References used for this work.

People tried to kill me soon after Big Daddy’s funeral. If you’re reading this, then they didn’t succeed. Two years later, the United States government gave me permission to shoot and kill unarmed civilians within 15 meters of any American, and a few months later I was issued a diplomatic passport and asked to help people in the Peace in the Middle East find peace.

If you don’t know who I am already, then we didn’t succeed.

Ironically, as I write this in 2020, America and the Middle East may be experiencing their lowest murder rates as a result of the Covid19 pandemic. We won’t know that, for a fact, until the future. For now, I’m only writing about facts that I can obtain from government records.

It’s almost all on the internet by 2020, because of the Freedom of Information Act and our online National Archives. But, by now, so many movies have been made, and there’s so much fake news, that only few people know the difference between fact and fiction. I didn’t want to make mistakes, and I wanted to document my process so that others could follow my logic and continue, if they wanted to.

Vice President Johnson withheld most of the John F. Kennedy Assassination Report when he became president after Kennedy’s death. Every president since has released a little more, and 99.4% was publicly available in our National Archives as of 2020.

I read on Wikipedia – a source of what America believes is factual in 2020, according to Wikipedia – that President Trump declined to release the remaining 0.6% of the report. I have no idea about what could be inside of that tiny piece, and I’m unconcerned.

To write this book, I used what information was available when Bill Clinton became president in 1992, which I can remember clearly, because that was the year I first told someone that Hillary Clinton broke my finger before Big Daddy’s funeral.

I copied the front web page of the National Archives on Saturday, April 18th, 2020, while quarantined in my apartment during the first Covid19 pandemic that explains why most of that information became public two years after Big Daddy’s Funeral. Here’s what it said:

John F. Kennedy was killed on November 22, 1963. Almost 30 years later, Congress enacted the President John F. Kennedy Assassination Records Collection Act of 1992. The Act mandated that all assassination-related material be housed in a single collection in the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA).   The resulting Collection consists of more than 5 million pages of assassination-related records, photographs, motion pictures, sound recordings and artifacts (approximately 2,000 cubic feet of records). Most of the records are open for research.

Our National Archives keeps detailed records of changes made, which I know because Wikipedia said it did once.

I wanted to check my memories against other public records, ones put up by people and not the government, so I began with the fact that Hillary Clinton broke my finger in 1990, and I was shocked to learn I had been mistaken. It was Hillary Moore, not Hillary Clinton, who broke my finger at the 1990 Baton Rouge City Wrestling Tourmanment.

10,000 people crammed into Baton Rouge Civic Center to watch me battle Hillary Clinton three weeks before Big Daddy died. I was in the final match for 145 pounds, and above our heads was a big sign hung in the air with our names on it. By coincidence, Hillary and I were side-by-side as captains of our teams. Hillary was Captain of the Capitol High School Lions, and I was Co-Captain of the Belaire Bengals.

Below our names was the next school in the alphabetical list of schools, Clinton High.

I remembered that Hillary Clinton broke my finger, and 30 years later a group of enthusiasts who maintain the Louisiana Wrestling Archives let me realize I had been mistaken all of my adult life. It started with one simple mistake, and after Bill Clinton became president my memories were reinforced by a lifetime of laughter and joy from telling people Hillary Clinton broke my finger.

I wore my wedding ring on my first finger because it would not fit on my ring finger. If I hold up my left hand, it looks like I’m spreading my fingers because the break healed askew. People asked why I wore a wedding ring on my first finger, and I’d show them, and when they asked what happened, I’d smile and say Hillary Clinton broke my finger; it wouldn’t have been funny to say Hillary Moore broke my finger, and I probably would have continued saying Hillary Clinton until I learned that would be lying.

Hillary’s a part in this story, and it’s hard to change how my mind thinks, so now that you know the truth I’ll continue calling him Hillary Clinton, and later I’ll decide if I have to return 48 years worth of joy and laughter and sorrow and tears that resulted from lies.

After learning that Hillary Moore broke my finger in 1990, I returned to researching the U.S. National Archives, and I was that the FBI had been observing my family as far back as 1963, a year before Lee Harvey Oswald shot and killed President Kennedy.

