The Earthly Adventures of Commander Stormm, John Stormm [english books to improve english txt] 📗

I want to focus upon the “alien question” in my personal history.  In point of fact, I am hoping by recalling all of these relevant details, that even I might gain a better understanding of what I am, and what am I doing HERE?  I highly doubt that the overall majority of you will believe my story.  But, you could not find yourselves in more shock and disbelief than I was going through for MONTHS after we discovered my plethora of cranial implants.  But, it got me my Disability pension and that helped me survive even longer, and my eldest daughter had found me in Watertown, New York, and came to move me in with her and my twin grandsons in Hillsboro, New Hampshire.  I was wanted, and accepted by my family.  My love and hard work was not in vain, and life was GOOD…  Up until January 11th, 2015, that is.

 

 

It is here that I will get into a bit more story detail, because it is as weird as it gets, and it all leads up to my eventual demise, alone and rejected in a coma ward, far away from any kind of “home”, in Nevada.  My daughter is driving me back and forth to doctor’s appointments and emergency rooms as my condition demands of us.  I was being educated and fitted for an “Insulin Pump” as my insulin dependence was greater than I could personally keep up with.  Melanie (daughter) had attended one appointment with me at my doctor’s request because I had numerous dietary restrictions, and required some special tests that had to be scheduled and done on the same day.  As she would have to get me there, AND keep schedules for the rest of the family as well, it fell to her, to call and make the appointments at a convenient time for ALL of us and then make sure I was there for them.  All of this was supposed to improve the quality of my life and make my severe diabetes considerably more survivable.  I probably should not have even cared.   In my experience, I never stayed “dead”.  Something would ALWAYS happen to revive me.  But this was planet Earth, in 2015 and no matter how unusual one’s life might be, they’d have to be “crazy” to actually believe a thing like that!  Or such was my reasoning at the time.

 

It is Monday morning, January 11th, 2015, and I am sitting by the woodburning stove in our kitchen, drinking coffee, and chatting with one of my grandsons…

 

Melanie yells down from upstairs, “Gareth, be sure to log into your Kahn Academy (Internet Home Schooling) and start your lessons.”

 

“Hey Mel, I’m supposed to remind you to make that call later today,”  I call back to her.

 

About this time, a ROAR of profanity comes down at me from upstairs.  Gareth and I look at each other.  My daughter NEVER talks to me like that, and we literally LIKE to have arguments (debates really) for FUN, and we are never disrespectful in our arguments.  So, I take my coffee in hand and go up to see what the problem might be.  She is in the back of her room and still roaring about my appointments.  There’s a near finished toilet paper roll on the banister at the top of the stairs for some reason, so I pick it up and toss it at her.

 

“Hey!  Remember who you are talking to with that mouth, kid,” I said.

 

Melanie charged me at the top of the stairs and punched me hard on my right temple.  I grabbed her by her shawl, and I was near to tossing her head first down the stairs, when my head cleared enough, and let go and went back down the stairs, informing her:  “We are DONE.”

 

I was still bedridden much of the time, and my narcolepsy has me falling asleep several times a day.  My average days consisted of about 14 hours of sleep!  I locked my bedroom door as I wanted no more of anyone’s nonsense and promptly fell asleep.

 

Somewhere after 5:00pm, there was a knock on my bedroom window by my bed.  I looked outside and it was dark and two Hillsboro cops are standing outside.  I figure, there was probably and accident near by, as we live in the mountains.  I go to let them in and see what they need, and they tell me that I have to pack a bag and get out, and do I have a place to go?  I have never even visited New Hampshire before moving there with my daughter.  I packed my laptop and a few clothes.  I knew NOBODY in the entire state to go to or get help from, so they took me to their station and locked me in a cell.  Later that evening, a deputy sheriff came, and drove me all the way to Manchester, TWO cities away from “home”!

 

In the morning, I was brought in chains to a room, where a judge addressed me over a closed circuit TV and discussed some totally outrageous charges against me and how my entire family had been living in FEAR of me their whole lives, and forbid me to return home or even to call them on the phone.  It was the ONLY phone number I knew in New Hampshire.  He was going to release me on my own recognizance until the court date a few weeks from then.

