Psy ops and more
Psy ops. Active measures. NLP. Manchurian candidates. Things of novels and film.
Until that summer of 2014 when a CIA agent serving in a senior role at the NCIS playing a complex and long term charade of being my friend. His name was and remains Douglas Boyce. Doug took great pleasure in sharing with me bits and pieces of the tactics and techniques of his secretive and corrupt employer in an effort to gain my confidence while working hard behind the scenes to destroy me.
In this his work and my luck had a turnabout effect. In place of my destruction was my salvation. My intended role of villain most notorious instead I stumbled in perhaps the most unlikely manner on the path of the hero. A villain? A hero? Tell me more! The villain I was intended to become was that of assassin, presidential no less. That label of course would be for the masses. Those who at Langley had at no small expense organized a path, my path would know that I was to be ultimately a patsy, like Oswald and Sirhan before me.
I left Virginia Beach in late July of 2014, near midnight, pursued by approximately 40 undercover FBI vehicles. I headed North full of vigor, and enough pieces of my puzzle to attempt to gather more, regardless of the cost. I had spent my time in Virginia Beach at two locations for the majority of my time there, as houseguest of the Boyce’s at 313 Sage Road, then as renter at a beachfront house where the rent was strangely under market at 3205 Sandfiddler Road, where I met two gangstalkers in the employ of the FBI, Shari Faller, my landlady, and John Pouliot Jr, another renter whose side business was selling weed and pills, mostly Adderal. Stories remain of how those two under close police supervision worked to ensure trap me. Shari played ‘street theater’ that had I not been paying attention would possibly ended with an arson charge against me, while John worked hard, and not subtly to get me involved in narcotics so as to have me vulnerable to a drug charge. I dodged. I weaved. I learned.
Escaping Virginia was invigorating as I had the opportunity to take the time as my former boss, a quite corrupt psychopath and multimillionaire, Tony Czura, to ‘sit in the tall grass’. Tony used this analogy from his time in safari in Africa to describe those moments he would quietly sit in the bush simply watching, not exposing himself, so as to gain intelligence and thereby advantage. I had liked Tony. A lot. I had been convinced, conned is a bett3r more accurate term that we were friends of a sort as from 2006 to 2008 I had been employed by Tony as his CEO for money losing Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages. That is another story. To summarize I was conned into thinking we worked as a team to turn around that small Russian company to profitability and sale for $23,000,000 to a group of Swedish investors who set up the monumentally successful Russia version of Ebay, AVITO. I was never Tony’s friend. Tony like so many others in my life, a gangstalker. Me a targeted individual. I could use the term Manchurian candidate though prefer not to, for the weight, the imagery implied by that term. Frank Sinatra I am not, nor was I secluded away by a 3 letter agency for controlled sessions of LSD application, mind control or the sorts of things shown in the film ‘A Clockwork Orange’.
The mind control applied to me, and I would guess to many others was far more subtle, absolutely more informal, hard to detect disguised as it was as what would most consider was simply life. Street theater, directed conversations are two of the terms applied to this sort of psy op.
I have recollections of meetings, interactions I had thought odd, but dismissed out of hand, for in my life, middle class American, of what was there to be suspicious? I was no one certainly. In this I would take a lesson in just how wrong a man could be.
One example includes meeting Baker and MacKenzie attorney Jim Hitch in Saint Petersburg when we both served on the American Chamber of Commerce Executive Committee of Saint Petersburg. He had then been Chairman, had been for a few terms, and I wanted to get his view as to whether or not I should put myself before the board for consideration to follow him in that position. I recall we met at a bar in the city center, and he was so magnanimous as to make me wonder if he wasn’t homosexual and attracted to me as he kept touching me through our early evening meeting. I took this session as him giving me his blessing and thought him an odd duck, maybe he didn’t get out much. Now with the passage of time and enough other data points to correlate and construct a paradigm that explains cheaply why he had behaved in such manner, I am convinced Jim, like Douglas Boyce, was in the employ of the CIA.
