This is an informal declaration of intent to find a Public Defender for a 13 year old from long ago.   Jimmy Crary was born an American curiosity who the CIA decided to make just a little more collectible and while they collected me they destroyed my life with no remorse, and they called this enemy within by the name of friendly fire.  I don’t know if the nitro-glycerine Ronnie Zsinski forced me to swallow in tears caused it, but they detected a heart murmur shortly after which I have to this day and took X-rays of it for the collection at Children’s Hospital.   It was the day “Red” Busis examined me and said, “it was impossible to get reliable pure tone results,” leaving out that I could barely stammer from terror.   In other words, even before I was kidnapped and tortured, when the people of Pittsburgh changed my name from MacRyland to queerbait, they were being really ugly and mean to me already.  Everyone knows by now Michael Reagan’s favorite scene, the money shot from when I was nine.  The truth is pointless.  That bray was their whole point.  “Nobody takes you seriously,” Mike Exler used to sneer.

     The whisper campaigns were slick.  On one side of the audience they depicted me as Cool Hand Jimmy, out on the prowl having adventures, on the other side as deviant, hiding things in the closet and darkness of ugly dreams.   When you are among friends there are things fit to tell in tall tales, but this atmosphere of traumatic coping was of course wired for sound.   There’s no mistaking it was human trafficking, even the language when I started weeping, “Put a muzzle on it,” Brecher would say.  They used a neuroplastic ball gag, and put a muzzle of dark coma over the memory cells, unable to vocalize and then snickered at me as a sissy.   Interestingly the man who spoke wiring a jaw shut had a name resembling the Andaman Ocean where the darkest voyages of human smugglers decorate the killing fields with burial grounds of the young.  Not the best history for psychedelic rabids to be throwing strategic malpractice pharmacology into the orum speculum of their deadly ultimatums, leaving me in hospital Emergency Rooms fighting for my life against heart flutter, in their compromise with their own dreary sadism, spinning the tumblers of malice, their undead retching they call love.  The Beatles and their proteges have indecent hearts made of shit.

        I used to love King Crimson and just wanted to help them; somehow show my love had merits in my intelligence, but they weren’t heroes.  Of course they say they are in their songs, banging against the truth.  It’s sad for me, their deadly absurdities masquerading as ethics, the ethics of exterminators.  David Bowie’s mouthing that Hitler was the first rock star says a lot more about Bowie.   How interesting that the closest I came to suspecting something was wrong was the DD in his record about grimy apocalypse, back in the days when Bernie Sanders had Don Ostro stationed at the Graham Building.  We all know how the government slobs pulled it off for Trump, they used me by way of Leslie, the Australian Israeli.  My jealousy has long since been shown for a neurological injury committed by Frankenstein criminals.   But so what thought Penis Gabriel in a stage production of living horror to make a case for psychology of hate as a mode of ultimatum and surrender in a nuclear war seance of illusions and poison.

      Let’s Psychiatry!    Andelman shrieked at our Latin teacher in class, “Phillips, if you say neuter one more time I’m going to punch you!”   His left nut Thos. Gordon really had something going with Ostro making the queerbait contemptible, and they both took off after my sister Laura, breaking ribs and breaking windows, but that’s neither here nor there when it comes time to discounting stitches in my disfigured mouth from their blows.   They after all are the good guys, not the sissy, which means of course they get to set the terms for acceptance.

      And more psychiatry?   Ever notice that the guy was named James in Children of a Lesser God?   Or did you notice that the JFK Files weren’t released under that most admired of men, someone Obama?  Nor one word spoken as to what all was really meant by crafty Geffen and horrid Gabriel over talk of that voices again?