 

I was sick, having seizures every few minutes, no meds, no insulin, no place to stay, and in a strange city, during a roaring New England blizzard, so I asked him if he could just keep me in jail until the date?  He replied:  “We aren’t running a rescue mission here.”  And the deputies got me my clothes and put me out into the blizzard without even giving me the number or address of such a rescue mission.  I didn’t even have a clue of where I was in Manchester, or what section of that city.  I had never been there before, and besides the visibility was lousy for all of the snowing.  I had only $300 left on my debit card, as I had paid Melanie & family most of the other $900 of my monthly budget for my room and board.  Nearly ALL of my belongings were there in my room, and I had no way to get to them, and not allowed if I could.

 

I determined that there is always a Greyhound or Trailways bus depot, near the centers of every major town in America.  I hiked through the snow and wind for hours before I found that part of the city, and located a Trailways bus terminal.  The ticket agent said they had no buses that go to Hillsboro.  I at least had to stop there, because the deputy had left my clothes and laptop there, and that was my ONLY way to contact anyone that I knew, via the Internet.  The lady was kind, and made some calls for me, and then told me the best we could do is to buy a $30 bus ticket to Concord, and then call a taxi for about $80 to take me to Hillsboro in this blizzard.  

 

Around 9:00pm the taxi got me to the Hillsboro police station, and I collected my gear and they gave me some court papers to sign.  They could see the side of my head was swollen from where Melanie had punched me, and I was very sick and had no place to stay.  They weren’t entirely heartless, and one of them agreed to drive me to the nearest and cheapest motel at $75 a night.  I only had enough money to stay a coup0le nights, and I was deep in the mountains, and it was over eight miles to the nearest bit of town on a narrow, icy mountain road.  As I said earlier, I am terminally ill and there would be no way I could survive even half of that walk in a blizzard as I was.

 

As it happened, I got into the motel.  I jumped into a shower and got some sleep, and in the morning I opened my laptop and got onto to Facebook and told my friends on my page what had happened to me, and if anyone knew anyone who could help me?  Immediately, some friends got together, made some plans, and rushed me money for another taxi and a bus ticket.  This time I was heading to stay with some friends, Deb and Mitch in Boca Raton, Florida.  I had been almost all week without much food and no meds or insulin at all.  The lack of any food helped keep my glucose levels from going up far enough to put me into a diabetic coma again, and it was a long, miserable ride to a much warmer state.  

 

 

Deb and Mitch met me at the bus station and immediately got me to a pharmacy, where Deb was reading the riot act to the pharmacists to get me insulin as quickly as possible, and they did it all for me right then and there.  I was out of immediate danger, and seeing local doctors and clinics to help bring my body back into some kind of shape.  Some aspects of my illness got worse, and I started getting Grand Mal seizures.  In a few months, I was considering moving to some friends who could cater to my need for “assisted living”, as I was on a long waiting list to be go to a nursing home, where I could be cared for, in North Las Vegas, Nevada.  They had medical marijuana there and CBD oil that would control my seizures magnificently.

 

I called a former ULTRA student of mine and offered to pay him about $2000 to drive me from Boca Raton to Las Vegas as he was already good friends with the people I was going to be renting a room with.  We got all the way up to the day he was supposed to show up, and he had never left Houston and never called to say he wouldn’t be coming.  So Deb and I made calls and I got onto another bus, for a sardine packed, miserable three day ride to Las Vegas, where my new landlords would be meeting me at the bus station, and I would begin yet another new start in Nevada.  I got my medical marijuana card, and I started weaning myself off as many of the pharmaceuticals as possible, for the side effects were crippling me.  It was a hard two plus years in that house for me, just by reason of all of the side effects and changes that I had to work through.

 

During my stay there, I was being scoped out everyday by the Blackjack Squadron, out of Redding, California, but now with their own sub-station at Nellis AFB.  By helicopters or high tech vans, they would scan our place daily as if they were keeping tabs of where I was and what I was doing.  I was sure of it as they were never interested in my house mates before I came.  Again, I started being contacted by the “tall blonds” again, and then the “tall whites”, that are known to have their own enclave somewhere on the Nellis reservations like Area 51 and such.  I was resisting the telepathic calls, because it has NEVER been a good idea for MKULTRAs to start listening to the odd voices that show up in our heads.  The mental “downloads” were blowing my mind, and I would smoke more and more weed to tone that down a little.  It really didn’t help much, but I was a bit mellower in my own skin, as ravaged by disease as it was.  It was determined that I could have a face-to-face meeting with a “tall white”, who went by the name of William, and that I would have to leave the house