fiction

Confessions of a Gangstalked Nobody: Surviving Stalkers, Spies & Street Circus

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Welcome to my glamorous life as a reluctant cast member in a real-life crime-thriller-meets-comedy, filmed live in the streets of a “totally-not-suspicious” city.

You know the kind — where corruption oozes out of the sidewalks, crime networks own more businesses than actual businesspeople, and dirty intelligence agents pretend to be anything.

This is the story of my life — or what’s left of it between dodging stalkers and losing jobs to cartel coverups.

☠️ Meet My Stalker: The Man, The Myth, The Smirker

He’s always there. I walk out of my apartment, and BAM — there he is.

Mr. Smiley McCreep. Grinning like he just saw his favorite conspiracy theory come true.


He lives across the street. Or maybe it’s just one of his portals.

Honestly, I think he has a teleportation device.

No matter which route I take — straight, sideways, parkour — he finds me like a glitch in the Matrix with an unhealthy obsession.

Yesterday I outsmarted him. Or so I thought. Took a side alley with no cameras, no witnesses, no pigeons. Felt like James Bond.

Until he showed up mid-alley, smiling like it was our scheduled coffee date.


Creepy? Yes. Coincidence? Not a chance.

🧾 My Resume?
A Criminal Documentary

I’ve worked in so many “normal” places that turned out to be fronts for organized crime, I should add Organized Crime HR Survivor to my LinkedIn.

You try to get a job, pay rent, and build a future.

But somehow every job I land is conveniently crawling with shady characters, bugged boardrooms, or intelligence agents pretending to sell insurance.

I’ve basically worked for every acronym you’ve never heard of.

👮‍♀️ Police?
Oh, You Sweet Summer Child

“Just go to the police,” they say.

Sure! Let me just walk into that nice building run by the same people organizing my misery.
The guy behind the desk is probably in five group chats with my stalker, my HR, and an International smuggler named “Godknowshow”.

You report a crime, they nod, smile, and then forget your name — unless it’s to add you to their watchlist.

Spoiler: there is no help.

🙃 Trust Is Dead. Long Live Craziness.

I used to be open. Trusting. Social. I had conversations. Friends. Faith in humanity.

Then I met Reality: Population “Me”, and about 400 corrupt “coincidences.”

Now I trust no one. And I highly recommend it.

In this city, “trust” is a tool. People will use your honesty to twist you into knots and sell the footage to the highest bidder.

Once trust is gone? You can’t work. Can’t talk.

Can’t even take a peaceful walk without wondering who’s watching and what script you missed.

📣 Dear World: I See You Laughing. But I’m Not Joking.

Yes, it sounds funny. Like a movie. But that’s the point. They want you to think it’s all a joke. That I’m the crazy chick.

But behind the absurdity, there’s truth: a deep, rotting system where crime is the system.
Where the only safe people are the ones who’ve given up everything — including their lives.

They call it “order.” I call it psychological warfare with a public socialist system.

🎤 Final Word From Your Local Conspiracy Victim

They said: “You’re crazy.”

I said: “Crazy people don’t collect photographic evidence and pattern analysis spreadsheets, Komrad Milady with a dick”

They said: “You’ll be safe if you just obey.”

I said: “I’m allergic to blind obedience. Also, the Wi-Fi is terrible in fear socialist prisons.”

They want silence. I’m choosing voice.

This post? It’s for the others.

The watchers, the followed, the “coincidence victims.”
You’re not alone.
And you’re not crazy.

You’re just stuck in a city that runs on crime, smiles, and the loud hum of dirty socialist surveillance .

Peace, good “craziness” , and plotting escape routes,
— StoriesofStories

📸 P.S. Yes, I have pictures. No, I won’t post them here — yet.

What Love Is Not – A Mother’s Day Tribute to Maria

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Today, I want to write a story about love. But not the love we think we know—because trauma often tricks us. When you’ve grown up in a household shaped by abuse, addiction, or mental illness, you may learn to love out of survival, not understanding what love truly means.