Lee had trained in the Baton Rouge civil air force in the airport near Grandma Foster’s house, and from my perspective that’s a remarkable thing to discover in a 5 million page document, and I just added it to his story as a fun fact. He went by Harvey Lee, I heard or read somewhere like Wikipedia.

I went to the highest court of United States law and its records, and downloaded the Supreme Court’s ruling on Hoffa vs. The United States and their opinion on Big Daddy’s testimony – he was the only witness, and it got him out of jail. I added those things, too, just now. That fact is taught in law school, because the Partin family set the U.S. standard for being paid informants.

That was news to me in 2020. I didn’t learn that the government bought Big Daddy’s wife a house and paid her enough to live on and care for their five children for the rest of her life. I found that fact to be remarkable, and I just added it.

I added a letter from Mamma Jean Partin. She left us a letter, a small memoir and a legacy to let us know what she could tell us about Big Daddy. She had waited until after the trial to divorce him, and she never did any interviews or talked about what happened to anyone, even Bobby Kennedy and the FBI investigators who called every day in the weeks leading up to Big Daddy’s death and funeral.

She began her letter to us, “To my Children, Grandchildren, and Great Grandchildren,” and in a few short pages she proceeds to share what she remembers, how she was fooled by Big Daddy, and what she knew about Hoffa, Kennedy, and Castro. She says that Hoffa summed up how Big Daddy fooled everyone when he said, “Edward Grady Partin was a big, rough man who could charm a snake off a rock.” Even after all of that time, he must have said he was handsome a dozen times in that letter, even after all he did.

She talked about knife wounds in his ribs oozing blood onto dozens of thousands of dollars taped around his waist, and of deals with Castro gone bad, and she talks about how charming he was, and handsome, and good to his daughters. She talked about his history of killing and raping and lying and stealing. She had wanted to talk about my dad, but she passed away too soon.

She said that she first noticed that her husband wasn’t who she thought when he stopped going to church with her and her five children – Mamma Jean loved Jesus. She left as soon as she could, and that over time you remember the good things and forget the bad, and that she would never question how Jesus allowed her to protect her children.

She said a lot in three pages. I only remember her talking about loving three in life – Family, Jesus and Catfish. I barely knew her, just like I barely knew Big Daddy, but we talked a lot after he died.

She cooked me a fried catfish dinner in the house the government bought her, and she told me Jesus worked in mysterious ways, and that she loved her family. She didn’t tell me why she didn’t help me when her son abandoned me, other than she was afraid of my dad.

Finally, I added what I read in the autobiographies of Jimmy Hoffa and Doug Partin, and my memories of Doug teaching me to make explosives and kill people. In his book, Doug talked about Hoffa blowing up his house, and I related that to my memory as an eight year old kid in 1980. But don’t add that to Wikipedia just yet; that doesn’t mean that Hoffa did anything, it means that as and eight year old kid I listened to a lot of stories that impacted the choices I made growing up. In 2020, Uncle Keith told me Doug was crazy, and that he blew up his own house to collect the insurance money.

By the end of this work, you’ll know everything I’ve learned about Big Daddy and forgiveness. I don’t know much, and what I know has already been written, so his story will mostly be from my perspective as a kid growing up in foster homes, as a part in family.

From my perspective, Big Daddy’s story is more about and the people who help us grow through life. This is my part in his story, and it’s about people you’ve probably never heard of, and it begins after my mom dies in 2019. There were only five of us at her funeral, and I don’t remember seeing any FBI agents.

That’s 99.4% of what I know about Big Daddy, and the beginning of what I learned about my mom and myself as I wrote this book in quarantine during the 2020 pandemic.

Return to the Table of Contents.

Edward Partin and Aunt Janice. I told her if I ever used her name in a book, I’d call her “my hot, sky diving, entrepreneurial aunt.” So there.
My dad, Ed Partin II, and I look just alike, but I don’t think he’s had had short hair since this photo was taken from the top of the Louisiana State Capital Building in Baton Rouge. Ignore the fact that they’re all dangling off the roof, 30 stories above ground, without a safety wire. It was the 60’s.