Friday Memories on CIA Plot to Kill Obama
Me at my favorite park.
Friday. Most people work. Not me.
Retired at 47 unexpectedly. Lived through a CIA conspiracy to kill Obama that failed in 2014. I was to be the 'patsy'. Sounds like a bad spy novel I grant.
I can't say I beat the CIA as they don't lose. I sometimes therefore think of it as a tie of sorts. And they apparently implanted me with a 15600 hz noisemaking chip in my left arm as I lay undefended on a Russian hospital bed on January 24, 2017. The intent to annoy, distract, to drive me to violence or suicide.
Apparently the earlier NLP coded suicide messages from fat Canadian and likely CSIS agent (Canadian CIA) Kyle Patching via Facebook weren't getting the job done ('hang in there Rick').
Nasty folk running around in the world and I have met so very many of these folk.
As then Russian honeypot trap ex-wife Svetlana Macy told me in December 2015 after I took my first steps in beating a fraudulent child endangerment misdemeanor charge set upon me that September by corrupt Victor, NY cops working under corrupt FBI supervision, those boys in turn working under corrupt CIA guidance, "Rick didn't you know that 80% of your expat friends in Russia were actually intelligence agents?"
She smiled as she said this. It was a Skype video call. I smiled back. I didn't then know but had strong suspicions.
On June 20, 2014, the day before several, approximately ten, unmarked FBI vehicles began their pursuit, their harassment, their gangstalking of me in Virginia Beach, Svetlana had admitted to me in a 5 minute call, the first in approximately a month as to her participation in a conspiracy that had resulted in
1. our divorce in the fall of 2012,
2. the loss of 50% of the apartment I owned at Kamennoosstrovskiy Prospect 35, apartment 7, (the site of a mysterious and unsolved roof fire on JFK's birthday, May 29, 2009) bought from multimillionaire August Meyer (who in his role in this conspiracy most unbelievable, forged a false friendship with me in an effort to reintroduce me to Colombian marching powder in 2011/2012) and
3. my departure from Russia under a fraudulent death threat voiced by Svetlana and another honeypot trap prostitute Evgeniya Kosheleva to be made real by my poisoner of August 2011, Alexander Tregubov and his pal, the man who told me in the summer of 2014, Egish Khachatrian, "Rick we will make you into this generation''s Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!" in October 2013.
Svetlana Macy, then ex-wife, now not, told me in that June 20, 2014 call that:
1. she had never loved me,
2. Svetlana told me that she was with me as I could impregnate her while Russian Alexander Tregubov, her preferred suitor and the man who poisoned me in August 2011, was infertile. Alexander had told me, on the day he poisoned me, also this detail, that he was infertile as a result of a wound suffered in Chechnya earlier. He continued with glee as he bragged about how easy it was to kill a man and that he had several times before done this sort of thing. I had no idea at that time of his relationship with my fraudster Russian honeypot trap wife,
3. Svetlana told me that after the birth of our son Nicholas James Macy on September 15, 2000 she remained with me solely due to the comforts I provided her and our son as I had a well paying job.
4. Svetlana told me that from the time we moved in together as lovers in that faraway Siberia city of Kemerovo, Russia that she and her Alexander Tregubov somehow had access to all my whereabouts, phone calls, Internet access and emails from that time in 1997 through to that moment in 2014.
I had learned only a month earlier, in May 2014, via the testimony of two Russian witnesses, as well as a phone call revelation from Alexander Tregubov wherein he informed me that 'Svetlana had a plan to get my American assets', that she had conspired with Alexander in my August 2011 poisoning, my descent into sexual drug fueled debauchery of 2012/2013 (the whole sex/death dynamic in action, exploited) upon my mother's passing as I held her hand in September 2011, that she had been with him in our Russian apartment with others plotting these nefarious details all while hanging onto Alexander in manner most affectionate.
