Thursday, December 11, 2014

It's over

The pretrial conference for the civil lawsuit was scheduled for December 3, 2014, a year after the man of steal was unseated. No one appeared, and the judge dismissed the lawsuit.

Ordinarily, within four to nine months after a loss to an investment or other similar account is discovered, the deadbeat finds himself/herself before a judge. In this case, the money has been gone two years. The jackass who took it faces no charges, and the civil case against him was dismissed for my lawyers’ misconduct, a wonderful Christmas gift.

You can be certain unlimited stealing and killing are legal in Oklahoma. What works and what doesn’t work? Nothing works.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

I'm nearly history

This year’s thirteenth encounter with a contaminated consumable happened Saturday, November 22, 2014, four and a half months after the previous poisoning July 9. The violent vomiting nearly gave me a hernia.

Its disruption defies description. The contaminant came from the bottled drinking water in the refrigerator. The note saying I report these events in writing to law enforcement is still on the refrigerator. As before, one can’t avoid seeing the warning, and whoever performs the errand does not care.

I consumed very little of it, and have a real unsteady stomach three days later. There has been no food preparation here since March, almost nine months. That’s an onerous burden. I’m experiencing a few odd physiological problems that may be related to the poisoning and am about to break down and see a doctor.

With regard to trusts, Oklahoma is not a state, but a contingent, provincial territory. The presence of the trust means no rules or laws apply. You can steal the money, kill the victim’s pets, burn the victim’s house and kill the victim. It’s all completely legal, and you cannot face civil or criminal liability. I’m nearly history. That’s what trust means.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Pigs and poison

This is the vehicle of one of two or three slaughter hogs of my next-door neighbor’s animal dump team. I’ve seen this vehicle at her house over the last three years during the exchanging and dumping of cats and dogs.

It always has these same eerie, covered and bound containers in the bed. That would seem to make this deluxe vehicle oddly unusable, and who would do it? The grim reaper of the animal dump team is who. It’s too spooky.

Figure out who the driver is and with whom he consorts and you will find at least a small rats’ nest of dirty, law-breaking serial killers. I say that because I know this man has participated in a program involving the exchange of dozens of animals, many of which perished. City ordinances hobble our animal control officers, and the team’s method is highly polished and perfected to bring about the desired result and elude detection by police. Nonetheless, this practice violates state and federal laws.

The picture was taken Friday, September 5, 2014. He picked up something at my neighbor’s house. I assume it was her three cats, because since then I haven’t seen her outside with them, something that had been a daily routine. What pigs!

Dumping animals, killing my cat Fuzzy and hazing me is one of the cow patty flowers in the manure bouquet that is my father’s wife’s gift of respect and affection, as is the Man of Steal’s taking the money in the trust.

Another of the bouquet’s doo-doo daffodils is the poisoning of the food and water in my home. Apparently, putting the note on my refrigerator caused second thoughts and a poisoning sabbatical. I haven’t encountered contaminated food or water for more than two months. I feel great and my body works like it should.

I haven’t washed the vomit-splattered bathroom rug since the first of the year to remind me of an especially violent, explosive puking. I’d had this throwing up eight or 12 times in the previous year to a lesser extent. The New Year’s event marked a turning point, and this has happened a dozen times since the beginning of 2014.

I learned to eat just one bite and drink only one swallow of any food or liquid not in a sealed container, then wait. It was always the same contaminant and the same experience. In five minutes, my stomach would begin to tighten and ache. After 10 or 15 minutes, it was clear something was wrong. After 30 minutes, I began to belch a taste and aroma like the odorant in natural gas, that bright, strong taste of rotten eggs. After one hour, I couldn’t stop throwing up everything in my digestive tract in the first convulsion. I would begin sweating, and end up sweating what seemed a gallon of water as I dry-heaved gastric fluid. During that phase, I would start to blur out and wonder if I was going to survive it. Then, I would usually collapse and sleep for two or three hours, hoping I’d wake up soon.

The event was never accompanied with diarrhea, although the last time I did emit one small but sulfuric fart, something very different. The extreme power and specificity of the contaminant’s action along with my inability to explain how the contaminated food or water became tainted gave it away as deliberate poisoning with something exotic. Before I learned to take just one bite or swallow, I might dry-heave for many days when not passed out from it. As I recovered, I was disoriented and furious for a couple days.

Don’t believe what you see on TV, that people who steal and kill meet the law. Certainly the Man of Steal is pleased so much has gone into the attempt to kill me, and he must be disappointed so many attempts haven’t succeeded. He shouldn’t be. Every prosecutor in Oklahoma County knows about this. In my case, taking $190,127.50 and attempted murder aren’t parking level violations.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

ANOTHER dump animal

The animal dump family living to the immediate east is in full production mode. Here is the latest flea-infested, unfixed, unvaccinated cat desperate for food and water every day for many weeks. Today I had the unhappy job of taking this kitty to the animal welfare center.

