CHAPTER 27: The Opera: Act II; Part 2 [cont. 4]
From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother
Chapter 27, Act II, Part 2 continues. The judgment giving Herry sole custody comes down while Legion is being forcibly held in the psych hospital. In order for her to have visitation with her boys, she must request it in writing from Herry and state she will not say anything negative about him. Visits are also dependent on Legion undergoing a mental health program that Herry designs and oversees. And he is allowed to stop visitation at any time. These orders are meant to prevent Legion from saying anything about Herry’s sexual abuse and give him complete power and control.
Herry convinces the local newspaper editor to publish a front page story on Legion’s psych committal and loss of custody. This is meant to humiliate her, damage her career and end her political candidacy; in other words, to take everything from her in his goal to completely destroy her—for having dared to stop being submissive.
In the last section, Herry uses his clout to get Legion committed to a psych ward after she tries to get some sleep meds. She knows his ultimate goal/revenge is to get her locked up for good or to commit suicide. The judge himself had taken custody of his four children and had his wife permanently institutionalized. It is an age-old, patriarchal tradition to institutionalize errant and no-longer-useful wives.
CHAPTER 27 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act I of “The Opera”—from Book 3, the last part of the book. “The Opera” has three Acts with five Parts—one for each of the three Family Court and two Appellate Court trials. Chapter 27 covers Acts I and II: the first two Family Court trials and the first Appellate Court trial. [This is a long chapter and will be published in newsletter-sized bites.]
Dr. Blue’s novel is based on her own experience of the Custody Crisis. It uniquely conveys how Family Court judges are “mother-fucking” women—a form of systemic oppression and violence directed at ex-wives—as protagonist Legion is systematically and methodically deprived of her children and money and reduced to “one fucked mother”.
Chapters are stand-alone interesting so you can begin reading anywhere. A Cast of Characters follows to help readers at any point [on the web page]. All published chapters are included in the Section: “Saga of One F**ked Mother” accessible on the top bar of the home page of Women’s Coalition News & Views. Sequential chapters are published every Wednesday and subscribers will find them in their inboxes, so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
Herry could now wield the power to mother‑fuckingly decide the construct and structure of such a program all by himself, to have me, his ex‑wife‑yet‑nonetheless‑“child,” submissively succumb to it and to complete it successfully to his satisfaction alone, before he, Herry, would even have to consider affixing his signature to something that bestowed back upon me—perhaps—a “chance” to have contact with any one of my very own children again! Unfuckingbelievable! I mean: THINK on that! Unbelievable mother‑fuck!
No matter that Dr. Edinsmaier was a sex addict and had repeatedly sexually and physically abused his sons. And me.
Ya’ take her children, then you take and murder all that is of her core and of her freedom, all that is of any real importance to any true mother whom I know … anywhere. Take, take and take. Be certain to take and own it all. Take all of hers …What a near perfect core‑murdering stratagem of Pissed‑off, Gut‑the‑Bloody‑Bitch Herry’s!
Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts
CHAPTER 27; Act II; Part 2 [cont.]
Come to find out, Mr. Log was about my age, had been at one time an ordained Mennonite minister married 26 years to Rhonda with whom he’d raised up three birthed children to all of their adulthoods before explaining to her that he, with the help of a lot of people among whom he counted both his mother and father, was exiting the closet … finally. Their (legal and religious) marriage formally ended, of course. Their friendship and bonds, after three or four more fairly rocky, and even somewhat explosive, subsequent years, did not. From very shortly after the time when I myself exited that most closeted mental establishment on Monday morning, 01 October 1990, to this, Keith remains for me and for hundreds in town not only a lifeline ministering wherever he is needed but also a true part of my estate … my friend.
But, two things were not cool. In no way. Soooo, so … not cool.
