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Unkillable Handbook Podcast

Unkillable

The Unkillable Handbook. Dissecting the Counterfeit Human.

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Wednesday · 13 min
Preview of Coming Retractions
Introduce Me Here we introduce a Series about Myron’s wife -- the Marm – and her grifter family. It’s about how these grifters latched on to Myron and then my own family. It’s also about how I figured this one out too. Before getting started, I have to say, I am strangely thankful. Until the Marm came on the scene, getting conveniently pregnant, I had no idea about Hannibal. I had yet to catch on to her deceit, lying, manipulation, thefts, cruelty, and all the other stuff we here at The Handbook are detailing. Remember The Handbook Rule of “What Changed”? Well, Ima about to tell you. Saving the Last for Best My overall operating theory in all of this saga is that Hannibal, Fredo, and my sister(?) are being blackmailed by the grifter family. Myron is probably both a blackmailer and a blackmailee. I haven’t yet figured out the answer to this question: Is the grifter family Hannibal’s worst nightmare or her dream team? For now, let’s start at the beginning. The Stars at Night I am in an Airbnb in Austin, TX. It’s April 2013. Saturday night. Ack-Ack-Ack. OM--M-F’ing--G! What is that ungodly noise? At 2am? There it is again. Ack-Ack-Ack. Screeeetch. Squeltch. Like someone was rubbing an angry possum up and down on a blackboard. Or like Cousin It being zapped with a cattle prod. I looked out of the window and couldn’t see anything. But there it was again. Ack-Ack. So I went outside, carrying a broom, and I saw them. Two menacing Guinea Fowl, sitting on the window ledge, giving me the evil stare-down. I shook the broom at them, and they scattered. That only made them mad. They came back a few minutes later and this time it was totally personal. They were louder and way chattier. Talk about angry birds. All throughout the night, the Guinea Fowl’s deafening shrieks cut through the air. Pillows over the head were of no use. I thought of all the different ways to dispatch a pair of Guinea Fowls without anyone noticing. I finally settled on a catapult. Where was I going to find one of those at 2am? By the time the Sun was set to rise, I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was Sunday morning. I could hear music coming from across the street. We were in an older part of town, largely African-American. There was a church service going on. I admired all the big hats, colorful dresses, sharp-dressed men, and flowers. I felt a lot better. Longhorn Leghorns Why was I in Austin, TX, at an Airbnb? To meet Myron. Myron had rolled in from Houston and brought a “girl” with him. Of course, he did not let me know he was bringing a “girl”. I grimaced. Not again, I thought. Myron often showed up with different girls. So, I had gotten used to it and didn’t take it too seriously this time. Maybe I should have. Either Myron or the “girl” arranged the lodging. I’m guessing the “girl”, because Myron doesn’t really do much of anything. Either way, it and was not very good. And it only had one bathroom. The “girl”, as Muff and I would later call her, did not say much. I couldn’t figure out why he brought her. She was not interesting. She didn’t seem interested in anything. She didn’t seem to connect with anyone and was just right there in work out clothes. Smirking. She avoided making eye contact. Just about the only thing I remember her connecting with was her chewed on cuticles. That was it. Looking back, I can now see the Guinea Fowls were giving me warning. As in “run for your life” Like in this picture. Scene from Wedding Crashers My personal boundaries were about to be bombarded. Was the shrieking pair outside of the master bedroom a symbol for the scheming pair inside the master bedroom? By the way, having only one bathroom was a typical Myron dick move. He was always obsessed with toilets for some reason. He would brag about blocking someone’s toilet up when staying overnight with them. He did that to me once. Also, Muff’s toilet used to back up all the time after Hannibal visits. By the way, I looked up the Airbnb later and there were exactly zero mentions of any Guinea Fowl in the reviews. Seriously, Airbnb needs a category for that. You know, Central Air Conditioning – check. Number of Bathrooms – 2. Guinea Fowl – No. This Bird has Flown After I returned from Austin, TX, to #6 Accosted. I noticed the two giant green ceramic Guinea Fowl figurines that had been on Hannibal’s “breakfas” room cabinet for as long as I can remember. I just never looked. I asked Hannibal about them and mentioned I had just crossed paths with a pair in Austin, of all places. Hannibal shrugged her shoulders and didn’t say much. Birds of the same damned feathers, I thought. Probably the best example I have come across. There they are. Seemingly out of sight. Laying low on your window sill. Waiting. Just when you get comfortable. Ack-Ack-Ack. After that, every time I walked into #6 Accosted from the garage -- that leads straight into the kitchen area for some reason – I looked sideways at those fat birds. I did deliver a little comuppance in March 2019, though. That’s when I watched Hannibal pace around the #6 Accosted kitchen island like a tongue-tied pelican, continuously asking “is she a prostitute?” Referring to the Marm. This conversation went on for like an hour. For fun, I looked at the ceramic birds and said “you’re starting to sound like those Guinea Fowl back there. Are you sure you’re OK?”. It seemed like a bookend. Hmmm. That’s funny. Now that I think about it, those ceramic birds might be actual bookends. Hello Goodbye That was the first time I met the Marm. But that wasn’t the first time I heard about her. It’s June 2012. Myron had bought some Hawaii trip package at some charity aution. He said it was for his then current girlfriend. We call her #1. We all liked #1. He was lying, of course. Can I go along with #1, Myron asked me. Hannibal is going also. That in itself was weird. Hannibal hated Hawaii. Though I guess she did like all-expenses-paid Hawaii. Anyway, I agreed for some unknown reason. We get to Hawaii – to the Ritz Carlton Residences in Kapaula Bay on Maui. Within a day, Myron calls up #1 and says he is breaking up with her. He is now dating the Marm. While we were consoling #1 in Hawaii, Myron was moving in the Marm. She was at the time a waitress at the Irish pub Myron and #1 used to frequent. The Marm had recently moved to Houston from Georgia, pretended to be friends with #1, so #1 helped her feel welcome. So in return, the way I understand it, The Marm began hooking up with Myron behind #1’s back. That to me is betrayal. I’ll tell you what for -- when it comes to most types of bad behavior, women are just a lot worse than men. I can say that because I am one. Also because it’s true. I’m hoping to get some more of #1’s stories. She will have a unique and sad perspective, although I can understand why she might be a little bit reluctant. What You Takin’ About, Phyllis? I will tell you. Here are the main characters in our Series. We will enjoy dissecting them. The Marm-aluke Myron’s wife. She got pregnant in October 2018 – on purpose probably – and got married in April 2019. I have questions about this. Some of the timing doesn’t add up. Some lies were definitely told! We have been able to obtain a paper she did in nursing school. Based on a thorough review, she has no detectable IQ. Why do I call her “the Marm”? Too easy. Dr. Kreeper – The Dad Meth-head actor. Dr. Kreeper once was a Doctor. He was also once the clinical director of the Texas drug abuse commission, then got busted for drugs and fired. That was in 2003. Then he was selling addiction self-help videos on Amazon, only to get busted again for meth production. Good luck finding any of that online, though. Most of it has been totally scrubbed. Good thing I saved all my research. Oh yeah, he has a striking resemblance to Curtis Eddie Smith from the Alex Murdaugh case in South Carolina. Just sayin’. Karen Casing – The Mother, a.k.a. The Marm’s Marm All around Karen. Shortly after the Marm’s baby — Hell Child — was born, the Marm’s Marm sold her house on Chowning Court, Marietta, GA, bought a house in Amarillo for cash, and moved to town just to be close to the Marm . . . for some reason. Except she didn’t really pay cash. A month later she took out a home equity loan. Deeds are public records. Fatt Boy – The Brother More menacing than all of them. Probably behind a lot of the rumoured illegal online gambling and other cyber stuff Myron “allegedly” does. Probably ran the Motor City Cash Machines – to be discussed later. Oh yeah, Fatt Boy was arrested for running naked down the street in Houston. [The End] Oh Oh, do one more! OK. Heat My Shorts It’s 2013. I am in Houston. I am staying at Myron’s and plan to take #1 out for a lunch later that day. Something familiar caught my eye. Disposable pajama bottoms folded in an exposed shelf. I had bought these exact same PJs from a Walmart in Oklahoma to camp out at an estate sale a few month earlier. I thought I had thrown them out. They weren’t even donation worthy. The rest of the story in the full Episode. As always, I want to thank everyone who takes the time to read and listen to these Episodes. Your support is very important and also helps to keep me going! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
September 24 · 24 min
Government Cheese
Our story today starts and ends with a death in Anderson, MO. In between, we stop off in OK and learn about related topics such as lasagna, trailer homes and, of course, cheese. In the last Episode, I showed this handwritten note in Hannibal’s scrawl which I found in the Trinket Bible. Here it is It contains a reference to her dad – Carbomb -- dying April 22, 1981, in Anderson, MO, along with his widow’s phone number. Today’s story is about that death and the trip Hannibal took me on in 1981, when I was three, to visit her dad’s widow. But before we get to that, we have to make a stop aaaallll the way over in a place called McAlester, OK. For some reason. Where in the Heck are We? We are in McAlester, OK. Population 18,000. It is 1981. McAlester for the unfamiliar – which is just about everyone – is about 120 miles Southeast of Oklahoma City and sits just outside the Choctaw Nation. There is nothing in McAlester. Not even a Waffle House. Except the Oklahoma State Penitentiary, affectionately known to many as “Big Mac”. It was built in the early 1900s and is very Spartan and brutal. They don’t even have air conditioning! Back in the 1970s and 1980s – when this story takes place – it was known as one of the most corrupt prisons in the country. There were also several prison riots there. So, all in all, a really nice place. Although, SportsCenter did once broadcast Big Mac’s “inside the rodeo walls” prison rodeo from there. I’m not so sure it’s a great idea to give the inmates giant pissed-off bulls to ride or lariats for calf-roping. Sweet Cheeks Back to McAlester. It’s later summer 1981. I am three years old, and adorable. See? Source: Me The afternoon air is hot and humid, something I am not used to. I am used to heat in Hansford county, where it usually gets above 100º F in the summer. Sometimes even in the winter. In the Texas panhandle, anything above 20% humidity would be considered sweltering. Not, however, in the middle of Oklahoma. I am in the back seat of my mom, Hannibal Anne’s, beige sedan sitting on the crackly yellow seats. I have a stash of books in my backpack. I am sweating. My face cheeks are flushed and red. Not sure about the other cheeks. Ahem. We had been driving for hours and were pulling through an area I certainly had never been to before. There are Post Oak trees lining a winding dirt road. I see a picnic table in front of a trailer house. The scene is still except for the slow movement of the trees. Hannibal’s face was not raging and her eyes were not dancing. Odd for Hannibal. She sat in the driver’s seat looking at the trailer house. We sat there for maybe 15 minutes as Hannibal watched. Did I mention it was really hot? And humid? I watched Hannibal and could not pick up on where we were, why we were here, or what her mood was. I looked across the back seat at the three packed bags. Was this place familiar to Hannibal? I looked at books and slept most of the way, but I didn’t see Hannibal use a map. We were about 400 miles from Hansford County. Nowadays, that trip might take 6 hours. Back then, probably a lot more. With the humidity, it felt like we were a lot further away than 6 hours. Trailers for Sale or Rent Trailer houses always registered with me. I always worried about them, and their inhabitants, for two reasons. One involves tornados and the other involves lasagna. Hansford County is in the core of Tornado Alley. During It Was a Very Good | Bad Year, otherwise known as 1982, or as Groundhog Year, a severe F4 damage ripped through Hansford Co. In 1971, a wide mile-wide tornado came through. That was before I was born, so my memory is a bit fuzzy on that one. Anytime there was a tornado warning and we would seek shelter, one of my first questions would be “what about everybody in the trailer homes?” I would usually be reassured that advance warning had been issued and occupants would be in the school or library basement. As Hannibal would say “you are such a worrier”. Maybe. I would think – in my head -- “well, you don’t seem to have much to worry about.” She never really seemed concerned for anyone. Some hired hands who worked for my Grandfather, Dayton, lived in trailer homes. The homes would be located on his land so they could keep an eye on the cattle or equipment. I remember them as hard working, dedicated and nice people. So, of course, I would worry about them, that they lived so far out, and what if they could not hear the sirens. Here is a conversation I remember when one of those tornado warnings came along. FREDO You are driving me nuts with this tornado worry. Listen. They got tires are on the roof in case lightning hits. (I knew that.) Even if they can’t hear the sirens, Dayton will radio them. We try to give them enough notice to seek shelter. Everything is going to be OK. ME 10/4 . . . Good Buddy! (Which I totally learned from that Convoy song.) Well, what if they don’t hear the radio? What if the radio is turned off? What then? FREDO Then we will drive out and tell them? ME In a tornado? FREDO You are driving me nuts with this tornado worry. Once, Twice Three Times Lasagna A few months after this conversation – maybe early Winter -- we were waiting for Fredo to come in the door for dinner. Hannibal had put more than the usual amount of effort into making dinner. We were having lasagna. It actually smelled pretty good. I could almost taste the melted cheese. Fredo arrived home from the fields, showered and made his way to the dinner table. As he sat down, his mouth slightly opened and his eyes registered a look I had not seen before. He dug his fork, gingerly, into the lasagna. His face started turning white. My eyes started moving from Fredo to his eyes locked on the lasagna. Then over to Hannibal. What was going on? Even Hannibal didn’t seem to know. She smirked. Fredo suddenly stood up. The next thing I heard was the bathroom door slamming shut. Clunk. Fredo was ralphing. Hannibal was pounding on the door yelling “Hey! What is wrong?” It’s not like anyone can answer a question when they are mid-ralph. I stayed at the table, probably the safest place, trying to figure out what could have happened. Fredo didn’t get sick that often. After a bit, Hannibal returned and commented the lasagna was likely no longer warm. She cut a square for her plate and one for mine. I just followed her lead. She had a bite and so did I. I forked it up and watched the cheese drip and dangle down to my plate. Stop playing with my food! We both finished our plates. I thought the lasagna was good. There sat Fredo’s plate – untouched and clean, which I stared at. Hannibal must have caught on to my staring at Fredo’s empty plate. HANNIBAL You know Pablo? Well, he is dead. He lived out in that trailer. You know the one, that trailer you can barely see when we drive to Stratford. I couldn’t imagine where this was going. Hannibal seemed unfazed that someone had died or that we just had dinner without Fredo and that he was now sick in bed. HANNIBAL Your dad just told me that they couldn’t get Pablo to radio in for work. So, your dad went out to Pablo’s trailer. After yelling for Pablo and not getting a response, your dad had to go inside the trailer. The smell was ghastly. Pablo had left the oven on and open to stay warm. Somehow this blew up the trailer and Pablo along with it. Well, Fredo said Pablo looked like lasagna. From that time on and up until 2020, as far as I know, Fredo would do anything to avoid all contact with lasagna. But, then, Hannibal knew that. What does this story have to do with Lasagna, you ask? Nothing. It’s about trailer homes. The Wheel of Misfortune Flying Teak Bowls from Outer Space — Henning Koppel for Georg Jensen; Image Courtesy of PFFK #7 Back to McAlester, OK. I was in the back of Hannibal’s car, staring at this trailer house and running my very own reconnoitering. You know, in case of a tornado hits. Or trying to figure out the kind of people who were inside. Or was it empty. About that time, a somewhat tall and slender woman appears outside the trailer front door. She had short gray hair, glasses and a gentle smile. HANNIBAL ANNE Hi Aunt Albie. AUNT ALBIE Well, if it isn’t Hannibal Anne! In the actual flesh! Oh, and look at this adorable little blonde girl! Why, I am so glad you are here, dear. Just so wonderful that you are here. Hannibal looked toward me in the back seat and told me to get out. To which I did. Thankfully the car was not in motion this time as she said it. That would not happen until next year. I followed Hannibal to the front door where she and Aunt Albie hugged. Hannibal introduced us. Aunt Albie gently