Hi John,
Can you post this on your site to
help this man? I personally know him and can verify that what he said took
place did indeed take place.
Christopher
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The first thing I want to tell
you is by the time you read this letter or soon thereafter, I will be dead. So
I guess there's no harm in telling you who I am. My name is Ron Hatton, and I
am a very tired, very beaten, yet very accomplished man. But I will soon be
dead, along with all I had hoped to build with my life.
I
have already made all the arrangements. I am going to set to sea on a raft (earned by my recent labors), with only
some fruit and some water to see that I have the strength to carry out my final
journey.
“Why
am I doing this?” you might well ask. That question is a complicated one to
answer, and as I have shared so much love in my life, and there are so many who
care for me, I thought it only appropriate to send out this letter. It is made
easier as no one knows exactly where I am, and no one will be able to find me
before I set sail on December 31st. To be carried far out into the
Pacific Ocean before death comes to claim me.
I
am a man who has seen many terrible things in my life, though precious few by
nature. The greatest crimes committed by men who had legal protection, whether
it be in the form of the legal fiction of a corporation or from behind the
safety of a badge.
Since
I moved to Hamilton, Montana in July of 2012, I have been victim of them all.
To get only a fair inkling of the atrocities that are a part of the daily lives
of some of the residents there, to get only a general idea of the qualities of those in authority there, you will
find a certain letter written by Roy Pilkey to the White House about the events
he personally witnessed an interesting read. (Just look for it on the internet.
Look for Roy Pilkey corruption, Montana Ravalli County and you are sure to find
it. It is my hope my letter finds its way to as many of the public as his has.)
While he lived in Ravalli County just south of Hamilton, he took the time and
energy to attempt to expose these people and their destruction of what should
be an idyllic setting to raise a family, or to retire in peace.
Nothing
could be farther from the Truth.
While
I am sure there are many who settled in Ravalli County and found nothing
untoward, for it is only those who challenge the status quo that find something
quite different from what the community appears to be.
Operating
behind a veil of secrecy ensured by the cooperation of other evil people, their
activities are covered up and concealed by those who share in their beliefs.
Their power rules over the law and the principles upon which our nation were
founded matters nothing. In fact, when you control the evidence, the witnesses
and the judiciary, you can get away with even the most heinous of crimes.
As
I write this, I will soon be considered a fugitive, a man on the run. But I am
not running from The Law. I am running from its absence. Facing 110 years in
prison and more than $100,000 in fines for crimes that were inflicted on me by
the individuals about whom I write, I have had all my rights denied me, and
have had every attempt to find true justice thwarted by the very individuals in
whom we automatically place our trust. This trust given because these
individuals hold public offices. Offices that give them the ability to hide
their actions, or worse, to justify them by quoting the letter of the law.
But
is not the intent of the law more important? Are not the laws created to ensure
the safety and protection of The People? What happens when the law is enforced
by criminals? What happens to those who challenge their rule?
What
happens to them is what has happened to me, for I am a believer that when
injustice is witnessed that good people should rise and fight it, for as the
old adage goes: “All that is necessary for evil to prosper is that good men do
nothing.”
But
the good people in Ravalli County live in fear of those in power.
Even
one of the highest judges in the county, Judge Langton, lives as a modern day
dictator, but is in reality only a puppet, for he has committed atrocities and
broken many laws since achieving his position, delivering his version of the law.
A certified drug addict and alcoholic, he has been videotaped at parties doing
all kinds of heavy drugs, running naked and having sex with “anything with
legs” as it was told me by one of these residents.
Yet
he still sits the bench.
For
those of you with some legal knowledge you will no doubt have heard of “The
doctrine of unclean hands.” If you are unfamiliar with it, you would do well to
look it up, for it states clearly that Mr. Langton has no right to sit in
judgment because of his personal failure to abide by the very laws he is called
to enforce.
I
say shame on you Mr. Langton. Shame on you and on those who use your history to
control your actions on the bench. You are a complete and total fraud.
As
it is said in the movie V for Vendetta by the hero known only as V, “I know why
you did it.” You were motivated by fear. Shame of your actions coming to light.
Those who enforce the laws under your direction, the sheriffs, the police
officers and representatives of not just the county but the entire state are
evil and will use what they hold over you to keep you under their thumbs.
You
are not a man, sir, for a man knows dignity. You should have resigned your post
rather than try to hold an office to which you are not entitled.
