08.10.2017
Chief
Jaffe –
Joe
Hartnett is the unlucky Sargent who gets this in his mailbox too! Fortunately, I
am “involuntarily retired” and have the time to piece together what a writer
like me calls “The Narrative.” Problem with your bank? Phone provider?
Satellite TV company? Better have a pen that works and get all of the names! Some of them may not be real as
the problem persists and drives you nuts. Just call again and listen to the
music on hold.
Back
in 2007, I thought movie scene type people were “picking” my locks at the
catchy address of 911 St. Rita, and
a locksmith agreed. I had already alleged the City of Clayton Missouri had
renumbered my block to get the address and noted, thanks to the County Assessor,
that many had “turned over” their building just before a building named the
“World Trade Center” fell down in 2001. The Army lawyer next door to the north
admitted he worked in secret prisons, and an Air Force man to the south talked
“car talk” with me out back. (He drove a Mazda Miata; my Nissan 240SX went
“missing,” along with everything I ever accumulated from wages, not selling
drugs). Must be that book I wrote about 9/11 and secret prisons!
Moving
along to my calls to your department on 9 August, 2017 I have to wonder how
cops nationwide can beg for “tips” and then consistently fail to call back or
provide info on the simplest of matters. I have thus coined a new term. It is
“Reverse-Paranoia.” Yes, the hippie and Vietnam protester thought the police
were coming to take them away, whereas now, the powerful marijuana that may
have made them clinically paranoid is oddly legal in a growing number of
states. Thus, the United States Government is apparently allowing a “flip-flop”
on 90+ years of social policy. Sorry,
pot is bad for you. Today, we don’t have to be “paranoid,” because the
average cop avoids getting out of the police car if he or she can get away with
it. On TV shows? Female cops who weigh 120 pounds are slamming big thugs to the
concrete and taking them away. I see this unconstitutional crap every day on
what I call “The Mind Control Screen.”
The
U.S. legal system now seems to be: “I’ve got a badge, you are going to jail.” Yes,
my maternal uncles thought I should become a cop and they uttered this post-arrest
joke often. It was: “We’ll think of something on the way to the station.” The
ACLU is going to help me? Not with me calling them “A bunch of cowards” since
about 1982. This is when I read-up on Exception 1 to the Freedom of Information
Act (FOIA). It essentially allowed the government to say, “If we think it’s a
secret, it stays secret.” The ACLU honchos in New York went along with this,
most likely to stay in bed with politicians of that era.
Out
in California, I was illegally ticketed by a bastard of a deputy who had stupidly
said, “Teachers are liberal, cops are conservative.” I gave consent for a photo
and later became convinced some kooky lawmen and rich kids have a game that
goes like this: “Hey, the dude is dead and I have the last picture of him!”
Where is the photo that was taken of me along with having received a $5 gift
from the Senior Deputy that was supposed to be for bus fare to Ventura,
California? My now deceased Star Trek
actor & financial backer was told this: “Given I seem to be homeless and
the cops don’t bother me, it would not be smart to move to a different town.” Sheriff
deputies promptly resumed harassing me after that remark, and I spent many
hours wondering about Victor Lundin’s intentions. It was absurd, and the best
example I can cite was being told to “move on” near grade schools when I could
honestly tell the deputy I had taught at a public high school and cleared every
background check known to your government. This did not matter to California’s criminals
in brown uniforms.
Here’s
what I want:
JERRY BROWN’S ass
in prison.
GREG TOTTEN’S ass
in prison.
GEOFF DEAN’S ass
in prison.
ED TUMBLESON’S
ass in prison.
DEPUTY KAROL’S
ass in prison.
DEPUTY LOPEZ’S
ass in prison.
DEPUTY
CARLSON’S ass in prison.
Former
California AG Kamila Harris is staying off my “Please Indict” list for people
who need to be jailed by a pubic hair. Oh, she’s going to be your next president?
