Since I live under a Police State, pushed around by hooded mobsters playing extortion and murder games, based on police files that I’m not allowed the least bit of access to, it may be a better idea to think of my former employers, especially when I got into aircraft work, as prison guards. At this point, it should be safe to assume the reason I’m denied access to police records is because the police were in fact micromanaging my career. For instance:

1975 to 1976 . . . New England Oyster House

Hialeah, Florida

When I first moved to Miami, I ended up working for minimum wage in Hialeah, at the “New England Oyster House” seafood restaurant as a clam shell shucker. Soon before I was fired, the local chicken hawks, out on the street, began pressuring me to turn tricks for them. I easily countered their sexual advances by explaining that I have an incurable case of VD.

One day, I had just walked in the door and punched the time clock when the manager, “Bruce Newbolt,” walked into the kitchen, holding a salad bowl with a broken glass in it and accused me of attempting to kill his customers, and fired me on the spot.

1976 to 1976 . . . Peninsular Testing Institute

Hialeah, Florida

I was paid four hundred dollars to shit in a bucket, piss in a cup and give a couple of ounces of blood everyday for a month at Hialeah’s “Peninsular Testing Institute.”

1976 to 1977. . . Shamrock Trim

North Miami Beach, Florida

While living in Hialeah, my landlord was interested in the notebooks of pictures I had doodled up, which I was attempting to base a sci-fi book on. Although he suggested I open an art gallery in one of his properties, zoned as a store front, I realized I was much too absent minded to take on such a responsibility with no money and mere abstract doodles in a notebook, which in fact point directly to the gaping wound from which my irresponsibility flowed. I was much better suited as rough draft personnel in a movie studio, who comes up with that basic idea from which a list of movies and TV shows are soon repackaged to avoid plagiarism lawsuits.

My landlord knew a guy named “Danny McPherson,” with a “Shamrock” gas station and automotive upholstery shop, who needed a helper. Once I got the job I noticed that Danny seemed to have a lot of friends with the Miami Dade Sheriff’s Department. In fact, speaking of my tendency to come up with ideas, -while never having enough money to turn them into profit, as my ideas disappear into a maze of absentmindedness, later to reappear as whispered police files, masking the moment of the theft of the ideas- I suspect the Miami Dade Sheriff’s Department was stealing my ideas and inventions as I came up with them, and then made expensive messes for me in order to make sure I can never take a forward step, much less recover my losses.

In early 1977, the owners of Danny’s gas station sold it off, which forced Danny to move his upholstery shop into a complex near several movie and recording studios. Danny’s wife “Cathy” soon showed up on the scene and liked to start trouble at every opportunity, so I was basically forced to quit. I soon went from minimum wage as a helper at Danny’s to about eight dollars an hour down the street at W&K.

1977 to 1979. . . W&K Trim and Glass

North Miami Beach, Florida

Apparently, I was selling movie scripts to the local movie studios, always breaking down like I’m a Manchurian Candidate walking into an FBI office, when “Travis” walked into an easy listening station in Cincinnati and talked the owner into changing their format to rock n roll. Of course, if you’re a surveillance officer in Cincinnati, WK would sound like pee, since my new workplace was located in North Miami Beach Florida. The described background noise being the subliminal, mental lock picking device running in the background.

You would think the boss’s son in law, “Dave Crabtree” looked just like Travis, on “WKRP in Cincinnati,” under his beard. Although Dave told me a few stories about the time he lived in Cincinnati, he shaved his beard off one day and looked nothing like the guy.

Anyway, it turned out that I could basically perform every task any top notch upholsterer could do but sew. Since Dave was a hot head, and beat up one of the upholsterers after I doubled and then tripled his commission paychecks, “Dotty Murphy,” the owner, decided it was a better idea to place me on commission and let me do all the work that no one else wanted to do, and therefore stop everyone but Dave from making so much money.

Somewhere along the line, at W&K, I got it in my head that I needed to change living spaces. Even though I had an inexpensive efficiency apartment, furnished with everything, including a stereo and color TV, owned by an old radio DJ named “Eddie Lambert,” who took pictures of himself with his arm around every musician of the day that I thought was important.

Of course, at the time, I was attempting to sell movies and rock videos to the disinterested local studios while Eddie didn’t seem to want to get involved. But then, according to a “Dire Straits” song, DJ was making movies all night long. By coincidence, that “Roller Girl” song went amazingly well with a number of drawings I wanted to turn into videos at the time, about the inhabitance of planet Earth building billions of space platforms and transporting the Earth through a meteor shower event.

