Get off the phone! We might have a drone!

In the early months of the real estate mobbing, a time when the harassers made grandiose statements intended to befuddle and bewitch, claims about winged flying machines were made during the nighttime harassment the mobbers quickly applied in an effort to make my home unlivable:

We might have a drone, one of the mobbers suggested.

Get off the phone! cried another, in mock amazement.

This was before every Tom, Dick and Harry got one for Christmas the year before last, before the Federal Aviation Agency (FAA) promulgated regulations on registering unmanned aircraft of a certain weight and class (Unmanned Aircraft Systems,, and before cases like one in the courtroom of Seattle Municipal Court Judge Willie Gregory, in which the operator of an out-of-control drone that knocked out a woman at Seattle’s Gay Pride Parade was sentenced to 30 days’ jail time. This was before drones became reality in the American mind, before Tattoo’s excited cries of “The plane!” approaching Fantasy Island (an American television series, 1977-1984, morphed into the calls of exercised home owners about “A drone!” at the bedroom window.

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“How are we going to get her out if we can’t see her?”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but in the days, weeks and months before the “mobbing” began, at least, before the events that make me realize that what was happening was more than malicious gossip or the nastiness of a neighborhood that combines unfriendliness with money, those who would be involved in mobbing me were preparing.

At least a year before, those living around me had begun to actively work in concert, if not to make my life so unpleasant that I would leave before the mobbing, to curb my expression of basic rights in a manner that allowed me to best hear the mobbing harassment and that would protect their access to me.

The summer before the mobbing started, the same people would begin to yell whenever I would open a door or a window. This consisted of the three houses closest to me, two of them so close that they would provide access to my every room for monitoring and harassment in the coming months; the third belonging to someone in the local neighborhood watch who had constantly complained about me and made bizarre accusations about me to my landlords and, presumably, to others. They would yell to each other that a window was open, they would yell that they would call the police even though it was not quiet hours. They would come outside and throw their trash cans around or turn on outside music so that there would be a price to having my door open in the summertime heat.

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