Talk About A Ghost From Christmas Past

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I really hate the fact that I have begun to think in the terms of my elders, but at times they have it too right to ignore. It takes a certain kind of lowlife douchebag to steal property which belongs to others, no matter their reasoning or justifications. There’s something broken within their morality meter which allows them to cross the forbidden line between right and wrong. Yesterday I was reminded that many laws are designed to better protect the criminal than the victims. Yesterday I received a letter from the state of Texas which informed me that Mr. Lowlife Douchebag III (his real name will never be spoken by my lips here) is scheduled for release from state incarceration in November 2014 after successfully meeting state parole requirements. Why is this information important to me personally? I will explain that in a minute since the incident happened back in this blogs literal infancy and I have never mentioned it here before in any kind of detail.

Late in the evening seven years, nine months, and three days or 2,834 days ago, we were settling down after just returning from a get together with my in-laws. After looking at the time, we had realized it will be Christmas Day in a few short hours. When we came in the house for the first time our hands were full, so after setting down all the food and bags, I returned to the truck to get the everything else. It was at this time I first noticed wet foot prints on the driveway and an out of place shadow where they ended at just the edge of where the light reached. I continued to the driver’s side of the truck, opened the door, reached into the center console, and retrieved my pistol. I remained bent across the seat, looking out behind me, waiting for movement. After a very long couple of minutes, I climbed back out of the truck and walked to the edge of the drive, and then I saw the shadow blink. Before I knew what was happening I had this man pinned to the ground with a pistol pointed at his forehead. Many moments passed while I stared into the eyes of this man, many thoughts passed in my mind, and then my wife’s voice broke the silence. Hearing the noise she came out, thinking I had dropped something or tripped. I will never forget the look of fear on her face as she looked in our direction. She went back inside swiftly and called 911.

It was thirteen minutes from the time she made the call before I saw the flashing lights come blazing up the driveway. The two cars pulled very close to where I was standing, four officers emerged and stood behind their open doors with weapons drawn, demanding I relinquish my weapon. I froze, I am the one who is making sure the douchebag does not run. I was confused. Moments later I was on the ground, I was rushed from behind, I can hear my wife screaming at them in terror. All I can think is it is Christmas Eve. We were both arrested. I was released early Christmas morning after being cleared of any criminal activity and establishing myself as home and property owner. After processing, my pistol was released back into my custody. Months later he was convicted of attempted armed robbery, armed trespassing after dark with intent to cause harm to persons and property, and finally with the possession of a stolen firearm.

The number one question I have been asked is why I did not shoot and kill this man because the right to do so with my actions protected by Texas laws. Why? Why is a powerful question. My answer has always been simple and has always remained unchanged. Shooting him to kill him never crossed my mind, never even close. It’s not my nature, no matter what, a human life is more valuable to me than things or property, and, eventhough I felt threatened, there was other options which I executed which defused the threat. In the end, I have a conscience which seems to always guide my actions. Yes, I was and remain to this day, mad. The lessons I have learned in my life have served me well and they have taught me that I am not the judge or jury, but just a human being on planet dirt trying to scratch out some kind of a life, like everyone else I can only assume. As far as his release, it isn’t my place to know if he is rehabilitated or not in the allotted time prescribed by the state of Texas. I do know, this experience was a part of the reason I have the security system I still use this very day. I may have lost faith along the way in my fellow humans, but at the same time the safety and security of myself and my family remains very high on my personal list if priorities. Its hard to say live and let live when the idea is more often than not, one sided. Below is a general look at the laws here in Texas, it should not be looked at or taken as any form of legal advice as I put it here for informational purposes only.

Texas law allows a person to use force in the protection of property to prevent or terminate another’s trespass or other unlawful interference with the possession of real or personal property. Deadly force can be used in Texas when the crime against property is classified as arson, burglary, robbery, criminal mischief at night or theft at night. Deadly force may also be used to prevent a person from fleeing with property immediately after the commission of a burglary, robbery, aggravated robbery, or theft during the nighttime if the actor believes that the property cannot be recovered by any other means or the use of force other than deadly force would expose the person to a substantial risk of death or serious bodily injury.

Texas also allows a person to use force and deadly force to protect the personal property of a third party. The use of force is permissible if the person believes that the force or deadly force is necessary to prevent the commission of theft or criminal mischief, or if the person believes that the third party has asked them to protect the property, the person has a legal duty to protect the property, or the third party is the spouse, parent, child or under the care of the person using force.

Born, raised, and protected by guns, guts, and glory.

