The mysterious but omnipresent "Mel H." in my life and his sexual/psychiatric destruction of it

I reference my previous writing, "VA Horror!" To describe how I was saddled with a 20-year hitch of being a "Congessionally-Paid Homosexual Serial Killer In Situ Study" by HI Judge Komo in 1994.  At the behest of Secret Service Brian Larkin, and at the acquiescence of the Public Defender assigned to me.  This "Plea Bargain" included 3 prior Security Breaches I'd been ordered to commit and keep secret about, and the witnessing of an actual disposal of such kind of crime by a "Sexual/political embarrassment disposal team" I'd witnessed, and also sworn to secrecy about.  Not to mention... Well, uh...
Included in these files to be sent to Phoenix Federal Court under seal was also, as Larkin put it, "I'm not sure what it is, Your Honor, but it's the birth certificate from some Indonesian guy named Barry Soetoro.  And his, too."
Meaning my own.
When AZ Sheriff's "Universe-shattering stuff" comes out, you'll understand.
"Why Phoenix?"  The Judge had asked.
"Well, he gets this inheritance, and it's based in Phoenix...  His psychological profile says he'll move to the Mainland and become a truck driver."  Had said Larkin.  Another issue.
And of course the Judge was impressed by the APA hocus-pocus.  Something super-secret to seal about some kind of government homosexual deal.  Without even reading what was in the sealed envelopes.
So when my wife insisted we sell our house and move to the Mainland, I was relieved to be away, and to try to start a new life.
That was not to be, for my designed "Reputation" preceded me, and became very well known in the local Platte Valley community, as spread about by Senior FBI Agent Jonstono.
I nearly got fried to a crisp in an Encampment VFD "Burning Trailer Exercise," for example.  They REALLY don't like homosexuals or especially suspected ones, in Wyoming, and it shows.
So, my "Ex" (Wife) kept insisting we go to Cheyenne to go to an Oriental Store. But always pointing out the SAGE Truck Driving School there, as well.
It so happened that I eventually had to go there and get trained and hired as a truck driver.
Each and every trainer (3 of them, each flaking out because of meth) and co-driver would always try to hide their cell phone conversations as they got some kind of instructions.  Each would try to press homosexuality and drug use, and even violent stuff on me.  I got the drift:  They wanted me to "Do it again."  What the above-mentioned assassination team had done - And I had to keep secret about.
There'd be "Media input," such as a SWIFT flyer, that would describe how one shrink used a dunce cap to lure out paranoid schizophrenics, to "Help them."
She was at the Salt Lake City terminal twice in a row - And not another driver in sight.  For me.  The presumed guilty one.  Suspected mind crimes, you know.
I finally gave up on SWIFT for reasons I detail elsewhere.  Homesick for Wyoming, I went to the Job Center.  The usual clerk suddenly had to leave for lunch, and I was to come back two hours later.
A woman I later ID'd as Cindy Delancy, local County Attorney and Feminist, met me alone in the suddenly empty office room.
She printed out a form, saying, "Oh, yes, if he gets you, he'll KEEP YOU."
Whatever that meant.
And then made calls which felt like she was getting some Judge's (Stebner?) approval on something.  My "Wife" had pretty much laid a mind trip on him the way she had back on Maui with Judge Richard Komo.  And, later, another female Judge in Rawlins.  All of it a typical Feminist act of "Poor me!"
But it meant I had to go to work for, let's call it - M&B Water Service (sic) in Wamsutter as a water truck driver.  Good thing the SWIFT personnel had INSISTED I also get HAZMAT certification in addition to my CDL.
In spite of interrogating me on whether I could pass the INTERPOL in order to go to Canada, since it seemed I was listed for something... In Europe...
So, at first happily driving water truck for this rinky-dink company, I was offered to drive as many hours as I wished.  DOT regulations be damned.
There was a daily briefing, of course, and there was this somewhat quiet, but somehow authoritative tall fat dude there who subsequently tried to "Control" my life.
I'd be briefed on the workings of water tanker trucks, and be asked to inspect the outlet nozzle, on my knees, so that I'd "See how it sucked and blowed."  I'd get my ass pinched by said "Supervisors," or just bumped into from behind.
"Fat F***", as I eventually did name him, would just "Happen" to be the sole person at some remote site I was to deliver water, and just have me "Hang around," as if there were something I was just dying to tell him, or the like.
But he usually used his real name, "Mel. H."
He would show up in many of my job center-sent oil field truck jobs in the next many years.  As a "Sudden new supervisor."
I was assigned to put my camper next to the mechanic's, who usually had a six-pack for lunch. He'd spend the evening at the bar, and then bang on my door, proclaiming that he was a "Viet Vet Sniper," and would shoot me if I came out.
Then FF all of a sudden had to "Go to the Red Desert for a vacation." But he actually went to train as an oil truck driver.  When he returned, it was announced that I would either train "Under him" as an oil truck driver or lose my job and these sudden new riches entirely.
I quit.
So, looking at the bulletin board at at the Job Center, I found Malesso (sic) Trucking, and that would be a story unto itself.
To be cont.

