Tell me what you think of this please. Thanks
WARNING: This book was not written for you.
It was written for a judge.
A specific one.
Local.
Sitting on the bench with jurisdiction over what you're about to read.
You just picked it up first.
If you're an attorney or a psychologist — buckle up.
When you're done, pass it up the chain to a judge.
It was written as a last-ditch effort to land hard in the right hands.
It will probably land in the wrong hands first.
Doesn't matter.
Either way, it lands hard.
That's what the truth does.
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This isn't an act.
This is how I think.
This is who I am.
If you consider yourself a human being who chooses the moral high ground of "victim" over facing liars and thieves in public — put the book down.
It's not for you.
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Now that we've eliminated the truest liars and the real fakes from the jury pool, the rest of you qualify as real people and are hereby summoned.
All colors, shapes, sizes, faiths, alignments, groups, adults — welcome to sit in this very special and rare jury box.
Special because this court has issued a new mandate, expanding its capacity to seat an unlimited panel.
In an unprecedented departure from the normal, all prior disqualifications are stayed—calling even convicted criminals to serve as jurors in these proceedings.
And that's just the first adjustment.
The structural changes to the power dynamic is something else entirely.
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This judge has granted each juror a power never seen in any courtroom before today.
The power to pause proceedings, rewind, and replay live testimony.
To call a court recess at leisure.
Even to discuss the proceedings freely outside this courtroom and nominate additional jurors onto the panel at their own discretion.
The judge in this case is so wise, he has also granted you the power to excuse yourself entirely — on account of the intense graphic scenes and the high potential for sensitive groups who require sugar-coated lullabies to process reality, and their wives to lay out their clothes and pick their breakfast cereal.
You were warned above.
If you failed to self-disqualify then, the exit is still open.
Take it.
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The only disqualifier not listed above is the child molester — this court revokes your civil rights permanently and rules you shouldn't be reading anything, anywhere.
This court compels you to honor yourself and dispatch your transport to the Judge with discretionary jurisdiction.
The Judge with the power to remove certain receptor thresholds that trigger ceiling events in the biological hardware that cause protective shutdowns commonly known as fainting or shock.
The only Judge a pathogen could petition to have their sentence commuted to decreation.
---
Now that the innocent sensitivesistsss and the purely evil bodies have removed themselves to a safe distance — these proceedings will continue.
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If you haven't figured out by now, the rules have been adjusted to fit the special circumstances of the unconventional nature surrounding the moral, criminal, and ethical violations of the defendants in their professional careers who are involved in this case — mixing business with pleasure, extortion, property damage, welching, cheating, lying, theft and other acts involved where, if the defendants are found guilty, they are liable for Material Breach, Fundamental Breach, and Anticipatory Repudiation regarding the Implied Warranty of Merchantability and Implied Warranty of Fitness for a Particular Purpose, creating a total Failure of Consideration further compounded by Professional Malpractice, Breach of Fiduciary Duty, Gross Negligence, Negligent Misrepresentation, Fraudulent Inducement, Extrinsic Fraud, and Tortious Interference with Business Relations.
---
Here's the only good news in this courtroom — I'm in it.
And I'm more than just the star witness.
I'm also a defendant and his attorney.
The prosecutor.
The judge.
Separate expert witnesses for both sides.
A defendant who serves the prosecution, testifies against himself, pleads innocent, acts as his own counsel, and takes a polygraph to prove everything in this book is true.
---
As an American, I've been summoned for jury duty three times.
Loopholed my way out twice — one was hooky, one was legit.
The third time I actually showed up to the courthouse early, hoping to land on the jury just for the experience.
So if I reap what I sow, more than half of you will land on my jury.
The real jury.
The inverted mirror of the fallen angels who followed the serpent down to Earth to witness the fall of man — no thanks to the woman — preceded only by the origin of sin itself.
Pride.
Something that showed up before the garden had locked gates and security guards.
My honest guess is two thirds are already seated.
My math assumes and accounts for Grace — offered to a hundred percent of us by the Truth Himself.
In contrast, scriptures quote Jesus Himself naming what's working against that math: the principalities of darkness and rulers of evil in this world.
So I optimistically land at fifty percent and call it generous — considering I'm standing in the grey area of civil duty compliance myself.
---
I dodged jury duty twice out of three summons.
Legally compliant two-thirds of the time.
As patterns go, I was progressing conservatively — not away from compliance, but toward it.
Read that backwards and you get digression; a cryptic implication I denied before shifting the blame to Delilah.
---
Samson was a drunken, fornicating murderer.
Overpowered and captured by his enemies after he shared the secret of his strength with a woman who betrayed him.
They bound him in chains, gouged out his eyes, and put him on display to be mocked and spit on.
In his final moments God restored his strength at the perfect time — and he destroyed more of his enemies in his death than he ever did in his life.
Nobody said Samson went to heaven.
He went out like a fucking G though.
Just like the Judge Who will be there the day you die.
The Truth always shows up in the end.
That's not motivational poster wisdom — that's just the oldest pattern in recorded history.
Unlike many popular preachers' omissions — the numbers don't lie.
And that's scriptural.
Hung jury predicted.
---
How do I know?
I'm the contractor who built the courtroom you've been standing in since the second you opened this book.
So before you get comfortable let's get sworn in official starting with me.
I Michael James Nelson hereby solemnly swear the following is a 100% true account of exactly what happened — at ground level, with real people, their real names, through my own eyes.
