explaining to me how, in jail, they will not allow the women to have jewelry. Annette wore no makeup, no jewelry, not even a watch at this point. She had shown no interest, either, preferring to forgo personal adornment as men do, or used to. But this time she was telling me that jailers were forbidden to steal their victims' ear rings that had a religious motif.
Annette was very independent and self‑reliant. She has a hard time asking anyone for anything, including me. She is afraid of "owing" anyone, a phobia that I share with her and understand completely. She wanted no obligations placed upon her. By this time in our relationship she was slowly beginning to blossom a little trust in me. I was very happy to hear her confiding in me this way and very much wanted to provide her with exactly what would please her.
"A lady certainly should have something that looks pretty that they can't take away. I've been wanting to get you something nice. Have you seen anything you particularly like?" "The gold cross: that's what I want."

"Let's get it."
"It's ten dollars."
"Then let's get two sets."
"I just want one; for my left ear; but there's a problem." Annette gave me an embarassed look. "It's a stud."
"So?"
"My ear isn't pierced."
"Oh." I hadn't even noticed. Also, I detest mutilation. I sillily said, "Surely they have the other kind."
"I want this kind." "Sure?"
"Yes."
"Let's do it."
(whispered) "But it's fifteen dollars."
She was so cute about her embarassment I could cry. Taking her by the shoulders, I told her, "Annette, I want you to have this. I want to give you something that you like, something you'll keep, and something that makes you prettier. This is perfect. Let's do it."
The sales lady thought, or pretended to think, that Annette was underage! I had to sign as her guardian before she'd pierce my friend's ear. I wish I'd had a camera and caught how very happy it made her to get this tiny little token. She certainly looked small and childlike in her glee and apprehension or having the piercing gun up to her ear and waiting for the pain.
She gave me the extra gold cross to keep for her. She didn't want her other ear pierced, and she pretended to like the gold and pearl earrings I chose for her. She wore one for me for a few minutes, then wore the gold cross from then on. I began to suspect that the pearl type was too heterosexual for her.
This tiny little present made Annette very happy, which made me very happy too. Another time I made her even more happy was when I was able to divert her to a real date at the International Wildlife Park in Grand Prairie. It started off badly as we pulled up in my little blue sportscar to discover that it cost $20 to enter. Annette was appalled and made a revealing comment.
"We could have bought a rock for that much."

We bought a few pounds if feed to attract the animals, which were mostly African herbivores, and took our place in the line of cars. First some whitetailed deer eased up slowly and warily to be fed. Annette's mood improved from skeptical and dispairing to tickled pink in an instant. A fawn stuck its head completely inside the car and ate out of Annette's hand. Signs along the road identified what types of animals looked like what and gave brief descriptions of their characteristics. Farther along were exotic Gemsboks, Thompson's Gazelles and huge, muscled‑up Orynx with horns that clattered on the roof as they fed like goats. There were goats, too. Annette was ecstatic. She would giddily demand, "Look! That one's a baby! Isn't that one pretty? What kind is that one?" It pleased me greatly to see her enjoying herself without cocaine. The best part for a lecher like me was when the animals would come by my side instead of hers. Annette would climb over me as she bent and stretched to feed them. Often as not, I'd get a fine view of her perfect breasts while I enjoyed her closeness and ebulient demeanor. I'd also ogle her pert little bottom in her sweatpaats as I cupped my hand along her lower inside thigh in the guise of 'steadying' her. I never tired of exploring Annette's body.
Almost through the park we came upon a monster! It was a huge, colossal, stupendously big and powerful rhinoceros! One would think such a beast would be far too dangerous for a park, judging from the John Wayne movies they'd been in. The thing dwarfed every land animal I ever saw up close. The guy shuffled over slowly. His huge, droopy head was level with my window! His horn was massive, short and stubby. Annette actually sat in my lap to feed him. His loudly crunching maw was at least ten inches across, yet she was fearlessly letting him munch and snuffle out of her delicate, defenseless hand. He was so nonchalantly powerful that his horn was scraping loudly against my outside mirror with such casual force that I feared it would break it off. A minute later Annette had managed to draw half of his head inside the window. for a long moment it had its horn trapped inside and was placidly attempting to work it free. Annette giggled merrily as I had visions of the great beast going nuts trying to rip itself free, jouncing us around, denting my roof, ripping my headliner and who knows what else? Happily the guy got loose without tearing anything up. Annette's sharp eyes spotted some chimpanzees and baboons in a pen under a tree far from the road. The signs said for us to stay in our vehicles. We could not find any path to get to them and decided that they were not yet for exhibit.
At the end we stopped at a concession stand and bought food and drink. A children's playground was next to the tables we ate at. We played a bit on the swings and carosel. The sun was bright and the day had been a huge success. We reviewed what we'd seen. I'll never forget how much Annette enjoyed herself. We walked together for a short time after eating.
"You taking care of yourself out there?" I asked. "Yeah," Annette replied. "I'm doing all right." "Still living with the girls at the apartment? That still working out?" "Yeah, pretty much."
"Think about moving in with me?" "I'll let you know."
"Have fun today?"
"I sure did! Can't you tell?"	: "No, I'm the one who had the fun. What can we do next?"
"We could get a rock and have some fun!"
"I'd like to do that, but I'm still trying to show you that there are many other fun things to do. Don't need rock to have fun."
"With me you do."
"You didn't need to say that, Annette." "It I s true:"
"'Well, if you need a rock, then I'd better get you back to work."
That's the way she was: singleminded. The rock was never far from her consciousness. To see how strong a hold it had on their lives was disheartening. All I could think of for solace was that at least they weren't drooling alcoholics such as you find under bridges and in ditches. Even so, coke was the center of their lives. Watching them do it reminded me of the much‑repeated line about monkey experiments that injected coke deep inside their brains: " A monkey who can push a lever for coke will choose it to food and starve." These govt‑sponsored experiments made great anti‑drug propaganda, which was their main purpose, but the majority of the unthinking public accepted this nonsense. I could see similarities. These similarities became more apparent as the opportunity to observe became more frequent.

Coke fiends come in at least three general types. Snorters are just lightweights with too much money to flush and too little idea of better uses it can be put to. Coke smokers and needle freaks are hard core addicts, at least in this area where the addiction is only psychological. They have two words that aptly describe themselves. One is 'pheen'. This is used to describe some other addict's desperate search for dope or even just a high. For example, Gina might say, "Tish and Trish were pheening like demons until I came over. Soon as they saw me, both of them came running, begging me to give then a bump." (A 'bump' is a single lungful or shot of dope through a syringe. Habitual dope‑mooching behavior gets you called a 'bump monkey'.)
Soon as they get a bump, they stop pheening, but a new type of behavior often exhibits itself. This second word is 'schitz', and even mere smokers of coke schitz. This describes people who peek through chinks in curtains, ask "What was that:?" and crawl around on hands and knees looking for white crap that may be cocaine. One young guy actually peeled up a four‑foot corner of carpet looking for coke chips or dust that somehow fell under the carpet. He was putting latex paint crumbs and other unidentifiable white trash into his shooting spoon. Soon as I saw this, I threw him out. I didn't really think he'd put this filth in his vein, but I wasn't going to give him the chance. He can go try to be a corpse in some other motel room.
Annette would pheen, but not schitz. She'd sometimes pretend to schit:, but this ' would only be an act. She'd cleverly toss crack crumbs onto the floor while no one watched, then she'd crawl around to retrieve them after the rest was all smoked.
As I was dropping her off at Trick City, she diverted me to a closed‑up house that figured prominently in many of her stories. Most of the stuff the girls told me of their exploits was uninteresting to me, hence I listened little and retained less. Also, the stuff was hard to follow; disjointed and out of sequence. One that did stick in my mind involved Annette driving Michelle's husband's truck and the two women getting stopped and let go by a cop. They were on their way to the pawnshop in a truck with the front windshield blown out. This house was vacant of people, but stuffed with belongings. A pack of dogs must have been removed from the back yard, judging by the amount of feces and bald ground near the fences, where dogs would patrol. The rest was thickly encrusted with tall weeds. Annette's friend Michelle had lived there with her husband. Putting Annette's stories through the filter of my own logic, it appears she'd found a breaking marriage and introduced the wife to rock and perhaps prostitution‑like behavior. It appears that many women, when unloved by a mate, will suddenly go on a sex binge, apparently to prove to themselves that they are still extremely desirable to men. At least this is what I make of it. I've seen it happen often, but the actual reason for it could be anything. Only the individual women know for sure, and not one has ever told me an answer I could believe. Mostly they simply don't answer. Annette and Michelle together pawned or sold the husband's possessions while he worked.  Annette had been barred by him from his home, then caught by him hiding in a closet during a fight with his wife. Annette remembered the chill of discovery well, yet was permitted to leave unharmed. Then occurred the shotgunned truck‑glass and cop‑stop incident. Now Annette tells me Michelle is dead and that her husband killed her. There was something in the paper about this, but it had even less substance to it than Annette's account. She seemed to think he got away with murder. Perhaps, but doubtful. It looked like the ones who profited were Annette, the pawnbrokers, the probate, criminal and other lawyersystems, plus the burglars who were stripping the place nightly.

For a long time after this I didn't see Annette. The reality of seeing some of the social wreckage she'd played a large part in causing cooled my desire for her. Then, Annette just showed up one day. It sounded like her knock; an unmistakable rapid, light tapping with a particular beat hard for the cops to duplicate. I opened the door. There she stood; the proverbial Chick‑A‑Boom!
"Well:" I said, very pleased. "Hello. Come on in'." "How ya doin'?" she smiled.
"I'm doing great, now that you're here."
"I was in the neighborhood; thought I'd drop by."
"Great.' Let's do something. Have you eaten? Want to go..." "Want to have some fun?"
"Uh, that would be great!" "Lock the door."
We retired to the bedroom. By this time I had decided that to prevent her from pulling her disappearing act beneath me, I would prefer positioning her on top. This seemed more enjoyable than her doggie‑style‑on‑stilts position too. Early on I'd found she was not the slightest bit ticklish; not even at her sides and feet, which I found quite odd. She did not drink, but by now I'd sold her on alcohol's antiseptic qualities and she'd use it as a mouthwash because she knew how much I liked to kiss her. To sneak in some foreplay and extend my time with her, I'd bend at the knees to her level, embrace her tightly and smooch her real good. She'd gotten so that she'd respond by wrapping her arms around my head and neck and pushing a little tongue at me. In all the years I've known her, I never got around to telling her I don't like tongue. By the same token, she never asked me to shave for her though she has told me twice that she doesn't like my mustache and beard on her face and skin. Soon as I got her clutched to me, I'd straighten my knees and pick her up. Quite naturally, soon as her feet left the floor, she'd pull her legs up and wrap them around my waist. This is from whence our elevation routine evolved that I may have previously described. Skeeter loved this from the start, possible because I'd pretend to be her horse and asked which way she wanted to ride me.	It gave her a pleasurable sense of control and power. Simple games like these could elicit an easy smile and good humor, and helped break the tension that marked some of our early relationship together. Having gotten pregnant early in life, I assumed she had begun heterosexual. Based on this, I also assumed that she could become so again, in a bisexual sort of way, if I could give her enough TLC. She didn't know it at the time, but I wanted to raise a family with this woman.

If I didn't take her like this and become her horse, Skeeterboy Pimp would simply disrobe quickly, hop into bed and wait for me to catch up. My way thwarted this and was a lot more fun because this horse was skittish and easily spooked. He didn't take direction well and Skeeterboy Pimp had a lot to learn about stallions. We always galloped and reared unpredictably, managing to take the long, bumpy route before finally arriving at the mare's paddock. This was the vanity niche where the mistress does her hair and makeup before a huge, well‑lighted mirror. I'd set Skeeterboy on this table.  It put her at just the right height for kissing, fondling, undressing, even for love if I'd wanted. The mirror made it very sensual too, though it only showed her back, buttocks, hips, waist and hair as she sat. She couldn't see it behind her, and thus it didn't intimidate her. She preferred darkness. It was here I'd remove her sneakers and socks, stroke her ankles, calves and thighs while examining her 'fetlocks'. Often she'd strip off her shirt and undo her jeans as I'd do this. Skeeter would then take my neck and shoulder in her arm and hand, pulling herself up as I peeled off her jeans. As I'd do this, her breasts would sway gently and her nipples would kiss my chest. (I'd make certain to have my shirt off first so I could enjoy this.) She would sit placidly naked and smile as she watched me undress as quickly as I could. Then she'd come into my arms again, wrap herself snugly around me and let me carry her to bed. I'd hold her pelvis mashed tightly against my stomach as I lay her in bed so she couldn't scoot down. I'd follow her down and would not release my grip until I was parked low, my waist bracketed by her thighs, my face level with her neck so I could reach both her lips and breasts. Most important, my hands and arms were inside her arms so she could not easily get her hands under my armpits and begin levering and squirming her way under me.
Before she could take her arms from encircling my neck, I kissed her lips firmly. Soon as I let her up, she began squirming her arms inside mine so she could reach down and grab my member. From there she would pull me up and try to insert me inside her while initiating her disappearing act.
"No, wait, Baby," I said. "Let's take our time!	It's better with a little foreplay!"
"I don't like foreplay," she answered. "I like the fu‑un!"
She had my member and was pulling insistently. I told her, "Wait! We haven't got the condom yet!"
"Too late now!" She had both hands pulling now, and was managing to squirm her hips back to it. I began to panic.
"You sure?"	 "I'm surel"
I raised 'way up and pulled forward, but stayed too high for her to insert me. I kissed her forehead long and carefully, trying to detect sign of any type of fever, particularly one of the low‑grade, barely‑detectable kind. I could find none. Stalling for more time, I rubbed the side of her face with my cheek, saying, "Baby, this is great, but but..." Her skin was clean and cool, as always: not clammy.
"But what?" I could smell no fetid breath. "Could I make you pregnant?" No sweating. "You can't make me pregnant:" she said. "Come on!"
"Skeeter, I'm taking you to Xanadu." I said a quick 'Hail, Mary'.
Lowering my hips for her, she guided me toward her power point with both hands and tried to insert me. Even with my eager help, it wouldn't go. Swiftly Skeeter brought her left hand out, drew its fingers across her tongue, then it vanished down between us. "Now try," she said.
Her lower lips were moistened, and with her guiding hands I slid deeply into her, warm and cozy. She was tight. I could feel that her mucus membranes were just not quite in the mood for having my stranger crowd them. Her application of saliva had been enough to get me inside with little difficulty, but pulling out a fraction, I could feel her clench wanting to hold me in place. Also, she was begining to perform her squirming‑vanishing act. Quickly I mashed down on her pelvis, taking the growing kink out of her back. Even with this maneuver, only her forehead was level with my chin.
"Skeet?" I began gently. "Baby, doing it like this is going to hurt you. We don't want you sore tomorrow.,'
"She'll loosen up," came her quiet, calm voice. "Try."

Very gently, I began with short, slow strokes.  After a very few seconds the drag was lessened. Begining from deep within her a slipperiness emerged. My head loosened. I probed deeper and groaned with pleasure, hoping to elicit more. Pulling spread it upward. In less than a minute she was ready. I kissed the top of her head and agreed, "You were right."
"Told you."
"Her tight little body and adorable demeanor were very appealing, but she was again in that position where she held her own legs by gripping them in her hands under her knees.
"Annette?"
"Huh?" "Could you let your legs down?"
"You won't like it that way."
"Please?" Skeeter complied without acknowledgement.
"Could you hold me too?" Skeet clapped her arms across my back. "Can we go now?" she asked with an exasperated tone.
"Thank you, Annette."
I began by thrusting myself into her deeply, with long strokes. With the curve all the way out of her spine, her ear was up to my chin. This was much better, though far from perfect. I came relatively quickly and hard. Soon I lay quivering. Skeet's head was even higher, but she looked away.
“I didn't get you off, did I, Annette? Give me five minutes and we'll do it for you. How do you like it best, Sweetie? Tell me how and I'll make sure you come real good." "Oh, I came. I came silently."
"Baby. " "Really. "
"I Just want to make sure you have at least as good a time as you gave me. Look: I know some women can only get off a certain way, you know? I have a bottle of peroxide  and some cotton. Want me to make you Queen for a day?"	_
"I like it just the way you did it."
"I'll put butterflies in your stomach! Make you flutter! You'll go throw rocks at LiI Bit!"
She snorted in amusement at this.
"I'm good," she said. A small smile crossed her face. She waited patiently for me to get off her. Reluctantly, I pulled out and released her from my weight. Skeet took to the bathroom. Shortly she returned and began gathering up her clothes.
I asked, "Can I hold you while you get dressed?"
She sat on the bed between my legs as she got dressed. She let me fondle her breasts as she did so.
"Want to go out now?" I asked.
"I got to get back to work."	‑ "You just got here'. Take some time off!""Can't d0 it."
"You came all the way out here just to take care of me and then go back?" "Yep. it
"Why?"
"Friends do that sometimes, you know?"
This reply almost brought tears to my eyes. This was one thing I'd been wanting to hear from her lips for weeks.  I hugged her tightly and kissed her shoulder.
"You sure made me happy, Annette. That's the best news I could have. I want to holler out the door, 'Skeeterboy Pimp says she's my friend: Look everybody! Isn't she great? We're friends, I tell you! Friends:'"

She smiled at this. I hugged and shook her: It was true. "Drive me back?"
"Sure thing, Annette." I was ecstatic. While I got dressed, I asked her the usual questions about how she was doing; how was she getting along with the girls at the apartment. Now that the sex was over, Annette began to get more animated. When we got in the car and drove closer to the rock, she and ± both were pretty giddy, though for different reasons. Then, out of the blue, she said: "Now you can buy me a rock:"
Hearing this, and watching her say it, did something to my brain. It shifted suddenly into hostile as it began to think that she had evaluated me so well that she figured she could come out and boff me, then play me to pay her shortly afterward instead of, duh, right after? It just seemed that somehow it was a trick to make me pay for bad sex. If I'd known I was going to be paying for it, I would have spent more time gradually teaching her how to give good, or at least better, sex. Or more precisely, maybe I'd just turned into a schitzophrenic whiner for no good reason. Short story is, I suddenly stopped thinking, felt manipulated and began saying some very hurtful and stupid things to her. They sounded something like this:
"'Buy you a rock'? Baby, you should have told me up front that you were wanting me to pay for it. I'll buy you a rock, but don't be coming around acting like it's free and then trying to charge me after we're riding back to..."
You get the idea. Eventually I came to my senses. Annette froze and took this abuse as I raved. When I did catch myself, it sounded a little like this:
"Wait a minute! What the Hell am I saying? You came all the way out here just to see me and give me a good time at great personal expense to yourself, then, without prompting, you tell me we're friends, which is what I've been wanting to hear you say ever since we met, and I say these stupid things to you? Baby, I'm sorry: I had no idea I could be so stupid and callous. You need to slap my face off for thinking like an idiot. If this ever happens again, I hope you do slap me, because I deserve it. We're going to get you some rock, and I hope you'll let me make this up to you somehow. I just have this paranoia that sneaked up on me. I'm not going to let it happen again, and if you see it happening, I want you to tell me. Are we still friends? I forgot that the most important thing in the world to me right now is your friendship towards me."
"We're still friends," she assurred me.

I couldn't really tell how appalled she had gotten at my rant, but I was glad she took my lapse as well as she did. The opposite of boisterous, flagrant Gina, Annette was largely calm, quiet and introspective. She gives little hint of what she's thinking. man has to simply stop and think for a bit to make any accurate assessments of any situation regarding Skeeterboy Pimp. After several moments of ruminating I began to realize that we were more than friends. When one of the Sisterhood allows you to enter raw, it is the equivalent of her taking you on as one of her husbands.  If and when this occurs, there is a bond of trust that, though unspoken, means as much or more to the two persons involved than many marriages: It means she trusts you with her health, and that you recipro‑ cate. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how very important it was. Annette had been bisexual or women‑only for sexual gratification so long, (about 14 years) that she could only get off on clitoral sex. Her other pleasure center had withered in disuse until she disdained it only as a means of financial support. After realizing how much she detested vaginal sex, I saw something of what it cost her to come out and see me. I bought her a rock; anyone who hated conventional sex as much as she deserved to be well paid indeed. Even so, it was a long time before she came by herself to my home again.
The day I met her, and subsequently, we'd discussed her health and how she maintained it. Skeeterboy Pimp was no fool in regard to avoiding disease. For a high‑school dropout she knew suprizingly much about many things, not the least of which being Sexually Transmitted Diseases. She'd seen an African covered with syphilis pustules and decided this was a serious matter to study. The afflictions of the Sisterhood she learned well, though more in the form of folklore than science. Whereas 50% or more of her 'co‑workers' interviewed would admit to plural STD and infestation episodes, Skeeterboy Pimp had suffered only one, though it was devastating: her fallopian tubes had festered shut 'before I'd met her, rendering her sterile. She was free of Human Papilloma Virus, the leading cause of cervical cancer, which was probably a miracle. She was remarkable healthy for the trade she engaged in, and it was tragic that a woman with her superior genetic endowment should be sterile. Even worse, when I tried to explain to her the benefits of laproscopy in countering sterility, she wouldn't hear it. It was as if she feared pregnancy due to her prior trial with it. It was far too early in our relationship for me to be broaching this subject, but I planted the seed before letting the matter drop. She had no doubt of where I wanted to take her and of my disappointment in her recalcitrance and predicament.
The main reason Skeet was so long in coming back to me is because the vice cops nailed her for a thing they call "public lewd act". This is where a secret cop crawled under her locked restroom stall and accused her of crime. Somehow it is no crime for a male pig to invade the women's restroom. It might have been lewd, but it obviously was not public. The pig had to intrude past two doors, one plainly marked to exclude him, then he had to peep inside each of six stalls, two of which were occupied by female citizens legally engaged in the process of elimination. When so hounded and denounced, the women passively accept whatever the cops and lawcrats arbitrarily choose to take from them. Since this class of citizens is already ground down into poverty by drug addiction, the lawcrats can not take money, though they try very hard to cash in on prostitution for themselves by demanding all conceivable types of legal ransoms such as fines, processing fees, probation/ parole fees, food fees, jail fees, medical fees, etc. None of these women pay these ransoms in the cash the judges, courtcrew, lawyers and social bureaucrats so covet. Instead, they simply add them to what they steal of the women's lives at usurous rates. One day in jail 'pays' one to five dollars of her fine. (They charge the taxpayer $30 to $50 per day for this same 'service'.) This way the lawcrats sneakily pass their fines, fees, penalties and costs of their enslavery to the enslaved, or at least appear to at first glance. What really occurs is they tack on obscenely more to jail costs and craftily gouge the unwitting taxherd for it. Judges, sheriffs and thousands of brother‑in‑law vendors get rich off their enslavery racket. So why would they permit a girl drug treatment or counseling at a loss when they can warehouse her and suck from the taxherd $40,000/year to pay what	 actually costs closer to $7,000/year? Simple economics. Such colossal profit margins can not be had many other places. Drugs and weapons provide a similar profit margin to the lawcrat's slave trade, but not much else.