The drugs. Om’gaaaawd! the drugs. I ballooned by the end of the drug‑taking, Herry‑Daddee’s drugging of me, over two years later … 47 pounds up … which until this current 21st Century, never, ever came off! For over a decade there occurred my carrying around this fat that I, too, had actually paid them all biiiig dollars––to do to me! Herry––fuckingly controlling from behind his self‐ and judge‑anointing as an elitist community pillar and from the safety of his smarmy frontage as an unguentary physician in the area stomped his toe tips down onto my bathroom scale every single time––which was so damned often I lost count––that I begged the court‑appointed outpatient psychiatrist, Dr. Singh, to altogether quit with the lithium and the haloperidol and the chlorpromazine and the imipramine. Just leave me the hell alone with an itty bitty, wee amount of the friggin’ flurazepam, 15 mg a night for a while; that was all I needed. And I, a doctor my own self after all––but a Not Male one, of course!––knew it, too.
But no.
A court document, an estoppel of some sort, would appear ordering me to remain doped. To remain fucked.
Barred, Herry did with that court‑order paper of his, my freedom FROM drugging. I––and many, many others––call the dance I boogied … the Haldol Shuffle. Inside the shell that was the thing in the room who was me, I continued entirely lucid and solidly knew just exactly how mother‑fuckingly ridiculous I looked outwardly to all who saw me literally pour on the pounds or try to stop the stiffened amble or my rock‑hard, stony and stoned, frozen face. I could not smile but that I looked like my mumbling jaws would shatter if I did try to. And my vision? I still could not read, and Grace––as, indeed, was I––remained yet so troubled about that for me. The words were not only fuzzy, but they also jumped all over their freaking paragraphs. That was the worst of it for me; Grace worried, “How will you get through your day, Legion, if you cannot read?! How?!”
What is as murdering is that Herry so very well knew, too, the loathsome, renditioning side effects of all of this deadening junk‑fuck. If Torturer and Executioner Herod Edinsmaier in his chief role in The Opera could not slay me himself and, most importantly here, at the same time retain all of his glory and money and if I would not seem to go dead by way of my own hand––which, of course, had not yet happened,––well then, fuck, all of this toxic chemical shit just might kill her! From the PDR which any of us all know is the Physician’s Desk Reference: “Overdose may cause cardiac rhythm disturbance, stupor, coma and death. May result in heart block, hypertension and postural hypotension. Also may cause coma, seizures, hallucinations, delusions and tremor.” That was just for imipramine—and for that evil haloperidol as well as with chlorpromazine alone? Try possibly irreversible! Including like irreversibly dead! Whoa! “Potentially irreversible, involuntary movements of the face, hands and trunk (tardive dyskinesia), increased heart rate, low blood pressure and EKG changes. Cases of sudden and unexpected death have been reported. May also cause high fevers, muscle rigidity, altered mental states and instability of blood pressure and pulse; potentially fatal (neuroleptic malignant syndrome).” Fuck! I was fucked––soooo fucked––and did I ever know it, too!
The second heinous––and utterly preventable––wicked thing? Tuesday evening, 25 September 1990, 12‑year‑old Jesse found a newspaper, the Ames Tribune, on our Havencourt stoop and opened it up before taking it inside to his Grandpa AmTaham. I was subscribing because of the campaign––now most postponed at that present time, of course. There, with my headshot image and headlines scrawled and screaming across the top of its very front page, was the story of a woman deemed mental and crazed by Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor thinking she was still in the electoral running for recorder of this, the Ames community’s Storm County! A storm ensued all right. Dear, dear Jesse, then AmTaham, then Zane and Mirzah and, of course Mehitable too, all knew––for the first time right then and there … their “unofficial” notice, that is––they all knew of the outcome of Act Two: a custody‑decisioning decree the article stated which Judge Seizor had signed the Friday previously, the 21st, and that had then appeared in court records as official just the day before this newspaper’s edition, that is, the decreed decision was official on Monday … 24 September 1990.
The article’s author was a person then named Abbey Gaffey, about 25 or so. By the time I was released and on the way home from the hospital by way of a really rarely stunned AmTaham on 01 October, Ms. Gaffey was, also a Monday one week hence, cleaning out her desk at the Trib and told to be gone from the building before her editor returned. This boss man’s act was the Tribune’s version of an appeasement bone thrown to the Ames area masses. A sacrificed, virginally configured, DEhuman youth Ms. Gaffey was … whom her boss man actually had the mother‑fucking insolence to term out loud … “an unbridled reporter.” Traumatizing Jesse? Me? Mirzah or Zane? Ms. Gaffey? What the patriarchal fuck had Pillared Media Man cared?
