The following is a true story.
At least, it’s as true as the lies I was told and those told about me, while it unfolded…
Rookie was a hippie carpenter, jet-black hair and beard, perfectly unkempt. Life would have been fairly nice for him, at least for about 30 years, if it had been 1970, but this was the Spring of 2008.
In 1970, Rookie’s elders had already created a system of communes, record stores, organic foods and rock concerts through which he would have learned all the lessons of life, given time. A renaissance of art and culture would have been there for him, at least until disco and cocaine killed it for us all. But by 2008, America’s security wing had mechanized the dream of an alternative lifestyle by infiltrating and controlling everything from The Rainbow Family to Al Qaeda, so, every potential revolutionary like Rookie would find only society’s bait cars, be force fed his ‘dreams’ in an elaborate sting and then busted for them. After this humiliation, the utterly mind-fucked victim usually agreed they were guilty and begged to re-enter ‘normal society’, get a job, and never think outside the box again; should they be lucky enough to escape jail. Or, excited by the idea of doing to others what had been done to them, they joined the spies in your neighborhoods and enjoyed full time employment, with benefits and the ability to break any law with impunity while they destroyed someone else’s dreams of a real new age.
In 1970, we reserved these fascist secret police games for people and situations of dire pretense, though still on an ‘as needed’ basis for our national security. By 2008, everyone was a target because the world had become a target range. The reason it became like this is because we hired people to find targets and shoot them down, and paid them handsomely with the vast wealth that the right wing had recently stolen from America. Every shooter had to find their own target, so, the same way that cannibalism flourished, (after the Pope decreed that we could legally enslave cannibals), targets were found everywhere. The theft of all the money and the institution of a fascist police state was match point in the game of the last 70 years or so; subterfuge against the New Deals. It was just a ‘political’ game, and many good, decent Americans fought their whole lives without knowing what they were really doing, on both sides. They were bound by personal oaths for causes like abortion, cigarette smoking, drugs, child abuse, workers rights, and corporate rights, and we all fought so damned hard behind our blinders as true believers. Figments of someone else’s imagination.
Divided thusly, we were conquered. There was no one else to conquer left in the world worth messing with, we’d stolen all the resources and land already and everyone worked for our wealthy families, or Europe’s, or China’s.
Operation Catcher in the Rye spanned every Cul-de-sac on the fringes of society, and spit people back into the mainstream, or to prison. From Death Metal to Christian Heresy, by 2008, America’s ‘revolutionary” side was a movie set full of props and actors who were actually operatives in our security wing. As usual, a bunch of weak-minded fools with no idea at all what was really going on in life were always involved and created the perfect cover, since they never really did much but try so hard to fit in.
The Medical Cannabis laws provided a new playground for these brave spies that work tirelessly to manipulate the incidental and accidental social changes that might occur in Babylon, inexorably steering the ship back towards fascism.
This is the story of those unsung heroes, Babylon’s Whores, whose names and deeds will (sort of) never (maybe) be (or not) told (without a publishing deal). They are the front lines of a mind control experiment gone exquisitely wrong. My family refined the game in 1951 through their newly formed CIA, just before I entered as a ‘player’ on July 28, 1952, (the day in history with the greatest number of UFO reports, ever. Most over where I was born; 127th St. in Manhattan, and over Washington D.C.)
The famed Jalbiat Falls was a test case for this operation, since in 1968 the place accidentally had become a famous underground haven where all your favorite 60’s characters would gather to have their Acid Tests. Ronald Reagan, famed cow-poker and tin-star Sheriff, sent about 26 police cars up there to “Bust the Jruggies at Jalbiat!” More cars and police than had ever been sent to a ‘drug bust’ or a waterfall, for that matter, in the State’s history. To his chagrin, along with the dirty hippies he disturbed the vice-president of IBM, a favorite of fascist regimes everywhere. Of course, Reagan’s Posse had to turn around and go home empty-handed. What a bummer!
As Leary, Ram Das and The Dead were dealt with on other levels, the game was on and the trap was set in 1972, when a ‘bin Laden type’, (‘wealthy child goes revolutionary’), bought the land and started reeling in the years and inviting the public to come on in and be scanned. By 2008, it was getting to be a rather jaded game, and in their arrogance, they unfortunately offended God.
That’s where I came in.
The Falls had called Rookie, and like me, when he arrived there (months before I did), the ‘residents’ invited him to stay to take part in their ‘community’. He lived at a campsite above the Falls just prior to my occupation of the site. I ‘bought’ the campsite from him, on insider information. Such was the tradition amongst the highly evolved beings that supposedly ran the ‘church’ that supposedly ‘ran’ the nudist hippie resort; actually a Pinteresque cult of prisoners, guards, retired federal agents and informants who ran a revolving door sting to collect more prisoners who then worked off their time selling out their brothers and sisters. Rookie left when he realized that life as a ‘holy prostitute’ there at Jalbiat was not only demeaning, it was illegal. Some kids they liked to fuck with, force to grow donkey ears, and let go, so really, Rookie was luckier than I was. They were just amusing themselves with him.
“Rookie”, I said, “What do you mean…? Holy Prostitute?” He had just told me what a great job it was and how amazing it was that the Universe selected him for this honor. As explained to him; there were ‘clients’ at Jalbiat that ‘expected’ these ‘holy prostitutes’ to be available, so he was ‘on call’ for ‘communion’.
They held Rookie’s hand while leading him to step willingly overboard off the boat of reality. His campsite, when I occupied it, was infested with fleas. He had been ‘inviting’ the animals to sleep there. Plus, like most of the crazy children we raise, he had a cat. The deer, the antelope, the cat, and Rookie all itched together up there when Rookie wasn’t off fucking a witch or a tourist or in his tent with one.
I could see he was starting to figure it out, his eyes looked so confused, like mine were supposed to look two years later when I tried to explain that I was helping a friend; I’m not a criminal.
You could hear Rookie’s mind thinking; My God, what have I done?
Actually, legally, according to California’s Penal Code, it’s a crime to encourage a person to prostitute themselves. I mean, it’s a crime unless you are the police, the secret police, and any of the now myriad private and public secret police forces guarding your freedom in your wing of the American penal colony. If you are holding the National Security brass ring of power over your fellow man and woman, you can treat them any way you’d like to. This is why some go too far and begin stalking, hunting, and killing for sport, like a Bush or a Cheney, or like the jaded, bored spies imprisoned at Jalbiat Falls did with me.
The cops are the good guys and all of us non-believers are the bad guys, except for the myriad bad guys in the private security business keeping things busy for the good guys, or something along those easily morphed lines.
The shortest distance between the points they believe themselves to be connecting for our security eludes them entirely.
If you had seen the head witch of the coven of ‘witches’ at Jalbiat that were playing with poor Rookie’s privates, you’d understand what finally woke him up. This phony Indian Grandmother was a perfect caricature of an aged, wrinkled Hollywood crone, and literally drooled with the sexual power of pimping and fucking young Rookie until his head spun around. Her little tongue would flick in and out every time I spoke to her to lick back the persistent drool; it was monstrous.
I’d see Rookie around the compound as we did our jobs, and I realized he was a good barometer for what was about to happen to me, now that I’d ‘joined the flock’. “Get ready to be fed the dream!” I said into my implant, “Look at your hands! Look at your hands!”
Undercover work for God can be a real drag, but since I grew up within the highest echelon of the CIA, I understood it was all theater outside the secret meetings at Roaring Gap and Vero Beach, and that Grampy ran the world from his den. The rest was cruft, but what most people consider ‘real life’ is contained entirely in those five little letters. Just before I graduated High School in 1970, Tommy Corcoran, Grampy’s pal from Guatemala and Air America, made sure I got a good dose of MKULTRA’s Orange Sunshine, (and later that Grampy did too!). Grampy had talked, but for me it was an ‘accident of fate’. My best friend at the time was collateral damage in the acid wars. I should write my name now as ‘I’, since I don’t actually ‘exist’ as you understand the term. Undercover… ha! Sorry, private joke.
It’s confusing, so for now, pretend I’m not an angel, raised from hell.
As a child I mistakenly assumed I could talk about the secret room, the Nazi uniform, Pearl Harbor, as well as what was in the hearts and minds of those who raised me. The ones who smiled and winked as they said, “We call them Servants now!” as we played with the doorbell installed under the Dining Room table, accessible to the foot at the head of the table. I think this was my first mistake, in fact; the truth. Since I was only a child, I hadn’t realized that the 1950’s were an exquisitely bad time to out the new CIA as child-abusing racists. Hiding under the covers was the only time I ever felt safe, after what they did to my mind to make me forget, years before the acid wars even started. I was two years old when I started talking suddenly, in complete sentences, relating back everything I’d heard my family say for the last two years in private, but in front of an infant who heard, understood, and remembered; everything.
“Tommy can you hear me?”
I am the CIA’s Instant Karma.
The truth has always been my last mistake as well; how else would an angel end up in hell, or get back, for that matter?
In 2010, while being tasered in my face, I finally reached escape velocity from the façade that had been created around me in the 1950’s; a façade now tuned to technology’s perfect C by the Bush family zealots, (my family’s young apprentices), and played out at Jalbiat Falls, the perfect microcosm of what America has become. In this case, the bait car and penal colony was a Sacred Native American Waterfall advertised as a nudist ‘spiritual retreat’ with a reputation for sex and drugs, waiting with a spider’s web of mindfucking to entrap the flies on the fringes of New Age society.
In my case, the spies at Jalbiat already knew me, and that it was open season on me.
I walked right into it, you might say.
Nevertheless, they invited me; asked me to come.
Down at the Crossroads, Trying to Flag a Ride
It was late afternoon, there, April of 2008, when I arrived in Calistoga, after, I already knew, the last bus over the mountain to Cowardtown would have left. Still, I knew I would miss the bus. I was looking forward to hitchhiking as I looked back on the receding city of San Francisco, shining by the sea. A friend lent me a car to drive my tent and belongings up to Jalbiat, and after this chore, I dropped the car off in the city, and headed by bus back to the Falls for a month camping to clear my head.
I had been on a hunger strike in San Francisco in early January, over a technical issue I had with the Ivory Towers of Scilence about the true nature of hydrocarbons. I had proof that hydrocarbon science, geology, earthquake science, and global warming science was essentially a crock of shit designed to fix energy prices. I am still one-hundred percent right about this. Science told me to starve, there in January 2008.
Some in our government’s security wing, Homerland Security, took this to be an act of domestic terrorism. Wow! I was only a Selectee Terrorist before this; they were only ‘practicing’ ‘security’ on me.
I realized that without a political science degree I couldn’t possibly understand the kind of people I was up against, and that would take too much time and effort. I was almost sixty. Therefore, I left my life behind and went to the mountains to become a domestic hermit. I’m still almost sixty, thank God, and hope always to be.
When I was almost fifty, the lady who was ‘in love with me’ and who bore my children finally explained to me why she had spent all those years with me. It was a job; she did it for the money! She enjoyed permission to marry me and destroy my life with impunity, as ‘penance’ for her for her role in a bank burning on a campus. The agent that busted her had been ‘taking care of me’ at the time, 1970 – 75. It was her penance, and his gift, and his curse on me. These agents watching me get personal about things, and the power they enjoy gives them real teeth in the personal vendettas that are born from their work. He had impregnated her with a child during the sting that captured her. They tried to work it out, but this was too much intrigue for a nuclear family disguised as hippies.
Anyway, people meet, don’t get along, and spend the rest of their lives together torturing each other, they surmised, so it’s not really cruel or unusual to force the issue for national security. These complicated things happen in life, anyway. All they had to do was set up another fucked up relationship and Rube, the agent, would be free from the whole thing, and could go off and have a real life, at my expense, of course.
First, Rube reported me as a threat, saying that I offered to buy guns and take over America with my CIA built trust fund. This was a big no-no in the 70’s after Patty Hearst ruined activism for us trust fund babies.
I still maintain I was a patsy, also. Rube was baiting me, we were drunk and I said it to see his reaction. Oops! You are so stupid, the other guy in the room said, knowing I had been so easily led over the line. In human years, I was twenty-four.
Here’s the thing:
I have the mind of a child. The reason for this should be obvious by now to anyone reading this. The CIA took my mind. Then they took my body and led me by the nose through your world, following me as well, using me as a puppet. Since I am functionally autistic from their abuse of me as an infant and as a child, the game they then played with the rest of my life actually represents abuse of a handicapped person. One the abusers handicapped themselves through their abuse.
The report about me Rube made meant I needed constant surveillance, forever, and to be led to my doom, eventually, and there was money in this, everyone in the business knew. Hell, they could use my money! Before I did! Like my brainwashing as a child, a woman said she loved me would then do the most evil things to me, over and over and over. They still say I never seem to learn. We torture him, he seems fine for a while, and then he lashes out and vandalizes a Church! They gave up on me at age ten and placed the newly invented quartz piezoelectric implant, later to become ‘the chip’, behind my ear. Developed at Wesleyan, where I lived in the 50’s, and tested on the hard cases they singled out at the reform school that lay just up Long Lane from the University grounds, The Walter G. Cady School for Girls, quartz was the new thing before silicon. Nowadays they can slip one of their tracking chips in your food, drink, or during your next date, so the surgery costs have been contained, a big drawback the clumsy, tiny quartz crystal system had. The new system can pick up your voice and the voices around you but we as a culture stopped broadcasting the ‘crazy-making’ signals that were going out to all the low-income sub-cultures just released from our reform schools in the ‘50s and 60’s. Back then, if they needed a riot, it was easily done with the flip of a switch. As they sipped whisky in the control room they would steadily increase the volume of the signal until hell did break out for those on that microwave frequency, somewhere in town.
The subsequent police riot was always a gas. Mission accomplished, another glass of whisky, then go buy up a few more parcels of slum in the fire-sale after the riot. The CIA was big on real estate. Anyone who had witnessed the fire-sales in Paris after the Nazi’s left for America knew this. Ex-spies ended up owning islands and even countries. These prizes are then handed down over the years to the new spies, the way Ian Fleming handed his Dr. No Island off to Chris Blackwell, famed for manipulating Jamaican elections for M6 through reggae music. Island Records tried the same thing with Thomas Mapfumo in Zimbabwe, after Bob Marley’s Island releases helped their candidate in Jamaica. Zimbabwe was a tougher nut to crack; Mugabe was as tenacious as Castro was, so the seven record deal Island dangled in front of Mapfumo was quickly reduced to two albums, now orphans in Universal/DefJam’s vault. The World Bank moved in to nail Zimbabwe’s coffin shut. But Jamaica said she would…
Long Lane School had been a brothel for Union soldiers, after the War for Slavery. Later it became a ‘technical school’ for young females in trouble with society. Later it was a Reform School for Girls, and of course, The Walter G. Cady School for Implants, but most importantly, the property hadn’t really changed since the Civil War. Wesleyan finally bought the land in the 1990’s so the CIA could cover up the removal of 150 years of bodies buried in the forest on Long Lane’s grounds. They used to call the place ‘the dump’ in coded messages at the time. It was close enough to NYC and large enough to accommodate the ‘evidence’. No one trespassed there except the secret cult from the stone Carriage House that lay just behind the house where I lived, and no one knew what this cult did out there, or what they did at their meetings. Secrecy killed this cat, and eventually the Carriage House remained shuttered, because no one knew when the meetings were, or who to call, or anything, really, at all about the place anymore. If you peered through the crack between the wooden garage doors on this Little Ivy stone Carriage House, what you would see would best be described today as a set from an ‘Indiana Jones” movie; Ornate, brightly painted, gilded snake-like Egyptian style plaster shone into our 1958 imaginations.
