They will have receipts

I know the scene, from one of my favorite movies. Andy Dufresne telling the warden about receipts and paycheck stubs.

Twenty years into his captivity, Andy remembered that he was innocent. And hope, hope is a dangerous thing.

It’s also a beautiful thing. Hope can make a disabled man walk across the desert and climb mountains, just to see how wide the world really is.

Hope will lead a man to expose his own soul. This story started as my confession of my own suicide attempt- a story that hurt me then and I know it is not true now. My hope for the salvation of my soul predicated my journey across the world and to the depths of hell and back.

I’ve barely let myself sleep, so we’ll add a bit of induced psychosis to list of reasons no one might believe me. I know how Andy felt that moment, and I can tell you that Tim played the moment spot on. The look in his eye, paycheck stubs!

There is nothing I know now that I didn’t know the moment I woke up from my coma, and within days my memory was being attacked. I did the only thing I could to survive, I lied and kept all of this, buried deep, deep down inside. The smallest flame still alive, I could not let the wind blow it out. Everybody lies (thanks Dr. House,) that is no surprise, the good questions are always about the reasons they lie, what do they mean?

I wrote my debriefs then, I even let them tell me to change my timestamps. Ever have that feeling when you’re confused in a new social situation and you don’t know what to do so you just play along until you figure it out?

I woke up and everyone just kept telling me I was dead. The story I heard on the news was apathetic, just another swooper with a too low turn. No pity, no mercy, no one rushed to set up a fund, just prayers for my family and my very young son.

Where was my story, my great tragedy? A father, a politician and a skydive instructor, mercilessly given the #DirtyDownWinder. As I gave my inside perfect student to my Instructor, a position of intimate trust. Where is my tale of woe? Where is the world to cry at the end of this movie script?

For the prosecutor, I’ve now done as much as I can. The case will be easy, one simple question.

How much gas was in his car?

The day, whatever day it was that he was at the incident scene- even if it was days before, how much gas was in your car?

Even a full tank of gas could not take him to NC, somewhere, somewhere he had to fill up.

Okay, this is good, I know where I am.

I’m locked in a cell and I have dug a big hole in my wall, we’ll call it this website that you’re reading now.

See my hole had a hero in it too, one that I did not know.

The hero was a smart man, with very small and sharp tool.

The hero was a boxer, that carried the reminders from every blow that had ever laid him down.

The hero was mangod, forced to carry his cross to an execution, his own voluntary sacrifice.

My hero came from many places: so many different times, so many images, so many stories that have always been told.

And they are all true.  The stories of our humanity.

I am human.

It’s time for my sewer pipe, or maybe this was the end after all?

I’ve cried almost every day this week, I wake up sweaty and in a panic, this morning was the worse.

Startled awake after just a few hours rest, full blown terror the moment I woke up. I didn’t even need to read what I wrote last night, I have already lived every word. In a moment, I read my book again, from cover to cover and I know that it is true.

Today, I am strong enough to write this letter, after my character laid down his life for me again last night. Today, I will be brave and do for him what he keeps trying to do for me. I believe I am real person too.

This is my cover letter, I won’t be able to write another one.

Dear Sheriff Grady Judd,

On Janaury 8, 2022 I was murdered by aka Shaggio Rodriguez, I’ve included a photo and he lives and works at 8067 Cady Road, Jackson Michigan, 49201. I do not know his real name, he uses this alias for all interactions. The photo I attached to the left shows his “guilty” face as he tried to use that selfie to establish a false alibi.

This crime was covered up by everyone there that knew.

I submit to you my website, my only ounce of proof, available at

This is my story. I know you might not believe it at first- I didn’t either for some parts of it.

I implore you to reach out to your brother, Sherrif Gary Schuette; as he personally knows me.

The man did murder me and did also try to kill me.

I believe he acted with premeditation, thirty minutes of intentionally bad training to brainwash me into flying a #DirtyDownWinder.

I believe he tried to kill me because my then recent political appointment would give credence to my words concerning federal cloud clearance limitations: a promise I made directly to him, eye to eye. I threatened to interrupt his entire operation. This after two years of him and I not getting along well and him knowing I am a man of my word. Literally, I am now a man left with nothing but my words.

I am a victim of a political assignation and the conspiracy to cover it up.

I discovered this with my internal sense of calm and patience, and deep, deep contemplation.

The man aka Shaggio then led a gaslighting campaign, brainwashing my own sons and every friend I had, many people that were at the scene that day and for nearly the last eighteen months of my life led a secret plot to try to convince me that I’d actually tried to take my own life that day, as without his presence and his actions there was no other logical explanation to my actions that day.

As a result of his actions and choices, I have partially lost the ability to use my left arm and leg, I have severe constant pain from an incomplete spinal cord injury and the destruction of my pelvis; it is difficult for me to walk or do almost anything in life with true joy anymore. Anything except typing, I can still find a comfy spot, and sit and type for hours, hours on end.

I hope your office has enough staff to read my writing on this topic.

Most importantly here is my accusation and here is his confession, and my dissection of it.

I prayed for my murderer this morning, it brought me great calm.

I wish mercy for his mind, as to induce a TBI in another person is unconscionable.

Please, once incarcerated, send me his address:

I wish to deliver a gift to him, my third book, a story of exactly how this happened to him.

I do not wish for him to doubt reality.

This is my last page, I am a walking miracle and I am not done.

It is now time for me to write better stories, much better stories to come; please contact me, and I will add as many details to this one as you need to be convinced.

Thank you,

With much love, hope, and faith,

Jeromy Alexander


817 Cooper Street
Jackson, Michigan

PS. I recently had a birthday, please help share this link:

Time to go.



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