My Life So Far, Vol 4

While I was on Okinawa, I began to research the various technical aspects of my job as a field radio operator. Remember all those formulae and equations you learned in high school for waves and light? I am here to tell you they actually do have an application in the real world. By dividing the speed of light by the frequency of the specific radio channel I was assigned to use on a specific day I could calculate the wavelength. I could then cut a piece of communications wire (com-wire) into a harmonic of that length and have a perfect, field expedient antenna that didn’t have to be tuned to the frequency to work.

Whenever I tried to explain in quick terms what I was doing, the eyes of my listeners always glazed over and I lost them, mostly because they forgot all the background information. I made myself an expert on the creation of field-expedient antennas because I saw the need in my unit. Of course, when I began to improve myself in relation to my job, I was yanked out of it for six months. In the summer of 1977, I was volunteered for Camp Guard.

Camp Schwab on Okinawa did not have military police stationed full time to patrol and enforce law and standing orders. Most of the time, Marines are a pretty law abiding group. But when you have over three thousand trained killers on a hundred and eighty acres things can sometimes get interesting in the Chinese sense of the word. We were not only tasked with interior guard duties, we filled in as provost marshal surrogates on the base. I was trained in methods of subduing trained Marine infantry men without doing any damage to them. Therefor, I don’t swallow the excuses of law enforcement officers that they had to beat someone into submission.

Life in Camp Guard was not as strenuous as the First Tracked Vehicle Battalion radio shop. We stood post, took classes in security work, and stayed ready for contingencies. One contingency we were required to muster in response to was the attempt by Red Army Faction to storm the base on Hiroshima Day, 7 August. I was assigned to secure the beachfront base access from the “protesters” led by RAF agitators. Two Military Police officers from Camp Hansen were sent to “help” us control the crowds. I was in the front line with a six foot staff to hold off a rush. Behind us stood a line of Marines with fixed bayonets on their rifles. Behind the crowd milling before us a RAF operator pulled out a pistol and fired six shots in the air. As the crowd surged forward to escape the gunfire, the two M. P.s took off running, screaming like school girls, and left the infantry Marines to hold the line. The surging crowd pushed us back three feet, and the bayonets were moving forward when the sound of roaring diesels caused the crowd to look to our rear. Two M60 tanks were rolling down the beach to line up their guns on the crowd. They took off running because a 105 millimeter tank gun is bigger than a .380 ACP. We never saw those two M. P.s again.

When my stint at Camp Guard ended, the battalion assigned me to the classified material control center as a clerk. I went to the big base in the Southern end of the island to take the courses on handling and destroying classified documents. My security clearance was upgraded to top secret so I could carry around the messages and orders that had to be seen by the officers and senior staff NCOs. A company grade officer had to accompany us whenever we took documents from the vault to the burn barrel on the roof. I was issued a .45 Colt and a thermite grenade to destroy documents if ever I was attacked. We never faced that problem.

I did get approached by a foreign agent who wanted to recruit me, but after I reported the contact to the Naval Criminal Investigations Division (forerunners to today’s NCIS) for counter intelligence, the guy disappeared from the village. My entire spy-vs-spy career was a real let down. No more agents or intelligence officers from the communist block bothered me.

I stayed in the job for the rest of my time on Okinawa, but I was not exempt from my primary MOS as radio operator. When a typhoon struck the island, while everyone else was buttoned up in the storm-proofed barracks, I was in a poncho with a radio on my back out in the storm, looking for storm damage and other emergencies that would have to be dealt with during the bad weather. I had no complaints, it was my job, and no one else was willing to do it. That was what caused the First Sargent to get really angry, thought I would put up a fuss. I just said, “Aye, aye,” and performed the mission. I watched, and reported, as the wind pushed one amphibious tractor over a hundred feet and another one was rolled on its side.

When the First Sargent couldn’t get me for insubordination as planned, he concocted a plan to get me convicted of violation of a direct order. Our barracks had not been properly cleaned, call a “field day” in the Marines, for over two months. So a field day was planned for the Saturday before I would rotate back to the continental United States. I was assigned to midnight radio watch, 2400 to 0400 hrs. Then when I lay down to rest at 0430, the Sargent in charge was specifically ordered to make me get up and work with the rest. Standing orders are that radio operators who worked the midnight to four watch were exempt from field day the next morning. I hadn’t slept for over twenty-four hours and stood on SOP to refuse the order.

