A person reading my work realizes at once that they are faced with the cruel and exacting details of a man crucified by the British government as supposedly to blame for the presumed murder of John Lennon as a stake out concerning their position in the AIDS attack in which there was, they say, no Reagan connection, and which is behind us now. Culturally, the Beatles machinery led by Yoko Ono and New York Society is still running the show. An argument running since high school between myself, and attorney Miles Kirshner who graduated at the top of his class at University of Pittsburgh (where my father Ry was Chair for Philosophy of Education) has found Kirshner solidly victorious with Yoko Ono at the Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, in the principle they expressed by his downtown foundational blurb written on his brochure, “there is no such thing as objective reality only what the jury believes.” The hysteria of money was all it took, and a man’s life was robbed, supposedly in revenge for the death of another man. The very fact that I am forced to grind away my days answering murderers who hold me in a private prison proves that I have lost everything. The criminal insanity of the United States Government is playing night and day at 45 r.p.m. in the Tacoma Section 8 apartment of James MacRyland Crary with no fair challenge to arrest it. There was no trial, it was a set up, but they sold it. The Honors Department of Community College of Allegheny County witnessed how Peter Gabriel wrote to me for three years and set up a slaughterhouse in which the punishment unleashed by Beatlemaniacs from Carnegie Mellon left ripper murders all the way to the doorstep of the recovery clubhouse in which I was placed when found screaming in seizures on the streets of Seattle after the 911 airplane attacks. There is no crediting this tragedy so the scornful City of Seattle Government has pretended that it is not there, even as some of their police and leaders were massacred by gunfire on the streets. They claim I am connecting things. Is that against the law?
I cannot do everything I would like to do in terms of writing about what happened today because I am going to school to keep from being too isolated. Spending my summer doing math may not be the brightest idea, keeping me inside during this nice weather, but it has to be done. Meanwhile, the people who tortured me and made me a slave to amuse Yoko Ono do not care that they have ruined my health, in fact they targeted my health and that is the point of their crime against my person, to destroy my health, slowly, as an act of Japanese satisfaction transcending the cause they invented. So to show this exacting minutae in its totality is not exactly possible, but the narrative digest while incomplete should be sufficient to show you that the government for the State of Washington is both complicit and criminally insane. They are advocating for the establishment of experimental jurisdiction by a gang of foreign terrorists over a law-abiding, deafness disabled, neurologically injured American senior citizen totally without tears as though the whole thing has been a sadistic joke, a Beatles enterprise to be considered a secret treasure. Not one single member of Washington Congress can even stand or bear reading about what they have openly done to their eternal disgrace. It excites them like children to see the terrible disgrace that was visited upon me by Dracula Ringo Starr humiliating someone. They grovel before his murdering claw.
You may not be in a position to have noticed but Tacoma Community College, their literary magazine, Una Voce, after I did my level best to contribute as an editor, the hard-working military there decided against dignifying me. They spelled my name in the manner that Pittsburgh gym teachers did, calling me Carary. It’s not the usual message from the mis-spellers. They usually called me Carrie. On hand is a symbolic justice token, a near blind man named Richard of course. Mysterious, but then, the military and Richard Starkey have worked together all along where one British spokesperson said cynically with a sigh, “people just don’t treat the mentally ill very well.” To get the full picture of the scenario I am leading up to, where they bully the dumbshit Crary, you have to include the downtown Seattle clubhouse, which is Christian, I go there on Fridays, and observe their experimental lobby which includes, I kid you not, an old drinking friend of E. Howard Hunt and a healthy Christian boy with a gleam in his eye named Ryan. This arrangement, and what they do to an overworked, deaf old man, in serial cruelty, without pay, to humiliate me further, comes from a long, long chain of incidents built upon a crowning series of conceptual ideas that they just sell, they just get away with them, simple enough, they represent the Beatles and successful artists doing away with Crary the dumbshit.
So I will have to share a word about what made me such a dumbshit and what they have made of it and why me and how it operated on that level. Ryan introduced the theme of this particular piece of writing by handing me his credit card and telling me to get something from the store next door. I questioned him why he would want me to do that, oh the man knows us, he said, so I sighed and said okay, the man said bring me the I.D., so Ryan sent me back with his I.D. with the predicted result. It was a cruel and stupid, worthless little gesture to laugh at me, aren’t you smart enough not to try and use someone else’s credit card, you anti-Christian freak. While they laughed at my slumming obedience to their game, I felt what I always feel after years and years of grueling labors defending myself from terroristic lies, what an honest man cannot get down in five years, a Christian boy grinning with intrigue can get done in 20 minutes, like results from a call to police.
In the meantime, Patricia Fripp, who used Carnegie Mellon’s underground press, the Student Union, to advertise their plan to ripper murder an innocent bystander and rape my only friend, over a voiceover they provided themselves by secret, illegal research tapes, scoured the android zone for old voiceovers from childhood when I was torn apart by the gang for whom Warhol is advocating after suckering me pretending to be Amnesty International to whom I reported torture. Operating out of Alternative Conflict Resolution at CMU, a revenge specialist run by Germans working with Martha Harty Schienes, they have long called me Carrie.
By way of relevant vignettes, I return briefly to Miles Kirshner. Miles Kirshner is a Jewish slur master who, in fact, chose as his college roommate a buddy named Michael Exler which is pronounced X-slur and means how it is pronounced. Working with the Lucarellis mauling my name, from inside my house, where Lucarelli took godfather status in marriage to my complicit mother, who evidently birthed me as a contribution to this ghoulish union plan from England, Kirshner sells the same thing as Lucarelli, a Mencken quote Luke likes, “no one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American people.” Kirshner has a very tight buddy he respects named Sparky. This is just like Rubin, Sparky was Jack Ruby’s nick name and when you go looking for Rubin and people who look just like Rubin, as they say in the new JFK files, you don’t have to look far from the first Holocaust experiment I was used for in Kings Estate by the friend of Rubin, Burstyn, who wrote Ringo’s treasure chest, the script of the slipknot robbery that allows him to say anything he wants about me and do anything he chooses to me, because, he befouls, that Reagan didn’t know. He laughs and gurgles that I dragged myself through glass.
