It is January 2020 as I write, a sobering, dark month in the USA.  This note is about murder and it is about King Crimson. It is about the inability to find investigators who care that the information is plausible and aware about them, as they operate from Warhol Museum.   They are judged to have iron rule over the states of Pennsylvania and Washington. They expect, and receive, unquestioning assistance. Haruki Murakami, a Japanese professor at Harvard, points out in his book about Aum Shinrikyo Cult’s sarin nerve agent attack on the Tokyo subway system many years ago that their dear leader Robert Fripp, a cruel and bellicose, evil human being, is admired by members of Aum Cult for his dour, obscure, warlord face from the synods of Gurdjieff Cult where I was identified for them by Carnegie Mellon when my father’s work was alien to the British with his attempts at Civil Humanism at the University of Pittsburgh.  My beautiful American name, James MacRyland Crary, so infuriated the ripper killer Peter Sinfield behind their mayhem, that they have tortured me. I am deaf, invalid and destroyed with no hope for recovery but I am only one of the victims of their torrid, maniacal sadism.

       King Crimson burst on the scene the year after Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were shot dead, much as JFK’s encounter with mystery in Dallas heralded the messianic rise of the untouchable doublecross that has created a generation of British love slaves, whose name deserves no mention, being like evocation of an iron curtain.   Among their crimes towards me was to attack me blindside on the way to school with slaughtering blows by armed, full grown men, kidnapping me with a type of acidic chloroform, render me unconscious, using a nerve agent they held me in traumatic isolation for Manson style pornography. When the names of the hireling thugs were found out in this tragedy, they are Mancine, just like Manson cinema, typical of the fascist wormtongue style of this evil British dacoit.  Meanwhile, they used all of their magical and mysterious social pull to slander me so ferociously nobody investigated even as the trauma grew so deep, I took refuge hiding, disappearing for days, biting my fingernails bloody, crying and pleading in the office of Fulton Elementary School. To my bitter amazement, they were selling these films of me with the help of the Pittsburgh NAACP.

        Beautiful child is an understatement.   My voice is as gifted as Walter Chronkite.  My father was a radio lieutenant on the US San Jacinto CVL-30, a ship that survived the largest Naval battle in human history, the battle of Leyte Gulf.   He was also a Peace Corps leader. To King Crimson, Warhol and the NAACP this meant only one thing, their snuff porno from holding me in a brutalized, crying trance of chemical sedation in childhood are worth big bucks.   They arrested me when I went to police after finding a script they wrote bearing my beautiful name, arrested me, raped my deaf advocate and chemically castrated me. There was no trial and certainly no probable cause. They claimed nothing but nevertheless the mere mention of their atrocity makes Administration at my school wince and ask, what did you do?  This is the sort of leverage that true evil can manage without question.

        Their attorney, Amanda Harcourt, who was made famous on Peter Gabriel’s SO, a rock album of jeering and hostility, despite its indulgent, self-pitying themes, wrote to me for three years while betraying my trust to a bunch of ripper killers from the old cast of HAIR.   I was at the time a Medical Library Clerk living with an impacted nerve injury, deafness and the early texts about AIDS. These mayhem criminals set upon me sexually in a myriad of disturbing ways, authoring arsons, rape, torture, murder, and the horrifying lisp, “if you wash we’ll be offended.”   They poisoned me in the mouth, scapegoated me, raped my only friend, and detonated an impacted neuroplastic injury I didn’t even know was there. How did they? Leaving me screaming in the streets of homelessness where I was vulnerable to their every assault. When I finally secured an apartment and was admitted to school where I immediately earned Phi Theta Kappa status, they sent me an autograph picture of Clint Eastwood.

       These days are darkening under the idea that awareness about their crimes is too implausible to credit, and crimes they are, crimes more horrible than the Wuhan Flu.    The competence level at the police departments in Seattle and Pittsburgh are extremely low. They are letting them get away with ripper sadism as though they enjoy it. One of the darkest scams that the British were able to run while availing themselves of police services, which has resulted in no end of massacre under the political steerage of the so-called Green Party, concerning the AIDS abomination.  Warhol thoroughly enjoyed manipulating and deceiving everyone concerned throughout the now nameless terror. While claiming to be plying an equity strategy concerning who dies and how, the Warhol confederates conducted a program that conforms to the text of shock and awe. They used me like a voodoo doll while capturing ideas from my poems for incendiary bombs like the fire at Jackson Immunogenetic Labs in 1988.  Whistling that they were friendly to the victims, they hid that they were working with the scriptwriters worth millions to their corporate attorneys, plaguing my name with evil lies to induce a cornucopia of support from those they betrayed, and it steamrolled. No one dares admit it now.

        The murders committed, true butchery, by Queer Seattle, and the assassinations so disturbing in our news, are a form of Stockholm Syndrome, empathy for the exterminators, yes Dia Galas photographed herself outside the World Trade Centers with a stiletto to mock us by anthax after having a namesake from the New York Voodoo Museum and Spin Magazine call me in the year 1980 about John Lennon.    Queer Seattle are loyal to her. They are loyal to the very gunmen behind the Pulse Massacre because of this terrifying and evil Stockholm Syndrome induced by vicious loyalty to Yoko Ono about which they are so proud.

       King Crimson are portraying this butchery as British therapy.