Good Times at Pottersville, 12/31/15

Gods of Our Fathers launch

 

     Cities aren't built in a day but they can be destroyed in one.

     When fugitive slave Anthony Burns is arrested in Boston in May 1854 for violating the Fugitive Slave Act, it unwittingly touched off a wildfire of once dormant abolitionist fervor. Far beyond the confines of the "city on a hill", abolitionists up and down the northeast corridor unite in protesting Burns' arrest and trial. Among them is infamous radical John Brown, whose presence in Boston is contributing to the chaos and mayhem engulfing the city.

     Stepping into the maelstrom of madness is mulatto Constable Cornelius "Vesey" Van Zant, himself an escaped slave from Mississippi. Van Zant must contend with not only the riots and arson largely stirred up by Brown but also a series of murders in which the victims get closer and closer to his house. Hobbling Van Zant and the department is President Franklin Pierce ordering federal troops to occupy the streets of Boston.

     Based on a true story, Gods of Our Fathers is about the earliest hours of the Boston Police which must somehow get a handle on civil disobedience on a scale, size and scope with which it's never had to contend.

     The Kindle version launched on Christmas Eve and can be found here for just $4.99. And, for those who don't do Kindle, the paperback launched two days later and can be found here for $8.99 (about a dollar less than a typical legacy-published paperback). Featuring a gorgeous cover designed by James Moore out of Mobile, Alabama (click on the lead image then again for a much higher resolution version), Gods of Our Fathers not only weaves a thrilling historical murder mystery around an equally thrilling real life series of events that brought about the Civil War, it also makes observations that the racism and police abuse of the mid 19th century isn't necessarily a thing of the past.

     Both versions also feature at the back a sneak peek at the sequel, Blue Blood.

Why Did Hillary Clinton Hire a Monsanto Lobbyist to be Her Campaign Director?

     Good question, if you know nothing about Hillary's cerulean canine roots. But one fact that remains glaringly obvious to those of us paying attention to these things and those Hillary supporters who are just as strenuously ignoring those pesky facts is Hillary officially hired Monsanto fuck stick Jerry Crawford to manage her presidential campaign.

     Of course, the so-called liberals who back Hillary can be excused for not knowing their facts about their girl since the MSM is largely worthless in bringing up those inconvenient facts, as evidenced in this breezy puff piece in the WaPo's Style section. Yeah, I know Style pieces in any paper are supposed to be ultimately worthless, breezy eye candy. Yet, since it contained hard political data (such as Crawford failing to deliver even a place much less a win for Hillary in Iowa in 2008), you'd think Monsanto's good name would've merited at least a fleeting mention.

     And to anyone who pays even a scintilla of attention to anything Clinton says, it's screamingly obvious this woman has been pimping for Monsanto to the point of practically gargling Roundup after sucking various cock at the Biotech Industry Conference in San Diego last year. How anyone, especially a self-styled Democrat, can publicly and frequently advocate for Genetically Modified Organisms is beyond me except when one considers benefits of such a whoring for an evil empire such as Monsanto (even when her campaign manager no longer works for them).

     Let's take Crawford's track record: He's long been considered a kingmaker for Democrats in his native Iowa, especially those who are friendly to Monsanto (which alone ought to show you of the alarming number of supine so-called Democrats that Crawford's helped over the years). But even when it meant costing a "fellow" Democrat a job, Crawford supported the Republican running against him and, well, just keep reading.

Jerry Crawford also played a big hand in the 2010 Agriculture Secretary election, which was an election that showed Monsanto does not care about a person’s party allegiance as long as said person doesn’t oppose them. The reason why is because the election’s Democratic nominee Francis Thicke was a critic of Monsanto. Ergo, Monsanto showed major support for the Republican nominee Bill Northey. Crawford would then endorse Northey, touting his backing as evidence of “strong bipartisan support.” Crawford even said he was a “veteran Democratic political insider” to help push Northey. As a result, Northey won the election with a landslide 67 percent of the vote.

     That kind of Tonya Harding-style kneecapping verges on Karl Rove territory yet the WaPo would have us believe Jerry boy's a simple ole Midwestern lawyer with a love for fast horses and slow candidates.

