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The curious case of the magnetic, bite-size, pecan-chocolate bombs

The curious case of the magnetic, bite-size, pecan-chocolate bombs

Meredith Emerson would probably be alive today, had not Georgia cops been deluded by their own lies.

Something more serious and contemporary than a conventional article on the ancient past . . . for your weekend reading pleasure: This could be an intriguing short story, created over a century ago by the beloved North Carolina author, O.Henry (William Sydney Porter).  However, in our times, when the values of crazy people dominate our society, in fact, lead our society, this is a true short story . . . not one out of the fertile mind of O.Henry. If you have not read any of his short stories, such as “The Ransom of Red Chief” or “The Gift of the Maggi,” please do so.  Most of his stories are online now and his books can be bought for a pittance from Amazon, because he is no longer a celebrity.  His short stories consist of a series of events in improbable situations that always end up with a surprise ending.

O.Henry’s contributions to American culture and even the English language, far exceed what the current text-message generation could imagine. In the late 19th century, he was a writer for the original magazine called, “Rolling Stone.”  While on the lam in a Honduras hotel to avoid prosecution for possibly embezzling $854.08 from the First National Bank of Houston, he wrote a short story that coined the word, “Banana Republic.”  He was sentenced to five years in federal prison after returning to Texas to be at the side of his dying wife.  However, despite being a convicted felon, he went on to become one of the most beloved authors of his time.

I don’t’ think that I could ever be as clever a writer of short stories as O.Henry, but sometimes real life is stranger than the fiction that O.Henry, Edgar Allen Poe or Thomas Wolfe dreamed up.  There is more to being a Native American than ancient history.  It is a spiritual journey that one must understand in order to grow in the future.

 

How we got to here

Ten years ago, I was the prime suspect to one of the most heinous crimes ever committed in the Georgia Mountains . . . but was completely perplexed by the events spiraling around me.  This all came to a tragic ending for the young woman, but I had absolutely nothing to do with the events that transpired that week.  Had not Georgia state law enforcement been deluded by ten years of its own web of lies, Meredith Emerson would be alive today.  We will tell you more about that later.

Yet how does one get into a bizarre, O.Henry-like situation in 2018, when the US Post Office tells you to immediately call the bomb squad because you have received a parcel from an unknown person in Texas?  I knew that there were “law enforcement” officers in Georgia, who had a long history of trying to harm me, plus the Nazi’s in Georgia have strong, long established, ties with the Nazi’s in Texas and it was the 10 year anniversary of a very traumatic event. I took the Post Office manager seriously

About 21 years ago, my official* father began calling me up the morning after my daily night time chats with Julie, my girlfriend, to tell me what we had talked about the night before. Apparently, he or somebody else was also monitoring her activities, because he found out that she had gone to a doctor to see if she could still have children with me after we married. When the doctor said yes, he went bananas, because he didn’t want me to have any offspring.

*In late February 2010, while I was homeless, a large manila envelope from a law firm in San Francisco, was forwarded to my PO Box in Robbinsville, NC, which contained the life story of one of their clients, who had died in January.  All the cover letter said was that “As you know, Mr. XXXX died on XXXX. He wanted you to have these documents. There is no need to contact our firm on this matter.”  This famous person shouldn’t have known me or my former address at all, although we were born in the same hospital and were members of the same Methodist Church in Waycross, GA.  He was much older.

The envelope contained photographs and copies of newspaper articles, which described his entire life from birth to just before his death.  We were very similar in appearance until around age 21.  We both were high school football stars. We both played drums in a rock band, while in high school.  People had always wondered where I got my talents as a drummer.  We both went off to Georgia Tech to study architecture.  I was one of the 10% of freshmen, who graduated.  He flunked out.  After then our life paths departed starkly. 

I will never know the real story behind this strange parcel, but about that same time, his secretary sent me an email asking that we no longer send copies of People of One Fire to an email address, containing his initials, since he had passed away.  He had always kept it a secret that he was a Creek Indian, but I later found out that throughout his life, he had contributed generously to Native American causes AND had put many Native American young people through college.

