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Rant and Rave about The Canna Trade.
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Jesús Malverde
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Post by Jesús Malverde »

Plural of Mongoose wrote: Now, you're probably wondering why you had to read all this.

Blame it on Haxxie. (Now Jesús Malverde here, for all you newbs)

Haxxie wasn't being malicious, but rather was operating without all the information, and filled in the blanks from rumor and innuendo. Hey, that shit happens.

But the result was folks like Moustache come here for information, and get a skewed view of an alternate reality. The altered reality said nope, Mongoose was never in prison, it was all a ruse while he was in reality Architecting away at you know which project. Hey, Munchy sent him a letter addressed to Wandsworth Prison, and they sent it back, case fucking closed.

If only there was some type of computational facility that you could, I dunno, type inquiries into, and get relevant responses to your questions. Say, 'how do I write to an inmate in the UK'. First off you'd discover that an inmate in the UK has the right to privacy. That's right. They are NOT allowed to tell you shit about an inmate, or they'd be breaching your basic human rights. When I was in Wandsworth, mail rules were simple. If, and only if, they had your prisoner number, and the correct facility on the address, would the mail be forwarded to the inmate. Newer, slightly loose guidelines are at https://www.gov.uk/find-prisoner" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

Use the Prisoner Location Service to find people in prison when you don’t know which prison they are in.

The prisoner must give their permission for their information to be shared, unless you belong to certain organizations such as the police or a solicitors’ firm.

Prisoner Location Service
PO Box 2152
Birmingham
B15 1SD

You must include:

your name, or the organization you represent
your date of birth
your address including postcode
name of the person you want to find
the reason you want to find them eg. you’re their solicitor, or a family member
any other names they may have used
their date of birth
So I do feel really bad that my good buddy Munchy heard about my incarceration and took the time to reach out and write to me. I had zero fucking clue that anyone even knew, and certainly never got any mail. :( Would have been fucking thrilled to pieces to have gotten a letter from him.

But because I didn't hear from him and he didn't get any answer at all, it started a bad precedent, rumors began replacing facts.

So, with Munchy's letter being returned, Haxxie had all the proof he needed, and when the opportunities presented themselves, off he went... After all, it is fun to spin wild and crazy speculations.
Sept 11 from Haxxie.
His Bangkok Airways account was also hacked, an account using the name Roger Clarke, another old alias for PoM.
Dude, my name *is* Roger Thomas Clark. I go by Thomas, but airlines, hey, their regs say First Name / Last Name only. That translates into Haxxie uncovering yet another alias for PoM. Woo hoo, eh. Oh hey - are you sure that BKK Air account was spelled Clarke? Ain't no 'e' on the end of my name on my passport. That's REAL important, and I'll tell ya' why. I bought a ticket on time at an agents, and when I got to the airport, my name was spelled Clarh. With an 'h', not a 'k'. On the cheap ass dot matrix receipt and itinerary I had, you couldn't tell the difference. No way could they let me on the plane. If info did not match exactly, no way, no how. Non-refundable ticket, I had to buy another one, on the spot, or not get on the flight. So I had someone call BKK Air today to ask what would happen if their Frequent Fl yer account and real name on passport had a bogus letter in it. Could not happen, no way to credit a flight to an account or vice versa that did not match exactly to the ticket/passport/account info. Just sayin, is all. Check on that 'e' would ya. Yeah right, forget it, you can't even fucking google 'Mailing prisoners in the UK', who am I kidding.
Sept 11 from Haxxie.
This also means whomever posted that Clark was in a prison in England for grow charges was probably doing deliberate misdirection and was most likely PoM himself trying to cover his tracks. Too bad about him apparently being a DEA informant
So because Haxxie can't use Google, I'm now branded a DEA informant.
Sept 15 from Haxxie
Should I post that photo of Mr. Clark again? He's DEA, I mean c'mon. Why do we want to protect his identity at this point?
Haxxie used to scream on PG that anyone who even threatened to post anyone's personal info should be banned for life. Now he wants to posts a photo of me - again, he's apparently already done it at last once, as I'm DEA, so fucking there. :rolleyes:
Sept 15 from Haxxie
OK fine, we'll protect him even though it's become (more) obvious he's a DEA asset. I appreciate the motivation for categorically not outing him or anyone else, but I wasn't sure that extended to protecting known DEA plants.
My, my Haxxie, really getting nasty now, aren't you. Funny thing is, last I was here posting with you I never got any of this rancor. You *sure* you're really the Haxxie I used to know? Because, damn boy...

Fuck, I really can't do this anymore. He assures everyone that varietyjones.com is my site, cause he's like, in the know, you know. Jesus titty-fucking Christ Haxxie.

I am dissapoint.
This more or less demands a response. From the top:

OK, I did reach the point in the procedure to contact a prisoner you cite in order to attempt to verify or refute the post by "News" (interestingly identified by Smokes as probably being your old nemesis Glyndwr himself http://www.myplanetganja.com/viewtopic. ... 30#p140781" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false; ) here of your unfortunate incarceration. The post in question placing you at Wandsworth circa August 2011 can be read here: http://www.myplanetganja.com/viewtopic. ... 30#p140778" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false; At that point I hit a brick wall, as I've no idea whatever what your birthdate might be, besides facing the other rather probing personal questions to be navigated as a prerequisite to direct communication. Now if you were definitively in the pokey in August 2011 and had been for some considerable time as was reported, this appears to be a pretty strong alibi vs. charges you were the person who registered the Variety Jones and ~Shabang~ accounts at the SR forum. I'm going to assume that whomever registered the VJ account at SR was in all likelihood the same person that registered the ~S account given the timing.

