Life in Wartime - CIA tried to kill Obama - I found out.
'Life in Wartime' plays as I type. Great tune. Talking Heads in their prime.
Memories flood back. My ex-wife Svetlana, beautiful, Russian, and a trained FSB honeypot trap, threatening extortion in 2014, the beginning of that year most memorable. Svetlana knew what it was like to grow up poor, she knew the thrill of prostitution, til that got old, and she knew about deception. In time I learned just how much.
Her first threat, if I didn't give her the remaining half of the apartment, city center, that I had bought from multimillionaire August Meyer in 2006, she would send pornographic images of me to all my expat 'friends'. This failed as I called her bluff, willing to accept whatever foul action she might take as I had decided to stay in the light, that I had taken lessons from my time in debauchery, swilling around like the pig that I might have been. She raised the ante, using our then 13 year old son as ammunition. If I did not accede to her greedy wishes, she would disappear with him into the wilds of Russia, or so she threatened. This was a misdirect I learned later, as she tried to abscond with him, our blond haired green eyed son to Malta, and failed.
I reported her as a child kidnapper to the US State Department. Not that this would do anything, but to document her horrifying actions in some manner official. She was a Russian and the State Departments leverage over her in this matter, nonexistent. She reappeared that September. And then by December she sent to me our son, as a weapon. I cared not for I was and remain his father. I did a quick calculus and decided I could risk all, learn what had happened, endure whatever body blows might be forthcoming, and was father, plain and true. Some say the classics are the best, and as regards being a father, I agree. I picked him up at JFK, took him to Madison Square Garden to see a 70 something year old James Taylor concert, went with him to the Empire State Building and took him to the home I once owned in western New York State in a town called Victor, a white enclave ensconced in hilly farmland. And there I was father, making him breakfast, taking him to school every day. I wanted to put behind me the fraudulent death threat of October 2013 that caused me to abandon my life in Russia, then of 15 years, the bad marriage, corrupt NCIS agent Doug Boyce's Russian related subterfuge, and whatever skulduggery Silk Road drug dealer Adam Stanhope had tried to involve me in. School, taking care of my son, that was my focus. Secondary was simply paying attention to whatever data points would appear that correlated with my earlier drama. And those data points appeared.
In time I linked it all together to learn that I was then, am now, and always have been what is called in the literature, a targeted individual. I learned about the under reported phenomenon of gangstalking, and the FBI version of this activity so bleak that sought to entrap me, initially to manipulate me into the role of patsy for a presidential assassination attempt that failed in 2014, and thereafter as part of a desperate cover up for I had become the man who figuratively and quite literally knew too much.
I had learned why Joe Biden hadn't run for president. That crap he told the tv channels about his sons passing, simply another politicians lies. He hadn't run as he hadn't thought he'd have to. For no matter how much Obama had played his role to the liking of the folks in charge, the truth remained he was black and Biden would provide even a richer result for those so interested. He had curtailed civil liberties, increased prison sentencing guidelines, and was a New Jersey politician, ready to sell his soul, that is if he had one, to bidders most high.
Omar Gonzalez had scrambled into the White House in the fall of 2014. This provided me the answer to the question posed repeatedly by corrupt NCIS agent Doug Boyce in that summer of 2014, "What juice is worth the squeeze?" Doug had cozied up to me admitting without my asking that he had been in the employ of the CIA when we became acquainted in Russia in 1999, had shared with me tales of CIA tactics, of psy ops, of active measures, of street theater, and more, and had inadvertently let me know that I was targeted, by him. By CIA, by FBI, by the whole goddamn kit and kaboodle.
And why? Luck mostly. Without intent since my departure from Russia under fraudulent death threat in. October 2013, I kept moving to the correct spaces across he board, in some surrealistic chess board of a sort, remaining with Adam Stanhope as his guest in Pembroke Ma for some weeks initially until leaving with head needing clearing from the casual use of less than legal stimulants he had joyfully and with intent provided. Adam ranted as I left, "What did you expect? I am a criminal!" A year later I reported him to the DEA via their online tip service, clearly identifying myself, and within a week Adam was reported dead. And as to his passing, I have my doubts. Why? I asked Adam as he shared with me his secrets about selling drugs online under the moniker NAWLINS on the Silk Road, what will you do if and when the cops come. Adam hesitated not at all and replied, he would fake his death and move to Thailand and there live a peaceful life in the home he owned via his Thai wife Wichan.