It was at Needlestacks (sic) Oil Heating company at Wamsutter that I wintered one year.  I long no longer trusted the job referrals given me by the job center, so I took up an ad on the radio to take work with them.
Right away, there was a "New Senior Person," made it clear he wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to do, etc...
I was assigned to go with him in the methane truck for pressure testing at one of the sites:  Simply put, he ran me through several "Shrinkola" tests, like, "Rick, go use this metal wrench and gauge what the (Highly volatile) methane level is in the tank. You don't need a mask."
Since I knew that if the methane concentration were such that it was dangerous, he'd be wearing a mask, and wasn't. He'd fiddled in there, and had not been overcome with anything.  It was more Shrinkola, and I had to put up with that all the time.
When we suddenly got the choice job of doing the Frac heating at an oil site, I was happy.  12 hour shifts, and as I had been told innumerable times, all's one did was to watch CD's and get up once an hour to check the gauges.
But I noticed that the site's Security Officer actually came by hourly to dutifully log such readings in detail.  So why not us?
Instead, FF, or the others would provide pornographic CD's, and until I brought my own laptop, there was nothing else to do, except walk around.
Which they found suspicious.
On the trip there, FF would be driver, and endlessly brag about things.  He often would recount how he had "Told somebody something, and when they resisted, he would beat the shit out of them!"
The others in the truck would laugh uproariously.
Once, a rather decrepit slovenly female with us responded with a quote from some cartoon characters known for such slapstick.  The others glared at her to shut up.
It rather reminded me of hypnosis, when a certain stimuli would be used to encourage a group reaction - And provoke one from me?  I never found the violence funny.
But then, to be sent to Wamsutter, WY, has its peculiarities:  With a stated population of 300 or so, they have reportedly 30 registered sex offenders...
Kind of like a Soviet gulag-to-be fostered situation?

To be cont.

But when one day, I had to go out with Mike, a guy who endlessly portrayed himself as an expert on CDL regulations, since he said he was a former cop (Others said he was a former dog catcher), and heat up an oil site.
What comes out of the ground is a mix of oil and water.  In the winter, that's a grey sludge that must be heated before it can be separated and drained off.
And so we went to a rather quiet site west of Love's with the propane heater truck to do so.  An odd, out of the way, place, for what was usually done.
I could tell that Mike was nervous as hell, and it had been said that it was his last day, too.  He kept repeating to me over and over again, that HE heated up the tanks way up at 140 degrees, because that was the way HE did it, etc.  Way too high.
As usual, I played deaf and dumb.  I knew he wouldn't do anything that blew him away as well as myself. But there was certainly something ominous in the air.  Another trainee kept lighting cigarettes way too close to the site.
But, finally, Matthew, one of the owners, who consistently gave me evil looks, came up.  That seemed to be the norm:  I'd get a new job, be the "New Guy" for a while, pretty much accepted as such.  Then, all of a sudden, I'd be treated as if some kind of hidden pervert, or thief, or nut case, and peoples' attitudes would change.  He would stare at me, whatever it was.
And here would come "Mel H., the new supervisor."
Matthew consimerated on how long everything was taking, and all, and I dutifully followed him with hoses and the like up to the top of the tanks, and all that, just having to absorb his disgust of myself.  He was some kind of highly-holy LDS type.
Finally, having to watch the top of the tank where the heater input hose had been put in, I decided to change my position upwind so as not to breathe so many sulfide dioxide fumes.
Oddly, over the years working the oil fields, it was frequent to be deliberately put in the lee of such fumes.  More than once, was I directed to park my camper where such was overwhelming.  Even the "Mechanic" of NBC Trucking had directed where I put my camper, in lee of rail tankers' fumes.  In Wamsutter, as well.
The stuff can not only kill you, it can swell your sinuses so much one can get deaf, even lose one's sense of balance.  And I had no choice in either housing, nor employment...
Good thing I did move position.  Suddenly, the  (Deliberate?) overheating of the oil tank meant that it erupted in a volcano of hot oil.  At about 140 degrees, I would have been a sorry semi-fried gooed up mess, had I not moved downwind at just the right time.
It would have been a long, protracted, miserable death, in fact.
Contrary to all oilfield rules, Matthew then took rags to clean the stairs and the rest of the mess as best as possible.  It was sure the hell more than the required one gallon of spill to make a report, but...  That was surely not going to happen.
I survived, once again, with my trained, or somewhat natural ability to "Act dumb."
And yet to the "Mentals" around here, that's called "Mental Illness."  That I not want to "Share" my deepest feelings, and true emotions with them when they walk up with Shrinkola Dogs, and the like.
Following, after all, past given military orders to not be interrogated.

