Nancy Schaefer was murdered and the murder was not like it was reported. It was reported as a murder-suicide committed by her distraught husband, but no actual murder investigation was ever conducted and all the rules of preserving forensic evidence at the crime scene were literally trampled upon.
Who had what to win and who had what to lose?
Nancy Schaefer knew more about abuse in the Child Protective System in Georgia than almost anyone. She probably knew more about abuse in the CPS system throughout the nation than almost anyone too.
The murder-suicide occurred approximately two weeks before she was about to go public with a new report into child trafficking and sex abuse within Georgia’s CPS, a report that named names and highlighted specific persons who would more than likely be brought down by the report. Said report never made it to the public in its entirety since Ms. Schaefer was no longer there to be able to testify to the evidence included in her report or to attest to its veracity.
Reports from her friends and family members directly contradicted reports of her husband’s alleged financial distress. It was rumored that their house was about to be foreclosed on, but those rumors failed to disclose that the Schaefers had a second house and despite any possible foreclosure, they still had a positive net worth of more than a quarter of a million dollars.
Evidence and testimonials were overwhelming on the side of the Schaefers not being distraught, not being depressed, of them being responsible family members, happy parents, loving grandparents and regular church-goers. Evidence on the other side suggesting that the husband was so distraught as to kill his wife and then himself was minimal and sketchy at best. They were married fifty-two years.
So who had what to win and what to lose?
Then, her bullet wound was to the back. His was to the chest. Not your common murder-suicide. Maybe someone shot him, she tried to run and was shot in the back.
They saw their kids and grandchildren all the time, seemed happy and at peace, went to church. It never added up.
It never added up and no one ever did a possible murder investigation. Why not?
Of course that’s a rhetorical question because maybe there was a cover-up and maybe big money was involved and people had a lot to lose if they were exposed for what they were doing.
So this is why we don’t hear much about trafficking in the United States, trafficking through CPS, trafficking at the border, etc. Big money is why. Big money is why a lot of things that should be stopped and/or undone are not stopped or even looked into in any ways that might yield real prosecutions.
Trafficking is in the top three money-makers of crimes. First is drugs. Second is counterfeiting and third is trafficking. Its monetary value is about 150 billion a year. We know for sure the cartels are involved down there on the border and it’s a real good bet CPS is involved throughout the nation. CPS kidnaps kids under the guise of taking care of them and ushers them into adoption—all for money.
Man is by nature selfish and greedy. One really has to look at where the money leads, and that’s true in almost every arena.
Beginning soon Nancy Schaefer’s report, in installments, to follow. If you Google her, you’ll see the details of her death and the theories surrounding it.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming on Amazon in a few weeks Bill Wynn, The Second Hundred, the second collection in the fiction outtakes series.
Henry Lee stayed around to help Bill on the line. Bill said he didn’t need it, that he was quite all right, and he was all right. He popped two more black beauties and came down off the acid speeding. A few beers and some bourbon helped that, and later, when the dinner rush was over he went outside to smoke a joint.
Tommy immediately got on Bill’s case. He said for the amount of work Bill had done he shouldn’t get paid for the day and that was just his starting point.
Bill liked Tommy and didn’t want to go back at him, so he gently passed a comment that he was putting up the dinner. Then he reminded Tommy that he’d cut meat two times during the day, put up the lunch, did the breading, set up the line and was going to break it down, clean up, change the French-fry grease and close up.
Tommy had no response to the list Bill presented so he started on how bad the drugs and alcohol were for him, how they would, as much as the cigarettes if not more, end up killing him or messing up his mind.
Bill thanked Tommy for the caution and the concern and of course paid him no mind.
Both new girls, Lilly and Brooklyn hung out for the dinner, or, actually, they did a double. The overall and major concern was that Mother’s day was coming up in about two weeks, and the worst thing that could happen was not having enough or properly-trained and experienced wait staff.
The kitchen was set. Alvin would come over from the west side and the west side would work with their swing-shift cook, their relief man. The relief man was not familiar with the east because he only relieved part-time in the west. When the east needed help, Alvin came over because he knew the layout, the help and the system.
Before Bill was fully trained and experienced enough to handle a full-house, rip-roaring Friday and Saturday dinner rush, Alvin, who was training Bill on the broiler, worked the middle cutting the prime rib and putting up the side dishes until Bill needed help on the broiler. At that point, the rush in full-swing, Alvin would take over, but not before then, mostly cause he was lazy and was busy fooling around with Marie who was still over on the pantry station.
