In defending my picture of things, most of all the right to write the truth, the President of my former college’s Honor Department, Krista Kohn, stated, “Mac’s writing is raw. People like things that are raw.” There is a glissando of sorts in the manner that there was an execution of America when I was a child with the death of John Kennedy towards my emergence late in life as a cyberpunk that speaks to the inability to get help from torture and mutilation in a program of political crime enforced by the Obama generation. Much more is going on in the Southern Baptist brokerage that translated the murder of a Massachusetts liberal into a high-fiving, gang-banger of a black Mr. President by way of a series of dictator-like Reagan attaches. After the shock and awe of Kennedy’s death set in, we became a country in a semi-trance of Stockholm Syndrome, saying nothing and even identifying with the neo-Nazi power structure selling us National Security as a news blackout.
The 60’s/80’s were a twin era. The young lost a suit and tie leadership against the war in Vietnam with the death of Martin Luther King, while the CIA uploaded a zany series of troubadour drug traffickers in a British opium war without opium that was meant to loosen morals, bring in human trafficking controls and slam us into the wall of the AIDS attack under the scorching eye of parochial scorn.
Pittsburgh and Hillary Clinton then pulled a smooth move. It is on the record and was never reported. How do you like them apples? They set it up to make all of the fans of the Beatles moan and groan that a queerbait named Jimmy Creary cudda saved John Lennon but was hunting a virgin. Best of all, through this sorcery, the whole thing hadda be kept secret or it meant exploiting the great hero. We learned at once that Reagan top sacredly represented Lennon’s holy spirit on earth, which they tagged as “Caspar” the walrus identity synthesizing the Good Hitler and Yoko Ono, and that we learned is also why Sir McCartney worked with Reagan and Bush on a special murder operation, fulfilling the script written by the assassins, in contempt for the queerbait. Big copy. The New York Times sent out signals from their luminaries that it was buying the storyline. Nothing needed to be explored in detail since the whole thing made perfect sense on its face.
There proved to be no point in trying to describe what I lived through and witnessed because the British had lied on the tables. The courts of Pittsburgh and Seattle where I have long lived below the poverty line, warning people by terribly sad efforts, deaf, and now with diabetes, proved to be staffed by Judges who are themselves criminally insane. If I had been a magistrate and learned that the people who started AIDS were lying about what happened while murdering and raping innocent women in soothsay for maniacs like Cameron Brown and David Summerlin, leaders of a staged and phony queer uprising, and I had been a judge on the bench, I would have donned a hardhat and grabbed a billy club to head into the streets meaning to put a stop to it. Instead, the distinguished Judges put up a verminous, literal, invisible sign: Don’t You Dare Bring Your Freedom of Speech to Our Attention.
Carmen Colucci, who used to terrorize me dragging me around with the Ford Brothers, sons of a Pittsburgh cop, as they engaged in thefts from innocent people, getting right back to me as a snitch when I tried to get help from police, told me over the phone, “The reason they hid Lennon evidence in your house was to rub it in, because they knew how much you loved him.” Colucci’s friend Larry Gelomini was part of the assailant mob in that Pittsburgh Mussolini backwater. Yet how do you explain my presence with the attorney Miles Kirshner, endorsed by Reagan’s Federal Emergency Management Agency gang Wesley Posvar on the day he claims he was shot? Kirshner was in the gang with the scriptwriter Gail Burstyn and Proctor of WQED. Like all the other Pittsburgh pretending to be my friend, they loved to see me cry when they malicious reported things like Diane Draxinger being hit by a car. I wailed as a child at the news for hours. They finally broke it to me, they were just kidding. All the evidence that the Beatles lied through the teeth about Mt. Desert Island and that it proved Lennon’s death was a conjob to cover up for those who released AIDS has been ignored in favor of lying about me as the critical absolute of a secret government murder operation. The key that snapped right out of my hand? The hologram potentials of Pentagon Disney? Ming Na Wen’s work with Oliver Stone using my name in imaginary stories about me, getting me poisoned in the heart and stomach, leaving me castrated with diabetes? Without trial, by the way. If that does not testify to a police society and American judiciary who are criminally insane nothing does.
