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Rant and Rave about The Canna Trade.
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Plural of Mongoose
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Post by Plural of Mongoose »

I've had about 4 hours of no power here, and I'm getting frustrated as hell. Power and internet are up now, obviously, so I'm going to make this quick.

I ended up making this way longer than I intended, the text file for the next part weighs in at about 45kb, and I'm not quite to the juicy bit that you've all been waiting for, How the everloving Christ am I not in fucking jail right now? That important bit is pretty much all written out, but I haven't proof-read it or examined it for sanity. I'm not going to do that until I've had some sleep, it's way fucking later than I intended.

I'm skipping off right after I post up what is ready in just a minute here, and then I'm off to collapse in bed for the night/morning/whatever.
The last fucking thing you want is my undivided attention...

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Post by Plural of Mongoose »

OK, where was I... oh yeah...

So I'm walking sexed seedlings and/or clones down to the grow quite a few times a day, the grow is filling up nicely, and I'm starting to regain one of my bedrooms. The newly built seedling section is just about finished, so soon I'll actually have two bedrooms in my two bedroom house. Whee.

So, I'm mixing up nutes one fine morning, and there's a knock at the door. Likely the guys that run the restaurant. Had to re-wire the building a couple of months ago to get everything prepped, and did odd jobs for them repairing shit or painting, and generally being the cool guy that's renting the top floor. They barely had the mechanical aptitude to flush a toilet, so they loved having their own handyman that would fix busted shit for a plate of crispy beef and noodles. I yelled out that I was just doing something on the ladder, and would come down in a minute.

Metropolitan Police, open the door NOW!

Well, fuck.

Loud fucking banging on the door. Lots of loud banging. Those fuckers must take a special course in loud banging. And I'd run into the graduated-with-honors class.

I sat down on the floor, lit a cigarette, and pondered. Perhaps if I stayed *real* quiet, they'd get bored and leave. Did not seem very likely, to be honest.

"Gentlemen," I yelled back finally, "Do you have a warrant?"

Attempting to cross all my fingers for extra luck, I ended up jamming the cherry of my cigarette into that fleshy web-bit of skin 'tween my third finger and pinky, and generally began rapidly to lose my faith in the powers of finger-crossing when a voice boomed, "Yes, we have a goddamn warrant to search for evidence of cocaine dealing and large quantities of currency. Now open the door before we kick the fucking thing down!"

Well shit, I started to laugh. Really. I just couldn't help it. Cocaine and currency, eh. Pretty fucking sure there weren't going to be finding any quantity of either one of those things in here.

"What the fuck are you laughing about?" one cops voice booms through the door. Those fuckers gotta take special courses in booming too, cause that was one serious fucking door, and the dude just boomed right through it like it was an Ikea closet door. And this dude was sounding *pissed* right off. Oh, and big. That voice said that the boots attached to it had kicked in many a door, and reveled in aforesaid kicking, with energy left over for apprehending the alleged perpetrator and perhaps saving a bit of toe for them if they didn't cooperate and open the goddamn bleeding door right fucking bleeding now!

Well, crap. I just could not stop fucking laughing. With snot literally jetting from my nostrils as I tried to contain myself, and blurted out, "I'm fucking laughing at you, you fucking doofus, thinking you're going to kick in my fucking door. Have you even looked at the fucking door you've been pounding on like a 14 year old beating his dick before mum comes in his room to take him to church. Have you?"

I'd managed to stop laughing now, and was working myself up into a fine spirit of righteous indignation, eh. Yeah, sometimes I am my own worst fucking enemy.

And then I heard what was about to be my undoing. "Holy fuck John," I hear someone say softly on the other side of the door. "Would you look at the fucking door."

And I heard a giggle. No, not just one goddammit, at least two, and possibly a whole gaggle of giggles. Well, the shoe was on the other foot now, and I'll be god-dammed if I'm going to let them fucking giggle at my fucking door.

Ah yes, I did feel a rant coming on. And, oh yes, they were going to get the brunt of said rant. Oh, and let me warn you of something right now. Do NOT try this at home. You see, those fuckers on the other side of the door all have little notepads. And one of the things they do with the little fuckers is to write down every-fucking-thing you say at a time like this. Every. Fucking. Thing. And those notes are going to be read out loud in court at your trial. There outta be a law against shit like that.

But hey, rant mode had been engaged. I fired up another cigarette, and stood in front of the door shaking my finger at it. Oh, they may have had their masters degrees in banging and booming, but I had a strict Swedish grandmother, and I have my fucking PhD in finger shaking genetically embedded in me.

