The billboards of treason are all over Tacoma, accordingly State of Massachusetts, if they had any sense, would immediate move to evacuate their Pilgrim Landing loyalist to the Kennedys. The heart doctor whose nurse attache afflicted me with heart damage, diabetes and semi-castration has a father who owns the family bar back in Pittsburgh by the Babyland, site of a mysterious murder, where a man named Migliosi called Shaky would shout, “I’m gonna split your head wide open.” Migliosi rode a paper truck there full of bags of Kennedy halves and would shout, “fuck him up!” a Pittsburgh provincialism that found its way to my childhood writings, and “hit him in the head!” Two suspicious heart deaths followed me to Seattle, Richard Roehm, after he tried to help me, and a girl’s brother after she befriended me. The assassins slew Iowa Molly and obviously murdered Saoirse Kennedy, spending their token of Love, John Lennon’s holy name.

The Zappas are the curators and legal services for the gig of Karl and Chapman. They have done nothing but band wagon catering, confiscating the name of Greta Thunberg with their Royal Family cryptography reasoning that the hypocrisy of Bangladesh and Lennon’s solidarity with Attica State would still gain forgiveness in the AIDS attack if they are charming enough to save the world from their own ravages. Although Greg Karl wrote, “the eye of suspicion falls upon the foreign element,” the attention of my investigation, in reality, falls upon the lisping parochial extremist.