July 2014. Leaving Virginia pursued by 40 FBI undercover vehicles
Leaving Virginia Pursued by 40 FBI Vehicles
July 2014. I remember leaving Virginia. I left late at night. Close to midnight. I had had enough. I didn't then understand as fully as I would in time. I hadn't heard the term gangstalking. I was unfamiliar with another term, targeted individual.
I had rented a room at 3205 Sandfiddler Road, Virginia Beach from a twice bankrupt 50 year old divorcee named Shari Faller. The ad I had found on Craigslist. It was far cheaper than a room in a beach house across the street from the Atlantic in the upscale neighborhood should ever be. Later I'd learn that was bait. And later after my all night drive North, I'd use self as bait to discover who had been following me, and why NCIS special agent Douglas Boyce told me after sitting in my car all night in his driveway at 313 Sage Road in that upscale part of Virginia Beach, "Rick you have misperceived much in your life". This after texting me at 4 a.m. how he had a funny story to tell me in the morning.
Why was I parked all night in his driveway? Fair question. Good question. I had been gangstalked there. There was no where to go where those cars didn't follow and harass.
And why did I leave Virginia? The story complex, though ultimately straightforward once one accepts the paradigm put forth by Dane Ole Dammegard in his books and YouTube videos on false flag terror events. I had moved back into 3205 Sandfiddler Road after an eye opening drive to Asheville, North Carolina for an appointment with an American expat I had met earlier in Russia, Jeff Letino. Jeff, like me, and like Douglas Boyce was former US military. And like Douglas, and unlike me, Jeff was likely in the employ of CIA as Douglas only a few weeks earlier had admitted to me in the cozy surroundings of his Virginia Beach home.
The meeting never happened for the same reason I spent that night in Doug's driveway, FBI gangstallers pursuing, harassing, and scaring the crap out of me. By the time I had left 3205 Sandfiddler Road for Asheville, my Russian ex wife was making good on her extortionary threat to disappear with our son, my son. And their disappearance was the reason for my agreement to meet Jeff. Jeff held a position on the board of a Russian security company and he offered to locate her and him via that company. I had readily and excitedly agreed.
By the time I had left for Asheville, both my landlady, Shari Faller and roommate, John Pouliot Jr. had given me reason to be uncomfortable and suspicious of them both. Those feelings seemed minor compared to that which I felt knowing my son was missing.
A week earlier I had confirmation that my Russian ex wife Svetlana Macy had conspired with the man who poisoned me in August 2011, Alexander Tregubov, and the honeypot trap who had escorted me into divorce, Evgeniya Kosheleva, in a coordinated attempt to gain my downtown Saint Petersburg, Russia apartment and further to cause me to believe in a fraudulent October 2013 death threat from Tregubov and his pal Egish Khachatrian (he will always be of note in this tale for his mind-boggling revelation over a long distance call that summer, "Rick we will turn you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!"). The intent of this death threats was to get me back to the U.S. The clock was ticking. Of that I had no idea. This conspiracy uncovered had originally planned for me to have remained in the U.S. in the fall of 2011, and I had in my return to Russia post my mother's passing and funeral service, disappointed the boys at Langley.
Svetlana herself, once I had connected the dots told me in a long distance calls that she had never loved me, that Tregubov was incapable of impregnating her, that I had been capable of impregnating her, that remaining we me after the birth of our son was driven by pure commercial interest as I could give her the lifestyle as a mother that which she had never experienced growing up poor in the Soviet Union. She told me another thing which connected more dots and blew my mind just as Egish Khachatrian's dark revelation Had done only a few weeks later that summer. Svetlana told me that she and Tregubov had been eavesdropping by methods unknown to all my phone calls, emails, Internet access, and more since 1997. Mind blowing. Tumblers had to fall further inplace, until my eyes opened to what was staring me in the face. Svetlana was and remains an FSB trained honeypot trap. I learned the spooks were watching me then as now. I got schooled.
Upon my return from Asheville, I rented a mobile home in Sandbridge, not wanting to return to the deception and narcotics contained within the property known as 3205 Sandfiddler Road and as presented in the persons of Shari Faller and John Pouliot Jr. I spent perhaps a week there getting more lessons in FBI gangstalking and harassment, following step by step advice texted me from afar from special agent of the NCIS Douglas Boyce. He was away on vacation with his family in Illinois. He had taken wife Lena and children Alexander and Maria to see his aging mother.
Being harassed all that week by people unknown, though all with a military look, led me to the 313 Sage Road driveway for an all night session in government paid for gangstalking. And I knew that military look from my six years service in the Navy from 84 to 90.