"Kick down my door? Kick down my fucking door? That door is a Johnson Specialties* 8 hour fire rated steel clad beauty, with 2 inches of fire-crete™ barrier material, 6mm criss-crossed hardened steel internal supports, with quad dual-throw cross axis throw bolts. There's 8 fucking 3/4 inch hacksaw proof bolts six inches long that secure BOTH fucking sides of the frame/door matings, with drop-forged alloy roll rods free-floating internally to defeat attempts at cutting. There's six fucking heavy duty hinges on your side of the door attached to an 8 inch reinforced steel joist that forms the frame the fucking door is attached to. There are six of those fucking heavy duty roll-pressed hinges because the door alone weighs over 200 fucking kilograms, and they have to fucking support its weigh when it opens. You could spend six hours with sledgehammers and cold chisels peeling the fucking hinges off the door and you still wouldn't be one iota closer to kicking my fucking door down. And note that the fucking hinges are on YOUR FUCKING SIDE of the door. My side of the door has more RSJ I beam, you could hit the fucking thing with a tank and tear the fucking building down and that fucker would still be closed. That fucking door cost me 2200 fucking quid, and right up until now I had buyers remorse thinking maybe I had gone a little over the top with it. But now, now I fucking love that door, and I fucking dare you to even fucking THINK about kick it down!"**

*I made that name up, who the fuck remembers the brand name of a door, eh.

**The rant bit is pretty close to the actual rant. I spent 40 hours in the Kingston police station lockup before being transferred to magistrates court for my first pleading. About 4 hours of that was spent with the 9 constabulary who were hanging around doing their paperwork, and comparing those little notepads so that they could all finish their reports in agreement with each other. Most the time went something like "No, I'm sure he said there were six of those alley foreign rolling tree rods. Hey, Mongoose, was there six of them things, and what the fuck are they?" And I would patiently explain that there was in fact six of them, and they were drop-forged alloy roll rods that were free-floating, that is to say there was a tube within the bolts and these rods were smaller than the tubes, but fucking hard as a fucking diamond nearly. If you managed to cut partway through the bolt, when you got to the rod, you couldn't cut it cause it would just roll back and forth, and you weren't going to chop at or chisel it, cause it was some stupidly high Rockwell number of hardness. I will say one thing though, years later, I assure you that at the Kingston police station, that fucking door is a legend. A fucking legend.

I was taking a breather now, cigarette long since extinguished from the rush of air from my furious finger shaking that had accompanied my rant. There was silence on the other side of the door. I swear I could have heard a pin drop on the carpet outside of it, even through 2 inches of fire-crete™ barrier material.

The gentleman, who I now know was John, he of the booming voice, now said in what I can only describe as a soft, awed tone of voice, "Sir, exactly how much cocaine do you have on the other side of this amazing bleeding door of yours?"

With no booming yelling going on, and feeling a bit bushed myself, I was feeling in a bit more of a conciliatory mood. "Exactly how much, or would approximately suffice?" I responded. Hey, I was buying time trying to think of something to get me out of this shit. Spoiler - I did not buy sufficient time to get me out of this shit.

"Um, approximately would be quite fine, sir."

"OK then. None."

"Oh. What if I'd said exactly, sir?" Goddamn, a sudden attack of non-booming politeness had broken out. Why, that door just paid for itself over and over again.

"Well then, I would have said exactly zero kilograms. To two significant digits. For precision, you know." Pens were scrabbling over pads furiously.

I was getting into the spirit of things now, and asked, "What was the other thing on your warrant, currency, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes sir. Um, actually it reads currency and negotiable instruments and materials. Stocks, gold, diamonds, those type of things. You understand? Basically anything of value."

Now, I was thinking that maybe that whole 'Basically anything of value bit' was perhaps stretching the language of the warrant a tad, but I was trying to appear cooperative. I spent a few minutes rummaging about, had another cigarette, and pondered my predicament. There was a murmur of voices on the other side of the door. The fucking murmur of a crowd. Just how many of them were out there on the stairs and landing outside my fine door anyways? (Nine it turned-out. Ten counting the dog.)

I'd smoked two cigarettes and had started on my third when there was a tapping on the door. You read that right, tapping. "Are you all right in there sir?"

"Yeah, fine. I'm about ready. Do you guys have something to write with?" They voice assured me they did in fact have smoothing to write with. Oh, if only I'd known.

