I Battled The Mob

I am the King of the Hardboiled Detectives, and a Real James Bond.


Playing Chess With Mafia Max

Posted on February 12, 2014 by Royal Rosamond Press


O.K. I found some real juicy road trip stuff in my old posts. James Harkins was not along on this one. We are transporting what I believe to be a LSD lab across America, that the Mafia wanted on the East Coast. Tim O’Connor ‘The Hitch Hiking Poet’ slipped his biddy Max Mafia some LSD without telling him. Max wants to drive the whole way, because Killer Max is The Terminator before that movie came out. Max was on a mission from God! He was going to chill out New York, for starters.

Tim told me later Max took him into a Mafia bar in Hell’s Kitchen, and told him to keep behind him lest there is gun-play. Tim told me there were guys in that bar really afraid of Max, they thinking he is a real psycho. Now, he is coming on to LSD in the same Mountain range Rena and I would ascend three years later.

Fasten your seatbelts folks! This is the real deal!


Playing Chess for People’s Lives
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Playing Chess for People’s Lives
Part One


“For this reason, the Bardo Thodol, the Tibetan book vouchsafing
liberation from the intermediate state between life and re-birth,-
which state men call death,- has been couched in symbolical
language. It is a book which is sealed with the seven seals of
silence,- not because its knowledge would be misunderstood, and,
therefore, would tend to mislead and harm those who are unfitted to
receive it. But the time has come to break the seals of silence; for
the human race has come to the juncture where it must decide whether
to be content with the subjugation of the material world, or to
strive after the conquest of the spiritual world, by subjugating
selfish desires and transcending self-imposed limitations.”

It was probably not a good idea to give Max a goodly dose of LSD
just before we got into the station wagon and began our journey back
East, Max insisting he do most of the driving. It was Tim O’Conner
who dosed him, and before you know it, Max is in the foothills of
the Sierras pulling the car quickly to the side of the road and

“Everyone out of the car – EARTHQUAKE!”

It was about 3:00 A.M. and bit nippy as the five of us stood
shivering under the brilliant Milky Way, we patiently waiting for
Max to get his land legs. Keith let me know what Tim had done. We
had 2,700 miles to go, and I rated our chances of survivor at 6.8 on
the Rictor Ape-shit Scale. Suddenly I had a vision. I saw the
bleached bones of five hippies down at the bottom of a steep ravine,
perhaps Max swerving to hard to the right to avoid a Big Foot, or an
alien ship or being. And there would we be for eternity, carpenter
ants making a home in our boots, and birds pulling out more of our
long hair to make a new season’s nest. We were the brothers from
another planet. We were what was strange, and dangerous.

Max was born and bred in New York and was right out central casting.
He had a widow’s peek, and thick Italian hair. His pencil thin
mustache gave him that dangerous look, and after he moved into the
house on Thirteenth Street with the Loading Zone, I was leery of
him, I getting a reading that he had killed someone, perhaps more
then two. He had a black beam in his eye, and I tried to avoid him.
But now and then we would pass in the hallway, I the dude with eyes
that glowed in the dark, I but four months back from the dead, and I
knew Max was fascinated with me, having heard some things. Perhaps
he heard my freak-out far surpassed Stanley Augustus Qwsley’s on
Muir Beach, he getting on the microphone and speaking of his dead
ancestors that were appearing before him – and boring Keny Kesey
half to death!

“I thought this freak was cool?”

Max had gotten this job driving this dudes station wagon to New
York, or so he said. It was loaded down with carefully packed boxes
in the back. I didn’t buy it, and wondered if we were on a drug run.
I didn’t want to go, but Keith said I could not stay because the
Loading Zone had evicted us from their lives, cut the clinger-ons
from their scene, now that they struck a record deal.

This was the end my friend. The Summer of Love and Endless
Freeloading, was over, for Max was a made man, a lower echelon
psychedelic Mafioso, a real Soprano, who was sold our Good Times
packed in those boxes in the back. Was it a lab? Keith told me James
met Max in New York when he was their making a big LSD sale.
Earthquake my ass.