We believe we know love because we love people. But that’s not always enough. Sometimes, what we call “love” is just the ache to be loved in return. Trauma teaches us to perform love, to give too easily, hoping someone—anyone—will love us back. It creates a false version of ourselves: insecure, eager, desperate. Loving to be loved. And that’s the mistake.

Let me tell you the story of Maria—one of the most important stories of my life.

It was through Maria that I learned what love is not. Because of her, Mexico will always be close to my heart.

Maria’s Story

Maria was a Mexican dressmaker—young, beautiful, with black curly hair and always a big, colorful flower pinned to her hair. She was poor, but full of life, talent, and determination. She met an American man with a disability, and she married him, hoping to build a better life.

Maria worked tirelessly. She sold dresses, skirts, bedsheets—anything she could make with her hands. She had one baby. Then another. Then a third. And still, she handled everything: the household, the kids, and a husband with mental health issues who refused to work.

She didn’t have citizenship. She had almost nothing but her hands, her smile, her babies—and her dignity.

I remember meeting her on the street one day. I was with my partner, and he made fun of me in front of her—mocking my English and education to feel superior. I felt so humiliated.

But Maria stood up. With a naked baby on her hip, she looked him in the eye and said:

“A man is only as good as the way he treats his woman. And if you can’t lift her up, or worse—you try to put her down—you deserve to be alone.”

That day, Maria taught me what dignity looks like. And she showed me what love is not.

The Silent Sisterhood

My mother didn’t speak English. Maria didn’t speak my mother’s language either. But they always understood each other—through signs, gestures, glances. Because abused women always understand each other.

On the bus, Mama would always greet Maria, and Maria would always respond. Two women, broken but resilient, recognizing something familiar in one another.

Maria eventually left her husband. She took her three kids, found a job, and chose freedom. She is alive. She is free.

My mother didn’t get that chance. She went back to our home country, where she lived a life of abuse. She died in the same bed with her abuser—left to die, by the one who broke her.

This Mother’s Day

As Mother’s Day arrives, I think of Maria.

I think of the strength of women.
I think of freedom.
I think of the importance of knowing what love is not—so we can finally recognize what it is.

Love isn’t control.
Love isn’t humiliation.
Love isn’t earned through suffering.

Love is freedom. Love is dignity. Love is normal.

If someone’s mind cannot understand the normality of love because of their own trauma or mental illness, we must leave them.

We must protect our life, peace, and protect those we love.

Maria is free. My mother is gone.

And I am here—still learning, still healing, still remembering.

Happy Mother’s Day to every woman who loved through pain.

And to those who had the courage to walk away from what love is not.

Thank you, Maria.

Photo by Samer Daboul on Pexels.com


Thank you, Mama.

Photo by Yogendra Singh on Pexels.com


Thank you, Mexico.

“Dirty Intelligence vs. The People: America’s Hidden War”

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🚨 Every day, another story about dirty intelligence socialism invading America!

Been with this cellphone company since 2016.
Almost 10 years.
It was dirty before — still dirty now.

But when cheap phone plans are rare, you hope for professionalism.
Nope.
The previous owner was shady, and it stayed shady.

💭 Flashback:
A dirty “intelligence officer” in telecom — you know who you are — instead of fixing staffing issues at a nursing home, he muted call lights and increased latency.

Dangerous. Unethical. Evil.

Yeah, he’s one of them:
Dirty intelligence embedded in telecommunications and internet networks.


And guess what?

I saw him LIVE controlling communications. 🎯

Today, his madness peaked. His name?
GERMSON. (His agent name, not mine.)

Just like he delayed call lights to save money, he’s now limiting online transactions — from $2500 down to $100.


Why?
So they can charge MORE TAXES on each transaction!

Example:
Need $200? Now you pay $250 after split taxes!
🧠 Criminal thinking.