"Well, OK then, I'll do currency first, and then negotiable instruments and materials, if that's OK with you." They assured me that in fact would be more than acceptable. Now, I had cleverly left out 'Basically anything of value' and they hadn't noticed. Maybe I would get away with this. (Spoiler - no I wouldn't)

"Eleven pounds and forty-two pence." I enunciated slowly, it wouldn't pay to have any confusion at this point in time. I glanced at the torn and worn 5 pound note that had the look and consistency of used Kleenex, and the smattering of coins that I'd pulled from various pockets on my person and pouches on my mac. I wasn't holding anything back from them. "Did you manage to get that, or do you want me to repeat it, or can I move on to negotiable instruments and materials"

"No, that's fine, please do move on."

"OK then. Negotiable instruments and materials then. I've got one, that is to say a lone singleton, of a subway 'buy six, get one free' card, with four, repeat four, stamps on it. I can't say for sure the exact value without a certified appraisal, but as a Subway aficionado, my educated guess would value it with the current number of official sub-club stamps, at approximately 4 pounds and fifty seven pence, give or take a few pence. Um, report complete, uh, sir." Hey, I figured why not return the politeness. Yes, there were nine dedicated officers of the law writing down my every word, and a very confused dog outside my door.

Nobody said anything to me, but I could hear some muttering on the other side of the door. I know I clearly made out "Who the fuck is this guy?" Perfect! My identity was still unknown to them. Things are looking up here. I fired up what I now realized was my last cigarette left in the package. Damn. I doubted they'd be willing to send someone next door to grab me a pack. Fuck.

Fortune favors the bold, and it was time to put an end to this farce, so I plucked up my courage as I put out my last cigarette. "So, I guess that's it then. I suppose you fellows will be off now. Have a nice day. It really has been nice chatting with you."

"Actually sir, we do in fact need to access the premises demised on the warrant, and confirm that accuracy of your statements. Before you respond, let me make it clear that this is not negotiable, and that we will not be leaving until we have gained access. Further to that, if you do not grant us access, not only can you be charged with obstructing peace officers in the performance of their duty, we will be forced to have a team come in here and, however long it takes, dismantle this wonderful door of yours. Believe me, we all agree that it would be a crying shame to harm this door. We've never seen anything quite like it, and that's saying something."

Hey, I know when I'm beat. OK, so maybe not, but it *does* eventually sink in. "OK, but one thing, will you promise me that someone will give me a cigarette when I open the door?" I got a hasty affirmative on that. Score! "Stand back then. This fucker is heavy and gets some momentum, it has a hydraulic assist mechanism to open it, and the last fucking thing I want is to knock some of you down the stairs. Let me know when you are clear of the door swept area."

There was a half minute of shuffling and cursing; the landing at the top of that dim stairway was maybe 5 feet by 4 feet, and nine bodies had to accommodate themselves mostly on the stairs. I got the OK, and opened the door.

As I opened the door, I said, "Welcome, gentlemen, to my hobby cannabis farm." (There was a female constable there, but I never twigged to that until a few minutes later when I was sitting there cuffed, and she brought me the promised cigarette.)

It was like a scene in one of those movies where the light from heaven shines down upon the protagonist. The door to the main flowering room was open, cause I never thought to close it, at that point in time the jig was pretty much up. There were 32 Plantmax DP/LU600 watt High Pressure Sodium discharge bulbs in shiny air-cooled enameled housings, sucking down slightly over 20 kilowatts of power in that room alone, with the area outside the door decorated with 32 gold anodized aluminum high performance electronic ballasts, all blasting out a total of well over 3 million lumens of flowering frequency attuned light. I'd forgot about that 'cause I was wearing a pair of them round welders glass style goggles. When I opened the door it absolutely lit them up like a like, well, a light from heaven. There were nine members of a heavily armed team with body armor and all the accoutrement's standing there trying to shield their eyes. Big John was at the front, and I thought he was going to dislocate his jaw, it dropped so fast. I stood there in wonderment staring a nine, now blind police blocking the stairs.

I went over to the emergency kill Big Red Button, and killed the power. HPS lights don't just turn off, so it looked pretty eerie as they ran down the spectrum in their cooling cycle. a 300 cfm radial fans for drawing cooling air for each light hood, and a half dozen 12 inch 3200 cfm fans for cycle and carbon filter flow, all located in the attic, began to spin down for the next minute or so. The fans were all acoustically insulated, but when the stopped you noticed that lack of a droning sound that you never noticed while they were running. For the next minute or so, nobody said a word. Big John was grasping for a handhold, so I grabbed him and guided him in and set him on the floor. It was going to be ten minutes before the spots in his eyes faded enough for him to walk, he got the brunt of it.

