Chapter One

Allow me to impart to you some events in my life which led to the discovery of the material I'm working on. The reasoning for this will become apparent when my source is identified.

Prior to the start of the twenty-first century, I thought of myself as a regular guy just trying to make ends meet. My wife Diane, Her son Cole, two cats and two dogs were all living together in relative bliss, sort of. The home we rented at the time, and finally purchased overlooked Texoma Lake in Pottsboro, Texas. My job as a Cruise Boat Captain for a local resort was a dream. Life seemed ideal.

Diane, bless her heart became insecure about my position as Captain. The nature of my business predicated that I work closely with professional women. In my experience, corporate outings were usually organized by office professionals who happen to be women. This, combined with the odd hours I kept, put a strain on our relationship.

I should admit that I have a few pre-existing mental health issues. I have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.) and Bi-polar Disorder. Both are treatable with medication which I didn't pursue at the time due to simple denial. Nobody wants to admit they're defective.

Sorry about the A.D.D. moment of distraction, back to the subject. When I say that the above put a strain on our relationship, it is a severe understatement. Diane grew up in a dysfunctional family. Her mother was quite obsessive and overbearing while her father was highly passive to the point of homesteading the local pub to feign family responsibilities.

Considering that Diane's parents were as compatible as Democrats and Republicans, it is no wonder that the negative effects were copied in her own life. Diane was a natural born alcoholic. Her ever present vodka with cranberry juice served to increase her level of anxiety, which also increased mine. Diane's alcohol enhanced Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (O.C.D.) became the only side of her that I experienced in those final years of our marriage.

Numerous times, almost daily, Diane would scatter my personal belongings across the bed, floor, or table looking for any tell-tale sign of infidelity. None was ever found. True to my own disorders, the resulting solution was for me to evade Diane as much as possible. Every beer drinking buddy I had became an accomplice in my desertion.

True to her nature, Diane began a filibuster campaign against my lack of home time. I use the term “filibuster” because Diane has a gift of gab so obtuse, that she could single-handedly out talk the U.S. Congress – sell ice to Eskimos, literally! Talk about hot air!

On the other, hand I only talk when I have something to say. Silence is golden and all that. I refuse to talk about nothing just to hear noise exiting my mouth.

Our own relational cycle devolved to the point of being completely out of hand. Diane increased her assault until it really was assault. She would physically bludgeon me with any available object, so I avoided her even more. I realize now that I messed up by not calling the authorities on her, but what man wants to face the humiliation of abuse by a woman?

Sure, my avoidance of Di was a part of my own dysfunction, but I would rather just leave for a while than fight with her or deal with the police. What's the ordinary limit to enduring any abuse? How long does a person have to endure an eternal negative voice? How about if one passes out from exhaustion during the imposed tirade only to be struck with an ashtray or brass candlestick just so the yelling can resume? Sorry folks, I only lasted about two years.

If I'm going to be accused I figured I might as well do it. Female client dating was next on my list of distractions. Before you condemn me, be advised that Di also had her own affairs; although I think she had to pay for sex. It's strange but yours truly was like a sex magnet. This man had never suffered so much feminine attention at once. A friend of mine said I should “ride the wave,” which I did. Then the poop hit the fan.

On May 11, 2001, Diane and I arrived home to find her son, Cole in possession of drug paraphernalia (a bong). Diane wanted to “discuss” this problem in her usual unceasing way, but Cole needed to get to school. Cole drove to the high school while we parents had to figure out how best to handle the situation.

While Cole was in classes Diane had me as her usual venting mechanism. As glad as I was to be of some service, I was fairly unresponsive. Early on, Diane decided, without evidence, that her son's newly discovered delinquency was entirely my responsibility. That should have alerted me to the fact that for all this to be happening was, in Diane's fitful interpretation, that if her son was “bad” then she would have to admit that she was not God's gift to motherhood – something Di would never own up to.

Later that night while Diane was drinking, Cole and I ate our dinner. After we came home, everything culminated in a short physical fight between Cole and his mother. In Cole's defense, I witnessed Diane start it. Cole packed his things and it fell on me to take the boy to his pickup so he might drive to his dad's house over two hours away.

The rain came down as we drove away from the house and looking back, we could see Diane on the porch calling someone.

Due to the bad weather, Cole and I elected to stay on my boat, the Texan, and leave in the morning. Hopefully then Diane would have cooled down enough for me to go back home. Cole and I were almost asleep on board the boat when we glimpsed a flash of light through the window. There were about four cops entering our private dock. “Oh God,” I said, “What has your mom done now?”

Cole said, “You can bet it ain't good.” Since it was Cole who actually exchanged blows with his mom, we hid ourselves deep within the cruiser to avoid his possible arrest. Failing to gain entrance the police went away after a few minutes.

The next morning Cole and I walked to the parking lot and found our vehicle missing, courtesy of Diane. A friend gave us a lift. Cole drove himself to his father's home, and I never went back to mine. My fear was that Diane would murder me in my sleep, because she seemed so psychotic. After all, she later vowed to see me in jail or dead.

Restarting my life proved most difficult with a “scorned” woman nipping at my heels. Worsening matters, Di and I worked at the same company. Before this ordeal was to end, she would manage to turn some co-workers against me, and we would have to sign contracts to not let the hostilities interfere with our job performance.

Most of the foregoing text came directly from the “Logos of Doode,” where I wrote about the events of May 11, 2001, which motivated me to finally separate from my wife, Diane Jourden. Also, I mentioned that on the same date, a “friend” gave Cole and I a lift. I can now admit and prove that the “friend” who picked us up was named Dixie Smalley. On that day, Dixie and I had dropped off Cole at his truck at the Pottsboro High School. We then went to a secluded spot for car sex.

