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 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 2^nd 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.

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 31^st, 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.

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.

Where Were You When I was Getting Five

Whether any year is a good or bad one depends on your perspective.

For me, 1982 was a pretty good year. I was 5 years old -- and adorable. I loved life, and thought everybody else did.

Here’s me jumping on an inner tube, loving said life.

Sou…

Read more

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.

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 1^st 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.

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 2^nd 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“

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.

Here is my voiceover for the rest of this story.

Read more

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.

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.

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 try
and 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 and
made 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!

Responding to requests, we are now recording. This week we are beginning to publish audio recordings of each episode, starting from the begining.

Introduction to audio, have a listen.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

The Freddy Dance in Troop Beverly Hills

We all do what we can do . . .

Anything even your below average psychopath and/ or Cluster F-er can do, they will. Big or small. They particularly like sabotage, though not to frequent or not too significant so you would notice. The goal is to make your life a bit more inconvenient -- from seemingly random and unconnected acts -- or to take away just enough joy to ruin all the fun.

The remedy is to focus on the light, ignore the dark, and you will find a door out lurking in the background. Like this:

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

Or you can focus on the beautiful colorful things that make you enjoy the world, and by doing so, reach escape velocity. Like this.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

I can think of several examples where sabotage has been sent my way over the years. Here are a few examples.

Scratched Biscuits

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Someone must REALLY not like you. Like really does not like you.”

Sure, I thought. The odds of somebody out there not liking me must be pretty high. In this case, however, I could have asked, “Is that someone in the room with us now?”

Anyway, my view is, if everyone likes you, you must be doing something wrong or not doing something right.

It’s Summer 2010. It was definitely summer.

The sleek shiny black Batmobile had arrived all by itself in Amarillo from Manhattan. I had been waiting for this moment for months.

I let Hannibal know I was heading to Market Street to pick up groceries to make Bunny Pasta, which was a favorite of my Nieces. Well, my Nieces hadn’t even been born yet, so it probably wasn’t their favorite. Also, it wasn’t called Bunny Pasta back then. We just called it Pasta. How did it become “Bunny Pasta”, you ask. That will be explained (by me) in a future Episode entitled “Meet My Uncle Bun and My Other Uncle Bun”.

There are generally four classes of grocery stores one visits in Amarillo. There’s Walmart and Sam’s Club. That should really be one class I guess, seeing as how they are both owned by the Waltons of Bentonville, Arkansas. Then we have the United Supermarkets and Market Streets. Well, I guess, that should also be one class, seeing as how they are both owned by United Supermarkets, L.L.C, all rights being reserved of course.

So, I guess there are only two classes of supermarkets in Amarillo. But Rudy’s has good brisket! Although that’s a drive through, so technically not a grocery store. Plus, they only serve brisket and other meats. And coleslaw. And potato salad. Macaroni and cheese also. And biscuits.

Although, if you really like biscuits, you go to Butterlove Biscuits, where what counts as a biscuit has a wide interpretation. They are like full meals. We^[1], here at the Handbook, call it Buddy Loves Biscuits in honor of our friend Buddy from Hansford county. Buddy definitely loves him some biscuits, is always good for a good laugh, and an all around good guy.

We also love his Mom-In-Law, O.P., who is probably the sharpest 90+ year old you will meet. We used to stop by to pick up my Grandmother from coffee gang, sit for a while and listen to O.P. tell a story. Usually, the story starts out, gets more detailed and specific and, just when you think it’s a nice little story, she gets to the point. The point is always delivered with a politeness typical in rural TX small towns, so if you were not paying attention, you might just miss it.

She also had a cool old school bread mixer sitting on top of her fridge.

OK, back to Market Street.

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Make sure you park way out in the parking lot, where there are no other cars. I don’t want your car getting dinged by someone’s door. Plus, if people can see your car from the street, nobody can steal it.”

I drove along thinking it was nice to drive again. I had traveled for a few years and had not driven much.

So, following Hannibal Anne’s advice, I parked way out in the Market Street parking lot, making sure to pick a spot visible from the street, and went shopping.

I grabbed ingredients that were needed, and got some of that cheese you melt in the oven. I forget what it’s called. Cheese turds or something. I paid, walked out through the swooshing glass doors, where it was approaching 100° F. The shock from a cool 60° F inside to the hot outside curled my hair and made it stand up straight and hiss like Medusa’s. The Sun was hot enough to melt elbows.

At least that’s what it felt like.

As I was approaching the Batmobile, at first I saw what looked like a faint line, almost like a chalk line. As I got closer, I could see a deep long key mark across the hood. Like over half way, that’s how long. I couldn’t figure out how my car was already getting keyed. I did not see anyone that I knew in or around the grocery store. I would have noticed too. Being raised as a scapegoat / commodity kid, I am super vigilant. Hypervigilant, even. One might go so far as to say I was super-hypervigilistic. Expialidocious.

One day -- in a future Episode entitle “A Spoonful of Hannibals“ -- I will tell you about how, when I was young, I had an anti-kidnapper word. It was “Supercalifragilistic-expialidocious” from that movie with the guy with the worst fake Cockney accent. What’s his name? The idea was that, if someone I did not know came to pick me up, I was supposed to ask for the word. By the way, as adorable and wonderful as I was back then (and now -- I mean, I would totally kidnap me), there was no way I needed an anti-kidnapper word. In the history of my small town, I can count on zero fingers the number of kidnappings that took place.

Key Fargo

Keying cars was not a big thing in Amarillo. It is a pretty low buck type of behavior, and cheapo. Might be more common in Canyon, or Palo Duro or Rolling Hills -- especially on Ramada Trail near the end where it meets up with Cherry Ave. But not Amarillo!

I arrived back at #6 Accosted and no one was home. A bit later Hannibal came in the back door with a happier than usual face.

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Did you see your car? Someone must REALLY not like you. Like really does not like you.”

ME

“I did. It hasn’t even been a day since I have been in town. I don’t think anyone knows I am here or cares. Plus no one knows what car I drive, I just got it.”

HANNIBAL ANNE

“I bet someone saw you from Georgia Street as you were getting out of your car. They could probably see you because you parked so close to the street. When they saw it was you, they keyed your car when they knew you were inside of grocery store. Just sayin’.” Hannibal says “just sayin’‘ a lot, usually when she is giving you the Hannibal whisper and trying to get you to believe or remember something different from how it, in fact, happened.

ME

“Whatever Hannibal. It doesn’t matter to me. I won’t even notice it,” I said, totally honestly. OK, it did matter to me. I might even notice it every time I walked in front of the car to get to the driver’s seat. However, I always focused on the bright happy things right in front of me.

HANNIBAL ANNE

“That’s going to be expensive to get fixed,” she said, totally lying. The repair is inexpensive. There are touch up kits at most auto parts stores and nowadays the Amazon Machine makes them. Less than $100.

ME

“I’m not fixing it. It doesn’t matter much to me,” I said, totally honestly. I did not get it fixed and it doesn’t bother me.

For the next few days Hannibal was telling everyone that the Batmobile had been keyed. She really went on and on. Like it was too much (fun).

Did Hannibal Anne tell me to park my car so it was visible from the road, do her Secret Squirrel thing, sneak up and key it?

Looking like this.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7. Squirrel by Sergio Bustamante. Table by Gilbert Rohde.

Well, just between me and I, yes.

Secret Squirrel by Marcy Playground

Chitty Chitty Clang Clang

There was a distinct feeling that I was getting. Where was it familiar from or when? Had there been another time when something not so positive had happened and Hannibal Anne would broadcast it? Like her broadcasting had much more energy and enthusiasm -- displaying some (barely) disguised true tell -- than her usually stale mealworm self.

Then I remembered.

Fall 1994.

There was a Varsity football game in Plainview (the name makes sense because the view is pretty plain there). Hannibal Anne was one of the parents to volunteer to drive our squad to cheer in the game. The trip was an al fresco . . . oooops, I mean a fiasco. . . not even an hour in. I was in the middle seat of the suburban and I heard one of the male cheerleaders sitting behind me.

He was a really nice kid. I liked him. The others called him Peckerhead, because he looked like a woodpecker. Kidding. I don’t know why they called him that. I don’t think that was his real name, although I cannot remember what his real one was. I suppose that is the power of a moniker.

PECKERHEAD

“Pull over! Pull over! Something is loose on the tire!”

Hannibal acted like she couldn’t hear him. I finally started slapping her shoulder and told her to pull over. So the entire caravan pulled over.

Peckerhead (really, the nicest guy, no idea how he got this name) and a few other dads figured out the noise. The lug nuts were loose. I recall Hannibal Anne standing near with her fists on her hips, almost smirking, and smirking.

Hannibal Anne

“Oh I’m so glad y’all figured it out. Can you imagine if I wrecked with a bunch of cheerleaders in the car? That would have been a nightmare.”

Well, Hannibal Anne. Maybe someone doesn’t like me. I mean, like REALLY doesn’t like me. Is that someone in the car with us now, I could have asked.

Once we were all loaded back in the car, I thanked Peckerhead multiple times. Then I grilled Hannibal on how this could have happened. She said she had her tires rotated that day -- she never gets her tires rotated in case you are asking -- and the service people must have not tightened the lug nuts correctly. As Dana Carvey would say, “how convenient”. General rule, the last person to touch something is the first suspect.

Has Anybody Seen My Mascot?

We pulled up just as the game was starting. One of the principals asked why we were late. A different male cheerleader forgot his cheer kicks. He had to borrow Peckerhead’s dad’s sneakers. It was normal, to all of us, for him to be in his cheer uniform with cowboy boots. If that’s not male Texas cheerleader spirit, then I don’t know what is.

Then the principal asked where the mascot was. She went missing. Hannibal Anne stayed at the game while the other parents went searching through Plainview for the missing mascot, which was The Rebel Kid, or a cowboy looking person dressed in a red shirt. Good for her, though, because in the 1950s the mascot was a goat.

Halftime arrived and so did Peckerhead’s parents, his dad in socks, with the mascot. She had fled for the Plainview Pizza Hut as we rushed to the field because we were late. Mascot Rebels have a big appetite, as it turns out, so that was understandable.

Over the next few days Hannibal, with the same mischievous enthusiasm, was relating to everyone what had happened.

Hannibal Anne

“Can you believe that. What if I had wrecked with a car full of cheerleaders? Then what if we had lost the d@mn mascot? No good deed goes unpunished. I can tell you that for sure.” Wrecking a car full of cheerleaders was probably a histrionic dream of hers.

Anyway, while I can’t speak to the rest of the world’s customs, in the Texas panhandle, loosening someone’s lug nuts is not considered a good deed.

That was that episode. The same type of energy behind keying the car seemed to be behind loosening lug nuts. Then, in each case, over the ensuing few days repeat with an unusual amount of enthusiasm.

So, do I think Hannibal was behind loosening the lug nuts? Between me and I, yes.

You are probably starting to see how these type momsters operate. Patterns. They each have their own simplistic type of behavioral Morse code - which consists of only dashes.

Focus on the light and the beautiful things in front of you.

Please, may I have another? Yes.

Field of Creams (with Coffee)

Summer 2019.

Hannibal Anne

“Get over here. I’m an estate sale on Teckla. You need to buy this carpet and take a look around. Possibly some good pieces.”

The 18 foot carpet was by Edward Fields. Edward Fields carpets can be found in The White House and The Glass House by Philip Johnson.

