A Letter from jail to R. Emmett Tyrrell, Jr. from Patrick Daniel Tyrrell, including War Stories Parts 1 - 7. (C) 2025. Remarkable Females.

Hello Dad.

What's new?

Did you get my email of last Saturday night?

I sent it at 12:06 a.m. on Sunday morning, rather than before midnight, so it cost 50 cents for you to open it as a result.

What's going on?

I'm doing great.

I've made a lot of really good friends--not boring friends in here.

How is your memory?

I think you should read the email I sent you last Sunday at 12:06 a.m., you have to pay the 50 cents or whatever it is to open it.

Want to hear some so-called "War Stories"?

OK, here is one, but before I tell it, I think it is a little bit too bad that such boring and unremarkable females as such have stuck around you for so long; honestly--they are such atrocious liars.

I think they have ruined your life for about the last 20 years. It's crazy. I don't think they care about you at all in any way resembling human love. They have fooled you totally, but somehow, I think you might still have love, Dad, which, as I told one of them on the phone the other night, I said:

"You hate me. You don't hate everybody. But you do hate me. And you are incapable of love," I had to tell the unremarkable, hate-filled woman on the phone that the other night because she squeaked "I love you" to me--an outright lie.

True.

They lie, and lie, and lie. I don't hate them or anyone, they operate on hate and jealousy which I don't have, but which they are often motivated by, their actions are. sometimes motivated by pure hate Dad. I have never felt any hate, which the six or so very unremarkable females who have confused you for so very long exude so much of out at the world.

They ruined your life and subjected you to unhappy decades with them, 'The Unremarkables.'

And, as for jealousy, I don't have it--Jesus took it away from me when I was three years old.

When you hear me say something, Dad, you immediately question what I say's veracity because the unremarkable ones have been working hard on you to defeat me, the person they long-ago identified as their mortal enemy because why? I worship their immortal enemy Jesus Christ? and I have done so many things that you, I guess, do not realize but that they know are more significant than anyone else ever did with however many billions of dollars some person might have had?

To 'The Unremarkables'' shock and awe, I always accomplished my seemingly impossible acts of raw power with no money whatsoever, and it so terrifies them so.

I guess they don't know I am a force for good.

As Abraham Lincoln once said, "You can fool some people sometimes, but you can't fool all the people all of the time." The unremarkable dingbats have fooled you in many ways, including making you think I am a liar, but I bet you aren't able to name one single lie I have ever told anyone this current century, or one proven delusion.

It is them who's immoral lies spew forth from their lips like a bleeding cold sore, infecting people and sometimes killing innocent bystanders who get in their way! their lie-telling-agenda of hate has killed many people I have loved.

They don't care because they despise the human race. They value only money, not human beings. I don't know how they got that way.

I'm disappointed that five or so unremarkable females, entirely unremarkable, and also incapable of anything approaching the great and reality-defying, amazing feats I have accomplished that you do not know about, Dad, pull the wool over your eyes, but they do.

They succeeded very long ago in taking you away from me. But President Lincoln was right, fooling some people is possible, especially doing it the way they have done, exerting so much effort on their unwitting hapless victim, you. They have hurt you dad.

I hate to be the one to break the news to you, Dad, but you would have been far better off with Jenniferr Grossman, the so-called 'Blonde Bombshell'. She was a normal person, Dad. She was a courageous, brave American woman, not one of these rare, evil idiots you unsuspectingly fell in with who you don't even realize it, ruined your life. Jennifer would never have treated you the way they have--she didn't have hate which they conceal from you and they badly hurt you with unbeknownst to you, because they are incapable of love. Hardly anyone I have ever met has any hate at all, but the five or so unremarkable females -- you don't know -- but they are the exception and since they surround you all the time, their highly out of the ordinary, pure, unadulterated hate, likely can go on entirely unnoticed by you indefinitely Dad, as if it was natural.

Your life would have been filled with much love and joy and happiness for the past decades, your golden years golden, your books best sellers still -- like they were when I lived at your house -- if you didn't throw Jennifer under the bus so long ago, or if you didn't later fall for the pure poppycock of such boring, unremarkable, and evil rare females you got so taken advantage of by and made unhappy because of.