Sometime after I was arrested, Dixie admitted to my mother¹, that on the Saturday of May 12, 2001, Diane called the police on me alleging that I had assaulted her at 6:36 PM. This allegation resulted in a misdemeanor charge # 2002-1-653, against me in Grayson County, Texas. The thing is, I could not have assaulted Diane because Dixie and I were together getting dressed at about that time. As it turns out the real reason that Diane called the cops that day was an attempt to verify Dixie's whereabouts! It seems that the husband, Glenn Smalley was unable to locate his wife and figured she was with me, so he and Diane concocted a scheme wherein I would have to verify my own whereabouts to the police in order to exonerate myself of the assault charge – thus exposing Dixie's affair with me. This would have served Mr. Smalley in the later Smalley vs. Smalley divorce case # 2002-11251-16, filed in Denton County, Texas.

Jim Abelin and Christene Rockell were friends of mine who owned a condominium at Tanglewood Resort where I worked. Just about all of the condos there are divided into thirds, meaning that either section could be rented or time shared via the resort office at the owners' option. Jim rented to me his smallest third of a condo which was fine for one person (or two).

On the weekend of June 9, 2001 Dixie Smalley was my guest at the lake Condominium. We spent nearly every weekend together and would also meet once or twice during each week.

The first time I saw Dixie, she was standing bent over in the back of the pickup with her backside to me, adjusting a cooler full of alcohol. Dixie was the event coordinator for her company so it was my responsibility as Captain to locate her and introduce myself. The first view I had of Dixie was not disappointing.

As Ms. Smalley stood up and shook my hand I had the distinct feeling that we'd met before. You know how irritating is when you think you recognize someone but you can't quite place where from? I ignored that thought and carried Dixie's cooler down to the Texan Cruiser.

The day progressed in inebriated fashion with the assistance of our on-board frozen Margarita machine. Dixie's fellow employees were partying on the island beach I had taken them to, when we ran out of tequila. Ms. Smalley and I concocted a plan in order alleviate a potential mutiny, wherein we would use my private reserve of white wine in the place of tequila in the machine.

We giggled like little kids as we attempted to covertly refill the Margarita machine with wine while looking over our shoulders the whole time, so nobody would see us. I told Dixie that my stepmother had taught me the wine trick at a party for I.R.S. Employees where the same thing happened. Dixie said, “They’ll never know,” before she kissed me. She turned and ran down to the beach. Then it hit me where I thought I knew her from. I told myself, “I’ve been kissed by The Flying Nun.”

Yes, it's true. I grew up watching sitcoms like “The Flying Nun”. Although she's a little older than me, I have always harbored a repressed crush toward the actor Sally Fields. Guess who happens to be the spitting image of Ms. Fields? Dixie Smalley of course!

Being the stoic professional that I am (and knowing that loose lips sink ships) I would not approach Dixie about the day's revelations. The cruise event was over and we were walking toward the parking lot when Dixie glanced my way and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?” I said, “Because I think you are attractive.” Dixie then stated something I'll never forget, “have you ever thought about having an affair?” I had been thinking the same thing so I told her that maybe she should hang around a while. She did.

Dixie and I had a favorite relaxation spot on Lake Texoma. Coined “The Rock” by us locals because right on the water was this huge truck sized, limestone rock interspersed with all types of fossils including the platter-sized, Exogira Ponderosa. The north side of the rock allowed for some fairly gnarly diving into the channel of the red River below.

The South side of “The Rock” partially secluded a white sandy beach of about ten feet by ten feet in size that could not be seen by passing boaters, by virtue of the size of the rock. Many times I have negotiated the twenty foot cliff coming down past the vein of gypsum crystal to a place where a couple could engage in other gnarly diving activities.

Non-boaters are able to access the rock by taking what amounts to motorcycle trails through the brush to get there. An old beat up truck like mine was perfect for the trip.

On this particular day in June as Dixie and I were driving to The Rock, In the rear view mirror I noticed a small KIA S.U.V. Approaching us muy pronto. “Oh shit!” I exclaimed, “it's Diane.” Dixie scooted about a yard away from me on the bench seat and gasped, “Where?” I offered in a less than elated tone, “right behind us.” “What are we gonna do?” somebody asked. In silent response, I downshifted for a bout a day and a half because the big truck four-on-the-floor was a super long throw tranny – and I told Dixie in the funniest Podunk voice I could muster, “Buckle up, we'll try and lose her.”

I floored the gas pedal and the old pickup pretended to accelerate. Due to the lack of air conditioning all five windows were open which streamlined the air flow right through the cab, so to us it seemed like we were really flying low.

We headed straight for “The Rock” hoping that Diane would not follow because to do so would scratch her pretty new KIA. Sure enough, Diane rode our ass right through the quiet little neighborhood of lake houses called Lazy Acres. Ninety degrees to the right then another quick left and right on a dirt road towards the lake we flew. Dixie asked hesitantly, “This is a dead end isn't it?”

Just ahead was the turn in to the Green Gauntlet that was the forest trail and, with luck this drama would end. I turned left and zigged right, leaning the truck nearly vertical in order to avoid a car stopping mud hole. We bounced onto the motorcycle trail but I could feel Diane's burning gaze on the back of my neck.

My lips sort of mumbled, “I'll be damned, that heifer is still there.” All we could do was to continue. Unfortunately for us this trail was inadvertently built by the usage of weekend warriors on four wheeled motorcycles that can turn on a dime. My pickup “turns” on about two dollars worth of “dimes.” Next thing you know, we were stopped with accompanying crackling noises and broken pieces of cedar tree filling the air. Diane was stopped directly behind us. It is just her style to ram us, but I wasn't worried because I had a heavy steel bumper and a Class III trailer hitch with a two inch chrome force field bolted to it.

Diane spun her rear tires kicking up dust everywhere and then slammed into the back of my pickup. My vehicle was pinned between Di's KIA and the tree. Dixie said, “we should talk to her.” Indicating that it was my responsibility, I walked to the rear of the truck and noticed the bumper plastic from Diane's S.U.V. dangling from my trailer hitch. I cracked up laughing.