All of this hailed from the Obama Administration. Dr. Ralph Proctor and his nephew Nelson Harrison at Pitt were selling the storyline about me being a little white rat from Pittsburgh who should be evilly molested to give gratification to superior black males and their warlock ideas. Proctor preaches the genius of Africa, their secret societies, their use of effigies. WQED and Peter Gabriel psychiatrized me in order to prolong hostage in a secret pornography guild run by Carnegie Museum mafia making money, including a real rape film of my poor deaf advocate Jeannie, in what Yoko Ono claims is revenge harvesting of merchandise she is due: a snuff film beginning with blind side attacks and hostage taking in childhood that my stepfamily, sister and mother, a cruel, anti-sex Midwest bully, all knew was going on and refused to call police or try to protect me. Proctor states in his classes, between bellowing, “I am a warrior!” that in Africa a man without children is considered a living dead man, so it was very personal to them to have a white castrated for the satisfaction of those he tried to upstage. This happened by the way in full view of my school, where their agents Rosa Murdaca and Evangelia Karmas plastered photographs of Rosa’s abortion all over the buildings when I went into seizures from the butcher baby revenge.
You could argue logically, but it isn’t allowed. The New York Times sent a knife attack to Seattle and a rape mob to Pittsburgh making sure that I understand that fact, that this is Ono law, out of court, appeased by the Police Department. For example, you could in theory point out the truth was confirmed by Dr. Gregory Chin, that I have glaucoma and serious injuries to the eyes, a torn facial nerve, and deafness from extremely severe, slaughtering childhood injuries, but the courts put on their blinders saying they see nothing because Justice is Blind, myuh, mocking every detail. You could point out that the nerve injury they targeted and attacked when they knew it was there from brutal poison crime authored by Neurobehavioral Research at Pitt, a fact documented in their own hard, and knew I didn’t know it was there, it was impacted by their alliance with the people they claim killed John Lennon. Illogical? Nothing matters less to them. I was arguably the perfect boyfriend, I went through hell, seizures, convulsion, the rape of my deaf advocate, living up to the liberal stain that we allow our women their freedom. Thos. Gordon made a royal mockery from Carnegie Mellon robotics of how I was being used, sneering that Hitler would have liked least seeing his beloved Germany in the arms of his enemies; and in line with the mentalism of Hitler’s revenge, as Midori Goto emerged from the shadows with Ichiro’s team in Seattle to have me maliciously castrated for courting assistance from the child-molesting Neva Corporation. Cameron Brown loved it too, he said I was the Hitler of non-violence and that if I sought to defend myself in any way I would be subject to immediate arrest. Trying to defend my head from unprovoked blows, they called, “a threatening gesture.” This whole operation worked, it was secured by the processes of acid rock and roll. Gordon also sneered that the people of Pittsburgh were like Russian peasants. Nothing drove them to greater hatred than the sight of a consumptive little child, the moron’s child, so to speak, as Bush must of thought of his long-hated Naval comrade, my father, who he blamed for the loss of his ship in the Navy.
British women don’t take up with men who suffer honestly trying to protect them these days. They take up with real men, the Germans who showed those liberals what a real man is, like Charles Bronson making off with someone’s wife, or another Charles Bronson filming the mechanics in Dealey Plaza, like Midori Goto laughing with Gail Burstyn, “guess life is rough,” when she made off with the men who butchered me while ransoming my name to the lies told by Cindy Rudy (sin D rue D) for DD Mancine and her sister Neva of the Neva Corporation and their Manson Cinema, endorsed by Ringo Starr.
The bombing of a rock concert in Manchester isn’t going to change anything. Peter Gabriel has very clear in his head how the whole thing is going to go, and no matter what anybody else says or does, his gang have in mind to kill people, their message is simple, just let them do it or else. The British are goblins. If rippers like Genesis cared about their fans this whole putrid situation never would have happened in the first place. Yoko Ono’s vendetta (pretext contrived) in the name of Lennon has been large enough of a billboard to allow them to privately and openly communicate to me that AIDS was never their concern, it was all a psychological management plan they planted on me and then pretended to find.
They chose someone they could torture, mutilate, kill real slow and make money from as a narrative by super-imposing a storyline about Lennon who, from all the evidence they’ve suppressed, faked his own death. They clocked a war game: Two Virgins Pussyball, to an institutional mass murder conceived as an industrial Venus Fly Trap. It was also obviously his brainwave, a potentiality they tested in advance with a “Paul is Dead” routine from Pentagon-Disney many have forgotten along with Orson Welles and his broadcast of War of the Worlds. It is a double fantasy.