Wait, you say? You see CIA agents everywhere, Mr Macy, surely you are mistaken. And I respond, I don’t see them so much, what I did see was a lot of odd behavior towards me, and having been given the revelatjon by his own admission that a other board member, Douglas Boyce, had been CIA when we met in Russia in 1999, I had a key when inserted into the mystery that has been my life, that decrypted and revealed these actors for what they were. In the words of my Russian FSB honeypot trap wife, then ex wife, in December of 2015, “Rick didn’t you know that 80% of your expat friends in Russia were intelligence agents?” This she told me in a lapse of judgment, a moment of overconfidence.
Another example was meeting with US Naval Academy graduate, and former officer Les Lascari in the summer of 2014, in Virginia Beach weeks before my departure so dramatic. Les had been a Test & Evaluation engineer while I had been a Technical Specialist both in the employ of General Electric in 1990. I had reached out to him via either LinkedIn or Facebook and wassail pleased to become reacquainted with him after so many years. Les gave me a large dose of street theater, this no doubt under FBI supervision in that summer of 2014 as we reacquainted ourselves in the upscale Sandbridge community of Virginia Beach.
As a result and as I adjusted my paradigm, I had considered that NCIS agent Douglas Boyce, Les Lascari, Dan Mead, all in the employ of the Russian FSB, for I had not yet then enough experience with being gangstalked by corrupt police in the United States to understand that my woes were driven by and had originated with the CIA, and the Russians were at most role players in the persons of Anna Chapman and others, the setting of a Notre Dame like fire on JFK’s birthday on May 29, 2009 at my home in Russia, Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35, Saint Petersburg Russia.
Les had invited me out for drinks and while catching up he could not maintain any sort of eye contact. I told him of this. Must have been uncomfortable for him I suppose, knowing what he knew and what I didn’t then. He told me a tale over beers of owning a restaurant that failed and of a website he had made on his behalf by a man named Bob something or other. This Bob made himself available to us in a matter of moments in a show of street theater, approaching Les aggressively claiming an unpaid bill of $2000 for the aforementioned website. I recall intersecting myself into their argument with a minor alcohol induced buzz, thinking how rude of this Bob fellow. I had not a whit of suspicion towards Les at that time. In retrospect, what a fool I was. Though my education remains.
Les’ behavior in front of my landlady Shari Faller and drug dealing roommate John Pouliot Jr had been remarkably similar to other sessions of street theater experienced in Russia in 2013 before my sudden October departure due to fraudulent death threats imposed upon me by Russian then ex wife Svetlana, poisoner Alexander Tregubov, his pal Egish Khachatrian, and the other significant Russian honeypot trap in my life, former prostitute and bordello worker, Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva. The Russian street theater had been largely performed by Svetlana, Alexander, Genya, and two speed snorting bisexual Russian prostitutes with whom post divorce, Genya and I had lived with in a small 1st floor studio apartment on the 11th Line of Vasilievskiy Island of Saint Petersburg, Albina Taptiga and her young lover Evgeniya Kritova. Albina had been perhaps 30, while her Genya, a buxom brunette with features most Slavic was 21. Our threeways with Albina and Genya for a time a more than pleasant distraction, fueled as they were by hashish and speed, the amphetamine sulfate type, not the more dreadful and nefarious methamphetamine. That lay in wait in Asia, as part of the CIA’s advanced seasoning program for boys like me. Few, I suspect, survive as I have.
So many diversions, so many events to describe, while attempting to present this information in linear narrative linear form. Let’s step back to August 2011. I was poisoned minutes before engaging in a threeway with Genya Kosheleva and Alexander Tregubov on a plastic encased mattress most would consider foul, this in a cheap Russia banya on a weekday afternoon when most were at work.