Several seconds of Diane spinning her tires in reverse caused most of her KIA’s front end plastic to detach. I then stepped between the two vehicles to assess any damage. As predicted, my force field worked because there was not a scratch on my truck. As I Surveyed Diane's vehicle, she must have taken offense at my laughter because she immediately tried smashing me between the two vehicles.

Only my cat-like reflexes saved me from injury. My would-be assailant spun her SUV around spewing dirt and obscenities as she left.

Dixie's head popped out of the sliding rear window of my pickup indicating that she needed to smoke a joint. I agreed, then drove to the edge of the cliff where we completed our original “gnarly” mission on the white sand behind “The Rock.”

Arriving back at Jim's condo a few hours later, we found that Dixie's purse had been tampered with but noted that only a few dollars and a business card were missing. The thing is, although Jim's condominium is privately owned, the resort has keys to his condo as well as others. This policy is to ensure that Tanglewood Resort has access in the case that maintenance needs access or in an emergency.

Diane was a Tanglewood staff member with key access. Later on, we discovered that Dixie's husband, Glenn Smalley, had directed Diane to enter the condo. The idea was for Diane to obtain physical proof of my affair with Dixie. In the end, the business card was no proof at all because Dixie's purse happened to be in the part of Jim's condo that I had no access to. And of course, Dixie was officially visiting with Jim's girlfriend anyway, so in appearance, there was no marital foul on her part.

Back at the vehicle assault scene, apparently, when Diane left us, she somehow broke the window in her SUV. Since all her calamities are my fault in her opinion, On June 11, 2001, Diane called me demanding payment for her broken glass. I had no idea of what she was talking about so I hung up on what I considered to be a stalker. Minutes later, my ex knocked on my door demanding an audience with me. I opened a door to step outside when Diane unexpectedly “brushed” past me into my room¹. It didn't take much of her aggressive shaking down my room, for her “welcome” to be worn all the way out. She wanted two hundred dollars and refused to leave the room until I paid her. Cell phone in hand, I called 911 and asked that police be sent to remove a “crazed woman” from my room.

While awaiting law enforcement officials, Diane became extremely irate and began and began shouting profanity at me. I was eight or nine “sorry two-timin’ useless bastards” before I proceeded to inform my ex that the last time we had sex, “I had to tie a board to my ass to keep from falling in.”

 The “board” comment struck a nerve because Diane lunged toward my throat with all her considerable weight. Saved again by my cat-like reflexes, I wasn't where Di thought I should be and she couldn't counter her own substantial momentum, so she banged her forehead on the bathroom door facing².

One of the many reasons I separated from Diane is because she was always quick to anger and willing to resort to violence at a moments notice. I happen to have been diagnosed with Degenerative Disc Disease which is caused by the backbone anomaly I mention later in this writing. For a couple of months prior to my abandoning Diane, she would lunge at me but my back pain was severe enough that I was unable to move out of her way. No doubt this time she expected me to stand there and have my throat gouged with fingernails as usual.

Bearing that history in mind, from my perspective, here's the slow-motion replay of this incident: I observed Diane's customary pre-attack facial expressions change from simple pinkish anger to a violet colored, berserker-like rage, wherein a bright red hue would gradually boil up from her neck to the top of her head, eyes bulging under the pressure, and her face wrinkles up as her lips draw back from her teeth freeing up salivic spray with each labored breath. The thumbs of her hands come together as she leans in for the kill.

Playing all this over in my mind in nanoseconds I thought to myself, “Hey, my back feels good enough so I can actually evade her this time.” Beginning an evasive maneuver I pivoted on one leg, more of a pirouette really (look Ma, no hands), as I was buffeted by the atmospheric disturbance of a 170 pound object3flying past me. The next thing you know Diane was sitting on the floor holding one hand on her head saying, “I'm bleeding” but all the rage in her voice was gone.

The police report written by Sheriff Deputy SGT. David Brown stated that, “After speaking with both parties, [he] didn't believe there was enough evidence to arrest Mr. Nunnelley at the scene.” Anomalous points to this are:

1. Diane changed her story several times.

2. Diane attempted to pass off “old injuries” as produced in this incident.

3. Diane wasn't invited into the room, ergo, She trespassed.

Not long after the above incident, Diane dispossessed me of my pickup and sold it for a song. I had in good faith put the title to the truck in her name to show sincerity at working on the relationship (I had not participated in infidelity at that time.), so legally my hands were tied. Duh on my part.

My transportation prospects were exhausted and Dixie couldn't help me because by this time, her husband, Glenn, was onto us, resulting in his attempt to monitor her every move. Basically, I was hoofing it, but a local girl who had a pickup and no husband took an interest in me.

Once a week or so, my cruise boat, The Texan, needed fuel. That was a great excuse for me to flirt with the manager of the gas dock manager in the marina where the Texan was kept. Twana Oswalt is a girl of Dutch descent with blonde hair and blue eyes and an ass that every man wanted. She was renting a one bedroom lake house near the marina, so when she approached me with her cute little buck teeth (not the exaggerated “eat a corn cob through a picket fence” type of buck, but benign yet provocative like actor Beverly D' Angelo) and Twana invited me to move in with her, how could I resist?

It took me over a year to see through the meth haze to realize that Twana's county wide nickname was “Twana do ya wanna?” And if you had methamphetamine, the answer was always yes, no matter who, where, or what you were. Needless to say Twana rarely paid full price for her meth, in money that is.

For those of you who are not in the “dope game,” I feel compelled to explain something of the business. The majority of “dope cooks,” are men and it seems that women have an insatiable desire for Methamphetamine and will do just about anything to get it. The guys with the dope will give discounts to the girls in anticipation of sexual gifts. What I'm getting at is there are two prices of product in the dope game and those prices hinge on one thing, pussy, either with or without. Twana always got the “with pussy” price.

