Suggest you read the poem, Spanish Waters by Sir John Masefield about a lonely old pirate.  He talks of an old man's memories. "They never leave his mind..." I'm ready to go any time.  Wonders await there. And, perhaps, finally, peace.

Looks as if that last post really pissed them off.  They're really hammering me now.

Fuck 'em! The fact that they are breathing is the best case for abortion I've ever witnessed!

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

The snails are really hammering me with DEW attacks.  (I now have renamed them snails because they are obviously NOT mammalian creatures.)

A few days ago, I glanced into a desk drawer and saw a business card from the Montana Department of Health and Human Services with some cunt's name on it offering nursing home care to the elderly. I certainly didn't put it there, so I took it and tore it into two halves and tossed it into the trash.

The next morning when I woke up and sat down at my desk, both halves of the card were lying on the top of my computer.

So it is far beyond obvious that some snail slimed its way into the kitchen and retrieved it from the trash bag.

It is either another snail-level mind fuck, or a threat to destroy my mind so that I will be confined to a nursing home.

They have really been hitting me hard ever since.  I am feeling the symptoms identical to the American and Canadian diplomats in Havana a couple of months ago.  I'd bet the snails also attacked them with their new toy.

Fuck 'em!  I will live until I die and death, as I have previously stated, holds no fears for me!

Never quit!  Never ever quit!

I was in Walmart two days ago to pick up supplies as my beloved dog was under the knife for a tumor removal.

Just as I entered the store, I noticed a solitary tall man about age 35, wearing a dark jacket, a baseball cap and a meticulously trimmed black beard standing alone to my immediate left front, staring at me.  I gave the asshole my war face "I will fucking kill you!" stare and he fled. Don't know if it was some pretty-boy Feeb or a jackal, but the stalkers the jackals normally deploy are your basic low class white trash.  This guy radiated Fedstink!

My pathetic son in law who is in bed with the murdering scum has been acting very strangely lately, so anything can happen.  My gut, which is rarely wrong, is warning me to remain alert.  I will.

Well, Stalked in Oklahoma, the swine have severed our communications. They stole you phone number from my notebook.  My emails are blocked.  You have not replied to me here.  They fear our spiritual connection.

But we both know that God has a very special corner of hell reserved for them, so let them have their fun.  Because, when they finally cross over, as we all will, they are in for a very unpleasant surprise. For eternity.

If, by chance, you read this, I love you.

You have my address. Should you seek refuge, it waits for you here amidst the snow and the cold.

God watches over us both.  Of this, I have no doubt.

Received a death threat today, or that's how I read it.  Donned my pants to go outside and reached into my pocket for a lighter to light my cigar.  I came up with a black Bic.  I didn't buy it. There were two other lighters in my pocket that I bought. But, there it was. Black.

I have defied these evil creatures for 35 years.  I have never surrendered to them and I never will. So, if tonight is my final night in this realm, I can only hope and pray that my welcome to the other side will allow me to proceed towards the light.

Today has been a very long and difficult day.  But I am still breathing.  I have faith in God who has always provided me with miracles when I have needed them the most.

My beloved dog is scheduled for tumor removal surgery tomorrow morning.  If I should pass, she will die with me.

As God wills it.

Feebs haven't snatched me yet! My family's treachery and total communication boycott for three weeks led me to believe the worst was about to happen.  So far, nothing.  But my SIL is a devious SOB and nothing he will do would surprise me.  Nothing! He'll do ANYTHING to cover his tender ass, including happily throwing me to the wolves! He won't bat a eye!

So I will press on!

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Attention, Stalked in Oklahoma!

I received your message this morning asking me if I am alright.  I replied and asked you for a response.  None has been forthcoming.  Yes, I am, but am under severe EMF attacks, 24/7.  I believe the baby rapers are trying to finish me off before my lady arrives from Europe soon.

I sent you three separate messages which were obviously blocked by the jackals!  Fuck 'em!  You know me darling lady!  I never, ever quit. So if by chance you should see this, give me a call or reply here with a comment.

Nothing's happened yet, other than I have been totally abandoned by my useless "family."  I'm 75.  I could use some company up here on my remote hillside every now and then, but they have ceased all communications. It takes true cowards to abandon an old man, particularly one's father, out of pure spite!

No self pity here! Those words are not in my lexicon! I've been alone during much of my life the world over.  This is no different. Cunts will be cunts, regardless of gender!

I will press on until the end whenever that occurs. Tonight or ten years from now.  No problem!

Never quit!

Never, ever quit!

Now my cuck son in law is playing games with me.  Says nothing's happening. If he told me the sun will rise in the east tomorrow, I'd look to the west.  He sucks FBI dicks.

And it truly sucks to have a cunt for a daughter.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Well, just posted a blast about 10 minutes ago and already had one hit.  Gotta be Fedscum.  They're my biggest fans.

Bet you a dollar to a donut I'll be in the slammer by Saturday.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Well, it's going down.  My worthless daughter and her cuck husband have totally abandoned me.  I expect to be arrested and jailed by the weekend.  I am quite ill, so this old wanderer will die in jail.  It's as good a place as any, I suppose. I always thought I'd catch a bullet in Africa or Miami or Colombia or in a dozen other shitholes, or fly into an Andean peak one dark night. Yet, here I am.  No one is more surprised than me.

I am a bit disappointed in the utter cowardice exhibited by my family, such as they are, but not in the least surprised.

My son in law is a pussy-boy.  Certainly not a warrior or an honorable man, or he would have said something.  Coward.  Cowards are among the most despicable creatures breathing air.  He fills the bill.

Hell, I knew it was coming at least three weeks ago by the way he reacted to something I said.  The guy has absolutely no street sense and he is as transparent as Cling Wrap.  He would make an utterly horrible poker player.

So if I suddenly, permanently go silent, it's happened.

I wish all of you luck and perseverance fighting the jackals. As we all know you will need it.

So press on and never quit! Never, ever quit.

And fuck the criminal organization known as the American FBI, whom, by the way, have been totally discredited in the American public's eyes during the last several days from top to bottom. It is long past time!

Press on!

Well, the shit has hit the fan.  The FBI has been on my ass for many months.  My son in law and daughter are complicit.  No one has said a word, but all the signs point to an imminent arrest.  I have a Ph.D in Streetwise and learned long ago that what matters more than what IS said is what is NOT.

I'm an old dog with several million miles beneath my keel.  I didn't live to attain my current age of 75 by ignoring the obvious and, as I have learned the hard way over several decades, the Feds are often quite stupid.  That applies in this case.

So if I suddenly go dark, you'll know they've locked me up in some tomb to live out the small portion of my life that remains.

Remember... never quit  never, ever quit.

Invictus...


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

Throughout the 35 years that this subhuman slime has attempted to destroy me psychologically, drive me into committing either suicide or murder, they have completely and utterly failed.  They will continue to fail.

They are truly disgusting, tyrannical and utterly psychotic human beings.  They are truly pitiable.  Beyond pathetic, to truly pitiable.

I won't even summon the energy required to hate them.  They are beneath contempt.

So I will press on until I draw my final breath.

For much of my life, I worked with honorable men. "Honor" is not a word in their lexicons.

They are also very likely pedophiles, fucking their own children from a very young age.  They are totally disgusting, contemptible creatures and I just flip them off and press on.

I will never quit.  I will never, ever quit!

And, jackals, baby rapers, torturers, murderers, you may believe that you will live forever, but you won't.  Hell, bitterly icy, totally isolated, utterly black hell awaits you when you cross over.  Have a nice trip.

Enjoy.

I have recently received several hits from South Korea.  Go figger...

Been a while since I've posted.  Have been under severe electronic attack for three or four weeks.  FUCK THEM!

They are constantly stealing stuff when I'm gone.  Things from the fridge, items of clothing, and so forth.  I could care less.

I believe they are doing a slow-kill on me.  I'm not concerned.  I'm 75 and have lived a life that few can dream of. The good and the bad, of course, but, all things considered, it has been one hell of a ride!

I haven't feared death since 1966.  I do not fear her now.

God is great!