Although I was brutally, brutally tortured as a child, Warhol Museum has back up from the NAACP through Warhol Museum. I took to hiding on the top shelf of my towel closet from a gang assembled by Chris Frank. The NAACP ROTC representative yelled themselves blue, “DON’T SAY LIKE ANNE FRANK.” Cowering, in terror, for my life, on the top shelf of my towel closet, with bloody fingernails, wasn’t like Anne Frank, the NAACP yammers, it was sissy, because Anne Frank was a Jew, that is sacred cowering in a closet, as opposed to sissy cowering. Which brings them to the big belch in the sky, you don’t have AIDS, so you don’t really understand. I don’t have radiation poisoning from Hiroshima either, which, for Yoko Ono, is the real pearl in the oyster.
Miles Kirshner covered with Warhol Museum and City of Pittsburgh for a long pre-planned AIDS testing operation on Mt. Desert Island that Starkey’s partner Penis Gabriel swears was just Disney Magic using me as an ace in the hole for the Warhols in selling Lennon as the spiritual father of AIDS victims, while I am just a pale white deaf suck riding his coattails who should have to prove my sincerity as Carrie the Walrus by dying of AIDS. They have poured pig blood on my head, and used the sort of Beatlemaniac gaslighting tactics that find Lennon’s fans falling over each other to be sicker and crueler than the worst of the worst, operation: smile as you kill. They burned down the Jackson Labs, blew up the World Trade Center, ripper murdered Shannon Harps, all to the tune of primal scream therapy, or as you might codify in a name Cure by Ranting, as the man at Kirshner’s room John Currant who exchanged two Hitler stamps for a Lincoln twenty might exhibition, the night they took me to The White House, Reagan came out and waved to me, before the Disney Magic of John Hinckley shooting James Brady the next day. I too, have a brutal head injury from being shot with a nerve agent: DON’T SAY LIKE JAMES BRADY, because John didn’t shoot James, Jimmy was trying to play all big, like he was John, see.
Ringo’s doctrine is all befouled by sick and weird ideas about the holiness of John Lennon where my rights are voided in an upload about his disappearing act, or death, whatever you abide by under the terms of the game titled: There’s no such thing as objective reality only what they jury believes. How they believe it is inadmissible. For example, bellowing that I am after the Lennon money, trying to exploit John Lennon, they fail to include the rather glaring fact that while they were uploading this mission, while they were setting it up to use me this way, I knew nothing about the letters. How does it figure that I was trying to exploit someone I meant no harm whatsoever, about whose murder I had nothing to do, when I knew nothing about it? It doesn’t matter they say, because the real whodunit, Gail Burstyn, is Yoko Ono’s revenge specialist partner through NEVA Corporation, the authors of the script, and they have force overs showing me being used for sex in an AIDS war game. So who’s a sociologist now, dogeyes? They laugh at Crary the dumbshit.
The use of Lennon’s mind is doubled up on to make this seem like sacred text to easily over-awed. The AIDS victim community is filled with men of hate with nothing to lose. Ringo shamelessly got fingers pointed at me and told them they have his blessing in murdering me by the most sadistic ways they know how. He focuses them obsessively on me, jeering that I am a parasitic Mark David Chapman wannabe who is leeching them for 15 minutes of fame. Yoko Ono’s mission was all provided for with songs that fit right in, songs for Clean Up Time, allowing her to announce her ravages as sacred psychology for the heist. The pervert idea that I set out to profiteer from Lennon is based on something I not only knew nothing about but from a crime ring they are advocating for from whom I went to great lengths trying to get help, but just as the police told the men I reported as a child, just as word got back about me for a snitch, just as Ringo’s man Gutendorf got a call from AAA about where the starter switch in the car he was illegally borrowing was placed, when I reported Torture to Amnesty International, the saviors came and brutally raped my deaf advocate in revenge. Ringo Starr is a goddamn motherfucking cannibal.
Wattenmaker, named in their script, was not just the rottenegger who forcefed me the nerve agent, he was a matchmaker, too, working with Neva to promote Midori Goto in the Court of the Crimson King, a British boy from a Billy Club working with Edward Eisen who told me shortly before I was brutally attacked blindside by the NAACP’s favorite KKK car thieves in the Union gang around Leni Reifenstahl’s ten foot tall Black Men from the funeral parlor, “I am going to have to start getting nasty!” Billy Rodd, Billy Beck and Billy Flynn were still faster than me when Disney actress Ming Na Wen’s classmate set up the Flynn construction van’s reckless stunt driving incident at Kelly School while constructing a persona of me to, as Lucarelli’s friend Jason would put it, “pin the tail on the donkey.” What Gail Burstyn had written with Fripp to justify terribly cruel home invasion by people like Dan Lowe and Shawn Brooks, working with men from the NAACP who contracted attack prostitutes and shouted, “I don’t do anything for free!” mentioned knowing my betters. They have the auction rights.
911 was part of the deadly embrace by those who started AIDS, control the victims, and vowed, “If you wash we will be offended,” offended enough to spit in your food, in which they put glass, and rape a deaf girl as mercy. It is Penis Gabriel’s grip of poisonous Salmacis demanding her thirst be gratified.