| Mystery and Crime Non-Fiction posted September 24, 2016 |
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A catfish story that spanned continents
Dognapping to Catfishing-FINAL
by Mary Wakeford
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
This is the final chapter in a continuing story that began with a rescue dog and ended four years later with the 'rescue' of a European woman stuck in the middle of the Arizona desert with a man claiming to be someone he wasn't. I sometimes interject my inner voice in my writing. Brunhilda is a bit of a crank, and very opinionated. This 'catfished' experience nearly blew Bruni through the roof of my head.
~*~*~*~*~
With Charlotte tucked into the back seat, we headed out to celebrate her freedom from the troll in trailerdale for the short drive to dinner in Casper the friendly white sedan. Since we live in the 'burbs', and for the most part stay out of the downtown area, we were unaware the City of Phoenix hosts "First Friday's" each month. Based on what we witnessed, it could also be referred to as Freak Show Friday. Brunhilda remarked some of the peeps looked like they had come straight from a Comicon convention-- or a graveyard. The nose rings, the chains, the black eyes, the spiked collars, pink hair-- the suspicious aroma of cat pee laced with marijuana wafting through the air conditioner in my car simply added to Charlotte's desert dream vacation.
As we inched along the downtown vibe that sported row upon row of vendors, including everything from fortune tellers and tarot card readers (Charlotte could have used one before departing Europe); on the fly tattoo artists (not on your life); food trucks (Roger was game, but was shut down immediately), and a Jesus Saves preacher standing on a box (can't swear to it being a soap box) with an open mic yelling Hell and Damnation Scripture to the scantily clad (it was August in Arizona) walking the streets by the scores, with more than a few sporting the blank expression of stoned.
Brunhilda suggested we must have unknowingly taken a wrong turn and Casper was going to be starring in a scene from The Walking Dead--she may have been on to something. She also bitched about being "So hungry she could eat a horse." I reminded her we had a vegetarian in the back seat and her hunger pang description would be best not shared.
Held hostage by the mobs of street walkers, I was certain we witnessed a few drug deals as we passed overpopulated intersections at a snail's pace. Bruni dared me to roll down the window and yell "I KNOW A DRUG DEAL GOING DOWN WHEN I SEE ONE, YOU PEOPLE ARE SOOOOO FOOOOOOKING BUSTED!!!!" I told Brunhilda to clamp it shut--we didn't need to make Charlotte's Arizona trip any more eventful.
About the time my husband nearly ran over a pedestrian right in front of a cop directing traffic, I silently considered Charlotte must think Arizona is the last stop before descending into Hell for at least two reasons--the heat and the freaks, while Brunhilda suggested the rapture must have taken place while I was holed away in the office reviewing poetry and prose on FanStory to make enough fake money to post this continuing BREXIT saga. We were in hot wheels Hell. Thank heavens for Toyota air conditioning.
I was quite relieved to finally arrive at The Spaghetti Company, stomach still grumbling and without Casper sporting a half naked, stoned hood ornament. The 3.5 of us eventually settled in over vegetarian lasagna (Bruni demanded I count her as her own person, so I compromised), and Charlotte shared her 'catfished in a trailer' experience in the captivating soot hole of Brenda, Arizona--home to the troll, a few thousand tumbleweeds, and one Mickey D's. I was fascinated by her story as I periodically fielded 'welfare' texts from our kids to make sure we hadn't been hoodwinked. The troll's treatment of my European friend were covered in the last chapter, so no need to repeat them in this one.
The truth is out on the 'low-life' a.k.a. DickShadyFriedTrumpHairTroll--you know, the rockstar who plays for the band Journey, the former Cult bandmember and album poser; a best-selling author; an Oscar nominee; a Rock & Roll Hall of Famer; an Eagles background vocalist; a medical doctor, founding several clinics and selling them to the state of California, netting him that faux beach condo 5th wheel trailer at the Desert Gold RV Resort in nowhere, Arizona. Yeah, that guy. He apparently stays humble repairing RV window shades, which leads to my next paragraph. Brunhilda thinks Dick should have a better hairstyle sporting that extensive and diverse resume. She added the bestselling author must be getting paid in fake FanStory money.
