Semiotic Brimstone

The hardest thing to explain in this whole caseload is the failure of detection. Denial is easy to understand. The case is hot, despite being cold. The assassins road high with the help of compliant people now still and frozen in their legacy of accomplice. Among the accomplices casually mingle those pretending that they are merely collaborations, hiding true authorship. For disinterested, or concerned people to miss the evidence is absolutely incredible.

The assassins loved their literature and wrote all about it in advance. Taking advantage of fascination and the will to control property they used copyright as their blackout medium. In other words, the publishers in New York City excused themselves for failure to warn by saying that the winner would be allowed to make a brilliant movie. The totality they claim to be unanswerable, and as a result they have enjoyed a public willing to completely ignore cold-blooded lies.

They erected arguments like a fleet of underwater vessels, horrifying U-boats of jibberish meant to soothsay public attention by arguing a great justification and horrific meaning. Yet we are supposed to admire them when rather than detect and solve the crime they actively sought to make it more mysterious, destroy evidence, empower the killers, investing in dramatic representation of their reasons for voiding the Constitution in favor of a sickening storyline, while adopting the attackers as stars. Calling what was done to me under cover of a psychotic break imaginary is a charming and droll cover claim for torture and mutilation of a witness.

The authors of the narrative held control for their song and dance as authors of the Federal Emergency Management Agency at Pitt, making no attempt whatsoever to cover up their snickers when snarling, “don’t laugh!” We’ll handle this discretely, they yammered, over human or civil rights. As investigation arrived at the facts in the crime, they were shrugged off as meaningless even when it was proven that they make perfect sense when pulled together into a web-like pattern. Hallucination doesn’t cover such premeditation and design.

It constitutes a semiotic brimstone.

Where was Harpers Magazine and Lewis Lapham? Where should they have been?   What came to light in the early days of the AIDS attack is that the child of a visible academic leader of humanism had washed up insensible, broken, crawling, frightened, deaf and horribly concerned about dishonest government. Instead of immediately moving in to declare a fight over the fact that they had also found a script about AIDS planted on my house, they swiftly took charge to advocate for the child mutilationists, and this can only be understood as a tawdry tale told by Pitt in the name of Leslie Katz, valedictorian of the Ellis Girls School, named in the assassination screed. Every lie took shape from this diabolical lie idea. She was the ringleader of the cheer that those who started AIDS were top sacredly the only and true victims.

I did nothing whatsoever wrong to her. How I was molested, castrated, my loved one raped to cover for what the Army did in her name is a long story that does little to shed light on the actual arguments of the ringleaders, so I will move along without rehearsing all of that personal tragedy, but I do want to mention in passing that the Union in Pittsburgh who hotly contest and brutally punish the idea that mutilation and torture make me a victim is insane. To be that hostile to the idea of social independence is extremely abnormal. However, the hidden investment in film rights makes this a little more constant as a criminal function.

An example of failure to detect comes right out of the page on which it is noted. Elizabeth Blumenfeld was the girl whose interest in me led to the introductions among barristers and Judges of Bryn Mawr’s favorite Gail Burstyn, author of the murder papers which I repeat include the death of Roberto Clemente and the plan to use his name advocating for Katz later. Blumenfeld is a sonar and homophone for Blue Men Felled. Before you say that is reaching, consider, in the text of the many, many examples of the same style, that Blumenfeld’s mother was friends with Braunstein’s mother and that Braunstein was a friend of and visitor to the place of Don Ostro, whose friend Space Ape did the stained glass for the Bloomfield Church that hosts a shrine to the martyrs of Pittsburgh Police. I won’t recite the magnitude of the crimes inflicted on me by Burstyn and Ostro.