Of
course, neither are those who influence you in such matters. Neither are any of
the sheriffs or police officers I met, nor the DA nor the public defender's
office. You are all frauds, supporting your own failures in a network where
even the worst of you will be protected by a veil of silence and deceit.
Beginning
sometime in March of 2013, I began to notice some strange occurrences in and
around my recently purchased home. Strange occurrences that could only have
happened by the actions of other people entering not just my property, but my
home as well. Yet when the sheriff's office was called to help me figure out
what was happening, they dismissed me out of hand as though I were a worthless
individual, one whose suffering mattered not one whit to them.
I
have dedicated my life to the service of others. As a poet, I have touched the
lives of millions of people. As an inventor, many hundreds of thousands of
other people with whom I share this planet. For these accomplishments I have
been honored by many people, yet in Ravalli County, I received only shame by
those who are charged with making life better and to honor all who serve.
I
am the developer of The Gadgetman Groove, a simple adjustment that increases
combustion efficiency in gasoline engines of all shapes and sizes. A discovery
in and of itself that brought a tremendous amount of resistance by not only my
peers, but by the powers that be. My patent attorney (Mr. Anthony David Logan)
to this day cannot believe not only why the patent office itself hadn't issued
a patent, but the ridiculous reasons they have denied the issuance of a patent
for this unique technology.
As
of this moment, more than three and half years and more than $30,000 have been
invested into obtaining a patent, and I have decided to simply stop pursuing
one. When those in charge of our world do not want something delivered that
will detract from their power they will simply not let the mainstream know
about it. Of course, they have been known to make the lives of successful
inventors in the field of energy a living hell. Either that, or, should they
achieve a certain level of popular awareness, simply imprison them and/or kill
them outright. (Stan Meyer, Tom Ogle, Nikola Tesla, and many more)
A
plethora of examples of these dead inventors can be quite easily found if you
care to look for them. Simply search on the web for “Dead Inventors” and you
will see soon enough. Those that have eyes to see, let them see.
I
do not want you to pity me, for I knew before the discovery of The Groove what
I was getting myself into. I can't say I didn't care. I cared a lot, as should
we all. In fact that is why I decided to go forward with its delivery while
declining offers to purchase my discovery for as much as $400,000,000. But I
can and will say that it grieves me they have also decided to attack those that
supported my efforts. Now, Collette Thomas, to whom I gave my company, is
beginning to experience some of the challenges I faced.
Love
her and support her, for she is a woman of great power, and has become one who
has tremendous importance in my life, and may help you to find some of the
freedoms that have been denied you by the people who have been attacking me. In
fact, she bailed me out of jail both times I was arrested, in spite of the fact
of knowing me for only a couple of weeks. She was even at my home on both
occasions I was arrested and knows of the lies and the deceit those that
arrested me perpetrated in falsifying the documents, many of which were altered
after my arrest, some being completely deleted from the records.
There
were two people that moved into my guest cottage allegedly for only a few days
until their first paycheck came in. It was my pleasure to help someone in need.
What I did not know at the time is they were plants. One of whom was facing 39
separate charges and both being drug addicts of popular knowledge.
Yet,
when I found them smoking meth in the cottage and called the sheriff's office
to have them ejected, they refused. These were the same people that somehow
were able to enter my home at their discretion to plant whatever they were told
to plant. Dozens of meth pipes were found in and around my home. In my kitchen
sink, in my shop, in my closets, in my couch, and in my laundry. The latter was
the most interesting discovery, for this pipe was found in my laundry, filled
with residue, after having survived no less than three wash cycles and 60
minutes in the dryer.
A
GLASS pipe? 60 minutes tumbling in the dryer? Residue of a water-soluble drug
still in the pipe after THREE wash cycles?
Some
things are just impossible. This is one of those things. But many such
“impossible” events have occurred to me in the last year. At least, they were
what I would have considered impossible before I witnessed them myself.
I
was living in a home which others could enter at their discretion, that was
riddled with surveillance devices, and was seeing people around my home at all
hours of the day and night. The so-called “Law Enforcement” wouldn't even
investigate when they could see very clearly the evidence of damage done on my
property. In fact, they ignored my pleas for help and ridiculed me when I
reported the events. So, I turned to outside help in the form of private
investigators.