Charlotte's ordeal reminded me of my mother's advice during times of challenge; that the truth always comes out in the end--it sometimes takes longer than it should, but in time is revealed. Her words echoed when I recently learned Dickhead's truth serum surfaced. In fact, he did it himself, with the unknowing assist of an RV enthusiast who wrote a recommendation about Dick's efficient service in repairing a broken RV shade for a mere $120. We just lost Bruni. She is slapping the floor in my head laughing hysterically--"DICK WENT FROM CLAIMS OF BEING A ROCKSTAR/AUTHOR/DOCTOR/OSCAR NOMINEE TO A FOOOOOOOKING RV HANDYMAN IN ZERO.9 SECONDS, HAHAHAHAHAHA--THAT EXPLAINS HIS FRIED TRUMP HAIR!" Brunhilda is real pip.
The blog recommendation from the avid RV enthusiast even presented with a photograph of Dick posing with his guitar, EEEERK power drill, while standing alongside his Playboy Bunny 3X cover model ex-wife. Brunhilda called bullshit again, inferring ex-wifey is too short to be one of Hugh's cover bunnies. I tried not to take her 'short girl' jab personally while stifling a grin. Dick even provided his contact information inclusive of a phone number and email in the comment thread as he trolled for additional business. Bruni suggested we text the creep, even going so far as to supply her envisioned dialogue:
B: "Hey, is this the RV blind fixerupper guy?"
SDFTHT: "Yes"
B: "I think I remember you from a Journey concert back in the day. You're hot."
SDFTHT: "Thank you, send me your photo."
B: "Just kidding, you're a lying tool with bad hair..."
It only got worse, so I cut her off.
~*~*~*~*~*
As Charlotte revealed their online courtship which consisted of six months of daily Skype conversations, she had to come to fall for the persona of the man he fooled her into thinking he was, I was saddened. Charlotte is an intelligent, kind hearted, loving, well spoken, multi-lingual woman. She placed complete trust and sizable travel expenses into this horrible, lying sack of despicable human trash which speaks to his mastery of deception skills. Charlotte changed her return flight to Europe four days after her BREXIT from trailerdale.
Over our meatless lasagna dinner, my husband and I insisted she leave Arizona with a few good memories in her bank to offset the bad. We brought her to our home Saturday morning to meet our daughters, our dogs, trios of tortoises and cats, and AToM the bunny. Charlotte received an unusual welcome from the pups who immediately ran to her and began loving on her without hesitation, as if sensing the ordeal she had been through, offered their wags and licks of love as a much needed and embraced therapy. Not even Moose, who usually meets and greets with hysterical barking the minute someone enters the house (even us), silently greeted Charlotte, tail wagging.
Once the introductions were made, we jumped into the truck (minus a fifth wheel in tow) and whisked Charlotte off for the ninety-minute drive north to Sedona for a day of true Arizona beauty, and zero trolls. We picnic'd in the beauty of the red rocks, hiked the West Fork Trail, and toured Frank Lloyd Wright's influential architectural genius at the Chapel of the Holy Cross. We ended the day window shopping in Tlaquepaque, concluding with a little tonic tasting before heading back down the hill with a Coconut cream pie from my dad's favorite little hole in the wall, the Rock Springs Cafe. Charlotte spent the night in our home and I drove her to the airport the following day for her noon departure, regretful she wouldn't be staying longer.
I pulled away from the airport's "Stop, drop & roll in ten seconds or die" lane with a final wave to Charlotte as she dragged her luggage and wounded heart for the long trek home. A deep rage erupted within me toward the troll in Brenda, Arizona, responsible for her wound. I'm not a vengeful person by nature, but I do hope a bitch named Karma pays Brenda, Arizona and a certain lying, deceitful troll an epic and life changing visit, before beating the crap out of him.
In a complete role reversal, Brunhilda tried to calm me down with the suggestion of obtaining passports, and booking our 1.5 ass's on Expedia for Charlotteville and vacay-Euro!
~*~*~*~*~*
Never in a million years would I have thought sharing a link on Facebook four years ago in an effort to secure funding for medical expenses and a forever home for an abused, pregnant terrier would net me a wonderful friend from Europe, whom I would eventually have the absolute pleasure of meeting, and consider a most special soul and wonderful friend.
