The murder of Shannon Harps was an organized crime modeled on the home break-in and murder of a lottery winner in front of his wife and daughter.  S. Harps hadn’t won anything, but the symbolism of a bystander with a penny meant enough to UWDialectical and the clinic gangsters that Ripperhat, Inc. left her lying in a Seattle pool of blood, enforcing a con job worked out in advance by Yoko Ono’s attorney Amanda Harcourt.  Aaron Dixon announced his agency by lurking at the scene.  Dixon’s confederate, the shifty Andrew Cho, Harp of Burma, had made one of their infamous, grueling stands for Jay Inslee, godfather of innocent slays.  This crazed and queer incident and many others like it, operating under the union flag of a food fight, bore Zion as its mark of Zorro.  The Postal Union and the NAACP both cooperated in this poacher killing by Yoko Maintenance.  They left their blood curdling story line as signifiers accusing their target of counter-narrative, cloaked by Beatles leverage.

      A good many people at The Stranger Newspaper were in on the hit and the family of Miss Harps went along with Paul McCartney in good faith.  David Summerlin of Adobe changed his name to Meat Weapon a few days before and they notified Watchtower by a nom de guerre Abulafia.  Since I had come out West as a refugee from Shulman industries in Pittsburgh where they raped my only friend and murdered my father, to the applause of pedophile advocate Vince Eirene and notorious Fetterman, this was doomed to be subsumed into another police hustle over the Blue House graffiti circus where a gunman had rampaged before. These comic book flyers journalizing the mind of the Ono hag are seldom read, but always noted for the glee they give George “bring it on” Bush.  Bush and Ono are aided in obscure material accounts by Clint Eastwood.  The murder of Shannon Harps was one of the Liverpool massacres that now includes the hunk of Gaza.

       The syndicate in riot mode call themselves a turnaround system.  Its pecuniary sensibilities have queer origins.  Eastwood called Where Eagles Dare,“where doubles dare” in a sly aside about his stuntmen.  My father took me to it, and I admired Eastwood, which makes this backstab personal.  Eastwood is a sharp guru for the sandbaggers, whose feministas of Palestine bought the book and became early Manson Family bra-burners for Aaron Bushnell, sisters of the Ono hag.  They live under the bizarre idea that I am looking for approval from them.

      How Seattle civics became flailing nuns in a Ken Russell orgy takes work and at root is the cheering section of murderous Gay monsters in the drop-in centers who mobilized for Israel Katz in the AIDS attack; perverts delectating with perversity, Siege Hehn, Just Hehn.  They cluck that Norm Finkelstein and Gregory Karl, the Pope of the wolfpack, just want the truth in a feud about love, hee haw.  They ran extermination pornography in Eastminster District of Pennsylvania, then a bioterror cinema guild on Mt. Desert Island that enjoyed the brain work of Russia and PITT, then gathered themselves up in a great guffaw by murdering Princess Diana for leverage, hillbillies of the Liverpool massacre servicing the syphilitics of Moonunit Zappa.  Tom O’Neill disclosed that Jack Ruby and Charles Manson had the same psychiatrist.  Sinwar, Netanyahu (Nosferatahu) and King Crimson have the same lyricist, a Zionist wetpetter for Celine Dion coking at The Last Supper.

           Eastwood has an unhealthy anima.  She drives him crazy with penis envy.  God gave him his name so that he and Ringo could plot on Marlborough Road who gets the pee pee shine of Mz. “Go/to”.