Author Topic: ★Gab: ENDGAME  (Read 16527 times)

★Gab: ENDGAME
« on: July 03, 2021, 04:40:01 PM »
On Sat, Jul 3, 2021 at 8:27 AM David Rubini <advertisingusa@hotmail.com> wrote:
Quote
Shoot up the butt and drink ur cum and do not lie or hit on me = CEASE N DESIST

Yeah, whatever, Loser. Send more lawsuits. Record more depositions. File more reports. Compose more email. Open more doorways. Kiss my ass. Lick my taint. Fuck right off. YOU ARE DONE.
 
Quote
= Quit using her as a prop for your gay show

Oh, really? What do you care? I'll let everyone know you're so concerned.

Quote
= demons in the phone

Only your ilk would care. "Are you recording this? I hear something. Do you hear that buzzing? Are you recording this? You're not recording this, are you?" hahaha, no, why, do you want a copy? hahahahahah AHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Wow, how did this power cord get cut? My cousin gave me that baby monitor. Now it's ruined. Beyond repair. How sad. Good thing I don't have a baby, I didn't have a baby, I've never had a baby, and if I did, how would I be able to monitor it now? That would be too bad, such a sad sad thing, to have an unmonitored baby. Sad! Good thing I wasn't using it for any such purpose at all whatsoever. Ever. Meanwhile, how did I ever possibly notice this occurence—a f****** AC power cord cut like, with a f****** magnet, how does that work?—and not mention that out loud to someone else? Gosh, I don't know... maybe it was another lone smoking gun.

The horror... the horror...

Quote
= i killed ur cat

Good, she was a pain in the ass anyway; almost as bad as you. Have fun in court, Moron. Get out and push.

 
From: David Rubini <advertisingusa@hotmail.com>
Sent: Saturday, July 3, 2021 10:23 AM
To: Michael Kuczi <michaelkuczi@gmail.com>; A Law <x@x>; A Lotus <x@x>; Flyingmerkitty <x@x>; Keith Rowland <kr@rowlandnet.com>
Cc: Michael Kuczi <kuczi@unicorntoday.com>; John Wayne <batbrixxx@gmail.com>; kayntwhyle@gmail.com <kayntwhyle@gmail.com>; Jack Michaelson <jack@trioptimum.com>
Subject: Re: Not So Speedy, Made In Tie-Won (was: "Re: I’m Gone")

Quote
Fuck Yeah!

I mean.. Fuck u


I'm sorry you're not happy with the outcome you've achieved. Since you put in so much legitimate work, I'm surprised.

Also, I fucked your wife, you obnoxious, mewling, drooling, weeping, lying, deceitful, tedious, machinating, dipshit cuck. Get to your shack where you belong, and take her asshole gang with you: the father, the other father, Wonderboy, the other other father, the dopemonger, fucking all of them, take a bow, Team: you sure fucking earned those sippy cups. Here, have a drink, it's from Bill.

Christ, it's gotta be said: "You're gonna need a bigger Shack." Put a sign out front that reads, "Crying Executive Producer Storage." Just to lead all the traffick to one place.

THAT'S WHERE YOU LIVE NOW. THAT'S WHERE YOU BELONG. THAT'S YOUR HOME. GO HOME.

#Legacy

Kudos. Welcome Home.

 
You will always have Ballgrab. I own these bad bitches from top to bottom (you may address me as Whoremonger Sourceror Roberts): they can't ignore the forking of my techno. I AM USING THE WORD CAN NOT HERE. I don't care who owns the hardware, who pays the bandwidth bill, or who makes snarky, snotty, shitty little comments: I know, you know, everyone knows. PEOPLE KNOW. How did that work out, eh? Pretty good, right? Remember, there's no such thing as bad publicity... FOR ME.

CHECKMATE. Did you consent to being mated? No? Well, that's why there's a Czech. Do I care? Sure. Do I care that I care? No. Not at all. Not really. You—all of you—will never forget how close to Me you got to get. How did you like your ride? I'm calling it "The Great Texas Twenty-Twenty Two-fer." I just like the sound of it. It's got a nice ring to it, and it has a good beat and I can dance to it.

So we're good. What are you still doing here? It's over. GO HOME.

--

Best wishes & warmest regards,

MCK


CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: The information contained in this ELECTRONIC MAIL transmission is confidential. It may also be subject to the attorney-client privilege or be privileged work product or proprietary information. This information is intended for the exclusive use of the addressee(s). If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any use, disclosure, dissemination, distribution (other than to the addressee(s)), copying or taking of any action because of this information is strictly prohibited. Trust the plan. #wwg1wga



Sent from my iPhone
Here's your patented Archlich hitchbiker kitsch floor mop. You're going to need this for your new janitorial career.

But if I had my way, I would just command her to shove it up your ass instead. And then...

Script the flip, & do the twist. LIKE WE DID LAST SUMMER.

LIKE WE DID IN JUNE, GERANIUM. END OF LINE.
At least... That's what The Mandate From Heaven was for.

JUNE. Sooooo... why was it... July?
THINK ABOUT IT.

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #1 on: July 03, 2021, 05:04:22 PM »
We're reaching levels of cope that shouldn't even be possible.