Finally, all you could hear was the creaking and clicking of the light fixtures as they cooled. Not a word had been spoken for five minutes, as everyone regained their equilibrium. Finally, one of the officers by the door said, "Holy fuck. Holy bleeding fuck. Holy fuck." Then one of them said to me, damn politely I might add, "Um, I'm very sorry sir, but we are going to have to place you under arrest, for, um, well under arrest."

I sat there with those damned uncomfortable irons they use in the UK, big, heavy things with a solid steel bar that holds one hand 8 inches above the other, for two hours while every member of any police station within a 20 mile radius trekked in and about my grow. The nice lady brought me cigarettes without saying a word, as I chain smoked and sat there, pretty fucking stunned myself. Fucking cocaine and currency? What the actual fuck?

The police dog was broken. He had been close to the door, and his handler spent close to half an hour reassuring the poor thing. This wasn't a big, mean-ass German shepherd, it was some type of terrier, and cuter than shit, and for a while blind as a bat. He came over and said he was pleased to meet me, but he was going to take his charge home for the day, and another handler would come by with a dog to go through the place. I looked at him like he had two heads, and kinda nodded to the pretty fucking obvious plants filling the space, without saying a word. He laughed and explained that his charge wasn't a drug dog, it was in fact trained to sniff out currency, that while he personally believed that the declared eleven pounds and forty-two pence I had declared was in fact the extent of the currency on the premises, they were required to have to dog perform a search to confirm. OK then. Nice guy, cool dog. I felt bad.

When I went downstairs to be taken to the police station, there was Choy, the namesake of the place in handcuffs, along with the confused operators who rented the restaurant from him, a handful of Chinese cooks. All in handcuffs, and they'd been that way since the whole thing started. Boy, did they all look confused when I came out, cuffed, goggles around my neck and surrounded by the eight remaining officers who had been stationed on the stairs. There were police cars, trucks and vans overflowing the parking lot, and parked on the sidewalks up and down the street. There must have been 50 cops milling about, coming or going, everyone wanting to see 'The Room'.

It turns out Choy was dealing a little coke on the side, and got busted with around 1/2 oz. in his car. When they searched his house, they found a 1/2 kilo or so more, and a veritable cornucopia of other drugs. 2 oz of mescaline. 2 kg brick of speed paste. A few ounces of weed. A few dozen tabs of X, and a few other minor things I can't recall. On his desk they found paperwork and notes, and on it he had things like; restaurant, 600,000 GBP, 18yar, 16,500, etc. The wizards that did the search ciphered the numbers out to mean there was 600k GBP there, or 18 bricks of coke at 16,500 profit each, way more in total, etc., when they got the warrant for where I was. Turns out Choy was calculating how much he'd get if he sold the building for 600k, and took back a mortgage on it for 18 years paying 16,500/quarter in principle, etc., etc. So because Choy was careless, and some over-zealous keener mis-interpreted the numbers, (I'm betting they never even asked Choy) I got the pleasure of having my hard work seized. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Plus, added bonus, jail time.

When I left Surbiton police station, I was transported to Kingston Magistrates Court for initial plea. In the UK, you can get 1/3 off your sentence, if, and only if, you plead guilty at the earliest opportunity. No plea or not guilty that first visit knocks that off the table. I was looking at 5 to 15 years, and even in my wildest dreams did I see any chance of a not guilty plea to cultivation of cannabis charges was going to work. Fifty fucking years of never getting speeding tickets, or in bar fights, or coming on the radar criminally was down the tubes. Thirty years in the cannabis biz had made me very careful, and another mans stupidity and dumb fucking luck had caught up with me. When my case was called, I said I was pretty fucking much going to plead guilty to all charges. A gavel was banged, and I was whisked out of court. Because of the severity of my crimes, or sentence at least, bail was not an option. As a holder of a Canadian passport, I was an automatic risk of flight or escape, coupled with the possible 15 years I was facing, medium security was out of the question.

I went directly from court to Wandsworth prison, pretty much a hellhole, but hey, now it was my hellhole. When I left, most the inmates in my wing, and 1/2 the guards knew more about how to cultivate cannabis than they'd ever imagined they would. I had fun teaching that shit, and I was 'That guy with that incredible grow above the Chinese restaurant,' to inmates and staff alike. I did my time without any problems or trouble in there, which looking back where I was and the reputation the place has frankly surprises even me.