The girls and women quickly learn not to try and access any 'rights' the lawcrats loudly claim that everyone has. To ask for a lawyer, hearing or trial is to have them steal away with much, much more of your life for having the gall to ask for fair or humane treatment. Normally, if they shut up and demurely accept punishment, the lawcrats will 'only' torture them in their dim jailpits for about a year. I call it torture because they are provided no intelligent diversions such as TV, radio, reading material‑only blank walls to stare at and their own bodies to amuse them. Before this new century is up the jawyers will themselves admit to this torture: law has always lagged science by many decades, but agonizingly slow progress in this field will be made.	For now though, the cops, judges, prosecutors, guards, jailers, social workers and bureaucrats are all very proud of the work they are doing for such lucrative pay. Taking a year from a drug addict's life for a minor sex act and harvesting a fabulous wage for themselves out of the taxherd's pockets for it is, to them, God's own calling.
Skeeterboy Pimp is more than a name; it's also a defense mechanism. Being among the smallest and thus possibly the easiest in jail to induce into sexual submission by the African gangs who have deep racial grudges against Caucasian women, the name helps divert their predations through humor.	(African women begrudge Caucasian women because even African males flock to them, no matter how fat or ugly they may be. African women‑thus' have to compete harder for fewer and less desireabletricks.) To dodge such usual predations, Skeeterboy pimp would join them and regale them with anecdotes of just what they wanted to hear: White women being 'pimped' and otherwise taken advantage of by Africans or persons who appear to have adopted African ghetto culture as their own.
This is the primary reason it took Annette so long to write me. To merely borrow or beg pencil, paper, envelope and stamp is to incur possible onerous debt and onus. When she . did manage to write, I came to see her as quickly as possible. This time she was in the Dallas jail called 'Lou Sterret'. This pit of Hell gives the illusion of modern cleanliness because the cops' part of it is brightly lit, often painted and daily cleaned. Behind the sheets of bulletproof glass and hardened steel are safely tucked the snotty, smirking, badges lowlifes who are charged with trying their damnedest to prevent access to their enslaved victims.
Few of these cops wore name tags, and they all purposefully ignored anyone who stepped up to their begging station. If you banged on the glass, one or more of them would curse you in stern bureaucratese and pull threats out that would cow most ordinary persons. But not Mr. Satyrfeld. They can rave on, and when they finally run out of breath and animosity my smiling, near laughing face will tell them, them, "Then put in a call button."
They can not abide it when members of the herd take a superior stance to their nonsense. It knocks them off their high horse. I wasn't there to make enemies, though they were enemies of all who came to them to see their hated collection of miscreants. Nor was, I there to absorb their threats or to kiss their saliva‑streaked asses. I step up and await their leisure. They ignore me too long, I bang on the glass until they render the service that they are paid so handsomely for. One bitch who was obviously drunk with power took off her name tag before charging over in a rage. They love to demand answers after they vent their bile and venom by raging "Do you understand!?"
"If attempting to obtain service from you disturbs you so, why work at such a stressful job? Obviously you're better suited for work elsewhere."

The cops will send an army through their portal if they become enraged enough. They call their reason for this "Disturbing (their) Peace" or "Disorderly Conduct"., though in this case the disorderly conduct was on the part of themselves. Instead of arresting me or succeeding in coercing me into replying as she wished to her "Do you understand?!" ritual/threat, she grudgingly gave me a far too long visit with my new friend. Plus, she gave me the expected lying bullshit trip on how to leave money for their victim. It goes like this: If you are there, in person, you must go elsewhere. If you call first, the ‑ anonymous bureaucrat on the phone will tell you that you must leave it in person, in cash, certified check or money order. In reality, it can be mailed or given in person, but not without first suffering their lying bullshit trip. Eighty‑plus years of enslaving people and they want you to think they still don't know how they want to do it. The way they do it is the way they want to do it: they merely hide behind these deliberate 'mistakes' they daily make hundreds of times at many jails so as to snooker their victim's loved ones out of forcing them to get right and stop their lying bullshit. Sadism is such a delightful pastime for them, and who best to practice on than their hated lawbreakers and the families and friends who love them?
After forcing them to take my cash and credit it to Skeet, they took all my metal and permitted me to ride an elevator to their people storage warehouse. Before very long she appeared, barely visible, behind 3/8ths inch thick steel mesh so heavy that a kitchen match would not fit through the holes. Additionally they set their steel stools far back so there was no chance of coming within arm's reach. Visitors had to stand. A guard was posted to make certain that all her victims' butts stayed planted on the stools. There were no more than five positions. We took the last, farthest, and the sound was deafening. Eight to ten people had to scream to be heard five feet away. It was pathetic.and deplorable. Skeet and the other women wore ill‑fitting coveralls, and the maggots had hacked off her beautiful long hair. There is no justification for this atrocity, yet they mumble 'health reasons' and are permitted this sadistic pleasure.
She was very glad to see me. This lady had been so alone all her life that it is amazing that she turned out as well as she has. Too many of these women are similarly without family or friend who will invest any time in them. She will count big coup when she goes back to the pit and announces that her man not only came to see her, but also left her enough money to share with all her Sisters. I empathize with her and try to make small talk. We avoid topics that need to be covered, such as how she got here and how to prevent it in the future. We've covered this before and her stubborn answer is "Live a ho, die a ho:" As if it is a proud badge of honor to suffer a short life of poverty for the 15 second rush of a drug. The gleam in her eye and the lilt in her Voice along with the joyous enthusiasm she displays keeps me there for the full hour though we are struggling for conversation after only 15 minutes. I try to tell her how good it will be when they finally get off her. It sounds as hollow as I feel. A new guard replaces the one whose ass had become numb. This one is less sadistic. She permits Annette to place her palm upon the mesh adjacent to mine. We stay like this a long time. We say our goodbyes. I leave. She has promised to write. I have promised to try and make her torture more endurable with letters and money. It is all I can do, yet so little. When the cops and lawcrats choose you for their cash cow, you're had for an arduous, long time.
Work and other pursuits kept me busy. The Pew weekends spent with Annette were a welcome vacation to my life as a refugee from the robed, badged and silk‑suited criminals of Oklahoma. Now they are over for a long while. My visit to the Texas house of Social Atro‑

cities reminded me of my primary goal of bring the Okie cops and judici‑crooks to justice. I am always working to get my life back from these lying, cheating, enslaving, murdering thieves, but this particular essay is about Annette, who was so instrumental in my ultimate success.
She wrote me that Gina had been by on her way to their women's prison. Also, she had met a new friend who helped her wile‑away the days and nights. This was an Hispanic young woman named Nancy. She had come in for the first time alone and scared. She was married, and not a member of the Sisterhood, merely another victim of coke addiction. Skeeterboy Pimp had educated her, and formed, with others, a tight little self‑protection society and jail 'family'. Nancy managed to exit first, and Skeet asked me to go visit her. She had to write and ask me twice before I realized she was serious. Finally I did visit her, for no other reason than having been asked and having the time. As to the purpose, I was completely in the dark. It appeared that I would discover the reason when I found this strange woman, and would be very angry if I found it had to do with cocaine.
She lived in some Fort Worth taxpayer‑subsidized housing projects on, no kidding, fishtrap lane. The place was pretty deserted and much of it was boarded up. Plus, it was, of course, full of Africans who somehow didn't know anything about their own streets or address numbers. Twice I could not find the place, despite having a mapsco, and gave up. Then Skeet got out. We want to find it together, and did. it was in the same vicinity as I'd narrowed it down to, yet we would not have found it either except that Skeet recognized one of Nancy's little boys from her description. The kid led us to his mother, who lived behind a Black's home, not even having access to the street. Additionally, the Negroes had their multitude of lincolns, grand prix's and caddys pulled up in the yard haphazardly, obscuring the fact that the place was a duplex. Haughty horse‑cops patroled, leaving horse biscuits everywhere.

Nancy and Skeet didn't greet as lovers, though I suspected they were. Probably the reason for this was Nancy's marriage to an injured Hispanic man who was present at the time. Nancy was a little bit more than just chubby, but good‑natured and witty. Nancy's being not too far from the clinical definition of obese argued against her being a coke fiend as I'd first assumed. Since it was none of my business what her crime was, I didn't ask her or Skeet. Also, I didn't really care what particular accusations the cops and lawcrats had chosen to brand her with.	I form my own opinions and need no coaxing or subtle programing from the silk‑suit mob or their storm‑trooper thugs. Nancy had five adorable boys ranging from four to twelve years old, or even more closely spaced. She didn't look twenty years old, The boys all looked pretty much alike except for size, and they all loved attention, especially from Skeet and even me. Skeet and Nancy introduced everyone. We sat and talked for a pair of hours before moving to leave. Nancy is a very congenial and solicious person who seemed to lean forward a bit and pay particular attention to whatever I said. It took me most of the time there to notice that this was occurring, and when I did notice this, it became un‑nerving. Usually people don't affect me this way, especially strangers. Nancy was a person with little, but who made much out of little. Her husband was a worthless layabout. He tried to mooch money from me every time I saw him, but he never got any. With five kids he could see every day and an industrious, happy wife, he was considerably better off than me and mine. Thus I had no pity for him despite his injury, which appeared to have come of an alcoholic joyride in which he destroyed their vehicle and his ability to work.	(He was on crutches and had a cast which looked to have been crafted for a broken tibia, a relatively minor injury.)
Skeet was very glad to see me and had lost most of her "Skeeterboy Pimp" persona, at least while we were alone or with straight people. In our letters to each other she had provided me with some insights into her character. I had stumblingly learned to provide her with letters she could share with her Sisters without revealing her feminine side, slight as it is. Skeet is very tough emotionally, and puts on an even tougher personality in jail. I helped, once I got the gist of what she wanted: then I supercharged it with humor and sent it back to her. She and the Sisterhood got a big charge out of my calling her 'my little man' and pretending to he her 'wife' or her my 'pimp'. The last thing she wanted in my letters to her was anything that would compromise her jail persona. Once I figured this out, I was happy to oblige, especially when it would help her survive trying times. In this she was especially grateful and had promised, without prompting, to show me "...just how much woman..." she could be.
Though the mind was willing, the flesh was recalcitrant. Skeet's preference for women appeared to go deeper than mere psychological abberation. Even so, there was vast progress since the last time we made love ten months ago, despite her prohibiting me from dispensing therapy through letters. My helping her through enslavement made her truly realize I was indeed her friend and caused her to reciprocate more fully and more willingly than she'd thought possible, though many walls remained. When I got her home, she was still ecstatic about getting out of the cops' atrocity‑mart plus having been re‑united with her newest girlfriend. She was beautiful in many ways and I was determined to do my best to win her for myself alone.  In this vein, I had elicited a standing promise from her that whenever she got out of jail, she would see that I got to be the first to make love to her. In this way I hoped to increase the odds of my being able to bring her to climax in the conventional, heterosexual way. Once inside the privacy of my home Annette wasted no time leaping joyfully into my arms and climbing up me until her lips and eyes were level with mine. Without any prompting she wrapped her arms around my head and kissed me hard.
"Did you miss me? Huh? Did you?" she shouted.
"I missed my little man every day," I fairly shouted back as I took us to the refrigerator, opened a beer and edged us to the sink. Her big, bright eyes never left mine as
I drank, swished and swallowed, then gave the bottle to her. She took a big swig, swished it around in her mouth, then spat it into the sink.
"Jim:" she shouted, "Those girls think I'm the ‘King of the Pimps' Isn't that great?" She threw back her head and laughed with abandon, tightened her embrace and kicked gleefully like a little colt.
"You keep our promise?" I asked, not seriously. "You know I did!" she brayed.
"I don't know what kinds of ingenious things women can come up with in prison." I teased.

"I aint had no man for ten months, and that was you!"	. "That's my little man! Now look here: I've got another surprise for you." Taking out my bullet pipe, we shared big hits of fairly good marijuana while I moved her to the vanity and sat her pretty bottom on its table. The Mary Jane would relax her; make her more uninhibited, and had been missing from our previous sexual encounters. My hope was that she would now enjoy sex with me instead of as a spectator beneath me. The kiss she had initiated was a good start. She let me take her cloths off as she smoked. The rest of mine flew off and I carried her to bed. We lay naked on our sides together and talked a short while, catching up. Then she was to the point.
"Let's have some fun!"
"Let's make a lot of fun," I said. "Come up here on my chest so we can kiss while we do it."
"You get on top." "You're not long enough!" "I'll stretch out; I promise," she assurred me, "But no talking!"
"I got some more pillows for your legs," I replied.  "This way you can hold me and " claw my back instead of hold your legs."
''That might work," she answered, "Especially the clawing part."
I arranged the pillows to either side, then mounted her, but didn't let her guide me in just yet.
"Can I play with your breasts?" I asked, "just a little?" "What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously.
"I won't hurt you, and if you don't like it, just tell me and I'll stop. Okay?" "All right," she agreed doubtfully.
I stroked one and took the nipple of the other into my mouth and began tonguing a circle around the auriole. Next I sucked gently, fearing something would come out. It was not much fun for me, and when I looked, I was assurred by her expression that she wasn't enjoying it either.
"Sorry, Annette," I apologized, "I thought you might like it.  I had to try.  You  know what you like. Just tell me."
"I like to have fun and go fast."
"Okay." But before we did, I raised up and nuzzled her soft cheek with the non‑hairy part of mine. Then I let her insert me. Or try to. Again she had to pull the saliva trick to get me inside. She was warm, deep and snug; very snug, plus too dry for safe, healthy sex.
"We're too soon, sweetie. You're not ready."
This time Annette had not tried to squirm under me at all. Her calm, low voice came from right beside my ear. "She'll loosen up. Try." She was holding her palms lightly on my back. They felt very sensual.	
"Let me get my hand under you for support." I suggested. "Huh?"
"Lift up," I snaked my right hand under her tailbone. My left held her beneath her neck and head. Raising her bottom as I thrust gently deeper in short strokes, her moisture slowly welled up from within and spread everywhere needed.
"You were right," I said, searching for her face to kiss. "Told ya. Now, no talking," she answered, avoiding me.

Holding her in both hands, I attempted to play her like a cello. In and out I sawed, suppressing my own climax to give her the maximum amount of quiet time to work on her own. It would have been worth anything to me to learn what was marching through her consciousness as she clung to me. I began to perceive that making love to me was not entirely distasteful to her. Since she was asking I not distract her with chatter, she evidently was concentrating and desired to attain orgasm. Working the longest strokes possible seemed to work all right with her, though I found out much later that she and many other women are most sensitive closest to their lower lips. Because I was so interested in deducing the circumstances of Annette's curious sexuality, I lost track of time. We remained coupled together for a very long time, then I may have heard her breath catch in my ear. It was hardly noticeable, but then she whispered, "Go fast." This set me off; thinking that she was coming around. So aroused, I couldn't help it: my own orgasm began to arrive.
My palm on her coccyx began mashing her violently up to meet the blows of my member. Her knees and thighs gripped me tightly, as did her hands on my back. It was not good enough. I took her hips in both hands, drew my knees up quickly into kneeling position, tucking her bottom in and slamming her hard. This surprised her so much that she gulped involuntarily and her legs crossed at the ankle around my butt. The throes of passion hit me in wave after wave. Finally I quivered to a stop, but we remained locked together, still twitching. Too soon, it was over. I caught my breath, kissed her cheek and released her. Annette clutched herself and ran for the bathroom; closed and locked the door.
Though I'd felt no answering flutter, this did not mean I had been entirely unsuccessful. Feminine orgasms are usually too subtle to detect, especially by men preoccupied with our own. A sort of victory was mine anyway because she had consented to forgo the vanishing routine and had held me instead of her own legs. She had not stroked, squirmed, clawed or moaned, but most women are quite passive, even embarassed, to disclose any enjoyment.

This comes of millenia of suppression and subjugation to mores that even today still fulfill a valid function. One would think, though, that professional lovemakers would be uninhibited, but many are not. Mostly the nymphs are, and often not by much. Good courtesans can squirm, grope and verbalize to entice, but even in them it often rings false. The heart has to be in it for it to be effective. Contrary to social evolution, few hookers have developed and honed effective techniques to make their client satisfied efficiently and thoroughly. Men have low threshholds of pleasure; too low for women to care about. The likelihood of a dud or a misfire for a male is virtually nil. Social evolution does provide us with an occasional woman who has developed efficient methods for making men weep in pleasure. These often come in a smart, devious, wicked package: the foremost example I've discovered is, of course, Gina. She knows more about a man's body and his desires than most men know about themselves. But this is about Annette. She emerged from the bath and returned to bed. We snuggled together like spoons, she on her side in front of me. The lights were out. Taking advantage of the security she might feel from my being unable to see her face to read, I nuzzled her neck and asked, "Was that better for you?"
"That was good." "Good?"
Annette squeezed my hand that was cupping her breast and kissed it.  "Better," she said in a small voice. "Now let's go to sleep."

She had me drop her off at 'work' arn my way to work. She had accepted a key from me and now shared my home.	'Work' for her was more like 'party', it seemed, and she'd do it for about three days at a time, then she'd come home exhausted to sleep for a day.	I'd see little signs of her having come and gone, but mostly I'd come home and find her absent or wadded tightly in the bedclothes with the fan and air conditioner going full tilt. During these times I'd worry that she was sick, because I'd never had to sleep more than twelve hours to catch up. Each time I checked, her temperature would be normal, her throat would look good and none of her lymph nodes would be swollen. She'd sleep til she recovered, then accept something to eat. Her weight would hover around 108 to 110 pounds. It was great to have her here, and she never wanted much; just a few razors, tampons, bath soap and the like. I made sure she had a good toothbrush and paste, food, condoms of her choice and no‑jiggle bras that mashed her breasts flat for when we went jogging through the neighborhoods showing each other off. She began to get used to the idea of having a man instead of a woman, and even surprised me once by introducing me to some of her friends that way. Her jaw kind of locked when she said it, but she did say it, knowing it would please me. "This is Jim: he's my Huzz‑band." Her girlfriends looked pole‑axed. I was delighted. Skeet looked embarassed. I grabbed her shoulder and pulled her close. She took my waist and hugged me briefly in response. This declaration made her my wife in  the eyes of the law, and she knew it. The next day I came home and found her running the vacuum cleaner, the picture of domestic housewifery. Taking her into my arms, she recounted all the feminine chores she'd done while I was at work. I was suitably pleased and suggested we go celebrate: I didn't dare mention the thick cloud of dust that hovered about us or the fact that the vacuum had no bag inside it. We left quickly.
Another time I came home and found her smoking. She pushed two rocks toward me and said, "Those are yours." This gift really tugged at my heartstrings because I knew this was her most precious thing on Earth. Now it was in second place to me. Subsequently this became a regular occurence.  Instead of staying away for days at a time and returning only to sleep and eat, she began a new routine of coming home every two hours or so and sharing her rock with me. She'd come home very excited each time and say to me gleefully, "Let's get high!" She'd rush to the bedroom, pull out her kit, plop on the rug and begin getting things ready. I'd sit behind her and curl around her, holding her waist or breasts as she showed me her rocks to remark on how big they were. She'd also be proud of how fast she got them, often having a turn‑around time of less than an hour. She could catch dates quickly. Then she'd have her pipe and lighter ready, toss her rocks down like rolling dice and ask, "Cut them for me please." I would; she'd snatch one up, load it, throw her beautiful head back, fire it and inhale deeply. My fingers would find the two spaces between her ribs beneath her left breast that were closest to her heart. I'd feel her heart's excited fluttering damp down suddenly to a calm, robust thumping. At the same time she'd exhale with a long sigh and relax against me. Within half an hour she'd be finished. We'd strip down to the raw and climb into bed together. While Skeet was winding down, she'd take a nailfile to the soles of her sneakers and pry the tiny rocks from between the treads. While doing this, she'd tell me the importance of keeping them out because they made her soles slip and skid.  "You have to have good traction for when the cops come chasing you," she would say. The cops had even had their chopper chasing her once. After about half an hour of this lying side by side, desultory talking and her flipping rocks from her treads Skeet would turn to me and say, "Want to have some fun?" Of course my answer was always "Yes!" Annette would open up for me like a beautiful flower. We would make the sweetest love together until I was wilted. We'd lay together for another minute or two, still connected. Then she'd say, "Take me back to work?" Of course I would, and the two hour cycle would begin again.

It was often in my mind that she could never be moist and ready like most women, and I certainly didn't want to hurt her. We tried a lubricant once, but I'd put too much on and she had trouble getting it out. She didn't want to use it again for that reason.
Even after realizing my mistake of using too much, she still wouldn't let me show her how well it would work with very little. She only knew that she didn't want any of that stuff inside her ever again. I decided to save her some wear by using a condom most times. This made the trip last longer and was a substitute for foreplay, in a way.
The day came again when she wanted me to take her over to fishtrap to see Nancy. Neither of us had phones, but they did exchange a letter or two. Nancy and her husband were there. These two women put their heads together and got her husband to watch his kids for a day while we three went back to my place. At the time I thought nothing of it, but Skeet told me they wanted to be alone together. Teasing them, I said, "You'll want me to help!" Nancy looked embarassed, and Skeet insisted, "No; you can't help, watch or listen! You go find something to do for a few hours. I'll take care of you later'. Nancy and I need some privacy!" I gave them the phone number of Betsy and Craig Bombshell and left them to have their fun, wondering how many hours they'd need. That was at about ten AM or so. My friends and I had some interesting things going on at their place that lasted a long time. At three PM, Annette called. What a marathon that must have been! We were not finished, though, and I thought another 45 minutes wouldn't hurt. Annette called again, with Nancy, insisting that Nancy would be in trouble if I didn't take her back right away. This I did. They wouldn't let me in on any of their girl secrets, but they were happy as canaries going back to fishtrap. Nancy's husband never suspected a thing. Of course they'd done much more than merely have sex with each other in five hours. They'd fixed themselves lunch, gone to the store, become even closer friends and caught up with what had occurred in their respective lives. Skeet and Nancy would be lifelong friends if circumstances didn't get in the way.
These young women didn't tell me at the time, but circumstances had already gotten in the way. Nancy had dedided to leave her husband and go back to her kin in San Antonio. She was in the process of getting a restraining order and a divorce. The only hold‑up was the judge and school, which was almost over for the summer. The judge came through first, and, it seemed by telepathy, Skeet knew when to have me take the truck over and pick every one up. The cops were leaving fishtrap with Nancy's husband in chains and cursing mightily in spanish.	Nancy and her kids were already half‑paked. She ordered them around like little soldiers. They efficiently loaded everything and each other with amazingly little need of my help. They seemed to have very little; mostly clothes and kitchenware, Nancy made quick deals with mobs of neighbors on furniture, rugs, the busted car, a barbeque, even their TV. Finally we left. It was only on the way out that they let me in on their little plan. Nancy made a discreet throat‑clearing noise after I asked, "Where to?" She then said, "Uh, Skeet?" Annette took her cue.
"Uh, Nancy wants to stay with us for a while. Just a few days. I told her it would probably be all right with you. Just til school's out."
"Baby, our place is small..."
"We have money: We can buy food..." "Eight of us in there is..."
"I'll take off work..."

