This article concerns the prison of justification built by some of the most powerful sex traffickers in the world, including the itinerant criminals in the Rolling Stones behind the AIDS attack and the barbarianism of 911, ripper murder from Warhol, working police society and psychiatric drama for Trump and Reagan.  It is a story about their attempt to make America into a petshop of charnel house extermination and profit from the thrill of spreading death and hysteria. It is a personal, behind the scene look at the Gurdjieff Society and Isis warrior Youssou N’dour which were uploaded by King Crimson’s attaches at Warhol. I investigated as a medical library clerk who they tried to kill with a nerve agent and whose writing they have used as trigger phenomenon in mass murder attacks.  It has been impossible to stop them because authorities insist on regarding those who subjected me to serial mutilation as victims without ever naming any objective offense they can claim I authored. It’s just convenient. They actually sneer that the extermination program is justified because of a letter I wrote in high school they made into a Czechoslovakian joke. I am dealing with felons so criminally insane that the mind is shattered by encounter.

    One of the central mysteries on the level of State Troopers is why lesbians would support George Bush.  It’s easy to see why movie stars would, JFK was their better, but why lesbians? The people who support the Beatles in the AIDS attack will never care that they gave the power to investigate and falsify to the persons behind the atrocity.   I have spoken to people who lost children and brothers to the AIDS attack and when they found out who was behind it, they said then they will never care. I have spoken to families of murder victims, a victim of rape, the city where a bystander was knifed, the estate of a man whose name was evoked to justify rape and ripper murder, who would scream with indignation if he, too, had not been murdered, and when they find out who was behind it they shrug.  The murderers are at large, present, violent, seething with hatred and crime, exploiting towers of learning, making money on psychiatric pornography, using poison elements, sadistic mayhem, arson, bombings as odious as 911 and its seldom addressed anthrax, all the attending terror threats, shown beyond the shadow of a doubt to be a masquerade about AIDS by those who authored the abomination, and no one cares, no one investigates, everyone lies, because it was Yoko Ono and the Beatles machine.

     I have been to Claymont where the rabid held court.  I have received letters from the world’s most distinguished people only one of whom, Martha Gellhorn, had the courage to acknowledge what we were talking about; I have been dragged through hostage ordeals beginning in blindside attacks in childhood, subject to nerve agents, heart poison and maniacal crimes of neuroplastic engineer attended by narratives about “constructing a persona” of me originating in the U.S. Military quarters loyal to the attackers.   All of it verifiable and I brought home certain evidence of the war game clocked in advance to the atrocity. No one cares, everyone lies, nobody talks, and they scheme to make money by removing me.

       The script is worth more to the rabid in American society than the U.S. Constitution means to them.   Written by foreign England as a macabre justification for the assassination of JFK, the British Brexit instigators hoot from the sidelines, with a parade of women from a Trump beauty show, calculated to enlist the peasant army and their governors’ offices.

      Their sick motto is:  We Care.

      The murderers lisp in their fangs against hatred and preach love, the most vile upgrade on Orwell ever conceived, and they punish refusal to forgive at the point of a gun with murder of children and mouth poison crime.    Yet lesbians forgive and applaud them.

         Despite the fact that I never thought this way before they tried to forge my name and I got onto their paperwork, despite the hideous and cruel presence of their murderous imagination, the signature stamp of their hysterical vigor, and derision, despite the poisonous minds so obvious in their public sales and publications, despite everything about them coming into cruel union and focus by this despicable attack, this ripper backstab, despite the historic legacy of their attempt to do this before to Dwight Eisenhower, lesbians make their exception, prone and panting to be taken when it comes to foreign English backrippers.

          The rabid have even lisped that the love nothing more than the joy they get at impotent rage incarnate.   They called 911 a therapy session, like the ripper murder of Shannon Harps, who they voted out to example.  They excite the peace corps, the families of the bereaved line up for autographs, they laugh their asses off after raping deaf children from the offices of Amnesty International.  Their favorite hobby is empowering violent queer pedophiles to stalk their runaway children wherever they try to hide, who they stalk through the Postal Union.

