Attention, Please

By Patricia Fish

Okay, the public forgave Bill Clinton and his oval office meetings with a notorious intern. It was “private”, “consenting Adult” behavior.
But how about a presidential contender who is a child molester? Surely the public wouldn’t tolerate such a thing, yes?
Only the public does tolerate such behavior in the presidential candidates especially when powerful parties use all their resources to cover up the truth, branding the accuser as the perpetrator.
Georgette Robinson is a middle-aged woman in the grips of an unthinkable dilemma. She has witnessed a candidate for the highest office in the land in the act of molesting a child. A candidate for whom she herself was his personal publicist. If anyone should have believed in her candidate, it is Georgette Robinson.
Of course the candidate had to be, first and foremost, removed from running for office. Or so Georgette Robinson thought.
No one would believe her.
Or if they believed her, they didn’t care. It was too close to the election to find and train another viable candidate. Though Georgette had tangible proof that the Republican party’s candidate was a child molester, too many important folks had their hopes and money riding on the candidate. It would not do to remove the candidate so close to the election.
Better to demonize the accuser.
In her desperation to be believed, Georgette ascertains that the only way she could break the barrier of Manny Roberts’ personal protectors was to find a way, any way no matter how outrageous, to get the country’s attention so she could make her claim.
Throughout the book, Georgette demonstrates how she came to her decision to hijack a small but very important airplane: through studied observation of the wildlife in her very own garden!
It’s funny, kind of sad, wild, outrageous and most important, it really CAN happen.
Who’s to say Georgette Robinson wouldn’t make a great President her own self?

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Oct 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781489725899

Patricia Fish

Patricia Fish is a dedicated social media writer and loves to write humorous fiction. She is a news and political junkee and has Blogs that detail daily life, reviews books, movies and TV.

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Copyright © 2019 Patricia Fish.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-2588-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2589-9 (e)

LifeRich Publishing rev. date:  10/24/2019

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1     The Little Girl Who Read

Chapter 2     The Robin Fight

Chapter 3     A Decent Man

Chapter 4     Sky

Chapter 5     Death of a father

Chapter 6     The Zoo

Chapter 7     The Publicist

Chapter 8     Sky and the estate from hell

Chapter 9     Personal publicist and the family from weird

Chapter 10   The Children

Chapter 11   Avian political consultants

Chapter 12   Sky, political consultant of the future

Chapter 13   Melanie Talbott

Chapter 14   Deciding what to do

Chapter 15   Telling the Truth

Chapter 16   The dysfunctional family strikes again

Chapter 17   More Stonewalling

Chapter 18   Angst of the Author

Chapter 19   Attention, please

Chapter 20   Flight 206

Chapter 21   Let the Trashing Begin

Chapter 22   The Surprise

Introduction

I n accordance with all federal, state and local laws, I will not make a profit on this book.

This information is now given lest the reader be dismayed that I should profit from my crime. In the manner of Monica Lewinsky and Vanna White I am, make no mistake, using my celebrity to sell a book.

I never wanted to be famous but I did, you understand, want to be rich. It was Manny Roberts who explained to me how one is not necessarily divorced from the other.

As of this book’s writing I realize that many in the American public do not believe my story about Manny. Unlike Monica, I did not tell all of my secrets before I wrote this book. Read on for there is far more to Manny Roberts than ever released to the public. And it’s earth-shattering, believe it. Even for no profit I’m happy to tell the story because, first, it’ll blow the lid of all of the deceptions foisted upon the American public for at least the past two years and second, if you like this book you’ll like my others from which I can, follow me here, make a profit.

At this time I’d like to introduce a new character to the story. Her name is Marcia Wood and she has everything to do with what I did, more so than even Manny.

I never mentioned Marcia during my trial because Marcia had nothing to do with it. No one would know Marcia Wood anyway. In fact, if I had mentioned Marcia and my relationship with her, I would probably have been sent to the loony bin for ten years whereas this way, I’m only in jail for a year, nine months with good behavior.

Now I know the public wants to know all about Georgette Robinson. At least my editor keeps telling me and I keep telling her I’ll write so much about Georgette Robinson the public will be sick of her. But I remained firm that I must introduce Marcia into the Georgette Robinson story because Marcia was, well my Muse, of sorts. Though Marcia was very much a living and real person. That’s the odd part, actually. That a Marcia Wood really lived and is a recorded human being though no one, not a soul, will believe me when I state who Marcia Wood really was.

There’s also Sky, my one an only contribution to the continuation of the human race and I’ve got to talk about her. She’s been hog-tied and horse-whipped to silence by the attorneys and public relations people but be assured given the chance, Sky would be gracing your television screens, embracing your ears and eyes with her presences. Any sort of biography would probably have the writer listing their children and their deeds. And Sky is my daughter so it’s not odd that I would devote a few words to her. However, Sky’s story is also an amazing one and dovetails quite nicely with the story, or The Story, as my editor calls it.

