Knatz.com’s section on my being assaulted by Mike LaCroix, my residence park’s manager, was complex and remained unfinished at the time of my arrest and the fed censoring my testimony. It’s way too late to get it right, no one seemed to care anyway (except the police, but the court didn’t listen to the police! or me!).
I’ve lived in Sebring Gardens since 1989. Harry Canfield bought the park and behaved like an evil cartoon capitalist, his Baptist missionary zeal an impolite joke. Harry took long vacations, leaving a park thug, Mike Lacroix, in charge. Mike understood his license to behave like a Nazi, the residents were terrified even more than normal. One day Mike accused me of putting dry wall into the dumpster. I had workers on my site but no dry wall was involved: trespassers used the dumpster all the time, there was no telling who did what: but Mike didn’t need evidence, or reason; only rage, and authority!
Every society has a weak member that all others pick on. I, as a radical — intelligent and honest — have always understood that I am taken as that weak link. The law doesn’t protect me any more than the Centurions protected Jesus, and for very much the same reasons.
So: June 1997 I’m washing mildew from my Catherine’s trailer. (With her, I kept my travel trailer as a studio, living in hers, working in mine.) The grass has been waist high for weeks. Mike sees me, fires up the tractor-mower and tells me to get out of his way, he’s “cutting the grass.” He’s got acres and acres all waist high, but no, he has to cut exactly where I’m standing, working. I told him to go around, to cut later, “I’m working here.” Mike rev’d the tractor, aimed straight at me and let her rip. I jumped aside. I had the wash bucket in my hand, I sloshed the liquid in his direction as I jumped. The tractor missed the trailer but the blades shredded the hose I was rinsing with.
I was putting things away in the shed, having no more ambition to remix detergent with water and bleach for me. I heard a sound behind me, looked, just in time to find Mike’s fist bludgeoning my face. I went down, curled up on the shed floor, tried to protect my head with my arms. My hands and arms took the brunt, but Mike scattered my teeth in the shed anyway. My hand was multiply broken. Temporarily, I was sightless. (His sight hadn’t been happy either, apparently some of my wash water reached his face! The Nazi sprained his toe on my balls!)
When I could see a blur I asked neighbor Norby to take my picture: and my bloody toothless mouth too.
Catherine, old and blind, deaf and crippled, did no more than I expected her to: nothing. She loved me, there was no quesiton about that, but she was also a member of the society, the society I am an enemy of. The German might love the Jew and hide the Jew in her closet, but when the Nazis arrive with their guns, the German will hand that Jew right over.
The story of Jesus’ crucifixion and its aftermath, whether truth, fiction, or mix, has the behavior of his enemies and his friends just right!
Mike called the cops, told them I’d assaulted him. The cops came, found my busted up glasses, some of my teeth, in the shed: and arrested both of us! But: they “knew” who’d assaulted who. The court refused to follow the evidence, but followed instead its program of getting local owners rich while Yankees are fleeced and endangered.
The above cannot be understood without knowledge of my earlier Sebring Gardens experience: told only in fragments at Knatz.com. But, you know, Crazy Horse never really got to write or edit his memoirs while going from jail to jail to reservation. Hell, I just gave a more complete and better account abovce of the one incident than I’d ever fit into Knatz.com: maybe I’ll tell some of the older stories too.
Never mind, whether I do or not, regardless of what Crazy Horse did, or didn’t, or was prevented from, I expect God to have a complete account. And if he doesn’t, the truth is still the truth.