Alvin wasn’t fooling with her that way, although he would have if he could have. She had no interest in him cause she was messing with Henry Lee and Henry Lee and he were friends. Alvin would’ve done Alfreda too, if Alfreda had permitted it, even though he and Henry were friends. But Alvin was funky, fat and sloppy and always unshaved.
Alvin and Marie hung out. Alvin ate a boatload of cocktail shrimp and helped himself to whatever else he wanted from over there, things like ham and Swiss cheese for the chef’s salads or rice pudding or one of the other desserts.
Training Bill, from Alvin’s point of view, had been a good gig, much easier than doing Friday or Saturday nights out West on the open-hearth line.
But all good things have to come to an end and it ended when Bill could handle both Friday and Saturday nights no matter how busy they were. That’s when Bill got his first raise. That’s when Alvin didn’t have to come over anymore unless there were special circumstances or Bill was out.
So the kitchen was set and Tommy was doing his best to get the front of the house all set. Norma and Lexi might have stayed through Mother’s Day if not for Drenovis. Drenovis was a drag on their economy, a pain in their asses, and their leaving right before Mother’s Day was a way to let him know just how they felt about him.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
The answer to why was simple but of course Bill didn’t know it. Bill would discover it years later, but not until he’d lost his marriage and a good chunk of his life.
So he didn’t have to feel.
Because some things were just too painful.
“You know,” Mary said, “they have rehabs.”
“When I have a problem, I’ll let you know.”
“You have a problem. And I don’t want to lose you.”
“Not up to you,” Bill said.
He kissed Mary again but suddenly she didn’t want to be kissed. She didn’t want to be in the storeroom with him because she knew he was going to do something to stop her from talking about what she knew he needed to talk about. She wanted to talk about it even though she knew now wasn’t the time for it.
“C’mon,” she said. “Henry Lee’s waiting for you. Can you cut meat or you gonna cut a finger off?”
“I’m going smoke a joint, pop some speed, drink some bourbon. Then I’ll cut meat.”
He took her in his arms as they stood. Mary, despite the ice she wanted to feel, melted. He felt her melt, knew she was caving and that he could do anything he wanted there in the storeroom.
“We need to get back to work,” Mary said.
“The mouse was dead. I was with Annabelle and the three guys were together in Jack’s room. They were gay and doing what they were doing. Rell’s brain was totally fried. Him and Richard. Richard’s mind was fried too. Richard told fiction stories he was writing from his head. He never wrote them down that I know of.”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Talking about the mushroom cloud. I’m gonna make it burst for you.”
“Boy…”
“Boy nothing. Ain’t nothing gonna burn upstairs, is there?”
“I need to go up and check.”
“Let it burn.”
“Boy…”
“I was never with Annabelle. We were together at times, but we were never boyfriend and girlfriend. We were both friends with Jack and Jack was with Rell except we didn’t know he was with Rell until one time, maybe two years after we’d met him, he finally came out of the closet.”
“Why you telling me this?”
Bill kissed Mary, softly, sweetly, then harder and more forcefully. As he did so, he pushed her back onto the cases on which she’d been sitting.
“They were all there. In the egg wash. The dead mouse and the two cats. One was smoking a j. The mouse was telling me the cats killed it, him, asking me how I could let that happen. Then the dots came and the Armageddon.”
“You done lost your mind?” Mary looked at Bill critically.
“Not me. I’m right here with you.” He got on his knees then pointed two fingers to his eyes then pointed them to Mary’s eyes. “We’re right here,” he said. “you and me, Mary P.”
Mary leaned back and let him spread her legs. She closed her eyes and sighed a deep, deep sigh.
He spent an inordinate amount of time on her, carefully, meticulously, painstakingly ministering to her every whim. She could not contain herself, could not hold back as much as she wanted to. At one point someone passed by in the hall and she wanted to stop but wouldn’t let herself, couldn’t force herself.
“Lord have Mercy,” she said when it was all over.
He needed to help her to her feet, to hold her while she pulled on her underwear and got her balance. Then he kissed her a last time, popped a black beauty and unlocked the storeroom door.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
“We ain’t dying today,” Mary said. “You’re on drugs, boy.”
