Below are personal sentiments at the given moment in time.
Even the Pages are not in sequence. LOTS OF LUCK piecing it all together.
This Website is created in memorium of a Springfield Ohio Clark County Municipal Court-Case ripoff
A Judiciary we can no longer afford to finance.

American Underground News

Anche se non limitata agli Stati Uniti, la censura è uno strumento nefasto nella guerra di classe dominante contro le classi lavoratrici e povere. Se non si può denunciare liberamente una menzogna, o correggere una notizia travisata, o una sentenza ingiusta, o rivelare un'azione segreta dannosa, o avvertire di un'azione clandestina efferata, ecc., poi ognuno di noi è vittima e in grado di
essere ingannati da un solo punto di vista. La stessa entità che ha creato le leggi ha già fatto se stessi, e quelli che li hanno finanziati, esenti dal leggi della nostra nazione (anche nei tribunali). A causa del controllo monopolistico, è deplorevole che le centinaia di Video, molti dei quali creati personalmente, non sono in grado di essere ospitata sul mio web-server. Il mio hosting era praticamente un ultimo tentativo disperato di trattare con youtube, dailymotion, vimeo, e censura di altri siti di video hosting online. Non possiamo biasimare i venduti per aver obbedito alle leggi dell'altro. venduto. Come L'esercito di Hitler, stanno solo facendo il loro lavoro e ... rispettare le leggi che vengono loro imposte. Dobbiamo cercare un po ' di più per trovare la causa del risultato o la radice del problema.

Chain of command

(and we all fall down)

Ohio Post Underground

Perspective Askew

Page (?), continued from Previous page.

The reason I felt compelled to go to the Press Conference in the first place, was due to a conversation I had the next morning after the bloody night. Going into the front desk of the Inn, the kind blondie Mormon lady and her husband were the caretakers at the motel, but the wife spoke alone with me somewhat candidly.

We began to discuss what happened the night before in more detail.
The woman behind the desk became visibly disconcerted when I related to her that one of the agents had told me that the motel had been staked out for three days to catch the man up there, but were not aware of the young girl in room 212.

The woman became visibly startled behind the desk, stopped me and stated,

"that's impossible. The girl is who rented the room and it was her that came down to pay the daily(?) rent".

The Mormon lady went on to state that her and her husband were not even aware that a man was residing up there since it was rented as a single-occupancy room to the girl only.

I left the Mormon Lady's presence and walked back to my room, noticing the state-sponsored smashed-out window, the damaged door, the caution tape, some holes from shots fired.

The mess was evidence of programming to the extreme, unlawful actions that hired men were, in their best wisdom, taking actions to "ensure the safety of themselves" (against two sleeping kids).

Then, while sitting on the edge of the bed, I began to again contemplate that for months I had been told from numerous family members and acquaintances from numerous states all across the country telling me that the FBI was looking for me. And now here they were, right out in the parking lot just the night before.
I began to recollect also, placing it into context, that I had inadvertently told my girlfriend I was in the room directly above me, the room without a window, the room that surely had splattered blood over every wall and piece of furniture.

The "news" was reporting that one of the murdered had located and pointed a gun at officers, and that he somehow was able to do this feat despite the blast. I knew that a large sound will actually cause the human to drop things, and will not increase in cognitive abilities. A large blast will make you loose footing, will make your knees go weak, will suddenly incapacitate a person. Yet the "news" programming stated the opposite, and most humans would simply accept it on face-value, having no other testimony available to consider.

In fear, I left to a country park to pitch a tent, and considered what to do next.

It was while living in that tent, eating creative meals of dry cat food, too broke for people food, I again called my ex-girlfriend for more details about her encounters with the FBI.

Nothing she had to say gave a clue as to why they were still hunting me.

While at the park, the on-site parks-man and I struck an agreement that I would install a couple of masonry wing-walls outside of the restrooms for him. His recompense would be to letting me stay in the Park beyond the "lawful" allowable time-frame, of which I was already beyond.

He remained to watch and help with the unloading of the concrete block and mortar from his truck until he felt comfortable that I knew what I was doing.