Here is a picture of it.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

This was a nice large example. How large? So large, we had to rig up a mount, consisting of a child’s swing, fastened to a ceiling I-beam way up off the ground to photograph it. How high? So high that, to access the mount, we had to place a ladder on a card table, climb said ladder and pull ourselves up into the mount -- like a muscle up on rings in gymnastics, which we are proud to say we could do. Not to worry. We had a back-up. It was a rope, one end tied to the I-beam and the other to our waist, in case someone decided to start calling timber.

But there is good news! I had never seen Fredo speechless -- he always has something to say, like names of High School mascots, rankings of bodies of water or stories he dropped himself into. Not this time. When he walked in and saw us swinging in the mount, taking photos, he looked up. Looked down at his feet. Looked at the table and ladder set up. And walked out. Later he told Myron about it, though. I know this because Myron asked me who shot the carpet pics. Oh man, so glad I ain’t talking to him any more.

Back to the estate sale.

Hannibal Anne

“You can store it here in Amarillo. There is no need to have it shipped out.”

In other words, I paid for the carpet that Hannibal wanted for her future trinket house -- which would probably be on a street named Gem, or Diamond Hills or Julian. They stored it in Fredo’s barn. In actual fact, it was more Hannibal’s barn because virtually every square inch was packed with her junkola.

Late Summer, 2020 -- during the troubles. You know what I mean.

ME

“Hannibal, the Fields carpet sold. I’ll schedule for pick up”

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Oh no. There is a large spill over it. It looks like oil or something dripped on it. I think it is ruined. It probably happened from your dad’s barn”, where it was stored. In actual fact, it was more Hannibal’s barn because virtually every square inch was packed with her junkola. Repeat, I know.

ME

“I’ll ship several cleaners to you so you can try and clean it up.”

Hannibal Anne

“I have tried everything, nothing is working. I have tried for hours. I just think it is ruined.”

She proceeded to send LITERALLY tonnns of images and was encouraging me to issue a refund.

I decided to take matters into my own hands and scheduled one of those Stanely Steamer guys. Then called Fredo a half an hour before he showed up so Fredo could open up the barn.

Stanley cleaned the carpet in no time. He said it was probably coffee. No trouble at all.

I have edited down the overall conversations. It went back and forth for several weeks with Hannibal taking three or so days to reply throughout. It was her pouting and the intentional means to cause stress that I thought was noteworthy.

Carpet Chameleon

However, as luck would have it, when we went to Amarillo to surprise my parents on their 45th anniversary and buy them free food -- as a courtesy of course -- I stopped by the barn before meeting them for the free dinner. The cleaning supplies were there. They had never even been opened.

If Hannibal Anne is good at anything, she is good at being reliably terrible. And terribly reliable at being bad.

Of course she chose coffee to spill on it because she does not drink coffee, Myron does. At first, I thought Myron did it.

Speaking of Myron.

Circuit Blowers

I used to leave the Batmobile in Amarillo for months on end when I was travelling. I would let my family use it. Including, unfortunately, Myron. In about 2016 or 2017, the remotely operated door locks gummed up and wouldn’t retract or extend. These locks are pneumatically operated from a central unit in the trunk. The unit continually tries to engage the locks if they are do not retract and lock the doors. So, the battery would continually run out if I happened to be out of town more than a few weeks. I eventually removed the fuse to stop that happening.

Next, the air conditioner fuse kept blowing. That is a lager 40 amp fuse located in the engine compartment on the right (passenger) side. Eventually it melted and couldn’t even be removed at all. When I next took the Batmo in for service, the garage said it looked like something had spilled or been poured down both the door locks and the air conditioning fuse.

My guess is that it was Diet Dr. Pepper. Hannibal’s favorite drink. Or my brother(?) Myron, the other female psychopath in my family, and his sports drinks. Speaking of sports drinks. I was able to recover a used plastic bottle, which I think was Myron’s. I understand that one can obtain DNA samples from such things.

One more thing. Every year, cars in Texas needed to be inspected. The shop would then issue a report for each inspection, which lists, among other things, the mileage. I saved those and, just for fun, I compiled the mileage in an excel spreadsheet. They were using it pretty extensively for years. I once even found a used fake fingernail on the driver’s side floor.

Then one year, it just stopped. That is when I think they installed a GPS tracker.

The Epiloguer

Sabotage is right out of the Psychopath’s Playbook. Expect it. Look for it. But don’t react to it. Focus on the light and the beautiful things in front of you.

Then you can arrive in unbounded space — green tinted to reflect their jealousy — and have a glass of champagne to celebrate.

Like this:

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

^[1] Reader Note: Any references herein to “I”, “me”, “we”, “us”, etc., are to the Royal Me.

This is the story of three and one-half cakes which somehow create or come with some grudge frosting.

I have real questions whether Hannibal Anne dust-stormed into my small town and my family by just pure sad accident or (bad) luck. Or if she targeted my family by acting out of one of her many life long grudges.

I do not know for sure. Here is what I do know.

Listen with Cake Short Skirt / Long Jacket

The Great Sherman County Cake-Off of 1962

It’s April 1962. Hannibal Anne is in Stratford participating in a Sherman county 4-H baking contest, along with 56 other girls. The judge is none other than Mrs. Jackson, of Hansford county, my paternal Great Grandmother (i.e., my Grandma’s Mom). The Jackson women and men are legends of cooking, baking, pit BBQs and handling of recipes. The Jacksons are also a feisty group who don’t look to kind on folks who may have missed Church last Sunday, among other misdemeanors and/ or transgressions. The Jacksons had been in the TX panhandle since the mid to late 1800s, when parts of it were still Indian Country and most of it was dirt.

They are a tough breed, indeed! I could totally see one of these old school Jacksons, when encountering an errant non-church going citizen during a stroll down Main St., walking across the street to meet said miscreant, smacking him in the face, patting him on the back, saying “you have a good day now”, while using an Oxford comma, and moving on.

Win or Lose?

Anyway, back to the baking contest. Sadly, Hannibal’s group did not win. She did not even place. Even worse, it got reported in the newspaper so the whole world could see her humiliation -- no doubt upping her sour-puss quotient and expanding her jutting out jutting jaw a few extra inches.

I imagine she was livid. She’s always livid. I can see her hands forming into tight fists, digging fingernail furrows in her palms, her eyes wide staring sharpened daggers, her jutting jaw jutting out. Think Heath Ledger, as the Joker in the Batman movie, but uglier. You know, the scene when he is wearing the nurse outfit.

Here is Hannibal Anne in her 1962 yearbook photo. She was in the fourth grade.

Love those Devil Horns! I am now going to call her Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear.

Here’s me at about the same age. Aren’t I adorable? And I don’t have Devil Horns!

Grudge Cake #1

So, this was the original grudge cake. Her sights became dead set fixed on the Jacksons (my paternal Grandmother’s family). I can hear Hannibal doing her screaming mimi thing, sounding like a rooster on fire, “how dare her! I hope she dies in a car wreck.”

Ooops . . . I mean . . . so, this was the original grudge cake?

This lividity and furious grudge cakery really stands out to me. The diabolical degree of hypocrisy even more. Think about it. Hannibal Anne does not win a 4-H baking contest. So she carves out a lifelong grudge against the entire Jackson family? However, when Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear commits some “hyenous” act against me or anyone, it’s “move on”. It’s “after all I have done for (to) you.” Or “you’re too sensitive. Or “get a grip. Get over it”. Or “I was just joking. You take things too seriously”. Followed by “No, you owe me.” I could continue, but I think you get the point -- even if I for the longest time did not.

Like I said, I don’t have a single “shart” of evidence it happened this way. It just seems like Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear to me. She picks up grudges as easy as tadpoles grow legs. And she never forgets them, grudges that is, not legs.

Cake By the Notion -- Grudge Cake #2

Read with Jonas Brothers Cake By the Ocean

For decades Hannibal Anne would bring a chocolate sheet cake to most family birthday parties, especially for my Grandmother’s and often for Fredo’s, and other special occasions or celebrations. This cake is a one level construction -- like a sidewalk but less tasty -- set in a large rectangular cake pan and lathered up with overly sugared chocolate frosting . . . enough, some might say, to mask the flavor of maybe other stuff. Just sayin’.

Hannibal Anne would also bring the chocolate sheet cake to family reunions. Half would have nuts and the other with no nuts. Speaking of nuts. Having Hannibal as my biological mom, I was really concerned I might be a psychopath myself. I asked my therapist, Dr. Nadine, that question. She said, simply asking the question probably means you are not one. I also once asked my Grandmother if I was nuts. She replied, with a smile “yes, you are good nuts.” Which I think she is exactly right. I’m just nutty enough to use Hannibal’s own tricks against her and to offset all her “hyenous” acts.

She would also bring this flat cake to the older ladies imprisoned in the Hansford Manor Old Folks Home -- which we renamed the “Hansford Mansion”. After not too long, everyone started calling it that. That is where my Grandmother died. She should have died in her own home. When she was still alive and living in the Mansion, though, I used to arrange giant birthday parties.

One year, I sent in 200 bean burritos, 20 of which were with extra green sauce (a.k.a. salsa verde) from Taco Villa. When I called my local Taco Villa -- to arrange the order and delivery, the conversation went like this:

ME

“Hi, I would like to arrange for 200 bean burritos to be delivered to the Hansford Mansion for a birthday party. I can pay you with a credit card right now.”

TACO VILLA

[Pause] “Ummm.”

[Longer pause] “Is this a prank call?”

Come to think of it, it does sound like a prank call.

Anyway, my Grandmother’s birthday is July 19^th. So it’s a good time to write about this particular Grudge Cake.

Recently, maybe in 2020 or 2021, I was surprised to learn what the flat chocolate sheet cake really represents. One of my favorite friends sent -- who (whom?) we shall call “Whittney” sent me a recipe. We call him Whittney, because he loves Whitney Houston, but spelled with an extra “T” because he earned it. We often trade recipes and chat about kitchen ways and wares. This particular recipe was exactly for the chocolate sheet cake. The recipe was entitled The Funeral Cake.

I was surprised. Ha. Kidding. I was not surprised.

“Whittney, no! This can’t be”, I said. “Hannibal Anne has been bringing this cake to birthdays forever.”

Whittney laughed and said, “it is a Southern tradition to take this chocolate cake to funerals.”

Whittney totally gets Southern tradition, seeing as how he is from the South. From South Carolina, to be precise. From Hampton county, South Carolina, to be more precise. From the same town and county as Alex Murdaugh, to be even more precise. So, I reckon he knows funeral tradition too.

My eyes got wide and my face pulled back. Like Jim Carrey in The Mask. LITERALLY!

Like what the hell Hannibal? As I thought back, I can remember Hannibal carrying in the large pan covered in foil over and over, spanning many years. Every time she went to remove the foil and cut to serve, there it was. The smirk. She knows and, now, I know she knows.

For most people, cake is our way of telling the universe that we are refusing to let a beautiful moment pass by unnoticed. Or for just eating. Mainly eating. But the beautiful moment thing is true too. Like making chocolate cookie dough that never makes it to the actual certified cookie stage. “Somebody” always eats it. Like my Nieces. And maybe me.

Celebration cake is a physical treat of gratitude, transforming a simple calendar date into a sacred sanctuary of a celebratory moment. You can even have a favorite cake like the St Regis’s cheesecake, Del Frisco’s lemon cake or my Great Aunt Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake. Her cakes really deliver, like a truth teller.

Jo Jo’s Cake of Truth -- Grudge Cake #3

In January 2021, we did cooking classes with my Grandmother. We even made hats for the occasion.

Somehow, we focused more on desserts. Poppy cock, chocolate fudge sauce, Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake and, for our Houndball friend Scotty, cookies (all kinds of cookies).

