"Missed her by that much," in ATLANTA.
02/06/2019
Dear Officer Hind Legget:
Now that we have established I am not “mental” under the statute
(RSMO 632) I worked with as basically a “Mental Health Cop” and extension of
the Circuit Courts, I am not fussing with the Windows 7 search box. This
feature does not work like “friend of the writer” Vista XP that finds
everything via a search term. What I want to find NOW can’t be found due nutty
Artificial Intelligence (AI) programming put on the laptop you saw yesterday.
True it is that the Compaq’s old White House role was to shoot missiles off
drones at alleged bad guys. I don’t think all of them were that bad, which
explains a woman I am sure was a former Iranian president’s daughter giving me
a New York film school hat in Los Angeles.
The hat was stolen in Los Angles last year like all of my
screenplays from the first damn keystroke. The fake Secret Service present when
the hat was gifted in 2013? As I often say, “Arrests, please.” What does this
have to do with Clayton? Here is the account of my 2014 drugging at the
Starbucks where you dropped by. The furniture is arranged differently, and
after reporting this IN WRITING to the manager and calling the Starbucks 800
twice, I gave them a deadline to call about forking over some MONEY out of
court.
Meanwhile, I seem to be unwelcome at the courthouse down the
street where a spooky janitor once said, “Hurry up and wait.” Baker Hughes and
the Hughes Medical Institute were not on my mind back then, my Clayton neighbors
were. One worked at a “secret” prison in Afghanistan, and on the other side I
chatted with the U.S. Air Force man. “Car talk” it was amid spying, illegal
break-in’s, and constant attempts on my life. Perhaps you’d like to pull my
letter to Chief Byrne, which I am sure made perfect sense, as did the licensed,
bonded, locksmith who confirmed the illegal entries and—ha ha!—was hired again
in 2016 at the Nagel “Drug House.”
The “trouble” at this Starbucks began with an allegation from a
heavy set white female who looked like a St. Charles housewife who accused me
of being a “bum” and wanting a refill price without paying the larger cost first.
Thus began my practice of saving Starbucks receipts. At the time I was paying
$350 to a slum lord mobster for rent, and thus had a City of St. Louis address
I’d like to forget. I was told “Sign the lease or else” by a supposed
“friend.” This still strikes me as ILLEGAL, as with when he stole a copy of my
book on national security. Want to know what the men from every defense company
in USA said outside LA? Sorry, some of it was and is secret.
On the “drugging day” I guess to be mid-December, 2014 I did not
see the usual “Man on the Apple computer” and don’t ask me what he is always
doing in addition to staring at me. Nor was my old coworker LAURA CROSS eating
a frosty Starbucks treat on the south side of the store while staring at a man
on the north side. Laura was from Texas, I was told at BJC Behavioral Health.
She married a black man also from Texas and went home. What was she doing in
the 2 N. Central Starbucks? Unknown.
The drugged coffee came from a Verona pot and was served by a
short white female with shaggy dishwater blond hair. I usually go for the dark
roast, but it was maybe a third cup, so I asked for the lighter blend. It
tasted odd, and as has happened too many times, thank God I did not drink the
entire cup.
Previously, I had been bold enough to introduce myself to a
presumed Disney executive who was conducting a meeting with two other people
about the fate of one of their radio stations. Anyone I’ve ever known can tell
you I am not a “ladies man,” but this one with dark hair and two-tone leather
pants was irresistible. I got a firm handshake and an amusing, “Where am I?”
from her. I said, “You are in Clayton, Missouri. I used to live here.”
Later, she walked past and declared, “You will be knocked out!”
This was back when punks were punching each other in the U. City Loop as some
sort of “game,” and that is what I thought she had joked about. What happened
was I awoke the next day unable to move for about 45 minutes. I remained calm
and eventually pulled myself up off the 216 Nagel floor. THAT is what she had
referred to—a timed release tranquilizer of some kind would be my guess, and
more of it would have killed me, I am sure. I HAVE NO REMOTELY SIMILAR MEDICAL
PROBLEM, be it documented or not.
A few days later as an alleged “friend” transported me to a
CRICKET store on South Grand, I saw this woman again jogging north on the west
side of the street. She looked at me on the passenger side of the SUV as we passed
to communicate, “You are in deep doo doo.” This day’s attire was red shorts and
the mandatory dark sunglasses. I am sure it was the same person. I took that as
a warning, and what has happened since? Down to the gutter and a homeless
shelter where half of the “residents” could not name the current Vice
President. Yes, the man I e-mail worked for Joe Biden, so never say I don’t
look for work. I said, “Get me some bifocals, and I’d put the hair in a
ponytail” as WHITE HOUSE PRESS SECRETARY. I can’t do the job? I can’t get an
e-mail out most days, I’ve been so attacked electronically and threatened
physically. The expression is, “I’m gonna beat your ass” and the other is, “I’m
gonna bust your head.” My, it would be nice to have some NAMES for those bastards.
Thanks,
William Charles Hughes
>>AGAIN, before I could get this e-mail out, early this
morning [02/06/19] someone said, “I’m goin’ to knock the shit out of him.” On
the other side of Anarchy Avenue, I am allowed to call my former employer and
say, “How can I get this big fat predatory queer to Farmington where he
belongs?” I know a psychiatrist there who will be happy to “help” him.
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