Rock stars of course are in battle stations right now, because they are behind the sleight of hand that gave the killers film rights.   The trick was to position masqueraders playing victim and mingling with the victims while allowing those same members of the assassin group, conspicuously Dolly Meieran, to lead from the front saying that they were taking revenge. Peter Gabriel was such a ringleader, his voices spouting: why did we do that? After 911, to prove we would never do that. Imperial logic, beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Gabriel had authored the alibi for Will Zell on Mt. Desert Island, covering for a gang of murderers from the most racist lobby in Pennsylvania by saying they were doing the will of Africa. Behind this idea was Federal sex tribute from Hollywood and the NEVA Corporation, a pussyball dibs claim on Midori Goto as a symbol of East/West reconciliation, made by those Lewis Lapham called first, at WQED.

Africologists were schmoozing with the Catholic Dioceses in Pittsburgh in the name of rituals for a long time before this brilliant idea of tribal war from the klans arrived from Hollywood. Nyguna Kabugi was coming to tell you how to get rid of your teacher today how long? Not long before my papi died. Most of the confederates were veterans who grumbled that they would never forgive old Crary for the suicide of a babykiller. They’ll give you babykiller.

Nyguna or Gunna will Myrdal you all with a ka-bug. Such is the legacy of Mer and Ehrlen, magic fingers Merlin when Heinz arranged rejection of nutrition studies in favor of my father’s sudden, fatal loss of appetite. Funny thing about all these jingos is that they form a nursery rhymers riddle game surrounding the faction of liberty or death that brokers death. One look at me and you can see what happened to my pap.

 

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Preamble

 

This essay is a gentleman’s text to the ladies and men who know me well, know me best, mean me well in their heart, or those who would be able to serve impartially on a jury in a contest between me and their favorite celebrities or politician.  Understandably, given the consequences of taking my side (my deaf advocate was brutally attacked) asking for impartial reading from even my closest friends is asking a lot.  This essay is a gentleman’s text meant to simplify how you represent your own view regarding my controversial affidavit.  I mean to show my respect for you here no matter your opinion after reading.

     First, let me get past the root and central fact of this case.  Will Zell Broome said to me in a Poconos cafe at the latest Spring of 1982, but I believe Winter of 1981, when I knew him at Tyler Art School, before I had even heard of AIDS, “What would you think of a scheme to transform the human race by injecting the blood with semen?”  You have my word on it.
      Please do not grimace.  I said I respect you.  I know the laws of evidence affect you as a layperson. I know also you don’t want to believe it, because it was not what he said alone that proves its significance; yet in order to lie about its significance, in light of the other actions taken towards me by this subculture, they have had to claim I put those words in his mouth while then putting words in mine.  So, I did what was necessary.  I postponed telling you while I investigated them in search of proof.  I now have the evidence to back up what I assure you is true and live on an illegal Death Row as a result.  Ironically, as long as no one believes me I am somewhat safer than if you were to, just as are you.
     That leads me to the task of explaining the evidence and proof, while relating what the power of police media has done to the USA and City of Pittsburgh by capitulating to the abominable.  Some of you, I know, have stopped caring.  None of you respect me enough not to be outraged if I were to suggest, much less tell you, what I think you should do.  I couldn’t get a hefty black cop to stop skinheads from beating a Jewish kid they were on top of in the street without being shouted at, “don’t tell me my job!”  I just want to establish with you that although you have my word on what Zell said, that is a fact, I also need to introduce the counterattacks most often put forward, above and beyond the law of evidence, to the effect that my word just isn’t good enough or in their view may not even count for anything.  This in turn might help to satisfy you of my sincerity in the second claim I am making that although you do have my word for it, I am not asking you to take my word for it.  The evidence then is also root and central, but for your interest I will also relate how I came to attempt to swear to it before a Maine State Polygraph Room Officer.

     Lastly, please acknowledge my respect for you. I am not asking you to take my word for it.  I feel so much facelying goes on, particularly where British are invested in deceit, that to be frank it is disrespectful of me towards people I am friendly with to ask they take my word.  Such a demand is an authoritarian gesture.  Let Clinton and Leslie Katz, her agent in extremely dirty mistreatment be the authoritarian and demand you take their word over mine.  Say of me, even if you do, please, that I tried to reach you with the evidence.