I had met Genya the year prior, 2010, when she was 19, and had traveled to Saint Petersburg to prostitute herself from the faraway Fergana Valley of Uzbekistan, hailing from a truly Soviet frontier town called Angren. Angren of note as in each of the post Soviet years, her economy progressively got worse and worse, with ethnic Russians mostly having abandoned that outpost for the motherland, leaving underused factories, schools, and society in the hands of the local Uzbek population. Genya had grown up poor, and if she was to be believed her father had died young as a result of radiation poisoning from Chernobyl, had gone mad, and died. She and her young brothers forced to beg on the streets of Angren. Unpleasant in ways I can not fathom given my modest middle class American upbringing. True or not, one must ask Genya. We don’t speak much these days, though I confess I retain a modicum of affection for her from those years dramatic and false, 2011 to 2013.
Genya had chosen to prostitute herself in Saint Petersburg via the services of acquaintances of her mother Elena. I was told that Egish Khachatrian, a human trafficker and Alexander Tregubov a construction manager who reportedly sidelined as a pimp had paved her way West.
We met in a bordello where for 2000 rubles, then about $80 we had full on no holds barred sex, the kind I liked and to which I had grown accustomed. It was August 2010, and she had a Kristen Stewart sort of sultriness to her, pale skin, dark eyes, short punky dark brown hair. Not an ounce of fat on her fairy like frame. And so we became acquainted, and once a week we would repeat these sessions, condomless, though I would pull out when climaxing. Her scent sweet, her manner attentive, and her accent beguiling as she wasn’t from around these parts. I recall a number of girls at this bordello who hailed from Angren. But it was to Genya that I acquired a taste, developed a habit, though nothing more than physical and mercantile. In December of that year, after ten weekly sessions, she returned to her Angren and her 4 year old son, Andrei, the result supposedly of her prostitution herself at 15 in Tashkent. His father central Asian, and to me forever unknown.
The following August I sent an email to the address she had left on my laptop a year earlier, asking was she in town, and if so, would she be interested in continuing our arrangement such as it was.
As a result, they, the Russian police, flew her back to Saint Petersburg to set the trap into which I fell most unknowingly. We met in a weeks time, though she explained she would be accompanied by a man, her pimp/boyfriend, Alexander Tregubov. I was cavalier, above it all, and a fool; I agreed, became acquainted, poisoned, and enthralled by a porno quality threeway with Genya giving me her full attention, while being penetrated simultaneously by Alexander and I. Thus was this trap laid, her kissing me and not him during this session laid the groundwork for me to buy into the false narrative of him being jealous of my attentions towards her. After my poisoning, I lost 40 pounds in a month, flew to American in September, and held my 79 year old mothers hand as she passed, this taking 4 hours from the moment we removed her supply of ICU provided oxygen.
The trap was now truly set, the psy ops play made, me unknowing target and victim, and I suspect in order to keep with the schedule that my mother was murdered in that ICU. You see she had gone in due to her COPD affliction, acquired from a lifetime of puffing Marlboro 100s. She was diagnosed with COPD some months earlier much to her horror, though she was to have survived this hospital stay, modern medicine being all that it is reputed to be. However, while in hospital she acquired a C-dif infection. I have since then heard these infections are not uncommon in such setting and circumstance. C-dif as I learned was incurred as a result of being with another’s fecal matter. My mother became so infected, horribly wrought and weakened, painfully so, and as such was not likely to leave the hospital without a permanent oxygen bottle. Was the infection random? Or had she so to speak been fed a shit sandwich, in order to keep to the dark, criminal, devilish psy op schedule planned for me, her firstborn son? The psy op required that to the public it appeared seamlessly and without flaw that upon the death of my mother I had become a drug addled, sex crazed maniac of sorts, so as to keep to the false narrative fed to the public since 1963 and perhaps earlier of the ‘lone shooter’.