Soon thereafter, the crazy Northwest Georgia cops, who had tapped our phones to prevent us from getting married because neither one of us were members of the “Family Values” political party, saw a profit to be made in giving inside information on architecture projects to contractors associated with organized crime or who had bribed crooked politicians.

Architects and engineers in North Georgia got tired of having crooked cops tap our phones to rig bids. I complained several times to Bell South and several times Bell South Security immediately found the illegal police taps in the homes of neighbors and shut them down.  Then the crooked cops began getting legal taps by saying that they were “investigating me” for being involved in some horrendous crime.  The surveillance warrants were issued by local magistrates, who almost always were former law enforcement officers themselves.

Over the decade that followed, I accumulated an astonishing list of crimes being investigated for in order to obtain illegal surveillance warrants.  The surrealistic situation took a life of its own.  So many crimes had been listed as reasons for illegal wire taps, that probably honest law enforcement officers assumed that I was a major criminal mind, who needed to be brought to justice.  Anytime a horrendous crime, involving murder or rape of a white woman or the molestation of child within a hundred miles of my home, I would immediately see lots of state cops tailing me.  They would plant “baits” in my path.  A mentally retarded woman was left in a car in front of my house during mid-90s temperatures for two hours, before a GBI car dropped off a driver to take her away.  I assume that someone thought I was going to pounce on her, while mowing my lawn.

When I attended a conference on Native American history at Middle Tennessee State University, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation called up the Tennessee State Police to tell them I was a “big pot dealer” and a “predator of college coeds.”  I know this because a very angry Tennessee Police lieutenant came up to me at the end of the conference to tell me that he had just wasted over $10,000 of his drug enforcement budget on surveillance and paying young actresses to pose as college coeds.   I had a date with me the whole time.  We wondered why these young women kept coming up to flirt with me, right in front of her.

Perplexed, the Tennessee law enforcement officer contacted the feds and was astonished to find out that I had no criminal record whatsoever.  The Georgia cops had told him that I had served two prison terms for drug offenses and violent crimes.  Not only that, the feds told him that while living in Virginia, I had helped the US Department of Justice bust an interstate crime ring.

The tragedy of Meredith Emerson

Meredith Emerson

The situation had gotten so delusional ten years ago that when 24-year-old Meredith Emerson disappeared from the Appalachian Trail, 52 miles from my home in Jasper, GA, I immediately became a prime suspect for five days.   I was at home at the time of the kidnapping, cleaning my carpets with a rented carpet cleaner. That could have been easily verified had not the cops been deluded by the mound of illegal wiretapping warrants.  The crime received widespread national publicity, but it never dawned on me that any of the news announcement had any personal relevance until several days later.

At least 50 state and federal law enforcement agents were assigned to Pickens County, where I lived, even though the kidnapping occurred many miles away in Union County.  A base station was set up in an empty house in my neighborhood.  Multiple marked and unmarked police cars started following me everywhere I went.   It didn’t even cross my mind that their harassment had anything to do with the kidnapping.   I thought that they were upset because I had just gotten a contract to design the Trail of Tears Memorial in Oklahoma, while many architects were going bankrupt because of the recession.

You see . . . when the ultra-rightwing Republicans took over Pickens County in 2000 with the help of the Dixie Mafia, they told me that I would have no money, no friends, no girlfriends and no wife unless I joined their party. That same month, the moderate head of the local Republican Party died in a strange one car accident and the 38- year-old head of the local Democratic Party suffered a massive stroke, after she stepped outside a restaurant from a committee meeting.  The local Democrats would have no more meetings for 4 ½ years.  They were THAT scared.  Having little more work in Georgia, I had stepped outside their fiefdom to gain a national reputation, both in historic preservation AND in the hand-making of traditional Creek and Maya pottery.  This income had kept me afloat, despite having no income from local clients.

I was not a member of any political party and didn’t want partisan politics to interfere with my professional practice.  I thought that these quasi-Nazi new Republicans were mad as a hatter, but when a lot of crazy people work in unison, major damage can be done to innocent lives.  County and state law enforcement officers began calling up women with whom I had dates planned, to tell them I was a homosexual, plus either a serial killer or a pedophile. In November 2006, state law officers paid several women not to date me again before Christmas, so I would be alone at Christmas.   State law enforcement officers called architecture clients to tell them I was a convicted felon and was being investigated for a horrendous crime.  They made a mistake by calling a female client, who had known me since the 10th grade in high school. <wink>.  She knew instantly they were lying when they said that I was a homosexual and had served two prison terms.  They made a second call to this lady and told her that her business would be burned down unless she fired me as her architect.  The building was not burned down, but a couple weeks later, a man faked a fall on a ramp in the building and then sued them for $2 million.

