Detecting a CIA Presidential Assassination Attempt
I had my detective hat on since leaving Virginia Beach in late July 2014. I had learned so much in my few months in that mid Atlantic state.
My Russian ex wife Svetlana had conspired with Tregubov and Kosheleva in my poisoning in August 2011, this I learned via Svetlana's unexpected confession on June 20, 2014, the day before the FBI undercovers came at me hard, my fraudulent divorce in October 2012, and my fraudulent death threat of October 2013.
My Russian ex wife Svetlana had conspired with Tregubov and Kosheleva in my poisoning in August 2011, this I learned via Svetlana's unexpected confession on June 20, 2014, the day before the FBI undercovers came at me hard, my fraudulent divorce in October 2012, and my fraudulent death threat of October 2013.
I had learned from his own admission that my 'pal', an American I had met in Russia, NCIS special agent Douglas Boyce had been in the employ of the CIA in those days.
I had been pursued by approximately 40 undercover FBI vehicles in my last days in Virginia, including a desperate all night pursuit from Virginia Beach to western New York state where a bevy of just as frightening revelations awaited.
Had I been a detective? Was I undercover from July 2014 to the end of my stay in the US in December 2016? I thought so, and that was enough for me. I needed to find out why multimillionaire August Meyer had been so welcoming of me into his life most private, and why he had upped that ante with cocaine.
Similarly, I wondered if bisexual former prostitute who had starred in some of my homemade pornos, Albina Taptiga, had introduced me to amphetamine randomly, or had that presentation while she, I and an Uzbek gal named Natasha partied naked in an apartment on loan to me from construction manager pal of August's, Rustam Ivanov, been part of something larger and certainly more nefarious.
Rounding out that troika of stimulant introductions, legal and less so, were MDPV and MDMA introduced to me in concert by Adam Stanhope and his then partner Mark Brady while I was in Massachusetts setting my mother to her final rest in September 2011.
And so I went undercover. The comparison that always helped me was that of Batman and his alter ego Matches Malone.
Batman for those moments when my recovery from the strongest of these drugs seemed bleak. I recall Batman concentrating hard so hard to fight of the effects of the latest of the Joker's toxins.
Matches Malone for my trips into downtown Rochester, NY, into the post industrial housing now occupied by blacks and the lower of the white working classes.
Seems comical now, with my paradigm corrected as to how our world works and my role in it, but then after that summer of 2014, the questions mounted, the evidence peeking out from under, and the connections most unbelievable. Just the way CIA likes it on their mad quest to take advantage of this world.
While in Russia, after I made my million, after Russian spy Anna Chapman cast her hook my way, though I did not bite, but before my poisoning, American expat and 'pal' Christian Courbois invited wife and I out for a gentle night in the presence of Dmitry Nablokov son of Vladimir, author of 'Lolita', reading from his father's work at arguably the most prestigious hotel in Saint Petersburg, the Grand Hotel Europe. Christian in retrospect was never a friend, I was always a target, as he was and likely remains a CIA gangstalker. I have another term for brother Christian, and that would be scum. If his kids only knew that which I learned, hard earned through desperate experience, and hard wrought analysis.
We dressed up as I recall, for it was such an evening. One night only. Suit and tie for me, a dress for Svetlana. Dmitry was tall and deep voiced. I had never read Lolita, though I own a copy in Russian and saw the Jeremy Irons film.
In a few years time, I would first hand have experiences with a girl in her teen years, the legal ones, not the others, and would find myself more than a bit understanding of the perils and emotions in which Humbert Humbert found himself fictionally entangled.
I sat with Dmitry, now passed, then not. We drank beer together. Lager. We talked. I thought how cool am I, but didn't let those childish emotions in the way of conversation. Dmitry told me of scammers, criminals from Russia who had sought to cheat him with a grift of one sort or another. I listened intently. He lived a rich man's life in Switzerland, a fine country, better still if one speaks German or French. I suspect Dmitry spoke both, in addition to flawless English and Russian.