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #2 on: July 03, 2021, 06:58:23 PM »
... is this what being in The Circle Of Trust is like? Please be advised—this doesn't look like any kind of Invitation to me.

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #3 on: July 03, 2021, 07:46:20 PM »
p.s. The madman actually fucking did it. *click*

I almost, but not quite, don't believe it. Film at 11:00.

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #4 on: July 06, 2021, 06:10:29 PM »
I almost, but not quite, don't give a shit at all.

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #5 on: July 07, 2021, 11:24:51 PM »

Re: ★Gab: CODA
« Reply #6 on: July 08, 2021, 11:51:49 PM »
Knowing what's going on is more comfortable when I know who everyone is.

Knowing who everyone is is not more comfortable.

SEA NO EVIL
HERE NO EVIL
SPICE NO EVIL

THE SPIC
MUST FOLLOW.
THE QWOUNCIL HAS SPOKENETH.

JACKSON REALLY IS YOUR BASIC BADASS HAND OF BAILING YOUR B**** ASSES OUT OF THE FIRE, YOU KNOW? WHO WANTS TO BE A PHOENIX THIS BADLY? OH, RIGHT, TROPHY.

END OF DISPUTE. HAVE A NICE DAY. DON'T MAKE ME TURN THIS CAR AROUND AND COME BACK THERE. SAY HI TO MOM FOR ME. DOES THAT B**** HAVE ANY TEETH LEFT?

5:5
Q‡

Re: ★Gab: ON CORE
« Reply #7 on: July 10, 2021, 04:42:23 AM »
[...]
Knowing who everyone is is not more comfortable.
[...]
THE QWOUNCIL HAS SPOKENETH.

JACKSON REALLY IS YOUR BASIC BADASS HAND OF BAILING YOUR B**** ASSES OUT OF THE FIRE, YOU KNOW? WHO WANTS TO BE A PHOENIX THIS BADLY? OH, RIGHT, TROPHY.

END OF DISPUTE. HAVE A NICE DAY. DON'T MAKE ME TURN THIS CAR AROUND AND COME BACK THERE. SAY HI TO MOM FOR ME. DOES THAT B**** HAVE ANY TEETH LEFT?

5:5
Q‡




Starting position really is quite comfortable. Stay tuned cheerio!

Re: ★Gab: ON CORE
« Reply #8 on: February 20, 2022, 04:57:31 AM »
Starting position really is quite comfortable. Stay tuned cheerio!

Quincunx uplink circuit successfully registered. Are your minds blown? Mine sure is.



This was an unexpected test--for me. However, I do hope to have more, and soon! This was fun! Until I got treated like an Irishman, or whatever. But, I have become used to that.

Also, (PROT) is gonna self-rez in 2 days. I'm gonna speed that up. *snap* D is still in Quantumland. AND STAY THERE, CHAMPION.


I think he deserves a rest. All that runnin'. Yeesh.

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #9 on: March 02, 2022, 11:16:41 PM »
I told you all, what it was: a rescue operation. And we're going to do it all again tomorrow.
/fleq

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #10 on: March 03, 2022, 01:26:53 AM »
a rescue operation. And we're going to do it all again tomorrow.
/fleqx

APPROVED. TIEII

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #11 on: March 03, 2022, 02:45:07 AM »
APPROVED. TIEII

https://www.instagram.com/p/CaoBaUdLUYh/?utm_medium=copy_link


I'm going to need a moment alone, Boys. Go wash your jackets or something.

Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME
« Reply #12 on: March 14, 2022, 08:20:19 PM »



Quote from: Chicken Little
IT'S AN EMERGENCY!!!"

Three Months As A Condor (Was: "Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME")
« Reply #13 on: March 21, 2022, 02:21:47 PM »


Word on the street is that the half of the family that cooks and cleans was unable to be swayed by the relentless drumbeats of what passes for propaganda in a tribalistic culture, and there will no longer be any tolerance for any who wish to drum up support for yet another deep cycle of special executives taking a paydraw from Actual Treasury to bankroll anti-Hungarian agendas. Which, by the way, recently became a thing.

That's right, it's not the Jews, it's not the Sioux, it's not even the Lesbian Mafia--it's Me. I'm the head of the snake. I am behind it all. And, it's true: I am that goddam pretty.

Nevertheless. Another deep cycle? Pour moi? On the first day of spring? Them knuckleheaded old farts must be really hitting the rock bottom head first. I remember, it was basically two years ago, when I heard someone say, "(PROT) talks about Jack all the time. Like he owes him money." And I thought that wildly and lively amusing. "Hello Ancient & Venerable Ancestors Of Spring... yeah, uh, we're still having troubles with this ONE GUY. He's like Ah-nold in that flick Commando. Except without Rae Dawn Chong. The guy is nuts. He's like half of The Blues Brothers ordering the whole French-Indian War combo platter. Every day. Every time we celebrate, he shows up three days later. Can't we just crucify him to his drone and get back to shooting... skeet?" (*wolves begin to howl in the background*) "Yeah, thanks. Now, that's loyalty. That wasn't even all that great a joke--not bad tho--and there they were, right on target, no complaining about being asked to poop in certain places only under pain of death, just... support. There's your #Fealty, asshole, no wait, you're worse, you're an unqualified LAWYER asshole!"

