Oppressed

When the former FBI administrator-turned-bully had pinned my back against the wall with sneaky, nonstop financially-related attacks, leaving me with very limited options, either write or grumble, I chose to write my highly unusual story of oppression. Since the dreams I narrated are imaginary, I have classified my manuscript as fiction.


Disclaimer:  I Am Under Attack!


The bully is not fictional! He is a real person, a true Nazi on Steroids. If you stumble over "mistakes," bear in mind these are not genuine, but acts of corruption by the bully. I have found a number of "mistakes" during my revisions. Do you think I can honestly make silly mistakes such as putting together two unworkable verbs, or using the word "folks" instead of "forks," or the word "effect" instead of "affect," or not completing sentences after more than seven revisions?


Summary: Is the FBI Satan?


The collective body of "proof" is so overwhelming that the mere possibility of this being just another nut case is absolutely impossible!

I re-emphasize: Roger Stark is not a figment of my imagination! As a man with a warm disposition and tendency to fly into explosive fits of unfounded suspicion, both intelligence and reason are often suppressed and applied long after the fact, manifesting constantly in a minimized, perverted fashion.

Driven completely by greed and fear, he frequently becomes frantic and utterly out-of-control and does what anyone would have thought must be exaggerations!

Here is a list of real-life instances:

  • cyclists suddenly following him discretely across the street along sidewalks, 
  • school bus drivers turning impeccably timed right or left turns 
  • postal vehicles passing by on a Sunday
  • department store salespeople being secretly contacted and now watching him very closely
  • every type of car model fitted with cameras getting routinely dumped in front of the house or nearby
  • librarians running with worried expressions to check on him at a particular computer station
  • public city workers engaged in unnecessary repairs in clearly strategic locations
  • AT&T van drivers stationing along his cycling route with orange street cones
  • camera-equipped items such as crushed plastic water bottles being positioned strategically and cleverly as stray trash along many streets
  •  his bicycle and backpack getting bugged  
  • his sister Sonia staying up most nights and opening and closing her bedroom door for many hours to ensure that her brother had not left his room
  • tireless manipulation of controlling his family like they were lifeless, mindless stringed puppets that obey orders instantly and urgently with the aid of headsets in tracking every movement he makes.
  • processing of false, outrageous charges, based purely on suspicions.
  • bullying from an agent driving his car's fender into his bicycle's rear tire while in motion
  • a pick-up truck driver deliberately and timely opening the driver's door and striking him in traffic after thinking to himself, "Childish fears," regarding exceptionally obvious acts of surveillance constantly happening around him.
  • police drivers honking at him for no traffic-related reasons
  • forcing both his mother and his sister Sonia to keep their bedrooms' lamps on all night and every night


Sample Chapter

                                                              
Part 2/Chapter 14



Roger Stark spent the entire night in a continual state of irritable excitability. He paced the floors, motioned his arm in despair, and muttered ceaselessly, “God damn it!”  
   By seven in the morning, having not slept a wink, he contacted a real FBI agent. He was saying on his cellular phone:
   “Go now! Yes, before he gets up!”
   “Roger, what if she won’t cooperate?” asked the agent, who sat in a black SUV, parked across Vons.
   “She’ll cooperate!” Roger answered hotly and with such unyielding confidence in his voice, giving his face an expression of grim determination.
   “But what if she refuses?” the agent pursued, staring passively at a young couple strolling past his vehicle.
   “Tell her Uncle Sam won’t be sending her another god damn dime!” Roger replied menacingly.
   He was fully aware of everyone’s economic status in the Mendoza household. For instance, he knew Sonia received monthly financial assistance from the government on account of her mental disability, and, he knew exactly with surgical accuracy how to exploit her financial dependence to his advantage.
   The FBI agent parking five feet past the side gate, was a tall, dark-skinned, handsome man with short pomaded black hair combed with a clear division down the middle of his head. Unlike Roger, who would have flown like a crazed man to the porch in his exaggerated anxiety, the agent climbed the footpath with measured, calm steps, looking especially attractive in a navy-blue suit and black leather shoes that shone in the sunlight. Coming to a halt on the porch, he knocked on the door, and squared his shoulders unconsciously. A second knock roused Sonia to a start. She put aside her fuchsia blanket, hastened to the window in the dining-room, and opened the curtains.
   “Can I help you?” she inquired, gazing at the agent with a questioning look.
   “I am Jeff Zimmerman, a FBI agent,” he began, turning and resting his fine blue eyes on Sonia. “I have a serious matter I wish to discuss with you,” he added, nodding his head slightly, which signified the gravity of the subject.
   Sonia smiled subtly in spite of herself, and undeniably under the influence of the FBI agent’s handsomeness she hurried to the door and unlocked the doorknob with strange nervous energy.
   “Nice to meet you,” Jeff greeted her cordially on entering the house, and the touch of his strong, big, and brownish hand in a firm handshake set her on fire with a radiant smile.
   “May I sit down, miss?” said Jeff, disclosing immaculately white rows of teeth in a smile.
   “Of course,” Sonia answered emphatically, her radiant smile fading and dying away on her lips.
   Jeff unbuttoned two little navy-blue buttons of his suit-coat, and, sitting on one side of the short couch, with the open suit-coat exposing a white dress shirt and a black-striped yellow necktie, he drew out his Smartphone from his pants pocket.
   A hot blush of embarrassment suffused Sonia’s face when she noticed her bunched-up blanket still lying on the opposite end of the short couch. She snatched the blanket with the rapidity that could not have been expected from her, and hid it in the hallway closet; Jeff, smiling faintly at the cause of her embarrassment, put one leg over the other and affected perfect composure.