Never quit!

Never, ever quit!

Dammit, Stalked In Oklahoma!  I have emailed you several times!  Nothing!  If you are still alive, if the jackals have not finally succeeded in killing you, PLEASE contact me!  Please.

Why do I have 11 hits on a deleted post?

For Cody...

Jimmy's First Flight


I was sitting in the bar at the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi with Captain Jim Harrison and one of our flight engineers, drinking Tusker one fine afternoon. We were having a good time, talking shop about flying into the Sudan and the bullshit that management forced us to tolerate.

When, just then, in walked Ted Putwain, our Project Manager. He confronted our table with his fists on his hips, and looked hard at me and said, "Your new co-pilot's here." He wasn't smiling. I said, "So?" He replied, "Yeah, it's Jimmy Hathcock." That sent a chill down my spine.


I knew Jimmy Hathcock. He had previously been a loadmaster with Southern Air Transport. Loadmasters are the guys, often highly skilled, who are in charge of loading and securing the cargo in the fuselage of the aircraft, and also dropping the loads from our low flying aircraft over the Sudan in the wet season. But they're not pilots. And the next words out of Putwain's mouth were, "He only has an hour and a half in the airplane."

I thought, what kind of management insanity is this, to send me a totally untrained, totally green first officer to fly dangerous missions into a fucking war zone? Harrison and I stared at each other. We could not believe that this former loadmaster had become a pilot and had been sent, totally inexperienced, to fly the Sudan with highly experienced crews. Fools, particularly management fools, abound.


I had spent my early years with Southern Air flying the States, up and down the East Coast in the middle of the night in lousy weather with some very tough Captains, down to Panama in Central America across the Caribbean, into Puerto Rico and Guantanamo Bay, Cuba with that hairy approach, west to San Antonio, all right seat time, paying my dues. When I first upgraded to Captain in late 1989, which took two years of hard work, I was based out of Chicago O'Hare, flying transcontinental trips over the Rocky Mountains into both San Francisco and Los Angeles, California in all kinds of weather. The Chicago winters are particularly severe.


I first got assigned to Africa in 1987 after two months on the line, to Ethiopia, as a first officer with a great captain, Terry Wagner, and we had a lot of fun. By then, I had acquired a couple of hundred hours in the airplane. We also had a very narrow escape, but that is a story for another time.


Here was Hathcock, fresh as a daisy out of training, dumped into my lap in bloody Afrika.
We African crews called ourselves The Afrika Corps. We knew how to survive in extreme conditions. We did not suffer fools gladly. There was no weather forecasting. It's like we freight dogs used to say, who cares about the weather. We're going anyway. We made the company a lot of money.


I thought, Fuck it! That's what they want, then that's what they'll get. I must admit I drank too much that evening, anticipating the trials of the upcoming day, and finally went to bed.


So the next morning very early and slightly hungover, I got up and got dressed and went down to breakfast. There I met Jimmy, dumb as dirt. He had very little to say. There was nothing to say. I got my food and sat down with him and briefed him. I told him to follow my lead and do what I told him, to listen to the engineer if he said something, to remember the procedures he had been taught in flight school, to shut the fuck up and follow instructions, and maybe we would live. He readily agreed. I was half kidding, but I could see the fear in his eyes.


That really bothered me. If you are afraid, then you can't function. All I needed was a totally inexperienced first officer in my right seat, going into a very short and difficult strip, in the middle of a war zone, scared shitless.
So the three of us caught the crew van and made it to the aircraft the next morning and damned near ran over a big cobra in the dark at the airport. The Flight Engineer knew the situation with Hathcock because I had briefed him to be on the alert and watch for mistakes, and he must have been sweating it, but he never said a word. He just jumped into his seat and began throwing his switches. I wish I could remember his name. He was a good man.


We were given the destination coordinates on our flight plan. I plugged them into the Omega navigation system, crosschecked both units to ensure the numbers agreed, and said, "Okay, I have no idea where this place is, but we'll give it a shot."


We launched out of Nairobi International, or Jomo Kenyatta, whichever you prefer, for the southeastern Sudan. We flew up the Rift Valley, above Lake Nakuru with its flamingos, over Navaisha, and, once we got north of the Uganda border, turned northwest into Sudanese airspace. The Omegas directed us, but since they were not precision navigation systems like GPS, which didn't exist at the time, we had to use the Mark One Eyeball to locate the strip. The Omegas got us successfully to the area, and the Mark One Eyeballs took over.


I looked down at miles and miles of bloody Africa and finally saw what I thought to be a strip. It was the only open space in five hundred square miles of Sudanese bush.
It was located in the middle of thick mopane with a north/south orientation, with a small village adjacent to it on the east side, about eighty miles northwest of Juba, which is located on the Nile. I figured this must be the place.


Now the Hercules is one hell of a fine airplane. It will do what you ask of it, and often much more. I had about 2500 hours in Hercs by then and had been instructed by some of the very best. I wasn't worried. But this strip was short. Very damned short, with thick bush at both ends and rough, raw dirt as a runway surface.
I looked over at Hathcock, who had been, so far, performing his duties dutifully. He had no idea of the severity of the situation.


So I told him, "Jimmy, we're gonna take a run at it. I'll go flaps fifty percent and drag the strip." Which means fly down it slowly at a very low altitude and visually inspect the runway. "Then I'll make my decision." He nodded his assent. I mean, what choice did he have? He didn't have a clue where we were precisely. Truth was, I knew within ten square miles, which was about as accurate as the Omegas got. If I had chosen that very moment to have a heart attack and had died in the seat, I very seriously doubt if he could have found Nairobi.


So we made our low pass. Jimmy gave me the flaps when I called for them and sat there, waiting. We performed the Approach check list. I rolled in at about a hundred feet and flew slowly up the strip to the north. There was no wind indicator, so I had no idea from which direction the wind, if there was one, was blowing. We saw a UN Beechcraft King Air parked by the village, but no wind indicator. Bad feeling.


The strip was about three thousand feet long, and rough, but it looked hard. So I briefed my crew that we were going to land to the north and hope the wind was in our favor.
I flew a left hand traffic pattern after climbing to about three hundred feet with half the flaps extended. I turned a three mile-long final approach and got solidly on course, aligned with the strip. I told the guys, "This is gonna be tight." And it was.
We barely cleared the bush at the south end with full flaps extended and touched down hard on the first third of the runway. I stood on the brakes and immediately hit maximum reverse thrust. I was on the brakes so hard the anti-skid kicked in, but I got her stopped well short of the departure end of the runway, arriving in a huge cloud of dust. It was just another day at the office.


We taxied clear of the runway, retracted the flaps to fifty percent as called for, and Jimmy did his job very well. He remembered what he had learned at flight school. My respect for him went up a notch.
We parked adjacent to the King Air and Jimmy flipped the brake selector switch to Emergency, which took the brake system off of the utility hydraulic system, which is powered by the numbers one and two engines on the left wing, and powers the brakes, among other things, from the electric auxiliary hydraulic pump located aft in the fuselage near the ramp and door. The reason for this is that the auxiliary pump powers the ramp and door and it was necessary for the loadmasters to open the ramp and door to download our cargo of emergency food.

I shut down the engines, the engineer started the gas turbine compressor, a small jet engine located in the left wheel well and just ahead of it, which provides pneumatic pressure to start the engines, and electrical power to run the systems. and called for the proper checklist. Everything was in order.
I set the parking brake and we exited the aircraft. I stretched my aching bones. The adrenaline generated by the landing had totally destroyed my slight hangover.
We walked around and inspected our aircraft and there was no apparent damage, so we took a look around.
Out of nowhere, or so it seemed, a British lady about 48 years old walked up to me and introduced herself. I don't recall her name, but she was Lady something-or-other, a member of the House of Lords of the British Parliament. Then a tall man in ivory-colored robes trimmed in burgundy velvet appeared, wearing a large crucifix on a gold chain. He introduced himself as the Bishop of the Cairo Diocese. It seems they were on an inspection tour to ensure that emergency relief supplies were properly delivered. There was no sign of the King Air pilot.