"I can cook..."
"How long is school...?" "Three or four weeks." "Three or four weeks!" "Almost five, but we can skip the last day." "Susan won't go for all of us..."
"Yes she will! Susan's kids will love Nancy's kids:" "Who's Susan?"
"The manager. She's Latino tool" "Long as Susan doesn't kick us out." "Susan loves you!"
"We'll be good and do chores!"
"Tommy will give us a big matress," I said, acquiescing.
"Thanks Jim. I knew you were a nice guy. Tell uncle Jim 'thanks'."

"Thanks uncle Jim!" the kids chorused. Nancy surprized me with a fast, dry smooch on my lips. Annette tittered at this while I responded to a honk and got back in my lane. Nancy winked. I tried to drive without smashing into any other vehicles. We made it home alive. Tommy had a mattress for the kids. They were cramped, but didn't seem to mind. They spent most of their time running wild outside. A11 but one went to school. Nancy cooked and shopped for us while I was at work. She got Tommy to clear out a space to store her things so I could see out of my van again. Annette spent more time at work instead of less, which left me with more time with Nancy and her family. All my hooker friends who visited fawned over how cute, smart, obedient and well‑manered the boys were. These remarks would usually be made after the girls had stolen politely into my bedroom, done their business and felt ready to face another hour or two of 'work'. Few boys were remarkably uncurious. They loved the attention, but instead of remarking upon the strange behavior of the adults or begging to see what was so special about the master bedroom, they would accost the girls when they came out and show them their homework papers, grades and art. The refrigerator got a set of cute plastic magnets to hold all the crayon drawings, the vacuum got bags, the walls stopped being blank, and new arrivals stopped asking me if I had just moved in or was I just moving out. A large variety of cats and pooches appeared and vanished to be replaced by others. I got to be very popular with the neighbors, which wasn't as unpleasant as I'd thought it would be since Nancy dealt with them; all I had to do is continue my same strategy of smile and wave. More pointless small talk was required, but it was easier not having to think up any of my own. Nancy provided all the leads, and they played like a brass band. I met all the kids in two apartment complexes. Susan began coming over often and got a lot more friendly.	I didn't get much of my own work done, but then it didn't seem to be so important that it couldn't wait. At first it was unnerving to have the front door fanning and slamming all the time ‑every time it opened, it could have been a cop‑pack running in. I instituted new safety procedures and moved the locking doorknob from one bathroom door to the bedroom door, then reversed the other one on the second bathroom door. This secured the bedroom. I made sticks for unlocking them from the outside and gave one to Nancy, one to Annette and one for me.	It turned out that Nancy had a driver's license, could drive a column‑stick and drove well and carefully. Instead of letting her ride buses all day, we'd drop the kids off at school and me at work, then she'd keep the truck to pick them up, then come and get me.  I never caught her abusing the privilege. After the first night Skeet stayed mysteriously gone for the next two nights. Nancy moved from the fold‑up cot in the front room to my bed. The stress of ditching her husband and changing her life so many different ways had caused her to lose a few pounds. She was an enthusiastic and pro‑active little sextress who was becoming prettier and more vibrant every day. Skeet and the Sister's coke helped her thin remarkably in just the few weeks. She never worked with them, but they usually included her in their smoke‑sessions. Skeet came back, but insisted on sleeping on the cot. About once a week Skeet wanted me to sleep on the cot so she could have Nancy. It was too small, too deep, too rickety and too noisy every time I changed position. The couch was always full too, so I slept in the truck, just like old times.
The weeks flew by. Too soon to get tired of it, school was out and it was over. We all drove to San Antonio, met a mob of Nancy's relatives, friends and new neighbors at her mother's home. They all fawned over Skeet, who loved the attention. Many small men helped me unload the truck with one hand, the other being busy holding cans of beer or smoldering sticks of marijuana. We laughed uproariously at our failure to understand each other without the help of a translator. They fed us like royalty, packed us enough supper to last a week. Skeet and I made it back alive. A year later we returned to see my new daughter. Through some back‑cross genetic trick, she managed to beat long odds and get blue eyes, plus my paternal grandfather's mother's German family trait that only manifests in our women; an extra cuspid tucked neatly inside her mandible, hardly noticeable even in her permanent set!
Annette found another girl that I'll never forget. Casey was a fine, bright‑eyed girl, less than 24 years old with beautiful wavy brunette hair; silky and shoulder length. Casey's sparky smile and happy personality was very appealing. She stood a couple of inches taller than Annette, was wonderfully muscular and thick, but was just a shade tending toward plump from lack of exercize and too much food. It was this slight extra weight she carried that was one of the things that drove her to the dope‑house where Annette : found her; that and her husband's harping about it all the time. Casey was married to Jeff. They'd had a fight about her weight, money and other things. Casey had taken her car and left. Skeet found her and introduced Casey to rock cocaine and tried to sell her on the fabulous riches available to those engaged in the sex trade.
Casey was down and blue. Her husband didn't find her attractive anymore. She felt worthless, unloved and depressed. The cocaine Skeet showed her how to smoke felt great! It was just the thing to elevate Casey's spirit. She and Annette bonded quickly. The cocaine high wore off quickly. Casey had a car. Skeeterboy Pimp knew where more dope was. She knew where to find men and get their money. Casey needed men to make her feel attractive again and to prove her self worth.  It was like they were made for each other. Thus began for Casey and I an adventure we'd never have engaged in without the catalyst of Skeet.

Casey drove while Annette ‑er, Skeeterboy Pimp, showed her the tricks of their trade. They met people who would pay to love them. They made some good, fast money, wasted much of it buying a lot of rock, then came home to me to smoke it and replenish their supply of condoms. Skeet introduced us. Casey and I hit it off grandly from the very start. I love stocky, muscular women of good nature, and she loves tall, handsome, blue‑eyed men who favor both her father and husband. We smoked, talked and had a wonderful time. Casey was very intelligent and had at one time majored in English before having to drop out for lack of funds. Before we were finished, Skeet was hot to go back out and return to work. Casey visited the bath before leaving and Skeet pulled me aside, ecstatically happy, and whispered to me, "She's great, isn't she? She lets me drive the car and she does all the work! Oops! Here she comes. We'll be right back:"
They drove off and returned twice more before becoming tired enough to call it a night. Each time, Skeet would fill me in more about what Casey herself would not say to ‑ me: the fight, the feeling of unattractiveness, the depression and need to re‑affirm her self worth. We both empathized with Casey; myself more than Skeet, since I had my own vehicle and wasn't so tired from a two‑day run that I fell to bed exhausted at 9 or 10 PM. Casey stayed up. We set up a springy cot for her to sleep on in the livingroom. She lay in it, clothed, and seemed to try to sleep. I read the paper, watched the news, did some writing and caught up on my paperwork. Earlier in the day Casey and I had walked to the grocery store together and had a fine time talking, shopping, telling jokes and learning about each other. She was a lot of fun to be with. Nothing specific was said between us, but it seemed that it might be easy for us to become intimate friends had it not been for my having Skeet and Casey having Jeff. Jeff was a good provider and it seemed that deep in her heart she knew she would eventually go back to him.
While these things were chasing through my thoughts, Casey lay a dozen feet away on the cot, apparently watching me, though without my glasses I could not tell for certain. Suddenly she swept her arm up and over her head like a high wave, but I ignored it as a fluke. A few minutes later she did it again. I asked her if I could get her a sheet or something, thinking that she may be wanting me to leave so she could get undressed and : sleep properly. Casey said, "Come and feel my forehead: tell me I'm hot," and grinned.
I dutifully felt her forehead, kissed it, told her she was indeed very hot, laughed, and said good night. Casey had made me very hot. I stripped off my clothes and slid into bed next to Annette. I began stroking and nuzzling her in the way that leads up to sex. She accepted my kiss, but blocked my mount. Half asleep, she informed me, "You get Casey tonight."
"What?" (This revelation kind of startled me.)
"Casey is taking over for me; I'm taking a few days off." 
“You mean ... ?"
"Ye‑es: Now let me sleep."
I started getting dressed again. After all, Casey was a college girl... "You won't need those. Just go have fun."
"Baby, you're the best!" I told her and scampered away.
Casey was waiting for me. I asked her if Skeet was playing a joke on me. She assured me that no jokes were involved. We made a better bed out of the couch cushions, the mattress and a couple of sheets. We snuggled together and talked for a while. Before long we were taking the scenic route to Bliss.
Casey is a very nice, refined, knowledgeable young woman who even then kept up with current events and had a sharp mind with a variety of well thought out opinions on many subjects. She reminded me a lot of the ambitious University girls I'd met in New Mexico and California, except Casey had more political awareness. Too bad she didn't have their affluent fathers to pay for her education. It was a shame that Skeet had corrupted her with rock, but it seemed Casey might have a better handle on the situation than I at first thought. This was the first thing I talked to her about that night after Skeet ditched me.

Casey thought it was very nice of me to be concerned about her in this regard and explained that she knew what she was doing. It seemed that Skeet may have exaggerated Casey's exploits somewhat. She mentioned that she was taking a vacation from Jeff so he could learn to appreciate her more. Casey stayed with us for a considerable time, and with her metabolism running in high gear for so long she lost a lot of weight fast. She got plenty of exercize keeping up with Skeet while her appetite was suppressed. She kept dwindling down and down until she hit 120 pounds, then stopped as suddenly as she'd started. Her planning and will power were very impressive. She left with my child inside her, without telling me until years later. She returned to Jeff, convinced him that he'd caused her pregnancy. A few months later April was born. Casey and Jeff are still together and have a larger family now. April is almost seventeen now, near the top of her class and can't wait to get to college.
Skeet was always bringing girlfriends home with her. Nancy and Casey are only the first two out of many. It took me a very long time to realize what was going on: Skeet was recommending me to many of the women she met: She's too subtle and polite to ever put this in the words that I'll use here, but Skeet was selling my stock through the Sisterhood. I'd get her cornered and try to convince her to visit a fertility clinic with me. She'd adroitly escape to the streets and stay gone. Hours or days later she would show up with a new girlfriend, both of them smiling like cheshire cats, exchanging knowing looks and talking in code or whispers. Sometimes Gina would help her at this enterprise too, though I didn't find out until the time I made Skeet spitting mad by chasing her around for sex. Annette wanted some peace and to sleep, but I kept after her. Finally she hissed at me, "You want to have some fun, huh? I'll give you some fun! Come on! Come on!"  She dragged me on top of her, stuffed me inside her, locked her hands around her ankles and began slamming powerfully up onto me at top speed. After about thirty seconds of this bumpy ride I realized it was time for me to leave her alone for a while. Gina found out about this and got angry with me too. She told me, "You need to give Skeet a break! She goes out and hunts for you!  You have it better than any trick ever has and you don't even know it. Open your eyes, James! Think about all she does for you!"
Gina refused to elaborate further than this, but it was plain enough, finally, even for my thick wits. I had really hit the jackpot with Skeet, Gina and the Texas Sisterhood. I'm actually a very lucky and successful man, just not quite in the way I had visualized it when I graduated high school and sought to work my way through college.
It wouldn't be fair or balanced for me to provide only examples of my successes with the Sisterhood without equalizing it with accounts of my failures. Truth be told, I was interested in these women and wished to understand and try to help them. Some of these women were in bad shape when I crossed their paths. Once when Annette was in jail and

Gina was vanished, a girl from that neighborhood came up to me as I was at the wash‑o‑matic spraying the company's stepvan. She asked me if I needed a date. This was beautiful Cindy. She was my brand of big and tall. Nearly my height of six feet, Cindy carried no excess weight, nor was she overly thin. Her thick, natural red hair was in a page‑boy cut, probably indicating her recent exit from jail. She was no more than 23 years old and probably 125 or 130 pounds. The ripped, cropped tee shirt she wore was both dirty and revealing. Her breasts were a bit small, but ample; she was tan, and not freckled.  She wore, it appeared, only a raggedy shirt for a skirt, tied around her fine, fluffy butt and neatly flairing hips by its long sleeves. The thing didn't make it all the way around, and behind the dangling cuffs and knot in front I could see she wore white panties. Her legs were so encrusted with road dirt that I was momentarily tempted to ask if she'd like me to give them a spray. She must have at least had decent shoes, else I probably would have noticed. In all, Cindy looked like she had been sleeping outside, probably in the burned out, abandoned apartment house remains near this carwash. She needed a friend badly.
Soon as we were in the van driving away, Cindy steered the conversation directly to rock. She was plenty healthy, merely dirty, unkempt and needing clothes. She knew a dope connection, of course, and $20 was the price to keep her in my company long enough to uncover more about her. She readily agreed to accompany me to Irving and my place. All she asked was that I bring her back. I tried to draw her out about her living arrangements, a boyfriend, girlfriend, relatives: whoever was taking care of her was doing a dismal job of it. She took me for some religious person at first, but revealed nothing substantial about herself. Not wishing to offend her, I made no comment on her clothes or the dirt she was carrying around with her.
When we arrived and let ourselves in, Cindy immediately set about preparations, asking after a mirror, cutter, pipe, lighter, etc. Her connect had given her a big‑sized rock which she cut into four pieces and quickly inhaled one. Where she had before appeared single‑minded and somewhat driven, Cindy now relaxed a bit, but still showed an intentness in her clear hazel eyes. I took my turn, she took hers; I took the last. This I took in the bathroom because the pipe had broken and was short. By looking in the mirror in the better light I could adjust the heat more accurately. Just as I was starting, Cindy came into the doorway and abruptly asked, "Are we going to do it?"
She meant sex, of course, and I wasn't ready. Normally the girls will spend a few minutes smoking crumbs and taking fume‑hits before coming to the sex part. My thinking hadn't yet devised a way to politely maneuver Cindy into the tub. She was very dirty, and I was wondering how I could get her some clothes so she would be decent enough to take out and buy her some clothes. We certainly couldn't go to the mall with a rag tied loosely around her butt. While these confused thoughts roiled through my head, I'd looked her up and down, too. I held the smoke in and managed to get out, "No," but I meant, "No, wait a minute."
The result was a quiet explosion. Cindy's teeth bared, her eyes flashed lightning. She spun on her heel and whisked away to the kitchen where I heard her rattling bottles. When I went to help her find something to eat and apologize and explain, I found her filling her shirt with my beer. She was seething like a volcano. She wouldn't let me explain; she would not hear my apology. She took me as having insulted her, and there was no changing her mind. I felt very bad. Both of us were missing opportunities. Some of these women can be saved; many can be shown how to lessen the harm. This time, there was nothing. I hoped that she would calm sufficiently on the drive back to see reason.
"I'll get you a sack for those," I ventured. The fact that she drank beer argued for the notion that Cindy was not yet a professional hooker or rockstar.
"Don't need a sack!"
With a shirt full of cold beer bottles, Cindy took off for the door. Following her out to the parking lot, I told her, "Let me get my shoes on and I'll drive you back." "You're not getting me back in there," Cindy spat, incongruously.

Putting my shoes on as quickly as possible, I ran back out. She was gone. In that mere few seconds some new trick had immediately swooped in and carried her off; another manhater in the making, courtesy of your author and my slow wits and fast mouth.
Skeet and I were cruising the carwash neighborhood a few months later when I saw Cindy again. She was standing out on the green grass, well clothed in a new, dark blue jumpsuit that exhibited her very fine curves nicely. Her hair was thick, shiny and noticeably longer. She looked bored standing there alone as she swung a black leather purse with a long shoulder strap while awaiting the arrival of a trick. Annette and I shouted and waved a greeting as we sped by, but she couldn't see Annette and appeared not to recognize me. Even so, I was glad to see her doing much better for herself.
Jaime was another girl who had let herself fall far down. She came up to my truck's window as I was parked at an apartment, having just dropped off a coworker. She has an angelic face, and asked if I 'partied'. By this time I was well enough versed in the contemporary slang to realize that this really meant 'sex for coke or money". Exactly how bad off she really was was not readily apparent except for a dime‑sized sore on her cheek. I invited her in, but we only sat while I studied my maps for a route the company had me going on soon. We did introductions and talked. She steered the conversation very quickly to rock. Her connect was in an apartment only a few feet away. I gave her some money. She left to purchase it.
Not having seen her arrive, I watched her leave. Jaime was limping, because she had only one shoe. She was tall and willowy; naturally tall and thin, and a bit of extra thin because of the coke, I suspected. At 5' 11", she would have only weighed perhaps 115 pounds. Her age was 22, and she was intelligent, with a pleasant demeanor. I remember she had some special award or aptitude in school that was unusual for a lady, but my memory fails as to what it was exactly. She intrigued me, and she seemed very wise for her age. Jaime managed to draw me out more than I her; she had me telling her of Annette as we smoked. The rock lasted an awful long time, and now I remember why: Jaime had paid for an equal amount herself; a thing such women never do, thus we had twice the minimum amount.
Jaime was very calm, relaxed and at one with her surroundings. After our first turn or two, she asked to bathe. Of course I was happy to oblige. We continued our conversation, at a distance. She'd left the door open, and I gave her privacy. While she was bathing the rock dwindled, but I was careful not to infringe upon her share. When she came back out and joined me in the livingroom, wearing the same clothes, of course, she asked if I would mind her panties drying on the shower curtain rod. She was very considerate, and insisted I smoke some of her rock, which I eventually did. She had me describing my arrangement with Annette and commi serated with me on how very long remained on her sentence.
"You must be very lonely without her. It's so very quiet in here. When you make love with her, does she let you go without a condom?"  
"Yes, of course," I explained. "I make certain she never runs out of condoms for work, and she doesn't let me down."
"Is there a track in Irving?" She meant a place to pick up tricks. Evidently she had not been in this area long. (The cops regularly chase hookers from city to city all over the nation.) "Please, have another rock. I've had enough, and there's still plenty."

This young woman had paid her own way and some of my way on the rock, She had intimated that she would become my new wife, sans condom, plus she appeared ready to go out immediately and whore to our mutual benefit. Any ordinary man would have loved to have such a beautiful, willing, industrious and sharing woman, but all I could see was that huge sore on her cheek. My mind began to speculate upon what other ill healths were upon her. Jaime was so very appealing with her pretty face, her exceptional charm, her height, calm, pleasant demeanor, her grace and intellect. But that lesion on her cheek struck me as the most virulent eruption of herpes ever, if that was indeed its source. Her thinness bode illness too. Truth told, I wanted to keep her around my home as a friend only, and to try and set her on a better path than the one she had chosen. But I could not trust myself to be strong enough to resist her. If I didn't cure her or get rid of her, all too soon we would be in bed together, sans condom, my cheek rubbing against hers.
We smoked the rest of the rock as I tried to devise a way to break this to her in such a way as to avoid another Cindy‑type explosion. I liked this girl, as I had liked Cindy, but youth is bold and proud, recalcitrant and immune to reason and discretion. She had no good reason for having made this her life, at least none she would admit. "It just turned out this way," she told me. Finally I just told her:
"Jaime, I like you very much and think you're a wonderful person, but I think you're ill and I couldn't trust myself to resist you. Can I take you to Parkland hospital and see what you need in the way of medication? I'd love you to stay, but I'm worried about your health."
Her blue eyes gave no hint as to what she was thinking. Her face was impassive, even when she spoke.	:
"I don't need you," she hissed. Jaime retrieved her still‑wet panties from the shower and said, "Let's go. Take me back where I found you."
The return ride was in total, icy silence on her part, and when we arrived, she limped away without acknowledging my apologies or looking back. If there had been a better way to handle this, I'd sure like to hear it, because that was the best I could think of. Once again it appears that I have helped another young woman along the path of manhating and lesbianism despite my efforts to the contrary.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Tricks

Let us be thankful for the fools: But for them, the rest of us could not succeed.
											Mark Twain
There are occasions in which cops actually do help hookers, or at least try to, instead of exploiting them for good FR from media hacks and tabloid TV 'infotainment'. One of these instances occurred in Dallas when it became apparent that a trick had turned rabid and began killing hookers one by one.
The constant, unabashed thievery of these women is what often turns tricks against them. Upon discovery of massive theft the tricks make it worse by trying to get their money or property back from the woman. Soon as she sees force is about to be employed against her, she rips her clothes, dials the cops and shrieks "Rape!". The cops come, resque the thief and drag the victim to their filth‑encrusted dungeons. This happens every day, many times each day.

Cops hate 'Johns' and love whores for what they can exploit from them, primarily sex and 'street intel' they can obtain nowhere else. Cops develop an intense hatred of Johns through their training and because they become jealous of Johns' intrusions into their relationships with whores. Cops love to play dragonslayer in damsel‑in‑distress scenarios. Also the cops are addicted to the power that the state's badge, murder‑machines, iron horse, cop‑radio gang, shackles, chains, mace and clubs give them. Inside every cop there is or soon develops a closet sadist; the nature of their hob assures this. When cops get to play detective they become extra vicious because they do not have to wear the monkey‑suit that identifies them as cops to everyone within eyesight. When cops are permitted to hide their identities, an astute person realizes he is in the clutches of an officially sanctioned criminal. When cops are permitted to hide behind the garb of ordinary citizens, they revert to pure thuggery, which is their natural state.	(See: Copculture.)
The police/media term 'John' is not very accurate. Police usually do not manage to arrest many actual Johns. The ones the cops snatch and grab are tricks who have not worked their way up to John status. Johns are like regular customers, such as a restaurant has.
Hookers call them 'regulars' or 'dates'. When hookers take a chance on a new or unknown customer, he is a 'trick'; someone to rip off or to rush in and out fast.
Hookers, for the most part, are manhaters. They hate most men for what they buy from them. Hookers hate submitting to men for money and, with tricks, will cleverly endeavor to make their experience as un‑enjoyable and frustrating as possible; and expensive, of course. Tricks are put off by this attitude, and the immature and vengeful ones will reciprocate by treating hookers badly, especially after one has sicced the cops on him.
The killing spree had been going on for quite some time. Only the cops knew about it, and they kept it their little secret for almost two solid years. Five or more young girls' corpses had to be found in the space of a few months before the cop/media alliance was finally forced to quit keeping it a secret. The people who write editors to comment on the news they choose to publish kicked it off first. Then suddenly the newspapers were full of it. The stories appeared briefly and intermittently on local TV and radio broadcasts.
All of the women who regularly 'worked' in this dangerous neighborhood were very frightened, but few, if any, gave up their lucrative trade.  Instead they would simply	speculate as to who the guy was. They would compare notes on who had met the creepiest trick. They would try to keep better tabs on who of the Sisterhood was missing, how long they'd been gone and what likelihood there was that they were rotting in a field or had found a rich trick and were simply enjoying a free ride.
My own sex‑bandit friends brought home a black woman and her husband who were lucky enough to have been enlisted by the cops to help find the guy. All the hookers were helping every way they knew how, but simple speculation and hot tips can only go so far.
The cops had been given a govt grant and a better idea. They had body fluids to type and DNA to sequence from the corpses. All they had to do was get his fluids or DNA from a woman who survives and who could identify him. The cops could not yet simply steal body fluids and semen from every innocent male through the lawcrat industry such as they do in Worse police states like England, Israel, Russia, France and Germany. Also, they couldn't wait for their cop lobbies to buy such laws from the legis‑lawyer system. They had the urge to nail some body to their cross now.

