All posts by Radiolegendary

Samurai Saturday – Dallas

Murdoch Pizgatti of Don’tComply.com (l) with Samurai Sword, Associate (r) with rifle


DALLAS – When the man with the Samurai sword arrived, he had his associates set up shade tents against the steady rain. 

They were all armed with rifles, pistols, and they set about serving the needs of the homeless who live outdoors in the gritty industrial area along Central Tracks in South Dallas. The utter casualness of the throng is remarkable. No one is alarmed.

Women, children, go about their business in safety.

A man who said “a black guy” had burned his tent approached with woe in his manner, and asked for shelter. Pizgatti, the man with the sword, said he had tents and would give him one later, but, first, how about a hot lunch?

A “black guy” burned his tent. He asked the Samurai for another one.

Many people live in tents located on the narrow sidewalks beside the industrial locations.

As the people waited in line, they warmed themselves beside a small brazier. They were happy to have warm clothes and a hot lunch.

This audio report describes the reason for the gathering, which resembled nothing so much as a teaching session, an opportunity for people to learn. 

So mote it be.

  • The Legendary 
This brief audio report further describes the situation.

War And Peace: Some Are More Equal Than Others

North Main, Ft. Worth Stockyards, just south of Hell’s Half Acre

Cowtown, T-E-X-A-S – The truth is, you don’t have to be flying a patch to get profiled, not in this world. No way.

Witnesseth:

Foreign Office
November 2nd, 1917

Dear Lord Rothschild,

…His Majesty’s Government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavors to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.Yours, Arthur James Balfour

https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/text-of-the-balfour-declaration

THE TEXAS CONSTITUTION ARTICLE 1. BILL OF RIGHTS https://statutes.capitol.texas.gov/Docs/CN/htm/CN.1.htm

Sec. 1. FREEDOM AND SOVEREIGNTY OF STATE. Texas is a free and independent State, subject only to the Constitution of the United States, and the …. Sec20. OUTLAWRY OR TRANSPORTATION OUT OF STATE FOR OFFENSE. No citizen shall be outlawed. No person shall be transported out of the State for any offense committed within the same. This section does not prohibit an agreement with another state providing for the confinement of inmates of this State in the penal or correctional facilities of that state.

(Amended Nov. 5, 1985.)

Let’s call him Grogan – at least, that’s what the dude with the Society of Grey Beard Bikers patch called him, a man he said was retired from the profession of arms, U.S. Marine Corps – Sgt. Major in rank.

Just how Sgt. Major wound up stepping into the path of an oncoming semi truck while standing on a white line in the big middle of Hwy. 183 in Bedford is a story all its own.

Like Sheriff Bell said in the movie the Coen Brothers made of Cormac McCarthy’s novel, “No Country For Old Men,” you can certainly say it’s a story, but not much more than that.

Media rarely reports the details of a suicide – unless the victim makes a public spectacle of his self murder, and then only rarely. Cop shops don’t like to give up the official record, and in this story, the Sgt. Major police pursued him when he fled after they came to serve an arrest warrant to a place of refuge, a spot on the freeway, where he for some reason left his vehicle and took refuge from the pursuing police in the middle of one of the world’s busiest high-speed limited access expressways, standing on the white line.

The obligatory compelling event:

Grey Beard put it this way. “The Sgt. Major tried to get off his Harley without putting the kickstand down…”

A bystander who had just made the November 10 Stockyards Stampede ride to Wilson’s Leathers from Strokers-On-Harry Hines to the 2200 block of North Main, Ft. Worth, in a thundering herd led by the Sons Of Liberty Riders MC, interjected: “I JUST HATE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS!”

When all this took place outside the bar, the shock of Sgt. Major’s bike hitting the pavement broke the toe shifter apparatus where the suicide clutch on 45-inch flathead Hogs used to be and on today’s touring models, the one down, four up gear shift lever rests just above the footboard, on the left side of the touring FL model.

Naturally, as the story goes, the old boy was drunk and in operational control of a motor vehicle, but for some reason, the local gendarmes let him go home to sleep it off after citing him for the misdemeanor offense of public intoxication.

Overnight, someone changed their minds about all that. The next day, they showed up at his home to arrest Grogan for DWI.

That’s when the seasoned combat veteran bolted in his vehicle, and the cops followed.

When he took refuge on of the multitude of white lines of Hwy. 183, the cops stayed on the shoulder, shouting at him through a bullhorn to give up, come back to their custody. The Sgt. Major stood his ground in no man’s land. After all, he was in a place from which no traveler every returns, as it were.

The police made preparations to shut down the highway and gave every sign of preparing for a violent confrontation, the Sgt. Major took one lateral step, “dress right dress” – here, the narrator of this tale of woe mimicked the close order drill standing ont the sidewalk outside Wilson’s – directly into the path of a semi barreling along at the speed limit, which seems to be at least 80, if not 85 miles per hour along that stretch of mid-cities highway – and everywhere else in the concrete canyons of the Metromess.

