I'm a long-time lurker and occasional poster here on the Roosh V Forum. I just sent out an email to Expat Chronicles newsletter subscribers, a story I'd rather not publish to the blog. I thought you guys would like it too, as it's a case of oneitis you may have never seen before.
I published this based on Roosh's word that if shit ever gets hot down here in Peru, he'll remove it. But I don't think anything will happen. Here's the story:
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You may have read about the downside of my melodramatic marriage: we fight. But that's not the only one. In fact, something worried me more than that before taking our vows. Wifey has a STALKER.
She broke up with this guy BEFORE I MOVED TO PERU in 2008, and he's still stalking her. He's got her face tattooed on his chest, and her name tattooed on his forearm.
LOSER!
He's a big fella, not as tall as me but more stout. She's seen him beat a couple guys bloody. He raises and fights pitbulls. And he's an armed security guard.
That is my wife's stalker.
Out of all the horrible stalking stories from this piece of shit, which are too horrible to tell on the web, suffice to stay he was still showing up at her house drunk and hollering her name from the street at 3 in the morning, waking up the whole neighborhood. A few times a week! She got the Peruvian equivalent of a restraining order, but he didn't stop.
I never understood why wifey's police officer father never took care of this guy, but now I do (explained later).
Anyway, The Stalker showed up at wifey's workplace in November 2011, soon after my pseudo-deportation from Colombia and we were back together. I realized I'd have to deal with this piece of shit.
When I finally got all the details of how crazy he was, and that he now knew where she works, I wasn't afraid of getting beat up. Even though he's a big fella, I have zero respect for big Peruvians or Colombians. They're all bullies, used to getting their way through pure intimidation. But they're soft. I doubt this dude has ever faced someone his own weight. If I knock him out or not, I had to set a precedent. And if he knocks me out, chances are we'd take advantage of that restraining order and get him locked up.
That was my plan. But then I realized - even if I knock him out, which is likely, the guy's clearly not stable. And he sees her image every day in the mirror via his tats. This is the kind of dude to kill us both, then himself. That's what I was worried about. Some freak show murder-suicide.
So I gave her an ultimatum back in November 2011, that I was returning to Colombia in January (2012), with or without her. I told her this because she had refused to go to the cops with the restraining order after he came by her workplace, and she refused to leave Arequipa until she finished her studies eleven months from then.
She replied to my ultimatum in a long hysterical answer. This is the last part, the only part that matters, translated from Spanish:
That same day I sent my ultimatum, unbeknownst to me, she actually went to the cops with the restraining order. The police threatened The Stalker with 3 years in jail if he bothered her again. He promised to leave her alone. He immediately stopped going to her house late at night and yelling out loud - something he'd been doing a few times a week for THREE YEARS. It seemed it was over. So I decided to stick around Arequipa until she finished her studies, then OUT to a real city.
Some six or seven months later, after we were married, wifey was walking to work one day when some black Latino grabbed her arm and aggressively asked if she was the girlfriend of the 'writer', Colin. Blacks are basically nonexistent in Arequipa, and she said he had a weird Spanish that she almost couldn't understand. This had Colombian costeño written all over it. But I didn't think it was a Colombian gov't plot or anything silly like that. The Stalker knew about me back in 2009, and he can read English. He knows about me and this blog. He knows we're together. I recognized straight away that he'd probably met some Colombian passing through Arequipa, and put him up to this stunt. So I walked wifey to work the next couple weeks, there and back costing me about 2 hours a day, hoping to run across this costeño and duly knock him the fuck out. Nothing happened.
Then one day I didn't go with her because she had to go straight to work from school. On a deserted stretch of road she passes, on the one day I didn't go, The Stalker appeared. He was drunk and drugged, and he tried to get her in a waiting taxi. A doctor at her clinic who was coincidentally passing by had to interfere. The two men almost fought as wifey escaped.
I was fuming when she told me. I had no idea how to find this guy. To this day I don't even know what he looks like. Chances are he's seen me in AQP (I stand out), but I wouldn't know him if he started talking to me.
I told wifey's old man that if he couldn't do something, I was going to go looking for The Stalker.
Now, in all the fights I've been in over the last ten years, this is how it goes:
However, wifey's old man assured me that this time he was going to handle it. He said going through the formal route was too slow. Instead, a gang of police would find him and put him in a hospital. Peruvian justice. So I sat back and did nothing.
A month passed and nothing. The Stalker never bothered her again.
Then on wifey's mother's birthday we were all drinking at her parents' place. I got drunk. A few nights prior, I had befriended a neighbor who owned a pitbull. This caused a fight with wifey. She said The Stalker is active in Arequipa's pitbull community, and I needed to stay away from people like that. She brought it up in front of the whole family, and her mother joined in admonishing me for doing such a thing (making friends with a pitbull owner). I was drunk and I got pissed. I started yelling. I'M NOT AFRAID of that big pussy, that teddy bear, that pathetic fucking loser. Where is he? Etc. It was an ugly outburst, but why the fuck are they living in fear of this guy?
