And get me permanently put away in the process
At one point, he invited me and this British Royal Army Soldier(2nd from right - I'm 3rd in US Uniform) to his home on Linnet Street in Ipswich, UK for a 3-day weekend. I think his name was Ron, and he was openly gay. I was surprised on the ferry over to find out he was coming when he told me "Oh, it'll be a real sex party,eh?"
Mrs. Condit had already done the deed. Sometimes they act independently, like I believe happened to Chandra Levy, later on.
A phone call came in and "Canceled" for me. It was a FUBAR. We both were supposed to be "Canceled." I guess we were just supposed to ID his address but it was too late.
There is more in my other short story, too: Was this how Chandra Levy and others were killed? But the whole story is from the entire book OBAMA WAS BRED TO BE A MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE: AND, IRONICALLY, SO WAS I - WE HAVE THE SAME FATHER, EAST GERMAN STASI GENERAL WOLF
Basically, Condit came to believe that he'd "Disposed" of a "Sexual/Political Embarrassment" for my already high-ranking Agent Handler. He'd been promoted to Director of the CIA at the beginning of that year, GHWB.
I remember the look in his eyes, and he spoke of how he thought he'd secured the "Assistance," or had blackmailed, the 2nd most powerful man on the earth. Who rose even higher in rank from there, after all.
How he'd infiltrate Congress this way, etc. His "Career." His indoctrinated Manchurian Candidate mission, I now presume.
He was allowed to go on free and conduct his (Their) activities. It made it look to the whole world, but Conservatives, Congress, SCOTUS, the Media... That there was something SO TERRIBLY BLACK-MAILABLE about a high-ranking Conservative that NO ONE dare touch the issue of (Markus Wolf's indoctrinated Presidential Spy) Barrack Obama. Or his homosexuality. Or political agenda. etc.
Thus, I had to go to ground with this secret. I was told that I would probably go to jail if I breathed a word, just because I knew the details that no one else did.
How well I remember the horror of the idea, and I (Somewhat) gladly signed a "Global Waiver" of all my rights, to even include surgical invasion of my body.
I subsequently endured two false unneeded surgeries, one at SHAPE Hospital in Mons to accentuate my avoidance of above, and another in Kailua, HI, a cover "Tongue Surgery" that ended up being a long-term Army experiment in under-the-skin bomb material testing. (Or so I was told. It's a "Beer belly" I just can't lose...)
So, the stage was set to give the Enemy what they wanted to see in our Presidency for the slated time period. What to do with me?
I was ordered to Maui, then a remote place, and marry a woman I'd recognize by her "Legend." Long, very miserable story, there...
But that I was eventually to become a truck driver, and an undercover investigator at the same time. It seemed a good idea, because the above-mentioned inheritance involves a major trucking company on the Mainland.
But that I'd receive "Treatment for my personal problem..." That of suspected homosexual abuse - That seemed to expand into killing them as well!
So, when in about 2002, after several attempts by my "Wife" to get me to attend SAGE Trucking School in Cheyenne, WY, she got herself very ill and left me to go back to Hawaii.
So, eventually forced to drive for SWIFT Transportation, I found right away that I was being treated "Special." I'd see this one face and fat body over and over again.
All my trainers and co-driver were not only queer, but tried to force same on me - In between hushed cell phone calls - and constantly sported pornography.
A woman, quoted in a SWIFT Driver's mag, popped up twice in the Salt Lake Terminal, wearing a joker's hat to receive me, because it was said, as a "Trained Mental," she found such a great way to break the ice with "Paranoid Schizophrenics."
Well, I was paranoid, because under hypnosis, my boss had ordered me to be so for sake of survival. "Rick, I prefer a paranoid spy to a dead one." But they can't tell hypnosis from their DSM "Criteria."
As described below, this Mel Hollaway, as a name he's went under, constantly presented himself in my work life, always as a "Superior," a "New Supervisor," and the like.