I
researched the P.I.'s in the area, and one name came to the top like cream. (A
much more apt description would be that of a gaseous turd) William “Bill”
Buzzell. He was reputed to be the best and the fairest investigator in the
valley. So I called him.
Now,
I know I must've looked ragged to put it mildly. I was not being allowed sleep,
for every time I laid down, within minutes odd and unusual noises would occur,
sometimes on my roof, sometimes under my house, and once (just once mind you) I
woke to hear a man and woman whispering in the hall outside my bedroom.
I
jumped up and ran down the hall, just catching their shadows as they rounded my
chimney. I heard a sound like carpet rubbing against a wall, and when I got
there, they were gone.
This
is just one of hundreds of events. Naturally, I was quite distraught. This more
complicated by the complete lack of concern of the sheriff's department. So,
when Mr. Buzzell showed up, I have no doubt of what he saw. I was a wreck.
Still, I offered him $2000 to perform 2 days of surveillance on my property
which he rather unpolitely declined.
The
way he declined was by refusing to show when scheduled and failing to return
any of my numerous calls over the ensuing two weeks.
Bear
in mind that Hamilton is a town of only 5000 people. Jobs are hard to find and
almost the only money coming into the county is from the travelers (many of
which get fleeced by the 'law' as well) so it is very strange for someone to
turn down $2000 for only two days work.
This
was another nail in my coffin. Someone who makes their living by personal
investigations, a “professional”, would not work for me although the payment
was in cash. Money was short for many in the community, and I was obviously a
person in desperate need of his services.
This
behavior was duplicated by every other private eye within a 300 mile radius. Not
even one of the others would even return my call.
Time
went by and in July, I had my first run-in with the law. Now, bear in mind that
I don't go anywhere, staying at home, doing my job over the internet. I
couldn't stand to leave my home, for every time I did, something happened to my
home in my absence.
I
was sitting on my couch watching a movie in mid-July when I heard a voice
outside my living room window. It was a man's voice apparently talking on the
phone. I looked out my window and there was a man talking on his cell phone.
What he was saying sent chills through my blood as I overheard him telling
someone there were drugs in my house and where they could be found. In shock, I
practically ran into my bedroom and looked where he was directing and there I
found exactly what he said. A bag of what appeared to be meth and a small glass
pipe.
I
gathered the pipe and the drugs and went to the bathroom where I opened the
baggie and dumped the contents into the toilet. I then wrapped the pipe in many
layers of toilet paper and crushed it into small fragments, and then sent it
after the dope and the baggie. The swirling swooshing sound of its
disappearance did little however to calm me.
I
allowed myself a small sigh of relief and then ventured out into my yard. As I
looked to the west I saw the same man-a lithe, red headed man sporting a full
beard-standing between the blue cedars which had first caused me to love this
house. On the other side of the cedars were two city cruisers, just visible
through the branches.
Now,
remember that I lived in the county. What were the city officers doing at my
home?
The
more I thought about it, the more obvious it became to me that if they could
plant one bag of dope, they could plant two. So, I went for a deeper look.
I
began emptying my closets and my drawers. In exactly the opposite location, I
discovered yet another bag of dope and yet another pipe. I tossed them onto the
bed amidst the mess I had just created and picked up the phone, calling the
sheriff's office.
I
told them I heard a man telling someone there was drugs in my home and where
they could be found and I wanted them to bring their boys and their dogs and go
through my house and get rid of any and all traces of drugs from my home.
They
arrested me for possession anyway.
Now,
when I went to court for my bail hearing, the judge gave me a reduced bail,
citing the fact that I had called them to get the drugs out of my house. But
when the Discovery was made, the report clearly cited that I had not called to
ask them to remove drugs, but rather that I had called to report someone had
stolen (get this!) my couch.
There
is no way I am going to be able to cover all the fraudulent reports by the
police, so I'm going to try to stick to the most relevant matters-those pertaining
to the violations of my privacy. Violations that pushed me to the point I was
ready to have myself committed. I was questioning every aspect of my reality.
But perhaps that was the point of this exercise: to see how far a man like me
could be pushed before he went mad.
Truth
be told, I cannot be sure of many of the details and this is only my attempt to
find some sense from the madness that was my life.
What
in the world could happen to a person (in this case many people) that would
cause them to think that these actions are justifiable? What could happen to
generate such psychotic and anti-social behavior?