Of course, the entire village had turned out for our arrival. Standing on the left end of the group of villagers, was a tall man wearing a leopard skin and leaning on a long spear. The scene was right out of National Geographic. If there had ever been any doubt that we were deep within African bush, which there hadn't, it would have been dispelled by the man in the leopard skin.
According to her Ladyship, the runway had been created whole cloth out of the thick African bush by the villagers. They had chopped down all the trees with pangas and then had dug up the stumps. Then they had filled the holes with dirt dug up from other areas of the developing runway, and had packed the surface down with the hard stamp of hundreds of pairs of strong Dinka feet. It was an impressive accomplishment.
After about a half hour, the loaders had evacuated all of our cargo, under the careful supervision of our great loadmasters, and it was time to go. We said our goodbyes and boarded our aircraft.
The loadies closed the ramp and door. We took our seats, and performed the Before Start Engine checklist.
We started them up and there were no apparent problems. Everything was in the green. Jimmy set the Brake Selector Switch to Normal on my callout. I told Jimmy to keep his finger by that switch, located on the instrument panel by his left knee, and if I called Brakes Emergency, do it. Now. That was in the event of a Utility hydraulic system failure during taxi, which would mean total loss of the brakes. He performed as requested.
Now, came decision time.
It was a long Southern Air tradition to split legs. That means the Captain would fly into the initial destination and the first officer would fly out, taking the second trip leg. It was Jimmy's turn. I had given this a lot of thought, both prior to the trip and after we arrived and got a good look at where we were.
I contemplated the situation for a few seconds and decided to let Jimmy have the takeoff. It was a risk, but I was always in control of the situation.
I briefed Jimmy.
"Here's the deal. We're not gonna do this like you learned in school. We're gonna lift off slow and clear the trees at the departure end and if we lose an engine, I will take over and make the necessary callouts. I will follow you through on the controls to back you up. It is still my airplane. Coming off below minimum three-engine control speed is the only way we're gonna get out of here. So when it starts rolling, put some light back pressure on the controls and lift the nosewheels off as soon as you can. If she wants to fly, let her.  Clear the trees at the other end and then gain about a hundred feet, level off, and gain airspeed. Got it?"
He was looking at me and his eyes were the size of silver dollars. He had never thought that I would give him the takeoff. By all rights, I should have done it, but I decided to see what he was made of. This was the African bush, and jungle rules applied. You did what you had to do. We long ago had thrown the book away.
I got the chief loadmaster out of the aircraft onto a longline intercom cord and told him to watch the tail, and to keep our tail feathers out of the bush. I pulled onto the strip as tightly as I could by the end, hit reverse thrust, and backed her up as far as I could go. The loadie did as requested and told me when to stop. I wanted every inch of runway we could get.
I looked over at Jimmy. He looked calm, which was a relief. I told him, "Hold her on the brakes, they're your throttles, run them up to max power, and release the brakes. Keep the slight back pressure in on the elevators and lift the nosewheels off as soon as possible. Let her fly off on her own. I'll back you up. Don't sweat it. Just do it."
He did.
We accelerated quickly down the strip. Jimmy performed flawlessly, lifting the nose off very quickly. I was following him on the controls, covering his hand on the throttles, and very soon, we lifted. We cleared the trees at the departure end by a good margin and then he leveled off as instructed and built up our airspeed. I reached over and retracted the flaps, and Jimmy climbed out and headed for home.
I had previously set the Omegas for the route to Nairobi and he flew it, as expected.
When we arrived at Nairobi, he performed a flawless landing.
He had earned his spurs, and my respect for him increased substantially.
I admit, I had put him into a very difficult situation, just to see if he could hack it, and he did.
He was now an official member of the Southern Air Transport Afrika Corps.
We returned to the hotel, hit the bar at the New Stanley, and shared several beers. It had been a very trying and successful day.



PS  Jimmy was killed in the crash of a light homebuilt about three year ago.  No one knows why.  He launched, climbed to about 400 feet, stalled, and fell off onto the left wing and went directly into the ground.  And, so pilots die, often inexplicably.  I never grew to like him very much over the intervening years, but he should never have died that way. RIP, Jimmie Hathcock.  Fly West with your Southern Air companions who have gone before you..   I will soon follow.

Experiencing very heavy EMF attacks for days.  Today is my 75th birthday and the jackals are bound and determined to fuck it up.  Fuck them!  No surrender!  Nowhere to run.

Press on!

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

I have the blues, so why not listen to one of the greatest Blues tunes ever written? Duane Allmann was still around for this. Sweet.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gDhR1R3S0s

"They just don't let you be..."

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pafY6sZt0FE&list=RDMML8s9dmuAKvU&index=21

An old, very dear friend called me this evening, out of the blue.  Another one of God's wonderful gifts. Totally unexpected. We caught up from our last conversation two years ago, or, perhaps more.

To all you atheists and agnostics out there, carefully examine your lives, particularly you fellow TI's.  There is so very much more to this mortal existence than that which meets your limited, mortal eyes.

Trust me. I know. Materialism is a dead end road. A zero-sum equation.  Throughout so many years of deep, personal existence, pain, even pure agony, both physical and spiritual, and numerous  incredible adventures and misadventures, I have gained knowledge. Life's most precious commodity. All I can do is pass it on. If you choose to ignore it, tragic.  I have so much to give and I try to give it here.  Take it or leave it.

The past 48 hours were brutal. Under attack, 24/7.  Fuck 'em! I'm still standing! They are so incredibly stupid that they have failed to recognize a true soul warrior when they have confronted me. Here I am, jackals!  Don't try to drag this fetus from the birth canal! I am so much more fearless and so much older, bolder and experienced than you God forsaken, wandering souls!You are utterly and completely lost souls.  Enjoy Hell!  It is coming! Smile for the camera!

As I've previously stated, death and I are old friends.  We have bumped our intimate elbows so very many times throughout the multitudinous adventures and throughout the decades. When she finally arrives to greet me, I shall welcome her with a smile. THIS is what the jackals completely fail to comprehend.  They, in their sniveling human misery, fear death. They grovel before her! I do not. God is love.  Love is God, and that tiny word, "God," is totally insufficient to describe or even contemplate the force that totally encompasses us, each and everyone.

Yeah, life is hard. It is supposed to be hard, so that we may grow spiritually through our pain.  So, therefore, I neither fear pain nor death.  I have survived agonies, and death and I are old traveling companions.

War is the answer!  Not physical war, but this spiritual war we are engaged in is on for our immortal souls! Our common enemy is ruthless and possesses no ethics or even slight empathy for the basic concept of human compassion! Ignore their pitiful futilities and carry on.

Press on! Press on!

Eveyone's life ends in mortal death.

Only the strong survive long enough to welcome her with a comforted soul.


Never quit!  Never, ever quit!


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pm6TsYypBpY&list=RDMML8s9dmuAKvU&index=17


Enjoy!

I am currently undergoing a very demoniacal series of attacks with the total disruption of my daily life being the ultimate goal of the jackals.  Primarily a sleep deprivation sequence.

I have had little sleep during the past two nights, but I will either prevail or die in the attempt.  These psychotic, baby-raping slime generate no feelings of hate within me.  Only pity for those who have sunk so terribly deep into the blackness of the soul to generate such chaos into the life of a tired 75 year-old man. No self pity, of course.  I am incapable of that.

I recently fell deeply in love with a wonderful European woman.  Our shared delight in finding each other at this late state in our lives is remarkable.  Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have even contemplated such a thing occurring. But, it has.

So the jackals are sinking ever more deeply into the depths to attempt to disrupt our happiness.

Should I die today, I will die with a smile on my face for God's gift of love that He has delivered into our previously empty lives.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Finally heard from Stalked in Oklahoma via email today. She wondered if I am okay. I had previously sent her three emails with no response.  The jackals are in my computer like burrowing moles, although jackals are a much lower life form than moles, so my gut tells me the pedos are blocking my emails to her. Cause and effect.

