~ True Crime Memoir ~
Little Savage
Back Cover for Book Three; Endless Letter Released!
Posted on March 1, 2013
Can Little ever again trust that Tim will be the same, loving man she knew when they were young? Or will Tim die a number lost amidst the thriving Prison Industry? Is there ever justification to kill another human, no matter how vile and how many innocents they have and will harm?
For the past decade Little hunted for the truth of what Tim did and the truth of why. It was a crime committed decades ago, a one-time event largely brought on by a life threatening brain injury he suffered only two years before. Still he has no qualms telling anyone that asks that he, himself, is horrified by what he did and suffers terrible nightmares to this day.
Endless Letter is a collection of some of the letters sent between Little and Tim as they were re-introduced, reformatted into this series from the countless thousands of pages that fill several boxes. Included are the original hospital and court reports to fill in the cracks. You have all the evidence you need to decide the answer to those questions for yourself.
To make things even more uncertain, Little’s investigation begins during a tumultuous period of California prison history. A tragic number of citizens being stuffed into dangerously overcrowded facilities. Sadly, Tim’s is not the only story there is. Our prisons are bursting with geriatric offenders who will likely never step outside a prison again before they die.
Ultimately, the question of how we feel about and treat our inmates is ours to solve. It is a question that will impact more than just the thousands of convicted inmates but Every California citizen, and we must believe we can find a better way.
Posted in Krazi Krone Stories | Tagged 1986, Laura Savage, Little Savage, murder, Sacramento, Toolbox, true crime | Leave a reply Edit
Preview Contest for Little’s Toolbox Book Three, Endless Letter
Posted on February 16, 2013
I have posted a sneak peek of Little’s Toolbox, Books Three at Create Space. Now I want to give you all a bit of an incentive to post your answers to my four, little questions after reading my one chapter Preview. I am very interested in what you think about this final book in my True Crime series, Little’s Toolbox.
Here is how it will work:
Click on the link posted below.
Read my one chapter preview from the upcoming book titled Strip Search.
Post your answers to the 4 simple questions below the preview.
Yep, that is all you have to do! Everyone who leaves a review will be entered in the drawing I will make on April 1st 2013. Three names will be pulled from the “hat” and these lucky people will each receive a signed copy of the Little’s Toolbox The Collected Volumes, which will be published shortly after the final book, Endless Letter, is published this coming spring.
Little’s Toolbox the Collected Volumes will include all three books; Little’s Toolbox, Toolbox Tales and Endless Letter in a single volume.
Let the game begin! Of course all the folks who have already left a review are automatically entered. Thanks and Good Luck to you all, Little Savage
https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1115771
Posted in Krazi Krone Stories | Tagged Book Three, Contest, Endless Letter, Little's Toolbox, Sacramento Toolbox murder, true crime | Leave a reply Edit
Endless Letter Soon to be Released!
Posted on February 11, 2013
For Immediate Release
Book Three is At the Publishers!
The Final book in the shocking, real life story of the
Sacramento, CA. Toolbox Murderer of 1986!
Little’s Toolbox; Book Three, Endless Letter: is due for Release this Spring 2013 as a private publication both Nationally and Internationally via Create Space, an Amazon affiliate, and at Amazon.com and Kindle as an eBook. Don’t miss the final book in the never before told story of how and why one Sacramento man would kill another and then dismember him. In Book One we learned this shocking tale from the perspective of the woman who loved him the most. In Book Two; Toolbox Tale’s, we will find out the truth of this story from Toolbox Tim himself.
This is the final book from a series of three true crime novels that covers all angles of the terrible crime. Endless Letter will provide the audience a peek at the research and investigation that Little undertook in her efforts to come to terms with events that had such a powerful effect on both her, and her sons, lives.
Through personal letters, reports, medical records and news articles that reflect the sad state of the California prison system during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, the reader will have the evidence they need to take a trip back in time and into the mind of a good man. A man who was driven by the circumstances of his life to take the life of a fellow human. A man who never stopped fighting to find himself again. A man who never stopped hoping for the chance to redeem himself.