When wifey and I went home I was still drunk and pissed. I announced from my personal Facebook account, to a significant number of Arequipeños, that I was looking for [The Stalker by name]. I didn't say why, I just said I was looking for him. Then I wrote and published a short blog post, mentioning The Stalker by name in the title, saying I was looking for an old friend. I was determined to find him.
While I don't fall around or slur my speech, that's the kind of thing I do when really drunk. Pretty stupid in retrospect. I deleted everything in the morning. If you subscribe by email or RSS Reader, you can probably find that post and The Stalker's real name.
After that birthday party, I interrogated wifey as to why the police hadn't done what they were supposed to do to The Stalker. And THAT is when I realized why her father had never done anything over the years. She told me that The Stalker's stepfather is a police officer of higher rank than my wife's father, making him largely untouchable in the city of Arequipa.
I heard that about two months before our trip to Colombia. Months had passed without incident. So I decided to let it drop. Continue laying low until we split town.
Then, just one week before our trip, The Stalker was spotted by wifey working security at a well-known place in Arequipa. I knew exactly where he was, but only one week remained before leaving Arequipa forever. I let it go.
I don't like small cities, and I told wifey from the beginning that I'd never live in Arequipa. It's great to visit, but not to live. But The Stalker is another compelling reason not to live in that city of one million.
Interestingly, on New Year's Eve 2011 in Camana, way before any of those events, I got all fucked up on Xanax and liquor. I was so nodded out from the pills I couldn't walk. I lost my camera and half my money. Wifey had to help me from falling all over the beach. I looked like a college freshman at his first keg party. Later wifey told me The Stalker had been in the same bar as us before going to the beach. When we left he and his chick followed us to the beach and watched. I had no idea what was going on. That was the one chance he would've had to fuck me up. But he didn't take it. Dumb ass.
THE END
------------------------------------------
In the next month I'll publish an ebook, Bogota Brothel Tours: A Brief Career in Colombia's Sex Trade. It will be free to newsletter subscribers, or a few dollars on Amazon Kindle. But subscribe to the Expat Chronicles newsletter to get it free.
PEACE!
I published this based on Roosh's word that if shit ever gets hot down here in Peru, he'll remove it. But I don't think anything will happen. Here's the story:
--------------------------------------------
You may have read about the downside of my melodramatic marriage: we fight. But that's not the only one. In fact, something worried me more than that before taking our vows. Wifey has a STALKER.
She broke up with this guy BEFORE I MOVED TO PERU in 2008, and he's still stalking her. He's got her face tattooed on his chest, and her name tattooed on his forearm.
LOSER!
He's a big fella, not as tall as me but more stout. She's seen him beat a couple guys bloody. He raises and fights pitbulls. And he's an armed security guard.
That is my wife's stalker.
Out of all the horrible stalking stories from this piece of shit, which are too horrible to tell on the web, suffice to stay he was still showing up at her house drunk and hollering her name from the street at 3 in the morning, waking up the whole neighborhood. A few times a week! She got the Peruvian equivalent of a restraining order, but he didn't stop.
I never understood why wifey's police officer father never took care of this guy, but now I do (explained later).
Anyway, The Stalker showed up at wifey's workplace in November 2011, soon after my pseudo-deportation from Colombia and we were back together. I realized I'd have to deal with this piece of shit.
When I finally got all the details of how crazy he was, and that he now knew where she works, I wasn't afraid of getting beat up. Even though he's a big fella, I have zero respect for big Peruvians or Colombians. They're all bullies, used to getting their way through pure intimidation. But they're soft. I doubt this dude has ever faced someone his own weight. If I knock him out or not, I had to set a precedent. And if he knocks me out, chances are we'd take advantage of that restraining order and get him locked up.
That was my plan. But then I realized - even if I knock him out, which is likely, the guy's clearly not stable. And he sees her image every day in the mirror via his tats. This is the kind of dude to kill us both, then himself. That's what I was worried about. Some freak show murder-suicide.
So I gave her an ultimatum back in November 2011, that I was returning to Colombia in January (2012), with or without her. I told her this because she had refused to go to the cops with the restraining order after he came by her workplace, and she refused to leave Arequipa until she finished her studies eleven months from then.
She replied to my ultimatum in a long hysterical answer. This is the last part, the only part that matters, translated from Spanish:
Quote:Quote:
I love you and want to be by your side. You made me cry. I can't be without you anymore, and if you want to go back to Bogota then you're not going alone. I'm going to be at your side always until we're old. I love you more.
