A Tribute To A Treasured Friend

 

 

 

There is a world, at large around you, that most of you are never aware of and never see. It is fully populated by people very much like yourselves, and many more of whom who have lives, dreams and desires that go far beyond the pale of your limited understanding. Many of us liken you to the old cart pulling horses that used to pull the dairy carts down our city streets so many years ago. Your masters and handlers have fitted you with "blinders", so as not to be distracted by all the activites going on about you, as you steadily pulled that dairy cart along your appointed rounds, in your work-a-day job.

You appear to be fine, competent and strong enough animals for your work. But for all of your strength and mass, if you but stumble in a pot hole and break a leg in the course of your career, your handlers will have to put you down, and another team of horses will carry you to your final resting place and speak comforting words about what a fine, caring and responsible draft horse you were, and that is the sum total of what your life will have amounted to. You were but a shadow on the streets you walked down every day of your life and merely a part of that back ground scenery, of vastly more interesting and important lives around you, that you were only dimly aware of, because of the blinders that you were forced to wear.

This story is not going to be one of my fantasy novels or short stories. This is a story about a long time friend of mine, who was rarely seen or fathomed by all those work-a-day draft horses. She was living "under the radar" and "off the grid" for reasons that most of you might find "eccentric", and working an "under the table" waitressing job. As I am writing this, it was a couple weeks ago, when she was driving her boyfriend, Rolf's car home from work, in the wee hours of the night, that she was struck, head on by a habitual drunk driver and suffered extensive head trauma from the impact, and found herself comatose, and in critical condition at a local hospital. I think it was last Tuesday, when she passed away. The drunk had no insurance and no license, as he had lost those for driving DWI before and creating havoc in people's lives. It was his choice to get behind the wheel of that car in his condition.

For reasons that many of you will never know or understand, even though his condition was only "serious", as compared to Laura's "critical", because of his callous disregard for other human life, and the particular group of human lives he had made his impact upon: It would be the last time that he would ever be allowed to make any such choices again. This story is about Laura and people like her, who to most "draft horses", "muggles" and "sleepwalkers" are the stuff of dreams and nightmares. But to those of us who are very much awake and aware of our surroundings, are very real people, and will be most sorely missed for their absence in our world.

I'm one such a person as many of these, and like them, very unique in my own right. I hail from a family of hereditary witches, which people find hard to fathom or believe. It's my reality, no matter how unreal it may appear to you. After all, your handlers and the authorities you placed and accepted over you, told you many, many outlandish and untrue tales of what witches are supposed to be. They programmed you to believe that anything perceived beyond the five dogmatic senses of sight, sound, touch, smell and hearing cannot possibly exist in your world.

Anyone who professes to have garnered any information by any means beyond those dogmatic five senses is either insane or politely eccentric. But how many of you can feel the scrutiny, when there are eyes on the back of your heads? Or meet someone for the first time and have that "gut feeling" about them that, in time proves itself out? But it could not have possibly been so! It was a mistake, or just a coincidence. It had to be, because everyone knows that such things simply don't happen. They know it because they were told it was so, over and over and over again, by people they trusted more than the evidence of their own eyes and senses. So you keep your blinders firmly on, as any responsible draft horse might do and plod on, pulling that cart every day and paying your taxes until you either break a leg and get put down or die a ripe old age, and the most memorable thing you are remembered for is how much you loved your family, and that joke you told at a party once.

But the truth is: There's people around you that could pull that cart of yours, with the speed of a drag racer. People that see more options in their lives than just the road straight ahead of them. When they are at their most alert, they even see the things coming up behind them, or hidden behind walls and closed doors. People who belong to a world with a much broader panorama than you've ever seen on TV or read about in the newspapers. People with much greater capabilities than you believe, or dare to exercise for yourself, even if you had them.

It's not a whim or a flight of fancy to many of us. Not to Laura, and not to me. I came up through life with another hard reality called MK Ultra. My whole life long, I got the highest grades, not only in my classes, but in my schools. I've performed feats of strength. Punched through things that most people would not dare to strike with their fists. Been the man who brought a knife to a gunfight and walked away afterwards. I could show you a very real brick building across the street from a major hospital, on the medical campus that is run by the CIA, where I and other children were abused and experimented upon by mad ex-Nazi scientists. But people won't believe it. They could walk up to the door, only to be escorted away in the interests of "national security", and still not believe that I might be telling the truth. That many of the things I am capable of doing everyday of my life, were the direct results of the horrors that happened to me there as a child.

 

Our government would never allow doctors to perform such atrocities on everyday civilians without their consent. That cannot happen in this country, in this day and age! You can watch a documentary on the History Channel, or Discovery, that documents and shows you that very same building, at the very same medical campus, and how it was used to inject dozens of unwitting and unwilling test subjects with radioactive isotope for the Manhattan Project, just to see what it would do to them, and how their families never knew the truth until many decades later, when the Freedom of Information Act, made that knowledge available to them, to their shock and horror. Or never consider what the stories were all about when then, President Clinton got on TV and publicly apologised to America, for those and other foul experiments, with no assurance that such experiments ever have, or ever will stop. After all, that sort of thing doesn't happen to real people like yourselves. Just those nameless, faceless souls that you have never met or seen beyond your blinders. The building is still there, and still working secret CIA projects, both at this, and another local college campus. Very real, solid, concrete, brick and steel structures with a documented dubious past. But people like me are either crazy, or eccentric, and things like us, just don't happen in your world.

When I was a boy, my grandmother used to warn me about my showing off before the "sleepwalkers", as she called them. These were everyday people, up, dressed for work and walking about, but not seeing the same world as we see it. They were fast asleep and dreaming "The American Dream". You can't just walk up on sleepwalkers, and shake them awake, without them hurting themselves or going into shock or something. It wasn't right. You had to be considerate, and escort them gently along, and watch out for them, so that they didn't just wander in front of an oncoming truck or something. It was a good analogy. I know because in my sheer frustration and anger, I've tested it out. I showed a sleepwalking friend a house, that could only be seen in this world from one side. I walked him around to the other, and challenged him to show it to me. Of course, he couldn't. He dropped out of church, and all of his normal social circles as a very troubled young man.