The psy op meticulously planned and executed, mine one likely one of many, for no one can forecast 100 per cent without error how the decades progress and how those like me targeted as assassins, as patsies will progress in accordance with such dark plans. I can trace events in my life back to high school and the Navy in manner convincing as to my being targeted and have posted such stories elsewhere in this blog where the reader might peruse and learn at his leisure how our world is wired, full of lies, and managed for the benefit of families rich beyond measure and their lackeys in our security services.
Poisoned, bereaved, and accelerated in emotions from mild hashish use self administered as a form of self medication to keep myself in a marriage that now in retrospect had all manner of reason to fail as my relationship with the mother of my son, had been similarly constructed as a manipulation, as a psy op from the moment she also as a prostitute had knocked on my hotel room door, on my second trip to Russia on behalf of former employer Harris Corporation.
That another story, succulent and full of drama most horrific, and subject of another post.
My use of hashish made my bordello visits more pleasing, accentuating the sensual, and this narcotic numbed my reactions to Svetlana’s deception and ultimate betrayal. I believe this habit of self medication kept me in our marriage for those years where I think we hated each other. I begrudge her much, and having gone through much to get to that day in June 2014 when she told me, made her admission, intended to be then our final communique that she had never loved me, was with me only as I could give her child while Tregubov could not for he was sterile, this I had learned from his own overly excited admission in that August of 2011, moment to before he poisoned me, she had stayed with me as I could provide her and our son the economic conditions she desired and had lacked growing up poor in the Soviet Union, though not so poor, I suspect as had Genya Kosheleva in Uzbekistan, and that she and Tregubov had the technical wherewithal and capability to have monitored all my phone communications, Internet access, emails, and whereabouts from the time of our initial cohabitation of 1997. The next day the FBI sent ten unmarked cars after me so as to force me down the funnel from which I had not been either intended or expected to return.
Back to the fall of 2011. I had lost the weight in manner frightening and worse, shitting myself to death or so it seemed. Not until summer of 2014 would I have confirmation that Tregubov had poisoned me and of this that my wife had then as now been most aware. Nasty old world. Nastier people, I suppose.
In my desperation in that fall, and having carnal relations quite frequently with Genya, I began to put together a plan to get her our of the bordello and away from a life as a prostitute. Why her? I was seeing 6 other women at that time similarly employed. Those women, Fira, Nargiz, Katya, Tanya among them, they were older, childless, didn’t live in bordellos, seemed more capable. Genya then due to her foreign nature being a Russian from the outskirts of Uzbekistan, her slight form being petite, and her age of 20, and in sex, she covered me like a carpet as I entered her fully, her touch, her scent, somehow sweeter than the rest. A man pays attention to such things. And I fell to the temptation for which I had earlier been programmed, to be the white hat, the white knight, the hero, her savior, to rescue her from the foul, dirty, and despicable Tregubov.
I recall the decision to save Genya. This was that September day in Kingston, MA, in the company of Adam Stanhope, who with criminal intent laid down a pipe so mildly, full of synthetic cathinone, then legal, now not, MDPV, the form reportedly preferred for a time by anti-virus company founder John McAfee, the tan freebase, not the white powdery version. I had no idea what I was up against. I had trusted Adam, he was smoking this stuff and seemed quite in charge of his facilities, and so in manner open minded, I asked to try this plant matter he had coated with chemicals. I took a small puff, held it in not long, not long at all, of this powerful mind altering stimulant. And just like that I had unknowingly taken a huge step towards the path set out for me by the true shadow people of the CIA. I recall under that influence so new, exciting, and unexpected, taking the decision to save Genya. And I was with this decision so happy.
Within a week, I was much to the disappointment of the CIA, back on a plane for Russia. They had worked hard to get me to like, to trust Adam. They had introduced me under the influence of MDPV, a drug connoisseur from Wisconsin named Mark Brady, who then introduced me to MDMA, commonly known as Ecstasy, and to two evenings back to back of gay sex.