It is so unusual for people to willingly choose evil, to choose the devil over God, to choose The Dark Side over the Happy Warrior, good guys of Star Wars side, to consciously choose Eternal Hell over eternal Heaven, to do so in some twisted, intentionally evil ritual or ceremony which I don't know about and I don't care to ever want to know about -- but that, I'm afraid, and I know, is what most of the handful of unremarkable and stupid women surrounding you have done, they, who lied and lied and lied, also made you forget what real love is, and made you not see how utterly unremarkable the five or six of them are; or, by contrast, how truly remarkable I, your son am, and so many women besides them are.

The Devil's greatest trick was convincing the world that he doesn't exist. And therein lies the power of unremarkable people I have described in this email, who are all most likely destined for Hell in my opinion where some of them erroneously believe The Father of Lies might reward them there if they behave "evilly enough' while they are alive. Just so you know who you are dealing with and who we are up against, Dad.

Now here are some so-called war stories for ya':

War Story #1. Super Cat Woman

In 1991 and 1992 there was a bar called The Grog and Tanker in D.C. where a band would play every Wednesday night. The Grog and Tanker did not check IDs ever and me and a group of near 100 of my friends from McLean, Virginia would go most Wednesday nights.

One night, two guys from McLean who hated each other, both named Dylan, neither of whom you ever met, Dad--they were named Dylan Olson, and another Dylan, got in a fight while the music was playing. Everybody was dancing and nobody even noticed the two 'Dylans' were engaged in vicious hand to hand combat in the middle of all the dancing teenagers--except me. I noticed, and I was friends with both of the guys named Dylan, but I couldn't do anything, so I just kept dancing around near the brawlers keeping my eye on them.

The two Dylan's scuffled down and were rolling around in the floor of the bar exchanging blows with one another when suddenly, one Dylan gained the upper hand and pulled out an enormous dagger. They were again rolling around now, the enormous metal dagger in one of the Dylan's hands who repeatedly tried to stab the other Dylan in the face with it, who held that Dylan's black leather jacket clad knife-wielding hand up, above his own face with both of his hands and with all of his strength. I kept dancing nearby watching them the whole time.

Cat was a tall, pretty, plain girl who did not wear makeup. She was from McLean. She lived over by a guy I knew named Mike Kingsbury who later died from injuries he sustained when he flipped a Mercedes car in 1993. Those two, Cat and him were neighbors off of Kirby Road near the C.I A. in McLean. She was sixteen years old, tall, thin, and idealistic. She believed in Saving Mother Earth, feminism (not militant or bull-dyke feminism or that kind of thing though), and various left-wing causes. Her and my politics differed, but we had no problem with each other, and we were friends who were often at the same places at the same times, such as on this particular Wednesday night at the Grog and Tanker, near Wisconsin Avenue.

The two Dylan's had been going at it for several minutes now and the throngs of teenagers, except me still had not noticed and were still dancing the night away, carefree, as the two Dylans from McLean rolled around amongst them, trying to kill each other.

"Pat, oh my God, what are Dylan and Dylan Olson doing?" Cat asked me. She had noticed.

"I know. They're gonna' kill each other, y'know? They have been going at it like that for quite some time," I shouted at her over the din of the rock band everyone had come to hear.

Cat's face fell stricken with absolute horror--she was a true believer in a peaceful Earth where love could conquer all. Violence was the most abhorrent of all sins to her.

"Oh my God, Pat, he has a knife! Do something! You have to do something! Stop them!" she was panicking.

"I can't," I told her, "They'll stab the fuck out of me if I try to break it up," I said shrugging my shoulders, "But you can do something about it, Cat, because you're a girl and neither of them will stab you."

Cat paused for a moment, and I could tell her brain was processing what I was saying at an accelerated speed of functioning. Suddenly her highly concerned and horrified mouth and eyes changed into a look of pure determined grit and perseverance, and she said, "OK.'

The next thing I knew, Cat from McLean had leapt on top of the two Dylans, where one of them was straddling the other one's chest, a buck knife raised, about to thrust it down into the Dylan who was lying on his back's face.

The three teenagers scrambled apart as Cat came in between the two boys.

"Oh my gosh," she yelled at them sounding shocked and disgusted by their behavior, "I have never seen such unacceptable behavior in my life. You would have killed, killed! each other! What is the world coming to?" The brave and remarkable girl named Cat asked the two Dylans.