We got back in the car after we calmed Max down, and I was positive
we were going to get busted before we got to the mighty Mississip,
and thus my life would end in a penitentiary. As it was, Keith, and
his girlfriend Chris Wandel, and I were getting out in Effingham
Illinois where Keith, his brother, Brian, and James `Fat Boy’ O’Hara
got busted for marijuana a year earlier when they pulled over to
report a grassfire, which was nothing but a field-burn. For two
months these California Hippies cooled ther heels, Fat Boy O’Haha
refusing to bath in a galvainized tub that the Sheriff’s wife
brought in once a day with a couple of kettles of hot water, and
placing them in the middle of the cell. A week later, Kieth and
Brian are buring old Bull Durham tobacco bags like incense to keep
at bay Fat Boy’s stench.

There was one more court date. The British Consulate was going to
there. Fat Boy had already arrived in this small town that bragged
in writing it was in the exact middle of America. When we entered
his room around seven that morning, he was watching a T.V. station
that televised a clock, a barometer, and a American flag, the camera
panning back and forth lest the viewer got bored with the inaction.

“Hey, check this out” said Fat Boy. “I’ve been watching this station
for hours. It’s pure Dada.”

“You don’t even know what Dada is, Fat-ass. It’s probably the only
thing on.” I said, breaking my long silence.

Fat Boy and I did not get along ever since he talked me into smoking
that dried mold he baked in the oven after soaking Scotch Broom in
some evil brew for a week. After I took a couple of tokes, the snot
rolled out of my nose for two days! Fat Boy on the other hand,
whipped out seven abstract water-colors, and five funny Haiku poems.

Twenty five years later, I and Fat Boy’s brother, would catch Keith
making a big batch of Bong Water Taffey. Everyone who knew Keith
testified he was never the same after Effingham, after he breathed
in the evil vapors of Fat Boy, that strangled up his mind.

“Oh – Momma!”

So we all surrendered to Max, let our collective energy flow into
Max, and now he was a god, a road god. He could do no wrong as he
floored it, the four hundred horse power engine sucking up fuel as
we pushed our way over the mountains, and come sunrise we flew past
Winnemucca, Killer Max really letting go the reins, our aura of
protection like the fireball of a blue comet. Max was carrying a

How Keith, Chris and I managed to get to New York will be told
later. Right now let us get to the chess game I played with Max for
Keith’s life.

Emerging from the Port Authority, Keith pulled out a piece of paper
that had the address of the hotel Max was staying at, and read it

“You’re kidding me!” I exclaimed, my mind really blown now. “The
Saint George is Max’s favorite hotel? This is the hotel where you
and I lived three years ago.”

I knew the way there by heart, as I used to work in Hell’s Kitchen
at Yale Trucking when I was seventeen. When we entered the lobby I
was blown away to see that Nate still worked there. He remembered
me, and Keith. Max indeed was staying there, and Nate was asking me
if I wanted a room.

“Sure.” Keith piped in. Give us a cheap room – and put it on Max’s

Nate caught me shooting Keith a look. We were flat-ass broke. But
because I had lived here for seven months, and always paid my bill,
Nate complied, he more then likely not buying Keith’s bullshit, that
this was what Max wanted, and leaves a message for Max telling him
what room we are in.

Later that evening, Max and his dolled up girlfriend, come knocking
at our door, and are asking us if we want to go to a party in the
Village with them. I declined. Chris had gotten on the bus for
Boston so she could visit her folks, and I was alone, perhaps for
the first time in three years.

About five in the morning, Keith came in from the party, and went to
bed. An hour later there is banging on the door. It was Max. When
Keith opened the door, Max burst in and got in Keith’s face with his

“Who in the fuck do you think you are charging this room to my
account?! Who gave you fucking permission! This is my hotel. No one
fucks with my hotel. I am known here. I get respect here. No one
fucks with my respect. You got that you _ _ _ _ _ “

Keith tried to act like it was no big deal, and got back into bed.

