In my third book, I describe how a series of women was placed in Playboy Magazine, as Military Intelligence, Section 7 (MI-7), Army Seventh Psychological Operations Group, and their affiliates tried to manipulate my thoughts, feelings, and actions through their control of the media.
For those of you who don’t want to read the entire book, you can find an earlier excerpted chapter, with some background, below, to whet your appetite.
Here, too, is an article about a lady who appears in that chapter, whose grandfather was a famous mind-control cyberneticist who worked for the Nazis, the Pentagon, and Central Intelligence (CIA), while her lookalike appeared in Playboy Magazine, and I bumped into her, apparently by chance, thousands of miles from the school where we lived in the same courtyard.
She was completely innocent, as the global intelligence community used the cybernetic mind control developed by her grandfather to lead us together—only for their plans to combine our bloodlines, through their breeding program, to fail on teenage sleepers.
You can read more in my second book, where my classmate appeared in the Vienna Train Station, Austria, more than thirty years ago, although we knew each other only from our little college, more than six thousand miles away, in California (which was also the home of another of our fellow alumni, Lady Rothschild, who shared an anglicized version of my classmate’s maiden name, as one woman was my acquaintance, Lilith von Foerster, and the other, who married Sir Evelyn Rothschild, was Lynn Forester).
It is those kinds of coincidences that give the game away.
In my second book, you can also meet a woman with whom I made out, in the eighties, as their stupid evil plans failed again, on teenage sleepers, and we both went from Pomona College to Cambridge University, only for her lookalike to appear, decades later, as a Bollywood Star, with masonic markers, who turned into a half-baked conspiracy theorist, while she suddenly appeared, to me, in an apparently random internet search….
I didn’t even realize that a woman was placed in my very first copy of Playboy Magazine, almost forty years ago, just for me, solely because she looked like my nextdoor neighbor—although the clue was there, in my first book, when I described the events of my life.
My writing is just that accurate….
My recall is just that good….
And my books are just that much of a detective story—where real clues can help not only the reader, but also the writer, to solve the mystery.
While some survivors prefer art therapy, to unravel their programs, I like journaling.
Through awareness of my body, heart, and head, not to mention the so-called tactics of the global intelligence community, I destroy the scum—making them hurt each other, extra, more, and faster, in the ways they already do.
I learned to fight from spymasters.
I learned to fight from kung fu masters.
And I learned to fight from the stupid attacks made, over and over again, and over again, by the enemy who are sent against me to be tortured and killed by their own.
The women in Playboy, the podcasts on YouTube, and the arranged meetings, which are barely mentioned above, are only some of the stupid failing moves that the enemy has made through their social engineering programs—while they have also made several films, including the one I mention below, that were targeted against me.
They just keep sending mind-controlled people into my path.
They just keep lying to themselves, while they smash their own weapons, and they arrange events in my neighborhood.
And they just keep repeating the same mistakes, while every one of them thinks that the same obvious tactics, which have never worked, and have only made me stronger, will suddenly, now, work for them—all while these tactics have destroyed every single one of their predecessors.
The arranged meetings, the apparent coincidences, and the control of the media just don’t work.
Still, they slam my body with neurostrike, threatening me and my loved ones, and offering fake deals; so they incite me to destroy them, they improve my fighting morale, and they increase my productive energy—all as the moronic slaves pretend that they have something in the tactics I exposed, publicly, more than five years ago.
When I had only five hundred thousand hits on this website, the global intelligence community thought they could control me, as they sought to drive me to their false solutions through their insane attacks.
Now I have a further two million hits on my website, and sixty thousand downloads of my three books, with so many other victories for me, and so many other losses for them—but they just keep trying the same old bullshit.
None of it works.
None of it works.
And none of it works.
They had been using the local sauna in their imbecilic failures, but they smashed their own staging ground when they failed at street theater—so I could never go there, now, even if I wanted to.
This failure of the enemy resulted in a police investigation of the gym they tried to weaponize, with no consequences to me, while I work out at home, and at college, and my mother, who had paid for my membership, saves three thousand dollars, pretax, per year; so our relationship is strengthened and financial pressure is removed from our family.
It’s kind of like the time they burned down the only bar to which I ever went—while every one of their attacks has served only to destroy them and only to make me stronger.
So, after all this, did they heed the sage advice of Kenny Rogers?
Did they know when to fold ‘em?
Did they know when to walk away?
Did they know when to run?
Of course not!
The global intelligence community just keeps pretending that they are running me, that they are winning, and that I can’t hit back.
They pretend I cannot see them, as their moves become more and more obvious, and they fail, more and more, while I have exposed their tactics and technology, helping many thousands of others, for more than six years.
But, in a pattern I have identified many times, and many times again, the enemy remains stuck, in the death spiral of their own addiction; so the little air force gnomes dream, underground, of flight, while they play with their toys.
