None of the Black girls working barista in the Central District of Seattle had ever heard anything about the proof of AIDS being man-made (known to the British in 1984, by their late account) and an attack when I asked them in 2012.   Meanwhile the honcho of the hood has long been a lead figure in the strategy of the game.  I guess he didn’t think they were worthy of such privileged information about public health and safety.

     The villains, all-powerful have swivelled to pronounce a tactical technique of implied explanation that evades cross-examination, while working the “entertainments” of military expiation, extracting payment from the innocent to assuage the soothsay of the perpetrators.   It’s part of a complicated storyline put together by high command with Biblical and Shakespearean scholars, but it still barely passes for farce, and all the celebrity chauvanists passing moneybags around calling it a masterpiece barely qualify themselves for the pisspot.   The tactical explanations are psychiatric war crime from Secret World in Bath, Britain, where pseudo-investigators are selling the plan.

      Yoko Ono took charge of engineering Reagan accomplice mentality by dealing him a victim hand from the bottom of the deck, claiming a common enemy had whooshed Lennon to double fantasy-burgh and supplanted him with a pale, white thing.   Armed with Jean Aston’s profile of me she plausibly shrieked, “over my dead body!” over my plans to be a married poet working library hours.   The peculiarities of her claims, brokered with Oliver Stone, Carnegie Mellon, King Crimson, WQED, Pentagon Disney, were sustained in Seattle by her popularity and with the help of goons in the museum mafia.  For example, Leslie Sanetta Katz, who waylaid me outside the church of MisterRogers (where Aston lives) was close to the Meierens, named with Sean Strub in AIDS lore, who was outside the Dakota with Chapman and Lennon’s double.   Despite Leslie’s obvious partnership with Gail Burstyn and Sean Strub, they announced I was the double of Mark Chapman.  Why?  Because I was crying in suffering from a nerve agent they forcefed me in semi-conscious hostage as a child, a screaming trauma they mocked in a sadistic marquis in Montana with intent to Cartieri, meaning, keep it up until I mocked them back in tears, so they could fell me with slaughtering blows, claiming their victim to blame.  The more powerful the foreign English, the immenser their cowardliness.

      So contemptuous are they of American civil rights they resorted to an infamy of surveillance looking for any excuse.  The crow hag Ono had a measure for clean up time, asserting powers of fidelity in blood oath and loveslavery to the double, fallen.  Property is fidelity, she smirked.  This wasn’t an appropriate public defender in the evil hour of brutal and fisted fundamentalism.   I gambled my sincerity on an investigation.   This gambled sincerity was my Achilles heel.  They found the woman I would have been loyal to and made her their weapon in demoition of my research proving vice action clocked to AIDS.  They misinformed and stoked hatred among the Seattle stupids.

     Obama, that pathetic, surrogate Jimmy C. is a disciple of Saul Astor, who exclaimed that all the world is in a state of theft and that law is merely the controlling powers of bedlam.  What in refusing to date rape an intimate girlfriend is so negligible in character that it militates forgiveness for child molesters behind the AIDS attack?  King William’s promoters put their Billy Club to work on me in gradeschool and now want me to be his stand in in compensatory coding, snickering, “we’ll rape you, we’ll cut it off, we hope it’s enough,” that he the might more blessedly arise like unto a camel through the needle’s eye.