Cathy O'Brien: The Tranceformation of America

[sijohn]

A huge thank you for posting this , I have been aware of Cathy O Brien and her story for many years, but it had slipped my mind I am ashamed to say , please continue to post as I believe this is incredibly important. May all the people who are responsible for treating fellow human beings (if they are truly human beings) like this reap their just deserts.

[ClearWater]

I read this book shortly after it was initially released. Reading through the postings again now, I'm realizing that I'd forgotten just how chilling some of it really is.

I certainly don't/won't dwell on it because I feel that's counter-productive, but I'm absolutely grateful for the sharing of this info. There's definite value in having an awareness of the fact that this sort of thing goes on. It was an important piece of the puzzle in coming to the realization of what was and is really happening in the world.

Kudos to Cathy for sharing her story.

[Bluegreen]

Warning: Graphic

[Bluegreen]

OPERATION SHELL GAME

Chapter 13

Sometime prior to the death of CIA Chief William Casey, I was in Washington, D.C. for a briefing on Operation Shell Game. Iran-Contra was politically explosive at this time, and U.S. Senator Alan Kooi Simpson (R. Wyoming) had a plan to set Panamanian General Manuel Noriega up to take the fall for cocaine aspects of the investigation. Noriega had become yet another source of embarrassment to the Reagan-Bush Administration.



George Bush Sr and Alan Simpson


The need to convince him to be discrete about his involvement in U.S. criminal covert activities had reached alarming proportions. Noriega had been an intricate part of arming the Nicaraguan Contras for Reagan, as well as an international hub in the cocaine operations that funded the black budgets for ultra secret projects such as Project Monarch.

My CIA operative handler, Alex Houston’s shadowy back door drug dealings with Panama further exemplified the kind of "honor among thieves" rules that Noriega routinely and openly violated. My role, my "Contra-bution," was but a small part of the over all picture. Nevertheless, Operation Shell Game was one of the more significant and informative covert operations in which I had been forced lo participate.

My role began one cold, rainy day when Houston dropped me off at the Washington Monument where I was met by two agents, who triggered me to go with them by flashing their IDs. They escorted me to the large White House Office where I had first met Cheney to "audition" for the Hands-On Mind-Control Demonstrations some years before. As usual, Cheney and Reagan were drinking, this time to excess for so early in the day. Reagan’s cheeks were flushed and his voice slurred as he greeted me, "Well, hello, Kitten. Dick and I were just discussing the plight of the Contras since this Ollie North thing broke out."





Cheney’s alcoholic foul mood was immediately apparent. He was agitated as usual at Reagan’s informality in my presence. Apparently I had come in during a serious discussion about Iran-Contra as Reagan’s mood was more somber than I had ever seen it. He took a drink and looked out the window. "Americans believe in their country-baseball, hot dogs, and Ollie North."

Cheney snorted a laugh at what seemed to be an ongoing joke between them about "hot dogs and Ollie North". Reagan continued,

"And I believe in the Contra cause and all that we have accomplished. And I’m damn proud of it! It’s not ’Law and Order’. No, it’s Order and then Law. Order must come first because without it, law would be ineffective.

Sometimes we must rise above and beyond the law to establish that order (he glanced seriously at Cheney)—or a new (world) order. As President, that is my responsibility. Establish order through democracy by spreading democracy throughout the world. With order, there is peace. Right now in Nicaragua the people are crying out for democracy, for peace, and I cannot turn a deaf ear to them.

Not even in view of Ollie North’s troubles. True Americans know he is a hero. That’s why we must rise above the law to establish order by fulfilling the wishes, the hopes, the dreams of those brave men fighting for freedom by doing our part in spreading democracy."

Reagan was gesturing into the air, apparently lost in the poetry of his own ranting.

Cheney lost patience and jumped from his chair to sneer at me and poke his finger in my chest while he said, "Order is all that matters, and you’re going to follow mine."

Reagan turned back to us.

"I’m glad you brought that up, Kitten, you have a role in establishing this order. With the same patriotic passion that burned in your bosom for the freedom fighters of Afghanistan, you will carry out your orders for the Contras. Dick will define your role and provide you with all you need and all you need to know from the ol’ Wizard’s bag in the basement (Oz programming in Cheney’s Pentagon office). So, you run along now and do as he commands."

Senator Alan Simpson was in Cheney’s office when we arrived. Cheney flipped over the hour glass to let me know my life was on the line according to Oz programming. Cheney gestured to Simpson and began,

"Operation Shell Game is Simpson’s brain child, so he’s master of the game and he’s going to teach you the rules. The objective of the game is to see ’who’s left holding the goods".

Pointing to Simpson, he commanded, "Listen to ’im".

Simpson stood up and began cryptically talking.

"You are going on a ’Princes’ Cruise’ (Noriega’s Yacht). The Baby’s Ear Shell is your pass key. I will provide you with yours at the appropriate time."

He took the "shell" out of his wallet. It was approximately 1 1/2 inches long and was translucent pink, shaped and detailed exactly like a baby’s ear. Simpson noticed the relief cross my face as I realized it was not a real baby’s ear.

He smiled.





"These are but empty shells of the life they once possessed. Like you are-empty and void of life. A shell. In one ear and out the other. I have your ear now LISTEN, If they hold the pass key, you listen. When you hold the pass key, you speak. I none ear and out the other-never again to be retrieved."

He returned the shell to his wallet and continued,

"Listen. Follow orders. The Colonel (Aquino) will be there and you will follow his orders and provide a demonstration Hands On style for the General (Noriega). It will be different, yet the same, so follow the Colonel’s orders closely."

Cheney roughly grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, got right in my face and said,

"Or, I’ll get her, my pretty, your little girl. Follow orders as though her life depends upon it because it does. Or the next baby’s ear will be taken from Kelly. So listen. When you see the baby’s ear, you will listen."

He spun my head in the direction of the hourglass as he released my hair. He was sneering and Simpson looked as though he thought Cheney overdid it. I was relieved it would not be my job to "soothe Cheney’s savage beast" sexually that day.

Cheney look me back to the White House office where we had started. He and Reagan shared another drink. Reagan patted my hair back in place where Cheney had pulled it, which made me feel safe somehow since I could not comprehend that he was behind my ordeal with Cheney.

Reagan switched my personality to where I no longer regarded him as "Chief," but instead as "Uncle Ronnie". He did this by reaching into his Jelly Belly jar and giving me one. Certain colors and flavors triggered certain programmed responses. Uncle Ronnie must have had other "Kittens" conditioned to the military green watermelon ones because he kept an excess amount of these in his numerous jars.

Cheney said, "How in the hell you drink cognac and eat those goddamn jellybeans is beyond me. Reagan responded, "Well, Dick, you don’t have to have a Jelly Belly if you don’t want to. I was just giving one to Kitten, here."

"Damn right I don’t have to have a Jelly Belly, but you’re going to have a jelly belly if you keep that **** up." Cheney finished his drink.

Reagan chuckled, "Now, you know I watch my figure.."

"Figure this," Cheney interrupted. "What are you going to do with the Contras?"

Cheney slammed down his drink and headed for the door.

"Exactly what I’ve been doing." Reagan turned to me, "C’mon, Kitten, Let’s take a walk, I need my evening constitutional"

Reagan was in no mood for sex, and it was a relief to be away from Cheney. He took me outside for a walk in his "Secret Garden," where he said he goes to "think and solve the world’s problems". We walked down a cement path he referred to as a "Yellow Brick Road". After sitting quietly on a cement bench for awhile, he said,
"If you follow the Yellow Brick Road, it leads right to the Wizard’s lair - the Oval Office, How would you like to see where Uncle Ronnie really solves the world’s problems?"

I felt like a little girl with her daddy going to see where he works with no real concept of the experience. The guard at the Oval Office door ensured I was returned to my escorts when Reagan was through "sneaking me in" to his office. I was then taken back to Washington Monument where Houston was waiting in the car as though I had never been gone at all.

Operation Shell Game brought me back in touch with former President Gerald Ford early one misty fall morning. Ford’s continued relationships with my abusers had given me cause to remain in touch with him throughout the years; particularly since he and my father were still jointly active in the Michigan organized crime drugs and pornography operation that had launched me into Project Monarch so many years before.





Ford was about to embark on a game of golf with my father on the otherwise "Closed for the Season" golf course next to my father’s expensive house in affluent Grand Haven, Michigan. My brother, Mike, was with my father and me as we rendezvoused at the Club House with Ford and the Secret Service personnel assigned to him.

Ford told my father he would "catch up with him and Mike at the third hole" and to "leave us to our business". I was maintained in "Silence" until Ford and I were out of range of the Secret Servicemen, and I recited a message from Reagan instilled prior to the Shell Game,

"If you please, Sir," I began in Oz cryptic, "I have a message for you from Uncle Ronnie. It’s a ’humming telegram’ (oral sex game) to see if you agree that our National Anthem should be changed to America the Beautiful," (Reagan was actually serious about changing our National Anthem.)

Ford responded, "We may have to see about that later. First, we’ve got some other ’holes’ to attend before the sun gets up any higher." As he teed up his golf ball I asked, "Do you still golf a lot now that you’re no longer President?"

He said very seriously, "I golfed a lot when I was President. But now, I just keep up with events from the golf course. I’ve earned the privilege of monitoring the progress of America’s Freedom Train at my leisure." He turned to face me, "Do you play golf yet?"

"Very well, Sir, when permitted." (Houston always ensured he won.) Ford was openly amused by my answer and handed me his club. "Give it your best shot." I out shot him the first stroke and his amusement vanished. I gave him back his golf club as ordered.

At the end of the second hole, Ford said, "I’d like to have a word with you," He took me over to some trees off the fairway and turned to me with his arms crossed over his bulging chest, raised himself up taller, and bore his shark-like eyes into mine. "Lend me your ear", I had the Baby’s Ear Shell with me as ordered, took it out of my back pocket and handed it to Ford. He began talking as though I were a machine and he was dictating a message.

"Take this message to Dick Cheney, Pentagon. The Mob has agreed to transfer the $2.3 million (porn profits) to the Bank of Credit and Commerce International. Let’s pool our money now and we’ll be swimming in it. This operation has been an enterprising success. Let’s keep it that way. Cease agreement with Panama. All Mexican channels are implemented (cocaine and heroin). Hail to the Chief."

He took a step away and added, "And you (he poked my chest like Cheney) take care of my friend, Dick. Here..." he handed me the Baby’s Ear. For meanness he added "over and out," and did the sign of the (satanic) horns at my eyes which deepened my trance significantly since I had been conditioned so heavily to this by Byrd.

After he hit the golf ball, he asked,

"How’s my friend, Alan Simpson, these days?"

"Very well, Sir." I noticed he bristled as he missed another shot. His temper was rising. When he wanted to add more to his message, he took out his frustration on me, "Gimme that ****ing shell." He wiggled his fingers at me. That wasn’t the pass phrase and I did not trigger. He grew louder and more agitated, "Where’s that Baby’s Ear." I still could not respond.

"Lend me your goddamn ear!!" he roared at me. Close enough.

"Yes, Sir," I responded meekly as I dropped it in his hand.

He proceeded. "Tell Simpson to take care of my friend Dick Thornburgh. Get back to me on it."

He returned the ear. We could see my father waiting at the next hole and Ford said he might "bean him one" with his next stroke. He swung, but missed my father.

When we met up with my father at the third hole. Ford set up his ball first, of course, and waving his club at me said, "Get out of here before I get teed off." My father pointed the way with a thumb over his shoulder and let out a shrill whistle. My brother, Mike, walked me through the bushes and back to my father’s house.

My sister, Kelli Jo, was waiting tearfully for my return. She was MPDed and horrified of Ford. She and my little sister, Kimmy, and I had all been forced to sexually gratify Ford just prior to a special ordered porn film titled Three Little Kittens whereby his semen was filmed "anonymously". I was aware that Ford had initiated both of my sisters the way he had me in Cedar Springs, and they, too, dreaded his brutal and degrading sexuality. I hurried past my sister to make sure my daughter, Kelly, was OK. Cheney’s threat to her life was ringing loud in my ear.

I did not see the Baby’s Ear shell until Kelly and I arrived in Bradenton Beach, Florida. I drove the motor home into Florida with Houston and Kelly along, and dropped Houston off at the Tampa airport, since he did not have a role in Operation Shell Game. He "had business at Boys Town in Omaha, Nebraska" where the wayward boys were being traumatized and sexually abused in accordance with the Catholic involvement in Project Monarch.

Survivor Paul Bonacci of the infamous Franklin Cover-up case has named Alex Houston as one of his abusers there in Boys Town. Houston often went to Boys Town or other similar "vacation resorts" while I was on covert government business. Kelly and I drove on to Bradenton, where we checked into a participating campground on the bay across from MacDill Air Force Base. It, too, was "Closed for the Season".

The recreation room of the campground was actually a harmonics programming operation, and the offices were filled with elaborate computers consistent with high-level CIA operations. The day Kelly and I met with Senator Simpson, I had been instructed by campground workers to drive to nearby Santa Maria Island where we were to collect unusual shells. Kelly and I were on the "wild side" of the island hunting sand dollars because they had "BIRDS" in them.





As we walked through the shallow water, Kelly scared up a stingray, which sent us screaming for the shore. Simpson was on the beach laughing, looking out of place in his cagney hat and grey suit with legs rolled up and polished shoes in hand. He seemed familiar with the beach. When we reached the shore, he struck up a conversation about shells. It wasn’t until he told us about the Baby’s Ear Shell and opened his wallet to retrieve it that I triggered and knew who he was.

As he look it out, he also flashed his ID signaling us to go with him. Considering Kelly, he had slipped a shell into the sand for her to find that looked like an eye in a spiral. He used this as a hypnotic induction to control her, comparing it to Bush’s Eye in the Sky.

Simpson showed me the shell in his hand and began,

"You. You alone will take the shuttle boat to your Princes’ cruise. It will leave the dock from your own backyard (Oz) at 7:30 pm. Dress appropriately (Houston had ensured the proper attire had been packed). You will be escorted to the conference room and on into the lop deck. You will see as you approach the ship (Noriega’s yacht) the top deck is surrounded in black mirrors. Look deep into the mirrors; that is where you will be. And where I will be when next we meet."

We walked a little further up the beach to where the motor home was parked and, referring to the Baby’s Ear, Simpson said,

"They’re very rare indeed. This one is the right ear. You must go to the other side of the island, out Long Boat Key, to find its match. The Colonel (Aquino) has the baby’s left ear and will meet you at the Pier at 4 pm. Stop at the little market on the corner and call. Then it’s just down the street a little ways."

I followed instructions robotically. Kelly and I watched from the pier as four big, armed (with machine guns) emotionless (programmed?) guards scanned the area as Aquino emerged from a car. Kelly said, "Mom, let’s go". I remembered Cheney’s threat and assured her I would protect her, though I could not comprehend from what.

When Aquino approached with two Dobermans on leashes, I told him Simpson had sent me there looking for the left baby’s ear. He opened his hand to reveal "all that was left-the baby’s ear-the dogs had devoured and consumed the rest of the baby." It was bloody, ragged, and bluish rather than pink. Whether or not this was an actual baby’s ear, the impact was the same. I put Kelly further behind me away from the dogs. I stood traumatized and entranced, ready for command. Aquino instructed me in full detail on the night’s activities, and that I was to leave Kelly with campground personnel until my return.





That evening I was taken to Noriega’s yacht in the bay via a small motorboat. I triggered and tranced further as I approached the familiar "black mirrored" yacht according to plan. I was helped onto the back of the yacht by Panamanian "palace" guards who kept me there at gunpoint until I was cleared and my Baby’s Ear pass key accepted. I was escorted past the Air Force Base officials, their wives, drug people, and the vast amounts of cocaine laid out for them.





I recognized several of the guests, including Oliver North and Puerto Rican drug lord Jose Busto. I was led up the stairs to the conference room where Aquino, Noriega, and Simpson were waiting. Simpson! I realized I must "be on the other side of the black mirror" and I gazed out into the darkness.

Simpson spoke softly,

"You’re on the other side of the black mirror now (NASA programming), peering though the blackness out to sea. Sea of black. Riding on a sea of black, drifting, drifting from the winds. Deep into the blackness. Drifting through the sands of time. Black sands, yielding shells — such as this Baby’s Ear."

He pressed it into my hand signaling it was time for me to speak, I addressed Noriega,

"If you please, Sir, I have a message from the President of the United States of America: The successes we have enjoyed in our shared endeavors are now history in the making, whose course cannot be altered - regardless of the imminent lifting of the veil by well intentioned do-gooders. As this veil is lifted, it may shed light on you. So you must have your house in order, as does Ollie North, and cease any and all detectable activity I will do my best to keep you under shield and out of view if you comply with these orders and cease all detectable activity at once."

Noriega reacted as anticipated, obviously insulted by my message. In the ensuing moment of chaos, Aquino hypnotically waved his hands in front of Noriega and dramatically spread out his satanic black cape (worn for impact on Noriega’s superstitions) which appeared to fill the room. Noriega all but bowed to him as Aquino’s control over him was complete.