For
me, I think it must be acceptable in their society to do such things. A society
which, like the Nazi's, said it was okay to kill millions of people. Or like
the ancient Mayans (and others) where they would cut peoples' heads off, or cut
out their still beating hearts and show it to the victim before the life left
their bodies.
Societies
created by evil people, shaped over generations of mental illness.
Sorry.
I didn't mean to digress. Please be kind
and understand that I am still in shock and allow me a venture or two into
trying to make some sense of it all. I don't think I ever will because my mind
simply cannot work that way. Nor do I want it to.
Time
went by rather rapidly for me this past year as you might imagine. There was so
much happening almost every day that I couldn't keep track of it. I had been
taking pictures of the stuff going on and of the people I had invading my
property, but my journaling, my email, and all the pictures vanished from my
hard drive. Paper records also disappeared (including the files on my property)
and I was left with only one thing: my memory. Whoever was doing this was
certainly well-organized and thorough to say the least.
It
is my theory someone from higher up than the sheriff and the chief of police
was working this deal, for how else would you explain the presence of city
police officers working outside their jurisdiction?.
Following
my first arrest (there were two) I had been out under the care of the public
defender's office. Carol Johns was my attorney (at least she claimed to be an
attorney) and was in charge of mounting a proper defense. I know for a fact
that she couldn't possibly have cared less about whether I was innocent or not.
All she seemed interested in is coming to a successful plea agreement with the
prosecutor's office. No matter the testimony of those of my friends who
witnessed these events, the professionals who supported my theories, she refused
to investigate my story.
Sometime
in October, more than three months after the first arrest, she finally assigned
a private investigator. They had the finest PI in the area. You may know his
name. That's right. Mr. William “Bill” Buzzell.
Now
by this time I had been able to put one and one together to come up with three,
figuring that Bill was, in all probability, responsible for the placement of
the surveillance devices in and around my house. I told Carol this, and she
didn't show one ounce of concern that he may have been the one hired to
initiate the illegal activities that would wind up leading to the theft of my
freedom, of my reputation, of my home and the destruction of my company.
Funny
thing here. Bill had been the investigator for the public defender's office for
quite some time. But two days after he was assigned to investigate my claims,
he resigned. Not that it would have done any good, for the main monitoring
station for the surveillance devices which had been mounted inside an abandoned
satellite dish had been removed on the night of September 17th.
In
the course of spreading my discovery, I made a lot of friends. People from all
walks of life respected me for what I had accomplished, many of whom had
visited with me, some for days at a time. Among these honored friends were more
than one retired police officer.
I
shared my story with them as they were depending on my support and my
instruction to help them master this new technology. And I did my best to live
up to their expectations.
In
speaking with one gentleman (who shall remain nameless and respected) shared
with me the proper way to set up a surveillance system. Investigating officers,
upon receiving the proper warrant(s) would install low-level devices throughout
the area. Low wattage devices (which are more difficult to detect) which then
relay their signals to a more powerful base station which then boosts the
signals and relays them to a monitoring station somewhere in the vicinity.
This
base station was installed inside the base of the satellite dish.
I
know this because on the 18th I was walking out of my shop when I
saw my satellite dish dismantled and laying in my side yard.
It
was late in the afternoon, and as this was just one more event in the long
series of similar events, I just shook my head and went on about my business.
This was yet another piece of evidence that, had a proper investigation been
mounted, would have given credibility to my story. As it stands, all evidence
is likely to have been removed completely, the only evidence remaining the
testimony of myself and my friends.
I
called Carol the next day to inform her of the event, which I had not reported
to the sheriff. Why should I call the very people that have exerted every
effort to destroy me? But she insisted, so I made the call. Sgt. Horton came
out to take a look, most certainly only an obligatory answer to a vandalism
report.
There
in my yard laid a 10' steel satellite dish that requires three stout men to
lift, carefully laid upside down on the ground. All the nuts and bolts were
missing, and there wasn't a bent piece of metal on the whole assembly. It was
yet another professional job which would have required a minimum of four people
to complete.
You
know what Sgt. Horton had to say about the whole thing?
As
we stood inside my sunroom just in from the back yard, he said (and I quote)
“Ron, you know, I'm not talking to you as a sheriff now, I'm just talking to
you man to man. I think you should go get some blood work done.”
And
that was that. End yet another chapter in a successful conspiracy. Of course,
Sgt. Horton had been to my property before, as he was the one that came (if I
remember correctly) when I was trying to get the meth heads off my property.
