The Seattle Political Machine aren’t the type to give a brother a breathing spell after a multiple homicide during the period of mourning. Their Godfather is somewhat new to those niceties and takes his cue from a ravenous British harangue maven. Nor is Pittsburgh the type to provide professional journalism to cover the Shalom Massacre of October 2018. All very nice to print the Kaddish on the front page, but in-depth reporting wouldn’t make it past the Wecht Family, town warlords. They’ve invented a disposal madman, rendered him consumer safe, and plan to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Seattle is eager to serve this purpose by brutal intimidation. The rabid suffers the delusion that not actively giving me AIDS entitles him to magical mysterious automatic forgiveness for all of his crimes. He finds his maniacal assessment reasonable. Instead of pandering to his stupid games, I’ll explain their legacy and my demand.
Our society mistakenly drew a moral from the murder of JFK long ago and became a nation of poachers. We now live under the continuing reign of President Bungalow Bill, King Poacher. Seattle’s HIV groovies movement has become an Orwellian bandwagon. You aren’t allowed to escape their intimidation after they closed ranks to mandate obstruction of public safety entirely in favor of the attackers. Our city has so refused to take the future seriously that children are being born into a world shaped by a situation we haven’t even bothered to talk about in public. Leadership vacuums are a curious sport.
Our society is fast becoming a free-for-all where people are just choosing sides between organized criminals who share their interests. Nobody listens to anyone else. In Tacoma, where I live, half of the people I mentioned the catastrophe at Tree of Life synagogue to had not heard about it, despite it being front page news here, involving a visit from President Trump. This is because they are now so discouraged they tune out the news. Mostly, people continue to go about their routines, trying to get along, make progress and be accepting, but then we receive word of another maniacal explosion in bedlam. It creates a strange contrast in a darkening world.
In the science fiction novel Dune they used to talk about something called, “Imperial conditioning.” It exists in a world where media routinely lists thousands of errors of facts or lies told by Our Worship in Office on a monthly basis and those who note the discrepancies and wonder what in the world it could mean are derided as intellectuals. This conditioning dictates that by noting how I am being used I am inflating my value and this is a Hitler Table Talk from the franchise confederates who were made into a Hollywood foundation during the Red Scare by the Biblicist Cecil B. DeMille, then head of Radio Free Europe, preparing for the rise and reign of Ronald Reagan. Jimmy Creary as scripted is an invisible spirit like something out of Hoiichi the Earless, a fable of Japan. Because Catholic Worker never acknowledge good works in this world until the demise of the ascended, who grovel before sainthood, the wicked witch of HitlerReagan’s moral code indexed the Table Talk from Hollywood riches on high with the punitive sneer of the initials A.D. for die trying and maybe n’you’ll get some recognition queerbait. Anonymity, they crow from Penis Gabriel’s SO, is a decree, you pale white token sacrifice to the Gods of Black Lives Matter More.
My schools, past and present, are content to ignore poaching of students. As long as Seattle Art Museum can cunningly claim they did not plan the whole thing, police are content to dress up after hours and buy a ticket to the show. Maybe they will be applauded and strewn with flowers after the next bloodbath at Pablo Fanques Fair. Taliban is a new trade on Wall Street, and popular off Broadway, it refers to a ledger kept by shadow ban members for the brutal practices of church norms in human trafficking, a costume play they liken to Rita Meter Maid, all settled by the popular vote of an applause machine. Martin Luther King was cast aside, he knew that all lives matter, these hunters are just playing images for the eccentrics, the studio moguls and the Crown. The controllers lisp reassuringly that they smile as the puppets dance. All of their terrible crimes follow the theme of the very peculiar drumming on the idea that I am guilty for something about which I knew nothing. To get across this bottomless gulf of reality from which they do their poacher behavior they very singularly convict a terrified and battered child of a sin they announce as denial and incomprehension, which many of the adults they want to entertain remain mired in to this moment, having been held in the dark while the perpetrators maneuver. They dress up as skin and bones to conveyance their accusation, littering the chapterhouse with corpses awaiting word that the lights will go up for applause.
In Olympia, Wa there is something curiously straightforward to them about the alibi that the Mt. Desert Island mystery, put on by child pornographers in a psychiatric follow-up routine, was all a science project meant to function as an AIDS simulator. Meanwhile there is a weird and criminal refusal to even consider that those scribbling between the lines authored the blanks.
In World War Two, non-interventionists, powerfully sponsored by fascist sympathizers, held FDR to a standstill until Pearl Harbor leading to charges, never official, that he knew about Pearl Harbor in advance and let it happen to force war fever to erupt. Yet this foundational truth about the attitude of goblins in our checkered history is not repeated because it would offend the enemy within to be reminded that we know they are there. They are far too strong and their violence too surreal. The alliance of those who burn crosses with those who do drive-by shootings is the new order that concerns me most. It masquerades by leading people to assume that combined jobs of shared interest were only one race taking action against the symbol they purportedly despise. Imagine if we all got a look under the hood at what really went on during the making of the Ark of Colors.