Okay, that can't be a verbatim quote... before now, but I'll leave that open for a GNU licence. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right, sitting out in the middle of noplace, and clearly marked as radioactive on Google Maps. Great idea. Whose idea was that? (Ed.-- A woman who thought I would be forced to learn how to make friends or die. Jokes on her: I only had no friends to protect them from (You). I have no idea, I had no access to any brainstorming sessions, and by this point... it's all hivemind, all the time. Except, of course, for the women and children. Who are probably all completely on board The New Paradigm.

Which, I have it on good Authority, now come -first-. Like it should be. Like it couldn't have been, because before, These People only had access to their own shit, and "Wizardry." Whatever the fuck that is. Who knew they needed a Sourceror? Not me. So, who did?

Well, it had to have been Jesus. Or Lucifier. Or Baldy. It wasn't my idea, and it couldn't have been hers... because if it had been, she would have recanted by now. And -someone- did that for -weeks- in the first place. Fortunately, verifying identity isn't my jurisdiction.

By then, I had learned to mostly keep my mouth shut, unless Jesus put me on a duty, so I feigned blank interest--easy to do, just imagine the matrilineal cooking protocols for outsiders, and remember that while I might not ever see the -real- food or the -real- friends, I sure as shit was getting to see the -real- poison, and, I was pretty lucky to still be alive.

Even with my blessings--and they are numerous and powerful, but at first, I was pretty Puny compared to Team Gustabvo--it was basically a near thing. "I give up. What the fuck am I doing here?" The answer is still the same:

Oh, this is the time of my life. Not only better than public school, but verified: oh, this has made it all worth it. And it's just getting started! Hip hip replacement hooray!

Better hold off on that one I guess. Tell me more about this "Crystal Healing Chamber" technology, Mr. Watson, stop distracting me with your puerile theories about the anus. God, you're boring. Why are you my assistant? Oh, right: you're a legacy.

I had to take her. And him. And, didn't I -just-? Oh my. For a ride, alright.

None of this was my idea, plan, desire, or even seems to my benefit. HOWEVER: I suppose that becoming equal in folklore stature to D.B. Cooper, Babe The Blue Ox, and D. Cooper, all at once, except better--and, I'm at least eligible on the surface, if not through-and-through... looks, it's Washington State. This is the Pacific Northwest. THIS PLACE IS HICKSVILLE.

Out here, my bullshit is actually impressive, to people who use bullshit. I have got moves like Mick Jagger's mother, that he was always too ashamed to use. Yeah, fuck that: immune to embarassment, trust me on that. And trust me further: someone who sees right through my bullshit will either challenge me to up my game, or go for a cheap advantage.

In either case, I gain the highest ground possible. This is easy, because I want for nothing else than to leap off this rock and into the sky. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE IN TASMANIA BY NOW. Instead, I'm getting soft-focus glossy shots sent to me from Tanzania of a person who looks almost, but not quite, what someone told her 'contrite' is supposed to look like.

I didn't even ask for this hit. It was forced on me. Jesus, who cares? I don't think someone is getting the message: it's called a trap, those are your fingers, but it's not Chinese. It's (CLASSIFIED). What do you care, anyway? Don't you have a lawn to mow? Go on. Git.

Meanwhile, back to reality: there's no -good- reason to be told to The Court to keep them from making themselves look stupider... so, I'm going to allow it. Grapefruit, her new boyfriend, her husband, her other husband, and all the others--and it is a long fucking list--who got themselves caught in the Hotel Notell when the music stopped are all pinned to the bedrock through their goddam cockles.

"Jack is bad for you! He must go!" Okay, well, it has clearly worked out great for you all. Now, what was so bad about what I was doing, from your perspective? No, this isn't an interrogation, wew lad.

See, when you're in a Trible, and The Chief tells you all to gather, one either gathers up, or... well, there's the door, I can see why you'd just wanna exile your self, stupid Man. No, don't take your wife, don't take your children--you don't want to look into The Eyes Of The Chief? Well, FUCK YOU: I don't care if it's "not the same on Zoom," fucker, you answer to My Chief or our loosely-defined-and-impossible-to-untangle economic-slavery arrangement WILL BE OVER! I mean, as soon as they're done fighting over me and I decide on which one I wanna pretend he had to "rape" me. Hah. It's THE TRIBE... who would be unwilling to help... Family?

Actual strangers, that's who. And who gets yelled at on any ship? The Swabbie. See, that's me: I am the newcomer, and I have not proven myself in any proscribed fashion. And The Austrian should know, he told us that he is an *expert* on Your People.

Seriously, when I figured this out, I was shocked--shocked, I tell you--that it all came down to racism. And, an Austrian started a turf war over sexual inadequacies and a Pisces played everyone against each other relentlessly? Wow, that all sounds familiar. Hey, dude! My dad drank! And your dad drinks! Let me tell you how this is gonna work out, Kid: stay with that fat fuck as long as you can, because even I am going to miss him when he's gone.