27/06/2011 - ~Shabang~ registers an account on Silk Road forum.
27/06/2011 - Variety Jones creates an account on Silk Road forum.

Not a perfect, airtight alibi, but enough to throw considerable doubt on the matter for sure. I'd certainly accept it as such.

Whomever registered the VJ account at SR went on to list voluminous seed sales posted from the UK and later became a confidant of Ross. You probably would know the person selling seeds under the VJ handle based on your years in the legal UK seed trade. Can we stipulate this much at this point? That person went on plausibly to adopt your public persona with impressive sophistication, right down to impersonating almost every detail of your writing style--not only publicly but in private chat sessions with Ross, even at one point tossing down a trail of breadcrumbs leading to your doorstep by invoking your PoM alias and posting up a complete short story in the Sci-Fi idiom:
*** I smoke a joint and wrote this in about 30 minutes. I haven't read it myself, nor proofed it for error or content. I hope someone enjoys reading it. ***


Darren squirmed in the custon molded Road Chair, struggling, and failing, to find a comfortable position.

"Goddmmit!" he thought.

"Why does Grant always call in sick on Thursdays, the lazy bastard. He knows I had a date tonight." Darren muttered.

But even while he was muttering, he kept a close eye on the readings on the screens around him. This was a family business, and Darren was minding the complex web of constant flowing transactions that were his families lifeblood.

There!

A new order had burbled up on the main screen, a freighter in the asteroid belts wanted a couple of tonnes of cannabis. He wiggled his fingers in the data-web control, and brought up the potential clients history. It was a C class freighter, fairly new to the business with only a couple of 11 months runs out to Io, and a few smaller local hops around the belt to its credit.

He continued to tease more information out of the data-web with his right hand, while at the same time his left hand unconciously called up inventory and shipping manifests from his suppliers, cross-referencing them with requirement forecasts for the week. 2 tonnes wasn't a large order for a belter ship, by any means, but if he fucked this up, it would wipe out the profits for the day; and it had been a long day.

Sighing, he bagan calculating the drop-shipping routes that he'd need if he accepted the contract. While doing this he kept his eyes on the tertiary screens, sending out confirmation notices for smaller orders, answering client inquiries about stock availability, and performing dozens of other simple tasks that almost seemed meaningless. Meaningless, that is, unless you fucked up one of them.

He shivered in the Road Chair, considering for a moment what would happen if he fucked up some minor detail, and it came back to haunt the business later. Grant would laugh at him, and Dad would lecture him for hours.

And Grampa Jones. Grampa Jones would be fucking livid.

"Livid about what?" said the voice of Grampa Jones, behind him.

Darren froze for a microsecond. Goddammit, he must have been talking out loud. Just as quickly, he recovered, glad that he hadn't jumped, or shown outward signs of his surprise. Goddam, but Grampa Jones could sure sneak up on you quick, for an old guy.

"If we get scammed by this freighter," Darren said, nodding in the direction of the screen with the potential order flashing on it. "That would wipe out our profits for a day or two. But, if we don't take orders from newer clients, we'll never build up our business."

He confidently reached out and tapped the confirmation button, initiating the transaction and beaming a sub-ether message to the freighter captain that the order had been accepted and was processing.

"I was just think aloud, I'd already decided to accept the order."

Grampa Jones glanced at the details around the order, and nodded his aquiescience that Darren had made the right decision, this time. He slipped into the Road Chair beside him, and took in all the screens with a deep intensity that told Darren he was critically examining not just the current order he'd just accepted, but all the little tasks that he had been performing as well. Darren tried not to act nervous as Grampa Jones snorted and tsk'd and harrumph'd as he examined the days work.

Darren watched the old man out of the corner of his eye, hoping against hope that the old man didn't find some error he'd made, or problem that he hadn't sorted out yet. He relaxed as Grampa Jones sat back with a satisfied exhalation, his bones creaking as he strecthed his legs and made himself comfortable.

Grampa Jones wasn't just old, he was OLD, in capital letters. He was old when the rejuvination drugs were first discovered, and while they extended his life, he still aged, albeit slower. Rumor was he was over 300 years old, that was before they even had regular space travel! But his brain was still sharp as a tack, and he reached out and tapped the top of the screen, where Darrens operator name was.

And beside his name, was a '(98)' in big, bold, bright green letters.

"Ninety-eight, eh." Grampa Jones leaned forward, as if to confirm that yes, his eyes did not deceive him, his grandson's operator name was indeed 'Darren Jones(98)', and it wasn't a smear on the screen making a 'Darren Jones(100)' just look like a 'Darren Jones(98)' in fact.

"Ninety-eight." He said again, as if he was worried that Darren didn't hear him the first time.

Goddammit, Darren thought, it wasn't my fault. Or, more accurately, it wasn't ALL my fault. He'd got in a shipment that was a lower quality than he expected, and sent it out broken up in a couple of orders before he realized the problem. Things snowballed from there, there were a couple of complaints, and Darren was sure more than one of them was from his competion, smelling blood in the water, and hurrying to assist in assinating his character.But he knew better than to bitch to Grampa Jones about it. He knew *exactly* what he would say if he did. He'd say, "It is what it is. And what it is, is a ninety-eight."

Goddamit, this is going to be a long double shift if Grampa Jones starts to lecture me on my (98).