Until that summer of 2014 when a CIA agent serving in a senior role at the NCIS playing a complex and long term charade of being my friend. His name was and remains Douglas Boyce. Doug took great pleasure in sharing with me bits and pieces of the tactics and techniques of his secretive and corrupt employer in an effort to gain my confidence while working hard behind the scenes to destroy me.
In this his work and my luck had a turnabout effect. In place of my destruction was my salvation. My intended role of villain most notorious instead I stumbled in perhaps the most unlikely manner on the path of the hero. A villain? A hero? Tell me more! The villain I was intended to become was that of assassin, presidential no less. That label of course would be for the masses. Those who at Langley had at no small expense organized a path, my path would know that I was to be ultimately a patsy, like Oswald and Sirhan before me.
I left Virginia Beach in late July of 2014, near midnight, pursued by approximately 40 undercover FBI vehicles. I headed North full of vigor, and enough pieces of my puzzle to attempt to gather more, regardless of the cost. I had spent my time in Virginia Beach at two locations for the majority of my time there, as houseguest of the Boyce’s at 313 Sage Road, then as renter at a beachfront house where the rent was strangely under market at 3205 Sandfiddler Road, where I met two gangstalkers in the employ of the FBI, Shari Faller, my landlady, and John Pouliot Jr, another renter whose side business was selling weed and pills, mostly Adderal. Stories remain of how those two under close police supervision worked to ensure trap me. Shari played ‘street theater’ that had I not been paying attention would possibly ended with an arson charge against me, while John worked hard, and not subtly to get me involved in narcotics so as to have me vulnerable to a drug charge. I dodged. I weaved. I learned.
Escaping Virginia was invigorating as I had the opportunity to take the time as my former boss, a quite corrupt psychopath and multimillionaire, Tony Czura, to ‘sit in the tall grass’. Tony used this analogy from his time in safari in Africa to describe those moments he would quietly sit in the bush simply watching, not exposing himself, so as to gain intelligence and thereby advantage. I had liked Tony. A lot. I had been convinced, conned is a bett3r more accurate term that we were friends of a sort as from 2006 to 2008 I had been employed by Tony as his CEO for money losing Saint Petersburg Yellow Pages. That is another story. To summarize I was conned into thinking we worked as a team to turn around that small Russian company to profitability and sale for $23,000,000 to a group of Swedish investors who set up the monumentally successful Russia version of Ebay, AVITO. I was never Tony’s friend. Tony like so many others in my life, a gangstalker. Me a targeted individual. I could use the term Manchurian candidate though prefer not to, for the weight, the imagery implied by that term. Frank Sinatra I am not, nor was I secluded away by a 3 letter agency for controlled sessions of LSD application, mind control or the sorts of things shown in the film ‘A Clockwork Orange’.
The mind control applied to me, and I would guess to many others was far more subtle, absolutely more informal, hard to detect disguised as it was as what would most consider was simply life. Street theater, directed conversations are two of the terms applied to this sort of psy op.
I have recollections of meetings, interactions I had thought odd, but dismissed out of hand, for in my life, middle class American, of what was there to be suspicious? I was no one certainly. In this I would take a lesson in just how wrong a man could be.
One example includes meeting Baker and MacKenzie attorney Jim Hitch in Saint Petersburg when we both served on the American Chamber of Commerce Executive Committee of Saint Petersburg. He had then been Chairman, had been for a few terms, and I wanted to get his view as to whether or not I should put myself before the board for consideration to follow him in that position. I recall we met at a bar in the city center, and he was so magnanimous as to make me wonder if he wasn’t homosexual and attracted to me as he kept touching me through our early evening meeting. I took this session as him giving me his blessing and thought him an odd duck, maybe he didn’t get out much. Now with the passage of time and enough other data points to correlate and construct a paradigm that explains cheaply why he had behaved in such manner, I am convinced Jim, like Douglas Boyce, was in the employ of the CIA.