The evening concluded. All went home. Memories retained. And my world from mid 2011 went sideways, in a spiral indeterminate. Odd things I thought random but were not. And upon my escape from Virginia and CIA criminal Douglas Boyce I was determined to learn was Douglas working for the Russians or was what I experienced caused by something else far darker?
I abandoned Russia in October of 2013. This a result of a fraudulent death threat brought to me by the two honeypot traps, FSB trained, Russian, these two I confess whom I hold most dear, Svetlana Borisovna Chuloshnikova Macy, exwife, now remarried (to me oddly enough) and Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva, whose right shoulder is tattooed with my name 'Rick' now for nearly six years, and whom I was conned into
I spent the next 9 months in a sort of womb, being made ready to be birthed. Pembroke, Ma, Newbury, Ma, Portland Me, Levant, Me, two nights in Manhattan, and a summer never to be forgot in Virginia Beach, VA, with sidetrips to Asheville, NC, Springfield, VA, and Gaithersburg, MD. Those sidetrips hotly pursued by a bevy of unmarked FBI cars.
Looking back, I had lived large in Russia, larger than I was likely to have in the land of my birth, the United States. And I didn't know then that which I learned and hold dear, that I had been from birth and remain a 'targeted individual', a 'Manchurian Candidate', pursued, harassed, and molded in ways most odd by CIA and their underlings, compatriots. In Russia, the jobs I held were good, we'll paid, offering prestige, material comfort, and a lifestyle to which I grew accustomed. Work, women, and song. Nights of dancing. Days of toil. And me happy and fulfilled as a result. Women grabbing my assignment and the other side as well at parties, even sometimes in the office. I had a sense of discipline regarding women. But for Svetlana and the women she brought into our bed, my restraint was perhaps admirable. Irina, Galina, Niki come back to mind. An orgy with a man better equipped than I on my birthday in Siberia narrowly avoided. That would have been an alcohol fueled event in any case.
We moved from Siberia to Saint Petersburg in the winter of 1998. I had been baited, oops, excuse me, hired by another CIA criminal, he of the name Stephen Gardner. A UCLA grad wearing a Rolex and commanding the room with his excessive height. We were both Irish boys and our smiles look similar, and oddly both of us had mothers who worked airlines as stewardesses for a time. Our fathers differed in their employment, his a senior agent at the FBI, mine an American Airlines pilot, and before that Alaska Airways, and likely OSS, though of the latter I have no proof, only educated guesswork. And me, we'll I was always a good student, top of my class.
Steve and I had a working relationship for several years, and I had been convinced we had also a friendship, about which I was incorrect. Steve made great efforts in this con, as my direct supervisor for three years, best man at my Russian court wedding; we even shared our bachelor parties, with him being wed the week after I in the summer of 2001.
Steve, like Christian Courbois, like Adrian Terris, like J. Christian Moore, like Matt Igel and others, nudged me on a path I was all too willing to tread, that of debauchery. It was a long time between meeting Steve in February of 1998, and to being the center of a furious drug fueled all male gangbang in early 2012. And between those two points were 400 women, lots of hashish, though ingested sparingly, one affair with Polina Panfilova, a daughter of my first secretary, she once an aerobics instructor (the daughter and not the mother, the mother had gold teeth and even I have my limits), about 100 self made sex videos of self and Russian prostitutes, though the sex quite vanilla and satisfying, quick trips to sex theaters while on the road for fellatio both exciting and anonymous, with me mostly as receiver, having programmed myself with just too much pornos.
Believing I had rescued from a life most direct in a series of cheap bordellos. The actual originator of my death threats most fraudulent, though in retrospect, perhaps needed, for without which I would likely not know that which I learned and retain, the Russian fellow who poisoned me in August 2011, Alexander Valerievich Tregubov. And to assist him in this matter was supposed human trafficker Egish Khachatrian. Egish is of great importance to my tale mostly due to his impassioned speech over an international phone call in the summer most terrifying, that of 2014 in Virginia. Egish said, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too". Crushing words, though memorable beyond all measure.