     I had Hillary pegged eight years ago when she ran a campaign that was, predictably, more rotten with lobbyists than even John McCain's (which is saying something). But you'd have to be a complete fucking idiot on a par with a Trump supporter to be duped by Hillary's easy populism about taking on the 1% of which she's a part and from whom she's vacuuming up enormous amounts of bribe money to spout their lines.
     Yeah, tell me again about how Bernie's not electable, at how he's not viable. But one fact remains clear: When Bernie veers into populist rhetoric, his populism is merely incidental because he means what he says.
     Oh, by voting for Bernie in the primary I'd be "splitting the party?" Perhaps. If that's what I'd be doing, then that's because this Crawford learned that trick from another Crawford.

Like White on Rice

(By American Zen's Mike Flannigan, on loan from Ari)

     Just over 24 hours ago, as the grand jury in the Tamir Rice shooting was approaching its long-delayed but inevitable non-verdict that removed Officer Timothy Loehmann from the sphere of exaction, the US Marshall's Service was gingerly approaching escaped fugitive Ethan Couch in Mexico.

     These two stories were perhaps fated by the News Gods to break within 24 hours of each other as they seem to readily offer themselves up for comparison. The comparison, of course, is how we treat rich white criminals and innocent African American youth.

     Couch, I'm sure you remember, was the Texas 16 year-old who'd gotten high and intoxicated, stole his father's car and killed four innocent people on a joyride. The Couch family attorney then infamously called to the stand a psychologist who claimed young Ethan should not be treated too harshly because of "Affluenza". This meant his ability to distinguish right from wrong was impaired because of his parents' coddling and refusal to set boundaries.

     In Cleveland, Rice, a 12 year-old child, was gunned down last year literally less than two seconds after Loehmann and another officer arrived after a scared old white man called 911. He thought he saw a scary black man with a gun (which he qualified by saying "it's probably fake").

     Essentially, it took over a year for the Cuyahoga County prosecutor's office to explain away how and why a black child was gunned down with no chance of preventing his shooting and with impunity. Couch, and his mother, decided two years of probation that had hardly impinged on his life or freedom was more than enough of a price to pay.

     Just to play Devil's Advocate for a moment, it's a crowning irony that one of the two people harmlessly blamed for impairing young Ethan's ability to tell right from wrong led him on this merry escapade to the Mexican resort town (of course) of Porto Vallarta.

     Here's the catch: Couch is no longer a wayward, badly-disciplined lad of 16 but a young man of 18. If you don't know right from wrong by that age, then you're officially a sociopath and deserve to have the book thrown at you.

Justice For All But the Book is Lighter For Some Than Others

     Here's the second catch: Despite his age, Couch's original conviction is still technically in the juvenile criminal justice system. Not only does this mean his juvenile records will be sealed should he commit more offenses as a legal adult (And he will. Just think of Couch as George Zimmerman with lots of unearned money), he might very well get off relatively lightly... again. Because, according to Texas state law, "The maximum sentence that a juvenile judge can dish out for a violation of his juvenile probation is imprisonment in a juvenile facility until Couch turns 19, which is April 11, 2016."

      And if a rich white kid can get four months in jail for skipping not just the state but the country because reporting to a PO for a few minutes a week is too onerous an inconvenience, he could conceivably get out even earlier than that with good behavior (That is, considering this shark-eyed little psycho is even capable of good behavior).

     Tamir Rice had no high-priced lawyer to blame his parents for raising him so waywardly he was playing with a toy gun at a playground. That is because Tamir Rice was mercilessly gunned down after a stupendously flawed and hasty threat assessment and was killed before he even had the chance to explain why he was holding a toy gun. If he actually reached into his waistband on their arrival as the Cuyahoga County Prosecutor kept insisting, perhaps the boy was merely attempting to show them it was indeed a toy gun.

     It's unclear whether or not this secretive grand jury even knew that Loehmann was so mentally unbalanced he was pressured out of his last department after having an emotional meltdown on a gun range in the wake of his girlfriend leaving him. Or that the Cleveland Police Department hired this emotionally unstable man without even vetting him.

