White Rats

Saturday, 1st of  May 2004 (1 - 5 + 4   i.e., worth less than zero)

It's been four weeks now since the anniversary of Hauptman's execution when Bob's Letter resurfaced along with a suspicious electric fire that drove another nail into the Illuminati coffin. Read on to see how their bank-of-lies tried to close me out with the proscribed black sheep label.

There is a new drumbeat starting in my heart telling me that these are the times of the nano-hippies who I want to become known as the Nanies. First, let me fill you in on what happened. This afternoon I went to tell this to my sister Liz, a Carmelite nun since 1964. I took my computer and made her read the Bob's Letter webpage, line by line. I could take just my Shuttle XP and she for the very first time ever brought her screen to the visitor's grill and the two were attached. The power of my 45-minute presentation was at last unleashed. I stated my case thoroughly, though I'm certainly going to be adding more to it as long as I can.

After getting back from seeing Liz I'm told by John that daughter Sally was around, while I was out, to get me over to drive Brent's Fats White band to the recording studio. While we're getting on the road I recount that Liz finally got to hear my story of how "finding Bob's Letter caused a sensation back then as the headlines got bigger when they spread across North America in the late fifties and ripped up the small town where we lived. I don't think it was the unsolved axe murders or the bodies in quicklime or the grave robbing and bootlegging or the "poison put in the vein of a Kingston inmate", but for the way it described how the "Gang Of Six" with colorful names were franchised out of Masonic Lodges with one of each six being the accountant. The news then was how the gang brainwashing / training "held up" Bruno Hauptman as an ideal to take the rap for killing the Lindbergh baby." The Global Brain now thinks that Lindbergh, himself a high Mason, suffered their retribution because he hired one of these gangs to cover his own practical joke that went wrong, killing his own child.

With many sources of information to draw on, I told the band how I am writing a story that includes Bob's Letter and its December 1938 King George Canadian stamp, the Pope (when he worked for I.G. Farben), the eugenics criminals at Shell and the worldwide Easter Island scenario known as Peak Oil.

I tell you it was touch and go as to whether or not I could get the story told as there was a lot of heckling from Jonnie Lee (aka Dean Roberts), the slide guitarist. His ridiculing laughter was slowly choked off by my rendition and his Pinnacle allegiances to his erstwhile Masonic friends started to vanish as he heard about Peak Oil. One by one the band members, especially Samwise Cash, went into fits of disgust. In the end they were accepting that fossil fuel addicts will all cold turkey. Jonnie Lee asks a trick question about what is my favorite car and without hesitation I say its the band's present transport; the one and only Video Van.

Downstairs, out on Karangahape Road, I seize an opportunity of introducing myself to he who owns the superette on the street. With the intention of doing a street level presentation I ask the favor of electrifying my computer by running a lead from the van parked out front and plugging in behind his fridge. Brent's landlord was a heavy water nuclear technician who escaped his employment in the Chinese Red Guards. He hears and likes the story of the Nano Hippies and Peak Oil. The test works and I unplug vowing to return another day. Then the idea hits me that when the gas runs out I want to commandeer this exact street frontage as a place to park the Video Van for the first hundred virtual years of Nanotechnology and set up now a 24/7 gypsy street party for the Nanies in order to get my word out. In the meantime the band are liking the idea of rock/rapping this message to the world and visions of monthly planning sessions are laid out to keep our powder dry for an eventual launch. The idea reaches the point of having a fleet of Video Vans doing "happening" street parties. Timmy is introduced to these new Nanies as our libel editor and Mamba is to promote my skill in dealing with politicians. Sammy Cash wants to be the Ear and tune our nano ears for the group. All is sweet and off we go to the recording studio somewhere behind the Mount Albert shops.

We pull into the gas station on New North Road so Jonnie Lee can buy some beer and I need to put air in one tire. Waiting for ages while some Oriental boy racers were also putting in air I get the feeling something is wrong. Eventually after waiting what seems like ten minutes I see them putting air into the same tires twice and call them out loud as pavement artists. Barking only one word of Chinese I snatch the air interrupting their charade and we're again on the road.