A nice judge who took the time to examine my activist background, and who understood that some sick people need cannabis, and need cannabis grown in sterile conditions, had my case. He understood that a speck of mold, or a mite infestation could be deadly serious to the people who needed what I was growing. The prosecution went on and on about how it was the most sophisticated cannabis grow operation pretty much anyone had ever seen, and that required additional penalty, and said that combined with the 3.5 million GBP a year the main room alone would have produced, they were pushing for 22 years. My defense argued that no one growing for the money would have spent the ridiculous amounts of time, money and effort building an operating-room level of cleanliness and sterility in a commercial grow. Commercial grows don't have triple hepa filters, and operating room rated UV ambient air sterilizers, and airlocks into the main grow area, and they sure as shit don't have glazed quarry tile floors and walls to minimize contamination. And on, and on.

The judge really was cooler than shit, and solidly on my side. On several occasions we adjourned for a few days, because the judge had been doing some research, and found something that he really thought that defense counsel should consider presenting in my defense. By the time my case was finally completed, the prosecution was whipped.

When my sentencing hearings were finally over, the judge started off by giving me the minimum allowed under guidelines. I got the full 1/3 reduction allowed for pleading guilty early. He then clawed back another year for special circumstances, which he meticulously detailed his reasoning for. He then lopped off another six months, which he argued he was allowed to do under arcane guidelines he'd researched just for my sentencing. We broke for lunch, he'd been 'passing sentence' on me for three hours by now. After lunch, I thought it was all over but the final banging of the gavel. Nope. He had more extraordinary pronouncements in mind. It was within his power to suspend a year less a day of my sentence, and he was going to do so. Because it was so unusual, he wanted to put his reasoning on the record in full, so that, he hoped, the Criminal Prosecution Service would make no attempts to appeal his ruling. If they did, he wanted his complete thought process and reasoning read into the record. He then went on and said some of the nicest things about me that I have ever heard, never mind even thought of. He had me, the gallery, and I swear to Christ I'm sure the prosecutor in tears by the time he was done. Goddamn, did I ever fucking luck out drawing him to sentence me.

And the CPS took it in stride and let it go.

Who am I kidding. When I got out of jail, they had my (now expired) passport and said I had to come in person to pick it up. I needed it to get a new passport, so reluctantly went down to the Kingston CPS office at the police station to pick it up. They arrested me and I was locked up in the Immigration Detention Center (Like a hotel, locked in cells from 11pm to 6 am. Free reign of the place the rest of the time. Pool tables, recreation, library, coffee shop, huge exercise yard, 3 *decent* meals a day.) You can leave anytime you like, just let a member of staff know. You have to leave the country and never come back, though. I've stayed in worse hotels, and that kept me tied up for another few months until finally a reasonable judge cottoned on to what the CPS was doing, and bailed me for the princely sum of 100 pounds sterling.

Because everything was a result of my actions, my decisions, I never reached out to anyone. Folks have their own problems, and asking for sympathy or support was never my style. Pay your money, take the ride. Getting fucked and bounced to immigration likely tickled the CPS folks pink, but I just slogged on working my way through the convoluted system until I managed to get free of it. It's not that I even *wanted* to stay in the UK, it was that I was under no goddamn circumstances going to be kicked out. If I leave, I'm doing it by my choice and under my own power.

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.

Now I was going to continue on with the bullshit you've fed Moustache that I read in his 'old guard' bit the other day. Damn fine piece of writing, and obviously a large portion of it came from you and your alt handles.

I was going to go through that piece line by line, and skip back here and destroy every little bit of that bullshit, line by line. Threatened and blackmailed Gypsy Nirvana, threatened to out breeders and growers, etc., etc.

Yet the short version was that fucking Shipperke and rezdog and lots of others were taking blank fucking money orders that Gypsy was stealing from his company, and his business partner, and using them to launder his ill gotten gains. Gypsy had control of the website and changed the mailing addy, and left instructions that payment by blank money orders only were allowed. 'Cause he was still getting some payable to Gypsy Nirvana, he legally changed his name to Gypsy Nirvana, and took those money orders to Amsterdam to put in his personal account. And on. And on...

But because I tried to warn Ship and rez, I'm a fucking blackmailer?