That's where Jasmine and her husband, B'butu, came in so handy.	They Inad worked for the feds to imprison a Rastifari crime ring in Chicago and now were partaking of the secret witness welfare plan. Jasmine's job was, ostensibly, to organize the Dallas hooker community. The cops stood as far back in the dark as possible and offered her a bounty of (she claimed to her Sisters) $20 for each semen‑filled condom M'Butu delivered to the shadowy 'Federal Action Team' boys.	The price arrived at was no coincidence, and, for added convenience, the hookers could elect to be paid in crack cocaine cooked up and supplied by police. A $20 rock is minimum payment for the most convenient and quick sex act a woman can perform.
The cops tried to limit their sperm‑buying program to a few carefully selected whores, but it swiftly turned into a fiasco at both ends. As with every free‑money giveaway, greed overcomes even the most highly trained public servants. The feds tried to teach the program to the local DFW‑metro Task Force cops. (The madman was taking his victims from the Farmer's Branch (Dallas) whore track, but cops from two other nearby jurisdictions wanted to pin three or more unconnected female homicides on him.) Cops always err on the side of safety, and thus the entire DFW‑metro area was included in their program.
The feds began on their own with just Jasmine while teaching the local cops how to run the program themselves with just federal taxcash and help from the fed labs. (Local cop 'labs' were not sophisticated enough to do this work, which entailed actual analysis of real evidence instead of the usual manufacture of same.) The feds had just been given by the scientific community Idiot Kits that allowed them to take advantage of the DNA polymerase chain reaction technology. The media‑whores have since renamed this technology, inanely, 'DNA fingerprints'. The name sticks despite its having nothing in common with fingerprints. None of the cops seemed to have any predictive ability or even elementary economic or business knowledge. This was their first semen‑purchasing program. They were not prepared for what was about to occur.
From my perspective it is hard to say with any accuracy much about exactly how the cops, both federal and local, lost their way. My theory is that they didn't have complete control of their media tools and were too scared to risk getting caught buying semen no matter how lofty their purpose. I didn't see them risking much of anything in this respect; they already sell dope and retain their halos somehow and are still called 'Heros' at the drop of a hat. How could buying semen from whores be harder to justify than this? I knew the hookers well enough to predict much of what they would do. Since I had a special relationship with the hooker community, it was inevitable that they would involve me pretty much at the inception. I provided a safe haven for hookers to hide from the cops and rest up after marathon engagements with their party‑mates.

The first inkling I had of something out of the ordinary occurring came when I noticed a strange trend. I came home from work to find them in a quiet huddle around my table. They began whispering amongst themselves, which isn't too strange, then began soliciting me for transportation, condoms, money and clothes. Celeste, being the boldest and most forthright (behind Gina, that is) contrived to speak privately with me first. When I would not give her any money or instantly transport her and three friends back out to their 'work', she followed me into my bedroom, closely followed by her best friend. While I was changing clothes she and Dixie determined that they would pretty‑much insist that I buy from them some oral sex: something I do not do. Celeste had concocted and actuated their plan to drain me, but Dixie had the only ready condom. She thought that gave her the right to go first. Celeste was trying to obtain a condom from me or anyone else when Gina burst in from the bathroom and began loudly warning Dixie, Celeste and the others that what she thought was going on had better not be going on. (Gina is the one I depend upon to keep things from going south and is one of the three I trust the most as being able to maintain our welfare.)
Gradually it became clear that they were scheming on me, but no one would say why: The ones who knew me the least began pumping me for information on any nearby male friends I may have in this apartment complex, but before I could object, Gina ran them all out of the bedroom, I got changed. I drove them all back to the ghetto neighborhood in which they worked. I returned home. Annette was there this time, with Rose, Barbara, Jaime and Nancy (Black Nancy, the nymph, not Hispanic Nancy). She didn't want me to answer the door until she was finished with some business they were conducting in the bathroom. They finished swiftly enough. Then she wanted me to drive her to a motel only a few ramps up the expressway. I didn't want to, or like it, but Annette is my favorite, and I owed her this much.
I drove her to the motel and waited the ten minutes it took for her to come back. While waiting, I turned on my scanner to see if there were any unusual radio transmissions going on. There were; the fednet was active. I could tell they were feds by the very high frequencies they were using. They were just setting up a surveillance operation, though I couldn't tell where until they let a landmark slip or an address. I wished I had trianglization equipment. Annette came back before I could learn anything about their location.
I got the earplug put away before she arrived. She had a gravelpit of cokerocks in her mouth and a big smile. We went back home and found Casey waiting for us. Annette claimed not to know of anything going on (both Casey and I wanted to know) yet told me privately that she and I were partners and that the other girls were outsiders; except Gina, she added. Then she did something she had only done once before: she secreted six of her rocks to me and asked me to keep them safe for later. Hookers do not entrust their rock to anyone: they smoke it as fast as they get it. When they have rock to save instead of smoke, something definitely has changed somewhere. Annette excused herself by saying she had a very special date to meet and couldn't stop to smoke. I drove her and Casey off to their destinations. On the way back I did some thinking. Women and girls can make deductive logic an almost impossible task with their bright chatter and seemingly inconsequential observations, but when I'm alone, I can sometimes churn out some significa and make a plan of my own. It was significant that my home had slightly more than the usual number of women in it since I returned from work, and my plan was to park up by Tommy's place and arrive at my own place suddenly and without warning. It worked: I got inside my door just in time to see Starr, Diane, Margie and Darlene scoop up a bunch of stuff off my table and run with it to the bathroom. Gina tried to distract me, but I would not succumb to her wiles or her glib story. I made them all come back out and show me what they were up to. It was a type of witch's brew.

It was fairly disgusting. They'd taken the mirror out of the medicine cabinet and were blowing their noses onto it and spitting on it. They were stirring the whole slimy mess together, dividing it into small portions with the edges of plastic cards, then scooping the crap into condoms and tying them shut. They had brought many condoms of their own that had been used, tied shut, cut open and squeezed out. They'd taken all the condoms in my home, sneakily thieved all I had stashed in my glovebox and console, and wanted all I had stuffed in the trunk. Also, they were expecting Celeste and Dixie back any moment with new ones they were purchasing with pooled money.
They continued enthusiastically as Gina explained privately to me the deal she and Skeet had worked out with the other girls. they had begun by trading my new condoms to their Sisters in return for the semen‑filled condoms from their tricks. Questions were asked, and minimal cover‑stories concocted ("A creepy rich trick wants them") all having some grain of truth in them. As more and more of the truth escaped farther and faster, more of the Sisterhood were enlisted into the game and the return for sperm‑filled condoms had climbed to five or more dollars each, depending upon who was better friends with who.
They'd been selling sperm for two days before I uncovered the scheme, and they'd started sub‑dividing it and adulterating it from the first day. They'd already had me unwittingly help them deliver the stuff three times to the Ramp‑Inn down the highway. I told ` them they were going to blow the whole deal by selling them straight mucus and saliva. They assurred me that the cops would never snap to their craftiness, and even if they did, it would be M'Butu's problem, not theirs.
Celeste and Dixie returned with more condoms.  While they joined in on packaging the slop, I pulled Gina aside and quietly reamed her for being reckless, greedy and disorganized. In only five minutes she agreed with me that their gold mine could rapidly turn into a whore‑eating monster when the lab‑techs told the cops they were getting suckered. Annette returned with Casey driving her husband's car. We did not want the others hanging around while we went and cashed in the pile of rubbers, but they refused to leave. Annette and Casey added theirs to the pile. After much arguing Annette and Gina dragged me off to the car with the booty, assurring me that Casey would keep the others out of mischief until we got back.
At the Ramp‑Inn they only took a few minutes to get the stuff cashed in. Again I sneaked out the scanner's earplug and listened. The feds' net was active again, and they gave themselves away by transferring a car tag and description amongst themselves over the radio waves; one that I saw enter the parking lot. If I'd trusted my sex‑bandit friends enough to let them see that I had a scanner, I could have been listening sooner and heard the cops describe my vehicle and tag when we arrived. It was very creepy sitting in a parking lot crawling with unseen spy‑pigs. Fortunately it didn't take them long to get back. While they were doing the bookeeping in the car, Gina saw Casey pull in and search for us. She found us, but not the jizz buyers.  We had parked far enough from Jasmine ºs suite, but it didn't matter a whole lot. The cops had all of out‑tag numbers and other information that came with this and their spying, plus they had connected us together soon as Casey saw that we had spotted her and drove over to us with her cover story and/or apology. There was nothing for it but to increase Casey's share in the gold mine (I supposed that would be the reaction; it was Gina's game) though it burned all out hides that we'd let her follow us. Her 'excuse' was that she was trying to catch up to us before we cashed in because we had somehow 'forgotten' a handful of rubbers. I sent Gina over to ride back with her and ream her out about this type of trust‑busting crap. She's much better at it than I am. Privately I resolved to take a different vehicle or make other arrangements the next time I was expected to visit the Ramp Inn.

It was a cacophony of chaos when we got back home. Every time they heard a car go by, two of them would peek out the curtains, three would ask what the first two saw, then they would go see for themselves just to make sure, mistrusting any answer they were given. It is just their nature.: When they saw my car park, they piled out en mass like a pack of loud, silly schoolchildren. We ran inside quickly and suspiciously, as it was the only way to get them back inside under cover with the fewest nosy neighbors' eyeballs attracted by the giggle and jiggle. The girls all follow the dope. A pair of local horndogs blundered by at exactly the right moment and lamely asked, "Where's the party?" as we were disappearing into my apartment. Sasha told them to wait in the laundry room. They waited a solid hour before she remembered stashing them there and took Trish to help drain them behind the dumpster on their way out.
While Gina and Annette passed out each person's cut, whether it was money (very little, since they could always get money) or coke (over sixty rocks:) I wouldn't let any of them leave until I harangued them at length about security, working together and not setting off the busybodies in the complex. Before I'd gotten back to the adulteration part or otherwise repeating myself, they'd gotten very quiet, as always happens when they begin smoking. I didn't make the mistake of thinking quiet equated with agreement, but I got my point across.
Eiina and Annette were so fatigued that even the coke could no longer affect them. (Despite the learned expostulations of the rabid anti‑drug mob's experts, cocaine is a pisspoor stimulant even when injected directly into monkey brains, compared to the real stimulants our govt provides its military attack forces.) They had had no sleep since before meeting Jasmine. Gina fell asleep with the pipe still clutched in her hand. Annette managed to find the correct direction to go. I put them to bed. With my two enforcers out of the picture the others began pumping me (and Casey) for information. They all knew Gina and Annette were making more than they were and wanted to find out how badly they were getting screwed. Then they all wanted to remedy the situation by dealing directly with whoever was paying Gina and Annette.
They had enough dope to last them many hours at their normal rates of consumption. Its calming influence on them made it easy for me to sell the idea of not screwing the cope with more mucus and saliva. They appeared to realize the utility of maintaining quality control in order to make the most of this sperm bonanza. They agreed to only bring in the real thing, but secretly each was no doubt scheming out ways to maximize profits by every means they could think of. A desultory debate began on this topic. Only half‑;jokingly Darlene suggested going 'pro‑active' like a lot of the cops love to say on TV by rounding up men at malls and supermarkets. Becky said, "Think big! We're right next to Texas Stadium! Arlington Stadium is full of men and it's not ten minutes west of here."
"I'll take Six Flags all by myself," replied Dixie.
"All those places have more private security cops in their parking lots than their neighborhoods have French poodle pies!"
"Damned juvenile delinquents!  If they can't keep their kids from stealing cars‑ ." "Waterworld would be a good place, if the water was cloudy."
You‑all go chasing around; everything we need is right here. You notice how full this neighborhood is of dogs?"
"Casey! Ugh!"
"Big, friendly dogs! The kind that people leave outside at night." "Shut up! Shut up!"

"We could put a sign on your truck and people would PAY us to 'walk' their dogs." Casey gave an evil grin to Margie.
"Somebody make her shut up:"
The idea of obtaining dog sperm did not die easily. At the moment the cops were leting the hookers run fairly wild. If they didn't have bad warrants against them, the cops had been only making them hide until they got off shift instead of ticketing or abducting them into jail. Even so, each one knew that the time that the cops would keep looking away was limited and would change with no warning. None of them wanted to be the one dragged off to the jail pits while the revenue from sex was essentially double or more by the new cop program. These women live on the edge and any advantage they can find, they take.
By nightfall Casey had fallen asleep with instructions that I wake her in time to get her husband to work. Darlene, Margie and Starr also caught catnaps. Gina woke and called for me from the bedroom just as I was taking another load out. She told me not to plan anything for the weekend because she had plans for us. Very secret plans that required my car and several cases of condoms. Her plan also required me to pay for the condoms on spec and that she would make it right with me later and then some. She fell back asleep, exhausted. Annette told me "Believe it!" and likewise returned to sleep.
Twice more I drove women back to work, many of them filtering back one or two at a time, sometimes accompanied by women I had not met. Each of them wanted me to wake Gina or Annette if they were friends. The new girls, when there were any, stood around smiling, patient and nervous, waiting. When I would not wake anyone, they smoked a bit, stashed their sperm packets with me and rested or went back to work. At dawn, Casey and I each dropped off women on our way out.
Some of them were waiting for me when I returned home from putting in my own eight hours. They had pooled their sperm and repackaged it to best effect. They had also gotten Gina up and into my vehicle with it almost before I pulled into my space and shut off the engine. We set off to the Ramp Inn to cash in all the sperm. While I was waiting for her to return I noticed a familiar doper's vehicle pull in and an acquaintance of mine run up the stairs, presumably to see Jasmine. It would have been very revealing to have heard the cops' radio‑chattering about this, but I missed it. The scanner was too much trouble to remove from its concealment in the car, and the company truck wasn't built to hide it, so I left it behind, thinking that simply switching vehicles and routines might suffice. Being without a scanner is like being blind without a cane amongst a pack of sharp‑toothed, rabid rats. I could not afford to accidently stand on any of their tails.

Gina came back, very angry. The secret had slipped out even farther, and the cops had branched out. She and Annette were no longer Jasmine's only supplier of sperm. She said we had to move quickly with her plan and asked if I had picked up the cases of condoms on my lunch break. I'd gotten four cases by proxy, or so I'd hoped: Randy's service calls had been closer to J & J than mine, so he was to have bought them. He hadn't by lunch, but promised to have Cathy, his beautiful wife, bring them by after work. I only admitted to having a case and a half, which is how many the girls didn't know I had and couldn't get to even if they had known about them. This made her even more angry. She blew her longwinded stack at me until I admitted that more were on the way. She calmed considerably upon my mention of Cathy being involved: she seemed to have more confidence in Cathy than me, despite only having met her once briefly: As for my attempt at subterfuge, lying to each other is so common in the trade that it is expected. No one trusts anyone any farther than he has to, even if they'd worked together for years, as we have. Gina cursed me for not doing as she had asked and pretended to pray loudly that we would have enough. She can be very sarcastic, though not yet as sarcastic as I can be. I got to hear more of her practicing all the way back to the shop where I switched vehicles without anyone seeing her.
Back home, Gina passed out the earnings in the types and quantities required. I sneaked in a gross of condoms for rationing out to the girls, particularly the new ones. I'd seen five new faces since we started and was concerned for their welfare as well as our' own.
I needed to see who they were and become acquainted. They also had to be eighteen. Gina immediately found out that I was giving away 'her' condoms. Her sarcasm and other verbal abuse didn't slow until they began smoking again, which was quickly. She and Annette gave the others some last‑minute instructions, packed a satchel and we were on our way before rush‑hour traffic had even peaked.
While I was at work Gina had made a few calls to her Mexican friends, one of whom owned a famous restaurant in Old Town Fort Worth. It seems like all Latinos are either related to each other or pretend to be related if the situation calls for it. Gina knew skads of them, and each appeared to have sold her powder at some time in the past. That was our first stop. Some of her regular coke‑connect pals were wondering why so few girls were purchasing from them even though they could see them working day and night harder than ever. Each thought the others were getting all the business and wanted to remedy this sad fact by seeing why Gina was treating them so badly. Gina admitted nothing, playing each against the other, as usual, and promised to try and find out why each was on the Sisterhood's shit list. She left them wondering and perplexed, but not as perplexed as the restaurant owner.
Alfredo and his family were very happy to see Gina, who seldom ventured as far as Fort Worth proper. She introduced me as her husband, which was flattering, though she probably introduces many of her male traveling companions as 'new' husbands. Alfredo was happy to see me too; I hadn't expected his memory to be this efficient, and it was embarassing to have no real answers to his questions about Pops and why I hadn't returned to visit. He understood, though, saying how Gina would keep three ordinary men too distracted and occupied with her activities to have much time for anything else. He must have read my mind. For a Creole, Gina knew far too much Spanish for me to keep up. Though they spoke some English for my benefit, I was mostly lost as to what was being said as Alfredo and company led us through and around the ten foot plank fence that abutted his restaurant. A door was opened and we passed through a courtyard filled with goats: It seemed more crowded with them than last time, probably because of there being so many more and smaller kids. They were all colors, but mostly black, white or piebald, I think is the right term. Evidently they were treated well, because though they were timid, they were more curious than fearful. One of Alfredo's helpers snagged one up for Gina to pet and hold.  It was very cute and endured our attention without too much stress. Everyone was all smiles and laughing at the way the more tame ones would come up to be fed by Gina and even follow her around. Then we arrived at a partially enclosed place where one of Al redo's kitchen help was busy butchering the last of a carcass.

More introductions were had and they began handing me baskets of goatmeat out of a cooler. A teenager snatched up two more baskets of the white‑paper wrapped meat and together we loaded it all in the car and returned. Always moving along, Gina hugged them goodbye, I shook hands all around, she had me give Alfredo $225, then we left.
After we drove off, Gina showed me a cloudy plastic orange juice container with about three inches of thick, foamy fluid in it. There was no need to guess what it was. She was very happy.
The next place was harder to find, as it was far north, almost to Eagle Mountain Lake. It had rained recently there and some of the roads were more fit for pickups than low‑slung sportscars such as mine. We still had an hour of daylight when we pulled into the Dung Pile Ranch. Far down a potholed gravel driveway marked only by a welded‑chain mailbox and cattleguard was the farmhouse and two more of Gina's friends. Perry and a ranch hand led us to a system of barns, pens and stalls full of cowflop and horse biscuits while his wife glowered at us from the door. Soon as we were out of her sight, Perry sent me off with Andy. He seemed to be under the impression that I was a breeder too and wanted to talk 'shop'. I let him do most of the talking, and he was an interesting, amiable fellow.
We stopped at a massively built pen that had a locomotive‑sized bull in it making hilarious Alice‑in‑wonderland type grinning lip contortions. Andy took a long, stout stick and poked the smile‑monster with it til he moved into another pen. Then he retrieved a nasty‑looking jar out of a contraption that looked like sawhorses nailed together and covered with cowhide. I could imagine the thing creaking like box springs.
Next stop was the horse stalls and a pen with a similar device in it with a horse busily working it. He finished quickly. Andy had me lead him out and get another one while he changed the water in the fake female. This one didn't even resemble a horse. It was no‑thing much more than a rickety‑looking tubular steel rack holding a three‑foot long waterfilled donut that funneled down to a patiently waiting glass jar. The only consession this machine made to the genus equus was a few raggedy strands of horsetail hair tied in a bundle, standing up near the entrance hole and flowing to one side. Andy said it was called the aiming wreath.
The horse I was leading sensed he was in for a treat and nearly ran over me getting to his girlfriend. Andy still had his arm deep inside the thing when "Sudden Interest" charged him. Andy cursed once and seemed to simply flip over the fence in one smooth blur. The stud was on and off before Andy even had the grease wiped off his arm. While the horse grinned insanely Andy shoved a plunger down the hole and capped the jar. He took another out of a small refrigerator and gave them both to me. Together they made about two full liters. I tried to take my mind off how filthy they were by calculating in my mind how much that was in teaspoonfuls. The bottles seemed a lot less slimy and greasy after that, and even less so when I factored in a 100% dilution with something like water and corn. star ch. I'd have to think about what would work best, and it probably wouldn't do to have any plant DNA in it. I'd have to get one of the Idiot Kits and read up on it.