Anyway, I soon moved in with a guy named “Dan Curry.” For some reason, Dan looked an awful lot like “Gull Dukat” in Star Trek Deep Space Nine. Dan also had friends in the Miami Dade Sheriff’s Department he spoke of a few times. In fact, I soon found myself behind a billion dollar a year furniture store chain, “Levitz,” with my hands cuffed behind my back as a Sheriff’s Deputy beat me about the heat with his night stick. What makes this, beating a handcuffed prisoner even more criminally suspect is, I was previously told that Levitz was selling the furniture I was designing at the time, but I don’t remember seeing my designs when I walked through the store during business hours.

Soon after my legal problems related to this Levitz scam began, Dave proclaimed that someone broke into W&K and stole his tool box, containing four thousand dollars worth of tools. Of course, I was the prime suspect since Dave was threatening to kill me over it. But then, since I noticed the thieves somehow left behind the tools Dave normally works with, I realized that Dave was threatening to kill me because he stole his own tools.

Besides the possibility of the FBI using state of the art mind control to manipulate bickering children, on behalf of a corporate entity with political muscles, apparently what happened is, I doubled my wages by moving down the street from Shamrock Trim. Since I got all the low paying jobs at W&K, and everyone was happy but me, I was just about to move down the street from W&K, and once again double my wages, when the folks running the copyright and patent theft operation I live under decided to inform potential employers that I’m a tool and furniture thief as they railroaded me up to Tampa, and turned the subliminal wage negotiating machine down to the idiot level, rather than the eight dollar an hour level that W&K’s subliminal soft touch machine was obviously set to.

1979 to 1979 . . . The Continental Top Shop

Tampa, Florida

Since either Dottie at W&K turned away work, or people stopped bringing in their cars, and Dave Crabtree was threatening to kill me as perspective employers liked to talk about stolen tool scenarios while I attempted to double my wages, I answered and ad in the Miami Herald which involved a shop up in the Tampa area. A guy name “Jerry Koch” offered me two hundred fifty dollars a week over the telephone and I excepted it.

The first thing Jerry did was assign me to an old, decrepit singer sewing machine with no reverse and no work table. My new fellow employee, “Kitty Cat,” who had a nice sewing machine, with the standard built in work table, then started telling me stories about how Jerry is a strong arm for the mob. She pointed at bullet holes in the wall and explained how Jerry used to work for a guy named “Johnny Jackson,” an organized crime boss, playing Mafia protection racket games on all the Tampa upholstery shops, which he’s been known to set on fire if they don‘t pay up. Jerry struck out on his own and was currently feuding with Johnny Jackson over turf, which left those bullet holes in the wall.

Jerry suddenly realized that I was much too expensive to have around and renegotiated my wages to a hundred and fifty dollars a week. This sent me bouncing around all the crooked Tampa upholstery shops, on the subliminal based, mentally retarded helper program.

Santa Barbara, California

Since no one in Miami would hire me, and everyone in Tampa wanted to play subliminal, retarded helper games, by 1980 I found myself at “Torgs Automotive” on State Street in Santa Barbara California. The funny thing about Santa Barbara is, I could sit in any bar and tell a funny joke and it would soon show up TV, which pretty much happened in Miami as well.

For instance, in Miami, I came up with this latex dummy, pulled apart with fishing lines as cherry syrup oozes out, which, when played backward, looks like an ax murder victim reassembling himself. Of course, this is the similar items, plagiarism repackaging game which basically places the ax murder dummy in the same category as the robot in the movie “Saturn 3,” reassembling itself, as well as the robot in the movie “Hardware” doing the same.

Someone in Santa Barbara likes to play serious hypnosis games. In the copyright and patent theft business, this is a very slick control mechanism. Since unstable people give me the willies, I can’t see why anyone who isn’t in the profit loop would have anything to do with them. When I left Santa Barbara, I was probably about as frazzled as someone could get before having a nervous breakdown.

The kind of things going on at Torg’s was, someone parked a white, completely restored, 1960 Mercedes next to my work area. The problem being, the upholsterer who worked on it completely butchered the seats. People would come in and look at the seats and look at me, shake their heads and walk away.

Eventually, a guy showed up and told me it was his car, as I could have sworn someone was pushing queer boy buttons in the background which made me act very strangely. When I picked up an Omni magazine an hour later, the car owner looked just like the picture of Omni’s Editor and Chief, who wrote the first word section, which concerned the old method of stressing aircraft, compared to the new computerized method of stressing aircraft.

Although a lot of people complimented my work on the expensive cars I worked on there, I liked the bench seat I made for the boss’s son “Mark’s” Chevy Love Truck. Mark didn’t like his original bench seat and wanted me to replace it with buckets. Instead, I turned the bench into buckets, which he and all his friends loved.

I upholstered an interesting pattern on the buckets that, years later when I lived in another home town of a soon to be elected US President in “Little Rock, Arkansas,” proved to be the fifth gate to heaven in the “Necronomicon“ named “Ishtar.” About a month later, it was explained to me that Mark’s friend drove his truck off a dyke and Mark found himself in the hospital under a thermal regulation device that was always either much too hot or much too cold, which in double talk terms resembles the hypnotic device that was driving me mad.