Svetlana knew that I knew, so likely while awaiting guidance from her bosses, she didn't answer her phone for a month though I called everyday in the morning at the same time.
You see, I had a son who needed his father and I chose therefore regardless of the past and the cost to reconcile with this beauty most treacherous. Yes she had prostituted herself to me when we met in that Soviet hotel in summer 1995. She told me I was the last of 75 clients. Was this true or an FSB 'legend' that they provide their 'sparrows'? I may never know and frankly don't much care.
After I left Russia in October 2013 and before she twice attempted extortion, her goal being the half of the apartment she didn't steal in our fraudulent divorce, she showed our then 13 year old son Porto graphic images of me, his father with men and women, while neglecting that she herself had introduced me to group sex prior to his birth, bringing Irina, a fellow prostitute into our bed, along with a few others. She also neglected to inform our son that she had enthusiastically got me started making home made sex videos.
Then, as now, I was a target, though then, unlike now, I was of this unaware. I had chosen to 'save' this beauty, this Svetlana. Perhaps in doing so I had also chosen to 'save' myself. I've since learned there really is no 'saving' in this world. Other verbs more appropriate to these our human activities to which we are led by habit, by belief, by history.
Perhaps I had seen 'Man of LA Mancha' and 'My Fair Lady' too often as a teen and had thereby been unconciously programmed. Not for me to say. But as a guess it strikes me as good.
Using self as bait I've learned a lot since 2014. Svetlana conspired with Alexander. Doug Boyce of NCIS and CIA fame conspired with both as did Dan Mead, Paul Leonard, Stephen Gardner, Christian Courbois, Adrian Terris, Kyle Patching, Tony Czura, Patrick Naughter, Aaron Bogott, Steve Caron, Tanya Dick, Henning Pedersen, Sir John Dick, Steve Wayne, Susanna and David Mueller-Meerkatz, Caterina Innocente, August and Inna Meyer, Darrin Stock, Emilio Alegre, James Beatty and so many others. My world like a sort of virtual reality composed of and imposed on me by corrupt intelligence agents headed by CIA.
I got my son Nicholas James Macy out of Russia in December 2014. He had just turned 14, three months earlier in September.
I knew in a few weeks his mother had sent him as a weapon. I had hypothosized this prior to his arrival. For why wouldn't she? And I expected he, our son, would be the answer to that which Alexander Tregubov had told me via Skype a few months earlier, 'Svetlana has a plan to get your American assets'.
These things along with corrupt American cops aforementioned resulted in my fraudulent arrest in September 2015.
I learned much as a result, and while frightened, stood up as a man must, and rejected the courts offer for a year of parole for this bogus charge. I had known I was being watched. In September or October an officer of the court had pounded on my 1235 Honeysuckle Pass, Victor, NY door. He had shouted, 'we know you're in there!' several times, even though neither myself nor my car was visible, all doors locked, including garage, and and shades pulled closed. He left affixed to my door a notice to appear in the Canandaigua court on the matter of unpaid child support. I had ceased paying when my fraudster ex-wife Svetlana attempted to make good on her extortion threat by disappearing with our son to Malta.
I went to court, with a receipt showing I had prior to court paid $18,000 (the claim had been for $15,000, I wanted to indicate to the court that the matter was not one of my thrift or cheapness, rather it had been my ex-wife who had disappeared in an attempt to kidnap my son and extort from me my remaining Russian property.
Interestingly, the judge was not interested in my explanation, cut me off and closed the matter upon learning the claim had been paid. More interesting was meeting my ex-wife's Manhattan lawyer, Oksana Sokolova. Oksana, a Russian emigre to the U.S., and I agreed to meet for tea after the court session for which she had driven 6 hours, for Western New York is not so close to Manhattan. We spent perhaps an hour together. She was clearly intelligent, though marked by a lazy eye, which in conversation was a bit off putting. Still I kept with it, wanting to discuss reconciliation.
