They engage in abominable practices w/absolution and impunity, while deceitfully waving the banner of  false persecution — those who for centuries, have  ignored the commandments of their G-d, choosing  materialism over spirituality, death over life, darkness over light – orchestrating  ”ritualistic mind control” through control of banking, military, media, medicine, academia, clergy, entertainment — “Bread & Circus”. This complex web of deceit covers the earth, subjecting “the nations” to blind obedience and servitude to hereditary monarchs, oligarchs, vassal Kings/Queens, dictators, despots, tyrants and owners of earths material resources. This scourge has already been identified as “the mother of harlots and abominations of the earth… that traffics in men’s souls…”

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PUBLIC NOTICE

This book contains sexually explicit quotes and irrefutable anatomical details of perpetrators and is therefore recommended for mature readers only.

By Cathy O’Brien

TRANCE FORMATION OF AMERICA

TRANCE Formation of America is the documented autobiography

of a victim of government mind control Cathy O’Brien is the only vocal and

recovered survivor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s MK-Ultra Project

Monarch mind control operation. Chiseled deep into the white stone of

the CIA’s Langley, Virginia headquarters is a partial verse lifted from the

Holy Bible and writings of Saint John…” ami the truth shall make you free.”

This statement, like the agency, is total reality. The building that it is

engraved upon houses the world’s most successful manufacturer of lies

to facilitate psychological warfare.

The “Company” uses truth and technology as their raw materials to

produce “pure” lies for control of you and America’s allies. Within the pages

of TRANCE Formation of America you’ll find the truth.

US. GOVERNMENT MIND CONTROL

On August 3rd, 1977 the 95th U.S. Congress opened hearings

into the reported abuses concerning the CIA’s TOP SECRET mind

control research program code named MK Ultra. On February 8th 1988,

an MK Ultra victim, Cathy O’Bnen, was covertly rescued from her mind

control enslavement by Intelligence insider Mark Phillips. Their seven

year pursuit of Justice was stopped FOR REASONS OF NATIONAL SECURITY.

TRANCE Formation of America exposes the truth behind this criminal

abuse of the Unconstitutional 1947 National Security Act

FOREWORD

by Mark Phillips

“… with liberty and justice for all”

4

Preamble to the United States Constitution

My name is Marquart (Mark) Ewing Phillips, born May 17, 1943 in

Nashville, Tennessee, I have no criminal record and I have never been

adjudged insane, I am not a scholar, professional writer, or mental health

physician. While I lack the official published academic credentials, I am

recognized internationally by mental health and law enforcement professionals

as an authority on the secret science concerning external control of the mind.

The purpose of Part I of this book is to document how this reputation was

gained. This brief and highly condensed contribution is intended to provide an

understanding of why, when, and where I embarked on a study of the most

secret technology known to man: Trauma-based mind control. Through the

publication of declassified United States Government documents, our U.S.

Department of Defense (DOD) admits that this ancient wizard’s mechanism for

control is so dangerous that most information pertaining to it must remain

Classified as TOP SECRET. As tbe employee of a DOD subcontractor with

exposure to mind-control research, I was required to sign an oath of secrecy.

To this day I am restricted by law from revealing certain specific information

that directly pertained to my employment as, among other “sensitive”

exposures, a U.S. DOD subcontractor in mind-control research.

This super secret technology is an evolved system of remote human physical

find psychological manipulation that has only recently been officially recognized

by accredited mental health physicians for what it is, absolute mind control.

My first encounter with mind-control research began in the late 1960s in

Atlanta, Georgia on the Emory University campus at the Yerkes Primate

Center, It was there that I learned about primate behavior modification-the

basis for human mind control. Part I of this book is my attempt to impart an

understanding of how this and other exposures would prepare me for the

Challenge of a lifetime.

What I witnessed, in terms of technology, at the Yerkes Primate Center and

Other government sponsored research facilities, combined with years of personal

research into this science of mind manipulation, did not adequately prepare me

for what I would be exposed to in 1988 through an unexpected chain of events.

This exposure came in the form of personal acquaintance with the human results

officially entitled by DOD as, among other cryptic file titles, MK-Ultra.1

1 have outlined this noxious introduction in hopes that the material provided

by one MK-Ultra survivor, Cathy O’Brien, will incite a legitimate federal

investigation of her claims.

I was able to liberate MK-Ultra victims, Cathy O’Brien and her daughter,

Kelly, from the invisible grip of this U.S. Government secret weapon of

control. In the process, I also helped Cathy recover her mental and physical

health. However, I have not been successful in enlisting the cooperation of my

government to pursue the justice issue. There is a reason for this failure to

obtain justice that you, the reader, NEED TO KNOW. I have been told

repeatedly, “Justice is not obtainable, For Reasons Of National Security.”

This book is primarily the autobiography of Cathy O’Brien, who did not

volunteer for service to her country, but was used her entire life against her

innate, voluntary will for perpetuating criminal activity by many so-called

leaders within the U.S. Government. These “treasonous leaders” did volunteer

for political “service” to our country. They must be held accountable for their

actions.

Together, Cathy and I have dedicated our lives to the pursuit of justice and

rehabilitation for her and Kelly. All avenues for justice and rehabilitative relief

have been blocked For Reasons Of National Security. The question arises,

whose security? Cathy O’Brien provides the logical answer. Perhaps after

reading this work, you will inspire others to read it. Collectively, as patriots,

we can make a positive difference for Cathy and Kelly, our government, and

humanity, by having our voices heard. In my opinion, our great United Stales

Constitution does not need to be amended it needs to be enforced.

The grim reality we must all embrace is that there is, in human terms, no

justice, and no revenge adequate to equal what these two, and many other

victims of this U.S. Government secret weapon experienced. The only

remaining remnant of opportunity for justice for these survivors would be

derived from a public forum expose of what they experienced. What these

survivors need to witness is the mass dissemination of their story and a radical,

positive change in their government’s management of secrets. This would be an

acceptable, though belated, substitute for justice. Their hope lies in the belief

that-

“Truth lives a wretched life,

but always survives a lie,”

1 Weinstein, Harvey M., M.D., Psychiatry And The Cia: Victims Of Mind Control

American Psychiatric Press, 1990.

CHAPTER 1

Sometimes words, or groups of words, found in the English language have

many definitions or meanings. Within each meaning there may be different

logical and Literal perceptions of the application of a given word. However, the

words mind control usually conjure up a single response. This is most

unfortunate due to the vast differences of perception contained within the

reference.

For example, if you have access to a late 1980s Random House or later

Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary and reference mind control, you will

notice there is a conspicuous absence of a listing. Should you go one step

further and secure a college professor’s teaching copy of Oxford’s Companion

To The Mind (Oxford Press 1987), you can reference practically anything

concerning research of the mind without a reference to mind control. Perhaps

you may now realize that through Random House, Webster and Oxford Press

omissions, you are a victim of information control.

Mind control is sometimes loosely defined as information control. This

being one of many accepted ways to define the term should immediately rase

questions of distrust towards your information sources. Since what we think is

based on what we learn, manipulation of a mind, or a nation of minds, can be

accomplished through control of information. With thought control being a

result of information control, many avid researchers of mind sciences simply

label it “soft” mind control.

These days, we live in a world in which the continued existence of

multinational businesses and governments depends upon instant communications.

However, with consideration to the so-called problem of.

information overload, it would appear to most people that we hear and see

enough to make rational decisions concerning our individual lives.

Unfortunately, this is not true. What we don’t know, as evidenced by mindcontrol

atrocities, is quickly destroying society as we have known it

The answer to this problem is glaringly apparent. We, as citizens of a

supposedly free country, should not permit our government to restrict any

information that protects criminal activity under the guise of National Security.

Secret knowledge equals power, with the end result being control.

Therefore, despite the deliberate efforts of those persons in control of national

media information management (who are not media employees), results of

secret mind-control projects gone awry have been leaking out for years through

the media. People are literally waking up to the mind-control reality because

there is an obvious lack of logical explanation for certain sensational news

events. What really happened at Jim Jones’ Jonestown and with Sirhan Sirhan,

John Hinkley, and Lee Harvey Oswald? And, more importantly, why did it

happen? The simple common denominator existing among these persons has

been publicly slated by the media, based on research of their medical histories,

is mind control.

In reality, information control is but one component of mind control.

Whereas “brain washing,” a term coined by an investigative journalist writing

about Korean War P.O.W.s around 1951, described the results of what the

Chinese regarded as thought reform.

The term brainwashing denotes to most people the destruction of a person’s

memory. This slang term continues to be used by the news media in place of

the all encompassing term, mind control. In reality, applied brainwashing

techniques are similar to those used in trauma-based behavior modification.

During the past three decades, a significant number of religious groups

worldwide has been cited by the mainstream news media as destructive cults.

An emphasis on the word destructive is necessary in defining these groups as

cults. Random House Dictionary defines cult as “a particular system of

religious worship”. By this definition, the word cult would encompass all

religions. These so-called destructive cults have been publicly denounced by the

news media for using brainwashing, thought reform, and mind manipulation

tactics on their believers. However, there is an obvious lack of expressed

concern by these same media as they fail to address the underlying issues of

mind control, the power basis for abuse.

Perhaps the reporting news media can not, for some reason, publicly open

the proverbial Pandora’s Box. Is it plausible then to consider that closer

scrutiny, by the media and the public, of these destructive cults’ leadership

could reveal a solid connection to government sponsored mind-control research?

These arc questions that, in themselves properly addressed, would provide

important answers to this social epidemic involving physical and psychological

abuse. The answers that an in-depth professional investigation would provide

could be the first step in resolving the rash of problems that destructive cults,

serial killers, and sexual child abusers, thrust upon society.

As consumers of national news media supplied information, we continue to

invent half-truths which, in this case scenario, is seeing and hearing only what

results from mass mind manipulation.

Historians provide us a glimpse into the future through recorded events of

the past. It appears that throughout recorded history, man has, towards the end

of each millennium, returned to a focus on certain types of bizarre human

behavior. For example, there has been in the past 150 years a resurgence of

wide spread interest in the occult “black arts” which include satanism or

Luciferian religions. These constitutionally protected “religions” use trauma to

control the minds of their followers.

Mind-control practices within the occult groups (according to survivors

adjudged credible and law enforcement officials) have been accredited with

bridging the gap between applied science and Shamanism. Occultism as a

manner of religious expression has been around for thousands of years. Only in

the last 150 years has science aggressively pursued the truths regarding mind

manipulation hidden within the occult belief systems themselves.

According Lo the Random House Dictionary, occultism “is the practice of

alleged sciences claiming knowledge of supernatural agencies which are beyond

the range of ordinary knowledge.” Once again, it is a reminder that secret

knowledge equals power.

In 1971, the New York Times reported a story on the Central Intelligence

Agency (CIA) and occult research, the basis of which was gained through a

collection of documents released by the U.S. Government Printing Office under

the Freedom of Information Act. This was a report to Congress and clearly

showed that the CIA was interested in the cause and effect clinical findings that

occult religious practices have on the Black Arts practitioner’s and/or the

observer’s mind. Of particular interest to the CIA were the heightened levels of

suggestibility that certain occult rituals produced in the minds of the

practitioners. Cannibalism and blood rituals were ranked highest in the order of

importance to their research.

Behavioral psychology teaches us that control of human suggestibility is

recognized as the fundamental building block for external control of the mind.

This suggestibility factor alone potentially creates a human rights legal issue

when we consider constructing laws to protect people from overt or covert

mind-control practices. Consideration to the human suggestibility factor could

result in all forms of consumer oriented service and/or product advertising

becoming illegal. Advertising and the marketing of services and/or products

through communications can be justifiably defined as a type of psychological

manipulation, (nought reform and/or mind manipulation which results in a form

of behavior modification, A patriot friend, Steven Jacobson, published his book

entitled Mind control in America2 in 1985, eloquently exposing the science of

mind manipulation through advertising. The basis for successfully modifying

human behavior requires mind manipulation techniques that, when expertly

applied through advertising media, become a form of “soft” mind control.

Factoring in suggestibility through the tactile senses as the “Achilles’ heel”

of the human race renders everyone vulnerable to becoming, on some level, a

victim of soft mind control.

The controversy of what is and what is not mind control rages on among

scholars in the schools of law, human rights, and mental health. All lhe while

the confusion of issues provides a form of legal protection for practitioners of

trauma-based mind control, the only known form of remote human control that

is absolute. All other forms of mind control, including chemical and electronic

manipulations, are considered by mind-control experts as temporary.

There are laws protecting U.S. citizens’ rights to practice their religious

beliefs and freedom of speech. There are no laws which specifically protect

leaders of destructive cults and/or practitioners of trauma-based mind control.

However, because of the U.S. Government’s use of mind control and the broad

diversity of legal opinion concerning the accepted limits of free speech and

religious practices, the legal loop holes for criminals employing mind-control

techniques on their “flocks” for personal gain remain open.

For every problem there exists a solution.. The formula for problem solving,

rests firmly on the quality of the supporting research information concerning the

nature of the problem. Legislating laws specifically to protect people from

mind-control abuses would be futile. Practically every civilized society inexistence

has some law and/or group of laws which would protect the people

and punish the practitioners of mind control. Laws are enforced according to

lawmakers’ interpretations of the specific legal language. The lack of

enforcement of laws already on the books that could protect us from mindcontrol

abuses stems from applied legal interpretations and cover-ups of survivor

testimony by the CIA and National Security Agency (NSA) For Reasons

Of National Security.

Mind-control atrocities, if committed by anyone who could be linked to

government sponsored projects, are typically ignored and covered up. Access

to the courts by these hapless survivors is thus stonewalled by government paid

so-called legal experts who receive their orders from the National Security

Agency.

Defining the term “mind control” is akin to defining the limits of the 1947

National Security Act. The basis for the solution to the National Security

controversy is simple. It is known as: Truth logically applied.

It is an obvious truth that the National Security Act has been interpreted, not

to guard the integrity of military secrets, but instead to protect criminal activity

of the highest order.

Repeal of this Act and replacement with the established rules of military

conduct concerning National Security that do not infringe upon the

constitutional rights of America’s citizenry or the rights of its allies would result

in compliance with the Constitution.

2 ISBN # 0-911485-00-7

CHAPTER 2

SALESMAN, AD MAN, MIND MAN, PATRIOT

MY PERSONAL EVOLUTION

“Every revolution, bloody or bloodless, has two phases. The first is the

struggle for Freedom; the second the struggle for power. The phase of the

struggle for Freedom is divine. He who has participated in it invariably feels,

physically, that his best and most precious-inner self has come to the surface.

We know that being faithful to the TRUTH stands higher than our own

participation in governing the country—and that is why we must not have a

suciety that would reject ethical norms in the name of political mirages.”3

As I was saying to my grandmother, Mamaleen Johnson, “My life has

turned into a nightmare and I’m wide awake,” tears were streaming down my

face, dripping off my chin onto her patent leather shoes. She affectionately

patted my shoulder as she listened.

The words we exchanged, the room’s wallpaper and furnishings, my

beloved grandmother, Mamaleen. even the taste of my tears combined with a

feeling of overwhelming grief-it is ail there etched into my memory.

This was the summer before I was to enter my second year of school in

1950. The first year remains a blur with cause.

Life for me and my family had changed dramatically over the previous year.

So radical a change that it had taken almost a year for me to realize life was not

becoming any easier to live. My stuttering was getting worse. The rare

moments I could speak coherently were limited to short sentences devoid of the

word “you”, and then only to my mother and grandmother. Occasionally when

angry I could speak clearly, or when alone in the woods while talking or singing

to trees. Apparently my frustration with oral communication due to stuttering

had been intensified by a trauma I experienced the previous year. Little did I

know then that this trauma would positively and negatively influence my future

and the lives of others I would know for the rest of my life.

On a hot and sticky Tennessee July day in 1949, my father helped boost first

my mother, then me, into the saddle astride our four-year-old high-spirited “gift

horse” Wojac. This was to be my first ride on the back of an animal. The

excitement of the moment combined with stuttering rendered me, literally,

speechless. As I recall and from photographs taken at the time, I was wearing a

sweat-soaked, pale yellow cotton shirt, dark tan shorts, brown socks, and dirty

tennis shoes. At six years old, I was very thin and did not take up the remaining

saddle space behind my mother.

With the reins in my mother’s hands, the horse responded to her polite

command of “Come on, Wojac. Giddyup.” He began slowly walking down

our driveway to the narrow crushed limestone road beside our property. Upon

reaching the gravel road, the horse turned or was guided left, momentarily

disappointing me as I knew we were only going for a short ride. It was only

about a quarter of a mile to the busy paved intersection that would be dangerous

to cross. (Had my mother decided to go in the opposite direction, we could

have ridden for a couple of miles before reaching any automobile traffic.)

As quickly as the horse made the turn from our driveway onto the country

road, my mother nudged his flanks with her heels. With another command of

“let’s go,” the horse responded with a mild jerk of motion and he began a fast

trot down the middle of the road.

The horse’s speed, in retrospect, was too fast for safe travel on gravel. Not

knowing this then, I was not scared until I saw the crossroads looming closer, I

can hear myself half shouting “BBBBBetter slow down. MMMight BBBBe a

CCar CCComming.” Before I could enunciate the last words, my mother began a

slow sideways slide off the saddle. I could not see her face as she disappeared

under the horse, and the reins disappeared with her. The horse bolted full speed

ahead. In the blink of an eye, my realization of being alone in the saddle with

no way to control the horse washed over me. Quickly, I tugged on his mane to

no avail. It was in this instant I determined that the runaway horse was not

going to stop for the crossroads. I jumped. As I recall, the fall was swift and

my abrupt landing in the sharp rocks was not painful, though it seemed that my

body would never stop rolling. Panicked and with the dust beginning to settle, 1

sat up, blinked the dust and sticky blood from my eyes, and looked about for

my mother. She lay in a disorganized heap beside the road. I ran to hen

The first mental impression 1 experienced was that she was just wide-eyed

dazed from her fall. Then I noticed her eyes weren’t blinking and around her

head was a thick puddle of blood. Not wanting to leave her in the road for fear

she would be run over, and not strong enough to pick her up, I began screaming

in the direction of our home in hopes that my father could hear me. Almost

immediately he responded by sprinting to us”, all the while shouting, “What

happened? What happened?”

For the “life remaining in me” I could not answer for, as usual, I was

speechless. As he knelt down to speak to my mother, he stopped mid sentence

when he apparently saw her eyes in a fixed gaze and that the back of her skull

was crushed inward. Instantly he picked her up. and as we were running back

to the house, he commanded my eleven-year-old sister to call an ambulance.

To this day I cannot recall how we got to the hospital.

The grisly scenes of this tragedy were not my nightmare. It did not play

over and over again in my mind, for 1 had dissociated from it. I had voluntarily

and autogenically created a memory barrier of this trauma. This is a normal

human response. Had I been tortured after the trauma, I would not have been

able to voluntarily recall either the accident or the torture. Hence the basis of

this book.

The nightmare began during the subsequent recovery year when we realized

my mother would never be herself again. She had lost over a quarter of her

brain when the horse stepped into her skull. Permanently gone was her ability

to smell, taste, and hear in one ear. These were the physical handicaps she

developed. Her resultant emotional condition would become evident to me

many years later. As a child, this new awareness of my mother’s condition had

minimal impact on me compared to the fear I lived with, moment to moment,

due to my father’s chronic alcoholism. Years later my sister would follow his

lead into a losing battle with the bottle. I was safe, as alcohol made me stutter.

After being told so many times during my developmental years that my

mother’s condition was attributable to her brain damage, and that my stuttering

was because my brain was not working correctly, it occurred to me at some

point to learn about the brain. For years after the accident, 1 overheard adult

conversations about my mother’s brain. My curiosity peaked about the brain

and the resultant invisible mind and had set the course for my life’s interest.

Somewhere in this time period, I fantasized I would learn enough about the

mind and brain to help my mother and myself.

As a child, my attention span was regarded as abnormal. I was considered

very bright, yet my grades in school reflected something different. Although

not properly diagnosed, I was most likely suffering from what is now termed

Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). The handicaps of stuttering and ADD were

to become my first personal improvement challenges once I was out in the

world on my own.

This “on my own” objective came at an early age. I was barely sixteenyears-

old when I left home to begin my pursuit of happiness. My first efforts

resulted in total failure. However, I could not return to my parents’ home

because they were now divorced.

Young, broke and rejected, I was able to determine two things. First, I

must learn how to communicate if 1 were to enjoy any success in life, I went

about this task methodically, first by enrolling myself into a local night college.

In the classroom I studied speech, business law and psychology. At the library;

I studied brain functions and their effect on the mind. I was not degree oriented

because I could not earn enough at two jobs to attend the required classes to

graduate, but my studies were slowly providing me a usable skill. Secondly,

somewhere during this period of learning 1 began to realize I possessed a natural

ability to sell. Perhaps this ability to persuade others resulted from my

childhood experience of having to “read people” through their body language

rather than talking with them.

My first real job in sales was so successful that my client base was reduced

by my employer. I responded to this action by moving on.

The Vietnam War was heating up and I was eligible for the draft. No

longer in school, 1 knew that my number would be drawn soon. And it was.

Little did 1 know that my prayers for a deferment would be answered and would

afford me an exemption from military duty. I would soon be working for the

Ampex Corporation and with the U.S. Department of Defense in a civilian

capacity. The defense work closely associated me with top research scientists

working in the area of primate and human behavior modification. Ironically, I

learned more about the mind from my casual relationships with these scientists

than I did working at the various research sites. The sites included teaching

hospitals, state mental institutions, military bases, National Aeronautics and

Space Administration (NASA) facilities, and the Yerkes Primate Center.

Th e following years of my corporate employment in national and international

sales evolved into sales and marketing management positions in an

executive capacity. My personal life, in terms of loving relationships, was

again in shambles but my career and ongoing mind, brain, human behavior

research was rewarding enough to compensate for my lack of emotional

expression. The secrets I had learned so well concerning powers of persuasion,

both conscious and subliminal, had long since become a functioning part of my

mind’s arsenal of defensive and offensive tools of control. I resolved then and

there to become a “control freak”. Instead, my fantasy was not to learn

what I could control but what was controlling me.

Then, around 1986, a peer friend of mine observed that I had arrived in the

perverbial “comfon zone” in terms of presenting profitable ideas for others to

set upon, and advised me to go into business for myself. Shortly thereafter he

provided me an excellent example by resigning his six-figure executive

marketing directorship and nominated me as a candidate for his replacement.

Ironically, for the first time in my life, the nomination was rejected because I

did not possess at least a master’s degree in business management or

communications. His assistant was given the position, and I was subsequently

offered the assistant’s vacated position with no hope of promotion, which of

course I refused. Soon thereafter, my friend, free of his corporate golden

handcuffs, established his own firm which became a very successful business.

Around this same time a childhood acquaintance, long since socially

separated from my life, reappeared long enough to introduce me to his country

music entertainment friend, Alex Houston. From this introduction I learned this

acquaintance, Ray Myers and his wife, Regina, are alleged pedophiles who

reportedly sexually molested Cathy’s daughter and their own children. It

seemed that Houston was looking for someone with international business

negotiating skills who could assist him in putting together a large enough sales

deal to finance a manufacturing operation. After spending a few days of

complimentary consulting time with him, I had made some rather interesting

and intriguing observations about the man and his ideas. First of all, Houston

did have a legitimate, potentially profitable idea concerning the manufacture of

an electrical capacitor device that could increase energy efficiency for large

industrial consumers. Secondly, Houston favorably impressed me as a

calculated risk-taker. Thirdly, Houston agreed to finance my production of a

marketing plan for presentation to potential foreign buyers. And finally,

Houston agreed that I would run the company as President, if and when I sold

that plan, I thought. “No problem!”

The intriguing part of this “budding” relationship was my awareness of

Houston’s propensity for dishonesty. I felt an urgent need for legal advice on

how to insure contractual protection from Houston. Within days, Houston and I

had conceptually and contractually agreed to start up the business. I designed a

logo and assigned the name UniPhayse. The contracts we entered bound both

of us to our respective areas of commitment and was iron clad. Houston’s

willingness to participate in my legal protection maneuver further perplexed me,

because of the obvious ”honesty type” clauses contained in the agreement. At

the time, in my mind, I had determined that if Houston could “keep it clean”

and perform his role, we would be able lo make this company successful. If

not, I owned the company lock, stock, and barrel and could still make it work.

Months later, with business and marketing plans in ray briefcase and a

demonstration model of the proposed product in hand, Houston and I boarded

an airplane to Hong Kong. We were met upon arrival by a tall, well-dressed,

Korean gentleman who introduced himself as William Yoon. He owned an

international shipping company. His ships carried practically everything from

scrap metal to Chinese silkworm missiles all over the world,

Mr. Yoon, as he preferred to be called, in keeping with Far Eastern

protocol, was interested in negotiating a joint venture company with his friends

in the most populated nation on Earth, The People’s Republic of China. All

arrangements had been made by Mr. Yoon’s staff for Houston, myself, and him

to fly to Beijing the following day to begin negotiations with the Mining

Ministry. After several days of exhausting discussions through an interpreter

almost entirely between myself and the deputy director of the Chinese Mining

Ministry, it appeared as though we had a workable deal.

An elegant banquet was ordered by our gracious Chinese hosts, and it was

there I learned that the Mining Ministry was a part of the Chinese Ministry of

Defense. Feelings of patriotism welled up in me for the first time in my life. I

was aware that China was engaged in supplying missiles to Libya, a Middle

Eastern country with whom the U.S. was in conflict. The Chinese were

swapping missiles and other weapons for cheap Libyan light crude oil. The

Chinese were about the only country in the world who dared defy the Reagan

Administration’s trade embargo. These fleeting thoughts of being involved with

the Chinese military felt treasonous to me. Although uncomfortable with the

idea of a business venture with such potential for political disaster, I reminded

myself that hundreds of other U.S. companies were already in China. Houston

refused to discuss the subject.

During the return flight from Beijing to Hong Kong, I confided my patriotic

concerns to Mr. Yoon knowing that he would soon become my business

partner. He eloquently relieved my fears of potential disaster with a

complicated explanation that made sense at the time. This man politely

informed me that we could not lose money as he and I would have interim

control over all product sales revenue generated outside of China, By Chinese

law for joint venture companies, 60% of all manufactured product must go

outside China.

Houston and I returned to Tennessee and I briefly met his wife, Cathy, for

the first time when she greeted us at the gate. She appeared to me to be young,

beautiful, very dumb, and dressed like a prostitute. I paced my walk to be

several steps away from her as we headed to the baggage claim area.

Within a few weeks of this visit, a delegation of Chinese electrical engineers

and finance experts were flown to our Tennessee office for more negotiations

and to collect technical production data (we held) for future manufacturing

purposes.

Soon after the delegation departed for China, I received a mysterious phone

call from someone at the U.S. Department of State, aka the State Department.

It seems someone in my Chinese delegation had earlier been refused entry into

this country due to his being identified as an international weapons supplier for

terrorists. This telephone voice assured me that there were no problems that

would arise and that this information was not to be publicized. I thanked him

and assured him the information was secure.

A couple of months later, my new Hong Kong partner, Mr. Yoon, invited

me, my wife, Houston and his wife, Cathy, to come to China for the official

signing of the Chinese joint venture agreement. When I asked Houston if he

and his wife would attend, he flatly replied, “No”. He had already booked his

“act” and could not cancel. I then offered to escort his wife and mine to China.

He responded “no” again, that it was too far and too expensive for a pleasure

trip. I was relieved because I had already learned enough of the Chinese language

to know our partners did not like or respect him, and Cathy’s demeanor

embarrassed me. I later learned that Houston’s “gig” was to “trancesport”/

transport Cathy and little Kelly to the infamous Bohemian Grove for

prostitution.

My trip to China with all the pomp and circumstance went well as expected,

even though my wife and I were in the process of separating for a divorce.

However, just before I was prepared to return to the U.S., I received some

extraordinary information from a man who showed me Chinese Ministry of

Defense credentials that gained my full and complete attention. This man was

in possession of a file on me that could have only been gained through a

thorough investigation of my past professional associations. His English skills

were only strong enough to roughly, nervously translate some of the file’s content.

This man had photographic proof of a U.S. Department of Defense

security clearance I once held. He acknowledged that the “Chinese knew all

about me”. Thoughts of blackmail raced across my mind. These thoughts

instantly disappeared when he began to voice his government’s true concerns.

Their concerns were about Alex Houston and his involvement with the CIA,

drugs, money laundering, child prostitution, and the big one he saved for last,

slavery. No mention of mind control was offered, although he did comment

that Houston was a “very bad man” and his crimes were “of the White House”.

Disbelief was in order but not possible, due to the wide array of “Eyes Only”

stamped and initialed (official) CIA letterhead and U.S. Government documents

he slowly flashed before my eyes.

My first response to this “officer” was that Houston was too stupid and

crooked to be connected to U.S. “intelligence”. This comment was quickly

countered with a gut wrenching photograph of Houston. He was smiling a

demonic grin while apparently having anal sex with a small, very young,

frightened Black boy. Later he was identified to me as being Haitian.

When confronted with this horrific information and the apparent validity of

it, I asked, “What do you (your government) want me to do?”

He replied, “Get rid of him, distance yourself from him and all of his

associates”.

I responded by asking him how he thought I could accomplish this task. He

stated, “Any way you choose”. I told him that regardless of what he had seen

of American television concerning violence, the only way I knew was to force

him out by purchasing his company stock, and I needed money to do it. He

said, “Give us the figure and make the arrangements. It is done.”

I had returned to Tennessee with a Chinese government contract for

products valued at thirty-one million dollars. Stapled to it was a telex letter of

credit made out to me and the company from Houston’s bank connection the

New York branch of the now infamous Bank of Credit and Commerce

International (B.C.C.I.). The amount was one million dollars in U.S. funds.

The contract was worth approximately ten million dollars in gross profit for Mr.

Yoon and me.

Given the charge by the Chinese to immediately discharge Houston of his

duties, I knew exactly what my plan of action would have to be. Any other

approach to resolving this problem could backfire and all would be lost. And

since a former, indirect employer of mine (when I worked for Capital

International Airways), the CIA, was implicated, I knew one mistake and it

could cost me my life. A comforting thought prevailed and I reminded myself

Houston was not only corrupt, but stupid. The CIA must not have respected

him either. Otherwise why would he have had to go outside his circle of

powerful perverts to recruit me for an international business deal.

I drove to my office to begin the process of discovering something Houston

“must have done” that would breach the performance contract he and I had

signed when we started the company. Houston was out of town supposedly

doing one of his entertainment gigs, so I had complete, unobstructed access to

all files, his included. As I had mentally predicted during the long flight from

Hong Kong, the entire ferreting process took about fifteen minutes. It seemed

that Houston and the old acquaintance who had introduced him to me were, as

they say, “selling out the back door”. I collected the shipping bills and,

ironically enough, the bank deposit slip Houston had retained when he cashed

and deposited the customer’s check. There was even a letter copy where

Houston had specifically instructed the customer not to discuss his account with

anyone at our company other than Houston himself or bis pervert friend, Ray

Myers. Upon this discovery, I phoned the local Korean lawyer (whose business

card I had been given by Mr. Yoon while in Hong Kong) to begin the stock

transfer process. With pleasure, 1 wrote Houston’s letter of resignation.

With this problem in the process of being resolved, I left the office to visit

an old, dear friend (now deceased) who had maintained powerful U.S. and

foreign intelligence connections. I needed answers 1 could trust with my life.

This “retired” Air Force General from the Intelligence division would be my

source.

The word “slavery” delivered in broken English by the Chinese Intelligence

officer shouted in my ears during the short drive to a local hotel lobby, a

comfortable place my “spook” pal selected for us to talk in private. In the few

short minutes of the drive, I had my questions (for him) mentally noted. I

wanted so much to gain the most from our meeting. The slavery word had

triggered a dark question in my mind, blocking other constructive thought, as I

was not comfortable with introducing the term mind control into my

presentation. I knew 1 could speak freely about anything to this trusted friend.

I wanted desperately to avoid the words mind control, not for reasons of

comdemnation, but because they represented a secret I had patriotically maintained

for twenty years.

After my arrival and the light chit chat of social niceties had been exchanged

between us, the air changed to one of seriousness. I briefed him on my business

involvement, and began a methodical line of questions concerning the file the

Chinese Intelligence officer had presented on me and, especially, on Houston:

shortly, my friend interrupted me in mid-sentence, smiled a toothy grin, and

said, “Flash, you’re still the same, and you know damn well what I mean.”

“Yes”, I replied.

The spook was referring to a ’70s rock ballad titled “Still the Same” by

singer Bob Segar that was assigned to me years earlier by mutual poker-playing

buddies who identified with my passion for successful risk-taking. I despised

gambling. My passion was “risk management” and poker gave me a

recreational outlet for it. Although my friends each paid dearly, they soon

learned my poker strategy was not so much “card counting” as it was my ability

to read their body language. This included the micromuscle spasm responses

around their eyes, Houston also lost to me at cards. The message the General

was implying, roughly translated, was that I was once again “lucky as hell” to

have survived my brief business relationship with Alex Houston.

The discussion went down hill from that point directly into the dreaded

arena of mind control. After several minutes of listening to details concerning a

huge, invisible CIA slave trade going on world wide, the talk became more

regionalized to Tennessee. I learned that Cathy and her little girl were victims

of trauma-based mind control. They were slaves and the “soul” property of my

Uncle Sam. I learned that everything 1 knew in theory and application about

external control of the mind was fully operational and encroaching on the

private sector of society.

I was growing numb. The first words out of my dry mouth were, “How

would you spring these people out of it?”

He smiled and said, “I wouldn’t! What are you going to do with them if

you did get them out?” Before I could answer, he interrupted and said, “Look,

you’re still the same, but nothing else is with Uncle. Now most of the CIA,

FBI, and the MOB (Mafia) are the same, and they’re making their moves on the

military.”

I responded, “I already know that, but how do I save these two people?”

He said, “OK. Get the mother on the phone while her handler is gone. Use

the usual hang up code of dial and ring twice, hang up call back, ring once,

hang up and call back. Tell her you’re God, Give her a biblical passage.

They’re all Christian based programmed around here.”

Understanding that this procedure would gain Cathy’s full attention, the

General continued, “She’ll do anything, and I mean anything—except toast

Houston—that you command her to do. Remember, God commands. Find

yourself a preacher who knows the Bible and get a double-bind verse. You

know what to do—for God’s sake. And, listen, if you do this, you’re on your

own.”

“Mark, this is nuts,” he pleaded. Go to China and take them with you,

Forget about this Red, While and Blue cesspool. It’ll clean up. There’s lots of

good guys in the inside busting their asses to stop this mess, but you’re not

going to save the world.”

I injected, “No, just my ass and a couple of people who Uncle considers

something other than human,” Then we briefly chatted about some fine points

of the rescue and how to legally stop Houston from taking her back. I never

saw this friend again.

Walking back to my car, I listened again in my mind to his haunting words.

and my own life suddenly seemed like a scratched phonograph record with the

needle following the same groove over and over again. The thoughts in my

head were suddenly very unpatriotic – a far cry from the feelings I had expressed

in China concerning Mr. Yoon’s involvement in shipping Chinese missiles to

Libya.

Now I felt pure rage for what my country had become during the years after

I had bowed out of doing defense work. For once my own mind seemed to be

my worst enemy. Hatred for everything consumed me,

I loved what my country had once represented to me, but now I was

ashamed to be an American. And unbeknownst to me at the moment, soon I

would be ashamed of being a male, based on Cathy and Kelly’s memories.

During the long, usually boring drive to my secluded house in the

wilderness southwest of Nashville, I distinctly recall considering the inherent

risks in the formula I was given for “stealing” two slaves from under the cokefilled

noses of the CIA. My concerns were not of whether I could do it, but

related to my friend’s question of, “What are you going to do with them?”

My thoughts went blank as I muttered to myself, “Life is getting complicated

again”, I then consoled myself with the old adage of “first things

first”.

Within a few days, I had played God and coordinated the move of Cathy

and her 8-year-old daughter, Kelly, out of Houston’s house into a nearby

apartment. All of this was totally unbeknownst to Houston. As instructed, I

had deliberately placed the powerful coded suggestions into Cathy’s mind.

These commands partially bridged her own amnestic true perceptions that Alex

was going to kill her. Little did I know that the message I was provided to

block Houston’s former control of her was true.

Cathy and Kelly seemed to me to be very disoriented and somewhat

disconnected from reality. In their new, sparsely furnished kitchen, I listened

quietly to Caihy excitedly explain that “God had sent me” to her. She “knew”

this was true because her hands seemed to automatically open her King James

version of the Holy Bible to Psalm, Chapter 37, verse 37, which proclaims for

the literal minded, “Mark, the perfect man”.

Not only had I placed this biblical reference by a covert suggestion in her

mind while playing God on the phone, but just now in her home moments

earlier, I had broken the spine on her Bible so that it would “magically” open to

that page. She said, “See, God did it again for you to see”.

Using a deprogrammer’s language trick, I replied in a “reversed” response,

“Well, I’ll be damned. You are right. That’s the only explanation left—that

could explain all this”, I was anxious to change the subject so as not to risk

alerting any one of her observant personalities to my well contained laughter. I

had been warned that programmed slaves were hyper-observant.

In retrospect, I could not have had thoughts of being sacrilegious. I was and

remain deeply spiritual, but my earlier years of researching religions for life’s

answers had turned me cynical and cold of man’s interpretation of the Bible,

Koran and Buddha’s teachings. This attitude 1 privately harbored towards

organized religions did nothing to squelch the dread I felt wash over me for that

moment.

In my attempt to change the subject from religion, I had remembered the

Nazi mind-control research performed under Himmler’s command on the

families of northern European multi-generational Satanists. Christianity,

particularly Catholicism, was Himmler’s pick of the religions’ litter for

targeting “Chosen Ones” for his hideous mind-control experiments. These

Chosen Ones were to be the robotic leaders of Hitler’s New World Order. 1

then asked Cathy what religion she was before she met Houston. She replied,

“Mormon, but I was a good Catholic before then”.

My mind swirled from that shocking revelation. 1 again quickly changed the

subject and suggested we go out to dinner and discuss her new job as my

assistant starting the following the day. But tonight we would discuss her

divorce plans.

Later that evening, I began my search for a secure phone to find someone

from past associations I knew were CIA connected on an officer’s level. I

needed a get-well-quick formula or a clean mental health referral who could

help these two wide-eyed unfortunates. I was informed there were none and

that I knew more about “that mind stuff” than anyone who would talk.

I returned home to find my phone ringing with an anxious Alex Houston,

who had returned from a “vacation” at Boys Town in Nebraska, on the other

end exclaiming that he was looking for his wife. She had ” disappeared”.

I faked not knowing anything and suggested he come to my house the next

afternoon to go over some urgent business. The next morning, I located a

lawyer, for Cathy, and she had the divorce papers drawn up.

That afternoon I had Granville Ratclift, a local Sheriff’s deputy 1 partially

trusted, who occasionally watched my house when I was out of town, waiting

inside my house to witness and legally serve Houston with the divorce papers

and his termination notice from the company. My last words to Houston which

I recorded on tape were, “You could get hurt if you mess with me or them.

Alex, get out!” (Now, I hope Houston lives to be a hundred years of age.)

Getting the legal jump on Houston to project Cathy reminded me that I

needed to attend to my own divorce needs. My wife mutually agreed her life

could be more emotionally rewarding without me. She moved to Florida and

set up house with her mother. We filed for a noncontested divorce. I agreed to

sell the house and what remained of our joint possessions.

Still unable to secure expert help for Cathy and Kelly, I maintained their

safety by moving them into my house until it was sold. It was during this time

that I was approached by a neighbor who said he had seen someone through his

binoculars wearing a gun and taking pictures of my house. Other such intrusive

visits by unknown persons followed suit. I was getting real nervous.

I again called on a CIA operative I knew who worked within Nashville’s

corrupt law enforcement elite who, days later, informed me to “get my ass out

of there now-someone wanted me dead!” When I asked why, he said, “You

know damn good and well why!”

The house sold quickly and I had already decided to walk away from my

company, my contracts, and the one million dollars on deposit as a letter of

credit at B.C.C.I. in New York. Mr. Yoon came to Nashville, He purchased

Houston’s stock. I returned Mr. Yoon to the airport. My last words to him

were, “Farewell, friend”. He knew nothing of what was going on and I have

never seen or spoken with him again. That afternoon I cleaned out my office,

handed the keys to the landlord, closed out my personal and company bank

accounts.

I had become angry beyond anything I had ever experienced. In retrospect,

this was the birthing process of evolution from man to patriot.

I now only wanted answers to what was going on in my government. We

needed to be safe while I searched for these answers. My next stop in this

pursuit would be Las Vegas, Nevada, Once there, I met with some powerful,

underworld characters I had befriended back in my aviation days at Capital

International Airways while “packaging” gambling junkets for these characters.

I felt confident that these guys would protect me at least until I could find out

what and who Cathy knew. I was reminded by these men that they were a part

of the CIA’s new funding operations. One of them flippantly remarked while

chomping his Cuban cigar, “You can’t hide an egg in a hen house, fella”.

My contact then coldly informed me that I had become involved in

something that affected our National Security. I lied to this “wise guy” and

cryptically responded, “Oh, well. I’ll take them (Cathy and Kelly) to Alaska

and play like a voiceless chameleon”. In retrospect, this spontaneous lie must

have worked to protect me from “red shining” myself to become the recipient

of a CIA/MOB hit.

Cathy and I continued to stay “parked” in Las Vegas for a few more days

waiting to retrieve Kelly from a last minute (suspected CIA) court ordered visit

with her biological father, Wayne Cox. Later, I would learn from Kelly’s

medical reports that she had spent Christmas vacation “in hell.”

I was now alone in my mind, scared, and going broke fast. Once again I

felt totally alienated from everything and everybody in my life. At this

moment, 1 began constantly reminding myself that I was doing the only thing I

knew for sure was right. Realistically, I was astride the proverbial tiger and I

could not get off its back and survive.

3 1991 Roman Catholic Weekly

CHAPTER 3

THE RECLAMATION OF CATHY’S MIND

“The greatest gift anyone can give

another is a good memory.”4

It was now the week after Christmas 1988. I was fulfilling half of my

pledge to the Vegas mob. With all of our remaining personal belongings

containerized and secretly in transit on a different ship, I, my “new family” and

pets were ferry-bound for Anchorage, Alaska. The sixteen hundred mile trip

through ice and snow would take about three days to complete. Unfortunately,

it gave me time to think.

Due to our negative cash flow situation, realistically I knew there was no

place to run or hide from the CIA. Cathy and Kelly seemed happy and believed

they were safe. This was my number one priority! For me, I had to trust that

my escape plan would convince interested CIA personnel that we no longer

represented a threat to their security. The plan was based on an ancient

psychological warfare formula developed by the Romans, I wanted to portray

myself as akin to a character in a bad Reagan (western) movie and ride into the

sunset never to be heard from again. Thinking to myself that where we were

headed geographically, there was no sun to set, at least until spring. Late one

night about mid way into our voyage, 1 sought the solitude that the outside

forward deck would afford me. I was thankful for the wind-driven sleet and

snow that stung and closed my eyes and opened my mind for focused thought.

At the time, 1 was psychologically “strung out” from a combination of rage and

unbearable emotional headache.

To safeguard my precious teenage son, Mason, from being hurt and/or

unwittingly used as a pawn to force me to remain silent, I had virtually

destroyed our father/son bond. I loved and missed him very much, and still do.

The resultant emotional pain from the deception and separation seemed to be

compounding within me and was consuming-my being.

I had, in the course of rescuing Cathy and Kelly, shunned and insulted my

son, collapsed my company, simultaneously orchestrated two divorces and sold

all personal treasures. I worried I would never see my elderly mother again.

Her health was deteriorating. The tailored clothes I wore no longer fit me, as I

had lost over forty pounds and looked skeletal. Chronic insomnia, a symptom

of the severe depression I secretly fell, was slowly driving me mad. My own

short-term memory was beginning to fail. I had noticed for the first time in

over thirty years that I was stuttering when enunciating certain words. I knew

this was just the beginning of a long and dangerous expedition in search of

answers.

As I stood alone, with eyes closed, on the ship’s ice-covered steel deck, a

strange feeling of relief washed over me. I had somehow managed to remember

from where I could draw “emergency strength.” I began silently praying for

inner strength and guidance through a meditation technique I’d learned years

ago. Immediately, I experienced a feeling of peaceful self-assurance that we

would survive to tell our story.

Suddenly I became aware that the icy wind was freezing my face and hands.

I was elated that I could feel again. Apparently I had repressed my tactile

senses along with my emotions. For the first time since I learned of Cathy’s

and Kelly’s mind-control existence, I felt functionally alive.

I opened my eyes to discover I wasn’t alone any more. A voice was coming

from somewhere. I looked around and saw, crouched down and wrapped in a

dark green blanket almost beside me, the source of the voice. Again I heard,

“Hey man, you OK?” This good man whom I later came to know and respect

was Mark Demont. He was a classic example of what Alaskans term a “sour

dough”. Roughly defined, a sour dough was anybody from the “lower 48″

(states) who was disenchanted with their home and low on money. We were

both sour doughs and refugees from a sick society gone mad from CIA drugs,

media violence, and uncontrolled greed.

I offered him a cigarette and my hand in friendship, something I had not

done voluntarily in almost a year. We agreed to stay in contact after our

arrival.

About two days later, we landed safely at the Juneau docks. We were told

by the ferry’s Captain that it was the coldest day of the decade. The ship’s

thermometer read a minus forty degrees fahrenheit. For me, this was an

anticipated weather condition, and for Cathy and Kelly, a physical challenge.

I had spent about two years in Alaska around 1980. It was then that I

helped my former boss from Capital International Airways, George Kamats put

a new carrier on line known briefly as Great Northern Airlines. I left Alaska

back then, not because of the environment, which I loved, but due to my

inability to cope with Kamats’ daily tirades. This rigid fellow had a long,

colorful history working for other CIA controlled airlines. Among other jobs,

he had held top executive positions of authority with the infamous air support

section of the U.S, Forestry Service, Air America, and Evergreen (CIA) carriers.

Now I was back in Alaska, unemployed, and knowing I was being tracked

like an animal by the same organization I had previously indirectly worked for,

the Central Intelligence Agency. Having slept the past couple of nights, I was

feeling much better and the thoughts of being tracked did not concern me. I

recall having more productive things on my mind. I could not allow raw fear to

become any part of my daily diet of thought process.

Cathy and 1 dedicated every possible moment to locate a house we could call

home. We finally found a fourplex apartment that was inexpensive, with two

bedrooms and a heated garage. We had to have a heated garage for my three

beloved pet raccoons and two dogs. Our new home would never have furniture

beyond a TV, two beds, and a table and chairs. This inconvenience never was

discussed. We were comfortable.

After settling into “our place” in the remote rural town of Chugiak, we

immediately began doing normal things. We enrolled Kelly in a great public

school, met our new neighbors, and played in the snow. All of this was being

enjoyed in a traditional family way-something Cathy and Kelly had never

before known.

Our remaining meager resources were disappearing before my eyes. The

cost of asthma medication that Kelly now required to keep her alive was over

$400 per month. I strongly suspected that much of the reason for her declining

health resulted from the two weeks “in hell” she had recently spent with alleged

serial killer, Wayne Cox, She told me so, by detailing the hideous satanic

rituals she and her four-year-old step brother, Jacob, had been subjected to,

Fortunately, I had held onto my expensive Niton camera, guns, and

personal jewelry items. These were the last real assets I had remaining to sell.

I sold them and the proceeds paid our living expenses for five more months

until Kelly’s health needs and circumstances forced us on welfare.

During this five-month period, with Kelly in school and no telephone to

distract us, I began intensifying my deprogramming efforts with Cathy, Most

stays, our work started the moment we returned home from taking Kelly to

school. As soon as Kelly was in bed at night, after dinner and homework, we

resumed our “session”. We worked like this day and night, seven days a week,

focused intensely on the deprogramming process, until I would pass out from

exhaustion around three o’clock in the morning.

The deprogramming formula for pulling Cathy’s fragmented mind back

together was inherently free of problems. The small problems I did experience

with the formula stemmed from having to “expertly” apply it based on my

educated memory of almost twenty years previous. I had no communication

with any recognized authority other than Cory Hammond to guide the initial

therapy. My single greatest challenge was to learn how to control Cathy’s

constant state of trance as she journaled her memories.

In spite of reporting to the FBI that I was a hypnotist, I knew that if the FBI

and CIA could prove through my admissions 1 was using hypnosis on Cathy,

her testimony in court would be worthless. Therefore, the threat of reprisal

from the CIA was averted. In fact, through my own intensive research of

hypnotherapy I learned how to control Cathy’s trance states. T regarded it as

unhypnotizing her. Eventually I would be regarded by mental health physicians

as an “expert” in the application of this little-used clinical tool for recovering

memory.

Aside from my learned deprogramming skill, the balance of the formula I

used consisted of elements which are actually rules of ethical therapy conduct.

Those therapy rules were strictly enforced, Cathy understood and agreed that,

in order for her to have absolute control of her mind, she must place total trust

in me and the therapy regime.

1. I maintained a constant vigil to ensure Cathy’s physical and psychological

safety from all outside influences.

2. No memories could be verbalized by Cathy until after they were written

by her. The only questions I could ask were history oriented and directed to

Cathy’s presenting personality that was recovering the memory. Those

questions could only address the who, what, when, how, and where of the

memory. Even if I could have known the answers in advance, 1 could not

inject. Our perceptions would have differed radically and could have created

more memory barriers between personality fragments.

3. I fundamentally explained mind control to Cathy and she then understood

that what happened to her was not her fault. However, she understood she was

becoming responsible for her actions here and now. Through therapy, she was

asserting control over her own mind.

4. We devoted many hours to “intellectual discussions” of Cathy’s learned

religious beliefs and they were “logically” debunked, just as if 1 were explaining

how the illusions of a magician’s tricks worked lo confuse reality.

5. No expression of emotion by Cathy would be permitted during the

memory recovery and journaling process. I never asked her “how does that

make you feel?” This is as important as the safety issue for the rapid recovery

of memories.

6. I provided Cathy adequate food, vitamins, water, and sleep to restore her

failing physical health.

7. I taught Cathy how to view her memories on a “mind movie screen”

rather than re-experience them through the mind’s “virtual reality” mechanism.

8. I instructed Cathy how to trance herself and control the depth of her

trance state through a self-hypnosis technique (some regard as meditation). This

was put in place to avoid possible contamination and/or confusion of her

memories, which might have happened had I used a hypnotic induction

technique known as guided imagery.

9. Cathy was not allowed to read books, newspapers, or magazines, to

watch TV, or to discuss with Kelly anything she recalled. Cathy had

experienced a lifetime of information control and therefore had minimal

contamination of memory to sort through. This rule was also understood and

respected by Kelly, whose memories were beginning to surface.

10. All behavior patterns and social habits Cathy exhibited were reexamined

through logical discussion between us. All pre-established behavior

patterns, including daily routines, were re-scheduled or stopped completely.

11. I required her to wear a wrist watch twenty-four hours a day, to alert me

of any “lost time” she felt she was experiencing. Losing time, without trauma,

is a strong indication that personality switching is occurring. Whereas being

able to account for time is an indicator that recovery is occurring.

The memories Cathy was recovering were horrible beyond anything I had

ever heard anyone speak about, I often wondered if I had fallen in love with

Cathy as a result of my developing the psychological malady known as the

Stockholm Syndrome. Those thoughts never bothered me for I knew I had

grown to love Cathy. I had heard enough horror from Cathy and Kelly to know

I was now suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The

symptoms of this disorder went unnoticed by Cathy and Kelly because they too

were PTSDed, and had been all their lives.

My own health began to deteriorate rapidly. My regained body weight

began to melt away once again. I was experiencing incredible stomach pain,

vomiting, and diarrhea. I was literally living on a patent medicine known to

ulcer sufferers as Maalox. A “secure” phone call to a doctor friend in the

“lower 48″ produced the name of a local internal medicine specialist I could

trust. Aware of my predicament, my physician friend made the appointment on

my behalf for this doctor to prepare certain in-office tests. One of the tests,

using a fiberoptic stomach tube, showed that as a result of a water borne parasite,

there were holes in the walls of my stomach. He recommended

emergency surgery. I replied, “No. How much longer can I live with this

before surgery?”

He said, “It depends on how well you can follow my instructions”*

“No problem,” I said. Within a few days of feeding myself intravenously

and taking the prescribed medications, I began to recover.

It was during this recovery period that I began my telephone search for

answers to speed Cathy’s recovery process. Again I was told by my former

“well connected” associates that I knew it all. I was not convinced. However,

my persistence soon paid off as one particular phone call resulted in my striking

proverbial “pay dirt”.

The medical books on clandestine experimental research for treating

dissociative disorders mysteriously appeared “on hold” for me at the Eagle

River branch of the Anchorage Public Library. I was covertly alerted to pick

them up on a certain day at an exact time. I complied.

As I was leaving the library, a middle-aged woman with a grocery sack in

her arms approached me. She asked if the library was open. I thought this odd

since I was walking out the opened library entrance. My curiosity was short

lived when she asked, “Have you read any good books by Dr. Milton Erickson

lately?”

I replied, “No, but I am checking one out by (psychiatrist) Dr. William S.

Kroger entitled Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis,”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m a real fan of Dr. Kroger and he is a real fan of

Dr. Erickson who you know is considered the father of subliminal mind-control

(theory) research. She began walking away and turned, smiled and said, “Enjoy

your books and use the book, Mark.”

I assumed she was addressing me by name while referring to the book itself.

I also concluded from this comment that she was obviously the person

responsible for delivering the books to the library. Soon I learned she was

referring to a bookmark placed inside one of the books which provided me a

desperately needed communications vehicle. Recorded on the book-mark” was

a toll free 800# with a time and date to use it. I used this 800# and many others

similarly provided me for a communications vehicle to covertly access the

spooks’ (spies) subway to information. For two more years, this method provided

me with telephonic guidance through a maze of mind work with Cathy.

When 1 called the bookmark “800″ number, it was answered by an

electronic voice which said, in part, “Please enter your employee number now”.

I complied, using a series of numbers that I had been previously “assigned” by

someone who must remain anonymous because I do not know their identity.

The next sound 1 heard was that of a phone being rung. After exactly eight

rings, my call was answered by someone I did not know. He asked, “What’s

the problem?” I fell like a vacuum cleaner salesman with his foot in the door,

delivering a canned sales presentation. I began nervously emphasizing my

desperate need for a quicker therapy regime for Cathy.

The voice asked, “Have you read the books?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But many of the clinical terms were foreign to me.”

The voice then instructed me to go back to the library and “pick up a psych

reference book on term definitions”. I then interrupted his instruction to ask if I

could speak with somebody who could make this deprogramming process go

faster. He said, “Well, there are only two deprogrammers in this country-one

in Boston (Massachusetts) and the other in Phoenix (Arizona) and neither one

could be of much help or be trusted with the kind of information you are getting

(from Cathy).” He hesitated, then said, “You’re going to need a referral,

which I can’t provide. But you know how to do it”

I asked, “A referral for what?”

“To have the chance to speak with a doctor who knows about this and might

be of some value,” he told me,

“OK,” 1 said. “Who’s the doctor?”

“Cory Hammond, out of Salt Lake City (Utah).”

“Gees,” 1 said. “That’s Mormon headquarters, and that was the last

religious trauma base for Cathy.”

‘Yes!- the voice continued. “But you can trust this doctor if you’re careful

and don’t give up too much (information) on yourself. He’s paranoid like all

the rest (who know about mind-control atrocities) but he could be of some help.

Oh, be alert. Everybody’s watching this guy so anything you say, they (the bad

guys) will know.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied.

Somewhere in the process of finding a referral professionally acquainted

with Dr. Hammond, I telephoned dissociative disorders specialist, Dr. Bennett

Braun, a well-known and published psychiatrist in Chicago, Illinois. I learned

from our conversation that he had an entire hospital unit dedicated to therapy

for people like Cathy and Kelly. I wondered at the time why his name wasn’t

previously provided to me for a consultation. As a result of this brief telephone

encounter, I learned that Dr. Braun had a number of patients on a long waiting

list for a “bed” within this facility. The doctor then provided me the name and

telephone number of a “friend” he confided in, People Magazine senior

investigative reporter Civia Tamarkin,

Contacting this People/Time Life magazine reporter was to be my biggest

single judgement error in the pursuit of helpful information. I would soon learn

she was indirectly responsible for nearly costing me my life, and did indirectly

cost Kelly her chance for “expert” therapy- which is another book in itself.