You really ought to look into that,” said Mr. Grey Beard Society, himself. “I’m sure the details are available – somewhere.”

So, what was that all about? Who knows? Who cares? Spooky is as spooky does, etc.

All the way from Dallas, he and his lady friend criss-crossed lanes, swapping position at the drag end of the convoy, which of course, prevented those behind them from joining the formation.

The maniacs driving the jacked-up four-wheel drive Cowboy Cadillacs dove in to cut the herd, and the SOLR riding drag risked his life a number of times to block irate motorists willing to commit vehicular homicide to prove a point, the idea being, “Cut me off, buddy, you’re going down.”

Cute!

Nothing like a little friendly vehicular assault at speeds that would terrify all but the brain dead.

Some folks like to play games in the afternoon freeway traffic, and, like, since everybody got to be somewhere, look here where we wound up.

As it turns out, there are unwritten rules everywhere you go on a Hog, and over the course of the past month walking the 9-hole course of three gambler’s loops that all wind up back at the Clubhouse and cold beer, hot whiskey, and sand box of The Bosque Valley Golf Club, FM 1991, near Meridian, “Top Of The Hill Country,” the local gentry informed me more than once that it’s just not cool to ride “that thing” up to the first tee and park it right there in the parking lot.

Okay, what else is new?

On November 30, the prophecy of the Gray Beard came true.

I parked at the golf course for an hour, walked the perimeter of the grounds as the gathering gloom chased the golfers into a long day’s journey to night, and when I got back on my scooter, guess what?

The toe shifter was all jimmied up, man. Someone made a rather unnecessary adjustment to the apparatus, the destructive kind that says, “You’re in the wrong place, my friend. President Bush used to loop this very track, back in the day. Don’t park that ‘thing’ here.”

When I depressed me left great toe on the peg to hit low gear, it rotated way down past the point of no return, and I rode to Waco on an errand to pick up my month’s supply of KETO powdered smoothie mix, shifting gears with the heel piece of the shifter.

Doctor’s orders: Lose 100 pounds or lose your legs, eyesight, kidney function, lungs and heart – whatever. Just do it. I’m getting there; only have 29 pounds to go, and I’ve been walking, trotting, dieting, hitting golf balls, walking some more, and keeping that blood sugar down and resetting my insulin resistance level since May 4.

Didn’t try to get off the bike without putting the kickstand down, didn’t tumble, rumble, or do anything but make an appointment with the wrench to have the shaft of the control and the shifter lever replaced.

Didn’t come anywhere near any kind of unnecessary dust-up, just arranged with the President of the Bosque Valley Golf Club to get a refund of my monthly dues in return for a promise that I will never cast my shadow on those hallowed golfing grounds – no more forever.

Incidentally, I haven’t had a sniff, snort, swaller, puff, pill – or suppository – not even a cold beer, since 1984 – 34 long years. No DWI.

But it seems that’s just not good enough.

I have spoken.

Someone, please, remind Representative Beto O’Rourke that though he thinks we don’t need a wall, the simple truth is, we already have one.

And the wall doesn’t just define the border of Mexico; it includes many invisible borders within the boundaries of your state, your county, your city, and your neighborhood, electronic boundaries triggered by GPS devices on your car, your cell phone, electronic bracelet, TDC identification card or Driver’s License – whatever.

The truth is, it’s a multiplicity of walls, a virtual, electronic grid of walls, and it’s all recorded in digital real time to the Mobile Data Terminal in Officer McGruff’s patrol “unit.”

Welcome to the Balkans. Feudalism is alive and well in the Lone Star State.

Officer McGruff is with us, the UAVs are on track, and the satellites are watching.

Just saying.

So mote it be.

  • The Legendary

The slipped spline on an Harley-Davidson FLHRS Road King Custom parked in a place where the clientele call it “that thing” 

Prayer Vigil For Christ’s Mass – A Celebration Of Grace And Jubilation

A MANGER AT THE ALTAR REMINDS WORSHIPPERS OF CHRISTMAS

Meridian, TX  – The missionary to China, Lottie Moon challenged churchmen at the turn of the 20th century to support Baptist Missions in all nations by writing hundreds of letters entreating their donations.

To commemorate that time of the birth of Christ and the gifts of the Magi bestowed upon Him with the permission of his mother on the day of his Nativity, the young people of the church answered the challenge of Lottie Moon by praying around the clock on December 1, in 30-minute intervals, by assignment.