The Author, Laura Savage, aka Little Savage, was adopted into a Sacramento family as an infant and now lives in Gold Country. She has one older and also adopted brother. Little met Tim Sugars when she was a teenager and over the years they were close friends and eventually planned to marry. She is the mother of his son. But they became estranged only a year before the horrific crime was committed.
After twenty years of separation, Little searched for and found Tim in a California prison using the name Toolbox. They have rebuilt their once, and again strong relationship. Over the past six years, Little Savage has watched the failing and outdated prison system struggle and flounder with the high price of incarceration paid by both the prisoners themselves, and by California taxpayers.
For more information about Little’s Toolbox; Book Three please
contact Krazi Krone Publications at
530-575-7546
Or visit Little’s Facebook Page at https://www.facebook.com/Toolbox1986
Posted in Krazi Krone Stories | Leave a reply Edit
Twenty-eight am…
QUOTE
Posted on December 30, 2012
1
Twenty-eight amazing and curious persons viewed my Preview to Book Three; Endless Letter, but Nobody(?) answered the four little questions? Boo Hoo it can’t be that bad… Is it? Then tell me, please! You can remain anonymous, So come on. Take a chance. I will do it for you too
https://www.createspace.com/pub/community/give.review.do?id=1115771
Laura
Posted in Krazi Krone Stories | Tagged Book Three, Little's Toolbox, preview, true crime | 1 Reply Edit
Little’s Toolbox Book Two; Toolbox Tales- Hits the ground running
Posted on November 19, 2012
For Immediate Release
The real life story of the Sacramento, CA. Toolbox Murderer of 1986!
Little’s Toolbox; Book Onewas released in September 2012 and Book Two, Toolbox Tales was released on November 1st 2012, both as a private publication, Nationally and Internationally via Create Space, an Amazon affiliate.
This is two powerful perspective experienced by at least two of the people most effected by the never before told story of how and why one Sacramento man would kill another and then dismember him.
Toolbox Tim was arrested for his crime back in October 1986 and was sentenced to 27 years to life. He is now what they refer to as a Lifer. He is 52 years old and has recovered his previous mental capacity but he now suffers a variety of health problems that will require more and more medical assistance as he ages. With California sentencing laws what they are, our prisons are packed with thousands, around 30 thousands, of prisoners just like Toolbox Tim. This is only one of thousands of stories locked up behind concrete walls.
I invite you to listen to the story told from the perspective of Toolbox himself in Book Two. You will see it is a vastly different story to Little’s Book One. In Book Two you will witness a man locked in a battle to keep himself together after a life altering brain injury and a plunge into the dark life of a drug addict after the abandonment of his family. Like me, you may weep to see him fall as he did. But he is not a man to stay down and his story continues to ‘Surprise’ me, even faced with a life time in prison. I hope you enjoy both of my introductory Novels, Little’s Toolbox Books One & Two.
ISBN# 9871475283181 Paperback copies Little’s Toolbox Book Oneavailable for $5.50
Paperback Copies Little’s Toolbox, Book Two; Toolbox Tales availablefor $ 5.95
https://www.createspace.com/3988791
The Author, Little Savage, aka Laura Savage, was adopted into a Sacramento family as an infant and now lives in Gold Country. She has one older and also adopted brother. Little met Tim Sugars when she was a teenager and over the years they were close friends and eventually planned to marry. She is the mother of his son. But they became estranged only a year before the horrific crime was committed.
After twenty years of separation, Little searched for and found Tim in a California prison using the name Toolbox. They have rebuilt their once, and again strong relationship. Over the past six years, Little Savage has watched the failing and outdated prison system struggle and flounder with the high price of incarceration paid by both the prisoners themselves, and by California taxpayers.
