Thomas Wictor

In a recent post I said that I was now unfettered, and that people who had done bad things would be held accountable. I knew that at some point, I’d write a post like this; I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

Scott Thunes said he wished he could see me really let somebody have it. Watch, Scott. Both my parents are dead. I have no reason to hold back anymore.

This morning I received an e-mail from a relative. I’ll call her “Copro Phagist.”

Copro’s note began thusly:

I’M SORRTY[sic] THAT YOU DIDN[T[sic] THINK TO CONTACT US.

Well, Copro, I contacted your daughter and told her to tell you. My life since January 16, 2013, has consisted of caring for two parents who committed suicide and forced Tim and me to be complicit. We had to decide which of Dad’s medications to withhold so that he’d die faster, after he lost his mind and became impossible to treat. Then Mom made herself anorexic and died of malnutrition. She ripped out her PICC feeding line three times.

We couldn’t save Mom because she was dealing with issues from eighty years ago. Since she refused to understand that chest compressions would break her ribs and puncture her lungs, we had to override her advanced care directive. We had to tell them that if her heart stopped, they were not to try and resuscitate her, despite her desire that they do so. Tim’s medical power of attorney over her gave us the ability to do that. Tim and I are legally and morally responsible for the deaths of both our parents. We went behind their backs and signed both their death warrants. Their deaths killed Tim and me too, in some very fundamental ways.

Mom and Dad died because of their traumatic childhoods. Speaking of traumatic childhood, Copro, you used to hang us upside down by our ankles. Remember? You also terrorized us by driving us around and pointing out wild marijuana plants and telling us that hippies smoked it and then murdered children.

Remember when you took Paul and Tim into the storm cellar and made them pray that God would save them from the tornado that was actually miles away? Paul was six and Tim was seven. Instead of doing everything in your power to comfort them, you inflicted as much cruelty on them as you could.

You also took potshots at my mother TO HER FACE, knowing that Mom would never call you out on them. She was defenseless that way. You knew that, because you’re an alley cat, an animal in human form, an uneducated hillbilly who spent her whole life hating everyone who “had it better” than she did. All Mom did to enrage you was exist. She was gracious and beautiful, and that made you hate her.

That’s why you embezzled $500,000 from my grandmother’s estate. Didn’t think I’d ever talk about it publicly, did you, Copro? You forged Dad’s signature and spent most of the money on dining out and entertaining the “high society” in your absurd little town. And then when Dad discovered your crime, and he flew out there to confront you, remember the high-speed car chase and how you held a pistol to your head and threatened to kill yourself? So Dad backed down.

“If I’d pressed charges, it would’ve ruined my relationship with my family,” Dad told me.

Dad’s dead, Copro. I have no relationship with you to ruin.

When Dad finally told his side of the family that he was dying, you announced, “He LIED to us! He’s not the man you thought he was!” Didn’t think I knew that either, did you, Copro? And you said that on the very night you called and asked to come out here to see him. Remember how Mom handed me the phone, and I had to explain to your idiot that Dad was in a coma and wouldn’t know you were there, and anyway, he was in such bad physical condition that you should remember him the way he’d been, not the way he was now?

That was the night you asked us for his ashes. Mom and Tim nodded, so I said we’d send them to you, despite the fact that you embezzled half a million dollars from my father and verbally assaulted my mother every chance you got when she visited you. We were trying to bury the hatchet. Since Dad was dying and doing so in an unimaginably hideous way, we forgave you as much as we could.

Then you started in with the demands. Dad was explicit that he wanted no service. You asked for a service; we reluctantly agreed, but only to keep the peace. Then you wanted a military funeral with an honor guard. Then you wanted a reception. Then you wanted photos to blow up into posters. Then you demanded that WE fly out there so that there’d be a respectable crowd. Mom had LUNG AND OVARIAN CANCER, and you demanded that she come to your pig-state just so you wouldn’t be embarrassed by a low turnout. We had to tell you no three times.