At the time, one of the shop employees told me a story about this snake handler who was bitten by a huge snake. He then did a very funny impersonation of a very enthusiastic minister proclaiming that the reason the snake bit him is because he didn’t believe strongly enough.

Lakeland, Florida

My father and uncle went into the propeller manufacture business together. For a couple of years there, just about everyone involved in the ultralight business was making a huge profit, before people started to realize how easily they can get killed in an ultralight aircraft.

Since my family ranks high on the dysfunctional scale, its no surprise my that my uncle and his children got rid of me. This meant there was plenty of work for me to do for my father, such as build a couple thousand square foot shop for him. This was followed up by my father and I building a couple of extra propeller manufacture machines.

Since my relatives pushed me out of the business, and I was suddenly in control of two automatic propeller machines to my uncle’s one machine, I opened a business named “Woodwind.” Of course, my father only pretended to hand control of those machines over to me. In reality, he was continually jerking me around like a dog on a leash until my uncle needed them, which he never did.

I tried to talk my father into perusing other business interests, but he’s a genius who was the cornerstone to every company he ever worked for. In other words, my father has a gift for making himself sound so important that I can’t do a thing without him, while undermining everything when I do ask for his help.

Tampa, Florida

I found myself back in Tampa, Florida, working at one of the worst upholstery shops in town. Mac’s Boat Top was the turning point in this hypnotic wage control game. Instead of my experiencing the Santa Barbara ‘Sniper on the Roof’ games, connected to panic attacks, but no memory of wronging anyone, I was now being taught a list of fraudulent police files to base these panic attacks on.

Actually, as I recall, the first thing that happened is, I was being taught a mime act that connected the programming from the Q-105 radio station to various work procedures. But then, I know I was being told that “Jerry Lewis” was furious that I didn’t get on the casting couch with him, and he was going to get even, no matter what, but it’s difficult to state the complexity of my trying to draw a strait line, as the police surveillance team keeps changing the coordinates, while making it appear this is all tied into Jerry Lewis blackmail routines.

Where Jerry Lewis entered to picture is, back when my relatives ran me out of the family business, NBC aired it’s first “Late Night With David Letterman Show.” I could have sworn that Dave was using double talk routines to single me out in the crowd. For instance, the Rolling Stones “Wild Horses” rock video I was selling in Miami, involving a million model airplanes that on the surface appear to be wild horses galloping through the sky, was cleverly repackaged to become model airplanes, filled with explosives, flying into the window at the start of Dave’s show, drilling a hole in the building and popping out the other side.

Anyway, I felt highly compelled to send in my resume to the Letterman Show and therefore NBC. For instance, since I’ve never been employed by the TV or Movie industry, I instead sent in my 101 list, which was obviously repackaged as Dave’s Top Ten List after Bob Hope sauntered in during Dave’s skit involving 89 cowboy books.

After that, I felt compelled to send in another resume, followed by another one of Dave’s skits involving the worlds greatest paperweight calling out, “Bring me Jerry Lewis!”

I sent other resumes but that very surreal mime act, appearing to involve Hollywood icons, soon turned into Steven Spielberg’s ET, developing a murder based ESP, repackaged as EST. This started out with the Tylenol Murders which led the government to passing strict packaging laws. Of course, at the time, I was checking myself for bullet holes after way too many cars decided to backfire. In fact, I seemed to always be the subject of either some sort of death threat or police investigation, connecting murders on the news to any possible way I could fall victim to any given crime, or instead commit them.

Of course, this was all connected to a Jerry Lewis casting couch scam that I somehow got it in my head that President “Ronald Reagan” was using the power of his office to blow out of proportion. For instance, when I got this overwhelming need to visit the David Letterman show, and work out the hundred thousand dollar a week contract that NBC was offering me in my ear, a remote controlled model airplane terrorist attempted to blow up the Washington Monument. Although the federal SWAT team turned the guy into hamburger, the article I read in People Magazine clearly compared me to the muddle minded terrorist without a fist in his glove, and Ronald Reagan as a team player, involved in some sort of football game in which all the movie and TV corporations plagiarize my ideas under the guise of National Security.

Anyway, back to the subject of Mac’s Boat Top. Mac’s was an all day hypnotic dirty laundry game. If the folks running the subliminal soft touch machine weren’t busy making me gay, they were collecting child support payments which I can get out of by insisting I’m gay. Then, when the professional rape victim entered this extortion and murder scam, instead of announcing that I’m gay, I brought this matter the FBI, who pushed me out of their offices.