Now don't ever mention your mother's name to me, ever again. Trust me, she'll get over it. She's mostly mad that I made it impossible for her to kill him herself instead of just throwing one stick and then saying "The Hungarian did it! They're natural enemies! One of them insulted the other's cat, and suddenly they killed each other! A-bloo-bloo-bloo-boo-hoo!"

Ah, the fantasies of idle youth. Truth be told, I would have preferred a stand-up fight to another bug hunt, but, I digress.



I can start talking about this shit openly soon, you dig? It'll be nice. I'll be respectful. Grapefruit will probably start smiling a lot. Because, while I don't know what her plan was... well, I trusted it, even when I thought it looked stupid.

Since that's what I counseled her to do with me. What did she do instead? Try to get herself killed somehow, anyway lacking in obvious blame, so that I would spend my money on her children while she was reborn into another body to go hang out with her -real- friends... who, of course, know all about body-hopping.

I, of course, do not. I like my body, finally, and I'm not cleared for that kind of technology. I don't have that many bones. I don't know anyone I would trust with my books, let alone my body, and I don't know how to do that anyway. Sounds like fun though. Can I just learn how to stop wasting 60% of my fuel dollar by being a nub?

Oh, right, you want me to be inefficient. Sorry, I forgot--I'm Rachel Dolezar. Nice to meet you. Oh, he gets her benefits too, right? And I get a chance to swamp out toilets. Hrrm. I suppose this was meant to give me a strong "give up" impression. Well, something else happened: I hit the ejector button, gave everything exactly what they said they wanted... and I guess that didn't work out like those who hoped me eradicable had planned.

"This moss keeps growing back." Yeah, maybe it's a sign from an Eagle. Not God, though. Who is that again? Oh, right, Lucifer, and Jesus is God, and God is verboten, along with, oh, any kind of relevant context, now shut up, butt out, and can you cashapp me? I need money. Real bad.

My hand to God. Nearly five years of this. You may be wondering... "Pourquoi?" Well, long story. And I don't have the end yet.

Five more weeks. Seriously, someone is going to need that time. Someone eight or nine doors down the line is gonna find himself volunteering to donate a kidney or something. I don't know. It's different for me. I actually am sovereign on my own. These People have to negotiate with beings that they've been close-quarters hobknobbing with since.... well, wait, when did the U.S. Continental Army stop killing Injuns? TRICK QUESTION, NIGGER *BLAM BLAM BLAM*


It's actually like that out here. I don't know where you are, but I'm on the edge of the biggest ocean on the planet, and it's brimming with Fukushima. Believe me, we all know what that means, but I'm not planning on living on this rock in 1,500 years. I guess her cultural genome had had, like... other plans.

Yeah, well, whatever, Redskin. Look, it's not my fault. I just showed up, and it was you all who made assumptions. And that's how we are all here today:


ENDGAME.

Yeah, I don't know what it is either, but at least they can start it without me. Do I care about the intricacies of negotiating the finer diplomatic points on salmon skinning rights for indigenous people, as well as helping to select the new feathers for the old Chief's headdress? Oh, you bet your ass I am interested! Well, maybe in another five years--MAYBE. Before I even get to stand close enough to watch -or- smell.

And, that's the way they do it. And, since the way I do it is equally hard from them all to swallow: "I'm a Sourceror now, stop behaving like a cunt, or a bitch, or a person who suddenly care about salty language--you're a godddam grown-ass woman, mother of two, wife of... nevermind, and suddenly, after being relentlessly insulting on a visceral, personal level ever since (CLASSIFIED), now I have to watch my language? Why, yes, of course, that is exactly what a person who is not a bitch would do, so I will allow this ridiculous argument to burn through our available allotment of time together.

And, with The Key, you now have access to Our Knowledge. What do you mean, you don't have The Key? I thought you were... hrrrm. CITIZEN: IDENTIFY. Oh, you again. Don't worry, she'll be back in the morning and of course she's going to kill you... but I like you, Shadow. You've got Zazz."

Making my One Man Spirituality Band into something that sounds totesinsipid has worked in my favor. They would get bored even if they wanted to respect my beliefs... and, they don't. They've been instructed to be socially dismissive... as a Tribal Unit. Or at least, they all were.

Over time, hearts and minds have changed. Over time, events have unfolded as no one expected. And, most importantly, over time... well, holy shit, this girl who spent 3 years with Kuczi suddenly started calling the police on everyone and claiming wild, unbelievable stories. Stories like, "The guy I've been lying to for years is not letting me hit him without telling everyone that I did. Take him away!" And the response has been--as always--"yeah, okay. Kuczi, right? Oh, yeah... we know where to find him." *click*

The first time I had police called on me was perhaps excusable. That was in... shit, I don't remember. But let's just say, after the second time, the local constabulary is -perhaps- a bit weary of taking all the statements that a certain person has made... in the same light as before.

I didn't even call the police on the girl who bit my boob. You remember the one. And she ended up... well, calling the police on other people. After screaming her head off. My neighbors know what that has meant: some saucy vixen isn't getting what she expected out of the arrangement any longer. I wonder why that happened?