Aquino’s manner was side-show-style rather than the usual somber tones used on Military bases for the Hands On demonstrations.

"General, for your entertainment and in respect and appreciation of your successful enterprising ’Contra-bution’, the Chief has sent his Presidential Model to demonstrate the latest technology in mind-control advancements. With the flip of a switch, this Pigeon becomes a Kitten (I began undressing). Quite a different animal."

Because of Noriega’s superstitious beliefs, the whole idea of switching personalities apparently frightened him. I know Noriega believed whole-heartedly in mind control, but could not grasp the concept of multiple personalities (which I now believe he perceived as demonic possession).

Therefore, he did not adhere to the idea of one slave being trained for both business and pleasure. Aquino, whom Noriega already perceived as a "devil" working for Reagan, was manipulating his beliefs masterfully. The impact of this demonstration and Operation would prove to be Psychological Warfare of the highest order.





Aquino ordered me to lie on the bed and invited Noriega to look closer at what the "Wizard" - "his Chief (Reagan)" - could create. Noriega stepped closer to see what Aquino was pointing out to him between my breasts. A large, carved baphomet appeared. Aquino had hypnotically regressed me to the time of its making which caused it to seemingly "suddenly appear" right before Noriega’s eyes.

Noriega jumped back, ignorantly terrified of this scientific phenomena. I believe Noriega stayed in the room for the rest of the demonstration simply because he was frozen in fear. Aquino hit me with a cat-o-nine-tails and I shrieked in pain. Noriega jumped, Aquino hit me with it again, this time activating me to respond sexually as though pain were pleasure - a mind-control concept that Noriega more readily grasped. Then Aquino pointed out that the baphomet had disappeared.

While Noriega looked, Aquino used Byrd’s Hypnotic induction as he cut me between the breasts with a knife saying, "Unlike a knife sharp and clean, I’ll carve out what I want." My trance had been deepened to the extreme that my circulatory system was slowed. Therefore I did not bleed until Aquino hypnotically changed my trance level. He then told Noriega that the baphomet carving had "retreated to the depths of my body and soul, possessing me and inciting the heal of hell."

He commanded me to show any "face", the vaginal mutilation carving of the baphomet face. As I did, Aquino offered Noriega my sex. As predicted, Noriega’s eyes bulged in terror and revulsion. While Aquino told him his "rejection of me had killed me," I ceased breathing and moving as conditioned. Noriega was dumbfounded as Aquino laughed wickedly and threatened, "Even death will not permit her -or you- escape from the Wizard’s power." He explained that I was the "Wizard’s own" and "under his spell" and could therefore "re-energize myself and comeback to life."

He put a vaginal prod in my hand and ordered me to masturbate myself with it, pushing the button to electrically jolt myself internally upon command. Noriega’s eyes were enormous. He paled to a sickly grey, his mouth fell open and he ran out the door while Aquino assured him that he had "NO where to run, no where to hide from Reagan’s powers."

Noriega predictably interpreted the demonstration as a threat from the depths of HELL, which should have been enough to heed Reagan’s commands to break the drug trafficking ties immediately. (Apparently this is not the case as is evidenced by Noriega’s continued Florida incarceration.)

Aquino and Simpson doubled over with laughter as they congratulated themselves on a job well done. Simpson finally ordered me to dress and escorted me to the back of the yacht to ensure the guards put me on the shuttle boat rather than kill me because of Noriega’s horror.

As I approached the dock of the campground, the boat driver told me I would find Kelly asleep in the ’recreation’ room. I ran to her, and, fearful of Cheney’s threat, made sure her ears were still intact. I was immensely relieved to find them still there and to know she was "OK" (I could not think to wonder what she had endured in my absence.)

I illogically felt like a "good mom" for "doing my part" right so Kelly could live. Never before had I experienced such a sense of danger to us both and my relief was proportionate. I lovingly held her in my arms the rest of the night.

[Bluegreen]

CLINTON COKE LINES

Chapter 14





I met up with Bill Clinton again in 1982 at a county fair in Berryville, Arkansas. Alex Houston was "entertaining" there due to the close proximity of the CIA Near Death Trauma Center (aka slave conditioning and programming camp) and drug distribution point at Swiss Villa in Lampe. Missouri. I had just endured intense physical and psychological trauma and programming, Clinton was campaigning for Governor and was backstage with Hillary and Chelsea while waiting to make a speech.
 
Clinton stood in the afternoon sun with his arms crossed, talking to Houston about him and "his people" (CIA Operatives) being looked into specific areas for the dual purpose of entertaining and carrying our specific covert drug operations.

From my perspective, those who were actively laying the groundwork for implementing the New World Order through mind conditioning of the masses made no distinction between Democratic and Republican Parties. Their aspirations were international in proportion, not American. Members were often drawn from, among other elitist groups, the Council on Foreign Relations. Like George Bush, Bill Clinton was an active member of the CFR, Bilderbergers, and Tri-Lateral Commission.
 
Based on numerous conversations I overheard. Clinton was being groomed and prepared to fill the role of President under the guise of Democrat in the event that the American people became discouraged with Republican leaders. This was further evidenced by the extent of Clinton’s New World Order knowledge and professed loyalties.

Clinton understood that I had just been through "hell" in Lampe, and took it all in stride as he focused on his speech. He not only was well aware of the mind-control tortures and criminal covert activities proliferating in Arkansas and the neighboring state of Missouri, but he condoned them! Just as there are no partisan preferences in this world dominance effort, neither are there any strong individual state considerations or boundaries, either. I knew from experience that Clinton’s Arkansas criminal covert operations meshed with the Lampe Missouri center where he routinely tended business and claimed to "vacation." staying in the compound’s resort villas.

In 1983, Houston took me to Lampe for routine trauma and programming while he was scheduled to "entertain" at the amphitheatre. Also scheduled to perform were Bill Clinton’s and George Bush’s friends Lee Greenwood and CIA operative, slave runner, and country music singer Tommy Overstreet. Greenwood and Overstreet were active in both the Lampe, Missouri and Lake/Mount Shasta, California CIA compounds. Clinton was flown in from Berryville, Arkansas by helicopter for the shows as well as for a business meeting.




George Bush Sr and Lee Greenwood


Before Clinton arrived, Greenwood and Houston were in the backstage dressing rooms snorting line after line of cocaine. Houston, always eager to make an extra penny to pinch, attempted to prostitute me to Greenwood,

"She’s the real performer," Houston said. "She performs all kinds of sex acts upon command. For a small price, she’s yours."

Greenwood laughed, and referring to my Huntsville, Alabama NASA programming said, "I’ve spent more time in Huntsville than she has, and I know full well who and what she is - a ’space cadet’ programmed for sex. She’s a modified version of Marilyn Monroe." Tommy Overstreet had wandered in and heard what Greenwood said. "How much time have you spent in Shasta?"

"Shasta?" Greenwood looked arrogantly at Overstreet and smiled knowingly as he said, "You don’t ’spend time’ in Shasta, you maintain the concept if you can. I haven’t lost any time there, either, if that’s your next question. I go there quite a bit. Enough really to override Houston’s suggestion with ease and take what I want, when I want, and how I want it."
 
Greenwood began expertly accessing my sex programming and told the others in the room, "You all can come and go as you please, but I’ve been made an offer that I am going to use." He ordered me to undress and bend over the desk where he roughly sodomized me as he said, "You’re going to think it’s daddy all over again".

When Greenwood was through with me, I was ordered out into the amphitheatre concert area. During intermission, I met up with Swiss Villa manager Hal Meadows, Tommy Overstreet, and Governor Clinton in the hall. Clinton was wearing a cap that read "Diesel Trainer" which I was told to equate literally as "these-will-train-her". Puzzled, I looked at his cap and asked, "Are you a conductor?"

Clinton smiled and said, "Of electricity". Overstreet laughed as he continued,

"Actually it means I check cabooses. How’s yours?" I squirmed. Apparently Greenwood had bragged about sodomizing me. They laughed even harder as Clinton said,

"Still running, I’m sure."

Houston stepped out of the dressing room to greet Clinton, "Hi, bud."

Houston extended his hand. "I hear you made Governor."

"I hear you deliver a hell of a one liner," Clinton replied, cryptically referring to cocaine and NOT Houston’s so-called comedy routine. "I’m always aspiring to achieve new heights."

"Well, come on in," Houston invited. "I have enough (cocaine) to put us all into orbit." I walked into the dressing room with them as Houston was saying to Clinton, "I suppose there are no limits for you since you’re across the (state) line."

"What line?" Clinton feigned surprise and ignorance. He looked at Hal Meadows as he continued, "You mean I’ve left that state of mine? In the state of mind I’m in, there are no boundaries anyway." He walked over to the table and snorted a line of cocaine. "I come here to get away from it all. This kind of business is pleasure."

"So where’s that young wife of yours?" Houston asked, referring to Hillary.

"She’s with friends." Clinton sniffed the coke further up his nose. "She’s minding her own business. I’m just here to unwind, see the show, maybe do a little hunting (referring to A Most Dangerous Game). I’ve got a bird (helicopter) ready to fly me back when I’m through. Hey, speaking of ’Byrd’ (he gestured my way) I hear she’s moved up to the big house (White House)." Referring to his friend and mentor Senator Byrd he asked, "So what’s his position now?"

"The same." Houston answered. "Probably like this..." Houston pantomimed a lewd sodomy pose while everyone laughed. "He still runs the show."

Clinton kept his eyes fixed on Houston’s "caboose" and said, "Why don’t you show her (referring to me) me way out and show me that again?"

If I could have thought at that moment, I would have realized Bill Clinton was/is bisexual. My personal sexual experience with Clinton was limited, but I had witnessed him engaged in homosexual activity during an orgy at Swiss Villa.

Immediately following the Swiss Villa incident, Houston was scheduled as usual to perform at the county fair in Benyville, Arkansas. There, Houston and I had been visiting with long time Clinton Mend and supporter, H.B. Gibson, when we parted company to attend a private meeting at the mansion of Clinton’s bisexual friend and supporter Bill Hall. Hall had reportedly made his fortune in the pre-fabricated log home business and trucking, and the Clintons were staying in a guest villa patterned after those at Swiss Villa.



The late Bill Hall Jr and wife Frances, who was charged with his murder in a love triangle


Hillary had taken toddler Chelsea to the villa while Clinton and his aide/bodyguard attended the meeting. Tommy Overstreet was also in attendance as this directly coincided with the recent Lampe meeting. We all sat in Hall’s sunken living room on two couches facing each other with a black mirror coffee table between us. Hall had cut numerous lines of cocaine on the table, and everyone present—including Bill Clinton—was inhaling it through $50 bills rolled into straws.
 
The conversation ranged from CIA, drugs, and politics to the Swiss Villa Amphitheatre and country music. At that time, a major effort was underway to move Nashville, Tennessee’s country music industry to the Lampe area (it has since literally moved to nearby Branson), in closer proximity to the CIA cocaine operations that leached the industry.

Tommy Overstreet was attempting to convince Hall, who was obviously no stranger to the drug (cocaine) business, to join the high level CIA cocaine operation that was funding covert activity. They discussed the possibility of Hall transporting cocaine from Berryville, Arkansas to Nashville, Tennessee to be in on the ground level of what would soon be one of the largest and most prolific CIA cocaine operations—the Branson, Missouri country music industry.
 
By enlisting now, the contacts and customers that Hall would procure could "politically and financially bolster him for life". Additionally, Overstreet discussed the viability of using Hall’s own company trucks to transport the drug throughout Atlanta, Georgia; Louisville, Kentucky; and Jacksonville, Florida as well as Nashville, Tennessee and Lampe, Missouri. These key CIA cocaine routes coincided with Hall’s established truck routes, according to the insiders present at the meeting.
 
Hall was being offered the "opportunity of a lifetime" as his role would also include laundering money through his business to fund the black budget covert operations. Hall appeared nervous and skeptical, and Clinton and Overstreet attempted to maintain a "light" atmosphere by joking that Hall could change the name of his trucking line to "CLINTON COKE LINES".

Hall was not convinced and began to raise questions as to the longevity of the operation and how he was going to protect himself. Although Hall was very adept at the cocaine business, he voiced concern that he found it easier to trust those who were not with the CIA operations than he did U.S. government protected participants.
 
Clinton reassured him that it was "Reagan’s operation," but Hall was concerned that some faction of the government would "shut it down like a sting operation" without warning and leave him literally holding the bag, Houston laughed and explained that "no one was going to cut it (the drug business) off." He assured them it was far too lucrative and that there would "always be a market" for drugs-a market controlled by those criminals implementing their New World Order.

Clinton added to what Houston said, talking in local colloquialisms.

"Bottom line is, we’ve got control of the (drug) industry, therefore we’ve got control of them (suppliers and buyers). You control the guy underneath ya’ and Uncle (Sam) has ya’ covered. What have ya’ got to lose? No risk. No one’s gonna hang ya’ out to dry. And whatever spills off the truck as it passes through (he laughed and snorted another line of coke) you get to clean up."

Hall smiled at his friend, which was apparently interpreted as consent. Clinton motioned for his aide to get his ledger. Overstreet began pulling out his paperwork, and Hall neatly cleared the table of the remaining coke lines.

Clinton gestured to me and told Houston, "Get her out of here."

Houston didn’t move and laughed. "She’s a Presidential Model. She’s kept secrets bigger than yours."

Clinton responded, "I don’t care. Get her the **** out of here."

Hall’s wife led me away and locked me in a back bedroom. After an indeterminate period of time, I heard her telephone Hillary at the guest villa. She then drove me up the mountain through the dark to meet with Hillary. Although I had previously met Hillary we had very little to say to each other - particularity since I was still dazed and tranced from the tortures I had endured at the CIA Near Death Trauma Center in Lampe.





Hillary knew I was a mind-controlled slave, and, like Bill Clinton, just took it in stride as a "normal" part of life in politics. Hillary was fully clothed and stretched out on the bed sleeping when Hall’s wife and I arrived.

"Hillary, I brought you something you’ll really enjoy. Kind of an unexpected surprise. Bill ordered her out of the meeting and I look her to my bedroom and made an interesting discovery. She is literally a two-faced (referring to my vaginal mutilation carving) bitch."

"Hmm?" Hillary opened her eyes and sleepily roused herself. "Show me."

Hall’s wife ordered me to take my clothes off while Hillary watched.

"Is she clean?" Hillary asked, meaning disease free.
 
"Of course, she’s Byrd’s," she responded, continuing the conversation as though I were not there, "Plus, I heard Houston say something about her being a Presidential Model, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean."

"It means she’s clean," Hillary said matter-of-factly as she stood up.

I was not capable of giving thought to such things back then, but I am aware in retrospect that all Presidential Model slaves I knew seemed to have an immunity to social diseases. It was a well known fact in the circles I was sexually passed around in that government level mind-controlled sex slaves were "clean" to the degree that none of my abusers took precautions such as wearing condoms.

Hall’s wife patted the bed and instructed me to display the mutilation. Hillary exclaimed, "God!" and immediately began performing oral sex on me.

Apparently aroused by the carving in my vagina,2 Hillary stood up and quickly peeled out of her matronly nylon panties and pantyhose. Uninhibited despite a long day in the hot sun, she gasped, "Eat me, oh, god, eat me now." I had no choice but to comply with her orders, and Bill Hall’s wife made no move to join me in my distasteful task.
 
Hillary had resumed examining my hideous mutilation and performing oral sex on me when Bill Clinton walked in. Hillary lifted her head to ask, "How’d it go?" Clinton appeared totally unaffected by what he walked into, tossed his jacket on a chair and said, "It’s official. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed."

I put my clothes on as ordered, and Hall’s wife drove me back down to the mansion where Houston was waiting for me. The meeting apparently had been a success. I heard discussions throughout the remaining years between Houston, his agent Reggie McLaughlin, and Loretta Lynn’s handler, Ken Riley, pertaining to Hall’s successful branch of the CIA cocaine operation emanating from Arkansas, No discussions were as poignant and revealing as those between Alex Houston and CIA operative country music entertainer Boxcar Willie.

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=0EPdq5abk8w

Boxcar Willie (b. Lecil Travis Martin) burst onto the country music scene after an ad campaign of high tech hypnotically persuasive produced television commercials that strategically made him an overnight, sensation and "star". The country music industry’s Freedom Train needed a conductor to lead the industry and fans to Branson, Missouri, and Boxcar Willie was placed in the driver’s seat. Like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, Boxcar Willie succeeded in his role of trance-ferring the industry in close proximity to the Lampe CIA cocaine operations.

Boxcar Willie was one of the primary ground level contacts that Bill Hall made after Clinton convinced him to cash in on the cocaine benefits of the country music industry transfer. Houston and Boxcar Willie discussed Hall’s lucrative dealings throughout the years in my presence while traveling the country together, billed on the same shows, including performances at the Swiss Villa Amphitheatre, I had much contact with Boxcar Willie personally since my government sponsored cocaine runs often coincided and intermeshed with his.