Grampa Jones, or more formally, 'Dr. V. Jones(100)' as everyone knew him for centuries, was a stickler about the family reputation. When Darren was young, he remembered asking him what the V. stood for. Grampa Jones laughed, and said that over the years, it has stood for a variety of things, and left it at that. One thing Darren knew for sure though, was while Grampa Jones may have changed his first name a few times, that (100) after his name was sancrosanct.

As the silence lengthened, Darren thought he could still hear the words 'ninety-eight' echoing off the walls. Goddammit, why couldn't this visit have happened 3 weeks ago, when the screen had a bright and cheerful 'Darren Jones(100)' on it. Or if Grant hadn't called in sick tonight. Or if that asshole hadn't slipped some moldy cannabis in that shipment. Or, or, or... Darren could feel the blood rushing to his face, as that (98) seemed to absolutely shine like a beacon on the screen.

He sensed the old man leaning forward next to him, and prepared himself for a tongue lashing. But instead of the invective he was expecting, Grampa Jones said, "I remember my first ninety-seven."

Darren froze.

For a full 30 seconds, Darren sat in the Road Chair, absolutely motionless.

His grandfather sat beside him, pulling out his stash pouch and began rolling a joint. Smoking cannabis while working the Road Chair wasn't allowed, but there wasn't anyone alive who was going to tell Dr. V. Jones(100), what the hell he could and couldn't do, Darren knew.

Darren was still sat there, shocked still, when Grampa Jones indicated one of the customer inquiry screens, and said, "So, you going to just sit there, or are you going to respond to those folks."

Goddammit!

Darren jolted into action, fielding the questions now scrolling off the bottom of the screen, juggling the tasks of dispatching orders, sending confirmations, answering questions, ordering new stock, and the 1001 and one other things required of a good Road operator.

30 seconds might not seem like a long time, but Darren knew that folks on the sub-ether communication net acted as if you had nothing in the world to do but deal with their problems and questions, as did the suppliers, shippers, and everyone else who worked or used the Road.

And Grampa Jones had taught him a long time ago, as soon as you get even a little bit behind, it can take forever to catch up. Folks who had inquiries start to send second ones, doubling the volume. Antsy customers start sending angry sub-ethers wanting to know where their orders are. All this was exacerbated by the new super-luminal freight cruisers in the game. They were captained by gearheads who had no notion of causality and who -- because of their faster-than-light perspective -- expected you to send the answers before they have even sent you a question!

It was a tiring and thankless task, and Darren loved every minute of it.

Soon, he was back in the groove, and the number of outstanding tasks started to dwindle as he competently worked the data-web controls, doing the work his family had done for centuries - getting contraband past the authorities and to the people that needed it.

And by authorities, he meant the pharmaceutical companies and the governments they controlled.

And by contraband, he meant anything that the pharmaceutical companies didn't control the supply and price of, and that the governments couldn't tax, regulate, and seize at their whim.

From cannabis to fresh cows milk, the Road carried the traffic that the people demanded, while the authorities, as they had for millienum, failed to stop them.

The sweet smell of burning cannabis wafted through the air as Darren flexed his fingers on the data-web controls, doing as his ancestors had for generations, sticking it to the man. Darren relaxed as he scanned the screens, and saw with satisfaction that there were no outstanding issues, and he glanced over at the old man next to him.

Grampa Jones proferred the lit joint, and Darren hesitated. "Go on, it's more of a what you'd call a 'guideline' as opposed to an actual rule. I'll take over for a few minutes, you need a break." Grampa Jones said, as he handed the spliff to him.

So he took the joint, and watched as Dr. V. Jones(100) slipped his hands into the data-web controls, and began scanning the screens. With a fluid grace he dealt with inquiries, examined the shipping manifestos, and carried out all the tasks of a vendor on the Road with skills that were honed over centuries.

The Road spanned the solar system, from the cities of Earth, to the moons of Jupiter and beyond, the Road was more than just a hidden network of vendors and customers, products and shipments. The Road was a concept, an idea, more than just an encrypted network and forwarding nodes. The Road was freedom, a way of life.

As Darren watched his grandfather work, he realized that the old man didn't just work the Road when he operated the road Chair, he was the Road. He took it personally when people couldn't get what they needed because some bureaucrat somewhere had declared it contraband. Whether it was an MS afflicted patient who needed cannabis, or some health nut who wanted unpasteurized milk, Dr. V. Jones(100) would do everything in his power to assist in skirting the rules and getting them what they wanted.

Grampa Jones had the same affliction that Darren had.

Grampa Jones *cared*.

Darren couldn't possibly believe that he had ever sported a (97).

"Actually, that's what I wanted to come to talk to you about." Grampa said, waving at the 'Darren Jones (98)' that still glowed accusingly at the top of the screen. "Don't worry, your not in trouble. Like I said, it could happen to anyone, myself included."

Proving that Darren had not in fact mis-heard him earlier, Grampa Jones looked over at Darren and said, "What, you're surprised I ever had a ninety-seven?" Darren just looked at him, his wide eyes betraying that he was indeed surprised.

"Shit, it happens to every vendor, once in a while. Not a goddam thing you can do about it, either. Oh, you try, and swear to yourself and your gods if you believe in them, that you'll never have less than a hunnert. But there aren't any gods to hear your prayers, and no matter how hard you try, in the end, Mr. Murphy's law will always catch up to you."