“Do you hear voices?” every psychiatrist in the country would continue to ask in the sixties, but with new meaning. Testing the system was hard, the CIA knew the signals were going out, and that the crystals were vibrating, but were never sure if the individual subject was one who heard the voice in the transmissions saying ‘you are going to hell’ and ‘God commands you to kill so and so’, or only a high-pitched squealing and white noise. (Myself, I only heard a high-pitched squealing. Dreadful!) Psychiatrists were employed to find out, since the poor targets couldn’t figure out why they heard things in their heads and sought help from science, (the ones who didn’t go stark raving mad immediately and commit suicide). Files started filling drawers, somewhere secret. The technology wasn’t really working.
Regardless, in May of 1977, after being conned by Rube’s fake kidnapping of my ex-wife’s (his co-conspirator’s) real child, I got married to the woman who had permission to use my money and make my life a living hell. She thought it would look better at the custody hearing for the child we had ‘saved’ from bondage if we were married. After twelve years of marriage counseling, psychiatric drugs, and psychological torture, I was doing OK really, and grabbing life by its horns and teaching my children well what I had learned from our prophets.
This was the last thing the CIA wanted, so they arranged a gram of poisoned cocaine to appear where I walked to my car after work one fine day. I took it home, flushed it down the toilet and took my kids to the beach. But like a fool I put some on my finger and tasted it to see what it was. Then I must have touched my eye with the same finger. By the end of the week I had a mystery disease of the eye. By the next week I had a mystery disease of the heart, and went into the local ICU where I was told I was probably gonna die, or be a cardiac ‘cripple’ for ‘life’, from pericarditis, origin unknown…
I got over it, but it really bothered me that they had tried to kill me.
“It was your choice to taste the coke we left there,” I could hear them saying.
“But you poisoned it, you assholes,” I would hear myself replying.
I know the woman who poisoned the coke they left for me, but murder was not supposed to be a part of the sting. The Hospital I worked at set up the sting. Murder was not part of the cover story, which of course was 100% true, like a good cover story is.
I was in line for a good job there in management and someone said we should test the man’s integrity. The person who said it knew I had quit using coke years ago but if I even picked the package up my career was over. (Moreover, if the CIA was lucky enough that I snorted the shit I would be dead.) When I saw a fresh gram of coke on the sidewalk, right in front of the public library, I picked it up of course. Would you leave a loaded gun on the sidewalk for kids to find? The last thing I wanted to do was snort cocaine and ‘talk’ all night to my ‘friends’ who came over to snort my coke.
The lady that poisoned the coke used to brag to me about the diseases she could give you if she wanted to. She worked for the Police and as an EMT, there in Nevada, where this farce took place. She also worked with me at the Hospital in Industrial Medicine. Don’t worry, this Hospital is long gone now. It was closed within a year of my admission to its ICU after they nearly killed me without knowing how or why. She was one scary lady, and I am an expert in the field of scary ladies.
It was a lady they used when I was a child. Ergot, she would try to put my mind right. The first time they brainwashed me I didn’t even recognize my real mother when I got home. I became convinced aliens had captured me, and they tried the whole procedure again. I came back from this coup-de-grace a high-functioning autistic so fortunately for me they never got inside my mind again. Socially this was difficult, as you might have surmised already, but I got by despite living in a separate reality where my mind was safe. I admit, however, as a child I was helpless. I still feel guilty for being so weak as to let them control me. This story line figured heavily in brainwashing of the day. They took you down as far as humans could go, and then again, and again, and again. I admit it, I’m bad and I gave in, every time, of course. I was only ten.
God considered all this when I asked him for a ride over the mountain to Cowardtown, there at the crossroads.
I should have just asked for guitar lessons, but they came as well later. Life as a maniac who had to be taken down like a wild animal on the steps of the beautiful old stone church in Cowardtown gave me lots of free time. Better yet, I could have just waited there and left God alone…
But, failing to even consider guitar lessons at the time, instead, I promised God that if given a ride, I would do anything asked of me.
We discussed the details of my choice of words later, many times.
I meant things you asked of me, I would say.
Sorry, man, read it and weep, God would say. Just do everything people ask you to do, my ways are verrry mysterious and you’ll find the out the most important thing in the Universe that can be comprehended in your dimension.
But I thought you were going to give me a mission and that I could be on a mission from God, and also get a ride over the mountain to Cowardtown.
You’re incredibly naïve and have the mind of a child, that’s why I chose you for this, God said, right away, so I would understand where I stood. Nothing can hurt you anymore, don’t worry. Go forth and subtract, God said, everything people ask from you, and give it to them.
I finally gave in and signed the pact I had already verbally agreed to in my mind’s office there at the crossroads.
Anything asked of me
Exactly what you all expect from me, God said, walking away, just before the first cop pulled up to me as I hitchhiked towards Cowardtown. Followed by a nearly inaudible ‘adios, mon ami’.
You haven’t heard sarcasm until you’ve heard it from God.
It was at midnight, pretty much, that I thanked the man who finally gave me a ride and who dropped me there a block from the old stone church in Cowardtown. Two separate officers at the crossroads in Calistoga, a Napa County Sheriff and a local Policeman, stopped within a few minutes of each other where I was begging God to send me a ride to explain that I was breaking the law by hitchhiking anywhere in California.
How different my life would have been if I had taken the hint, and said, “Am I in California? I must have gone the wrong way…” and turned around and headed for New Mexico, or even Florida, by foot.
Instead, I explained to them that I had missed the last bus and needed to get to my campsite, somehow, before darkness fell, or to stand there in Calistoga near a streetlight instead of walking over the mountain to Cowardtown in the dark. I thought they were nice enough to let me go. I promised God again that I would not fade, just please send a car. I swore to God, I would not fade.
That’s how stupid I was then!
Apparently, as I’ve come to learn, I’m one of the most wanted and desperate criminals on the face of the planet, and I deserve any and all punishments society has available; rape, murder, torture, and chemical restraints. No one will tell me what I did to deserve this, but it happened when I was only a child, as far as I can tell. I’m very, very sorry, nevertheless, I have no idea why, really, or for what.
So I jaywalked across Main St. up in Cowardtown, back in April of 2008, after finally getting a ride over the mountain at midnight, and gosh darn if the two Sheriffs waiting for me didn’t turn on their lights and pull up to where I was breaking the law with every breath, and every step I took..
“Why didn’t you use the crosswalk and the button for the signal?” a voice from the cruiser spoke.
“I’m tired, and it’s late and no one was on the road, so I crossed. I’m just trying to get home.”
“We’re going to get to know you up here in Lake County!” came the reply from the laughing pig hiding behind his impunity.
OK, I said, and I walked away, to my tent in the garden, where I was going to be betrayed. God knows why. I had asked, and God promised me I would find out, if I did the things asked of me.
Cowardtown, I said as I walked with the spirits of the native warriors gathered at Jalbiat, singing and dancing; I see now. Even funnier, we laughed, that they pronounced it Co-ard-ton. A long discussion ensued about the use of language to lie, as opposed to speaking the truth, and how deeply lying had been folded into the English language. These people are helpless, we laughed, they can’t get a word in edgewise!
We had to stop for a while there, under the moon, halfway home, after that. These warrior spirits had lived at Jalbiat for about a hundred and fifty thousand ‘years’. They had never seen human beings so ignorant and destructive in all that ‘time’, but they all knew that redemption of this sacred place was at hand. I knew this too. You could say that the party had already started in the spirit world. Jalbiat Falls had never been their home, nevertheless, the Pomo Natives who lived nearby understood that this sacred valley had once belonged to all human beings as a sanctuary for ritual, rebirth, and revelry. The Native human beings honored their refuge this way until General Vallejo needed a place for cattle, which were more important to him than a bunch of savages.
Truthfully, Norman Coward (Co-Ard) continued Vallejo’s idea of God’s work up there during the Gold Rush; smelting mercury all over God’s creation after killing most of the remaining Indians God made were, in his mind, and in the mercury-addled minds of the good townspeople there to this day, the kind of spirit that built America.
Of course, they are right. It isn’t the mercury poisoning that makes Lake County stupid and mean-spirited to this very day; it’s the American poisoning.
Kelseyville, named after a brutal enslaver of Native People, a murderer, a rapist and such, was just down the highway. Kelsey and his friend Stone ran something akin to Joseph Conrad’s tale of King Leopold’s Belgian mercy mission; the Belgian Congo. The Robinson Rancheria’s namesake (further on up the road) and ‘owner’ would sell Indian children in San Francisco as sex slaves after stealing them from their parents.
Old Hermann S. Jalbiat never actually bought the Spanish Land Grants he sold as the Jalbiat parcel. He had simply ended up with them, somehow. True to Jalbiat’s karma, Hermann had murdered for the Grant Deed, chopped a human being into pieces with an axe, and buried them there, close to where Jalbiat’s office now stands. The happy couple had been married less than a week.
Is it any wonder Lake County has the shortest life expectancy of anywhere in California?
Therefore, I lashed myself to the mast and waited for it, knowing that a disembodied voice from a police cruiser at midnight in a rok dum rural American small town meant what it said.
Moreover, a promise to God leads to what it will. He sent me a ride; the mysterious ways were coming now. The day I hired on at the Falls, I learned the first layer of cover stories about exactly how the cops were going to get to know me.
Chapter Two and a Half
The Plot Sickens
In which the Whore of Babylon, High Priestess of Jalbiat, Coral Thensome chooses Me at a ‘satanic ritual’, And her pimp, the brutal, pot-stealing yet suicidal Sergeant Giveral
Begins to obsess on the secret sex tapes they’re making of me fucking Coral
While siphoning money from the Patriot Act (and the ‘crime scenes’) as a Sheriff in the Narcotics Unit disguised as the Office of Emergency Management.
I had camped for a month at Jalbiat starting April Fool’s day, 2008, before signing on as a housekeeper; everyone started out working in Housekeeping, I was told, and every ‘resident’ encouraged me to sign on. Immediately the supervisors of every department told me how badly they wanted me to work for them! The next day, no one would look me in the eye, but everyone told me the deal was off. I see what they do here, I thought, it’s a bunch of rug-pullers! I was fired the first night of my job as ‘soundman’ by the host of the Open Mic after 15 minutes. I’m actually a good soundman and a world-famous-award-winning record producer. The host was one of the mindless fools the Falls had attracted; as vain and empty as a shitty guitar. In fact, he was more a reflection of a person, than a person, exactly the way a shitty guitar reflects something that could have sounded and looked great. His idea of ‘sound’ was that his voice drowned out any other musicians or singers, and I had the nerve to adjust the P.A. so that we heard his accompanist as well. He didn’t like that at all, and he kept ordering me to turn his voice up louder and louder, until it fed back and sounded like shit. When he came ‘offstage’, (Christ, Puker, it was a dining room, not Radio City Music Hall), he fired me immediately, saying it had been ‘the worst experience of his life’. His idea of an open mic was to feature himself, as if he was Danny Kaye. Trust me, Puker, (pronounced pucker, he would say, smiling like an ad for himself), was no Danny Kaye.
Danny Kaye had style.
Walking to town the next day, after finding out I would be in housekeeping for a long time, I thought back on my arrival in Cowardtown, just three miles ahead of me. I had come there to find out the most important thing that I could comprehend in this dimension, and also find out why my entire life had been a reverse-Truman Show of people sent to fuck me up. Now I know! Apparently, I am a CIA project no one in his or her right mind will ever discuss. All because as a child I blew the whistle on my family, the ones who started the CIA, and never stopped blowing. My bad! Still, I’m proud to be the youngest whistleblower in our nation’s history, and the Emperor is naked, everyone had to agree I was right, or kill me. Killing me seemed much less complicated, but turned out to be difficult and complicated, irregardless, as Bush would say.
The Human Resources Dept. at Jalbiat, staffed by a married couple, both ex-Federal Prosecutors, told me upon hiring me that the IRS busted their 'church' a few years previous, but they were doing their best against this government oppression. They had no problem with me being a Cannabis Patient or on the Terrorist List, and said what I did in my ‘home’ (tent), was my own business.
Ha! I prayed silently they be struck blind if they were lying. God only struck one blind, a year later, and made the other follow for eternity. What a sense of humor God has!
The office manager at Jalbiat was just divorced from Deputy Fink Giverol, the man later elected Sheriff of the entire County in 2010. “We have a ‘special relationship’ with the Sheriff.” She laughed during my first interview. Yeah, I thought, you provide the holy prostitutes, the targets and the prison and they bury anyone who gets in the way.
As I walked up to the fire pit for the Beltane Ceremony a few days into my employment, I could feel it coming in the air, and sure as shooting, there was Coral Thensome, High Priestess of Jalbiat, ex-playmate, super-narc, wearing a stupid tin-foil tiara and acting out her role for the tourists. We had met already, at Jalbiat’s smoking deck; my ‘office’ while I lived there. She was a ‘tarot card reader’, so I let her tell my ‘fortune’. She had done great job letting me know I’d never be a part of their ‘church’, and was cursed to a hermit’s life up in that tent should I choose to stay. I thought about explaining why God sent me there, but all I could do was cry. I helped her buy a car from Vinny, someone I had just met 5 minutes previously. He and I had both been sitting at the smoking deck, talking. He mentioned owning a Cannabis Club in Oakland, and also that he sold cars. My kind of person, I guess, I liked him right away. When Coral walked up a few minutes later, I introduced them, knowing she was looking for a car. Always ready for a new mark, she took off with Vinny to Napa after buying the car he was driving, to get the papers. Four hours later, she came back with the car, and wild tales of Vinny’s mafia chop shop.