Unlike Monica and I don’t know, probably Vanna who’s not known world wide for her prose, my story is NOT being ghost- written. This is not to state the obvious but the editor says I have to state it. So consider it stated.

I’m not really that great of a writer though there are those times I can turn a phrase or two. That is to say I’m not that great of a writer when compared to, say, Ernest Hemingway. I write as well as, say, Tom Clancy. Imagine that, Georgette Robinson telling the world she writes as well as Tom Clancy. Well, yes, why shouldn’t I say this? Because Tom Clancy is on the best-seller list he writes better than me? Or the would-be writer down the street? Hey listen, there’s singers in church choirs that hit soprano high notes with a full throat and have no need to scream like Celine Dionne. They even sing better than Whitney Houston and probably don’t sweat as much. Then so there are plenty of writers that write as well, perhaps better, than Tom Clancy. I’m one of them.

Not that Tom Clancy’s a bad writer and let me say this now. His writing is fine and he’s devilishly good with plots. His wealth is deserved and he has talent.

So I deserve the wealth as well and hey, Monica had her book and let’s not forget Vanna. But I’m getting ahead of myself and you really want to hear the story.

It’s a good one. And it’s all true, every damn word of it, I swear. Thankfully, the public is already aware that I’m a bit of an oddball.

My editor tells me this book is going to be a runaway best seller and I’m psyched. I’m told the book stores are making space even as I type this, the introduction. The editor tells me, make it interesting, make it good, but don’t worry about perfection. Save some for the future, she tells me, I’m not going to do any of that. Don’t need to as a matter of fact. I’ll be able to write more books in the future, perhaps some fiction, some non-fiction. What I write will sell; I will have an audience. Not because of my notoriety, I submit. But because I’m good. Monica and Vanna, you notice how they haven’t written any more books?

Thus this book will be an absolute tell-all and if you think the Manny Roberts tidbit is a juicy one, ladies and gentlemen of the reading public, it goes waaaaaay beyond Manny Roberts. It’s the most unbelievable story and I’m convinced that I’m doing the public a great service by writing it. After I tell the whole story, buy some of my other books.

I will be writing more, did I tell you?

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Chapter 1

The Little Girl Who Read

I ndeed I did have an odd family. The public wants to know this, says my editor. Problem is, what with Jerry Springer and all, my family would not now be perceived to be all that odd. I still submit my father was the most unusual man who ever lived while my mother was more ordinary but still strange.

First my father loved to work and this is odd enough to require no elaboration. Oh I know there are plenty of people around who are called workaholics but my father wasn’t like that. He was a carpenter and his for-pay job was a hearty one. But he never worked overtime unless paid triple time and a half, which was seldom. My father also adored being unemployed and even managed, in his later years, to scam the social security people into letting him retire early, full benefits. He didn’t work himself to death for an employer, is what I’m saying here. My father’s labor was for his own gain. The fruit of his loins, or so my father figured, were fair game as little employee objects to also work for his own gain. Thus much of my childhood was spent, well, working. No, no child molestation, no outrageous lifestyle. Mostly working, working all the damn time.

My father (I simply won’t refer to him as Dad because I hope he is burning in hell) did have a bit of a temper and on more than one occasion, his corporal punishment would be considered excessive. One time I was out trying to sell a Catholic Review and lost track of time. It was very dark before I realized I was an hour past due. Too late I scurried back to my house, hoping I’d somehow get there and inside before my father knew it. For walking up that dark road toward me was my father. He had his tongue kind of folded over, that thing he did when he was mad. Even now I shake a bit at the memory though I sometimes dream of ripping the thing from his mouth and jamming it down his throat.

What he did, he stuck his tongue out, then folded the point down and under. Then he pulled this folded tongue back until a large wedge of it protruded from his mouth. He’d then clamp down on this weird tongue configuration with his teeth. Actually he looked like an idiot, but the humor was lost on a young child subject to his wrath.

You’re going to get a bad beating, he told me just before folding that tongue up. I was scared to death.

Please Daddy, I begged, don’t give me a beating. I was only trying to sell Catholic Reviews.

He remained mute, that tongue still sticking out. Now he had a two block walk to cultivate his rage. I was frightened he would kill me, really.

Now get in there and do those dishes, he said, slipping his belt out from his pants in that determined manner. I was sobbing and begging and not at all sure whether he really wanted me to do the dishes or stay right there and get a whipping. If he wanted me to go and do the dishes then why was he taking his belt off?

It seemed the monster wanted to administer his little whipping WHILE I was doing the dishes.

Keep doing those dishes, he screamed, slapping that belt across my legs, back and neck. It was terrible. I had to actually soap, wipe and scrub dishes while he beat me brutally with a belt. If I slowed down or took my hands from the water to ward off a blow, he beat me harder.