At yet another time and place: When some serious trouble arose, I had told my friends at the time, that I could fix it by "dominating" or "hypnotizing" everyone who was there, into believing that something else had happened. To give you a perspective of how severe this altercation had gotten: Vernon's Camaro had been set upon and shot at by a group of very angry men. Understandably, everyone was worried about ever being able to show their faces in public in that town again. But I had some options that I knew I could play. They sat up that night, worried that I was about to do something crazy, and get us all into worse trouble than we already were. When they next saw me, a police officer had just escorted me home, waved and drove away, as though nothing special had happened that evening.

Vernon could not imagine why he didn't come in and arrest the whole bunch of us, and lay in a fetal position on my couch, shivering from his brush with a reality that he could not fathom, and could not exist in his world as a mechanic and a part time insurance salesman. I didn't just make up my own rules as I went along. I was trained to do some things, and I knew some facts about reality, that sleepwalkers never even get to consider. I would like to have had them present with me, when I went to see the people we had our altercations with, but they would have only been a distraction to me, and they would have been effected by the field I had created, and things would have gotten much worse confused, and harder to manage than they already were.

As it was, they knew what had happened that night, but the other people involved were made to believe something else entirely had went on, and that it was a normal night as any. They would have had that police officer arrest me, had they or he believed anything else had happened. No harm, no foul as they say. No "gift of gab" was involved here. I flagged down the cop when I ran out of gas trying to return to "the scene of the crime". I told him my story and he took me to where they had already called for the police.

I sat in the back of the car, but they didn't recognize me from the altercation, and as they all told their sides of the story, they were all just a little bit high and figured they were mistaken about the whole thing and had probably blown it all out of proportion, and since nobody was really hurt, they apologised and the officer took me to an all night gas station to get some gas, and escorted me the rest of the way home, in case my car was having more trouble. It was having electrical problems at the time. Such is the reality that makes no sense to Vernon, but always works for me when I do what I know is possible, even though the rest of you sleepwalkers think it's crazy. That was not to be the only time that I left a sleepwalker in the fetal position with their thumbs planted thoroughly in their mouths, but I digress.

There's a whole world of horrors and wonders before your very eyes, that most of you will go your entire limited lives to your graves and never see. I needed to share some of that with you, in order to make you understand why and how keenly some of us will miss Laura. There are certain matters of privacy that I need to respect for many and diverse reasons as I share this story. It would open up the lives of good people to all sorts of scrutiny, suspicion, persecution and derision. In sharing my own story, as I have on Facebook, and in my articles, YouTube videos, radio interviews and fantasy novels; I have opened my life up as a proverbial freakshow. I don't much care, because I really am a very serious witch and MK Ultra, and I really don't have any problems with what I am capable of doing, to the very worst of you out there. As far as I'm concerned, this world is a dark, cruel place, and it will better serve the kinder, gentler folk in it, if you were no longer in ti, and making it worse for us. That's my reality, and when it comes right down to the pinch, I have always had the power to make my reality over ride yours. That was their purpose in making me an Ultra, except that I no longer serve at their whims either. Between those traits that I inherited naturally, and those that were put upon me, through Rockefeller funded eugenics, I have become a force to be reckoned with, and eventually, I took ownership of myself.

Laura was always a denizen of Rochester's north west side as far back as I can remember. She lived with her dad, who was a blue collar worker at Kodak Park, and her younger brother Rusty. She almost never spoke of her mother and what had happened to her, and knowing how painful some memories and truthes in one's life can be, I had never pressed her about it. I was kind of a neighborhood "big brother", who was known for keeping bullies and gangs at bay, and more than a few bigger than life exploits around town. I was the karate freak, even before anybody heard about Bruce Lee. It was not by accident, but by design, but then, few would ever listen or consider how it was, that this was so.

In the early Seventies, I was working as a medic for Parkside Ambulance and putting some of my talents to the best use that I could. For me, I needed to validate myself as something a bit more promising, than being Frankenstein's Monster, which was how I saw myself as an MK Ultra. I was altered by ex-Nazi doctors to be a sort of super soldier, designed to efficiently kill off other badasses with a host of what many would consider as unfair advantages. I've listed most of those in my other articles and videos. I just include them here, so that you can understand where my heart was at when I met Laura, and how we got on as we had. She was to be one of the most unique relationships, that I had ever had with a woman in my lifetime, and not in any of the ways that quickly and commonly come to anyone's mind. Even my own.

I had recently split up with my first wife. I was challenging a doctorate in theology, to help me with my own questions about my life and experiences. It was summer time in Rochester, and I was in my early twenties, and I was way too popular, with far too many nurses about town, and beginning to not like the kind of cad that this made me feel like. Like most emergency workers, we carried pagers and ate most of our meals at various diners around town. At any given time, our meals could be interupted with an emergency call, so we frequented those places, who would be so kind and understanding, as to put our meals away for us, for when we would return and settle our tabs later. Laura was about 18 or 19 at the time and worked as a waitress at the old Maplewood Diner, that used to be on Route 104, near Lake Avenue. She lived only a few blocks away from there.

Coming in with our usual crew of medical misfits and misanthropes, there she was: An exotic looking redhead, with a lithe, willowy figure, hair the color of polished copper strands, freckles sprinkled liberally about a cute, pert little nose, and irises the color of a brushed brass finish and an impish,, mischevious smile. Depending upon the shift we were working, there would be me, Glen, Rick, Dana, Rosy or any of a few others. Glen was about 27 or so and was instantly taken with Laura. But then, Glen's idea of women was strictly as a life support system for a pair of tits and a vagina.

