the jude-wench

wed 9 sept 2015

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this post follows on things I mentioned in the previous one.. link below

so, the jude-wench, the ginger rubberboobs, the psychotic addict, the most loathsome creature of all the loathsome creatures I’ve ever known.

so it was yesterday, september 8th, in the turners trolls gorcery store, and there she was. I was making a beeline for the milk — it was the only thing I needed to get. my therapist — that therapist who believes what I say about matthew and rubberboobs and feds and mobbies, who does think me delusional — was waiting for me in the car. I see a grocery cart coming at me from the right, but I’m in a hurry and think nothing of it. when I reach the milk fridge, she reaches it too, and I see that it’s her. we are standing still, both of us, only two or three feet apart. I wait for the insane mouth, but it doesn’t come. I get my milk, turn right to get closer to her, and still she keeps her pie-hole shut. that’s the second time.

I saw her a few months ago, again at the grocery store. I’m going out, she’s coming in, and she says not a word. that’s twice in a row she has managed to keep her insane tauntings to herself, so maybe the detective really did speak to her last year. he said he was going to threaten her with a new harassment law that’s been recently passed, and maybe he really did.

I go to the car and tell the therapist. and then I ask the question I’ve been asking since 2008: why isn’t she in jail. it’s illegal (as far as I know) to pay someone to hurt or kill someone else. so shouldn’t it be just as illegal to commit an act and tell some lies that end up getting someone else hunted, that you know will get this person hunted, and that is your intent.

when I asked matthew that question in 2008, I got a lot supercilious posturing about big fish. the rubberboobs was never a big enough fish for the feds. they wanted the ones from connecticut, and believe me, they got some of them. but you’d think, wouldn’t you, that since she’s such a big fish to me, since she plunged my life into this movie-theater freak show, that they’d prosecute her and lock her up for me. just as a little treat for me. but no, I’m not a human being to these feds (as I continually state). I’m a piece of bait and a piece of property, but not a human being.

I say again: this is what the jude did. in 2007. she stole from some mobsters for whom she was selling drugs, told themwas the thief, and thrust me into the sickening world of amoral feds on one side and amoral gangsters on the other. and she did this because she despises me and wanted me dead, or at least very badly banged up.why go to such extremes over someone you hate? well, sane people wouldn’t, obviously. but she is not sane, never has been from the stories I’ve been told by people who knew her before I did. insane, and a severe addict to both alcohol and drugs.

you might wonder what I did to her. I rejected her. that’s it. but in her psycho world, that’s enough for murder. within a couple of months of her moving into my building, I could see how horrible she was, and I backed off from neighborly friendliness, chats at the picnic table in the backyard, etc. I rejected her. and for that I had to die. can you grasp how truly psychotic that is? I rejected her so I had to be dead?

she did many other things to me on the way to the big one, some of which I’ve written about in this blog over the last seven years, some I haven’t yet. she set a mob to chasing me because I rejected her. and her theft must have been a very hefty one, because these people wanted to kill me. I didn’t think so at first, thought they just wanted to rough me up and get back whatever I was supposed to have taken. but it was matthew who set me straight on that, and let me know that killing was the objective.

it would have ended. even matthew had expected it to be over in a few months. if you’ve read any books by retired feds or retired mobsters, you know that the feds infiltrate. they penetrate the organization they’ve targeted and insert information, lies or truth. (until I ended up in this mess, I’d never read any books like that, but now I have, you bet.) so the infiltration most likely happened, and the news that I had taken nothing was no doubt delivered into the right ears, within a few months. and that should have been the end.

but it wasn’t. why? because some fed, most likely matthew himself, committed a nasty that came down on my head, made my nightmare worse and much, much longer.

I want the wench dead or in a federal prison even more than I want such things for matthew. even more. and you can sit there in your politically correct, new-age righteousness and say: it’s wrong to hate, let it go. it’s wrong to wish others dead, let it go. but it hasn’t happened to you. the horrors I’ve been through because of the jude and because of matthew, the worst of which I’ve never yet written in this blog, are not horrors you have had to live in. and if I can get no justice, even retribution, through the courts (and I can’t), then the energies in the universe’s quantum field are my only hope. energies to gather and neutralize these two people, in a very big way.

there is not an iota of remorse in either one of them. in the face of such sociopathy, why should I be the moral hero and let it go? I see no reason. hatred is the seed they’ve sown with me, is what they have earned by their treatment of me, and it is what they deserve.

