Note to eds: This chapter excerpt will update through the night. I just wanted to get this up right away. That Lyft driver was a pig.
When it comes to the Rock Island County whack-job Antifa Democrats, their famous saying is, “We get by with anything we can get by with here in Rock Island County.”
By the time my book is published, I assure you, you all will have learned that the incidents I am about to describe here were not “coincidences.”
How could they be. Three-plus years of “coincidences?”
What finally drove me to get moving on this chapter tonight was a Lyft incident beyond reproach.
I had a Lyft driver play Bill Maher on the radio in the car tonight. He then asked me who I voted for for President of the United States. Next, he YELLED at me, wanting to know how did I know I was being protected, and who was protecting me?
I told him I believed I am being protected by the United States military, not to mention the obvious, the fine Glendale Police Department, which is answer enough. But I also read license plates, I’m not stupid, and I’ve had two FBI victims’ advocates. One was a retired Air Force veteran who told me he knew that what happened to me at MLI was true because, yes, it really does happen. He said he used to see the flight manifests on the C17s and smokes marijuana now and then to manage pain related to searching those aircraft for many years.
So shove it up your a$$, Lyft driver who obviously was more than just a Lyft driver.
Elderly British snobs, young women chat me up
The terror of the Antifa began before my plane ever lifted off from the Quad-Cities for Denver. Left with absolutely nothing, having sold every last possession to pay my bills and purchase my Illinois PTSD legal cannabis while my house was shot at and everything else for more than a year, I moved to Denver with only the clothes on my back.
Leaving filthy MLI Airport, soon to be known as Human Trafficking International, was no easy task. My flight to Denver was delayed almost five hours.
Nothing works in filthy, corrupt, broken Quad-Cities, but particularly not at the airport. It would have to be seen to be believed, but it’s an airport straight out of a horror show.
The airport is a massive trigger for me, as I often told former Moline Police Chief nephew Randy Veys as he would drive me to the dispensary for most of last year.
Everyone in town knows the airport terrifies me.
A cop sat with me several hours in a private room after two groups of Antifa women harassed me in the waiting area: A British group, and a group of young women from Detroit. These young women said they had similar stories, similar traumas, and that they were moving to Canada and urged me to do the same.
The Canada song has turned into a SouthPark episode. Indeed, a dispensary employee in crooked Milan, Illinois also claimed to have a similar story and similar trauma to mine and and was urging me to move to Canada, where she said she planned to return.
I can only imagine Justin Trudeau and Cheri Bustos being two peas in a pod. I base it on nothing more than obvious hunches. I would NEVER in A MILLION YEARS cross into Canada.
LOL! Like I don’t know that I would be murdered there and/or never able to cross the border back into the U.S. ever again. The Antifa, as I have said many times and as you all will know by the time this book is published, are very, very slow.
An angry woman is always nearby
So as I sat there waiting for the flight I so desperately yearned for, I decided to have a drink.
Let the slide begin.
And as I drank, my senior prom date’s mother’s sister watched the whole thing go down from the gift shop.
I had no idea she now worked at the airport gift shop.
It terrified me, as I do not trust my senior prom date’s family one bit. Neither side.
Is it any wonder she and I were such wonderful friends for years? Her family is as whacked as mine, make no mistake. And I care about her a lot.
Slowly, as the flight faced delay, after delay, after delay, after delay (and with us given a different reason why the flight was delayed each time, and yet a different reason again by the captain five hours later) I began to become very afraid.
Earlier in the day, when I sold my house at $50,000 loss for $80,000, the hateful, whack-job lawyer the Realtor picked to represent told me she was going to have to mail me a check.
I would have been homeless in Rock Island until the check came, and she knew that. She knew it was a critical point.
She’s a very nasty woman to try a stunt like that at closing.
Nasty women everywhere
Everywhere I go, hateful women insult me or try to jack with me in any way that they can. Let’s circle back to the pretty young girls waiting for a flight to Detroit.
These young women threw out vague tales of abuse and suggested I try essential oils to relieve stress. Oddly, women suggesting essential oils to me has become slapstick. The essential oils I need come from the marijuana plant and everyone knows it unless they’re a liar.
So when another of these “victimized” little girls, who quite frankly looked like actors, spoke of fleeing the country to Canada, that’s when I rolled my eyes, walked away, and spent the rest of the night in the airport “preferred members” lounge talking to the cop.
The British women? The hateful old bags kept asking me why I was moving, what corruption I was fleeing, etc. Then they would burst into laughter like bad actors.
They scowled at me when I walked off with the cop.
The descent into Liberal Denver and the fright of my life
Clarion Hotel Hell and MS-13 welcome … Prostitute gang provides sexual pleasure to vixen, hateful women in politics, business.
TO BE CONTINUED …