These people are still on my stepmother’s payroll hoping to produce lots of work and expense, not to mention a blood feud that branches into further trouble. This has been going on for years with no sign it will end. Certainly, stepmom assured me that whatever I do, wherever I may move, I will always have this problem in that she’ll see to it.

I used to take these animals to the doctor and put them in first class condition. I can no longer do this as my condition deteriorates. Fostering these animals has proven to encourage more dumping. They have a much better chance for survival at another location than here where my neighbor’s family appears to be patronizing, a home pickup pet cremation service. Where is the love of God?

Updated 9/4/14: The girl next door and her daughter are spending much time on my porch, pounding on the door, shouting threats and attempting to entice the two cats under my care. When I open the door, they quickly retreat. I wish everyone could have these hired weirdoes as their neighbors.

Saturday, August 16, 2014


Here I am in all my God-given glory. What a horrible picture. How is this thing alive? My life is a creature feature.

This is a cropped selfie shot by my nephew with a cell phone. I posted this to show you what I look like after I am poisoned. I feel worse than I look like I feel. My skin tone should be more like the young man to my right. The photo was taken June 15, 2014. I was poisoned June 13 and June 11, twice in one week, the only instance of two attacks in a week. It had been two days. I’d just had a good meal. But, I felt like my stomach had been scrubbed out with Sani-Flush and a toilet brush.

I can’t make excuses why this picture is so bad. It doesn’t get better for me. I’m not good looking or photogenic. I’m almost 61. What stands out is the ash gray skin tone. Until I saw this picture, I was mad but not worried about many attempts to poison me, and figured I was taking it in stride. I’m very careful, and ceased home food preparation in March.

I could get a haircut, wear better clothes, know when the shutter click is coming, open my eyes and smile a little, and it wouldn’t help much. That doesn’t bother me. My complexion is alarming and horrifying, and not something I’d noticed in the mirror.

By the hour and the day I’m becoming increasingly unhappy that stealing this much money and murder aren’t matters for the legal process. My lawyers and the district court have set a pretrial date of December 3, 341 days after issuance of our demand letter. The only teeth in my collection effort are the ones in my ass.

This is what I get for thinking pursuing legal remedies was doing the right thing—robbed and killed. Ugly as I am, who is more deserving? Right, I’m not dead. After so many tries I must know the decision has been made, and it’s just a matter of time. The list of suspects is short because, as I told you, whoever does this errand knows I report it to the FBI. They are not worried. I should have followed my first impulse and dealt with this trouble alone.

Friday, August 8, 2014

My stupid refrigerator note

Revised 8/14/14: Previously the dates were wrong. I realized my mistake, fixed it and made a few other changes.

I stuck this note on my refrigerator June 16, 2014 after drinking contaminated water from bottles that had previously held purified water June 11 and the evening of June 13, immediately after the locks were rekeyed.

I asked FBI if they wanted a copy of this horrible note, and they said no. They don’t want truck with the idea someone might rub me out to keep the trust’s looting quiet, even though that scenario isn’t exotic. I don’t blame them. See to what I have sunk. This is all I can do for myself. The twelfth incident of drinking water contamination happened July 9. The killer couldn’t have avoided seeing my note, and doesn’t fear a criminal charge of attempted murder. That’s a clue. So far, this year’s thirteenth occurrence hasn’t happened, although it is due.

I didn’t believe the narrative that the trust’s money would vanish and I’d be killed the first two years after my father died. Steal the money? Kill me? I don’t think so. But, the money is gone, I’ve been poisoned a dozen times in my own home since the first of the year, with many instances of it before that I’d previously not associated with attempted murder, so I have to know the executor, the first trustee, her helpers, The Man of Steal and all the rest were absolutely serious about both. There have been many, many people helping them with this unbelievably complex, well-organized effort.

Considering it’s for a lousy $190,000.00, it isn’t credible. I conservatively estimate my stepmother has gone out of pocket millions of dollars to make happen this outstanding example of misfortune. It doesn’t make sense to me, and no one believes it.

I posted the picture above on June 18 to see the reaction of their audience. I was called a “fantasist in a manic state,” a “crybaby” and “paranoid schizophrenic.” I was told to “reconsider you’re (sic) self-presentation.” I considered and rejected that. Private messages told me to see a doctor. I told them my complaints have merit. I’m dissatisfied with the trust and its performance, and I don’t have to hide it.

In fairness, a couple people told me they were sorry not everyone understood what my admittedly strange note means. I think of myself as more of a damned squealer than those other tags.

Previously my father and stepmother destroyed the relationships with my very few remaining (three or four) friends. Before I said stepmom seems to have consigned a community defamation program to a counterterrorism organization. The very one I had in mind was the subject of this article that appeared today in the city newspaper. I was told the Institute’s owner purchased one of the spacious country homes east of Lazy E Arena built by my stepmother’s kids as an investment she made in their dabbling as developers.