A reporter Friend of mine, whom I shall not name outright for obvious clandestine reasons, called me at the hospital to tell me that he personally had witnessed this editor’s tyrannical abettors’ and cohorts’ deed in the bloodbath that maneuvered my and my Boys’ published undoing, “No!”
“JYeah. Yea—aaaah,” Friend declared.
“O my fucking god, Friend!”
“Ya’ know, Legion ... as much as you believe that your case is important and as much as it so is to you and to your boys, of course, it really isn’t to a newspaper. Nobody here went lookin’ for this. We never do.”
“Wha’? What are you saying?!” Head‑bangingly true my Friend had been: I did think ‘my case,’ my struggles, my passions fantastically important. That I so did.
“Well, it’s a divorce, Legion. A divorce. People get frickin’ divorced every single day everywhere. And nobody prints a thing about it. And we don’t either. Not even the ones with kids. Everybody’s also got kids, Legion, and o’course, a divorce is a lotta times, probably most times, gonna involve kids. It just isn’t news. And we soooo don’t go lookin’ for it. Nobody from here went over to the courthouse to get the daily rap sheet or whatever the fuck custody records are called. We don’t have to; there’s plenty of other stuff to report on and print.”
“Then … then?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m coming to. The newspaper got the goods on you cuz of yer ex‑husband.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t surprise me. But, what? Meaning what? What about Herry and this printed fuck?”
“Seems Edinsmaier had his attorney fax us the Court’s order,” Friend stated about the multiple pages of Sol Wacotler Seizor’s 24 September 1990 Mother‑Fucking.
“Whaaa—at?”
“Yeah. Yesterday, no, … no, Monday morning. Right after it must’ve reached his lawyer’s office in Des Moines apparently. Ya’ know, in Scheisser’s morning’s mail there. Well, it spilled out all over our newsroom floor cuz there were so many pages to it all. And ‘fore anyone noticed what was on the fax machine, why, the air conditioner was blowin’ ‘em all over.”
“Om’god. And then?”
“Yeah well, somebody gathered ‘em all together and read out loud who it was about––you. An’ we all knew you were running. Ya’ know, runnin’ for county recorder. That guy took it over to the editor. That was about 11 yesterday, an’ Abbey? Well, Abbey didn’t right then have an assignment so he put her on it. She’d already met deadline, and she was freed up; that’s why the editor put it on to her.”
“Jeesh! All of them? All of the pages?”
“O JYeah. Thaaa–at was the worst, Legion. Everybody in the newsroom was snickerin’. Well, you’ve read it, haven’t ya’? It soooo sucks. It just kills you. I mean: it just kills you! You have read it, … right, Legion?!”
“Well, actually no, Friend. I haven’t. I know about what it says though. Sort of. But I can’t read. All of the goddamn dope––and I can barely keep food down for that matter. Ever since Carlotta was here last night. She brought in to me both the decree and the newspaper.” Those two items she had had all right. Acting the evening before in her two pieces of lace‑fringed ivory Escada Couture like she was such the concerned friend–o’–mine driving her tiny, teal‑tinged attorney ass all the way up from Des Moines “to serve” me in The Sixth Floor Hotel what amounted to just another helping of mother‑fucking. This from the person who did not even know ‘my case’––from its first minute inside Act Two Part Two, the person who didn’t even have the witnesses straight, let alone, the facts. Nor all of its facts. Let alone, any of the ones that she had managed to have at her very fingertips––aside from their being anywhere near the tip of her friggin’ tongue.
So head‑bangingly true it was. Only I had known ‘my case’ like ‘my case’ had needed to be known––yet I could not shepherd it, let alone, … present it.
