THE CARNIVAL GLASS HOUSE
GHOST RIDER A.C.B.
One that almost cost me my life and tragically ended the life of a beautiful exotic dancer called Roxanne Blue, found face down in her own pool of blood. The Murder for Hire victim whose only child Rene, now in the hands of children’s protective services, was witness to horrors unspeakable.
The fact that I was linked via the same government operative that had conducted elicit surveillance of the dead woman’s activities, prior to the night she was forced to endure the unthinkable, gave me the creeps and prompted many a horrible nightmare.
But even then, I had little forewarning of how that unwarranted “link” was to so dramatically alter and adversely affect me and my nuclear family in ways I could never have imagined.
Let’s put it this way …. If the purpose of Government is to insure Life, Liberty, and The Pursuit of Happiness, they sure went about their business in a mighty peculiar way.
For reasons known only to those who have direct access to The Men In Black, a decidedly dangerous and definitely “Daffy Dick” chose to spy on us both.
The only thing the murdered woman and I had in common were the same dark roots as Madonna. The musical maven whose racy video’s he was addicted to watching.
When by sheer happenstance I was to discover him spying on my grown daughter and her potential new boyfriend, I concluded this longtime former cop turned private investigator, turned fortune hunting psychopath was a walking time bomb whose real activities and murky motives, heinous
though they were, remained hidden behind a mask of respectability, his power to kill in abstencia, facilitated by his position in and knowledge of The Justice System, not to mention the “cronyism” developed over the years as a cop. It’s chilling to think that licensed “spies” whose sole object is to spy on Americans, are for the most part self recruited from the ranks of those whom you see on the nightly news using excessive force and billy clubs on those unable to run.
The mistaken notion that has been inspired by Mickey Spillane Books and Dirty Hairy Movies that private investigators are the bleeding hearts of Truth, Justice and The American Way is as misplaced as our once gullible trust and acceptance of notorious pedophile priests. Not all private investigators are “Bad”! But not all are “Good” either!
One good for nothing S.O.B.P.I. had a personal safe that bulged with the bounty of countless wealthy weirdo’s and controlling husbands or ex’s, spurned boyfriends and jealous lovers bent on revenge and intent on evening the score with the women who dared to defy them or walk away whole.
As an exorbitantly remunerated informant who interpreted “The Law of Confidentiality” as confiding only in the highest bidders, our modern day E.C. Judson was a type of serial killer himself. A Charles Manson type creator of Murder and Mayhem who from a distance manipulated events. Besides the bloodletting, he derived intense pleasure from the voyeuristic aspects of his job as licensed “Peeping Tom”.
A monster who thrilled at the prospect of jumpstarting the process that led to a woman’s demise and the ultimate come uppance of her eventual night of terror and torture, And the worst part of it all was that “It was all perfectly legal” and he was an instrument of the law!
When I confronted him with my suspicions after learning that a female private investigator had turned down forty thousand dollars for a $125.00 dollars an hour job that he later gleefully accepted, I accused him of being just as guilty as the trio of hired killers who raped, tortured and sliced up their victim with such obvious ritual pleasure!He just laughed that wicked little laugh of his and said, “Whose gonna believe you bitch?” “When I get through with you and that high and mighty daughter of yours, your name and hers is going to be mud.” And he was right!
They didn’t believe me and he did make a very special brand of mud pies with our names on them that others within the judicial system and the “in crowd” acted on with absolutely no questions asked!
Whoever said, “Sticks and Stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me” was an unqualified blithering idiot!
Do you have any idea what a technologically equipped “sicko” with connections and a computer can accomplish without hardly trying?
And do you realize how far extended branches of government will go to protect the lives and the reputation of one of their own from the kind of exposure they all fear?
J. Edgar Hoover once kept a perfectly innocent family man behind bars for over thirty years, knowing he was not guilty of the crimes for which he had been incarcerated – in order to protect a government informant who was a known mafia hit man responsible for dozens of contract killings.I think it’s a form of Democracy turned Demonic, which can only be described as Ass Law.
As one who can speak quite knowledgeably from my privileged vantage point at the deep end of the toilet bowl: if ever there was a bigger ass that had ever been over exposed to Ass Law -- It was moi!
As if I already didn’t have enough on my plate to keep the hairs on the back of my neck at perpetual attention as though they’d been individually dipped in viagra, I not only had to deal with the chilling effects of Ass Law -- I was thrust headlong into The Law of Synchronicity.
Not only had God blessed me with a super abundance of reasons to be proud to be a victimized American and grateful survivor of Murphy’s Law (if anything can go wrong, it will, and usually at the worst time) He had an additional blessing for me as well.
You see God knows all – sees all and being omnipresent and omniscient – he is well aware of my unhealthy and tiresome preoccupation with a certain 19th century Author of shit kicking Westerns.
And because He likes me, He really, really likes me … Like Dr. Phil … He wants me to “Get Real”.
And get real I did. I really hit the floor when I discovered the name of the perverted P.I. I accused of near demonic possession and crimes against humanity. Especially against those homo “sapiens” made from Adams Rib.
Sergeant E.C. Judson is how that longtime cop was known on the force prior to his transition to licensed Private Investigator.
Judson investigations is what’s printed on the second floor window of his Brazilton Florida offices. A nearby town almost indistinguishable from my own hometown, so closely have both communities grown together in corruption.
It has been said that Florida Law Enforcement is the most corrupt in the world when it comes to kick backs, graft, pay offs, bribes and frames. Allegedly somebody compiled those statistics, but I have some real life statistics of my own.
It has also been said that Florida is where The Wild West Began and if the 2000 Elections are a barometer of Law and Order in the Sunshine State it is apparently where The Wild West continues to exist until this very day.
But West of the Pecos on The Mangrove Coast in the deceptively unpretentious offices of Judson Investigations where so much blood money had found it’s way into the safe of a supposed representative of “The Law,” The Wild, Wild West had never before seemed so eerily reminiscent of The Ghost of J. Edgar Hoover and that government restricted area of clandestine activities known as Area 51. Ride Em Roswell!
Even if the strange circumstance of my encountering a bonafide “Bogey Man” with the identical name of another “Bogey Man” the nemesis of my past, whose contribution to the confusing conundrum of my loused up life will eventually unfold -- the sheer cockeyed coincidence that I should run into the same name twice in the same lifetime simply boggles the mind and does little to add to my already threatened stability.
For anyone who aspired to Conspiracy Theories or a belief in illuminoid connections or even illuminut connections between seemingly unrelated events, the strange covert activities between historical figures thought to be ignorant of each others comings and goings, baffling occurrences, unexplained disappearances and seemingly senseless synchronicities that span time and space and all those things that go bump in the night, bringing with it the strangely familiar sensation of something crawling up the base of your spine – there is no alternative but to conclude “we see through a glass darkly”. So darkly that connecting the dots is a virtual impossibility.
Your definition of what’s real and what isn’t may ultimately cause you to alter your concept of reality and wake up to the possibility that your waking life is more of a Salvador Dale Dream than the nightmare you conjure in Mr. Sandman’s Sleepy Time Land.
You may be compelled to seek the comparative calm and serenity of a Carnival Glass House and it’s rivers of mirrors where what you see is not always what you get and what you get is rarely, if ever what you asked for.
WELCOME TO MY WORLD!