         That is what this article the weekend of March 9 and 10, 2019 from Tacoma, Washington, by James MacRyland Crary, the real one, not the one the psychopaths have tried and failed to invent, will be about.      

        The murderers and their lesbian cheering section, have long claimed that this is not true because it is true evil.  Imagine that; imagine the Mansons getting away with what they did by saying, no that’s too evil, as though therefore it didn’t happen, as though therefore it wasn’t them.  The pigs rouse themselves when the name Mancine comes up as executor for ripper mutilation executor trust at Warhol, see, see, you called us a name, that means it never happened, why should we do our job?  No, that’s too evil to be true, we trust Mancine, we vote Mancine. Give the cinema to the Mansons at Warhol, they are the good kind.

       And the rabid lisp, yes, yes, that’s the spirit.  They have a man in a wheelchair, that means they GIT to cut off someone’s cock.   The injuries are ideologically related, you see. The guinea pig didn’t like the war.  

       If you want to know what really happened in UW’s involvement in the AIDS attack, all you have to do is follow the index.  Gail Burstyn was quite forthright in writing about what she called a guinea pig named Billy Jean Guinevere. It was part of what she called Nobuko’s stupid code about what boys and girls should do.   They killed Dr. King, it is in print, coveted print, stolen print taken by home invasion with murder as compensation, by the authors led by Shiono, Sheen and Yoko Ono, vengeance of she. They killed King in the name of Guinevere, for the aw poor juveniles engaged in mass murder planning, entrapping a truly battered victim of torture so Lewis Lapham could call it a urine specimen who they gassed for NEVA Corporation in Kings Estate, over virginity, while Jerry and Jenny Rubin look on throwing pie.

        If you want to know about MAS look at the index, she went to Bard, she was a stop start lover who sang did he or didn’t he, ick ick at the band He’s Dead, Jim.  Turn it around for SAM, and you will sell it to the Museum. He didn’t, his denial proves he did. Did what? Deep throat? Defiant Trespass? Acknowledgement to DT?

       If you want to know what really happened look at the index:  Oz-walled, look at the index, Ronnie and Kasper, like Reagan and Weinberger, who lived on Mt. Desert Island, ZZZZZ sin ski.  Church-ill, and his weasel, Penis J. Sinfield. Gay ill and Les lie, a virtually trinity, smug under a painting of Hitler nuns.

       Realize and suffer is the penalty the rabid lisped on his first album.  Realize what? That the Queers would rather go along with it. I wasn’t gay and couldn’t pass their hazing standard, so they made nice with Al-Jazeera and refused to warn or give report to the press, they were licky chops with the prospect of rullah and spoils, warning would have only saved lives.  They can’t even man up for the 15 minutes of fame that would come with sniveling it was Love onstage, trying to make the teeth of a witness fall out as a laugh about hate being toothless, raping a deaf girl with epilepsy and calling it mercy because they didn’t ripper her, too.

      And the police love the show, they think it’s fucking poetry.

      There's no mystery in Obama, Bush cleared the office of JFK so Obama could be installationed as a deal on AIDS. Queer Seattle see society itself, including queer society, as expendable to Yoko Ono's monetarist claims.  Damn right it's "on" cyberstalking, child-raping foreign English murderloving pig. Let’s go back to Pitt on the day that Jeannette Blackstone, my supervisor, made panting noises at me, all but rubbing herself, when I expressed my love and admiration for the woman I wanted to marry, who I thought was my friend.  It was the rudest, callowest gesture of Black animosity I have ever seen and it was evidently at the instigation of Ralph Proctor’s defense of Don Ostro and Will Zell Broome, for Matt Marcus, his partner, who got two girls to burn their arms gangrenous on acid he sold them as an employee of MisterRogers, all the politics of Penis Gabriel.

