Role of Stewart in doubt due to the very nature of the crime: Samantha "You fucking commie" Bee  wanted Crocheron Street a Jon Bee Way, so, Hinds could be responsible for this herself. I did witness her mousy brown haired relatives pass a craft paper bag of cash to a Gambino team at Jaffa, which also drops English there as managers, on occasion wherever they're from. The place is great, which explains their blatant presence there, with me as a walk on tip of a false arrest, yes, me.

My mother, on the other hand, is convinced I'm a communist terrorist that needs to be tracked down by signal tower and radar, and that Alessandra Mussolini is ruling the world in a concealed government of foyer Satanists, instead of thinking of renting our house. My estranged uncle is convinced my father was a pedophile, and is ready to collect a bounty set on me dead or alive since my politics are troubling for po' dunk from a Confederate general's town in New Jacquard.

In the meantime Ellen Hinds is still driving around in a frumpy vintage Jaguar, marked flat Nellcat, in tow of Long Island Jewish Hospital stickers, trying to disable, discriminate against the disabled, assign financial aid loans instead of grants to students who don't look exactly like her. And there I was thinking punks wore uniforms since 1977.

Dumb ass 105,Manhattan precinct "communist" cop utters through the amplification too bad, we can't get rid of that place, it's gay...Frank Marzella, living on a different continental island than the rest of us, with platelets floating about recondite areas of his brain, spies on my passwords so that Maddow can get off typing "passowords" and other information, alters some posts, maudlins others, wrests belief with bolds passages, invents others, sends my mother collectable packets  as evidence and  is heard uttering what did gays ever do for you?

Dulcis in fundo: Maddow goes ballistic thanks to an invasive  op-ed  unpublishable by the Times, but
not by Broadway, Random House, and thinks correcting my precinct as precint will get her slapped on a saddle of a fox chase when the fox is protected by law since the '90's. Granelle, a 111, Queens impersonator of a sergeant, thinks it's high time she butted in and simulates a conversation with me, after having me stalked on subways by white supremacist wanting to get off abusing me racially. At the end of the monologued dalliance, she has said scintillating conversationalist tell me that Granelle wants me to put out for her protected brothel and will insist I do by breaking and entering my apartment, volens nolens. To which I reply, thinking of gun permits: "I'll shoot you in the face."