Wait, you say? You see CIA agents everywhere, Mr Macy, surely you are mistaken. And I respond, I don’t see them so much, what I did see was a lot of odd behavior towards me, and having been given the revelatjon by his own admission that a other board member, Douglas Boyce, had been CIA when we met in Russia in 1999, I had a key when inserted into the mystery that has been my life, that decrypted and revealed these actors for what they were. In the words of my Russian FSB honeypot trap wife, then ex wife, in December of 2015, “Rick didn’t you know that 80% of your expat friends in Russia were intelligence agents?” This she told me in a lapse of judgment, a moment of overconfidence.
Another example was meeting with US Naval Academy graduate, and former officer Les Lascari in the summer of 2014, in Virginia Beach weeks before my departure so dramatic. Les had been a Test & Evaluation engineer while I had been a Technical Specialist both in the employ of General Electric in 1990. I had reached out to him via either LinkedIn or Facebook and wassail pleased to become reacquainted with him after so many years. Les gave me a large dose of street theater, this no doubt under FBI supervision in that summer of 2014 as we reacquainted ourselves in the upscale Sandbridge community of Virginia Beach.
As a result and as I adjusted my paradigm, I had considered that NCIS agent Douglas Boyce, Les Lascari, Dan Mead, all in the employ of the Russian FSB, for I had not yet then enough experience with being gangstalked by corrupt police in the United States to understand that my woes were driven by and had originated with the CIA, and the Russians were at most role players in the persons of Anna Chapman and others, the setting of a Notre Dame like fire on JFK’s birthday on May 29, 2009 at my home in Russia, Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35, Saint Petersburg Russia.
Les had invited me out for drinks and while catching up he could not maintain any sort of eye contact. I told him of this. Must have been uncomfortable for him I suppose, knowing what he knew and what I didn’t then. He told me a tale over beers of owning a restaurant that failed and of a website he had made on his behalf by a man named Bob something or other. This Bob made himself available to us in a matter of moments in a show of street theater, approaching Les aggressively claiming an unpaid bill of $2000 for the aforementioned website. I recall intersecting myself into their argument with a minor alcohol induced buzz, thinking how rude of this Bob fellow. I had not a whit of suspicion towards Les at that time. In retrospect, what a fool I was. Though my education remains.
Les’ behavior in front of my landlady Shari Faller and drug dealing roommate John Pouliot Jr had been remarkably similar to other sessions of street theater experienced in Russia in 2013 before my sudden October departure due to fraudulent death threats imposed upon me by Russian then ex wife Svetlana, poisoner Alexander Tregubov, his pal Egish Khachatrian, and the other significant Russian honeypot trap in my life, former prostitute and bordello worker, Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva. The Russian street theater had been largely performed by Svetlana, Alexander, Genya, and two speed snorting bisexual Russian prostitutes with whom post divorce, Genya and I had lived with in a small 1st floor studio apartment on the 11th Line of Vasilievskiy Island of Saint Petersburg, Albina Taptiga and her young lover Evgeniya Kritova. Albina had been perhaps 30, while her Genya, a buxom brunette with features most Slavic was 21. Our threeways with Albina and Genya for a time a more than pleasant distraction, fueled as they were by hashish and speed, the amphetamine sulfate type, not the more dreadful and nefarious methamphetamine. That lay in wait in Asia, as part of the CIA’s advanced seasoning program for boys like me. Few, I suspect, survive as I have.
So many diversions, so many events to describe, while attempting to present this information in linear narrative linear form. Let’s step back to August 2011. I was poisoned minutes before engaging in a threeway with Genya Kosheleva and Alexander Tregubov on a plastic encased mattress most would consider foul, this in a cheap Russia banya on a weekday afternoon when most were at work.