And his power to implant himself thusly was the above-mentioned "Waiver," secured from me under duress, injected medication (for hypnosis), and sheer terror.
This "Treatment," (Really a big show for the world) was ordered by HI Judge Richard Komo on April 13th, 1994, or thereabouts.
A 20-year "Plea Agreement," and "In Situ Study of a Serial Killer in his natural habitat (ME, a trucker?!)" that was connected to three false Security Breaches I'd been ordered to commit while in Germany. (COSMIC TOP SECRETS, etc. See my enovel for more.)
From what I happened upon in the internet, this "Psychiatrist" was an affirmed Communist with special theories: He thought his profession had the societal duty of covering-up, and "Treating" the "Inevitable sex scandals from the naturally corrupt politicians."
So the first time I saw him really up close was working for B&M Water, where the Rawlins Job Service lady (Actually Cindy Delany, the County Attorney at the time) had the office cleared out for my visit, made phone calls to some Judge and said to me "Oh, if he gets you, he's going TO KEEP YOU."
It was probably Judge Stebner, who I'd run into later because of my "Wife." She was always doing that sort of thing for fun and profit.
Having to accompany him in his truck was his thing, and after a run into Red Desert to get training on the effects of Sulfur Dioxide, he told me that he was going on a two-week "Vacation in the Red Desert."
So I got two weeks of good pay driving a water truck until he came back from his training of how to drive an oil-transfer truck.
They'd insisted I get HAZMAT when I was with SWIFT, so when I was told that I had to "Train" under this guy who spoke of how the pumping rigs were like "Pumping Mother Earth," I declined. He'd already made homosexual advances on runs I'd been sent out to in the middle of no where. I guess he figured such would drive me into a murderous mood, or something, like in the SWIFT trucks.
Quick examples: I once had to take a job at the Rock Springs Pizza Hut as a driver. Right away, the staff started acting strange towards me, and there'd be little business.
One day, I was the only driver and told I'd get two special deliveries. One was a stack of pizzas to a motel room.
When I arrived, it was clear to me that such was a meeting of Shrinks from the hospital pretending to be truck drivers having some beers.
One of them obviously never drank beer, and the one he'd had had him floored. They offered me some beer, but I declined.
But then Mel showed up in a new orange oil worker's suit and trademark beard, and wanted me to wait outside while he talked to them. It was clear from the shaking heads when I went back in for payment that they weren't going to take his demand to have me committed.
I returned to Pizza Hut to deliver another stack to - The Psychiatry Ward of the Rock Springs Hospital, where a group of women all were waiting, trepidation about me obvious on their minds. They eventually showed the same body language, and I was free to leave. It was eerie, having the feeling of others perhaps hiding behind closed doors in the otherwise deserted wing.
I got an offer to drive bus for Powder River Bus, but naturally had to pay for the endorsement on my license by myself. That the driver would drive to Casper, and I would drive back, as a test.
It seemed to almost be the same collection of Shrinks, and the Fat Fuck with the beard did drive, but then stopped half-way to have me drive - And insist, over and over, again, to "Drive faster."
Finally, they were dropped off at the Casper Air Port and we drove to the terminal. Where I was told that it would take days for my training, and in the meantime, I would have to take all kinds of menial mental tests, watching videos, and the like.
I presumed it was some kind of Judicial wait, again. The "Security Officer," another Fat Fuck, really, I think I was to see later in the personage of a "Blind Computer Expert who used voice recognition technology" because, as it said in the Rawlins Times, such was thought by Family Services "To attract and be able to treat Paranoid Schizophrenics."
Even my wife pointed out that his rolling his eyes into the back of his head, and waving his knob-cane all about wasn't proof of his blindness.
He later would entice me as "Manager of a liquor store" and "Bouncer at Peppermill Bar" to come over, flash my personal derringer in a dangerous manner, and "Help beat up people."
I'm sure he was part and parcel of having me mickey'd and set up for a DUI at that bar. Claiming I'd been in a "Fight," which they arrange for those they don't want around when drugs are happening, and the RPD "Just happened to respond to."