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read…  previous post: where is he…     who, why…

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2015 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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calabrese

wednesday 3 april 2013

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operation family secrets…  by frank calabrese, jr., and co-authors

this is both the title of frank’s book and the name the fbi gave to the operation that brought down both frank’s father, and a big chunk of the chicago outfit.

because of the things that happened to me in 2008 and 2009, I have a fierce interest in true stories about mobs, their victims, and the sociopathic fbi. but I don’t want fiction. the true stories have so far been hard for me to locate, so, in my mob-story isolation, I devoured this book. after all, unlike the author, I did not have my family behind me when I was going through my own mob story, not even one lousy member. I don’t have them now. and while the people who have believed me over the years are some comfort, it isn’t the same as having someone in my family on my side, someone who is related to the family gangster just as I am. but no, I am a fruit-loop. despite the fact that it was a relative who confirmed part of matthew’s story for me, saying that family research had revealed that my grandfather was most likely a criminal and that in 1943 he suddenly disappeared, I am still a fruit-loop. no moral support for me, no nothing.

unlike me, frank knew of his father’s type of business from early in life. at age eighteen, he joined his father in such business. it makes me ask questions, this story of frank’s, questions shooting off in my mind all through the reading of the book like little fireworks, questions that no one will ever answer. for instance: my father had his mafia father for fifteen years, then my grandparents split up. by the age of fifteen, did my father know his father was a mobster? as the oldest child and a son, had he even been told by his father in a sort of macho, father-son talk? did my father know about grampa’s first family that he’d produced on the island of crete before ever coming to the u.s., the family to whom any mob earnings must have been sent, since my father and his siblings grew up in poverty? the few in my family who remain alive and might have some answers do not talk (denial and under-the-rug-sweeping are two of my family’s favorite psychological tricks). and matthew, who has the answers, will not talk either.

frank calabrese jr. finds himself of two minds in the early part of his life, and I very much understand this split. he both loves his father deeply, and is horrified by him. he follows him into organized crime, but it isn’t exactly clear to me from the book whether he does this out of fear of his father, or out of the same kind of rapacious greed that his father suffers from. or both. since I never knew my crime grandfather, since he betrayed his organization (how? matthew won’t tell) and was killed by them ten years before I was born, I have many questions about him. the stories told about him as I was growing up, few as they were, were not of a mobster. those stories were apparently mostly lies. I want to know exactly what he did for this mob of his, and who of his loved ones, both in greece and in the u.s., he put in danger with his way of life. I spent fifty-five years loving this man I never saw, loving him because he was my dad’s father and he meant something to him; loving him because he was absent, and therefore a magnetic mystery; loving him because he gave us our greek blood, of which I used to be proud. since 2008, I’m of two minds: the old me who loved this family ghost, and the newer part of me that is disgusted and ashamed.

eventually, frank, his father, his uncle, his brother, are all arrested and sent to prison on racketeering charges. while they are serving their sentences, frank decides to betray his father and get into bed with the fbi. this is not an easy choice for him, and I’ve heard him with his own voice on a radio show talking about the two separate sets of feelings he has for his father, and how very hard these things were for him. I hope that in his situation I would have done what he did, but I can’t know that for certain. he wears a wire in the prison yard and gets his father to talk about murders and all kinds of other illegal past behavior. he hands it all over to the feds. he takes their instructions. even the feds are shocked by the large role frank’s father had in the outfit, because they hadn’t known. what they had thought was going to be a relatively small mob case, taking a small but important bite out of the outfit, turned out to be, according to frank, the biggest bite out of a mob since the days of capone.

frank expresses respect for the agents he dealt with. my own attitude towards them is quite different. succinctly put, I detest them. but frank was treated one way by them, and I was treated quite another way. yet another question that popped up more than once while reading: why did frank, a criminal who was betraying his father, deserve to be treated like a human being by the feds, and I, a non-criminal, did not? why did he deserve that, and I didn’t? many criminals in the annals of the fbi have been treated with kid gloves compared to the way they treated me. I have always only been able to conclude that I was bait. matthew spoke once of big fish, when I was asking him why some of the minnows who had got me into this horror show hadn’t been arrested. big fish. and they came to greenfield in 2008, some of those big connecticut fish, believe me they did. and made themselves very obvious to me, no attempts to be clandestine. what became of them once they had been lured in? no idea. when asked, matthew wouldn’t tell. so frank respects the federal cops, and I do not.