Back at the car Gina and Perry had unloaded the goat meat and were making goodbye noises. Surprisingly, this time no one asked me for money. On the drive back to Fort Worth Gina was ecstatic; diddling with the radio, singing to herself and shouting happily to me over the wind noise about how everything was working so well. Holding all the animal sperm in her lap, she almost succeded in dumping the goat‑jizz in with the bull‑jizz just so she could throw out the OJ bottle it was in. But I caught her in time, and explainplained that the stuff didn't need to be more homogenized than it already was. She took my advice, then said it probably wouldn't make much difference because we'd "run out of condoms:" She berated me for giving away condoms and for not buying enough, and cried over the cost of' buying them retail and the waste of time this would cause. "If you had just done what I had asked..." Her incessant croaking made me admit to her about having two more cases stashed in Randy's car. She went back to full happiness mode as if I'd just flipped a switch on the back of her neck. That's how she is: stormy; passionate; always a moving target.
On the way back we stopped to cruise the hooker‑go‑rounds of Rosedale and Lancaster streets. It took only 20 minutes to find and talk to three of her Sisters. The cops here were also buying jizz, but the bounty they'd set was only $5, and the one buying it was unapproachable except by proxy, not in person. We stayed another hour and bought all they had while making a deal with Shakeena to spread word that we would be back. Gina left the girl a beeper number to call when she had enough business to make it worth the trip. We  also bought a couple rolls of paper tape and a packet of cheap ink pens before returningto home base.
It was one AM when we made it back. All the girls were out working or elsewhere except Casey, Celeste, Dixie and Tina. Gina got on the phone bank and beeped Jasmine while
I moved everyone into the bedroom. Jasmine and M'Butu came over and I was introduced. For privacy I put the 'BDO:' sign (Back Door Only!) on the front door. This told all returning girls except Annette that they were restricted to the back bedroom and had to enter by way of the pool and sliding‑glass door.
Jasmine began by complaining about the batch delivered to her the trip‑before‑last. The cops had called her and said much of the stuff was worthless. We calculated that it took them until 5 PM to figure out the sperm, snot and spit trick. This told us that the
cops were sending each night's take to the lab each morning and that by 5 PM the lab‑techs had tested each one for its suitability. There had been no complaints about quality yet. The fence kept rattling outside while she talked, which signified girls returning from work, sneaking over the pool fence, hopping the veranda railing and entering (or leaving) the bedroom.  I seem to have missed a lot of what Jasmine and Gina were saying by having
to control the bedroom and bathroom doors‑‑women kept trying to come out of them‑and watch M'Butu, but they made it clear that the cops had assigned a crew of peepers to their parking lot at the Ramp Inn. Consequently Jasmine and Annette had decided to do the transfers at another motel room rented by one of Sasha's tricks.
Finally Annette showed up. I gave her a package of all she needed, including an eyedropper and locked her in the bathroom. With help from Diane, Dixie, Starr, Margie and Darlene from the bedroom, it wasn't half an hour before she emerged with another 150 to 200

condoms tied off and even labeled with tag numbers. Jasmine and M'Butu paid in cocaine rock right there on the table. Gina and Annette assurred them that each condom contained pure semen. Jasmine was very happy to receive them already labeled too. Though they did not admit this, it was highly likely that the cops had caught them making up tag numbers on the last batch or so. The suggestion of this came in the form and size of the rocks they paid with. They were noticeably smaller, but still of perfect consistency and color, like pills with corners. No ghetto Kitchen‑Kemists' rock looks like coprock. This coprock was over two millimeters on a side smaller than the last batch of coprock. It was like their labtechs had switched to a smaller tray, screwing my friends by about 40% This fact was not lost on Gina. In fact, it was the first thing she noticed. Soon as she saw the screw,job she threw it back contemptuously and demanded money instead, plus she jacked up our price by a ridiculous $10! M'Butu objected. I countered him. There was a concerted gnashing of teeth and growls from the women scowling past the cracked‑open bedroom door. Jasmine silenced the budding fracas quickly by offering double rock. Evidently the cops had told her the money was more valuable to them than the rock and to use it sparingly.
Or she and M'Butu wanted to keep it; who could really tell?
Since this was friday night, party weekend, everyone was anxious to get down to business. M'Butu took the jizz to the cops, with instructions from Gina, Jasmine, Annette and I to stop screwing us on the rock. They gave him many more instructions too, but I doubt he could remember them all.
Gina and Jasmine connived me into helping Jasmine with her tricks until her man got back to take over. Gina sent Casey to follow M'Butu and see where he went. I locked up all the animal sperm in Tommy's truck. We all piled in my car and drove to the track.

Everybody scattered except Jasmine. We parked at the boat‑place 7‑Eleven. She ran down her routine to me and left to take up a position at the stop sign across the street. Jasmine was not exactly a real hooker, but more like a wild housewife. The other girls at the stop sign were more aggressive, though generally less pretty, thus it took her ten or twelve minutes to score. She caught a pimply hick in a pickup truck. She had him drive her over to me on the pretext of leaving her purse with her 'old man'. Only copbitches masquerading as whores‑and Jasmine‑‑carry purses. Sometimes the transvestites do. My job was to get his tag number and a good look at him. He was harmless as a banjo picker, as are most dates, but her purse was full of gun. I called the number she'd given me and punched in his tag number. It would take about seven minutes for 'Pickup' to get to the Ramp Inn with its infestation of cops. The annoying series of beeps sounded and I hung up, glad not to have had to give the recipient a free sample of my voice. Most of the stuff the cops have us believe they can do is hype and nonsense, but they store things forever, saving it for a time when they have extra money and manpower to flush to get it analysed. Often the science has by then gotten cheap while their coffers too full.  (They have many, many slushfunds the citizens do not know about.) They're forced to buy something besides new comforts for themselves. My luck it would be a parallel computer so vast and fast that it could analyse voices at astronomic speed: not likely, but a fear to quell every time I'm forced to use electronics. No doubt there was a demon on the other end; probably a cop or maybe M'Butu. That finished, I searched the glovebox for a nailclipper and found a knotted condom with Perry's name on it. No man is safe with Gina around. I searched the whole car for crackpipes and paraphernalia, including Jasmine's purse. Everything was clean, far as I could tell from the dim lighting of the parking lot. My little bandit friends know I'm serious about leaving crap lying around. They know better than I do that everything you think, do,see and hear can be a felony if a copcrat wants it that way. I locked her purse in the engine compartment and got a newspaper to read. By the time I finished two sections Jasmine was back with M'Butu wanting her purse. While I was getting it out I saw Casey speed by with a smile and a high sign, signifying "Mission Accomplished!" She told me :_ later that M'Butu had gone to downtown Dallas: the cops were operating out of the 'crat center opposite the main county library.
Back at our base, Gina had two operations going at once. As the girls came and went she was buying their knotted condoms with single coprocks, and if they, didn't have their trick's tag number or other identifying information, she paid even less.
The other operation was in the kitchen. Soon as they heard my car drive up Starr ran out for another case of condoms that Gina knew was in the trunk. It was getting very hard far me to remember who was in which scam and for how much. Worse, these sly girls were each sneakily promoting herself up the payscale by asking incessant, loaded, clever questions of me that assumed she was more in the know than she really was. Also they swapped information nonstop, eavesdropped unabashedly and peeked shamelessly where ever they could.
Annette, Diane, Starr and Trish were systematically counting, sorting, labeling and packaging all the human sperm samples and loading them into the freezer. Gina and I broke open another case and, with Nancy's help, started squirting, knotting and tagging the second load of animal sperm we would sell the cops. Gina ducked out to the payphones with a roll of quarters. Annette took over the bedroom operation every time we heard the fence rattle. With so many interruptions, it took us almost til dawn to get everything packed, sorted, labeled and froze. The plan was to buy up all the human sperm in DFW and sell all the animal jizz we could until monday night, at which time we expected the word to filter down from the labtechs to the bosscops that they were getting screwed again. While we were in Fort Worth trying to work out way up the cops' sperm‑buying network there, Gina found a girl from Oak Cliff who said the cops were buying sperm there too. We tripped out to Oak Cliff after setting up Casey and Sasha in a motel room near Rosedale. We had cut some coprocks into two pieces and had them spend saturday and Sunday trading hits for cash and human sperm.
At Oak Cliff we got a motel room for Starr to work out of and gave her enough coprock chips and condoms to last the weekend. Most of Oak Cliff is Black, so we left Margie to help find the cops' primary purchasing agent.
With three groups of ambitious, top‑flight sex bandits working, by Sunday night we were running low on animal jizz, condoms and freezer space. We had opened out sisth case of condoms. The overflow went into the refrigerator and I made plans to get more condoms monday.
Monday, I worked: back home at 5 PM, I found the floor and furniture strewn with ex‑ hausted, sleeping women. Someone I didn't know was in the refrigerator; the bedrooms were full and someone had the shower going. They'd left a bunch of paraphernalia on the table, kitchen countertop and vanity table.  I packed up all this crap and threw it in the trash. Before I could haul it out to the dumpster the girl who was eating leaped up and rescued some of it. She was Cindy, just out of the county jail. I hadn't recognized her from behind and in the dim lights.	It was nice to see her calm, clean, well‑dressed and with an embarassed, shy smile instead of spitting mad. The cops had had her hijacked for eight months. She was very happy to get out.

The coprocks got bigger again. My guess was that they realized that they were getting screwed giving double rock and hadn't the proper size tray (but plenty enough gall) to go smaller. Also they might have feared Gina would then demand triple rock. Gina ventured that the labtechs told the bosscops that adulterants were down and quality up. I kept my doubts as to that theory to myself. It wasn't until thursday evening that the copcrats were told that somehow most of hundreds of sperm samples contained genotypes from only about five 'persons'. They almost shut down all three sperm‑buying operations, but instead they narrowly decided to finance another weekend. At least this is the story Jasmine and M'Butu put out. One of my theories is that they still had grant money to flush, skim and kickback. Plus they wanted to actually succeed so that they could get these types of programs to proliferate into little cop‑bureaucracies nationwide, like they did with their child‑sex/porn e‑baiting programs. They probably picked DFW not just for its one killer trick but also because of the Washington DC cops' opinion of supposed midwestern bumpkin‑ness. Slick New York and DC copcrats probably thought that the easiest place to make their little fascist brainchild work was here among the pigs and cattle. Once they got the bugs shook out of it, they'd be ready to take it out and test it where the real hordes of sick bastards thrive such as New York, DC and Chicago. The last theory was the most logical, and the most chilling, and it came from the most unexpected place while Gina and I were debating this in the dark. A calm, articulate feminine voice reached us from the kitchen.
"Maybe word slipped out that persons unknown were hoarding the human sperm and the cops were holding out one more weekend to try and get it." It was Cindy.
"Who told you?"
"Nobody told me. I can see it. It's in the freezer and in the cooler. How big of a secret can it be when thirty girls all know it?"
She was right, of course. We had been blinded by our success so far and had missed the obvious: it only made us more careful and alert. We thawed all the human sperm and sold it to them over the course of three days, being careful to make sure it went to the same program area it had been collected from. The coprocks got smaller again, but quickly got bigger when everyone began demanding cash. The cops kept forgetting that they were not the only dope dealers in town. They were competing with real dope dealers, and even the Latinos began giving larger amounts of powder when they lost business to the cops: A lot of the Negro crack peddlers simply went out of business. None of the girls were willing to pay high prices for their little chips any more. By this time we were paying almost all of our friends 7 to 10 dollars for their samples, and every sample had a good tag or other ID number attached to it. Since we figured this was the last go‑round, we interspersed among the samples about 25% that were completely fake, using concoctions of lotions, creams foodstuffs, even mayonaise packets from burger joints. The cops bought every one we had and all of them we could get until early monday. That's when they ended the programs. The party was finally over and everyone could rest for a while.
Once again monday evening found my home full of softly snoring, tired, partied‑out young women, but this time it was Gina and Annetie making meals and clogging up the bathroom. The place was cleaner, too, with no evidence of marathon rock‑smoking and very little evidence of cigarette smoking, their second vice. One by two they awoke to the smell of coffee and sukiyaki (Gina can cook; I just have to twist her arm). For once they didn't go straight for the pipe. They ate like famished, yet dainty, graceful little horses.

Then they wanted me to take them shopping. They had money to spend, and they wanted clothes, jewelry, shoes, cosmetics and everything else they could think of to invest or indulge in themselves. We took three cars to Valleyview mall and made a spectacle of ourselves trouping through Dillard's and Service Merchandise and Lady Footlocker. The change was startling, from raggedy croptops and jeans to new skirts, new tops, new hair stacked, whirled and clasped with shiny stuff, nails painted with actual scenes and abstract art, gold chains, ear‑rings, bracelets, colors and sweet floral fragrances of twenty different types. They were a very impressive group of young ladies..
I certainly didn't like Jasmine and M'Butu knowing where we lived, but it turned out we were justified in trusting them. The animal sperm secret seemed to remain pretty secret despite everyone knowing it.  Far as we would d discern they never caught the mad trick despite having sperm samples from at least 90% of the DFW tricks. Instead, they tried to pin them on a rapist they had previously cycled through their system. They used their media tools to dupe the public into thinking they had unbeatable proof, but a year later the cases were quietly dropped one by one without fanfare when it was found that they really had zero proof. My theory is they chased a guy in here from one of their sick cities and chased him out of here without ever getting close. Since they do claim to have 'bodily fluids' from him, they probably will eventually find him, hopefully prior to his death from old age or VD.
The cops never found their way to my home, either, even though the neighbors did a lot of wondering and debating about the traffic. The ones who were nosy enough to ask were told they were vacationing flight attendants from United Airlines. Apparently this story was very believable: only Tommy and his second man, Larry, knew that something immoral was going on; maintenance men are notoriously difficult to fool. Fortunately they enjoyed the show and even covered for us to Susan. She had other pressing matters and didn't bother us.
By tuesday everyone had mostly cleared out and we were back to just me, Annette and Gina again. The others would visit intermittently, but with no frantic buying, selling or packaging going on things went back to relative peacefulness.
Jasmine and M'Butu disappeared wednesday. The cops began ticketing, harassing and abducting women again like normal. The amnesty seemed to have been called off at about the same time as the programs shut down. 	
Gina repaid me all my expenses and more, as promised. We all prospered, but especially me, Gina, Annette, Casey, Starr and Margie, in that order. My fast‑track bookkeeping showed that upwards of $15,000 went through our hands from the program, all total. (A Justice Department report on this program was issued two years later revealing that the cops had spent over $200,000 on it!) Everything returned to normal for several weeks. Then Perry called. He said his wife opened one of those packages of goat meat and freaked. He wanted to know why and if there were any more surprize packages that were frozen blocks of billiegoat genitals. I couldn't think of anything to tell him, so I blamed it on Gina. She could explain it somehow.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Zombie Enters the Crocodile's Jaws!
There is nothing like persuasive speech to fuddle the mental apparatus of an audience not practiced in the delusions and tricks of oratory.	

Mark Twain
I could not make any more progress toward finding the killer. The trail was too cold. All the information about him was locked away in vaults belonging to the agencies Hellbent on protecting him. Qunion Leigh had vanished and would not be found. His relatives either ignored me or tried to sic the cops on me, same as the lying witnesses had. My contacts within the Tulsa police department and records warehouses had made off with copies of all there was. Many pages were missing; undoubtedly stolen by the crooked cops and prosecutors decades ago, covering their corruptions with dead ends. They had the killer's actual blood and fingerprints in a special vault within a vault that no body could get into except the corrupt cops and prosecutors. This is the main problem with the local official criminal elite: when the criminals are the cops, prosecutors, judges and city officials, they have all the proof of their criminal activity locked away in their vaults where they can destroy it any time and as need be. Merely trying to get it alerts these crooks and CAUSES them to destroy the evidence. The local elected and appointed criminals and crooked cops regularly destroy the proof of their criminality by simply having an anonymous judge secretly order the burning of the records about every four years. They had also destroyed records in two emergency situations: when the FBI came to investigate Sgt Larry Johnson and his crew for torturing prisoners into signing confessions. The first time they simply burned the records in a fire they called 'accidental'. The second time they destroyed their incriminating records with a 'flood' by setting off the fire sprinkler system all night long. When they get caught at this vandalism, their quick excuse is that it costs too much to store the stuff, and that they need more room to store the latest batch of stolen‑by‑cop evidence and police reports. Citizens are forced to keep tax records for the govt for seven years.
The Tulsa cops and lawcrats deliberately and illegally misinterpret the law they bought from their legislative bedmates to destroy the evidence soon as the trial is over and the Okie Supremes rubberstamp 'denied' on the worthless public defender's appeal; a process that is over in three months and that has the same foregone conclusion more than 99.55% of the time.

But I didn't give up. Not even when Qunion's relatives called the cops on me. (It is astounding how the cops and govt have managed to turn everyone into brainless zombies whose only thought process is to dial 911.) The trouble with law‑drivel is its complexity. The copcrats and Sawyers are the only ones (other than the actual criminal) who have any possibility of uncovering what happened, and they are like ax‑murderers themselves: always hacking away at the evidence, trying to make it fit their one‑size‑fits‑all coffins. Like Doctor Frankenstein, the cops also are attaching dismembered parts according to who they have decided to slam their crimes onto.  Cops who have been cops too long (virtually all of them of any rank) like to expand one crime into as many convictions as possible. This is how the New York jogger "forgot" she was only raped once by one man and managed to convict six innocent teenagers for it. The cops told her what she experienced and she believed this lie after they told it to her enough times. Knowing how the cops and prosecutors create the courtroom products that they sell to ignorant, gullible, patriotic, sychophantic, eager jurors, (See: The Innocent'sGuide To Avoiding Fraudulent Convictions chapter "Juror Groupies") I endeavored to put all the material I'd uncovered into a coherent and plausible timeline. By using the scientific method, I would unscramble the cop and lawyer shenanigans and reveal some important facts that otherwise would never have been pulled from concealment. This is the result:

Synopsis Of A Fraudulent Conviction.
1.	The political machines of the two primary Okie cities decided to throw up their mediadarling prosecutors in competing efforts to wedge one of them into the governor's seat. They both adopt identical "Git Tough On Crime" and "Attack The Porn Merchants!" strategies to corner the crime‑fear and Church vote, and to take advantage of newly‑minted laws that allow them to confiscate (steal) citizen's property and use it to line cop and lawyer pockets. In Tulsa, the prosecutor uses his secret police thugs to sneak in, posing as customers interested in purchasing the dealer's filthiest inventory. The classic cop technique is to force their first targets into working for the cops in return for fake promises of future leniency. This is how the Hunts were turned into snitches for the cops.This standard technique allows the cops to hide a safe distance away and maintain their anonymity. Secret police are actually quite cowardly and justifiably paranoid because they fear their targets will learn and employ on the cops the same techniques the secret cops apply to‑  their targets. (The cops of this time were doubly terrified of revenge‑artists due to two bombings, one that almost killed Federal Judge Fred Nelson for his scurrilous dealings. The other car‑bomb missed its target, who had sent his wife to warm up his caddy.) Thus the = first rule of secret police work is to create snitches and force them to the front to do the dangerous work. The cops sic the Hunts on their fellow porn dealers who at first think that these attacks are merely to erase their competition. In return for their service as snitches, the cops keep their accusations and charges against the Hunts secret for the time being. Plus the cops grant them many delays in their own trials for selling obscene materials. The cops use the Hunts to imprison more porn dealers and siphon off their business and other assets into cop, lawyer, courtcrew, bondsmen and other pockets through use of standard and new techniques. The porn dealers eventually uncover the facts by comparing notes, then begin to plot revenge upon the Hunts. The cops report that an employee of Mr. Hunt told them that Mr. Hunt began checking his car for bombs prior to his murder. The court records leave no doubt that Mr. Hunt has very good reason to believe his fellow porn merchants wish him harm. They send a young assassin to his home to kill him. Or he's just another idiot‑kid‑burglar. The cops' stories in my trial make it seem he waited quietly in ambush for the Hunts to get home. The cops' stories also claims that some trinkets were arrayed in a pillow case, though suspiciously, the cops took no pictures of this or the trinkets. They took many, many pictures of everything else, particularly the corpse, which is essential for enflaming the jurors. It is possible the cops invented the trinkets and pillow case for technical reasons: they get to jack up the value of the crime when they can concoct another felony to go with it. Simple murder/assassination is not quite as legally valuable to them as "Murder‑While‑Committing‑An‑Additional‑Felony". It also sells better to the media. Only the cops and criminal know. You must form your own opinion as to the killer's motive.

On October 17, 1972, Mrs Hunt is found by the cops inside her home screaming her brains out so loudly that the first cops to arrive note that they heard her insane screams from the curb. She and the cops conceal her screaming fit from me and the jurors in order for them to more easily be duped into believing that her fingerpointing at me is the result of cold logic instead of months of trial and error picking and choosing. When the cops finally manage to get her coherent enough to answer simple questions, she tells them that her husband was killed by a boy with " . . . clean‑cut brown hair (no glasses)". The cops write this down, and they conceal it from everyone but themselves. The cops are told that the kid broke a glass door escaping, cutting himself badly, leaving plenty of his blood on the back porch.. The cops decide he cut his left arm in smashing this door open. He runs across the back yard and leaps a chain link fence, puncturing his palm. In the bad photographs that the cops took of this, it looks like the right hand. Since it's made of blood and represents a fleeting contact, I surmize that it was blood dribbling down from a glassslash on his right forearm; opposite of what Baker says at trial. Hunt has no opinion on which arm he used to hash open the door though she claims to have watched. The cops try to lift fingerprints from the bloody mess, signifying that they have plenty of his blood elsewhere.
2.	The cops get a dog. The dog drags the cops to each individual blood splatter in a trail 5 or 6 blocks long. They find Mrs Jack Michelle Baker in a car reading a murder mystery, facing the wrong way. The cops tell her what happened. Whatever the cops wrote down about whatever she told them is missing, indicating that she saw nothing of any value, or that the cops chose to pilpher away with what they did write down about Baker's opinions. She told my worthless, tranquilized public defender that she never identified anyone for the cops. Her courtroom testimony is that she saw the back of the killer's head bobbing away from her at top speed through the rearview mirror, or possibly the rear window. Thanks to my worthless and harmful public defender, she was encouraged to expand this into a side and a front view of the killer.
3.	No fewer than four identification expert‑cops and two forensic expert doctors (Sgt Lewallen, Sgt McCullough, Cpl Peyton, Cpl Yarbrough, Dr. Fogel and Dr. Hinkle) take a minimum of eight blood samples from the killer. Each and every one of them are concealed, then they vanish into thin air without a trace and without anyone being responsible for them or having to explain their disappearance. This same vanishing act is pulled on every analysis that was done on the killer's blood. Three unasked‑for blood analyses on Hunt's corpse do survive. The Tulsa cops also find at least twenty‑one separate fingerprints of the killer in the Hunt's home. This fact is also cleverly concealed.
4.	The cops find the Hunt's neighbor, Candice Connors. They write down that she saw a young guy with '...short, light‑brown hair (no glasses)" suspiciously cruising their street and neighborhood the previous day. The cops conceal this witness and what she said. Then they begin scouring the city and its hospitals and clinics for bleeding teenagers with short, neat, light‑brown hair (no glasses).
5.	On October 20, 1972 the cops get Mrs Hunt to tell their police artist how to draw the killer. They do not explain the three‑day wait in doing this. (This was also kept secret at trial and no judge would make them explain it or anything else 25 years later when I uncover all these records from police files.) They draw, in pastel color, the killer with short, neat brown hair (no glasses) that totallyexposed his ears, forehead and neck. Thisis before the cops ever learned of me and thus should be a fair approximation of the killer unless the cops frauded‑up their date on it, which is unlikely.