“Don’t you fucken turn your back on me, you _ _ _ _ _ _ _ prick.”

There being no chairs, Max and his girl sat on Keith’s bed, and
after berating Keith for five minutes, he pulls out a pen and is
jabbing hard at his cheeks, all the time waving the 38 Special all
around Keith’s person as if trying to do some Voodoo with it,
somehow undo what this hippie freak had done, he fucking with some
traditional family honor, here, that Max had to uphold. But, first
he had to make Keith afraid, so he would understand, that you don’t
fuck with the Mafia, not their money, not their chicks, not their
hotels, and Max’s girl was now pleading with him to not hurt Keith,
and that’s when I got scared.

To be continued.

3) One of the mysteries is where all the “mafia LSD” in the Haight
and around the country came from during and after ’67. Wasn’t there
myself, can’t tell you, but it was in sufficient quantity that it’s
odd no chemist has yet to be connected with it, when Owsley, Scully,
Sand are all very proud of their work….was it another Prague


The Seventh Seal (Swedish: Det sjunde inseglet) is a 1957 Swedish
film directed by Ingmar Bergman about the allegorical journey of a
medieval knight (Max von Sydow) across a plague-ridden landscape.
Its best-known scene features the knight playing chess with the
personification of Death, his life resting on the outcome of the
game. Bergman stated in an interview that the film had helped him
overcome his fear of death.


Melinda Frank of LA Bohemia

Posted on June 19, 2018 by Royal Rosamond Press

I found a photograph of Melinda Frank in the University High School yearbook. She is on the left. I found Christine Presco, and Raphael Fouquet. Add Marilyn Godfrey to the mix and we have my Stable of Beautiful Women that surrounded this Artist. I have to thank Lara Roozemond for saving me yesterday. I was heading to my Old Cross I fashioned in high school. Lara reminded me how sexy and mind-altering being an artist and a artist’s model, can be. She opened up my third-eye!

After her overnight success as a world famous woman artist, Christine told me she did not feel like an artist. She asked me to help her. I was her role model. Our parents were parasites who took from us. I was the Family Giver.  I did, and I didn’t know how damn interesting I was – and sexy too! Christine would bring home these stunning young women for me to meet. She told them I was an artist. I had large empty canvases. After Marilyn and I broke up, Raphael came into the backyard on Glendon, in her bikini. She stood there as I took her in. I looked at the bow that begged to be tugged exposing her mound of Venus. I take her into my inter sanctum of the mind. She was posing for me. She wants me to see her completely naked.

I stop myself. She’s my sister’s best friend. That stopping is captured in both our minds. It is a Soul Ache. When Christine and I had our falling out, she forbid Raphael to see me. She knew with my sister out of the way………?

One day I come from my studio into the house, and there stands Melinda Frank. She is taking me in, letting me take her in. She has these beautiful freckles. She is dress like Anne Frank. She exudes intelligence. I feel her in my mind like a cook wave of brilliance. She was wearing Catholic clothes. She had gone to Catholic school in the middle of New Mexico. Her father is a Jew. She is on probation. I had to have her. She had to have me. It was an instant contract. To this day there is a reservation, a land we went to. The Land of Melinda. We almost died there. She was the Death of Me.

I took her out back to see my art. She stops before my Chicken Wire Man. She starts to sob. She has the same beautiful small contained voice that Lara has. Melinda was written up in TIME magazine for speaking sentences when she was six months old.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Look! A spider has made a tunnel right between his eyes!”

This is 1962. Melinda is sixteen. I am seventeen. Her father had her first lover, killed. His enforcers used a blowtorch on his face. I met Sky. He looked just like Jesus. He was twenty-four. Jesus and Anne Frank……The Purple Gang! I am being taken a couple of notches higher!

