TerryWalstrom

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Posts by TerryWalstrom

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  5

  A (true) Horror story

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a horror story (true)1970. we’re all familiar with that feeling--that creepy feeling of the mysterious unknown.well, this is that place.

  right here.i’m standing in john’s house in the kitchen.

  it’s murky inside this old place.

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  TerryWalstrom

  I think naive people don't trust their negative feelings about other people--only their positive.
  Lots of little moments of dissonance arose and I pushed them aside.
  I think it happens in marriage too when one partner is cheating on another. That tingly sensibility that whispers, "Beware" is there for a reason.
  If humans possess any instincts (I believe they do) it should be the negative ones we listen to best; the warning feelings something just isn't right.
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  6

  The Painting House (a prison memory)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  the painting house (a prison memory).

  "your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in.

  one minute safe; next minute not.

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  TerryWalstrom

  I kept asking myself why a government would want to punish people with a conscience.
  Ah, but I was asking the wrong question. The law of the land was to allow Conscientious Objectors to perform Alternate Service (usually in a hospital). In fact, I had successfully argued my case before my local Draft Board and was assigned hospital duty in Terrell hospital which was for mental patients.
  My question should have been, "Why is my conscience being hijacked by my religion and my legal alternative being subverted?"
  
  
• 
  6

  The Painting House (a prison memory)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  the painting house (a prison memory).

  "your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in.

  one minute safe; next minute not.

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  TerryWalstrom

  I didn't mention what Hoetzler looked like.
  He looked totally the opposite of intimidating.
  He wore thick glasses--almost so thick you'd think he was joking.
  He was bald on top but his hair was a bit wild on the sides and kept too long.
  He had a kind of caterpillar of hair across the top of his lip and it had never seen trimming.
  I could see how he'd have been picked on as a child. He looked like a natural born victim.
  But if he ever looked at you--straight on--into your eyes--that was more than creepy!
  It was like standing outside staring into the sun; you had to look away. Only--it was darkness blinding you.
  
  Funny how some people you meet just fall into a special category: unforgettable.
  I've done some internet searches for my old prison buddies and when I do occasionally
  find one, I've never had Hoetzler come to mind so's I'd talk about him.
  I'm sure they'd remember--but only the silliness of his appearance. That's what throws you.
  It looks like if you ever spoke with him it would be a laugh. Ha! not this guy.
  Not this guy.
• 
  6

  The Painting House (a prison memory)

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  the painting house (a prison memory).

  "your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in.

  one minute safe; next minute not.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
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  TerryWalstrom

  THE PAINTING HOUSE (A prison memory)

  "Your bedroom ain't the same if a snake crawls in. One minute safe; next minute not."
  
  The old inmate leaned forward on his bunk and scared the living shit out of me.
  He swung his huge face toward me like a weapon, with a half-lid eye and let his lower jaw jut forward.
  But-It was his voice--cracked and booming--like a bell down in hell that startled me.
  I was a fool for asking. You never ever ask. But I didn't know. I was about to find out why. You never ask a man in prison why he's in there. For god's sake; he just might answer you.

  "When Grampa Carl come in. We kids froze. Little rabbits we was. Who was he gonna pick? We shiver and don't never look up. Cuz, one thing for damn sure, one of us he gonna take to the Painting House."

  "What's a Painting House?"
  The inmate sniffed the air like a bloodhound onto the scent.
  I could see awful memories flood in--it was on his face. Nothing was as ugly as that thing crawling into his head.

  "When Grampa Carl take you into the Painting House--when you come out--you be painted red with blood and you be painted blue with welts and bruises. And you never gonna be right no more."

  The story this man told me I've never spoken aloud . I wouldn't be telling it now except--I just woke up a little before 2 a.m. with it staring me in the face with a half-lid eye. A bad dream? Sure. Why now? Don't know.

  If I tell--it might go away.

  ______
  His name was Hoetzler ("hurt slur") I've forgotten his first name.
  I wish I could forget what he told me--I thought I did forget.
  I guess not.

  Hoetzler felt "odd" as a kid. Something was different inside him from other kids--he was sure. He had five brothers, reared on a farm, worked like a mule as most kids were back then. The older he got the meaner he grew, and soon he was stealing apples, setting fires, and getting into fights.
  By age 11, he ended up in Juvenile Court on a drunk and disorderly charge. His parents refused to vouch for him before the judge.
  He was sent to Minnesota State Training School where he met "Grampa Carl" and found out about the Painting House.
  While he was there, he was repeatedly beaten, tortured, and raped by a frightening son-of-a-bitch named "Grampa Carl" a demonic fella in charge of the youngest kids in reform school. Grampa had been a coach before State Training School. He found a better opportunity working with troubled kids, to teach them the lesson of life he lived by: "Trouble brings trouble."
  