For more information about Little’s Toolbox; Book One please visit
www.createspace.com/3865306and https://www.createspace.com/3988791
or contact Krazi Krone Publications at
530-575-7546
Or visit Little’s Facebook Page at https://www.facebook.com/Toolbox1986
Posted in Krazi Krone Stories | Tagged Blog, Crime, DIY, murder, My Life, Sacramento, Sacramento Toolbox murder, true crime, young romance | Leave a reply Edit
Punk Houses Preview
Posted on November 9, 2012
A Work American Street Scree
Prolog
There came a time in my life when, although I was still young, I began to wither inside, shriveled and dry as a leaf late in fall. Much of what I had been living for had taken root on its own, and flourished without my now intrusive attempts to aide. I found that my visions of the future too crumbled and lay suddenly at my feet, turned to dust before my unbelieving eyes. What rem
ained of my lifeseemed bleak and devoid of the richness that I had imagined was there. There were days and weeks that I floundered in the quicksand of my shattered dreams and wondered if I could actually kill myself with self-pity.
It was in this barren plac
e where I first discovered that Hunter McLaren had become a part of the landscape however subtly. A vagrant youth from somewhere in the south, he was quiet though pleasant and did not particularly stand out among the regular mix at the coffee shop where I worked. At first, he seemed so young that I took little notice of him. It was only later that I rea
lized he was sent to me by the gods, a light to guide my soul back from the dark place where it had hidden. I knew him for such a short time, only one brief interlude in the great journey of my life, but it was Hunter who helped me to open the magical doorway of possibility once again, and who introduced me to a world I had only imagined. He had such a profound effect on my life that I believe his name will be among those on my lips as I lay down for my last sleep, and give thanks to the gods for everything beautiful in my life.
It was nearly a year after moving to our community, that I learned Hunter was having a problem finding shelter for the upcoming winter season. He had, in fact, moved into his beat up little car, after getting it hopelessly stuck in the mud on some logger’s road. When I asked him
about his situation and what I could do to help, it was probably our first real conversation. I told him there was a small-unused cabin at my place he could rent for awhile if he wanted. It was a shed really, but he agreed without hesitation to my price, fifty bucks cash a month plus helping me with my firewood. As the relief and happiness lit up his face, his eyes swam like twin pools of cool teal, tiny flecks of gold dancing on their surface. I realized then that he was a magnificent creature.
Neither of us anticipated the commotion our alliance would stir up in the community. Nor did we believe in our wildest imaginations how far things would go. In the end, he was viciously driven off. He took as much money as I could send with him and a bus ticket back home. The streets back home, he had told me, begging me to understand, were much more forgiving. They had always been a home to him. My heart flew with him. All that I have left are his stories, which he wove for me by the hour, impregnating our months of exile with vividly spun tales, a graphic account of the people and places from his past lives. In the process he brought me back to life inside. I receive word of him now and then, and sigh with relief and a longing that I have grown accustomed to, knowing he is still in the world.
Within his tales of toil, brutality, and a death defying will to live I found possibility, steadfastness and devotion where I least expected it, and the resolve to re-invent my own future once again. When I close my eyes, I can still hear his voice. It reverberates within my soul, carrying me to him and into the heart of his world.
“Fuck rigs, and pigs, bags of schwag and the Amerikkkan flag.
Fuck you, your Nike shoes and all they can do for you, your next of kin and what they believe in, like freedom of speech, where you can reach, the bill of rights and power lights.
Fuck lies and ties and a congress owned by lobbyists and wise guys.
Fuck corporations and consolidations spreading like cancer across the nation.
Fuck the Oakland Raiders and sand stock traders, on the phone trying to slip us the bone, and bring a war home like violence is some kind of erogenous zone”
Fuck All That! A poem by Kelly, a young pariah muse that I have known
His jump boots struck the sidewalk sharply as he strode. The cigarette butt he flicked into the deep shadows of the old warehouse next to him sent a small shower of sparks dancing into the street. A patch of light spilling onto the asphalt in front of him signaled that the alley and its adjacent church yard were just ahead to the right. He moved impatiently towards the horde of punks that he could feel gathering not far away.