a couple of things come up in the story that bring about a dark shiver, one of them being a method of murder favored by frank’s father and uncle. things involving strangulation and a knife. long ago when I was in college, my little cousin was murdered. the act involved strangulation and a knife, or so I was told by my aunt, the child’s mother. naturally I asked matthew about this cousin, after sitting there telling him yet another story that he already knew. the whole time I talked, he wouldn’t look at me. he stared out the window crying quietly, and only looked at me when I was finished narrating and asked my questions. he answered them in his undercover act, his pseudo-schizophrenic gibberish, and so I still do not know if the murder of my cousin came about in the way that we were told, for the reasons we were told, or if it was something completely different, and uglier, and more sinister. mobs have codes, many people have told me, and I know this. they don’t whack women and children, these people have said. and it seems that that’s true, that most of the time they leave women and children alone. but I’m a woman, and, according to matthew, they came after me because of some lies told to them by one of their lackeys (the one I call the mafia-chick). so if they would make a rare exception and come after me, why could they not also have made one forty years ago and got my cousin, a mere child? I think they could have. but I also think the killing could have been exactly what we were told it was. ad nauseam: matthew wouldn’t tell.

to me, frank jr. is a mostly brave and mostly selfless man. he does not see himself this way. he was afraid of his father, and this fear led to the betrayal. he emphasizes his fear. he betrayed him in order to be free of him. but in getting himself free of the old coot, he got many others free of him too. he did things along the way in the building of the case that were indeed courageous and selfless. he asked for no reduction of sentence, no immunity, and refused the witness protection program. in 2011, when this book came out and the radio interview was done, he said that he was not one to hide. and also, that he needed to give his father the opening for revenge. it was part of the code that his father, if released from prison, deserved to murder him, and frank felt he had to give his father that chance (part of the code is still in frank jr.). that’s brave in my book, to sit and wait for the day your father could come to kill you.

early this year (2013), frank calabrese, sr. died in federal prison. in honor of this death (or so it felt to me), that 2011 radio interview was re-aired.  hooray, the old murderer is dead. hooray, he never got released on parole to go and kill his brave son. hooray, frank never has to fear his father again. and yet I know there must be great grief for frank too, because, like me, frank continued to hope till the bitter end that his father would one day love him, one day ask forgiveness, and that even if for only a few years, if only on prison visits, they could have a somewhat normal father-son bond. he has hungered for this all his life, and I understand such hunger very, very well.

if I had a hat on, frank, I’d tip it to you many times over. all the cheap male cowards I have known. and then there’s you out there in the world. thank you for being out there in the world. a brave man. a mostly unselfish man. a man who hungers for normality and love.

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read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

the man with the white hair

sunday 26 june 2011…     (new post)

This post is a companion to another one called testosterone town. That one was written in 2008. Today I’m going to say more than I said then.

There were reasons that I thought were good ones for not writing all of it three years ago. The biggest of those reasons was that in July of 2008, I was still very sappy about Matthew and the others said to be protecting me. I didn’t want any of them to be hurt protecting me, and I certainly didn’t want it to be because I gave too many details in my blogs.

I’ve long since lost my sappiness about these people, and the straight, unpretty truth is that I don’t give a flying banana what happens to any of them. So why haven’t I given the details before now. Well, first because it’s hard now to write about these things. In 2008 I had to sit down and vent every day in order to just keep going. But now… now I know that my contempt for Matthew and his colleagues is so huge that nothing will ever vent it; and I will never, unlike the people in the Whitey Bulger case who sued the feds and won, get any justice. Another reason… I’m sick to death of being called delusional. It’s insulting and it isn’t the truth. I’ve known delusional people and I’ve read books about them. They have a certain way of talking and emoting, a certain affect, that I don’t have. And the delusions multiply, in the cases I know about. It may start with a belief that there’s a plot to kill the mayor, and then another plot to kill someone else evolves, and so on. The tree of imagination is always growing new leaves, and sometimes those leaves are very different from one another — whole new stories appear. A few so-called therapists have even said to me that I’m not the way delusionals usually are, but they write delusional on their pieces of paper anyway. What I tell has always been the same at its core. Sometimes new elements have appeared, and that has always been the result of what some other living person said to me, not inventions in my own head. I have always told the truth as far as I know it, and owing to Matthew’s refusal to answer most of my questions, I know very little.

So I know that in writing anything at all about the crime-chick and her connections, Matthew and his colleagues, bizarre things that have gone on around me since 2008, puts me again in the witness box where I will be judged a loon. I am no loon. Whatever other insults people can justifiably throw at me, I am rational and sane and suffer no delusions. On with it, then.

day one

It was a Wednesday, 9 July 2008, hot and humid, early afternoon. I was living in the rented bedroom where I had no kitchen privileges, and so had to get all my meals out somewhere. I didn’t spend too much time in the room, because it hurt too much not to have my animals there all around me. I had only been told seven days before, by Matthew, that people wanted to hurt me. I hadn’t had much time to adjust to this news.