Mother’s Going to Kill You

The evidence in my possession strongly suggests that the Federal Bureau of Investigation consists of child-molesting, deviant, pervert sickos, a fact I will prove to the satisfaction of my readers before they finish this page in the F.B.I. movie script extrusion. The F.B.I. were found out red-handed as having authored a truly deranged, evil, holy war screed in legendary orchestration of the long premeditated AIDS onslaught.

Let us look in passing at their cruel modus operandi. The demarcative super-organization is clear. The attack on me as a child by quarrymen/hitmen named Pitman from Pitt are as notorious for their loathsome depravity as they are for their shocking cannibalist, indecent, explicit brutality, inducing a trauma so profound that the ravenous Peter Gabriel found it venomously to his liking to exploit it into unfathomable extremes of piteous humiliation, in even more cowardly foreign, infamous pile ons. That a foreign English charismatic could be more depraved than such Mansons as Pitman were is news. Beginning with assassination-style blindside attacks on a helpless, unarmed, unsuspecting grade school child by a monster from the klan of hooded sheets nicknamed Casper, without fail the F.B.I. took the killers’ side against free speech, attempts to secure help from stalking and terror spanning decades, derfing ho in palace malice, raping deaf Jeannie, to enforce their gloat, while masquerading as a séance of pedophiles at NAAMBLA afflicted by HIV, as was planned, practicing grudgelaw, as was also planned, delectating over fright, despair and hostage, with a monocled persona at the desk of Amnesty International, which is a group notorious for being typo mis-spelled Amensty, also planned.

It’s not as if they didn’t want you to know. They wanted to watch you stall. They wanted to watch you pacify the victims for them. They wanted to watch as you molested a victim of serial torture for pleasure while acting as though you were better than them. “You think you’re better than us,” they venomously hissed as their campaign platform.

Do you doubt the hooded criminals so easily uncloaked and yet still never spoken of, these poisonous syphilitics are the F.B.I.? Look carefully at the economic symbiosis limned by their bloodthirsty partnership with Pitman, a gang who broke into houses to defecate on tables for promotion of a person of interest named Nancy Reagan, rancid pro-pedophile hater of liberals, yet Our Lady of Scavengers.

The Pitmans worked, believers say for, disbelievers say with, but all know as servants of the F.B.I. and a neurobehavioral researcher named Wattenmaker for Pink Floyd’s shiftless goal of forbidding marriage and personal estate. Can’t have AIDS victims being jealous. Crary is a name older than the ancient University of Pittsburgh in America, older than the Declaration of Independence, older than Harpers Magazine, a fact of grassroots nobility that Kirshner dubbed void under The Too Good Principle. King Crimson come ‘a runnin’ with Don Ostro’s moral machete to enforce the community libel. Knowing all along they were lying, they chanted back, so what if we have the power? Who will save you, queerbait? Let me live, let me live, I want to live, I cried as they laughed and laughed and laughed. Our turn, they snickered as the Germans became Jews and the Jews became Germans to the tune of I am the Walrus. All planned by an Imperial Wizard of Oz.

The foreign braintrust led by British childnappers was put behind stamping out my name, stealing it to do infamy, rendering me a slave and calling me an enemy in a Tokyo reprisal, endorsed by Bush and McCartney, some Idi Amins for race stridency, too vile to be clueless, endorsed and enforced by the F.B.I. Just as Pitman depradated on a comatose hostage child rendered neurobedient by psychiatric poison and concussion, demanding tribute of lunch money, and then repayment for the ethers they stole to gas me with, just as the Green Party reprisals for talking were armed with reflexologists who tormented seizures when I resisted their defamation. It was like being tasered in the face a thousand times. I fell vomiting and screaming. I would have paid good money to be Rodney King’d instead, and they weren’t limiting their deranged and morbid violence to the body, they paraded their capture of my fiance, and her sexual scorn as they plastered the school with photos of my beautiful aborted fetus son, to name the easily proven methods of Sir Penis Paul.