Both guys named Dylan sat slightly apart from each other listening to Cat's lecture. They both had looks of embarrassment on their face.

That was in Washington D C, but a few years later, in 1995, I traveled down the West Coast from Eugene, Oregon to Oakland California, with a friend of mine named Gina, and went to a Grateful Dead concert at The Oakland Coliseum. Afterwards I was selling bottles of beer in the parking lot, and I ran into Cat and the Dylan not named Dylan Olson.

He had a coffee cart set up in the gravel lot there and a big grin on his face and was raking in the dollars selling hot coffee wearing the same black leather jacket as that night in D.C.

It was great to run into my friends there, and Cat looked very happy, and peaceful. So maybe she . . . . did it for love.

War Story #2 The Thug Gunman Who Shot Up Hampton Roads

In high school, I went to a keg party every single night, all over Northern Virginia, at friends' houses, or me and my friends crashed them.

One night in 1992, I was at such a party at a girl named Heather, I think it was's house, at a large house in Great Falls, Virginia, at the top of a hill.

I was sitting in a sunken living room there, playing chess with a friend of mine named Dempsey.

Dempsey had brought some of his friends who no one else there knew except him.

As Dempsey and I were playing chess, and I was drinking beer, all of a sudden, I hear from behind my back, a gruff voice goes, "I am going to blow this little Jew's head off!"

I looked back and it was one of Dempsey's friends who no one else there knew. He was a thug, and he had the most expensive looking handgun I had ever seen pointed directly at a Langley High School kid with short red hair. The thug used his other large forearm to hold the kid in a tight headlock, and the kid was screaming.

"I think I better do something," I told my chess partner friend named Dempsey.

"No, no please no, no please don't," Dempsey begged me before diving behind a couch that was there.

The thug's gun was silver in color, and had a very long barrel on it, it looked like it held six bullets, and it was shiny.

"Yeah, I think I better," I said.

I jumped up from the chess table in the sunken living room and stepped quickly into the area in front of the front entrance to the house where at least one murder was about to take place if I didn't. There was a circular staircase and a banister there and two hallways adjoined leading to different sections of the house.

I got in the thug gunman's face, and I said to him:

"Hey, we don't do that around here," I said, "You need to get your priorities straight," I told him, "And that guy's not even Jewish, he's Scottish."

"That true!?" The thug barked, squeezing the Langley High School kid's head a little more.

"Yesss!" The kid shrieked, "Scottish!!!! Not Jewish!!!!!!"

The thug released his grip, and the kid (who might have been named Tavis Ross) stumbled headlong and ran out the front door coughing and choking.

Everyone ran out the front door. They ran out the front door, down the grass hill in front of the large Great Falls, Virginia house, got in their cars and drove away while I continued to confront the thug gunman.

Finally, it was just him and me, standing in the front door of the house, his large gun still held in his enormous hand.

"Define the word Delta," he asked me.

"Delta? It's a word in the English dictionary; it means the mouth of a river. It is also what it says on my toilet at home when I face the toilet, and I take a leak."

The thug gunman laughed heartily about that.

"Hey, your gun is so cool," I told him, "Let's see what it can do. Why don't you shoot that empty white car down there at the bottom of the hill," I suggested.

The reason I said that to him, Dad, is because at this time every night on the local TV news, in the D.C. area, they would run stories about something called a "ballistics test," and it sounded to me like law enforcement was taking spent bullets and studying the ridges or scratches on the bullets and they were able to match those ridges or scratches to the ridges or scratches on the inside of a barrel of an individual firearm and determine which gun fired the bullet and thus catch a perpetrator of a gun crime. I didn't know the ballistics test was only admissible in court in one state out of 50, Maryland. And later it became inadmissible in Maryland also. I wanted him to leave a fired bullet at the scene so police could do the ballistics test on the bullet and trace it to his gun.

The thug was reluctant to do it at first as we stood outside all alone on the brick platform in front of the large Virginia brick house that had two white circular pillars supporting a balcony above its front door there. It took some persuading but finally the thug aimed the long barrel of his pistol downhill, pointed it at the car, and pulled the trigger.

To my surprise, on impact, when his shot hit the empty white car at the bottom of the hill, parked in front of the house, the bullet exploded, and rather than making a circular hole in the side of the car, it opened what more resembled a crater on the moon in the white car.