A charge sheet was written and I was brought to the battalion CO for adjudication. The Lt Col went with the First Sargent’s recommendation and found me guilty. The First Sargent told me that if I appealed I would not go home for six months. But I would be allowed to appeal once I got to my next duty station. Needless to say, I opted to get out from under the thumb of a hostile NCO instead of fighting the false charges under the UCMJ.

To be continued….

Ol’ Fuzzy is not employable and was denied for disability benefits. The only thing I have is the blogs. But I don’t qualify for ads on the blogs until September. If you like the scribbles I post, please help me keep it going. You can leave me a gratuity by dropping a buck or two in Ol' Fuzzy's Tip Jar. This is a PayPal account I opened on Wednesday, April 5, 2017.

My Life So Far, Vol. 3

I began a spiritual journey in high school. I had been raised in the Roman Catholic Church, baptized, communioned and confirmed at Saint Peter in Chains Parish in Mt. Clemens. But I felt there was something that rang false in the doctrines taught at CCD on Saturdays. I had read the writings of Saint Augustine, Bishop of Hyppo, the first theologian to write in Latin, and the Bible. These didn’t square with the things the Barefoot Sisters were teaching about the Pope.

One Saturday morning, the sister teaching our class pointed out the window to the Greek church across the intersection from Saint Mary’s School where we took our obligatory classes. She said they are one with the Roman Church, the same Catholic faith. She invited us to visit them sometime. I didn’t go, but I remembered what she had said.

Around that time I began reading the preposterous books of Eric Von Danekken, who tried to prove God is an astronaut from outer space. The oddities he displayed were interesting to read, but the conclusion he drew from it all was to far fetched to swallow. One couldn’t merely suspend disbelief to accept it as state, one would have to hang it with a long drop and extra weight to ensure the neck was broken.

In Boot Camp we were issued New Testaments with Psalms and Proverbs supplied by the Gideons International. I read through the Book of Acts of the Apostles, and every passage Luke referred to that I could find, before I graduated from Boot Camp. At radio school, the message percolated through my soul. I found no pleasure in getting drunk with the other guys, and the desert was calling to me. (Marine Corps Communications and Electronics School is at Marine Corps Base Twenty-none Palms, California, the heart of the great Mojave Desert.)

After radio school I was sent to the Third Marine Division on the island of Okinawa, Japan. Eighteen hours from home by fast airliner, and living with a bunch of warriors who knew if the shoe dropped they were right under its heel, I was already disillusioned with the lifestyle of booze and whores they chased to distract them from the reality in front of them. A small group of us began to experiment with contemplation in the Native American methods, using tobacco as a stimulant and to cleanse us of spiritual influences and sitting in the lonely places by the sea in search of a vision.

That was a wash. The only visions we had were a jumbled mess of confusion and self-congratulation. But one man had a vision that turned out to be prophetic. He saw me suffering many trials and living through much pain and strife. But he said First Man told him Cayote couldn’t trick me into falling for his snares so long as I remained true.

On New Years Eve, 1977, I was in the Club Texas in Henoko Village, Okinawa, drinking strait bourbon and not getting drunk, I didn’t even feel a buzz after six shots. So when the barmaid/pleasure girl brought me a seventh a strange impulse came over me. I turned the shot glass over on the table, leaned back and said, “God, if You are there, and You hear me, show me something better to do tonight.”

I got up like a mean drunk, even though I wasn’t even buzzing, stomped out of the bar and started back to base. When I came to the intersection of Texas Street and Henoko Street, there was a busload of Christians witnessing for Jesus. When they invited me to come with them to their church, spend the night, and attend services the next morning I jumped right into their van. I figured that if God was going to answer my prayer for something better to do with such alacrity, the least I could do is take Him up on it.