OK, where's rez now? Oh yeah, got busted along with Dutchgrown, and then rolled on Gypsy. How did he roll on Gypsy? Well, he turned over those blank money orders Gypsy sent him for payment for seeds to the feds, opening the fucking door to Gypsy now facing charges for conspiracy to launder monetary instruments, or you know, blank fucking money orders taken without color or right from a company he only partially owned and laundered them with DG and rez in the fucking USA. Ding ding ding, what have all these fine folks won here, Gene?

Gene: "What we have here is a karmic masterpiece of villainy, betrayal, and incarceration for all the players involved in the blank money order scam. They will each receive room and board as guests of the government or a for-profit prison corporation for the full term of their federal sentences"

Ahem.

<clears throat, my that's a tough voice to imitate>

Then there's the whole 'Mongoose and Gypsy's ex tried to wrest control of the company from him, but Gypsy went to court and won!'

Well, OK this one DOES actually look like that's what happened, and that Gypsy won.

This one yer all going to have to do some thinking for yourselves on. Keep in mind I'm going to spend the next week or more confabbing with Moustache, and while much won't be for public consumption, much will. He can of course post anything he wants, but I trust him to follow my wishes and let me deal with this whole NY thing before he releases a good portion of our talks.

Anyways, Gypsy Nirvana Ltd was a shell of a company. Gypsy had stolen all the income producing assets, and left his ex with the liabilities. As a co-director, she was equally responsible for his illegal acts. UK directors are criminally liable for a UK company's criminal acts, and her saying, but he was mean to me and did all this shit and I couldn't stop him, well, won't wash in front of a judge. Worse, Gypsy KNEW this, and taunted that he wasn't even in the country anymore, and when the shit hit the fan, he'd dance with glee watching her to to jail. I'm not even kidding, that's just who he is. Check out the Gypsy Fury vids where he has Teflon in fear for his life. That wasn't anyone fucking acting, that was Gypsy getting off on having someone in fear for their life from him. He's done that shit, a lot, but being rich, he buys off his trouble, or threatens your friends and family, etc. I'm a pacifist, but I'd even consider taking a day off from that for a shot at him.

Anyways.

Because the company was 50/50, both parties have to agree to even wind it up. And the liabilities there were, and are, astounding. Inland Revenue currently wants some 15 million GBP from the company, and Gypsy's ass if he steps foot in the UK. Then they'll extradite him to the US.

But I'm ahead of myself, where was I. Oh yeah, Gypsy beat me and his ex in court.

Here's what happened...

Briefly, I promise.

One day I woke up and said hey, I know how to get Gypsy's ex (and my ex too, btw, but I still love her, and this was a GREAT fucking plan) free of the liabilities he was, and still is for that matter, for the company. On the weekend of 4/20, the company held an extraordinary meeting of the directors. As one of the directors wasn't there, and had in fact been absent for six consecutive meetings (I spent two months studying arcane UK company law to set this fucking train in motion) a motion was carried and passed to replace Mr. Nirvana as company director, and I stepped into the role. (There's literally a hundred pages of court pleadings that argue how this was legal. I wrote 'em, I know)

Then free of the directorship of the company, she then transferred her shares in the company to me! Woo hoo, I am now liable for the years and years of criminal acts that dickhead had been, and still was up to in the name of the company. How fucked am I. My lawyer suggested I just shoot myself, and that there was a good chance I'd end up doing time for tax fraud if I had to sign an annual report. Fuck me, eh.

So then I, and Gene Barker, and a few other confidants came over to PG, and rubbed GNs nose in the fact that he was now partners with his worst enemy, and to add insult to injury, I was president, the accountant Peter Jones (no relation to Variety. Really. Make a note of that, Moustache) a super nice, now retired guy, took on the very fucking risky role of director. Gypsy was just a shareholder now, too bad boo boo.

Well fuck, I don't fish, but I can only imagine what it must be like to hook a 140 lb. marlin for a six hour fight to the finish. Goddamn if I didn't hook myself a 240 lb. roid raging Gypsy, and this fight was gonna take a lot longer than six hours. The game was afoot.

Now, Gene Barker, and FAQJack, and a few others and I did kinda take advantage of Planet Ganja for this to play out. Oh, it was a level playing field... Old Pink and rezdog and Gypsy and DutchGrown could all come to PG and post, uncensored. But so could we. They hate that, so they held court at ICMag (which belonged to Gypsy Nirvana Ltd -- it was actually smokes that caught the day he moved it to himself. Poof, instant ownership change. He could have been charged criminally, but his ex would not, under any circumstances, cooperate with the authorities against him. Fuck me, he was so lucky she's such a sweetheart.