Funny story. When we delivered the cookies to Scotty, it was almost dark, so we laid them out on his golf cart which he parked in the driveway. Scotty, not recognizing us, comes running out his front door -- “what are you doing?” Then he recognized us, and all was well.

When any of the recipes came out great, we would say it was superior quality. They never came out non-great, unless due to “operator error” of course. Like the time my Aunt Ju Ju kept missing a crucial step in the making of the Poppy-cock. She knows what I’m talking about! But, even then, that turned out great too. I will write about that in our Christmas Special, entitled “Come on Baby Light My Fur Tree“ or maybe something else. Waiting on copy writers.

My Grandmother also gave us tips like “run a paper towel, with olive oil, over your wooden serving pieces to keep them from drying out.” Or “fill a pan with water when making baked potatoes so they won’t dry out”. It’s dry up in Hansford county. Humidity of 20% would be considered sticky.

Back again at Camp Grandmama

When we went to visit my Grandmother the last few times, we would stay for a few weeks. The pattern was always the same. When we arrived, she was using a walker and appeared forgetful and a bit slower than normal. After a few days of eating properly -- like the giant Tomahawk steaks we picked up from the Sam’s in Amarillo, accompanied by the world’s largest baked potatoes -- sourced from Neighbors, the local grocery -- and palling around town, watching Family Feud with Steve Harvey (in between those Pharma ads for drugs with unpronounceable names, all with warnings that say “side effects include retching, psychotic episodes, using Oxford commas, and death”). Then we would have some swell homemade hot fudge sundaes with self-made whipped cream with a slight but detectable dose of bourbon added for flavour. The bourbon was hidden in a low cupboard, way in the back, behind a bunch of pans.

In the morning, we would enjoy a fresh cup of Fluffy Muffy. Fluffy Muffy is made by combining some random combination of oranges, carrots, celery, and whatever vegetables are abundant at Neighbors, the local grocery, in a blender for 3 -5 minutes, after which the concoction develops a nice airy fluff. Hence the name, Fluffy Muffy.

After all that, in just a couple of days my Grandmother was up and at’em. Sharp as a Taser. Not needing a walker. That is when she would tell us stories of my Grandfather and my dad, Fredo, and the other kids. Oh yeah, there was also the story about Kay Hobbs.

Kay lived across Hwy 15 to the South at the time. She was a “larger” lady. She got really excited when her bread maker arrived. Not long after that, her car broke down and it took a few folks -- my Grandfather included -- to lift her into the tow truck. Oh yeah, reportedly -- and I was not there to confirm this, mainly because I hadn’t been born yet -- but reportedly there was also gas involved. Not the kind you put in your gas tank.

I am Ready for My Cake Up, Mr. DeMille

One time I was sitting down with my Grandmother going through a recipe for Jo Jo’s angel cake and came across an ingredient called “Cream Butter”. I think this was April 2021, the second to the last time I saw her. Well, I had never heard of Cream Butter before. So I looked at myself (don’t try that at home) and said. “Hey, what is Cream Butter”?

She slunked a little bit in her chair, as if to say “uhhh, she still doesn’t get it”, turned to look at me with a look a sidewinder might give, and, using an Oxford comma, laughed. “No, not ‘Cream Butter’, it means cream the butter, you know soften it, beat it with a mixer and cream it up”.

“Oh, right, creeeam butter”, I said emphasizing and stretching out the vowel parts, mock pretending like I misunderstood the words. “Oh, I totally knew that!”. I didn’t. We both knew I didn’t. She gave me a gentle elbow, as if to say “Oh you!” I responded in kind. Then we laughed with each other.

Jo Jo was my Grandmother’s sister, so I guess my Great Aunt. Her recipes are all simple, beautifully crafted, use Oxford Commas, and get everything out of the small handful of ingredients involved. Like Hamburger Helper!

Here is the recipe for Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake.

This is a beautiful fluffy towering white layered round cake. Visually, it presents celebratory. I could never get the coconut frosting to work, so I switched it out with a butter-milk formulation, completely homemade.

This one time (at cake camp) we made this cake as a 7 layer cake with only 5 layers, which was a statement that, despite all we accomplish, we are never done. Or maybe we ran out of eggs. You decide.

So, why is this a Grudge Cake. In December 2021, my Aunt Ju Ju was there and we made this cake, along with lots of other, stuff for Christmas. A month or so later, Fredo was describing to my Aunt Ju Ju all about making the cake and how good it was. Like he was there. He wasn’t. It was gone before we left -- “somebody” ate it -- so he would have never sampled it. I took this as a bitter grudge Hannibal and Fredo had developed.

Fredo has a history of taking other people’s stories and somehow plopping himself in the middle of it. Like this. Dolphyn told Fredo one of his “little boy” stories. I was there, and heard the whole thing. It goes like this, when Dolphyn was young -- maybe 3 or 4 years old -- his Dad kept pigeons, including Carrier Pigeons, Tumblers, and these pure white Fantail pigeons. There were two fantails, and they were a mating pair.

Pigeons have a habit of landing on roads and ingesting gravel for their gizzards. One day, the fantails were on the street picking up gravel when a car hit the female and killed it. The male walked up to his mate’s body and refused to leave. He was then killed by another car. To Dolphyn, it felt like the beauty of love.

Anyway, a few months later, Fredo recounted that story to me as if it happened to him. Except he mistook the white fantail pigeons for doves.

I know what you are thinking about this story. I have the same question. Why would anyone let a four year old kid play on the street? That is a great question!

Coffee Coffee Everywhere

Another surprise, while we were in cooking class, was around coffee. I love coffee. I enjoy all kinds of different coffee -- except the kind from the super market -- from all over the world. Ranking coffee and “expresso” (as some people call it) is in my score card when traveling.

The coffee at my Grandmother’s was made with a percolator. It was excellent and this eventually evolved into my go-to coffee recipe. It looks like this.

· Turkish blend coffee from Fonte, the brand that used to be at the Wynn when Steve Wynn was at the Wynn

· Make coffee in old school percolator, which one may buy from Ebay, preferably from the 1960s or before

· Espresso Illy pod in the Illy pod machine

· Homemade whipped cream

Make coffee, add whipped cream, pour espresso on top. Enjoy. By the way, you can add sugar to the whipped cream when you make it if you want it sweeter.

We call it the ‘Spro, because while in Amarillo I stopped by the local Coffee Roasters and asked for a coffee and an espresso. The barista gave me the coffee and then said, “your ‘spro is coming right up”.

Here is a picture of me enjoying my ‘Spro.

Image Courtest of PFFK#7

Fredo has my Bosch Porscha machine at #6 Accosted. It was a gift, to me, for doing an Illy promotional event for Time Warner in NYC. So, naturally it ends up serving my parents. That’s me, the Kind Kommodity Kid.

One Half of a Grudge Cake

The following is based on a fake story. All scenes and dialogue have been made up . . . entirely.

Fredo was in a bind. It was early January 2010, and extra cold in Gruver that day. It was around 9 am. He had a meeting with the bank in Spearman, the next town over, but bank people don’t even take the first sip of their Morning Joe D until 10 am.

To bide the time, he was sitting in truck in his Mother’s driveway, hoping to warm up and stop his teeth from rattling. He had earlier grabbed one of those Pillsbury frozen triangle things from his Mom’s freezer, wrapped it in some tin foil, and placed it gently on top of the engine to heat it up. He put the little pouch of icing on the engine block to warm that up as well.

Back to Fredo and the cold, sitting in his pickup. Sure wouldn’t want to be a brass monkey, he thought to himself, not knowing exactly what that meant. His Dad used to say that whenever they were out working in the fields on the really cold days, so Fredo knew it must have been something funny.

Fredo had never seen a brass monkey and was pretty they didn’t exist. But no denying it got cold in Gruver -- hell freezing over is a regular occurrence.

As he waited there in the frigid driveway, the heat melted the icing packet and icing began dripping down the engine block. The engine began to squeal like a horny pumpjack with no date for Saturday night.

Fredo got scared. He was about to be busted. He backed up, drove out to Hwy 15 and disappeared down the road, never getting to enjoy those Pillsbury’s.

Fredo had driven up from Amarillo that morning to see his “good friend”, Mach Schnell, who was the loan officer at First State Bank – which everyone calls FSB. That in itself is funny because there are probably 50 banks in Texas named First State Bank of Somewhere. Do they all call themselves “FSB”, Fredo wondered, laughing to himself. He could imagine a regional banking convention where everyone’s introduced themselves as “Hi, I’m Mike from FSB”. He laughed a little louder. Fredo always laughed at his own jokes. Not one else did.

Well, it is not as confusing, Fredo thought, about the old bank in Amarillo called Boatmen’s Bank. There aren’t any boats in Amarillo.

Why was Fredo in a bind? I will discuss that story in a future episode entitled “Equity is Equity, How to Steal from Your Own Daughter for Fun and Profit“. And this story is a true one.

It involves an investment, straight up fraud, gaslighting, and an Oxford comma.

Here is a teaser.

Read more

Listen to my Voiceover.

EXT -- EARLY MORNING -- RURAL SMALL TOWN TEXAS

Hwy 15 and Main St. form a T-junction. Main St. runs North to South and Hwy 15 runs East to West.

We are at that T-junction looking down Main St., due South. The street extends like a ribbon in front of us that never seems to end. We see small shops lining Main St. along the way. At distance, we see a water tower off to the right side and, on the left, a figment of a pine tree further down.

It’s around 8am, and already hot. There is a slight breeze. The Sun is watching closely, like a rambunctious kid creating heat waves, then watching them dance love-starved Charlestons as they rise up to meet the day.

A few vehicles -- e.g., mid-1980s pickup trucks, the occasional sedan, a cattle truck or two, and one very bright Cherry Red Cadillac driven by Barb -- are in town, dotted along in the diagonal parking spots on either side of the street or turning on to Broadway St a few blocks away or passing by, hither and/ or thither, front of us.

Looking left, just across the street, we see a gas station with red Allsup’s trim on top and a blue yellow and white overhang covering the gas pumps, which are themselves offset from the brick walls and glass doors of the gas station.

To our right, a few hundred yards away, we can just make out a [white/ tan] pickup truck slowly but deliberately approaching Main St. The Sun is blaring and reflecting off the windshield, obscuring our view. As it passes, we can almost make out a small blonde or gray haired figure behind the wheel, looking like one of the town’s older ladies going about her business -- or trying to figure out someone else’s.

The [white/ tan] pickup crosses in front of us, pulls into the Allsup’s parking lot and stops. The driver’s side door opens. An adorable little girl climbs out, slides off the vinyl upholstery and lands with a delicate tap. Duly armed with a handful of cash, she walks -- some might say saunters -- into Allsup’s.

A few minutes later, she comes back out, her arms and hands full of all kinds of candy bars and assorted snacks. Plus a Twinkie for herself.

She walks back to the [white/ tan] pick-up, opens the driver’s side door, waves to Barb in the Bright Cherry Red Cadillac who just happens to be driving by.

ADORABLE LITTLE GIRL

“Hi Barb!” (screaming, in a humorous fun way, like she used to at the airplanes passing way up above: “hello up there!”)

Barb waves back.

Adorable Little Girl climbs back up, sits behind the wheel and, after a couple of attempts, closes the door.

She fires up the engine and drives back the way she came.

Oh yeah, she ate the Twinkie in the truck, knowing her dad would have swiped it if she hadn’t.

Yes, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, Adorable Little Girl was me (a.k.a. “I”).

Here I am at around that age. Aren’t I adorable -- as the fully accurate moniker above suggests, a moniker that, I should point out, someone has thoughtfully capitalized (you’re welcome)?

