Gab Share

I wanted to be with Vladimir as his wife in 2002, but it seemed the barriers between Vladimir and I increased with each passing day.

The few exchanges I had with my Caucasian neighbor, made me strive with all my power to avoid encounters with him. As I returned from my job at Burdines in Tallahassee, he sat in front of his door, his face pale, as if spaced out and in another world. His black, stringy hair fussed unkempt about him. His shirt and jeans, with holes and raggedness, symbolized his life. He appeared to be in his twenties. “Hi. How are you?” As if in another world, he gazed at me, and his mouth seemed to drool with filth.

“I’m fine.” I jumped into my apartment.

I did not want to further the impression that I found this disgusting male at all attractive. The Jesuits set him up as my neighbor to destroy my growing relationship with Vladimir Putin, to create the impression of me as a loose woman, just because I loved Brent Spiner while married.

One time I decided to talk of my faith to this tramp of a guy, to emphasize the differences between us. “I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior, and I use the Bible as my guide for all living. I’ve been a Christian a long time.” Oh, why did this guy have to be my neighbor? And this was such a clean and quaint apartment complex, how did he manage to be my neighbor?

“Oh yeah. I know all about that. I accepted Christ, too.” He took a drag from his cigarette and spat on the ground next to him. His voice groaned like a weak wail. “But I have some problems. I’ve had a heroin addiction.”

“I don’t know anything about that. I’ve never smoked, never been drunk. I found the Lord when I was a young lady.” I gazed at him and felt sorry for this worm of a human being before me. “The Lord can help you overcome anything, even an addiction. Though I’m sure it won’t be easy. But nothing’s impossible with God.” I decided against giving him a gospel tract directly.

One time, when he wasn’t home, I slipped a gospel tract under his door. But most of the time, I tried to avoid him like the plague. If he sat on his doorstep several feet from my door, and stared like a mute into space, I ignored him, rushed into my studio apartment, slammed the door behind me, and locked it.

It seemed, that every where I moved, the Jesuits flooded in their agents as my neighbors, so that by the time a year rolled by, all my neighbors seemed criminals who trashed out the apartment complex, as they dumped filthy smells and liquids into the garbage dumpsters and scattered papers and cigarette butts about the pavements and walkways, so that even the upper class town I lived in, while in Washington turned into a trash bin to support the Jesuits’ goals to create the impression of Gail as a garbage woman who lived in dumpster neighborhoods.

When I first moved into the Tallahassee apartment complex, it was clean and quaint. But within months after I moved in, the Jesuits flooded the apartment complex with criminals, and moved their criminals into the section where I lived. I had to “bump into” these criminals. Like a lightning bolt, I walked past them, but Jesuits, with computer/satellite precision timing and accuracy, shoved these scums into my pathways, and forced me to deal with them.

My next door neighbor turned out to be a heroin addict, who often sat on his doorstep about eight feet from me, so that, as I entered my apartment, I had to deal with him.

Through my front window, I could hear all the sounds of nature and the roar of the cars from the nearby highway. One day, as I lay on my bed in the sunset hours, I heard a trickling stream onto my pavement. I peeked out my window and saw my stringy, black haired neighbor, his zipper down, standing, in the “pee” position, like males when they urinate into a urinal. “This is ultimately disgusting,” I thought.

Another time, outside his front door, for about a half hour, he coughed and made retching noises. It appeared he had about a half hour vomiting episode, and decided to spend his vomiting session outside his front door, rather than his apartment’s bathroom. This scumbag couldn’t keep his smut to himself, but had to spread his lewdness to all the world.

I thought, “These Jesuits use the most disgusting agents. They are truly the scum of the earth.” Every passing day, as I dealt with Jesuits, I grew to hate and despise them more and more. “Is it any wonder Vladimir hasn’t come to get me yet? Why would he come to get me with a neighbor like this?”

