John Shulman and the Post-Gazette have long worked together, so the report in their pages of his arrest and probable prison sentence for a long career of crime should be noted against such atrocities as the writings of Gail Burstyn, which made a joke of child bondage, Shulman’s promotion of the slanders told by Leslie Katz, who attacked my name to hide kidnapping by a gang of hitmen named the Pitmans, and the bombing of America on 911 by an arsenal seeking to profit from his rare book piracy in the AIDS attack, as I proved as a deaf Medical Library clerk from Pitt in 1988 on Mt. Desert Island, a sin against the welfare of the world long promoted by national media working Shulman’s will.   Like ruthless pirate tyrants on their war chest of evil buccaneer, Ringo Starr and King Crimson decimated my life promoting Shulman’s war crimes from Celeron Street, the tapes of Jaime Carbonell for Akrim Midani at Carnegie Mellon and Shulman’s smiling rejection of a right to testify to police about child mutilation ordeals that Shulman laughed and characterized as sentimental longing.

       Connoisseurs of the rare also decide who in the upper echelon is entitled to be in possession of them.  Campaigning hard for Shulman’s attaches, Mercy Hospital and the Tim Kaine wing of the Union recently slew two Kennedys while online Gurdjieff Police of Robert Fripp’s Taliban, working with Shulman of Caliban Books, circle me demanding to be given, by spiritual promise, the card sent to me by Courtney Kennedy.  All of this is the work of the German Green Party in Seattle.  Shulman liked to say to me, “you’ve been rejected with a smile.” For some reason the world around me would rather die than have the situation simplified for them by seeing what they are up against honestly. Our children of course, universally, now know how full of shit Pittsburgh and Seattle have always been.

         The Union who gnash with claim for Shulman’s miscarriage, who conjured up a series of mutilation crimes and then sought to normalize them by traffic in schools, have long been insiders to Peter Max and Ringo Starr.   They sent in Derek Parfit to consecrate the AIDS attack with zealousness from Oxford covering for WQED's death grip on my jugular vein by their agent from Fox infiltrating my family for the Trump papyrus of Gail Burstyn, they mongered complex ruses, snarling that I was crossing boundaries, as Shulman liked to say, while he worked with the reckless driver syndicate who nearly killed children at Kelly Elementary, and with the set designer of MisterRogers Neighborhood who burned a girl's arm gangrenous with a poker from the fireplace, egged on by the Post Gazette until they killed two more Kennedys. Shulman's store was a touchstone for a gang beloved for evil of underworld figures from India announcing rage for Seattle by the pussyball war game of Warhol clocked to the AIDS attack whose token of thunder and valedictory, Midori Goto, mongered the secret pages of Justins Chang and Vicari.  One of the attaches, involved with the India mafia at Pitt, an Israeli thug who remorselessly helped Cohen attempt to frame me for armed robbery when I returned with her from the Governor’s School, called herself NAVA for the girlfriend of a Hilltop Israeli who shot the Israeli Prime Minister Rabin. Contrary to the Tim Kaine dacoits on the police who did the interrogating, her man Miles Kirshner who had me in D.C. when Reagan waved to me and then shot Brady spoke for the FEMA and Pentagon Disney when he broadcast with Abdul Eisenstat, “there is no such thing as objective reality only what the jury believes,” or what Nordenberg calls, “the nature of reality,” illustrated by the murder of Saoirse. They pinched their noses at the sight of me after they had kidnapped and tortured me while using me shamelessly and while secretly selling the Warhol story of rage over John Lennon for Leslie Katz and Gail Burstyn, which the scoundrels in Tacoma here where I am being held now raged leer are a story worth, “Millyions”.  Even Clint Eastwood signed on, hawking Lennon with anecdotes from “Where Doubles Dare”.