Here's where it got weird. For the first half of our hour together, a full thirty minutes, Oksana took great effort and made great pains to answer a question I hadn't asked, which was how it was she an ocean away had become the lawyer of a Saint Petersburg located divorcee with no money or connections in Manhattan, which again, was where Oksana was based.
And this was deceptive and suspicious. I didn't believe a word from Oksana, though listened respectfully. By tha
So I knew I was being watched. And I knew my son had been sent as a weapon. He made effort to trigger me into the further use of narcotics and into further sexual escapades. I paid attention. He brought up two films on Netflix or Amazon. One was 'Filth' with James McAlroy. The lead a corrupt narcotic swilling corrupt cop who hangs himself in the end. The other film, a gentle romance involving two eastern European teenage gals exploring their lesbian inclinations. I paid attention. Only in the fall of 2016 in Denver would I find what I expected, the venomous chat between him and his dishonest Russian mother. Both claimed that they had no contact for the entire two years they were apart, from December 2014 to December 2016. This I knew was a lie.
I let garbage accumulate in the garage. I smoked pot at home, this then as now illegal in New York state.
My son gleefully ordered potpourri online, though as the cops who eventually and as I suspected, came to our home, this as a result of a mysterious 911 call from my phone that I didn't make would claim these empty bags had contained synthetic marijuana. However, the bags had been empty and left as bait. The police bit. They were overconfident and lazy as none of the empty bags ever made their way to a lab for testing, so who can say what was in those bags, or why my son had been so in them interested.
The day after I asked him about the chat I found on his computer, he smashed the computer, claiming it as an accident.
Back to December 2015 in Victor, NY. I demanded a trial.
The court backed down, said don't get arrested for 12 months, see a counselor of your choosing for a few weeks, and the charge will be discharged.
I thought hard about this as I had used self as bait with intent to get arrested to bring all I had learned into the public domain, the public eye.
I scratched my head, went for a drive and thought about my chances. I decided I had had enough, that they would spare no effort in corrupting any jury to see me convicted, and therefore I felt i had done enough, endured enough, and I would instead simply be a father, conspiracies be dammed.
And in this way I would be for my son, what my father ad never been for me, I suspect he from this was precluded by CIA as they needed me 'programmed' quite specifically as regards authority, sex, authority and narcotics.
My son and I moved to Denver in late April 2016. I then suspected that Doug Boyce and Dan Mead were in the employ of the Russians and were therefoee traitors. I was wrong, my programming from birth so strong I could not put two and two together to get four.
In Denver I found myself again targeted, so the conspiracy was not limited to the East coast or to Doug Boyce. I found unknown stimulants in the freezer, inocuously contained in a frozen puddle of ice, and in the bathroom, as an out of place blue mortar hurridly spackled over the earlier white tile grout.
And as undercover FBI agents introduced themselves to me one by one, in our elevator, on our roof, in the city, some offering drugs, others not, I met Coy Ebell. He, like gangstalker John Pouliot Jr. who I'd met in 2014 in Virginia Beach was also an Army veteran. Unlike John, who likely was a low level police informant, Coy was likely full on undercover FBI.
And me? I was the man who knew too much. A cover up was required as was entrapment. The clock was ticking. It was important that I be once again arrested before my 12 month ticker expired. They wanted me in jail, shanked, dead, and therefore quiet.
My son began to receive packages of drugs in the mail for which he had no money to pay. I asked him about this. His answer was clearly deceptive.
I put in a 30 day stop order at the local post office. This was returned in 3 days along with packages of herbs coated in God knows what and bags of crystals likely manufactured in China that if ingested would stimulate first and drive crazy second. I flushed and flushed and flushed.
I had at least thrice been poisoned by FBI in that Denver Skyline1801 apartment. I recall dropping to the floor having touched a soap bottle covered in an unknown skin contact narcotic of some sort. 3 dimensions became 2 and I fell to the floor. I didn't like these things very much, and clearly some folk didn't like me an awful lot.