patted my back. Once inside, I noticed the temperature was exactly the same as it was outside. I sat on a sofa inches from the front door. The kitchen was to the left. There it was, the telephone, it was on the kitchen wall. In case I needed to call my Grandparents, at least I had located the phone. Hannibal came out of the kitchen and told me to sit still. She and I sat in silence while I could hear activity in the kitchen. AUNT ALBIE Y’all come on into the kitchen. I’ve made some tea and snacks. As I turned into the kitchen, I saw something I had never seen before. It was huge, the size of Aunt Albie’s chopping block. A block of at least 5 pounds of cheese. Shaped like a wheel. Was this heaven? I couldn’t believe it! I ate an amount that I’m pretty sure put me into some kind of glorious food coma. The next thing I remember was waking up, in the middle of the night, on the sofa. I looked outside to familiarize myself. I saw little lights flying about and flickering. The little lights were beautiful. When one of the lights went out, I would stare at the exact spot waiting for it to flicker back on. Only to see it come on in a different place. I wondered if these were the pixies my Grandmother told me about. You know, the ones that live in the Sunbeams. I watched the lights flicker away until my eyes couldn’t hold open any longer. Somehow the cheese and the lights took away my worries of being hit by a tornado or being blown up by an oven. Swimming in It The next morning I woke to the hot room and Hannibal Anne. It seemed even hotter in the morning than it was at night. It was so hot and so humid. It never ended. You could not escape it. Like I was swimming in the hot air. I’m pretty sure the local species of catfish would be just fine in that weather. Aunt Albie must not have been in ear shot that morning. You can imagine the questions I had. Hannibal explained to me that Aunt Albie was poor and did not have a husband. I asked why we were there. Hannibal explained that this was her Aunt and Hannibal felt that she just needed to check in on her. (Said Hannibal never.) Again, my inner thoughts went back to the “bad childhood” Hannibal didn’t have. Aunt Albie did not seem bad at all. ME How is she poor with the most delicious cheese I have ever had? It is even better than the Christmas cheese at Muff & Dayton’s. That was the cheese that came in these giant gift baskets that Fritz Thompson and his wife gave out at Christmas. They were known as The Owl and The Beanpole (or so says my Aunt Ju Ju). ME And what are those flying dancing lights in the night time? Are they spirits? HANNIBAL The cheese is Government Cheese. You can only get it if you are poor. The lights are fireflies. Get ready. We are leaving in a few hours. I have to run a few errands first. Time to Fire Fly I had never seen fireflies before. To this day, whenever I do see them it reminds me of good ole McAlester, OK. Home of the Big Mac. The afternoon came, and I realized it was just Aunt Albie and me. Hannibal was gone. For a few hours at least. Albie told me more about the fireflies. I was fascinated. They were a free gift from nature, she said. You just need to keep a good environment for them. She explained that in late summer the fireflies lay eggs under the leaves from the Post Oaks and under dry grass. As long as you don’t remove the fall leaves from your lawn, new firefly babies will be born the next year. That seemed simple enough, like most wisdom is. I think more people need to catch on to this, though. In other words, yes, I am totally saying ban all gas operated loud leaf blowers – and the humans who operate them. Hannibal returned mid-afternoon. I could hear her and Aunt Albie talking in the kitchen. I was hungry and was hoping for some more of that fine ash cheese. More cheese! As I rounded the corner, in anticipation of the cheese being on the chopping block, I froze. Instead, there was an open duffle bag spilling out over the sides of the chopping block. The bag was overflowing with cash. The most cash I had ever seen. Like $50 or something. Or so I thought as an adorable little 3 year old. It was a lot more than that. Hannibal smiled at Aunt Albie, came toward me, grabbed my elbow and escorted me to the car. After she stuffed me in the back, she returned to the trailer and minutes later came out with our bags. The car reversed, backed down the winding dirt road the way we came, and through the Post Oak trees we went. Somehow, I knew not to ask questions. So I did anyway. 1. Aunt Albie seemed quite nice. Would she have given Hannibal a bad childhood? The worst of it was the heat. 2. How am I going to get my hands on more of the government cheese? 3. When we get home can we breed fireflies? 4. Aunt Albie isn’t poor anymore. I wonder where Hannibal got so much cash? Will Aunt Albie be able to get the cheese again? 5. I don’t think I have ever heard of any of my friends taking a trip like this. Did they? 6. When will we be here again? I guess I expected that we were heading back West to Hansford County, about 400 miles away. Up to I-40 and then straight through to Texas. Well, that didn’t happen. Don’t Know You From a Hole in the Ground A few hours into the drive, three to be exact, the car stopped at a house. It was dark outside. An older lady, with a surprised look on her face, was looking out of her house’s front window, through the olive green colored drapes. I had never seen her before. This time I was quick to ask. ME Where are we? Who is that? HANNIBAL We’re in Pineville, MO. Well, a few miles away in Anderson, MO. This is my dad’s wife after my mom. Get out. We are going in. We walked through the unlocked door. MARGIE Oh my, Hannibal! What are you doing here? I was not expecting you! You could have called ahead? HANNIBAL Oh, hi Margie. I didn’t have your phone number. I was nearby and wanted to stop by and give you my condolences. We know now that was a straight up lie. Margie’s phone number was on the scrawled out note shown above. ME I really need to go to the restroom. HANNIBAL Here, go to that door. It’s the restroom. Place your feet on each side of the carpet, in front of the toilet. There is a hole under the carpet. As I was in the bathroom, I could hear Hannibal telling Margie that she had an errand to run and that Hannibal needed Margie to watch me. Margie tried to say she could not as the visit was so unexpected. Hannibal insisted. I looked under the red carpet and sure enough, there was a hole. I kneeled down and peered into the hole. It was too dark to see anything. I wondered how Hannibal knew this. It was so late, I must have fallen asleep. I clearly remember Margie, what she looked like and the surprised overwhelmed look on her face. After Hannibal was gone for at least an hour, I don’t remember leaving or saying good-bye to Margie that night. I just remember Hannibal carrying me out of Margie’s when it was still dark. Next thing I knew, the Sun was out and I was in the back of Hannibal’s sedan. We were heading back to Hansford County. I brought up different bits of the trip to Hannibal, I had questions. She would shut them down. I never learned more than I saw. Well, I did learn one thing. Since my childhood, there have been a few intriguing discoveries. Like Government Cheese. I love cheese. And fireflies. Also, I never had an Aunt named Albie. I checked. Hannibal’s mom’s maiden name was Winnie Fowler. Winnie had four sisters, none of which were named Albie or anything close to that. They were Genieve, Binnie, Earlene and Betty. Though she did have a brother named Albie. Here is the 1940 census record. Source: Ancestry.com Hannibal’s dad also did not have any sisters named Albie, or anything close. Why Are We Here? Why did Hannibal go to Anderson, MO? How did she know there was a hole in front of Margie’s toilet? Where did she get the cash from in McAlester? Was she there to visit someone in prison? Hannibal had told everyone her maiden name was Tackett. That she was adopted. She never mentioned the name Puryear, the town of Pineville, MO, or an Aunt Albie. Yet, here we are. What are the common themes? The same as most of the things I found in the Trinket Bible. Dayton, the cattle theft that took place in 1979, and Pineville, MO, a town of three people. [The End] Government Cheesecake Factory Oh wait, I get asked at least 1 time what Government Cheese is. It is really an equivalent of American Cheese, but really good. It goes back to surplus milk in the 1970s and early 1980s and what to do with it. Turn it into cheese and give it to food stamp families, was the Government’s answer. The old stories say it was given out in blocks, but I remember it was a cheese wheel. Apparently, a lot of this cheese still exists and is stored in caves in Missouri. I hadn’t thought of Government Cheese since I was three years old – not at all – until I found the death note above and it all came back to me. So I looked it up, mainly to make sure I had not invented it in my dreams or something. Here is a recent article I found. Government Cheese Wheels When I traveled to various places – even to developing countries, like Europe, I will often try out local cheeses. Not that I am counting, but I had cheese in 14 different countries. I even have a personal note from Max McCalman. Who is a cheese guy and bills himself as a “highly visible advocate for artisanal cheese production and a dedicated scholar of cheese”. You can have all that. I say, give me some Government Cheese. It is still the best, or at least the most memorable, cheese I have ever had. Plus, I am told reliably by the Internet that it melts good and is great on hamburgers or in grilled cheese sandwiches. Oh, man, that’s making me hangry. The End! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
September 17 · 21 min
These Lights We Never Turn Out
That’s tomorrow if you are reading this today. Anyway, the 18th. Remember that date. It comes up later. Image Courtesy of PFFK #7 Let’s start with some song lyrics. They also come up later. Turn out the lights, the party’s over They say that all good things must end Call it a night, the party’s over And tomorrow starts the same old thing again -- Wille Nelson, The Party’s Over To which I say all good things must not end. The party is never over. There will be no “calling it a night” on my watch. And tomorrow we are going to do something so totally different you might not even recognize yourself in the mirror, assuming you can even find one! Just sayin’ It Happened in March It’s March 20, 1986. Afternoon. I just left school. Backpack over my shoulders, Trapper Keeper in my arms. An ordinary school day. It’s a Thursday. My mom, Hannibal, was there to pick me up and, I thought, take me back home. She was wearing a red oversized rugby jersey with “Coca-Cola” written all over it in big white letters. Personally, if I am going to be wearing someone else’s brand, they should be paying me, not the other way around. It was an ordinary school day, a Thursday. I could have walked home or ridden a bike from school. It wasn’t far. They wouldn’t let me, though, so Hannibal usually picked me up. She was driving her usual red and grey Suburban. “Get in” she said, unemotional and strangely calm. I climbed in, closed the door and stared out the window for a few minutes. I thought we were going home, instead we ended up in the parking lot of Gophers. My dad, Fredo, was standing outside the building. Gophers was a restaurant not too far from home and down the road from the Allsup’s gas station. It’s not there anymore. Gruver Cafe — which is on Main St — is there now and we love it. “Stay here”, Hannibal said to me as she opened the car door and slid off the seat. After closing the door, and walking up to Fredo, he quickly gave her a full hug, a hard one, with both arms. Like he meant it. She raised her own arms slowly and, reluctantly it seems, returned the hug. But only loosely. She showed no emotion I can remember. My eyes froze and my corners of my mouth turned down. I started to tear up. Somehow I knew what happened, as if someone had whispered in my ear. Dayton died. He collapsed and fell off his horse, his face blue, I was told later. He was only 60. I will write about that in a future Episode entitled “Six Days From Sunday” -- when I can stitch up enough courage to do so, that is. All the Good Things For now, I remember all the good things and the fun stories that stick with me forever. I told you a few of them already. Like the Cristal Pistol story – the adult place where no adults go. Or how Dayton showed me the correct way to stack and count grain bags in the store. The store is still there, by the way, mostly just as he left it. Last time I was there, it felt like he was about to walk in and say “hey, kiddo”. Or about the time when he had just returned from the War, and someone he didn’t know was heckling at him. Dayton walked up to the stranger, placed his left arm on the man’s right shoulder and said “Son, I don’t know you, but you seem to know me. Why don’t we settle our differences like gentlemen?” After telling that story, he asked me “why do you think I put my left arm on the stranger’s right shoulder”? “I don’t know”, I responded, “Were you trying to reassure him?” “Nope” Dayton said. “If I had to clock him, his right arm was tied up and mine was free”. That was Dayton. Cool, wise and crafty. Here are a couple of pictures of Dayton when he was in the Marines and stationed overseas. I think this is in Okinawa. There is a notation on the back. His friends called him Commander, even though he was a Corporal. Dayton is on the right in both pictures. He’s holding the Colt .45 Model 1911 in the first pic. Author’s archives Here is an embossed version of the right hand picture. Author’s archives Dayton had a great sense of humor and a calm and deliberate way about him. He helped out so many people in his short life. He was more than an inspiration. He showed you how big life could be. That everything is possible. That the only limits are the ones you set for yourself. Dayton was always so kind, nurturing and easy with me. Well, except that time I hid his cigarettes . . . Here is a grainy video of him riding a kids’ pedal tractor with my cousin following him on a bike. My cousin sent me this a few years ago. I laughed and cried at the same time. I know that inside a part of 9 year old little me got fixed and locked away on that day in March 1986 -- and still lives there. Here are a few more stories I remember. My Repeated and Failed Attempts to Stay Up All Night When I used to stay over at Muff and Dayton’s – which was frequent but not often enough -- I never wanted to go to sleep. I was always having way too much fun. I loved being in their house. I was always at peace there. It made me want to jump up and down on the bed and sing Xanadu and other great Olivia Newton John songs – wait, are there any? Dayton made sure I got to sleep though. Either he or my Grandmother, Muff, would read me a book. Then Dayton would say “well, kiddo, time for bed. The party’s over” as he reached his arm up into the lamp and begin singing: Turn out the lights, the party’s over [pause] They say that all good things must end [pause] Call it a night, the party’s over [pause] And tomorrow starts the same old thing again Dayton had a great singing voice. I can hear it now, this chorus so clearly, as he reaches his arm up and clicks off the lamp. Then he would keep his head inside the closing door right up until the last word – “again”. That was it – lights out, door closed, and a safe warm good night’s sleep. There was nothing to worry about, at Muff and Dayton’s, and it was the best and safest feeling. Subconsciously, I knew that Hannibal could not get to me, or throw me out of a moving car, when I’m asleep here. Instead, I knew my grandparents were right across the hall. The bonus, waking up to breakfast at their house. Muff made these great scratch biscuits. And Belgian Waffles. And eggs. She also used to make me these little apricot turnover fried pies for my Birthday, except Fredo would eat them all before they ever got to me. Does that not just sound like Fredo? My Favorite Book My favorite book at their house was Mr. Angelo. I have a copy in my library right now. It’s about a man who lived in a house at the top of Butternut Hill who loved to cook. He cooks so much food, he can’t eat it all, so he opens up an Eatery and a Bakery in his front room. He almost gives up until a boy named Jim says “you need someone to help you.” And that is so true. Or as the Beatles say, “leave it all ‘til somebody else lends you a hand”. Muff and Dayton must have read this book to me over a hundred times. The difference each time was the following day. I would ask them “what if Mr. Angelo had made cookies?” or “what if he had handed out free samples? You know, get them hooked first?” Each would entertain my questions and would have great responses. So the book wasn’t an isolated story it was like slowly furnishing a room in their house piece by piece. Both would help me think through different business plans for Mr. Angelo. Always with a sense of humor, and a big vision. Let’s say I had asked Hannibal (I don’t think she knows this book exists) a question about Mr. Angelo’s business plans. I can imagine she would say “Oh, there was a hair on one of his donuts. So he had to close his business.” Then she would go out, buy some donuts, and put hairs on them. Hannibal’s idea of business is sabotage and also grifting. Stop Yammering Thanksgiving 1985. The evilness of Hannibal, hounding anything good like a Beagle, has been going on for all of the decades she has been alive. As much as she has been chasing me, she chased Dayton too. But in that case it was tactical. For most Thanksgivings, Muff would always do the turkey, tenderloin and top sides. Hannibal made a few side dishes. She would groan, every family meal, that Mrs. Gomer shows up hours late and only contributes the relish tray. While that may indeed be true, what’s the use in groaning? Like that really got to Hannibal. It’s a running holiday grudge of hers. Hannibal has lots of grudges. So