CIA, FISA Courts, FBI, Drugs, Psy Ops, and a Plan to Kill Obama!

Psy ops.  Active measures.  NLP.  Street theater.  Managed aggression.

As I learned why Russia spy Anna Chapman came on to me in 2008 in Moscow two years before the FBI  arrested her in New York, why senior NCIS agent Douglas Boyce admitted to me in 2014 that he had been CIA when we knew each other in Russia in 1999, as I learned why my Russian FSB trained honeypot trap wife Svetlana was so relaxed when a Note Dame like fire was mysteriously set in the roof of our building at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35, Saint Petersburg, Russia on May 29, 2009, and why American expat whom I’d met in Russia, Jason Smolek told me the significance of this date, JFK’s birthday, and why Russian Armenian Egish Khachatrian told me over an international phone call, “Rick we will turn you into this generation’s Lee Harvey Oswald.  We will get you and Obama too.”

I gained a sort of key which when used allowed me to unlock the secrets of my life, and to understand how and why I was and remain a targeted individual.

Ole Dammegard, a Dane, has done some excellent work identifying false flag terror events and false flag assassinations.  His talks are available on YouTube, and I am grateful for the work that he has done.  That work helped me identify how deeply the CIA controlled mass media conditioning affected me, likely affects us all, and helped me to clear my head of this tangle of lies.


The media, CIA controlled, and owned by very few corporations, six or seven, has a demonstrated history of spreading lies and not being held accountable.  Gulf of Tonkin, the assassinations of note of the 1960s, JFK, RFK, MLK, the 9/11 hoax of 2001, and so many other intentionally horrifying events which may well include the Oklahoma city bombing, the John Lennon assassination and so much more.


My experience being gangstalked and a target of psy ops intended to manipulate me into the role of drug addled, sex crazed, disturbed, ‘lone shooter’ for a failed presidential assassination attempt that was planned for 2014 and perhaps earlier has opened my eyes as to how deeply entrenched our security services are through our general population. 

There are statistics available that demonstrate the depth to which American society is infested with police informants, gangstalkers.  Gangstalkers like Shari Faller, John Poilout Jr, Chuck Jensen, Randee Jensen, Adam Stanhope, Mark Brady, and so many expats I had met overseas, mostly in my 18 years in Russia are tasked to subtly and sometimes not so subtly nudge targets into dark areas and activities with the hope that those targeted eventually take poor decisions allowing them to be used in false flag terror events.


In my experience, I was nudged using psy ops into debauchery, sex and drugs mostly.  The nudgers or gangstalkers into the latter, narcotics most notably include multimillionaire August Meyer.

August made his fortune in Russia investing in and later selling a supermarket chain known as Lenta.

August portrayed himself as my friend while he was not, inviting me unexpectedly to his wedding, bachelor party, and a series of social events.

In 2011 and 2012, August went further in this con inviting me late Friday nights for intimate evenings after all others had gone home in his home in Russia, an apartment on Canal Griboedova for wine, hashish and cocaine.  His was part of a concerted effort organized by CIA to push me from my preferred narcotic of choice, marijuana, now becoming legal, with the lies that pushed it is to black markets being exposed and overcome, into the world of stimulants, legal and not.

The other three gangstalkers of note in this arena were Russian prostitute Albina Taptiga, who naked, and having just thrilled me in a threesome with gal pal Natasha something or other, she from Uzbekistan, introduced me to Amphetamine Sulfate in early 2012.  In September of 2011, a month after I underwent poisoning unknown to me then whose effects would push me psychologically towards desperate acts as I flailed wildly in the darkness, an American  friend of my younger brother and mother, Adam Stanhope introduced me to the world of synthetic cathinones, then legal, in the former of MDPV.

Having done this, Adam introduced me to his business partner of that time, a man from Wisconsin, a police informer and casual drug user, Mark Brady.  And Mark introduced me to MDMA, commonly known as ecstasy, and he attempted to do a darker thing stjll, to lure me into the world of kiddie porn.   This done by showing me while under the influence computer images of children in adult makeup, though nothing pornographic.

It seems even FBI in whose employ as an informer and gangstalkers both Adam and Mark likely were has limits, some lines that even they can’t cross.  There are lines FBI will cross frequently and with impunity.  Break-ins lead this list as I found out.

