Bashing, whoa. I didn't catch that upon the first reading. Was this
near the school or on 18th Street? Were they hispano or adolescent? }}
I don't remember a thing. The good Samaritan Dave, found me lying in
my own blood by the agave plant on the northeast corner of Market &
Castro (same block as 2306). NO ONE else helped, didn't even call 911.
He offered to, but I said no, please don't. (FYI, I didn't knock the plant cockeye, was already like that.)
BTW, I don't REMEMBER telling him anything, don't recollect a THING
between the hours of 8 and 11pm. (Last thing I do recall, is walking
into the bar few doors up from where Andy's Donuts once stood. Those
were the days, eh, John? Part of my evening patrol: step into one or
two bars, walk around, maybe sit a minute, then exit.) I was already in
205 with Dave. There were some paper towels wadded up on the file
cabinet I use for a mini-kitchenette...sopped w/blood. I have a bad
gash on the upper left part of my forehead. I call it The Curse Of
Mr. Thompson was a WICKED, petty-minded, nasty
old queen. Incurable gossip. AND my neighbor across the hallway for
many years until he happily perished from throat cancer. (Happy for ME
that is.) Three months PRIOR to his evacuation through Life's Anus,
KISMET stole his voice: larynx and vocal chords sliced out by a surgeon's deft hands. (Justice came late but swift!)
Hideous fool's-gold hair (wiry thick), large pointy honker, Liberace
apartment furnishings (including a hideous oil painting of Queen
Elizabeth The2nd by his own lizardy hand) , and a foreboding DENT in
his forehead, the exact same place where my latest Warrior Wound resides! But it's not ALL bad, for I DID fall onto a rather sizeable plant, acclaimed for its healing sap.
I didn't know WHICH upcoming chapter I'd make note of how dangerous
our gay bars have recently become. Guess this is as good a page as any.
This Cult of Zodiac Killer Disciples now runs ALL our queer bars and
clubs, just like the Mafia once did. While there's always been SOME
drug dealing by one or two bartenders at most every bar, The Cult is
now FORCING all employees to deal. Or they die. Or someone they love
dies. Walking out is NOT an option. It is POSSIBLE my presence at that
one bar alerted a cult-head, who followed me outside, in secret, then
STRUCK like a kamikaze once I crossed Castro.
I asked Dave if he saw who attacked me. He said no, just spotted my prostrate self among the succulents. I believe I was cold-cocked.
My wallet is missing, and two $20 ATM withdrawals show up on my
Washington Mutual account page. BOTH listed as "BART 16th Mission
Street". Seeing as I don't have my PIN written down anywhere on my
person, I don't see how the goon pulled it off. (Oh wait, he's PSYCHIC.
Duh!) It COULD have been used like a credit card...you know so many
clerks do NOT check for ID.
Dave thinks I need stitches, but my wound should heal fine, w/o any
scar. The left side of my cranium down to the tip of my ear, is numb.
No swelling, though. Ironic (though elegant): I'm using a SIMILAR treatment for my wound as the sap in that agave plant...aloe vera gel! (Mixed in are also witch hazel and two, three drops of tea tree oil.)
I'm SURE this is the work of a cult member. Or likely, GOSSIP by cult
members to get people to fear, hate and ATTACK me. Foghorn Leghorn
has been getting folks to hate me for YEARS...including deranged
vagabonds. So I suspect gossip was the trigger.
I've been wearing bandanas tied around my head for several years now.
So no one can SEE the wound. I DON'T want to give my enemies that
satisfaction. It is my hope that ASAP, my undercover buddy Larkin
will bring me to a safe house. He knows EVERYTHING about me, he's
highly telepathic. So if he doesn't provide safe haven, he has a good
reason not to. He KNOWS when I need to go through a difficult phase,
and when it is best to intervene, or let it be.
I KNOW Dave, from years back when the Pendulum
bar was still open for business. He's always been friendly, he's well
groomed and intelligent. And damn good looking, too! It's rare I'm
attracted to non-whites, but sometimes there IS that charming exception.
Hopefully, he'll show up this eve as he promised, with some weed. I
want him to take me back to those bushes, and describe all that he
remembers. BTW, he cussed out all the passersby that just stood
gawking, some even chortled! No surprise here. We BOTH know how Frisco
has become flooded with the wicked and the witchy!
And I ASSURE you, Larkin will hunt 'em down! I will soon have MANY decent guys
befriending and protecting yours truly. For if truth IS to be known,
this is all part of my destiny: a GREAT adventure unfolding, which I've
already begun documenting via Friendly Ghost.
Imagine that! Dumped In the middle of a real-life Damon Runyon fairytale, unfolding as I type each new chapter.
Dave tended my wounds as I lay in bed, passed out. Regained
consciousness approx 11pm. I didn't realize what a good looker he is,
until last night. Next thing I know, I'm all over Dave, and we had a
LOVELY roll in the figurative hay. I feel like I stepped into a noir
This Zodiac cult.
My SUPER handsome detective pal Larkin.
The gorgeously radiant full moon.
The good Samaritan.
