No one likes being targeted but it’s obviously a thrill for those who do it and we increasingly live in a playstation world of ongoing school massacres. As a victim of terrifying serial mayhem, gradually losing my life to terror crimes past, sent constant reminders of the organization behind it, watching others die from the studied neglect behind which is the bigotry of the authorities in the matter, my goal obviously is to try to help stop the violence by showing the network. Lifting the myth of non-sequitur about it and give a class picture may help resolve people to allowing it to be addressed. I am dealing with factions who admit they don’t know what is going on but allege that I don’t either. In other words, they don’t know what is going on but they know what isn’t going on. That would be splendid if their certainty were proven, instead of littered with bodies. There are many things you cannot understand by accepting what they do.
One of the travesties highly in vogue is that I enjoy doing this. None of this came naturally to me. I was the object of shrill, intense, parochial maniacs, Gregory Karl and Robert Fripp foremost among them. By impinging, demanding response, and sharing their calculus and garble, they enjoyed making a commentator to watch. In their view, I am like Old Faithful. They enjoy watching me go off. Feed the queerbait another chapter, they laugh, and watch the tea kettle rattle.
Back in Pittsburgh, where I lived a lot of my life, Shawn Brooks and Gregory Karl had a nice little Franklin Graham game. They figured they would poison the weirdo with a nerve agent, watch their victim fall to pieces and then take the school back for Jesus. It’s a little more complicated now due to the particulars of the book that came with them for parochial values, the Texas Schoolbook, and one reason is the evidence on my father’s obituary that this was the New Constitution for the Green Party and Donald Trump was not only the author, the Beatles were helping him for many, many years.
This fact begins to be certifiable in almost every particular. For one thing the style of the criminals and the intimacy of their terrorism has been made public spectacle in both Pittsburgh and Seattle. The depredations are vicious and meant to prop their legendary personas. More to the point, they have authored an intensity of this cruelty that is recurrent. Both the Kennedys and the Kings fell to the blade. They were unmistakable in their demand to communicate. Liberal, they said, we will do it again. The zenker diverticulum to the throat, the ripper attacks outside the clubhouse, the rape of my deaf advocate, the nerve poison, the deafness, the beatings, chemical castration, diabetes, and poison to the mouth. The dacoit Inslee had a party with the Queers, we’ve got a scam, he just about yelled, let’s do it, and his mice-like men approved with the sort of open throat, hollow, “yeah!” you get from Husky avoiders at UW Medicine. They spotlit the groovies saying, we were beaten before we began. It was their mantra.
For Penis Gabriel, a bigwig of the bloodbath, in Bath, England, at his castle of blood, he need only wow us with yes, but the quah-thing said let’s play a game. Ah. Like Germany inventing the ruse of being fired upon at the Polish border, the innocent line offering a poetry exchange allowed creation of a dummy by which dishonorable Paul McCartney gambled The King of England to his petty spite. Weird but true. It’s interesting, at Acorn, the meeting house where Donnie Chin was killed after it closed, a man was convinced the CIA put a chip in his head. You look at the nerve agent the City of Pittsburgh used on me for their assassination war game and you are supposed to wink at him, poor guy, what some people believe. Where will it end? You think they wouldn’t? That’s what they always used to say.
The rabid were on the make for all this with refrains like man up, and make him earn it. They uploaded men who have never been beaten half to death to insist that their masters having forged a name on a manuscript that I believe was authorized by the name they forged makes the money in their matter theirs, and they have all those killers playing dummy. They force you to take Political Correctness Loyalty Oaths or else violate you nine ways from Sunday with evil idiocy. They called me Jimmy Canary and sent me into a world ash for the Greens, after showing me Lincoln’s place in a hollow.
