The house of greatest interest in the AIDS Onslaught is the Child/Sellers house near O’Bannon in Pittsburgh.    Sellers seemed to be with a foreign English mother and introduced me to Selling England by the Pound by way of the lyrics manually typed on onion skin paper.   Since Child is a suspected Trump agent and was indexed to Child-Sellers we know at once the gravity of the crime, suspiciously hotwired to Reagan’s Nuclear Debate Team.   Nearly the Child/Sellers house we have the poet Sue Elkind, real estate agent, who penned in No Longer Afraid, “How can one hear in a fog?” Many of her poetry club were in the East Liberty district where I was gassed and brutally battered, yet the Trump machine (T.I.V.E.) persist that I was advised of the charge by God, Inc. and should be held for abortion to the NASA-Warhol AIDS sword.

    Throughout media has been used as a weapon.  The takeover can masquerade as an investigation with impunity.   They demonstrated the fatality of the political system by going from saying, “that is the most terrible story I have ever heard,” to “Crary dickhead,” when they poisoned me for calling it Cold War phenomenon from the Reagan maniacs, before kicking my door down when I was out and poisoning me, pouring something sticky all over my computer.  Then for good measure they whispered to Pittsburgh renegades, “Creary is trying to upload into your Civil Rights era legends,” which caused the black community to pick up their periscope, stroke their chins and go, “hmm, money.” Mercy underworld are your friends, yeah right, like attack hookers love me, but those are the sort of lines of support that Wattenmaker and Chang have bribed by getting into positions of academic excellency.

     The rabid continue to sneer, unchecked by government, asleep at the wheel, that the URN poison allowed me to succeed in school, ignoring that the Union refused so vitriolically to allow the white deaf suck to learn sign language that the retarded woman who befriended me and did so anyway was raped in foreign English punishment “karma,” wow, man, power!  Leaving song lyrics on my floor, “Chunchy underfoot, I walk like a man. I step on your toes because I know I can.” Over the door of which was a man with his head pushed into a toilet.