When I first spoke with Civia, she dropped important names like a maple

tree drops leaves after a frost. I audio tape recorded practically all

conversations with this seemingly well informed source, then and in the years to

follow, Civia first provided me the name and phone number of the Boston

“deprogrammer,” an ex-Moonie programmer by the name of Steve Hassen.

Next, she provided the name and phone number to contact Jolyn “Jolly” West at

UCLA. Reluctantly, she gave me the referral I needed to communicate with

Dr. Cory Hammond. “The later contact being the only “briefly helpful” one

with whom I would speak.

Maximizing my PTSD impaired judgement, I telephoned programmer Steve

Hassen, for advice on how to help Kelly (only), which resulted in his coming to

our home in Alaska, Apparently, his agenda was to traumatize Cathy by using a

well-known code to trigger her to run for her life—from me. The method he

employed could have been effective, but fortunately for Cathy and Kelly, his

robotic delivery like his moral ethics was very poor. I learned that Hassen’s

voiced and recorded professional respect for his UCLA psychiatrist friends, Dr,

West and Dr. Margaret Singer, derived from sinister reasons. Little did I know

that Dr. West had worked for the CIA in Project MK-Ultra mind-control

research for decades, it seems some of Dr. West’s CIA supported research had

been exposed by a Congressional investigator of the MK-Ultra Project in the

1970s. However he survived the public scrutiny because the U.S. Government

had, in essence, halted further investigation of him and his work under the

National Security guise. His only reported crime was for killing an elephant

with an overdose of LSD in the presence of school children. These facts I

would learn after Cathy and I spoke with him by phone and subsequent disaster

struck us, This too is another story in itself

The phone calls between Dr. Cory Hammond and myself were informative

and supportive. He proved himself to be the single, most valuable live

information asset I would know in my quest for expert therapy advice. Later

Dr. Hammond delivered to the mental health community through a symposium

presentation in 1991, the whole truth as he knew it on the topic of mind control.

His advisory instruction to me on a particular Erickson technique for painless,

non abreactive memory recovery, called “revivification”, literally saved my predious

Cathy from reliving the horrors as she remembered them. This man is my

personal hero.

Spring in Alaska was a very different experience from what I was accustomed

to in Tennessee. The Alaskans just refer to it as “break-up”. In place

of hearing the sounds of chirping birds, I listened to the drip noises from the ice

melting off everything. The streets had become an ugly brown mush. For

spring as normally a welcomed seasonal change, it was depressing to say the

least. The only good news was that the days had slowly changed from darkness

to warm sunlight. With this seasonal change, a time bomb I did not know

existed began its countdown. Kelly’s asthma and behavior were radically

deteriorating for no apparent reason.

One Friday morning in May, Cathy received a call from Kelly’s school

principal requesting we pick her up as soon as possible and have her examined

by a doctor. The school nurse said Kelly was having a severe asthmatic attack

that did not respond to the medication she had with her. We picked her up only

to find that her condition seemed to improve miraculously at the sight of us.

But this improvement would be short lived,

The following Sunday, Kelly’s coughing became almost constant. She had

exhausted our supply of an important asthma medication which she regularly

used in her respirator pump, I covertly substituted distilled water and sat with

her while she struggled for her breath. Using an Erickson technique of guided

imagery, I began telling her a story about a little girl who huffed and puffed and

climbed a mountain. The story I told ended with the little girl reaching the top

of the mountain only to be so tired that she fell asleep in a bed of wild flowers,

Kelly responded by breathing normally and actually falling into a sound asleep

for a few hours, only to awaken and repeat her coughing spell. I returned to

her bedside and 1 asked why she coughed.

Kelly, somewhat agitated, responded, “I have asthma”. I repeated the water

substitution trick and she responded favorably and said, “Dad, Wayne (the

father and alleged serial killer Satanist) told me I was gonna’ die.”

I said, “Well, he’s not a doctor”.

Kelly continued, “He really did say that over and over and over again.”

I then asked, “When did he say this?”

“When school’s out,” she replied.

I asked, “What do you mean?”

She robotically repeated, “When school’s out.”

“Do you remember when Wayne said this to you?” I asked.

“In bed,” she continued. “He thought I was asleep and he was talking on

the phone to Alex (Houston) and then to me,” I knew then Wayne Cox had

programmed her to die using a clinical technique known as hypnosleep. Alex

Houston was guiding Cox through the program.

I interrupted her (as I saw she was entering a deep state of trance) and

responded, “Well, school’s not out and tomorrow you will be well enough to go

back to school.”

As I suggested, Kelly did feel good the next morning and returned to school.

This day would be her last day in Birchwood Elementary.

Only a few hours passed before Cathy and I again were called, this time by

the nurse who became agitated when Cathy truthfully answered her question,

“Didn’t you take her to the doctor?”

Cathy said. “No. but we will.”

Later that evening, Cathy, Kelly and I would make the last of our

emergency drives to seek medical help for Kelly.

At Anchorage’s Humana Hospital, Cathy and I met with the young, very

bright and beautiful physician, Dr. Lorrie Shepherd, who seemed perplexed

and, perhaps, frightened as to Kelly’s unexplainable deteriorating condition. I

requested a private meeting and she complied.

After about thirty minutes of my explaining what Cathy and Kelly had been

rescued from, I defined mind control for her. Learning this, Dr. Shepherd then

consulted with a local female psychiatrist, Dr. Pat Patrick to evaluate Kelly,

The evaluation was completed and Dr. Patrick invited Cathy, and eventually

me, to her office for a consultation. This was to be Kelly’s first official

evaluation that indicated she suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder

(MPD),5 a serious psychological disorder resulting from severe and repeated

trauma.

I then asked Dr. Patrick if she could arrange for a sexual abuse specialist to

verify if Kelly had been abused. She complied. The results were positive. Dr.

Patrick and Cathy seemed almost relieved at this validation. The result

sickened me.

Kelly’s asthma stabilized at Humana and she was transferred to Charter

North Psychiatric Hospital for in-hospital care. Dr. Patrick apparently provided

the best care she knew. Unfortunately it was inadequate. Months passed and

the State of Alaska welfare authorities began to realise Kelly was not improving

and her ineffective care costs were mounting by thousands of dollars weekly.

Dr. Patrick, Cathy, and I, with the cooperation of the Tennessee Violent

Crimes Claims Commission, began searching for a hospital that would accept

Medicaid insurance. Finally, one was located in Owensboro, Kentucky which

advertised a specialty in working with ritually abused children. Kelly was

transferred to this facility and the State of Alaska paid all the bills for her move

there. Later we would learn that this elegant hospital facility was nothing more

than a human warehouse that collected whatever fees the federal and state

governments would pay them per child resident. A pretty place to see, but the

care for Kelly would prove to be “less than nothing”.

During the summer before Kelly was transferred to this Kentucky hospital,

and Cathy was recovering satisfactorily, I felt it was safe to leave their side so

that I could find work. We desperately needed money to travel, to live, and to

return to the “lower 48″ with Kelly in the winter.

I quickly secured a job at Alaska Business College as an interviewer of

prospective students. My sales “performance” resulted in my being promoted in

two weeks from an admissions representative to Director of Admissions. I

banked as much money as possible from my earnings over the next five months

to provide for our move, to be closer to Kelly. The thought of the separation

agony that would exist between Cathy and Kelly served as a reminder of my

ongoing separation from my son, whom 1 had not heard from in almost a year.

Cathy, on ill advice from me, called her father and begged for some

financial help for Kelly’s sake. Her father wired $500 to confirm our location

and commented, “This is America. Unless you come back to Michigan alone,

no more money!” It was this statement that triggered Cathy’s repressed

memories of her own tortured childhood by this alleged pervert and slave

salesman, Earl O’Brien.

Soon the FBI telephoned Cathy and told her that she needed to “voluntarily”

conic to the Anchorage FBI office for questioning. Upon arrival, Cathy was

informed that she was under federal investigation for attempting to extort

money from her father.

Cathy looked strangely relieved when she heard these charges. Later I

would learn that she felt better knowing for sure she was not “crazy” or

delusional and that her father did in fact do those things to her and her brothers

and sisters.

The FBI Agent was openly sympathetic and reportedly the DOJ “inspired”

investigation was subsequently dropped upon his recommendation. This agent

went on to secure a cash donation through his Mormon church that enabled us

to leave his jurisdiction.

It is noteworthy that during this same time; through another special agent at

the Anchorage FBI office, 1 was interrogated for “what I knew” regarding an

unrelated crime involving my ex-wife and her lawyer boss in Florida. I knew

nothing, I now know that the FBI was, in effect, attempting to destroy my

credibility as advocate for Cathy and Kelly through their investigation efforts of

me. Their case against my ex-wife and her lawyer was solved, and her lawyer

accomplice was convicted of first degree murder. My ex-wife became a state’s

witness and was acquitted.

However, days later I would “see” my ex-wife being arrested and processed

on the popular national television show “Unsolved Mysteries”. That

unfortunate case involved only one homicide and made the national news for

weeks to come. In contrast, Calhy’s testimony, with proofs provided FBI

officia1s, was filed and deliberately covered up—For Reasons of National

Security.

The fall season in Alaska was now quickly giving in to winter and the

“termination dust” (snow) was re-coating the surrounding mountains. The air

was definitely becoming nippy. The change of seasons signaled another change

within my new family. Kelly was going to be transferred soon to the Kentucky

Valley Institute of Psychiatry (V.I.P.).

Cathy and I had been saving every dollar I could earn during my brief

tenure at Alaska Business College in preparation for our move back to the

“lower 48″.

I realized now that Cathy had gone into a state of recovery known as

“fusion”. She had long since stopped switching personalities and had become a

beautiful, intelligent, and logical lady. She was no longer susceptible to anyone

triggering her to go against or away from me. She continued to journal her

traumatic memories and was professionally adjudged stable.

The passage on ships and ferries out of Anchorage to Seattle was booked

solid for months ahead. They would only accept freight and/or vehicles. 1

purchased two, one-way tickets on Alaska Airlines and brought our family car,

a 1976 AMC Pacer, and remaining belongings to the Anchorage docks for

shipment.

Suddenly, as we packed our bags and were ready to board our flight, a

nearby volcano erupted and halted all air traffic in or out of Anchorage for the

following two weeks. We waited anxiously for the airport to reopen. We

would leave first and Kelly and her nurse would soon follow. This would be

the first step of what would be an endless journey in our pursuit of justice.

4 Mark Phillips’ motto

5The term Multiple personality Disorder (MPD) Is now clinically referred to by mental

health professionals as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID).

CHAPTER 4

TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES

JUST US PURSUED AND JUSTICE DENIED

Our much anticipated arrival into the Seattle (Washington) International

Airport terminal heralded a new beginning. Cathy appeared to be openly

optimistic that perhaps, at long last, Kelly would soon have her chance for

recovery. Privately, I felt much less hopeful, I knew from past personal

experiences and through my “insider sources” that mental health physicians

from the private sector of society had little acquaintance with secret U.S.

Government mind-control research. The only mind-control informauon these

doctors had access to for the most part was from the hysterical comments

supplied them by their troubled patients. Hysteria, in this case, as a symptom

of misinformation is highly contagious, and therefore spread throughout the

mental health profession. Many practitioners displayed symptoms of the

“ostrich syndrome” to me, their peers, and patients through fear and chronic

denial.

It was 1990, the beginning of the last decade of this century and the

millennium, and most mental health physicians remained in a state of denial

concerning the existence of mind control. Mental health as a science is barely

one-hundred years of age. Truly an industry in its infancy in relation to the

other recognized healing arts.

Due to mental health’s infancy and the fact that it is rooted in the archaic,

mystical theories of Jung and Freud, combined with the non-availability of

government controlled research information, the term “mental health” is viewed

by patients and doctors alike as an oxymoron. Patients I have interviewed who

suffer from dissociative disorders frequently refer to the profession as “mental

hell,” and their well-intentioned provider as “the rapist”. Unfortunately for all

parties concerned, in many reported instances these cruel labels are consistent

with the quality of the care provided. Whereas I strongly support, in concept,

the healing arts existing in the fields of mental health that could be applied in

the treatment of mind-control patients, I cannot foresee their application in

meeting the needs of these patients without some radical changes in our National

Security Act. Afound 1970, I recall witnessing a “mild” case in point. 1 was

overseeing the video taping of a TOP SECRET psychiatric experiment involving

a young man who had suffered brain damage resulting from some type of severe

head trauma. This patient was ambulatory. He could not remember anything,

express himself, or for that matter, think. He was not brain dead. He was

mind dead. Through the application of a combination of experimental drugs

and hi-tech electronic technology involving harmonics, his brain was being

“retrained” to permit constructed thought processes to commence. The brain

scar tissue that was inhibiting his ability to think was being chemically and

electronically by-passed. I equated this experimental procedure to the “hot

wiring” of an ignition switch of an automobile to preclude the use of a key.

The extraordinary procedure and subsequent results of this experimental therapy

was meticulously recorded. The record, tape, and doctor notes were dropped

into a security envelope and were taken by courier to Fort George Meade,

Maryland.

What made this case so memorable was the event that immediately followed.

I overheard the experiment’s attending physician complaining bitterly to his

nurse colleague that “his” patient in an adjoining ward, who was not a “DOD

guinea pig,” through application of this method, could “probably recover”. The

doctor’s complaint addressed his being prohibited from applying state-of-the-art

treatment for his patient by virtue of his DOD oath of secrecy. This doctor was

frustrated at being forced to serve two masters. The DOD being one master

held control over his career through his medical license, liability insurance, and

the secrecy oath he had signed. The second master was the doctor’s own moral

and ethical standards, supported by the Hippocratic Oath he had signed upon

becoming a physician.

Thus without benefit of the voluminous DOD research findings and

technology developments, the medical field of mental health is in its learning

curve for establishing models to provide patients state-of-the-art care. In other

words, mental health providers themselves are quickly becoming the second

group of mind/information control victims.

The mental health profession is in a sate of crisis and his arrived at the

proverbial crossroads of failure and success. The road to success through the

application of available technologies appears to be blocked FOR REASONS

OF NATIONAL SECURITY.

As a direct result of DOD management of mind research secrets and the

resulting federal information containment practices, mental health providers are

on the defensive with their patients, the courts, and more recently with certain

special interest action groups. These groups are attacking the mental health

professional as a target for destruction. Well-funded organizations with very

questionable agendas, such as the False Memory Foundation (FMF) and the

Church of Scientology, have publicly denounced mental health as a profession.

The Church of Scientology has emerged as the apparent leader in publicly

denouncing the mental health profession. Through the church’s Washington,

D.C. based “human rights” lobby group, it has launched a massive negative

propaganda campaign accompanied by numerous lawsuits against ethical drug

companies and mental health providers.

Scientologists believe their church’s ffounder, L. Ron Hubbard, has

discovered a cure-all for mental illness through behavior modification.

Hubbard, a successful science fiction writer, allegedly acquired knowledge of

subliminal mind control through his military service with U.S. Navy

Intelligence. He named his behavioral modification program Dianetics after his

first wife, Diane.

The False Memory Foundation is a lobby group which is primarily utilized

by persons charged with sexual abuse. The FMF is desperately attempting to

develop legislation that restricts therapy for persons suffering from dissociative

disorders as a result of trauma. This organization’s stated beliefs include that

repressed memory is a myth. FMF has found the mental health profession’s

Achilles’ heel.

To date, the model for developing an effective therapy regime for dissociative

disorders (which are as a result of repeated trauma) has not been

published by either the American Psychiatric Association or the American

Psychological Association. The difficulty in developing a model is due to a

number of factors. The primary factor involves national security secrets

concerning classified mind-control research.

In the present climate, referring mind-control victims to mental health

professionals for treatment would be tantamount to subjecting a patient needing

delicate surgery to a surgeon who was blind-folded and hand-cuffed. The

knowledge of these conditions produced the private opinion I withheld from

Cathy when she professed optimism for Kelly’s latest recovery opportunity.

Nevertheless, Cathy was nearing complete recovery and we both recognized we

were doing all we could a( the moment to provide for Kelly’s needs.

Perhaps identifying “who” within our government is interested in

withholding vital medical research findings and technologies information from

the mental health profession could provide a foundation of understanding.

From my personal experiences while working for Capital International Airways.

I formed a strong opinion that addresses this question. However, the answer

that mirrors my perception was later eloquently provided by a Washington.

D.C. news correspondent and journalist, Linda Hunt, in her book Secret

Agenda. The historical basis for this book are the declassified DOD documents

identifying Project Paperclip as being the secret importation/relocation of Nazr

and Fascist scientist into the United States over a forty-year period.

These brilliant criminal scientists were primarily focused on two areas of

research, rockets and the mind. They were placed in positions of authority in,

among others, prestigious universities, colleges, industries, and NASA. Over

the years, these imported criminals have directly influenced our society with

advanced rocket technologies and mind-control applications through U.S.

Government sponsored research. According to Secret Agenda, Nazism, as a

philosophy and form of government, is alive and destroying our country, in

part, as a result of Project Paperclip.

I can attest to this statement from personal knowledge gained during my

employment at Capital international Airways, which is named as one of the

primary transporters for Project Paperclip.

These were background facts for some of the thoughts that rushed through

my mind on our Jong drive from Seattle to the Southeastern U.S. I was anxious

to discover the end results of my telephone campaign in the pursuit of justice I

had waged while in Alaska.

Our first destination would be Huntsville, Alabama. This southern U.S. city

is famous for its tourism centerpiece, the NASA owned U.S. Space and Rocket

Center. The town also boasts of being home to more Pentagon, black-budget,

U.S. dollars per capita than anyplace in America. Cathy harbors a very

different opinion of this town, its police force, and the NASA research facility.

For Cathy and Kelly, Huntsville had been a place they were regularly taken to

by Alex Houston for hi-tech torture and the production of child and adult

pornography films.

This trip to Huntsville would be different for Cathy, except for one aspect of

her previous experiences. Both she and I would receive our first threat to our

lives in our pursuit of justice from law enforcement. This was surprising to me

and “normal” for Cathy.

The lead-up to this threat began with my phone call to a Huntsville based

legal aid group known as the National Association of Child Advocates. This

organization publicized that it was formed through the leadership efforts of the

local district attorney ‘Bud’ Crammer, who is known to his constituents as “Gun

Ban Bud”. After supplying this advocacy center with Cathy’s recollections of

her past experiences in Huntsville, we were contacted by two Huntsville City

Police Department “vice” detectives. Their names were Jeff Bennet and Chuck

Crabtree.

Upon our arrival into Huntsville, these two vice cops escorted us and our

trailer to a local apartment used for staging drug buys. The place was

furnished, complete with audio and video bugs throughout every room. When I

asked Bennet if the “place was bugged,” he flatly denied it. From this lie I

knew with certainty that Cathy and I were there to be specimens for whomever

to study, I knew “who,” and we gave them our best performance to mislead

them. This action probably saved our lives.

After weeks of “delays,” the two vice cops sat down with Cathy and me for

discussion. She supplied them a myriad of testimony including detailed physical

descriptions of two particular perpetrators, their names, and location maps of

where they lived and allegedly produced child and adult pornography. The two

perpetrators, themselves Huntsville policemen, were also helpful assets in the

campaign for electing District Attorney Bud Crammer. Their names were

Audie Majors and Sergeant Frank Crowell.

After Cathy had exhausted all of her recollections, Crabtree and Bennet

ordered us to “leave Huntsville now while we were still alive, and shut up if we

intended to stay that way!”

Later, Cathy and I would learn that Crabtree and Bennct had notified every

law enforcement officer in over five states to whom we had provided

information, They reported that we were a pair of “professional con artist

criminals”. Perhaps they were able to accomplish this discrediting tactic as a

result of police reports we filed in other states, which included a reference to

our “bud experience” with the Huntsville Police Department. In addition, the

Nashville office of the FBI was responsible for perpetrating Crabtree’s and

Bennet’s discrediting lies. This FBI action ceased after resident-agent-in-charge

Ben Purser was told by a friendly district attorney that I now could prove the

identity and prosecute those responsible for the character assassination. The

harassmet stopped,

It is interesting to note that ‘Bud’ Crammer would in less than a year, be

elected to Congress. Within months after his election, Bud was rewarded for

years of alleged containment practices. Allegedly Bud has been covering up

investigations for the intelligence community, DOD, and of course his number

one financial supporter, NASA.

The wife of an Atlanta, Georgia physician, Ms. Faye Yeager, did however

survive Bud’s wrath in court. Her “crime” was advocating for and protecting a

child who had been horribly abused. This courageous lady had her day in court

and won. Now she has filed a counter-suit in Federal court. Reeling from

Bud’s “second hand” threats to our lives, we returned to Nashville, Here we

learned that the Kentucky V.I.P. hospital administration had suddenly declared

Kelly’s State of Alaska medical records “to be in error”. V.I.P. said she was

“fine!” This statement was supplemented by “you best come here now and pick

her up or we’ll give her to Kentucky Child Services and they will find adoptive

parents.”

This was a terrifying development since Kelly could not function outside a

restrictive environment. She had been declared suicidal and homicidal by three

attending physicians and/or therapists. Cathy and I were homeless. We

brought Kelly back to Tennessee where she, Cathy and I stayed in my mother’s

tiny two-bedroom home. This living arrangement would not last. Kelly’s

asthma (program), destined to separate her from her mother, returned within 48

hours. We rushed her, gasping for breath, to Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville

for emergency treatment. Again Kelly’s condition worsened to the extremely

critical point, then returned to normal. Her attending doctor thought he had

seen a real miracle until he learned about mind control.

Vanderbilt Hospital physicians who reviewed Kelly’s past medical and

psychiatric records recommended that she be moved to the worst child

warehouse we’ve seen so far, Crocket/Cumberland House, the “home for

broken butterflies” (see photo). Because Cathy and I were both unemployed

and Kelly only had Medicaid insurance, the State of Tennessee demanded

temporary custody. Their demands for custody were legally legitimate and

morally equated to extortion for they had no intentions of seeking expert therapy

for Kelly.

Through a lengthy two-year court proceeding, with five lawyers opposing

Cathy, we had a partial victory, Kelly was transferred to Charter Hospital in

Memphis, Tennessee where again she did not receive MPD/DID therapy, but

for the first time did receive genuine empathy from a social worker, Abbott

Jordan.

During this period, my life and liberty was threatened by the Nashville

Metro Police Department. This verbal death threat was delivered by Metro

Homicide Captain Mickey Miller and echoed by his friend and subordinate Lt.

Tommy Jacobs. Miller said, “You best forget this woman; walk away from all

this now before your health changes.” Jacobs said, “There’s nothing wrong

with that kid that her father (Cox) can’t fix. She just has allergies. You’d best

forget you ever heard of either one of them.” I have all this conversation on

audio tape.

Within a few months of these threats came others threatening both our lives

and liberty from every branch of law enforcement within the State of

Tennessee. This included the Nashville office of the FBI. The latter was in the

form of a “clerical mistake” on the part of the FBI that was to be a “frame up”

for my supposedly threatening the President of the United States, George Bush.

This charge was totally groundless and was subsequently dropped, but only after

I secured a lawyer

It was now 1991, and Cathy and I had determined that we must proceed

with “phase two” of our pursuit of justice through a well organized information

dissemination campaign. The funding for this project would indirectly come

from the assistance of Bill Ross who also provided constant moral support,

Cathy and I have always fell uncomfortable exposing gentle persons like Bill

Ross to such horrific information as pertains to trauma-based mind control.

However, we have learned over the years through our public speaking

engagements and consultations with physicians and others that, generally

speaking, people appreciate knowing WHY they are no longer “at the top of the

food chain,” Bill Ross like hundreds of others never gave up hope that we

would live to tell our story.

Five years have passed since we returned from Alaska. The lessons learned

through this trail-blazing effort in our pursuit of justice should never be taught

to anyone. No person should have to experience the heartache, desperation, and

grinding poverty that Cathy, Kelly, and I have had to live with-

During the winding down portion of our information dissemination

campaign, Cathy approached me with an idea she thought could help us win

public support. She had repeatedly commented that she wanted to rescue

Seidina ‘Dina’ Reed, daughter of actor/singer Jerry Reed of Smokey And The

Bandit fame. According to Cathy, she had been used repeatedly in pornography

productions with Seidina over the years and had bonded with this once beautiful

woman.

Seidina’s husband, David Rorick, aka Dave Roe, was then her alleged

sadistic handler. It is noteworthy that Roe allegedly received his training on

how to maintain a slave, using specific tortures, from Alex Houston. Roe lived

and reportedly loved, with Houston before he met Seidina. Cathy and I naively

believed at the time that Jerry Reed was not involved in his daughter’s

enslavement as was Cathy’s father. Furthermore, we were convinced that Jerry

Reed, with his numerous connections into politics and the entertainment

industry could be a powerful ally. This was not to be.

I rescued Seidina and in minutes after the rescue, she began talking, but not

until I had discussed my plan in person with her famous father and his agent at a

Brentwood, Tennessee restaurant. Reed had more Chan enough time to warn

Roe that I was armed and on my way to his house. All evidences disappeared.

Years later a U.S. Customs Enforcement officer informed me that I had

“somedoby” connected to Reed, possibly Reed himself, suggesting “I might be

blackmailing him.” This “clean” customs officer knew I had rescued Seidina

from Roe’s enslavement and that I had audio taped all meetings with Seidina,

Jerry Keed, and his wife, Prissy. He was openly concerned for my safety and

that Reed was lying so as to frighten me away.

Within two months after the rescue, Seidina and her mother filed criminal

charges, including sexual child abuse (of Seidina’s four-year-old son) against

Roe. A “spook informant” working within the Nashville District Attorney’s

office alerted me to these charges and the anticipated outcome. No action was

taken FOR REASONS OF NATIONAL SECURITY.

Seidina had been prostituted to, among many others, heads of state, and to

the Arabian Ambassador to the U.S., Prince Bandar Bin Sultan. According to

an involved witnesses of one of her encounters with Bandar (a friend of

George Bush) she was one of his favorite slaves. We’ve never heard from

Seidina or any member of her family since the rescue. This trek through hell in

our pursuit of justice taught nothing to Cathy that she had not already been told

by her abusers. For me, I learned the hard way that our Constitution was only a

beautiful plan that had been stolen, plundered, and replaced FOR REASONS

OF NATIONAL SECURITY.

Today, Cathy, Kelly, I and all true patriots stand at the proverbial

crossroads of revolution or evolution. Through armed revolution, we patriots

will perish and the emergence of a totally government controlled society will

herald in another period of “dark ages”. As a proud gun owner, armed with

inside knowledge, I know we are technologically out-gunned. Whereas if we

choose to evolve through the challenges to our psyche that developed

communicat ion technologies present we can reinstate our Constitution and set

our people free. Revolution or Evolution-change in life as we know it is

inevitable.

Each of us must now take a stand to commit a portion of our individual time

and diminishing resources to support the action groups and individuals who are

not afraid to work at taking back our government through mass exposure of its

crimes. We must seek new leaders who will be committed to doing the most

with the least. These leaders share the battle cry that SILENCE DOES (indeed)

EQUAL DEATH. 6 Hund, Linda, Secret Agenda, St. Martin’s Press 1991

ALEX HOUSTON

48

PART II

by Cathy O’Brien

AN OPEN LETTER

Mind control is absolute. Under MK-Ultra Project Monarch trauma-based

mind control, I lost control over my own free will thoughts – I could not think to

question, reason, or consciously comprehend – I could only do exactly what I

was driven to do. Those who controlled my mind, and ultimately my actions,

claimed to be “aliens,” “demons,” and “gods”. But it was my experience that

these perpe-TRAITORS of New World Order controls were/are bound by

fully, human confines, despite their terror-tactic claims and illusions. The

true laws of nature, and the same laws of man do, indeed, apply to them.

While they manipulated me by my religion, my maternal instincts, and my

genuine concern for humanity – they never “possessed” my innate being. They

could make me one of them. They never took into consideration the

strength of the human spirit. They did not even know it existed. Ask why.

DEDICATION

This book is for Kelly, in order that she is understood and granted her right

to qualified rehabilitation for the MK-Ultra Project Monarch Mind-Control

abuses she endured at the hands of our country’s so-called leaders.

This book is dedicated, as am I, to Mark Phillips for rescuing Kelly and me

from our mind-controlled existence, and clearing the way to recovery for Kelly

by lovingly assisting me in the restoration of my mind, memory, and ultimately

my free will.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thanks to those unseen, whose presence have been evident. And

a special thanks to those unsung – you know who you are.

TRANCE-FORMATION OF AMERICA

My name is Cathleen (Cathy) Ann O’Brien, born 12/4/57 in Muskegon,

Michigan. I have prepared this book for your review and edification concerning

a little known tool that “our” United States Government is covertly, illegally,

and un-constitutionally using to implement the New World Order (One World

Government). This well documented tool is a sophisticated and advanced form

of behavior modification (brainwashing) most commonly known as MIND

CONTROL. My first hand knowledge of this TOF SECRET U.S. Government

Psychological Warfare technique is drawn from my personal experience as a

White House “Presidential Model” mind-control slave.

Much of the information enclosed herein has been corroborated and

validated through brave and courageous “clean” members of the law

enforcement, scientific, and Intelligence communities familiar with this case

These individuals’ efforts helped me to understand and corroborate what

happened after a lifetime of systematic physical and psychological torture

orchestrated to modify my behavior through totally controlling my mind. Some

of these courageous individuals are employed by the very system that controlled

me and live in fear of losing their jobs, their families, or their lives. They have

gone as far as they dare towards publicly exposing this tool of the engineers of

the New World Order-to no avail. This book is a grassroots effort to solicit

and enlist the public and private support of Human Rights advocates, the

recognized, respected doers in America to expose this invisible personal and

social menace. This can be done by well organised, cooperative citizens with a

passion for justice, who have expressed interest in restoring our Constitution

and taking back America. This copy you hold is for your edification and

action.

While these pages have been condensed for your quick perusal, there ane

literally thousands of files of documentation that support much of what I am

reporting. Thanks to those dedicated individuals who found a means of

manipulating the system more cleverly than the perpetrators, the documents

referred to were declassified for release right at the source!

It is my patriotic respect for the principles of truth, justice, and ultimately

that freedom on which America was founded that compels me to expose the

world domination motivations of those in control of our government, commonly

referred to as the Shadow Government. By taking back America NOW, we can

maintain the integrity of our country’s history and future by detaining its

destined course of being recognized world wide for the mind-control atrocities

unleashed on humanity that literally begin where Adolph Hitler left off.

Hitler’s version of world domination that he termed in 1939 the “New World

Order” is currently being implemented through advanced technologies in,

among others, genetic mind-control engineering by those in control of America.

Senator Daniel Inouye, (D. HI) commented about the operations of this

secret government before a Senate Subcommittee and described it well as “…a

shadowy government with its own Air Force, its own Navy, its own fund

raising mechanism, and the ability to pursue its own ideas of ‘national interest’,

free from all checks and balances and free from the law itself.”

The expertise of my primary advocate and skilled deprogrammer, Mark

Phillips, developed through his U.S. Defense Department knowledge of “Top

Secret” mind-control research and researchers, was responsible for the

restoration of my mind to normal functioning. As a result, I have recovered the

memories related in this text, and having survived the ordeal, have reached this

point of enormous frustration. In 1988, through a series of brilliantly

orchestrated events, Mark Phillips rescued me and my 8-year-old daughter,

Kelly, from our mind-controlled existence and took us to the safety of Alaska

for rehabilitation. It was there that we began the tedious process of untangling

my amnesic mind to consciously recall what I was supposed to forget,

Many U,S. and foreign government secrets and personal reputations were

staked on the belief that I could not be deprogrammed and rehabilitated to

accurately reveal the criminal covert activities and perversions in which Kelly

and I were forced to participate, particularly during the Reagan/Bush

Administrations. Now that I have gained control of my own mind, I view it as

my duty as a mother and American patriot to exercise my gained free will to

expose the mind-control atrocities that my daughter and I endured at the hands

of those in control of our government. This personal view of inside Pandora’s

Box includes a keen perception of how mind control is being used to apparently

implement the New World Order, and a personal knowledge of WHO some of

the so-called “masterminds” are behind this world and mind dominance effort.

Most Americans old enough to remember recall exactly where they were and

what they were doing when President John F. Kennedy was shot. His

assassination traumatized the nation and provides an example of how the human

mind photographically records events surrounding trauma. The traumas I

routinely endured during my mind-controlled victimization provided me the

latitude to recover my memory in the photographic detail in which it was

recorded. The direct quotes 1 have included in the following pages depicting

carefully selected events, are verbatim. I apologize for any obscenities quoted,

but this was necessary to maintain the integrity of the statements and accurately

reflect the character of the speaker(s).

While I am free to speak my mind, Kelly, now 17, is not so fortunate.

Kelly has yet to receive rehabilitation for her shattered personality and

programmed young mind. The high tech sophistication of the Project Monarch

trauma-based mind-control procedures she endured, literally since birth,

reportedly requires highly specialized, qualified care to aid her in eventually

gaining control of her mind and life. Due to the political power of our abusers,

all efforts to obtain her inalienable right to rehabilitation and seek justice have

been blocked under the guise of so-called “National Security”. As a result,

Kelly remains untreated in the custody of the State of Tennessee-a victim of the

system—a system controlled and manipulated by our abusive government

“leaders” – a system where State Forms make no allowances to report military

TOP SECRET abuses – a system which exists due to federal funding directed by

our perverse, corrupt abusers in Washington, D.C. She remains a political

prisoner in the custody of the State of Tennessee to this moment, waiting and

hurting!

Violations of laws and rights, Psychological Warfare intimidation tactics,

threats to our lives, and various other forms of CIA Damage Containment

practices thus far have remained unhindered and unchecked due to the National

Security Act of 1947 AND the 1986 Reagan Amendment to same which allows

those in control of our government to censor and/or cover-up anything they

choose. Now, with our country free from outside threats as a result of the fall

of the Soviet Union, our “free press” is reportedly no longer encumbered by

censorship. This fact alone should free us to pursue justice, but it has not.

Please ask why.

Hence the purpose of releasing this book at this time. After seven long years

of being unjustly and painfully seperated from my daughter, while our abusers

have had full access to her through a corrupt and manipulated system, it is my

fervent hope and intent to solicit help from you in the form of advice, expertise,

and public outcry concerning this very solvable problem.

I could not prevent the traumatic mind-control abuses Kelly endured due to

my own victimization, yet she is depending on me now to expose the truth and

enlist the help that the Juvenile Court has restrained her from seeking. I dedicate

this book to Kelly, and all others like her, and to every American unaware of

the mind-control atrocities prevailing in this country. What Americans don’t

know is destroying them from the inside out. Knowledge is our only defense

against mind control. It is time to WAKE UP and arm ourselves with the truth,

restore the constitutional values of freedom and justice for all, to retroactively

enforce the 13th Amendment, and take back America!

CHAPTER 1

MY INTRODUCTION TO HUMANITY

My pedophile father, Earl O’Brien, brags that he began substituting his

penis for my mother’s nipple soon after I was born. My multgenerational

incest-abused mother, Carol Tanis, did not protest his perverse actions due to

(reportedly) having similar abuse as a child which caused her to acquire

Multiple Personality Disorder.1 My earliest recovered memory was that I could

not breathe with my father’s penis jammed into my little throat. Yet I could not

discern his semen from my mother’s milk. I do not recall thinking, but I am

aware through education that this early sexual abuse distorted my primitive

concepts of feeding, breathing, sexuality, and parental perceptions.

I recall as a toddler being unable to run (I could barely walk) to my mother

for help as my instincts demanded. Through my gulping sobs, my terror rose as

I tried to clear my throat of my father’s semen and draw a breath of air. My

mother finally arrived at my side. Rather than comfort me, she accused me of

throwing a temper tantrum and “holding my breath”. She responded only by

throwing a glass of cold water in my face. 1 was shocked! As the water

splashed my face, I knew she would not help and it was up to me to save

myself. I automatically Multiple Personality Disordered. I was, of course, too

young to logically understand that what my father was doing to me was wrong.

I accepted his strangling sexual abuse as a normal and natural part of my home

life, and split off a personality to deal with the pain and suffocation to satisfy

his perversions. Therefore as a child, I was dissociative of my father’s abuse. I

was totally unable to recall his sexual abuse, even in his presence, until 1 saw

and felt his penis. Then the terror, which was my conditioned response,

triggered access to that part of my brain that previously endured the trauma, I

was remembering the abuse and how to deal with it. This part of my brain

developed into a personality of its own-which belonged to my father-which he

rented out and later sold to the U.S. Government as will be explained and

detailed in the following pages.

Other parts of my conditioned mind dealt with other abusers, abuses and

circumstances. My father was (as revealed by my own investigations)

apparently a multigenerational incest child from a large, poor, and horribly

dysfunctional family. His mother earned a living as a prostitute for local

lumbermen after his father died when he was two years old. My father’s

brothers and sister were all sexually and (occult) ritually abused just as he was.

They grew up to be drug addicts, prostitutes, street derelicts, and pedophiles

who also sexually abused me and my brothers and sisters. I developed more

personality splits to deal with the traumas of these torturous relationships.

My mother’s dysfunctional family also appears to be multigenerational, but

of a slightly higher socio-economic class. Her father owned the building

occupied by a Masonic Blue Lodge he led, and managed a local beer

distribution business with her mother after completing his military career.

Together they sexually abused my mother and her three brothers, who in turn

sexually abused me.

My family often went camping on the vast wilderness acreage surrounding

my grandfather’s Masonic Lodge in Newaygo, Michigan. Large bluffs referred

to as “The High Banks’ overlooked the White River flowing through his

property, which is where we pitched our tents. My mother’s brothers, Uncle

Ted and Uncle Arthur “Bomber” Tanis, often accompanied us and sexually

abused my brother and me.

It was deer hunting season in or around November, 1961, when my father

took the family camping on The High Banks to hunt with my uncles. That

night, as my brother and I were being sexually passed around the campfire to

satisfy pedophile perversions, a lost hunter stumbled into our camp. My father

shot him when he attempted to run; the rifle’s blasts piercing my brain and

further fragmenting my mind. I sat dazed in a dissociative trance while my

mother methodically picked up the campsite and my father and uncles disposed

of the body.

As my father drove us away from the crime scene, we were stopped by

several hunters who had the road blocked in a desperate attempt to locate their

missing companion. They described the man I saw my father kill, and said they

heard gunshots. Reality intruded on my dissociative trance, and I screamed

and cried hysterically until I no longer knew why I was crying.

My Uncle Ted2 soon became a street derelict. Uncle Bomber died a few

years later from alcoholism in his early forties. And my father became more

financially and politically connected.

My mother’s oldest brother, Uncle Bob, was a pilot in Air Force Intelligence

and often boasted that he worked for the Vatican. Uncle Bob was

also a commercial pornographer, producing kiddie porn for the local Michigan

Mafia, which looped back to Mafia porn king and U.S. Representative Jerry

Ford. I split off more personalities just to deal with my Uncle Bob, his

“friends,” and the perverse business he shared with my father.

My father’s sixth grade education had earned him a job as a worm digger

for local sport fishermen. By the time I was six years old, however, his

pornographic exploitation of my older brother, Bill, and me had provided

enough income to move us into a bigger house nestled in the Michigan sand

dunes. My father was right at home there. The tourists and drug dealers who

littered the eastern shore of Lake Michigan further supplemented his income by

paying for perverse sex with us children. My father also became involved in

illicit drug sales.

Soon after we moved, my father was reportedly caught sending kiddie porn

through the U.S. mail. It was a bestiality film of me with my Uncle Sam

O’Brien’s Boxer dog, Buster. My Uncle Bob, also implicated in manufacturing

the porn, out of apparent desperation informed my father of a U.S. Government

Defense Intelligence Agency TOP SECRET Project to which he was privy.

This was Project Monarch. Project Monarch was a mind-control operation

which was “recruiting” multigenerational incest abused children with Multiple

Personality Disorder for its genetic mind-control studies. I was a prime

“candidate,” a “chosen one”. My father seized the opportunity as it would

provide him immunity from prosecution. In the midst of the pandemonium that

ensued, Jerry Ford arrived at our house with the evidence in hand for a meeting

with my father.

“Is Earl home?” he called to my mother, who nervously stood behind the

screen door, hesitating to let him in.

“Not yet,” my mother replied, her voice shaking. “He should have been

home from work by now-I know he’s expecting you.”

“That’s OK”. Ford turned his attention to me. I was standing outside on

the front porch, and he crouched down to my level. Patting the large, brown

envelope containing the confiscated porn tucked under his arm he said, “You

like doggies, huh?”

“Buster is a nice doggy,” I replied. “He’s funny.” Not understanding why

the dog had been whisked away when the porn was confiscated, I complained,

“Buster’s gone.”

“Buster’s gone?” Ford asked.

“Yeah. My Uncle Sam took him away,” I told him.

Ford laughed loudly at the irony of my statement. In my limited view, I

thought he found it humorous that Buster was gone. My father pulled into the

driveway, honking the horn of his new, tan convertible. Ford stood up. With

his fly eye level to me, I noticed his penis was erect and reached for it as

conditioned.

“Not now, honey,” he said. “I have business to tend…” Ford went inside

with my parents to officially seal my fate.

Not long after that my father was flown to Boston for a two-week course at

Harvard on how to raise me for this off-shoot of MK-Ultra Project Monarch,

When he returned from Boston, my father was smiling and pleased with his

new knowledge of what he termed “reverse psychology”.

This equates to “satanic reversals,” and involves such play-on-words as puns

and phrases that stuck in my mind like, “You earn your keep, and I’ll keep what

you earn.” He presented me with a commemorative charm bracelet of dogs,

and my mother with the news that they “would be having more children” to

raise in the project. (I now have two sisters and four brothers ranging from age

16 to 37 who are still under mind control.) My mother complied with my

father’s suggestions, mastering the art of language manipulation. For example,

when I could not snap my own pajama top to the bottoms in a childish effort to

keep my father out of them, I asked my mother, ”please snap me”. She did.

she would snap her forefingers against my skin in a stinging manner. The pain

I felt was psychological as this proved to me once again that she had no

intention of protecting me from my father’s sexual abuse.

Also in keeping with his government-provided instructions, my father began

working me like the legendary Cinderella. I shoveled fireplace ashes, hauled

stacked firewood, raked leaves, shoveled snow, chopped ice, and swept—

“because,” my father said, “your little hands fit so nicely around the rake, mop,

shovel, and broom handles.”

By this time, my father’s sexual exploitation of me included prostitution to

his friends, local mobsters and Masons, relatives, Satanists, strangers, and

police officers. When I wasn’t being worked to physical exhaustion, filmed

pornographically, prostituted, or engaged in incest abuse, 1 dissociated into

books. I had learned to read at the young age of four due to my photographic

memory which was a natural result of MPD/DID.

Government researchers involved in MK-Ultra Project Monarch knew about

the photographic memory aspect of MPD/DID, of course, as well as other

resultant “super human” characteristics. Visual acuity of an MPD/DID is 44

times greater than that of the average person. My developed unusually high

pain threshold, plus compartmentalization of memory were “necessary” for

military and covert operations applications. Additionally, my sexuality was

primitively twisted from infancy. This programming was appealing and useful

to perverse politicians who believed they could hide their actions deep within

my memory compartments, which clinicians refer to as personalities.

Immediately after my father’s return from Boston, I was routinely

prostituted to then Michigan State Senator Guy VanderJagt. VanderJagt later

became a U.S. Congressman and eventually chairman of the Republican

National Congressional Committee that put George Bush in the office of

President. I was prostituted to VanderJagt after numerous local parades which

he always participated in, at the Mackinac Island Political Retreat, and in my

home state of Michigan, among other places.

My Uncle Bob helped my father decorate my bedroom in red, white, and

blue paneling and American flags. He provided assistance in scrambling my

mind according to Project Monarch methodologies. Fairy tale themes were

used to confuse fantasy with reality, particularly Disney stories and the

Wizard of Oz, which provided the base for future programming.

I had personalities for pornography, a personality for bestiality, a

personality for incest, a personality for withstanding the horrendous

psychological abuse of my mother, a personality for prostitution, and the rest

of “me” functioned somewhat “normaily” at school. My “normal” personality

provided a cover for the abuse I was enduring, but best of all it had hopehope

that there was somewhere in the world where people did not hurt each

other This same personality also attended Catechism, a weekly class at our

Catholic church, St. Francis de Sales in Muskegon, Michigan.

My Catechism teacher was a Nun, or “Sister.” Although I could not

consciously think to protect myself from abuse, I had decided that becoming a

Nun would provide me with the kind of life I sought. I could not rely upon

my family, the police, or politicians to protect me. The church appeared to be

my answer, and I listened diligently in class and prayed religiously. I learned

all about the political structure of the church, and was prepared for my first

Confession,

The Catholic beliefs I was taught include the idea that man is not fit to

talk to God (the Father) directly, but must have a priest intercede instead. This

is the purpose of going to Confession. I was instructed to tell my sins to the

priest (also referred to as Father), who would relay the message to God. He

would then supposedly tell me how many “Hail Marys” and “Our Father”

prayers to say as my penance, or punishment. My Catechism teacher gave the

class several examples of “sins,” which included “sex outside of marriage.”

When the Priest, Father James Thaylen, slid open the little screened partition

in the closet sized confessional, I began as 1 had been instructed, “Forgive me

Father, for I have sinned….” I then proceeded to tell him that I had sex with

my father and brother, to which he responded that I should “say three Hail

Marys and one Our Father and 1 would be forgiven?!”

I knew then that I had to either believe that this Confession thing was a

hoax, or that God condoned sexual child abuse. That night, my father had a

talk with me. Apparently he was the “Father” that the priest had interceded to.

My father instructed me that “from now on,” I was to simply say “I disobeyed

my parents” when I went to Confession and nothing more!

The next time I went to Confession, I did exactly as I was told. The veiled

screen came off the Confessional partition between me and the priest, and a

penis was stuck through the window, “God said that your penance is to treat

me as you would your father. And remember, ‘whatsoever you do to the least

of your brothers, that you do unto me’.” After performing oral sex on Father

Thaylen, I emerged from the Confessional where all the other kids were waiting

very impatiently for their turn. My teacher scolded me for taking so long and

told me to add a few extra “Our Fathers” to my penence. When I told her 1

already did my penence, she told me again the “order of things” to the

Confessional r i t u a l—which did not fit anything I had just experienced!

Without ever consciously knowing why, I abandoned the idea of becoming a

Nun as that part of me, too, split off from what was left of my “normal” base

personality.

I continued to maintain an illusion of normalcy for school,5 excelling in my

studies due to my photographic memory and in spite of my chronic “daydreaming”.

I had plenty of friends and played enthusiastically at recess,

expending large amounts of energy in my subconcious effort to escape my own

mind. And I lost myself in the books my father suggested I read: the Wizard

Of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, Island of the Blue Dolphins, Disney Classics, and

Cinderella—all of which were used in conditioning my mind for what soon

would become mind-control programming.”

My television viewing was restricted and monitored in keeping with my

father’s gained knowledge. I was, however permitted to watch the “best” of

movies: The Wizard Of Oz, Disney Classics, Alice In Wonderland, and

Cinderella—over and over and over again.

When I was in second grade, my Brownie Troop marched in the Memorial

Day Parade in which then Michigan State Senator VanderJaut also participated.

At the end of the parade, he took me into a nearby motel and had me perform

oral sex on him before sending me back to where my Brownie Troop was

waiting. My Brownie leader and peers thought it commendable that

VanderJagt took me with him. They gathered around to hear all about it. I

noticed a white splash of semen on my sash, and hurriedly explained that he

had “taken me for a milkshake” as 1 wiped it. away. Having to cover for his

perversion to my Brownie Troop infringed on my school personality, and the

“normal” remainder became even smaller.

With the memory of this incident compartmentalized in my mind. I made

so conscious association to VanderJagt when my t h i r d grade teacher

announced that we were taking a field trip to the State Capital in Lansing,

Michigan where he was in session. Once at the Capital, I was ushered away

from my classmates and taken to an office where he was waiting with his

friend and mentor (soon to be President) Gerald Ford. VanderJagt lifted my

skirt, pulled down my panties, and placed me on his desk for sex with him and

Ford. Afterward they laughed as VanderJagd placed a small American flag in

my rectum and instructed me to wave it. He then presented me with a Kennedy

pen inscribed with the motto that would lead me for the rest of my mind-controlled

existence, “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you

can do for your country.”

VanderJagt then escorted me back to the balcony of the Legislature where

my classmates were gathered. He put his arm around me in front of all my

classmates and presented me with the American Flag he had just had me wave

for him and Ford with my rectum. My school personality split off again, but I

still maintained the hope that somewhere, someday, 1 would find a place where

people didn’t…what? 1 could not remember what 1 was seeking to escape.

1Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), now known among mental health professionals as

Dissociative Identity Disorder (DTD) is the mind’s sane defense to an insane situation. It is a

way of dealing with trauma that is literally too horrible to comprehend. Incestuous rape violates

primitive instinct and surpasses pain tolerance. By compartmentalizing the memory of such

horrendous abuse, the rest of the mind can function “normally” as though nothing had happened.

This compartmentalization is created by the brain actually shutting down neuron pathways to a

specific part of the brain. These neuron pathways are triggered open again when the abuse

recurs. The same part of the brain that is already conditioned to the trauma deals with it again

and again as needed.

2Uncle Ted had also cried hysterically the night of the murder. Several years later, he

almost killed himself when he drove his car into the White River near the place of the murder.

3Gerald Ford, aka Leslie Lynch King, Jr., served on the appropriations subcommittee for

the CIA and was appointed to the Warren Commission to investigate the assassination of

President John F. Kennedy while I knew him only as a pom boss!

4My mother often voiced complaints that she “could not see faces,” which personal

experience has taught me indicated that she was suffering from on going physical and

psychological traumas, and therefore was not in control of her senses.

5Had my teachers been educated in the obvious signs of child abuse, my “illusion of

normalcy” would have been interpreted as a cry for help. Dissociative trance daydreaming,

tones of helplessness and sexuality in drawings, and the electric prod marks on my face should

have been recognized.

6These same themes were routinely used in creating Project Monarch slaves. This fact

emerged through years of networking with mental health professionals.

CHAPTER 2

THE RITE TO REMAIN SILENT

On May 7, 1966, I was dressed in white from my Catholic veil to my white

patent leather shoes as was mandatory for making my first holy communion. I

was standing outside the newly built, twisted concrete structure of Muskegon’s

St. Francis of Assisi Church waiting for the ceremony to commence when Guy

VanderJagt, who was affiliated with the church, strode across the lawn towards

me.

Crouching down on one knee, VanderJagt said, “You look beautiful today.

You are as beautiful as your name. Cathleen is Gaelic for “the pure,” and it is

clear to me that you are flawless in your purity. Ann means “grace”. It is by

the grace of God, not your actions, that you are pure. Pure at heart. You are

covered by the blood of our Lord and Savior, just like the cross on which he

hung. This is for you.” He opened a black velvet box, revealing a rosy cross

necklace. Like the Kennedy inscribed pen he had presented me with at the state

capical, the meaning behind the rosy cross necklace would lead me through the

rest of my mind-con trolled existence.

VanderJagds pedophile comrade in Project Monarch, Father Don, joined us,

reaching deep into the pocket of his robes to present me with a delicate blue

charm of the Holy Mother. It was to be worn in conjunction with the rosy cross

“to symbolize your service to the holy Catholic church,” Father Don told me,

which I would “promise to serve and obey”.

As VanderJagt fastened the rosy cross and blue virgin around ray neck, he

told me I was now dressed appropriately for the ceremony in red, white, and

blue. I could feel his breath on my neck as he fastened the necklace and

instructed, “When Father says ‘Body of Christ’ and you say ‘Ahhh men’… you

acknowledge that Christ is God made man, and that you know what men are

for. When Father gives you the host, it will stick to the roof of your mouth

unless you suck it off his thumb.”

I hurried to line up with my Catechism classmates for the procession into the

church for our holy communion mass.

“Body of Christ,” Father Don said, holding up the host.

“Ahhh… men,” I responded as instructed, sucking the wafer off his thumb.

After services, VanderJagt and Father Don talked with me briefly while my

parents congregated with other parishioners. Father was telling me, “…God

has chosen you for work within his holy church. You are a Chosen One,1 my

child…”

Later that evening, VanderJagt attended the reception that my parents were

holding for me at our house. He talked with my father awhile, but spent most

of his time talking with my Uncle Bob, who had recently flown in from “a

mission over seas”. My Uncle Bob and VanderJagt were friends, and remained

so throughout the years. As the party dispersed, VanderJagt drove me back to

church for a “special evening service with Father Don.”

VanderJagt unlocked the rectory door of the old church across the street

from the new St. Francis structure, explaining that we had to “have a very

important talk now that I had eaten the body of Christ.” The talk, blood

trauma, and sexual abuse that ensued conditioned my mind to readily accept

prgramming throughout the years that deliberately merged both U.S.

Government and Jesuit mind-control efforts for New World Order controls.

“I work for the Vatican, and now, so do you,” VanderJagt told me. “You

have just entered into a covenant with the holy Catholic church. You must

never break that covenant.”

Still capable of questioning at that time, I asked, “What is a covenant?”

VanderJagt answered, “A covenant is a promise to keep secrets, the secret

that the church knew all along. The Pope has all the secrets locked away at the

Vatican. Your Uncle Bob and I have been to the Vatican. It is time you

entered into the holy covenant and learned the secrets of the church that were

written long before Christ even came into being. The Dominican monks kept

the covenant that Noah carried into the new world. They kept the secret with

them. It was written on parchment and kept in a secret place in the Vatican.

They took a Vow of Silence to never reveal its location, or its content. You

must enter into the covenant. You must carry the secret to your grave. Keep it

secret from your mom, dad, everybody.”

VanderJagt proceeded to fill my suggestible young mind with biblical

interpretation that laid the groundwork for future “inter/inner dimensional”

programming themes utilized by Project Monarch programmers to control the

compartmentalization of memory synonymous with MPD/DID.

“Christ saw them all,” VanderJagt was telling me, “They are dimensions,

places you can see on your way to death.- That’s why they’re called diementions.

You must remember that Christ died and came back to tell us

everything he saw while he was on his way to heaven. He was gone three days,

but it was much longer than that where he was because time isn’t the same in

other dimensions. Purgatory is one other dimension. Hell is one. And there

are lots of others in between. Oz is another dimension. The sky is not the limit

to all the worlds out there wailing to be explored. You can travel in and out of

ail these dimensions, learning the secrets of the universe. You have been

chosen to explore these oilier worlds for the church. Listen in the stillness and

you will hear his voice guiding you3 on your missions. The rosy cross is like

Dorothy’s ruby slippers. Never take your rosy cross off, Cathy, when traveling

other dimensions and you will always be able to return home.”

Father Don joined VanderJagt in a ritual which bathed me in the blood of a

slaughtered lamb, and subsequently, through this hideous blood trauma, locked

their stated perceptions and a basis for mind-control programming deep in my

mind. This basis for programming was anchored in the Vow of Silence which

the Jesuit monks take “not only to keep secrets, but so they can still their mind

and hear their inner guidance.” Certain that the “Rite to Remain Silent” which

they had performed would ensure that I keep their secret Father Don and Guy

VanderJagt subjected me to their pedophile perversions. The two joked that I

had become “a good Cathy-lick”.

After the Rite to Remain Silent was installed, the voices of my multiple

personalities that I had previously heard in my head ceased. In the silence of

deliberately created memory compartments, I could only hear the voices of my

abusers who created them… commanding my silence.

Silence for who and what I knew was involved in Project Monarch Mind

Control.

My family routinely vacationed at Mackinac Island, Michigan which is a

small island positioned in the Great Lakes close to the Canadian border

Mackinac Island, with the Governor’s Mansion and historical Grand Hotel, was

a political playground where I was prostituted by my father to, among others,.

pedophiles Jerry Ford, Guy VanderJagt, and later U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd.

The mind-controlled part of me that was prostituted there perceived Mackinac as

another dimension, the timelessness of which was enhanced by the island’s antiquated

styling. Automobiles were forbidden on the tiny island, which relied on

horse drawn buggies or bicycles for transportation. Once when Lee Iaccoca was

attending a cocktail party at then Governor Romney’s Mansion, I overheard him

comment, “What better place for auto execs to get away from it all than on an

island with no cars?”