That same day I sent my ultimatum, unbeknownst to me, she actually went to the cops with the restraining order. The police threatened The Stalker with 3 years in jail if he bothered her again. He promised to leave her alone. He immediately stopped going to her house late at night and yelling out loud - something he'd been doing a few times a week for THREE YEARS. It seemed it was over. So I decided to stick around Arequipa until she finished her studies, then OUT to a real city.
Some six or seven months later, after we were married, wifey was walking to work one day when some black Latino grabbed her arm and aggressively asked if she was the girlfriend of the 'writer', Colin. Blacks are basically nonexistent in Arequipa, and she said he had a weird Spanish that she almost couldn't understand. This had Colombian costeño written all over it. But I didn't think it was a Colombian gov't plot or anything silly like that. The Stalker knew about me back in 2009, and he can read English. He knows about me and this blog. He knows we're together. I recognized straight away that he'd probably met some Colombian passing through Arequipa, and put him up to this stunt. So I walked wifey to work the next couple weeks, there and back costing me about 2 hours a day, hoping to run across this costeño and duly knock him the fuck out. Nothing happened.
Then one day I didn't go with her because she had to go straight to work from school. On a deserted stretch of road she passes, on the one day I didn't go, The Stalker appeared. He was drunk and drugged, and he tried to get her in a waiting taxi. A doctor at her clinic who was coincidentally passing by had to interfere. The two men almost fought as wifey escaped.
I was fuming when she told me. I had no idea how to find this guy. To this day I don't even know what he looks like. Chances are he's seen me in AQP (I stand out), but I wouldn't know him if he started talking to me.
I told wifey's old man that if he couldn't do something, I was going to go looking for The Stalker.
Now, in all the fights I've been in over the last ten years, this is how it goes:
- I start punching.
- My opponent falls or runs away.
- If he falls, I run away.
However, wifey's old man assured me that this time he was going to handle it. He said going through the formal route was too slow. Instead, a gang of police would find him and put him in a hospital. Peruvian justice. So I sat back and did nothing.
A month passed and nothing. The Stalker never bothered her again.
Then on wifey's mother's birthday we were all drinking at her parents' place. I got drunk. A few nights prior, I had befriended a neighbor who owned a pitbull. This caused a fight with wifey. She said The Stalker is active in Arequipa's pitbull community, and I needed to stay away from people like that. She brought it up in front of the whole family, and her mother joined in admonishing me for doing such a thing (making friends with a pitbull owner). I was drunk and I got pissed. I started yelling. I'M NOT AFRAID of that big pussy, that teddy bear, that pathetic fucking loser. Where is he? Etc. It was an ugly outburst, but why the fuck are they living in fear of this guy?
When wifey and I went home I was still drunk and pissed. I announced from my personal Facebook account, to a significant number of Arequipeños, that I was looking for [The Stalker by name]. I didn't say why, I just said I was looking for him. Then I wrote and published a short blog post, mentioning The Stalker by name in the title, saying I was looking for an old friend. I was determined to find him.
While I don't fall around or slur my speech, that's the kind of thing I do when really drunk. Pretty stupid in retrospect. I deleted everything in the morning. If you subscribe by email or RSS Reader, you can probably find that post and The Stalker's real name.
After that birthday party, I interrogated wifey as to why the police hadn't done what they were supposed to do to The Stalker. And THAT is when I realized why her father had never done anything over the years. She told me that The Stalker's stepfather is a police officer of higher rank than my wife's father, making him largely untouchable in the city of Arequipa.
I heard that about two months before our trip to Colombia. Months had passed without incident. So I decided to let it drop. Continue laying low until we split town.
Then, just one week before our trip, The Stalker was spotted by wifey working security at a well-known place in Arequipa. I knew exactly where he was, but only one week remained before leaving Arequipa forever. I let it go.
I don't like small cities, and I told wifey from the beginning that I'd never live in Arequipa. It's great to visit, but not to live. But The Stalker is another compelling reason not to live in that city of one million.
Interestingly, on New Year's Eve 2011 in Camana, way before any of those events, I got all fucked up on Xanax and liquor. I was so nodded out from the pills I couldn't walk. I lost my camera and half my money. Wifey had to help me from falling all over the beach. I looked like a college freshman at his first keg party. Later wifey told me The Stalker had been in the same bar as us before going to the beach. When we left he and his chick followed us to the beach and watched. I had no idea what was going on. That was the one chance he would've had to fuck me up. But he didn't take it. Dumb ass.
THE END
------------------------------------------
In the next month I'll publish an ebook, Bogota Brothel Tours: A Brief Career in Colombia's Sex Trade. It will be free to newsletter subscribers, or a few dollars on Amazon Kindle. But subscribe to the Expat Chronicles newsletter to get it free.
PEACE!
