The Shadow Knows, the shadow understands. Deep down Martin Luther King was asking for it, it wanted to be a martyr for Jesus, he brought it on himself to learn from the experience, it was his ritual purification ritual, his protests were all just an attempt to explain to himself what he was asking from his deliverers. Thus King was granted his right of passage to the American statuary garden of fame. This is the mentality that Christ of Hollywood, Martin Sheen, in his private Gitmo, brings to the table in the AIDS attack, which was covered up by the evoking of the worldwide legacy of the Beatles in defense of secrecy and Reagan. Two men, Rick Vizzutti and Fenton Bresler, have sought to corner the publication market of Rockefeller power on the idea that the men who shot JFK killed Lennon, and since Reagan was shot, too, it was an effort to frame him, while clucking, my what a complex web they weave, who framed Roger Rabbit, this is a job for Oliver Stone, swooping down for the spoils from Pentagon-Disney, snatching up the script they planted at Carnegie Mellon. The marquis is just asking for new celebrities, why not upload DeNiro as Martin Sheen scours the android zone of Pittsburgh for child pornography leers from Catholic Worker, Vince Eirene.
The shack where a violent gang that Naambla attorneys are protecting for Warhol Museum which was built for De De to seduce me in was later littered with a deck of now vintage pornography cards. The drugs and surges of violence in that area of Pittsburgh was largely organized by the powerful Jewish lobby. Matt Marcus of WQED and Miles Kirshner, Pitt’s lead attorney in justifying torture and mutilation, David Braunstein, whose family worked with Blumenfeld, niece of the Magistrate who introduced me to Gail Burstyn, Paul McCartney’s property attorney agent, and who was Bas Mitvah’d next door to Don Ostro, had a brother Braunstein who visited Ostro regularly, just as Rick Finkelstein a professor of music teaching the home invader David Lucarelli of 20th Century Fox knew when to give the signal for Yoko Ono to retrieve the Burstyn letters when he was living in my home and working for Rusted Root; these were men who developed the party line that I was pushing myself where I was unwanted but what really upset them was when they couldn’t find me.
The worlds of myth and counter-myth that Oliver Stone brays about publicly collide when you arrive at the way that the murderers who tortured me in childhood were immediately contacted by Penis Gabriel offering to advocate for them after I crawled to the British Government begging them to help me from mutilation criminals, and they suckered me with shameless wolving, “we are so glad to hear from you rather than some weirder than thou type,” and “I love you, man.” The lows are so pathetic that they stooped to that Sir Paul McCartney must think that the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiments were paradise. It is an absolutely beyond belief criminally insane, mind shattering, brain damaged, nightmare, but let’s start at what for them is just the beginning: Jimmy Creary.
A localization point arrives by way of the manner in which the Beatles Administration and Warhol Museum have partnered up Donald Trump with Larry Flynt defending pedophile hostage taking of an extremely brutal dimension, in the death of Jim Croce. Penis Gabriel is defending those who murdered Jim Croce just as the Beatles Administration and King Crimson, the worthless worthies behind the sadism and elimination game of murder, pigs more nightmarish than Sam Giancana and Frank Sinatra, with the same fetish for Bowie, the lout who schmoozed with the high circle of the Pittsburgh Pirates in which sat Bing Crosby, also shamelessly and deliberately got John Kennedy, Jr. killed in Ringo Starr’s war game based on a barrier of blood between me and the idea of a marriage politicized by association with them. To my credit I never sought the scum in the Beatles, although one could construe a note to Yoko Ono as though I did, back in the days when I cried and pleaded with Finkelstein to help me escape Don Ostro. Finkelstein, licky chops at getting my synthesizer for cheap, said, “friendship is friendship and business is business,” and just shook his head as I cried. Rather, the Beatles uploaded themselves into my sense of unimportance, a doctrine in those parts, and, after accomplishing the AIDS attack, began sniveling that I had clues.
I was already unconscious from brutality in 1973 when Burstyn called me and purred that she thought of me when Jim Croce died. I was barely able to open my eyes and respond. You’ve heard perhaps of a person in a coma who can blink or respond when you say their name? This is the professional trauma they held me in with complicity of my family when they ran their upgrade of “All the King’s Men,” through the wirehouse of their plot function. “Millions diecide,” wrote Gail Burstyn.
Penis Sinfield had no taste for stricken chicken lickin’ from the prison cell of the ultra-violent. Ennebriation he slurred is infinite surrender. This is about extermination and the good life, he reasoned, pirating Ayn Rand’s name for a practice she loathed, “comprachios.” But why would anyone repeat things for an Agency that destroys evidence, anyway? Yesterday, the Beatles accused me publicly of putting on airs to survive child murderers who had me hostage. It was their idea of entertainment, as vividly clear by the substance and style of their human trafficking cartel’s celebration of victory in the condition of online pornography, the incubation ward of their holy war slaughter.