Inspired by these events,
1. fraudulent death threat,
2. revelations of CIA membership,
3. an unsolved Russian roof fire, not unlike that of recent Notre Dame, though that one less well known on JFK's birthday in 2009, May 29th,
4. pursuit by 40 unmarked vehicles,
5. introduction to psychoactive stimulants, some legal, most not, by a multimillionaire, a prostitute and a Silk Road drug dealer,
6. my poisoning in August 2011 by Alexander Tregubov
and more,
I arrived in Victor, NY intent on determining:
Was the cause of these events related?
and
Who was behind the cause?
My answers in time were yes all these events were related, and the cause, our mindf***ing security services, in the former of the organization popularly known as the CIA.
I intended to use the clues I had been given, especially two points of odd and unexpected guidance from roommate gangstalker and drug dealer of Virginia Beach, John Pouliot Jr, and wife of alcoholic shipmate Chuck Jensen, ICU nurse of Levant, Maine, Randee,
Randee had in voice unusual, notable, and leaking traces of her larger FBI guided deception, asked me why I was not using or interested in using the service of prostitutes in America after I quite openly discussed with her and husband Chuck the causes for my leaving Russia. Her intonation on this point caught my attention.
Similarly, John Pouliot, Jr. seemed to spend just a little too much time, with a voice a little too unnatural when recommending to me two online sources for bad Girls, Craigslist and Backpage, both now regulated in these matters, then not.
In Victor, I had a house, a big bank account, questions, and will. These items combined with what in retrospect was what is termed in the biz 'seasoning' as regards sex and drugs, I delved forth, intent to uncover a criminal conspiracy, perhaps not unlike the one described to me by Dmitry Nabokov, prove it and take it to the police for adjudication, discovery, and ultimately prosecution.
No one was more surprised than I to find my harassers were the police. The Police. POLICE. CORRUPT POLICE - just as in 1963 with JFK, later with RFK and MLK, in 2001 with 9/11, and so many more worldwide terror plots/assassinations. False flags all. Just as Danish researcher Ole Dammegard discovered, just as he shares with the world quite openly, yet few give attention, for such is the strength of the machine, run by the CIA, oiled by corporate media giants, and run for perhaps 400 wealthy families above the other 7,000,000,000 of us. Damn.
Wish my dad knew that I figured this stuff out. Bet he would smile. Bet he would be proud of his boy.
Had I been a detective? Was I undercover from July 2014 to the end of my stay in the US in December 2016? I thought so, and that was enough for me. I needed to find out why multimillionaire August Meyer had been so welcoming of me into his life most private, and why he had upped that ante with cocaine.
Similarly, I wondered if bisexual former prostitute who had starred in some of my homemade pornos, Albina Taptiga, had introduced me to amphetamine randomly, or had that presentation while she, I and an Uzbek gal named Natasha partied naked in an apartment on loan to me from construction manager pal of August's, Rustam Ivanov, been part of something larger and certainly more nefarious.
Rounding out that troika of stimulant introductions, legal and less so, were MDPV and MDMA introduced to me in concert by Adam Stanhope and his then partner Mark Brady while I was in Massachusetts setting my mother to her final rest in September 2011.
And so I went undercover. The comparison that always helped me was that of Batman and his alter ego Matches Malone.
Batman for those moments when my recovery from the strongest of these drugs seemed bleak. I recall Batman concentrating hard so hard to fight of the effects of the latest of the Joker's toxins.
Matches Malone for my trips into downtown Rochester, NY, into the post industrial housing now occupied by blacks and the lower of the white working classes.
Seems comical now, with my paradigm corrected as to how our world works and my role in it, but then after that summer of 2014, the questions mounted, the evidence peeking out from under, and the connections most unbelievable. Just the way CIA likes it on their mad quest to take advantage of this world.