      Proctor doesn’t mind invading someone’s privacy, he lets you right into his own house.   He exhibits pictures of a symbolic little white, tells harrowing stories of Heinz being an honorary African, his wife paints Japanese cursive works, and they hand out swastikas calling the inspiration for Hitler, ancient African jewelry, I guess from the days they did in the Neanderthal, and guess what, he doesn’t care about the letters of Gail Burstyn or what they say in cold blood.  He prefers the Warrior! Warrior! Elders Project of syphilitic compensatory coding, the sacrifice of the White! THE WHITE@!

       Mutilationism isn’t, rather, it is the effervescent piercing of holy war.  His colleague, John Eskridge, ready to grab the letters from my house drawers, a partner also of Hypatia Feminist Journal’s Cafe Flesh in Edwardsville, Illini, con Tami Simon Farasani in the index of aquiline nosed pleasures, gave an A in philosophy to a brain-damaged, thoroughly traumatized deaf golem who could no more turn a page than explain why he was neurocompulsively making triangular dry wall pieces at Brecher’s.   Such an A had happy results, little Jimmy, visibly destroyed, was A-okay.

         Oh, my, no, let’s not turn back the page, myuh.

        And we are to believe, really deeply, our whole heart, this sordid, criminally sick, indecent, impolite, terrifyingly rude, dour NAACP activity had nothing, nadda, to do with the ongoing viciousness and unprovoked hostilities of the syphilitic, child raping, murdering foreign English shamanism of the brutal molester Penis Gabriel.  Warriors from Moxyland wasn’t really now the tie that binds. No, none of that.

         There you go again, I’ve never heard of Grrchief!

        The murderers claim by computer tampering that my claims are NT. Despite their destruction of the evidence, despite the rape of Chin i, the murder of Donnie Chin, the murdering rabid refuses to admit Dr. Chin's evidence of severe childhood beatings. A 19 year old girl stood up in class to deliver a spotless, picture perfect philosophy presentation in front of twenty peers, and said nervously, I'm terrified. No one laughed, no one threw eggs, yet the ripper hatter is jeering a traumatized eleven year old child they surrounded, massacred, stripped and vilified, saying that the truth about them is NT. It is true. The British are murder loving ripper filth.  Their agency worked with Ralph and Shawns Brooks and Proctor. Let’s Shawn Brooks! The Christian pig who threw me out of a church into the hands of a mob that he knew were planning to mutilate me, they carved up their own arms, when I bit my fingernails bloody in the office of school they laughed, and didn’t even report it when I disappeared for a month. The rabid came to town and belled up Shawn-e-poo for Warhol. Jimmy was just a crybaby, Brooks read from the script, while his partner Stewart Sheppard said free speech was only for the “jiggiboos”. They forgave him when he brought out the licky chops.

        And the rabid intone NT.  Yes, it is T.

        When premeditation is that evil, and violence disallowed, you will find me resisting, and believe me, I hate you.   That fucking school could have pulled that girl from the podium, raped her and filmed it, shoved monster glue bugs down her throat and Administration would have said hehn, just hehn, while Penis peed on her.

        The murderer of course outlawed hatred.  It sneers that hatred proves its case. It impacted a nerve agent with the words, “I love Sira Siran,” in 1966.   The monster then leered that the absolute disgusting and sick actions of Leslie Katz had no relevance, that the anguishing agony of their spitball and the nerve damage impacting seizures was far too interesting to overlook.  They tapped in for mayhem, clocking bombings to the poetry of non-violent escapism. The guilty conscience of Owen Riley is particularly salient as he did Rachel of Navos’ bidding in making an over-reaction scene to a play, a mere passage on the dramatic reading, that forensic assertive had been demanding with ripper blades, threaten someone queerbait, justify us or we will murder Molly, no not Iowa Molly, next, from the office of The Stranger, where Abulafia and Meat Weapon hail.

