The Black Street Women

A Mac Crary Editorial (June 21, 2017)


Do Exactly What They Tell You and You Won’t Get Hurt


The neuroplastic head injury visible in my facial nerve is evidence that AIDS was an attack and this can be proven by approaching the attending evidence and information from a number of different avenues all leading to the same dead end. There are several that are obscure enough not to concern this essay because although they prove the same issue, they can be used as distractions to prevent immediate recognition. One reason is that the hypocrisy of those who played out this crime with a series of alibi have created arguments easy to use against them, but pointlessly time consuming. One factor that bursts through the door about this progressive offense to our society is that the authorities have stood by and failed or refused to properly acknowledge the material, angling instead for bizarre political readings and ideological determinations, while falsifying and destroying evidence, always in political action that are lawless and unwilling to bring their tawdry premises to a courthouse and meet the evidence against them. The Law has tolerated that AIDS was an attack even though several prominent political figures were murdered by the gang responsible. This failure is protected by hospital authority, notably psychiatric, and school administration.


The fiends responsible are perverts, and they dominate Hollywood. There is heavy and intense evidence that the loud and outrageous political attacks on me in Pittsburgh by our largest newspaper were stage managed and organized by murderers who filmed my being held hostage, tortured, bukkaked in my sleep as a child, who added to their film collection by raping my deaf advocate Jeannie after making known the ludicrous direction of their sinister alibi, the idea that I was hiding a rape out of fear of self-incrimination. Many personal attacks depended very viciously on smears leveled against my person by women in a pedophile ring who played soothers between incidents of mutilation, in the end murdering my father, an educator, and occupying our school professing to be advancing the Civil Rights Movement.


It isn’t just that members of Kyra Schon’s entourage, George Romero’s daughter, attended Fulton Elementary and were present at Brecher’s slumber party where I was bukkaked at the age of nine while sleeping, and possibly filmed, but also that Peter Gabriel and Michael Reagan both conspired to use torture of an impacted nerve injury under traumatic amnesia and neurohypnosis to extrude without rights what they claimed was self-dirtying memory. The rape they claimed I was hiding turned out to be a kidnapping incident where I was freezing in tears and found on the streets by the murderers I had reported to the office of school, yet despite my absence no one called home. Reagan wouldn’t stop at this, he squoze until he had me screaming of being pedophiled on the streets, while he laughed.


There is a good deal more. You could argue that torture and mutilation of a child, the probable filming of sexual abuse of a child, for years and years, by a strategic and organized command system doesn’t prove AIDS an attack, but that is premature, because there is more to come. My purpose is to put into perspective the environment this lobby cruelly enculturated their prey to goading me on into their war game. I have described and proven that AIDS was attended by a Two Virgins pussyball war game allying the NAACP with Japan in a mask of morality that was really a whore house sit-in campaign by black men who felt cheated of their due among spoils, but the fact that a child pornography syndicate is also openly involved will become clear as you read.


Our culture was ring-mastered by British rock music and drug traffic that was introduced into the mess that counter-culture created during hysteria about the war in Vietnam. Bowie sang of “defecating ecstacy,” something I didn’t even understand as a child, singing, “let the children use it,” while Lou Reed sang on a.m. radio of a woman “giving head” in the bathroom. I was shamed never to say anything untoward in the way of words I picked up from HAIR and Nixon in front of my grandparents, but my grandmother read, “The Rookies” before giving it to me. My mother’s shrieks of terrifying power that raucously ruined my faith in authority shook the house with her madness when I was just a child desperately frightened and hostage. Even when I learned the words for kidnapping and torture she tried to blame me.


Mother worked for David Demarest. She dated Bill Peckham. Demarest put together the student action lobby who made tapes for Peter Gabriel and Reagan while I tried to understand, deaf as I was, what was happening. Peckham did evil experiments on monkeys at Pitt. It is because of the sadism of the experiments that Dr. Nelson Harrison snapped at me, “You aren’t special,” at school, when I reported torture, not some psychological leveling mystique between the racists. If I’m not special, you could show it by treating me in a decent and normal way.


I think the evidence is very clear that my mother Nancy Moore was party to this and a partner of Gail Burstyn, who wrote the script. A woman took possession of me after Don Ostro and his gang fiercely battered me into a dead drunk coma as a child, on Black Street. It was at minimum deranged pedophilia by them, but it may have gone beyond that. We know that the Executive division in Seattle evoked Bill Wheeler’s claim to have murdered Nancy’s grandchild as proof that I needed to be castrated by Wheeler’s ally, the unidentified registered nurse at Harborview. These women could be called The Black Street women because Midori Goto’s chicanery was based on building advocacy for militant Black huns in the AIDS attacker movement. Kyra Schon’s lover Mike Seatte, even has a huge swastika tattoo on his arm. Gail Burstyn wrote naming Leslie Katz, and Seatte was one of those threatening me in her name. The Gay Ill and Les Lie alliance were sharks and shrill about nothing when it came to me.


Ostro used to speak into my defeated head about fisting. Mancine, his partner would snicker, “put a bag over her head,” and Brecher would holler, “put a muzzle on it.” They made clear that I had to exactly what they said not to get hurt. I was neurobedient from a robotic implant from Wattenmaker. Further, they had gassed me into submission no longer able to comprehend anything but direct orders. JK, the initials for the man who attacked me blindside who they called Casper, is a major signifier in Japanese pornography. Bernard Watternmaker, whose sons asked me if he could put me under hypnosis, told me a story that after years of smoking a cigar on Friday nights he was addicted and had to have that cigar. Ian, his son, also showed me photos of a man bleeding to death from gunfire. Katz is like Killed At The Z(end). I want to point out that my mother came right home after the end of Von Ryan’s Express, saying she knew I would be crying. She was across the street at her partner Jane’s house, next door to R. Walsh.


Nancy left me for days at the custody of Mary Ellen Tunney, Andrea Swimmer’s ward, who worked with the Student Union and Demarest. When I told my mother how I was abused, she asided, “I hope that Mancine did a better job raising his own children than he did raising you.” I don’t know what such words are even supposed to mean.


The NAACP said I was like a Pavlov rat when I proposed to Midori Goto. It was set up to seduce me to the the charms of freedom and hope in a world of sanity where none existed. This was the next level of the trap. Midori had cut a deal with Obama and was the most important of the Black Street girls. She has sought to promote the idea that I am some sort of Don Rickles selling a whiplash story to justify even lie and pinched nerve of mental abuse trauma, selling Dominic Migliosi, who used to jeer Shaky into saying, “I’m gonna split your head wiiide open,” across the street from the fatal shooting at Babyland. Migliosi would jeer what he called, “the halfways,” drive me around in the back of a paper truck filled with bags of Kennedy halves, and snarl at anyone who would listen about me, “Hit him in his haid! Hahahahaha.”


My mother would have been Shocked! Shocked!