In the morning Douglas called, and my world went upside down.
Douglas had asked that I take pictures of the pursuing vehicles and to email them to him for his analysis. I did. That morning Douglas told me first and foremost that he was a policeman (this done in hopes of using a nasty psy ops technique of conditioning me), that no cars were following me and that I had misperceived much in my life.
I had thought Douglas a savior after my experiences in the U.S. from October 2013 at the Pembroke MA home of Silk Road drug dealer Adam Stanhope (his online vending name was NAWLINS, one can Google him. Adam was for a time the leading online seller of MDPV, a bath salt, on that initial version of the darknet's Silk Road. Adam was of that proud I recall.), and later in Levant, Maine having my car broken into and unknown chemicals sprayed all about the dashboard and steering wheel. I had been misdirected and afraid. And Doug my dear friend from Russia took full advantage of this to manipulate me, to push my buttons.
I had reported John Pouliot Jr to Douglas as he was selling narcotics from an illegal first floor apartment rented to him by Shari Faller. John had sold me weed, and introduced me to the legal world of American ADD psychiatry, where the amphetamine to which I had been introduced while naked by a Russian prostitute named Albina, there illegal, in Virginia legal if prescribed. Such is our world. Funny that. John had displayed a huge bag of blue MDMA pills, which upon reflection likely I had seen before in the possession of Adam Stanhope the fall before.
FBI be like that.
Doug's reaction was surprisingly mild. He asked me to get pictures of John with his wares. I thought about it, and hadn't. Not sure if it was from lack of interest, opportunity or my preoccupation with being gangstalked at that time. Doug seemed oddly unconcerned...
I recall asking Shari upon our initial meeting, my inquiry as to the room she was letting. I had asked her are there any drugs on the premises, after my adventures up North with Adam Stanhope and his pals. I had had enough. I still hadn't enough experiences to link what had happened to me in Russia earlier with what was then occurring in America. Who would? For that would be nuts, right?
Shari's response, deceptive and false, with no hesitation, no no drugs here. And with that I became one of her three tenants, John being one of the other two, and the final man a black truck driver whose name escapes me.
In a few weeks time, John was selling me weed, and introducing me to Amphetamine in pill former along with Vicodina and Cholonopin, the Vicodin he had traded for with Shari on my behalf. I had felt safe initially at 3205 Sandfiddler Road. Shari and John wanted to ease me back into using weed. I like weed, then as now.
It wasn't until some weeks later when John an Army vet with a bachelor's degree in Psychology invited me to join him on a road trip to Florida to retrieve 8 full grown marijuana plants, crossing several state lines to bring them home to Virginia. I was incredulous with this offer. I declined and offered that he rethink this idea, as the risk of laws to be broken exceeded the benefit.
And just as when Doug some weeks earlier admitted to me he had been CIA when we knew each other in Russia in 1999, this set bells off in my head. Later John offered me at no cost a handful of Vicodins. I was interested in getting right with my ex, didn't see the value of popping opioid pain killers to help me with that, and passed. And then a small things happened. John help out his stretched open palm covered in little blue pills just a little too long. And my third eye, my gut felt, or sensed something else was going on. John wanted me to be ingesting narcotics. The question was why and that answer would reveal itself in time.
Upon my return to 3205 Sandfiddler Road after my devastating phone call from Doug, I overheard Shari on the phone with parties unknown saying in a low voice, "The tenant has returned". This too set off my radar. The tenant? She had three. And only I had just returned. So why this phone call and in this manner.
In a few days Shari would ask my help with the oven/stove combo unit. For reasons unclear then, bold as a sunny day now, the digital control on the oven was broken and would only go to 400 degrees Fahrenheit, and once there, would not shut off unless the entire unit was unplugged. And that was a task as the plug was to a high voltage 220 or 440 VAC connector. One had to pry the oven away from the wall, and it was hot, quite hot to the touch, pull it away from the wall in order to access the thick gray power cord in the back off the unit. And so while untrusting of Shari, I agreed to help. I pulled the unit carefully from the wall and unplugged it to allow it to reset and cool off. This would take an hour or two. I would later push it back in having reconnected it.
When I went back to the oven later that night. Shari was in her bedroom, I found that someone had stuffed a wad of paper into the oven exhaust. I freaked. It hadn't been there earlier. Someone had.... OMG. I withdrew the paper, threw it away, my brain clicked, OMG, this had been done with intent. What intent? Entrapment.