I was brought up with an entirely different world view. But I knew the moment that I first met eyes with her, that she wasn't "normal" as most people would describe normal. Neither was I. I just wasn't too happy about my own habits with women of late, and I wasn't going to allow myself to become infatuated with any more, at least for a while, until I settled a few things in my own heart and mind first. So I was friendly and professional with her, and Glen was as lecherous and predatory as he could be. The more she seemed not to care, the more he became obsessed with her and the harder he tried.

Working on an ambulance in a midsized industrial city like Rochester, was about as exciting and hectic as you can well imagine. As I wasn't desirous of adding Laura to my list of conquests that summer, my meetings with her at the Maplewood were sporatic at best. Glen, Rick and I shared a penthouse apartment on Lake Avenue in those days. In the beginning of that lease, it was like a contest between eligible bachelors, as to who could best keep the pad furnished in hot and cold running nurses. I was ahead for a few months, but I was losing interest. Not in the nurses, but my self respect as a man. I couldn't escape the idea that my world was meant for bigger and better things. Glen would sometimes disappear for a few days of drunkeness and debauchery and come back drained, with enormous bar tabs, and a bit late or short, on his share of the lease agreement. Evidently, in his constant obsessive pursuit of Laura, he got lucky... or not.

We come home to find him back at the pad, looking drawn and thin, like he was 60 instead of barely pushing 30. Most ascribed this to Glen's lecherous lifestyle and drinking, taking its inevitable toll on him. But I knew that no single evening of sex and booze could do that to any man. The rest would believe any lame excuses they could concoct, to explain it in terms they could accept. But I knew differently. I knew he had been with Laura, as he had bragged that he had finally gotten his chance. And I knew parts of Rochester that they never dared look upon or believe in, if they had. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I considered Laura as another monster, such as I or worse, or a gal using her own resources to rid herself of a bothersome lech such as Glen. I had to be fair about this, but I also had to confront it head on. I've always felt responsible for the kind of power I wielded, and whether anyone else knew or understood this; when something evil made its threat to myself or those around me, I intervened. Because I could, and it was mine to do.

I had pulled nearly 72 hours of straight service on the rigs, and I was entitled to a couple days off with no calls. So I made it a point to take all my meals at the Maplewood, until I could catch Laura on shift and talk to her. I wasn't sure about what I would say or do about any of this. It wasn't as if anyone actually asked me to look into it. They had already convinced themselves of what the reality of that situation was all about and content with that. I had rarely, openly met with anyone like myself of like Laura before, and to someone like me, the curiosity factor was irresistable. I was about to see my horizons expanded and get an education of my own.

I came in for dinner, and she waited on me. Most of the better waitresses are flirts, and their attention to service and smiles net them the best tips. Laura was no scrounge. As she was filling up my coffee cup for the second time, and asked how all the gang at Parkside were doing ; I mentioned that Glen had bragged that he had finally gotten a date with her. I didn't say how he looked or anything. But she stopped and looked me long in the eyes, which doesn't happen to me very much. Most people find my direct gaze uncomfortable. There was hardly any customers, so she took her break with me at my table. I didn't invite her, though I would have, if she had not thought of it first.

"I like you," she said, looking me straight in the eyes. "You're more of a man than you seem."

This totally threw me for a loop. I've known many gals over the years that manage brute men by constantly keeping them off balance, and guiding them about as if they were as easy as puppies. I come from a matriarchal witch clan, and women aren't all that mysterious to me. I appreciate them for all my own reasons, and the qualities they possess, beyond the "right one", "left one" and a heartshaped hiney. Men think of everything in linear terms. They have mass and strength of sinew to push their way through nearly any obstacles that life throws in their way. Women do not have this mass and strength, but are no less formidible for this, as they tend to think circularly, and know how to get around most of the big obstacles in their lives. Where guys like to charge straight into things, women are more subtle and crafty about how they deal with things. Laura was like "femininity squared".

My first thoughts were that she was about to drain my masculine life force out of me like she did Glen's, and was flattering me to get me to take the bait offered. But I was mistaken. Laura always had this penchant for making colorful metaphors and euphanisms. It was like a hobby or entertainment that we shared together. To Laura's thinking, there were two basic types of people in the world, regardless of race, color or creed: "Breeds", or hybrids, and the common, garden variety of sleepwalking humans. Male breeds are known as incubi, and females as succubi. This was why she struck me as "femininity squared", as she was something a step or so beyond being merely a woman. Glen, in all of his self absorbed, self gratifying lechery considered himself as hunting pussy in the form of the humble house cat, when the reality of the fact, was that he had charged into the den of a lioness, wearing his lucky porkchop tied firmly about his neck. Those were her words to me about that at the time.

She also knew by her own measuring, that I was a "breed", before I had walked in the door, the first day we met. But said nothing about it at the time. I was, in no small way, impressed with her. But I was already giving myself a good scolding for sleeping with too many women, and after what she did to Glen, it would probably be safer for me if I just slammed my penis in a car door than get too intimate with Laura. But in the craft, and in my family, I have many sisters. Gals that I'm very close to, that I never, ever sleep with, and never consider ever sleeping with, that are still a blessing to share a little time with. I was thinking at the time that Laura was well worth that kind of relationship, and that it would pose none of the hazards, and miserable mind games that came as stock options with all the other kinds of relationships. I had made a remarkable new friend.

A few weeks had gone by since that meeting, and we seen each other at the diner from time to time. The usual harmless flirting and friendliness, and she had even mentioned how nice it was to chat with me when she could, because every other day, some foolish bastard was falling hopelessly in love with her. As I was already known for having too many girlfriends, I had figured that it was one of those intangible traits we shared as hybrids. I was a fine young incubus and she was a foxy young succubus; so what could be more "natural" in our day-to-day lives?