She held him to her, cradled him. Wasn’t him she was holding, and she was straight except for the weed she’d smoked. Was Yulie she was holding. Yulie had flashbacks to Viet Nam. He sweated and screamed in his sleep specially when he’d shot up and had a bad trip. Then, all she could do was hold him and cradle him and hope, coming out of it, she could help him with soft love.
Bill reached into the mushroom cloud. All about them was desolation. He reached and felt something soft…he couldn’t understand what it was. He squeezed, softly at first, then harder, and when it got harder, he heard Mary say, “Let go my tit.”
Annabelle watched him with curiosity as he swept up the dead mouse. Then, when they were in bed, out of nowhere, she bust out laughing.
“You were talking to the mouse,” she said.
“The mouse was talking to me.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You weren’t listening.”
“Was too.”
“Was not. You were busy with the tuna fish and we didn’t even eat.”
“We could eat now, I got something for you to eat.”
“I should pop some speed,” Bill said to Mary.
“You should rest a minute. But this damn floor is cold. Let’s get up.”
They went back to sitting on the stacks of cases there.
“What were you seeing?” Mary asked.
“Armageddon,” Bill said.
Mary looked at him. “Explain to me why you do these drugs.”
“What drugs?”
“Drugs. All the drugs you do.”
Bill laughed. There were fish swimming around them in the quarry. Or so he thought.
When they got out, they lay on towels in the sun, a line of naked bodies. They smoked weed and drank wine from the bottles they had brought.
Two of the people there were fellows at the University. One of them was a fourth-year nursing student. Annabelle was an actress, would-be at this point. Bill was just an English major.
Was Annabelle’s idea to switch partners and mess around. That was because she and Bill were not a couple. They were with each other, hanging out and fooling around, but neither of them were serious about the other.
No one else went for the idea so without any sense of abandon she stood up, took Bill’s hand and pulled him up. They grabbed a bottle of wine and some weed and disappeared to a place behind some rocks and at the front of some woods.
“Was the mushroom cloud.”
“The drugs, why do you do all the drugs?”
Bill had no answer. Mary knew he had no answer and didn’t really expect one.
“You with me now? Or you someplace else?”
“I’m in multiple places.”
“You gonna be okay?”
“Why you care?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
“They killed Yulie. I loved him. They’re gonna kill you. I love you too. Wanna talk about not fair? You can’t even love me back.”
“But I do. I do love you and that’s not the drugs talking.”
“Damn you,” Mary said.
Bill kissed her. But he wasn’t kissing her. He was back in the mushroom cloud only he landed on Fred’s farm in one of the fields where he and several of his friends were sitting in the sun after taking mescaline. They were all couples and all the women had gone among themselves off to a different field. They had taken weed, speed, Quaaludes and wine with them.
The guys had taken about the same with them only in larger quantities. They were passing around the joints and the wine. One of them was telling a story, narrating a piece of fiction he was writing in his head as he went along.
Bill remembered. Richard spoke in cryptic fiction but never seemed to write any of it down. He had a bottle of whiskey he and Bill shared.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
“C’mon boy,” Mary called.
Bill was roused and with Bea doing what she was doing he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave where he stood. He closed his eyes. Everything started dancing in the starburst-dark.
The infinite microscopic dots inside his closed eyes swayed to the non-music buzz in his ears. Familiar with him, Bea knew precisely how to touch him. Her hand spread honey-warmth through his midsection and up his stomach.
Thinking he was on the sly, he slid his hand along the shelf to her and began lifting her dress. Both their hands were low and against the shelf, so if someone came into the kitchen they wouldn’t be able to see exactly what they were doing.
Then he felt a slap on the back of his head and his ears rang.
Mary stood behind them. Bea let out her throaty, deep-voiced chuckle.
“Boy,” Mary said, “you got those trays of fried food to be carrying downstairs. Then you got your stuff to be carrying up for the dinner. And Henry Lee waiting on you to help him cut meat.”
She led him by the hand away from Bea’s station and away from Bea.
He could do anything to Annabelle. Annabelle would do anything for him, everything.
The three others were naked in bed together. Their bedroom door, Jack’s bedroom door, was ajar. Bill and Annabelle peeked in before they went into one of the other bedrooms. Bill carried a joint, Annabelle carried the bottle of wine.
They had not eaten any tuna fish.