During this period of time, I could not tell who was state law enforcement, who was Dixie Mafia and who was occult organized crime.  Their actions blurred together.  They were all dedicated to destroying our multi-party democracy and replacing it with an authoritarian, one party dictatorship, ruled by super-rich oligarchs.

While Hilton was driving around Jasper with Meredith, making phone calls and buying supplies, police surrounded this field to “prevent my escape.”

At the very same time that Meredith’s kidnapper, Gary Hilton, was driving around Jasper with a very much alive, Meredith, in the back of his van.   I was surrounded by police cars on a field next to the Jasper Post Office, where I trained and exercised my herd dogs each day.  An hour later, while a Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent from Carrollton, GA chased me around the Jasper Ingles Supermarket with loaded Glock pistol in his hand, Hilton was shopping at another supermarket in Jasper.  Meredith was quite healthy and in his van, in that supermarket’s parking lot. However, all law enforcement was at the Ingle’s Supermarket.

When I came out with my grocery cart, the GBI had stationed a 5-or-6-year old girl on the small plaza in front of the store. Six marked police cars were stationed nearby. I don’t’ know how many unmarked law enforcement cars were there.  They assumed that since I was demonic, sexual pervert, I would immediately pounce on the little girl, throw her into the grocery cart and try to escape. Then the cops envisioned themselves being on TV as the heroes, who saved the little girl.  Of course, nothing happened, because in the real world that these “law enforcement” officers had long departed, I was none of the above.

HOWEVER, Gary Hilton panicked when he saw all the police cars swarming around Jasper, trying to capture me.   He assumed that this massive number of cops were after him.  He drove his van, containing a still very much alive Meredith, to a remote camp site in the eastern part of the county . . . clubbed her and decapitated her.

A dangerous kidnapper in beautiful Downtown Dahlonega

The arrest and conviction of Gary Hilton didn’t stop my harassment at all.  I am certain that the illegal foreclosure of my home in late 2009 and the fact that attorneys working for Fannie Mae gave three day’s notice on December 21, 2009 to be homeless by Christmas Eve was connected with what happened in early 2008.  You see, on December 12,  another division of FannieMae had sent me a letter that announced approval of a mitigation loan for my house.   Only an hour after I was officially homeless, a North Carolina state trooper drove up to me in an Ingle’s Supermarket in Murphy, NC . . .  rolled down his windshield . . . smiled, then said, “Boy, we’re gonna tetch you respect for ARthority!” It was clear that incredible number of financial attacks on me in 2008 and 2009 were intentional in order to create the false image that I was a dangerous,  homeless drifter like the kidnapper of Meredith Emerson.  God had other plans.

Oh this is a seditious book, indeed!

It still goes on.  In October 2013, when Marilyn Rae flew up to Georgia with her daughter for us to promote our two books together, we decided to first meet in person at a Mexican restaurant in Downtown Dahlonega. While we were eating, convoy of Georgia Bureau of Investigation vehicles roared into the environs of the restaurant.  GBI agents, wearing bullet proof vests, surrounded the restaurant . . . tensely waiting for a violent shoot out in their rescue of Marilyn and her daughter.  Then one of the agents bravely went into the restaurant and noticed that Marilyn and her daughter were of their own free will having a pleasant lunch with me.  The GBI cars vanished.  However, the next day when we measured the Maya ball court in the Nacoochee Valley, we were again surrounded by White County sheriff’s department cars.  They left after a while.

It is virtually impossible now in the Southeast to obtain justice when a law enforcement officer has committed a political crime against you.  First, their peers have a “band of brothers” attitude in which their first loyalty is to each other, not the Constitution.  Secondly, the War on Drugs and War on Terrorism had given formerly unimaginable powers to many people in many local, state and federal agencies to monitor every aspect of your life. They still couldn’t get any crimes on me, when I was penniless and homeless, so beginning in 2012, the tactic shifted to anonymously telling people in positions of power that I am crazy.