I Hope I Drive Before I Get Old

I was driving before I was legally able to drive. I was driving even before I was able to drive.

Now I love to drive. The longer the trip the better.

I remember riding with my Grandfather, watching him maneuver and manipulate his own pickup or tractor or other vehicle, memorizing what he was doing, and thinking “I can totally do that”.

Anyway, here is the opening scene above as I remember it.

It was a typical early morning in late May. Clear blue skies, the sun was coming up and I was sitting in an empty cattle pen. We were branding cattle and discovered one of the cows had some sort of infection. Between her noises and the smell, I became noxious. I felt like I was going to pass out . . . wait, I think I mean I became “nauseous”. I already am noxious. To some people.

Fredo Says, Love My Good N’ Plenty

“Hey, make a hand. Grab my keys and go to Allsup’s. Here is $10. Get everyone candy or snacks.”

Whoa, $10 whole bucks!, I thought.

ME

“OK. What kind?”

FREDO

“Get a mix.”

ME

“What kind of mix?”

FREDO

“I don’t know. Just a mix. You can figure it out. If they have any Twinkies, get me one of those.”

I was game. As mentioned above, after watching my Grandfather, I was fully able to drive.

Plus, I thought the air conditioning would be nice and refreshing, like a cool drink of fresh air. I was, after all, trying to get sick cow smell straight outta my nose.

Plus, I knew not to argue.

Plus, I probably argued a lot.

I had never driven at that point. Well, let me “refreeze” that. I had never “officially” driven, like on an actual paved road, with actual other cars, driven by other actual drivers, going all different actual directions. I did, however, practice on the many dirt, gravel and/ or caliche roads, which are all over everywhere up in the Texas panhandle.

FREDO

“What are you waiting for. Get a move on it!”

I climbed into the driver’s seat and, with appropriate flair, slid the keys into the key-hole, twisted them clockwise, and fired up the truck. I played back watching every person I had been in a vehicle with, to drive or press the brakes. Mostly to drive.

My Grandfather showed me how to turn the wheel and how to brake. Funny, I don’t remember him telling me how to engage the accelerator. Must have been an oversight. I also remember begging him to let me drive. He said, “when your leg is long enough to push down this brake pedal” (pointing at brake pedal), “I will let you drive”.

He died before my leg was long enough.

Never a Phone Book Around When You Need One

I could barely see the road and use the pedals at the same time. At least I was away from the infection smell, though, so there’s that.

I drove to the Allsup’s, turned into the parking lot. Stopped and got out.

Inside Allsup’s, in the candy aisle, I thought back to which candy I had seen everyone who was at the branding eat before. Snickers, Butterfinger, Nerds, Good N’ Plenty, etc. There were a few other customers milling through saying good morning. I checked out and hopped back in the truck. I got a Twinkie -- for myself, that is.

What struck me is that not one person blinked twice at a little, yet adorable, girl driving in and out of the busy Allsup’s corner parking lot. Except, oh look, there’s Barb in her Bright Cherry Red Cadillac. I waived and yelled “Hi Barb” at her. She waived back.

West bound Highway 15 a few miles down and back, I went. Surprisingly, and without any serious or reportable incident (other than eating a Twinkie), I returned to the pens and handed Fredo an armful of assorted candy and snacks.

FREDO

“Stusid, you got chocolate. It’s going to melt.” (Yes, according to Fredo it’s stusid, not stupid.)

Knowing not to argue, I replied:

ME

“You did not say ‘no chocolate’. You told me to get whatever. And chocolate counts as whatever. Besides, most candy contains chocolate, unless it’s like gummy bears. And I don’t see you guys sitting around eating gummy bears.”

“Or you could just eat it now and it won’t melt.”

FREDO

“Get back to the pens.”

In my red ropers, I hopped back up on the pens with the sorting stick[1] and did my duties until we were done branding. As we headed home, reeking of the branding smell. Pungently reeking, to be precise.

FREDO

“Don’t tell your mom that you drove today.”

ME

“No problem.”

I just stared out of the open window thinking of how long the list was, the list of things I was not supposed to tell the other. The list between the two of them was long, and I, of course, was in the middle.

A Note About Branding

Cattle branding is not like you might see in the movies about and/ or involving cattle branding. It is an organized assembly line type operation, involving several folks, starting off one early spring morning and, depending on how many head need branding, can take all day. After which, there is usually a food buffet and beers for all (except me).

Oh yeah, did I mention it’s really pungent. Burnt cow hair and flesh is not what it’s cracked up to be.

Sign, Sign, Neverywhere a Sign

Listen with Signs Five Man Electrical Band

There were next to no signs in or around the town I grew up in. The local bank had a digital sign. You know, with the temperature and individuals’ names that had birthdays. I always enjoyed their sign. It was both factual and celebratory. The temp was often a few degrees off, but close enough. It could have just said “hot” or “hotter than heck” and that would have been close enough.

The lack of signs growing up could be the reason I pay way too much attention to signs now a days. I have a few favorites. Even Hannibal has a favorite sign. It is not rated PG (shocker) so I might just have to put it behind the pay wall, so all the super wise, good looking and smart paying subscribers can see it. We love paying subscribers!

From the Better Rethink that Dept.

Here is a recent favorite sign that had my jaw laughing.

[I had to laugh. It made me think of a pretend news blurb: “in related news, despite a new public safety Billboard campaign, pedestrian accidents in Amarillo have increased sharply in recent months.”

The craziest signs I have ever seen were in Amsterdam. Wow, they hold nothing back there. The one’s in Hong Kong and China might be crazy too, but I can’t read Chinese characters-- either traditional or simplified. I’ll mention here I spent a few years traveling. Traveling was it’s own form of therapy. The first trip to Amsterdam is when I took Hannibal on a two week trip down the Rhine River (yes, I know the Rhine River does not go near Amsterdam -- it was a layover stop).

Her highlight of the cruise was when she threatened the owner of the ship, well somewhat. Hannibal got in the ear of the owner’s top crew member and said “you have my permission to throw him from the train.”

I had to remind her that we were on a river cruise, not a train.]

The Exit Not Taken

Back to the signs. There are some signs I do not follow, like this one. Or the previous one.

The searchers all say, don’t go down this way. I’m sure you can understand why.

Wilder’s

It’s late January, 2021 in the middle of The Troubles -- you know what I am talking about.

We’re in the Batmobile driving 1,300 miles from Amarillo to someplace that was not Amarillo. We left in the late afternoon, drove though the angry and vast highways of Oklahoma and arrived in Missouri at around 9:30 pm. Time to get off the highway and rest for the evening. We see signs for Joplin exits, the next three. Or maybe four. We take the second one. At this point, we are totally and hopelessly lost. This is supposed to be Joplin, MO. It just looks like fields. And did I mention it’s dark?

Oh wait, there’s an airport to the right. I have been to Joplin before; didn’t know of an airport.

We turn left and keep driving. Still no town.

Eventually, after maybe 10 minutes of being lost, we arrive right smack dab middle of Joplin, MO. On what looks like Main St.

We drive a few minutes and see a Neon sign beckoning us from far away. “Wilder’s” the sign says. Like a beacon in the dead night. A lighthouse for the forsaken, perhaps. A savior in an otherwise bleak world? You decide.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

Oh yeah, here it is in triplicate, thus the name three billboards, though technically speaking they may not be billboards. Close enough for me.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

We pull past the beautiful Neon sign, turn right, and right again into the parking lot. It is 15 whole minutes before 10pm. Are they open? We see someone peek out a window from the restaurant. They are open! OK. Maybe we get to eat tonight.

We approach the door and a super nice lady lets us in.

We are in Wilder’s. We are almost the only people there.

We sit down at a booth table. A fantastic waitress appears. We have steaks and a bottle of Billecart- Salmon for only $60 real American bucks. Chocolate mousse cake for dessert, with just enough whip cream to hint at wild goings on in the back room.

Anyway, Wilder’s is a great steak house, with nice owners.

Dinner is now over. Now what, we ask. Where to stay?

Well, we are in luck. Our lovely waitress tells us that, Just 10 miles down yonder to the South, across the OK borderline personality disorder is the Indian Casino.

So there we go. Turns out, it was open, plenty of rooms, and the bars don’t close until 3am. Drinks just $2 bucks each. No one else there. This was one of those instances where it seemed like time itself stopped, and nothing whatsoever was ever happening. I have experienced a few times like that, and I love them all.

This image is really a rendition of a Neon sign we made from a little model the restaurant people give out or sell in their gift shop.

Hannibal’s Favorite Sign

Before 2020, Hannibal Anne, my sister(?) and I would meet in Dallas a few times a year. For some reason they liked me then. I love me then and now!

Then being from 1999 to 2020. They don’t now, for some reason. We would stay at The Mansion On Turtle Creek, shop at Northpark and Highland Park Village. Dine at Pappasitos, Bread Winners, Zodiac Room and Capital Grille. Easy. Fun.

For another some reason, on these trips, my sister(?) and I would both get food poisoning. It’s worth noting I have only ever gotten food poisoning when around Hannibal. Made it through numerous third world countries and have been just fine. So, when we would get food poisoning, you can no doubt imagine how compassionately and loving Hannibal Anne is. Such kind words include the following:

HANNIBAL ANNE

“D@mn it! You food psychos! Be quiet! I’m trying to sleep!”

We would eventually emerge from food psycho poisoning, my sister(?) looking like hell, me looking great. Sometimes, my mascara would be smeared and my sister(?) would laugh and say I looked like Vince Neal. I probably did.

Here’s another fun fact. When we would check out of The Mansion or any hotel ever, Hannibal Anne would empty the trash in our room. She would put the small trash bag in her tote bag and dispose of the trash when we were in a different parking lot. I have no idea why. Open to ideas here, so please feel free to share.

OK. Hannibal’s favorite sign. In the early 2000s we were Central Express Way in Dallas. Hannibal Anne was in the back seat and she was mumbling something.

Here it comes, her favorite sign.

Hannibal Anne is muttering, almost under her breath, but still audible.

“Connnnnn” . . .

Read more

Here is my totally listen-to-able Voiceover.

Good morning, peoples. It’s Book Report day again.

Here we give our report on books, articles and other publications -- that we totally read -- and that are interesting, really make you think, and are both informative and informational!

A Short Story with a Long Title

Today we will be covering differences between male and female psychopaths by reviewing a dissertation entitled Psychopathy and Gender of Serial Killers: A Comparison Using the PCL-R by Chasity S. Norris, dated August 2011. I will attach it at the end of this Episode. The PCL-R itself is excerpted in the dissertation.

PCL-R for the uninitiated is not an obscure test to get into an obscure grad program or generic Ozempic. It stands for “Psychopathy Check List - Revised”, developed by Dr. Robert Hare in some year. 1991 maybe?

Like the author, I think PCL-R is missing a few things when it comes to female psychopaths, so using this tool might under-report them.

Just Disserts

I know that covering a dissertation might sound like watching cheese grow, but it really is quite good in several parts. I read the entire thing -- except the references at the end -- as I get bored very quickly.

A quick and slightly exaggerated (are there two “g”s in exaggerate?) synopsis: female psychopaths exist. Like really. They are a million times worse than males. And they are better at getting away with it.

I came across this dissertation a few years ago when I was doing some heavy research into psychopaths, narcissists, cluster-F’ers, dark tetris people, borderline persons, and all the rest of them. I also sent it to my therapist and suggested she read it. A few months later she sent it to me and suggested I read it[1].