  Hoetzler hated that shed where the sporting equipment was kept, the Painting House, so much he told me he had set fire to it and got away with it. The other kids knew he'd done it--but they'd never tell.
  When his stint in the Minnesota State Training School ended he was sent back home to the farm where he stole money from his mother and was beaten by his dad. He ran away and hopped freight trains to escape and ended up in one hobo camp after another when he was abused.
  
  When he was old enough, he enlisted in the Army. He lied about who he was and where he was from and a kindly recruiting sergeant filled out the necessary papers for him.
  It didn't take long before he ended up in Fort Leavenworth's Disciplinary Barracks. With a dishonorable discharge he set off on a career stealing bicycles, cars and even yachts. From bad to worse, leaving a trail of misery and wreckage in his wake, Hoetzler never seemed to find a way to stay out of trouble.
  The man rattled off a list of prisons he'd been in I couldn't possibly remember now. I was impressed.
  After his last crime spree, he found himself holed up in a mission on the border of Texas where a priest taught him how to paint.
  
  "Father Antonio calmed my anger. It was the afternoons--in the rectory with two easels and a palette of colored paints. He's the only man who ever cared about me."
  
  Inmate Hoetzler had left the mission and Father Antonio behind and set off to find his way back home after all those years on the road. But stealing a car and driving across state lines with an underage girl was not the best way to stage a homecoming.
  Instead, he was seated on a bunk next to me spilling his guts.
  He did so, I believe, because he heard I was convicted of the crime of religious conscience and somehow--I suppose--he associated that with Father Antonio.
  We talked about art and about god and some pretty horrifying crimes he'd committed.
  Like I said before, his weird eyes and deep voice were so unsettling...
  Anyway, we were interrupted by something or other and I never spoke to him again.
  Every day I'd walk by his cell and see him painting. The weirdest memory is that he'd only do clown paintings--really disturbing ones. He had no discernible talent--but he sure had the imagination of a devil.
  
  That's not much of an ending--more of a memory torn loose from it's nest way deep inside my subconscious. I've tried to get rid of Hoetzler's place in my life but it never goes away.
  I've written horror stories with him as the main character as a kind of exorcism. It doesn't work.
  I guess he's hitched a ride in my mind. I can't chase him away.
  This morning he returned.
  
  I'm sorry but this is my way of trying again to rid myself of him.
  I've given him to you.
• 
  72

  Did you know Banks create money out of thin air?

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  banks create money “out of thin air.”empirical studies have been undertaken to prove this thesis and this is the conclusion:.

  in the 5,000 year history of banking, banks have been thought of as “deposit taking institutions which lend money”.. 1. what is the legal reality?

  banks don’t take deposits and don’t lend money.the public is under this false impression on purpose because the language of banks is not legal language.. so--what is a “deposit”?a deposit is not actually a deposit.

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  TerryWalstrom

  This is where I got my source information:
  https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2015/1/12/1357390/-Creating-money-out-of-thin-air
  
  _____
  
  The only conspiracy theory I ever fell for was the one promulgated by the Watchtower.
  I married into a Jewish family and 3 of my kids are Jewish. So, the idea that I buy into anti-Jew theories is a non-starter. My in-laws are about the best people I know. My sister-in-law is orthodox and I find her a bit ditzy--but--she'd be ditzy even if she were a WASP.
  
  If the article I read (above) is just dead wrong, then I apologize for reporting it as though it were a well-researched bit of discovery. I'm more interested in the essential facts about how financial institutions get away with what they do. Paying a million dollar fine, for a company bringing in billions, just seems so crooked it's unbelievable unless Congress is lining its pockets with legal bribery.
  I'm not a political person. I've never voted. But I certainly do see $$ and malfeasance all over the place.
• 
  5

  A (true) Horror story

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a horror story (true)1970. we’re all familiar with that feeling--that creepy feeling of the mysterious unknown.well, this is that place.

  right here.i’m standing in john’s house in the kitchen.

  it’s murky inside this old place.

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  2. 
  3. 
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  TerryWalstrom

  I realized I had made 2 really terrible character judgments which were dead wrong by this time and it shook me. First, was the inmate in prison who assaulted me. I had thought he just wanted his Bible questions answered. (Idiot me!)
  John Day was #2.
  Talk about a steep learning curve!
• 
  72

  Did you know Banks create money out of thin air?

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  banks create money “out of thin air.”empirical studies have been undertaken to prove this thesis and this is the conclusion:.

  in the 5,000 year history of banking, banks have been thought of as “deposit taking institutions which lend money”.. 1. what is the legal reality?

  banks don’t take deposits and don’t lend money.the public is under this false impression on purpose because the language of banks is not legal language.. so--what is a “deposit”?a deposit is not actually a deposit.