this Thanksgiving, one of Hannibal’s sides was candied yams (barf). I had just finished getting dressed. We had to look as perfect as possible to Hannibal because pictures would be taken. Where these pictures are these days, I have no idea. No doubt keistered somewhere. I heard Hannibal yelling my name. So I ran up to the 2nd story where the yellow kitchen was. HANNIBAL “I will carry the yams down to the atrium. I need you to load the yams into the suburban. Do not drop or spill them! They are Dayton’s favorites. So be careful.” That surprised me, Dayton didn’t really eat yams, not willingly anyway. ME“Why can’t you just carry them on into the suburban, and I can help with some of these other things. That way you don’t have to sit them down in the atrium.” HANNIBAL “Stop being difficult. Just hurry up. I will sit them on the stairs.” ME“Okay but you are making me nervous.” HANNIBAL“Stop over thinking everything. You are too sensitive. Hurry up. I don’t want us to be late. Now you will need to hold the yams in your lap. Again, don’t drop or spill them.” I watched as Hannibal carried the yams down the atrium stairs and set the dish on the last stair. She then wiped the dish with a towel to clean it, or so I thought. I walked down and picked up the dish. With my bare hands. I made the step down from the atrium to the garage door. Hannibal approached the door, to close it. HANNIBAL“I said be careful! Don’t drop it! Do not drop it!” In between the garage door and the suburban . . . I dropped the dish of yams. Or, more accurately, it felt as if the unseen hand that turns up at crucial moments knocked the dish out of my own hands. The dish shattered and the yams splattered everywhere. The marshmallow chunks were strewn across the garage floor. Who puts marshmallows in yams, anyway? My hands held in place, as if they were still bracing the handles on each side of the dish. HANNIBAL“Damn it! You idiot! Those are Dayton’s favorites! UGHHHHH! You are such a pain! Now we have to clean this up. We are going to be late.” Hannibal loaded a few other dishes while I hosed out the garage. I was crying. She continued to berate me as we pulled from our house – that would be on Van Kurt, down yonder from the Allsup’s – and sped West on Hwy 15 to Dayton and Muff’s. I remember thinking the yams were disgusting. I couldn’t imagine Dayton liking them. It was true that he was the only one that ate them, but that was out of politeness. Year after year, you could see only one small spoon dent in the yams. The whole yam thing was different this year. Her going on and on about how they were Dayton’s favorite. She had never mentioned this before. I was curious how she did not realize he ate them so her feelings would not be hurt. That’s how bad they were. It was like she decided to weaponize that the yams were Dayton’s favorite for a 1985 Thanksgiving special or something. It was an odd feeling, one beyond my emotions. I don’t think I dropped the yams because Hannibal was yelling “don’t drop them.” I’ve been yelled at by Hannibal before – a lot – and am quite used to it. When it came to my Grandparents, I was practiced at pulling up my very best to make sure I delivered, especially for them. So, I was confused how I dropped the yams. I was also confused, and not a little bit miffed, by the anger from Hannibal. There was a buffer zone around events at my Grandparent’s home, where Hannibal kept calm. She did this so we would all walk in happy, or at minimum, calm. Appearances, and all. This time, she was so outwardly enraged, that I was continuing to cry. HANNIBAL“You better get inside and tell everyone why we aren’t having yams this year. And wipe those tears from your eyes.” Naturally, I sought out Dayton first. ME“Dayton, I am so sorry! I dropped the yams. We won’t have any this year.” DAYTON“Aww kid, that’s alright. One thing we have plenty of around here is food. Take a look at the counter. There probably would not have been room anyway.” It was like none of the others even noticed. Our family head count was typically around 30. And we are talking about a reasonable small, yet efficient, house. Muff was so busy, I don’t think she noticed until we were all seated. HANNIBAL“Sorry everyone. Our little darlin’ dropped the yams. Absolutely shattered the pan in the garage.” MUFF“Oh that’s OK. It’s OK. We have plenty. And look at our adorable little girl all dressed up. Isn’t she so lovely?” This was Dayton’s last Thanksgiving. Thankfully we all survived it because Christmas 1985 was one of the best from my childhood. The next, as you paying subscribers know, was Christmas 2019. After that, the next time Dayton would come through for Christmas was December 2021 and he came through big. He recreated Christmas 1985 and even stopped the Texas panhandle wind for a few days, so we could get set up. So typical low wind there is 13 mph and gusts regularly reach 25 mph. I will tell you all about that in our Christmas Episode this year. With pictures! To this day, I don’t know what all was in the yams. Who Yam I? I do have a theory, which relates to when autopsies need to be performed, when they don’t and a particular loophole psychopaths seem to know about to avoid being busted for poisoning someone. Hint: Our yams may or may not have included some special deadly spice concocted in or around Pineville, MO, a town of three people. A Salute to Commander Dayton I love his birthday. I hope I can give him as much as he continues to give me. He always finds a way and so can I. As much pain that gets dished my way, I will drop it all, like the yams. I’ll brush it off and remember I “have plenty.” Plenty of good, that is. Evil can just go suck on these Chinese yams! I know if Dayton had lived the 20 or so more years that he was meant to, everyone’s life around him would have been so much better. He would have ended up running the largest agri-business in the TX panhandle. He was already on his way when he died. Dayton’s contributions to our world, they are still here. That’s how big he was. His ways were always for the greater good, not for himself. On my worst days, since learning Hannibal is a highly refined Cluster-F’ing psychopath – in my totally First Amendment protected opinion, that is – I have felt pain. I let myself feel it for as long as it wants to linger. Why? Because, I can? Here’s a lesson: Once you see the psychopaths for who they are, they lose all power over you. I have Dayton to thank for helping me see that. Genetically speaking, I am built to take the pain, crystalize it and turn the pain into an even deeper grit. You Mentioned Something About the Date? Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Dayton was born on September 18, 1925. I found the Memorial in Hannibal’s trinket bible, here it is. Notice the date? September 8, 1925? He was born on the 18th. Which is not the 8th. I showed this to my Aunt Ju Ju recently and she nearly broke down. How did this mistake get made? Who made it? Why was it stashed in the trinket bible? I will answer those questions and more in the next Episode, Everything You Ever Needed – And More – Part 2. For paying subscribers, that is. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
September 14 · 16 min
Everything You Ever Needed – And More
This is a continuation of the story about the Giant Bible and what I found in it. Keith Morrison Voiceover . . . Because every story needs one. “The word “memento” means to remember. We all keep them. If you think of life as a series of pages that flip from day to day, seemingly forever, to become our own book. Every important day, its own page; every big moment, its own chapter. Sometimes we cut-out the meaningful parts and leave cute little mementos in between those pages. We do it as a way to save our best days forever. These are the times we keep closest to our hearts. Usually these mementos are the happy and the joyous events. The birthdays. The weddings. The little babies delivered into a big new world. The happy times. That is what we all expect and what we all hope to do. What does it mean when the mementos we find are not the happy events? What do we make of reminders of deaths? Or church fires? Or a mother forcing her little 5 year old daughter to write a birthday card? Perhaps, what ends up as a keepsake in a book is important. What is more important, though, is how and why. Why are there mementos of death, when there should be keepsakes of life? Our story today will try to answer those questions.” . . . Non-Keith Morrison Voiceover We all have keepsakes and mementos to remind us of happy times. We sometimes keep them in our favorite books. That’s what humans do. Not psychopaths. They keep trinkets. Of things like death, church fires and birthday cards my mom, Hannibal, forced me to write when I was 5 – in 1982, etc. etc. A Bible Full of Trinkets More on the Bible I told you about last week and what I found in there. This is what it looks like. See, I wasn’t kidding when I said it was giant. Image courtesy of PFFK #7 As I mentioned in last week’s Episode, this Bible had been missing for decades, and I had really mostly forgotten about it. Until January 2021, when it turned up on the 2nd floor of #6 Accosted in one of the many giant multi-story wooden cabinets Hannibal likes. I had looked in this cabinet many times before. There is a little entertainment area right next to it, and that is where all the TV remotes are usually kept. Let Me Entertain Me Here’s a funny story about that little entertainment area. The layout to #6 Accosted is typical for slapped together homes of the modern era. This particular house was built by Mrs. Gomer’s husband, Mr. Gomer. The front door of #6 Accosted consists of a door, full length window “pains” to each side and a glass window arch above the door. We will cross that door when we come to it. It looks like this. From Google Maps then Twisted . . . Hard The window panes have been covered with a translucent dark film to obscure the view. Hannibal did that. So, if you were standing at the door trying to peek inside to see what kinds of shenanigans were going on, you wouldn’t see much. If, however, you looked up and behind, you would see remnants of swallow nests which had been knocked down. Hannibal did that too. H.R. Huff n’ Puff When we open the front door, we see the stairs directly in front of us. The stairs are so close to us that we can actually see all the way up to Fredo’s desk on the second floor. So close, that if you accidentally tripped while carrying bags of groceries, your head would hit the second step, and the groceries would end up on Fredo’s desk. The stairs along with the entire second floor -- including the bathroom -- are carpeted in the usual spud colored beige. Why would anyone do that? I mean about the stairs being right in front of you. And also about the carpet. And also about the carpet in the Bathroom. There is a sky-light in the bathroom, though, which is really great. For drone operators and spy satellites, that is. I don’t know why front doors would ever want to open directly to stairs. That shouldn’t happen. Unless, of course, you are talking about those 10 ft wide Oak stairways, which branch out left and right at the top, and sit beneath ornate lead glass windows which glow and whisper green when the Sun is about to set. Stairs like that are pretty great, unless you are living in an Agatha Christie novel, in which case I would seriously consider getting out of there . . . fast. But that isn’t how the spudlike stairs at #6 Accosted are set up. They line a wall to the right, go straight up and have no windows anywhere nearby. On the wall to the right we see pictures of me and my siblings(?) going all the way up to the second floor. Fredo’s most precious picture is displayed there, of course -- that would Myron making a tackle during a football game. Probably his only one, ever, I’m guessing, because Myron was a terrible athlete. When you get to the top of the stairs, to the immediate left, we see Fredo’s desk and a computer. That is where he does his two or three hours of work every week. Ahead of us we see a large sofa sitting on top of a rug that -- for some reason -- has been nailed to the floor through the regular carpet. Probably to hide some evidence. I really regret never prying that rug up, because I’d love to know what is under there. A TV screen is mounted on the wall to the left opposite the sofa, and the giant multi-level wooden cabinet where I found the Bible sits between them against the wall. Slappy Happy So, the funny story goes like this. We used to sit up there on the sofa and watch movies with my Nieces. We would grab a giant bowl of popcorn, turn out the lights like in a movie theater and watch whatever movie we wanted. Or sometimes we watched Masha and the Bear, Nancy Drew or Gooseberries. There was a character in Gooseberries called Slappy, who was a demonically possessed ventriloquist dummy -- you know, just like Myron? Anyway, my Nieces were terrified of Slappy, so if they ever wandered upstairs by themselves I would walk up behind them and say -- “oh, look. It’s Slappy. Hey Slappy, what are you doing up here?” My Nieces would then run downstairs. And, yes, I know it’s actually called “Goosebumps“, so no need to write me a polite letter -- unless you want to. OK. That’s not the funny story. This is. Freedo Gonzales This one time at the entertainment area, my Nieces and I just sat down to watch a movie. We had the giant bowl of popcorn with us and fired up the 6 or 7 remotes it takes to watch movies these days. The lights were still on though, because Fredo was up there at his desk, wearing reading glasses, looking at printouts of feeder cattle results. The numbers in the columns are usually tiny, so he has to hold the page close to his glasses. Even then, he usually still can’t read the numbers, so he lifts his glass up and holds the printout even closer -- squinting. Meanwhile, we are still trying to watch the movie, but the lights are on. This is where my youngest Niece, age 7 at the time, leans her body forward and turns her head to stare menacingly at Fredo’s back. Fredo is still squinting at little numbers, so he doesn’t notice. She swings back to upright position, looks up at me and shrugs as if to say -- doesn’t he know we are watching a movie? She leans her body forward for a second time, turns her head to the left again and says: “Fredo, when are you leaving? We are trying to watch a movie!” Fredo leaves. I love my Nieces. What the Bible Told Me So I read this Bible most nights, mainly because it makes me feel closer to my Grandparents, Muff and Dayton, who gave it to me -- and to my parents -- but mainly to me. Here’s the presentation page. Image courtesy of a scanner, which is really a printer except the toner mechanism or something is busted so it doesn’t print, but it does scan! Two weeks ago, I said of the 6 people who died in 1982 who knew Hannibal, only one seemed natural -- my Great Grandma -- Margie. She was 88 years old and died of heart failure. That would not be uncommon at that age. Last week I said my view changed after finding Margie’s obit keistered in between two pages of said Bible. I had never seen it before. Here is what I remember about the Bible after I found it. Since say February 1, 2021 I have read the Bible every evening. So it has been open at least 2,045 times. This count is just for my daily reads. Throughout summer of 2021, I would sit outside, under the cherry tree and open the Bible at 2:11 pm. Whatever verse appeared to me, is what I thought I was supposed to focus on. Some days under the cherry tree were emotional and profound. Some days I would look up and see a hummingbird or a butterfly or a gold finch. Like this little guy. Image courtesy of PFFK #7 Those moments were so reassuring, especially at a time when my family had just launched an active campaign against me. Along with the Bible, nature held one of the most valued and trusted places in my heart. During these afternoons, I would flip through the pages. Every item placed in the Bible, had been put there by Hannibal. The earliest I can find dates to 1979 and the latest to 1988. In addition to Margie’s obit which I only just found, here are some of the other things is in the Bible. The main themes are around my deaths and me. 1. A handmade Mother’s Day card, by me and dated 1979. I most likely made it in Sunday School 2. A birthday card to Hannibal for her 31st, that Hannibal forced me to write; my subconscious rebelled and I wrote “Happy Birthday to Ho” 3. My Grandfather, Dayton’s funeral program, that had the wrong date for his birth date. After finding it in the Bible, I placed the program with the page of Psalm 23, which was printed inside his program 4. A cut out of Dayton’s obit from a newspaper 5. The dedication for the rebuilt Methodist Church which had burnt down in a fire in 1979 6. On a page titled “Family Tree Husband’s Genealogy” there are 23 handwritten entries of family member’s birthdays, written by Hannibal. On the page titled “Family Tree Wife’s Genealogy” there is not one entry, it’s totally blank 7. The page titled “Children” Hannibal only lists me. Not my sister(?) or Myron. 8. For the page titled “Deaths” Hannibal wrote out Elva Fowler July 1977 (her Grandma) 9. A notepad piece of paper where Hannibal wrote “Carmen Earl Puryear died April 22, 1981 age 63, Anderson, MO. Margie 417-845-6172” Anderson, a town of three other people, is 6 miles from Pineville, a town of three people. Hannibal misspelled Carmon’s name. Probably on purpose. No doubt I have not found everything in here yet. I will cover some of these in Part 2 – For Paid Eyes Only. For now, I will leave you with the Birthday Card. This still makes me laugh. I did not remember writing this. So for fun I looked at it under UV light, and I could see a little tear drop. Then it all came back to me. I was sitting at the kitchen island, on a stool. Hannibal was behind me, grabbing my hand, forcing me to write “Happy Birthday”. I was crying. It was 1982. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
September 9 · 7 min
Who Likes Short Shorts?