I was only sorry that I didn't have any real good advice for how to turn that off. I had never really been aware of that trait in myself, until I decided to test it out and exploit it that summer. My little brother would always remark: "I don't know what it is that you got, bro; but if we ever figure out how to get it into a bottle, we'll be RICH!" I had always figured that I was so easy around women because of my witchy history, and women are predominant in the craft, and I'm comfortable around them, so the feelings must be mutual. As I said, Laura was an education for me too.

It was a summer night at Silver Stadium, and for insurance purposes, everytime the stadium was open for a sporting event, such as the Rochester Red Wings, an ambulance and medics had to be present and standing by on the property. Our headquarters were only a block down the road, but we had boxed seats reserved for us at every game. On this evening, there was myself and Oren, who had also worked as a medical examiner, when he wasn't moonlighting on the ambulance with us. We were hanging out by the rig in the front of the stadium, inside the main gate, chatting to folks before the game started.

 

Coming in with the crowd, all smiles and with her little brother, Rusty in tow, came Laura. I had noticed that she was talking to a couple of the police officers, who also stood by at the games. A little talking and looking about and a shrug of the shoulders and she eventually made it over my way, and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. We were friendly, but she had never greeted me like this before this night. I'm a big, intimidating guy, and unless we have some sort of prior understanding, I always respect a woman's space, and am careful to never loom over them. So this was a surprise to me. It was even more of a surprise, when she sent Rusty on to their seats, climbed up on the back of the rig, and started massaging my neck and shoulders and whispered urgently in my ear. This would give nearly any guy wet dreams!

However, it was not sweet nothings being whispered in my ear, but a plea for help. She was being stalked by a man, and she had tried to report it to the cops onsite, but this was the Seventies: there were no anti-stalking laws back then, and the officers couldn't do anything to help her until some crime was committed. As it was, the guy she had tried to point out to them, lingering discreetly in the distance, could have simply and coincidentally, been coming to see the same ballgame. She was explaining to me that maybe, if he thought she was with her steady boyfriend, that maybe he would take the hint and just go away and find something else to do. As it turned out, she couldn't have been more wrong about that. This man had a more serious and sinister focus than that.

We stayed for the entire game, and didn't have to make any hospital runs, dealing only with minor injuries and first aid at the rig. Laura and Rusty joined us in our boxed seats, directly behind Home Plate. The man she had pointed out to me lingered in the isle above the boxed sections and hardly ever took his eyes off her for the whole game. I wanted to approach him and have a discreet word with him to warn him off, but never got the chance. I couldn't put Laura and Rusty in the rig to drive home, so Oren took the rig back to base, after the game. It wasn't all that far to my apartment on Lake Avenue, and her dad's house was only a few blocks beyond that. It was a lovely summer night for a stroll, so her, Rusty and I walked out of the stadium together and westward, down Norton Street, with a stranger following about a block behind us all the way.

As we got nearer to my place, I invited them up for soft drinks (yes, really), but Laura sent Rusty running off down the street for home. The stalker wasn't interested in him and couldn't catch him if he tried. Laura and I headed upstairs to the pad alone. Glen was off on one of his many reconciliations with his ex-wife, and Rick was working overnighters at the base, so we had the pad to ourselves. I was warning myself, not to assume that because I had played knight errant for her damsel in distress, that I had any call to expect anything else from her.

Her sending Rusty off like that was some indication that she wanted to get me alone up in my apartment. But for all that I knew, that could well have been just to be able to talk about things that were never meant for unitiated ears. I showed her the place and got us some lemonade, wondering if I might want to offer a little bit of bourbon to go in it. But I refrained. I wasn't going to make it a habit to take every gal I met to bed, so after wards we stood awkwardly, for a moment or two, in my living room, and she walked up to me and threw her arms around my neck, and gave me a kiss on my lips, that has not faded in my mind for the last 40 years.

I don't think it was a really long kiss, but a million things were rushing all at once in my mind. My first thought and inclination was that we were surely heading for the bedroom next. My next thought was of how much Glen had aged in a single night with this woman, and what she might be able to do to me. My following thought, was that Glen was all too human and that it would take a great deal more than that to drain me. And then came that sensation, like I was kissing my sister. Not that my sisters didn't deserve a good kiss now and then, but I'd feel nothing but wrong to go any further than that. As we opened our eyes and looked at each other, I could see a myriad of thoughts crossing her mind too.

I hadn't yet figured how I was going to explain to her why a such a pair as us, alone in this fine apartment, were not going to give that fine, kingsized bed a workout that would make Aphrodite swoon from the sheer passion of it. But she looked down and took my hands, and led us both out of the apartment, and we walked the rest of the way to her dad's house, holding hands. Again, less than a block behind us, followed her stalker. He had waited outside, across the street for the whole visit. Which probably wasn't all that long really. But this man was seriously intent upon Laura in a most unhealthy way.

We had just walked up onto her front porch, when her dad came to the door to let her in. Rusty had shared the news. He and Laura thanked me for being the perfect gentleman, and Laura gave me a kiss on the cheek and I turned to go. I headed directly for the stalker in the shadows. As I got closer and was unerringly heading directly for him, he turned away and started taking evasive action by hiding in the trees and shadows of Maplewood Park.

I felt that at the very least, I had to impose enough of a threat upon him to frighten him into abandoning his obsession. The shadows were by no means enough to hide him from my senses. I could feel his vibes like a filthy funk upon the night breeze all night long, and I could smell the fear in his sweat as I kept closing in on him. Somewhere nearer the edge of the gorge, that contained the Genesee River, the vibes changed, and I knew he was laying in wait for me, among the trees near the steps down to the river.

