Extremists In Our Midst

By Jack Wiegman

Let's talk about environmental extremists. As a Democrat or Republican you have been told to hate many people. Give this book a chance to show you something better than hate. Real extremists are nothing like the kind of folks you are taught to fear. This book will show you problems to address and ways that you can defend yourself and those about you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365720758

Book preview

Extremists In Our Midst

Extremists In Our Midst

John H. (Jack) Wiegman

Published by John H. Wiegman 2016

Copyright 2016 by John H. Wiegman

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN 978-1-365-72075-8

Published by John H. Wiegman

909 West Central Avenue

Missoula, MT 59801

To

The family of Eugene Buffin

You suffered too much.

Disclaimer:

The last two chapters, Postlog and How Papers Got This Way will background you on reasons behind the book’s existence. The rest of Extremists in Our Midst is fiction. Except for a few well-known historic figures, all characters are fictional and all stories here are fictions.

Acknowledgments

Those scientists, engineers and citizens who supplied information for this book cannot always be named safely. Eugene Buffin, Thomas P. Fortino and Don Harkins are dead and I have been attacked three times. Informants and their families risk their lives and they risk punitive lawsuits every day in the fight against environmental extremism, extremism fueled by misinformation. My goal is to build a foundation for new trust. New understanding can be achieved only with unity of mind through integrity in science. With or without environmental protection the planet is doomed. Integrity might extend the planet’s life for hundreds or thousands of years. Without integrity, we are limited.

John H. (Jack) Wiegman

Foreword

Let us now talk about the environmental extremists. As a Democrat or Republican you have been told to hate many people. Give this book a chance to show you something better than hate. Real extremists are nothing like the kind of folks you are taught to fear. This book will show you problems to address and ways that you can defend yourself and those about you.

A curious anachronism of American law is this; It is far easier to accuse than to defend. The accuser is more likely prevail in any confrontation. You need to know what to anticipate.

If the term extremist is used only as a form of name-calling, it makes no headway. In the Muslim world, acts considered by us to be extremist have been the norm for many centuries. Extremist is a word we must use carefully.

John H. (Jack) Wiegman

They say Bollé

Missy Broaderick limped around the dirty kitchen holding her stomach. The pain was strong but she’d get another beating if she complained or whimpered.

Missy had once been lovely and had sold her services as a prostitute. Now she was a castaway, trapped in the isolated forest residence of Ernest Bollé, a dealer in illegal drugs. She was a slave, not allowed to leave. She’d been with him for five long, painful years.

The baby was born three-years ago and Bollé was undeniably the father. Thus, Ernest had some minimal tolerance for little Chad.

Minimal.

Bole kept the petite, light-skinned Missy nude so that he could look her over now and again. She was available on short notice and he could use her at any time he wanted.

It was too long a walk to town for help. Such a trek would have been impossible without shoes. Missy had no idea of where she was or where to go anyway. Even with her addicted and drug-weakened brain, Missy really didn’t want to leave Chad.

With no friends, no dignity, no pride and no sense of direction, Missy was a permanent fixture. In a warmer climate without the dogs and without those bears that Bollé talked about incessantly, there might have been hope.

Fix me a cheeseburger and quit piddling around in there. The command came in a loud voice from Ernest’s den, And shut that little monster up! I am sick and tired of hearing him."

The skillet sizzled as she prepared bun, pickle, lettuce and mustard. Wearing a tattered, improvised apron, she approached the stove, spatula in hand. She was spattered with grease on breasts and belly through holes in the apron. She let out a quiet whimper and continued stoically.

She put the burger on a plate and opened a beer to carry into the den. It was one of little Chad’s toys made of discarded firewood chips that found its way under Missy’s foot and she tripped, dumping the plate and beer on Bollé and his desk’s desk.

Outrage began again with Bollé’s huge fists flying. Then he started hitting Missy with a paperweight, a bronze replica of the Venus de Milo. Missy was bleeding in mere moments. Soon she was unconscious.

Bollé figured that when she regained consciousness she would start screaming. Unaware that she was a mouth-breather and could get little air through her nose, he covered her mouth with duct tape.

Finding A Solution

It was thus she died, beaten, bloodied and asphyxiated.

Unaware, Bollé went back to his  paperwork, tracking his latest money.

The bookkeeping exercise ended and Bollé turned the computer to gaming. When baby Chad began to scream for attention, Bollé got up to stop the noise. It was then that he discovered that Missy’s torn body was without life.

What to do? What to do?

Bollé was aware that pigs will dispose of human bodies quietly and completely. He was also aware that a neighbor, five-miles away kept pigs. Morris McBean was likely dead drunk or gone to town. It didn’t matter either way. Old McBean was dimwitted and unlikely to know what his pigs were eating.

