Leading with Democratic loyalists like Tim Kaine, Reagan has always been the person most concerned with the outcome of Kennedy assassination research. The fact that it is filled with curiosities and puzzles is inevitable, most things work that ways. The primary cause is the incident’s secret messages and those must be interpreted according to Texas Schoolbook doctrine, but enough is known to testify to the mayhem of Trump. The crime was written as a gold mine for soldiers of fortune who see the whole world that ways, through the lens of cheap thrills and dark plans in Hollywood, which is why they made a special categorical selection of a child from a public school to prove that Kaine, their ally, has no honor, which not only makes him their tool, he’s proud of it, and they of him. He wants the world to believe that Trump’s mayhem is a benevolent mutiny from the Imperial Wizard of Oz.
When Allen Dulles put a time capsule on the release of Kennedy information he was farsighted, looking to the day when we all looked back and laughed at the freedom won for us from JFK by his killers in high estate, cheering the assassin at the White House. You can see this through the special microcosm they set up in James MacRyland Crary or Jimmy Creary as the Kaines say.
The masterminds made my house into a midget Truman show, my hope for love and achievement in their production company’s special case law. They used the adjacent initials GB and AH for Arnie Sacnusums. It’s hard to imagine the incredibly loathsome things they have done but apparently you don’t have to, they control the news, they lie and back their lies with gunfire. How fun, to live and die in Axis America, free at last. The particulars are harrowing, they battered me in slaughtering blindside attacks, kidnapped me to a place called Kings Estate where I was gassed, misrepresented an epistle against date rape for being a threat so they could extend their child pornography vocation into race-based psychiatric surveillance in a second holocaust experiment on Mt. Desert Island, topped it off like the cherry in a tin roof by raping my only friend, announcing that the appeals program would rather be with the men who molested me, as a Christian mission, while they wire into my home to make panting noises about the fiance I thought loved me because I had been loyal to King Crimson and brought what was going on their attention, who, by a twist of Lennon, were working with Kennedy’s assassins for Reagan all along, any cruel thing they could think of, licensed and home free in a law beyond law or the conceit of decency led by the Beatlesrobots.
When they pretended to find the script for Penis Gabriel, Thos. O’Connor sat outside my apartment door with all the drawers open and his legs in them, talking darkly and mysteriously while Justin Vicari, like a barn owl, laughed and said, “I didn’t know, haha hahaha haha,” for no apparent reason like Woody Woodpecker. Ming Na Wen told me privately, “I like Sting.”
Jim Marrs managed to get hold of and suppress, a photo of me from 1966 in front of a garage door painted, “I love Sira Siran.” Marrs suppressed a lot more, too. He was a dancer at Jack Ruby’s Carrot Club the night before his co-workers gunned Kennedy down. He must have known all along it was Jacqueline and the mysterious Tang Klan of Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger watching over them from Sgt. Pepper, but the magical mystery was only beginning, and the best was yet to come from Pentagon-Disney.
Convince us, they lisped.