Of course, the subliminal soft touch machine didn’t always associate Jerry Lewis with this psychotic, subliminal admissions program. During the course of intensely reviewing the poor excuse for my life, at one point, black owned Mac’s Boat Top became the avenging angle for a black homosexual whose care I was placed in, after St. Louis County in the state of Minnesota took me out of a doomsday religion, filled with intense rubber hose beatings. According to the trash whispered in my ear, the FBI was making some very convincing ‘black man loving a very willing white boy’ movies when someone found themselves in some very hot water. I don’t see how it could be me because I was just a juvenile, about to experience the end of the world at the time.

1984 to 1986 . . . Bouncing Around

Lakeland, Florida

I worked at various places out of the minimum wage labor pool. But I did manage to buy an old travel trailer, strip it bare, and then install a sewing machine and worktable, which became a fully functional upholstery shop. I was then run out of business. For instance, a “Duncan Kinlock” at the “Lakeland Auto Auction” had a couple of hundred dollars a day worth of work for me to do, and possibly a great deal more. All I needed to do is set up an account with Tampa based “Gulf Fabrics,” who has the franchise in my area for late model car materials. It turned out Gulf fabrics wanted nothing to do with me. In fact, Duncan Kinlock wanted nothing to do with me either, when he ran me off as the Sheriff stood by, waiting to arrest me if I punch Kinlock in the nose.

1986 to 1987. . . Aard’s Awning

Winter Haven, Florida

The two hundred dollar a day job the Sheriff ran me out of soon became a two hundred dollar a week job at Aard’s. The subliminal soft touch machine games at Aard’s pretty much picked up where the games at Mac’s Boat Top left off, except Jerry Lewis was never mentioned and the part where the black community was using me as a hypnotic punching bag turned into a bunch of Pentagon mind control experts, operating out of the VFW club next door, practicing the one two punch game on me.

Apparently, during the Vietnam war, David Aard was a respected filing clerk, working directly under a very important Navy Admiral. This isn’t saying much, and possibly saying plenty, since I was simply an upholsterer who should have been paid at least fifteen dollars an hour. All the death threats and fraudulent police files whispered in my ear were merely window dressing designed to make the five dollars an hour I was paid appear legitimate.

One thing I noticed about the subliminal soft touch machine games at Aards is, once the hypnotic murder games were worked out, for the most part, they were replaced by whispering “Today’s The Day” in my ear. I know there was a long list of hypnotic screwdriver up my ass games which I sent to a few dozen anti-defamation groups and so forth, since the FBI and Sheriff’s Department treated me like a silly little boy who got caught stuffing potatoes up the exhaust pipes of their cruisers, and they’ll gladly tie a pork chop around my neck and throw me to the wolves. I kept all the replies from all those private, public and government agencies in a computer tower sized box in the attic but one of my family members threw it out.

As I recall at Aard’s, I worked with a guy named “Helmute” who grew up in Germany during WWII. In fact, Helmute was an Adolph Hitler war youth, sent out to do a man’s job when he was fifteen.

Helmute also liked to tell me about his friend “Andy Warhol.” According to Helmute, Andy gave him all sorts of artwork back in the 1960’s. Soon after the Andy Warhol stories started, Andy dropped dead. I know Andy dropped dead of something of an intestinal nature because the subliminal pissy face games used in Aard’s toilet room changed to some kind of bladder cancer I’m going to die from if I don’t stop baiting Helmute.

After Andy Warhol died, I explained the dead artist syndrome and how each piece of art could now be worth millions. Whenever the subliminal soft touch machine raked me over the coals, I could bring up this Dead Andy Warhol topic. Helmute would just about fly into a rage as he explained how Andy was a useless nobody. He saw nothing of redeeming value whatsoever in Andy’s artwork. It was nothing but trash and that’s exactly where Helmute put it.

One day, David Aard wanted to bring in two thousand dollar per interior Corvettes and the like. Since I refused to do that type of work for five dollars an hour, Dave fired me. A couple of days later, someone called me on the telephone at my home and threatened to murder me. I called the Sheriff and explained that since I was just fired by Aards, it must have come from there. I asked the Sheriff to trace the telephone call, in case there was a third party involved but he just laughed at me.

Little Rock, Arkansas

I soon found myself in Little Rock Arkansas working at Falcon Jet, run by a Navy Admiral named “Taylor Brown.” For some reason, Mr. Brown looked an awful lot like “Captain Jon Luc Piccard” on the Star Ship Enterprise, which aired its first season soon after I was employed at Falcon. Although Mr. Brown wasn’t French, Falcon does get all of its jets from France.

I was paid seven dollars and fifty cents per hour. My supervisor’s name was “Jim West.” He had a distinct Tennessee hillbilly accent. I mention this because from time the time “He’s A Rapist” would pop out of the company subliminal soft touch machine with Jim‘s accent. In fact, “You’re Fired” or “I want to fire you” would pop out of the subliminal soft touch machine as Jim would nod his head “Yes,” or say "that's right" when he handed me my paycheck.