But I never knew Boxcar Willie as well as my daughter, Kelly, knew him. Kelly has named Boxcar Willie as one of her primary sexual abusers in three different mental institutions, and has voiced frustration at the lack of justice. "Why am I the one locked up while my abusers remain free?" she constantly pleads. I assure her I am doing all I can to blow the whistle on Boxcar Willie for hex, and expose his role in transferring the country music industry to close proximity of the Lampe, Missouri CIA cocaine operation as outlined by Bill Clinton.

[Bluegreen]

NO MORE BEATING AROUND THE BUSH

Chapter 15

It was a sunny, fall day in 1983 when U.S. Congressman Guy VanderJagt met with my CIA operative mind-control handler, Alex Houston, my then 3 1/2 year old daughter, Kelly, and me on the steps of the U.S. Senate in Washington, D.C. Kelly appeared familiar with VanderJagt, although I had never previously remembered seeing her in his company. Even so, I could not think to realize he was, in fact, sexually abusing her just as he had me when I was a child.


VanderJagt


VanderJagt knelt on one knee in front of her to talk with her, assuring her that "today was a special day" because she would "see Uncle George (Bush) while mommy sees Uncle Ronnie (Reagan)". He stood up and took her by the hand, saying in Alice In Wonderland cryptic language, "Let’s go-on an Adventure together" and led her quietly and robotically away.

I met up with Kelly again that afternoon at the White House, both of us literally "on our toes" and standing at attention in Reagan’s office. In retrospect, I wonder at the measures of control inflicted on my 3 1/2-year old child to cause her to perform so robotically and behave "so well" as she silently stood with the plastic smile and unblinking eyes, in the presence of President Reagan, Vice President Bush, and (later Defense Secretary) Dick Cheney.

Reagan appeared to gaze at Kelly, with her long blonde hair cascading down the back of her blue pinafore dress, completing her Alice In Wonderland Appearance. Reagan seemed to pose no direct threat to her sexually as he said,

"She is adorable, a model child", Reagan then gestured towards Bush and said, "This is my Vice President George Bush. People don’t usually know what the role of the Vice President is because he’s always behind the scenes making sure everything that the President wants done happens the way it’s supposed to."

He looked at me and said matter-of-factly,

"I catch the public’s attention (he made a gesture in the air that was eye catching) while the Vice President carries out orders."

Bush’s close friend, Dick Cheney, said, "And gives them."

"Right," Reagan said. "An order from him is like an order from me."

Bush was wearing canvas boat shoes and a cardigan sweater as he knelt on one knee in front of Kelly in order to talk to her on her level. Bush used the children’s television program Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood to scramble/confuse young victims’ (like Kelly’s) memory of contact with him and his sexual abuse.





His physical resemblance to TV’s Fred Rogers was deliberately exaggerated by his choice of clothes and mannerisms, and is further compounded by his developed vocal impersonation. Using his best Mr. Rogers voice he said,

"Come here, Little One. I want to ask you something. Do you watch Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood?"

"Yes, Sir," Kelly responded.

Bush told Kelly,

"Well, I’m kind of like Mr. Rogers when he makes his puppets move and talk—like your daddy (Houston, ventriloquist) does with Elmer (his dummy). Only I’m like Mr. Rogers because I have lots of puppets--only mine are people. I even have a King (Fahd) just like Mr. Rogers. I pull the strings (he pantomimed marionette hand movements) and I talk through them. They say my words and we create all kinds of exciting Adventures. Right now I’m building a new Neighborhood (the New World Order). The stage is set, and I have hold of everyone’s strings. I need you to help me— together we can pull your mother’s strings. She’s in my Neighborhood. That means you’re in my Neighborhood, too."

It seems obvious to me now that Bush was referring to those actively engaged in implementing the New World Order through chaos and mass mind control (aka media conditioning) as "The Neighborhood". Of course I was unable to consider disputing Bush’s statement, and Kelly was certainly not of a mind to see beyond Bush’s twist on her favorite television program. Kelly’s big blue eyes grew even wider as she responded, "I am?"

Bush stood up and took her hand, "C’mon. Let me show you my Neighborhood," He led her out the door.

Kelly became violently physically ill after her induction into George Bush’s "Neighborhood" and from every sexual encounter she had with him thereafter. She ran 104-6 degree temperatures, vomited and endured immobilizing headaches for an average of three days (as is consistent with high voltage trauma). These were the only tell-tale evidences aside from the scarring burns left on her skin.





Houston forbade me to call a doctor, and Kelly forbade me to comfort her, pitifully complaining that her head "hurt too bad to even move." And she did not move for hours on end. Kelly often complained of severe kidney pain, and her rectum usually bled for a day or two after Bush sexually abused her. My own mind-control victimization rendered me unable to help or protect her. Seeing my child in such horrible condition drove my own wedge of insanity in deeper, perpetuating my total inability to affect her needs until our rescue by Mark Phillips in 1988.

Kelly’s bleeding rectum was but one of many physical indicators of George Bush’s pedophile perversions, I have overheard him speak blatantly of his sexual abuse of her on many occasions. He used this and threats to her life to "pull my strings" and control me. The psychological ramifications of being raped by a pedophile President arc mind-shattering enough, but reportedly Bush further reinforced his traumas to Kelly’s mind with sophisticated NASA electronic and drug mind-control devices.

Bush also instilled the "Who yagonna call?" and "I’ll be watching you" binds on Kelly, further reinforcing her sense of helplessness. The systematic tortures and traumas I endured as a child now seem trite in comparison to the brutal physical and psychological devastation that George Bush inflicted on my daughter.



Ronald Reagan - Dick Cheney


As soon as the door closed behind Bush and Kelly, Dick Cheney reached over to Reagan’s desk from his seat and flipped over the hourglass. (Oz) "Her (Kelly’s) time is running out. You’d better pay attention and follow orders as though her life depends on it, because from now on (heh heh) it always does! If you make one mistake—one—then I’ll get her, my pretty."

Reagan said,

"George is like a director. He makes sure the stage is set to implement the New World Order as I envision it. Then he makes sure everyone has a script and knows their pan. He tells them how to speak and when to speak it. How to dress and (patting my head) how to wear their hair. He gets everything and everyone in place and hollers, ’Action!’"

Reagan shouted through his hand as though it were a megaphone and rambled on,

"All the world’s a stage. I’m the Wizard. But he is directing the show so you better pay attention and learn your part well from him."

Cheney interrupted,

"George and I will be working closely on a few projects together, and when you see him, you’ll see me. When you’re given orders from him, you’re given orders from me."

"She knows the chain of command, Dick," Reagan injected, referring to his perception of who was in charge, and in what order.

President, Vice President, Habib, Cheney, Byrd, etc. may have been the chain of command in Reagan’s mind, but Cheney’s definition was necessary to my understanding. From my perspective, the chain of command was clearly Bush, Cheney, Habib, Reagan, Aquino and lastly, on a par with my handler, Houston, Byrd, all of which was subject to change at any given moment.

Cheney just rolled his eyes at Reagan’s comment and never slowed down as he continued, "Right now a stage is being set and you will be directed by the Vice President on just how he wants you to do your part in setting the stage for Mexico’s role in the New World Order."

Reagan jumped in again,

"With the world in order, there will be world peace. By strategically placing an American Patriot dedicated to the cause of spreading democracy in all parts of the world, we can influence the thinking of every nation’s leader and paint for them a picture of freedom and American values that they’ll never forget. They’ll spread it to the people and the whole planet will be of one mind—one purpose-one cause. Freedom. You’ll be talking with some of these friends and leaders from time to lime on my behalf."

Bush slipped back into the meeting, without Kelly. Cheney continued,

"Taking orders from me and your new director-the Vice President. Lesson number one. You know what Miami Vice is. Undercover drug agents taking control of the drug industry. A Vice President is just that-an undercover drug agent taking control of the drug industry-for the President."

Bush spoke up.

"Mexico is a problem. They’ve got lots of drugs, but not the brains nor l he means to sell it outside their own country. So how can we take control of their (growing) drug industry when we can’t even get our hands on it? It’s your duty as an American citizen to open the routes and initiate freedom from poverty throughout their nation by offering them cash as a means of enticing their drug industry right into our grasp by bringing it right up to our doorsteps."

"Operation Greenbacks for Wetbacks," Cheney said, laughing. Bush laughed with him.

Bush regained his composure to conclude, "Your assignment begins in Miami with NCL (Norwegian Caribbean Lines) and ends when you return from Mexico with word of success."

Cheney caught my eye with a hand gesture that directed my gaze from Bush to the hourglass, which was running out fast. By then I was deeply tranced and lost touch with my surroundings all together while my trance was timelessly deepened for further programming, I left the White House with a message for the Vice President of Mexico, Carlos Salinas de Gortari, from the Vice President of the U.S., and with one very sick child.



Carlos Salinas de Gortari

[Bluegreen]

OPERATlON GREENBACKS FOR WETBACKS

Chapter 16





My CIA mind-control handler, Alex Houston and I boarded the NCL (Norwegian Cruise Lines) ship bound for Cozumel, Mexico, with a large, black, soft side suitcase packed full of cash and a proposal of "prosperity" from the U.S. This proposal, programmed in me by Vice President Bush, was supposedly initial diplomatic groundwork for the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA).

It was my understanding then that the North American Free Trade Agreement was considered a significant step in implementing the New World Order through mind manipulation of the masses. According to Byrd, propaganda disguising the true purpose of NAFTA included the concept of "free trade" which the U.S. and Mexican governments had long since shared.
 
"Free trade" of child and adult mind-controlled slaves, cocaine, heroin and businesses has been not-so-secretly proliferating for years. My own father joined the "run for the border" via U.S. State Department and Mexican subsidized business incentives and opened yet another branch of his U.S. Department of Defense-given-business in Mexico. This was part of the "free trade" agreement that I know personally has been operating smoothly from at least 1984.
 
In an effort to maintain the illusion that the agreement would not create a negative economic imbalance between Mexico and the U.S., tourist areas of Mexico were deliberately built up, enhanced and Americanized with U.S. dollars. These funds were provided through CIA covert Black Budget operations of drug and slave trading, as well as directly through the Senate Appropriations Committee of which Senator Robert C. Byrd is chairman as of this writing.

I certainly do not purport to understand international business, nor have I attempted to "educate" myself through what 1 know to be propaganda slanted and filtered periodicals. How money interfaces in world markets has been well documented. For example, who supports whom in which financial endeavors is apparently far too complex for even BCCI attorneys and investigators to sort through.
 
My personal perspective on Mexican, U.S., and Saudi Arabian buildup of Mexico’s economy is limited to my own experiences. My under-standing is further affected by deliberate misinformation from the criminal perspectives of those who were in control of my mind’s knowledge base and actions. From time to time, Senator Byrd used me as a robotic sounding board. He told me what he wanted me to hear, and this was structured more toward stroking his own enormous, warped ego than it was to educate me in world finance.

Senator Byrd claimed "the money game is simply a game of control," and lives by his adopted Golden Rule of "He who holds the gold makes the rules." He told me in so many words that,

"By appropriating funds to all (viable) projects ushering in the free trade agreement, and allocating lesser amounts to U.S. social systems such as our ’criminal’ justice system, I control our country and our place in world markets. All the world is a stage, and I own the theater!... you can bank on it!"

Senator Byrd’s twisted reality echoed in my mind when America was bought (stolen) and sold by Presidents Bush and Clinton in the recent passage of NAFTA.

"I would never run for President—Oh, I’d win if I did," Byrd bragged. "But why should I run for an office that is beneath me? I can make a President look good, or I can make him look bad by strategically appropriating funds."





Byrd and others I knew boasted that he was one of those (corrupt power brokers) responsible for Bill Clinton’s being "chosen" and elected to the office of Presidency. And the last minute bids and dealings with those Congressmen holding NAFTA’s deciding votes proved "strategic appropriations" indeed made Clinton "look good" in his NAFTA "victory".

At the La Celiba Hotel in Cozumel, Houston maintained my food and water deprivation for mind-control purposes, even during our dinner meeting in the hotel’s restaurant later that evening. Although the restaurant was "officially" closed due to the late hour, a mariachi band, one waiter, four stationed armed guards, my Mexican dignitary contact, his two assistants, and handler, Houston and I were present.
 
During the meeting, arrangements were made to meet with Mexico’s then Vice President Salinas the next afternoon at a nearby military installation. I would also deliver a message as usual from Senator Byrd at the nearby Consulate’s office pertaining to U.S. financial support for creating propaganda to insure the illusion of economic equality in Mexican tourist areas. These funds were simply to further the ongoing shared goal of easing into New World Order domination through carefully contrived smoke and mirror tactics.

The next afternoon, Houston escorted me to the high security fenced government installation for my meeting with Salinas. According to Bush, Salinas was regarded by the Reagan-Bush Administration as superior in power to Miguel de la Madrid who was officially President of Mexico at that time. The upcoming Mexican "election," which was no more an election than Reagan’s second term, was to place Salinas in the office of President to coincide with Bush’s destined Presidency.



Bush – Reagan – De la Madrid


To insure that this "strategically placed American Patriot" would be voted into position, Reagan informed me that the U.S. would "guard the integrity" of "elections" by covertly "overseeing" them, among other strategies. Salinas was to be President at all costs.

Although President de la Madrid was considered by Bush to be the steppingstone to the ultimate reign of Salinas/Bush’s (already established) diplomatic relations, he was regarded with all due respect in a manner conducive to "no margins for error". His full cooperation was tantamount to establishing Bush’s and Salinas' goals via free flowing drug markets and Mexico’s cooperation in subversively funding and supplying Reagan’s Nicaraguan Contras. De la Madrid worked in close association with Salinas so that a smooth transition of power would maintain U.S.-Mexican relations and efforts already in place.

"A message to Salinas is a message to the President," Cheney had explained. Not only would the message be relayed to de La Madrid, but for the most part Salinas was the one responsible for working with George Bush since they would both come into power during the most critical point in the promotion of NAFTA—passing it by the American people and into law. President Reagan, Mexican President De la Madrid, Vice President Bush, and Mexican Vice President Salinas were all "of one mind—one effort" toward economic expansion and growth for our southern "neighbors in the New World Order" through what I experienced was based on "free trade" of drugs, children, and pornography.
 
Vice President Bush told me that this (criminal) activity was regarded as Mexico’s.

"Only means of rapid economic advancement and freedom from poverty since the people were slaves to their own inability to advance in world markets."
When I arrived at the military installation with the aforementioned suitcase of cash in hand, I was taken to Salinas’ "office" through a series of electronic gates guarded by officers in white uniforms. Salinas sat at his desk, which was small and functional (i.e., military issue), set on a highly polished wooden floor in a vast room virtually void of decor and personal effects.
 
This created an air of military practicality. I set the suitcase in front of Salinas and began relaying the message I had been programmed to deliver,

"I have a message from the Vice President of the United State of America to our neighbors in Mexico. America is willing to share its wealth through a trade agreement with Mexico. We’ll trade our cash for control over Mexico’s cocaine and heroin production. By controlling your drug industry, we can open the border between our countries to allow a free flow of cocaine and heroin into the U.S., bought and paid for in American dollars to build Mexico, Eventually this could dissolve the border between our countries altogether as Mexico’s economy grows to match ours.
 
If we begin today, this dream could be realized by the turn of the century-sharing the same continent, sharing the same wealth. Why? The drug industry already dictates what the Mexican government can or cannot do. By giving the U.S. control of your drug industry, Mexico regains control over her government. Re-established power backed by U.S. dollars will bring Mexico on an economic par with America. We can begin by spreading the word through the (drug) cartels that the U.S. is covertly willing to open the borders to free drug trade by making agents available to show you the passage and routes through which the drugs are to be delivered.
 
Only U.S. agents can bring Mexican heroin and (South American) cocaine across the border, and likewise they will bring the cash in. Explain to those select few who control the drug empires that the cruise line (NCL) agreement is going into mass expansion, tearing down the border between our countries enough to allow for as many drugs to come in as Mexico can deal out. When do we begin? Immediately. The cash is at hand. (I gestured toward the suitcase which Salinas unzipped to find full of cash.)
 
Deliver whatever amount of brown heroin you have at hand as a means of confirmation to the agreement. Keep the change as a token of the change and good fortune that has befallen Mexico from its neighboring nation."



Salinas


As I finished Bush’s message, Salinas immediately took a note pad from the desk and scrawled a quick note. He passed it to a guard who was stationed at the door. He stood up, smiled, and leaned over his desk as he extended his hand in a warm handshake. I was escorted out. Houston found me on the front steps of the installation and together we were escorted through the barbed wire fences and back onto the streets of Cancun.

I waited in a small clearing nearby for an indeterminate length of time, playing with a large iguana. Finally, a taxi cab driver pulled up and honked his horn three times, signaling me to pick up a fist-sized ball of Mexican brown heroin. The heroin was crudely wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, and measured approximately the size of a baseball. As quickly as the cab driver left, Houston, who was standing some distance away with two uniformed men, signaled me to join him. We were then driven to the airport where we boarded a U.S. Air Force aircraft to Washington, D.C.

