Today the FBI agents informed me that they have been talking to my friends Chopper, Buffalo Bill, and my Slick Willie type lawyer (which is why he can't represent me - also because they say I don't get a lawyer because of some reasons I don't understand). They tell me these people are making something called a "plea agreement" with the Obama controlled FBI (pesky fellow that one) to give evidence against someone called "Person #1." I'm not sure who that is but apparently Person #1 is the main target of this investigation. I told them I would not give evidence against Person #1 because I am not a snitch.

You can't make money in the business world if you are going to be nice to people and once we get the Trump work camps up and running we will be eliminating all but businessmen and their breeding partners because robots are available to do the labor work. Sure will be fun to see those doctors down in trenches being beaten half to death every damned day while digging in thick mud in the nude to pay for the sin of keeping people alive past their point of usefulness to the labor pool. Fuck doctors.

They just looked at me funny when I told them I would not rat on Person #1 and one of them said, "You do understand the seriousness of this, don't you Mr. Goats?" Now it was my turn to look at them funny. They are playing mind games with me and I am good at mind games because of sales. Back in the 1970s (when America was great before) I used to sell really cheap roofing tiles door to door. One of my tactics was to tie the man of the house to a chair and then play strip poker with his wife. With each time she lost a hand (because I cheat and that is necessary for a good result) and took off an article of clothing these pathetic men would give in and sign a contract for roofing tiles. It was very effective.

Still, I am not giving state's evidence against Person #1 even if they do look at me funny whenever I tell them this.

They came back in after the exchange of funny looks and told me they had removed a bathtub from my Abu Ghraib style basement and that they freed all twenty-four of my hypothetical "hostages" I was holding there. This was a setback but I told them there were plenty of fish in the sea and I meant it. They stepped out of the room for about twenty minutes after I told them how I used to push women into dark corners in bars in the 1970s and get me some.

They brought me a sandwich and a can of Coke when they came back and I repeated my pledge not to rat on Person #1. They ignored my thoughtful pledge this time and pulled out a very thick file folder with a lot of papers in it. They pulled out a picture which really upset me. It was of the mass grave I built in my neighborhood that will eventually be part of my Golgotha ride.

"Can you tell us about this, Mr. Goats?"

"Well," I told them. "Back in the day, the Romans used to crucify criminals on this hill and I am recreating this for the enjoyment and education of extremely young children."

"Okay, but what about the bodies. What can you tell us about them?"

"Not much. It wasn't like we were friends. Friends call me Behr. They just called me Your Lordship because they were my hypothetical hostages and also some were casualties of my overall business plan which a businessman must have to be successful in the long term. My years of selling junk bonds did increase my wealth in the short term, but there must be a long term plan for success throughout life as a businessman. There is always going to be collateral damage which is what you see there. Also, it will be a ride."

They left again after that and haven't come back yet. The sandwich is decent.

My friends.

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