I became further shocked by the 911 tragedy. Apart from the national heartbreak at the tremendous loss of life, you wouldn't think a small Texas resort would be economically affected. From my perspective it was affected in the worst way.

Our company was financially devastated due to a loss of clientele. The nation was in mourning and conventions were cut from everybody's business calendar. Convention business was our main source of revenue. By September 24, 2001, I was laid off from the only job that I ever truly loved.

Anyone might be emotionally affected at sudden unemployment. My existing depression deepened but I refused to recognize it Denial must be that Egyptian river. Self-medicating was easy because I attended all available parties. My hedonistic approach to life included: more alcohol drinking; more sex partners; more drug experimentation; more days without sleep; more starvation; more, more, more, negativity.

These stressors caused me to forget things, lose time, and to have severe problems with reality. I still remember events that I'm unable to ascertain whether they actually occurred. The memories came as lightning flashes of thought. Mixed scenes either still, fast forward, slow motion, or reverse and even inverted. The whole thing could be like a DVD playing a collage of pseudo-coherency behind my eyelids.

Then the shadows came. They were smoky looking shapes floating at the perimeter of the woods, for instance. The shadows were the blur in an otherwise optically clear looking room. They progressed from simple undefinable movement in the corner of my eye, to full on shapes of supernatural things. At first the shapes looked to me like bugs or rats with glowing red eyes and spikes or other appendages that would extend and disappear. I'd try to smash them and they'd disappear, only to reappear elsewhere. The shapes welled up from where two dimensions meet, like between the floor and a wall or where a stone touches the ground.

Try as I might to look directly at the shapes, my eyes would veer off uncontrollably as if they were somehow repelling my attention. The small shadows morphed into more perceptible entities, seen for longer periods of time. Where at first they were monochrome, they evolved into full color, more solid and bigger.

Expired pets or people from my past signaled me in various ways. Papa, my deceased grandfather, and I had many conversations. He would show up when I chopped wood and tell me the right way (his way) to do it. I took odd jobs around town and I would hear Papa say, “Make them a good hand,” which was hard to explain when other people heard me answer, “OK Papa.” On EBAY I would bid on stuff and Papa would materialize on screen like a pop-up ad and tell me to, “Jew ‘em down.”

I remember saying to myself, “How'd he do that?” And I actually felt like my passed loved one was really alive, although in my mind I knew the truth. Hell, I went to his funeral! Somehow I managed to legitimize all this. You know how you wake from a deep sleep all groggy, like it is drug induced? In my case it was. I lost weeks this way, confusing dreams with reality. The problem was, I wasn't sleeping so any dreams I experienced were waking ones. When I did manage to grab a few Zz's, Your’s truly might spend all morning trying to dissociate my dream with what I was experiencing here on three dimensional Earth, but it was so difficult to remove, as if the dreams were gooey so they would-not simply be shaken off.

Diane's cronies decided I needed some more stress I guess, because they followed me everywhere. I was compelled to stay on the move – hell, I was homeless anyway. They all wanted me in jail so they called the cops on me all the time, sometimes when I was out of town, or maybe I imagined that too!

Momentarily I would like to direct your attention back to the Twana issue: In an Amphetamine rush, Twana told me about her brush with the law which made her an ex-felon. She mentioned how one night she was performing her ritual drive around the county and was pulled over by the cops. The officer discovered over a pound of Marijuana; an ounce of Methamphetamine; and a small amount of Acid (LSD). Curiously, she only got 5 years probation for all of that. Maybe she got the “pussy price” deal from the prosecutor as well (?).

Whenever I had Methamphetamine it was Twana who sold it, Twana who suggested we cut it, and it was Twana who introduced me to the people who could manufacture it. She obviously made a deal with the police for her pre-existing reduced sentence, and I knew it. Why was I up to my neck in dope under those circumstances? That just shows how screwed up my mind was at the time. Due to our heavy meth use, the year I spent with Twana seems like only a few weeks. When you stay up for days on end only to crash for some more days, it's hard to calculate where you are in time. Calendars are meaningless.

Occasionally I suspected Twana of cheating on me (duh!). She would stay out all night and her cell phone was suspiciously unavailable. I grew to be obsessive about trying to catch her in the act, so I'd drive all over the county checking her old haunts. Recklessly I drove, speeding from place to place until sunup – before retreating to the comfort of the forest by the lake.

Right around the time of my trial I found out that Twana had conspired against me with Diane. Dixie Smalley told me that her husband Glenn had come clean with many things. In addition to paying off people to spy on us; recording phone calls; and hiring detectives – Glenn admitted to using Twana and Diane as witnesses against Dixie in his divorce suit.

My mother spoke with Grayson County Detective, Mike Stephens about Twana Oswalt. Mom wondered why Twana was not arrested when the police found Meth in her house, but I was arrested. The Detective stated that “Twana works for us,” meaning the cops.

One might ask the question, “Why didn't you just break up with Twana?” And, well I should have, but as evidenced here, I wasn't in my right mind (or the left one either). Instead, it was more fun to sleep with her friends to get back at her.

The Twana friend thing started with a girl named Teresa Cheek who generally came over really drunk and would share her Meth with Twana and I, while she talked about Twana having oral sex with her.⁵ One night when I couldn't locate Twana or Dixie, Teresa happened to knock on my door. Yeah, I was a dog – a horny, pissed off dog – and no, it did not take much coaxing for Teresa to drop her pants. Later I slept with Twana's other friends, Tina Kirby and Tina Brown. Then Jane Carson called me but Jane and Twana didn't know each other at that time.

I worked with a fellow named Randy Carson who also happened to be Diane's supervisor at Tanglewood Resort. He managed to screw me on a boat purchase, so in my estimation Randy was on my short list. When his ex-wife Jane called asking if I would have sex with her, I said yes with no guilt whatsoever.