I was also told this investment went belly-up. If she thought I needed public character assassination, she might contract with this guy. Certainly my father thought he was brilliant, as he’d been paid boatloads of money by the federal government. Why would she do it? She’d do it to make me vanish, to enable her to drop bigger bombs and to disable my currying sympathy. Friends of more than 40 years have told me I belong in jail and a straitjacket in the last couple years, and they don’t say why. I know something happened.

I thought his business model was idiotic, and I suppose fedgov agrees because his work has been defunded. If all that is so, this jackass is another murder conspirator. Like all the rest, he knows the whole story. The neighbors who have dumped at my front door 60-80 animals they carefully starved and tortured are possible “counterterrorism institute” contractors, as is whoever is poisoning the food and water in the house. In current periodical literature I read that “counterterrorism institutes” are protected from criminal charges when they “inadvertently, unintentionally or accidentally” violate laws by the Department of State. It’s not intended to be carte blanche for breaking the law. That would explain why these people operate in such an open, notorious and brazen manner without concern about possible consequences.

For fun, I want to say something else to law enforcement. This article in The Oklahoman is the typical, Gaylord paper butcher shop. Of course the police need what these guys were selling every minute of every day, so they got an officer to say that. Then the organization’s owner sings the bleeding-heart blues about 168 people who tragically died when the Murrah building was destroyed. He shows how clever he is by setting up his kiosk to capitalize, lest all that glorious death go to waste. What a dick! If only we could have stopped McVeigh and Nichols—except for the small detail that they were not responsible for what happened to the Murrah building (scroll to Part 5 and/or read the whole thing). The truck bomb, McVeigh and Nichols, and the talk of domestic terrorism is all just cover for the fact Murrah took a double shot from Tesla’s fabulous scalar electromagnetic interferometer, a classified technology, and “someone” wants to keep that quiet.

Compared to that, my story is decidedly not exotic. Author Harry Mason theorizes about who fired the shots and why. I have my own theory that is more exotic than Harry’s.

Everything this dick could do to train police to notice terrorism wouldn’t have saved those poor people or anyone else. Your government understands that, and I say bravo and hallelujah. How can this dick, the Man of Steal, the executor or all the rest be proud of what they have done? They should be ashamed. They might do anything to hide their involvement, and they know they should be hanged. They don’t care, nor does anyone else. I wager someone in Washington is unhappy with our local counterterrorism institute’s owner.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Meet the man of steal

July 2014 marks one year since I discovered the facts about the missing money and began attempting a plan of action for recovery.

There can be no recovery for me nor consequences for The Man of Steal, a CPA who was elated to be part of the plan to steal the assets and kill me. I encountered contaminated drinking water in my refrigerator July 9, the twelfth occurrence of unexplainable poisoning in my home since the first of the year.

However, he was defrocked. The accountancy board saw fit to revoke his certificate, and asked him to pay a $25,000 fine plus $7,000 expenses he’ll never pay. It doesn’t recover my lost money and won’t stop his team from continuing to attempt to murder me. He’ll keep going to work and live his life as usual, ad infinitum.

The state accountancy board's order
Let’s review what I learned. (1) You can take all my assets; (2) you can snatch my pets and kill them; (3) you can kill me; and (4) you cannot face civil or criminal liability. You can hurt your business by acting like sewage.

Silly me: I started thinking unlimited stealing and killing simply don’t cross the threshold of matters of interest to important, busy police and prosecutors. It turns out we don’t have those, because there ain’t no lawmen down here to Indian Territory. There are Indian courts, but they don’t help palefaces. They just say, “We smokem peyote buttons in peace pipe.” It gives you a buzz and a headache, but it doesn’t help recover money or stop killers.

Your only hope for that is to saddle your horse Paint, ride to Cheyenne and fetch back the marshal, if he’ll come. In the old west with a jurisdiction covering hundreds of thousands of square miles of unsettled country, he’s stretched very thin.

You need plenty of ammo, because that dusty trail is crawling with sidewinding varmints who’ll grab your saddlebags and plug you.

The regional judge comes through every 20 years or so and hangs some cattle rustlers. I told my fellow pioneers I.T. will never become a state without lawmen. Then we could have steam trains and telegraph wires. They recoiled and told me those are consarn contraptions what goes agin the Lord.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Goodbye, my love

This is my favorite and best cat Fuzzy. The last time I saw him was May 14. The picture was shot at 3:40 a.m. February 5, 2014. It was about eight degrees outside. He was inside for three or four minutes to get a snack. Although there was no sign of life outside, he had to go on patrol to protect his home and me—focused and indestructible.

He was snatched from his home by the anorexic, psychotic girl next door whose family of four and team of helpers previously dumped 50-70 cats and dogs they’d methodically starved and tortured at my front door to create a nuisance while the executor and trustee worked out looting the trust.