     As a nice icing on the cake, it has been reported that Couch had been given a nice little going away party before being rescued by Mommy.

     I'm pretty sure Tamir Rice never had a going away party before he was viciously gunned down by Timothy Loehmann any more than Couch's four victims had time to assess their lives were in danger.

When the Hunter Becomes the Hunted

     I have had it with this bullshit.
     I have spent far, far too much time on this creepozoid "David" Chadwick and his twin brother "Daniel." I have better things to do with my life, like trying to sell my novels, stave off eviction right after the new year, getting my publishing career officially off the ground, keep writing new material, keep money coming, somehow, into this house as well as my countless duties and obligations to family, friends, creditors and so forth.
     And in a way, the Chadwicks have already won by doing their "level-headed" best to tank my book sales by skewing my Amazon rating, wasting my time and scaring the shit out of my girlfriend.
     And apparently, virtually everything I ever found and assumed about the Chadwicks was wrong or outdated. That's where friends come in. After all, I've been on the internet for going on 22 years and have been doing investigative blogging for a full half that time. I know how to reach out and network at least as well as anyone. And I found someone on Twitter who knows people who know this dysfunctional tag team known as the Chadwick twins.
     What you see in the lead image, and I'm sure "Davie" recognizes this as he's looking bug-eyed at it, is his real location. Surprise, surprise, my stalker and troll lives in a trailer park in Farr West, Utah, a shitty little burg in Weber County, Utah northwest of Ogden I'd seen listed as the location for "Dave's" twin brother "Daniel."
     Apparently, these scumbags are so furtive and dishonest Daniel and David aren't even their real names. Even "Dave's" own friends can't stand going to his trailer because of the stench of stale and new body odor.
     And once I had discovered their real names, the floodgates opened up. For the price of two dollars, I got "Dave's" criminal records and official court documents for his twin brother "Daniel", who apparently had a daughter out of wedlock 12 years ago and has never paid a penny of child support. Yes, "Daniel" Chadwick is a deadbeat Dad. And, as far as "David" goes, no child or animal within arm's reach in his trailer park is safe.

     Let's go to camera three, shall we, "Dave"?
     I've proved I've at last pinpointed your true location and this is just the beginning. If you keep stalking me and scaring my girlfriend and trying to ruin my writing career before it's even started, I will dox the living fucking shit out of you and make you and your vestigial twin "Daniel" the laughingstock of the internet as if your antics hadn't already earned for you both that dubious distinction.
     My friend and his friends tell me I am not the first person with whom you have picked fights and mercilessly stalked. Well, now you know what it feels like to be the hunted. Welcome to my world, bitch.
     You are obviously, like me, a failed author. Your twin "Daniel" is a failed filmmaker. I do not rag on those who are failures. The publishing and film business being as cutthroat and rotten as it is, those who aren't connected or have an "in" in this business are almost certainly doomed to failure.
     What I don't do is condemn, stalk and ridicule those for their failure, especially when I see they are talented and passionate about what they do. I would never hold it against another for being a failure because I've been around long enough to know that apathy, arrogance and ignorance on the part of power brokers all too often successfully masquerades as another's failure.
     And among the most courageous of us are those who are doomed to failure for reasons other than talent yet continue striving against all odds to beat the system and find a way to succeed. That's what I and many of us, including yourself, are trying to do in the self-publishing market. And I never thought to stoop to your level and trash a book as I have yours on Amazon and Goodreads and other places until I unfortunately made your rancid acquaintance through your stalking and harassment.
     Even still, I did not make a second career out of it, stalk you through your blog literally countless dozens of times a day, including Thanksgiving, Xmas Eve and even Xmas itself. I did not think it was worth my time to give you one star ratings on your every self-published... book, let's charitably call them.
     Because, unlike you, I have a life to lead and more important matters to attend to.
     So consider the lead image the warning growl that comes before the full frontal assault. You keep stalking me, if your brother keeps stalking me, if I continue seeing any more one star reviews of my novels, especially the new one, if I see evidence of any more fanboy trolls of yours surfing to my blog like I saw on my other blog just yesterday, if I see even the slightest evidence whatsoever that you have not taken under serious advisement my imperative to fuck off and pretend as if I do not exist...
     ...well, you know what'll happen. I will spend only as much time as I need to to thoroughly humiliate you and your deadbeat dad of a twin brother and your court records will be released. Then I will go back to the authorities and I will hound them as I suspect other victims have had to in the past and I will press charges against you until your smelly ass bleeds.
     And that will be just the beginning.
     You have fucked with the wrong person, Chadwick. Consider this your final warning. From now on, if I need to, I will do these things silently until you are blindsided because this time I am not alone. When you scare my loved ones, you have crossed the line and I will not just be brutal, I will not just be quick. I'll be merciless and abrupt.
     You think that's funny? Please, try me. 51% of me hopes you finally see reason.
     49% of me hopes and prays to God you make the very worst decision of your worthless, sociopathic life.
     You got that, Jack?