End of story...I'm now off to Google the passport application process at Bruni's insistance. It wouldn't hurt to be prepared, just in case. Bruni wanted the last word, so here you go...“Book ‘em Danno!" That goes for both Shady Dick Trump Hair Troll and Europe.
Oh no, Bruni is now pissed I usurped her last word. I can't win for losing with the little bitch.
Das Ende!
This is the final chapter in a continuing story that began with a rescue dog and ended four years later with the 'rescue' of a European woman stuck in the middle of the Arizona desert with a man claiming to be someone he wasn't. I sometimes interject my inner voice in my writing. Brunhilda is a bit of a crank, and very opinionated. This 'catfished' experience nearly blew Bruni through the roof of my head.
~*~*~*~*~
With Charlotte tucked into the back seat, we headed out to celebrate her freedom from the troll in trailerdale for the short drive to dinner in Casper the friendly white sedan. Since we live in the 'burbs', and for the most part stay out of the downtown area, we were unaware the City of Phoenix hosts "First Friday's" each month. Based on what we witnessed, it could also be referred to as Freak Show Friday. Brunhilda remarked some of the peeps looked like they had come straight from a Comicon convention-- or a graveyard. The nose rings, the chains, the black eyes, the spiked collars, pink hair-- the suspicious aroma of cat pee laced with marijuana wafting through the air conditioner in my car simply added to Charlotte's desert dream vacation.
As we inched along the downtown vibe that sported row upon row of vendors, including everything from fortune tellers and tarot card readers (Charlotte could have used one before departing Europe); on the fly tattoo artists (not on your life); food trucks (Roger was game, but was shut down immediately), and a Jesus Saves preacher standing on a box (can't swear to it being a soap box) with an open mic yelling Hell and Damnation Scripture to the scantily clad (it was August in Arizona) walking the streets by the scores, with more than a few sporting the blank expression of stoned.
Brunhilda suggested we must have unknowingly taken a wrong turn and Casper was going to be starring in a scene from The Walking Dead--she may have been on to something. She also bitched about being "So hungry she could eat a horse." I reminded her we had a vegetarian in the back seat and her hunger pang description would be best not shared.
Held hostage by the mobs of street walkers, I was certain we witnessed a few drug deals as we passed overpopulated intersections at a snail's pace. Bruni dared me to roll down the window and yell "I KNOW A DRUG DEAL GOING DOWN WHEN I SEE ONE, YOU PEOPLE ARE SOOOOO FOOOOOOKING BUSTED!!!!" I told Brunhilda to clamp it shut--we didn't need to make Charlotte's Arizona trip any more eventful.
About the time my husband nearly ran over a pedestrian right in front of a cop directing traffic, I silently considered Charlotte must think Arizona is the last stop before descending into Hell for at least two reasons--the heat and the freaks, while Brunhilda suggested the rapture must have taken place while I was holed away in the office reviewing poetry and prose on FanStory to make enough fake money to post this continuing BREXIT saga. We were in hot wheels Hell. Thank heavens for Toyota air conditioning.
I was quite relieved to finally arrive at The Spaghetti Company, stomach still grumbling and without Casper sporting a half naked, stoned hood ornament. The 3.5 of us eventually settled in over vegetarian lasagna (Bruni demanded I count her as her own person, so I compromised), and Charlotte shared her 'catfished in a trailer' experience in the captivating soot hole of Brenda, Arizona--home to the troll, a few thousand tumbleweeds, and one Mickey D's. I was fascinated by her story as I periodically fielded 'welfare' texts from our kids to make sure we hadn't been hoodwinked. The troll's treatment of my European friend were covered in the last chapter, so no need to repeat them in this one.
The truth is out on the 'low-life' a.k.a. DickShadyFriedTrumpHairTroll--you know, the rockstar who plays for the band Journey, the former Cult bandmember and album poser; a best-selling author; an Oscar nominee; a Rock & Roll Hall of Famer; an Eagles background vocalist; a medical doctor, founding several clinics and selling them to the state of California, netting him that faux beach condo 5th wheel trailer at the Desert Gold RV Resort in nowhere, Arizona. Yeah, that guy. He apparently stays humble repairing RV window shades, which leads to my next paragraph. Brunhilda thinks Dick should have a better hairstyle sporting that extensive and diverse resume. She added the bestselling author must be getting paid in fake FanStory money.