6.	On October 23, 1972 the cops' drug‑snitch, with a long history of getting caught at criminal activity, sits next to me at the restaurant I worked at. I have a job and no criminal history, yet he is able to dodge a beating by the cops by duping them into attacking me for a murder HE perpetrated: His being branded "slow" by the school and social worker psychiatrists doesn't say anything good about the cops' intelligence. The cops use their media tools to blast my picture all over the state's many TV stations and newspapers in what turns out to be a two‑day feeding frenzy/lineup featuring me. In all the pictures and videotape my hair is shown to be unmistakably black and excessively long and bushy: much too long and frizzy for any cops or witnesses to 'accidentally mistake' me for their Hunt killer. My ears, neck, collar and forehead are covered in piles of black hair. Even after being beaten bloody and senseless by Bill McDonald, Don Bell and Jerry McMillan, deprived of my comb and being forced to lay in city jail filth without a mattress, my hair is still not packed tight enough with dirt and filth to look 'brown' or 'neat and clean‑cut' to anyone who can see. The cops took six closeups (two lefts, two fronts, and two rights, with and without the glasses I've worn since age twelve) of my face which they will never release because they show the marks of their torture on my face. The newspaper photo taken the next morning was cunningly posed to avoid revealing my black eye. Also, the photoprocessor used trick photography to remove the scabs, clots and blood stains from my handkerchief, making it sparkling white in order to protect the vicious Tulsa cops from getting caught too soon in their wholesale brutality.	(They did get caught, repeatedly, at torturing prisoners but never got punished. Instead, they were rewarded with paid vacations cleverly called "suspensions". Only one, the ringleader, Larry Johnson, was told to take his pension and go be a rabid cop somewhere else to the unsuspecting public. The cover story for his leaving was too much 'stress' on his 'weak heart'.	(He is grossly fat, having nearly as many chins as a Chinese phone book.)
On both these days, Hunt, Baker and Connors see me on the TV stations and in the newspapers. Bo do all the cops desperately seeking a match for Hunt's drawing, which is posted all over their various cop buildings scattered across Tulsa. Not one, NoBody calls me the Hunt killer. Why? Because my hair is at least four inches longer than the killer's hair that was seen only five days earlier. Human head hair grows only one‑half of an inch per month, so I had eight months worth of too‑long hair.
7.	On October 26, 1972 a second cop‑drawing of the killer appears.	It has this date on it, the cop‑artist's signature and Baker's name on it. Supposedly this is from Baker, and she also has the cop‑artist put on him short, neat, brown hair, no glasses.
8.	For 78 days the cops ply Mrs Hunt with piles of high school yearbooks, courtesy of Tulsa Public Schools, trying to make her pick some body. The cops snatch up people she salivates at, accuse them of crime and force them to, or trick them into, trying to prove their innocence by dancing in lineups for the cops. She picks no one as her final choice. The cops simply ignore Baker, knowing from decades of past experience that witnesses, especially female witnesses, are easily made to agree with whatever the cops insist they saw. (See: Elizabeth Loftus' Mistaken Identity.) Cops know that witnesses are like lemmings: cops need only get one to march over their cliff; the others will follow.

Crooked cops Johnson and McCullough decide to frame me for the Hunt murder so that Johnson and his pack of vicious, sadistic cops can continue torturing their targets into signing confessions for five more years before their crime ring is finally broken up. (See: Glover, a Tulsa World newspaper article in which a judge and lawyer admit to Johnson's "...poor reputation", I don't have a date for it, and it may have been a Tribune article. I include it on my netsite.and in the final compilation of this book.) Johnson begins by calling his cop pals in the adjacent county where they have me in jail fighting his first set of false accusations. Johnson knows that my hair must be cut to match Hunt's drawing. He has them cut my hair, then he has them trick me into appearing in a lineup in Tulsa as an 'extra'. (See: Copcrime: Creating Lineup Fraud.)
9.	January 3, 1973: Johnson coerces Hunt into picking me in exchange for dropping obscenity charges on her; or, Johnson simply tricks her into actually believing I killed her husband. It is unlikely that the cops have been able to muddy her memory into forgetting she said that the killer's hair is brown, but they spend considerable time changing the color of their lights, and thus the color of me and my hair, in their lineup studio. Finally Hunt gives in to both their trickery and coercion. By now she just wants the cops out of her life. The cops rush to make her sign a receipt for testimony against me so that she can never change her mind back to the truth if she realizes that she's been tricked. If she does realize the trickery and tries to make the cops go catch the actual killer, the cops will nail her for perjury. (Isn't this fantastic? The cops and prosecutors can create a deliberate lie, then punish their victims for 'lying' when they try to take the lie back and exchange it for the truth! This is what centuries of unsupervised legal corrup‑ tion and "self‑policing" produces; a system of institutionalized, acculturated criminality.) Johnson again calls up all his TV, radio, and newspaper sharks. They have another two‑day state‑wide feeding frenzy on me. They even let Johnson insert his own anonymous lie into their sensationalistic products, claiming that I have a scar such as the killer must have. None of these media whores show up in response to my invitations to refute this lie by seeing for themselves that no such scar exists anywhere on my body. Nor do any of them broadcast or print my refutation to Johnson's lie.
This same day I send my worthless public defender, Bill Mattingly, to the cops to get the killer's blood tested. The cops lie in his face, claiming that they have no blood. A few months later Mattingly bails out to become a prosecutor, leaving me with George Briggs. I send him for the blood. Again the cops lie. Months later still, the Tulsa courtcrats saddle me with a harmful public defender, James E Wallace, who appears to be addicted to tranquilizers and looks like he's always on the verge of falling asleep. The cops lie to him about the blood too.

My sending all these worthless lawyers after the killer's blood alerts the crooked cops and corrupt prosecutors to the fact that they must concoct a way to plausibly ditch the killer's blood before they can fraud‑up a conviction around this innocent teenager. They need the blood for only one reason; to lead the jurors to the cops' second witness, Mrs Baker. The cops' plan is to ditch all the physical evidence and rely solely on these two lying women for conviction. Ditching the blood and fingerprints was easy: the cops and prosecutors simply lied their teeth black during the trial. (See: Copcrime:EvidenceStealing) They simply pretended that the never‑specified‑by‑number fingerprints were 'smudged', and that somehow, some one, somewhere made a simple 'mistake' and sent an "insufficient" blood sample to the FBI. This is much better than saying what is closer to the truth: that six forensic experts all made the same mistake of collecting too‑little killer's blood eight times in a row! Only decades too late did we rip the truth, particle by particle, out of their rotten throats. What they really did was transform plenty of blood and many samples into "insufficient" blood by cleverly having the FBI to test each sample separately, as if they were looking for seven or eight different killers of Mr. Hunt. Fact is, it only takes three, sometimes four drops of blood to type it into A,B,O or rh‑ or rh+ groups, giving me an 87.5% chance of exhonoration, and they couldn't even do this with eight samples. They didn't even bother pulling their fake FBI test scheme until 2‑8‑73, four months after the murder! Like I've said many times before: the cops and lawcrats are accomplished GRANDMASTERS of liarhood and thievery.
10. On January 19, 1973 McCullough takes their new, improved, short‑haired, no‑glasses, color‑tricked lineup photo of me to sell it to Baker. She is not tricked for a nanosecond. Instead, she alerts McCullough to the fact that I can not be the killer because she remembers seeing me on TV and in the newspapers 90 days ago and excluded me then because my hair was too long. McCullough tries every sleazy cop‑trick there is, but still he can not make her sign the receipt for testimony he brought. She doesn't even care what Hunt signed, she KNOWS McCullough is wrong. McCullough finally leaves without fulfilling his purpose for coming: making her sign his receipt for testimony against me.
McCullough will not let the fact of my innocence prevent him from framing me and letting the killer escape. He schemes on how to do this for 27days before writing up his 'weekly' report. He simply lies, pretending that Baker did identify me as the killer.
11. Seventeen months later, just before trial, my public defender calls Baker. She tells him that she never identified anyone as the killer for the Cops. On trial morning the cops and prosecutors begin teaching Mrs Baker what she must say to convict me. She balks at perpetrating this fraud. The pack of angry cops whip out McCullough's fraudulent report and growl menacingly at Baker, shouting, "It says RIGHT HERE that you picked our target! Why are you changing your story now?:"
"I didn't say that," Baker squeaks.
The cops roar in unison, "Are you calling Police Detective Sergeant Officer McCullough a liar?! He wrote down what you said:	Do you know the penalty for perjury?! Every cop KNOWS he's guilty, but YOU want to set this killer free to kill again: Are you going to cooperate, or do I tell the prosecutor you perjured yourself?" "Teach me what you want me to say," says Baker.
Thus the corrupt cops, prosecutors, judges, coroners and public defenders combined their skills to protect the killer and convict an innocent teenager by stealing all the evidence and using nothing more than the testimony of two liars. The jurors eat this shit up like candy: they slap their guilty‑buttons as joyously as children playing pac‑man. The best things in these police reports that the cops, judges and prosecutors failed to steal or destroy are the women's initial descriptions and drawings of the killer.

These, coupled with the newspaper photo of me and my bushy black hair made five days later, are gold. With them ALONE I know that the crooked lawyersystem could not convict me in a FAIR trial The trick is to rip a new, fair trial from the lawcrat swine in which they are not allowed to conceal these newly uncovered police and media‑whore facts. Trouble is, however, that fair trials almost never occur, plus they cost tens of thousands of dollars. The lowest price of a trial that has any possibility of being fair is $25,000: any less and the lawyer just takes the thousand$ and provides the standard, routine, LOSING song and dance. Lawyers are such irredeemable skunks and societal parasites that I decide not to pay any of them a penny. I will rely on the jurors.
I had a long time ago decided to come back and make these maggots fix their corruption. It was the purpose of my escape. It has been my unfulfilled dream ever since that pieceof‑shit geologist slithered aboard my jury and led the pack of them into guilty mode, then laughed his ugly head off as he slithered back to the rock he came from beneath. I sneaked back and spent some quality time with my mother, whom the cops also cheated. She was old and grey. She told me how the scum periodically came by to threaten her in her own home. She told me how the sleazy bastards sent her lying crap to my name, trying to sucker me into their traps with phony lawyer‑letters claiming I've won millions in the prison over‑crowding lawsuit Battle v Anderson or won millions in contests I never entered. We spend two years together, on and off. Then I had Annette call that prancing, posturing dirtbag, John Walsh and his tabloid cop show to claim the reward for telling them where I await  them. They cheat her. She never gets a nickel. Instead, the dirtbag's assistants call the Okie parole‑absconder kidnap team, the same scum who have been harassing my mother all these years. These varlots steal the reward that rightfully belongs to my wife. Then they stupidly try to abduct my younger brother! I shout at them, "Hey, you morons! I'm over here!" They don't even know me from my picture. I have not changed in eleven years. Finally the idiots chain me up, then begin bragging to each other about how slick they are all the way to the Tulsa pigpen. They are true imbeciles who have fallen backward into a job that did itself for them, and they act like they've done something grand.
After days of hassle the prison scum drag me from Tulsa to their Lexington prison.	I spend a month enduring their 'assessment and receiving' nonsense. I send four speedy trial (for escape) demands to McAlester judge Steve (silly ass) Taylor. The maggots at Lexington prison try to make me give them my blood. I tell them to go straight to Hell by the express lane. Then I file for an injunction to prevent them from stealing my blood. If they steal my blood, they can plant it in their Tulsa vault, claim it's the killer's blood and it will match mine. If I allow them to do this, it will cost me thousands to hire an expert, wrench the blood out of their hands somehow, do the lab tests and have the expert tell the lawyers that their planted blood is not 30 years old: all nearly impossible things to accomplish, except for the chemical test. A monkey could be taught to do that. The judge acted as if she was going to shit a decision on my petition for injunction, but she never does. This is another problem with the scummy lawcrats: you can't make them do their job. They always have an excuse for the non‑lawyer, such as "You never said 'mother, may I?' or 'Simon says'."
The Lexington guards tell me, "You'll never leave here until you give us your blood!" I tell these shitbirds, "Yes I will. You idiots are shipping me straight to McAlester within 120 days."

They act like they are going to videotape themselves gang‑beating me and take my blood. I don't scare. They don't want to fight. It burns their fat, sorry, gutless asses, but they ship me to McAlester in only 35 days (only 15 days longer than usual) because Mcjudge Stevie Taylor orders me an escape trial. Thanks to Pattie Hearst, there is a time limit on what constitutes a 'speedy' trial. It is four months after the victim demands it in writing to a judge in such a way that the judge can not deny he received it. Certified mail works, which is why it is almost impossible to get in prison. That's why it took me four tries. They are all IRREDEEMABLE scum, and they are all in bed together.
A YEAR after it's too late, one of the Lexington judges' many assistants sends me a note to McAlester saying I have only 15 days to send them 5 certified copies of 'mother, may I?' or they will throw my. request for injunction in the trash forever. The prison pig in charge of fucking off our legal mail delivers this ten days late. This is the height of irony, since the McAlester prison maggot squad ran in on me 30‑deep, beat me and shocked the Hell out of me with their clubs and tasers and stole ten ccs of my blood, enough to plant at 50 crime scenes and still have 5 ccs left over. Fortunately they gave me a day's notice. This stupidness on their part gave me time to dope my blood with tell‑tale food chemicals that will show up in proper lab tests. For example, if I ate French toast for breakfast the day they stole my blood, every blood sample of mine that they plant will have detectable amounts of nutmeg and cinnamon in it. I named the chemicals, including medicines, my blood contained that morning and sent it, dated and sealed, to a safe place.
Thus the crooked cops and lawyers can cost me and the taxpayers tons of money, but they can not plant my blood anywhere without getting caught at it at the trial. Nice try, you sorry bags of shit, but no cigar:

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Inmate And Lawcrat Tricks
The U.S. Constitution makes a very pretty, solemn, respectable facade, but flip it over and you find that the back is riddled with caselaw maggots.
										     James Bauhaus
Returning to prison was a jolt: I had forgotten how indescribably petty and malicious its denizens are. Words like 'scum' and 'maggot' are woefully inadequate in describing the wealth of vicious, jealous, mindless parasitism occurring here, and this just barely de‑ scribes the guards and their faceless, anonymous bureaucrats. A decade or so previously we prisoners would sometimes at least see an administrative bureaucrat from a distance, knew their names and could write them and receive an actual signed denial. Now we don't see them, we are lucky to even learn the names concealed behind their titles, and any rubberstamped denial we may get from them that has an actual ink scribble representing the initial of an aide is rare as a coelacanth fossil!

As for the inmates, they are mostly illiterate young punks who have no more education or social skills than fifth‑grade schoolchildren from 1960! The hereditary‑rich's secret, undeclared war on education, in progress since they murdered President Kennedy, is a fantastic success, viewing it from within prison. They are all drug addicts, consumed with serial, cyclical, ever‑repeating desires for nicotine, caffeine, sugar, and any trashdopes they can get. They will try to sniff anything that might be glue or have hydrocarbon solvents in it. They will feign nut‑hood to get psychotropic pills from the medics. These and other pills they will grind up and snort, gobble or shoot into their veins, with no thought about sharing HIV, hepatitis C or any other blood borne pathogens. I've watched lines of them paw through trash cans looking for, hoping for, half‑cooked pill trash in soda can 'spoons' that other addicts have thrown away so they can cook it again and shoot the dregs of these dregs. All their conversations are primarily about drugs, and none of them seem to have had a real drug in all their short lives. They have barn‑yard 'chemists' cook up trash using abominations called 'crank recipes' that have been handed down from illiterate to the even more illiterate as each mentor gets dragged off by the cops and sentenced to life‑at‑recouperation. Their crap has traces‑only of the lowest form of 'speed' (desoxephedrine), and some, called 'Nazi speed' is so full of lithium that they mistake the mania it causes for a speed high. They pay outrageous amounts of their mom's and sister's hard‑earned money for a single shot of this garbage, share the needle and it with three other friends, (their 'gang') feel a slight, temporary scalp‑tingle which they mistake for a 'rush' and think it is the best, most powerful shit money can buy. They get mounds of this and other trashdopes in via the guards, who often drive brand new pickup trucks, boats, bikes and riding lawn‑tractors to show for it. Dope is the center of their little inmate lives. You can't make them educate themselves: they are too busy begging for dope, begging for money for dope, looking for somebody to rob for dope or someone they can steal dope from. The place is like a scene in Larry Niven"s version of Dante's Inferno; particularly the part where the lakes are filled with doomed souls, all drowning, all fighting to get their turn at the surface by dragging others down. When they finally get to stick nose or lips above the surface and partially inhale some air, hands grab them by their ankles, wrists or shoulders, yank them back under and the fight for air resumes. They are like rabid rodents: they have nothing on their :Sick little minds but each tiny, ephemeral little pleasure they can get off a puff of someone else's cigarette, a swig of coffee, a dip of snuff, a bite of candy, a gulp of 'beer', a toke of weed, a snort of a pill, a sniff of glue or a shot of 'dope'. The govt, in each of its many forms, has them all viciously and stupidly biting and slapping and gnawing on each ether so mindlessly and so preoccupied with dealing their petty hatreds that they can't see the cause of all their squabbles: it's not the Nigs, not the Spics, Not the Slicks, Slopes or even the Rags; it's the hereditary rich Silk‑suit mob, their media machines, enforcement thugs and voter‑dupes, but mostly it's the two rabid, corrupt institutions that make, sell and interpret/translate the law! (See: Wizard And The Bump‑Monkeys)
In spite of having to fight every single person inside and outside of prison while inside prison for the simplest, most innocuous thing such as a stamp or free information available anywhere but in prison, I am prepared when they suddenly drag me to court and assign to me another worthless, harmful public defender. The first words out of his mouth are, "Due to the long length of time you were on escape, the least amount of time the prosecutor will offer for a plea bargain is seven years."
Seven years is the maximum penalty they can slam me with, and it is no 'bargain'. They don't even think about how most escapers leave a trail of stolen cars, robberies and other crimes behind them in a multi‑state wake. They have exactly zero other crimes they can pin on me, and they don't even try to slam me with their standard add‑on crime, called the 'habitual criminal act', which is designed to make certain you never finish paying for any of the crimes they previously put on you, whether you discharge the sentences or not. Seven years, however, is still no bargain even considering this. These idiot inmates, in their folklore, propaganda and misconceptions have for decades actually said as if they believed it, that, "An escape sentence is a good thing for a guy with a lotta time. It gives them a way to get paroled off their big sentence without actually letting anyone get out of prison. The parole board members really think this way!"
The inmates really think this way!"

This public defender (PD) is an older lawyer. The top judge gave him this gravy job of "pass out the plea 'bargain'; collect the taxpayer's $5,000; stash it in the bank before noon" because he has 'paid his dues' for years and deserves a fast stack of cash. Plus,
he is president of the local lawyer's union and thus controls which judge gets how much trial lawyer kickback 'campaign contribution' cash for his re‑election. The mutual assscratching between copcrats and courtcrats in this rich prison town out in the middle of no where is as widespread as it is hideous. (The main legislator here just recently got caught after a 50 year crime spree of paying $250,000 to get his candidate elected. The grafter is Stipe, and this time they actually sent him to jail, apparently, for a few days.)   I tell this PD:
"There is not going to be a deal in my case. Prepare for trial. I am an innocent man who has suffered wrongful conviction for almost thirty years. My plan is to use this escape trial as the forum for revealing new evidence‑‑."
"There is no precedent for this."
"It's called a 'colateral attack'. This escape accusation is the capstone of and edifice built upon a swamp. When the foundation sinks into the mud, it takes the rest with it." "I don't think the judge will allow this type of a defense."
"I have copies of the law right here."
"I don't know..." he trailed off, mumbling, and made his escape. The sole reason for his seeing me was to offer the prosecutor's 'bargain'.
The prison guards began cheating me out of showers, soap, clothes and a haircut. I was pretty shaggy again and really needed a haircut so I could blend in with the courthouse Silk‑suit mob . and the Buzzcut/Flattop, ex‑army, want‑to‑be‑a‑cop‑but‑aint‑smart‑enough guard crowd. Also, I would be less offensive to them if I could manage not to stink, get clean and look clean. The guards, prisoncrats and administrators seemed to have a conspiracy going to deprive me of everything possible so I would look, smell and be raggedy and unkempt like their inmates and the homeless winos inhabiting their jails. In prison you are not supposed to live like jail rats puking on and soiling everything in the drunk tank.
I sent law‑filled petitions to the judge trying to get showers soap, clothes, a haircut, a shaving razor and to be allowed to use the phone the inmates use to call their moms and lawyers. The guards dragged me to the judge for a 'motion hearing'. McJudge Taylor

(the same one about to get rich by flushing Terry Nickols into the death chamber for 160 shots of poison) only deigns to hear the titles of these petitions. Then he craftily pretends to grant them all but the 'phone my PD' petition in a long‑winded speech glorifying how dutifully and regularly the prisoncrats afford all prisoners cleanliness, clothes and grooming. The bonehead thinks I want a suit for trial. I try to tell the arrogant, apparently deaf buffoon that I want some underwear so my crotch won't rot out. He has ears only for the sonorous pipings of his own high‑pitched voice with which he appears to be having a kinky love affair. He issues no order to the prisoncrats to grant me anything, and thus he actually denies me everything. The prisoncrats continue to deny me showers, soap, haircut, razor and phone, even to the extent of preventing me from buying things with my own money.  (The Lexington kops stole my money, refusing to transfer it to McAlester, thus making themselves an interest‑bearing free loan of my money for six months.) A newsartist from McAlester's daily slang‑whanger, covering the courthouse beat, wrote a glowing report of this judge's fine speech. She also assures every reader that I am exactly what I am not: clean and as well‑clothed as any of the, other capitves.	(Apparently she has x‑ray vision and precognition, since she never asked me how clean I was or even saw me then.) After having to witness McJudge Adonis puke and spew melodious nonsequiturs and selfpraise for a job well‑done, I get to see this lawyer again. He has not answered any of my letters or done anything I asked (such as shower, soap, razor, haircut, etc). The first words out of his mouth are: "The prosecutor has offered to come down to five years. I'm not sure if I can get it, but it looks like a firm 'maybe'. What do you say? You're not going to get a better deal. I recommend that you accept her offer."
I am appalled, but not surprised, to find this guy acting like one of the human machines out of Huxley's Brave New World. Layden (his surname) appears to be governed by a single line of computer code that commands "Vend Plea Bargain!" I expect to hear him add
"Resistance Is Fu‑Tile!" like a lawyer‑Borg. He appears incapable of performing any other task. Fearing worse, I go down my list of the several things I asked him to do for me.
He seems to go into a slot‑machine trance and has a ready, plausible excuse for not doing everything he has not done for me. I ask him about; and his answer is:
"Copies?" Snake eyesl "Caselaw?" Snake eyes! '"Motions?" Snake eyes!
"Court rules?" Boxcars! "Carbon paper?" Craps! "Precedent?" Snake eyes!
Obviously the only 'assistance of counsel' this law school excreta is going to provide is 'Vend Plea Bargain'. Even so, I reiterate everything I haven't been able to do for myself and load him up with a new list of 'to do's!. I try to elicit some kind of affirmation that he will try and accomplish something I ask even if it is just to have his secretary put a sheet of carbon paper in his leather lunchbox for me. He slides sideways, weasels left, feints right and ducks out without making any promises. I like his integrity: sleazier lawyers will agree with everything, then deliver nothing. The fact that he still takes some time and trouble to avoid lying to helpless prisoners says he has some character left after all the years he has spent swimming with his fellow sewer‑sharks.
(How is a lawyer and an octopus alike? They both depend for their living upon thousands of suckers. What is the difference between a lawyer and a catfish? One is a slimy, coldblooded, bottom‑dwelling mudsucker and the other is a fish.)