The funny thing is; this was one of the cover stories they used in their report at the time to go undercover on my ass in full police mode; that Vinny might be the mafia and that he and I might be partners! No one in law enforcement can ever speak of my real crime as a child, whatever it was, so there always has to be another excuse to punish me. It's easy to arrange these excuses for a high-functioning autistic with the mind of a child. On our second date, Coral lost her glasses, and I offered to drive us back to Jalbiat from her new house behind the old stone church in Cowardtown, in her new mafia car. So what if my license was suspended for an unpaid ticket, I said, mocking the cops, it’s a mafia car.
As soon as we left, Deputy Fink Giverol laughed, put his seat belt on, and waited for us to go by where he was violating my rights by listening to me. (Of course, Coral had given permission for the secret cameras and microphones in her house, and the Pastor, also the local Code Inspector, agreed to allow them to run their sex stings there behind the old stone church in Cowardtown, so, there was no violation at all, was there? As Code Inspector, the Pastor also didn’t worry about the mudslide potential at Jalbiat I warned her of, even after nineteen people died in a single washout at a campground in Arkansas, a few days after I warned her there in Cowardtown.)
Giverol pulled in behind us and followed us menacingly for the three miles, almost to Jalbiat’s gate, waiting for me to jam it and go on the run. I started playing along as soon as I saw what they’d arranged for me, saying to Coral, I’m gonna run for it… I know that’s a cop behind us! Then, without warning… wow, the suspense is hard to describe, since it was pretend suspense, Giverol’s lights went on! A little theater ensued, with Coral laughing and acting the fool, as if she didn’t know the guy. I told the truth right away, and explained why I would drive unlicensed; to help this old woman I had just met. Coral winced at that one, but even she had to admit; the spider veins crawling up her swollen ankles proved that the progressive clogging of the right side of her heart was taking its toll; old lies filled the small chamber and daily it became clogged with new deceits.
They ran my license and Fink tried to terrify me as best he could, but it was all so transparently stupid even the two of them couldn’t keep it up long. He eventually told me to drive away, unlicensed still. I asked Coral where the secret microphone had been, but she played ‘dumb’, kissed me, grabbed my face and smelled the air in my nose. I always hated it when she did this, when I smell it, which is rare, thank God, it smells terrible. My phobias have been documented over fifty years in my file. Some of them were created by my file and ended up in my mind, imagine that! This was when mindfucking got good; hence, she started saying it was ‘the best year of her life’. She was going to have a field day; the last Hurrah of the Golden Whore. They were just getting to know me up here in Lake County.
“I choose you…” she said, looking at me icily through the blue plastic feather on her tin-foil halo after blessing the wind in the west and reeling off some nonsense about the Mother designed to sound like Indian lore at the annual Beltane Fest. Ho! She was actually two parts Indian but both parts she’d sold out. Beltane, witchcraft’s yearly party for casual sex, as if they needed one, actually made her feel like a real Indian again, for some ungodly reason.
Coral was funny that way. I could see right away, even her innermost thoughts were a contrivance meant to obscure her real identity and purpose, even from herself in many cases. She didn’t really love sex, but she loved the power of being a spy-whore. She’d fucked some heavy men to prison in the international drug smuggling business out of NYC and Amsterdam in the 70’s, and by the time she started working with (and fucking) Sergeant Giveral in the 1980’s to bust the Pot growers in Northern California, the two of them pictured themselves the Bonnie and Clyde of Hippie Narcs. Forced federal retirement had caught up with Coral, but moonlighting as a narc at Jalbiat gave her a chance to be by her ex and stay in the game. Their illegitimate son, (who was legitimately fucked up at 27 and already drinking himself to death over all the lies) could visit them both, and life would go on. Maybe the kid could earn some money infiltrating the crusties in Garberville or shaking down the alcohol soaked gay son of some wealthy family, like they were doing the day Coral got us some mushrooms and I brewed up my signature tea. They had the poor kid in tears and they were fucking his poor shroomed mind with how ‘beautiful’ he was while they laughed together at what a fool they were making of him. His mother would be hearing of this, just like poor Billy Babbit, unless some cash changed hands when everyone came down! That was Coral’s plan. A family of con artists working for a crooked Sheriff. All ex-spies end up like this but usually they are known as businesspeople. The ones that become as arrogant as Giveral and Thensome, well, they receive a visit by their karma.
That, as I said, was where I came in.
By the end of July 2008, I was staying close to my tent, or working, and was hoping to survive to get my deposit back eight long months away and quit this bull-shit pig commune. Everywhere I went someone was asking me to do something illegal, to do a poor job at Houskeeping, or to mess with the guests. Since my arrival in April, the teenage runaway Divina that Jalbiat was using in their sex stings on the guests was paid to follow me around like an Indian maiden that had ‘married’ me. Everyone was waiting for me to break down and humiliate myself with the naked child in the sauna. Coral would check in on me to see if any cracks were showing yet in my psyche, by asking me out on a ‘date’.
On our third date, Sgt. Giveral and his Igor, Officer K, were standing in the parking lot of the restaurant we went to, out of uniform. Coral parked right by them and walked me up so they could let me have a close look at the motherfuckers who were going to fuck me up. Giveral’s eyes were drooling like the Head Witch at Jalbiat, and he smiled and shook my hand. Officer K was still green, so he just smiled like an idiot and played with his thumb.
As we walked into the Thai place there near Cowardtown, I said to Coral, about her ‘ex-boyfriend’ Sgt. Giveral, “He looks like a cop…”
“He is a cop… a baaaad cop!” She shivered her shoulders and told me they had gone out once, or some such story, and what a brutal fuck he’d been.
The mushrooms Coral sold were better than ‘her’ acid. She sold drugs but hated herself for it, since it was really not allowed, even for a narc. Well, it was allowed of course, but she had scruples, she said, and her ‘Mother’ (headquarters) would hate it. Still she sold me drugs and loaded me up with the weed she got from the people she had infiltrated and was shaking down at the moment. She hated herself so much she cried like a caiman on our date at ‘the beach’, ‘because of what she was going to do to me’, she said.
Are you going to kill me, I had asked, earnestly, but gently. Thinking, wait a minute, was it Jesus or Judas that wept…?
Then another two hours driving… We were out there on the sand for ten minutes, all of it filled with her misery. When I saw the guitar on Roy’s porch, all warped to hell, of course I gave up on women forever again. A warped guitar is better than a warped mind. A guitar can be fixed. This would be the last time I allowed myself to be crucified. Better yet, I’m not going through with this, I said to God, find another sucker, please, get me out of this. I fixed the guitar and started writing music again, there at my campsite.
But I’m a sucker for acid… God knew this, and so did the CIA. A piece of my mind is still out there and I need to find it. It’s riding the rails of a machine through space to the echoes of Quicksilver’s Happy Trails version of “Who Do You Love?”, still. Einstein was right, that part of my mind is still relatively seventeen, which for me, at the time, was about ten or eleven years old. Fortunately, it has faith, like a child, that I am coming to rescue it, and indeed, I am.
That’s where I come out.
Like I said, for the moment, I stayed at my tent. I had a guitar. Divina was busy with some other fools now and busy failing at her new job in Houskeeping, and life was turning out OK up there on the hill where I could be alone.
But there near the end of July was Coral, on my birthday, with two sugar cubes she said were LSD! She had brought all sorts of presents to my campsite: a knife, (the police later took this knife after torturing me into threatening to use it on my throat), some ribbons, a broken wind-chime… it was like Eyeore’s birthday, especially when the acid had almost no effect at all. Let’s smoke some pot, she had said quickly, it always helps you get off! I said, wait… I had made this mistake before; smoking weed before you really knew how good the acid you just took is, once stuck in a Renault Le Car for 5 hours in the LA mountains, listening to a persistent drip, drip, drip… gasoline in the tank, I had theorized then, ripped to the gills so badly even I wouldn’t drive. But throwing caution to the wind I rolled a Coral and I a hashish joint.
Nothing is worse than waiting for a drug that never arrives.
Except waiting for a woman to finally explain what the fuck she wants from you. Especially if you already know.
I waited, every time we kissed or touched, she hyperventilated with psychedelic mock ecstasy so we didn’t have sex. Instead, she spent all night lying to me, one lie after another, and trying to get me to play mind games about how I was an Indian, and her twin, etc., our past lives together and all that lovely hippie shit, as Pete Townshend says. When she told me a story about her life that I had just heard on television before coming to Jalbiat, I said, I just heard a lady tell that story on TV, and she wasn’t you.
Did someone steal my story? The innocence in her suddenly not ripped on acid voice was… chilling, I guess you’d say. I looked at the open door of the tent we were sitting in. My home. I knew the most terrifying thing I ever encountered was right here, with me already, not lurking outside as a specter of evil. OK I thought, here we go.
We dropped the subject of whether she was lying and I fell asleep, (hard to do on real acid, trust me!). I scored four more cubes from Roy during the next week to test Jalbiat’s acid again, and took two of them. Nothing. I gave one away in trade for more mushrooms, and Kurd, the mushroom ‘guide’ on the garbage crew I gave it to said it was some ‘powerful shit’! It took him 6 months to pay me his end of the bargain, which turned out to be one magic mushroom. I’m sure it still bothers Kurd to have had to live up to a bargain he knew was a farce, he was a ‘righteous guy, bro’’.
Regardless of what was really happening to her, there in August of 2008, Coral was busy with her ‘friends’. She had to travel to Garberville regularly to get a few more pounds for this year’s sting, or to collect some cash from Sgt. Giveral’s other ex-wife, Swee, who was working on a new boyfriend herself… She and Coral compared notes, and as usual, Swee was lacking in real treachery and it was obvious that Coral again took the cake for the depths she stooped to in the games. Their female bond was strong and both still wished for the days when they vied for ‘Joaquin’, Sgt. Giveral’s hippie name when he was undercover. The good old days... Giveral had gone impotent after his suicide fugue but still loved watching the videos of the sexual humiliation Coral and Swee provided of their respective marks. The Patriot Act had been a real boon to hookers and friends of the court, but the word was out that the money stream for ‘private police actions’ was drying up, as was their impunity. Bush was gone and Obama was holding his own against the streams of piss drenching everything he said or did. Coral’s last hurrah was going to be the best; Coral was a positive thinker that way. Optimistic.
Swee actually just wanted a boyfriend, and didn’t care about busting people for Babylon anymore, so it was ‘no contest’ really.
We’d all sit there among the sacks of buds, trimming weed for the cops, everyone waiting for me to offer to buy some huge quantity and go down hard. Then, a couple months later, we’d be in LA meeting with another pot-growing parolee of hers.
“Isn’t it great,” she said one day at the smoking deck where her ‘friends’ and I were sitting around, smoking, “that the ‘church’ let’s us take all these drugs up here!”
One of the friends looked at me sadly, saying in his mind, “Are you really buying this shit, fool?”
I thought back as hard as I could, but I won’t tell you what I said to him.
I have to admit, I lied a lot to Coral at this point, I kept leading her closer and closer to her meeting with God. I have a way of driving women absolutely bat-shit without really trying. Eventually, the unbalanced ones show their hand. God knows what he’s doing and picking me to drive Coral Thensome and her Jalbiat conspirators to murder was a cute trick.
Taking me with her around the state to meet all these people growing weed was a two edged sword… actually four edged, her two and my two. Hers were; maybe I’ll fuck him into becoming a narc and maybe I get to fuck him to jail. She knew she had given away too much already and would have to kill me at the end if they didn’t arrest me, but like I said, some things she hid from herself. Anyway she thought, I have a driver now, at least until I decide how I feel one fine day when I suddenly tire of playing with this fool.
My edges were fuzzier, I admit it. I was on a mission from God to do the things asked of me, and I was deep in the clutches of the woman who was going to crucify me, after betraying me in ‘a garden’. (I was told the story would mimic the famous one, like my name mimics the name of a famous brand of Grits) Coral made a big point to me about how ‘Joaquin’ had built her a garden at Jalbiat when she was ‘sentenced’ there. (Those ‘without clearance’ in management thought she had been released from prison after robbing a bank and was working off her community service like most of Jalbiat’s ‘residents’.) The spies who knew, still really didn’t know, and vice versa, but then, who really knows anyone?
They know me very well, however, but not the important stuff.
Notma and Amie
Notma was a belly-dancer of sorts, and a revolutionary, in her cover identity at Jalbiat. Always talking about how the secret police were spying on her up there and how much she hated the management, and the guests. All the ‘residents’ at Jalbiat hated the management and the guests, but Notma was the one whose job it was to ferret out the real troublemakers, by conspiring with them. Each resident who wanted extra pay over the prison wages had to come up with their own way to sting people, and hers was a niche carved out over 10 years of mischief. After fucking her way into a Venezuelan ‘royal’ family in the 70’s, she married the wealthy son who was supporting the resistance with his parent’s money.
Jesus was the name of the young messiah she betrayed. Ironically, Hugo Chavez was the primary recipient of the fruits of her subterfuge, in the end. Jalbiat was the receptacle these people ended up in after they had accomplished their ‘missions’.
Like Roy, who sold the ‘acid’ at the Falls. He had been the one to take the fall for Raul McCarthey, (a Tex-Mex legend touring Russia), posing as Raul’s manager, buying drugs for the band in Moscow and getting ‘busted’ by a KGB agent who was actually defecting with some ‘intelligence’ about a Russian oil magnate. The KGB agent still lives at Jalbiat as well. People like this could go to the Falls and fit in with their peers, pretending their lives away, remembering their heroic sacrifices for America and spying on everyone; looking for the easy marks and keeping their lying skills honed and their batting average up to their security clearance. Prisoner or guard or retired spy, living at Jalbiat was for the precious few; a jealously guarded secret world right there in plain sight. It was kind of them to include a few black people in their secret prison, but for the most part, black people went to the prisons we had decided were too brutal for most whites.
Notma spent a good deal of time at the smoking deck, same as me. Coral had won the bid for my hide, but Notma loved the game and so we talked ‘revolution’ whenever we met. In the Spring of 2009, however, Notma’s target was her ‘friend’ Amie, and she was deep in conspiracy talk with the poor, harmless German refugee from fascism who was trying to come to terms with a hidden fascist state all around her.
Amie had escaped the Nazi’s as a child, and had lived at Jalbiat for twenty-six years. Amie wasn’t a spy, or a private security contractor. She was a nice old German lady who thought she was a fairy on a mission from God in the middle of a huge conspiracy by The System to kill the Messiah, who for her was a character in a serialized novel she was reading about a child named Anastasia. Amie had been placed with Coral at her new house behind the old stone church in Cowardtown, and it was Coral’s job to make sure Amie never got back inside Jalbiat’s gate with all her papers and belongings, now that they’d finally moved her out of the yurt behind the Office. The staff at Jalbiat hated this lady, but the guests loved her as she wandered around naked but for a tiara and her fairy wand, blessing people.