Where I was sent to Court before a Feminist Court, one my "Wife" had prepped, like she'd done before Judges Komo and Ueoka on Maui with her incomprehensible English and false stories of my derringer. Where I was predictably treated, a 8-day offer of jail turned into - 3 months in the jail (Where I was placed in the special surveillance room and probed with the themes of "Homosexuality, violence, theft, etc.) and yet also another 3 months in Wyoming State Hospital, where it was even worse.
Finally, I received a call from a man claiming to be drunk and in the process of divorce, and having a small truck company north of Rock Springs. Later, I could have sworn it was Rawlins' Dr. Couch, but he was eventually forced to be evaluated himself, so who knows?
In any event, I never saw him drive a truck. Instead, it was the "Trainers" I was assigned to every day that would play the tricks.
One fat guy was "Expert" on how to use a 5-gal. propane burner to thaw the drain nipples on the back of the the oil tankers. Something that could result in the whole damn thing blowing to Kingdom Come, so I always refused.
Or the one woman driver, who kept insisting that I park the rig like she did. She claimed she frequently drove across the icy parking lot, swung hard to the left, and could skid to a perfect parallel parking on the curb. I declined the challenge.
Like the other fabricated attempts to get me to do something "Dangerous," so as to be "Committed," they "Lost their water license," and I found myself starving, broke, and freezing in my camper, again.
It was at Needlestacks (sic) Oil Heating company at Wamsutter that I wintered one year. I long no longer trusted the job referrals given me by the job center, so I took up an ad on the radio to take work with them.
Right away, there was a "New Senior Person," made it clear he wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to do, etc...
I was assigned to go with him in the methane truck for pressure testing at one of the sites: Simply put, he ran me through several "Shrinkola" tests, like, "Rick, go use this metal wrench and gauge what the (Highly volatile) methane level is in the tank. You don't need a mask."
Since I knew that if the methane concentration were such that it was dangerous, he'd be wearing a mask, and wasn't. He'd fiddled in there, and had not been overcome with anything. It was more Shrinkola, and I had to put up with that all the time.
When we suddenly got the choice job of doing the Frac heating at an oil site, I was happy. 12 hour shifts, and as I had been told innumerable times, all's one did was to watch CD's and get up once an hour to check the gauges.
But I noticed that the site's Security Officer actually came by hourly to dutifully log such readings in detail. So why not us?
Instead, FF, or the others would provide pornographic CD's, and until I brought my own laptop, there was nothing else to do, except walk around.
Which they found suspicious.
On the trip there, FF would be driver, and endlessly brag about things. He often would recount how he had "Told somebody something, and when they resisted, he would beat the shit out of them!"
The others in the truck would laugh uproariously.
Once, a rather decrepit slovenly female with us responded with a quote from some cartoon characters known for such slapstick. The others glared at her to shut up.
It rather reminded me of hypnosis, when a certain stimuli would be used to encourage a group reaction - And provoke one from me? I never found the violence funny.
But then, to be sent to Wamsutter, WY, has its peculiarities: With a stated population of 300 or so, they have reportedly 30 registered sex offenders...
Kind of like a Soviet gulag-to-be fostered situation?
To be cont.
But when one day, I had to go out with Mike, a guy who endlessly portrayed himself as an expert on CDL regulations, since he said he was a former cop (Others said he was a former dog catcher), and heat up an oil site.
What comes out of the ground is a mix of oil and water. In the winter, that's a grey sludge that must be heated before it can be separated and drained off.
And so we went to a rather quiet site west of Love's with the propane heater truck to do so. An odd, out of the way, place, for what was usually done.
I could tell that Mike was nervous as hell, and it had been said that it was his last day, too. He kept repeating to me over and over again, that HE heated up the tanks way up at 140 degrees, because that was the way HE did it, etc. Way too high.