The guts of Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor’s Trial Two decree signed 21 September 1990, amounted to the fact that even though he acknowledged that I had “not significantly restricted Herry’s specified visitation,” [There had, Jury, in reality? There had been noooo restriction in “Herry’s specified visitation” ever at all! ! ! ! !] not only were all three Boys to be handed over to the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier on Saturday, the 13th of October, at 11:30 in the morning with the directive specifically to this man that he “should not destroy the love and attachment they have for their mother;” but daJudge also gave a similarly countenanced community pillar, daDoctor, the now court‑ordered patriarchal power to reign over and to rein in … me! That is to say, the fact that Herry, daMan and the daddee, was also a fine, leadership hoo‑hah, a physician at that, this now meant that The Court in the form of The High Aggrandizier was stepping aside and aggrandizing The Androcentric Good Doctor instead. Judge Seizor had just supplanted himself with Dominion‑Colonizing Herry––and ordered Dr. Edinsmaier to literally take over all legal control of the Truemaier Boys and of me––for as much and for as long as King Herod wanted this reign and these reins!
No matter that Herry Edinsmaier was also … my ex‑husband. No. No matter that small thing.
“Legion may have visitation provided she has furnished to Herry a signed statement requesting visitation, stating that during the periods of visitation she will refrain from any negative comments to or about Herry, his spouse, and her children in the presence of the boys, and that she is undergoing and will continue to undergo counseling to help her achieve a harmonious relationship.” Next page The High Aggrandizier rubber‑stamped King Herod’s reign of terror in this folie à deux of his with Herry, “If it becomes apparent to Herry that Legion is continuing to engage in the same practices that blah, blah, blah …”
Hmmm, just precisely how, in specific outline and detail, was that order of Judge Seizor’s “apparent to Herry?” O, but he waaaas … the Androcentric Good Doctor, Dr. Edinsmaier was. So, in countenance and demeanor then by the fact that Herry was i) a man and ii) a medical doctor, then he looked quite a passel like the flowingly intelligent, black‑caped magistrate himself, the High Aggrandizier. Likewise then, was Herod not also most able by so appearing as clever and gifted, especially to all in the community, to have all matters of the children and their custody, his own children, become “apparent” to him? As well as, of course, with the aggrandizing of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier through then his maleness, his superior medical knowledge and his training, why daMan also known as the ex‑husband and the daddee would also be “objective,” capable and skilled in the discernment of the law like a judge would be, would he not, in setting down the detailed guidelines into what Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor literally decreed was to be “a program of mental therapy” for the childlike subject, Legion True, to follow and to adhere to and for himself, King Herod, to design and, then subsequently––if pleased and satisfied … enough … as to the child’s performance thereof, to sign off on!
Just like, by way of Herry’s long and circuitously stretchy digits, King Herod had already been symphonizing and conducting from behind The Opera’s scenes … with “the papers” and with “sending” Sheriff Stout and Attorney Zaffar and with all of those psychotropic drugs and the threat to me of Cherokee State Mental Hospital … thus far. Just like the Ames Trib saga which was unfolding before me, Part Three now had Herry behind it, too!
The folie à deux from the High Aggrandizier continued, “Joint custody should be terminated and sole custody be placed with Herry. Payment of child support to Legion should be terminated after payment of the October 01, 1990 payment. Herry has the right to make application to require her to contribute to the support of the children or share in the uninsured medical expenses. He is to advise her by letter that it is his intention to terminate visitation if her practice continues. He has the right to deny visitation.”
Herry could devise a program of mental therapy that I needed to follow and about which he, The Good Doctor Edinsmaier himself, granted by way of the folie à deux with The High Aggrandizier, that is, this authority now conveyed upon him by ‘the Court,’ would decide was either enough or it wasn’t. Herry could now wield the power to mother‑fuckingly decide the construct and structure of such a program all by himself, to have me, his ex‑wife‑yet‑nonetheless‑“child,” submissively succumb to it and to complete it successfully to his satisfaction alone, before he, Herry, would even have to consider affixing his signature to something that bestowed back upon me—perhaps—a “chance” to have contact with any one of my very own children again! Unfuckingbelievable! I mean: THINK on that! Unbelievable mother‑fuck!
No matter that Dr. Edinsmaier was a sex addict and had repeatedly sexually and physically abused his sons. And me.
“If her practice continues …” Of not turning a blind eye any longer, that practice of hers? No, Judge Seizor, Your High Aggrandizier, no matter that small thing. No matter that Judge Seizor also wrote that with me, “The boys continue to do well except that Zane has been involved in consuming beer, smoking and he is not achieving his educational potential. Each of the parties suggests that that’s due to the action of the other one.” No matter that they already were doing, all three of them in fact, truly quite, quite well! With me!