Actually, all of the dirty laundry games that originated at Mac’s Boat Top, which followed me to Aards Awning, all followed me to Falcon Jet as well, with the addition of the heart attack game, originated at the Lakeland City Power Plant. Since weeding through dirty laundry was an integral part of performing the simplest task, I was surprised when one of the bigger bosses at Falcon admonished me for taking apart the team while performing the simple act of cutting foam. I can’t remember what I was talking about at the time, but there’s something lurking in the geometry of 4’ X 8’ X 6” foam that really pisses that guy off.

Sure there were nice people at Falcon Jet who I would never want hurt, but I never knew exactly where the battle lines were drawn and whose side I was on. I do know that, since Falcon Security is privy to every deep, dark and dirty little secret I have, and blabbered them everywhere I went, they were just as aware that I’m a top of the line foldout furniture designer who should have been paid several hundred thousand dollars a year. Being a Navy Admiral was involved, I’m sure Falcon’s top brass was aware of the two hundred mile per hour yachts I was designing back in the 1970’s.

For instance, one of the local Little Rock malls had an SR2 (Scream Rape Twice) on display for a month or two. This ’Stationary Roller Coaster,” that I understand the Disney Corporation invested heavily in, was the spitting image of one of several ’Boats That Don’t Rock’ which I’d designed. Of course, any project conceived by a twenty year old with no formal engineering training, or funding, is easy to take over. It all works off the principal of, for the lack of a nail the war was lost. Of course with me, somewhere around the nail, shoe, horse or rider, I would change to a totally new project, thinking I’m leaving the old project on the back burner until I’ve gained a better perspective or a larger bank account.

USA

After I had about as much of Falcon Jet as I could stomach, I found a few odd jobs around the country that didn’t add up to much. For instance, I got a job in an automotive upholstery shop in the Riverside suburb of Sacramento California, whose name escapes me. Where, although I don’t recall having to put up with the subliminal dirty laundry game, my ears did ring from time to time. The morning the ear ringing started, during my lunch break, I walked by a guy on a public telephone who said “I see they’re stinging your ears” to whoever was on the other end of the phone, but it sure seemed like he was talking to me.

Once I was fired from that job, and it was very clear I was being stalked, I decided to send a copy -of the foldout chair that I’d received a set of electric shower handles over when I drew it up in my home, while I was employed at Mac’s Boat Top- to the House on the Rock in Spring Green Wisconsin. I explained that I have a fifty billion dollar foldout mansion, and I could use about ten thousand square feet of workspace and a few thousand feet of demonstration space for shoppers to make up their minds before making their purchases. The House on the Rock management explained how their designers have all sorts of wondrous projects that have nothing to do with me.

After that, I got a job at “Page Avjet” in Orlando Florida for about a month. Page security basically ran the same subliminal stalking procedures as Falcon, from the moment I walked into the front door. In fact, Page security explained how, while rummaging through the glove box in my car, they found the picture of the foldout chair I used during the faxing process, to the House on the Rock, while I was in California. Of course, this was basically the NBC wants to pay me a hundred thousand dollars a week for my set designs and movie plots, whispered in my ear game. Page was merely paying me a janitor’s wage, pretending I was hired as a full time employee, while treating me like a disposable contractor who gets paid several times as much. Once their main backlogged project, the “Trump Shuttle” was finished, and they avoided paying the typical ten thousand dollar a day late fee, I was fired.

Since my foldout chair basically now belonged to the House on the Rock as well as Page Avjet, I think I sent a copy to Falcon Jet and asked for a hundred thousand dollars a year as well. I also asked every dangerous corporation in the Standard Poor Register if I could get under their wing, in order to manufacture my ideas and inventions. “Terry Anderson” the legal department representative for “Northrop,” the US guidance and missile defense contractor, sent me a document that I need to have notarized and witnessed, signing my chair over to the Northrop Corporation.

At the time, a newspaper correspondent named “Terry Anderson” was kidnapped and held captive in Lebanon. His captors liked to chain him to various walls in between mock executions. Of course, the way I read this public dirty laundry event was, this chaining process involved LSD and twelve walls. . . one wall for each gate to heaven, as pictured in the “Necronomicon.”

Apparently this was no joke, since I soon got a job in Ocala Florida, at “So Fine,” run by Terry’s sister and her husband “Ron Walker.” I saw Ron and his wife on the evening news, talking about their hopes that Terry will soon be free. I asked Ron what he was doing with that chain on the news, dipping the links into his wife’s hand and pulling them back out again. It reminded me of a psychotic story I once wrote about something that may possibly be construed as LSD monkeys, named the Boomorangutans. They used to do the most outrageous things in a sheet of paper, which, on another level of reality, was the size of the Washington Monument.