As usual, I played deaf and dumb. I knew he wouldn't do anything that blew him away as well as myself. But there was certainly something ominous in the air. Another trainee kept lighting cigarettes way too close to the site.
But, finally, Matthew, one of the owners, who consistently gave me evil looks, came up. That seemed to be the norm: I'd get a new job, be the "New Guy" for a while, pretty much accepted as such. Then, all of a sudden, I'd be treated as if some kind of hidden pervert, or thief, or nut case, and peoples' attitudes would change. He would stare at me, whatever it was.
And here would come "Mel H., the new supervisor."
Matthew consimerated on how long everything was taking, and all, and I dutifully followed him with hoses and the like up to the top of the tanks, and all that, just having to absorb his disgust of myself. He was some kind of highly-holy LDS type.
Finally, having to watch the top of the tank where the heater input hose had been put in, I decided to change my position upwind so as not to breathe so many sulfide dioxide fumes.
Oddly, over the years working the oil fields, it was frequent to be deliberately put in the lee of such fumes. More than once, was I directed to park my camper where such was overwhelming. Even the "Mechanic" of NBC Trucking had directed where I put my camper, in lee of rail tankers' fumes. In Wamsutter, as well.
The stuff can not only kill you, it can swell your sinuses so much one can get deaf, even lose one's sense of balance. And I had no choice in either housing, nor employment...
Good thing I did move position. Suddenly, the (Deliberate?) overheating of the oil tank meant that it erupted in a volcano of hot oil. At about 140 degrees, I would have been a sorry semi-fried gooed up mess, had I not moved downwind at just the right time.
It would have been a long, protracted, miserable death, in fact.
Contrary to all oilfield rules, Matthew then took rags to clean the stairs and the rest of the mess as best as possible. It was sure the hell more than the required one gallon of spill to make a report, but... That was surely not going to happen.
I survived, once again, with my trained, or somewhat natural ability to "Act dumb."
And yet to the "Mentals" around here, that's called "Mental Illness." That I not want to "Share" my deepest feelings, and true emotions with them when they walk up with Shrinkola Dogs, and the like.
Following, after all, past given military orders to not be interrogated.
To be cont.
So, my disjointed employment as an oilfield driver eventually meant I'd have to find a place to park my truck/camper for the winter. The Wyoming Red Desert can be inhospitable but livable until the snow flies. After that, one must find a parking place with an electric line to run a heating fan, or else all freezes inside. All, canned goods, water, everything, and me.
So I had heard "Suggestions" from one of the "Openly gay" truck drivers, "Dave," (Yeah, right) suggesting I go to the Junk yard outside of Rawlins.
My "Wife" had previously set me up with that to go to a "Yard Sale."
Even my son.
FF had been there, the apparent owner of the combination petting farm and junk yard and had right away, years ago, suggested that if I EVER needed to live someplace, why, he'd rent me cheap one of the empty RV's he had.
It seemed that people would forever park them there and abandon them, so while there was no running water, sewer, nor electricity, one could use small tanks of propane to freeze by.
One only needed to keep a window cracked, FF had said, and run the stove at high blast. My own propane heater didn't work, oddly enough, anyway, so I was forced to do this frowned-upon practice and wear insulated gear to stay warm.
Or, of course, I could come into the trailer, where he kept containers of water to defrost and feed the animals with, my "Job."
And, of course, he would tell me often, I could come up to the main heater, and would I put my hand on it, to feel how warm it was? Then he would adjust and adjust his girth, and his pants, for they suddenly would be out of line. "Why, just put your hand up here, and feel how warm it is!"
Or, he would tell me on occasion, "You'll get used to me after a while You'll be giving me blow jobs before you know it!"
After a while, he would bolt lock the doors to the "Abandoned RV's" shut, and then after a while strip all inside as his own property, and then haul off the vehicle to parts unknown. "Sold for $100," he would say.
As events turned out, I ended up having no choice. Framed and set up for a DUI at the P*-Bar-And-Grill with a mickey (I know the effects, believe me) by police officers deliberately waiting at the curb for me, I found myself with no place to live and no way to drive.