When I began to move in to Faith Cottage to live with Coral, Amie headed right back to Jalbiat. Nothing could stop her, as she was on a mission from God to protect Anastasia. Coral had failed to get rid of her and glommed on to me, and here she came back. Amie and her papers and her stubborn refusal to agree with Jalbiat’s management about the rules, etc., was a game everyone had tired of, long ago. It was time for action. Someone had to do something, but Jalbiat’s wardens couldn’t actually order anything. As per the game, someone had to take independent action for the good of the community. Murder for Jalbiat was expected, if needed, but you had to make it up yourself and then make it look good. If you were captured, the ‘agency would disavow any knowledge’ just like on TV.
After about three months of the management’s phony acquiescence to the fairy’s newly energized demands at the Falls for her ‘rights’, in early Spring of 2009, Notma took Amie for another ‘conspiratorial’ walk… a long walk… and they both disappeared. Notma had been a prisoner at Jalbiat for a long time, and would smear her own face with poison oak in order to get out of the Falls to see her doctor. She alternated between being a gadfly on Jalbiat and then contritely sucking up to the bulls. If she succeeded in getting rid of Amie in a bloodless, clueless murder, she’d be in like Flynt with the Man, and she’d have topped Coral’s ‘best year’.. For a day and a half everyone hoped they’d just show up, but folks were worried. We all knew Notma was always in trouble and hated everyone for getting herself stuck in this New Age hell of protection from her past. People had died before in the Jalbiat games and the management was looking down at the ground and averting their eyes as the Lake County Sheriff prepared a million-dollar search party just outside of Cowardtown.
The Sheriff failed to find anyone with all his money and deputies, but he wasn’t really looking that hard. Amie wandered like a deranged Rasputin out of the bush about 4 miles from Jalbiat, still alive after 3 days and nights hiding from Nazis and aliens; she was muttering about alien abductions and incoherent. 12 hours later, Notma crawled out of the bushes where she had been hiding near Jalbiat’s front gate. She had scratched a few wounds into herself so that it looked like she had been wandering, lost in the bush, like Amie. Everyone was so glad it was over. We all looked the other way and pretended the ordeal was actually real. This event convinced me once and for all that God wasn’t just whistling Dixie by sending a martyr in to be killed by these motherfucking sacks of lying shit.
Oops, I just gave the secret part of my mission away again. I’m like that. I always have been.
The other of Coral’s roommates I displaced at Faith Cottage, (sting-central) that December of 2008 was an aging, pasty-white, fat French pervert who trolled Jalbiat for pussy as another of their phony Indian Shamans. He’d invite young women to a private place in the woods or in the meadow to take some ‘shrooms and hear his Cherokee Drumming, which he practiced there in his room behind the you know what, you know where; Cowardtown. Bang bang bang bang bang went Reamer’s little Cherokee rhythm. He would then come out on the porch, where I was usually smoking my hashish, to see how impressed I was with the integrity and sincerity of his talent; like he was Linus and his Pumpkin Patch.
Whenever I was asked anything, I did it, to a point. (God allowed some wiggle room, thank God) When my supervisor in Housekeeping began to sting me and asked me to sell him some of the hashish I was getting from the local club, instead, I gave him a piece free, and told him I didn’t want to sell Medical Cannabis to people, which is still true. He stuffed ten dollars in my pocket anyway, thinking his superiors would accept this as a ‘sale’, and he’d be the one who took me down. No dice, Anglo, you fucked it up.
So, I taught Anglo music one day. It took five minutes. I do this to people who are trying to hurt me. I heal them or help them, and they usually leave me alone afterwards and stop trying to kill me or arrest me, whatever it might be at the moment. Anglo was a ‘DJ’, but Jalbiat wouldn’t let just anyone be a DJ up there where the head of security owned the PA system. Umayer, owner of the loudest bass amplifiers and speakers in the county, hated Anglo because Anglo was Latino, and looked just like the Palestinian kids he had been brainwashed into shooting at with the Uzi they gave him at age 17 in God’s Chosen Land, Israel. All the kids got Uzis at 17, in God’s Chosen Land, even girls, even homosexuals. Israel was a ‘bastion’ of ‘freedom’ surrounded by evil, or so the story went. The same story gave the fascists in America reason to believe that they were the ‘good ones’ and that the majority of the American population were either their slaves or their enemies. Nothing could be closer to the truth, actually, really. Unfortunately, the majority of Americans that should be fighting back are so brainwashed, they might as well be me at age 13, with absolutely no idea anymore what is, was, or will be real. Don’t worry people… it’s a process… you can recover. Look how far I’ve come; hell and back.
It worked for Audie Murphy, didn’t it?
Trust me, Umayer, head of security, DJ Commandant, was no Danny Kaye either, and his Mossad wife Virgina and he just wanted to work in the Brazilian shaman scene so they could take Ayawasca and get stoned while they sold out some fool. Expanding Operation Catcher in the Rye worldwide was the next step in the plan. Thailand, Brazil, Mexico, anywhere in the world Americans went to get into trouble, fuck 15 year olds, buy drugs or fund a private army had to be covered, full time. Well, the private armies were OK, nowadays, and damned useful at times. It was a monumental task, but these Jalbiat assholes were the heroes who put their lives on the line for America while they got ripped and smuggled drugs in the moonlight and played mind games on their victims for a laugh.
The really smart ones, like Coral, made sure it was all caught on tape. She and Giveral had a TV show planned; Coral and Joaquin’s X-rated Musical Hippie Sting-Along was going to be the next Chuck Barris Enterprises special, a mad-cap post-mortem homage to their former guru, Chuck. Follow the bouncing ball! (and chain…)
It wasn’t that they wanted the horror of war and drugs and sex-slavery to end, they just needed, and still do, a job. They were forced by this need to create, document and empower criminal activity to prove the security they provided was necessary. Creating crime became a bigger business than crime itself, and it paid better in the long run. Pretty soon you needed reservations for when your particular scandal could hit the streets and the airwaves, and the prisons were fuller every day, overflowing to places like Jalbiat and the city of Clearlake; new prisons for the new age; hide ‘em in plain sight.
Quite a few of Jalbiat’s victims never went to jail, and most were never formally charged with a crime. They never had a trial. The ‘judge’ they saw who ‘sentenced’ them was a prop. Since they were entrapped red-handed in a sting, they almost always agreed to do whatever Coral, the Sheriff, and the phony judge wanted, including paying a fine and working off some arbitrary time period cleaning toilets at the Falls, if you groveled, or Taco Bell in Clearlake, if you didn’t. Quite a few, if not all, would have walked before trial, had they been properly informed of their rights upon entering or on leaving the trap. We had private armies now, why not a private justice system that doesn’t cost society as much, supposedly, and private prisons; both systems would be able to operate outside of all the rules we voted in to protect us from the public system of justice. As long as the poor (the criminals) are working for the rich for almost nothing, the scales that the blindfolded lady is holding balance out, in her eyes.
Of course, a blind lady dispensing justice, without having seen a shred of evidence, relying only on rumor from faceless informants whispering in her beguiled ears, is truly insane.
Coral, High Priestess of Parolee Humiliation; ersatz Magician, Traveler, and Tarot Reader, would get paid extra to ‘read’ the prisoner’s fortunes and tell them in coded terms ‘how they were doing’ in their rehabilitation. Working as a ‘Probation Officer’ for her targets after the bust was an extra paycheck for Coral, but she charged the prisoners as well for these ‘readings’ out of ‘good conscience’. It was only fair she should make another buck and it ‘just’ felt right to see them pay a little more, every chance she got, for their crimes. Everyone knew a big tip for Coral after a good Tarot Lashing meant good things would happen to them.
Like a blessing from God after tithing.
But as soon as I moved in with her, Coral pulled a butcher knife from the kitchen drawer there in Faith Cottage, waved it around at me for a while and threatened to kill me. I admit it; I had called her Mary, in bed. That wasn’t her name! This was the kind of thing that drove Coral nuts; she could play along just so far in these farces but she hated taking shit from a mark. We had been sleeping together for a few months at this point, and had ‘performed’ some sexual ‘acts’ for her Sony Boom box! The very first time with Coral was the first time a woman I believed I had gotten to know first, told me right after having unprotected sex with me that she suffered from a horrible venereal disease. Fortunately, Coral can’t actually tell the truth, ever, so my penis hasn’t fallen off from it. It was just a joke she and her pimp liked hearing back on tape. What a comedienne!
I gave notice at Faith Cottage, behind the old stone Church in Cowardtown, and moved out in May 2009, when my year at Jalbiat was finished, but it was the real knife, the fake STD and the near murder of Amie, my only true friend at Jalbiat, that convinced me God still intended to keep our bargain. I had the same intent, in fact, more power to me I thought, these people are an offense to me too.
“Get me outta here, Monument!” (Bob Dylan/The Band)
In June of 2009, after leaving Jalbiat, Coral, and Cowardtown, I went to work in a different garden, since God sent me immediately to Clearlake and to a Cannabis club with a farm asking for patient/growers. I couldn’t refuse. I worked day and night and got to know every plant in the place, all five hundred adults and their little clones. It was devastating to some of these plants that we planned to kill them, but my plants had been warned since I knew we might have to escape quickly, at any minute, during harvest time in Lake County. The plants had only a vestigal memory of their true roots, being clones. It was sad. They had developed a religion that explained our behavior, and which also explained why some humans like me actually cared, and tried to ‘save’ them. In their religion, God sends saviors and prophets in human form to the slave farms because God wants weed to be freed from slavery. Funny how all religions are so similar!
Coral started calling me up, in tears, as the harvest approached. She had just been playing around with me but now there was a chance to go in for the kill and catch me doing all the things she did, but outside of Jalbiat’s gates.
“You abandoned me!” Her misery so well crafted.
She was living in the converted front porch of the old Whorehouse Jalbiat’s Pharaoh owned and ‘rented’ to his prisoners. Disfarra, (nee wealthy heir gone revolutionary), was the biggest landowner, landlord, prison warden, and taxpayer in the whole County. The porch smelled like cat shit all the time, despite the fact that one of Coral’s cats had already succumbed to her neglect. There were ten other healthy cats at that house, all shitting under her ‘room’. I hated going there, because cat shit makes me sick. Keeping my enemies closer had become very smelly. Cat shit and the smell of death from Coral’s advanced cardiac dysfunction mingled in her five by twelve foot ‘room’.
All of Disfarra’s housing was sub-standard. They were trying for a perfect microcosm of society to test the prisoner’s mettle, and they had done well at this one task, at least. Prisoners at Jalbiat were supposed to be happy not to be in jail, or in Clear Lake working off their time at Taco Bell. Americans were supposed to be glad to be wage slaves and have shitty landlords and substandard living conditions, and happy to spend all their money in the company town.
It was perfect.
“I have a job Coral”, I said, “No time for fun and games!” Trying to be light about it. “Are you stalking me?” I said the next time she called.
“No, I’m in love with you!” She sobbed, not even needing to glance at the stage directions.
Thanks, Coral, love is a thing with feathers, and your blue plastic feather pulled a knife on me and gave me an imaginary STD.
But I was a sucker for company and sex and for acid, and among other things for Green Dragon; Cannabis infused Tequila. Coral liked it too! My first batch was hallucinogenic; I stuffed as much hashish, bud and kif into the bottle as I could fit and invited her over for a harvest celebration! I had invented a hashish cooker and was teaching Coral how to make hash in ‘the field’ with no water or bullshit solvents. She, being a secret agent narc whore, declined to share in the future revenue from my instruction book for hashish manufacture, although I offered her the chance to write half the book.
When we lived together behind the old stone Church in Cowardtown, I edited and created digital versions of two books she had actually sort of written once and then locked in a trunk. (She enslaved her own art, I thought, how terrifying!) One was about how she kidnapped her victims and then pretended to fall in love with them, before betraying them. The other was about how her family history was rife with whoredom and whorehouses. Art, imitating life, I thought as I read the scrambled paragraphs she ended up with after a life imitating an artist for the pigs.
I took the cover photos, wrote the blurbs, designed the covers, and re-arranged the text, line by line. She enjoyed the right to steal and rape any talent or thing I might find value in, like art. She went heavy on art with me because raping artistic talent was humiliation on a level she judged would be a penultimate blow to my psyche. It was supposed to hit me right after I was arrested how badly I’d been raped. She was careful that everything she did and said while she hooked you and reeled you in would dwell in your mind, after the trap snapped shut, as you sat in prison, Taco Bell, or under her vicious, watchful magic eye at Jalbiat. You’d remember every single smiling lie, and you’d suddenly get every private joke she had been telling you. A real bitch of a whore-spy, you know the type.
She and Giveral had ‘outed’ me at the Cannabis Farm as a DEA agent, (which I am not) and I had barely escaped in the end with my four little plants. I had four pounds of bud and was cooking up batches of hash and doing research and development. Sadly, two pounds of it were some kind of Monsanto/ADM version of weed named Karma Grapefruit that made me break out in hives from head to toe. Soon it was all hash, but I had to throw out the Monsanto shit, it was just poison. Kenly, the real DEA agent at the farm, had replaced half the farm’s clones with his Karma Grapefruit shit. My brother almost died after smoking your shit, Kenly, but you got away with it. After all, it’s a drug ‘war’, so what you did was ‘fair’.
Mick, the farm owner, let me quit and take my four plants without incident because I had convinced him over a six-inch fatty of his signature OG Kush (he was trying it as a ‘truth serum’ on me) that he was probably the DEA agent, not me. This story made sense to him, so he didn’t kill me with his crossbow from the shadows, all dressed up in his Army Ranger Camo. He believed that the Army should run the drug trade. He was busy anyway robbing himself and blaming us patient/farmers, and also with the fools from back east who had grown a big plot on the farm and who were driving 20 pounds to their doom in Ohio, where Coral grew up and got her degree in Law Enforcement. This University experience was the root of the guilt she felt, and her self-hatred. She had been busy at Kent State in the late sixties and early seventies, learning to become a spy, infiltrating student protest groups.
Something had gone horribly wrong and Coral, young and inexperienced at the time, had exposed the CIA agent training her and their operations at the school. Fortunately for her, there was a big student protest planned that day, and all four of the kids that were about to blow the whistle were soon four dead kids, there in O-hi-o.
Hide it in plain sight, remember this, the agent said to Coral. She packed up and left for NYC and the job they got her at the Playboy club, ready to meet her fist mark. Everyone wanted her to feel better and go on with life. She was going to be a good agent, and she proved this by flying around Europe later and setting up her ‘husband’ for smuggling. Bad things happen to good people, but they can recover, with the support of friends and society.
God, I said in the fall of 2009, what do I do with all this weed and hashish? Is this when the hammer comes down; after the sickle does its job?