 

He had chosen a large folding knife, that he intended to stick between my ribs. It didn't matter much to me, as it wouldn't have been the first or the last that these ribs have been violated by. When his hand shot out of the shadows, I pulled it to my left, and with my right hand, I grabbed his neck and lifted him up by it, and cast him down all of those steps to the bottom of the gorge. I was of a mind to just leave him without checking. But if he was alive down there, it might be that I may have to render some aid to him, and promise him that it would only get worse, if he failed to leave Laura be. As it was, he was dead at the bottom of the stair.

 A broken neck was the first thing I had noticed. I checked his pockets for a wallet or some kind of ID, to know who it was I had just killed. In them, was also a small caliber, snub nosed revolver that wouldn't really have helped him much, had he chose to use that instead. He'd still be dead of a broken neck, and I'd still be writing this memoire today. Maybe with an extra small scar somewhere on my body. I used his own hanky to wipe down anything that I had touched, and replaced everything back into his pockets. In your world, you imagine that someone will proclaim me as a hero for saving the girl, by defeating her stalker in self defense in the night time shadows. But in my world, CIA handlers in MK Ultra will twist everything until I am named as this bastard's murderer, and it will be evidence used to hold over my head, to make me more compliant, to murdering the people they want me to.

I don't think I ever spoke of this little adventure before, and barely more than a mention to Laura, that he would not be coming around anymore. We both know when not to press for secrets or uncomfortable information from each other. Also in this man's pockets, were little plastic sandwich bags. Some of them had locks of hair, and odd bits of ladies' jewelry. I imagined that these were his trophies of other stalkings. We wouldn't be seeing coppery red strands of hair in his future collection, and for that, I was contented with my actions that night. The police would find him when and however they would. But as far as any were concerned, I had my alibi for where I was and whom I was with that night, and would never speak a word about it.

After that became old history, Laura would come on down to the crew's breakroom at the ambulance base, and we'd chat if I were in. Or she'd listen to all the tales of the things we had done out on our runs, by the crews on duty. Back then, we had something called the STEP Council. It was run mainly by a competing ambulance company, and some questions came up for all the "wild risks" I was taking with my life to get to my patients quickly. You've seen all those rescue TV series, where the medics get the victims free of the automobile wreck and nearly 50 feet away before it blows up in a ball of flame. Well. About half the time, the wrecks ignited while I was still trying to get my patients loose of them. They'd have second and third degree burns, and I'd have a sunburn with maybe a few small blisters, and a loss of some body hair and eyebrows.

Some were making accusations at the time, that I had some kind of unhealthy death wish. I knew that I was more resilient than that. Even if that fiend had shot me, I had already survived much worse than that previously, and even after that, without even missing the next day's work. Laura knew that about me, and said that I had a Frankenstein's Monster complex, and valued everyone else's lives more than my own, and secretly wished that I could leave this world as a dead hero than a monster. I think there was a ring of truth in that. Except, I was always fairly certain that I'd probably survive most of those escapades and in some degree of pain for my efforts.

I'd do right, because it was mine to do. She started labeling me as a "do-gooder" and the "White Knight" always charging to the rescue. She used to love listening to all the stories in the break room, and then push all my buttons about it afterwards. Never really in a bad way, and she always got her point across to be more careful and that there was always somebody in this world that could see me, for me and still care about me. She was a friend with no special claims upon my attentions. She knew what I was about and accepted it easily and frankly. Everybody else THOUGHT they knew or understood me, according to the world they chose to believe in. But over time, they'd wonder if they ever knew me at all, and all I could say to this was: DUH!

Eventually, I had left Rochester again, for a few more MK Ultra missions, full contact karate tournaments, marry again and lose it again, because what woman can really say they really love someone that they have no real inkling of. I thought about Laura again and again, and always secretly wondered what kind of children the two of us might have produced. But firstly, Laura grew up as the "lady of the house" tending to her dad and younger brother, in the absence of her mother. She wanted no part of the stay at home, baby maker, mommy thing.

I was more than a little concerned about what kind of special issues might be raised, by the children we might have had, and I had a friend who was my number one fan, and never gave me any attitude except to make a point, and left it at that, when she did. Why would I want to mess that up by marrying her? Lovers came and went, and usually in that order. But Laura was always like a welcomed sister to me. We could share any and all secrets, and still feel the same as ever about each other.

I came back to Rochester, after my second failed marriage and my last couple Ultra missions went sour. I was certain that I had been sold out by my handlers, as I had been very picky about what kind of jobs I'd take, and there was no other way that our targets could know we were coming and from where. Back then, they referred to us as "Black Boys". We'd sneak across the border, carrying no ID whatsoever, crossing no checkpoints and not even having manufacturing tags on any of our clothing so that someone might figure out where we bought them, and trace us by them. I was waking up and breaking free of the MK Ultra conditioning, and that represented all kinds of stress and trouble for me. I got things squared away, and had to prove to Social Security that I had not, in fact been shot to death in Mexico. And decided that I would settle down with a nice Christian girl, that I knew her whole family since she was eleven.

They seemed all grounded and down to earth in their faith, and I thought that was a nice, normal, stable sort of relationship to raise a family in. I particularly liked my mother-in-law too, and was her favorite son-in-law. What could go wrong? Handlers, would play upon the oddities that always had people wondering about me. It took a while to destroy that marriage, because I worked hard at it, and was devoted to raising my kids well. I never had any children by my previous two. In the end, they spread rumors in my jobs, and any decent job I had, never lasted longer than five years before I was out pounding the pavement again, looking for more work. But I certainly wasn't aboout to take any more work from the spooks.

My Christian wife, who made the holiest vows she could make before God, had had enough and broke them all, took my children away and left me. Anything I coud say or do, simply made me out to be the monster, even though no such violence or abuses ever happened against my family. We lived in some rough neighborhoods, and I had more than a few tussles with the local drug dealers and gang bangers, but I always came out on top, and had even prosecuted a few, as a chief witness against them in a court of law. But as I said earlier: In my world, the CIA handlers always twist such things about to where nobody calls me a "hero", but always a monster... like THEY are.