While unloading the materials, the Parks Agent and I spoke. I told him how I had recently been released from jail, and of the outrageous reason I was placed in their jail in the first place. I told him I was held in jail for months but the facts are that I hadn't done ANYTHING wrong aside from wanting to be left alone and not bothered anymore by the police. I think my "crime" was disorderly conduct...phhtt....after they beat me up.

The groundsman inquired more, and I told him. I told him how Tamara, my ex-girlfriend, had pulled a gun and pointed it at me.I told him where it happened, directly in front of the door of a"7-11" convenience store on such-and-such street *AND THAT THE ENTIRE EPISODE WAS RECORDED ON THE 7-11 SECURITY CAMERAS. I told him of how I was incredulous at her sudden explosive demeanor, how I walked toward her grabbing her by the arms and shoulders and how I shook her into her senses. (Tamara is Bipolar. Bipolar people aren't necessarily bad....just not always predictable, even when medicated, in my opinion).

I told the groundsman how relieved I was that she hadn't pulled the trigger (even if it was just a BB-gun), and how quickly the situation had been quelled over whether or not I slept with someone other than her (it's a ridiculous story that I won't even bother to elaborate upon, coupled with the fact that She and I had only known each other for a few months...maybe a year in all, but I doubt it).

Suffice to say, Tamara became calmed down and we began to hear the sirens getting closer. I'm not certain that it was out of caring for my freedom that she told me to run.She knew about the problems I was having due to the government officials and their hunt for me prior to the Amenity Inn murders (which followed after my release from jail from this very incident).

*Sorry, this account is totally out of order. The sequence of events will be better situated within this writ when time permits.

But when she said run, with a look that I knew was my last, I ran.

I didn't get very far though.

Jumping Back to the park:

The time came that the Parksman could no longer hide me as a semi-permanent tented fixture.

So God sent me an old farmer.
He and his wife took me to their house and expansive property.

After placing me in a small trailer which was also on their land, I was told to tend to the place feeding livestock and obtaining eggs and the such.
But the real job was selling his relative's potatoes to the general public.
The potatoes were delivered from Iowa (if my memory serves correctly) via Semi-truck and long trailer. Tractor Trailer-beds full of un-bagged red potatoes. My main job was everything from unloading, weighing, bagging, marketing, and sales. I worked alone and that suited me just fine.

It was decided that I would do my best to sell something I knew nothing about.
So I built large pyramids of bagged potatoes stretching for probably more than a quarter-mile of frontage beside the road (the farmer actually owned miles of frontage though).
And with each hundred feet or so of road frontage that a passerby on the fast-paced road drove, the driver had to see my 4 foot by 8 foot signs all painted up and leaning against the pyramids of potatoes.

Believe it or not, it soon became a pseudo-success, gaining much higher profits to the farmer (and me) than each of us had expected.
This went on for awhile, but something seemed to have spooked the old guy. Finally he stated he felt as though I were making too much profit (* However, the deal was that I was to give him only what he had initially asked per pound of potatoes. The fact that I was voluntarily giving him more than what he had asked for, eventually became paled when he learned of what my profit was (which was about double his profit).

Those potatoes were the best potatoes anybody that bought them had ever tasted. There were no culls like the potato farm I worked in New York as a youngster. These potatoes were healthy, looked good,tasted good, and were worth paying more for.

But the retired old farmer ultimately called a halt to the whole operation.His argument was that my prices were not inline with the prices at the stores and then threw in some mormon scripture that put an ominous gloom over the success.

I knew he had probably just hit a geriatric moment, or phase, so there was no use in disputing the matter.

The reason for it's success was also due to the fact that the old farmer owned so many hundreds of acres of land, which would also add to the income from potatos.

Here's how:

The cattle had to be "found" (seriously), but luckily the old farmer cued me in on their grazing habits and I could find them readily to bring them in.
But while four-wheeling the plains looking for the cattle, I found skulls and cool rocks and dead twisted timber and stuff that looked like movie-props. If something looked unique, it was picked up and the stuff brought to the side-of-the-road trailer which the farmer allowed me to reside in.

Would you believe people were buying the stuff!? ROCKS even!

BONES AND SKULLS, DEAD BRANCHES, and more were made into collages and garden-art that finally earned me enough money to buy my own food and hygiene items, etc.

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