Merry Xmas From Our House to Yours

     This is our Charlie Brown Xmas tree, with all the presents beneath it. Although I'm extremely critical of Amazon, I have to admit their Gift Wish List is a godsend.

     This is Popeye in his usual homicidal frenzy, for which he didn't need cat nip this year. He'd been in my grill since yesterday when I was wrapping presents. If you don't think dogs and cats have the minds of three year-olds, try wrapping presents around this one some Xmas.

     One of the few times Popeye was able to contain himself and sit still for a picture today. He is more into Xmas than any cat I've ever known.

     Popeye with more of his toys.

 

     Eventually even Popeye gets tired of ripping Santa or his effigies into shreds.

     This is Max, the dog of some friends of ours in a neighboring town. I spent $20 on that fucking rawhide chew that's right out of the Flintstones but it was worth every penny just to see the look on his face when he saw it.

     Lastly, this year's Xmas feast: Pork loin, Charlene'e Cheesy Potatoes, mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, butternut squash, stuffing, gravy and black olives, topped off with a good white Riesling and an apple pie.
     I hope you all had a safe and happy holiday season.

An Airing of Grievances

     As Festivus approaches, let us now have the Airing of Grievances. They're twice and thrice-told tales you've perhaps read here over the years, about those gnarled gatekeepers called literary agents and how they seem to make it their mission in life to delay or outright ruin the careers of virtually every author who's misinformed and naïve enough to submit to them.
     You may have read earlier this month about how I'd submitted  my new novel, Gods of Our Fathers, to one in NYC. This alone was like a labor of Hercules, as my hard drive crashed, then I had wifi connectivity issues with which I'm still wrestling because someone in Microsoft thought it was a good idea to deny me my network device drivers.
     But the rejection letter sent to me two days ago, which I read on waking up this morning, really broke the camel's back. This agent, who made me think in a silly unguarded moment he was different from the rest, not only rejected this book on which I'm still laboring hard because I wanted to make it better for him for when he chose to represent it and send it out, but did so with a form letter I've gotten literally 1000 times over the years.
     "As you may know, fiction is such a tough sell these days..." "I wasn't sufficiently enough in love with it to make me the ideal advocate..." Yada yada yada...
     Well, fuck professionalism, I said to myself, then let him know just how much he completely ruined our holiday season, one associated, for some reason, with miracles on 34th Street and elsewhere.
     I'll be honest. I only started Gods of Our Fathers last August 17th and I finished the first draft in less than 3 ½ months flat. When it was obvious Tatterdemalion, brilliant as it is, was going nowhere with these morons in record time, I realized something had to replace it and fast. So I created Cornelius Van Zant, a mulatto former slave and one of Boston's first cops in 1850's Boston. It's a hell of a story both in and outside my book in which the Boston PD had to contend with race riots and arson in the earliest hours of its existence. And no one had written a novel about it. So I did.
     Before the first line edit had started, I'd sent it off to 30 lit agencies as mainly trial balloons to see if this new novel would catch. And one responded, within 24 hours. And since sending it to him, I've been giving it a scrupulous, final line edit to make it as camera-ready as possible for when he'd choose to rep it and make the rounds.
     Because we're running out of time and something had to replace the last book on which I'd labored hard for 2 ½ years and deserves legitimate publication.
     For those of you just tuning in or had tuned out this little factoid, here it is again:
     We are losing our sole source of income as of the end of April, which still isn't sufficient to help us meet our monthly expenses, let alone fix problems that suddenly rear their ugly heads. Gods of Our Fathers, as with Tatterdemalion and every book I've written since 2008, was supposed to put me on the map and at least make me solvent. Writing is the only thing I can do, and I do it damned well, in which my lengthy unemployment, age or experience isn't a factor.
     Let me remind you of a few other things: Before that income stops in April, we'll find it impossible to make ends meet and pay our rent to our new sociopath landlord because, again, that sole income isn't enough to keep body and soul together, which is why I have to do fund raising drives from time to time. When Barb's mother was dying, you guys came through and that's why I was able to lay off from the begging for six months and give you all a break.
