My Darling Pam,
Vic Neverman is a Scorpio (dark, paranoid, etc.) who likes animals and long walks on the beach.
Vic Neverman is a Scorpio (dark, paranoid, etc.) who likes animals and long walks on the beach.
I have been negligent. I haven’t called. Not that your campaign headquarters ever excelled at taking messages, but called of late I have not. It isn’t for lack of want, Pam… Pamela Jo… You must understand, I haven’t been in a good place of late and it is for our own best interest we, you & I, are not… more. It pains me to think you might despair. I ache to be so far, but from afar I watch, bearing witness to your undaunted courage as you parade around in heels dangerous enough to require a permit.
Damn Pam. What became of us? Years ago, I crash-landed in this strange terrain and immediately fell under your protection. I wrote to you… I wrote to your office about the buzz of drones hovering over my temporary housing in the Florida scrub, forcing me to flee from one palmetto thicket to the next. I was a worn-out, chigger-ridden, vaguely-coherent pizza delivery boy and you fought for me. The buzzing stopped. The drones backed off. Oh sure, the spy blimp still hovered, its wandering eye sucking up the landscape, but you fought for me! I will always love you for that, Pam.
I am sorry for the other night, New Year’s Eve at the Yakisoba Social Club. I stood there, aloof to your charms. I stood there, feigning ignorance of your presence, your wiles most feminine, instead focusing my trademark scowl on the ice sculptures and the posterior of some geisha who meant nothing to me. Just know this – I felt you there. From across the room I felt your very being, your nearness, and it nearly cracked my spine in two to go on pretending I didn’t care. I don’t know why I couldn’t meet your eyes… No. I do know why I couldn’t raise my eyes to meet your own. Fear. God Pam, I was afraid to match your intensity. I am not sure my heart can survive another break. Plus, you had a shitload of bodyguards and I matched the profile of something suspect.
Do you remember Palatka? The Blue Crab Festival? You were in your trademark skirted-suit, surrounded by state troopers. As for me, well, I was atop the mechanical bull, attempting to keep my beer from splattering in my eyes every time that robotic bastard bucked. Damn, Pam, we were so innocent back then. Young and unsullied. What have we become?
Pam with the rest of the Florida Cabinet, including "Pink-Slip" Rick Scott (the middle red tie)
Pam with the rest of the Florida Cabinet, including “Pink-Slip” Rick Scott (the middle red tie)
I will always respect you, Pam. It is your allegiance to the governor I question. I know better than to call him your ‘boss’ as you are answerable, as an elected official, to the citizenry that voted you into office. Yet, it does not always seem so, Pam. Tallahassee might just be the most righteously corrupt city in the state that side of Gainesville. I sometimes wonder if you let Jameis Winston run amok only to muddy the atmosphere around Capitol Business.
And it is this Capitol Business I write of today.
Trust me: I would rather not speak of things secular and so… pedestrian. I would rather unravel the kite string and speak of you in the celestially divine terms you deserve.The problem is, Darling, we’ve loose ends. You and I are both Scorpios born in the Year of the Snake, which is what makes our spirits so kindred (dark, secretive, & venomous). I have done the research and Mercury’s retrograde through our 4th House of Domestic Conditions has all sorts of shit out of order. It is time to get this shit in line.
You know where I am going with this.
Gerald Bailey is a decent bloke. A fair individual, wizened with 35 years of experience as a cop. He resigned around the holidays, only now we realize it was not his idea. It was your boss who forced Gerald Bailey out. Gerald Bailey was Florida’s “Top Cop” as the chief of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement (so frequently, loftily, described as “Florida’s answer to the FBI”). Within a meager set of months before he reached retirement, Gerald Bailey mysteriously resigned. Only he didn’t. He was forced out by Governor Rick Scott and Rick’s “Louisiana Mafia” staff hired out from under Bobby Jindal, the Christian Radical sitting the throne in Baton Rouge. Why was Gerald Bailey forced out? To make way for someone willing to do Rick Scott’s bidding.
I do not know anything about this Rick Swearingen cat, who has certainly served his time in the FDLE, but if I see drones hovering over me as I make my pizza delivery runs next week, the new Top Cop and you, Pam, will have some answering to do for the Swearingen hire.
Yet, it is not the changing of the guard which has me riled up. Pam, as you know (it’s in my FDLE file), I am labeled by senseless quacks a “paranoid schizophrenic”. I suffer apophenia and tend to become agitated by meaningless coincidences. This is what makes qualifies me as a conspiracy theorist. Nevertheless, a blind squirrel can tell time at least twice a day, as the saying goes. I’ve my ear to the ground and I hear the tremor of bullshit out of Tallahassee and it is coming from the top.
Chief Gerald Bailey says he was forced out by Governor Rick Scott for refusing to do the dark master’s bidding. The grocery list of improper deeds pushed upon Bailey includes:
Hiring Scott’s cronies within the FDLE
Creating a smear campaign against Democratic Representative Williams during the Treyvon Martin protests
Hiding the fault of the state for a prison break and, instead, starting a criminal investigation against an innocent county employee.
Trying to clear the name of a South Florida mayoral grifter Bernard Klepach in order to appoint the crony to an important position on the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conversation Commission. This would require telling other states to end their investigations into Klepach’s shady business dealings.
Pam, darling… I am not asking for much. Not much, given the fact you are the Attorney General for the State of Florida. All I ask is to do a little more than flex your muscle or give a good public relations smile. I am told you have made claims to want to air all of this dirty laundry in the “sunshine” which is all fine and dandy, beloved. I am merely asking you to go beyond the fine and dandy, past the laundry bin to look under the bed for boogiemen and look in the closet for skeletons. This Rick Scott stinks to high heaven and needs to be outted. If you can’t trust your statesmen for this job, you know where to find help: [email protected].
It's good to be king... if only for a while. Rick Scott with Pam by one of his sides.
It’s good to be king… if only for a while. Rick Scott with Pam by one of his sides.
Perhaps you already have reached out. I saw you on television recently. I couldn’t hear what you were saying as I was watching through my neighbor’s trailer window from a nearby cypress tree, but, fortunately, I studied lip-reading in my grade school Cold War Kids Club and could interpret your words as “llama llama, fennel, wow, llama llama.” Obviously, it is some sort of code meant for me to crack, which I will spend night and day decoding.
I see the spy blimp out my window now, Pam. I no longer hold its image with such spite. Instead, I think of you. As its camera lens canvases the terrain, perhaps it is you at the other end bearing witness. Perhaps it is you directing the periscope, seeking out something you too have lost.
Good luck and Godspeed.
Always, etc.
– Vic