FBI gave me my first taste of what they, outside the boundary of law, were willing, are willing to do in January 2014 when they or their ‘assignees’ broke into my 2006 Hyundai Sonata, parked as it was in the far-off driveway of Chuck and Randee Jensen in Levant, Maine, on the outskirts of Bangor.  I recall hearing the car alarm go off, and suspecting criminals related to the likes of Adam Stanhope, Mike and son Andrew, or Drew as I knew him, Chandler, and their acquaintance MDPV fanatic Mark Brady I stayed inside, protected from the darkness outside and whatever, whomever lurked therein.

In the morning I investigated the car quite carefully.  You see the last conversation as I fled the home of Adam Stanhope at 113 Oldham Road in Pembroke Ma, Adam shouted at me as my suspicions were raised to a breaking point of sorts, “Rick what did you expect?  I’m a criminal!”  Two years earlier as I made the acquaintance of Mark Brady and deepened what I had misperceived as a friendship with Adam, Mark told both Adam and I how he, Mark, had used his more than average knowledge of chemistry to coat the door handle of an associate who Mark believed had wronged him with a substance so foul and exotic, that upon contact the target was unable to think clearly for a six month period.

I recall being aghast at such an admission, honestly horrified by the ease with which Mark told this tale.  And so I was wary approaching my car on that January day, with crunchy snow all around.  I used a rag to insulate my hand from the drivers side door handle.  I opened the door and peered inside, and in nightmarish fashion, like a bad dream come true, the steering wheel, the dashboard all coated in a whitish material.

I said nothing to hosts Chuck and Randee, not wanting to frighten them.  I found some kitchen cleaner and paper towels and went about my way scrubbing away the unknown substance.  It all came away easily enough.

I believe I had had a taste of an FBI break in a few days earlier at a cheap highway hotel in New Hampshire.  I can’t be sure for I had been sleeping, but something seemed off.

Later in the late summer of 2014 I would feel the same sensation while staying at the Royal Inn on Route 96 in Victor, NY as I waited out bad tenants Alice Calabrese and Dylan Chase, from the home I had owned at 1235 Honeysuckle Pass, Victor NY.  I recall wakening to find my tablet mini USB cable unexplainable torn apart and that feeling as though someone had been in my room as I slept. Over time I have learned to trust these gut feelings, third eye visions, call them what you will.

A more daring and bold break in again likely by FBI or their assignees was in my Victor, NY home in early 2015 after I had taken guardianship of my teen son Nicholas.  A pornographic video that I had never seen before, hadn’t purchased was placed in an upper kitchen cabinet for me to find.  This bit of excess was intended to push me yet again into the sensual, into debauchery.

A few more weeks later I would find a bag of cocaine that I’d not purchased in the pocket of shorts in my closet I hadn’t warn for ages.
After my arrest from a call  to 911 I never made, this no doubt organized by FBI as well, my son and I decided to leave New York State for a future hopefully untouched by whatever criminality I had experienced on the East Coast and earlier within Russia.

I had met the terms of my plea agreement with the Victor Town court and had the freedom to leave that corrupt state of New York.  We headed West for Colorado, Denver.  Mountains nearby.  Legal weed.  New opportunities.  And an online school for my son who despised the public education of which he felt as victim in New York state.  I recall meeting his teachers, examining the curriculum and found I could not argue with his hypothesis that this ‘education’ was simply social conditioning meant to make sheep from boys and not men.

I had pushed the court in response to the court pushing me.  My record to that time was clean.  I was 50, white, middle class, no misdemeanors, and certainly no felonies to my name.  The court charged me with child endangerment.  This a result of my using self as bait.  I was determined to discover who was watching me.

I had left garbage in my three car garage, and this was enough, in combination with my admission that I had smoked pot, then as now illegal in New York state, for me to be charged with child endangerment.  The court offered that I take a year of parole.  I thought that ridiculous given my record and the suspicious circumstance of my arrest and informed my lawyer, Mark Hannan, (who unless I miss my guess had been accessed by corrupt law enforcement on the matter of me prior to our meeting) that I’d go to trial to defend myself, and to expose this web of corruption in which I had found myself.

I had thought if I can get myself arrested and testify in open court as to the corruption with legs back to Anna Chapman, corrupt NCIS agent Douglas Boyce, the fire on our roof on JFK's birthday in 2009, and so much more, I could once and for all expose the presidential assassination plot in which I had found myself ensnared.

