The Illuminati of the AIDS attack hold forth a Why Not? Attitude about designating a scapegoat and alleging the violence done to both body and mind of their straw man or golem to being a question of character.   This is not news. About Mt. Desert Island, the British have widespread sympathy for the claim that there is another explanation than a pre-planned AIDS testing war game by the attackers. This allows them to promote a whiplash dialogue on several accounts.   One of those accounts pertains to personal delinquency. They hotwire around brain damage and severe facial nerve burns, facts like that the child in question was tagged by its mother “a picky eater,” careful and thin by announcing that it plunged into hardcore Gummo substances as an imitator of John Lennon programmed psychologically like a Manchurian Candidate to frame the Oedipal image of Reagan, John Lennon’s bosom bud.  By who, they prefer to be mysterians. We Donohue. Allowing for all of this, the Government authored a crime of inhuman lifelong trafficking. The claim that there is another explanation is very one-sided. Answering all this, they strut, is like a “new and improved testament.” Great claims from meager individuals who get away by seeing their names in print. They call it name-dropping.

          The nightmare of the truth, that America was tricked by Britain into allowing ourselves to be used for Hitler’s revenge by his old thug gangs in England in the name of John Lennon has for its principle hat trick the idea that Lennon really died and that the case is worth money to someone.  In seething mania the attackers target me to example the reasoning for banging a siphon into the United States for a new alliance of Israel and Germany, replete with splendid claims for the good of Africa. The guilt, they sneer, is that I didn’t know. This, they lisp, is a question of character, a white, A WHITE!! Stealing from duh people.  All of my writing is both copyright and put out in an effort to alert my neighbors. It functions, in part, as an Owner’s Manual to Rights and Liberties in the USA during a period of attempts to save the planet. Naturally, this sits badly with people who don’t want either people like me to have rights, or to be bothered with the injuries of our era.

         Coming from Pitt, a Philosophy School, there was something deviously Socratic about the idea of using poison on a child and then drafting “it” into a political discourse demanding service to insurgents, but the issue of character in this case of Illuminati franchise is only part of the crow’s nest they wrought, calling me things like a date rapist, with a whowuzit whiplash investigation of the subconscious mind.  Many people died as bystanders. I was recently told to stop discussing this, one would assume by someone willing to continue poisoning me and terrorizing me as soon as I did, or didn’t, as though anything is real when it comes to the British, SONY and Star Trek on a roll.

        There is a research detail behind the ripper murder of Shannon Harps (Shaman Harp of Burma clue) in which they evoked a penny appropriation claim.  This came up with the Postal Union when the poisoners demanded my steak knife after poisoning me in the heart on the brink of this very sadistic action of ripper homicide.    They claim that I stole something during a home burglary. In order to answer this claim, I am going through the roster of that particular month or so in East Liberty under the shadow of the Blumenfelds when I was very brutally attacked by and/or in the presence of adults bearing narcotics like Ralph Karsh.   The details and my response to them are very clear in my mind, as is the fact that my mother, a Union agent, contracted for my birth and approves of how I am being used. This will become clear as I recount the delinquencies that were announced to allow the innocent slay of Shannon Harps and my incarceration for protesting a siphon being hammered into the USA by an alliance from Germany and Israel.  I won’t just say this, I will demonstrate the evidence that it is proven.

     In the past I have pointed out that Bernard Wattenmaker asked permission to hypnotize me, that the direction were games encouraging me to steal, at ceder they said steal what is under his napkin, impossible and unthinkable, and that a very brutal series of slaughtering blows left me in trauma, that people are suspected of having been killed for admitting that, and that a nerve agent was viciously poured on my face, disfiguring me into a golem state, but that has long been up against Lewis Lapham of Harpers and Penis Gabriel, so it’s not going to stop the next poison crime and murder by Queer Seattle.

