Mr. Weathers' Report

One of the items arousing great curiosity at the “Old Folks Center of the Stars” outside of Los Angeles 2009-2013 was the contents of a drive off my Fuji camera I’d like returned to me along with all else I’ve ever lawfully owned. No? That simply can’t be the answer, or I’ll have to see my local Islamic State recruiter. He’s in Rolla, Missouri? My early 1980’s “I’m going to blow-up the campus radio station” story? YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR IT, like sex in West Hollywood. The USPS representative did not put junk mail from that Missouri particular mosque in his circular file with my checks? Today, it all adds up.

“Crazy William” saw my photo, and reportedly died. He was famous in my mind for paying to attend all of the old fogies’ events. No lowlife stealing of food. As I said to a miscreant daughter of a prominent attorney, “Don’t take their food. They’ll call the cops.” Back then, my words were heeded. Would you like to sleep in a closet for eight days straight of rain, rain, rain? Like a certain .mil family’s “Shark Cam,” you’d think some engineer could get the water down to LA. Oh, no! They would rather filter potty water, and I’m not wired together right? Really? Mike K. gave me a flash-zip-jump-thumb drive to get those shots off of there—again. Rumor had it the man who forgot his external drive on Christmas Day was Secret Serbian, Brown Division. Trish was all that? The visit we never forgot.

You were there, tax thief St. Louis stadium booster? No, you were not. The sing-song voice snuck up on me. She said, “William, the Secret Service is in trouble again.” And I said? “What is it this time?” She said? “Something about whores and missing money in South America; it’s all over the news.” He said, “I’ll have to look into it when I get over to that damn library.” Later, when I got a very dirty look from a young black woman who was the only “person of color” in the library, I thought, “That’s not Obama’s daughter.” The evil look for the rest of the library patrons? Let’s just say they lived another day.

BOWIE = Badge, please.

HUTTON = Badge, please.

JOHNSON = Badge, please.

TUMBLESON = Extradition from Costa Rica, please.

SCHULTZ = A big, fat, subpoena. When? 2020?

Moving on to the photo above, I hopped up on a wall, looked around, hit the shutter, turned to look behind me, and a man was standing there who had come from nowhere, as did the little plane that hit the big plane outside San Diego. Some of my first downloaded last words per your NTSB were, “I think he’s under us” and “We’re hit” (by the invisible plane). And the “cut-out” flying club is still there? I’ve got missiles, and Boeing has drones; perhaps we should schedule a legal proceeding, or sound the EBS tone. You decide, because I’m the one who has to walk to the fucking Family Dollar.

That look says, “I’m waiting for the world to change.” You’ll wait a long time if I don’t get my money. You already in pre-production, crooked H-town Jews? The fictional one about me! Yes, I’m in there for eight long years, not that “Other Bill,” and as the spacecraft approaches Mars, of course I’m out of time, and that SOB Bush is elected right on schedule to take credit for the…Is the 2010 model HP hacked to bits yet? Carly will send someone over, right?

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