Charlotte's ordeal reminded me of my mother's advice during times of challenge; that the truth always comes out in the end--it sometimes takes longer than it should, but in time is revealed. Her words echoed when I recently learned Dickhead's truth serum surfaced. In fact, he did it himself, with the unknowing assist of an RV enthusiast who wrote a recommendation about Dick's efficient service in repairing a broken RV shade for a mere $120. We just lost Bruni. She is slapping the floor in my head laughing hysterically--"DICK WENT FROM CLAIMS OF BEING A ROCKSTAR/AUTHOR/DOCTOR/OSCAR NOMINEE TO A FOOOOOOOKING RV HANDYMAN IN ZERO.9 SECONDS, HAHAHAHAHAHA--THAT EXPLAINS HIS FRIED TRUMP HAIR!" Brunhilda is real pip.
The blog recommendation from the avid RV enthusiast even presented with a photograph of Dick posing with his guitar, EEEERK power drill, while standing alongside his Playboy Bunny 3X cover model ex-wife. Brunhilda called bullshit again, inferring ex-wifey is too short to be one of Hugh's cover bunnies. I tried not to take her 'short girl' jab personally while stifling a grin. Dick even provided his contact information inclusive of a phone number and email in the comment thread as he trolled for additional business. Bruni suggested we text the creep, even going so far as to supply her envisioned dialogue:
B: "Hey, is this the RV blind fixerupper guy?"
SDFTHT: "Yes"
B: "I think I remember you from a Journey concert back in the day. You're hot."
SDFTHT: "Thank you, send me your photo."
B: "Just kidding, you're a lying tool with bad hair..."
It only got worse, so I cut her off.
As we inched along the downtown vibe that sported row upon row of vendors, including everything from fortune tellers and tarot card readers (Charlotte could have used one before departing Europe); on the fly tattoo artists (not on your life); food trucks (Roger was game, but was shut down immediately), and a Jesus Saves preacher standing on a box (can't swear to it being a soap box) with an open mic yelling Hell and Damnation Scripture to the scantily clad (it was August in Arizona) walking the streets by the scores, with more than a few sporting the blank expression of stoned.
Brunhilda suggested we must have unknowingly taken a wrong turn and Casper was going to be starring in a scene from The Walking Dead--she may have been on to something. She also bitched about being "So hungry she could eat a horse." I reminded her we had a vegetarian in the back seat and her hunger pang description would be best not shared.
Held hostage by the mobs of street walkers, I was certain we witnessed a few drug deals as we passed overpopulated intersections at a snail's pace. Bruni dared me to roll down the window and yell "I KNOW A DRUG DEAL GOING DOWN WHEN I SEE ONE, YOU PEOPLE ARE SOOOOO FOOOOOOKING BUSTED!!!!" I told Brunhilda to clamp it shut--we didn't need to make Charlotte's Arizona trip any more eventful.
About the time my husband nearly ran over a pedestrian right in front of a cop directing traffic, I silently considered Charlotte must think Arizona is the last stop before descending into Hell for at least two reasons--the heat and the freaks, while Brunhilda suggested the rapture must have taken place while I was holed away in the office reviewing poetry and prose on FanStory to make enough fake money to post this continuing BREXIT saga. We were in hot wheels Hell. Thank heavens for Toyota air conditioning.
I was quite relieved to finally arrive at The Spaghetti Company, stomach still grumbling and without Casper sporting a half naked, stoned hood ornament. The 3.5 of us eventually settled in over vegetarian lasagna (Bruni demanded I count her as her own person, so I compromised), and Charlotte shared her 'catfished in a trailer' experience in the captivating soot hole of Brenda, Arizona--home to the troll, a few thousand tumbleweeds, and one Mickey D's. I was fascinated by her story as I periodically fielded 'welfare' texts from our kids to make sure we hadn't been hoodwinked. The troll's treatment of my European friend were covered in the last chapter, so no need to repeat them in this one.
