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Hidden Camera Exposes Police Collusion | Help Us Transcribe, Enhance, and Hold Them Accountable
This footage was captured covertly—raw, unfiltered, and deeply disturbing. What you’re about to witness is not just misconduct. It’s collusion. A coordinated effort by law enforcement to intimidate, suppress, and retaliate against those who dare to speak out.
What’s in the video:
- Officers caught on hidden camera engaging in coordinated harassment
- Audio that reveals disturbing exchanges—muffled but damning
- Evidence of systemic abuse, intimidation, and betrayal of public trust
We need your help:
- Transcription volunteers: Help us document every word, every whisper.
- Audio experts: Can you enhance the sound? Clarify the voices? Reveal what they tried to bury?
- Advocates & watchdogs: Help us police the police. Share this. Archive it. Demand accountability.
This isn’t just a video. It’s a call to action. Every frame is a refusal. Every timestamp is a reckoning.
Use the comments to connect, collaborate, and escalate. We’re building a public record—layered with truth, resistance, and restoration.
#PoliceHarassment #CopWatch #HiddenCamera #TranscribeTheTruth #AudioForJustice #PoliceThePolice #PublicRecord #RefusalAsRestoration
Breaking News
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
TECH TITAN ANDREI DUNCA AND MUDD LAW OF CHICAGO SUE TO BLOCK PUBLICATION OF CHARITY MEMOIR BENEFITING LGBTQQ+ CAUSES
Contact: Daisy Daisy 333
Email: press@daisydaisy333.com
Date: September 20, 2025
San Francisco, CA — In a stunning legal maneuver, Mudd Law of Chicago—representing tech entrepreneur Andrei George Dunca—has filed suit to halt the publication of a memoir authored by Dunca’s former spouse and business partner, EsRā Dunca-Sprawling. The memoir, Wallflower of the Year, documents years of shared enterprise, contested dissolution, and ritualized testimony—and pledges 100% of its proceeds to LGBTQQ+ charities.
The lawsuit seeks to suppress a work that chronicles not only personal history, but also the systemic erasure faced by self-represented litigants and queer survivors of procedural abuse. The memoir is hosted on DaisyDaisy333.com, alongside press releases and legal filings that form part of a living archive.
“This is not just a book—it is sworn testimony,” said Dunca-Sprawling, President of EsRā Dunca-Sprawling Inc. “Every page is a refusal. Every chapter is a record. And every dollar is pledged to LGBTQQ+ organizations that protect the very voices this lawsuit seeks to silence.”
The legal action comes amid ongoing litigation in Harris County, Texas, where Dunca-Sprawling has filed motions asserting business and marital standing, including powers of attorney recognized by financial institutions and agents who brokered real property transactions on behalf of Dunca.
Observers note a profound contradiction: while Dunca’s legal team attempts to suppress a memoir benefiting LGBTQQ+ causes, he is also known to be an angel investor in the ventures of Alexs Tantu, a self-styled LGBTQ+ and HIV advocate and founder of Illumina Safety—a platform that claims to offer peer support and safe space for queer communities. Photos from the UITHACK23 hackathon show Tantu presenting an app designed to help users report violence, sexual assault, and mental health struggles.
Yet when Dunca-Sprawling was a victim of false imprisonment, stalking, and harassment, he reached out to Illumina Safety for help—only to be denied, ignored, and dismissed. The refusal to respond, despite the platform’s stated mission, reveals a deeper truth: that Tantu was willing to prioritize financial gain and proximity to EsRā’s spouse over his principles and the foundational claims of his fledgling venture.
“You cannot claim advocacy while enabling erasure,” Dunca-Sprawling said. “You cannot build ‘safe spaces’ while funding efforts to silence queer truth. You cannot promote healing while investing in suppression. And you cannot claim to protect survivors while ignoring them when they reach out for help.”