For a few months in 1992, which this was, both exploding bullets and armor-piercing bullets were legal. Senator John McCain sponsored a bill a few months later to ban them which was passed.

After discharging what amounted to be artillery in the suburbs with his long pistol, the thug appeared to get scared, and he bounded away, still clutching his firearm. He ran around the side of the house, leapt over a white picket fence and disappeared into the night in residential, suburban Great Falls, Virginia. I was the only one left at the house.

Within a few minutes, a remarkable female friend of mine, Alicia LaSioux, required her boyfriend, Rob Bernstein, to return to the Great Falls house and pick me up, which was quite remarkable of her and miraculous. A car containing Alicia and Rob cruised into the cull de sac there, which a third person was driving. I jumped in the back and got out of there, thanks to her.

Needless to say, I was the talk of Langley High School the following Monday where I did not attend.

I attended a different high school.

The thug gunman in the coming days shot up a house party down South, in Hampton Roads, Virginia.

At that party, there was a famous basketball player named Antwon somebody, who had just been drafted by the NBA who was in attendance. People were shot at that party. that one made the newspapers unlike the Great Falls, Virginia incident I stopped which Fairfax County Police and whomever else made the decision decided to cover up and not publicize.

About eight years later, on May 20th, 2000, I was at a bar that is now out of business, near Tyson's Corner and lots of people were there including General Colin Powell, in person, and Senator John McCain on the phone.

General Powell said what I did was more impressive because I had no training. General Powell did criticize me, however, for having the thug gunman discharge his firearm into the empty white car, because, he said, I could have been wrong about the car being empty. We do know that it was an empty car now though because I talked to the owners of it one day at McDonald's in McLean later. They had had it fixed and repaired, and they had affixed bumper stickers that looked like bullet holes on the body of the car to commemorate the incident.

I discussed it with Senator McCain on the phone from the bar the same night. I had met the Senator from Arizona several times before that and would at least one more time after that before he died of a brain disease.

Senator McCain later had Danny Boy played at his funeral in Washington D.C.

I told you about that incident right after it happened, Dad, but you were adamant that I lie about such things, so I decided to let it go and not convince you.

War Story #3 Martha Stewart -- Another Remarkable American Woman

It was 2002, and a biotechnology stock named IMmugene, or ImClone, I'll just call it IMmugene for the purposes of this story had finished Phase II drug trials of its main pipeline drug, and the FDA would either approve the drug to go into Phase III trials that afternoon, or cancel the drug. The decision, yes or no, might move the stock price of IMmugene up or down 50% once the FDA announced its decision.

The Internet was all anonymous in 2002, and I was monitoring a finance message board about IMmugene company because I was thinking about making a bet one way or the other.

I ascertained from the various message board posters' comments that one message board poster was likely a top executive of IMmugene. I also knew that Martha Stewart, the television personality, and CEO of Martha Stewart Living was a major shareholder of IMmugene. I further ascertained that the IMmugene executive I had identified as such was a nincompoop blabbermouth and asinine fool, so I decided to have a little fun with him.

"As soon as you know the FDA's decision, let Martha know," I told him anonymously on the board, "I want Martha to be informed. Don't cut her out of the loop."

"You got it," replied the man I had correctly identified as an insider executive at the company.

In fact, it was none other than Sam Waxall, one of the stupidest men alive on the planet, and also, somehow the CEO of the biotechnology company I'm referring to as IMmugene (but it may have been called IMClone or something else).

So, an hour or two later, Waxall comes back on the finance message board, and he types, "I did it. You'll be happy to know that Martha's been alerted. Martha's been informed."

It was clear from his message and subsequent ones that Waxall thought it was quite funny, the whole thing.

An hour or two after that, The FDA announced their decision. The biotechnology company's Phase II drug was not being approved for Phase III, it was the end of the line for the drug, and IMmugene or whatever Sam Waxall's company was referred to as' stock cratered 43% that afternoon if my memory is correct before the stock market closed at 4:00.

A few days later, I turned on my TV and both Martha Stewart and Sam Waxall were being led out of their homes in handcuffs by the F.B I.