“Maybe it’s still alive,” Bill said before they left the kitchen.
“I’m dead, stupid,” the mouse said. “Look at me, man. I’m dead.”
The cats lost interest in the mouse once it was dead. At first they kept playing with it, but once they were sure it wasn’t doing anything back, they left it, preened themselves, cleaned themselves and went off to their food bowls to eat.
Bill thought he saw it breathing. He thought he saw her breathing too, that day she plopped down on the sofa and died.
He let that thought go quickly. His mother had been dead now for more than eight years.
Annabelle told him he had to clean it up. She sidled up to him and rubbed herself on him. Like a little girl begging, she said, ”please, please, please?”
Bill found the broom and dust pan. He swept that sucker up and dumped it into the garbage bag then he took the garbage bag out, spun it and tied it with a knot, dropped the bag into the can.
Done.
Gone.
“Good bye cruel world,” he heard the mouse say from the tied bag inside the closed can.
“You ain’t giving it to her,” Mary said.
It was déjà vu. She led him into the storeroom and bolted the door from the inside.
She took a lipstick tube from the pocket of her kitchen dress, painted her lips the dark purple she knew he loved.
No more dinosaurs. No elephants dancing or mice talking or cats in sunglasses. In the closed storeroom, there with Mary, he lost himself in an apocalyptic vision of the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb.
“Get under the desk,” he said to Mary even though he wasn’t saying it to Mary. “Quick. Get down and under your desk.”
“Boy,” Mary said, but before she could get anything further out, he was pulling her down, down, down to the floor.
For her, she would tell him later, it was like that time she was being pushed beside the bleachers at school. She wasn’t being forced then. She’d gone because she was hot and curious and young and stupid.
“We’re all gonna die,” Bill said. There on the floor of the storeroom, he held her to him and said he was glad that at least they’d die together.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Of course these days how one views that statement depends upon which pill one has swallowed, per The Matrix which has been mentioned here several times lately. That’s what it’s all come down to in America and just saying it is the first indication that something is very wrong here.
That something is wrong in America is quite clear. Pinpointing exactly what “it” is is not so clear and in itself this alone is a big problem. Or, it’s a second indication that something is very wrong here.
Things are generally easier though not necessarily better when the doctor can determine exactly what’s wrong with a patient because then the doctor generally has a prescribed course of action and all the patient has to do is follow the course prescribed by the doctor.
It’s a much bigger problem for a doctor and of course for the patient when what’s wrong can’t be determined. It’s the same thing as when your car is broken and the mechanic can’t find what’s wrong. Then it becomes a hunt, a kind of seek and try to find what’s wrong. In the meantime the patient or the car does not get any better, and as we all know, mechanics replace things on the search to find what’s really wrong and keep going until they find it or don’t.
We’re talking metaphor here. Uh, duh.
So two things upfront. First and foremost, the old saying is that when you point a finger at someone (you know the hand gesture) three fingers are pointing back at you. Second, be careful what you wish for because you may just get it.
That said, let’s talk about Hollywood, the movies, those actors and actresses and pop singers who think they know something just because they’ve made a lot of money in the entertainment business and have a large following on social media.
First, they work in an industry which is mostly devoid of any morality. Next, many of them make movies in which the morality is antithetical to what they profess to us poor people, their paying customers and followers. Then they go on and live their lives to please themselves disregarding what they would have us do.
So, for example, they would take away our right to bear arms, but they travel with armed bodyguards. They tell us a wall is immoral, but most of them live on fenced-in properties within gated cities. They laud socialized medicine, Medicare for all, but they have private physicians and pay up front for the best medical care money can buy.
And that’s just a few examples.
But those examples lead to some of the biggest metaphors of all, The Hunger Games trilogy and Resident Evil series of movies.
The analogy is probably crystal. In both sets of films there are the zombies and the herds of common people and there are those who live in extreme extravagance whose only goal is to control the masses while they, the extremely affluent, just live it up.
Some examples: Al Gore, Bill and Hillary, Leonardo DiCaprio, Whoopi (who said she was leaving the country if Trump got elected but is still here professing her socialist ideals while reaping our capitalist rewards), Nancy Pelosi, and yes, now, even the darling AOC who cavorts with the millionaire socialist Bernie.
Oh, enough of that for now.
So that’s the indication, overall, that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. What you think is wrong, again, depends upon the color of the pill you’ve swallowed.