I pulled Nick out of school and out of state. The management at the Skyline1801 apartment in Denver where we resided in apartment 205, in the person of Samantha Corente, had told me there were cameras in each apartment but not in the halls. This for 'security'. Clearly lies on behalf of FBI though no doubt I was under video surveillance. And as in Victor, and in Virginia before, I used self as bait and put on a show to see who and what reacted.
Escaping Denver, my son and I traveled to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, California, Salt Lake City, Sedona. I made the most of my time with my son fully aware he was cooperating with my then ex-wife and she with corrupt cops. They, these corrupt cops, had broken into both my Denver apartment and my Victor home leaving hard drugs both times.
So while I like a challenge, we traveled out of Colorado so as to increase the degree of difficulty for the cops to again fraudulently entrap and arrest me.
We returned to Colorado via Wyoming the day after the expiration of my 12 month court agreement.
Coy Ebell, undercover FBI agent, who had worked to entrap me seemed both pleased and nervous to see me. I told him of my reconciliation with Svetlana and planned return to Russia. He was so nervous, I suspect he knew there would be an attempt on my life once back in Russia, and indeed within 30 days of my return my son stabbed me in a session of his mother's 'street theater'. My left arm artery severed, oily blood gushing to fill the room and other empty my veins. I held it together, using a tie as a tourniquet, no fear, just an awareness that time was against me. I had bought this flat near a hospital. Svetlana and I made it there in time, leaving blood filled footsteps in the snow.
I had begun to die. My vision fading like an old fashioned color TV channel with too much interference. We arrived at the medical facility. I told Svetlana that I loved her and would miss her, would miss all this life had offered. I recall no fear, only a sense of sadness, the sort one feels when uninvited to a party consisting of people known for a long time.
They pumped blood into me. My life remained. Then knocked out, I underwent a life saving operation. The doctor reconnected my artery and apparently inserted this 15600 hz noise making chip.
The police watched the whole time and had coopted a young male nurse in the ICU to become my friend. His name was Oleg. He had long dark hair and was half my age. He liked rock music. I lay under a sheet naked, my arm in a cast with a piece of tubing extended from the cut the doctors had made, this to drain pus, etc. Oleg was kind, giving me his macaroni, his lunch from home. To thank him I promised him that we would attend an upcoming Depeche Mode concert. This seemed to please him.
I left the hospital, recovered quickly, met with the police and the matter was left alone as I would not testify against my son, regardless of whether or not he and his mother had conspired a la Charlie Tan of Pittsford, NY. Charlie had with his mother's support shot his father, killed him, and he escaped a guilty verdict via lawerly chicanery. The Pittsford police later got him on a weapons charge and he sits now imprisoned.
I met Oleg with the promised ticket. Although I recall not the price, I recall it wasn't cheap. We spoke. I got an odd vibe from Oleg as he professed unasked how he had always dreamed of visiting Ireland and meeting an Irish man. Nothing sexual, just odd. About the same time, maybe just a little later, a woman I had met on the street and invited for a coffee told me the same thing. This interest in the Irish. Her name was Irina.
I told without reservation to Oleg my tale, that of Anna Chapman, Doug Boyce, the fire on our roof on JFK's birthday, May 29, 2009, and that I was to have been a patsy in a presidential assassination attempt and that I then as now lived under police surveillance 24/7. This made him take pause, set him back. He recoiled, afraid. He said he must get the counsel, the advice of his parents. I said please do. I gave him the ticket.
We met again after he spoke with his parents. He returned the ticket saying he wanted nothing to do with presidential assassinations, corrupt spies and police. I suspect the police hadn't completely briefed him when they prepped him to say he liked things Irish in order to gain my confidence.
I respect Oleg for his cowardice and a certain level of honesty, though by no means complete.
Irina kept calling. I kept ignoring her calls. I had been gangstalked enough to identify these sorts, these Olegs and Irinas.