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  TerryWalstrom

  The Banks don't have to "print" money considering how much of daily commerce is electronic. Who else but banks issue Credit Cards? PayPal and Amazon have their own parochial credit thingy going. ATM cards are bank issued.
  When I had my ATM card hacked, I offered my Chase bank manager the receipt from the most likely store where a fake card reader was situated. I was astonished that he had absolutely no use for that information. He told me it happened so often it was a cost of doing business. Really? No prosecution? No desire to press charges at the store?
  
  It just didn't make sense.
• 
  72

  Did you know Banks create money out of thin air?

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  banks create money “out of thin air.”empirical studies have been undertaken to prove this thesis and this is the conclusion:.

  in the 5,000 year history of banking, banks have been thought of as “deposit taking institutions which lend money”.. 1. what is the legal reality?

  banks don’t take deposits and don’t lend money.the public is under this false impression on purpose because the language of banks is not legal language.. so--what is a “deposit”?a deposit is not actually a deposit.

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  TerryWalstrom

  Morpheus: Terry, i generally perceive you as intelligent and thoughtful man. That perception makes it difficult for me to reconcile the man with this ridiculous anti jew Rothschild rant.
  _____
  Could you please quote the part where I stated anything "anti jew Rothchild"?
  I'll settle for the part of my post which is counterfactual. I'll retract anything which is wrong.
• 
  72

  Did you know Banks create money out of thin air?

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  banks create money “out of thin air.”empirical studies have been undertaken to prove this thesis and this is the conclusion:.

  in the 5,000 year history of banking, banks have been thought of as “deposit taking institutions which lend money”.. 1. what is the legal reality?

  banks don’t take deposits and don’t lend money.the public is under this false impression on purpose because the language of banks is not legal language.. so--what is a “deposit”?a deposit is not actually a deposit.

  1. 
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  TerryWalstrom

  goo.gl/zrd4Aa

  Banks may be the most destructive and powerful institutions still highly regarded (ignorantly) by society as a whole.
  When politicians leave office, they make the round of financial institutions and give speeches for BIG money right out in the open. Of course, this is the payoff for all the loosey goosey legislation favoring those institutions.
  The so-called "penalties" exacted when these institutions are caught in the spotlight are seldom if ever individual prosecutions of actual corrupt executives. No. It's simply fines which are paid from ill-gotten gain. A slap on the wrist.
  _____
  https://finance.yahoo.com/news/every-wells-fargo-consumer-scandal-since-2015-timeline-194946222.html
  Click this link and read of the history of Wells Fargo Bank's scandals and it will become
  clear how much wiggle room such an institution has been given to be a repeat offender.
  
  
  
  
• 
  5

  A (true) Horror story

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  a horror story (true)1970. we’re all familiar with that feeling--that creepy feeling of the mysterious unknown.well, this is that place.

  right here.i’m standing in john’s house in the kitchen.

  it’s murky inside this old place.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  A Horror Story (true)
  1970

  We’re all familiar with that feeling--that creepy feeling of the mysterious unknown.
  Well, this is that place. Right here.
  I’m standing in John’s house in the kitchen.
  It’s murky inside this old place. Outside it looked ready to crumble. Flaky lead paint from back in the day when it was okay to live with poison peeled away from rotting wood.

  John told me his mom might be asleep somewhere. (Somewhere?)
  Stale tobacco smoke hung everywhere on dirty curtains, in the air. It was like that in my grandmother’s house. I guess really old people just lived with it like it was nothing.
  Smoke, lead paint, backed up sinks and rust in the bath water?
  Yeah. Just another day in paradise.

  I had asked John if I could have a drink of water and he’d told me to grab a glass and help myself.
  One look at the filth in that sink turned my stomach. I pretended to wash out an impossibly greasy glass and drink. I should have made a remark. I didn’t. (That’s on me.)

  Every part of the house (so far) is dim and only daylight from outside stabs through worn rips in old window shades. I can sort of see outlines of stacks of dirty dishes. The smell--just awful. I’m quickly revising my opinion of John Faris as a person of character and good breeding.

  Why did he say we were here? Oh, yeah. He needed to find his coin collection and see if he could get anything for it.
  An unsettling sound crawled up the back of my neck and into my ears. Background noise--a kind of rustling of (leaves?) something made of paper? I focused my attention intensely. My eyes gradually adjust to the darkness.
  What the hell is this scraping or clawing on paper?