While I was interviewing a lady about her family owned farm store for an article in the Examiner, she got a call on her cellular phone from some unknown person with a US Government phone ID, telling her that he was watching her from a satellite and that I was crazy.  She should not believe anything I said about the Mayas.   She was terrified afterward, but before quickly ending the interview, she asked, “Who are the Mayas?”

Jury selection as a form of reality TV

In July 2017, I was called to jury duty in the State Superior Court in Dahlonega.  I thought I could do a good job because prior to the time when Georgia law enforcement began monitoring my life 24/7, I had been twice a jury foreman . . . an expert witness in numerous state and federal court cases . . . a covert operative 2 ½ years for the FBI in the investigation of the Sheriff’s Department in Shenandoah County, Virginia, and a witness in a secret investigation by the US Justice Department Task Force on State and Local Government corruption.  The task force met over a bakery-cafe in Georgetown, with a secret entrance behind its kitchen . . .  like something in the movies.

The judge was the son of a former governor and US Senator in Georgia.  I felt this would be a meaningful way for me to give back to the community.  Actually, though, the whole jury selection thing was arranged to be like something out of reality TV.   As those selected for jury duty filed into the courtroom to be questioned by attorneys for the prosecution and defense, I noticed three strangers sitting on the side bench, starring at me and grinning at me evilly.  They were dreaming, “We got him now boys! We got him now boys!”

I thought, Uh – oh!  What are these scumbags up to now?

The case involved molestation of minors.  Both the defendant and the crimes occurred in another State Superior Court’s jurisdiction. That should have been a warning.  However, the prosecuting attorney began saying things and asking questions that were not normal for typical jury selection hearings.  Because I had so much experience in the courtroom before becoming an enemy of the state, I quickly noticed this, but the other jurors apparently didn’t.   He asked, “Do any potential juror recognized these names?” . . . and then went through a long, long list of people.  I watched the body language of the three GBI agents in the back corner.  After the first five names, they would quickly glance at me as each name was repeated several times.  Even the cleverest of criminals always give away their secret agenda with body language.  LOL

Then the prosecuting attorney asked, “Have any of you ever been a victim of a crime committed by a law enforcement officer?”   He said this quickly, as required by law, expecting no juror to speak up. I raised my hand.  He looked shocked.  I told him that as far as I knew no one, who was an officer of the court in this trial, was involved. He glanced at the judge and then the strangers, sitting on the side bench.  Someone came up and spoke to him.  He then said that we would discuss this later.

Later on in his list of questions, he quickly asked, “Has anyone among the potential jurors ever been involved with a criminal investigation, but not as a law enforcement officer, defendant or witness?”  Again, not expecting a response, he was about to move on, when I raised my hand.  He asked me what that involvement was.  I told him that it occurred in another state and involved highly confidential matters that really should not be discussed in front of the other jurors.”  He said that he would get back to me.

A recess was called during which the prosecuting attorney discussed with advisors the best approach to getting me to reveal my manifold and horrendous crimes.

When they began the special session for me to be questioned, I told them again that this should not be discussed in front of jurors.   He ignored my warning . . . thinking that I was trying to avoid self-incrimination in front of a judge.  Those involved in the home-grown reality TV show, assumed that I would make a fool out of myself among those who knew the ropes.  You could sense a shock wave rip through the courtroom, when they quickly realized that despite being poor and not a Republican, I was an experienced, articulate public speaker, who knew the law and was not the least bit afraid of them.

The prosecutor started with the second question first. I repeated, “Are you sure, you want this in a courtroom? “ He nodded yes and said, “Please go ahead.”

I was one of 25 depositioned witnesses for an investigation by the US Justice Departments, Task Force on Local and State Government Corruption. It was investigation the transportation of counterfeit airplane parts from Florida, plus drugs and guns from Georgia Law Enforcement evidence lockers to the Basaye, VA airport for sale to the Mafia.”