After she saves my life. Melinda comes from her shower wearing pink pajamas with Micky Muse all over them. Don Frank is telling me his philosophy about the Daddy Rat protecting his baby rats. Melinda puts on Bob Dylan’s album. Then lies on her stomach in the middle of the floor. I can not take my eyes off her beautiful ass. I think her father get it. I want to fuck is his daughter – real bad! I’m being put to a test. Frank has two daughters, and no son. I stood up to him. I showed real guts. He respects me, a whole lot. His wife adores me.

“You look like a young Gary Cooper!”

I want Melinda to have my baby. This is the first time I ever considered this. Ten minutes earlier I watched expose the wound in my lovers head, made when Frank gave her a ferocious yank, and she hit her head on the counter of the motel lobby, he found us in. She had hung on – for my dear life. Frank had been making calls to my family.

“When I find your son, he’s a dead man!”

“I’m not leaving without Greg!” Melinda cried, as the blood streamed down her face.

So, here it is, what is stored in a Superior Court of Monterey, the Great Fight – over me and Melinda, the True Arista, and his Femi Fatale, his Fatal Muse. This is why Christine did not feel like an artist. This is why she offered to teach me her style, so I could share in her wealth and fame. Christine would not be an artist till ten years later. She knew a Great Artist when she was sixteen. I was a Great Artist. My work was inventive and full of Mind-Drama and a Spiritual Awakening.

When Rosamond fans discovered she was not a man, they wondered if she was a Lesbian. What is this thing she has for women. They were my women. Christine adored me, but, could not be one of them. There was no incest. But, Christine lived vicariously through her friends. I was her ideal. To hide this truth with lying books and movie scripts, is the real story, which someone is wanting to steal! I feel for her as a woman who found herself in a unique place. Our true story will be told.

As I watched Melinda listening to Bob Dylan, while her parents took turns telling me The Family History, this white light grew from my stomach, then traveled to the top of my head. At seventeen I became enlightened. And there she is, lying on the floor, the unattainable Woman. The Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands. This is a Greek Tragedy! This is the Acme of L.A. Where do we go from here?

Melinda and I took it to the next level. After we broke up, she came into May Company where I sold art supplies, and said.

“Quit your job and come back up north. There’s something amazing going on.”

Two months later, I quit my job, and, quit being an artist. At eighteen, I was a Master Artist. So what? A whole universe grew from Melinda Land, and it filled with magical creative people on a journey of discovery!

Jon Presco

Copyright 2018

In 1964 at the age of seventeen I was offered a job managing an adult movie theatre on LA by my second girlfriend’s father who was the head of the Purple Gang. Melinda was very upset this offer was made, because Donald had her first lover killed. I considered taking so we could have some freedom. I did not wsnt to be virgin any longer. I really wanted to make love to Melinda for a very long time to come. She said THEY would suck me in. There would be nothing left of me, and us. https://rosamondpress.com/2011/10/27/rosemary-big-bones-remmer/

When I started dating Melinda Frank, my good friend, Bryan McLean did not approve.

“She’s a black widow. Because of her my friend Sky is dead.”

Melinda had become close with my sister Christine. She was written up in TIME magazine for speaking sentences when she was six months old. She wrote profound poetry, she influenced by her twenty four year old lover, Sky, who hung around the Beat Poets of Venice.

“What was
can never be
brought back

Killing, Raping, and Crucifying the Artists, their Lovers, and Model Message List
Reply | Delete Message #445 of 490 Killing, Raping, and Crucifying the Artists, their Lovers, and Models


“What do you want me to do – kill him?”

I spoke these words to Melinda Frank, my second girlfriend. She was sixteen
years old. She was my sister Christine’s good friend who dressed like Anne
Frank. I am sitting with her in the shrubs in front of her home where she had
gone to hide. She, Bryan Mclean, and I knew Melinda’s father had her first
lover, murdered! Donald Frank had called up my family and promised them I would
be dead by the end of the day. He had caught Melinda and I cutting school. We
made love for hours in my bed, we getting down to our underpants, and, we almost
went all the way. For this – I must die!

Thanks to Melinda I am alive! When I was in her father’s house listening to her
deranged father explain his brutal philosophy of life, that’s when I began to
leave my body. A white light came out of my chest and I felt like I was
floating. I felt that I could fly away. I felt that no harm could come to me –
in this state!