You demanded twice that we put the phone next to Dad’s comatose head so that you could say good-bye to him. Here’s why we refused: Dad was terrified that he was going to hell, a notion he got from his grim, dreary, joyless, sadistic family. He was once an innocent baby, and his family ruined him. Hearing your voice would’ve reminded him of his horrific, brutal childhood and the endless talk of death and damnation that all those sick women pounded into his ears. We showed him mercy, a concept unknown in your family.

There’s no recourse for me; I’m ruined too. But I ate my anger and forgave Dad because I believe that he was sincerely sorry. He begged me to save him, so I did. My inspiration was Scott Thunes, who has become very kind. I’ve been treated with contempt for wanting Dad to die in peace. Forgiving my father was the hardest thing I ever did; it seemed like a betrayal of the child I once was. Having you and your idiot sticking your fat asses into the mix every five minutes made me want to tell Dad to literally go to hell.

But my goal is to become the best person I can. Forgiving Dad was the right thing FOR ME to do. It ended the ugliness. Dad’s sins against me were between me and him. Now that he’s dead, they don’t matter to anyone left alive. I defeated them. You made it much harder for me to forgive my father. I did so in spite of you and your thoughtless narcissism. Dad’s death was about Dad, not you or your idiot.

And then you started in on the death certificate. That’s where you blew it.

You, your idiot, and your daughter all told Tim and me separately to send a CERTIFIED death certificate. That was six requests in total. You fucked up. Let me tell you something: You can’t fool Tim. Although you terrorized him as a child, he’s not “Timmy” anymore, and God has compensated Tim for his pain by making him clairvoyant. He ALWAYS knows when something is up.

“The only reason they want a certified death certificate is because they took out an illegal life-insurance policy on Ed,” Tim told Mom and me.

I did some research, and I found out that there is no earthly reason for you to have a certified death certificate. In fact it would be against the law for us to give you one. I also discovered that the guy in your family arrested for sexually assaulting his daughter is an insurance salesman! Surprise! And you have lots of experience forging Dad’s signature. So we refused to send either a death certificate or Dad’s ashes, and then your idiot got on the phone and tried his best mafioso act on Tim, but it failed because you know what? We’re immune.

After what we’ve been through our entire lives and then since January 16, 2013, there isn’t anything you or anybody else can say or do that will scare, hurt, or anger us. Tim and I live in a realm of clarity and purity. We know what’s important and what’s moronic hogwash. People like you have no place in our lives, not because we’ve cast you out but because you don’t even register anymore.

You know what I hope? I hope that there are hundreds of thousands of dollars somewhere that you can’t claim because you can’t get a certified death certificate. The money sits there, right out of your reach, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it.

Have I burnt enough bridges for you, Copro? Don’t ever contact me again.

By the way, there’s no statute of limitations on the taxes you have to pay on embezzled funds. I used to toy with the idea of turning you in to the IRS, but one of my friends is an active-duty colonel in the Russian army, whose field is weapons of mass destruction. Because of my writing and personal interests, I research explosives and terrorism all day. Tim researches airliners all day. We lived overseas, and I applied for a job at the CIA, making it through the first interviewing process. I wrote to and received personal answers from both President Bill Clinton and President George W. Bush. I’m on every government watch-list imaginable.

So you can bet that the IRS will put two and two together and figure out who you are. At the very least, they’ll ask me to identify you, and I’ll have to do my civic duty. Imagine: Unpaid taxes and penalties on $500,000 over thirty-three years? Copro! You got some ‘splainin’ to do! Enjoy looking over your shoulder for the rest of your miserable life.

Sorry, Mom and Dad. I’ve adopted a modification of the Wiccan credo:

“Do as you will but harm none. Except for those who deserve it.”

Everybody is on notice. Sunlight and flame-oil are the best disinfectants. Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing. You’ve been warned.