I believe that anyone, even those most eager to fly off to the new drone wars, has given a moment’s consideration to the manner in which a handful of old money eccentrics manipulate our national politics invisibly, the so-called 1%. A good many Americans believe that the Kennedy assassination was part of an inside job related to traffic of commerce. Kennedy was presumed by Republican extremists to be the sort of communist who would stack the Federal courts with liberals capable of issuing warrants against Hitler’s Hollywood, the Teamsters, Texas Oil and Appalachian racists.
In attempting to arrive at logic and reason when faced with the Obama power structure’s license in the AIDS affair, which includes the horrific lies told to me, about me and about Mt. Desert Island by Peter Gabriel and British rock music faceliars, you need to arrive at how police could just shrug it off with admiration for viciousness that surreal, as our kind of pranksters. Reagan provided a getaway by the split screen of a divided psyche. Privately he admitted the Burstyn scroll proved AIDS manmade, but since he didn’t know it should be taken for what it was worth as a boss idea, even though they tried to shoot him, or so they say, nevermind what I was doing there with his attorneys for the AIDS war game they unleashed. Not knowing was such proof of virtue that he was free to lie about what happened, and advocate for the assassins. That’s basic. While they are at it, AIDS is only manmade because Jimmy Creary cudda saved John Lennon, beyond that it is nuh really.
Hurting me is their alibi.
A point of interest and true terror is Tony Cervi, who came onto me as a child with the claim he was going to take me to the car show, shortly before I was brutally kidnapped in stolen cars, and the book Why Not Swop, about wife-exchange. Note the name Cervi, like cervix. He worked with Neurobehavioralist Wattenmaker who gave me the nerve agent that caused me to become like a demon possessed. He also lived on the deep end of Curtis Street in Penn Hills, so steep and sheer a rock face that it can only be described itself as a pit, you practice fall into a headlong roll in a straight downwards lover’s leap trying to get to his front door. This pit-fact, like the Pitmans who brutally gassed me comes with the idea that AIDS was just a joke on Mt. Desert Island with the assurance of the assassins from Pit and a band they called King Crimson.
We are not supposed to notice or even consider that there is any connection between this lay of the land, this script writer’s ghoulish symbolism, this staged scenario and the way that the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette put my dead father on trial as a Red Witch in clockwork to the staged and phony intercept of the Burstyn scroll by David Lucarelli now of 20th Century Fox, a total stranger in my bedroom.
Police can be forgiven for wetting themselves like hostage children. They have to summon the courage, give them time. They don’t want to be called on British celebrities, much less Herr Reaganstein. Indeed, they have put the full monty of chips on the idea that Jimmy Creary, after being brutally tortured by hardened pedophiles who threatened to kill him, one such threat from a black man seven feet tall, was given powerful alcohol at the age of fourteen as a sedative to terror by adult criminals, and therefore he, and he alone, is guilty of an identity crime committed by the murderers who intoxicated him in partnership with Lewis Lapham, the County Government and Pittsburgh Police when he is the only one who didn’t know anything about what was going on. Talk about existential nightmares.
The assassins are led by Amanda Harcourt, a Crown Prosecution Agency attorney, dauntless, facelying power and brutal chauvanist intimacy that epitomizes evil is her calling card. If she is to be believed about Jimmy Creary that singing John Lennon’s song: Woman, is proof of rape. Lennon when he wrote it was evidently an Ono scheme sock puppet who should be remembered with remorse as the spiritual godfather of Jeannie-raping Seattle Queers in league with Sean Strub. Strubberbosque, you might call them. They would rather work with those who started AIDS than acknowledge the rights of a horrendously molested grade school child who presumed too close to the princely divination of Sir BeatlesPaul.
The tapestry of victim scammology is very consistent in allowing AIDS to spread, separating the moral victims from the immoral victims, inciting them on one another through such elements as race rage, and sabotaging attempts to get timely warning and judicial review. Peter Gabriel’s most vicious and determined tactic is to sabotage trauma recovery with new acts of deadly fear. Burstyn, his partner, was from the inside family of a Judge downtown. She may have even been a pen name for Agatha Christie.
Gabriel is sure of his fallacy. He has the Post Gazette’s team and John Shulman of Caliban Books, a familiar of Tom O’Connor, classmate of Ming Na Wen, whose van was used at the Kelly School in the reckless driving incident I was blamed for, despite being a furious passenger. Such tactics allowed Obama to claim race grievance for those who started AIDS, and petty hate as justified over a letter to Leslie Katz, one of the most perverse and tragic documents in American History, and likely one you will never be allowed to see. They’re saving it for bully shock and the clean up in aisle eight.