Valentine’s Day Indictment 2017
My school went along with an appendage of what was done to me but there is no way they could have understood; what was done to me was wildly estranged from good governance and it was criminally insane. I’m very sick now and these murderers I am going to describe, school was not entirely hoodwinked, not only did this to me with intent to kill but they tortured me in surreal, hostage and kidnapping mutilation crimes as a child, and then, when I tried to get help, as though all a matter of course, they did it again.
This letter depends upon aim. It has to hit someone, and if you have it my hope is you act in motivating appropriate review. The sinister situation is criminally insane and governed by a murderer from bedlam of such mayhem, depravity and evil that he makes a receptionist of Caligula, and rather than have you think this is not true, or that I am overstating my case, I will explain his cold-blooded philosophy and how he came shopping for someone to strip of rights and immolate.
In Haruki Murakami’s book: Underground, about the sarin nerve gas attack on a Tokyo subway, the only other cult named in interviews with the perpetrators, acting as members of Aum Cult or Aum Shinrikyo, was Robert Fripp of the Gurdjieff cult in West Virginia who these maniacs admired to no end. Duped by his nattering in Guitar Craft magazines about ethics in music, pre-deaf from insane cruelty, I responded to an invitation sent to me while working at the University of Pittsburgh in answer to my interest and was lured into an insane asylum of secret illegal military acts against disabled people and children, without my consent.
How do fellow writers come to agreement in a murderous conjob? Movies have outmoded shock effects by re-runs of blood splattered silver screens. They have delved into the macabre, the truly horrifying, seeking public outrage and indignation like a game for decades and because of this, we in Western Pennsylvania have been asked to provide, by the screams of our children, fresh blood curdling excitement for the putrid ennui of Warner Brothers. The bloodthirst is a search for ratings. They seek new game, having over-toxified cinema.
Mel Gibson’s father lives in Westmoreland County. What Gibson did is no better than gang rape in a bar. His psychotic headhunting spree directed at me by Peter Gabriel contained acts of total and vicious criminality, sick and disturbing inhumanity, yet because Hollywood has heard this all before, they snap the Director’s Cutting Board and drawl, “No sale.” Forgiveness of these brutal indoctrinators, perpetrators of genuinely serious infamies would be the most loathsome civil betrayal.
During this horrid scam by this machine of popular culture, I received attentions from John Stockwell of the CIA, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Martha Gellhorn wrote to me, as did Walker Percy and Eugene Sledge. All of this was intended to build my confidence that help had arrived while they mongered a brutal, crying shame of backstab and manipulation. Neither of us, my school or me, were anywhere near prepared for encounter with the sick and disturbing mind of these Federally sanctioned lopers, and from the evidence I found and from who Robert Fripp is, there is no question at all, absolutely certified by his correspondence to me, that the monster of this Indictment was Ringo Starr.
Ringo Starr is not rational; nor is he admirable or exciting. He is a beastial ripper hatter fomenting rivers of blood insane with tastes for evil popularized in German ratings for government in the 1930’s and 40’s, scarcely 80 years ago. There are still living survivors. He is a chauvinist, maniacal, rape executor out to viciously wipe out dissent and awareness. I suspect him capable of global destruction. He is bent with true malevolent evil.
They made no secret of their swine-like con artistry. It was putrid and simple. The white deserves no comfort, and the black will be rewarded for laughing with derision at the most cut-throat attacks. Being a stereotype in the eyes of the street city black the projection of their backstab all around me while I was deaf and completely at sea left the insider to the joke unmoved because of celluloid bribery. Far, far estranged from governance, yet the government knew. They allowed the University of Pittsburgh’s sickening accomplices not only commit vivisection on a crying, hostage child, they used a nerve agent, and exacted a life’s work without compensation through exploitation of severe and serial concussive injuries and through slaughtering blows to the head, but it went deeper, they used such things as subliminal psychology on a neuro-traumatized, semi-comatose deaf golem, raping the only woman who truly tried to help me, now leaving me rot after a lifetime of unimaginable pain, alone with diabetes and that, from the sunken and ill look in my eyes, is at best a hope. We do not know the extent of injury from their sadism.
Who else helped them?
Spike Lee came with nymphos. The white evidently wanted to be in love and married, but ah, was that not against the decree of the swindlers? Amanda Harcourt came in as Queen Elizabeth’s attorney. She wrote to me with asides from Yoko Ono in flaming impunity in full view of my school’s Honors Department. Amanda Harcourt is criminally insane. Claiming to represent HAIR she used "rather haughty" to deceive her mark with the hidden, and undetected X-slur "rather hottie." Using home invasion and a military nerve agent as her medium, she brutally attacked an impacted injury sneering that the queerbait had the right idea but was too clingy. She then wrote the alibi for those who released AIDS, as proven by the war game they called a charade, in the name of HAIR, a chilling testimony to the CIA origins of the Broadway lemmings lure. My father, one time Chair of Education at Pitt, now dead, was apparently blamed by Bush when they were in the Navy together, for this loss of his plane when dad was in the radio room.
The Beatles, through brutally excessive punishment for crimes they projected through a theory of transference, writing an evil script, exonerating their agent whose hand recorded it to me as an unwitting child, knocking me out and then stealing my name, acts of such deranged mania that for years I was screaming in seizures in homelessness covering the bus lines of the United States, looking for help to no avail, trapped by a situation from Carnegie Mellon far more vicious and sophisticated than anything I or my school, a Community College, could possibly ever understand, so what did they do? They provided proto-cat-calling slave drones who live by the idea that abandoned women hold sway, punch drunk with tawdry little tales by pedophiles blackmailing a smut-stricken child hostage who tried to get away.
The Beatles were gaslighters, crazy-makers, of our entire society. They made the ideals of non-violence espoused by Dr. King into the humiliating spectacle of Simplicimus, a man so dishonored that any other man would take death before such a life. They used Oprah Winfrey’s name to demand of women: Open your box and sing for your green card, win your freedom by servitude. They committed monstrous transference and then eminent domain.
When Mel Gibson dies God’s most rabid rotweiller, belly ravenous with immortal hunger, shall feed on his soul of Hitler putrescence, while the spirits of his victims cheer the sight of his entrails, the blindfold having been taken from their eyes: “That’s Entertainment!”
How bout dat voice again?