Remarkable woman entrepreneur, Martha Stewart would serve several months in prison. The reason? She had the misfortune to answer a surprise telephone call from Sam Waxall, the absurd CEO of a now defunct biotechnology company, who apparently follows orders from anyone and everyone who talks to him on public internet message boards. He called Martha Stewart out of the blue and advised her to ditch her stock in his company an hour before it dropped about 43% due to the FDA's decision going public an hour after he called her. Waxall was sent to prison also, but he has popped up on CNBC in the mornings again recently-why, I do not know.

War Story #4 Popeye, Aardvark, Franco, and Jackoff

It was late September 1991. I was a junior in high school and The Grateful Dead were playing concerts at the old Boston Garden, up in Boston Massachusetts Friday, Saturday, and maybe Sunday. I interested Ryan C., the owner of a bright orange 1970 Ford Mustang to go on a road trip there, and my friend Holmes was coming also. Holmes was a very popular homeless teenager; he was one of my best friends and he and I went on lots of road trips together. The Guns N' Roses dual cassette album Use Your Illusions I and II had just been released and we had that stuck in the tape deck the whole way as we drove up to Boston. I drove the whole way up.

I don't remember how many hours it is up to Boston, from McLean, Virginia, what is it eight, ten hours? But we got there late at night on a Friday night. The Friday night Grateful Dead concert had just let out.

The 1990s hippies were all milling about in the street under the green painted overpass that went over the Old Boston Garden. We didn't have a place to stay, and our plan was, although we didn't generally pick up hitchhikers, our plan was to pick up hitchhikers and drive them to where they were sleeping, and sleep at that house. None of the three of us had ever been to Massachusetts before, much less to Boston.

Four tall, white hippies with brown dreadlocks on their heads and unwashed hippy clothes who were in their late twenties or thirties were looking for a ride to the house of one of their friends they said. They said it was cool if we crashed out there on couches or whatnot. So it was a deal.

The four of them piled into the backseat of Ryan's 1970 orange Mustang reeking of Patchouli oil.

"I"m Aardvark."

"I'm Popeye."

"I'm Franco."

"And I'm Jackoff."

They said as I followed their directions onto the highway and eventually to the destination, which was Grey Beach, Massachusetts on Cape Cod, which is about an hour north of Boston if I am not mistaken.

I pulled up at a spacious white large-roomed house near a rocky beach on a bay. It was probably around 11:30 p.m. I parked the car, and we went inside. The owner of the house was a clean-cut shoe salesman with short black hair who had lived on Cape Cod his whole life, he was about twenty years old.

Well, I had just drove there from McLean, Virginia, and I was wiped out. So I collapsed in a big leather arm chair and fell immediately to sleep.

When I woke up there was music playing, the sun had come out, and several beautiful college girls, remarkable for their beauty and All-Americaness, seemed to be floating about the house from big room to big room, wearing frilly flower-decorated grey background dresses and whatnot. They said they went to Yale, and they were surprised to learn I was in high school. People were making coffee and frying eggs. Ryan was standing nearby, but there was no sign of my friend, Holmes. Holmes was missing.

Soon there was a knock at the door, a bald police man wearing a suit stood in the doorway, I think he had a mustache.

"Hello, do you have a friend named Holmes?'' He asked in a thick Boston area accent.

"Why, yes, I know Holmes," I stated, "Where is he?"

"Well, that's the thing you see. I need to ask you some questions about your friend Holmes. Holmes winded up at the hospital last night, and he is in in big trouble, he's been detained until further review and I hope you can maybe agree to shed some light on the situation."

I took the detective's card and promised I would call him later.

I found Ryan standing by the kitchen starring at the back off his hands. "My hands are melting, but its cool," said Ryan.

"Give me your keys, I need to get something out of your car," I told him.

Ryan handed me the keys to the '70 Mustang with the 5.0 engine.

"What the hell did you guys do last night,' I asked, ' Holmes is in the hospital and I am going to go get him out."

I described the situation some more to Ryan and Ryan made it clear that he was in favor of leaving my friend Holmes up in Massachusetts when we drove back to Virginia.

"Fuck that, I'm leaving you here then Ryan," and I went out and started his car and waited for him to get scared and join me which he soon did, like I knew he would.

The detective had told me which direction to head once I pulled onto the highway to get to the hospital, and once I did, I just looked for those blue and white signs with an 'H' on them to lead me to the hospital.