I calmed myself. Decided enough, the risk I was at was so much larger than I understood, but I felt it and it was huge. Had I not caught this stuffed paper and just reconnected the oven, a fire would have occurred and I see as clear on one can see it was to be blamed on me, to involve me with the criminal justice system. My mind was blown. My resolve to see this storm through remained. I packed my car, clothes, pillows, personal effects, my prescribed speed, got in my car, headed North to the home I once owned in Victor, NY at 1235 Honeysuckle Pass, where two 'bad' tenants awaited me, Alice Calabrese and Dylan Chase.
And as I drove out of the Virginia Beach area my GPS was all over the place and had been for days. I was being spoofed and knew something about that as I had earlier worked at Harris Corp, maker of police cell phone spy radios like Triggerfish and others. I pulled into a conversation store and went old school, bought a paper bound map of the East Coast. This would see me through, their GPS jammer be damned.
And I noticed there in that 7/11 parking lot a highly reflective sticker on the underside of my drivers side door. Gray in color to blend with the gray of that Hyundai Sonata, but enough shiny to garner my attention. I shook my head and dug at it with my fingernails and with some effort removed the sticker. It measured 4 inches by 8 inches approximately and would certainly be useful were I being followed and harassed as I believed I was. And I hadn't put it there or noticed it earlier.
I drove North. To leave the Virginia Beach/Norfolk area. To leave the area there was one way out and that was through a tunnel. I approached the tunnel. An official night-time LED sign glared, 'CAR ACCIDENT IN TUNNEL, TURN AROUND'. Having been harassed by so many cars, and cop cars with lights spinning on my way out, this felt... wrong. I saw it as a bluff and I called it. I sped up and headed into the tunnel. And the tunnel was.... wide open. No car accident. No tunnel closure. More psy ops crap from the FBI I would in time learn.
Driving all night from Virginia to the outskirts of Rochester NY gave me another clue. That path is all back roads, and I was driving at 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m., you see the pattern. And that whole night, the entire drive cars pursuing me with extra bright raised headlights, and 40 of them on roads upon which most nights one would be lucky to see a car at all. Geez what a thrill. Bad guys on my tail.
I had surmised by getting to my upscale home in a relatively affluent western New York suburb or Rochester, 40 cars could not simply park alongside my 2 acre lot. I was correct in this. What they would do though is send a taxi, a FedEx truck, etc. to sit outside my place where no cars set.
All clear in hindsight. FBI.
July 2014. I remember leaving Virginia. I left late at night. Close to midnight. I had had enough. I didn't then understand as fully as I would in time. I hadn't heard the term gangstalking. I was unfamiliar with another term, targeted individual.
I had rented a room at 3205 Sandfiddler Road, Virginia Beach from a twice bankrupt 50 year old divorcee named Shari Faller. The ad I had found on Craigslist. It was far cheaper than a room in a beach house across the street from the Atlantic in the upscale neighborhood should ever be. Later I'd learn that was bait. And later after my all night drive North, I'd use self as bait to discover who had been following me, and why NCIS special agent Douglas Boyce told me after sitting in my car all night in his driveway at 313 Sage Road in that upscale part of Virginia Beach, "Rick you have misperceived much in your life". This after texting me at 4 a.m. how he had a funny story to tell me in the morning.
Why was I parked all night in his driveway? Fair question. Good question. I had been gangstalked there. There was no where to go where those cars didn't follow and harass.
And why did I leave Virginia? The story complex, though ultimately straightforward once one accepts the paradigm put forth by Dane Ole Dammegard in his books and YouTube videos on false flag terror events. I had moved back into 3205 Sandfiddler Road after an eye opening drive to Asheville, North Carolina for an appointment with an American expat I had met earlier in Russia, Jeff Letino. Jeff, like me, and like Douglas Boyce was former US military. And like Douglas, and unlike me, Jeff was likely in the employ of CIA as Douglas only a few weeks earlier had admitted to me in the cozy surroundings of his Virginia Beach home.
The meeting never happened for the same reason I spent that night in Doug's driveway, FBI gangstallers pursuing, harassing, and scaring the crap out of me. By the time I had left 3205 Sandfiddler Road for Asheville, my Russian ex wife was making good on her extortionary threat to disappear with our son, my son. And their disappearance was the reason for my agreement to meet Jeff. Jeff held a position on the board of a Russian security company and he offered to locate her and him via that company. I had readily and excitedly agreed.
By the time I had left for Asheville, both my landlady, Shari Faller and roommate, John Pouliot Jr. had given me reason to be uncomfortable and suspicious of them both. Those feelings seemed minor compared to that which I felt knowing my son was missing.