     However, unlike in years past, the closest shelter five miles away closed down years ago. If we lose even this hovel in which we've been living for going on seven years, we will literally have nowhere to go. I may be able to finish making the premium payments on my car insurance, maybe not. But even if I can, I will not be able to renew come June 24th and we may be living in a car that's illegal.
     We will wind up losing most of our possessions because paying each month for storage won't be an option. Our beloved cat Popeye will end up Lord only knows where. We will lose our books, our clothes, our furniture, everything.
     And this has all been grinding away at me on a constant basis during these holidays. When I'd put up my tree this week, I did so with a sense of sadness because this will surely be the last holiday season we'll spend in this dump. Every time my cat snuggles up against me, every time Barb gives me a kiss, I feel like an impostor because they do so out of a sweet but misguided trust I can actually care for them and prevent all this from happening.
     But, God help me, I cannot do it alone, and, atheist though I am, I've been counting on another miracle to save us at least in the short term during this, the holiday most associated with miracles for the deserving. This encroaching terror of eviction and complete loss and financial ruin has been coloring my entire holiday season. And I thought this agent Jim McCarthy would be it. I was so wrong.
     A week and a half ago, I'd sent out a mass email to over 250 of the folks who'd contributed in the past. It resulted in a grand total of four donations totaling $250. That's less than a dollar for every person I'd written to. And, as I keep saying, that's OK because no one owes me shit. But as I also keep saying, when you have others to care for, you think less about alienating others with regular appeals for help because blind panic makes you insensible to such considerations.
     And when times are palmy, you can afford to think of others. When they're not, your focus has to be parochial. And, yeah, I actually wish I had back every single cent I'd ever loaned or given others because we need it now more than ever.
     And while circumstances in Obama's America force me to be a glorified street corner beggar, it can't be said I haven't been busting a nut trying to make myself self-sufficient by doing something I do best, something I'm getting better and better at. But publishing is a dirty insider's game, rotten to the core, and the rules are set up to make guys like me fail.
     And to my stalker David Chadwick, who's been doing his level-headed best to tank my book sales and deny me what small income my books make me, have it it. If kicking a man when he's down is the best part of your day, then this is your moment. Make the most of it. Because I have much bigger considerations and worries than you.
     But if anyone in a position to seriously mitigate our circumstances is reading this, please consider while I've been a tiresome panhandler these past six and a half years and may perhaps deserve in some small measure what awaits me, consider the same cannot and should not be said for my girlfriend and cat. They do not deserve this because they had placed their trust in me as I was in placing my trust in that worthless literary agent.

This Cartoon Wins the Internet Today

     Yep, you have to get up pret-ty early to get one past these highly-informed voters...

Good Times at Pottersville, 12/17/15

For Those of You Who Don't Know...

     Not too long ago, I suffered a hard drive crash that completely trashed all my files. Among them was the only copy of my new novel, which was lost literally the day before I was to send it off to that literary agent who'd offered to read the entire book. That was taken care of when my beta reader sent me the first 33 chapters I'd given her to proof and after I redid all the corrections, I was finally able to send it to that agent while simultaneously submitting it my publisher at Create Space. Hopefully, I'll be able to put it on the market just before Christmas.
     Yet along with my other Word files that got flushed was the outline of an Assclowns of the Year I'd started earlier this fall. Lost were dozens of links, .jpegs, etc. I forgot half the selections I'd made so if you have any suggestions for who would get your vote for one of the biggest assclowns of 2015, I'm wide open to suggestions. (Note: People like Trump, Kim Davis, Ted Cruz, Martin Shkreli, etc are kind of hard to forget so I already have them covered.)
     And as long as I'm asking for help and since 't is the season, if those of you who haven't been tapped out after your Xmas shopping could see your way clear to providing us with some assistance, we'd surely appreciate it.