The executor, my stepmother, paid them to do it. For the fun of it and for a little money, skin-and-bones lured and enticed Fuzzy for months to win his trust with the idea she’d take him upon command. The gesture sends a message of hate and death from my stepmother to me. Fuzzy’s abduction was accompanied by Skeleton Girl’s dumping two starved kittens. At least one escaped. It was captured by neighbors and given to the shelter. I identified the poor baby as a dump animal. The officer said they would put groceries into it.

After all, how dare I object to being robbed and to numerous attempts to murder me? After all, isn’t the law one billion percent out of my corner? Well, of course. Judging from the cat bandits’ previous stunts, surely dear Fuzzy was badly hurt before he was killed. I told the girl next door I want him back, and she just smiled and said she knew nothing about it. This is my fault. I’ve been too complacent to hatefully and brutally grease the blood-drinking ghouls responsible as anyone else would have, thinking an imaginary legal process might quiet this trouble.

I scooped up Fuzzy and his brother Woozy five weeks after they were born under a house behind mine. They were six inches long and world-class jingle ballers. I kept them indoors almost four months until I could have them fixed and vaccinated, then took them outside. The dogs and cats in the neighborhood came forward to greet them—so sweet and poignant. They trembled. I set them on the ground, one then the other. After a couple minutes, they didn’t want to go indoors and wouldn’t except it’s where I fed them. They lived as feral cats and thrived in this rugged, challenging environment.

From the first few days they could consume pounds of turkey I gladly cooked. At four, the boys could finish half a 16-lb. turkey by themselves in a single evening. Plenty to eat and regular meat entrees made them big, healthy and strong—and happy.

I reassured sad and frightened Fuzzy and Woozy when their mother abandoned them that it’s nature’s way, happens to all of us, that I’d never leave them, would care for them always, and be better than a cat mother. My twin boys turned nine years old this month. There were no disorders on their annual exam reports last month. They are perfect specimens. They are loyal companions who always come when I call them, and don’t roam far. The three of us have been very close; for me, I’ve been no closer to any sentient beings. I’ve tended them to the exclusion of most other things.

The only time Fuzzy went missing was 1½ years ago when my cat-snatching neighbor’s father took him to the shelter to be euthanized. They gave him the first shot because he was screaming at the top of his lungs, scanned him and he was returned. The shelter called my stepmother before calling me, which is odd. I set him on the bed to recover. He peed on the mattress in his sleep, and I didn’t find it for hours. With what I spent to fix and vaccinate three of these monsters’ dump animals and buy a new mattress, the venomous raptors cost me $1,200.00 that month.

I was so glad to have him with me. I’ve loved Fuzzy more than almost any person I’ve known, and I’m 60 years old. The animal dump family stopped unloading starved, frightened cats when I took the last four dump animals to the shelter and told the neighbors I knew they were doing it deliberately, were paid to do it and had a team helping them. So, now they’re back in action: boy, thank goodness.

Combined with my documented poisoning eight or nine times between January 1 and April 30, I wrote that 99% of all people would have snapped long ago having swallowed a tiny fraction of the endless stream of grief flowing from my stepmother to me. I learned long ago not to snap. That’s why I have this trouble today.

The law certainly expects me to lie still, to be robbed and, if necessary, to be killed. To do what it takes to preserve my life is to make a date with Old Sparky. A lady told me to pray! The Bible says to turn the other cheek. It’s easy to ignore all this and think it doesn’t matter. Certainly to God and the big picture, everything about us doesn’t matter at all. I’ve begged God to speak to me and give me ears to hear Him. He spoke not. Finally, my mother, lost 20 years next month, and great grandmother Elsie, who provided the oil lease royalty I don’t get, spoke and said, “Why haven’t you exterminated these horrible people, stupid? They are going to kill you, too.” Yeah, I know. I’ve had more than enough punishment without that.

Woozy is again sad and frightened. In two days Fuzzy will have been gone two weeks. I know cats go out and may never return. The animal control officer offered to write me a citation for violating our cats-at-large, or “cat leash” ordinance. Woozy is traumatized and gloomy without his brother. Fuzzy wasn’t hit by a car or taken by a wild animal. Blood-drinking killers took him for fun and money. I love him as much as my child.

If someone tells you they want to set up a trust for you, do yourself a favor. Save yourself a lot of time, anguish, theft and from being murdered. Draw your piece and make sure you hit them right between the eyes. Be encouraged. I’m very sad. I will never forget you and will always miss you, Fuzzy. Goodbye, my love.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Ten months have passed

I enter the tenth month of attempting to introduce this trouble to the legal process. If criminal charges were filed against the filthy, murderous certified public accountant who stole my money, I might think a few weeks or months from now it happened quickly. Looking back on how long it’s been since I got the bank statements and how clear is his stealing, I realize the legal process hasn’t failed: it doesn’t exist.