In the process of a long, nasty divorce, I took a job managing a local neighborhood convenience store. I had a good mentor, and not wanting to constantly live all my hurts and outrages, I threw myself into being the best store manager that I could be. I stayed focused on the job, and the pay was okay too. It got a little dangerous now and again, as robberies and gang bangers tried to infringe upon my domain. But let's face it, they had no clue of what they had wandered into, when they picked my stores to victimize. I was steadily racking up a tally of convicted felons for our D.A.'s office, on a really regular basis.

For a while, the Bay Street store would get robbed once a week, whether it needed it or not. But that trend quickly went away when I came on duty there, and similarly so, at a few other of their stores. During this time, I was also managing the North Clinton and Ridge Road store, and making more steady busts than R.P.D.'s Clinton Avenue section. This was back in the general vicinity of Laura's neighborhood, and we became re-acquainted, as all the stories of my latest exploits started circulating around the neighborhood again. I'm nothing, if not consistant, and so was Laura. She was working in the accounting and billing department of a local hospital at this time.

Laura could sniff out a "breed" from nearly a hundred yards away. No kidding. Over the years, she had become acquainted with no few extremely gifted individuals of various walks of life. Most of them had a penchant for being arrogant, self serving and cruel. We figured that it was because so many things came so easily for them, so they spoiled themselves. We, on the other hands, were brought up being responsible to our families and learned that no matter what we could do, to put the needs of others before our own. Might, never made anything right. So we had learned to set our own boundaries on what we found as acceptable behavior in ourselves, while most of the other hybrids indulged their own every whim as they would.

Being somewhat of a larger-than-life "do-gooder", as Laura put it, my reputation preceded me among some of these, and they had no intentions of ever coming at me in cross purposes. Some said I was more like a "full blood", than a "breed" in my inclinations. I wasn't sure at the time, of what that meant, but later I figured that it had more to do because of what I inherited naturally in my mixed gene pool, and then what was conditioned into me via the MK Ultra programs I was involved in. In these times, I learned more and more about how the other half lives, so to speak. Laura had already long ago showed an ability to drain the very life force out of a man if she wanted to. She always carried her age extraordinarily well.

To give you an idea of what I mean: Laura was only three or four years younger than my present sixty years of age. But she would easily be mistaken for a healthy gal of thirty. Her boyfriend, Rolf is only a little more than half her real age but looks like he's the elder of the two of them. He looks sort of like a younger Dolph Lungren kind of guy in Special Forces gear. How some of these "breeds" feed, tends to vary with their types and appetites. Many, like Laura will tend to feed by standing at the edge of large crowds of people, so that no single person gets sapped for too large a portion. They will eat, like anyone else will eat, but hybrids always seem to require something more for life as we know it. Their bodies demand more than "normal" humans demand from them, and they are capable of far more.

Some of the worst of these types, live for the adrenalin rush they get by feeding off of the life forces of people who are terrified and afraid. It is like seeing someone addicted to a drug like heroin or the likes. I found that I can feed off life force too, but I prefer more the flavor of tapping into Nature. That makes me the hybrid equivalent of a vegetarian tree hugger, to most. I don't like the flavors that I find in most people, and I don't like being a drain on anyone. Others, don't come with these kinds of scruples.

I've even heard of "sanguine" feeders, like blood vampires, except I'm not sure if I've ever personally met any of these. I've been to a few exclusive parties where blood was served, but it was usually known to be beef blood, in the circles I've traveled in. Some of the satanic cults, serve and share some of their own blood at banquets, or some of that of their willing victims. It can be a really kinky world, out there. And then there's those, who feed on more bizarre and perverse things still. But I don't really want to get into those. The world is a great deal bigger and broader in its color pallette, than you've ever been taught to expect. Some of it considerably more kinky, and decadent than you ever thought possible. But these are the appetites of the very rich and powerful.

Armani suits and Prada heels may help paint a picture to most of you of authority and respectability. But then face it: What you THINK is a normal, work-a-day draft horse or sleepwalker like yourselves, by what you see on the outside, barely goes skin deep on the individuals you are looking at. A nice haircut and a business suit is simply another layer of deception, for many to use against their victims. This is not to say ALL of them are hybrids, or that ALL of them have dark appetites. It is merely to say that such, is surely not uncommon in the world, that you think you know, around you. What gets taught as FACTS in the schools that you went to, are not taught as such, where some of us others, have come of age in.

Off and on for many years, Laura complained of "demonic problems" of one sort or another. Some might label some of it as poltergeist phenomena, and some of it in other ways. But I've found that Laura had a really good handle on what she was dealing with. Though she would call upon my help as a "witch of the blood" on occasion, to clear out the activities in her house, after her dad had passed away to cancer. She wasn't too comfortable at first, when I offered to teach her some of my craft. Someone of her natural talents would make a first rate witch. But she was concerned that it would only aggravate the demonic elements that she was often vistied by. She was a dear girl all the time I knew her, but cats and dogs never liked her. There just always seemed to be something contrary in their nature. I, on the other hand, always became the best friend immediately upon meeting any animal, whether wild or domestic.

It was years later, when I opened up WitchClan.com as an international communications hub for our clan, and then other interested witches as well, when Laura got more involved with this aspect of training. People used craft names and there was no registry online that contained anyone but my own legal names or addresses, so even though we were under government scrutiny, even as you are today, we could speak and share as we would without fear of persecution. Laura started relating well to all the witches there online, and learning more and more at her own pace.