She and I were once very close.  For a couple of years, we spoke via phone almost daily. She once died and then returned a couple of days thereafter with some truly remarkable stories of her experiences on the other side, several of which are also affirmed by the remarkable Betty J. Eadie in her #1 NYT best seller, Embraced By The Light.  If you haven't read it, I highly recommend that you get a copy.  Don't know if it available in Russia where I usually get several hits, but it might be.

Another great book, Proof Of Heaven, by the renowned surgeon  Dr.Eben Alexander, simply reinforces Eadie's story and S.I.O's, as well.  He was in deep, non-responsive coma for a week. Some things he experienced he withheld.

But her psychotic husband finally became jealous of me, a guy who was 2000 miles away, and cut us off.  He is now dying slowly and painfully from prostate cancer these days.  Karma's a bitch.  And, yes, actions do have consequences...

I love a good cigar.  The finest overwhelmingly are rolled in Nicaragua in he area around the town of Esteli. Havanas are terribly overpriced and generally suck since Fidel nationalized the industry in true Communist fashion. The renowned Cuban cigar rolling families saw what was coming and embarked for greener pastures.

Today I was in town for a meeting and stopped by my favorite smoke shop and my friend there who runs it showed me a new stick named Cattle Baron.  Being in Montana, that term is well recognized.  They were expensive, $11.50, but the scent was great and the wrapper also looked great, so I bought one.  I clipped it and fired it up and was absolutely delighted! A wonderful flavor and it builds a great ash.

I had to drop by the pharmacy a few blocks away to pick up some meds, and by the time I arrived there, I decided I needed another Cattle Baron for later.  It is rolled in Santo Domingo, which is not known for much more than average smokes, but this tasted and burned like a fine Nico stick.

I grabbed my meds, returned to the shop and bought another one.  It busted my budget, living as I am on minimum money after half a lifetime of making good bucks, but this was a necessity.  I am smoking it now as I write this, and the second one tastes even better than the first.  So if any of you cigar aficionados out there ever see a Cattle Baron stogie, I highly recommended it.

I absolutely and totally refuse to allow the baby-raping slime who attack us constantly to deny me some of life's small pleasures.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Been listening to some songs from my youth featuring the incredible, late lamented Roy Orbison, very likely the best voice ever heard in Rock 'n Roll!  Even Presley said he was the best! Another time, another place, another life.

Time out from the incessant torture to soothe my soul!  I hope you fellow tormented souls out there enjoy this master.  Best vocal range in rock!  Period.

God is love!  Never, ever forget that! He watches over all of us.

Yeah, it's a stone bitch being targeted by these merciless psychopaths, but this too will pass.

Enjoy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YG__LBJVZ0

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Fight on!  Fight the jackals with every nerve in your bodies!

NEVER QUIT!

Stalked in Oklahoma, you're doing it to me again.  I emailed you yesterday. Nothing!  Please let me know if you are still alive.  If you have crossed over again, I know without a doubt that you are much better off than I.

May God be with you, and with all TI's everywhere.

I will be alone for the next three months in this frozen shithole, but I will survive.  My lady will return as soon as possible in the dead of winter, if I continue to survive.  She is a gift from God.  Of that, I have no doubt.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Appears that we TI's aren't the only ones who are getting hit.

Welcome to Havana, American diplomats!

Read this!  I am showing identical symptoms.

http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/09/02/548128130/u-s-reveals-details-of-alleged-sonic-attacks-on-diplomats-in-cuba

Currently under heavy attack online.  The jackals are slowing my Net feed to a crawl.  But...

Amidst all the evil, hate, chaos and sorrow, it is still very often a beautiful world.  Love is God; God is love.

Please take the time to watch this:

 https://biggeekdad.com/2017/08/coolest-surprise-ever/

And never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Montana's anti-stalking laws truly suck!  In Florida, you can legally blow some slimesucking stalker out of his fucking shoes with your .45!  Not in this frozen shithole!  I believe at least half the residents are just barely aware that there are 49 other states out there comprising an entire country, much less a big, wide and utterly fascinating world!

I wish I had saved some money!  I'd pack my shit and head south and sure as hell not to Arizona which is also an utter shithole!

I'd find a warmer spot to roost in, even if I had to live in my fucking tent!

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Stalked in Oklahoma is still with us.  S.I.OK is going through a really rough time. We are truly blessed merely by her existence... She is a true soul warrior, tremendously courageous.

The jackals are really hammering me, trying to destroy my lady's and my delight in being together in our declining years.  They are welcomed to go fuck themselves!  I will press on as I always have amidst the tortures.  Fuck them.  Love eclipses anything they can do.  Love is eternal and the jackals thrive on psychotic hate.

I won't return their hate and corrupt my immortal soul. That would offer them entirely too much satisfaction.  I only pity them, lost and soon-to-be-abandoned souls, spinning alone in the icy, eternal blackness of hell.

Actions have consequences.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Stalked in Oklahoma, if you are still alive, still out there, please contact me by any means available.  I believe the jackals are blocking my email, in between giving each other blow jobs and fucking their ten year-old children, both male & female.

And you were right about my lady.  Ever since she arrived, they have been unloading on me intensely.  We are, however, in spite of this baby-raping psychotic slime, truly enjoying ourselves. We will continue to do so.

I pray for you nightly, V.

Keep the faith.  As Betty Eadie noted, hell is a pitch black, icy, lonely place. The jackals have nothing to look forward to but utter misery and complete isolation for all eternity.  Just the thought of it always cheers me up.

I'm nearing the end of the road.  If you go first or have already gone, I hope to encounter you, for you are a truly blessed soul.

May God watch over all TI's.

Never quit.  Never, ever quit!

http://www.anonews.co/fbi-rightwing-terrorist/

Now under heavy attack, very likely by the Feebies taking over from the jackals. They bleed just like everyone else does.

Death holds no fear for me.  I have lived a truly exciting, fulfilling life.  Death will be a welcome relief from 35 years of constant harassment and a wide variety of other insults, so FUCK THEM!

They have blocked me from accessing Gab.ai, my usual hangout.  Why?  Because my words cut them to the core like a razor sharp Randall.  They're nothing but mercenaries, wagging their stubby little tails on the orders of their elitist masters, committing heinous crimes while shielded from justice from behind their badges of authority.  Evil personified.

I'm seen entirely too much war and, of course, have been fighting my own personal war for three and a half decades to ensure both my physical and psychological survival.

America is disintegrating.  It deeply grieves me that I have lived long enough to watch my beloved America being torn apart at the seams.  Blood is spilled almost daily. In the past three days, seven cops have been shot in various locations around the States.  Several have died from their wounds. Tragic.

War is coming and I'm too damned old and beaten up to participate. More's the pity.

Never quit.  Never, ever quit!

More fascinating info on the FBI from the former agency chief...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BplUD6kQYuU

Some of you may recall my post of the 15th where I blasted the FBI and got over a hundred hits.

Well, here is a highly detailed analysis of exactly how they work to entrap people.  It's an interesting read.

http://www.rooshv.com/how-the-fbi-infiltrates-movements-and-what-you-can-do-to-stop-them

Hey, Stalked in Oklahoma!  Did you receive my emails, or were they blocked? The jackals are in my computer comparable to rectal cancer, so anything can happen.

Winters here truly suck, but there's a great couch downstairs in front of the fireplace, so ditch that ungrateful, psychotic bastard and come on up.  Let him fend for himself for a change.  He's circling the drain, anyway.

Get your butt up here!

Love you, baby!

I finally heard from my dear friend, Stalked in Oklahoma.  She is despondent and fearful.  I begged her to drive up here to stay with me, but she is 1500 miles away and I seriously doubt if she can afford to make the journey.

Of course she will be attacked mercilessly by the jackals here daily as I am, but misery, as the old saying goes, loves company.

I hope and pray that she can flee to Montana for her physical safety.  Her husband is slowly dying of prostate cancer and is and always has been a stone asshole.  I am afraid that he will either injure or kill her during one of his psychotic rages.