  • One prayer request is for a South Asian woman of Chinese extraction, a Muslim named Naomi, whose disfigured face brought disfavor from her family. A Christian invited her to church, and she is in fellowship with His followers.
  • Food baskets for the people of Meridian and Morgan, Texas, are prepared and distributed by the Church, and prayers went out for their friends in those communities.
  • A mission trip to San Lorenzo, Honduras, to see Pastor Osvaldo Herrera and his wife Rosie generated the prayers of the congregation.
  • The Islamic theocracy of Afghanistan is especially dangerous for Christians, “who are all essentially converts unable to safely express their faith, even in private.” Baptists prayed for their steadfast ability to resist “strong pressure” from their families, friends, and neighbors to recant their Christian faith.”
  • In their schools, Chinese children have been forced to renounce their faith – “Pray that all these children remain humble, unafraid, and assured of the truths of the gospel…”
  • “Each month 255 Christians are killed; 104 are abducted; 1,020 were raped or sexually harassed; and 793 churches were attacked…”
  • “Hebrews 13:3 reminds us: Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are mistreated, since you also are in the body.

For more information, please click here: https://www.imb.org/lottie-moon-christmas-offering

East To West, Holy Land Snack, Via Rome, Gibraltar

Whitney, Texas – THERE IS A PLACE, a crossroads at the place of the skull, where the silk and tea, steel and spices, potions, powders and other wondrous substances trade for coin, transported by camelback, ship, and the way of the wheel, to all nations.

In a time when there were no guarantees, health insurance, social security, welfare or food stamps, the poor people gleaned, a practice it is written in Old Testament tales such as Boaz’ redemption of Ruth through the intervention of her mistress, Naomi, as permitted by the nobility, the landed gentry.

What ingredients they could obtain through barter, stealth, larceny or begging for the ask it, they would bring to the ovens of the bakers who produced the unleavened bread prescribed by the dietary laws of the Israelites of the Hebrew faith.

Naturally, what dough was left over in the desert heat would be no good the following night, and the bakers would roll it out for the poor to garnish with what they had, bake it, and allow them a late night snack to keep the hunger at bay, at least until the dawn.

How did this midnight repast gain its reputation as an Italic delight?

Naturally, the Roman soldiers on patrol as police officers for the occupied nation were as hungry as the poor; they often stopped in for what they could glean.

When their columns of the Legion rotated back home, to the Italian peninsula, they took their experience with them, called it pitta, after the Greek, for petea – bran bread.

Marco carries on the tradition from his shop in an old prairie emporium of antique brick, subdued light, and spicy aromas that will make the sweat pop out of your brow, the nose to bring a sweet agony to the tongue, the moment you clear the threshold.

His pizza reminds one of the east coast variety, ladeled with tomato sauce heavily laden with olive oil, lots of garlic, oregano, mushrooms, anchovies, Italian sausage – even the odd garnish of pineapple, many types of peppers both red, yellow and green.

You could have just stepped off the streets of Roxbury, Brooklyn, South Philadelphia, Mantua – Trenton, Jersey City.

But the truth is, you’re home safe, at home in the arms of God, on the banks of El Rio de Los Brazos de Christo.

Marco markets twice-baked spaghetti, Alfredo, salads, and pizza, pizza, pizza – on a buffet at a price of less than $5 for seniors, and only a little more for their juniors.

Each day, promptly at 2 pm, he allows the old soldiers, the elderly, the crippled, the people with not enough to eat, to come into his restaurant, where his staff respectfully allows them to eat – to take the leftover pizza home in the same kind of boxes he delivers for take-out.

A few hours later, following the dinner rush, he does the same.

Somewhere, there is a purpose-built life, everywhere, there is charity and good will, and in the air there is that – feeling – the one you have felt, no matter how fleeting, the one the Greeks called agape, the love of life and the world and its people, that selfless emotion of which Christ declared – in testimony of the Holy Spirit – “God is Love.”

But, then, George Burns told John Denver in that movie – you know the one – “You know how the press is about these things.”

It’s still news – good news – and it was never, ever, by any stretch of the imagination, exaggeration or hyperbole – anything like fake.

I am sincere.

I have spoken.

So mote it be.

  • The Legendary

Triptych: Lady, mirror, Legendre, and second Lady – in baseball cap.

(click image for full size) 

Marco Pizza, 115 N. Colorado St., Whitney, TX 76692

For menu, location, hours, free delivery and ordering, dial:

254-694-0198

‘YOU NEVER FORGET THE SOUND OF SOME THINGS’

Bruceville – Eddy, Tx – When the dude started squirting his old lady down with the accelerant liquid – gasoline – she turned her head away.

“I couldn’t stand to watch it.”

The smell – well, that was a familiar sensation.

She trails the fingertips of her right hand down the button line of her blouse’s bodice.

“My ex old man tortured me with burning plastic,” she recalls. “I know the smell.” Prior to her break with the man and his rival club, the one she can no longer associate with  – her ex-family – she was owned, as property.