My story continues.
Friday. Most people work. Not me.
Retired at 47 unexpectedly. Lived through a CIA conspiracy to kill Obama that failed in 2014. I was to be the 'patsy'. Sounds like a bad spy novel I grant.
I can't say I beat the CIA as they don't lose. I sometimes therefore think of it as a tie of sorts. And they apparently implanted me with a 15600 hz noisemaking chip in my left arm as I lay undefended on a Russian hospital bed on January 24, 2017. The intent to annoy, distract, to drive me to violence or suicide.
Apparently the earlier NLP coded suicide messages from fat Canadian and likely CSIS agent (Canadian CIA) Kyle Patching via Facebook weren't getting the job done ('hang in there Rick').
Nasty folk running around in the world and I have met so very many of these folk.
As then Russian honeypot trap ex-wife Svetlana Macy told me in December 2015 after I took my first steps in beating a fraudulent child endangerment misdemeanor charge set upon me that September by corrupt Victor, NY cops working under corrupt FBI supervision, those boys in turn working under corrupt CIA guidance, "Rick didn't you know that 80% of your expat friends in Russia were actually intelligence agents?"
She smiled as she said this. It was a Skype video call. I smiled back. I didn't then know but had strong suspicions.
On June 20, 2014, the day before several, approximately ten, unmarked FBI vehicles began their pursuit, their harassment, their gangstalking of me in Virginia Beach, Svetlana had admitted to me in a 5 minute call, the first in approximately a month as to her participation in a conspiracy that had resulted in
1. our divorce in the fall of 2012,
2. the loss of 50% of the apartment I owned at Kamennoosstrovskiy Prospect 35, apartment 7, (the site of a mysterious and unsolved roof fire on JFK's birthday, May 29, 2009) bought from multimillionaire August Meyer (who in his role in this conspiracy most unbelievable, forged a false friendship with me in an effort to reintroduce me to Colombian marching powder in 2011/2012) and
3. my departure from Russia under a fraudulent death threat voiced by Svetlana and another honeypot trap prostitute Evgeniya Kosheleva to be made real by my poisoner of August 2011, Alexander Tregubov and his pal, the man who told me in the summer of 2014, Egish Khachatrian, "Rick we will make you into this generation''s Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too!" in October 2013.
Svetlana Macy, then ex-wife, now not, told me in that June 20, 2014 call that:
1. she had never loved me,
2. Svetlana told me that she was with me as I could impregnate her while Russian Alexander Tregubov, her preferred suitor and the man who poisoned me in August 2011, was infertile. Alexander had told me, on the day he poisoned me, also this detail, that he was infertile as a result of a wound suffered in Chechnya earlier. He continued with glee as he bragged about how easy it was to kill a man and that he had several times before done this sort of thing. I had no idea at that time of his relationship with my fraudster Russian honeypot trap wife,
3. Svetlana told me that after the birth of our son Nicholas James Macy on September 15, 2000 she remained with me solely due to the comforts I provided her and our son as I had a well paying job.
4. Svetlana told me that from the time we moved in together as lovers in that faraway Siberia city of Kemerovo, Russia that she and her Alexander Tregubov somehow had access to all my whereabouts, phone calls, Internet access and emails from that time in 1997 through to that moment in 2014.
I had learned only a month earlier, in May 2014, via the testimony of two Russian witnesses, as well as a phone call revelation from Alexander Tregubov wherein he informed me that 'Svetlana had a plan to get my American assets', that she had conspired with Alexander in my August 2011 poisoning, my descent into sexual drug fueled debauchery of 2012/2013 (the whole sex/death dynamic in action, exploited) upon my mother's passing as I held her hand in September 2011, that she had been with him in our Russian apartment with others plotting these nefarious details all while hanging onto Alexander in manner most affectionate.
Svetlana knew that I knew, so likely while awaiting guidance from her bosses, she didn't answer her phone for a month though I called everyday in the morning at the same time.