I think most of the above terms overlap with each other significantly and are just different ways of saying the same thing. And sometimes the terms aren’t too descriptive. For example, the term “narcissist”? It gives them way too much credit and makes it sound like they spend all day looking at themselves in the mirror -- which they just might. Also, what is a Dark Tetrad exactly, or Borderline Personality Disorder? Is there an Over the Border Personality Disorder?

That is why, here at the Handbook, we change the names around a little bit to make them more memorable and, we hope, funnier.

While we are on terminology, we prefer “psychopath” to “sociopath”. They are apparently interchangeable. However, to me, each one is somehow both too narrow and too broad. Plus, “sociopath” doesn’t sound like anything, or maybe it sounds like the path I would take to get to my sociology class in college. Oh man, was that ever a waste of time! OK. I’m not demeaning sociologist. I’m just saying I learned a lot more in geometry than I did in sociology. And I didn’t even take geometry. OK. Not entirely true. I did take geometry.

Half of One and Six Dozen of Another

I get asked a lot what is the difference between a psychopath and a narcissist. I’ve looked around for a clear distinction in the clinical stuff myself, and haven’t really found one that hits me.

My view is they are different flavors of the same thing and are spectrumy. Or that psychopaths are pure concentrated distilled evil, while narcissists are watered down diluted evil or maybe they are just failures at being evil. If you told a narcissist that they were just failures at being evil, I am sure they would take it well and not try to kill you. Don’t try this at home, I should add at this point.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Bad is still bad. Abuse is still abusive. No matter what you call it.

So, what is my (non) answer to this question?

· A psychopath thinks everything that goes wrong is their fault, and are proud of it;

· A narcissist thinks that everything that goes wrong is your fault, and therefore are entitled to punish you for it.

The Blessing!

So, when I came across this dissertation, Psychopathy and Gender, what grabbed me was the acknowledgement section. She thanks her daughter, her father, her grandfather, her best friends, her committee members, et. al. Hmmm. Something is missing here. What could it be? What is totally conspicuous by its total absence?

Her mother. She did not thank, or even mention, her mother. I presume she had one.

So, this made me think she had a bad mom, and then I really wanted to read her observations.

Is There Anybody Out There?

This was back in 2020 and 2021. There seemed to be nothing, not even a non-profit (there are almost 2 million of those registered in the USA alone, no idea what any of them do), to help support adult children going through psychopathic or narcissistic abuse and recovery. I mean, with all the Lifetime movies out there featuring psychopath characters, you’d think there would be something!

We Dissect the Dissert

This dissertation -- let’s give it a name “Psychopathy and Gender” -- is structured in three main parts (the table of contents lists 4 chapters, but chapter 3 and 4 are related). Part 1 - Introduction - lays out test subjects from history, three males and four females, like Ted Bundy and Aileen Wuornos. Part 2 -- Literature -- explore the cases in some detail.

Part 3 then lays out the hypothesis -- that “despite the numerous similarities between the type of crime committed, level of violence displayed during commission of the crime, and evidence of sadistic Paraphilia involvement “ . . . i.e., sick perverted sexual fetish stuff) . . . “the females will receive lower overall scores using the PCL-R. The rest then lays out the evaluations of the male and female test subjects using PCL-R.

Interestingly, of all the serial killers seem to fit the psychopathy profile, “only Ted Bundy scored high enough to be diagnosed as such”. I did not know that.

The author notes that, when evaluating subjects using PCL-R, three items are omitted, most importantly number 11 -- sexual promiscuity. Sexual promiscuity is common among female psychopaths, so excluding it may tend to make female subjects score lower than they otherwise would.

Or female psychos are just better at getting away with it. That’s my view.

The author concludes by suggesting the checklist might need some “improvement” when evaluating females. We concur.

Doesn’t that sound fun?

Well, that isn’t the reason Psychopathy and Gender resonated with us.

A Fist Full of Hollers

When I began reading the dissertation, several passages “literally” screamed out at me. Or, I think that was me screaming at myself in joy that I am not alone.

I couldn’t be the only one, the lone escapegoat in the world. That’s when the afore-mentioned research began.

By this point, the realization that my mom, Hannibal Anne, had waged war on me -- probably my whole life -- had fallen on me, like a bucket of water tossed out a second story bathroom, and had since been fully absorbed. I began to remember all the sadistic, nasty and malicious things she had done. Like making me go to dance class all the way up in Guymon OK and dressing me in things like bear suits. Then attempting to sabatage the bear outfit right before I went on stage for the recital. Thankfully my aunt fixed the yellow straps or the costume would have dropped during the performance.

Here’s me as a little bear. The back of the picture says I was 5 years old. Aren’t I an adorable little bear? Even thought it looks like I am wearing oven gloves.

So, now that I began to remember, what to do?

Anyone Seen my Bookclub?

There was not one book titled something like Bad Moms or Ella Jeffe / Ella Diablo or The Mommy is in the Details or What To Do When Your Parents Are Stealing From You, Abusing You, Don’t Want To Be Found Out, and Therefore Might Try to Kill You, an Illustrated Children’s book.

Then there is also them snooping into people’s wills and trying to understand, yet misinterpreting, what “per stirpes”, “lawful”, and “bloodline” mean. I will get to that in a future Episode entitled “Where There’s A Will There’s a Pay“.

So, as I was working my way through Psychopathy and Gender, I found myself relating to large chunks of her writing. I agreed with many of her observations. In some parts, I could also see Hannibal Anne and / or my own darn self in there.

I definitely share in her view point that female psychopaths are under studied. On this point, she says,

“[t]he majority of documented serial killers throughout history have been men. This has led to the false assumption that there are no female serial killers.”

My view is that -- nature being nature -- there are equal numbers of male vs. female psychopaths out there; it’s just that the females are better at hiding. I also believe they are worse than the males.

Sacks and Violins

Next quote:

Females will more often use a more “hands off” approach to killing, often using poison or suffocation to kill without direct or violent contact (Cleckley, 1976; Hare, 1993; Hickey, 1991). These muted and indirect methods allowed female murderesses to go undetected for a vast period of time. These differences are key to understanding the perpetuation of the myth that female serial killers do not exist.

The poison reference also hit me. I have a bunch of theories on Hannibal Anne and poisons, which I will roll out slowly over time. I don’t have any proof. Not yet, anyway.

Here are a few more examples:

Take a Drink from my Special Cup

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

“Most psychopaths react oppositely to inebriation than do most typical drinkers. Where most people who partake in alcohol find themselves more boisterous, joyful, and excitable . . ., psychopaths often become quiet and sullen. . . . What does often emerge is shocking and unexplainable behaviors in the psychopaths. With just a few drinks, they indulge in vastly antisocial behaviors.”

Hannibal Anne is very careful. She tries not to drink around other people. When she does, that is when her true self comes out. Same thing with anesthetics. When she was recovering from her “fake knees” operation back in 2018, and coming back into consciousness, a deep, gravelly, throaty type voice started to come out through her jutting jawed pie hole. She was talking about girls from high school she wanted revenge on, and stuff like that.

My oldest Niece thought it was funny. I found it creepy, but also real.

Lesson: psychopaths never forget a grudge, not even when they die.

Things Are Really Florida Universitied

It is nearly an accepted standard that the psychopath’s sex life shows some type of peculiarities. . . . They do not seem to be encumbered by the normal complex emotional experiences that encompass most loving adult sexual relations (Cleckley, 1976) . . . . The typical promiscuity that is observed for both male and female psychopaths is most likely due to their immense lack of restraint and not to an abnormally excitable libido. Because they relish in high risk behaviors, they will often seek to have sex with high risk persons and in very squalid surroundings (Cleckley, 1976).

The reference to “Cleckley” is to Mask of Sanity, first published in 1941, by Hervey M. Cleckley. He is considered by many to be the grandfather or godfather, not sure, of the study of psychopathy. I read that book also. He provides flowery case studies of psychopaths he has come across over his many years of practice. Virtually all of them had we he described as some kind of sexual perversion or deviancy.

I will try, in a future Episode, to stoke up the courage to tell you about a dream I had when I was very young -- involving sexual deviancy and Hannibal. I didn’t know those concepts back then, of course. Well, at least I think it was a dream.

How to Beat a Lie Detector Test in One Easy Lesson

In a 1970 study by Hare,

“[i]t was established that in psychopaths, a small skin conductance reaction in anticipation of negative stimuli followed by a hefty increase in heart rate. The opposite was observed in nonpsychopathic patients. The nonpsychopaths had a large galvanic skin response followed by a decrease in heart rate (Hare, 1970).

Heart rate and skin galvanic response are two key parts of a polygraph test. Just sayin’

That’s all the quotes for now.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Flounder

So, like I have my own Devil Mommy, and what to do with her? For now, it’s to stay away.

Since the February 2021 Hannibal voicemail -- wherein Hannibal Anne instructs me in her devil baby voice to not “come to our house in Amarillo . . . [country music pause] . . . Period” -- I have only spoken to Hannibal once. That phone call was in October of 2024.

In August that year, she started texting me asking if I wanted to meet up in Dallas or Santa Fe. Seeing as how I like not actually being killed when I travel, I didn’t reply.

So, anyway, my dad, Fredo called me one day and put Hannibal on the phone. Thanks Fredo!

The call went something like this (after her fumbling for a few minutes to sync with Bluetooth in brand her new evidence-free Hannibal truck)

HANNIBAL

“How are you?”

ME

“I guess I am fine. What’s going on?”

HANNIBAL

“I am ready to move on. Let’s forget everything that has happened.”

ME

“Do you realize how painful the last few years have been?”

HANNIBAL

“See, I knew it. You are still so full of rage. I don’t really remember what all happened, it’s all just a fog. I miss you.”

[Leaving open the question how one can forget everything that happened that they don’t remember -- ed.]

ME

“What do you miss?”

HANNIBAL

“You are beautiful, kind and caring” (true that!) “Why don’t you think about it? We can start talking again. I’ll think about it and you think about it.” (I wasn’t going to think about it. She can just go think herself)

The call ended and my nervous system was reacting. I wasn’t going to sign up again to be abused emotionally and financially. My life was much more peaceful without Hannibal Anne.

However, for good measure, not too long after that I did send them some Limburger cheese. They did not get the joke.

The “rage” thing is also funny. A few years earlier, I think in 2020, she texted me something about me and some rage issues she was projecting me of. So I texted her this video of Rodney Dangerfield in Back to School. I never got a reply.

Lesson: An effective way to deal with psychopaths is to ridicule and laugh at (not with) them -- the more people joining in, the better

A Devil with Some Quicksand

So I wondered how the author, C.S. Norris would score Ted Bundy (you may remember that Hannibal had me reading about him when I was 13 . . . for some reason) compared to Aileen Wuornos (good movie Monster with Charlize Theron).

Ms. Norris writes

“Social predators who charm, manipulate, and ruthlessly plow their way through life, leaving a broad trail of broken hearts, shattered expectations, and empty wallets. Completely lacking in conscience and in feeling for others, they selfishly take what they want and do as they please, violating social norms and expectations without the slightest sense of guilt or regret (Hare, 1993, xi).”

This is Hannibal Anne spot on, dead to rights, a bullseye, a fair cop if ever there was one. I continued reading.

“Primary psychopaths suffer from what McCord and McCord (1982) termed ‘lovelessness and guiltlessness’. These patients are the true predators of society. Primary psychopaths present low anxiety, little stress response, and no fear. . . . (Yep)

Primary psychopaths also appear to be devoid of any genuine emotions, although they are very adept at mimicking them (Cleckley, 1976; Hare, 1993). This group is considered to be the “core” or “true” psychopath. This term is applicable to those whose psychopathy is innate and unchanging throughout the lifespan (Hare, 1993). (Core Yep)

Again, dead on. You know what they say, beauty is skin deep, but ugly goes to the core.

