SAFE JOURNAL OF KING NEBNOOSHOO, CHAPTER 138

SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 138
SUPPLEMENTAL ENTRY
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If I said what else is new, it is always either warm and sunny or else it is hot and sunny, here in good old Fort Pierce, Florida, I'd be telling less than the truth. The weather part would hold, but as for what else is new, there are always new things, and because something was said to me so horrendous and monstrous, and I learned the why and who of this put-up-job just today, from a source I'm safer not revealing, that I am angrier than brown smells and will now say something that will begin new balls rolling for many things, many peeps, and many future outcomes in many parts of the HS.

I cannot ever tell too much about what happened to me as a boy and then how things went onto progress that caused the all ready existing gap between me and a fairly routine normal average life, widening and growing in leaps and bounds on a daily basis, it just cannot be told, other than to hint at a few powerful unfair things where peeps pf power and mega-bucks, as usual, got away with figurative murder, starting with a dude named Tom Reale, who molested me twice as a young teenaged boy, in his house. No one ever did anything to get justice for me on many other molestations as well, the gang of teen goddesses in Atlantic City, the high school fagot at HTHS, the man in the Collingswood, New Jersey, jewelry store, by the name of Mister Wolf, the man who stalked me in Atlantic City and got me into a car where I was taken to a Route 3 motel, across from New York City in July of 1969, much more, believe me, such as numerous student teachers at my school, one male, and several young female adults, it would be a sufficient tale to invite the media over. I am so angry, hurt, and depressed, at what I have been told about why a certain event took place just four blocks from this house and just 3 afternoons ago. Thi9s is why I am going to say just a few tiny things, even though when all is said and done, this will all be locked away in Washington, DC, quite an appropriate place if I dare say so, for seventy five years, and “what makes me think this”, is the law of the land. The blogs will all be gone shortly, so will the stupid no talent songs on the U-Tube, but what will remain will be so that the future can be aware of things that will vindicate my life of terror and nightmare hellishness, or as my mom used to call it, a life of absolute waste.

All ready on prior blogs, is my story of what happened in a small town in Ohio, called Troy. My dad was born in Toledo, and married my mother after they met and courted while he was involved in as very secret and high profile trial and court proceeding at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyards, back in early middle twentieth century. The secret told to me by my mother when she thought that I was mature enough to be told about it, was that my dad, her husband, could not take the shame of living in this small town where so many peeps all know your business and love to gossip and talk, and somehow at the age of (17), that wonderful great number again, seemingly so inescapable, he learned that the father he had always believed was his, was only a step, and that his real father was a dude named Mohr. He grew up as Wayne Martin. He was lied to and never told by his mom, Clara Block Martin, that she had had him at the age of sixteen, and then dad split, they never were married, and shortly thereafter, she went onto marry into the Martin family. He was so ashamed and up set that his entire life was ruined. He joined the Merchant Marines and this became part of the United States Navy when the Second World War broke out shortly thereafter his upping into the MM. Common sense tells anyone that this would not be enough to totally wreck and ruin a person's entire life. But it did. He used his Naval authority and powerful friends at the time, to search for hidden Spanish Treasure Galleons off of Florida's Treasure Coast, and used his influence to gain access into special Portuguese off-limits areas in research libraries and other locations, where he was able to piece together very close positions of numerous sunk galleons from a very long time ago. Then he also was able to use the ships war equipment for a job that is slang worded as “magging” by treasure salvers, what better apparatus to have under your control than a Naval battleship. But we are not gonna discuss this in further detail. What will be discussed is that my father met a strange man in his town who just wandered through, My mom never lived to know this story. I only 'learned' of it a few weeks ago. Lots of peeps back in 2009 started e-mailing me and wanted to know if they might be related to me. Knowing the scams and con games, I was quite leery, and answered only a few with careful replies, telling a few short facts as well as where they could go to check on these same facts for themselves. Many peeps used to telephone me back early in this century while I was in my mobile home, all from Egg Harbor, New Jersey just several miles down the road East of my location, down the WHITE HORSE PIKE, or Route-30. The ODF-HACK got me but I saw it and corrected it, HA-HA-HA. I 'learned' of that as well. But back on office files point, if permitted here Uncle Heinz Kingbeb, of Babylon, and these peeps wanted to know if I was related to the famous Egg Harbor teacher. I never did any real checking of my father;s family line. All I ever knew was that my Aunt Geraldine Snow, the lady that married my mother's brother Stuart, who was named directly after his 24th or somewhere in there grandmother, the Queen of Scotland, was a genealogical expert, and researched her husband's side of the family, the Huntington Line basically, also including Eastman and Mason and a few others, but she did learn by going through lots of stuff that my father's real father was indeed a grandson or something along this line, to the dude who wrote the world famous Christmas song, entitled, “Silent Night”. This has nothing to do with anything right now, and her main interest was tracking her husband;s family back, my family, through the many Huntington's as this line goes all the way back to Governor Samuel Huntington of Connecticut who died in his 4th term in office in the year of 1796, and was the 18th Sorian Governor, if permitted to throw in a little Daniels-Humor, huh Michele. None of this either, has one thing to do with the topic of the blog of SJ-CH-138 and today, this final thirtieth April day in 'PITSY year #4', or also known as (AKA) 2011. 31 years ago I would be driving to 1m802 Robin Hill on this day to drop off a lamp and a couple of boxes, lock the door, and then drive down to the recording studio to pull my 8.5 hour shift of 4:30-1:00, and get back to my new home around half past one in the morning on the first day of May, back in 1980, AKA 'PITSY YEAR #2'. 33 mornings later after the one that I awoke to being my first one ever at Robin Hill, I had my second powerful SCYLLA interaction on the 4th day of June, where She sang Her very special song to me the incredible song we all now know or should know, as, “LOVE IS FOR CARPENTERS”. She has now sang 3 songs to me, one in 1980, one in 1997, and one in 2011, not totally following the PITSY YEAR schedule system, but then, go figure out the great SARAH-STACEY KRASSLE! Harold Camping will go to his box, trying to put this marvelous super teenager into a box. She cannot be figured out, we all must merely play her incredible game. I am the only person on the planet aware of these facts however, and this is why I am able to say something, and BOOM, it happens. I KNOW HER, better than anyone on Planet Earth does.