Dunca-Sprawling has filed formal objections to the threatened sanctions and protective motions against direct contact from opposing counsel. “They want silence. I offer record,” he said. “They want withdrawal. I offer publication.”
The memoir remains available online, and Dunca-Sprawling has vowed to continue distributing it in defiance of intimidation.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
FACEBOOK-LINKED WEB PIONEER ANDREI DUNCA SUES TO HALT PUBLICATION OF WALLFLOWER OF THE YEAR, MEMOIR BY SPOUSE ESRĀ DUNCA-SPRAWLING EXPOSING DIGITAL ERASURE AND CONSPIRACY
Contact: Daisy Daisy 333
Email: press@daisydaisy333.com
Date: September 15, 2025
Houston, TX — Daisy Daisy 333 confirms that legal representatives connected to Andrei Dunca—a web pioneer with ties to Facebook’s infrastructure—have filed suit to suppress the release of Wallflower of the Year, a memoir documenting systemic betrayal, digital erasure, and coordinated disappearance. The book, authored by a survivor of institutional manipulation, blends visual testimony, timestamped exhibits, and coded narrative to expose a conspiracy that spans law enforcement, tech platforms, and legal machinery.
“This is not just a lawsuit—it’s a confession,” said Daisy Daisy 333’s founder. “Every threat to suppress this book is part of the archive. Every omission is evidence. Wallflower of the Year is a living record of harm, and we will defend it as such.”
The suit, filed days after the memoir’s release, alleges defamation and seeks emergency relief to halt distribution. Daisy Daisy 333 asserts that the legal action is retaliatory and emblematic of the very silencing the book documents. The imprint is preparing a counter-motion for declaratory relief and sanctions, citing procedural abuse and narrative targeting.
The memoir details the author’s disappearance from shared property, foreclosure during appeal, and the weaponization of contempt filings to suppress testimony. It includes forensic timelines, ritualized documentation, and strategic reframing of harm as agency.
“We publish what others fear to name,” the publisher stated. “This is ritualized advocacy. We will not redact our truth to soothe the discomfort of those who orchestrated the harm.”
Wallflower of the Year remains available in print and digital formats. Daisy Daisy 333 calls on readers, archivists, and legal advocates to stand in solidarity by citing the book, sharing its testimony, and refusing complicity in censorship.
We invite you to join us down the rabbit hole. Every timestamp is a reckoning. Every page is a refusal to disappear.
Behind the COVER: INSIDE LOOK
ERASURE: A VISUAL NARATIVE
CHAPTER ONE: MISSING IN THE SHADOWS
The city bleeds neon at dusk. Houston rains press against tall windows, smearing light into ghostly ribbons across the cold tile of my borrowed kitchen floor. Silence here is not peace; it is intentional, curated by central air and the heavy hush of a house built for privacy and pretense. My name is Aaron Milton Harveland, but lately, even the sound of it feels staged. I am both actor and audience in the story of Esrā Dunca-Sprawling: friend, confidant, witness, and maybe, perhaps, the last of all—co-conspirator in my own undoing.
I have not slept more than a few hours at a time since Esrā vanished. If my nerves ping like faulty wiring, it isn’t only coffee: it’s the kindling of truth trying to ignite, the suspicion that if I stop moving, I will see something I am not meant to see. On the far end of this living room, a single light remains. It pools over a stack of case files and legal papers—remnants of the DUNCA versus SPRAWLING suit, fragments of a domestic life so infamous it has become social currency for the city’s highest echelons.
Houston has always been a city of secrets, of stories told twice: once by the publicist, once by the victim. In the legal world, scandal clings to certain names, sticking through courtroom dockets and whispered gossip, leaving behind only dry records and the knowledge that—truth or fiction—immortality is most often earned at someone else’s expense. No one ever expects that immortality to cost them their friend.