Conscious irony from a faceliar means its opposite. When Penis Gabriel mooed the commentary, “someone has to play the fascist,” we were supposed to laugh, oh, that’s so cute, that’s Pete outpete’ing Pete, but the masquerade is clear, behind the pretense of a little quip he hid the ruthlessness for which he is now known. When he lisped of the problem in the Reagan days that the perpetrators were smaller and had less visibility, he was giving the golden opportunity for men like those at Pitt, to tell Reagan all, and play like he was finding out from them, while they licked Pink Floyd’s velvet hand. How warm it must have felt to snitch against the whole wide world to its enemy, what else could the authors of AIDS have been? What else do you call Kennedy’s assassins? Friendly fascism? Get a life! From there, anything could be made to look like found art and national treasure, nevermind how many people were betrayed. They had mask to put on called Jimmy Creary. AIDS was 60% black brutality, but they were clever, clever about getting the get’n’s, just as Adam Clayton Powell led a mutiny against Martin Luther King’s non-violence and the NAACP backed LBJ’s get rich scheme in Vietnam. They set upon me, targeting me in a horrible head injury that gurus from Mellon Bank had impacted in holding me hostage as a child in severe trauma at the hands of truly demented individuals who I have reason to suspect were in league with Robert Bowers, all cooked up by the Wecht warlords with Wattenmaker, the neurobehavioralist at the spectro-chemical refrigerator, doing the bidding of the real power in the Beatles mania, to demand text, and poach by extrusion, one of their clever words that one: extrusion. It means force out of a coma the words they implanted. The peace wuss would pay for all.
The reason this long essay is not finished is because they keep dumping on me. Seattle lured me ages ago with promises to give me sanctuary from abuses and then poisoned me in the heart. They lured me back again, ever the gullible and promptly poisoned me in the mouth, as though telling a fable of meaning from hospital terrorists. Linking Robert Bowers to the people he killed isn’t really an enormity of thinking, it just means a move by a trafficking guild to rivals saying hands off the merchandise, which is what I am to this ravenous putrids. George Romero’s daughter Kyra was named in a script about AIDS, that’s Night of the Living Dead, and no one thinks that’s weird? Mike Seate, her chum, is a black man with swastika tattoo and no one thinks that’s weird? Matt Marcus burned two girls’ arms gangrenous while working as a set designer for MisterRogers and no one thinks that’s weird? The rally for the victims at Tree of Life took place at the corner where the starlet of the war game Leslie Katz used to sit in wait after I met her at the Governor’s School and no one thinks that’s weird?
It’s weird, pro.
They’ll be sweet talking the puppets, make no mistake. They are good at sweet talking. When you can’t see through Peter Gabriel you are blind. His vomitbag parochial Royalism cunningly created a test tube demonstration of sexual violence and reckless abandon for entertainment that was designed to represent the outcome of liberal tolerance, how coy. This then allowed for the backlash of holy war, in the name of the victims no less. Wonder of wonders. The preference for entertainment and mock depiction, lampoon, is like a brain surgery in our society, we are given a jabbering franken-brain instead of Kennedy’s Harvard intelligence and wit, and we can’t tell the difference! The excrement on the table we are assured by Warhol is the feast of Lennon. America is delivered to African maniacs by Britain as a cowhoove to gnaw in their agonies. Uncontrollable children are said to be strawberry intellectuals.
Aung San Suu Kyi has an adjuvant at my current school who worked with Ming Na Wen and Aaron Dixon selling two virgins pussyball as a sport of sexual access apparently, and he lives in hate that probably can never be assuaged, about millions of people, a third of Cambodia, being killed by the CIA’s arrogant folly, but it made him a company man. Aung San Suu Kyi in her debutante stages as an intellectual, whose father by the way, Gen. Aung San, like the French we backed up in Vietnam, was an ally of the Germans and Japanese there, cut a standard for the ethereal Asian deity of redemption nuptials in Strawberry Intelligence Circles. It’s too deep, but two AIDS suicide bombers, Foucault and Strub, have been found out as leaders of the project UW is on of assassination by AIDS and bacteriological warfare on campus. Mr. Cho, always the wise ass, kluks openly of sexual access being the big status quo crown.
The hegemony of criminal children never gets old.
I demand that the nutters in Seattle Government STOP encouraging the reckless crazies who nearly killed children at Kelly Elementary in their bid to command my name. That is what brought me here screaming in trauma.