While in Russia, after I made my million, after Russian spy Anna Chapman cast her hook my way, though I did not bite, but before my poisoning, American expat and 'pal' Christian Courbois invited wife and I out for a gentle night in the presence of Dmitry Nablokov son of Vladimir, author of 'Lolita', reading from his father's work at arguably the most prestigious hotel in Saint Petersburg, the Grand Hotel Europe. Christian in retrospect was never a friend, I was always a target, as he was and likely remains a CIA gangstalker. I have another term for brother Christian, and that would be scum. If his kids only knew that which I learned, hard earned through desperate experience, and hard wrought analysis.
We dressed up as I recall, for it was such an evening. One night only. Suit and tie for me, a dress for Svetlana. Dmitry was tall and deep voiced. I had never read Lolita, though I own a copy in Russian and saw the Jeremy Irons film.
In a few years time, I would first hand have experiences with a girl in her teen years, the legal ones, not the others, and would find myself more than a bit understanding of the perils and emotions in which Humbert Humbert found himself fictionally entangled.
I sat with Dmitry, now passed, then not. We drank beer together. Lager. We talked. I thought how cool am I, but didn't let those childish emotions in the way of conversation. Dmitry told me of scammers, criminals from Russia who had sought to cheat him with a grift of one sort or another. I listened intently. He lived a rich man's life in Switzerland, a fine country, better still if one speaks German or French. I suspect Dmitry spoke both, in addition to flawless English and Russian.
The evening concluded. All went home. Memories retained. And my world from mid 2011 went sideways, in a spiral indeterminate. Odd things I thought random but were not. And upon my escape from Virginia and CIA criminal Douglas Boyce I was determined to learn was Douglas working for the Russians or was what I experienced caused by something else far darker?
I abandoned Russia in October of 2013. This a result of a fraudulent death threat brought to me by the two honeypot traps, FSB trained, Russian, these two I confess whom I hold most dear, Svetlana Borisovna Chuloshnikova Macy, exwife, now remarried (to me oddly enough) and Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva, whose right shoulder is tattooed with my name 'Rick' now for nearly six years, and whom I was conned into
I spent the next 9 months in a sort of womb, being made ready to be birthed. Pembroke, Ma, Newbury, Ma, Portland Me, Levant, Me, two nights in Manhattan, and a summer never to be forgot in Virginia Beach, VA, with sidetrips to Asheville, NC, Springfield, VA, and Gaithersburg, MD. Those sidetrips hotly pursued by a bevy of unmarked FBI cars.
Looking back, I had lived large in Russia, larger than I was likely to have in the land of my birth, the United States. And I didn't know then that which I learned and hold dear, that I had been from birth and remain a 'targeted individual', a 'Manchurian Candidate', pursued, harassed, and molded in ways most odd by CIA and their underlings, compatriots. In Russia, the jobs I held were good, we'll paid, offering prestige, material comfort, and a lifestyle to which I grew accustomed. Work, women, and song. Nights of dancing. Days of toil. And me happy and fulfilled as a result. Women grabbing my assignment and the other side as well at parties, even sometimes in the office. I had a sense of discipline regarding women. But for Svetlana and the women she brought into our bed, my restraint was perhaps admirable. Irina, Galina, Niki come back to mind. An orgy with a man better equipped than I on my birthday in Siberia narrowly avoided. That would have been an alcohol fueled event in any case.
We moved from Siberia to Saint Petersburg in the winter of 1998. I had been baited, oops, excuse me, hired by another CIA criminal, he of the name Stephen Gardner. A UCLA grad wearing a Rolex and commanding the room with his excessive height. We were both Irish boys and our smiles look similar, and oddly both of us had mothers who worked airlines as stewardesses for a time. Our fathers differed in their employment, his a senior agent at the FBI, mine an American Airlines pilot, and before that Alaska Airways, and likely OSS, though of the latter I have no proof, only educated guesswork. And me, we'll I was always a good student, top of my class.
