The Mastermind

 

June 1, 2017

Tacoma, WA

copyright James M. Crary

The Mastermind

No one who knew my muse as a child or adolescent is under any illusion that I made all this up. The presence of a mastermind has become violently clear. British prog rock and the New York Times have been lying for so long as I can remember about the whole crime I bear witness to in decades of blog-writing, and they have done it with attending incantations of phony baloney about John Lennon inconsistent with the beliefs of their leader George Bush. Mind games aren’t compatible with the duties of the Fourth Estate, which was conquered in secret, putting our reality to work on an experimental movie by Hollywood Caligulas, tracing their brainstorms back to D.W. Griffith. Nobody has evidenced such scorn for the United States of America, not even Russia. I know what the British rock industry are from what they have done and do not expect any hope or any good to come from them to me or anyone else. I will explain their excuse system, its so-called psychology, once more and add some detail to what is already in print. No one imagines such hardened liars to change into honest human beings; instead they have persuaded a frowning majority that it is in their interest to bulldozer across remorse and morality, about which they talk much while comprehending little.

It would be one thing, very arguably illegal and wrong, if I had been Gail Burstyn, to say I should be punished in kind by AIDS, an act like putting Hitler into a gas chamber or crematorium, but to do it to an innocent person, inflicting mutilation by piecemeal acts of serial terrorism, keeping a ledger about comparative illness, while inventing all sorts of vicious and incredible arguments about transference, is criminally insane. It’s perfectly obvious by failure to arrest Gail Burstyn that something completely different than the legend from Carnegie Mellon of Yoko Ono’s curse for queer beatlemaniacs in the name of Leslie Katz on Jimmy Creary is going on and that a mastermind is at work using such underground digest from the superstate whisper apparatus as his cover story and being allowed. These pukey Green Party rainbow politics, being practiced in Pittsburgh and Seattle, aren’t civics in any reputable sense of the word, they are prison gang politics from the Government of Peter Gabriel who aspires to a house of flies over which the royal tyrants chariot and crow.

The intellectuals being published for working with Clinton have elevated syphilis to a fine art. De-humanization, they say with a straight face, is humanizing, and strut with wonder before their own miraculous perversity. Incomprehensible, it is proven the highest of wisdom. They have given moral cause to a crime of absolute evil and belch that the sale once made is irrevocable, that it would be a waste and a sin to admit the conjob. They got away with it, that we know, and they don’t want anyone to testify against their endless gyrations of sadistic ingenuity. Whether John Lennon spoke with two tongues, he has been made into a variable robot of doublespeak, hypocrisy, contradiction, might makes right and oracle of syphilis by those who claim his spirit, without even a glimmer of compunction. One chafes at calling putrid hostage-taking ruthless or implacable. The Beatles are just the Wizard of Oz caught behind the curtain committing child rape. It doesn’t edify anyone to aggrandize their atrocities. That such a let down is protected by lacerating sadism, impaled into determination by razor wire tonged bullwhips, just shows you where all that money went they gobbling up hawking love and peace as if they owned it like the waters of Halliburton, and that without them in command it might as well be incinerated.

What good does it do to pretend that it isn’t just cold-blooded depravity from some pit of dementia, or that a victim of their mutilations should testify to anything else? AIDS was processed. Zappa gave our non-information; Galas set the tone for screams of hatred, impotent rage, night fires of soothsay, anthrax, while Nelson Harrison and Pittsburgh NAACP called the whole thing warlocks at work in a secret society for the ghost of Dr. King. All while the business sector promoted, “Peace Sells, but Who’s Buying?” in the name of commando discipline.

It doesn’t add up.

We know they admire themselves, calling me a humiliation and a tragedy, in the darkest of refrains. That’s their big contribution, a grab on potential they robbed.

The certain proof that I am dealing with the criminally insane has failed to impress anyone. The seduction by De De Mancine was a function of the AIDS attack, creation of a damaged child smothered in parochial leers, hisses and the derision of poison attack, laboring under a Victorian whisper against letting the upright grandparents find out while the mother deliverance let on to everyone else that Jimmy didn’t say anything today. When she came home, I crawled down from the top shelf of the towel closet where I hid. I have been told by a black student ROTC member not to say I was hiding like Anne Frank because it isn’t politically correct to the victim status quo, despite all the evidence of alexytemia and holocaust special education: nothing to concern such a precocious millenial. Richard McGarvey referred to it in his captured screed as a “gaseous paint chamber” for the “persona” in a “lifelong process” of a “piece of mind experiment” with their neuro-surgeon, Ian Wattenmaker, taking up scissors against “a derf” the goyem, patiently waiting to harvest the neuroplasm incubating in the deaf white suck. Mother deliverance destroyed the records, while Sir McCartney lied on the tables.