Good Times in Ye Olde Pottersville, 12/14/15

Friday Night Video Blogging

     This one goes out to my stalker buddy with no job, no career, no wife, no girlfriend, no kids, no life whatsoever outside of yours truly as he keeps the faith at the Old Post Office Building on the corner of 24th Street and Grant Avenue in Ogden, Utah. Or from where ever he's leeching free wifi. Indeed, it seems this 1983 standard by The Police (with whose real analogs I've a feeling Sugar Ray will be speaking real soon) was written just for him.
     This is kind of like walking out into the cold night with a steaming mug of cocoa to give to some lonely caroler then forgetting about as one climbs into a warm bed with their woman while the other poor bastard remains standing outside shivering with nothing but that rapidly-cooling mug of cocoa shaking in his hands.
     But, hey, it's Christmas. 'T is the season, right?

"Being Observant"

     To say I've got a lot on my plate these days would be an understatement.
     In addition to Christmas shopping, assembling my card list, putting up the tree in addition to all my usual responsibilities, I also have Tatterdemalion being read, by invitation, by Penguin-Random House and my newest novel being read, again by invitation, by a literary agency in NYC. At the same time, I'm doing this, I'm spending hours a day retyping a novel I'd lost when my hard drive crashed a few weeks ago and I have but a hard copy I'd printed as my guide.
     Now, adding to these responsibilities, I have a stalker to contend with and reporting him to the appropriate authorities. I will not mention his name because you have but to look at the post below this to know of whom I am speaking. No doubt this post will result in the usual escalation of activity (luckily my stalker is not terribly smart and leads with his chin) such as what I've been seeing and documenting since Sunday night.

     Since that time, when I gave this clearly unhinged twat a taste of his own medicine (and the response proved he can dish it out but can't take it), I've been going back every few hours to see how much attention I've been getting from my little friend in Ogden, Utah. What follows are two dozen screengrabs showing the last couple of dozen sessions going back to just 11:40 Monday morning:

    

     I've deliberately kept the value of these screengrabs small for the sheer reason there are so many of them. If you'll notice, the next and third to last two are coming from a different IP Address because my Ogden stalker thinks he's being clever by going somewhere else and using a different ISP, hence a different IP Address. But I noticed this "visitor" was doing a search using the keyword "agent", which he'd been doing since at least yesterday (as well as one for the word "cover."). So I did an IP address lookup and traced it back to a location that has been used before:
    