Image courtesy of PFFK #7, Vintage Viking figures by Jacob Jensen, Rudder Table IN-20 by Isamu Noguchi Turns out, a lot happened in 1982. I think we might have to start calling it “Groundhog Year”. I will cover a lot of the what in future Episodes, but for now I want to revisit last week’s Episode, in which I told you about 6 people who crossed paths with Hannibal, all of whom ended up dying in 1982. Make Me Some Nevermind I also told you how only one of those deaths appeared to be from natural causes. Based on a very recent discovery, we here at the Handbook are now upgrading our assessment from “likely natural causes” to “possibly suspicious”. Here is what happened. I have this giant 8.5lb Bible which I read pretty much every night after dinner -- unless something unusual happens . . . like a tornado hitting two blocks away, knocking out the power. So, unless something like THAT happens, I read this Bible every night. I like the Old Testament way more than the New Testament. In case you are wondering. A Bible Full of Trinkets My Grandparents, Muff and Dayton, presented this Bible to Fredo, Hannibal and Adorable Little Me on Christmas 1977 when I was not even 1 full years old. I’m sure I pretended to read it back then. And probably understood it. I will write more about this Bible, how I came to find it, and what I found inside it in a future Episode entitled “Everything You Ever Needed -- and More!” Anyway, I remember this Bible when we lived in Hansford county. It was usually sitting on a book case that was there. When we moved to Amarillo it “went missing” and had been for several years. I had really mostly forgotten about it. Then it turned up at #6 Accosted sometime in or before January 2021. That is when I found it and “proceeded to” liberate it. It was it upstairs in one of the many giant multi-story wooden cabinets Hannibal likes . . . for some reason. I have looked in that cabinet many many times over the years. There is a TV mounted on the wall to the left of it, and that’s where the 6 or 7 remotes you needed to operate TV systems these days are usually kept. OK, back to today’s short story. So I took this Bible home with me and have been reading it ever since. When I first opened it, I found a few papers and things Hannibal had hidden inside over the years -- probably through the 1980s and early 1990s, before we moved to Amarillo. Since I found this Bible, I estimate -- based on my knowledge of math and the Internet -- that I have opened it over 2,400 times. The Keistered Obit Here’s where it gets interestng. As mentioned above, I had assumed my Great Gramma’s death in 1982 was from natural causes. She was 88 years old and died of heart failure. That would not be uncommon at that age. Well, maybe I was wrong. A few days ago -- and this is an entirely true story -- I opened the Bible up to a random page that had Margie’s obit clipped from the local newspaper. I felt like the unseen hand had once again guided me to the place I must be. As if to tell me, in this particular instance, that maybe I needed to “re-evaluate” my conclusion. And that I had a nice place up here and it would be a shame if anything happened to it. Gulp! Here is the obit. I had no idea it was there. I didn’t put it there. I think Hannibal did. And I think it might be a trinket. There are a few other trinket-like items in there that I have come across. Many have something to do with death or church fires. OK. So, I know finding an obit is not really anything. By itself, maybe not. It’s what the obit says that is interesting. I have been told my whole life that Margie peacefully died at home, right there at 514 Richardson St., Gruverly Hills, TX. That is not, however, what the obit says. That is not what the death certificate says either. Margie died in the hospital. Nothing odd about that. Most people probably die in a hospital. But why lie about it? And why clip the obit out of a newspaper and put in a Bible? By the way, Margie’s death certificate lists the cause of death as “heart failure”. That is the same cause of death listed for Nelda Tackett’s mother, Zella, who also died in 1982. Smothering someone, especially an elder person, can mimic heart failure. Also by the way, Hannibal has a history of being one of the last people to visit someone in the hospital before they die. This happened to a really nice lady named Kathy, who died just after being released from the hospital – right there in the hospital parking lot. Hannibal was one of the last people to visit Kathy. That’s what she said anyway. She kind of bragged about it. Looking back, it was odd the way she delighted in telling that story. I think that would have happened to me when I had a giant cyst removed that appeared out of nowhere . . . right after Muff’s 90th birthday party . . . and two days before my sister’s(?) dog died. Except, in this case, Dolphyn refused to leave my side for more that 15 minutes while I was doped up in the hospital room. Gut feeling, he said. One time, when he went down to the cafeteria at the Baptist Saint Tony’s -- which is really pretty good -- he saw Hannibal asleep on a long set of visitor’s chairs just outside my room. I had no idea she was there. She had no idea Dolphyn saw her. Har Har. She also took a picture of me in the hospital bed and later texted it to me with the caption “I can totally use this”. For what, I thought. A collage? A Christmas card? Potpourri? Was she waiting for an opportunity to smother me? Anyway, that is why we are now upgrading our assessment of Margie’s death from “likely natural causes” to “possibly suspicious”. In the next Episode, entitled “Everything You Ever Needed -- and More!“, I will talk about this Bible. How I found it. A funny story about where I found it. And some of the things I found inside. This Episode will be in two parts. Part 1 will be a Free for All. Part 2 will be For Paid Eyes Only. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
August 28 · 3 min
Preview of Coming Distractions
* It was or was not a very good year. Depending on your perspective. Our next Episode is Entitled “1982 Was a Very Good | Bad Year“. It is part Tackford Files, part co-incidences that might not be, and part Richard Simmons, who said “let the pattern lead to the solution”. The story is also about how a good year for someone (i.e., Me) can be a bad year for others. Our story today starts with a Keith Morrison voice-over because, well, we think every story should start that way. Keith Morrison Voiceover “It’s hard to see the patterns on the road behind or ahead when you driving it. All you see is the small rolling stretch of pavement you are on at any given moment. That, and the Exit billboards showing a Waffle House is just ahead. We stop for those. But when you get to your destination many miles or even many years ahead, when you can look back and see the whole trip more clearly, you might recognize something you overlooked at the time. The same is true as our own lives. As we expand and move through time. With the big and small parts of daily life consuming us. We might never see the recurring patterns -- the good ones that make us happy, or the bad ones that cast a long and deep shadow over everything they touch. And often times, when looking back, we see that a regular ordinary trip for some people, ends up being a truly bad one for others. Especially for those who never make it to the end of the road and never reach their destination. Or you can also go to Waffle House.” [Waffle house picture maybe -- if I can find them. OK. I found them.] When I was 31 It was a very good year. Although it wouldn’t become clear for another 3 years, my life had taken a bold and wild turn into a Brand New World. One that I could not have predicted. Though, a couple of years later, a psychic in Boston (named Alex) told me the road I was on and correctly predicted how it would develop. If you ever get to Boston, look him up. When I was 31, I only knew a few people who had died. Not too many, though, and not all in one year. Most had simple explanations. Some were relatives and died from normal causes, like heart disease, old age or the occasional car accident. Now, when Hannibal was 31, things were totally different! For All the People Who Have Died Because, when Hannibal was 31, in 1982, it was a very bad year. At least 6 people Hannibal knew or crossed paths with all died in the same year -- and all by August. One in-law, one step-person, three fake non-adoptive relatives, and the father of a girl Hannibal was obsessed with. Only one death had a simple explanation. Hannibal was a common thread among them all. Did she have something to do with these deaths? Were they just accidents? Were they just co-incidences? Did Hannibal’s mere existence lead to their deaths? Why did one person who was shot to death in Corsicana later end up living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana? We will go through the time-lines, records, death certificates and other details. We will then offer up our opinions, and give you a chance to come up with your own. Tune in to the next Episode coming Monday to a browser, iPad or other device near you! I’ll tell you what. This will be the best story of 6 people dying in 1982 that you will ever come across! But only for Paid Subscribers, who we love here at The Handbook. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
August 26 · 19 min
Back To School
I wish this episode would read like a Rodney Dangerfield edition and I could finish by saving the day with a perfectly scored and performed Triple Lindy, like this but with horses. Image Courtesy of PFFK #7; Ceramic horse by Stig Lindberg We’re in for a different ride this time -- a totally fun and fantabulistic one. What’s the Rush? We’re wrapping up August 2026, and with that the college dorm move-ins, sorority rush/recruitment, starting back to school and not to mention the athletic practices like two-a-day football practice. Man, that must be brutal. And all this before the semester even begins. Except if you are Myron, of course, refusing to go to early practice because he was too good for that. I have many friends that are great moms. I’m proud to be friends with them and happy that they can call me a friend. Because I have at least one sister(?) who is maybe are not so great. And I can say that, because I have only one sister(?). I think I might have a much older half-sister, but it’s a sad story so I will probably not talk about it here. Seeing my good mom-friends pack up their daughters, decorate their college rooms -- all of them show stoppingly gorgeous. Seeing them support their girls, now almost fully grown, during sorority recruitment has been refreshing. Each of them has restored my hope in the world that we do have good, nurturing moms. Happiness is what I feel when I see how much they show their love for their kids, their dedication, their willingness to take 2 weeks out of an otherwise busy life to help coach their daughters as they rush the Greek system. It’s real. I can tell you that the sorority rush system can be a traumatic giant mountain of emotions and hope for acceptance swirled up with unspoken potential rejection. It is also a giant production, with lots of decorations, fresh florals and balloons, all of which must be sprayed -- not a lot of people know that. So many balloons that most balloon factories make their entire annual profit, it seems, in just 2 weeks and then close down for the rest of the year, floating around in pools and bouncing on trampolines. Well deserved! Recruitment is a highly organized series of events where the soon to be Freshies meet the actives from house to house. Events are themed aroud sisterhood and philanthropy. There are elimination and preference rounds, culminating in the final “pref” round. And that is how the girls and sororities find each other. When it is rush season, I always have a pit in my stomach for any girl that might not get selected. It would break their hearts and mine. Unless I didn’t like a particular mom, like Fat… Oh yeah, and did I mention there are lots of balloons and philanthropy. So, that is rush. A giant, highly organized, stressful, but beautiful and full of new bonds event -- especially in Texas and the South. I would not want to go through that alone. Except I did. When my parents dropped me off at college, they helped me unload their suburban and my car. Maybe an hour-long process. Then a rain storm hit, so naturally the electricity went out. I remember coming down the stairs seeing them in their suburban. Hannibal smirking at me with her jutting out jutting jaw foisting up that slight but noticeable smirk. ME Are y’all leaving? (Eyes all wide, mouth open in disbelief) HANNIBAL ANNE Yes, you are all unloaded. ME The electricity is out, and I don’t even have a phone set up yet. I don’t even know how to set up a phone. HANNIBAL ANNE It will come back on. Happy trails. With that Fredo waived from the driver’s seat, Hannibal Anne rolled up her window and they pulled out of the parking lot. While drenched from the rain storm, I thought to myself the many times they said I didn’t have a brain and so I couldn’t be dangerous. Like what’s the worst that could happen? Well, there was and still is no Waffle House in Lubbock. So I guess that’s pretty bad. Anway, I thought maybe I had done something wrong. Something Smells Fishy Here’s a REAL Hannibal Anne back-to-school story It is August 1993. I am 16 -- still adorable, but taller. We are at Tascosa High (Go Rebels!), where all the students are nicer, smarter and better looking that at the other slacker schools -- like Amarillo High. OK, folks that went to Amarillo High, you may be tempted to send some beat down my way, but you know I’m right. Besides, you should be grateful, I’m just trying to keep the spirit of Hell Week alive. Tascosa High was set to begin its Fall semester in a couple of weeks. I had spent the summer babysitting and going to evening JV cheerleading practices. At our most recent practice, we were given our schedule along with the correct uniforms to be worn for each event. Very well organized. The first event was a Back to School Meet & Greet to meet incoming Freshmen. Not like Freddie the Freshman though. HANNIBAL ANNE Let me see your schedule. ME Sure, here it is. Right in my Trapper Keeper in my backpack. Wait, where’s my backpack? Oh there it is (retrieving it from the suburban) HANNIBAL ANNE You need to lay out your first uniform. I don’t want you running late. Lay it out between now and when you go to bed tonight so it will ready when you are getting ready. Make sure you wear your hair ½ way up. ME Can’t I just hang it at the front of my closet, it’s white? I don’t want it to get dirty. HANNIBAL ANNE OK. But you have a tight schedule and need to have everything ready to go. Lay it out on your floor, then. ME On my floor? That’s even worse. HANNIBAL ANNE OK (eyes going all bulgie). Stop being so nervous. Hang it up inside your closet. It will be safe there. The day of our 1st JV cheerleading event arrived. I arrived at #6 Accosted, after babysitting and being at the pool, grabbed the cheerleading uniform and went upstairs to shower and get ready. After doing my hair and make-up, I quickly put on the fresh uniform. I was rehearsing, in my mind, the different tasks I needed to do once at the park. T hese thoughts continued on as I went downstairs, grabbed my bag and got in my car. It was my first event as a cheerleader in Tascosa High and I wanted to do well for our entire squad. As I was pulling from Fairway on to Western, I began to smell something and it seemed to be getting stronger. Like sun-ripened Limberger cheese. This uniform was definitely a different kind of “fresh”. ME What the hell is this foul smell? This is more like something I would smell while out in a field or possibly a hospital. Or a sulfur mine. Then I noticed my skirt was wet. Things started clicking. I turned around and drove back to #6 Accosted in hopes of there being another white skirt I could change into. I found another, it was not an exact match but it was the best I could do. I kept the smelly and wet skirt with me, just case the smell went away, I could change back into it at the event. As I drove down Western -- once again -- heading for Tascosa, with little time to spare, the wet part of the skirt began to turn into a yellowish color. I arrived at the event and was told I had on the wrong skirt. I apologized. Thankfully, I was reassured it was OK, just this one time. But don’t repeat. Cheerleading is also a highly organized endeavor -- especially in Texas and the South. We also use balloons sometimes. The event went well and it seemed everyone enjoyed themselves. After a brief wrap up, we all said our good-byes. I got into my car and the smell was stronger, the heat most likely brought it out. I remember hoping no one else caught a whiff. Nowadays, folks would have probably thought it was marijuana. Not back then. As I drove to #6 Accosted, crossing the intersection of Plains and Western, it hit me. Psychopaths Never Confess Hannibal Anne had urinated on my uniform. No doubt. I was already anticipating the conversation with her. I was going to slow walk a confession if I could. I walked in the back door and could feel that Hannibal had been waiting for me. She looked excited, grinning. I stared at her across the kitchen. HANNIBAL How did everything go? ME It was fun! Think it went great for everyone! HANNIBAL Who all did you see and talk to? ME Everyone who was there. HANNIBAL How was your skirt? ME It was fine. I wore a different one. But it was fine. HANNIBAL Why didn’t you wear the one I was keeping safe for you? (Grin fading and turning upside down). ME You mean the one you peed on? HANNIBAL What do you mean? ME Well, let’s see. I know Myron’s dog -- Bubba Wendell -- did not pee on my skirt. I’ve cleaned up most of his messes, so I would know. And, since you were keeping it safe, who else could have peed on it? HANNIBAL Oh, you’re just imagining things. Stop being paranoid. No one peed on your skirt. ME Oh, really? Look. Do you want to smell the spot on my skirt? If you do, you will know it is not from Bubba. And we don’t even have cats. Do you think it was the tree frogs? HANNIBAL If that is urine, it would have to be from Myron’s dog. ME Pretty sure Bubba Wendell can’t open my bedroom door, which I had closed. He’s a good dog, but not that good. I knew it was Hannibal. I hand washed the skirt at first. Certainly, growing in an ag family, I had dealt with plenty of gross-level clean ups. It didn’t come out. Then I took it to the dry cleaner which worked. No more Hannibal mark on my skirt. It never got brought up again. Well, not between the two of us anyway. I am bringing it up now. I also told a lot of friends about it over the years. The reaction is usually a polite listen at the open of the story, then a wide open mouth when I reveal the pee portion, then “I’m so sorry. That is gross. What is wrong with her?” Or words to that effect. But really, I mostly forgot about it until . . . Anna Bananas . . . Now it’s 2021 I began reading books I found on psychopaths. One day I was reading The Mask of Sanity by Hervey M. Cleckley -- which is considered the original clinical work on psychopaths. In it, Dr. Cleckely runs through a series of 13 case studies, in quite colorful and flowery language. First published in 1941, there are I think five or six editions, so the page numbers cited below might not be the same from edition to edition. I will do a Book Reporter on The Mask of Sanity at some point. In the meantime, I recommend it for those of you looking to do their own study. But not like in High School when you could do “Independent Study” -- which was just code for goofing off. You just had to come up with a paper at the end of it. Which you would write the day before it was due. I mean, I’m not saying I did that. But I could have. Saving the Best for Last Chapter 12 -- Anna -- is the most juicy and relevant. When I came across that chapter I thought to myself “hmmmm, Anna. I wonder if she will be anything like Hannibal Anne?” And boy was I ever right. The first excerpt that struck me is what many of you could be thinking and what I have often experienced when describing Hannibal Anne. Page 104 And, no matter told, it could not be believed except by those who have already had experience over years with such patterns of behavior. The chapter goes on to explain Anna’s family became aware that she had serious problems by learning that a boy’s club, in the local high school, had been founded around Anna. The author goes on to say the language used in the boy’s club is unprintable. The boy’s club would detail what they would like to do to Anna or with Anna, describing their achievements. Another boy fell in love with Anna and later had a nervous breakdown. Psychopaths will do that to people who are too kind or weak. A physician, also a relative of Anna’s mother, was familiar with the boy’s breakdown and some of Anna’s actions. The relative physician felt he must let her parents know. Her parents tried to avoid rubbing it in