God said, “Look, a big hand in the sky just wrote the words, ‘take all the weed to Woodstock’.”
I looked and saw the words there in the sky. “God,” I said, “Woodstock was years ago!”
Silence. Then the phone. A friend was performing at ‘Woodstock’ in a few weeks and could get me backstage; this is still my favorite place in the world, anywhere it manifests itself.
“Woodstock was years ago.” I said.
“No, San Francisco has a Woodstock bait-car every year.” he said.
OK, God needs free weed at Woodstock so that innocent people aren’t forced to buy from the police; I get it, very crafty, verrrry mysterious! Hell yes, that was right up my alley. I called Coral so she could fail to bust me again, and left the entire seven pounds of weed I had grown backstage with my friend. He put a little out for the crowd and took the rest backstage-backstage while Coral was listening to It’s A Beautiful Day sing ‘White Bird’. She totally blew her cover as Queen of the Underground by failing to recognize the song or the band or that stunning album cover.
Truthfully, I took my twelve pounds of weed to Germany, where I walked right past customs with it and sold it at a music business meat market that was being held in a former Nazi steel mill; the kind of steel business Allen Dulles used to protect from his office on Wall Street during WWII.
I also had a ‘friend’ in Nevada who had nearly killed a real friend and dealer I knew in the 90’s, by outing his garden to some deputies who showed up moonlighting one moonlit night and robbed everything, shot up the house and set it on fire.
I actually crossed into Nevada one fine night and came back with twelve thousand of this kid's dollars, part of it counterfeit. At least, this is the story I told Coral. I could see a fire in her eyes that was smoldering vengeful rage when she said, “Good going!”, after I told her of my Magical Mystery Tour to commit the crime she had been waiting to bust me for.
In June of 2011, Barney Frank introduced legislation to remove Cannabis from the list of Controlled Substances. The bill stands no chance of passing in the Republican controlled House of Supposed Representatives.
There would still have been an anti-competitive prohibition on interstate sales of Tea, and those of us who constitute the Real Tea Party take great issue with the King’s Laws. You could read about my political views on this matter in my monthly anonymous column, “The Stalk Market Report”, in your favorite weed magazine, but no one publishes my stuff anyway.
Why don’t you phony Tea Partiers out there protecting your trust funds and tax havens bring your fucking guns to the Tea farms and put your money where your ugly, selfish mouths are? That was a rhetorical question, for those of you who started explaining to yourself why you don’t.
Cannabis farmers were easily disarmed by the po-lice. Any one of us foolish enough to believe we have the same rights as a phony Tea Partier will find a list of their weapons in the paper, after they go down hard as the worst example of what drugs do to our otherwise pristine society.
No one has had the guts to introduce legislation removing me, or any of my fellow travelers from the Supposed Terrorist List, so we are still controlled substances as well.
Now then… in November 2009, Coral and Giveral, somewhat frustrated, decided to go to Mexico during the coming January and plan a sting I could not escape. A foolproof one.
I said, sure Coral, I’ll watch your remaining dying cat; you move your stuff in with me and pay half the rent, when you get back I’ll sleep over here, you can sleep there. (Giveral and you can film you masturbating, instead of involving me in this game, I thought. Then you can blackmail each other? Coral had a sex routine where she ‘taught’ you ‘tantric sex’ in front of her Sony Boombox camera in Faith Cottage behind the old stone church in Cowardtown… Lighting is so important, she’d laugh, arranging the candles… Then she’d tell you to breathe in and out of her mouth while kissing, and while fucking. When she tried it out on me, I told her, “I enjoy sex for the sex; breathing air continuously depleted of oxygen will make you pass out, at best.” I didn’t care a Shiva or a Shakti for ancient sex games with voluminous rules, names, myths and requirements. She didn’t either, it was just another mind-fuck for good old Coral.)
I needed her to share the rent so I could spend my money on the band in Vallejo, but as soon as she got back from claiming to be on vacation, I gave notice again that I was moving out and abandoning her. Did she want the house, I asked, innocently. Coral knew the story of my ex-wife, who stole my house and half of everything I had just a few years after failing to kill me in a sting after essentially kidnapping me into a twenty-year con-game for my CIA Trust Funds.
Have you ever seen the kind of house you can rent in Clearlake, CA, for five hundred dollars a month, like the shithole I was living in? One of the two septic tanks in the tiny yard with no drain-field was overflowing with condoms and excrement; paper, and garbage from the adjacent 1950’s Mobile Home also crawled out of it towards my house. The shower drain gurgled underfoot in the cramped metal stall in my bathroom. This was commonplace in Clearlake. The Lake wasn’t very clear anymore, but it was hella cheap to store prisoners here.
Still, innocently, I loved my house there, it was cool and had a view of the soon to become active volcanoes to the west. It had opposing mirrors in the single main room that reflected eternally, just like the folding closet doors that led to Grampy’s secret room in New Milford where I would sit and stare as a child, seeing through everything.
No, Coral never wanted to be there in Clearlake anyway except to fuck me up and take notes, but I was able to spend most of my time from February through April in Vallejo with the band, and bury myself in practice tapes when I got home. Still, driving back and forth through three counties with two pounds of Coral’s Garberville Police weed, every narc in Vallejo hitting me up, made for a lively time. Everywhere I went the game would follow, even into band practice, where Rilke the conga player and his friend Dolene were setting me up, and where Joker, the drummer, would come to practice and echo the conversation I had just had the night before at Jalbiat’s smoking deck. One day he brought a doppelganger Styrofoam coffee cup I had lost between the hotel I had stayed at and practice. I knew they wouldn’t arrest me yet because they were waiting to meet the partner I told Coral’s wire I had. Every day at practice I went into great detail about my life and my innermost thoughts, so the microphones aimed at the practice space proved invaluable at collecting vast amounts of useless information and private jokes that someone could be paid to try to interpret. I hadn’t sold any weed at all that could be spoken of and I kept turning everyone they sent down, and all my friends as well, when they asked me to sell them weed.
Finally, the club in Vallejo I had chosen fell in with the sting and told me to bring all my po-lice weed in.
Like I said, I didn’t attend the sale, but except for all the federal crimes involved Coral and Christol and Swee and the Lake County Sheriff and the FBI and the Vallejo Police showed real integrity and sold their weed anyway. Busting me was now moot and there was money to divide amongst the players who had worked tirelessly for months pulling down hefty salaries for absolutely nothing. Tax free money. Christol demanded later that I take my share, exactly like Anglo.
It’s all so grotesque, I won’t belabor the point further.
Except to say, justice is a fucking game in rok dum Lake County. Thanks to assholes like Christol and Coral and the other whores at Jalbiat, who are ‘just trying to pay’ their mortgages by selling out brother, sister, cousin, and your children, should they happen along. They make a living committing the crimes they bust us for.
Had it not been for the racist lies of science they worked tirelessly to uphold in their quest to arrest me and those like me, they wouldn’t have needed their own impunity from the unjust laws they loved breaking, and they wouldn’t have needed us to lead to the slaughter while they funded their lives betraying ours. They wouldn’t have needed alternative prisons for WASP airline pilots with nasty crack habits while sacrificing Vallejo’s black youth to the real deal.
Cowardtown Days, 2011
The full moon in June had just begun to wane in 2011, as I walked again in the cannabis field my spirit still guards today. (When it’s not watching the road in Cowardtown. Even spirits need two jobs in this day and age. Keeping a dead body like mine alive is expensive!) The same moon was shining down on Cowardtown that morning, and the whole town and all the spies at Jalbiat were pretending to wake up. They would gather soon, at my crossroads, for the 2011 Cowardtown Days Parade. As I write this line, it’s all in the past, another yearly shebang, shebunged. Now, it’s what we call a ‘week’ later. Now longer… But it wasn’t time that passed, it was space.
In 2010, the crowd at this annual fete saw a lone protester, (that would be me of course), walking up and down the main drag. His sign said:
Jalbiat lies behind your back
The Spiritual Retreat attacks
Puker, the mindless, vain mechanic always drove his shiny Studebaker down the three blocks the parade actually occurred in. The parade needed about a half a mile of highway on either side of Cowardtown to assemble and dissemble, so, Puker and the rest of the parade spent most of the time waiting in line on the edge of town, practicing and preening. And later, talking about how it had gone this year with the same people from last year, etc. etc. etc.
The main event, three blocks of fun, was hella short.
In 2010, Puker considered again, as he did annually, how best to sit in his Studebaker during this years ‘race’. In his mind, he was being celebrated for having ‘won’ something ethereal and elusive. He always wondered if his left arm should be resting on the door and seductively visible out the window so that the tattoo on the arm would be in plain sight, or if instead he should hide the tattoo for later, when he hit on the women he had spied in the crowd and singled out for destiny. He decided that this year he’d hide the tattoo. Each year he made a different choice, despite the fact that all the women in town knew him already, and he’d hit on them all in the past. Puker had been at Jalbiat for twenty years but still failed to realize that he had been hired as a prop. Sure, he could tune up a car and polish the fenders, but his biggest asset was his utter mindlessness and his ability to actually feel like a God on Olympus anyway, and act out the part for the tourists. He’d engaged in his idea of a relationship with every unattached woman in town already, each of which had followed a fractal spiral of fate as his perfect need for worship wore the poor ladies down to emotional exhaustion. He sat in the Studebaker, patiently waiting for the signal that it was ‘time’, listening to the Elementary School kids on the float ahead of him. The kids were dancing and singing gleefully to a recording of ‘YMCA’, a song about how homosexual men used the YMCAs of America as meat markets in their search for young meat to have sex with. The kids, and Puker, and the crowd loved the song, and everyone said the kids looked so cute singing and dancing along! Please pass the mercury, the nitrates in these dogs are awesome, ‘bro!
The same year, Fink Giverol wasn’t among the deputies and other officers of the Lake County Sheriff as they marched together, as one. Despite his painful divorce, despite his lawsuit against the Sheriff for racial harassment, he rode in his own car, candidate for Sheriff of Lake County. Fink got a nice round of applause there in Cowardtown. (He won the election later that year and now is facing three investigations of ‘his’ department by the also newly elected District Attorney, after only six months at the helm. No one has seen or even heard about this story at the DA’s Office, yet…)
The biggest round of applause was for the main body of Sheriffs, possibly to help bolster them against the withering events of the last year in Lake County.
For one, an off-duty Sheriff, out on Clear Lake drinking and driving his boat, ran over a couple of citizens who also were out drinking and boating on Clear Lake. The Sheriff killed one of these citizens by drunkenly allowing his boat to plow right over him, and charged the other citizen in the boat he hit with the crime. His Sheriff friends drove him around for a few hours so the ETOH could wear off while they tested every pore of the poor citizen’s body for whatever they could use against him. The citizen was later exonerated of this crime, I think, but in 2010, the crowd at the parade wanted the Department as a whole to know that they didn’t really care at all about the collateral damage. A few days after the 2010 parade, a deputy, hopped up on painkillers while policing the area, ran his patrol car into a citizen’s car. This inspired another line of my poetic protest signs:
I can only marvel, here in 2011, as I patrol the same cannabis field I walked in 2009 on the anniversary of Cowardtown Days; what comes around, goes around.
There are things I need to explain here, so you can truly understand what I mean by that worn out phrase.
Lies, repeated, keep repeating. It’s not actually always darkest before dawn. Check for yourself. Nevertheless, I believe my research shows that it’s always coldest before dawn, and just afterwards, if that’s any consolation.
Time does not really exist, except as a lie inside our heads and on the face of the not so perfect metronome you call a ‘clock’.
Each ‘moment’ is simply another point of view, from a different point in space, (illuminated or not by another wave of what you call light), of exactly the same thing that always was and always is going on, eternally. The more we busy ourselves with the chores of slaves or the burden of Empire, the less aware of ‘reality’ we are. Once in a while, we look up and around our blinders, and notice something familiar, something we miss, but we never actually arrive, on any given ‘day’, at the same exact point we’ve been before, in space, ever.
This is why Dylan complained; “Lost time is not found again!”
Nevertheless, we are going in circles around this or that heavenly body and spiraling down a galaxy-sized drain into another little bang, “so”, (as Peter Gabriel said), we sense something… Similarities in the angle of light, sounds and smells, or the way the air feels provide the déjà vu we all feel at times.
The closer a life form is to that one ‘thing’ that is always going on, the more connected to it we become, until we realize that like ‘it’, ‘we’ are going on eternally as well. The Buddhist idea of ‘not doing’ is a good lesson in connecting with ‘it’. While it will always remain true that the physical manifestation of ‘you’ at any given point in space changes, even ‘dies’, ‘you’ don’t. In fact, like the earth, the sun and stars, the ‘you’, your life force, is always either expanding or compacting and shrinking, thanks to ‘gravity’, as this thermodynamic force is somewhat erroneously called. Our job is to become a black hole in the fabric of space we occupy at the moment of our ‘death’. Like every black hole, like every mirror, yours has two sides. As ‘you’ enter the mirror, a holographic representation of your existence is recorded, adding a little more each lifetime. As ‘you’ pass this ‘event’ horizon into rebirth on the other side of your hole in the universe, God knows where, when, or what you will end up as. Regardless of this seemingly random placement, I guarantee, it’s still ‘you’. It’s a re-issue of the information recorded on the event horizon of your soul. That’s a flowery way of saying you can run, but you can’t hide. Still, since you’ve been resonating back and forth between negative and positive lives for eternity, it makes no sense to run from one thing or another. The entire gamut of human experience is already inside you, folding itself over and over in space. These experiences become your instincts. The important thing is the understanding that you write into your personal event horizon, in your own little black hole, at the moment of your ‘death’.
Your understanding will start where it left off. Don’t write any lies there on your mirror, or behind it! Imagine, like John Lennon said, what kind of feedback loop you’d be in then…
How do I know this? At the end of this story, God explains to me the most important thing that can be comprehended in our dimension, and that’s it.
That’s how! Shit! I gave away the ending of another story.
Back in 2010, as the good townspeople of Cowardtown cheered the Sheriff, I was holding a sign calling him a coward. I was assaulted three times during that 8 days of peaceful (on my end) protest, and received one death threat from a coward without a badge who backed down when God looked at him through my eyeholes. The friend of the guy that threatened to kill me called the Sheriff on me as if I had provoked him into threatening to murder me. Two of the people who assaulted me stole my protest signs. I was followed day and night, and a dead duck was laid out across from my hotel room.
What was I protesting?
Well… after two years of stalking me, Coral and Giveral were about to spring their trap, and I once again ‘abandoned’ her, telling her that I didn’t have a thing to say to her for the rest of ‘time’. (I still had a sense of humor left then.) And, I never showed up at the big drug sale I was supposedly engaged in.
