Where I grew up in the 1980s, almost everyone worked for DuPont, still largely owned by the Illuminati family of the same name. DuPont estates, public and private, surrounded us to the south. The parents took houseguests, and we trespassed by night, at Longwood Gardens, where we also went to concerts and saw fireworks. In early spring, Winterthur’s March Bank bloomed, green and blue, with Siberian squill, crocus, and glory-of-the-snow. In early summer, exotic fireworks lit the air at Hagley. We drove to dinner along the rolling hills in the shadow of Granogue; and my father told stories about Nemours, as we played a round at the DuPont Country Club. When Ralph Nader investigated the DuPonts, who ran all three counties of Delaware, he met with a frosty reception. People felt the family was good for the area, and the company took care of people.
It was a lie. Many were forced into early retirement, laid off, or simply fired, as DuPont created one environmental disaster after another. Some worked at the Experimental Center, where, much later, I heard stories of tortured animals and chemical spills. The company bragged of safety, while its workers were poisoned, endangered, or killed. And at Longwood, they bragged of innovative gardening, while DuPont’s herbicide, Imprelis, was banned by the Environmental Protection Agency.
But that’s nothing. DuPont also manufactured Agent Orange, which was sprayed in Vietnam.
After my father finished his four years in the Coast Guard, he took a job with DuPont in the early 1960s. He would never work anywhere else.
My mother asked, “What if DuPont is ever in trouble?”
My father answered, “If DuPont is ever in trouble, this country will be in trouble.”
Truer words were never spoken, and today almost no one in my area works for DuPont. The plants and office parks have shut down, the DuPont sign no longer lights the Brandywine Building, and my old client Wilmington Trust, once the family’s private bank, has been taken over by M&T. That’s just a small indicator of what has happened to the area where I live–not to mention our country.
Meanwhile, rich with war profits, the DuPonts figure prominently. Here are some tidbits.
Longwood itself, where we still spend so many pleasant days, was owned by Pierre S. DuPont, a homosexual who married his cousin. This degenerate was president of both General Motors and E.I. DuPont de Nemours during World War I. In the war, DuPont entered into the largest gunpowder contracts in history, making over one billion dollars through the death of seventeen million people.
In 1988, his namesake Pierre Samuel DuPont IV–who goes by “Pete,” you know, because he’s a regular guy–ran for president. He called the average Delaware constituent “Joe Six Pack,” you know, just as a joke.
Maybe that’s why he lost the nomination to George H.W. Bush, former Director of the CIA, a member of Skull and Bones, who has been implicated in satanic rituals, whose wife kept the fetus of their dead child in a jar, and who gave tours of the White House to underage homosexual prostitutes.
It didn’t matter. The nomination was a false choice between one Illuminati family and another. Along with families like the Harrimans, whose progeny also lived in the area, the Bushes and the DuPonts had been working for a long time to reverse the New Deal, ever since they colluded to overthrow the United States government, and presumably to kill Franklin Roosevelt, in the Business Plot, otherwise known as the Fascist Coup, in 1934. General Smedley Butler, USMC, who won the Medal of Honor twice, reported their treason to Congress during the Great Depression; but, now, they were taking over under cover of law.
Later, in the 1990s, John DuPont murdered Olympic gold medalist Dave Schultz. Along with other wrestlers, Schultz lived on Foxcatcher Farms in Pennsylvania, with DuPont, who was also a homosexual. DuPont staged wrestling tournaments, in which he expected the contestants to call him “The Golden Eagle,” but behind his back they called him “Stinky Bird.” John DuPont was insane. He once bought a stamp for his collection, bidding at $935,000.00; and, until they took away his badge, he worked as a policeman, flying his private helicopter over the countryside and attending a parade in a private armored car. Still, just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. John DuPont was a victim of MK-ULTRA, who believed his life was threatened by a vast international conspiracy. Before he killed Schultz, he was found to have taken scopolamine, a truth serum commonly used by CIA, which stops memories from even forming. That drug has been used on me, and many others, so that we do not remember the trauma-induced mind control we suffer.
Ten years ago, Robert H. Richards IV, another DuPont, raped his three-year-old daughter. As the five-year-old child told her grandmother, Donna Burg, Richards asked her to keep his incestuous attack as “our little secret.” He never served a day in jail because Delaware Superior Court Judge Jan Jurden, for whom a colleague of mine once clerked, ruled that this man, who raped not only a toddler, but his own child, “would not fare well in prison.” Later, his ex-wife, Tracy Richards, sued him not only for the assault of their daughter but also for sexually abusing their son, when the boy was nineteen months old. According to her lawsuit, Richards promised that “whatever I did to my son, I will never do it again,” confessing that he “was very concerned something happened with his son, but that he has repressed the memories.”
You can read much more in Behind The Nylon Curtain, by Gerard Colby, below.
In the 1980s, the DuPonts successfully kept these stories out of the press; and I did not know what was happening. I knew only that all our dads worked for DuPont, and almost everyone’s father made the same salary.
I know better now.
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