Back now to what really upset my father. He found out that his dad's mom's dad's brother was in a Virginia field inspecting his cotton. A very strong and tall and gorgeous long haired slave girl grabbed him and pushed him into an area of a group of trees and grass, and forced herself on him. He was a frail man and she ended up having his child. My mom had a book case that was quite elegant with tons of books. Until the move into the Highview Apartments in the middle nineteen eighties, we always managed to move these books as well as this beautiful multi teared shelf, with folding glass drawers, from the middle nineteenth century, handed down to my mom's mom's mom, Sarah Huntington Eastman, wife of the dude as we called him back then, the immortal who left the east to go out to the Bay area of San Francisco, and jumped in front of a speeding trolley car to escape his eternal physical life. He was ninety-five and had thick long black hair on his head, and appeared as a man of thirty, it was the best kept secret of the medical communities of the area as well as most of the state ODF California, and only I am left with the knowledge of this great secret today ion 2011. He carried the Huntington Curse. My dad was ever so slightly related to this mixed child, and the entire town of Toledo, Ohio found this out, and made his life unbearable, so he went to join the MM at age 17, getting his grandmother, the only one he loved ion the entire family, to go down and help to get him in as he was not quite age eighteen. My mom never could understand why he hated his mother and all of the family so much, and gravitated to her side so much. One day at Highview Apartments, in 1985, I read the one book that underneath a pile of other books on the lowest shelf, kept wrapped with a strange cover, and had a dairy lock on it. My mom broke the lock a few years back, and told me that I need to read this book someday. In it was a story written by this man who later fell in love with the slave girl who bore him the man-child. He had written this book of their love in full secrecy, as both of them could have been hung in those days. To this day, I do not know what the law is and exactly what the fractions are, but still write the CAU on my forms for race, YO! Still, between many other things, as well as fireworks night, how can I ever rule out 1969, Mister Marcucci, and if it is true, this is the greatest injustice in the history of man in my opinion, but then, that is my opinion that the mighty Michelle from RPL is granting and permitting me, so I was told in 1980, but my opinion is naturally quite prejudice.

So next time you feel like pulling a stunt like this on me, think twice, as twisters is the least of things that I can counterstrike with my friends and fiends out here, what I know swirls and twirls a l;opt more dangerously than any winds can blow, but then, they do call the wind by some pretty fascinating names.

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