Steve and I had a working relationship for several years, and I had been convinced we had also a friendship, about which I was incorrect. Steve made great efforts in this con, as my direct supervisor for three years, best man at my Russian court wedding; we even shared our bachelor parties, with him being wed the week after I in the summer of 2001.
Steve, like Christian Courbois, like Adrian Terris, like J. Christian Moore, like Matt Igel and others, nudged me on a path I was all too willing to tread, that of debauchery. It was a long time between meeting Steve in February of 1998, and to being the center of a furious drug fueled all male gangbang in early 2012. And between those two points were 400 women, lots of hashish, though ingested sparingly, one affair with Polina Panfilova, a daughter of my first secretary, she once an aerobics instructor (the daughter and not the mother, the mother had gold teeth and even I have my limits), about 100 self made sex videos of self and Russian prostitutes, though the sex quite vanilla and satisfying, quick trips to sex theaters while on the road for fellatio both exciting and anonymous, with me mostly as receiver, having programmed myself with just too much pornos.
Believing I had rescued from a life most direct in a series of cheap bordellos. The actual originator of my death threats most fraudulent, though in retrospect, perhaps needed, for without which I would likely not know that which I learned and retain, the Russian fellow who poisoned me in August 2011, Alexander Valerievich Tregubov. And to assist him in this matter was supposed human trafficker Egish Khachatrian. Egish is of great importance to my tale mostly due to his impassioned speech over an international phone call in the summer most terrifying, that of 2014 in Virginia. Egish said, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too". Crushing words, though memorable beyond all measure.
Inspired by these events,
1. fraudulent death threat,
2. revelations of CIA membership,
3. an unsolved Russian roof fire, not unlike that of recent Notre Dame, though that one less well known on JFK's birthday in 2009, May 29th,
4. pursuit by 40 unmarked vehicles,
5. introduction to psychoactive stimulants, some legal, most not, by a multimillionaire, a prostitute and a Silk Road drug dealer,
6. my poisoning in August 2011 by Alexander Tregubov
and more,
I arrived in Victor, NY intent on determining:
Was the cause of these events related?
and
Who was behind the cause?
My answers in time were yes all these events were related, and the cause, our mindf***ing security services, in the former of the organization popularly known as the CIA.
I intended to use the clues I had been given, especially two points of odd and unexpected guidance from roommate gangstalker and drug dealer of Virginia Beach, John Pouliot Jr, and wife of alcoholic shipmate Chuck Jensen, ICU nurse of Levant, Maine, Randee,
Randee had in voice unusual, notable, and leaking traces of her larger FBI guided deception, asked me why I was not using or interested in using the service of prostitutes in America after I quite openly discussed with her and husband Chuck the causes for my leaving Russia. Her intonation on this point caught my attention.
Similarly, John Pouliot, Jr. seemed to spend just a little too much time, with a voice a little too unnatural when recommending to me two online sources for bad Girls, Craigslist and Backpage, both now regulated in these matters, then not.
In Victor, I had a house, a big bank account, questions, and will. These items combined with what in retrospect was what is termed in the biz 'seasoning' as regards sex and drugs, I delved forth, intent to uncover a criminal conspiracy, perhaps not unlike the one described to me by Dmitry Nabokov, prove it and take it to the police for adjudication, discovery, and ultimately prosecution.
No one was more surprised than I to find my harassers were the police. The Police. POLICE. CORRUPT POLICE - just as in 1963 with JFK, later with RFK and MLK, in 2001 with 9/11, and so many more worldwide terror plots/assassinations. False flags all. Just as Danish researcher Ole Dammegard discovered, just as he shares with the world quite openly, yet few give attention, for such is the strength of the machine, run by the CIA, oiled by corporate media giants, and run for perhaps 400 wealthy families above the other 7,000,000,000 of us. Damn.
Wish my dad knew that I figured this stuff out. Bet he would smile. Bet he would be proud of his boy.
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