The prosecutor looked puzzled and said that he never heard of the case.  I explained, “Well, it made national headlines for weeks.  Guns used as evidence in Georgia court cases were used to kill people later in Washington, Philadelphia, New York City and Boston.”

The prosecuting attorney shook his head and asked what was the result.

Well . . . I am the only witness, who is still alive.  All the Justice Dept. attorneys are dead too.  I guess that’s because I only had second hand information from a friend, a reporter for the Washington Post, who was shot in the head, while sitting on his commode in a house near the Basaye Airport. “

Thinking that he had found a flaw in my testimony, he asked why I was the only one alive, if this is a true story.  I told him that I had given the 550 page copy of all the witness’s depositions to my parents for safe-keeping.  They betrayed me and gave the top-secret document to some evil person or organization . . . and then denied that it ever existed.  All of the unprotected witnesses, were killed during the Clinton Administration.  They were mostly teenagers and college students, who the DOJ thought, wouldn’t be bothered.  Theoretically, I was also under the protection of the US District Attorney’s Office in Knoxville, like the other protected witnesses, but I refused to change my name and give up practicing architecture.

Immediately, after George W. Bush was inaugurated, the Assistant DA in Knoxville, who watched over us, was fired for no reason.  Within six months, all the Virginia witnesses in the Knoxville Area had been murdered.  Simultaneously, local GBI agents and sheriff’s deputies began harassing me . . . calling up girlfriends to tell them I was a serial killer.   One of the first acts of Homeland Security in 2001 (two weeks after its creation) was to call my architecture clients to tell them that I was an agent for Al Qaida.

The District Attorney stopped me before I could tell the rest of the story . . .

The former Assistant US district attorney called me up to warn me to be on the lookout for a Brazilian couple from Sao Paulo, who had killed the two most important witnesses in the Justice Department case.  I told him not to worry, since I really could not name any names . . . only say that my late friend had filmed planes loaded with drugs and guns from Georgia at the Basaye Airport.  He mailed me photos of the couple in various disguises, anyway.

By 2003, all the attorneys listed in the secret DOJ report that my parents had given away . . . including a young private attorney, who had posed as my girlfriend in order to transmit messages back and forth from the FBI . . . were dead. Her brother-in-law was an FBI agent.

Back 25 years ago, my former wife was having an affair with her principal, so no one blinked, when they saw me having an affair with a pretty young attorney in Winchester, VA. We weren’t, but in retrospect, I wish I had. If I had quickly divorced my wife and married her, she would probably be alive today.  Susan was drugged by a man posing as a real estate client at a bar in Charlottesville, then raped and murdered.  Her naked body was left at a Charlottesville motel room to make appear that it was triste gone bad.  However, she was a fervent Christian and already dead when her body was deposited in the motel room.

The Brazilian couple cashed out the complete balance of by Visa credit cart at a bank in Sao Paulo, then used part of the money to buy one way first class airplane tickets to Atlanta.  Because I had been warned by the attorney in Knoxville, I instantly recognized them, when they started tailing me in a rental car.

In probably the only possibly illegal thing I have ever done . . . when they seemed ready to shoot me in a remote location, I went after them with an assault rifle and a machete.  I don’t think I hit them, but thoroughly messed up their rental car’s engine and rear.  They were certainly lousy shooters, when they became the hunted rather the hunters. None of their bullets even came near me. They quickly left the country.

The prosecutor was from Pickens County!

The prosecutor evidently expected me to be vague or crazy sounding in the response to the first question. His face turned white, when I announced, “At about 3:00 PM on Sunday November 10, 2002 the investigator for the Pickens County District Attorney’s Office entered my home illegally, bugged it and then copied down the names on my phone ID and business calendar.  He also worked part time, answering phones on weekends and holidays for the FBI office in Lawrenceville, GA. On Monday November 11, Veterans Day, he used an FBI phone to contact numerous people on my phone ID to tell them that I had committed many crimes and was being investigated for an unspeakable crime.”