It was nice to be on commission again. The upholsterers at W&K in Miami made between four hundred and a thousand dollars a week on commission back in the 1970‘s. The big problem being, Ron wanted to deal with “Woody World.” On the surface, it’s an impressive place. They restore all the expensive cars of yesterday, which I‘m sure they get top dollar for as well. The reality of the situation is, I never made more than five dollars an hour on anything I did for them. Although, where money’s involved, I tend to suspect a third party with subliminal soft touch equipment, and everything tends to wander off topic, it boils down to, Ron felt he had to deal with Woody World at all costs, so he fired me before I quit, pretty much the same week Terry Anderson was set free.

Miami, Florida

AMP is located in or right next to Hialeah Florida. Although Falcon Jet designed and built their own seats, they used AMP’s seats as well. Both AMP and Falcon design and build complete aircraft interiors from raw materials.

The corporate and personal Falcon aircraft generally seats eight people with several times the leg room of first class seating on an airliner. Most of the projects I was involved with at AMP involved private and government Boeing 747s. For instance, the jet I worked on for the Saudi Royal Family basically concerned my supervising the upholstery of two hundred décor panels for a billionaire’s living and conference space, while someone else handled the dense seating area towards to back of the aircraft.

The guy credited for designing the track and swivel mechanisms, that got AMP’s foot in the door to the aircraft interior industry in the early 1980‘s , was named “Pat Murphy.” Although AMP never bothered to patent any designs, Falcon holds a list of patents. Of course, this preliminary patent research, as well as the research I made concerning a list of items I was much too penned in to patent, was stolen from my trunk at the Miami, Flagler street library. The police report I signed in 1991 stated that what was stolen from me was worth a billion dollars. The copy of the report I received in 1994 stated the value as one dollar.

Speaking of being penned in, AMP only paid me eleven dollars an hour for my ability to make just about any poorly thought out design workable. Since they charged about ten thousand dollars per chair, I was being cut out of the profit loop in a big way. It’s almost like those movies in which people dig their own graves, causing the viewer to wonder why they don’t make a fight of it.

The only time a supervisor would have me perform pre-thought-out assembly line styled work is if the company was about to pay a penalty for a late shipment. As an incentive, my upholstery shop supervisor “Barbara Hearne” told the hamburger flippers, she hired to perform the assembly line level work, to watch me closely and she’ll soon be paying them my wages. Of course, I was never given a raise the entire four years I worked at AMP, but then, the police were about to arrest me and charge me with a crime, if a vigilante doesn‘t murder me first.

In Miami, It’s a bit difficult to figure out who’s running all the subliminal soft touch machines in town. On the AMP premises, security generally beat me over the head with fraudulent police files and employed a heart attack technique resembling a percolating coffee pot. Of course, if I had a great idea, the next day Barbara would say that one of the guys upstairs who studied engineering in collage came up with it. Since this happened often, I don’t know if Barbara was joking or if the mind control buttons in that particular area lost their connection and Barbara was unaware.

Out on the street, in the “Publics” grocery store on Biscayne Blvd., down the street from the 33^rd St. address I had for the first couple of months at AMP, the folks running the subliminal soft touch machine liked to sort my food by what fits up my asshole. And there was always someone about to jamb a ten inch steak knife in my back or pull out a gun and start shooting me. When I did my laundry at the local Laundromat, the black folks sat on my car and threw psychotic clothing into my wash-load, so I washed my clothes in white neighborhoods. Since most of the people in the 33^rd St. neighborhood I lived were black or Cuban, perhaps this constant high threat level, as opposed to a more subdued, deadly police state level, was racially motivated.

Once they stole my car, I moved to North Miami Beach and started shopping at the store around nintey-first St. on Biscayne on my way home from work. At this writing, I only remember a couple times fearing that the scary black folks were about to use a blowgun to infect me with aids tipped darts. Of course, a lot was going on in the four years I lived in the Miami area. For instance, I recall the Publics on 163 St. in North Miami Beach, whispered “Rapist” in my ear dozens of times every time I walked in there. One day a big space opened up and a guy who looked like “Eric Clapton” walked by and no one ever whispered in my ear there again. I don’t know if Eric’s son fell out of a window and died before this event, but I do know that Eric’s song, “Tears in Heaven” came out after this event.

This doesn’t mean that the Covert US Prison System stopped making messes all over the place for the purpose of keeping me off balance so they can extract my fifty billion dollar foldout mansion piece by piece. It just meant that I knew where to shop in relative comfort.