Darren had heard lots of stories about Mr. Murphy and his laws, collaries and axioms over the years from his grandfather. He didn't know exactly what Mr. Murphy did for a living, and gathered that he was a business partner and drinking buddy of his grandfather. He'd deduced this from the fact that most Mr. Murphy's observations seemed to stem from the results of an evening of drinking with Grampa Jones. He always thought that Mr. Murphy was kind of a negative Nancy, as his mother would say, and more than a bit of a pessimist. He'd ventured that thought to his grandfather one time, to which he replied, "Waht, Murphy, a pessimist?" He said, "No, son -- Murphy was a goddam optimist!"

Still, his grandfather must have liked Mr. Murphy, for he said that he never had a business that Mr. Murphy didn't play a large role in.

The old man, without taking his eyes off the information flowing accross all the screens reached out his hand, indicating with a motion that it was severely lacking in the possession of a cannabis cigarette at the moment. Darren handed the joint back to him, and Grampa Jones took a long, slow draw on it.

He handed it back to Darren, and continued his story.

"Was back in two-tousand-ought-ten, or ought-eleven, or thereabouts. We was on the original Road, back on Earth."

Darren pondered this for a moment. It was the year 2450 now, goddammit! Grampa Jones must be close to 500 years old!

"I don't recall the specifics now, which is funny, because at the time I thought it was the end of the world. I worked hard, and brought it back up, but that takes time, and it frustrated the hell outta me.

"But eventually, I got it back up to a hunnert, and swore it would always stay there.

"It didn't, of course.

"Eventually, I took another hit, and it dropped again. But this time, I said to myself I'm not going to beat myself up. I thought I'd been trying as hard as I could, but I resolved to just try a little bit harder.

"You see, everyone needs to have a (97) or a (98) after their name once in a while. It reminds you that you have to earn it, and keep earning it. Don't ever think that a hunnert is yours by right. It's not. You have to strive to maintain it, and even then Mr. Murphy can come along and fuck things up through absolutely no fault of your own.

"And all you can do then, is work at bringing it back up again.

"And as long as you keep trying, you'll be making the ghost of Mr. Road proud."

Grampa Jones looked at Darren. "What, you didn't know there was a Mr. Road?

"There sure was, he was the one that started it all. First name of Silk. Smart feller. We used to call it the Silk Road, back then. Over the centuries it evolved, and now it's just the Road. I even exchanged messages with him once.

"Was back in tousand-ought-eleven or so. He'd made some changes to the system in regards to postage -- that's how we paid for shipping back then -- in regards to how we charged for postage. I was in the process of entering hundreds of new items when the changes went into effect, and it broke all my new listings.

"But, I sent him a message right away, and he anwered in only minutes, and between us I explained the problem and he'd make some changes and then message back to see if it was fixed. Took a few tries, but soon enough everything was working as smooth as, well as smooth as silk.

"Couldn't ask fer a nicer feller, was polite and helpful through all our back and forth, and you could tell that he really cared that everything worked properly, that the Silk Road succeeded, and that we could all continue to vend our contraband in the face of the authorities that would otherwise have us under their heels."

Darren sat back, processing the tale. Imagine that! Grampa had actually exchanged messages with Mr. Road himself!

Grampa Jones nodded at Darren. "Here, you take over now. I'm gonna take a nap. And whatever you do, don't disturb me untils shifts end, got it!"

Darren assured him that he got it, slipped his hands back into the data-web controls, and concentrated on the business at hand, while Dr. V. Jones(100) snored quietly beside him.

A Short time later, he heard his grandfather give a little snort, and say "Goddammit!" quietly under his breath, and then he stopped breathing.

Darren turned and looked at the old man, laying back in the Road chair, with his hands touching the data-web controls, and a faint smile on his face. He briefly wondered what he should do, and then he realized that there was nothing he could do now. He glanced at the clock, there was two hours left on his shift.

He looked back at the old man, and decided he'd heed his last request, and leave him in the Road chair until the end of his shift, a part of the Road now, extending accross the solar system, spreading freedom as an idea. And Darren knew that someday he'd tell his grandchildren how his grandfather had actually exchanged messages with Mr. Road!

Darren broke out of his reverie, and glanced back at the screens. There were orders pouring in on one screen, and messages had already began scrolling off the bottom of another, while on a third alarms were ringing from suppliers who had problems...

Goddammit!
Now you have to admit if that's an impersonation, it's also a very pitch perfect one. And to go to all this trouble even for a private forum presumably only a few people could or would ever read and to stay in character impersonating you for years in every communication--well, if you've had your identity stolen by whomever was behind the VJ handle on Silk Road (as I assume you are or will be leading us towards as a conclusion) it's the work of a tireless master of the art.

Then after Ross is busted we find out that something like half the Admin staff at SR were either confirmed CIs or in the direct employ of some American alphabet soup agency and the Feds know essentially everything about everything having to do with the operation of SR, any of the top SR people who weren't perp walked were pretty much guaranteed to have been LE or cooperating with LE. Is that a fair assumption in your opinion? The VJ account holder ticks all the boxes don't they? The fact that as far as we know whomever was behind the VJ account is still a free person in my personal opinion means they probably either flipped or were a plant from the get-go. Is that another reasonable assumption? How else could it be?

As for the photo, you yourself proudly posted it where it could be seen by literally millions of people with your presumed real life name attached. I admit an error in judgment posting it here, but my error in judgment pales compared to your own error posting it originally does it not?

I don't think my speculations were in the slightest unreasonable ones--even if they turn out in retrospect to have been mistaken. If you aren't SR's VJ, someone spent literally man years setting you up, going so far as to stay in a caricature of you for years both publicly and privately and to create an entire story done in your authorial style in private fora and putatively secure chats. If SR's VJ wasn't you Tom, you are the victim of an incredibly involved ID theft and you have my full and unconditional sympathy for being so targeted and my apologies for being suckered by it. But even you gotta admit they did one hell of a job framing you.