  There’s movement. Dear God!
  The room--that’s what’s moving!
  The outline of--of everything is moving--that’s it--the room is ALIVE with cockroaches! Roaches are everywhere, the dirty sink dishes, the dining table, the floors and especially the wallpaper. The sound is roaches EATING the wallpaper!
  I made some excuse and got out of the house as quickly as I could manage without running like a madman.

  I waited in the fresh air and sunlight.
  My heart was pounding like I’d seen a murder or a ghost.
  Jeezus!
  John and I worked together as employment counselors at ABC EMPLOYMENT SERVICES, a privately owned business run by Vaard Miller and his flamboyant wife, Margaret.

  Vaard and Margaret were on hard times, having once owned twenty operating offices in Ft. Worth and Dallas. Now, it was all piddling away one by one. Vaard was rail thin, a heavy boozer, wore old expensive suits with cigarette burned holes and Margaret dressed like she’d come from an audition for Norma Desmond.
  Margaret was in love with my friend John--or so he claimed.
  It made me flinch when he said it so matter-of-fact. I thought he joked. He was glowing with pride.
  Yipes!
  Our location was the very last remaining office owned by Vaard and Margaret. Margaret kept it open because John worked there.
  The Millers pretended nothing was wrong but we all could smell it: desperation and panic. Like most awful things, it was only a matter of time.
  ______

  The day I was hired, John took me under his wing and truly made a strong impression on me in his calm, clearly knowledgeable narratives about his life and non-stop success.
  We became--or so I thought--friends.
  We’d go out for a drink and he’d tell me how easy it was for him to pick up beautiful women and get them to do...things. He was smooth, understated, and it didn’t sound like bragging. My eyes were wide as he told story after story of conquests. Then, he spoke about his investments and rent houses along the Rio Grande. Next, he regaled me with tales of his previous career as a professional magician; how he was invited to the Magic Castle by some famous super magician, Dai Vernon, who became his mentor.
  I’d never met anybody so well-traveled, fascinating, and willing to tell all.

  I had asked why he chose a boring job as an employment counselor?
  He paused and explained he found it was the best profession for meeting women and winked.

  It was several months before I discovered John had a wife from Mexico and two kids, a boy and girl. Scotty and Little Maria. I was shocked--he’d never spoken of them before.

  One day his family appeared at the office and he became uncharacteristically flustered as he rushed them outside and began fast-talking about something which appeared pretty urgent. However...
  When he had returned he acted as though it was nothing at all.
  After work he explained his wife was in Texas illegally and he didn’t want to talk about it.
  I was puzzled. Then doubting. Finally, suspicious. I let it drop. What’s the old saying? Live and let live?
  _____
  But now--today--we’re at his mother’s house in Weatherford, west of Ft. Worth, and this peculiar friend with all the success and investments has revealed that he lets him mom live in squalor--an unhealthy dump crawling with cockroaches!
  After another fifteen minutes, he emerges with a plastered smile and an endless story of excuses. I listened and nodded.
  It was pretty obvious to me. He’s a pathological liar!
  Like that peeling paint on his mom's house, my fine opinion of John Faris peeled away before my eyes with each new lie.
  This was, of course, told from the POV of when it happened.
  I was 24 years old, a cult member in a religious group and John Faris is my first “worldly” friend since I got out of prison on parole. John--my mentor--is NOT at all what he had seemed. What a betrayal and disappointment! I questioned my own 'good judgment'. What was wrong with me??

  I gradually withdrew from his “friendship” after that and the ABC Employment office soon closed.
  Some 12 years later, I ran into John again quite by accident. I was walking into a store as he walked out. He burst into a big smile and asked how I was.
  He called me Ted.
  We made small talk and he instantly unfurled a tale of having worked on the Princess Cruise lines as a magician for the last few years earning $50K a month.
  I asked if he meant, “a year”. No. He got lots of tips on the side.
  From the lonely old ladies.

  Magic John wanted to go out for a drink and catch up. I lied and made an excuse and we parted company for the last time.
  I learned some things from the last conversation with John Faris. For one thing, his real name was John Day.
  His wife had divorced him after she caught him cheating.
  He turned her in to the authorities and she ended up in Mexico. His kids? He hadn’t seen them in years. He only spoke sadly of missing Scotty--not a word about his daughter, little Maria.
  What an awful person I had known and called my friend!

  That incident made me very very cautious from that point forward.
  I became cynical, I guess you could say.
  I believe nothing I hear and half what I see.
  Can you blame me?
  This is a true Horror story. It is a story of me losing my innocence about others. You'd think prison would have done that, right? Almost--but no. It was Magic John the Sociopath who destroyed my naive trust.
  I wonder if he's still out there lurking, lying, haunting people's lives...a genuine Boogeyman?