Most of the girls I was involved with at the time were a little kinky, but from the standpoint of debauchery, Jane was an all out no holds barred freak. Jane was a blonde, about 5' 10” and not gorgeous, but not hard to look at either. I was shocked when she first told me that she used to have threesomes with her ex-husband, Randy and whoever. By that time I was using a sexually lethal combination of Methamphetamine and 100mg of Viagra every day. I could not say no to any of the Hedonistic elements I was involved with. Anyway, there was a point where I had all of my girls calling for “time out,” but one, and that one was Jane. We had sex for hours and days like we were trying to kill each other with orgasmic brutality, until we finally collapsed. I liked that she was up for anything and could go the distance.

Once, Jane and I were at a motel in Pottsboro schitzing as usual. Several candles were burning maybe for mood, or just so we could look out the windows undetected, I don't recall which. I do recall seeing little faces in the flame of one candle when Jane leaned her naked body against mine and began to toast a knife blade in the flame. Jane asked, “What would do if I burned you with this?” I said, “I don't know.” Without further ado, she burned me on my shoulder. My response was ruthless revenge sex with her. At the time, I was lost on the freakish abnormality of it all, but I still have the scar. Had we continued our sadistic adventures we probably would have done the online sex thing. That was Jane's idea as a way to support our Methamphetamine habit.

Doode

The last time I saw my deceased grandfather, it was about four or five in the morning after I had covered the county by car looking for Twana, when Papa materialized in the seat beside me. The next thing I knew, we were back at the house talking in the driveway. I do not remember actually driving there; it's as if I was transported there or something. He said to me, “You'd better cut it out [meaning my behavior] before you end up in jail.” We carried on a conversation like we did when he was alive. I knew in my bones what he meant was true, but I failed to stop the behavior. The familiar life style had a mysterious hold on me, like someone else was pulling the strings that I was powerless to break. To stop, I would have to move to Dallas or Fort Worth but even that was scary to me because of the unknown.

My money ran out and my car died so I depended on friends for support. I was at the home of a friend, when I met my source of information. He – at least I think it was a he, appeared to me while I was watching TV. As I looked upon his gnomish eighteen inches of stature, pointy ears and no discernible neck – he just stared at me with those infinitely dark eyes.

I asked him (all Bill and Ted like), “Dude, who are you?” He said nothing. The little dude wore a kilt which I thought funny, so I laughed and said, “I ain't scared of you, go get two beers and we'll get acquainted.” He didn't move. I told him that I didn't talk to statues, so my attention went back to the TV program.

His tiny face contorted like he was listening to someone speaking form afar when he said, “A name is unimportant, but the information I have for you , is.” “That's what I'm talking about,” I replied, “Hold on while I get the beers.”

Doode, [pronounced Duude but spelled “Doode”] for lack of an appropriate name, was apparently on the wagon, so I drank his beer too. My friend was outside working on his boat, so I knew Doode and I wouldn't be interrupted for a while.

The Doode told me that he is an “Interactive Hologram” projected to pass on a message. He indicated that he was projected by what he calls the “Positive Aliens.”6 You read it right, Extra Terrestrials.

I asked the little Doode what else he had to say. He proceeded to tell me that the visions I had experienced so far, are actually metaphysical beings which are around us all the time. For mere humans to be able to see these beings, the vibrational rhythm of our brains, has to be out of phase. Basically, we have to be in an altered state of consciousness to interact with them.

Doode also suggested that the ethereal beings exist in a dimension parallel to our own but in the same space, if that makes any sense. Similar to a window with the shades drawn, we cannot normally see what is right outside. A change in the rhythm of our brain would be like opening those blinds. For some people this requires sensory deprivation, such as a lack of sight or sound. A shaman would utilize sacred plants to induce visions while far eastern monks simply meditate their asses off.

After my attempt at writing the “Logos of Doode,” another inmate gave me a book called, “Life After Death,” where I found some interesting parallels to things I had already written about. In Chapter Eight of that book, the Author, Alan F. Segal suggests that, altered states of consciousness such as stated above, are called Religiously Interpreted States of Consciousness (RISC); or Religiously Altered States of Consciousness (RASC). Those states have been achieved in many ways by many people, for thousands of years. Well known examples of past RISC/RASC visions can be found in the Bible where the prophet Daniel experienced them after “mourning and fasting for three weeks.”

Mr. Segal goes on to cite other examples of achieving a RISC or RASC experience, such as: “Eating the flowers of the field”; “Drinking a fiery fluid”; “Chanting or repeating mantras”; “Controlled breathing”; “taking drugs like Ketamine”; and my personal favorite, “Over-stimulation of the brain which makes it unable to decode it's messages.” The latter, I unwittingly achieved through Methamphetamine abuse combined with severe stress over-exposure.

Still I must say that my Shamanic journey began prior to full blown Meth abuse. Anyone would be traumatized from living with Diane Jourden for ten years. Not to mention stressors caused by joblessness and magnified by my own actions, which were mirrored by others.

Mr. Lujan is another inmate I know who considers Ali3nizm an intriguing concept, and who gave me a book called “2012 The Return of Quetzalcoatl.” A Shamanic vision questor, the author, Daniel Pinchbeck write of supporting his own astral journeys with substances like: The Amazonian vine, Banisteriopsis Caapi (Ayuasca); NN-Dymethltryptamine (DMT); Dipropyltryptamine (DPT); The African plant Iboga; Peyote; Mushrooms; Datura Stramonium (Jimson Weed), but there are others.

In essence, within those two books I found credible explanations for the experiences I had during the two years before my arrest.