It’s all a distraction, folks, Kabuki Theater meant to divide, distract and alienate while they, our leaders, collect more and more wealth.
More on this to come!
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
Quite propitiously, at least for here, Jeffrey Epstein, owner of the Lolita Express mentioned in part one, has been in the news. He’s more of a side issue, as it were, since the mainstream media is only interested in going after President Trump’s Labor Secretary, Alexander Acosta.
Is that a surprise? Or is it a shocker? Is it more important for the mainstream media to get the president than it is to actually begin to deal with the issue of human trafficking?
Altogether this is a quintessential question in America today: is it more important for the Democrats and the mainstream media to bring down this president than it is for them to take care of the American people and the business of the country?
The paradigm of absolute honesty and morality calling for Acosta’s resignation is the wonderful Debbie Wasserman Schultz, you know, that scandal-ridden leader of the Democratic National Committee during the last presidential election. She’s the one who refused to turn over their computers to the FBI, effectively impeding them from investigating the Clinton e-mail scandal. She’s the one who employed that Pakistani “family” accused of stealing computer secrets.
You can’t make this stuff up. In fiction, simply put, no one would believe it.
Acosta was a major player in a deal that allowed the known pedophile, Epstein, to get off with a sentence basically, actually much more than basically, unbelievable.
“Epstein was accused in 2008 of organizing a network of underage girls to engage in sex acts at his Palm Beach waterfront mansion. Epstein also allegedly enlisted girls to recruit even more victims, some of whom would travel with him on his private jet to New York and his private island resort in the U.S. Virgin Islands.
“Under the terms of the plea deal, Epstein was convicted in state court of soliciting an underage girl for prostitution. But a Miami Herald investigation by reporter Julie K. Brown in November noted that the allegations against Epstein were originally much broader, accusing him of coercing dozens of underage girls into sex acts.
“The Herald reports it was able to identify 80 victims—many between 13-16 years of age at the time—who said Epstein had sexually abused or molested them between 2001-2006. Eight of them agreed to be interviewed by the Herald, four on video…
“…Instead of a lengthy sentence that could have resulted from the 53-page federal indictment he was facing, Epstein pleaded guilty to two prostitution charges and served 13 months in a Palm Beach county jail, where he was allowed to leave on work release for up to 12 hours a day, six days a week.
“The agreement worked out by Acosta “essentially shut down an ongoing FBI probe that had already discovered 36 victims and could have unveiled other powerful participants in Esptein’s sex crimes, the Herald reported.”
So the real thrust of all of this, today, for the Democrats and the mainstream media, Debbie Wasserman Schultz leading the charge, is to get Acosta and thereby to get Trump, Trump because he hired a guy who made such a deal in 2008.
Make no mistake about it. If Acosta was involved in such a deal, he should not be Labor Secretary. Period.
Whether or not Trump knew about it, is another issue. And whether or not Acosta broke the law is even another issue.
But the Miami Herald now identifies about eighty Epstein victims. Herein is the real story and herein is where the thrust of the media attention should be placed.
So the real cover up still goes on.
This should be about Epstein, about human trafficking, about sex trafficking and about the magnitude of the trafficking problem. But what it’s really about is getting President Trump in an unrelated-to-Trump cover up.
President Clinton rode on Epstein’s Lolita Express twenty-six times, a known fact. He didn’t use that airplane for transportation. Many, many other prominent people are listed as friends and/or associates of Epstein’s, President Trump included.
But you can bet that if Acosta and Trump were not associated, the cover-up would still be totally covered up.
And that’s the real problem.
(The link to the Miami Herald article is included above.)
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
He remembered. Even as the cats finished off the mouse so that finally it was dead as it was sliding along the linoleum, he got hungry and horny, in that order. All the little microscopic dots danced before his eyes, not dinosaurs or anything else. Just dots. He felt antsy, not quite pins and needles but not not pins and needles either.
He was wearing skivvies and his t-shirt. The t-shirt covered the red lipstick lips Annabelle had left on his chest.
She was still wearing the high heels and his shirt which she’d buttoned.
The kitchen table, before which the cats were batting that dead mouse, was covered with stuff. They had weed, hash, all the things to smoke it with. There were Quaaludes and Black Beauties and even more acid if anyone were so inclined. The only one who would be so inclined was Jack’s boyfriend Rell who had been tripping for more than a year straight. His brain was totally fried.