The truth is out on the 'low-life' a.k.a. DickShadyFriedTrumpHairTroll--you know, the rockstar who plays for the band Journey, the former Cult bandmember and album poser; a best-selling author; an Oscar nominee; a Rock & Roll Hall of Famer; an Eagles background vocalist; a medical doctor, founding several clinics and selling them to the state of California, netting him that faux beach condo 5th wheel trailer at the Desert Gold RV Resort in nowhere, Arizona. Yeah, that guy. He apparently stays humble repairing RV window shades, which leads to my next paragraph. Brunhilda thinks Dick should have a better hairstyle sporting that extensive and diverse resume. She added the bestselling author must be getting paid in fake FanStory money.
Charlotte's ordeal reminded me of my mother's advice during times of challenge; that the truth always comes out in the end--it sometimes takes longer than it should, but in time is revealed. Her words echoed when I recently learned Dickhead's truth serum surfaced. In fact, he did it himself, with the unknowing assist of an RV enthusiast who wrote a recommendation about Dick's efficient service in repairing a broken RV shade for a mere $120. We just lost Bruni. She is slapping the floor in my head laughing hysterically--"DICK WENT FROM CLAIMS OF BEING A ROCKSTAR/AUTHOR/DOCTOR/OSCAR NOMINEE TO A FOOOOOOOKING RV HANDYMAN IN ZERO.9 SECONDS, HAHAHAHAHAHA--THAT EXPLAINS HIS FRIED TRUMP HAIR!" Brunhilda is real pip.
The blog recommendation from the avid RV enthusiast even presented with a photograph of Dick posing with his guitar, EEEERK power drill, while standing alongside his Playboy Bunny 3X cover model ex-wife. Brunhilda called bullshit again, inferring ex-wifey is too short to be one of Hugh's cover bunnies. I tried not to take her 'short girl' jab personally while stifling a grin. Dick even provided his contact information inclusive of a phone number and email in the comment thread as he trolled for additional business. Bruni suggested we text the creep, even going so far as to supply her envisioned dialogue:
B: "Hey, is this the RV blind fixerupper guy?"
SDFTHT: "Yes"
B: "I think I remember you from a Journey concert back in the day. You're hot."
SDFTHT: "Thank you, send me your photo."
B: "Just kidding, you're a lying tool with bad hair..."
It only got worse, so I cut her off.
~*~*~*~*~*
As Charlotte revealed their online courtship which consisted of six months of daily Skype conversations, she had to come to fall for the persona of the man he fooled her into thinking he was, I was saddened. Charlotte is an intelligent, kind hearted, loving, well spoken, multi-lingual woman. She placed complete trust and sizable travel expenses into this horrible, lying sack of despicable human trash which speaks to his mastery of deception skills. Charlotte changed her return flight to Europe four days after her BREXIT from trailerdale.
Over our meatless lasagna dinner, my husband and I insisted she leave Arizona with a few good memories in her bank to offset the bad. We brought her to our home Saturday morning to meet our daughters, our dogs, trios of tortoises and cats, and AToM the bunny. Charlotte received an unusual welcome from the pups who immediately ran to her and began loving on her without hesitation, as if sensing the ordeal she had been through, offered their wags and licks of love as a much needed and embraced therapy. Not even Moose, who usually meets and greets with hysterical barking the minute someone enters the house (even us), silently greeted Charlotte, tail wagging.
Once the introductions were made, we jumped into the truck (minus a fifth wheel in tow) and whisked Charlotte off for the ninety-minute drive north to Sedona for a day of true Arizona beauty, and zero trolls. We picnic'd in the beauty of the red rocks, hiked the West Fork Trail, and toured Frank Lloyd Wright's influential architectural genius at the Chapel of the Holy Cross. We ended the day window shopping in Tlaquepaque, concluding with a little tonic tasting before heading back down the hill with a Coconut cream pie from my dad's favorite little hole in the wall, the Rock Springs Cafe. Charlotte spent the night in our home and I drove her to the airport the following day for her noon departure, regretful she wouldn't be staying longer.