The statistics in the AIDS attack are nightmarish yet unlike opposition to Adolf Hitler and opposition to the war in Vietnam, with all the histrionics of schism justifying and denying, comparatively little was said or done about this one, and what little eccentric, invisible moments of dissent arose are profoundly suspicious in content, hindsight and players: just part of the show. The attacks on trying to warn and get help have been final and cruel, all in the family. Our warped, complicit fourth estate turned the keys to our belief system over to acid rock gaslighters. Police who don’t want the public told could give two shits if Green Party and Veteran nightriders create a gang executing innocent people as an informal death row they find parallel and meaningful to their own torment, and wryly plan to make good with a museum mafia cultonomic machine. Nobody gets out of here alive is the word in the street.
The word from the British eccentrics was clear on 911, let us or we’ll nuke. By masquerading as the victims instead of the authors they accomplished a complete inversion of the meaning of treason. Everything was planned, down to the initialisms. They wanted High Apology from me as a little boy from the Naval Fleet after following my father’s voice from the radio room after the Little Boy bomb was used on Hiroshima. I grew up under the brutality of a fat man named Tive from Sony. Why owe an Apology (Y.O.) is right there in the caper paper. Follow the muse and you’ll see it again and again and again. The way Yoko Ono attacked me as a child, tortured me as an adult and is playing this game with public credulity shows a secret death sentence that was riddled into fate as if the machine gun bullets of Bonnie and Clyde.. The tale of John Lennon and Leslie Katz from WQED in Pittsburgh allowed her faction to blow up the World Trade Centers for Hitler’s revenge and still call themselves heroes, while facelying all about what was done to me, and what it meant, Pentagon Disney and Obama provided a cowardly, vicious, cute, libelous, maliciously distorted and simplistic storyline in rumor mills that gave heroism to student collaborators. Ono entrusted Brett Leonard with the violent and criminally insane task of fulfilling her crime game.
When a man who calls himself and his understudies “the overkill kids” as Peter Gabriel does tunes into you without law or remorse, you are in deadly, deadly trouble. When 19th century gangsters calling themselves the U.S. Cavalry went after the last of the free Indians in Georgia, a few redneck women said no, but they were slapped into submission. A whole swarm of abolitionists took up for the slaves and this is still true for all the bad blood towards whites found in black bigotry, which threw in their hat with the malicious wheedles of this secret confederacy. In World War Two, people were defined, character wise, entirely in whether they stood up to Hitler. The Civil Rights Movement uplifted us and then the anti-war movement divided us, but when it came to the AIDS attack, despite the profound and lunatic statistics, there was not a peep. What was said, in private, in arcane language, was never resistance. Instead, masquerading as victims, the attackers were allowed to attack us again.
After years of research, a medical library clerk in 1984, and victim of holocaustal brutality and malicious negligence, all of which was unprovoked, weird Manson ordeals, and mutilation, I now know entirely why. What we have here is a case of careful planning. Big Brother was awesome. There was a pre-scripted circle of controlled dissent all prepared to upload into the zany world of popular consciousness, to make commentary fearful of contamination, and sympathy mortal enemy of the affected. The fascism came looking friendly and streetwise to pull a devastating backstab. They knew in advance. They were quite ready. This is what Steve Langer meant when he wrote, “I’m not sorry for anything I did only that it had to be you.”
The military, openly, but out of earshot, put me through a boot camp like Papillon of homelessness and worse for reporting and trying to get help from child mutilation that was openly advertised by Hollywood with actor names like Mancine, Manson cinema. Help never came. Lies preyed upon the injury. False compare reigned pitiless. Pushing me past the point of no return was an objective. It’s not that I would hurt someone, but I don’t feel much sympathy for anyone anymore, it is like being dead inside, the whole experience makes you laugh wrong, in a manner of speaking. Unremarkably, given how crackpot their muse is, they called this hideous and diabolical outcome, achieved by monstrous sadism and psychopathy, a process of empathy building. They planned it, too. AIDS victims will be nightmarishly beleaguered, they hummed, so we must chart a method to give soothsay and satisfy to this condition. This is the terrible riddle of what they call empathy, while admitting in private letters that they were unconcerned and unaffected, playing a game of public relations, private scores and damage control, while meaning, go ahead and cry for the pukes of hell, queerbait, because they never cared about me and they never cared about anyone else they hurt. They meant to hurt us, real, real bad, and they do not intend to be called on it.
Somehow these Midwest bullies and celebrity hocus pocus crazies, pulling up Pink Floyd and Gail Burstyn out of the royalist hat of King Edward VIII, all them acting as one, their listeners were convinced at our Universities that the Elders Project was more than just multicultural Svengalis of comity between the world’s propaganda machines cutting a deal for extension of the auto-industry, while allowing a few token brainwaves roll into dust.