Later in Bill’s life that commercial would come out with the eggs getting fried and the slogan after the egg was fried: this is your brain on drugs.
That was Rell’s brain. Trip 57, mescaline. Trip 106, mushrooms.
Yeah.
He couldn’t help himself. He was roused. Annabelle had done it to him. She’d painted those lips again so they were thick red. And there were her lovely legs covered only by the tails of his shirt. And her feet, toenails long and painted, also red.
He stepped up behind her as she mixed the mayonnaise in with the tuna, smashing it together, smooshing it. Not like his father’s tuna with the vinegar and onions. Not like Mrs. Jones’ tuna, but maybe close.
Young, stupid and able. The zillions of dots danced before his eyes. The cats slid the dead mouse across the kitchen. The fork clacked against the porcelain bowl she was using to hold the tuna. As he pushed on her, her ass shook against him from her motions with the fork.
He enjoyed the sensations of it all momentarily. She leaned forward a touch so he pressed her in the spot she wanted.
Trying not to move, he reached for the Quaaludes. They were so far away, but if he pushed harder into her, tighter, even though they were both partially clad, he could just…
He reached around her face and popped a pill into her lips. She ate it and sucked his fingers. He popped a pill for himself.
Then the wine.
“Jesus, that thing’s dead,” Annabelle said.
Bill heard her words clearly. He’d had that thought himself.
“Ya think?” the cat with the sunglasses said.
“I’m dead,” the mouse said. “Look what they done to me, ma.”
Bill dropped to his knees. He leaned over, not to pick up the dead mouse. It was dead and he was with Annabelle who had luscious fingers and toes and pert little tits. He bent all the way down, almost to the floor and kissed the heels of her feet which were right there for him in those high-heel mules.
“Creamy,” Annabelle said.
He kissed and licked each heel, then kissed and licked all the way up both legs, alternating, taking his time.
Annabelle was finished with the tuna. She was swooning slightly, balancing herself with the aid of the table.
Dusk was falling outside. Rell, Jack and Tim had disappeared into a bedroom, had not come out for anything. The music had long ago stopped.
Everyone was making their own music.
“How many shrimp you gonna eat?” Bea asked.
“Bout as many as a whale,” Bill said. He could see the horseradish pieces, little tiny specs in the red cocktail shrimp.
They were standing next to each other on her station kind of right up against her working shelf, the shelf where she set up the salads, did her cutting and all that. Just for fun, and maybe to piss Mary off, she reached down to him, slid her hand between him and her shelf.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
We don’t hear much about the child trafficking business in America or in the world altogether. In fact, people could get killed talking about it, trying to expose it and reporting about it. In fact people have gotten killed trying to expose it and for reporting about it.
One wonders! One would think especially the Democrats, the supposed champions of the downtrodden, would be jumping all over the human trafficking issue/problem. After all, it is the modern form of slavery and sexual exploitation.
Isn’t that what these so-called moral-elitist Democrats claim they so detest? have always detested and fought against?
But actually they’re only self-proclaimed champions and then they only advocate for something when it fits into their political interests. The story in Virginia exemplifies this clearly. Something has to fit into their political narrative in order for them to advocate for it or take umbrage against it.
The Trump-opposers, these Dems and socialists who claim they own the moral superiority, mocked the President when he reported about the human trafficking issue at the border. In their arrogant and demeaning way, wreaking of their better-than-thou, condescending attitude, they joked that the President had seen what he was talking about in a movie and was now presenting it as real.
Lions and tigers and bears, said they.
Turns out, and it’s no surprise, that the President was correct and his facts are real facts. One in three women coming toward our borders in those caravans, toward that border where they say there is no crisis, are sexually assaulted, abused or raped and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
Turns out that the trafficking issue as a crime in the modern-day world is almost every bit as big as the drug problem. Worse, the product of it, human beings, unlike drugs, is easier to ascertain and individually much more profitable. Furthermore, there are so few criminal prosecutions for trafficking that overall and in every regard it is well worth the risk to the traffickers.
So let’s get this straight. Let’s get a real understanding of the situation before actually looking deep into it.
Sexual exploitation is covered up, sometimes applauded, overlooked, apologized for, and/or generally regarded as some kind of less-than-terrible type of crime. This is so because many prominent people are somehow involved in it. Prominent people’s involvement keeps it secretive and un-discussed.