I call him murderous because he is fully aware of the executor’s intention to rub me out, institutionalize or imprison me to remove me from the vicinity. Willingly and happily, he played his part in it. In Oklahoma, stealing from a trust, conspiring to murder and apparently killing the beneficiary have been constructively legalized. The executor and trustee are smart. I am stupid. I deserve to be robbed and killed, so in this case the rules are discarded and it’s perfectly legal.

In the nearly three years since my father’s death, it has become apparent the casual name-calling that proceeded endlessly out of my father’s and brother’s mouths has been replaced by something very proper and formal. In that the executor knows people who operate counterterrorism organizations that contract with the federal government, I would say she turned the defamation effort over to one of them. The product they have delivered in the local community is as good quality as one would see from a government intelligence agency, and indeed it is.

When one speaks of a trust, it has come to mean society relies on the trustee to rob and slaughter the beneficiary. The benefit of talking to lawyers and law enforcement has been that the perpetrators are aware other people know of this trouble, and my disappearance or untimely death could be considered suspicious. For the moment, their elimination plans have been delayed. I needed an aggressive collection effort. Since the trustee took all the money, the trust could not buy the usual forensic audit. From what I’ve seen, it wouldn’t have helped anyway, and I’ve been able to deliver exactly nothing.

A month ago I received assurance from the victim specialist that law enforcement would do everything they could to work this case, and they can do much. I was asked for names of additional people to notify, which suggests they expect progress. I hoped we might hear something. Silence followed.

I observed the rules, which is what stupid, impoverished people do. The trustee broke many laws. He is a great genius. He stole much tax-paid money, got away with it, and has no fear of consequences, ever. He can go forward to steal everything in town and kill everyone, and it will be okay. The lack of rules and enforcement infer now that the money is gone I must lie down and be killed, or face the full force of the law that protects those who steal and kill. I didn’t know we have descended into total anarchy. I’ve passed event horizon with these people and their silly ideas.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Nine months in and still nothing

I am nine months into a formal effort to recover a large amount of money snatched from my trust by an errant trustee, an Oklahoma CPA in good standing. I’ve been able to accomplish three things. The civil suit is filed. A criminal investigation is underway. The state accountancy board is investigating.

I have a new, final total of what he withdrew from my trust. Including what he paid himself for this complete lack of good faith, it is $190,127.50. I would sign off on that as the amount to which he helped himself.

I have no hearing date for the civil suit. I have no indication there will be criminal charges, and no indication he will lose his professional certification even temporarily. In short, this guy got away with it clean as a whistle. The bulk of the money has been gone for 14 months. I don’t expect immediate justice despite the fact this case is as clear as a criminal case can be. If I ever see a dime of the money he stole, the shock will probably kill me. That this theft happened and there were attempts to rub me out are no concern to law enforcement’s victim specialist.

The trustee is greatly enriched, with a fine, happy retirement ahead. I will be destitute for the rest of my life. This matter is hopelessly locked. I will keep trying to push it along, but it’s not looking good at all.

What does his theft look like? With account numbers removed, here is my list of check numbers and amounts as of February 26, 2014:

The trustee wrote 19 checks to his business accounts represented as payment for invoices totaling $13,177.50. They are:

From account #0000000000 Titanium Money Market Savings: #1007, $1,000.00; #1009, $450.00; #1017, $1,500.00.

From account #000000000 Signature Checking: #1501, $712.50; #1504, $600.00; #1512, $1,300.00; #1518, $490.00; #1530, $437.50; #1541, $1,162.50; #1551, $200.00; #1560, $450.00; #1577, $250.00; #1624, $625.00; #1626, $1,125.00; #1632, $450.00; #1634, $475.00; #1635, $600.00; #1639, $600.00; #1641, $750.00.

The trustee made a withdrawal October 4, 2012 for $450.00 and October 8, 2012 for $1,500.00 plus 93 checks written to his business and personal accounts lacking description represented as money invested totaling $176,950.00.

From account #0000000000 Titanium Money Market Savings: To a business account: #1008, $3,200.00; #1015, $5,000.00; #1016, $4,000.00; #1018, $1,200.00; #1025, $5,000.00; #1202, $3,500.00.

To his personal account: #1011, $675.00; #1012, $1,525.00; #1013, $75.00; #1014, $5,600.00; #1019, $400.00.

From account #0000000000 Business Money Market: To a business account: #1602, $3,000.00; #1605, $5,000.00.

To his personal account: #1600, $3,000.00; #1601, $1,000.00; #1604, $6,000.00.

