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 Larry Thompson.

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 detective film:

This Zodiac cult.
My SUPER handsome detective pal Larkin.
The gorgeously radiant full moon.
The good Samaritan.
The even BETTER sex.
The cold-cock.
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 notso ever!

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 torso.

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.