Judge Seizor, the High Aggrandizier, had just given a fairly smart American man not only as legal chattel the very children whom I alone chose to grow––AND . AND . AND . CHOSE TO NOT ABORT––but also complete legal control, dominion and all‑encompassing power over me, that man’s ex‑wife. Take my children, then ya’ take me and all that is mine, too. Ya’ take her children, then you take and murder all that is of her core and of her freedom, all that is of any real importance to any true mother whom I know … anywhere. Take, take and take. Be certain to take and own it all. Take all of hers. Whoooa! Now what literally mother‑fucking application of the worldwide concept of aprovechar is that! Sperm Exaltation!
A FLIP/REVERSE would never have even entered itself onto any judge’s radar. To decree this––onto a man? Onto a father? To be controlled, this daddy, by a woman? By his ex‑wife? A father‑fucking?! Fuck––never!
This, … this patently patriarchally decreed “program of mental therapy?” Well––this I, along with Grace Portia’s initial and absolutely passionate insistence as well, resolved that I, Dr. Legion True, true mother, would never do. I refused.
Friend proceeded with the account at the Tribune on the 24th, “Yeah, Abbey got it; and after all the laughing died down, why, she went to work on it. Around 5, the boss must’ve seen her leaving. She was outside on the sidewalk headed to her car. He bolted out the door and grabbed her arm from behind––kinda draggin’ her back up to the front door all the time yelling at her. The rest of us?!––Well, we all ran to the window.”
“He did what?! Isn’t that assault?! In the workplace that’s assault, isn’t it?! What then? What happened?”
“Seems he hated her story. That’s what happened. Her first one, that is. Thought it was way, way too watered down. He actually literally threw Abbey back into her chair in front of her monitor and was still screaming at her, and I’m quoting here now, Legion, ‘Put the goddamn titillating, juicy stuff back in it, Abbey. Do it! Do it now!’ That’s what he told her to do. And, … an’ then he just stood there. Over her shoulder the entire time. Till she got it done. The second version of it. The one she’d tried so hard … not … to write at all!”
“Om’frickin’gaaawd, Friend! Unfuckingbelievable!”
“JYeah, I’ll say! Well, you can imagine: we’re all tiptoeing around here yet today. We are so shuuuut the hell up, I’m telling ya’, Legion!”
“I guess. Whooooa, Friend, it is bad, isn’t it?! I’m certainly done as a candidate. Not to mention through and done, too, as a mama, huh?!”
“Well, yeah, Legion, it so does look exactly that way. You are through being a candidate; that’s for damn sure. Talked to Margot yet?” Friend meant Margot, the Party’s county chairwoman. I hadn’t I replied. Not at that point yet, I had not.
AmTaham was so sad. Angry, too. AmTaham did angry about the same way that I did angry: in nearly utter silence for days and days and days. He didn’t talk now as he drove. I was so sad, too, but happy to finally be headed home––such as my home now was: what with Mehitable’s and Herry’s both having ‘rearranged’ my house and all of its inhabitants and all of its contents to suit just the two of them!
Grace told me during the first week in which I’d gone missing that Herry had come around multiple times to hers and Lionel’s so she suspected he’d been over to Havencourt and speaking then to Mehitable, too, when Mirzah, Jesse and Zane had gone from the Portias back over to there; but she wasn’t certain on that point. “I do have to tell ya’ something you are just not going to believe though, Legion! Herry actually said to both Lionel and to me that we should all get together with him and Fannie McLive—now. Ya’ know, like before—with all of our Boys. Go out together for supper and come over and visit and they all come by for pie and coffee or something! JYeah, he actually did say “pie”?!! He did! He said “pie”!! Like you, Legion, like you didn’t exist! Like you never even existed before! As if you––Zane, Jesse and Mirzah’s actual mama? Just as if you’d never really ever existed at all either, Legion! He made you … ah, ya’ know … sound invisible! Know what Lionel did? He just glared him down. Not one word came out of Lionel. Then he turned his back on Herry and went down to the basement. Takes a lot to shock Lionel, ya’ know. Believe me, Legion, Lionel was stunned!” I believed her; I believed Lionel was stunned.
