Not everyone who saw what Reagan did to me as a student journalist beginning my career at Pitt News in 1986 was comfortable just standing there and watching it happen, even though they all did.  Some of my acquaintances, and later some younger professors, have hoped at turns that I produce a manuscript worthy of my claim to defense of a betrayed generation.  The initial attack on my person as a child, which I mistook for random violence, followed the assassination method, it was brutal, sudden and blindside.  All of Pittsburgh should have sided with me, especially when they found out what it meant, but they didn’t and most of my life has been spent working over the details of their gang crime and chicanery in an effort to ascertain why.  It was through no fault of my own.  In East Liberty, poor people who are conversant with one another at the Clubhouse downtown put exchanges into Facebook asking if they would hit someone they loved for a million dollars, and answer, hell ya, I’d do it for fifty.  In other words it wasn’t hard for Martin Sheen, who coagulates his street cred in Pittsburgh at a Northside Catholic Worker den of garage rock with a beatnik from the margins of Carnegie Mellon, dopey, but bellicose Vince Eirene, a battlefield for the homeless issue front page moonshine celebrity who got onto me to benefit violent pedophiles involved in Manson cinema while circulating rumor to the effect that anyone who proves me a liar can make a million dollar bounty from New York, an idea that made him much friendlier to CMU than he usually is.  For people who blow their subsidy on scratch and sniff lottery tickets, this just meant another hobby.  The disgrace they were courting didn’t mean anything, it was all too familiar.  The idea that they are helping stage a cowardly revenge attack by a pre-existing alliance in the power structure of media empire who launched the AIDS attack from Pentagon-Disney’s outpost at Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh, where the 18th century letter from British General Ahmerst about the decision to exterminate First Peoples by smallpox was found, incidentally, was an issue mired in Black causes and little noted, until admission came with no cost.  Today, for a variety of reasons, many people, driven insane by matters of our age, regard AIDS as a godsend, and those who don’t refuse higher learning regarding the truth of what happened, preferring the cosmo gossip that passes for their practical attempt to remain on the intellectual and moral side of things, a fringe entertainment in society.  Most of my readers are in on the foundations behind the crime while gloating at the pathos of someone doing as he is told and telling on them, since it was a pre-planned slave labor meant to prove the futility of such a gesture.
        The ridiculous fact that they made the problem of the AIDS script into a question of mycharacter as a white hate object in a eugenic concept of the talented tenth in what they construe to be the mouse arrangements of property and real estate, while simultaneously making perfectly obvious, and admitting impacting a virulent and cowardly nerve agent into a hostage child who they deafened to intensify the sport of peer rejection, and got away with it, shows that there is no law enforcement of any meaning in Pennsylvania or Washington and that those who arbitrarily inflict no end of cruelty and humiliation are also completely incapable of shame.  That they did this to present themselves in a moral promenade is an object lesson in the Imperial syphilis sustained by Her Majesty’s favorites in London, and the Godspell kids of Pittsburgh’s Christian subculture.  They mean it, of course, and stopped at nothing to show how violent their capacity for atrocity is.  In their minds they have created the perfect situation, accusing their mutilated guinea pig so the government can extrude by slave labors the recreational sadism of narrative.   It doesn’t seem to have occurred to Sean Lennon and Paul McCartney, the ringmasters of the hate, at all that someone might put together from all the make believe and murder the brilliant text at work from the Texas Schoolbook, and that siding publicly with John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s murderers may come with a price to their own names.  So far so good for them, but can it last for our society to accept the matter as settled?  This case was written, after all, to make conquered women a spectacle for the active rods at work behind the pornographic curtains and these curtain rods of the NEVA Corporation have hot blood, quick to temper, ready to fight again.  They are hot rods.  Elizabeth Taylor personally rewarded those who helped her pull off the rape of a deaf girl with Downs Syndrome from the office of Amnesty International.  Jeannie Tamburro was my friend.  She helped me.  Franco-rockers punished her.
     I am and was no more guilty of two-timing Rosine Monteleone, with whom I fell in love, (believing that the society of King Crimson had recognized my extraordinary struggle to define my terrifying ordeal as a hostage growing up, in a definition of loyalty to their contribution to our generation, were supporting our matrimony, it was grim delusion), than I was the driver at Kelly School who she was called down on me to defend, and just as entirely within my rights to defend my own name, investigate and seek an explanation.  To learn that the Obamas were willing to put black school children in deadly peril for their lives in order to advance serial killers who had called dibs on the dignity of my name for his estate was pretty wild.  However, because of my fuzzbuster investigation of the AIDS attack, rifling my name (with the help of brutal child-kidnapping pedophiles capable of horrible mutilation crimes) came first for Barack the Bruiser.  He has a birth certificate, but it makes him no less an Indonesian crony of Suhwarto.   I’ve seen the extremely rich black people promoted in the East End of Pittsburgh by their service to Empire.  I am anything but fooled as to the processes of their wealth and condition of their smirk.  It is written all over their silence in these cruel times, and when they speak at all, by their choice of words.  Obama cared no more for the children at Kelly School than a Hutu warlord cared for the women of Tutsi.   To think he would care about a deaf white suck is way out.  So we all learned the truth about the Caligula Peter Gabriel when Rosa defected to Shawn Brooks at Pitt whose faction occupy my deceased father’s department.  Brooks is the man who locked me out of a church when I was crying in terror from an armed gang outside as a very soft spoken child, then said nothing when I disappeared in the depths of a torrential and freezing winter from school for months after biting my fingernails bloody in the Principal’s office and pleading for my life.  How they scolded me and laughed.  Brooks is also a friend of a man who the NAACP forgave for banging on with the word “jiggiboo” in favor of forgiving him for the sadistic wedge he offered them justifying their attacks on me as someone who tried to stop the AIDS attackers while protesting Apartheid in a public editorial they pouted had upstaged them.  The stringpullers, with a foothold in Robotics at CMU, admiring King Crimson from New York for what they said was getting me to pay them to do their farm work for them while in a neurotraumatic trance that they Biblically sought to prevent proper medical treatment for, barring the doors of the Emergency Room against what they called, “defiant trespass”, told me privately in glee, “if you try to help black people they will only turn on you.”  This was the snicker of King Crimson in the City of Pittsburgh made show business for all of them.  How handsomely this prophecy was rewarded by Brooks’ tribe at my school when Wilma Coon exploited their head injury, impacted in the pale, white deaf suck, with the help of Rosa’s pornographic services to cover for Manson Cinema, and the Obamas screamed with laughter, “the joke’s on you!”