She is emotionally detached in my view. I have only seen Hannibal cry twice. Both times involved one of her gravy trains being messed with and derailed. The only emotion I have seen her display is anger. And that really isn’t an emotion. It’s more of a response.

Nevermind the Furthermore

In last part of her dissertation, Ms. Norris runs through the PCL-R checklist used to evaluate psychopathy, although 3 of the 20 factors are excluding for evaluation.

I won’t go through all the points, as I get bored very easily.

Here are just a few relevant examples.

3. Need for stimulation and Proneness to boredom

Hannibal Anne is constantly running over orange roadworks cones. It’s one of her favorite past-times. She also enjoys charging her evidence-free Hannibal truck into the large orange roadworks barrels. She used to do this and yell out “to Wanda” (from Fried Green Tomatoes, which don’t sound too appetizing if you ask me).

4. Pathological Lying

November 2020 I was at #6 Accosted, I was in the garage and I saw it. A large treat box that I had shipped to #6 Accosted for my Nieces birthdays several months earlier. Hannibal Anne had been texting how much my Nieces had loved everything and their reactions to the different treats. Obviously, a complete lie. The box was sitting there unopened. I walked it into the living room. I said “hey Hannibal, this box hasn’t even been opened.” She just shrugged her shoulders and said “sorry.”

5. Conning and Manipulative

See the Episode entitled Hotlips Hooligans, in which we see a classic con job starring Hannibal Anne.

https://www.theunkillablehandbook.com/publish/posts/detail/185897620?referrer=%2Fpublish%2Fposts%2Fpublished

6. Lack of remorse or guilt

Recall the first Episode She Threw Me Out of a Moving Car When I Was 5. Now I’m Driving. Give it a read or listen. She had no guilt or remorse for trying to off me.

https://www.theunkillablehandbook.com/publish/posts/detail/185321750?referrer=%2Fpublish%2Fposts%2Fpublished

8. Callous and lack of empathy

Hannibal was at one of Myron’s basketball games. There was a team playing from Oklahoma City. The OKC bombing had just happened in April of 1995. I looked across the gym and Hannibal was smiling with her eyes locked in on a lady I had never seen before. A few minutes later I see Hannibal seated next to the lady. I couldn’t imagine what Hannibal Anne’s interest was because she looked so excited. Next I see Hannibal put her on hand on the lady’s leg. Hannibal said something and the lady recoiled and turned her face away from Hannibal. I was confused as I watched Hannibal walk away still smiling. It was like she had breathed something in. I made my way to Hannibal and asked her who she had been speaking to. Hannibal went on to explain the lady was from OKC and Hannibal had said to her “I’m so sorry about the bombing in your city.” I bet she said something else.

This was nuts. How had Hannibal sensed the grief from across a busy basketball court gym. It was like she was magnetized to the grief and wanted to breathe it in. I just shook my head thinking why re-victimize someone while they are focused on their kid’s game. Complete lack of empathy and completely sadistic.

Hannibal loves sadism and the breathing in of other people’s misery.

11. Promiscuous sexual behavior
I believe this to have been the case. Just can’t prove it. Not yet, anyway.

14. Impulsivity

For less than a week, in the early 2000s, Hannibal Anne worked at Bank of America. To wrap up her first work week she said to her manager “I am going to lunch and I’m not coming back.” I believe she took this job for some other purpose. Maybe to get access to someone’s financial records.

18. Juvenile delinquency

OG delinquent.

Full dissertation by Ms. Norris, click here

[1] I also began looking into therapists for myself around the same time. The one I settled on is great. She’s suffered through some very famous Martin Scorsese level abuse herself, and so understands what it is like. She is also portrayed in a major motion picture. She’s also a Duchess or something.

Listen to my Voiceover!

We love kittens.

We even love those human sized cat dolls they used to sell at Bergdorfs in NYC.

We love all kinds of animals. We even love some monsters, especially the cute cuddly googly eyed ones like these.

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

Not Hannibal Anne, however. In fact, she doesn’t like most animals, e.g., dogs, cats -- especially tygers, gophers, horses, cattle, deer, ferrets or beavers. She did almost buy a hat made from long-haired beaver at an auction one day. So she might like long-haired beavers. She might also like poison dart frogs, since she got my brother(?), Myron, some when we first moved to Amarillo . . . for some reason.

They come in all kinds of colors. Myron’s were red like this one.

Seriously, why? True to their name, said frogs secrete a poisonous substance which can stop your heart, if, for example, you are struck by an indigenously fired blowdart. Or if the frog skin is dried, powdered and laced in someone’s cigarettes. For example. But only if the frogs come from the wild. Apparently there is something in their natural diet that creates the poison.

However, aside from long-haired beavers and poison dart frogs, she doesn’t like any animals. And animals don’t seem to like her much either.

The Bird is the Word

She doesn’t like birds either.

Who does not like birds?

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

The Fighting Swallows of Amarillo

She knocks down swallow nests. Who does that?

It was spring at #6 Accosted. Hannibal Anne noted the swallows were back and had rebuilt a nest from the last year. The nest was in the north west corner of the front porch, and I could see 3 or 4 little heads peeking out.

They were Barn Swallows. The ones with the chestnut colored breasts, forked tail and bluish colored top feathers. When I was a kid, I used to love watching them fly in pairs, swerving, darting, gliding like airborne figure skaters.

Being Hannibal Anne, of course, she knocked down the nest some months later. I’m not sure if the little newborns were still in the nest yet. I was dumbfounded. Hannibal Anne “they make a mess on the porch.” I thought about how many messes Hannibal had caused and so far, no one has knocked her house down or over. If the swallow’s mess is really bothering Hannibal, all she had to do was turn on the nearby hose for all of 6 seconds and clean the 3’ x 3’ concrete door threshold.

Anyway, the swallows rebuilt the nest.

Swallows symbolize good fortune, hope and renewal. They mate for life and also represent loyalty, lasting love and safe return home. Hannibal Anne also knocked down the swallow’s nest in my Grandmother’s north east facing portion of her porch. Given Muff’s strong connection with nature, her swallows built another nest right above the garage door where she sat during warm days. That was too high and too visible for Hannibal to knock down.

Oh yeah, knocking down swallows nests is a violation of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. Not sure what the “statute” of limitations is on that one, though I reckon she’s still doing it.

Builda-Bird

Why do birds suddenly appear,

Everytime your are near?

The following spring, they arrived at #6 Accosted. What we call “the black plague”. In the north west corner tree of #6 Accosted, a heavy, dense and loud swarm of black birds took up residence. They made a constant ghastly sound, like a cheese grater running across the bare skin of an agitated banshee or maybe a flock of highly strung Yokos. Especially at night. One night, after a game of dominoes, I went for a walk. A neighbor passed by on his iPhone and mid-conversation he noted “yeah, those birds. That’s the only tree in the subdivision those black birds stay in.” He had a bewildered look on his face and then went back to his phone call. I could tell it was a conversation that the neighborhood had all had amongst each other.

We tried filling nylons with moth-balls and tossing them in the tree to scare off the birds. They just laughed at us. Besides, moth-balls evaporate in a few days. This issue lasted a few years. I heard my dad, Fredo, cut some of the trees down. Or, I should say, he hired someone to cut the trees down. He’s not really capable of any real hard work requiring engineering. But he is great at trivia!

What are Little Black Birds Made Of?

Black birds symbolize transformation, mystery and spiritual awakening. So says the books. I think they symbolize something more evil and sinister.

Speaking of spiritual, we have yet to verify if Hannibal Anne has ever been baptized. I was baptized in April 1982, at church, on a Sunday, after the main services. I remember it fondly. My Grandparents were there.

Black birds also symbolize intuition, the unseen, voice and expression. So says said books. I think they symbolize something more evil and sinister. Yes, I repeated this on purpose.

Here is a biggie -- they represent trials sent to build faith and durability. As it turns out, at this exact time, I was about to stumble on the most massive amount of character building ever. As one ordained minister said to me “someone is after your soul.” My inside voice said “they aren’t getting it. My soul belongs to the folks upstairs.” They sure tried, led by Hannibal Anne, the ultimate yellow self. You know, yellow is supposed to represent the color of narcissists. Just sayin’.

What is it about Hannibal Anne not liking animals? Take for example birds, they are like flying gems. So beautiful and symbolic. We are humans and here to support nature. Take a look at this goldfinch, who visits our cherry blossom tree every year. What’s not to love?

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

Gopher Madness

One year Hannibal Anne’s backyard became the home to a family of plains pocket gophers. They are so cute! She was livid. She’s always livid. She immediately wanted them killed.

From U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, Photo By/Credit Sam Kieschnick

Pocket gophers symbolize hidden truth, and digging out such hidden truth. Eek! Is it about to be curtains for Hannibal Anne?

The gophers had built their gopher town along a wooden fence line below what was now a bunch of dirt. In previous years, there used to be a huge plant trumpet shaped flowers. The bright white blooms sprawled across the top of the fence line. I think it was a Jimsonweed, otherwise known as Datura stramonium, Devils Trumpet, Thornapple, etc. Jimsonweed is a highly psychoactive plant, i.e., makes you hallucinate and sometimes go into another world that doesn’t exist. It’s properties have been known since ancient times.

Here is a story about that. Summer of 1993, when the tulip flowers were in full bloom, two of my friends were over at #6 Accosted. Hannibal Anne made us some iced tea. Given how hot it was, we drank it up. Later another friend picked us up in his uncovered dark blue jeep. We drove around town for awhile listening to country music, singing along. I know every lyric of all Johnny Cash’s songs. Ring of Fire was a song we all sang along to. My 10 pm curfew was approaching, so we headed back to #6 Accosted. As the jeep slowed one of my friends started speaking in tongues. Then she stood with both hands on the row bar and started banging her head against the bar. Her blonde hair was flying back and forth through the night’s air. I was trying to figure out what to do. Along with me, our friend started yelling her first name over and over. Suddenly she stopped and turned her face to us. She had a blank and at the same time, a wild look in her eye. She jumped out of the jeep and started running toward the nearby golf course.

The jeep driver ran after her. My mind was racing. I was not quite sure what was happening. So I ran into the house, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I grabbed my Bible, it’s the same Bible I carry in my bag today, and is a gift from my Aunts. Our friend driving the jeep had by then returned with her. For some reason we thought cold water would snap her out of it. We started my shower and placed her in the streaming cold water. It wasn’t working. A minute or so later, I hear Hannibal Anne yelling my name from the bottom of the stairs. All of the sudden, our friend snapped back to herself.

The following morning our friend’s mom called. Both my friend and her mom are lovely, smart and bubbly people. I really adore them. The mom was on the phone with Hannibal Anne and wanted to hear about the prior night and why her daughter came home in wet clothes. My friend had no recollection of what happened. I mean, zero. Not even a hint of a flashback. Her mom also explained that it was the anniversary of when my friend’s cousins had passed away in a car accident.

That was it, I don’t think any of us ever brought up that night again, until now. Did the tea have just enough “something” in it?

The trumpet plant is gone these days. Fredo was instructed to “tear it down.” I think there might be some “evidence” buried down there. So the gophers had to goph.

By the way, the most expensive painting by Georgia O’Keeffe is entitled Jimson Weed. Alice Walton bought it for $44.4 million in 2014. That is kind of appropriate. The number “4” in Chinese culture is considered a bad omen, because the word for “4” sounds like the word for “death”. If you are ever in an elevator in Hong Kong or China, check out the floor numbers. Chances are any floor with a “4” (e.g., 14, 24, 34) has probably been removed. The floor is still there, just with a different number. The number “8” is considered lucky since the word for “8” sounds like the word for “wealthy” or “fortune”.