As they lose, and they hurt each other, the perverted slaves repeat their own miserable Groundhog Days.
They smash their own weapons.
They smash their own weapons.
And they smash their own weapons.
They just don’t get it.
So, today, my mother drew my attention to a local magazine, which she has never mentioned before, although, now, she set it on the coffee table, where my old nextdoor neighbors appeared right on the cover….
The story is called…
Meet the Neighbors.
The story featuring my neighbors at the coming bike rally sits opposite an advertisement placed by a woman with whose marijuana-smoking husband I once maintained a casual friendship, although we have not seen each other for many years, we never knew each other that well, and I have met her on exactly two occasions.
And it goes without saying that I don’t smoke cannabis anymore, nor have I done so, for more than seven years, since the enemy woke me up.
The bicycle rally that forms the basis for the suspicious cover story, to which my mother uncharacteristically drew my attention, involves my old neighbors taking part in a local event held through a local conservancy away from which the enemy drove me, by microwave harassment, more than five years ago; so I have gone to exactly one, and only one, event held under its aegis in the last forty years (which they ruined through neurostrike).
The global intelligence community has worked for decades to stop me from riding my bicycle, and I have never biked in groups, or in rallies, or in races, which I despise; but now they actually think that they are presenting an irresistible temptation for me to reach out to these people, who lived nextdoor for almost thirty years—during which time we almost never spoke.
I have absolutely no interest in this event, as I avoid unnecessary contact with everyone, preferring to destroy the enemy with this website, which now has more than two million hits, and my books, which now have more than sixty thousand downloads; but the enemy continues to lie, as they pretend they are driving me to, or from, or to and from, or from and to, the random pursuits that they insist I would enjoy (while I do not want to engage in frivolous activities and they increase my strength, my productivity, and my morale).
Unlike them, I know what I can do—which is to make them destroy each other.
And, unlike them, I know what I cannot do—which is to be around other people.
I am not looking for relaxing activities, with sleepers, while they break into people’s houses and kill our animals.
Meanwhile, the second page of the feature article begins with a curious statement about the bike rally, to which I would never want to go, in my entire life, by my old neighbors, to whom I almost never spoke, for thirty years, while the enemy used neurostrike to prevent me from attending their farewell Christmas Party…
We meet new friends every year.
And a second feature follows, plugging the event, Bike the Brandywine, which takes place on a satanic holiday….
And it all takes place in our satanic community.
In between the articles, I see an advertisement for a local horsey event, with country fair, within walking distance of my house, which I must also avoid because of neurostrike attacks, street theater, and gaslighting—just as I avoid dozens of meaningless events, of this nature, every year.
Their hypnotic suggestions misfired, before I even noticed them, so yesterday I found myself taking superficial interest in the artist whose work the conservancy supports, in marathons through which I could get exercise in groups, and in the restaurant festival down the road (although this would be impossible given their destruction of my enjoyment in taste through cybernetic attacks against my olfactory bulb).
And their hypnotic suggestions misfired, before I even noticed them, so yesterday I found myself laughing at the stupid, unattractive, and just plain creepy Mister Rogers, famous for his song, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?”
He’s a Christian—just like my old neighbors, now presented as a bicycling temptation, through the enemy’s creation of media, directed solely at me, although I am an atheist who dodged them for thirty years….
And Mister Rogers, who sings songs I thought were stupid fifty years ago, when I was a small child, appears on PBS, which I have recently exposed.
Check him out, as he teaches satanic handsigns to children.
Here, he tells them they are special snowflakes, while he tries to befriend them.
That’s through the mind-control device of the television.
There, educational television teaches children to watch television….
Through Zersetzung, the global intelligence community has done a good job of isolating me, while I lift weights alone, walk in the local gardens alone, and write the hundreds of articles, and the several books, that destroy them.
Through Zersetzung, the global intelligence community has done a good job of isolating me, while I make money teaching at colleges full of sleepers whom they fail to control.
Through Zersetzung, the global intelligence community has done a good job of isolating me, while I serve on the advisory board of the world’s leading organization against neurostrike.
This contains other people like me—doctors, lawyers, scientists, and retired government officials (and I don’t care whether they ride bicycles).
So, I bring a one-billion-dollar lawsuit against DOJ, FBI, and DHS—not to mention the scum that run them.
Congress exposes their moronic crimes.
And their senile president, who briefly practiced at my old firm, leaving after a few months, never to be mentioned again, while I worked there, as a lawyer, having fun and making money, for many years, and he pops up, from time to time, in my community, now faces impeachment—as do other members of the Biden Administration, the heads of the agencies that harass me, in a move that congress has never made before.
They think I want to bargain, while I laugh at their failure.
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Another great collection, my friend!
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Thanks, pal. And check out the following article, I just wrote, on what they tried with Pamela Anderson. What a bunch of morons….
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