It was a few years after I had left spending 12 hour days managing Top's stores for them, that I took a position at the hospital where Laura worked. I worked on several commitees and boards and I also worked in maintenance in the radiation oncology department on evenings, after everyone went home for the day. After her shift upstairs was over, Laura would come down to the vaults, of lead lined walls and coded locks, and hang out with me as I worked, and we'd talk and I'd teach her much of the rudments of witch craft and spellcraft. She was smart as a whip, and hungry for knowledge. She made even my toughest days brighter by her presence. I say that, because by this time, I was suffering the ravages of two strokes, diabetes, moderate narcolepsy and radiation poisoning. When I was 40 years old, much like Laura, I would still be carded to buy beer or tobacco products. But now the ravages of the life I had led, were catching up with me, and the years were treating me most unkindly.

In the past, one of our favorite arguments was whether or not I was truly immortal and never likely to die. I had been back and forth across that line several times in my life. So I believed that I certainly COULD die, but that in the past, events turned out as such, that somebody or something was always there to pull me back across. To which she would argue in her own stubborn way that this was precisely the point, that SOMETHING would ALWAYS happen to prevent it from happening. As sore and sick as I've been, I certainly hope that's not the case. Because I have nothing to fear about crossing over, and it would certainly be a pleasant change of pace from life in this darkly corrupt and ignorant realm of existence.

If anything, she was looking like she was handling life better than I was. If anyone was going to outlive the other, I would have been more certain that it would be her out surviving me, and not what it now is. I'd have traded places with her in a New York minute, but I also am very aware that she is presently in a much happier state of being than I am, and would argue: Why should I have all the fun?

We had many adventures in the course of our years together at the hospital. We had met another type of hybrid, that we had never seen or really suspected before. A strange young woman with large battleship gray eyes. Laura sensed her from the moment she walked into the hospital and sought her out. I had met her while waiting for an elevator. Laura had long taken to wearing blue contact lenses, that made her eyes look green, instead of that brassy color. I would have passed those as a very pale hazel, but she wanted to better blend in, and not draw so much attention to her unusual nature. As it was, she was nearly twice the age she appeared to be. Most people would have looked upon her, or the gray eyed gal as simply striking, or exotically unusual, and not thought any more about it.

The woman opened up and chatted more easily with Laura than with me, though the three of us enjoyed a few good lunches together in the hospital cafeteria. Within the week, we saw Security escorting the woman out of the hospital. Rumor had it that she had been caught stealing something. But I served on the Employee Dispute board and would have seen some note on her exiting us in this manner, to be ready for it just in case a dispute on this case arose. But we never saw or heard from her again after that. We didn't know what to think about it.

Laura saw what was happening on a regular basis in my life with handlers and all, and had her own reasons for fearing being brought under such programs, though we never specifically spoke of why, or what such experiences as she may have ever had. Anyone who has endured the ravages of MK Ultra or MK Monarch, can relate to the PTSD those experiences bring on. So, it's wiser not to push such people over much, and let them open up about them, in their own times. If ever. When the Gray Lady was taken out from among us, we both started to wondering, if there was something moving among our hospital staff that would be singling out hybrids like us. It sounded more than a little paranoid to even us, but still there was that nagging feeling.

On one evening, when Laura was working overtime on a later shift than usual, she was taking some paperwork down to the Research Department. As she got closer to the area, she became aware of a wild wailing sound, as if someone was crying out for their lives. Things seemed "normal" enough with the staff as she got there. Nobody but her, seemed to be aware of the wailing. Since she couldn't be sure of where I'd be at this hour of the night in my department, she got online to WitchClan.com and posted an urgent message, on our Inner Circle Forum, which was hidden from any public viewing. I would check in regularly as I could, and I picked up on the message much later that evening, after everyone had left Research. When I come into the hall, I too heard the incessant wailing in my head. It was not an area that either of us ever had much cause to enter before. So, this could have been going on for some time, and we'd never have been aware of it.

I had the codes for most of the restricted areas, as I tended to assist most of the technical contractors who visited, to work maintenance on all of the high tech equipment. In this department, the old head of the department, had died of another stroke, and a whole new research staff was settling in and cleaning out all the old junk, and obsolete equipment, and gearing up for all new technology. I had taken it on to keep them supplied with rolling dumpsters, to clear out all of the old stuff, to go down to our Recycling Department. Nobody was present, so I followed the wailing to a utility room. Everything was slated to be cleared out, but they hadn't gotten to this room yet. It was dusty and full of all sorts of boxes of old documents and interesting glassware. In one dusty, unmarked box was a tiny skull of only about six inches measured from its perfectly formed crown, longwise, to its tiny chin.

 

When I opened it to look inside, the skull sort of smiled at me. Yeah. Of course a skull smiles, you say, but the wailing stopped, and I felt like comforting whoever the skull belonged to. I looked about in the old books and notes, and found that this skull had originally come from Flores Island, Indonesia. It had belonged to a mature woman, fully grown, and perfectly proportioned, at just over three feet tall! We couldn't find the rest of the woman's bones, and in those lands, it is accursed to be separated from one's head in death. Apparently she had suffered some kind of head trauma, by the hairline fracture on her left cheekbone, and had been brought to a local jungle clinic, and had died there, with no next of kin to come and claim her body.

Her perfectly formed, uniquely petite skull ended up being taken by the medical staff, as a medical curiosity or anomaly. Further studying revealed to our Inner Circle participants on WitchClan that this skull was that of a species of hominid known as Homo Florensis, a.k.a. a "hobbit", also formerly known among the Indonesians as "Ibu Gogo". I rescued her from the trash bin, and made a warded glass case to keep her head in the peace, and respect that it deserved, and since we had no name for her, the clan named her as 'Lilalu Ibu" or Grandmother Lilalu. You may see a short video with her on my WitchMan53 YouTube channel.

 

The very air about us at the hospital was changing, and inspite of all the good things happening around the hospital; things were looking rather ominous for us. For reasons beyond my understanding, my dosimeter badge was repeatedly showing overexposure to massive doses of radiation, and not the type easliy identified in the kinds of equipment I was working around. Each has its own specific radiation signature. For my first four years working in that clinic, my dosages were well below even the dosages commonly absorbed in the Emergency Room. Which is to say, very reasonably small. Now there were massive overexposures, and I had to be moved to different parts of the hospital to avoid any more exposure.