Immediately upon arrival at Andrews Air Force Base just outside of Washington, D.C, I was taken to Senator Byrd who then escorted me to Dick Cheney’s Pentagon office for a meeting with Vice President Bush. I was ill and vomiting from the high voltage administered in Mexico to compartmentalize my memory. I was allowed to use Byrd’s magnetic pass key card to unlock the maze of doors that led to the Ladies’ Room.
 
I was still wearing my inappropriate-for-D.C. cruise clothes and carrying the heroin in my tote bag when I met with Bush to confirm Mexico’s agreement to his proposal. Bush took the heroin for himself, obviously pleased with the quality of the product. Cheney laughed and told Bush he needed to "confiscate the Contra-band".

Bush replied, "Over my dead body" as he laughed at Cheney’s Contra joke. "If you don’t share some of it, that could be the case," Cheney said. "Pitch it here."

Bush struck a pitch pose, wound up, made a fake out pitch, and joked in baseball banter, "It’s a ’high fly’ ball. You’re going to have to steal." He tossed the heroin in the air, caught it, and strode for the door, Cheney got out of his chair, pointed to the door, and ordered me "Out".

Houston and I were flown in to Montego Bay, Jamaica and transported to Ocho Rios to board our next NCL cruise ship.

[TravelerJim]

I am somewhat familiar with Cathy's story but have not spent much time on it.

Having said that, does anyone doubt her veracity? Or.... is there some other explanation here to the story, which is amazing in its detail and the number of public personas she has come into contact with.

I do not mean to disparage Cathy. But asking here for thoughts....

[Bluegreen]

ABOUT FACES

Chapter 17





Soon after Kelly was inducted into George Bush’s "Neighborhood" through horrific sexual abuse, Bush enforced his controls on me. Our mind-control handler, Alex Houston, had taken Kelly and me to Washington, D.C. for separately scheduled meetings with Bush. Kelly had already been escorted by agents to her rendezvous with him that morning, during which Lime I had been ordered to one of U.S, Senator Robert C. Byrd’s offices located in the nearby FBI Hoover Building.
 
There, Byrd reinforced his holds on me by claiming control of the Justice Department and "proving" once again that I had "no where to run and no where to hide". My horror reaction was compounded when Byrd looked at his pocket watch and notified me in Alice in Wonderland cryptic language, "You’re late, you’re late for a very important date," referring to my meeting with Bush.

I sprinted from the Hoover Building, encountering Houston who waited just outside. Houston hurried me to the Smithsonian where I waited for my escorts as instructed at the "Face Changing" exhibit. This computerized exhibit illustrates how an individual’s face can take on a radically different appearance by slightly altering any single feature.

The exhibit fascinated me as a programmed MPD since multiples often experience the unnerving phenomena of routinely not recognizing themselves in a mirror due to switching personalities. A multiple’s face often changes slightly with each switch, which "validates" the religious communities’ perceptions of so-called "demonic possession" in occultism. Logic quickly dispels this belief when it is realized that everyone’s expression changes according to emotion, by skin color and tones, blood pressure, and by tightening or relaxing specific micro muscles.
 
An MPD’s face changes are more exaggerated when these natural conditions are combined with the results of sophisticated programming. "Charm School" teaches subconscious control over these natural phenomena as a ready-made disguise on government slaves such as myself, as welt as to enhance sex slaves’ "beauty" to their maximum potential. I was incapable of thinking or logically understanding my fascination with the display, as I stood totally enthralled, waiting for my escorts as ordered.

As the escorts approached, I was relieved to see Kelly with them. Though she was visibly tranced and traumatized, the fact that she was alive was all I was capable of grasping. When she saw the "Face Changing" exhibit, she excitedly exclaimed, "Uncle George just read me a book about this!" Before I could hear anymore, I was led away, leaving Kelly with our handler, Houston.

I was then quickly taken to Bush’s Residence Office, which here-to-fore was unfamiliar to me. Although it had slate blue, plush carpets and fine furnishings like the White House office, lattice work and smaller rooms provided a different air. I sat in a hard-back wooden chair as ordered, while Bush carefully positioned himself in front of me on a little wooden footstool. This allowed me clear visibility of the large book that he held in his lap.
 
All illustrations faced me, while all text except the last page was printed in the holder’s direction. This book was a unique, high tech piece of art specifically designed to enforce Bush’s favorite method of programming, "You Are What You Read". The juvenile face depicted on the front of this hardcover book gave it the appearance of a children’s storybook. It was entitled "About Faces".

Bush explained the dynamics of "changing faces" and "becoming what I read". Although I had been conditioned to this idea all of my life through Disney stories, The Wizard Of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, etc, I was not prepared for Bush’s version of "You Are What You Read" programming explanations.




 
The illustrations themselves were elaborate, consisting of mirrors and hypnotic depictions. He seemingly made the book come alive in my mind as he read page after poetic page of hypnotic, metaphorical language, all the while creating powerful illusions. His impersonations of the characters further enhanced the desired affect of fantasy becoming reality. This extraordinary effort to scramble reality would have worked-perfectly-had it not been for another victim and myself discussing it only a few days later.

The purpose of Bush’s book was dearly explained within the first few pages, which included the following passage:

I am the Vice President when circumstance demands,
And I am your Commander, you’ll follow my commands.
The first command’s important - It is one you will heed,
When I send you a book, you are what you read.

Throughout my tenure as a Presidential Model mind-controlled slave, I was provided specific books according to Bush’s program. These books, delivered through pre-established channels such as Ken Riley, Alex Houston, and even Ronald Reagan, came complete with specific commands on how they were to be interpreted and used. Some books were used to instruct me on operations; somewhere an attempt to scramble my memory with fantasy; others were used to load my mind with pertinent data such as bank account passbook numbers, and so on.






I was provided a paperback book entitled Afghanistan, from which I absorbed history, current political events, and the strength of the Afghany Freedom Fighters. I have since learned that the book I read was never publicly released in the text it was provided me. According to instruction, the book was delivered back to Bush as quickly as I finished memorizing it, I wonder in retrospect if any part of it contained fact beyond how I was supposed to perceive it.

I read stories of espionage, including Robert Ludlum’s Bourne Identity, and William Diehl’s Chameleon. Mostly I was provided steamy sex novels for further training as well as scrambles. Kelly was conditioned to fairy tales, Steven Spielberg’s ET, NASA NSA operative George Lucas’ Star Wars, and the nightmarish Never Ending Story. Steinbeck’s classic Of Mice and Men caused Kelly constantly to quote the dependant character of Lenny for years saying, "Tell me what to do, George".

She still does this each and every time I am allowed to visit with her in the mental institution. The attending therapist over-seeing the visit has yet to pick up on this programming cue, and I am forbidden by Juvenile Court order not to discuss Kelly’s past or therapy.

Bush’s most effective example of "You Are What You Read" in his book About Faces occurred during his reading of the page depicting lizard-like "aliens" from a "far-off, deep space place", Claiming to me to be an alien himself, Bush apparently activated a hologram of the lizard-like "alien" which provided the illusion of Bush transforming like a chameleon before my eyes. In retrospect, I understand that Bush had been painstakingly careful in positioning our seats in order that the hologram’s effectiveness be maximized.





U.S. Army Lt. Col. Aquino’s occultism provided trauma sufficient to maintain my Project Monarch Mind-Controlled existence despite his inability to affect my core spirituality. Therefore, I was not routinely subjected to the other favorite "trauma of choice"-alien themes-lite many slaves (including Kelly) I knew had been.
 
The effect of Bush’s illusion hologram on such victims is binding and strong. Even Aquino envied the mind shattering effects of Bush’s alien theme visual traumas to the extent that he wrote and published his own comic book sequel to Lucas’ Star Wars. While occultism is easily dispelled with reason and fact, Bush’s alien theme continues to be reinforced through NASA’s involvement in mind-control atrocities.



The late Senator Alan Cranston


Additionally, California’s 24-year incumbent Senator Alan Cranston of the Select Committee on Intelligence has perpetuated this trauma base for decades, as have others. Despite my having escaped routine "alien" theme traumas, Bush’s "You Are What You Read" hologram proved devastatingly sufficient for him to gain total control of my robotic mind from that moment on until my rescue in 1988.

By the time Bush reached the last page of his About Faces book, I was so traumatized I instantly "became what I read" when I read the last verse aloud as ordered:

I am a True Patriot living an American Dream,
I will become my role when you pull my string.
I will become my part, so I can ’be all I can be’
’Cause just like the Vice President, I am what I read.

[Bluegreen]

IN THE MEANTIME

Chapter 18

My life seemed to lead me at an accelerated pace after being subjected to Reagan and Bush. My handler, Alex Houston, egotistically claimed it was his and Elmer’s (his alter-ego dummy) popularity that kept us traveling so extensively within the country music circuit. When we weren’t traveling the Caribbean and Mexico via NCL ships, or driving his cocaine loaded motor home to strategically booked shows across the U.S., we were routinely moving in and out of Washington, D.C.
 
All along the way, my daughter and I were either prostituted, used in commercial pornography, or filmed in Michael Dante’s "Chief" bestiality pornography as ordered by Uncle Ronnie Reagan.

Occasionally our travels would take us to Michigan, where Houston made certain we stayed with my family. Trips to my father’s house were devastating but informative. My mother had developed deep, psychological scars above and beyond her own MPD condition and became an insomniac. My father by this time was routinely traveling to London, Germany, and Mexico, and taking the family to Florida’s Disney World and Washington, D.C.
 
My older brother, Hill, still worked for and with my father, traveled with him annually to "hunt" in Cheney’s Greybull, Wyoming lodge, and maintained his wife and three children under trauma-base mind control according to my father’s instructions. My brother, Mike, ran a video store to front some of my father’s and Uncle Bob Tanis’ lucrative porn video business.
 
My sister, Kelli Jo, became a belly dancing contortionist excelling in "gymnastics" since she became "as flexible as Gumby" according to her prostitution programming. She worked her way through school in children’s day-care centers, admittedly spotting, for my father, abused children for potential "chosen ones" candidates. In 1990 she graduated to open a licensed day-care, "Little Learners" in Grand Haven, Michigan for my father.
 
My brother, Tom (Beaver), is a Compu-Kids (CIA Project) programmed computer genius. My brother Tim broke his leg (in the same place my mother had broken her leg years before) due to following my father’s sports programming above and beyond human capability. And my youngest sister, Kimmy, became hysterically obsessed with "Mr. Rogers," expressed immense fear of her huge "electric" doll house that lit up at night to look like the White House, and was under a doctor’s care for anorexia by age seven, I look forward to the day I can help them all, and justice is served on my father.

Since I was using parts of my brain I would not have used under normal circumstances, I developed the ability to read backwards as naturally as I could read forwards. Houston tapped into this typically occult-based phenomenon as a means of "scrambling" road signs to promote amnesia of where we were traveling. He further compounded his effort by conditioning me to read phonetically and literally, and alternated his "scrambling" methods.





"Zoo" became "ooz" and "ooz" translated to "oz". Arkansas read "Our Kansas", and Missouri became (and was!) "Misery". East became West, and highway 66 became 99. When I traveled, I "literally" did not consciously know if I were coming or going. If an outsider happened to ask me about where I’d traveled, I mechanically replied, "The towns all run together and look alike after awhile."

Commands delivered in the same language twisting manner were natural for me to follow. "Role with it" was easier for me to become according to Reagan’s acting definition than it was to go with the flow by "rolling with it". Phrases like Wyoming Senator Alan Simpson’s "In a switch of an "I" (personality)/"eye" (hypnotic blink)/ "i" (the letter), complaint becomes compliant. The parts of my brain I was forced to function with were not conducive to "normal" thinking.

Nor could I have appeared "normal" to outsiders had they cared to see beyond my superficial programmed cover personality, I did have occasion to mix with "outsiders" at the local library where I took Kelly for her books on days when we were not traveling. By age 6, she tested at the 7th grade reading level. I also emerged from my closed environment to tend to Kelly’s schooling. She maintained straight A's, but her poor attendance record threatened to violate state requirements.
 
Once when the librarian asked where Kelly would be traveling to waive library book due dates, or the teacher inquired as to Kelly’s absences, I gave the usual response of, "the towns all run together and look alike after awhile." If they pressed for specifics, I ran through a series of religious phrases such as "praise the Lord ", to compensate for my lack of answers. People tended to overlook and accept "religious fanaticism" personality peculiarities, which combined with my "role" traveling the country music industry, kept outsiders at a distance for years.

My "religious fanatic" cover personality was cultivated at the Brentwood, Tennessee Lord’s Chapel "nondenominational" (Pentecostal) church, through the CIA Operative preacher - Reverend Billy Roy Moore (who has since fled to Arkansas due to a local murder scandal).






The late Rev. Billy Roy Moore


Moore transported cocaine from the Caribbean for the CIA, at least during the Reagan Administration, under the guise of so-called "missions,"1 i.e., Christian ministries. It most likely was not the intent of the Christians dedicated to their Caribbean ministries to be used by the CIA and Moore to inadvertently mule drugs into our country. Even CIA agents operating under "need to know" partial information were denied the full scope of what they were actually participating in. Many seemingly willing participants were manipulated, provided "justification," and deliberately misled to believe they were serving their country, rather than destroying it from the inside out.

"Pastor" Moore combined his knowledge of Kelly’s and my programming keys, codes, and triggers with his use of metaphorical language to maintain and/or direct our mode of operation. Moore’s "following" consisted primarily of government mind-controlled slaves and handlers, including the Mandrells, Jack Greene and his slave, the Oak Ridge Boys, and others. He instructed us on how to vote, which political issues lo support, and to follow other "religious" political leaders such as his and Manuel Noriega’s friend, evangelist Jimmy Swaggart. "Religious counseling" from Moore equaled to maintaining mind- control programming through "God’s Orders", And "God’s Orders" often came by telephone.

Jack Greene



Jimmy Swaggart

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=LxB6-HnXZEU

Houston constantly prostituted Kelly to anyone "in the loop" who was willing to pay. When she wasn’t being prostituted, she was being filmed pornographically. By 1984, Michael Dante routinely filmed Kelly in pornography, since kiddie porn was as lucrative as bestiality. He filmed Kelly and me in Las Vegas, Nevada and various other locations throughout the Caribbean, California, Florida, Tennessee, and in my home state of Michigan.

This created professional conflict with long lime kiddie pornographers formerly associated with Houston. Houston’s close friend in Waycross, Georgia, pedophile Jimmy Walker, managed the Okefenokee Swamp Park and had participated in black budget funding operations for years on both the cocaine and pornography levels. His counterpart, Dick Flood, refused to participate to any more pornography after Dante came on the scene.
 
Even the Huntsville, Alabama NASA/DIA/CIA-appointed "law enforcement" officers could rarely succeed in their bidding for Kelly’s video taped performances unless directly ordered by Senator Byrd. Dante considered himself her future owner as well as mine, and maintained control of our porn "business" ventures through serious U.S. Government and international Mafia methodisms/ connections.

Jimmy Walker, the same photographer who had taken pornographic "wedding night" pictures for Larry Flynt, recently had other photographs of me published in Hustler magazine. When Dante found out, he was furious. Hustler publisher Larry Flynt and Dante both worked for the CIA, had Vatican and Mafia connections, and deliberately appealed to Reagan’s perversions using project Monarch Mind-Controlled slaves.





What Flynt could not "legally" publish, Dante ran through the underground. Flynt and Dante lived on opposite coasts, which, despite their similarities, still was not far enough apart to sooth their differences. Waving his hands in dramatic Italian gestures. Dante furiously spouted a string of obscenities over Flynt’s publishing photos of what he deemed "his property."

Accusing Flynt of going to extremes to gain favor/protection from the government, Dante shouted, "He’s a bigger whore than the girls he promotes!"

Michael Dante’s pornographic filming abilities served several purposes. Aside from producing porn according to Reagan’s own (well known) perversions and instructions, Dante was present during many key international government "gatherings". Oftentimes when I and others were prostituted to various government (New World Order) leaders, Dante had hidden cameras filming perverse sexual acts apparently for future blackmail leverage. These
videos were scandalous in proportion and were usually ordered by Reagan.

Dante turned the videos over to Reagan, and covertly kept copies to protect himself. Dante converted a small room of his Beverly Hills mansion into a security vault, where he kept his personal copies of the international blackmail porn tapes there.

Among these internationally scandalous tapes are numerous videos covertly produced at the supposedly secure political sex playground in northern California, Bohemian Grove. According to Houston, Dante’s high tech undetectable cameras used fiber optics, and fish-eye lens were in each of the elite club’s numerous sexual perversion theme rooms. My knowledge of these cameras was due to the strategically compromising positions of the political perpetrators I was prostituted to in the various kinky theme rooms.