Over my potentially dead body that is very much related to Howard Robard
Hughes, Felix Turner Hughes, Harold E. Hughes, Richard J. Hughes, William J.
Hughes, Charles Evans Hughes, and by golly, Archaleus Hughes worked for George
Washington. (Consult your dollar bill for his image). John R. Hughes was one of
the first Texas Rangers and looked just like me? I called the Ranger museum and
got the impression they don’t like this Hughes there because my credentials as
a political “liberal” have been known in Texas since H.W. Bush owned Zapata
Oil. My old joke about his son was: “He had to succeed with owning the baseball
team; it’s like printing money.”
I
later defended Jeb Bush on a conservative talk show in Dallas, but I’m sure
they destroyed the tape by now. Fair & balanced gets you nowhere in today’s
USA, so I’m ready to go back home to Wales as soon as someone provides some help.
(The Hughes family arrived with royal land grants and lots of cash in about
1700, I discovered). The ancestral research began with an ancestry.com page
displaying my mother and Howard R. on the same page. No wonder the Ventura
County Sheriff took that along with my screenplays which are no longer for sale
to greedy Hollywood Jews.
If
I ever get to the National Press Club, a theme could well be “Dreams Die Hard
When Your Name is Hughes.” How well I remember my late dad’s Washington D.C.
job offer in 1971. Ever the Parliamentarian, our “blended family” voted. The
measure was defeated by a 7-2 vote with Charles E. Hughes and this writer the
only “Ayes” for a bigger house and suburban Virginia swimming pool. If the vote
had gone our way, I may have been the one building a library instead of Mr.
Obama. Now that all of my dreams are dead, I simply hope to depart USA in one
piece and add a few books of mine to the stacks in surprisingly vibrant
bookstores.
The Narrative
First,
on 08/06/2017, I looked up social worker Karen Landman’s precinct which is #24.
The NYPD search box could not locate the same information when provided with
the Bustle company address.
Second,
I took a guess at Precinct #6 for Bustle and reached a Detective Albericci who
said to call Precinct #13.
Thirdly,
I called the Precinct #13 Community Affairs number. This was in regard to 28
year-old female Alexandra Finkel. I was the babysitter and later chauffeur for
Alex and her many teenaged friends. During the message, I wondered aloud to
your department if employment at Bustle was entirely voluntary because the
founder struck me, to be quite frank, as a “creep” and possibly not so nice of
a guy. This call did not produce any response in 24 hours.
Fourthly,
at about 9:15 a.m. on 08/07/2017 I called the detective number at Precinct #13
and was told that squad was only for homicides. I complained mildly to a
Detective Rickford that the Community Affairs call had not been returned and
noted this was not a high priority item, although to me the “smell test” had
been flunked long ago. Why? Ms. Landman posted an odd comment on my Linked-In
page, so I looked her up and called. This began a series of e-mail messages and
phone calls about social work. Noting she lived in Manhattan, and the fact
Bustle does not publish a phone number anywhere, I asked that she go to the Bustle
office and suggest Alex call me. Meantime, Alexandra had sent several e-mail
messages from Bustle and provided a gmail account address. Suspicion was raised
by Alex not replying to the gmail box she had provided on her Bustle account,
the fact her Twitter page ended in 2016 with a New Year’s resolution, and her
own mother had reported, “She doesn’t ride the subway much” and “She doesn’t go
out much.” Thinking I was still a friend of their family, I asked, “Why has she
not married a nice young guy?” The thought was she may be “married to the
company” as with many young professional females in your fair city. Her mother
then began the unprovoked hurling of insults by e-mail which is not new
behavior and an entirely separate issue.
I
then tried reaching Ms. Landman by phone, and received no callback. Now, let us
be clear that I am the good guy, yet
your detective immediately started insinuating I had done something to alienate
these two New Yorkers. On the contrary, and all e-mail between the parties
(Landman & A. Finkel) could be forwarded if we are, as my late dad would
say, “Making a federal case out of it.” Pardon me, but I find it odd when
people seem happy to communicate and then…SILENCE.