Oliver Stone and Ringo Starr conspired to Cinemascope the crime as the world’s greatest tragedy to the maximum of their potential to deliver on a ghastly crying shame, pitting the cries of the innocent against the terroristic violence of no hope, while snickering, “We believe.” I don’t know why and am simply testifying to their sinister depravity. The terrible, terrible hatred at my school of Dr. Proctor in the recesses of his brooding for the pathological ideation of a white innocent, predicted and planned by Frank Herbert of the AIDS cabal in the leading book of soothsay titled: Soul Catcher, smoldering in our campus under the mask of academia, is akin to that which made Gail Burstyn into Adolf Hitler’s proudest creation: a Jew on his side. Since the mind balks at realizing the truth, the way out is to fall back into assigned position, moonlighting with Ringo, laughing at his art, or hurt the feelings of those who authored the abomination. Those behind the itinerary come to our campuses, treated as heroes, expecting to be heard on much else of greater moment, having gotten the masses over the hurdle.

A lot of black Americans didn’t bother to hide their nonchalance about the murder of JFK. Much was in store by moving on. It’s hard to hide a name encryption so ugly and brazen as Aaron Dixon, especially in the so-called civics environment of Seattle where the weaponizing of AIDS in defense of Will Zell on Mt. Desert Island and the notion of human sacrificialism intertwines the discourteous Sherman Alexie with Unit 731, no doubt as he ministrates cause by invocation of the ancient smallpox grudge, always in defense of Katz and Burstyn. The Elders look down from great hallowed heights of secrecy.

All of this syphilis demands and receives campus recognition. The gurus are called heroes when they come and lecture to us. The victory of the Christian psychopathy comes out in the violence of Robert Fripp and Colin Powell, a horrid development from the Bush/McCartney partnership, where they engage in a sadistic street war implicating themselves in crimes like the murder of Tupac Shakur, leading to new rounds of pedestrian terror attacks in revenge on the unproven, but hardly imaginary. The Beatles want to be forever above the foray, looking down like smiling Gods, clucking their tongues, all-knowing, yet they started it, authored it, lied through the whole thing, made it worse at every turn, giving no comfort to the horror stricken, demanding bloodcurdling oaths and suicide vows no matter how halfwit and mistaken their cues and their farce. They impinge on their victims experience by intimacy no one else would even consider, much less dare, like home invasion, marriage wrecking and zenker diverticulum. Stop? They won’t allow me to stop.

Those closest to me offered not one word of protest nor one call to police on my behalf when I was kidnapped, brutally butchered and gassed, tortured, my loved one raped, and a woman savagely ripper murdered in warning. The catchall of the British was to snicker that support for the fab assassins is a work of art, as our society evolves into: Pentagon Disney: Prison Gang Cities: Museum Mafia Mayhem: Open Mic Bullies. Everyone at my school just about covered for the AIDS attack. Having everyone turn on me provided the opening for those from Real Worlds Studios authoring a total control electronic surveillance military cyberstalking monitoring war room predicated on the idea that I am a moral defective, calling on old madames of Naambla and Bell Labs who taped me on the phone in Junior High between abduction incidents. Is their humanity in evidence when all their sickening lies and depravities manage to make someone feel badly?

I was an object lesson in the anti-Christian 60’s. In this way there was a nature affinity to the way that Lennon’s estate functioned and Wm. F. Buckley at the National Review. They pushed my face into gasses from the pit of hell and said they were just giving the queerbait what it wanted, marking time towards seduction on Mt. Desert Island by a woman with grim reaper tattoo. Peter Sinfield, Reagan’s British mastermind, used slyer than fiction mentalism, wanting to be taken for sarcastic as a laugh against recognition of his cold-blooded nightmare in promotion of the criminally insane, leering that my screams of neuroplastic agonies were dialysis for their soothsay, and the secretions of a deaf suck beat poet seeking gratify that has been canceled in their name of their throng.

“It’s commonsense,” Ringo laughs.

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