I had met Genya the year prior, 2010, when she was 19, and had traveled to Saint Petersburg to prostitute herself from the faraway Fergana Valley of Uzbekistan, hailing from a truly Soviet frontier town called Angren. Angren of note as in each of the post Soviet years, her economy progressively got worse and worse, with ethnic Russians mostly having abandoned that outpost for the motherland, leaving underused factories, schools, and society in the hands of the local Uzbek population. Genya had grown up poor, and if she was to be believed her father had died young as a result of radiation poisoning from Chernobyl, had gone mad, and died. She and her young brothers forced to beg on the streets of Angren. Unpleasant in ways I can not fathom given my modest middle class American upbringing. True or not, one must ask Genya. We don’t speak much these days, though I confess I retain a modicum of affection for her from those years dramatic and false, 2011 to 2013.
Genya had chosen to prostitute herself in Saint Petersburg via the services of acquaintances of her mother Elena. I was told that Egish Khachatrian, a human trafficker and Alexander Tregubov a construction manager who reportedly sidelined as a pimp had paved her way West.
We met in a bordello where for 2000 rubles, then about $80 we had full on no holds barred sex, the kind I liked and to which I had grown accustomed. It was August 2010, and she had a Kristen Stewart sort of sultriness to her, pale skin, dark eyes, short punky dark brown hair. Not an ounce of fat on her fairy like frame. And so we became acquainted, and once a week we would repeat these sessions, condomless, though I would pull out when climaxing. Her scent sweet, her manner attentive, and her accent beguiling as she wasn’t from around these parts. I recall a number of girls at this bordello who hailed from Angren. But it was to Genya that I acquired a taste, developed a habit, though nothing more than physical and mercantile. In December of that year, after ten weekly sessions, she returned to her Angren and her 4 year old son, Andrei, the result supposedly of her prostitution herself at 15 in Tashkent. His father central Asian, and to me forever unknown.
The following August I sent an email to the address she had left on my laptop a year earlier, asking was she in town, and if so, would she be interested in continuing our arrangement such as it was.
As a result, they, the Russian police, flew her back to Saint Petersburg to set the trap into which I fell most unknowingly. We met in a weeks time, though she explained she would be accompanied by a man, her pimp/boyfriend, Alexander Tregubov. I was cavalier, above it all, and a fool; I agreed, became acquainted, poisoned, and enthralled by a porno quality threeway with Genya giving me her full attention, while being penetrated simultaneously by Alexander and I. Thus was this trap laid, her kissing me and not him during this session laid the groundwork for me to buy into the false narrative of him being jealous of my attentions towards her. After my poisoning, I lost 40 pounds in a month, flew to American in September, and held my 79 year old mothers hand as she passed, this taking 4 hours from the moment we removed her supply of ICU provided oxygen.
The trap was now truly set, the psy ops play made, me unknowing target and victim, and I suspect in order to keep with the schedule that my mother was murdered in that ICU. You see she had gone in due to her COPD affliction, acquired from a lifetime of puffing Marlboro 100s. She was diagnosed with COPD some months earlier much to her horror, though she was to have survived this hospital stay, modern medicine being all that it is reputed to be. However, while in hospital she acquired a C-dif infection. I have since then heard these infections are not uncommon in such setting and circumstance. C-dif as I learned was incurred as a result of being with another’s fecal matter. My mother became so infected, horribly wrought and weakened, painfully so, and as such was not likely to leave the hospital without a permanent oxygen bottle. Was the infection random? Or had she so to speak been fed a shit sandwich, in order to keep to the dark, criminal, devilish psy op schedule planned for me, her firstborn son? The psy op required that to the public it appeared seamlessly and without flaw that upon the death of my mother I had become a drug addled, sex crazed maniac of sorts, so as to keep to the false narrative fed to the public since 1963 and perhaps earlier of the ‘lone shooter’.