I’ve
gotten this cold shoulder often since two elderly gentleman approached me on
the street in 2013 Los Angeles and excitedly said, “Can we tell you a story
about Howard Hughes?” Apparently, in exchange for watching over his aircraft,
the two storytellers were treated to breakfast in Lubbock, Texas and were as
excited as the day it allegedly happened. This writer could have been a great
detective because my only question was, “They had a lunch counter at a little
airport?” The elderly men said they did, and I believed them. They also relayed
what they claimed was Howard’s “favorite plane,” a modified B-18 bomber. Did I
mention I gave no introduction? During that miserable period of LA torment, I was
photographed often and promised Melvin Dummar from a pay phone he would someday
be paid his 156 million dollars. His wife Bonnie is what my late mom would call,
“A scream.” “Melvin’s out slopping the hogs,” she said in a first phone call
that should have sealed movie rights and a large sum of money for me by now.
Fifth,
the referral from smart-ass Rickford was to a Sgt. Johnson who seemed to
indicate two of your thousands of cops would find a few minutes to simply ask:
“What’s up?” or more appropriately, “Is everything okay?” over at Bustle. How
could your detective know I’d made and taken hundreds of calls from police, who
when sent on a “safety check” or mental health crisis here in the Saint Louis
area always claimed that, “Nothing was going on.” Later, I’d often have
panicked citizens back on my state agency phone, leading to allegations widely
shared about “lazy cops,” “dirty cops,” and “killer cops.”
As
of today, 11 August, 2017 nothing has been conveyed about Ms. Landman’s
well-being or Ms. Finkel’s. To my astonishment, I received a tweet from the
woman who had written about Bustle founder Mr. Bryan Goldberg in Business Insider.
She’s the U.S. Editor in Chief, but this buys no doughnut or cup of coffee in
the land. This, along with salutations from a writer at Yahoo Finance may mean
the dam is going to break soon about who I am. Yes, I am a liberal, and a stern
capitalist, yet I happen to think the USA’s wealthy should be taxed like in
England or France. Why won’t the likes of Mr. Trump cough up 55, 60, or even 70%
on their earnings at the margin? I realize most beat cops don’t discuss the
elasticity of money, but it does mean simply that a dollar is worth more to a
hobo than within Trump Tower.
Lately,
I think my newfound anger and rejection of all I’ve known previously is the
capstone of simply grieving the loss of Charles E. Hughes, who I will allege in
courts of law was a vastly older brother, not my dad. What kind of family does
not tell the eldest son dad died, rents a “drug house” to the next of kin, and
remains eerily silent on how dad died. How about I produce an anti-drug commercial
like the famous old one with eggs frying in a pan featuring a voice-over that
says:
“This is your family on meth.”
I
see a frame house with flaking paint, a car on cinder blocks, laundry hanging
on the porch rail, a trash can dumped on its side, a dog running around loose,
and into the drive pulls a new maroon pickup truck. Yes, the meth is so “clean”
these days, they don’t perceive anything is wrong until they lose their job and
blame it on a relative, like me.
Regarding
Catalina Island, Howard liked to deliver cases of beer personally, if he liked
you. My dad’s exact quote was: “We had very little free time, but there was a
movie theatre.” That would be in Avalon, California where Howard likely brought
the brew and some loose women. My detractors are so nutty, they would say, in
the face of documents that proved the airplane old guys on Cesar Chavez identified
for me landed on the same small island where Charlie was training for the
Merchant Marine, “Aw, that doesn’t prove a thing.” Latent commie kooks and
neo-Nazis would say this, however what I was told in California was, “Gay guys
are half of your problem.”
A
DNA test proves it all. That’s why I’ve been cast by the wayside at the Wayside
Motel.
Let’s
chat soon.
Thanks,
William
C. Hughes