And if SR's VJ wasn't you, it was probably someone you know or knew at some point at least a little. Who else would have known your style so intimately or your work as a serious author well enough to ape it?

And what do you make of the varietyjones.com sites? They even claim to have been at SR! Honeypots? Crazy stalker? Someone really really bored?
One for the rook

One for the crow

One to rot

and one to grow

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Post by well_lol_doh »

And there's the contents of the hacked email account. :frown:
If men didn't have willies to wave the world would be a lot more sane place...

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Post by Chill-Bill »

Had to join this party :lurk: :rollitiup:


When's the next instalment?
It's mercy, compassion and forgiveness I lack. Not rationality.

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Post by smokebreaks »

The contents of the hacked email account aren't necessary. And I would really appreciate it if you refrain from posting anything of a personal nature. I haven't the time nor the inclination to babysit this forum for potentially devastating new developments.

The people I know I can trust with this forum can most certainly get ahold of me at their leisure or in case of emergency at an appropriate time.

I'm going to be incommunicado for the next couple of days, so please be mindful of each other's privacy and respect one another enough to not post overly sensitive materials as you watch this saga unfold.

The Variety Jones character scoping out my profile on my LinkedIn page today was an unexpected treat that kind of made me smile too.

I will weigh in on this some other day, but for now, enjoy the show.
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Post by well_lol_doh »

smokebreaks wrote:The contents of the hacked email account aren't necessary. And I would really appreciate it if you refrain from posting anything of a personal nature. I haven't the time nor the inclination to babysit this forum for potentially devastating new developments.

The people I know I can trust with this forum can most certainly get ahold of me at their leisure or in case of emergency at an appropriate time.

I'm going to be incommunicado for the next couple of days, so please be mindful of each other's privacy and respect one another enough to not post overly sensitive materials as you watch this saga unfold.

The Variety Jones character scoping out my profile on my LinkedIn page today was an unexpected treat that kind of made me smile too.

I will weigh in on this some other day, but for now, enjoy the show.
Nah don't fret poppet, I didn't mean I was going to post anything.

I was just adding that comment as a footnote to what the guy above me was saying.

I didn't agree with A: Motherboard getting someone to do that hacking and B: printing it, and I thought that was out of line.
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Post by Plural of Mongoose »

@ Haxxie

Your whole post is you trying to be disingenuous.

My bitch with you was your constant and ever-growing statements from supposition to blanket statements of fact, that I was in fact some type of informant for an arm of the Feds, had always been, and always would be, blah, blah, blah fucking blah.

So who registered what and when hasn't got a single fucking thing to do with what I was questioning your actions and words on.

So no, some piece (not bad, btw) of fiction posted somewhere else has nothing to do with the fact that you, with callous recklessness and disregard, constantly claimed that I was/am, an informant for the feds in general, and then the DEA in particular, for absolutely no valid reasons what-so-fucking-ever.

I have no idea who posted here--I haven't even read the post in question, to be honest it's way too fucking far off my radar to even bother with.

All I was looking for was maybe for you to perhaps dial it back, admit that you got caught up and god fucking forbid, perhaps even apologize for smearing the fuck outta me for quite some time now.

Trying to make ANY of this into something that involves Silk Road, or Gypsy Nirvana posting as someone claiming to have met me in prison, or any other red herrings you may come up with, is as I said at the outset, disingenuous of you.

So Haxxie, either dial it back, and apologize, or double down, and see where that gets you.

The choice is yours, but don't come in here and shit up my thread. If you're going to double down, you've already got lots and lots of threads with your bile in 'em. Post in one of those, or start your own next to mine now.

:smoke:
The last fucking thing you want is my undivided attention...

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Post by Plural of Mongoose »

When you walk in to the Royal Courts of Justice, you enter through these massive medieval doors with huge marble arches, and are immediately awed by the lobby area. Something like 70 feet high, with stained glass windows, and detailed cornices, and centuries of grime, with echoes of footsteps on the marble floors filling your ears; if you are not impressed and humbled when you enter, you are dead inside.

The whole ethos is somewhat marred by the guards with automatic weapons, the frost fence around the sidewalk to keep always present protesters the required 20 yards from the entrance, and of course the two massive stainless steel tables housing hulking x-ray machines beside the detection portals you have to pass through to enter. There is a massive stone desk in the center of the lobby leading to the great room, with room for a dozen people behind it, staffed with mebbe two bored looking middle aged matrons, with a broken sign hanging over it.

INFORMATION

I make a beeline for it. I'm two hours early for my first meeting with the Master in Chambers, and I'd been told numerous times by all and sundry who would know of such things, two hours early for your first time is about right. You may even have time for a quick coffee before the session starts. I'm glad I listened.

The folks streaming in and out of this place know what they're doing and where they're going. It's only lowly interlopers such as myself that have to deign to stop and ask for directions. When I was having a last smoke outside before I'd entered, I saw countless Bentley limousines pull up, and disgorge nattily dressed top caliber barristers and solicitors. I saw two goddamn Rolls Royce Silver Shadows, and and a fucking Wraithe, that 624HP sexy rocket with suicide doors! The gentlemen—and make no fucking mistake, they were gentlemen—who were emerging from these rolling works of art were all of a similar type. Tall, broad shouldered and middle-aged, often with paunches and occasionally two chins, but impeccably tailored in multi-thousand pound brushed woolen Saville Row suits (But would be soft as an agora rabbit to the touch), with calf-skin gloves and gleaming shoes from Clark's, and impossibly thin briefcases stuffed to overflowing, these were Serious Men, and they were on Serious Business. And they were The Enemy. And they certainly had no need of any counter titled INFORMATION. There is all kinds of available space on my side of the counter.

