There are no Kennedy researchers.  It takes a long time to write. The significance of the game of warmer/colder being played by the assassins is that a big wheel goes into play when someone’s ideas go to market by the intelligence services we call the publication industry.  This is very time-consuming, because a complex subject, and it cuts a turf. Even if it is in colder country. So the coax, this way, look here, causes friction afterwards. The result is that the most recent giveaway of long withheld cottage industry tools and materials for setting up a table contains grossly revealing items that the so-called researchers slam shut:  Don’t-Look-There style after all the complaining and demanding for release. Warmer abruptly becomes too hot.

     Nothing can protect words on paper from you, suitable reading or not.  Many talented people, while sheltered, are highly educated but still in the dark and frankly prefer it that way.  Even among those trained to detect, investigate and report you cannot just say what’s going on, it doesn’t make reality plausible enough.  Kennedy’s killers demonstrated superior grasp of their subject and greater prowess. Beyond belief is the name of the game in show business.

      In Seattle, such slow going helps to blame the victim because here the whole point is to convince people they were defeated before they began, this keeps them passive-aggressive, docile towards the guilty, even admiring, while acrimonious towards the weak, spotlighted and targeted.   The myth construct spoon fed them remains their status quo and very poignantly it is also murderously in tune with the purposes of the killers. The script-writers kept it easy by putting their finger on the limits of responsibility and expectation. The minute things are put this succinctly they begin to falter because of the critique at work, the challenge from the jetset, the rich and famous, the powerful intelligensia where we don’t say fascist anymore because it isn’t cute, is to gulp down their medicine because you won’t dare speak against their fame.   

     This case is developed to be like a scene in Fu Manchu where the British detective whom Scotland Yard depends upon, looking at the empty space where a man evaporated into smoke and dust before his astonished eyes, is said to “rap,” “I must see his last papers!”  In these scripts and counter-scripts the peacemeal vies with the highjinx, and it doesn’t even matter if the frame up extends to the smashing of our gates of liberty. “Here’s your intellectual hero, dames,” they laugh as the real swingers. “Still want him?”

      Rusted Root at school in Pittsburgh almost had me believing what they were selling about me.   I did have a complex about being a rejected lover, what I didn’t understand, and what they did, is that a nerve agent was used to keep me guessing about what was wrong with me.   The churning of the company paperwork about my personality didn’t include what they had really done with a personality change chemical. I was fighting the poison and they claimed I was fighting myself.   They enjoy incubating digest, as though to ask, “where will this lead?” in search of a satisfying pang of essay reaching them with the thrill of infinite jest, sanctifying their perfect storm in the semiotics of reality.

     Jimmy is the dog caught in the fly trap Disney and HitlerReagan had in mind in the screwball comedy that finds the prisoners laughing in church, a film called, “Sullivan’s Travels,” America First’s answer to the outbreak of war.   From screwball comedy to screwtape letters about pussyball, Pentagon-Disney used animation of political propaganda to keep the victims of the extermination no one dares call by its name enthralled. Although never meant to be a game, the perfume in the lady’s dress of screwball comedy, “The Lady Eve,” finds the enthralled swooning almost as though he had gotten a whiff of sarin and thus serendipity.  The warcraft comes down from angels capable of ESP. There’s no one to tell and no one to tell it with, they take your life and your women, but you all love it, don’t you?