Suppose that you and your closest friends shared a cryptophrasia, a “twin-language” of unknown semantics, a code that couldn’t be cracked. No matter the crowds that press against you, no matter the watchful eyes, every word you speak is a secret. Between yourselves, you can say anything, share anything, confess anything. If it is within your nature, the fact of speaking in a language that is spoken by no other might have an impact greater than simply uniting you with those few whose mouths move as yours does. This semantic oneness, this sharing of heart and mind, isolates its speakers apart from those whose mouths don’t move in the same way. Language is a key signifier of the pack; those who dwell among the pack speaking another tongue do not go unnoticed.
And then suppose that it’s not twins who share the cryptophrasia, but criminals. They don’t give hand signals during the bank robbery to evade detection; instead, they speak a language whose utterances are unrecognized and unremembered, a language they can claim not to know, one they might claim does not exist. Perhaps, for all purposes, for those who are victims of genocides and mass murders by those of other cultures and languages, the moments before their lives are taken are lived in fear and confusion as the incomprehensible order to kill it uttered in the unshared “other” tongue and by virtue of being unintelligible is kept secret until the bullet bears the message.
Mobbing, as performed by real estate speculators or the tenant clearers they hire, at least in my own northeast neighborhood of Seattle, like being overtaken by some foreign, and hostile, culture. The culture of mobbing is a criminal culture of bullying, one that delights dysfunctional neighborhood watch groups like the one that traffics this rapidly gentrifying enclave just over the Burke-Gilman bicycle trail a few feet from the waters of Lake Washington. And the mobbers in my neighborhood, those who have moved in around me and have been criminally monitoring, stalking and attempting to harass me out of my legal rental home for two years now, count among their number privileged white kids ranging from their 20s to their 40s from local moneyed families—some who hold lucrative businesses and even a well-known franchise. These brat-packers seem to have missed their true calling as Nazi sycophant members of Hitler Youth and must now find purpose and pecuniary reward in criminally and covertly stalking legal residents out of their homes. Based on what I’ve seen around me for these last years, it’s a safe bet that they either flip the properties themselves in the “badass” and “gangsta” tradition of the house flippers who frequent sites like propertymob.com, or they reap their rewards as the developers they work for “rehabilitate” and flip houses while putting the dream of home ownership evermore out of the grasp of most of us.
The culture of mobbing is not one that you enter, but one that enters your home. Real estate mobbing as performed by the Seattle mobbers has its own ritual, and its own language. The language of mobbing, however, has an unintelligible code based less on the shared criminal culture of organized tenant clearing, than on the technology of “beam-focused” sound.
It’s occurred to me frequently in the last months, that reporting a crime that is unknown, like the crime of real estate mobbing as performed by apparent professional bullies invited into my neighborhood by a neighborhood watch so dysfunctional and full of hatred for others that it has turned criminal, is a feat of rhetoric. How does one report a crime that is designed to make its victims appear crazy? A crime that is little known and that the Seattle Police Department failed to recognize when its first signs appeared as I began reporting events that I came to understand as hoaxes and felony crimes in the first months of the mobbing. Over time, I’ve developed something of a strategy in my attempt to be recognized as a victim of an ongoing and predatory crime that may represent a trend in real estate speculation, and that strategy includes this blog. That strategy also includes writing carefully about how it feels to be harassed in this manner and including numerous references on the likely and obvious techniques of harassment that have victimized me over the last two years. The goal of this post is to provide more information about sound and speaker technologies that criminologists are likely to hear more about as criminals on the bleeding edge use them to commit predatory crime and to explain how criminal real estate speculators use beam-focused sound to covertly communicate their criminal demands in a criminal manner to their victims, in effect, to make good their crime.
I shiver slightly as I write this, because the windows are open to “break” the surfaces of the window panes that the professional bullies who call themselves “mobbers” use to quietly harass me every moment I am inside. “Breaking” the surfaces quiets the harassment to some extent. Today and this evening, they work on either side of me at home from behind walls on neighboring properties to the south and north, properties owned by two single men of noble professions who openly participate and invite or pay others to come to their houses to do the same. “Idiot! I’m harassing the Village Idiot,” says a male voice on the south side of the house. “Kill her!” says another voice. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that.
The “idiot” voice sounds like the Asian guy with tribal tattoos and Crossfit sticks on his red Toyota SUV who parks out in front of the house these days more than the owner dares. This guy and the brat pack owner of the south house, and sometimes even their scumbucket attorney friend who seems to be actively involved in the mobbing (a fact which raises the question of what exactly he’s done for his landlord clients), spend a lot of time beneath my front windows in circle-jerks—I mean, washing their cars—in ways that are obviously meant to intimidate me, the middle-aged female renter who lives next door in a small older house owned by a couple property mobbers would likely call “reluctant sellers.” Believe you me—and no insult intended, Kenneth Anger—it’s like Kustom Kar Kommandos around here, a nonstop orgy of car-washing (Oh gawd. Grab a shammy). And on the weekends, the nasty neighborhood watch lady is known to pinch hit from across the street if she hasn’t already thrown around her trash cans and blocks of wood for the day. In a possible gesture of phallic envy, she one time even squirted her hose at me. Of course, she was careful to do it when no one but her mobber friends were looking; these would be the people she oddly claimed in one U.S. District Court proceeding to be “helping.”
But back to the circle-jerk tattooed guy to the south, based on his easy familiarity with a retiree at last year’s neighborhood barbecue as well as with the nasty neighborhood watch woman across the way who speaks with him, and anyone else, in conspiratorial tones whenever I’m outside, I tend to suspect a longer association. Perhaps he does “clearing” jobs for people of their ilk on a regular basis. See my next post for an overview of the theater of war in property war.