I pulled away from the airport's "Stop, drop & roll in ten seconds or die" lane with a final wave to Charlotte as she dragged her luggage and wounded heart for the long trek home. A deep rage erupted within me toward the troll in Brenda, Arizona, responsible for her wound. I'm not a vengeful person by nature, but I do hope a bitch named Karma pays Brenda, Arizona and a certain lying, deceitful troll an epic and life changing visit, before beating the crap out of him.
In a complete role reversal, Brunhilda tried to calm me down with the suggestion of obtaining passports, and booking our 1.5 ass's on Expedia for Charlotteville and vacay-Euro!
Over our meatless lasagna dinner, my husband and I insisted she leave Arizona with a few good memories in her bank to offset the bad. We brought her to our home Saturday morning to meet our daughters, our dogs, trios of tortoises and cats, and AToM the bunny. Charlotte received an unusual welcome from the pups who immediately ran to her and began loving on her without hesitation, as if sensing the ordeal she had been through, offered their wags and licks of love as a much needed and embraced therapy. Not even Moose, who usually meets and greets with hysterical barking the minute someone enters the house (even us), silently greeted Charlotte, tail wagging.
Once the introductions were made, we jumped into the truck (minus a fifth wheel in tow) and whisked Charlotte off for the ninety-minute drive north to Sedona for a day of true Arizona beauty, and zero trolls. We picnic'd in the beauty of the red rocks, hiked the West Fork Trail, and toured Frank Lloyd Wright's influential architectural genius at the Chapel of the Holy Cross. We ended the day window shopping in Tlaquepaque, concluding with a little tonic tasting before heading back down the hill with a Coconut cream pie from my dad's favorite little hole in the wall, the Rock Springs Cafe. Charlotte spent the night in our home and I drove her to the airport the following day for her noon departure, regretful she wouldn't be staying longer.
I pulled away from the airport's "Stop, drop & roll in ten seconds or die" lane with a final wave to Charlotte as she dragged her luggage and wounded heart for the long trek home. A deep rage erupted within me toward the troll in Brenda, Arizona, responsible for her wound. I'm not a vengeful person by nature, but I do hope a bitch named Karma pays Brenda, Arizona and a certain lying, deceitful troll an epic and life changing visit, before beating the crap out of him.
In a complete role reversal, Brunhilda tried to calm me down with the suggestion of obtaining passports, and booking our 1.5 ass's on Expedia for Charlotteville and vacay-Euro!
~*~*~*~*~*
Never in a million years would I have thought sharing a link on Facebook four years ago in an effort to secure funding for medical expenses and a forever home for an abused, pregnant terrier would net me a wonderful friend from Europe, whom I would eventually have the absolute pleasure of meeting, and consider a most special soul and wonderful friend.
End of story...I'm now off to Google the passport application process at Bruni's insistance. It wouldn't hurt to be prepared, just in case. Bruni wanted the last word, so here you go...“Book ‘em Danno!" That goes for both Shady Dick Trump Hair Troll and Europe.
Oh no, Bruni is now pissed I usurped her last word. I can't win for losing with the little bitch.
End of story...I'm now off to Google the passport application process at Bruni's insistance. It wouldn't hurt to be prepared, just in case. Bruni wanted the last word, so here you go...“Book ‘em Danno!" That goes for both Shady Dick Trump Hair Troll and Europe.
Oh no, Bruni is now pissed I usurped her last word. I can't win for losing with the little bitch.
Das Ende!
 Recognized |
SDFTHT - Shady Dick Fried Trump Hair Troll
Tlaquepaque - Aztec meaning - The best of everything"
http://www.tlaq.com/sedona/about/history/
Hawaii Five-0 video compliments of YouTube.
Built on a mesa overlooking Sedona Arizona, this Roman Catholic Chapel was completed in 1956. It has universal appeal and is a must see attraction in Sedona. Inspired and commissioned by sculptor Marguerite Brunswig Staude, student of Frank Lloyd Wright.
Unrelated but alarming:
http://www.foxnews.com/us/2016/06/25/arizona-authorities-say-3-missing-women-met-same-man-online.html
I just added a fooooooking, at Thomas Bowling's request! :) I knew I'd eventually win him over with my personalized "F" bomb.
As always, thank you for reading my work and for those of you who committed to the full chapter reviews, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!!
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