     In Seattle the killers of JFK advertise their war with the number 12, the number of years between 1968 and 1980, the age of De De Mancine of Manson cinema.   The number 12 is everywhere, a swastika.   The Texas Schoolbook found in Pittsburgh makes perfectly clear the legend is a totem of the AIDS attack, a symbol of Hitlerian moralism in a melodrama constructed by the British Empire.   It wears out the psyche as a trigger Alfredo you must never identify, because of the guns wielded by forensic assertive psychiatric teams out on wilding sprees in the streets of shock and awe.  In 1968 they finished the murders with MLK and RFK.  In 1980 John Lennon went into hiding for the Invisible Empire.   From that day onward we have firmly been in the hands of make believe and Ono’s endless war, lighting up the collective subconscious with gifts of arson in tribute to the glory of Beatles’ syphilitic derision.
       The FEMA at Pitt putting this together with the help of Brian Eno for Reagan’s Administration to benefit the cackling mayhem of Yoko Ono for predators in drugs and human trafficking at Warhol Museum saw the ease with which the First Amendment was voided to make way for National Security Laws, and with such laws in place they had in mind a very special group project about which they have written extensively and my mother Nancy Jane Moore has at turns selectively gotten into my private papers to destroy research papers and evidence in order to cover for them.  Nancy Moore knew all along.  She wrote approvingly of the grounds for terror kidnapping and mutilation that she construed as custody by the Ku Klux Klan.  Quite a few of the local packages, such as the address on Liverpool of a prominent black church over by Vince Eirene’s bastion, 1025, the mutual birthdate of Moore and Midori Goto, race spoil of the revenge attack by Hitler, was put together in her honor.  She is Shakespearean. She is the wise woman of Wichita advancing moral blacks.  She is the matron to whom black lackeys of HitlerReagan turn for their justifications and excuses at the NAACP and downtown.  Her fruitcake tone has been regarded as civics with hype and gratitude by those who are found hiding the keys to the closet in which the skeletons of Manson cinema were stowed by the Vienna Circle for safekeeping until the cannibals can hock the remains to curiosity shops as a cottage industry on the black markets of the museum mafia where Yoko Ono rewarded them for the film of the rape of deaf Jeannie, back when the heist was young, and blood for the ripper still beating in the corporeal form of Shannon Harps, who symbolized the pale white penny demanded for the offertory dish and Taliban of Isis Youssou N’dour, spectral King of the Hutus at Kuntu Repetoire Theater, where syphilitics is divine presence incarnate.
        Let there be light, the darkness drooled.  Their taliban is an abacus for moral compass in a Harem, Two Virgins pussyball collection services, sexploiting the bulbar syndrome induced survival utterances of a semi-comatonic dummy who thought they were dignified people and turned to them for help.  Knowing the names of all the police in downtown Pittsburgh, they came collecting from positions of strength in the psychiatric wards, operating in the name of contract hookers, some of them adults using a child, in the name of what they called, Nobuko’s stupid nuclear code, buy her a ring, who did the pleasure ends of traumatic neurobedience upon the hostage child, while barking mad in editorials with advertisement of Chancellor Mark Nordenberg’s truly sick so-called legal philosophy, bulwarked by Palace eccentrics promoting inhalants as the rhyming genius of nursery crime.  I’ve studied corollary trains of the murder machine for decades, night and day, and my path has led me to question the authenticity of some of the so-called “researchers” in the arcana showpiece of the Texas Schoolbook which is the murder of JFK, arriving at the conclusion capsuled in the term:  Pentagon-Disney.
       To be clear:  the killers were extremely inventive and driven, they used every manner of literary decoy, curiosities like an Easter egg hunt, spread across the nation as a horrifying stage setting, whereas the detectives brought in, not those in league as publishing house vultures in a second string of the ripper hatter mayhem, but those who followed the rules, being concerned about the truth, the children invited to the game of pin the tale on the donkey, were nowhere near as capable to surmise as the killers were to invent; such concerned citizens, no matter their caliber or dignity, excepting the best we have, notably John Pesa, took to excusing and covering up by the same painful tactic of smear that the cheering section for the killers use everyday, fringe volunteers dumping the matter of harpies on sincerity with the cosmic debris of King Crimson.  It’s ugly to know what happened.  Spelling it out means dying a little more inside everyday.  The sad wasteland just seems to grow, the fruit falls just to die.