      Instead, I will write down some of the specific issues of mindset concerning my condition that will put forward a clearer insight into the workings of my childhood mind in making decisions to go with the flow rather than be killed or jeered at by violent enemies in the playground.    Why did Jimmy Crary go into a house belonging to someone else at this instigation of Eisen’s door? Why did he cut Ian Wattenmaker’s telephone cord? Steal David Cohen’s blender with Dominic Migliosi? Why would that not allow the claim that the child was having fun with Pitman and Kasperoski when they were stealing cars?

       Obviously, the truth in these cases has proven a waste of time, so I am going to deal with what the Jewish Community behind it thought of and continues to think of and called Guerilla Theater.    In other words, the specific text of their impingement package. I will do so from the inside of my mind as a child. This will clarify a few things, among them my mother’s involvement.

      Understanding a child’s mind isn’t the easiest nor the most agreed up concept in scholastics.  In my Linguistic Anthropology class I insisted agreement with Chomsky that my mind had a built in radar of language, that I told myself, while still in the high chair at supper, “Isn’t my mother supposed to tell me to eat the food on my crib chair plate so I will grow strong?”  When she didn’t, I didn’t bother. Someone might have told me, listen to yourself, grow strong, but the people around me always made faces at me, told me to shut and barked into my head like it was their microphone to the point where I dreamed of pouring out their alcohol, only to be quaking in fear at the thought as instead I stole some for the men who told me to.   

      One night Cohen, who was named in the Burstyn script, wanted me to meet him in the park to smoke a cigarette.   I said okay, I guess, the vivisection dude Peckham came following me and nabbed me, insisting I confess to mother.  When Cohen’s mother came over after I pranked him, looking at me darkly, I denied it in fear of Migliosi and mother said, “He usually owns up.”  Cohen usually rolled cigarettes in a secret basement room accessible from the hall where Ian Wattenmaker punched me in the face so hard I fell flat on my back, long before Colucci showed me how to tap my phone to listen to it through headsets which led to my prank on Ian.

         When Colucci and the Fords went collecting for March of Dimes to sneak off from houses with things after asking to use the bathroom, I held back.  When they went looting in office buildings I absolutely refused. When someone robbed asked me I told them what I knew and helped them get their things back.  My Social Security number was arranged by the Fords to be 1984. The Fords’ neighbor was Penis Gabriel’s informant when Seattle set me up with Rosa, Connie Bolanis, a friend of Rubin, Karsh and Blumenfeld.

         Those are the same sources who pulled together the yarn covering for Mt. Desert Island.  Leslie Katz worked for Bolanis at their restaurant along with Amy Shapiro and Edward Eisen was waiting for me there one day to demonstrate the buddhism of breaking a slate with the palm of your hand.   There was another Amy in all this, from Guerilla Theater as well, who was with me the day that a kid similar to Cohen accused me of robbing at gunpoint a store where my father used to take me to buy Klondikes.  I had just come home from the Governor’s School and the Police kept me up all night saying a mugshot of Ronnie zzsinski looked like me. The woman robbed at trial said who is he, meaning I, and what is he doing here I’ve never seen that mugshot before.   Amy Edelstein, a friend of a man they call Skeeter who had a half-huskie, half-timber wolf dog, went by the name of Nava. She was friends with the India gang who pulled the pussyball scam for Midori Goto and her Israeli partners.

        When Robert Fripp was promoting the album that has a likeness of Gail Burstyn, a woman named Karen Levitt told him that Leslie and I couldn’t get into his band, so he walked with us and escorted us in.  She was working a cashier job where I once vomited from white chocolate. She used to call me on the phone at odd hours and said, “We know who you are and we saw what you did.” In the background noise of the phone was an old time partyline.

Some wisebeard once hummed, “There is nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose.” This is a telling comment in an age where a corporation is said to act as one person. Geffen has stolen my name and made promises to the world in my name, after committing an atrocity in my mind, and he is dealing with someone who came to too soon for them and won’t stand for it. They have so much to lose they are a dangerous, dangerous klan, largely led by the Obamas.