The Fascist Contempt for the working people.

The Crazies must have been furiously mad when they learned that common insignificant american workers were forming a human shield to protect the life of a slave/torture victim.  It sure didn't fit there mantra that I was a paranoid schizo.  But support from fellow americans was not unusual.  I frequently heard comments like "kick them in the balls for us"(my personal favorite).  "People want to help you but the government won't let them."  "They (the crazies) have to know what they are doing is wrong."   Or someone would walk up to me, pat me on the back and say "Way to go." It really reflected what I had known all along.  When The Crazies picked me as a victim, they were waging war on all amerikan workers - and they, The Crazies and the workers, knew it.


I was always amazed that when I was out somewhere, it was not that uncommon for a complete stranger to approach me.  They would walk up to me with there hand extended and say, "I just want to shake your hand".


I would look at them and say, "Do I know you??"


"No, " they would reply.  "But everyone knows who you are and I just want to shake your hand."


The fact that The Crazies continued there unrelenting efforts to get rid of me only verified the contempt that these ruling fascist have for the amerikan people.


One evening after I had gone through the usual routine of being walked to my car, I began my drive home.  I lived about five miles from the Executive Inn and the part of town I lived in was a residential area with an intertwining maze of streets.   Since I knew I was frequently under surveillance,  it had become a habit to frequently check my rear view mirror.  On this particular night I quickly identified a lone pair of headlights that made every turn that I made.  It soon became obvious that I was being followed.  I led the person behind me to an area near where I lived and began making a series of right hand turns.  The streets were not that well lit and as I speed up at each turn, the car behind me fell further behind.   After a series of such maneuvers, I was able to get behind the car that had been following me.  When the driver of the other car realized what had happened, he sped off.  I followed until we reached a stop light. There I was able to get the license plate number, wrote it down, and then headed off towards my home.  The other car took off in the other direction.


At that time, Kentucky had a very nice, useful law.  If you had a license plate number, you could go to a State Police office and find out who was the registered owner of that license plate, and hence the owner of the car.  The officer at the desk was very cooperative and quickly ran the license number I gave him.  When he told me the name of the owner of the car, I was not surprised.  The owner was a man whom I knew had a reputation of being a local drug dealer!  One of the reasons I knew that is because I had on occasions had conversations with his ex-wife and on one occasion she related a story about how one day she was home alone when she went into the garage to look for something.  She opened a tool box, and there hidden under some tools was ten thousand dollars in cash and a hand gun.  Subsequently her husband admitted to her that he had sold some drugs.  Other people later confirmed that this man in question had a reputation as being a drug dealer.  There was no doubt that the local drug dealers were interested in me.