Mackinac Island, due to its geographic location, provided an air of

friendliness between the U.S. and Canada that formed my childish perception

that our countries knew no boundaries. This political view was further

enhanced by my father always taking the family to Niagra Falls where my mind

was to be symbolically “washed of all memory” or what had occurred in

Mackinac. Niagara Falls’ numerous, powerful waterfalls were in reasonably

close proximity to Mackinac Island, and shared the border between the U.S. and

Canada.

When Pierre Trudeau was elected Prime Minister of Canada in 1968, I often

heard it said, “Pierre Trudeau is one of Ours, you know.” I first heard this

phrase cryptically referring to Trudeau’s loyalty to the Vatican when Father

Don was discussing h im with my famer one Sunday after mass. This fact

circulated quickly among those I knew who were involved in the Catholic/Jesuit

aspect of Project Monarch.

The summer after Trudeau was elected, my father took the family to

Mackinac Island as usual. Climbing on a large statue on the grounds of the

Governor’s Mansion, I could see across the field to the Grand Hotel. I noticed

Canadian flags flying amongst the American flags that lined the front of the old

hotel. As I slid down off the statue, Guy VanderJagt approached with a drink

and a cigarette in his hand. Palling my hair into place he said, “Straighten your

shirt, I’ve got someone important for you to meet,”

“I knew someone important was here because of those flags,” I said, tucking

my shirt in my pink shorts.

“When I was at the Vatican,” VanderJagt began, “I was told that Prime

Minister Trudeau is a friend of the Pope. He thinks like one of us. A true

Catholic. He likes Cathy-licks.”

VanderJagt led me upstairs in the mansion, where Pierre Trudeau was

lowering the window shades in a dimly lit bedroom crowded with antiques.

VanderJagt closed the door behind me. Trudeau’s tuxedo coat was neatly

draped over a chair, which left him in his formal pants, while shirt, and a bright

red cummerbund which caught my eye. “I like your sash,” I said.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you Silence yet?” His somber, gruff attitude was

softened by his smooth, silky voice.

Triggered into the part of me that endured the Rite to Remain Silent, 1

assumed Trudeau knew all about interdimensions according to my deliberately

formed perceptions. I could not/did not understand that interdimensions

actually equated to the inner-dimensions of my own compartmentalized mind.

Likewise, I did not understand that “Keys to the Kingdom” referred to knowing

the codes, keys, and triggers to my controlled mind. “Guy said you like Cathylicks,”

I said, repeating what VanderJagt had told me. “Are you the Keeper of

the Keys?”

Trudeau seemingly bore his cold, dark eyes right through me. “You can

learn more from the school of thought than you can by asking precocious

questions. Haven’t you learned that children are to be seen and not heard?”

“Is that a precocious question?” I asked. “What is a precocious question?”

Trudeau sighed with impatience. “That is irrelevant. What matters is that

you shut your mouth, still your mind, and enter the school of thought. Silence is

a virtue. Listen to the silence in the stillness of your mind. Go deep inside

your mind,” he slowly led. “Deeper and deeper where it’s quiet and still…”

Trudeau expertly manipulated my mind with sophisticated hypnotic

language. Not only did he enlist my Silence for the pedophile perversions he

indulged in, but he instructed my “school of thought” in a manner that equated

to programming. He laid a foundation for Air-Water programs that is a mirrordimensional

theme often used by NASA and others involved in Project

Monarch. Playing off his own name “Pee-Air,” he added a perverse twist to

the theme that he accessed each time 1 was prostituted to him.

Had I been capable of fear, I would have been afraid of Pierre Trudeau.

Trudeau’s slow, deliberate movements masked the brutal power of his body

much the way his smooth, soft voice pierced my mind and intruded on my

thoughts. The icey cold touch of his effeminate, manicured long fingers

contrasted with the heat of his perversion… a perversion for which he blamed

me and my “temptuous, contemptuous ways”.

In my childish ignorance, I believed Trudeau’s demeanor and forward

combed hair were characteristic of his French descent. “I know all about the

French,” I had bragged to my new “Grandpa” Van while visiting his home in

Milwaukee, Wisconsin,

My mother’s father had died shortly before Kennedy was assassinated, and

my Grandmother quickly latched onto a wealthy, highly political businessman

from Milwaukee. She met Grandpa Van Vandenburg on the passenger/cargo

ship that traveled the waters of the Great Lakes, the Milwaukee Clipper. The

Clipper transported cargo including Cadillacs from Vandenburg Motors to

Canada, as well as the drugs sanctioned by the local Coast Guard via the U.S.

Government that my father distributed. Sometimes 1 accompanied my father to

the docks in Muskegon to pick up the drag shipment, which usually involved

prostitution. Jerry Ford and Guy VanderJagt combined business with pleasure

in the ship’s casinos on occasion, which is where the connection between my

Grandma and Grandpa Van was reportedly made. Grandpa Van knew Jerry

Ford, and subsequently was acquainted with Pierre Trudeau.

“What do you know about the French?” Grandpa Van asked me as I sat on

his living room floor petting the dog he just brought home. Improperly cued

and dumfounded by his question I remained silent. “I know you’ve met Pierre

Trudeau,” he prompted. “I also know you love doggies. So I bought this dog

for your grandma now, so you could enjoy him, too. His name is Pepe. He’s a

French Poodle,”

“I know all about the French.” I said, mentally comparing the large French

Poodle in front of me to Trudeau. “They have pretty nails…” I stroked Pepe’s

painted toenails. “They have funny hair…” I petted Pepe’s clipped fur. “And

they pee a lot,” I giggled.

“You’d better take him outside, then,” Grandpa Van told me, attaching

Pepe’s leash. After walking the dog past what felt like every tree in the

neighborhood, I announced that 1 would call him “Pee-pee”.

Uncle Bob filmed Pepe and I pornographically on numerous occasions,

producing bestiality films that I would later learn Pierre Trudeau was privy to.

Pepe remained a part of my experience long after Grandpa Van divorced

himself from my Grandma, and long after I developed beyond Trudeau’s

perversion for little children.

1 was slow to grow into adolescence. By the time I was thirteen years old,

my breasts were tender and beginning to swell, which made me “too old” for

VanderJagt’s pedophile perversions. When my father brought me to Mackinac

Island for routine prostitution at the Political Retreat, VanderJagt introduced me

to a new friend he had made now that he was in Washington, D.C. as a U.S.

Congressman-U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd, Democrat from West Virginia.

Byrd had been a U.S. Senator as long as I had been alive, serving as Senate

Whip and later as President Pro Tempore of the Senate and as the all powerful

Senate Appropriations leader. Byrd commanded attention and respect from all

who came in contact with him, particularly from my father. When we were left

alone in his room, he loomed over me in a threatening stance. His cold, blue

slitty eyes locked onto mine. I undressed and climbed into his bed as ordered.

I was momentarily relieved to find that his penis was abnormally tiny—so small

it didn’t even hurt! And I could breathe with it in my mouth! Then he began to

indulge himself in his brutal perversions, talking on and on about how I was

“made just for him” due to the vast amounts of pain I could withstand. The

spankings and police handcuffs I had previously endured were child’s play

compared to Senator Byrd’s near death tortures. The hundreds of scars on my

body still show today. With VanderJagt, sex was a matter of “how much I

could give,” whereas with Byrd it was “how much I could take”. And I was

forced to take mote pain than any human could logically withstand. I was

dedicated to Byrd at age thirteen which meant he would be directing my future

in Project Monarch, and my father would raise me according to his

specifications.

My MPD/DID existence became more regimented from that point on. I was

kept physically worn down to the point of exhaustion in order that I be

sufficiently receptive to my father’s limited hypnotic programming capabilities

to condition my mind for mind control. The pornography I was forced to

anticipate in became much more violent immediately after Byrd, switching me

from predominantly pedophile and bestiality themes to torturous versions of

sadomasochism (S&M). My father and mother worked in tandem daily to

“break my spirit,” destroying any remnants left of my self-confidence, tearing

down my self-esteem, and thus annihilating my free will urges. They

conditioned/taught me my dreams were reality and my reality were dreams, that

black is white and up is down. “Good night, sleep tight, dream about your

mommy and daddy” is what I heard every night. This was intended to confuse

my mind to believe incest in the middle of the night was “just a bad dream”.

My television, books, and music became even more strictly controlled and

monitored that before. This was not only to infringe on my last minuscule

freedom of choice, but for total mind-control conditioning purposes.

For example, the annual televising of Judy Garland’s Wizard Of Oz was

celebrated as a grand holiday around my house. This was to prepare my mind

for future base programming on the theme that I, like Dorothy, could “spin”

into another dimension “Over the Rainbow”. After all, “Birds (Byrds) fly over

the Rainbow…” was a theme that became a part of my life.

My father insisted I watch the Walt Disney movie Cinderella with him,

paralleling my existence to Cinderella’s—”magically trance-forming from a dirty

little slave to a beautiful Princess”. In typical “reverse psychology” humor, he

referred to pornographic photos when singing “Someday my Prince (prints) will

come,” or by placing literal sexual emphasis on “will come”.

My brother, Bill, who was often featured in kiddie porn with me, was not a

“chosen one” for Project Monarch (beyond supplying more children to be

dedicated in later years). Yet my father figured that “what was good for me

would be good for my brother”. He took us to see Walt Disney’s Pinocchio,

explaining that my brother and I were his puppets still in the carving stage. The

distortions of reality that these and other Disney theme movies provided when

coupled with my father’s government trained conscious and subconscious

controlling influence, began to further erode our ability to discern fantasy from

reality. My brother, now 37, remains psychologically locked into those

traumatic childhood years and is obsessed with Disney themes and productions

to this day. His house is decorated in Disney memorabilia, he wears Disney

clothes, listens to my father’s instructions on his Disney telephone, and

maintains “When You Wish Upon a Star” as his favorite song, which has locked

his children into the same theme.

My father also instructed me to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s horrifying movie

The Birds with him. This reinforced in my mind the movie’s theme that there is

“no place to hide from the birds/Byrd”.

I was quickly beginning to lose all ability to question anything but my own

judgment. It was easy to believe that there was indeed “no place to run, no

place to hide,” which is a necessary and primary psychological basis for

government/military mind control. In later years, “who ya’ gonna call?” and

Ronald Reagan’s quip “you can run, but you can’t hide” echoed deep within my

mind. After all, even if I could think to seek help, who would help me? The

police? The church? My parents? Relative? Politicians? School? There was

no one left that would help me, I sensed.

My television programming was then expanded to include the shows that

every Project Monarch Mind-Control slave I knew had to watch: I Dream Of

Jeannie, The Brady Bunch, Gumby And Pokey, and Bewitched. I could relate to

the Genie pleasing her master, who was a Major for the Air Force in I Dream

Of Jeannie. This served to confuse the reality of my own experiences with the

fantasy of television production. I told all outsiders that my family was “just

like the Bradys”. Through Gumby And Pokey I was led to believe that I was as

flexible as these animated clay performers. Therefore, I was capable of being

physically maneuvered into any sexual position. The mirrors depicted a

doorways to other dimensions and adventures interlocked with my Catholic

conditioning and Alice In Wonderland and Wizard Of Oz theme programming.

In Bewitched, it is the normal new door neighbor that is considered crazy rather

than the witches. This is another reversal that was applied to my bizarre

existence. I was one of the only kids in my school that listened to country

music. But then, Senator Byrd fancied himself a country music fiddler and it

was “my duty to love what he did”, I was ordered to listen to country music or

no music at all. Music was my psychological avenue for escape, a dissociative

tool. But this, too, was used in setting the stage for my future as a Project

Monarch “Presidential Model” mind-controlled slave.

As suggested, I read the Boxcar Children Series over and over again, I

empathized with the trials, traumas, and tribulations the children endured while

they fended for themselves from their boxcar home along the railroad tracks.

My father often made train sounds at me in passing to subconsciously remind

me that I was currently “in Train-ing” on the undeterable track of the “Freedom

Train.”4 This term, taken from Harriet Tubman’s underground railroad for

slaves, reversed the meaning of the word “freedom” to confuse one’s “one track

mind” and instill the belief “I am free to be a slave”. This also reinforced my

training to stay on track-the plan (track) laid our for me. My father would

often quip, “When God passed out brains, you thought he said ‘trains’ and got

in the wrong line”. Convicted (capital crime) career criminal, country music

entertainer, and CIA operative Merle Haggard often used well documented

cryptic language in his songs pertaining to government mind-control slave

operations. He released songs including “Freedom Train” and “Over the-

Rainbow”. My father told me repeatedly that Merle Haggard was my “favorite”

singer, and his songs reinforced my programming.

Of course, Senator Byrd remained my “favorite” fiddler as ordered. He

played train songs like “Orange Blossom Special” while making train sounds on

his fiddle. Sometimes I was his captive audience, bound and gagged, while he

played his fiddle. Other times he instructed me to spin round and round like a

music box dancer in order to add “new dimensions to our sex”.. These new

dimensions included more and more physical pain through “kinky” torture.

My father took advantage of his new political connections and advanced

himself occupationalIy, manufacturing camshaft auto parts at a local factory.

Soon he was promoted to a sales management position due to his connections

within the Pentagon Procurement Office and General Services Administration,

coupled with what he had learned about double bind hypnotic persuasion. He

continued to supplement his income by sexually exploiting us children. This1

now included brazenly prostituting me to Muskegon Coast Guard officials while

on cocaine runs to and from the base. Meanwhile, my father took us all to

church every Sunday, and my mother stayed busy having babies to raise in the

Project. In true pedophile fashion, he surrounded himself with children by

coaching little league sports, chaperoning school and Catechism activities, and

becoming involved with the Boy Scouts. All of this made him appear to be a

model citizen and “pillar of the community”. The illusion was fonned. The:

parts of me that knew otherwise had no choice but to remain Silent.

1Project Monarch slaves were referred to as “Chosen Ones”.

2Torture to the point just before death, such as with Death’s Door programming, was

jointly used by the Catholic Jesuits and the CIA in Project Monarch.

3It was the voices of my mind-control programmers and handlers that I later heard guiding

me.

4″Freedom Train” is the internationally recognized cryptic code term for Project Monarch

slave operations that I heard repeatedly throughout my victimization.

CHAPTER 3

MY FIRST PRESIDENT

Muskegon, Michigan is a coastal tourist attraction, and home of the annual

Seaway and Coast Guard festivals which bring people to the town from all over

Michigan. VanderJagt remained publicly visible through opportunities such as

these. My father often could be seen with Vanderjagt and was photographed at

his side white judging festival events like the kiddie parades, sand sculpturing

contests, and so on—all of which I entered and won. In later years, my father

polished and shined the red paint of his 1966 Ford convertible to chauffeur

VanderJagt through the local parades. This only served to reinforce the illusion

that my father was a “pillar of the community”.

In 1973, Senator Byrd instructed my father to send me to Muskegon

Catholic Central High School which was overseen by the director of St. Francis

of Assisi Church, Father Lepre. The Catholic church, of course, has its own

political structure, with the Pope presiding over all. The strong political ties

between the Catholic church and the U.S. Government was overtly evidenced

by the much publicized relationship between the President and the Pope during

the Reagan Administration. Of course, I had been privy to this political

relationship ever since my First Communion-a relationship that the Rite to

Remain Silent was intended to cover. My experience with Catholic Central’s

direct involvement in Project Monarch’s physical and psychological

conditioning further confirmed the union between the U.S. Government and the

Catholic church.

When Senator Byrd changed my school from public to Parochial, he also

destroyed through dissociation my school personality. I no longer viewed

school as my haven from abuse, as it was controlled by the church and, as I

later learned, monitored by a corrupt segment of the C.I.A.

By the time I enrolled in Catholic Central, the cliques and groups had

already been formed. 1 had a personality to fit in with the “good” kids and one

that interfaced with the “bad”. It did not take long for the “good” kids to notice

1 also got along with the “bad”. I soon found the only kids that could relate to

me were the other known Project victims. We clung together in a close knit

group, herded around like the proverbial sheep by those in the school who knew

we were MPD/DIDed and under mind control. We each switched personalities

as circumstance demanded, most often in unison. We were ritually traumatized,

constantly tranced, and then programmed during school hours. Since 1 no

longer had my singular “school personality” and was constantly switching

instead, the compartment of my brain that held school memory was no longer

consciously retrievable. Therefore, I had no basis for continued learning aside

from what I could photographically memorize from class. My grades appeared

erratic, ranging from A’s to failing. And some A’s received I did not earn

academically.

In my required religion class, Sister Ann Marie bad been leading us in study

on the topic of Confession, This was to prepare us for the kind of Confessions

we were to be giving Father Vesbit, who was also our school principal. The

day Sister ordered us to Confession, I refused to go. I unconsciously feared 1

would be sexually assaulted again in the Confessional, this time while my

teenage peers waited impatiently outside the door. Sister made an example out

of me to the class, saying I was a “Satanist” and that I was “going to hell”.

With seemingly no escape from the occultism that proliferated at the school, I

could no longer differentiate between Catholicism and Satanism.

Whatever Senator Byrd’s purposes in sending me to Catholic school, no one

seemed to notice that I had no reason to religiously adhere to Catholic

principles. Therefore, the applied reversal of Satanism held no “spiritual

magic” to it either. The wedge of anti-superstition that the Catholic school was

inadvertently driving into me only served to discount the occult principles and

superstitious traumas that they were attempting to use to control me,

Satanism is often used as an extreme pain/violence trauma base in Project

Monarch Mind Control, reportedly due to the previous German Nazi Himmler

Research. I did not adhere to the desired helplessness attitude that this was

“spiritual warfare” and out of the realm of mankind’s ability to stop.

Regardless of my religious beliefs or disbeliefs, I experienced the “results” just

the same. Being subjected to and witnessing trauma so horrible, while my body

was raped, tortured, and ravaged by men literally drove me out of my mind.

Catholic Central did increase my endurance capabilities as planned,

however. I signed up for the two-mile run in the girls’ track team as ordered.

Muskegon Catholic Central led the state of Michigan in high school athletics,

using mind-control technique to “modify” their star athletes and cause them to

excel beyond pre-established records. The school gained national recognition

for its contribution to professional leagues with their manufactured programmed

athletes. But, like Tommy LaSorda’s Dodgers, Catholic Central’s consistent

victories began to raise suspicions and questions. This created a public scandal

for the school that threatened to close its doors in 1975.

The girls’ and guys’ track teams converged after school for practice. I was

among the few females singled out for coaching by Coach Cheverini and his

hypnotic mind-control methodisms due to my Project Monarch victimization. I

was instructed to run 13 miles per day (another corny satanic ploy) to get in

shape for my two-mile race. I often ran with a male friend who was the record

holder for the two-mile in guys’ track. He and I were friends, sharing much

due to our similar Project Monarch victimizations. Together we learned how to

shut out pain and fatigue when we ran. We tranced into a fast pace set in our

minds by Coach Cheverini with no comprehension of time or distance. We

perceived the track as our “Yellow Brick Road” in accordance with the Oz

theme programming. Senator Byrd’s plan for building my physical endurance

through Catholic Central’s coaching methods proved successful for allowing me

to survive his intensely torturous sexual perversions.

In addition to routine trips to Mackinac Island and Niagara Falls, my family

often took camping trips to “get away from it all”. In reality, I was taken to

key places for ritual abuse, prostitution, and pornography. In the fall of 1974,

my father announced we were going to go camping “back in time” to an old

fashioned festival in the small remote town of Cedar Springs, Michigan for their

annual Red Flannel Days celebration. My mother told me to pack my jeans and

sweaters and my Catholic school uniform which she had washed and pressed for

the occasion.

Cedar Springs was quiet, with the festival events including dilapidated

amusement rides set up in a small parking lot, and contests where local farmers

pitted their mules and horses against each other to see whose could pull the most

weight. The main (and only) street of town was lined with the few local

businesses, including the town’s red flannel underwear “long Johns” factory. In

the center of town, a mock, single, jail cell had been erected to hold any and all

parade participants who failed to wear the required red flannel underwear. The

jail was guarded by quasi Keystone Cops. I was amused when the townsfolk

began lining up to march in the parade, with very few remaining to watch it, A

mentally retarded man carried the baton to lead the parade, followed by kids on

bicycles, hay-wagons of old folks, a grade school band and people walking-all

in their red flannel underwear. The grand finale’ of the parade, the town

firetruck, was approaching, surrounded by numerous motorcycle police. I

heard folks whispering “the President is coming”. I assumed they meant the

President of the underwear factory. I was wrong. I watched in horror as the

firetruck rolled to a stop, and Secret Service helped then President Gerald Ford

as he stepped down to the pavement.

My father was excitedly tugging on my arm, half dragging me through the

wall of Secret Service agents, to talk with President Ford. I looked around

nervously as my father made the necessary arrangements with Ford to prostitute

me to him later that evening. VanderJagt, who never missed a parade it

seemed, was signing autographs. As he smiled at me, someone roughly

grabbed my arm. Nervous and startled, I screamed. The crowd laughed as a

Keystone Cop threw me in the jail, scolding me for not wearing my red flannel

underwear when I was talking to the President. I was trying to be

inconspicuous in hopes no one would see me with the likes of Ford, but then,

they did not know him as I did. The Keystone Cop rattled on and on about

“how lucky” I was until my father paid my bail and I was released from the

cell.

That night, I wore my Catholic uniform as instructed and went into a

dissociative trance as my father drove me to the local National Guard Armory

where I was prostituted to Ford. Ford took me into an empty room, pushed me

down on the wooden floor as he unzipped his pants and said, “Pray on this”.

Then he brutally, sexually assaulted me. Afterward, my memory was

compartmentalized through use of high voltage. I was then carried out to the

car where I lay in the back seat, muscles contracted, stunned, in pain, and

unable to move.

When we got back to Muskegon, my father sent me to the beach as always,

to let the repetition of crashing waves against the beach “wash my mind free of

memory” while I watched the sun set. I was totally locked into the belief that

truly there was “no place to run,” not even to the President of the United States.

I remember that the “sane” part of “me”-my innate personality-seemed to

die after seeing Ford as President. I recall walking up the steps of Catholic

Central High School one morning, reaching for the door, and crying

uncontrollably. I cried myself into a heap at the top of the stairs. I did not

even know why I was crying. As an MPD, I rarely cried at all. But I was still

sobbing hours later when school let out. Someone found me, but I do not recall

to this day ever leaving the school steps. I never really experienced “emotion”

after that day until I was rescued, deprogrammed and reintegrated in 1988.

Now all of my brain was functioning through a wide variety of memory compartments,

also known as multiple personalities, with no part of me left “free”

of abuse. Now it was as though I had “no place to run,” not even in my brain.

This drove me out of my mind which is exactly what my abusers needed for

total control.

CHAPTER4

THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME

When I learned of a pending rendezvous with Senator Byrd in Traverse

City, Michigan (VanderJagt’s headquarters), I stole some candy at a local

convenience market hoping to go to jail and escape my encounter with Byrd. I

was caught, and the police were even called. But, of course, my poetically

powerful abusers would not allow for me to have a police record. The entire

matter was not-so-mysteriously and suddenly dropped. My only “punishment”

was to have a conference with the school principal, Father Vesbit.

Father Vesbit knew I was part of Project Monarch, and handled the matter

accordingly. He raped me in the school’s private chapel after school while

holding a Satanic ritual involving several of my project friends. Kids often

attached nicknames to their teachers, and there were only a few of us who knew

the reason why Father Vesbit was called Father “Fuzzbutt”. His backside was

covered with thick black hair. He “counseled” me on several occasions, once

remarking, “I thought kids in your situation were all part of the Exchange

Student program.”

My Uncle Bob Tanis was visiting our house soon after that. He had flown

in from what he claimed was a “black ops” Air Force Intelligence operation. I

know now that in typical CIA mode of operations, he was relating a story of lies

salted with some truth. His point was to inform me that the Catholic Church is

“justified” in its involvement with our government due to the Priests’ “hearing

confessions from mobsters and spies”. He also explained that Exchange

Students were “spies in the making” that Priests found, through Confession,

were problems. Thus they were considered expendable and transferred out of

the country. He then suggested to my father that I see the school guidance

counselor, CIA Operative Dennis DeLaney, immediately. My father

enthusiastically told me that DeLaney was a long time friend of his from St.

Francis who “knew how to handle kids like me”. Arrangements were made for

me to see him after school.

DeLaney began by informing me that he was “aware of everything” and that

he knew just what I needed “to put me back on track”. He said that my family

needed to lake a trip to the Teton Mountains of Wyoming. He even provided

maps and information in an envelope for my father. He turned off the lights in

his office, and turned on a slide projector. He showed me scenes of the

numerous waterfalls of the Tetons, all of which were to “wash my brain” of the

reality that I was performing oral sex on him as ordered while the slides ran.

Then he scheduled a follow up appointment for further “counseling”.

This trip to the Tetons would provide a change of scenery tram the usual

Mackinac/Niagara Falls trip, but I could no longer hope for a change in the

direction life was leading me. I was told my life was “predestined,” and all I

had to do was follow the road stretched out before me, i.e., the “Yellow Brick

Road”. I was destined for Wyoming, but would not know why until I arrived.

I confirmed the family trip to the Tetons when 1 saw DeLaney for my follow

up “counseling”. He informed me that he had already talked to my father about

the trip, as well as our upcoming trip to Disney World in Florida. I was not

surprised to learn of an additional trip. Nor did I have the capacity to become

excited, suspicious, or apprehensive. I was aware that DeLaney was heavily

involved in Project Monarch, not only because he was accessing my sexual

personalities again, but because he was helping to pave the way toward my

destiny of total mind control.

During Christmas vacation of 1974, my father flew us all to Disney World

by route of Tampa, Florida. Ignorant of geography, it did not occur to me that

Tampa was out of the way to Disney World until my father drove the rented van

to the gates of MacDill Air Force Base. Military personnel met me there and

escorted me into the base TOP SECRET high tech mind-control conditioning

facility for “behavioral modification” programming. This was the first in what

became a routine series of mind-control testing and/or programming sessions on

government installations that I would endure throughout my Project Monarch

victimization.

Whether I was in a military, NASA, or government building, the procedure

for maintaining me under total mind control remained consistent with Project

Monarch requirements. This included prior physical and/or psychological

trauma; sleep, food, and water deprivation; high voltage electric shock; and

hypnotic and/or harmonic programming of specific memory compartments/

personalities. The high tech equipment and methodisms I endured from that

time on gave the U.S. government absolute control of my mind and life. I had

been literally driven out of my conscious mind and existed only through my

programmed subconscious. I lost my free will, ability to reason, and could not

think to question anything that was happening to me. I could only do as I was

told.

After the MacDill Air Force Base experience, my home life worsened. The

controls and conditioning that my father and mother executed on me tightened

even more. I was no longer permitted to have any contact with my own

brothers and sister (I only had one younger sister at that time). This stopped me

in my subconscious efforts to protect them from my father’s abuse, and left me

with a desperate, empty aching for the loving relationships I previously shared

with them. Of course, I never was able to protect them any more than I could

defend myself or later protect my own daughter. However, until government

programming began, 1 had routinely “baby sat” them every evening and took

them for long walks that lasted for hours in my feeble attempt to keep them out

of my parents’ range. Subconsciously I believed I was making a difference.

The day my youngest brother told my mother he much preferred my company

over hers was the day I could no longer be near him or my other brothers and

sister. Apparently I was making enough of a difference that my parents were

compelled to separate me from them. I was ordered to my closet-sized bedroom

in the garage as soon as I got home from school or work. I could not speak to,

look at, or hug my brothers and sister. I was not permitted to eat dinner with

my family, although they let me out of my room to set the table, wash dishes,

and do other chores. If I ventured from my bedroom to use the bathroom and

was caught by my mother, she said, “nobody rattled your cage” and ordered me

back to my room in the garage.

In the summer of 1975, my family drove all the way from Michigan to the

Teton Mountains of Wyoming. I was ordered to ride in the back storage area of

the family Chevy Suburban since 1 was forbidden to associate or communicate

with my brothers and sister. So I dissociated into books, or into the

metaphorical, hypnotic suggestions from my father and tranced deeper as I

watched the prairies seemingly endless sea of “amber waves of grain” streak

past my window. Once when we stopped at a gas station, my father took me

inside to show me a stuffed “jackalope” mounted on the wall. Due to my

tranced, dissociative state and high suggestibility level, I believed it was indeed

a cross between a jack rabbit and antelope. It was 100+ degrees in the

Badlands when it cooled down at night. The intense heat of the day accentuated

my ever increasing thirst. My father was physically preparing me though water

deprivation for the intense tortures and programming I would endure in

Wyoming,

Dick Cheney, then White House Chief of Staff to president Ford, later

Secretary of Defense to President George Bush, documented member of the

Council on Foreign Relations (CFR), and Presidential hopeful for 1996, was

originally Wyoming’s only Congressman. Dick Cheney was the reason my

family had traveled to Wyoming where I endured yet another form of brutality—

his version of “A Most Dangerous Game,” or human hunting.

It is my understanding now that A Most Dangerous Game was devised to

condition military personnel in survival and combat maneuvers. Yet it was used

on me and other slaves known to me as a means of further conditioning the

mind to the realization there was “no place to hide,” as well as traumatize the

victim for ensuing programming. It was my experience over the years that A

Most Dangerous Game had numerous variations on the primary theme of being

stripped naked and turned loose in the wilderness while being hunted by men

and dogs. In reality, all “wilderness” areas were enclosed in secure military

fencing whereby it was only a matter of time until I was caught, repeatedly

raped, and tortured.

Dick Cheney had an apparent addiction to the “thrill of the sport”. He

appeared obsessed with playing A Most Dangerous Game as a means of

traumatizing mind-control victims, as well as to satisfy his own perverse sexual

kinks. My introduction to the game occurred upon arrival at the hunting lodge

near Greybull, Wyoming, and it physically and psychologically devastated me.

I was sufficiently traumatized for Cheney’s programming as I stood naked in his

hunting lodge office after being hunted down and caught. Cheney was talking

as he paced around me, “I could stuff you and mount you like a jackalope and

call you a two legged dear. Or I could stuff you with this (he unzipped his

pants to reveal his oversized penis) right down your throat, and then mount you.

Which do you prefer?

Blood and sweat became mixed with the dirt on my body and slid like mud

down my legs and shoulder. I throbbed with exhaustion and pain as I stood

unable to think to answer such a question. “Make up your mind,” Cheney

coaxed. Unable to speak, I remained silent. “You don’t get a choice, anyway,

I make up your mind for you. That’s why you’re here. For me to make you a’

mind, and make you mine/mind. You lost your mind a long time ago. Now

I ‘m going to give you one. Just like the Wizard (of Oz) gave Scarecrow a

brain, the Yellow Brick Road led you here to me. You’ve ‘come such a long,

long way’ for your brain, and I will give you one,”

The blood reached my shoes and caught my attention. Had I been further

along in my programming, 1 perhaps would never have noticed such a thing or

had the capability to think to wipe it away. But so far, I had only been to

MacDill and Disney World for government/military programming. At last,

when I could speak, I begged, “If you don’t mind, can I please use your

bathroom?”

Cheney’s face turned red with rage. He was on me in an instant, slamming

my back into the wall with one arm across my chest and his hand on my throat,

choking me while applying pressure to the carotid artery in my neck with his

thumb. His eyes bulged and he spit as he growled, “If you don’t mind me, I

will kill you. I could kill you—Kill you—with my bare hands. You’re not the

first and you won’t be the last. I’ll kill you any time I goddamn well please,”

He flung me on the cot-type bed that was behind me. There he finished taking

his rage out on me sexually.

On the Long trip back to Michigan, I lay in a heap behind the scats of the

Suburban, nauseated and hurting from Cheney’s brutality and high voltage

tortures, plus the whole Wyoming experience. My father stopped by the

waterfalls flowing through the Tetons to “wash my brain” of the memory of

Cheney, I could barely walk through the woods to the falls for the process as

instructed, despite having learned my lessons well from Cheney on following

orders.

The next year when our “annual” trip to Disney World rolled around, my

father drove, pulling his new Holiday Rambler Royale International trailer. (I

slept outside in a tent because I was not permitted inside it since “I wasn’t

family”.) My father dropped me off en route at the Kennedy Space Center in

Titusville, Florida where I was subjected to my first NASA programming.

From then on, I was “obsessed” with following the “Yellow Brick Road” to

Nashville, Tennessee. Moving to Nashville was all I could talk about. If

anyone asked me the question I could not think to ask myself “Why?”, I would

respond by reiterating it was something “I had to do”.

I had gone through the motions of my senior year in a dissociative trance. I

became further distanced from religious values by my religion class teacher.

Brother Emmett. This was due to his promotion of cannibalism via Pier Paul

Reed’s book Alive, and by his teachings at a religious ‘corseal’ retreat I attended

that included occult ritual at ST. Francis Church. I graduated from Muskegon

Catholic Central High School in our bicentennial year of 1976. I was led by

Senator Byrd to revise my plan to attend Hope College like I had promised

VanderJagt as a child. This new plan was for me to temporarily attend

Muskegon Community College, because my “real education” was to come

through mind-control programming-not school. In order to be exhausted, as

was necessary for my “real education,” I worked three menial jobs in addition

to attending college.

During my first semester of college in 1976, I made plans to take a trip to

Nashville with my Project Monarch friend from Catholic Central. (She remains

an expendable victim to date, and therefore her identity must be protected from

public release for her safety.) My father explained that I was to stay at the

Fiddler’s Inn in Nashville, see the World Famous Printer’s Alley row of sleazy

country music nightclubs, and attend the Grand Ole Opry on Friday night, as

ticket arrangements had been made through a “friend,” in spite of their scarcity

during the Thanksgiving holiday.

I never thought to associate Fiddler’s Inn with Senator Byrd’s fiddle playing

when my friend and I arrived in Music City, U.S.A. Nor did 1 find it odd

when a country music “star” entertaining at the Black Poodle nightclub in

Printer’s Alley began directing my activities. My friend and 1 were provided

with free passes to the Black Poodle to encourage us to return each night where

entertainer and CIA operative Jack Greene and his Desperado band were

playing. During breaks between sets, Greene and his band would sit with my

friend and me to manipulate our suggestible minds. I was told it was “my

destiny” to have met band member, Wayne Cox, who had been trained for

paramilitary mercenary operations under Louisiana’s U.S. Senator J, Bennett

Johnston, I soon learned that everyone associated with Greene was involved in

his CIA “Freedom Train” operations. When I told Greene that my friend and I

would not be returning on Friday night due to attending the Grand Ole Opry, he

told us that he would be working the Opry that night. He made arrangements

for us to come back stage and see him immediately following his segment. He

explained that the “security” guard at the Opry, Nashville Metro Police Lt. Bob

Ezell, was a good friend of his and would let us in.

At the Opry, my friend and I sat in the audience watching as Jack Greene

introduced his “special guest,” U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd. At the sight of

Byrd, I went into a pre-conditioned deep trance and robotically went through the

motions of following Greene’s instructions. Once backstage, Greene pointed

out his dressing room, which he was sharing with Senator Byrd, and ordered me

in. The personality that had been sitting in the audience had perceived Byrd as

an entertainer and could not, or would not, think further. But as I walked into

the dressing room and saw Byrd perched on the edge of the mirrored vanity in

his boxer shorts, I switched into the child personality that had known him as a

U.S. Senator on Mackinac Island since age 13, and responded sexually.

Afterward, Byrd was claiming me as “his,” excitedly telling me that he had

“always wanted his own little witch”. I soon learned the enormity of this

statement.

Jack Greene’s band member, Wayne Cox, later told me that playing music

behind Senator Byrd at the Opry was not the only way he “backed him”. He

also backed him politically and in Freedom Train operations. Cox then made

arrangements for my friend and me to stay the remainder of our trip at his

trailer in Hendersonville, Tennessee. There was no choice but to comply. The

following night, after Jack Greene completed his show at the Black Poodle, he

drove my friend and me to a nearby participating after-hours club, the Demon’s

Den. There, Cox was to pick us up and take us to Hendersonville. Instead, we

were slipped a drug and taken “on a tour” of Union Station, Nashville’s then

abandoned train station, where supposedly the only train still running through

there was the Freedom Train.

Senator Byrd’s attempted cultivation of superstition through my Catholic

schooling should have maximized the impact of the occult ritual I was subjected

to in the tower of the old stone and slate turn-of-the-century train depot. But

the pain and horror was sufficiently effective in itself—even without my

adhering to superstition-to produce the intended mind shattering results. Cox

took my friend and me on a “flashlight tour” through the rubble of Union

Station, until we came to a homeless man sleeping on the ground. Cox ordered

me to “kiss the railroad bum good-bye,” then shot him between the eyes while I

was still only inches away1. He then used a machete to chop off the man’s

hands, which he put in a zip-lock bag. He then led us up the rickety stairs into

the lower of the old depot. There Jack Greene, his band members, and others

dressed in black robes were gathered around a black leather alter in a room lit

by candles and draped in red velvet. In total shock, I was laid on the alter and

subjected to rape and torture while the participants indulged in sex, blood, and

cannibalism ritual.

The next day I woke up on Cox’s couch, vaguely aware that I had suffered a

“bad nightmare”. When I stood up, I passed out from blood loss. I was

bleeding profusely from the vagina. It was all I could do to prepare to drive

back to Michigan, and my friend was certainly not in a stable frame of mind to

help. I did not know what happened to me, nor was I able to question it. I had

a new “obsession” on my mind. I had been programmed at the ritual to move

to Nashville and marry Cox, as ordered by Senator Byrd.

Back in Michigan, I made the announcement to my parents that I was

moving to Nashville to marry Cox, as it was “predestination”. What they

would not tell me was that my father had just literally SOLD me to Senator

Byrd in exchange for lucrative military contracts that made him a millionaire

overnight—a millionaire on a sixth grade education—a perverse, child exploiting

criminal, immune from prosecution, working as a CIA operative for the U.S,

government! That mind shattering occult ritual I endured in Nashville marked a

new life of wealth and prestige for my father white thrusting me into a new

phase of my torturous existence-and I had no choice in any of it!

1Nashville Metropolitan Police Lieutenant Bob Ezell, who also acted in the capacity of

Grand Ol’ Opry security guard, covered up the murder.

CHAPTER 5

TINKERING WITH THE MIND

It was 1977. I was a 19-year-old mind-controlled programmed slave in the

CIA/DIA Project Monarch Freedom Train operation, literally owned by U.S.

Senate Majority Leader Robert C. Byrd, who was then a 20-year incumbent and

on the Senate Appropriations Committee, As Byrd’s “own little witch” (sex

slave), I would also become involved in covert government operations. I now

understand that this required more memory compartments/personalities than I

had developed. Hence one more reason for the mind shattering occult ritual,

and my “predestined” marriage to Cox. In typical Project Monarch structure,

Byrd was my “owner” and in control of my life, while Cox became my primary

“handler” and followed Byrd’s orders to ensure that 1 was at key locations and

events at appointed times and to maintain me under mind control. Cox

reportedly was not paid cash for his role like my father was. Instead, he either

followed orders or would be prosecuted for distributing drugs and being the

occult serial killer that he was and is to date. Cox’s primary role was to shatter

my mind further through repealed occult trauma as well as father my daughter,

Kelly, to be raised in the genetic mind-control studies of Project Monarch.

I moved to Nashville, as ordered, to marry Cox, who took me to the

backwoods of his hometown swamp in Chatham, Louisiana for months at a time

for occult traumatization. Cox had been brought up in witchcraft by his

mother, and admittedly longed for her sexually and ritually. Together they

subjected me to their beliefs, which included what equates to a weakened

version of mind control used by witches for centuries, anchored in superstition

rather than scientific fact. These superstitious beliefs seemingly conflicted with

Cox’s mercenary training to the point that his killing raged out of control. For

example, Cox would murder a human through repeated stabbing with a knife,

believing that the “departing spirit” and splattered blood gave him power to

control my mind. In truth, it was my aversion and subsequent traumatization by

the event that caused me to dissociate and trance, leaving my subconscious open

to his suggestions and those of others. During the three years I was with Cox,

he ritually impregnated and aborted me six times, consuming several of his own

offspring and preserving the others shaped in ceramic for sale in his interstate

occult body parts business. Cox’s M.O. for murdering always included

removing the hands with a machete, as the “Hands of Glory” he kiln-dried in

the ceramic shop of his and his mother’s house were in demand and thus

distributed throughout the occult underground supply network. Cox’s protected

cocaine and body parts distribution routes included Texas, Arkansas,

Mississippi, Tennessee, and Florida.

Cox and I traveled to Florida on several occasions as his mother’s parents

lived in Mims, which is only minutes away from the NASA Kennedy Space

Center in Titusville. Cox, like my father, made sure I was there for mindcontrol

testing and programming as ordered. Cox perceived me as a “Chosen

One,” and often used this CIA Project Monarch term when referring to me and

for proudly “justifying” his leaving me at the NASA installation.

Cox had a variety of belief systems that he applied to various situations, all

of which were superstition based. He believed in spirit communication or

“divine guidance” through nature spirits and demons, that Satan must be

appeased, that Jesus is an alien, that the Bermuda Triangle is a door to another

dimension, and that the end of the world is near. He ‘religiously’ carried a

Bible with him everywhere-including to occult rituals-quoting scripture like a

theologian. He justified “eating the body and drinking the blood,” “being

washed in the blood,” and even “murdering children” according to the story of

God testing Abraham by ordering him to murder his son, Isaac, by knife on an

alter. Jim Jones was one of Cox’s idols, as was Charlie Manson, and he touted

the Jonestown massacre as a prime example of the “power of (CIA) mind

control”.

Cox demanded I become a Mormon in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter

Day Saints. This was to “prove” that Satan was everywhere-particularly in the

Monroe, Louisiana Mormon church where he led occult ritual, and in the

Hendersonville, Tennessee church that the so-called Freedom Train rolled

through.1

Cox’s determination to instill his religious superstitious beliefs in me was

side-tracked by J. Bennett Johnston in his Shreveport, Louisiana office early in

the summer of 1978.

Cox’s mother, Mary, had driven us to Johnston’s office near Barksdale Air

Force Base as ordered. As she knocked boldly on the obscure metal door, 1

read the attached metal sign: “General Dynamics Research and Development”.

A smaller sign near the doorknob read; “Unlawful to enter premises without

prior authorization. All violators will be prosecuted under penalty of federal

law.”

Johnston, wearing a light blue, leisure suit and smelling strongly of body

odor, opened the door. “Well, hey Senator,” Mary drawled in her backwoods

Louisiana dialect, “I brought the children to see you like you said.”

Johnston looked at her with annoyed disgust. “I see that,” he said matter-offactly.

He then proceeded to instruct Mary to wait outside a moment while he

talked with Cox, then to take him on to her home in Monroe where I could be

picked up at the Airport a few days later.

Cox and I were ushered into Johnston’s barren military-style furnished

office. Several Presidential and military photographs hung on the wall and

served as the only decor. Johnston sat on the front of his military issue desk

and talked to Cox’s subconscious mind using cryptic, hypnotic Disney Peter

Pan theme language,3 as he apparently had done in the past when Cox had a

mind left to control.

“As long as your ticker’s running, chat crock-a-dial you’ve been feeding

over the years will be running right behind you. (Peter) Pan knew how to stay

a step ahead of the game and stop the inevitable process of becoming gator bait

himself by offering to give him a hand now and then.”

Cox dismembered his murdered victims and distributed the “Hands of

Glory” to fellow Satanists and occult traumatized/ Peter Pan theme programmed

mercenaries, while feeding “left over” body parts to an alligator that lived in the

Swamp behind his house. This was indicative of Cox’s twisted, murderous

response to Johnston’s traumatic Peter Pan theme programming… a

programming that I was about to experience “first hand”.

Cryptically instructing Cox on Senator Byrd’s orders, Johnston continued,

“I’ve got to hand it to that Pan. His livelihood of creating hookers for the

Captain (Hook) was indeed lucrative. And speaking of creating hookers, a little

Byrd told me that a shift from routine hand-ling to a theme that is alien could

prove lucrative to you.” Revealing his intent to ensure my military mindcontrol

programming, Johnston told him, “I’ll lay a little groundwork and set

the patten for countdown. Then I’ll send her out to launch for you, and it’s

your job to man the craft from there…”

Cox was ordered out of Johnston’s office, and he turned his full attention to

me. When alone with the Senator, Johnston manipulated my mind, and

ultimately my beliefs and perceptions, for future programming. He referred to

a picture of himself shaking hands with unknown Navy brass as he dramatically

told me, “I was there that fateful day in 1943 when a hole was ripped in the

fabric of time through what later became known as the Philadelphia

Experiment. All those fine boys vanished along with their ship in a bizarre

twist of events that parallels the Atlantis disappearances. A vortex was created

in an effort to slip dimensions and become invisible to the enemy. It was a

success beyond the highest expectations and launched us all into universal

travel. It is no wonder at all that we have had a man on the moon. Traveling

to distant planets and galaxies is Mickey Mouse stuff in comparison to the high

tech wizardry of trans-dimensional travel. Trans-dimensional travel

circumvents all measures of time, including distance and speed. When the

fabric of time was torn, we opened ourselves up to intergalactic travel—both in

and out of this dimension – and in and out of the future, as well as the past. We

can alter the course of history by traveling back in time to alter events, or we

can blast off into the future and gain wisdom and knowledge of events yet to

come. We can control the future by controlling the past. At present, this is a

relatively easy task according to the theory of relativity and abilities gained

through the Philadelphia Experiment. I came back an ET (extraterrestrial)

myself. And our ship relumed to this Earth as a spaceship.3 I gained the keys

to the universe on that fateful day, and I carry them with me now, sharing only

a Key or two at a time with those who are Chosen. You are a Chosen One

(Johnston was deliberately interfacing with Rite to Remain Silent conditioning),

and therefore must learn the ins and outs of interplanetary travel. Your mission

is trans-dimensional. You can span infinite dimensions by learning from me.

Take it from me, you’re going places, kid. And I’ll teach you to get there by

riding the light. I’ll teach you the groundwork, and you do the light work. The

key to the universe lies in the speed of light. The only way to travel is by beam

of light. You will learn to go to the light… Your mission is to learn how to

Tinker with time. I’m going to take you on that journey myself. Come with

me now. It’s time we were leaving this plane and boarding another.”

Johnston took me the short distance from his General Dynamics Corporation

provided office to the Barksdale Air Force Base airfield. He was apparently

well known at Barksdale, and a small cargo plane was ready to lake us to our

destination-Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma.

Once we were airborne, Johnston accessed my sex programmed personalities

for his own aggressive perversion. His use of cocaine further accentuated his

hyperactive demeanor as he brutally slung me around the back of the small

plane while he had sex with me. At one point the pilot hollered from the

cockpit “Hey, you’re creating turbulence. Knock it off, will you.”

Johnston laughed and responded, “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

By the time we arrived at Tinker A.F.B., my arm was beginning to show a

dark bruise that extended from my shoulder to my elbow. A uniformed man

greeted us as we walked across the airfield. Johnston apparently knew him

quite well, and referred to him as “Cap’n” (which tied in with the Peter Pan

theme programming I was about to endure). When he noticed my arm, Cap’n

reminded him, “Hey, that’s not necessary, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Take care of it for me. Here…” Johnston took the straps

of my tank top and pulled them down around my forearms (which still could not

cover the bruise.) “There, that just about covers it.” He smiled and continued,

“You look like a Southern belle that way rather than a damned ol’ Yankee

anyway,”

Cap’n said, “She’ll be a Tinker-belle by the time we’re through here today.”

Then, referring to Johnston’s primary purpose in actually escorting me to

Tinker he asked, “How are your South American operations progressing?”

“I’ve got to talk to you about that,” Johnston answered. The two talked as

though they had worked in tandem on given mercenary operations/assignments

in the past. “I may need a few of your boys to back me on something.”

“Back you, or cover you?” the Cap’n retorted.

Johnston laughed, “Both if you’ll front the operation.”

Johnston had previously “justified” his use of Tinker (Peter Pan theme)

programmed niind-controlled mercenaries to me by saying, “Mercenaries are

missionaries who follow their inner guidance system rather than their old Uncle

Sam. Politics hinder the route to freedom, and these boys slip under

international laws, undetected, to carry out the work the military boys only

dream of doing..”

I was escorted away from the two by a nurse, who purported to be tending

to my injured arm. In fact, she was preparing me for the “Tinker-belle cage”4—

an electrified metal cage with an electrified grid bottom. Locked inside, 1 was

subjected to high, direct current voltage to compartmentalize the Peter Pan

theme mind-control programming that 1 endured. Like Peter Pan’s Tinkerbelle,

I learned to “ride the light” as a means of travel.5 Additionally, my instilled

Tinker-belle theme mind manipulation included a sense of Never-Never-land

timelessness that was rooted to my “natural” inability to comprehend time due

to my MPD/D1D.

Back in Louisiana, Cox and I shared a subconscious understanding of Peter

Pan themes and “riding the light”. The difference between us was that Cox

consciously activated Tinker Air Force Base programming within Johnston’s

band of mercenaries, while my trance was perpetual whereby I could “Never-

Never-Land.”6

I was with Cox on numerous occasions when he was running guns and/or

cocaine, and activating specified mercenaries for operations as instructed by

Johnston, In the course of these travels I saw numerous underground arsenals

and stockpiled weapons that were known to Senator Johnston, but were not on.

military installations. I was also privy to government sanctioned cocaine

operations.

On one such cocaine run in 1979, I traveled with Cox to a remote area in

the Ouachita National Forest near Hot Springs, Arkansas to “watch for fairies

like Tinker-belle” and “ride the light”.

We sat in the brush near a railroad track until we saw a light approaching

from the Eastern sky. At the time I thought I would be “riding the light” as I

was led to believe, but in retrospect I recall my personalities being deliberately

switched and a helicopter landing in a nearby clearing. Cox and I unloaded

approximately 200-400 pounds of cocaine from the van he had driven, and

stacked it in the helicopter. We were then flown to a small airport that

appeared to be no more than a dark, fenced-in clearing where 1 saw a row of

metal buildings that looked like mini-warehouses. While the cocaine was

unloaded into a warehouse, Cox and I were taken by car to a nearby grey stone

hold. The driver led us upstairs, and knocked on the Penthouse door.

“Yeah,” a voice answered,

“I got a Tinker-belle and a Peter Pan here to see you, Sir,” the driver called.

“Send ‘em in.” Cox and I walked into the suite where then Governor of

Arkansas Bill Clint cm was shuffling through a briefcase. Clinton and Johnston

were cohorts in illegal covert operations that emanated from Tinker Air Force

Base.

Cox spoke up. “Senator Johnston said a little (Senator) Byrd told him that

you are one of Ours.”‘

“So what does that make you?” Clinton asked impatiently.

“A Chosen One,” Cox nodded his head toward me.

Clinton asked me, “Chosen by whose order?”

I cryptically delivered the proper coded response, which cued Clinton to

proceed. “What brings you here?” he demanded.

Interpreting his question literally as is “natural” for programmed MPD/DID

slaves, I answered, “I rode the light, Sir.”

Clinton rolled his eyes, and looked back over at Cox who was nervously

rocking back and forth as he so often did. “State your business,” Clinton

ordered.

“Uh,” Cox cleared his throat, habitually picked his nose as he rocked back

and forth and said, “Well, uh…” Clinton looked disgusted.

“Get him the fuck out of here!” he ordered the driver. Cox was immediately

escorted out,

“That’s better,” Clinton said. Using standard Jesuit hand signals and cryptic

language, he triggered/switched me and accessed a previously programmed

message.

“Senator Johnston sent me to give this to you.” I handed Clinton a thin,

large brown envelope, “And I have some fairy dust guaranteed to make you fly

high.” I took the personal stash of cocaine that Johnston was sharing with

Clinton from my pocket.

Clinton snorted two lines of the coke immediately. He smiled. “Tell Ben

I’m impressed.” He showed me to the door.

The severe torture and mind-control programming that I was enduring at

Tinker Air Force Base had prepared me for this simple “mission” and many

others. Although Cox’s out-of-control occult serial killings polyfragmented my

multiple personalities as intended by Byrd, it was Johnston’s alien theme mind

conditioning that locked me into absolute robotic helplessness. After all, had I

been capable of rationalizing, I would nave found that the thought of

interdimensional travel and aliens was no more bizarre to me that Cox’s

murderous actions or having found out pornography king Jerry Ford held the

office of President.

When my daughter, Kelly, was born in February of 1980, Cox’s former

employer. Jack Greene, traveled to Louisiana to meet with me in keeping with

his role as Nashville’s CIA Freedom Train “conductor”. He took me aside and

explained that since Cox had fulfilled his (genetic) role in producing Kelly,

Senator Byrd had ordered me back to Nashville. Greene talked at length,

hypnotically reviving my original programmed “obsession” to move to

Nashville. He told me that Cox had proven too insane to follow orders

anymore as was evidenced by my extremely poor health (much of my hair bad

fallen out) and by the stench of decaying human flesh that permeated the area

surrounding his remote Chatham, Louisiana swamp house.

If I had had a mind of my own, I know in retrospect I would have felt as

though 1 had been released from a prison dungeon. But I could only respond by

telling Cox matter-of-factly that I had received “divine guidance” to move to

Nashville at once to a home that awaited me. Cox had no choice but to comply

with Byrd’s orders. Kelly and I moved to Tennessee when she was only three

months old, and Cox temporarily moved with us in order to apprise our new

handler of the latest details of our victimization. Within weeks, Cox moved

back to Chatham, Louisiana to live with his mother (even to this date). Now he

reportedly raises goats for sacrifice and carries on his occult serial killing

activities unhindered due to his immunity from prosecution because of whom

and what he and his mother know.

1Substantial information regarding the saturation of occultism in the Mormon church is a

published fact, circulated among the Bishopric, then released by Bishop Pace in on effort to

restore morality and freedom of thought to church members.

2Senator Johnston’s dual and triple cryptic language perplexed me at the time. In

retrospect, I understand how this component of mind control allowed for undetected

proliferation of criminal covert activity, even when overheard by strangers, to the extent that I

believed it must be occurring in “another dimension” as I was told.

3Johnston “validated” his ploy in my mind by arranging for me to see his “space-ship”-a

then TOP SECRET experimental aircraft which would eventually be known as a Stealth fighterat

a military installation near Baton Rouge. The classified triangular Stealth was so alien to me

at the time that it looked more like a spaceship than the U.S. fighter plane it actually is. This,

in combination with his inhumane demeanor and my previously instilled belief in transdimensional

travel, convinced me he was the “ET” he purported to be.

4I understand this is referred to as a Woodpecker grid.

5″Riding the Light” scrambled my future experience of being transported by military

helicopter or airplane to robotically carry out some program for the government. This “trancedimeasional”

travel caused my earthly experiences to be perceived as having occurred in another

dimension.

6 I remained in a Post Traumatic Stress Disordered (PTSD) trance.

7Same Jesuit reference used to describe Pierre Trudeau.

CHAPTER 6

UNITED STATES MILITARY &

NASA MIND-CONTROL TRAINING

Soon after moving to Tennessee, I learned that Senator Byrd had simply

exchanged one living hell for another for me. My new mind-control handler,

CIA operative and country music ventriloquist/ stage hypnotist Alex Houston,

seemed only to pick up where Cox had left off. As “destined,” Kelly and I

moved into a run-down old trailer on Houston’s property, which adjoined Jack

Greene’s farm in Goodletsville, Tennessee. I was subjected to further occult

ritual on Greene’s farm, and was ritually impregnated and aborted again, this

time by Houston. A difference between Cox and Houston was the superstition

factor; Houston knew exactly what he was doing and why he was doing it, in

accordance with tried and proven scientific U.S. Government mind-control

research and development. I gleaned this knowledge from conversations I

overheard between him and “those in the know”.

Alex Houston was 26 years older than I, and claimed to have gained his

knowledge of stage hypnosis and government mind-control methods from the

military while entertaining overseas in Bob Hope’s USO tours. After the tour,

Houston reportedly moved to Washington, D.C. where he and his alter-ego

dummy, Elemer, were regulars on the Jimmy Dean television show in the ’60s.1

According to Houston, he was regularly booked to entertain in officers” clubs

on military bases due to his involvement in covert government operations.

During the brief interim period that Cox resided on Houston’s farm with us,

he played music behind government mind-controlled slave Louise Mandrell and

her husband/handler, R.C. Bannon. Cox had previously worked with Louise’s

sister, Barbara Mandrell, at the onset of her government sponsored career in the

1960s, traveling overseas with her in the same U.S,O. tours that launched

Houston’s career. Irby Mandrell, the Mandrells’ father and manager,

reportedly sexually abused all three of his daughters and eagerly thrust them

into their mind-controlled existence much the same way my father had sold me.

