Chasing the Ghosts of Justice

Chasing the Ghosts of Justice ⓒ by Donna Rae Lands

Chasing the Ghosts of Justice, hidden from view…

Nights of wanting and haunting…surely overdue…

Counterfeit and stolen names…nothing surreal…

Changing seasons for varied reasons…

Games of shame…and stabs of pain…

Seeking their fortune and seeking their fame…

Lying and denying…spying every day…

She wails from her broken heart but who would know…

Only the dances healed her stolen soul…

It was truly a joke whenever she spoke…

Choosing her balance… with her eyes closed to grace…

Ghosts of injustice slap her… across the face…

The genteel elegance of the highest kind…

No virtues of honor…cowardice were chosen as their dignity sign.

Better to love and instruct…than to confuse and to corrupt…

The distinguished merit and badges of some sort…

Granting the prizes, labels, and decisions of some courtly tort.

The civil way to be… for all to see…are chasing the Ghosts of Justice of today’s proper PC.

Satire, wit, and comedy seats are taken by participants, who are ever so loud…

They laugh at whoever shall wear the golden crown… amongst the people in the crowd…

Riding in the cloud of deception…

The bells were not rung-no trumpet sounds were found at the purple reception…

It was all a web of lies…Stripped while the naked wood cries…

Walking and talking became their je ne sai quoi….

Standing and ranting- preaching their rah, rah

Twas entertaining for the clapping people of the ta ta…and the ha ha…

Decency lost, all was embellished-whilst the Decorum was so greatly sought…

Clarification of the bottom of the barrel was to rot and it was always-always for naught.

Somebody done somebody wrong song…

Mommy Jeanie and the tongue

Today is May 18, 2017.

The what, the where, and the what again.

I am writing this because it is fresh and it happened just two hours ago. I was driving Myles and Kenzie from my house to the daycare in Spokane. I left around 8:15 am…I noticed in the rear view mirror that Myles had undone the seat belt right after passing Miller’s one stop going south on the Newport Hwy.(hwy2 e)I pulled over into the small Grub and stuff cabin cafe…I fixed the seatbelt and hopped back into the car…
“I get to see my mommy”, Kenzie says in her sweet all excited voice.
Myles then said very seriously, “I want to see my Mommy Jeanie”.
Whoa…that knocked the wind out of my sails because he hasn’t said a word about his real mommy since Nov 1st, 2016.
Then it dawned on me that he calls Jessie, ‘Mama Jessie’ and Jeanie, ‘Mommy Jeanie’.
I said, “You remember your real mommy Jeanie and what happened that night”?
He said, “Yes, my daddy hurt my mommy”.
I said, “Where”?
He reached up and put his hands around his neck.
I said, “No honey, Where”? “In the hallway”? (That’s what my son outlaw and the police said)
He looked at me like I was stupid.  Then in a matter of fact way, he flips his hands in that flip motion so his palms are up and then he says sternly, “No, in the bedroom”!
I calmly then asked him, “What did your mommy Jeanie do”. (My heart was pounding)
He then put his hands to his throat again and said…ugh, ugh and he then stuck his tongue out and hung it downward”.
I then asked him…”What did you do honey”…
Like a super brave gallant little two and a half-year-old, He says…” I told Daddy to stop it” … “That’s not nice”…
There you have it…The what, the where and the what again…but it doesn’t matter because my son outlaw got away with it…and the Police, the Coroner, and DA let him.
How did my precious Myles know about her sticking her tongue out like that? OMG…I am crying typing after writing this…I must go do some work so I can not think about what I now know. What I know is…my son outlaw got away with killing my child!

Somebody done somebody wrong song.

Two ways to murder your abused wife and get away with it.

Please do not try this…It is satire.

First,  you must make it look like a suicide. This is the most important thing because that is what will fool the cops and the judicial system. Make sure your spouse does drugs. Cops don’t care about druggies.  Get lots of cell phones…Take complete control of your wife’s communications…Send messages from her phone that you have to your cell phone which she has…The gushy love shit will make her appear nuts prior to the event… Even if you abuse your wife…the cops won’t really care…hell, 40% of the male cops are woman beaters. Try to make sure you and your spouse are pretty much alone…Don’t worry about her wanting to get her homework done before her alleged suicide…All suicidal people want to get their school assignments that are due on the following Monday. Cops ignore the obvious. If there is a toddler around…that is probably okay because cops and the courts don’t consider children at that age to be good witnesses. They barely can talk…let alone testify against you. Don’t worry about upsetting her parents…the cops will not consider their point of view because the parents will be emotional. The cops may even use the parents emotions in your favor because the cops love making the victim’s parents emotions part of their case. That kind of stuff fills up space in a report. The cops love that shit. After your wife’s alleged suicide…you must exercise complete shutdown. Act super stupid, drink beer and be convincing about the suicide event…change your story many times. Cops buy into that shit because you are emotional and drunk. On the eventful day…make sure to also hook some kind of hose to a car even if the car doesn’t really run…cops don’t check that…hell… they cannot even get your fingerprints off of a hose.  Yeppers…all suicide victims take their purse into a car that doesn’t run. It will look stupid but it helps to make your spouse seem like she was on a suicide determination run.  The killing must be from behind with her on her knees…basically… hang the bitch…with a curtain type material. Cops won’t care about the dirt on her knuckles and knees. It has to be pretty long so you can tie it up later to make it look like she really hung herself. After she is pretty much dead…stage the scene…then run over to the neighbor’s house for help. At least twenty minutes must elapse so your spouse can never come back.  Within a month the cops and everybody will close the case and you can carry on with your life. 

