Mr. Hughes always follows the policeman's lawful directives, but if it comes to this...well, I just can't guarantee good behavior when Thousand Oaks hires these guys.
If I wrote a screenplay where the plot called for killer clouds of fog rolling through a park where the protagonist hid, a big, bad, tobacco company lacing cigs with a neurotoxin that messed with your lungs more than plain old tar, and the above creepiness was to set up, for lack of a better term, a "neuro-disruptor beam" aboard a satellite, that combined with the slightest shock to your senses, like a too-tart SWEET TART (www.nestleusa.com) hits the "target's" nerve endings, and...what? Your rather essential respiration stops.
How does the H-man, your Alpha Dog Sherlock, get his clues? Try the 11019 Mollerus, face carved-up from plastic surgery neighbor who worked as a Respiratory Therapist. Married to who? A guy who really knows CIA cocaine business, and he pulled-up next to me on Connecticut Avenue in our nation's capital, despite being "dead." Let's add the spygirl who took Mr. Hughes to see a Nestle propaganda film where the theme was "water," and yes, I am the Hughes, and my remark, post-screening was, "Did you notice the oil company film was saying, 'Don't worry, we'll drill and find more, whereas the Nestle short was rather socialistic'."
Nestle, your 800 number seems to end in "1971," which was the same year a Catholic priest accused me of drug abuse by saying, "Hughes, you've got needles hanging out of your arm," as with shooting-up heroin, when I hadn't even touched that marijuana stuff, and didn't drink alcohol, either.
Didn't they deliver a guy to a hospital in Houston, Texas in 1976 with needles hanging out of his arm? It was HOWARD HUGHES? Don't think so, however, I welcome you to my world of the "one hint hint." Text messages? Bridge games? Chess? Who needs it? Instead, please join me in wondering where they found a dead wino who looked like grandpa Howard.