That dirty old child molesting fag bastard Charley Shenanigans–he’s lucky I don’t kill him!

My short history as a gang stalker began around 12 and ended about a week later, me on a too-big-for-me “fancy French” 12-speed, 36″ bike that my grandpa had fished out of the trash at a rich girls college in the city; driving by that old queers house I almost lost my nutsack, no fucking kidding too.

I was an outsider, and the local kids–my football friends and buddies who I routinely creamed with fearless tackles and even more fearless takedowns of the fattest and fastest bastards in school– told me about that creepy old faggot bastard Charley. They also laughed at me busting my balls on that 36 inch Peugot frame, much too big for twelve year old legs, but I didn’t care–grandpa gave it to me and I was determined to ride it.

Truth is it did bust my balls quite a few times, and I nearly died swerving from a tractor, into elbows full of gravel. And I picked that gravel out of my elbows for many weeks to come–tar and all, pus and blood. I can say it now, that I did enjoy peeling off those four inch long scabs and waving them around at my family members, who feigned repulsion and horror. Or, maybe they were/are that soft, I don’t know.

Well, they said that he was a “convicted pedophile,” whatever that was–and he had bodies buried in his yard too, they told me.Maybe some stolen gold, and other stuff that was treasure.I seemed to recall the video they had shown me in the first grade about some girl who was half naked in a drain pipe, and the terrible feeling I had about it then–her polka dot dress with black stains all over it (in those days the news reels were black and white.) Poor thing, a little Italian girl.

My mind was on spaghetti, and those big long bread loaves–I couldn’t fathom how a girl who ate such good food could end up in a ditch like that, much less with her dress pulled up over her head. First graders simply are not allowed the proper knowledge to fathom such horrors, though they should have at east some idea about it.

Well, after my ride by Old Shenanigan’s house–where I could report nothing suspicious, out of place–no dead bodies in his many flower patches, or dead kids in drain pipes– I was arrested on charges. Didn’t stick, but it left a scar—and my dad showed up and told those detectives that they are very lucky they didn’t have holes in their faces, and in the rest of their families faces too, doing what they did–coming by the house when mom and dad weren’t home, and kidnapping me out of bed at four a.m.

They must have watched the house for a long time, because mom and dad were almost never out that late. But divorcing people sometimes break all the rules, just to try to hold on. To hold on…..in those days, that broken family was like a morning glory vine, nice to look at, up bright and early, always where it should be on the garden fence, and quite lovely to look at, but so easily chipped down by lawnmowers, and other dangers–like the neighbors hedge clippers, for example–I am not blaming anyone.

Fuck–I was only twelve. My older sister didn’t know her rights, much less mine, and those cops knew that too, because one of their cousins was fucking my sister. She was fifteen, legal aged at that time.

Well, anyways old queer Charley–they say he answers the door to his house in a beaver fur tophat. Beaver (chuckle) fur.

“Vintage” is what it was–I learned that word many years later, studying beavers, and fur top hats.All of that co-mingled with gypsies too, because it was them that robbed all of those stores.

Thing of it was, though, that keeping secrets is not, was not, and seldom will be (very, very seldom will be) a good thing for anybody, much less me. But these things cannot be talked about too easily, because of you DO say something–the gang stalkers always seem to know–and they always seem to be able to drive by your house, as you tell these types of memories to other people–other gang stalking targets.

That’s how it WORKS. You either tell them what they want to her, or they zap you, in so many ways…..

…..(this is a work of autobiographical fiction. I will write more later. Feel free to encourage me with an email)

This post is tenuously dedicated to Richard Moore, of Mississippi

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