Doode then informed me that my own genetic history shows a tendency toward spiritual matters and for helping others. Allow me to make the note that not too long ago, I was thumbing through an American Heritage Dictionary of Word Origins, and I noticed the etymological definition of the term – Nun, which is: Nun – Original English – from Latin Nunnus and Nunna, were titles of respect to old men and women, came to be applied to monks and nuns. The feminine Nonna was borrowed into Old English as Nunne.

If you add the letters “lley” to the word Nunne, you have the correct spelling of my last name, Nunnelley. Is it a coincidence that my ancestors could have been respected for helping people? Is it coincidental that both my father and my brother are religious ministers? Is it also by chance that my RISC-y source gave me this information prior to my reading it elsewhere?

In this first meeting, Doode also mentioned that due to this “helping others” trait that many of my own forebears have been interfered with by agents of what he calls the “Negative Aliens.”

What my source means by “agents” are simply tools utilized by any alien species to perform some task so that the aliens themselves do not have to be physically involved with us. Our own military has remotely controlled robots that can manipulate explosive devices. Then there are the flying drones that our Air Force can remotely pilot over hostile air space. Both types of remotes have the advantage of insulating the operators from potential danger. Is it so hard to believe that an advanced race could do the same thing? The difference between the Earthbound remote control devices and the alien drones, are that most alien machines of this type are intelligent enough to perform assigned tasks on their own.

The smart machines give extraterrestrials not only a measure of security but anonymity as well. We will discuss in a later chapter, the P-Alien Council Rule concerning direct contact with lower life forms. Alien races who are members of the Council are forbidden from having direct physical contact with us, however, their machines can - so technically, an alien species performing a remote “study” on Earthlings is not violating the “No Direct Contact Rule.”

Doode made known to me that Negative androids had “abducted” me at an early age. He also says that, in my case, the Negative Aliens programmed artificially intelligent drones to come through my bedroom wall as I slept. He then went on to disclose that I was implanted with a bio-coated crystal that my body would not reject. The crystal was supposed to be powered by the body's own voltage. The Doode also suggests that an implant will quietly alter brain chemistry, which serves to deter psychological development in the host. One possible side effect of an implant can be bone defects In certain areas of the skeletal structure.

Oddly enough it is true that my jawbone has an abnormal amount of bone mass. Also, my backbone has two vertebrae which are fused, causing back pain. Funny too, but my brain chemicals must be altered or at least remarkable, as evidenced by the Bi-polar and ADD.

All this news was a lot to swallow at once. Luckily my buddy came in for more beer and cut short the initial session with my source of information. Doode disappeared, I drank more beer.

Several times a day after the first meeting, my source would show up. Doode regularly changed his look, for varieties sake I guess. I never asked why, but it was interesting. Once he had these iridescent fish scales all over which changed color as he moved. He wore medieval armor another time, and a loincloth at a later appearance. Then he did the Tom Cruise, “Risky Business” thing so at least he showed a sense of humor. Occasionally I'd hear the Doode but I couldn't see him. It went on like this, at least he wasn't dull. At times I could see him and his mouth might be out of sync with the words, like in a Chinese Kung Fu movie. Other times Doode's mouth would not move at all, but I still knew his thoughts. From time to time, Doode would be in one location and his voice might emanate from somewhere else.

I experienced headaches when Mr. Doode's voice was off or out of sync. When asked about the headaches, Doode replied, “Information is being downloaded into your brain,” and “you'll be accessing it from now on.” The idea is that said information will balance out my abilities from the damage done by the N-Aliens via the crystal implanted into me years ago. So sayeth the Doode.

Yep, crazy as it sounds I told a few people about the little Doode but I don't think they took me seriously. I can't say I blame them. My source and I carried on conversations in front of my real human friends. Out of the blue I'd say, “yeah” or “huh” like folks do when pretending to listen but aren't really listening. Really, I was answering the Doode. He might say something I thought odd, and I might say aloud, “Doode, that's funny!” Real humans assumed that the term “Duude” was a reference to them, they had no idea that the word concerned something unseen to them. One time my girl was sunbathing, and in passing, I blurted out to my bearded source, “Doode, you need to shave!” You can imagine the response of my girlfriend.

The situation became even more bizarre. Everywhere I looked I saw one or two of Diane's cronies. They were watching, conspiring, and stalking me. I felt like something hunted, a rabbit without a hole. The stalkers, or Diane herself, constantly left messages on my service such as, “you're going to jail,” or “I've got a gun you better run.” At least that phrase rhymed.

Trust was a currency that I could not afford to spend. Who knew how many people were really out to get me? Isolation was the only solution to alleviate my stress from the paranoia. The four or five hundred acres of forest by the lake served as my sanctuary. I spent untold hours out there, at times foregoing food or water. At least the conspirators could not find me.

I'll note here that the Doode mentioned that a “Diane instigated” conspiracy actually did exist to have me jailed, or worse. By this time, I was thinking, if the Doode says it, it is not my imagination. He said that “those kinds of people are influenced by subtle negative energies, fed by their own hate.” I subsequently found correlation for the Doode's statement in Chapter Seven of “What the Bleep do we Know?” where the author William Arntz writes: “Action or thought arises in a piece of my consciousness. There is a certain frequency or vibration associated with that. By taking the action, I endorse that reality so that I am now connected to the universe by that frequency or vibration. Everything out there will respond to it, and they will then be reflected in your reality.”

Returning to the subject, my thinking was very confused at the time. Thought patterns were highly disorganized and I completed zero tasks, although I started thousands. The Doode said that, in part, my own confusion was due to the “download”, an overloaded brain, and that the hallucinations along with the paranoia would subside, and so would the frequency of Doode's materialization.

As predicted his image faded in both clarity and number of occurrences. Adjacent to the fade, darker forms became visible in the Doode's absence. Shadowy blobs floated up to me as if I were under inspection. Apparently satisfied with the ocular quickie, the ominous looking shadows would float past me, barely touching my skin.

