The books I have written do not only tell the story of my life, so they entertain the reader through the Great American Novel.
The books I have written do not only tell the story of our world, so they inform the reader through a great work of history.
And the books I have written do not only have more than one hundred and twenty thousand (120,000) downloads, after four years, so you can take as many copies as you like, without registration, for free.
The MK-Ultra Series celebrates so many amazing places, plants, animals, and people—along with the stars, the sky, the sea, and the earth—to record their stories, so we all may grow in renown.
As an epic poet, I sing of the beauty, trials, and achievements of the amazing women who posed for Playboy.
While I expose sexual programming, I make no apologies for healthy relations between consenting adults.
My books have a visual component, through which I will sometimes describe the geometrical composition, the color palette, and the wholesome effect of an iconic, erotic, and historic photograph, showing a beautiful naked woman, embodied in Playboy.
And my books expose the methods of the enemy, so you can learn about attempts at mind control particularly through the images of Playboy.
Every woman is different, as is every image, while some recall particular works of art or poetry.
Some inspire me through practical advice, embodied in their lives, while they themselves are authors.
Others inspire me through their fight, and their martyrdom, as I avenge their deaths.
And still others inspire me through their tenacity, and their flexibility, while we continue to hold our own, and excel, as survivors.
It all started with the awesome women in whose company I grew up.
Erika Eleniak was one of more than twenty women placed in Playboy, just for me, at a time when magazines served the purpose of the internet.
She is one of two Playmates within a thirty-month period who has exactly the same birthday as do I.
The odds of me having the same birthday as two Playmates within such a period, at random, but not through enemy action, are four thousand four hundred and forty to one (4,440 : 1) or a probability of two one-hundredths of one percent (0.02%).
Through the arrangement of this coincidence, the enemy hoped to inspire a bet between me and a friend, as to the leading actor, before Pamela Anderson, of the very first season of Baywatch, so they made sure that I had the same birthday not only as Playmate Julie Peterson but as Playmate Erika Eleniak.
This was supposed to lead my friend to Playboy, while I produced the physical magazine to win the bet, but the whole thing did not work since I was busy dating my girlfriend, with whom I was having sex, drinking wine, and listening to classical music, at the beautiful women’s college where she held the dance scholarship, and I never saw a single episode of Baywatch during the eleven years in which it had one billion viewers per week.
This is only one of their plots, which failed, while, as they fail, more and more, their moves have become increasingly insane.
My discovery of the birthdays, handwritten by each lady, in her data sheet, on the back of her centerfold, was due to their imbecilic insistence on lies, as they continue to attack, weakening themselves, so they continue to make me stronger.
Erika Eleniak never did it for me, while she starred in Baywatch, and in Under Siege, so I am struck not by the admitted beauty of this model, who appears nautically naked, but by the camera tricks of her photographer, who made her look good.
Her centerfold is a masterpiece, as set forth in the following passage, still unpolished, from a draft of my fourth book.
Erika is given extra dimensions through tricks of the camera, so the lateral stripes of her skirt widen her hips, as they stand in contrast to the anchor-motif braces, which form diagonal lines narrowing her waist, also contrasted to her hips, while these inch-wide strips of stretchy fabric start the upper half of a triangle, which culminates in the smaller triangle of her thighs, which fold over the bottom of her bush, forming a subliminal triskelion, as she crosses her standing legs, to further widen her hips, by contrast, so her thighs and knees form another set of triangles, at the bottom of the page.
Her breasts are widened, by the loose open jacket, and a second set of lateral lines below her shoulders, and her elbows, each crooked, enhances the widening, while a series of double-ess curves carries the viewer’s eye in so many routes around her body, with her hand hitching up her skirt at the same time it pulls down against her brass-clipped suspenders, to pick up where the down-pointed anchors left off, making the largest of end-stopped arrows, capped with the finger-lined rectangle of her open fist, clenched and relaxed, as it points to her bush, next to the other large arrow connected to her other hand, where her face forms the base of another sideways triangle, and her pink claws point down to the spiral that culminates in her dusky nipple.
There her eyes, even with her elbow, break all the rules, since their lovely light blue clashes with the darker blue of her uniform, while her polished nails break the same rules to clash with her aureola, so there are two intelligent plays on a perfectly chosen palette to draw the reader’s eye to the ovals and circles that are highlighted by the brass porthole on the riveted wall, which clashes with the steel dial of the engine drive, in a third play on the color scheme.
The entire thing is a masterpiece of contrapposto with tension balanced against relaxation, up balanced against down, curves balanced against lines, and triangles always broken, as they meet with ovals, circles, spirals, and rectangles, always in meaningful ways, while the interrupted circle of the speed dial takes you back, at each end, to her bush, surrounded by its subliminal triskelion, and its handle takes you up, again, not only to the theta-spiral of her breast but to her head, surrounded artfully, by her tousled but styled flaxen hair.
There we find another interrupted circle, so the brass porthole, and the brass handle take you to her face, where they clash with the braid on her cap, next to the clash of her claws, and the clash of her eyes, and the clash of her hair, while this stands against the steel circle that leads to the body part you’re supposed to see in Playboy.
Everything is clean and simple, which befits a boat, while the whole thing was accomplished using only variations of the primary colors of red, yellow, and blue, with no secondaries, as her body stands against thousands of whites.
The symbols say she is the captain, and together you can go up or down the diagonal straight line of the ladder, which has its own complementary geometry, as it foils her curves—or you both can place your hands covering hers, or hers covering yours, fingers interlocking, forearms stroking, and communicating with each other, on the drive stick connected to the circular gauge, not remotely vulgar, as you take the powerful engine, driving the ship, on the ocean, under the sky, through each of its speeds of stop, standby, slow, half, and full ahead.
And, so, I find myself seeing not the naked woman who was the subject of my sometimes fantasy, more than thirty-five years ago, but rather a series of visual tricks used to create a particular effect in a different form of mind control that is pleasurable to understand—just like my earlier spot of the birthdays and each of their other failed plots.
The artistry of the man who took this photograph is phenomenal, while, back in the eighties and the nineties, enemy moves were so much more intelligent, although they still lost, just as now the entire thing is crashing down to destroy the perverted morons.
Playboy was not just an enemy operation.
It was art.
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Fighting Monarch 
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