         Do it, go home and fume in your pajamas and show us how  you want to tear your hair or you will be licking up the blood of another bystander, do it queerbait, say something nasty for us, hahahahahaha, so we can poison you in the mouff.

        And this is American society, Seattle the holy war of AIDS cowboys for Midori the Chivalrous Nightie of Gail Carolyn Burstyn.

         You owe me, says a line in their film the Mechanic.  Finish it.

          King Crimson drool with lasciviousness seeing how far they can spend their celebrity.  They cream, you will love us yet, as all love the rabid. Cuzzle unto them; it proves the sacred shiemish of primal screams arson bombings heavy metal.  Never bite the hand that feeds you poison, and you all love it, don’t you?

      Just accept the verdict of the lesson, stateways can’t change folkways, and you will live to be a loveslave at American Spring.

      For the University system, under the AIDS attack tyranny of the Trump Regime, the idea of Jimmy Crary’s romantic inclinations and seeking of partnership and fair play was vilified so shamelessly that it now a miasma of American estate mongering that calls for a minority movement that protects the legacy and heritage of America as a lost cause, law abiding citizenship within the new National Behemoth, like a fad faction, let’s pretend The Bill of Rights!  

     What we have is a two party system:  The Domestic Espionage Party Number One (DEP I) and Domestic Espionage Party Number Two (DEP II).   They are partners in the AIDS attack mission house authority. They invented facelying home invasion spy on the neighbors license to render the idea of a right to have a family if you are deaf and earmarked for vivisection what they mock to be a pipe dream.

     The facts of the condition in Pittsburgh are exactly this:   Monty Python made a movie in which a jeopardized individual wrongfully promoted for a messiah in desperation tells a Roman guard you don’t hafta follow orders, to which he gets the grinny growl reply I like orders.  In Pitt, the regimen of philosophy was the same, you don’t hafta betray American history, we want to betray comes the laugh.

        The hoodwinker digest unfolded into a futurescape plotted in advance so perniciously it was already past tense before it even happened, like a confident architect surveying a clearing in which an airport was doomed to come.

       Notice that Al-Jazeera has refused to report Gail Burstyn, and while they refused Oliver Stone was in his zenith producing films like The Doors, about media manipulation of the doors of perception for political myth-mongering.   We are supposed to laugh at the idea that Reagan’s partner Lennon pulled a Houdini with Pentagon Disney. We have McCartney’s WORD OF HONOR that Will Zell Broome never spoke as reported. This ways, Moxyland pulled an Intelligence system switcheroo that makes Diamonda’s attack on the World Trade Center and call to me on Dec. 8, 1980, Anthrax Day, you could say, prove of American Loyalty Oath to Tojo Ronin or else.  It was a switcheroo so deadly that an AIDS attack Moxyland not only happened openly but was bragged about: United We Fell. Happened, bragged about and denied, no door of perception, no son, no son. Hahahaha, no, hahahahaha, no, hahahahaha.

       We have a crime control problem with respect to Great Britain that towers over our society from 1925 when King Edward, whose quarrymen got the Pitmans to drag little Jimmy off the streets for recreation as a voodoo doll to the seance of the Elders Project, vowed that DeMille would organize Hollywood for the Crown’s plans.   Significant Axis power was already behind the scenes in the studios of DG (DW Griffith) which is why it was called The Silver Screen as a tribute to the Silver Shirts of Wichita. NASA’s agency in Pittsburgh went by the name of The Roundtable discussions. We are now nothing but A Democracy of Flies in a prison of British justification for their revenge slaughterhouse.

        Nobody in Chinatown is allowed to notice how easily scriptographers can mangle Fay Dunaway into Fag Dunaway, but a person who has been tortured by forensic assertive cover-up techniques may wonder, peacefully, attending class and doing their homework diligently, about what seems to be maybe a conveyance, ayy garsh, getting them twisted, myuh, from persons notorious for post-critical affirmation and comments like:  I think you know what I’m say’n.