I had taken my lunch, book, notebook and drawing pens to the only picnic table that exists on Bank Row in Greenfield. This was one of my frequent sitting spots. It’s a very small, grassy area with one side edged in trees. I get up from the table to stretch a little and try to relieve the pain in my joints. I have my back to Bank Row and its intersector, Deerfield Street. Because I’m facing the wrong way, I can’t see the man coming at me on the bicycle. I’m lost in my own thoughts and don’t hear him either, not until he’s nearly on top of me.

I turn quickly and there he is, looking as though he’s going to run me down. He squeals on the breaks about three inches in front of me. I have known about certain things for only seven days, and so I memorize him as much as I can for a later grilling of Matthew. His eyes are very blue, like Matthew’s, but not as big. The most identifying feature about him is his absolutely white, shoulder-length hair. He can only be in his early forties, but he’s gone snow-white. When he stops, he says to me that he’s new in town (I already know this — I’m familiar with all of the scruffs in Greenfield by now, and he’s decked out like a scruff), and he wants to know where all the drunks hang out. He’s smiling, but the smile is mean. Despite his every-day words, I can feel the hostility coming from him, can feel that he despises me, even though I don’t know him, even though he’s new in town.

I tell him in a snotty way that I wouldn’t know where they hang out because I’m not a drunk. I tell him to go up to Main Street and ask somebody there. Lots of drunks are on Main Street. He says, still smiling that leering smile, that he can see that I’m in a bad mood so he’ll leave me alone. Thanks for the information.

I go back to the table and start to cry. Not about the man, but about my animals. I sit there crying, smoking, and a car comes down Bank Row and stops straight across from me, right in the middle of the street. For five or so minutes no traffic comes down Bank Row, so the car is able to remain stopped dead in the road. The windows are so darkly tinted on this car that you can’t see the driver, or anyone else who might be in it. It looks like the car has driven itself to the middle of the street. It looks very new, is thickly layered with black paint, and shiny as a mirror. In these ways it’s like the mob cars, but I don’t think it’s one of them. It’s not from Connecticut, for one thing. And for another, it has several thick antennae sticking up from it, which I hadn’t seen on any of the mob cars. I hardly ever see them on any cars. Only when traffic comes down the Row behind it does the car drive off.

I’ve had two very weird occurrences in the space of ten or so minutes, added to those seven days of knowledge given me by Matthew. I’ve done all I can: I’ve memorized the man and his words, and then the car. I’m powerless. I can do nothing to send that man back where he came from, and I can do nothing to find out who was in that car. I continue my thoughts on my animals and my tears a couple minutes more, and then I leave.

I’m thirsty again, so I decide to go to the health food store for something. That is Matthew’s base, that store, and his cousin is one of the big shots who runs it. I’m still crying about my animals, I’m not in the mood for Matthew’s undercover shtik at the moment, so I go down the alley to enter the store from the back. And there he is. Matthew. Coming at me from under the awning over the back door. Using his phony whine-voice and his phony I’m-just-a-nut grin. How are you he says, as usual. I play along. Oh not so good today, Matty, how about you. Are you having a happy day? Somewhat, he says. And then his eyes bore into mine very sanely, very intelligently, full of concern, despite the phony idiot grin on his face. Still cryin’? he asks me. I say yeah. He has his right hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, but he stretches out the middle finger and presses it against my upper arm. Says very quietly, so no one around us will hear, Hang in.

I have questions I can’t ask because we’re in public. I can’t ask: why did you say still crying, as if you knew I’ve been crying for a good while? Were you in that car? Who was in that car? Who was that man with the white hair? What am I supposed to hang in against, and for how long? I wait to see if he’ll invite me to his hovel so I can ask these things, but he doesn’t. I get something to drink and leave.

day two

10 july and a Thursday. Three, four times I see the man with the white hair. Every time he gives that same smile and says Hi there. I don’t answer. Matthew I see not at all, all day long, and that’s very, very strange. I return to my room for the last time that day after I’ve had my supper somewhere.

At 7:30 I go outside to have a cigarette. As soon as I do, a state cop car drives past me down the street. I smoke and go back in. At 8:00 I go out to smoke another. There’s a state cop helicopter flying fairly low over my street, away from town. And here’s the man with the white hair, pedaling furiously in the same direction, chuckling, as if he’s trying to outrun the helicopter. When he gets even with me, he looks over at me with that same grin, but says nothing this time. Up the street they go, helicopter and bicycle.

