It is a calm, rainy Dec. 4 in Tacoma, 2021. If you come across this later you may remember that omicron was in the news. Next Door was discussing police liaison meetings. The focus of Carnegie Mellon’s beastiary these days towards me is usually scripted to the allegation that I could have understood some letters. They variously allege that I was drugged out and beating myself into a coma to explain the injuries they inflicted. Why didn’t I speak out about something I didn’t know was going on in the early 70’s is generously worded to get across their gig. The letters I now know were written by professional pornographers. Since I was only a child when kidnapped there were inhibitions about what I could bear my grandparents knowing about what was done to me.

I thought I was hated for being me which is how they represented their violence and just felt barely fortunate enough to get away when we moved at my traumatic insistence. Mother was working overtime and never there. My father, who I only saw a few times a year, didn’t really ask, I probably would have gone into it. I have a book he wrote when with Eisenhower at Columbia about peacetime uses of atomic energy. He also had a Peace Corps chapter he led in Liberia. Since Eisenhower is rumored to have killed Lumumba, you can imagine what sort of lickychops hysteria Aaron Dixon (peace be upon him) goes into about all of this, we can undermine the white power structure if we get this guy on delinquency! Nevermind the mad hatters of pure perverted sadism he is enabling. Also, my dad probably just underestimated Pittsburgh’s East End. I was with him when Roberto Clemente’s death was announced and he was thunderstricken.

I had no idea Yoko Ono was targeting me. True, Warhol’s friends from his Pittsburgh days were always at my house. Amilda Tuttle gave me his phone number but I was too deaf to finish the timid 13 year old caller’s call. An agent from Fox Media lived in my house and gave Ono the papers she and her partners had sent to me when Carnegie Drama had their mayhem set up and ready to roll. The Shulman shell game in the dark, like the opening of the film Shot in the Dark, describes the sleights of hand by the enemy within engineering confiscation of our weapons for the Axis behind the curtain, overlooking their chosen ones.

By then, mid-80’s, of course, I knew something was wrong. It has always been hard for me to comprehend the unending facelying towards me, the idea that the girl I loved and wanted to marry was fulfilling a cruel and unusual experiment involving the implant of a neurological agent that has burned my facial nerve to a crisp. The suffering I went through from that, in terrible mistreatment and homelessness, earned me a Certificate from Amnesty International that absolutely epitomizes Yoko Ono’s jeering. The money that was spent tormenting me is indecent. Seattle is indecent. Warhol bedfellows of course see the mullah rullah cockadullah in a snuff film. They murdered Saoirse Kennedy to up the ante. Father was on Bush’s ship in the Navy so that’s good CIA stuff.

The Green Party set upon me through Catholic Worker demanding I renounce the right to profit from my own work. When I explained to Seattle Community College that this gang were going to murder someone, they banned me and when Shannon Harps was killed the city, full of gloat, locked me up for expressing grave agony. This was a penny line in the sand. I have reasons for resisting such a call, since it would only encourage such a rotten scam. I don’t know how I feel about money overall, except that I don’t appreciate the idea that I’m not entitled to my own. The fact that attackers from WW2 recognized how I could be cast by the enemy Beatles into a thankless role doesn’t mean their forgery of my name is my signature. If you want to call those terrible villains geniuses, that’s you. They beckon their victim of serial mutilation back like a dog after commissioning a kill more mass murder.