His daughters, too, were owned by U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd.

Cox was soon fired from his position with Louise due to his insanity. Once

when Houston was traveling with the Mandrells as he so often did throughout

the years, Irby Mandrell relayed the events that prompted his firing of Cox. He

told Houston and I that Cox had become an embarrassment to him while

traveling.

“I knew he was weird,” Irby Mandrell said. “That’s OK. I can live with

that. But when he pitched a tent behind the hotel so he could hear the trumpets

sound, signaling him to march to Missouri,2 I said, ‘Start marching, son.

You’re done. You’re through in Nashville. Don’t ever come back.’ That’s it,

he was done.”

Houston reminisced with Mandrell about the U.S.O. days, and inquired as

to how he had tolerated Cox back when he played music behind Barbara.

“Oh, yeah. I remember he (Cox) had somewhat of a brain back then.” Irby

Mandrell continued, “Barbara was just a kid back then with the talent of a full

blown star. I thought she had what it takes to make it in the industry. Then the

Byrd came along and introduced us to the latest in technology.”

Houston interrupted, “Are you talking about (music) equipment or the kind

they’ve got in Huntsviile (Alabama’s NASA mind-control training center)?”

“Both,” Mandrell replied. “But it was Huntsville that launched her to the

stars. The doors opened wide after that. Byrd took a lot of pride in Barbara,

and the doors just kept opening. With my baby’s talent and the Byrd’s

influence on her mind and career, there was no way we could lose.”

When Houston became my appointed mind-control handler in 1980, Byrd’s

influence on my mind boosted Houston’s “entertainment” career. His travels

had expanded to accommodate covert drug and money laundering operations

across the U.S., in Mexico, in Canada, and throughout the Caribbean.

Houston had, and has, a great deal of “no show” money, but I was never

permitted access to it. Poverty was one more means of control I endured, as

slaves like myself were not afforded the freedoms that having money allows.

When I was working three menial jobs during college, all of my money was

taken from me by my parents. All money earned by Cox’s cocaine and body

parts enterprises was reinvested in the coven and drugs, leaving us dependent on

charities for our basic necessities. With Houston, 1 had to “earn” every penny I

spent on groceries and necessities over and over again, which made “earning my

keep” a deliberately impossible cycle. This kept me financially dependent and

further hindered my ability to escape, even if I had known enough to attempt it.

My innate protective maternal instincts as a mother may have been accentuated

due to my past unsuccessful attempts to protect my brothers and

sisters (I now had two sisters). It was my desperate need to keep Kelly safe that

drove me to the point of “fight or flight” when I was transferred to Houston. I

had long ago lost my ability to “fight,” but my new maternal instincts compelled

me to “flight”. I did all I could to save Kelly and myself from Houston and her

fate in Project Monarch. Since I had no ability to reason and was amnesic, I

“fled” to my parents’ new house in affluent Grand Haven, Michigan, I had no

concept of what I was running from or to. I arrived with my baby daughter in

my arms, the tattered clothes on our backs, and what few donated belongings I

had acquired for Kelly. Within a few days, my parents received and followed

Senator Byrd’s instructions, and turned me back over to Houston—who, in turn,

sent me back to Louisiana for further conditioning.

After three more months of intense, nonstop tortures by Cox, 1 could not

think to follow maternal instincts and barely knew my own name. I had no idea

how old I was, where I was, how long I had been there, and what had happened

to Kelly during that time, Kelly’s own testimony and current programmed

poly fragmented Multiple Personality/Dissociative Identity Disorder reflects the

high tech, sophisticated conditioning and torturous trauma she endured during

this and numerous ensuing times that we were separated. When 1 was returned

to Houston as orchestrated by Byrd, my brain contained a series of new

compartments ready to be programmed and led.

Intensive mind-control behavior programming began at once, and Houston

ensured that I was taken to my appointed destinations under the guise of his

travels in the country music industry. In the early 1980s, my base

programming was instilled at Fort Campbell, Kentucky by U.S. Army Lt.

Colonel Michael Aquino. Aquino holds a TOP SECRET clearance in the

Defense Intelligence Agency’s Psychological Warfare Division (Psy Ops). He

is a professed Neo-Nazi, the founder of the Himmler inspired satanic Temple of

Set, and has been charged with child ritual and sexual abuse at the Presidio Day

Care in San Francisco, California. But like my father and Cox, Aquino remains

“above the law” while he continues to traumatize and program CIA destined

young minds in a quest to reportedly create the “superior race” of Project

Monarch Mind-Controlled slaves. I quickly teamed that Aquino did not adhere

to his profoundly professed occult superstition any more than I did. His

“satanic power” was in the form of numerous variations of high voltage stun

guns,5 which he used on me regularly. Although Aquino used occultism (blood

trauma) as a trauma base, his programming was high tech and “clean”—not

muddled in a proverbial witches’ brew of ignorance. He quickly dispelled the

Cox influence, and began programming me according to Byrd’s specifications

as his “own little witch” for sadistic sex, covert CIA drug muling, black mail,

and prostitution operations.

During the three months I was back with Cox, a muscle in my upper vaginal

wall was cut and dropped in preparation for Houston to flesh carve a hideous

witch’s face4 for Senator Byrd’s perversion. Aquino provided the ancient

instructions on how to mutilate me, and Houston used silver nitrate and hot

exacto knives to carve the details of the face without any form of anesthesia.

By flexing the muscle downward, the face protruded out of my vagina. Not

only did this surgery give Byrd a vagina suited to his minute, underdeveloped

penis, it also provided an equitable “curiosity” to be displayed over and over

again in both commercial and non-commercial pornography and prostitution.

On the 1981 anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, I was forced to

“marry” Alex Houston for appearance sake. Earlier that month when I had

been taken to Washington, D.C for prostitution purposes, Byrd informed me

that I would actually be “marrying” him when I “pledged my vows” to

Houston.

“It is a covenant between the two of us,” Byrd had said, “It is me that you

will honor and obey ’til death do us part,” Byrd then instructed me to pick up

my wedding dress from a nearby D.C. store. Throughout the years, Houston

often joked about the significance of my Washington, D.C. wedding dress—

which was depicted in pornographic photos and a commercial video to

“commemorate our wedding night”,

Alex Houston’s “best man,” Jimmy Walker, was also a photographer for

Larry Flynt’s sexually graphic commercial pornography magazine, Hustler.

When I met Byrd after the ceremony at Nashville’s Opryland Hotel as ordered,

he presented me with a “wedding gift”—a rose patterned crystal crucifix

deliberately designed to anchor “our wedding” in my Catholic/Vatican instilled

beliefs. The Larry Flynt photos depicting me in my wedding dress with the

crystal crucifix to “commemorate our wedding night,” was standard lock-in

procedure for all mind-controlled slaves I knew who were forced to “marry”

their handlers/owners.

Houston’s booking agent, Reggie Mac (MacLaughlin), of United Talent and

later of MacFadden Agency in Nashville, Tennessee, had been booking CIA

involved country music acts into key locations to aid the execution of covert

government operations. For example, Houston’s ventriloquist act “Alex and

Elemer” would be scheduled to perform at a county or state fair near

Washington, D.C., where I would be picked up by car or helicopter and

escorted to the White House or the Pentagon. The ensuing activities would be

compartmentalized in my memory in a manner that caused me to believe 1 had

simply been traveling in the country music industry, and no one “back home”

would be suspect of my absence. Another example would be that Houston

“entertained” at Byrd’s West Virginia State Fair every year, which gave a

legitimate appearance to my presence there, when in fact I was being prostituted

to the Senator I had “married.”

During the early ’80s, Reggie MacLaughlin primarily booked Houston into

areas that were conducive to my mind-control programming with Aquino. I

was first subjected to Aquino’s tortures and programming in Fort Campbell,

Kentucky; Fort McClellen in Anniston, Alabama; and most frequently, at

Redstone Arsenal and Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama.

Military mind-control was fast, effective, and highly technological, but it was

the NASA programming that launched me as a “Presidential Model”, Even

though Aquino instilled my programming on both military and NASA

installations, he had access to the latest technological advancements and

techniques through NASA. These included mind foolers such as sensory deprivation

tanks, virtual reality, flight simulators, and harmonics. By the age of

two, Kelly had already been subjected to Aquino and his programming through

these latest technological advancements, which shattered her fragile young mind

before her base personality had a chance to form. Rather than use occultism on

Kelly, Aquino traumatized her through sexual assault and high voltage tortures

of the mind and body. She, like I, to this day carries numerous scars from this

“non satanic” abuse base. I know, from years of research, NASA technology

and Aquino’s programming, combined with the Project Monarch standard sleep,

food, and water deprivation and high voltage, made Kelly a subject of state of

the art genetically multigenerational MPD/D1D psychological mind-control

engineering.

In 1981, Byrd personally joined Aquino in Huntsville, Alabama during one

of our programming sessions. NASA cooperated fully with Byrd on any and

everything, since it was Byrd’s Senate Appropriations Committee that

determined how much and/or whether NASA received government funding. I

lay naked on the cold metal table, tranced and photographically recording every

word and detail of my programming and every word that Byrd and Aquino not

so privately discussed. Byrd was providing Aquino with specific details of

certain perversions he wanted me equipped to fulfill or perform. Additionally,

they talked about scrambling my immediate memory with two private porn films

they were arranging to have produced locally. These were titled How To Divide

a Personality and How To Create a Sex Slave. These films are the kind NASA

became involved in producing for the dual purpose of “scrambling” memory

and documenting their mind-controJ procedures. The resident Huntsville,

Alabama pornographers were two local cops, one of which was (and is) a

Sergeant.5 This served NASA and the CIA well when cover-up was necessary.

The How To Create a Sex Slave film depicts the common “spin” programming,

which in essence is the combination to unlocking or accessing a

specific programmed act. For example, the compartment of the mind that holds

memory of incest is stimulated to open when the original abuse is eminent.

Seeing my father’s penis would “trigger” a specific response, supposedly

opening the neuron pathways of my brain to allow the part of my brain that

dealt with his actions before to deal with them again. With “spin”

programming, the trigger of seeing my father’s penis is replaced with a

combination of specific verbal commands and a specific number of physical

spins so that anyone with tbe “combination” could access that particular part of

my brain. The part of my mind containing “knowledge” of the original abuse

by my father learned to “like” painful, sadistic sex. Senator Byrd wanted me

programmed in such a way that he could decide if he wanted me to scream and

cry when he whipped me, or if he wanted me to become sexually aroused and

“beg” for more. After programming, when I met with Byrd, I would “dance”

like a music box dancer, twirling round and round until Byrd’s fiddle music

stopped. My mind precisely calculated how many revolutions I had made

whether I was capable of conscious counting or not (much like a normal person

wakes up at a particular time without an alarm clock), and the desired results

were produced as accessed.

This is but one simplified example of sex programming, and I was

programmed for more than sex. But this particular incident of programming at

the U.S. Army Redstone Arsenal would change my existence entirely and set

the stage for my role in covert government black, budget-type operations as a

“Presidential Model”.

Seeing and/or knowing that Kelly was being tortured and programmed

proved to be a detriment to my own mind-control programming, such that the

common “cross-programming” of mother and daughter was rarely viable. In

the fall of 1982, Houston was scheduled to perform at the State Fair in Senator

Byrd’s home state of West Virginia, Byrd arrived at our hotel with LT. COL.

Aquino, who took Kelly with him, supposedly for programming purposes, I

was left alone in the hotel room with Byrd, whose KKK affiliation fueled his

rage over my having been recently prostituted to black entertainer and CIA

operative Charlie Pride. Although I had had no control over the situation to begin

with, Byrd expended his fury on me rather than on Houston who was

ultimately responsible for the incident. He took out his whip and began beating

me as he had so many times before. Only this time it seemed to last forever,

Byrd was still whipping me when Aquino returned with my tranced and

traumatized daughter. I regained consciousness enough to pull myself up off

the floor when 1 heard Kelly’s hysterical cries. Byrd ordered me to the

bathroom for a cold shower to stop the bleeding. My body could not carry out

his orders, and I collapsed again in the bathroom, smearing blood all over the

floor. Kelly’s cries again revived me, and I crawled to the door to find Byrd

sexually assaulting her and Aquino disrobing to join them. One small window

in the bathroom appeared to be a possible means of escape to obtain help, but

Byrd caught me and knocked me to the floor. The whole bathroom was smeared

in blood by the time he threw me into the shower and turned the cold water on

to slow the bleeding.

Later that afternoon, Kelly and I stood hand in hand in the afternoon sun at

the State Fair where Senator Byrd was about to make a speech to his.

constituents. My blouse stuck to my freshly whipped skin as Byrd walked onto

the stage, and the crowd cheered. Although Byrd periodically sexually abused

Kelly throughout her Project Monarch victimization, the horrific incident in-

West Virginia was the last time 1 was able to instinctively think to respond at

all. Aquino’s mind-control programming further insured it, as did Byrd’s

access to high tech mind-control equipment via West Virginia’s Jesuit College,

where he claimed the role of “Head Friar”.6

Kelly has reported enduring much sexual abuse by both Byrd and Aquino.

Aquino apparently incorporated sexual abuse with his mind-control

programming and sex training of her, and shared more such events with Byrd.

It was also my experience that Byrd’s sexual perversions were heightened when

Aquino shared in the assault. Traumatic events such as this one in West

Virginia reinforced my own programming through conditioning, and further

locked me in to Byrd’s seemingly inescapable control.

The majority of my programming, as well as a large part of Kelly’s, was

again Oz theme based. This means the combination of codes, keys and triggers

to access me were related to L. Frank Baum’s story, The Wizard Of Oz.

Whether or not it was Baum’s intention (or for that matter Walt Disney’s, Lewis

Carroll’s, etc.), it is evident that his psychologically intense story was used for

manipulating minds. Much of The Wizard Of Oz lends itself to themes

commonly used by perpetrators. For example, nearly all MPD/DIDs have

suffered the loss of pets during ritualized torture. And all of Baum’s primary

character Dorothy’s nightmarish experiences “over the rainbow in Oz” stemmed

from her desire to risk her own life to protect her threatened pet. Abusers use

this lesson to condition the victim to drop all resistance and cooperate or “I’ll

get you, my pretty, and your little dog (or child) too.” The “over the rainbow”

scramble of dreams vs. reality provides abusers a theme by which to manipulate

an MPD’s subconscious perception of switching personalities. Oftentimes this

theme is transdimensional as is Oz, or that which was just experienced was “just

a bad dream” like Dorothy was told upon her awakening in her own bed back in

Kansas.

CIA cryptic language is manipulation of the English language such that

words have a double meaning (aka ‘double binds’ in mental health

terminology.) It works much the way as communication through “inside jokes”,

among people familiar with each other. Perhaps this is a reason for the

government’s use of professional comedians as slave handlers. Since mindcontrolled

slaves’ minds function consciously through their subconscious, which

has no way of discerning fantasy from reality or intended meaning from literal

meaning, cryptic dual level language is especially effective. Many CIA covert

operations I was involved in occurred in public. Anyone who overheard the

conversation would have discerned something very different from what actually

“trance-spired”. For example, one of my Washington, D.C. Secret Service

escorts linked arms with me like Dorothy did wiih her companions when

walking the Yellow Brick Road. This would have appeared to be normal

behavior, or even romantic, to outsiders. But to me it was a signal to “stay the

course” (Bush’s quote) and follow directions. Arm in arm we walked through

the crowded Air and Space Museum of the Smithsonian to the nearby NASA

headquarters. There he read the “Service Entrance” sign on the door

accentuating syllables ever so slightly so that I heard him cryptically command,

“Serve-us, En-Trance”.

1 Jimmy Dean is knowledgeable of, and a willing participant in criminal covert activity including the use of

mind-controlled slaves.

2 “Marching to Missouri” is a Mormon based belief that interfaced with the CIA’S FACTION OF THE COUNTRY MUSIC

industry being transferred to Branson, Missouri in the mid 1980s.

3 120,000-volt stun guns leave two indented prod marks or moles two inches apart, while the cylindrical stun gun

USED primarily in the vagina and rectum leaves prod marks/moles 3/4 of an inch apart.. A look into trash-magazine

publisher Larry Flint’s Hustler will show prod marks on the mind-controlled slaves he photographs, particularly on the

throat, near the lips. and on the back.

4 The “witch’s face” has also been referred to as that of a baphomet and Jesuit monk.

5 I photo identified the Sergeant and his (jailer) officer in 1990, and Mark’s and my lives were threatened through

then-District Attorney, now U.S. Representative, Bud Cramer (D. Huntsville, Alabama) of the Congressional

Permanent Intelligence Committee as a result of this revelation!

6 To a literal mind-controlled MPD/DID slave, the term “Head Priar” equates to “head frier”, meaning high

voltage to the brain.

CHAPTER 7

CHARM SCHOOL

After Aquino instilled my base sex programming, I was often taken by

Houston to Youngstown, Ohio to attend the sex slave training camp hell hole

referred to as “Charm School”. Houston often performed in the Youngstown

area at county fairs, Fraternal Order of Police shows, or any little country

music entertainment gigs that would bring us in the proximity of the dreaded

Charm School. On occasion, Kelly would go through the torture process with

me. But usually Houston delivered me to the door for training with other CIA

and Mafia slaves my age, and then left taking Kelly with him. When Charm

School was in session, there were several girls being tortured and trained at

once. 1 have seen and known numerous girls to go through Charm School, but,

understandably, few are reported to have survived or recovered their minds

enough to talk about it.

Charm School was reportedly operated by an identified member of the.

Mellon Banking family (Byrd’s Endowment for the Arts’ largest contributor).

The operator took the name and role of “Governor” from the movie My Fair

Lady, in an attempt to confuse my torturous reality with movie fantasy. In the

movie, Governor is the cockney title given the professor who transformed a

female street urchin into a functioning high society lady. Additionally,

Mellon’s use of the title, Governor, was intended to create scramble for the real

Governor who frequented the school as though it were only a whore house. I

am referring to then Governor of Pennsylvania (and later U.S. Attorney

General, now secretary for the United Nations) Dick Thornburgh.1 Aquino provided

some of the programming at Charm School and everyone I knew in

government operations was at least aware of it. Then Youngstown Sheriff, now

U.S. Representative Jim Traficant, was usually present. He capitalized on his

ability to portray himself as “Lurch” by slowly opening the door and saying,

“Walk this way – To a literal slave in training, this means walk like he is

walking-like Lurch, Egor, a street whore, Scarecrow, and so on.

Once the door closed behind me. Charm School meant I would be charmed,

mesmerized (hypnotized), and programmed to be a high class prostitute for

select politicians. I did learn their way to walk, I learned when to talk, how to

dress, how to sit, stand, and all the rest. Table manners were not taught as they

were not needed since slaves endured food and water deprivation when

working. Above all, we were taught how to gratify any sexual perversion. Just

as Traficant opened the door to Charm School for slaves, he oftentimes was the

one to “test” their newly learned sexual skills to determine when or if slaves

could leave.

A typical three-day course at Charm School included the usual factors of,

sleep, food, and water deprivation; trauma; high voltage; and programming.

Often times experimental or tried and proven CIA manufactured “designer”

drugs were administered which produced specific brain wave activity to

maximize and/or compartmentalize programs. I usually spent the first day

hanging in the dungeon. Charm School is housed in an identified stone

historical railroad barren’s former residence, and the basement was in fact a

wine cellar dungeon. It was dark, damp, and musty and was decorated in

classic torture chamber fashion. It was complete with various hanging chains, a

stretching rack, whips, and altars including one specially designed for bestiality

sex. As I hung by my wrists, I could hear and smell the animals in the next

cells—a black Nubian goat called Satan, a small donkey named Nester,

sometimes a small white pony referred to as Trigger, and various dogs, cats,

snakes, and others. All Charm School animals were trained to sexually respond

to the smell of urine. When someone, such as Dick Thornburgh who

particularly enjoyed this kind of kink, entered my cell and urinated on me, I

knew I would soon be released from my chains and led to the animal altar for

bestiality lessons, pornography, or to please a perverse onlooker. I was hung

by my ankles, stretched on a rack, burned, and tortured repeatedly. My feet

and hands were chained to a wall for what was termed “off the wall sex.” I was

taught “Silence” in Oz fashion since screaming did not produce results anyway

unless they wanted it for pornography. This was implemented with an

electronic canine bark collar normally used to train a dog not to bark.

I was repeatedly filmed pornographically, and always taken upstairs to the

“Master’s Chambers” for prostitution to participants, including the real

“Governor” of Charm School, then Pennsylvania Governor Dick Thomburgh,

Congressman Jim Traficant,2 Lt. Col. Michael Aquino, and others. When Kelly

was with me, she endured the same and we were forced to see each other

physically tortured as further psychological trauma. This was to ensure I could

never remember the who, what, when, or where of our bizarre enslavement.

This is what is sometimes referred to as cross-programming.

In spite of the deliberately created amnesic blocks, I developed a subconscious

sympathetic understanding for other Charm School slaves that

extended outside the walls of this man-made hell. This understanding emanated

from the depths of my being, creating a compassion for other mind-control

victims mat compels me to give voice to their silent pleas for help to this day.

I became close friends with one such victim, who must remain anonymous

in order to survive to eventually recover. This beautiful blonde and I had

numerous opportunities to be together throughout the years, as Houston’s

government sponsored travels routinely took him into her home state of

Pennsylvania while Dick Thomburgh was Governor.

My friend and I were photographed together for Larry Flynt’s commercial

pornography publications, and featured in the illicit films that contributed to

funding CIA covert operations. In addition to this, she and I were able to spend

two weeks together when her husband/handler traveled to Houston’s farm in

Tennessee for instructions on handling his new “bride”.

I was “made of honor” for my friend’s “wedding,” which was no more a

marriage than mine to Houston. As was customary with Project Monarch

slaves, her marriage to her handler equated to marriage to her mind-controi

owner, U.S. Senator Arlen Spector.

The “wedding” I was forced to participate in was for pornography purposes

only, and it took place in Arlen Spector’s Conneaut Lake house in

Pennsylvania.

Spector’s stone house was located in a wooded, remote setting and was

masculine in decor. Side rooms were either designated for perverse sex or were

furnished with antiquated NASA virtual reality and programming equipment.

The musty smell of Spector’s playhouse was overpowered by the scent of roses,

which he symbolically presented to his slave on their “wedding” day.

My friend’s “wedding” photos included Catholic themes, and the crucifix

featured was rose cut crystal similar to the one I received from Byrd,

Regardless of how this girl was depicted, her innate morality was apparent to

me. She and I were referred to as “minor/mere cats,” due to the similarity of

our victimizations. Like me, she was controlled through manipulation of her

religious beliefs and maternal instincts. The delicate rose tattooed on her left

wrist signifying her role in government operations did not detract from her high

class projection any more than Spector’s immorality could mar her innate

goodness. Once Arlen Spector officially became this slave’s owner, her Charm

School status rose to “Presidential Model”.

In addition to Charm School, 1 endured extensive programming to prepare

me for future operations. Houston was often booked into Oklahoma fairs,

Masonic Lodges, F.O.P. Conventions, and so on, in order that 1 be back in the

vicinity of Tinker Air Force Base for further programming. My Tinker-Belle

conditioning further enhanced my photographic memory through direct control

for receiving and delivering government messages which amounted to a

computerized compartmentalization of my brain, so to speak. I was also trained

in covert criminal operations, such as international drug mule transactions for

funding the Pentagon’s and CIA’s Black Ops Budgets,

Houston’s CIA orchestrated travels in the country music industry led me to a

TOP SECRET military/NASA installation at Offit Air Force Base in Nebraska.

The “you can run, but you can’t hide”3 conditioning was deeply ingrained in my

mind there through a technique that was later used on Kelly, as well as on other

mind-control slaves, I was taken underground to a so-called ‘secret’ circular

room where the walls were covered with numerous screens showing satellite

pictures from around the world. These satellites are referred to as the “Eye in

the Sky”. An Air Force official explained to me that my every move “could be

monitored via satellite”. On a separate four-screen viewer, he demonstrated

what in retrospect was a contrived pre-recorded slide show, with the scenes

changing as rapidly as he spoke and typed it into the computer.

“Where will you run?” he asked me. “To the Arctic? The Antarctic?

Brazil? The mountains? The desert? The prairies? The hills of Afghanistan?

The city of Kabul? Devil’s Tower (Wyoming)? Would you try to run to Cuba

and live among our enemies? We can find you there. There is truly no place to

run and no place to hide. The U.S. Senate (the picture was of Byrd)? The

White House? Or to your own backyard? (My father was depicted waving from

his front door, cupping his hands over his mouth saying, “come back” just like

Aunt Em in The Wizard Of Oz.) “The moon? We got you covered. You can

run, but you can’t hide.” This had been sufficient to convince me in my

suggestible stale that my every move could be monitored.

During the course of my training/conditioning, I was routinely prostituted to

Senator Byrd in Washington, D.C., at the West Virginia State Fair, NASA in

Huntsville, Alabama, and at the Opryland Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. One

such night when 1 was to be prostituted to Byrd at Opryland Hotel, Lt. Colonel

Aquino was scheduled to join him in perversely assaulting me. Much to my

horror, Aquino arrived early, in full army dress uniform, backstage at the

Grand Ol’ Opry. When I saw Aquino talking with the Vatican based Project

Monarch slave runner, Kris Kristopherson,4 whom I had known since 1979, my

personality programmed for Opry events “short circuited”. Under

circumstances such as this, a multiple without programming would have

switched personalities autogenically, whereas I could only switch upon

command, I backed away, dazed, right into a soft drink machine.

Kristopherson saw me as 1 backed further between the wall and the machine.

“What are you doing in there, little lady?” Kristopherson asked. The

Colonel wants to see you,”

Aquino had walked over and sarcastically asked, “What are you doing in

those machine wires? That could very well be a shocking experience for you.”

All experiences with Aquino or Kristopherson resulted in high voltage electric

shock torture, and apparently neither had any regard for human life.5 Aquino

used the opportunity to reinforce his belief that I “had no where to run, no

where to hide” from his “power”- his stun gun.

While I untangled myself from the wires, Kristopherson and Aquino

continued their banter at my expense, Kristopherson held up his key ring and

jingled it, catching my undivided attention as conditioned, while he told

Aquino, “You’re gonna need the Keys to the Kingdom to work with this one

right here.”

“Keys to the Kingdom,” of course, referred to my previously instilled

(Enter/Inter)”Inner-dimensional” Catholic programmed personalities. Since

Aquino was my primary mind-control programmer at the time, Kristopherson

was informing Aquino of programs previously instilled in childhood via the

“Rite to Remain Silent”. By jingling the keys, he was demonstrating his control

over me and his momentary edge on Aquino.

“I got ‘em,” Kristopherson was saying as he jingled the keys. “She’s mine

unless you wanna play ball. Besides, you have to. The Byrd sent me.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” Aquino said with a smile. Events later that night

proved that Aquino had been supplied the keys to my previously established

Jesuit based programming, which he and Byrd used and altered to suit their own

perversions.

Byrd monitored all of my programming “progress,” and often tortured me

with his whip and pocketknife. He picked up where my mother left off, to

destroy any self-esteem I might have inadvertently developed. He said, “There

is no place for you to turn because if you could think to talk no one would ever

believe I would have anything to do with the likes of you.” He often threatened

me that I was considered “disposable” because, after all, “The first Presidential

Model, Marilyn Monroe, was killed right in front of the public eye and no one

knew what happened.”

Byrd’s threats and cruelty were unnecessary as I could no longer think to

seek help anyway, but he loved to hear himself talk and would often drone on

and on and on in his infamous long-winded recitations, while I was

photographically recording every word he said. He detailed the inner

operational structure of the world domination effort, including psychological

warfare strategies, and explained how he had and would utilize his “expert”

knowledge of the Constitution to manipulate it and the so-called U.S. Justice

System, and more. His loose lips provided me yet another means of surviving

and staying a step ahead of “the game” once Kelly and I were rescued from our

mind-con trolled existence.

Senator Byrd revealed his “justifications” for criminal activity to me as well.

He used me as a sounding board even though he knew 1 was incapable of input

or response. He rehearsed in keeping with his motto “The only way we can

fail, is to fail to think of an excuse.”

Byrd “justified” mind-control atrocities as a means of thrusting mankind into

accelerated evolution, according to the Neo-Nazi principles to which he

adhered. He “justified” manipulating mankind’s religion to bring about the

prophesied biblical “world peace” through the “only means available”—total

mind control in the New World Order “After all,” he proclaimed, “even the

Pope and Mormon Prophet know this is the only way to peace and they

cooperate fully with The Project.”

Byrd also “justified” my victimization by saying, “You lost your mind

anyway, and at least you have destiny and purpose now that it’s mine.” Our

country’s involvement in drug distribution, pornography, and white slavery was

justified” as a means of “gaining control of all illegal activities world wide” to

fund Black Budget covert activity that would “bring about world peace through

world dominance and total control”. He adhered to the belief that “95% of the

(world’s) people WANT to be led by the 5%”, and claimed this can be proven

because “the 95% DO NOT WANT TO KNOW what really goes on in government”.

Byrd believed that in order for this world to survive, mankind must

take a “giant step in evolution through creating a superior race”. To create this

“superior race,” Byrd believed in the Nazi and KKK principles of “annihilation

of underprivileged races and cultures” through genocide, to alter genetics and

breed “the more gifted-the blondes of this world”.

As Byrd’s captive audience (literally), I absorbed information that the other

so-called masterminds behind the New World Order would never have revealed

for security reasons. But Byrd regarded me as “his” object, a game-piece that

he could strategically move through life as though he were playing a chess

game. He perceived me as totally under his control with no possibility of my

ever being rescued, surviving, and recovering my mind and memory. Byrd

likely would have talked to a post, and I filled the role as his silent sounding

board.

My CIA Operative mind-control handler, Alex Houston was often scheduled

to perform at the Swiss Villa Amphitheatre in Lampe, Missouri, which is yet

another installation where 1 was programmed. Swiss Villa was a cover for a

CIA Near Death Trauma Center of which there are several across the country.

It is a remote, high security resort, enclosed with military barbed wire fences,

that swings its guarded gate open to the local public for country music concerts.

The small Amphitheatre covers the covert activities occurring inside, which

includes U.S. Government CIA cocaine and heroin distribution operations and

mind-control projects.

Swiss Villa, like the Mount Shasta, California compound, was also used as a

training and operations camp for the Shadow Government’s paramilitary

projects referred to by Senator Tnouye (D. HI). I learned that this not-so-secret

military buildup, sanctioned by corrupt members of our government, consisted

of special forces trained robotic soldiers, numerous black unmarked helicopters,

and the highest technological advancements in TOP SECRET weaponry and

“Star Wars” electro magnetic mind-control equipment. These paramilitary

compounds were intended for global policing of the New World Order through

the Multi-Jurisdictional Police Force.

“A Most Dangerous Game” was often played at Swiss Villa and involved

CIA agents, politicians, and others who would attend the resort just for the sport

of hunting humans. Kelly and I both were hunted at Swiss Villa. The tortures

and rape after being caught were extensive and sufficiently traumatized our

minds for ensuing programming, as well as for creating memory

compartmentalization for the high level operations we witnessed behind the

villa’s patrolled fences. It was at Swiss Villa that I was taught “THE Most

Dangerous Game” was one where a slave tried to escape and reveal what he or

she had learned. If the hunters could not catch and stop the slave, then the

black helicopters patrolling the area would. And if all else failed, the “Eye in

the Sky” would locate him or her, and a torturous death was supposedly

imminent.

According to my abusers, my deprograminer and primary advocate Mark

Phillips and I have embarked on “THE Most Dangerous Game” through efforts

such as releasing this book and turning a spotlight on the Shadow Government

to reveal its members’ identities and their crimes against humanity, Mark

Phillips and I are determined to beat them at their own “game” by arming the

“95%” with the truth that perpetrators “don’t want them to know!”

1Dick Thomburgh is listed in Houston’s CIA memo book which is now in my (and others’)

possession.

2Please note that, while still Sheriff of Youngstown, Ohio, Traficant wis investigated and

subsequently indicted for federal racketeering, drug distribution, and Mafia connections.

However, he was acquitted through careful CIA jury manipulation and he went on to become the

U.S. Representative he is to this date.

3Once gaining “eyes to see and ears to hear,” this “you can run, but you can’t hide” theme

is so widely used it is visible from Hallmark greeting cards to Interstate overpasses to the lock-in

song by the rock group, Police’s “I’ll Be Watching You”.

4A good friend of mine who remains a victim to date was “married” to Kristopherson on

the night she wed her mind-control handler-much the way I had “married” Byrd when I wed

Houston. The crucifix used to her Larry Flynt “wedding night” porn photos was mirrored

rather than crystal.

5Kristopherson nearly strangled me to death with his penis, which had further sexually

excited him, late in the summer of 1987 during another incident related to Byrd.

CHAPTER 8

CIA’S WAR ON DRUGS OPERATION:

ELIMINATING COMPETITION

I no longer had any mind of my own. I was absolutely void of free will and

was now totally robotic. So was Kelly, We wore our Charm School smile at

all times, and did exactly what we were told to do. The only characteristic

noticeably out of place was Kelly’s age-inappropriate programmed vocabulary

and mannerisms. Outsiders attributed this to her traveling within the country

music industry. My public image was a programmed personality that always

smiled, looked and talked like the proverbial “air-head” blonde that kept outsiders

away by socializing only within my controlled environment. This

lifestyle appeared quite normal for my role as Houston’s much younger “wife”

in the country music industry.

When we were not traveling, I began each day at 4:00 A.M. with a

minimum of 2 hours aerobic exercise. Afterward, I tended farm animals and

did other chores, then cooked Houston a large country breakfast which neither

Kelly or I were permitted to share. Houston would then order me to work to

exhaustion on his 100-acre farm while he watched. These chores included

hauling, stacking, and feeding out hundreds of bales of hay to our livestock

each year; maintaining miles of electric fencing; cutting acres of grass with a

push mower an average of twice weekly; busting concrete with a sledge hammer

and mixing and pouring new cement; digging by hand and maintaining a two

acre vegetable garden for canning; cutting, hauling, and slacking firewood for

Houston, his neighbors, and friends; shoveling pick-up truck loads of creek

gravel to fill in enormous potholes in the gravel road leading to 11 rural

residences including Jack Greene’s; and anything else Houston could think of

that would wear me down. Houston’s exhaustive, slave-driving work orders

made my father’s seem benevolent in comparison. The “best” of days were

rough.

I ate “like a bird (Byrd),” following Byrd’s orders of 300 calories per daywith

no sugar or caffeine. My metabolism was low. I was trained to compute

calories like a machine, eating more like a rabbit than a “bird”, I had to count

every calorie, from a simple taste of what I had to cook for Houston to semen.

Houston ensured thai Kelly and I never got more than two consecutive hours of

deep per night. He accomplished this through automatic mental “alarm clocks”

that woke us up at two- hour intervals-Kelly with asthma, and me with panic.

These tactics contributed to Kelly’s and my total inability to resist mind control.

Traveling in the country music industry was no easier than existing on

Houston’s farm in Tennessee. It certainly lacked the glamour that outsiders

usually associate with entertainment industries. CIA covert drug operations had

permeated the industry. Entertainers were used to buy, sell, and distribute

cocaine brought into this country by the U.S. government for the purpose of

funding the Pentagon’s and CIA’s Black Budgets. Nashville’s local

government, from my perspective, was totally corrupted by these criminal

covert operations. Cover-up, murder, drugs, and white slavery prevailed.

Entertainers usually made n big only when they participated in CIA operations

and/or were slaves themselves. I know of numerous entertainers in need of

rescue and deprogramming from their mind-controlled existence, because it was

discovered that voices could be harmonically tuned through mind control to

captivate audiences. To quote my father, “Spies, like singers and actors, are

made, not born”. These entertainers have endured much of the same

programming as I to permit them to carry out government operations in the

course of their travels.

Norwegian Caribbean Lines (NCL) cruise ships depart regularly from

Miami, Florida and travel throughout the Caribbean and Mexico. NCL

provides pleasure cruises to the public complete with “entertainment” like that

of Alex Houston while carrying out CIA operations. Sue Carper, former

director of entertainment procurement for all NCL cruise ships, would ensure

that government covert activities staging were properly orchestrated. She

rotated entertainers like Houston from ship to ship in order to avoid the scrutiny

of clean U.S. Customs and Immigrations inspectors. I routinely took cruises

with Houston, muling cocaine and/or heroin out of Haiti, the Bahamas, Mexico,

the Virgin Islands, and Puerto Rico to fund covert operations. While I was

robotically carrying out transactions as ordered, I was also prostituted to South

and Central American drug lords and politicians, as well as filmed

pornographically. Houston made sure I was in the right place at the right time

and switched me into the proper mode for each activity I was forced to carry

out. In the early 1980s, this included passing messages to and from Senator

Byrd, Baby Doc Duvalier, my Cuban contact, Puerto Rican drug lord Jose

Busto, and others.

In keeping with NCL’s Caribbean operations, Byrd adjusted his use of

programming themes to include the mirror-reversal, interdimensional, Air-

Water mind-control theme used on me by NASA and the Jesuits. I often saw

dolphins playing in the ocean while being transported from port to port via the

Cruise ships, but the popular “whales and dolphins” mind-control theme was

avoided in favor of a theme more suitable to my experience-that of the Sea-

Bird-Robert C. (Sea) Byrd. He told me, “Atlantis1 has long been the epicenter

of alien activity. The path is so well warn that there are holes in the fabric of

time and space whereby airplanes and ships, even people, timelessly seemingly

disappear, transformed into another dimension alien to this world. Likewise,

we (aliens) came in, entering through the mirror reflection of the hole in the

fabric of space, the deep blue sea. Some of us entered Earth’s plane as whales

and dolphins. And when we emerged from the sea, some of us came flying out.

Or is that in? At any rate, we are here. Watch for the flying fish when you are

out to see/sea. When you see one, you will know it is kin to me. A flying fish

by any other name is a C. Byrd. A sea bird. Robert C. Byrd.”

The drug business was booming for the CIA, and the only “War on Drugs” I

witnessed was that launched by the CIA against its competition. As quickly as 1

brought the NCL suitcases of drugs into the Port of Miami, they were usually

transferred to Houston’s factory custom-built Holiday Rambler motor home.

Concealed compartments were built into the walls for hiding the illegal drugs.

If I drove the drug-filled motor home on to Nashville rather than deposit the

drugs en route at Warner-Robbins Air Force Base in Macon, Georgia, the bulk

was stored in the Hendersonvilie Mormon “food storage” Bishop’s Warehouse.

Some cocaine was delivered to a music distributor in Nashville, Tennessee,

where it was carefully packaged in participating entertainers’ cassettes, for

delivery along their carefully scheduled travel routes. Houston always kept a

large amount of the cocaine for his own use and distribution. Oftentimes he

ordered that I deliver the drugs to specific entertainers at the Grand Ole Opry

and/or at the local shopping mail when we were not traveling. Most often,

however, the larger loads of drugs remained concealed in the motor home for

distribution to CIA drug drops while we traveled the country music industry.

These CIA drug drops included an abandoned amusement park near

Youngstown, Ohio; Diamond Caverns2 campground in Park City, Kentucky;

and Swiss Villa Amphitheatre in Lampe, Missouri. I was aware that tons of

drugs were being handled via our military, but the hundreds of pounds I muled

were targeted for exclusive private distribution.

An example of a typical Caribbean drug operation centered around the NCL

port of call. Key West, Florida. Houston took Kelly and me to a nearby tennis

court under the guise of playing tennis. In reality, I was to meet with CIA

Operative Jimmy Buffett, who devoted more time to the proliferation of CIA

criminal covert activity than he did to his music career cover. Buffett was

playing tennis. Referring to him as though he were to be my tennis instructor,

Houston said, “There’s your instructor. As soon as he gathers the balls, he

should be over here to meet you.”

Noticing us, Buffett strode over and shook hands with Houston. “Hi,

Jimmy/ Houston said as though they were old buddies.

“Hi, Alex and Elemer,” Buffett responded, sarcastically using Houston’s

stage name.

“Oh,” Houston said. Never one to know an insult when he heard it, he

continued, “What do your friends call you?”

“What does it malter to you?” Buffett asked. “Uncle calls me Jim. I take it

you’re not the contact,”

Houston pointed to me, “She is”.

“That’s more like it,” Buffett smiled. “A little Byrd told me I’d be meeting

with a Diamond in the Rough.”3

“I prefer a Diamond in the Buff,” he said, “I’ve got a studio across the

street.”

As we walked toward his studio, I was oblivious to the meaning behind his

conversation. with Houston and commented, “I understand you’re an instructor.

I wish I had brought my racquet.”

“I’m not that kind of an instructor,” Buffett explained, “I’m a point man for

Uncle. And you’ve got an appointment with me. I have some instructions to

give you.” As we entered his studio, he said, “Welcome to paradise,” and

gestured me in. We went into the small living quarters, which may have

appeared even smaller due to the electronic equipment, acoustic guitars, and

furniture that filled the room. A black mirrored coffee table, atypical of

cocaine users I’d known, was the clearest spot in the room, A gold razor blade,

cocaine residue, an ashtray full of marijuana roaches, and a fanned deck of card

with the queen of hearts on top lay on the table. Tropical plants further

cluttered the room. Standing between a perched, stuffed parrot and a banana

tree, Buffett was saying, “Key West is a key place to be. It’s the key to the

Caribbean – Cuba, Panama – anyplace that means anything to Uncle these days, I

hold the keys. I’m keeper of the keys and I hold a few of yours.” Looking at

his parrot, he continued, “The bird/Byrd says you respond to pair-o-dice, look

deep into the parrot eyes.”

I did as instructed, and Buffett popped out the bird’s ruby red eyes, which

actually were dice, into his hand. “Roll your eyes high while I roll my pair-odice,”

he ordered as he rolled the dice across the table. Stopping at the deck of

cards, he picked up the jack of diamonds. “I am a jack of all trades,” he

cryptically continued. “And I trade in whatever Uncle orders. An order has

been placed. You must follow orders and go to that place. Go to the White

House Inn at the pier. Carry your laundry bag (full of cash) with you, and see

the man in black. (My Cuban contact almost always wore a conspicuous black

trench coat.) There is a launderman on the dock itself. They do all my

laundering for me, and will be expecting you. Watch for the sea-man with the

duffel bag. When you see the military green duffel bag, approach the desk.

When he says, “I need this laundered, but I do not have the time,” you say,

“Welcome to Paradise. I will make sure it is cleaned and delivered on time.”

Then give him your duffel bag of ‘laundry’ and say, “This has been properly

laundered for you”. Take the duffel bag. It will be light as a feather. Return

to the Inn and enjoy the buffet.”

Changing modes, Buffett unzipped his shorts as he asked, “Do you like a

buffet? I have a Buffett buffet for you now. And if is Paradise!”

I carried out the drug transaction as ordered, the whole ordeal lasting a

matter of minutes. A buffet was spread in the courtyard of the White House Inn

at 4:00 PM just as Buffett said it would be. But due to the food and water

deprivation necessary to maintaining my mind-controlled trance, Houston forbid

me from carrying out this last part of Buffett’s instructions,

Alex Houston Enterprises was another side business that Houston used to

cover for his CIA criminal covert activities. It included the relabelling of G.E,

capacitors for the “energy savings” companies, Queen Electric and Phase Liner,

he shared with his former wife and first CIA mind-controlled slave. She was a

Catholic processed Puerto Rican blonde beauty. These G.E. capacitor banks

were sold internationally as energy saving devices, when in fact they provided

one more means of transporting drugs from the U.S. around the world.

It was Houston’s G.E. capacitor scam that provided me insight into the

elaborate Long Island docks drug network run by U.S. Congressman Gary

Ackerman (D. NY).4 I first met Ackerman in 1981 when Houston was booked

into the Woodberry Music Festival with known CIA mind-control victim

Loretta Lynn.5 Lorctta’s road manager, Neo-Nazi pedophile Ken Riley, who

was also Alex Houston’s best friend, often assisted Houston in handling me.

Riley in turn handed my Charm School programmed keys, codes, and triggers

to Congressman Ackerman, who skillfully accessed my Alice In Wonderland

mirror theme programming. After snorting a couple of lines of coke, he

stepped into the center of a three way mirror where he positioned me and

proceeded to sexually gratify himself in my throat. Ken Riley, and other

involved members of Loretta’s band, all laughed as Ackerman stumbled around

the room while pulling his pants up from around his ankles and complaining that

he “couldn’t stand for sex like that”. The term “Ackerman syndrome” was

coined after that in reference to sex that drained a man of his energy, and

circulated among “those who know” for years.

1NCL cruise ships routinely pass through the so-called “Bermuda Triangle,” and Byrd did

not miss this opportunity to tap into old programming base installed by Senator L. Bennet

Johnston.

2When Mark and 1 turned in detailed information on this drug drop to law enforcement,

our lives were endangered to the point that a foreign Intelligence officer intervened and

subsequently saved our lives through a timely tip-off.

3 “Diamond in the Rough” was a term used to describe an MPD/DID slave actively engaged

in programming via torture conditioning.

4Congressman Ackerman’s Caribbean cocaine and Asian heroin operations have not

hindered his position on the Congressional Post Office and Civil Service Committees, nor the

Asian and Pacific Affairs Committee. It is important to note that, as a matter of Congressional

record, Ackerman openly opposed compulsory drug tests for all federal employees.

5Senator Byrd proudly claimed Loretta as his mind-controlled slave and told me, “I

literally made Loretta what she is today, and she is maid to order”. Loretta’s son and secondary

mind-control handler, Ernest Ray, told me, “I know what the Byrd did to my mother. I can get

away with murder… All I gotta do is call him and I’m free as a bird/Byrd.”

CHAPTER 9

RONALD REAGAN’S AMERICAN DREAM:

A PANDORA’S BOX OF NIGHTMARES

My mind-controlled existence became more complicated after Senator Byrd

introduced me to then President Ronald Reagan in the fall of 19821 at a White

House political party. Byrd told me, “When you meet the Chief, imagine him

with his pants down. He’s most comfortable knowing you are imagining him

with his pants down. He doesn’t want formality.” Former president Ford had

conditioned me to dread the Office of President, and I mechanically went

through the motions of meeting Reagan,

Reagan admittedly had seen the How To Divide a Personality and How so

Create a Sex Slave videos made in Huntsville, Alabama. He acted very pleased

with me as though I had participated in them willingly. Within the first few

minutes of meeting Reagan, he was giving me acting tips to utilize in

government operations and pornography!! “When you become your part, your

performance increases, which in turn increases your ability to do your part—for

your country. ‘Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can

do for your country’-your part,” he instructed. Somehow, Reagan’s reminder

of Ford’s and VanderJagt’s conditioning to Kennedy’s quote seemed more

patriotically significant than “simply” sexually entertaining politicians by

waving a flag in my bottom. After gazing deep into his self-professed

“kaleidoscope eyes,” each metaphorical phrase he spoke became life and breath

to me.

Reagan explained to me that the illegal CIA covert activities I was forced to

participate in were “justified” as they funded covert activities in Afghanistan

and Nicaragua. He explained, “America’s Freedom Train is spanning the globe

and sex is but a sidetrack to the ultimate course of freedom. Our job of

procuring and transporting arms is the most difficult part of all. But it can and

must be done. How can a man with no arms fight? These operations are

necessary as American people raise too much hell about violence already, and it

is better they’re not informed of our supporting wars they cannot understand the

significance of.”

I realize now that Reagan twisted reality to fit his personal perceptions

rather than to adhere to Byrd’s philosophy of providing “excuses” for what he

deemed “the order of things”. In typical Reagan fashion, he did not perceive

mind control as slavery, but as “an opportunity for those who otherwise would

have nothing in life”. He claimed that multigenerational incestuously abused

children like myself, or “previously impoverished baseball players from third

world countries and slums, are provided an opportunity to ‘be all they can be’

through making a ‘contra-bution’ to society, our nation, and the world, by utilizing

their talents to maximum potential.” With this altitude, Reagan displayed

pride in the sick role he played as The Wizard Of Oz, directing Project Monarch

slaves like myself.

That night. Senator Byrd acted in the capacity of a pimp and prostituted me

to Reagan. Referring to me as though I were a machine, Reagan asked Byrd,

“Does she run on chemicals?” meaning specific CIA drugs.

Byrd answered, “She takes it in spurts”. 1 noticed that Reagan’s eyes lit up

with perversion and understanding of Byrd’s statement, which meant that I

“shared” whatever drugs were in his system through his urine. Reagan later

told me he preferred sex slaves equipped for this task since he, as President,

should not have to get up in the night to urinate,

“Well,” Reagan said, holding up his glass, “All I’ve had to fuel her with is

alcohol. That’s not much of a jolt from a “whiz of a Wiz(ard).” Byrd

chuckled at Reagan’s Oz cryptic joke and removed his gold cocaine vial from

the inner pocket of his suit. He and Reagan discretely turned their backs to the

party while Byrd “spoon fed” Reagan the drug up his nose.

Before I left with Reagan, Byrd informed me that “Uncle Ronnie doesn’t

sleep with his mommy (Nancy),” and that he preferred snuggling into his LL

Bean, light blue flannel sheets in his nightshirt and ridiculous nightcap because

“they’re warmer, softer, more comfortable, and don’t snore”.

Later, in his bedroom, Reagan accessed my sexual programming, and I

became “my part” as a prostitute to “Uncle Ronnie”. Reagan did not move

during sex. After all, that was “my duty”. And my duty was to please him,

whatever it took, and it took more time than anything. Reagan never hurt me

(he always made sure someone else did that) and used this as a “bond” to the

little child (“Kitten”) personality he always accessed for sex. Reagan’s most

apparent personality kink was his love for bestiality pornography.2 According

to my handlers, his passion for pornography escalated its manufacture and

distribution during his Administration. He wholeheartedly approved and

encouraged the porn industry for funding covert activity.

Many commercial and instructional (private) pornography films I and others

participated in, referred to as “Uncle Ronnie’s Bedtime Stories,” were

manufactured solely for his pleasure-oftentimes according to his instruction,

using Freedom Train slaves. After my initial meeting with Reagan, I was used

in numerous films that were produced predominantly at Youngstown Charm

School and/or by his “Chief Pornographer”3 Michael Dante, specifically to

satisfy his perversions. These included a wide range of cryptic themes, but

were mostly bestiality. Reagan often watched the videos while I was prostituted

to him, requiring me to re-enact the porn however possible.

I first met Reagan’s Chief Pornographer Michael Dante, AKA Michael Viti,

at an elite Nashville hotel where he was attending “charity” Golf Tournament

festivities. Like CIA Operative Charlie Pride’s Pro-Am Golf Tournamenl in

Albuquerque, New Mexico, this “charity” tournament provided a cover for the

cocaine and white slavery operations that dominated the event. Houston and I

often attended such “charity” events, as did Dante, but it was only after having

met Reagan that Dante’s and my paths crossed as arranged.

Dante took me to his hotel room after our initial introduction. He snorted a

few lines of coke, looked me over as though 1 were merchandise, and accessed

my sex programming. He then arrogantly asked me if I knew who he was. He

told me he lived in Beverly Hills, California and made movies. I thought he

was referring to his box office flop, Winterhawk, until he said, “Uncle Ronnie

sent me. He wants me to make movies with you as your ‘contra-bution.’

We’re gonna have a good time, then he’s gonna have a good time, and

everybody’s happy. You’ll like that, won’t you Baby? Get dressed. We’re

going back downstairs and make arrangements.”

Dante telephoned me often, professing “our love” through command

reinforcements and making arrangements to meet me in specific places for

producing Uncle Ronnie’s Bedtime Stories and commercial porn. These

locations included, among others, Tennessee, Florida, the Caribbean, and

California. He often talked of owning me in the future, painting a picture of

what life would be like living with him. His attitude toward women was

atypical of slave owners and handlers, and he often quoted scripture to justify

his dominance. “No arguments,” “speak only when spoken to,” “take a good

beating now and then just to keep you in line,” “see to all my comforts and

housework,” and “be on call 24 hours a day when I need a good whore”. He

gave me a slave bracelet—a trademark of his porn—and said, “A woman needs a

chain. It’s a public reminder of total commitment and devotion. A reminder of

the chain-of-command. A woman is tied to her man. No man should be tied to

a woman.”

Dante’s Connecticut Italian roots are in the Mafia, and it was a wellestablished

fact that organized crime and government had a close working

relationship where criminal covert activities were concerned, I met many of

Dante’s associates, and we already shared a few common contacts who were

conduits between the Mafia and CIA. These included Congressman Guy

VanderJagt, former President Gerald Ford, then Governor of Pennsylvania Dick

Thornburgh, Congressman Jim Traficant, Congressman Gary Ackerman, and

Ronald Reagan.

Dame related to me, “When Reagan was Governor (of California), we went

to Dodger (baseball) games together and sat in the Press Box. I got to know

him real well and we got along. So, he and Tommy (LaSorda, Dodger manager

and their mutual friend) and I would continue partying after the game. I

brought him a few girls (slaves) and we did business. Really. Tommy LaSorda

brought us together-you’ll like him. I’ll take you to meet him. We’ll go to

games together all the time, every chance we get. You’ll love that, won’t you,

Baby? You like a Press Box, Baby? Dick says you do.” I wasn’t surprised

that Dick Thornburgh had talked about his previous, perverse sexual activity

with me at a baseball game back East any more than I was surprised to learn

that Dante knew Thornburgh through their mutual political and baseball ties.

Dick Thomburgh was Governor of Pennsylvania during my tenure as a

Presidential Model mind-controlled slave. He used his influence to bring

Houston into Pennsylvania state and county fairs year after year for the purposes

of cocaine and pornography distribution, as well as for prostitution of me to him

on a regular basis. Thornburgh was a heavy cocaine user, and was deeply

involved in CIA covert activities-particularly Project Monarch. He was a firm

believer in mind control, not only for sex training and government operations,

but for sports. An avid baseball fan, Thornburgh had much to share with

Reagan, Dante and LaSorda,

I had been giving Handwriting Analysis lectures on NCL’s Norway cruise

ship (my cover for covert operation) in 1987, and Thornburgh and his friend

Chicago Cubs Baseball Scout Jim Zerilla were in attendance. Afterward,

Zerilla offered me a job with the Baseball Commission analyzing handwriting of

their “million dollar babies” baseball players before they were signed up.

Thomburgh explained that the job may not fit into my schedule. Nevertheless,

we met on several occasions during the course of the cruise, always for sex, but

business was discussed as well.

My programmed mind contained a “baseball computer” that was created for

Reagan, and used by many including Thornburgh. LaSorda, Dante”, and Zerilla.

It was packed with the binds of statistics in which they were interested; the

codes, keys, triggers and hand signals of certain mind-controlled baseball

players. Zerilla and Thomburgh were cruising en route to the Dominican

Republic to the CIA baseball mind-control farm to scout out new slaves. They

talked excitedly about the prospect of winning large sums of money through

gambling on rigged games. I had been aware for years that many pro players,

particularly LaSorda’s Dodgers, were mind-controlled and triggered to win or

lose according to their owners’ bets and favors. The Dodgers, Reagan’s

“favorite American pastime” ball team continuously won, including the World Series

during his Administration. The Mafia was in on the bet rigging, and

information was passed to certain ones through Thornburgh and others as

gleaned from my “baseball computer” programming.4

To this day I am not certain who instigated the plastic surgery to which I

was forcibly subjected, but soon after meeting Reagan and Dante I was

scheduled for breast implants. Perhaps it was done for pornography. Perhaps it

was Reagan’s preference. I tend to believe it was a combination of the two and

ordered since my breasts were no longer lactating. In the first commercial porn

film Reagan had directed Dante to produce in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands

my breasts were still tender and swollen from silicone implant surgery.

My appearance was not the only “make over” I endured after meeting

Reagan. Aquino and I were called to Washington, D.C. to revise my base core

programming to override Senator Byrd’s control for security reasons. Since

Reagan had been shot, he took extra precautions to ensure his safety which

included directing Aquino as to how he wanted rne programmed. Much to

Aquino’s dismay and embarrassment, Reagan admired the occult role that this

Army Lt. Colonel played for mind-control traumatization purposes, as it fit in

with the public promotion of religion Reagan had launched. Reagan claimed to

believe that the masses were easiest to manipulate through their religion, as

were mind-controlled slaves like myself.