The even BETTER sex.
The hard cock!
This letter is DEFINITELY a blog-worthy post.
Xmas is ALWAYS my worst time of year, in a way. If I'm ever gonna be
violently attacked or threatened, almost ALWAYS an Xmas gift! And no
matter how far and well I plan my finances, I'm usually BROKE the last week of December...and I don't even celebrate Xmas! Here I have $104 still in the bank (AFTER being ATM-robbed of $40), but I CAN'T GET AT IT until my next ATM card arrives.)
Because I seem to have LOST my ID card again. It wasn't in my wallet, as I keep it in a desk drawer since I lost my previous
ID in February. One day, about two months back, I opened that draw to
retrieve my ID, and it was NO LONGER in the envelope under my coin tray!
I don't think someone accesses my room when gone. Psychic phenomena
ARE real. And this rotten excuse of a residence IS haunted. I am at war
with this cult...a silent, DEADLY war via the astral dimension. HAVE
been since 1985. My GREAT CHALLENGE is to make their vile antics visible
by EXPOSING them through my craft. Friendly Ghost Detective Agency will
HIT 'em like a gas bomb, smoke out those vermin from their scummy nest.
It already HAS that power, though still a work in progress. ENOUGH has
already been revealed, especially in my most recent chapters (such as "There's A Succubus Born Every Minute" and "First Letter").
The bomb WILL go off, and soon.
Last night's cold-cock may even have been a telekinetic bruising. I
surmise that their intent was to outright KILL me, but jeez I DO have
the best protection a gal could ever want!
The WORST that has ever happened to me, and ever WILL happen, is the
occasional close call. And look...good Samaritan Dave pulled me out of
the mud when I had fallen. Goddess sent me an angel!
So I CAN'T access my money at Wash. Mutual in person withOUT any ID.
*sigh* Broke again, it's anOTHER rotten Xmas! Dad's sending me $40 in a
secure envelope (bills hidden within two printed sheets of paper). I
don't even have COINS any more, 'cause I insisted Dave take 'em.
From what I know of ShamanHood (and I know LOTS),
just before one ascends to Wizard Healer Extra Extra Extra
Extraordinaire (WHEEE!), he goes through a scary INITIATION. As if:
You are going to become SUCH a lucky, bless-ed little fellow very soon...must be humble
to receive This Goddessly Gift. Remember (before it was outlawed) when
a Boy Scout graduated to the highest honor: Eagle? Before presented
with your hard-earned badge, the scoutmaster would salute you with a
vertical chop of the hand: SWIFT and STRONG. Sometimes the collarbone
would break...you didn't DARE cry or show ANY emotion whatso lotso
In my case, it's the cranium.
Dave (my newest Guardian Angel) explained: "While I was helping you
home, this blond guy approached me, claimed to be your friend, offered
to help. Said he lives in your building, followed me all the way to the
gate! I drove him away."
I thought nothing of it then, but did remark: "I don't have any blond friend who lives here."
"Well I did NOT like him one bit," he declared. "I think I know where to find him."
"Yeah well, if you do, be careful. I COULD be wrong, maybe he said he ONCE lived here?"
He frowned, looked over my shoulder at an imaginary foe. "Yeah. I think I know what he's about. I'll track 'im down."
That's when I groped at his impressive basket through those
loose-fit dark gray, cotton twill pants. Couldn't help myself! The
angel made me do it! And peeled off his shirt to discover a GLORIOUS
It seemed less than the wink of a harlot's eye, we found ourselves
in 69 heavens! Next morning I tried to extract a better descripition of
the blond man, but Dave remained vague. Shoulder-shrug vague. PROMISED
he'd be back that eve with some pipe-lickin' good weed and his horny
ol' self. I think he's around 40 years young.
But he never returned! Guardian Angels are like that: schedule-lax.
But when you REALLY need their saving graces, they show up in a flash!
So Goddess bless Dave. I HOPE no harm has come his way, and we hook up
again SOON. I did ask Dave: Was he a BIG guy.
Strange though, I DID ask him that (sort of): "Was he tall, short,
what?" He held his palm-down hand level with his nose. Which tip is but
two inches above my bruised cranium. And I'M just five-foot-seven! Was
he hiding the truth from me, the less I know the better off I am? Did
he settle a score, the price to pay fleeing the city?
Peggy C.: Also, don't let that little guy
Christopher in. He is NOT a friend. Simply tried to fish information
out of me, by treating me to dinner. He likes to show up at Pasta Pornodoro
to observe my comings and goings, and who I'm with. He likes to start
arguments. That is a signal that tags a cult member. For they are
DEVOTED to creating mayhem and misery.
The trap I set by requesting to NOT leave
food or other item by my door is this: Anyone else who DOES is suspect.
The food may be poisoned. I'll collect any items left at my door, and
turn them over to Larkin. He'll pay a lab to test for toxins, but first
DUST FOR FINGERPRINTS. Assuming I'll still be living here a while
longer. Ugh. That's Plan B. Of course.
Plan A is for Larkin to provide me with a safe, joyful hideaway.