Friday, September 15, 2017

Federal Investigators I Have Known

by Bill White

I have been reading the book Blood of Patriots, a federal informant genre biography, the kind of book where some pathetic scumbag recruited by the FBI tells the exciting story of how he "took down" some harmless person with unusual ideas, magnifying the "threat" he faced several times over in the process.

In this case, I know the details of the operation the author was involved in, and I know that like most informants, he primarily targeted other informants and really was just a paid actor in an FBI fantasy, not a key player in the takedown of a real and dangerous organization. But the book is interesting, as such books always are, as they give insight into not only the personalities and motivations of the scumbags recruited by the FBI, but also the methods by which such scumbags are recruited, directed, an  manipulated, by their FBI handlers. Given a choice, I prefer the "former federal agent" genre, something like the very educational No Angel, but all perspectives on these operations have value.

In any case, perusing this pathetic sack of crap's writings recalls to mind the other pathetic sacks of crap with which the FBI and their "private" assistants of various sorts plagued me with over the years (and would still like to plague me, if they didn't realize that I've been on to them for more than a while.)  What I find most interesting is the approaches that the informants make. It is always the same thing:  the FBI has someone who doesn't like the target for personal reasons and encourages the person to call the other person up and pretend to "bridge the gap" or otherwise mend relations. This is one of the reasons that I don't get angry at White nationalists who don't accept my apologies or resume talking to me when I sincerely try to make up for some of the errors of my misguided younger years. I would be suspicious of me, too.

After "bridging the gap," the informants generally let the other person run their mouth. As only people with serious psychiatric or personality disorders blather on about the crimes they have committed, or are going to commit, or want to commit, the people that the FBI ends up targeting aren't generally actual criminals, but merely people who don't have the good sense not to give voice to their fantasies.

Many of the tactics and techniques I've read about in these books I can relate back to people who have targeted me.  For instance, the approach of the informant in this book is almost exactly like the approach I had from Brian Holland one evening in Roanoke (though Holland had never had a negative encounter with me.)  And the "bridge the gap" technique is something that the FBI tried to instruct a friend of mine (who may have been mad at me over something, I don't know) to use on me perhaps a decade ago. As I have remarked with others, the FBI is really very limited in their range. They have scripts, and they stick to those scripts. So once you know the scripts you can recognize them, and you can pick out the FBI and their inept scumbag informants, about a mile away. And I do.

Anyways, my thoughts go back to 2004, when I first began to invest in property in Roanoke, Virginia.  No matter what various nutballs have said, my real estate business was not part of some grandiose scheme to ethnically cleanse southwest Roanoke. My business was part of a plan to make money. And when you can buy a duplex for $30,000 and rent it out for $10,000 a year in adjusted gross income, that's a good investment. In fact that is what I did, all day long, every day.  (Where I ended up going wrong was accumulating too many abandoned properties as inventory for my construction business, and having a business model that depended on the stability of the housing market at a time when the housing market crashed. Plus, also, getting ripped off by a contractor on a big job, and marrying the wrong woman. These things don't bother me -- life is full of problems, and you learn as you go.)

Anyone who thinks back that long (most folk probably won't bother) will recall that there was a big campaign to run me out of business that was ultimately initiated by Erica Hardwick, a U.S. Marshals and likely FBI informant, conducted and/or, coordinated, by the FBI itself.  Now, at the time that I started buying houses, I was at best marginally involved in White nationalism. Had Hardwick not gone after me, I probably would have abandoned political activity. But it was not useful to the government, and the FBI, for me to abandon my political activities. So they did everything they could to push me deeper into it.

First, they had the local newspaper run phony articles claiming that I was involved in "racism" against my tenants. Then they had their private housing agencies send out "housing testers" to try to prove that I was discriminating in my housing business.

