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.