A week earlier I had confirmation that my Russian ex wife Svetlana Macy had conspired with the man who poisoned me in August 2011, Alexander Tregubov, and the honeypot trap who had escorted me into divorce, Evgeniya Kosheleva, in a coordinated attempt to gain my downtown Saint Petersburg, Russia apartment and further to cause me to believe in a fraudulent October 2013 death threat from Tregubov and his pal Egish Khachatrian (he will always be of note in this tale for his mind-boggling revelation over a long distance call that summer, "Rick we will turn you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!"). The intent of this death threats was to get me back to the U.S. The clock was ticking. Of that I had no idea. This conspiracy uncovered had originally planned for me to have remained in the U.S. in the fall of 2011, and I had in my return to Russia post my mother's passing and funeral service, disappointed the boys at Langley.
Svetlana herself, once I had connected the dots told me in a long distance calls that she had never loved me, that Tregubov was incapable of impregnating her, that I had been capable of impregnating her, that remaining we me after the birth of our son was driven by pure commercial interest as I could give her the lifestyle as a mother that which she had never experienced growing up poor in the Soviet Union. She told me another thing which connected more dots and blew my mind just as Egish Khachatrian's dark revelation Had done only a few weeks later that summer. Svetlana told me that she and Tregubov had been eavesdropping by methods unknown to all my phone calls, emails, Internet access, and more since 1997. Mind blowing. Tumblers had to fall further inplace, until my eyes opened to what was staring me in the face. Svetlana was and remains an FSB trained honeypot trap. I learned the spooks were watching me then as now. I got schooled.
Upon my return from Asheville, I rented a mobile home in Sandbridge, not wanting to return to the deception and narcotics contained within the property known as 3205 Sandfiddler Road and as presented in the persons of Shari Faller and John Pouliot Jr. I spent perhaps a week there getting more lessons in FBI gangstalking and harassment, following step by step advice texted me from afar from special agent of the NCIS Douglas Boyce. He was away on vacation with his family in Illinois. He had taken wife Lena and children Alexander and Maria to see his aging mother.
Being harassed all that week by people unknown, though all with a military look, led me to the 313 Sage Road driveway for an all night session in government paid for gangstalking. And I knew that military look from my six years service in the Navy from 84 to 90.
In the morning Douglas called, and my world went upside down.
Douglas had asked that I take pictures of the pursuing vehicles and to email them to him for his analysis. I did. That morning Douglas told me first and foremost that he was a policeman (this done in hopes of using a nasty psy ops technique of conditioning me), that no cars were following me and that I had misperceived much in my life.
I had thought Douglas a savior after my experiences in the U.S. from October 2013 at the Pembroke MA home of Silk Road drug dealer Adam Stanhope (his online vending name was NAWLINS, one can Google him. Adam was for a time the leading online seller of MDPV, a bath salt, on that initial version of the darknet's Silk Road. Adam was of that proud I recall.), and later in Levant, Maine having my car broken into and unknown chemicals sprayed all about the dashboard and steering wheel. I had been misdirected and afraid. And Doug my dear friend from Russia took full advantage of this to manipulate me, to push my buttons.
I had reported John Pouliot Jr to Douglas as he was selling narcotics from an illegal first floor apartment rented to him by Shari Faller. John had sold me weed, and introduced me to the legal world of American ADD psychiatry, where the amphetamine to which I had been introduced while naked by a Russian prostitute named Albina, there illegal, in Virginia legal if prescribed. Such is our world. Funny that. John had displayed a huge bag of blue MDMA pills, which upon reflection likely I had seen before in the possession of Adam Stanhope the fall before.
FBI be like that.
Doug's reaction was surprisingly mild. He asked me to get pictures of John with his wares. I thought about it, and hadn't. Not sure if it was from lack of interest, opportunity or my preoccupation with being gangstalked at that time. Doug seemed oddly unconcerned...
I recall asking Shari upon our initial meeting, my inquiry as to the room she was letting. I had asked her are there any drugs on the premises, after my adventures up North with Adam Stanhope and his pals. I had had enough. I still hadn't enough experiences to link what had happened to me in Russia earlier with what was then occurring in America. Who would? For that would be nuts, right?
Shari's response, deceptive and false, with no hesitation, no no drugs here. And with that I became one of her three tenants, John being one of the other two, and the final man a black truck driver whose name escapes me.
In a few weeks time, John was selling me weed, and introducing me to Amphetamine in pill former along with Vicodina and Cholonopin, the Vicodin he had traded for with Shari on my behalf. I had felt safe initially at 3205 Sandfiddler Road. Shari and John wanted to ease me back into using weed. I like weed, then as now.