"Put your camper... Right there." Had instructed FF, which made no sense. What with all the other spots available, that put it right next to the burn barrels. He daily had, and wanted me, to collect scraps of everything from around the area, to include plastics and other odd bits and ends he would scavenge from Rawlins, to burn.
Glass parts went with Glenn ("With two 'n's") who took them to Medicine Bow for ditch filler, where it was rumored by Bill of BCN trucking that Glenn had obtained a farm by making an old woman disappear. What kind of story was that?
The purpose was clearly not recycling, for he would let the plastic goo accumulate in the barrel, he said, until it was heavy enough, and then transport the barrel to the Rawlins landfill. After it would no longer produce smoke.
While the usual Westerly wind blew the odor and fumes perpendicular to my camper, and I wouldn't get so much, the sunset, night and storm winds would blow the same directly into my camper.
I found myself being dizzy all the time. When he insisted that I help with chainsawing wood, he would also insist I hold the logs (Stupid) while he cut with the dullest saws I have ever seen. Like I could have had an "Accident," or something.
One day, he threw one saw after the other out unto the ground. Running. But never sharpened them.
The tall driver I knew from Bandit Trucking, "G.," was another resident, and also constantly talked about homosexuality and violence in despicable, suggestive, ways to me. He was my only ride to the grocery store, job center, and library, pretty much, but had worked also at CBN (sic) and Grand Forge (sic) trucking when I had.
I'd read in the paper of how some shrink had a theory that "Waving" could hypnotize a person.
We had circular routes, and his "Waving" used to about drive me nuts. Much State-level fraud was evident at that highway project, as well.
He assumed, and accused, me of much. They all did.
It was not until later that I realized that the constant supply of vinyl, like in a huge chair, set upon the burn barrel to smolder for days, was a cause of lightheadedness and stupor. It was cyanide poisoning, actually, and it took months of Power Walking to clear my lungs. Think I'll live to be 100?
While working for Bandit Trucking, there had been much fraud. But two of the owner's other drivers from Colorado were pretty much a good sort.
They were in love, but married to others. Like the other decrepit drivers he hired, they often would team up to offer me "Messages." Yet, try to be kind on the side.
He'd tried to warn me, as the part-time mechanic, that the trailer I'd been assigned had a bad spring bushing, and the rig could leave the road or overturn at any time. With me and who knew else as part of it.
After being fired there for having insisted upon doing my DOT paperwork properly, Debbie had offered me to come live in Hanna for a while. They had an RV someone had deserted, but I could use it for a while. They, too, lost their jobs when the DOT busted Bandit Trucking, and according to FF, someone like them had lost their housing in Hanna.
And, there, right next to where I had to park my camper, was the one they'd described, having no registration. When I'd arrived, there'd been all kinds of things left out, from a generator to fuel to water to rugs - All kinds of things one would put away at a camp site if not returning right away.
Once, much later, I heard a cell phone ringing over and over from the camper. That could only have been if the cell had been plugged in to the RV's battery to last that long.
As with everything and everywhere, FF, always subtly suggested I steal stuff. Like I was being set up to.
Every day, he would arrive with old lettuce from a fast food restaurant, and game carcasses from an outfitter, to feed his chickens, dogs, goats and horse. He was big on his stories of inviting children to come to his "Petting farm," but I never saw any. Instead, I was to come into the crap-laden chicken coop (It was never cleaned) and "Hang out with him."
He claimed he sold his chickens on the classifieds, but I never saw any ads, nor any slaughtered, nor any sold.
Or, come into his "Workshop," where he'd put in a wood burning stove on the wrong wind side, which he would light and fuel with old engine oil and damp newspapers until the room would fill with smoke, and invite me to sit down and take apart aluminum door frames and such.
Purposely intoxicating, if that's the right word.
Once, "G." said that one of the old watchdogs had killed FF's favorite goat. He'd spoken endlessly on how FF loved his goats and such. Yet he underfed them all.