by “moralizing reiteration”. Whatever that means. Her parents decided to send her away to boarding school and “turn with all resolution available to what is ahead, and not to stir what is tragic or hideous, but now past and unmodifiable.” They seemed to support Anna in focusing on the future. Needless to say, that worked out great. Just kidding. Anna bounced through many schools. She would show promise and commitment in the beginning and then drop off. Her parents were wealthy and continued to support her in hopes that they had not failed her as parents. As Anna continued through the numerous schools, she was caught smoking, missed curfew, cheated in lab courses and was questioned for ‘borrowing” things that did not belong to her (referred to as “thieveries”). One incident involved her placing rubber condoms in a sofa where young couples would be sitting. Under the cushions, but just visible enough so others would see them. Anna once scrawled a lewd statement across an “instructress’s” office door. The statement indicated there was something available and for cheap. I could totally see Hannibal do that. Next, on page 114, is what put my reading into slow motion. During an interval in which she had no further trouble with the faculty Anna alienated and outraged several girls in the dormitory with whom she had been very friendly. After a few bottles of beer which the group had shared, she entered the rooms occupied by two of these friends and, in their absence, urinated on several evening dresses which they highly valued. (After the act she refolded the dresses neatly and put them back, sodden and malodorous, in the drawers.) It was a number of days before evidence emerged that unmistakably connected Anna with this deed. Anna, like Hannibal Anne, had a thing for urinating on clothing that was valued. Or stealing it, like my Cheerleading bloomers which I found in her bedroom drawers only a few years ago. Also, according the Cleckley, page 114 -115, Anna was “frigid” and did not enjoy normal relations and, while married, would continue to have relations with other men. Not for pleasure but for humiliation, I think. Sometimes, while having technically satisfactory relations with a husband, she would continue [relations] with other men who, it seems, failed entirely to arouse or to gratify her in the usual sense. As a matter of fact, while living with the husband who, more regularly than any other man she can recall, made her “respond,” she initiated and continued relations with several other men. Was Hannibal Anne like this? I don’t have any evidence, but just between me and I . . . Well, let’s just say I would be neither shocked nor surprised. What do all of you alls think? Texas Color Commentary: Most people not from Texas or the general South don’t understand the nuances and usage of “y’all”. The word “Y’all” itself is singular -- used when speaking to one or two people. The plural form is “All y’all” -- typically used when addressing several people, often with a question, e.g., “would all y’all like some Texas Tea, with just enough Sweet N’ Low in it?” And then there is “All y’alls” -- often used with simple statements, e.g., “all y’alls stay out of that closet right there, the one where I am stashing a bunch of quilts I lifted from my non-adoptive grandmother’s house when she died mysteriously.” To be discussed in a future Episode entitled “1982 Was a Very Bad Year“. Back to Back to School OK. This story is not about the Anna’s or the Hannibal Anna’s. This story is about all the good moms out there. Who sacrifice for their girls who then grow up to be bigger girls. Some of them will maybe then go off to college and maybe go into rush or decide not to. Or for the girls who maybe don’t get selected. My heart breaks for those girls. Though I know the moms of those girls comfort and love them, get them through the heart ache and lead them to bigger lives. The biggest job of being a parent is taking the weight of the world off your kids’ shoulders and putting it on your own. This story is also about all the good moms with little girls that don’t go off to college, that stay back in small or large towns, work on generationsl family farms, and raise their own little girls. I know you are out there. All you good moms. I know a few of you. I know what it is like to not have a good mom. So I admire you for who you are and what you do. In this world, the population of good moms is so much greater than the population of bad moms. That makes me happy. So, I want to officially call all y’alls out. All of you good moms. Your little girls and your little boys will grow up to be good people, one day with their own good families, who will maybe also send their little girls off to rush. And you will be there every step of the way. I also know stuff that maybe you don’t at this moment. The good things you do today will live on forever -- in your kids and their own kids, and for all the generations that follow. Many years from now, you will be the grandmas, baking chocolate chip cookies, watching Home Alone at Christmas, with a fire. Spoiler alert: You won’t actually get to bake the chocolate cookies, because all your grandkids will eat the cookie dough before it can get near the oven. Just sayin’. From practical experience. This is the prophecy. I love you all. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
August 21 · 17 min
Meet My Uncle Bun and My Other Uncle Bun
Image Courtesy of PFFK #7 A Tale of Two Carmons Today’s story starts out in Pineville, MO, a town of three people, and ends with a Trinket. This story also involves Carmon Earl Jr. . . . often referred to (by me) as Carbomb Oil Jr., or just Carbomb Jr. Carbomb Jr. was Hannibal’s half brother. He was born in March 1940 to Hannibal’s dad -- Carmon Sr. -- and his first wife, Mary Ellen Happy (her actual name, for some reason). I don’t think she was too happy, though, because they got divorced in 1944 for the cause of “dessertion”. It is not clear who left whom. Back then “no-fault” divorce did not exist, so you had to have a valid reason for getting a divorce -- e.g., “cruelty”. “infidelity”, “dissertion”, etc. And in small towns back then, life’s every coming and going -- like out of town visitors, who they were visiting, recent events at the Elk River Extension Club, petty and serious crimes, and also divorces -- were reported in the local Newspaper. That is how I found the divorce record. Anyway, Mary Ellen died in 1958, so I don’t think she had a happy life, and I think Carbomb Jr. had something to do with that. He will figure into our story much later, as more fully explained below. McDonald’s is your Kind of Place . . . McDonald county MO, that is. The county seat is Pineville, a town of three people. Garden City Telegram, Monday, July 11, 1960 Hold Man for Six Charges Carmen Puryear, 20-year old former convict, is held in the McDonald County jail on two counts of attempted r*pe, two charges of kidnaping and two charges of grand larceny. A juvenile also was arrested and turned over to juvenile authorities in connection with the attack Saturday night near Noel, MO. Officers said Puryear and the juvenile came upon a stalled car occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair Rogers and Mr. and Mrs. Carroll Chenoweth of Cassville, MO. Puryear offered to push the Rogers car. It failed to start and he offered to take Chenoweth and Rogers to Lanagan, MO to seek a mechanic. Officers said Puryear left Chenoweth and Rogers in Lanagan, returned to the stalled car and told the women their husbands were waiting for him to drive them to Lanagan. Authorities said Puryear turned off on a country road and attacked the women. [END] Here is the article. Image courtesy of the Internet This 20 year old Carmen Puryear is the exact same half-brother of Hannibal mentioned above. I have yet to find a redeeming human from Pineville, MO, a town of three people. So, the attempted r*pe took place on July 9, 1960 and Carbomb Jr. was swiftly convicted. He was sentenced to 2 years in prison. Not to worry though, because in August 1960 he sawed his way out of prison and escaped. I think he probably had help from someone either inside or outside of the prison. But not to worry though, he was caught hiding in a kitchen cabinet in his grandmother’s house in nearby Noel, MO, a town of 3 other people, and sentenced to another 2 years. Needless to say, it gets worse. After being released, Carbomb Jr., was busted violating the Dyer Act in 1966, which covers transporting stolen automobiles across state lines, in this case from Ada, OK, to Perryton TX up there in the Panhandle and about 40 miles East of Gruver. Then there are the odd DWI’s, larceny, selling mortgaged property convictions. All in all, not a desirable member of one’s family. I couldn’t find much on Carbomb Jr. Though here he is in Anderson HS in 1952. Source: Ancestry He looks like Myron. Here he is in Joplin in 1956. He’s in the front row, fourth from the left. I put a red arrow for your convenience. You’re welcome! Source: Ancestry Me used to be angry young man! His mother, Mary Ellen, died in Yolo, CA in 1958, just a few years after this picture was taken. I doubt she was even in Missouri when Carbomb Jr. was growing up. My Aunt Eldna -- Hannibal’s sister -- recently told me that Carbomb Jr. was spoiled by his grandmother. Eldna had no idea about Carbomb Jr.’s criminal past. More on that later. Don’t want to give the story away too quick. . . . Hamburgers in your Face Before we move on to the actual story, let me tell you a little bit about Pineville MO, a town of three people. It is the county seat of McDonald county MO, which itself borders Oklahoma to the West and Arkansas to the South. Joplin MO is 45 miles to the North which is just a step away from Kansas. So, from Pineville, MO, a town of three people, you can be across state lines in minutes. Most people think Oklahoma is all sand and nothing else. That is not the case. The area just across the border from McDonald county, MO, is leafy and hilly, with lots of hiding spots. This is where the 1930s bank robbers would hang out after robbing a bank in another state. Bonnie and Clyde came through these parts. Arnold Landers, the criminal who stole cattle from my Grandfather in 1979 -- among many other misdeeds -- lives there in a town called Grove. Last time I checked, anyway. And then there’s Northwest Arkansas, which is even closer. And we know what goes on in Northwest Arkansas! I call this area the Devil’s Triangle. Here is a Junior Roadmap from 1939 to give you an idea. Source: Internet Archive; Remix by PFFK #7 Wynnter in Vegas February 20, 2011 I had just returned from my 2nd best trip to Vegas and was in Amarillo. Some people don’t love Vegas. I didn’t always either. For this part of my life, I enjoyed it. That is back when Steve Wynn ran the Wynn, and I would often see him strolling by with a few staff members in tow. I’m not sure how many hotels I have been a guest in, it’s a lot. More than 50. Maybe even more than 100. Steve Wynn, by far, was the most present and hands on owner / manager I have ever seen. In 2011, I stayed at the Wynn Encore which had just opened back in late 2008. We were still in the midst of the financial crises and the place was empty. No on at the bars or restaurants. It was like hiding in plain sight. The Wynn has these amazing flower features in the form of hot air balloons, merry-go-rounds and much more. Here is a picture I took in on Christmas Day 2013. Image Courtesy of PFK #7 This was also back when Paul Bartolotta had a fantastic restaurant in the Wynn. It was called “Bartolotta” for some reason. The bartender there was named Rich. Great guy who always had the best things to say about Steve Wynn. And always called him “Mr. Wynn”. Treated his staff well, Rich said. Unless you crossed him, of course, then you were a “Piranha Non Grata“. I always loved that place. They had this really cool hanging sculpture made up of golden fish. Here is a pic, also from Christmas 2013. Image Courtesy of PFK #7 Anyway, the Vegas Bartolotta closed in 2015. Rich the Bartender told us that Mr. Wynn “requested” Mr. Bartolotta spend more time in Vegas, which is not in Wisconsin, where his several other restaurants are. Mr. Bartolotta declined, so Wynn told him to fork off. In 2011, you could also get some of the best Peking duck in the U.S. from Wing Lei at the Wynn. They are the first Chinese restaurant in North America to earn a Michelin Star (2008). I have had Peking Duck in Hong Kong and China and always enjoyed it. I could not find good Peking Duck in the U.S., though, until I came across Wing Lei. As for going to Vegas for gambling, I don’t know how to gamble and don’t want to. We are probably some of the only people to go to Vegas and never gamble. Not even one time. Two Booms for the Price of One For one of my birthday celebrations in 2004, I was at The Wynn with my good friend Salmonella (not her real name). We were out late and immediately crashed when we got back to our room. Around 2 am, Vegas time, there was a massive explosion outside with huge flames and smoke. It was LITERALLY right outside of our room. This happened not too many years after 9/11. So we freaked out and grabbed our jewelry, ran out the door and headed for the elevator. We were wondering if there was anything else, valuable or passports, etc., we should have grabbed. It was quite frenzied. When we got to the lobby, frantic and out of breath, we asked the front desk what was happening. “Didn’t you see the letter?” “What letter?”, I replied. “The letter we slipped under the door yesterday?” [oooh, that letter, I said to myself in square brackets] “To notify guest there would be an overnight implosion. “ Ooops. I LITERALLY did not get the memo. Anyway, the Palms and St. Andrews parts of the Desert Inn were being demolished to build the Wynn Encore. When Steve Wynn was in charge, I always felt safe there. These were the years where I was so jetlagged, I never really knew what time it was, unless I had an upcoming flight. So Vegas was great because there were many nice places open 24 hours a day. Another bonus there is In n’ Out. One of my favorite breakfast spots is Tableau and the best waiter there is from Dumas. Back then a filet at SW was $45, present day priced at $118. Back then, they served my favorite coffee and straws came with your drink. And they were plastic. And you didn’t have to ask. By the way, I had dinner with Steve Wynn in 2018 at Wing Lei on the day he stepped down. I also had dinner with him at Wazuzu the night before when he was on the phone with his lawyer, I think. And by, “I had dinner with”, I totally mean I was at a nearby table. Careful not to look in that general direction to avoid getting thrown out by Andrea. There is a really cool Catholic church just across the street to the North of the Wynn. It is the Guardian Angel Cathedral, designed as an A-Frame by Paul R. Williams, who was a very talented architect. OK. I know what you are thinking. There is no evidence of even ONE Uncle Bun, let alone two, in this story. Have I lost my Vulcan mind? Uncle Bun in the Second Degree Back to February 20, 2011. In Amarillo at my sister’s(?) house. My Niece had just turned 7 months old, and they began calling me “Bun” for no reason that I knew of. HANNIBAL -- Speaking to me Hey Bun, can you grab the diaper bag? SISTER(?) It’s over there on the kitchen counter. ME Who’s Bun? (The I did a Robert Di Niro from Taxi Driver -- another film I did not like.) You talkin’ to me? Well, I’m the only one here. (Then I whipped out a pretend gun using my thumb and forefinger. They just looked at each other, no doubt thinking I lost my Vulcan mind). ME Again Seriously, who is Bun? HANNIBAL That’s just a family tradition. We call the oldest Aunt or Uncle “Bun” so the nieces will have a short easy name to remember when they start taking. I remember thinking, I guess “gullible” was taken. And I totally did NOT get the memo on family naming conventions. So, they called me Bun, and I even started to refer to myself as “Bunny”. Also, “Bunny-licious” for fun. I even signed off on emails as “Bunny, my Aunt” name. Note: She always called me “Bun” not “Bunny”. Except when I referred to myself as Bunny-licious. So she adopted that for awhile, but not for long. My role as an aunt is one of my favorites and, of course, my sister(?) and Hannibal were aware of this. It only took a few months for Hannibal to refer to me as “Bun”. There are still people I ring up and when I say my actual name, they are confused until I say “it’s Bunny” or “it’s Bun”. However, it was Hannibal that had given me the name Bun and really went all in with it. I recall thinking how much she must love the name because she was constantly saying “Bun”. Like Tourette Syndrome. As in the following amalgamation: Hannibal Anne “Hey Bun, can you book us to Vegas?” or “Hey Bun, can you go pick us up some Texas Tea?” or “Hey Bun, can you meet us for lunch?” or “Hey Bun, can you order decorations for the next birthday party?” or “Hey Bun, can you meet us in Dallas and book The Mansion?” or, “Hey Bun, can we cancel you and pretend you never existed?” OK. I made up that last one. They never asked me. Yes, Bun always came through and usually paid for it out of Bun’s own pocket book. It wasn’t until recently that I really thought about the origins of Bun. As Keith Morrison might say: “In all the ways we see life moving before us, do we really know where the funny family names come from? Or what they mean? What is a Bunny or a Bun? Well, the answer to those questions takes us down a deep and dark path. A path that nobody really comprehends, where nobody sees the darkness behind the next little curve on the highway ahead. A curve that appears to us like a dream. But Oh, the reality is always much worse than the merry little dream.” Or words to that effect. In simpler terms -- much simpler -- some might say “where in the Bunny hell did this one come from.” Turns out there is a much darker reason Hannibal started calling me “Bun”. OK. I will tell you. Uncle Bun in the First Degree It is 2023. I am on the phone with my recently discovered Aunt Eldna, Hannibal’s sister. I asked her if she knew she had an older half brother. Eldna Oh yeah. He was born way before all of us. Carbomb Jr. With my dad’s first wife, Mary Ellen. We didn’t know him until he turned up when we were living in Floydada. The town. Not the Spanish surrealist painter. ME In Floydada? The Spanish surrealist painter? That makes no sense. Eldna I know. The editors here make us say that. It makes no sense to me either. ME I hate them editors as if they were myself. So, seriously, you knew about your half brother? ELDNA Yes, everyone in the family knew about him. Including your mom Hannibal. We all called him Bun and my kids called him Uncle Bun. Me Wait, did you just say you called him “Bun”? Why? ELDNA You know. I have no idea why we called him “Bun”. He was always around, though, from the mid 1960s. We didn’t see him much before that. We thought he might have been in the Army because he was in ROTC in Joplin in the 1950s. Our dad never talked about him much, though. ME Did you know he was a convicted criminal, as in a r*pist? And lots of other stuff?” Eldna No. A convicted felon? Really? For what? Me Attempted r*pe. Larceny. Transporting stolen vehicles across state lines. He even broke out of jail. Which is pretty cool, I must admit. He was finally caught hiding in his grandmother’s kitchen cabinet. Eldna Oh. OK. That makes sense. His mother Mary Ellen was a no show. She disappeared sometimes in the 1950s and moved to California. Carmon Jr’s grandmother spoiled him. Our dad wanted nothing to do with him. Said he was a bad ‘en. To stay away. Take the Last Train to Trinketville Remember I told you about trinkets? How all psychopaths keep them. Trinkets are not just necklaces or key chains or hair bands psychopaths take from their victims. Trinkets can be anything that reminds the psychopath about the evil things they do. Trinkets can be people -- like illegitimate kids. Trinkets can also be names applied to actual living people. Like me! So, Freakin’ Hannibal! She named me Bun. After her r*pist brother? Or, after her r*pist half brother? Was this Hannibal’s way of always reminding herself that her half brother Carbomb Jr. and I shared a trait? That I was my Nieces’ half-Aunt? Which would make my sister(?) a half sister(?) Wait. That was not clear. Let’s try this. Carbomb Jr. -- known as “Bun” -- was my Half-Uncle. I am also known as “Bun”. Does this make me a Half-Aunt? OK. That’s still not clear enough. Try this. Does my sister(?) have a different dad than I do? Making me an Uncle Bun in Hannibal Land? Just between me and I, I’m leaning towards yes. I will tell you all why I think that in a future episode entitled “Seriously, I Do Not Know These People“ This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
August 14 · 22 min
Nosey Porker