The psy op meticulously planned and executed, mine one likely one of many, for no one can forecast 100 per cent without error how the decades progress and how those like me targeted as assassins, as patsies will progress in accordance with such dark plans. I can trace events in my life back to high school and the Navy in manner convincing as to my being targeted and have posted such stories elsewhere in this blog where the reader might peruse and learn at his leisure how our world is wired, full of lies, and managed for the benefit of families rich beyond measure and their lackeys in our security services.
Poisoned, bereaved, and accelerated in emotions from mild hashish use self administered as a form of self medication to keep myself in a marriage that now in retrospect had all manner of reason to fail as my relationship with the mother of my son, had been similarly constructed as a manipulation, as a psy op from the moment she also as a prostitute had knocked on my hotel room door, on my second trip to Russia on behalf of former employer Harris Corporation.
That another story, succulent and full of drama most horrific, and subject of another post.
My use of hashish made my bordello visits more pleasing, accentuating the sensual, and this narcotic numbed my reactions to Svetlana’s deception and ultimate betrayal. I believe this habit of self medication kept me in our marriage for those years where I think we hated each other. I begrudge her much, and having gone through much to get to that day in June 2014 when she told me, made her admission, intended to be then our final communique that she had never loved me, was with me only as I could give her child while Tregubov could not for he was sterile, this I had learned from his own overly excited admission in that August of 2011, moment to before he poisoned me, she had stayed with me as I could provide her and our son the economic conditions she desired and had lacked growing up poor in the Soviet Union, though not so poor, I suspect as had Genya Kosheleva in Uzbekistan, and that she and Tregubov had the technical wherewithal and capability to have monitored all my phone communications, Internet access, emails, and whereabouts from the time of our initial cohabitation of 1997. The next day the FBI sent ten unmarked cars after me so as to force me down the funnel from which I had not been either intended or expected to return.
Back to the fall of 2011. I had lost the weight in manner frightening and worse, shitting myself to death or so it seemed. Not until summer of 2014 would I have confirmation that Tregubov had poisoned me and of this that my wife had then as now been most aware. Nasty old world. Nastier people, I suppose.
In my desperation in that fall, and having carnal relations quite frequently with Genya, I began to put together a plan to get her our of the bordello and away from a life as a prostitute. Why her? I was seeing 6 other women at that time similarly employed. Those women, Fira, Nargiz, Katya, Tanya among them, they were older, childless, didn’t live in bordellos, seemed more capable. Genya then due to her foreign nature being a Russian from the outskirts of Uzbekistan, her slight form being petite, and her age of 20, and in sex, she covered me like a carpet as I entered her fully, her touch, her scent, somehow sweeter than the rest. A man pays attention to such things. And I fell to the temptation for which I had earlier been programmed, to be the white hat, the white knight, the hero, her savior, to rescue her from the foul, dirty, and despicable Tregubov.
I recall the decision to save Genya. This was that September day in Kingston, MA, in the company of Adam Stanhope, who with criminal intent laid down a pipe so mildly, full of synthetic cathinone, then legal, now not, MDPV, the form reportedly preferred for a time by anti-virus company founder John McAfee, the tan freebase, not the white powdery version. I had no idea what I was up against. I had trusted Adam, he was smoking this stuff and seemed quite in charge of his facilities, and so in manner open minded, I asked to try this plant matter he had coated with chemicals. I took a small puff, held it in not long, not long at all, of this powerful mind altering stimulant. And just like that I had unknowingly taken a huge step towards the path set out for me by the true shadow people of the CIA. I recall under that influence so new, exciting, and unexpected, taking the decision to save Genya. And I was with this decision so happy.
Within a week, I was much to the disappointment of the CIA, back on a plane for Russia. They had worked hard to get me to like, to trust Adam. They had introduced me under the influence of MDPV, a drug connoisseur from Wisconsin named Mark Brady, who then introduced me to MDMA, commonly known as Ecstasy, and to two evenings back to back of gay sex.
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