And guess what?
DOGE would be proud — because I sniffed out this corruption!


When you’re a SUPERUSER, you can:
✅ Set limits.
✅ Change critical data.
✅ Delete or share sensitive info.
✅ Control medical records, financial transactions, and more.

That’s how dirty Medicare/Medicaid money games happen too.
Organized crime hiding in plain sight.


Now you know why they hate me:
I SEE through their criminal bullshit.


Using your intelligence skills to support a dirty socialist-criminal network for a paycheck?
👉 That’s DIRT.

Every system — capitalist or socialist — needs watchdogs.
Needs DOGES. 🐕

Because out there?
Organized crime runs wild.


When an American nurse living on low income gets hit with $32 extra in taxes thanks to a dirty intelligence hack job?

👉 That’s not just wrong.
👉 That’s flipping off God Himself.

God will deal with the dirty ones.


Message to dirty intell:

👊 DON’T MESS WITH POOR PEOPLE FOR DIRTY MONEY.

KEEP YOUR BUSINESS CLEAN!

MIHALOV STALKIEVICH & THE REVOLUT CARD

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Met Mihalov Stalkievich again today. Yes, that Mihalov—the walking psychological thriller with legs.

And, surprise surprise, he wasn’t alone. His shadowy “Intel” brother was lurking behind him like a badly written spy novel meets failed family therapy.

Because let’s be real: Mihalov doesn’t operate solo. No no.

He’s got Mr. Stalkievich 2.0 backing him up with an Intel-scented gang, like he’s starring in some underground Eastern European reboot of The Bourne Identity… but on mushrooms.

Scene change: dramatic.

I’m minding my business outside a bank, standing near a pizza store, contemplating the universe and digesting a lemon bar cookie like a responsible adult.

I toss the napkin—symbolic gesture of letting go—into a garbage bin.

And there it is.

Lying there on the top like a fallen angel:
A Revolut Visa card.

https://youtu.be/IXubBqd8uXs

Belonging to… wait for it… STEPANOVICH MIHAILOV.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Stalkievich. Stepanovich. What’s next? Snuffleupagovich?

I’m surrounded by the Witchy-Wich Slavic-named chaos lords.

I’m not living in a city—I’m in an Eastern European fever dream directed by David Lynch and co-written by Kafka.

And this card?
A Revolut card?

Oh dear, we’re in the dark fintech timeline now.

We all know Revolut is basically a tech-savvy roulette table for money.

Full of controversy, flags, and probably controlled by interdimensional lizards.

The card expires in 2027. Perfect. That gives it plenty of time to destroy nations and fund alien drug rings.

Now, I’m standing there, holding the card like it’s the One Ring. Thinking.

What do I do? What would YOU do?

  1. Call Revolut and enter the 7-hour call-waiting labyrinth.
  2. Find a police officer (haha, good one).
  3. Leave it in the top trash where it was (maybe…).
  4. Go into the bank and ask them to play detective.

Naturally, I picked the adult option.

I went into the bank like a Good Samaritan with a touch of burnout and paranoia.

Plot twist: society is garbage.

The bank looked at me like I handed them a wet sock.

“We’ll check the name in our system… but if it’s common, we’ll just shred it.”

Excuse me??? You’re telling me a potential key to a human’s finances—a weapon or salvation, depending on how crazy this Stepanovich is—is gonna get turned into confetti because it’s not your brand?

Couldn’t even call Revolut? You’re a bank. You literally speak fintechese.

But no. Bureaucracy eats decency for lunch.

I walked out of that place feeling lost, leading my own soul down a Dante-style hellscape of capitalist indifference.

Honestly? They should replace “Welcome” signs at airports with:

“ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.”


At least that would be truthful.

And as for me? I’m just a granny, trying to return a lost Revolut card, dodge stalkers, decode a brotherhood of lunatics, and survive in a world ruled by spreadsheets, sociopaths, and soft-crust pizza.