And as to Adam, I recall asking NCIS agent Doug Boyce while I was a guest in his Virginia Beach home, how best to report Adam to the authorities. Doug oddly told me to clip letters, words from newspapers and magazines, pasting them to a white sheet of paper and sending in an unmarked envelope to the Pembroke, Ma police. Doug was emphatic in his insistence that I not provide any information identifying myself and certainly no return address. I recall my feeling when listening to this advice. Something was wrong. In time I would learn.
Deception. Svetlana. Joe Biden. Adam Stahope. Douglas Boyce. The most honest character in this post thus far is Omar Gonzalez who complained of hearing voices as part of his explanation for why he in the fall of 2014 crawled over the White House fence. Did Omar realize that he had been pushed by black op boys as I had been? Did he believe he was as they told him in court, the lie that he was mentally ill? I reached out to his attorney by email with what I knew and never heard back. Was he, that lawyer, in on it too? CIA doesn't leave loose ends. This I learned as I used self as bait, to get these black ops boys to bite, got myself arrested, went to court, decided I would never win in court, so that avenue for me to use to expose this what I had learned, a conspiracy with global consequences, was closed to me. And so I decided to play the long game. Head down, quiet life, and to write, to share my tale, regardless of how long it might take.
Again key points in my tale, the Notre Dame like unexplained fire in the roof of my home in Russia at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35 in Saint Petersburg on May 29, 2009. In 2014 Jason Smolek, an American I had met in Russia in the 2000s told me unasked the relevance of this date. JFK's birthday.
Russian spy and honeypot trap Anna Chapman coming on to me in 2008. Two years prior to her arrest by FBI.
Egish Khachatrian telling me in 2014 on an international phone call, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too".
NCIS agent, corrupt as the day is long, Douglas Boyce, telling me also in 2014, with me having neither a 'need to know' or an active security clearance, that he had been CIA when we met in Russia in 1999.
These points and so much more, provided dots, connecting strings, a palate of colors, and the parchment upon which to write, to describe that which I experienced being targeted, being gangstalked, as part of a CIA plotted and led worldwide conspiracy to further riches the elites, keep the masses down trodden and to mindf*** another generation just as they had done in 1963 and again on 9/11.
And my response? To be true, without embarrassment, without fear, to do my part in this human race for all of us. Maybe just maybe we can push our world a bit closer to that tipping point some call an awakening. Let's see. Stay tuned. I know you will.
Memories flood back. My ex-wife Svetlana, beautiful, Russian, and a trained FSB honeypot trap, threatening extortion in 2014, the beginning of that year most memorable. Svetlana knew what it was like to grow up poor, she knew the thrill of prostitution, til that got old, and she knew about deception. In time I learned just how much.
Her first threat, if I didn't give her the remaining half of the apartment, city center, that I had bought from multimillionaire August Meyer in 2006, she would send pornographic images of me to all my expat 'friends'. This failed as I called her bluff, willing to accept whatever foul action she might take as I had decided to stay in the light, that I had taken lessons from my time in debauchery, swilling around like the pig that I might have been. She raised the ante, using our then 13 year old son as ammunition. If I did not accede to her greedy wishes, she would disappear with him into the wilds of Russia, or so she threatened. This was a misdirect I learned later, as she tried to abscond with him, our blond haired green eyed son to Malta, and failed.
I reported her as a child kidnapper to the US State Department. Not that this would do anything, but to document her horrifying actions in some manner official. She was a Russian and the State Departments leverage over her in this matter, nonexistent. She reappeared that September. And then by December she sent to me our son, as a weapon. I cared not for I was and remain his father. I did a quick calculus and decided I could risk all, learn what had happened, endure whatever body blows might be forthcoming, and was father, plain and true. Some say the classics are the best, and as regards being a father, I agree. I picked him up at JFK, took him to Madison Square Garden to see a 70 something year old James Taylor concert, went with him to the Empire State Building and took him to the home I once owned in western New York State in a town called Victor, a white enclave ensconced in hilly farmland. And there I was father, making him breakfast, taking him to school every day. I wanted to put behind me the fraudulent death threat of October 2013 that caused me to abandon my life in Russia, then of 15 years, the bad marriage, corrupt NCIS agent Doug Boyce's Russian related subterfuge, and whatever skulduggery Silk Road drug dealer Adam Stanhope had tried to involve me in. School, taking care of my son, that was my focus. Secondary was simply paying attention to whatever data points would appear that correlated with my earlier drama. And those data points appeared.