Despite continuous roadblocks from lowest guard to highest judge, I am able to get everything I need for the hearing, particularly copies of the court rules of Okracoma, though they are four years outdated. Fortunately the copies don't show the edition they came from. The inmate law clerk assures me that the 1992 edition is the same as the '96 version in use at the time. My copies state what the Constitution means where it says that citizen's have the right to 'assistance of counsel'. It is spelled out in detail so even a haughty, squinty‑eyed judge can read it.	It says that the target of their accusations can both HAVE a public defender and DO everything the lawyer does, from question the prospective jurors, make an opening statement, examine witnesses, to make a closing argument presentation. Plus, the target can make his PD do the same, and the target gets to decided who takes the first turn and who goes second. It's like having two lawyers. Ordinary court room ritual is severely biased in favor of the prosecutor. He gets special treatment in several obvious ways: for example, he gets to open the show with a grand speech extolling his awesome, solemn state power entrusted to him by famous politicians. (Often he is elected, and thus can truthfully claim his power was granted by 'the people'.) Plus, he has a judge to do his dirty work for him: he never has to bark at his target or his lawyer to keep the jurors from hearing facts that he and the judge need to keep secret to guarantee conviction. The prosecutor's judge does all the barking in this regard so that the jurors never have reason to believe or suspect that the prosecutor is anything less than the honest, smiling, polite, fabulously great glad‑handing guy that each juror would be proud to have marry her daughter. The prosecutor is privileged to have two closing arguments, too, because it is VERY important to have the last, final word, twice. (Three times, if you count the judge, who is nothing but an appendage of the prosecutor himself.) 
Another advantage I would get by using these court rules is one the lawcrats and courtcrew hate most. They hate this so badly that, after fighting for decades to prevent us targets from ever having this, they finally let us have it, it turned out to be even more horrifying than the lawcrats ever dreamed, causing them to snatch it back away from us the same year they granted it, and they've been trying to strangle it down to death ever since. It's not TV cameras in court, but almost as bad:,I speak, of course, of our Constitutional right to shoulder the lawyers aside and address the jurors directly, in person. This is the thing that terrifies lawcrats and courtcrew more than anything except cameras in court and sudden, simultaneous, worldwide stock, commodities and real estate market crashes. The way they obtain their 99% conviction rate is not by this many people being guilty: they accomplish this obscene rate through a multitude of tricks, traps, dodges and ruses, but mainly by simply inserting one of their own henchmen between their target and the jurors. This way they reduce their target to a silent, hunched‑over, shifty‑eyed whimpering whisperer who appears to guiltily accept all the outrageous accusations and abuse that the cops,. prosecutors, witnesses, judges, bailiffs and news‑whores care to heap upon him.
T had the answer to this, right in their own District Court Rules book. I had copies of these rules. I had police‑signed proof of wholesale perjury, fraud and evidence‑theft. I had the law on colateral attack. I had pictorial proof of my innocence that any fiveyear‑old child could instantly grasp. I knew that the killer's fingerprints were hidden in the cops' vault‑inside‑their‑vault. The killer's blood may still be in their too. I was ready to set lawcrat‑crippling precedent in the courtroom in front of a live jury. Nothing could possibly go wrong. The law was on my side.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Feed Sharks, Not Lawyers
He who acts as his own attorney has probably dodged a liar, a thief, and a traitor to his cause.
										      Kurt Vonnegut

The hearing came around. Judge Bland presided. The conclusion was going to be me bound over for trial. We all knew this, from the judge down to the janitor. Even so, I made them go through the motions. To do so would cost them money and time; also, I needed practice at public speaking. This judge didn't think I could manage being a lawyer, so he didn't try too hard to stop me. He would sit back and chuckle as he watched his District Attorney (DA) eat me alive and squirming, then set a trial date and forget it. (In order to maximize taxpayer cashflow to lawyer pockets, they switch judges at trial. Each case pays a judge to hear and a different, additional judge to try.) In practical terms, the judge and prosecutor are pretty much the same person. They tried to get slick and dodge my colateral attack by coaching the prison record‑keeper mouthpiece into refusing to mention the fraudulent life sentence I had escaped from. Instead, they had her claim I was in prison from the dirty deal Judge Hampton had cooked 'up for me in Osage county. He had lied to me, lied to my mother, and used my mother harshly to get her to get me to accept from him a 'bargain' of 15 years for letting that scum, Lewis, entrain me in his crime. Just remembering how they'd juked me and made my mother cry and become a tool in their filthy hands made my throat lock up twice while I was cross‑examining this other scoundrel. I had to hold up the proceedings while I struggled to keep from crying myself. The courtcrew noticed. The judge, DA Corcoran, the PD, even the steno, bailiff and guards got worried that I may break down during trial and thus win emotion points with the jurors. I got back under control only by bringing my anger to the surface. Then I could talk again. I said: "That's not what I'm in prison for." That sentence had been discharged the hard way in 2 years by working 365 days/year in the prison kitchen. The parole board hadn't made any move to give me a break, but this woman had been well programed and rehearsed in what to say and what not to say. She kept insisting that I had escaped from a sentence that was no longer in effect; had not been in effect for seventeen years!	No matter what I did or said, she merely repeated her lie, safe in the knowledge that Okracoma is one of 49 other states that give witnesses immunity to all civil and almost all possible criminal actions no matter what lies they may tell under oath. What can you do when faced with a hired liar who is
protected from having to tell the truth? I told Layden what they were doing as if he did not already know. He got up and quickly got them to admit that the sole reason for my being in prison was the Hunt murder and nothing else.	I don't remember how he did this, but I do know he never got the records woman to say it. She had brought only the one lie with her and pretended to know only that lie and nothing else. She had to have cut off the part that mentioned my having discharged that sentence before copying the record. For her, manipulating a record was not a crime, since she had done it for the prosecutor, who is the one who determines who gets accused and charged with crime. Layden blew past this prosecutor chicanery easily. It seems that he did something fancy or something I wouldn't have thought of, but most likely it was merely that his courtklan pals‑simply let their brother pass by admitting to the truth. I've long since sent that transcript to a safe place where the prison guards can't steal it and destroy it. It would be too much hassle to have it dug up and sent in just to see what Layden did or his countty club pals allowed in order to save their valuable time. It would be simpler just to publish it if there is call for it. (See: McAlester district court record F‑$5‑121) None of that courtroom ritual added up to a rat's ass: I wasn't trying to dodge a trial; I was trying to get one. The court‑
klan was trying to dodge a trial, but had to feign the opposite as a threat to make me accept a plea bargain. The whole system is more farce and pomp than a Greek comedy starring Dyonosus.

Which brings to mind their next witness; a similar grinning ass named Leon Palmarchuk. He was the guard who had checked me out the gate that morning I escaped eleven years before. He's a thoroughly malicious bastard who is hard to spot as such because he is always smiling, joking and laughing. He'd since retired, but hadn't changed much besides getting more ugly. Many of the other guards had died, some in hard, painful ways, but Palmarchuk was still his same, wicked self. He was one of the least sorry and petty of guards. He identified me for the Prosecutor and somehow had gotten the idea into his head that he had noticed my having shaved and cut my hair short that morning before he let me out the gate to go to work. It didn't matter a whit, but while I was cross examining him, I told him that I had shaved elsewhere later and had not cut my hair then at all. He insisted that he knew the facts to be as he'd stated and that his memory was clear. It seemed he really believed this. I told him he could go home.
Soon as I got rid of Palmarchuk, that was it. I may have stated my innocence and pointed to a big grocery‑sack I'd brought as proof, but I didn't show the records around. There were no jurors and the judge was not honest, thus there was no point in so doing. Judge Bland banged his gavel, pronounced a trial, set a date and scurried away back to his mahogany‑lined opulent hideyhole and the liquor bar he kept in there. The two guards loaded me back up with heaps of shackles, chains, locks and boxes, then dragged me back to prison. I remember Bland was not interested in seeing my proof.
One of my sub‑strategies was to make it as costly to them as possible, this in hope of increasing their drain on the taxherd's life's blood enough to finally make some of them wake up, notice the flim‑flam and finally kick some of these parasites off our jugulars.
This should be part of every victim's strategy. A primary way to accomplish this is to maximize your time with them. Every minute they are having to spend on you is one minute they are unable to spend luring in, capturing or otherwise harvesting paying customers. The taxherd is made to pay the law klan for indigent 'services' in one huge tax‑gobble at the first of the fiscal year. The chief judge gets to splash this largesse out in such a fashion as to use it up before next year's budget allocation. (In a bureaucracy, work not only expands to fill the time available; funding needs expand to exceed actual work done. See: The Peter Principle, by Dr. Lawrence J. Peter) The judge keeps a sharp eye on incoming revenue too, and if conditions merit, he makes certain he runs out of money sooner than other greedy govt agencies so he can smack the taxherd with a large increase over last year's (increased) appropriation. Really bold judges and other agency heads scare‑up "emergency" appropriations over and above their usual tax‑snatches by claiming that they have to let some dangerous criminals escape justice. Their media tools dutifully parrot this line and the public is tricked into apathetically allowing it to occur each time as if
345
they were all stricken with Alzheimer's disease and are hearing it for the first time.
This type of thing happens locally everywhere every year in some form or another. The govt agencies take turns pulling this stunt. It always works. Because indigents are paid for in advance, the lawcrats shortchange the indigents on time, maximizing the time spent relieving paying customers of their assets. This process of pushing indigents to the back

of the line while racing to the front with paying or not‑yet‑drained customers causes courts to clog with a backlog of indigents and persons who have already paid their money and are waiting for justive to be passed out. This constant cash‑seeking and backlog‑making behavior creates what I term the court's "self‑clogging function". I took advantage of it by not letting my worthless PD ignore my motions: I filed them myself and sent him copies. Many wednesdays they would chain me up and drag me off to judge Stevie Taylor for denials. Each time this occurred, the guards would drag me through back past all the bureaucrats and into a special, no‑bathroom holding cage with a fine guard‑lounge, dodging all public areas. Taylor's courtroom was on the second floor, only steps away. Off of it they had a lawyer's alcove with two restrooms. This is where I was introduced to my new public defender. It was Layden's young cousin or nephew, Patrick. Elder Layden had quietly and secretly made his getaway after the hearing. Judge Taylor had paid him his few thousands for the three times I ever saw him; a grand total face‑time of less than 90 minutes. It had finally sunk in that I was seriously going to fight an escape charge with a juror trial. He took his easy money and ran. The judge saddled me with a young, inexperienced kid who needed trial practice. I was his lab mouse. Slippery judges often cleverly double the cost of indigent 'defense' by switching lawyers halfway through their judicial maze. Citizens snooze through this scam too.
Pat was a nice enough guy, as most lawcrats are or seem so on the surface, but he was more than just worthless, he was harmful, though it would take me some weeks to uncover exactly how fiendish he is. After introducing himself, the first thing out of his mouth was:
"I spoke with Ellen, the prosecutor; she is such a nice young lady; and she has agreed to come down to only three years."
Once again I explained that there would be no deals and that trial with jurors was . the only possible option. His eyes glazed over as soon as I got to the innocence part. He had inherited all the letters, motions, petitions and copies I'd sent elder Layden and
had employed an identical legal strategem of ignoring them completely. He also thought the judge would not permit any colateral attack as a defense. I showed him the law; he had no coherent comment on it. I loaded him up with things I needed, same as I'd done with his kin, even to giving him a list and a sheaf of papers to copy. He agreed to do the things I asked. Then I got to see Judge Taylor. About the colateral attack, he said:
"You can't do that."
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I showed him the law. He ignored it, saying, "You must defend against the escape charge. You did escape, didn't you?"
"Yes, but‑‑."
"There you are," said Taylor, with a stealthy glance at his prosecutor.
''Your Honor, he just confessed," snickered DA Corcoran, as if this was relevant to anything.
"The life is founded on perjury and evidence‑theft," I clarified, "Making it illegal‑." "About representing yourself," interrupted Taylor with the smoothness and quickness of a carnival shill, "I highly recommend that you avail yourself of Mr. Layden's excellent services because law is infinitely complex and you could get into a lot of trouble..."
(What trouble? I could die doing this life sentence and the judge would have me buried standing up until I finish his lousy seven years for escape?)
My own eyes glazed over. Taylor continued selling this line with heavy, cloying verbiage for some minutes. It is always amazing to me how they (lawcrats in general, politicians in particular) can moan on and on and both appear to be saying something new plus appear not to repeat themselves overmuch while actually not saying much of anything at all, measured in total information content. Finally Taylor wound down to his inevitable question, "Are you absolutely sure you want to. . . (etc)?"

I showed him the rules of his court and tried to explain how I would need to partake of a PD and defend myself in person as well, but Taylor again rudely interrupted me. Power foments arrogance.
"You can either represent yourself," he stated, "or you can be represented by Mr. Layden," Taylor mis‑stated, "You can not do both."
"It says right here‑", I tried again, but Taylor launched off into another long monologue. He was truly in love with the sound of his own voice. He denied everything contained in the copy of his court rules I had put in his hand. It was useless to try and get this blind man to admit to that which he refused to see. He eventually halted himself with a question to me about how well I understood now that I had been skillfully plied with Taylor's implacable logic.
I agreed with no such steaming pile of nonsense, of course, saying, "Then we have an impasse for the state supreme court to resolve before we can go any further." This time I avoided being shouted down by making them all wait until I could construct and blurt a single sentence that economically covered every point I intended to make. I am not accustomed to speaking loudly for a full house. Lawcrnts forceably resist modern innovations like electronic speaking aids because they fear who could then be heard over their interruptions. Every time I am forced to speak for a large audience, some arrogant buffoon takes offence. When lawyers speak normally, they shout, but it sounds natural for them because they do it every day and people are used to it. Today I was only competing for the stenographer's

  ear, but often a news‑vulture is quietly scribbling away in a corner. Inevitably they will publish how the lawcrat's voices 'carry' while their target's voices are 'shrill' and 'rambling'. It is just one of the many small aggravations of life which we underdogs must suffer, but shouldn't have to. Another is that this part of the court record usually vanishes. To prevent such routine disappearances, it should be linked to her paycheck, which should vanish along with the record.	,
Taylor had no comment for me, but his eyes lit up when I said this as if he had touched a live wire. Judges really do abhor having their corruptions pointed out to bigger judges. Such 'oversight' seldom corrects anything and never results in any real sanction, but it can cause them some small consternation. Lawcrats are expected by other lawcrats to be able to keep their dirty dealings quiet and within their own baliwicks. They consider it bad form to have it slop over onto other lawcrats, all of whom struggle to keep their "skirts clean" in case another political opportunity arrives. Taylor got rid of me quickly and efficiently.
The Okie supremes ignored me. We targets in prison are easily ignored. Our communications are restricted to letters while the judges are having assistants zip faxes, e‑mails and phone calls back and forth at lightspeed to out‑think, out‑wit and out‑play us. I had not really expected any help from the state supremes, having long known them to be nothing more than five faceless persons operating five rubberstamps in unison, all marked 'denied'. I didn't need any lawyer blocking my access to the jurors, the only real oversight and quality control on the lawcrats, but it would have been nice to have use of their written law. If they are not going to follow their own rules, those rules need to be erased so no, one else can be tricked into believing he has more rights than actually exist.

The trial date had been set for the 119th day of the 120 day time limit. It passed. They'd set it off for the very last day without telling me: undoubtedly they had found an unexpected vein of assets to mine before they could get to me. Then, at six PM, kid Layden showed up at the prison. I went down my list, asking him if he had done anything I'd asked. He answered succinctly:
"Motions?" Snake eyes! "Case law?" Boxcars! "Copies?" Craps!
"Carbon paper?" Snake eyes!
Thousands of tax dollars paid to these two "Excellent" public defenders for some constitutionally "Guaranteed" EFFECTIVE ASSISTANCE OF COUNSEL and I got nothing; not even a single sheet of carbon paper. But Layden had a mission of his own. He said:
"I got ms Corcoran to come down to only two years, I strongly recommend you accept her generous offer."	'
It was unbelievable that both Laydens continued to try vending this plea bargain crap long after I had told them in minute detail several times that there would be no deals with the prosecution. Colateral attack is a simple legal concept, and innocence was even less
348 complex. I was tempted to ask him what part of "NO" could he not understand. Instead, I was polite and simply refused. Two years is the standard copout that every fool seems able to get even when they are only able to "escape" for a few hours.
"What if I could get you a year?" he asked.
"No," I said, though evidently without enough exasperation, for then he asked: "Well; what would you take?"	,
"I'll take a TRIAL," I said. The "God DAMN you!" was understood, at least from my ~_ viewpoint. Then he visibly switched gears and asked:
"Tomorrow, at trial, are you still going to try and represent yourself?" "Yes," I admitted.
"You intend to make an opening statement too?" "Yes," I replied, "Right after yours."
"And you intend to examine witnesses too?" "Of course."
"What about closing arguments?" "First you, then me," I answered.
Layden blinked, grimaced, then seemed to push a reset button on the back of his neck. He slid his pile of files over to me and said:
"I have a feeling that the guards may make a mistake and accidentally walk you past the prospective jurors while you are in prison colthes. If this happens, I'll make a motion
to judge Taylor about this prejudice and ask for a dismissal; he will be likely to grant it." "I don't want a dismissal," I began, "I want a Ju‑ ."
"I've got to go," Layden interrupted. Then he made his escape.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Conspiracy of Scurrilous Fiends
It is sometimes the duty of a patriot to protect the country from the government.
Thamas Paine
In all my other dealings with lawyers they jealously guarded their case files. Clients simply do not get the "work product" as they call it, from your public defender. Victims of the lawyersystem are lucky if we can get only the trial transcript (minus the jury

picking) from them after six to nine months of writing begging and pleading letters from the deepest holes of their prisons. I was pleased to get a six‑inch pile of legal crap from this guy to study one night prior to trial. (Though I had told judge Taylor at least once that, given the choice of PD or self‑representation, I chose to fire Layden, he had left me saddled with him for one other reason besides what fee he would kick back; reason number two was for excluding me from their little 10‑days‑prior‑to‑trial planning session where the judge, DA and PD have a secret get‑together and discuss the actual processes they will all employ toward skinning their victim. I really should have been there, as you will soon see.) This pile of legal‑leavings enthralled me too much for me to think that his pushing it over to me was odd and unprecedented. The crap had parts of the FBI/OSBI record on me! These bootclicking, goose‑stepping fascists truly seemed to think I was an exceedingly dangerous criminal. Of course, when your political standing and pay level increases with the perceived threat level, threats tend to be created out of nothing, magnified and exaggerated to extremes.
The next morning two guards came and tried out a new implement of torture on me. They had a steel leg‑screwing contraption designed to fit under their victim's clothes to keep him from bending his leg. They first tried to put it on me upside down. Then they tried
to put it on the wrong leg. I was grateful that they only had one of the things. It is supposed to keep you slow enough for even the fattest guard or cop to catch or shoot you. should you try to go jangling away from them. It worked beautifully in this respect. Simply trying to walk with it on caused it to bash my nuts with each step. It took both	‑ shackled hands clamped to it to prevent this, causing everyone within sight to stare gapejawed at the guy trying to strangle whatever had crawled up his leg and was munching on his crotch. The guards and courtklan seemed to think it would trick the jurors into thinking
I was not shackled.
At the courthouse the guards CHANGED their route. Instead of dragging me through the back way with all the bureaucrats to the cage like all the many previous times, they took me up the elevator and across five feet of lobby into Taylor's courtroom from the front.
A few people were loitering in the lobby, looking very bored. None seemed to notice my arrival. Layden was already there. He came bounding over like a ferret after a gopher. The guards began removing all their chains, locks, boxes and shackles from me. Layden ‑ said through a weasel‑toothed grin, "The guards just brought you past the jurors while you were in prison clothes and chains'. That's prejudicial! I'll go make a motion to the judge for dismissal:"
By this time I was finally realizing what kind of dirty scam they were pulling, though I was slow to deduce haw very many of them were involved in its perpetration. Judge Steven Taylor, Prosecutor Ellen Corcoran and Public Defender Patrick Layden had all been in bed
together, conspiring with the Okie state pen administration and guards to cheat me out of my trial by concocting this plan that they had just sprung on me. Finally I got angry. I shouted at Layden so there could be no possibility of "misunderstanding":

"You Will NOT!" I commanded. He began trying to argue with me, but I would not be distracted. Judge Taylor froze for a second, then realized I was not going to let his flunky follow their diabolical plan and ask for a dismissal. Taylor took action to remedy this lack. He asked me about what was stamped on the back of my shirt. It had 'inmate' dimly visible on it. Taylor took a deep breath, winding himself up like a pump‑up toy, and began wheezing a bunch of legalese about 'prejudice'. Finally I realized that he was planning to make his OWN motion to dismiss, since it would look too squirrelly for his prosecutor to ask for a dismissal of her OWN accusations. I moved quickly and loudly to cut him off. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Taylor's court reporter dutifully banging away at her machine, recording Taylor's snorings. They were all closer to her than me, and this
was no coincidence. No matter: if forced, I could overshout all of them together. The real trick is the steno's selective hearing. She hears her bosses best.
"Pardon me, judge Taylor," I loudly interrupted, easily drowning him out, "but the case‑law I have here says that this is NOT prejudicial to jurors when the subject is an escape trial. There is no hiding the fact that an escapee was in prison and must be actively prevented from escaping again."
Taylor was good: all the years he's spent ignoring his victims and concentrating on his own gaspings was great practice for him. Despite my efforts, he kept moaning on about prejudice as if he was deaf to interruptions. Then to make it look better and perhaps to spread plausibility in case this ever came back to haunt his future political career, he asked his prosecutor for her opinion, catching her by surprise in the process. She was of course having thoughts identical to Taylor's opinions.
"Um," she said in a voice with phony concern for my welfare and fairness, "Oh, judge,
we couldn't permit such prejudice to taint the sanctity of the judicial process like this..." "I accept any prejudice there may be so that Hunt's killer can finally be caught and brought to justice!" I added in desperation. The ball was snatched up by Taylor again, who ran with it like a striped‑assed ape.
"It just would not be fair..."
"Then I request a continuance until the NEXT juror pool is called! Any possible prejudice is easily cured simply by awaiting the next call‑up of jurors!"
"...so I dismiss this case forthwith. Guards! Stop unlocking him and lock him back up! We are finished with him!"
"Taylor!" I shouted, "Why do you want to protect the killer?"
Taylor snatched up some papers and bolted quickly for his rathole in back, undoubtedly for a few fast slugs of ten‑high vodka as a reward for doing such a great job of obstructing justice. I bellowed at his scrambling‑away backside, "Come back here, you shit‑eating maggot!" His prosecutor looked nervously around, a fake smile pasted to her face. "Corcoran!" I hollered, "Why do you want to protect the killer of Mr. Hunt? You can subpeona the records that will reveal his identity:" She grabbed her briefcase in a bearhug and shagged‑ass after Taylor. "What's YOUR excuse, Layden?" Layden simply smirked, then followed Corcoran. The pretty blond court reporter was gathering up her things and the paper on her machine. At a distance she could have passed for Misty, tall and regal.  I told her: "I'll need a copy of that."
"Not without the judge's permission, you won't," she snarled. She galloped out too, loaded down with crap, chasing Taylor. So much for so‑called "public" records. If you're not a cop or a media whore, you're not getting certain 'public' records. I imagined them all in Taylor's luxurious, leather‑lined chambers of opulent splendor, sweating and gasping like rats, giggling nervously over their narrow escape. One of the guards began putting on an act, pretending to fear punishment for their well‑rehearsed 'mistake'. I told him to shut the fuck up.