At dusk, Bollé threw the body over his shoulder and walked the quarter-mile to his hidden pickup, a black and yellow one-ton Chevrolet. The dogs yapped at his heels and jumped at the body until Bollé kicked them and commanded his animals to go home.

The nude body was tossed without ceremony into the truck bed. Bollé continued to McBean’s. Now Missy was thrown to the pigs. The closest thing to a funeral service for Missy Broaderick was several shovels full of yard waste thrown over her. The pigs wandered in to find whatever might be of value.

Now What?

Little Chad, unfed, was screaming. He didn’t seem to like beer and pretzels. The kid was cuffed repeatedly as Bollé thought appropriate but that didn’t do the job. Bollé realized that he would require a replacement for Missy Broaderick.

Prostitutes often think of themselves as generic, each considering him or herself as ordinary, just like any other in the trade.

Penelope Smith thought of herself that way when she was out of a drug-induced fog. She was seldom out of that fog and when Ernest Bollé stopped curbside and told her to get in, she did so.

I gotta be paid. What do you want?

You’ll get paid, Bollé growled, but first you’ll earn it.

Trapped, Penelope quickly learned to get along. The atmosphere was one of tension and intolerance. She was used to tension and intolerance. They had always been her companions. Ernest took her clothes and shoes. He burned them. Penelope looked better that way and would not be capable of walking far. She was not paid except in food and the products of Ernest Bollé’s trade.

It was in this way that Chad Bollé became an untethered six-year-old.

Not Good

A one-ton pickup truck is a power to behold. You can climb steep gulches with it. You can intimidate the frail. You can run away.

Police officers were not frail. Ernest ran away and the cops were left only with a young school teacher and the drugs Ernest had been selling.

It took time to get a helicopter but, when the machine did get into the air, that distinctive pickup was easy to follow. The truck was working its way through a dense pine forest when the chopper landed two officers ahead. Ernest traveled a few more minutes and then was ambushed.

There was shooting, a dead officer and an arrest.

Alone; Good or Bad?

The elder Bollé had been absent for months and food supplies were short. There came a day when Penelope had been without her drugs for too long. Chad Bollé, in one of his frequent rages began swinging a pot at Penelope.

Penelope, like Missy before her was petite and frail but she still was able to best young Chad. The duel was short and they compromised when she spoke of taking some of Ernest’s oversize clothing. She wrapped their feet in canvas tied with rope. There were blankets they could use as capes or coats. Together they would take a walking trip to wherever.

They followed the minimal tracks that Bollé‘s truck made through the woods when he made his occasional sales trips. Penelope was afraid to touch Ernest’s truck when they came to it and didn’t notice Morris McBean’s place. It took them a day of trekking to the lowest point of their secluded valley. On a rural road they were picked up by a friendly trucker and dropped off at a town nearby.

Penelope went back to hooking. Chad, neither knowing or caring what it was, stumbled into a strip club, the Foxine Solution. Son, you don’t belong here. You must go home.

No! I’m staying right here. I belong here.

In a fit of compassion, 21-year-old Andrea Samson became a mother of sorts. Chad would be clothed and warm. He would be fed at night. She would put him in school whether he liked it or not.

Chad went. First grade. Second grade. Third grade.

Boring!

Teachers and students alike at first found Chad Bollé difficult. Then they found ways to protect themselves from him and then to ignore him.

Connections

Chivo Gonzalez needed a partner. With Ernest Bollé in the slammer there was nobody local to wholesale his illegal wares. Knocking around town he wandered by the Foxine Solution to look for a worthy replacement and to have a good time.

In the din of loud music, flashing lights and moving thighs, Chivo asked about Ernest Bollé and any friends he might have.

Cheerful voices directed him to stripper, Andrea Samson. She’s looking after Ernest’s son, Chad. The monster’s quite a burden for her.

Phone numbers and schedules of performers are not given to strangers in a strip joint. It took two-days worth of visits for Chivo to round up Andrea. What do you know about Ernest Bollé and that charming little boy of his?

"Haven’t seen Ernest in ages but the kid ain’t little and he ain’t charming. You can have the monster if you promise not to bring him back. I’ll bring him over to the Foxine at two this morning if you’ll be around."

Chivo accepted the monster nickname as a joke. Chivo also accepted the offer to give the boy away as a joke. He made sure to stay around until he could meet Chad Bollé.

Andrea was late. It was three in the morning when she arrived. Do you mind if I take him with me for a while?

Have a good time, Chivo.  Neither Chivo nor Chad was sleepy at all. For each of them, the dark, early