This was over forty years ago, a time when child abuse wasn’t as closely monitored as today. It was also a time when neighbors were reluctant to get involved in how others handled their children. Even so, there was a loud knock at the door.

Mr. O’Reilly, just let me see your daughter.

No. This is my home. I deny you permission to come in.

I held my sobs inside. My father warned me he would come back and beat me double if I made a sound as he answered the door. It was a police officer at the door, summoned by the neighbors as a result of my screaming.

I prayed to Jesus, who I believed in at the time owing to extensive Catholic schooling, that the cop would somehow get inside. For as soon as he left I was sure to get beat again, this time because my father would be furious that a neighbor had called the cops.

Back then, the police could not just rush in if they suspected child abuse. Back then they had to obtain permission of the home owner before entering.

Innocent children are really helpless and there was no more helpless child in the world than that little girl praying to a fictitious Jesus to make the cop come in.

To those who care about such things, and my editor tells me they care, this was probably the beginning of my hatred of all things authoritarian and also the start of my political self. I don’t know really, how people come to be how they are. So often it all sounds like so much psycho-babble to me. Marcia used to say genes were more of a determination of what a human turns out to be than any childhood experience. She sure showed me plenty of examples of this at any rate until I now really question so much of the popular psychology.

The public wants a tragic childhood, the editor tells me, and I have a kind of sad one. I’m really only telling it because of the editor because if you ask me, everyone’s got a sad childhood, even rich kids it seems like.

My father was cold.

My mother was distant

I hear this sort of thing on Oprah Winfrey and then there’s the Jerry Springer guests who have the most unusual parents in the world who sleep with their children’s husbands or wives or maybe the kid sleeps with the step-parents, and I wonder that anyone ever had a happy childhood. No wonder this country’s so screwed up.

After a few Oprah and Springer shows I’m reluctant to talk about my childhood. So I worked hard, that’s not so bad. So my father beat me with a belt; everyone beat their kid with a belt. My father used to beat up my mother but not all that often and they divorced when I was nine anyway. Even his whippings weren’t administered all that often. I got maybe seven serious whippings in my entire childhood so it wasn’t an everyday terror like Sybil or anything.

In fact, I don’t recall being especially unhappy as a child anyway. I think this was because I liked to read a lot and that might have been the start of all my problems, at least I’ve often mused.

No one in my family, mother’s side or father’s, was a reader. Not many of my relatives were very smart, in fact. My father might have been considered an intelligent man, at least he was thought so by the hillbillies in his family and this mostly because he knew how to do income taxes. My father certainly thought himself to be an intelligent man and he let you know it. While he may have had some rudimentary IQ cells that could have been cultivated to some sort of brilliance, he never used them. Or he used his IQ for other than gaining knowledge, mostly in pursuit of his lifelong goal, to get everything for cheap.

I was always a smart child and I don’t know why. My brother and sister (yes I have those, don’t like them all that much either) were no genius’ in school. The eventual half- siblings that came along with parental remarriages were no brains either.

Like so many other things in my life, my intelligence was almost, but not quite, outstanding. I’ve never been outstanding, truly exceptional, at anything. On many counts I’ve been almost but never quite. Which is more frustrating because I would probably have been better off to have been totally stupid like the hillbillies and know no better.

Still, the report cards always put me on the honor roll. My parents were simply amazed though my father thought it only right what with having his genes and everything. My mother told everyone about how smart I was, how pretty. And so well- behaved!

Unbelievably perhaps, I was probably the most well-behaved child in all the country, maybe even the world. Of course I didn’t know this at the time, or even consider it an admirable thing. Mostly I was the sort to be content with following the rules and avoiding confrontations. I saw no honor in constant detention that would only interrupt my life. It is with a mere mention that I suggest a low profile was the way to avoid my father’s strange and inconsistent wrath. Childhood fights and arguments only got me beat up. Having common sense, something at which I might possibly be outstanding, kept me out of trouble. My brother and sister were always in trouble and for the life of me I couldn’t see what they got out of it. My brother would be in detention or the nuns would be phoning my parents. My sister used to run around and stay out all hours. I had too many things to read, imaginary plays to act out, too much to do and too many people to see.

Though my family was amazed at my intelligence, they made no attempt to encourage it. No one ever checked that I had done my homework. I never received a dollar for an A. My brother and sister never received reprimand for their bad grades either. There was definitely not enough reading material provided. I resorted to stealing stuff to read.

Okay, so this is larceny of a sort. Today a child that would steal magazines and books to read would be hailed as some sort of misunderstood hero. Back then, it was serious stuff. If I visited someone’s home I always stuffed their magazines down my dress or pants. I’d slip magazines from the stores in my backpack. I’d check out books from the library though I didn’t have a library card.

We did get the newspaper every night. I read it from start to finish, including the classifieds. I’d read the sports section and was an enormous Baltimore Oriole fan. The editorials were my favorite. I knew