From account #000000000 Signature Checking: To a business account: #1534, $1,000.00; #1536, $2,700.00; #1537, $2,000.00; #1540, $1,500.00; #1544, $2,500.00; #1546, $2,000.00; #1547, $1,000.00; #1548, $500.00; #1553, $3,000.00; #1554, $2,500.00; #1557, $2,000.00; #1562, $2,000.00; #1566, $2,000.00; #1568, $1,500.00; #1571, $1,800.00; #1572, $2,000.00; #1576, $2,500.00; #1578, $3,000.00; #1594, $500.00; #1596, $5,000.00; #1597, $300.00; #1598, $700.00; #1599, $500.00; #1608, $75.00; #1610, $900.00; $1611, $100.00; #1636, $1,000.00.

To his personal account: #1520, $1,600.00; #1522, $1,200.00; #1523, $3,000.00; #1526, $1,000.00; #1527, $1,550.00; #1528, $2,000.00; #1529, $1,200.00; #1531, $1,300.00; #1533, $2,500.00; #1535, $3,000.00; #1538, $1,000.00; #1542, $2,000.00; #1545, $2,000.00; $1549, $500.00; #1552, $3,700.00; #1555, $2,000.00; #1556, $2,200.00; #1558, $1,500.00; $450.00 withdrawal; $1,500.00 withdrawal; #1561, $1,500.00; #1563, $2,600.00; #1564, $3,360.00; #1565, $1,400.00; #1567, $1,000.00; #1569, $2,000.00; #1570, $900.00; #1573, $800.00; #1574, $1,600.00; #1579, $4,500.00; #1580, $1,500.00; #1581, $7,500.00; #1582, $2,200.00; #1583, $2,000.00; #1584, $1,500.00; #1585, $1,400.00; #1586, $1,100.00; #1587, $1,000.00; #1589, $200.00; #1590, $200.00; #1591, $1,200.00; #1593, $1,100.00; #1595, $2,700.00; #1600, $1,550.00; #1602, $1,200; #1603, $600.00; #1604, $200.00; #1605, $200.00; #1609, $540.00; #1612, $400.00; #1613, $250.00.

The total the trustee withdrew from the bank accounts from December 2011 to December 2, 2013 is $190,127.50. Don’t you wish you had that money? I sure do, but the former trustee doesn’t because he actually has it. The law’s inertia is the fundamental enabler of this mischief. You are on your own, and it’s every man for himself.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

The executor and her lawyer

In the last week I spoke with a local CPA who is an examiner or investigator for the state accountancy board. In his face I saw confusion, amazement and sadness, just like everyone else when they first saw this stupid mess.

One of the things he asked me is who wrote the trust document. I told him the lawyer’s name. He recognized it. He commented at the provision under investing stating that with regard to investing, the trustee isn’t bound by statutes or rules of law. And, if I disagree with the trustee’s practices, I forfeit everything.

I asked if he’d heard anything like that, or if he’d ever seen the executor ask permission to take the money immediately after funding the trust, as with what happened here.

The executor and trustee told me to continue looking for a place to move for a year, knowing the money was being drained and was gone for another half year, just to be nasty. All of that was scripted by the executor and her rotten lawyer, and the trustee, a man I designated and a CPA, acted as their toad.

Also, she sponsored my neighborhood animal dumping and the house’s forcible renovation, all advised by this lawyer.

I’ve tried to explain this to people. They’re resistant and don’t want to think it. It’s easier to think I imagined it because it’s too repulsive. I didn’t imagine the bank statements, and I didn’t imagine the rest of it.

On February 20, my former trustee filed a response to our petition. He filed pro se. Why get a lawyer? He is sure he’s done nothing wrong. What does all this mean?

It means that with the $900 per hour cost of the executor’s lawyer and the cost of the other toads, setting up and administering this bum’s shuffle was more expensive than either the initial funding or the amount in dispute. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day. But, there it is. As my father’s sole heir, the plan was to disinherit me this way.

It’s easy to get mired in the loans, the purpose of them, the borrower and the signatory, and miss what drives this fairy tale. These people are criminals who worked together to steal my money. They were highly antagonistic and provocative, hoping to start a fight that would see me hauled to jail, or worse. This is enough to make someone mildly perturbed, and I am. Now I know why my father told me to try to keep from being killed before he died.

It is worse that part two of the narrative is my “elimination.” People who worked on the executor’s “rob and eliminate” program have come to number quite a few. They all know that was the plan. I learned it the hard way. I can’t believe the money is gone, but the trustee himself by God took it. This is the real thing. The people dedicated to this program plan to see it through to the bitter end, and I should expect that.

So, in the interest of self-preservation, I have to assemble a damn hit list. I should not be in that position! The simple fact is, if I don’t grease all these jackasses, one of them will end up popping me. They are halfway finished, and won’t quit.

This takes me back to the one real question about all of it. I ask myself the question first thing when I wake up and every minute of every hour. Where is the money?

Since the trustee took all the money, I can’t afford the kind of extensive private investigation it would take to answer this question. Fortunately, public law enforcement has taken an interest. They are frustrated in their effort to find the money. It isn’t right public resources be expended because some people can’t stop acting like crap. I shouldn’t have to summon all the force possible to settle it, and I should not have to think about the necessity of capping numerous people.