Another way to get away with it is if after you have strangled her…rig something in the garage. Lean your dead spouse over a strung up wire…then leave for a week…Her dead rotting corpse will never give up the exact time of her death. This method is very simple to write off for the coroner and the police.

On a side note…90% of all women will not choose this way to die but the system doesn’t care…they just would rather close their eyes.

The truth is the cops and the judicial system honestly believe abused bitches lives don’t matter! Society looks at abused women as stupid. Society believes stupid abused bitches deserve what they get.

I am living proof and two women I loved are dead proof showing that their lovers got away with it.

The Keystone report

The report the keystone cops wrote about my daughter was horrible. The knots on the rope was tested for my daughter’s DNA because no gold flakes were in her fingernails…only dirt…probably the same dirt as what was on my daughter’s knees because Rafael choked her while her tongue was sticking out in front of her son, not his son. My grandson’s version matches better than Rafael’s staged scene. Lack of evidence is evidence…you won’t find my good DNA on those knots. The cops put my emotions in the report and I had nothing to do with my daughter’s death. I am hoping their report shows up here because Paul Lebsock says public is public.  What do you think?

Those knots were tested. Male and female DNA was found but not enough to be tested. It was a waste of money on my part but Paul handed that evidence over to the natural mother. Wasn’t that very nice of him?  I doubt the Ronco knife will cut that material the same straight cut…A two hundred pound woman would have made that cut a rip diagonally and not straight across.  No footprints in the hallway, only his shoe mark. The ladder rungs on the ladder in the kitchen measure up to the scuff marks on the wall in the hallway. Rafael stood on a ladder to rip the curtain down while Jeanie was locked in the dungeon.


Guccifer 2.0 DNC’s servers hacked by a lone hacker

Wow…This is big.


Worldwide known cyber security company CrowdStrike announced that the Democratic National Committee (DNC) servers had been hacked by “sophisticated” hacker groups.

I’m very pleased the company appreciated my skills so highly))) But in fact, it was easy, very easy.

Guccifer may have been the first one who penetrated Hillary Clinton’s and other Democrats’ mail servers. But he certainly wasn’t the last. No wonder any other hacker could easily get access to the DNC’s servers.

Shame on CrowdStrike: Do you think I’ve been in the DNC’s networks for almost a year and saved only 2 documents? Do you really believe it?

Here are just a few docs from many thousands I extracted when hacking into DNC’s network.

They mentioned a leaked database on Donald Trump. Did they mean this one?


Some hundred sheets! This’s a serious case, isn’t it?

And it’s just a tiny part of all docs I downloaded…

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Middle Eastern Issues

Middle eastern men are too angry about the manly man and dogmatic issues. Name one time in history when middle eastern men have not fought. They act as vampires taking blood for blood vengeance. They are all bullies on the playground of the big sand hill. Their one commonality is the cult of Islam. Islam has outdated ideas and practices. The wise good people know the truth about the darkness in their cult. It is very clear to me. The men are men of low IQ’s because their mama’s are kept dumb resulting in dumb sons.
In conclusion, you have a bunch of dumbass sons of pricks who keeping making more pricks. More pricks becoming evil angry pricks… They have nothing to do but be pricks, holding their dicks. And the pricks all want to get up and see who can be the biggest prick compared to their Mohamed dick—the King of Pricks.


Please forgive me for my errors. It is difficult to read this story to correct my stupid grammar mistakes. I cry every time I read it so it makes it difficult to correct. My laptop doesn’t show me my errors. It is a chapter in my book but I thought my earthly Angels should know a part of me so you understand why bullying hurts and should not be done.


It was a cool winter’s day in 1971 where you are not sure the road is icy or not. The breeze was cool and the birds were singing. When you breathed in the smell it smelled clean and fresh. It starts out where you feel happy and giggly because you know spring could just happen in a moment with a change of the afternoon sun. A family of four pulled up in front of a house on 1st Avenue in an old rickety early 1950’s coupe. I was nine years old sitting in the backseat with my six-year brother who was sound asleep. I hated coming down to this neighborhood. I can’t stand to be so near where Ted had dropped us off. Dad was still doing his paper route and he was stopping by to collect a past due payment from the customer. Mom and dad were in a heated argument of tears and screaming. Three grandfathers all had passed away within weeks of one another. My maternal grandfather had just died and the fight was about not being able to afford to go to South Carolina for his funeral. My Dad in his rush to get away from my emotional mother left his keys in the ignition. We watched my dad enter the frail old lady’s house. It was an old white cottage with many bushes, flowers, and over-growth. As soon as that door closed, my mom scooted over to behind the steering wheel. “Mom what are you doing? You don’t drive”?

