Life As A Pass Around Girl

Just an interesting small snapshot of my big D.C. investigation.  I began as a simple “wrongful detainment”. How our Florida Courthouses had become “Haunted Houses” is another story. Local and State investigations likewise.

But one day, I spotted a man in town that had let it be known he was from Washington D.C. He even presented his Drivers License, said it was good to get out of the office and into the field where the real action was happening. He said we needed to talk. So I waited. He played a lot of pool. He drank some great, cold brewskies. For about a week. Then finally he came down the sidewalk and stopped me. I suggested we meet at a nice, and quiet lakefront place. He shared a bit of his personal as I did too. Probably false, but cordial.

Eventually he suggested another spot a mile or so away so we could “walk and talk”. We tossed on our back packs and hoofed it. In silence. Finally, nearing the next gin mill I stopped him.

“So no interview, no request for documentation, no witnesses, and you are going to file a report based on what?” I asked him.

“I’ve seen enough”

“What did you see?”

“You are a middle aged woman, dissatisfied with your aging process.”

“What? And I have no chance to rebut this with my much younger boyfriend who is very satisfied with my aging process?”

He strode into the bar and hopped into a crowded corner. I stood at the other end and waited.

“Can I get you something hon?” a friendly cocktail waitress asked.

“No thanks, I have been danced all over the country. Played and passed around enough for today. I have a long walk home.”

And with that I threw on my pack and took the scenic route.

So is there a dusty report somewhere in D.C.? Did the taxpayers fund a week in sunny Florida? Was it one of our Corporate shills that had been behind dark tinted windows attacking me, my witnesses, or family? Who knows.

What I do know is, I worked about 21/7 for over a decade until the last Lincoln gave out and my health began to fail. And that when I submitted a report, it wasn’t a single page crock of bull.

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