She alleges she – the slave he lay down with at night – somehow provoked him to the extent that he set a roll of plastic film ablaze and let the burning material drip on her bared chest.

If you ask where, she will tell you it’s in this prairie city on Interstate 35, south of Waco, astraddle the McLennan – Falls County line – at a single-family tract house with a garage attached by a dog-run breezeway.

The County Line splits the little prairie town at its southern extremity; she’s not sure in which county she beheld this event from hell.

It’s the place where a 1%’er chapter of the Cossacks MC at one time attended church after their anomalous beginnings by a Nomad founder.

“At the time, it was the only place I could hang out – where I was allowed to hang out.”

Ask who, and she will just smile and leer at you sideways, from the corners of her eyes. Her expression says it all. Quoth John Dryden, it could be the bell tolls for thee.

When is no challenge for a stepper. You see, an outlaw couple from a black and gold club just up and disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again, first herself, and then himself – poof!

Gone. Any credible investigator of fact would be totally reluctant to even think of going any further about the business of preparing an affidavit of probable cause to which he must swear by oath or affirmation.

Let’s get into what. It’s called murder – capital murder – and this alleged murder by fire set intentionally – arson – is particularly gruesome, the kind of inescapable execution prison cliques such as the Aryan Brotherhood and their Texas cousins, the Aryan Circle, reserve for thieves, rats, rapos, pedophiles, spies, and traitors. It’s right up there with the redneck lynching, the Roman crucifixion, the medieval poisoning, or the various permutations of bombing by stealth.

Naturally, just like any other mob, the standard of proof of these transgressions is, to this clique – well, nearly nonexistent.

That ought to satisfy the age-old question, how.

In a world of total chickenshit, on a list of depredations so totally foul, it shares the top of the list with a select number of ways to send a message.

The all-important complication is the complete lack of corpus delicti – that is, the body of the crime.

The mere allegation of a double homicide, the first perpetrated by the victim of a second killing designed to completely eliminate the problem, is hardly sufficient, even to compel an investigation, under current legal standards and practices.

But it’s in the details, the only source of proof available, as legally insufficient as it may be. Her recall is very detailed.

“She didn’t say a word. She knew it was too late.”

The man squirted the gasoline out of a plastic squeeze ketchup bottle, doused the chick, his old lady, who had stolen his drugs and did them with other dudes, his rivals – and then ran her head about it.

“He still owed money for the dope.”

It was the stinging rebuke of disloyalty that triggered the tipping point, she says. “She was saying, ‘Look, here’s just how bad this mo________er really is. I did this, and here I am. See?'”

She strikes a pose, one foot pointed at the pavement, toe down, the other firmly planted, her arms extended, palms up, as if to begin an acrobatic series of steps in some whirling and derisive dance.

“When he told her, she didn’t say a thing. She just waited for it to happen…I turned my head away. I couldn’t watch. He made sure. He kept squirting her with the gasoline.”

But that wasn’t enough to escape the hellish vision.

“She screamed and screamed, until she couldn’t scream any more.”

Maybe the screams told her something – woman to burning woman. Maybe she was able to – like – ratiocinate the meaning of the language of terror and death.

“It was like she set it up; she did it to make sure, to get out of this – life of hers – to end it all.” Her eyes are focussed on a point just north of the toes of her shoes. Her voice goes away, far and wee. She breaks the spell by stabbing with her eyes, lamping her interlocutor with her vision.

Why did she remain at the scene of the murder? Why didn’t she run away?

“They were between me and the door, the door that led to the breezeway. I was with my back to the roll up door of the garage…You never forget the sound of some things.”

So, she stood transfixed, until the hellish moment passed into eternity.

It was a sound some other people heard, but never remarked. It is her belief, though she could not see. Her eyes cut to the side, squinting into the past, peering at something unseen.

“There was someone on the other side of the door; they never said anything.”

The end of the story is completely macabre, but it is so totally predictable. “Then they killed him. That eliminated the problem.”

Question: Why would this man, this murderer who had just signed his own death warrant, leave a witness to tell the tale?

Perhaps such an act is not nearly as significant if there is no one to share the horror of the memory, the stink of burning flesh and hair, the final screams of agony.

Perhaps.

In popular usage, corpus delicti also refers to the actual physical object upon which a crime has been committed. In a case of arson, it would be a ruined building; in a murder case, the victim’s corpse. – Merriam Webster

 

WHAT IS THE LEGAL RULE ABOUT CORPUS DELICTI AND EVIDENCE BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT?  https://www.greghillassociates.com/what-is-the-corpus-delicti-rule-about-sufficient-evidence.html

According to the confidential of this interview, the flames did not involve the structure in any significant way.

As to the story in its beginning, middle and end:

So mote it be.

As to its true significance, “¿Quien sabe?”