All psychopaths do it. They are good at it. They enjoy it. This is what they look like while snooping. Image Courtesy of PFFK #7; Vintage Leather Ottoman by Abercrombie & Kent Big Ol’ Jet Airliner OK, today’s story begins with a little girl on an airplane and ends with a lesson. Air travel back in the mid-80s was more pleasant. At least when you are an adorable little girl, like in this picture. Source: Me My sister(?) is behind me just inside the chain link fence -- which I would say is pretty appropriate imagery. I think that is my Aunt Ju Ju laying down behind her. Because it is definitely not Hannibal Anne. Because I wouldn’t be smiling if it were. I am at the newly dedicated swimming pool in Hansford county. You know, the one where I appeared in an ad on local TV for fundraising. And where my mom, Hannibal, got a job so she could start using her recently issued SSN and, maybe, change her identity or, just maybe, wipe out some past one? Just sayin’. So, back to the story. It’s the mid-1980s. I’m on a commercial aircraft flying from Dallas back to Amarillo then on to Hansford County. I’m looking out the window watching the Palo Duro Canyon roll by and begin to disappear in the distance. On either side of the canyon, you will see squares of land arranged like a checkerboard, some with perfectly round green circles. Here is a picture from Google Earth. Source: Google Earth God’s Checkers I remember looking out at this scene and imagining a giant game of checkers being played by the Gods, where the loser threw a milkshake and cookies across the board in frustration. If this were a movie scene, it would go something like this. INT -- COMMERCIAL AIRPLANE -- DAY Mid-1980s. A 737 aircraft. Plush blue woven seat covers. We hear a constant wooshing sound as the aircraft is in flight. An adorable little blonde-haired girl is sitting in a window seat looking out. This is LITTLE BLONDE GIRL. She is sitting on top of a small pillow, her legs are dangling down off the seat, not touching the floor. She’s wearing red converse sneakers and white sockletts. We see her blondie wavy curls as she stares out the window -- her face just touching the window, fogging up part of it as she breathes. We reverse to see a close up of her clear blue eyes reflecting the view outside like on a tiny screen. We shift to LITTLE BLONDE GIRL’s point of view. Looking 37,000 ft below us we see land arranged in what looks like God’s checkerboard. Most of the squares are brown, some green. Interspersed, we see green perfectly round checkers formed from the center-pivot irrigation systems. Further off in the distance, we see a glaring, sandy, deep and undulating canyon system stretching as far as the eye can see from left to right as it disappears in the distance. That is Palo Duro Canyon. It looks like the loser of the game of checkers threw a milkshake and cookies over the board in frustration. LOOKING DOWN AISLE AT LITTLE GIRL EYE LEVEL We see a stewardess walking down the aisle from the front of the aircraft, as she approaches LITTLE BLONDE GIRL, she crops out on top and we can only see her legs and up to her hips as we are at eye level. STEWARDESS stops and speaks to the little girl. STEWARDESS Hey sweety. We’re almost to Amarillo. Would you like a snack or a drink before we land? LITTLE BLONDE GIRL No, thank you. I’m OK. Are my parents going to be there when we land? I think I will be able to see them from the air. STEWARDESS I am sure they will be there. Who wouldn’t be there for such a sweet little girl like you? Are you sure you don’t want a snack? We have ALL kinds! LITTLE BLONDE GIRL ALL kinds? Do you have any pretzels? I love pretzels. STEWARDESS Umm, let me look. [Fiddling through bag.] No, I don’t see any pretzels. LITTLE BLONDE GIRL Do you have any cheese curls? I love cheese curls. STEWARDESS Umm, let me look. No, I don’t see any cheese curls. We have M&Ms, Good N’ Plenty, Snickers bars. Raisins? Who would want raisins? LITTLE BLONDE GIRL No thank you, I don’t really like sweet things. Do you have any potato chips? STEWARDESS Why, yes. We have regular salted. We have ruffled. We have salt n’ vinegar. I don’t think you want those. We have Jalepeno. You definitely don’t want those. LITTLE BLONDE GIRL Ummm. Can I have some ruffled chips and a glass of water? STEWARDESS Sure can. I’ll come by and pick that up when you are done. Here let me help you fasten your seatbelt. DISSOLVE TO: INT -- SMALL COMMUTER AIRPLANE -- DAY Present day. A small commuter aircraft with one aisle. Mid-flight. On the right side of the aisle, we see a row of two small cramped seats. On the left side, we see only a single set of seats. There is not even enough headroom in the aircraft to stand fully up. Forget about overhead storage! We see the same LITTLE BLONDE GIRL -- now decades later as a grown woman. She is staring out the window at the same checkerboard pattern below and the same stunning Palo Duro Canyon. Nothing seems changed by time, she thinks. The plane jumps, rattles and clangs like a Vegas slot machine hitting the jackpot as we hit turbulence. A ding. A female voice says: VOICE The Captain has turned on the fasten seat-belt sign. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. As we are about to begin our descent, please place your seatbacks in their original upright position. When we arrive, please collect any trash or other items in the seat backs in front of you and empty them in the bin at the front of the aircraft” So much for modern air travel. If this were a Martin Scorsese movie, the scene would abruptly vibrate and shake, then do a full 360º spin around, making everyone in the audience LITERALLY airsick and lose their popcorn. In order to convey the bumpiness of the ride, and all. Serious film-makers do that. Audiences just get nauseous. And yes, I am referring to the 1991 Cape Fear movie with Robert De Niro. No, I did not like the “edgy” camera tricks. Lost my sea legs and almost lost my popcorn. So much for modern air travel . . . and Scorsese movies. Although, I will say the new Cape Fear series on Apple TV is good. I do think the Javier Badem was much better as Anton Chigur in No Country For Old Men. The single most dark and menacing character in any movie I have ever seen. Though he looked a lot taller in that movie. Second Largest Ball of Sand Fun Fact Alert #1: According to my extensive research on the Internet, Palo Duro Canyon is second largest canyon in the U.S. I couldn’t figure out what the largest one is. The main river bed is called Prairie Dog Town Fork of Red River -- talk about a mouthful. It’s almost all sand with very little water. Sometimes when it rains, you will get run-off gushing through the river bed I guess the Prairie Dogs should have picked a better spot to set up their little town. Along the river, there are probably a hundred other names of smaller creek beds, like Coyote Creek, Pleasant Creek, Bitter Creek, Potato Salad Creek, Uppa Creek, Creek by the Ocean, etc. The Canyon rides on top of a narrow ridge with green shrubs and outgrowth highlighting the old creek and river beds. Fun Fact Alert #2: Georgia “O’Queeffe” lived in the area in the 1916 - 1918 and painted a few pictures of the Canyon. Like these. I guess Palo Duro Canyon looked different back in 1918. Because this looks like the insides of a horny-toad’s mouth. Nevermind the Travelogue OK. Back to the story. And, no, this is not about air travel or scenery, as beautiful as it is, or about swimming pools. Or even Canyons. This is a story about flying in to Amarillo and setting up Hannibal’s AirPods because she allegedly wanted to listen to a music playlist that she (meaning I) was going to set up. The real purpose was to eavesdrop. Listen, Do I Want to Know Your Secrets? Answer: Yes. So say all the psychopaths. Snooping is one of their core skills. They are very good at it. They do it for a lot of reasons. They could be just gathering background information. Or looking to see what a real human does -- in order to copy it. Or they could be looking for blackmailable information. More likely, they would snoop to see if anyone is on to them. Of course, they don’t consider it snooping. They believe everything in someone else’s possession -- including information -- really belongs to them, so they are entitled to take it. Toucan-Totem People who constantly snoop might be called Nosey Parkers. In the old days, they were also called “Sticky-Beaks”, as in “hey, don’t stick your beak in my business”. If snooping psychos had a spirit totem animal, it would surely be a Toucan. Like in this picture. Image Courtesy of PFFK #7; Toucan by Sergio Bustamante Tortured Tales The following is based on real events. Certain scenes and dialogue have been tortured, traumatized, or totally made up. So, Hannibal Anne wanted AirPods, so she gets AirPods. She seemed a little more excited than usual. Like most tech things, setting them up is very simple yet also very difficult. So, she just makes others, typically me, set them up for her. The AirPods were no different. She began calling often. Hannibal Anne “Hey, I want AirPods. Can you order them and charge to Fredo’s card? How soon will they get here?” Me “Sure, I’m ordering them for you now. You should have them in a few days.” I ordered them from my account, I might add. I did not charge them to Fredo’s card. A couple of days go by. Hannibal Anne rings me while I’m working in a place where I do work. Hannibal Anne “Can you track the AirPods? Can you fly in and set up for me?” I track the AirPods while on the phone and tell Hannibal they should be arriving in the next 2 - 3 days. Hannibal Anne “Hey, when are you going to be in Amarillo next? [Your Nieces] really miss you. And, when you get here you can set up the AirPods. Apple has this new thing called Live Listen. I need that because my hearing is not so good these days.” Hannibal wanted me to set up this new iPhone app that had just introduced called Live Listen. It was billed as an app to allow the user to hear conversations in noisy areas or help people with hearing aids actually hear. It acts like a mini-directional microphone. . . . . . . It also allows you to hear a conversation near you iPhone from 30 ft away, even if you are in another room. I book into flights to Amarillo. Give Me Liberty or Give Me Waffle House Pretty certain I‘ve mentioned before Amarillo isn’t always the easiest place to fly into. If you happen to take off, from DFW on time -- which never happens -- you might experience wind gusts approaching Amarillo strong enough to make the airplane scene spin around 360º. You know, like in a Scorsese movie? Sometimes when the winds are too strong, the plane will get diverted to Lubbock. If that happened late at night, after the rental car joints shut down, you could be stuck in Lubbock overnight -- a mere 2 hours away from Amarillo with no way to get there. And that, I must say, would be a bigger tragedy than a Bee Gees song, because there are no Waffle Houses in Lubbock. On this trip, I made it to Amarillo without much bother. Hannibal Anne had the AirPods and her iPhone out on the kitchen island ready to be set up. She also had me do a two hour song list, in an exact order she had written out, to be uploaded to her iTunes account. This all took an afternoon to download, sync and set up to her satisfaction. I seriously should have put a ringer in there, like Cowboys From Hell by Pantera. So, why again did Hannibal want AirPods? Why did she want Live Listen set up? I will tell you. When Worlds Colitis Hannibal had a years’ long routine of weekly Friday Night Dinner with her only two friends -- Floyd and Black-Eyed Malice (not their real names). They have had these weekly dinners since the 1990s. They would usually pick a table close to the restrooms, and Hannibal would often talk about her colitis flair ups, or some other ailment. They roam from Macaroni Joes, to Public House, to Old Homeless Man Steak, then Abuelo’s “Mexican Food Embassy” -- it literally says that on the sign. I don’t think its really an embassy. Occasionally, they go to Toscana Italian Steakhouse or Kabuki Romanza Japanese Steakhouse. Do not go to Kabuki! Unless you want to smell like sticky-shoed cooking oil for a week. Way worse than Chuck E. Cheese. If it were up to me to pick the restaurant, I would go to Rudy’s and get some moist fat-topped juicy brisket, a side of “cold” slaw and a two ears of grilled corn-on-the-cob. Except Rudy’s is a drive through, so not technically a restaurant. They also sell apparel. And gift cards. Tonight we are at Toscana, where the motto is “Pull up a seat, grab a ass” . . . whooops . . . I mean, “grab a glass!” They also claim to merge classic cowboy cultures in order to bring the “iconic flavor of Italy & its cattle country to Amarillo”. I really don’t think any of that is a good idea. It might not even be legal. Anyway, tonight we are at Toscana. Here is a picture of the happy trio actually at Toscana’s (I think). Hannibal is on the left. The coast is, apparently, clear. No hair, no wheelchairs and no Down syndrome kids. The only time Hannibal Anne would leave one of the Friday Night Dinners early, is if she found a hair in her tea. Or if someone in a wheelchair came into the restaurant. Or if a Down syndrome kid came in. She is cruel. She and the Marm’s Marm -- appropriately named Karen -- have this wheelchair phobia in common and yet they both enjoy using handicap parking spots. OK, I know what you are thinking. If they have legitimate handicap parking permits, what is wrong with that? Nothing. Except, they don’t have handicap parking permits. What “winners” are they, you ask? Yes, you would be correct. Will You Miss Me When I’m Gone? Mid-meal Hannibal Anne announces she is going to the “lady’s” room. Apparently, they allow ALL kinds to use it. (That’s no lady, that’s my mom!) Her phone is out on the table and her AirPods have just been inserted in her ears. She begins to eavesdrop on her two friends conversation, via her iPhone on the table, as she crushes the cold hard toilet seat in the “lady’s” room. She is gone for awhile because she thoroughly enjoys violating people’s privacy. She loves it, even if she can’t gain blackmail level information. It’s really more of a sport. When she finally returns, her friends comments that she was gone for a long time and they were beginning to get worried. Hannibal Anne just said “well, you know, my colitis, I had a bad flare up.” Hannibal Anne loves talking toilet talk during meals. She loves a good colitis chat and bonus points if she gets sympathy. It also puts other diners off their Pea & Fava Bean Salad. And, no, I will not say “with a nice Chianti”. The friends were none the wiser that Hannibal Anne had heard every word of their conversation. She never let on. So, this would become a practice for years. They pity her poor colitis -- and other unmentionable stuff -- all while she is violating their privacy. Diary Straights In the late 1980s, Hannibal Anne gave me a birthday gift. It was a hard bound purple diary, with colorful jelly beans on the cover and a metal lock on the side. She instructed me that whenever something was a first time or when something major happened, I needed to write the date and detail the incident. She reminded me to keep the lock locked. So this was when I was in middle school in Hansford county. So, when we moved to Amarillo and were unpacking at the barely dry drywalled house at #6 Accosted, I asked Hannibal Anne if she had seen my diary. She said she had not and she was sure it would turn up. It did. One Saturday morning, after spending an hour getting ready to go out, I descended down the stairs to loud laughter. It was Hannibal Anne and my two siblings or half(?) siblings. You know, the ones who are all refusing to take DNA tests and acting quite defensive about it. The three of them were circled around my diary as Hannibal Anne was reading it out loud. Myron “You are such an idiot. You measured the bruise on your leg when Fredo hit you with the golf club.” Hannibal Anne “Yeah, if you had a brain you would be dangerous.” My sister(?) who regularly wets her pants when she laughs, did just that. It is sad, though. Whenever that happens, it reminds me of when my sister(?) was young, maybe 18 months old and just out of diapers. When she accidently peed her pants, Hannibal would take off her panties and pull them down over her head. That is one reason why I have not yet given my sister(?) a moniker. I do have one picked out, though, if that makes you feel any better. It does me. Anyway, for the following weeks she would laugh, pee and bring up certain journal entries. I just thought to myself “what fiends are they”? They can keep it, I figured. Maybe it will cheer them up. And maybe my sister(?) will learn to stop peeing when she laughs. The Rifleman Hannibal Anne is a bag rifler addict. If I, or anyone else, leaves their bag unattended in a car, at the #6 Accosted kitchen, a hotel room or a restaurant table, she rifles through their bag and their wallet. She especially likes if there is loose bills outside of the wallet. She takes them. She also lights up when she finds receipts that she can read. Another favorite pass time is closet rifling. She absolutely loves a good dig through of a closet and any documents in a closet or desk. To this day, I have had documents go missing from my closet in #6 Accosted. Bank statements, medical receipts, phone bills, you name it. What she does with the documents? Where does she put them? I’m open to thoughts, please share. None of her behavior is exclusive to me -- though I am “prolly” the main target. Sabotage Or, as Bugs Bunny would say, “sabotageee”. This one is really snooping combined with sabotage -- one of their other core skills. I guess that would be “snoopotage” or maybe “sabo-snooping”. It’s 2004 in Manhattan. I was working, a lot, in Rockefeller Center for the company that lives there. Hannibal Anne came for a visit, this happened more than too often. I had a backpack for work days and would leave my handbag at home. While I was at work, Hannibal Anne would go to Broadway plays, eat out and shop at Bergdorf Goodman and Ralph Lauren. When a black car would pick her up for her departure flight, she would toss any shoes she had worn during the trip, in the trash at Canal and Mercer. Every time. A few days after Hannibal Anne left NYC and returned to Amarillo, I learned she took, or stole, something from my bag. My passport, it was gone. Given that I worked constantly, my handbag had not moved, only my backpack. It could have only been Hannibal Anne. If there is a psychopath, dark tetrad, mom lottery I have truly won the lottery. Remember the NYC trips? They were frequent from 2003 to 2008. Just a few years ago, when I was organizing my own life, I found a spiral notebook. Inside I found Hannibal Anne’s handwriting. She had written down two IRA account number’s. Those two account numbers belonged to my ex and had been accumulating his earnings from being a trader. She had found the account numbers, while going through his desk at Mercer Street. I was, as a friend from Australia would say, shocked but not surprised. One More for the Road Remember I told you the story of my Grandmother’s 90th birthday party in an Episode called “Five Nights at Fredo’s“. Where we all had to get up early and drive to Spearman so we could all have Pizza Hut, for some unknown reason. And where I found out later that Myron had logged into a shared Website we used back then while sitting outside a funeral home near the local prison. Why was Myron there? To snoop. When we got back to Amarillo that night, I noticed my bag was in the wrong place, my closet door was open when I know I closed it and a dresser drawer was closed, when I typically leave them open a crack, because . . . To Catch a Snoop . . . set a trap. Here is a true story that happened in April 2021 when I was at my Grandmother’s. I thought I had seen Hannibal’s black pickup in town. So, I propped a paper clip against the bottom of the closet door where I put my bags and other things, and went out. Sure enough, when I got back, the paper clip was flat on the ground and I could see footprints from medium sized flats imprinted in the carpet floor. The footprints went from the closet, around the bed, to a set of documents and binders I had on a small chair in the corner. Did I mention that Hannibal wears flats? In this case, I don’t think it was Hannibal. I do, however, have a pretty good idea who it was. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
August 7 · 15 min
Have Gun Will Travel Part 1 For All Subscribers