I stand there for a few moments. Nobody has offered to help me, but not out of any lack of duty or anything, just that everyone else that stops there is either pulling papers out of, or stuffing papers into their briefcase, or signing a document on the wide marble top, or saving a failed juggle of cell phone, briefcase, file folios, and Styrofoam coffee cup. The two matrons are chatting amicably to each other, plump, and friendly, and smelling I'm sure, faintly of lilac.

"Excuse me," I say. Well, not really. What I actually said was more along the lines of "Ackkkkk Sppppppttttttt Errrrrrrrmmmkkkmkmkk..." Goddammit. In spite of my healthy hydration habits, the two and a half packs a day coupled with spit-drying nervousness had welded the back of my throad to muh tondtils, erm, throat to my tonsils. I casually cleared my throat, which rapidly turned into a classic smokers railroad hacking session that doubled me over, gasping for air and I'm sure with my forehead gleaming a bright cherry red, I leaned on the counter and tried to settle my breathing. One of the matrons had rushed over with motherly concern, looking at me with soft eyes, "Are you all right, luv? Can I help you with anything?"

I fumbled about and produced the wrinkled paper from my trousers that had the room I was looking for written on it in large child-like letters in bold sharpie—my writing is atrocious and I never have my much needed reading glasses handy when I need them, so I've learned the sharpie trick—and pointing to the kindergarten-like scrawl, I said I was looking for this Masters Chambers. She looked a little stricken, and asked, "Oh my, what time are you due there?" I told her in about an hour and forty-five minutes. "Oh good, we should be OK then." But she didn't look convinced.

WTF?

She reaches for a booklet with a picture of the RCJ on the front, a mimeographed fuzzy looking document that likely several hundred iterations ago had purported itself to be some type of map, and a little business-card like square of cardboard.

She made sure I had a good grip on the little square of cardboard, and laid the poor excuse for a map and the four-color RCJ handout on the counter.

"That card has my extension number on it. You've got a cell phone with you? Good!

"Now, when you get lost, if you can't find your way back here, call this number, and ask for my extension. I'm Shirley Potts Smythe-Beddows, and I'm here for three more hours, so you should be OK. Now, you can't get cell service (Actually, mobile, not cell in the UK, but I can't be arsed to keep transcribing that. Note that I can be arsed to use arsed, so I am acclimating to my environs here, slowly but surely over the years.) in large swaths of the complex, in which case you'd be best off asking someone for directions back here, the main door information desk. Just ask any of the bright young things dashing about here, any one of them will be glad to help, for fear if they don't the favor may be returned to them negatively one day." She grimaced a wee bit, "Don't bother asking any of the barristers. They'll just ignore you and keep walking."

I was slowly gaining a massive amount of respect for Ms. Shirley Potts Smythe-Beddows, as well as internally changing what I had classified as 'Casual inquiry, directions, Chambers, route to' in my mind, to 'Mission Masters Chambers, initial briefing, orientation, survival guide and safety briefing. Level 1a. Beginners.'

Ms. Shirley Potts Smythe-Beddows now had my undivided attention, and in the best possible way. I was slowing coming to the conclusion that I'd devoured complex texts on advanced calculus with far greater ease than this coming challenge I was facing would challenge me. She flipped over the four color handout and there was a schematic of a bunch of buildings on the back. I stood there rapt with attention as she continued, well, lecturing me.

"Now this here is where we are now, the main doors to the Royal Courts of Justice (And she said it that way too, with the Capital Letters!), which is here on the map."

With her other hand, she marked a large X for my starting point.

And then she went on for at least five minutes, pointing first to the schematic, so I could orient myself in the grand scheme of things, and then drawing a line on the map indicating the preferred, nay only, route that would get me through that part of the maze. The actual building I wanted was the Sir something or other annex, way at the other end of that A4 sized map. As she described leaving the main building by the back, swinging left until there was a metal grate over a door, which I was to open and go down ONE FLIGHT ONLY, and veer left into a hall, and look for a small door that said 'Warning, construction zone' I noticed that her routing pen had barely left the wrong end of the papers edge. I doubled down on my concentration.

When she finally finished, marking my destination with a flourished X, she glanced at her watch, and told me that I only had 90 minutes left, so I had better hurry. She clasped her hands together and to her breasts, and positively beamed hope and encouragement at me. The other matron had wandered over, and was eyeing me over the top of her glasses, with a smile on her face, but unmistakable sadness in her eyes.

"You'll be fine, now go on." Ms. Shirley Potts Smythe-Beddows said encouragingly, and made a shooing motion with her hands, still beaming her faith in my abilities. Her cohorts eyes over those glasses told a different story. Those eyes said they didn't think I'd be fine, they didn't think so one bit.

I got to the proper floor in the proper building, out of breath, but with five minutes to spare. I carefully folded up my map, folded the four-color handout on top of the map, for protection, and double checked that I had the square card with Ms. Shirley Potts Smythe-Beddows extension number on it. I gently placed it all in my left hand breast pocket of my jacket, and during the two hours of Masters Chambers, kept unconsciously patting my pocket, to ensure it was all still there. I still had to find my way out of there!!