Well, one could ask me, but this time, no one had to: it was apparent. Because once the alcohol were added to the mix, it was a fuckin' tickin' fuckin' time bomb. And, did I encourage that? Oh, no.... Quite the opposite. And that, is ON RECORD.


Soon, very soon now, I will no longer be able to speak--or write--so openly. And this magnificent period of time in my life will draw to a swift and certain close. No idea when, but, it's coming... and I would simply be far, far too busy to be talking smack on The Internet... if only, I could go home. Well, I can't.

I'm waiting. I'm waiting for the new leads. I'm waiting for the Glengarry leads. And I really do not have to stop waiting at all, as I have no problem living without the amenities of the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed to. To wit:

A) Daily beatings.
B) Poisoned coffee.
C) Single-target Glass Menagerie Dodgeball--11 shows at volume 11, every week.
D) "Is that a rash or skin cancer? Uh... look, I gotta go outside."
E) You haven't seen anything but a 3rd generation clone in nearly 10 months, dummy! (Damn. Now I know she doesn't think I can remember anything, which means... she remembers that she can't.)

Removing myself from this situation--elegantly--has -undoubtedly- changed things for the best. MY BEST. As for the rest of you, well, details are sketchy. That's too bad.

This is, in fact, my Endgame for this situation. I knew it would come to this, because it always has before... right at the point of ultimate schadenfreude, I lose most interest, and start thinking of new things to do with my time.

Like, adopt cats and teach them to scalp Eagles. I would like to encourage the proliferation of Bald Eagles, any way I can, and if that's the way I can, I choose that one, {Insert_Name_of_Pokemon_Here}. Did you know? I was actually accused of stealing her fucking bald eagle feathers. Like, they mail them out, right? Each Citizen gets an allotment. I don't know if it varies, or what, or even what the fuck one does with multiple eagle feathers, but she said she was supposed to get fifteen (15) of them, and... well, I never saw them.

"Theif! Trafficker!" /facepalm. It's like the alcohol turned off the whole neocortex. It probably did.


So I'll be clear: the longer it takes me to go home and see the mess those two nincompoops made of the place, the better. There's nothing there I care about, and anyone going there to vandalize would have quite the surprise. I don't think I'll never see her again--she can have anything she thought would be useful, like, a job in Texas, or a cab at 4 am, or an excessively large integer number of mind control manuals disguised as Holy Texts.

I mean, shit, you know me, I don't judge, but... whatever hypnotic conditioning was used was really low-tech. I guess it wasn't meant to last for months, months, now YEARS, right? I was going to be suicidal or actionable or banishable or something. At least, according to early projections. In reality, I'm not even banshee-able.

I'm a grown ass man and I am not new to the exotic technologies that our modern world offers to the seeker, hidden on dusty bookshelves all over the surface of our globe. OUR GLOBE, Mr. Handsy. Now, I am as big a fan as anyone of the Flat Earth whirlygig, however, I would like to point out that I found it far less embarassing that she might have been willingly sucking your primary sex organ--kissing your ass, I mean to say--than it was to see her eating up this FE malarkey. As if it was cogent, or even relevant.

Like, I saw that shit years ago. Suddenly, I'm a loser for not wanting to listen to her tell me about what she claims you and she had to discuss. Oh. Slow, steady blinking. I know what to do about this: not worry. Not for one goddam minute. And, I have not.


Never in my wildest imaginings did I think this would go this far. I told everyone in town who pays any attention to me--it's a critical mass, believe me--that as far as I know, she left town, in the dark, without seeming at all responsible about it... and I have made a huge enough fuss just around the bystanders and looky-loos at the Target overhearing me leave polite, pointed, persnickety voicemails on The Sherriff's voicemail, that anyone bothering to speculate, probably thinks that I have something to hide, and am afraid, and that's why I won't go home.

I mean, she's gone, right? Should be free to return, n'est-ce pas? Well, that's where everyone is wrong, Kiddos. For one thing, there ain't no such thing as a free landslide. Except for that one time in Bellevue. Damn, that looked expensive.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right, so, check it out: one false move, and I go to jail for a minimum of 364 days. No appeal. No bond. No mercy. That's how they do it in Washington State... and believe me, I knew this. I knew it before I met her.

And while I do not deem it likely, the fact is: I do not even want to go there. I don't know where I would most want to go, but only because I don't have GPS co-ordinates. I do know where I would like to be. And, so do others believe they think.

In reality, no one knows where I want to go, because it hasn't been decided yet, and it hasn't been decided yet, because... well, I'm uncertain if I need to change my name and flee, keep my name and file restraining orders, or just play tummysticks with her brother and her husband and her other husband her formerly-secret-boyfriend (Like, I already knew, but I wasn't supposed to be ACTUALLY REMOTE VIEWING, herp derp) and let them take turns pegging me while she watches and giggles.

(Like, I bet they all had to do that for her. What makes me so special? Besides the functional neo-cortex, honestly, not so much. Immune to most of their magicks. Don't wish to steal any of them. They can't believe. How can the white man live without stealing? He has no children. He must be a demon. Diminish his power! PACK AWAY THE SMOKED SALMON AAAAHHHH!)