  • The Legendary

A little background music:

Former Arson Cop: 2012 Trailer Blaze Was Murder, The Chosen Weapon – Fire

To Live In Fear No More

DA Abel Reyna’s Decision To End A Fireman’s Career – In Extreme Prejudice

 

A-D Corner: Crossroads Of The Last 9 Yards Of Hell

The Five Spot, known as THE CROSSROADS, or turning point

REPORTING: BY PAULA CARROLL SWANN

STORY: BY THE LEGENDARY JIM PARKS

I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse, I ride; I’m wanted – dead or alive. – Bon Jovi

Six Shooter Junction – The women know.

You hear their mother wit in a certain timbre of honesty – hear it  when they talk in terms of the truth, in the ineffable name of God.

CONSIDERETH: An elegant, long-limbed, clear-eyed woman – a sister from another mother – with a Nordic face from the ancient gallery, sits in the brilliance of slanting sunrays in the last few moments of a luminous Autumn sunset and speaks of being trafficked by her own family in a gangster deal, her pubescent body and soul traded – life for life – by a father who put out cigarettes on her naked flesh, set her cut-offs on fire with a Zippo, gave her to a man way past the age of majority, in some arcane transaction in which only she remains, to remember, with any semblance of clarity…

“THIS – IS HELL,” she concludes, gesturing at the WORLD all around her with the upraised tips of her middle fingers, the auld lang syne of the roads and alleys, the bloody paved thoroughfares of the WORLD, the way of the wheel.

Yes, WE THE PEOPLE will have a family, if not one of official, certificated GOVERNMENT record, then, the Family Of Man.

The women know; they have a right to the tree of life.

The A-D Corner, apex of the fields of fire on May 17, 2018

THE COPS  called the shots; they oriented the fields of fire in their radio transmissions by referring to the sides of the Twin Peaks building by the letters A through D.

The crime scene is situated roughly north and south at the freeway interchange of I-35 at Highway 6, its proper front door facing due south, the area where shots rang out designated “A,” facing generally easterly; the “B” side with service entrances, to the north; “C” facing westerly; and “D” the southern exposure with its front door and faux bronze of an elk rampant, facing Highway Six, rhymes with Styx, as in your back trail, which traces Los El Rio de Los Brazos de Christo, so named and mapped by Los Conquistadores in a world so ancient, it seems to be from a parallel universe, long forgotten.

Hence, the apex of the L-shaped crossfire is known as the  “A-D Corner,” a dog whistle nod to the pews where the elderly deacons and pastors emeritus sit in Baptist churches, and it is here that a violent confrontation between warlords turned the pavement of the crossroads slick with life’s blood shed by brothers, – by brothers – beneath the watchful eye of the “pole camera” placed there at 7 am, on the morning of the terrible ambush laid by the government – spelled with a Capital G.

Take my meaning, oh, my brothers. T’is a humble prayer. So mote it be.

THE POLE supports the Twin Peaks sign in this eastern exposure depicting the fields of sniper fire, its video imagery in real-time satellite communication with the “fusion center” jointly operated by the Department of Homeland Security and the Texas Department of Public Safety in concert with the FBI, and the rest of the alphabet soup.

THE WOMEN looked through marvelous cameras bestowed by a loving Father; they saw what was concealed with a vision sharpened by their instinctive drive to survive, to save the lives of children as yet unborn:

IT’S ABOUT THE GUN; IT’S ALWAYS ABOUT THE GUN:

It’s Always About The Gun

Likewise, the parking places in the lot under the pole camera are numbered as to their location:

What took place in this parking lot is easy enough to understand, if you take the time and have patience enough to see it for what it is.

Three Guns In A Saddlebag

This part of our back story explains the significance of what follows

Quite simply, the very truth is that someone fired that first shot, and the ballistics testing has been suppressed by the finders of fact, the Waco Police, because of political infighting with the prosecution.

The conflict spilled forth from the courtrooms and conference rooms and resulted in a complete shakeup – behind closed doors – of the entire management structure of the Municipal Corporation known as the City of Waco – from the City Manager to the Chief of Police and Fire Departments, the detectives involved, and the arson investigator who refused to be counseled psychiatrically after he flatly declined to change his findings about the nature of the explosion that took a woman’s life and snuffed out those of two of her children while a third child still suffers from the night terrors of remembrance of that terrible day.

Truly.

We put it to you: The body of Bandido Manny Rodriguez, the Candy Man, lies not ten feet west of the yellow motorcycle where the smoking gun was found.

He arrived on a Harley, expecting a political meeting; he left in a body bag, cut down by a bullet that consigned him to eternity.

This is the Big White Guy Officer Michael Bucher testified he shot and killed. You know who is giving him CPR. He told you so.