     ...thereby placing him directly at Con Agra foods at the old Post Office Building on the corner of 24th St and Grant Avenue in, wow, what a coincidence! Ogden, Utah!
     Smart, but no cigar, pal o' mine.
     Now, take careful note of the time stamps on all these dozens of screengrabs. You'll note this stalker has been spending a frightfully disproportionate amount of time at this place and probably my Amazon product pages. He's at this place literally morning, noon and night, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning (And I'm talking about Pacific time, not Eastern).
     When I noticed the resurrection of his one star hit piece for one of my novels, one that Amazon had seen fit to take down earlier this year, I decided to give this wet-legged little bitch a taste of his own medicine. So I went to his blog, once and briefly, and left a message telling him to check his own Amazon product pages as if to say, "Welcome to my world, bitch." Then I resumed my life.
     Before this time, he'd already gotten his big brother in on the act, who then began trolling and stalking me on this blog as well as my Twitter accounts. But when he found out what it's like to be me for a few moments, he went ballistic and got his troll buddies to stalk me and give my books one star reviews, even voting down my reviews of his... books, shall we call them.
     You can see what the response was when I pushed back and let him know what it feels like to be me. Full-blown stalking fueled by an unhealthy obsession with someone he loathes.
     So one must ask this one simple, logical question: If I'm such a horrible writer and such a loathsome person, then why am I worthy of so much attention of late to the point where he's actually switching locations in some Keystone Kops attempt to hide his IP Address and physical location? If my novels are so horrible, then why not let them sink of their own weight and why does he think he needs to help the process along?
     Good questions, all, which is why I'd contacted his usual ISP at Comcast. I've filed a complaint of cyberstalking and harassment against him and the older brother he needs to fight his battles for him. They'd pledged to get back to me through a special team whose remit it is to investigate allegations of abuse of their wifi service. I will also be sending a complaint to XO Communications, whose own wifi service is being abused for the same illegitimate purposes.
     I've also filed a preliminary criminal complaint with Utah AG Sean Reyes' Office and am awaiting their response.
     Ordinarily, I'm not the kind of person who snipes from behind peoples' backs. But I thought in the beginning it was worth it to silently document these very verifiable instances of online stalking and then just drop the hammer on him when it was time. Yet, on reflection, when I saw additional one star reviews going up and that my fulltime stalker was trying to get cute by changing his location and IP Address (meaning I've gotten a lot more hits from him than the 22 he'd given me since Monday), I realized how dangerously unstable this man, for want of a better word, truly is.
     He's just pissing me off. But he's starting to scare the shit out of Mrs. JP and that's when I really start taking shit personal.
     For my readers who still surf in from time to time looking for political content, I profusely apologize for being forced to address this escalating issue. But this creep is planning something because he has no other life outside of me. He's trying to remove himself of any culpability by siccing his trolls and Big Brother on me. And he's planning something. Otherwise, why go through every one of my monthly 2015 archives going back to June, the first time I'd mentioned him? And why is he harvesting information using the keywords "cover" and "agent"?
     Well, from here on in, I will write of him no more except to give you an update that criminal charges have been filed on him and/or Comcast terminated his wifi account. As with my stalker, I will let others fight my battles for me.  
     Unlike him, I don't need to resort to trolls and an endlessly supportive and enabling big brother.

Addendum: As proof of my last sentence, this is a ver batim copy of the complaint I've just sent to the Ogden City, Utah Police Department regarding this ongoing irritation:

I'm a resident of ******* ************, which is why I'm emailing this complaint instead of calling. One of your residents, a David Chadwick, has been regularly, systematically and obsessively stalking me through my blog, Amazon product pages, Goodreads and who knows where else? This is a situation that has been going on since June this year and has only VERY sharply escalated when I let it be known to him I did not appreciate his fake one star reviews that are mere hit pieces. Now, he's trying to remove himself from culpability by sending trolls to my blog who are threatening me, as well as his older brother Daniel Chadwick of Salt Lake City. I had to turn off my comments when the threats began to get too numerous. If someone from your constabulary can please contact me via email, I can provide documentation of Chadwick's stalking behavior the form of no less than 42 screengrabs from his IP address and an alternate that he uses that I stopped collecting yesterday afternoon. That of course wouldn't include the many hits I get from his brother Daniel and of course the ones swarming my blog at David Chadwick's direction. This man is dangerously obsessed with me and is trolling my blog, Amazon product pages and perhaps everywhere else I have an internet footprint literally dozens of times a day. As I'm a military veteran, this stalker is merely irritating me as I do not scare easily but he's scaring my girlfriend and that's when I began pursuing a cease and desist to this behavior in earnest. It's bad enough he's trying to ruin my literary career by trolling me and directing others to follow his lead. But when David Chadwick starts frightening my girlfriend, then something has to be done. Immediately. I would appreciate an email so I can send you the screengrabs to advise you of the sheer level of this man's morning, noon and night obsession with me.

     Now, in the unlikely event Chadwick's not actively stalking me at this moment, I expect the flying monkey fanboy trolls he's been sending here and to my Amazon pages to be the good little bitches they are and dutifully report this to him. This is just to let him know I'm dead serious about ending this once and for all. At the same time I'm doing this, I will take a few more minutes of my spare time and follow up on my complaint with the Utah Attorney General's Office. Then, unlike this worthless little stalker, I will resume my life and give him no more thought until I'm contacted by the pertinent authorities.