Four years is a long time to acquire war stories when something bad basically happened every day. For instance, soon after I began looking for investors, which was suspiciously followed by one of the employees getting on the roof of AMP with a shot gun and killing people, one of my helpers, on the Saudi décor panel project, “Carlos Levy,” who was in the hamburger flipper experience category, had strange ways of getting in the way. For instance, out in the courtyard where the murders took place, he parked his truck against the former owner of AMP’s fire door. The owner called a tow truck, who had Levy’s truck all hooked up when the former owner of AMP and the President of AMP “Roger Koch” just about got into a street brawl as Levy gleefully watched this absurd altercation like a Chinese ping pong game.

That very evening I got a “Notice of Levy” in my mail box. It seems the IRS wasn’t content with taking out a third of my paycheck, by way of AMP’s payroll office, before I’m even handed my meager paycheck. The IRS had to muscle their way right into the middle of a murder investigation and play slick bank robber games. This was followed by the folks, running the subliminal soft touch machine, encouraging me to take what’s left of my bank account and store it in my home, which someone had obviously been rummaging through at least once a week before this.

Mobile, Alabama

After I quit AMP, I found myself up in Portland Oregon, wearing a mustache, sunglasses and a hooded shirt, suspiciously looking like the “Unabomber,” who the FBI told all the news agencies they were looking for in the Portland area at the time. I was seriously thinking about buying a four wheel drive truck, since I fell victim to the Miami, stolen or disabled personal vehicle game on car number five before I left Miami. Coincidently, “Jerry Garcia” died of a heat attack while in rehab and the newspaper headlines bold lettered, “Gerry Garcia keeps on Trucken.” So I decided I didn’t need a truck that badly after all.

“Trucken” was the name of the song the Grateful Dead came out with when I lived in Little Rock Arkansas. I was working at Falcon Jet, with security jerking me around via the dirty laundry, when I tried my hand at the dirty laundry game myself. Since I’d recently felt highly compelled to purchase a copy of the “Necronomicon” and suddenly realized the spooky nature of my artwork, I explained how the truck seat I upholstered for Mark in Santa Barbara went so well with the “Cowboy Song” by Tin Lizzy. By coincidence, the first time I ever saw a “Will Work For Food” sign, it was held up by a guy who looked just like Jerry Garcia in Little Rock.

I realized I’m going to be out on the street, holding up one of those signs if I don’t find a job, so I contacted every aircraft contracting company I could find and sent in my resume. The “STS” company eventually said they had a six month to several year job for me that paid over a thousand dollars a week. It turned out MEA was in one of those contractual binds with two of American Airlines jets. Since, with my help, they were completed in two weeks, my job was done and I was told to leave. Of course, the guy baby sitting the jets for AA, told me that AA took over a portion of the US Air Force base in my home town, and all interior work will be done there from now on, and, if I interpreted the doubletalk sequence correctly, all my old friends want me to move back to Duluth to play out the last quarter of that old “A Clock Work Orange” movie.

The odd think about living under a web of security that employs every sort of punching bag technique to get the biggest bang for their buck is, the whole time I worked a MEA, I was dead tired. Although no one was whispering “Rapist” in my ear when I walked through the workplace, or as I pumped gas or purchased food, I was continually caught up in conversations that made me look like a fool. For instance, the technicians were trying to figure out why the jet engines were cutting off when they were revved up, which meant someone was in the parking lot, adjusting my carburetor to starve for fuel during the most dangerous highway moments. I put in my two cents and that’s exactly what happened to my car.

I can see how I was basically a turnkey custom aircraft interior business. All MEA had to do is give me a hanger and, with my intimate knowledge of all AMP’s seating and interior techniques, we could duplicate AMP, complete with an assembly line, building ten thousand dollar seats, using hamburger flippers from McDonalds and low paid, cleverly inducted inmates of the Covert US Prison System, waiting on death row, to design things and explain step by step procedures. Obviously, this wasn’t security’s plan.

Lakeland, Florida

Instead of bouncing around a long list of broken promises and mind control experts, making their ‘playing games with stupid’ lessons very expensive, I decided to teach myself those things I need to know, about building automatic machinery, that my father knows but withholds whenever I attempt to become independently wealthy.

The first thing I learned is, for some reason I don’t possess that second to second memory a machinist needs to build complicated parts. In order to get around this, I designed a nice CNC, combination lathe and mill. To construct the electronic controls, I took up the study of computer chips and controller cards. In order to make the cutting tool remove exactly the amount of material I want, I taught myself computer programming.

Of course, computer programming is a great deal of things, and I have an addictive personality that tends to wallow in overwhelming puzzles, making the same mistakes over and over again, because of my second to second memory problem. Gun range earmuffs seemed to help, until I needed to wear glasses, which broke the seal. Since I have an ear infection, waiting for a foreign object to aggravate it, I can only put cotton in my ears.