We, the tax payers, paid more than seventeen million dollars in settlements for the very secretive Congressional slush-fund. Unwittingly, we covered up our lawmakers’ sexual indiscretions.
Similarly, former President Bill Clinton took twenty-six rides on the Lolita Express owned by Jeffrey Epstein, a known pedophile. Clinton ditched his secret service people for the rides. Up there on that plane, it’s all about underage girls.
Then there’s Harvey Weinstein and Roman Polanski and about two hundred fifty other prominent people who’ve been accused of sexual misconduct (at its least) and rape (at its worst). Many of these people are media giants, major celebrities and lawmakers, so most of these prominent people go unpunished and/or relatively unscathed by their actions, actions which very often destroy their victims’ lives. Then they keep it all hush-hush.
Human trafficking and child trafficking are parts of this very secretive and relatively un-discussed issue. Trafficking as a crime, is very big business, but with all the prominent people tangentially involved in some realm of its sexual aspects, there are few prosecutions for it and it somehow remains low-priority. It has even become fodder for scoffing and ridicule, as the Democrats have now shown.
It gets much worse. Much worse.
Trafficking is inherently tied into our own child welfare system here in America. This is another reason it stays so under the radar, mostly unreported and hidden.
By Peter Weiss
and
Coming in a few weeks
He drove Hank’s ’60 Chevy to the quarry. They were going skinny dipping. Hank was too messed up to drive. He and his wife-to-be were in the back. They’d already stripped and were just basking in what was a hot, hot summer day, dry and not at all humid. All the car windows were open wide and some sun found its way into the car and onto them. It was near a hundred maybe.
The road was moving up and down like a carnival ride, a soft, gentle roller-coaster thing for little kids. Up and down and up and down. This was because Bill had taken acid. They’d all taken acid and they were all tripping. They were laughing and smoking and drinking wine.
Only by the grace of God. No cops. No cars.
Bill was doing about fifteen as they got close to the quarry and he opened his door so he could see down to the road. Annabelle asked him what the hell he was doing but he didn’t answer. He drove not so much looking ahead of him but looking down at the road which was softly curving up and down like that carnival ride.
Other of their friends met them there. They were all swimming naked and some of them, couples, had gone off to the woods surrounding the quarry’s swimming hole.
He and Annabelle didn’t bother to go off anywhere. After they’d jumped off the rocks and were in the water she’d come to him and swayed on him, swooned on him.
They weren’t the only ones. Others did it in the water too, and it was all a good time, a fun time, another acid time etched in his memory.
Look at the green. Look at the road. Look in the egg wash.
He waited for Mary to get schmutz on both her hands. One hand was wet with the egg wash and the other had bread crumbs on it but was mostly dry. That’s when he stood behind her and started to grind on her.
“Boy,” she barked at him.
Bea was watching. She was laughing. “Wish he’d do that to me,” she said to Mary. “I do him right here.”
“You would too,” Mary said.
“Well, I’d dare him anyway.”
“Boy,” Mary said again. She smacked him with her bread crumb hand.
“If we do this quick, can we go downstairs?”
“Get real,” Mary said. But then she thought about it, softened some and said “Maybe.”
So Bill concentrated, except all he could see was that mouse sliding back and forth on the linoleum being batted from one cat to the other.
“Great fun,” one cat said. That cat was wearing a baseball cap and a OSU t-shirt.
“You bet,” said the other cat. It was wearing sunglasses and laying on its side, a lazy cat, just batting that mouse with the slightest movement of one front paw.
Annabelle was wearing panties now and making tuna fish. Bill could hear the slap, slap, slap of the fork against the porcelain bowl as she mixed in the mayonnaise.
“How could you let them do this to me?” the mouse asked. “I’m gonna die.”
“We’re all gonna die,” Bill said.
He must have said it out loud because Mary, standing next to him, asked him what he said.
“What I say?” he asked.
She said, “You said we’re all gonna die.”
“Well, we are all gonna die.”
“I hope not too soon,” Mary said. “I hope not before you take me to the Upper Room.” She stepped away from him and off into the back to her station where she stirred some things on the stove and checked the prime rib inside the oven.
Bill walked over to Bea’s station and helped himself to a cocktail shrimp which he fully dipped into the cocktail sauce.
Coming in a few weeks
and