Others had come too, back when I still held some hope there was some honor in
the sheriff's office. Only too late did I discover the truth, that all my faith
in the offices they hold was very tragically misplaced.
I
called one time (I don't recall the date) to report some other something
happening, and was greeted by Sgt. Graysinger and an assistant. In the process
of telling them of the noises I was hearing, of the sleep deprivation tactics
that were being used and of the surveillance and the computer hacking (I'll
touch on that in a few minutes), of the weird sounds disturbing my sleep, a
rhythmic, obviously mechanical thumping sound started under the floor,
proceeding across the floor from under my feet to under Sgt. Graysinger's feet,
terminating under his assistant's feet.
“There!
THERE! Do you hear that? What the hell is THAT?!?!” I exclaimed, glad that now
I had official witnesses to at least ONE of the strange occurrences.
Sgt.
Graysinger and his assistant both agreed they heard the same sound.
“What
the hell is THAT?” I said.
“Oh,
that's nothing.” Replied Sgt. Graysinger.
“Nothing”.
Yeah.
Right.
“Really?”
I SAID. “Does YOUR floor do that?”
“No.
But I wouldn't worry about it. Ron I want to take you to the hospital.”
They
showed me such care and concern, these professional liars. They lied when they
took their oath of office, and they lie every time they put on their uniforms
and step into their vehicles that proudly sport the logo “To serve and to
protect.”
I
truly don't know how they can sleep at night. I don't know how these criminals
can stand to look themselves in the mirror.
At
first I justified the actions taken by these people, as I had a theory about
what may have taken place in their demented little minds. As an inventor, I did
all my work from home. I didn't need to go anywhere, save to pay my bills. From
the outside in, I was a stranger who came to town, bought one of the most
expensive properties, and had no visible means of support.
And
I spent a lot of money. My then wife, Debbie, was spending $300-$500 a day in
the casinos (I found out too late to do anything about it). If I was in law
enforcement that had been given a mandate to rout out all drugs from my
community, I might have looked at me and thought “METH LAB!!!”
But
they didn't get any warrants, they did no investigation, they didn't even come
meet me. They simply attacked.
Like
rabid dogs they attacked, with all the other rabid dogs covering their tracks.
As
it stands right now, the only real evidence I have of my home invasions was a
forensics report on one of my hard drives which I was able to successfully
smuggle out and get to my IT guy, Tony from Western Montana Computers.
This
report (which is WAY out of my league) concluded that my computer had indeed
been hacked in the most vicious of ways. But the most interesting part of the
report concluded that whoever had drilled into my computer had actually done so
from the comfort of my living room. That's right. Someone else had come into my
home, plugged their computer into my router and killed my life.
It
is my belief at least one of the conspirators was extremely familiar with the
property. Far too many things happened that would require familiarity that
could only come from a history with the buildings. As I bought the house from
the Estate of Richard A. Arno, the children then would be my first suspects. As
one of them is what I call “a bible thumping Jesus freak” he would be my first
to look at. I believe his name is Wayne, so that's what I'll call him for now.
Well, Wayne presented to me he was a pastor at a local church. I met his wife
in the grocery store once, and this way too fat woman practically crammed her
version of Jesus down my throat. That is not the kind of love my Jesus
supported at all.
Anyway
this Wayne (or whatever) approached me when I bought the house as he wanted the
contract to maintain the property. I declined. He may be a crappy
representative of the Love of Christ I bet he is a fine landscaper.
Anyway
I declined his offer for two very good reasons. First I like to mow the yard.
The thrum of the engine gives me and my brain some quiet time. I feel mentally
refreshed after riding the mower around for a couple of hours. Second, there is
no way in hell I wanted anything to do with his preaching.
The
very start of all this crap as I reflect back on it was having my back yard
mowed at the same time as the back door lock was smashed. It had been mowed
starting at the gate to the road. Now, my mower was in the back yard only
accessible through another gate.
Odd,
wouldn't you say?
But
that is indeed what happened. Not only that, but it appeared there were some
changes in the house at that time as well, in the form of new light fixtures,
partially installed in my laundry room. They were laying in pieces on the
counters beneath them, as though someone were interrupted during the install.
There
are far too many things to include in this letter if any of you are to finish
it, so I will just list a few.