Welcome to the true madness.

Truth Don’t Beg

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I walk to calm my mind.
Even in this fake-ass, broken-down, corrupt system.

I was born in a communist country.
Don’t come at me with theories—I lived that shit.

I know what communism, socialism, and capitalism really are.

And I know damn well how cartels, gangs, and government thugs work.

They’re in every system.
Running it.
Destroying people.

Corruption ain’t the exception. It’s the damn engine.

When you’re young, you wanna fix the world.

When you’re old, you finally see:
The world don’t wanna be fixed.
The people in charge don’t want “fair.”
They protect their dirty money, their dirty power, and their dirty games.


You got three choices in this mess:
JOIN ‘EM.
FIGHT ‘EM.
Or STAY THE F*** OUT THE WAY.


I chose the last one.

Why? ‘Cause I’m tired. And smart.
And I’m not selling my soul to fit into their rigged game.


No one cares about you.
Not your family.
Not society.
Not the system.

You’re only human to them when you got money to spend or a number to add to their stats.

Need help?
It’s on their terms.
Need care?
It’s when they say so.
And even then—you gotta beg for what should be yours.


This world?
It ain’t built for humans.
It’s built for profit.


Now let me tell you what hit me today.


She was gorgeous. A Latina. Homeless. Addicted.

Still holding onto something—hope?

Maybe she was still trying.
Maybe she gave up long ago and just kept walking. Like me , like you, like many others!

I saw her again on the bus. High. Disconnected. Floating. Gone.

In any other world, she’d be a queen.

Here? She’s just a “problem.” A statistic. A burden.


The system don’t talk to women like her.

It ignores them.

Because if it saw her, it’d have to admit it failed.


They toss her crumbs—just enough to keep her from dying, not enough to actually live.

And guess what?

The same bastards who denied her help are the ones pushing the dope.
Same hands. Same money. Same evil.


They sell pain.
They buy silence.

And they wash their hands clean with public funds.


Socialism?
Same scam. Different name.
They move dirty money through “government programs,” pocket the profit, and leave people like her to rot.

And me? I’m a nurse. A damn good one.
But I don’t play their dirty game, so they don’t want me.
They don’t want real.
They want silence. They want obedience.


As I sat on that cracked-up bus, smelling weed, meth, and broken dreams, I looked at her and I prayed.


I prayed she makes it.
I prayed she stays alive.
I prayed luck finds her before death does.


And I made myself a promise:
If I ever get the hell outta this country,
I’ll write the truth in a letter so loud it burns through their f***ing desks.


Until then, I’ll keep walking.

Head high. Soul intact.

Even if this world is a mess!


— With love,
Your pissed-off, truth-telling Granny.

The Joyero Encounter

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Navigating the spring craziness is not as easy as you might think.

Once again, the same scenario unfolds: grocery shopping interrupted by the usual suspects—ICE, spies, Jews, and a jeweler.

And there it is, the same bus, the same meeting style. This time, a JOYERO (jeweller)

What caught my eye? His handcrafted jewelry or the situation itself.?

The bus never waits at that station. Never! But this time, it did.

Was it waiting for me?

I question everything unusual, so I questioned this too.

My alert system was on instantly. What the hell is with this bus?

Then I started scanning around.

I scanned to my right and left, focusing on those in close proximity, the most urgent ones.

On the right, a British man, whom I’ll call “Right Sunshine.” His fingers, his face, and the damned smell of alcohol masked by cheap perfume.

He seemed more concerned with adjusting his hat than hiding his alcohol scent.

But okay, brother, your lifestyle is your own.


I became scared and more aware.

There are probably more of them. I scanned further.

Straight ahead, another British person with two silver flower brooches. (What do those pins symbolize in gang slang? I need to learn more about this.)

She had an immortal face, my British Pins lady—or was she even a lady? I think not.


But on the left, there he was. THE him!