I was programmed and equipped to function in all rooms at Bohemian Grove in order to compromise specific government targets according to their personal perversions. "Anything, anytime, anywhere with anyone" was my mode of operation at the Grove. I do not purport to understand the full function of this political cesspool playground as my perception was limited to my own realm of experience.
 
My perception is that Bohemian Grove serves those ushering in the New World Order through mind control, and consists primarily of the highest Mafia and U.S. Government officials. I do not use the term "highest" loosely, as copious quantities of drugs were consumed there. Project Monarch Mind Control slaves were routinely abused there to fulfill the primary purpose of the club: purveying perversion.

Bohemian Grove is reportedly intended to be used recreationally, providing a supposedly secure environment for politically affluent individuals to "party" without restraint. The only business conducted there pertained to implementing the New World Order, through the proliferation of mind-control atrocities, giving the place an air of "Masonic Secrecy". The only room where business discussions were permitted was the small, dark lounge affectionately and appropriately referred to as the Underground.

Sex slaves were not routinely permitted in the Underground for security reasons, leaving the lounge’s small stage as the only source of "entertainment". This entertainment ranged from would-be talents such as Lee Atwater, Bill Clinton, and George Bush to CIA Operative entertainers such as Boxcar Willie and Lee Greenwood, On one occasion I was instructed to meet with former President Gerald Ford in the Underground where Lee Atwater was picking and singing.
 
As I waited through the smoke-filled room to Ford’s table, Atwater interrupted his song to cryptically acknowledge my unwelcome presence by singing choruses of "Over the Rainbow" and Byrd’s song for me "Country Roads" while emphasizing the lines of "Almost heaven, West Virginia".

My purpose at the Grove was sexual in nature, and therefore my perceptions were limited to a sex slave’s viewpoint. As an effective means of control to ensure undetected proliferation of their perverse indulgences, slaves such as myself were subjected to ritualistic trauma. I knew each breath I took could be my last, as the threat of death lurked in every shadow.

Slaves of advancing age or with failing programming were sacrificially murdered "at random" in the wooded grounds of Bohemian Grave, and I fell it was "simply a matter of time until it would be me". Rituals were held at a giant, concrete owl monument on the banks of, ironically enough, the Russian (rushin’) River. These occultish sex rituals stemmed from the scientific belief that mind-controlled slaves required severe trauma to ensure compartmentalization of the memory, and not from any spiritual motivation.

My own threat of death was instilled when I witnessed the sacrificial death of a young, dark-haired victim at which time I was instructed to perform sexually "as though my life depended upon it". I was told,

"...the next sacrifice victim could be you. Anytime when you least expect it, the owl will consume you. Prepare yourself, and stay prepared."

Being "prepared" equated to being totally suggestible, i.e., "on my toes" awaiting their command.

After returning to Tennessee, Houston attempted to distort my Bohemian Grove experience by instructing me to "prepare myself for imminent death". He ordered me into a bathtub of cold water, placed ice cubes in my vagina, then transferred me to his bed. There he tied a coroner’s type tag on my toe, and hypnotically deepened my trance to the point where my heart and breathing were nearly stopped.
 
Then he gratified himself on my cold, still body through faux necrophilia—reportedly one of his favorite perversions. Houston had "perfected" his perversion to the extent that he handed the keys to my death-state programming to Lt. Col. Michael Aquino for use in Reagan’s Hands-On Mind-Control Demonstrations. My death-state also further equipped me in my role of "anything, anytime, anywhere with anyone" to be accessed at Bohemian Grove.

The club offered a "Necrophilia" theme room to its members. I was so heavily drugged and programmed when used in the "necrophilia" room, that the threat of actually "slipping through death’s door" and being sacrificed "before I knew it" did not affect me. My whole existence was balanced precariously on the edge of death as a matter of routine anyway.

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=aJYF6_x18ag

My robotic state did not permit me the "luxury" of self-preservation, and I could only do exactly what I was told to do. My necrophilia room experience was only for the purpose of providing Dante a compromising film of a targeted member anyway.

Other perversion theme rooms at the Bohemian Club included what I heard Ford refer to as the "Dark Room". When he not so cleverly said, "Let’s go to the Dark Room and see what develops," I understood from experience that he was interested in indulging in his perverse obsession for pornography. In the Dark Room, members had sex with the same mind-controlled slave they were viewing in porn on a big screen television.

There was a triangular glass display centered in a main through way where I was locked in with various trained animals, including snakes. Members walking by watched elicit sex acts of bestiality, women with women, mothers with daughters, kids with kids, or any other unlimited perverse visual display.

I was once brutally assaulted by Dick Cheney in the Leather Room, which was designed tike a dark, black leather-lined train berth. As I crawled through the leather flaps covering the narrow entrance, I heard Cheney play on the word "berth/birth" as the soft blackness engulfed me. With the small opening covered, the blinding darkness enhanced the sense of touch and provided an option of anonymity. Cheney jokingly claimed that I "blew his cover" when I recognized his all-too-familiar voice and abnormally large penis size.

There was a room of shackles and tortures, black lights and strobes, an opium den, ritualistic sex altars, a chapel, group orgy rooms including poster beds, water beds, and "kitten" houses. I was used as a "rag doll" in the "toy store," and as a urinal in the "golden arches" room.

From the owl’s roost to the necrophilia room, no memory of sexual abuse is as horrifying as the conversations overheard in the Underground pertaining to implementing the New World Order. I learned that perpetrators believed that controlling the masses through propaganda mind manipulation did not guarantee there would be a world left to dominate due to environmental and overpopulation problems.
 
The solution being debated was not pollution/population control, but mass genocide of "selected undesirables."

[Bluegreen]

E.T. PHONE ROME

Chapter 19

Anyone attending the Bohemian Grove on a regular basis was referred to by those in the know as a "Grover". One such Grover was Ronald Reagan’s then- Secretary of Education, Bill Bennett, who later became "Drug Czar" during the Bush Administration, wrote the so-called Book of Virtues and was/is? vying for the office of President. Bennett is apparently very close to his brother and fellow Grover, Bob Bennett. Although Bob Bennett holds the position of Legal Counsel to President Clinton, it is apparent that the brothers recognize no party lines.



When Drug Czar Bill Bennett shut down the marijuana trade in America, cocaine became cheaper than water.


It was clear to me that there were no partisan differences amongst those ushering in the New World Order, any more than there was loyalty to our Constitution. The close relationship I witnessed between the Bennett brothers, like the marriage between Clinton’s and Bush’s 1992 campaign managers James Carville and Mary Matlin, should raise questions as to their agenda.



Two sides of the same coin


When Bill and Bob Bennett together sexually assaulted my daughter, Kelly, and me at the Bohemian Grove in 1986, I had already known Bill Bennett as a mind-control programmer for some time. Bennett anchored his Jesuit/Vatican based programming of me in my Catholic conditioning initially instilled via the Rite to Remain Silent.



The late Senator from Utah Bob Bennett


Through further manipulation of my "inner-dimensional" perceptions, Bennett believed he had forever compartmentalized his personal secrets of perverse sex with his brother, Bob, and my then six-year-old daughter. Bennett also had manipulated my mind in accordance with Vatican "Orders" via Byrd’s Jesuit College programming center in West Virginia. He used his role as Jesuit programmer for the purposes of carrying out his efforts as Education Secretary to implement Education 2000.

In order to program my mind for my role in bringing Education 2000 into the "Volunteer State" of Tennessee’s school system, Bennett used sophisticated mind manipulation to set the stage—the same kind of mind manipulation propaganda executed on national and international scale, Bennett’s penchant for manipulating minds is apparently rooted in his knowledge of Catholic/Jesuit mind-control techniques.

When I met Bennett at a White House cocktail party in 1984, I was wearing the rosy cross necklace that Guy VanderJagt and Father Don had presented to me during my first communion, to signify the mode of program I was operating under at the time. Byrd had ordered that I wear it for the occasion.

Byrd was already talking with Bennett when a White House butler led me in to see Byrd. Byrd was saying,

"I was just talking about you with my friend, Secretary of Education William Bennett."

"Bill," Bennett corrected, sweeping his lecherous gaze over me as though I were merchandise. "How do you do?"
 
"As I am told, thank you," I said as I extended my hand as trained.

Bennett clumsily fingered the rosy cross necklace, blowing his alcoholic breath in my face as he said, "Your necklace is as beautiful as you are, and no doubt, as significant in purpose. Where did this come from and what does it mean to you?"

"From my first communion," I responded. "Guy (Byrd interrupted to clarify ’VanderJagt’) gave it to me to consummate my holy communion."

Byrd corrected me, "Commemorate your holy communion."
 
"She doesn’t need a translator, Bobby," Bennett laughed, "I’m hearing her loud and clear."

Byrd left me with Bennett, who went into a long winded recitation on an interpretation of the Bible deliberately intended to further distort my Catholic instilled perceptions. "Christ was an alien in this land," he was saying in accordance with his learned Jesuit mind manipulation techniques.

"Once he landed in Earth’s plane, it was plain to see he was a leader in interdimensional travel, We (Jesuits/aliens) followed his lead since he was the first to slip into Earth’s dimension. In Christ’s transformation from porpoise 4 to purpose, he lost his will to Earth’s demands. He lost his porpoise, so to speak."

Totally "trance-fixed," I listened as Bennett rallied on and on.

"When Christ emerged from the deep to inhale of Earth’s atmosphere, time began ticking. It was not recognized or acknowledged until Christ’s passing, however. We began marking time with his death. BC-AD-or is that AC-DC?"

Referring to high voltage used to compartmentalize memory, he continued,

"No, AC in DC stops time. At any rate, we followed his lead, He referred to you as sheep. He knew you needed to be led. He led us. He led you. He led us to you. We’re here to lead you. The transformation is perfected now, updated with the latest in alien technologies whereby we no longer have to follow Christ’s course to the grave. We can transcend dimensions free of the confines of Earth’s gravitational pull. The time is now, and we are here to lead you. We know your mind. That’s how we make you mind. Make you mine. Make you a mind. Make you mine. Journey with me now..."



.

Bennett manipulated my perceptions until, at last, he informed me, "You and I will be working closely together on a global education project." Sweeping his hand around the crowded room, he continued,

"This atmosphere is not conductive to the kind of work we need to be doing. Something else just came up that demands immediate attention. Let’s complete tonight’s business with pleasure, beat it out of this dimension, suspend your suspended animation, and get with the program."

In one of many White House bedrooms available for such purposes, Bennett led me into bed.

I told you we were going to beat it out of this dimension, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. A little Byrd told me you like a whip. Since I am not the Senate kind, I’ll just represent the majority by giving you what you need most.

Bennett apparently found perverse pleasure in whipping me. With my wrists bruised and my body slinging with pain, Bennett lit up a cigarette and cryptically asked,
"Was that your first cum-union with an alien?" He threw me my clothes, and ordered, "Make yourself presentable. Make sure your wrists are covered. I’m not waiting around for you, I’ll see you in THE morning."

Bennett left. After awhile I was escorted back to Byrd, with whom I spent a brutal, short night. On the way to his room, Byrd told me,

"You’ve got work to do come morning with Mr. Bennett. Working for him is like working for me. We are working in conjunction with the state Governors in an effort to implement the global 2000 education formula for the future. I am excited at the prospect of meddling in the future through what I accomplish today. Since I hold this country’s purse strings, it is up to me to delegate as much funding as is necessary to implement the educational program. I’ve withheld funding and withheld funding to the point where the individual states must rely on federal funding to get them out of hot water financially.
 
I am ready to do just that so long as they follow my guidelines. Mr. Bennett is working out the details of this plan, and will be sharing much of that with you. I need you to do what you do best by enlisting the full cooperation of state government at the upcoming Governor’s Convention. I have never demanded Conventional sex of you before, but this time is different. Persuade these Governors at their weakest moment—bring them to their knees while you are on yours, and convince them that global education is the gateway to the future if there is to be any future at all."

Early the next morning, deep underground in the NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center mind-control lab near D.C., Bill Bennett began preparing me for the program. NASA uses various "CIA designer drugs" to chemically alter the brain and create exactly the mind set required at the time, Huntsville, Alabama’s NASA drug of choice, "Train-quility," created a feeling of absolute, peaceful compliance and a sensation of walking on air.



NASA Goddard Space Flight Center – Greenbelt, Maryland


The drug administered this time was sufficiently similar to Tranquility to create total compliance. The bearing I had endured the night before had rendered me helpless, anyway, and I could barely crawl up onto the cold, metal lab table as the drug took effect.

In the darkness surrounding me, I could hear Bill Bennett talking, "This is my brother, Bob. He and I work as one unit. We are alien to this dimension - two beings from another plane."

The high-tech light display swirling around me convinced me I was transforming dimensions with them, A laser of light hit the black wall in front of me, which seemed to explode into a panoramic view of a White House cocktail party-as though I had transformed dimensions and stood amongst them.
 
Not recognizing anyone, I frantically asked,

"Who are these people?"

"They’re not people, and this isn’t a spaceship," Bennett said. As he spoke, the holographic scene changed ever so slightly until the people appeared to be lizard-like aliens. Welcome to the second level of the underground. This level is a mere/(mirror) reflection of the first, an alien dimension. We are from a transdimensional plane that spans and encompasses all dimensions."

"Infinite dimensions," Bob injected, "Infinite dimensions spanned simultaneously" Bill said, "No limitations".

Bob softly sang, "Let freedom ring".

"There truly is no where to run and no where to hide from us. We’re who is looking from behind the Eye in the Sky," Bill continued, "We’re watching you," Bob said. He sang a line from the popular rock song "I’ll Be Watching You".

"I have taken you through my dimension as a means of establishing stronger holds on your mind than the Earth’s plane permits," Bill Bennett was saying. "Being alien, I simply make my thoughts your thoughts by projecting them into your mind. My thoughts are your thoughts."

The brief message Bennett programmed me with pertaining to Education2000 was to be directed to state Governors at the upcoming convention while delivering a packet of information:

"The children. We must consider the children. Think for a moment beyond tomorrow. Our children are the future. Their future lies in education. We can control the future today by regulating education. Our thoughts and plans for the future-put in their text. A text they can understand. Children’s textbooks. The highest levels of government, the most brilliant minds on the face of this Earth would like input into the future by way of the children. You, as Governor, are in a position to provide that link. Global Education 2000 is ready for implementation. Look into it. Look into it and see the future."

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=pmDkqv5QmN4

[waves]

I've been getting these 'updates' and after skimming so many chapters years after first encountering Cathy's stuff it's making me rethink. Does Cathy say she kept an extremely detailed diary all those years? Because if not, something is very improbable. I have no doubts about the depth of perversion in those political ranks, but how's your memory of whole verbatim paragraphs/conversations that you had with numerous people months/years ago? It's just not possible.

Therefore this now reads to me as a very neat and tidy calculated narrative, as if the political machinations she 'overhears' a lot and relates verbatim are just that, calculated rhetoric embedded in salaciousness meant to reinforce a narrative. It just doesn't seem possible for anyone to remember so much verbatim from past years, let alone during times of having supposedly switched to an alter designed to dissociate and not remember!

We can argue how much other supportive testimony is out there, but it still doesn't validate all the probability holes in this story as presented. So what would it mean? Was this book Cathy still being used to present historical cover stories? And/or to scare people with how evil and ugly their enemy is? It just now seems there's something else beside face value going on.

[Mike]

Posted by waves (here)
I've been getting these 'updates' and after skimming so many chapters years after first encountering Cathy's stuff it's making me rethink. Does Cathy say she kept an extremely detailed diary all those years? Because if not, something is very improbable. I have no doubts about the depth of perversion in those political ranks, but how's your memory of whole verbatim paragraphs/conversations that you had with numerous people months/years ago? It's just not possible.

Therefore this now reads to me as a very neat and tidy calculated narrative, as if the political machinations she 'overhears' a lot and relates verbatim are just that, calculated rhetoric embedded in salaciousness meant to reinforce a narrative. It just doesn't seem possible for anyone to remember so much verbatim from past years, let alone during times of having supposedly switched to an alter designed to dissociate and not remember!

We can argue how much other supportive testimony is out there, but it still doesn't validate all the probability holes in this story as presented. So what would it mean? Was this book Cathy still being used to present historical cover stories? And/or to scare people with how evil and ugly their enemy is? It just now seems there's something else beside face value going on.

It's an interesting point. I read the book years ago and all the repetitive subliminal stuff about the Wizard Of Oz and so forth became so mentally deadening that I had to give it up. It took me several tries to get thru it. It wasn't the abuse that I couldn't stomach, it was the relentless use of coded language to trigger this personality or that one that finally wore me out.

Even if I was that sexually depraved and evil I don't think I could keep up that charade. It's just exhausting. Those freaks are dedicated. You have to give them that.

Not that I'm qualified in any way, but if I were to attempt to answer your question I think I'd say that Cathy's memory was uber enhanced by all her MK Ultra and Project Monarch programming. I'd have to revisit the book, but I want to say that her mind was built to remember things in excruciating detail.

