As you can see if you look at my face I suffer
from an unusual injury in my facial nerve. This was diagnosed by UPMC
Dr. Michael Soso as Atypical Facial Pain. I will be presenting
evidence that this was a result of premeditated poison crime by one of
Pitt’s Neurobehavioral Research team. This injury has plagued me night
and day for over forty years, yet until 1997 I did not know it was
there. It became visible when it forced its way to the surface. From
that point on it has caused excruciating migraines, seizures, body
spasm and feels like a hornet’s nest is living, writing, burning in my
face. It will never go away. It cannot be treated. I will never escape
the suffering it inflicts. As you may have read in the paper, after
James Brady died, murder charges were filed against the assassin even
though he had been released from prison hospital having served a
sentence for the shooting. This case is similar. Even though the
poison crime was committed in 1974, last year, Dr. Joe English of UPMC
removed a pre-cancer lesion from my face that resulted because of
severe mistreatment, terrifying acts of torture crime, committed by
PITT after I went to them for help. PITT chose this demented,
horrifying course of action, to attack me again, because they already
knew I had been brain-damaged in a Frankenstein experiment by William
Wattenmaker, and wanted to destroy both me and all trace of evidence
to cover it up. What they did is so sick and crazy, so violent to the
mind, that accepting what you are going to be seeing and reading as
real is part of the problem and Pitt will labor to cover it up as
delusional material. This creates a forensic dialectic between poison
crime and figments of the imagination that serves as the platform for
their own lewd fascination. PITT has made this criminal act of torture
into a hobby and a mania.

At the time the letter you will be seeing documenting the poison crime
was sent to me, I was in the Scholars Program at Fulton Elementary
School. I was attacked blindside by an armed gang. It was like being
shot. They brutally and repeatedly assaulted me with furious,
slaughtering blows to the head. I suffered severe concussions. They
kidnapped me in stolen cars, forced me to use inhalants in hostage of
deadly threats, took me over state lines, subjected me to pedophile
acts which were used on cinema without parental consent, and then
later to blackmail and humiliate me horrifically by the University of
Pittsburgh. I will be presenting evidence showing the planned poison
crime that took place. It is a letter from Gail Burstyn, introduced to
me in the house of Shelly Friedman, illustrating what she calls a
purple disc thingo, and other letters in which she names the brother
of Will Wattenmaker, employee in Neurobehavioral Research. I will
present a letter written by me in the days immediately following the
poison crime administered to me in a state of trauma when friends of
Wattenmaker gave me a radiating disc thingo, a spectro-chemical of
serious toxin, and this letter by me as a child shows the gravity of
what was for decades to be an invisible neuroplasm that no one ever
knew was there.

Yet mysteriously, in 1992, five years before it became visible, PITT
authored a murderously criminal political action targetting this
cruel, impacted neuroplasm. I have evidence showing the nature of this
political action. They were able to pull this off with the help of
Rosa Arnberg because they knew the injury was there and they knew that
I didn’t. They hired Arnberg to go undercover as an attack prostitute
to masquerade as my fiance. They used a personality change chemical to
depict me as character flawed. I had a dream once. It was a film,
possibly set in Russia, in which a working class man left his
girlfriend with the people he knew and worked with. All of them,
behind his back, when he was not around, said the nicest things you
can imagine, how hard he worked, how loyal he was, how caring. If I
had done that here, in Pittsburgh, men who tortured me as a child, who
administered a shattering personality change chemical would furiously
attack me and speak of me as character flawed and she would laugh. In
other words Pitt couldn’t even leave me in my wreckage to find a woman
who loved me as a deaf man, they had to use undercover attack
prostitutes to sabotage my hopes. Not only was my best friend Jeannie
Tamburro raped in a brutal attack engineered by those behind this
political action, but when I tried to escape to Seattle, I was
chemically castrated in a deliberate malpractice hatchetjob. At night
as I lie in my bed, unable to get a natural erection, it is like I am

Yet I went to Pitt for help. I didn’t see myself as their enemy. My
father Ryland was Chair of Philosophy of Education. I worked at Falk
Medical Library. As a writer at PITT NEWS I was recruited by James W.
Child, a Philosophy Fellow of Bowling Green State University to be a
research assistant. This case that I will present to you today is in
large measure a presentation of what I went to them for help
concerning, and a presentation about what they did in reprisals. For
now it is enough to know that I was invited to the Law School and when
I got there and sat down they arrested me for trespassing, a crisis
that triggered convulsive arrest. In the resulting suffering, I
boarded a bus for Iowa and shrieking in misery and agony from the
anguishing neuroplasm forcing its way through dormant amnesiac
memories to the surface, I lay on the ground screaming, faced pressed
to cement, as memory of their attempts to impugn my character flowered
through my mind. The injury itself was chemically and biologically
wrapped around my libido, allowing them to commit a monstrous hate
crime, premeditatively, using Rosa, who of course they made off with
as their price of conquest. During this ordeal the neuroplasm forced
its way to the surface with memories theretofore blocked by amnesia
caused by the constrictor of the injury.

The evidence shows that their political action was designed to impugn
my character and attack my dignity and that it was purposefully
intended to depredate on the neuroplasm, allowing them to slur. What
was the real memory that forced its way out? It was of a day in 1974
when it was freezing cold and snow on the ground, but school was not
closed. I had been sent to the Principal’s Office in tears after
biting my fingernails bloody and told Dr. Marshall that I was going to
be killed. When I disappeared for weeks they never investigated. That
particular day I was afraid to go to school and was wandering around
alone, frightened for dear life, but the Pitman, in their stolen car,
found me anyway and forced me using deadly threats into the car where
they exhibited weapons and threatened to kill me if I didn’t use
inhalants. Somehow, at a red light, in my panic, I eventually escaped
the vehicle that particular day. This buried memory was not a date
rape as PITT was implying.

I took to hiding on the top shelf of our towel closet at home. Mother,
in tears beyond tears, finally agreed to sell her house and move us
across town so I didn’t have to go to Peabody. Somehow, despite
deafness and neurotraumatic amnesia, I won a Governor’s School
Scholarship for my Poetry, yet when I got home, Police detectives
tried to frame me on armed robbery charges. As a result of these
experiences I was afraid enough of Pittsburgh that when the bus was
late in Iowa, I began to cry so profoundly that the bus attendant
asked to help me and in pity agreed to change my ticket to Seattle. I
was by then in terrible condition from toxic overexposure in
homelessness before the midwest sun.

For twelve years I sat in a recovery house in Seattle just staring
into space, unable to believe or accept that PITT, to whom my father
had dedicated his life, not only employed the men who tortured me as a
child, but hired an attack prostitute to masquerade in order to
humiliate me in the impacted injury they knew about when I didn’t know
it was there.

Today, despite all, I am a student in good standing at CCAC, but I’m a
little bit like Charly in the book Flowers for Algernon the man with
Downs Syndrome who catches a glimpse through medicine that wears off
of what life might have been. I am struggling with math at the level I
was on when attacked as a Scholars Program student. After leaving
Seattle, I was told that my poem The Hero had been published in the
Chinook coupon book. I received a Certificate for Achievement from
ACORN of the Asian Counseling and Referral Service for my many
volunteer efforts on their behalf in the field of journalism, as I did
also from Amnesty International for my work in the plight of women
trapped, as I was as a child and am today, in the tragedy of human
trafficking, but I am a broken man. I have been so disappointed in
anything as I am in the University of Pittsburgh.

I will take you with me now down the mind-shattering fear of encounter
with the horrifying mystery of what motivated them. The evidence is so
shocking that it easily rivals The Manson Family.

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