In reality I was doing no such thing. I bought properties that were occupied by people who were very marginal -- more marginal even than the people I later made my business renting to. Being marginal petty criminals, these people were willing to tell any lie that came into their head to make a few dollars. When they were invited to make phony claims of "racism," the ones who were not paying their rent  had no problem filing phony complaints that they were being evicted because of "racism" and not because they were refusing to pay their rent.

The Roanoke Housing Agency then got involved by refusing to tender Section 8 checks to me, a move which ultimately ended in the eviction of the one Section 8 tenant I inherited. These scumbags tried to get one over on me, and they got themselves thrown out of their homes. Had they paid the rent, there never would have been a problem.

During this period of intense harassment, various unusual and obvious persons would pull up and try to rent houses from me. I remember one blonde woman with a short, dikey haircut who came up to me, and tried to chit-chat about how she had a black husband who was also "a cop." Apparently the feds had not realized that I had abandoned and renounced anarchism some five years earlier (when I was 21) and decided that I was still a teenager publishing caricatured anti-government literature.

As to the black husband, half of the scumbags in that neighborhood were cracked-out shadows of human beings with interracial spouses;  in fact, race-mixing and drug addiction are generally two things that go closely hand in hand. So as long as she paid the rent, I didn't give a damn what she did with her time. But I didn't say anything. She was obviously an informant, her overture was clumsy and blatant, and because I truly in my heart did not give a damn what she did with her time, I had nothing to say to her.

This latter characteristic, I think, has always been the biggest problem for the FBI in their pathetic efforts to lure me into various plots: I truly do not care what other people think or do with their time. I am used to people coming up to me and making pronouncement that are bizarre, delusional, nonsensical, or just plain offensive. As long as they do not involve me, I do not care. 

I don't need other people to think like I do. I don't have to make pronouncements at other people to validate my own self.  I write. If people want to read it, they do. If not, they don't. I like it when people publish my material. But I do not need people to do so. That difference is what sets me aside from, say, the typical kook that the FBI entraps in a "terror" plot.  The kooks need to get other people roped into their fantasies to validate themselves. I don't need or want any sort of validation from others.  (I will also note that this is why the FBI had to use fabication and perjury to put me into prison; they could never drag me in with their clumsy scenarios, so they cheated.)

The dikey blonde woman was then followed by another set-up which I always loved. In my neighborhood, the average income, when I started buying property, was $14,000 a year.  If a person made $18,000, they generally qualified to rent from me. If they made $24,000 or $30,000, a year for the entire household, they were an ideal tenant. If they made under $10,000, I had a few efficiencies that could accommodate them. And even with such low standards, I frequently had to turn away people who found the income qualification too high.

So into this neighborhood, I get a white family, dressed in dirty, beat-up clothes, who pulled up in a dirty beat-up van. When I gave them an application, they claimed to make $50,000 a year.  They left, and ten minutes later a negro couple pulls up in a mid-size car, very cleanly dressed, wanting to look at the same apartment. They also claimed to make $50,000 a year. It was the most obvious "tester" setup that I had ever seen.

To be frank, for all the blathering in the Roanoke Times about the West End being "historically African American," it was not. It was a 50% White, 50% black crack den, with most of the blacks living on the other side of Patterson Avenue near the Hurt Park housing project and/or coming into the neighborhood across the railroad bridge from Northwest (where there was another housing project.)

My side of Patterson Avenue was filled primarily with crack addicts, and the occasional crack house set up by Roanoke's negro gangs. Thus, while many poor Whites rented in the West End because they couldn't afford to go anywhere else, and some more middle class Whites would rent there for a month or two because they didn't know the neighborhood, no negro family earning $50,000 a year was going to rent in the West End.

Anyways, reading the transparent, scripted efforts of the informant in the book I'm reading to get information out of others reminded me of these transparent, scripted efforts to show that I was "discriminating" in my housing all of those years ago.  Having been reminded, I thought I would share some old FBI stories -- not because I need to blow my horn or convert anyone to my point of view, but because I enjoy writing and sharing the humor of the scum who control this illegitimate internationalist entity, and hope those who read this will share in the common fun. 


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