If you pray, please offer a prayer for her.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Appears as though my post on the 15th on the Feebs was quite popular. 126 hits that day, the overwhelming majority from the States, the record for a single day since I began this blog years ago.  My money's on the Feebs passing it around. They have a God complex, of course, totally undeserved.  No surprise there.

They were all over my ass for something I said on Twitter many moons ago and no one ever bothered to tell me what remark initiated their actions.  They had nothing, but they revel in harassing one-eyed, half deaf toothless old men.  Sure beats confronting those who would gladly shoot them.

They are foot soldiers for the elite, and nothing else.

If civil war comes to America, as it appears it may from all the Net chatter I'm reading daily, they'll side with the fascist scum who are attempting to destroy my beloved country, without doubt.

Fuck 'em!  They know where I live and they also know I'm only lightly armed.

Death has held no fear for me since 1966.  It still doesn't.

No problem.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Fucking Feebs are crawling all over my old ass. Likely for something I said on Gab.ai when I was drunk, but I have made it abundantly clear that I consider them to be among the lowest, most mercenary and sold-out bunch of Feds in America, even worse than DEA, if that's possible.  So if I suddenly disappear, they've either snatched me or shot me.  Or both.  They're stone killers, as anyone who remembers the events at the Branch Davidian Compound in Waco, Texas many years ago where they burned women and children to death and machine-gunned survivors fleeing the holocaust, as well as the murder of Vicki Weaver near Ruby Ridge, Idaho by an asshole calling himself a sniper who took a blind shot and killed her. One Lon Horiuchi, who wouldn't make a pimple on a real sniper's ass!

Of course, few read this, so I won't be missed.  I'm already half fucking dead, anyway.

Fuck 'em!

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Not a word from my dear friend, Stalked in Oklahoma for over three weeks.  I am deeply concerned.

Her husband is on his slow, agonizing way out from prostate cancer and, loyal soldier that she is, she is sticking by him until the end.  He doesn't deserve her, but she is a loyal wife until the end.

So if you read this, please contact me.  I am deeply concerned for your safety.  If something happens to you, no one is there to notify me.  Just silence.  Your recent silence deeply concerns me.

Hey! Nobody ever told you life is fair, did they?

If so, they lied!

Never quit! Never, ever quit!

After the previous post, I expect to be killed at any time, day or night.  Cathy O'Brien long ago exposed Bush for who and what he really is, but tugging on the bull's tail as I did can often result in receiving a horn in your guts. It really makes no difference, anyway.  I can feel the life slowly ebbing from my body as I sit here, bombarded by hostile electrons.  Death will be a welcome relief from 35 years of torture.

As God wills it.

May my beloved God watch over all of you who are tormented by these spawns of Satan.

Never quit.  Never, ever quit!

I'll turn 75 in October if I make it.  Tonight, I'm giving myself perhaps a 50/50 chance that I will, if that. Perhaps 60/40 against.  It has been a very interesting life and, as someone who was a much better writer than me said, everyone owes God a death.

As I've previously mentioned, it has been a long war which began in August, 1982, when I ran up against GHWB's nationwide cocaine smuggling operation.  The VP's South Florida Drug Task Force was created by him to stop the flow of cocaine into South Florida.

My educated guess is that Bush created that shithouse outfit in order to stifle the competition he was getting from the little guys, because, after all, the Bush family's generational greed is legendary, and, since, according to Cathy O'Brien, (check out her videos on You Tube), Bush, which many of you may know was formerly the head of CIA and ran Reagan like a docile marionette, was one of the biggest blow smugglers in North America during cocaine's heyday in the 80's.

We made fools of that South Florida operation by returning from our intended mission sans dope. The reason for this was that the cocky little nigger who was in charge of catching us was as stupid as the Merrill Lynch bull statue in Manhattan and his boys gave the game away from Square One.

As we were finally cut loose, after having been very dramatically arrested at Miami International Airport about midnight, I laughed at the little arrogant, ignorant affirmative-action nigger as my lawyer led us outside to freedom.

From that night until the present evening, I have been a TI.

That is a very brief thumbnail sketch about how I have arrived at my final destination here in Montana, 3000 miles from my beloved Florida with it's beaches, oceans, coral reefs, cattle ranches and incredibly beautiful skies.  IOW, Montana, for this old Florida war dog, TRULY SUCKS!

And what truly pisses me off the most is it appears that the evil old pedophile and drug lord GHWB will very likely outlive me! Life just ain't fair!  LMAO!!

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

I haven't!

I won't!

I have been undergoing a very interesting experience since my GF arrived from Germany.

Prior to her arrival, I and my beloved dog were isolated and alone, living in the Rocky Mountain foothills in western Montana.  Her arrival has broken that chain of isolation, even for the short and rapidly diminishing time she will spend with us.  She is delightful and, if she is in fact a Trojan Horse ploy, it is a good one, and it has been an enjoyable experience.  So we will see.

I was warned prior to her arrival by an extremely knowledgeable friend that the jackals would mount fierce and relentless attacks against me in an attempt, so far fruitless, to interrupt any enjoyment I may receive from her visit.  Epic fail!

The battle, which will have begun 35 years ago next month, of course continues.  I will not waver in my determination to prevent the jackals from overwhelming me by whatever nefarious methods they have in their repertoire and I will continue my decades-long determination to take this war unyielding to my grave.  Hopefully, I will cross over and attain peace, which, as many of you know, is a very rare commodity in the life of a TI.

I cannot, however, say the same for the jackals when they cross, as they inevitably will. Through a lifetime of personal knowledge, I know that terrorists, torturers, suicides, psychopaths and pedophiles do not fare well on the other side.

Hell is not hot.  It is icy cold and utterly black. Total isolation awaits them and they will never see the light, nor another single soul, for all eternity.

In other words, so far, so good.

Never quit.  Never, ever quit.

May God bestow His blessings and incomprehensible love upon all my fellow tormented souls.

Go in peace.

Ever since my GF arrived, the jackals have been all over me like a cheap suit. Constantly hacked, browser disabled multiple times each day, Net access repeatedly blocked, phone disabled, and so on and so forth.  Fuck 'em!  I'll press on while they fuck their ten year-olds!  LMAO!!

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

Among we TI's, the scaly dragon depression always lurks, always prepared to strike the unwary.  We often feel terribly alone and isolated, which is precisely what the jackals seek.  To isolate us and destroy us psychologically and physically, as well.

They seek to torment us to the degree where we will either take our own lives or the life or lives of others.

They use paid mercenaries to stalk us, hoping that we will break, react, and kill one out of our repressed fury so that we may then be locked away forever and tortured even further.

Don't fall for it!  The mercenaries are simple cannon fodder, being set up as targets, and have no idea of the actual role they have been assigned to play, which is, of course, to die.

So press on.  It is often extremely difficult to maintain our sanity, but we must if we are to defeat and frustrate these Satanists, pedophiles, torturers and murderers.

Refuse to play your assigned roles as victims.  Fight back with every tiny bit of strength you can summon from the depths of your very souls, and always remember that God, or whomever you name Him, is watching.  One day, perhaps tonight or tomorrow or 40 years or more from now, we will find peace.  Love is eternal. Evil is not.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

“Never give in–never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.”
– Winston Churchill

With all the hate and revenge-seeking by soulless, vengeful people, I am still blessed at my age to have again found love. Love is the force, the God-force for want of a better name, that will shepard us all through life.

My utterly delightful lady is here from Germany and we are truly enjoying each other.  My big, tormented dog Gemma has never experienced so much love in her entire life.  She is absolutely delighted that my lady is here.

With all the Sadistic evil directed at me, I am still thoroughly enjoying myself.  It has been at least 30 years since I have had a woman close to me.  Last couple of times were disasters.  This time things are progressing well.

So we will see.

Never quit!  Never, ever quit!

I finally connected with Stalked in Oklahoma, a true soul warrior.  I had feared that the jackals had finally killed her again, this time permanently.

A few years ago, she "died" and crossed over, but was sent back. Her story of her experiences coincide precisely with others who have made the trip and returned.

One thing she assures me of is that the jackals will receive a very unpleasant surprise when they transition. I have heard that from another voyager.