I’m a former trucker, and this isn’t even a little scary. If you want scary, strap 40 tons of junk to your back and go run down the highway. I expect more provocation to accompany the money war. All this tells me my previous trustee wants to retire, and I’m overflowing with venomous raptors.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

The value of persistence

The civil lawsuit was filed January 27, 2014 in the district court of Oklahoma County. The case number is CV-2014-138. Neither the former trustee nor his attorney has responded. If they don’t appear, we could get a default judgment, which is good news.

The bad news is I might never see how this dumb bell explains under oath what he did.

I was surprised to learn law enforcement is in the preliminary investigative phase with the idea of possibly bringing criminal charges against this rotten, dirty, conniving thief, who is, of course, a certified public accountant in good standing in Oklahoma.

I was pushed away from the legal process for 8½ grinding months. I told the DHS APS specialist I was beginning to think it was impossible. She and/or my lawyers had the magic words that turned the key. An investigator said they would figure out where the money went.

In two years, the former trustee charged $13,932.40 for his services. I’ve processed a stack of his invoices over more than 30 years, and this is far too expensive. He took out another $175,450.00 in checks without description and a cash withdrawal he said he invested. The investment did not perform. He helped himself to a total of $189,382.40.

He goes to work every day and thinks he’s done nothing wrong. Fundamentally enabled by the law’s inertia, he took all my money. He got away with it, and as with the executor, he blamed it on my stupidity and laughed a billion times (HAW HAW HAW).

In the past two weeks I’ve twice had a severe case of food poisoning from food that was good before I left the house for a few hours. It’s happened three times in the last month, and 10 times in the preceding two years. It is suspicious in that it’s always salmonella and comes from foods not usually subject to infestation. I’ve done my own cooking for more than 40 years and am unaccustomed to dry heaving all night. One instance left me sick for more than three weeks. It had been my father’s practice for decades to hire people to go into my house while I’m out, and it seems it’s still happening for this and other reasons. I’m pursuing appropriate countermeasures. Poisoning me is a recurring theme with the executor. I suspect this is happening, and I suspect she is behind it. What a hassle.

The lawyers advised me not to put names on this website yet because it can, as one said, “muddy the water.” I had planned to file a report with the Better Business Bureau, but BBB doesn’t accept reports about licensed professionals or matters in litigation. I don’t know the hearing date.

I asked the lawyers if they could figure out a way to dissolve the trust, which is nothing good. If someone tells you they are putting together a trust for you, understand it’s possible they want to rob and slaughter you posthumously. It’s the greatest joy and proper work for an Oklahoma certified public accountant and the executor from hell.

Monday, January 27, 2014

The executor

I removed the trustee in mid-December. The trustee wrote himself 113 checks totaling $189,382.40.

The story of the executor, my stepmother and someone I’ve known since 1959, is a rich tapestry turned bulging phantasm. You’d expect this, as she ordered the trustee’s stealing, and is herself a world-class expert at estate looting and the disappearance of money and people—something I learned too late. I supported my dad’s relationship with her, and loved her from the heart, because after my mother died he needed something and someone besides my brother, nephew or me to keep him company.

In the 19 years since she married my father, I ignored that she followed lockstep his lead in causing destruction and anger for me with every act and sentence. In the name of family I stayed in touch, and they were able to make gestures that could be thought mildly friendly. I ignored the truth that they were behind the worst disasters that ever happened to me, always involving the loss of everything and every acquaintance, and suggestions of premature death. When their actions and statements approached mortal threat, I avoided them, sometimes for years.

It was a simple program. I couldn’t have a job, cash flow or money in the bank. I couldn’t own something, although I could purchase things with the idea my father would take them. I couldn’t know anyone. Even casual acquaintances were destroyed, and I was kept under surveillance to make sure. It was no secret.

My father, brother and the executor admitted they did all this, as did others. My father said he would never stop, and he never did. He set up these mechanisms to make sure I was kept under siege and at zero money. Those are the substantial program features. This program has been completely effective. I have been and am the most unaccomplished, poorest and most solitary individual I’ve ever seen.

In the last decade, new features were added. One is an aggressive defamation effort in the community to eliminate witnesses and any speck of sympathy. Another is trouble in the neighborhood, with my father and his wife paying people to cause trouble. Since my father died, the executor ramped up this work significantly.

Before my father died, the park manager began paying visits to tell me if I didn’t do this or that stupid thing, the owners would ask me to leave. He made it clear they wanted me to leave and believed they had a good reason, but didn’t disclose it.

In the last six years, my next-door neighbor, her parents and others providing animals dumped cats and dogs at my front door that had been methodically starved and tortured. The animals arrived deeply frightened and desperate for food and water. I estimate they dumped 50-70 cats and dogs. I helped very few, and many perished. I already cared for two cats born in the neighborhood, and the new animals created endless problems. The neighbors tried to provoke battles. I became aware that they were being paid to do it by my stepmother, the executor.