[bluestflame]

Posted by waves (here)
I've been getting these 'updates' and after skimming so many chapters years after first encountering Cathy's stuff it's making me rethink. Does Cathy say she kept an extremely detailed diary all those years? Because if not, something is very improbable. I have no doubts about the depth of perversion in those political ranks, but how's your memory of whole verbatim paragraphs/conversations that you had with numerous people months/years ago? It's just not possible.

Therefore this now reads to me as a very neat and tidy calculated narrative, as if the political machinations she 'overhears' a lot and relates verbatim are just that, calculated rhetoric embedded in salaciousness meant to reinforce a narrative. It just doesn't seem possible for anyone to remember so much verbatim from past years, let alone during times of having supposedly switched to an alter designed to dissociate and not remember!

We can argue how much other supportive testimony is out there, but it still doesn't validate all the probability holes in this story as presented. So what would it mean? Was this book Cathy still being used to present historical cover stories? And/or to scare people with how evil and ugly their enemy is? It just now seems there's something else beside face value going on.

she was used as a " human harddrive " heal the trauma that was used to cause dissociation and the abilities are then accessable

[Bluegreen]

NEW WORLD ORDER OF THE ROSE

Chapter 20





Still feeling drugged from the programming session instilled in me by Bill Bennett at the nearby Goddard Space Flight Center, I attended a White House cocktail party later that night as instructed.

Dressed "to Order," I wore a slinky, black dress that gathered at one hip decorated in rubies, with a red rose barrette in my hair. "The Chief called for her," my Secret Service escort told the butler as he left me at the door. The lights were dim and the air was formal as the butler led me through the unusually large crowd of people. He released my elbow, aiming me in the direction of then President Ronald Reagan.

As I walked through the crowd toward Reagan, I saw familiar faces associated with the ’’Order of the Rose." Across the room, Bill and Bob Bennett were laughing with Dick Cheney. Then-Governor of Pennsylvania Dick Thornburgh was engaged in conversation with Senator Arlen Spector. Within the farthest reaches of my expanded peripheral vision, I saw George Bush talking with his U.N. confidant Madeleine Albright . Knowing I could see him as though I had eyes in the back of my head, Bush subtly signaled me to join them.

"You know Madeleine Albright," Bush began. Expertly using terminology from previously instilled Catholic Jesuit beliefs, he continued, "She’s the reverend mother of all sisters (slaves). She’s so close to God that an order from her is an order from Him."
 
Albright snickered, apparently impressed with Bush’s "witty" manipulation of program verbiage. "She rose in the U.N. through me to implement the New World peace process."

Albright said to me, "I hear you’re a world (whirled?) piece".

"Who told you that?" Bush demanded.

"Larry Flynt, for her stint in Jamaica ," she quickly explained.

Bush threw up his hand in apparent disgust at the idea of sex relating to someone with two digits in their age.

"Spare me," he said.

"That’s my job," Albright said matter-of-factly with a smile of pride. She shooed me away while condescendingly saying,

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the OAS (Organization of American States) office. Now, you run along and go play."







Noting that her nonspecific orders left me unable to determine which way to turn, literally, she aimed me back in the direction of Reagan.

Reagan was dressed in a dark, navy blue suit and red silk tie. His red rosebud boutonniere instantly triggered me into a Jesuit "Order of the Rose" sex slave mode.





"Well, hello, Kitten," Reagan said, blowing his cognac breath in my face as he bent over to kiss my hand.

"Uncle Ronnie..." I said, sexually responding as conditioned.

Reagan turned to the man beside him and said, "Brian, this is one more of those benefits of the New World Order I was telling you about. Kitten, this is Brian Mulroney, Prime Minister of Canada."

The connotations of my childhood experience with the former Prime Minister of Canada, Pierre Trudeau, suggested that Mulroney was Jesuit—as did the mode I was operating in. He, too, was wearing a red rose boutonnière signifying his involvement and commitment to the Order of the Rose.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir," I said as I extended my hand.

"The pleasure is mine," Mulroney said as he kissed my hand, "Please, call me Brian."

"Yes, Sir, Brian," I responded, my brain still whirling with the NASA designer drugs.





Chuckling but insistent, Mulroney reiterated, "I am not a Sir".

Reagan jumped in, "He is a Prime Minister, which means he is more important than your average Minister, and certainly more important than any Sir. Brian is my friend."

"Oh, Brian," I said, finally understanding,

"O’Brien is her father’s name," Reagan told Mulroney, "She is of Irish descent and hails from Michigan." Brian turned to me, "I’ve been in your neck of the woods here recently-in one of my favorite get-aways-on Mackinac Island."

"Mackinac Island was her launch point into the project," Reagan explained in terms used by those familiar with mind-control operations.

Mulroney apparently was aware of my mind-controlled state and leered at me as though I were merchandise, Reagan noticed his interest and proceeded to function in the capacity of a pimp.

"I highly recommend you take her along with the rest. She is an excellent game piece for you to use in any position. And there’s security. Her head is in the ethers and come tomorrow, she wouldn’t knew you from the man in the moon. I’ll give you the keys later."

Expertly using Order of the Rose signals and triggers, Mulroney said,

"Just give me the key to her heart, and she’s mine."

"You are wise in the ways of the world," Reagan commented.

"I have to be on top of things. It’s a New World Order," Mulroney said matter-of-factly. As a guard led me away, I heard Reagan tell Mulroney, "You will be on top of the world soon".

I was searched by uniformed Canadian bodyguards and pointed in the direction of one of the White House’s many bedroom suites. When I opened the door, I saw three blonde sex slaves undressing and preparing the bed—one of whom was my close friend and Senator Arlen Spector’s slave.

I excitedly called my friend’s name.

"What are you doing here?" I asked as we hugged each other.

"Small world," she said, as she always did when we were thrust together in various places for prostitution and/or pornography. This universal term was often used among those familiar with the Small, Small World Disney-developed mind-control program.

I hugged my friend again, "Wow, it is a small world. I’m so glad you’re here." I had no comprehension of our predicament and could not see beyond the moment.

"Hell girls! It is a small world!" Mulroney entered and strode across the room, tossing his coat on a chair and loosening his tie. "Watch it get smaller and smaller as we rocket further and further away."





He slipped out of his shoes, suspenders, and pants while he continued his hypnotic metaphors. "Soaring through the sea of black space. As the world gets smaller and smaller and smaller, then sinks into the black sea of space."
 
Removing his boxer shorts, he announced, "I brought you here for a purpose..." and proceeded to access our sex programming.

In retrospect I know it was no coincidence that my friend and I were brought together to satisfy Brian Mulroney’s perversion for mind-controlled slaves. Identically mirror programmed, we operated in unison. The delicate red rose tattoo on my friend’s left wrist signified her enslavement to the (New World ) Order of the Rose to which Mulroney belonged.

My friend and her young daughter reportedly were often transported across the U.S.-Canadian border at Niagara Falls for prostitution to Mulroney. The sexual abuse of her precious child was used as a trauma base to maintain control of her mind just as Kelly’s abuse traumatized me, Mulroney had previously accessed sex programming at Niagara Falls in my friend and me-along with our daughters-to satisfy his sanctioned perversions as though it were "business as usual".

Had I been capable of connecting events, I would have felt enormous relief that our daughters were not forced to participate in his sexual assault this time.

"Mission" complete, I slipped on my dress and prepared to leave, Mulroney pointed to me and cryptically said, "I’ll be seeing you around. Maybe I’ll see you in Mackinac. May be. Somewhere in time."

In three lines, Mulroney expertly tied the immediate moment to childhood cues and current Mexican NAFTA operations, as well as prepared me for my next encounter with him on Mackinac Island.

[Bluegreen]

GLOBAL EDUCATION 2000

Chapter 21

My programmed role toward implementing Education 2000 according to the plans of those ushering in the New World Order brought me back in contact with former Governor of Tennessee, Lamar Alexander, and eventually Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney. I had met Lamar Alexander in 1973, at a satanic ritual I was subjected to in an affluent neighborhood of Nashville, Tennessee.



Lamar Alexander - Ned McWherter


Lamar Alexander presided over this sex-oriented occult ritual with full understanding of my Project Monarch Mind-Control victimization and the impact his actions were having on my mind. It was my experience then, and intermittently throughout the years, that Lamar Alexander’s sexual perversion was to bring his victim to the point of death through oral suffocation.

During the course of publicly exposing Tennessee’s need for education reform as instructed, I was in contact with Commissioners, Superintendents, Mayors, and Lamar Alexander. Lamar Alexander, who followed Bennett as Bush’s Secretary of Education, worked in close association with Bill Bennett to manipulate the minds of the masses to accept Education 2000 as the ONLY means of education reform.
 
When Ned McWherter was moved into the office of Governor to rubber stamp federal projects, Lamar Alexander maintained influence over state politics. At the same time, he maintained influence over national politics through his role as chairman of the National Governor’s Association in 1986.

As the 1984 Governor’s Convention drew near, I met with Lamar Alexander at the Stockyard nightclub where he was drinking with his long time associate and partner-in-crime, Nashville’s Mayor Richard Fulton. In the basement bar of this old, converted stockyard was a modified antique "Shoe Shine" booth, where the term took on new meaning. A key to a private shoeshine booth could be obtained by those in the know through Stockyard owner, Buddy Killen.



The late Buddy Killen


This closet-sized booth was lined in mirrors and had a small bench where Lamar Alexander sat after our business was concluded. I knelt at his feet as ordered to perform oral sex. Programmed sex slaves such as myself were trained to go long periods of time without drawing a breath, and users such as Alexander stretched this time to the maximum.

On this occasion, Alexander apparently exceeded the maximum. I do not recall completion of my programmed task. It was after hours when my mind- control handler, Alex Houston, dragged my limp body from the booth, roused me, and ordered me out of the building. Buddy Killen opened a back door that once was a cattle run, and Houston half-dragged me out the back exit unseen.

The night of the Convention, Alex Houston’s youngest daughter, Bonnie, was to join me. Bonnie and I were close to the same age, and together we dressed for the occasion. As a prostitute, Bonnie was familiar with Lamar Alexander and his perversions but nevertheless was excited at the prospect of seeing "old friends" at the Convention via Louise Mandrell, who would be entertaining there. The comradery between Alex Houston and Mandrell that developed during Bob Hope’s U.S.O. tours in the 1960s lasted for decades due to their shared involvement in running mind-controlled slaves for Byrd.

Bonnie shared in this friendship with the Mandrells and was looking forward to seeing her "friends" in the band.

I, too, was looking forward to talking with Louise Mandrell, but for a very different reason. Barbara had just endured her near-fatal car crash, and I was deeply concerned for her welfare. Throughout the 1980s while traveling under the guise of the Country Music Industry, Alex Houston toured with Barbara and/or Louise Mandrell on a regular basis. Occasionally Barbara and I saw each other in "church," the Hendersonville Lord’s Chapel.
 
This church was an offshoot of Billy Roy Moore’s Lord’s Chapel, and was pastored by his mind-controlled slave, Mike Nelson, who became close friends with Barbara. Alex Houston and I were present when Mike Nelson broke program, and attempted to flee for his Life with Barbara Mandrell. The pastor was subdued with a stun gun and immediately relieved of his position, while Barbara frantically sought answers to the questions the two of them had managed to raise.



Too hot for Louise – 1984


Alex Houston was touring with Louise Mandrell in 1984 when Louise had a "premonition" of Barbara’s imminent demise—much the same way Loretta Lynn "psychically predicted" her son’s murder. Like the murders of Loretta’s son and Country Music entertainer Keith Whitley, I was aware of Barbara’s planned accident before it occurred due to Alex Houston’s direct involvement.

These traumas were also used as a means of locking in my mind-controlled belief that I had "no where to run and no where to hide". Worst of all, I could not think to speak of what I knew due to my own absolute mind control. While Barbara physically survived her ordeal, her voice was silenced as planned.

When Bonnie and I arrived at Opryland Hotel, we hurried to the ballroom where Louise Mandrell would be performing. My concern for Barbara detracted me from my appointment with Lamar Alexander until one of Louise’s dancers who knew of my role put me "back on track".

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You’re supposed to be at Rhett Butler’s restaurant NOW."

I hurried to the restaurant where Lamar Alexander was having dinner with Senator Byrd and several governors. Byrd was participating in the function for reasons unknown to me, but I was aware that he had fiddled at the Opry. Byrd stopped eating just long enough to acknowledge my presence,

"Where have you been?"

"I was checking on Barbara over at the show," I replied as Lamar Alexander excused himself and walked over.

Putting an arm around me and turning me away from the table, he whispered, "You could wind up just like her if you don’t get with the program. You’ve got programs to hand out. But right now, you’re interrupting my dinner. Have you had anything to drink?"

"No, Sir," I replied, traumatized at the magnitude of his threat.

Lamar Alexander instructed me to leave immediately, order a grasshopper from the conservatory bar, and wait for further instructions.
 
It was a matter of routine for me to order a "grasshopper" from Opryland Hotel’s conservatory. The ice cream "drink" was specially made—always with a hypnotic drug in it. As sometimes happened, the waitress was unfamiliar with the process, and conservatory harp player and CIA operative Lloyd Lindroth interceded. The drug had the same effect as that administered at the D.C. NASA programming center by Bennett, and my mode was robotic compliance.





After the drug kicked in, Lloyd Lindroth instructed me to proceed to the main ballroom of the Hotel, where Lamar Alexander would be meeting me.

The outer lobby of the ballroom was decorated in wall-size murals that extended to the top of the gothic ceiling. A life-size steam engine depicted on the far wall appeared to be racing toward the grand staircase. I had seen the murals numerous times before, but never had they seemed so real as they did to me that night on the NASA drug. The heavy double doors leading to the ballroom caused me to feel very small as I pulled with all my strength to open it. Inside, the room was a sea of black suits and ties, and I was relieved when Lamar Alexander ushered me back out into the lobby.

Alexander positioned me near the train mural as a cryptic indicator to those in the know that I was a "trained" mind-controlled slave. I was provided a box of brown envelopes packed with the Education 2000 information I was to hand out to the governors.
 
Alexander instructed me on exactly what I was to say in conjunction with the message Bennett had programmed me with in D.C. Then he returned to the ballroom, where he apparently acted in the capacity of a pimp.

"Are you waiting on the train?" a paunchy governor asked, "No, Sir," I answered. Then, as instructed, I said, "But I do have a packet of information with your name on it. Shall I take it to your room for you?"

"Oh? And what is my name?" he asked.

"Governor," I responded. There actually were no names on the envelopes.

"Astute," he responded. "And what is it you have for me?"

"This packet," I answered, handing it to him. "And anything else you want compliments of Lamar Alexander and (tapped) Secretary of Education, Bill Bennett."

According to some of the men, Alexander had cued them as to my position. Others, such as then Governor of Pennsylvania, Dick Thornburgh and Ohio Governor Dick Celeste already knew me, "I’ve got a packet of information with your name on it.. "I was saying as I bent over to lift one from the box.

"I don’t think so," Governor Blanchard of Michigan interrupted. "Bill (Bennett) wouldn’t stoop so low as to insult me that way. I’m doing the same thing here you are, but from a very different approach. The figures I offer reflect the success of Education 2000 in the Michigan school system."

I recognized Governor James Blanchard, and was well aware of Michigan’s ranking first in the nation in education.

"Speaking of which," he continued, "I believe I see your mother more often than you do these days since she is working in the schools. That little sister of yours (Kimmy) is a prime example of what proper instruction can produce. Your little sister is coming to Mackinac to further her skills. Your whole family is a prime example of how good Education 2000 works."

I finally met up with Bonnie again in Lamar Alexander’s room as the night came to a close. "Bonnie, how’s that snake of yours?" he asked. Bonnie, who had been filmed pornographically by CIA commercial photographer Jimmy Walker with Dick Flood’s snakes, had a boa constrictor,

"Great!" Bonnie laughed. "How’s yours?"

"Constricted," he replied.

Bonnie unzipped his pants as she admittedly had done numerous times in the past, playfully sayings "Let it loose!"

Lamar Alexander began removing his pants. Referring to me in Project Monarch terms he said,

"When I first saw you, you were a worm with no hint of being a butterfly."

"Daddy (Alex Houston) said she was a diamond in the rough," Bonnie volunteered, "She shines now". Turning to me he said, "I know you are a shoe shiner, and mine need a shine." Bonnie, also familiar with the Stockyard booth and Lamar Alexander’s meaning, laughed when he said, "Why don’t you both take a foot."

Task complete, I went to Byrd’s nearby room as instructed. He was in the bathroom preparing himself for bed, "Louise had her feathers fluffed over Barbara’s collision with destiny and I had to smooth them down a bit," Drying his dough grey hands on a towel, he turned to me and said, "Looks like you’ve had your wings spread a bit tonight."

"I wore a path up and down the stairs," I stated.

Much to my relief he said, "I’m not going to fiddle with you farther. I just wanted to give you something to remember me by--Bye."

He compartmentalized my memory with his stun gun.



Brian Mulroney - James Blanchard


Soon thereafter, Kelly and I were transported to Mackinac Island. Michigan to meet with Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney at then-Governor James Blanchard’s mansion.

