The funny things we say when we are almost dead.

Document: Fitch was Shot 8 Times, Undergoing Surgery

Brian George Fitch Sr. shot a Mendota Heights police Officer. Later, he, too was shot–8 times. Apparently, that included a gut shot. According to news reports “he’s medicated and will be in the hospital for at least a week.” Most people I have ever known can’t talk when they are gutshot, much less when ‘heavily medicated.’ But in Mamasota, dead people do really amazing things! Maybe that’s because Jesus lives here, and he came back from the dead!*


I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but the last time I died, it took me three days to even open my mouth and say anything meaningful, fully coherent, or even ‘understandable’ in ordinary human terms–I had ceased to exist, and my life became a question mark.

And even then, when I did speak, it was garbled by the intensive doses of morphine that ran through my veins every time that wonderful drip dropped a hit.

When I woke up riddled with gunshot wounds on a certain Friday the 13th, the first thing out of my mouth was “Am I dead? Did I die–is this heaven?”

Remember the faces of comedy and tragedy? Those theatrical faces that adorn everything from stationery to the backs of old dusty paperback books?

Those were the two nurses–one had a smirk on her face–she got the joke, while another had that tisk tisking look of shame, and it was she who ws certain to remind me that ‘don’t you know you just died?! Don’t you know how serious this is?”

If I had to wake up to women like her all the time, I probably would have given up the ghost then and there. But I didn’t, because, true to form, life provides us with different models of behavior–and women who keep us alive, despite ourselves–that was the laughing one.

IT was she who made me smile, knowing that my own tragedy had humor in it–that humor is the soil that all living is planted in.

Of course, I knew I wasn’t per se, that I didn’t, per se, ad that there is no heaven for certain-so clarity was present in that first waking moment. MY humor was intact, and assured by nurse two that life might be worth living.

And then, according to the reports, I died again, or something like that, as I had lost so much blood my body shut down–I died three ‘physical deaths’ that first night.

Well–fast forward to three days later:

1) I was missing 2700 dollars from my belongings–the first of many ‘prices’ I paid for my injury. To this day, I only vaguely remember the hand slipping in my pocket, and s time has passed, it seems more and more from my memory that this hand was in my pocket as the first responders arrived–but who knows which one?

Someone out there does, and they took me for a dead man that moment–a sucker, dying every minute in that part of town. But that wasn’t my story.

NO, I had children to feed, other children’s fathers to pay wages to, so they could feed their children–and those children in large part, getting huge bites out of their futures and opportunities because the vested interests of children in such a state as Mamasota are always secondary to the state getting ‘its share’ first, of the food that belonged in those children’s mouths.

And that share, a lions portion-burdens too great to bear for most fathers in that era–and those fathers who I employed, alongside crippled people, women, and illegal aliens.

I am a bad, bad man; and lawyer bills that year–more bills than I could ever pay, because of the lies that so easily tumble out of the mouths of Mamasotans. They are hungry-for religious truths, but devoid of the ability to ascertain real truths-hungry for affirmation that feeds the hungry, hungry narratives of power; hungry to scapegoat and lie about others in order to align themselves with correct narratives, even of those correct narratives are full of tortured lies, and violent, bullying untruths, perpetrated in courtrooms alll acros America, every day.

Mamasota is not alone in pandering for Federal nee~ Internationalist dollars when it comes to corupt social policy. In fact, since that time? Thattime when such forces were introducing the convenient narative that it takes two fathers, AND the mmoney of the state ( a subsidy, really for women who sell their children to the militarized state schema) to pay for the children that women will make with or without them?

More babies are born without fathers in the home than in any era before it-more police on the streets than any other country in the world–and those police armed as para-militaries!

AND, more men in jail every year than any modern ‘democracy’ in the history of the world. A casual observer from outer space might observe that in fact, democracy IS a militarized domestic climate, where women breed with–well, WHOEVER they can get a kid from–and then, loan that child to the state for 18 years or so, until that child is militarized as well–subdued by fear into the narrative of power that is a police state, that depends upon the death of children OUTSIDE that state for its sustenance.

The hunger of groups in the breedbasket is indeed a spectacle-a huge, government tit, lekking frenzy of dominance displays and homicides, one lie at a time, until those lies become ‘true,’ to the murderous ones.

And someone had the nerve to rob me, as I lay dying. Such is the culture of the beasts of the night.

2) I was more coherent three days after my death/s and more available to speak ‘my’ mind, which is why the detectives were there that day-and the media.

3) Even then, I could not speak openy, or coherently about the events that triggered my murder. That took years to figure out. So, whatever I said in these moments? NEarly half of it was an attempt at sardonic humor, another half, distractions from my horrible condition–that I was still alive.

And nearly none of it was what I wanted to say, then, or could in any way mean seriously–such are the effects of morphine in high doses, and pain, in waves.

Enough of this story for now–I am saving the details for other work/s. BUt lately, something is sticking in my craw: police brutality is rampant in my country, as are a huge hydra of nefarious law enforcement practices that have run amok over the last few decades, unchecked, and only affirmed by the SCOTUS, and lower courts who are infected as many other wealthy bureaucrats and pedagogues are by the fear of losing power, place or control to the madness of the world they create, every time a citizen is murdered or a suspect tortured while they turn their heads, and chant ” It’s for the Children. It’s for a better world. It’s for Safety, and Security,” and all of those other fascist slogans.

But this statement is in my craw right now–and whereas the person who is purported to have uttered it is in some regards reprehensible, criminal, or cold blooded or insane; my own experience causes me to question the placement of, and the intent of or even the possibility that someone who is shot full of holes could, did, or would utter the phrase:

“Just to let you know, I hate cops, and I am guilty.”

It’s implausible-because hard core criminals, even, won’t willingly feed the narrative violence of their adversaries–won’t willingly incriminate themselves, I suspect, for no other reason than to make the proof of a case harder.

Even, and especially hard core murderous criminals wouldn’t give the cops that satisfaction–icing their cake for them. And if it sounds too good to be true, it probably IS too good to be true-even a cop murderer wouldn’t likely give cops a deathbed confession.

Sounds a little like someone got together with someone else to cheat on their homework–and that more than anything, is what makes America a worse place, not a better one.

Who knows? ‘You weren’t there,’ right? Neither was I, but in spirit.

* Here is documentary evidence that JESUS WALKS AMONGST US!

Family of Fallen Officer Leans on Faith, Church Community for Grieving and Healing




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