One time in February 2002, around 9 a.m., while I rambled about my furnished studio apartment, to fix meals for myself in my little kitchen, I sat on my queen sized bed and heard from my heroin neighbor’s residence gunshots– then, a loud thump.

The gunshot victim, whose slump I heard, lay about twenty feet or less from me, only separated by the wall that separated my studio apartment from the heroin addict’s.

I called 911 right afterwards. “I want to report that I heard voices screaming, like a fight, and then I heard gunshots from my next door neighbor’s apartment and it sounded like a body slumped down afterwards.”

“When did this happen?”

“Just now. About five minutes ago.”

“How do you know these were gunshots?”

“It sounded like gunshots to me. I’m sure I heard a body slump down afterwards.”

“Where do you live?”

I gave them my address.

“Do you know who’s in that apartment?”

“I have no idea. I don’t communicate at all with my next door neighbor. I don’t plan to go over there to see what’s going on. It sounded like a body slumped down after the gunshots. But I don’t know, perhaps I’m wrong. There could be a body in that apartment, and I thought you should know that, so I called. I’m leaving for work around noon.”

After I made my phone call to 911, I decided to get ready for work, because I was scheduled to work at Burdines that day. Around 9:30 a.m. on that day that the Jesuits shot the body and I heard that thump, I played full blast from my videocassette player the entire movie Singing in the Rain, so that my walls shook. I never left my apartment until I left for work, and didn’t leave for work any earlier than usual.

After Singing in the Rain finished, with still a half hour before time to leave, I blasted part of my Lerner and Loewe musical Gigi, so that the murderer next door would hear it.

I’ll spite you Jesuits. I won’t let you to use this murder to destroy me or Vladimir Putin. I won’t let you to gloat over your murder, to make a conspiracy out of this, to ruin my life or my lovers. I know you want to draw attention to where I live, but I spit in your face. You won’t intimidate me with your gunshots and your dead bodies. You monsters! You bastards!

Finally, ready for work, I turned off all my musicals, walked outside, saw about four or five police cars, with about ten officers huddled about, as if they waited for me to leave. The quantity of the officers and that they waited for me to leave, indicated that they found a body and didn’t want to remove it until I left.

I was so glad that I was scheduled to work that day.

I walked by and ignored all the police cars and the police, huddled outside my apartment and about their cars with their talkies. ”Roger, we got that. “ The communications and radio talk lingered in the air. . .Then I entered my van, and drove to work.

At work, I sensed that my fellow Burdine’s employees knew about the killer who lived next door. But I proceeded through the workday like another day under the sun and said nothing to anyone about the murder. Not a tremble from my hands, nor a quiver from my voice, betrayed what I knew. Throughout the day, I maintained calm and cheer.

When I returned home that evening, I heard nothing from my neighbor’s apartment–total silence. The body was gone, and, apparently, the tenant, arrested.

About a day later, I heard on the local news a report: “A black woman was found dead in a motel room at the following motel—. We don’t know how she got there.” A photo of her flashed across the news screen. “If any one has any information about her, who she belongs to, or where she’s from, please contact the police and give them this information. The number is—.” I deduced that this woman, whose face flashed on the news screen, was the murder victim next door.

The police apparently moved the body and located it somewhere else, and the news reported the body as found in a motel on the other side of town. I knew the Jesuits orchestrated this murder, to intimidate Vladimir from meeting me from my apartment; and that they used trashy, criminal men to destroy my reputation.

Around the beginning of August 2002, in the evening hours, while I lingered about my apartment, I heard a barrage of gun shots. This time, not from my next door neighbor, but from my building, several apartments down. This time, I did not call the police.

Days later, I heard on national news that several Hispanic bodies (described on the news as Mexicans, possibly victims of gross neglect or immigration crimes) mysteriously showed up in the middle of the U.S. (Texas area). I suspected that these may have been the victims of that barrage of gunfire I’d heard several apartments down.

Copyright © 2010 – 2018 Gail Chord Schuler. All Rights Reserved.