While Reagan had Aquino in D.C., he demanded that he wear his black

ritual robes to a White House party to reinforce the controlling superstitions of a

few South/Central American diplomats. Aquino appeared foolish in the eyes of

his peers. They knew Aquino’s image was only a guise for Psychological

Warfare, but his appearance at the White House in costume made Aquino look

like he believed his own facade. Aquino got even with Reagan. Minutes before

I was prostituted to Reagan that evening, Aquino ordered me into a closed side

room where he very quickly had intercourse with me. When he finished

ejaculating, he slapped me on the behind and disrespectfully said, “Take that to

the Chief.

Earlier that day, Reagan instructed Aquino how to program me in keeping

with “spin” programming depicted in the “How to” videos. “Program it,”

Reagan said, referring to me as though I were an object, “under number one. I

like the number one. It’s the first, the best, and it promotes confidence—like

‘I’ve won’,” I observed Aquino giving him the intellectually disgusted look he

reserved for anyone with the fortitude to make a suggestion to him, but

tempered his reaction by giving some thought to the request. Since the “How

to” videos showed the 6th revolution to “ignite the heat of hell” for sex, no one

would suspect I had sex programming under the first revolution. It would take

some modification of my initial programming, but Aquino was sold on the idea.

By programming me according to Reagan’s instruction, Aquino would be able

to provide added protection for Reagan whereby any program I was under at the

time would immediately become replaced by Reagan’s number one as quickly as

I saw him. This effective safety measure infuriated Byrd the first time he saw

me instantaneously switch out of his control in Reagan’s presence.

Additionally, Reagan discussed how Aquino could use me on various

military and government installations to provide “Hands-On Mind-Control

Demonstrations” of the “latest advancements in training” by displaying the

diversity of my “Presidential Model” programming. Reagan said the Hands On

Demonstrations could “educate our boys in the military to the wonders of the

mind-control phenomena.” “Hands On” meant my sex programming would be

used to “peak their interests and lock (bond) them in.” After all, “entertaining

the troops is a long time American tradition.” Aquino did the programming,

and Reagan began making arrangements for the demonstrations—which brought

me back around to Dick Cheney. Cheney would be acting in the capacity of my

“Commander” for the Hands-On Mind-Control Demonstrations and other covert

operations from then on.

1Since I had no concept of time under mind control, the ’80s seemed like one long day to

me, whereby discerning exact dates is extremely difficult. Furthermore, I was programmed to

believe that every encounter with certain individuals was “the first time”. I do know that I had

been conditioned and programmed in preparation for Reagan since 1978 ai NASA’s Cape

Canavaral in Titusville, Florida.

2Reagan preferred illicit pornography videos such as bestiality, while his favorite

pornographic magazine was Larry Flynt’s Hustler.

3 Although Hollywood’s Dante rivaled Larry Flynt for the title of “Chief Pornographer”

producing video versions of Hustler’s stills, Flynt was unequivocally the official White House

Pornographer. Dante’s covert filming of political perversion for blackmail purposes failed to

gain him the international notoriety Flynt maintained through his New World Order collogues

such as Presidents Reagan, Bush, and Ford; CIA Director Bill Casey; U.N. Amhossador

Madeleine Albright; Senators Byrd and Specter; Congressmen Trafficant and VanderJagt;

Governors Thornburgh, Blanchard and Alexander; and various World Leaders such as Prime

Minister of Canada Mulroney, President of Mexico de la Madrid, and Saudi Arabian King

Fahd…to name a few…

4Having been out of circulation since my rescue did not preclude my ability to “predict”

winners according to political favors: from George Bush, Jr’S Texas Rangers to the Toronto

Blue Jays’ victory during the Canadian political heal of NAFTA.

CHAPTER 10

“COMMANDER” DICK CHENEY & REAGAN’S

“HANDS ON MIND-CONTROL DEMONSTRATIONS”

Please note: In order to maintain the integrity of documenting my experiences

using precise and photographic detail, I have recorded events and

quotes as they occurred in reality. Please excuse any offensive and foul

language, but this is the way Cheney presented himself,

1 was attending another White House cocktail party where, as usual, I was

taken aside for a meeting and escorted to a large office. There, Reagan and

Cheney were having their “before cocktail party” cognacs, and Reagan’s cheeks

were already flushed. He was in a hurry and quickly explained the purpose of

the meeting,

“You’re the kind of girl who could hold a man in line. (He was cryptically

referring to the lines of military personnel I was forced to have sex with.)

That’s why I’ve selected you to tour a few Air Force Bases with the Colonel

(Aquino) and demonstrate for our boys in the service what a Presidential Model

is trained for, a kind of ‘hands on’ demonstration. But you’ll have to audition

for the role.” Reagan drained his glass and gestured toward Cheney as he

strode for the door, adding, “Do what he says. He’s your commander.”

It had been eight years since I had been hunted and brutalized by Cheney in

Wyoming, and apparently he wanted to see how my programming had

progressed before agreeing to use me in Reagan’s “Hands-On Mind-Control

Demonstrations”. He grabbed me roughly by the hair and slung me onto a

black leather chair, tipping my head backwards over the high studded arm.

“Audition here,” he snarled. Since I last saw him, 1 had undergone Wizard Of

Oz Tin Man programming, which he accessed to accommodate his large, thick

penis. He placed his hands on my jaw while he said, “Soon we’ll have you

purring like a wetl oiled machine. All of your moving parts are pivotal and

gliding with ease. Melt into my hands. I’ll hold your jaw to keep it from

slipping while you slip through a window in lime.” He then jerked my jaw out

of joint, and roughly gratified himself in my throat.1

As he lit his cigarette, I slowly regained focus enough to realize I was in

pain. The back of my head hurt from being thrust into the studs on the chair,

and I slowly lifted my head. My owner, Senator Byrd, had just walked in and

realized Cheney had already completed the “audition”. Referring to

compartmentalizing my memory via stun gun high voltage, Byrd asked, “Did

you fry her?”

Cheney, ‘cocksure’ of himself as always, answered. “She can’t have fucked

all of Washington” (indicating that no one would believe me anyway, even if I

did reach this point and talk). Cheney put out his cigarette and said as he went

out the door, “She’ll work. Tell Ronnie she’ll work.”

When Byrd saw that my lips were bleeding, he called Cheney a “son of a

bitch” under his breath, as this damage would prevent my fulfilling other

assignments that were planned for me. Byrd touched his finger to my swollen

lips and tasted the blood (and Cheney) several times. Then he slapped me hard

across the face, which re-aligned my jaw but caused more blood to flow down

my chin. He took a box of tissues from the desk and threw it at me, the corner

hitting me in the forehead. “Wipe yourself up. You’re just getting started. I’ll

see to it you get what you’ve got coming to you.”

Fortunately for me, Byrd had cause to return to the formal cocktail party

and did not have time to brutalize me further. My face was battered, mouth

torn, and my throat felt torn and stretched. I had difficulty swallowing for

some time, and could not speak. I certainly was in no condition to return to the

cocktail party, and was escorted out by agents/guards.

Before I could leave Washington, Byrd made good on his threat and

arranged for me to meet with Cheney in a blue bedroom in a part of the White

House so remote that “no one could hear my screams and moans”. But Cheney

implemented Oz theme “Silence” conditioning anyway as he proceeded to

brutally sexually assault me.

“Byrd tells me you need a good whipping. But I’m not certain which

instrument you prefer, so I brought them all.” Cheney had a riding crop, a

whip, and a cat-o-nine-tails laid out on the bed. He beat me quick and hard as

though he were releasing his tensions rather than savoring my pain like Byrd

did. I regained consciousness when Cheney slid a pillow under my neck,

steered me by the hair, and bent my head back. Survival instinct kicked in

when he positioned himself above my head, I hoped to satisfy him before he

became deadly brutal again. But he quickly pulled out his liquid cocaine

sprayer, sprayed my throat, then proceeded to get rough. At one point he

yanked my head aside and asked, “Was that a tooth?” and grinned. It was

imperative that 1 kept my teeth off him because, according to Aquino’s

programming instruction, I was subject to death if a tooth was ever felt by

anyone. Cheney knew this was my programming and manipulated me with it

often. I resumed “satisfying him as though my life depended upon it, because,

of course, it did.” This is another Aquino programming line Cheney knew and

used. When he was gratified, he flopped over and slept. I had been instructed

to leave immediately because Cheney absolutely did not want me near him when

he slept (some insiders say he is paranoid), and I began dressing. I was

escorted out.

In preparation for ”running bases” for Reagan’s Hands-On Mind-Control

Demonstrations, I underwent a great deal of programming by both Aquino and

Cheney. Cheney laid the ground rules while Aquino carried out Uie

programming derail and performed the demonstration with me on various

military and NASA installations.

Reagan wanted the demonstrations to include all programming depicted in

the “How to” films, additional programming instilled since the videos were

made, delivery of drugs when applicable, and sex according to Aquino’s

instruction with whomever/however many were present at the lecture. Cheney’s

personal “touch” to the demonstrations was to have me programmed to

vaginally internally electric prod myself with a high voltage cylindrical cattle

prod-truly an example of total mind control.

I was routinely escorted arm-in-arm “Oz style” by two agents to Cheney’s

downstairs office in the Pentagon. Sometimes Byrd took me in. Other times

Cheney walked me through the building, particularly if we were going to his

“Bunkhouse” personal quarters. Cheney’s office was equipped with black

leather furniture, a huge messy brown desk, massive book shelves, and an hour

glass that he always used in keeping with Oz programming, to assure me that

my life was on the line under his command. As a programmed MPD, I had no

concept of time. The hour glass was a visible way for me to see “my time.

runing out” and actually grasp the concept.

The first time I reported in, Cheney shuffled through the clutter on his desk,

picked up a paper and began reading:

“Number one. I am NOT your friend, and I don’t want to see you unless I

order you to report in. Number two. Follow the Colonel’s (Aquino) orders, as

it is the chain of command. What he orders you to do, is a command from me,

follow it to the letter, as though your life depends upon it, because (he looked

up and grinned wickedly) of course, it does.” His cold eyes bore into mine as

he walked around to the front of his desk, “Any questions?”

I knew he “was NOT my friend,” but he already “saw me” sexually on other

occasions. I was perplexed and hesitated. Even though I remained silent,

Cheney sensed my hesitation and became enraged. He got up in my face,

poked my breast bone with his finger and roared, “Don’t even THINK to

question anything I say! There is no question as to what I do, what I think, or

what I say, because 1 am absolutely above questions-especially YOURS!! Your

orders are clear. Now get out of here! I have work to do!”

Throughout the next three years, U.S. Army Lt. Colonel Aquino used me in

the Hands On Demonstrations on numerous Army, Navy, Air Force, and

NASA installations across the U.S. according to Reagan’s plan and Cheney’s

orders. The Top Brass privy to the demonstrations ranged from three at a time

to roughly twenty. In closing, Aquino always “persuaded” them to line up

while I was forced to perform sexually on command with each one. The larger

groups were physically painful, while the smaller groups often involved

unapproved variance from the routine, such as revealing Reagan’s bestiality

perversions. The wide array of “switching” my personalities that Aquino

incorporated into the demonstrations, and the vast amount of high voltage and

torture to which I was subjected, left me exhausted and physically devastated for

days after each one of Reagan’s Hands-On Mind-Control Demonstrations.

1My jaw is permanently damaged From Cheney. I have chronic TMJ.

CHAPTER 11

“POPPA” PHTLIP HABIB

My (CIA operative) handler, Alex Houston was scheduled to perform with

country music entertainer Loretta Lynn at the Playboy Club in Atlantic City,

New Jersey in the spring of 1985, and he admittedly did not want me there for

the performance. He explained that after his show, he intended to “dress up

like a carrot as lunch for the Bunnies” and I would only be in his way. But 1

had White House business to attend with a different land of “rabbit”. Reagan

had arranged for me to meet with his personal attache”, Philip Habib (now

deceased), who always played the cryptic rote of the Alice In Wonderland White

Rabbit to mind-controlled slaves. Houston had no choice but to take me along

once the orders came down.

CIA operative Ken Riley, the Neo-Nazi pedophile who functioned in the

capacity of Loretta Lynn’s road manager and Project Monarch Mind-Control

handler, was Alex Houston’s closest friend. Riley often made arrangements

through Loretta’s and Houston’s shared talent agent, Reggie Maclaughlin, for

all of us to travel together—particularly when it involved government covert

operations such as this Playboy Club gig did. Loretta’s singing career and

political ties into CIA covert operations have always been synonymous. Riley

escorted her in and out of the White House on numerous occasions during the

Reagan Administration, By natural attrition, this put Riley in a secondary role

as a “backup” handler for me as he often returned from D.C. with orders for

and/or concerning me. Houston and Riley shared much: CIA covert operations,

country music interests, Neo-Nazi and U.S. Government mind control, Project

Monarch methodologies, slave running1, pornography, cocaine, and pedophile

activities. Kelly and Riley’s young daughter were often filmed pornographically

together, and endured the sexual assaults of Houston and Riley2 together on

numerous occasions.

This trip to Atlantic City provided me an opportunity to talk with Loretta

while her husband, Mooney, Riley and Houston met for business. Loretta and I

had so much in common that our time together had been restricted from the

time we met in Minneapolis, Minnesota in 1981 and discussed our

victimizations.3 While alone in Loretta’s dressing room at the Playboy Club,

we discussed a wide range of topics from motherhood to the White House. We

talked about Reagan in terms of his role as The Wizard Of Oz, but mostly we

recited the general praises we were trained to say. We talked about Reagan’s

“favorite” music by Air Supply, which he had supplied to us both via Riley.

Air Supply’s cryptic NASA/Project Monarch theme recordings became “life and

breath” to us both according to Reagan’s intention, which locked in our

programmed devotion for him. We discussed the recent Inauguration party

Loretta had attended at the White House. (I was aware she had entertained

there as Houston relayed information to Riley pertaining to his recent trip to

Panama to meet with Panamanian Dictator and CIA operative Manuel Noriega

in order that Riley deliver the information to Reagan during the Inauguration

party.)

Loretta and I switched personalities spontaneously as we inadvertently

triggered each other with the shared cryptic language to which we were

accustomed. We discussed forbidden subjects including Noriega and Byrd until

J Riley and Houston caught us and separated us as though we were a couple of

naughty kids. I learned more than I was supposed to about Loretta while in

Atlantic City, but was never permitted another opportunity to speak with her so

freely.

This trip to Atlantic City was multi-purpose, which was not unusual for

government operations in which I was forced to participate. I had a major

cocaine transaction involving Noriega to attend at the airport; a message to

deliver to Philip Habib pertaining to the Contras, and another programmed in

by Habib in answer to Reagan; country music “entertainment” aspects; and

prostitution to Habib according to Reagan’s instruction.4

As the sun was setting over Atlantic City, Houston activated the Project

Monarch Oz programming that was used for high level covert operations, and

had me dress accordingly. I wore real and faux diamonds to signify my

“Presidential Model” business role, rubies to signify my Oz programmed

prostitution personality, and emeralds to signify my Oz programmed drug

business. This physically indicated to my contact(s) which mode of operation 1

was under at the rime. Rarely did I wear all three indicators at once, but they

certainly applied in this operation with Habib. Houston led me down the

waterfront boardwalk toward the hotel casino where I was to meet Habib,

walking like the Oz Scarecrow and singing, “Follow the Yellow Brick Road”,

Houston led me up the elaborate escalators of the hotel to a high stakes

gambling area where Habib was playing cards. The guard at the door did not let

Houston through, and I was sent to Habib’s table on my own. When I

approached, Habib leaned back in his chair to hear while I quietly recited in Oz

cryptic, “I’ve come such a long, long way to see you, Uncle Ronnie sent you

something.”

“What would that be?” he asked loudly as he leered at me and chuckled. I

could not respond because 1 was under heavy program. He handed me his room

key and pulled me close as he hypnotically whispered, “Use the key. Put it in

the lock. Turn. Open the door, and step through a window in time.” The other

gamblers at Habib’s table were getting impatient, and I quickly exited the

gambling room.

When I arrived in Habib’s room, two of his bodyguards accessed my

programming. “Chiefly speaking,” I began reciting Reagan’s message.

Arrangements were made for the two guards to pick up a fair sized shipment of

cocaine the next morning that was arriving on a small military “brass” airplane.

Houston and I would then board the plane and fly to D.C. where 1 would

complete my part of this operation;

When Habib arrived, he ushered me into the bedroom part of the suite and

began disrobing, down to his boxer shorts and gartered socks. Referring to a

recent Dante porn film I was used in, he said, “1 liked your ruffled tennis

panties…” then threw me a pink teddy and ruffled panties resembling the tennis

outfit commanding, “Put it on.” I complied. He threw me a stuffed toy cat on

the pillows and explained, “That kitten is going to keep this Kitten (pointing to

me) from screaming. We’re going to play Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.”

(S&M games) Habib physically resembled the violent Alice In Wonderland

characters, especially in his boxer shorts. The hysterical controlled laughter that

rose in my throat would only have intensified his abuse and was (fortunately)

choked back by terror as he begun attaching heavy rope ties to the four posters

of the bed. On command, I crawled onto the bed and lay on my stomach while

he tied me so tightly I was stretched. He shoved the stuffed cat under my

mouth, then entered me roughly from behind and said, “Come to Poppa”. The

intense pain as he brutally sodomized me was outweighed by a high voltage

stun gun as he jolted me repeatedly to create the perverse jerking movements

and rectal muscle constrictions he desired. I soon passed out from the blinding

high voltage of his stun gun. It was nearly 3:00 AM when I stumbled out the

door with the stuffed cat in my hands, nauseated, disoriented, and in extreme

pain. The cool, ocean breeze helped revive me as Houston marched me back to

the Playboy Club.

Houston knew I had been programmed with a message for Reagan that I

would deliver the next morning in D.C. As usual, he began to access it

immediately. His quick timing somehow permitted him to penetrate the

electricity and programmed codes (designed to keep the information repressed)

and accessed the information. Houston kept a written record of any messages he

was able to access (along with photos and ledgers) for his personal profit and

future blackmailing purposes, should he need to protect himself. In this case, I

surmise from Houston’s Panama activities, conversations I overheard between

him and Riley, and my recollection of the messages he accessed, that his

purpose in extracting this information was for his personal profit in backdoor

dealings with Noriega. I understood it was these kinds of dealings that

eventually contributed to Noriega’s downfall with the CIA.

Morning arrived before I was allowed to sleep, and I felt exhausted and

“spacey” as I waited by the curb for Habib’s bodyguards to pick Houston and

me up and take us to the airport, A small military airplane was parked in a

restricted fenced in area as we arrived at the airport. The two bodyguards

conducted their business and quickly loaded the trunk with the bundles of

cocaine as planned. Houston and I boarded the airplane and flew to

Washington, D.C. where I delivered Habib’s message to Reagan. The bank

transaction numbers later checked out to be a Cayman Island account number.

Philip Habib was directly involved in various DIA/CIA Operations I was

forced to participate in throughout the Reagan/Bush Administrations, Although

Dick Cheney maintained his role as my Commander for these Operations,

Habib directed my actions where International “Diplomatic Relations” were

concerned, Cheney orchestrated events from behind his desk, whereas Habib

was active in the field as Reagan’s attache’.

The following Operations, documented in their entirety from my experience

perspective only, most likely involve other aspects to which I am not privy. In

typical DIA/CIA manner, scam “need to know’ information resulted in the “left

hand not knowing what the right hand was doing.” Nevertheless, the overall

criminal purpose of Operation Carrier Pigeon and Operation Shell Game,

documented herein, does not change.

1Riley, over time, owned several slaves.

2Riley, like my father, Wayne Cox, and other, remains apparently immune from prosecution for

his crimes against children and humanity, as it is considered a matter of “‘National Security” under

the 1984 Reagan Amendment to the National Security Act.

3I still have the handwritten note from Loretta that prompted out forbidden conversation and I

hope that someday Loretta will gain the piece/peace-of-mind that comes with rehabilitation.

4In the course of deprogramming, I found retrieval of this information much quicker than it

would have been had Houston not accessed it previously, against government policy, and for his

own personal gain.

CHAPTER 12

OPERATION CARRIER PIGEON

The term “Pigeon” is one with which I have been familiar since the early

1980s when I first began delivering messages between my “owner” Senator

Byrd and Puerto Rican drug lord and CIA operative, Jose Busto. Houston had

simply explained to me then, as we fed the flock of pigeons roosting at the Old

San Juan Cathedral, that Pigeons were used as messengers. The DIA’s U.S.

Army Lt. Colonel Michael Aquino often activated my Pigeon programming

during the Hands-On Mind-Control Demonstrations.

Dick Cheney further defined the term “Pigeon” when I learned of Operation

Carrier Pigeon in the mid ’80s. He said, “You have been selected from the

flock (of programmed slaves) for the Carrier Pigeon Operation for the purpose

of carrying messages from point A to point B as ordered. Pigeons, once they

fly the coop, find no freedom in flight, but carry out their task of delivering

their message from point A to point B by the shortest possible route—a direct

route. I will direct your route and you will deliver messages as ordered.”

But no one defined my role as a Pigeon more eloquently that President

Reagan during the course of Operation Carrier Pigeon.

The cryptic “pigeon language” utilized by all participants in the operation

was intermixed with The Wizard Of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, and “Genie in the

Bottle” cryptic programming themes. While Pigeon meant messenger, “Carrier

Pigeon” referred to the U.S. Air Force aircraft that actually transported the

arms and drugs. “Pigeon Droppings” included the sometimes multi-national

dispersal of the arms and drugs after they reached their destination. “Pigeon

Holing” meant covering up the criminal activity. These definitions, as I

understood them then and understand them now, may well include deeper, more

diverse meanings than I have perceived.

Habib’s favorite programming theme was Alice In Wonderland, Through

The Looking Glass due to its international recognition and relation to the ultraeffective

NASA mirror, time, and infinity space programs for instantly

dissociating programmed participants. He habitually spoke in Alice In

Wonderland cryptic language, and even used it for sex as was evidenced by his

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum brutal games of perversion. Due to Habib’s

orchestration of Operation Carrier Pigeon, this CIA covert operation was

littered with Wonderland mirror themes from beginning to end.

My CIA handler, Alex Houston had just returned from a brief solo trip “to

Florida” with an elaborately wrapped box. “it’s from a friend of yours,” he told

me as he handed me the box. “Let’s go into the bedroom so you can unwrap it

and see it through the “Looking Class’.” Cryptically triggered, I mechanically

walked to the bedroom as ordered.

I removed the silver metallic bow and wrappings from the box and Found an

expensive, elegant dress made of an unusual shimmery silver fabric. A sheet of

plain white stationary written in Philip Habib’s recognizable shaded blue script

lay on top of the dress. It read:

The heat you radiated when we last met

melted my mirror.

I had it made into a dress just for you,

cut to accentuate your figure

so that when you melt into it,

You lose yourself into

the pool of liquid mirror.

Step into the Looking Glass

Sink deep within its pool

and straddle dimensions in time.

I’ll see you there…

along with my friends.

It was signed: “Passionately, Phil Habib,” with his name written upside

down under a line as though it were a mirror reflection.

Houston knew there would be a note, and ordered “Let me see your note,”

snatching it from my hands. He gestured toward the dress. “Go ahead and try

it on while I read this note. Now let’s see, what does it say? ‘Come to

Poppa’?”

I took the dress from the box. It did not feel like anything I’d ever felt

before. It was cold like satin, but thin like silk. I started crying quietly, afraid

that Habib would somehow show up if I had it on.

“Put it on and I ‘ l l zip you in,” Houston said as he took another note from

his wallet and read it as I undressed:

There’s a pair of magic shoes to wear with your dress,

Something in-lightening,

to transport you faster than the ol’ ruby slippers (Oz)

The shoes, like the dress, are made just for you,

and when you wear them you’ll be fit for a King,

I’ll send them for you at the appropriate lime.

Houston tucked the note back in his wallet, “See. You’re not going

anywhere now. You’ll meet him at the White House when you have shoes to

wear with it. Just slip it on.”

I did. Houston accessed Habib’s Wonderland brutal sex programming for

his own gratification. Afterwards I hung the dress in Kelly’s closet with my

other trigger-significant clothes; out of sight, out of mind. Until the shoes

arrived…

Habib “sent the shoes for me” soon afterward. They were shiny black with

what appeared to be silver lightening bolts down the high heels and sides. In

place of dinner thai night, Houston gave me a “Wonderland Wafer” (MDHMAXTC

CIA designer drug “Ecstasy”). The wafer, like all those supplied by

Habib, bore his trademark that read “Eat me”. I began to prepare for the night

out as instructed. Houston zipped me into the dress, and turned me to face the

mirror. As I slipped into the shoes, Houston took another note from Habib out

of his pocket and read:

Something in-lightening to tranceport you faster

than the ol’ ruby slippers.

Click your heels together (I obeyed) and be there in a snap.

Electrifying-with the rumble of thunder.

Boiling through time

So you won’t be late for a very important date.

Houston hit me with his stun gun and I passed out. He then drove me to the

Nashville airport where I boarded a small plane to Washington, D.C.

I found myself at the White House with Byrd, attending another small

cocktail party of about 20-30 people. After we spoke with Reagan, Byrd

pointed me in the direction of Philip Habib and sent me over to him. My eyes

were locked on Habib’s as he hypnotically said:

Melt into your melted mirror

for an electrifying ride.

Look deep into the black

of my melting mirror eyes,

See you reflecting me, reflecting you,

reflecting me–you-me–you-me

until we melt together and sink deep

into the other side.

Habib took me to a quieter spot in an adjoining room and held up another

wonderland Wafer as he said in Alice In Wonderland cryptic, “Welcome to

Wonderland, Kitten. This is a very important date. I haven’t time to explain.?

He gave me the wafer and continued, “Eat it, and I’ll take you through the

door.”

Habib took me by the hand and led me to the doorway of another room. It

was a dining room of sorts where an informal array of guests was gathered. As

soon as Habib appeared in the doorway, King Fahd of Saudi Arabia quickly

excused himself from the table and approached. He was wearing a multicolored

robe and headwear with a black-brown rope band. I was instantly repulsed by

his “wicked” lecherous gaze, I stepped back into the other room in fear. Habib

introduced him. “This is one of ‘my friends’ I mentioned in my letter.”

I robotically responded, “It’s a pleasure to meet you” and extended my hand

as taught in Charm School. Fahd bent over to kiss my hand. As he did, his

evil black eyes bore into mine as he softly said, “Your beauty warms my

embers. See them glowing deep within the darkness of my eyes-igniting into

flame-black flame.” He laughed wickedly at the effect of his use of NASA

hypnotic conditioning,

Habib slapped him on the shoulder as though they knew each other well and

there were no formalities between them and asked, “Am I right? Is that fit for a

King?”‘

The three of us went into another room that appeared to be a guest bedroom

that Habib was occupying. He closed the door and told me, “Diplomatic

relations are very important. You know the old saying ‘when in Rome do as

Romans do’. Well, he’s a King. Get on your knees. His wish is your

command. Satisfy his deepest wishes. It’s your turn for a magic carpet ride, so

turn your Genie free.”

Fahd was sitting in a chair by a coffee table. As I knelt on the carpel in

front off him, his piercing black eyes seemed to stab into my brain like swords.

I could not turn away. He stroked my neck with his index finger, activating

oral sex programming. “I have heard about you and am in-tent on having you.”

Somehow he found the slit in his robes and parted it as he continued, “Come

into my tent- A feast has been spread for you.” He spread his legs and exposed

his penis—one of the nastiest I had ever seen—like a black nightcrawler worm

that smelled and tasted strongly of spice. Habib watched as I carried out my

orders, much to the pleasure of Fahd,

Then Habib went to the chest of drawers and began pulling out his electric

prod and bondage equipment as he explained. “Now let me introduce you to my

other ‘friend’. I need to bottle up a message with your Genie and send it out to

sea. You know what to do. Begin undressing now.”

I did as I was told and lay on my stomach on the bed while Habib

sodomized me. He used his electric prod equipment and programmed me with

a message to deliver to General Manuel Noriega while on an upcoming NCL

cruise.

I was at sea on board an NCL cruise ship bound for their private island in

the Bahamas, Stirrup Cay, which was to be my rendezvous point with Noriega,

“Bottled up” in my mind through the recent ‘Genie in the Bottle’ programming,

was a cryptic message from King Fahd to Noriega. It was a moonless night

whereby the Caribbean waters appeared as black as the night. I could not

distinguish the sky from the sea in accordance with NASA hypnotic

conditioning. T gazed, totally entranced, from the rear of the cruise ship.

Houston used the opportunity to hypnotically enhance Habib’s previous programming,

while traumatizing me with the threat of being thrown overboard.

The thought of “treacling water in the inky blackness while the lights of the ship

fade further-and further–away-until all is black and I sink-to the depths of the

sea” did not seem so horrible in tight of the fact that I was to be the bearer of

bad news to Noriega in the morning.

Upon arrival to NCL’s Stirrup Cay, Houston and I began our usual walking

trek to the farthest end of the island where the CIA operations radio station and

equipment were located. In a hidden cove on the island’s back side was a

smaller island of sufficient size to conceal Noriega’s personal yacht, anchored

behind it. As Houston and I made our way along the cove’s beach, we came

upon an old wooden boat half buried in the sand and a man sitting beside it.

Because I was in a different personality, I did not recognize the man as my

contact who ran the Stirrup Cay control lower for drug trafficking and covert

activity. 1 asked him how he got there. He began his charade, which, due to

the depths of my trance, I believed in its literal text, while Houston heard quite

a different story:

“I shipwrecked.” John (the name I called him) pointed to the boat half

buried in the sand, “That’s all that is left of my boat.”

I asked, “Why haven’t you been rescued?”

He cryptically replied, “I sent a message in a bottle and I expect a response

real soon. Good thing I had these coconuts (he was carving one) and all that

‘sugar’ in the hull to sustain me.”

Houston laughed, immediately realizing that ‘sugar’ meant cocaine and said,

surprised, “In the hull?” as he bent down to look inside the wreck. I looked,

too. There was more white cocaine and (dark) cocaine paste than I could mule

(carry) in one walking haul, even wilh both of my tote bags full. But I could

not comprehend reality in the midst of this charade, and therefore commented

that he was fortunate that both the “white and brown sugar” had made it through.

the wreck.

Houston said, “So, they cast you away, huh?”

My contact laughed and sniffed, “Yeah, cast me away with all that ‘sugar’—

that’s nothing to sniff at.” He looked up as Houston informed him a speedboat

was approaching, 1 looked out across the cove beyond the little island and

finally noticed Noriega’s yacht. A “black mirror” finish speed boat, which

matched the upper smoke glass windows of Noriega’s yacht, was approaching.

John told me, “Probably has something to do wilh that message I sent. Help me

wave him in.” I did. He handed me a coconut and, using it as a scramble and

excuse for me to join him on Noriega’s yacht, persuaded me to board the speed

boat with him. Houston stayed behind to guard the cocaine that had obviously

already been delivered from Noriega’s yacht.

When we pulled up to the rear of the yacht, I was helped on board by

Noriega’s armed guards. I noticed there did not seem to be any big parties

going on as was customary, and Noriega seemed unusually abrupt and

businesslike. He was not drunk this time. Upon command from John, I

delivered Fahd’s message:

“1 am under command to deliver a message from King Fahd. The

Caribbean is becoming volatile. Trouble in Jamaica, Trouble in Cuba, Even

trouble in Panama. Dominican Republic must be launching point for missiles

and artillery that are being channeled though Cuba. Concluding arms deal,

Carrier Pigeon must be detained until all transactions are cleared. Banco de

Panama to receive Contra Aid after all steps leading to me have been swept

away by the shifting sands (of Lime), and all pigeon droppings pigeon holed.

Our business is concluded. Let us part on friendly terms,”

My personal perceptions of history as it happened in reality remains

somewhat distorted, as I had no access to “news” outside of my mind-comrolled

environment. In order to keep my memory retrieval free of contamination, I

completed the deprogramming process before “educating” myself through books

And news. I have since learned that what was reported as news was often

distorted propaganda, and many events were never reported at all. Therefore, I

do not know of the “troubles in Jamaica and Cuba” to which King Fahd

referred. I was aware, however, that due to outside scrutiny, Houston had

recently met with Jamaican officials in Kingston pertaining to ceasing the long

standing criminal covert operations. As for Cuba, 1 only knew that I was no

longer meeting with my Cuban contact. In Panama, I knew Noriega himself

was the object of controversy. The “arms deal” was the final stage of Operation

Carrier Pigeon where the planes were to wait in Saudi Arabia until all bank

transactions were cleared and the load was ready for disbursement. Saudi

Arabian King Fahd would then fund the Contras via Noriega for Reagan after

all evidences had been properly covered up—just as he had done in Afghanistan.

After the shipment, there would be no further deals through Noriega involving

Fahd, because Noriega could no longer be trusted. Besides, Fahd had increased

diplomatic relations with Mexico for covert operations, and Iran-Contra was just

beginning to heat up.

Noriega did not seem to be upset by the news of losing Saudi Arabian

business, although he was somber and took some time to respond. His

translator was working over some complex computer equipment after I

delivered the message. I left Noriega’s yacht with John and a brief message for

Dick Cheney at the Pentagon.

Back on Stirrup Cay, Houston was anxiously waiting to begin transporting

the cocaine back to the party area of the island. There, NCL workers were

cleaning up from the cruise ship’s beach party cookout, which was NCL’s

excuse to stop the ship. After I muled the first heavy load of cocaine in my tote

sacks, Houston approached one worker familiar with the drug operation and

informed him we had a heavier load than usual and needed to make another trip.

The worker directed us to a huge empty food container used for transporting

cook out supplies from the ship, and gave us the key. We locked the first load

in the container, and I took my empty tote sacks, plus another straw bag back.

for another haul. With the second load, Houston even carried some cocaine:

himself. We had to run quite a distance through the island woods in an attempt

to make it back to the ship’s shuttle before scheduled departure time. When we

arrived, the beach was nearly deserted, as all the passengers had been taken

back to the ship. All that remained was the food container and the NCL worker

who was hurrying us onto the shuttle and on board the ship, which was waiting

for us.

When the cruise ship docked at the Port of Miami, Puerto Rican drug lord

and CIA operative Jose Busto was acting as a U.S. Immigrations officer

(commissioned by the Drug Enforcement Agency through the CIA), which he

often did for NCL. Busto helped us clear ship undetected with the large load

of cocaine. The drugs were packed into suitcases, then loaded into Houston’s

specially made motor home which was parked in NCL’s guarded, restricted

parking lot. Most of the cocaine was dropped off as usual at Warner Robbins

Air Force Base in Macon, Georgia, to be distributed to destinations unknown to

me. The money generated by the sale of cocaine was supposedly used to fund a

major arms shipment into Saudi Arabia. These weapons were reportedly

distributed among several neighboring countries. The profits were then relayed

into Reagan’s Contra Cause.

A large quantity of cocaine was retained by Houston for his own use and

delivery for personal profit through his country music industry contacts. Some

of the cocaine would be delivered by me to Saudi Arabian Ambassador, Prince

Bandar Bin Sultan, Fahd’s own “Homing Pigeon”.

I carried a message from Warner Robbins Air Force Base in addition to the

message from Noriega agreeing to Fahd’s terms back to Dick Cheney at the

Pentagon. Cheney then prepared me for the final phase of the operation. This

was a meeting with Prince Bandar (who Cheney, Houston, and others referred

to as Sultan) in Nashville, Tennessee where he often visited corrupt friends.

There, I would relay a message of agreement to Fahd’s terms between Noriega

and the U.S., as well as confirm all Air Force flights (Carrier Pigeons) and

bank transactions. In turn, Fahd’s “Homing Pigeon” would relay the messages

to Fahd so that the seemingly long running drugs for arms deals would draw to

a successful conclusion.

Dick Cheney cautioned me, “Sultan will be in Nashville having dinner with

friends at the Stockyard.” (The Stockyard was a popular country music dinner

club known for its CIA criminal covert activity involvement.) Cheney glanced

at the list on his desk and continued, “Among others, those friends would be

(Mayor) Fulton1 and (Sheriff) Thomas.2 They are considered a threat to the

operation. They’re not discrete. Thomas in particular is not to be trusted–he’s

an ass and too crooked. So, Sultan must leave the table before the message is

delivered. Any questions? Good.”

I certainly had no questions this time. I did not need him to caution me

about Nashville’s Mayor Richard Fulton whom Houston had prostituted me to,

and Sheriff Fate Thomas. I had known the pair for years, had been cautioned

about them before, and had no respect for them at all. Together Thomas and

Fulton had indiscreetly perpetuated the total corruption that had permeated

Nashville’s $2.8 billion country music industry, which ran the city of Nashville.

They ran the city’s business from a bar—the Stockyard-while they drank and

openly used cocaine. If I had had the capacity to wonder, I would have

wondered what a “Homing Pigeon” so critical to the conclusion of this

international criminal covert operation was doing with such low level sleaze.

As it was, I could only sense relief at not having to deal with them, too.

Prince Bandar Bin Sultan’s reputation for sex and drugs was widely known

in Nashville. But much of my information pertaining to his activities came

from one of my closest Project Monarch friends. She is an entertainer’s

daughter who was prostituted regularly to Sultan when he was in town, which

was often.

When Cheney was through with me, Byrd escorted me to the White House

to see Reagan, who also cautioned me about the Prince. Reagan was aware of

Habib’s having activated me sexually with King Fahd, and made it clear that my

scheduled rendezvous with Prince Bandar would not include the usual sex.

Reagan joked in Byrd’s presence, “Birds (Byrds) may well be eaten by a

Kitten. (Reagan’s pet name for me), but not Homing Pigeons. Homing Pigeons

taste foul.” Byrd laughed. Reagan continued, “Homing Pigeons have one

purpose. Passing messages. Throughout history world leaders have passed

messages to and from each other by way of pigeons. Messages that have set the

course of events that have altered the course of history. Homing Pigeons are

loyal and dedicated to their task, flying over seas, yet never pausing long

enough to even quench their thirst-giving no thought to their own needs. When

a pigeon is released, he takes a direct course to his destination. Dedicated to

delivering the very messages on which history was founded. Why, even Noah

relied on a pigeon to traverse the seas to bring back a message of hope. It is

your duty to attach an added message to the Horning Pigeon-one of peace,

from our homeland lo his: One from the President of the United States to King

Fahd of Saudi Arabia, … (Omitted due to international ramification.)”

Byrd was visibly inspired by the speech. I was literally saved by the bell

from another boring, long winded recitation that Reagan had just inspired in

Byrd when Cheney telephoned me back to his office. It was still morning and

Cheney had appeared very busy, hurried, and irritable when I had seen him just

a short time earlier. My heart was heavy in expectant anticipation of the

physical and sexual brutality Cheney’s moods normally incited. Yet I was

relieved to escape the torturous “picture painting” competition that experience

had taught me Byrd and Reagan were about to embark on. My heart lightened

when my escort left me at Cheney’s office and I noticed his foul mood had

changed dramatically.

“I understand you ordered me to report in, Sir.” Cheney looked up from his

desk where he was shuffling through papers and tying up loose ends before

leaving his office.

“Sit down.” he ordered, “I just got word that the Genie in the Bottle ‘Castaway’

Operation is complete and I intend to pop a cork or two of my own in

celebration of its successful conclusion. I have time on my hands and want you

to join me. The bunkhouse is being prepared…” Cheney apparently thought of

something, went to the door and told the guy who had escorted me, “Make sure

there’s some Wonderland Wafers in the bunkhouse,” He walked to his desk,

picked up the phone and said, “I’m outta here” into it and slammed it down. I

followed Cheney out the door, and we turned to the right rather than the left

outside his office and walked to his personal quarters referred to as the

bunkhouse. It was decorated in Cheney’s western style in browns and tans,

with leather furniture. There was no food (maybe some nuts stashed

somewhere), but plenty of bottles of alcohol.

I was swollen and bleeding vaginally, the bottom of my shirt was soaked in

blood, and my belly hurt deep inside when my escort finally came for me early

the next morning. Staying around Cheney while he slept was as deadly a

mistake as removing his clothes or questioning him-it was forbidden. This

time he broke his own rule, and did not even punish me for it when morning

arrived. He had spent so many hours drinking alcohol and using his enormous

penis as an assault weapon that he passed out shortly before my escort arrived.

As I walked into the hall, I doubled over from pain. My escort turned to

Cheney and remarked, “Christ, Cheney”.

Cheney lifted his head and proudly slurred, “Now you know why they call it

‘Dick’”.

Back in Tennessee, my CIA-paid gynecologist, who knew I was under mind

control, covered for my abusers as usual and wrote me a prescription for

swelling and pain, I was still in pain and ill from my exposure to Dick Cheney

and his high voltage torture and brutal sex when Houston drove me to

Nashville’s Stockyard Nightclub for my rendezvous with Prince Bandar Bin

Sultan.

A waitress led me to the Saudi Arabian Ambassador’s table where he was

drinking with Mayor Fulton, Sheriff Thomas, and Metro Police Chief Joe

Casey.3 I approached him and said, “If you please, Sir (Oz), I am under

command to deliver a message to you from the Pentagon. There is to be no

horse play (sex games). We must get down to business.” There was laughter

from everyone at the table. I continued. “My message is brief and I only need a

moment of your time away from your dinner.”

The Prince’s face grew more serious and we left the table. He touched the

waitress” arm and she pointed to a door across the hall that ted to an empty

room. We stood just inside the room, and I quickly delivered ray Pigeon

cryptic message:

“The Carrier Pigeon (Air Force airplane) will take flight… and will keep its

promise (the agreed load) while all transactions (both bank and distribution) are

procured through the designated diplomatic channels (Habib.) Your bonus, one

crystal, three cuts await you. The President of the United States gives his word

to King Fahd: …”

He told me his driver would meet me out from of the Stockyard and

instructed me to put the cocaine in the back, I left the building to rejoin

Houston at the car in order that the cocaine could be delivered. A white stretch

limousine was pulled up in front of the Stockyard; Chief Casey’s assigned

Metro Police Officers guarded the area, and the cocaine was transferred into the

back seat of the Prince’s limo. Houston and I immediately left the area. My

part in Operation Carrier Pigeon was concluded.

1Richard Fulton and his bank were under Federal investigation as of 1991.

2Fate Thomas is currently serving time in a Federal penitentiary for bribery and extortion.

3Recently under Federal investigation for corruption.

CHAPTER 13

OPERATION SHELL GAME

Sometime prior to the death of CIA Chief William Casey, I was in

Washington, D.C. for a briefing on Operation Shell Game. Iran-Contra was

politically explosive at this time, and U.S. Senator Allen Simpson (R.Wyoming)

had a plan to set Panamanian General Manuel Noriega up to take the fall for

cocaine aspects of the investigation. Noriega had become yet another source of

embarrassment to the Reagan-Bush Administration. The need to convince him

to he discrete about his involvement in U.S. criminal covert activities had

reached alarming proportions. Noriega had been an intricate part of arming the

Nicaraguan Contras for Reagan, as well as an international hub in the cocaine

operations that funded the black budgets for ultra secret projects such as Project

Monarch. My CIA operative handler, Alex Houston’s shadowy back door drug

dealings with Panama further exemplified the kind of “honor among thieves”

rules that Noriega routinely and openly violated. My role, my “Contra-bution,”

was but a small part of the over all picture. Nevertheless, Operation Shell

Game was one of the more significant and informative covert operations in

which J had been forced lo participate.

My role began one cold, rainy day when Houston dropped me off at the

Washington Monument where I was met by two agents, who triggered me to go

with them by flashing their IDs. They escorted me 10 the large White House

uffice where T had first met Cheney to “audition” for the Hands-On Mind-

Control Demonstrations some years before. As usual, Cheney and Reagan were

drinking, this time to excess for so early in the day. Reagan’s cheeks were

flushed and his voice slurred as he greeted me, “Well, hello, Kitten. Dick and I

were just discussing the plight of the Contras since this Ollie North thing broke

out.” Cheney’s alcoholic foul mood was immediately apparent. He was

agitated as usual at Reagan’s informality in my presence. Apparently I had

come in during a serious discussion about tran-Contra as Reagan’s mood was

more somber than I had ever seen it. He took a drink and looked out the

window. “Americans believe in their country-baseball, hot dogs, and Ollie

North.” Cheney snorted a laugh at what seemed to be an ongoing joke between

them about “hot dogs and Ollie North”. Reagan continued, “And I believe in

the Contra cause and all that we have accomplished. And I’m damn proud of it!

It’s not ‘Law and Order’. No, it’s Order and then Law. Order must come first

because without it, law would be ineffective. Sometimes we must rise above

and beyond the law to establish that order (he glanced seriously at Cheney)—or a

new (world) order. As President, that is my responsibility. Establish order

through democracy by spreading democracy throughout the world. With order,

there is peace. Right now in Nicaragua the people are crying out for

democracy, for peace, and I cannot turn a deaf ear to them. Not even in view

of Ollie North’s troubles. True Americans know he is a hero. That’s why we

must rise above the law to establish order by fulfilling the wishes, the hopes, the

dreams of those brave men fighting for freedom by doing our part in spreading

democracy.” Reagan was gesturing into the air, apparently lost in the poetry of

his own ranting.

Cheney lost patience and jumped from his chair to sneer at me and poke his

finger in my chest while he said, “Order is all that matters, and you’re going to

follow mine.”

Reagan turned back to us. “I’m glad you brought that up, pick. Kitten,

you have a role in establishing this order With the same patriotic passion that

burned in your bosom for the freedom fighters of Afghanistan, you will carry

out your orders for the Contras. Dick will define your role and provide you

with all you need and all you need to know from the ol’ Wizard’s bag in the

basement (Oz programming in Cheney’s Pentagon office). So, you run along

now and do as he commands.”

Senator Allen Simpson was in Cheney’s office when we arrived. Cheney

flipped over the hour glass to let me know my life was on the line according to

Oz programming. Cheney gestured to Simpson and began, “Operation Shell

Game is Simpson’s brain child, so he’s master of the game and he’s going to

teach you the rules. The objective of the game is to see ‘who’s left holding the

goods”. Pointing to Simpson, he commanded, “Listen to ‘im”,

Simpson stood up and began cryptically talking. “You are going on a

‘Princes’ Cruise’ (Noriega’s Yacht). The Baby’s Ear Shell is your pass key. I

will provide you with yours at the appropriate time.” He took the “shell” out of

his wallet. It was approximately 1 1/2 inches long and was translucent pink,

shaped and detailed exactly like a baby’s car. Simpson noticed the relief cross

my face as I realized it was not a real baby’s ear. He smiled. “These are but

empty shells of the life they once possessed. Like you are-empty and void of

life. A shell. In one ear and out the other. I have your ear now LISTEN, If

they hold the pass key, you listen. When you hold the pass key, you speak. In

one ear and out the other-never again to be retrieved,”

He returned the shell to his wallet and continued, “Listen. Follow orders.

The Colonel (Aquino) will be there and you will follow his orders and provide a

demonstration Hands On style for the General (Noriega). It will be different,

yet the same, so follow the Colonel’s orders closely.”

Cheney roughly grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, got right in my

face and said, “Or, I’ll get her, my pretty, your little girl. Follow orders as

though her life depends upon it because it does. Or the next baby’s ear will be

taken from Kelly. So listen. When you see the baby’s ear, you will listen,”

He spun my head in the direction of the hourglass as he released my hair. He

was sneering and Simpson looked as though he thought Cheney overdid it. I

was relieved it would not be my job to “soothe Cheney’s savage beast” sexually

that day.

Cheney look me back to the White Rouse office where we had started. He

and Reagan shared another drink. Reagan patted my hair back in place where

Cheney had pulled it, which made me feel safe somehow since I could not

comprehend that he was behind my ordeal with Cheney. Reagan switched my

personality to where I no longer regarded him as “Chief,” but instead as “Uncle

Ronnie”, He did this by reaching into his Jelly Belly jar and giving me one.

Certain colors and flavors triggered certain programmed responses. Uncle

Ronnie must have had other “Kittens” conditioned to the military green watermelon

ones because he kept an excess amount of these in his numerous jars.

Cheney said, “How in the hell you drink cognac and eat those goddamn jelly

beans is beyond me.

Reagan responded, “Well, Dick, you don’t have to have a Jelly Belly if you

don’t want to. I was just giving one to Kitten, here.”

“Damn right I don’t have to have a Jelly Belly, but you’re going to have a

jelly belly if you keep that shit up.” Cheney finished his drink.

Reagan chuckled, “Now, you know I watch my figure..”

“Figure this,” Cheney interrupted. “What are you going to do with the

Contras?” Cheney slammed down his drink and headed for the door,

“Exactly what I’ve been doing.” Reagan turned to me, “C’mon, Kitten,

Let’s take a walk, I need my evening constitutional,”

Reagan was in no mood for sex, and it was a relief to be away from

Cheney, He took me outside for a walk in his “Secret Garden,” where he said

he goes to “think and solve the world’s problems”. We walked down a cement

path he referred to as a “Yellow Brick Road”. After sitting quietly on a cement

bench for awhile, he said, “If you follow the Yellow Brick Road, it leads right

to the Wizard’s lair-the Oval Office, How would you like to see where Uncle

Ronnie really solves the world’s problems?” I felt like a little girl with her

daddy going to see where he works with no real concept of the experience. The

guard at the Oval Office door ensured I was returned to my escorts when

Reagan was through “sneaking me in” to his office. I was then taken back to

Washington Monument where Houston was waiting in the car as though T had

never been gone at all.

Operation Shell Game brought me back in touch with former President

Herald Ford early one misty fall morning. Ford’s continued relationships with

my abusers had given me cause to remain in touch with him throughout the

years; particularly since he and my father were still jointly active in the

Michigan organized crime drugs and pornography operation that had launched

me into Project Monarch so many years before.

Ford was about to embark on a game of golf with my father on the

otherwise “Closed for the Season” golf course next to my father’s expensive

house in affluent Grand Haven, Michigan. My brother, Mike, was with my

father and me as we rendezvoused at the Club House with Ford and the Secret

Service personnel assigned to him. Ford told my father he would “catch up

with him and Mike at the third hole” and to “leave us to our business”. I was

maintained in “Silence” until Ford and I were out of range of the Secret Service

men, and I recited a message from Reagan instilled prior to the Shell Game,

“If you please, Sir,” I began in Oz cryptic, “I have a message for you from

Uncle Ronnie. It’s a ‘humming telegram’ (oral sex game) to see if you agree

that our National Anthem should be changed to America the Beautiful,”

(Reagan was actually serious about changing our National Anthem.)

Ford responded, “We may have to see about that later. First, we’ve got

some other ‘holes’ to attend before the sun gets up any higher,”

As he teed up his golf ball I asked, “Do you still golf a lot now that you’re

no longer President?”

Re said very seriously, “I golfed a lot when I was President. But now, I

just keep up with events from the golf course. I’ve earned the privilege of

monitoring the progress of America’s Freedom Train at my leisure.” He turned

to face me, “Do you play golf yet?”

“Very well, Sir, when permitted.” (Houston always ensured he won.) Ford

was openly amused by my answer and handed me his club. “Give it your best

shot.” I outshot him the first stroke and his amusement vanished. I gave him

back his golf club as ordered.

At the end of the second hole, Ford said, “I’d like to have a word with

you,” He took me over to some trees off the fairway and turned to me with his

arms crossed over his bulging chest, raised himself up taller, and bore his sharklike

eyes into mine. “Lend me your ear”, I had the Baby’s Ear Shell with me as

ordered, took it out of my back pocket and handed it to Ford. He began talking

as though I were a machine and he was dictating a message. “Take this

message to Dick Cheney, Pentagon. The Mob has agreed to transfer the $2.3

million (porn profits) to the Bank of Credit and Commerce International. Let’s

pool our money now and we’ll be swimming in it. This operation has been an

enterprising success. Let’s keep it that way. Cease agreement with Panama.

All Mexican channels are implemented (cocaine and heroin). Hail to the

Chief.” He took a step away and added, “And you (he poked my chest like

Cheney) lake care of my friend, Dick. Here…” he handed me the Baby’s Ear.

For meanness he added “over and out,” and did the sign of the (satanic) horns at

my eyes which deepened my trance significantly since 1 had been conditioned so

heavily to this by Byrd.

After he hit the golf ball, he asked, “How’s my friend, Allen Simpson,

these days?”

“Very well, Sir.” I noticed he bristled as be missed another shot. His

temper was rising. When he wanted to add more to his message, he took out

his frustration on me,

“Gimme that fucking shell.” He wiggled his fingers at me. That wasn’t the

pass phrase and I did not trigger. He grew louder and more agitated, “Where’s

that Baby’s Ear.” I still could not respond. “Lend me your goddamn ear!!” he

roared at me. Close enough.

“Yes, Sir,” I responded meekly as I dropped it in his hand.

He proceeded. “Tell Simpson to take care of my friend Dick Thomburgh.

Get back to me on it.” He returned the ear. We could see my father waiting at

the next hole and Ford said he might “bean him one” with his next stroke. He

swung, but missed my father.

When we met up with my father at the third hole. Ford set up his ball first,

of course, and waving his club at me said, “Get out of here before I get teed

off,” My father pointed the way with a thumb over his shoulder and let out a

shrill whistle. My brother, Mike, walked me through the bushes and back to

my father’s house.

My sister, Kelli Jo, was waiting tearfully for my return. She was MPDed

and horrified of Ford. She and my little sister, Kimmy, and I had all been

forced to sexually gratify Ford just prior to a special ordered porn film titled

Three Little Kittens whereby his semen was filmed “anonymously”. I was

aware that Ford had initiated both of my sisters the way he had me in Cedar

Springs, and they, too, dreaded his brutal and degrading sexuality. I hurried

past my sister to make sure my daughter, Kelly, was OK. Cheney’s threat to

her life was ringing loud in my ear.

I did not see the Baby’s Ear shell spirt until Kelly and I arrived in

Bradenton Beach, Florida. I drove the motor home into Florida with Houston

and Kelly along, and dropped Houston off at the Tampa airport, since he did

not have a role in Operation Shell Game. He “had business at Boys Town in

Omaha, Nebraska” where the wayward boys were being traumatized and

sexually abused in accordance with the Catholic involvement in Project

Monarch. Survivor Paul Bonacci of the infamous Franklin Cover-up case has

named Alex Houston as one of his abusers there in Boys Town. Houston often

went to Boys Town or other similar “vacation resorts” while I was on covert

government business. Kelly and I drove on to Bradenton, where we checked

into a participating campground on the bay across from “MacDill Air Force

Base. It, too, was “Closed for the Season”.

The recreation room of the campground was actually a harmonics

programming operation, and the offices were filled with elaborate computers

consistent with high-level CIA operations. The day Kelly and I met with

Senator Simpson, I had been instructed by campground workers to drive to

nearby Santa Maria Island where we were to collect unusual shells. Kelly and I

were on the “wild side” of the island hunting sand dollars because they had

“BIRDS” in them. As we walked through the shallow water, Kelly scared up a

Stingray, which sent us screaming for the shore. Simpson was on the beach

laughing, looking out of place in his cagney hat and grey suit with legs rolled

up and polished shoes in hand. He seemed familiar with the beach. When we

reached the shore, he struck up a conversation about shells. It wasn’t until he

told us about the Baby’s Ear Shell and opened his wallet to retrieve it that I

triggered and knew who he was. As he look it out, he also flashed his ID

signalling us to go with him. Considering Kelly, he had slipped a shell into the

sand for her to find that looked like an eye in a spiral, He used this as a

hypnotic induction to control her, comparing it to Bush’s Eye in the- Sky.

Simpson showed me the shell in his hand and began, “You. You alone will

take the shuttle boat to your Princes’ cruise. It will leave the dock from your

own backyard (Oz) at 7:30 pm. Dress appropriately (Houston had ensured the

proper attire had been packed). You will be escorted to the conference room

and on into the lop deck. You will see as you approach the ship (Noriega’s

yacht) the top deck is surrounded in black mirrors. Look deep into the mirrors;

that is where you will be. And where I will be when next we meet,” We

walked a little further up the beach to where the motor home was parked and,

referring to the Baby’s Ear, Simpson said, “They’re very rare indeed. This one

is the right ear. You must go to the other side of the island, out Long Boat

Key, to find its match. The Colonel (Aquino) has the baby’s left ear and will

meet you at the Pier at 4 pm. Stop at the little market on the corner and call.

Then it’s just down the street a little ways.”

I followed instructions robotically. Kelly and I watched from the pier as

four big, armed (with machine guns) emotionless (programmed?) guards

scanned the area as Aquino emerged from a car. Kelly said, “Mom, let’s go”.

