Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Person Of Interest

Fucking ponderous. I feel I caused this latest shit storm of law enforcement assault by simply brewing my resentment all day yesterday. I kept trying to write my own obituary to use after I am executed by a Sheriff and it was so damn disappointing that I was going to be executed by a state employee before any charges were filed. Fucking ponderous. And I started to think that there are 30 states (Texas isn't one of them) where the death penalty has been abolished, which means you can slaughter a family of 5, take video of it, post the video on the internet or even live-stream the slaughter, and you will get Life in prison. But if you are suspected of waving a cell phone at the police then they execute you on the street without charges files, without lawyer, without a trial, no judge, no jury, nothing. Shot dead in the street on suspicion. But if you live-stream yourself killing your family then they give you Life in prison. This makes no fucking sense at all but it's a tangent to my topic today that has me fucking slapping my jowls in frustration.
Headline: Hippie arrives in town, bomb threat follows, hippie leaves town.

I'm on the run basically night and day in an attempt to remain legal in the eyes of the Law. Incredible amount of hoop navigation to legitimize myself only confirming that America has become a land of complete generic citizen-hood where pre-paid ethics and auto-flush mentality has deep roots. I'll never survive these encounters with police. Fine, fuck it, I can't win, there is obviously a campaign to cull non-compliant mentally ill citizens or poor or undesirable homeless vagrants. Fucked up, but ignorance and disdain and indifference has generated a culture of pure hate that I see as poised to boil over very soon. Fuck it. You reap what you sew.

So I'm going to sleep in my overcrowded van with all the leather loot from my stay in Mexico. ok. And I have found the only place where I am not harassed every ten minutes by the police is a dark corner of the Walmart parking lot, which is a metaphor for how the entire northern hemisphere has become slaves to consumer ethics and basically commute back and forth to this hive of pure Chinese shit and polyester panties mecca of bullshit, Walmart. And I shit in the 24 hour bathrooms instead of pouring my festering bowels onto the lawns and forests of the the town, cuz I am considerate

Fucking everything was going great for a whole 30 hours I had not been handcuffed or had all my blood tested to see if my DNA is on some assault victim in Dallas for an assault that happened when I was in a Nicaraguan jungle. I am sure they will find a way to pin some murder on me or else execute me, but for almost a whole day I was left in peace...but peace was not mine to have.
The story leaves out the part where a hippie in a van named El Conquistador became the target of the investigation.

See, I was so resentful of looking over my shoulder, of carefully checking my ID, of driving with my wallet on my dashboard so if I reach for it I will not be shot dead because they think I am reaching for a gun. All of that. The fact that now I fucking walk all over this hellish town where there is not a single other pedestrian and not a single public bus service or anyone riding bikes, not even children. Everyone drives F-350 Ford Super Duty trucks paid for by fracking wealth. Ridiculous. So I walk everywhere to avoid the police encounters in the van, which I park at the rec center where I hope it will not get towed or marked as a pedophile transport service. Fucking ponderous. And all these modifications I have to make in my daily life in order to avoid being gunned down like Al Capone in the street have me festering with resentment and all day yesterday I was filled with hate and disdain for humanity. These motherfuckers, I thought. These cocksuckers. These pinche huecos de mierda, putas, hijos de putas. Maybe I was waving my arms, ranting to myself as I walked the roasting sidewalks to the workforce solutions office to ask about work. Fucking, not enough that I am hustling for work and fixing my van and breaking my ass to survive but I gotta worry about being executed on the street by Wyatt Earp.

All day, this building resentment caused me great anguish. And finally I call it quits and try to sleep in the overheated inferno of my van, sweat soaking into my stained pillow and my sheets actually wore out and disintegrated and became rags for oil changes and maintenance, ass stinking, reeking arm pits, mosquitoe Zika bites on my pale flabby flanks. And I park the van in the far corner of the Walmart parking lot and massage my clenched jaw muscles, trying to find something to love in this fucked up Chinese Buffet spare rib world. And little did I know that I was mere hours from the ultimate of all police encounters.
everywhere I go is an uphill battle

So, I finally fell into a worried, troubled, desperate sleep, sweating into my ears, coughing phlegm into my own nose, dreaming of the beach in Nicaragua...and then I hear the familiar banging of the police baton on the door, heard almost every evening I sleep in the van in America, hundreds and hundreds of police encounters, some merciful, some evil, some begging me to make a false move so they can execute me. Just like a fucking war on Oggy. These encounters are the worst because I am totally naked and the van is dark and my piano is in my way, and I am disoriented so I can make an accidental move for a pair of socks and they can execute me instantly and there is nothing I can do. I am not on high alert because I was sleeping only moments before and now I am awake and confused.


Ah, there is nothing like the blinding blue and white lights of the police cruiser and the snooping motherfuckers peeking their noses into my curtains to expose a naked Oggy fumbling for his pants. But I am so baffled because either I have improved Spanish comprehension or else this pinche Federale is speaking English. 

"Are you speaking English?" I ask, as I hide a bucket full of reeking piss that is my temporary toilet.