It was one of those Full Gospel churches that emphasized speaking in tongues over most of the things Jesus taught. But they did teach the rest of the Gospel in a secondary way, and I took it in. New Years Day, 1978 was a Sunday, and the church held its full service schedule. I attended youth service, Sunday School, and regular service that morning and the two mornings thereafter. That first Sunday I walked the isle and rededicated my life to Christ. They kept urging me to get re-baptized, speak in tongues and quit dipping Copenhagen snuff. But I was scheduled to rotate back to the continental United States in the month of January, 1978. So it was not possible for me to attend the baptismal service they planned in February.

On the temporal side of life, thing happened while I was on Okinawa that destroyed my dream of being a Marine for life. The end of the war in Viet Nam led to a massive Reduction in Force (RIF). The Commandant of the Marine Corps at that time, Gen. Louis F. Wilson, MoH, USMC, decided there were too many fat, lazy NCOs that couldn’t pass a Physical Fitness Test (PFT). He changed the weight standard to the same as the flight weight standard, and I went from being thirty-five pounds under my maximum weight to being five pounds over. Gen. Wilson also ordered that no one could be promoted if they were heavier than the new weight standard. For NCOs above E-5 that meant they would be eliminated from the Marine Corps once they were passed over for promotion three times, once each month for three months. The non-rated men like me could be passed over any number of times without worry about being forced out.

I was put up for meritorious promotion to Lance Corporal (E-3) after only three months time in grade as a Private First Class. But the new weight standard and the no-promotion order kept me from attaining it. For the rest of my time in the Marine Corps, I was submitted for meritorious promotion on the second day of every month (I was that good at my job) and once I had six months time in grade as a PFC I was put up for regular promotion on the first day of every month. In all I was put up for promotion forty-five times from PFC to LCpl. I calculated that if I had been promoted every time I had been put up for it, and taking the General Secretary of the United Nations as one rank above President of the United States, I would have been eighteen ranks higher than God.

I was placed in the remedial weight program for the rest of my time in the Corps. But all the body building I had done in Boot Camp and radio school now inhibited me. If you are doing regular exercise, it is almost impossible to lose muscle mass.

When I first got to the Third Marine Division, I was assigned to Alpha Company, First Tracked Vehicle Battalion. In the radio section of the Headquarters Platoon, we had a corporal who was second in command of the section that told us not to use his name. He wanted us to call him “Farm” because that’s where he grew up, on a farm. I promptly forgot his name and only called him Farm as he wished; he did outrank me by two grades. When I was assigned to provide communications for a training exercise in which the amphibious tractors would swim out to a landing ship, load on the ship at sea, and then unload and swim to shore, Farm told me it was imperative that I keep the battalion operations chief informed if anything happened, because we had an incident in which Marines had drowned when their vehicle sank in thirty feet of water.

The radio net was being monopolized by the ops chief and his diver buddy making small talk contrary to military regulations. When an amtrack’s engine stalled and it had to be taken under tow by another vehicle, I could not convay the information to the ops chief as ordered by my immediate supervisor because of the illegal use of the military channel for private chatter. So as the pressure mounted, I decided to stick my neck out to fulfill my mission. I announced a Flash priority message and then proceeded to inform the ops chief that one vehicle was dead in the water and taken under tow, divers should stand by in case the towing operation failed to bring it to shore before leaks overwhelmed the electrical bilge pumps.

The NCOs were embarrassed by the fact they were violating radio protocol, a standing order. So they turned it against me saying I panicked while at sea and made a false radio call. They couldn’t make it official, because then their own violation would come out in an investigation and they would be punished. Instead they decided to wreck my career with little back-channel comments about me being a trouble-maker. I only desired to carry out my mission, because the lives of my fellow Marines may depend upon it. When it became known that I did that, the tractor crews of Company A began calling me “Flash” and deriding me with the false story of my panic. I knew better, and I decided I didn’t care.

To be continued….

Ol’ Fuzzy is not employable and was denied for disability benefits. The only thing I have is the blogs. But I don’t qualify for ads on the blogs until September. If you like the scribbles I post, please help me keep it going. You can leave me a gratuity by dropping a buck or two in Ol' Fuzzy's Tip Jar. This is a PayPal account I opened on Wednesday, April 5, 2017.

My Life So Far, Vol. 2

In June, 1976, it wasn’t politically correct to enlist in the military services. The draft had ended in 1975. But I had already enlisted in the delayed entry pool before the end of the draft. So even if it hadn’t ended, I wouldn’t have been subject to the draft, I was already committed to serve.

