Because of my life's circumstances,
I'm forced to live in the camper on my truck. It's ironic, because
when I was discharged from enlisted Army service in '77, I was
ordered to go to Maui and become a beach bum, that jobs would be
arranged for me, and to live in almost exactly this same camper
set-up.
And this means that I see things most
other people wouldn't, and consequent to the woman I was forced to
marry (Again, ordered in advance to obey as a “Field Supervisor”
I would know by her Legend) by false sexual claims, I'm often hated
beyond belief.
I make a point of moving my site
almost every day, and being here in Rawlins, Wyoming, means finding
spots in the hilly sagebrush desert. It's funny, but the places I've
found that are not so visible from the highway are either former
junkyards and trash heaps, or places where the teenagers go have
bonfires and party.
I was under Rawlins Mountain last
evening when two pickups pulled up. I'd had to park carefully in
this little bowl because of the tons of nails p;resent from burned
pallets. It was extremely windy, but I went out to see what they
wanted. A young man that I might have seen before told me I was
good, and that he was going to get some pallets to burn. There were
already several unburnt ones laying around., and I wondered why he
would want to draw attention to themselves by having a fire in the
middle of so much dry sagebrush at night.
But they left, leaving one truck
behind. I looked it over, and it reeked of gasoline.
It came back to me, how when I lived
in Encampment in '95, I'd been invited to join the Volunteer Fire
Department, yet was never given any duties, any pager, nor proper
equipment. At one point, we responded to a hay bale on fire, and I
alone was given a pitchfork and told to break it up. The whole town
had responded, and they all stood in a ground watching me, a
prominent Casper Red Starr Tribune western writer among them. I
sensed that this had been staged so that the whole town could
carefully look me over for identification purposes. Wanting to
believe what had been put out there regarding my sexual identity.
That falsehood goes back to my
childhood, actual sexual abuse perpetuated by my mother, and most
horrible of all – specifically directed by a foreign spymaster, a
matter of psychological programming. I was to be one of his
“Manchurian Candidates.” I've only recently come to undo that
stuff ;planted in my head.
Implanted sexual shame is the core
ingredient of being an undetectable spy.
That news reporter has followed me
closely ever since, taking my photo and the like, probably writing
another book, and tricking me into putting my face on the cover of
this state-wide paper. So people everywhere hate me.
In another call, the VFD had to go
down to Colorado for a training exercise. Against all rules, an old
mobile home was set on fire with gasoline time and time again, and a
small team would go in to put the fire out.
I'd been told time and time again to
shave my beard so that the mask would have a good seal. But the
blasé tone of that phrase that I had heard exactly word-for-word
from so many of them made me wonder. When one fellow told me not to
worry, as he would especially take care of my air tank, and bring it
down, I wondered again. The fire suit they'd given me was far too
small, and did not even fit.
Just before I was to go into the
inferno, several of them gathered around and started saying things
like “Perverts have to burn in Hell,” and the like. But then the
Captain told me I couldn't go in because of my beard. Two big
swarthy fellows were to have joined me.
So I decided I'd just test the gear,
and opened the air tank. I worked for a moment, and then the seal
blew, and I had but moments of air. I used to SCUBA dive and so I
knew what it was. The O-ring had been cut.
It seems as if the authorities must be
looking into these old claims of mine, because a few of these
individuals have made note of smiling at me in a certain way, lately.
Other indications tell me that some trucking firm owners I've worked
for are also giving me the Eye.
I'd camped up above the quarry last
night, but came down because of the wind. Oddly, a pickup truck was
parked at the juncture, and pulled into the middle of the road as if
to speak with me, but the two men didn't. It may have been the same
black truck with a silver stripe that had acted suspiciously before,
following a rotund man on an ATV.
That bespectacled man had approached
me in the desert yesterday, asking if I was alright. Then I saw him
with a younger skinny man at Family Dollar, and I think the younger
one said something like “Hi, faggot.”
I'm a bit hard of hearing, and wasn't
sure, so I disregarded it. Besides, I have long learned not to
respond to provocation.
There had been a second pickup truck
just before the railroad tracks going out there, and, again, it seems
deliberately picked as a monitoring point. Again, the truck just sat
there in the road as if to want to talk, and I waved at the older
couple within. The woman waved back. If anything, my nighttime
location was well determined, even if I did choose a new spot.
It occurred to me how easily I could
have been locked in from outside, and then burned to death. There's
much more I will post later, but it boils down to decades of false
re;porting others have done on me that's being “Put to the fire,”
as it were, now, I am certain.
Criminal minds, even of those well
placed, seem to fall easily for the temptation of some government
agents whispering in their ears, “He's such and such, can you help
us... Him?”
I was worked against major spies that
way in the mid '70s in Europe because of my special
above-mentioned“Training” and subsequent manner, so it's old hat.
I've often told authorities about such
things and have always been ignored. So I obviously fear for my
life, which may not be long. At least somebody will read this one
day.
Even as I look out the camper window, I see a new silver SUV with mag wheels that has driven by several times - Here in the back dirt lot of this truck stop.