These lawrats had stolen my jury trial as easily as any gang of car thieves strips a caddy in the ghetto at night. I would not be setting 'dangerous' precedent in Taylor's courtroom. And neither would anyone else in Oklahoma courts: the very next year (1997) the sons of bitches removed these court rules from their editions and substituted a grueling set of forms to sign that revoked all your rights and forced you to do without any assistance of counsel, 'effective' or not, just as Taylor wanted for me.	It is all illegal, being specifically outlawed by the U.S.Constitution, but fat lot of good the Constitution does anyone when we are surrounded by bold, shameless crooks who own the law and are themselves immune to it and above it.
Taylor refused to release the transcript and possibly destroyed it. A friend of mine who worked in the journalism department of Langston University couldn't get it. She's also worked for the news of channel two, Tulsa, so it's not like she would be easily shaken off the trail by a bunch of lousy bureaucrats. I appealed without the transcript, making judicial history as the only man in 220 years of American law to sue the govt for restoration of charges. Taylor ignored my brief for post conviction relief. The Okie supremes accepted my appeal and answered it with incoherent gibberish as if they had suddenly lost their _ ability to read, understand and write plain English. I appealed their gibberish to the 'Federal' court in Muskogee. Judge Burrage also had a sudden attack of dyslexia compounded by Alzheimer's disease. His reply was incomprehensible drivel that did not even feign lucidity. The tenth circuit judges had the answer to my demands for justice. They said, ..,` simply, "For reply, send $150." The U. S. supremes never saw my appeal. I was roadblocked by a lowly clerk who apparently couldn't spell his own name. He outlawed my petition himself, then signed it with a scribbled initial.

CHAPTER FORTY

Appeals Judges' Chicanery

Democracy is about individuals giving up their ability to do whatever they want so that everybody can have some rights.
								          Bill Joy, Sun Microsystems
That was the end of my grand plan: shot down like a bird of paradise, stomped into the ground for 'sport' and fed to their yapping media dogs. The lawyerklan is almost indistinguishable from the copklan: three or four crooked dirtbags perpetrate the crime, then the rest of them at every level of 'self‑policing' salute it and stamp it with their seals of approval. Like I've been saying for so long; there is zero quality control or oversight on these two systems that are run amok.

Plan 'B' was the appeals system, and I already had proven what kind of tragic farce it is from twenty years ago. It had gotten so much worse from all that immunity‑to‑the‑law they enjoy that it can no longer be adequately described by words like high corruption, shameless theft of rights, joyous sadism, celebrated criminality, etc. New words must be invented to connate these buccaneers of law, courtroom robber barons and aggravating social parasites. My suicidal return to force them to catch the killer coincided with Clinton's travesty which I call the 1996 Habeas Corpus‑killing Accelerated Death Penalty Act. This liar of law and pied piper, along with other varlots in power noticed that the cops had become far too sloppy in nailing death sentences onto innocent persons. About 150 flagrant frame‑ups DNA‑uncovered so far, which is just the film of dirt on the tip of the iceberg. Word was leaking out. What to do? Don't fix the problem; pretend it doesn't exist, then make it worse! Shove your 'mistakes' into the grave and destroy the evidence faster! This is shameless murder and theft by the lawyerklan in response, in part, to a 1987 study published in "'he Stanford Law Review detailing how a minimum of 23 innocent persons were uncovered that were murdered by the various American govts' death machines between 1907 and 1974 (See: Scientific American, 12‑98 P. 31) The cops, lawyers, govcrats and media suppressed public knowledge of this phenomenon of rampant cop, lawyer and govt corruption and continue to do so today. Most of the citizens are completely fooled, but not the victims. Consider my appeals in light of what we victims know.
We know that the local district courts almost never correct their 'mistakes' and certainly not their corruptions. I sent copies of all the previously stolen and concealed evidence and my petition to the Tulsa district court. (We are forced by law to waste	. months of our lives asking the maggots that did this to us to undo it; an always‑failing enterprise.) A new gang of lawcrats were determined to keep the lid on the criminality of their predecessors, (so that the present crop of lawcrooks can rely on the same service from the ones they leave their jobs to: it is in their culture.) A DA helper named Kelson, Crain or Edwards whipped out an answer full of the standard lawspeak (dressed in Latin, to give it an air of legitimacy) that, when decyphered and translated said, "The time limit expired, so we don't even have to look at this alleged new evidence" and "We already denied this thirty years ago." There is no time limit on evidence: they pretend that there is by claiming that their victims "Could have uncovered the evidence sooner" by using "due diligence". This way they manage to wave the checkered flag soon as guilt is declared, without seeming to. If any appeals are raised, the appeals judges throw their noses toward the sky and snottily proclaim, "You waived your right to bring this up by not bringing ing it up sooner." (Then they go on a harangue about 'scarce judicial resources' being 'wasted' because there is no 'finality' to the judicial process each time they deny justice. Only 15% of cases are ever appealed, and only 3% of these ever win any correction, and this only occurs after years or decades of fighting legal doublespeak from these robed bacteria, so the finality rate is somewhere between 99.55% and 100% The judges pretend that you knew about the concealed and stolen evidence, through some sort of precognition or chlairvoyance, apparently, then decide to sit it out in prison for a few years or decades before trying to get their Honors to fix their fraudulent conviction: No matter how absurd or idiotic these judges' opinions, they can not be gainsayed. Judges' 'logic' always wins due to zero oversight and zero quality control.

One of the DA helpers, Kelson, I think, created the simplest lie of his own. The 'trial DA needed his own particular lie in order to plausibly ditch the killer's blood for the jurors, so he said "insufficient" blood had been tendered for testing. Kelson, safely past the fickle jurors and now in judge‑territory, wanted to resurrect the blood in order to trick any possible honest appeals judges out of any 'dissenting opinions' they may have. To this end, Kelson lied that I was "not entitled to any more re‑analyses of the blood." So, in lawyerland we can leap from NO testing to NUMEROUS testings without the annoyance of ever having a first test or analysis thereof! And it is all perfectly logical to 39 judges in the 8 courts that I visited and re‑visited. Apparently 'insufficient' testing is plenty enough for anyone.	In my appeals I put this first DAs lie (Truster's lie) next to Kelson's lie and tried to get these appeal swine to fix one or both. No amount of my protests to skads of high‑level public figures in any branch of govt could get this fixed or even noticed. They all let the trial DA use one lie to GET me convicted, then let Kelson switch it to this OPPOSITE lie to keep me convicted! Clever, huh? Flagrant, shameless skullduggery such as this is practiced thousands of times daily by DAs and judges throughout America's 18,000‑plus judicial districts. Why? Because they can! Nobody reads this legal crap but prisoners who are helpless to do anything but suffer it and lawyers who gain political and financial profit from the results of it!
They have a brief manual for teaching new, inexperienced and too idealistic judges how to screw people out of their appeals and lives in an efficient, assembly‑line manner so as to make the best, fastest use of "scarce" judicial resources. (Last I checked, we had a
GLUT of lawyers and many universities pumping them out at a rate of about 30,000 more every year.) This judges' teaching manual is a lot like the DAs juror‑picking manual that fell into public hands a few years ago and was quickly hushed‑up. It's like that CIA/Contra manual too that caught the CIA teaching its inhuman monsters how to murder your own people and blame it on the enemy to provoke suicidal "KILL THE ENEMY!" rampages by your 'allies'. Here's a tongue‑in‑cheek page out of that very 'manual' that I‑‑er‑ 'liberated' off judge Taylor's desk.
JUDGES' MANUAL ON HOW TO SCREW PEOPLE OUT OF THEIR LAWFUL APPEALS AND LIVES:
1.	Remove everything the appealee wrote in his briefs so we can write pure fiction in answer and not immediately be detected as the bold liars we are.
2.	Garble the remaining facts with half‑truths and falsehoods to suit our purpose of denying everything while appearing to be the utmost in fairness and reason.
3.	Create rights‑stealing court rules like time limits and technicalities for use in trumping the U.S. Constitution and thwarting the law and justice.
4.	Allude to unspecified 'requirements' and claim that they were not met.
5. Have out clerks stamp 'DENIED' on our unsigned, killer‑protecting, Bill Of Rightsstealing, Constitution‑killing "ORDER OF THE COURT" and send it to our victim, thereby preserving our plausible deniability should it come back and haunt our political career someday.
 6.	Suck up a minimum of $240 per hour in taxcash profit for this recurring problem that we deliberately refuse to fix, then whine constantly for more million$ of dollars to relieve this clog that we produced in our own system.
7.	Give thanks for the numerous killers, robbers, rapists and other criminals we let slip through our fingers by letting cops simply randomly assign 15% of crime to innocents that make our profession of mere wordsmithy so extremely lucrative and such a fabulously fastgrowing industry which will keep us, our kids and our grandkids richer than Midas, in perpetuity!

Many times the local court judges do not even write their own opinions. They often and routinely just take what their DAs' helper wrote in his 'Resopnse to Petition for Postconviction Relief' and switch the title to "(Judge's) Order Denying Petition for Post‑conviction Relief". The prosecutors assist in this assembly‑line mass‑prnduction effort by making their shell‑document responses easily plagerizable. Denial is so easy that the judge's clerk need only switch the title and add the optional rubberstamp signature, if desired: the rest of the verbiage stays exactly the same right down to the first flunky's typographical errors. One I received showed how sloppy and uncaring they are: both the DA's 'Response...' and the judge's 'Order...' (Kelson and Harris, Tulsa county district court) were IDENTICAL even to the point of the first paragraph in each appearing again as the second paragraph. Proofreading is not a high priority when you're late for the gin at the countryclub. This is where your tax‑million$ go: to form‑letter shell documents that are personalized with a few keystrokes to fit any denying purpose.
I tried to find an honest judge who would make an honest ruling in Tulsa district court more than 12 times. They are all crooks, or at least judges Harris, Beasely, and Linda Morrissey are: they each covered for the other with the temerity that Sicilian gangsters would envy. They did not even make a ruling of their own; they just puked their DA's obscenities as their own. They refused to unsteal the killer's blood or fingerprints and instead facilitated their theft. They refused to unsteal any public records, ESPECIALLY the six pictures of me the cops took of my police‑brutalized face with my too‑long hair of the wrong color. Perhaps the crooked cops used these six pictures as the model for their cop‑artist to draw pictures and fraudulently ascribe their origins to Hunt, Baker and Connors. No one knows but the cops and these women, and none of them are talking. As to the guy's fingerprints: an Australian University research team developed a technique to get DNA from fingerprints. I appealed on this. The Tulsa cop‑ and court‑klans' responded by promptly stealing the killer's 21 fingerprints out of their vault‑within‑a‑vault. The thief had to have been alerted by the Tulsa judge and/or DA, and the thief had to be a cop, DA or judge, and the thief had to sign for this theft. The lawyer who caught them at this thievery, Richard 0'carroll, keeps their names secret: he is the lawyer that Mr. Scheck hired to look into my case and took two years of playing pattie‑cake with the Tulsa cops and DAs to turn up one sheet of evidence; the FBI sheet detailing how they made too much blood into 'insufficient' blood.
All of us victims of the cop/lawyer system know that the next level of appeal, the state supreme court, is also a complete, utter farce and sham. These five judges appear to act in unison all the time: in 30 years I have never seen any of them have a dissenting opinion on anything, ever. Each of these five figureheads is given about a quarter million dollars per year in above‑the‑table taxcash for their sinecures. Okie taxpayers could keep these five paychecks for some useful purpose and replace these meatheads with a photoelectricly activated robot arm that automatically stamps DENIED on everything placed beneath it: Judicial quality would not vary to any detectable degree. They went blind to the facts too and parroted the local judge's DA's helper's response over 13 times, refusing to address any of the facts or evidence. There are no honest judges in this court: Strubar, Lumpkin, Johnson, Chapel and Lile are such unmitigated criminals that they stole my transcript that I'd sent to them for their convenience, then they lied about it. Two years later an investigator, John Floyd, discovered it in their file; complete with my relative's name on it ‑ along with Kinko's emblem and the Tulsa address where she bought it.	(The Okie supremes are in Okie city,) Like I said, elite criminals are not just dishonest; they are bold, shameless liars and petty thieves as well.

The next level of appeal and supposed 'oversight' and 'quality control' is called the federal district court, but these courts are only the local, state judges given federal power. Only lots of cash will fix legal fraud at the first two levels of judges; this third level of judges are so expensive that usually only lots of corporate cash moves them, as when Ghetty Oil, Penzoil and Texaco were buying decisions years ago. As for individual victims of criminal lawyerfraud, these 'federal' judges only fix the most unmistakeably flagrant cop and lawcrat corruptions from the lower judges. They do this only to dodge any mild reproval a circuit judge may vend in their subsequent review of the case. The judges usually are working their ways up the judicial ladder, and this is why the lower judges are obsessed with brown‑nosing the higher judges and making certain that the skid of victims into prisons contains no bumps that can toss them out of that deep groove to Hell.
Judge Holems got my case, and he sat on it for 15 months trying to dig a path under it.  It does not take a year and a half to see obvious corruption, so I asked his 'bosses',, the 10th circuit judges, to make him puke an opinion or pass it on to them. They took six months to say, "Fifteen months is not too long (to sit on a case)." Finally, after almost two years he puked a ruling where he twisted the facts around to suit him, went blind to how eight‑months growth of hair could have exploded out of my skull in only five days, swore that nobody lied and that nothing was concealed or stolen. The most astonishing thing he vomited was that he thinks that the two women's memories of the killer actually IMPROVED after 21 months had passed! Through cunning use of legalese he made this sound plausible to other lawyers and persons who don't have time to suffer the translation of lawyerspreken into English. Holems is indeed a master of shuck and jive doublespeak; much more accomplished than his fellow dirtwads Kerns and Ellison, who performed their own thefts of my rights before and after Holems.
The tenth circuit judges, Brobry, (anagram of 'robbery') Tacha and Baldcrock, et al, were proud of the hard labor Holems had put in his declaration garbling the facts for them. They knew their plausible deniability was thus assurred. Hence they also went blind and parroted the same lies Holems, Ellison, Kerns (and Cook) vomited, choosing also to protect the killer at all costs because to do so also preserves the illusion of their infallibility.
Paraphrasing a famous judge, Blackstone or 'Learned Hand': "It is better that 100 criminals escape justice than one Judge admit to a single mistake."
The U. S. Supremes likewise chose to protect the killer and the myth of sanctity that provides a slimy coating to their institutions. They refused to fix their cronies' corruptions because it is better for killers to run loose to kill again among the lower classes than it is for the cops and lawyers to lose one speck of the myth of their honesty, trustworthiness and infallibility. It's like John Naisbitt said: "Lawyers are like beavers; they get in the mainstream and dam it up." It's not 'rule of law', it's fear of law.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Endgame
First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.
									              Mahatma Gandhi

All through these years of futile, timewasting appeals to corrupt officials within all three branches of the local, state and federal govts, the number of persons proven innocent just on DNA climbed ever higher. These are only cases where the cops and DAs inexplicably failed to destroy the DNA they had stolen years or decades prior to creating the frauds they crucified innocent persons with. Then studies got published showing that the rate of fraudulent conviction runs at a minimum of 7% in the most highly scrutinized and carefully reviewed of all cases: Death Penalty Cases. Others found that ordinary cases suffer innocent conviction frauds at a rate of about 15%. These also are only the most flagrant cases in which armies of cops, lawyers, judges and prosecutors could not keep covered up despite team efforts straining mightily. The 2000 Columbia University study by James Liebman and his students uncovered the fact that 68% of death penalty cases were faulty from 1976 to 1995, having to go back and be 'fixed' and re‑fixed. When I went to school, 68% of RIGHT answers was a shameful 'F' grade. Prosecutors got onto TV and, with straight faces, told viewers that 68% WRONG answers was evidence that the lawyersystem is working perfectly well by catching all its mistakes. (The '87 Stanford Law Review study is still successfully suppressed!) Then it was found that cases in Virginia, Louisiana, Texas and Illinois had probably killed innocent persons, but the state's lawcrats managed to 'legally' destroy the DNA that would have proven it one way or another. Obviously the best way to cover up murder is to destroy evidence of your crimes. No wonder they can glibly claim (lie) that "There is no proof that we killed any innocent persons."
After five years of trying to make crooked judges and other officials do their jobs I finally got on the list of one of the innocence projects that this mountain of fraud caused to come into being. Every one of them in every state admits to being swamped with persons desperate to get DNA (the only ticket in) torn from the cops' hands and analysed. (In a little pitfall state like Okracoma there are 750 of us. See: Legislators race to plug liability hole.)	Barry Scheck's students tried to pry the killer's blood and prints out of the Tulsa crooks by long distance from New York. After two years of begging and getting the runaround, they hired a local lawyer, 0'carroll, to gnaw on them in person. It took him over a year of legal pattie‑cake with them to find that the cops and DAs (probably the original crooks) had stolen the killer's blood and prints out of their own vault's vault and guessed that they'd either destroyed them or re‑hid them elsewhere. He would not reveal any of the cops' names on their evidence sign‑out sheet. He only said that the blood had been stolen out of there "long ago" and that they had stolen the killer's fingerprints in 1998; the same time I filed my brief in Tulsa notifying the courtklan that DNA could now be obtained from fingerprints. (Imagine what a frenzy of evidence‑stealing and burning that news caused!) 0'carroll also pried loose the single sheet of paper that the original corrupt DA, Jerry Truster, had spoke of at the last second of his second closing argument; the FBI sheet about "insufficient" blood. The reason it took us thirty years to pry it out of the maggots is that it showed the trick that Peyton and the FBI cops used to turn plenty
of blood into "insufficient" blood: they just pretended that they were looking for seven or eight killers of Mr. Hunt. This way they could also pretend that about six forensic experts all made the same incompetent blunder of collecting too‑small samples seven or eight times in a row: Looking for seven or eight killers of Mr. Hunt kept them from putting all seven adequate samples of the blood trail into one huge sample of blood. All their analyses of this blood, if any, also vanished, even out of the coroner's office. (That is, especially out of the coroner's office, since he is specially selected by the cops to give results of scientific tests in such a way that they always favor the cops' and‑DAs conviction and coverup needs.) The coroner, Hinkle, was told by the cop McCullough to analyse his sample of the killer's blood, and this is recorded in the cops' reports. There is about a 100% likelihood that Hinkle and/or his boss, Fogel, did analyse this killer's blood almost immediately‑after the crime. It is also about 100%likely that by January 3, 1973, the day Johnson got Mrs. Hunt to choose me in their lineup, the cops told Hinkle to destroy all his records and analyses of the killer's blood, then plucked out of the records of their own police reports all mention of the cops' efforts to identify the owner of the blood. This would account for many of, or all of, the missing pages in the cop‑files.

So what next? The court of public opinion, of course, because: When the people lead, the leaders will follow. My job is to spend the rest of my life crusading to the voters about how the Silk‑suit mob is stealing all our lives and pinching off all our livelihoods, not just mine and 350,000 other innocents nationwide. The worst plague of parasites the Earth has ever known has descended upon mankind and its name is Lawyer. When this plague of ultimate parasites grows so obscenely huge that it consumes blood from 51% of the voters, govt will suddenly flip, throwing out these bloodsuckers and replacing them with less malignant parasites. This day is coming, and I'm helping it along all I can. Everyone who loves America and our cultures should help.
The most efficient way to get the claws of these shitbirds off govt is by wresting away their monopoly on the legislative process. While only they can write and pass laws, the only laws that will get passed are laws that benefit them. They've already negated most of the U. S. Constitution with their laws and rules. (See: Outlawing the Constitution.) The Constitution allows for the voters to write and pass our own laws; laws that politicians will never write or pass because they will regulate and defang politicians, stripping them of their right to perpetrate crime and escape their responsibility for it with their self‑given perk of immunity to punishment. The processes we don't yet use to rein in murderous and kleptomaniacal politicians are called referendum and the people's initiative petition. Add to these fast, secure electronic voting and we can give ourselves Direct Democracy of the people, making politicians obsolete, along with two‑thirds of the overbloat of their bureaucrats. For the politicians and lawyers who try to block progress with their standard techniques of delay and demagoguery we have Recall elections such as the one we used to get rid of California's Grey Davis. With e‑voting, we won't have to wait months or years to solve a problem. We can vote on Issues one right after another,  not some grinning ass who is full of promises. We can make them get out of the way of progress. We can stop their greedy business‑as‑usual. We can fix government.
Have you ever seen a puppy with worms? It's a glutton!   It has one thing on its mind, all the time. It will eat and eat, then go look for more to eat. It will eat until its belly drags the ground. The worms in its guts send a chemical to its brain that shouts
EAT! U. S. govt is full of worms. There is plenty of prosperity for every citizen to live two or three times better than we are now. But the worms take it'. Shit the worms! Get rich! The cure is your e‑vote and an hour a week on the net with a smart mob learning how to devise ways to regulate our Gluttons Of Privilege.
I hope you enjoyed my book: pardon me for being such a cynic. I hope you will ponder my message, then do something about making this world a better place.

Take care, 
James Bauhaus