You see, I had a son who needed his father and I chose therefore regardless of the past and the cost to reconcile with this beauty most treacherous. Yes she had prostituted herself to me when we met in that Soviet hotel in summer 1995. She told me I was the last of 75 clients. Was this true or an FSB 'legend' that they provide their 'sparrows'? I may never know and frankly don't much care.
After I left Russia in October 2013 and before she twice attempted extortion, her goal being the half of the apartment she didn't steal in our fraudulent divorce, she showed our then 13 year old son Porto graphic images of me, his father with men and women, while neglecting that she herself had introduced me to group sex prior to his birth, bringing Irina, a fellow prostitute into our bed, along with a few others. She also neglected to inform our son that she had enthusiastically got me started making home made sex videos.
Then, as now, I was a target, though then, unlike now, I was of this unaware. I had chosen to 'save' this beauty, this Svetlana. Perhaps in doing so I had also chosen to 'save' myself. I've since learned there really is no 'saving' in this world. Other verbs more appropriate to these our human activities to which we are led by habit, by belief, by history.
Perhaps I had seen 'Man of LA Mancha' and 'My Fair Lady' too often as a teen and had thereby been unconciously programmed. Not for me to say. But as a guess it strikes me as good.
Using self as bait I've learned a lot since 2014. Svetlana conspired with Alexander. Doug Boyce of NCIS and CIA fame conspired with both as did Dan Mead, Paul Leonard, Stephen Gardner, Christian Courbois, Adrian Terris, Kyle Patching, Tony Czura, Patrick Naughter, Aaron Bogott, Steve Caron, Tanya Dick, Henning Pedersen, Sir John Dick, Steve Wayne, Susanna and David Mueller-Meerkatz, Caterina Innocente, August and Inna Meyer, Darrin Stock, Emilio Alegre, James Beatty and so many others. My world like a sort of virtual reality composed of and imposed on me by corrupt intelligence agents headed by CIA.
I got my son Nicholas James Macy out of Russia in December 2014. He had just turned 14, three months earlier in September.
I knew in a few weeks his mother had sent him as a weapon. I had hypothosized this prior to his arrival. For why wouldn't she? And I expected he, our son, would be the answer to that which Alexander Tregubov had told me via Skype a few months earlier, 'Svetlana has a plan to get your American assets'.
These things along with corrupt American cops aforementioned resulted in my fraudulent arrest in September 2015.
I learned much as a result, and while frightened, stood up as a man must, and rejected the courts offer for a year of parole for this bogus charge. I had known I was being watched. In September or October an officer of the court had pounded on my 1235 Honeysuckle Pass, Victor, NY door. He had shouted, 'we know you're in there!' several times, even though neither myself nor my car was visible, all doors locked, including garage, and and shades pulled closed. He left affixed to my door a notice to appear in the Canandaigua court on the matter of unpaid child support. I had ceased paying when my fraudster ex-wife Svetlana attempted to make good on her extortion threat by disappearing with our son to Malta.
I went to court, with a receipt showing I had prior to court paid $18,000 (the claim had been for $15,000, I wanted to indicate to the court that the matter was not one of my thrift or cheapness, rather it had been my ex-wife who had disappeared in an attempt to kidnap my son and extort from me my remaining Russian property.
Interestingly, the judge was not interested in my explanation, cut me off and closed the matter upon learning the claim had been paid. More interesting was meeting my ex-wife's Manhattan lawyer, Oksana Sokolova. Oksana, a Russian emigre to the U.S., and I agreed to meet for tea after the court session for which she had driven 6 hours, for Western New York is not so close to Manhattan. We spent perhaps an hour together. She was clearly intelligent, though marked by a lazy eye, which in conversation was a bit off putting. Still I kept with it, wanting to discuss reconciliation.