I had been looking at Melinda lying on the floor on her stomach, she completely
oblivious to what her father The Murderer was saying to me. She was reading the
jacket of a Bob Dylan album. I studied her wet hair, that not but a half hour
earlier was completely covered with blood. Blood streamed down her face in
rivulets as she held on to the door jam. Frank had hoisted his daughter on his
shoulder – his cross to bare. He had no sons. Just two daughters to carry on his
lineage. Donald and his brothers were members of the Jewish Purple gang. The
owned half of New Mexico. Why wasn’t Melnda taken to the hospital?

“I’m not leaving with Greg! Melinda cried as he yanked on her with all his
might. He was desperate to separate us so he could send his goons to kill me
like they did Sky, the beautiful twenty four year old lover of Melinda, who
looked just like Jesus. He deflowered her. Donald had Sky’s face disfigured with
a blowtorch. Bryan was Sky’s close friend, and was angry at me for dating her.
He called Melinda a Black Widow.

Melinda and I had gone to the motel in back of my house to call her grandmother
and have her wire money for her to take the bus to Texas. Earlier, sencing
something was wrong, Melinda had called home only to hear from her mother Donald
was out looking for us. The grandmother would later turn us is.

While sitting in the manager’s office waiting for a Moneygram, we heard the
front door bell sound, and the young manager got up to go to the desk. Now we
hear an angry voice and the manager is backing up into his office Donald right
there in his face, What a fucking animal.

“Where are they, cocksucker? Tell me, or I will rip your face off!”

I get up, and start walking towards Donald, whose head turns like a wild beast
to see who is in the room. He spots his daughter, and me. He comes rushing at
me, gets in my face and screams!

“C’mon, mother-fucker – hit me! I haven’t had some fun in a long time!”

There’s his sixteen year old daughter beholding her father on the verge of
killing her second boyfriend she loves. He can not be doing this for her sake!

Melinda sands up and gets between us. Donald’s eyes are black pits. There is
murder in his eyes. I do not flinch, or back down, but speak calmly to him. I
have dealt with his kind before. My own father committed insane and violent acts
of violence and derogation against members of his family – only for the reason
we were HIS family. There is an ownership issue here.

Donald grabs Melinda by the wrist and starts pulling her towards the door, but,
Melinda digs in her heals.

“C-mon, sweety! I’ve come to take you home!”

“I don’t want to got with you!”

Donald now drags her to the doorway, and when she grabs hold of the door jam he
gives her a violent tug that sends her head flying into the front desk. You
could hear the sound of her head hitting the edge. Blood begins to pour down her
face. Donald throws Melinda on his shoulder, turns to carry her out the door,
but Melinda takes hold of the door jam again.

I understand this is a struggle for my life. Melinda won, for now.
In looking at her on the floor in her pajamas, I flash back to an hour ago, and
see what really frightened me, and I was really afraid for the first time. A
very large man had come into the motel office. He was about six foot six. He was
wearing a white Stetson cowboy hat. He had an air of authority. I saw him as a
World War Two Veteran. He was appalled at what he beheld. There was blood
everywhere. He came at Donald, begging him to put the bloody girl down. Now it
is Melinda’s turn to look just like Jesus, like Sky did. Her big eyes were
pleading with the big man for help.

“This is my daughter! If you know what’s good for, you’ll back off!”

The big man stood there frozen, studying the murderous black eyes of a wild
beast. He was struggling at the very core of his soul, for he had never backed
down. Did he kill Nazi in Germany? Now……..he backed away, slowly, looking
utterly defeated, because he ascertained that Donald was carrying a gun, and had
made it clear his defence for killing the hero was to protect his underage
daughter he was rescuing from the Motel of Filth and Sin.

“The father rat has to take care of his baby rats, or, everything is chaos in
the world!”

