This morning I’m listening to NPR’s This American Life and scrambling the eggs when the mobbers tell me I need to take a shit.
Frankly, I do.
I plate the eggs, cover them with a warm tortilla, and make my way to the bathroom.
The mobbers have it easier on mornings like this one when there are NPR shows that I’m not willing to miss, even if I have to pay the price of enduring what is probably shortwave radio harassment overlapping the broadcast. They now ignore the fact that I routinely put my speakers outside to diffuse the sound of the harassment and add in other methods of harassment depending on the best way to access my hearing, to occupy my mind, and to stress me emotionally. This morning that means they’re all over my Internet-connected computer anytime I put fingers to the keys, and bouncing and projecting sound using what are probably parametric speakers as I travel short distances between the many windows of my 1940s rental home that some developer probably wants to tear down or flip.
But the eggs are getting cold. As I sit on the toilet the mobbers talk over my bowel functions. I am unphased and, at this point, don’t care how or what they see or whether they truly can mic my every movement so well that they know when I’m bending over or which way I’m facing. I’ve long since concluded that they do some of each and that it should be the police who worry about how they do what they do. Not me. I am, unfortunately, the victim.
I wash up and get back into the kitchen. There’s a slice of butter that I didn’t need for the eggs and as I pick it up they chatter in the background.
What you eat!
We’re tired of looking at your *shit*!
But I swam hard yesterday, despite the non-stop harassment, and this morning I’m not at all exercised over the increasingly unremitting harassment and the rising intensity of this drive to expel me from my home. I open the frig and smile as a film reference they could incorporate into the mobbing comes to mind: Get the butter.
Oh, that’s something else I haven’t told you about yet—their unceasing attempts to somehow “get into” my head by incorporating dialog from films I’ve watched into the mobbing. By the way, they know I’ve watched them how? Because until I disconnected my cable TV service for the second time during the mobbing, Comcast’s lousy and highly insecure method of delivering Internet bandwidth and wireless services exposed me to one of the mobbing houses—the line was partially shared, it seems, at least, a friend of mine who knew how to use network tools better than I did last summer identified the other computers just on the other side of my router because of the shared configuration of the Comcast service. This kind of use of household utilities, by the way, is an old feature of blockbusting techniques, one that works pretty well for hackers who can apparently use them to access your router or to use packet sniffers like Wireshark to “read” your Internet traffic. In fact, it may be because mobbers clamor to use each and every service your home provides, including windows, downspouts and fans, that Wikipedia, for example, defines “real estate mobbing” as an updated form of “blockbusting.” The opportunities that companies like Comcast give hackers are documented in books including Hacking the Cable Modem: What Cable Companies Don’t Want You to Know.
If only the police would actually investigate, I muse as I ignore the mobbing chatter and chow down on my chipotle hot sauce drenched scrambled eggs. After all, the mobbers are very much up my ass, sans beurre. And this is the way it’s been for seventeen months, probably preceded by a prolonged period of foreplay during which they were likely invading my privacy in an attempt to find something they could use to coerce me out of my home without exposing their neighborhood watch friends to the legal peril they are now in.
It’s about time that this was the Last Tango for tenant clearing in Seattle.