I had always been a social rebel. All of my classmates would talk about doing their own thing, but they all did the same thing. I, on the other hand chose to do something else, that no one else was doing. They dressed in bell-bottoms or baggies and platform shoes. I wore boot cut jeans and Western boots. They listened to disco and rock. I listened to classical and country. They talked about beating the draft. I actually did. When the draft was eliminated I was a Marine.

The Marine Corps chartered a plane to take all the inductees from Detroit and Chicago areas to San Diego, California for boot camp. The aircraft was an older turboprop liner used only for charter service. When we were on final approach to Chicago O’Hare Airport, the wind between the buildings was so fierce the airplane actually flew backwards a few yards in the last leg. But the pilots knew the airport well and made adjustments so we touched down on the sweet spot on the runway. No military cargo pilot could have done a better job.

The problems with the aircraft were not limited to wind. On approach to San Diego Airport, the pilots noted a red indicator light for the landing gear. They had no way to tell if the gear was up or down. So the decision was made to divert to the airline’s corporate headquarters at Long Beach Airport where there were all the support resources to ensure the aircraft would fly again. The flight crew were nervous because there was a very real possibility that the aircraft would crash at landing. All the passengers were inductees into the United States Marine Corps. We were scared too, but we refused to give it place. It was the passengers’ calm, cool demeanor that comforted the stewardesses and pilots as we approached the airport and braced for crash. All the emergency equipment was out and ready. There was talk of spraying the runway with foam, but when the tower saw the landing gear down in the correct position, they decided to forego the foam.

The landing was picture perfect without and untoward incident. But the passengers were many miles away from our expected destination. The airline bought us supper catered in the terminal but the rest of the terminal was closed. So we had to sleep in chairs and on the floor as we waited for the Marines at the Recruit Depot to come and fetch us.

It was a Wednesday when we landed in Long Beach, and we were supposed to be in San Diego that day before 1600 hours to get our barracks assignments. The upcoming weekend was a Federal holiday, Independence Day fell on a Sunday that year, and the Marine Corps was intending to take the whole week off at MCRD San Diego intake. So when we were a day late, we wound up in limbo for that week. We watched a series of movies that Sunday, all of them action flicks of the Marine Corps in WWII and the Korean Conflict. But most of us hated the wait because we didn’t enlist to lounge around, we were there to become Marines.

Finally on July 12, 1976, we met our Drill Instructors. I was in the Third Recruit Battalion. Once we were situated in the squad bay, the D.I.s took us one at a time into the office and interviewed us for potential problems. I admitted that I had once had problems with heat. So I was required to wear a huge “H” on the front and back of my sweatshirt. The senior Drill Instructor, Gunnery Sargent Carver, told me I was a “shit bird” and he was going to see to it I was dropped. I knew better, and he never knew me. I decided to be the best that I could be.

One thing I never did was admit that I was receiving my high school diploma that summer. People with my test scores and a diploma were sent to Officer Candidate School or some other special group. I had learned that standing out in that way was to be a target. So I wanted to be a regular Marine like Uris. I had chosen to go to radio school after Boot Camp so I could be in the same situation as Uris was in WWII. I did not want to learn how to jump out of perfectly good airplanes before they land or swim to shore from a submarine five miles off the coast and twenty feet under water. I knew that if a war started, a radio operator had a larger picture of what was happening than a supply clerk or a grunt. So I never told them I could type and my vision kept me out of the infantry.

One example of the lengths the NCO’s would go to in order to bring their predictions to reality is my rifle qualification in Boot Camp. I always loved the sport of target shooting. I even had a .22 rifle as a teenager so I could plink cans and poke holes in paper. My father had been a soldier in the 1940’s occupation army. He taught me the basics of firearms safety and marksmanship. So when I went to the rifle range in Boot Camp I had something of a head start.

I quickly mastered the Marine Corps method of marksmanship, which is the best I have encountered for teaching people who have never fired a rifle how to hit what they intend to hit. By the end of the first week of rifle training I had gotten used to the unnatural positions from which Marines fired on the Known Distance Course. During the second week my proficiency rapidly improved. At the 200 meter line I had problems in the offhand and kneeling positions, mostly because the M16 rifle is so light that it is hard to hold still in those positions. But at the 300 and 500 meter lines my score was incredible for a bespectacled nerd.