Pulling into the drive I slowly maneuver the Video Van to a stop and all seven of us pile out and up to the recording studio. Well, surprise, surprise, if this wasn't a place I had been to before. I recognized it as the home of the son of my last girlfriend of a few months back in 1996, none other than "Truda the jazz singer". (Which singer has on 14/8/2007 threatened a police complaint, if this link isn't gone in 24 hours, claiming my naming her here is harassment. The quoted phrase who's link one can google or see in an original of this here page, complements of the Wayback Machine. God help you Truda, the police won't take much notice of you. They know that I did what I could to help you out here, but would all the same like to hear of any serious threats you make. Next time you see those friends of yours, you know the ones with the cannibal's genes disguised as brain damage, tell them again for me that I'm not one of them, like they suggested. For even though my ancestor was a shrewed financier, having amassed over fifty million of today's dollars for his heirs in loans to the Crown, he was the first Lord Mayor of London six decades after your friends ancestors were expelled from England.)

As fate would have it, thinking I was in seventh heaven for a while until the endorphins wore off, not long back from Vancouver, out trying to score one night on the bar room floor I met Truda when she cut across my path and invited me over. I now find out Truda hates me or so Stan, the Illuminati influence man, would have me believe. It was years ago since I was inside this flat so I think the Truda connection might have moved on since then. Nonetheless, I confide in Mamba that Truda was married to the guy who ran Terrabyte for Rupert Murdoch. At a dinner party for three where he cooked for me and Truda, but where he himself would not eat, he revealed a scam where he, Winston, Michael, and David scammed Doug out of forty million during a drinking binge out on the harbour, while Doug's float plane idled alongside. I reluctantly went along and told what I knew of another Michael, David and Rod scheme that started when I programed for Securitibank, back in 1972. That scheme, of which the owner knew nothing, involved getting me back after hours to create duplicate computer programs which twenty years later I learnt were for double parking.  This cancerous dinner finished her as far as I was concerned and tied her and her ex husband to the corrupt merchant bankers that fled NZ subsequent to the faked Winebox Affair. I need to recount a couple of things here that at the height of the famous Winebox Affair it was I and Truda who delivered the Gemstone Files to Winston Peters at the inquiry and later that same day met with Matiu Rata and his attractive support politician. Rata wanted the Gemstone files for their account of the Norman Kirk assassination plot and asked me to mail them to him up north, which I did. I heard later he was angry about this as he had been with Kirk in India at the time and, in my opinion, was driving down to Auckland to disturb this old truth when a couple of newly-wed Manchurian Candidates visiting from somewhere near South Korea drifted head-on into his car and silenced him permanently.

I thought, "but hey there's probably no connection even though the muso's Auckland world is a small one", and the thought passes from my mind as we all get busy setting up. Eerily, in the lounge, there are a dozen laser copies of Winston Peters with a mirror on each one covering just his eyes.

 Again getting used to setting up my Shuttle XP at Fats White gigs I realize that Paul of the recording studio is one of the only ones present who hasn't seen my Ingrid drum machine with digital jukebox, sitting out in the Video Van.  Like a good professional I ask him if he has a spare computer screen I could used because I had everything else. Paul quietly says that's fine. I can take the screen from his bedroom as long as I plug it back in when I'm finished. Sally seems uncomfortable about me doing this saying that Paul would be busy. I said he gave permission. At around this point Glen, the newest band member, who I hadn't met was trying to whisper in my ear how I should have known him from the days of Sally's Osmotic cafeteria when Rob lived upstairs. I kept repeating that I didn't know this Rob fellow and then Sally said it was probably during one of those times when we weren't speaking. I said, "Oh, yes that's probably back around that Halloween when someone put a pentagram shaped hub cab on my doorstep." Brent laughed and said that was right. Sally grimaced about finding out that Brent did this to me and will do even more of that when it sinks in that it is her boyfriends who have caused her to perennially cut me out of her life. My last words to her, recounting prophetically what was during the Easter Island cannibalistic stage their ultimate insult, "The flesh of your mother sticks in my teeth."