The Pickens County DA investigator continued to illegally use an FBI cellular phone to harass any of my friends or clients, who were not scared off.  He used tracking devices and spy satellites to tell the victims where they were, when he was calling them.  One of them, who he thought was a girlfriend, was actually a professional client in Metro Detroit . . . from a prominent, wealthy family.  After her house was ransacked and all their family’s computers stolen by a team from the Detroit FBI office, she filed a complaint with the Office of Inspector General.  A week later, an ex-boyfriend slipped her one of the CIA’s suicide drugs.  By the Grace of God, during a moment of cognizance, she called me for help from her shower as she was about to commit suicide with a razor blade.  She described the drug as being like a demon that takes control of your mind and gives the body orders.  I stayed on the phone with her long distance for 8 hours until the drug wore off.  How big a telephone bill is a human life worth?

Within a day after receiving the order to investigate, an inspector for the OIG found enough evidence to send the Pickens County investigator to prison for the rest of his life.  The scumbag’s excuse was that my (official) father had told him that I was a draft evader and bisexual.   This guy was a retired Marine.

The truth was that at age 18, I had signed a US Navy Science and Engineering Officer contract that said I could be called to active duty by order of the President until age 65.  In fact, when I graduated from Georgia Tech, no one was being drafted and no new CEC officers were needed.  After graduation, I did “errands” for Naval Intelligence overseas, which I couldn’t talk about to anyone for 20 years. I certainly cannot call myself a combat veteran. On the other hand, that is NOT the same as being a draft evader, however, like our current president.  It was just like the situation of being treated as a vile criminal, when I had done nothing.

When the OIG agent was about to arrest the scumbag in Jasper, an order came directly from the Bush White House to drop the case and transfer this OIG agent to a Lakota Reservation in the middle of the winter.  Do you understand, what I am saying?  The powers-that-be punished an honest, dedicated law enforcement officer and let a criminal scumbag get away scot free.

Stunned . . . the prosecutor could only say, “2002, you say?”

I smelled blood and went in for the kill.   It turned out that he was a DA in Jasper, when all this was going on during the last decade.  Not only that . . . I am pretty sure that his daughter was one of the University of North Georgia students, who as a Criminal Justice class project, worked at the Fresh and Frugal Supermarket in a ridiculous effort to entrap me as a “predator of coeds,” when I shopped there three or four times a month.  As I told the courtroom that day, these coquettes were totally out of their league, when trying to play Mata Hari.  I had been involved in stuff in Europe and in Virginia that most people only see in the movies.  I knew these girls were bugged and so when they would flirt with me, I merely told them that I was much older than I looked.  I was actually 85 and my main source of income was renting my photos to farmers to use as scare crows.  The judge laughed, but some other officers of the court went away sorrowful . . . actually ashen faced.

Well . . . despite all the drama of the past, I live a rather undramatic life, with my main excitement coming from turning the history books upside down, I have no local friends because of the eight years of little income and 20 years of machinations by crazy people.  If people always see me shopping for groceries alone and know that I am not wealthy, they assume the worse.  Then there are the Neo-Nazi morons in nearby Dawson County, who want to show their support for the president by killing all Marxist-Librul cars.  That’s another story for another day.

I must say that the Lumpkin County Sheriff’s Department is many cuts above most such agencies in the Southeast.  My dogs have thoroughly liked every deputy they met and they are much better judges of character than I am, I reckon.

And now to the climax!

This past Wednesday, I received a strange parcel in the mail.  It was wrapped multiple times with heavy duty masking tape and sent by priority mail with tracking.  The sender had abbreviated his or her name, plus all of the return address, except Texas, which was spelled out in broad letters.

Intrigued, I struggled to pull off the layers of reinforced masking tape to reveal the small cookie box above.  The box was much too heavy to contain cookies.  I contacted all the people in Texas, whom I knew, to see if they recognized the abbreviated name on the box.  None did.

I passed a compass over the box (Told you that I had excellent training from the US Navy!) to detect metal, batteries and electrical circuits.  Several distinct spots were magnetic.  That was not a good thing. Pecan-chocolate cookies do not have magnetic fields.

I called the US Post Office in Dahlonega and asked if I could bring the box to them to Xray.   The postal employee said that they had no equipment such as Xrays to check for terrorist contraband, but asked for the tracking number.  It returned a description of the parcel being from Robert Lee, Texas and containing cookies, but weighing as much as a box that size, containing bullets or hand grenades.  The employee became excited and said there was no way that they would allow this parcel in their building.  I was to immediately take the box outside, away from the house, and call the Sheriff’s Dept. bomb squad.