Eventually, Gypsy got me served to go to court, and then the fun REALLY began. He's got this high powered law firm. They show up with a solicitor, three barristers, three articling members, and I shit you not, TWO hulking guys in suits who's only job is to wheel about their hand-trucks full of documents. And this was at the first meeting in Chambers of the Chancery High Court. That's the highest civil court in the country, and the front doors are 30 feet high, and the lobby 70 feet high. Impressive fucking building. We'd all end up spending 25+ days in there, over the course of Gypsy suing me to try and get me out of the company, and wrest control of the position of president back for himself.

Oh, on 'our' side.

Me. I spent a few months reading up on UK corporate law, and much to the chagrin of everyone, convinced the Master in Chambers that I had what it would take to take on the behemoth law firm and their gaggle of high paid professionals. I'm pretty sure the Master in Chambers knew what I was up to, but he never gave out any hint, and rode me like a three dollar whore whenever I was in there.

Now, the sharper ones of you out there already know how this turns out.

Finally after months of effort on both sides, and thousands of hours of wrangling, we're going to be going to the High Courts of Justice, and argue in Chancery Court, in that big old famous building, in the highest court in the land, the very home of civil procedure. Some lawyers work for decades to get here. Fucking Gypsy dragged me in. Thoughtful of him, damn nice, I really did get a lump in my throat when I walked in to start arguing, on my first day in court as solicitor ad some Latin term, or some such title. Basically it means in the eyes of the court, I'm on equal footing with the powdered and posh dandy's I'm up against. BTW, they really do wear them funny wigs over there.

The Master in Chambers we'd all been dealing with is really the guy in charge. As we negotiate towards going to court, each side makes applications, or requests rulings from him. When the matter is in front of a judge, and the judge has any questions as to procedure or primacy, he consults the masters notes. The judge cannot over-rule the Master. What he has already decided, is law in the courtroom.

Now, before anyone can testify in Chancery Court, they have to submit a precis, or statement covering the germane issues to which they will be testifying. Witnesses cannot 'surprise' the other side with statements that weren't already covered in witness statements. The opposition can grill the witness not just on what they testify to, but anything and everything that's in their witness statement. They are super important documents, and they are crafted with a close eye, and a helluva lot of expensive legal talent, ensuring they are 'just right' before they are signed off on.

Now, normally a Master tells each side they have until X deadline to get all their witness statements to the other side. Now, Gypsy's lawyers loved to tell the Master that I was a crafty and conniving individual. They insisted that he rule not that we had to exchange by a certain date, but ON that date. The next Chambers, they insist on tightening it even more.

They wanted a ruling that allowed a one hour time-frame on the date. Between one and two PM. If more was allowed, they argued that if their's was delivered to me at one, I'd have an army of folks pour over them, looking for any advantage. I would then craft portions of my witness statements to take advantage of my advance knowledge. I was truly a mad genius, and could in a few short hours wrest a totally unfair advantage.

The Master then asked me if I was, in fact, a mad genius.

Well shit, nobody likes the hard questions.

Gotta say I was speechless, and that doesn't happen very often. Now, after about the third Masters Chambers, the Master got tired of the fairly small chambers being packed. Huge lawsuits went forward with maybe six or eight people at a time in total, maximum. On the third Chambers, they showed up with 15. The Master lost his shit. 10 was to be their maximum, period. This was getting to be like the keystone cops, and he Would. Not. Have. That. Ten. Period. Is. That. Clear.

It was, so I was facing a relatively small opposition that day. So, I said...

Master, as you know there are normally ten of them here, and only me on this side. I really do think this is terribly unfair. However, you have made it clear they can't bring in more people to even things up, so I think I should be gracious and offer them any small advantage they think they are going to need to proceed. I will be fine with agreeing to a one hour window, on a day thirty days prior to the commencement of proceedings. I bowed, and sat down. Goddamn, I do love the law.

And I was getting on more familiar territory, to boot! Now this was gonna be like some kind of big-ass drug deal. Two guys with briefcases, eyeing each other up, men in dark pin stripe suits standing behind them. You can't let hold of your briefcase until the other side until you have a firm grip on his. Booya! Yep, I can live with that, for sure.