The hospital was maybe twenty minutes away. It was a massive hospital. When I parked in the hospital parking lot, Ryan indicated he was staying in the car, but I held on to his keys, and I went inside the hospital lobby.

I asked the front desk what room Holmes was in. The woman said she could not tell me that. She said he was under police observation and could have no visitors. But eventually I got her to tell me he was on the third floor, in room 311, I think it was.

I thanked her and went around a corner and down a hallway.

I was 17 years old and my hair was long.

A young guy who was nevertheless older than me was coming at me from the other direction of the hospital corridor, and I approached him. It was apparent from his apparel that he worked there.

I said to him, "Hey! I'll give you twenty dollars to borrow your clipboard and your smock for a few minutes."

I thought it was going to take some persuading, but no, I was in luck.

The man agreed right away. I slipped into the restroom and adorned his white smock and carried his clipboard with me.

I got on the elevator, rode it to the third floor, practicing a Boston accent under my breath the whole time, and I approached the room number the woman at the front desk had told me my friend Holmes was in.

As I entered Holmes' room, the first thing I noticed is there were about six uniformed Cape Cod police officers surrounding Holmes' bed.

In my best Boston accent, I announced, "Yeah? Is this Holmes? Well, the doctor says it's time for him to go now."

Holmes was so surprised to see me, Dad, he almost gave us away, but I non-verbally told him not to do that with my face.

"Up, put your shoes on," a Cape Cod police officer snapped.

Holmes shoes were soon on, and he and I marched down the hall, took the elevator to the ground floor, quickly exited the lobby, and I threw the white hospital smock and the medical clipboard in a trashcan on my way out.

Ryan was waiting in the car and began complaining immediately when he saw us, as we were rejoicing.

The clouds were pink, and I revved the 5.0 engine and drove us to the Old Boston Garden, where the Grateful Dead played their classic 1991 Boston show which has been released as an album and is known as a classic Grateful Dead show. We didn't have tickets, so Holmes and I just drank beer outside and Holmes beat Ryan up a little bit for trying to abandon Holmes in the awful Massachusetts legal institutional penal system, which would have truly sucked, and from which he might never have escaped. Holmes didn't have any identification so once we left the hospital, he was safe.

What had happened the night before was the four scummy hippies, Aardvark, Popeye, Franco, and Jackoff, had spiked my friend Holmes' drink with some drug called California Windowpanes. Holmes didn't know how to swim and the four evil racists (Holmes is black), they led Holmes into knee deep water in the bay on Grey Beach, Massachusetts, and Holmes was scared and hallucinating from the California's Windowpanes they had drugged him with. My friends Holmes was screaming, and possibly he was about to drown, and the four hate-filled evil doer hippies were laughing at him from the shore the whole time. All the yelling attracted an ambulance which picked up my friend Holmes and took him to the hospital where his stomach was pumped with charcoal, and other awfulness happened to him.

Thank God I busted him out, huh Dad?

Another interesting take-home event happened on the way back to McLean.

Early Sunday morning, after I had passed by Philadelphia and was bearing down on Baltimore, I was on interstate 95 most likely, and a Maryland State trooper in a black and yellow car started to pull me over. The front of the 1970 Mustang is a bench, not seats. So, I pulled the car over and as the Maryland State Trooper was walking up to the car, I dove over Ryan who was seated to the right of me riding shotgun, and I shoved him behind the wheel where he bumped up against the driver's side door. the Maryland State Trooper opened up the driver side door, and Ryan spilled out onto the ground.

"I seem to have fallen out of my vehicle, officer," said Ryan.

The cop gave Ryan the speeding ticket. And for several months the guy would call me regularly asking me to pay his ticket, but I never did.

You know what is also amazing Dad? -- to this day I have never got a speeding ticket worth any points that have stuck on my license, ever, although I have probably beat a dozen such tickets in court in various states all across America.

War Stories Parts 5 - 7 (Excerpted from a letter to a true American Original friend of mine named J. J. Johnston).

War Story #7, Chasing the Yellow Ford Mustang Out of Georgetown in Washington D.C. at 2:15 in the a.m. one night listening to "Ëye of the Tiger" by the rock band, Great White [Now @ https://RockNRollConcerts.com]

(C) 2025 RockNRollCOncerts.com and Patrick Tyrrell.