“I am going to see my Dad”, she said. I scrambled over the big bench seat and took her place where she had been sitting. I was riding in the front. I was sitting on my knees. I felt like such a little grown up. The car had no seatbelts and there were no rules against children in front seats. My Mom turned left and then another left into the old pothole-riddled dirt alley. There was a small greenhouse facing west. The edge of the house sat right on the edge of the alley. The car was going too fast for the inexperienced driver. The car’s front tires hit some ice and it slammed into the little greenhouse. It knocked it right off its foundation. It happened so fast. I went forward like I was a missile right through the windshield but when the car stopped it slammed me back onto the seat. I felt like someone had punched my whole head against a cement wall. I recall looking over at my mother and she looked as if she had seen the worst horror of her life. That is when I saw the blood dripping on the front of my pants.

“Oh my God baby, I am so sorry. I am so sorry”.

“What, what mom? What do you mean”, I said.

Then out of nowhere the front door whisks open to a panting Jerry Lee Lewis look-alike neighbor with a mustache.

He says through his gasps of air, “OH darling here put this handkerchief over your face and put pressure on this. I have already called an ambulance”.

I knew him as the radio station guy who was married to Mary who had babysat us sometimes. I took the handkerchief and placed it on my right cheek and then brought it down right away because it was so wet. It was full of blood. Then my whole world, destiny, and life changed forever in that handkerchief full of blood. My Dad arrived when the ambulance arrived. Jerry had seat belts in his car. He took me and my brother to Deaconess. Everyone was scrambling when we arrived. I listened carefully to everyone.

I kept hearing all the nurses saying, “Oh my God the poor girl”.

They got to work right away. I was awake during the whole procedure and the heat of the light kept me closing my eyes thinking about what was going to become of my pretty face. The doctor gave specific orders not to allow me to look at myself in a mirror because as soon as they wheeled me to my room I asked for one. They had me on IVS and kept me drugged up because I slept throughout the night. The next morning I would see what seventy-one stitches looked like on a nine-year-old little girl’s pretty face. Oh, the girl in the mirror forever scarred was me. The first tears that burned my cheek that first morning would be the first of many more for the fragile young gal in me.

I had gotten up with help from the beautiful nurse who was about thirty, petite, and looked like a model in her white uniform. She had the white nurse’s hat with blonde hair placed in a bun. She had twinkly warm blue eyes and her voice was calming and warm as was her touch. “Please help me to the mirror”, I pleaded.

“Okay honey but it may make you cry. You are still pretty and you are so young”. Now I was getting worried by her eyes of trying to console me from the truth I had to face.

As soon as I stood up, I could see my reflection across the room in the mirror and I saw a Frankenstein monster staring back at me. That couldn’t be me? Someone just took my face. My pretty face was gone. It was as if the mirror became this magnet that floated me over to it.

I went to touch it, but the nurse said, “No you mustn’t touch it or it could get infected”. The tears started streaming down the face of ugliness in that Frankenstein foreign face in the mirror. “I am a monster ma-am, who will ever love something so ugly”?

The nurse started crying and she grabbed me and said, “Oh honey you are beautiful in here pointing to my heart and in here pointing to my head and I love you. You will heal in time. You must put medicine on it faithfully. When the stitches come out, then you must put vitamin e and natural moisturizers on it and it will fade. You then can wear foundation on it and it will hardly be noticeable. You will have a huge scar but it is on the outside and not on the inside. You are always loved and just you never forget that! You go to the bathroom, take a shower, don’t get water on your stitches, and I will brush your hair when you are done”.

Her kindness got me through that ugliest Frankenstein moment of my life. I had been thrown into the beginning of torment, teasing and bullying not of my choosing. You can read the fright in people’s eyes because folks would stare at the Frankenstein gal and then their eyes would get big and huge like they had seen a monster. I had no idea that the next twelve years could and would become tortuous beyond belief. Bullies are beaters because they torture the spirit of the child. I would come to shed many tears over being bullied because I had this huge scar of a seven placed upon the right side of my face. I would stare at it for hours that first week while I stayed home from school to recuperate.  No one had informed me that kids would tease me. I thought they would understand and know it was an accident. I was very wrong. The first day back to school was somewhat strange because all the kids gathered around me. They were dumbfounded. The girls hugged me and told me how sorry they were. Most of the boys did too. Then there were the mean boys who called me “Donna Dogface and Scarface”. They would laugh and tell me on the playground that no one could ever love someone so ugly. It was an everyday occurrence until I got to high school. What does a nine-year-old girl do to heal?

I turned to angels wherever I could find them. I found good angels through my girlfriends, books but most of all I talked to my Lord through prayer. I attended church and I focused my energy on books and books. There was not a day for five years that I didn’t read. I trusted in God because he did not hurt me. My earthly father had hurt me but my Spiritual father did not. I prayed that God would send me peace from all the torture going on in those yesterday painful years.  I wrote a story about the dream of peace that was sent to me during that time.  I call it “Dream Comforter”

God did indeed send me peace. 🙂