In time I linked it all together to learn that I was then, am now, and always have been what is called in the literature, a targeted individual. I learned about the under reported phenomenon of gangstalking, and the FBI version of this activity so bleak that sought to entrap me, initially to manipulate me into the role of patsy for a presidential assassination attempt that failed in 2014, and thereafter as part of a desperate cover up for I had become the man who figuratively and quite literally knew too much.
I had learned why Joe Biden hadn't run for president. That crap he told the tv channels about his sons passing, simply another politicians lies. He hadn't run as he hadn't thought he'd have to. For no matter how much Obama had played his role to the liking of the folks in charge, the truth remained he was black and Biden would provide even a richer result for those so interested. He had curtailed civil liberties, increased prison sentencing guidelines, and was a New Jersey politician, ready to sell his soul, that is if he had one, to bidders most high.
Omar Gonzalez had scrambled into the White House in the fall of 2014. This provided me the answer to the question posed repeatedly by corrupt NCIS agent Doug Boyce in that summer of 2014, "What juice is worth the squeeze?" Doug had cozied up to me admitting without my asking that he had been in the employ of the CIA when we became acquainted in Russia in 1999, had shared with me tales of CIA tactics, of psy ops, of active measures, of street theater, and more, and had inadvertently let me know that I was targeted, by him. By CIA, by FBI, by the whole goddamn kit and kaboodle.
And why? Luck mostly. Without intent since my departure from Russia under fraudulent death threat in. October 2013, I kept moving to the correct spaces across he board, in some surrealistic chess board of a sort, remaining with Adam Stanhope as his guest in Pembroke Ma for some weeks initially until leaving with head needing clearing from the casual use of less than legal stimulants he had joyfully and with intent provided. Adam ranted as I left, "What did you expect? I am a criminal!" A year later I reported him to the DEA via their online tip service, clearly identifying myself, and within a week Adam was reported dead. And as to his passing, I have my doubts. Why? I asked Adam as he shared with me his secrets about selling drugs online under the moniker NAWLINS on the Silk Road, what will you do if and when the cops come. Adam hesitated not at all and replied, he would fake his death and move to Thailand and there live a peaceful life in the home he owned via his Thai wife Wichan.
And as to Adam, I recall asking NCIS agent Doug Boyce while I was a guest in his Virginia Beach home, how best to report Adam to the authorities. Doug oddly told me to clip letters, words from newspapers and magazines, pasting them to a white sheet of paper and sending in an unmarked envelope to the Pembroke, Ma police. Doug was emphatic in his insistence that I not provide any information identifying myself and certainly no return address. I recall my feeling when listening to this advice. Something was wrong. In time I would learn.
Deception. Svetlana. Joe Biden. Adam Stahope. Douglas Boyce. The most honest character in this post thus far is Omar Gonzalez who complained of hearing voices as part of his explanation for why he in the fall of 2014 crawled over the White House fence. Did Omar realize that he had been pushed by black op boys as I had been? Did he believe he was as they told him in court, the lie that he was mentally ill? I reached out to his attorney by email with what I knew and never heard back. Was he, that lawyer, in on it too? CIA doesn't leave loose ends. This I learned as I used self as bait, to get these black ops boys to bite, got myself arrested, went to court, decided I would never win in court, so that avenue for me to use to expose this what I had learned, a conspiracy with global consequences, was closed to me. And so I decided to play the long game. Head down, quiet life, and to write, to share my tale, regardless of how long it might take.
Again key points in my tale, the Notre Dame like unexplained fire in the roof of my home in Russia at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35 in Saint Petersburg on May 29, 2009. In 2014 Jason Smolek, an American I had met in Russia in the 2000s told me unasked the relevance of this date. JFK's birthday.
Russian spy and honeypot trap Anna Chapman coming on to me in 2008. Two years prior to her arrest by FBI.
Egish Khachatrian telling me in 2014 on an international phone call, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too".
NCIS agent, corrupt as the day is long, Douglas Boyce, telling me also in 2014, with me having neither a 'need to know' or an active security clearance, that he had been CIA when we met in Russia in 1999.
These points and so much more, provided dots, connecting strings, a palate of colors, and the parchment upon which to write, to describe that which I experienced being targeted, being gangstalked, as part of a CIA plotted and led worldwide conspiracy to further riches the elites, keep the masses down trodden and to mindf*** another generation just as they had done in 1963 and again on 9/11.
And my response? To be true, without embarrassment, without fear, to do my part in this human race for all of us. Maybe just maybe we can push our world a bit closer to that tipping point some call an awakening. Let's see. Stay tuned. I know you will.
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