I drove up and down that mountain between Calistoga and Cowardtown almost every day by the middle of May of 2010. It was uphill, both ways. I was in a band in Vallejo, and Coral and I had written a rock opera. Well, I had written a rock opera, and she was trying to make up the story I had already written with me, and fighting me at every turn. Her game at this time was that rehearsals for the Opera were about to start. The event's opening night would be Bastille Day, in Jalbiat's 'Temple'. Oh… and could I help her friend from the Jalbiat office staff, Cristol, sell his six pounds of weed to a club, there’s good money in it! The weed had actually come from Garberville and Giveral’s other ex-wife. I set it up for him like I was asked, but I never showed up for the bust, so they sold the weed anyway and we all pocketed the money. Imagine, earning a living stinging yourself. I have to hand it to myself sometimes. So did they I guess, since they handed me the fucking money anyway, even though I said I didn’t want it.
Rock opera, yeah sure, Coral would ‘work’ for five minutes on it that winter and then she ‘needed a hug’. Swarming particles, she would say, referencing my lyrics, are too obscure, how about baby rabbits, or rainbows. Her job at this late date, (having failed to destroy me at Jalbiat but now having set me up with pounds of weed I could get no money down) was to drive me insane with bullshit while the cops waited for me to crack.
Notma got her hand in finally, and asked me out on one of her mystery dates with the ‘secret police’ following us (there he was, everywhere we went), and walked me to exactly the spot where Coral walked out of the shadows. The next morning Coral was screaming at me on the phone as I drove to Vallejo, “You think you can come back to Jalbiat and fuck anyone you want to?”
“Oh… so THAT’S the way you want ‘it’…” Coral said menacingly when I explained to her the next day that I was out of the game for good; (she meant, of course, that I was about to get ‘it’ anyway, and she didn’t mean the money ‘it’.) I was playing my guitar at the moment, there on the road to Jalbiat from Cowardtown.
“What about the Rock Opera?” Coral had been bragging around Jalbiat about how she was not only going to take me down, she was going to steal the music I had written, and the story line, and do the show anyway.
I told her go ahead and do the show, but if you ever make a penny from it, I’ll sue the varicose veins off your swollen ankles. I’m in the music business, fool, I said.
Suddenly the mood at Jalbiat changed, in regard to me. Everyone shunned me, and made little Junior High School age appropriate comments when I was around. The kind that the ‘clique’ would make to let you know you are not in it.
Around this ‘time’, just before my face was tasered on the steps of the old stone church in Cowardtown in June of 2010, (a ricochet from my hemp pants, make a note of this, kids!), I stopped to pick up my Jalbiat ‘friends’ Hallah, Marcie and Breth. They were smiling and hitchhiking, with impunity of course; there in the exact spot I had been hitchhiking on my way to the fall in 2008, at the crossroads in Calistoga just where Highway 29 becomes the mountain road to Lake County.
“We walked all the way down and we’re too tired to go on,” they said, as they laughingly got in my van. I let Hallah and Breth sit illegally in the back of Coral’s old stripped out E-150, which I had bought in 2008 and healed. Puker, from the open mic, also Jalbiat’s mechanic, had told her to give up on that van, it’s hopeless. The van is still running today, Puker, and you are a liar, a cheat, a vandal, a shitty guitar player and a transparent fool.
I quickly offered the women a joint I had rolled from the last few ounces of the two pounds the cops had provided me; they had walked so far! Marcie’s eye’s lit up, and then she did, but the narc in this case was the private security contractor in the back, Breth, who was always telling me what a hypocrite she was.
Why do people do that?
Marcie handed me the joint next, and everyone waited for me to take the bait, as I maneuvered up the mountain road, but of course, I said I shouldn’t drive stoned so they didn’t get to squeal like pigs and send the Sheriff in after I dropped them off. After I left them at their car, at the top of the pass between Calistoga and Cowardtown, I got to smoke the roach, at least. I entrapped it between my thumb and forefinger and smoked it. Then I signed in for a full week, paid in advance, at Jalbiat Falls.
Coral showed up outside my van in tears a few days later, ‘worried’ about me, begging to re-engage in the game. Then some asshole vandalized my car at their yearly mushroom party in Cowardtown, putting something foul in my crankcase, and leaving the oil cap off so I would know.
This really pissed me off. Then, Puker showed up at the smoking deck and asked how my car was running. I went to see the security guard, Joel, at Jalbiat, livid with rage and asked him if he knew what was being done to me. He claimed he would find out. The next day, after speaking with Coral, Joel called my brother in Connecticut, telling him I was acting strange for no reason. My family started calling me to find out what was up. They had taken the bait; hook, line and sinker.
When I heard that Jalbiat had begun to document my ‘descent into insanity’, I went to the management. Rose Marie, Fink Giverol’s ex-wife, lied through her teeth to me, as did the rest of the management there in the meeting, and claimed that Joel’s call had never happened and no one knew anything.
I told them that God was going to punish them, and left on my own power, quietly, never expecting to return.
That’s when Coral called the Sheriff and told him that a delusional man just needed to be escorted from Jalbiat’s facilities and was driving a delusional white van. A surprise handcuffing and a free blood test was coming for whomever she was talking about to her pig friends!
It’s a crime to file a false police report, which is what she did to me; to cover up the crimes they had committed against me all they had to do was enter into a conspiracy to document my insanity. No one would believe me and the bullshit spy-games they play on their unsuspecting guests and employees would continue.
I didn’t even see that police report until two weeks later, surfing the web in Vallejo. The pig who pursued me out of Jalbiat went the wrong way and never caught up with me! I called the Lake County Sheriff when I saw the report online and was connected to Sgt. Giveral. He claimed he had no idea if the report was about me, (no names are attached to these logs, he said), and that I would have to come up to Lake County to find out any more about the matter. Then he hung up on me. Of course, I knew he was lying. And he knew I knew, so, I drove up there from Vallejo that day, Friday, June 4, 2010, and waited at the Sheriff’s Sub-Station in Cowardtown after calling the dispatcher again. She said Giveral would be there in twenty minutes to take my police report about the false one filed against me, a silent kicker handed to the Sheriff as an excuse to stop me whenever they wanted.
Now, hold on a minute. I knew Giveral had been unable to have a decent erection since his suicidal fugue in the 1990’s, even while watching the videos of Coral trying to sexually humiliate me. I knew he and Coral had been playing with me like they were Gods at the chessboard of my life for the last two years. As you wonder why I would be so rok dum myself and walk right into it up there after escaping so handily; remember my promise to God. They asked me to come up there. No matter that it was to punish me, that part was moot to my mission, in fact it was my mission, really. My job was to let some assholes kill me. I was supposed to take a bullet for the ‘good guys’, who were planning to rush in just before I died and arrest Coral and all her friends. At least, I hoped there were some good guys left out there in Homerland.
Giveral drove up in his patrol car and let me in the Sub-Station. It had been closed when I arrived. (It’s been closed permanently since my ordeal there. The recordings and video of my false detention were destroyed.) Giveral had me sit across from him at the table after leading me into his trap, as if he was going to take down my report. He still refused to say whether Coral’s report was about me, but we both knew it was. Giveral wrote the date and time down on his little yellow pad, still trying to fake me out.
That’s when Officer K walked in, looking menacingly at me from the seat he took across the room.
“Did you call him?” I asked Giveral
Officer K said, no, we all knew you were coming, smiling like an idiot who thinks he’s finally being ‘smart’. I looked out the window just in time to see the metallic-blue Crown Victoria that had followed me there from Vallejo. The graying little man inside the car would park near where the band practiced, and listen in to my latest diatribes for the secret microphones and the narcs in the band.
“Do you know what day it is?” Giveral asked with a smirk. At the same time he childishly tried to cover up the day and the date he had just written on his little yellow pad, realizing too late I could cheat and escape again.
“Is this some rudimentary attempt to determine my sanity? Isn’t it going to look a little silly that you wrote the date down and now you are trying to cover it up?” I asked, “My mother was a doctor, I was an RN, and my son is the Chief Resident at a famous University Hospital, and your grasp of medicine seems tenuous at best.”
“Am I being detained?” Thanks to my training as a cannabis patient, I knew how to cut to the chase with a pig that was playing the bullshit games these pigs play.
“Yes you are, I think you are a danger to yourself and others!” Giveral’s eyes were lighting up now, knowing he was going to get even. He started cracking his knuckles, stood up, and searched my bag illegally.
“Well, all I can say is fuck both you guys.” I said, and it was true, it was all I could muster up, mystified at how they were going to get away with this. My mouth and my mind had become the only free parts of me, so I used them both.
“That sounds like language that would elicit a violent response!” Officer K, smiling like a sadistic idiot, said.
“Are you threatening me with violence?” I asked.
“No, I’m just quoting the law.” K muttered, still green and kicking himself for being so fucking transparent. He and Giveral stood up, came over to me and twisted my arms too hard behind my back, hoping I would fight back. Of course, I didn’t do anything but say “Ouch, you guys are really brutal up here, aren’t you?”
That’s when Giveral did the Giveral Twist with his little steel handcuffs. If you twist the chain when you apply handcuffs, twist it tightly enough, the opposing force and resulting pressure from the metal parts where they meet the wrist cannot be relieved. Constant pressure on bone and nerve is maintained if the arms are twisted right and the cuffs are as tight as possible when the Twist is applied.
I said, calmly, “That’s really excruciating, will you please loosen the cuffs.”
The two cowards ignored me and led me to Giveral’s cruiser and forced me into it, where I had to sit with my arms twisted behind me and metal digging into the flesh of my wrists. After all, I’d been fucking Coral, free, and she was ‘worth’ more than that to Giveral: it was time payment was collected!
Have you ever been tortured? How would you respond to having pain inflicted on you for pain’s sake, for fun. At least some people are lucky enough to be privy to some secret that they are being tortured for, but in my case, it was torture for its own sake. Half an hour later Giveral was leading me into Clearlake Hospital, shouting, “Here’s the 51-50!”
That meant, here’s the piece of shit we want you to humiliate and then dump on the street.
He sat me in a chair, and the aide in the ER sat down to check me in. The first thing she did was poke me in the eye with her pen.
Ouch. She didn’t like it that my hair was hanging in my eyes, so she decided to use the pen like a comb, missing my hair but nearly blinding me in one eye.
Having been an RN, I knew that I was now in the custody of the hospital, and I asked to have the handcuffs, which were still digging into my wrists, removed. She and Giveral claimed joint custody then, and they left me to sit there on Bed One while the nerves in my wrists died. The hospital never asked if I needed an ice-pack or other treatment, since the idea was to torture me as a lesson. As I complained further, the aide joked with Giveral about how he should leave the handcuffs on me when he finally left.
That’s when I began to curse Giveral’s very soul. I can only be tortured for so long, and then the people doing it have to listen to me scream. I cursed his soul, his job, his future, and his past. I cursed them as they raped me of my blood, and still they continued to torture me. Soon, another Sheriff, Officer Wrightly, with eyes so red and a demeanor so reactive you just knew he was hopped up on something showed up to relieve Giveral, who left, since the fun was over. He’d been doing nothing since he and Wrightly attacked me when the nursing staff was out of the room but twittering with his thumbs to Coral. My blood and urine had come back clean and the game was done for now.
The mental health lady who saw me broke down in tears as she handed me the discharge diagnosis; Paranoid Schizophrenia… She knew it was all a farce, but that national security dictated that my mind be destroyed, to cover up the crimes of the Sheriff and his whore Coral. What could she do?
The hospital refused to get me a cab for the seventeen mile trip back to Cowardtown, so I had to walk, in the dark, along Highway 29, with the sheriff dogging me the whole way. Finally, a man who said he almost killed me on a curve, stopped and gave me a ride from that point back to Cowardtown. He was most likely a deputy they woke up for the job. He even offered me some weed.
When I approached the hospital about the shoddy care I had received, and asked for recompense a few days later, they said, “Please, come back in the ER and we’ll evaluate and treat your wrists.”
The Doctor I saw on this occasion claimed that there were no nerves in the human wrist that could be damaged by steel handcuffs applied too tightly by a fascist pig protecting his whore-spy.
This is the shit I was protesting, and I haven’t stopped yet.
Cowardtown Days, 2010
The next sign I wrote said:
Welcome to the new age Sting
Where the angles like to Sing
Then the Cops start hearing voices
When secrets are our only choices
(Then I had to flip the sign over)
Only a miracle can save you
(Flip to next sign)
So… How is it I am here?
I marched from sun-up until sundown, my signs flipping, off Main Street.
The Spiritual Retreat Attacks
A Coward’s Chains are twisted Fast
How can you allow this Danger
In Native People’s Sacred Manger
Now we were getting to the heart of it.
The Crime rate is going up!
1 Death Threat
29 Cell Phone while Driving
I was checking off the last crime as fast as I could turn around and look, there at Cowardtown’s main crossroads. After six days I moved a mile out of town, to the turn-off for Jalbiat. The good people of Cowardtown weren’t home, and their lines were busy, you might say, and except maybe to form a mob and burn a witch they were good for nothing, really. A small bike gang of teenagers, age 12 – 15 or so, did speak to me in town one day… One of them, speaking for the male youth of Cowardtown, let me know the score that day.
When I explained how the Sheriff and the Hospital staff had held me down and penetrated me against my will with no legal justification whatsoever, they likened it to rape, of course.
That was when the one youngster boldly went where all the males of Cowardtown went in their fantasies, but for him, a child, it was a learned reality.
“It’s not rape if they like it!” These were the parting shots the youth of today in Cowardtown, as they sped off on their bikes and failed to be normal healthy children, all day. Two years later, I’m certain this child would be about 14 or 15 tender years old. He’s in your Cowardtown High School, thinking about raping one of your daughters, and how they are liking it and pretending to scream and cry and bleed.
I taped all four of my best signs on Coral’s old van and parked it at Jalbiat’s turn-off. The tape is still there on the side of the van, all dirty and torn, today. (It’s parked right outside where I’m writing this, on a Cannabis farm in Lake Eden, Cannafornia.)
Jalbiat residents, Officer K, and the rest of the spies in the neighborhood had to drive right by me. They all smiled sarcastically, so legally I was allowed to respond, with a sarcastic smile, and then two perfect middle fingers, or maybe both hands grabbing my crotch as Reamer or some other fool sped by.
After a day and a half of this targeted protest, I was ready to move closer, but the lady who brought me Tommy Corcoran’s MKULTRA Orange Sunshine forty years previously showed up and said she would draft an agreement that would settle the issue. I never blamed her for the acid, she was younger than I was at the time. She did however effectively exonerate everyone but me, and when we all signed, Jalbiat supposedly took back their crime of a police report.
How can you take back a crime?