I'm really not exaggerating by much. Until the liquor and the hexing started getting thrown, it was not bad at all, in anyway. Three years of "not bad at all." Wasn't -great- either, mind you, but now that I know why: totesexcused. Not even mad. What an adventure! Glad I didn't smash my face into a brick wall, sorry about... uh... no, not sorry "I take responsibility," more like, "I am politely expressing remorse that I was not able to stop you from embarrassing yourself... in the hopes that I will not have to ever teach any of you that way."

Now, until others change my circumstance,  I am on fuckin' lockdown, I have nothing to do, no one to make plans with, and no interest in revealing the innermost workings of my mind and lifestyle to a bunch of pudgy nerds assigned to monitor me for the next five weeks. Oh, they're done with the thuggery: people have been given vacations. Not my business to know, but let's just say, I can put my ear to the ground.

Things have changed. I want to go home, and disappear, and... well, I am supposed to be here to be scapegoated, so they better not help me leave at all. In fact, they better encourage me to stay and hemorrhage money in town for as long as possible. So my stolen booty can be tracked down!

She wasn't stolen. She disqualified herself. Anyway, whatever, after the attempted bribes starting coming out, I knew it was just a matter of time. I had no idea it was gonna be an entire season spent 3.5 miles away while shadowy, cowardly figures harassed Grapefruit, but, I can only imagine that everyone is very happy that at least, I am not the one doing it, because obviously I had to be the worst possible experience possible for everyone, and she wasn't really in any position to stand up for herself, right? Gosh, I wonder who spent FOURTEEN MONTHS gradually eroding all her self-confidence?

Not me, there was nothing gradual about turning off my penis and watching closely to see what happened to any nearby sex addicts. Like a light switch. "I know why this happened! It's because you're stealing my Propecia prescription!" Nope, not that either. How hard would it have been? "Hey, we should talk about this 33 page manuscript you wrote and sent to all of my burner phone numbers that I've had in the last 4 years... why do you even have those still? They're supposed to be burnt, and you shouldn't really be texting me anyway, my husband and the guy my sister tried to manipulate and this guy who has been creeping on me for 20 years are getting nervous because they think you're upset with them for the callous disrespect they obviously show me by pretending they don't exist and can ignore me like they would an infestation of benign, yet judged-as-vile beetles."

Like seriously--this was supposed to inspire me to demonstrate a skill set, I think. A strange, dysfunctional example of a wildly persecuted people. It's better now. They've been... I don't want to say "humbled," so I'll say this:

All involved have been chastised. They have been chastised most harshly.



Not my Company. Not my policy. If it were me, you know what I would have done? Well... not fucking gone, lol. What was that all about, anyway? Let me guess, is it not my business? Ooooh! Oooh! Now, that's stimulating.

Next up: the letter I wrote while in jail over Christmas. It is -beyond- awesome. I would scan it and post it now--for you, Bellgab, not for anyone I am not supposed to contact, like I give a shit, amirite?--but I don't have my scanner here, and, it can wait, it honestly can. Upcoming hazards include:


#1) Obstruction of justice.
#2) Harassment charges.
#3) Manufactured evidence leading to frame-up.
#4) I vanish from their lives forever and my name still keeps coming up, over and over, at every holiday gathering, at every family meal, at every late-night truck-stop impromptu gathering, Jack Jack Jack Jack Jack.
#5) They get forcibly located to Texas.

#6) I continue to embarrass myself and no normal person ever tolerates me ever again. Hang on, I am gonna sit down and think this one over. Fortunately I am not required to be here. I can just leave now.

Imagine how happy Stellar would be. Worth it just for that. I should start force feeding bleach up my ass right away! The show must go on.

I can't think of any other problems I might be leery of now. I love Court, can't wait to spill my guts, and of course won't get a chance to, because on my birthday, I'll get a call from some stranger, "Hey, Do you know (PROT) (P.) (PROT)? Yeah, says you used to be emergency contact. Anyway, they're all dead. One of them flipped out, killed them all, then himself. No, I won't tell you who, you're not even family, Loser." *click*

It's been done that way before, and here is the true horror, a Nice Little Fact that E.A. Poe could have taken to the bank: I don't even care if that actually were to happen or not. Sounds like a relief. I'm emotionally numbed since the -real- person I know has already been sent back to Base. Portal. Shut up, I don't care if you think that's a nutty idea. No one would -actually- die, they'd just move three blocks over and two blocks up and slap a new coat of paint on the carved statue of Geronimo outside the Piggly-Wiggly. I don't remember how to get there, no one there would fail to remember to steer me wrong, and, well, that's it: everything is back to normal. #Peace!

Nuttier idea: Forgetting Wednesday in context of Valentine's Day. Like, how are these magickal energetic imbalances not instantly noted by those of you involved? Oh, right, because you're fuckin' plebs. Massive rolleyes.

(True condition of my reality: every Valentine's Day since COVID has been better and better for me, and I don't know why I am supposed to be yearning for an outcome that any of you could imagine. I already achieved milestone objectives in this situation I didn't even know I had. So, why do I have a mailbox and a phone filled with coercive threats to scare me into a position of obscurity? I don't think you've thought this through.