We were grieving, Mirzah, Jesse, Zane, AmTaham and me. Mehitable’s voice was the last one I needed to hear and, so unfortunately, the only one talking. Fuck, those first days of the orange and brown harvest month were nearly my darkest, I thought. Things were about to get a helluva lot blacker; I could not even have imagined then just how black. Years later, Adam and Abraham from Quaker Meeting recounted the Ames Tribune events that ensued and unfolded while the Trues and the Truemaier Boys remained sequestered on Havencourt awaiting the 13th day of October, that particular month’s second Saturday, in 1990.
Come to find out, Reporter Abbey Gaffey had, indeed, … been fired!
And was leaving town on nearly the exact same day that AmTaham drove me home––in order to move back in with her own parents in Sioux City, up in the very same northwest Iowa direction but even a bit further on from Ames than Cherokee. Two Quakers walked into the downtown offices of the Ames Tribune to speak to its editor‑in‑chief where they then learned that over 300 subscriptions had been dropped within a month after the front‑page article had run and that letters to its editor had poured in regarding its soooo, so‑yellow, tabloid journalism. None, the Quakers were told, of the letters went after me or my “obsession”––as the High Aggrandizier decreed my stance had been on Herry’s sexual addiction and his paternal parenting behavior with my Boys.
In addition to the one entitled with AmTaham’s vocabulary word in its headliner, “Story appealed to prurient interest,” another letter published had been written by a fellow Kate Mitchell Elementary classmate of Jesse, Zane and Mirzah’s––whose own mama had coached Mirzah and Jesse in their early‑morning, before‑school sessions of French and German. The child’s submission was entitled “Truemaier story was in poor taste.” The Truemaier Boys’ classmate wrote, “To the Editor: I think the article in the Sept. 25 Daily Tribune entitled ‘Judge: Mental disturbance key in True custody case’ with its second page headline of ‘Kids: Psychiatric counseling recommended’ was in poor taste. I don’t think there is any purpose in putting that article in the paper. Other people have no business knowing the details of the Trues’ and the Truemaiers’ personal lives. All the article does is drag their family through the mud. I also really don’t understand why you put the sons’ names in the article. I don’t know when you went to school last, but I’m in the seventh grade at the Ames Middle School and if someone wrote an article like that about my family I would be very upset.” The minor student signed it.
The Quakers Abraham and Adam had asked––in person––for an explanation and a retraction: an apology. The big‑shot men of the Tribune’s answer to them and to the furious citizens of Ames was their firing of Ms. Abbey Gaffey, the Tribune’s “unbridled reporter”––which is how they, her boss ... and that man’s boss, had ever‑so‑androcentrically‑and‑conveniently excused themselves––by terming and, thus, … by sacrificing … this particular peon‑DEhuman worker to their Ames community.
I myself spoke by telephone to Ms. Gaffey in the spring of 1995, 4½ years after its headlining publication. Around Mother’s Day it was then. She absolutely and utterly confirmed Friend’s accounting of all of the events of Monday, 24 September 1990, at the Ames Tribune building––right down to the part where her boss, Mr. Gary Gerlach, had indeed, “stood over my shoulder the entire time till I finished its juiciness to his titillated satisfaction!”
Then Ms. Abbey said something else rather riveting, “Ya’ know, Dr. True, I was out of a job for six months. Not only did I have to move back in with my parents but I was also blackballed and couldn’t get work anywhere at a newspaper in Iowa. They made me your, um, I mean, their scapegoat for folks’ outrage. I teach writing and composition at this little, itsy bitsy college over the border inside Nebraska now at a really, really small town there called Wayne. That’s it. It’s okay. Not what I had wanted to do at all, but it’s okay. But ya’ know what? Every single chance I get, every single one, I tell my journalism students anywhere never, never, ever to go do their internships at the Ames Tribune, I don’t care how hootie‑tootie or hoity‑toity its publisher is.” She was referring, of course, to the Ames Tribune’s Pulitzer Prize‑winning editorialist and also its owner and publisher, Mr. Michael Gartner, himself the former president of NBC News––until its fraudulent reporting! documented in Dateline’s GM trucks’ story, brought Gartner down off that particular pillar––but, now? Now, Mr. Michael Gartner presently owns Iowa’s triple A ball club, the Iowa Cubs.