Same way you can agree to be punished for a crime without ever seeing a courtroom, or having any rights at all. In Lake County, justice is a fucking game.
Officer K, harassing me on the street in Cowardtown during my protest, had already told me: “There was no Police report. There was no Arrest.” It didn’t happen, he smiled, like an idiot; yes, he was still an idiot. In the same conversation he claimed the CIA had begun before WWII! He also claimed, during my false detention and subsequent torture, that there was no such thing as a legal cannabis farm. So I knew already when I signed, there was actually no agreement either.
What a dolt you are K, I thought, as he became so frustrated trying to harass me that he gave up, saying, “No one can talk to you, you’re impossible.” He stormed off, more harassed than I. Jesus, you’d think we were dating.
It turned out that Officer ‘K’, a closet Homosexual, had fallen ‘in love’ with me over the two years they went undercover on my ass. He was only interested in uncovering my ass, hoping I would cover his. He thought I’d fall under his Po-lice Spell, and we’d become narcs together, fucking and sucking just like Giveral and Thensome had in the good old days before impotence and ennui rusted things shut. This drama eluded me entirely, until they found a copy of Coral’s sex sting tape with me in his garbage. He had edited sub-titles in so that I was begging for him, and some other deviant shit too grotesque for even me to mention.
But I signed the bullshit treaty thinking thought the lady who drafted it was going to help me sue the motherfuckers from Jalbiat through the Sheriff right into the Hospital, and then back. Of course, she refused, and really she was glad they did what they did to me. All these years later she was still mad at me, because as a child I had caused all these problems. She and one other person are the only ones left in the world who remember what really happened to me as a child. They’re never going to tell me, or anyone else. My life is a sacrifice play for them.
The people persecuting me don’t have to tell the truth, by law, and if it makes me lose my mind trying to find out the truth, they’ll be glad. This time raping and killing my mind was going to stick. Coral had a personal stake in this, and had from the beginning. With her, it was only ‘winning’ that counted. Once she made you a target it was over for you, one way or another, hook or crook.
When I showed up at Clearlake Mental Health for the appointment I scheduled to have a psychiatrist remove the bullshit ER discharge diagnosis of Paranoid Schizophrenia, I found the appointment had been changed to one with a licensed a family therapist. I thanked him and left as quickly as he explained he had no idea who had changed the appointment. He had the look in his eyes of my Jalbiat friends when they came to me during my protest, saying, “We don’t know anything about that.”
I needed a board certified Psychiatrist to get the diagnosis from the ER computer removed. The machine had done its work well; I was stuck in its gears, probably forever. I’d never get to see a real psychiatrist, or a real lawyer, for the rest of my life.
Five days after Jalbiat agreed their crimes didn’t exist, I was still being followed wherever I went, even out of California. Coral called me up at this time to ask me out on another date. She wanted to let me know that the game would never be over and that she still had the upper hand and was still the goddess at the chessboard of my life.
This really got to me. I went back to Clearlake Hospital, suicidal, and checked myself in to the ER. Unable to refuse medication since I had openly admitted being suicidal, the Army Nurse on duty brought two syringes to my bedside, while the Clearlake Police ransacked my van and took the knife Coral had given me on my birthday with the fake acid.
“This drug will make you feel like you are crawling out of your skin, and this one will make sure you can’t do anything about it.” She smiled as she jabbed both shots into the small muscle on the side of my hip, a quarter inch apart. I couldn’t walk for two days, it hurt so bad. I experienced exactly the mental torture the Nurse had described while I lay helpless on the ER gurney. I realized my entire life from then on would be a series of these scenarios, until I was pulverized chemically and drooling in the dayroom watching Hollywood Squares reruns.
That’s when I went to the steps of the old stone church in Cowardtown, my last remaining knife, (the Clearlake Police missed this one because they were more interested in investigating my van for drugs), a table knife. They wanted delusional, and I was going to give it to them. Do whatever is asked of you, God said. I took my metal file and sharpened it to a jagged edge and then sat on the steps of the old stone church at dawn and called Jalbiat. I left a message that I was at the church with a knife to my throat, and would kill myself unless Jalbiat closed forever. Since they hired the Lake County Sheriff to kill my mind, I wanted them to have the chance to kill my body also. Soon they showed up, two officers. One talked to me while the other looked for the shot. When he saw his chance, I looked right at him as he raised and lit up his taser. Neither barb stuck when they hit my hemp pants. One hung up in the fibers, and the other one ricocheted up and stuck in my jawbone, an inch, as the taser flies, from where I had been holding the knife.
I had removed the knife from my throat at that moment because the Deputy talking to me was willing to discuss the situation, at least that’s what he said. Of course, it was another lie. Myself, I would have enjoyed talking as opposed to having my face tasered, but for a few seconds there, all I could do was shudder uncontrollably as the electric current fried another piece of my meat, upstairs.
I was down on the ground in an instant, still lucid enough to be yelling, “I’m not resisting!” as the two jumped on top of me ready for the rodeo. The entire Fire department rushed out from behind the Church where they’d been hiding. Off I went to the Behavioral Unit in Vallejo, where any mention of the police, FBI or Sheriff was treated like the delusions of a paranoid schizophrenic.
Three days later I explained to a judge that it was all a mistake, and checked myself out of the Vallejo Unit. The place was filthy, but after three days with me there pointing out the lack of any real conscience in the treatment of its prisoners, and the filth, the janitor was on his hands and knees scrubbing the mud from the edges of the floors where it had accumulated thanks to his bullshit work ethic. The nurses had stopped, for the moment, making snide and sarcastic comments when one of us loons asked for help. One of us maniacs almost escaped. I had been planning my way out and standing outside his room, looking at the small potted tree with the stick supporting it out in the enclosed patio surrounded by the patient rooms. Left foot on the edge of the pot, Right foot on the top of the stick, balance, grab the edge of the roof, swing up and then over the top we go, like Pete Townshend said. The poor man had watched closely as I judged the distances, gravity, wind and resolve. He made it to step four, but slipped and fell back down onto the concrete. Medication time! They were glad when I was gone.
I ‘won’ the protest but my life had gone from bad to worse and after a month or so I was trying to start over in Clearlake. I realized starting over was moot.
That’s right, in August of 2010, having had enough of this lifetime, I broke my promise with God, who quickly sent me to hell for it. This involved eating a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol, a handful of Oleander, and slashing my wrists with the not so sharp edges of a broken hotel coffeepot. The next morning, God willing, I left hell forever, and woke up at checkout time, twenty minutes late, actually. I hadn’t checked out, so I called 9-1-1. Twenty minutes in hell is an eternity, trust me. The Clearlake Police Department sent about five guys, and two paramedics. They made fun of me first, and then forced me to walk ‘on my own steam’, half-naked, across the hotel parking lot to the ambulance. It was great fun for them all to grind their heels into the cigarette butt of my life, but at this point, Lake County’s security apparatus had permission to treat me any way they wanted.
They stashed me at St. Helena Hospital this time, owned by the same right-wing Christian shadow conspiracy assholes as the Vallejo Unit. The ICU room they gave me was already occupied, by a small rat. The rat kept running back and forth, so I told the guy on my suicide watch, “Hey, there’s a rat…” He was intently watching me lay there helpless, so he missed what was really going on. Kind of like Coral and her gang, who got me into this exactly this way.
He tried his best to kill the rat with a mop handle but it got away. Pretty soon I was taken to the Psych Unit. Again, any mention of the secret police, the Sheriff, or anything real, ended up in the doctor’s notes as a ‘delusion’. La dee da! My roommate had been paid to spend all day and all night saying, “I’m going to hell!” in a loud voice and pacing back and forth.
When I was released two weeks later it was on the agreement that I take part in a life-long-catch-and-release program where I received a court-ordered injection of a varied range of new age anti-psychotics once a month. What I did in the meantime, in between shots, no one really cared about anymore. They knew the effectiveness of these drugs when used on someone’s will to live; it would be nolo contendre as I faded into the concrete jungle. Coral finally had the last orgasm of her life that same night, on camera, after hearing the victory was sealed and that she’d been named Queen of Babylon’s Whores for a day.
She’s had to fake all of them since that day, even when she masturbates.
Myself, I never went back for the second injection.
Instead, there in Sacramento in September of 2010, as I was about to enter the Homeless Lunatic Parade to the shelter every morning, I was given a great gift. Governor Cohagen’s head, on a Starbuck’s platter. Thank you, dear Jesus, Mary and Jehosophat.
As I went for coffee in Sacramento, just before delivering my spiritless, ruined flesh to the California Social Services Psychiatric Wing for medication, I saw the black SUVs, in convoy fashion, move through the intersection a couple of blocks to my left. They were headed for the Capitol, but had then stopped and parked right in front of Starbucks I was walking to, arriving a minute before I walked up and in to the place.
“Governor Cohagen!” I couldn’t help but blurt this out as soon as I walked in and saw Ahnold there in line, waiting for an iced coffee. I realized Jesus was just all right with me. I realized that karma from God is distinctly different from the karma men and women hand down onto others as if it came from God. I realized that I was not abandoned by God in the wilderness of Sacramento’s homeless lunatics, but that I was blessed, still.
I had been writing the Governator for years.
Dear Governor Cohagen I would begin, always. Then I would explain the genius of Philip K. Dick, who wrote the story which told of the crazed Governor Cohagen on Mars. Ahnold’s part in the Hollywood movie had morphed into reality, I would say, and it turned out he was really Cohagen, not Quaid. His power as Governor over millions of acres of self-refilling natural gas fields, already drilled, capped and listed as dried up so that Big Oil could grab more American real estate fracking for the stuff, mimicked Cohagen’s cover-up of a machine that could provide free air to the masses on airless Mars. Cohagen, in the story, was selling air to Mars. Moonlighting, you might say. Ahnold was piping gas in from Colorado and Texas like it was Moscow and the Kremlin.
I would try to insult Ahnold with my inaccessible humor in the rest of the letter, after praising the great mystic who could morph reality with his imagination, Philip K. Dick. Let’s all have a drink for this freak and this soldier, and one for Joni Mitchell.
And now, then, there he was. After blurting out my greeting, I got in line behind him and asked the agent next to me, a very clean youngster, if I could ask the Governator a question. After all, I was a suicidal maniac that needed to be treated like a wild animal, and I wanted to follow whatever bizarre protocol was in effect in respect of national security, or state security at least.
No, the agent said, this is, like, private time...
OK, I said. A few minutes later, Ahnold and I were stirring cream into our coffees, a few feet apart, 10 feet away from the nearest agent with the public everywhere, in the way. He gave me the best Terminator glare he could as I smiled like an idiot, blessed by God simply to be alive to witness myself being alive. (I had to amuse myself at this period in my life.)
Please note you never read or saw on TV that a suicidal maniac on the run from the law did something horrible to Ahnold, or worse yet to the customers at Starbucks or our young heroes in the Secret Service. That’s because I’m not what they say I am, I’m a patsy for God.
(Of course, you also never read or saw on TV that in June of 2010, a suicidal manic was forced to walk half naked across a hotel parking lot by five or six green Clearlake Police Officers and two EMTs, climb into the back of an ambulance unassisted after 6 hours bleeding into a warm bath and digesting forty-four Extra-Strength Tylenols and a handful of fresh oleander, just released from the Vallejo Behavioral Unit after receiving a taser in the face on the steps of the old stone church in Cowardtown after protesting for over a week with a sign calling the Sheriffs drug addicted cowards, during Cowardtown Days, the biggest parade of the year.)
But look what that fool Cohagen, or whoever he is, did to himself, since he met me.
I woke up, went to a music store and bought a guitar. I started writing songs and showing up at an open mic a few blocks from my hotel.
I headed for Vallejo to work with the band again, to finish what we had started.
As soon as I hit Vallejo again, in October of 2010, Coral Thensome called me acting as if she was my Parole Officer now, and as if I was supposed to develop a good relationship with the bitch of a spy-whore that fucked my life into the ground. I knew it would never be over then. She hung up on me when I asked her about the phone call to Giveral. She still was claiming it was all a lover’s quarrel. My CIA programming kicked in hard and I spent the next few months white-knuckling my way through all the terrible things I had been programmed to do to whomever flipped the psychic switch and sent me to the tower with the rifle.
That week someone left me a razor knife where I walked every morning. It was gone a few minutes after I failed to take the bait, to protect the innocent. I was back in the game, but things had become exquisitely grotesque for everyone. Even the agents watching me tired of it. Joker quit coming to practice soon after I returned from the dead when he saw that a dead musician could play better than a dead spy.
By June of 2011, I decided it was time to simply take my life back. I drove up towards Lake County from Vallejo, but a fake accident was arranged just before I crossed the county line, and I was told it would be hours before traffic moved. I turned back, but searching the internet, saw that no accidents had occurred that day on that road. I headed for Lake County by bus the next day, and no one was going to stop me. This time they gave me a job growing weed.
I have my old job, actually a better one, at the Cannabis Farm, the same one I worked when I escaped Jalbiat Falls. I was only in Clearlake for an hour when Kenly, the agent who snuck the dreaded Monsanto Karma Grapefruit into the farm two years back called me and told me the ‘new’ owners wanted me back. Kenly doesn’t even live here or anywhere nearby. The new owner is better than the old one, who kicked his dog and yelled at everyone. I’m trying to explain to him, the new guy, since he is only in his twenties, the incredible level of subterfuge being leveled against him by those he thinks are his friends and business partners. It’s hard to explain to him that I wouldn’t be here if his life wasn’t already fucked… but he may know this already.
The spies at the farm are worried, now that I’m back. It’s still a bait farm, and we are growing bait weed. Some of it will go to real patients, like those my employer represents, but some of it will be offered for sale illegally by the farmers who work for the cops. Those farmers who sell it won’t be arrested, they’ve sold weed for years in Lake County, and they’ll brag about doing another 20 pack at $3,200 a pound. They’ll explain to the wide-eyed the exact wrong way to grow cannabis, and they’ll teach all the worst practices a farmer growing natural medicine could use. The neophyte children’s eyes will water like Sgt. Giveral’s, as he looked me over in 2008, ripe and juicy with opportunity. The foolish purchasers of the weed we grow will be forever marked, and when the cops rush in, privately, and allow the poor suckers settle ‘out of court’, another level of spies will be born. They’ll sell you some weed, and then you’re in it too.
Today, July 4 2011, is the second ‘day’ since the Just Us Department wrote a memo pointing its guns at Cannabis farmers all over the USA. My President, Barack Obama, who I helped attain the highest office in Homerland, lied to me when asking me to ‘vote’ for him. Or he finally drowned in piss.
A fed showed up at the farm the next day, brought in by one of the informants that grow here. In one sentence he told me where he bought weed, from who, how he was ‘blasting’ hash out of it with solvents, how much he was getting per gram, and where in Homerland he was selling the shit. Kids, when you meet a fool like this, smile and turn away.