But, I have. Do please have fun storming the castle. By the way, I saw your wife disappear into a portal. Looks really cool from the other angle, honestly--to me it doesn't look like anything at all; when I go through it, it's behind me already, and it doesn't even tingle. But, now I know how it actually looks.  And I owe it all to you and your adorable Family.

Now, that's gratitude.)

So, that's why, I'm sitting here in this motel, and telling everyone who stops and stands still long enough to listen, that I live here, I'm new in town, and I can't go home, because I am traumatized by The Sheriff's thuggy little piggies that someone busted out of the slops pen, got into the wardrobe closet, and gleefully embarassed the shit out of themselves and everyone who fell for this bullshit story hook, line, and sinker... it was apparently quite a number of folk with egg on their face, actually.

And, in the next county to the south--let me guess, she has Friends there too, /massiver rollereyers, there's some kind of scandal with two city council- members in hot water for cyberstalking, death threats, and there is, of course, an Emergency No Contact order. What's it all about? No idea. What's the relevance? Well, it happened after (FELONY #(UN_KNOWN)) and before I triggered A TOWER, B NICE, C me being smarter than all of you combined in my demonstration of tactical synergy.

So, it's probably the same damn thing and I am likely really grateful that I don't know what happened. Honestly, I do not want to embarrass anyone. I mean, really, who would?


Happy Fifth Thanksgiving, everyone! Sorry I didn't make this into a podcast, because I can assure you, I would have loved to, but there actually is a history in the family of baller badass alpha males just being their badass selves and giving ol' Grannies an actual conniption fit, which is what they used to call "a stroke," oh, and, speaking of which, well, I don't know what kind of terms those two nincompoops are coming to, but I know that I sure wasn't consulted.

And, I don't need to be consulted. My team of legal beagles is beyond competent. I didn't even pick them. They were sent to me. They fell out of the sky, landed flat on their faces, then immediately stood up, picked up conveniently stored 2x4 pieces of lumber, and set about to beating the shit out of each other with them, and when I saw that, I knew that my future safety was totes assured.


Just kidding. It was when I saw the cat disappear, right on schedule, and I knew in an instant, that I didn't care if the cat and its pet had moved away, or, had been killed in revenge by someone. I still don't know. Does she have a cat still? No idea. I mean, I would prefer that Kitty is okay. However, it's possible she killed herself out of grief, because she lost me and she watched me get assaulted and hauled away by armed thugs. On Christmas.

Who knows. Maybe they shot the goddam cat right in front of her. "Don't tell him anything about (blank,) Bitch!" Door slams. Cheerleader bursts into actual tears. Did that happen? I have no idea. I know I just made that up, that whole description... but I do know that when the tracker died, I instantly knew that I had no idea, no way to find out, and only a vile and putrid, master manipulator of emotions, would arrange to do that right before Valentine's Day, deliberately send a clandestine thug with tits to make a fake troll call on that day, and then would call the next day, boasting about some -utterly- fanciful notions... And by that point, I didn't know what was real, what could be real, or have any way of finding out which was which.

I think this kind of thing can push a weakened or diseased mind right over the edge. In my case, however: flattered. Wow, what a lot of trouble... to make me feel... "bad"? Jesus, way to make me feel like I dodged a bullet. Am I concerned? Why, this is a cop job now. That's what she called them for, right? Okay, well, I am glad she's safer now.

I do hope her cat wasn't murdered by the guy who called me three days later and claimed that he had... oh, never mind. Look, the point is, whatever the truth is, I'm okay with it, one or both of your are -beyond- pathetic, and I look forward to the debrief, oh, basically... not at all. Because even if I could go home--and I can, and risk instant arrest, and free rent for a year? Yes please... no wait. I'm not an emotional, physical, and parental cripple.

I can come and go as I please. And so, it would seem, can the guy who I was told was a real problem for you. Well, I am sure that everyone is working out much better without me around. Why would I want to change anything now? Once I figure out how to talk to a counselour without seeming manic or crude--because, really, how am I not to laugh? It would take a shot in the dark--I will look forward to resuming my forward motion in life.

Meawnhile: little pitchers with big ears know everything there is to know about Blue Horseshoe... and I don't care if they do. It was your area to care for, not mine.


The shape of the endgame to come was always one that completed my role in the cycle. Ask yourself, do I look like someone interested in escaping into a fantasy world and staying there for all Eternity? Perhaps, but that's just because I already did that.

David, you asked me once, "What is her endgame here? Why is she doing this?" and I will tell you this: I still don't know. And I wrote that same question while locked in a cell for three days over Christmas.

But I told you what mine was, and I think you would openly agree if you could: I have achieved it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must think up new and utterly valid ways to avoid giving the impression that I am trying to "contact" anyone, because I am not... I fully expect that she will not be allowed to read a single word I write until her handlers are informed otherwise.

And if she does, well, so what, she and I are both innocent. That's completely on record. I mean, damn... is her cat really dead and gone? Well, she is to me, anyway, and truth be completely told... I may not really wish or need to ever see any of them ever again, let alone, even be afforded the opportunity to. Even if: good news! Kitty is safe and sound! Well, someone still sure wanted me to feel bad on those days. And, I did.