Laura was planning upon selling her dad's old house, that she and Rusty grew up in. Rusty was doing well in an engineering job in Arizona, and Laura had met and hit it off with some of my old unit members of the "Disney Toons", from back in my active Ultra days, and they seemed to enjoy swapping stories about all the crazy shit they've seen me do on the job. Most of them were living out west, and out of the cold damp weather that makes an old warhorse feel every old injury. So Laura had me come over to help move some furniture and get the house ready for sale. It took the better part of a couple years to sell it, but eventually she did, and then she moved out to her brother's house in Arizona, until she could find something on her own.

As long as we had Witchclan.com, it was no problems with her keeping us abreast of all the latest news. I got to hear from some of my old friends, and Laura had a bunch of new and humorous stories to share with us all. She tried out a few covens out there, and after more than a few years exposure with myself and other Witchclanners, she pretty much declared that some witches were just "plain old goddamned crazy as batshit". Eventually, she met a few worthy witches that she could relate to.

Among all the ex-specs and black ops boys living in the same area, as many of the Disney Toons had settled in, Laura met Rolf and that seemed to be a match made in heaven. I'm not sure if he ever became aware that she was nearly twice his age. But Laura was moving about to avoid detection, and as she certainly didn't look like she was nearing upon 60, I saw no reason to let that cat out of the bag. She was happy. Though Rolf was not particularly happy about a poster sized pin up of myself hanging in Laura's bedroom. Laura has all her own kinks and quirks, and will have her way. So that poster was staying put, whether Rolf liked it or not.

It might better soothe his feelings to know, that I have never slept with his favorite girl. Before she left for Arizona, Laura had managed to catch me in a bad bet. Usually, I don't bet at all unless I've got information that I'm pretty certain of. So it's a bad idea to bet me on anything at all. But this one had a tricky side to it, and as loser, I had to submit to have some nude pictures of myself taken. Which she then gathered up, and had made into her own calendar pin-ups, that she shared with some of the other witches at WitchClan. I can't remember exactly what the bet was all about, but I think I was Mr. October or November on that calendar, as Witch of The Month. One of these, she had blown up into a huge poster, that she hung in her bedroom, with all due humor of things hung, hanging so... and even if I could find a copy of it, I'm not posting it here... at least not ALL of it.

A contact was made with "Minnie Mouse", which was our old go-to gal and CIA liason with the Disney Toons, way back in our active days. She leaked it out to our former unit leader, "Mickey Mouse" aka "Iron Mike", that the spooks had dosed my diabetic insulin with snake venom. I was about half way into a tainted vial, when I noticed I was bleeding out of a few unsettling orifices, and ditched about six bad vials out of that batch. It was good news to get, but nobody in our unit, and especially Laura trusted the CIA. We all just figured that it might just be a plan by them, to help get Minnie back into everyone's good graces and handle us all some more. But it had the opposite effect, and the gang started changing addresses a bit more frequently. After an attempt on my life, by a suspicious pair of contractors at the hospital, that had nearly electrocuted me; I too left the hospital and my old apartment for parts unknown.

 For the past couple years or so now, all of us have been moving about, getting information out to people who can make use of it. Helping out at rallies, and protests, concerning the corrupt government that is plaguing us all. For my 60th birthday, Laura had made and sent me a strawberry pie. She knows how I loathe birthday cakes. But with me, a good piece of pie, will always make up for a lousy meal. A couple weeks after that I had some more contact with her about some problems that I was undergoing with my family, and she was working out when she could bake me yet another pie, or help in some other way. It was after that, when I got the text from Laura's phone, from Rolf, that she had taken on an under-the-table waitressing job to raise some extra cash, and was hurt bad, in a head on car crash by a drunk driver. She was almost 2000 miles away, and there was nothing I could do to help or save her from this threat. Rolf and the surviving Toons, had assured me that this would be the very last DWI. that this drunk would ever get. Nothing more needed to be said beyond that. I know that drill.

 I spent years of my life, devoted to raising and training my children to be nobody's victims. I once heard my daughter Bex remark how I should relate to a movie called "Fish Story". It was a story about a man, that told his kids a bunch of tall tales about his life. There was a kind of magic to the ending, but it left me feeling sad: That after all of her years, sharing my skills and training with them, and seeing me, and themselves do things, that most other kids only ever see in action movies, that she would regard my life as "fish tales". In reality, I really haven't shared the half with them, or anyone else, of all of what I really have been through. Most of it gives me real pain to relive, even in recollections. I feel bad for that, and I reckon that I will not share another word with my children about anything after this.

 

There was this one gal, who was with me, and followed my deeds, for easily the past 40 years. Laura knew where the fish tales ended, and the truth began. And she heard MOST of those tales, from sources other than myself. I would have liked them all to have met, and heard her tell those tales of back at Parkside Ambulance, or the stories from some of my old unit. I think their sleepwalking mother, and fellow church members managed to convince them all, that my life and what they could remember doing with me, could never have truly happened as such.

Everybody knows that life is all about going to church on Sundays, buying a home, raising a family and putting on your blinders faithfully, as you pull that cart in your work-a-day life, and be sure to pay your taxes. As more and more of my contemporaries die off, to one cause or another, I am sitting here alive, and watching everything that I ever did and stand for, reduced to "fish tales". And nobody's left, but a crazy old man like me, to say any differently about it. But you know how cranky and argumentive, us cranky old geezers can get. Who's ever going to believe that old crock of shit?

God, how sorely I miss Laura already! It would have been kinder, had I died with her, and she was such wonderful company to keep in all the times that I was privileged to know with her.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.10.2013

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To My Favorite Witch... Laura