The final day of rifle training we shot for official score. I did respectable at the 200 meter line, only dropping a few points in the offhand and kneeling positions, and only dropping one point in the rapid fire. At the 300 meter line I only dropped three points from the maximum possible, firing a perfect rapid fire. But at the 500 meter line I was getting really hot. I fired seven strait bulls eyes, six in the ‘x’ ring, when someone fired on my target and hit the post. I informed my rifle coach that the target being marked was not fired on by me and he called the butts to tell them I had not fired. While we were trying to get my target cleared up that person fired twice more, one complete miss and one on the one point ring. I lost fourteen points to the subterfuge. It turns out the senior Drill Instructor was in the butts and didn’t want the best score in the platoon to fall to me.

I missed expert by one point because of the cheating of my DI. But I knew that I could shoot when the need arose, so I didn’t care. I re-qualified three more times with my rifle in my Marine Corps career, each time firing expert. The only practice I got was the week of qualification and whatever I did on my own.

In 1804, shortly before he crowned himself Emperor of France, Napoleon was explaining to Marshall Ney how he wanted to establish such equality in France that everyone stood the same height in the social order. Napoleon used a wheat field through which they rode as an example of the even height of social stature he would institute. Ney, it is said, pointed out that some stalks were taller than the others, just as some people would always stand above the rest. How, he asked, did Napoleon plan to deal with that form of inequality? Napoleon drew his sword and smoothly slashed across the top of the wheat, lopping off the heads of the stalks that stood above their neighbors. Now they are all the same height, he told Ney, and that is how we shall deal with the people.

To avoid Napoleons in the Marines, and in other places, I have learned to keep my head down and not stand out from my fellows. I do the best job I can of the tasks assigned. But I never tried to be more than those around me. My ambition was to be a Marine, and I achieved that upon graduation from Boot Camp. So the rest of my time in the Corps was spent being the best at what I was doing, nothing more. To better myself in case of war, I went to the unit library and read all the professional journals of the various arms of the Army as well as the Marine Corps Gazette. Now it has become codified that all Marines must read journals and books. Who would have thought of that in the late 1970s?

To be continued….

Ol’ Fuzzy is not employable and was denied for disability benefits. The only thing I have is the blogs. But I don’t qualify for ads on the blogs until September. If you like the scribbles I post, please help me keep it going. You can leave me a gratuity by dropping a buck or two in Ol' Fuzzy's Tip Jar. This is a PayPal account I opened on Wednesday, April 5, 2017.

My Life So Far, Vol. 1

My Life So Far, Volume One

Those of you who grew up with me will know the first part of this story, but bear with me while I fill in the ones who never met me. I was born in Mt. Clemens General Hospital on August 8, 1958, to Alfred Edward Seys and Laura Mae Seys (nee Laura Mae Aude). Yes, that means I have been twenty-nine years old for more than twenty-nine years. My family, two older sisters and my parents, lived on Tallman Street, though I have no memories of the place and couldn’t find it on a map if I didn’t have GPS.

My earliest memory is of our home in Mt. Clemens at 60 Logan Street, between Cass Avenue and Church Street, one block East of Groesbeck Highway (M97). The first memory I have is of me navigating the stairs in the old house so my mother could put my shoes on my feet and I then went out to find my new friend, Ron Kenyon, down the oiled dirt road. I believe I was around four years old at the time. Life was a great adventure, and I was happy not to know I was poor. We lived on the wrong wide of the railroad, but it insulated us from the intrigues of the city proper.

I attended Woodrow Wilson Elementary School just a short walk up Church Street from my home, and walked home and back for lunch each day. I actually felt sorry for the kids who rode the buses because they didn’t get as much time at home each day. It was here I learned that I was not considered as good as some of the other kids because of the low income of my family. I decided by the third grade that the opinions of others made no difference to me, because I knew my own worth. When the playground bullies found that my feelings went unscathed by their taunts the quickly tired and sought easier prey.