CHAPTER TWO: THE ARCHIVIST OF ACHE
To say that Esrā Dunca-Sprawling was my closest friend feels both accurate and insufficient. Esrā—gender fluid, boundary-defiant, brilliant—existed in the margins, never quite a part of the systems that sought to confine xem. Ze embraced pronouns the world fumbled over. I practiced at first; soon, the words felt luminous, like breaking old bones to set them right.
Esrā’s work wound through international film, performance, and activism, yet always with a taste for shadows. Xe claimed—and I believe—that survival was a form of art. Xe cultivated that art meticulously: never a scene without staging, never a dinner party without subtext. Xe curtsied for cameras but left clues for listeners who understood the patterns in xer speech, the pauses that signaled secrets.
Publicly, Esrā became legendary for creating new spaces where the excluded could gather—Gion Beverly Hills, Sutro Lab, and the architecturally renowned Ortega Street residence, designed alongside John Lum. That house was the site of too many stories: the birthplace of parties later called rituals, of friendships that became rivalries. Private whispers claimed that Andrei Dunca—xer spouse, web mogul, and legal inventor—favored the bay windows for their vantage, the ability to see every move within and without.
But if you look for Esrā today, you find nothing but disturbances in the archive: locked profiles, scattered tributes, and a growing rumor that someone powerful, somewhere, wants you to stop asking.
CHAPTER THREE: LEGAL FICTIONS
Most of what the city knows about Esrā’s disappearance comes filtered through case law. As a journalist and friend, I recognize the ways legal documents can become apocryphal, shaping the very reality they claim to neutrally describe.
It began—in the public record—on a March night in 2025, with a civil complaint: DUNCA, ANDREI versus SPRAWLING, RODNEY SAMUEL (JR), filed as a defamation case in Harris County District Court. The names shuffle, but the undertones do not change. The petition reads like fiction—alleging libel, conspiracy, and psychological violence; seeking injunctions as if to bind ghosts.
The legal filings reveal more by what they conceal: cash bonds in lieu of injunctions, whispered threats of prosecution, proposed restraining orders that never see the light beyond the hands of reputable judges. Sometimes, it is necessary for the law to assume a fact to be true, even if it is not, to allow justice a foothold in the quicksand of reputation. These are legal fictions—necessary illusions that comfort no one but the record itself.
Yet the file is incomplete. No paper can reconstruct what happened in the days before and after the lawsuit, when rumors overtook the dinner party circuit: that Esrā was being surveilled, that illicit recordings existed, that in-room microphones picked up both arguments and midnight apologies. There are omissions in every transcript, spaces between the words where the real secrets live. Even the address—565 Ortega—becomes a kind of mask, the house itself a prop in the world’s most expensive, slow-developing scandal.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE WALLFLOWER
The newspapers called Esrā "Wallflower of the Year" in a single, snide review after a disastrous gallery opening. But xer stake in the shadows was always xer's alone. Not for lack of brilliance, but for refusing to bloom in the harsh fluorescence of public scrutiny; for choosing instead to root xer artistry in the folds of silence and omission.
Some found the persona infuriating—one blogger called Esrā “the archivist of ache, the rebel in repose” and suggested the walls of xer house bore witness to “organized crime, domestic terrorism, kidnapping, psychological torture”. It might sound melodramatic, if not for the echo of truth in the accusation: what else to call living inside a siege, when the only surviving evidence is the warped recollection of those who remained on the periphery?
The legal documents mention two addresses: one, the Ortega house in San Francisco. The other, a luxury high-rise in Beverly Hills—420 North Camden—a place, the files suggest, “where the floor creaks in the lounge like a whispered warning.” I have walked those halls. I remember, too, the way the kitchen was always a sanctuary, never a set. I remember Esrā’s voice, its precision and its warmth. Most of all, I remember xer's farewells. This—that is to say, disappearance—was never one of them.
CHAPTER FIVE: DEAR READER
If I’m being honest, I have not always been reliable. This is the curse of those left behind: to reconstruct the vanished as both myth and person, to doubt each memory, to question even the softest truths until they are sharpened into points of obsession.