I remembered Cheney’s threat and assured her I would protect her, though I

could not comprehend from what.

When Aquino approached with two Dobermans on leashes, I told him

Simpson had sent me there looking for the left baby’s ear. He opened his hand

to reveal “all that was left-the baby’s ear-the dogs had devoured and consumed

the rest of the baby.” It was bloody, ragged, and bluish rather than pink.

Whether or not this was an actual baby’s ear, the impact was the same. I put

Kelly further behind me away from the dogs. I stood traumatized and

entranced, ready for command. Aquino instructed me in full detail on the

night’s activities, and that I was to leave Kelly with campground personnel until

my return.

That evening I was taken lo Noriega’s yacht in the bay via a small

motorboat. I triggered and tranced further as I approached the familiar “black

mirrored” yacht according to plan. I was helped onto the back of the yacht by

Panamanian “palace” guards who kept me there at gunpoint until 1 was cleared

and my Baby’s Ear pass key accepted. I was escorted past the Air Force Base

officials, their wives, drug people, and the vast amounts of cocaine laid out for

them. I recognized several of the guests, including Oliver North and Puerto

Rican drug lord Jose Busto. I was led up the stairs to the conference room

where Aquino, Noriega, and Simpson were waiting. Simpson! I realized I

must “be on the other side of the black mirror” and I gazed out into the

darkness.

Simpson spoke softly, “You’re on the other side of the black mirror now

(NASA programming), peering though the blackness out to sea. Sea of black.

Riding on a sea of black, drifting, drifting from the winds. Deep into the

blackness. Drifting through the sands of time. Black sands, yielding shells—

such as this Baby’s Ear.” He pressed it into my hand signaling it was time for

me to speak, I addressed Noriega,

“If you please, Sir, I have a message from the President of the United Stales

of America: The successes we have enjoyed in our shared endeavors are now

history in the making, whose course cannot be altered-regardless of the

imminent lifting of the veil by well intentioned do-gooders. As this veil is

lifted, it may shed light on you. So you must have your house in order, as does

Ollie North, and cease any and all detectable activity I will do my best to keep

you under shield and out of view if you comply with these orders and cease all

detectable activity at once.”

Noriega reacted as anticipated, obviously insulted by me message. In the

ensuing moment of chaos, Aquino hypnotically waved his hands in front of

Noriega and dramatically spread out his satanic black cape (worn for impact on

Noriega’s superstitions) which appeared to fill the room. Noriega all but bowed

to him as Aquino’s control over him was complete.

Aquino’s manner was side-show-style rather than the usual somber tones

used on Military bases for the Hands On demonstrations. “General, for vour

entertainment and in respect and appreciation of your successful enterprising

‘Contra-bution’, the Chief has sent his Presidential Model to demonstrate the

latest technology in mind-control advancements. With the flip of a switch, this

Pigeon becomes a Kitten (I began undressing). Quite a different animal.”

Because of Noriega’s superstitious beliefs, the whole idea of switching

personalities apparently frightened him. I know Noriega believed whole

heartedly in mind control, but could not grasp the concept of multiple

personalities (which I now believe he perceived as demonic possession).

Therefore, he did not adhere to the idea of one slave being trained for both

business and pleasure. Aquino, whom Noriega already perceived as a “devil”

working for Reagan, was manipulating his beliefs masterfully. The impact of

this demonstration and Operation would prove to be Psychological Warfare of

the highest order.

Aquino ordered me to lie on the bed and invited Noriega to look closer at

what the “Wizard”-”his Chief (Reagan) – could create. Noriega stepped closer

to see what Aquino was pointing out to him between my breasts. A large,

carved baphomet appeared. Aquino had hypnotically regressed me to the time

of its making which caused it to seemingly “suddenly appear” right before

Noriega’s eyes. Noriega jumped back, ignorantly terrified of this scientific

phenomena. I believe Noriega stayed in the room for the rest of the demonstration

simply because he was frozen in fear. Aquino hit me with a cat-o-ninetails

and I shrieked in pain. Noriega jumped, Aquino hit me with it again, this

time activating me to respond sexually as though pain were pleasure-a mindcontrol

concept that Noriega more readily grasped. Then Aquino pointed out

that the baphomet had disappeared. While Noriega looked, Aquino used Byrd’s

Hypnotic induction as he cut me “between the breasts with a knife saying, “In

like a knife sharp and clean, I’ll carve out what I want.” My trance had been

deepened to the extert that my circulatory system was slowed. Therefore I did

not bleed until Aquino hypnotically changed my trance level. He then told

Noriega that the baphomet carving had “retreated to the depths of my body and

soul, possessing me and inciting the heal of hell.” He commanded me to show

any “face”, the vaginal mutilation carving of the baphomet face. As I did,

Aquino offered Noriega my sex. As predicted, Noriega’s eyes bulged in terror

and revulsion. While Aquino told him his “rejection of me had killed me,” I

ceased breathing and moving as conditioned. Noriega was dumfounded as

Aquino laughed wickedly and threatened, “Even death will not permit her-or

you-escape from the Wizard’s power.” He explained that I was the “Wizard’s

own” and “under his spell” and could therefore “re-energize myself and come

back to life.” He put a vaginal prod in my hand and ordered me to masturbate

myself with it, pushing the button to electrically jolt myself internally upon

command. Noriega’s eyes were enormous. He paled to a sickly grey, his

mouth fell open and he ran out the door while Aquino assured him that he had

“NO where to run, no where to hide from Reagan’s powers.”

Noriega predictably interpreted the demonstration as a threat from the depths

of HELL, which should have been enough to heed Reagan’s commands to break

the drug trafficking ties immediately. (Apparently this is not the case as is

evidenced by Noriega’s continued Florida incarceration.) Aquino and Simpson

doubled over with laughter as they congratulated themselves on a job well done.

Simpson finally ordered me to dress and escorted me to the back of the yacht to

ensure the guards put me on the shuttle boat rather than kill me because of Noriega’s

horror.

As I approached the dock of the campground, the boat driver told me I

would find Kelly asleep in the ‘recreation’ room. 1 ran to her, and, fearful of

Cheney’s threat, made sure her ears were still intact. I was immensely relieved

to find them still there and to know she was “OK” (I could not think to wonder

what she had endured in my absence.) I illogically felt like a “good mom” for

“doing my part right so Kelly could live.” Never before had I experienced such

a sense of danger to us both and my relief was proportionate. I lovingly held

her in my arms the rest of the night.

CHAPTER 14

CLINTON COKE LINES

I met up with Bill Clinton again in 1982 at a county fair in Berryville,

Arkansas. Alex Houston was “entertaining” there due to the close proximity of

the CIA Near Death Trauma Center (aka slave conditioning and programming

camp) and drug distribution point at Swiss Villa in Lampe. Missouri. I had just

endured intense physical and psychological trauma and programming, Clinlon

was campaigning for Governor and was backstage with Hillary and Chelsea

while waiting to make a speech. Clinton stook in the afternoon sun with his

arms crossed, talking to Houston about him and “his people” (CIA Operatives)

being looked into specific areas for the dual purpose of entertaining and carrying

our specific covert drug operations.

From my perspective, those who were actively laying the groundwork for

implementing the New World Order through mind conditioning of the masses

made no distinction between Democratic and Republican Parties. Their aspirations

were international in proportion, not American. Members were often

drawn from, among other elitist groups, the Council on Foreign Relations. Like

George Bush, Bill Clinton was an active member of the CFR, Bilderbergers, and

Tri-Lateral Commission. Based on numerous conversations I overheard.

Clinlon was being groomed and prepared to fill the role of President under the

guise of Democrat in the event that the American people became discouraged

with Republican leaders. This was further evidenced by the extent of Clinton’s

New World Order knowledge and professed loyalties.

Clinlon understood that I had just been through “hell” in Lampe, and took it

all in stride as he focused on his speech. He not only was well aware of the

mfnd-control tortures and criminal covert activities proliferating in Arkansas

and the neighboring state of Missouri, but he condoned them! Just as there are

no partisan preferences in this world dominance effort, neither are there any

strong individual state considerations or boundaries, either. I knew from experience

that Clinton’s Arkansas criminal covert operations meshed with the

Lampe. Missouri center where he routinely tended business and claimed to

“vacation.” staying in the compound’s resort villas.

In 1983, Houston took me to Lampe for routine trauma and programming

while he was scheduled to “entertain” at the amphitheatre. Also scheduled to

perform were Bill Clinton’s and George Bush’s friends Lee Greenwood and

CIA operative, slave runner, and country music singer Tommy Overstreet

Greenwood and Overstreet were active in both the Lampe, Missouri and

Lake/Mount Shasta, California CIA compounds. Clinton was flown in from

Berryville, Arkansas by helicopter for the shows as well as for a business meeting.

Before Clinton arrived. Greenwood and Houston were in the backstage

dressing rooms snorting fine after fine of cocaine, Houston, always eager to

make an extra penny to pinch, attempted to prostitute me to Greenwood, “She’s

the real performer,” Houston said. “She performs all kinds of sex acts upon

command. For a small price, she’s yours.”

Greenwood laughed, and referring to my Huntsville. Alabama NASA

programming said, “I’ve spent more time in Huntsville than she has, and I

know full well who and what she is-a ‘space cadet’ programmed for sex. She’s

a modified version of Marilyn Monroe.”

Tommy Overstreet had waited in and heard what Greenwood said. “How

much time have you spent in Shasta?”

“Shasta?” Greenwood looked arrogantly at Overstreet and smiled knowingly

as he said, “You don’t ‘spend time’ in Shasta, you maintain the concept if you

can. I haven’t lost any time there, either, if that’s your next question. I go

there quite a bit Enough really to override Houston’s suggestion with ease and

take what I want, when I want, and how 1 want it.”

Greenwood began expertly accessing my sex programming and told the

others in the room, “You all can come and go as you please, but I’ve been made

an offer that I am going to use.” He ordered me to undress and bend over the

desk where he roughly sodomized me as he said, “You’re going to think it’s

daddy all over again”.

When Greenwood was through with me, I was ordered out into the

amphitheatre concert area. During intermission, I met up with Swiss Villa

manager Hal Meadows, Tommy Overstreet, and Governor Clinton in the hall.

Clinton was wearing a cap that read “Diesel Trainer” which I was told to equate

literally as “these-will-train-her”. Puzzled, 1 looked at his cap and asked, “Are

you a conductor?”

Clinton smiled and said, “Of electricity”. Overstreet laughed as he

continued, “Actually it means I check cabooses. How’s yours?” I squirmed.

Apparently Greenwood had bragged about sodomizing me. They laughed even

harder as Clinton said, “Still running, I’m sure”.

Houston stepped out of the dressing room to greet Clinton, “Hi, bud.”

Houston extended his hand. “I hear you made Governor.”

“I hear you deliver a hell of a one liner,” Clinton replied, cryptically

referring to cocaine and NOT Houston’s so-called comedy routine. “I’m always

aspiring to achieve new heights.”

“Well, come on in,” Houston invited. “I have enough (cocaine) to put us all

into orbit.” I walked into the dressing room with them as Houston was saying

to Clinton, “I suppose there are no limits for you since you’re across the (stale)

line.”

“What line?” Clinton feigned surprise and ignorance. He looked at Hal

Meadows as he continued, “You mean I’ve left that state of mine? In the state

of mind I’m in, there are no boundaries anyway.” He walked over to the table

and snorted a line of cocaine. “I come here to get away from it all. This kind

of business is pleasure.”

“So where’s that young wife of yours?” Houston asked, referring to Hillary.

“She’s with friends.” Clinton sniffed the coke further up his nose. “She’s

minding her own business. I’m just here to unwind, see the show, maybe do a

little hunting (referring to A Most Dangerous Game). I’ve got a bird

(helicopter) ready to fly me back when I’m through. Hey, speaking of ‘Byrd’

(he gestured my way) I hear she’s moved up to the big house (White House).”

Referring to his friend and mentor Senator Byrd he asked, “So what’s his

position now?”

“The same.” Houston answered. “Probably like this…” Houston

pantomimed a lewd sodomy pose while everyone laughed. “He still runs the

show.”

Clinton kept his eyes fixed on Houston’s “caboose” and said, “Why don’t

you show her (referring to me) me way out and show me that again?” If 1 could

have thought at that moment, I would have realized Bill Clinton was/is

bisexual. My personal sexual experience with Clinton was limited, but I had

witnessed him engaged in homosexual activity during an orgy at Swiss Villa.

Immediately following the Swiss Villa incident, Houston was scheduled as

usual to perform at the county fair in Benyville, Arkansas. There, Houston and

I had been visiting with long time Clinton Mend and supporter, H.B. Gibson,

when we parted company to attend a private meeting at the mansion of Clinton’s

bisexual friend and supporter Bill Hall, Hall had reportedly made his fortune in

the pre-fabricated log home business, and the Clintons were slaying in a guest

villa patterned after those at Swiss Villa. Hillary had taken toddler Chelsea to

the villa while Clinton and his aide/bodyguard attended the meeting. Tommy

Overstreet was also in attendance as this directly coincided with the recent

Lampe meeting. We all sat in Hall’s sunken living room on two couches facing

each other with a black mirror coffee table between us. Hall had cut numerous

lines of cocaine on the table, and everyone present—including Bill Clinton—was

inhaling it through $50 bills rolled into straws. The conversation ranged from

CIA, drugs, and politics to the Swiss Villa Amphitheatre and country music. At

that time, a major effort was underway to move Nashville, Tennessee’s country

music industry to the Lampe area (it has since literally moved to nearby

Branson), in closer proximity to the CIA cocaine operations that leached the

industry.

Tommy Overstreet was attempting to convince Hall, who was obviously no

stranger to the drug (cocaine) business, to join the high level CIA cocaine

operation that was funding covert activity. They discussed the possibility of

Hall transporting cocaine from Berryville, Arkansas to Nashville, Tennessee to

be in on the ground level of what would soon be one of the largest and most

prolific CIA cocaine operations—the Branson, Missouri country music industry.

By enlisting now, the contacts and customers that Hall would procure could

“politically and financially bolster him for life”. Additionally, Overstreet

discussed the viability of using Hall’s own company trucks to transport the drug

throughout Atlanta, Georgia; Louisville, Kentucky; and Jacksonville, Florida as

well as Nashville, Tennessee and Lampe, Missouri. These key CIA cocaine

routes coincided with Hall’s established truck routes, according to the insiders

present at the meeting. Hall was being offered the “opportunity of a lifetime”

as his role would also include laundering money through his business to fund

the black budget covert operations. Hall appeared nervous and skeptical, and

Clinton and Overstreet attempted to maintain a “light” atmosphere by joking

that Hall could change the name of his trucking line to “CLINTON COKE

LINES”.

Hall was not convinced and began to raise questions as to the longevity of

the operation and how he was going to protect himself. Although Hall was very

adept at the cocaine business, he voiced concern that he found it easier to trust

those who were not with the CIA operations lhan he did U.S. government

protected participants. Clinton reassured him that it was “Reagan’s operation,”

but Hall was concerned that some faction of the government would “shut it

down like a sting operation” without warning and leave him literally holding the

bag, Houston laughed and explained that “no one was going to cut it (the drug

business) off.” He assured them it was far too lucrative and that there would

“always be a market” for drugs-a market controlled by those criminals

implementing their New World Order.

Clinton added to what Houston “said, talking in local colloquialisms.

“Bottom line is, we’ve got control of the (drug) industry, therefore we’ve got

control of them (suppliers and buyers). You control the guy underneath ya’ and

Uncle (Sam) has ya’ covered. What have ya’ got to lose? No risk. No one’s

gonna hang ya’ out to dry. And whatever spills off the truck as it passes

through (he laughed and snorted another line of coke) you get to clean up.”

Hall smiled at his friend, which was apparently interpreted as consent.

Clinton motioned for his aide to get his ledger. Overstreet began pulling out his

paperwork, and Hall neatly cleared the table of the remaining coke lines.

Clinton gestured to me and told Houston, “Get her out of here”.

Houston didn’t move and laughed. “She’s a Presidential Model. She’s kept

secrets bigger than yours.”

Clinton responded, “I don’t care. Get her the fuck out of here,”

Hall’s wife led me away and locked me in a back bedroom. After an

indeterminate period of time, I heard her telephone Hillary at the guest villa.

She then drove me up the mountain through the dark to meet with Hillary.

Although I had previously met Hillary we had very little to say to each otherparticulariy

since I was still dazed and tranced from the tortures I had endured

at the CIA Near Death Trauma Center in Lampe. Hillary knew I was a mindcontrolled

slave, and, like Bill Clinton, just took it in stride as a “normal” part

of life in politics,

Hillary was fully clothed and stretched out on the bed sleeping when Hall’s

wife and I arrived. “Hillary, I brought you something you’ll really enjoy.

Kind of an unexpected surprise. Bill ordered her out of the meeting and I look

her to my bedroom and made an interesting discovery. She is literally a twofaced

(referring to my vaginal mutilation carving) bitch,”

“Hmm?” Hillary opened her eyes and sleepily roused herself “Show me.”

Hall’s wife ordered me to take my clothes off while Hillary watched. “Is

she clean?” Hillary asked, meaning disease free.

“Of course, she’s Byrd’s,” she responded, continuing the conversation as

though I were not there, “Plus, I heard Houston say something about her being

a Presidential Model, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means she’s clean,” Hillary said matter-of-factly as she stood up.

I was not capable of giving thought to such things back then, but I am aware

in retrospect that all Presidential Model slaves I knew seemed to have an

immunity to social diseases. It was a well known fact in the circles I was

sexually passed around in that government level mind-controlled sex slaves were

“clean” to the degree that none of my abusers took precautions such as wearing

condoms.

Hall’s wife patted the bed and instructed me to display the mutilation.

Hillary exclaimed, “God!” and immediately began performing oral sex on me.

Apparently aroused by the carving in my vagina,2 Hillary stood up and quickly

peeled out of her matronly nylon panties and pantyhose. Uninhibited despite a

long day in the hot sun, she gasped, “Eat me, oh, god, eat me now”. I had no

choice but to comply with her orders, and Bill Hall’s wife made no move to join

me in my distasteful task. Hillary had resumed examining my hideous mutilation

and performing oral sex on me when Bill Clinton walked in. Hillary

lifted her head to ask, “How’d it go?”

Clinton appeared totally unaffected by what he walked into, tossed his jacket

on a chair and said, “It’s official. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”

I put my clothes on as ordered, and Hall’s wife drove me back down to the

mansion where Houston was waiting for me. The meeting apparently had been

a success. I heard discussions throughout the remaining years between

Houston, his agent Reggie MacLaughlin, and Loretta Lynn’s handler, Ken Riley

pertaining to Hall’s successful branch of the CIA cocaine operation emanating

from Arkansas, No discussions were as poignant and revealing as those

between Alex Houston and CIA operative country music entertainer Boxcar

Willie.

Boxcar Willie burst onto the country music scene after an ad campaign of

high tech hypnotically persuasive produced television commercials that

strategically made him an overnight, sensation and “star”. The country music

industry’s Freedom Train needed a conductor to lead the industry and fans to

Branson, Missouri, and Boxcar Willie was placed in the driver’s seat. Like the

Pied Piper of Hamlin, Boxcar Willie succeeded in his role of trance-ferring the

industry in close proximity to the Lampe CIA cocaine operations.

Boxcar Willie was one of the primary ground level contacts that Bill Hall

made after Clinton convinced him to cash in on the cocaine benefits of the

country music industry transfer. Houston and Boxcar Willie discussed Hall’s

lucrative dealings throughout the years in my presence while traveling the

country together, billed on the same shows, including performances at the Swiss

Villa Amphitheatre, I had much contact with Boxcar Willie personally since my

government sponsored cocaine runs often coincided and intermeshed with his.

But 1 never knew Boxcar Willie as well as my daughter, Kelly, knew him.

Kelly has named Boxcar Willie as one of her primary sexual abusers in three

different mental institutions, and has voiced frustration at the lack of justice.

“Why am I the one locked up while my abusers remain free?” she constantly

pleads. I assure her I am doing all I can to blow the whistle on Boxcar Willie

for hex, and expose his role in transferring the country music industry to close

proximity of the Lampe, Missouri CIA cocaine operation as outlined by Bill

Clinton.

1Loyalty to the sovereign of our country is non existent under New World Orders.

“President” Clinton poses no more leadership or loyalty to our country than Ronald Reagan did

since both follow(ed) New World Order directives from former U.N. Ambassador and CIA DIRECTor

George Bush,

2Hillary Clinton is the only female to become sexually aroused at the sight of my mutilated

vagina.

CHAPTER 15

NO MORE BEATING AROUND THE BUSH

It was a sunny, fall day in 1983 when U.S. Congressman Guy VanderJagt

met with my CIA operative mind-control handler, Alex Houston, my then 3 1/2

year old daughter, Kelly, and me on the steps of the U.S. Senate in

Washington, D.C. Kelly appeared familiar with Vanderjagt, although I had

never previously remembered seeing her in his company. Even so, I could not

think to realize he was, in fact, sexually abusing her just as he had me when I

was a child. VanderJagt knelt on one knee in front of her to talk with her,

assuring her that “today was a special day” because she would “see Uncle

George (Bush) while mommy sees Uncle Ronnie (Reagan)”. He stood up and

took her by the hand, saying in Alice In Wonderland cryptic language, “Let’s go

on an Adventure together” and led her quietly and robotically away.

I met up with Kelly again that afternoon at the White House, both of us

literally “on our toes” and standing at attention in Reagan’s office. In

retrospect, I wonder at the measures of control inflicted on my 3 1/2-year old

child to cause her to perform so robotically and behave “so well” as she silently

stood with the plastic smile and unblinking eyes, in the presence of President

Reagan, Vice President Bush, and (later Defense Secretary) Dick Cheney.

Reagan appeared to gaze at Kelly, with her long blonde hair cascading down the

back of her blue pinafore dress, completing her Alice In Wonderland

Appearance. Reagan seemed to pose no direct threat to her sexually as he said,

“She is adorable, a model child”,

Reagan then gestured towards Bush and said, “This is my Vice President

George Bush. People don’t usually know what the role of the Vice President is

because he’s always behind the scenes making sure everything that the President

wants done happens the way it’s supposed to.” He looked at me and said

matter-of-factly, “I catch the public’s attention (he made a gesture in the air that

was eye catching) while the Vice President carries out orders.”

Bush’s close friend, Dick Cheney, said, “And gives them”.

“Right,” Reagan said. “An order from him is like an order from me.”

Bush was wearing canvas boat shoes and a cardigan sweater as he knelt on

one knee in front of Kelly in order to talk to her on her level. Bush used the

children’s television program Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood to scramble/confuse

young victims’ (like Kelly’s) memory of contact with him and his sexual abuse.

His physical resemblance to TV’s Fred Rogers was deliberately exaggerated by

his choice of clothes and mannerisms, and is further compounded by his

developed vocal impersonation. Using his best Mr. Rogers voice he said,

“Come here, Little One. I want to ask you something. Do you watch Mr,

Rogers’ Neighborhood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Kelly responded.

Bush told Kelly, “Well, I’m kind of like Mr. Rogers when he makes his

puppets move and talk—like your daddy (Houston, ventriloquist) does with

Elemer (his dummy). Only I’m like Mr. Rogers because I have lots of puppets-

-only mine are people. I even have a King (Fahd) just like Mr. Rogers.1 I pull

the strings (he pantomimed marionette hand movements) and I talk through

them. They say my words and we create all kinds of exciting Adventures.

Right now I’m building a new Neighborhood (the New World Order). The

stage is set, and I have hold of everyone’s strings. I need you to help me—

together we can pull your mother’s strings. She’s in my Neighborhood. That

means you’re in my Neighborhood, too.”

It seems obvious to me now that Bush was referring to those actively

engaged in implementing the New World Order through chaos and mass mind

control (aka media conditioning) as “The Neighborhood”. Of course I was

unable to consider disputing Bush’s statement, and Kelly was certainly not of a

mind to see beyond Bush’s twist on her favorite television program. Kelly’s big

blue eyes grew even wider as she responded, “I am?”

Bush stood up and took her hand, “C’mon. Let me show you my

Neighborhood,” He led her out the door.

Kelly became violently physically ill after her induction into George Bush’s

“Neighborhood.” and from every sexual encounter she had with him thereafter.

She ran 104-6 degree temperatures, vomited and endured immobilizing

headaches for an average of three days (as is consistent with high voltage

trauma). These were the only tell-tale evidences aside from the scarring burns

left on her skin. Houston forbade me to call a doctor, and Kelly forbade me to

comfort her, pitifully complaining that her head “hurt too bad to even move”.

And she did not move for hours on end. Kelly often complained of severe

kidney pain, and her rectum usually bled for a day or two after Bush sexually

abused her. My own mind-control victimization rendered me unable to help or

protect her. Seeing my child in such horrible condition drove my own wedge of

insanity in deeper, perpetuating my total inability to affect her needs until our

rescue by Mark Phillips in 1988.

Kelly’s bleeding rectum was but one of many physical indicators of George

Bosh’s pedophile perversions, I have overheard him speak blatantly of his

sexual abuse of her on many occasions. He used this and threats to her life to

“pull my strings” and control me. The psychological ramifications of being

raped by a pedophile President arc mind-shattering enough, but reportedly Bush

further reinforced his traumas to Kelly’s mind with sophisticated NASA

electronic and drug mind-control devices. Bush also instilled the “Who ya

gonna call?” and “I’ll be watching you” binds on Kelly, further reinforcing her

sense of helplessness. The systematic tonures and traumas I endured as a child

now seem trite in comparison to the brutal physical and psychological

devastation that George Bush inflicted on my daughter.

As soon as the door closed behind Bush and Kelly, Dick Cheney reached

over to Reagan’s desk from his seat and flipped over the hourglass. (Oz) “Her

(Kelly’s) time is running out. You’d better pay attention and follow orders as

though her life depends on it, because from now on (heh heh) it always does! If

you make one mistake—one—then I’ll get her, my pretty.”

Reagan said, “George is like a director. He makes sure the stage is set to

implement the New World Order as I envision it. Then he makes sure everyone

has a script and knows their pan. He tells them how to speak and when to

speak it. How to dress and (patting my head) how to wear their hair. He gets

everything and everyone in place and hollers, ‘Action!’” Reagan shouted

through his hand as though it were a megaphone and rambled on, “All the

world’s a stage. I’m the Wizard. But he is directing the show so you better pay

attention and learn your part well from him.”

Cheney interrupted, “George and I will be working closely on a few projects

together, and when you see him, you’ll see me. When you’re given orders

from him, you’re given orders from me.”

“She knows the chain of command, Dick,” Reagan injected, referring to his

perception of who was in charge, and in what order. President, Vice President,

Habib, Cheney, Byrd, etc. may have been the chain of command in Reagan’s

mind, but Cheney’s definition was necessary to my understanding. From my

perspective, the chain of command was clearly Bush, Cheney, Habib, Reagan,

Aquino and lastly, on a par with my handler, Houston, Byrd, all of which was

subjet to change at any given moment. Cheney just rolled his eyes at Reagan’s

comment and never slowed down as he continued, “Right now a stage is being

set and you will be directed by the Vice President on just how he wants you to

do your part in setting the stage for Mexico’s role in the New World Order.”

Reagan jumped in again, “With the world in order, there will be world

peace. By strategically placing an American Patriot dedicated to the cause of

spreading democracy in all parts of the world, we can influence the thinking of

every nation’s leader and paint for them a picture of freedom and American

values that they’ll never forget. They’ll spread it to the people and the whole

planet will be of one mind—one purpose-one cause. Freedom. You’ll be

talking with some of these friends and leaders from time to lime on my behalf.”

Bush slipped back into the meeting, without Kelly. Cheney continued,

“Taking orders from me and your new director-the Vice President. Lesson

number one. You know what Miami Vice is. Undercover drug agents taking

control of the drug industry. A Vice President is just that-an undercover drug

agent taking control of the drug industry-for the President.”

Bush spoke up. “Mexico is a problem. They’ve got lots of drugs, but not

the brains nor lhe means to sell it outside their own country. So how can we

take control of their (growing) drug industry when we can’t even get our hands

on it? It’s your duty as an American citizen to open the routes and initiate

freedom from poverty throughout their nation by offering them cash as a means

of enticing their drug industry right into our grasp by bringing it right up to our

doorsteps.”

“Operation Greenbacks for Wetbacks,” Cheney said, laughing. Bush

laughed with him.

Bush regained his composure to conclude, “Your assignment begins in

Miami with NCL (Norwegian Caribbean Lines) and ends when you return from

Mexico with word of success.”

Cheney caught my eye with a hand gesture that directed my gaze from Bush

to the hourglass, which was running out fast. By then I was deeply tranced and

lost touch with my surroundings all together while my trance was timelessly

deepened for further programming, I left the White House with a message for

the Vice President of Mexico, Carlos Salinas de Gortari, from the Vice

President of the U.S., and with one very sick child.

1Mr Roger projects through puppets on his show, and one of his key characters from the

Land of Make-Believe is King Friday the 13th.

CHAPTER 16

OPERATlON GREENBACKS FOR WETBACKS

My CIA mind-control handler, Alex Houston and I boarded the Norwegian

Caribbean Lines ship bound for Cozumel, Mexico, with a large, black, soft side

suitcase packed full of cash and a proposal of “prosperity” from the U.S. This

proposal, programmed in me by Vice President Bush, was supposedly initial

diplomatic groundwork for the North American Free Trade Agreement

(NAFTA).

It was my understanding then that the North American Free Trade

Agreement was considered a significant step in implementing the New World

Order through mind manipulation of the masses. According to Byrd,

propaganda disguising the true purpose of NAFTA included the concept of “free

trade” which the U.S. and Mexican governments had long since shared. “Free

trade” of child and adult mind-controlled slaves, cocaine, heroin and businesses

has been not-so-secretly proliferating for years. My own father joined the “run

for the border” via U.S. State Department and Mexican subsidized business

incentives and opened yet another branch of his U.S. Department of Defensegiven-

business in Mexico. This was part of the “free trade” agreement that I

know personally has been operating smoothly from at least 1984. In an effort to

maintain the illusion that the agreement would not create a negative economic

imbalance between Mexico and the U.S., tourist areas of Mexico were

deliberately built up, enhanced and Americanized with U.S. dollars. These

funds were provided through CIA covert Black Budget operations of drug and

slave trading, as well as directly through the Senate Appropriations Committee

of which Senator Robert C. Byrd is chairman as of this writing.

I certainly do not purport to understand international business, nor have I

attempted to “educate” myself through what 1 know to be propaganda slanted

and filtered periodicals. How money interfaces in world markets has been well

documented. For example, who supports whom in which financial endeavors

is apparently far too complex for even BCCI attorneys and investigators to sort

through. My personal perspective on Mexican, U.S., and Saudi Arabian

buildup of Mexico’s economy is limited to my own experiences. My understanding

is further affected by deliberate misinformation from the criminal

perspectives of those who were in control of my mind’s knowledge base and

actions. From time to time, Senator Byrd used me as a robotic sounding board.

He told me what he wanted me to hear, and this was structured more toward

stroking his own enormous, warped ego than it was to educate me in world

finance.

Senator Byrd claimed “the money game is simply a game of control,” and

lives by his adopted Golden Rule of “He who holds the gold makes the rules,”

He told me in so many words that “by appropriating funds to all (viable)

projects ushering in the free trade agreement, and allocating lesser amounts to

U.S. social systems such as our ‘criminal’ justice system, I control our country

and our place in world markets. All the world is a stage, and I own the

theater!…you can bank on it!”

Senator Byrd’s twisted reality echoed in my mind when America was bought

(stolen) and sold by Presidents Bush and Clinton in the recent passage of

NAFTA. “I would never run for President—Oh, I’d win if I did,” Byrd

bragged. “But why should I run for an office that is beneath me? I can make a

President look good, or I can make him look bad by strategically appropriating

funds.” Byrd and others I knew boasted that he was one of those (corrupt

power brokers) responsible for Bill Clinton’s being “chosen” and elected to the

office of Presidency. And the last minute bids and dealings with those

Congressmen holding NAFTA’s deciding votes proved “strategic

appropriations” indeed made Clinton “look good” in his NAFTA “victory”.

At the La Celiba Hotel in Cozumel, Houston maintained my food and water

depravation for mind-control purposes, even during our dinner meeting in the

hotel’s restaurant later that evening. Although the restaurant was “officially”

closed due to the late hour, a mariachi band, one waiter, four stationed armed

guards, my Mexican dignitary contact, his two assistants, and handler, Houston

and I were present. During the meeting, arrangements were made to meet with

Mexico’s then Vice President Salinas the next afternoon at a nearby military installation.

I would also deliver a message as usual from Senator Byrd at the

nearby Consulate’s office pertaining to U.S. financial support for creating

propaganda to insure the illusion of economic equality in Mexican tourist areas.

These funds were simply to further the ongoing shared goal of easing into New

World Order domination through carefully contrived smoke and mirror tactics.

The next afternoon, Houston escorted me to the high security fenced

government installation for my meeting with Salinas. According to Bush,

Salinas was regarded by the Reagan-Bush Administration as superior in power

to Miguel de la Madrid who was officially President of Mexico at that time.

The upcoming Mexican “election,” which was no more an election than

Reagan’s second term, was to place Salinas in the office of President to coincide

with Bush’s destined Presidency. To insure that this “strategically placed

American Patriot” would be voted into position, Reagan informed me that the

U.S. would “guard the integrity” of “elections” by covertly “overseeing” them,

among other strategies. Salinas was to be President at all costs.

Although President de la Madrid was considered by Bush to be the stepping

stone to the ultimate reign of Salinas/Bush’s (already established) diplomatic

relations, he was regarded with all due respect in a manner conducive to “no

margins for error”. His full cooperation was tantamount to establishing Bush’s

and Salinas1 goals via free flowing drug markets and Mexico’s cooperation in

subversively funding and supplying Reagan’s Nicaraguan Contras. De la

Madrid worked in close association with Salinas so that a smooth transition of

power would maintain U.S.-Mexican relations and efforts already in place.

“A message to Salinas is a message to the President,” Cheney had explained.

Not only would the message be relayed to de Ja Madrid, but for the

most part Salinas was the one responsible for working with George Bush since

they would both come into power during the most critical point in the promotion

of NAFTA—passing it by the American people and into law. President Reagan,

Mexican President de la Madrid, Vice President Bush, and Mexican Vice

President Salinas were all “of one mind—one effort” toward economic expansion

and growth for our southern “neighbors in the New World Order” through what

I experienced was based on “free trade” of drugs, children, and pornography.

Vice President Bush told me that this (criminal) activity was regarded as

Mexico’s “only means of rapid economic advancement and freedom from

poverty since the people were slaves to their own inability to advance in world

markets.”

When I arrived at the military installation with the aforementioned suitcase

of cash in hand, I was taken to Salinas’ “office” through a series of electronic

gates guarded by officers in white uniforms. Salinas sal at his desk, which was

small and functional (i.e., military issue), set on a highly polished wooden floor

in a vast room virtually void of decor and personal effects. This created an air

of military practicality. I set the suitcase in front of Salinas and began relaying

the message I had been programmed to deliver

“I have a message from the Vice President of the United State of America to

our neighbors in Mexico. America is willing to share its wealth through a trade

agreement with Mexico. We’ll trade our cash for control over Mexico’s

cocaine and heroin production. By controlling your drug industry, we can open

the border between our countries to allow a free flow of cocaine and heroin into

the U.S., bought and paid for in American dollars to build Mexico, Eventually

this could dissolve the border between our countries altogether as Mexico’s

economy grows to match ours. If we begin today, this dream could be realized

by the turn of the century-sharing the same continent, sharing the same wealth.

Why? The drug industry already dictates what the Mexican government can or

cannot do. By giving the U.S. control of your drug industry, Mexico regains

control over her government. Re-established power backed by U.S. dollars will

bring Mexico on an economic par with America. We can begin by spreading

the word through the (drug) cartels that the U.S. is covertly willing to open the

borders to free drug trade by making agents available to show you the passage

and routes through which the drugs are to be delivered. Only U.S. agents can

bring Mexican heroin and (South American) cocaine across the border, and

likewise they will bring the cash in. Explain to those select few who control the

drug empires that the cruise line (NCL) agreement is going into mass

expansion, tearing down the border between our countries enough to allow for

as many drugs to come in as Mexico can deal out. When do we begin? Immediately.

The cash is at hand. (I gestured toward the suitcase which Salinas

unzipped to find full of cash.) Deliver whatever amount of brown heroin you

have at hand as a means of confirmation to the agreement. Keep the change as

a token of the change and good fortune that has befallen Mexico from its

neighboring nation.”

As I finished Bush’s message, Salinas immediately took a note pad from the

desk and scrawled a quick note. He passed it to a guard who was stationed at

the door. He stood up, smiled, and leaned over his desk as he extended his

hand in a warm handshake. I was escorted out. Houston found me on the front

steps of the installation and together we were escorted through the barbed wire

fences and back onto the streets of Cancun,

I waited in a small clearing nearby for an indeterminate length of time,

playing with a large iguana. Finally, a taxi cab driver pulled up and honked his

horn three times, signaling me to pick up a fist-sized ball of Mexican brown

heroin. The heroin was crudely wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, and

measured approximately the size of a baseball. As quickly as the cab driver

left, Houston, who was standing some distance away with two uniformed men,

signaled me to join him. We were then driven to the airport where we boarded

a U.S. Air Force aircraft to Washington, D.C.

Immediately upon arrival at Andrews Air Force Base just outside of

Washington, D.C, I was taken to Senator Byrd who then escorted me to Dick

Cheney’s Pentagon office for a meeting with Vice President Bush, 1 was ill and

vomiting from the high voltage administered in Mexico to compartmentalize my

memory. I was allowed to use Byrd’s magnetic pass key card to unlock the

maze of doors that led to the Ladies’ Room. I was still wearing my

inappropriate-for-D.C. cruise clothes and carrying the heroin in my tote bag

when I met with Bush to confirm Mexico’s agreement to his proposal. Bush

took the heroin for himself, obviously pleased with the quality of the product.

Cheney laughed and told Bush he needed to “confiscate the Contra-band”.

Bush replied, “Over my dead body” as he laughed at Cheney’s Contra joke.

“If you don’t share some of it, that could be the case,” Cheney said. “Pitch

it here.”

Bush struck a pitch pose, wound up, made a fake out pitch, and joked in

baseball banter, “It’s a ‘high fly’ ball. You’re going to have to steal.” He

tossed the heroin in the air, caught it, and strode for the door, Cheney got out

of his chair, pointed to the door, and ordered me “Out”.

Houston and I were flown in to Montego Bay, Jamaica and transported to

Ocho Rios to board our next NCL cruise ship.

CHAPTER 17

ABOUT FACES

Soon after Kelly was inducted into George Bush’s “Neighborhood” through

horrific sexual abuse, Bush enforced his controls on me. Our mind-control

handler, Alex Houston, had taken Kelly and me to Washington, D.C. for

separately scheduled meetings with Bush. Kelly had already been escorted by

agents to her rendezvous with him that morning, during which Lime I had been

ordered to one of U.S, Senator Robert C. Byrd’s offices located in the nearby

FBI Hoover Building. There, Byrd reinforced his holds on me by claiming

control of the Justice Department and “proving” once again that I had “no

where to run and no where to hide”. My horror reaction was compounded

when Byrd looked at his pocket watch and notified me in Alice in Wonderland

cryptic language, “You’re late, you’re late for a very important date,” referring

to my meeting with Bush.

I sprinted from the Hoover Building, encountering Houston who waited just

outside. Houston hurried me to the Smithsonian where I waited for my escorts

as instructed at the “Face Changing” exhibit. This computerized exhibit

illustrates how an individual’s face can take on a radically different appearance

by slightly altering any single feature.

The exhibit fascinated me as a programmed MPD since multiples often

experience the unnerving phenomena of routinely not recognizing themselves in

a mirror due to switching personalities. A multiple’s face often changes slightly

with each switch, which “validates” the religious communities’ perceptions of

so-called “demonic possession” in occultism. Logic quickly dispels this belief

when it is realized that everyone’s expression changes according to emotion, by

skin color and tones, blood pressure, and by tightening or relaxing specific

micro muscles. An MPD’s face changes are more exaggerated when these

natural conditions are combined with the results of sophisticated programming/

“Charm School” teaches subconscious control over these natural phenomena as

a ready-made disguise on government slaves such as myself, as welt as to

enhance sex slaves’ “beauty” to their maximum potential. I was incapable of

thinking or logically understanding my fascination with the display, as I stood

totally enthralled, waiting for my escorts as ordered.

As the escorts approached, I was relieved to see Kelly with them. Though

she was visibly tranced and traumatized, the fact that she was alive was all I was

capable of grasping. When she saw the “Face Changing” exhibit, she excitedly

exclaimed, “Uncle George just read me a book about this!” Before I could hear

anymore, I was led away, leaving Kelly with our handler, Houston.

I was then quickly taken to Bush’s Residence Office, which here-to-fore was

unfamiliar to me. Although it had slate blue, plush carpets and fine furnishings

like the White House office, lattice work and smaller rooms provided a different

air. I sat in a hard-back wooden chair as ordered, while Bush carefully

positioned himself in front of me on a little wooden footstool. This allowed me

clear visibility of the large book that he held in his lap. All illustrations faced

me, while all text except the last page was printed in the holder’s direction.

This book was a unique, high tech piece of art specifically designed to enforce

Bush’s favorite method of programming, “You Are What You Read”. The

juvenile face depicted on the front of this hardcover book gave it the appearance

of a children’s storybook. It was entitled About Faces.

Bush explained the dynamics of “changing faces” and “becoming what I

read”. Although I had been conditioned to this idea all of my life through

Disney stories, The Wizard Of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, etc., I was not

prepared for Bush’s version of “You Are What You Read” programming

explanations. The illustrations themselves were elaborate, consisting of mirrors

and hypnotic depictions. He seemingly made the book come alive in my mind

as he read page after poetic page of hypnotic, metaphorical language, all the

while creating powerful illusions. His impersonations of the characters further

enhanced the desired affect of fantasy becoming reality. This extraordinary effort

to scramble reality would have worked-perfectly-had it not been for

another victim and myself discussing it only a few days later. The purpose of

Bush’s book was dearly explained within the first few pages, which included

the following passage:

1 am the Vice President when circumstance demands,

And I am your Commander, you’ll follow my commands.

The first command’s important – It is one you will heed,

When I send you a book, you are what you read.

Throughout my tenure as a Presidential Model mind-controlled slave, I was

provided specific books according to Bush’s program. These books, delivered

through pre-established channels such as Ken Riley, Alex Houston, and even

Ronald Reagan, came complete with specific commands on how they were to be

interpreted and used. Some books were used to instruct me on operations; some

were an attempt to scramble my memory with fantasy; others were used to load

my mind with pertinent data such as bank account passbook numbers, and so on.

I was provided a paperback book entitled Afghanistan, from which I

absorbed history, current political events, and the strength of the Afghany

Freedom Fighters. I have since learned that the book I read was never publicly

released in the text it was provided me. According to instruction, the book was

delivered back to Bush as quickly as I finished memorizing it, I wonder in

retrospect if any part of it contained fact beyond how I was supposed to

perceive it.

I read stories of espionage, including Robert Ludlum’s Bourne Identity, and

William Diehl’s Chameleon. Mostly I was provided steamy sex novels for

further training as well as scrambles. Kelly was conditioned to fairy tales,

Steven Speilberg’s ET, NASA NSA operative George Lucas’ Star Wars, and the

nightmarish Never Ending Story. Steinbeck’s classic Of Mice and Men caused

Kelly constantly to quote the dependant character of Lenny for years saying,

“Tell me what to do, George”. She still does this each and every time I am

allowed to visit with her in the mental institution. The attending therapist overseeing

the visit has yet to pick up on this programming cue, and I am forbidden

by Juvenile Court order not to discuss Kelly’s past or therapy.

Bush’s most effective example of “You Are What You Read” in his book

About Faces occurred during his reading of the page depicting lizard-like

“aliens” from a “far-off, deep space place”, Claiming to me to be an alien

himself, Bush apparently activated a hologram of the lizard-like “alien” which

provided the illusion of Bush transforming like a chameleon before my eyes. In

retrospect, I understand that Bush had been painstakingly careful in positioning

our seats in order that the hologram’s effectiveness be maximized.

U.S. Army Lt. Col. Aquino’s occultism provided trauma sufficient to

maintain my Project Monarch Mind-Controlled existence despite his inability to

affect my core spirituality. Therefore, I was not routinely subjected to the other

favorite “trauma of choice”-alien themes-lite many slaves (including Kelly) I

knew had been. The effect of Bush’s illusion hologram on such victims is

binding and strong. Even Aquino envied the mind shattering effects of Bush’s

alien theme visual traumas to the extent that he wrote and published his own

comic book sequel to Lucas’ Star Wars. While occultism is easily dispelled

with reason and fact, Bush’s alien theme continues to be reinforced through

NASA’s involvement in mind-control atrocities. Additionally, California’s 24-

year incumbent Senator Alan Cranston of the Select Committee on Intelligence

has perpetuated this trauma base for decades, as have others. Despite my

having escaped routine “alien” theme traumas, Bush’s “You Are What You

Read” hologram proved devastatingly sufficient for him to gain total control of

my robotic mind from that moment on untii my rescue in 1988.

By the time Bush reached the last page of his About Faces book, I was so

traumatized I instantly “became what I read” when I read the last verse aloud as

ordered:

I am a True Patriot living an American Dream,

I will become my role when you pull my string.

I will become my part, so I can ‘be all I can be’

‘Cause just like the Vice President, I am what I read.

CHAPTER 18

IN THE MEANTIME

My life seemed to lead me at an accelerated pace after being subjected to

Reagan and Bush. My handler, Alex Houston egotistically claimed it was his

and Elemer’s (his alter-ego dummy) popularity that kept us traveling so

extensively within the country music circuit. When we weren’t traveling the

Caribbean and Mexico via NCL ships, or driving his cocaine loaded motor

home to strategically booked shows across the U.S., we were routinely moving

in and out of Washington, D.C. All along the way, my daughter and I were

either prostituted, used in commercial pornography, or filmed in Michael

Dante’s “Chief” bestiality pornography as ordered by Uncle Ronnie Reagan.

Occasionally our travels would take us to Michigan, where Houston made

certain we stayed with my family. Trips to my father’s house were devastating

but informative. My mother had developed deep, psychological scars above and

beyond her own MPD condition and became an insomniac. My father by this

time was routinely traveling to London, Germany, and Mexico, and taking the

family to Florida’s Disney World and Washington, D.C. My older brother,

Hill, still worked for and with my father, traveled with him annually to “hunt”

In Cheney’s Greybull, Wyoming lodge, and maintained his wife and three

children under trauma-base mind control according to my father’s instructions.

My brother, Mike, ran a video store to front some of my father’s and Uncle

Bob Tanis’ lucrative porn video business. My sister, Kelli Jo, became a belly

dancing contortionist excelling in “gymnastics” since she became “as flexible as

Gumby” according to her prostitution programming. She worked her way

through school in children’s day-care centers, admittedly spotting, for my

father, abused children for potential “chosen ones” candidates. In 1990 she

graduated to open a licensed day-care, “Little Learners” in Grand Haven,

Michigan for my father. My brother, Tom (Beaver), is a Compu-Kids (CIA

Project) programmed computer genius. My brother Tim broke his leg (in the

same place my mother had broken his leg years before) due to following my

father’s sports programming above and beyond human capability. And my

youngest sister, Kimmy, became hysterically obsessed with “Mr. Rogers,”

expressed immense fear of her huge “electric” doll house that lit up at night to

look like the White House, and was under a doctor’s care for anorexia by age

seven, I look forward to the day I can help them all, and justice is served on my

father.

Since I was using parts of my brain I would not have used under normal

circumstances, I developed the ability to read backwards as naturally as I could

red forwards. Houston tapped into this typically occult-based phenomenon as a

means of “scrambling” road signs to promote amnesia of where we were

traveling. He further compounded his effort by conditioning me to read

phonetically and literally, and alternated his “scrambling” methods. “Zoo”

became “ooz” and “ooz” translated to “oz”. Arkansas read “Our Kansas”, and

Missouri became (and was!) “Misery”. East became West, and highway 66

became 99. When 1 traveled, I “literally” did not consciously know if I were

coming or going. If an outsider happened to ask me about where I’d traveled, I

mechanically replied, “The towns all run together and look alike after awhile.”

Commands delivered in the same language twisting manner were natural for me

to follow. “Role with it” was easier for me to become according to Reagan’s

acting definition than it was to go with the flow by “rolling with it”. Phrases

like Wyoming Senator Alan Simpson’s “In a switch of an “I” (personality)/

“eye”(hypnotic blink)/ “i”(the letter), complaint becomes compliant. The parts

of my brain I was forced to function with were not conducive to “normal”

thinking.

Nor could 1 have appeared “normal” to outsiders had they cared to see

beyond my superficial programmed cover personality, I did have occasion to

mix with “outsiders” at the local library where I took Kelly for her books on

days when we were not traveling. By age 6, she tested at the 7th grade reading

level. I also emerged from my closed environment to tend to Kelly’s schooling.

She maintained straight As, but her poor attendance record threatened to violate

state requirements. Once when the librarian asked where Kelly would be

traveling to waive library book due dates, or the teacher inquired as to Kelly’s

absences, I gave the usual response of, “the towns all run together and look

alike after awhile.” If they pressed for specifics, I ran through a series of

religious phrases such as “praise the Lord”, to compensate for my lack of

answers. People tended to overlook and accept “religious fanaticism”

personality peculiarities, which combined with my “role” traveling the country

music industry, kept outsiders at a distance for years.

My “religious fanatic” cover personality was cultivated at the Brentwood,

Tennessee Lord’s Chapel “nondenominational” (Pentecostal) church, through

the CIA Operative preacher -Reverend” Billy Roy Moore (who has since fled to

Arkansas due to a local murder scandal),

Moore transported cocaine from the Caribbean for the CIA, at least during

the Reagan Administration, under the guise of so-called “missions,”1 i.e.,

Christian ministries. It most likely was not the intent of the Christians

dedicated to their Caribbean ministries to be used by the CIA and Moore to

inadvertently mule drugs into our country. Even CIA agents operating under

“need to know” partial information were denied the full scope of what they were

actually participating in. Many seemingly willing participants were

manipulated, provided “justification,” and deliberately misled to believe they

were serving their country, rather than destroying it from the inside out.

“Pastor” Moore combined his knowledge of Kelly’s and my programming

keys, codes, and triggers with his use of metaphorical language to maintain

and/or direct our mode of operation. Moore’s “following” consisted primarily

of government mind-controlled slaves and handlers, including the Mandrells.

Jack Greene and his slave, the Oak Ridge Boys, and others. He instructed us on

how to vote, which political issues lo support, and to follow other “religious”

political leaders such as his and Manuel Noriega’s friend, evangelist Jimmy

Swaggart. “Religious counseling” from Moore equaled to maintaining mindcontrol

programming through “God’s Orders”, And “God’s Orders” often came

by telephone,

Houston constantly prostituted Kelly to anyone “in the loop” who was

willing to pay. When she wasn’t being prostituted, she was being filmed

pornographically. By 1984, Michael Dante routinely filmed Kelly in

pornography, since kiddie porn was as lucrative as bestiality. He filmed Kelly

and me in Las Vegas, Nevada and various other locations throughout the

Caribbean, California, Florida, Tennessee, and in my home state of Michigan.

This created professional conflict with long lime kiddie pornographers

formerly associated with Houston. Houston’s close friend in Waycross,

Georgia, pedophile Jimmy Walker, managed the Okefenokee Swamp Park and

had participated in black budget funding operations for years on both the

cocaine and pornography levels. His counterpart, Dick Flood, refused to

participate to any more pornography after Dante came on the scene. Even the

Huntsville, Alabama NASA/DIA/CIA-appointed “law enforcement” officers

could rarely succeed in their bidding for Kelly’s video taped performances

unless directly ordered by Senator Byrd. Dante considered himself her future

owner as well as mine, and maintained control of our porn “business” ventures

through serious U.S. Government and international Mafia methodisms/

connections.

Jimmy Walker, the same photographer who had taken pornographic

“wedding night” pictures for Larry Flynt, recently had other photographs of me

published in Hustler. When Dante found out, he was furious. Larry Flynt and

Dante both worked for the CIA, had Vatican and Mafia connections, and

deliberately appealed to Reagan’s perversions using project Monarch Mind-

Controlled slaves. What Flynt could not “legally” publish, Dante ran through

the underground. Flynt and Dante lived on oposite coasts, which, despite their

similarities, still was not far enough apart to sooth their differences. Waving

his hands in dramatic Italian gestures. Dante furiously spouted a string of

obscenities over Flynt’s publishing photos of what he deemed “his property”,

Accusing Flynt of going to extremes to gain favor/protection from the

government, Dante shouted, “He’s a bigger whore than the girls he promotes!”

Michael Dante’s pornographic filming abilities served several purposes.

Aside from producing porn according to Reagan’s own (well known)

perversions and instructions, Dante was present during many key international

government “gatherings”. Oftentimes when I and others were prostituted to

various government (New World Order) leaders, Dante had hidden cameras

filming perverse sexual acts apparently for future blackmail leverage. These

videos were scandalous in proportion and were usually ordered by Reagan.

Dante turned the videos over to Reagan, and covertly kept copies to protect

himself. Dante converted a small room of his Beverly Hills mansion into a

security vault, where he kept his personal copies of the international blackmail

porn tapes there.

Among these internationally scandalous tapes are numerous videos covertly

produced at the supposedly secure political sex playground in northern

California, Bohemian Grove. According to Houston, Dante’s high tech

undetectable cameras used fiber optics, and fish-eye lens were in each of the

elite club’s numerous sexual perversion theme rooms. My knowledge of these

cameras was due to the strategically compromising positions of the political

perpetrators I was prostituted to in the various kinky theme rooms.

I was programmed and equipped to function in all rooms at Bohemian Grove

in order to compromise specific government targets according to their personal

perversions. “Anything, anytime, anywhere with anyone” was my mode of

operation at the Grove. I do not purport to understand the full function of this

political cesspool playground as my perception was limited to my own realm of

experience. My perception is that Bohemian Grove serves those ushering in the

New World Order through mind control, and consists primarily of the highest

Mafia and U.S. Government officials. I do not use the term “highest” loosely,

as copious quantities of drugs were consumed there. Project Monarch MindControl

slaves were routinely abused there to fulfill the primary purpose of the

club: purveying perversion.

Bohemian Grove is reportedly intended to be used recreationally, providing

a supposedly secure environment for politically affluent individuals to “party”

without restraint. The only business conducted there pertained to implementing

the New World Order, through the proliferation of mind-control atrocities,

giving the place an air of “Masonic Secrecy”. The only room where business

discussions were permitted was the small, dark lounge affectionately and

appropriately referred to as the Underground.2

Sex slaves were not routinely permitted in the Underground for security

reasons, leaving the lounge’s small stage as the only source of “entertainment”.

This entertainment ranged from would-be talents such as Lee Atwater, Bill

Clinton, and George Bush to CIA Operative entertainers such as Boxcar Willie

and Lee Greenwood, On one occasion I was instructed to meet with former

President Gerald Ford in the Underground where Lee Atwater was picking and

singing. As I waited through the smoke-filled room to Ford’s table, Atwater

interrupted his song to cryptically acknowledge my unwelcome presence by

singing choruses of “Over the Rainbow” and Byrd’s song for me “Country

Roads” while emphasizing the lines of “Almost heaven, West Virginia”.

My purpose at the Grove was sexual in nature, and therefore my perceptions

were limited to a sex slave’s viewpoint. As an effective means of control to

ensure undetected proliferation of their perverse indulgences, slaves such as

myself were subjected to ritualistic trauma. I knew each breath I took could be

my last, as the threat of death lurked in every shadow. Slaves of advancing age

or with failing programming were sacrificially murdered “at random” in the

wooded grounds of Bohemian Grave, and I fell it was “simply a matter of time

until it would be me”. Rituals were held at a giant, concrete owl monument on

the banks of, ironically enough, the Russian (rushin’) River. These occultish

sex rituals stemmed from the scientific belief that mind-controlled slaves

required severe trauma to ensure compartmentalization of the memory, and not

from any spiritual motivation.