On the day of President Kennedy’s assassination, I was in kindergarten. The school rolled televisions into the classrooms so we could all watch the news coverage of the death of our beloved president. I remember my eyes watering at the obvious distress of the First Lady, Jacqueline Kennedy, until I noticed Martha Stanton crying. It became more important to me to comfort Martha than to cry myself, so I held her hand until she stopped. Martha, please forgive me for embarrassing you like that.

My family suffered some severe setbacks when I was in the second grade under Mrs. Lockwood. My father was hospitalized with a “nervous breakdown” and my mother had gall bladder problems that led to surgery while dad was in the hospital. When mom got home we returned to as normal a life as we could until dad came back from the hospital and returned to work.

My dad was not a very big man at only five feet eight inches, but he was very strong and worked in foundries trimming castings with a swing grinder. I have tried my hand at the work and I know it takes lots of brawn. Dad did this for the whole time we lived in Southeast Michigan. He took me fishing but I only went for his company, I was a lousy angler. My biggest catch was always pan fish too small to keep.

After the sixth grade I attended George Washington Junior High School, walking there from home using Grand Avenue past the old railroad passenger station that was already out of service by nineteen seventy. I played football with Brian Maikoski, Mike Ocianiki, and Jerry Copp, among others. It was there that I fell in love with math and science, in spite of the efforts of Mr. Penzene to destroy my love of math. Were it not for Mr. Penzene, I would have learned to do algebra in the eighth grade and had calculus in high school. As it is I still haven’t studied the calculus in a formal setting. My math education was badly stunted due to his efforts.

In high school at Mt. Clemens Senior High, I took a double science major and a math major, twelve semesters of science and six of math in a school that lasted only eight semesters. Yes I doubled up on science. I also became a history buff. But the curriculum at the high school was not as in depth as the books I was reading in the library across the street. When the history class was studying the Second World War, I asked the teacher to allow me to give the lecture on the Pacific Theater of Operations. I spoke from memory, without notes, but was able to convey the entire information in half an hour so we could have a comment session. The teacher was impressed enough to commend me in front of the class. He said he learned something from my presentation.

In my junior year, two important events took place that shaped the course of my life. I took the PSAT and scored in the top ninety-five percentile, I even have a certificate from the Michigan Department of Education for my high scores. Even the Massachusetts Institute of Technology offered me an academic scholarship. But I knew I was too weak in English to make it at MIT. So my senior year I took the college writing course while all the jocks were taking film study. I always had a writers’ block whenever I was required to write on an assigned subject. I could always write, and write well, when I picked the topic, but whenever the topic was assigned, my mind would blank out and no words ever came. I failed that course and didn’t receive my diploma until the end of the summer of 1976.

In the summer of 1975, I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps delayed entry pool. I wanted to serve my country with the best there was. Even though I recognized that the United States Army was already the greatest in the world, I perceived a difference in the way Marines are trained and the way they perform in battle. I was hooked by the writings of Richard Tregaskis (Guadalcanal Diary) and Leon Uris (Battle Cry). So I had a place to go after school was done for me, and I had a way to pay for college once my first enlistment was over. I left Mt. Clemens in June, 1976, not realizing I would never return.

To be continued….

Ol’ Fuzzy is not employable and was denied for disability benefits. The only thing I have is the blogs. But I don’t qualify for ads on the blogs until September. If you like the scribbles I post, please help me keep it going. You can leave me a gratuity by dropping a buck or two in Ol' Fuzzy's Tip Jar. This is a PayPal account I opened on Wednesday, April 5, 2017.

Consequences of Our Choices

This was posted as a comment to my post about my need for legal assistance:

You don’t need a lawyer you don’t need nobody to give you no money what you need to do is go back to jail where you belong for what you did to my sister idotand I’m going to keep posting it to

You should be paying our family for the rest of your life you piece of shit

It comes from my brother-in-law, who has invested so much of his emotional effort into hating me for something I didn’t do that he can’t see the truth in front of him. His problems run deeper than misplaced hate, and I won’t go into them all. But I want to use this as an example of the consequences of the choices we make.

Perry, my brother-in-law, was led to believe the lie about me by the people who chose to convict an easy husband instead of the difficult serial-killing team who did the crime. It wasn’t their intention to destroy Perry’s soul (well maybe the spirits of darkness who guided their choice foresaw it as a side benefit.), but the efect of misplaced hate is devastating him. Of course all hate is misplaced, but to target someone for hate for the actions of a different person is even worse.