So do the ravenous clerks of the F.B.I. imagine themselves by murder monkey foul play a form of derelict Shakespeare, endorsing slasher exampling as a scarecrow against HIV injection warnings, merely a jest they claim on skillfully timed Mt. Desert Island, a game of chicken from Dr. Koop. The torture victim defiled taste as a jester pretender.

The murderers they leer in ennui are the real victims. AIDS Policy: Clinton and Penis Gabriel called it.

To see the truth of this tagteam between the F.B.I. and child mutilationists one doesn’t have to go far. Peter Leo’s desk is all wired up to the computer room of Jaime Carbonell and the abortion canopy bed of Lisa Miles. Pitman and the F.B.I. play the same game, they slap the same hands at the child-raping barbershop of little Jimmy Creary’s frantic, hysterical, queerbait tears. Leo and Carbonell, working for a cabinet of Federal slayers who murdered my father and then put him on public trial as a Red Witch, Silverblatting my grandfather Ward’s few remaining true friends at the Post-Dispatch with foreign wormtongue soothsay ran riot with Pink Floyd finkery, mongered by the coward Fripp, as they hired Lisa Miles for Miles Kirshner and E. Snyder to cover for their gang raping muse on Mt. Desert Island, kicking the queerbait in the neuroplasm of his pillow as things unfolded for their re-arrange.

Penis Gabriel liberally shredded the documents, naturally, for the ever so non-mysteriously named North/Dixons, virulent dacoits who don’t bully pulpit, they slay, but hehn, just hehn, their funky new-fangled widget mind is enduring. Gotta be loved, because Seattle Queers say so. It’s practically a beer song now: Oh, forgive us poor old jolly gentlemen our deception and our sadism, for remember saintly Ringo was the man behind the pool of blood, to save Gail Carolyn Burstyn from exposure in her game, and be glad we haven’t used the needle yet, used the needle yet. Be so glad we haven’t used the needle yet.

Leo and Carbonell worked with Kirshner who was hired by overlords for Reagan’s Hollywood war crime to keep eye on my post-traumatic neurological condition, semi-coma, and to nurse the dementia of idealism with taunting. They worked together socially to cloak this terrible coma in a child about which they knew and were aware of the severe alexytemic amnesia. Together they manuveured jeering to augment Karl’s Roman Catholic presentation of “successive degradations of the X-motive,” plying the tactical mission of a deranged yammering about my reputation as a formalization of their murderous plan. They didn’t exactly win in their case because it never entered a courthouse. They claimed victory by successful execution not by formal adoption of their criminally insane arguments. Abandoned by the poets, backstabbed by their English idols, misled by their leaders and inclined towards their own gearheaded depravity the AIDS victims did not even challenge the monstrous aggression that doomed them. Cowhooves theory, the idea that they just needed to gnaw at something, or someone, was vindicated ridiculously.

In putting into the historical record how the White House and their corrupt cronies on the Supreme Court unleashed the AIDS Onslaught with Two Virgins Pussyball and then used warped means to shatter the mind of victim testimony, you have to understand the local politics that allow the sort of criminally insane methods of the F.B.I. and what that mean, ultimately, for the current global political situation that has been developed by foreign powers as well, into the tragedy unfolding in the Middle East. In other words, the AIDS Onslaught while part of the immediate past, is also a major factor in what they are doing to control the future. To understand the now recent attacks by ISIS in Paris, which will someday be old news, you need to understand what sort of operation it was, akin to the Oklahoma Federal Building bombing by Timothy McVeigh, which was supported by the extremist in Nation of Islam, Dr. Frances Cress Welsing, author of the ISIS Papers. This also requires knowing a little about the similarity of events in Waco, Texas to Jonestown in Guyana, which took place the day that Harvey Milk died and was bottled by Society of Military Engineers in a Union switch and signal at Carnegie Mellon during the early years of Rusted Root here, who shephered the letters from David Lucarelli’s grab to King Crimson. Lucarelli’s mother, at that time, had said, “What do I care if we live in a police state when I am a police woman?”