To be cont.


So, my disjointed employment as an oilfield driver eventually meant I'd have to find a place to park my truck/camper for the winter.  The Wyoming Red Desert can be inhospitable but livable until the snow flies.  After that, one must find a parking place with an electric line to run a heating fan, or else all freezes inside.  All, canned goods, water, everything, and me.
So I had heard "Suggestions" from one of the "Openly gay" truck drivers, "Dave," (Yeah, right) suggesting I go to the Junk yard outside of Rawlins.
My "Wife" had previously set me up with that to go to a "Yard Sale."
Even my son.
FF had been there, the apparent owner of the combination petting farm and junk yard and had right away, years ago, suggested that if I EVER needed to live someplace, why, he'd rent me cheap one of the empty RV's he had.
It seemed that people would forever park them there and abandon them, so while there was no running water, sewer, nor electricity, one could use small tanks of propane to freeze by.
One only needed to keep a window cracked, FF had said, and run the stove at high blast.  My own propane heater didn't work, oddly enough, anyway, so I was forced to do this frowned-upon practice and wear insulated gear to stay warm.
Or, of course, I could come into the trailer, where he kept containers of water to defrost and feed the animals with, my "Job."
And, of course, he would tell me often, I could come up to the main heater, and would I put my hand on it, to feel how warm it was?  Then he would adjust and adjust his girth, and his pants, for they suddenly would be out of line.  "Why, just put your hand up here, and feel how warm it is!"
Or, he would tell me on occasion, "You'll get used to me after a while  You'll be giving me blow jobs before you know it!"
After a while, he would bolt lock the doors to the "Abandoned RV's" shut, and then after a while strip all inside as his own property, and then haul off the vehicle to parts unknown.  "Sold for $100," he would say.
As events turned out, I ended up having no choice.  Framed and set up for a DUI at the P*-Bar-And-Grill with a mickey (I know the effects, believe me) by police officers deliberately waiting at the curb for me, I found myself with no place to live and no way to drive.
"Put your camper... Right there."  Had instructed FF, which made no sense.  What with all the other spots available, that put it right next to the burn barrels.  He daily had, and wanted me, to collect scraps of everything from around the area, to include plastics and other odd bits and ends he would scavenge from Rawlins, to burn.
Glass parts went with "G," who took them to Medicine Bow for ditch filler, where it was rumored by Bill of NBC trucking that G. had obtained a farm by making an old woman disappear.  What kind  of shit was that?
The purpose was clearly not recycling, for he would let the plastic goo accumulate until it was heavy enough, and then transport the barrel to the Rawlins landfill. After it would no longer produce smoke.
While the usual Westerly wind blew the odor and fumes perpendicular to my camper, and I wouldn't get so much, the sunset, night and storm winds would blow the same directly into my camper.
I found myself being dizzy all the time.  When he insisted that I help with chainsawing wood, he would also insist I hold the logs (Stupid) while he cut with the dullest saws I have ever seen. Like I could have had an "Accident," or something.
One day, he threw one saw after the other out unto the ground.  Running.  But never sharpened them.
The tall driver I knew from Bandit Trucking, "G.," was another resident, and also constantly talked about homosexuality and violence in despicable, suggestive, ways to me.  He was my only ride to the grocery store, job center, and library, pretty much, but had worked also at CBN (sic) and Grand Forge (sic) trucking when I had.
I'd read in the paper of how some shrink had a theory that "Waving" could hypnotize a person.
We had circular routes, and his "Waving" used to about drive me nuts.  Much State-level fraud was evident at that highway project, as well.
He assumed, and accused, me of much.  They all did.
It was not until later that I realized that the constant supply of vinyl, like in a huge chair, set upon the burn barrel to smolder for days, was a cause of lightheadedness and stupor.  It was cyanide poisoning, actually, and it took months of Power Walking to clear my lungs.  Think I'll live to be 100?
While working for Bandit Trucking, there had been much fraud.  But two of the owner's other drivers from Colorado were pretty much a good sort.
They were in love, but married to others. Like the other decrepit drivers he hired, they often would team up to offer me "Messages."  Yet, try to be kind on the side.
