Boxed into an Inferno

     A few days ago this week an attractive, unique teenage white girl in my area, with the smile of irony that brings sagacity to a crippled world, was boxed into an inferno and died an unacceptable death.  On that day a sympathetic feeling black girl with a crescent on the back of her hat came into the clubhouse of Mercy, probably in perfect innocence.  What made this juxtaposition interesting was that a man in the sort of chat that suffers Occupy by Amanda Harcourt media brought it up without prompting as a consideration for arson.   The subject of Tupac Shakur had been bandied a great deal in the lead up to this pigskin formation.  The issues aren't related is the first thing you will insist, it's a racist and paranoid message to even give them shape.  Instinctively I will agree with you, but for reasons that will be clear I decided not to shut them out.  Our Commonwealth cannot even try to stop something that we don't understand, especially when left to those who do understand and couldn't care less.  She was a twang bar princess, offered up it would seem for the Papal infallibility of the twang bar association and their syphilitic king.  What matters isn't that they were unrelated or if they were, although I shall go into that, but only that having gone into it, she will be adopted as if they were related, and I will explain why.
       The reason police couldn't care less is that if this ironic girl with her appearance of having braces died as a symbol it is a symbol they hate, the symbol of a child beloved to a man who was a Peace Corps leader, a devil communist to the likes of Donald Trump.  We sympathized, they cream, until we found out why others do.  They allowed Amanda Harcourt by astral conveyance to scream to a hate filled world full of ravenous beatlemaniacs that on the day such a one's County white boy muse is slain then Lennon will be gratified and there will be, ye all who live promised by Sir McCartney, no end of world peace, amen, then fuming she restores to the witch's mirror, asking her Governors, well, then?  Well, then?   Harcourt knows how to box someone in to an inferno.  She leers with delight at reports of how I was tortured and battered brutally for cudda saved John Lennon while he was still by all accounts alive, and by this method, she croons the assassins are redeemed.  So we have covered couldn't care less, let's move on to the relatedness, and the reason adoption is inevitable.  
        Discrediting me is no mean trick, despite exhausting waves of evidence that I am being used as a political war toy.  I went from believing John Lennon died to the difficult conclusion that he faked his own death as part of a just war theory brought to Pitt by James W. Child for Reagan during the AIDS attack, a crime endorsed and enforced by King Crimson in defence of the Iran-Contra tripartite of secret military religious powers:  Iran, Israel and the CIA.  Before you shudder and shut me off for mentioning them, accept an analogy,  People in schools regard mention of the CIA the way they might regard a light switch that superstitutiously they fear touching out of the horror that they might get shocked.  Indeed sparks fly at the mere mention of the light switch, despite being central to the building's illumination, they prefer to grope in darkness, and demand the same of you.  To mention them is proof of diagnosis, nuf sed.  Hysteria explodes to have this contested.  Kowtow.  Smirking and snorting and strutting their position in the hierarchy, we bumble along, laughing at the disgrace of anyone who questions, a natural order at the slaughterhouse.
        In a big abstract way, forgetting that your thoughts can be retrieved by microsoft, or read in the delicate play of ciphers in your face, you muse, perhaps good Paul of the Fab Four simply faked John Lennon's sympathies to get in good with Reagan, to protect me, you will cry softly, little old you.  So soft, so tender, so beloved to Mr. McCartney's machine of cooing and silly jingles.  Forgetting as you dream that the first shot to John Fitzgerald Kennedy was to his voice box.  Forgetting that the assassins of the script implanted a talking coma, say what you think we are saying little Jimmy, into the parrot of Ow.  Then they named me the Navigator.  Do you understand what that means?  A toy for Bush and Harcourt to steer by, a magic trust of Reagan and Ringo.  It no longer matters what the truth is.  A woman named Ferguson gave me her new cell phone in my Understanding Violence class just before the Michael Brown shooting in Ferguson.  They poisoned my stomach and put two packs and a pack of gunsmoke in my mailbox before and after shooting Tupac.  It doesn't matter what I think or what I say, it is that I have commented, therefore it will be used to Navigate.  They've already decided.  Dr. Proctor fears for the children in his family.  Sometimes an invocation of dread before these forces can protect.  I sincerely hope so.
       By what logical feat of syphilis was the twang bar princess guilty, guilty, guilty in a County where it has been proclaimed that no one is innocent?  She killed Tupac!   Actually there is something to the problem presented by this pigskin formation.  James Green is black and associated with local undercover police for Major League Sports, and Pussyball is the most Major League Sport of all.  British labor has worked a tribune of hostility between the races to keep people believing that race war is in operation.  Black heavy hitters like Nelson Harrison full knowing that the AIDS attackers are an Ark, the Green Party, a survivalist rainbow abolishing the United States, keep silent and promote a doctrine of compensatory coding, allowing the Green Party to whack Tupac, box a girl appearing as if to have braces into an inferno, help Neva Corporation capture Jimmy with the symbols of X-termination that opponents from Oppo-World deem good, of sound mind, raping deaf Jeannie, slashering Shannon, hala lala la 'Llah for Richard Starkey, because it keeps the mirror spinning, look at yourself!
       The Fourth Estate hisses of trust in the fifth element of love while pulling a Fourth reich attack on the traitorous Fifth Amendment. Slyly they use lampoon to mask premeditation.  21, Roberto's number, now symbolizes that the 2nd Amendment Trumps the 1st Amendment.  The nature of reality is your inner censor.  
      Aaron Dixon, Amanda Harcourt, Obama and the white power of SWAPO behind these hirelings do not betray and attack strong whites of the sort who brag openly of the stage play from this drama school out in Westmoreland County.  They attack the weak whites.  They forge a hammer between Wilma Coon at CCAC and her prying letters about Rosa to the Unidentified Registered Nurse at Harborview who force fed me atenolol, the great syphilitic harmony of the Bush choir and their exquisite magic, underwritten by sacred trust in Louis Farrakhan, whose sin of omission in the AIDS attack is a mighty barrier that you, the deaf suck boring cudda hadir, must trust for the soothsay of Crimson Isis.
      It is now a State Secret that in 1979 I hitchhiked to St. Louis just to hear this twisted coward play his simpering guitar.  His sister Patricia hit it off with Durrenmatt Mark Us and all has been artful for the British pedophiles on high, saying Abdul and living thusly.