Due to the sort of criminally insane methods used by the F.B.I. it is impossible to know (after home invasion of an extremely vicious nature) if even my closest friends aren’t in fact either well-meaning people with gored skulls or violent sadists getting in close for the last ripper stab by King Crimson, and this imbalanced condition is just what they wanted and sought to do by child mutilation and home invasion, the Kennedy Curse you might say, visited on an American so important and nativist that I am obviously inherently alien. Leslie Katz’s criminal mischief was widely known for a deceit that masked the staged and phony intercept, that’s very clear, obvious and basic, as well as scripted by a gang who then claimed they were getting even on someone they simply invented.

Don Ostro, the notorious violent pedophile who held me in hostage situation, a Cagliostro, lived in a building called The GRAHAM Building, targetting me for sexual brainwashing, to serve me up as an extremely weird example of the Graham Foundation’s claim that liberals are haywire and humanists the devil. This is one of many orchestra indications of how it was rigged in exactly the manner foreign English like Ringo Starr claim that it wasn’t.

The British script is a snuff film about me and one in which their success in selling my murder as justified is on a collision course with my attempts to describe what I witnessed. Their pledge to secure closure by taking a souvenir to hell for them a perfect lie for silencing testimony.

How This Happened: From the Beginning.

I was a good child in a miserable neighborhood with a
progressive father who abandoned us.  I was set upon in terrible
ordeals of kidnapping and torture, Mansonesque crimes which left me
deaf, shattered with severe invisible, debilitating neurological
injuries.  We moved and I had no idea what had happened, a fact that I
guess everyone realized and they came to regard it as a practical
joke.  When, out of love and misery, I hitchhiked to St. Louis from
Pittsburgh to hear Fripp play guitar, although he seemed friendly and
put me in touch with Peter Gabriel for a few years, they were lobbying
Dan Savage, City Paper, the Stranger and Real Change in Pittsburgh and
Seattle planning to set upon me in my torment with a  call girl Rosa
who became engaged to me.  They knew about a neuroplasm and were
even working with Wattenmaker who is named in documents as the
Neurobehavioralist who gave me the neurotoxin as a child.  Rosa
remorselessly detonated the plasm, leaving screaming in seizures of
convulsive arrest while they mocked me.  I had told them that my
suffering had led to a break down before after my dearly loved
girlfriend in high school broke up with me and left me unrequited.

This story was too much for Fripp.  He thoroughly enjoyed his
role as backstabber.  He contracted Rosa and painted me as someone
pining for an unrequited relationship.  Using this cover story the
British wrote an alibi for a long premeditated AIDS testing war game I
disclosed going on up on Mt. Desert Island, but Zell, the white racist
organizer, who worked with Wattenmaker’s gang The  Guttersnipes, who
first played King Crimson for me as a child, was in Fripp’s Gurdjieff
cult.  After Rosa had me crying and falling on the ground in seizures,
they depicted me despicably as a potential date rapist, brutally set
upon and raped my sign language advocate, chemically castrated me and
now send me messages saying I deserved it for being a worm and letting
my girlfriends get away with walking on me.  After The Stranger
conspired to slasher murder Shannon Harps as a warning to me over the
Lennon jazz involved, I had enough of Aaron Dixon, Seattle and being
used this way and finally crawled away in penury, older, worse for the
ordeal, back to Pittsburgh.

Nobuko was the name of a famous Japanese cinema star from the film:  Children of Hiroshima.  The featured image is from the letters of Gail Carolyn Burstyn, an emissary of Lennon and HitlerReagan.