I called the Lumpkin County Sheriff’s Department and relayed what the postal employee told me to do. The 911 operator didn’t know quite what they should do, but said that they would send out appropriate help.

I am certain that the officers were rolling in the floor, laughing in the background, because few of them were even alive, when I was living a very dangerous life, right out of the X-files. Probably, most of them have never experienced an intentional attempt on their life.  Since 1987, I have experienced at least a dozen attempts . . .  bullets whizzing past my ear . . . two hybrid killer bacteria, grown at Fort Detrick, Maryland . . . 110 stiches on my colon after my wife poisoned me . . . and exactly two years ago, cholera.

While I was eating at restaurant in Downtown Dahlonega, a guy came in, who looked like a Narco from Miami.   He directed the restaurant manager into the office.  Seven hours later I came down with cholera.  What those tapping my phone, didn’t know is that over 20 years ago, I got a cholera vaccination prior to heading into the jungles of Mexico.  You know you have cholera, when both your sweat and the output from your colon look like milk.  I had a day of cholera then my body found the old chest where the antibodies were stored. LOL

Also, there is no telling what sort of lies they have been told by state and federal law officers in Georgia, who called women for years to warn them away.  The Sheriff’s Department dispatched one patrol car . . . no K9 box sniffers or explosives specialist.

The very affable deputy didn’t really know why he was there.  However, he instantly recognized my hovel and said, “I know who you are!  I saw you on TV.”   That gave me some credibility, being a temporary TV star.  Angel, my female dog, instantly liked him.

His first response was to pull out a pocket knife and state that he was going to cut it open.  I stopped him. “Officer, you’re a nice guy, working for a top-notch sheriff’s department.  I couldn’t live with myself, if your hands were blown off by this thing.”   He responded, “I’ll call in and ask what to do.”

He came back from the car and put on rubber gloves that were resistant to acids.  He said, “I know what I’ll do.  I will throw over there and see if it blows up.”  I rushed Angel the Dog back into the house.  He threw the box about 60 feet as I crouched behind a tree.  Nothing happened.

Sheepishly, I fetched the box and handed it to him.  I still tensed, when he cut in the box, expecting to see anthrax spores puff into the air.  Nope . . . then a small dense object dropped onto the ground. It was a piece of a metal meteorite.  Then a piece of flint dropped onto the ground.  Then another piece of a meteorite.  The two meteorite chunks explained the multi-polar magnetism that my compass detected.

Then the officer turned the box upside down and shook.  A cluster of small rocks, mostly flint, dropped to the ground.  He explored the box to see if an explosive had been mixed with the rocks.  Nope, just small plastic bags and cotton balls.

Rocks!  An anonymous person had spent a lot of money to send a box full of rocks to me by priority mail.

Rocks!  I told the officer that I felt like a fool.  He responded that he had seen a lot of crazy things that people had called him to inspect, but he had to admit that this one was not like the rest and pretty sketchy.

Yep . . . pretty sketchy.

THE END

 

 

 

 

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Richard Thornton is a professional architect, city planner, author and museum exhibit designer-builder. He is today considered one of the nation’s leading experts on the Southeastern Indians. However, that was not always the case. While at Georgia Tech Richard was the first winner of the Barrett Fellowship, which enabled him to study Mesoamerican architecture and culture in Mexico under the auspices of the Institutio Nacional de Antropoligia e Historia. Dr. Roman Piňa-Chan, the famous archaeologist and director of the Museo Nacional de Antropologia, was his fellowship coordinator. For decades afterward, he lectured at universities and professional societies around the Southeast on Mesoamerican architecture, while knowing very little about his own Creek heritage. Then he was hired to carry out projects for the Muscogee-Creek Nation in Oklahoma. The rest is history. Richard is the Tribal Historic Preservation Officer for the KVWETV (Coweta) Creek Tribe and a member of the Perdido Bay Creek Tribe. In 2009 he was the architect for Oklahoma’s Trail of Tears Memorial at Council Oak Park in Tulsa. He is the president of the Apalache Foundation, which is sponsoring research into the advanced indigenous societies of the Lower Southeast.

