The rot goes too deep
February 28, 2014 by Thomas Wictor
Today I stop trying to hold Mike Albee and Lura Dold accountable for defrauding me of $40,000 by exploiting the suicides of my parents in 2013. The rot goes too deep.
What convinced me was this story, which the global media picked up.
(CNN) — When you’re a city’s “Communicator of the Year” and have hailed yourself as a “passionate advocate” for job-seekers, you probably ought not blast one of those job-seekers in a snide, dismissive e-mail.
Because the Internet hates that sort of thing.
But that’s what’s happened to Kelly Blazek, who runs a popular online job bank for marketing professionals in Cleveland.
Blazek’s response to an e-mail and LinkedIn request from Diana Mekota, a 26-year-old planning to move to Cleveland this summer, has made the rounds on Reddit, Buzzfeed and other viral hotspots after Mekota posted it to her Imgur account.
That’s what people care about. Trivia and trash. Nobody cares that two completely soulless criminals—Mike Albee and Lura Dold—stole $40,000 from a guy who’s housebound from physical illness and crippled with mental illness. Nobody cares that the criminals used the suicides of my parents to enrich themselves.
Officer Steve Moore of the Healdsburg Police Department doesn’t care. Not a single newspaper in the entire nation cares. Those snickering, self-loving, B.O.-ridden fucks at Reddit don’t care. They told me I couldn’t post about it.
One of the radio shows to which I sent my information did a segment a few minutes ago on how we shouldn’t try to stop drug cartels anymore. The chubby, slit-eyed host doesn’t want drugs legalized; he just doesn’t want us to stop narcoterrorists from murdering people anymore. Let them murder whoever they want. Then he started gushing about two cow rapers in New York. Why in the world did I think that show would be interested in my story?
I contacted an author who’s a client of the fake agency Sandpiper Publicity and warned her that she was being taken for a ride. My message included links to all my evidence, and I told her that after researching her book, I saw that Albee was carrying out his scam to the letter. He’d sent Ghosts and Ballyhoo to the same obscure Websites and excreted the same Twitter and e-mail spam.
Her response: “How did you get my e-mail address?”
Well, from her Website. On the menu it says “Contact.” I clicked that word, and a blank e-mail addressed to her appeared on my desktop. I sent documentation from Writer Beware and told her that my only intent was to alert her that she was in the hands of professional con artists. She wrote back.
“If they’re such criminals, why aren’t they in jail?”
Because I made it all up, lady. I was just trying to trick you. Go ahead and stick with them. Be all loyal and protective of those nice people. You won’t regret it.
As a culture, we’re bifurcating. On one side are people like Tim, Eric, me, the Father Who Dances, another of Albee’s victims who was grateful that I’d called, and anyone who believes in standards. On the other side are the devolving masses who make utterly moronic, worthless stories go viral while completely ignoring the things that matter.
I’ve uncovered secrets in the past few days that have shaken me to my soul while at the same time exhilarating me. The reason for my excitement is that I now know that I was always right, even when I was a child. My instincts were correct. I had every reason to be afraid.
The thing is, I have my own secrets. Nice ones. I’m going to be fine. Mike Albee and Lura Dold are free to continue their rampage. My posts will remain up for anyone to read, if they decide to do research. But I’m not going to grovel for help, nor am I going to waste any more time on these ugly, prototypical Americans. Nobody cares.
Think about that. Nobody. Cares. Not the media, not law enforcement, not the publishing industry, and not the victims themselves.
Today I met a nice woman who cares. She works in finance, so she’s had to deal with countless predators. My story nearly made her cry. We’re now such a culture of mouth breathers that we can only understand things if they happen to us. We lack the imagination and empathy to stop the decay.
And when I say “we,” I mean, “Those with whom I have nothing in common and who give me the willies.”
I have a great new novel to write, and the number of people I need to worry about has diminished drastically. But I wrote nobody off.
They wrote themselves off.
When the bipolar Scottish alcoholic on the bass forum was berating me for existing, he kept going back to my “ghost cat,” which was deeply stupid of him because Syd the Second wasn’t a ghost. He was a living creature, as rooted in reality as Abraham Lincoln. Look, here’s a photo of him, which Tim took.
What The Others Who Give Me the Willies do is mock that which frightens them. I spent fifty-one years in the shadow of a man who did that, and then I had to chase him down as he tried to outrun death. For some reason he thought that taking off his pants would help. He died anyway.
The Others Who Give Me The Willies will all die pantsless and in terror. There’s nothing I can do about it. They’re concentrating on trivia and trash, so I’ll just move on and save my concern for those who aren’t on the verge of becoming quadrupeds.
Here’s a song for the bipolar Scottish alcoholic, an entity who’s emblematic of the rot. He was so vehement about not reading my blog that I know he does. Religiously, even though he hates religion.
I never said “ghost cat,” you blithering imbecile. You can pretend I did, because that allows you to dismiss me as a “crank,” but you’re not fooling me. You’re afraid of everything I talked about. And guess what? You’re going to croak someday. You’ll be as dead as cat shit. So will I.
The difference between you and me is that I’m not afraid of the prospect. See, I’m already practicing how I’ll look when it happens.
Send me a photo of you practicing to be a corpse, kohntarkosz. Let’s see if you have the balls.
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