I had touched my source before this. The Doode wasn't exactly solid and he felt like room temperature fog or vapor. Physical contact with the “others” was very chilling, almost icy. They also felt, not shockingly electric, but like static cling.

The little Doode warned that if I kept myself in isolation, the others9 would become aggressive towards me. They already interfered with him on the metaphysical plane. When Doode appeared to me, the others would overlay his space which was visually similar to the crossing of two or three flashlight beams on a dark wall. I still didn't listen to the Doode's advice and the assaults began.

Demons

Out in the woods I had a favorite activity. An ADD man on Methamphetamine has to do something, right? It was somehow my self-appointed duty to make zigzag trails through the brush and between trees. Besides good exercise, trail making allowed me to travel easily from one place to another without using the roads. I saw myself as a forest spirit that could disappear then reappear from point A to point B, around the lake. The mysterious air about it suited me.

In support of trail cutting, I carried an axe, saw, and a machete. One evening at sunset I was trimming limbs from the bottom of a medium sized cedar tree. The trail I was making stopped in a thicket among a mixed stand of oak and more cedar trees. On one side of the brush, three misty shadows oozed out of the ground around the roots.

The shapes slowly morphed into demonic looking beings as I stood there mesmerized. They flickered into a varied brightness like no budget “B” movie monsters. The two beasts on either side were female no doubt, because I observed two rows of four breasts on each of them. They stood on hind legs. The monster in the center appeared to be male for apparent reasons and was on all fours. He displayed an impressive set of yellow, pointed teeth; big ass claws; and rotting, down turning horns. I didn't claim to know their intentions because they just stared at me with their red eyes, but I was curious.

The wait gave me a moment to ponder – should I run like hell? I may have been crazy but I'm not stupid. I thought to myself, “These things have never had substance.” This revelation presented another ego boosting option, i.e.; “They can't hurt me.” I was in a challenging mood, so crouching with machete in hand, I told them to “Eat me.”

In an attempt to flank me the females stepped to either side of me at an angle. Over anxious, the demon in the middle charged before the “girls” had completed their arc. As he bore down on me I veered to my left, because I'm right handed. I dropped low with the machete to slice the throat and front legs of Mr. Halitosis, (“What's that smell, bad breath?). Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the nearest female raise her, paw?

The male demon lay in a pool of black, tarry blood right where I cut him, but I felt pain in my right shoulder from where he impacted me (“how can that be?”).

The “paw” came down as I rose and twisted back to the right. I felt a burning sensation brush across my left collarbone that extended across my chest (“My God, I did feel that!”). I stabbed the blade into demon bitch #1.The thrust felt like I had stuck the machete in squishy mud or even pudding.

Then I took a blunt “thud” to the back, and followed that momentum into a forward roll. By attacking my flank, demon bitch #2 tripped in the melee. She tumbled ungracefully and stopped on all fours. Bitch #2 turned her head toward the noise as the first one vanished in a bloodcurdling shriek.

Taking advantage of the distraction, I was already above Bitch #2 at a run, and severed her head which hit the ground with a juicy “plop”.

“Wow, that was fun,” I said to nobody. I noticed blood on my arm. There were cuts all over me, and I was winded. Four parallel scratches on my chest were stinging,(“did claws do that?”). Suddenly, I felt the need to raise my weapon and “shriek” myself. Looking around my thicket which was now sort of a clearing, it looked like a dull “bush hog” had moved through it. Yeah, I walked out of the forest, my domain, feeling invincible.

That first skirmish was only seconds or maybe half the night, I couldn't tell, I still can't. The next day, people who saw me noticed the marks on my arms and face. They'd tell me to “quit picking” which is a crankster’s favorite self-mutilating pastime. In an attempt to avoid lengthy explanations, I would just agree with them although these wounds weren't from “picking”. My hidden inner smile came from the feeling of superiority over everyone due to my new battle seasoning. How many people can actually say that they have fought demons and mean it?

Still the police investigated me, or were recruited by Diane and company, (“Is this real or my own paranoia?”). Random attacks increased from more demons; zombies; giant bats and bugs, ad infinitum.

Mutilated faces appeared in trees and shrubs, and rolling eyeballs in brick walls causing me to glance around all around like birds do when worried about a cat stalking them. One night I saw a construction crane in the distance that transformed into a big ass robotic machine, stomping around in circles. These visions were novel at first but to interact with them day in and day out was freaking me the hell out. No place was safe, plus, I didn't know where I was half the time. My little holographic source said it was a cycle and would end when I willed it to.

On October 10, 2002, I was in the woods where I was supposed to meet Jane Carson later that night. Just after dark among the trees I could just make out what seemed to be three or four large rhinoceros headed beasts with alligator like mouths. They came for me on their hind legs.

I ran towards the lake and took the quick way down a short cliff towards the water. The monstrosities could not find me, so I walked on the edge of the shore for a few minutes. One of the beasts poked his head over the ridge then the head changed into that of a giant chicken. When it saw me I scaled the cliff further down out of its line of sight, and began making my way through the forest in the opposite direction from the chicken.

For giant chickens they sure made their way through the thick underbrush easily. Resting a few moments, the toes of a giant chicken foot landed beside me. The foot reminded me of a bad movie prop made of felt and foam rubber, but I bashed it with a log anyway. The chicken it belonged to bent over to peck me and I managed to knock it loopy with a piece of wood.

The Tyrannosaurus Rooster fell, but the hens were coming so I ran back toward the neighborhood where I used to live with Twana Oswalt. I remember thinking that giant foam rubber chickens chasing me were ridiculous, and I wondered if a gun would kill them. Just then, a Colt 45 appeared in my hand. It turns out, two slugs from a 45 in the head were enough to dispatch a giant avian.

One chicken was still behind me as I went through the gate of the house Twana used to rent. The chicken was shrinking but I tried the door anyway, it was unlocked. As I turned to slam the door there was a cat where the giant chicken should have been.