If this were a Hitchcock opening, it might open like this. EXT. #6 Accosted -- Back Drive Way -- Night Time We see a white Suburban parked in the driveway, just beyond the automatic garage door. The Suburban is packed to rooftops with suitcases, boxes, house goods and other miscellaneous items. The garage door explodes open, squeaking and quaking as it rides up its rails. A light comes on as the door rises. We see a lurking figure, dressed in all black, in the garage just visible in the background. She slowing emerges from the garage and approaches the Suburban. Her chicken-fat colored hair sparkling and reflecting the nearby street light. The full moon above gives her a slight but long shadow that looks like a Punch and Judy silhouhette -- which is a word I can never spell -- with a jutting out jutting jaw. Or maybe Mrs. Frankenstein. In the background, we hear black birds cackling, screeching and tutting like cranky bagpipes. As she emerges further from the dimly lit garage, we see she is carrying an item in each hand. In her left hand she has the car remote. In her right hand she is carrying a cognac colored puffy leather pouch -- the kind used to carry pistols. The chicken-fat haired figure clicks the remote. The door locks pop up. Her hand slowly and quietly pulls the passenger side door handle as the interior light comes on. Close on the bottom of the passenger seat. We see some change that had been dropped inadvertently on the floor mat in front of the seat – three quarters, two dimes and a penny. Bending over, she cracks a smile, and we see her grey wrinkly hand slide the cognac colored puffy leather pouch under the passenger seat. She reaches over to the coins and grabs the three quarters. Wider: The chicken-fat hair colored figure retreats to the garage. Presses a button and the garage door closes. EXT. Oklahoma Highway -- Day We dissolve to the dry Oklahoma country side. The Sun is passing into the afternoon. We are looking overhead at the white Suburban as it glides down Highway 40. Just off the highway to the left we see the Cherokee Casino & Hotel Roland gleaming in the distance. Like Ayers Rock. We follow the Suburban a few miles until we see a blue and white sign that says “Welcome To Arkansas, The Nature State”, just outside of Fort Smith. Cut to front view of the Suburban as it continues down the highway. We see police lights flashing in the rear -- far away, but rapidly approaching. The Suburban pulls over to the side of the road. A police officer steps out of his car and approaches, his right hand on his holster. What happened? Was it a routine traffic stop? Was the pouch a plant and the police received a tip-off about some or other kind of contraband? Tune in to next week’s Episode to find out! Just kidding. I tell the story here. Since this isn’t a Hitchcock movie (well, not yet anyway), I will tell the story my way. Back to Reality What is this? I was looking at a zipped and padded cognac colored leather pouch -- the kind used to carry pistols. Nice pouch, I thought. Considering the compact size, it was heavy. I bounced it in my hands a few times, before unzipping it. There it was, a nickel plated Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver. A model 36 -- I would later find out, which chambers five .38 Special rounds. It was introduced in the 1950s and was originally called the Chief Special. It is a pretty smallish, but handy, revolver. I picked it up and opened the cylinder to check that it was unloaded. It was. I also found five rounds -- with “Speer .38 Special” written on the shell base surrounding the primer. Metal jacket with lead hollow points. They looked like police rounds to me. I have to say, it is a surprisingly comfortable pistol. I would totally choose this revolver if I were shopping for revolvers. The weight is balanced -- like a Wustoff knife. It is small enough to fit in a handbag. Here is a picture. Image Courtesy of PFFK#7; Bar Cart by Alvar Aalto More of a women’s gun, I’d say. So I imagine no self-respecting Police Chief would be caught alive with this model in his side holster. Do Police Chiefs have side holsters? I think they probably have shoulder holsters strapped on left arm of their white shirt, concealed under their Police Chief blazer, next to a red tie -- fastened with a tie clip, of course -- and finished off with gray pants and brown flat leather shoes. No black! At least that’s what TV would have you believe. So, anyway, the Smith & Wesson Company stopped calling it the Chief Special in 1957. Based on the serial number, it was made sometime between 1976 and 1977 -- when adorable little me was born! Here’s adorable little me after being woken up late one night. I call this one Mommy Can I Have a Drink of Water? Image Courtesy of PFFK#7 Burban and Croak It is 2016. My mom, Hannibal, had somehow convinced Fredo to “let” me borrow the white, 2011 Suburban for a cross country drive. She also very helpfully loaded it up with a bunch of home type items, many sourced from Homegoods, T.J. Max, or Tuesday Morning. Faux Chinese looking blue porcelain vases. For what? Outdoor hanging lanterns. Mexican brightly colored ponchos like Clint Eastwood might have worn in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Great movie, by the way. There are two kinds of people. Those that shop at Homegoods. And those that don’t. These things were definitely not my taste, but you know what they say, don’t look a gift horse in the as . . . oooops, I mean . . . the mouth. This was back in 2016 remember, when I thought my family and my mom, in particular, had my back and really honestly wanted to help me out. Nowadays, I wonder if she had a secret covetous plan to take over my house -- make it her trinket house -- and so was pre-furnishing it with her crapola. Or as my Niece would say, she was Junkerating. I recently came across a picture I had taken maybe in 2014. In the picture, she is sitting at the dining table staring at a picture of the house I was moving into. Back then, I thought she was evaluating the house. It took on a whole new meaning when I saw it this time. Hey Baby, You’re an OnStar There was another reason Hannibal convinced Fredo to “let” me borrow the Suburban. It is a GMC vehicle, so it comes equipped with OnStar. OnStar tracks everything you do. It tracks all calls you make or receive. Your mileage. How fast your drive. Your GPS locations. It even takes pictures of locations. And stores it ALL in a hard drive that is buried deep under the center console of the vehicle. The GMC Company does not tell you that, and good luck finding any information online about it. That is, any “official” information. There are a bunch of video tutorials out there how to access the system. It is not that complicated, but tedious because the hard drive is really hard to access. You need to remove a bunch of plastic panels and floor mats. Once you do that, however, you will find a cable connection with a USB connector. You can unplug that, plug it into a USB cable, and access whatever is on the hard drive. Oh yeah, OnStar can also be used to monitor your conversations and at least where you are. There were several times I’d be driving along and, all of a sudden, OnStar would be calling the car. It would actually ring, and you could see a phone number pop up on the center display. OnStar can also be used to lock the car doors, which it (i.e., one of Hannibal or Myron) did when I mistakenly left the keys in the car. Not to worry, that’s when I learned you can get these inflatable packs that slide into the door gap, allowing you to pry open the door just enough to get to the door locks. Thanks OnStar . . . and Hannibal. Crossing the Line So, here I am in the fully stocked Suburban making a 1,500 mile trip from Amarillo to somewhere that is not Amarillo to Junkerate my house. The trip took me a few days. The first night, we made it to Memphis and stayed at the Peabody Hotel. The lobby is fantastic, with an invigorating Old South feel. You can almost smell the sweet pipe smoke, sweat and bourbon. Also, there’s lots of ducks in the indoor fountain . . . for some reason. The rooms were ehhh. After checking in, we went out for some famous Memphis Ribs and Brisket. Ummmm, famous for what? Rudy’s in Amarillo has much better ribs. Also, better brisket by a country-fried mile. The second night I think we stopped in Indianapolis. At least I think it was Indianapolis. It apparently did not make much of an impression, other than it can be a real pain in the button-hole to get from the Interstate to down-town. If you miss your exit -- which is easy to do at night -- you just keep driving a giant circle. Anyway, after driving across numerous state lines, and unpacking the Suburban, I learned the Smith & Wesson Model 36 revolver, which chambers five rounds, was somehow planted under the passenger’s side seat. How could this happen? More importantly, why did this happen? To Wall or Not to Wall This Episode may involve crime, safety and the law -- allegedly -- and is potentially one of the more serious ones. So, I am just going to go ahead and put the paywall in. OK. A little bit more before that happens. Back to the Picture It’s 2016. I have arrived at the end of my 1,500 mile trip and begin to unpack the Suburban. “What is this?” “Oh crap!” I find the puffy leather pouch under the passenger’s side seat. Enclosed in the pouch was Hannibal’s gun. That’s right, her nickel plated .38 Special, Model 36. With five rounds. I did remember this revolver. However, the wooden handgrips on the one I remember looked different. More on that later. From the time I was learning words -- like “ho my mother” which I wrote in a birthday card for Hannibal or I should say was forced to write -- I was taught about gun safety. Over and over. From my Grandparents mostly. Hannibal always carried a gun in her vehicles, typically in the glove compartment. She also used to carry a wooden club under the driver’s seat. When I would ask why . . . I’m sure most of you already know what’s coming. Me, because of me, was the explanation. Hannibal needed to protect me in case I became the first person in the history of Hansford county to ever be kidnapped -- that’s not counting the ne’er-do-wells in the old days who needed “escorting” out past county lines, never to return. I wonder what happened to them? When I was a kid, I remember asking Fredo why my mom always had a gun in her car. Fredo “Now your mom, she can handle herself but now that we have you, she needs a gun. Y’all driving to Amarillo all of the time.” [Yeah, why was that exactly?]. “Ya know. Something could happen. You could get a flat tire or something could happen at a gas station [Allsups?]. I want your mom to be able to protect you.” The only thing that would happen at an Allsup’s is someone might get a bad case of the burritos. Me “That sounds dangerous. Maybe I shouldn’t go to Amarillo. None of my friend’s Moms have guns. I’ve asked when I ride in their cars. They look at me with a confused look. Muff does not carry one in her vehicles. Do you carry one?” Fredo “No one is going to mess with Muff. Stop telling people we carry guns in our trucks. You know, just stop asking questions.” Me “Why should I stop asking questions?” Five Gun Folly Back to 2016. I open the gun pouch and stare at the gun for a bit. What the hell? Of course, I ring up Fredo, more than annoyed. Me “Fredo! Why did you not tell me that Hannibal’s gun was in the Suburban before I set off for a trip half way across the country? Hannibal never mentioned it, and it is HER gun. This is insane.” Fredo “Well I did not know. Hannibal probably didn’t know either.” Me “Oh, RIGHT. Like you don’t where your guns are at all times. I mean, if you don’t you should. Really, get real. Really!” Fredo “Don’t worry about it. It has never been shot.” Me “Fredo! You are missing the point here. More than one.” Fredo cannot stand it if someone questions his intellect, solid-guy-ness or integrity. Fredo “What? No, I am not. Calm down. You are being dramatic. Let it go.” Me “No. You let me drive across about five different state lines with a gun. This is absolutely irresponsible. It is against the law in some of those states I bet.” Fredo “Well, like I said, it has never been fired. So don’t worry about it.” Me “Somehow I don’t think the police care if it’s been fired or not. What am I supposed to do with it?” Fredo “Let’s not worry about it for now. No one has fired it.” He kept coming back to that point numerous times. Turns out he was way wrong. It has been fired several times. I will tell you how I know that shortly. Again, this was in 2016. I can not tell you the length of their “let’s not worry about it for now list”. It has supernoved, snowballed and multiplied faster than ludicrous speed in Space Balls. So, I ultimately forgot about it and put the gun away in the safest place I could think of. Which was actually a safe. The rest of the story will have to be behind a paywall — it’s kind of scandalous. Hint: It involves burn rings, luminol, and an Aman resort in Page, UT. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
August 4 · 22 min
High School Hi-Jenks
Mryon started high school at Amarillo High, which is in Amarillo. Then, midway through his Junior year, he switched to a school in Jenks, OK -- which is in Oklahoma -- allegedly to play baseball and football. At least that was the explanation my dad, Fredo, offered up, but even back then it made zero sense. Now it makes less than zero sense. Nobody knows why Myron was sent off to Jenks, OK. A lot of people still remember it -- even though it happened more than 20 years ago -- and still bring it up. The commentary is always the same. Like “that was really odd”. Or “he must have been a good athlete [he wasn’t. Was he an ath-hole? Prolly]”. Or “Fredo’s explanations were all very vague.” Or “It happened so quick. Myron was here one day and then, all of a sudden, he was gone”. And other tales. Just the other day, a friend I used to play softball and T-Ball with back in Hansford county, mentioned it to me. Without me asking. So I decided the next Episode woukd be about Jenks, OK. Plus, we are entering football season, with two a days in full swing. By the way, my friend comes from Rodeo Royalty I mentioned in an earlier Episode -- “Hotlips Hooligans“. I hope to have an ongoing series called The Rodeo Royalties, telling some of these stories. Believe me, a lot happens in the Rodeo world that the rest of us civilians never hear about. Someone once told me that Rodeo folks are just like other people -- just more so. But First a Word from Ourselves I have now added voiceovers to all Episodes -- except Motion Picture Mama, because that’s just a short video of my adorable self when I was around 12 months old . . . and adorable. The voiceovers are a full 9 hours, 10 minutes and 30 seconds, give or take, all in my certified 100% human voice. I hope to include voiceovers in all future Episodes, and I guess we’ll just have to see how that works out, now won’t we. Also, on another side note. I have been trying out some of the old Polaroid cameras. You can get some really raw and real photos. The cameras are available on places like E-bay and new film is being made for some of them. Anyway, here’s a selfie I took. I call it My Selfie Shtick. Image courtesy of PFFK#7 A Brake in the Action Freshly cut brake lines! I previously told you the story of Myron being accused of cutting brake lines at a wedding reception in Amarillo. The wedding party included several people from Jenks, OK. Myron went to high school in 2002 - 2003 his Junior and Senior years -- to play baseball and football -- for some totally unkown reason. Most of the Jenks, OK, guests were Myron’s football teammates. At this wedding reception, Myron had gotten into a loud shouting match at the bar with one of these teammates. Apparently it was pretty heated, though. I asked someone who was in earshot what happened. She told me (a) the entire Jenks, OK, football team hated Myron and (b) they accused Myron of throwing games. I defended Myron at the time, but now I believe he probably did throw some games or at least had a hand in throwing them. I will explain why I believe that shortly. Anway, the next morning, the Jenks, OK, teammate that Myron was fighting with got to his car, started it up, pressed the brakes. Instead of being firm and responsive, they were squishy. The brake lines had been cut. By someone. Yet again, I defended Myron at the time, but now I believe he did it. Getting Jenky With It Jenks, OK, is a suburb of Tulsa, where I am told nothing good ever happens. Jenks was not part of Texas back then and is in fact 360 miles away from Amarillo. So, how did Myron end up at a High School 360 miles away in Oklahoma? In his Junior and Senior years. To play baseball and football? Here is what I know and what I think happened. There are still a bunch of missing gaps, because the only 3 or 4 people who know the real story aren’t telling it. Jenks, OK, back then had a good reputation for churning out football players who get scholarships to some of the better Oklahoma based Universities. Not the “other” ones like Oklahoma Baptist -- which is also a very fine school -- where Myron ended up attending but never graduating. Myron went 0 for 3 in the graduating from college stats, as it turns out. I think that is worthy of some kind of award. I mean, I can see not graduating from one or even two colleges. But three? That takes some dedication and has to be a World Record. In fact, some (like me) might go so far as to say Myron excels at failing. So, Jenks had a good football program. Go Trojans! The coach was Coach Allan Trimble. He was in his thirties and had a good reputation in OK. During his 22 seasons, he led the team to 13 state championships. From 1996 - 2006, Jenks, OK, won state in every year, except one. Anyone care to guess what year Jenks, OK, did not win state? Coach Trimble, who was a celebrated football coach in Oklahoma, died at the age of 56 in 2019. Nobody in Texas had really heard him, though. And, besides, if you want to have a good shot at a football scholarship, you’d pick Texas over Oklahoma. Myron started High School at Amarillo High, so did my sister(?) -- which is odd because I went to Tascosa and did pretty well there, everybody says so. Either way, both Tascosa and Amarillo High were division 1-A schools. Both had big athletic programs. Both had talented football coaches and teams. Also, big stadiums (stadia?). Tascosa’s was bigger, of course. It was called the Big Dick Bivens Stadium. And the students at Tascosa were much smarter and better looking. Also, nicer. And friendlier. I made a lot of friends there among a bunch of different groups, including the kids with Mohawks, who I met when I got put into detention for starting a fight with someone who totally deserved it. I was fascinated with the Mohawk kids and kept asking them all kinds of questions. Like how they got them to stay up (lots of hair-do gel, nowadays called “product”). Or how they kept them straight when they went to bed. And stuff like that. I knew the kid who got killed in a hit and run by some school bullies in the parking lot of a the IHOP in 1997. His name was Brian Denke, and he was a really nice kid. I felt bad for his family. The person who killed him got 10 years probation. None of his other accomplices were tried. There is a movie about it called Bomb City. I couldn’t watch it. I Thought this Story was About Trojans Not Mohawks OK, back to Jenks, OK. It’s early 2002, maybe January or February. I am living in Fort Worth and working in Dallas. My dad, Fredo, calls. I was having a salad from this really good local deli in Fort Worth called Yogi’s -- you know, like the Berra. FREDO “We are sending Myron to Jenks, OK, to finish up High School. They have a good football program.” ME “Ummm, what? You’re sending Myron to Jinks, in Oklahoma. What is that? Where is that?” FREDO “It’s a High School in Jenks, nearby Tulsa. The coach has won the state the last 6 years and a lot of their football players get scholarship to top schools.” ME “What’s wrong with Amarillo High? They have a really good program.” FREDO “The coach doesn’t like Myron [oh, what a surprise?], so Myron’s skills are not being used.” That in itself was funny. Myron was a terrible athlete. He maybe could have been a good one, but he is lazy, undisciplined and believes too much in short-cuts. And steroids. The conversation continued. ME “I think that’s a bad idea. Texas is a much better football state than Oklahoma. He’s only 17. Tulsa is kinda sketch, isn’t it? Where is he going to live?” FREDO “We’ll get him an apartment.” FREDO -- Later Phone Call “Myron and another transfer student will live together.” FREDO -- Even Later Phone Call “He’ll live with the Coach.” ME “The Coach? That’s against the rules in Texas. He’ll be disqualified.” FREDO “The rules in Oklahoma are different.” Side note: Through all my research and Nancy Drew activity, I can tell you all the rules in Oklahoma are different, and not in a good way. Texas records are quite good. You can find most things, except what gets scrubbed from the internet. Oklahoma’s are not. Back to Jenks. Sending Myron to Jenks was not bad enough, however, as they made me go to a few of Myron’s games and then to his graduation. They even made my Grandmother go to a few. It was a long freaking drive. Amarillo to Jenks is over 5 hours -- probably longer back then. Strangely enough, Fort Worth to Jenks is a bit shorter -- around 4 hours -- because of the highways. When I went to the first game, I looked around and thought I was in the warm-up bleachers not the actual stadium. I was wrong. This was a small school compared to Tascosa. How was this even division 