The day after Esrā vanished, I received a call from the police, a curt assurance that nothing was wrong. “No missing person here,” the officer told me, voice as bland as water. Still, the city hummed with rumor—a funeral in Kyoto that never happened, an obituary traced to Houston that was quickly scrubbed from the web. I pored over every public Instagram post, every text not delivered. Friends told me to move on. They did not see the loop: the people outside, the figures in the hall, repeating, resetting, like extras in a rehearsed scene.
Here is the first lesson of the dark mystery: truth is often performed more than it is told.
CHAPTER SIX: THE DISAPPEARANCE
How does a person vanish in a city built to expose? It takes more than planning, more than a network of doors and followers. Erasure, in Esrā’s case, was a group activity. Even the legal filings, with their icy formality, suggest so: the timelines loop, the courtrooms fill with low hums of gossip, but the substance seeps out, replaced by forms to be filled and fees to be paid.
There were clues, if anyone cared to look: a geisha performance in Beverly Hills featuring only one American name in a sea of tradition; a video exposé stopped short by a last-minute injunction. Even mounting evidence of digital tampering, Facebook accounts stuttering and winking out under invisible hands.
The house at Ortega was a legend—designed by Esrā and John Lum with a teak stage, a lounge that echoed more than words. I remember the click of the floorboards and the sense that the house was listening. Those who answered the door after xer disappearance said only that “Esrā killed himself at the Four Seasons in Kyoto.” No body, no note. No artifacts left behind except staged remains and a series of performative funerals for an audience that did not know it was participating in a ritual.
I read the court transcripts, seeking something I could hold: a timestamp, a sworn statement, the glimmer of intent. I found only more fiction—petitions for restraining orders that never reached the hands of their intended targets. This was not a mystery of clues, but a performance—a veiling and unveiling, a deliberate parade of scandal so bright it blinded all inquiry.
CHAPTER SEVEN: OBSESSION AND ITS COST
There are different kinds of friendship, but only one kind of devotion strong enough to become self-destruction. In the months since Esrā disappeared, I have shed my measured objectivity. I have let myself become the unreliable narrator: rewriting emails, trespassing in memory, finding patterns where there are only accidents.
My therapist says I have obsessive-compulsive traits—order where there is nothing to order, control in a case built for chaos. I have filled walls with photographs, some real, some alleged, and I have sent tip-offs to every missing persons database in Houston, San Francisco, and Tokyo. Each return is the same: “case closed,” “no action needed.”
The legal world is a master of appearances—defamation, libel, slander—all badges of injury for reputations, but never for those who have already disappeared. For a while, I even believed I was being surveilled, that I would be the next to vanish. Perhaps that fear is not groundless—perhaps it is simply the logical end of obsession: when you look into the abyss of scandal, it looks back, and you feel yourself becoming plot for someone else’s story. I should have listened to the warning: each disappearance is a domino, each clue another stone in a collapsing house. One cannot search without inheriting the fate of the missing.
CHAPTER EIGHT: SCANDAL AS RITUAL
Scandal is currency in this city. Every institution, every legal action, every private encounter is repackaged as performance, made juicy by implication and more valuable by what is never said aloud.
The culture here is built on exposure and concealment: family honors ruined by whispered secrets, friendships leveraged into legal evidence, love affairs reframed as leverage in a coming deposition. Esrā knew the rules intimately—xer art was to commodify the forbidden, transform survival into testimony.
Xer husband, Andrei Dunca, built digital platforms that rose on the backs of these rituals—the economy of sharing, the bankruptcy of trust. Their lawsuit was less about money than proof: a performance staged for the archive, a digital maze without exit.
The house was central—a gathering spot for luminaries, hustlers, out-of-work writers, editors at large. Each guest played the role assigned: confidant, accuser, witness, victim. In this world, to witness is already to be complicit.