As he walked, the CD player in his hoodie pocket pumped the sound of “Propagandhi” into his ears through the headphones, “I speak my mind. I question theirs. It seems to me that no one really cares. Peripherally blind. Intellectually numb. Ignorance by choice, or just plain fucking dumb? You’re threatened by my mind; you want everything the same, but my questions still remain. You boycott your brain. You answer with fists. But my questions still persist. You can rearrange my face but you can’t rearrange my mind. You can beat this shell about me, but you can’t change what’s inside.”
Around the corner and just out of sight, bawdy youth poured into the streets around a darkly gothic old church, frequently used in its maltreated state by the underground for music festivals. The people, most of them under twenty, where garishly made up and costumed, cavorting restlessly on the steps of the edifice, across the sidewalks and out into the otherwise empty street. In disorderly pairs and singles, or clustered in-groups, they waited for the moment the great, carved doors would open, allowing them to swarm inside.
On this glorious spring evening they were gathering to sing and dance and celebrate their solidarity, to defy their bleak childhoods and the prospect of a desolate future beaten into them by this heedless society. Hunter would be with them tonight, lashing out in true punk style. Together they would thrash in the pits and throw their souls out against war and poverty, the destruction of this world they feared to inherit and the terrible conditions facing humanity. From their point of view nothing was right about the way things were, and they were coming together to invent a new world and a new future for themselves and for everyone.
An ancient rock wall, or what was left of one, separated the overgrown churchyard and the sidewalk fronting the cathedral. Pro-peace slogans and anarchy symbols, urban art of the twentieth century, were scrawled and carved onto these forgotten ruins of the modern age. This juvenile scratching shared the space with stubborn, pale lichen that crept and clung to its crevices, dark with shadow this time of day. Up on the massive, crumbling remains many of the swarming urchins climbed and romped, screaming insults to each other, and into the darkening sky. They exuded vitality and confidence in the company of so many united by the same ideals, quickened by dissent, and the dissemination of a little alternative propaganda. Only courageous seekers of truth will ever recognize these young people, and their culture, as the truly honorable radicals they are. They would make their stand again tonight the only way they knew how, battling for freedom, peace, and what is right in a world that has forgotten them.
Beer was all part of the strategy, among other decadent vices, and overlaying it would be the unscrupulous orgy of sizzling dissonance that would erupt from the building and fill the airwaves for blocks in all directions. It was here, amidst these other second-class citizens living in an invisible social reality from the rest of America, that Hunter was somebody. At least being in the company of countless others as lost as himself could quell the yammer of voices in his head that tried to make him believe that he was a nobody.
Clicking the CD player to off, he turned from the dark street into the alley running between the weed-entangled lot behind the church and the abandoned warehouse next to it. Pale light and the sonorous voice of a concentrated population reached out to him. He lifted the headphones up off his carefully spiked hair so they sat around his neck and scanned the shaded lot as he went. In the distance a young man’s silhouette stood out against the dusky pink sky and the glimmer of blinking streetlights flared around him like a halo. Up on top of what was left of the wall, he stood spread-eagled against the sky, gripping a guitar by the neck with one hand and his head thrown back, spouting incoherent proclamations into the universe.
Hunter stopped before a broken warehouse window to check that his hair, a lucent nimbus of green spikes, stood out well around his pale, angular face. With all the glue he had used, the inch tall points were hard and sharp, like glass. He grinned to himself and the bone skull on his torn “Exploited” T-shirt grinned wickedly back reflecting off the dark glass. His thoughts slid briefly to his older brother in California. Jhon had brought the shirt and a bad ass, live “Casualties” CD when he visited for Hunter’s eighteenth birthday. Hunter honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had worn one of his other shirts. They had also listened to a “DRI” mix Jhon had that Hunter had never heard. He loved them. It was the first time he realized that he might have missed hanging out with his oldest brother after all. But Jhon made his decision to leave long ago, he and California where both far away.
Posted in Krazi Krone Stories | Tagged beer, indie short story, music, Propaghandi, Punk, punk rock, scree, youth | Leave a reply