912

On the day after the reverse Pearl Harbor in a war fought backwards, Seattle moved robotically, save for a number of agents of the mission hustling swiftly through the streets carrying large silver, metal briefcases.  There were no journalists of any note left to capture the scene for our children, or interpret its meaning.  Although the Seattle Times was bold enough for one flash in the pan to headline their paper:  Our Allies Cooperated in the Attack, the public seemed to avert their eyes, in a hurry for the day’s paper to go away.  Everyone knew what it meant and just hoped this would be the last of it.  When the news of the anthrax came over, they behaved like the nuns in Ken Russell’s film, “The Devils,” having orgiastic frenzies of pain before a box they were told contained Christ’s ashes, stopping dumbfounded when it was shown to be empty, then returning to their agonies, “Osama did it!  Osama!  We must find Osama by nightfall!”

The Carnegie Mellon Student Union, led by Cameron Brown of the New York Times who saw this terrible attack as an Ayn Rand goodie from High Judgment in London, already had scorned Martha Gellhorn’s judgment.  The journalist community wasn’t going to be bothered with facts on this one.  The syphilis of foreign carrion birds in the British rock royalty had taken the helm.  Sneering at Gellhorn’s assessment of my writing as conveying, “a great sense of urgency,” Ringo and his fabulists conquered the campus wavelengths by distortion built on a terrible game of fraud.

Speaking of similar English in another dark time, Thomas Mann wrote, “surely we are culpable having believed all their pulings about the brothers.  We could not credit the prospect of such heaped up knavery and manuveuring.  When it was never a question of the brothers but of the Skoda works, Czech oil, Hungarian grain.”  Stalin said, “one man’s death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.”  Greedy old letch McCartney wanted that statistic used to sell one death, and they threw away a chance to warn and intervene in favor of humanizing a plague by sacrificial homicide.

The evidence that the twisted deceit behind the whole foreign rabid campaign was prior scripted comes down to us from the Reagan Administration age like the scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre, “Hit her again grandpa!”

What I remember most about 912 was my fury on the streets of Seattle coming to a pitch when an ogre in a surreal terrorist rubber mask of a sort popular in a few fringe Japanese cosplay magazines lopered up Eastlake by the dockyard on a grim mission of stalking from Peter Gabriel.  I tried to cross the street to tear his mask off but my indoctrination as a victim of psychiatric malpractice held me back.  I couldn’t move against the forces of the behemoth.

The fact that Shannon Harps was later slasher murdered by police administration is confirmed by the doctrine from Carnegie Mellon that they had the right to author this insanely cruel, illegal assignment in conditions of brutal child torture, which they sold by claiming the horrific injuries were self-inflicted.  They took no notice or cognizance of my true character except to lampoon and deride me.  The conscription came from John Stockwell and James Dubya Child with the blessings of the Beatles.  The bloodthirst for murder in the Executive Branch is seen in the Death Row signifier of those who threatened the children in my family at the scene of Shannon Harps’ death.  They announced that I would be forbidden to have children.

The problem with the claim that I did it to myself is that it not only isn’t true, it is conscription into the camp of the true authors.  By ignoring my true character the assassins secured the assistance of Black monsters slapping five in the Ku Klux Klan barbershop over the tears of Jimmy Crary.

In the tender shattering of Jimmy Crary’s mind, he spent much of his adolescence deep in study of the Jewish Holocaust, reading everything he could find extensively, from Bruno Bettelheim to Kzetnik.  In accounts about the Nuremberg Trials Jim came across a passage about an elder man who learned of a cruel castration experiment planned for a younger man and pleaded to stand in the younger man’s stead.  At the trial the younger man learned of it and wept at the terrible sacrifice made in his defense.  The inconceivable idea was salient to all concerned.

Yet Dr. Proctor in his mad book from WQED doesn’t even seem to register that he is becoming like the enemy, caustically quipping off-handedly about seeing to it that the enemy never have children again.  Where is the remorse in becoming as evil as the Nazis?  Without trial?  In so-called self-defense?  This isn’t to say that Dr. Proctor was behind the terrible act by a Harborview Hospital orderly in Seattle as part of the program in which Shannon Harps, too, was immolated, only to say that the bad faith of WQED towards me is legend and that Black haters have scavenged the script in attempts to justify sacrificialism towards a white.

This was the carrion bird role of Youssou N’dour all along.  He is an attache of Geffen, Clinton and Obama.  The mystery of AIDS is known to be Sean Strub.  Yet in their farcical ingenuity the famous Beatles saw his game as a lucrative scam and they wanted their piece of the action.

911 was the AIDS Combine punishing us for the victims, myuh.  MYAWK! and, uhn, uhn, uhn, if’n uhn, uhn, you don’t like it, uhn, uhn, Cameron and his klang just might tell Wu Tang.

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