The floor consisted of a large reception area, a couple of stairwells and elevators, washrooms, and six hearing rooms, or Chancery Masters Chambers. There are six Chancery Masters, with one being the Chief Master. They have hidden offices, and Chancery Associates who I assume also have hidden offices, and there must also be hidden washrooms, stairwells and elevators as well. There is also an army of clerks, typists and filing specialists, couriers, ad visors, section manager appointments supervisor with their own slew of clerks, a floor dedicated to Orders and Accounts with their own set of Associates, the essential Chancery Chambers Files Management Office that swallows the first floor (They're the ones who have to deal with a request for a 5,783 page set of files. 27 copies, please.) and Lord Wolf only knows what else associated with the Chancery Division of the High Court, and I'm sure there's some Tardis like device that bends the space time continuum to allow it all to fit into a single building.

Only use peons and members of The Bar use the front door to enter into a Chancery Masters Chambers. He comes and goes through a door behind his desk. If you didn't know all that went on behind and around those six doors, you'd just think you were in a dingy building somewhere on the sprawling grounds of the Royal Courts of Justice. 1970's furniture in the reception area. Carpets so warn down you at first think it's linoleum. And six rather non-descript, dusty looking doors, with little numbers on 'me, 1 to 6. Door five has a piece of paper taped over the number, with the word 'vacant' written in ball point pen on it.

Dude, welcome to the highest court in the land.

To get from the reception area, to a seat in the Chancery Masters Chambers, I had memorized a set of instructions that would have done Ms. Shirley Potts Smythe-Beddows proud.

1) Arrive Early

2) Do NOT take the elevator, use the stairs

3) Do NOT talk to anyone in the reception area, unless they are with you

4) If you must talk, do so in a whisper, and do not mention any matter of LAW or any LEGAL ISSUE

5) Immediately upon arrival, consult the map on the door to the reception area, and locate the hearing room number you require

6) Do NOT approach the room more than ONE MINUTE before your scheduled time

7) The OFFICIAL TIME is the large clock on the wall in the reception room

8) At EXACTLY ONE MINUTE before your scheduled time, make your way to the hearing room

9) Do NOT FOLLOW ANYONE, they may be going to a different hearing room

10) As you approach the hearing room, note the two lights above the door, one red and one green

11) If the RED LIGHT IS ON, STOP! NOW! Make your way back to the reception area

12) If the GREEN LIGHT IS ON, and the door is open, proceed into the hearing room and take a seat

13) If the GREEN LIGHT IS ON, and the door is closed, open the door, proceed into the hearing room and take a seat

14) UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES KNOCK ON THE DOOR TO THE HEARING ROOM. OBEY THE LIGHTS!!!!!!!

15) IF the light was RED, and you are back in the reception area, wait at the top of the hall

16) When you hear a door close in the hallway, make your way to the hearing room. The previous party will have left, and the door should be closed, with the GREEN LIGHT ON -- proceed as in 12) or 13)

17) If you are the last person entering the room, STOP BY THE DOOR, when the MASTER IN CHAMBERS nods at you, close the door, VERY SOFTLY, DO NOT SLAM EVEN LIGHTLY!!! Take your seat

18) If upon return the RED LIGHT IS ON, STOP! NOW! Make your way back to the reception area, and wait until you hear a door close

19) You are not a member of THE BAR. DO NOT under any circumstance emulate the actions of anyone entering or leaving the hearing room

20) UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES bow or genuflect upon entering or exiting the hearing room

21) When entering the hearing room BEWARE MEMBERS OF THE BAR, they will pause to genuflect DO NOT BUMP INTO THEM!!!

22) UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES back out of the hearing room when leaving

23) When leaving the hearing room BEWARE MEMBERS OF THE BAR, they will back out of the room, and bow once for each two steps back they take

24) DO NOT ALLOW YOURSELF to get between a member of THE BAR exiting the hearing room, and the Master in Chambers, they will keep their eyes on him until they have exited the hearing room

25) If you are the last person to leave the room, CLOSE THE DOOR

26) If you are responsible for closing the door, guide it softly to within about 1/2 to 3/4 of an inch of it's final closed position, and stop. In ONE SINGLE BRISK MOVEMENT, SLAM THE DOOR the last 1/2 to 3/4 of an inch closed, ensuring it is loud enough that anyone waiting at the head of the hall can hear

27) Once you have left the hearing room, DO NOT RE-ENTER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, even if the door is open, and even if you have only one foot outside the room!!!! IMPORTANT!!! REMEMBER THIS!!!

28) If you leave/forget something in the hearing room, IMMEDIATELY GO TO THE FOURTH FLOOR and ask for someone from the CHANCERY MASTERS ADJUTANTS OFFICE, and inform them of the item(s). WAIT THERE, DO NOT GO BACK TO THE CHANCERY MASTERS FLOOR. A runner will bring you the item(s). There may be a wait of several hours, as the CHANCERY MASTERS IN CHAMBERS will not be disturbed while a hearing is in session

29) If you wish to cross your legs while seated in the hearing room, please see circular(s) 5 if male, or 7, 9, 11, 15 and 27 if female. Familiarize yourself with volumes III through IX of the CHANCERY MASTERS IN CHAMBERS guide to sitting on a government issued hard-backed chair. If your chair is soft backed, DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE CROSS YOUR LEGS!!!!! IMPORTANT!!!!!

OK, I just made that last one up, but I shit you not, I fucking memorized the first 28.

And yet, I still fucked up, right off the bat.