My neighbor’s father took one of my cats to the shelter. He’d been missing for six days. His microchip saved him. I received the news the shelter had him at lunch with my stepmother, who received the call from the shelter instead of me, for some reason. Why would that happen? The answer is this is typical of the sort of complicated, frivolous and chronically annoying troublemaking that is her hallmark.

I talked at great length to the shelter and to the police. The animal control officer did an investigation. It didn’t reveal current facts that reached the threshold of taking action. My neighbors ceased the activity when I told their friends I knew they were doing it deliberately, had people helping them and were paid to do it.

I took the last four cats they dumped to the shelter after fixing and vaccinating them and caring for them for six months, and not finding homes for them. It was heart breaking. The last one cried, “no, no, no, no,” as we parted, saying it as clearly as a human being. The neighbors dumped an average of one animal a week for the last six months. The activity was intended to keep me busy while the trustee stole the last of the money and concealed the bank statements.

Stepmom did another thing to help conceal the theft of the trust’s assets. She sent her granddaughter to visit. The young lady stole several things from my house I learned after she left, about $500 worth. I recovered some of those things. She asked to use the computer to search for a job. She went to one website, had it opened a couple seconds and no image loaded, then closed it and said she was finished. After that, my computer wouldn’t open my bank’s website. Does my stepmother know how to make such things happen? Yes, she has people helping her who can do that, and comes from a banking family. She’s since told my out of town relatives she had nothing to do with the theft of the money, which is a lie.

I asked her at least ten times for a copy of my father’s trust document because the distribution of his will is in it. Finally, she gave me a copy and I filed it. Apparently, it was among the things her granddaughter took from my house. Although I didn’t look for it for several months after her visit, it is no longer in the file. I didn’t make redundant file copies or scan it. It stated anyone who disagreed with the distribution and filed a suit in probate forfeited everything distributed. It didn’t occur to me the executor might have wanted the contingency of rewriting the document’s terms to set forth a legal premise for my wholesale forfeiture. Rewriting such a document is illegal, and very hard to prove.

I closed my Facebook page after people I’d known 45 years unexpectedly told me I was deranged and belonged in jail. Immediately stepmom asked how it felt to lose my last friends. She didn’t threaten my life, but asked me a hundred times if I thought I would go to heaven. She enjoyed this verbal childishness.

In April 2013, we had dinner together for the last time. She stated I was about to experience a “significant downgrade” in my living situation. I knew the trustee had removed all the money, but had not seen the bank statements. When I surrendered the last cat, I stopped talking to this gargoyle, my monstrous stepmother. I’d have been very pleased if we could have been acquainted after so many years and having become family. She never wanted it.

My father and stepmother raised six children. Any one of them would tell you I was the only one who didn’t present constant trouble with drinking, drugs, outrageous relationship problems, big expense and constant headaches. It didn’t matter. I was not the family namesake, and existed for the sole purpose of pounding and blasting. I received the most scouring, blistering punishment and no assistance from these self-appointed gods—a typical behavior for conservative authoritarian fanatics.

My father left the substantial portion of his worth with my stepmother, the executor, over a half million dollars, despite my being his sole heir, my only brother having died seven years before. It included a new car, oriental carpets, jewelry, paintings and art objects, furniture and other personal items. Along with diamond rings, she received my mother’s diamond Piaget watch and a brand new, gold Rolex President in the box, a gift to my father from my real mother and worth at least $50,000 that she said she’d pass along, and later lied that she had no such thing. She offered me items from his desk like pencils and half-used containers of car polish. He left me only the money. She put it into the draconian trust bank account, and immediately sent a form to me asking my signature and permission for her to assume that money for reassignment along with all future income. I’ve been poor all my life thanks to this beating. She is said to be worth $30 million and never had to look for a job.

She and the trustee seem to have gone berserk, and appear to have very serious mental problems. I consider them both extremely dangerous. I see that being congenial to them at any time was always a terrible mistake. They are criminals. He is guilty and she is complicit in the theft of the trust’s entire assets. He is drowning in a sea of debt. He has a large court judgment against him and recently went through foreclosure. It appears he threw the money into that sea of debt to stand down the wolves at the door for a short time, and never intended to return one penny of it. They have no accountability concerns. It’s a perfect bum’s shuffle, and I call that REALLY DARLING.

Each time I spoke with the trustee and executor, they told me they spoke on the phone and met often and regularly. It is documented in our e-mail, and the trustee charged the trust for his meeting with her, documenting it in invoices, even after I told him to stop the practice and stop talking to her. She is as guilty of the illegal looting of virtually all the trust’s assets as the trustee. She told my nephew she is leaving him all her money on the condition he stop speaking to me. She’s lying about leaving him her money, and he hasn’t communicated with me for many months.