I want to say from the onset that I can understand the principle of not allowing an unknown person to grandstand and profit at the expense of a total stranger’s life and misfortune. The adjuncts were in place to play it that way in all civility. I had my own life, some serious misfortune I needed help with. The police knew me, so did the Post Gazette. I had made the acquaintance of Fripp and Gabriel. I could have been spoken to by Reagan or Lapham at Pitt News, just as many key figures of fame have spoken with me directly.
The only reason I admitted to seeing the chilling espionage element as a dare, marry Midori and join the Beatles, was because I felt that urgent action was needed to guide us in the AIDS attack and prevent the covid bomb. They didn’t agree at all. What is more, they still had the five aces of Trump up their sleeve.
Framing someone for rape using a virgin to cover for an abomination is playing with fire. Very few people who know me see it for anything but an acid projection of Penis Gabriel’s fabulations. Those who grant that I was upset about Leslie admit now that there was a nerve agent burn that the assassins, not me, were aware of. The Ima JDL quotidian subjects the set up to Administrative disdain beginning with person of interest John Shulman, recently arrested as a major thief in the museum.
The concept that I am the evil twin of Mark Chapman took megaweird attorney Amanda Harcourt and the powers of pull available to Michael Rutherford in order to soothsay. Carmen Colucci used to tell his story that the cement mixer men his father worked with would throw just about anything, bottles, cans, into the mix to take up space. This is the approach that Ono’s favorites in Warhol took with a hostage and traumatized Jimmy Creary. They poured bucketloads of Michael Reagan’s favorite scenes. You would think as Amnesty International squoze the neuroplasm for their soundtrack that the Gandhian principle of first and last dignities would have at least extended to poison crime, not so.
Ironically Colucci, who knew I hadn’t understood Gail Burstyn, and was wiretapping for Bell Laboratory in Eastminster District just to make sure, came right out and said they put Lennon’s enigma in my closet to rub it in. Logic is forbidden but, if I hated Lennon why would killing him be rubbing it in? Their point is elusive, because I liked him, therefore I am evil that makes me Chapman’s evil twin and if I would only confess and embrace the men who Warhol sponsored all could be just like starting over.
The scripting is clear. Hitler is The Holy Ghost, and marveling at the perversity, no one else in Seattle or Pittsburgh wants out.