10 Comments

  1. Reillyranch@aol.com'

    Wow, another exciting and great read. I am still wondering who will play “Richard Thornton” in the movie that is bound to be eventfully be made of your crazy life….. maybe Harrison Ford or Mel Gibson.

    Reply
    • LOL The two actors, who looked like me . . . Pernell Roberts and Robert Ulrich . . . have both passed on. Actually, I am not holding my breath . . . concerning Hollywood coming this way. What I am determined to do is get these factual educational films about the Southeastern indigenous peoples going.

      Reply
  2. pantherapugap@gmail.com'

    Howdy, From Texas…First: Inside the box was a short letter of explination.
    Here is my rememberance…Got deeper into a ranch I am allowed on. Find a rich sunrise area. Felt I should share it with you as thanks for opening my eyes and mind to Creek history. Included were rough sketches of each piece. Request that they be compared to finds in Georgia.
    At the bottom was My NAME; address 4001 Hwy 208 Robert Lee, Tx 76945. As I have sent you several comments
    I expected you to respond through my email pantherugap@gmail
    As to outside address I often use my inials going back to when I was a teenager…my mailing address was below
    If you feel you need a phone number use 325 453 2920.
    As an aside I too have been phone tapped by the police over the years.

    Reply
    • Hey Art!

      Do YOU Are the cookie bomber. LOL Most of the return address was illegible due to being rubbed in shipment. The sheriff’s deputy couldn’t find a note. You have to remember that I get a lot of hate emails . . . mostly from whites, who think they are Cherokees. I have just gone through a period of several months in which morons in two counties took advantage of the tracking device they put deep inside my car at a workshops to practice their skills as members of Rommel’s Afrika Corps. They repeatedly tried to force my car into a wreck . . . including the past three times I went into town to buy groceries. I had to stop going to night time archaeology club meetings because they were vandalizing my car why it was parked outside the county parks dept. auditorium. Dealing with these Nazi’s in North Georgia is almost an identical to dealing with rats.

      Reply
  3. pantherugap@gmail.com'

    Howdy, Follow up: Have discontinued buying Cookie bombs.

    Reply
  4. kkakins@gmail.com'

    I’m worried about Art’s personal info being on this post. Can you please delete it? And you had me on the edge of my seat –well, as much as an edge of my seat as the cat, pug, and Goldendoodle pinning me down here on the couch would let me be. This HAS to be a movie. Seriously. Get a screenwriter! Pitch it! I love this. Netflix or Amazon or someone would be able to do a series! I loved this post. If I weren’t so buried under as a special ed teacher and writer myself, I’d sure write it. You never know. Maybe I will. 😉

    Reply
    • I would rather seen those educational films produced which show our heritage accurately. LOL

      Reply
  5. adamfreeman1861@gmail.com'

    There is an old Tennessee saying, “shit rolls down hill”, so when the top authorities are corrupt, the entire hierarchy becomes corrupt also. As I have mentioned before, almost the entire ‘Justus’ system in Walker County is corrupt and has been for generations. For instance, after WW 2, a Navy boy going home stopped off in LaFayette, Ga. and went to the Sheriff’s illegal gambling/bar joint and won $300. They murdered him and put his body under the ‘Unknown soldier” monument. It is still there. Their drug plane still comes to the Lafayette Airport on a regular basis.

    My only problem with you is your characterization of the local people as “Nazis” or some kind of Fascists, when many of them are just dupes thinking they are helping their country or just common criminals. As someone actually born in a shack in the Tellico Mountains, I know many of the good Ol’ Boys (some are even relatives) and I know they are not “Nazis” or even criminals. So how about not making general accusations and please use qualifiers when telling your very interesting stories?

    And please stay safe. Many of us are fighting the “Good Fight” in different ways and different places and we can’t afford to lose anyone!

    Reply
    • Well people wear black uniforms with the SS symbol of the Stormtroopers on them, they are Nazis.

      Reply
      • adamfreeman1861@gmail.com'

        So all the people you call “Nazis” wear “black uniforms with the SS symbol”? Odd how I haven’t read that when you use the term “Nazi”. smh

        Reply

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