Now I’m more nervous. This man who clearly has contempt for me has seen where I live. Matthew has asked me to hang in. I don’t like this stuff. It’s hokey and over-dramatic and cloak-and-dagger. It’s Hollywood. And most importantly: it does not belong in my life. I’m not a criminal, and never have been. I don’t have criminals as friends or as family (Matthew hasn’t yet told me about my grandfather). This stupid, sociopathic drama that goes on between mobs and the people who hunt them is NOT MINE. I don’t deserve it, I don’t want it, and I hate it.

I can’t sleep. I just keep listening to the radio and going outside to smoke. At two in the morning, I start hearing sounds outside my windows. It sounds like people punching each other, but there are no voices. First the sounds are at one window on one wall, then they’re at the others on the other wall. I sit on the floor, listening. When it stops, I finally go to bed, but I’m a long time falling asleep.

day three

friday 11 july…  In the morning I look at the bark mulch under my windows. There are large footprints in it. They weren’t there yesterday. I know this because of one of my personal quirks. When someone lays down new mulch, as my landlady had just done, or new sand or new soil, I like to look at it every day while it’s still untouched, before anyone steps in it. I like the unspoiled look of it. So I knew with no doubts or delusions or paranoia that those large footprints were brand new.

I walk all the same streets and go to all the same places that I did yesterday, but there’s no sign of the white-haired man. Early afternoon Matthew comes along and invites me over. I ask some of my questions, but I’m so tired that I forget to ask all of them. And this is what I get:  All you need to know is that he won’t be bothering you anymore. The line I quoted in the other post. He said it with pride, on the edge of arrogance, as if the big strong boys had done their macho thing and they were proud. And I — the little lady, the little victim, the little piece of bait?  —  mustn’t go on asking questions. I did go on asking questions, but he gave me nothing else.

These things really happened. These words were really said. I’ve never seen that white-haired man again, in either Greenfield or Turners. He was in Greenfield for less than three days. Dear Matthew said that he’d never bother me again, and he never has. 

Ten days later, on july 21, a man called Jim said something to someone (in my hearing) that made me wonder if this white-haired man was someone named Greif. Vittorio or Luigi Greif. But that’s only a maybe, only another unanswered question.

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read…  Mugsy’s book…   Lucked out

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He says that no one says…

Friday 28 May 2010      Greenfield, escaping Turners power outage

Another interruption. Another new Sehnen post while I’m still in the process of copying the old ones here.

A conversation recently with someone, in which we were discussing some things that had been said to me in March by a guy named Rick W. One of those things Rick W. had said about himself was this: “I don’t know anyone who thinks Rick W.’s an asshole.” (his emphasis). Well, the third party that I was talking to said that Rick W. was clearly very messed up and that I should write a blog post containing this unequivocal statement:

                                 Rick W. is indeed an asshole

So there it is. Blog post with direct statement. I myself would have called Rick W. extremely immature for a man of 60, lacking in integrity, a dweller in a dreamworld, somewhat underhanded…  But asshole is Rick W.’s own word, so that’s what I’ve used.

Living in Greenfield again, very briefly, since yesterday afternoon. Power went out 11:17 Wed night. Third floor tiny space with only one window, no power to run fans. Fridge defrosting and food spoiling. Only have a microwave to cook with, and it won’t work. Can’t charge the cell phone. Grocery store closed down for lack of power, and no money to eat in restaurants, which were closed anyway for lack of power. Hot, hungry, asthma breathing, no radio to listen to, etc. And it was so great of the building manager to come around yesterday and see if the tenants were okay, if any tenants needed anything. Yeah, right. I’m sure all she gave a damn about was that she had a day off from work. And of course Matthew Lacoy, who loves me, was right there at my door with a nice meal he’d got me in Greenfield.

Yeah, right. But now that I’m in Greenfield he’s dogging my footsteps in his usual undercover, amoral, unloving, egomaniacal fashion. May the ocean’s dogs devour both him and all his colleagues.

Back to the power. Turners Falls is partially owned by guess who: Northeast Utilities. They own the riverbank because they have a hydroeleltric dam there. They own the canal banks and the canal because they have a hydroelectric plant there. There are patches of Turners that are filled with high-tension wires, and big ugly junction boxes pop up here and pop up there. And yet we can’t have electricity since 11:17 Wednesday night. Go figure.

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(sock monkey at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

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