He'd tried to warn me, as the part-time mechanic, that the trailer I'd been assigned had a bad spring bushing, and the rig could leave the road or overturn at any time.  With me and who knew else as part of it.
After being fired there for having insisted upon doing my DOT paperwork properly, Debbie had offered me to come live in Hanna for a while.  They had an RV someone had deserted, but I could use it for a while.  They, too, lost their jobs when the DOT busted Bandit Trucking, and according to FF, someone like them had lost their housing in Hanna.
And, there, right next to where I had to park my camper, was the one they'd described, having no registration.  When I'd arrived, there'd been all kinds of things left out, from a generator to fuel to water to rugs - All kinds of things one would put away at a camp site if not returning right away.
Once, much later, I heard a cell phone ringing over and over from the camper.  That could only have been if the cell had been plugged in to the RV's battery to last that long.
As with everything and everywhere, FF, always subtly suggested I steal stuff.  Like I was being set up to.
Every day, he would arrive with old lettuce from a fast food restaurant, and game carcasses from an outfitter, to feed his chickens, dogs, goats and horse.  He was big on his stories of inviting children to come to his "Petting farm," but I never saw any.  Instead, I was to come into the crap-laden chicken coop (It was never cleaned) and "Hang out with him."
He claimed he sold his chickens on the classifieds, but I never saw any ads, nor any slaughtered, nor any sold.
Or, come into his "Workshop," where he'd put in a wood burning stove on the wrong wind side, which he would light and fuel with old engine oil and damp newspapers until the room would fill with smoke, and invite me to sit down and take apart aluminum door frames and such.
Purposely intoxicating, if that's the right word.
Once, "G." said that one of the old watchdogs had killed FF's favorite goat.  He'd spoken endlessly on how FF loved his goats and such.  Yet he underfed them all.
Yet, to see the dog's body, there was blood on the neck, but no ripping wound as if caused by a dog.  More like a pistol shot.
He arrived and tried to hide the .22 pistol he had, but it was definitely .22 shorts that I heard as he killed that dog.  It died pretty slowly, obviously.
I was told to gut the goat, as they said only I must have a good hunting knife, and not they.  I was, in my impoverishment,  to eat this goat, hung in a trailer full of trash, but I declined.
Lucky I had food stamps.
They were constantly asking and checking me if I owned a .22 pistol.
G. burned the dog in a barrel with motor oil.
They didn't like it when I added scrap wood to make the fires burn hotter - And not so smoky.  They'd take the wood out.
FF, to this day, stalks me. It can only be a police cell phone GPS tracker that tells him that I'm at a certain store, etc., when I am.  And he "Appears," but never approaches.  I guess by some Shrink theory, I'm supposed to approach him for his "Graces."
Just today (6/24), he knew I was at City Market, and parked right next to me.  It was the only day of the week I wasn't trailed around town by RPD or SO.
Is that protective surveillance?  I can't tell.
I've been told by a Deputy that FF is a well-known pervert.  I'm pretty sure I  read in the paper how it's suspected that transients disappear there, maybe chopped up by chainsaw, and then fed to the chickens and dogs, and then burned in the barrels, and then hauled off to the landfill.  But no one is eager in Rawlins to dig up over there.
Is this orchestration on my behalf?  Or for real?
There are no homeless in Rawlins that I can tell.
But FF DID come daily to collect and take home the eggs the chickens produce.  (And to "Talk...")  One of those Jeffrey Dahmer things, maybe?
Well, he has his support, I can tell, because the bus drivers use their cell phone while taking me someplace, and I'll see his truck, or he, there.  I've been in espionage my whole life, and I'm also not stupid.
To think:  My "Wife," should the insurance policy still be valid would collect $100K.  Not only if I die, but if I'm sent away...
The woman I was forced to marry, I've written.
She's made a career of collecting money on men and insurance companies.
And never gets caught... Not afraid to pay commissions either, I think.
And she's the one who demanded so often I become a truck driver.  To "Meet" FF.  So many things.

To be cont.
If I continue to be able to type, that is. Tomorrow is the 25th, a mnemonic important to me, perhaps a marker in my life...