I am proud to say I have just published the fourth book in the Mk-Ultra Series, Superman (First Half), which begins in the Chateau Country.
It picks up just where WonderWomen leaves off, on the mountain, over the base, under the palace, and overlooking the forest, while the castle sits hidden in the park….
Playboy’s Progress continues the plot of Stories When Little, so it takes the reader to Cambridge University, Pomona College, and Phillips Academy, while I travel to Central Europe at the fall of Communism.
Each of these books can teach you my insights about mind control, while I make groundbreaking interpretations of world history, and I describe the amazing events of my own terrific life.
It’s the Great American Novel, so the series enjoys more than one hundred thousand downloads while this website has almost three million hits with serious deep state traffic from places like Antarctica, Greenland, and Iran.
In the Mk-Ultra Series, you can meet real subjects of art, like the more than twenty-four women who were placed in Playboy just for me in failed attempts by MI-7, CIA, and Army Seventh Psychological Operations Group.
And so it makes sense that you can also meet real artists, while I give you my theories on some of the world’s greatest pictures.
One of these is an amazing figure who lived next door to me, while he was a genius, a patron, and a painter, who was also the lowest form of criminal.
I have no sympathy for child molesters, but I am struck by his honest depiction of local negroes with the real racial sensitivity, and awareness, that only someone who came from a slaveowning family, in a segregated state, which was hit with bussing, and race riots, could have managed to pull off.
These include the dry-brush watercolor of a man I take to be a butler in Mr. Hylton Taylor.
These include the tempera on panel of his mammy in Gathering Storm.
And these include the tempera on panel of his handyman in Eleven O’Clock News.
It says a lot that these paintings are hard to find on the internet, while the tension of the relationships, like the closeness and distance between the artist and the subject, defies my description—except to say these are family relationships that are fraught with resentful codependence, with imminent violence, and with terrible secrets.
Today these works of genius are obscured by a museum that has lost its vision, while the patron’s memory is being erased by the institution he founded, so the support of a metal railing built for cripples blocks the plaque that describes him as a man who knew what he wanted.
This is sunk into the ground only inches away from the wall, so a visitor can read its epitaph only with effort, and then not clearly, although it would have been the easiest thing in the world just to put the otherwise blocking titanium column, whose position shows a complete ignorance of design, a mere six inches to either the left or the right.
This erasure is not only of the white criminal but of the blacks who were in it with him, who knew his secrets, as he honestly and fearlessly lived, like them, trapped in a messed-up world, because just as the museum board thinks it’s cool, and trendy, to show the demented psychosis of his cousin, which plainly involves the molestation of children, and the torture of animals, they also think it’s cool, and trendy, to cover up real stories, as they promote, in their giftshop, apropos of nothing, a biography of the Christian Communist, Martin Luther King, who spoke in a phony voice about his dream for racial equality—before he was murdered.
So, it’s welcome to the blacks, and fake diversity, while they shovel the bullshit on the Brandywine.
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Our enemy depends on silence.
Fighting Monarch 
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