   “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, juice, or cold water?” Sonia offered formally and amicably.

   “No thanks,” answered Jeff, stealing a glance down at the Smartphone’s screen.

   “Is there anything wrong?” said Sonia, her tone and wrinkled forehead revealing traces of sincere concern.

   “Nothing yet,” Jeff responded ambiguously, but the solemn gleam in his eyes said something utterly different.

   His cryptic reply which elicited incertitude in Sonia, appeared as an expression of doubt and surprise on her countenance.

   “Your first name is Sonia?” he asked.

   “Yes,” she answered.

   “Sonia, the FBI needs your help with a sensitive matter.”

   “You need my help?”

   And her eyes gleamed with a strange light of puzzlement, as if puzzled at the FBI needing her help.

   “Yes, and this is regarding your brother Tito.”

   “Is he in any trouble?”

   “As I said before, nothing yet,” Jeff repeated, emphasizing the words “nothing yet” in a voice ringing almost ominously. “Roger Stark, my boss, wants you to contact him day or night whenever you think your brother is doing anything suspicious at home.”

   “Suspicious?” Sonia reiterated wonderingly, her eyes flashing with a grave light.

   “Anything that looks suspicious to you,” Jeff clarified with a significant glance.

   “So, you want me to call Roger Stark if—” she was saying.

   Jeff interrupted her.

   “Always call my boss if you suspect something. Do you have a cell phone?” he inquired.

   “No,” Sonia answered.

   Jeff drew a simple cellular phone and a black folded cord out from his suit-coat’s side pocket.

   “You can have this cell phone,” he continued, and handing her the cellular phone, he taught her how to connect the black cord to the cellular phone for recharging its internal battery.

   “Sonia, the cell phone is set on vibrate; don’t change the setting,” he added solemnly. “If your cell phone starts vibrating, that’s Roger Stark calling you. Always answer. Your cell phone is in working order. You never have to worry about running out of phone time: the FBI will add free phone time to your cell phone once a month, or whenever it’s running low. Any questions or concerns?”

   “What if I call and nobody answers?” Sonia queried soberly.

   “Trust me, Roger will always answer. This is Roger’s cell number,” said Jeff, giving her a beige business card with Roger Stark’s contact information, on which his cellular number was highlighted with bright yellow.

   “Sonia, I can stress this enough,” he resumed with such a somber, stern look on his smoothly shaven, handsome face that further convinced her in the magnitude of the subject under discussion. “The FBI would truly, truly hate to suspend your governmental financial aid,” he added meaningfully, dropping, as it were, the noose and displaying ostentatiously the incontestable powerful leverage the FBI commanded over her life, as though the agency now can control her and do whatever it want with her.

   “But, if you cooperate, call my boss whenever you suspect something, that, my friend, will never happen,” Jeff put in in a lighter tone. “Do you understand what I am saying?” he asked to verify that she had in fact understood completely the import of his words.

   “I understand,” Sonia affirmed coldly, her face rigid and lifeless as if turned to stone, as though Jeff’s threat of suspending her financial assistance, her sole and only livelihood, had crushed her life-force utterly.
   “It’s getting late,” Jeff observed after consulting his Smartphone’s screen.
   He rose with overlapping creases under the knees of his navy-blue slacks.
   “Sweetie,” he went on tenderly as though to smooth over the harshness of his implied threat, “I believe we’ll get along beautifully,” he completed his sentence, and shook her hand firmly with a feigned smile.
   Locking the front door after he had gone out, a spell of heaviness descended on her as though something terrible had transpired, as though she had to tread very carefully for now on with the horror of losing her only financial support hanging and swinging ominously over her in the shape of a blade.




If you need support, contact: rodrigoborges@protonmail.com


More Proof FBI Agents Are Compulsive Liars


The FBI still trying to impeach President Trump through baseless, ridiculous, and brazen lies, but also further proves how the FBI abuses its power by defying laws and completely ignoring plain facts. Is it no wonder why the president despises the FBI?