All
padlocks placed on the entrances to the buildings and gates were cut and
discarded.
A
hole was punched in the ceiling of my shop-from the topside.
When
I got out of jail from the second arrest I had new drapes hanging in my living
room. (done within 24 hours)
There
was fresh paint on my shop vise. (I haven't touched a paint brush since moving
in)
The
tray containing all the keys to the property disappeared-for two days then
reappeared in their proper place.
My
digital camera had tape placed over the IR port-from the inside.
My
Dell laptop had no Dell parts inside of it. (Clone)
My
Acer laptop, an archaic piece with a dead battery magically began to
work-without being plugged in. (Clone)
My
HP desktop (which I had built) “lost” its cage fan, as in disappeared.
Same
HP: While my CPU fan was completely compacted with dust, the motherboard and
all components were absolutely glistening. (I had never cleaned it since I
built it)
Same
HP: The sticker on the bottom with the ID separated itself from the case.
All
factory computers had false Microsoft tags. (Cloned)
Every
time I logged into Skype my computer would die. (I reloaded Win 7 at least 50
times in the last 2 months I was in Hamilton)
Logging
into my Skype account from another location, on another computer resulted in
the same event.
Brent,
an employee at the Hamilton Post Office was re-routing all my incoming mail,
and probably much of my out-going mail as well.
While
there are still many more things to report, this one bears a little more
dialog.
I
had started having difficulty receiving my part orders sometime in April. Parts
that clients would send would disappear as well although the tracking numbers
indicated they were “out for delivery”. One client, with a Jaguar, had three
throttle assemblies “lost” in the mail. Believing someone was taking them from
my mailbox I put a hold order on my mail and began going to the post office to
collect my mail.
The
lost articles continued. After speaking with Mike, the Postmaster there, he
advised me to get a PO Box, so I did. On the first Saturday following the
rental of the box, Collette went to collect my mail, but found none in the box.
So she approached Tina (wonderful woman) from whom we had rented the box to ask
if there was any mail still being held. That's when it came out.
Tina
said “No” with a puzzled expression and then continued: “No, there should be at
least three packages. Brent had them in his hands and was asking about them and
I told him where to put them.”
So
on Monday when the packages were still not in the box, we went looking for
Mike, who happened to be retreiving some registered articles for an older
woman. When he finished, we told him what had happened and he turned to Brent
(who was standing behind him) and asked what was up. Brent admitted he had put
them in the “Nixies”, meaning they were returned to sender.
This
is directly against UPSP policy, and Mike said he would have a talk with him.
The
mail loss continued, even worsened. Now my utility bills were being returned to
sender as undeliverable.
I
have several copies of this occurring. The only stuff that got through was what
looked like shut-off notices. Fortunately, many of these were the bills that
had been returned, simply placed in another envelope.
All
pleas to the USPS Inspector General's office were ignored.
How's
that sit with you?
Add
to that people coming to visit me were needlessly detained by the City Police, and
when my friends became victims of theft (only Gadgetman-related items, leaving
behind a $2000 laptop and a $3000 camcorder) they refused to take a police
report. Their reason? “There's no evidence that anything was stolen.” Then,
when the victim investigated further, could find no record of the officers who
responded to his call.
I
know somewhere, these people are smirking in their closets, and laughing
together about how I was raped. How they had destroyed yet another threat to
their carefully crafted world. A world built to support their distorted views
of how the world should be.
Well,
they did succeed. Ron Hatton is dead. At the ripe old age of 54, Ron Hatton is
dead and will never again know the joys of his beloved mountains, of the vast
rolling plains of the midwest. He will never know the pleasure and the honor of
being an American. He will never be able to casually enjoy reading the Sunday
paper, nor visit any of the majestic areas of the United States again.
He
is dead, and his country has died around him.
Never
again will he hear the sounds of the whippoorwill nor write his book on “The
Disappearing Smokies. Highlights of a Vanishing Culture.”
Ron
is dead.
But
what Ron has left in his wake is more than many men dream of. Some do, and for
those men and women who dare to make the world a better place, take heart, for
his legacy is one of kindness and compassion. Of sharing regardless of cost,
and the world is a better place for his living as he did.
Ron
has left us an inheritance, one which we can be grateful for, for he has stood
when the world was burning and made a difference from the middle of the flames.
You
can too.
Ron
Hatton
December
29th, 2013
A
Date which will live in Infamy