Bandido Jake Carrizal, the only man to stand trial so far for these depredations, testified in his own behalf one year ago that the police officer who pulled the trigger on that rifle saved his life.

He told his judges, the finders of fact operating under instructions as to an interpretation of the law, that he expected no mercy.

He received none.

Bandido Jake Carrizal got justice when 54th Criminal District Judge Matt Johnson declared a mistrial following a verdict of 11 for acquittal, one for conviction for two counts of engaging in organized criminal activity, the first for being at the scene of a capital murder and aggravated assault the second for directing the activities of an outlaw criminal gang.

Did WE THE PEOPLE get justice? I put it to you.

So mote it be.

I have spoken, with a little help from my friends.

  • The Legendary

1%’er EMT Resisted When Cops Tried To Turn Him

1% Cossack Mark White with Bandido Mannie “Candyman” Rodriguez,  who was murdered in an ambush at Twin Peaks on May 17, 2015

WACO – Former Cossack Mark White crouched under a table, pinned down by nearly silent suppressed assault rifle fire from SWAT officers.

He turned to a fellow biker as they listened to rounds smacking into the walls and tables around them, and said, “We’re fixing to get hit, and it’s gonna hurt.”

Moments earlier, he stood at the apex of the L-shaped ambush pattern and watched as the verbal argument began between Bandidos arriving on their bikes and Cossacks resisting their being able to park in a convenient location.

Punches flew and the cops started firing immediately, according to White.

After he made it to safety, he recalls giving CPR to one dying Cossack for an extended period before Waco Police Officer Vrail George pressed the muzzle of his rifle into the back of his head, and said, “Eat pavement m………er, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

In remarks off mic, he further revealed that police used the fact that he and another EMT who were only minutes before attending a political meeting of the Confederation of Clubs were used by on-scene commanders to justify keeping ambulances out of the area and providing emergency medical care to wounded and dying men.

Their claim – that there were Emergency Medical personnel on-scene – prevented the prompt care of the wounded and dying, he says.

Because the two EMT’s were there, the police prevented ambulances from entering the area because they claimed is was an “active shooter” scene.

“Yeah, I’m an EMT, but you’ve got to have the stuff there to care for the injuries. You can’t just do it with – nothing!

In this first-ever interview, former Red and Gold Nation member and 1%’er Cossack Mark White reveals what is on the recording of the jail interview “motorcycle gang experts” made after his arrest at a “bike night” in March at Twin Peaks Restaurant.

DPS Agents, a McLennan County Sheriff’s Office Jail Gang Investigator, Waco Police, and other government types who identified themselves only with their initials attempted to “turn” him as a fellow government employee, a medical technician employed by the Fire Department, saying, “We firemen have to stick together.”

OWEN REEVES, NATIONAL PRESIDENT OF THE WACO 1% COSSACKS

He refused. For some reason that still baffles him, he became a Cossack at the demands of Owen Reeves, who persuaded his men to sew on the diamond 1% patch in defiance of the National Club of the “ugly man” Cossacks MC with the express intent of “stealing” that club’s colors.

The jailhouse tape generated much controversy when first Waco Police Gang Detective Mike Rogers suppressed it in defiance of a discovery order in the prosecution of North Dallas Bandido Chapter Jake Carrizal, then the prosecution objected so vehemently the judge disallowed its being made of record in the presence of the jury.

In this account, White reveals the fact that the cops set up the ambush and encouraged the conditions that led to a violent confrontation between the Red and Gold and Black and Gold antagonists on that Bloody Sunday that claimed 9 lives, wounded twenty, and ended with 177 persons held on $1 million bond for the first degree felony of engaging in organized criminal activity.

YVONNE “SPIKE” REEVES, DEPICTED MOMENTS AFTER SHE LEARNED IN A PHONE CALL FROM HER HUSBAND HER SON HAD LOST HIS LIFE IN THE HAIL OF GUNFIRE AT TWIN PEAKS

An eyewitness to the events that led up to the bloody police ambush from an L-shaped bracket, White gives a background account of the development of the attack through the encouragement of law enforcement officials.

Dozens of e-mails from Elected Criminal District Attorney Abel Reyna to Yvonne Reeves establishes the connection between the prosecution and the Reeves family during the Twin Peaks prosecutions. Mrs. Reeves sought information as a crime victim. Reyna kept per posted of each evolution of the defense effort to recuse a hostile District Judge Ralph T. Strother, and to hand pick a jury panel.

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This letter from a Killeen Police victims rights coordinator, reveals the intelligence that a relative of a Cossack who died at Twin Peaks had been involved in an altercation and was seeking compensation as a crime victim.

According to a source close to the investigation, “This is paper work of Kris Rhyne, the new president of Waco 1% Cossacks under Big O. He was supposed to take a 25 year prison deal, then took a 5 year plea deal; but now, somehow, he is out completely and on probation for all his drug charges leading up to Twin Peaks. Owen is using him now to run the mother chapter.”