Ignoring all contrary indications to his cherry-picking program with Shulman, Sean Lennon gurgles in glee over his father’s heist of the United States’ legacy, still in command of the victims during the bonus attack by cold-blooded loyalty to deceit. As Vicky Funari’s laugh indicates from a belfry that stamped the sidewalk, “not dedicated to the public,” they were after some very icky funerals, which SOL deems mujicke majicke from the dacoits at the Dakota.

       The military nerve center of this campus consist of a gang half of whom knew the Covid bomb was coming.  Many of them were ready and seen laughing.   They have worked together on common ruses about sex with Peter Gabriel and Hustler, promoted minority grudge for Seattle’s street crazies Aaron Dixon and Sherman Alexie, who conjured an image of an Ark of colorful leaders while working the sledgehammer of destruction that comes from Warhol Foundation, filthy with hatred and cunning, normalizing germ warfare and deadly spit as a form of race satire, egged on by a union screaming at the selfdom and law-abiding destroyed life of Jimmy Creary, still being taunted by Midori Goto’s Sony.

         Midori Goto and John Shulman have long had it made in the shade.  How ironic that Shulman was caught for the for him petty charges of ripping off the Carnegie, themselves horrible painting and poetry thieves.   Flocks of common ruses, you said my name, you said my name, paranoid, paranoid come flowing from the torrid lips of Pittsburgh’s criminal syndicate, licky chops and lapping at the blood of Saoirse Kennedy for Mercy Hospital’s Christian team.   Shulman and Tony Norman of the Post Gazette used to laugh themselves sick at my attempts to extricate myself from what Miles Kirshner would call the “last licks” of Leslie Katz, hawking my soul with Peter Balakian, one of his detestable gurus.  The Mellons will get even for the capture of their fave rave Shulman, you can depend upon it.  Granger Morgan had long enjoyed Shulman’s hobby and trust.  Midani sold Shulman books, and Peter Shell, the carrot tape man who made Ringo Starr’s alibi for Mt. Desert Island, where AIDS was proven manmade, for Shulman at Celeron Street, Caliban Books and Neva Corporation’s plan for Ringo Starr, who shot the heart out of Pittsburgh again and again, over the crying shame of their sex obsessions.

      The script proved they killed Roberto Clemente, not John Lennon, it proved that the Beatles meant it when they sent Mr. K into a hogshead of fire.  The Shulman team rallied to ignite Warhol groupies into cheering on 911 the very crime team behind AIDS and laugh when we were Covid bombed.  The image of Diamonda Galas outside the World Trade Center with a stiletto still makes people go catatonic and pretend that it is not there, because it testifies to the truth, that Lennon was a mastermind, not a victim of the plague, and he used a double fantasy from Pentagon Disney whose favorites love to threaten me with voices saying I’m going to prison, contempt for how humiliated I am, having been castrated by the frauds of Leslie Katz, egged on by Shulman’s fans at the Pittsburgh Post Gazette.  Voices that laughed and laughed about the Covid bomb.

        All while England worked with Shulman plying his war crime and his pussyball game with the Warhol elite, they covered for using a nerve agent on a gradeschool child.  All while Obama relied on Shulman to back him up about Leslie and Mt. Desert Island, all while he crowed about Syria, they used a nerve agent on a grade school child.  Meanwhile, as  part of Shulman’s braintrust, through an alliance led by Cyril Wecht and Martin Andelman of Wells Fargo, Leslie Katz mobilized Oliver Stone, Kevin Costner and Ringo Starr to declare that Ringo Starr was the President of the United States in a film called The Postman honoring Shulman’s sale of the letters of Gail Burstyn that Fox planted on me and then grabbed with the carrot tape from Celeron Street.

     Paul McCartney, a principle in Shulman’s terrible crime, all indexed to Paul Runco of Mellon Institute and Paul Tierni, another Edgar Cayce, dacoit, ran the pirate chest show, holding me in years of tears of lonely isolation or is morbid ego-logic for the government of secrecy around the rare, killing two more Kennedys screaming with malice, demanding peep at my postcard from Courtney.