I have previously mentioned that in September, 1966 at the tender age of 22, I had a near-death experience, but did not fully transition.  It was the most peaceful, relaxing experience of my long life. That night in a Bahamas clinic, I lost all fear of death.

So my tormented friends out there, do not fear. We all "die." I am almost looking forward to passing over because, hopefully, I will finally find peace.  This war has lasted for 35 years next month. That's a long war in anyone's book.

I am absolutely thrilled to learn that my fellow soul warrior is still here with me.

Prayer works.

(A note to the jackals...hell will be unlike anything you have ever imagined.  Hell is not hot.  It is icily cold, totally black, and utterly lonely.  Have fun.)

UPDATE!


For those of you unfamiliar with Cathy O'Brien, you shouldn't be! This is her original video.  It is long, but worth every minute. There are answers here!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvEBmEo4IA0

Also check out her other videos.  I have no idea why she is still alive if she is actually who she says she is, but she appears to be very authentic and I am personally acquainted with some of her information, such as GHWB being one of the biggest cocaine smugglers in America during the 80's. That's why he created the Vice President's South Florida Drug Task force...in order to suppress some effective competition, and I am a TI because of the intervention of an arrogant little affirmative action nigger supervisor working for the old pedophile who failed to catch us bringing in a load.  We were onto his shit from day one and frustrated him at every turn.



After the nigger had arrested us at Miami International Airport, (it was all very dramatic; guys on the Cessna 404's wings with pistols in our faces and all kinds of nonsensical bullshit in his little holding room), they ran a dog through the aircraft and the dog came up with zero, of course, because there had never been any drugs in the aircraft. The arrogant little low IQ sub-Saharan couldn't believe he had fucked up.  When the dog said "No," The little cunt said, and I quote, "We're gonna run the dog through remedial dog school."

He was standing there with his tiny little dick in his hand looking completely stupid, which, of course, he was.

When my lawyer arrived and took us out of there, I laughed at the ignorant little baboon.  He was furious and, almost from that day forward in August, 1982, I became a TI. How do I know that I became a TI then, you ask?  As I mentioned long ago, I had an old ex-CIA pal who would access my file after every run we did and let me know if there were any changes.  After this incident, he tried again and told me that my file was blocked.  That's when I knew some shit was going down. Three and a half decades later, I still am, and, because my German girlfriend recently arrived here in western Montana, the jackals have really cranked it up, trying to destroy any semblance of happiness we might enjoy. Epic fail. It is never too late in life for love to find one.

We have very few blacks here in Montana, and, thankfully, no BLM shit, but there are plenty of stupid white thugs to work for peanuts as stalkers and cannon fodder. Of course, they don't realize they are being set up to die by their handlers if I kill one in order to have me declared batshit crazy and institutionalized for life.

We went shopping last evening at Walmart, as my GF is an excellent cook.  I initially flushed two stalkers and chased them out of the store, but later, as she was looking for some chocolate, this young punk really got in my face.

I could give a fuck if I get locked up.  I'm almost 75, may very well have suffered a mild heart attack over the Independence Day weekend, so I'm not long for this world.  This turd got right in my face and activated his iPhone just as he approached me, believing the old man missed his move, (youth and arrogance are handmaidens), so that the conversation would be heard by his puppeteers, and stood within three feet of me for about five minutes as she, who has little English, perused the chocolate labels. I mean, the punk was really begging for a blade in his guts, really pushing the envelope, which would have taken me about .1 of a second to apply, but I restrained myself because of her.  Had I been alone, I would have opened him up like an empty sardine tin.

The young ones are incredibly stupid because they believe their youth makes them unkillable. Wrong! A shitload of dead kids believed that. Trainloads. Ooops!  History!  If I am ever alone and I encounter him again, I will do my dead-level best to kill him.

I know the jackals read this, so a word to the wise. I have long been onto your game and you are not a really bright bunch yourselves.  You constantly prove that.  LMAO!!

This may be of interest to many of you...

http://targetedindividualsua.weebly.com/ti.html

Hey, Stalked in Oklahoma, they stole your phone number from my notebook and have likely blocked my most recent email to you.  My GF is here from Germany and the shitsacks are really cranking it up, attempting to negate our happiness.  They will fail. If you read this, contact me however you can, please.

Drove into town to the Safeway Market where a Western Union counter is located to pick up a money order sent to me by a European friend.  As the counter lady was getting the cash, some INCREDIBLY fat thug positioned himself about 15 feet to my left and just stood there, staring into space.  This asshole had the biggest, sloppiest gut hanging over his belt that I have seen on a human being in even distant memory.

I began staring at him intensely and shortly thereafter, he walked a few few feet to his right front facing a display of raw cabbage and appeared to take an intense interest in raw cabbages.  Hell, I should have bladed his blubberous ass, but even striking him with my 6" Randall would have unlikely successfully penetrated that incredibly huge, bulging, bloated gut. I would have needed my machete to make a dent in that total piece of shit! Hell, I'd bet has hasn't seen his little dick for many years unless he looked at himself in a full-length mirror, and perhaps not even then!  He was such a totally disgusting looking man, if you can call it a man.  Fucking pitiful!  How can anyone with a tiny modicum of self respect allow himself to deteriorate to that pitiful state? Utterly repulsive!

The more things change, the more they stay the same.  The slime continues to ooze...

It is very gratifying to be feared.

I posted this before and the slime deleted it, so here it is again.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_l4Ab5FRwM

For a TI friend as promised, a story from another life. Fuck the DEA!  Fuck the FBI!  Fear is not a word in my lexicon!

I have lived several different lives. This is a story from one of them.

-

Copyright Pelican Productions, 1981.

The Second Trip


The late Big Walter and I headed south very early one September morning in 1978 in a Beech 18, bound for the north coast of Colombia, to load 1800 pounds of fine Colombian Gold and deliver it to the heart of the Everglades in the middle of the night and dump it to guys waiting below in swamp buggies. They had some very bright lights.

We damned near didn't make it back.

It was an ill-advised trip. On my initial trip down south, I had flown down via commercial airlines to Barranquilla and had been driven out about a hundred miles into La Peninsula de La Guajira to the strip to familiarize myself with the runway itself and associated landmarks. This time, I mistakenly took the boss's word for it and believed that I could locate a runway that I was totally unfamiliar with. It very nearly became a fatal mistake.

Flying the Caribbean in September and October is an iffy proposition. It's dead center in the middle of hurricane season. Towering cumulus clouds build very early in the mornings and can deteriorate into deadly thunderstorms by early afternoon, so we had scheduled our departure for about 0200 to avoid any problems.

Good weather forecasts are a necessity, and I had a guy who worked in the National Hurricane Center in Miami who kept me well briefed. He was also very well paid. His assistance was invaluable. We encountered several towering cumulus clouds and rain showers south of Haiti, but no hazardous conditions. We flew through a beautiful sky. The real hazards were yet to be encountered.

We crossed the Colombian coastline as scheduled. These were the days before GPS was available, and, for the life of me, I could not locate the strip. We had been advised to land at the other strip that we had landed on the previous month if we had problems, and we did.

In those days, there were at least a hundred landing strips in La Guajira, carved out of the jungle and cacti forests by dozers. We were looking for a needle in a haystack. That flight was a stupid thing to attempt. The penalty for landing on the wrong strip was death.

We spent about an hour looking for it, but we couldn't find it, and by now, we were down on fuel, so we headed for the other strip. We located it without any problems and landed the aircraft with about an hour's fuel remaining.

Now, the fun began.

We taxied back to the turnaround and loading area and I shut the Pratt's down. It had been a very long day, and it was about to get much longer.

There was the usual Guajiro pistolero guarding the strip, and he looked familiar, but, upon disembarking, I realized that I had never seen him before. This was not good.
He asked us who we were, and in my very limited Spanish, I replied that we had been there the month before and were looking for our friends. He asked me their names, and, due to my boss's paranoid nature, I had been given no names.
He called a friend out of the bush and told him to get his boss. The guy left in a Toyota truck, so we waited. It was about 1300 hours and we still had plenty of daylight left.