A Day In The Life Of John

Originally Posted 05 Febuary 2013
Guest Blogger: John “Agit8r” Fisher
A Day In The Life Of John…………..
I once had a job that was literally shitty. I worked for a relatively small cleaning contractor that cleaned the courthouse complex, and county jail in Spokane. During that time, they took over the decontamination of jail cells that had previously been done by a well-known service that uses bright green vehicles. Though the work was somewhat sporadic, it did pay pretty well for semi-skilled labor, enough so that I continued to do it on the side as an emergency-call person after I stopped working for the company in other capacities.
The first cell-clean we performed involved an inmate who had stuffed a few days worth of meals down the toilet, shit in it numerous times, and then flushed it, thereby flooding his cell with fecal matter, rotten bologna and fermenting oranges. We were somewhat unprepared logistically, probably due to the emphasis on needing to kill MRSA (a factor in the account being up for bid in the first place, apparently) and only secondary concern given to the prospect of large-scale shit removal.
As we doused the cell, floor to ceiling, with a disinfectant (mixed to the concentration that the packaging label directed for disinfecting cadavers) from the doorway, my co-worker (a burly Ukrainian immigrant named Eduard) said to me “in Ukraine we call this monkey room.” Then we opened our bio-hazard kits, which contained rubber gloves, a doctors mask and a disposable full-body suit with a hood. Most importantly (it would turn out) it came packaged in a lunch-box-sized clam-shell case. After suiting up, putting on goggles and rubber boots, we waded through the cell, while applying more disinfectant. Then we wiped down the walls, the sink, and the bed, while we waited for the layer covering the floor to soften up.
Then we got to the toilet. I looked over at my supervisor, who was observing the process along with our project manager… from several feet away… behind an unenclosed curtain wall… while holding their noses. “How do we get this stuff out of here?” I asked as I began to understand what the bright green, unfamiliar looking piece of machinery that was sitting in the property room, waiting for the previous company to come and retrieve it, must have been used for.
“Did you try the dustpan?” came the reply.
“It won’t fit past the seat. It’s all one piece of metal.”
“We’ll have to get you guys a scoop for next time.”
They would later provide a plastic soup ladle, which ended up being pretty useless anyway. But in the meantime, I would have to try to put my problem solving ability to work. I went to the door, pausing to kick whatever I could off of my boots before exiting the cell. I scanned the cart, while my coworker began shoveling the refuse from the floor into a red plastic bag, by using the dustpan.
As I looked over the cart, I noticed the plastic clam-shell case from our bio-hazard kit. I opened it up, and then broke it in two at the hinges. Then with half of it, I began scooping the composting sludge out of the toilet, until it could be flushed. After seemingly forever, we finally got the rest of the crap off of the floor with the dustpan, the half clam-shell case, and finally, a ridiculous number of paper towels (they would later get a wet-vac), we got the stainless steel fixtures nice a clean for the next “guest,” we painstakingly picked the few bits of stuff out of the painted cinder-block wall’s pores, and at last wiped up the foot tracks from my trip to the cart, and spritzed everything with a final coat of cadaver-cleaner.
Though some of the hiccups got cleared up before future visits, there were things that would confound us still. There was the time that one of the showers had a sizable amount of clotting blood covering about half the floor, which really put my resolve not to vomit to the test. There was second floor, where the wet-vac couldn’t be plugged in, because none of the plug-ins worked (which really would have been handy the time that there was a massive quantity of what appeared to be vomited-up semen in a cell there.
There was the lack of a pressure washer, which never got resolved, but was occasionally necessary for instances like the time when one inmate wrote “FUCK PIGS” on one wall, and on the wall above his bed wrote “I LOVE YOU TAMMY” …in poop. Or when a guy filled in his air vent holes with toothpaste. Or when another guy used toothpaste to glue pictures of scantily clad women cut out of magazines to the bottom of his shelf-desk. Or when a fellow fashioned himself a curtain for his door-window …with poop. And then there was one guy who was both a painter and a sculptor… but I won’t bore the reader with that.
I’d like to end on a lighter note, from this one time when Eduard and I had to clean a cell in the Intake area, on a rather chaotic night. The place was crowded and we had to wait while they got the prisoner out of the holding-cell that we had to clean, as guards and prisoners, on their way to being booked, moved back and forth around us, and some prisoners were yelling drunkenly from their holding cells, and others were talking loudly to one another to be heard over the yelling. And I was pretty jived up because after we got the call, I had kinda chugged my large coffee (because it would be cold after we got done, of course). Then, one of the prisoners began banging …some part(?) of his/her body into a metal part of his/her cell, and kept this up until it became something of a rhythmic clanging. And probably partly because of my coffee buzz, and partly because it was generally good to show the prisoners’ that their craziness couldn’t phase you, I began moving my shoulders and hips side to side in a dancing motion to rhythm of the clanging, to which Eduard shook his head at me, as he said in his thick accent “Jamming out…”