As Donald lay his, kill or be killed, philosophy on me, I began to leave my
body, because, I was not out of danger. As long as Melinda and I were in sight
of each other, I was safe. But, how safe is that? How safe does that feel? And
then my angry brother knocked at the door. He had come to my rescue, or, so he

A week ago as I tried to fall asleep, I began to shake violently. After a half
hour I took some pain pills. I almost dialed 911 three time. I could not breath.
I was having a severe anxiety attack. In recalling things about my struggle to
have a normal and healthy sexual bond with a normal and sexually healthy woman,
I was going back and recalling why this was so hard for me. I loved Susie,
Marilyn, and Melinda so much. But, Donald gave me a very clear message; “Make
love to my daughter – and you are dead!” This 0ut of body experience would
contribute to my death on McClure’s beach

Melinda was hiding in the bushes because she was suffering from PTSD. I loved
her do deeply, and cared about her so much. I suggested I try to get along with
her father, who wanted to hire me to run a movie theatres he owned. After I was
working for him for awhile, I would ask for his daughters hand in marriage.

“I don’t want that! You don’t understand how much I hate him!”
“What do you want me to do, kill him?”

I got no reply, and knew our relationship was over. Melinda wanted a Knight in
Shining Armor to come take her away from her father.- any way he could!
As I talked abount Rena, I kept coming back to the fact she was just seventeen
years of age, and thus, underage. Rena had told me she was eghteen. I think I
was in Donald’s house to celebrate Melinda’s Sweet Seventeen Birthday.
Growing up on a ranch in New Mexico, the only school around was a small Catholic
School. The head Nun, would make Melinda huddle down in the space below her
desk, and take sharp kicks at her, telling the students;
“This is how you treat a Jew!”
Today is Ash Wendsday. Melinda was written up in Time Magazine for speaking
sentences when she was six months old. She could never utter these two word;
“Help me!”

“It may be many months after the ordeal when you feel like your life is just
getting back to normal when a heavy rain (after surviving a hurricane), hearing
a car door (after leaving an abusive spouse), or even the telephone ringing
(after a family tragedy) triggers you and your heart races, your body starts
shaking and you are literally terrified, all over again. ”
Jon Presco
Copright 2005


Defying the Boston Mafia

Posted on February 12, 2014 by Royal Rosamond Press


Above is me in 1971. I lived on Beacon Hill in this apartment building. I had unlimited guts. I took on the whole world.

In 1971 my attorney told those who refused to move out of our home on 40 Anderson Street, a four story building on Beacon Hill, to move to the top floor for our safety. I was in a legal battle with the brother-in-law of the head of Boston’s Mafia, and they were losing. This guy was a top-notch attorney. The owner of the grocery store down the street who liked me, said;

“They want their building back. They will hurt you.”

When I heard the door being kicked in on the main floor, I rushed downstairs to find the door to the old managers apartment knocked off its hinges. Then I heard the awful sound of the squatter’s three month old black lab having its throat cut. I shouted;

“Get out there!”

There was silence, and then this question;

“Are you the manager?”

“Yes! Get out!”

“You come in here!”
“We got something for you!” said the second voice.

When I refused, they came out carrying bloody knives. I stood my ground. Just them, Shaheb let out a long blast from his horn. He was on the steps with three of my neighbors. These demons folded their knives, walked passed me with smirks on their face, and were out the door. I rushed to find the puppy. I almost fainted when I saw its blood smeared on every wall. I went in search of her and found her body stuffed behind the toilet. I picked her up. She was still warm. I began to cry. I began to wipe her blood off the walls before her owners came home. When they did, I was still crying because it was my vanity, our vanity, that killed her. She was completely innocent. She didn’t have a clue about the battle for the building she lived in. She was happy. She was horrified by the cruelty inflicted on her. I will forever hear her cries.

We won our case. No one likes killers of puppies. Not ever the mob bosses. This is when Shaheb told me he was considering getting guns to fight for the building that was sold in auction to a family construction company who never made the changes they said they were. It took all the light I could muster to talk Shaheb out of a armed stand-off.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2014









About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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