Around 45 minutes later, two truckloads of men arrived. We were standing by the aircraft, somewhat backed up by the open cabin door. The guys unloaded off the trucks and approached us. All had Browning Hi Power nine millimeters stuck in their belts. One guy walked up to me, and it quickly became obvious he was the translator. He smiled at me and said, "I just want you to understand I have nothing to do with what may transpire here today." That got my attention.

There were about eight of them, and they gathered around us. The jefe, obviously the jefe, spoke to the translator. The translator asked us what we were doing there, so I told him the story of having landed there in October. He then asked for names, but I could not provide them, but I told him of a visit I had paid during the previous month to the jefe's ranch, down to the smallest detail, including roasted goat and blood pudding for dinner, and, after a lot of back and forth, the jefe said, "They are friends of ours." I heaved a sigh of relief and told them we were lost and had been advised to return to this strip in the event of problems.

Much conversation ensued among the group, mainly from el jefe, which, in case you haven't already figured it out yet, means "the boss" in Spanish.
After about five minutes of this back and forth, the translator told me they knew where our friends were. That eased tensions considerably.

El jefe told me to go with two pistoleros in a Toyota pickup to find our guys, so we loaded up and headed out, leaving Big Walter at the strip.

We headed down a dirt road, "amid the tall cacti", and made it about five miles, and then we got a flat.
I had been sitting in the middle between the two shooters. The guy on my right had layed his arm behind me on the seat back. The driver shut it down, and when the bandido on my right removed his arm, I saw he was holding a Walther P-38 in his left hand. That was not very encouraging, and those two guys obviously didn't know how to change a tire

So we sat there in the middle of the road, waiting on a miracle.

One arrived.

I have always lived with angels on my shoulders, and on that day, they must have been collecting overtime.

As we waited there in the bush in the middle of the road, the pistoleros amused themselves by shooting at small birds that landed in the road. They missed every time. I figured it was only a matter of time before they finally got pissed off and shot me.

About then, my savior arrived. He didn't sport a halo, or arrive in a burst of golden light, but pulled up ahead of us in a white Toyota Land Cruiser, the vehicle I have always called the Colombian Cadillac. In those days, anybody who was anybody drove one.

A slim, sharply dressed young guy popped out of the cab wearing a big smile, spoke in Spanish to the two shooters, and then he spoke bloody English to me! Miraculous!
I told him who I was, and that we were looking for our friends, and he knew exactly where they were! I would live!

After a lot of conversation in Spanish, we all piled into the Land Cruiser and headed for the Pan American Highway, which runs from Barranquilla to Maracaibo, Venezuela. We were located approximately equidistant between the two cities, out in the desert. There were several Colombian Army checkpoints on that road, because a state of war existed between the government and the bandidos of the Guajira​.
 The army would not venture deeply into the Guajira for fear of ambush. Since I obviously didn't have a visa, once we reached the highway, the guys dropped me off at a small village with a few roadside huts constructed of wattle with thatched roofs, and left me there on my own. They headed west.

I sat there on a log, wondering what what was going to happen next. Several curious children approached me and tried unsuccessfully to engage me in conversation. They were smiling and laughing at the bearded gringo. They cheered me up. I never allowed my morale to drop. I knew that things were totally out of of my control, so I just rolled with it.

About an hour later, after sitting on a felled tree during that time and fooling around with the kids, the Land Cruiser returned, accompanied by a truck load of pistoleros. I knew some of them, and I was relieved.  About five minutes later or less, el jefe arrived, also with a truckload of pistoleros, followed by a third. I was saved.
I always carried a thousand dollars in hundreds in my boot tops for emergencies, so I tipped the original two shooters $200.00 each for not killing me and the Land Cruiser driver $500.00 for saving my tender ass. Smiles all around.

I climbed into the Land Cruiser with el jefe, whose name turned out to be one Ruben Quintero, and we headed back for the strip. Ruben, whose ranch I had visited the previous month, had a six pack of warm Venezuelan beer, and, my friends, a beer has never since tasted so good.

Chapter Two..

Upon our arrival back at the strip, Big Walter, all 250 pounds of him, hugged me enthusiastically. He had been wondering if I was still alive. I gave him one of Reuben's warm beers, and he thanked me profusely. To say the least, he was very relieved to see us, and later, I learned exactly why.
The two bosses conferred. After a conversation that lasted several minutes, Ruben informed me that Walter and I would stay the night and sleep in the airplane and depart in the morning for the strip. I had brought some gifts for him from Miami, one a Winchester Model 94 .30-30 and some ammo, and some Scotch whiskey, which I had previously learned he had a taste for.

I re-positioned the aircraft, taxing it up into the treeline as far as I could go to better conceal it. Colombian Army helicopters occasionally patrolled the area. We had some sandwiches in the cockpit that the contrabandistas had missed when they looted the airplane while I was gone. The rifle and Scotch were, of course, long gone. I told Ruben about it, and he just brushed it off.

Night fell. Ruben departed with his convoy, but left six pistoleros behind to guard us, and one with some aviation experience who would be our guide the next morning to direct us to the strip.

The Beech was parked slightly uphill. I was very tired by now, as was Big Walter, so we tried to get some sleep on the bare floor of the aircraft's cargo compartment. Hell of it was, due to the uphill angle, we kept sliding back toward the tail. I could hear the pistoleros murmuring outside and I felt secure for the first time since we had landed.

But Big Walter didn't. He was absolutely terrified.

Finally he sat up and said to me very emphatically, "They're gonna kill us! They're gonna kill us!"
I told him, "No, they are our bodyguards, here to protect us". He was on the verge of a nervous collapse.
It seems that, while I was out on my trek searching for Ruben, the bandidos who were with him at the strip had positioned him standing on a low tree stump, had given him a rolled joint and a gram of cocaine, stood back about ten yards, and began shooting at him, trying to see just how close they could get to him without actually hitting him. He wasn't hit, but he underwent this grueling test of courage for about two hours until the bandidos began to run low on ammunition.
He smoked the joint and snorted the entire gram, and stood there only moving minimally as a couple of dozen nine millimeter bullets missed him by inches. But he held on to his courage and glared back at them. He never lost it.

After telling me that we were going to be shot, he jumped out of the door and began walking around in circles, muttering to himself. I finally calmed him down and got him to return to the cargo compartment. He laid down and we both tried to get some sleep.

Suddenly, Walter began violently trembling all over. He was suffering a delayed stress reaction. He was shaking violently and his teeth were chattering. I spoke to him in a soothing voice, and lay down beside him and wrapped my arms around him to try to calm him. Eventually, the reaction passed and he drifted off to sleep.

Shortly thereafter, a bat chose this importune moment to fly through the open cargo door into the cabin. The bat's sonar must have been off, because he slammed into the opposite cabin wall, knocked himself silly, and ended up on the floor beside Walter, fluttering around. He regained his senses in a couple of seconds and flew into the cockpit.

Both of us absolutely lost it. We started screaming curses in two languages at the bat, calling him every name in the book. I had become fluent in Spanish profanity, and I utilized every word I knew in both English and Spanish on that hapless bat. Looking back on the incident after almost forty years has passed, it almost seems comical, but nobody was laughing that bitter night.

We both charged up to the cockpit door. The bandidos had stolen my flashlight, but I could hear him flopping around on the captain's side of the cockpit, wedged in behind the rudder pedals.
There was a can of Raid insecticide in the cockpit they hadn't stolen, and all I wanted to do by then was kill something or somebody. The unlucky bat suffered the consequences. I dumped the entire can of Raid into the cockpit and closed the accordion doors. I turned the cockpit into a gas chamber. It worked. Scratch one bat.

After an almost sleepless night, dawn came.

The pistoleros had brewed up a pot of strong Colombian coffee and offered us some. We accepted gratefully. No sugar, but by then, who cared? We sat in the cabin door, legs swinging freely, greeting the dawn gratefully, and enjoyed the Colombian heart-starter. Our guide, who spoke a bit of English, said it was time to go. So the pistoleros pushed the aircraft down the slope into the turnaround area. We were low on fuel and I was a bit concerned. I figured we had at least one hour's fuel remaining. I advised our guide, and he said the strip, la pista in Spanish, was less than thirty minutes away.
So we boarded our aircraft, I fired up the engines, lined it up on runway heading, ran up the engines to ensure smooth operation, and we launched into the sunrise.