My own threat of death was instilled when I witnessed the sacrificial death

of a young, dark-haired victim at which time I was instructed to perform

sexually “as though my life depended upon it”. I was told, “…the next sacrifice

victim could be you. Anytime when you least expect it, the owl will consume

you. Prepare yourself, and stay prepared.” Being “prepared” equated to being

totally suggestible, i.e., “on my toes” awaiting their command.

After returning to Tennessee, Houston attempted to distort my Bohemian

Grove experience by instructing me to “prepare myself for imminent death”.

He ordered me into a bathtub of cold water, placed ice cubes in my vagina, then

transferred me to his bed. There he tied a coroner’s type tag on my toe, and

hypnotically deepened my trance to the point where my heart and breathing

were nearly stopped. Then he gratified himself on my cold, still body through

faux necrophilia—reportedly one of his favorite perversions. Houston had

“perfected” his perversion to the extent that he handed the keys to my deathstate

programming to Lt. Col. Michael Aquino for use in Reagan’s Hands-On

Mind-Control Demonstrations. My death-state also further equipped me in my

role of “anything, anytime, anywhere with anyone” to be accessed at Bohemian

Grove.

The club offered a “Necrophilia” theme room to its members. I was so

heavily drugged and programmed when used in the “necrophilia” room, that the

threat of actually “slipping through death’s door” and being sacrificed “before I

knew it” did not affect me. My whole existence was balanced precariously on

the edge of death as a matter of routine anyway. My robotic state did not

permit me the “luxury” of self-preservation, and I could only do exactly what I

was told to do. My necrophilia room experience was only for the purpose of

providing Dante a compromising film of a targeted member anyway.

Other perversion theme rooms at the Bohemian Club included what I heard

Ford refer to as the “Dark Room”. When he not so cleverly said, “Let’s go to

the Dark Room and see what develops,” I understood from experience that he

was interested in indulging in his perverse obsession for pornography. In the

Dark Room, members had sex with the same mind-controlled slave they were

viewing in porn on a big screen television.

There was a triangular glass display centered in a main through way where I

was locked in with various trained animals, including snakes. Members

walking by watched elicit sex acts of bestiality, women with women, mothers

with daughters, kids with kids, or any other unlimited perverse visual display.

I was once brutally assaulted by Dick Cheney in the Leather Room, which

was designed tike a dark, black leather-lined train berth. As 1 crawled through

the leather flaps covering the narrow entrance, 1 heard Cheney play on the word

“berth/birth” as the soft blackness engulfed me. With the small opening

covered, the blinding darkness enhanced the sense of touch and provided an

option of anonymity. Cheney jokingly claimed that I “blew his cover” when I

recognized his all-too-familiar voice and abnormally large penis size.

There was a room of shackles and tortures, black lights and strobes, an

opium den, ritualistic sex altars, a chapel, group orgy rooms including poster

beds, water beds, and “kitten” houses. I was used as a “rag doll” in the “toy

store,” and as a urinal in the “golden arches” room.

From the owl’s roost to the necrophilia room, no memory of sexual abuse is

as horrifying as the conversations overheard in the Underground pertaining to

implementing the New World Order. I learned that perpetrators believed that

controlling the masses through propaganda mind manipulation did not guarantee

there would be a world left to dominate due to environmental and

overpopulation problems. The solution being debated was not

pollution/population control, but mass genocide of “selected undesirables.”

1Moore often operated under the cloak of World Vision.

2 The wooden sign was carved to read: U.N.DERGROUND

CHAPTER 19

E.T. PHONE ROME

Anyone attending the Bohemian Grove on a regular basis was referred to by

those in the know as a “Grover”. One such Grover was Ronald Reagan’s then-

Secretary of Education, Bill Bennett, Bill Bennett, who later became “Drug

Czar” during the Bush Administration, wrote the so-called Book of Virtues and

was/is? vying for the office of President. Bennett is apparently very close to his

brother and fellow Grover, Bob Bennett. Although Bob Bennett holds the

position of Legal Counsel to President Clinton, it is apparent that the brothers

recognize no party lines.

It was clear to me that there were no partisan differences amongst those

ushering in the New World Order, any more than there was loyalty to our

Constitution. The close relationship I witnessed between the Bennett brothers,

like the marriage between Clinton’s and Bush’s 1992 campaign managers James

Carville and Mary Matlin, should raise questions as to their agenda,

When Bill and Bob Bennett together sexually assaulted my daughter, Kelly,

and me at the Bohemian Grove in 1986, I had already known Bill Bennett as a

mind-control programmer for some time. Bennett anchored his Jesuit/Vatican

based programming of me in my Catholic conditioning initially instilled via the

Rite to Remain Silent. Through further manipulation of my “innerdimensional”

perceptions, Bennett believed he had forever compartmentalized

his personal secrets of perverse sex with his brother, Bob, and my then six-yearold

daughter. Bennett also had manipulated my mind in accordance with

Vatican “Orders” via Byrd’s Jesuit College programming center in West Virginia.

He used his role as Jesuit programmer for the purposes of carrying out

his efforts as Education Secretary to implement Education 2000.1

In order to program my mind for my role in bringing Education 2000 into

the “Volunteer State” of Tennessee’s school system, Bennett used sophisticated

mind manipulation to set the stage—the same kind of mind manipulation

propaganda executed on national and international scale, Bennett’s penchant for

manipulating minds is apparently rooted in his knowledge of Catholic/Jesuit

mind-control techniques.

When I met Bennett at a White House cocktail party in 1984, I was wearing

the rosy cross necklace that Guy VanderJagt and Father Don had presented to

me during my first communion, to signify the mode of program I was operating

under at the time. Byrd had ordered that I wear it for the occasion.

Byrd was already talking with Bennett when a White House butler led me in

to see Byrd.2 Byrd was saying, “I was just talking about you with my friend,

Secretary of Education3 William Bennett.”

“Bill,” Bennett corrected, sweeping his lecherous gaze over me as though I

were merchandise. “How do you do?”

‘”As I am told, thank you,” I said as I extended my hand as trained.

Bennett clumsily fingered the rosy cross necklace, blowing his alcoholic

breath in my face as he said, “Your necklace is as beautiful as you are, and no

doubt, as significant in purpose. Where did this come from and what does it

mean to you?”

“From my first communion,” I responded. “Guy (Byrd interrupted to

clarify ‘VanderJagt’) gave it to me to consummate my holy communion.”

Byrd corrected me, “Commemorate your holy communion.”

“She doesn’t need a translator, Bobby,” Bennett laughed, “I’m hearing her

loud and clear.”

Byrd left me with Bennett, who went into a long winded recitation on an

interpretation of the Bible deliberately intended to further distort my Catholic

instilled perceptions. “Christ was an alien in this land,” he was saying in

accordance with his learned Jesuit mind manipulation techniques. “Once he

landed in Earth’s plane, it was plain to see he was a leader in interdimensional

travel, We (Jesuits/aliens) followed his lead since he was the first to slip into

Earth’s dimension. In Christ’s transformation from porpoise4 to purpose, he lost

his will to Earth’s demands. He lost his porpoise, so to speak.” Totally

“trance-fixed,” I listened as Bennett rallied on and on. “When Christ emerged

from the deep to inhale of Earth’s atmosphere, time began ticking. It was not

recognized or acknowledged until Christ’s passing, however. We began

marking time with his death. BC-AD-or is that AC-DC?” Referring to high

voltage used to compartmentalize memory, he continued, ‘No, AC in DC stops

time. At any rate, we followed his lead, He referred to you as sheep. He

knew you needed to be led. He led us. He led you. He led us to you. We’re

here to lead you. The transformation is perfected now, updated with the latest

in alien technologies whereby we no longer have to follow Christ’s course to the

grave. We can transcend dimensions free of the confines of Earth’s

gravitational pull. The time is now, and we are here to lead you. We know

your mind. That’s how we make you mind. Make you mine. Make you a

mind. Make you mine. Journey with me now…”

Bennett manipulated my perceptions until, at last, he informed me, “You

and 1 will be working closely together on a global education project.” Sweeping

his hand around the crowded room, he continued, “This atmosphere is not

conductive to the kind of work we need to be doing. Something else just came

up that demands immediate attention. Let’s complete tonight’s business with

pleasure, beat it out of this dimension, suspend your suspended animation, and

get with the program.”

In one of many White House bedrooms available for such purposes, Bennett

led me into bed. I told you we were going to beat it out of this dimension, and

that’s exactly what I intend to do. A little Byrd told me you like a whip. Since

I am not the Senate kind, I’ll just represent the majority by giving you what you

need most.”

Bennett apparently found perverse pleasure in whipping me. With my wrists

bruised and my body slinging with pain, Bennett lit up a cigarette and

cryptically asked, “Was that your first cum-union with an alien?”

He threw me my clothes, and ordered, “Make yourself presentable. Make

sure your wrists are covered. I’m not waiting around for you, I’ll see you in

THE morning.”

Bennett left. After awhile I was escorted back to Byrd, with whom I spent

a brutal, short night. On the way to his room, Byrd told me, “You’ve got work

to do come morning with Mr. Bennett. Working for him is like working for

me. We are working in conjunction with the state Governors in an effort to

implement the global 2000 education formula for the future. I am excited at the

prospect of meddling in the future through what I accomplish today. Since I

hold this country’s purse strings, it is up to me to delegate as much funding as is

neccessary to implement the educational program. I’ve withheld funding and

withheld funding to the point where the individual states must rely on federal

funding to get them out of hot water financially. I am ready to do just that so

long as they follow my guidelines. Mr. Bennett is working out the details of

this plan, and will be sharing much of that with you. I need you to do what you

do best by enlisting the full cooperation of state government at the upcoming

Governor’s Convention. I have never demanded Conventional sex of you

before, but this time is different. Persuade these Governors at their weakest

moment—bring them to their knees while you are on yours, and convince them

that global education is the gateway to the future if there is to be any future at

all.”

Early the next morning, deep underground in the NASA’s Goddard Space

Flight Center mind-control lab near D.C., Bill Bennett began preparing me for

the program. NASA uses various “CIA designer drugs” to chemically alter the

brain and create exactly the mind set required at the time, Huntsville,

Alabama’s NASA drug of choice, “Train-quility,” created a feeling of absolute,

peaceful compliance and a sensation of walking on air. The drug administered

this time was sufficiently similar to Tranquility to create total compliance. The

bearing I had endured the night before had rendered me helpless, anyway, and I

could barely crawl up onto the cold, metal lab table as the drug took effect.

In the darkness surrounding me, I could hear Bill Bennett talking, “This is

my brother, Bob. He and I work as one unit. We are alien to this dimensiontwo

beings from another plane.”

The high-tech light display swirling around me convinced me I was

transforming dimensions with them, A laser of light hit the black wall in front

of me, which seemed to explode into a panoramic view of a White House

cocktail party-as though I had transformed dimensions and stood amongst

them. Not recognizing anyone, I frantically asked, “Who are these people?” .

“They’re not people, and this isn’t a spaceship/ Bennett said. As he

spoke, the holographic scene changed ever so slightly until the people appeared

to be lizard-like aliens. “Welcome to the second level of the underground.

This level is a mere/(mirror) reflection of the first, an alien dimension. We are

from a transdirnensional plane that spans and encompasses all dimensions.”

“Infinite dimensions,” Bob injected, “Infinite dimensions spanned simultaneously-”

Bill said, “No limitations”.

Bob softly sang, “Let freedom ring”.

“There truly is no where to run and no where to hide from us. We’re who

is looking from behind the Eye in the Sky,” Bill continued,

“We’re watching you,” Bob said. He sang a line from the popular rock

song “I’ll Be Watching You”.

“I have taken you through my dimension as a means of establishing stronger

holds on your mind than the Earth’s plane permits,” Bill Bennett was saying.

“Being alien, I simply make my thoughts your thoughts by projecting them into

your mind. My thoughts are your thoughts.”5

The brief message Bennett programmed me with pertaining to Education

2000 was to be directed to state Governors at the upcoming convention while

delivering a packet of information:

The children. We must consider the children. Think for a moment beyond

tomorrow. Our children are the future. Their future lies in education. We can

control the future today by regulating education. Our thoughts and plans for the

future-put in their text. A text they can understand. Children’s textbooks.

The highest levels of government, the most brilliant minds on the face of this

m – Earth would like input into the future by way of the children. You, as

Governor, are in a position to provide that link. Global Education 2000 is

ready for implementation. Look into it. Look into it and see the future.”

1Education 2000 was designed to increase our children’s learning capacity while destroying

their ability to critically think for themselves. You can learn more about Education 2000, also

referred to as America 2000 and Glohal 2000, through reading: Educating for the New World

Order by B.K. Eakman, published by Halcyon House ISBN # 0-89420-278-2-3441000, and A

Critique of America 2000: An Educational Strategy by Kathi Simonds, published by Citizens for

Excellence in Education,

2Anytime I was taken to “see Byrd,” I was deliberately reminded of his name, (Robert) C.

Byrd and “its alien mirror reversal,” Sea-Byrd as a triple bind lock in.

3Bill Bennett, who was still acting as Chairman of the National Endowment of the

Humanities in 1984, was designated (tapped) to became U.S. Secretary of Education through his

allegiances to George Bush and the New World Order. In 1985, Reagan (Bush) officially

appointed Bennett as Secretary of Education. Apparently Byrd considered my “Neeed to Know*

Bennett as Secretary of Education pertinent to my role in the Global Education project.

4Jesuit/NASA based whale and dolphin programming suggests that water is a mirror to

other dimensions and is the means by which aliens have mixed with our population.

5If this were so, why did he have to audibly tell me?

CHAPTER 20

NEW WORLD ORDER OF THE ROSE

Still feeling drugged from the programming session instilled in me by Bill

Bennett at the nearby Goddard Space Flight Center, I attended a White House

cocktail party later that night as instructed.

Dressed “to Order,” I wore a slinky, black dress that gathered at one hip

decorated in rubies, with a red rose barrette in my hair. “The Chief called for

her,” my Secret Service escort told the butler as he left me at the door. The

lights were dim and the air was formal as the butler led me through the

unusually large crowd of people. He released my elbow, aiming me in the

direction of then President Ronald Reagan,

As I walked through the crowd toward Reagan, I saw familiar faces

associated with the ”Order of the Rose.1″ Across the room, Bill and Bob

Bennett were laughing with Dick Cheney. Then-Governor of Pennsylvania

Dick Thornburgh was engaged in conversation with Senator Arlen Spector.

Within the farthest reaches of my expanded peripheral vision, I saw George

Bush talking with his U.N. confidant Madeleine Albright2, Knowing I could

see him as though I had eyes in the back of my head, Bush subtly signaled me

to join them.

“You know Madeleine Albright,” Bush began, Expertly using terminology

from previously instilled Catholic Jesuit beliefs, he continued, “She’s the

reverend mother of all sisters (slaves). She’s so close to God that an order from

her is an order from Him.” Albright snickered, apparently impressed with

Bush’s “witty” manipulation of program verbiage. “She rose in the U.N.

through me to implement the New World peace process.”

Albright said to me, “I hear you’re a world (whirled?) piece”.

“Who told you that?” Bush demanded.

“Larry Flynt, for her stint in Jamaica3,” she quickly explained.

Bush threw up his hand in apparent disgust at the idea of sex relating to

someone with two digits in their age. “Spare me,” he said.

“That’s my job,” Albright said matter-of-factly with a smile of pride. She

shooed me away while condescendingly saying, I’ll see you tomorrow at the

OAS (Organization of American States) office. Now, you run along and go

play.” Noting that her nonspecific orders left me unable to determine which

way to turn, literally, she aimed me back in the direction of Reagan.

Reagan was dressed in a dark, navy blue suit and red silk tie. His red

rosebud4 boutonniere instantly triggered me into a Jesuit “Order of the Rose”

sex slave mode. “Well, hello, Kitten,” Reagan said, blowing his cognac breath

in my face as he bent over to kiss my hand.

“Uncle Ronnie…” I said, sexually responding as conditioned.

Reagan turned to the man beside him and said, “Brian, this is one more of

those benefits of the New World Order I was telling you about. Kitten, this is

Brian Mulroney, Prime Minister of Canada.”

The connotations of my childhood experience with the former Prime

Minister” of Canada, Pierre Trudeau, suggested that Mulroney was Jesuit—as

did the mode I was operating in. He, too, was wearing a red rose boutonniere

signifying his involvement and commitment to the Order of the Rose.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir,” I said as I extended my hand.

“The pleasure is mine,” Mulroney said as he kissed my hand, “Please, call

me Brian.”

“Yes, Sir, Brian,” I responded, my brain still whirling with the NASA

designer drugs.

Chuckling but insisient, Mulroney reiterated, “I am not a Sir”.

Reagan jumped in, “He is a Prime Minister, which means he is more

important than your average Minister, and certainly more important than any

Sir. Brian is my friend.”

“Oh, Brian,” I said, finally understanding,

“O’Brien is her father’s name,” Reagan told Mulroney, “She is of Irish

descent and hails from Michigan.”

Brian turned to me, “I’ve been in your neck of the woods here recently-in

one of my favorite get-aways-on Mackinac Island,”

“Mackinac Island was her launch point into the project,” Reagan explained

in terms used by those familiar with mind-control operations. Mulroney

apparently was aware of my mind-controlled state and leered at me as though I

were merchandise, Reagan noticed his interest and proceeded to function in the

capacity of a pimp. “I highly recommend you take her along with the rest. She

is an excellent game piece for you to use in any position. And there’s security.

Her head is in the ethers and come tomorrow, she wouldn’t knew you from the

man in the moon. I’ll give you the keys later.”

Expertly using Order of the Rose signals and triggers, Mulroney said, “Just

give me the key to her heart, and she’s mine.”

“You are wise in the ways of the world,” Reagan commented.

“I have to be on top of things. It’s a New World Order,” Mulroney said

matter-of-factly.

As a guard led me away, I heard Reagan tell Mulroney, “You will be on top

of the world soon”.

I was searched by uniformed Canadian bodyguards and pointed in the

direction of one of the White House’s many bedroom suites. When I opened

the door, I saw three blonde sex slaves undressing and preparing the bed—one of

whom was my close friend and Senator Arlen Spector’s slave.

I excitedly called my friend’s name. “What are you doing here?” I asked as

we hugged each other.

“Small world,” she said, as she always did when we were thrust together in

various places for prostitution and/or pornography. This universal term was

often used among those familiar with the Small, Small World Disney-developed

mind-control program.

I hugged my friend again, “Wow, it is a small world. I’m so glad you’re

here.” I had no comprehension of our predicament and could not see beyond

the moment

“Hell girls! It is a small world!” Mulroney entered and strode across the

room, tossing his coat on a chair and loosening his tie. “Watch it get smaller

and smaller as we rocket further and further away.” He slipped out of his

shoes, suspenders, and pants while he continued his hypnotic metaphors.

“Soaring through the sea of black space. As the world gets smaller and smaller

and smaller, then sinks into the black sea of space.” Removing his boxer

shorts, he announced, “I brought you here for a purpose…” and proceeded to

access our sex programming.

In retrospect I know it was no coincidence that my friend and I were

brought together to satisfy Brian Mulroney’s perversion for mind-controlled

slaves. Identically mirror programmed, we operated in unison. The delicate

red rose tatoo on my friend’s left wrist signified her enslavement to the (New

World) Order of the Rose to which Mulroney belonged.

My friend and her young daughter reportedly were often transported across

the U.S.-Canadian border at Niagara Falls for prostitution to Mulroney. The

sexual abuse of her precious child was used as a trauma base to maintain control

of her mind just as Kelly’s abuse traumatized me, Mulroney had previously

accessed sex programming at Niagara Falls in my friend and me-along with our

daughters-to satisfy his sanctioned perversions as though it were “business as

usual”. Had I been capable of connecting events, I would have felt enormous

relief that our daughters were not forced to participate in his sexuaJ assault this

time.

“Mission” complete, I slipped on my dress and prepared to leave, Mulroney

pointed to me and cryptically said, “I’ll be seeing you around. Maybe I’ll see

you in Mackinac. May be. somewhere in time.” In three lines, Mulroney

expertly tied the immediate moment to childhood cues and current Mexican

NAFTA operations, as well as prepared me for my next encounter with him on

Mackinac Island,

1″The Order of the Rose” was an emblem of those ushering in the New World Order.

“Orders from the Rose” were orders From George Bush.

2Reagan first introduced me to U.N. Ambassador Madeleine Albrighi as “my mentor” in

Jesuit operations in the Caribbean “Madeleine Albright is a Saint,” Reagan told me, forming

my perception of her “The Mother Teresa of the Caribbean.’

3While I was in Jamaica under Albright’s (via Bush’s) instruction, Larry Flynt

photographers took advantage of my being there to use the picturesque Dunns River Falls as a

backdrop for pornographic photos to be used in Hustler.

4Reagan’s red rose triggered a sexual mode usually used to compromise/blackmail

dignitaries and lock them into loyalty to the Order of the Rose.

CHAPTER 21

GLOBAL EDUCATION 2000

My programmed role toward implementing Education 2000 according to the

plans of those ushering in the New World Order brought me back in contact

with former Governor of Tennessee, Lamar Alexander, and eventually Canadian

Prime Minister Brian Mulroney,

I had met Lamar Alexander in 1973, at a satanic ritual I was subjected to in

an affluent neighborhood of Nashville, Tennessee. Lamar Alexander presided

over this sex-oriented occult ritual with full understanding of my Project

Monarch Mind-Control victimization and the impact his actions were having on

my mind. It was my experience then, and intermittently throughout the years,

that Lamar Alexander’s sexual perversion was to bring his victim to the point of

death through oral suffocation.

During the course of publicly exposing Tennessee’s need for education

reform as instructed, I was in contact with Commissioners, Superintendents,

Mayors, and Lamar Alexander. Lamar Alexander, who followed Bennett as

Bush’s Secretary of Education, worked in close association with Bill Bennett to

manipulate the minds of the masses to accept Education 2000 as the ONLY

means of education reform. When Ned McWherter was moved into the office

of Governor to rubber stamp federal projects, Lamar Alexander maintained

influence over state politics. At the same time, he maintained influence over

national politics through his role as chairman of the National Governor’s

Association in 1986.

As the J984 Governor’s Convention drew near, I met with Lamar Alexander

at the Stockyard nightclub where he was drinking with his long time associate

and partner-in-crime, Nashville’s Mayor Richard Fulton. In the basement bar

of this old, converted stockyard was a modified antique “Shoe Shine” booth,

where the term took on new meaning. A key to a private shoeshine booth could

be obtained by those in the know through Stockyard owner, Buddy Killen. This

closet-sized booth was lined in mirrors and had a small bench where Lamar

Alexander sat after our business was concluded. I knelt at his feet as ordered to

perform oral sex. Programmed sex slaves such as myself were trained to go

long periods of time without drawing a breath, and users such as Alexander

stretched this time to the maximum.1

On this occasion, Alexander apparently exceeded the maximum. 1 do not

recall completion of my programmed task. It was afterhours when my mindcontrol

handler, Alex Houston, dragged my limp body from the booth, roused

me, and ordered me out of the building. Buddy Killen opened a back door that

once was a cattle run, and Houston half-dragged me out the back exit unseen.

The night of the Convention, Alex Houston’s youngest daughter, Bonnie,2

was to join me. Bonnie and E were close to the same age, and together we

dressed for the occasion. As a prostitute, Bonnie was familiar with Lamar

Alexander and his perversions but nevertheless was excited at the prospect of

seeing “old friends” at the Convention via Louise Mandrell,3 who would be

entertaining there. The comradery between Alex Houston and trby Mandrell

that developed during Bob Hope’s U.S.O. tours in the 1960s lasted for decades

due to their shared involvement in running mind-controlled slaves for Byrd.

Bonnie shared in this friendship with the Mandrells and was looking forward to

seeing her “friends” in the band.

I, too, was looking forward to talking with Louise Mandrell, but for a very

different reason. Barbara had just endured her near-fatal car crash, and I was

deeply concerned for her welfare. Throughout the 1980s while traveling under

the guise of the Country Music Industry, Alex Houston toured with Barbara

and/or Louise Mandrell on a regular basis. Occasionally Barbara and I saw

each other in “church,” the Hendersonville Lord’s Chapel. This church was an

offshoot of Billy Roy Moore’s Lord’s Chapel, and was pastored by his mindcontrolled

slave, Mike Nelson, who became close friends with Barbara.4 Alex

Houston and I were present when Mike Nelson broke program, and attempted to

flee for his Life with Barbara Mandrell. The pastor was subdued with a stun gun

and immediately relieved of his position, while Barbara frantically sought

answers to the questions the two of them had managed to raise.

Alex Houston was touring with Louise Mandrel] in 1984 when Louise had a

“premonition” of Barbara’s imminent demise—much the same way Loretta Lynn

“psychicly predicted” her son’s murder. Like the murders of Loretta’s son and

Country Music entertainer Keith Whitley, I was aware of Barbara’s planned

accident before it occurred due to Alex Houston’s direct involvement. These

traumas were also used as a means of locking in my mind-controlled belief that

I had “no where to run and no where to hide”. Worst of all, I could not think

to speak of what I knew due to my own absolute mind control. While Barbara

physically survived her ordeal, her voice was silenced as planned.

When Bonnie and I arrived at Opryland Hotel, we hurried to the ballroom

where Louise Mandrell would be performing. My concern for Barbara

detracted me from my appointment with Lamar Alexander until one of Louise’s

dancers who knew of my role put me “back on track”.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be at Rhett

Butler’s restaurant NOW.”

I hurried to the restaurant where Lamar Alexander was having dinner with

Senator Byrd and several governors. Byrd was participating in the function for

reasons unknown to me, but 1 was aware that he had fiddled at the Opry. Byrd

stopped eating just long enough to acknowledge my presence, “Where have you

been?”

“I was checking on Barbara over at the show,” 1 replied as Lamar Alexander

excused himself and walked over.

Putting an arm around me and turning me away from the table, he

whispered, “You could wind up just like her if you don’t get with the program.

You’ve got programs to hand out. But right now, you’re interrupting my

dinner. Have you had anything to drink?”.

“No, Sir,” I replied, traumatized at the magnitude of his threat.

Lamar Alexander instructed me to leave immediately, order a grasshopper

from the conservatory bar, and wait for further instructions.

It was a matter of routine for me to order a “grasshopper” from Opryland

Hotel’s conservatory. The ice cream “drink” was specially made—always with a

hypnotic drug in it. As sometimes happened, the waitress was unfamiliar with

the process, and conservatory harp player and CIA operative Lloyd Lindroth

interceded. The drug had the same effect as that administered at the D.C.

NASA programming center by Bennett, and my mode was robotic compliance.

After the drug kicked in, Lloyd Lindroth instructed me to proceed to the

main ballroom of the Hotel, where Lamar Alexander would be meeting me.

The outer lobby of the ballroom was decorated in wall-size murals that extended

to the top of the gothic ceiling. A life-size steam engine depicted on the far wall

appeared to be racing toward the grand staircase. I had seen the murals

numerous times before, but never had they seemed so real as they did to me that

night on the NASA drug. The heavy double doors leading to the ballroom

caused me to feel very small as I pulled with all my strength to open it. Inside,

the room was a sea of black suits and ties, and I was relieved when Lamar

Alexander ushered me back out into the lobby.

Alexander positioned me near the train mural as a cryptic indicator to those

in the know ihat I was a “trained” mind-controlled slave. I was provided a box

of brown envelopes packed with the Education 2000 information I was to hand

out to the governors. Alexander instructed me on exactly what I was to say in

conjunction with the message Bennett had programmed me with in D.C. Then

he returned to the ballroom, where he apparently acted in the capacity of a

pimp.

“Are you waiting on the train?” a paunchy governor asked,

“No, Sir,” I answered. Then, as instructed, I said, “But 1 do have a packet

of information with your name on it. Shall 1 take it to your room for you?”

“Oh? And what is my name?” he asked.

“Governor,” I responded. There actually were no names on the envelopes.

“Astute,” he responded. “And what is it you have for me?”

“This packet,” I answered, handing it to him. “And anything else you want

compliments of Lamar Alexander and (tapped) Secretary of Education, Bill

Bennett.”

According to some of the men, Alexander had cued them as to my position.

Others, such as then Governor of Pennsylvania, Dick Thornburgh and Ohio

Governor Dick Celeste already knew me,

“I’ve got a packet of information with your name on it.. “I was saying as I

bent over to lift one from the box.

“I don’t think so,” Governor Blanchard of Michigan interrupted. “Bill

(Bennett) wouldn’t stoop so low as to insult me that way. I’m doing the same

thing here you are, but from a very different approach. The figures I offer

reflect the success of Education 2000 in the Michigan school system.”

I recognized Governor Blanchard, and was well aware of Michigan’s

ranking first in the nation in education. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “I

believe I see your mother more often than you do these days since she is

working in the schools. That little sister of yours (Kimmy) is a prime example

of what proper instruction can produce. Your little sister is coming to

Mackinac to further her skills. Your whole family is a prime example of how

good Education 2000 works.”

I finally met up with Bonnie again in Lamar Alexander’s room as the night

came to a close. “Bonnie, how’s that snake of yours?” he asked. Bonnie, who

had been filmed pornographically by CIA commercial photographer Jimmy

Walker with Dick Flood’s snakes, had a pel boa consticter,

“Great!” Bonnie laughed. “How’s yours?”

” Constricted,” he replied,

Bonnie unzipped his pants as she admittedly had done numerous times in the

past, playfully sayings “Let it loose!”

Lamar Alexander began removing his pants. Referring to me in Project

Monarch terms he said, “When 1 first saw you, you were a worm with no hint

of being a butterfly.”

“Daddy (Alex Houston) said she was a diamond in the rough,” Bonnie

volunteered,

“She shines now”. Turning to me he said, “I know you are a shoe shiner,

and mine need a shine.”

Bonnie, also familiar with the Stockyard booth and Lamar Alexander’s

meaning, laughed when he said, “Why don’t you both take a foot.”

Task complete, I went to Byrd’s nearby room as instructed. He was in the

bathroom preparing himself for bed, “Louise had her feathers fuffled over

Barbara’s collision with destiny and 1 had to smooth them down a bit,” Drying

his dough grey hands on a towel, he turned to me and said, “Looks lite you’ve

had your wings spread a bit tonight.”

“I wore a path up and down the stairs,” I stated.

Much to my relief he said, “I’m not going to fiddle with you farther. I just

wanted to give you something to remember me by–Bye.” He

compartmentalized my memory with his stun gun.

Soon thereafter, Kelly and I were transported to Mackinac Island. Michigan

to meet with Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney at then-Governor James

Blanchard’s mansion.

Houston led Kelly and me to a horse drawn carriage as quickly as we

stepped off the ferryboat onto the timeless, antiquated island, I noticed that the

Canadian flags were again flying at the Grand Hotel, but was of no mind to

question, Kelly sat quietly beside me, apparently drugged as our carriage took

us through the woods to the Governor’s mansion.

The guests in the mansion were reminiscent of the recent Tennessee

Governor’s convention: Michigan Governor Blanchard, Ohio Governor Dick

Celeste, and Pennsylvania Governor Dick Thornburgh. Guy VanderJagt and

Jerry Ford were also present. Mulroney appeared to be the guest of “honor”.

He reached out his hands and greeted me, “I told you I would see you

somewhere in time! I slipped time, space, and distance to be here this evening.

You and I have some ground to cover.”

“Yes, Sir. President Reagan’s Global Education Secretary Bill Bennett has

sent me to deliver this education packet directly to you.” I was to deliver a

large, brown envelope of documents similar to those handed out at the

Governor’s Convention.

Blanchard excused himself. “I’ve already heard the schpiel,” he said as he

turned to his other guests, leaving Mulroney and me alone,

“Global Education is the wave of the future,” I recited as programmed. As

the world gets smaller and smaller due to higher technology spanning the globe,

our children must be educated in the ways of the world. Education as it is,

barely equips them for life in their own backyard. We need to become involved

in our children’s education for the sake of their future and our legacy. Global

education is the way. The only way, Look into it…” I handed him the

envelope. “…Peer into the future.”

Mulroney uncrossed his arms long enough to accept the envelope, which he

casually tossed on a chair. “I am interested in the children, the legacy we leave

them, and how we shape their future by the way we record our history in their

test.” Using Order of the Rose cues, he signalled me to photographically record

his words for future delivery. “Tell Mr. Bennett(sss),” he hissed, cryptically

revealing his knowledge that Bill and Bob Bennett worked together using

reptilian-alien themes, “implementation is high. I’m already sold on Global

2000 and have additional points I would like for them to consider. Headsets at

every computer station for openers. Double the impact with dual learning.

We’re being thrust forward at warp speed, and the generations of the future may

need an added booster to bring them up to speed. A united global effort using

your education package as a basis is destined to bring the future into a clear and

present reality.”

Business complete, Mulroney triggered my sex programming and led me

upstairs to the bedrooms where Kelly was robotically waiting, entranced under

Orders of the Rose,

1I have witnessed girls die of suffocation from this practice oven though 3 to 5 minutes

without breathing is common.

2While Bonnie was not raised in Project Monarch, Houston’s pedophilia and stage

hypnosis techniques rendered Bonnie unable to control her own actions. Bonnie is a multiple

with a record of prostitution in need of therapy and care.

3Irby Mandrell openly discussed Senator Byrd’s direct involvement in the Project Monarch

government mind-controlled victimizations of his incestuously abused daughters with Houston.

“Having babies can be a lucrative way to feather your nest-that’s what the Byrd taught me.”

Mandrel! continued, “Louise was a little withdrawn, and she needed to come out of her cocoon

and spread her wings. I ran the idea by Byrd, and he said ‘If she doesn’t have a talent, let’s

make her one. What is a band without a fiddle?’ And viola, there she is. Another star on the

rise launched from NASA City, USA (Huntsville, Alabama).”

4Friendships between mind-controlled slaves are usually forbidden, and conversations are

kept to a minimum lest cross-programing triggering occurs. Throughout the years, my own

relationship with the Mandrells was limited to a superficial basis, whereas Irby Mandrell

employed Houston’s hypnotic abilities to maintain mind control over his daughters while

touring.

CHAPTER 22

MY CONTRA-BUTION

U.S. and Mexican relations were flourishing in the successes of NAFTA’s

groundwork, while polictical differences pertaining to Nicaragua remained a

minor point of contention. Since the Catholic Vatican’s Intelligence arm of

Jesuits were working closely wilh U.S. Intelligence to usher in the New World

Order, they used their established influence in Mexico and Nicaragua to provide

a common ground for “diplomatic relations”. My dual mind-control victimazation

by the ClA and the Jesuits since childhood, and my previous “diplomatic

relations” in Mexico thrust me into the role of messenger and prostitute

to Nicaragua’s Daniel Oriega.

Were President Reagan’s Nicaraguan Freedom Fighters fighters OF freedom

or FOR freedom? My mind-controlled existence rendered me incapable of pondering

such questions. Nevertheless, I had a programmed “passion burning in

my bosom” for the Contras as was patriotically instilled through torture, when

I embarked on my “peacekeeping mission” to Nicaragua for Reagan tale in the

summer of 1985,

I boarded NCL as usual to reach my appointed destination. Since Nicaragua

was not a port of call for NCL, I flew from the Yukatan of Mexico to a remote

military airstrip in Managua. It was in this small mountain top clearing that I

met with Commandant Daniel Ortega, as had been arranged through the

Vatican.

I was dressed seasonably in shorts, with my long blond hair lucked hack in

a French braid. Onega’s attire, too, was reflective of the casual air to meeting.

His tan, military uniform had worn thin, and was free of any protocol insignias.

The dark, rose-colored sunglasses he peered through apparently had not

changes his somber view of the “noble cause” he claimed to represent. A man

of few words, he greeted me with an order, “Come with me.” I rode wilh him

in silence as he drove a jeep the short distance across the airstrip to a small,

near, two story, white, frame house.

As we came to a stop in front of the house, Ortega said In a sad, slow voice.

“I have needs like any man. But I feel like a whore myself for accepting your

President’s offer.”

His bedroom was clean and functional, with numerous assault weapons scattered

around, I did not see any modern conveniences or personal effects, but

Ortega seemed to be at home in his surroundings.

Ortega’s demeanor was that of a man who bad abstained from sex longer

than most in bis politcal position. As he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, I noticed

a Catholic medallion with the secret Jesuit ascension/descesion symbol on it,

a common accessory among Jesuit spooks. He sat in wicker chair as 1 followed

his silent lead in gratifying him orally.

While he chain smoked cigarettes, I sat in front of him on the floor, and

relayed Reagan’s message to him as programmed. I began. “President Reagan

has sent me as a messenger of peace.”

He casually interrupted. slowly looking me up and down. “I’d like to have

a piece in a few more minutes.”

I continued, “Your people have endured many hardships Throughout their

existence. He (Reagan) only wants to help. The American people want to see

peace and freedom in your land. Mexican and U.S. relations are growing

stronger by the day, and it is imperative that we resolve your conflict in order to

resolve our own with the Mexican government We have come to the

agreement with Mexico that the Nicaraguan conflict must be resolved for the

sake of your people as well as our own, I am here on a peacekeeping mission

representative of Vatican-based common ground shared by both Mexican and

American governments, to enlighten you to our peaceful intentions. The unified

effort of Mexican-American Catholic missions is to promote peace in your

region, while only enhancing your culture. The world is rapidly turning toward

world peace, and Nicaragua is way behind the times—from technology and

education to government ideals and religious convictions. Pope John Paul is

praying diligently for peace in your region, and has joined forces with President

Reagan, Mexico, and even the Soviet Union to ensure that peace. He (the

Pope) knows your goals, he knows your motives (I leaned forward, almost

whispering from my own instilled belief), he knows your soul. We can all

work in tandem to achieve that peace. Nicaragua, small though it may be in

relation to the rest of the world, is a significant stepping stone toward unifying

world powers. It can no longer be a source of contention and disagreement.

Your people must be free. Free to worship God through your holy Catholic

church. That is first and foremost on President Reagan’s agenda, as well as the

Pope’s and President de la Madrid’s. A New World Order is coming into being

with or without you; it is an inevitable process that cannot be stopped. A whole

new world of peace awaits us all. I can see you are a peace-loving man. It

emanates from your being. Blood has flowed across your land so heavily that

your people are drowning in it. Together we can cauterize that wound.

Replace blood flow with cash flow. Americanization can upgrade your

technology at a rapid rate. Your people could compete in world markets by the

turn of the century. Your future global position has already been determined by

geography alone. Flow with it. Lead your people out of poverty. Educate

them in a manner conducive to their destined position in world markets. Free

them from their struggles that have held them captive for so long. Allow the

church bells to ring with good news of peace, prosperity and freedom. You can

achieve all of your goals for your country’s advancement with our help.”

Ortega thoughtfully finished smoking a cigarette, and lit up another as he

confidently replied, “Tell your President that I have seen his freedom, and

listened to” his words projected through yet another example of it. He paints a

beautiful picture suspended within his framework. A picture can appear serene

to its beholder while it is being gazed upon. I cannot worship a graven image,

and the picture he paints is just that. We have fought too hard and too long,

spilling sweat and blood across this land in our determined effort to maintain

human values instilled in us by our forefathers, who gained their profound wisdom

from the original Catholic missionaries. These values are the same as

those portrayed in President Reagan’s painted picture-only ours are real. His

have only surface value, like any other painting. If I were to concede, I would

only be framed within me picture he paints, hung on his wall like a trophy. I

will not mislead my people, in spite of his offers of wealth and position, I am

true to my convictions, and when he is true to his, then we will meet on

common ground and have something of substance to discuss. For now, words

are only a waste of our time.”

Ortega put out his cigarette, and pulled back the covers on his bed. “I’ll

lake you somewhere pleasant.” He took a well-used opium pipe/bong off his

dresser and handed me a nozzle, I had been trained to accept any drug given to

me with the only exception being the strictly forbidden marijuana. I hesitated

until Ortega assured me it was opium. As the drug took affect he said, “This

could be the way to world peace.” Sex with Ortega was at very least free of

pain and perversion. Unlike most I was forced to have “diplomatic relations”

with for the Reagan Administration, he fell asleep when he was through due to

the difference between opium and cocaine.

The honk of a jeep’s horn outside awoke him. As I prepared to leave, he

said, “Wait”. He took a small, 1/4 inch or so ball of black opium from his

personal stash, wrapped it in the cellophane from his cigarette package wrapper,

and said, “Give this to your President and tell him that you and I found more

peace with this substance than he’ll ever impart on the surface of his painted

globe,” As he closed the door quietly behind me he said, “Come back and see

me when you have more to offer. “

I was immediately returned by plane to Washington, D.C. where my

“mission” had originated. This time I was taken directly to Bush’s office,

where I delivered Ortega’s message verbatim. Eliminating most of the

dialogue, Bush instructed me to deliver a partial message to Reagan. Unable to

perceive message content and people beyond my “Need to Know” mindcontrolled

limited view, I had no concept that Ortega’s message would have a

negative impact. It never occurred to me that Ortega had proven himself to be

as much a hypocrite as he purported Reagan to be by using me as a prostitute

and messenger of bad news knowing full well that I had no free will with which

to make the message more palatable. Bush’s revision of Ortega’s message

added fuei to a proverbial fire that I didn’t even know was burning when I

delivered the message to Reagan.

Bush was with Reagan and me in Reagan’s secondary office (to the Oval

office) of the White House as I relayed the message as instructed, “Daniel

Ortega is a peace loving man, who seeks the same resolutions that we do. But

he told me to tell you-(I dug in my purse for the opium) that he and I found

more peace in this substance-(I handed the opium to Reagan) than you’ll ever

impart on the surface of your painted globe.”

Bush smiled as Reagan’s face instantly turned beet red with rage. Bush then

reacted and spun up out of his chair, look the opium for himself, and told

Reagan, “Settle down. There’s more. It seems the only peace she spread was

between her legs.” He headed for the door, saying, “I would reconsider my

position if 1 were in your shoes—considering what’s filling hers.” Bush dropped

his gaze down the back of my legs to my shoes as he continued, “It’s running

down both sides of her legs.”

Obviously I wouldn’t be subjected to sex with Reagan that day. I was

quickly excused and flown back to Mexico, where I resumed my NCL cruise.

With my memory of the event compartmentalized through high voltage, 1

believed at the time that I had never been gone at all.

CHAPTER 23

WHIRLED VISION

In the fall of 1985, the same part of me that met with Ortega was walking

with (Reagan appointed) CIA Director William “Bill” Casey through the

arboured rose garden of his Long Island estate. Casey began by manipulating

my Jesuit/Vatican programming base personality with the expertise indicative of

the current union between Catholic and CIA operations. Casey, whom Reagan

referred to as a “man of Vision,” was forming my Jesuit mind-control

programmed “understanding”. “I have a World Vision,1 one of peace. By removing

the more violent factions of societies world wide and replacing them

with faithful leaders of one world government, and the one world church, global

unification is eminent. It is a beautiful vision, and it came to me in my dreams.

God has moved me to move men. I’ve moved them here and I’ve moved them

there—now it’s time to remove them. My World Vision encompasses the globe

and puts to rest any and all tensions, strife, overpopulation, and starvation. My

vision is a World Vision, and the churches see it my way as evidenced by their

support of the cause.”2

Referring to my mind-controlled involvement in Haitian operations via

NCL, Casey further defined ‘the cause,’ “Your heartfelt mission in Haiti has

helped in my World Vision quest for her people to abandon hedonistic voodoo

and turn their eyes to God and Godly ways. By their own design, they have

created an atmosphere of evil whereby a plague will be visited on their land.

The Lord has so moved me to move men who share our goals into place, and

re-move those who stand in the way of peace. It is for this reason that your

mission in Haiti must be brought to a close. Baby Doc, in his tireless devotion

to saving the demonically possessed cannot bear the burden of watching his

people die the wretched death unleashed upon those doomed for hell. We are

left with no alternative but to heed the word of God and spare him from

annihilation. For this reason, we will send in the missionaries (Jesuit

Mercenaries) to inoculate the population with a vaccine that will spare only the

good of heart by virtue of its design. All attempts to maintain Haiti within the

loop of financial gain will cease. Tourism must be stopped for the sake of the

innocents visiting a plagued land. Despite our differences, Baby Doc has

complied with the Vatican’s orders to the test of his abilities in his demoninfesled

land, and must resign his post. We owe it to him to transport him to

safety. It is our duty as Americans and followers of God to obey the commands

of our Lord and Master and enforce the World Vision. It is your duty as an

American and follower of God to instill the understanding that God has spoken,

and a plague is imminent. Baby Doc is being prepared for transition and awaits

word of direction. You will provide him with that word.”

With my perceptions distorted and Catholic Jesuit programmed

“understanding” instilled, I was prepared to “religiously accept” any and all I

was told. I believed that the revolution in Haiti was a holy war, never capable

of realizing it was a test run battle for the minds in this 4th world country.

The devotion I felt toward the Haitian people was more than a religious

understanding of these alternately Catholic-Santeria3 voodoo worshippers. I was

actually subconsciously recognizing other tortured mind-controlled slaves in this

human created hell called Haiti. Consciously, I now know it was due in part to

the visible stun gun/prod marks, plastic ever-present smiles that never quite

reach their dead appearing eyes. The children clung to their wide-eyed

mothers, as they performed their tasks in robotic servitude. I had recognized

these characteristics in other slaves throughout the years, but never had I seen a

whole country entranced. My compassion for the Haitian people penetrated into

the realm of the spiritual, into a part of me that mind control and manipulation

of religion could never touch,

Casey and I had been walking through the garden, guarded by more armed

men than the President, It wasn’t that I was a threat, 1 couldn’t even think to

save myself. It was that Casey and his World Vision were a threat to humanity

that so many guards were needed. The men appeared to be U.S. Secret Service

officers according to their attire, weapons, and earphone headsets. One guard

conspicuously placed his hand to his headset, listening as though it were remote

control. He walked briskly over to Casey, who signaled me to leave with an

escort who instantly arrived at my side awaiting instruction.

“Take her to my chambers,” Casey told him, “Clear her mind. I have

something I need to instill,” Robotically I followed my escort into Casey’s

office library. The room was barren, dark, and hot-just as described in a book

I had been given to read in keeping with You Are What You Read

programming. It produced a sensation of having somehow stepped into the

novel Chameleon by insider William Diehl. The mind scramble of the book

and reality instantly commenced,

“It’s warm in here,” the agent said, unbuttoning my while eyelet blouse.

“Bill (Casey) likes to keep it this way in case-he (Casey) gets a chill and his

blood runs cold. Chameleons4 are naturally cold blooded. Make yourself

comfortable white I turn up the heat. Mr, Casey doesn’t want to hear a peep

out of you, so I’ll warn you now-be Silent.” He deliberately triggered and

activated the Jesuit programmed part of me that believed in my Vow of Silence.5

The walls have ears and the plants have eyes, so your silence is tantamount to

success. I’m going to leave you to reflect in Silence, Bill will be along any

minute.”

Had I been capable of “reflecting,” I would have questioned the validity of

Casey’s dramatic position of “religious overtones” on Haitian policy. Like

Reagan’s, Casey’s sincerity did not ring true considering the fruits of his labor,

But then, 1 could not consider any more than I could reflect, and 1 sat in a state

of what felt like suspended animation awaiting my instructions. I could not

anticipate nor dread what was about to happen as futuristic thinking was left in

the hands of my controllers. Had I realized the scramble of reality with

William Diehl’s book, I could have “psychicly” predicted what happened when

Bill Casey strolled in.

Casey walked over to his highly polished, dark wood desk and opened the

top drawer. Casey’s desk was one of the few furnishings in the large, airy

room. The dark, polished, reddish-wood paneling seemed even darker with the

midnight blue carpeting curving slightly up the wall. Heavy, gothic maroon

velvet drapes blacked out the sun from the windows behind his desk,

“I can see quite clearly that you have taken a Vow of Silence, Maintain it.

Maintain it and Lisssten,” Casey hissed, using preset triggers. He reached into

the drawer and took out a foot-long, maroon box with a diamond embossed on

the top.

“1 received a box, quite anonymously as I do from time to time,” Casey said

in keeping with the book scramble. “The box has your name on it. I expected

to open it and find the usual pierced chameleon and found, instead, a weapon

intended for one.”

He opened the box in front of me. Inside, laying on a bed of cotton, was an

elaborate dagger with a handle of the same rose crystal from which the crucifix

Byrd had presented me on “our wedding night” was made. My first personal

meeting with Casey promised to be torturous as I recognized Byrd’s

participation in the grisly ordeal.

1 listened, deeply tranced, as Casey said, “Is it a knife or a crucifix? I can’t

tell. Both symbolize martyrdom as far as I’m concerned. Note the rose pattern

cut into the crystal. Now, I wonder who would have sent me this to give to

you.”

Even under mind control I knew, as I was supposed to, that Byrd had

provided him with the knife. My worst fears were confirmed when Casey

began using Byrd’s hypnotic induction, “In like a knife, sharp and clean, I’ll

carve out what I want.” Casey sliced through the front of my bra, exposing the

area between my breasts where Byrd routinely cut me with his pocketknife. He

pierced into my breastbone deeply so that I believed I would split, and indeed

did split off a personality fragment compartmentalizing this event. Using

standard Jesuit-based infinity program, Casey instructed me and programmed

me with messages that I would deliver as though my life depended on it.

“You must go to the Citadel and warn our Dominican brothers of impending

doom to their neighbors in Haiti. From the Dominican side (of the Haitian

island) you will be flown to Port Au Prince where you will meet with Baby Doc

(Duvalier) at his Palace. He is already receptive to your word, and knows that

my words are your words and your word is Silence. You must tell General

Cedras his Order is from The Rose.” Casey touched the white rose in his lapel,

signaling me to photographically record his words verbatim.

When he was through programming me with his message, Casey told me,

“As quickly as you complete this mission, you must depart Haiti, never to

return again.” Casey used excessive high voltage to compartmentalize my

memory. I recall being nauseated and i l l from his stun gun as I departed his

Long Island compound/home via ferry programmed with messages to Cedras

and Babv Doc.

Haiti had recently been dropped from the NCL itinerary as a Port of Call,

but the Dominican Republic side of the island remained open to tourism. When

Houston and I debarked the NCL ship in Puerta Plata, we walked past a World

Vision cargo ship that was being unloaded at the dock. I recall that a soft ocean

breeze gently lifted the hem of my white, gauzy dress as I weaved my way

through the dockload of World Vision freight to a waiting automobile.

Religion and politics apparently mix in the Dominican Republic as

evidenced by the inseparable mixture of Catholic Missions, old forts, statues of

Christopher Columbus, and Catholic Shrines. As we drove past the mountain

tramway that takes tourists up and down to the rustic Citadel and Catholic

Shrine at the top, Houston perpetuated the “Chameleon” book scramble. Dually

referring to Cedras and the short donkey ride from the tram to the Citadel

depicted in Diehl’s book, Houston threatened to put me on the rickety tram

saying, “Some Jackass will see you at the top.”

In an area reserved for covert activities, out of view of tourists, I met with

General Cedras in his Citadel office. Dressed in the eerie, Jesuit, dark, hooded

robe, Cedras completed Casey’s “Chameleon” book scramble scenario as we

walked through the ancient structure to his office. Cedras’ demeanor made him

appear more as a militant than a “spook,” despite the corny monk’s attire. With

his hood down his back, Cedras’ sharp, craggy features and darting steel blue

eyes kept my full attention. I had seen him at a monastery in Santo Domingo as

ordered before,6 when Haiti was still being used by the CIA for Operation

Watchtower to transport cocaine and Contra weapons from Cuba.

Alone with Cedras and properly signaled, I began photographically reciting

Casey’s message, “I have word of warning from the Vatican by way of the

honorable and faithful William Casey. He sends word of impending doom that

is to befall your neighbors on the darkside in Haiti. Voodoo manifest itself in

mysterious ways while the way of the Lord is clear. Evil must be stopped at all

costs. The cost shall be in terms of human casualty, as a plague is being visited

upon the land. Those who fornicate with devils shall be infested with the

plague. Woo unto them who have stood in the path of World Peace. By God’s

design the New World Order shall come into being with or without the Haitians.

All American operations in Haiti are now destined for your ports. Your people

(the CIA-UN operated Dominicans) will flourish in peace and prosperity while

the dark side (Haitians) drown in the blood of this holy war that they have

brought upon themselves. Close your borders swiftly and maintain guardians at

the gate lest the Haitians infest your land with their evil plague. Inoculation of

the masses shall be masked in the body and the blood shall carry the doom. As

more and more Haitians turn to God in their final hour, the communion they

partake will be Satan’s own. With their God as the scapegoat, your Island in

the Son (sun) will be freed of the vile and wicked. I have seen a vision, a

World Vision, and it is through communion with the ancients that we have been

granted the Keys to the Kingdom7 to unlock the gates of hell. The holy water

sent herein has the blessings of the Vatican and must be sprinkled like rain upon

the Haitians. Our God reigns, and he rains rivers of blood upon the Haitian

masses, and he reigns supreme upon your mission. Your mission is clear. You

serve communion and let God son them out. Those who serve the body of

Christ are covered by the Vatican, those who serve voodoo evil shall be covered

in the blood of their own. It is clear our God reigns. Lei the games begin.”

Combining the cryptic language of Cedras’ CIA and Jesuit operations,

Casey had weaved numerous cryptic commands into his message. Had I been

inadvertently accessed, the instructions would make little sense to those not cued

to the language. Cedras was listening religiously, fully grasping the magnitude

of Casey’s instructions. I concluded the message, “The holy water with the

Vatican’s blessings will arrive at 1 PM today by way of World Vision, The

blood shall host the plague.”8

I was relieved to depart Cedras’ presence without being subjected to his

usual perverse sexual brutality. This would be someone else’s job this time, as

my programmed trance was maintained until I delivered Casey’s message to

Baby Doc Duvalier on the “dark side” of the “Island in the Son”.

Houston took me to the small CIA-operated airport at the foot of the

mountain where I boarded a small, white airplane destined for Port Au Prince,

Haiti. When we landed, the pilot walked me over to Baby Doc’s Tonton

guards, and ordered that I be taken to the Palace. He spoke in rapid Haitian

French, and lifted my symbolic, rosy cross necklace for emphasis to the guards.

Reinforcing my insLiiled belief thai the Catholic emblem would protect me, the

guards treated me with the respect that apparently was reserved for identified

Jesuit spooks. I was driven by white Mercedes to the Haitian Presidential

Palace. Looking even more conspicuously out of place in contrast to stark

poverty than his fleet of Mercedes, Baby Doc’s Palace was decadent. I stood

reverently in. the foyer waiting for my arranged meeting to begin, unable to

question Baby Doc’s luxurious surroundings in view of the despair and

starvation around him.

I had met with Baby Doc throughout the early ’80s in the capacity of a

Project Monarch prostitute. All Haitian-based U.S. covert operations were run

by a bed-ridden old man referred to as “Ol’ Charlie,” who resided at the El

Presidente Hotel until his death in the mid ’80s. During my tenure as a mindcontrolled

messenger and prostitute in Haiti, I had been forced to attend a

voodoo ceremony for my (and others’) traumatization purposes. I was ordered

to perform oral sex on Baby Doc as his dark-windowed Mercedes slowly

proceeded through the crowds of Haitians on their way to the ritual. With my

Haitian missions previously established with Ol’ Charlie for business and Baby

Doc for prostitution, my meeting Baby Doc for business was unprecedented.

“What brings you here?” Baby Doc spit the words at me in English. I had

been led into his library by three armed guards, “I have no need of a Catholic

whore,”

Baby Doc’s applicable knowledge of the English language was limited by his

intellect whereby an aide filled the need for an interpreter as 1 delivered Casey’s

message.

“I come in the name of peace. I have a message for you from William

Casey, sanctioned by the Vatican, The Pope is in agreement with U.S. policy

in Haiti. He has seen a vision, a sign from God. The vision is a World Vision,

whose people are reaching out to yours with charily in abundance. The goods

and services provided require only that the people of Haiti anoint the sick, feed

the hungry, and clothe the poor through his servants of World Vision. Their

mission will separate good seed from bad and restore peace in your region. The

peace that shall be visited upon your land amongst your people is imminent, but

not before the rivers run red with the blood of the wicked. The vision is

plague, and your people will fall in the streets pleading for mercy, and you will

not be here to hear it. The lime has come for you to leave. It is God’s will that

you escape the plague with blessings from the Vatican, never to return to your

homeland. Prepare for your exodus today for tomorrow holds a promise of

doom. Using your prophetic wisdom, warn the masses of impending doom and

arm them with World Vision. The vision is one of peace’ for those who flock

to the tents and churches for salvation. Your destiny is clear, and the Vatican

has cleared the way for your departure.”