45 days to court. The final Meeting in Chambers. The Master is uncharacteristically cheerful today, perhaps he got laid last night. (The visual was not good, short, hunched and balding in his 70's, with a tendency to drool a bit from one side of his mouth when concentrating on reading.) The matter was cleared up immediately. He was thrilled to inform us that this was indeed, our last scheduled Chambers before we go to court. His joy was the knowledge that his Chambers would not be packed like a clown car in the foreseeable future, and please do not take offense, but he is pleased as punch to be seeing the back of us today. Then he got down to business.

There are stacks of binders on his desk, six piles of them. 4 binders per file, each binder about 3 inches thick, with a smaller 1 inch binder on the top. As the Master in Chambers takes a slim binder off the top of one of the stacks, he begins to explain the index, and it dawns on me. Somewhere in all these Chambers, they had inisted on Masters Lists in Full, or something to that effect. Everything we'd discussed, argued, agreed or disagreed about was in there. From the Masters notes he was making all the time. I was in awe. The dog and pony show had bunches and bunches of questions. Where was the agreement on scope? The Master would grab a book in front of him facing upside down to him, rightside up to us, and flip it over to the middle somewhere, and run his finger down the edge tabs, saying "Right around page 120 or so, just before the appeals allowable on rebuttals for cross examination section, it's about two paragraphs in."

Now I know there is an army of troll clerks under the law courts that slave away producing endless scads of documents, so I certainly didn't think the guy typed them himself. But there was 800 pages of fairly complex positions laid out in those binders, and he knew what and where everything was. One of their stuffed shirts would start a question, and then have to refer to notes or confer to determine exactly what they wanted to ask, while the Master made come on gestures, clearly frustrated at waiting on their questions. When they finally choked it out, he'd pounce on a binder and in seconds flip unerringly to the section in question, the re-iterate what it said, and without bothering to read it, just point to it for the sake of the other party. I had no doubt that the Master in Chambers had a better idea of the nuances of the case than all of us combined, and god only knows how many cases he juggles at a time. We all got up to leave as I grabbed my set of notes. When next I saw a pack of 'em, we were going to be in fucking High Chancery whatever place with the big doors and shit, what the fuck do I think I'm doing here. Somewhere today I'd lost my cocky edge, out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever, and I think I may have started to have a panic attack. Goddammit!


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

:smoke:

(edited in a fit of raging perfectionism to remove extraneous " UK dire" and fix spacing)
Last edited by Plural of Mongoose on Mon Sep 21, 2015 11:15 am, edited 1 time in total.
The last fucking thing you want is my undivided attention...

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Post by well_lol_doh »

:popcorn: Excellent. I look forward to reading the next installment.

TLDR; for those who need it:

*Some stuff about being busted for growing weed - being in prison is a good alibi if you want to deny involvement in Silk Road - and then there's a few bits on the Overgrow drama and Gypsy et al that no-one cares about but it's a setting the record straight thing for those who so cruelly tarnished Pom's internet rep. For our info: Pom took over Gypsy's company from Nicky 'cause he was in love and shit and the move was purely altruistic to help her. :tup:

Main points:

*His full name is Roger Thomas Clark, but he goes by his middle name Thomas. There was some confusion about this after Motherboard hacked his emails under the guise of investigative journalism.
*He's talking to La Moustache extensively this week and once he's in NYC Moustache is at liberty to post what he likes from this exchange. Hopefully he'll just post the lot.
*Vague denials about being involved in SR, and being its architect, which of course is to be expected. In the words of Mandy Rice-Davies, Well he would. Wouldn't he.

Pom doesn't reference SR directly, no doubt going on legal advice. Given that Ulbricht's been handed a pine box sentence and there's a love of conspiracy charges in the US, meaning every defendant in a criminal case is charged with the exact same crimes, admitting online that you were the creator of Silk Road's secret mentor is a bad fucking idea.
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Post by ninjacloakd »

..... hey PoM, FYI, the new place is hidden away (in plain view!) in Appalachia.

Don't forget to turn off your cell phone and put it away in one of those 'special' pouches first. :smoke:

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Post by Shazaam »

Dammit, dammit, dammit!!! :facepalm:

That flea-bittin bastard has gone and done it again!!!

ARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!

Finish the damned "gypsy won trial thing", PLEASE!!!

Dammit all.

Someone have a link for "the claw" ???

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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.
GOVERNMENT WARNING: Marijuana use can cause complex thoughts leading to better ideas of how to live your life. Caution, free thinking has been routinely reported with continued use.

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

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