Until an individual tells me the AIDS attack didn’t happen I am inclined to give the benefit of the doubt to the idea that they wouldn’t have done it themselves.  When Elizabeth Taylor’s crowd, for whom quality of life is absolutely everything, told me after sex that if I washed they’d be offended, I realized how devious the human trafficking ring I had only begun to identify really were willing to be, and the lengths they were going to concocting an explanation for Penis Gabriel’s cover up operation about Mt. Desert Island.   Sleeping around may be ugly as police work, but as my mentor said when telling her I was getting in deeper and deeper by lying to myself, saying to calm down, “this can’t be real,” I understand completely. What better conjob than the claim they had my dirty secrets.

      Identifying and writing about the AIDS attackers does not exactly involve best representations at the mercy of camera obscura.  They operated openly and in cold blood. The underlying power structure of the British war machine, which is what Pink Floyd is, notoriously untouchable, had a surprise attack that while explainable and helpful to understand, is also apparently out of reach.   Gabriel and Fripp both talked about it. Gabriel was making songs about me called: That Voice Again and droning that the world would be cleaner and purer and more likely to obey Gods from sensory deprivation chambers if we could hear each other’s thoughts, a concept padded by taking a symbolic American and subjecting it to terroristic mayhem through Israeli nerve agent poison.   He waltzed to NASA playing up an REM angel (rapid eye movement research) while Fripp droned on, “even the attempt to hide is detected”. Pentagon Disney has a direct brainwave sonar.

        The paradox of King Crimson is that they masqueraded as recognizing achievement and ability, so I felt safe not knowing they were behind what was happening, because I studied and felt sure my innocent conduct would inspire them, being very loyal to them; but the truth about these mass murderers is very strange.   Imagine a fraud making tons of money conning wealthy people as some sort of warped sybil, exhibiting certificates of learning that were forgeries and high tokens of illustrious involvement with recognizable names like themselves, and contrast that with someone who is honest, poor and works very hard. Then the fraud begins victimizing the sincere.   Is respect for the criminal possible?

        The brainwave sonar was a sneak attack.  It was diagnosed paranoid schizophrenia and while that is sickening enough in a crime of torture, rape, murder and exterminationism, allowing the mental abuses of Ringo and Yoko, about which they had the slipknot of appropriating Roberto Clemente’s good name for the act of raping a Pittsburgh deaf girl, typical slander of persons far greater than themselves, the actual cosmic manipulation of this power is in the factual nature of its capacities versus the way they make it sound.  The secret of this secret is that it cannot, at least yet, do retrieval. They cannot listen in. It’s like one of their concert systems. It can blast rubbish into your head, but it cannot hear what you are thinking. Advance facial readings and ESP experiments were on hand to give the illusion at the shock of their sneak attack that it could and so Penis Gabriel was able to yammer in Senegalese, why would the queerbait be afraid of a one stroke defiant trespass dag that never took place?   Why does it resist slaving to titillate us by revelation of its being bukkaked as a nine year old humiliato? When, in reality, the murderer was projecting a slander into a hell broth of neuroplasm when he already knew that I had never done any such thing. So while the murderer whistled, “that is except for Mary,” and threatened to kill my sister, he played advocate for child molesters and ripper murdered an innocent bystander as a research gesture. Why would the queerbait be so afraid if it wasn’t guilty?

        The murderers at Duquesne University and their subsidiary in Seattle, who have an Exterminator system advertised at the gates of the southern entrance to the city limits, called Paratex with the barlike E used only by blacks from Duquesne in my experience, claimed that Mt. Desert Island was experimental therapy.  What they didn’t include is that it was an experimental explanation covering for a prior criminal experiment they conducted in which I was tortured and given a nerve agent. Who profited from the angle? Duquesne was making a mockery of my father Ryland all along. They are parochial and wanted his offices. Having me right where they wanted me and lured me in Seattle for the Pennsylvania Green Party (Sylvia Green) at CCAC to chemically castrate me and do more experimental readings as they used the woman I loved for their recreation in triumph of the good kind was far out over-achievement.  In the end they spat derogatory words at me and called me a celebrity victim, managing just barely to destroy the cover art, “You Gonna Eat That,” at CMU which proves they were recycling torture to coerce self-dirtying.

         Yoko Ono’s partner Gail Burstyn depicted her as running a Lemmings Law show where the pitman were allowed to take Jimmy Crary (James MacRyland Crary) a strategically named symbol that was used by Kennedy assassins in their research trying to prove that Liberals, not Jews, deserve extermination, to Kings Estate and gas it.   You have to is the requirement. Meanwhile, if you say that about Ono, you are evil because it means you are justifying the death of John Lennon, who is Reagan’s partner. The death penalty is on hand for anyone who doubts Hollywood. AIDS therapy on Mt. Desert Island based on blame because it isn’t really manmade is a tough chew but it softens up when you get to law and money.  In this case the issues isn’t that Yoko Ono is in partnership with Israeli organized crime but that it is besides the point because they have a trophy kill symbolizing America that they have laid claim to as mutual brokers of the big deal.

     The hatter Gabriel has planners who were working on the internet when it was first conceived in 1843 and George Boole’s theories concerning the laws of thought in the 1850’s.   He snarled about having “grown web feet,” as he spread his lies and plot worldwide targeting America as the enemy of King Edward in the rise of Donald Trump, which allowed him to evoke John Lennon’s name in such crimes as school massacres in America.

      As their last laugh, they defend what they have done by making me out to be a bubble delusion, fed their hatred to such an insane degree that I have come up with this website as a gesture of admirable defiance, sure I would fall panting like Bea Arthur into their arms, “Oh, Mr. Wayne!”