The reception room was packed, must be a busy day here indeed, and it was eerily silent. Once in a while someone would lean towards another person, and move their lips by their ears, but it wasn't even a murmur, there was no sound. Fucking Silent Hill.

It was getting close to showtime, and I sidled out of the room, and silent padded towards the hallway. There was my room number down the hall, and the light was on! Bonus! Now I could act like I knew exactly what I was doing. As I got to the door, I looked back down the hallway. Nobody was there yet, boy were they going to be surprised!

Cocky now, I confidently opened the door and looked in, there was an old man in a rumpled suit jacket sitting at a desk with papers strewn about. I nodded at him, as he gave me an appraising look, and strode in confidently, and took a chair across from the edge of his desk, and settled down into a really uncomfortable hard-backed chair.

"Good afternoon, my Lord, my name is Mr........ Cla...r....k"

As I was introducing myself, his eyes were getting wider and wider, and he looked at me, then at the door, then at me, then at the door...

"This is, this is, this is highly irregular, Mister, Mister, Clark, was it, Mister Clark?"

I was dumbfounded, and kind of nodded indicating that I *may* in fact be Mr. Clark, but there was still a possibility that I was not indeed Mr. Clark, never was Mr. Clark, and in fact had never even heard of Mr. Clark, all depending on whatever the fuck was going to happen next.

It had not yet been 15 seconds since I had opened the door, and the old man behind the desk looked like he was going to have an apoplexy. Fuck, it's been years since I updated my St. Johns first aid!

My day was going sideways, and fast.

About an eternity later, there were shuffling noises out in the hall, and members of The Bar began genuflecting their way into the room. As each of them rounded the corner and went to focus their gaze on the Master in Chambers, they'd catch sight of me, and goddammit if it didn't trip them up! Slowly the hearing room filled up with shocked looks and wondering gazes, as it dawned on me it wasn't really such a busy day here at the Chancery Masters floor, all those legal beagles in the reception room were packing in *my* fucking hearing room. Never did get an accurate count, I was too flustered, but I'm going to estimate they had 18 people in total. 18 very shocked looking people.

The last man stopped by the door, eyes on the Master in Chambers, and when he got a nod, he then, very softly, closed the door. Turning to go to his seat, he started to speak, "This is highly..."

The man in the rumpled suit jacket behind the desk held his hand up, cutting him off in mid- sentence. He kept the hand up, kinda waving it around indicating that the man who closed the door and started to speak should be seated. Still, he waved his hand, though now more like you'd do with a small child, urging them to speak more softly, but no one was speaking. The Master in Chambers wasn't even looking at the room, he was leaned forward, looking down at the desk, as if there was something of great interest there, still waving his hand. To my shock, it did have an effect, for even the minor adjustments, or crinkling of a file folder in sweaty hands stopped, until finally it was fucking QUIET, like you'd never believe.

He straightened up, gripped his hands together like a prize fighter about to celebrate by raising them clasped over his head, but instead leaned forward, now as if in prayer to his clasped fists. Fucking surreal. He cleared his throat, and addressed the room.

"I would like to assure everyone that Mr. Clark, that's correct, isn't it, Mr. Clark? ..." and he looked at me, as did everyone else in the room. I gave another one of those nods that said, maybe, maybe not...

"Good then. Mr. Clark. I would like to assure everyone that Mr. Clark and I have had no ex-parte communications in my chambers. I believe that Mr. Clark may have been confused or maybe unaware of certain traditions on the one hand, and legal rules, legal regulations, and codes of conduct that must be observed by everyone, including him, in regards to ex-parte communications, or even contact. On the other hand, that is. The contact. So...."

He stopped to clear his throat, and he had a hand up off the desk, only a finger width or so off the desk, but I recognized the international Masters in Chambers hand signal that meant 'Do not make a sound, or move, or breathe, for I am not done.'

"So... I think it would be best, and if we can all agree" nodding in the general direction of the gaggle of members of The Bar, who were all nodding back vehemently, if silently, that yes indeed they did all agree with... "...we can all agree, that Mr. Clark and I not only in fact did not have any ex-parte contact or communications, but, but, but that he merely arrived perhaps a smidgen too early, but I hope we can all agree that you all were right behind him, on his heels, as it were..." There was vigorous nodding all around, and I found myself caught up in it, bobbing my head as if my life depended on it, but silently though, not making a sound. If my neck cracked now, I'd likely be clapped in irons and thrown in the dungeon... "and that for our purposes, everyone has just arrived just now, as is right, and we can all begin. Is that OK with everyone? All right?"

He was looking darned near cheery now, looking around the room to make sure that it was not just OK with everyone, but All right! as well.

"Well then, shall we begin."

And that began the first of 25 hearings with the Chancery Master in Chambers.


To be continued, eh..........

I'm bushed.

:smoke:
The last fucking thing you want is my undivided attention...

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well_lol_doh
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Post by well_lol_doh »

I tell you what these PoM updates are like literary Ambien.

They're not only making Mongoose bushed from writing them, I'm exhausted after reading them. I certainly won't be needing my prescription meds to sleep like a lamb tonight.

:whine:

Nightie nite folks.
If men didn't have willies to wave the world would be a lot more sane place...

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Post by Chill-Bill »

3662 words just describing walking through a building and taking a pew, damn. :wink:
It's mercy, compassion and forgiveness I lack. Not rationality.

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Post by well_lol_doh »

Chill-Bill wrote:3662 words just describing walking through a building and taking a pew, damn. :wink:
Lol. Maybe he wrote it on the plane?
If men didn't have willies to wave the world would be a lot more sane place...

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