The jeweler, or as he called himself, the Joyero.

To make sense of this charade, I decided to start with him.

“What beautiful rings you have!” I yelled across the bus. He smiled! I made him happy!
He wanted JOY, he had JOY! LOL

I had made a jeweler happy, though I didn’t know it at the time.

I noticed how shyly he moved to another chair to avoid eye contact. Wrong move, old boy! I can see everything! Catched you!

Then questions started swirling in my head: Who will get off at the station with me, and how will I approach them—the one with the pins, the one who smells of wine, or the jeweler?

And as if the craziness needed to escalate, at the last two bus stops, two young Latinos sat in front of me, one wearing a “Steven Madden” bag. LOL

I thought, “Fuck, this is real craziness.”

Keeping my eyes open, I got off at my usual station with the Joyero in front of me.

I caught up to him at the crosswalk; he let me catch him.

Then I understood. What the fuck! This man is a professional! But who is he, and why is he doing this?

I approached him, my backpack full of groceries and a heavy bag of potatoes in hand, and started complimenting his rings.

This time, he said he couldn’t speak English, so I began speaking in my broken Spanish.

Is someone listening to and recording my phone in real time? It seems so! Joyero was cautious!

I don’t know who he is—crazy or a spy—but he told me he is THE JEWELER -JOYERO! He told me he made his own jewelry.

And I have never seen silver rings more beautiful than his! Ever in my life! And I am passionate about silver jewelry. He said he is from El Salvador, but he looked more Chinese than Salvadorian with his large, rare grey beard.

Definitely a disguise!

Whether he was a spy, an ICE agent (playing on “ice” as jewelry), a Jew, a crazy jeweler, a member of organized crime, or part of some secret society—that man was afraid to speak English and had the most beautiful rings.

It was him, THE LORD OF THE RINGS?

Who knows!

Let your soul speak to people, and they will speak to you—as best they can, for their protection and yours.

You must know just what you need to know.

Today was about THE Jeweler! EL JOYERO!

Who were the others? I’ll think about that later.

The Ghost, the Pants, and the Purple Cane: A Spy Story (But Not Mine!)

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He never gives up, and I never give in. We’re like a bad rom-com without the romance. He wants me to follow and obey, and I’m all, “NOPE!” Spy life? Hard pass. Not for me.

But let me tell you a story. Buckle up.

For over a decade—yes, ten long years—my every move has been monitored. My house? Bugged. My roads? Tracked. My “toys”? Let’s not even go there. All this because one brilliant intelligence agent burned himself on his own stupidity. And now, apparently, I’m the lifelong fix-it project for his career oopsie.

So, the other day, I walked into a store. Did he know I’d be there? Of course. This guy probably knows what brand of toothpaste I use. His network of organized chaos was already in place, like some overly ambitious villain in a spy movie. I smiled knowingly, because what else can you do when you’re part of a show you didn’t sign up for?

Then came the restaurant. Oh, the strategy! He picked the perfect table—a spot with an empty seat nearby. Why? Because when I walked in, where else would I sit? He’s not just a spy; he’s a seating-chart genius. I mean, bravo, Ghost.

But the kicker wasn’t his table choice. It was the finger—that crooked finger—and the purple cane. I’d seen them before. No amount of spy disguises can hide hands like that. Forget the wigs and accents; the hands are the real giveaway. And just like that, I knew: The Ghost was back.

And he was wearing MY pants. MY. PANTS. Sir, if you’re going to stalk me, at least don’t raid my wardrobe!

When he finally spoke, he went full character mode: a slow-talking, aristocratic old lady with a British accent. Dementia vibes, but make it posh. MI5? I wondered. But no, he claimed he wasn’t born in the UK. Then later, he said he was. Lies. Lies everywhere.

It was like playing two truths and a lie, but all lies.
“I have kids,” he said.
“Wait, no, I don’t.”
“You caught me—I’m British.”
“Actually, scratch that. I’m Latino.”