Yet, to see the dog's body, there was blood on the neck, but no ripping wound as if caused by a dog. More like a pistol shot.
He arrived and tried to hide the .22 pistol he had, but it was definitely .22 shorts that I heard as he killed that dog. It died pretty slowly, obviously.
I was told to gut the goat, as they said only I must have a good hunting knife, and not they. I was, in my impoverishment, to eat this goat, hung in a trailer full of trash, but I declined.
Lucky I had food stamps.
They were constantly asking and checking me if I owned a .22 pistol.
G. burned the dog in a barrel with motor oil.
They didn't like it when I added scrap wood to make the fires burn hotter - And not so smoky. They'd take the wood out.
FF, to this day, stalks me. It can only be a police cell phone GPS tracker that tells him that I'm at a certain store, etc., when I am. And he "Appears," but never approaches. I guess by some Shrink theory, I'm supposed to approach him for his "Graces."
Just today (6/24), he knew I was at City Market, and parked right next to me. It was the only day of the week I wasn't trailed around town by RPD or SO.
Is that protective surveillance? I can't tell.
I've been told by a Deputy that FF is a well-known pervert. I'm pretty sure I read in the paper how it's suspected that transients disappear there, maybe chopped up by chainsaw, and then fed to the chickens and dogs, and then burned in the barrels, and then hauled off to the landfill. But no one is eager in Rawlins to dig up over there.
Is this orchestration on my behalf? Or for real?
There are no homeless in Rawlins that I can tell.
But FF DID come daily to collect and take home the eggs the chickens produce. (And to "Talk...") One of those Jeffrey Dahmer things, maybe?
Well, he has his support, I can tell, because the bus drivers use their cell phone while taking me someplace, and I'll see his truck, or he, there. I've been in espionage my whole life, and I'm also not stupid.
To think: My "Wife," should the insurance policy still be valid would collect $100K. Not only if I die, but if I'm sent away...
The woman I was forced to marry, I've written.
She's made a career of collecting money on men and insurance companies.
And never gets caught... Not afraid to pay commissions either, I think.
And she's the one who demanded so often I become a truck driver. To "Meet" FF. So many things.
Being framed for a DUI - Carbon Jail and Wyoming Hospial
It was not until I was threatened with brain-destroying chemicals in a conference call with the Judge did I relent and even speak once with the shrink. A chemical frontal lobotomy of sorts. It had been my appointed defense council that had waved a print out of my anti-Obama website in the Court room saying she couldn't get me a fair trial that got me the six months, I take it.
For she told me that I had to sign some paper, a special strategy she had to get me from any jail time at all - That allowed her to get me to "Take a little test...."
"Here, at this place," and then "There at that place.."
Of course, being sexually branded like that with Fat Fuck's constant presence at every job site I had meant severe admonishment from the other workers. In other words, it had gotten so bad that I figured the next time they tried to have a fatal "Industrial Accident," they'd probably succeed. I was desperate for food and housing and I even thanked the Jail Captain in the end for the "Free Housing and Board."
There I was not only surrounded by such "Fellow Inmates" pressing the same interrogatory theme, but a "Dr. Black" from Germany as an "Inmate," who I knew of from my espionage years there. A bonafide former East Germany Communist (STASI) worker, who would have meetings with their group, and arrange the lyrics constantly played on the loudspeakers there, like:
"FAG ATTACK! FAG ATTACK! FAG ATTACK!" Usually, by evening, a few of the others would finally respond by throwing the specially hardened furniture around the common room, and threatening the staff. Waiting for me to get involved.
And, predictably broadcasting to "JACK OFF NOW! JACK OFF NOW!"
"Treatment," I guess, for homosexual serial killers, or something?
Mel's previous lie to me about going to Casper to pick up a friend in a hospital with kidney problems, but they kept him for six months made sense when I saw him sitting in the observation room, waiting for me to break down and "Talk" to him.