Back to nature, when I was young I could never have a pet.

Don’t worry, I am currently over compensating. I am now delivering baskets full of kittens.

Everybody loves kittens!

In the last Episode I posted a picture of Larry Mahan with my Grandfather and my Great Aunt Willie sitting on a sofa.

Well, Aunt Willie had a son. Folks called him “The Mover From Gruver”, “Mr. Dallas”, or just Billy Bob Harris, his legal birth certificate name. I recall my first lobbying job for the then mayor Gruver, J.C. Harris, who was Billy Bob’s Dad. Billy Bob was an only child, though he was such a handful it must have felt like they had a dozen kids.

I am related to Billy Bob through my Grandfather’s mom -- just known as Gramma -- who was a Harris.

Bill Bob DeVoe

My early childhood was not always about being thrown out of cars, witnessing grown up girl fights, or being generally sabotaged. There were fun times.

Like the time my Aunt Ju Ju took me to the Michael Jackson concert in 1984. Billy Bob got us tickets. That was the same trip we got lost going to visit South Fork. I’ll tell you what, it’s a lot smaller than it looks on TV. That is a story for another day.

The coolest, funnest and most exciting stories from my early childhood usually revolved around my “dear friend” Billy Bob. That was his actual birth certificate name, i.e., not a William Robert but a Billy Bob.

Sometime in the 1990s, I started calling him Bill Bob DeVoe for fun.

Listen with Bell Biv Devoe Poison

Billy Bob died on March 9, 2025. This is my tribute to Billy Bob.

Café Specific

The summer before mommy threw me out of a moving car, landing me on my slender butt cheeks, I was in Dallas, in a richly wood paneled room, with black and white checked marble floors. There were a handful of various sized dining tables and chairs in the middle and booths along wood paneled walls. We were at a booth of course.

I quickly noticed I was the only kid, which was fine. Somehow most of my best friends were adults.

Here I am with Billy Bob, his girlfriend Julie and the mystery man at Café Specific in Dallas’s Highland Park Village. Aren’t I adorable?

Author’s archive

I have no idea who the man with the signet ring is. Up until Billy Bob’s death, we spoke regularly. I asked him who this could be and his reply was Craig Morton’s friend. Craig had been quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, NY Giants and Denver Broncos. I think his last season was 1982, so one year after this photo. Anyway, Craig could not confirm who this Mystery Man was.

I enhanced the picture and color corrected it, though. I am 90% sure Mystery Man is wearing a Harvard ring.

Here is a close up.

Author’s archive

So, that’s a clue.

Craig Morton died May 9, 2026, just last month.

The Gruver Express

Billy Bob would fly me from Gruver to Dallas on a private plane, the kind with two pilots. The runway at the Gruver airport is almost 5000 ft of asphalt, long enough for a 727 to land and takeoff.

I was only 4 at the time, so I thought this was normal. From an early age I flew alone either private or on Southwest. I don’t know who was paying for it.

Back to Café Specific, I was told I could have as many Shirley Temples as I wanted. The adults ordered drinks that also had people’s names assigned to them, e.g., Jack Daniels, Thomas Collins, Jim Beam, Mr. Bean, etc. My entrée was shrimp cocktail and strawberries with cream and brown sugar.

People were constantly dropping by his pool. He seemed to know everybody. If they weren’t visiting with Billy Bob in person, they were talking to him on the phone.

Author’s archive

This summer was great. I spent most afternoons with Billy Bob at his pool. We even had matching swimsuits.

Here I am under the glass from his desk. Aren’t I adorable? The top photo is me with Billy Bob’s girlfriend at the time. I think her name was Julie. She was always nice to me.

Author’s archive via Billy Bob

The photo below me is of Mike and Debra Montgomery. Mike also played for the Cowboys, and Billy Bob set them up, or so he said. I think that meant he “set them up” like on a date, and not the other way.

Every time someone showed up, famous or not (not that I would know, I was just a kid), I was asked, i.e., told to do a back flip off the side of the pool. When Billy Bob started a new phone call, I would say hello to the person on the other end. Those calls were anyone from Kenny Rogers to Joe Namath. Billy Bob put the phone in my hand and would say “say hello Kenny, have a great day.” He treated everyone with the same enthusiasm.

Billy Bob had most walls in his house covered with framed photos. He would often say everything I need is right here on these walls. Sometimes I wonder if he meant something other than “hey, I had a great life”. You know, like was there stuff written on the back of the photos?

Mornings I could sleep in, swim all day and then Café Specific in the evenings. He would let me go through his closet. His clothes were glamorous and his hunting outfits were couture. It was different than being out in the fields for harvest back in Gruverly.

A few summers later he got me tickets to Michael Jackson’s Victory concert in Dallas. Eddie Van Halen made an appearance. I didn’t know who that was. The concert was one of the highest-grossing concerts in music history. Michael did not Moonwalk and I was a little annoyed. I asked Billy Bob if he could call Michael and have him moonwalk next time.

What’s Up Doc

Here is another photo. I don’t remember anything about this. There are large gaps in my memory from this time and this place -- Dallas.

I’m sitting on a table, next to a kid in what looks like a rabbit outfit. I don’t know what I am wearing. I think I am looking back at the person taking the picture -- probably Hannibal Anne but I don’t remember. I look tired and it looks like I am thinking why didn’t you help me.

Author’s archive

Suddenly Next Summer

Listen with The Motels Suddenly Last Summer

A few summers later -- 1985 -- I didn’t go down to Dallas to spend time with my “dear friend” Billy Bob. I recall asking Hannibal and Fredo where Billy Bob was and why I couldn’t call him.

Fredo replied “because he is in Club Fed.” I didn’t know where that was.

Rip It Good

Here is a photo with Billy Bob and Craig Morton with my Aunt Ju Ju and my Aunt Mrs. Gomer as teenagers. They are about 1.5 miles West of Gruver.
For paying subscriberers that is.

Author’s archives (photo of a photo)

Hannibal had swiped it long ago. I found the ripped photo in the attic at #6 Accosted in 2019. I messaged it to my aunt and she said “I have been looking for this photo forever.”

P.S. Café Specific is still there, right across from Miron Crosby, where I (used to) get my boots.

Here is one pair.

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

P.P.S In the prior installment, I posted this photo of Larry Mahan, Willie and my Grandfather. Larry Mahan was a “dear friend” of Billy Bob (who had a habit of calling everyone he knew his “dear friend”). That is how this picture came to be. Larry Mahan died in May 2023. Billy Bob gave the eulogy, and he was excellent as always.

Author’s archive

P.P.P.S. Here is Billy Bob’s funeral services. It was beautifully organzied by Vicki Wise. You will probably recognize the incredible vocal artists throughout.

It was only a matter of time . . .

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

The Recapper

Part 1, entitled “Hey, Don’t Beat Yourself Up -- Let Me Do It”, started out like this:

I get asked a lot how I finally figured out that my mom, Hannibal Anne, was a psychopath and my dad, Fredo, was a totally brainwashed weakling . . . . in my opinion, that is[1].

I then described how I arranged a free all expense paid romantic 45th anniversary dinner for my parents, when I was out of town -- or so they thought -- and surprised them by showing up. Their response, it didn’t thrill us. They ate the food and tried to kill us . . . with their eyes anyway.

If you haven’t read Part 1, I recommend it. It’s a hoot. It’s also required reading for our story today, on account of it being Part 1 of a 2 part story.

So, now that we are comfortably nestled in Part 2, I will tell you the rest of the story.

Ultimately, at the end of the night, when all the pieces fell into place, I saw the signs and then added them up. When I did, it opened up my eyes. I saw the signs.

Listen with Ace of Base The Sign

The Boomergang Returns

It is January 13, 2021, and is my third and final unannounced surprise visit to Amarillo.

I had made two prior unannounced visits to Amarillo in October and November, 2020. At this point, I knew things with my family were way off. I was determined to find out how, and more importantly, why. So I made these unannounced visits to see things for my own darn self and figure it out one way or t’other. The best way to study a situation is to not let the situation know it is being studied in the first place. In other words, if your target is unaware you are about to descend upon them, they have no time to prepare and you can observe them in their natural environment. You know, like on those BBC nature shows, with that English guy, what’s his name, David Attaboy? Or like the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle -- which I first heard about in High School chemistry or physics, can’t remember. And, no, that is not a reference to Breaking Bad; well, maybe indirectly by proxy.

So, it is January 13, 2021. Oh wait, let’s step back a bit. I had previously arrived in Dallas on January 7, 2021, and stayed at the Mansion on Turtle Creek. Love that place. It’s a Rosewood property now, though it was bought out by a Dallas based property fund a few years ago. Anyway, this was when the hotel let me drive their brand new promotional super flashy comfy yet powerful Lexus vehicle that the Lexus Company lent them. It was also the same trip when the Sex Toy Company sales people were at dinner one evening. What a conversation that was. All as more fully and accurately described in the Episode entitled [?] I forgot. Oh, here it is.

Mr. and Mrs. Bojangles

Back to January 13th. I arrived in Amarillo. Dropped by #6 Accosted to surprise my parents. Only my dad, Fredo, was there. Scared the literal bojangles out of him. By coincidence, I came face to face with him in the narrow doorway entrance which goes from the garage, through the laundry room for some reason, and into the breakfast room for some reason. He was walking in as I was walking out. He had no idea I was there. He saw me. I could see his mind saying “wait, who is this?”. When he finally registered it was me (I), the front of his face “literally” tried to retreat into the back of his head, his nose went flat, and he made a little squeak. At least that’s how I remember it. He was scared. Again, why? That was a sign.

Really, though, why? I am not a fearsome person -- not then anyway. Now I wouldn’t want to mess with me.

Huggy Bear Arrives

After that I drove over to my sister’s(?) neighborhood. She and her husband, Dr. Belkie, live in one of those subdivisions built around a golf course. Their house backed onto a long green with the golf-cart path. There are two ways to get to her house, the direct way and the back way. I took the back way which curves around past several greens, goes over a pond with a bridge (where I went fishing with my Nieces one day and then fished out golf balls for Dr. Belkie, for which I dutifully got in trouble for. . . for some reason), and eventually turns into her street. As I was approaching the final curve, I saw my sister(?) walking on the golf cart path and carrying her dog -- Winnie. She looked depressed. I stopped the car, got out and approached her. I got to listen to her tell my all the ways I am at fault for everything. That’s OK. I’m used to that. Then she concluding with, “You are trouble.” My response, “OK. Maybe. Give me three specific examples of how I am trouble, and I will work on them.” No examples were forthcoming. More vague answers. Another sign.

Seriously, I reckon her dog -- Winnie -- likes me more than they do. It’s mutual.

Then, I said “can I have a hug?”. We hugged. That should have been the end of it. I asked if I could see her newly built house. She declined. Later in the day, back at #6 Accosted, Fredo already knew about the hug and said, accusingly, “who asked for the hug?” I said I did. Somehow, for some reason, asking for a hug is now a bad thing. Personally, I think sisters should be allowed to hug just because they want to. Anyway, that was another sign.

Oh yeah, I found out later that Myron’s wife -- I guess that would be my sinister-in-law -- had been camped out at my sister’s(?) house for months. Prolly why she was depressed. Anyway, that’s why she wouldn’t let me inside her newly built house. I am really not that scary, though everyone seemed to be hiding from me.

I decided it was time to get the cluck out of Amarillo.

Here I am at Camp Grandmama

So, I loaded up the Batmobile and moved to Gruverly.