1, I thought. Over the years, the story got more and more vague and the rational changed. Literally no one who heard about Myron going to play football in Jenks, OK, had any idea why. My Aunt Ju Ju said not too long ago that sending Myron to Jenks made no sense and that Fredo could never come up with a good explanation. It just happened, and then it was forgotten. Except by me, and everyone else who heard about it. Seriously, the number of people who heard of this story and then mentioned it to me years later continues to grow. I will be talking to someone from Amarillo or Hansford county and they will pop out with an unsolicited comment about Myron going to Jenks, OK. It’s like the whole freaked out state knows, while my family pretends it never happened. Then there are the alternative explanations. Some think Myron was shipped out of Amarillo to avoid some kind of heat. S ome think Mryon was involved in gambling, sports betting and throwing games. Some think Myron was dealing roids. My cousin is a Texas Ranger. Do not mess with Texas Rangers. They are all very serious and hard working. My cousin always has the smart answer on everything -- usually served up with well-placed quip to put one in one’s place. She once said Myron going to Jenks sounded like a classic case of getting across state lines. So what really happened? Tulsa Time Out Based on the following set of fantastic facts as recounted below, here is what I know and what I suspect. In February 2002, Myron filed a lawsuit against a driver for an accident. Because Myron was 17 at the time Fredo filed alongside as what is known as Next Friend. The case was settled in 2004 which included getting a 1099. So, there must have been some payment. I did not know much about this. Fredo mentioned it one or two times and said was Myron was hit by a drunk driver, and it screwed up his leg. So he couldn’t play football anymore. Around this time, they shipped Myron off to Jenks, OK, so he could play football and baseball. The 2002 Jenks, OK, yearbook references Myron on the baseball team -- that would have been the spring. He was standing in the back row. Don’t they put the weaker players in the back row? Fast forward to the fall of 2002, the beginning of Myron’s senior year, he is on the football team. Again, seated in the back row. Myron had no student photo in the yearbook. At the end, however, was this ad. Myron is on the very left of the picture, front row, with dyed white hair . . . for some reason. Hannibal told me the entire team bleached their hair like that. Guess not. Here is that picture. Poker Face Am I the only one who thinks it is odd that Myron never seems to end up in school yearbooks? He also has a history of disguising himself. It is almost (i.e., fully) as if someone is out to get him, so he has to hide his experience. In 2014 or so, he grew this giant Duck Dynasty type of beard. That is odd for Myron, seeing as how is so so precious. This one time, at fat camp, he even used up all my expensive imported face cream -- and bragged about it. He’s like a chick sometimes. Well, I guess that’s why “they” say he is the other female psychopath in my family. When my Grandmother died, I couldn’t go to the funeral, and it broke my heart. However, I did watch the live feed as it was happening. The camera is positioned straight down the aisle between the right and left set of pews. So, you can see everyone going in and going out. I listened in and watched the congregation filing out at the end. There’s Myron, as soon as he gets to the camera, he looks over, sees it, and puts his had up in front of his face to avoid being seen. I recorded that part. Anyway, Myron did tell me a few things about his time at Jenks. Here are a few examples. He said he had been running an online poker ring and that, one night, someone hacked his account and stole his massive winnings. He also said he was running a sports book. Those things are illegal in Texas, but apparently not in Oklahoma. He also said a couple in the apartment next to him were murdered and the killers were really after him, but went to the wrong door. I looked for a record or newspaper report of that, but couldn’t find anything. So, it is probably not true. The there was the roids. He once sent me a vial of this stuff called Clenbuterol -- also known as Clen. Body builders use it to shed extra body fat before a competition. I tried it and I was nauseous for a whole week. The Reason for the Season? There have long been rumors of betting rings on high school football, especially in Texas and Oklahoma where high school football is big. There was a case a few years ago in Canadian, TX, which is on the Texas / Oklahoma border. A football player died and was later found in a drain culvert, with no explanation for his death. The rumor was this player refused to throw games and eventually quit the team. A former team member, who transferred in -- and allegedly lived with the coach -- was quoted as saying he was brought in to throw games. So, the question is, was Myron shipped out to Jenks, OK, to throw games? Or maybe just provide some dud ‘roids.? Or cause other trouble? I don’t know. I think so. Why do I think that -- other than Myron admitting to gambling and doing ‘roids? Remember I mentioned that the Jenks Trojans won state from 1996 - 2006 in all but one year? Any guess as to what year? Say it. Say it. There is a lesson in this tree? And a low-hanging one at that. That lesson is The Handbook’s What Changed Rule, i.e., when things start going awry, ask youself “what changed?” That will usually be your answer. A Jenkster’s Paradise Just to give you an idea of the type of folks who live in Jenks, OK, check out a few pages from the 1965 yearbook which I found on Ancestry. Here we are looking at the species known as 7th graders. I actually think this is an art work in Tryptich format. So, I colored it, and made it look more like an artwork. Image source Ancestry. Remixed by PFFK#7 If there was an Oklahoma Impressionist school, this “artist” would fit right in. You know, a rural cousin to urban street art, with some zinging commentary. Even better, it is a tryptich -- presented in three panels. So, when you carefully study this art work, you will discover some hard truths. For example, I have it on good authority that Sheryl Kersten is deformed; Debra White is a witch; Kim Frankfarther is a creep; Gary Tattershall was put together by Dr. Frankenstein, apparently; and both Michell Burgess and Jayne Clifton are the devil. As for Rebecca Hunt, Julia Dooly, Roberta Burden and David Drake, why, they all have pig noses and one of them says “oink”. There is more, but I’ll leave that to you to explore further. This is so deliciously vicious. I laugh every time I look at it. I can see this 7th grader sitting in class, bored to stone by Medusa, inking up her yearbook -- and not being nice about it -- then quietly cackling to herself in her head. I’m not sure who I feel more sorry for -- the kids who got the drawing and names or the ones who didn’t. In other words, were the ones who escaped just so shy or non-descript that they never got noticed? Or did the artist feel sorry for them? I, for one, would want the ink. If everybody likes you, after all, you are probably on the wrong track. By the way, I figured out who the artist was. I did this by looking up the kid who is called “my man”. Turns out he later married the artist after high school. I think they got divorced a few years later. Gee, I wonder why? What I can’t figure out, though, is how this yearbook ended up with the Ancestry Company. Sure glad it did. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe
July 30 · 16 min
Frequently Axed Questions #3
Why indeed? Voiceover Update Before we start, I wanted to let you all know that I have added voiceovers -- in my real actual 100% human voice -- to the first 15 Episodes. All the way through K. Venomous -- It’s All About the Hannibals. A Myron Here and a Myron There . . . So, why do I call my brother(?) Myron, “Myron”? There are two reason. One longer and one shorter. I will start with the longer one. This story starts out in the early 1900s with a man named Joseph Boyer. Joseph was born in the mid 1800s on a farm in Pickering, Ontario. He later moved to the US and became and inventor and what they used to call an industrialist. He was bold, smart and wily, acquired the Burroughs Adding Machine Company, and became very wealthy. He was also very frugal. Despite his wealth, he was living in an apartment near his daughters when he died. Joseph died of pneumonia in October 1930 at the age of 82. His death was reported in both the New York Times and Time Magazine. The New York Times said J.A. Boyer Dead; A Noted Inventor; Chairman of the Board [and largest shareholder] of Burroughs Adding Machine Company Succumbs to Pneumonia. He Started as Machinist. To His Financial Ability Was Ascribed Rise of His Firm -- Devised Pneumatic Hammer Whatever that means. It sounds like a Haiku. Like this: Boyerism Started As Machinist Devised Pneumatic Hammer Pneumonia Killed Him However, I do quite like the reference to the pneumatic hammer, because I think of the Handbook as one. You know, relentlessly hammering psychopaths far and wide until they crumble. My Two Sons Joseph Boyer had five kids -- two sons and three daughters. His daughters married well and went on to live pretty good lives from what I can tell. His sons are a different story. His eldest son, Joseph Jr., was a swashbuckling man about town. He died in 1925 while competing at the Indianapolis 500. Autosports back then were life-threating. Some might have called him a hero. Nobody would call Joseph’s youngest son, Myron, a hero. Joseph had set up a trust for his children. All would share equally in the assets, except for Myron. He was given what’s known as a spendthrift trust -- basically the bare minimum required to avoid the whole thing being thrown out. There was one exception to Myron’s spendthrift trust -- if Myron had an offspring. Myron did not have an offspring when he died in 1928. His wife -- Laura -- also Canadian and seeing a big fat chunk of change she would be missing out on -- went over to Windsor, Canada, bought a baby, and insisted it was Myron’s. This led to years of litigation, where Laura claimed she was entitled to Myron’s share of the trust. She sued Joseph Boyer’s estate for $1.2 million. By the way, $1.2 million was a lot of money back then. P robably around $60 - $100 million today. Here is a picture of Laura Boyer. Not a looker, is all I can say. She has the darkness there, in her eyes. The Heir is not My Son The case went on for more than 10 years through trial courts and appeals courts. The trial court ruled in Laura Boyer’s favor, though the appeals court reversed that. It finally ended in 1939 when the Supreme Court refused to hear an appeal. Joseph Boyer was lucky in that he had a son-in-law who was a brilliant lawyer. His name was Standish Backus. Standish probably set up the whole trust structure and then argued the entire case. The appeals court opinion is a hoot. Here are some choice quotes: · “Myron L. Boyer was a person of bad habits and of but very limited intelligence.” · “According to the testimony of [Laura Boyer], he had always been addicted to drinking to excess and his habits did not change at any time while she knew him except for a period of six months when, with the exception of one interval, he remained sober.” It turns out, Myron was in Texas for that one interval. More on that later. · “[Laura Boyer] testified that she went with Myron when he attended the third grade of the night school for a short time after their marriage;” · [Myron] later began an electrical course, but gave it up very shortly. · “Myron’s father hired a tutor for him at $125 a month.” By the way, $125 a month back then was a lot of money. I would say around $6,000 today or even more. · From 1916 to 1928, Myron earned a total of $966.21 in income, which works out to about $80 bucks a year. · “Moneys for the support of Myron and his wife were paid direct to the wife, or to those who furnished Myron with merchandise, professional services, or maintenance.” The rest of the opinion is arcane arguments about trusts, secondary trusts, and constructive trusts. Myron denied the purchased infant was his. According to the opinion, Myron signed a Bill (i.e., an affidavit”) saying: “ Laura Boyer devised and acted out a pretended pregnancy with the connivance of a physician and nurse, and pretended to give birth to a child . . . . The bill states how Mrs. Boyer tricked Myron by securing a newly-born infant from the Hotel Dieu in Windsor, Ontario, and led Myron to believe that said child had been born in lawful wedlock with the said Laura Boyer.” Given Myron was a drug addled drunkard, he probably did not actually sign the affidavit himself. Someone else did, I bet. Here is Myron’s obit. By the way, the Hotel Dieu still exists. It was originally built in the late 1800s as a hospital for black people who had migrated out of the South to find better lives, and later for indigent people and unwed mothers. I Would Like to Return this Story This is not the one I ordered. OK. I know what you are thinking. What does this long -- yet wildly enticing -- story have to do with my own Myron? Why indeed? There are, as it turns out, also two answers to that question. Will the Real Myron Please Stand-up Myron -- is a person of bad habits and of but very limited intelligence. The other Myron died in 1928. My Myron doesn’t do a lick of work, has no detectable intelligence, no discernable skills -- other than working out and taking steroids, but those aren’t skills. Yet, somehow thinks he is the greatest human that ever existed. He is actually pretty good at getting my dad, Fredo, to pay for everything -- even buying him a house with my money. Myron seems to believe that ordinary people should be lining up to shovel money and free work at him. Just because being in Myron’s presence is payment enough. Most narcissists think the same way. They don’t just think it. They totally believe it. El Clon | El Payaso (The Clone | The Clown) The two Myrons are one and the same. Insane Clown Picture Like in this picture. Image Courtesy of PFFK#7 Clowns sit around all day, in their big clown shoes, doing their small clown things, and somehow think they deserve everything. Like this. Image Courtesy of PFFK#7 When Myron was young I ordered a clown for his birthday. The clown showed up. Did his act. And Myron was pissed. I think he thought I was calling him a clown. To this day, if you refer to him as a clown -- even in a joking way -- he gets angry. And then my dad, Fredo, will call me and berate me for calling Myron a clown. It’s not an insult if it’s true. In my totally First Amendment protected opinion, Myron is down on the narcissist side of the psychopath spectrum. Narcissists have extremely thin skins. Anything that threatens to break down their wall of pretend greatness usually results in anger. I reckon that, buried way down deep, they know they are failures. Oh yeah, according to an ex-girlfriend of his, he has a tattoo of a “ball-sack” (her words) on his stomach or something. I want to tell some of her stories here, if she is OK with that. They will paint a much fuller picture of what Myron is. Texas Told ‘Em Here is the other reason I am using Myron Boyer as a guide. Because of the Texas connection. There usually is one. To everything. Nowadays, Marfa, TX is an internationally celebrated art and design destination, located in Southwest TX and not far from the Mexican border. Back in the 1920s, Marfa and surrounding towns were just more dirt, and were more famous for smuggling Mexican contraband, like cattle and liquor. Joseph Boyer owned a share in a giant ranch down there which snuggled up against the Mexican border. The part-owner and rancher was a man named Owen Curtis Dowe -- known simply as “O. C.” O.C. Dowe was a lawman, a Customs officer, a rancher and . . . not surpisingly . . . an occasional smuggler. For example, he was known to keep confiscated contraband -- especially liquor. The following is taken from a history of the Circle Dug Ranch, in Candelaria TX. For Texas history buffs, it is a good read. Here is the link. Circle Dug Ranch History “Spoiled and rebellious, Myron had been kicked out of several private schools by the time he turned eighteen. His father thought it might be a good idea to send the boy to Texas in an attempt to dry him out or at least get him out of the elder Boyer’s hair. In a 1925 letter Dowe wrote, ‘I have Myron Boyer of Detroit here and have been running around with him. His father is . . . paying me big wages to tryand do something with this boy. He has been drinking very hard for several years and I am trying to get him on his feet. I get $600.00 per month and want to try to get this boy straightened out if I can.’ [$600 big ones was a lot of money back then. Probably $30,000 in today’s small ones.] “At first Dowe tried to keep Myron on the ranch and teach the young man how to be a cowboy. . . .[Ha Ha] . . . Myron hated the ranch and ran away several times. Dowe corresponded with Joseph Boyer about Myron’s progress saying at one point in 1926 he thought Myron had not taken a drink in three weeks and seemed to be doing better. [I think this was the one time Laura Boyer was referring to when Myron was ever sober.] “Then Myron ran off again and demanded his father buy him a new Lincoln automobile. Dowe wrote [Joseph] about the demand and received the following reply. ‘I note what you say about Myron’s wanting a Lincoln, which is very characteristic of him. He would want a Rolls Royce if he happened to think of it. I have done a great many things to give Myron a start. For instance, I bought him a small farm at Flint one time and he lived there only a short time when he became tired of it because there was no running water. I have frequently bought him cars. The last one, I think, cost $2,500 or more. It seems to me he sold it for about $500 after making use of it for less than a year. I want him to be in Texas for a longer time before there is anything of that kind done.’” “A month later Joseph bought Myron another new car. After he got the car, Myron threatened to run off to Mexico but instead went to Marfa where he got drunk and caroused for several days with some soldiers from the army camp. Venting his frustration Dowe again wrote Joseph Boyer asking the monthly allowance be increased so that Myron could take a hotel room in Marfa. O. C. got the following reply from Myron’s father in May 1925. ‘I realize that it is not an easy job to handle Myron, but I also know that there has always been more trouble with him whenever I increased or raised his allowance. It seems as though the more money he has, the worse off he is. . . . I think you had better turn him loose and let him shift for himself. If he comes up here and does the same kind of business that he did before I will have him confined in some institution where he will not have any liberty.’ “Joseph Boyer went on to say that he had already made arrangements with a Detroit judge to have Myron confined, ‘in an institution’ if he returned to Michigan. Myron Boyer died five years later . . . .” [End of Story] My Myron is totally like the original Myron. Always entitled to the best things, paid for by someone else. Sometimes without their knowledge. There is another quite funny part to this Texas story, though: “Dowe and eight other Texas lawmen journeyed to Michigan in May 1919. An article in the Detroit News headlined “Lounge Lizzards Pop-Eyed When Cowboys Stroll In”. . . . [For some unexplained reason], [t]he Texans had been summoned to Detroit to testify about border conditions in Henry Ford’s Libel Suite against the Chicago Tribune. O. C. Dowe and his fellows packed their pistols to Detroit andmade quite an impression on several city dwellers. The article recounted an observation by a hotel bellboy who saw the Texans. According to the bellhop ‘them gents are 100% sure enough [cow] punchers. They got guns as big as cannons strewed all over the bed and the dresser and everywhere else. And believe me, they is loaded. The guns I mean.’” If that ain’t Texan, I don’t know what is.OK, I know what you are thinking at this point of the narrative. “Is there a Fonzie in this story anywhere?” Why, yes, there is. Saved by the Fonze The other reason we call Myron, “Myron” is from this scene in Happy Days where The Fonze is making fun of some kid named Myron. He keeps pronouncing the name with a high pitch and stretching out the first syllable. “Myyy-ron.” Here’s the clip. Speaking of The Fonze. I was sitting in Bice in Palm Beach -- maybe 2018 or 2019 -- in the outdoor dining section. And there is The Fonze. Except, he’s wearing a pin-stripped shirt, like from Brooks Brothers, with the arms of a pink sweater tied around his neck, and the body hanging down behind his back as a seat cushion. Ayyyyyy! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.theunkillablehandbook.com/subscribe

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