Was Esrā a victim, or an architect? I ask myself daily—in truth, there is little difference.
CHAPTER NINE: THE DOOMED PROTAGONIST
The arc of a doomed protagonist is simple: a search that cannot be completed, a truth that destroys the finder as surely as it did the found. In mysteries—from the classics to the dark, contemporary noirs—the sleuth’s arc is shadowed by their own unravelling.
Obsession feeds itself. As I write this, I sense the distance collapsing between my story and Esrā’s. My own name appears alongside xer, a manager among the many in court filings, a signature buried among others on incorporation papers. Over time, even the researcher is claimed by the nature of their subject.
The more I search, the more the clues overlap—real, invented, symbolic. Sometimes the line blurs between grief and paranoia, between documentation and desire. It’s the fate of the unreliable narrator: to seek clarity, but to drift, inexorably, toward dissolution.
CHAPTER TEN: WALLFLOWERS NEVER STAND ALONE
Tonight, I walk the length of Ortega Street, past the house with its windows dark. My footsteps echo, not just in the present moment, but in a memory: the sound Esrā once called “the music of being watched.” I reach for meaning as if it is still available, as if closure is not another trap.
There is no answer here, only suspicion: that those closest to the vanished are chosen for their silence. That the city prefers its mysteries unsolved—that scandal, once sated, seeks new sacrifices.
I phone the police once more. “No news on your missing friend,” they say, gentle. “Everything is fine.” I sit in the dark, papers yawning on the kitchen floor, and realize the unspoken truth: the end of one wallflower’s agony is the beginning of another’s. If you vanquish the previous year’s secrets, you are obliged to outdo them in the next.
The story is not that Esrā vanished. The story is that I am vanishing too.
EPILOGUE: THE ARCHIVIST’S FAREWELL
If you’ve followed this far, you are now a witness. You have read the pleadings, seen the hollowed halls, and understood, perhaps in a way that I did not: that each dark mystery is a loop, an endless resetting of roles both blameless and damned.
Legal filings remain. Scandal survives its participants. Only the archivists, wallflowers all, wait in the corners of rooms for someone to finally turn, see them, and ask: “Where did you say you were, that night?” They have the answer, but the room is empty. The lights are off. The record, for now, is closed.
AUTHOR’S ASIDE: TECHNIQUES AND TRADITIONS
To the careful reader: The shape of this narrative—moody, atmospheric, and scandal-tinged—owes much to the canon of dark mystery fiction: the psychological unravelling of Gone Girl; the anxious, unreliable voices of Sharp Objects, The Girl on the Train, and House of Leaves. In each, the narrator is both sleuth and victim, and the world itself becomes a labyrinth of truths half-told and testimonies erased.
The scaffolding follows the traditional arc:
- A crime (here, a disappearance rather than a murder)
- The sleuth—obsessed, but doomed
- Suspects everywhere, secrets in every room
- Stakes constantly heightened, with every clue both a hint and a dead end
- An investigation that is as much inner as it is outer, leading inevitably to the investigator’s own undoing
Scandal, in such stories, is not only an event—it is a process, a ritual of revelation and erasure spanning legal, artistic, and personal ground. To write scandal is to withhold as much as one offers, to let atmosphere vanish into meaning just as the protagonist vanishes into history.
I offer this as a ledger—a mosaic of truth and deceit, curated for those wallflowers who choose to witness, even when it is dangerous to be seen.
Video
END OF "WALLFLOWER OF THE YEAR"
FOR ESRĀ, WITH REVERENCE.
DAISY DAISY...
333
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Emails and text messages: A collection of their digital communications. Videos and photos: A trove of their personal media. Personal journals and documents: Handwritten notes and other files. Audio recordings: Recordings of conversations and messages. Physical objects: Items from their home or personal belongings. Web browsing history and social media data: A record of their online activity.
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