It wasn't until some weeks later when John an Army vet with a bachelor's degree in Psychology invited me to join him on a road trip to Florida to retrieve 8 full grown marijuana plants, crossing several state lines to bring them home to Virginia. I was incredulous with this offer. I declined and offered that he rethink this idea, as the risk of laws to be broken exceeded the benefit.
And just as when Doug some weeks earlier admitted to me he had been CIA when we knew each other in Russia in 1999, this set bells off in my head. Later John offered me at no cost a handful of Vicodins. I was interested in getting right with my ex, didn't see the value of popping opioid pain killers to help me with that, and passed. And then a small things happened. John help out his stretched open palm covered in little blue pills just a little too long. And my third eye, my gut felt, or sensed something else was going on. John wanted me to be ingesting narcotics. The question was why and that answer would reveal itself in time.
Upon my return to 3205 Sandfiddler Road after my devastating phone call from Doug, I overheard Shari on the phone with parties unknown saying in a low voice, "The tenant has returned". This too set off my radar. The tenant? She had three. And only I had just returned. So why this phone call and in this manner.
In a few days Shari would ask my help with the oven/stove combo unit. For reasons unclear then, bold as a sunny day now, the digital control on the oven was broken and would only go to 400 degrees Fahrenheit, and once there, would not shut off unless the entire unit was unplugged. And that was a task as the plug was to a high voltage 220 or 440 VAC connector. One had to pry the oven away from the wall, and it was hot, quite hot to the touch, pull it away from the wall in order to access the thick gray power cord in the back off the unit. And so while untrusting of Shari, I agreed to help. I pulled the unit carefully from the wall and unplugged it to allow it to reset and cool off. This would take an hour or two. I would later push it back in having reconnected it.
When I went back to the oven later that night. Shari was in her bedroom, I found that someone had stuffed a wad of paper into the oven exhaust. I freaked. It hadn't been there earlier. Someone had.... OMG. I withdrew the paper, threw it away, my brain clicked, OMG, this had been done with intent. What intent? Entrapment.
I calmed myself. Decided enough, the risk I was at was so much larger than I understood, but I felt it and it was huge. Had I not caught this stuffed paper and just reconnected the oven, a fire would have occurred and I see as clear on one can see it was to be blamed on me, to involve me with the criminal justice system. My mind was blown. My resolve to see this storm through remained. I packed my car, clothes, pillows, personal effects, my prescribed speed, got in my car, headed North to the home I once owned in Victor, NY at 1235 Honeysuckle Pass, where two 'bad' tenants awaited me, Alice Calabrese and Dylan Chase.
And as I drove out of the Virginia Beach area my GPS was all over the place and had been for days. I was being spoofed and knew something about that as I had earlier worked at Harris Corp, maker of police cell phone spy radios like Triggerfish and others. I pulled into a conversation store and went old school, bought a paper bound map of the East Coast. This would see me through, their GPS jammer be damned.
And I noticed there in that 7/11 parking lot a highly reflective sticker on the underside of my drivers side door. Gray in color to blend with the gray of that Hyundai Sonata, but enough shiny to garner my attention. I shook my head and dug at it with my fingernails and with some effort removed the sticker. It measured 4 inches by 8 inches approximately and would certainly be useful were I being followed and harassed as I believed I was. And I hadn't put it there or noticed it earlier.
I drove North. To leave the Virginia Beach/Norfolk area. To leave the area there was one way out and that was through a tunnel. I approached the tunnel. An official night-time LED sign glared, 'CAR ACCIDENT IN TUNNEL, TURN AROUND'. Having been harassed by so many cars, and cop cars with lights spinning on my way out, this felt... wrong. I saw it as a bluff and I called it. I sped up and headed into the tunnel. And the tunnel was.... wide open. No car accident. No tunnel closure. More psy ops crap from the FBI I would in time learn.
Driving all night from Virginia to the outskirts of Rochester NY gave me another clue. That path is all back roads, and I was driving at 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m., you see the pattern. And that whole night, the entire drive cars pursuing me with extra bright raised headlights, and 40 of them on roads upon which most nights one would be lucky to see a car at all. Geez what a thrill. Bad guys on my tail.
I had surmised by getting to my upscale home in a relatively affluent western New York suburb or Rochester, 40 cars could not simply park alongside my 2 acre lot. I was correct in this. What they would do though is send a taxi, a FedEx truck, etc. to sit outside my place where no cars set.
All clear in hindsight. FBI.
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