Houston led Kelly and me to a horse drawn carriage as quickly as we stepped off the ferryboat onto the timeless, antiquated island, I noticed that the Canadian flags were again flying at the Grand Hotel, but was of no mind to question, Kelly sat quietly beside me, apparently drugged as our carriage took us through the woods to the Governor’s mansion.

The guests in the mansion were reminiscent of the recent Tennessee Governor’s convention: Michigan Governor Blanchard, Ohio Governor Dick Celeste, and Pennsylvania Governor Dick Thornburgh. Guy VanderJagt and Jerry Ford were also present. Mulroney appeared to be the guest of "honor".

He reached out his hands and greeted me,

"I told you I would see you somewhere in time! I slipped time, space, and distance to be here this evening. You and I have some ground to cover."

"Yes, Sir. President Reagan’s Global Education Secretary Bill Bennett has sent me to deliver this education packet directly to you." I was to deliver a large, brown envelope of documents similar to those handed out at the Governor’s Convention.

Blanchard excused himself. "I’ve already heard the schpiel," he said as he turned to his other guests, leaving Mulroney and me alone.

"Global Education is the wave of the future," I recited as programmed. As the world gets smaller and smaller due to higher technology spanning the globe, our children must be educated in the ways of the world. Education as it is, barely equips them for life in their own backyard. We need to become involved in our children’s education for the sake of their future and our legacy. Global education is the way. The only way, Look into it..." I handed him the envelope. "...Peer into the future."

Mulroney uncrossed his arms long enough to accept the envelope, which he casually tossed on a chair.

"I am interested in the children, the legacy we leave them, and how we shape their future by the way we record our history in their test." Using Order of the Rose cues, he signaled me to photographically record his words for future delivery.
 
"Tell Mr. Bennett(sss)," he hissed, cryptically revealing his knowledge that Bill and Bob Bennett worked together using reptilian-alien themes, "implementation is high. I’m already sold on Global 2000 and have additional points I would like for them to consider. Headsets at every computer station for openers. Double the impact with dual learning. We’re being thrust forward at warp speed, and the generations of the future may need an added booster to bring them up to speed. A united global effort using your education package as a basis is destined to bring the future into a clear and present reality."

Business complete, Mulroney triggered my sex programming and led me upstairs to the bedrooms where Kelly was robotically waiting, entranced under Orders of the Rose.

[Bluegreen]

MY CONTRA-BUTION

Chapter 22





U.S. and Mexican relations were flourishing in the successes of NAFTA’s groundwork, while political differences pertaining to Nicaragua remained a minor point of contention. Since the Catholic Vatican’s Intelligence arm of Jesuits were working closely with U.S. Intelligence to usher in the New World Order, they used their established influence in Mexico and Nicaragua to provide a common ground for "diplomatic relations".
 
My dual mind-control victimization by the ClA and the Jesuits since childhood, and my previous "diplomatic relations" in Mexico thrust me into the role of messenger and prostitute to Nicaragua’s Contra leader Daniel Ortega.

Were President Reagan’s Nicaraguan Freedom Fighters fighters OF freedom or FOR freedom? My mind-controlled existence rendered me incapable of pondering such questions. Nevertheless, I had a programmed "passion burning in my bosom" for the Contras as was patriotically instilled through torture, when I embarked on my "peacekeeping mission" to Nicaragua for Reagan tale in the summer of 1985,

I boarded NCL as usual to reach my appointed destination. Since Nicaragua was not a port of call for NCL, I flew from the Yucatan of Mexico to a remote military airstrip in Managua. It was in this small mountain top clearing that I met with Commandant Daniel Ortega, as had been arranged through the Vatican.





I was dressed seasonably in shorts, with my long blond hair lucked hack in a French braid. Onega’s attire, too, was reflective of the casual air to meeting. His tan, military uniform had worn thin, and was free of any protocol insignias. The dark, rose-colored sunglasses he peered through apparently had not changes his somber view of the "noble cause" he claimed to represent. A man of few words, he greeted me with an order, "Come with me." I rode with him in silence as he drove a jeep the short distance across the airstrip to a small, near, two story, white, frame house.

As we came to a stop in front of the house, Ortega said In a sad, slow voice. "I have needs like any man. But I feel like a whore myself for accepting your President’s offer."

His bedroom was clean and functional, with numerous assault weapons scattered around, I did not see any modern conveniences or personal effects, but Ortega seemed to be at home in his surroundings.

Ortega’s demeanor was that of a man who had abstained from sex longer than most in big political position. As he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, I noticed a Catholic medallion with the secret Jesuit ascension/descension symbol on it, a common accessory among Jesuit spooks. He sat in wicker chair as I followed his silent lead in gratifying him orally.





While he chain smoked cigarettes, I sat in front of him on the floor, and relayed Reagan’s message to him as programmed. I began.

"President Reagan has sent me as a messenger of peace."

He casually interrupted slowly looking me up and down.

"I’d like to have a piece in a few more minutes."
 
I continued, "Your people have endured many hardships Throughout their existence. He (Reagan) only wants to help. The American people want to see peace and freedom in your land. Mexican and U.S. relations are growing stronger by the day, and it is imperative that we resolve your conflict in order to resolve our own with the Mexican government We have come to the agreement with Mexico that the Nicaraguan conflict must be resolved for the sake of your people as well as our own, I am here on a peacekeeping mission representative of Vatican-based common ground shared by both Mexican and American governments, to enlighten you to our peaceful intentions.
 
The unified effort of Mexican-American Catholic missions is to promote peace in your region, while only enhancing your culture. The world is rapidly turning toward world peace, and Nicaragua is way behind the times—from technology and education to government ideals and religious convictions. Pope John Paul is praying diligently for peace in your region, and has joined forces with President Reagan, Mexico, and even the Soviet Union to ensure that peace.
 
He (the Pope) knows your goals, he knows your motives.

(I leaned forward, almost whispering from my own instilled belief.)

He knows your soul. We can all work in tandem to achieve that peace. Nicaragua, small though it may be in relation to the rest of the world, is a significant stepping stone toward unifying world powers. It can no longer be a source of contention and disagreement.




 
Your people must be free. Free to worship God through your holy Catholic church. That is first and foremost on President Reagan’s agenda, as well as the Pope’s and President de la Madrid’s. A New World Order is coming into being with or without you; it is an inevitable process that cannot be stopped. A whole new world of peace awaits us all. I can see you are a peace-loving man. It emanates from your being.
 
Blood has flowed across your land so heavily that your people are drowning in it. Together we can cauterize that wound. Replace blood flow with cash flow. Americanization can upgrade your technology at a rapid rate. Your people could compete in world markets by the turn of the century. Your future global position has already been determined by geography alone. Flow with it. Lead your people out of poverty.

Educate them in a manner conducive to their destined position in world markets. Free them from their struggles that have held them captive for so long. Allow the church bells to ring with good news of peace, prosperity and freedom. You can achieve all of your goals for your country’s advancement with our help."

Ortega thoughtfully finished smoking a cigarette, and lit up another as he confidently replied,

"Tell your President that I have seen his freedom, and listened to his words projected through yet another example of it. He paints a beautiful picture suspended within his framework.
 
A picture can appear serene to its beholder while it is being gazed upon. I cannot worship a graven image, and the picture he paints is just that. We have fought too hard and too long, spilling sweat and blood across this land in our determined effort to maintain human values instilled in us by our forefathers, who gained their profound wisdom from the original Catholic missionaries.
 
These values are the same as those portrayed in President Reagan’s painted picture-only ours are real. His have only surface value, like any other painting. If I were to concede, I would only be framed within me picture he paints, hung on his wall like a trophy. I will not mislead my people, in spite of his offers of wealth and position, I am true to my convictions, and when he is true to his, then we will meet on common ground and have something of substance to discuss. For now, words are only a waste of our time."

Ortega put out his cigarette, and pulled back the covers on his bed. "I’ll take you somewhere pleasant." He took a well-used opium pipe/bong off his dresser and handed me a nozzle, I had been trained to accept any drug given to me with the only exception being the strictly forbidden marijuana. I hesitated until Ortega assured me it was opium. As the drug took affect he said, "This could be the way to world peace."





Sex with Ortega was at very least free of pain and perversion. Unlike most I was forced to have "diplomatic relations" with for the Reagan Administration, he fell asleep when he was through due to the difference between opium and cocaine.

The honk of a jeep’s horn outside awoke him. As I prepared to leave, he said, "Wait". He took a small, 1/4 inch or so ball of black opium from his personal stash, wrapped it in the cellophane from his cigarette package wrapper, and said,

"Give this to your President and tell him that you and I found more peace with this substance than he’ll ever impart on the surface of his painted globe."

As he closed the door quietly behind me he said, "Come back and see me when you have more to offer. "

I was immediately returned by plane to Washington, D.C. where my "mission" had originated. This time I was taken directly to Bush’s office, where I delivered Ortega’s message verbatim. Eliminating most of the dialogue, Bush instructed me to deliver a partial message to Reagan. Unable to perceive message content and people beyond my "Need to Know" mind-controlled limited view, I had no concept that Ortega’s message would have a negative impact.
 
It never occurred to me that Ortega had proven himself to be as much a hypocrite as he purported Reagan to be by using me as a prostitute and messenger of bad news knowing full well that I had no free will with which to make the message more palatable. Bush’s revision of Ortega’s message added fuel to a proverbial fire that I didn’t even know was burning when I delivered the message to Reagan.

Bush was with Reagan and me in Reagan’s secondary office (to the Oval office) of the White House as I relayed the message as instructed,

"Daniel Ortega is a peace loving man, who seeks the same resolutions that we do. But he told me to tell you-(I dug in my purse for the opium) that he and I found more peace in this substance - (I handed the opium to Reagan) than you’ll ever impart on the surface of your painted globe."

Bush smiled as Reagan’s face instantly turned beet red with rage. Bush then reacted and spun up out of his chair, took the opium for himself, and told Reagan, "Settle down. There’s more. It seems the only peace she spread was between her legs." He headed for the door, saying, "I would reconsider my position if I were in your shoes—considering what’s filling hers." Bush dropped his gaze down the back of my legs to my shoes as he continued, "It’s running down both sides of her legs."

Obviously I wouldn’t be subjected to sex with Reagan that day. I was quickly excused and flown back to Mexico, where I resumed my NCL cruise. With my memory of the event compartmentalized through high voltage, I believed at the time that I had never been gone at all.

[Bluegreen]

WHIRLED VISION

Chapter 23

In the fall of 1985, the same part of me that met with Ortega was walking with (Reagan appointed) CIA Director William "Bill" Casey through the harbored rose garden of his Long Island estate. Casey began by manipulating my Jesuit/Vatican programming base personality with the expertise indicative of the current union between Catholic and CIA operations.



The late William J Casey


Casey, whom Reagan referred to as a "man of Vision," was forming my Jesuit mind-control programmed "understanding".

"I have a World Vision, one of peace. By re-moving the more violent factions of societies world wide and replacing them with faithful leaders of one world government, and the one world church, global unification is eminent. It is a beautiful vision, and it came to me in my dreams.
 
God has moved me to move men. I’ve moved them here and I’ve moved them there—now it’s time to remove them. My World Vision encompasses the globe and puts to rest any and all tensions, strife, overpopulation, and starvation. My vision is a World Vision, and the churches see it my way as evidenced by their support of the cause."

Referring to my mind-controlled involvement in Haitian operations via NCL, Casey further defined ’the cause,’

"Your heartfelt mission in Haiti has helped in my World Vision quest for her people to abandon hedonistic voodoo and turn their eyes to God and Godly ways. By their own design, they have created an atmosphere of evil whereby a plague will be visited on their land.
 
The Lord has so moved me to move men who share our goals into place, and remove those who stand in the way of peace. It is for this reason that your mission in Haiti must be brought to a close. Baby Doc, in his tireless devotion to saving the demonically possessed cannot bear the burden of watching his people die the wretched death unleashed upon those doomed for hell.
 
We are left with no alternative but to heed the word of God and spare him from annihilation. For this reason, we will send in the missionaries (Jesuit Mercenaries) to inoculate the population with a vaccine that will spare only the good of heart by virtue of its design. All attempts to maintain Haiti within the loop of financial gain will cease.
 
Tourism must be stopped for the sake of the innocents visiting a plagued land. Despite our differences, Baby Doc has complied with the Vatican’s orders to the test of his abilities in his demon-infested land, and must resign his post. We owe it to him to transport him to safety. It is our duty as Americans and followers of God to obey the commands of our Lord and Master and enforce the World Vision.
 
It is your duty as an American and follower of God to instill the understanding that God has spoken, and a plague is imminent. Baby Doc is being prepared for transition and awaits word of direction. You will provide him with that word."

With my perceptions distorted and Catholic Jesuit programmed "understanding" instilled, I was prepared to "religiously accept" any and all I was told. I believed that the revolution in Haiti was a holy war, never capable of realizing it was a test run battle for the minds in this 4th world country.

The devotion I felt toward the Haitian people was more than a religious understanding of these alternately Catholic-Santeria voodoo worshipers. I was actually subconsciously recognizing other tortured mind-controlled slaves in this human created hell called Haiti. Consciously, I now know it was due in part to the visible stun gun/prod marks, plastic ever-present smiles that never quite reach their dead appearing eyes. The children clung to their wide-eyed mothers, as they performed their tasks in robotic servitude. I had recognized these characteristics in other slaves throughout the years, but never had I seen a whole country entranced. My compassion for the Haitian people penetrated into the realm of the spiritual, into a part of me that mind control and manipulation of religion could never touch.

Casey and I had been walking through the garden, guarded by more armed men than the President. It wasn’t that I was a threat, I couldn’t even think to save myself. It was that Casey and his World Vision were a threat to humanity that so many guards were needed. The men appeared to be U.S. Secret Service officers according to their attire, weapons, and earphone headsets. One guard conspicuously placed his hand to his headset, listening as though it were remote control. He walked briskly over to Casey, who signaled me to leave with an escort who instantly arrived at my side awaiting instruction.

"Take her to my chambers," Casey told him, "Clear her mind. I have something I need to instill." Robotically I followed my escort into Casey’s office library. The room was barren, dark, and hot - just as described in a book I had been given to read in keeping with You Are What You Read programming. It produced a sensation of having somehow stepped into the novel Chameleon by insider William Diehl. The mind scramble of the book and reality instantly commenced,

"It’s warm in here," the agent said, unbuttoning my while eyelet blouse." Bill (Casey) likes to keep it this way in case-he (Casey) gets a chill and his blood runs cold. Chameleons are naturally cold blooded. Make yourself comfortable white I turn up the heat. Mr. Casey doesn’t want to hear a peep out of you, so I’ll warn you now-be Silent."

He deliberately triggered and activated the Jesuit programmed part of me that believed in my Vow of Silence.

“The walls have ears and the plants have eyes, so your silence is tantamount to success. I’m going to leave you to reflect in Silence. Bill will be along any minute."

Had I been capable of "reflecting," I would have questioned the validity of Casey’s dramatic position of "religious overtones" on Haitian policy. Like Reagan’s, Casey’s sincerity did not ring true considering the fruits of his labor, But then, I could not consider any more than I could reflect, and I sat in a state of what felt like suspended animation awaiting my instructions.
 
I could not anticipate nor dread what was about to happen as futuristic thinking was left in the hands of my controllers. Had I realized the scramble of reality with William Diehl’s book, I could have "psychically" predicted what happened when Bill Casey strolled in. Casey walked over to his highly polished, dark wood desk and opened the top drawer. Casey’s desk was one of the few furnishings in the large, airy room.
 
The dark, polished, reddish-wood paneling seemed even darker with the midnight blue carpeting curving slightly up the wall. Heavy, gothic maroon velvet drapes blacked out the sun from the windows behind his desk, "I can see quite clearly that you have taken a Vow of Silence, Maintain it. Maintain it and Lisssten," Casey hissed, using preset triggers. He reached into the drawer and took out a foot-long, maroon box with a diamond embossed on the top.

"I received a box, quite anonymously as I do from time to time," Casey said in keeping with the book scramble. "The box has your name on it. I expected to open it and find the usual pierced chameleon and found, instead, a weapon intended for one."

He opened the box in front of me. Inside, laying on a bed of cotton, was an elaborate dagger with a handle of the same rose crystal from which the crucifix Byrd had presented me on "our wedding night" was made. My first personal meeting with Casey promised to be torturous as I recognized Byrd’s participation in the grisly ordeal.

I listened, deeply tranced, as Casey said,

"Is it a knife or a crucifix? I can’t tell. Both symbolize martyrdom as far as I’m concerned. Note the rose pattern cut into the crystal. Now, I wonder who would have sent me this to give to you."

Even under mind control I knew, as I was supposed to, that Byrd had provided him with the knife. My worst fears were confirmed when Casey began using Byrd’s hypnotic induction, "In like a knife, sharp and clean, I’ll carve out what I want." Casey sliced through the front of my bra, exposing the area between my breasts where Byrd routinely cut me with his pocketknife.
 