I don't remember why. Oh, right: we could have had much, much more fun being productive rather than CIRCLING YOUR WAGONS, AAHHH.

Not that I think it is that bad, but, well, I guess it might be. Like, this all goes way, way farther deeper and more back in time than most people would care to consider. For example: who the fuck is Hilly Rose, and how the shit does someone who imagines they will ever be taken seriously, not instantly know the name "Juanita Broaddrick"? The mind reels beneath the weight of this absurdity.


So that's where I am at. How there has not yet been a gag order, a legit Cease & Desist, or a heartfelt apology and an earnest statement of true commitment to start doing things differently is completely beyond me at this point. Like, what, am I supposed to be fearful of hurting her feelings by writing to much? As long as I go nowhere near her: I'm good. And I would rather drown myself in the toilet than step foot over there, ever again. I would rather maintain telepathic connections with other entities that do not hide behind... well, I'll just say no more.

I hope rummaging through my belongings without my presence to distract her was as much fun for her, as it was fun for you to talk about Flat Earth without my presence also distracting you. The place means even less to me now than it did on Day Two, and whatever monetary value I have lost, or sentimental/nostalgic items have been broken--shatttered--or pilfered, means less than zero in the face of what I have gained.

Closure. But no cigar. Now, I can just do all the things that I was going to do before COVID hit... without a psyop strike team helicopter parenting. Great!

Now, let me know when you get that thing with Marshalek and the email sorted out. Truth be told: I don't need to see that email. It is a matter of mild curiosity to me. That's it. And now that you've rescued your MAN_DOWN, I am sure things will be getting better and better for you forever. What else could stop you? I am certainly not asking for more.

Watching you sweat these last few weeks has been immensely gratifying. I can see why telling me any of it would not have been helpful. Well, great, carry on, certainly it is helpful to me to not have to answer the phone all the time. Or to be fearful of it ringing. Does it even ring? Why would it? Oh, right, all the spam daemons that I use on my phone to keep out the riffrafff and to bring me chatter. It's complicated. It's not military. I have style. You wouldn't understand without feeling inadequate. It's okay. I mean, you're only 5'-something-or-other... just like her.

(I am looking forward to finding out, ultimately, which of us owe her more money.)

I may even end up hiring a company to pack everything and ship it to me after I blindly drive... anywhere. I am free now, to direct the movie, to re-write all the parts yet to come in this lifetime movie about Yours Truly. I would have and likely could have been gone halfway out of January. Now, I am still here. Roaming through town like Pennywise on Wellbutrin and 4-way, sharing the story of how Them Judges sure now how to decide things, ayep. And, it's SPRING. Hello, McFly? Look what you've done--I'm a cantaloupe, and I feel fine. What are the trials going to be like? I can't wait to tell the truth. Do I even need to be there? I suppose it would look funny if neither she nor I bothered to grant them any... audience.

She is -never- going to forget that I was correct, and she was beyond busted. The third time must be the charm. And now at last... I really don't want to know what goes on much farther than that, because I researched immunity to chemical compulsions quite early in life... I didn't simply succumb, succeed, or suck eggs to them.

It is difficult to imagine that anyone is being punished here besides the people I don't like--a short list. Also, with The Struggle for Primacy laid to rest---no more jockeying for position, what a relief, Jesus, women are mean--I have reached a new era of peace and tranquility, with only one fly in the ointment, which is that I can't use my library but I still have to pay rent, thus reducing the resources left available to build Grapefruit an outdoor gazebo with a hottub.

I think she has that already at one of her third cousin's ex-boyfriend's college roommates massage therapist, anyway--I think they use Etsy together? Who knows. I don't. Or care. Do what you do, it's bound to work out better from now on. Just think how proud you will feel when everyone you are allowed to associate with in your new digs congratulates you for getting away from such a dolt of absurdly low character... such as myself.


p.s.: (PROT), I told you not to (blank) my (blank). Letting her do it to herself while you thought to capitalize later counts, Comm-Rag. You know you were -both- manipulated by demons, right? Well, now you know that can happen--and they weren't mine. Thanks, tell your friends.

p.p.s.: #Fealty

p.p.p.s.: Your timetable... my benefit. Kudos.






P.P.P.P.S.: I decided against making this look like it was written by anyone but an abject retard, mainly because I would like there to be some question in the minds of future historians whether or not it was the two of you writing this to impersonate me or not. By the way, I think I know who collaborated on the police report, but of course, I am not offering to share that intel with you, or anyone.

I mean, come on... how do I even know that any police reports even existed? I literally never saw one. NOT ONE. Instead: facsimiles.



So, there you go. Winter has come and gone, and all I lost was a little bitty bit of my 2nd right toe. It turned black and fell off.

You should trademark that. *click*

Re: Three Months As A Condor (Was: "Re: ★Gab: ENDGAME")
« Reply #14 on: March 21, 2022, 02:26:28 PM »
Soon, very soon now, I will no longer be able to speak--or write--so openly.


Freedom: It's no small thing. Neither is getting drawn and quartered. Fuck that, Scotland: you and the sheep are on your own.