That was the bet I had taken upon leaving Virginia followed by approximately 40 undercover FBI vehicles.  I had dared much, used self as bait, and had landed a whopper, the fish story no one conditioned by our mass media would likely ever believe.

The court responded with milder terms.  I sensed they were not of appetite for the show I intended to put on in that small white enclave of a town.  The court said get a few weeks of ‘counseling’, don’t get arrested again for 12 months, and the charge would be discharged.  I thought about it, slept on it.  I had gotten myself to where earlier I had told myself I wanted to be.  In an open court, testifying in this larger matter of corruption that was directly related to the White House fence climber of the fall of 2014, Omar Gonzalez, an assassination attempt on the nation’s first black president, Barack Hussein Obama. And so I thought.  I considered the odds.  I had survived.  I had learned.  I had gotten my son out of Russia after his mother’s various extortionatary threats.  I had a decision to consider, one that would affect significantly the rest of my life.

I chose to be father, to raise my son, and even having learned all that I then knew, to call it a day.  The level of corruption in the police, in their gangstalking informants, in the court, in the ‘criminal justice’ system itself, I figured my odds of coming out on top, given the stakes, given the players, their resources, their intent, we’re minimal.  I put them at 1 %.  All I had was will, a limited bank account, and the truth.  It didn’t seem enough.  And at risk was more than me, at risk was the son my fraudster Russian wife had had without my consent so many years earlier.  That didn’t  matter, through it all and regardless of circumstance he was and remains my son.

We moved to Denver.  I had endured the counseling, and recall an undercover FBI vehicle in the former of an electric company service vehicle stationed outside during my first session.  The driver, white, onerous, and giving off that vibe to which I had grown so familiar, of deception, of gangstalking, sitting in his car as I slowly exited the Webster home of my counselor, also a former Harris Corp employee, his name Tom Porpiglia.  The vibe from Tom was there as well, and I have no doubt the FBI had contacted him as well.

When plotting and attempting to execute a presidential assassination plan, failing and having a wild variable like me pop out of the equation, must have been frustrating for the boys at the top of that mafia like pyramid of our security services.  No doubt a FISA warrant existed, exists with my name on it, and had been used as the basis to get FBI resources focused on entrapping me.  To those lower levels of FBI like undercover agent Coy Ebell and the 18 others who had been surreptitiously placed into the well heeled downtown Denver apartment building to which we moved, Skyline1801, I was no doubt portrayed as a drug addled, sex crazed, lone shooter, disturbed individual type.  Easy enough to do when your organization has not only institutional but generational knowledge of the dark arts such as psy ops, active measures, NLP, street theater, managed aggression and more.

We moved in late April 2016.  In short order I was astounded to find what I had surmised was limited East Coast corruption, perhaps with legs back to Russia was not that, was awaiting us in that second floor apartment.  From the rooftop a spray painted bit of graffiti with the characters MDPV emblazoned on a wall easily within view, though several blocks away.

In the kitchen freezer an icy puddle embedded with a stimulant of unknown origins.  In the bathtub a blue material also stimulating between the tiles.  The vibe from management and neighbors off the charts, weird as so many had been before, starting in Russia after my 2012 divorce, following me to Pembroke, Ma, Portland Me, Levant Me, Manhattan, Virginia Beach, VA to Victor NY where it had leapt forth in the former of police entrapment.

Mail unpaid for containing ‘research chemicals’ arrived in the mail that fall.  A woman I had met online to check my suspicions offering stimulants for snorting and smoking.

Another break-in and a baggie of stimulants left for me to find.  Various break ins, furniture and clothing moved.  I put in a mail stop order of thirty days, this returned in three days with more packages of drugs.  The intent clear, get me to cross the line, break the terms of my New York plea arrangement, avoid a trial and put me in jail for 12 months, with a shank in wait.  Then my story safely closed, none the wiser, and the corrupt system would continue on its way waging wars in far away lands, enriching fiends like my former boss at Harris Corp, the man who had sent me to Russia so long ago, Dana Mehnert, and ensuring criminals like Joe Biden finding their way either as LBJ had to the head of our executive branch via assassination, or as Nixon had via a vote.

As Michael Moore had put it at the end of his film ‘Fahrenheit 911’, the thing for the masses to fear aren’t other countries, but their own elites.  This I learned was truth.  I had learned so very, very much.