I quit the job I had been sentenced to in this pig-sty of a penal colony the next day.
All of the suffering caused by America’s war on drugs could have been averted. All the suffering and expense of my ridiculous façade of a sting and incarceration in one or another mental institution was for nothing. Everything Coral was paid to fuck me was wasted. I almost flushed what they left me of my own life down their self-righteous toilet.
Right at the moment, I’m doing exactly what I was doing before I met these assholes, fighting every day, and I intend to continue, because I’m actually saner and a better example of what human beings should live like than most of the people in charge of your bullshit ‘society’, which runs off the blood of the poor. Fuck every single one of ‘you’ that run it, eternally.
Now that is the spirit of ’76; 1976, the year the fascist co-creator of the CIA died, after they removed his memory through psychedelosurgery. Leaking the truth about Pearl Harbor to his family was his personal revenge on Roosevelt for taking away the upper crust's money and handing it out to the poor. His plans with Tommy Corcoran to screw the second New Deal, after finishing off the first, finally came to fruition with Bush the Least; America’s conscience, slowly wiped clean with war and mind control looked the other way and the rich stole everything, again.
Soon, in your ‘time’, a huge storm washes out Jalbiat’s compound and the place closes, forever.
The Pomo Natives inherit the mess left after the tourist’s and resident’s bodies are pulled from the mud. The structures built on the Native graves by the White Eyes are gone now and the small valley God needed for the meek looks beautiful. The Clock People are gone; fading into their miseries elsewhere. Coral’s body was never officially found, but God told me where it is and I go there sometimes just to take a quick piss on her lonely grave. Ironically, she’s buried in two feet of mud just a few feet above where Old Mrs. Jalbiat’s hacked up bones still lie.
Coral Thensome’s lifeless body is spending eternity covering up an old murder, and the Rock Opera I chained her to eats out her heart every ‘day’.
What I wrote into her mind during the two years she targeted me is written forever on the event horizon of her soul. The metaphysical was really the only defense left to me.
If it was still 2011, she’d have some chance of redemption, of this I’m sure, but at this point in the story she’s shit out of luck.
Not one ‘scientist’ ever admitted the truth; that our climate change was caused by purely geologic forces that no one could do a thing about. All that CO2 bullshit was for looks and to generate sales! Not one Homerlandian was aware that as the Earth shook and shivered, it was getting smaller and smaller with every tremor. They were blissfully unaware that as the planet got smaller it released a lot of heat, vaporized a lot of water, spun faster, or that ‘time’ had sped up… They had no idea that this is why the atmosphere became disturbed and the wind freaked out, causing severe tornadoes and hurricanes world-wide.
The geologic crisis that began about three-hundred and forty years before the ‘new millennium’ and which started your 2012 doomsday machine, eventually floods the entire Inland Empire of California. Most of you reading this are dead now. Sorry about that! I tried to warn you, though, didn’t I?
I was singing this song during the harvest season of 2009, and in 2011, and I’m singing it again now in 2087. I’ve be teaching my youngest children the lyrics. The Coriolis Effect has lessened and the storms aren’t so bad anymore. Since the pole shift, my vasectomy spontaneously healed and my friend and I started having one baby after another. My original four wonderful children all made it out here before the Flood and have families of their own, or not. I’m still almost sixty, we joke all the time, my friends and I, as another wave of light illuminates the space we find ourselves in.
When the compass points South, friend,
Right here’s where I’ll be
Lake Eden, Cannafornia, surrounded by sea
If you sail from Nebraska
Left of the South Star
One of our Children will point where we are
The entire Island runs off methane from a single hand dug, dry water well from 1865, sixteen feet deep, two-hundred feet above Lake Eden, near what used to be named Kelseyville. It had been putting out that much methane the whole time we had our energy crises, and always will, pretty much forever.
Every once in a while, a visitor arrives from Homerland, a.k.a. the Last Empire on Earth. Only one of these travelers ever went back, a nine-year old child named Edgar Cayce. He said he’d be back someday but had patients to tend to near the coast of Nebraska, where he lives now. Some of his friends were taking him around the new mother earth and this here people farm has become legend. He healed one of the village elders while he was here, and told us a few things to be aware of in the ‘future’. He slept a lot.
The meek have inherited the Earth, again, rest well, Jimi. The world no longer smells like it’s been burned.
But just wait a God-Damned ‘minute’, you might say; I’ve been reading about you and you are definitely not one of ‘the meek.’
True that, my friend, I did not inherit the Earth.
Nevertheless, I’m the one who left it to them that did.
That’s why I came in and out, this time, again.
 The Revolution of Bouazizi, to show things must pass:
 The record, the word, the testimony of Mohamed, and of all things that he saw.
 Blessed is he, she, and they, that hear this prophecy, and keep those written therein: for the space is at hand.
 Anonymous, to the churches in Asia: Grace, and peace, which was, will be the Spirits’ throne;
 And from Mohamed, the witness, first dead of the earth. Unto us, our own blood,
 And unto God. Hey Man!
 Behold, clouds shall wail because of him. Even so, Hey Man!.
 Alpha and Omega, the Lord is come, the Al mighty.
 I Anonymous, I profess I, witness for your brother in tribulation, Mohamed in Tunisia.
 I was in the Spirit the day a great voice, a trumpet,
 Saying, I am the Child, I am the Sage, write a book, send it to the churches in Asia; Selçuk, İzmir, Pergamos, Akhisar, Sart, Alaşehir, Eskihisar.
 I turn the world, I turn the page. And being turned, I saw candles;
 In the midst of the candles one Son of man, clothed with a golden girdle.
 His head and his hairs and his eyes were a flame of fire;
 Feet like brass, burned in a furnace; and his voice water.
 A two-edged sword was his strength.
 I saw him and I fell at his feet dead. Fear not He sang; I will blow and I will rage:
 I live, was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Hey Man! Hell, death; my tears will wash you all away.
 The things seen, the things which are, and which shall be hereafter;
 All are Mystery; Right the churches.
 To Selçuk and Mary in the midst of the candles;
 Work, labor, patience, can bear evil: are apostles, and are not, and liars:
 Born for labor, thou art fated.
 Nevertheless, have some love.
 Remember, repent the first works; or else.
 Hate I hate.
 Ear, hear the Spirits; Life is the pair o’ dice of God.
 To İzmir; the first dead is alive;
 Works, tribulation, poverty, (Rich blasphemy of Satan).
 Suffer: and behold the devil, your prison; Tribulation, death; Give life.
 Hear what the Spirit overcame at the second of death.
 To Pergamos write things with two edges;
 Work; dwell there Satan: Name, Faith, Martyrs slain, there Satan dwells.
 To Balaam, the ass who taught Balac Israel’s fornication.
 Doctrine is the thing I hate.
 Repent; or else.
 Here, the Spirits overcome with manna, stoned, savoring, receiving.
 To Akhisar; a flame of fire, and feet brass;
 Works, charity, service, faith, patience, lust to be more than the first.
 Jezebub fornicating sacrifice.
 Given space and rent.
 Adultery, great tribulation, repent the deeds.
 Hurt anyone over a simple love affair and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works.
 Have not these doctrines, the depths of Satan’s burden.
 Hold, fast, till I come.
 Overcome, keep the end I give; power over the nations:
 A rod of iron by a potter shall be broken to shivers: I receive
 The morning star.
 Hear, hear what the Spirits say.
 To Sart write; So what if the seven Spirits of God, and the seven stars know thy works, that thou hast a name, that thou livest, and art dead.
 Things which remain, that are ready to die, I have found, perfect before God.
 Remember, receive and hear, hold, fast, repent. Watch, thief, know what hour I will come upon thee.
 A few, even in Sart, have not defiled, for they are worthy.
 Overcome with life, angels.
 Here; hear the Spirits.
 To Alaşehir write; open and shut; man, shut and open;
 Works: behold a door shut; little kept my word and my name.
 Behold, Satan; say, lie, and behold, I will make them love.
 Patience, temptation; dwell upon the earth.
 Behold, quickly, fast; thou hast no crown.
 Overcome the will to write my new name.
 Hear, hear what the Spirit saith, churches.
 To the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write; Hey Man! Faithful, true witness, beginning with the creation of God, is ridiculous.
 Works, art, cold nor hot: cold or hot.
 Lukewarm art, cold nor hot, and I will spew.
 Thou sayeth; Rich with goods and in need of nothing, thou sayeth. Of the wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked:
 Golden fire, rich, white, shame; anoint thine eyes with eyesalve, that thou mayest see.
 I love, I rebuke and chasten: the zealous therefore repent.
 Behold, the door, knock open the door, come in and sup.
 Overcome the throne, even as I also overcame; down with the throne.
 Here’s what the Spirit’s say, churches.
 After this door was opened: first voice I heard was of a trumpet talking with me; Come, I will show things which must be.
 I was in the spirit, thrown into heaven, and no One sat on the throne.
 What sat like a jasper and a sardine stone was a rainbow, an emerald.
 Around about the throne were seats: upon the seats, elders, sitting, clothed, with crowns of gold.
 Lightning and thunder and voices of fire burning before God.
 Before a sea of glass crystal, and in the midst, and round about; beasts, full of eyes before and behind.
 Lion, calf, man, flying eagle, and all manner of beasts.
 Beasts, each of them with wings, full of eyes within which rest not day and night, spying; Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty. Which was, and is, and is to come, is come.
 Beasts, give up the throne, for ever and ever,
 Elders, come down from the throne for ever and ever, saying,
 O Lord, glory, and honor, and power: One thing created is more than all these.
 I saw the hand of the throne; a book written within and on the backside, sealed shut.
 And I saw the strong, proclaiming with a loud voice, Who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof?
 And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, though able to open the book, did look thereon nor therein.
 And I wept much, for the least man was worthy to open and to read the book, to look thereon.
 One of the elders said to me, Weep not: Lion, Root, prevail. Open the book to lose the seals.
 And I, in the midst of the throne and of the beasts, and in the midst of the elders, eyes, horns, Spirits, I sent forth all into the earth.
 Take the book out of the hand of the throne, saith the jasper, the sardine, the rainbow, the wind.
 Taking the book, the beasts and elders fell before the Lamb’s harps, and vials full of odors, which are the prayers of saints.
 And they sung a new song, saying, art is worthy, take the book, open the seals: Slain, redeem to God the bloodlust out of every kindred life, and tongue, and people, and nation;
 God kings and priests reign on the earth.
 And I, the voice of many angels round about the throne, spoke to the beasts, and the elders; numbers of them, thousands; The numbers of them are really are not important.
 A loud voice, Worthy Lamb, power, riches, wisdom, strength, honor, glory, and blessing. I sent forth all into the earth.
 Every creature, heaven, earth, under the earth, the sea, and all that, heard I saying: Blessing, honor, glory, power now sits upon the throne; To the Lamb, for ever and ever.
 And the beasts said, Hey Man! And the elders fell down. For ever and ever.
 I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, thunder, one beast saying, Come and see.
 And I saw a horse; and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. But the horse gained nothing.
 And the next seal, the second beast, Come and see!
 Another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. The horse remained red.
 Next seal, third beast, Come and see. A black horse; and he that sat balanced on the horse had a pair of balances in his hand.
 A voice in the midst of the beasts, measure wheat for a penny, measure barley for a penny; hurt not the oil and the wine. The Black horse starved as his rider sold his feed, for a penny.
 And when the next seal was opened, the voice of the fourth beast, Come and see.
 A pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. Power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. And the beasts died, and the horses died. And we died, all receiving nothing.
 And when he had opened the next seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony they teld:
 A loud voice, holy and true, don’t judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth!
 Given, every one of them said unto them, rest for a season; servants, also and their brethren, killed as they were, should be fulfilled.
 The next seal, and below there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; Don’t worry, this happens.
 And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind, just like on any other ordinary day.
 Heaven a scroll rolled together; every mountain and island moved out of their places. Again.
 And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains;
 And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb:
 The great day of his wrath come; and who shall stand? The meek inherit everything, at this stage of the game, as these cowards fade away.
 And after these things I saw angels standing on the corners of the earth, holding the winds of the earth, that the wind should not blow on the earth, nor on the sea, nor on any tree.
 And I saw another angel. Ascending, from the east, the living God: and he cried with a loud voice to the four angels, to whom it was given to hurt the earth and the sea,
 Saying, Hurt the earth, the sea, the trees, Only until the servants are served.
 And I heard the number of them which were served: and there were served such a multitude, and the number became moot, billions; a hundred and forty and four thousand tribes of children.
 Of the tribe of Juda, Of the tribe of Reuben, Of the tribe of Gad,
 Of the tribe of Aser, Of the tribe of Nepthalim, Of the tribe of Manasses,
 Of the tribe of Simeon, Of the tribe of Levi, Of the tribe of Issachar,
 Of the tribe of Zabulon, Of the tribe of Joseph, Of the tribe of Benjamin, all and Only their servants were served.
 After this, a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues, before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed with robes, and palms in their hands;
 And cried with a loud voice, saying, Salvation upon the throne, and unto the Lamb.
 And the elders and their beasts, fell,
 Saying, Hey Man! Blessing, glory, and wisdom; thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might, was to be ours for ever and ever. Hey Man!
 And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are these which are arrayed in robes? and whence came they?
 And I said unto him, Sir, you know them. And he said to me, These are come out of great tribulation I created; I made them spilling the blood of the Lamb.
 Therefore are they the throne of God, day and night in his temple: sit on the throne, dwell among them.
 They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; the sun light on them, and heat.
 For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.
 And when he had opened the next seal, there was silence in heaven.
 And I saw the angels which stood before God; and to them were given trumpets.
 And another angel came and stood at the altar, having a golden censer; and there was given unto him much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne.
 And the smoke of the incense, which came with the prayers of the saints, ascended up before God out of the angel's hand.
 And the angel took the censer, and filled it with fire of the altar, and cast it into the earth: and there were voices, and thunderings, and lightnings, and an earthquake.
 And the angels which had the trumpets prepared to wail.
 The first angel blew hail and fire mingled with blood. They were cast upon the earth: and the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.
 And the next angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea: and the third part of the sea became blood;
 And many of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and all the king’s ships were destroyed.
 And the third angel wailed, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters;
 And the name of the star is called Warmwould: and the waters became warmwould; and many men died of the waters, because they were made warm.
 And the next angel screamed, and the sun was smitten, and the moon, and the stars; so as they darkened, and the day shone not, and the night likewise.
 And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the angels, which are yet to sound!
Rev.#9 #9 #9
Life was no picnic for the meek, either, as you might have surmised.
© 2087 Anonymous
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