James MacRyland Crary is a rhyme on The United States of America.   Like John Fitzgerald Kennedy I was shot from the gutter and hit in the head.   The wound caused a terrible grip of lacerating pain that made me the child in an iron mask.   The University of Pittsburgh and their allies in London at Real Worlds of Peter Gabriel knew that the injury was invisible and that I didn’t know it was there.   This was a secret being kept from me as a Hitlerian joke.   It was a neurological harness that was used for a neurological ballgag in taking me hostage and subjecting me to mutilation at the hands of child sexers when I was very little.   There was an XXX theater in Pittsburgh called the Fulton Mini.  I was attending Fulton School when first attacked by child traffickers with a thug named Gellomini.   Word crafters in King Crimson were played for me by the Wattenmakers to wow me while another vicious assailant named Michael Tive (whose father Ralph appeared at my father’s deathbed through his last book) said to me, “Why don’t you just die?”  It is to be noted that he and King Crimson’s lyricist Penis J. Sinfield ended up at the same company, working in high command for SONY in whose name the spoils were allocated to Midori Goto.  Using the injury to compel hostage behaviors it had the power to taser me in the head for disobedience.  The assassins cruelly dragged me through glass to make sure their audience laughed about the other things they were doing, too.  Behind the exampling were WQED and the Palace of London.  The rock stars advocated for a gang who broke into a house and defecated on the table.  Some of the outrages to which I was and continue to be subjected have been written about under compulsion of death for refusal to divulge.  The British gasp at the magnitude of the humiliation they have been allowed to inflict.  Somehow the House of Reagan managed to sell the idea that this is all the spirit of Lennon, acting out the revenge of Tojo ronin on my father’s voice, a radio man from the fleet who defeated Japan, noted and followed by the Japanese squad who had an observer, often noted in the film record, at the Dallas Police Department for the Kennedy Affair.

        The reason there are two narratives is because I was scripted into a role without my knowledge or consent.   Hollywood and their hired killers, offered the spoiled, have insisted the role was justified.   Thomas Gordon of CMU Robotics and Harvard Social Anthropology has described it as the success of the Bolsheviks who were empowered by their contempt for the consumption of the weak and frail son of Czarina Alexandra.   This contempt of spitball and bukkake was heaped on their prey, designated with the signifiers:  marked man.   The physical property they are after and confiscating is largely symbolic.  The purpose is to abrogate the rights of the victim in the name of a large scale takeover package, creating indemnity on the assassins themselves who have created an Occupy style bypass of regulatory agencies, slashered bystanders and murdered a Federal Judge.   They say it is the their story, hands off.  Turn briefly to what their story contains.

        The trick revolves around Leslie Katz.   It was a feminist thugfest that included bullies within my own family.  The illustrations provided show you that there is reason to suspect the awareness of my own mother Nancy.   She may have even been one of the brilliants behind the script.   She certainly did not act alone.  The New York Publishing industry had many of Gail Burstyn’s contemporary in play:  Gloria Steinem and Gail Sheehy are both examples from The Crown’s manipulations.   Multiple marriages by my father, either a suspect or a moron, were in play to define what human rights are not.  Greg Karl’s contribution refers to the X-motive and Gail Burstyn’s script refers to X-amples, and names her guinea pig “Billy Jean Guinevere,” making a pun on the chivalry they claim to be behind the murder of Dr. King.   Leslie Katz’ case was championed by Obama and the NAACP in the name of this hokey notion.   It allowed the Reagans to orchestrate a horrid psycho-drama from Pitt and CMU clocked to the AIDS attack, a weird storyline about non-violent, capitalizing on the designer crime consequence of neuroplastic trauma and rejection:  possessiveness towards my lover, a character defect created by Frankensteins to make rejected lover drama into a laughingstock rendering of true dispossession and nightmare, crafted for takeover fraud.  Martin Andelman, involved in the takeover of Wells Fargo, spoke of having a jaw wired shut.  I was in neuroplastic amnesia.  He introduced me me to Tom Gordon outside the house of Cyril Wecht where Leslie Katz had her graduation party at East West Circuit Road.

       The Reagans swooped down with Bowling Green State University Fellows while their Greenville allies had a dog named Yuri tear apart my father’s casmir coat after he was done in by the Green Party.   James W. Child interned me to lace my head with terms like Escalation Dominance.  They wired up the emotional problems from being hurt by an unrequited relationship with Leslie to a psychological diagram about Amnesty International and Just War Theory supposedly on behalf of the victims of AIDS through Alternative Conflict Resolution at Carnegie Mellon, masterminded by the big Disney liar Paul McCartney.   Stemming from long planned gothic epic spinning by Allen Dulles’ favorites D.W Griffith and Cecil B. DeMille, the Texas Schoolbook was produced by Star Trek, Pentagon Disney and Pink Floyd, through the weasel work of King Crimson.   As I struggled as a damaged Pittsburgh Public School student with why the Ribacks were showing me nuclear documents, Shawn Brooks, who had locked me out of a church when an armed mob surrounded it threatening to kill me over a speech I gave in support of Shirley Chisholm, they enjoyed the NAACP’s support in milking my brains for my deaf confidences about the girl, Rosa, hired to attack me sexually in their experimental injury.  The allies of Rosa and Brooks succeeded in a takeover of my father’s offices at the school, in driving me into homelessness for two years, getting my deaf advocate raped, and claiming I was negligent in the script they confiscated.   They also succeeded in having me chemically castrated by Bush and Obama Administration in Seattle hospitals where I may have found the source of the mysterious sign in Pittsburgh GEERK FOOD FESTIVAL.

        The coward Fripp, a sick and impertinent individual, has continued this farce, with no shame in how low they are.   They created a terror complex in neurology to compel obedience to their counter-claims which were beamed down from Star Trek with Melvin Belli, Jack Ruby’s attorney, while Lennon scripted himself as the least likely suspect to be behind Hitler’s Revenge, the blood dripping down his chin as he huffed and puffed for the Oswald Mosley film, “How I Won the War,” and then beaming up to Galt’s Gulch for Double Fantasy’s “Clean Up Time”.   The world belongs to those who think it is worth it to destroy over those who think it isn’t.  

      As the weasel Fripp is found out in maniacal bloodthirsty, the few dishonest scribes of King Crimson and Beatlemania gnash for a redeeming pun, unable to face the fact that a friend is a terrible thing to waste.