We Quakers? We never got our apology. And I? The crazed whore of an unfit mother? I was out of the running for my jobs, too. Finished. Kaput. Finito. Either as candidate for county recorder or … as mama.
* * * *
What a near perfect core‑murdering stratagem of Pissed‑off, Gut‑the‑Bloody‑Bitch Herry’s! Cunning and calculation in this fairly smart pillar. “Keep Legion poor, as poor as I can manage from here, here from behind the main curtain of The Opera! Smear her! Keep her from that cushy county job, and what’s more? O, what hard copy have I now to use against her anyfuckingwhere else that I so choose to! To smash her with it! To crush her! She sure’s hell, poor as a fucking church mouse, can’t continue to keep coming after me––and certainly not in fucking court if she hasn’t got a fucking lawyer! Or, the means to pay one with!”
No matter the Truth. No matter the opprobrious Eight Pages’ Truth! ! ! !
The “evidence” that was truly “key” in Act Two Part One, that is Trial Two’s, Respondent’s Exhibit S––that’d be S as in “sex addict.”
[to be continued]
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother
Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]
Jesse Truemaier: Legion’s son
Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son
Zane Truemaier: Legion’s son
AmTaham True: Legion’s father [Mahatma backwards]
Mehitable True: Legion’s mother [Me hit-able—i.e. she was abusive]
Ardys and Endys: Legion’s sisters [names backwards]
Sterling: Legion’s brother [her mother’s planned name of next son (who never came)]
Mi Sprision O'Revinnoco: Herry’s sister [misprision: concealing knowledge of treason/O'Revinnoco = O'Connivero backwards]
Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier: Legion’s father-in-law [juggernaut; aut = 0; misein = “to hate (misogyny)”]
Detanimod Edinsmaier: Legion’s mother-in-law [dominated backwards]
Ava Saffron True and Zebulon True: respectively, Legion's paternal grandmother and her husband, Legion's paternal grandfather
Rowland and Wyman Natures: respectively, Legion's most favored uncle and most favored male first cousin
Fannie Issicran McLive: fawning enabler of ex [narcissi(st) and Mc(Evil) backwards]
Mary Jane: daughter of Fannie Issicran McLive; stepsister of Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah
Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl, Abraham (Quaker elder)
Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia and Rachel
Wende: = Legion's friend after divorce [committed suicide due to Custody Crisis]
Jim Cornball: Herry’s acquaintance from AA and realtor
Loser Lorn: Insurance agent referred by Cornball
Judge Harley Butcher: Family Court judge
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: Family Court judge
Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge
Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge
Jazzy Jinx: Legion’s first Family Court lawyer
Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s second Family Court attorney
Shindy Scheisser: Herry’s lawyer [shindy = noisy; scheisser = German for shithead]
Li Zhang: Herry’s Aussie affair
Dr Freddie Goldstein & Ella: Herry’s colleague and wife
Mick: = Herry's acquaintance from high school; best man [not in Herry’s life after that as he had no true friends]
Varry Wussamai: Herry's AA sponsor (not a real friend) [I am a wuss backwards]
David Humes: nursing student; classmate of Legion's, y1968 - y1971, New York City
Edmund Silver: Legion's boyfriend pre-Herry
Braemore St: where Legion and her family lived, y1983 - y1986
Havencourt condominium: Legion's Ames apartment; after separation
Zephyr: tabby cat of Zane's, Mirzah's, Jesse's [pronounced “Zay – fear”]
Rex: Jesse’s pet Eastern Florida Kingsnake, female
Lady: Zane's pet Zebra Finch, female
Madonna: realtor
Larry Brouhaha: court-mandated marriage counselor
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: District Court judge on first two trials
Judge Harley Butcher: District Court judge for third trial
Dr. Shark: Herry’s residency supervisor who fired him
Carrie Canard: twice judge-mandated custody evaluator
Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)
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