Here's where it got weird. For the first half of our hour together, a full thirty minutes, Oksana took great effort and made great pains to answer a question I hadn't asked, which was how it was she an ocean away had become the lawyer of a Saint Petersburg located divorcee with no money or connections in Manhattan, which again, was where Oksana was based.
And this was deceptive and suspicious. I didn't believe a word from Oksana, though listened respectfully. By tha
So I knew I was being watched. And I knew my son had been sent as a weapon. He made effort to trigger me into the further use of narcotics and into further sexual escapades. I paid attention. He brought up two films on Netflix or Amazon. One was 'Filth' with James McAlroy. The lead a corrupt narcotic swilling corrupt cop who hangs himself in the end. The other film, a gentle romance involving two eastern European teenage gals exploring their lesbian inclinations. I paid attention. Only in the fall of 2016 in Denver would I find what I expected, the venomous chat between him and his dishonest Russian mother. Both claimed that they had no contact for the entire two years they were apart, from December 2014 to December 2016. This I knew was a lie.
I let garbage accumulate in the garage. I smoked pot at home, this then as now illegal in New York state.
My son gleefully ordered potpourri online, though as the cops who eventually and as I suspected, came to our home, this as a result of a mysterious 911 call from my phone that I didn't make would claim these empty bags had contained synthetic marijuana. However, the bags had been empty and left as bait. The police bit. They were overconfident and lazy as none of the empty bags ever made their way to a lab for testing, so who can say what was in those bags, or why my son had been so in them interested.
The day after I asked him about the chat I found on his computer, he smashed the computer, claiming it as an accident.
Back to December 2015 in Victor, NY. I demanded a trial.
The court backed down, said don't get arrested for 12 months, see a counselor of your choosing for a few weeks, and the charge will be discharged.
I thought hard about this as I had used self as bait with intent to get arrested to bring all I had learned into the public domain, the public eye.
I scratched my head, went for a drive and thought about my chances. I decided I had had enough, that they would spare no effort in corrupting any jury to see me convicted, and therefore I felt i had done enough, endured enough, and I would instead simply be a father, conspiracies be dammed.
And in this way I would be for my son, what my father ad never been for me, I suspect he from this was precluded by CIA as they needed me 'programmed' quite specifically as regards authority, sex, authority and narcotics.
My son and I moved to Denver in late April 2016. I then suspected that Doug Boyce and Dan Mead were in the employ of the Russians and were therefoee traitors. I was wrong, my programming from birth so strong I could not put two and two together to get four.
In Denver I found myself again targeted, so the conspiracy was not limited to the East coast or to Doug Boyce. I found unknown stimulants in the freezer, inocuously contained in a frozen puddle of ice, and in the bathroom, as an out of place blue mortar hurridly spackled over the earlier white tile grout.
And as undercover FBI agents introduced themselves to me one by one, in our elevator, on our roof, in the city, some offering drugs, others not, I met Coy Ebell. He, like gangstalker John Pouliot Jr. who I'd met in 2014 in Virginia Beach was also an Army veteran. Unlike John, who likely was a low level police informant, Coy was likely full on undercover FBI.
And me? I was the man who knew too much. A cover up was required as was entrapment. The clock was ticking. It was important that I be once again arrested before my 12 month ticker expired. They wanted me in jail, shanked, dead, and therefore quiet.
My son began to receive packages of drugs in the mail for which he had no money to pay. I asked him about this. His answer was clearly deceptive.
I put in a 30 day stop order at the local post office. This was returned in 3 days along with packages of herbs coated in God knows what and bags of crystals likely manufactured in China that if ingested would stimulate first and drive crazy second. I flushed and flushed and flushed.
I had at least thrice been poisoned by FBI in that Denver Skyline1801 apartment. I recall dropping to the floor having touched a soap bottle covered in an unknown skin contact narcotic of some sort. 3 dimensions became 2 and I fell to the floor. I didn't like these things very much, and clearly some folk didn't like me an awful lot.