  • The Legendary

Out There – Good, Bad, 1%

WHAT, IT IS – WHO, IT AIN’T – SPEAKING  WITH JOHNNY KASH

SHOCK CULTURE OF RETURNING VETS BLEEDS INTO BODY POLITIC

OWEN’S RAT PACK

Waco – When the 1% Cossacks contacted their former Sgt at Arms Johnny Kash to take back their colors and diamond, he said, “Come get them; I will be here.”

The man arrived, expecting to be handed the items, but he didn’t get them. Kash told him he would have to take them.

At that point, the combat soldier, who does not wish to give his right name or be depicted, recalls that the man abandoned his errand, and left his home peacefully.

“I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize my future,” said Kash.

“I know how I want to live my life, in the brotherhood of fellow 1%er bikers. I will not do anything to mess up my chances.”

He was born and raised in El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora Reina de Los Angeles, the “old town” of LA’s Olvera Street. The family relocated to the neighborhood of Western and Normandy, where he lived until he “busted out” to join the Army. At the age of 27, he is a veteran of one overseas tours in combat, rated with a service-connected disability.

 


POLICE SNIPERS ON THE ROOFTOP OF TWIN PEAKS MAY 17, 2015

His story is a revelation of the culture of motorcycle clubmen in the old Aztec region of Aztlan – the area seized by Sharp Knife and Koloneh, the Generals who commanded the Texas Revolution – a series of events that led to the acquisition of all the land from the Sabine River at the western border of President Jefferson’s Louisiana Purchase, to the Russian lands in Northern California known as New Albion, north of the Mendocino, including Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada – and parts of Utah.

Demographic studies prove that by the year 2050, Hispanic people will compose 75% of the population of the United States.

Video image of DPS Agent “Red Boots” Cody Ledbetter firing from ambush at Don Carlos’ Restaurant on May 17, 2015 – Twin Peaks

We sat down with Johnny Kash and Mark White, the former President of his Chapter of Cossacks. What we learned from these men is startling, to say the least.

In this first conversation, Johnny Kash revealed the true motives of Owen Reeves and his rat pack.

In the second of the series, White reveals the attempt by “motorcycle gang” experts of the McLennan County Sheriff’s Office, Texas DPS, and the Waco Police to turn him into a witness against fellow 1% bikers by appealing to his career status as a public servant providing emergency services in Fire Department emergency services.

“It ended my career as an EMT,” he recalls. “My wife lost her career, too.”

The battle lines could not be more starkly drawn with indelible ink or laser beams.

What is to be heard herein is a true and accurate representation of a deep state operation in full frontal assault on WE THE PEOPLE.

This video has no visual content due to an agreement with Mr. Kash

NEXT: A CONVERSATION WITH MARK WHITE, WHOSE POLICE INTERVIEW WAS BLOCKED FROM DISCOVERY BY THE DEFENSE 

 

Profilin’ – The Metromess

BLUFF GAZE OF A SCOTSMAN AT COMMERCE IN HIS SHOP… JEFF WILSON OF HELL’S HALF ACRE STANDS UP TO COWTOWN COPS

FT. WORTH – T-E-X-A-S – Popeye stood up on a table top at Strokers on Harry Hines Boulevard in Big D and told the Sons of Liberty to keep a cool, cool melon on their shoulders.

“You see a club you don’t much like, just stay cool,” he said.

Their destination: Hell’s Half Acre, Cowtown’s North Main, the Stockyards, the Rodeo, Swift’s, the gateway to Chicago, KC, Omaha, and New York, N’Yawk – where a piece of the beef is de rigeur – that is, pre-cigars and brandy for the gents and idle chit chat for the ladies.

The Cowtown Cops told members of Los Vagos – a Southern California club long strange to the Lone Star State, now sporting a Texas rocker, that they own the Stockyards of Ft. Worth.

They said so when they busted in on the trade at Jeff Wilson’s Leathers in the midst of a busy Saturday – 38 years in the location at 2225 N. Main, and the site of many a patch party and Sabbatical for two-wheeling clubmen en cavalle, errant, vacillando.

Held guns at their backs, searched their bikes, damaged their saddle bags, knocked the machines over at the berm, charged them for carrying pistols – of all the cockeyed, well, never mind – against the peace and dignity of the People Of The State Of Texas. All that and a bag of chips, as it were.

Wrong.

Wilson reacted with alacrity, to say the least. The Sons of Liberty chimed in with harmonic overdrive.

Thus: The Stockyards Stampede from the Valley of the Trinity to the Western-most valley of the Same Holy Triad, meandering across the prairie to the Salt Grass, far and away.

