In one of the strangest twists of labyrinthian existentialism I ever experienced as a Town Hall type it happened to find me in a commonplace job in Pittsburgh where I received from Milena Czerna in Czech Republic an encomium for my eulogy to Olga Havel, founder of Committee of Goodwill, on the eve of an attack by her husband’s forces that led to the rape of a deaf Korean girl who taught me sign language in a political operation called Evangelia Karmas.  It was as though I were two people, a drudge-writing nobody and some peculiar illusion that British media were drumming up making me a you’re the show robot blaming me for abomination to convenience the real assassins. How am I supposed to get out from under that? At the time I didn’t even know what was going on, the very point they were setting the whole thing up as though to address. Some very unprecedented things happened to me all at once when I found out, not least the legendary broadcast voices from Sony’s “ESP signal” (Burstyn, 1974) Voice Again (Penis Gabriel, 1985) machine that served as Godfather Trump in the “dialectic established from the outset” (Karl 1991) between “pigment and figment” (McGarvey, 1972) or “paranoia’s poison” (Sinfield, 1969).   These allies had it wheedled that if you call the pretext of their war game on the use of a double they will defeat you as having a fantasy.

        I think you should all, if anyone is left, help me out of self-respect and stop playing a foreign establishment war game of Rosemary’s Baby, the film where everywhere the poor creature turned for help was a closed ring of faceliars in a violent, hostage-taking revolutionary council, one that uploaded with their murder of JFK.  

       The foundation of the Grand Wheedle is a hexagram.  Ian Wattenmaker and Tive were party to the creation of the CIA by Ian Fleming, spoke to me about it, and served as namesake when the Scottish guy came laughing at us through CIA Hollywood, surrounding JFK with James Bond, just as they used the double entendre word play on James James Bondage taking me hostage to K while putting my initial signifier C in a Star of David, gassing me in Kings Estate, while in hoodwinker Final Call the NAACP did just as the Fleming machine had placed a ninny with a laser weapon in her hand in JFK’s White House bedroom for Aristotle Onassis, from there they just want to see how far they can push it.   They even gave her hexagram the name of Roberto for execution of the play in raping my dear friend Jeannie who crossed them by teaching me sign.

      The myth of doubles has a long revolutionary history, not only in the escape of Hitler but in the legend of Zapata’s assassination.  The people who disbelieved called the double of Zapata by the name of Jesus Delgado. This name is a hexagram sort. Jose Delgado was an experimental brain surgeon who wrote the book, “Visions of a Psychocivilized Society.”  He would have appreciated Jacqueline’s proto-Greek attache Rosine when she shouted at the man she executed, (there’s no doubt they gloat everyday online about how she got me castrated using a slanderous war hexagram), when she shouted at her mark, “I see what you are now!”  Dumping hatred on a neuroplastically tampered Delgado golem from Wattenmaker’s refrigerator, where he once took me to “The Incredible Two-Headed Transplant” to show you how cruel Lennon’s mind was in making up a fist-sodomizing counter fable to shove up America’s ass in revenge for Yoko Ono and Hiroshima, making the memory of Dallas into a pornographic fantasy, bang, bang, shoot, shoot, for Evangelia Karmas.

         The Grand Wheedle operated in language as when Karl evoked Penis Sinfield’s “smile as the puppet’s dance,” in lisping that the queerbait was “going to perform for them.” (1976) JFK did the same for King Edward (KE) and McCartney in their pussyball foreplay a sport of McKe where they had him perform for them debating Nixon in McKeesport, part of the lucid hexagram.  Kennedy believed in reason, food and a strategy for peace, Ian Fleming knew what British word games could do instead. Responding to the decoy of auto-suggestion it became a puppet sport where so-called Plague Mass (PM) “performed” for them.

       The rabid attacked a child blindside then call “it” a coward and a liar for telling the truth about what happened, while they spit nails, one of which they put in my sandwich as a child, before fulfilling the mission by poisoning me in the mouth for an NAACP pornography ring that belches like Nava Edelstein, “I feel so much better now.”

       Dia----bolical.