No fiction.
No embellishment.
---
I use a technique psychologists call context reinduction — the phenomenon where environment, memory, and identity collapse back into each other without permission.
You know it as revertigo.
When you run into someone from ten years ago and thirty seconds later you're standing different, talking different, using words you buried with that chapter of your life — slipped right back in like they never left.
That's revertigo.
I use a proprietary version called the controlled isolation specialized focus edition.
Every chapter of this book was written from inside the emotional state of the events being described — not from the safe distance of hindsight. Relived in ultra-high-definition—from the driver's seat. From childhood to now—not agreed—owned.
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This book equates to an American-Kamikaze version of Samson standing between the pillars of the Philistine temple — on display for his enemies, mocked, spat on, broken in chains.
Internally blinded by the enemy of his soul.
Stripped of his strength, betrayed by a malevolent modern Delilah.
Backstabbed and humiliated as a slave by all three unrelated enemies named in these pages.
Literally.
Blind with fury, praying for God to return his strength for one last suicide mission to destroy his enemies with one devastating final event.
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My words are hand crafted in fire like a double edged blade.
Built to cut both ways — and I lean into the edge that finds me.
I don't avoid or soften my role.
It's built on transparent objective truth from the only accurate vantage point that exists.
My perspective.
My words.
---
The chains that bound me just snapped like toothpick zip ties.
Positioned between the pillars, I can feel the cold stone of finality beneath my palms.
This whole fucking place is coming down.
Every enemy crushed.
Every scheme dismantled.
Every structure built on their lies is being destroyed — not just by my hands, but by a force that is fundamentally, undeniably, the most Powerful in existence.
The Truth.
---
War heroes run directly through my bloodline.
Dying as a martyr is probably my only shot at the pearly gates — the ultimate loophole.
The ultimate pardon for a life where many years were lived in unrepentant sin by a man who exploited every one he could find.
So judge away, Your Honor.
Jury take notes.
If you can read these pages and hate me less than I hate myself — you are more than I'll ever be.
---
I went from rags to riches the honest way.
Faked it until I made it in the blue-collar world.
Literally hacked my way into an honest life.
An imposter — transplanted from the Mack-Town That Never Backs-Down—Sacramentality of the Capital of Kings — with nothing but a backpack, a drinking problem, and a black-belt in Google-Fu — I cracked the #1 search result for "Concrete Contractor" in tech-heavy Seattle before even owning a work truck.
Then poured the mud until the concrete and calluses made it real.
I became someone authentic.
Respected and trusted.
Built fast too.
Like Superman on steroids.
---
Doubled annual revenue consistently — right out of the gate — a million by my fourth year, like too much was my middle name.
Brand new fleet of trucks, skid steers, excavators, hydraulic dump trailers — all stored in my 3,800 square foot shop or parked in rows in front of the guest house on my 1.3 acre compound where my house was the centerpiece — nicknamed the Lion's Den.
Where I lived and rested to work.
In love with a perfect ten woman named Shari— standing firm by my side.
Head clear.
Centered.
Happy.
As content as never satisfied can possibly be.
---
Strong across the board on all levels.
Mentally sharp.
Loaded with cash.
Immaculate shape.
Solid routine.
Unlimited workflow.
Undeniable reputation.
My woman.
My customers.
My crew surrounded me daily — the dream social life, and every person in it earned their place.
Pure abundance.
Truly blessed.
Rightfully earned.
Loved and enjoyed every minute.
Every day.
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I was at a point in my life where I'd gone multiple years without telling so much as a white lie — before I realized the cruelest lie of all.
That honesty protects you.
It doesn't.
It just makes you easier to rob.
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What you're holding is a furious man's account of exactly what happened.
Clinical.
Brutal.
Polygraph-verified.
Legally protected under Washington State's Anti-SLAPP statute.
I have nothing to hide and nothing to lose.
That mathematical certainty is about to drop hard on:
The Ready-Mix Serpent — Kyle Hasu. Cadman.
The She-Wolf Predator — Bianca Allen. Magnolia CPA.
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They will try to stop this.
Anti-SLAPP laws were built for exactly that move.
So they can go fuck themselves.
This public record is the counterpunch they never saw coming.
Taking wagers on who files first — email wagers to cyberstelth@gmail.com
They can thank themselves for what they created.
A maniac reborn with loose screws.
Screws I had anchored down solid in reinforced concrete, screws loosened foolishly by malevolent outside hands.
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This isn't a redemption story.
There is no hero here.
And despite how the courts will try to paint me — there is no victim here.
Just a man who got ambushed by a couple of white-collar parasites.
Politically incorrect, furiously split, morally contradicted — someone who built the American Dream only to have it stolen by a corporate snake and an accountant whore.
They inadvertently resurrected something that was dead and buried beneath slabs of concrete years ago.
Now it's out for blood without reservation, armed with nothing but the truth and the audacity to publish it.
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I'm not going out as the victim.
Simple as that.
Whether this ends in the courts or through other creative means — this story does not end with me on the losing side.
That is not a threat.
It's a warning, a promise, and a prophecy.
Life is too short to lie.
No Shame.
No Gain.
---
BE WARNED
I'm unfiltered.
This is uncensored.
Professionally unedited.
I think the unthinkable.
Do the undoable.
Say the unsayable.
You were warned.
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"In the end," she once told me, "you always end up back where you started."
"That might be the way it ends in your story."
"Won't be mine."
Then she made it mine.
Bitch.