Every time we make a choice, there is a string of consequences that someone will have to suffer. It may not be the one who made the choice that suffers. But whenever the choice is evil, suffering will come of it. To chose evil because it is expedient or it satisfies some whim of dislike or distaste, is to chose to do harm to everyone the choice effects. The choice of the two killers who took the life of my wife in May of 1984 was decidedly evil, the product of racism run amok. The choice of the police supervisor to ignore the evidence of the serial killers’ presence and refuse to inventory the contents of the crime scene to document theft was also evil not only because it sent an innocent man to prison for thirty-two and a half years, but because it created physical, emotional and spiritual suffering in the people involved. It also empowered the killers to go out and kill again and again.

The choice of the prosecutor to obtain and offer to the jury perjury as evidence, and to twist what should have been truthful testimony into that which leaves the opposite impression on the mind of the jury, was evil in itself. But the consequences to the people who should have known the truth but were handed lies are more devastating than the mere incarsaration of an innocent man. I have already given the example of the effect on my in-laws. But the effect of the little eight-month-old girl who had to grow up without either parent was also evil. The effect on the perjurers who directly violated the commandment about false witness is evil. The effect on the sisters and brother of the illegally incarsarated victem as well as the fathers of the couple, one who died without knowing the truth and the other who died without seeing his eldest son again in over two decades.

These consequences came about because of the choices to do evil by a handful of people. Yet they effect a multitude. I could rant about police gone bad or lawyers who value money over people, but the real problem is choices made without thought to the consequences beyond the moment. It was thought that I was of no importance since my bank account was empty and my mother-in-law was willing to condemn me weather I did it or not. But the ripples of consequences destroyed much more than the life of one man. It destroyed the souls of many.

The powers of darkness don’t ever want the truth exposed. This is why the courts have refused to allow the evidence in my case to be tested for DNA when I filed a motion pro se according to the laws of Texas. Once the test shows the presence of the killers, the lies are exposed for what they are, and the people being harmed spiritually by the misplaced hate will have the choice to repent. Devils don’t know the future of a human’s actions and choices. They don’t want to lose the ones they took. So the followers of the dark spirits resist the exposure of the truth.

I am not going to remove Perry’s comments from my timeline. I am leaving them there as a reminder to pray for his redemption from the distructive effects of this misplaced hate. I also ask that all of my readers who oppose spiritual darkness, no matter what your faith, to join me in prayer for his and his family’s release from this bondage.

Statement of truth: I have never caused the death of another human being, directly or indirectly, intentionally or unintentionally, in my entire life. The fact that I volunteered to serve in the United States Marine Corps was used as “proof” of my violent nature. My Asperger’s syndrom was presented as sociopathy. My next door neighbor, who had recently lived out a probation for attempted rape of a twelve-year-old girl, and who spent every Wednesday night from 10:30 PM to 12:15 AM at a doughnut shop with his buddies, testified to things that could not have happened. My court appointed attorney refused to discuss the case with me until it was too late to investigate the falsehoods and expose them for what they were. The attorney was more interested in helping the new prosecutor win her first murder conviction than in putting the truth before the jury. The judge only wanted to be reelected so he could ascend to the Federal bench, as he has done. None of the people who had the resposibilty and opportunity to see justice done was willing to do so.

Not only was an innocent man incarserated for the most productive years of his life, hundreds of innocent men and women were murdered by this team of serial killers over the next five years. Were they eventually caught? I don’t think so. The police didn’t seem interested in stopping them. I think they quit for some other reason.

In conclusion, think about the long term consequences of whatever you do, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the time. The cascade of suffering caused by one little lie or one little omission is not worth the meagre benefit you may obtain from it.

Ol’ Fuzzy is not employable and was denied for disability benefits. The only thing I have is the blogs. But I don’t qualify for ads on the blogs until September. If you like the scribbles I post, please help me keep it going. You can leave me a gratuity by dropping a buck or two in Ol' Fuzzy's Tip Jar. This is a PayPal account I opened on Wednesday, April 5, 2017.