Arriving on the bloody grounds, the cavalcade made a victory lap after a cruise down Belknap Street on the Bluffs of the city, on up Main, around the tourist trappings and the fancy old commission arena, past Swift’s front gate, and back down Main for the traditionally loud and rudenik episode of the obligatory Hog-Riding U-turn drama, to angle park on the curb across the street.

Funny how a bevy of wheels mounting video cameras will temper and dampen even the boldest tush hog cop dead in his boots, forcing a certain – ah, well – reticence.

We in the Sons’ cavalcade were but amazed at their mild-mannered, unobtrusive presence, including the dozen or so poised to swoop at the rodeo arena, the glittering black Suburbans lurking in the side streets.

Nothing doing.

Unmolested, our – ah – GANG wheeled on up to the front door and lingered awhile, that is, long enough to blow the foam off a short beer and have a doughnut or two – and thence into the concrete canyons skirting the runways of the sky chariots.

We gone.

However, this much is established.

There is no known due process of law whereby an extemporaneous decision by a peace officer will empower We The People Of The State Of Texas to just haul off and declare a person “out law,” thus enabling the People, in all their majestic peace and dignity, to intrude upon the person, papers, and property, etc. And other well-known words so well modulated by the DUE PROCESS of – well, whatever.

I am sincere.

I have spoken.

So mote it be.

  • The Legendary

2200 Block of North Main – Hog Heaven – Hell Bent For Leather – Ahem

Tushes v. Monoculture

Hog trap surveilled by game camera, sprung by phone’s send button

Meridian, Tx – Farm Road 1991 meanders from fording point to point along this ancient stream bed in the Edwards Plateau breaks above the backland prairie – to the alluvial plains of the Gulf Coast.

El Bosque is Spanish for – literally – the sticks, and it joins Los Brazos De Christo at Waco in a mad confluence of porous rock strata, water and the black lands sloping to the salt grass – an ancient reef that extends from the Dallas-Ft. Worth Metroplex to Carlsbad with its caverns – and beyond.

It doesn’t matter what men build and develop, when the flood moves, it’s coming through, around, over, under. Whatever is in the way won’t be, not for long.

THE GREENSKEEPER at Bosque Valley Golf Club has the diamond hard look of a man who copes with conditions and their myriad requirements. Battling the foraging hogs of the hardwood forests of scrub live oak and native pecans is just part of the job he does to keep the hackers happy on this 9-hole layout of three gamblers’ loops, each of which ends back at the clubhouse, where the suds and whiskey await their requirements.

The monoculture of the golf course is unnatural in the scrub country

At this time of year, the fogs linger, the mist abounds, and driving rains pound the creatures out of their lowland redoubts to the higher banks, where you can hear the plash and patter of the water in its onrushing progress downslope. Waterfalls are really outflows from caverns and unknown underground rivers headed for yet another inlet to another underground web in the rock.

One might imagine the skirling of pipes, heard far and wee on the vagaries of the wind.

Here the cow pokes of the Chisholm Trail drove their long horns to the rail head at Cowtown, and all points in between Old Mexico and the Windy City. The old pastures still exist, and the old road that follow the river just happen to run right by everyone’s front door.

The Santa Fe tracks run through it, too. Everybody got to be somewhere, as it turns out. And when the levee breaks, mama, you got to move. True story.

Feral hogs, some native javelina, and the rest permutations of prize boar stock from the steppes of Russia to the prairies of the midwest mingle and mix and dig with their tushes in the easiest ground they can find for acorns and seeds.

Damage of swine foraging for acorns under spreading oaks a hazard

They play hell with the finely cultivated turf, mowed and weeded and maintained for the purpose of cow pasture pool.

They multiply as fast as any furry creature on the planet, rivaling even rodents for their legendary fecundity.

Did the breeders fail to make their market? One is tempted to think they may have released at least a portion of their produce into the wilds.

That’s why it’s always open season on feral hogs, no hunting license required, no questions asked when traffic in swine is the topic.

That’s why the game cameras are surveilled by cell phone transmissions and the trap doors may be sprung by remote control with the press of a “send” radio button when the moment of greatest concentration inside the corrals may occur.

A less elaborate method of triggering the hog traps by propping the gate

There is definitely something to be said for that now aging sentiment that when one looks to the sky, it’s nice to know it’s a capitalist moon, and not a planetary satellite controlled by communist hands.

The year 2018 has proven to be a wet one, precipitation having kept its pace with other record years without letting the rivers and creeks out of their banks in disastrous torrents.

Nevertheless, Mr. and Mrs. Hog have taken to the higher ground and the barbecue smoke fills the sodden air of late autumn in the Texas Hill Country.

Onwards, in orbit of our Star – El Sol.

Here’s to ribs, chili, and the odd stew, as it were.

Bon appetit!

So mote it be.

  • The Legendary

El Rio Bosque  – The water courses through the rock to the stream