Bro. One lie, I’ll let slide. Three? Trust gone. Evaporated.

But we talked. And oh, how his voice changed! From slow and soft, to coherent and intellectual, to downright rational. It was like watching someone change costumes mid-scene. Impressive? Sure. Suspicious? Definitely.

And me? Still not a spy. Just an innocent civilian trying to figure out how my pants ended up on a Ghost.

Then, there was the doctor’s bag, the purple cane, and the amulet. What was in that bag? Why did the cane feel like it belonged in a Bond villain’s starter pack? And the amulet—oh, I had guesses. Wild, terrifying guesses.

We talked about Argentina, and his eyes—they were Milei eyes. You know the kind: intense, like they can see into your soul and steal your secrets. While I smiled politely, my brain was spinning 10,000 scenarios. Each one worse than the last.

Then he started clueing me in, testing what was true about my life. Truth? I don’t lie. But him? He lies like it’s an Olympic sport, and he’s going for gold.

Piece by piece, I figured it out. The crooked finger? A dead giveaway. The cookies? Oh, that’s a whole story. The masks? Classic Ghost. And then it hit me: he was looking for The Mother. The Nurse.

The realization sent a shiver down my spine. I wasn’t dealing with your average spy. No, The Ghost was deep in something dirty. Spy work isn’t clean; it’s messy, twisted, and anything but normal.

I looked him in the eyes—those Milei eyes—and gave him some unsolicited advice:
“Go home. Be happy there. Your people, your land, your food, your vibes—they’re calling you. Power doesn’t matter. Freedom, peace, and a little sanity—that’s what counts.”

Who knows? If Milei rises to power, maybe I’ll dust off my U.S. license and move to Argentina. I could dance the tango. But spy life? Still a no from me.

Meet you in Argentina, Ghost. Just… stop hunting me. And seriously, no more breaking into my house.
I saw my pants on you.

And they looked terrible.

Messy Patrick – The Government’s Best-Kept Dirty Intelligence Mess

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His name was Patrick, a transgender operative with severe OCD issues. He was responsible for a government-run program involving children. Rumors swirled that he often used disguises and wore a fake nose as part of his cover. Despite his appearance, Patrick was skilled in covert operations, targeting individuals at his discretion.

One day, he approached an alien single mother and gave her his phone number, saying, “Call me if you ever need a friend to talk to.”

The next day, he contacted her, informing her that she had made a mistake at her job, neglecting one of her tasks. The woman, who was working two jobs at a state medical facility to support her family, was overwhelmed.

Over time, she realized that Patrick was broadcasting their conversations, and others—colleagues from the state medical facility—were listening in.

Rumors began to circulate that Patrick was affiliated with the Department of Justice and Border Security, using his transgender identity to covertly gather information and target people.

The woman encountered Patrick at two more of her state-related jobs, his presence like a shadow following her. She reported his behavior to various organizations, questioning his identity and the scope of his job. But no one provided any information about Patrick.

Then, one day, she found him hiding in a small chocolate bonbon store.

It all clicked for her—there was something deeply wrong with this man.

Whether he was a border agent, a Justice Department employee, or an intelligence operative no longer mattered.

His methods were as dirty as his mentality, as disturbed as his mental health, leaving destruction in his wake. The woman’s life was in danger, her personal safety compromised.

Then, the gangstalking on mass media began.

Undermining videos with millions of views surfaced.



The police refused to investigate, blackballing the woman from finding employment, and online bullying escalated. Delusions were being crafted, and all the while, the state denied the existence of a transgender man named Patrick.

https://youtu.be/MaU8InL23e8

But the phone number still exists. +1-604-367-2498

Hopefully, someone with a NORMAL mind will untangle the mess Patrick has caused.

Spreading lies and delusions in the media, putting lives in danger, and destroying people—whether you’re an organized crime, federal agent or a bureaucrat—cannot be justified.