It started as a social media dispute between two white women, total strangers to each other; that should have died in the comment section: but somehow staggered into court as a civil HRO built on bizarre accusations of racism and sexual assault.
The docket flickered. The timestamps shifted. And deep in the rotton guts of Ramsey County Courthouse, the rusted machinery groaned awake, ready to make a simple case uglier than it ever needed to be.
Strickland v. Ramsey County, et al.
Autistic indie game developer Kellye Strickland becomes the target of cyberstalker and hyper-Marxist Madeline S. M. Lee.
What should have been an isolated conflict between two strangers instead sets off an explosive chain reaction inside a shadowy county apparatus that has no apparent reason to be involved.
With no connection to either woman, no stake in the dispute, and no coherent logic behind the choices it makes; the system moves anyway-intervening to shield the offender while, in the same breath, exposing her to dangers that would have been catastrophic had their own imagined narrative been real.
What follows is a sequence of real life events so bureaucratically bizarre that they read like satire, yet every moment is ripped directly from the evidentiary record.
Featuring real humans who behave with the inexplicable logic of a glitching TylerTech system:
- Referee Jenese Larmouth, whose involvement flickers in and out of the docket like a corrupted broadcast;
- Judge Nicole Starr, introduced abruptly mid-case and instantly credited with decisions she never heard;
- Referee Elizabeth Clysdale, who presides like a ghost in the machine;
- Judge Mark Ireland, a distant figurehead of vanished oversight; junior attorney
- Kyle T. Manderfeld, the after-hours filer who never met a deadline he couldn’t reinvent; and
- Court Administrator Nicole Rueger, keeper of a record that changes depending on who asks to see it.
Looming over every scene is Ramsey County itself-an institution with too many hands on the same pen, where routine procedure behaves like experimental fiction and the "official version" of events is simply whichever one gets printed last.
See the full cast here.
You have discovered a living digital archive built to capture, preserve, and organize the record in real time.
To tell the story as it unfolds.
What exists here is the full, evidence-backed story being documented as it actually happens, in real time. Every PDF is intact, every contradiction accounted for, every missing signature held up to the neon light.
This is not the version that shifts when viewed through Ramsey County's shattered funhouse mirror.
This the control copy of a courtroom drama gone surreal: where ADA rights vanish mid-scene, clerks swear by timelines that never existed, and the "official record" behaves like an unreliable narrator who keeps forgetting which universe the hearing occurred in.