 I get into gear and set up out of the way of the band and I am showing Paul my setup when he asks if it's a musical instrument. "Sure", I said. To which I added that my drums won't be used this time because for me it's a simple and unobtrusive test. Well, blow me down if he doesn't tell me he wants my computer taken away and starts being very pushy, almost trashing my computer. I assume he's overly busy and can't bear thinking about me introducing new technology into his simple recording studio mind. How wrong I was. This was ritual abuse in full cry. Ten seconds later Brent (a.k.a. the Fats White voice and Whanau marketing front-man) and this Paul are breathing down my neck yelling at me to get the f*ck away from the area at which point I grab all my gear and retreat with my hackles up into Paul's room where I got his screen from and close the door.

Brent barges in and yells at me to get out. I tell Brent that Paul gave me permission to set up and has broken his own agreement without a word to me. Jonnie Lee comes in and tries to calm the situation which quickly reaches a boiling point and Brent assaults me to which I demand that he gets his hands off me or I will defend myself by going for his throat and not letting go this time. (Yes, that's right. There was another occasion when he and Sally broke up in 1999 just before she met Freijo Farjallah who convinced her to shoot through to Kathmandu.  Then he was angrily hitting out at Sally while we were all living at Muriwai Beach and at three in the morning, unable to sleep, I stepped in. With only a quick flurry and at the time wanting to cause Brent no grievous bodily harm I dropped him from where I had him pinned to the wall with my hands around his throat with his feet and body dangling like a limp, cowardly, submissive dog).

Brent, whose nickname is Robo, works as warehouse manager for that client tool company of mine who were one of the first that thought they could get away with shafting me twenty five years ago, using their Watchtower cult. Like, for example, when I'm staying in their small town, known throughout the country as "Sin City". I was there for months writing their warehouse system and staying in their house I fell for their prearranged fooling around which was conveyed somehow to my wife. She, that is if it turns out not to be the builder, maybe was so angry that my papers were thrown on the fire with other building rubbish, back in 1978. My brother, Ted, is the one who rescued me but maybe you should know how this caused me to loose my Canadian Citizen ship through a bureaucratic bungling of my Natural Born status. More proscription, if you ask me. Anyway, When I first met Brent back in 1996 he asks me if I've got anything on Eddie, his employer, and in the next breath implies that Eddie uses people who break bones for hire. Thinking, even then, that he was one of these, I say, "Robo, I only know what Rex, the Sydney warehouse manager, told me back in 1985". Rex,  who I learn drowns in the bathtub of his Hamilton flat aged 50, thinking I already knew how Eddie helped him escape the States via Canada, let slip how he had driven a semi over a police car in a road block, killing its occupants. The semi-trailer, loaded with race cars, was also hauling drugs out of Florida or from Missouri. I can't remember. Somehow I thought then that Eddie might know nothing of this and, like my other clients, the top management of these outfits didn't know how badly their gut was infested. Then again you have to wonder why the sturdy little porn-flick moonlighter thought I already knew his story.

Were it not for me Rex might still be alive. Heck, he still might be! What do I know of these people? Perhaps Mr. Staley from the Cold Case Squad can put that to rest for me. While researching this gem, on May 12th, the name of another Mr. Staley turned up in my very next Google hit as the author of a book on the OTO because Robo, an OTO initiate and the Sister of Perpetual Indulgence (on the left), possesses the lambskin apron probably belonging to a dead Masonic Grand Wizard. 

Monday, 17 May 2004 11:09:00 a.m@NODE CLERGY "Clergy"...  "One of the most useful bits of armament in the trickster's arsenal is a set of clerical garb.  Lenny Bruce proved how financially useful this disguise is when he panhandled Miami dressed in a religious costume.  But then, organized religion has known this for years, profitably practicing their old proverb "Let us prey." Obtain and make use of overt religious garb.  It creates a wonderfully secure and trustworthy image.  Drug marketeers often use priest and nun outfits when moving dope.  In Ireland, weapons and explosives are smuggled by kindly-looking middle-aged persons disguised as religious figures."

