Planetarium - Part 2
You see, whenever I got a new phone, everything worked fine, and nobody had access to any of my personal information.
Then they turned on the gas, I fell asleep, or unconscious whatever, and they would swap out the guts of my device with some sort of UNIX- or Linux-based transfer system that basically hardwired me to redirect my phone calls, no matter who I called or what number I dialed; even 911.
When I called my parents, the line took extra long to connect me, because they couldn’t mimic her voice (yet--she spoke Hebrew), so they had to put the call through.
Otherwise, all my calls were being intercepted and rerouted without warrants or court orders permitting them and believe me, it was intended to be used against me in a court of law by the police who were in on the scheme.
(Or so I believed at the time. I'd like to think now that I was just manipulated into believing that so I wouldn't call them for help.)
The air conditioner to my room had so much black mold in it that there was no way it was blowing out cold air, meanwhile, it was nailed down into my window, had a gas tank sticking out the back of it, and a metal hose coming out the front where I assume the cold air from the gas tank was being propelled out into my bedroom.
Probably just to make me dumber and lightheaded, so any authority figure would automatically assume I was high after talking to me for a few minutes. (In all fairness, now that marijuana is officially legal sort of... I was high! So what?)
The only phone calls I would get would be from my all of a sudden new “best friends” of Bayonne clearly requesting I sell them illegal substances on my cell phone both verbally and written.
I wasn’t going for it.
Why are you asking me?
Do I even know you?
What makes you think you’ll get good shit from me?
What makes you think I wouldn't get offended by that request?
Then again, I did lose my job and my friends in queens give me great prices, so I could use the money.
Wait, duh, I’m being set up.
Jeez I’m so stupid!
Like I just moved into this shitbox Bayonne and all of sudden strangers are trusting me to get them high.
Give me a break.
Their stories were more deranged each time we talked.
And the funny thing is I never had anything to sell anybody, and I never did.
But one guy sold me some molly.
This guy named (circle back) John G, that was his name (allegedly) and was announcing it in the middle of the street in broad daylight like the people within ear shot didn’t matter if they heard him.
He’s yelling gram this and buy that and get the money, the guys waiting, drugs again, molly for sale, whatever he felt like with complete disregard.
Needless to say, my bank refused to let me withdraw money, even from the ATM.
Whatever John did sell me he later came over with his girlfriend, went in my bedroom, found it and stole it back from me plus he took my $700 Samsung edge with him as well.
Thats why I got an iPhone.
I don't care who you know or what search you can perform; Apple is simply better.
Hacker-proof. (not really)
They never did anything so bad to anybody to start a chain of events that have led to what we now must confront with antivirus and other protections.
Apple never let that seed get planted while nourishing the good healthy seeds, so they grew to dominate the market with silent excellence, which in my opinion, is the best form of excellence.
The one you never see coming.
Like a freight train packed into a Mazda.
Who knew he had weapons that were chosen for their magnificence with aim so potent despite my broken ligaments?
If you think I’m joking, then stop all that ignorance, I was hunted by Nazis, but I survived without incident.
They’ll eventually give up and pursue someone else who moves into that “death box” of a house where they even have the next victim renting out the first room. So, when my room becomes available for only $50 more and double the size, he'll have to jump on the chance, right?
(We'll circle back to that query and the mysterious death of the roommate who rented out that first room. He fell a few feet over a balcony with the two other Nazi roommates out there with him. But, like I said, we can circle back.)
I mean, it’s not like the lock on the door to my room doesn’t work (it didn't), and if I change it, then you quickly change it back and just switch the keys on my keyring while I’m sleeping (which they did), and it’s secretly a death trap where you guys are going to play psychological games like dimming the lights to disorient me, right? (that's called gaslighting)
Oh shit, wait, it is like that? (Yes, it was. I wrote this at the time when I was living there, and never published this draft until ten years later, which is now.)
And you’re going to steal all my possessions slowly over time, so I think I just lost them.
Meanwhile, I catch the neighbor’s kid wearing my jacket talking about it got mixed up in the wash.
Yeah, I dry clean my jackets weirdo.
Did it get mixed up at the dry cleaners too?
No right?
Chris Kent and Evan Kanter; just a lowly pair of thieves. And he’s raising his 5-year-old daughter to steal from her neighbors undetected while their out smoking cigarettes in the front of the house. (That's me. I was outside smoking while this fat sack of shit and his baby daughter broke in from the upstairs apartment and stole my stuff.)
I’d like my painting back thief.
Then a fair one if you’re up for it, fat boy.
(In all fairness, how pathetic and sad is a man stealing from his neighbor with his little child as his helper? I forgive her, for she knew not what she did, and he is forgiven by me, but from what I hear, God already broke his back and other horrible events, so enjoy a painting of me, weirdo.)
But wait, I haven’t even gotten close to the good part.
...to be continued...