What the fuck? Where the hell am I? This feeling of disorientation is very common having traveled for two years in 7 countries, back and forth, sometimes with or without the van, all kinds of currency, for long enough to sort of forget where I am. I now feel that nationality is not much different than defining pancakes as breakfast food. Who the fuck defined pancakes as breakfast? I eat pancakes anytime of the day. And a person is just a person. They aren't Nicaraguan or Libyan or American. It's all shitty fake bullshit regarding imaginary lines in the dirt. More resentment...Then I remember that I drove from Mexico to Texas two days earlier and this was a Texas Ranger talking to me through my curtains. I found a pair of stained white beach pants and my leather shirt and opened the door to face the execution squad. What does it matter, I figure, if I am executed in a Walmart parking lot? I don't care anymore. Death will come one way or another and if America has a policy of executing undesirables then we might as well get it over with because the strain of constantly trying to avoid execution is too much for me to deal with. I can't keep looking over my shoulder or waking up gripping my hatchet and pepper spray.

This particular Ranger was not arrogant. He was even sympathetic that I was obviously woken up from a deep sleep and confused. He was young and might've sincerely admired my moped and guitars and the vintage quality of the van, or he might've been faking this interest in order to placate me like I am a fucking ten year old child who needs to be lied to in order to become compliant. I don't what bullshit they teach these Rangers in cop school. I have no idea but I know it includes some fucked up policy on execution of citizens without due process, Miranda rights, jury, judge, or even charges ever filed.

So, I explain myself, obviously I am sleeping in the van, I just came back from Mexico, blah blah, bullshit bullshit, looking for work, the same sad fucking yarn that hobos have been telling the cops for 175 fucking years in America. But what this cop told me broke the generic encounter tradition.

"Yeah, so, someone called in a bomb threat to Walmart."

"Really, Jesus, is that what they are doing now when they want the police to come wake up a hippie sleeping in his van? They call in a bomb threat? Nice." my voice was thick with disdain. Two fucking o'clock in the morning and I'm talking with cops about bomb threats in my underwear. Ponderous.

"No, for real, we evacuated the building, we got all of Walmart right over there." The Ranger motioned to my left.

I was more puzzled than ever because even during my hundreds of police encounters I have never been involved in a bomb threat. A fucking bomb threat? What the hell? So I look to my left, through my curtain and I see the entire night staff of Walmart all staring at the van. And that is when I realize I am surrounded by the fucking SWAT emergency response team and that I am basically the main person of interest in a potential terrorist attack on this small town Walmart. Oh, what the fucking fuck

I gathered that my van was not mentioned in the bomb threat but that coincidentally a bomb threat was called in the night I was sleeping in the parking lot and since my van does not belong in civilized society I became a target and a person of interest and main suspect during the investigation.

So, this has never happened before but I immediately get my ID out to try to diffuse the situation. Jesus. Someone has called in a bomb threat to the very Walmart that I am sleeping next to and I have a van filled with guitar cases that could easily be hiding assault rifles and a fucking piano case that might be hiding twenty pressure cooker bombs, as far as the SWAT team is concerned. Man, I have to act FAST or else become another statistic in radicalized Muslims executed on the street. I get him the ID and kneel down so I become less of a threat. I get out my "I Hate Muslims" t-shirt. That's the whole strategy I use, always reduce my threat level in the eyes of the police. If I am kneeling or shirtless then I become less of a threat and diffuse the situation. If I stand up or keep my shirt on then I remain a potential threat who can be executed instantly. I kneel down and look at all the lights flashing and the SWAT team ready with assault rifles. Jesus! He asks me if I know anything about the bomb threat.

"No, sir, I would have to be some kind of idiot to call in a bomb threat to the building I am sleeping next to."

And the Ranger tells me that as far as the SWAT team is concerned that the terrorist called in the bomb threat in order to lure the police to a specific location in order to open fire on them with rifles and bombs that are hidden inside of guitar and piano cases. Ah, of course, so the absolute worst case scenario would fit my exact description and their role is to execute me unless I quickly diffuse the situation. Motherfucker

I can not fucking believe my bad luck. Either someone saw my van and decided to get the police to come hassle me by calling in a bomb threat, or this was a terrible coincidence that I was sleeping outside a Walmart that some other depraved asshole had a grudge against. Either way, I am fucked.

I really feel my bitterness and resentment actually manifested this insane encounter because how else can I explain that within 48 hours of crossing the border into the United States I have three encounters with law enforcement and one of them has me as the prime suspect in a bomb threat of a Walmart where I am sleeping? I can't explain it except my resentment created a cloud of evil that now hovers over my head. Jesus, I am going to have to play this Ranger a Willie Nelson song on my guitar in order to prove that I am not a radicalized Allahlunatic.

It's the all time low, fucking suspect in a bomb threat during a time when obviously there is a real threat of lunatics blowing shit up all across North America. No, Oggy is not one of them, but the SWAT team will not take any chances and if it means self-detonating my van via robotic drone attacks, then I expect they will do it and pick up the pieces of my piano and claim they are possible explosive devices. Maybe I will paint "NOT A TERRORIST" on the side of the van.

I guess the lesson here is that as unbearable as circumstances were, they could get worse.

Eventually, I could go back to sleep and the Walmart employees were allowed back into their night stocking job. Man, the world is crazy. I look online and it seems Walmart bomb threats are not even uncommon, but PLEASE, you motherfuckers who think this is some kind of a joke or maybe you are calling the bomb threat in because you don't want to go to work, PLEASE you are toying with my fucking life because the SWAT team that responds to your pitiful joke will lock eyes on my fucking van and will unleash all the horrors of the Tet Offensive on Oggy and his python boots and that sucks because I don't want to get executed as a suspect in a terrorist attack unless I am damn well responsible for that terrorist attack.

Jesus, I am going back to Nicaragua and America can go to hell.
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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.