I told Liz how this strand crisscrossing forward and backward in time came within a hair's breadth of splitting. I think the tide has turned though, because one of the next links clicked was to a story of a movie honoring Nikola Tesla which was on the website of a John Pritchard.  He, like with all my  time replacing lateral displacements, is completely unrelated to Jonathon Pritchard, my neighbor at Kyber House back in 1989, who I distinctly thought of a couple of days ago, for the first time in years. Liz thinks I'm now a sorcerer split into several light densities connecting across time. Noemi, thinks this all stems from how I created my graffiti homepage.

I thought I lost Noemi when email contact went bad and I had no way other than this autobiographical weblog to point to my BoldChat Live button on my IngridX software download page. It worked. Ideally we need to use the Ingrid chat because then, using Wavelink, I can eventually protect all communications whereas the BoldChat may have a BB hole. Ingrid also has intrusion detection to spot nasty keyboard loggers but I have to wait years because her Argentine computer is a turtle and Ingrid needs 2Ghz or better.  Until then friends go to my Ekus Image graffiti homepage and Click the obnubilated word "REALITY" in the upper middle of the top right corner. This should take you to the IngridX download page where, a few screens down, I have the BoldChat button. I really need to make friends this way from now on because until now I never needed to choose my friends. They were always chosen for me as you can see in this, their story.

The story continues... (google for "Robomancer")

Back now to the scene quickly turning ugly in Paul's bedroom, I tell Brent that he has some strange hate agenda being let loose at me for what I now take to be part and parcel of the ongoing Masonic retribution. Paul is barging around yelling and denying he ever gave me permission to use his computer screen even though my original permission was witnessed or at least should have been so by Blind Joe Pineapple, Mamba, Cash and anyone who was in ear shot but not, as it turns out, by Brent who counters with the lie that it's not Paul's room and the occupants of the flat are some other people.

In less than three minutes and ten seconds from when the situation went pear shaped, I'm out of there when this Paul Barrett character from the band called Pan-Am comes outside where only I can hear him. He pulls on a bottle from between his legs and yells at me to suck his cock. Was that done to scare me by exposing their plans for a framed-up incarceration where I would become the owner of a rectum as big as a clown's pocket?  In this case I saw Paul as Brent's latest Pit Bull. Oh, yes there were many other failed soldiers, such as  Tays (aka audioslut). Now, when I think back on it, Tays really went beyond the pale but at the time I gave Brent the benefit of the doubt and put Tays' attacks down to a perceived dislike of me stemming from the time I walked into Brent's old flat and found Tays, Manu, Opie and Steve each in a different room and each with a needle hanging out of their arm. As just a soldier himself Brent must know that his handlers are going to have to sacrifice him. Without a job these jerks don't hang onto their women very long.

Safely back home in Newmarket I'm recounting these events to John, my landlord, and telling him of the whole evening starting with the story of the Nanies and Peak Oil. John is scared that these people are all into ritual abuse aimed at me and Sally and that they will get him as well. I tell him I'm going upstairs to write what happened and let the pressure of these words expose what they will. If I was still living in the wilds of Muriwai I would be shitting myself right now with fear but I told John we live under an extended safety zone because we're living next door to the Newmarket cop shop. He agrees and says he wants to read all about it but first he wants to know how Sally got tangled up with these people.

Quickly I blurted out to John how, on Sally's twenty-first birthday, she let it slip that infiltrating her snooty private Anglican school was this paedophile group who recruited her as a virgin prostitute for their multi-generational retribution schemes. Others who got there first told me what all my so-called friends and parliamentary advisers in this city had done to her. I added that a Masonic bitch in the person of my ex-wife, who I now openly refer to as "Mansion Trash", kept Sally at that school for her social climbing and this exact purpose. I didn't tell the following to John, but to be fair, on every second weekend that she was over during 1990, I naively went along in allowing her to attend a church group who assembled at the back of the Rialto around the corner.  Back then, before the age of the Internet, I thought, "Children Of  God, yeah that seems a quaint name."

I went upstairs to ring Timmy, who I thought I had successfully recruited as a double agent for the Nanies, to say with these words that his life's in peril because his situation as an undercover agent has now been blown. He needs to know I can't protect him any longer and he should get away from this group. A phone junky fobs me off and I can't get through. This was exactly nine years less a day since my mother died.