Our problems were just beginning.

Chapter Three

The trip was short and uneventful. We arrived there within around twenty minutes. I could see the guys on the ground, our welcoming committee. I made a low pass up the strip to check it out. It was the worst strip you can imagine. It ran north to south. The prevailing winds were easterly. Although we were well south of the Inter Tropic Convergence Zone, the Trade Winds still blew from the east at about ten knots. The north end was blocked by power lines and the south end featured a small hill. The strip was short and uneven, about 2800 feet in length. I didn't like it, but I had no choice except to land, so we did, landing to the north, with a 90 degree crosswind from the east.
We taxied back south toward the small hill, and there was Ruben, accompanied by his partner, Domingo Rivera. We disembarked, I thanked our guide, tipped him a hundred bucks, and pressed on.

Several hundred gallons of fuel were added to our nearly empty tanks, and a couple of gallons of engine oil was provided for the thirsty Pratt and Whitney's.
As we were fueling, the cargo was quickly loaded, bales weighing in at about sixty pounds each. It was not yet 10:00 AM, so we had some time to kill so that we would arrive in the Miami area well past dark. We enjoyed some more great coffee and had an enjoyable conversation with those who spoke English. Domingo turned out to be a great guy, and we had a lot of laughs. Our relief at finally being among good friends was palpable. Walter was recovering well from his breakdown, and laughed and smiled with us.

Eventually, it became time to depart. We said our goodbyes, shook hands all around, and then we boarded the aircraft, taxied it to the top of the hill at the south end, and promptly got stuck.

This was the hill country, located in the eastern foothills of La Sierra Madre De Santa Marta, the northernmost peak in the Andes. Some of the world's best weed grows on her slopes. But, in that area, they get a lot more rain than in the deserts of La Guajira. There was a soft muddy spot at the top of the hill, and we had become mired in it. I won't express my thoughts here, but they can be adequately summarized in one word. Explanation point added.
So I shut the engines down, climbed out and checked out the situation. We were buried in the mud up to the main gear's wheel hubs. That's about four inches.
Ruben and Domingo were extremely concerned. Walter was near tears. I was also concerned, but evaluated the situation and arrived at a solution.

There we sat in broad daylight on the north coast of Colombia, stuck in the mud with a big load of weed on the bird, sweating Army helicopters.
So I asked Ruben to download the aircraft, and said to him, "Find me twenty Indians."
We waited for a couple more hours, but eventually, the requested twenty Indians arrived. I told Ruben, "Here's the plan. We get the Indians underneath the aircraft, on the count of three they put their backs into it, and pick up the aircraft and carry it fifty meters forward toward the north into dry dirt."
It was done as requested.

Uno. Dos. Tres. Arriba! Up it went.

These tough bastards literally picked up the airplane and carried it fifty meters downhill to dry land, carrying it on their bent backs. It was an incredibly impressive feat, picking up an 8500 pound airplane, but I had met some of these men before, macheteros and cold bloodied killers, but they were as tough as wire and I knew they could do it.
Meanwhile. Big Walter had been sitting on a pile of bales, repeatedly saying, "We're never gonna get out of here." I told him to have faith. I had the problem solved.

This move decreased our takeoff distance by the fifty meters, which made things marginal for an ordinary Beech 18, but our aircraft was different from most. It had JATOS installed. So-called Jet Assisted Takeoff Units, they were two solid fuel rocket motors installed aft of the engines in the after part of the engine nacelles, each one backing up its respective engine

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It was an option offered by Beechcraft because of the anemic single engine performance available from that type of aircraft.

JATOS were time-life items. They were basically solid fuel rocket motors. In other words, they had a life cycle of three thousand hours, after which they had to be replaced. The replacement cost was six grand, so it was not something you would use on a casual basis. But the time was up on these units and I had informed my boss, and he said, "Shoot 'em if you want to. We have to replace them anyway."

They are electrically fired off the aircraft's battery. There was a circuit test meter installed which verified the integrity of the firing circuits and the igniters, and an adjacent spring-loaded switch that fired them. Press a spring loaded meter switch, read the meter, and if the needle is in the green, you're good to go. The igniter switch had a metal flip-up gate covering it to prevent an inadvertent discharge.

We were sweating the power lines at the north end, so I told Big Walter, "Look. This is what we're gonna do. The firing circuits look good. We're gonna launch. When the indicated airspeed hits sixty knots, I'm gonna fire the rockets. They should blow us off the ground in a rather spectacular fashion. We're still gonna get out of here." He looked at me with some small hope in his expression and said, "Let's do it."

And we did.

The rest of the trip was routine. We crossed the Caribbean uneventfully and entered American airspace that night, fifty feet above the Gulf Stream and well below radar coverage, located our people, dropped the load, and went home.

I never saw either Ruben or Domingo again, but, over the years, I have always wanted to ask them how that takeoff looked. I never got the chance.

We beat the odds. Our lives were repeatedly in severe danger, but we survived.

Never quit. Never, ever quit.

The way I feel tonight...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_tY21x7I3M

Some changes lately.  Radical changes.

I posted something on Twitter that was taken as a threat and for about two months there, I had the scumbag FBI all over my ass. They never spoke to me.  In their usual, slimy manner, they talked to people who have met me, most of whom handed them total bullshit.

One of the slimesuckers conned my dumbass fucking daughter, who had the few remaining firearms I owned, into surrendering the weapons to his worthless, lying cunt ass. He had no warrant nor any probable cause.  She is so fucking naive she can't pour piss our of a boot with the instructions printed on the heel, so she was a pushover.   The scumbag conned her socks off.  So now I'm down to blades.

First time in over 40 years I haven't had either a Browning, Sig or a Colt on my hip.  But I'm very good with blades.  You fight with the weapons at hand.  Get within twenty feet of me and, shot or not, I will drop your guts on the ground as I die.  By now you've likely realized I do not fear death at all.  Better a bullet or two than rotting away in a cancer ward.

I'll tell you this:  when your own stupid daughter trades your shit off to slimeball Feds, it's a shock to the core of your very being.  If she were anyone else but my flesh and blood, I would have opened her up from her pubic bone to her heart like a fucking Zip Loc bag and pissed in the hole, or shattered her arms and legs with a baton.  I can't.  I could never forgive myself, regardless of how enraged at her I am, nor would God forgive me.  I already have pushed the envelope where God is concerned and I need no more sins on my list, so she lives, and not in a body cast. 

Suffice it to say, we now have little to discuss.  I utterly despise traitors.  When your own daughter betrays you, it hurts to the very core of you being.  I know.  I already said that.  It's worth repeating.  She was almost the last person alive I trusted.  I was a fool.

So I just sit here in this hillside house, hanging out on the Net on Gab.ai, a new conservative free speech forum. No censorship, like on Twatter or Fuckbook. I'm blocked on both, anyway, because I am one of Trumps Deplorables and that little Fuckbook punk-assed money-whore, Suckerberg, a Jew who has sold his soul to George Soros and the Saudis, can't touch me on Gab. I also watch Netflix and Amazon videos.  For a man of action, as I was all my life, this is a lousy way to grow old and die.

My good dog keeps me company, so I am not completely alone.

I'll deal with it.

As far as the jackals are concerned, they're still very much around, constantly breaking in when I'm gone, fucking with things, the usual mindfucks which I just disregard and often laugh at, and lurk around outside.  They hide up in the boulders, buggering each up the ass when I'm home, waiting for me to leave so they can break in again.  It has been a brutal winter, but now it's warming up and most of the blanket of snow that has covered the area for almost three months is disappearing, so their tiny little dicks won't get too chilly when they pull them out of their partner's assholes.  I only hope they're not fucking kidnapped kids up there, as, I'm certain, many of them do after they leave.

Never quit.  Never, ever quit!