Listen with Camp Grenada

I spent two weeks in January 2021 in Gruver with my Grandmother. It is the longest time I had ever stayed with her and it was a blast. One afternoon we were driving around. She was in the backseat, with a tiara, waiving like the Queen. People waved back. I told you that story before. I just like repeating it.

We really had a ball!

One afternoon, though, I had to come out with it. We were in her kitchen and I was sitting on the floor in Larry Mahan boots -- the only kind of boots if you are a Texan, though Miron Crosby in Dallas makes some nice boots (I stopped buying them, though, once I saw their promotion with the Kard-asses). There is a scene in No Country for Old Men, where the injured Llewelyn Moss (played superbly by Josh Brolin) walks into a clothing store, I think in El Paso, and asks for clothes and a pair of boots, Larry Mahans size 11. Great movie.

Here is Larry Mahan with two of my heroes, Willie and my Grandfather.

Image Courtesy of Author’s Archive

Anyway, my Mahans have a sterling silver “J” hammered into each heal. My Grandfather’s cattle brand was the Lazy J, so these boots are sentimental to me. I started crying and told her a bit of what had been happening. The blocking, the alienating, the name calling, the lying, the viciousness. I told her she didn’t have to respond; it wasn’t about choosing a side.

The biggest problems in my life -- no matter how big -- a trip to my Grandmother’s would help me straighten things out. Most of those problems I didn’t verbalize. I didn’t have to. She would know. Or just being there soothed my soul enough so I could at least see the light at the end of the rainbow. Solutions would come to me just by being with her and in their home. My Grandparent’s love and guidance is bigger than any problem I have ever had. Her eyes did not leave me once while I relayed what was playing out. She held silent for a moment and then slowly clasped her hands together. I then looked up at her eyes, they were narrowed. She said “well it definitely sounds like your mom is doing something under the table. I know you will get it worked out. I have faith in you.” My Grandmother never really talked about peoples foibleations, and I wasn’t sure if she knew what kind of monster my Hannibal Anne really was. After this conversation, I knew that she did.

I stayed in the North facing suite -- where the cattle in the neighboring field start squealing reliably at sun-up. This bedroom is also attached to the bathroom Myron had defecated and smeared all over the walls when he was 2 or 3. Talk about a red sign. Hannibal Anne had to clean it up. She was livid.

She’s always livid. She will try to make you live her crazy livid life. Like that Ricky Martin song “Livid La Vida Loca“.

Listen with Ricky Martin Livid La Vida Loca

The Great and Powerful Wise Ladies of Gruver

Meanwhile throughout my time in Gruver, we would drop my Grandmother at the morning coffee gang -- 10am sharp every weekday, except Wednesday, when the Open Door, (the Methodist Church thrift store) was open. On a return trip in April, I found out my Uncle Ricky told the coffee gang that my Grandmother could no longer go. Why? Was he afraid of what the gang might say? Don’t know. I do know this, however -- that is one more thing I will never forgive him for.

I love each of the women in the coffee gang. They are all wonderful! In most small rural towns in Texas, you will find the wise older ladies of the coffee gang are the real seat of power.

The ladies were all asking “what is going on with your mom?” or “how is your mom’s health?” Most of my replies were “I don’t know. I have offered to take my parents to Mayo at least a dozen times and they refuse.” The most universal reply was either “your mom doesn’t look well” or “that’s something else.” What else, I was beginning to discover. Anyway, pretending to be ill is a classic psychopath technique. Hannibal Anne has claimed to be sick so many times -- when nothing then happened -- I stopped paying attention.

On Sundays, we would go to church and wear hats from my grandmother’s collection. It was like adult dress up.

Girls With Hats

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

We would always see the town fixture Scotty. Scotty (and his now deceased twin brother Guy Paul) were born with developmental issues. In many places, they might have been sent away to an institution. Not in Gruver. People look after each other there, especially the less fortunate. The people of Gruver -- especially the ladies -- took them in, looked after them and made them a part of everyday life.

So, it was great seeing Scotty. We delivered cookies to his golf cart a few times. It still cracks me up that Scotty usually greets me with my first and last name.

On that trip, we also had chef hats for her cooking classes and ended each evening with Family Feud. That show can get a little racy. It’s where I learned the term “hamflower.” I think that’s in the Urban Dictionary. You can, but probably don’t have to, look it up.

The Wayback to Amarillo

The end of January I headed to Amarillo to have my car serviced. It’s a shiny black Mercedes with the sports package, in case you’re wondering. You know, back in the days when your car wasn’t tracking you, ratting you out and calling you stupid. One of the nicest highway driving cars ever, by the way. This is the same exact car described in the Episode entitled “The Road Not Taken“ in which we learn about the rear passenger side wheel having been sabotaged by “someone”, sending us into the soft hands of a giant snow bank on Christmas Eve 2022.

Once in Amarillo, I dropped off my car at the service shop, hopped into an Uber and went to #6 Accosted. Had a nice chat with the Uber driver -- ex military. I said I was going to see my mom, and said for no reason “that one will claw ya”. Then I called her “Cranky Bear.”

No one was home when I arrived. I sat at the kitchen bar, like I have over and over since 1991.

Cranky Bear Returns

Then she appeared; Hannibal came through the back door. Since my car was not in the drive way, she must have thought the coast was clear, I was not there, and she would have safe passage. Not today, sadly.

She let out a loud UGH and there it was again, the jutting out jutting jaw. Aggressively she said, “what are YOU doing here?” as her head tilted to the side. I just replied “Uhhh, I live here, plus I’m waiting for the Batmo to get serviced.” I was looking at her as she flung her discount dry cleaning bag onto the table. She was wearing snowboots (there wasn’t snow outside). They did, however, look like they could easily be hosed off. You know, in the event any evidence needed to be removed -- not that I am saying that happened mind you. She also had a puffer top on with a fake fur like collar. She looked like Pam Hupp’s twin, from that Dateline series about the women who kills her “friend” for insurance money and fingers her friend’s husband.

Then Hannibal said “you better stop going over to your sisters, she will get a “restaining” order on you.” I would have laughed but her appearance was so confusing. So I asked “for what?” You need a reason, and driving onto someone’s driveway one time won’t cut it. My sister had me blocked, for some reason, for over six months, at this point. She and Hannibal like doing the silent treatment thing, thinking it’s effective. Maybe it used to be. Not now. Another sign.

Check out My Check List While My DJ Revolves It

This is when Hannibal threw her arms out and started making circular motions, with her eyes bulging out. I thought to myself, be careful there, don’t want to pop an “Enyaism”. As the arms and hands were making fast circles she said “because of ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL of THIS!” She was waving her arms like a hepped up DJ or a gaggle of birds jostling each other at the feeder. Like this:

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

I thought there isn’t much on the counter here and asked “all of what?” She said “just you being here”.

So I decided to engage. “OK, specifically what would you like me to do?”

“Stop going by Myron’s”. “OK, check, stop going to Myron’s. What else” I said.

“Stop going by your sister’s.” “Check,” I responded, “Don’t go to my sister’s(?). Got it. What else?”

Stop coming by here.” “Check, stop coming here.”

Hannibal Anne, in her Pam Hupp Halloween outfit, had stopped waiving her arms by this point. She still had the jutting jaw jutting out and said “I am really sick of dealing with all of this.”

My reply “Well, you should just go thank yourself.” She didn’t get it. “What should I thank myself for?” she asked -- like genuinely.

“For everything you do” I responded.

With that, she turned around and huffed out of the back door. It was a bit embarrassing.

You might remember the voicemail which I received a few weeks later. Here it is for a repeat:

Another sign.

Bah, I Deride Your Chicken Getting Abilities

Later that same day, I am walking down the steps and I hear “You don’t get no chicken” being argued back and forth with the Alexa listening device machine. Even with varying accents. Hilarious! Hannibal Anne had relayed a story a year or so earlier that ended with the line “you don’t get no chicken”. So the chicken thing was making fun of Hannibal Anne. It was also some kinda spiritually guided geniuosity in my non-humble opinion.

But wait, there’s more! Here’s the best part, a few hours later Fredo began repeating the origin of the phrase “you don’t get no chicken”. Reader’s Note: This Episode originally had the rest of that story, but the Studio told us we were running long and had to cut it out. Not to worry. It will be in The Director’s Cut -- Bonus Features. Look out for it. You will not be disappointed.

So this was another sign. A big one. This one confirmed my suspicion they had been listening to me live through the Alexa listening device machine. Sounds like an invasion of privacy, where one has the expectation of said privacy. Is all I’m sayin’.

Coda Chameleon

That night I watched a movie with Fredo. The Accountant maybe. Hannibal Anne was in her bedroom, with the door locked, I heard the click. It was like the bullcr@p had combusted and turned into green slime. The slime had a fog around it and was oozing out of the bottom of the door. I think the chicken performance hit home and really got to her.

So, Hannibal Anne was livid, again. She’s always livid. Fredo watched a movie with me and she did not like it? I blame the chicken this time, because (a) she knew she was busted and (b) we were making some serious fun of her. I knew all about the Alexa listening device machine before this.

There is the lesson in this tree. Psychopaths, despite being devoid of all emotion, have surprisingly thin skins. The only thing they fear is getting busted. Plus, laughing at them (not with them) is an effective weapon. It’s also fun.

Early February 2021, I had to speak with Fredo. He said he was driving through Fritch and may stop to look at an apartment. “Fredo, what for?” I asked, “An apartment in Fritch? You could stay with Muff.” He said, “I need to be closer to Amarillo. Your mom has threatened to throw me out. She is talking divorce.” [He should have accepted -- ed.] This was surprising to me. Curious, I asked “for what?” Fredo explained that Hannibal Anne was mad at him and guess whose fault it was? We all know the answer. That’s right, the escapegoat child, Texas edition, i.e., me. I was getting blamed again. That’s OK. I’m used to it. I would tell you where Fritch is, but you don’t want to go there. They do have an Allsup’s there. I recommend the torpedo burrito and dried socks. It is also by a giant lake reservoir called Lake Meredith, known by some as The Fritz Thompson Memorial Graveyard.

Now this trip is over. I packed up my bags and got the cluck out of there!

One more time for the road. Hannibal Anne, you have my permission to go THANK yourself.

Listen with Boz Scaggs Lido Shuffle

Let’s Wrap This Up Folks -- We don’t got all day!

How did I figure it out?

Let’s wrap this up into a nice little bow.

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

On the first set of unannounced trips in Oct and Nov 2020, I saw things were off. I also concluded my family hated me. Why?

On the last unannounced visit, a few things happened. First, I spent time with my Grandmother where the answers always came. Then I started seeing and adding up all the signs. And last, I saw a totally freaked out Hannibal Anne.

That is when the full body mask fell off. Off of all of them. Their shapeshifting spells no longer worked on me.

I saw they did in fact despise adorable little me. They did not want me around. What did they not want me to see?

I don’t need an answer to that question precisely. The question itself is what’s relevant. I have a few theories, though, every one involving bad and likely criminal behaviour. It was clear to me now. These are bad folks. I do not want to be associated with them. When they go down, I will not be there to take the fall with or for them.

[1] I could have added a few more “thats” to the above mentioned question, e.g.,

How did I figure out --

· That my brother(?), Myron -- the other female psychopath in my family -- is a straight up grifter, thinks “prolly” is an actual word and is a second class ass (nothing he ever does is first class), or

· That Myron’s wife, The Marm, is itself a straight up bolt hole surfing taker, “a little slow” (wink emoji), and exceedingly unlikable -- everybody says so.

· In my totally First Amendment protected opinion at least

But I already knew those things, so I didn’t need to figure them out.