On the, what I’ve managed to learn side, I can perform the math necessary to computationally crash test vehicles. The problem being, once I ran out of money, I was limited only to the information and programming software I could download off the Internet. And then I was limited to what my finicky Cyrus based computer was compatible with. In other words, although I understand how to build a structural base, I was never able to work out the algorithms necessary to (for instance) mimic an I beam bending to an ever increasing weight placed upon it.

This all pretty much started and ended with my attempting to use the Windows 95 Application Programming Interface (API) to build rotating cubes that went around once and then crashed the system, sometimes stripping out the Windows environment as it crashed, therefore forcing me to reinstall Windows. Of course, at that point I had no idea what a class or object is, and once I got a book on the subject, I was convinced that if I could afford a couple thousand dollar Windows programming environment, I wouldn’t have these problems because its all designed to self destruct without a proper understanding of how the Microsoft Widows Class Function Library is constructed anyway. In other words, since I would have eventually stumbled into the back door to designing a user friendly graphical interface, building a computational crash test facility is a lower priority than my list of other priorities.

Just recently, when I was given a better computer with a writable CD drive, I was able to download a copy of the Linux operating environment. Since the several Linux kernels available on the Internet are filled with a list of bugs I must first learn to work around, and the Linux manuals I have access to a are misleading and incomplete, I’m focusing my efforts to finding a job, rather than pacifying myself by way of working out the best graphics interface for my mindset, from which to build a nice fluid dynamics workstation from. I understand Linux is a much more stable environment to be doing this type of work in, once I work out all the bugs.

Before I bought my first computer, I decided there was a fair amount of money in my “Cool Cap” design, which I planned to start by marketing it to aircraft personnel who are well aware of how amazingly hot it gets in aircraft parked not only out on the hot tarmac, but inside an air-conditioned hangar as well. By some odd coincidence, the “Polar Cap” showed up for sale on national TV while I was still designing the automatic equipment I intended to manufacture my Cool Cap with. I soon realized I needed to get under the wing of someone in the position to play these games.

In order to get under a big wing, I needed a big idea, once I got my computer and a stable Computer Aided Design (CAD) program, I designed a hydraulic pump, valves and actuators. In other words, everything I needed to build that “Bobcat” (mini bulldozer) with several dozen attachments, that I tried to talk my father into helping me build back in the 1980’s, after the bottom fell out of the ultralight aircraft industry. Since my father was a design engineer, experienced in every faze of building huge hydraulic versions of this tiny, much easier to build unit, I have no idea why he made up every kind of excuse for getting out of this project.

Since hydraulics is much more than some guy buying ten acres of land and saving a ton of money by turning his new home into the high tech garden of his dreams using a small bulldozer, with dozens of attachments, I’ve also designed assembly line robots. One I’m particularly proud of has the potential dexterity of the human hand. I say potential because this type of thing requires a very complicated computer interface requiring thousands of inputs to not only keep track of every joint position, but also for sensitivity to hot and cold as well as touch. Since the computer interface cards I’ve designed have not been tested, I’ll imagine Murphy’s law will figure prominently in the prototype.

During the course of designing an easy build interface, I realized I could put millions of input output ports, along with the same type of printed circuits found on a computer chip, on a single sheet of plastic. I could then fold this plastic sheet into any configuration needed to connect the various layers together. A couple months later, a lady came up with this basic idea for a cheap, disposable cellular telephone. It turned out the people she hired to impregnate the plastic sheet with dense circuitry apparently didn’t know how to do this yet and merely produced one with relatively more expensive computer chips soldered to a bulky circuit board.

After bouncing around all sorts of engineering projects, I attempted to support myself with the million speed transmissions I was designing back in the 1970s. I explained to all the automakers how I only need to use one of their CNC’s to build the mechanical prototype. I also explained how, during extreme acceleration, I have the computer chip experience to make an engine rev up to its maximum safe torque level and stay there as my million speed transmission brings the car up to speed. In other words, whenever a typical engine slows down after a gear shift, the amount of power the engine is actually putting out has been greatly reduced, forcing the automaker to install a much higher horsepower engine than need be. It turns out no one is interested until someone in the plant submits the design for a pat on the back, or they figure out how to either steal or reverse engineer a working design.

I’ve also created a TV series about the government using the Patriot Act to place everyone with test scores above a certain level under surveillance. These test scores, belonging to the victims marked to spend the rest of their lives on death row in the Covert US Prison System as all their ideas and inventions are extracted and sold off, are then made to appear below average as the government makes a series of incriminating videos that will never get into a courtroom, but absolutely devastates their victims lives.

My other marketable ideas tend to be double talked on TV until the actual idea or invention shows up in mass production. No one is even double talking or making a shades of gray version of this TV series. I know it’s going to be big when enough victims want to draw a big salary and all their other options are blocked.