He pierced into my breastbone deeply so that I believed I would split, and indeed did split off a personality fragment compartmentalizing this event. Using standard Jesuit-based infinity program, Casey instructed me and programmed me with messages that I would deliver as though my life depended on it.

"You must go to the Citadel and warn our Dominican brothers of impending doom to their neighbors in Haiti. From the Dominican side (of the Haitian island) you will be flown to Port Au Prince where you will meet with Baby Doc (Duvalier) at his Palace. He is already receptive to your word, and knows that my words are your words and your word is Silence. You must tell General Cedras his Order is from The Rose."

Casey touched the white rose in his lapel, signaling me to photographically record his words verbatim.

When he was through programming me with his message, Casey told me, "As quickly as you complete this mission, you must depart Haiti, never to return again." Casey used excessive high voltage to compartmentalize my memory. I recall being nauseated and ill from his stun gun as I departed his Long Island compound/home via ferry programmed with messages to Cedras and Baby Doc.

Haiti had recently been dropped from the NCL itinerary as a Port of Call, but the Dominican Republic side of the island remained open to tourism. When Houston and I debarked the NCL ship in Puerta Plata, we walked past a World Vision cargo ship that was being unloaded at the dock. I recall that a soft ocean breeze gently lifted the hem of my white, gauzy dress as I weaved my way through the dock load of World Vision freight to a waiting automobile.

Religion and politics apparently mix in the Dominican Republic as evidenced by the inseparable mixture of Catholic Missions, old forts, statues of Christopher Columbus, and Catholic Shrines. As we drove past the mountain tramway that takes tourists up and down to the rustic Citadel and Catholic Shrine at the top, Houston perpetuated the "Chameleon" book scramble. Dually referring to Cedras and the short donkey ride from the tram to the Citadel depicted in Diehl’s book, Houston threatened to put me on the rickety tram saying, "Some Jackass will see you at the top."



Raoul Cedras


In an area reserved for covert activities, out of view of tourists, I met with General Cedras in his Citadel office. Dressed in the eerie, Jesuit, dark, hooded robe, Cedras completed Casey’s "Chameleon" book scramble scenario as we walked through the ancient structure to his office. Cedras’ demeanor made him appear more as a militant than a "spook," despite the corny monk’s attire. With his hood down his back, Cedras’ sharp, craggy features and darting steel blue eyes kept my full attention. I had seen him at a monastery in Santo Domingo as ordered before,6 when Haiti was still being used by the CIA for Operation Watchtower to transport cocaine and Contra weapons from Cuba.

Alone with Cedras and properly signaled, I began photographically reciting Casey’s message,

"I have word of warning from the Vatican by way of the honorable and faithful William Casey. He sends word of impending doom that is to befall your neighbors on the dark side in Haiti. Voodoo manifest itself in mysterious ways while the way of the Lord is clear. Evil must be stopped at all costs. The cost shall be in terms of human casualty, as a plague is being visited upon the land. Those who fornicate with devils shall be infested with the plague. Woo unto them who have stood in the path of World Peace. By God’s design the New World Order shall come into being with or without the Haitians.
 
All American operations in Haiti are now destined for your ports. Your people (the CIA-UN operated Dominicans) will flourish in peace and prosperity while the dark side (Haitians) drown in the blood of this holy war that they have brought upon themselves. Close your borders swiftly and maintain guardians at the gate lest the Haitians infest your land with their evil plague. Inoculation of the masses shall be masked in the body and the blood shall carry the doom.
 
As more and more Haitians turn to God in their final hour, the communion they partake will be Satan’s own. With their God as the scapegoat, your Island in the Son (sun) will be freed of the vile and wicked. I have seen a vision, a World Vision, and it is through communion with the ancients that we have been granted the Keys to the Kingdom 7 to unlock the gates of hell. The holy water sent herein has the blessings of the Vatican and must be sprinkled like rain upon the Haitians.
 
Our God reigns, and he rains rivers of blood upon the Haitian masses, and he reigns supreme upon your mission. Your mission is clear. You serve communion and let God son them out. Those who serve the body of Christ are covered by the Vatican, those who serve voodoo evil shall be covered in the blood of their own. It is clear our God reigns. Lei the games begin."

Combining the cryptic language of Cedras’ CIA and Jesuit operations, Casey had weaved numerous cryptic commands into his message. Had I been inadvertently accessed, the instructions would make little sense to those not cued to the language. Cedras was listening religiously, fully grasping the magnitude of Casey’s instructions. I concluded the message,

"The holy water with the Vatican’s blessings will arrive at 1 PM today by way of World Vision, The blood shall host the plague."

I was relieved to depart Cedras’ presence without being subjected to his usual perverse sexual brutality. This would be someone else’s job this time, as my programmed trance was maintained until I delivered Casey’s message to Baby Doc Duvalier on the "dark side" of the "Island in the Son".

Houston took me to the small CIA-operated airport at the foot of the mountain where I boarded a small, white airplane destined for Port Au Prince, Haiti. When we landed, the pilot walked me over to Baby Doc’s Tonton guards, and ordered that I be taken to the Palace. He spoke in rapid Haitian French, and lifted my symbolic, rosy cross necklace for emphasis to the guards.
 
Reinforcing my instilled belief that the Catholic emblem would protect me, the guards treated me with the respect that apparently was reserved for identified Jesuit spooks. I was driven by white Mercedes to the Haitian Presidential Palace. Looking even more conspicuously out of place in contrast to stark poverty than his fleet of Mercedes, Baby Doc’s Palace was decadent. I stood reverently in the foyer waiting for my arranged meeting to begin, unable to question Baby Doc’s luxurious surroundings in view of the despair and starvation around him.



Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier's Haitian palace


I had met with Baby Doc throughout the early ’80s in the capacity of a Project Monarch prostitute. All Haitian-based U.S. covert operations were run by a bed-ridden old man referred to as "Ol’ Charlie," who resided at the El Presidente Hotel until his death in the mid ’80s. During my tenure as a mind-controlled messenger and prostitute in Haiti, I had been forced to attend a voodoo ceremony for my (and others’) traumatization purposes.





I was ordered to perform oral sex on Baby Doc as his dark-windowed Mercedes slowly proceeded through the crowds of Haitians on their way to the ritual. With my Haitian missions previously established with Ol’ Charlie for business and Baby Doc for prostitution, my meeting Baby Doc for business was unprecedented.

"What brings you here?" Baby Doc spit the words at me in English. I had been led into his library by three armed guards, "I have no need of a Catholic whore."

Baby Doc’s applicable knowledge of the English language was limited by his intellect whereby an aide filled the need for an interpreter as I delivered Casey’s message.

"I come in the name of peace. I have a message for you from William Casey, sanctioned by the Vatican. The Pope is in agreement with U.S. policy in Haiti. He has seen a vision, a sign from God. The vision is a World Vision, whose people are reaching out to yours with charily in abundance. The goods and services provided require only that the people of Haiti anoint the sick, feed the hungry, and clothe the poor through his servants of World Vision.
 
Their mission will separate good seed from bad and restore peace in your region. The peace that shall be visited upon your land amongst your people is imminent, but not before the rivers run red with the blood of the wicked. The vision is plague, and your people will fall in the streets pleading for mercy, and you will not be here to hear it. The lime has come for you to leave. It is God’s will that you escape the plague with blessings from the Vatican, never to return to your homeland.
 
Prepare for your exodus today for tomorrow holds a promise of doom. Using your prophetic wisdom, warn the masses of impending doom and arm them with World Vision. The vision is one of peace’ for those who flock to the tents and churches for salvation. Your destiny is clear, and the Vatican has cleared the way for your departure."

With Casey’s message delivered, Baby Doc’s Tontons returned me to the same airplane I had left a short time before. I flew in silence, unable to think to comprehend the magnitude of what had just transpired. Events to a mind- controlled slave are all perceived as first and last times.
 
Therefore, Casey’s instructions that I would "depart Haiti, never to return again" seemed business as usual to me. Flying over the mountains that separate Haiti from the Dominican Republic, I noticed the gentle people below bathing in the waterfalls, toilessly washing their bright clothes on the rocks, and primitively hauling goods in the baskets balanced on their heads. An occasional goat ran across the barren land, and the children, bellies swollen from starvation, played with slicks and vines.
 
With my mind-controlled and spinning with misperceptions, my whirled vision, like Ortega’s rose colored glasses, prevented me from seeing the reality of New World Orders.

[Bluegreen]

[Bluegreen]

A-HUNTING WE WILL GO

Chapter 24





On December 4, 1986, I turned 29 years old.
 
Usually mind-controlled slaves were discarded, "thrown from the Freedom train," at 30; but I argued with Houston when he told me my government abusers only had one year left to "use me up". I had had no conscious awareness of the passing of time, and believed I was still only 24. Regardless of what I believed, my abusers did their best to "use me up" physically and psychologically before even a month had passed.

I was in Washington, D.C. on a routine trip, which included being prostituted to President Reagan. "Uncle Ronnie’s" cheeks were flushed from excitement and cognac as he told me, "I always take two weeks off for Christmas to go back to California." Reagan interrupted himself to break into an old Hollywood style song and dance, "California here I come..."
 
The White House, he claimed, had always been confining to him, and he appeared genuinely excited about his upcoming trip.

"I look forward to this trip every year because I get to see old friends. Oh, I still work while I’m there - the President’s work is never done - but at least I’m there. It’s about time you see where I call home."

Then, quoting the Wizard of Oz, he said, "’There’s no place like home.’ And you’re about to see why. Say it with me, "There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home’."

Then he instructed me in Oz cryptic,

"Click your heels. There’s no place like home."

Blue-white light seemingly exploded in my brain, like being hit with deadly low voltage AC electrical current. Reagan was "setting the stage" for an attempted mind scrambling time slip, to be reactivated at an upcoming meeting I would have with him in Bel Air, California.

The motor home was packed to the walls, and the walls were packed with cocaine as Houston, Kelly, and I departed on our long drive to California. Houston had planned several "tourist stops" along the way that proved as "nightmarish as the California ordeal itself."

In Las Vegas, Nevada, Houston kept Kelly and me busy prostituting us to everyone he knew "in the know" and in attendance at the Country Music Association’s annual convention. Weary of being sent from room to room, I was back in the lobby literally trying to catch my breath when I saw Michael Dante. He was dressed in an expensive, light grey silk suit and dark glasses, looking more like a Fed than a mobster, leaning on a post, waiting for me. "Our love" he professed over the phone for mind conditioning purposes was certainly not apparent now. "You’re late," he growled as he looked at his watch.
 




He ordered me into the Ladies’ Room to activate programming by having me "lose myself" in the infinity mirrors that lined the walls. With my mind set like he wanted, he then used and directed me in commercial pornography. Later, he did the same with Kelly.

At the Grand Canyon, Houston traumatized Kelly and me in preparation for the upcoming events in California. While hiking down the canyon, Houston attempted to anchor hypnotically all of the trip’s events behind the death and insanity programming to which he was subjecting us. When we stopped for a late afternoon lunch in the Canyon, Kelly collapsed in a state of shock, unable to eat. Houston was pleased because he "got to eat it all himself".
 
I was, as usual, undergoing the food and water deprivation. I was so thirsty, I could not think to eat. Kelly’s condition magnified my own terrified state, and I did all I could to keep Houston from supposedly pushing her over the edge. I carried her for hours all the way out of the canyon, without pausing to rest. In my own mind I wanted to believe I was actually able to protect her. The fact was, Houston was wearing me down physically to ensure that I could not protect her at our next destination: Lake/Mount Shasta, California.





George Bush was highly active in both the Lampe, Missouri and Shasta, California retreat compounds. Just like Lampe, Shasta’s cover was country music. According to everyone I knew, singer and songwriter Merle Haggard supposedly ran the show at Lake Shasta, diverting any and all attention from the nearby Mount Shasta compound.
 
Shasta was the largest, covert mind-control slave camp of which I am aware. Hidden in the wooded hills, military fencing corrals an enormous fleet of unmarked, black helicopters and more mind-controlled, military robots than I saw in all of Haiti. This covert military operation served its own agenda, not America’s. I was told and overheard that it was a base for the future Multi-Jurisdictional Police Force; for enforcing order and law in the New World Order. In the center of the high security compound, was another well-guarded military-fenced area that was regarded as a "Camp David" of sorts for those running our country.
 
George Bush and Dick Cheney shared an office there, and claimed the outer perimeter woods as their own hunting ground where they played "A Most Dangerous Game". Predicated on conversations I overheard between the two, it was this world police military background that earned Dick Cheney his cabinet appointment as Secretary of Defense with the Bush Administration.





The late Merle Haggard owned and operated the Silverthorn Resort in Lake Shasta.


Houston stayed at Haggard’s Lake Shasta resort while Kelly and I were helicoptered to Mount Shasta for our scheduled meeting with Bush and Cheney. The helicopter pilot directed our attention to the military fencing surrounding the outer perimeter of the compound. Rarely did pilots ever speak to either of us, but this one smiled wickedly as he told us we would need to know the outer limits for A Most Dangerous Game.

As soon as we arrived at Bush and Cheney’s inner sanctum, I noticed George Bush, Jr. was with them. It was my experience that Jr. stood by his father and covered his backside whenever Bush would become incapacitated from drugs or required criminal backup. It appeared that Jr. was there to serve both purposes while his father and Cheney enjoyed their work-vacation.



Mid-1980's


Hyper from drugs, Cheney and Bush were eager to hunt their human prey in "A Most Dangerous Game". They greeted me with the rules of the game, ordered me to strip naked despite the cold December winds, and told me in Oz cryptic to "beware of the lions and tigers and bears". Kelly’s life became the stakes, as usual, which resurrected my natural and exaggerated programmed maternal instincts. Tears silently ran down my cheeks as Bush told me,

"If we catch you, Kelly’s mine. So run, run as fast as you can. I’ll get you and your little girl, too, because I can, I can, I can. And I will."

Cheney, daring me to respond, asked, "Any questions?" I said, "There’s no place to run because there’s a fence—the kind I can’t get over. I saw it."

Rather than physically assault me. Cheney laughed at my sense of "no where to run, no where to hide, and explained that a bear had torn a hole in the fence somewhere, and all I had to do is find it. He lowered his rifle to my head and said, "Let the games begin. Go."

Wearing only my tennis shoes, I ran through the trees as fast and as far as I could, which wasn’t very far at all. Bush was using his bird dog to track me, the same one that had recently been used with me in bestiality filming as a "Byrd-dog" joke on my owner, Robert C. Byrd. When caught, Cheney held his gun to my head again as he stood over me, looking warm in his sheepskin coat. Bush ordered me to take his dog sexually while they watched, then he and Cheney ushered me back to their cabin.





I pulled on my clothes and sat in the office part of the cabin awaiting instructions. I had no idea where Kelly was, nor do I in retrospect. Bush and Cheney were still in their hunting clothes when the programming session began. Bush said,

"You and I are about to embark on A Most Dangerous Game of diplomatic relations. This is my game. You will follow my rules. I will have the distinct advantage of hunting you with my Eye in the Sky (satellite).
 
I’ll watch every move you make. As long as you play the game by my rules and make no mistakes, you live. One mistake and I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little girl, too. You die, and Kelly will have to play with me. I prefer it that way. Then it will be her Most Dangerous Game. The cards are stacked in my favor because, well, it is my game! Are you game?"

There was no choice. I responded as conditioned, "Yes, Sir! I’m game." The parallels to The Most Dangerous Game that had just occurred in the woods were deliberate and intended to make retrieval of memory "impossible" due to cryptoamnesia scrambling.

"Good. Then let the games begin. Listen carefully to your instructions. You have no room for error." Cheney flipped his "game timer"—an hourglass. Bush continued, "This game is called the King and Eye, and here’s the deal. You will be establishing stronger diplomatic relations according to order between Mexico, the U.S., and the Middle East. Your role will require a change of face at each new place. I’ll chart your course, define your role, and pull your strings. You’ll speak my words when I pull your strings. There is no room for error."

Cheney was half lying across the plain, military issue style desk in an apparent drug stupor as Bush talked. Still wearing his hunting coat and hat, Cheney aimed his rifle at me from the desk and threatened, "Or a-hunting we will go." Bush finished Cheney’s threat by singing, "We’ll catch a fox and put her in a box and lower her in a hole."

Bush looked at Cheney and burst out laughing. The sight of him dressed in his hunting clothes with a huge bore, double-barreled shotgun to his shoulder inspired Bush to tell him he "looked like Elmer Fudd".

Cheney, imitating the cartoon character, said, "Where is that waskily wabbit?"

Operation The King and Eye would involve Reagan’s #1 envoy Philip Habib (who cryptically played the Alice In Wonderland role of the White Rabbit with slaves such as myself) and Saudi Arabian King Fahd. So when Bush referred to the two as "Elmer Fahd and the Waskily Wabbit," he and Cheney laughed until they cried. Since both were already high from drugs anyway, they had a great deal of difficulty maintaining composure long enough to complete my programming.