That cat wanted in, so I opened the screen door. A closer look revealed that It was the runt of a litter of kittens which I delivered months earlier. Runt was not breathing when she was born so I massaged her little heart until it began to move on its own. The runt seemed to remember me so I just held her until it was time for me to meet Jane Carson that night.

I had returned to the woods for about an hour by the time Jane idled her pickup past me. The dirt road was darker than the night because of the forest overshadowing it, so, standing there it must have been hard to see me. I stepped onto the road and flagged her down. We then went to the nearest corner store for gas and stuff.

We got gas, oil, beer, and pizza, and Jane wrote a hot check for it on her ex husband's account. The pizza we ordered was cooking so I pulled the truck over to air up the tires. Two Grayson County Sheriff Deputies offered their “assistance”. Realizing they were only there to harass me, it was still all I could do to keep my thoughts straight. A little shadow monster kept poking its head out of the hole that I was pouring oil into, like I was drowning it.¹⁰

Finally, and with an innocent demeanor, Jane brought the pizza to the truck and we left. Thank God the police didn't follow us. We were supposed to drive to Oklahoma to see a dope dealer that Jane knew. Being kind of freaked out about the cops, we went to an out of the way spot down a country road to gather our thoughts. We also went there in case the police followed us.

Jane switched off the engine, turned to me and said, “Let's have sex”. Still in shock from the cop thing, I told her that she was “sick” then got out of the truck to take in the cool October air. Truly I wanted to have sex with her but on my time, not hers.

A couple minutes went by then I walked up to the driver side window (intending to seduce her right there by the steering wheel). Ms. Carson suddenly and unexpectedly, locked her door and said, “You're scaring me”. That statement was hard to believe coming from a girl who wielded knives and guns at her ex husband in the past, but I decided to play along. Jane said, “I'll leave your phone at the end of this road and you can call someone to pick you up”. The engine started.

From my perspective, the game was still in play, so I jumped in the bed of the pickup and just stood there. Jane put the truck in gear and spun the tires. All I could do was try to keep my balance as the pickup accelerated and swerved from side to side. It was challenging to see if I could stay on my feet.

All at once, the pickup came to a sliding halt and I guess I tripped over my own two feet, because I bounced across the top of the tool box and crashed through the rear window. Right then Jane screamed and side-swiped a tree which wasn't good for me, because I was hanging across broken glass with half my body in the truck cab next to Jane.

I remember the vehicle stopping with Jane exiting it, but the truck rolled onto the curb and the engine stalled. I wormed my way out of the glass hole, backwards to see about Jane. She ran around in a circle saying, “my brains are falling out,” and “I'm bleeding to death”. It was a dark night and Jane was holding my flashlight, so I did not actually see her injury, or any blood.

A second vehicle approached us, and Jane bolted in front of it, flagged it down and jumped into the passenger side. They just drove off and left me standing there bleeding. I didn't see Jane again until my trial.

Still shocked and confused, I started Jane's pickup and left the scene. Taking a few moments at a secluded place I cleaned my wounds and swept broken glass out of the truck. Contemplating whether Ms. Carson was actually injured, I decided to visit the nearest emergency room, but to do so carefully, just in case (the thought did cross my mind: “What if the authorities think I injured her?”). Passing a parked cop who took an interest in the pickup I was driving, I realized my worst fears were coming true. Prior to his catching up to me, I ditched the vehicle and ran – spending the rest of the night hiding and running for miles.

Arrest

About a month later I was arrested and my mind was still “out there” in a twisted reality. This condition persisted beyond my arrest for over a year, while I Also began taking anti-depressants. I guess the medication worked because I saw the Doode less and less, yet other visions and odd pictures remained in my minds eye for months to come. I would also hear words or phrases out of thin air. I suppose I was still a wee bit out of phase.

During this personal transition, laying awake most of the night in my prison bunk – I was at some point compelled to jot down every thought I had. All things that I saw, heard, or remembered were noted on any scrap piece of paper, and in random order. Later the notes that I was able to save were collated and recopied in a semi coherent manner. That process took over two years to complete.

In retrospect, all this information was swirling around in my head, flowing from me and almost regurgitated in frequency and amount. The whole experience was as if an unstoppable tsunami of scenes, words, sounds, and symbols hit me in the face every day. No wonder I was unable to defend myself at trial. When writing, there was no way my hands could keep up with my mind, so I may have overlooked some key points. Other subjects I didn't understand, but noted anyway. That is what the Doode meant by the term “download”, I think; I don't have to understand, I just have to absorb it and interpret the data as best as I can.

The type of things I would be reporting on would exceed my normal knowledge and interest. By that, I mean, I am unqualified to talk about most of the things written about in this book because of my own limited education, and I certainly wouldn't normally try to write about much of anything. Therefore, I had to trust in the information given by my source. Where else would a prisoner without a series of degrees obtain such information?

Expressed in “The Word of Doode” and I'll reiterate here: The remainder of this book is my report on the said “download”. This is my version of the quasi-decipherable information that was poured into my head by my source, the little Doode.

This time though, I am including references from prominent authorities which seem to support some of the Words of Doode.

Chapter One End Notes

1. The information came from an audio tape in the possession of her husband, Glenn Smalley.
2. Evidence in Grayson County case # 2001-1-652.
3. Conservative estimate.
4. That is how my family referred to negotiating a bargain.
5. I believe that deep down, Twana yearned for the experience.
6. We will call them P-Ali3nz for short.
7. We will call them N-Aliens for short.
8. The kind of people who will lie, cheat, or steal for no other reason than to hurt someone else, dog kickers.
9. I later realized that what the Doode called the “others” were the shadowy patterns of negative energy that were attracted to the physical and non-physical energy that was created when I communicated with my source.
10. In retrospect, maybe one reason the cops thought I could use some help is that I was struggling with the oil funnel – trying to smash the shadow thing down in the hole.