I pulled Nick out of school and out of state. The management at the Skyline1801 apartment in Denver where we resided in apartment 205, in the person of Samantha Corente, had told me there were cameras in each apartment but not in the halls. This for 'security'. Clearly lies on behalf of FBI though no doubt I was under video surveillance. And as in Victor, and in Virginia before, I used self as bait and put on a show to see who and what reacted.
Escaping Denver, my son and I traveled to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, California, Salt Lake City, Sedona. I made the most of my time with my son fully aware he was cooperating with my then ex-wife and she with corrupt cops. They, these corrupt cops, had broken into both my Denver apartment and my Victor home leaving hard drugs both times.
So while I like a challenge, we traveled out of Colorado so as to increase the degree of difficulty for the cops to again fraudulently entrap and arrest me.
We returned to Colorado via Wyoming the day after the expiration of my 12 month court agreement.
Coy Ebell, undercover FBI agent, who had worked to entrap me seemed both pleased and nervous to see me. I told him of my reconciliation with Svetlana and planned return to Russia. He was so nervous, I suspect he knew there would be an attempt on my life once back in Russia, and indeed within 30 days of my return my son stabbed me in a session of his mother's 'street theater'. My left arm artery severed, oily blood gushing to fill the room and other empty my veins. I held it together, using a tie as a tourniquet, no fear, just an awareness that time was against me. I had bought this flat near a hospital. Svetlana and I made it there in time, leaving blood filled footsteps in the snow.
I had begun to die. My vision fading like an old fashioned color TV channel with too much interference. We arrived at the medical facility. I told Svetlana that I loved her and would miss her, would miss all this life had offered. I recall no fear, only a sense of sadness, the sort one feels when uninvited to a party consisting of people known for a long time.
They pumped blood into me. My life remained. Then knocked out, I underwent a life saving operation. The doctor reconnected my artery and apparently inserted this 15600 hz noise making chip.
The police watched the whole time and had coopted a young male nurse in the ICU to become my friend. His name was Oleg. He had long dark hair and was half my age. He liked rock music. I lay under a sheet naked, my arm in a cast with a piece of tubing extended from the cut the doctors had made, this to drain pus, etc. Oleg was kind, giving me his macaroni, his lunch from home. To thank him I promised him that we would attend an upcoming Depeche Mode concert. This seemed to please him.
I left the hospital, recovered quickly, met with the police and the matter was left alone as I would not testify against my son, regardless of whether or not he and his mother had conspired a la Charlie Tan of Pittsford, NY. Charlie had with his mother's support shot his father, killed him, and he escaped a guilty verdict via lawerly chicanery. The Pittsford police later got him on a weapons charge and he sits now imprisoned.
I met Oleg with the promised ticket. Although I recall not the price, I recall it wasn't cheap. We spoke. I got an odd vibe from Oleg as he professed unasked how he had always dreamed of visiting Ireland and meeting an Irish man. Nothing sexual, just odd. About the same time, maybe just a little later, a woman I had met on the street and invited for a coffee told me the same thing. This interest in the Irish. Her name was Irina.
I told without reservation to Oleg my tale, that of Anna Chapman, Doug Boyce, the fire on our roof on JFK's birthday, May 29, 2009, and that I was to have been a patsy in a presidential assassination attempt and that I then as now lived under police surveillance 24/7. This made him take pause, set him back. He recoiled, afraid. He said he must get the counsel, the advice of his parents. I said please do. I gave him the ticket.
We met again after he spoke with his parents. He returned the ticket saying he wanted nothing to do with presidential assassinations, corrupt spies and police. I suspect the police hadn't completely briefed him when they prepped him to say he liked things Irish in order to gain my confidence.
I respect Oleg for his cowardice and a certain level of honesty, though by no means complete.
Irina kept calling. I kept ignoring her calls. I had been gangstalked enough to identify these sorts, these Olegs and Irinas.
My story continues.
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