With Casey’s message delivered, Baby Doc’s Tontons returned me to the

same airplane I had left a short time before. I flew in silence, unable to think to

comprehend the magnitude of what had just transpired. Events to a mindcontrolled

slave are all perceived as first and last times. Therefore, Casey’s

instructions that I would “depart Haiti, never to return again” seemed business

as usual to me. Flying over the mountains that separate Haiti from the

Dominican Republic, I noticed the gentle people below bathing in the

waterfalls, toilessly washing their bright clothes on the rocks, and primitively

hauling goods in the baskets balanced on their heads. An occasional goat ran

across the barren land, and the children, bellies swollen from starvation, played

with slicks and vines. With my mind-controlled and spinning with

misperceptions, my whirled vision, like Ortega’s rose colored glasses, prevented

me from seeing the reality of New World Orders.

1World Vision was/is a Jesuit controlled organization that led churches to give them money

under the guise of spreading world peace. What they were not saying was what the money was

actually funding-a world peace plan under mind control.

2 Perceptual distortions of the virtues that good people hold most dear is one reason for the

proliferation of criminal activity within such organizations as World Vision. There are those

within affected factions of such organizations, the Catholic church, and even the U.S.

Government that operate under distorted perceptions referred to by the CIA as a “Need to

Know” basis–and they “Need to Know” that their minds, religion, and/or perceptions are being

deliberately manipulated.

3Since the Catholics had joined forces with the United Nations to overtake the world

through mass mind control, the Jesuit influence on Haiti was complete. By maintaining much of

the ceremony, placing literal interpretation on “eating the body and drinking the blood,” and

providing a mirror reversal of good and evil, Catholicism and voodoo, like Catholicism and the

United nations, became one in the same.

4The term “Chameleon” is a term used to describe spies who are expertly trained to blend

into any environment at any time unnoticed-just as an MPD mirrors the one they’re with.

5The Jesuit Vow of Silence was installed through the Rite to Remain Silent of my

childhood. Now I know, like so many others in Intelligence, that “Silence Equals Death”.

Knowledge is our ONLY defense against mind control.

6Byrd had told me that Cedras was “a strategically placed chess piece that the CIA, Jesuits

and U.N. moved around” to usher in their New World Order,

7″Keys to the Kingdom” was defined by Bill Bennett in accordance with Jesuit

programming as follows: “At the onset of Christianity, the Apostles compiled all the

information that they had obtained from Christ and built the Holy Catholic Apostolic Church.

Christ intended it to be the one world church then—the truth, the light, and the way. The secrets

were kept in the ark of the covenant, and passed down generation after generation. And

generation after generation Christ caused for more to be written-the fruits of his labors

expounding on the truth. Now the ark has become archives—a wealth of information. This

information is accessible to very few— the very few who hold the Keys to the Kingdom”.

8Interpretation of the final message is left to the minds of the masses who can still discern

truth. My conclusions are “clear”, bused on conversations overheard and my experience as a

White House sex slave. Although Byrd and Reagan, among others, had prostituted me to

officials in AIDS-infected countries, they used no protection against “the plague” when having

sex with me.

9There can be no world peace without peace-of-mind, and there is no peace-of-mind under

mind control. Haiti, once a prototype of New World Order controls has now been used up and

discarded by the CIA and Jesuits. U.N. “peacekeeping forces” have created a smoke and

mirrors illusion of “peace” by keeping it FROM the Haitian people.

CHAPTER 24

A-HUNTING WE WILL GO

On December 4, 1986, I turned 29 years old. Usually mind-controlled

slaves were discarded, “thrown from the Freedom train,” at 30; but I argued

with Houston when he told me my government abusers only had one year left to

“use me up”. I had had no conscious awareness of the passing of time, and

believed I was still only 24. Regardless of what I believed, my abusers did

their best to “use me up” physically and psychologically before even a month

had passed.

I was in Washington, D.C. on a routine trip, which included being

prostituted to President Reagan. “Uncle Ronnie’s” cheeks were flushed from

excitement and cognac as he told me, “I always take two weeks off for

Christmas to go back to California.” Reagan interrupted himself to break into

an old Hollywood style song and dance, “California here 1 come…” The While

House, he claimed, had always been confining to him, and he appeared

genuinely excited about his upcoming trip. “I look forward lo this trip every

year because I get to see old friends. Oh, I still work while I’m there-the

President’s work is never done-but at least I’m there. It’s about time you see

where I call home.” Then, quoting the Wizard of Oz, he said, “‘There’s no

place like home.’ And you’re about to see why. Say it with me, “There’s no

place like home. There’s no place like home’.” Then he instructed me in Oz

cryptic, “Click your heels. There’s no place like home.”

Blue-white light seemingly exploded in my brain, like being hit with deadly

low voltage AC electrical current. Reagan was “setting the stage” for an

attempted mind scrambling time slip, to be reactivated at an upcoming meeting I

would have with him in Bel Air, California.

The motor home was packed to the walls, and the walls were packed with

cocaine as Houston, Kelly, and I departed on our long drive to California.

Houston had planned several “tourist stops” along the way that proved as”

nightmarish as the California ordeal itself.

In Las Vegas, Nevada, Houston kept Kelly and me busy prostituting us to

everyone he knew “in the know” and in attendance at the Country Music

Association’s annual convention. Weary of being sent from room to room, 1

was back in the lobby literally trying to catch my breath when I saw Michael

Dante. He was dressed in an expensive, light grey silk suit and dark glasses,

looking more like a Fed than a mobster, leaning on a post, waiting for met

“Our love” he professed over the phone for mind conditioning purposes was

certainly not apparent now. “You’re late,” he growled as he looked at his

watch. He ordered me into the Ladies’ Room to activate programming by

having me “lose myself in the infinity mirrors that lined the walls. With my

mind set like he wanted, he then used and directed me in commercial

pornography. Later, he did the same with Kelly.

At the Grand Canyon, Houston traumatized Kelly and me in preparation for.

the upcoming events in California. While hiking down the canyon, Houston

attempted to anchor hypnotically all of the trip’s events behind the death and

insanity programming to which he was subjecting us. When we stopped for a

late afternoon lunch in the Canyon, Kelly collapsed in a state of shock, unable

to eat. Houston was pleased because he “got to eat it all himself”. I was, as

usual, undergoing the food and water deprivation. I was so thirsty, I could not

think to eat. Kelly’s condition magnified my own terrified state, and I did all I

could to keep Houston from supposedly pushing her over the edge. I carried

her for hours all the way out of the canyon, without pausing to rest. In my own

mind I wanted to believe I was actually able to protect her. The fact was,

Houston was wearing me down physically to ensure that I could not protect her

at our next destination: Lake/Mount Shasta, California.

George Bush was highly active in both the Lampe, Missouri and Shasta,

California retreat compounds. Just like Lampe, Shasta’s cover was country

music. According to everyone 1 knew, singer and songwriter Merle Haggard

supposedly ran the show at Lake Shasta, diverting any and all attention from the

nearby Mount Shasta compound. Shasta was the largest, covert mind-control

slave camp of which I am aware. Hidden in the wooded hills, military fencing

corrals an enormous fleet of unmarked, black helicopters and more mindcontrolled,

military robots than I saw in all of Haiti. This covert military

operation served its own agenda, not America’s. I was told and overheard that

it was a base for the future Multi-Jurisdictional Police Force; for enforcing

order and law in the New World Order. In the center of the high security

compound, was another well-guarded military-fenced area that was regarded as

a “Camp David” of sorts for those running our country. George Bush and Dick

Cheney shared an office there, and claimed the outer perimeter woods as their

own hunting ground where they played “A Most Dangerous Game”. Predicated

on conversations I overheard between the two, it was this world police military

background that earned Dick Cheney his cabinet appointment as Secretary of

Defense1 with the Bush Administration.

Houston stayed at Haggard’s Lake Shasta resort while Kelly and 1 were

helicoptered to Mount Shasta for our scheduled meeting with Bush and Cheney.

The helicopter pilot directed our attention to the military fencing surrounding

the outer perimeter of the compound. Rarely did pilots ever speak to either of

us, but this one smiled wickedly as he told us we would need to know the outer

limits for A Most Dangerous Game.

As soon as we arrived at Bush and Cheney’s inner sanctum, I noticed

George Bush, Jr. was with them. It was my experience that Jr. stood by his

father and covered his backside whenever Bush would become incapacitated

from drugs or required criminal backup. It appeared that Jr. was there to serve

both purposes while his father and Cheney enjoyed their work-vacation.

Hyper from drugs, Cheney and Bush were eager to hunt their human prey in

“A Most Dangerous Game”. They greeted me with the rules of the game,

ordered me to strip naked despite the cold December winds, and told me in Oz

cryptic to “beware of the lions and tigers and bears”. Kelly’s life became the

stakes, as usual, which resurrected my natural and exaggerated programmed

maternal instincts. Tears silently ran down my cheeks as Bush told me, “If we

catch you, Kelly’s mine. So run, run as fast as you can. I’ll get you and your

little girl, too, because I can, I can, I can. And I will.”

Cheney, daring me to respond, asked, “Any questions?”

I said, “There’s no place to run because there’s a fence—the kind I can’t get

over. I saw it”

Rather than physically assault me. Cheney laughed at my sense of “no where

to run, no where to hide and explained that a bear had torn a hole in the fence

somewhere, and all I had to do is find it. He lowered his rifle to my head and

said, “Let the games begin. Go.”

Wearing only my tennis shoes, I ran through the trees as fast and as far as I

could, which wasn’t very far at all. Bush was using his bird dog to track me,

the same one that had recently been used with me in bestiality filming as a

“Byrd-dog” joke on my owner, Robert C. Byrd. When caught, Cheney held his

gun to my head again as he stood over me, looking warm in his sheepskin coat.

Bush ordered me to take his dog sexually while they watched, then he and

Cheney ushered me back to their cabin.

I pulled on my clothes and sat in the office part of the cabin awaiting

instructions. I had no idea where Kelly was, nor do I in retrospect. Bush and

Cheney were still in their hunting clothes when the programming session began.

Bush said, “You and I are about to embark on A Most Dangerous Game of

diplomatic relations. This is my game. You will follow my rules. 1 will have

the distinct advantage of hunting you with my Eye in the Sky (satellite). I’ll

watch every move you make. As long as you play the game by my rules and

make no mistakes, you live. One mistake and I’ll get you, my pretty, and your

little girl, too. You die, and Kelly will have to play with me. I prefer it that

way. Then it will be her Most Dangerous Game. The cards are stacked in my

favor because, well, it is my game! Are you game?”

There was no choice. I responded as conditioned, “Yes, Sir! I’m game.”

The parallels to The Most Dangerous Game that had just occurred in the woods

were deliberate and intended to make retrieval of memory “impossible” due to

cryptoamnesia scrambling.

“Good. Then let the games begin. Listen carefully to your instructions.

You have no room for error.” Cheney flipped his “game timer”—an hourglass.

Bush continued, “This game is called the King and Eye, and here’s the deal.

You will be establishing stronger diplomatic relations according to order

between Mexico, the U.S., and the Middle East. Your role will require a

change of face at each new place. I’ll chart your course, define your role, and

pull your strings. You’ll speak my words when I pull your strings. There is no

room for error,”

Cheney was half lying across the plain, military issue style desk in an

apparent drug stupor as Bush talked. Still wearing his hunting coat and hat,

Cheney aimed his rifle at me from the desk and threatened, “Or a-hunting we

will go.” Bush finished Cheney’s threat by singing, “We’ll catch a fox and put

her in a box and lower her in a hole.”

Bush looked at Cheney and burst out laughing. The sight of him dressed in

his hunting clothes with a huge bore, double-barreled shotgun to his shoulder

inspired Bush to tell him he “looked tike Elmer Fudd”.

Cheney, imitating the cartoon character, said, “Where is that waskily

wabbit?”

Operation The King and Eye would involve Reagan’s #1 envoy Philip Habib

(who cryptically played the Alice In Wonderland role of the White Rabbit with

slaves such as myself) and Saudi Arabian King Fahd. So when Bush referred

to the two as “Elmer Fahd and the Waskily Wabbit,” he and Cheney laughed

until they cried. Since both were already high from drugs anyway, they had a

great deal of difficulty maintaining composure long enough to complete my

programming.

1Dick Cheney has no official U.S. military history to justify his position as our nation’s

former Defense Secretary under President George Bush.

CHAPTER 25

BUSH BABY

It was late evening when Bush and Cheney finished programming me with

numerous messages pertaining to the immediate opening of the Juarez, Mexican

border to free (drug and slave) trade. They then took me downstairs to the

living quarters of the western cedar and redwood structure where Kelly soon

joined us. George Bush, Jr. deposited my obviously traumatized and withdrawn

child at the door. Referring to The Most Dangerous Game she told me in a

quiet, defeated and sad voice, “I was caught same as you”.

In retrospect, I do not know if she was actually hunted (I can only hope she

was not). Regardless, this reinforced the fact that 1 had been caught and

therefore was “responsible” (when in fact I was not) for everything that

happened to Kelly from that point on.

The decor of the residence area reflected Cheney’s primitive, rustic, western

preference. Like his “ultra secret” Pentagon Bunkhouse, use of leather was in

abundance. The main room was small, but appeared larger due to an infinity

mirror on one wall. The room was decorated in mirror fashion with one side

looking like the other. Centered between two facing black leather sofas was a

coffee table littered with drugs and paraphernalia. Bush and Cheney were

sitting in matching black leather recliners angled towards the large stone

fireplace where a fire was blazing, illuminating and heating the room.

Heroin, Bush’s drug of choice, was in abundance and Cheney joined him in

using it. The smorgasbord of drugs laid out supposedly included opium,

cocaine, and Wonderland Wafers (MDMHA-XTC aka ecstasy), which indicated

to me they intended to celebrate their vacation with abandon. 1 had seen

Cheney stumbling drunk before, but this was the only time I saw him use heroin

and give it to me. Kelly, too, was subjected to the drugs.

Bush attempted to sell Cheney on the idea of pedophilia through graphic

descriptions of having sex with Kelly. Both were already sexually aroused from

drugs and anticipation. Cheney demonstrated to Bush why he did not have sex

with kids by exposing himself to Kelly and saying, “Come here”. Upon seeing

Cheney’s unusually large penis, Kelly reeled back in horror and cried, “No!”

which made them both laugh. Bush asked Cheney for his liquid cocaine

atomizer as he got up to take Kelly to the bedroom. When Cheney remarked

how benevolent it was of Bush to numb her with it before sex, Bush replied,

“The hell it is. It’s for me.” He described his excited state in typical vulgar

terms and explained that he wanted it to spray cocaine on his penis to last

longer.

Cheney said, “I thought it was for the kid.”

Bush explained, “Half the fun is having them squirm.” He took Kelly’s

hand and led her off to the bedroom.

Cheney told me that since I was “responsible” for Bush’s assault on my

daughter by being caught in A Most Dangerous Game, I would “burn” (in hell).

He burned my inner thigh with the fireplace poker, and threatened to throw

Kelly in the fire. He hypnotically enhanced his description of her burning to

traumatize me deeply. As he sexually brutalized me, I heard Kelly’s whimpers

coming from the bedroom. As her cries grew louder, Cheney turned on

classical music to drown out her cries for help.

At 4:00 am, as ordered, Bush Jr. (and his helicopter pilot) came to retrieve

Kelly and me. We were flown (by helicopter) back to the Lake Shasta area

where Houston and the motor home awaited us. Bush’s assault of Kelly proved

to be a mind shattering experience for me, and physically devastating to Kelly.

She was in dire need of medical attention and was unable even to move.

Houston threatened to stop the motor home in the Yosemite area and throw me

from a steep cliff if I didn’t settle down. His threats and commands could not

control my hysteria, as much of his control programming had inadvertently

shattered. Fearful he would lose both his “money-makers,” Houston permitted

me to telephone Kelly’s doctor and begin administering medicines. As for me,

he arranged for assistance in picking up the pieces in order that I complete my

primary purpose in traveling to California, i.e., meet with Mexican President

Miguel de Ja Madrid and finalize plans Co open the Juarez border.

CHAPTER 26

NEW WORLD ORDERS

There was “no time to lose” in bringing me back around to a functioning

level. I knew I had work to do. Although I was to be “used up” by my 30th

birthday, I do not believe it was Bush and Cheney’s intention to expedite the

process so quickly. Apparently it was their incompetence due to overindulgence

of drugs and subsequent abuse of Kelly in my presence that

destroyed parts of my maternal-based programming. Regardless of their

“excuse,” Houston drove us to San Francisco, California where Temple of Set

(Satan) founder U.S. Army Lt. Col. Aquino made some emergency “repairs”.

I was not taken to a hospital or a mental institution, but to a brain/mind

research and development lab on the U.S. Army Reservation at Presidio. There

are many facilities such as this one across the country at various CIA, military,

and NASA compounds where hyper-advanced government knowledge is put to

the test, developed and modified. Those I met who had expertly learned the

scientific mechanics of the brain in conjunction with the ins and outs of the

mind used their gained secret knowledge to manipulate and/or control others.

The only thing Mark Phillips, Byrd, and Aquino had in common was the belief

that “secret knowledge equals power”.1 Byrd explained to me that New World

Order “powers were strengthened” by allowing the mental health community

only partial and/or deliberate misinformation through their organization lobby,

The American Psychiatric Association (APA), concerning treatment modalities

for severe dissociative disorders being created through mind control! Perpetrators

believed that withholding knowledge and the proliferation of deliberate

misinformation allowed them control over their secrets, and subsequently over

humanity. They may be correct if no one can or will react to the information

presented in this book.

Intended or not, I overheard a conversation pertaining to death and the mind

between Aquino and a lab assistant as I lay on a cold, metal table in a deep

hypnotic state, Aquino was saying that 1 had come close to death numerous

limes which “increased my ability to enter other (mind) dimensions en route to

death”. I had listened to Aquino talk at length about such concepts before, as

though he were trying to convince himself of some interdimensional time travel

theory. “Whether in principle or in theory, the results are the same,” he

claimed. “The concept of time is abstract in itself.” Hypnotic talk of pastpresent-

future set my mind in a spin that, when combined with Alice In

Wonderland/NASA mirror world concepts, created an illusion of timeless

dimensions. I now know that the only “dimensions’ I experienced were

elaborate memory compartmentalizations of real, earthly events by real, earthly

criminals, and certainly not by aliens, Satan, or demons.

After moving me from the table to an elaborate box, Aquino then shifted my

mind to another area of my brain, claiming to have taken me into another

dimension by way of “death’s door”. This was accomplished while I was

subjected to sensory deprivation combined with hypnotic and harmonic reprogramming.

The seemingly coffin-like structure was transformed in my mind

to a crematorium, where 1 endured the sense of increasing heat while “I slowly

burned” through hypnotic suggestion. Aquino then “pulled me through death’s

door” and into another dimension, “void of time”. Parts of my programming

were “recreated for the recreation of world leaders,” i.e., U.S. President

Reagan, Mexican President de la Madrid, and Saudi Arabian King Fahd.

In my next recollection of awareness, Houston, Kelly, and I were in

Hollywood, where Houston claimed the motor home “broke down”—an over

used attempted memory scramble. He sent me down the street to telephone

Michael Dante, who lived nearby in Beverly Hills. Dante was expecting Kelly

and me to join him in his Beverly Hills mansion for several days as bad been

previously arranged by our handler, Alex Houston. Kelly and I waited at the

phone booth as instructed until Dante arrived to pick us up in his midnight blue

Ferrari. As soon as I sat down, Dante said, “I got something for you, Baby,

Give me your arm.” Heroin was a common “vice” he shared with Bush, and he

shot me up with the drug right in front of Kelly.

Later that evening at his house, Dante told me that he refused to “handle

damaged goods,” and that he would not be my next handler as previously

planned. Not only was I “not fit to live with” him, but I was not “fit to live” at

all. I am not certain what he meant to accomplish by these threats, but I know

in retrospect that this was not his decision to make. Besides, 1 never perceived

existence with him and his professed “love” as a “future” anyway- Instead, he

said he would go along with the original plan long enough to acquire Kelly”.

The next day, hours before I was to meet with de la Madrid, L.A, Dodgers

baseball team manager Tommy LaSorda, George Bush, Jr., and star pitcher of

Jr.’s Texas Rangers, Nolan Ryan (who was also a banker) were at Dante’s

house working out the details of money laundering and bank transactions for the

imminent opening of the Juarez border cocaine, heroin, and white slavery route.

The common bond of covert criminal activity overrode any professional baseball

conflicts between them. All three were in town to be in attendance at various

gatherings and parties of Reagan’s, who would be arriving in a matter of days.

And all three appeared to have an understanding of my function as Reagan’s

“Presidential Model” mind-control sex slave.

Dante was gathering the necessary clothes and props for the evening

rendezvous with de la Madrid. LaSorda, Nolan Ryan, and Jr. were standing in

the entrance way of Dante’s house attempting to activate my “Baseball Mind

Computer” programmed personality fragment that had inadvertently been

shattered by Bush and Cheney’s traumas at Shasta. Dante told them, “She

knows more about baseball than you and Tommy (LaSorda) put together. Go

ahead and ask her something. Anything.”

Much to LaSorda’s amusement, Nolan Ryan asked, “How many times does

Fernando Valenzuela (Dodger pitcher) touch his hat if he’s going to throw a

srewgy (screw ball)?” I could not respond, although I had once known more

statistical data than would ever be in print,

Jr. hollered, “Hey, Dante”. What’s with your baseball computer here, huh?

Are we supposed to say a magic word?”

“I don’t know,” Dante responded. “Could be drugs. Her sex is working

fine, though. Give it a whirl.”

Jr. declined, saying, “No thanks. The Baseball Computer sucks enough.

Listen, we’ll see you later.” Jr. had never shown any interest in me sexually.

Like his father, he had only shown sexual interest in Kelly, who had been away

with him most of the day. As he turned to leave, he stroked me under the chin

and cryptically said, “Have a Ball tonight”.

LaSorda, who had not been on his Ultra Slim Fast-sponsored diet yet, said,

“Speaking of balls, mine could use a little attention here.” He unzipped his

pants.

Dante told me, “We gotta get dressed. Three minutes.” Three minutes was

a trigger for me to perform a specific, oral sex act. I knelt on the floor and

pushed up LaSorda’s enormous belly, resting it on my head as I groped for his

penis as ordered. Dante’s two Great Danes came in as Jr. and Nolan Ryan left

I had been forced to participate in a bestiality film with these sex-trained dogs

earlier that day, and I had to fight them off as I sexually gratified LaSorda

before getting ready for “the Ball”.

1Mark Phillips explained to me that, by revealing their “secrets” their power would

diminish. “Good always prevails through positive application, whereas the bad guys are

hindered and slowed in their criminal endeavors through having to cover-up their negative

actions with lies to support lies. This inevitably allows the truth to emerge,” Mark said.

CHAPTER 27

HOTEL CALIFORNIA

Dante threw me a short, red, slinky dress with rhinestone straps and a pair

of “glass slippers” to wear to “Cinderella’s Ball”, The shoes, like Oz ruby,

slippers and Philip Habib’s “magic lightening boll” shoes, were to trance-form

me into the personality fragmenl ihat had been pre-programmed for the event,

Dante escorted me to the party/”Ball” where I was to meet with Mexican

President de la Madrid. Dante had been bragging about his “second home in

Malibu” ever since I first met him, and the place was opulence personified. I

do not know who actually owned “his” second home in Malibu, California, but

Reagan’s influence was evident in the decor. From the front, the white stucco

house gave the illusion of being two-story. The view overlooked a secluded

Pacific bay, and revealed three levels built into a cliff. Through the smoked

glass wall panels that spanned the back, the three stories, lavishly carpeted in

red, white, and blue provided a patriotic view. All levels had a beige-white

interior decorated in gold and crystal. An enormous chandelier hung from the

“cathedral ceiling, illuminating all three levels at once from the greatroom which

overlooked the bay.

I was told that Uncle Ronnie (Reagan) would be arriving the next day. It

was my “patriotic duty” to attend de la Madrid’s welcome party and “wear

down any resistance he may have” in order that Reagan’s business meeting with

him would “go smoothly”. This was not the first time I heard this excuse for

being politically prostituted, nor would it be the last. In reality, I was to do the

initial dirty work, delivering messages, and encourage de la Madrid lo use drugs

and party with abandon. The diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Mexico

were already strong, but this phase of the operation requited total commitment

from de la Madrid.

Dante and I waited at the top of the staircase as de la Madrid, accompanied

by two bodyguards, climbed to the red level of the house. I greeted de la

Madrid, “Welcome to the U.S. and (seductively) welcome to the Hotel

California.” His deep-throated laugh indicated he had been cued to the

ramifications of my cryptic statement. “Hotel California,” taken from a popular

song by the Eagles, stated “you can check out anytime you like, but you can

never leave.” To de la Madrid this confirmed the permanency of his

involvement in the criminal, covert operations in which he was conspiring.

Blackmail was openly initiated to ensure that each criminal participant

understood that if one fell, they all fell. Maintaining “dirt” on each other

through this Mafia-style method was seemingly the only way these criminals

implementing the New World Order kept each other “honest.”

De la Madrid and I went into a nearby bedroom, followed by Dante and the

bodyguards. Dante then activated the programmed message instilled at the

Shasta resort from Bush to de la Madrid. I recited, “If you please, Sir, I have a

message to deliver to you from the Vice President of the United States.

Welcome to our Neighborhood. As you know, Salinas and 1 have worked out

the details towards implementing our plan to open the Juarez border tomorrow.

In preparation and celebration of this accomplishment, this little party tonight

will bring you face to face with a trusted few who are integral parts of this

endeavor, and give you the latitude to see firsthand the friendship and honor

among the (government-involved Mafioso) family members, I regret that I

could not be here in person to greet you, but Ron (Reagan) can show you the

ins and outs of the organization better than I. The transaction numbers have

been recorded, and are available to you for cross reference purposes and to

uphold the integrity of the players involved on your end of the Juarez border.

Your commitment today ensures you of a higher economic standard of living for

your people, increased relations with the U.S., an influx of American industry,

and a position of high esteem in the New World Order, With your ‘Seal of

Approval’ we can dissolve the Juarez border and make way for a future of

prosperity for Mexico. For now, relax and enjoy your stay.”

One of de la Madrid’s guards was shuffling through some papers from a

briefcase, and he told Dante he would like the bank transaction numbers. Dante

switched me to “You Are What You Read” Passbook programming, and I

delivered the numbers intended for the border guards to de la Madrid as

ordered. A computer of sorts was used to calculate and confirm the numbers.

Aware that the meeting was being filmed by one of Dante’s high tech “hidden”

cameras, de la Madrid held up a paper-wrapped ball of Mexican heroin.

Speaking directly at the camera, he cleverly said, “A token of appreciation, Mr.

Bush, Something for your private stock. The finest heroin available. Enjoy.”

Dante strode across the room and said, “I’ll take that and see to it that he

gets it myself.”

“I’m sure you will,” de la Madrid laughed. He then put all but one paper

back in the briefcase. I was instructed to present the elaborately embossed

Mexican Presidential Seal (of Approval) to pre-appointed Juarez border guards

as proof of de la Madrid’s commitment, then deliver it directly to Bush for his

file on the future NAFTA agreement.

Prepared to present a modified Hands-On Mind-Control Demonstration to de

la Madrid, Dante said, “You’ve heard from a Carrier Pigeon (messenger).

You’ve seen her in a mode to accept program. And now I will demonstrate

some of her sexual modes.”

“That will not be necessary,” de la Madrid told him. “I have been given a

handful of keys that I would like to use on my own, including the one to destroy

all memory. Not that it matters when we are monitored (he gestured toward the

camera), but nevertheless I was instructed to do it.” Dante did not seem to

know this was not the first time I was sexually prostituted to the Mexican

President.

“She rides a horse well,” Dante said, referring to both the rare practice of

heroin to supposedly block my memory of this event, and a Reagan-inspired sex

act. Dante stuck a needle in my arm. “May I recommend a ride for you?”

“I am on one now that I would like to maintain,” de la Madrid answered,

referring to cocaine use and his running nose. Dante laid out several generous

lines of the white drug on a black mirror. He stroked me under my chin

triggering Reagan’s sex Kitten personality, picked up Bush’s heroin, and

ushered the two guards out the door.

De la Madrid, fully aware of my pornography exposure, said, “You like

cameras? Let’s give them something to watch.” He snorted two more lines of

coke, undressed, and further activated my sex programming with the verbal and

physical keys and triggers Reagan had previously provided him. At one point

he enthusiastically commented that “if I have my way, the Free Trade

Agreement will include a few top of the tine (he snorted another line of coke for

emphasis) “models” (vaginally) carved and trained like you.” De la Madrid had

long been obsessively fascinated with my vaginal mutilation carving. He was

perversely excited at the prospect of the Juarez border joint venture drug deal

including protected “free trade” of mind-controlled slaves. He reiterated his

desire the next day during a meeting with Reagan.

CHAPTER 28

“FREE TRADE” OF DRUGS

AND SLAVES AT THE JUAREZ BORDER

The next day. Dante drove me to a Bel Aire mansion high on a hill where

another party was underway. As I joined those who had gathered on the

manicured lawn, I recognized many of the same Mafia people who had been at

the Malibu retreat aka “Hotel California”. This was a welcome party for

President Reagan who had just arrived. He was walking across the yard toward

me with his friend. Jack Valenti, who was the president of the powerful Motion

Picture Association of America. Reagan looked his role amongst his mobster

friends, his beige coal with fur collar draped over his shoulders revealing a dark

grey, pinstripe suit underneath. In retrospect I remember him as dressed like

the one mobster I did not have to meet, John Gotti. As soon as my eyes met

his, 1 was knocked to the ground by a familiar blue-white blast (high voltage)

like the one I had recently experienced in D.C.

When I came back around and my eyes refocused, Dante was holding me

up. Reagan said, “Well, hello Kitten”.

“Uncle Ronnie, how’d you get here?” I asked in child-like innocence.

“The rainbow, Kitten, the rainbow,” he answered in Oz cryptic, “I told you

I was coming home. There’s no place like home, and you said it with me. So,

here we are. I keep a little piece of the rainbow in my pocket so I can get back

over it (to D.C.) anytime I want to. I make a wish, and click my heels, and

I’m gone.”

For the moment, Reagan succeeded in confusing my mind with Oz cryptic

metaphors, reconfirming to my child personality that he was indeed the

powerful Wizard. As we went inside for a brief meeting, my personality was

deliberately switched to the one that had dealt with de la Madrid the night

before.

The grey-white stucco house was decorated in plush Presidential blue

carpeting and deep, cherry wood tones. The “office” was small and further

crowded by those of us present for the meeting. De la Madrid was comfortably

seated, as was Jack Valenti. I was not privy to Valenti’s exact role in opening

the Juarez border, I only know that he was well educated lo the particulars of

this meeting. Dante and I remained standing since we would be leaving as

quickly as I heard what Reagan, who was shuttling papers and pacing the room,

had to say.

“Well, Kitten,” Reagan said to me, “this is your death sentence: You’ll go

out ia a blaze of glory.” I was not surprised to receive confirmation of my

imminent death by Reagan. I had heard about death by fire from seemingly

everyone involved in establishing “free trade,” through Mexico, of our nation’s

children for drags. Reagan’s use of patriotic metaphors and puns while matterof-

factly informing me he ordered my death was reflective of his often

displayed lack of respect for human life. What reflected his character even

more were the crimes he was involved in that prompted him to cover-up

through “sentencing- me to death. I had witnessed the criminal foundations of

NAFTA, which in turn could threaten the successful implementation of the New

World Order should these secrets ever be revealed. Initial “Free Trade”

including drugs and white slavery extended beyond the U.S./Mexican border. It

routed U.S. traumatized, robotic, mind-controlled children into Saudi Arabia,

while building up weapon stockpiles in Nicaragua and Iraq. Although I was

considered to be no threat, predicated on the (erroneous) belief that I could not

be deprogrammed to regain my memory of these events, my death would

provide extra insurance to those involved. I was nearly “used up” anyway, and

recording my death via “Snuff Film” was agreed upon as proof to De la Madrid

and other leaders at risk, that I had indeed been silenced through death,

I could not think to respond to Reagan’s “death sentence”. Dante wanted to

make sure I grasped the point as he graphically expounded, “The next time I

ignite your (sexual) flame. Baby, it will consume you, body and soul. And you

will burn, Baby, burn. And I’ll take your ashes and scatter them to the wind.

I ‘m going to blow you away. On film.”

Upon hearing something cryptic to which he could relate. Valenti laughed at

Dante’s twist of words. Referring to the old, porn, blue pencil editing term

“Blue movies,” he added, “Blue blazes”.

Dante laughed with him. “We’ll call it ‘Who In Blue Blazes Was That?’

Or, how ’bout ‘Cream-Ate’?”

De la Madrid noticed Reagan was not laughing and said, “That’s like

erasing a Mercedes to film a stunt,” He leaned forward in his chair closer to

Reagan, lowered his voice and said, “It is my desire to have seven just like her

roll off the assembly Line and shipped to me prior to the agreement’s

completion.”

Reagan agreed, responding, “Those (blonde-haired, blue-eyed) fine kids on

the relay to Saudi Arabia are top of the line, but they don’t have what she’s

got.”

“Two faced Ones are hard to come by,” de la Madrid quipped, referring to

my vaginal mutilation and Presidential programming code. He cut his eyes over

to me, touched himself and cryptically continued, “—from one perspective,

anyway. And I like having ‘One’ I can ‘count on.”

Reagan chuckled while Dante shifted his feet and unfolded his arms long

enough to cough-laugh. Valenti seemed to be bored of cliches or was missing

many of the cryptic double meanings, but judging from the tone of the meeting,

that was just as well. “I’ll mention it to Bobby (Byrd) and delegate your order

to him,” Reagan told his Mexican counterpart. “It should be relatively simple

to slip one in for you every few shipments or so once the Juarez border is open

to such free trade activities as planned.” Reagan spoke as though he were distracted

and thinking of something else, even when he looked my direction.

“If you please, Sir,” I began, “I have the Presidential Seal of Approval and

am prepared to fulfill my role.” Dante looked at his watch, aware that 1 was

scheduled to be at the Juarez border by the “stroke of midnight”. Reagan

walked over to see the paper I had received from de la Madrid the night before.

“OK. Well, farewell. Kitten,” Reagan said, as he kissed my cheek. He

added in Oz cryptic, “I’ll see you on the other side (of the rainbow in D.C.).

Click your heels…”

My world spun black. Someone had hit me with a powerful stun gun and I

was down, feeling as though Dante was half dragging me as he led me to his

car, which was already idling in the circular drive. We soon pulled up to the

motor home at the gas station on Hollywood Boulevard, where he had picked

Kelly and me up several days before, Kelly was already in the motor home,

vomiting sick and horribly traumatized. She had been convinced by someone

that I had been killed. Houston attempted to create a hypnotically induced

“time slip,” acting as though I had only been gone a few minutes. We drove

quickly, stopping only for fuel in order that I be in Juarez at the appointed time.

There 1 robotically presented the Presidential Seal of Approval to the proper

officials as programmed, officially opening the border to “Free Trade” of

crimes against humanity. Houston and I had hurried across the Juarez border

where we were met by the Mexican official in charge. The guard looked to be

in his late 40s, with classic, rugged, Mexican features. He stood approximately

5’11″, had black hair, an unkempt moustache, black beady eyes and a paunchy

belly protruding over his short, squat legs. He spoke excitedly in Spanish, with

a harsh, cold lone to his voice as he spit out the necessary words in English,

“Give me the Seal”, He snapped his fingers, impatiently hurrying me. He took

the Presidential seal and knocked me face down on top of a small, barren metal

desk while he closely inspected the document. Even Houston was unusually

quiet while this particular uniformed guard paced the small tower room,

sweating profusely while he talked on his walkie talkie. Finally, he accessed

and verified the bank transaction codes provided through whom he said was

George Bush, Jr. He concluded the encounter by taking a stun gun from his

belt and jolting me with it, supposedly to erase my memory.

I was nauseated and weak from high voltage and the ordeal as Houston and I

made our way back across the border. My empty stomach rolled, prompting

Houston to lie, “I told you not to drink the water”. In reality, I had had nothing

to drink since the champagne at the Hotel California, and 1 hadn’t eaten in days.

I was thoroughly exhausted when we reached the motor home in El Paso, but

Houston was sexually aroused from cocaine and the criminal events that merged

Mexico with the U.S. at the Juarez border.

CHAPTER 29

THE LIZARD OF AHS

After the opening of the Juarez border, I was kept actively busy according to

the plan to “use me up” before my 30th birthday death sentence. I was

subjected to a brutal (near death gang rape) “celebration benefit” at an identified

Masonic Lodge in Warren, Ohio to “celebrate the free trade benefits” gained by

involved East Coast politicos. Centers such as the nearby Youngstown “Charm

School” went into mass production of slaves to mule drugs or be part of the

mind-controlled sex slave “trance-sport operations”. Mexico was not the only

country reaping the economic benefits of criminal free trade.

After Kelly’s ordeal in California, Dante and Houston were criminally

exploiting her for literally “all she was worth”. Subsequently, she missed an

extraordinary amount of schooling. When she was in school, she was

experiencing difficulty with her peers. These factors prompted plans to send

her to a local Catholic school the next year, where her unusual behavior would

be overlooked and covered up,

Soon thereafter, Senator Byrd came to Nashville to fiddle at the Grand Ole

Opry and, as my handler. Houston, remarked, “fiddle around with me” at the

Opryland Hotel. Byrd explained that close association with me had become

volatile due to my roles in Iran-Contra and NAFTA, and therefore he would be

distancing himself from me. He spent most of “our last night together” working

on his memoirs for a voluminous book on the U.S. Constitution he was writing

(now published at taxpayers’ expense), which focuses on his long-winded Senate

(filibuster) speeches.

Byrd attempted to strengthen my programmed “loyalty bond” to him to keep

me quiet “until death do us part”. He told me, “If it was up to me, I would let

you live”. He talked at length about how our time together had been infringed

upon by both de la Madrid and Reagan, Bitterness over their stronger controls

on me was evident as he mocked their self appointed roles as the Wizard and

Lizard of Oz. De la Madrid’s fascination with U.S. mind-controlled slaves

reportedly inspired him to combine Bush’s lizard-like alien themes and his reputed

Mayan roots/lizard man theories with Reagan’s Oz themes to claim the

role of Lizard of Ahs. From Byrd’s ramblings, it appeared that his mockery of

their roles was due to their having decided how “his” slave would die, and had

nothing to do with caring that I would be killed. Byrd maintained his

“bonding” programming charade all night. He played his fiddle and sang “to:

me” in place of his usual torturous whipping and brutality. Sex was, for the

first and last time, painless.

Byrd had not distanced himself too far from me, though, where government

operations were concerned. When I was “over the rainbow” in D.C. during the

summer of ’87, it was business as usual with Byrd. I was escorted to Goddard

Space Flight Center where Byrd was waiting for me in a sterile hallway near the

brass-trimmed, mirrored elevators. He was loaded down with items, which he

deposited on a small table as he greeted me. He picked up a NASA ID badge

and clipped it on my nipple, the metal teeth biting me with their serrated edges.

When I (softly) cried out, he said, “Oh OK. I l l wear it,” removed it, and

clipped it on his white lab coat. He handed me a NASA lab coat like his and a

white hard bat. His hard hat suggestively and “humorously” said HARD in

bold red letters. My hat said NASA, in a mirror reversal of the standard bold

red lettering. When I read it in a mirror, it appeared as though I were on the

wrong side of the mirror and needed to step through (according to Alice In

Wonderland/NASA programming). It also clearly indicared to those-in-theknow

that I was under mind control. Byrd looked at his pocket watch

prompting a wave of terror in me, and said in Wonderland cryptic, “We’re late.

As the elevator drops down the rabbit hole, we’ll reverse time in order to get

there a few minutes early.”

Bvrd spun me around to face the elevator’s mirrored doors saying, “Look

deep into the mirror and be all that you can be by becoming infinitely lost in all

that you see.” Byrd timed his hypnotic induction so that wben he ordered.

“Step through the mirror,” the doors opened and we stepped through.

As the elevator supposedly went “down 99 (taken from Aquino’s corny

reversal of 66) levels to the depths of hell,” Byrd told me the Earth “spins faster

and faster at the core, causing us to spiral downward in a tornado effect.” I

dropped deeper in my hypnotic trance. The elevator doors opened to what

appeared to me as an exact replica of the floor we just left. However, this

floor’s hallway led to a computer room and sanitized-looking lab area. Several

of the scientists working there were amused by our hats, prompting Byrd to ham

up his comedic act, Byrd ignored the fact that these NASA workers, like many

others, may have deliberately stroked his entertainer’s ego because they relied

on his appropriations for funding,

Byrd made me robotically announce to the workers, “He’s taking me to your

leader.”

“I’m the Commander, here,” the apparent director of the underground lab

said. The workers again busied themselves as he stood, arms folded defensively

across his chest, while his bespectacled intelligent eyes darted the room

surveying the situation. The Commander had a few, grey strands salting his

short, dark hair, yet his build was surprisingly youthful and trim for his age.

He and Byrd apparently knew each other quite well. Byrd strode over to him,

dragging me along. “Tom,” Byrd called to his 50ish 6’1″ friend. “This is your

specimen of the day that I promised I would deliver. I will be most interested

to see what you can deliver since diplomatic relations with Mexico depends on

it. Not that I want to increase any pressure you may feel, but we need seven

more just like her to stuff in the mouth of his royal Lizardry (de la Madrid) to

keep him from spilling his guts on the project.”

“It’s just as well, my friend,” the Commander said, stroking his chin

without uncrossing his arms. “That way he can’t talk without implicating

himself.”

“That’s the way the Chief feels about it,” Byrd agreed. “He’s already in

deep anyway, but this order (for slaves) hits him closer to home since they’ll be

serving him personally.”

We walked to a clinical, sanitized area that had a maze of small rooms

where I was undressed and prepped for the lab. A nurse of sorts injected me

with the NASA “Tranquility” drug and instructed me to put my lab coat back

on. “Walk this way,” she ordered as she led me down the hall, swinging her

hips in an exaggerated manner. I immediately complied. The Tranquility drug

had no recreational affects, but produced an attitude of peaceful compliance to

all orders given. As we approached the theater-type lab, a small group of men

who would be in attendance were talking with Byrd and the so-called

Commander. They looked at us and laughed at my literal compliance to walk

like the nurse.

1 was then led by the Commander to a “backstage” entrance which was

actually a glass-encased lab surrounded by seats in ascending rows. Scientists in

NASA lab coats looked down on the lab table where I lay as the Commander

wired me up to a computerized machine. A camera was positioned high in one

comer of the room, filming all that transpired. I was aware through

conversations between Byrd and the Commander that de la Madrid had

requested a video of the latest advancements in mind-control technique being

used to create his seven slaves. In reality, the camera was filming scientific

methodisms salted with “comic” misinformation as a humorous “no” to his

request.

Since I was considered “used up” and my death was imminent, the

Commander told the scientists to “feel free to fuck the lab specimen”, “But

first,” he said, “before you satisfy your mental and physical curiosities sampling

the President’s (Reagan’s) wares, we must satisfy El President’s (de la

Madrid’s) perverse intellect with a little space humor.” He turned to one of the

technical workers and said, “You’re going to have to edit this tape for de la

Madrid’s benefit and take this part out while we prepare her for an ‘off color’

chameleon joke.”

A live lizard encased in a glass test tube of sorts was inserted in my vagina,

The camera was focused on the area while my legs were spread in a birthing

position. Acting as though I had conceived while having sex with de la Madrid,

the Commander said, “Now for the finished product, which in layman’s terms

equates to the reproductive offspring of a Lizard breeding machine.” He

dramatically snapped on a rubber glove and probed me as though he were

giving me a gynecological exam. In fact, he was opening the trap door of the

Lizard’s tube to turn him out. Very slowly, the sluggish lizard poked his head

out of my vagina and crawled out onto the metal table, “This concludes all of

the experimentation demonstration of the cloning of a Presidential model,” the

Commander said,

I apparently had been selected as the prototype for the seven programmed

slaves de La Madrid had requested. De la Madrid was interested in NASA

programmed staves that would be vaginally mutilated like I was. He was

sexually obsessed with the hideous carving. 1 have no way of knowing what, if

any, technological advancements were actually provided to de la Madrid via the

film. I only know that deliberate misinformation tainted the methodologies

depicted, and that I had never experienced programming or testing before or at

the time by any such methods.

This video created for “his Royal Lizardry” was one of many cryptic lizard

themes that NASA used in its Mexican operations. All of my programmed

roles in Mexico involved the prolific, local, iguana lizards. De la Madrid had

relayed the “legend of the Iguana” to me, explaining that lizard-like Aliens had

descended upon the Mayans. The Mayan pyramids, their advanced

astronomical technology, including the sacrifice of virgins, was supposedly

inspired by the lizard aliens. He told me that when the aliens interbred with the

Mayans to produce a form of life they could inhabit, they fluctuated between ahuman

and Iguana appearance through chameleon-like abilities. “A perfect

vehicle for transforming into world leaders.” De la Madrid claimed to have

Mayan/alien ancestry in his blood, whereby he transformed “back into an

Iguana at will.” De la Madrid produced a hologram similar to the one Bush did.

in his You Are What You Read initiation. His hologram of lizard-like tongue

and eyes produced the illusion that he was transforming into an Iguana. While

in Mexico, I was always ordered to wait by rocks where the abundant Iguanas

sunned before being “trance-ported” to my scheduled meetings with “his Royal

Lizardry,” the Lizard of Ahs.

CHATTER 30

IN THE INTEREST OF TIME AND SPACE

Senator Patrick Leahy (D-Vermont), who served as vice chairman on the

U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee in 1985-86, was a “friend” of Senator

Byrd. Leahy’s position on Byrd’s Senate Appropriations Committee, coupled

with his former position in Intelligence, afforded him an inordinate amount of

power and influence. While 1 had cause to have contact with Senator Leahy on

numerous occasions, Kelly was apparently more familiar with him than I. This

was evidenced by our meeting with him in Vermont in the late summer of 1985.

Alex Houston was booked to “entertain” at the State Fair in Rutland,

Vermont. The entire trip proved to be a whirlwind of covert activity for me,

during which time 1 obtained a packet of papers from an unidentified operative

with orders to hand deliver them to Senator Leahy. Kelly had been kept as busy

as I, since Boxcar Willie and other CIA operative pedophiles were in abundance

at the fair in Leahy’s home state.

President Reagan had given me specific orders to carry out while in

Vermont, which included delivering a message to “Patrick” for him. He also

told me, “When you go to Vermont, be sure and go by (“buy”) LL Bean.”

Literally interpreting what he suggested, I asked, “The whole store?”

“No,” Reagan laughed. “I meant stop by there. 1 didn’t mean buy the

whole store. I already own it. Just buy a few things, like an LL Bean Swiss

Army Knife.”1

When Reagan said he “already owned” LL Bean, I thought he was referring

to the amount of shopping he did there.” He wore LL Bean shirts, sweaters, and

slippers; slept on LL Bean flannel sheets in his LL Bean pajamas; and carried

his “Presidential” black, LL Bean, Swiss Army Knife, with which he cleaned

his fingernails. But I learned the real significance of Reagan’s statement when I

“stopped by” the Vermont LL Bean outlet on the final day of Houston’s lengthy

Vermont State Fair engagement.

The LL Bean outlet, located near the fop of supposedly the highest mountain

in the pristine forest, appeared to be a store front for CIA covert activity.

When I asked the ‘clerk’ assigned to Kelly and me for a black, Swiss Army

Knife, his response was indicative of familiarity with government covert

operations. Using the old familiar statement (trigger), he ordered Kelly and me

to “Walk this way,” as he led us through a storage area and out the back door.

There, a black, unmarked helicopter was waiting on a pad for us.

The pilot flew us a short distance to the top of a mountain, where we landed

in a clearing next to a house that appeared to have no other access. The place

was run like a fortress, and two guards in suits met us as Kelly and I emerged

from the helicopter. The guards escorted us into the house, keeping Kelly while

I met with Senator Leahy.

I walked into an office-type room that had a panoramic view of the

wilderness, where Leahy was leaning against a highly polished, wooden desk.

He was wearing an orange flannel shirt that lost its purpose in crispness. It was

my experience that Leahy’s surroundings, like his appearance, were as sanitized

as possible.

I delivered the documents and message as ordered. Leahy then proceeded to

explain that he was aware that my death was imminent due to my groundwork

participation in NAFTA, and that subsequently Kelly would be traded to the

West Coast pornography operation. Not only did he obviously want to join in

on “using me up” before my 30th birthday, but he had “tracks” to cover-up

where Kelly was concerned.

Most of my traumatic encounters with Leahy were alien-themed, but be

often relied on my Catholic upbringing to drive his points into my mind. From

my perspective, Leahy was unquestionably one of the most intelligent criminals

of this entire Shadow Government. His carefully contrived chameleon-like

characteristics provided him the latitude of appearing to share the principals and

beliefs of whomever he was masterfully manipulating on both a national and

international level. He won Reagan’s respect through their shared diplomatic

ties to the Vatican, and his Irish-Catholic heritage. While he appeared publicly

to oppose Byrd on Senate Appropriations issues, they actually worked together

behind the scenes in their shared world dominance efforts. Again from my

perspective, Leahy was a loner who had his own agenda and answered to no one

I knew. Leahy’s intelligence was often manifested to me by triple depth

meaning to his words and actions. Everything he did was for a deeper purpose,

and this trip to Vermont proved to be no different,

Kelly and I had been given what felt like a sophisticated variation of Lhe

NASA CIA-designer drug, Tranquility, which turned us into the robotic mindcontrolled

slaves that Senator Leahy preferred. As the drug was overtaking me,

I attentively listened to what Leahy was saying.

“God condones that one,” Leahy said, referring to both my role in NAFTA

and his pedophile abuse of my daughter. “Of course, God is not the one you

need to be concerned with. He is a passive God, One who’s passed on and

lives only in a Bible. The God you need to be concerning yourself with is the

all-seeing, all-knowing God. That great, big, Eye in the Sky. It sees all,

records all, and transmits the information right where it’s needed. Let me give

you some sound advice-Keep your mouth shut and none of this need be known

anywhere. Only your Vice President (Bush) will know for sure, and he’s been

keeping secrets all his life. I’m not suggesting George Bush is God. Oh no, he

is much more than that. He is a semi-God, which means he is straddling the

heavenly and earthly planes in order that he take action on what he sees with his

ever watchful Eye In The Sky.” Content with his metaphorical manipulation of

my literal mind, he finished, “Now, that’s enough fore-play. Go get the kid.”

Kelly was standing quietly and robotically just outside the door with the two

guards. They ushered us down the hall, through an ornately carved door, and

into Leahy’s bedroom. The room was highly effeminate for a man, decorated

in pastels, white eyelet, and huge billowy pillows. When the Senator walked

in, Kelly groaned, “Noooo, not you again”, Leahy signalled Kelly with his

hand, thus switching her into total silence and submission. Then, accessing

specific personality fragments that previously recompartmentalized in my mind

from Bush’s and Byrd’s sexual abuse of Kelly, Leahy began undressing. His

pale skin looked even whiter against the white eyelet sheets, which seemed to

accentuate the perversity of his pedophile actions with my daughter that I was

forced to watch. His torturous abuse complete, Leahy ordered Kelly and me to

follow him downstairs to his “torture lab”,

I had seen and experienced basement “spy conditioning” torture chambers

before both in the U.S. and Mexico, and Leahy’s “torture lab” looked more like

a NASA lab. His access to the latest advancements in electronic/drug mindcontrol

technology was consistent with his ability to use it. I was immediately

strapped to a cold, chrome and stainless steel table by the two guards. Leahy

began reciting, “Cross your heart and hope to die, Stick a needle in your eye”.

A wirey “needle” was pushed slowly into my right eye while Kelly was forced

to watch. This entire ordeal was directed for trauma purposes primarily at

Kelly since Leahy figured I would be dead soon anyway. “If you holler, if you

cry, Kelly will be the first to die. Pray to God and Bush will hear, because his

Eye now has an ear.” Leahy interrupted his poem to explain that 1 was now a

“computer-eyesd” link-up to Bush’s Eye in the Sky, with the needle-like

“antenna” transmitting every word Kelly spoke. He continued wilh me, “Each

word you speak, each breath you sigh,’Your eye trance-mits to the Eye in the

Sky”. Kelly believed it, which locked her into silence. Leahy’s secret was

safe-for the moment.

While I was literally out of my mind from intense pain, Leahy utilized the

opportunity to program me with what he said was financial information to

deliver to Byrd. This required no “personality”, therefore the shattered

fragments Leahy had deliberately shifted me into when raping Kelly would be

ideal to “computer-eyes” his message. He told me that my body was a conduit

to link him up to the Eye in the Sky, where he was transmitting the information

for storage until such time as Byrd accessed it. “Only the tiniest little prick can

access the compuLer-eyesd’ storage bank,” Leahy said, laughing at his own

double meaning mockery of Byrd’s penis size.

This was not the first time Leahy transferred apparently sensitive U.S.

Government intelligence information to Byrd through me. I had photographically

recorded numbers in my mind’s “computer banks” ever since

Leahy prepared me for the task some months before at White Sands Missile

Base in New Mexico. It was there in the TOP SECRET mind-control area of

the base that Leahy subjected me to extreme tortures and high-tech

programming. Combining purposes as usual, Leahy was saying, “Funding will

continue to be approved as long as (mind-control) Projects such as this continue

to receive your full attention”. I was treated like a lab animal with no apparent

regard for whether I lived or died. I was put in an electrified metal walled and

floored cell, referred to by some as the woodpecker grid, which provided

inescapable physical torture.

In spite of his tortures, intelligence, high-tech methodism, and sophisticated

mind manipulations. Senator Leahy failed to cover his “secrets”—including his

sexual abuse of Kelly. He did succeed, however, in causing Kelly and me to be

hospitalized from his torturous abuses upon our return to Tennessee. I had

suffered excruciating pain and irreparable damage to my right eye, while Kelly

psychosomatically suffered respiratory failure due to his extreme traumas. The

physical manifestations of the psychological devastation wreaked on us by

Senator Leahy failed to raise questions from outsiders as to the cause.

Equally worthy of mention, are numerous other high profile perpetrators

that Kelly and I had exposure to over the years. These individuals, in spite of

the CIA’s “need-to-know” M.O. of maintaining “the left hand does not know

what the right hand is doing,” were in positions to be knowledgeable of Kelly’s

and my victimizations. All of them accessed our programming either for drug

distribution, banking/message delivery, mind-control demonstrations, or, most

often, for their perverse sexual gratification.

These too numerous individuals and events are significant chapters in my

life who, in the interest of time and space, will be fully exposed in a

forthcoming book. Rather than point a finger at these individuals for reasons of

“vengeance” (there is none comparable), they must be publicly identified for all

our sakes and, above all, for our children’s sakes. Therefore, a list of perpe-

Traitors has been compiled and strategically distributed for posterity, as well as

to prevent these individuals from interfering in any Congressional hearings2 that

should be forthcoming as a result of this exposure.

■

1Black LL Bean Swiss Army Knives were a coded indicator of White House-level

operations. Red LL Bean Swiss Army Knives, and regular Swiss Army Knives were a standard

CIA indicator with which I was also familiar.

2Please support us in this effort by writing your Congressmen.

CHAPTER 31

THE KING AND EYE

Saudi Arabia threaded in and out of most operations in which I was

involved, primarily due to their purchase and routing of weapons, drugs, and

blond-haired, blue-eyed programmed children. According to George Bush’s

claims, Saudi Arabia was in essence a controlled financial arm of the United

States. Saudi Arabian King Fahd and his Ambassador to the U.S., Prince

Bandar, provided a front for the unconstitutional and criminal covert operations

of the U.S. This included the arming of Iraq and the Nicaraguan Contras; U.S.

involvement in the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (B.C.C.I.)

scandal; and funding of the Black Budget through purchase of our nation’s

children to be used as sex slaves and camel jockeys. Since the U.S. “won”

control of the drug industries through the so-called Drug Wars, Saudi Arabia

played an integral role in distribution. It was my experience that Bush’s claim

of having Saudi Arabian King Fahd as his puppet was, in fact, reality. It was

only natural that criminal diplomatic relations with Mexico interface with Saudi